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Chapter 37
The invitation seemed innocent enough, but every time Selene read it, her mistrust grew and grew. She's to be queen now, she's beautiful and rich and everyone loves her, why would she want to sup with a traitor? It could be curiosity, she supposed; perhaps Margaery Tyrell wanted to get the measure of the girl who was once a queen she bowed to. Does she think I bear her ill will?
Should I bear her ill will? The last time Selene saw the Tyrell girl, she had been Renly's wife. The Reach had deserted her cause when she needed it most. However, Selene knew better than anyone that daughters had very little say in the wishes of their fathers. Perhaps it was Lord Mace Tyrell's will to marry his rose to the lion. Perhaps Margaery is nothing more than a pawn. Selene did feel angry, though. When Renly died, the Reach's loyalty was tested, and they failed. The strength of Highgarden could have made all the difference.
She studied the invitation, which looked to be written in Margaery's own hand. Does she want my blessing? Selene wondered if Joffrey knew of this supper. For all she knew, it might be his doing. If Joff was behind the invitation, he would have some cruel jape planned to shame her. Would he command the Kingsguard to strip her naked? He had threatened that last time he came to gloat, and Selene did not think anyone would stop him.
Perhaps she was doing Margaery Tyrell an injustice. Perhaps the invitation was no more than a simple kindness, an act of courtesy. It might just be a supper. But this was the Red Keep, this was King's Landing, this was the court of King Joffrey Baratheon, the First of His Name, and if there was one thing that Selene Baratheon Stark had learned here, it was mistrust.
Selene had decided to keep both her father's and husband's names like she and Ser Barristan had discussed a thousand years ago, despite the annulment enforced by Tywin. After everything she endured, Selene thought that surely something as meaningless as a fake annulment couldn't hurt her, but it did beyond words. When Tywin noticed that she did not fall on her blade, he lied to the High Septon about her marriage. Tywin claimed Selene was forced to say her vows, and that vows said at swordpoint could not be held as valid. The High Septon did not bother to ask why Selene would travel to Robb Stark's camp if she was forced to wed him, but wisely chose the comply with the Hand's commands. The High Septon and Tywin Lannister can give all the proclamations they wish, Selene thought fiercely, I am Selene Baratheon Stark and no septon or lord or god can change that.
Tyrion's frequent visits were doing her much good. After making her swear never to raise a blade to herself again, Tyrion visited her at least once a day. He would make her repeat why life was worth living.
"For you," Selene said aloud to him every day before he left her, "For Tommen and Myrcella and Sansa. For the people of my father's realm. For vengeance and justice for Robb and my child."
Tyrion would nod approvingly, and leave her with a new book to read as he attended to his new position as master of coin and his marriage to Sansa Stark.
"I need to see her," Selene had insisted for the hundredth time. Robb's sister was the last Stark child and Selene felt the burning need to comfort the poor girl, who by all the laws of marriage was her own sister.
"I know, sweetling." Tyrion had tried, but Cersei had given clear instructions to her guards that she was only allowed to leave her rooms under constant supervision, and was never allowed near Sansa. She wasn't even allowed to see Tommen.
Despite everything, she must accept the Tyrell girl's invitation. She was nothing now, the discarded queen of a fallen kingdom and the disgraced widow of a rebel king. She could scarcely refuse Joffrey's queen-to-be.
Sighing, she got out quill and ink, and wrote Margaery Tyrell a gracious note of acceptance.
When the appointed night arrived, a brother of the Kingsguard came for her. The sight of Ser Loras Tyrell used to make Selene's heart beat a little faster, but now she felt nothing. The last time she had seen him, he had stood beside her uncle Renly in his pavilion as they looked over war plans. Now he stood before her in the white cloak worn by the likes of Ser Barristan Selmy and the Sword of the Morning.
Selene nodded, "Ser Loras,"
Ser Loras swallowed as he gazed into her eyes. He took a deep bow, "My lady. You look beautiful."
Selene had to force herself not to scoff. Selene knew what she was saying with her attire. Her new handmaiden never spoke a word to her and was silent when Selene had asked about her old friend Lori, but Selene had drawn the line when she was presented with a crimson dress. I will not wear their colors. She had chosen instead a wispy black dress, to show her mourning, with a deep plunging neckline and open back. No need to play the maiden. Selene was no maid, there was no reason for modesty. I was a woman flowered and wedded with a child on the way, until they took that away from me. I will not let them parade me around in modest dresses of crimson. I will not play that part for them.
"My sister awaits you eagerly." He offered her his arm and led her down the steps. "My grandmother as well."
"Your grandmother?"
"Lady Olenna. She is to sup with you as well."
"The Queen of Thorns," Selene remarked.
"Yes," Ser Loras laughed, "You'd best not use that name in her presence, though, or you're like to get pricked.
"There is nothing Lady Olenna can do to me that hasn't been done already," Selene said flatly.
Ser Loras reddened, "Of course, my lady. Forgive me."
Ser Balon Swann held the door for them to pass. He was all in white as well, though he did not wear it half so well as Ser Loras. Beyond the spiked moat, two dozen men were taking their practice with sword and shield. With the castle so crowded, the outer ward had given over for guests to raise their tents and pavilions, leaving only the smaller inner courtyards for training. One of the Redwyne twins was being driven backward by Ser Tallard. Chunky Ser Kennos of Kayce, who chuffed and puffed every time he raised his longsword, seemed to be holding his own against Osney Kettleblack, but Osney's brother Ser Osfryd was savagely punishing the frog-faced squire Morros Slynt. Blunted swords or no, Slynt would have a rich crop of bruises by the morrow. I wish I had my sword.
On the edge of the yard, a lone knight with a pair of golden roses on his shield was holding off three foes. Even as they watched, he caught one of them alongside the head, knocking him senseless. Just the sight of it was enough to make Selene's fingers twitch with wanting to grip a sword.
Ser Loras followed her gaze, "My brother, Ser Garlan. He often trains against three men, or even four. In battle, it is seldom one against one, he says, so he likes to be prepared."
Ser Garlan glanced up, and his eyes followed them across the courtyard.
"My brother has heard of your skill with sword, my lady," Ser Loras said kindly, "He is eager to spar with you."
"Ser Garlan is not like to get his wish," Selene said blankly, "I hardly think I will be allowed to hold a sword."
"He is a great knight," Ser Loras continued, "A better sword than me, in truth, though I am a better lance."
Selene was tired of his boasting, "Much good it did Renly," she said vacuously.
Ser Loras brushed the hilt of his sword lightly with his hand. Its grip was white leather, its pommel a rose in alabaster. "Renly is dead." His voice was tight, "What use to speak of him?"
"What use?" Selene repeated, "One moment, you were by my uncle's side, planning a Baratheon victory, and now….now you are sworn to give your life for him. That complete-"
"King Joffrey is a Baratheon." Ser Loras said fiercely. "He has to be."
They ascended the serpentine steps in deepening silence.
Lord Mace Tyrell and his entourage had been housed behind the royal sept, in the long slate-roof keep that had been called the Maidenvault since King Baelor the Blessed had confined his sisters therein, so the sight of them might not tempt him into carnal thoughts. Outside its tall carved doors stood two guards in gilded halfhelms and green cloaks edged in gold satin, the golden rose of Highgarden sewn on their breasts. Both were seven-feet tall, wide of shoulder, and narrow of waist, magnificently muscled. When Selene got close enough to see their faces, she could not tell one from the other. They had the same strong jaws, the same blue eyes, the same thick red mustaches.
"My grandmother's personal guards," Ser Loras said, "Their mother named them Erryk and Arryk, but Grandmother can't tell them apart, so she calls them Left and Right."
Left and Right opened the doors, and Margaery Tyrell herself emerged and swept down the short flight of steps to greet them. "Princess Selene," she called, "I'm so pleased you came. Be welcome."
Selene stared at Renly's widow. As the sister of the king, Selene was styled princess again, but Margaery was not queen yet. She nodded, "Lady Margaery."
"Please call me Margaery. Might I call you Selene?"
"If it pleases you."
Margaery dismissed Ser Loras with a sisterly kiss, and took Selene by the hand. "Come, my grandmother awaits, and she is not the most patient of ladies."
"Princess Selene," Ser Loras called before she could walk away.
She turned and looked upon Renly's dearest friend. Ser Loras stepped closer, "May I look at your eyes?"
Does he wish to see Renly's? Selene frowned, gave him a wary look, but nodded. Ser Loras stepped closer and Selene had to look up to keep his gaze.
Ser Loras Tyrell stared deep into her eyes, and Selene saw love there. And sadness.
"So much like his…" he said wistfully. Ser Loras straightened, took a deep bow, "Thank you," he said before he left them.
A fire was crackling in the hearth, and sweet-smelling flowers had been scattered on the floor. Around the long table a dozen women were seated.
Selene recognized only Lord Tyrell's tall, dignified wife Lady Alerie, whose long silvery braid was bound with jeweled rings. Margaery performed the other introductions. There were three Tyrell cousins, Megga and Alla and Elinor, all only a few years younger than Selene. Buxom Lady Janna was Lord Tyrell's sister, and wed to one of the green-apple Fossoways, dainty, bright-eyed Lady Leonette was a Fossoway as well. Septa Nysterica had a homely pox-scarred face but seemed jolly. Pale, elegant Lady Graceford was with child, and Lady Bulwer was a child, no more than eight. And "Merry" was what she was to call the boisterous plump Meredyth Crane, but not definitely not Lady Merryweather, a sultry black-eyed Myrish beauty.
Last of all, Margaery brought her before the wizened white-haired doll of a woman at the head of the table. "I am honored to present my grandmother the Lady Olenna, widow to the late Luthor Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, whose memory is a comfort to us all."
The old woman smelled of rosewater. There seemed to be nothing the least bit thorny about her. "Kiss me, princess." Lady Olenna said, tugging at Selene's wrist with a soft spotted hand, "It is so kind of you to sup with me and my foolish flock of hens."
Selene bent down and kissed the old woman on the cheek, "It is kind of you to have me, my lady." Truth be told, it was a relief to be free of her chambers.
"I knew your grandfather, Steffon Baratheon, though not well."
"He died before I was born."
"I am aware of that, princess. Night falls for all of use in the end, and too soon for some. You would know that more than most, poor lady. You've had your share of grief, I know. Not yet sixteen, and you have lost a husband and a child. We are sorry for your losses."
Selene glanced at Margaery, "I grieved for Renly as a niece, but I am sorry you had to endure that as a wife."
"You are kind to say so," answered Margaery.
Her grandmother snorted, "Renly was charming and gallant and very clean. He knew how to dress and he knew how to smile and he knew how to bathe, and somehow he got the notion that this made him fit to lead an army and be Hand." She narrowed her eyes at Selene, "And you had it in your head that you were fit to be queen."
Selene felt a flare of annoyance, "I am not only fit, I am-"
"The Baratheons have always had some queer notions, to be sure." The Queen of Thorns interrupted, "It comes from your Targaryen blood, I should think." She sniffed, "They tried to marry me to a Targaryen once, but I soon put an end to that."
"Renly was brave and gentle, Grandmother," said Margaery, "Father liked him as well, and so did Loras."
"Loras is young," Lady Olenna said crisply, "and very good at knocking men off horses with a stick. That does not make him wise. As to your father, would that I'd been a peasant woman with a big wooden spoon, I might have been able to beat some sense into that fat head."
Selene nearly laughed. It had been so long since she had laughed.
"Mother," Lady Alerie scolded.
"Hush, Alerie, don't take that tone with me. And don't call me Mother. If I'd have given birth to you, I'm sure I'd remember. I'm only to blame for your husband, the lord oaf of Highgarden."
"Grandmother," Margaery said, "mind your words, or what will Selene think of us?"
"She might think we have some wits about us. One of us, at any rate." The old woman turned back to Selene, "It's treason, I warned them. Robert had two sons, how can his daughter possibly have any claim to that ugly giant chair? Tut-tut, says my son, don't you want your sweetling to be wife to the Hand of the Queen? You Baratheons were Kings once by the female line. And the Starks, the Arryns and the Lannisters as well, but the Tyrells were no more than stewards until Aegon the Dragon came along and cooked the rightful King of the Reach on the Field of Fire. If truth be told, even our claim to Highgarden is a bit dodgy, just as those dreadful Florents are always whining. 'What does it matter?' you ask, and of course it doesn't, except to oafs like my son. Now that Margaery is set to marry Joffrey, the thought that one day he may see his grandson with his arse on the Iron Throne makes Mace puff up like…now, what do you call it? Margaery, you're clever, be a dear and tell your old half-daft grandmother the name of that queer fish from the Summer Isles that puffs up to ten times its own size when you poke it."
"They call them puff fish, Grandmother."
"Of course they do. Summer Islanders have no imagination. My son ought to take the puff fish for his sigil, if truth be told. He could put a crown on it, the way you Baratheons do your stag, mayhaps that would make him happy. We should have stayed well out of all this bloody foolishness if you ask me, but once the cow's been milked there's no squirting the cream back up her udder. After Lord Puff Fish put his trust in Renly, we were into the pudding up to our knees, so here we are to see things through. And what do you say to that, Selene?"
Selene glanced at Margaery. If Tywin hears what I want to say…Selene had no doubts that Tywin could make her punishment worse, but she wanted to scream at Lady Olenna. What do I say to that, Lady Olenna? I say Joffrey's is a bastard born of incest, and your son and Renly supported their true queen.
Instead, Selene thought of what Lady Olenna said about the Tyrell lineage, "The Tyrells can trace their descent back to Garth Greenhand."
The Queen of Thorns snorted. "So can the Florents, the Rowans, the Oakhearts, and half the other noble houses of the south. Garth liked to plant his seed in fertile ground, they say. I shouldn't wonder that more than his hands were green."
"Selene," Lady Alerie broke in, "you must be very hungry. Shall we have a bite of boar together, and some chocolate cakes?"
"Chocolate cakes are my favorite," Selene admitted.
"So we have been told," declared Lady Olenna, who obviously had no intention of being hushed, "That Varys creature seemed to think we should be grateful for the information. I've never been quite sure what the point of a eunuch is, if truth be told. It seems to me they're only men with the useful bits cut off. Alerie, will you have them bring the food, or do you mean to starve me to death? Here, Selene, sit here next to me, I'm much less boring than these others. I hope you're fond of fools."
Selene smoothed down her skirts and sat, "What kind of fools?"
"Feathers, in this case. What did you imagine I was speaking of? My son? Or these lovely ladies? All men are fools, if truth be told, but the ones in motley are more amusing than ones with crowns. Margaery, child, summon Butterbumps, let us see if we can't make Princess Selene smile. The rest of you be seated, do I have to tell you everything? Selene must think that my granddaughter is attended by a flock of sheep."
Butterbumps arrived before the food, dressed in a jester's suit of green and yellow feathers. An immense round fat man, he came cartwheeling into the hall, vaulted onto the table, and laid a gigantic egg in front of Selene. "Break it, princess," he said. When she did, a dozen yellow chicks escaped and began running in all directions. "Catch them!" Butterbumps exclaimed. Little Lady Bulwer snagged one and handed it to him, whereby he tilted back his head, popped it into his huge rubbery mouth, and seemed to swallow it whole. When he belched, tiny yellow feathers flew from his nose. Lady Bulwer began to wail in distress, but her tears turned into a sudden squeal of delight when the chick came squirming out of the sleeves of her gown and down her arms.
As the servants brought out a broth of leeks and mushrooms, Butterbumps began to juggle as he sang and Lady Olenna pushed herself forward to rest her elbows on the table. "Do you know my son, Selene? Lord Puff Fish of Highgarden?"
"Lord of one of the Great Houses."
"Lord Oaf of one of the Great Houses," said the Queen of Thorns. "His father was an oaf as well. My husband, the late Lord Luthor. Oh, I loved him well enough, don't mistake me. A kind man, and not unskilled in the bedchamber, but an appalling oaf all the same. He managed to ride off a cliff while hawking. They say he was looking up at the sky and paying no mind to where his horse was taking him.
"And now my son is doing the same, only he's riding a lion instead of a palfrey. It is easy to mount a lion and not so easy to get off, I warned him, but he only chuckles. Should you ever have a son, Selene, beat him frequently so he learns to mind you. I only had the one boy and I hardly beat him at all, so now he pays more heed to Butterbumps than he does to me. A lion is not a lapcat, I told him, and he gives me a 'tut-tut-Mother.' There is entirely too much tut-tutting in this realm, if you ask me. All these kings would do a deal better if they would put down their swords and listen to their mothers."
Selene did not know what to say, so she stayed silent.
Lady Olenna gave her a searching look, "Your grief surrounds you like a cloud, my lady. It is a shame to see a captive wolf. Or are you a stag again?"
Selene met her gaze, "I am not a stag, my husband was not a wolf, my grandfather is not a lion. We're people, not gods. I will never be that foolish again. I will never think myself more than what I am."
"And what are you?"
"A wife who lost her husband. A mother who lost her child. I'm a girl." Selene looked down at her hands, "I'm just a girl."
"And wise beyond your years," Lady Olenna said approvingly.
"Selene, would you like to visit Highgarden?" When Margaery Tyrell smiled, she looked very much like her brother Loras. "All the autumn flowers are in bloom just now, and there are groves and fountains, shady courtyards, marble columnades. My lord father always keeps singers at court, sweeter ones that Butterbumps here, and pipers and fiddlers and harpers as well. We have pleasure boats to sail along the Mander, and the best horses."
"I lost my horse," Selene said sadly. She hadn't seen Thunder since the Red Wedding, which was what the realm was calling the massacre at the Twins.
"Stop it, Margaery," The Queen of Thorns said sharply, "She is not a child. Don't treat her like one. We shall tell her our true purpose."
Selene raised a brow, "True purpose?"
"To see you safely wed, princess," Lady Olenna said, "to my grandson."
Selene grit her teeth, "I don't wish to remarry."
"That is obvious," Lady Olenna eyed Selene's mourning dress, "However, I know your grandfather, and though you may wish otherwise, marry you shall. And who to? The Starks are gone, Lord Tully is wed and captured, Lady Arryn will never marry her precious child to a Lannister. So it's either the heir of Highgarden or a Martell. The Dornish are snakes, so here is my offer." Lady Olenna took her hand, "Marry my Willas. He is a bit older than you, to be sure, but a dear boy for all that. Not the least bit oafish, and heir to Highgarden besides."
Never, Selene thought. But she could hear something beneath those words, so she tread lightly. "I hear Willas Tyrell is crippled."
"He was hurt as a squire, riding in his first tourney," Margaery confided, "His horse fell and crushed his leg."
"That snake of a Dornishman was to blame, that Oberyn Martell. And his maester as well." Lady Olenna said acidly.
"Willas has a bad leg, but a good heart," said Margaery. "He used to read to me when I was a little girl, and draw me pictures of the stars. You will love him as much as we do, Selene."
"I most certainly will not," Selene turned to Olenna, "You would marry your heir to a traitor. Throw your prized flower into the dirt. Why? Because you pretend to care about me?"
Margaery straightened, "You are the niece to my late husband. You are the sister of my future husband. We are kin."
Selene was no stranger to the game, "And you are casting a wide net," Selene kept her eyes on Lady Olenna, "Should the claims about Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella prove true, which they are, I am my father's heir. If I am crowned queen, and Willas is my husband-"
"Then for the first time in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, there will be a Tyrell king." Lady Olenna finished, "As you can imagine, getting to that point will be a tragedy." She looked at Margaery, "That would mean the unthinkable. My granddaughter married to a monster, her children bastards, but House Tyrell must go on."
"Why should I trust you?" Selene asked, "The Tyrells abandoned me when I needed them most."
"Ah, I thought you would ask that," said Olenna with a smile. Leaning forward, she rang a little silver bell. "A token of our goodwill." As the door opened, Selene turned to see one of the Tyrell guards lead a young girl into the room.
Selene jumped out of her seat, "Sansa?"
Sansa Stark's eyes widened to the size of saucers when she met Selene's. Both girls were as still as stone, until Selene ran forward. Sansa met her halfway, and the girls threw their arms around each other. Selene ran her fingers through Sansa's hair as her eyes welled up with tears.
Sansa pulled away to look at Selene, "Is it really you?"
Selene smiled, "Yes, my sweet girl." She cupped her face, "Sister." Her eyes are so like Robb's. Selene bit back a sob.
Sansa Stark had grown several inches since Selene last beheld her. She is just as comely as Margaery. Her hair was a rich autumn auburn, her eyes a deep Tully blue. Grief had given her a haunted, vulnerable look; if anything, it had only made her more beautiful. Her tight-laced bodice revealed her budding figure.
Sansa looked up at her, teary-eyed, "My brother..."
Selene held her tighter, "I know, sweetling, I know. But your mother is alive."
Sansa's head snapped up, her eyes full of hope, "She is?"
Selene nodded, "A captive at the Twins, but alive."
Sansa gave a sob of relief and buried her face in Selene's shoulder. Selene held her tight.
"If any two people can console each other in their grief," Lady Olenna said, "It is you two."
"Why are you doing this?" Selene asked. If her mother found out about this, this could mean trouble for the Tyrells.
"To show you that we do care," Margaery answered, "We had tried to have Sansa marry our Willas first, but-"
"The damn Lannisters beat us to it, and gave the poor girl to your Uncle Imp."
"His name is Tyrion," Selene snapped. She turned back to Sansa, "I'm sorry about that."
Sansa's eyes looked faraway, "He's kind to me."
"I knew he would be."
"So?" Lady Olenna prompted, "Will you marry our Willas?"
Selene looked back at Sansa, "Only if I can take her with me." It wasn't unthinkable for a husband and wife to live separated. No doubt Tyrion would consent to let Sansa live with Selene in Highgarden, with perhaps a few visits for child-bearing purposes. I can only shield Sansa from that for so long, but at least I can get her out of King's Landing. She is the only Stark family I have left. I must keep her safe. For Robb.
"I don't see why not." Lady Olenna said with a smile. "Ah, look, here comes my cheese."
###
A horse whickered impatiently behind her, from amidst the ranks of gold cloaks drawn up across the road, Selene could hear Lord Gyles coughing as well. Tyrion had not asked for Gyles, no more than he'd asked for Ser Addam or Jalabhar Xho or any of the rest, but Lord Tywin felt Doran Martell might take it ill if only a dwarf and a traitor came to escort him across the Blackwater.
Joffrey should have met the Dornishman himself, she reflected as she sat waiting, but he would have mucked it up, no doubt. Of late the king had been repeating little jests about the Dornish that he'd picked up from Mace Tyrell's men-at-arms. How many Dornishmen does it take to shoe a horse? Nine. One to do the shoeing, and eight to light the horse up. Somehow Selene did not think Doran Martell would find that amusing.
Selene did not complain, though. She was just grateful to be out of King's Landing. Tyrion had requested her presence and Tywin had allowed it only with the condition that she remain unarmed and a large amount of Lannister soldiers accompany them, in case Selene had any bold notions of fleeing. Not that she would have. The half-mad thoughts she had of taking her own life were fading as she constantly reminded herself what there was left to live for. For Tyrion and Tommen and Myrcella and Sansa. For sweet vengeance. She did not know when she would get it, but she was willing to wait as long as it took.
She could see their banners flying as the riders emerged from the green of the wood.
"Too many banners," whispered Tyrion.
Martell had brought half of Dorne, by the look of it. "How many banners do you count?" Selene asked.
"Bronn," Tyrion called. He repeated the question to his sellsword. The man had a lean, wolfish appearance, with his dark hair, dark eyes, and stubble of beard.
Bronn shaded his eyes, "Eight…no, nine."
Tyrion turned in his saddle, "Pod, come up here. Describe the arms you see, and tell me which houses they represent."
Podrick Payne edged his gelding closer. He was carrying the royal standard, Joffrey's great stag-and-lion. Bronn bore Tyrion's own banner, the lion of Lannister gold on crimson.
The Payne boy nervously rattled off the banners as he saw them. Martell brings some formidable companions, it would seem. Not one of the houses Pod had named was small or insignificant. Nine of the greatest lords of Dorne were coming up the kingsroad, them or their heirs, and somehow Selene did not think they had come all this way for a dancing bear. There was a message here. And perhaps one I will like. Nonetheless, Selene felt a stab of fear for Myrcella down in Sunspear.
"My lord," Pod said to Tyrion, albeit a little timidly, "there's no litter."
Selene turned her head sharply. The boy was right.
"Doran Martell always travels in a litter," Selene said. Doran was past fifty, and gouty.
Tyrion couldn't tolerate the waiting. "Banners forward," he snapped, "We'll meet them." When the Dornishmen saw them coming, they spurred their own mounts, banners rippling as they rode.
There were three sorts of Dornishmen, the first King Daeron had observed. There were the salty Dornishmen who lived along the coasts, the sandy Dornishment of the deserts, and the stony Dornishmen who made their homes in the heights of the Red Mountains. The salty Dornishmen had the most Rhoynish blood, the stony Dornishmen the least.
All three sorts seemed well represented in Doran's retinue. The salty Dornishmen were lithe and dark, with smooth olive skin and long black hair streaming in the wind. The sandy Dornishmen were even darker, their faces burned brown by the hot Dornish sun. They wound long bright scarfs around their helms to ward off sunstroke. The stony Dornishmen were biggest and fairest, sons of the Andals and the First men, brown-haired or blonde, with faces that freckled or burned instead of browning.
The lords wore silk and satin robes with jeweled belts and flowing sleeves. The fabled steeds of Dorne they rode were smaller than proper warhorses and could not bear such weight of armor, but it was said that they could run for a day and night and another day, and never tire.
The Dornish leader rode a stallion as black as sin with a mane and tail the color of fire. He sat in his saddle as if he had been borne there, tall, slim, and graceful. A cloak of pale red silk fluttered from his shoulders, and his shirt was armored with overlapping rows of copper disks. His high gilded helm displayed a copper sun on its brow, and the round shield slung behind him bore the sun-and-spear of House Martell.
A Martell sun, but ten years too young, Selene thought as they reared up. How many Dornishmen does it take to start a war? Only one. Yet Selene saw that Tyrion had no choice but to smile, "Well met, my lords. We had word of your approach, and His Grace King Joffrey bid me ride out to welcome you in his name. My lord father the King's Hand sends his greetings as well." He feigned an amiable confusion that fooled everyone, save Selene, "Which of you is Prince Doran?"
"My brother's health requires him to remain at Sunspear." The princeling removed his helm. Beneath, his face was lined and melancholy, with thin arched brows above large eyes as black and shiny as pools of coal oil. Only a few streaks of silver marred the lustrous black hair that receded from his brow in a widow's peak as sharply pointed as his nose. A salty Dornishmen for certain. "Prince Doran has sent me to join King Joffrey's council in his stead, as it pleases his Grace."
"His Grace will be most honored to have the counsel of a warrior as renowned as Prince Oberyn of Dorne," said Selene, thinking, This will mean blood in the gutters. "And your noble companions are most welcome as well."
Prince Oberyn set off performing the introductions, until he landed on the last lady, "And this is Ellaria Sand, mine own paramour."
Selene could hardly suppress her grin. His paramour, and bastard-born. Cersei will pitch a holy fit if he wants her at the wedding. If she consigned the woman to some dark corner below the salt, her mother would risk the Red Viper's wrath. Seat her beside him at the high table, and every other lady on the dais was like to take offense.
Prince Oberyn wheeled his horses about to face his fellow Dornishmen. "Ellaria, lords and ladies, sers, see how well King Joffrey loves us? His Grace has been so kind as to send his own Uncle Imp to bring us to court."
Selene squeezed the reigns of her palfrey as the Dornishmen laughed, but Oberyn was not done.
"And he sends his beloved sister, the widowed usurper Selene Stark."
Tyrion spoke quickly, "We are not alone, my lords. That would be too enormous a task for a little man like me." The rest of their party had come up on them, so it was Tyrion's turn to name the names.
"My lord of Lannister," said the Dornish Lady Blackmont, "we have come a long dusty way, and rest and refreshment would be most welcome. Might we continue on to the city?"
"At once my lady," Tyrion turned his horse's head, and called to Ser Addam Marbrand. The mounted gold cloaks who formed the greatest part of the honor guard turned their horses crisply and the column set off for the river and King's Landing beyond.
Oberyn Nymeros Martell, Selene thought as she fell in beside the man. The Red Viper of Dorne. And what in the seven hells are we supposed to do with him?
She knew the man only by reputation, to be sure…but the reputation was fearsome. When he was no more than sixteen, Prince Oberyn had been found abed with the paramour of the old Lord Yronwood, a huge man of fierce repute and short temper. A duel ensued, though in view of the prince's youth and high birth, it was only to first blood. Both men took cuts, and honor was satisfied. Yet Prince Oberyn soon recovered, while Lord Yronwood's wounds festered and killed him. Afterward men whispered that Oberyn had fought with a poisoned sword, and ever thereafter friends and foes alike called him the Red Viper.
That was many years ago, to be sure. The boy of sixteen was a man past forty now, and his legend had grown a great deal darker. He had traveled in the Free Cities, learning the poisoner's trade and perhaps the dark arts as well, if rumors could be believed. He had studied at the Citadel, going so far as to forge six links of a maester's chain before he grew bored. He had soldiered in the Disputed Lands across the narrow sea, riding with the Second Sons for a time before forming his own company. His tourneys, his battles, his duels, his horses, his carnality…it was said that he bedded men and women both, and had begotten bastard girls all over Dorne. The sand snakes, men called his daughters. So far as Selene had heard, Prince Oberyn had never fathered a son.
And of course, he crippled the heir to Highgarden.
There is no man in the Seven Kingdoms who will be less welcome at a Tyrell wedding, thought Selene. To send Prince Oberyn to King's Landing while the city hosted Lord Mace Tyrell, two of his sons, and thousands of their men-at-arms was a provocation as dangerous as Prince Oberyn himself. A wrong word, an ill-timed jest, a look, that's all it will take, and our noble allies will be at each other's throats.
"We have met before," the Dornish prince said lightly toward Tyrion as they rode side by side along the kingsroad, "I would not expect you to remember, though. You were even smaller than you are now."
There was a mocking edge to his voice that Selene misliked, but Tyrion was not about to let the Dornish man provoke him, "When was this, my lord?" he asked in tones of polite interest.
"Oh, many and many a year ago, when my mother ruled in Dorne and your lord father was Hand to a different king."
Not so different as you might think, reflected Selene.
"It was when I visited Casterly Rock with my mother, her consort, and my sister Elia. I was, oh, fourteen, fifteen, whereabouts, Elia a year older. Your brother and sister were eight or nine, as I recall, and you had just been born."
Selene and Tyrion exchanged a look. A strange time to come visiting. Her grandmother died giving birth to Tyrion, so the Martells would have found the Rock in deep mourning. Her grandfather especially. Lord Tywin barely spoke of his wife, but Selene had heard his brothers talk of the love between them.
"Did you find Casterly Rock to your liking, my lord?" Selene asked.
"Scarcely, my lady. Your grandfather ignored us the whole time we were there, after commanding Ser Kevan to see to our entertainment. The cell they gave me had a featherbed to sleep in and Myrish carpets on the floor, but it was dark and windowless, much like a dungeon when you come down to it, as I told Elia at the time. Your skies are grey, your wines too sweet, your women too chaste, your food too bland…and Lord Tyrion himself was the greatest disappointment of all."
"I had just been born," Tyrion said, "What did you expect of me?"
"Enormity," the black-haired prince replied, "You were small, but other than that, unremarkable. We were in Oldtown at your birth, and all the city talked of the monster that had been born to the King's Hand, and what such an omen might foretell for the realm."
"Famine, plague, and war, no doubt," Tyrion gave a sour smile. "It's always famine, plague, and war. Oh, and winter, and the long night that never ends."
"All that," said Prince Oberyn, "and your father's fall as well. Lord Tywin had made himself greater than King Aerys, I heard one begging brother preach, but only a god is meant to stand above a king. You were his curse, a punishment sent by the gods to teach him that he was no better than any other man."
"I try, but he refuses to learn," Tyrion gave a sigh. "But do go on. I love a good tale."
"And well you might, since you were said to have one, a stiff curly tail, like a swine. Your head was monstrous, we heard, half the size of your body, and you had been born with thick black hair and a beard besides, an evil eye, and lion's claws. Your teeth were so long you could not close your mouth, and between your legs were a girl's privates as well as a boy's."
"Life would be much simpler if men could fuck themselves, don't you agree? And I can think of a few times when claws and teeth might have proved useful. Even so, I begin to see the nature of your complaint."
Bronn gave a chuckle, but Oberyn only smiled. "We might never have seen you at all but for your sweet sister. You were never seen at table or hall, though sometimes at night we could hear a baby howling down in the depths of the Rock. You did have a great voice, I must grant you. You would wail for hours, and nothing would quiet you but a woman's teat."
"Still true, as it happens," Selene quipped.
Tyrion laughed, and this time Prince Oberyn did as well, "A taste your uncle and I share."
Tyrion was grinning, "You were speaking of my sister?"
"Cersei promised Elia to show you to us. The day before we were to sail, whilst my mother and your father were closeted together, she and Jaime took us down to your nursery. Your wet nurse tried to send us off, but your sister was having none of that. 'He's mine,' she said, 'and you're just a milk cow, you can't tell me what to do. Be quiet or I'll have my father cut your tongue out. A cow doesn't need a tongue, only udders.'"
"My mother learned charm at an early age," said Selene, amused.
"The gods know she has never been in a rush to claim me since." Tyrion admitted.
"Cersei even undid your swaddling clothes to give us a better look," the Dornish prince continued. "You did have one evil eye and some black fuzz on your scalp. Perhaps your head was larger than most…but there was no tail, no beard, neither teeth nor claw, and nothing between your legs but a tiny pink cock. After all the wonderful whispers, Lord Tywin's Doom turned out to be just a red infant with stunted legs. Elia even made the noise young girls make at the sight of infants, I'm sure you've heard it. The same they make over cute kittens and playful puppies. When I commented that you seemed a poor sort of monster, your sister said, 'He killed my mother,' and she twisted your little cock so hard I thought she was like to tear it off. You shrieked, but it was only when your brother Jaime said, 'Leave him be, you're hurting him,' that Cersei let go of you. 'It doesn't matter,' she told us, 'Everyone says he's like to die soon. He shouldn't even have lived this long.'"
The sun was shining bright above them, and the day was pleasantly warm for autumn, but Selene Baratheon went cold all over when she heard that. My sweet mother. Why would Oberyn tell such a tale? Is he testing us, or simply toying? She could see Tyrion struggle with the same dilemma.
"Be sure and tell that story to my father," Tyrion said nonchalantly, "It will delight him as much as it did me. The part about my tail, especially. I did have one, but he had it lopped off."
Prince Oberyn had a chuckle. "You've grown more amusing since last we met."
"Yes, but I meant to grow taller."
"While we are speaking of amusement, I heard a curious tale from Lord Buckler's steward. He claimed that you had put a tax on women's privy purses."
"It is a tax on whoring," said Selene. And it was Tywin's notion. "The King's Hand felt the extra penny might help improve the morals of the city." And pay for Joffrey's wedding besides. Tyrion had complained of the blame he would receive as the master of coin. The common people called it the dwarf's penny in the streets.
"I will make certain to keep my pouch full of pennies. Even a prince must pay his taxes."
"Why should you need to go whoring?" Selene glanced back to where Ellaria Sand rode among the other women. "Did you tire of your paramour on the road?"
"Never. We share too much." Prince Oberyn shrugged, "We have never shared a beautiful blonde woman, however, and Ellaria is curious. Do you know of any such creature?"
"I am a man wedded," Tyrion said. Though not bedded, Selene thought. "I no longer frequent whores."
Oberyn abruptly changed the subject, "I hear there is to be seventy-seven courses served at the king's wedding feast."
"Are you hungry, my prince?"
"I have hungered for a long time, princess. Though not for food. Pray, tell me Lord Tyrion, when will justice be served?"
"Justice," Tyrion repeated. "You were close to your sister?"
"As children Elia and I were inseparable, much like your own brother and sister."
Gods, I hope not, Selene thought as Tyrion attempted to placate the prince, "Wars and weddings have kept us well occupied, Prince Oberyn. I fear no one has yet had the time to look into murders sixteen years stale, dreadful as they were. We shall, of course, just as soon as we may. Any help that Dorne might be able to provide to restore the king's peace would only hasten the beginning of my lord father's inquiry-"
"Dwarf," said the Red Viper, in a tone grown markedly less cordial, "spare me your Lannister lies. Is it sheep you take us for, or fools? My brother is not a bloodthirsty man, but neither has he been asleep for sixteen years. Jon Arryn came to Sunspear the year after Robert took the throne, and you can be sure that he was questioned closely. Him, and a hundred more. I did not come for some mummer's inquiry. I came for justice for Elia and her children, and I will have it. Starting with this lummox Gregor Clegane…but not, I think, ending there. Before he dies, the Enormity That Rides will tell me whence came his orders, please assure your lord father of that." He smiled. "An old septon once claimed I was living proof of the goodness of the gods. Do you know why that is, Imp?
"No," Tyrion admitted warily.
"Why, if the gods were cruel, they would have made me my mother's firstborn, and Doran her third. I am a bloodthirsty man, you see. And it is me you must contend with now, not my patient, prudent, and gouty brother."
Selene's interest was piqued. Perhaps I have found my chance for vengeance in this Dornish prince.
Tyrion, however, was gazing ahead across the Blackwater at King's Landing. "You speak like a man with a great host at his back," Tyrion said testily, "but all I see is three hundred. Do you spy that city there, north of the river?"
"That landfill before us? Not only do I see it, I smell it."
"Then take a good sniff, my lord. Fill up your nose. Half a million people stink more than three hundred, you'll find. Do you smell the gold cloaks? There are near five thousand of them. My father's own sworn swords must account for another twenty thousand. And then there are the roses. Roses smell so sweet, don't they? Especially when there are so many of them. Fifty, sixty, seventy, thousand roses, in the city or camped outside it, I can't really say how many are left, but there's more than I care to count, anyway."
Martell gave a shrug, "In Dorne of old before we married Daeron, it was said that all flowers bow before the sun. Should the roses seek to hinder me I'll gladly trample them underfoot."
Perhaps it was her recent meal with the Tyrell women, but something made Selene say, "As you trampled Willas Tyrell?"
Tyrion's eyes widened, but the Dornishman did not react as expected. "I had a letter from Willas not half a year past. We share an interest in fine horseflesh. He has never borne me any ill will for what happened in the lists. I struck his breastplate clean, but his foot caught in a stirrup as he fell and his horse came down on top of him. I sent a maester to him afterward, but it was all he could do to save the boy's leg. The knee was far past mending. If any were to blame, it was his fool of a father. Willas Tyrell was as green as his surcoat and had no business riding in such company. The Fat Flower thrust him into tourneys at too tender of an age, just as he did with the other two. He wanted another Leo Longthorn, and made himself a cripple."
"There are those who say Ser Loras is better than Leo Longthorn ever was," said Tyrion.
"Renly's little rose? I doubt that."
Selene frowned, but Tyrion spoke quickly, "Doubt it all you wish, but Ser Loras has defeated many good knights, including my brother Jaime."
"If by defeated, you mean unhorsed in a tourney, I care not. Tell me who he's slain in battle if you wish to frighten me."
"Ser Robar Royce and Ser Emmon Cuy, for two. And men say he performed feats of valor on the Blackwater, fighting beside Renly's ghost."
"So these same men saw the ghost as well, yes?" The Dornishman laughed lightly.
Tyrion gave him a long look, "Chataya's on the Street of Silk has several girls who might suit your needs. Daney has hair the color of honey. Marie's is pale white-gold. I would advise you to keep one or the other by your side at all times, my lord."
"At all times?" Prince Oberyn lifted a thin black eyebrow. "And why is that, my good Imp?"
"You wanted to die with a breast in hand, as I recall." With that, Tyrion cantered ahead. It seems he has suffered all he means to suffer of what passes for Dornish wit. But Selene did not follow. Instead, she stayed beside the prince.
Prince Oberyn chuckled as he watched Tyrion leave, "Your uncle is quite amusing. Though, his defense of his Lannister family is troubling."
"He's not one of them, I assure you. He loves them not," Selene said. Except for Jaime. But Jaime hadn't been seen in months, not since Lady Catelyn freed him from Riverrun's prison.
Prince Oberyn veered his horse slightly closer to hers, "I trust you would not defend the house which caused you nothing but anguish."
Selene wondered how much she could trust the Red Viper. Not as far as I can throw him, certainly, but what could he possibly do to me? Tell Tywin I mislike Lannisters? It's hardly a secret.
"I would not."
Oberyn smiled, "A girl with sense. Or should I say, a woman. Tell me, my lady, is it true what I've heard?"
"What have you heard?" Selene asked suspiciously.
"Well, we received your letter all the way in Dorne about your brother's parentage. That news does strain Trystane's betrothal to your sister Myrcella, but I suspect you knew that. But I mean about everything else. That your own family conspired to have your husband murdered. And that the Old Lion poisoned you, killing the child in your womb."
Selene's eyes were faraway. She swallowed. "All true."
"Then you must hate the Lannisters as much as I."
"More."
The Dornishman smiled, "I know the hearts of women. I saw the way my sister was with her children, the way the mothers of mine are with them. Such atrocities would drive them mad with grief." He eyed her black mourning clothes, "Yet here you sit."
"Yet here I sit." Selene agreed.
"What are you waiting for, my lady?" Oberyn asked softly.
"Opportunity."
"So am I, my lady," Prince Oberyn's black eyes flickered, "So am I."
Author's Note:
Reviews are appreciated!
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HPuni101: "Damn the Lannisters except Tyrion" is a perfect summary of the Lannister family haha.
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