Chapter 4: Growing Strong

The Princes of Dorne

"What do you make of it?" Doran asked as his brother Oberyn handed back the raven scroll they'd just received from Jon Arryn.

Oberyn, ever casual in his mannerisms, put a leg up on the sandstone ledge overlooking the Shadow City of Sunspear below, brow furrowed in thought.

"They seek to give us a princess," he mused. "Oh, we are sorry for raping your sister and murdering her children – here is a pretty girl we have no use for."

Oberyn snorted, rolling his eyes, and Doran shot him a flat look.

"I know. There is more to this than meets the eye. I am no fool; I can see the big picture."

"Queen Cersei leaves Kings Landing after a dispute with the King over the fostering of her youngest son." Doran pondered, looking back at the letter in his hand. "And not two moon-turns later, her daughter is being offered to us by the Hand of the King. There is a game afoot here, and someone seeks to make pawns of us."

"Agreed," Oberyn said, rubbing his chin. "But who is the architect?"

Not having an answer to that, the two brothers sat in silence for several minutes before Oberyn spoke again.

"I did hear something… a few moons back, at a brothel in Lys. There was some dispute between Stark and Tyrell?"

Doran nodded.

"An accounting issue that led to the Starks being short-changed in grains from the Reach. The matter was settled without incident, I believe. The Tyrells had to agree to higher yields at the same price and a ten-year exclusivity for Northern lumber shipments along the Sunset Sea."

Oberyn turned back to his brother, face creased in confusion.

"That's not what I heard."

"Really?" Doran asked.

"Quite. I heard there was foul play involved. That someone had changed the Tyrell ledgers deliberately to force a confrontation. According to the person I spoke too, the Usurper's Dog was seen several times in private meetings with the Queen of Thorns, and when he went back to that barren wasteland, his youngest daughter stayed behind – as apprentice to the heir of Highgarden."

Doran blinked, then blinked again.

"I haven't heard any of that. It wasn't announced. Certainly not publicly," Doran said, biting his lip. "You think this deserves a deeper look?"

"I do," Oberyn said. "Especially since we've lost track of Viserys and his sister after they fled Braavos."

Doran nodded his consent.

"Send someone, but for the gods' sakes, Oberyn, do it quietly."

The Red Viper of Dorne just laughed.

"Don't worry, brother. I know just the Snake to send."

A Snake in the Reach

Rhae Sand, once Rhaenys Targaryen, had never left Dorne before. But her Uncle Oberyn had promised to take her on a tour of the Free Cities when she turned sixteen. Well, she had turned sixteen, but her promised adventure had been delayed for now. She would have been angry, but her Uncles never did anything without a purpose, and instead of a guided tour, she was being trusted with something far more critical. Rhaenys had a mission to complete – a mission to protect Dorne, the homeland that had taken her in after Lions butchered her mother and brother, and her city was put to the sword.

Rhaenys task was simple. Learn what was really going on in Highgarden. Why was a Stark daughter studying falconry in the South? What was the supposed crime committed that no one would speak of? And was there a connection between House Tyrell's games and the Baratheon Princess offered to House Martell?

Well, she knew the answer to the last at least.

It had not taken Rhaenys long after she reached Highgarden to learn that Olenna Tyrell had been seen speaking to Tyrion Lannister in a tavern near the city gates. No one she talked to knew what the conversation was about – two people as high-ranked and intelligent as them, surely were too smart to allow themselves to be overheard so easily. But the fact remained that the famed razor-tongued matriarch of House Tyrell had met with the Imp of Casterly Rock for an hour three moons past. The Imp had left for Kings Landing the next day, and not long after, the raven that had confused Uncle Doran and Uncle Oberyn had arrived in Sunspear.

If that was a coincidence, Rhaenys would eat Obara's favourite spear. There was undoubtedly something at work here. Rhaenys guessed that Olenna Tyrell and Tyrion Lannister were two puppeteers working together at the strings – with Houses Stark and Martell their puppets.

The question was, why?

The other two elements of her investigation were much harder to glean information on. Though Rhaenys was hard-pressed to find someone in Highgarden who didn't have an opinion of House Stark after their recent visit, she had found next to nothing about any supposed crime. The Starks had all behaved well during their visit South, contrary to what many of the Septons of the Faith had been preaching before their arrival, which had thrown the small folk into confusion. The Lady Sansa, in particular, had impressed both the citizens and most of the nobles in the Tyrell court, as had Wyman Manderly of White Harbour – who had apparently run rings around Mace Tyrell in the trade negotiations.

But no one knew of any supposed plot or crime. Either all knowledge of the act had been carefully suppressed by the Tyrells – which was certainly possible, given how bad it made them look – or Uncle Oberyn had been wrong. Rhaenys suspected the former.

With those avenues exhausted, Rhaenys turned her attention to the Stark that stayed behind. Learning about Arya Stark was easy. It seemed everyone and their dog had an opinion about Lord Stark's youngest daughter. Rhaenys had heard stories that Arya Stark was a mannerless cow, a wild northern heathen, an energetic lover of excitement, a wilful and rebellious teenager, an upstart who didn't know her place, or a source of constant entertainment for the small folk. But most tended to agree that the girl had a talent for handling horses and birds of prey, and that she was incredibly close to her bastard brother – who was squiring for Lord Garlan Tyrell.

That had certainly been interesting news. Her uncles hadn't mentioned anything about a bastard squire, but he was a common sight across Highgarden these days. He, unlike his sister, was well respected – for his skill with a blade, dedication to his training and loyalty to his sister – all despite the stain of being a bastard, apparently. Half the people Rhaenys questioned or talked to at market stalls or over rounds of ale didn't even mention that he was a bastard at all. He was just 'Jon', 'the Stark boy', or 'Lord Garlan's squire.'

Rhaenys decided she needed to see these Starks for herself, so she secured a seat in the gallery overlooking the Tyrells' enormous glass dome of an aviary on a warm, cloudless day.

From her seat above the aviary floor, Rhaenys could easily see that at least some of the tales of Arya Stark's skill with animals were true. Rhaenys had never practised falconry herself, but she could clearly see just how easily the ten-year-old northern girl commanded the birds of the aviary. At one point, under Willas careful instruction, she was directing three different gyrfalcons to three different targets, one after the other. And not once did Rhaenys see even a flinch of fear on her face.

Rhaenys was not alone in the gallery, however.

As she had hoped, Jon Snow appeared before long to watch his sister, and he brought with him an entourage. He walked in side-by-side with Lord Tyrell's daughter – a gorgeous girl with honey brown hair fanned around her shoulders. Behind them walked a handmaiden with a similar northern look to Arya Stark, chatting up a boy maybe a year her elder. Rhaenys didn't recognise either of them, nor did she care to try. Her attention was fixed on Jon Snow.

It was like looking in a twisted kind of mirror.

Rhaenys had wondered constantly in the thirteen years since the Sack what her brother, Aegon, might have looked like. Uncle Oberyn said the boy had taken after Rhaenys father, Rhaegar, rather than her mother as she had. So Rhaenys had liked to stand before her reflection and picture him. Silver hair in place of Rhaenys dark brown, almost black curls, and paler skin, but with the same shaped face and eyes.

Jon Snow's hair was not silver, which threw her off for a moment. Rather his hair was almost the exact shade of Rhaenys own, down to that curl no attempts at straightening would force out. Like that of a Northerner, his skin was pale with eyes grey instead of deep purple like hers, but his face was exactly as she had imagined it, looking in the mirror. The same eyes, the same sharp jaw, even their noses were identical, defined but short.

Jon Snow… Whoever the boy standing in the gallery was, that was not his true name. Of that, Rhaenys was certain.

She watched him like a hawk for the rest of the day. Observed how he genuinely seemed to care about his sister's achievements and seemed almost oblivious to the attention heaped on him by the Tyrell girl – who was clearly infatuated with him. Rhaenys even followed them back to the citadel, just close enough to overhear their conversation. A conversation about the minimum wage of all things and about a list of plans the girl had to try and peg the wage to the price of bread, so it would adjust with inflation. Rhaenys didn't think Jon understood everything the girl said, but he listened to every word, lavishing praise but unafraid to criticise. He cared about her as much as she cared about him, Rhaenys realised, just in a more subtle way.

Because he was a bastard. Or at least believed he was. Rhaenys had grown up in Dorne, where bastardry was not seen as a crime, but she had still worn the name as Rhae Sand and experienced the silent judgement and subtle degradation. Margaery Tyrell was the daughter of a Lord Paramount; Jon Snow was a bastard. Even if they wanted to marry, no one would allow it. She was high and trueborn. He was tainted.

If he really was a bastard.

Suffice to say, as Rhaenys joined a caravan heading for the Prince's Pass after a moon-turn in the Reach, she had a lot to think about and even more to report to her Uncles at Sunspear.

By years end, a raven was winging its way across the Red Mountains.

'Lady Tyrell,

I appreciate you gifting me a princess, though I'm sure we could have made something work in person if that is what you truly desire. I am not so old yet, and the Tyroshi have developed a system of surrogacy my brother makes use of quite frequently. He tells me they are quite talented, and even my daughter applauds their skills.

But alas, if we are to make such a relationship work, I should like to see your secret weapon in person. I hear it is of northern design but wrapped tight in rose thorns? We can discuss it on a stroll through the Water Gardens if you like, and though we do not possess an aviary as grand as Highgarden's, I can attest to the high quality of our falconers should you or others wish to visit them.

My brother very much wishes to see this weapon of yours as well. He is curious about a potential flaw you see and has a weapon of a similar design you might wish to compare.

I await you at Sunspear, Queen of Thorns.

Doran Nymeros Martell, Prince of Dorne.'

The Wolf and the Rose

Jon Snow realised he was in love with Margaery Tyrell on his fourteenth name-day.

He and Arya had spent two years now in Highgarden, revelling in the freedom of the Reach. Arya and Jon were both now receiving riding lessons alongside Loras and Margaery, thanks to an expert horse master Lord Tyrell had brought in from Old Oak.

Arya was by far the best of them, with Loras a close second. She enjoyed racing them, and despite the almost five-year difference in ages, she beat all of them handily. Jon enjoyed laughing at her when she tried to pick up a lance, though. His sister was just too petite to get the heavy hardwood to elbow height, let alone to her shoulder. Loras was a master with the lance. A true natural. He had already started training at the tilt and planned to enter the first tourney he could once he turned sixteen.

Jon and Margaery were not as skilled, preferring a slow canter to Arya and Loras's jumping and sprints on the racetrack. One time, Willas had taken all of them out for a ride along the Mander, and Jon had honestly never felt more at peace than he had in the utter serenity of the countryside, no sounds but the echo of hooves and the gurgle of slow-running water. Margaery felt much the same, so they had made a habit of going for a relaxing ride every Sunday morning, just the two of them.

It was on those rides that Jon really came to know Margaery as a person, and over time, they became his favourite part of the week. Her laugh had this infectious quality to it, and she found enjoyment in the strangest things, like a flower that grew at an odd angle but still blossomed perfectly. She wasn't much for stories, he quickly learned, preferring detailed histories or descriptions of things. They actually took to bringing books with them to the riverbank sometimes, and Margaery would read to him of the ancient battles and Kings from her latest text of study. She had an incredible mind, one Jon could never hope to match, but he liked listening to her voice – far more than Maester Lomys's for sure.

Most of his week was spent training with Garlan or performing his duties as a squire, like cleaning Garlan's armour or helping him prepare for the day. Garlan was easy to please and preferred to do most things himself, so Jon's life as a squire was far from as busy as it might have been. He was expected to present himself whenever there were visitors, attend Garlan at banquets, and travel with him whenever he left Highgarden – which was rare. He wasn't a fan of tourneys, instead preferring to train against three or four people at once.

'Tourneys do nothing but give away your skill on the battlefield, Jon,' Garlan had explained to him. 'When I train, I train for war. In war, your opponents do not come one at a time.' Jon's father had considered Tourneys just as much a waste of time, so Jon was more than happy to train the same way. He won those matches against multiple skilled foes more often than not. Garlan even took him to the barracks to train in military cadence and technique. He drilled in the more basic movements men-at-arms were taught and, more importantly, how to counter them with ease.

Jon also enjoyed training with Loras the few times they had the chance. But before the two of them could really get to know one another, Loras was leaving for Storm's End to squire for Lord Renly. As such, he didn't make a lot of friends, preferring to spend his time outside of his lessons and tasks wondering the city. He often helped people set up their stalls in the marketplaces or lift heavy objects, and every Saturday evening, he held a self-defence class in the castle courtyard for the young boys of the city. A few girls even started showing up after Arya insisted she be allowed to join, then pummelled a boy two years her elder in the balls when he laughed.

Arya wasn't even trying to disavow the rumours going around the city that she might actually be half-wolf. Jon just muttered under his breath and let her join, lest she decide to turn her rage on him as well.

However, Jon quickly realised there was one central point of difference between his lessons and the few squires in Highgarden he'd made friends with.

Only Garlan taught strategy and tactics.

Once a week, Garlan would forgo training in the yard and instead take Jon into the Tyrell War Room, high atop the castle. There, he and Willas would bring out maps of the Reach and Westeros and explain to him, with historical references, how geography shaped a battle. Cavalry was deadly on the plains of the Reach but utterly useless in the marshes of the Trident or the rocky passes of the Red Mountains. They would test him on the best methods to overcome fortifications of different designs, why holding the high-ground was almost always beneficial – and the few times it was a death-trap. Once, they had even staged a battle of armies. Jon had never realised how important something as little as a river could be to a war until Garlan crushed Jon's army of little statues against the Blackwater Rush.

Jon absorbed everything he could, regardless of whom he learned it from. And the more he understood, the more comfortable he grew in his own skin. According to their frequent letters, these were lessons far different from what Robb was being taught in Winterfell. His focussed more on northern politics, which Jon supposed made sense, and economics. Jon wasn't ashamed to admit things like taxes and accounting mostly flew over his head, but he was good at the lessons Garlan taught him – both on the field and in the War Room.

This. This was how he mattered. His entire life, Jon had been searching for a purpose. He knew who he was. He was the Bastard of Winterfell. He was Robb and Arya's brother, Lord Stark's son. But as he'd grown and come to understand what that meant, he had found himself… without a guide rope, so to speak. Robb would become Lord of Winterfell, Sansa would marry a lord and run his house, Bran wanted to become a Knight. Arya didn't know what she wanted to do, but that was fine – she was still young. Jon though? He hadn't had any real direction. The only real option he had seen for himself was the Wall. He had hoped that his Lord Father might foster him somewhere – far away from Lady Catelyn, preferably – but it had seemed that wasn't to be.

Until he'd come to the Reach.

Now, he was squire to Garlan Tyrell, a Knight of incredible character and skill. Jon practically worshipped the man. He was far away from Lady Catelyn's scornful gaze, and while he missed Robb terribly, he had made new friends, and he had Arya. But above all that, coming to Highgarden had given Jon a purpose. He could return to Winterfell a master in the art of war, instructed by the best warriors of the South. And if Garlan spoke true, Jon would be more than skilled enough to receive a Knighthood long before most could even dream of it.

"Jon!"

Soft hands grabbed Jon's shoulders, and he sprang awake in his bed. Margaery, dressed in leather riding gear, hair tied into a crown atop her head, was standing by his bedside. Her eyes were alight with mirth, an eager smile at her lips.

"Wake up and get dressed. Quickly."

She stepped away from the bed and moved to his wardrobe, pulling his own riding gear from the hanger.

"Margaery? What are you doing?" Jon glanced to the window, blinking the sleep from his eyes. It was still dark out.

"The sun will be up soon, and I want to reach the Marigold Estate by dawn."

"The Marigold Estate? Why?"

Margaery turned back to him, still smiling, and threw his clothes at the end of the bed.

"It's your name-day, and I'm giving you a present. Now hurry up."

Jon finally crawled to full wakefulness.

Today was his fourteenth name day.

He scrambled out of bed and started pulling his clothes on.

Ten minutes and a wet cloth to his face later, Jon and Margaery snuck out of the citadel through one of the secret passages Lady Olenna had shown them. They reached the stables in record time, quiet and careful not to wake anyone, saddled their horses, and rode out of Highgarden under starlight.

They rode side by side in companionable silence for perhaps half-an-hour before they reached their destination.

The Marigold Estate was just that, an estate filled with fields upon fields of marigolds that banked onto the Mander, so far from any sign of civilisation you could imagine you were the only people in the world.

They hobbled the horses and settled down on a blanket by the riverside with an apple each. Then they watched as the sun began to rise, breaking the horizon and flooding the marigold fields in golden light.

And as they sat there, the rippling of the water and singing of birds the only sounds, Jon stared at the girl before him.

Silhouetted against the sun's morning rays, Margaery pulled her hair free from its crown and let it fall freely to her shoulders.

She was gorgeous, but Jon had thought that since the first time he'd seen her – that day when they first arrived. Back then, he'd still been stuck in the mindset of the Bastard of Winterfell, of not really mattering to anyone. Highgarden had kicked some sense into him on that account. He mattered to Garlan, to Loras, even Lady Olenna, and he would always matter to Arya.

And he mattered to Margaery; he'd just never be able to give her what he wished he could. He would never be allowed to care for her the way he wanted to.

But watching her, haloed by the sun, Jon couldn't help becoming enamoured with her and wishing anyway. Wishing he was something more than a bastard and a disgrace. Someone worthy of her. Worthy of her laugh, her drive, her mind, her eyes – the smoothest caramel he'd ever seen. It was the little things like that. The way her hair fell to frame her face – a perfect heart shape, eyes and nose perfectly proportioned. It was her fierce dedication and compassion. And it was the mole under her right eye.

Margaery Tyrell… she was everything he could never have. Poor Jon Snow; he could do nothing but drown.

"Happy name day, Jon," Margaery whispered.

Then she was kissing him, and he was kissing her back. Sweet and soft and intoxicating. Perfect.

He would pay for this later, a part of his mind reminded him. That, even with how the Tyrell's had accepted him, how he'd grown as a person in Highgarden and come into his own, he was still a Snow. He had nothing to give her and no right to even touch someone as high as Margaery Tyrell was.

But her lips were still pressed against his. She pushed them to the grass, apples discarded, and the little voice was reduced to nothing but a murmur.

Consequences were for later.

Margaery and her lips were right here, right now.

Sometimes wishes came true after all, and drowning was only scary until you died.

Dornish Bastards

Olenna had overstepped, not thinking that the Dornish bastards would catch on to what she was doing. Now she had no choice but to pack a carriage and join the train of Tyrells as they rode for Oldtown, then sailed around the Arm of Dorne to Sunspear, seat of House Nymeros Martell. The bigger problem was that the Martells had sent a spy into Highgarden. And a damn good one, too, because no matter how hard Olenna tried, she hadn't been able to find the offender. Tywin's people were far easier to track and fool.

Regardless, Doran and Oberyn now knew – or at least suspected – Jon Snow's true identity. It was too soon; she wasn't ready. Olenna needed at least one more of the main families on side before she would be even moderately comfortable of a victory against the Lannister-Baratheon Alliance if her plan failed and war was the outcome. The Starks, the Tyrells, and maybe the Dornish. A strong covenant, if she could secure it, but not enough. Myrcella Baratheon was integral. That girl was the lynchpin to ensuring the Stormlords didn't retaliate against Highgarden and divided the allegiance of Tywin Lannister's bannermen.

At least she was pretty, Olenna thought as the twelve-year-old golden-haired princess of House Baratheon glided down the wooden gangway to the Dornish shore. She looked comfortable, or certainly faked it well. The princess was all smiles as Doran, Oberyn and Princess Arianne all kissed her hand. She held herself high, shoulders pushed back, and her ruby red dress was perfectly tailored. The girl even blushed as Doran introduced her to his son Trystane, her future husband. He was good looking too. They wouldn't marry until Myrcella reached her majority in three years, but the Martells were throwing a grand feast and parade to celebrate the engagement. At least the two would have time to get to know one another before they wed.

Olenna didn't have time to enjoy the fruits of her labours right now. Instead, she waited as the princess and her Kingsguard – Ser Arys Oakheart – were shown towards the Old Palace by Arianne. Soon enough, everyone had disembarked, and the Tyrell and Martell delegations had followed, leaving Olenna alone on the dock.

Well, not alone. Doran and Oberyn remained behind, and both of them now stared at her. In the distance, Jon Snow was still walking away, sweating fiercely in the Dornish heat.

"I do so enjoy one-upping my sister," Tyrion Lannister exclaimed, finally waddling down the gangway from the Baratheon ship, the last to disembark. "You know she sent me a raven just before we left that was nothing but two pages explaining how she was going to torture and kill me slowly for my monstrous betrayal of House Lannister. There was also mention of how she would, and I memorised this part because I enjoyed it so much, 'save her precious daughter from those fucking desert whores.' No offence, my lords, but I do so love the part where she implies she actually cares about her daughter, after deserting her in the Red Keep without warning to go and whine to my father."

Olenna winced, while Oberyn just laughed raucously.

"No offence taken, master dwarf, for I love whores of all shapes and persuasions and am proud to be considered amongst their prestigious ranks!"

"Speak for yourself," Doran muttered, though he too was chuckling from his wheelchair.

"Yes, yes, very funny," Olenna snapped, not at all put at ease by the display. She scanned the surroundings, but aside from the Martell guards at the end of the dock, no one but the gulls were there to overhear them.

"How did you know?"

"You were too clever for your own good, my Lady," Doran said, a mischievous twinkle appearing in his eye Olenna didn't like one bit. "I thank you for the princess, but we could hear the Queen's screams even as far south as Dorne. This was no gesture of apology from the Lannisters, despite what Jon Arryn might want us to believe. Oh no. This is the start of something far bigger than that. You are looking for revenge, Olenna Tyrell."

"And we are firm believers in vengeance, here in Dorne," Oberyn added helpfully, grinning widely.

"But how did you find him?!" Olenna demanded.

Oberyn and Doran shared a look, while Tyrion simply looked intrigued. Well, there was no hiding it from them, and the dwarf was probably already trying to find what Olenna had hidden from him in their first meeting.

"My Sand Snakes are deadly, wherever they strike," Oberyn said, "and no one ever sees them coming."

"So, it was one of your bastards that snuck into Highgarden then. But that doesn't explain how you found the boy."

"The snake I sent," Oberyn continued, not amused at being interrupted, "saw the truth in Jon Snow's face because she wears the same one. There are few true children of Old Valyria left, Olenna Tyrell. Be they disguised by Dornish or Northern colouring, you are fooling yourself if you believe no one will see Rhaegar in him. He has been here for only two days, and already I am certain."

"So, tell me, why is Jon Sand, the bastard son of Lyanna Stark and my sister's husband, being shielded behind Tyrell skirts?"

"Ahhhh," Tyrion whistled, putting the pieces together.

Olenna's heart pounded violently in her chest, and she gripped her cane in a vice.

"He is no bastard," Olenna said in a shaky voice, careful to keep her heart steady. She did not come this far for a heart attack to kill her.

"Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Oswald Whent and Ser Arthur Dayne witnessed them married before the Old Gods on the Isle of Faces, and the High-Septon himself married them in the Starry Sept. I have the records proving it true, and Ned Stark has the correspondence between Elia, Rhaegar and Lyanna hidden in the North. The boy was born King Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Third of his Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm. Ask the Daynes if you don't believe me; they know as much as I do. Stark found the boy at the Tower of Joy, his sister dead on the birthing bed."

The four of them fell silent, the crying of seagulls the only sound.

"Ashara smuggled Rhaenys from Kings Landing," Doran said, voice barely higher than a whisper.

"Doran!" Oberyn hissed.

"We know her truth; she has a right to know ours!" Doran snapped back, before continuing his tale.

"Elia released her from the Black Cells after the Mad King burned Rickard and Brandon Stark alive and bade her take Rhaenys from the city. When Ashara arrived in Sunspear, she told us Elia refused to leave Kings Landing. She was a valuable hostage who would certainly be hunted down, and Aegon was sick – travelling with him was too great a risk. Aerys always hated Rhaenys, because of her colouring, and banned her from his presence. No one noticed she was missing until the city was already afire. Tywin Lannister and mayhaps Varys know the truth – that the body presented to Robert in the hall did not belong to Elia's daughter. She has been raised here, in secret, ever since."

"So, there are still two Targaryen royals alive in Westeros," Tyrion muttered, eyes wide. "That changes everything."

"My niece still lives while my sister and nephew do not," Oberyn stated, hands clenched to fists. "Thanks to that boy's mother, if what you say is true. And I'm not sure I believe even that much."

"It takes two to make a babe, you fool," Olenna seethed, now growing quite tired with Oberyn's stupidity. "It was just as much Rhaegar's fault as the Stark girl's. I don't deny her blame in this entire mess, but Rhaegar is just as culpable, and Lord Stark says Elia knew of the whole thing – so even she is partly to blame."

"Directing blame at all is useless," Doran said firmly. "Rhaegar, Lyanna and Elia are all dead. What remains are children. Oberyn, if you harm so much as a hair on that boy's head, I will order your skull set on a spike over the keep, and you can explain to Elia in the afterlife that you killed her nephew. You and I both know, had the story been different, she would have taken that boy in a heartbeat. A heartbeat."

Oberyn ground his teeth, but as Doran continued to stare at him, the Red Viper sighed in defeat.

"Fine. I won't kill him. But I do not forfeit my vengeance against the Mountain and Tywin Lannister."

Doran nodded, before turning his attention back to Olenna and Tyrion.

"You mean to put Jaehaerys Targaryen on the throne then? Why should we help you? The other kingdoms are more likely to spit upon Dorne, as they have countless times before. Give me a good reason why I should not put forward Rhaenys as the rightful queen, take the boy, and kill you both right now. House Martell has warred against the Reach for centuries." He pointed at Tyrion's misshapen face. "And his father murdered my sister."

Olenna wet her lips, intending to voice her intentions, but Tyrion spoke first.

"One reason. The one reason that matters."

"And what is that, little Lion?" Oberyn demanded.

"Westeros cannot survive another Mad King, and that's what we'll get if Joffrey Baratheon ascends the throne."

"So we assassinate him then," Oberyn said, clearly not convinced.

"And what happens after that?" Tyrion asked. "Are we just going to keep assassinating rulers each time they start going insane?"

The Red Viper didn't have an answer to that.

"If the Seven Kingdoms are going to remain united with the threat of the Targaryen Dragons gone, we need reform and change. We can't just go on thinking an all-powerful king will be fair to all seven kingdoms. They won't be. There is something broken in Westeros. The entire country keeps breaking down into civil war after civil war. If we're going to truly unify as one nation again, each Kingdom has to be represented in Kings Landing, and their opinions need to have equal weight. Dornish interests should be just as important as Northern interests and the Reach's interests. Our ruler should have to take them into account – be they man, woman or a horse with a crown for all I care."

"It's a pretty dream," Doran said. "You're not the first to dream it."

"The difference," Tyrion said, voice growing more impassioned by the moment, "is that we have a golden opportunity. This is when real change can be made. A new generation – a generation built by war and stained by the dangers of unrestrained power – is growing into their own right now. If we can clear some of the obstacles from the road before they start their journey, maybe they can fix what our fathers and their fathers before them broke and ignored."

Olenna didn't know if she believed that, but the dwarf made a better argument that she had, and both Oberyn and Doran looked intrigued. Olenna was nothing if not adaptive.

"If anyone can do it, Jaehaerys can. Jon Snow can," Olenna said. "He's kind but strong-willed, inspirational yet willing to take advice. Already, he's working with my granddaughter to do something as hopeless as raise the minimum wage. If Margaery had her way, she'd revolutionise the entire national tax system and drag the nobility kicking and screaming."

Tyrion nodded rapidly, eyes alight. "We believe, we know, that such a thing is impossible. They don't know that; they don't believe that. The weight of the world hasn't beaten it out of them yet. Isn't giving them a chance, just a chance to make a difference, at least worth trying?"

The two brothers started whispering to each other. Debating in half sentences and gestures in that way only siblings truly can. Ten minutes of tense debate later, they straightened up, and Doran wheeled his chair forward, offering a hand to Olenna.

"For the children," Doran said.

"For vengeance," Oberyn answered, shooting a look at his brother. They weren't agreed on this but were willing to work together towards a common goal. Olenna respected that, but she'd also need to be very careful.

The four of them shared one final look before Oberyn took control of Doran's wheelchair and led them towards the fortress.

Updated Ages, dated to the arrival in Dorne:

Garlan and Nymeria: 21

Arianne and Tyene: 20

Rhaenys and Sarella: 17

Age of Majority – 16

Loras: 15, nearly 16

Robb: just turned 15

Jon and Daenerys: 14, nearly 15

Margaery and Joffrey: 14

Elia Sand and Sansa: 13

Myrcella: 12

Arya and Obella Sand: 11

Bran: 9

Tommen: 8