Chapter 5: Sunspear

To Rise

Margaery had not expected to find Princess Myrcella sitting on a crenelation atop the Old Palace in Sunspear. She had simply desired a walk before she went to sleep. With how hot the days were here in Dorne, Margaery had found a walk in the cooler nights before she went to bed helped her fall asleep faster.

Princess Myrcella was sitting with legs dangling over the edge of the wall, Kingsguard standing silently behind her. She wore only a shift and slippers, golden hair falling down her shoulders.

"Your grace?" Margaery asked, face contorted in confusion. The Princess ignored her, instead grabbing a glass bottle from the smooth sandstone walkway and raising it to her mouth. The scent of Dornish red lay heavy in the air.

Night had fallen over Dorne, taking the sun and its blistering heat with it. The Princess just kept staring out at the northern horizon, and the desert of golden sands that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Margaery turned to go, deciding the Princess just wished to be left alone.

"You always know it's going to happen," the Princess said. "But then it does, and you realise that, no matter what you thought, you were never really ready for it."

Those were not the words Margaery had expected to come from the lips of a girl only twelve name days old.

"Pardon, your grace?" Margaery asked.

"You know. You've grown up with the same fear, Lady Tyrell. The fear that one day your father will sell you to the highest bidder, and that will be that."

Margaery did have that fear. It gnawed at the deepest part of her mind constantly, but especially when she was with Jon.

"That is our responsibility, your grace, as Ladies."

Margaery just had to hope her grandmother wouldn't let her be sold as a brood mare. She… she couldn't do that. Wouldn't do that.

The Princess took another pull at the bottle. Should she be doing that so young? How much has she had?

"Yes. Our responsibility. To look pretty and push out babies. How crucial we are."

The Princess gestured with her hand for Margaery to sit, and she did so hesitantly, really wishing she had just stayed in her rooms.

"I have a garden," the Princess whispered, then winced. "Had a garden. I suppose it will be abandoned now. Maybe I'll return to Kings Landing one day and find it an overgrown mess."

She turned her head, looking Margaery straight in the eyes, and she was stunned a little by how vivid the emerald shine of them was. The princess was truly beautiful. Far more so than Margaery at least.

"I have heard… stories. That you are learning bookkeeping and economics, are they true?"

Margaery blinked, furrowing her brow in confusion.

"Yes, your grace…"

"Myrcella. Please, just call me Myrcella."

"Um, yes, Myrcella. My grandmother has taught me many things, the commercial trades among them."

Myrcella nodded softly.

"I don't know anything about that. My mother banished my tutors when I was eight. She said I shouldn't be learning so young. Uncle Tyrion teaches me what politics he can. The Seven Kingdoms, their leaders, strengths and weaknesses; how to manipulate, persuade, bluff and deceive. I suppose lying is one of my few skills. That and gardening. I can't do more than basic sums, and I've learnt the histories mostly from sitting in the library with Ser Barristan."

"I'm an ornament, Margaery Tyrell. Nothing more, nothing less. Now I've been sold to people who I don't know. People that hate my family."

Myrcella stood up, a tear sliding down her face.

"Pray you have a better life than I will."

She turned, starting to walk away, but Margaery leapt to her feet and grabbed the Princess's wrist. Despite their near two-name days difference in age, they were roughly the same height. Myrcella's Kingsguard moved like lightning, knocking Margaery aside and stepping between them.

"Princess… you are only an ornament if you let yourself be," Margaery exclaimed, heart pounding in her chest. The golden-haired girl looked back at her with tired eyes, and Margaery felt a shiver rush along her spine. This could have been her. If Grandmother hadn't taken the time to teach her. If she hadn't taken Margaery to the Warrens and given her a purpose. If she hadn't met Jon and seen that there were still good and honourable people out there in the world.

"Your mother doesn't control you anymore. Hire your own tutor, take charge of your destiny and find a purpose you can cling too. Everyone can be incredible if they try; its taking that first step that's the hardest."

Margaery still remembered her first night in the Warrens. Alone and bitter cold, lying in the dirt of an alley near the shanty town's edge. She'd been terrified the entire night. Scared of being robbed, of being raped or kidnapped in her sleep. It hadn't been until the morning when she realised, even bereft of money and name and everything that gave her power, that she wasn't having a true experience. Her grandmother would never just let her sleep in an alley without protection. She had never truly been at risk at all.

And Margaery had never been more infuriated in her life.

It was a hard and bitter pill to swallow. She didn't want any of those things to happen to her, but how many people sleeping on the street that night had it happened to? Those children or parents hadn't been protected as Margaery was. Who was she to sleep on their streets, but with none of the risks? An imposter.

She had gotten up that morning and wondered the roads, trying to find work. Eventually, she convinced a shopkeeper that she could read and write and count, and he had taken her on as a clerk. At minimum wage. There were very few jobs in the Warrens that weren't for minimum wage. The people didn't understand competition, didn't realise that if they paid their workers a little more, they could attract employees of better quality, who would in turn sell more and increase their profit at the expense of their competitors. Simple supply and demand. No one had taught it to them. They just assumed that the minimum wage was the wage you paid workers in the Reach. It was certainly better than the pittance the Lannisters and Westerlands houses paid their mine workers.

Margaery had decided, then and there, that she would do something. She was an imposter in the Warrens. No matter how she walked among them, she wasn't one of them. She had an out. They didn't. So, it was her responsibility to use what she had to make their lives better. Even just a little. That purpose had brought home to her just how powerful she was – even if she was a woman, a daughter expected to sit quietly and make babies.

Every person has the responsibility to be the best that they can be. Be it the best garbage collector, the finest gardener, or the greatest King.

That was how Margaery saw the world. It was why she devoured knowledge, why she found Jon Snow so fascinating and fantastic, why she enjoyed Arya's constant talking, and why she loathed King Robert with all her heart.

"Rise up, Myrcella Baratheon. Rise up, fall, then rise again."

Myrcella stared at Margaery, still sprawled on the ground where the Kingsguard had pushed her.

Then, slowly, Myrcella stepped past Ser Arys and held out her hand for Margaery to take.

The Daughters of Oberyn Martell

"Sundried dumbass!" Arya screamed, shrill voice echoing through the Water Gardens like a choir through an amphitheatre.

"Hairy ass wolfbitch!" Lord Edric Dayne shouted back, prepubescent voice cracking halfway through and raising his tone even higher than Arya's.

"You take that back!"

"Make me! Or are you too much a coward like the King who Knelt?"

"Go fuck yourself, you stuck up Dornish asswipe."

"You first, prissy pussy cahhhhH!"

Arya, it seemed, had finally gotten fed up enough with the young Lord of Starfall to tackle him into one of the fountains. The two of them – perhaps a year apart in age, Jon wasn't entirely sure – crashed into the pool, sending up a wall of water that flooded the intricate tiles. The Water Gardens, the private retreat of House Martell a short distance from Sunspear, were certainly gorgeous. Like a tiny paradise amidst the desert heat outside. Even the sun's incredible fury seemed dulled here, Jon thought. He'd said as much to Margaery, who'd explained that the difference in temperature between the water and the air, actually created an illusion. It wasn't cooler, Jon just thought it was. Which was exactly what he'd said in the first place, but whatever. This particular section of the gardens overlooked the ocean in the distance, and was shaded beneath enormous palm trees. Jon was certainly thankful for the shade they provided. After nearly a week in Dorne now, he was only just getting used to the nigh-unbearable heat.

Arya's anger, evidently, had some power to mitigate the heat, as she'd spent the past two days since they'd arrived at the Gardens trying to get a rise out of Ned Dayne, whom Jon thought was very polite and funny. Arya, apparently, vehemently disagreed with his assessment, and had spent almost all her time since then trying to prove that Lord Dayne was… something. Jon wasn't exactly sure. Either he had ignored that as Arya was complaining to him, or he just hadn't cared enough to retain the memory.

"What is wrong with you?" Edric yelled, pushing Arya off him and trying to pull himself out of the fountain. He was completely drenched, purple cape hanging heavy and limp from his shoulders. It was kind of funny, Jon had to admit.

Arya answered by punching him in the face. Only, she slipped in the water on her follow through, and face planted into the tiles.

"Ow."

Jon groaned, rubbing his forehead. Was this latest headache from the heat, or from his sister? He honestly couldn't tell anymore.

"How long do you think before those two give up and just kiss already?"

Jon turned to the side, coming face to face with one of Prince Oberyn's bastard daughters. The Sand Snakes, they were called, which Jon thought was utterly brilliant. The girls had apparently been mothered by at least a half-dozen different women, to the point where they had almost nothing in common with one another. Except the eyes. They all had the same eyes.

Of the five he'd met so far, Tyene was by far the scariest. Though she was small in stature and sweet to the eye, she wore a belt at all times that had at least nine different poisons on it by Jon's count, and each one, to hear her tell it, could kill a grown man in seconds with the right dose. Jon had run away from her as soon as propriety allowed.

"I give it a few weeks maybe. Once Lady Catelyn hears about this, she'll either fall into catatonia or demand a marriage contract immediately," Jon said with a grin, extending his hand to the new girl. She was pretty, he decided, though not as beautiful as Margaery, with tanned Dornish skin, deep brown-black hair and violet eyes. There was… something familiar about her, something that Jon couldn't place. Maybe he had seen her before.

"Rhae Sand," she said to Jon's unprompted question, though it looked as though it pained her to say it.

"Jon Snow. You're one of Oberyn's daughters? You aren't going to tell me all the ways you can kill me as well, are you?"

Rhae laughed, entire body shaking with the movement.

"You've already met Obara or Tyene then," she guessed.

"Both," Jon said, shivering involuntarily. Obara was near as scary, for a whole different set of reasons. A large hulking woman with thick long hair who carried a whip and knew how to use it, judging by the welt Arya had shown him on her backside.

Rhae winced, and Jon got that feeling again. Like he had seen her before.

"Both at once? Even I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

"Stop grabbing me!"

"Then get off me!"

"You get off me!"

"Bitch!"

"Ass!"

"I'm going to need milk of the poppy by the time this is over," Jon noted. He had been on his way to meet Margaery down by the beach, so they could watch the sunset together in relative privacy, when he'd been waylaid by Oberyn's two youngest daughters – Dorea and Loreza. Even those girls, only six and four respectively, carried weapons apparently. Though in Dorea's case, it was probably because everyone found it exceedingly funny, as she carried around her heavy Morningstar by letting the spiked ball drag along the ground as she walked. The two girls had come searching for Jon so he could witness what was appearing to be the culmination of three days' worth of taunts and bitter spats between Edric and Arya. Arianne, who was leaning against one of the colonnades on the far side of the room chatting with Ser Garlan, had expressly forbidden Jon from breaking up the fight when he arrived. Apparently, she had ten silver stags on Arya, and as Arianne and Garlan were technically in charge of all the children until Prince Doran arrived with his brother and Lady Olenna in a few days, Jon had to do as he was told.

Now, the two youngest Sand Snakes were standing at the edge of the fountain, cheering the two brawling children on and clapping each time one of them landed a strike while Arianne watched and Garlan continued his attempts to woo the buxom olive-skinned goddess that was Doran Martell's daughter. Jon had yet to decide whether it was working or not. Even Margaery had told him Arianne Martell was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Jon was glad for Margaery just the way she was, however, as he would have had no idea what to do with her if she was anything like Arianne.

"How are you liking the Water Gardens?" Rhae asked. "They usually aren't this… loud."

"Stark cunt!"

"Dayne fuckwit!"

"Ow! Stop pulling my hair!"

"Then don't wear it like a girl!"

"I am a girl!"

"I'm not sure any of this is real to be honest. It seems… unbelievable."

Rhae smiled softly, and it clicked. It was his own face he was seeing in her, reflected back at him through a lens of Dornish femininity. But their jaws and noses were the same, and the curl of their hair and the shape of their eyes, if not the colour.

"I grew up here," Rhae answered, "so I can attest that it is very much real, but I understand the feeling."

How was that even possible? How could a bastard girl from Dorne look anything like…

Jon had been born in Dorne.

That was what everyone said.

Was it the face of Jon's mother he was seeing right now? The mother his father refused to speak of?

Jon was just about to ask where Rhae's mother had been from when Prince Oberyn came stumbling into the courtyard, hands pressed to his ears.

"What in all the Seven Hells is going on?!"

Rhae pointed towards the squabbling children, who had finally fallen out of the fountain and were now wrestling on the tiles. Garlan was still not paying attention, gesturing to Arianne to not-so-subtly show off his rather large biceps.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?! Get off me!"

Edric finally shoved Arya aside, backing up towards a tree. Arya, heavy breathing and with half a dozen scratch marks down her arms, glared at the boy.

"Why do you hate me so much?!" he demanded.

"You stole my father's name!"

Jon groaned again, resisting the urge to face-palm.

"My… my name?"

"Yes, your name, dunderhead! Ned is my father's name!"

Edric 'Ned' Dayne spat a bit of cloth from his mouth, probably ripped from Arya's silk shirt or britches – both of which were currently soaked.

"My aunt is Ashara Dayne," he said, as if that explained something. Arya evidently agreed with Jon.

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

Now it was Ned's turn to look confused.

"Ashara Dayne and Eddard Stark? Did no one ever tell you about the Tourney at Harrenhal?"

"No," Arya snapped. "What stupid tourney?"

"Your father and my aunt were friends for years. I'm named after your father!"

Ned pointed to Jon.

"We had the same Wet-Nurse for the gods' sakes!"

What?

What?!

"Alright, that's enough," Oberyn said, stepping past Jon with the speed of his name sake and grabbing Arya with one hand and Edric by the other before hoisting them both into the air.

"Now, you two are going to apologise, or I'm going to write to your mothers immediately and tell them just how well you get on, and that you should be married before the week is out. Is that understood?!

Both of them looked absolutely horrified by the mere thought.

"Sorry," they both mumbled.

"Good."

With that, Oberyn dragged both of them out another door. Rhae tried to talk to him again, but Jon's ears were ringing, and he was unable to hear. That kid, Edric, Ned, whatever he wanted to be called, knew something about Jon's history. He needed… he needed to know…

"Jon?"

Rhae stepped in front of Jon, and he was confronted with his own face once again. The similarity of the features, uncanny.

"The Tourney at Harrenhal. Rhaegar crowned my aunt Lyanna Queen of Love and Beauty there," he said, voicing his thoughts allowed.

"Yeah…"

"Then the Prince kidnapped my aunt and started the rebellion."

Rhae's face hardened, and she took a step away from him.

"So?"

"I…"

Why? Why did Rhae, a Dornish bastard, look so much like Jon? What happened between his father and Ashara Dayne? Ashara Dayne? Who was she? Jon searched his memory for some recollection of the name but came up empty. His father had never mentioned anyone called that before. The Daynes are Dornish. Was it the Dornish face looking back at him from Rhae's eyes? Was that it? Was Jon a Dornish-Northern bastard? The same wet-nurse. That could not be a coincidence.

"Ashara Dayne, what happened to her?"

Rhae blinked in confusion.

"She died. Jumped from the summit of the Palestone Sword in Starfall. Everyone knows that."

Jon hadn't.

Was that the great secret then? Jon's mother had killed herself, and that was why his father refused to speak of her? Had she killed herself because of Jon?

Even the thought of that wanted to rip him apart. He couldn't face it. Instead, he turned and ran, leaving Rhae and her unnatural face behind.

Tender Hands of Time

Margaery found him at the beach, sitting knees to chest, staring out at the crystal blue waters. The Dornish sun, scorching even against Margaery's southern skin, was sinking beneath the horizon as she approached. A ball of molten fire consumed by the sea.

"Jon?"

Jon didn't acknowledge her, so she sat down beside him, pulling his head down to her shoulder. He let her without issue, and Margaery realised there were tears in his eyes.

"What happened?"

He didn't answer immediately, just sat there sobbing quietly as the sun fell off the edge of the world.

"My father… he's never told me about my mother."

Margaery frowned. Jon had never mentioned his mother to her, she had assumed it was a sore topic and hadn't pried. Actually, come to think about it, Margaery hadn't really thought about Jon's mother at all. Which was odd, because she usually thought about everything.

"He's never told you who she is?" She asked softly, running a hand through his hair. Gods… she couldn't imagine that. Not knowing who your mother was? Not having a mother, or knowing that she was dead, that was different. That Margaery could imagine quite vividly and had done frequently during her darkest nightmares. But not even knowing her name? Let alone what her face might have looked like? That was something she just couldn't fathom.

"No. Whenever I asked, he always grew… sad. He'd say, 'we'll talk about your mother, son. Someday.' Eventually I stopped asking."

Now Margaery was even more confused.

"Then why are you out here on your own?"

Jon shivered, and Margaery started stroking his hair. Just to remind him she was there.

"Ned Dayne… He said we had the same wet-nurse, and he mentioned a woman – Ashara Dayne. I've never heard of her before, but the Sand-Snakes have. Said she and my father knew each other at Harrenhal."

He trailed off, sitting upright and looking into Margaery's eyes.

"Do I look Dornish to you?"

Margaery blinked, and couldn't help looking into his face as she had done a million times before. The stern line of his jaw, the curl of his hair and kindness lingering forever in his eyes. She loved his smiles, the way they moved his entire face, and the steely determination that would settle over him in moments of concentration.

But she saw nothing of Dorne there.

"I… I don't think so. You look a Northman to me, just crossed with something more… regal, maybe. Or sharp might be a better word. Northerners are all hard lines and hard faces, but your features are more… defined, I guess. But no. I don't think your mother was from Dorne, Jon. Your skin isn't dark enough, and your eyes would be brown, not grey. If she was from Dorne, there is nothing of her in your face."

Jon… he seemed to both deflate yet look relieved at the same time.

"Ashara Dayne. I know the name. Arthur Dayne's sister. She would be Edric Dayne's aunt. But she died, I think, during the rebellion or after. I'm not sure."

"She killed herself," Jon whispered, turning back to the ocean once again. "What if… what if she killed herself, because of me?"

Mother's mercy…

Margaery couldn't answer that, didn't know what she could say. What did you say to something like that? She could tell him that it didn't matter what his mother had done, that Margaery could love him instead. She wanted too; for so long now she'd wanted too. But this delicate dance of theirs – kisses in the maze, their long morning rides and conversations over tables filled with maps and books – could only last so long as neither of them spoke the words out loud. It had taken her two years to break the mental prison Catelyn Stark had built in Jon enough that she could kiss him without awakening his deep seated horror. She couldn't tell him all the things she loved about Jon – last name or no last name. His fierce dedication and relentless need to help others. His quick mind, lightyears better than her own at coming up with new ideas. The kindness and grace hidden behind those sullen eyes.

The second Margaery spoke those words out loud, it would all be over. She would have to admit she had fallen in love with a bastard boy from the North, and acknowledge that they could never be. Every day brought Margaery nearer to fifteen, and she knew her father had started receiving marriage offers.

For once in her life, Margaery didn't know what to do. So, she just held Jon close and let him cry until he had no more tears left and the sun was gone. It was all she could do to hold back her own.

Eventually, after only the light of the stars remained in the sky, Margaery pulled Jon to his feet and started guiding him back to the palace. Maybe she couldn't tell Jon all the things she wanted too, but if she was going to lose him forever, she could at least give him something to remember her by. No matter how long it took, or how much research it demanded, she would discover who Jon's mother was. If it was Ashara Dayne or some tavern wench from the Riverlands, Margaery would find her. She was a genius. Everyone said so.

If anyone could figure out who Jon's mother was, it was her.

She could do this. For him. And maybe… maybe she could do it for her as well.

Margaery had so much she wanted to do. Needed to do. She didn't want to be sold off to some lord; told to shut up and look pretty. Especially not after seeing what it had done to Myrcella, whom Margaery was proud to say she had gotten to know much better over the past few days. And she needed Jon beside her when she did it. Needed him for the ideas she could never come up with on her own.

If she could find some secret to why Lord Stark refused to speak of Jon's mother, she could make the case to her father and maybe… maybe they could be together. It was a fairy-tale dream. An impossibility made improbable by Margaery's desperation. But in the end, what were fairy-tales but corrupted stories of true events? If the world wouldn't give Margaery the fairy-tale she wanted, she would make one herself.

It was time to see just how powerful Margaery's 'incredible mind' really was.

A Shadow in the Sands

Arya couldn't decide which of Oberyn Martell's bastard daughters was her favourite – they were all just so awesome. What she did know was that she really really really really really wished she was a bastard too. If she was a bastard, she could become something really cool instead of being sent back to Winterfell so her mother could marry her off to some ass. She was getting so good with the birds and horses now. Hounds too, but they were boring. She was the best rider in Highgarden (which meant she would definitely be the best in Winterfell too), and she could tell the quality, speed and strength of a horse with nary a glance. Hawks and gyrfalcons were soooo much harder, but even they were getting too easy. Willas had promised to guide her through taming her own birds once they returned to Highgarden, and she COULD. NOT. WAIT!

What was she thinking about? Right, the Sand-Snakes.

There was Obara – the warrior one. Arya thought her whip was so cool. Nymeria (eeek!) and Tyene were the assassins – specialising in seduction and poisons. Arya had begged them to show her something, and they'd promised, once she reached her majority, to teach her some things if she wanted!

But if she had to pick, she'd say her favourite was Elia Sand. Two years older than Arya (and twice the size, which was not fair), Elia was the Sand-Snakes' mistress of horses. On their first day in the Water Gardens, Elia and Arya had spent hours talking about Dornish Sand Steeds, and Elia's mother Ellaria (another bastard) had promised to take them to the Martell aviary in Sunspear so Arya could show off her own skills. Elia was also brilliant with a Lance, but Arya was still too tiny to even lift one. Hopefully she'd have a growth spurt soon.

"Arya! How much further!?"

"Shh! It's just ahead!"

Arya's current companion was not one of the aforementioned bastards, but rather the Sand-Snake the closest in age to Arya herself.

Obella Sand was what Arya imagined she'd be like if, you know, she was actually pretty. Dornish sunburnt skin, with an oval face, sparkling eyes and dead straight hair, Obella and Arya had instantly bonded over two things – they were both utterly diminutive, and totally fearless. Arya had spent her second day in the Water Gardens learning how to properly swim with Obella in the ocean. Arya had thought she was a good swimmer; Obella had completely destroyed that notion. She was an aquatic freak was what she was, and funny, fast on her feet and good with jokes. Then she'd taught Arya how to bodysurf (which was so much fun!), so they were best friends now.

"Here it is," Arya whispered, pushing against the side of the tiny roof passage so Obella could squeeze up next to her.

Arya wanted to know what the Dornish Princes, Olenna Tyrell and Tyrion Lannister were talking about. Four people who should have nothing in common, yet had been practically secluded with one another since Princess Myrcella's arrival in Dorne. There was something going on. Some secret. And Arya wanted to know what it was.

The palace at the Water Gardens had been built with small passages above the hallways designed to push cold air through the building. Arya was grateful for them in more ways than one. Not only did they temper the heat of the days, but they made for excellent crawl spaces. Oh they were far too small for an adult to use, but Arya and Obella had finally found a benefit to being tiny.

Obella sidled up beside her, eyes alight with excitement, and the girls peered through the tiny grate in the wall, careful not to let any part of their bodies become visible.

Olenna was sitting by the window, looking out at something on the beachside as the sun went down. Oberyn was pacing the room in a clockwise circuit, never once standing still, while Doran sat in his chair before a wooden table. The Imp appeared a moment later with a large, folded piece of parchment, which he then spread out on the table.

A map of Westeros.

"Your girl, Arianne, seems to be getting along with Garlan," Olenna said, still looking out the window.

"He's an impressive specimen to be sure. I would be disappointed to learn she hadn't already bedded him," Oberyn exclaimed, chuckling softly to himself as he walked. Arya turned to Obella and made a gagging motion. The Sand-Snake suppressed a giggle.

"I'll ask her what she thinks at the end of the week," Doran said, rubbing his chin. "If she agrees, I'll send a raven to your son at Highgarden."

He snorted, as if that were a grand joke.

"To think, me, marrying my daughter to a Tyrell. If someone had told me that a month ago, I'd have laughed in their face."

Arianne and Garlan? Arya had seen them walking together through the Gardens a few times. Oh, and they'd been down at the beach when Obella had been showing Arya how to swim faster. They had just been lying together on the sand making noises though. Boring.

"It's a new day and age, brother," Oberyn said, still smirking.

"Indeed it is."

"If they wed," the Imp said, gesturing to the map, "we'll have the North, the Reach and Dorne secured. When Robert dies, the game will change dramatically."

"And thanks to the Princess, the Stormlords are all on the table," Doran muttered. "What about Robert's brothers? Stannis and Renly? What will they do?"

Olenna scrunched her brow, answering in an uncertain voice.

"If Joffrey is dead and Tommen abdicated, Stannis will demand the throne citing the Targaryen lineage system put in place after the Dance, where younger brothers supersede daughters. Renly… I don't know what that fool will do. I had hoped my grandson Loras might report something useful about him when Mace sent him off to squire for the man without telling me, but that has caused even more problems."

"House Lannister would never let Stannis, or Renly for that matter, sit the throne while one of Cersei's children lives," the Imp stated. "That is how the war will begin. And Olenna, if you harm a single hair on Tommen's head in this plan of yours, or my own for that matter, I have safeguards in place. Have since the moment you first contacted me. My father will know everything."

Olenna's face contorted in a sour way that almost made Arya laugh. She liked the dwarf, she decided then.

"If the Baratheon brothers decide to go to war, they will have our spears up their collective asses before long," Oberyn said. "We do not discriminate against girls in Dorne."

"And if Garlan marries Arianne, the Reach will have to declare for Myrcella too, giving the Lannister armies easy passage to the Stormlands and Kings Landing," Olenna declared.

"That leaves three more Kingdoms. What of Ned Stark?"

"Ned Stark will do what I tell him to do," Olenna answered firmly, and Arya had to resist the urge to snort. No one told her father what to do. "He will try to stay out of it, if he can, but he will support Robert's children over Stannis or Renly for certain."

"That leaves the Riverlands and the Vale," Doran muttered. "Neither realm will like a woman anywhere near the Iron Throne, but they'll do what Jon Arryn says if it comes down to it. If he decides to support Stannis – and he probably will, prejudices take a long time to die – the Knights of the Vale could decimate the Lannister rear guard while the Riverlords bar the Neck from the south, preventing any reinforcement from the North. Stannis can supply Dragonstone from Gulltown… and launch an attack on Kings Landing."

Tyrion scratched his head.

"Then, as the plan stands, we kill Joffrey and wait for Robert to die on his own, which – if he keeps eating and whoring – shouldn't be long. What of Tommen? Even if my father let's him abdicate on grounds of poor health, or he joins the Citadel, there are plenty of lesser families across all seven Kingdoms who would rather follow a weak man than a woman."

"Especially a strong woman," Olenna muttered.

Arya and Obella shared a look. They were going to kill Prince Joffrey?

"The exact reason I never tried to push Rhae for such a claim," Doran said, folding his arms as if expecting such a point. "That, and she doesn't want anything to do with that throne, and after all it has done to her, I won't force the matter. But unless I miss my mark, this is where Lady Tyrell's hidden King comes in, neutralising this problem in its entirety."

Olenna turned away from the window and walked over to the map, pointing with a wrinkled finger to the Narrow Sea.

"Most of the islands there are still loyal to House Targaryen. If we raise the Dragon banner, they will flock to him – crippling Stannis with his core supporters," she explained. "The King marries Margaery, and while the Lannister forces are caught up in the Stormlands with Stannis's ground troops and the Dornish capture Storm's End, the Tyrell army with the King at its head…" Olenna traced her finger towards Kings Landing. "… either defends the capital or retakes it. The King takes the Iron Throne, with Margaery as his Queen, while Princess Baratheon – the new Lady of the Stormlands – and her husband Prince Trystane of Dorne, are named co-Hands of the King while retaining their titles. That should ease any transition."

"Baratheon, Martell, Lannister, Tyrell and Stark all represented by a strong force in Kings Landing for the first time in generations," Tyrion muttered. "Arryn and Tully will take some mollifying, even if we win a war. We'll have to look into that."

"What of Tywin Lannister?" Oberyn demanded. "I see everyone getting their vengeance but me. I want him and his Mountain dead."

The room fell silent for a moment, before Tyrion spoke up once more.

"If House Martell holds up its end of the bargain, and you don't try and push Myrcella and Trystane against Olenna's King when the time comes, I will personally deliver the Mountain's head to you on a platter, Viper."

Oberyn snorted.

"You?"

"I will speak to my father. Tell him it is your condition for working with the Lannister army. You will have Myrcella – he won't have a choice. I will ensure you have Elia's killer, but I want something in exchange."

"What?"

Tyrion narrowed his eyes, gaze flickering between Doran, Oberyn and Olenna.

"I want promises that you will support my right to Casterly Rock when the time comes. If my father tries to disinherit me, I want protection. The Rock is mine by right."

"That doesn't give me your father's head, dwarf," Oberyn said, venom tinting his voice.

"You can't kill the Warden of the West, Oberyn," Doran snapped, a tired expression crossing his face. Arya got the feeling they'd had this argument before.

Tyrion leaned over the table, eyes darkening.

"You want to protect your family? I want to protect mine. If we want this plan to succeed, we have to work together, and if you want the Westerlands to follow a female ruler without question, you need Tywin Lannister to make them do it. This plan falls apart if the Westerlands doesn't fall in line. Kill me if you wish, but if you do, my father will know it all, and he will not take such a slight against House Lannister – even if I am the lowest of us. I am offering you far more than you could ever get yourself. Take it or leave it."

Oberyn and Tyrion held each other's gaze for several tense moments, before Oberyn nodded once.

"Very well," Oberyn said, finally stopping his pacing to look at the Imp with newfound respect. "I accept these terms and stay my blade for now. I will send my daughter, Tyene, back to Highgarden with you. She is the best person for this mission. Killing a prince will not be easy, but with time, she can get herself into position – ready for my word. The Mad-Prince will fall, and the game will begin."

"A fine strategy to be sure, but it is my experience that even the strongest plans can break should one too many things go wrong," Doran said, sitting back in his chair.

"It's what we have so far," Olenna said. "And all we can do for now. I'll get your assassin into position Oberyn, but it will be best to wait until the Princess and Trystane are married before we make the move."

"Three years then," Doran acknowledged.

Oberyn sighed.

"I have waited fifteen years. I can wait a little longer."

They broke up, packing up the maps and going their separate ways, leaving Arya and Obella sitting in the crawl space, too stunned to even move.

A hidden king? A plan to murder the prince?

Arya hadn't understood a lot of what they'd said, but she had gotten the theme well enough. They were planning a war.

A dagger pressed into Arya's side. Obella's gaze had lost all its excitement and cheerfulness from before. Now, it was as hard as iron.

"We will speak nothing of this. To anyone. Not even your mother or father. No one needs to know."

Arya swallowed the fear that rose up in her throat then, and all she could do was nod in reply. She didn't trust her voice not to crack.

Neither of them saw the scrappy young boy with golden hair hiding in the same crawl space, just around the next bend.

Motivations

I've tried my hardest to make sure Olenna, Doran, Tyrion and Oberyn have their own distinct motivations, mannerisms and goals in this meeting, and I think I've done a good job. However, that's not up to me to decide. So, tell me, honestly, what in the scene worked and what didn't for you. If there is a common thread, or people didn't take away what I intended, I plan to go back and revise the scene so it's better. I don't have a beta reader, so I'm deputising every one of you instead. Am I opening myself up to flames? Probably. Steel skin and all that. Besides, it will give me a reason to use the door emoji!🚪!

Motivations, mannerisms and goals:

Tyrion – Wants Casterly Rock and knows Tywin will never give it to him. By far the most uncomfortable in the scene. Protective of his family and House Lannister – even Tywin, who hates him. Stands the most to gain from Joffrey's death. He is the most altruistic of the four, thinking about building a better Westeros by ensuring each Kingdom has some say over governing.

Doran – Wants revenge for Elia's death, but much better at playing the long and subtle gain than Oberyn is. Knows that a woman could never be ruler of Westeros, so is willing to work with Olenna to get what he wants, which is more influence and security for Dorne above everything. Swayed slightly by Tyrion's altruism.

Oberyn – Wants vengeance against Robert Baratheon, Tywin Lannister and the Mountain. At any cost. This is his primary motivation, and he is working with Olenna and Doran to achieve that goal first. However, if he sees a way to get at Tywin, he's probably going to take it, regardless of the consequences.

Olenna – Wants security for her family, vengeance against Robert Baratheon for Tyrell lives lost in the Rebellion, and most importantly, power. She believes Jon is by far the better bet than Joffrey – whose madness is more widely known thanks to Myrcella's bump in age – so is willing to do anything to make it happen. House Tyrell finally gets the crown it's always wanted and stands to make a lot of money. Doesn't believe in Tyrion's vision; it's power and security she wants, and she'll get it one way or another.

One final reminder: no one knows about the incest yet. Until they do, Myrcella is Robert's daughter, and that carries weight everywhere, but especially in the Stormlands if she proves herself strong willed. The Stormlands aren't like the Riverlands in that they treat women like dirt automatically – Brienne is the perfect example of that. The Stormlords value strength above all else.

Next up – the Martells should really patch those vents, we return to Highgarden as Margaery starts sloothing about, and Tywin makes his long-awaited debut.