One day, Tyrion thinks as he rushes through the Rock yet again in search of yet another conveniently missing servant, he'll stop being quite this good at following instructions.

He should have started preparing for this much earlier, no matter what his siblings had said. Housing the entire royal family, considering its size, is an ordeal even with adequate preparation; now, as he has to make this work in just a handful of days and under Oberyn Martell's displeased eye, it's that much more difficult.

There's really no way to be secretive about this, is the thing. If he'd tried to get the help to prepare the children's bedrooms, word would have spread one way or another that he'd been told to expect a visit. Cersei had been insistent that he prevent that from happening in regards both to Father and Martell, so he'd held back until the last possible moment, somewhat comforted by the fact that his siblings would have a place to sleep no matter what and their princes and princesses would be too happy to visit the Rock to care much about how well-kept their temporary dwelling would be. Sometimes it's a blessing; knowing that the most powerful family in the realm is of your own blood. It does wonders for some of the pressure that tends to haunt him when just about anyone else – such as Dornishmen, for example – decides to visit.

This is all a test of sorts, he knows – accommodating Oberyn and Trystane, handling guests in general, organising every feast and tourney for every possible occasion he can imagine (and some he can't); they're all an effort on his father's part to prepare him for his role as Warden of the West. It's rather exhausting – has been for as long as he'd been an adult, really – but just this once, he cannot blame him. Sooner rather than later, the position would be his. If his father wants to focus on trying and failing to rule the realm through his children's hands, Tyrion doesn't mind leaving him to it, especially since it had made following Cersei's wish to leave him in the dark all the easier. As it is, chances are the Martells are better informed about the approaching guests than Lord Tywin is.

Eventually, he'd managed it, of course – Casterly Rock is ridiculously well-equipped with all the servants he could need at his disposal, and his approaching guests are easy enough to please, after all.

He'd received a raven the other day that they'd passed Riverrun; if his own calculations are correct, and he knows they are, given when it had been sent, that means that they'll be here today. He sighs, halfway down the staircase, as he realises that about now would be the time to tell him. Better yet if it's assigned to a servant – the fact that he hadn't bothered to inform him himself would make him even angrier than the idea that he hadn't bothered to forewarn him about this at all.

He invites the Martells along and they obey without protest, though he's sure that it's not a particularly willing process – Oberyn had made it clear that he hadn't wanted to be here at all but had had no choice but to help his brother by taking his place on the trip, and bringing his nephew along had not helped brighten his mood. Tyrion had done his best to keep him and his own father apart and hadn't had a particularly difficult time of it, but the King and the Queen would be unavoidable.

In the end, that's how the royal family finds them when the wheelhouse is abandoned at the gates way down beneath the castle and the horses crawl up along with their riders into the bowels of the rock until he hears the first of them come into the clearing in the courtyard up above the cliff – he's in the company of House Martell and every other more significant member of the household which, at the time, is limited to a number of cousins. Kevan is still in King's Landing in his brother's stead so that he can watch over the twins's matters while they're on the road, their father has yet to show, though whether it's to disrespect the Martells or his own children is unclear, and their aunt Genna is, as always, late – he hears her and her husband hurrying out into the clearing just as he takes a knee along with everyone else to honour his guests. Her presence is rather unmistakable.

"Oh, is there really need for all of this?" She takes her place next to him, gathering her skirts around her as she follows his example. They guests will kneel so they must, too, no matter how familiar they are with the King and Queen. "Your siblings are here for business rather than to follow proper etiquette, if I had to guess."

"I wouldn't know."

It's, surprisingly, not a lie. He had been kept in the dark about the purpose of this visit since the very start, even if he'd let his sister swear him into secrecy. She'd alluded to a discussion they'd need to have, but hadn't bothered to elaborate, in true Cersei fashion.

Queenship has changed her, he'd thought in the early years of the Lannister rule over the Seven Kingdoms, but it had quickly occurred to him that it had been her marriage and her crown put together that had made her so much more agreeable. For the first time in her life, Cersei had been entirely free and she'd blossomed into it with a startling ease, much to their father's dismay. Despite they way he'd raged about the possibility of tem being so disastrously terrible at ruling that they'd taint the family name for centuries to come, Tyrion knows Lord Tywin well enough to know that he'd been more than a little displeased by the reality of the situation, in which they'd actually fared quite well. He wants all of his children depending on him as much as possible; none of this had gone according to plan.

His and Cersei's shared malicious glee over that had finally led to the two of them warming to each other, he suspects, and slowly they'd become almost friends. He would never hold her as close to his heart as he does their brother, but he understands her better, in a way; envies her for the freedom she'd burrowed out for herself in a way he hadn't quite expected he would. Their father hadn't been able to truly intimidate her since that day in the Sept of Baelor some twenty years ago; it's an impressive feat all on its own.

He hears the visitors dismount their horses just before they pass through the gates; hears the hushed flood of voices and has to bite back a smile as he stares resolutely at the ground beneath his feet. If nothing else, his siblings and their litter are sure to bring some much needed spark of life to the Rock for as long as they stay. There are children around, he knows, as well as some of his more distant cousins and nephews and nieces, not all of them as terribly serious as the main branch of their family, but there are none as lively as his most immediate family.

They all remain in position as the doors are being pushed open and, soon enough, they're all in his immediate vision, with Jaime at the helm and Cersei stopping by his side a moment later, their heavily ornamented clothes with their family's sigil woven into everything giving them away even before the King's voice does.

"Rise, brother."

He finds himself drawn into an embrace as soon as he does and the rest of the nobles present, both family and guests, soon follow his example by struggling up to their feet in the most dignified way possible. Jaime's crown tilts to the side when he raises his head again and they part, but Cersei pushes it back into place hastily, biting back a smile as she offers her hand to Oberyn Martell and he kisses one of her many rings.

"You look more radiant each time we meet, Your Grace."

She acknowledges the uniform praise with a disinterested nod and her eyes travel over their audience before landing on Tyrion, suddenly both terribly serious and a little impatient. Nothing has changed, he thinks. Not his brother, not his sister, and certainly not their heavy-handed manner when it comes to ruling.

And neither had, he supposes, anything else. There's a girl wandering right behind her parents, looking about the same as she had the last time they'd seen each other a handful of years ago, even though the swarm of the boys behind her all seem to have grown significantly.

"Myrcella?"

It's only when she smiles – a wide, bright smile, the kind that would be too open for her older sister when they have so much company – that he realises his mistake. "No, uncle."

"Tya!" She had still seemed so little when he'd last met her and he tries to remember, suddenly, how long it had been. Too long. His father keeps him rather busy with the Rock, as if preparing him for a position Tyrion knows for a fact that he's not ready to give up to him just yet, and the last time he had travelled to the capital feels like an eternity ago. Perhaps their visit could rectify that, if he insists on coming along this time. The Rock will still be there when he returns and, inevitably, Lord Tywin would be, as well. He's no longer quite as fond of advising his children from the Red Keep as he had been in the beginning. "I've missed you."

With the initial tension broken, chaos creeps into the courtyard and Cersei shakes her head at the inevitable onslaught of emotion that reunions tend to bring as the children come closer, greeting their relatives and examining their guests. Trystane Martell had thrown himself into the introductions rather enthusiastically, unlike his uncle, and Jaime's voice rising above it all is the only one trying to rein it in a little in any way. Still, he only gets halfway through berating them before Tyrion interrupts.

"Oh, leave them be, Your Grace. They haven't seen their ancestral homeland in years. Now, where is he?" Not in the thick of it, certainly, so only the others will hear, and Tyrion is more than glad that none of them takes anything he says to heart enough to be wounded by his words. "Where's my favourite nephew?"

And then he's there, as if by magic, prim and proper as ever.

"Uncle Tyrion!"

"Hello, Tybolt."

He'll get his fill of embraces today, it seems, because another one follows, and suddenly, the favourite nephew in question – the one who tends to resemble Cersei the least – has the exact same gleam in his eyes that she does. "Mother has a responsibility for you in mind."

"Oh, does she." It's not quite a question, given that he rather dreads the answer. If his siblings mean to make him Warden of the West already, then they've got another thing coming, he can bet – if their father hadn't even deigned to come out and greet them with the rest of the castle's inhabitants, the chances of him taking such news well are slim to none. "I'll be delighted to hear them, I'm sure."

"I think you will be." The irony had either gone over his head or he'd preferred to ignore it – given his last name, it's likely the latter. "In fact, she said that perhaps—"

As per usual, his sister picks the best possible moment to chime in. "Tyrion, I'd like to have a word, if you're not terribly busy."

"Never for you, sweet sister."

The smile he gets in return is as tense as the one he'd offered. "Excellent. Tybolt, are you coming?"

The boy's face lights up even further. "Oh, can I really?"

"I said you could, didn't I? I hope you've brought a scroll and a quill."

"Of course I have."

It's only when they're deep in the bowels of the Rock and on their way to one of the smaller halls, away from prying eyes, that a thought occurs to him. "If this will be a negotiation of some sort, shouldn't you have brought Joffrey along?"

"I do, usually, but Tybolt would like to devote his life to recording history." Her face shines with pride as she says it, as if it's just as grand of a goal as being the next king of the Seven Kingdoms. "I promised him I would take him along every time there is anything important to record, since he wants to contribute to the Citadel."

So this will be a history-changing meeting, then. He grows more nervous by the moment. "History?" He lowers his voice so that they aren't overheard, more than a little puzzled. It had always been a hobby of his, too, but he'd never really entertained the thought of becoming a Maester. He would have entertained it even less if he'd been born a prince, he thinks. "Is there really nothing more interesting for a third son to do?"

"Fourth son."

"Technicalities." Though it makes sense, really. He and his twin had been indistinguishable as children, but as soon as they'd learnt to talk, that had been swiftly remedied. Lann had grown up worshipping his father, more eager for a potential life devoted to knighthood rather than royalty, while his twin brother had always preferred the company of the Red Keep's extensive library. Now that they're nearly men grown, it's all the more visible – Lann's skin is as golden as his mane from all the time spent under the long summer's unforgiving heat, his hair falling in curls not unlike Tyrion's own all the way down to his shoulders, and he'd rarely seen the boy out of chainmail since he'd been only a child. Tybolt, on the other hand, reminds him more of their many cousins – the ones who'd spent too much time in the Rock's endless hallways to have seen much of the sun at all; scholars to the bone, even if they'd reluctantly squired for someone at some point. It's part of why he feels significantly closer to one of them than the other, he supposes – that, and the fact that Tybolt's twin is a rather formidable combination of Tyrion's own siblings, and occasionally too much for him to bear.

As soon as they're seated, all thoughts of the fates of the future princes and princesses of the realm evaporate as quickly as they'd come and Tyrion pours wine for both himself and his sister – he'd been prepared for such an occasion, after all – before bracing himself for whatever it is that she has in mind.

As usual, Cersei doesn't waste time. "Jaime and I would like you to step in as our Hand."

For a moment, all he can do is stare back. He had expected a fair number of surprises to come out of this visit, but certainly not this. "You would?"

"We would. Father has had his— disagreements with us on the way the realm is being ruled for years, but, as we make the sort of changes we suspect he wouldn't quite approve of – the expansion of the Kingsguard was only one, and there are others that you wouldn't even believe if I were to tell you now that I wouldn't dare mention in front of him at all – it would be— a smoother process, I thought, if we were to be advised by someone not committed to working against us rather than with us for the sake of disagreeing more than anything else."

It sounds like a direct enough offer, and yet, "If it's a sycophant you want, I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere."

"Sycophant, brother? You?" She seems genuinely amused, for once. "Not at all. If we were interested in listening to nothing but the things we want to hear, we wouldn't need a Hand at all. We do need to heed the words of others, however, no matter how unfortunate that is, and who would be more eager to deliver unpleasant truths than you?"

He sincerely hopes that Tybolt isn't writing any of this down verbatim. "It does sound like a wonderful opportunity," he admits, though really, there's not much to consider. He nods his agreement a moment later. "In the event that I accept, I have just one last question. Who would be the one to deliver the news to Father?"

"Oh, we'll orchestrate an occasion for it. Jaime has a plan. In fact, it might be easier to do it once he's told—"

There's a knock on the door and yet another one of his nephews walks in, uncharacteristically hesitant at the face of the official air of the meeting. "I'm not interrupting anything important, I hope."

"We were just about finished. Hello, Lann."

"Hello, uncle." He turns his attention to his brother an instant later. "Ty, do you know how fireworks are made?"

Tybolt looks up from his scroll as soon as he finishes the conclusion to his retelling. "Don't insult me."

"Well, Grandfather says we only have white ones for Myrcella's name day and she wants them in yellow and red." A bribing smile steals across his features, and it's a painfully familiar expression, painted with the face of a Lannister. "Joff has bet me twenty dragons that you can't do it, but I know you can."

Two sets of pleading eyes point Cersei's way as soon as Tybolt processes the challenge, and she sighs. "Mother, can I—"

"Of course." She gestures him out before he's even finished his sentence. "Go defend your honour."

Despite his attempt to remain focused on the matter at hand, Tyrion follows them with his eyes. "A week more of this and Father will resign on his own."

"Oh, I don't want him to resign on his own."

His sister is a terrible, terrible person, he thinks, and he's never understood her better.

"Jaime had a plan, you said."

Cersei's smile is wonderfully wicked. "Let's walk you through it, shall we?"

~.~

"Jaime," his aunt says in lieu of greeting, just as she always does, and Jaime looks up from the vitally important task of polishing his sword as he waits for the company that's supposed to arrive soon – a company, more specifically, not made up of his own family. "Your son is unbearable."

"Oh, I doubt it's that bad." The children can be a handful, he'd readily admit that, but it's not really their fault that no one outside of the Red Keep – other than perhaps Tyrion – knows how to handle them. "Which son?"

He has two good guesses – the rest of them really couldn't have done anything too egregious – and narrows it down to one as soon as Genna speaks up again. "I warned you that this would happen. Do you remember? Nineteen years ago, when Joffrey had just been born. I told you that you would have more children and that they would follow your example, and I told you that you would be sorry."

He can't speak for Cersei, but he's not feeling particularly sorry. It's difficult to imagine that his sister would, either. "I'll have you know that we've already arranged a betrothal for Joffrey and she's so far away from any other part of the realm that she couldn't possibly be related to any of us."

"Yes, I heard about the poor Northern girl that you're planning to draw into your insanity, and you know well that I don't mean her." He puts his weapon back in its sheath when it becomes clear that she isn't planning on letting this go anytime soon. It's been a while since it's had blood on it either way; there's no need to be quite so thorough with it. "She's a good match for Joffrey, from what he's told me, but two of your youngest—"

"I know."

"He's too bold and she allows him too much."

She allows him just as much as she pleases and not an ounce more, as Jaime has observed over the years, and still, "I know."

"It's shameful. Didn't you teach her to stand her ground?"

"We've taught her to stand her ground as soon as she could stand on her own. Same goes for the rest of the children." He laughs at the memory of a feast a couple of years back, when Tya had chucked her goblet at some lordling who had, according to the story she'd told him after the accident, 'looked at her wrong all evening'. They'd raised their daughters the same way, he'd always thought, but Myrcella would sooner call a guard to remove the offending guest quietly rather than make a spectacle out of it, but at twelve, their youngest had already been a little too explosive for that. "If it had bothered her, Tya would have spoken up about it years ago."

"Years?" When he shrugs, helpless, Genna presses further. "So why hasn't she?"

"Because it doesn't bother her. They've been close for as long as they've been alive."

Much like with him and Cersei, Jaime doesn't quite remember when something had shifted. Myrcella had been an excellent older sister when it had come to teaching Tya to be a princess, but the gap between them had meant that they could have never been quite as close as his eldest daughter had hoped for when she'd first wished for a sister. At six Joffrey had been, by his own perception, far too mature to spare anyone but Myrcella and occasionally Tommen – much to Tommen's distress – his attention, and Tya had been left mainly with her parents's attentions. She had been about four when Lann, only two years older, had offered to teach her to ride his pony. The procedure had been rather pedantically observed in the event of any kinds of mishaps, but nothing of the sort had followed, and since that day, they'd been inseparable, as involved in each other's lives as they could be.

Cersei had noticed it first; the moment when their inane bickering and playful back-and-forths over the dinner table had turned into something more tense and careful; something far more familiar. They had talked about it and had promptly decided that they would wait and see, but it had been too late – by that point, it had seemed, everything had been out of their hands. Just like it had happened to them, there had been no one else, and they'd never had eyes for another after that.

"We're not Targaryens," he tells his aunt now, just as he had all those years ago. "But I won't be my father either. Our children can do as they please."

"And what does your sister think about that? What about the marriage prospects they could have had?" He can see the same lingering disturbance that had been haunting their father for as long as they've been married, but Genna, at least, manages to keep her disgust at bay. He's quietly grateful for that whenever he sees her. "You don't have the best of relationships with at least one of the Seven Kingdoms."

"I'll have to ask her when I see her; she still has some business to do with our dear brother." Not that they haven't discussed all of this a thousand times already. "Speaking of strained relationships—"

His aunt, predictably, finds an excuse to be elsewhere as soon as she spots Oberyn Martell and his nephew coming towards them. He'd been expecting this – had hoped it would happen without him having to organise a meeting and making it all even more uncomfortable than it already is, really – so it's easy to smile when they approach; especially so when he realises that they come with Myrcella in tow.

"Your Grace," the man acknowledges, and Jaime offers a nod in response, gesturing at him to join him near the fountain. It's sometimes awfully convenient; being a king. No one can refuse him a thing without risking their head.

"Prince Oberyn. Please, have a seat."

"Father," Myrcella greets, suddenly all courtly manners, and Jaime wonders how it is that she's found herself in Dornish company.

"Myrcella. You've been showing our guests around the Rock, I take it."

"I have." She laughs, as if suddenly reminded that she's not quite as knowledgeable about the place as just about any of its permanent inhabitants would be. "Though they've been here for a few days already. I suppose they might know as much as I do by now."

"Oh, not at all," Oberyn assures her with a wave of the hand. Trystane shakes his head in agreement. "We weren't planning on staying too long; it was kind of you to show us everything we'd missed, Princess."

"You must stay another week, at least," Myrcella says, tone imperious in a way it only ever gets when she simply has to get her way. "My name day is on the day after tomorrow. We'll have a celebration. I've been assured that there will be fireworks."

"Yes, uncle," Trystane chimes in, just as serious. "It would be terribly rude."

When it's put like that, Jaime knows, there's no real way for Oberyn to refuse. "All right. Why don't you go with Her Majesty to see how the fireworks are coming along?"

Any other heir to a great house would have been offended at being so obviously dismissed, but he supposes that the Dornish aren't quite as easily scandalised and Trystane takes his uncle's advice, following in Myrcella's footsteps as she invites him through yet another archway. Oberyn stares after them with a thoughtful look on his face. Jaime braces himself for the conversation he knows is about to follow, but a quite different one begins instead; much to his surprise.

"You Lannisters are quite difficult to refuse."

There's no Your Grace to go with it this time. Jaime is quietly grateful – there are few things he hates more than people trying to keep up appearances when he knows they've come for something else.

"He didn't seem to need a lot of convincing."

"That's just it. Your daughter is a charming woman."

Of course she is. Sometimes she reminds him of Cersei so much that he's half-convinced that he's stumbled onto some sort of echo from the past when he sees her. Until she opens her mouth, that is. Myrcella had inherited her mother's sharp, analytical mind and her half-buried talent of an experienced merchant that had helped them sign many a peace agreement (such as the one with Dorne), but none of her devastating honesty.

"You didn't come all the way from the other side of the Rock to talk about my daughter."

"I may end up talking about her by the end of this visit either way, depending on the way the rest of it goes." He sighs and just like that, the pretence of humour deserts his features entirely. "But no, I didn't. If my brother had been able to make the trip, you would have not had to have it at all. Doran made his peace with you and your queen twenty years ago."

Out with it, then.

"I told your brother the truth and nothing else. For as long as I was in control of the Red Keep, your family was still alive. There is no way for anyone to prove it, of course, but as you've seen, I'm not fond of building a kingdom on top of false claims."

Oberyn allows himself a smile, bitter and tinged with age-old rage. "You've been quite open with your demands since the very start, yes."

"I can't tell you who killed your sister." He could, but what would be the use? The man already knows the truth and the Maesters who had written the story of the Rebellion down had described it as a tragic crime caused by an unknown evil-doer and nothing deeper than that. A suggestion had been made that it could have been Aerys or even Elia herself and Jaime had spared the Dornish Prince those hypotheses, at least – he's not too eager to make Oberyn lose any shred of respect that he might hold for him. "I spoke to her after I killed the Mad King. She was—more understanding with me than she could have been, given the circumstances. She even allowed Cersei to speak to her children once my sister had arrived." There's something stuck in his throat, or so it feels, heavy and nigh-impossible to swallow. "She had every reason to be wary of us both, and she was, but I suppose she knew that she was outnumbered. I knew the feeling – by then, Aerys had been making me feel like a caged animal for weeks and I ended it by murdering him. Instead, she spoke to me. I'm sure at least part of it was fear, but it was more than anyone in my position deserved."

Oberyn's words are dipped in venom when he speaks again. "Elia was nothing like you, Your Grace. She was nothing like your queen, either."

"I know." Above all, Elia Martell had been kind, and it had made a strange sight when paired with Cersei's—well, with Cersei, really. Still, his sister had shown herself a decent host, considering that she'd acted as one despite being one half of a pair of usurpers.

"I'm sure you do." A moment passes in silence before the Prince speaks again. "Why are you telling me this?"

"So that I can tell you what I told your brother the day he recognised me as the new ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. What happened to your sister and her children wasn't by my hand. I love my sister, too. No, not in the way that you do," he amends when it appears that he's about to be interrupted. Not in the way that he should, as he had been told many times, but he'd never really known any other way. "But I do love her. The thought of her being taken away— it's unimaginable. I could never live in a world that she's not in." It's a show of vulnerability, saying any of this, and he knows it, but Cersei would be proud of him for it, he's sure – because of what he's saying about her, too, but mainly for the effect it must have on Martell. "I would have had no reason to take her from you. I could've sent the boy to the Wall and wed the girl to one of my sons; keep the Targaryen blood on the Throne in a generation or two, but distance it from the stain Aerys and his son brought to the Seven Kingdoms. Why would I destroy what little trust the people had in me by killing the only innocents in the Red Keep? You have no reason to believe me," he continues before he'd given the Prince a chance to truly think about it. "But the crown does trust Dorne, and the Queen and I have been meaning to prove that in a way that could suit us all."

"Oh?" Somehow, the Prince manages to sound both mildly intrigued and devastatingly disinterested. "What would that be?"

Jaime draws in a careful breath. He and Cersei had talked this through a thousand times, and no one else knows – not even Tyrion. Telling the Dornish Prince is a step in a direction he's not quite sure he wants to explore, even if nothing ends up coming out of it. "I don't need to tell you that you're not to share this with anyone but your brother."

"Of course not, Your Grace."

"Good." Another moment passes as he braces himself. "I cannot return your family to you, but I can show you – and your countrymen – that we are not without mercy."

Really, it's more of an effort to shut everyone up – especially when it comes to the Targaryen loyalists apparently still lingering in some parts of the Seven Kingdoms, and the few lingering Targaryens themselves – but he's not planning on being that honest.

"I cannot give your family back to you, but I can try and offer the next closest thing. Across the Narrow Sea, there are two children."

To his credit, Martell understands in an instant.

"They're not quite children anymore."

"No," Jaime allows, "I suppose not. But they were children by the time I ascended on the Throne. When Cersei learnt of your sister's death— she was more shaken than she would let herself be, usually. And then she started wondering about the little prince and princess on the run. I have to admit, I hadn't thought of them." He'd seen the boy a few times before Rhaella had left King's Landing in favour of Dragonstone, but it still hadn't occurred to him to wonder what had happened to any of them – not in the whirlwind of it all. "She pointed out that since everyone else had died, Viserys would have inherited the Iron Throne, and his little sister might have been his queen. Then she asked if we could send them gold so that they wouldn't have to live on the streets."

He loves his sister beyond words; beyond anything he can describe to anyone. He doesn't always claim to understand her. But Cersei has made a peculiar habit out of keeping certain not quite princesses or not quite future queens under the protection of her rare benevolence, and he had never bothered to question it.

"I can understand if that sounds difficult to believe; charity does not come easily to Lannisters." As if he'd lost any ability to put up enough of a mask to hide his shock, Oberyn Martell simply nods his agreement. "And yet, we did it. No one ever learnt a thing – other than them, I suppose, though they couldn't possibly know where the gold is coming from. Now, there are whispers that Viserys Targaryen plans on trading his sister for the chance of a crown. He will never succeed, of course." They'll make sure of that. "But I would like to give them both the option to come back to their homeland in peace."

"Without the Dothraki horde, I assume."

"Preferably. Viserys would have to take the black, of course."

"Of course," Oberyn echoes. "What if he refuses?"

"He's free to stay in Pentos and bathe in the riches that my sister has so generously handed them. Daenerys, on the other hand— if she were to return to Westeros, Dorne might be the closest thing she has to a home. She has your homeland in her blood, if I remember correctly."

He's sure he does, because he and Cersei had discussed the two houses's histories in great detail, but it's still a relief to see the Prince nod. "If she's willing, yes, of course. Dorne would welcome her with open arms." He pauses, as if unsure if he should proceed. "This is quite the risk you're taking, for little to no reward. Why?"

Because I want them shamed into compliance. Cersei's idea, of course. Ever since they'd risen to power, she'd been keenly aware of the stranglehold that the way things appear to be has on the populace, and this had been no exception – with the Lannisters ruling Westeros being a given, anything but blind gratitude from the potentially returning Targaryens would make them look ungrateful for the opportunity they'd been given, and the risk of him and Cersei coming out of it looking anything but virtuous is slim to none. His sister is wickedly clever that way.

"It's high time we started healing the wounds left by the ones who came before us, isn't it?"

"Yes, no doubt." Martell sounds almost moved now and in the safety of his own mind, Jaime allows himself the smug, satisfied warmth that comes with a hard-won victory that he'd cheated out of someone. "Of course, Your Grace."

"I'm glad we could come to an understanding. My sister will fill you in on the details of this endeavour, I'm sure." Jaime gets to his feet, bracing himself for another inevitable meeting that should take place somewhere in the early evening, as soon as supper is served. "Speaking of my sister, she has an important announcement on her agenda tonight, provided that some of our other ideas have come to fruition today." They must have, he supposes, but it's better to appear as innocently candid as possible in front of the enemy – even an enemy that he'd almost made an ally out of. "I do hope you'll be joining us for dinner."

"We will. I suppose Trystane and Her Majesty must be done with their tour around Casterly Rock by now."

They'd better be. If he has to suffer through the bottomless discomfort that the announcement of Tyrion's new position is going to be, then so is everyone else. Myrcella, at least, has the uncanny ability to alleviate the tension out of most situations, so he certainly wants her there. "Splendid. I'll see you there, My Lord."

"Your Grace."

The man deserts the courtyard with one last nod of acknowledgment and Jaime turns on his heel, descending in an entirely different direction. Dinner is approaching, yes, but he has other places to be first – with his sister, for one, as she still has to walk him through whatever their plan for the evening is. After all, she'd been the one to scheme her way into this one, too.