In the Red Keep…
Daveth Baratheon had been sitting down in his room preparing for the wedding, dressed in the finest silks. His clothes were of black and gold, had crimson red sleeves with a crimson cape and his stag crown stood next to him. But in front of him stood Lord Yohn Royce, Lady Anya Waynwood and Ser Vance Corbray who arrived at Daveth's invitation.
"Thank you for coming to King's Landing as soon as you were able, my lords," Daveth said before turning to Anya. "My lady. The royal wedding begins in two days, but I'm sure you have certain reasons for coming. Lord Varys has informed me that each of you have requested an audience of utmost importance with me. Well… here we are. Tell me. What has been troubling you all?"
Lord Royce was the first to speak up. "We apologize for not coming to your aid during the rebellion sooner, but that's not why we are here. No. Our business concerns lie with the arrangement you made with Lady Arryn, especially with that snake Baelish."
"And what it is about him that bothers you, Lord Royce?"
"I didn't need to hear about him. Moneylender, whoremonger. No offense meant, Your Grace, but Baelish's been licking your lord grandfather's boots so long, it's a wonder his tongue's not black."
'Deciding not to beat around the bush already, I see. He is rather direct, that Bronze Yohn, I'll give him that,' thought Daveth as he kept silent.
"And when our late Lord Jon Arryn decided to name him Master of Coin, no one cared," Yohn continued ranting. "Always been a grubby job. Why not let a grubby man do it? But when I heard that you arranged a betrothal between Baelish and the Lady Arryn…"
Daveth interrupted him. "We all know that it was neither secret nor a coincidence that Lord Baelish and Lady Arryn had a past history given their childhood at Riverrun, my lord. We all know how… 'close'… they were. I've seen quite a bit of that back when I was a boy so there's no need to remind me of such an odd fish."
Silence filled the room.
"You mean you didn't know?" he raised an eyebrow. "Of course you didn't. Lysa never loved Jon Arryn, but did her duty as a Tully regardless… at least for 17 years, given her sanity. Then she was free to do as she pleased now that she's now married to Lord Baelish."
"No need to remind us of that," Yohn said somewhat rather disgusted. "You should have seen how she raised her boy. Feeding him from her own teats when he was 10 years old in front of us…"
"Lord Royce! Lady Arryn's predilections were her own affair," Anya chimed in. "The concern and well-being of the Vale is our affair as well."
"Of course."
Lady Waynwood resumed. "It is correct that everyone knows she is an odd fish, but it does strike us as… odd, that she be wedded to Lord Baelish so soon after keeping all of us back in the Vale isolated for so long. I don't see her doing something so reckless, not by choice, unless Lady Arryn was promised something in return."
"The Vale might have returned to the fold when Lady Arryn and her son Robin bent the knee, but that we are not yet still the Seven Kingdoms," the Young Stag replied. "Each of us had to make sacrifices of our own, Lady Waynwood, but I was getting rather increasingly irritated with Lady Arryn's stubborn persistence of not answering my summons until recently. Strange that after her wedding to Lord Baelish she suddenly decided to comply."
"And so you used her to achieve your own ends," Yohn said almost accusingly.
Daveth swore he felt a nerve twitch. "I had my reasons. And you'd do well to watch that tone of yours when you're in my home, Lord Royce."
The Lord of Runestone tried not to scowl, if not for Ser Corbray's intervention.
"I believe what he meant to say, Your Grace, was that we would have understood if the Vale was informed ahead of time," Vance tried to explain.
The Young Stag seemingly took notice. "True, but I could not take an unnecessary risk of someone intercepting whatever message was sent to the Eyrie. It would have been for the best if you heard about it from me instead of another."
Yohn appeared to have settled down a bit upon hearing Daveth's explanation. "We're here now, as instructed. But that doesn't seem to address our concerns about Lord Baelish."
"You don't trust him," Daveth suggested. He didn't need to wait for any of the Vale lords to respond to get an answer. "Neither do I."
Yohn, Anya and Vance trade brief glances of confusion with each other. It was so simple to press the issue now.
"In fact," he continued. "I believe he's up to something. But all I have so far right now are theories, not proof."
"What kind of theories?" asked Yohn.
Daveth took a moment to compose himself; but before opening his mouth to speak, the door to the room opened up – revealing Lady Lysa Arryn's handmaiden Eleana Fyste.
"Apologies for interrupting, my lords," she curtsied. "Your Grace."
"We're in the middle of an important discussion, lass," Yohn scolded her. "What business do you have to interrupt us?"
Eleana took a moment to gather her wits. "I'm sorry, Lord Royce, but I've learned Lady Arryn saying something terrible."
"And what would that be?" Vance demanded.
Eleana stepped forward and began whispering into Daveth's ear. The Young Stag leaned in to listen closely as more and more words poured in. Yohn, Anya and Vance were anxious and wondered what was so important that Lady Arryn's handmaiden chose to inform the King and not them. What was she telling him?
Daveth's eyes narrowed and lowered his brows suspiciously. "And you are certain about this?" he whispered silently.
"I swear by the Old Gods and the new," Eleana affirmed whisperingly.
"Were you followed or eavesdropped upon?"
"I don't think so, no."
Daveth exhaled and pulled Eleana aside. "If what you're telling me is true," he whispered, "then go find Varys. Tell the Master of Whisperers everything you just told me. Make sure no one was listening, and make sure you are not being followed."
Eleana nodded and curtsied once again before leaving the room. It didn't take long for Daveth to turn his gaze to the Vale lords again.
"Well?" Yohn demanded. "What did she say that was so important that she couldn't tell us?"
Daveth took a seat and leaned in closer.
"Listen, my lords. My lady," he said in a serious tone. "What I'm about to tell you, you must swear that you will keep this to yourselves and tell no one, not even Lady Arryn or Lord Baelish, about what you're about to hear."
"Of course, Your Grace," Vance swore.
The Vale lords leaned in closely, wanting to hear more of what the King was about to tell them.
"The real reason I've called you all here is that I suspect that Littlefinger is conspiring against the realm. Not only that, but thanks to a certain handmaiden, I have more reason to believe that both he and Lysa were involved in Jon Arryn's murder."
######
Outside of King's Landing…
Master of Coin Lord Tyrion Lannister stood beside Bronn and his squire Podrick Payne, greeting the attending dignitaries who arrived at the capital to attend the royal wedding between King Daveth I Baratheon and Lady Sansa Stark. The Imp had been questioning what could have motivated his own nephew to appoint him to the position of Master of Coin.
ooOoo
"We've been over this discussion dozens of times already, Uncle Tyrion, and again the matter is closed," Daveth once spoke to him. "Why were you expecting me to reconsider?"
Tyrion shook his head. "Master of Coin? Really?"
"You really think I meant to name you to a position on my council simply as a means to punish you?"
"Did you, nephew?" he replied.
Silence filled the room temporarily. Finally, Daveth quietly exhaled.
"Look, I didn't decide to pick you to serve as Master of Coin on a whim merely to spite you. I don't care if you're even a dwarf. I only care about what it is you have to offer. I chose you because I know you possess a great deal of raw talent, even if mother or grandfather won't admit it," he explained.
Daveth took a moment to point to Varys, who stood on the opposite side of the room.
"Take Lord Varys, for example. Look at how far he's come. A foreign eunuch from the streets of Lys, now risen to the position as Master of Whisperers. He's in a position where he can hone his talents for the good of the realm, not just for the select few. I don't care that Varys originally came from some distant land in the east or that he doesn't have a cock. I only care about he has to offer."
Varys bowed his head. "You flatter me, Your Grace," he said softly in an appreciative tone.
Tyrion sat in his seat and listened as his nephew continued explaining his reasons.
"You see, uncle, those who don't have the Seven Kingdoms' best interests at heart are usually at the core of what makes this world a shithole we've always known. Imbeciles with no talent and sycophants obsessed with seizing power for themselves are usually the ones who cause trouble in the first place. Even the slightest tug can ruin the entire tapestry. I don't care if you're a dwarf. I only care about what you have to offer."
Daveth set his cup of wine down and redirected his attention to the two men standing before him.
"The future of Westeros will be determined by which direction it will go and what comes next," the Young Stag said simply. "We would establish a dynasty that would last a thousand years. One worth fighting for, one we can be proud of. But I'm just one man, and I can't do this by myself. You all said it yourselves."
Varys looked at Daveth closely. "I see. So in case you are unable to achieve it in this lifetime, you plan on laying the foundation so that future generations could do it for you."
"I will, but I'm not finished yet."
ooOoo
Tyrion had been spacing out for some time that he hadn't noticed Podrick had been nudging him.
"My lord?" he asked concerned.
The dwarf shook his head. "Egh, it's nothing. Just had another one of my moments."
"You've been saying that about a lot of things lately," Bronn joked as he bit into an apple. "Heard the Oathkeeper King's been keeping you busy from dawn 'til dusk."
"Comes with the job, I guess," Tyrion sighed. "But Daveth is still my nephew even long before he became a King. Sometimes I worry that he forgets: there's a whole bunch of us who lose sleep over him, what happens when he pushes himself too hard."
"Sounds like it's bad for your health if you ask me," the sellsword murmured.
"That sounds like it."
More noble lords and ladies continued to pass them buy. The three of them were waiting on a certain individual: Prince Doran Martell of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear. It's been some time since the Iron Throne received any response from House Martell, but Tyrion was still made aware that his niece Princess Myrcella is in good health and has been in constant contact with King Daveth. Tyrion had extended an invitation to House Martell on his nephew's behalf, but no response came yet.
"How many Dornishmen does it take to fuck a goat? 9. One to do the shoeing, and eight to lift the horse up." Bronn interrupted.
Tyrion shuddered and shifted his posture; he did not think the Prince of Dorne himself would find that amusing if he stood before them now.
"Please don't."
"Seems to me the smart place to meet travellers is in a tavern. That way, one party is late, the other party can drink some ale inside."
"Bronn, this is the Prince of Dorne we're waiting for, not one of your sellsword friends."
Bronn mocked being hurt. "If he's so damned important, then how come your stag nephew sent you to meet him instead?"
'Daveth of course would offer to actually meet the Dornishmen in-person, but it was father who talked him out of it,' thought Tyrion. "Because there's bad blood between the Martells of Dorne and the Lannisters of Casterly Rock," he explained. "It's been like that for years. Took a lot for Daveth to actually reach out to them… a risk he's gambling."
Podrick edged a bit closer, carrying the royal standard, Daveth's white crowned gold stag on a black field, and struggling with its weight. The lad had been making a diligent study of Dornish heraldry at Tyrion's command, but as ever he was nervous.
"Ah! Here we are," Tyrion shouted and clapped his hands, getting the City Watchmen's attention.
Bronn and Podrick looked on and saw several Dornishmen beginning to arrive, each of them carrying their own banners.
"Wild lemons on a purple field, House Dalt of Lemonwood," called out Podrick. "A vulture grasping a baby in its talons, House Blackmont. A crowned skull, the Manwoodys of Kingsgrave."
Tyrion laughed. "Boy knows his Dornish houses. And House Martell, a red sun pierced by a spear?"
Podrick narrowed his eyes and looked closer. "I don't see it, my lord," he said timidly as the bannermen of Houses Dalt and Blackmont arrived before them.
There were three sorts of Dornishmen, the first King Daeron had observed. There were the salty Dornishmen who lived along the coasts: the sandy Dornishmen of the deserts and long river valleys, and the stony Dornishmen who made their swiftness in the passes and heights of the Red Mountains. The salty Dornishmen had the most Rhoynish blood, the stony Dornishmen the least. All three sorts seemed well represented in Doran's retinue. The salty Dornishmen were lithe and dark, with smooth olive skin and long black hair streaming in the wind. The sandy Dornishmen were even darker, their faces burned brown by the hot Dornish sun. They wound long bright scarfs around their helms to ward off sunstroke. The stony Dornishmen were biggest and fairest, sons of the Andals and the First Men, brown-haired or blond, with faces that freckled or burned in the sun instead of browning.
"Well met, my lords," Tyrion greeted them. "We had word of your approach. His Grace King Daveth welcomes you in his name. My lord father, the King's Hand, sends his greetings as well. I am Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock, Master of Coin."
Tyrion looked around, but spotted no one carrying House Martell's sigil.
"Forgive me. I don't see Prince Doran in your company."
"The prince's health forces him to remain at Sunspear," one of the Dornishmen spoke. His face was lined and saturnine, with thin arched brows above large eyes as black and shiny as pools of coal oil. Only a few streaks of silver marred the lustrous black hair that receded from his brow in a widow's peak as sharply pointed as his nose. A salty Dornishman for certain. "He sends his brother, Prince Oberyn, to attend the royal wedding in his stead."
"His Grace will be honored to enjoy the company of a warrior as renowned as Prince Oberyn at his wedding," said Tyrion. 'This means blood will be in the gutters,' he thought to himself.
"Will he?" the Dornishmen mocked.
'I'll pretend I didn't hear that. These men obviously don't know Daveth that well,' Tyrion thought as he tried not to grind his teeth. "And where is Prince Oberyn?" he asked.
"He arrived before dawn. Our prince is not a man for welcome parties."
"Very well. My lords, these fine men from the City Watch will escort you to your quarters in—"
The Dornishmen said nothing as they rode past Tyrion, Bronn and Podrick—ignoring the dwarf's continued welcoming words.
"Some accomplished diplomacy that was," Bronn said musingly. "Now where to?"
Tyrion shook his shoulders. "We must find Prince Oberyn before he kills somebody, or several somebodies. Daveth'll likely hold me responsible if something actually does happen while all this is going on."
"And how do you plan on finding a single Dornishman in a city this big?"
"You're famous for fucking half of Westeros. You just arrived at the capital after two weeks of at least modest road with areas being improved upon. Where would you go?"
"I'd probably go to sleep, but I'm getting old."
######
At the Great Hall of Pyke…
Theon had been arguing with his older sister Yara for quite some time. In the moment of their reunion, all the young Greyjoy had returned to was not a homecoming—but one of ridicule and mockery. And one of embarrassment mixed with some humiliation. He had no idea the woman he had been riding with on the way back to Pyke was his own sister, and the ironborn had laughed at him all the same. Theon hadn't gotten the homecoming he thought he'd get. Compared to how he was treated at Pyke and Winterfell, Theon felt he had gotten a better upbringing with House Stark despite being their ward/hostage.
"It's not my fault you didn't recognize me," Yara spoke calmly.
Theon was still red. "Recognize you? How could I? The last time I saw you… You looked like a fat little boy."
"You looked like, too," she countered, "but at least I recognized you."
The doors sprung open and both Greyjoy siblings turned to look, expecting their father—but it was someone else. The person approaching them was a large, muscular and ferocious-looking man with long dark hair that has started to turn grey. Donning boiled black leather, he also wore heavy grey chainmail and lobstered plate and carried a helm in the shape of a kraken under his arm whilst carrying a large two-handed battle axe in the other.
Yara was the first to recognize him. "Uncle," she greeted.
Theon looked puzzled. "Uncle?"
Their uncle, Victarion Greyjoy, looked down at Theon and ignored his nephew's confusion.
"Your father will be here momentarily," he simply said. "Best make yourselves look more presentable and ready when he does."
Victarion's tone of voice was that of bitter steel, despite portraying a calm demeanor on the outside. Proud, combative and dangerous, Victarion was a large, brutal man who commands the newly-rebuilt Iron Fleet as its Lord Captain with his niece Yara as second-in-command. Both Theon and Yara could tell that their uncle was itching for a fight as Victarion's posture was rather tensing up with anticipation. Theon had already made his case to Balon that attacking now was suicide, but the Lord Reaper of Pyke would not listen. On que, Balon entered the room with his ironborn guardsmen.
"The plans are made. It's time you heard them," he announced.
"Brother," Victarion saluted as customary in the Old Way.
"Father," both Theon and Yara salute the same.
Balon approached the war table and laid out a map of Westeros. Victarion stood at his brother's side to examine the map's detailed geography, with Theon and Yara close by.
"The wolf pup has gone south with a sizeable portion of his Northern vassals," Balon begun. "While he's busy palling around with his stag king friend, the North is ripe for the taking."
Yara quickly caught up. "As it was in the old days, the ironborn will reave and pillage; all along the northern coast."
"Correct," Balon nodded. "From there, we'll spread our dominion across the green lands, securing the Neck and everything above. Every stronghold will yield to us, one by one."
Theon looked at his father, his face showing concern at his father's strategy.
"Winterfell may defy us for a year, but what of it?" the Lord Reaper of Pyke continued. "The rest shall be ours, forest, field, and hall."
"And we'll take the weak mainlanders as thralls to sow our fields," Victarion concluded. "What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger. The Iron Islands will thrive once again, and we will be an independent kingdom. Permanently."
"Yara, my daughter," Balon looked at his daughter. "You will take 30 longships and attack Deepwood Motte around Sea Dragon Point. March quickly, and the castle may fall before they even know what hit them."
Yara smiled like a cat in cream. "I've always wanted a castle," she said sweetly.
"Then take one."
Theon had to bite his tongue. Deepwood Motte was the stronghold of House Glover. With Lord Galbart Glover in the south attending the royal wedding with Robb Stark, it would be lightly held as only a small contingent force stationed there was under the command of his brother Robett Glover. And once the castle fell, the ironborn would have a secure base of operations in the North.
Balon nodded. "Victarion, the main thrust shall fall to you. Once the attack begins, Winterfell will respond. You should meet small opposition as you sail up Saltspear and the Fever River. At the headwaters, you will be less than twenty miles from Moat Cailin. The Neck is the key to the North. Already we command the western seas. Once we hold Moat Cailin, the pup will not be able to win back to the North and if he is fool enough to try, his enemies will seal the south end of the causeway behind him, and the Stark boy will find himself caught like a rat in a bottle."
"I will not fail. May the Drowned God bless our swords," Victarion nodded in acknowledgement and left the room to gather his men. It was time for the kraken to rise from the sea once again.
Theon, having heard more than enough, felt it was time to speak up. "Father!" he said rather loudly, more than he would have liked. "I fought with Robb Stark, I know his men. I know Daveth Baratheon, I know how he strategizes. Robb won't give up the North so easily, rise up against the Oathkeeper and he'll put every ironborn—man, woman and child—to the sword. It'll be the end of us."
Balon, however, didn't seem to care what his last surviving son thought.
"What are our words? Our words." he asked.
Theon gulped. "'We do not sow'," he answered.
"'We do not sow'," his father replied. "We're not subjects, we're not slaves. We do not plough the fields or toil in the mine. We take what is ours," Balon told Theon, his voice rising with mild irritation. "Your time with the wolves has made you weak."
"You act as if I volunteered to go! Do you remember?" Theon yelled. "You gave me away, if you remember! The day you bent the knee to Robert Baratheon after he crushed you! Did you take what was yours then?!"
*SMACK!*
In a fit of black rage, Balon Grejoy raised his hand and smacked Theon across the face, sending the boy stumbling backwards. As the Lord Reaper of Pyke turned to storm out, Theon rose back to his feet.
"You gave me away! Your boy! Your last boy!" he continued yelling. "You gave me away like I was some dog you didn't want anymore! And now you curse me because I've come home!"
Balon said nothing and stormed out of the castle with his daughter Yara in tow. Before she left, Yara turned to look back at her brother.
"Make your choice, Theon," she said simply, "and do it quickly. Our ships sail with or without you."
######
At one of Littlefinger's brothels in King's Landing…
Two off-duty Lannister soldiers had been "occupying" themselves with two prostitutes, each of them across from one another sitting in the men's laps. From the looks on their face, the men are enjoying themselves so far. One of them in particular began singing.
And so he spoke, and so he spoke,
the Lord of Castamere,
But now the rains weep o'er his hall,
with no one there to hear.
Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,
and not a soul to hear…
He stopped singing as he saw someone walking into the room, both men and their whores noticed. The man in question was Prince Oberyn Martell, who had arrived at the capital yesterday before the others did. He his face was lined and saturnine, with thin arched brows, black lustrous hair with a few tints of silver, dark brown but almost black eyes and a black beard and mustache to match. He wore golden and yellowish-orange attire with the sigil of House Martell sewn onto it with a brown leather belt and a dagger attached to his hip; a salty Dornishman for certain.
Approaching the Lannister men, Oberyn brushed his hand across a lit candle – effortlessly ignoring the burn to his palm. Once he stopped approaching, both Lannister men looked at the Dornish prince.
"You lost, friend?" one of them asked.
"Forgive me for staring," Oberyn said. "I don't see many Lannisters where I'm from."
"I don't see many Dornishmen in the capital," the other Lannister soldier retorted.
Oberyn playfully shrugged his shoulders. "We don't like the smell," he laughed, "though I have noticed a rather significant improvement. Your King finally decided enough was enough with the sewage and other bodily wastes that pollute this city?"
The Lannister soldiers frowned at that perceived insult until a black-haired woman came rushing into the room. She also had the same coloring as Oberyn, but wore a sleeveless, seductive silk dress. Her name was Ellaria Sand, a bastard of House Uller and Prince Oberyn's paramour. Although not accounted as a beautiful woman, Ellaria is regarded as attractive and eye-catching, with an exotic, sensuous flair.
"Come with me, lover," Ellaria beseeched Oberyn.
The off-duty soldiers were quick to take notice of this exotic woman standing before them.
"Gods, look at this one," one of them leered.
One of the male prostitutes, Olyvar, entered the room and tried to diffuse the tension building up.
"Sirs, if you follow me, I'll arrange for a private room," Olyvar offered.
But no one was listening as the Lannister men continued throwing lecherous barbs.
"Why are you wasting a woman like this on a Dornishman?" one of them exclaimed. "Bring him a shaved goat and a bottle of olive oil."
Oberyn felt nerves in his hand twitch. Though it was a common joke, any Dornish who heard that utterly flipped out. The Prince made his way to the men until he was right in their faces as they slowly began to stand up. He decided that he's had enough.
"Hmm. Do you know why all the world hates a Lannister?" the Martell prince asked. "You think your gold and your lions and your gold lions make you better than everyone. May I tell you a secret?"
The man in front of him leaned in. "What?" he dared.
"You're not a golden lion. You're just a pink little man who is far too slow on the draw."
*SCHWING! STAB!*
The off-duty Lannister angrily reached to grab his longsword, but Oberyn unsheathed his dagger so quickly before anyone had a chance to react and sank it deep into the man's wrist—the tip of the dagger pinned him to the table as he screamed in agony, blood pouring from his wrist.
"GRAAAAAAH!" he screamed.
Oberyn leaned in. "Longsword is a bad option in close quarters," he gloated before turning to the other Lannister guard, his tone lowered into a threatening one as he began twisting the dagger around. "When I pull my blade, your friend starts bleeding. Quite a lot, I'm afraid. So many veins in the wrist. He'll live if you get him help straight away. So… decisions."
The pinned guard screamed as he companion put his sword back into its sheath. Oberyn finally pulled the dagger out as the Lannister men left the room to seek medical treatment. That was when Tyrion Lannister and Bronn entered the room and saw the whole mess taking place.
"We heard there… might be… trouble…" Tyrion said.
Oberyn paid him no mind as he redirected his attention towards Ellaria. "Apologies, my love," he said and engaged in a passionate making out session.
"Ahem!" Tyrion cleared his throat. "I'm here to welcome you to the capital."
Oberyn finally broke the kiss with Ellaria and turned to look at Tyrion.
"Ellaria Sand, my paramour," the Martell prince introduced his lover and her to Tyrion. "The King's own Uncle Imp. Tyrion, son of Tywin Lannister."
Tyrion felt increasingly uncomfortable all of a sudden. "If there's anything I can do to make your stay at King's Landing…"
Oberyn ignored him and looked at Bronn. "What are you? His hired killer?"
"It started that way, aye," he said simply. "Now I'm an anointed knight."
"How did that come to pass?"
"Killed the right people, I suppose."
Oberyn started laughing. "We'll need a few more girls. Girls, yes?" he asked which Bronn nodded his head. The Martell prince looked down at Tyrion. "You don't partake?" he asked the Imp.
"Oh, I partook," Tyrion mused. "Now I've got a paramour of my own, thank the Gods."
"Well aren't we full of surprises today?" Oberyn continued laughing.
"Stick around long enough, you'll find I'm just chalk full of them," Tyrion replied. "The King is very grateful that you travelled all this way for his wedding."
Oberyn suddenly stopped smiling and motioned for Ellaria, Bronn and Olyvar to leave the room. Once they are alone, the Dornish prince finally spoke up in a serious, composed nature.
"Let us speak truth here," he began. "I am only the second son, yet the legendary Oathkeeper himself couldn't find the time to greet me?"
"My nephew's been called away at the last minute to see his tailoring finished. You should've seen how disappointed he was to be called away at the last minute," the Imp said apologetically. "Speaking as a fellow second son, however, I've grown used to the family insult. So tell me… why did you really come to King's Landing?"
"I was invited to the royal wedding."
'He's hiding something,' Tyrion thought. "I thought we were speaking truthfully here."
Oberyn inhaled and exhaled rather slowly, knowing that there was indeed more to the story and excuses than he was letting on.
"The last time I was in the capital was… ooh, how long was it? Twenty-three years ago," Oberyn reminisced. "There was another wedding. My sister Elia and Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon. My sister loved him. She bore his children. Swaddled them, rocked them, fed them at her own breast. Elia wouldn't let the wet nurses touch them," he chuckled as he remembered his late niece and nephew Rhaenys and Aegon. Then his smile instantly dropped into a deep frown. "And beautiful, noble Rhaegar Targaryen left her for another woman."
Oberyn curled his hands into a fist, clenching so hard Tyrion thought the bones themselves might snap due to the pressure.
"That started a war, you know," he continued, "and the war ended right here, when your father's army took the city."
Tyrion gulped. "I wasn't there—"
"They butchered those children," the Dornish prince interrupted the Imp. "My nephew and niece. Carved them up and wrapped them in Lannister cloaks. And my sister, you know what they did to her?"
Tyrion said nothing.
Annoyed, Oberyn leaned in. "I'm asking you a question," he almost shouted.
"I've heard the rumors," Tyrion answered.
"So have I," Oberyn seemed to accept the answer. "The one I keep hearing is that Gregor Clegane the Mountain raped Elia and split her in half with his great sword."
"I wasn't there," the Imp persisted. "I don't know what happened."
"And then, just about almost two years ago House Martell received a raven from King Daveth Baratheon, extending his hand and made us an offer of reconciliation."
The Master of Coin's head shot straight up. 'What offer?' he thought surprised. 'What exactly did Daveth promise the Martells?'
"In exchange for… 'returning to the fold', as he so charmingly put it…" Oberyn spoke more softly. "The King would see to it that Dorne would get the justice that was denied to us after so long, that he would give us the Mountain's own head and Dorne would be treated much more fairly. Must've been hard for the boy; to make such a bold move. Because if the Mountain killed my sister, then your father—the King's own grandfather—gave the order."
Tyrion tried to look away, but Oberyn placed his fingers under the Imp's chin to return his gaze to his.
"Tell your father I'm here," Oberyn warned. "Tell your nephew I'm here. And tell them the Lannisters aren't the only ones who pay their debts."
######
Author's Note: In the red corner, the Red Viper or Dorne! And in the blue corner, the Great Kraken of Pyke! Doran Martell and Victarion Greyjoy! It was a long time coming before these two powerhouses in their own rights would jump onto the scene. And Daveth appears to be spending quite some time with the Vale lords and began to make a move on Littlefinger himself. What'd you guys think? Who'll strike first? Thoughts? Let me know.
.Executioner: Love it, can't wait for moreee
―Glad you like it.
Fan: Where's Gendry and why is it a lion and not a stag on Daveth's banner?
―Whoops! Corrected the error as soon as you pointed it out. And Gendry's still around.
Guest #1: great story.
―Thanks.
Kail Blade: So Daveth has abandoned the Stag completely?
―Not necessarily, no. He'll revert back and forth from being a stag and a lion - but that depends on his mood and the situation.
Patty 4577: I think Balon needs to change House Greyjoy's words to 'we do not think.' Especially since Daveth can order Stannis to transport Robb and his bannermen to white harbour. Not to mention that Howland Reed and the Crannogmen will make any Ironborn occupation of Moat Caitlin a nightmare.
Contrary to popular belief the only Lannister who would have any objections to Daveth gift wrapping the Mountain to Oberyn is Cersei. In the show and books, Tywin was willing to cast Ser Gregor aside in order to secure Dorne's cooperation and something tells me he would be willing to do the same here. Cersei on the other hand would view it as Daveth giving concessions to their enemies. So that's interesting to see how that would go.
Also if Sansa can get away with executing Twattbeard with only the Three-Eyed Raven. Then Daveth could potentially pull off something similar. Especially if he finds evidence of Baelish stealing from the money borrowed from Houses Lannister and Tyrell.
―Those who can't remember the past are often condemned to repeat it, right?
―Cersei would definitely see Daveth's offer to the Martells as a concession, but he's merely following Tywin's advice albeit with a different approach in order to acquire the same result so as to get their valuable support.
―Sansa did pull it off with Littlefinger in the TV series; let's see how Daveth fares.
Moshi: Whelp, there go the Ironborn, not sad at all to see them go. What moron thought attacking the kingdom that the future Queen is from, is a good idea?! At least Theon stood up to his father and stated the truth that Balon or anyone else is too cowardly to own up too.
Oh look, Oberyn is here. Hey Oberyn, would you like to work off some stress on the Ironborn? You'll still get the Mountain, don't worry, but those parasites need exterminating at the moment. How about it?
―It took a lot of balls for Theon to stand up to his father like that. Though if it does come to war, Oberyn won't be interested unless he gets what he wants.
C.E.W: Daveth is making a very dangerous move promising the head of the Mountain considering he is among Tywin's greatest weapons to the Martells. Tywin may take this as a move against him from Daveth, and Tywin is one of Daveth's most powerful and valuable allies. Daveth is already risking making a move against Baelish who has Lysa's support, and going against her could bring problems in the Vale. To charge Baelish and Lysa with teason, he's going to need evidence and proof for such serious charges. Daveth will need to take these steps carefully, the coming problem with the Greyjoys and the Wildlings. Having war with the Vale and Dorne as well as making his grandfather an enemy are among the last things Daveth needs on his list of problems. For the Wildlings' sake, I hope Jon Snow decides to find evidence on the White Walkers soon enough and present them to Daveth. There is also Theon's big decision about choosing between his birth family who mocks or Daveth and the Starks who treated him as one of his own.
―I actually surprised myself by making Daveth do such a thing like that; it's a bit of an unexpected move on his part. Too aggressive. He'll have to be either need to be really subtle or really lucky if he'll pull it off. Tywin might not even know of the plot unless someone tells him about it. Same thing about Baelish too. And Jon Snow's relentless. He'll find the proof he needs in the end. Lastly we've seen how vocal Theon's been.
mpowers045: It's go time for Greyjoy ass kicking!
―Blood will spill and heads will roll!
RHatch89: Awesome update :)
―Thanks.
Hail King Cerion: This chapter was very good. Though something's strikes me as odd.
Mainly it's Balon going ahead with his plan, I would expect a Greyjoy to pounce because it's in their blood but I foresee it won't last one bit.
The invasion will start off well, catching the North unprepared but I'd have a small distraction fleet attack all the ports around the Reach or Westerlands, then slowly and successfully seize Moat Cailin and chokehold the North, the Moat is a powerful fort and a double-edged sword in this case. Robb will be stuck but Bran and Rodrik could muster a defense force, hopefully, Theon defects back to Robb's side and betray his family who has gone too far to be saved. The disadvantage here is Daveth I fear won't be able to support Robb this time. Petyr is sneaky and will possibly escape with Lysa back to the Vale of Arryn, with that he'll rebel against the Crown because he'd gotten found out meaning the game has shifted from his side. Doran won't pounce right now, he's plotted Tywin and his families demise for a long time, but he assured his daughter in the books that retribution for Elia is coming in the shape of Aegon Targaryen though I sense it is Daenerys and Trystane since Arianne isn't in the show.
Questions now. What's Cersei doing? Or maybe how the Wall is doing, I'd like to see how Jon and Joffrey's interactions with them being at the same status, Brothers of the Night's Watch.
―The ironborn are a bit of a stubborn bunch, wanting to be an independent Iron Islands - but their methods and attempts tend to backfire pretty badly and very quickly as seen during the first Greyjoy Rebellion. It's true that Moat Cailin is like a double-edged sword when it comes to traveling from the North to the south and vice versa; capture it and nothing goes in or out of either areas. Robb will be stuck, but there's also White Harbor to think about too. Since most of the ironborn are usually harassing the west coast, and it's just a theory so far (subject to change), Daveth might task Stannis with transporting several Northmen aboard the Royal Fleet to the only city/seaport the North has: White Harbor. Land there with a sizeable force, and maybe they'll have a chance to liberate Moat Cailin. Keep in mind, Daveth is not like his father Robert Baratheon - he'll show no mercy to the ironborn and might want to have every single one of them executed despite some objections of a few noble characters.
―Petyr is sneaky and luck eventually runs out on everyone at some point. No doubt he'll try to escape to the Vale of Arryn, though no one has any love or respect for Baelish or Lysa (given her mentality). We'll see what comes next.
―Kinda sucks that certain characters from the novels weren't included in the show, I know. We'll see what Doran Martell's plans are once we've gotten some feedback and suggestions.
―As for Cersei Lannister, no doubt she feels like she's already lost everything and will try to fight tooth and nail just to retain her power but end up destroying any relationship she might have with her eldest son.
―As for the Wall and the Night's Watch, it'll be interesting what kind of interaction Jon Snow might have with Joffrey Baratheon now that they're of equal status. I'll keep practicing some dialogue before uploading it into the next chapters. Want to make sure I get them just right.
chase manaena: this sounds like it is getting good please update as soon as you can please
―The more intense the better. I'll try to update some more as soon as I can.
The Three Stoogies: a great chapter can't wait to read about Daveth hearing about the greyjoys rebelling keep up the great work
―Wait 'til he gets PTSD-style flashbacks and go off the deep end.