Aegon
A horse whickered impatiently behind him, from amidst the ranks of gold cloaks drawn up across the road. Aegon could hear the flapping of Rhaegal's wings from somewhere above as well. He had not wanted to keep his dragon away, especially now, but Lord Jon felt the Dornish might take it ill and a threat if the prince came out to escort them across the Blackwater with his dragon.
My father should have met the Dornishmen himself, he reflected as he sat waiting, he would do this better than me, no doubt. Of late he heard nothing from the king from Braavos. No raven or word came from Braavos which made his mother sick with worry. It worried Aegon too, but nothing like how it worried his mother. Lyanna Stark has always been a strong woman, tough to the bone and hard to crack, but now she seemed lost, confused and awry. Ever since his uncle Viserys' death she had acted as a different women than the one he'd known his entire life. Where once were the grins, only grimaces could be seen now, her wild eyes always had a wary look about them, more often than not she spent her times in the godswood when she would spend time with her family in the past. And the absence of his father only made this worse. She kept herself locked in her rooms and when she wasn't locked in her rooms, she was in the godswood. He had hoped that she would at least come to welcome the dornishmen to King's Landing but she refused. Aegon didn't know what Prince Oberyn or any of the others in the Dornish party would take of that, an insult or arrogance? He never knew.
He knew that his father was married to a Dornish princess before his mother, the sister to the ruling prince of Dorne. She had died in the war with his grandfather, apart from that he knew nothing of her. Though it was her own family coming here now, to the place where once she lived and now occupied by another in her place.
He could see their banners flying as the riders emerged from the green of the living wood in a long dusty column. From here to the river, the kingswood stretched either side of them. Aegon faintly remembered the stories of the Kingswood brotherhood his father would tell him when he was a boy. Of the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne, of the Smiling Knight, of Simon Toyne, of Wenda the White Fawn, of Oswyn Longneck who was hanged thrice, of Big Belly Ben, of Fletcher Dick, the greatest archer ever to set foot on earth and of Ulmer. He remembered them all, he even remembered their song from the stories. His father would sing it sometimes when he told him the story. That boy who heard those stories had wanted to be Ser Arthur Dayne, but someplace along the way he had become the Smiling Knight instead. Or else he chose to become the Smiling Knight because Arthur Dayne was an outlaw worse than the Smiling Knight, a traitor who was loyal to his outlaw uncle.
Too many banners, he thought sourly, as he watched the dirt kick up under the hooves of the approaching horses. The Martells brought half the lords of Dorne, by the look of it. He tried to think of some good that might come of that, and failed.
Aegon straightened in his saddle, trying to see the banners flowing in the wind.
The royal standard was to either side beside him, the great three-headed dragon on black, swaying gently in the wind. He looked very much the prince today, in his black armor with the ruby three-headed dragon coiling on the breastplate. It was expected of him as the crown prince and he had wanted to look his best when he welcomes his betrothed and her family.
It was the orange banners he saw first. The sun and spear of House Martell of Sunspear. The Prince of Dorne.
House Dalt of Lemonwood was next. Purple field strewn with lemons.
He could see the vulture of Blackmont with a baby grasped in its talons as well. Though with the banner flapping in the wind the baby in its talons seemed nothing more than a white lump.
The Manwoodys of Kingsgrave was in the party as well. The bone and gold crowned skull on black field was the indication for that.
There was the three black scorpions among them as well. House Qorgyle of Sandstone.
Aegon's horse grew unrest and moved back as he saw the flames of Hellholt. Whether the animal itself felt the chill upon seeing the banner of House Uller or was it bored he never knew. But he knew about the Ullers and their impulsive and unpredictable nature. Even in Dorne there was a saying that "Half of the Ullers are half-mad and the other half was worse."
Even the dragons were not safe from them. During the First Dornish war Queen Rhaenys and her dragon Meraxes were both lost at Hellholt never to be seen again. The Queen's body was never recovered and some said that she was tortured so bad that she was taken to the gates of hell by the Ullers before killing her.
The golden hand of House Allyrion of Godsgrace was at the end of one of the poles as well.
The banners of the Gargalens of Salt Shore was with them as well. The red cockatrice standing proudly with a black snake in its beak.
The golden quill of the Jordaynes of the Tor were the last one he could see, on the checkered dark and light green field.
Prince Doran Martell brings some formidable companions, it would seem. Not one of the houses he had seen was small or insignificant. Nine of the greatest lords of Dorne were coming up the kingsroad, them or their heirs, and somehow Aegon did not think they had come all this way just to see the marriage of their princess. There was a message here. And not one I like. He wondered if his father had made a mistake to leave King's Landing at this time.
"My prince," Lord Jon said, a looking straight at the Dornish party, "there's no litter."
Aegon turned his head sharply. He was right.
"Doran Martell always travels in a litter," Jon Connington said. "A carved litter with silk hangings, and suns on the drapes."
Aegon had known that on his visit to Sunspear. Prince Doran was past fifty, and gouty. He may have wanted to make faster time, he told himself. He may have feared his litter would make too tempting a target for brigands, or that it would prove too cumbersome in the high passes of the Boneway. Perhaps his gout is better.
So why did he have such a bad feeling about this?
This waiting was intolerable. "Banners forward," he snapped. "We'll meet them." He kicked his horse. Jon Connington and the rest followed. When the Dornishmen saw them coming, they spurred their own mounts, banners rippling as they rode. From their ornate saddles were slung the round metal shields they favored, and many carried bundles of short throwing spears, or the double-curved Dornish bows they used so well from horseback.
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 fastnesses 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 his future goodfather'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.
The lords wore silk and satin robes with jeweled belts and flowing sleeves. Their armor was heavily enameled and inlaid with burnished copper, shining silver, and soft red gold. They came astride red horses and golden ones and a few as pale as snow, all slim and swift, with long necks and narrow beautiful heads. The fabled sand steeds of Dorne were smaller than proper warhorses and could not bear such weight of armor, but it was said that they could run for a day and night and another day, and never tire.
The Dornish leader forked a stallion black as sin with a mane and tail the color of fire. He sat his saddle as if he'd been born there, tall, slim, graceful. A cloak of pale red silk fluttered from his shoulders, and his shirt was armored with overlapping rows of copper disks that glittered like a thousand bright new pennies as he rode. His high gilded helm displayed a copper sun on its brow, and the round shield slung behind him bore the sun-and-spear of House Martell on its polished metal surface.
A Martell sun, but ten years too young, Aegon thought as he reined up, too fit as well, and far too fierce. He knew what he must deal with by then. How many Dornishmen does it take to start a war? he asked himself. Only one. Yet he had no choice but to smile. "Well met, my lords. We had word of your approach, and I've ride out with Lord Jon Connington, the King's Hand to welcome you in my father's name. My mother, the queen sends her greetings as well." He feigned an amiable confusion. "Where is Prince Doran?"
"My brother's health requires he remain at Sunspear." The prince removed his helm. Beneath, 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. "As you've already seen my brother's health does not bode well with travels. Prince Doran has sent me to act in his stead, as it please His Grace."
"His Grace will be most honored to have the counsel of a warrior as renowned as Prince Oberyn of Dorne," said Jon Connington. "And your noble companions are most welcome as well."
"Permit me to acquaint you with them, my lord Hand. Ser Deziel Dalt, of Lemonwood. Lord Tremond Gargalen. Lord Harmen Uller and his brother Ser Ulwyck. Ser Ryon Allyrion and his natural son Ser Daemon Sand, the Bastard of Godsgrace. Lord Dagos Manwoody, his brother Ser Myles, his sons Mors and Dickon. Ser Arron Qorgyle. And never let it be thought that I would neglect the ladies. Myria Jordayne, heir to the Tor. Lady Larra Blackmont, her daughter Jynessa, her son Perros." He raised a slender hand toward a black-haired woman to the rear, beckoning her forward. "And this is Ellaria Sand, mine own paramour."
Aegon swallowed a groan. His paramour, and bastard-born, this is going to cause unnecessary quarrels at the wedding. If they consigned the woman to some dark corner below the salt, they would risk the Red Viper's wrath. Seat her beside him at the high table, and every other lady on the dais was like to take offense. His betrothed came after Ellaria Sand.
Arianne Martell stepped out from behind Ellaria Sand. An ornate snake coiled around her right forearm, its copper and gold scales glimmering when she moved. He saw her shining in the sunlight and he seemed to lose the power of speech. His throat felt as dry as the Dornish sands.
Princess Arianne strode to him on snakeskin sandals laced up to her thighs. Her hair was a mane of jet-black ringlets that fell to the small of her back, and around her brow was a band of copper suns. Unlike her cousins, she was only a little thing though. Where the Sand Snakes were tall, Arianne took after her mother, and stood but five foot two. Yet beneath her jeweled girdle and loose layers of flowing purple silk and yellow samite she had a woman's body, lush and roundly curved.
Aegon took her hand in his and pressed his lips to her smooth skin. When he raised his head from her hand he saw her flanked by her cousins, the eldest three of Prince Oberyn's daughters. Obara, Nymeria and Tyene, the Sand Snakes. Did Prince Doran mean to provoke a quarrel? Looking at Prince Oberyn's pretty, but deadly daughters he could only agree with the thought.
"Princess Arianne, my ladies, welcome to King's Landing." He welcomed them formally.
The Sand Snakes approved his welcome in their own different ways. Obara the eldest Sand Snake, a big-boned woman near to thirty, with the close-set eyes and rat-brown hair of her mother gave a stern nod.
The second Sand Snake was mounted on a golden sand steed with a mane like fine white silk. Even ahorse, the Lady Nym looked graceful like her father, dressed all in shimmering lilac robes and a great silk cape of cream and copper that lifted at every gust of wind, and made her look as if she might take flight. Even the nod she gave him was filled with certain grace. Nymeria Sand was five-and-twenty, and slender as a willow. Her straight black hair, worn in a long braid bound up with red-gold wire, made a widow's peak above her dark eyes, just as her father's had. With her high cheekbones, full lips, and milk-pale skin, she had all the beauty that her elder sister lacked . . . but Obara's mother had been an Oldtown whore, whilst Nym was born from the noblest blood of old Volantis.
The third sister was the one he was the most wary of. Tyene Sand was dressed in a clinging gown of pale blue samite with sleeves of Myrish lace that made her look as innocent as the Maid herself. Her hair was gold and her eyes were deep blue pools . . . and yet somehow they reminded the prince of her father's eyes, though Prince Oberyn's had been as black as night. All of Prince Oberyn's daughters have his viper eyes, Aegon realized suddenly. The color does not matter.
She was the first one to reply him with words. "Thank you my prince" Lady Tyene's voice was gentle, and she looked as sweet as summer strawberries. Her mother had been a septa, and Tyene had an air of almost otherworldy innocence about her. She inhaled the air sweetly. "The city of King's Landing is as pure and clean as it was during the time of Baelor the Blessed. All credits to his grace, King Rhaegar."
Aegon mounted his horse getting away from any close contact with Tyene. Like her father the third Sand Snake was quite skilled with poisons and venom and he had no idea of getting pricked by her fangs.
When his own party had come up on them, the Hand of the King Jon Connington named the names. It didn't took too much time. The names had a nice ringing sound as Jon reeled them off, but the bearers were nowhere near as distinguished nor formidable a company as those who accompanied Prince Oberyn, as both of them knew full well.
"My prince," said Lady Blackmont, "we have come a long dusty way, and rest and refreshment would be most welcome. Might we continue on to the city?"
"At once, my lady." Aegon turned his horse's head, and called to Allar Deem, the acting commander of the Gold cloaks after lord commander Janos Slynt had gone with his father to Braavos. The mounted gold cloaks who formed the greatest part of his honor guard turned their horses crisply at Deem's command, and the column set off for the river and the Red Keep beyond.
Jon left to entertain the other Dornishmen and it fell to Aegon to keep their leader company. Oberyn Nymeros Martell, Aegon muttered under his breath as he fell in beside the man. The Red Viper of Dorne.
He had seen him before but knew the man only by reputation, to be sure . . . but the reputation was fearsome. When he was no more than sixteen, Prince Oberyn had been found abed with the paramour of old Lord Yronwood, a huge man of fierce repute and short temper. A duel ensued, though in view of the prince's youth and high birth, it was only to first blood. Both men took cuts, and honor was satisfied. Yet Prince Oberyn soon recovered, while Lord Yronwood's wounds festered and killed him. Afterward men whispered that Oberyn had fought with a poisoned sword, and ever thereafter friends and foes alike called him the Red Viper.
That was many years ago, before Aegon had been born. The boy of sixteen was a man past forty now, and his legend had grown a deal darker. He had traveled in the Free Cities, learning the poisoner's trade and perhaps arts darker still, if rumors could be believed. He had studied at the Citadel, going so far as to forge six links of a maester's chain before he grew bored. He had soldiered in the Disputed Lands across the narrow sea, riding with the Second Sons for a time before forming his own company. His tourneys, his battles, his duels, his horses, his carnality . . . it was said that he bedded men and women both, and had begotten bastard girls all over Dorne. So far as Tyrion had heard, Prince Oberyn had never fathered a son.
And of course, he had crippled the heir to Highgarden.
Aegon's head throbbed badly with the thoughts of the Tyrell party already in the castle. To send Prince Oberyn to King's Landing while the city still hosted Lord Mace Tyrell, two of his sons, and hundreds of their men-at-arms was a provocation as dangerous as Prince Oberyn himself. A wrong word, an ill-timed jest, a look, that's all it will take, and our noble allies will be at one another's throats.
"I came here once before," the Dornish prince said lightly to Aegon as they rode side by side along the kingsroad, past green fields and the stretch of trees. "Though another King ruled from the Iron Throne then and it was another marriage I came to attend."
There was a dark edge to his voice that Aegon misliked, but he was not about to let the Dornishman threaten him. "When was this, my lord?" he asked in tones of polite interest.
"Oh, many and many a year ago, when your grandfather, the Mad King ruled the Seven Kingdoms and it was your father's marriage I was attending to."
Not this, thought Aegon. Not again.
"It was when your father married my sister Elia. I had no mind to be there mind you but Elia insisted. And I've never refused my sister anything. Anything but justice."
The sun was shining bright above them, and the day was pleasantly warm, but Aegon Targaryen went cold all over when he heard that.
"Justice." Yes, that is why he's here, I should have seen that at once. "You were close to your sister?"
"As children Elia and I were inseparable."
Gods, I hope my father was here. "Wars and weddings have kept us well occupied, Prince Oberyn. I fear no one has yet had the time to look into murders seventeen years stale, dreadful as they were. We shall, of course, just as soon as my father returns from Braavos. Any help that Dorne might be able to provide to hold the king's peace would only hasten the beginning of my royal father's inquiry—"
"Boy," said the Red Viper, in a tone grown markedly less cordial, "spare me your foul lies. My brother is not a bloodthirsty man, but neither has he been asleep for seventeen years. People talk, they always do and you can be sure that a hundred did in this matter. I did not come for some mummer's show of an inquiry. I came for justice for Elia and her children, and I will have it. Starting with this mad red priest you father calls his friend, Bezzaro . . . but not, I think, ending there. Before he dies, the Mad Burner will tell me whence came his orders, please assure your royal father of that." He smiled. "An old septon once claimed I was living proof of the goodness of the gods. Do you know why that is?"
"No," Aegon admitted warily.
"Why, if the gods were cruel, they would have made me my mother's firstborn, and Doran her third. I am a bloodthirsty man, you see. And it is me you must contend with now, not my patient, prudent, and gouty brother."
Aegon could see the sun shining on the Blackwater Rush half a mile ahead, and on the walls and towers and hills of King's Landing beyond. He glanced over his shoulder, at the glittering column following them up the kingsroad and somehow he felt that he never belonged there.
Prince Oberyn gave a snort getting his attention back. "In Dorne of old before we married Daeron, it was said that all creatures, beings and flowers bow before the sun. Should the dragons seek to trouble me I'll burn them. Should the roses seek to hinder me I'll gladly trample them underfoot." He took hold of his stallion's reins and looked at him with black eyes shining and raging. "You see, I'm no Eddard Stark and you will see that soon."
With that Oberyn Martell spurred his horse forward, the stallion's mane flowing like fire in the wind, much like Martell's blazing eyes.
Author's Notes: So Rhaegar claimed that he had nothing to do with Elia's murder but Oberyn claims otherwise. What do you guys think about it? Leave a review. I'd love to hear your thoughts as always.