Olyvar Martell, Prince of Dorne rode up the Rose Road, towards the looming fortress of Highgarden. He had a thousand spears at his back. Another twenty thousand called and were ready to march in Dorne. He kept his head held high, his orange and gold silks were finer than would have been his lot, on a steed finer than he could have expected, head of a Kingdom that never should have been his.
His eyes caught on the thousands of Dothraki camped in the fields outside the fortress. All the men of Dorne would pale before the armies beholden to the Targaryen Queen, his choice to honor the alliance made by the bastards was being proven wise.
"You were correct to order us to march so soon." Ser Perros Blackmont said, his eyes narrowed as he took in the army.
Olyvar's dark eyes traced the land that held little sign of the siege he'd been told had been fought here. "Find a stupid Reacher. I care not whom, I would have this foreign goddess's metal tested. But not by any man from Dorne. Do you understand?"
"There should be a septon or stupid third or fourth son that can be convinced." Ser Perros replied, his hand touched the pouch of gold on his hip. "By one method or another."
Olyvar nodded, good. He could not afford to withhold his support from Daenerys Targaryen, but he did not trust this foreign 'goddess'. And even if she was what she claimed, he would know her temperament. His eyes narrowed at the Tyrell banners lining the road. Dorne could not afford to wait, already the roses were wrapping their vines around the dragon, and he couldn't allow that.
"Your father will care for Dorne while you're away." Ser Perros offered in comfort, clearly misunderstanding the reason for his dour mood.
His jaw tightened. "That is not what I fear. My father has been castellan of Sunspear long enough to hold our lands now that I am Prince instead of our cousins."
"Then you fear Doran and the Sand Snakes have fucked us." Ser Perros replied, he cast his gaze on Olyvar fully then. "Your daring is a credit to you, my prince. But I would not see you devoured by dragons."
Olyvar shook his head. "It is not the dragons I fear, rather the chaos this land is in. Caution will serve us poorly now, as it has done this past generation."
"Your cousin Doran was a fool. The Sand Snakes, traitorous whores." Ser Perros snarled.
His hand snapped out grabbing his friend and companion's surcoat, dragging him near off his horse. His voice was a low snarl to match. "Speak against my kin again and I'll send you back to the Blackmont."
"Sorry, my prince." Ser Perros wheezed, his eyes wide.
Olyvar held on for a few more seconds before releasing him and straightening in his saddle with a sharp nod. His eyes back on the road before them. "See to it that it does not happen again." His cousin Doran's isolation and the blasted Sand Snakes may have fucked them, but they were kin. He would no more allow them to be insulted than he would allow his father to be insulted. If House Martell was to remain in control of Dorne, and civil war between factions between his various relations prevented, they must stand together. To invite anything else was to invite ruin. Leaving Dorne at all was risk enough.
As they came closer to the gates he saw a man on a horse with various Tyrell attendants awaiting them. The horse he was on was a brilliant white stallion, the man's curls were golden brown, his shoulders broad, and everything about him declared him a martial threat and a Tyrell. Ser Garlan Tyrell then, here to greet them. It would have been insulting for it to be the second son if Olyvar had not known the eldest was a cripple. And well, his house did have a history of killing Tyrells.
Ser Garlan straightened, riding his horse forward to meet them. "Welcome to Highgarden, your Highness. On behalf of House Tyrell, it is an honor, Prince Martell."
"I thank you for your hospitality," Olyvar replied. "I assume I am to be presented to our Queen shortly?"
Ser Garlan gave a dip of his head. "At your welcoming feast tonight so that you and your men may have time to rest and prepare should you wish. The seat of honor beside our Queen shall of course be yours for the night."
Olyvar gave a short nod to that. It was acceptable and while not what he'd have preferred it was certainly neither insult nor avoidance. It would ensure he had some hours to speak with the Queen tonight during the meal. "That will suffice. I assume there is room prepared for myself and my men?"
"Of course, but first if I may." Garlan waved forward a servant with bread and salt. "In these dark times let us follow those old laws."
He didn't raise a brow at that, but he certainly marked it. Interesting. House Tyrell made effort to formally respect the old ways, and with them likely the old gods themselves. That was a change and spoke to the truth of reports of what had so recently happened here. He reached out accepting the bread and salt, his nobles behind him doing the same. Swallowing the bread coated in salt he spoke. "Is this goddess I have heard reports of still within your home and am I expected to pay my respects to her?"
"She is away, though will return in a few days' time." Garlan swung his horse to the side, gesturing to the broken gates. "Please, I would be most pleased to escort you within, your Highness."
Well, that was interesting. Olyvar would be making some small inquiries while this 'goddess' was away. Though that certainly answered what the Tyrells thought of the 'goddess,' they believed. It would seem the Dragon Queen's court would be dangerous for more than just the snakes in the grass. But he was a snake from the sands of the south, this would not be where he would perish.
/
Daenerys set the book down on the history of House Tyrell. She'd give a great deal to have read any of these texts before she'd reached Westeros's shores. No doubt it would take years for her to learn what she should have practically been born knowing. It also meant she was in debt to a god. A thing she was not pleased about. She looked up at the knock on the door. "Enter."
Her guard opened the door, and Willas Tyrell entered with the gentle click of his cane. The Lord bowed at the waist, one hand flat against his stomach as he did so. "Your Grace."
"Lord Tyrell, this is a surprise?" Dany turned, her figure framed by the window behind her.
Willas straightened. "Your Grace, if you are amenable to such a thing there was a matter I wished to discuss."
"A discussion for here or the gardens?" Dany had realized that there were few locations free of waiting ears, but near the fountains, in the gardens, a normal voice did not carry. Or rather Missandei had noticed and informed her.
Willas' lips turned up faintly. "I believe here shall suffice."
"Then what is this matter you wished to discuss?" She asked, watching him. The Tyrells were…accommodating to the extreme. As well they should, however, she'd long since learned the more generous the host, the more dangerous.
He approached, though his eyes flicking towards the books upon the table and not her directly, clearly taking in the various titles she'd been reading. Willas's green eyes were clear and focused as he looked at her. "The matter of the Lannister prisoners and the King Slayer, your Grace."
Her eyes narrowed. She'd not demanded those prisoners brought before her as they were technically Daisy's to do with as she willed. "Surely they are beholden to her Holiness for judgment, not us."
"That's just it, her Holiness has left them in my House's custody and under our authority, your Grace." Willas shifted his weight, his gaze unflinching as it rested upon her.
Dany stilled. "Why do they still draw breath then, my Lord?"
"I had intended to lay their fates upon your justice, your Grace." He replied.
Her eyes narrowed further. "You've changed your mind on that count, why?"
"Hardly, however, I believe they could be of a great deal more use to you than simply as an example." His head tipped slightly.
Her fingers drummed against the table. "You suggest I leave the man who stabbed my father in the back alive? Not only him but also over two thousand men of the armies that would have murdered your own House?"
"I do." He didn't flinch away from her. "Tell me, your Grace, do you know how large the Northern army is?"
She watched his face. "I have reason to doubt the numbers given to me."
"Prince Jon has perhaps looser lips than he should, particularly on the needs of his homeland. His dedication to protecting them is admirable, though not entirely misplaced in its utility. The North has some sixteen thousand men, if they press every living man and those women willing to fight in all the North into service mayhaps twenty thousand. The Riverlands are a ruin, if they can muster ten thousand it would be a miracle. The Vale on the other hand have already mustered twenty thousand and sent them to the North and have another twenty-five thousand they can call upon. All told Sansa Stark can call upon seventy-five thousand men."
"You do not believe she will muster those whole numbers?" Dany realized suddenly. "No, rather she cannot."
He nodded. "Not with enemies to the south. The men of the Riverlands likely not send more than a thousand as a symbolic gesture to march North. In fact, of the remaining men in the Vale near half will be forced to remain in the Riverlands to keep it secure and ensure Stark rule is fully established there. The remaining fifteen thousand Valemen will need to remain to protect their coasts and holdings both from possible naval attacks and from their mountain clans. Sansa Stark is proving to be a cautious woman. Even of her Northern men, she will be securing her borders as well as the Wall. If she can place more than thirty thousand on the Wall and those keeps closest to it, it would be a miracle. If she's scrounged more men than his Highness has implied or risked an unsecured border, even then I doubt the numbers will be greater than forty thousand."
"You suggest I make a gift of the Lannister prisoners to the Wall." Dany's fingers stayed on the wooden table. It went against her initial inclinations. Though she found for all she did not trust the Tyrells much, she preferred this advice to that which she'd had whispered in her ear previously.
Willas nodded. "Yes, the North would never suffer them to escape, they hate the Lannisters more than even you, your Grace. And two thousand good fighting men would go a long way to gaining ground in negotiations over your betrothal."
"And the King Slayer?" Her voice was sharp.
He hummed. "He could be valuable to you as a prisoner to keep the Westerlands from fighting to their utter deaths in the conquest to come. And I would trust the North to hold him secure without escape more than even my own men. He can stand trial for his crimes once his usefulness has worn out."
It was…galling that she could see the sense in his words. A suggestion she would think on before deciding. She did not like it and would hear the counsel of her other advisors before doing so. "Tell me, Lord Tyrell, what do you think of a possible marriage between Prince Jon and myself? I have heard so many people's opinions, but not yours."
Willas gestured to a chair. "May I?"
"Of course, please." Dany wished she'd thought to offer it sooner.
He stepped to the chair, lowering himself stiffly. "Thank you." Willas took a moment before continuing. "I agree with my grandmother, it's a good match."
Dany raised a brow, she was sensing a pattern. "And?"
"And you should be asking yourself what you are willing to lose, and what you would prefer to gain from the match." Willas folded his hands looking at her curiously.
She wondered what Tyrion and Varys would make of Willas Tyrell's advice. "If you could name the terms then which terms would you claim?"
"The Vale." He answered immediately. "They are a bastion of the Faith of the Seven, and of the Stark lands, the least likely to rebel against you in favor of the Starks. They will be ill-suited to accept Sansa Stark's choice of lover both due to her Holiness's divinity outside the Seven, as well as the fact she is a woman. That and they hold the weakest bonds to the Northern Kingdom. True loyalty could be gained from them. The Riverlands will beggar the North and leave them weak to invasion from your armies so long as the North is beholden to them. It would be wise to leave the Riverlands to the Starks, it will weaken their position and the Riverlands will be more inclined towards Northern loyalties."
Dany raised a brow at how quickly he'd had that answer. "You've considered it a great deal then."
"Of course, it will greatly affect my House's future." Willas gestured at the room, or rather Highgarden at large. "For the North to lose the Vale you will have to commit a great deal to their war against the Dead. Mostly of mine own Kingdom's men, as well as your dragons. Your Dothraki would be useless in the snows, your Unsullied unused to the cold. Even my own men will be unused to the cold, but they will suit it better than your personal armies. And with the Greyjoys lost to you, it will be the Redwyn fleet ferrying those men to the North."
Dany let his words settle. "How many men would you consider reasonable?"
"As we all die if the Dead break past the Neck?" Willas hummed. "Forty thousand from the Reach, eight thousand Unsullied, a thousand from Dorne, you and your dragons, as well as provisions for that entire force."
She could see the writing on the wall of what she'd be indebted to the Tyrells for. The Tyrells would be the ones feeding the army, providing the vast majority of the men. "And you would volunteer such numbers and provisions from the goodness of your heart then, my Lord?"
"It would be my duty." His mouth pulled into a faint smile. "I would hope for certain concessions once your throne is fully secured. Guarantee of certain marriages supported by the crown, certain positions filled by men able to advocate for the interests of the Reach. Nothing I believe you would find unreasonable, your Grace."
She arched a brow at that. "Naturally." Well then, the Tyrells were aiming to entangle her utterly in exchange for their 'enthusiastic' cooperation. Dany hated that she wished for not just her advisors but also Daisy to guide her in this.
/
Olyvar's teeth grit as he bowed to the Dragon Queen. "Your Grace, I come to repledge Dorne to your cause."
Olyvar speared a piece of fish with his fork. The food lacked the spice he preferred, everything was too sweet, too mild, and it stank of roses. He was aware he was being petty, but it went against the grain to act as if he was not incensed the Dragon Queen would take the oaths of the traitorous bastard Ellaria Sand, and her kinslaying daughters. If her bastard daughters were not his kin he would have their names stricken from the history of Dorne.
"Prince Olyvar, tell me, how is it that you have taken the headship of your House at so young an age and a living father?" Lady Olenna Tyrell half demanded from where she was sipping from her goblet of wine.
He refused to rise to the bait. "My father has no interest in leadership, he is an old man and wishes to continue his work in his home. As such it is my burden to bear." He took his bite of fish, holding the gaze of the old woman.
"Is your father's health well?" Daenerys Targaryen inquired.
Olyvar nodded. "He is still strong and will hold Dorne for you while I am here, your Grace."
Prince Jon's serious gaze settled on him. "It is good your father still lives."
"I am most grateful he was not killed by those to last lead Dorne." Olyvar knew the implication of his words was brushing on unacceptable. "I am sorry your father died. Though our Houses were on opposite sides of the Usurper's war, Eddard Stark was an honorable man." He would have his more private audience with the Queen on the morrow, for now, well, the Northern Prince was perhaps the one at the head table he held no complicated feelings towards. "Tell me, what sort of man was he? The stories only ever speak of his honor, his martial ability, and his loyalty, your Highness."
Jon Stark, a well deserved legitimization considering his actions for his House and trueborn siblings, spoke with restrained grief and love. "My father was the best man I've ever known. He was more honorable and noble than any story or report. But that wasn't who he was. He loved his family and our people. He was quiet and thoughtful. In all my years he never struck us or treated any of us unfairly. When we were small he would cook chestnuts in the fire in his solar, and we would all sit on the fur rug and listen to him telling tales of our ancestors."
"An honorable fool, but a good man." Olenna tsked.
Olyvar leaned back in his seat, his eyes finding the lady's eyes. "Better than a greedy fool." He could see he'd hit the mark there, after all, everyone knew what her son had been before the Lannisters murdered him. His attention returned to the Northern Prince. "Truly, while a traitor, your father certainly had just cause in his rebellion. Many of us in Dorne chaffed being forced to suffer under the rule of a King who would rape and murder our kin."
"What happened to the Princess and her children was a terrible crime." Jon Stark agreed.
They shared a moment, eyes locked. Well then, he may on principle oppose the possible marriage of this man to the woman who needs must be his Queen, but he could respect him still.
Willas Tyrell spoke. "Come, surely we can speak of something other than grave crimes in our Houses' pasts while we eat. Your Grace, would you care for a hunt next week? No doubt we all will be glad of an excuse to step away from the negotiating table for a short time, at least the once."
Olyvar sipped from his too sweet wine as the conversation turned. He would be uneasy until he could speak with the Queen on the subject of the late Ellaria Sand and her bastard daughters. It was perhaps foolish of him, but he would hear how his House's natural ally, the woman who owed the same debt of vengeance as House Martell, could accept vows of fealty from a woman who had murdered her children's uncle, ruling Prince of Dorne and usurped rule of Dorne from House Martell for herself. It sat dark and twisted in his stomach.
So he made passing remarks upon the future hunting trip but otherwise allowed the conversation to flow as the Tyrells wished. Soon enough the Queen's true advisors would arrive, until then he could afford some small measure of petty distance. And well, Prince Jon was certainly a handsome bauble to look at. If word of Sansa Stark's lover were true, well mayhaps the Northern Prince would be open to a brief tumble. It was no large matter if he was not, but it certainly would be a diversion worth having.
Olyvar handed a cup of wine to Prince Jon. He had a smug smirk as he saw the man did not intend to drink it. "The wine not to your taste or do you fear I plan to poison you?"
"If I drank something handed to me by a Martell without it first being tasted, Daisy might just appear out of sheer frustration to slap me." He chuckled. "I mean no offense, your Highness."
He smirked, snatching the cup back and pouring it into his own cup, leaving the thing so full it was near to overflowing. Holding the Northern Prince's eye he took a long drink. "No offense taken. We are as famous for our poisons as you Northerns are for your furs."
Jon Stark's shoulders softened slightly. "Thank you for understanding."
"Of course, but now you owe me at least a conversation with someone who is not a Tyrell or one of their lackeys." He purposely leaned against the wall they were standing near.
The Stark grey eyes of the Northern Prince were nearly purple as they seemed to weigh Olyvar's words. "Aye, I suppose that's fair, your Highness."
"Well then, tell me, what did all you Black Brothers do up on the Wall to stay warm on those cold nights?" Olyvar laid innuendo into his tone. Information, and depending on the other man's tastes possibly a fuck. He could live with either or both.
The man clearly took his meaning, both of them. "Shite ale and shivering." And alas, ignored the innuendo utterly. That was disappointing.
"Shit ale? Surely you had at least something passably good. An order of warriors with only shit ale for thousands of years?" Olyvar drank of his wine. At least he could learn more of the Wall and gain perhaps the Northern Prince's interest as a potential ally. Still disappointing.
Jon shook his head, a rough chuckle in his voice. "You would think, but nay, only the foulest ale I have ever tasted. Near ruined the whole drink for me for life."
"Well, that is tragic. Surely the Wall has some redeeming qualities?" He was sending drink with any men he was forced to send North.
Jon gave an outright snort. "None at all. Terrible people, terrible place, terrible weather, the Dead picking us off one by one." He paused. "But also some of the best and bravest men I've ever had the honor to meet. And there is a sort of…savage beauty to the Wall."
"Well, there's that at least." Olyvar set his empty cup aside. "I would not do well on your Wall, I think. My blood runs too hot for such cold." His head cocked to the side. "Do you think it will hold?"
