Meet Olyvar, courtesy of the amazing ohnoitsmyra.
https/i.ibb.co/fCQj8zK/9-E31-CB36-F2-F2-4583-B253-C63219-B0-EAD9.jpg
Yes, he's based on baby Dev Patel.
Mid April, 300 AC
Sansa Stark walked into the throne room with her head held high, regal as a queen. The girl was tall, with thick auburn hair that tumbled nearly to her waist. As she stepped into the light streaming from the windows behind the throne, her hair drank in the sunshine, shining like flame. Her hands were clasped at her waist, the dagged sleeves of her pearly gown trailing almost to the floor.
Yet when she drew near Olyvar started with surprise. Why, she can't be older than little Elia. Had she even flowered? Below high cheekbones baby fat still clung to her cheeks, and when he looked closer he noted how slender she was. She looks like the children in the streets. The food shortage caused by the Tyrells had ended months before the Dornish arrived, but the smallfolk of King's Landing still bore the glassy eyes and loose skin of recent starvation.
Suddenly, as though she felt his glance, Sansa looked his way. Ellaria Sand cursed under her breath.
"As if the poor child hasn't suffered enough," Ellaria whispered.
Olyvar swallowed back bile. Squires were terrible gossips, and talk of the carnage at the Twins was all over the practice yards. A Crakehall squire half his height and twice his width had made the mistake of gloating about the rumored treatment of Lady Catelyn Stark's corpse. By the time he regained control of himself the squire was lying dazed on the ground, and Olyvar's blunted tourney spear was half in splinters.
"Why should she matter to us?" Nym asked, ignoring mother Ellaria's glare as she covered a dainty yawn with her hand.
"Our orders were to observe everyone in this city, to find our enemies and make new friends," Olyvar said softly.
"She's but a girl."
"And a Stark," Olyvar replied, "the only one within a thousand leagues." He prayed Nym was done testing him for the nonce. Talk of the Red Wedding roiled his stomach.
Of all his sisters, Nymeria was the second eldest but the most irritating. He would have preferred Meria coming north with them, but Uncle Doran had forbade it. Meria was the third of Prince Oberyn's brood, a girl of twenty who preferred a qithara over the daggers Nym favored.
It certainly felt like Nymeria was flinging daggers at him as they rode up the Boneway. She enjoyed barraging him with questions. They reviewed sigils, prominent lords, ladies, and knights who might be in the city, and the feuds and alliances between them. Occasionally Ellaria deserted his father to question Olyvar about the Faith and the history of the Seven Kingdoms.
When they rested in the evenings he escaped Nymeria, his mind weary, only to have his body tested by his father. Weapons training was not optional for children raised by the Red Viper. While Nym practiced with her knives, Olyvar collected bruises from Ser Daemon Sand and the other knights among their retinue. By the time they reached King's Landing, Olyvar felt like a wash cloth that had been wrung out by a particularly dedicated washerwoman.
It wasn't the travel that Olyvar minded. In his eighteen years he'd seen more of the world than most men saw in their entire lives. One of his first memories was of learning to swim in the canals of Braavos, before his father brought him to Sunspear. He spent his childhood in the Water Gardens, splashing and playing under Aunt Elia's watchful eye. When he was ten Uncle Doran took him and Arianne for a visit to Oldtown. They had spent months learning the history of the Citadel and the Starry Sept. In his early teens Aunt Elia enjoyed a rare period of good health, and spent it showing him and his sisters the lands and peoples of Dorne, from the Tor to Hellholt to Starfall.
But he'd never been to King's Landing before. Thus far Olyvar did not like the stinking city full of starving smallfolk and preening lordlings. It was so difficult to keep himself calm and collected that he had completely given up on acting normal, instead retreating behind what Loree, his youngest sister, called "Olly's stabby face." Apparently the combination of discomfort and nerves made his face resemble that of a man intent on murder.
"What purpose does it serve, to try a girl of her years for a death a year stale?"
This time it was Ellaria who asked, and Olyvar sighed, glancing at Lord Tywin Lannister. He sat at the judge's table below the dais, an empty seat to his left and another to his right. Bushy blonde whiskers framed a severe face beneath a bald head. His lips were thin and pursed in a forbidding scowl. The Iron Throne looming behind him looked almost welcoming by comparison.
Lord Tywin was dishonorable enough to ignore a peace treaty, despicable enough to condone the violation of guest right, but surely he wasn't foolish enough to assume his foe was dead. It would be weeks, perhaps months before the Young Wolf's fate was known. Lady Sansa was only thirteen, but he doubted that would be enough to stop the Lannisters from forcing her to marry one of them. Olyvar was under no illusions that her younger brothers would be allowed to take up the Young Wolf's crown. But if they intended to wed her, why try her for regicide?
Olyvar frowned. Even if Robb Stark didn't survive, the northmen were known for their dedication to the Starks. Dozens of lords would vie for the honor of finding Robb's crippled brother. If they failed, the northmen would rally around the younger one. Forcing Ned Stark's daughter into marriage seemed a chancey venture at best. The gods knew that a Dornishwoman forced into such a marriage was more like to poison her husband's wine than to bear his children. The women of the north were equally high spirited, if Lyanna Stark was any indication. Still unable to answer Ellaria, Olyvar looked around.
Hundreds had come to see Lady Sansa judged. The Dornish lords and ladies had arrived early, the better to take a place on the floor. Up in the gallery the lords and ladies of the Westerlands and the Reach were crammed elbow to elbow. Tiny Lady Olenna Tyrell stood between her granddaughter Margaery and her grandson Willas, surrounded by Tyrell ladies-in-waiting and household knights. Olenna Tyrell had been hovering persistently over the Stark girl, likely intending to marry her to Willas. Olyvar amused himself for a moment imagining the old woman's reaction when Willas refused.
Jaime Lannister stood with the Kingsguard, his false hand nearly as golden as his hair, his white armor immaculate. Truth be told, the Kingslayer looked rather stiff and unhappy. Ser Lyn Corbray stood beside him, stonefaced. He had sparred with the Hound two days past. Mors Manwoody said the Hound had fought like a man possessed. Ser Lyn had lost at least one tooth, and his lip was fat and swollen. The Hound had broken his nose as well, and blackened one of his eyes.
Olyvar shifted his gaze to the Hound. Sandor Clegane stood on the dais behind the Queen Regent. His armor was soot-grey, his helm a snarling black hound. He was the biggest man Olyvar had ever seen, six and a half feet tall at least, with muscles like a bull. They say the Mountain is even taller and stronger. Ser Gregor Clegane had haunted Olyvar's nightmares for years, a shadowy terror far more potent than any snark or grumkin. He had tried to rape Princess Elia, he had ripped the babe from her arms and smashed his head against the wall... Olyvar shivered.
Beside Sandor Clegane the queen looked small and delicate. Her silk gown was made of mourning black; bright rubies studded the bodice. Targaryen colors, an odd choice. The queen stared at the Stark girl, her eyes glittering with malice.
"Even Cersei Lannister couldn't possibly believe this child killed her son," Olyvar said.
"Oh, of course not. By the by, have you met our sister Tyene?" Nym's eyes crinkled as Olyvar glared.
"Hush," Ellaria said absentmindedly. The goldcloaks were calling for silence as the last two judges proceeded to their seats.
Everyone else in the hall must stand, but the judges would suffer no such discomfort. Tywin Lannister beckoned a servant to fill the flagon and three chalices sitting upon the table. The chalices were golden, as was the ornate flagon studded with rubies. It had been a gift from Dorne to little King Tommen, so of course his grandfather was using it. No doubt it had been thoroughly inspected by a maester to ensure there were no poisons concealed within the flagon. As if the Red Viper would be so clumsy.
Mace Tyrell was resplendent in gold and green, looking much as Olyvar remembered. When he was eight Oberyn had taken him to a tourney in the Reach. He'd seen league after league of rich fields and lovely orchards, but the end of their journey was full of sorrow. In the tourney at Highgarden poor Willas Tyrell fell beneath his horse, and even Maester Caleotte could do no more than save the shattered leg. Willas was a man of three and twenty now, and one of his father's closest friends. Mace Tyrell was an older, stouter version of his eldest son, with brown curls and a trim brown-grey beard.
Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell was around the same age as Mace Tyrell, but only a hint of grey sprinkled his dark hair. His flowing robes swished against the floor, the striped orange, yellow, and scarlet as bright as sunrise. Oberyn caught Olyvar's eye and smiled as he seated himself beside Tywin Lannister. Although Oberyn had taught him to control his face and his temper, it still amazed Olyvar that his father could sit beside Tywin Lannister without drawing his dagger and cutting out the man's heart.
Once the room was silent the High Septon came forward, his crystal crown casting rainbows on the floor. Olyvar bent his head as the High Septon asked the Father Above to guide them to justice. If only the Seven were so quick to act. Men must seek their own justice, especially when Lannisters were involved. Dorne knew that well enough. As Lord Tywin declared the court in session Olyvar prayed to the Father for the strength to seek out justice and the wisdom to know it.
The trial began with the calling of witnesses. The Redwyne twins and Ser Loras Tyrell testified to Sansa Stark's sweet nature and gentle courtesies. A maid recounted the hours Sansa spent embroidering an exquisite handkerchief for her betrothed before his death. Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard, a marcher lord, testified to how eloquently she had pled for her father's life, acknowledging his treachery but seeking mercy. Grand Maester Pycelle came forward next, to note the girl's delicate health and tendency towards spells of exhaustion. He makes it sound as if she couldn't have pushed Joffrey even if she wanted to.
Olyvar blinked. That's the entire point. Half the city thought the girl had killed Joffrey; the very notion of a little girl slaying his royal grandson must infuriate Lord Tywin. Far better to paint her as a helpless bystander, blame the regicide on a treacherous knight, and wed the girl and her claim to some Lannister.
Olyvar tried to focus on the witnesses, but his eyes kept wandering back to the girl. No one would try to put Robb Stark's crown on the head of the meek, docile girl the witnesses described. And yet… her spine was straight as steel as she listened to the testimony; she neither cowered nor wept with fear. Everyone else seemed bored, even the Hound. He'd removed his helm, cradling it in one arm.
Unsurprisingly the girl's flight from the city was glossed over, as were her whereabouts for most of the past year. Oberyn said the Lannisters believed she'd been taken by the former master of coin, Petyr Baelish, but Aunt Elia's friend at court disagreed. Then there were those strange rumors of a red wolf stealing her away…
At any rate, witnesses reported that since returning to the city she passed her time much as she had before her inexplicable escape. Sansa Stark filled her days with reading and sewing in her tower cell, only leaving when her guards escorted her to pray or give alms to the poor. She'd also supped with Ellaria and her ladies, but no one mentioned that, nor did they mention the hours the Tyrells spent twining their vines around her in the gardens.
Half the gallery was yawning by the time it was Lady Sansa's turn to speak. The Lannisters had arranged every moment of this mummer's farce— doubtless they'd even told the girl precisely what to say as she denied any part in the death of her dearly departed betrothed. Yes, Olyvar was certain that the poor girl would be found innocent and wed to a Lannister within the year. May the Maid protect her.
Tywin Lannister leaned forward, his cold eyes fixed on the girl.
"Lady Sansa, did you kill King Joffrey?"
Sansa Stark licked her lips and looked straight at Lord Tywin.
"Yes."
What? The entire hall gasped. Even Tywin Lannister appeared surprised, his eyebrows furrowed, his jaw clenched.
"Joffrey was a monster, and the gods struck him down," she continued, her voice clear and steady. "But I was their instrument. I became a great red direwolf and cast us both over the edge."
A strangled noise caught Olyvar's attention. Sandor Clegane stood behind the queen, his burned face grim as he stared at the girl. His lips twitched, his shoulders shook, and at last a great roar of laughter escaped him. As though a dam had burst lords and ladies followed suit, a gale of laugher that filled the room and echoed off the rafters.
Olyvar did not join the mirth. To his appreciation, neither did Ellaria or his sister. A queer light glimmered in Lady Sansa's blue eyes. There were strange tales of the far north, of giants and unicorns and skinchangers. Could she be telling the truth?
The Kingslayer looked thunderstruck, the queen murderous, and the judges stunned. At last Tywin raised a hand, and slowly the noise subsided.
"Have you taken leave of your wits?" Tywin demanded when the crowd was silent.
"My lord asked for the truth," she replied, her voice ringing through the hall. Where Tywin's face was bloodless, Sansa's cheeks blazed with color.
"The truth, not childish nonsense," Tywin snapped. She stared at him, her eyes stormy.
"Of course, my lord," Lady Sansa said, dropping into a perfect curtsy, her skirts rustling like leaves in a breeze. "If the childish nonsense of a traitor's daughter is so frightening to you, shall I keep silent?"
Nervous chuckles rose among the gathered nobles, but Oberyn laughed so loudly that the sound echoed off the walls. Tywin Lannister stared at the girl, a muscle in his jaw twitching. That gaze had cowed many lords, so Aunt Elia said, but this girl child stared back, unflinching. At last Lord Tywin spoke, his voice even and cold.
"If you wish to waste the judges' time, so be it."
"Of course, my lord. Such venerable judges deserve every courtesy." Sansa Stark's hair gleamed red as blood as she turned to her right and curtsied.
"The esteemed Lord Mace Tyrell. Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Mander, Defender of the Marches and High Marshal of the Reach. All the realm knows of the valor of your sons and the beauty of your daughter."
Tyrell looked well pleased at that, his face even redder than usual. The lady turned to the left, curtsying again.
"Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell. Your reputation has reached even the North, for few men have laid claim to so many accomplishments. How many warriors can boast of studying at the Citadel and traveling across the narrow sea?"
Oberyn raised an eyebrow, amused. These were precisely the sort of courtesies that Aunt Elia taught all Oberyn's children, but Olyvar had never imagined them used like this. Sansa turned to the center, her eyes suddenly freezing as she dropped a deep curtsy.
"Lord Tywin Lannister. Hand of the King, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West. How could I even begin to list your deeds? You were still a youth when you drowned the Reynes and every servant sworn to their household."
Where was she going with this? Everyone knew about the Reynes of Castamere, but it was odd she mentioned the servants. Olyvar glanced to his side. Ellaria gave the tiniest shrug, and Nym raised a puzzled eyebrow.
"For near twenty years you served as Hand to the Mad King, until you joined the rebellion against him. Aerys trusted you and opened the gates. In return, your men sacked the helpless city."
The throne room was quiet as the grave. Tywin Lannister studied the girl in ominous silence, his mouth tight, while Mace Tyrell openly gaped. Oberyn leaned forward, his dark eyes fixed on Sansa. The girl continued, her voice only growing stronger.
"Princess Elia should have been taken prisoner, her children sent to the Faith or the Wall. Your men would never dare oppose the orders of the great Lord of Casterly Rock." Sansa Stark paused, her eyes hard as sapphires. "But those weren't the orders you gave, were they?"
"Is she mad?" Ellaria gasped softly. The Hound's face was grimmer than ever, and the Kingslayer blinked as though he'd been struck. Up in the gallery Olenna Tyrell was saying something to her grandson Willas, a look of amusement on her face.
"You ordered the rape of Princess Elia and the slaughter of her babes. They were children!" Her voice caught, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"But they weren't the only babes dead by your command. How many mothers mourn in the Riverlands? Gregor Clegane broke the King's Peace at your behest, raping the women and burning the harvest. And when Lord Beric Dondarrion rode forth under the king's banner to stop the slaughter, your men attacked him in defiance of all the laws of the realm."
Mace Tyrell's eyes darted to Tywin for a moment as the crowd muttered.
"And when Robb Stark went to our uncle's wedding at the Twins, and the Freys greeted him with bread and salt, you– you—" her voice shook as she raised one slim finger to point at the old lion
.
"The blood is on Walder Frey's hands, not mine," Lord Tywin said. "Your brother was a traitor."
"He was a guest in his bannerman's hall! The Freys would never dare act without the Iron Throne behind them. Robb defeated you in battle, you signed a peace treaty, and then you tried to have him murdered at a wedding. They killed my mother and threw her corpse naked into the river, and they did it for you!"
The murmurs were growing louder all around the hall.
"She dares—"
"—not without Tywin's protection—"
"The King in the North!"
A hundred goldcloaks banged the butts of their spears on the floor. Gradually, silence returned to the throne room.
"Tywin the Faithless I name you," the girl said, her voice soft. "Oathbreaker. Murderer. Craven."
"Silence!" Lord Tywin said. "You have wasted enough of our time."
"We are not here to discuss the Red Wedding." Sansa looked at Prince Oberyn, confused. "We are here to discuss the death of King Joffrey, and I believe you already confessed, my dear."
"True, true," Mace Tyrell blustered, though he looked troubled.
"It seems there is nothing left but to determine the sentence for regicide," Tywin Lannister said, unyielding as stone.
Sansa Stark's chest rose and fell as she looked at the judges one by one. Her gaze fell on Oberyn last, and it was him she looked at as she spoke.
"The king I slew was not worthy of his crown, no more than the king slain by Lord Tywin's own son. I throw myself upon the gods' mercy. I demand trial by battle."
"The girl's gone mad," Mace Tyrell said.
"She has that right, my lords," Queen Cersei reminded the judges, triumph in her eyes. "Let the gods condemn her vile slander. Since his good name has been attacked, Ser Gregor Clegane shall stand for my sweet son."
Lord Tywin slammed his fist down on the table, too furious to speak. It was Mace Tyrell who turned to Sansa and asked the question. "Do you have a champion?"
Her big blue eyes returned to Oberyn. His father looked back at her, his expression neutral.
A chill trickled down Olyvar's back. Lady Sansa had known the queen would choose Clegane, and she'd counted on the infamous Red Viper wanting revenge. She had no way of knowing that Aunt Elia had come for Oberyn as they prepared to depart Sunspear. At her insistence, Oberyn had sworn a solemn oath that he would not fight the Mountain. In the sept of the old palace he had sworn, a septon and the statues of the Seven standing witness. Would she release him from his oath if she were here?
"If you have no champion the crown shall choose one for you," the Queen said sweetly.
All eyes were on Cersei, but a hint of motion drew Olyvar's eye. Father Above, send her a champion, he prayed as Sandor Clegane's hand twitched at his sword. The hatred between the brothers was infamous; even a brutal champion was better than none. The Hound cocked his head, like a dog seeking his master's leave. After a long moment, the girl gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
Lady Sansa's cheeks were pale but her voice was strong. "I name Brienne of Tarth as my champion." Her eyes once again stared at the Red Viper.
"A woman may not serve as champion," the High Septon intoned solemnly. "The Seven forbid it."
The maid trembled, her chest rising and falling, and Olyvar knew she had reached the same conclusion he had. They'd force some poor hedge knight to serve as her champion, the Mountain would lop his head off, and the King's Justice would behead Sansa Stark. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. This is not justice.
Olyvar tried to speak, but all that emerged was a dry croak. He licked his lips and stepped forward, praying his voice would not crack, ignoring Ellaria and Nym's frantic attempts to clutch at his sleeve as he shouted.
"She has a champion!"