Mid-August, 300 AC
Olyvar couldn't breathe.
He tugged at the collar of his new doublet. It was the color of the sands of Dorne, pale and modest beneath a velvet cloak of the same shade. The cloak was emblazoned with his ten-headed serpent, golden threads shining in the light. Olyvar had chosen the snakes for his sisters, and he wished desperately that they were here.
As he waited by the altar set between the statues of the Mother and the Father he imagined their arrival. Obara would stride in much too quickly, ignoring the scandalized mutters at her choice of tunic and breeches. Tyene would soothe the mutters with her sweet smile, and note which nobles took the most offense. Those chosen few would merit a friendly visit later. A slip of Tyene's dainty hand over their wine, and they would learn the price of offending Dorne was confinement in their privy for the next two days.
It was a petty prank, and dangerous if one was caught. Olyvar could never decide whether to be amused or appalled. Aunt Elia disapproved, as did Uncle Doran, but Prince Oberyn always laughed and ruffled Tyene's hair. The Red Viper was not stupid enough to fatally poison Lord Tywin in the seat of his power, but Olyvar suspected his father of entertaining himself before Tywin's mysterious demise. Olyvar found it quite odd that Lord Tywin had suddenly postponed multiple small council meetings, only to reconvene the council two days later. No wonder Tyene was so bold.
There would be no rude comments directed at Meria. Her gown would be as modest and stylish as that of any lady present, yet not too fine for a girl of bastard birth. She would remind Obara to look less sullen, and leave matrons clucking about how well Meria knew her place. Sarella would pay no mind to the eyes lingering on her rich brown skin and tightly curled black hair. If there was a maester in the sept, Sarella would find him, and have him chattering away within minutes.
Elia and Obella would come in together, struggling mightily to decide which of their elder sisters they wished to sit with. Wherever they went, Doree and Loree would follow, big dark eyes wide with delight at the finery of the assembled nobles. If Ellaria wasn't fast enough, her two youngest would sprint to their big brother, Doree to demand sweets, Loree to demand to know why he was wearing his stabby face at a wedding.
But Olyvar did not have all of his sisters. The only sister he had in this foul city was Nym, and she was glaring at him when no one else was looking, still furious with both Olyvar and their father.
"You should have talked to her first, witless," she'd hissed before breakfast, angry as a cat.
"How?" Olyvar asked, his stomach flipping with nerves as he adjusted his sleeves. "The queen never leaves her alone; Willas said Lady Olenna had to appeal to Ser Kevan thrice before she was permitted to invite the girl to a modest supper. And what if she's a poor mummer?" Like me, he thought sheepishly.
"And what if she's a good one? What happens if you get her back to Sunspear and she realizes—"
At that point Ellaria had grabbed them both by the scruff of the neck, her nails digging in as she frantically hushed them, and that had been the end of that conversation.
Olyvar stood up straight as the doors of the hall gave way with a thundering groan. According to Dornish custom the procession was led by young girls clad in the pale blue of the Maiden. The smiling girls scattered orange blossoms as they walked, the fragrant petals filling the air with their sweet scent. King Tommen escorted the bride, his steps measured and deliberate despite the broad grin on his plump face.
Lady Sansa did not share the little king's oblivious joy. She was as stiff as a lance, her lips pressed tight. A wave of pity swept over him. He glanced to the side; the altar was close enough to touch. Olyvar rested his left hand on the marble, wincing at the effort.
I shall guard you from your enemies, so long as I have breath in my body. Olyvar frowned. That seemed a bit too warlike. Marriage was for life; how often would he be called upon to save his bride from a monster like the Mountain? He gathered his thoughts for a moment, then tried again.
I shall soothe your hurts and share your joys, make you a part of my counsels and heed your thoughts. I shall treat you as Oberyn treats Ellaria; I shall treat you as I would have my sisters be treated by their husbands. I swear it by the Father's scales and the Mother's seeds.
The queen would be apoplectic if she could hear his thoughts. Cersei Lannister did not intend that Sansa Stark should have a kind husband, nor one near to her in age. Prince Oberyn had seen only one way to ensure this match, and when he returned from dining with the queen Olyvar listened, aghast, as his father explained the lies he had told.
When he finished retching in the privy Nym patted his back before handing him a flagon of water to wash the taste of acid from his mouth. How could men do such foul things? He thought of his little sisters, of great hulking shadows looming over them... Nym was not pleased when he failed to turn his head in time, vomit splattering the hem of her robes.
"That was why father poisoned old Lord Yronwood," she remarked casually when Olyvar was done apologizing. "His paramour was a girl of fifteen, a merchant's daughter. Lord Edgar took a liking to her and offered to foster her, then took her maidenhead before she even flowered. The poor girl was half in love with him, half terrified of him, so when she sought comfort with father he ensured that they were caught."
"Why didn't he go to grandmother?" Olyvar asked. Nym shrugged.
"You know father. Why send ravens back and forth seeking permission when he could take matters into his own hands?"
Olyvar's stomach roiled at the memory as the king and bride approached the dais. A good king would stop things like that, would make it known that even high lords could not hurt children. The support of the Faith would be crucial; the septas sworn to the Mother and Maiden would be powerful allies, as would the Most Devout if enough of them could be reminded of their duty— Stop that , Olyvar told himself sternly. Next he'd be thinking about his sixteenth name day, and he'd tried not to think about it the entire way to King's Landing.
He stared at his bride, desperate for a distraction. Her gown was snowy silk, trimmed in cloth of silver. The dagged sleeves were lined with crimson damask that matched the weirwood leaves embroidered on the bodice. Doubtless the Lannister woman was responsible for the low cut that bared the tops of the poor girl's full breasts. Olyvar determinedly looked elsewhere.
Her auburn hair flowed down her back like a river of fire, a brilliant true red in the light of the sept. Sansa's face was even prettier than Nym's, shy dimples emerging as she forced herself to smile. The Water Gardens, he would have to take her there first, and watch her learn to laugh again. Olyvar wondered how lovely she would be when she could smile without fear hidden underneath.
Olyvar felt absurdly plain by comparison. His usual hair wash left his curls greasy, his hairline peppered with pimples. To his horror a new one was coming in by the side of his nose. Olyvar had tried to pop it without success, and Nym's face powder was too light to cover it up.
Some plain fellows made up for their looks with charm. Olyvar was not one of them. Dornish ladies were all very well, he had grown up with some of them or their brothers, and he knew which lady preferred to discuss books or music or history. The ladies from outside Dorne terrified him with their coded glances and secret smiles. Since leaving his sickbed he felt like half the unwed ladies in the Red Keep were stalking him, smiling daughters of minor lordlings, buxom sisters of landed knights. Yet here he stood, about to wed the highest born maid in the Seven Kingdoms, a maid who certainly did not want him.
Sansa reached the altar and turned to face him, and the ceremony finally began. First came the seven prayers, then the seven vows. They sang a hymn to each of the Seven, Sansa's voice clear and sweet as bells above Olyvar's awkward baritone. The High Septon invoked the seven blessings, and they exchanged the seven promises between man and wife. The wedding song was sung, the challenge went unanswered, and then it was time for the exchange of cloaks.
Little King Tommen stood on tip toe to remove Sansa's maiden cloak, and Prince Oberyn coughed, so quiet he could scarce be heard. Olyvar turned to accept the folded bride's cloak, a sandy twin to his own, shaking it out gently. As he draped the cloak about Sansa's shoulders he could not help looking into her eyes. Her smile was as tender as any bride, but a hint of fear lingered in her gaze. Is she afraid of marriage, or me?
Surely she had no reason to fear Olyvar. Oberyn's foul stories had been told in the privacy of the queen's solar; a serving maid wouldn't risk her neck for a captive princess of thirteen. Lady, not princess, Olyvar firmly reminded himself as he fastened the cloak's golden clasp. Even your thoughts are not safe here. Too often did he act without thinking; he could not afford to slip.
Then Olyvar's eyes fell on the golden collar at Sansa's throat, at the lion claws digging into her delicate skin. His new wife recoiled from the fury in his eyes as he reached forward, his lips accidentally brushing against her ear.
"Breathe, my lady," he whispered, fingers reaching beneath her hair. A moment of fumbling and the collar slid from her neck. Sansa gasped softly, her hand touching her throat as he took a step back, slipping the heavy, hateful collar in his pocket.
"With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady wife" Olyvar declared loudly. His voice cooperated for once, neither cracking nor coming out as a crude bellow.
"With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord husband," Sansa replied. Her eyes were deep pools, bluer than the waters of an oasis. Olyvar wet his dry lips before he leaned in, brushing a gentle kiss against her mouth. As if from a distance he heard ladies sighing. He frowned, annoyed. Were they expecting me to pull her close and kiss her deeply? She's thirteen!
"Let the Seven bear witness," the High Septon solemnly intoned, raising his crystal high so that a rainbow of light fell down upon them. "Ser Olyvar Sand and Lady Sansa of House Stark are hereby made one flesh, one heart, one soul."
Olyvar offered his arm to his new bride and Sansa took it, trembling.
He could hear the cheering outside even before they reached the doors. The commons packed the square from shoulder to shoulder, waving shreds of cloth in shades of grey and white and sandy brown. Dornish knights surrounded the bride and groom as they stood atop the steps that fronted the great marble plaza.
Goldcloaks struggled to hold back the exuberant crowd as the nobility queued up to offer their congratulations. The little king was first, practically dancing with excitement as he made his courtesies and gallantly kissed Sansa's fingers. The queen was more restrained, her eyes shining like wildfire as she kissed Sansa's cheek before looking at Olyvar with a cruel smile. He nodded, praying his glare of discomfort would satisfy her.
Though he knew the benefit of the public display, the screaming crowd still made him uneasy. When Grand Maester Pycelle's gaze lingered too long on Sansa's chest, Olyvar pulled her to him for a chaste kiss, ignoring the maester's grumbling. The crowd went mad, shrieking and cheering all the louder. When he released her Sansa was blushing. She turned away, slim fingers fiddling with the bouquet. Once she had loosened the ribbons that held it together she began tossing flowers to the little girls sitting atop their father's shoulders.
She is good at this, Olyvar thought as his wife crouched to better embrace a scowling Lady Olenna, mindful of the old lady's cane. Despite her youth Sansa was already closer to six feet than to five, towering over the Tyrell matriarch. Lord Gyles of Rosby was attempting to congratulate Olyvar, his coughs slowing his speech, and Olyvar's thoughts wandered.
Lady Margaery is dutiful and clever, but Sansa is kind. What a queen she would make. He imagined her for a moment, older and more womanly, a silver crown atop her brow, moonstones and sunstones glimmering against her hair- what is the matter with you, fool? He bit the inside of his cheek until it bled, and returned his attention to Lord Gyles.
The wedding feast was held in the Throne Room of the Red Keep to accommodate the crowd of attendees. The entire Dornish retinue was here, as were all the noble lords and ladies of the Reach and the Westerlands. The queen will expect me to play the gallant, Olyvar reassured himself as he offered Sansa a choice morsel of pheasant from the point of his dagger.
"Which side of the pheasant has the most feathers?" He asked, uncomfortable with his bride's silence. Sansa stared at him, brow furrowed.
"The outside."
A few seats down the table his father groaned, pressing one hand to his brow.
"Please forgive your husband, gooddaughter," the Red Viper said. "His jests are most often for the benefit of his youngest sisters."
"How old are they?" Sansa ventured timidly.
"Loreza is six; Dorea is eight," Olyvar answered warmly, smiling for what felt like the first time in days. Then he remembered how close the queen was sitting. Witless, a fond older brother is not what Cersei Lannister wants to see. Stonefaced, he returned to his meal.
There were to be seven courses, all chosen and paid for by the gracious king and his mother. Prince Oberyn had offered to pay to spare the crown the expense, and nothing would do but that the queen dismiss the cost as a pittance. After that meeting his father had smirked for the entire evening, and none of Ellaria's teasing could lessen his smugness.
The first course was an aromatic soup of chickpea and lamb, courtesy of the only cook in the city who knew any Dornish recipes. Next came summer greens tossed with almonds, red fennel, and crumbled cheese. The pheasant had been the third course, prepared in the Dornish style, lightly coated with flour and spices and fried in olive oil.
The main course was roasted lamb, accompanied by mushrooms drowned in butter, crisp asparagus spiced with lemon and coriander, and tender carrots finished with vinegar, garlic, and a sprinkle of caraway seeds. The mushrooms and asparagus proved to Sansa's liking, the carrots less so.
Her appetite seemed to ebb even further as the feast went on. She refused to eat any of the hard or soft cheeses provided for the fifth course, and barely nibbled at the olives, warm bread, and ripe pears that accompanied them. The sixth course were fish tarts fresh from the ovens, served so hot that Olyvar nearly dropped one as he held it out for his bride to take a dainty bite.
The seventh and final course were the sweets. Servants brought cream serpents and spun-sugar spears, a lemon cake in the shape of a direwolf, spiced honey biscuits and blackberry tarts. To Olyvar's surprise Sansa ignored the lemon cake entirely, even though Ellaria had mentioned it was her favorite. Instead she fiddled with her napkin under the table, her smile stiff.
When the musicians began to play Olyvar offered her his arm. She took it, trembling, as he led her onto the floor to lead the dance. He was not surprised to find Princess Sansa as graceful at dancing as she was at everything else. At first her steps were cautious, proper as any septa's. Olyvar led her carefully, mindful to not step on her toes.
By the third song a new girl was in his arms, one who laughed as the music took her, long hair flying as she spun, her steps light as a feather as flute and pipes and harps carried her away. To his confusion Olyvar seemed to be carried away with her, his own steps coming as easily as if he danced with Meria or Obella. Even when the sixth dance separated them, he proved equal to his new partners. Lady Margaery's cat-like smile did not make him falter, nor did the queen's tight grip and burning eyes. Across the hall his bride laughed as the Summer Island prince Jalabhar Xho twirled her before passing her off to little Tommen. Sansa had just returned to his arms when the dance finally ended, the music dying.
"It's time to bed them!" The queen called merrily from the dais, and his blushing bride turned pale as death.
Idiot! You witless fool, you faithless knave! Aunt Elia had despised her bedding, no wonder the girl barely ate as the feast went on. Lords and knights closed in around them as his bride shook in his arms. Think, you useless ass!
"No bedding!" He bellowed, pulling the quivering girl tight against his chest with his good arm. "I didn't fight the fucking Mountain so other men could see her naked first!"
His bride shook so hard he could almost hear her teeth rattling. Prince Oberyn was laughing and shouting something while some of the men drew closer to Sansa, their eyes greedy. As soon as Ser Kevan Lannister favored Olyvar with a sharp nod, he dragged his bride from the hall.
Since no one had told him of any other arrangements, Olyvar made for the cornerfort, his wife's hand clasped tight. When they reached his chambers he shut the door behind them, barring it lest any drunken fools try to barge in for a glimpse.
He turned to find Sansa standing in the middle of the room, her arms hugging herself as she trembled. Her breaths came in soft little pants, like a horse run for too long in the heat of the Dornish sun. What do I do now? Somehow Olyvar had forgotten about this part of the wedding; only a monster would exercise his rights with a girl so young.
Olyvar looked about the room, uncertain of what to do. What would I do for the horse? A flagon of Arbor gold sat on the sideboard beside another flagon of Dornish red. Olyvar ignored them both, searching until he found the pitcher provided for washing. He poured a goblet full of clear water and handed it to her with what he hoped was an encouraging smile. Her hands shook so badly that her first sip of water spilled down her neck and chest, but the second sip came easier, and before long she had drained the goblet.
"Shall I undress?" Sansa asked.
"That would help," Olyvar replied. Her gown looked like it weighed a thousand pounds; she would be much more comfortable in her sleeping shift. She began fumbling at her clothes, pulling at the lace and buttons with stiff fingers. Sansa was stepping out of her gown, still shaking like a leaf, when he realized his mistake.
"With sleeping!" Olyvar sputtered. "Your gown— I mean—" she was down to her undersilk now, the thin cloth clinging to her breasts. I don't want to see that! He panicked, scooping the cloak off the floor and wrapping it around her. Sansa clung to the folds, head tilted in confusion.
"I'm not— don'tgetnaked," he begged, praying that no one was listening. I should have asked father to have Bel stand outside the door, singing at the top of her lungs. Fool, thrice-accursed fool. "Not here, not now."
He wanted nothing more than to explain himself, but what if someone was listening? Would the queen take her back for lack of consummation and give her to someone else? Olyvar shuddered at the thought.
"Too much wine?" He improvised. Sansa stared at him, eyes flicking to his groin. Yes, that's it.
"TOO MUCH WINE!" Olyvar repeated, trying to slur his speech. "And too many ears for what I'd like to do!" He cringed as Sansa backed away. He wasn't sure how, but he would make this up to her. They were leaving for Dorne on the morrow, he could explain himself on the road when they were surrounded by Dornishmen.
"Get your sleeping shift on," he growled, hating himself, then left his bride alone to change.
When he emerged from the side chamber she was already in bed, huddled under the blankets pretending to be asleep. Olyvar scratched at his hip absentmindedly, the wool shift itchy against his skin. He usually slept bare, but he had no intention of frightening Sansa to death. Well, not anymore than I already did.
His bladder was full to bursting so he made his way to the privy, relieving himself with a sigh. Olyvar absentmindedly began stroking his manhood as he did each evening, and was halfway to his peak when he abruptly remembered Sansa was in the next room. His eyes snapped open, his manhood wilting instantly. He couldn't do that, it would be like pleasuring himself with his sisters nearby.
Lacking any better ideas, Olyvar headed to the tiny solar attached to the bedroom. The boxes of earth were just where Ser Deziel Dalt had promised they would be, seven of them, to honor the seven gods.
"That's what you can tell your bride," Deziel had told him with a wink. "Truly it's because if I only take a single cutting, there's a risk it may not grow."
Olyvar squatted on his heels, examining the slim branches. The Dalts of Lemonwood were famed for their lemon orchards, row after row of lush trees growing along the shores of the Greenblood. It had seemed obvious to ask Dezi's aid with his bridal gift.
Princess Sansa was known for her frequent patronage of the godswood, before the queen forced her to become one of her ladies. As the wedding approached Olyvar found his steps wandering there, hoping to understand his future bride. He had been dumbfounded to discover a weirwood tree with soft eyes and an impish smile. Aunt Elia had never mentioned a weirwood at the Red Keep, yet there it stood, forty feet if it was an inch. Neither fruit nor nuts dangled from its branches, and he had despaired until he remembered Dezi.
"What a beauty," he remarked upon seeing the weirwood. "Seems to be in perfect health, too." Dezi rubbed his hands together, then clapped Olyvar on the shoulder. "Yes, a good cutting should take root. Leave it to me, Olly, never fear."
There were no Dornish weirwoods that Olyvar knew of. Maybe Sarella would know, but even old Lord Tremond Gargalen and the even more ancient Lord Dagos Manwoody couldn't think of any. The soil was too rocky and dry; the few glass gardens dedicated to growing food for winter.
Olyvar was not daunted by the size of his task. Somewhere in the Dornish baggage train were wayns loaded down with rich black soil. Dezi thought that a glass garden would be too hot for the weirwoods, but he was sure that the master gardeners at Lemonwood would help them come up with a good way to plant them.
With delicate care Olyvar reached out for the closest cutting, running a finger down the pale weirwood. Each cutting stood about three feet tall, branches carefully pruned from the living tree, the base of each cutting stripped bare of its bark before being placed in its new home. Olyvar hoped the old gods of the North would understand.
When they departed the next morning Olyvar watched the serving men carefully place the boxes of earth in the wayn, trying not to fret as the cuttings' few leaves trembled in the morning breeze. There were more wayns filled with soil than he had expected, surprisingly well guarded considering their humble cargo.
Olyvar had awoken long before his bride and fled his chambers. He was not willing to risk a repeat of the previous evening lest he scare the girl to death before they even left the city. Ellaria and Nym would take good care of her, he was certain.
By the time the retinue was assembled a light drizzle had begun to fall. Olyvar nudged his dun mare toward the head of the line, mindful of his father's commands. He found Lady Sansa at the front, astride the lovely white sand steed Prince Oberyn had given her as her bridal gift. She was petting the mare's mane, speaking softly under her breath.
"Shall we, my lady?" He asked, holding out a hand. Sansa hesitated, then accepted it. Her hand was soft against his calluses, her fingers almost as long and slim as his own. With a ringing of trumpets they nudged their mounts to a trot.
Escaping the city proved even more vexing than Olyvar feared. The streets were packed with smallfolk and sparrows cheering wildly. He was glad Nym wasn't within reach; she would have smacked him upside the head for veering between a murderous glare and a tentative smile. The smallfolk didn't seem to notice, but Olyvar desperately wished for the ordeal to end.
To his confusion Lady Sansa relaxed under the crowd's fervent attention. Her smiles were sweet and genuine, her cheeks adorably dimpled as she tossed coins to the smallfolk. When she emptied her purse Olyvar gave her his own, the crowd whooping with approval. Behind him he could hear the clinking of coins as the Dornish lords and ladies followed the bride's example. They had run out of coin by the time they encountered a group of sparrows chanting the Maiden's prayer, led by a dwarf. Someone had bedecked Sansa's horse in flowers, so she tossed them petals instead, the blossoms dancing through the air.
It was when they left the city behind that she withdrew into herself, frightened and uncertain. Olyvar's attempts to make conversation were met with neutral pleasantries, and after an hour of fruitless efforts he gave up. She would feel better when they were further from the stinking city, that was all. He could hardly believe that the queen hadn't changed her mind and sent the Kingsguard after them to drag Sansa back.
As the sun set the drizzle turned into a downpour. He hoped showing Sansa the wayn full of weirwood cuttings would lift her mood, but she inexplicably broke down weeping and spent the rest of the evening giving him very odd looks. To Olyvar's relief his modest tent was too small for Princess Sansa to share, so she joined Ellaria and Nym in their pavilion.
The rain finally stopped late on the second day, leaving everyone soaked and cranky. Once or twice Mors Manwoody doubled back, positive he'd seen a tall knight following them, but his search was fruitless and only resulted in more bickering with Dickon. Sansa watched them argue, her face strangely intent. Perhaps it was best that Lady Sansa spend more time with Ellaria and Nym; he would speak to her over supper tomorrow.
The third day found them deep in the kingswood. Mors and Dickon Manwoody proudly presented the cook with a pair of elk, still arguing over who had made the better shot. Despite the enticing aroma of roast meat supper came and went without Princess Sansa emerging from Ellaria's pavilion.
Moon blood , Nym mouthed in response to Olyvar's quizzical look. He could feel his ears redden as he sipped from his wineskin. He certainly shouldn't unburden himself on Lady Sansa tonight.
Despite the long day of riding Olyvar struggled to fall asleep. The kingswood was fairly bursting with life, with burbling waters and whispering leaves. Owls hooted, bats squeaked. His eyes were finally fluttering shut when he heard the howling of wolves. Their voices echoed through the night, ancient and mournful. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, gooseprickles rippling up his arms.
Some instinct made Olyvar rise from his bed. He was watching the kingswood from the flap of his tent when he caught a sign of movement out of the corner of his eye. Red hair gleamed in the moonlight, and he followed. They were a mile from the camp when she spoke.
"I know you're behind me, ser."
Olyvar froze.
"I-it's dangerous for you to be out here, all alone," he stammered.
"Lady Brienne of Tarth is but three miles away. She has followed us since King's Landing, awaiting her chance to free me. Nor am I without protection."
Golden eyes gleamed in the trees as wolves emerged from the darkness. They circled him, teeth bared, white fangs against red maws. Terror seized Olyvar tight as he watched the lean beasts draw closer, slaver dripping down their jaws. I gave her no choice in wedding me; does she mean to make herself a widow? He wasn't sure that he could blame her if she did. Two of the wolves split from the rest, sitting on their haunches to either side of Princess Sansa, and she smiled fondly as she stroked their ears.
"It's all true." To his surprise his voice did not quaver, not even a little.
Sansa looked up sharply, and for the second time he saw the wolfsblood beneath the courtesies.
"Yes," she said simply. "I am Sansa Stark, Princess of Winterfell, Lady of the Hollow Hill. The Red Wolf. And I will have the truth from you, lord husband, or else flee north before the sun rises."
An odd calm swept over him. Sansa deserved the truth, and his vows demanded it. He only wished that he could tell her everything.
"The queen is a cruel and predictable woman," he replied. "Prince Oberyn told us how she intended to wed you to some brute, and I, uh." He scuffed his foot on the grass. "I objected."
Her brow furrowed.
"The tales your father told the queen? Of- of preferring unflowered maidens? Of savoring the sound of screams?" Olyvar winced. How on earth did she know about that?
"Entirely false. A ploy to convince her to let you go."
"I had wondered—" she stroked the wolf's nose. "You don't want to bed me?" A note of hope had crept into her voice.
"Gods, no. Not until you come of age, I swear by the Seven. If you'd like I can make a solemn vow in the first Dornish sept on the Boneway."
"I would like that." Sansa's voice was remarkably shy for that of a girl who could command wild beasts.
"You don't— you can't actually turn into a wolf, can you?"
There was a long pause, then Sansa nodded. He gaped.
"I thought skinchangers could only share an animal's skin?"
"I think so, at least, that's what Old Nan always said," she replied. "My sister can speak to Nymeria, her direwolf, and I think my brothers can speak to theirs, but they can't change their skin. I couldn't, until after they killed Lady."
"I'm sorry," he said softly. He'd vaguely heard something about her direwolf being slain, leaving her the only Stark without protection. Then his curiosity got the better of him.
"Can I see?"
Sansa turned pink as she shook her head.
"Maybe someday, but not now. My clothes, um. Whenever I shift back, I'm bare."
"Oh." That made more sense than it didn't. "What do you look like? Grey fur and golden eyes like these beasts?" He gestured at the wolves, praying they didn't take offense. She shook her head.
"No. Arya says my fur is the same red as my hair, and my eyes stay the same too."
A great red direwolf with a maiden's eyes. Her laugh was bright as bells, but the visions she sent were dark and full of terror.
"My mother dreamt of you!"
Fuck. Olyvar bit his tongue, but it was too late. The words hung in the air, unable to be forgotten.
"What?" Her eyes were narrowed, darting back and forth as she thought. "False sun," Sansa muttered, stepping closer, her gaze fixed on his own. Suddenly her eyes widened.
"There's lots of Lyseni seers!" Olyvar spluttered, his wits failing him. "Men pay double for a courtesan who sees visions, you can ask anyone—"
"You promised me the truth, ser."
Olyvar gulped and fell silent. He had always been a terrible liar. Please, no, mother's going to kill me—
"You're not the son of a Lyseni courtesan," Sansa whispered. The blood drained from his face and he sank to his knees, helpless before his moonlit bride. "You're the son of Elia Martell."
mic drop*
I look forward to everyone yelling at me in the comments section :D I think this is the longest chapter yet? Cannot WAIT to see what details and moments you guys enjoy most.
NOTES
1) The logistics of baby swapping will be revealed in Part IV when we meet Elia Martell herself. I promise I thought it through very carefully; a couple commenters have already figured out how it went down without Varys catching on. No, I'm not saying who
There are lots of hints since Olyvar first appears in Chapter 63. His purple eyes came from Rhaegar, the amber central heterochromia from Elia. He has silver hair under the black dye.
Olyvar being darker skinned than canon!baby Aegon was deliberate, because GRRM kills off every brown Targaryen with a Martell mom (Yes I'm still mad about Baelor Breakspear)
2) Oberyn and Tyene poisoning people with laxatives was so petty and hilarious and reckless that I couldn't resist.
Oberyn: I am in a bad mood
Oberyn: lemme give Tywin a 2 day case of the runs
Somewhere in Dorne, Elia: why do I feel like my baby brother is currently making a very bad risk versus reward calculation?
Oberyn, oblivious:I am the funniest man alive
3) The feast is based off medieval Moorish cuisine. There will be no "spicy Dornish peppers" in this fic because peppers are from the Americas, GEORGE. Come on, if I can take 5 seconds to check where strawberries come from (North America, it turns out) then you can check this sort of thing!
4) Olyvar is an awkward, precious boy. Writing his dialogue and self-conscious attempts at acting was hilarious. Those who thought Olyvar didn't know his own identity?
"Men pay double for a courtesan who sees visions, you can ask anyone—" oh, HONEY this is why no one told you until you were 16. Worst liar in Westeros. Him switching between calling Sansa a lady versus a princess is an indicator of his mask slipping.
Olyvar and Meria had… complicated reactions to finding out they were the biological children of Aunt Elia's asshole husband. They thought she was their adoptive mom, not their birth mom!
Since he's terrible at acting, Olyvar pretty heavily compartmentalizes that knowledge, plus Oberyn *is* his father every way but biologically. See also: Ned and Jon. Uncles picking up the slack for deadbeat!Rhaegar: it's a whole thing.
5) Sansa losing herself in the dance is based on a snippet from her wedding to Tyrion when she danced with Ser Garlan and briefly forgot her troubles.
6) Yes, I invented a backstory to explain why at the age of 16 Oberyn poisoned Lord Yronwood, one of the most powerful nobles in Dorne, for no apparent reason.
7) I'd like to thank HailMuffins, PA2, and ohnoitsmyra for helping me hone this chapter to perfection; they've also been incredible with helping me with other chapters and plot stuff :) the secret to great writing is time and teamwork