Early January 305
Content warning: brief smut. Canon-level graphic, but far more wholesome.
Meria Sand leaned back with a sigh, her belly full. What a relief it was, to have her moonblood over with. Each turn of the moon saw her forced to spend half a week abed, beset by cramps so painful they made her weep and vomit. But today the last traces of suffering were gone, save a lingering ache in her back.
The Mother Above was truly merciful. Today was an important day, one that could not be faced with an empty stomach. Meria had devoured her repast, enjoying every bite of toasted bread spread heavily with butter and peach jam, of soft eggs sprinkled with so much pepper it made Balerion sneeze as he crouched beneath her chair.
Now that Meria was finished, the serving maid took away the carved wooden tray just as briskly as she had brought it. She could not ask for a better maid than Rya, whom she had taken at mother Ellaria's recommendation. A Dornishwoman in her late twenties, Rya was competent, courteous, and best of all, close-lipped.
Though she had lost her head slightly when they reached Highgarden. Rya had always wanted to wait upon a princess. When she learned that she served not one of Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell's many bastard daughters, but the only trueborn daughter of Princess Elia Nymeros Martell and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, she had nearly fainted from excitement.
"Princess Rhaenys?" Megga Tyrell was so giddy she looked like to faint herself. A maiden of only seventeen, her plump cheeks flushed apple red as she grinned ear to ear. "May I dress you now?"
"You may," Rhaenys said graciously. She turned to the lady at Megga's side, a willowy girl of eighteen who shared Megga's straight brown hair. "Elinor, fetch the book from last night, and read from the passage where you left off."
"Yes, princess."
Whilst Elinor fetched the book, Megga set to work carefully, almost worshipfully. Like most ladies, Rhaenys broke her fast in only her sleeping shift and a well-worn bedrobe. Golden egg yolks soft as custard and sticky peach jam might be the food of the gods, but they were not kind to silk and lace. By the time Elinor returned, her cousin had removed the dirty sleeping shift and smallclothes, and helped Rhaenys step into fresh ones.
Good girls, both of them, already accustomed to service, Rhaenys thought, not for the first time. Waiting upon their cousin Margaery had trained them well; it would be a pity for such refinement to go to waste. Alas for them, when Margaery sent for ladies to join her at Winterfell, she had chosen only two, her favorite cousin Alla Tyrell, and her friend Meredyth Crane. No doubt she would have many more ladies-in-waiting, but they would be chosen from the wives and daughters of her husband Robb Stark's bannermen.
The bastard girl Meria Sand could not have even a single lady-in-waiting, lest she be thought to have ideas above her station. Rhaenys Targaryen had three; a pair of Tyrells, and her cousin Obella Sand, who was presently haunting the ravenry. Maester Lomys was a bent-backed old man who walked even more slowly than he talked; when the raven from Dragonstone came, she wished to receive its letter at once. If that meant consigning one of her ladies to the ravenry at all times, so be it.
Though she missed Obella's company. No, three ladies were not enough for Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. Seven, perhaps; a pious touch never went amiss. Choosing one's ladies required delicate balance, weighing not only the looks and demeanors of the ladies themselves, but the esteem of their families.
Properly, Elinor and Megga should have been beneath her notice, being only cousins of the main Tyrell line. Still, Elinor was witty, and newly wed to Ser Alyn Ambrose, the heir of his house. Megga's betrothed might be a mere Bulwer cousin, and she might be a terrible singer, but she was a sweet girl, skilled at needlework and at caring for her princess. She snagged barely a tangle as she combed out Rhaenys's hair, still damp from the bath she had taken before breakfast.
"Tomorrow, tomorrow, you'll be wedded on the morrow," Megga gushed happily as she combed. "Oh, it's so romantic!"
"It is," Rhaenys smiled. She was unable to resist the girl's good humor, even though Megga had interrupted Elinor's attempt to begin reading.
"Are you nervous for the bedding?" Elinor asked, the book forgotten. When she tilted her head, the light shone on her hair, elaborately plaited with ribbons as befit a woman wed. Megga paused her combing to stare enviously at the braids, her own frizzy hair in a simple maiden's braid with a jeweled brooch.
"Not particularly," Rhaenys admitted. "I am four-and-twenty, after all, and weary of waiting to be claimed by my true love."
As she expected, both girls heaved adoring sighs. Then Megga resumed combing, and Elinor reading aloud. Thank heavens she need not fear either growing too bold with Lord Willas during the bedding, no matter how much Arbor gold her ladies drank. Though Rhaenys suspected Alyn Ambrose would find himself a very happily married man. And it would doubtless take a stern matron to pry Megga off of Imry Bulwer, lest she do more than kiss her betrothed senseless.
When Megga finished with her hair, it hung loose and straight just past her shoulders, dark as night. Rhaenys' gown was of the same shade, with a bright scarlet bodice. The modest neckline was trimmed with Myrish lace, its only decoration. The seamstresses were already hard pressed to complete a suitable bride's gown with only a few moons to labor. The rest of her wardrobe could wait to be blazoned with dragons and flames and whatever touch she chose for her personal sigil.
A sunflower in the dragon's talons, perhaps, she thought as Megga placed a tiara atop her head, the silver set with fiery rubies.
Meria had loved the costume made for her to play Girasol the Glad, a lady from the Age of Heroes. For a hundred years Girasol had roamed the mountains of Dorne, in search of the sunflowers which would wake her betrothed from an enchanted sleep. The deep green silk had shone against Meria's golden skin, the yellow sunflowers and their seeds of jet reminding her to endure, as Girasol had.
But for now, Rhaenys must show the world a true Targaryen princess. A difficult task, when she had her mother's Dornish looks. As she lacked the purple eyes and silver hair which spoke of old Valyria, her attire must leave no doubt as to her blood. That meant naught but black and red, and touches of silver, like the girdle she wore at her waist, and the matching cloth-of-silver bag which dangled from it.
A love token from Lord Willas, Rhaenys had told her curious ladies. As they were not allowed to open the bag, they wondered endlessly as to its contents. In truth, it held no more than a bar of costly soap, wrapped in oilcloth.
"You look lovely, princess," Megga said dreamily when Elinor brought the looking glass.
A bit prone to exaggeration, was Megga, though her words were meant sincerely. The gown did flatter Rhaenys' shape, and the tiara made her dark amber eyes sparkle. But her nose was much too large, her skin prone to pimples, her height only middling, rather than tall and statuesque or winsomely short and dainty. No, she was not the equal of that bitch Cersei, or of clever Lady Margaery. Nor did she care to be. Being more beautiful meant receiving more lascivious attentions, and Meria had suffered enough of them for a lifetime back in King's Landing.
If bastard girls were harlots, and Dornishwomen sluts, why, then a Dornish bastard must be the most wanton woman in the Seven Kingdoms, eager to share her cunt with any passing knave. Unwelcome hands and mouths had made bold with Meria far too often, even those of a few of the men she had cultivated as allies. Thank the gods she had been able to keep all of them at bay. The lords she refused with soft words, the knights and squires with hard slaps and a request to Prince Oberyn, who proceeded to find an excuse to beat them senseless in the yard.
"Princess?"
"Thank you, Megga," Rhaenys said firmly, returning to the present. "Elinor, my qithara."
Mindful of the tiara and of her silk skirts, Rhaenys was careful indeed as she bent to scratch Balerion behind a tattered ear. He mewled sleepily, his rough tongue licking her finger. The dear old beast slept most of the day, too old and stiff to do much else. Though he could still fight, when roused; no other cat dared cross the threshold to her chambers.
Whilst her ladies stitched scarlet dragons upon bands of black silk trim, Rhaenys tuned her qithara, her ears pricked for the sound of a knock at the door. The raven must come soon. Her brother should have reached Dragonstone before the new year, and that was ten days past. Did King Aegon's banners already fly from the battlements, or had some calamity struck him upon the sea?
No, she must not fret over her brother. It was hard, though. Olyvar had given her the bloodwood qithara for her sixteenth nameday. Even a bastard son of the Red Viper could not afford so costly a gift on his own; he had convinced their sisters to contribute sums from their own allowances.
Cousins, not sisters, Rhaenys reminded herself, strumming the qithara.
How she wished she could have all of them about her, as they once were in the Water Gardens. Now she had only Obella. Obella Sand was a maiden of sixteen, fond of poetry and daydreams and sleeping late. The chance to see Highgarden and enjoy the chivalry of the Reach had summoned her from Salt Shore and her Gargalen betrothed, who was a squire of thirteen, but when Bors came of age... Obella might wish to continue in her service after she married, or she might choose to return to Salt Shore, or Sunspear.
Save for Obella, all of her sis- cousins were in Dorne. Pious, poised Tyene was in Sunspear, serving as Princess Arianne's closest confidant. After the wedding, she owed both of her cousins letters, personal ones, with nary a mention of war or politics. She might ask how Tyene was getting on with the portrait of Uncle Doran she was embroidering as a gift for Arianne's nameday.
And Rhaenys should like to know whether Arianne was recovered yet from bearing her second child back in fifth moon. Delonne, they had named her, for her consort Ser Lewyn Allyrion's mother. Her birth had gone much harder than that of her elder sister. Odd, that. Both maesters and midwives agreed that the first labor was usually the hardest, but Arianne had birthed Eliandra quickly, with little fuss. Her heir was three now, and thriving, despite a bout of grippe which had caused some concern.
Not nearly so much concern as Rhaenys felt when a flock of ravens arrived from Oldtown ten days past, on the last night of the old year. Maester Lomys had not been pleased when the Lord of Highgarden commanded the maester to give his letters to his betrothed if she should ask. Rhaenys did not give a fig for the old man's annoyance; if she could soften the blow of any ill news, she was glad to do it.
And oh, what dreadful news the ravens had brought. They had descended upon Highgarden just before midnight, their wings as black as death. Dark words were writ on the letters they carried, of ironborn longships, of a jade dragon ridden by a madman, of dragonfire upon the city, upon the Starry Sept, the Hightower, and the Citadel alike.
By the time the attack ended, Willas had lost a grandfather and an aunt. Meria feared she had lost a sister too, until she caught sight of a letter with an orange seal, a sphinx pressed into the wax. Gods be praised, her sister Sarella had escaped with only a few burns, taken when she helped rescue a pile of old tomes from the hungry flames. The archmaesters had been less lucky; their tower had been one of the first to bear the dragon's wroth.
No doubt Obara would be delighted at the damage to the city she hated so well. The guests of some lucky tavern would enjoy a round of wine at her expense as she got fearsomely drunk and taught new oaths to everyone in hearing. She did know some rather impressive oaths, though Rhaenys never used them save within her thoughts.
Unlike Elia Sand, who had taken to repeating them at whim, as brazen as only a girl of eighteen could be. Dorea and Loreza were impressionable girls, apt to follow her lead and become hellions like Lady Lance. To forestall that, a perturbed Ellaria had put her daughter Elia under her namesake Princess Elia's supervision. A single oath, and she would find her toes at the mercy of her aunt's wheeled chair.
Rhaenys strummed the qithara, taking up a happier tune. Oh, but she could not wait to see her mother once more. After the wedding, she and Willas would take the rose road east, bound for King's Landing. Princess Elia was already on her way there, having joined the Dornish host riding north up the Boneway. Much as her mother hated traveling by wayn, she was determined to be there to see the city fall to King Aegon, to see her son rise over the rubble of Tywin Lannister's legacy when his golden daughter and his bastard grandson were finally cast down.
Prince Oberyn was no less eager. They had left King's Landing as soon as they dared after the massacre at the masked ball. Whilst Rhaenys and her escort rode west for Highgarden, her uncle had galloped south to Sunspear, desperate to see his beloved paramour and his daughters.
If only they could have brought all their Dornishmen with them without rousing suspicion! Ellaria's father, Lord Harmen Uller, was as beloved as if he were her grandfather by blood, as was his brother Ser Ulwyck. Lord Dagos Manwoody and his brother Ser Myles were her kin by blood, her great-uncles; Lord Dagos's wife Corinna had given her some of her first lessons in music during a visit to Kingsgrave.
Lady Cedra Santagar had helped her father find and secure much of the gold which Petyr Baelish had stolen from the royal treasury; her husband Ser Aron Santagar had quietly tolerated the mockery of those who presumed his wife had taken up sleeping with a viper. Lady Larra Blackmont she knew less well, for the lady preferred to keep to herself. But she was a good woman, nonetheless, so loyal and trustworthy that she had sent her two eldest children off with Olyvar despite not knowing the true aims of his voyage.
All of the Dornish lords and ladies were supposed to have left King's Landing as soon as rumors of King Aegon's fleet reached the city. Disavowing the pretender as a feigned boy might keep them safe for a little while, whilst Princess Elia kept her silence, but when the day came when she claimed her son for true... they must be far, far from the city before then. Gods forbid Cersei realize that the Dornish host marching north was not coming to defend King Tommen as Prince Oberyn claimed.
Alas, a bout of grippe that swept through the Red Keep had prevented that, and slain Ser Myles Manwoody into the bargain. Then an ice storm had descended upon the city; Blackwater Bay was impassable now, thanks to the perilous chunks of floating ice which choked its waters, and the streets of King's Landing were slick with black ice. She could only pray that the Dornish had succeeded in finally slipping from the city during the chaos of the new year festivities as they had planned. If not... nothing would stop Cersei Lannister from turning on them. She turned on everyone in the end, the vicious cunt.
The qithara gave a jarring twang. In her anger, Rhaenys had snapped one of the sheep's gut strings. When Elinor fetched her a new one, she set to stringing the qithara with a gracious smile. She needed it, to hide the fact that she was thinking the most violent oaths she knew.
None of them felt adequate to describe Cersei Lannister, the smug, cruel, greedy bitch. Lord Tremond Gargalen had not deserved to die so meaningless a death, cut down for no other reason than to make the attack of the queen's feigned northmen seem more real. As if it were not made only so Cersei might watch Lord Mace Tyrell bleed out in her arms, sobbing so hard she almost seemed to laugh, her wildfire eyes blazing.
Poor Ser Daemon Sand had been injured too. His leg would never be the same, not after a fall into the moat which sent a spike through his calf. Ser Daemon was still hobbling about on crutches when King Tommen shipped him off to Dragonstone. Lord Tarly misliked having a Dornishman in the Kingsguard, let alone a bastard suspected of sharing the Red Viper's bed. His crippling made a fine excuse to send Ser Daemon to share Ser Arys Oakheart's task of guarding Princess Myrcella.
How helpful Lord Tarly was. Rhaenys had not liked relying on cousin Trystane, a squire of seventeen, to receive the many letters supposedly sent by the Sand Snakes, written in cipher to disguise their true meaning behind what appeared to be useless prattle. Ser Daemon was far more reliable, and well placed to ensure Dragonstone surrendered when King Aegon arrived.
Rhaenys plucked the string, frowned, then set to tuning it. Had he arrived? When Nymeria Sand returned to Sunspear back in ninth moon, she had sworn their brother's fleet should reach Westeros by the middle of twelfth moon. But with storms churning up and down the narrow sea...
The string twanged; Rhaenys shook her head and tried again.
Nym had been almost as stormy as the sea, judging by the exceptional venom in the letter which she had sent along with Olyvar's reports and commands. Even Obara could not hold a grudge like Nym. Her hatred of Oldtown was a passing thing, forgotten until it came to mind.
Nym, though, Nym would sulk, and worry at a grievance like a bitch at a bone. Nevermind that Empress Daenerys might have had her head on a spike for daring to attack a member of her court, seemingly unprovoked. No, Olyvar was the stupidest, most cowardly of brothers, for daring to shove Nym into the harbor and confine her to her chambers until they left Mele Nernar.
Rhaenys plucked the string, drawing forth a clear, sweet note.
It did not surprise her that Olyvar should write so calmly of Lady Irri, who had considered murdering him lest he turn against her beloved queen. Olly was always a bit too easygoing as a boy, quick to place himself in another's shoes, and even quicker to forgive.
Her little brother Olyvar had been a shy and awkward child, never comfortable with pomp or crowds. Some bastard boys dreamed of a keep and lands of their own; Olyvar was not one of them. The Water Gardens and the Old Palace were his home, his only ambition to be a household knight in service to his trueborn kin. He clung to his family like a limpet, and to Deziel Dalt, once the boys became fast friends.
Olyvar's sisters had taken advantage of his mild nature, as had Princess Elia and Prince Oberyn. Dutifully, if somewhat grudgingly, her brother had learned the spear and sword, law and history, and all the other things a future king should know, never suspecting what lay in store. Cousin Quentyn was said to be just as dutiful, though Rhaenys did not know him well.
Although... Rhaenys plucked a string thoughtfully. She had never heard anyone speak of Quentyn having a temper. Olyvar, however... His usual humor was calm and earnest, with a tendency for witticisms that made children laugh and adults groan. On the rare occasions his anger flared, though, Seven help the subject of his ire.
Once, Ellaria had undertaken to lay upon Olyvar the solemn duties of a knight to protect the weak. He was a boy of ten; she had meant no more than to bid him keep an eye on his younger sisters as they played in the Water Gardens. Somehow, however, Olyvar had taken Ellaria to mean that all the younger children fell under his purview.
It had seemed sweet, when Olly began circling the Water Gardens like a skinny, knobby kneed hawk. Less sweet, a few days later, when an older boy shoved a younger one, who fell and smashed his face against a fountain. Never mind that the elder boy was twice Olly's size. Olyvar had gone into a fury, kneed the older boy in the groin, ordered him to apologize, and then forced him to go fetch a maester to see to the boy he had shoved. The next day, Olly had happily played with both boys in the waves, the offense forgiven and forgotten.
Olyvar had been equally determined to forget the secret Princess Elia revealed to them on his sixteenth nameday. He absolutely refused to speak of it, and then only to make excuses. Dorne could not fight six kingdoms alone, could they? No, surely not, so his birth did not matter, not at all. King Robert was hale and hearty, with two sons and two brothers to come after him, and the favor of the smallfolk and of the mighty lords. It would be suicidal for Dorne to seek to place a Targaryen upon the Iron Throne.
Dorne had quietly rejoiced at King Robert's death less than a year later, laughing at the rumors of his cuckolding by Cersei and the bastardy of his children. Olyvar, however, had not smiled or made one of his awful japes for months. When the Lannisters invited Prince Doran to King's Landing, only a direct order from his lady mother had gotten Olyvar to join Prince Oberyn's retinue. Olyvar was an obedient son; never in his life had he dared go against Princess Elia, Lady Ellaria, or Prince Oberyn.
Until, suddenly, he did. And at the worst possible moment, the gallant fool. True, Olyvar's defeat of the Ser Gregor Clegane in single combat was the stuff of songs, but Strongspear the Squire might just have easily been The Mountain Who Crushed a Sand. There would be no more of that reckless nonsense, not if Rhaenys had anything to say about it.
Thank the gods that she was his favorite sister. Olyvar was a babe in the woods; he needed her, as he always had. Intelligent he might be, attentive and diligent, but he was also prone to taking action before considering the consequences. He was a terrible liar and a worse schemer, though that was somewhat remedied by his impressive ability to keep his mouth shut. And Olly loathed being the center of attention, though where some boys might stammer or shake, he hid his nerves beneath a murderous stare.
Rhaenys finished the song with a flourish, and took up another.
Really, the gods might have been kinder to make him the woman, and her the man. She would never be so foolish as to consider yielding her rightful crown to a foreign queen. Not that it would have come to that, of course, not with Ser Deziel Dalt and Nymeria Sand around to remind Olyvar of his duty.
Although... were she in Olyvar's place, she would have had to claim a dragon, and the very notion was enough to make her shudder. As a girl, Meria cared little for lizards or snakes, to the disappointment of half her sisters, and the amusement of the other half, who put them in her bed. Heights were even worse. She would sooner fuck every weasel-faced Frey that was ever born than stand atop the Hightower and look down, let alone mount a dragon and fly above the earth.
Her fingers faltered. If only Viserion was the only dragon she must needs fear. No one had seen Euron Greyjoy and his jade dragon since they left Oldtown, the dragon barely able to fly, his wings near shredded. Had they landed in some lonely grove to lick their wounds? Or had they fallen from the sky, their mangled bodies not yet found?
Rhaenys forced herself to resume playing, before her ladies noticed her dismay. It was no use fretting over matters beyond her ken or control. Better to think of some matter she might solve, like the absurd knot that was her brother's marriage.
Why, of all things, must Olyvar get the bit in his teeth about doing his duty in the marital bed? Sansa Stark seemed a lovely girl, and her mother Catelyn Tully had been impressively fertile. If Olyvar had gotten his wife with child as soon as the maesters thought her ready, he would already have an heir, perhaps even a spare. But no, of course things could not be that simple. Olyvar had to get it into his thick head that consummating his marriage would somehow be a betrayal of both his honor and that of his lady wife.
Damn his qualms, and damn Rhaegar for giving them to him. Rhaenys did not give a shit for her brother's precious misgivings; it was well past time he got over them. She certainly had. A few smashed harps and a toad sigil were enough to vent her feelings, and then she had turned to the future. If need be, she would march Olyvar to his wife's bedchamber herself, and stand outside the door every night until Sansa Stark was plump as a partridge with his babe.
But if Olyvar died before he got his queen with child... Rhaenys bit her lip, and tried to focus on the qithara, on plucking sweet notes from the strings. So what if her brother had never gone into battle before? The Seven helped him survive Volantis and Mele Nernar; surely Dragonstone would not prove the end of him.
Cersei Lannister was not Daenerys Targaryen, nor even Euron Greyjoy. She had neither dragons nor devoted followers; the smallfolk despised her even more than they loved poor Tommen. The merest semblance of competent governance would be enough to secure King Aegon's rule, a return to the peaceful days of King Robert Baratheon and King Aerys Targaryen before him, but with a far better man upon the Iron Throne.
A cold wind rattled at the shutters; despite the warmth of the room, Rhaenys shivered. Force of arms might easily remove the Lannisters from power, but the winter... in his letters, Olyvar seemed to fear that above all else, save the Others and their wights. Strange, that he should be so afraid. He never saw a wight, not like Rhaenys had.
Five years had passed since Meria Sand stood in the throne room of the Old Palace, and beheld a black brother and his dead man in chains. It seemed a distant nightmare, one that faded with each passing day. Princess Arianne was still sending Dornish fruit and fish to the Night's Watch, who claimed a host of wights stood massed beyond the Wall, but that troubled her little and less. Thousands and thousands of years the Wall had stood, keeping the realms of men safe from the monsters who lurked in the dark.
Should the Night's Watch require more men, the King in the North was upon their doorstep. Robb Stark had never lost a battle, and the Lord Commander Jon Snow surely shared his skill, being his bastard brother. If his goodbrothers required King Aegon's assistance, that was for the best. She doubted aught else would convince the proud northmen to kneel.
Varys had called himself a spider, crawling upon the webs that held the realm together. Rhaenys knew better. Her work was no spider's web, to be woven and then sat upon, waiting for a tasty fly. It was a composition upon the qithara, the notes chosen with care. If her playing should go amiss, why, she need only shift her fingers to cover the mistake, to glide past it as if it were done on purpose. Granted, it was even better when one had a troupe of musicians, who could help cover when one's fingers faltered.
Rhaenys had just taken up a new tune when a knock came at the door. Obella entered like a graceful whirlwind. Her smooth brown cheeks were flushed, strands of loose dark hair stuck out where they had escaped from her copper hairnet, and she bore three letters clutched tightly in her hand.
One letter was addressed to Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, one to Lord Willas Tyrell, and one to the lords of the Reach, but all three bore the same seal of parti-colored wax. To the left soared a phoenix upon a deep blue sky; to the right roared a three-headed dragon upon a field black as night. Well, so much for helping her brother choose his sigil, but Rhaenys was too relieved to take offense.
The letter to herself she opened first, reading so quickly the words seemed to blur and dance across the page. Dragonstone was theirs! King Aegon's banners had flown from its battlements since a few days after the new year, when he had taken the castle without losing a single man. Aunt Mellario and cousin Trystane were safe; Princess Myrcella and Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard were held captive.
Next she opened the letter to Willas. It proved brief, little more than courtesies and well wishes for a fruitful marriage, and for their journey to King's Landing to prove easy so that King Aegon might see his beloved sister and goodbrother as soon as possible. If only blessings could cure a bad knee! Much as he loved riding, Willas could not mount a horse unaided, and long days in the saddle cost him dearly.
The last letter was writ in an unfamiliar hand, that of some maester or scribe. The ravenry at Dragonstone must be empty, every bird sent forth to spread King Aegon's word across the realm. In bold words the letter declared the coming of Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, whose mother had sent her children to safety long before the fall of King's Landing.
To Rhaenys's satisfaction, there was no mention of Olyvar or Meria Sand. That was for the best; hopefully Cersei Lannister would not piece together how thoroughly she had been deceived until the last of the Dornish were far, far from the city. A pity, that Rhaenys could not see the bitch's face when she realized that two and two made four.
For now, though, she must needs take these letters to her Willas.
Light shone through high arched windows as Rhaenys made her way to her betrothed's solar, her ladies following in her train. Three strong curtain walls of white stone might ring Highgarden, along with the briar labyrinth which boasted thorns long as daggers, but the castle they defended was built for beauty. She walked past ornate tapestries of Garth Greenhand and his many sons and daughters, past shallow niches wherein stood statues of fair maids and handsome knights. The knights wore armor, the maids little more than garlands of fruits and flowers and coy smiles.
The sight of them made Rhaenys walk just a little faster. When she reached the lord's solar, she dismissed her ladies to the sept, where she would meet with them anon. Much as she would like to, she could not remain with Willas all day.
When she entered the solar, it was to find Willas behind his desk, frowning over a parchment. A quill was in his hand; pots of ink, a washcloth, and a flagon of water sat at his elbow. A gentle snow was falling in the window behind his chair, soft as a lover's kiss, soft as the light of the stained glass lamps that hung over his head.
Many men might prefer quiet when they worked, but never Willas. As usual, one of Highgarden's many singers stood beside the hearth, strumming a lute. Rickard of Ashby, if she recalled aright. His ginger hair was as distinctive as the absurdly deep voice which issued forth from his lanky frame as he began a new song.
"My lady and I are no strangers to love—"
The Lord of Highgarden waved his hand, and the singer went silent. A deep bow to the lord, another to the princess, and he departed, leaving them to speak privily. Willas set aside his quill, his brow furrowed, one hand running through his tumble of chestnut curls.
"What news, my lady?"
"The Seven are with us," Rhaenys assured him, handing him the letters. "Dragonstone is ours."
Relief swept over her betrothed's face; his brown eyes shone like polished mahogany. Whilst he opened the letters, Rhaenys settled herself into a chair, glad for its plush velvet seat. She would be waiting a while, she knew. Willas would not speak a word until he had read each letter slowly, deliberately, every word fully digested and considered.
While she waited, Rhaenys considered her betrothed. Willas Tyrell might not share his brother Garlan's muscles, nor his brother Loras's startling beauty, but he was still one of the most attractive men she'd ever seen. His close-trimmed beard suited his face; his rich green doublet perfectly fit his frame.
Rhaenys was displeased, though not surprised, when she noticed the remains of a half-eaten breakfast sitting upon his desk. Silly man; he needed his strength. Who cared if he someday had a belly like his sire's? It was not his fault that he could not take exercise in the yard, nor ride as often as he would like. The Mother Above knows, my belly will hardly stay flat after I bear his children, she thought with a sidelong glance at the flagon of water and the washcloth.
She could only pray that when that day came, Willas would still love her as well as he did now. Prince Oberyn had thrown Rhaenys at him as one might dangle a carrot before a horse, as she had realized perhaps an hour after she learned of her true parentage. Sweet Willas did not seem to care that he had been so deliberately ensnared, bless his romantic nature. When he thought her Meria, a mere bastard girl, he had vowed to remain forever unwed, and die with her name upon his lips.
What poetic rubbish, she thought fondly. Doubtless time would have put paid to that; the day would have come when their letters dwindled, then ceased. But when Prince Oberyn entrusted him with the secret of her birth... well. Men always wanted what lay just beyond their grasp. The few letters he dared send her in King's Landing were full of passion and promises, of dreams for the day when they might love openly.
And then, suddenly, everything had gone wrong. Cersei was not supposed to let Margaery and Tommen wed; her very nature revolted at the idea of sharing her son with another queen. Rhaenys had known the bitch must be up to some ill-advised devilry, but she never would have dreamt she would go so far as to have Mace Tyrell murdered in the heart of Maegor's Holdfast.
It had taken Ser Arron Qorgyle over a fortnight to ride from King's Landing to Highgarden, far behind the raven and the letter it carried full of Lannister lies. During the long, terrible days betwixt raven and courier, Willas had thought he had lost not only a father, but a brother and sister too. When Rhaenys's letter came, he learned of their escape, but little else. She could tell him nothing of Margaery and Loras's whereabouts, only that Aurane Waters had born them away on a stolen ship.
Winterfell, of all places. Rhaenys shook her head. She had not predicted that. If anything, she expected Margaery to sail for Highgarden to seek safety amongst her kin. Granted, it was much easier for Cersei to send hired knives to Highgarden than to Winterfell. One could hardly get any further from Cersei's wrath, unless Margaery decided to become a wildling and live beyond the Wall, or to become a concubine for the Emperor of Yi Ti.
Thankfully, Ser Loras Tyrell remained utterly predictable. Practically the moment Margaery was wed, her brother rode south with a company of freeriders, bent on vengeance against Lord Randyll Tarly, whom he blamed for his father's overthrow. As well he might, with Talla Tarly taking Margaery's place at Tommen's side, the poor girl. Lord Randyll Tarly could not abandon Cersei Lannister now, not if he wanted his blood to someday sit the Iron Throne.
Not that he would get his wish. Cersei had not called her banners until rumor came of King Aegon's fleet, and by then Garlan Tyrell had already gathered a host of his own, drawn from the Tyrell's staunchest bannermen. Redwyne and Rowan, Fossoway and Beesbury, Ambrose and Crane, Meadows and Peake, Costayne and Bulwer, all had risen the moment Lord Willas declared Cersei Lannister's treachery against Lord Mace, not to mention the bastardy of her son.
Alas, some fools had answered Lord Tarly's call instead. Lady Oakheart had received choice lands from King Tommen after the fall of Stannis, and her youngest son Ser Arys Oakheart was a member of the Kingsguard. The Blackbars of Bandallon were half Florent, hopeful of receiving Brightwater Keep if the lion should trample the rose. Lord Cuy remained furious at Loras, who had slain his son Ser Emmon; Lord Martyn Mullendore was fast friends with Randyll Tarly, as were the southern lords Varner, Shermer, Graceford, and Cockshaw.
As matters stood, Tarly would receive few of the men he so desperately needed. Only Lord Graceford and Lord Cockshaw, whose lands were near the eastern edge of the Dornish marches, had managed to march for King's Landing. And their hosts were smaller than they might have been; Lord Meadows and his small host had waited upon the rose road to bar their way, and put up a gallant fight before being overwhelmed.
The lords whose keeps lay further south, in the western foothills of the Red Mountains, were less fortunate. The rose road passed by Highgarden, and Garlan Tyrell was more than ready to give them a bloody welcome. Lord Varner was sulking in his captivity, Lord Mullendore had bent the knee only after taking a wound that seemed like to be mortal, and Lord Shermer was already dead, as was his heir, both of them slain by Lord Titus Peake in single combat. The Sunhouse, the seat of House Cuy, was besieged by the Costaynes; Lord Blackbar had tried to take his host and that of the Oakhearts south by sea, only to be caught by Lord Paxter Redwyne in the Redwyne Straits.
Rhaenys resisted the urge to worry at her lip. She had hoped by now Lord Redwyne would be taking his ships east, to support King Aegon. True, there was always Lord Selwyn of Tarth's little fleet, but Lord Selwyn was not to be relied upon, not after the bout of grippe which left him weak and weary, the command of his ships entrusted to a cousin. But the loss of his goodbrother Mace had shaken Lord Paxter badly; he refused to stir from his home waters until he received commands directly from King Aegon.
When Willas finally set down the letters with a sigh, it was with a line creasing his brow. That would not do, not at all. Why, only yesterday he had smiled to hear of the birth of Desmera Redwyne's twins, a pair of healthy girls whom she had proudly presented to her husband Ser Mors Manwoody. Lord Tywin must have been furious when Prince Oberyn swooped in to secure Lord Paxter's daughter for a Dornishman, rather than for Ser Daven Lannister, whom Lord Tywin had foolishly gifted a Frey bride.
Old as the victory was, it still tasted sweet, so sweet she could not help chuckling.
"What is it?" Willas asked, bemused.
"I was just thinking," Rhaenys said. "Lord Tywin's dream has come true." She leaned forward with a mischievous smile, so that Willas might have the view that was meant for only him. "Though not, I think, in the manner he intended. He wished for the Reach and Dorne to play nicely, and so we are."
As she had hoped, Willas glanced down her bodice. Flat-chested or not, he seemed to like her bosom well enough. He smiled as he raised an eyebrow, his brown eyes warm.
"I should like to play with my sunflower even more nicely, if I may have leave to stroke her petals."
"Gladly," she said, breathless. Rhaenys would have laughed, were her betrothed not so sincere, and were she not aware of the pleasure which was in store.
As usual, arranging themselves took a moment. Willas backed his chair away from his desk, giving her room to sit upon his lap. Rhaenys took care to perch in a manner which did not place strain upon his bad knee. He had rested it for days in preparation for their wedding, and she had rarely seen the swelling so low.
Once she was settled on his lap, Willas set to kissing her, one hand in her hair, until they were both aching with want. Then, he began unlacing her bodice slowly with one hand, the other sliding up beneath her skirts. Being pious did not make one a eunuch, and while he might be a romantic, Willas was still a man, with a man's needs—
"Do that again," she said. By the Mother's swollen teats, he knew what he was doing. Thank the gods for whichever of his discreet mistresses over the years had taught him that trick.
"What, my lady?" Willas said innocently, palming a bare breast. "This?"
"Not that," she said, exasperated. Her betrothed smirked, then moved his other hand in precisely the same motion as before. That provoked a gasp, one that made him smirk even wider.
"Just you wait," Rhaenys panted as Willas resumed his work. His fingers set a steady rhythm between her legs; his mouth bent to her bosom. "When we can use a bed—" she bit off a little scream as he suckled at her breast, hard, just the way she liked, with a hint of teeth and a flutter of tongue.
"You'll take your vengeance, I'm sure," Willas said, his breath ragged. "For now though, perhaps a hint of what is to come?"
Neither dared risk her maidenhead, but there were other things one might do, as they had found since almost the instant the betrothal contract was signed. Thank the Seven that Willas's favorite chair had no arms; it was easy to straddle him as he unlaced, then gripped her hips, pulling her down. Her skirts draped over them both, an illusion of modesty as they pressed skin to skin, his manhood snug between her thighs. Riding a man was not so different than riding a horse, and far more enjoyable, even if Rhaenys could not yet mount him as she would like.
Messier, too, once they were finished. The flagon of water and the washcloth were put to good use, as was the bar of soap that hung in the bag at her waist, and a dab of perfume spiced with nutmeg. Her bodice and his breeches were deftly laced and straightened, her hair smoothed. No one might have guessed that anything improper happened, nothing at all, especially after they spent the next hour talking of the letters.
"Are you sure you wish to handle my grandmother by yourself?" Willas asked when she rose to leave. "I might go with you, or alone."
"I thank you, my lord, but no," Rhaenys said firmly. The Queen of Thorns did not come when called, and she would not have her betrothed climbing all those stairs, not the day before their wedding.
"As you please, then." Willas sighed. "My lady mother is still in the sept; might you attend her first? I would, but—" he gestured to the papers piled on his desk, and to his bad knee.
"My ladies are already with her," she assured him.
Indeed, when Rhaenys reached the sept, she found Megga, Elinor, and Obella kneeling beside four of Lady Alerie's ladies, girls and matrons alike bowing their heads in prayer. Even though the bells would soon toll noon, the Hour of the Mother, Lady Alerie knelt before the altar of the Stranger. She knelt there every day, since the news came from Oldtown of the deaths of her father Lord Leyton Hightower and her sister Lady Malora.
With soft steps Rhaenys made her way to the other altars, lighting candles at each. To the Father she lit a candle for the scales of justice to be balanced, for House Targaryen to triumph over House Lannister at last. To the Mother she lit a candle for her own mother, Princess Elia; to the Maiden she lit a candle for each of her cousins. Not all of them were maidens, but all unmarried women fell under the Maiden's protection. To the Smith she lit a candle for Ser Daemon Sand, praying for his leg to mend; to the Crone she lit a candle for herself, praying for wisdom; to the Warrior she lit a candle for Olyvar, praying that he would survive his battles.
Only then did she come to the Stranger's altar. Many candles already flickered beneath the statue of a cowled figure, among the wilted vines at its feet, and she lit many more. The first two she lit for Gawaen and Jonquil, as her mother taught her. Next she lit candles for Uncle Doran, for her great-uncle Ser Myles Manwoody, and for gruff Lord Tremond Gargalen. Last she lit candles for her betrothed's kin, for Lord Mace Tyrell, whom she had failed, and for Lord Leyton Hightower and his daughter Malora, who dared to take a dragon by the tail.
"Willas worries too much," Lady Alerie rasped when Rhaenys knelt beside her. Alerie Hightower might wear the red-rimmed eyes and plain black garb of mourning, but her back was proud and straight, her long silver braid as smooth as silk.
"He would not be Willas if he did not, my lady," Rhaenys said gently. "Have you broken your fast today?"
"I will, when the sun goes down." Lady Alerie paused, her tongue wetting her dry lips. "A cup of water would not go amiss, I suppose."
A glance to Obella, and off the girl went, though not before dipping a deep curtsy.
"A good girl, for being baseborn," Lady Alerie said, her expression slightly pinched. "Though I suppose I cannot protest her place among your ladies, not after my sister Malora's blasphemies."
Rhaenys bit back a sigh of annoyance. Oh, by the Smith's bulbous, weeping hammer. This again?
"Blood magic, of all things," Alerie scolded, as if the dead could hear. "When The Seven-Pointed Star explicitly forbids it, in the Book of the Warrior and in the Book of the Stranger! How is Lord Baelor supposed to call himself the Protector of the Starry Sept when our father and sister profane our family's good name? What must the Most Devout think of us?"
"I do not know, my lady," Rhaenys said tactfully.
Truth be told, Rhaenys rather thought the Most Devout had more immediate concerns. Euron Greyjoy's first target had been the Starry Sept, of which little remained save for molten slag. High Septon Torbert was dead, as were many of the Most Devout, the survivors weakened by burns and by the smoke which had charred their lungs. Who knew when they would find the strength to choose a new High Septon from their midst; they were certainly not about to bow before Luceon Frey.
"None of this would have happened if King Robert had dealt with the ironborn properly," Lady Alerie sniffled, dabbing at her eyes with a black handkerchief. "Lord Balon and all the rest of those vile reavers should be been scorched from the isles."
"King Robert did burn down Lordsport, as I recall," said Rhaenys, slightly thrown by the sudden change of topic. "And they say Pyke is an utter ruin. Greyjoy slew his own brothers, and made another Harrenhal of the keep where he was born, scorching it beyond repair."
"Hmph." Lady Alerie frowned, tucking away the handkerchief. "Not scorched enough. I suppose your kingly brother might finish the job, if Asha Greyjoy lacks the sense to kneel. Or even if she does; the ironborn never keep their oaths."
Rhaenys blinked at Lady Alerie, completely poleaxed. Bugger the Warrior with his own bloody spear. Was Lady Alerie always so bloodthirsty, or only on special occasions?
"I shall relay your wishes to King Aegon," Rhaenys promised.
Though really, she could not imagine Olyvar doing such a thing. Asha Greyjoy might have made herself a driftwood crown and named herself Queen of Salt and Rock, with Ten Towers on Harlaw as her seat, but a woman sensible enough to raid for grain and cattle instead of thralls seemed likely to bend the knee, not risk burning as her uncles had.
Perhaps, if the gods were good, the jade dragon would turn on his rider, and eat him before Euron Greyjoy had the chance to burn any other cities. Or, gods forbid, to fight Olyvar again. Viserion had not bested Rhaegal the last time, only lured him to waiting archers. If it came to open battle...
Rhaenys rose to her feet, smoothing her skirts so Lady Alerie would not think anything amiss. She could do nothing about Rhaegal, save ask that any word of him be relayed to Dragonstone. She could, however, handle the she-dragon brooding in her lair, and it was well past time she did.
When Rhaenys left the sept, it was with a tail of two young girls and four prim matrons. She might not wish to pull Lady Alerie from her mourning, but only a fool would have refused her offer of support.
It took a certain sort of woman to live with Olenna Redwyne for nigh on thirty years. Alerie Hightower was no scullery maid, to meekly bow before Lady Olenna's sharp tongue. She was the Lady of Highgarden, mistress of the household, and she knew it. The gossips all agreed that while the two ladies might present an amiable facade before outsiders, they had waged a courteous war ever since Lady Alerie wed Lord Mace.
Rhaenys allowed herself a sigh as she climbed the steps of the Rose Tower, the highest in the keep. Willas kept his chambers near the base of the tower, so as to be closer to the Great Hall and the other places he must visit on an almost daily basis. Other lords of Highgarden had done the same, those who were cripples, or who lived to advanced age, and could no longer abide the strain of climbing so many stairs.
But Lady Olenna, almost eighty, still refused to give the chambers she once shared with Lord Luthor, whose windows looked down upon all of Highgarden. Willas swore his grandmother could still handle the stairs on occasion, if she so wished. As it was, she did not. Lady Olenna had not descended from her chambers since her son's death, nor allowed Rhaenys to gain admittance.
On the morrow, she will descend, Rhaenys vowed, her cheeks flushed from the exertion of the climb. She would not have the old termagent cause Willas any further pain, nor undermine King Aegon's cause by withholding her blessing of his sister's marriage to her grandson.
Even the most sturdy of alliances could crumble from within, if cracks were allowed to grow unheeded. Olenna Redwyne might have no banners to call, no army of retainers, but she was neither senile nor toothless. Doubtless she had forgotten more about the politics of the Reach than Rhaenys might hope to learn in a year. Sowing doubt was child's play, and Olenna was as canny as Cersei Lannister thought herself to be. No, a canker could not be suffered to infest the garden, not when she and Willas would soon be gone, leaving others to tend it in their absence.
As always, they found Arryk and Erryk Flowers standing guard outside Lady Olenna's door. Identical twins, their looks were as matched as their green and gold livery. Seven feet tall, they loomed over the ladies, their deep blue eyes and ginger mustaches inherited from the Redwyne cousin who had sired them upon a smith's wife with the build of a bull. Left and Right, Lady Olenna called them. She might believe in taking on any stray kin who might venture from the Arbor, but she could not be bothered to tell them apart, even though the two were little alike beyond their looks.
"Princess," they said in unison, bowing. A little smile tugged at Arryk's lips, whilst Erryk frowned as he itched at his mustache. Rya said he would have liked to shave it off, were it not for his fear of Lady Olenna's wrath.
"Her ladyship is not taking guests, m'lady," Erryk said apologetically.
His gaze drifted uneasily to her tail; his eyes widened as he recognized Lady Alys Beesbury, Lady Jeyne Fossoway, Lady Emma Rowan, and Lady Rohanne Costayne. All four matrons looked back at him, unimpressed.
"Is she not?" Lady Emma said, one eyebrow raised.
"Lady Alerie said she was," said Lady Jeyne. "It would be a pity, were there to be some misunderstanding."
Arryk swallowed, giving the door a nervous look. "A pity, yes, m'lady, but Lady Olenna was quite clear."
Oh, by the Crone's saggy left teat, Rhaenys thought, irritated.
"My good men," she said, giving the guards a pleasant smile. "Your loyalty speaks well of you. However, Lord Willas was most insistent that I speak with his grandmother today. If her ladyship should take it amiss, there are places for you in my service, with a higher wage." She paused. "And you would have my leave to groom your hair and beards however you like."
The sound of the guards scuffling to open the door was one of the sweetest she'd ever heard.
Rhaenys swept into the room feeling as if she walked on air, her ladies flanking her. Much as their support lent her strength, she felt almost guilty as she glanced about Lady Olenna's solar. The chairs placed in a crescent about the fire were empty, all of them, save that upon which Lady Olenna sat.
By the wall stood a serving maid almost as old and wrinkled as her mistress. Her arms trembled as she reached up to dust the gilded frame of a portrait of Lord Mace Tyrell, which took pride of place amongst portraits of all Lady Olenna's husband, children and grandchildren. Odd, she could have sworn Willas said that it was his sister Margaery's portrait which was his grandmother's dearest treasure. She was his grandmother's favorite, just as Willas was his mother's, Loras was his father's. Garlan was everyone's favorite, though his grandfather Lord Luthor had favored him before he died when Garlan was four.
"Enjoying the view?" Lady Olenna snapped from her chair. "In Highgarden we favor portraits where everyone has their clothes on, unlike where you come from."
Harridan, Rhaenys thought as Lady Olenna turned to glare at the door, already shut behind them. "Left! Right! Were my orders unclear? I said no one was to be admitted."
When the guards ignored her, her frown only deepened.
"I didn't send for you," declared Lady Olenna. She grasped her cane with both hands, and gave Rhaenys a glare that would have peeled paint. "I think I would recall if I had suddenly gone mad enough to invite a Dornish whore into my solar."
Elinor gasped, Lady Alys stiffened, and Rhaenys smiled, as if butter would not melt in her mouth. Let the harridan do her worst; she had come to bargain, not bicker.
"Lord Willas thought you might like some company," Rhaenys said, beckoning to her ladies to take places by the fire.
Lady Rohanne fetched the high harp from its corner, frowning at the thin layer of dust. Lady Emma drew forth the flute she had sent a servant to fetch before they began climbing the Rose Tower; Elinor took up a place beside Lady Rohanne, whilst Obella, Lady Alys, and Lady Jeyne took seats as far away from Lady Olenna as possible.
Rhaenys was not so craven. She drew up a chair beside the old woman, smiling as the sound of harp and flute and Elinor's passable voice filled the air with music.
"Hmph," said Lady Olenna, after remaining silent for several songs. "In my day, if a guest intruded upon one's solitude, they usually bothered to say something, not just sit about dumb as a stump."
"Of course, my lady," Rhaenys said agreeably. "But I thought it only right to offer your ladyship refreshments first."
Lady Olenna snorted, unimpressed. "We'll be waiting a long while, then. Lazy servants, you'd think their legs were made of lead, the way they drag their feet whenever I send to the kitchens."
To Rhaenys's delight, it was just then that the door creaked open, and Megga Tyrell entered. In her hands was a tray laden with a gilded pot for tea and matching cups, a jar of nettles, and a jar of honey. Behind her came a serving girl, carrying a tray filled with loaves of soft fresh bread, still steaming from the ovens, and a massive wheel of especially sharp cheese, the old woman's favorite.
"Thank you, Megga," Rhaenys told her. Megga placed the tray on a table, dipped a deep curtsy, then went to put a kettle over the fire. When it boiled, she prepared the nettle tea, almost burning herself when she grew unsettled by Lady Olenna's pursed lips and venomous stare.
Properly, Lady Olenna should have poured. When she did not, Rhaenys took the duty upon herself, well used to dealing with sullen sulks.
"Honey?" She asked. Seven knew the shrew could use some sweetening.
"No," Lady Olenna said with a sniff. "It ruins the flavor."
As the nettle tea was as bitter as Lady Olenna, Rhaenys added a generous spoon of honey to her own cup. She gestured for Elinor to sing louder, so she might speak to the old woman privily, then began slowly preparing cups for each of her ladies in turn, thinking as she worked.
Upon returning from King's Landing, Olyvar had said that it was fitting that Lady Olenna had been born a Redwyne, as she always looked as if she were suffering from sour grapes. That struck Rhaenys as rather unfair. Lady Olenna was not Cersei Lannister. Behind her golden curls and wildfire eyes, there was nothing, nothing at all. The bitch was as hollow as Casterly Rock, but her veins were made of blood, not gold, her heart a spiteful, shriveled thing.
Olenna Redwyne was something else entirely. She had little in common with Cersei Lannister, save being the first child of a powerful lord. Were she born in Dorne, Olenna would have inherited the Arbor, and ruled it in her own name.
But Lord Runceford Redwyne was not satisfied with a daughter for an heir, not even when King Aegon the Fifth chose to betroth her to his youngest son, Prince Daeron. It was almost twenty years after Olenna's birth when Lord Runceford's third wife finally gave him a son, whom he named Ryam. Soon after, Prince Daeron broke his betrothal, though the old gossips of Sunspear could not agree whether it was because he would no longer be marrying a great lady, or because he preferred a fellow knight.
Unlike his illustrious namesake, Ryam Redwyne won no glory. A sickly child, his father Lord Runceford made him wed the very day he turned sixteen, and by twenty, he was dead. Alas for Lady Olenna, however, her brother did succeed in siring a son, Paxter, who was born not long before his father's demise.
Fortunately for Lady Olenna, Lord Luthor Tyrell had also been spurned by his Targaryen bride. Princess Shaera had preferred her own brother, Jaehaerys. Rhaenys supposed she should be grateful for their incestuous union, as it had brought forth her grandparents, Aerys and Rhaella. The lovelorn Luthor soon had a new betrothed, a young maiden of House Crane. Alas, Rose Crane drowned during a sudden squall on Red Lake shortly before she came of age, and Lady Olenna, near thirty and still unwed, promptly seized her chance.
Rhaenys glanced over her shoulder at Lord Luthor's portrait, having finished pouring the tea. An amiable man, by all accounts, though he did look rather oafish. Afraid of sharing Lord Tytos Lannister's reputation for weakness, Lord Luthor had been quite happy to let his lady wife be the thorns to his rose, encouraging her sharp tongue and keen judgment.
Highgarden had flourished under her rule, that could not be denied. And Lady Olenna had managed to get her hands on the Arbor in the end, betrothing her daughter Mina to her nephew Paxter almost the instant Lord Runceford Redwyne died, leaving a boy of five as the new Lord of the Arbor.
"You know, my lady," Rhaenys said softly, waiting for her scalding tea to cool. "Willas did all he could to deter Lord Mace from his course. You were right, in the end."
The Queen of Thorns pursed her lips; if anything, she seemed angrier.
"I told him that Cersei Lannister was not a pretty doll which he could move about as he liked. Ned Stark's head was ample proof of that, as I said time and again to no avail."
And time and again, Lord Mace had ignored his lady mother. Lord Luthor, well aware of his own limitations, had always heeded his lady wife, or so the older servants had told Rya. Mace, however, had gotten more of his mother's wits than one might think, though he hid them beneath his father's amiable face. Yet while he might outflank Ser Kevan and trample over Lord Tarly, he could not see the lioness's claws, not even when they were at his throat.
"A man can milk a viper, or kill it, but not hold it in his hand forever," Rhaenys said. "Or so my Uncle Oberyn once told me."
Lady Olenna's eyes narrowed. "Your uncle? Or your father?" She sniffed. "I've seen a thousand Dornish whores who shared your look, and the way you stink of sex."
Rhaenys smiled, well aware that she did not, and gave an elegant shrug. "We are betrothed, and to be wed on the morrow." She took a sip of tea. "Such a blessing, that Lord Mace was born so fat and healthy, despite being born only seven moons after you wed Lord Luthor."
Lady Olenna frowned. "He was not," she said crisply.
"Not a healthy babe, my lady?" Rhaenys tilted her head, glad she had asked Obella and Megga to follow her hunch. "Strange, Maester Lomys said he was near ten pounds, with lungs that could be heard over a battlefield. Or did you mean he was not born seven moons after you wed? The illuminated copy of The Seven-Pointed Star in the sept says otherwise."
"I am glad to see that they teach sums and spying in Dorne, as well as the art of seduction. Did you tell Willas he was the one to take your maidenhead? More fool he, if he believes it."
"I still have my maidenhead, my lady," Rhaenys said sweetly. Not that that is any of your concern, you hypocritical, ill-mannered hag. "Princess Elia Nymeros Martell taught me virtue and courtesy at her knee long before I learned the truth of my birth."
"The truth of your birth," Lady Olenna rolled her eyes. "You look as much a Targaryen as Tommen looks a Baratheon. Have you a dragon hiding in the briar patch? Or is this 'brother' of yours the only one so blessed? Oh, and Euron Greyjoy, we mustn't forget the mad sorcerer."
Rhaenys shrugged again, keeping her face calm. "Even when there were plenty of dragons and hatchlings, not every Targaryen was daring enough to claim one."
Lady Olenna snorted.
"Mad enough, you mean. They say half the Ullers are half-mad, and the other half are worse, but Lady Harmeria at least had the gall to prove a dragon is not invincible, no matter what the Targaryens might claim, the arrogant fools. And mad, all of them, even the ones who seemed sane. House Tyrell stayed well out of the bloody foolishness that was the Dance of the Dragons, and did as little as possible during Robert's Rebellion."
The Queen of Thorns thumped her cane against the floor, her lip trembling with anger.
"Queen Cersei and Lord Tarly are a match made in the depths of the seven hells. A year or two, and they would destroy each other, with no need for us to risk our skins. But Willas would not heed me, not with a she-dragon whispering in his ear."
She clutched her cane even tighter, her nostrils flared.
"So, Rhaenys Targaryen, or Meria Sand, or whatever you call yourself. You've stolen my grandson, and bewitched him into gambling Highgarden for the sake of the same bedamned throne that slew my son. And now you are to be married on the morrow, and you come here to gloat and scheme and beguile me into giving my blessing to the cursed affair. And what do you say to that, you little snake?"
"Dragon, not snake, my lady," Rhaenys said, so she might consider her next move. Oh, fuck this. Tact was well and good, but she had had enough of the old woman venting her spleen.
"Why should you give your blessing?" Rhaenys drew her chair closer. "Because Cersei is doomed, and because you do not want me as your enemy."
"I was her closest confidant for years, and she never suspected my loyalty for a moment. I flattered her worst ideas, and sowed doubt against her best. When Cersei ceased paying usury to the Iron Bank, it was after months of hints and encouragement. When she drove away her ladies, I won them as friends. When she offended great lords, I heard their complaints, and wondered aloud if perhaps a new king would treat them more fairly, should some other claimant arise."
"You may have heard of Lord Mordryd Lydden's revolt? It was I who asked him to delay a few months longer, the better to bring House Lannister to their knees. The hosts of the Westerlands are scattered, fighting amongst themselves and against mobs of angry smallfolk, and Casterly Rock itself is like to be besieged."
The old woman gaped at her, but Rhaenys was not yet done. She had one last arrow in her quiver, one she had asked Willas not to confide in his grandmother.
"And," she said coolly, "it was I who warned Margaery in time for her and Loras to make her escape, though it would have meant my head if I were caught. I do not need your blessing; it is Willas who is the Lord of Highgarden, not you. But Willas yearns for your approval, and he has already suffered enough this past year."
"As have I," Lady Olenna said, her wrinkles deeper than ever. She leaned back in her chair, her wizened face tired. "Willas has my blessing, but I see no need to trouble myself with the wedding."
"If the stairs are too much, Arryk or Erryk can carry you down," Rhaenys said in a conciliatory tone.
"Hmph." Lady Olenna gave her a beady stare, followed by a toothless smile. "And if I do not attend? What then?"
Rhaenys set down her empty cup, shaking her head. "It would break Willas's heart, for one, my lady," she said truthfully. "But you would soon regret showing him such an unkindness."
She leaned close to the old woman, her voice cold.
"When the sun goes down tomorrow, I will be the new Lady of Highgarden. I had intended to leave the household as it is, rather than make any changes before we depart for King's Landing. But if you refuse to show your grandson common decency, why, then I shall have to do the same. Your favorite servants upon whom you sharpen your tongue will be removed, and placed with gentler ladies. The cooks will cease making your favorite meals; you shall drink only mint tea, never nettle, with plenty of honey to soothe your aged throat."
"Or," Rhaenys said, leaning back. "You could come to the wedding. You will have the highest seat at the feast, beside Lady Alerie; the musicians have already been told to play all your favorites during the dancing."
"Bah," said Lady Olenna. "Have them play new ones, princess, or I'm like to die of boredom before the bedding starts."
"Of course, my lady," Rhaenys said, with a flash of white teeth.
True to her word, the next day the Queen of Thorns graced the wedding with her presence. And true to her word, the Princess of Dragonstone and Lady of Highgarden bade the musicians play only new songs, and every last one of them was from Dorne.
Welcome to Part V! sound off in the comments; this one was so much fun to write.
NOTES
1) It was so, so fun discovering Meria/Rhaenys's inner life, and her perspective on her heritage and on the work she did in King's Landing. It's also very fun to see her perspective on Olyvar. We've only seen him as an adult, from his own, Sansa, Gilly, Dany, Irri, and Jaime's POVs, never that of a family member, or anyone who knew him as a child. God, that kid had no idea what was coming for him.
2) News takes time to travel, even if Jon's first thought was "send ravens NOW" versus... actually responding to the crisis that occurred in the early hours of December 31, 304 AC. So... Highgarden will soon be getting a very Not Fun raven, but at least they get to enjoy a wedding first?
3) I've tried to depict a wide variety of menstrual experiences across the female POVs and side characters. Meria suffers from endometriosis, which gives her severe cramps and a miserable period each month.
4) Cats can live long lives, although it is rare, and Balerion's age is implausible given the lack of veterinary care. For once, however, I don't care about accuracy, Balerion is still alive because fuck it, it makes me happy. Also, I think it's very important that all of you know that the record for oldest alleged cat, who lived to 38 years, is held by a kitty named Creme Puff.
5) ASOIAF, like many medieval fantasy works, is ahistorical in the depiction of hair styles. In Westeros, most women wear their hair loose, or in styles which are uncovered. During the medieval era, it was considered immodest for a woman to openly display her hair; veils, wimples, and other coverings were expected to be worn at most times.
Tbh, I don't blame GRRM for this particular inaccuracy. Mostly because I am extremely weak and bisexual, and I love the hell out of Pre-Raphaelite paintings, which depict medieval women with their hair exposed, often loose and flowing. So pretty
La Belle Dame sans Merci by Frank Dicksee
The Soul of the Rose by John William Waterhouse
6) I've been using sunflowers as a shared motif for Meria/Willas, because Meria/Rhaenys (sun) is in love with Willas (rose), so I made their shared motif a sunflower
...I only just found out that sunflowers, which appear in canon, are native to North and Central America. Dangit, GRRM. As I've said before, when it comes to flora and fauna, I wish he'd have committed to total anarchy, using plants/animals from all over the world, or to accuracy, limiting himself to Old World species. The fact that he uses *mostly* Old World species for his fantasy Europe/Asia/Africa with the occasional random exception makes my brain crazy.
Yes, this is a goofy hill to die on, yet here I am, all the same.
7) It was hilarious when I realized Willas/Rhaenys are the anti Olyvar/Sansa. They were absolutely sexting by raven, and the MINUTE they were in the same zip code, they got that betrothal contract signed and did all the premarital sexytimes they could get away with while keeping Rhaenys a virgin. They're 27 and 24, they've been internet/raven dating for almost ten years, they were DONE, lol.
Also, we've got the fun contrast of Olyvar the awkward, chaste mostly-virgin, who barely thought about sex until he was already in love with Sansa, versus Willas the romantic who, while carrying a torch for Rhaenys, had a succession of discreet mistresses because Men Have Needs and it's societally acceptable.
8) You know how they say the past is a foreign country? Medieval Christian beliefs about sex were wild. Among other things, both masturbation and oral sex may have been extremely rare, as we have little documentation about either.
Of course, who knows what experimenting may or may not have gone on without being recorded. We do know that in theory, at least, sex was forbidden on many occasions, including Sundays and other holy days. I was tempted to include some of these tidbits, but couldn't quite find the right place for them, especially since most of these aren't mentioned in canon.