Destiny of Man

Chapter 2: Lessons and Prophecy

"The shores from Sea Dragon Point down to Cape Kraken have long been influenced by their Ironborn neighbours to the south. Overpopulation of the Isles throughout its history has caused many families to migrate to the mainland of Westeros whether it be to the Westerlands, Riverlands or the Reach; but most Ironborn sailed to the sparsely populated North where they founded independent colonies known as the Ironshore.

"Initially those colonies were no more than trading posts and fishing villages, but in time they grew into towns and said towns grew into independent kingdoms. The Ironmen toiled the land and wedded the locals where they traded high-quality Isle metal with wood from the abundant mainland forests. In time, the foreign and native cultures of the Ironborn and Northmen merged to create something new with a mongrel language forming between the two peoples, and the majority holding religious reverence for both the Drowned God of the seas and the heart trees of the North. Despite that, the men of the Ironshore have a long and bloody history fighting against both themselves and the native Northmen.

"As Winterfell expanded its power westwards, the various Stark kings came into conflict against these petty kingdoms along the coast. The Northmen have always been a rebellious people, and the Ironmen even more so. Numerous Stark Kings fought wars against the Ironshore and after each bloody conflict holding them was soon found to be just as bloody if not more so than the actual war to put them under Winterfell's yolk. Whenever their overlords dipped into weakness, the Ironshore rose up in rebellion and had to be put down with fire and steel. Even today they fiercely cling to their traditions, with many having closer ties to the Iron Isles than the native Northerners who rule them."

Archmaester Bryen 'the Erudite' – The World of the Sunset Kingdoms

As it turned out, being a prince, I was expected to have a tutor worthy of my rank and it appeared only an archmaester of the Citadel would do.

Archmaester Marwyn had been the man to save me and my family from Tywin Lannister's dogs. Thanks to some mystical force no one could understand, the maester received a vision of a princess and her two children being butchered by a giant and sought to avert that fate. With something whispering in his ear, the archmaester of the Citadel was guided through the tunnels of the Red Keep where he got the three royals out just when the Mountain himself was scaling the walls of Maegor's Holdfast. Coating Princess Elia in a cloak to disguise her from searching eyes, they managed to flee King's Landing thanks to the charity of a ship captain who also just happened to be heading to Planky Town in a series of coincidences that'd make any man think the very gods wanted Elia and her children to live another day.

Almost like fate was on our side.

The ship named the Forlorn Hope managed to make its passage to Dorne at record speed and docked at Planky Town. Thanks to Doran loyalists within the Orphans of the Greenblood, all of us were escorted to Sunspear where Doran cried from where he thought us dead and appeared suddenly out of thin air. Doran then decided Essos was too unsafe and Dorne was placed under full isolation mode. His sister and her children would retire to the Water Gardens and Archmaester Marwyn received a boon for his actions. A boon he exchanged instantly. A boon that made him the tutor of Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon. Doran accepted, and my savour became my mentor and later a close friend.

When one thinks of a maester let alone an archmaester they usually think of a being with a wrinkled face of spotted skin appearing grey and might very well be covered with dust, watery pink eyes and hands that trembled as he spoke. Oh, and maybe a cane thanks to a bad hip and bent back after carrying too many heavy books. Not to mention a massive nose to sniff out problems.

Marwyn wasn't like that.

For starters, he looked very much as a mastiff would look if granted a human form and frankly reminded me of a PE teacher I once had. Instead of a frail and ancient scholarly appearance, Marwyn had a thick neck and strong jaw, an overhanging brow, and multiple chins. He was short and squat with enormous hands, a thick chest, and a hard ale belly. His massive ears and broken nose had white hair sprouting from them, and his teeth – which were broken from a dozen fistfights he loved to tell – were red thanks to the sourleaf he chewed throughout the day.

Thanks to the visions Rob gave him, he thought I and Rhae were the Prince and Princess that were promised (though the latter was to be kind to Rhae I was sure) and what other evidence could there be other than me tearing through his lessons at a remarkably young age? Thanks to the gift of having an adult's brain in a child's body I easily bypassed my older sister and cousins to their embarrassment as soon as I got the motor controls to speak and move my limbs. Not to forget a child's ability to absorb information like a sponge. Add the two together and you have a dangerous combination.

And was it any wonder I just happened to be his favourite student?

"Would you care to follow where Doran left off, Rufus?" Marwyn asked in High Valyrian – the language of the courts across Westeros – in a voice that sounded like two rocks grinding together. He took a swig of lemon water and swished it around his mouth, then carried the book over to the boy's desk and pointed at where Doran the Young had finished.

Rufus Merrihill nodded awkwardly and continued reading, "F-few foresaw that Daeron the First of His Name would cower himself in glory as did his . . . his . . . uh, his a-ancestor Aegon the Conqueror, whose crown and sword he bore. Yet his glory turned to ashes almost as swiftly. A youth of rare b-b—"

"Brilliance," the archmaester rolled his eyes.

"B-brilliance," the boy repeated and blushed, averting his eyes as everyone else stared. Doubtlessly not helping his concentration. "And . . . and forcefulness. Daeron at first met r-resistance from his uncle, his council—councillors, and many great lords when he first proposed to complete the Conquest by bringing Dorne into the realm at last. His lords reminded him that unlike the Conqueror and his sisters, Daeron had no more dragons fit for war. To this, Daeron famously responded, 'You have a dragon. He stands before you.' In the end, the king could not be gainsaid, and when he revealed his plans, his small council . . . uh, for . . . f-form-u-lated plans to take the final kingdom and, with the help and advice of Alyn Velaryon the Oakenfist, some began to think it could indeed be done, for the proposed camp-campaign improved upon that of Aegon's own."

Marwyn nodded. "Well done, stuttering notwithstanding." The mastiff clapped his beefy hands together to bring our attention solely on him once again. "Can anyone tell me what this strategy was that improved upon the Conqueror's own and brought Dorne to heel?"

I looked around at the other nine boys who had lessons with me. All were nobles and the sons of knights sworn directly to House Martell and its most loyal bannermen. All were highborn and chosen to serve as my closest companions in the Water Gardens. They averted their eyes for few cared enough for their lessons to read and especially not before the rest of the class. Sighing to myself, I raised a hand and Marwyn's eyes did a final scan of the small classroom before ending on me.

"Aegon," he said matter-of-factly. "Seeing as no one else has dared respond, how about you explain to them? Let's see how well your little escapades in the library have done for you."

I smiled shyly and began: "Well, the maesters write that King Daeron divided his host into three armies. One led by Daeron himself, another led by Lord Tyrell—"

"Which Lord Tyrell? There have been quite a few."

"Lord Lyonel Tyrell, Archmaester Marwyn. There was then a seaborne invasion by Alyn the Oakenfist who launched a successful assault upon Planky Town where he crushed what had been the Dornish coastal fleet. After taking the town he pushed upwards through the Greenblood."

"Is that all?"

There was so much more than that. I'd read the Young Dragon's Conquest of Dorne which served as his own accounts but Marwyn, Oberyn and the rest of my family (and much of Dorne) were united in the stance that the Young Dragon was largely inaccurate regarding a lot of it despite it being praised in the very same book we were reading. It was very biased as could be expected when written by the very person who led the conquest in the first place. Instead, the Dornish variant of the Young Dragon's Annexation of Dorne was a much more reliable source (as claimed by House Martell) and did much more to demonise the Targaryen invaders who sacked, raped, and slaughtered their way across Dorne. Any reasonable person would take both with a pinch of salt . . . or maybe more than a pinch. Maybe an entire handful.

But despite their different points of view, both were good when it came to dates and the many battles fought across the Principality of Dorne which was twice the size of Spain or just bigger than Namibia if my calculations were correct. Dorne was massive and said just how stupidly vast the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros were as a whole.

"There is more, archmaester. Do you want me to explain further?"

He shook his head. "I'll teach. You're no maester, and I'll not be replaced by a boy who hasn't reached his three-and-tenth nameday." Marwyn smiled thinly with bloody red teeth that were the stuff of nightmares. "Andrey, can you read the next part?"

When Andrey Hood retrieved the book, he began to read in a louder voice than the soft and stuttering Rufus. "Daeron the First amply proved his prowess on the field of Dorne which for hundreds of years had defied the knights of the Reach, the Stormlands, and even the dragons of House Targaryen. Daeron divided his host into three forces – just as Aegon said – one led by Lord Lyonel Tyrell who came down the Prince's Pass at the western end of the Red Mountains of Dorne. One was led by the king's cousin and Master of Ships, Alyn Velaryon, travelling by sea, and the final was led by King Daeron himself down the treacherous pass called the Boneway. That was where he made use of goat tracks many considered too dangerous in which to outflank the Dornish watchtowers and avoid the same traps that had caught Lord Orys Baratheon—"

"I'm going to stop you there. Not anything bad with your reading. This is what we're going to talk about after. But here is the first problem I want you to remember. See how it forgets to mention anything further with the goat's paths. It conveniently forgets to mention that the valiant Young Dragon had trouble trying to bypass the watchtowers overlooking the pass and would have been forced to go through the narrow channels that left his army open for archers until a treacherous commoner showed him a goat's pass to lead a small force around."

Like Thermopylae?

While I hadn't seen them myself, the fortifications the Young Dragon needed to pass were impressive and nearly impossible to siege. They were situated high in the mountains with the only passages in and out being narrow tracks that twisted and turned. The walls were tall and thick, and there were massive granaries and fresh water coming in from underground aqueducts. They were stockpiled with large amounts of arrows to unleash upon any army needing to squeeze beneath them. That wasn't mentioning the many traps such as rockfalls designed to block portions of the pass and crush the invaders beneath tons of stone.

That would explain why so many armies had been turned at the border. "But how did he take the passes, archmaester? There are many forts above the Boneroad. How did he take them?"

"Cunning. Which is something Targaryens don't lack. Oh, they might love their dragons, but they've never been above using simple tricks despite claiming to be above such things. They took advantage of the goat tracks thanks to a shepherd by the name of Willam of Sheepskulls. With no loyalty to Dorne or his prince, he'd a Lannister's love for gold and informed King Daeron of the goat's pass and not only that but even offered to guide the king's army."

"And he agreed?" Doran Driftway was confused. "I'd be suspicious of anyone. Especially of the enemy. What if he led Daeron into a trap?"

"He should have been killed!" comely Maron Toland declared before blowing the bright red hair that hung over his left eye. "He's a traitor to Dorne! He should be rewarded the only way a traitor deserves!"

"No need to shout!" shouted Archmaester Marwyn. "I will tell you of Willam of Sheepskull's fate later. Doran, you are right. That was a concern considering how lowly Dorne's trusted by those north of the Red Mountains. There were members of the king's war council who encouraged King Daeron to refuse, believing it was a Dornish trap to separate the king from his guard and kill him. But Daeron was seldom known for his patience and was more boneheaded and hot-blooded than most dragons. Between that and bleeding his army trying to break through the fortifications, he agreed with Wilam's counsel. Turned out to be the right idea. For a sizable purse of gold, the shepherd personally led the king through a rarely used pathway up the mountains where no watchtowers laid in wait. In the dead of night, with his army encamped within sight of the towers with their glowing campfires on full display, Daeron the Young Dragon and his best knights took advantage of the guardsmen focusing their attention on the army below to scale up the walls and infiltrate the main keeps where they slew the garrison in their beds."

"But surely he didn't do that for every watchtower and keep?" Tremond Gargalen blurted.

"Not all of them. But keeps are never created equal. The first few watchtowers were meant to inform about an approaching army while Stoneway Keep under the authority of House Wyl and Yronwood itself was designed to hold off armies or slow them down so the rest of Dorne could be mobilised in the defence of the principality. Stoneway, which had bled hundreds of armies in its long history, had been taken overnight with not a single loss for one of Daeron's men, and it left the Boneway open for the Targaryens to march upon Castle Wyl which serves as the second gate of the Boneway."

"And I'm guessing that fell?" I smiled, knowing what happened.

"It did but not without resistance. House Wyl has been fighting against the marcher lords of the Stormlands ever since they erected their castle on the River Wyl. As such, they are among some of Dorne's most experienced fighters, and master craftsmen who've fortified their holdfast by tunnelling into the stone beneath their feet to link to the many caverns so common throughout Dorne. Many of those tunnels have their own underground canals fed by the river which provide an infinite source of water, and not to mention said tunnels were regularly used by House Wyl to strike siege lines in the rear."

"Then how did they take the castle?" freckled Orlyn Trevelyan asked.

"With a struggle," Marwyn answered in his blunt manner. "The royal army from the Crownlands threw themselves against the walls alongside men from the North, Riverlands and the Vale of Arryn. They took heavy casualties on the first two days but managed to bring a battering ram to the gates on the third. They captured the castle, but the garrison and members of House Wyl took refuge in the tunnels and fought a shadow war against the Young Dragon until the very day peace was signed. With the main keep out of the way, King Daeron moved his attention to Castle Yronwood."

"That was the first battle the Young Dragon fought in the open field," I piped up and very much sounded my age.

"The Battle outside the Gates of Yronwood, the Young Dragon called it. Lord Cletus Yronwood got early warnings of King Daeron's invasion even before the young king left his kingdom. House Yronwood is perfectly located for such an attack. The holdfast is located near the mouth of a river to its north whose source is to the west near Skyreach in the foothills of the Red Mountains. Yronwood is surrounded by hills that can blunt the attack of any host of cavalry and is a formidable castle that's always well-supplied. The castle has multiple towers and gatehouses that can halt even an army more formidable than that of the Young Dragon's. But Lord Cletus wasn't the wisest of lords. He was young and wanted to prove himself in battle. Despite being in a much better position in which to blight the surrounding fields to ensure the Young Dragon couldn't feed his army and then retire inside the walls, Lord Cletus instead called his banners and arrayed his host for a pitched battle."

"And he lost."

"And he lost. Lord Yronwood's army numbered seven thousand against a much larger host of twenty thousand. He was rash and brave and a good knight besides, but no one ever called him wise. Instead of using the terrain to his advantage, Lord Yronwood tried to strike Daeron himself with the intent of killing him and forcing the royal army to rout. He got bogged down while attempting to leave the safety of the river crossing by charging right across it. The valiant lord of Yronwood was killed in a storm of arrows and his forces ended up routing in place of the Young Dragon's own. Instead of retreating to the castle which had barred its gates under the stewardship of his aunt, Lady Loreza Yronwood, they disappeared into the countryside."

"To never be seen again," I smiled thinly.

"Never to be seen again," Marwyn agreed dryly. "Daeron sieged Yronwood and Loreza approached the young king where they began bargaining House Yronwood's surrender. That was truly the case, but her ladyship was wise enough to draw out negotiations so House Martell could levy their strength to march against the invaders and beat them back."

But that didn't happen, Maester Marwyn continued telling the story. The Dornish were too divided to set up a stable defence but that didn't mean they went down without a fight. If there was one thing I'd learnt so far in the Principality of Dorne, it was that the Dornish didn't know the meaning of surrender nor were they willing to learn. The Martell army that was meant to reinforce Cletus Yronwood had been forced to turn around at Oakenfist's sudden appearance. Despite defeating Oakenfist's vanguard at the River Vaith by laying an ambush with archers and scorpions on both banks, they were forced back when the larger fleet arrived supported by heavy knights from the Vale.

Being attacked from all sides forced the Dornish into a defensive position and many houses who sent forces to aid their northern allies were ordered to send them back. It left the Dornish military to slowly be destroyed piecemeal and thanks to how slow communication spread, they were usually using out-of-date information as well. The final battle for Daeron's conquest was the Submission of Sunspear which managed to hold a couple of months before the storming of the Old Palace in which forty of the last Dornish lords bent the knee and fourteen ladies were sent to the Red Keep as prisoners and concubines for the prince who later become King Aegon the Unworthy.

As Marwyn changed the subject from what happened in the battle to the various houses that fought, I wondered about what could happen to Dorne this time. I didn't expect Dorne to rise in rebellion against the crown at the outbreak of the War of the Five Kings. Doran would instead linger to allow all sides to waste lives and resources fighting each other and might encourage more division to intensify the conflict by the hiring of bandits or sellswords or whatever. For once they stop fighting, they'd no doubt turn their attention south.

When it came to defence, I could confidently proclaim Dorne had it easier than most. The Red Mountains served as a natural barrier with the only passages being heavily defended valleys studded with fortifications. Even if the Lannisters or Stannis or whoever managed to breach the Red Mountains, the invaders would still need to traverse hostile terrain they had no experience fighting in. The Dornish sun could cook knights alive under all their protective layers and large armies proved to have difficulty supplying themselves from the land and suffered rampant attrition as a result. It would only get worse with the limited wells being poisoned.

Then there were the smallfolk who tended to be ignored.

If there was something the lords of the Seven Kingdoms tended to overlook, it was the peasants who tended their fields and mined their gold. Unlike the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, the smallfolk who called Dorne home were incredibly nationalistic, and it wasn't the nationalism in the North that seemed reserved for the highborn. If anything, the nationalism in Dorne was more strongly felt among the lower classes than by the lords who ruled over them. It was the smallfolk who demanded Doran call his spears in the books. It was the smallfolk who fought House Targaryen when their land was blighted and burnt time and time again. They fought in the shadows and refused to yield despite the heavy toll on their lives. Despite the Young Dragon losing only ten thousand during his invasion, he had lost forty thousand fighting guerrillas and each heavy-handed attempt from Lord Tyrell to quell the uprising only resulted in more joining the resistance.

If Doran called the spears, I knew the smallfolk would rise with a thunderous ovation. Thanks to King Aerys they'd lost loved ones when he threatened Elia. And they didn't feel bad for it other than they lost against Robert. I knew they'd fight for her rights. In their minds, my mother was one of them. She was a princess of Dorne and, in the eyes of gods and men, she had done her duty. It was for her they'd fight for. Not Rhaegar, not Aerys, and not House Targaryen. They were fighting for House Martell and Dorne, and they were sure to do so again.

If Uncle Oberyn was any indication, the late crown prince was little loved in Dorne. That was completely expected all things considered. Mother was polite about the subject, but Oberyn was much franker about it. Almost insultingly so and was very critical of Rhaegar's tactical abilities or lack thereof. My father's brilliant strategy of wading across a river when he had the defensive advantage and was too stupid to know how to perform proper warfare when the Dornish army – who used lances – were deployed against the Vale heavy infantry which absolutely thrashed them with polearms. Then there was Rhaegar deploying light infantry from Crackclaw Point to counterattack Riverlander heavy cavalry.

It was like the bastard wanted to lose . . .

If Rhaegar was as smart as people claimed he was, doubtless the man had just planned everything out, from every single speck and little detail. If they were right, then it wasn't a blunder and getting his chest bent out of shape was all intentional. I wouldn't put it passed him, to be completely honest. Rhaegar did have plenty of delusions when it came to prophecy.

But that was the past and I should focus on the here and now.

When the lessons came to an end, I stood up from the table we were sitting at like a proper classroom. The rest of my classmates left laughing amongst themselves for their sword lessons with Ser Tremond Sand who served as master-at-arms. I lingered though, picking up the wax tablets we'd been working on for they proved cheaper than standard parchment and ink (and easier to correct should you make a mistake) and handed them to Archmaester Marwyn.

"Thank you, Aegon. But shouldn't you be going for your lessons?" Marwyn asked with rank breath that smelled of the sourleaf he loved so much. "There's little point to linger here and watch an old man clean up."

"You're not that old," I said politely.

"We both know that's a lie." The archmaester chuckled softly. "What's on your mind?"

I shuffled awkwardly, once again making myself look like a nervous child worried he might be stepping out of line. "I had another dream."

"A dragon dream?"

Is there any other for a Targaryen? I nodded with the sudden eagerness of a child.

I didn't really, but one of the best things about being a descendant of House Targaryen was taking advantage of dreams that apparently saw into the future. Provided you add lots of dragons and fire symbolism you could easily explain possible future events to other characters without them raising their eyebrows too much. For an archmaester like Marwyn who specialised in magic and had a Valyrian mask and staff to prove it, he took heed of it more than most.

It also allowed me to perform very limited uplifting.

Nothing fancy, mind you. I was only a child and much of it had been taken as little more than childish imagination. Even if adults didn't dismiss it, I hadn't either the resources or expertise to create something like a printing press let alone something like black powder. I had no idea what made up the compound let alone how to mix everything without it blowing up and then becoming Aegon No-Hands. Didn't mean it was completely absent though. I still brought along some ideas with me which, frankly, I was quite proud of.

"Yea? What was it?"

Running a hand through my curls, I declared, "It was a dream! There were four dragons before me. One pair of dragons fighting another pair. They were flying high in the sky. Dancing around each other and breathing fire. Everywhere the dragons danced people died." I licked my lips, averting my eyes from his sombre gaze. "I think it might be me and Rhae, and the other two dragons—"

"Were Viserys and Daenerys? You are the only four Targaryens in existence," Marwyn said as he sat on the edge of the table, folding his arms as I'd seen a few teachers do. "Are you dreaming of a second Dance of the Dragons?"

"I described my dream and it certainly felt that way. Do you think it'll happen though? That me and Rhae will come to blows against our aunt and uncle?"

Archmaester Marwyn seemed to be weighing his options as he did whenever we spoke. "There is always the possibility. I will not claim otherwise. Your existence and that of your sister is kept hidden as best as Prince Doran allows. That means your kin across the Narrow Sea will be unaware of your existence. All they're aware of is that you disappeared without a trace, and I like to credit myself for that little miracle." He grinned, showing his red splotched teeth. "It can be debatable. If they believe you're dead, that means Prince Viserys believes he is the rightful king and patriarch of House Targaryen, and that he and Daenerys are the last dragons in existence. Depending on your uncle's character, he might bend the knee once you appear or might claim he's the rightful king. If it's the latter, then the second Dance of the Dragons is likely to happen. If he gets his own supporters and armies in Essos, he might be in no position to offer anything but war."

"That's the concern," I admitted and once more ran a hand through my hair. "Do you think it's avoidable? My dreams? Are they telling of a future that is set in stone? Or is there a chance it can be avoided? You're an archmaester and one whose craft is that of magic. Do you know the answer?"

"I will not tell you what you want to hear, my prince. What I'll tell you is that putting too much faith in your dreams to tell you how to behave is dangerous. Gorghan of Old Ghis once wrote that prophecy is like a treacherous woman. She gives you warmth and comfort, telling you this and that secret, that if you follow her she'll make you feel better. You embrace her and she takes your member into her mouth, and you moan with pleasure and think how sweet, how fine, and how good this is . . . then her teeth snap shut. What had been your moans have now turned into screams. That is the nature of prophecy. Prophecy will bite your prick off every time."

"You're telling me not to heed it?"

"I never said that. Don't trust it. Don't trust these dreams. They can be dragon dreams like that of Daenys the Dreamer and heeding them might save your life and the lives of all those you love, or you might find yourself lured into a trap. You might find yourself unable to trust anyone because you dreamt something might come to be, or you might trust them too much and that proves just as dangerous. How can you tell these dreams are really the future and not something you imagined? Children like you are much more in tune with nature and your imaginations run wilder and more frequently than those of grown men. I say look at your dreams with scepticism. That you should trust is wisdom and approach everything in a reasonable manner. My colleagues in the Citadel will instead tell you to dismiss them outright."

"I understand. I should keep an open mind and don't form conclusions."

"You're a wise young prince," Marwyn smiled.

"But of my dream though . . . with Daenerys and Viserys . . . what do you think will happen to them? They're travelling the Free Cities on their own as far as I'm aware. I hear nothing of them. I asked Mother, and Uncle Doran when he was here. But they give me the same answers and treat me nothing more than a child."

"You are a child."

"Not for long," I blurted. "I will be thirteen—I mean three-and-ten within a few months. I will essentially be an adult."

"Six-and-ten will be when you reach your majority, Aegon," the much older man informed me politely.

"I know," was my response with a little more childishness than I originally intended. He raised an eyebrow and I felt blood seep into my cheeks. I took a breath and started over again, "But what do you think will happen oh most splendid tutor of mine?"

"I don't know, and it'd be wrong of me to predict. I don't know Prince Viserys' character, and your aunt is two years younger than you give or take so she's not likely to be leading anything. She's like to instead be a bargaining chip for either a Westerosi lord like the Tyrells or, if your uncle's really desperate, an Essosi merchant prince or sellsword captain."

Or he might marry her to a Dothraki Khal.

I could still remember those pages of the books where Viserys physically, emotionally, and sexually abused Daenerys. Forcing her into marriage with Khal Drogo who raped her until she thought about taking her own life and was only stopped because of her more legitimate dragon dream which might have instead been her coping with what was happening. If it were up to me, Daenerys would be here right now. Her and Viserys. Viserys wouldn't be suffering from his mental slippage and instead serve as a proper brother who cared for and loved her. They'd be safe and well-fed and not fearing for their lives. I could imagine the three of us – me, Dany and Rhae – running through orchards full of lemons, picking apples out of trees and relaxing by the pool.

It was a cute idea. But such a thing brought risk upon Dorne as a whole. Robert was certainly tracking their movements and there was only so much Doran could hide from him. Once he caught wind of Viserys being with us, Robert would only have one response. That wasn't even factoring the Spider into the equation either. As I wasn't Young Griff – I wasn't even sure if Young Griff existed here – I wasn't part of his plan nor did I know what his plans were or whether they were anything like canon in this world I'd been born into.

I will need to help them when I do have the chance.

I didn't know how the war was going to be fought – only that I knew I'd need to fight it – but I couldn't risk there being another Dance of the Dragons in any possible future. I didn't even know when I could act. It might even be too late. All I knew was that I'd need to find a peaceful solution. That or use cloak and dagger. If canon continued, Viserys will die thanks to pissing off the most powerful man in the room and die like Crassus, but ironically being crowned with molten gold instead of having it poured down his throat. Daenerys will go from a meek girl into the Mother of Dragons that'll smash the cities of Slaver's Bay beneath her dainty little feet. Oh, and she'd have dragons that'd be the most dangerous weapon in the world. Not nukes (I hated that comparison) but instead strike attack aircraft in a world where anti-air were crossbows and scorpions. Still, dragons were animals that had their own wants and desires and a hobby of burning things alive.

"There is nothing you can do about it," Archmaester Marwyn said as if he were reading my deliberations. "We both know your aunt and uncle are unable to come to Westeros even if they knew you were alive and well. They're such useful tools for Doran to cloak his conspiracy against the Iron Throne."

"But that doesn't mean we can't do anything though. Can we?"

"Not nothing," he admitted. "Do you have something in mind?"

I licked my lips and prayed I wouldn't be overstepping myself. "Would it be possible to, uh, well, y'know . . ."

"Know what?"

"I heard their protectors are dead. At least I haven't heard of them since they'd been forced from their primary residence after Ser Darry died. Would it be possible for my uncle to support them in some way? Like with food or coin or something? Nothing big. Nothing fancy. Just . . . just so they can live and not merely survive?"

That was a problem for the rest of the world as well. Ninety-nine per cent of the population lived in poverty, and not the kind of poverty in the United Kingdom where you were regarded as living under the poverty line if you lacked a flat-screen TV or multiple pairs of shoes. Actual poverty was where you struggled to get enough food should there be too small a harvest or your lord decided to increase taxes so he could line his pockets or something fully out of their control. That was only food and not including disease, crime, and lack of education which limited innovation that'd make it easier for everyone. There were so many problems and it felt wrong I couldn't do anything about it.

Archmaester Marwyn made a sound. The kind of sound he made whenever he was thinking; when he wanted you to know he was thinking. "I don't think anything too blatant can happen. Dorne needs to remain below suspicion. But if I ask Princess Elia and she speaks to Prince Doran when he comes to visit the Water Gardens, I believe we might change his mind."

"That so?" I was hopeful. If Mother could agree – and she likely will – it'd be much easier to convince Prince Doran Martell.

"A little coin here and there," he decided. "Enough to live and get enough food. Mayhaps a home if they're careful enough."

"That'll make it easier for them!"

"And easier for us if it improves their security. If something befell them it'd be all the harder to hide you." Marwyn smiled thinly, the sourleaf making it look like his lips were bleeding down his crooked broken teeth. "Best go to your lessons, my prince. You have taken long enough already, and I doubt Ser Tremond Sand will be willing to wait much longer. He already believes I take up too much of your time."