Mid November, 300 AC

Olyvar Sand awoke to the screaming of seagulls.

He yawned, the movement making the crick in his neck throb angrily. His back was stiff; his legs tingled painfully as they lost their numbness. With a groan Olyvar rose from his chair, another yawn escaping him as he staggered to the window and threw back the shutters. Despite his fatigue, the view made his breath catch in his throat. The sun rose over the Sea of Dorne, its deep blue waters almost purple beneath the blushing sky.

His longing for his sisters was a dull ache in his belly. Nym was surely still asleep in the lavish chambers she shared with Ellaria. Hospitality at the Tor was much better than that at Yronwood. The same sun was rising over Sunspear, where most of his sisters remained. Doree and Loree would be pestering their nursemaids to let them run into the gardens and play before they broke their fast; Elia and Obella favored their mother, and slept as late as they could. Tyene would be finishing with the early morning prayers; Obara with her morning ride. Meria might or might not be awake, depending on whether Tyene or Obara had persuaded her to join them. In Oldtown the world was still dark at this hour, and for a moment he imagined Sarella, her thick wiry hair cropped short, poring over a dull tome by candlelight.

A soft murmur drew Olyvar's attentions to the bed, where his newest sister lay curled beneath the covers, Buttons, her ginger cat, laying across her feet. It was easier to think of Sansa Stark as a sister rather than a wife. In sleep her face lost its careful composure; she was so young, younger than Elia. Olyvar knew how to be an older brother, how to soothe skinned elbows by kissing them loudly, how to tease a laugh out of a toddler determined to throw a tantrum. He did not know how to be husband to a maid of thirteen who had seen more cruelty than men thrice her age.

As they rode south, he had begun drawing her into careful conversation. They began with her family. Robb was the eldest at sixteen, strong and stout and tall, better with lance than sword. Sansa's awe of her kingly brother seemed justified, given the direct and overtly threatening missive he'd sent to every keep along the route to Sunspear. Sansa was only a few inches shy of six feet; her brother must tower over her. Olyvar imagined a youth built like the Hound, hulking and stern and wise beyond his years. Once he and Jon Snow, their bastard brother, had been the best of friends, constant companions in boyish mischief, but now Jon Snow was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, bound to the Wall for the rest of his days.

She grew sad whenever she spoke of her younger siblings, Arya, Bran, and Rickon, her words coming in hesitant fits and starts. Arya was fierce and brave, as close to her direwolf, Nymeria, as Sansa wished she could still be with hers. Nym would not find it amusing that she shared a name with a direwolf bitch; he'd have to tell her the next time she irritated him. Bran was a sweet and friendly child, the only sibling who shared her passion for tales of chivalry and great deeds. He was also crippled, his legs shattered beyond repair, and had been missing for over a year. Rickon, the baby of the family, had left at the same time, but he had returned safely to Winterfell after taking refuge with Lord Manderly in White Harbor.

Sansa had been the second born, and the first girl. With utmost patience he persuaded her to tell him of her childhood, of what made her happy. To his amusement, she seemed to sincerely love nearly every talent expected of polished young ladies. She had memorized all the most famous poems of Westeros, and shyly admitted that she sometimes wrote her own. Sansa was skilled with the needle, as he saw firsthand when she began embroidering trim for a gown beside the fire at night. Delicate red leaves, weirwood leaves, branched over the cloth, swirling as though in an autumn wind. When it grew too dark to sew, Sansa might sing, her voice high and sweet. When lords hosted them for the night, she gladly joined the dancing, watching carefully to learn the steps practiced only in Dorne.

Sansa had never left the North until she was betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon at the tender age of eleven. She had dreamed of wonders in King's Landing, of tournaments and masked balls and mummer shows. Instead...

A whimper broke the stillness of dawn; on the bed Sansa huddled under the sheets like a knight behind a shield. Idiot, Olyvar reproached himself. This was his fault, for sticking his nose where it did not belong.

Over the past few weeks Sansa had slowly managed to tell him what had happened betwixt her arrival in King's Landing and her escape in the form of a red direwolf. Yesterday morning, intending to make Sansa feel at ease, he had brought up the topic of travel. Olyvar spoke of the sights he had seen in the Reach, describing how the Citadel's domes shone in the morning sun, how the Hightower's beacon lit up the night sky, how the Starry Sept's windows of stained glass danced with all their colors, how Highgarden's briar labyrinth perplexed even the most confident of men. In return Sansa told him of summer snows falling upon Winterfell and waves crashing against the shores of White Harbor, and of the long journey down the Kingsroad.

"Were you able to see the God's Eye?" Olyvar asked. "I've heard the waters are beautiful beyond compare."

"Not— not on the journey south, my lord. I had rather not speak of it." Sansa's cheeks were pale, hands gripping tight to her reins.

"Oh?" He tilted his head, thinking. He supposed Catelyn Tully had taken her children to the Riverlands when they were small, to see their grandfather; the memory of happier days must be distressing. "As you wish, princess, but I have often found it better to speak of such matters rather than avoid them."

For a long while there were no sounds but the clopping of hooves. Toward the front of the column Ellaria and Ser Ryon Allyrion began leading the others in a song, voices mingling in harmony.

"I was at Harrenhal for the heart tree," she said, staring into the distance. I, not we? Surely Lady Catelyn had not let her children wander off alone. "I was weak, afterwards, and needed to wash myself clean."

Cold tendrils wrapped around his heart. Weak after what? Why did she need to wash?

"I was bathing in the God's Eye when a Bolton crossbowman saw me." Sansa swallowed, her chest rising and falling as her breaths came more quickly, and Olyvar realized his mistake too late. "I was bare, and he- he- he was going to-" she shuddered, tears dripping down her cheeks. "I hadn't even flowered yet, but he—" she choked back a sob and fell silent. Olyvar waited as she drew a long, deep breath, her eyes fixed on her horse's mane. "Ser Jaime sent him away, and brought me back to King's Landing in chains."

Guilt and rage sped through Olyvar's veins like wildfire. She was at Harrenhal for mother was his first thought. Lannister could have let her go was his second. A lost princess rising nude from the God's Eye was the stuff of songs, no one would have believed the mad ravings of a lowly crossbowman if Jaime Lannister acted as if naught was amiss, and let Brienne of Tarth spirit Sansa away. He swore a knight's oaths, Olyvar thought, incandescent with rage, he swore to defend the young and innocent, he swore to protect all women, and he took a naked, helpless girl, chained her up, and gifted her to his vicious father and his cruel sister without a second thought.

When they reached the Tor around midday, Olyvar sent a squire running for his practice spear, his body still humming with fury. For once he would have liked to spar the Manwoodys, both doughty opponents, but they had departed at Yronwood, taking the road west to Kingsgrave to prepare for Mors Manwoody's wedding to Desmera Redwyne. Instead he sparred with a concerned Ser Deziel Dalt, then with an apathetic Ser Daemon Sand, and still he could not calm down. Finally Nym stopped throwing knives at a target long enough to toss a bucket of water over him, and told him to go find Ellaria before he hurt himself. Hair sopping, tunic sticking to his chest, he complied.

The Jordaynes' septon was quick to point Olyvar in the right direction, his pointed nose wrinkled with dismay at the stink of sweat. A short ride later, he found his foster mother at the nearby septry, looking over the holy brothers' wares while her guards waited outside. There were clay jars of poultice to prevent sunburn, and jars of lotion to treat it. There were combs of honey and casks of mead, and soft goat's cheese from the brothers' herds.

"Our almshouse is nearly full, my lady," a holy brother was telling Ellaria. The Smith's hammer dangled on a leather thong about his thick neck. "One of the fishing villages had an outbreak of pox. They had the sense to send the children away at the first sign of contagion, but for every child reclaimed after the pox had run its course, three were left orphaned."

"A pity," Ellaria said, clucking her tongue as she drew out her coin purse. "May the Mother bless the children, and may the Smith help you find them good apprenticeships." She pressed five silver stags into the brother's palm, ignoring Olyvar entirely until they were both mounted and headed back towards the Tor.

"What is it, my son?" She asked, dark eyes concerned.

Briefly, he explained the circumstances of Sansa's capture. He avoided any reference to why she had been at Harrenhal; Princess Elia's dream was a secret betwixt himself, his mother, his sister Meria, and now Sansa. Nor had Olyvar confessed that Sansa had discovered his secret within three days of their wedding. Ellaria listened thoughtfully, and sighed when he was finished.

"You cannot change the past, nor the actions of others," she said gently. "The princess has seen a lifetime of horrors in the past few years. Some we know of, many we do not. Speak her gently, treat her kindly, that is all you can do."

I could also punch Jaime Lannister in the face if I ever see him again, Olyvar thought mutinously as Sansa cried out in her sleep. Near midnight she'd woken herself screaming, and having no notion of what else to do, her bedmaid had fetched Olyvar. He poured her a cup of water, sung her a Rhoynish song only slightly offkey, and then planted himself in a chair to watch over her once she drifted back to sleep.

He wished he could send her back to Winterfell. Surely her brothers and sister would be better comfort than Dornish strangers. Olyvar had raised the notion to Nym halfway down the Boneway, only to receive a tongue lashing for his troubles.

"How would that work, pray tell?" Nym demanded. "I suppose the High Septon would be delighted to provide an annulment for lack of consummation after the king himself gave the bride away."

"We could say she escaped."

"The bitch queen would love that." Nym laughed without humor. "Such a gentle, understanding woman. She would never blame us for such an escape, or send an assassin after the girl, or demand that the Tyrells march on Dorne to avenge such treachery. Even if Ser Kevan restrained her, the girl would never be able to marry again, not until you died. Although," she mused. "I suppose if she escaped north, Robb Stark might have you murdered so that he could marry her off to one of his bannermen."

"Robb Stark has a reputation for honor," Olyvar objected. Nym snorted.

"Yes, no honorable man would ever countenance having a man murdered for raping his sister. If you thought some northman had forced our Elia to wed against her will, and carried her away past the Neck, I'm sure you wouldn't even consider hiring a man to kill the brute and bring our sister home."

On that happy thought Nym galloped away, leaving Olyvar gasping in the clouds of dust she left behind. He tried not to think of her words, but Robb Stark's letter had brought them rushing back at Yronwood. Were the northern envoys on their way to Sunspear merely cover for a catspaw to slip in and kill him? Stark sounded angry enough to do such a thing, and he was clever enough to have outwitted Tywin Lannister in battle. Not clever enough to rescue his sister from the Red Keep, a scornful voice murmured. I saved her from the Mountain and from being poisoned or wed to a raping brute.

No, Olyvar told himself firmly as Sansa stretched her arms above her head, her eyes fluttering open. He deserved no praise for that. Knights were sworn to protect women; he had merely done as he should. The fact that no other knight in that cesspit of a city had stood for Sansa was a blemish upon their honor.

"I'll send for your maid, princess," he murmured when her gaze fell upon him. Her mouth opened in surprise, and he saw her cheeks were stained by tears. I swear by the Father's scales, he thought grimly as he strode from the room, if I ever see Jaime Lannister again, I will punch him in the face.

A morning spar with Perros Blackmont somewhat improved his temper. The squire was vastly relieved to face an opponent who was not Lady Brienne of Tarth, who was currently riding at quintain. Half the yard watched, some more skeptically than others. Dornish women might fight, but very few went about in plate armor. Then again, few women, Dornish or otherwise, were six and a half feet tall. It pleased Olyvar to see that his wife's sworn sword was as good a rider as any knight, and better with the lance than most. All in all, he found himself quite content by the time he and Perros proceeded to the bathhouse, the squire babbling amiably about books.

"May I ask the princess about northern legends?" Perros asked, pouring a bucket of seawater over his head, his eyes clenched shut to keep out the salt. Bathhouses on the Dornish coast rarely used precious freshwater, which was always needed for crops, livestock, and people.

"I suppose," Olyvar granted, scrubbing the grit off the back of his neck. He couldn't see any harm in it; perhaps a distraction would lift her spirits.

By the end of the midday meal, Olyvar was struggling not to bury his face in his hands. Sansa had not objected to Perros questioning her about northern legends, but as she retold the stories she had heard at the knee of a nurse named Old Nan, the entire table began to fall silent.

"It has been a long time," Sansa said as she finished her current tale, self-conscious at the nobles' staring. "I fear I do not do the stories justice."

"You told the stories very well, princess," Jynessa Blackmont said, shifting in her seat. "Are all northern legends so, ah...?"

"Bloody?" A young Allyrion squire piped up eagerly. Olyvar groaned under his breath. Why must boys of twelve be such savages?

First there had been the tale of the Rat Cook, a man of the Night's Watch who had chopped up an Andal king's son and fed him to his father, only for the old gods to turn the cook into a monstrous rat who lived forever and could eat only his own young. Then there had been the tale of Hardhome, a wildling town north of the Wall that had been prosperous until it was destroyed in a raging inferno, the land cursed, haunted forever by burning ghosts that drank the blood of unwary travelers. Finally she had told the tale of the thing that came in the night, a demon who prowled the Nightfort, a thing so monstrous that beholding it drove apprentice boys first to madness then to death.

"No?" Sansa replied, shifting in her seat. "Old Nan told us about Symeon Star-Eyes, and Florian the Fool, and all the knights of the Kingsguard, but I thought you would already know those stories."

"What about brave Danny Flint?" Perros piped up. Thankfully, Olyvar sat next to him, close enough to slap the squire upside the back of the head before Sansa looked over.

"We know that one," Olyvar growled, giving Perros his most murderous glare. Asking her for a tale of rape, really? He cast about for a distraction. "Was the thing that came in the night an Other?"

Sansa wrapped her arms about herself, shivering despite the warmth of the hall.

"No. The thing that came in the night was the only one of its kind, and terrible to look upon. The Others..."

Sansa hesitated. The Allyrion squire hung on her every word, as did Perros, and others were turning to listen. "There were hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. Comely they were, tall and slim, with skin as cold and white as snow and eyes that burned like stars. But their hearts were frozen, and when they saw men with hot blood in their veins, oh, how they hated!"

The entire hall was quiet, as if entranced. Jynessa Blackmont's spoon trembled halfway to her mouth, soup dripping onto the linen tablecloth. Perros looked equally intrigued and dismayed. Myria Jordayne's eyes were fixed on Sansa, unblinking.

"For ninety-nine days and ninety-nine nights snowstorms buried the world in ice and snow, and the hundredth day came without a dawn. The Others swept over the land, slaying heroes and armies by the score. They raised hosts of the slain as thralls to their will, and feasted them upon the flesh of children. Those too old or too young to fight froze to death; cottages became crypts, their hearth fires gone dark as the sunless sky. Mothers and maidens were all that remained, fleeing south in hopes of finding the sun, and the Others followed, hunting them through forest and field. The mothers and babes they fed to their thralls; the maidens they took by force, siring foul children neither human nor Other."

"I don't like that story," the Allyrion squire muttered. The spell broke. Someone laughed nervously; the murmur of voices slowly began to once more fill the hall, faces turning away from Sansa. All except that of Myria Jordayne.

"We have a book that mentions the Others," Lady Myria said, ignoring Perros's squeak of delight. "The original was a set of tablets graven with the runes of the First Men. A Fowler lady brought them with her centuries past, a gift for her Jordayne betrothed, who loved ancient texts. Together they began translating the runes, and their son took up the work after they passed. I don't think anyone has touched the book since it was finished. Well, except for the maesters who keep charge of the library. And my grandfather, perhaps, he was always boasting about how we had texts even the Citadel lacks. That's the only reason I've heard of it. I could have a copy made for you, if you like."

An afternoon in the Tor's library proved inevitable after that. While the maester hunted for Myria's elusive book so that Sansa might see the original, Perros wandered up and down the aisles, mouth agape, eyes alight. He even had the temerity to slap Olyvar's hand away from the shelves.

"Don't touch the books," he scolded, as indignant as if Olyvar had dropped a suckling babe from the top of a tower, not merely reached out to touch a book's spine. "Our hands have oils that damage the bindings. Uh, ser."

Both annoyed and chastened, Olyvar sat down on a bench beside Sansa. She was reading a book of poems, her face rapt. The lady who spoke of the Others was gone; in her place was a girl, besotted with pretty verses about chivalry and maidens fair.

"Obella likes that one," he said, pointing to a verse about Ser Davos Dayne, the dashing knight Nymeria had chosen as her third husband.

"She's the second of Ellaria's daughters?" Sansa asked tentatively. Olyvar grinned.

"Yes, she turned twelve at the end of fifth moon." Olyvar sighed. "She was so upset when she learned Prince Oberyn and Ellaria would miss her nameday. Hopefully the gifts we brought back will soothe her temper."

"I haven't celebrated my nameday since Winterfell." Sansa's voice was wistful. "The cook baked an enormous lemoncake, mother gave me pearls, and father gave me a high harp. Lady Catelyn taught me how to play, and Lord Eddard was going to find me a master in King's Landing..." She shook herself, smiled stiffly, and returned to her book.

Olyvar's thoughts were not so easily pushed aside. She should have had lessons on the high harp, not lessons on betrayal. Lord Eddard will take the black, the queen had promised, and then Ser Ilyn Payne struck Eddard Stark's head off with his own blade while Sansa screamed not ten yards away. Gods be good, Joffrey had commanded the Kingsguard to beat her bloody! A mere girl, his own betrothed! As if that were not enough, he had made her look at her father's head on a spike. And even after all that, he could not tell if she had flung Joffrey to his death on purpose or by mischance. It was not to be born. Olyvar might not be her family, but he was her husband, and he had sworn to soothe her hurts.

"When is your nameday, princess?"

"The fifth day of twelfth moon, ser," Sansa murmured, engrossed in her book.

Olyvar leaned back against the wall, considering. Today was the fifteenth day of eleventh moon; by Sansa's nameday they should have reached Lemonwood. He rose from the bench.

"I think I'll see if I can find Ser Deziel. I'll see you at dinner, princess."

As per usual, Ser Deziel was easy to find. No matter the keep, all one had to do was ask the gardeners if they had seen a dark-skinned lordling cooing over their rarest plants. Today Ser Deziel was in the orchards, staring at a pomegranate tree that looked much like any other pomegranate tree. Fortunately, Olyvar only had to tolerate a few minutes of rhapsodizing about the balance between sweet and tart and the ratio of fruit to seed before he managed to divert the conversation to the reason for which he'd sought out Dezi.

"An excellent notion," Deziel agreed. "I only wish the Yronwoods would be there to see what can be achieved when a host concerns himself with taste over expense. Serving sour strongwine with boar, I ask you. A white wine would have been much better."

By the time they departed the Tor preparations with Deziel were well in hand. A raven went ahead of them to the castellan at Lemonwood, Deziel's younger brother Andrey, and Sansa seemed almost normal again.

At least, until a few days south of Godsgrace, when Olyvar made the mistake of asking where Sansa had gone after escaping King's Landing. He had expected to hear that she had been smuggled out of the city by some faithful Stark retainer, not Bel and her whores.

"How did you even meet them?" He asked, bewildered.

"Oh, Baelish gave them Jeyne and Meri. The cats helped Arya find them."

"Baelish did what?" He'd vaguely heard that the master of coin owned brothels, but forcing a lady's companions, young girls at that, into such a profession? How deep could the depravity of King's Landing sink?

"The queen told Baelish to take care of Jeyne and Meri. He questioned them and then sent them to the brothel for training." Catching the look of horror on his face, Sansa smiled in a way that tried and failed to be reassuring, as if this conversation was not one nightmare after another. "They didn't actually train them. Bel had them scrubbing pots and so on."

"So they are both still maidens?" Olyvar asked, somewhat relieved. Sansa frowned.

"Well, not Meri, but that's because her village was attacked by the Mountain. That was why I took her into my service."

Olyvar suddenly felt the urge to dig Gregor Clegane's massive skull out of the baggage and piss on it. "And the cats?"

Sansa tilted her head, as if he had missed something obvious.

"Their noses are as good as any hound's. Bel was going to help Arya escape too, but a man of the Night's Watch got her out first. It was lucky the cats led me to her brothel, I injured my paw jumping from the walls."

In retrospect, the fact that his wife could turn into a direwolf, a wonder he had not yet seen, was rather less shocking than the rest of the tale. At fourteen, Elia Sand never went for a ride without at least two guards to keep her safe, not even when she rode along the tranquil beach that lay below the Water Gardens. At twelve, Sansa Stark had fled King's Landing with no company but two girls just as young. As far as he could tell from her confused recollection, they had hidden in a cave in the crownlands for a month before her little sister and a blacksmith's apprentice joined them.

"But Arya had Needle, and Gendry had a sword too, so that was much better, especially once we sent Nymeria and the wolfpack away."

That night Olyvar lit candles to each of the Seven, thanking them for keeping lost children safe. He lit more candles and made offerings the next night, after Sansa told him that not only had their band been captured by outlaws, but they had chosen to live among them for half a year rather than seek refuge at Riverrun. Olyvar bit his cheek bloody forcing himself to keep silent, but finally he could bear it no longer.

"What were you thinking?" He demanded, heart pounding in his chest. "Anything could have happened! What if the outlaws turned on you?"

"Some of them were my father's men," Sansa replied, cheeks flushed. "And we had Nymeria, and two wolf packs, and Anguy was teaching everyone archery—"

"What if you or your sister had fallen ill, with no maester near?" He challenged, before remembering a more salient point. "Wait, is that how Jaime Lannister captured you? Because you were out in the wild rather than safe at Riverrun?"

Sansa stared at him as if he had struck her. "I was captured because I went to Harrenhal," she reminded him, cold as ice.

They rode in silence after that.

Things had not improved by the time they reached Lemonwood. Sansa was as polite as ever, but she did not seek him out, or engage in conversation beyond the barest of courtesies.

"What on earth did you do?" Deziel asked, lounging in the chair of his solar. It was the day before her nameday, and Sansa was below in the orchards, strolling with Ellaria.

"I said something… less than tactful."

"Did you put your foot in your mouth, or your whole leg?"

Olyvar winced. "Up to the thigh, I think." Deziel whistled sympathetically. "Ah, well. I dare say the princess will be in a better mood tomorrow, never you fear."

Deziel's words proved prophetic. Sansa awoke to a room garlanded with sweet smelling blossoms, the work of Olyvar and all the maids he could persuade to assist him in his efforts to transform her chambers into a maiden's bower from the songs.

"What- how-" she gasped, eyes wide.

"For your nameday," Olyvar said, beckoning the maid over with the breakfast tray. Sansa gaped. Beside the warm bread, smooth butter, and sharp cheese rested a glass full of juice, freshly squeezed from blood oranges. She took a sip, giggled, and Olyvar happily took his leave.

The midday meal of prawns basted in spices and lime juice was received with equal delight, as was the lemon posset served afterwards. While she drank the posset Olyvar presented Sansa with his nameday gift, a perfume that smelt of lemons and sunshine, with a tartness underneath that reminded him of her wolfsblood. Unfortunately he stumbled through his explanation rather badly, at one point telling a bemused Sansa that the fragrance was as sharp as she was, a most undeserved remark given her gentle manners even when angry.

The feast that night was everything Deziel had promised. There were pipers, fiddlers, a harpist, and a band of mummers who performed Florian and Jonquil to riotous applause. While they dined on rosada grilled with lemons a singer named Frynne the Fair sang every northern song she knew, and several of her own written about Sansa's trial and Olyvar's fight with the Mountain. Sansa alternated between tears of joy and giggling sweetly to herself as she slipped her cat bits of chicken under the table.

Even the unexpected arrival of Lord Daeron Vaith and Lord Gargalen's two sons could not shake Sansa's good humor, though Olyvar suspected the three glasses of sweet lemon wine she had consumed certainly helped. She peppered them with smiles and questions about the great deeds of their houses, and by the end of the meal Olyvar found to his amazement that all three men, proud Dornishmen who presumed anyone born north of the Red Mountains was a witless barbarian, were smiling at Sansa.

"Usually I'd say even a bastard deserves better than a northern bride," Lord Vaith confided when Sansa had departed after effusively thanking everyone in the keep from Ser Deziel down to the spit boys in the kitchens. "Still… you could hardly ask for a sweeter, more comely lady."

"Princess, my lord," Olyvar corrected. Lord Vaith smiled sharply.

"Yes, of course. Strange that Sunspear decided to embrace the Iron Throne. I'd have thought Prince Oberyn would rather kill Lannisters than counsel them." He swirled the wine in his cup and drank it down. "Between the Young Wolf's three kingdoms and Dorne, why, it would be like catching rats in a trap. Though I suppose we'd have to find someone to put on the Iron Throne. If we declare ourselves independent the damn Reachermen and marcher lords will be on us like fleas on a horse."

Olyvar twitched. Prince Oberyn had wanted to crown him as a babe, before mother threatened to harm herself if he dared send a single raven. Prince Doran had supported his sister's wishes, and that had been the end of it. Dorne was too small to fight six kingdoms alone, and even then, who knew if all of Dorne would back such an audacious scheme. Olyvar thanked the gods every morning that he was not raised as Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name.

Although, Aegon Targaryen would be a worthier match for Princess Sansa than Olyvar Sand…. grimacing, Olyvar pushed the thought aside. He didn't need to worry about crowns or thrones. He needed to worry about making Sansa happy, whether or not the northern envoys on their way to Sunspear intended to try to make her a widow.


NOTES

1) I write extensive notes/outlines for each chapter. I thought some of you would find this note amusing:

Olyvar: so I have a new baby sister, only this one is Haunted

Olyvar: okay

Olyvar: okay

Olyvar: coolcoolcool I can handle this, it's gonna be fine, it's gonna be fine—

2) Olyvar's mental image of Robb is hilarious and inaccurate. Which is understandable, given he doesn't realize than Robb looked tall to Sansa when she saw him 2 years ago before she got her growth spurt. Robb will be 5'10 when he's done growing. Olyvar is currently 6'1, and not done growing.

3) Basically every septry and motherhouse should be running a hospital for the sick, elderly, and orphans. I've decided to call them almshouses, which was one medieval term for such places.

4) Currency is a bitch. In Westeros, the most common coins are golden dragons, silver stags, and copper pennies. There are also copper stars, copper groats, copper halfgrouts, and copper halfpennies. According to one fan website, here's the value of currency:

1 golden dragon = 79,800

1 silver stag= 380

1 copper star= 54

1 copper groat= 27

1 copper penny= 7

One golden dragon= 210 silver stags= 1,470 copper stars= 2,940 copper groats= 11,760 copper pennies

5) Time for a Research Rabbit Hole :D Let's talk citrus!

The ancestors of our citrus fruits originated in the Himalayas before spreading to Southeast Asia. Modern citrus trees derive from several natural species found in a region that includes the eastern area of Assam, northern Myanmar, and western Yunnan.

Oranges are first mentioned in Chinese literature in 314 BCE, and Arab traders brought them to Europe where they were grown in Moorish Spain beginning in the 900s. Lemons appear to have been cultivated in India first, with Arab traders bringing them to the Mediterranean around 200 CE; they became widely popular in Moorish Spain by around 1150. Limes were first grown in Indonesia and Malaysia, and were brought to Europe by Arab traders by the mid 1200s.

So, if you're enjoying lemonade, key lime pie, or an orange smoothie, say thank you to the people of ancient China, Malaysia, Indonesia, and India who spent hundreds of years crossbreeding and domesticating citrus trees, and pour one out for the Arab traders who brought these delicious fruits westward.

6) Rosada is a type of white fish found in Andalusia (southern Spain). Apparently it tastes similar to cod.