Mid December, 300 AC

By the time the retinue reached the gates of Sunspear, the feeling of hot winds and grains of sand scouring her skin were a distant memory. Sansa looked about her, idly stroking her mare Snowsister's mane. How different was the south from what Sansa had imagined! The desert might stretch across the center of Dorne, dry and desolate, but Lemonwood and Sunspear lay along the coast, the sandy soil dotted with flowers and olive groves watered by the intermittent rains that came from the sea. Her days were warm and sunkissed, her nights pleasantly cool and lit by moonlight.

Her companions did not agree. Apparently while desert nights were always cold, these were much colder than was usual for autumn. Lords and ladies alike draped themselves in cloaks when night fell, lamenting that they had not brought any furs in their baggage. Used to running about in summer snows, Sansa found this rather funny, but she knew better than to say so, though she did insist on Lady Ellaria borrowing one of her cloaks when her good-mother began shivering despite already having been well wrapped in her own cloak as well as Ser Olyvar's.

"The Hellholt, my lord father's keep, is the hottest place in Dorne," Ellaria said ruefully as she accepted the cloak. "I daresay I shall never spend a winter further north than King's Landing for fear of turning into an icicle."

But now the sun was shining overhead, the waters of the Shell river sparkling like jewels. The Shell was the daughter of the Greenblood, the greatest river in Dorne. Lemonwood lay to the south of the river's mouth; the Planky Town, a trading city built of flatboats lashed together, floated upon the mouth itself. To the north of the Greenblood, between Planky Town and Sunspear, lay a great expanse of rich soil, the gift of the Rhoynish water witches who accompanied Nymeria.

"House Martell were never kings before Nymeria," Olyvar had explained as she stared at the rolling acres of farmland. "The Shell was barely a river, the histories say, until the water witches altered the course of the Greenblood. Then the Shell grew, and the land between the Shell and the Greenblood became fertile as the rivers flooded every autumn and winter."

"The maesters call it a river delta," Perros Blackmont added absentmindedly, one hand on his reins and the other holding an open book. While Sansa was used to seeing knights ride using only their knees, leaving their hands free for sword and shield, she still could not grow used to the sight of a youth reading on horseback.

Nor could she grow used to the weight of her chest rubbing against her linen breast band. Ellaria had been delighted when Sansa began to add flesh to her slender frame, her belly and hips rounding enough that her gowns had to be let out to accommodate the soft curves, and her hems adjusted for her lengthening legs. Sansa was happy that she could no longer see her ribs or hip bones, but much less happy about the fact that her bosom also grew. She could no longer sleep comfortably on her stomach, and her back hurt unless Ellaria's maid massaged her shoulders before bed.

The sound of creaking iron roused Sansa from her reverie. Guards wearing the orange of House Martell were shouting as they open the Threefold Gate; those atop the walls were waving and cheering at the retinue as the proud banners flapped in the salty breeze. Ser Deziel Dalt had the honor of carrying Olyvar's banner, ten golden snakes upon sand, while Ser Daemon Sand bore Sansa's, the grey direwolf of House Stark racing across an ice-white field. Almost every every stitch had been sewn by Jynessa Blackmont's maid, Girasol, who was the best seamstress in the retinue. Every stitch, that is, except for the crown of weirwood leaves resting upon the direwolf's head. Those Sansa had done herself.

She opened her ears for a moment as they rode through the gates, searching for the sound of the wayns that bore her weirwood saplings. Beneath the sound of Buttons purring in his sleep the wheels groaned as they always did; she had not realized dirt could be so very heavy. More than once the wayns had gotten stuck in the damp earth of the Yronwood, sinking as though they carried chests of yellow gold rather than boxes of black soil. It was a kind gesture, to make such effort for her sake. The wayns were heavily guarded too, both day and night, a measure which seemed excessive. When she asked Olyvar he had shrugged, bemused, saying that Prince Oberyn had set the guard before they left King's Landing.

She was so focused on the groaning wheels that Sansa winced in pain when the roaring of the crowd overwhelmed her. Smallfolk packed the streets, as if the whole of Sunspear had come to greet them; Ser Daemon and Ser Deziel had to shout for long minutes before a path finally cleared through the press. Ellaria and Lady Nym smiled and waved, but Olyvar was so tense he looked as if he might fall off his palfrey, a dun mare aptly named Patience.

"Try to look less pained," she heard Lady Nym scold through her teeth, still smiling. "They're cheering for you, lackwit." Olyvar bared his teeth in an awkward grimace as their horses walked through the screaming crowd.

"Ser Olyvar!" a burly blacksmith shouted.

"Strongspear!" cried a woman's voice.

The crowd cheered louder as Sansa brought Snowsister up beside Patience, leaning toward Olyvar so he could hear her over the tumult.

"Think of seeing Loree and Doree," she told him, remembering how brightly he smiled whenever he spoke of his youngest sisters. "Imagine they're the ones cheering, ser." A smile was just rising to his lips when Snowsister stumbled on a loose stone. Olyvar grabbed Sansa's hand as she fought to keep her seat, his face panicked.

"I'm fine," Sansa gasped, gripping the mare with her knees, her fingers still laced tightly with his as the crowd bellowed in approval. Thank the gods Lady Nym had insisted on teaching her to ride like a Dornishwoman, and thank the gods she had thought of Arya's ease in the saddle and forced herself to learn. She had to show that a princess of the North could ride as well as any lady of Dorne.

"Stark! Stark! Red wolf!"

Sansa smiled and waved with her free hand, her heart still pounding from almost falling. "Loree and Doree," she repeated, raising their laced hands high as the commons went wild.

"Loree and Doree," Olyvar echoed, smiling tentatively.

He did not let go of her hand until they reached the walls of the Old Palace, and for a while, she could pretend she rode with her brother Robb.

She could not pretend any longer once she was staring up at the sandstone palace, careful not to gape as Brienne of Tarth did. The Rhoynish favored grace and balance in their cities, and it was in that style that Nymeria had built the Old Palace. The Spear Tower rose high above the keep, its walls covered with carvings too small for her to make out. Beside it lay the Tower of the Sun, no less grand despite its lesser height, the broad tower boasting a gilded dome set above arched windows. To her confusion, every window she could see had empty open space where the glass should be.

"Why isn't there any glass?" Sansa wondered.

"Winterfell has glass gardens," Ser Deziel called over. "How warm are they on a summer's day?"

"They're very—" Sansa blushed. Oh.

There was much more to the Old Palace than the Spear Tower and the Tower of the Sun. She spied a beautiful seven-sided sept of white marble, bathhouses, and artisans' workshops as they rode toward the Tower of the Sun. Elevated brick paths called aqueducts raised water from the river below and carried it through the palace, to the towers and halls and courtyards filled with gardens, fountains, and pools. The Red Keep was nothing compared to this, this beauty, this harmony— but it wasn't Winterfell.

Ser Manfrey Martell, the castellan of Sunspear, was there to greet them when they dismounted. While stableboys led away the sweat streaked horses to be groomed and fed, servants led the lords and ladies to chambers where they might refresh themselves before being presented to Princess Arianne. For the past three years Prince Doran had left Sunspear in her charge, driven to the Water Gardens by the gout which sapped his strength.

The chambers prepared for Sansa were on the lowest level of the Tower of the Sun. One wall of her solar was set with a vaulted portico that opened onto a small courtyard whose garden was composed of tall lemon trees set around a clear pool. While male servants carried in her trunks, a maid led her to the women's bathhouse. There she was undressed, provided with an enormous, fluffy towel to cover her nakedness, and shown a wide variety of soaps, perfumes, and scrapers which she might use. Overwhelmed, Sansa chose a spiced orange soap she recalled Ellaria using and a scraper carved with blossoms.

The bathhouse was similar to those she had used at other Dornish keeps along their journey. From the changing room she entered a hot room, where she sat so clouds of steam could loosen the dirt from her skin. The other ladies of the retinue surrounded her, chatting amiably as maids slathered their nude bodies with the thick paste-like soap the Dornish favored. After sitting in the steam for a while the ladies moved to the warm room, where they lay on stone beds as attendants scrubbed every inch of their bodies. After the attendant, a no-nonsense woman in her sixties, rinsed Sansa clean with cool water, she was wrapped in fresh towels, one around her waist and another around her hair, and sent to sit in a cool room.

Brienne of Tarth was already there, ungainly and uncomfortable in a far too small towel. Sansa sat beside her sworn sword, accepting a bunch of grapes from an attendant bearing a bowl of fruit. Most of the ladies in the cool room were unknown to Sansa, though she did see Jynessa Blackmont half dozing against a wall. Buckets of cold water lined the room, both to keep the room cool and for the ladies to rinse again if they so wished.

"Could you find a towel that will fit my lady? Perhaps one from the men's baths?" Sansa asked an attendant. The girl glanced at Brienne, bowed, and scurried off. Across the room one of the ladies snorted, and Brienne shrank against the wall.

"Seven save us, she's more mannish than Obara. That's not a lady, that's a cow." The speaker was a pretty woman in her twenties, with pale skin and blue-green eyes. Like every other woman, she wore only towels, with nothing to indicate her house or her sigil. For a moment Sansa wanted to cry; she'd worked so hard to learn Dornish sigils from Ellaria and Myria Jordayne!

"And you are, my lady?" Sansa asked.

"Utha Drinkwater." The lady raised her head proudly.

Sansa glanced at Brienne, her thick body curled in on itself, her face as still as stone. Suddenly a queer rage possessed her, as if Arya and Nymeria had somehow taken over her body. Sansa stood, heedless of her towels falling to the floor and her damp hair slapping her on the back.

"House Drinkwater of Clear Bend. Your sigil is a blue river bend between two trees on a green field. Remind me, what are your house words?"

Utha scoffed, unimpressed. "Clear as crystal, strong as steel." Sansa smiled; she had remembered rightly.

"Then let me be crystal clear," she said sweetly. "She is Lady Brienne of Tarth, heir to Evenfall Hall." One of Utha's companions was pointing to Sansa's hair and whispering frantically under her breath as Sansa approached. "I am Princess Sansa of House Stark, sister to the King of the North, the Trident, and the Vale. You are the niece of a landed knight, and your words are unbecoming of a lady. I can only assume that you have not yet bathed, and the filth on your skin somehow poisoned your tongue."

She wasn't quite sure at what point she had picked up the bucket of water, nor did she recall deciding to dump it over Lady Utha. The woman yelped as the cold water hit her skin, her eyes wide as she looked up at Sansa. "There. Now that you're clean, I suggest you apologize to Lady Brienne."

When the attendant returning bearing Brienne's towel, it was to find Sansa looming over Lady Utha, completely naked, as Utha stammered an apology. With a cry of dismay the attendant handed Brienne the new towel and wrapped Sansa back up in the towels that had fallen at her feet. Chastened, Lady Utha fled, and Sansa returned to her bench, inexplicably famished. She and Brienne shared the grapes between them, Brienne's eyes still shining with unshed tears. It was a relief when attendants came to wash their hair, accompanied by Ellaria.

Brienne's short locks were quickly tended, and she left silently while Sansa, whose hair now brushed the small of her back, was still occupied. The attendant needed multiple buckets of water to wash her hair before she worked a thin oil through the strands to protect them from the day's dry heat. The attendant was a girl near Sansa's age, and she worked very carefully, struggling to hide an almost giddy smile.

"What was that about?" Sansa asked when Ellaria helped her find her way back to her chambers. Lady Ellaria already knew the gown she would wear to court, and had changed into the deep green silks before leaving the bathhouse. Sansa, uncertain, still needed to choose a gown and jewels worthy of being presented to the future ruler of Dorne.

"Did you think the palace servants any less excited than those down below in the streets?" Ellaria asked, shooing Buttons away so she could open the wooden chest that held Sansa's nicest gowns. "Princess Elia is well loved, and the brute who attacked her is finally dead." Ellaria contemplated a gown of deep blue, then set it aside. "Olyvar may have struck the fatal blow, but he only raised his spear because you bearded the lion in his den. This one, I think."

Ellaria held out the cloth-of-silver gown she had gifted Sansa the day of the wedding. The gown was cut in the northern style, but made with silks as light as a whisper. "Thank the Seven that I suspected you were still growing; there was enough fabric for Girasol to let out the bust and let down the hem when we were at Lemonwood." Ellaria frowned. "A short sleeved shift underneath, I think, and your lightest kirtle, or you will melt before we reach the throne room."

Sansa nodded, and Ellaria turned to the jewelry box while the maid dressed Sansa. First came the linen shift, then the silk kirtle, then the gown itself. The square neckline mostly hid her bosom, and the belled sleeves her pale arms. The gown was trimmed with white silk embroidered with crimson weirwood leaves, the fruit of her labors during the long journey south. As the maid laced her into the gown, Sansa looked about her new chambers. In one corner was a small sleeping cell, where a straw pallet lay on the floor beside a large woven basket lined with furs.

"Is that your place?" Sansa asked the maid as she began pinning up her hair, covering it with a silver hairnet chosen by Ellaria.

"No, m'lady. That's for the maid I'm training for you. She's with Lady Toland right now." The maid huffed, her mouth clearly full of hairpins. "I'd be happy to wait upon you myself, m'lady, Lady Ellaria can vouch for my work."

"Yes, yes, Rya, you're as good as your mother was," Ellaria said, still sorting through the jewelry box. "If the seneschal has assigned Princess Sansa another maid, there's doubtless a reason."

Rebuked, Rya finished Sansa's hair in silence. Ellaria brought over the pearl earrings Lady Catelyn had given her, as well as a silver necklace from which hung a direwolf rampant. With Sansa ready, all that was left was for Rya to scurry to Ellaria's room and fetch her own jewelry, most of which featured golden snakes twined in sets of four, their eyes of sparkling onyx.

"I once made the made the mistake of telling Olyvar that I missed my girls' embraces when I travel," Ellaria said wryly as Sansa handed Rya a silver stag to thank her for her service. "Olyvar told Prince Oberyn, who thinks he's very witty."

"Who's witty?" Olyvar asked as he entered the room, trailed by Lady Nym.

Her lord husband was garbed in a tunic of sandy colored silk, his hair still damp from the baths. He rubbed his chin and immediately winced; he had forgotten the small pimples that marched up the edge of his jaw. Ellaria gave Sansa a conspiratorial look, and shook her head. Clearly used to not receiving a reply, Olyvar offered her his arm.

The throne room proved Sansa's undoing, and for the first time since reaching Dorne she openly gaped. The golden dome above her head was covered in an enormous mosaic. Scarlet tiles formed a blazing sun over the center of the dome, set against a field of orange. Between each pair of rays lay golden tiles arranged in the shape of spears; tiles blue as sapphire formed a mighty river that rippled around the base of the dome. The stucco walls of the throne room were just as beautiful, covered with painted carvings of desert flowers and trees dotted with olives, oranges, or lemons. Upon the raised dais sat twin thrones, one adorned with a spear, the other with a sun.

"It's like a song," Sansa breathed, like some silly little girl. Olyvar grinned at her.

"Uncle Doran isn't much for court life, but Princess Arianne patronizes poets and singers, and the best mummers come to show off their talents." He grimaced. "There will be mummers at the welcoming feast tomorrow evening, Ser Deziel warned me. They'll be putting on Strongspear the Squire, a new romance by Lady Toland's pet playwright."

"Oh, no." Sansa put a hand to her mouth, but before she could say anything else the seneschal called for silence.

Princess Arianne Martell emerged from the prince's door behind the dais like a lady out of a tale. She was tiny, buxom and beautiful, with luminous bronze skin and dark eyes that shone like stars. Her gown was a striking orange; a chain of golden suns draped across her collarbones and matching suns hung from her ears.

No wonder so many men sought her hand. On the road from Lemonwood she had questioned Olyvar at length about his elegant cousin. Both Ser Deziel Dalt and his younger brother Ser Andrey had wanted to wed her; Ser Daemon Sand had gone so far as to ask Prince Doran for her hand... but the Dalts, rich as they were, were only landed knights, and Ser Daemon was a bastard of Godsgrace, not a trueborn Allyrion.

Arianne seated herself in the sun chair, the seat of the heir. A lord stood at her left hand. His dimples and strong jaw were vaguely familiar, as was his tunic of parti-colored black, red and gold. This must be Ser Lewyn Allyrion, younger brother to Ser Ryon Allyrion. He was not as handsome as his bastard nephew, but he was comely enough, and only a few years older. Ser Ryon was much older than Ser Lewyn.

A blonde woman stood next to the dais, garbed in the pale blue of the Maiden. From the way the woman smiled at Olyvar she knew that must be Tyene, his fourth sister, and Arianne's closest friend. A woman of twenty, Tyene was the daughter of a septa from the Reach, chancemet when Oberyn returned to Westeros for Princess Elia's wedding to Rhaegar Targaryen.

As the seneschal called the room to order Sansa reviewed Prince Doran's court in her head, glancing at the dais to match faces with names and what she had heard of them. The old blind seneschal was Ricasso, a friend of Prince Doran's youth. His pockets would be full of candied ginger for his many great-grandchildren. She had already met Ser Manfrey Martell, the bearded castellan, who boasted as loud as any lord but wept when mummers played tragedies. The grey-robed maester with the goatee and the obsequious smile must be Myles, still nervous and eager to please five years after receiving his chain.

The last counselor to slip in was a lady in black silk embroidered with copper jewels who could only be the treasurer, Alyse Ladybright. Lady Alyse wore a necklace of bright gold-brown gems that were surely the topazes of her sigil. Most of the retinue was still irritated with her. Sunspear was mad for a new game called cyvasse, and Lady Alyse had crushed almost every member of the retinue before they departed for King's Landing. Apparently she was not gentle with either the feelings or purses of her vanquished foes.

The way Arianne held court was different from how she remembered her father holding court in King's Landing. Her counselors did not interrupt like Pycelle and Varys and Littlefinger had done; when Arianne wanted their advice, the counselor in question approached her throne and whispered in her ear. Two knights disputing over ownership of a mill were ordered to see the bailiffs so that the tax records might be examined; a woman who accused a brewer of rape was sent to the judiciars so they might arrange a trial.

Another woman came to accuse a baker of mixing sawdust in his flour; that woman left accompied by stern-faced shariffs who would examine the quality of the flour and arrest the baker if needed. For a man who refused to consider ever pressing his claim, Olyvar listened intently, whispering explanations of Dornish law under his breath, his eyebrows shifting as each petitioner brought forth their case. Sansa would have been amused, but when Arianne ordered that a gang of cutpurses be sent to the Night's Watch, her own eyebrows nearly flew off her face.

"The Night's Watch?" She mouthed. Olyvar shrugged, equally bewildered.

Finally the petitions were finished, and it was time for Sansa to be presented. Olyvar led her forward, Ellaria and Nymeria following them toward the dais. Arianne watched them from her throne, one eyebrow quirked.

"Well met, cousin," Arianne said, rising to her feet even as Olyvar bowed and the ladies curtsied. She pressed a kiss to Ellaria's cheek, then Nym's, then Olyvar's.

"And you must be Sansa Stark." Arianne's voice was as lovely and as low as she was; the top of the princess's head was only slightly higher than Sansa's shoulder.

"You are even more gracious than my lord husband said," Sansa replied. "Truly, your judgments were as wise as those I once saw my father make." The princess tugged her down and kissed her cheek, amused. "Oh? How might a simple day of court compare with the man bold enough to send Lord Beric Dondarrion after the Mountain and his reavers?"

"You sent men to the Night's Watch."

Arianne's face drained of color, her smile vanished as her eyes darted to the courtiers still watching curiously. Ser Lewyn swore under his breath; Tyene froze; Ser Manfrey muttered a prayer. "We will continue this conversation in the solar."

The solar was as lavish as the rest of the palace, but Sansa could not appreciate its loveliness, not with Princess Arianne so distraught. Her counselors looked askance at the princess as she paced; after a few minutes her husband laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder, and she stopped, taking a long, deep breath.

"It was supposed to be a novelty," Arianne began, composure settling over her like a cloak. "Men of the Night's Watch so rarely journey this far south. When he said he bore precious cargo, I expected some rare beast or exotic fur, a bribe to send them more men. Instead..."

"He brought a demon," Ser Lewyn said flatly.

Sansa's heartbeat pounded in her ears, rabbit quick. Most of the nightmares that tormented her were twisted memories, horrors she had seen or escaped by the skin of her teeth. But the most frightening nightmares, the ones that made her wake trembling with tears upon her cheeks...

"The Others." Though she spoke in a choked whisper, her words cut the silence like a knife.

"A wight, the black brother called it." Lady Alyse's voice was tight; beads of sweat shone on her brown skin. "A foul dead thing, with milky skin and swollen black hands. And its eyes..."

"Burning blue stars, bright and cold and full of hate. Even wrapped in chains it struggled; when a chain came loose it snapped its own arm to free it, and strangled one of the guards." Maester Myles' smile was gone, replaced by terror. His face was as pale as his ash blonde hair; his hands trembled. Beside him Tyene stood completely still, her air of forced nonchalance more upsetting than the maester's open dismay.

"What does Prince Doran say of this? Is he coming to see the creature?" Ellaria asked. Her voice was skeptical, but her hand clutched Nym's. Lady Alyse and Ser Manfrey looked at each other and Ricasso coughed under his breath, but it was Arianne who answered.

"Prince Doran's gout is much worse since you left. His heart troubles him; his blood does not flow as it should. Even three leagues... Maester Caleotte does not think such a journey wise."

"And why not send the creature to him at the Water Gardens?"

"The shock might kill him, my lady." Ellaria paled as Maester Myles fiddled with his sleeves. "I should like to see this creature for myself—"

"How many of these wait above the Wall?" Olyvar interrupted.

"Thousands, so claims the black brother." Only Ricasso seemed truly calm, like a block of granite undisturbed by wind or rain. "The Wall cannot be crossed by such mindless creatures."

"Peace, Ricasso. Your opinion is known." Ser Lewyn rested a hand on his wife's shoulder. "The creature was presented before the court. All the lords and ladies present saw it; half favor Ricasso's views, and the other half have pledged all their murderers to the Night's Watch, as well as any younger sons and nephews who are landless or desperate for glory."

"Murderers?" Sansa asked Olyvar quietly as Ellaria questioned Arianne and Ser Lewyn further. "Doesn't Dorne always send murderers to the Night's Watch?" That was what Lord Eddard had done.

"Not usually," Olyvar whispered back out of the corner of his mouth. "Under the laws of the Rhoynar, murderers are given to the victim's family. They execute the murderer themselves. We only send murderers to the Watch if the victim has no known family, or if the family wants the murderer to suffer."

"Won't the families be angry?" The conversation had lulled; everyone heard Sansa's question. Tyene glanced at her, the tip of her mouth quirking upward.

"There are ten silver stags for each family that yields a murderer to the Night's Watch," Arianne told her.

"Too high a reward," Lady Alyse muttered, with the air of someone displeased to have lost an argument. "Prince Doran urged caution in all things, and that includes the treasury."

"As you heard Myles say after he examined the records, this is already the coldest autumn in over a hundred years. Caution with my people's safety matters more than counting coppers." Arianne glared at her treasurer, who raised an eyebrow. "And you seemed eager enough to toss coins at the Summer Islanders."

"Those were my own coins, and the furs were well worth it."

Dizzy at the sudden change of subject, Sansa listened for a good ten minutes as the ladies argued. From what she could gather, the swan ship which delivered the brother of the Night's Watch had also brought an assortment of rare furs from Ib, ermine with their distinct black tipped tails, bright white laitice from snow weasels, and the soft pured miniver that came from squirrel bellies. No sooner had the man of the Night's Watch alarmed half the court than the Summer Islander captain had offered the nobles of Sunspear first pick of his wares, spurring an impromptu bidding war over the choicest furs. Apparently neither lady nor princess were pleased with the outcome.

"Princess," Ellaria said sharply, clearly weary of the pointless debate. "Sending men to the Night's Watch is all very well, but what will you tell the Iron Throne? I doubt the queen or Ser Kevan Lannister will pleased at a show of support for a Lord Commander that is Eddard Stark's bastard."

"I already thought of that," Arianne replied, pleased with herself. "I sent a raven saying we wished to rid Dorne of useless mouths before winter; let Robb Stark and Jon Snow fret over feeding them. The Hand replied this morning; he has no objection, and offers Dorne a place among the Kingsguard for a knight of our choice."

The princess turned to Sansa. "I almost forgot. Lord Commander Snow sent a girl along with the sworn brother. His letter said that she is to be your maid, as you have no ladies or servants from the north. An odd wedding gift, to be sure, but she's proved useful. The girl has been nursing Lady Toland's great-niece while she learns the duties of a lady's maid. Rya has been quite vexed with her; the girl is so ignorant you'd think she was a wildling!" Arianne laughed, and her counselors chuckled.

"As for you, cousin—" Arianne looked at Olyvar. "Allyria Dayne is on her way to Sunspear. The riverlords returned Lord Edric Dayne some months past, and he is desperate to be the squire of the knight who slew the Mountain. They should be here for the welcoming feast tomorrow. I would hate to see little Edric's hopes crushed, especially after how he lost his last knight master."

Olyvar nodded at the unspoken command, and with that, Arianne dismissed them so that she might prepare for a meeting with the justiciars. The rest of the afternoon and evening were theirs; the evening meal would be taken in Ellaria's solar. Tyene embraced Olyvar and pressed a kiss to his cheek before following her father's paramour out of the solar, arm in arm with her sister Nym.

Both Rya and a second maid awaited Sansa when she returned to her chambers. Where Rya was a woman in her twenties with golden skin and light brown hair, the second girl looked to be Sansa's age, with big brown eyes like a doe and dark hair. Her bosom had the swollen look of a nursing mother; a year-old babe dozed quietly in a large basket that served as a cradle. Rya's curtsy was prompt and practiced, the girl's a bit slower and more wobbly.

"This is Gilly, m'lady," Rya said with the vague air of someone much put upon. "If you're to join the other ladies in Prince Oberyn's solar, we'll need to start changing you now."

What followed was the most halting, awkward experience Sansa had ever had with a pair of maids. Every single step of removing her gown Rya explained at length, Gilly repeating the instructions under her breath while Sansa stood still as a doll.

"I'll put the gown away on my own," Rya muttered once Sansa stood in only her shift. "It will be faster that way."

"My brother truly sent you?" Sansa asked, glad of the opportunity to speak while Rya was occupied. Gilly nodded, eyes fixed on her feet.

"Yes, m'lady."

By the time Rya brought the summer green gown Sansa would wear for the rest of the day, she had learned that Gilly was fifteen, a widow, a wildling, and mother to the child sleeping in the corner. Most of her day was spent nursing a four-month old babe named Sylva, the orphaned great-niece of Lady Nymella Toland; the rest was spent learning from from the easily exasperated Rya.

"I dare say Gilly will learn quicker if she's less overwhelmed," Sansa offered softly as Rya tersely demonstrated the proper way to lace up a gown. "She is lucky to have such a gifted maid as her teacher." Whether she had remembered the silver stag from earlier or appreciated the compliment, Sansa could not say, but Rya gentled her voice as they finished dressing Sansa.

Despite Rya's fretting over Gilly's slow fingers, Sansa was properly dressed long before her lord husband arrived. She spent the time cooing at Gilly's son, who had awoken from his nap shortly after she finished dressing. The babe could pull himself up to stand, babble words that almost sounded like mama, and giggle when his belly was tickled. Sansa was poking the baby's tummy, giggling herself, when Ser Olyvar came for her.

"Who's this?" Olyvar crouched before the babe, contorting his face into a look of exaggerated surprise.

When Gilly could only stare silently at the knight, Sansa answered for her. "He doesn't have a name yet. Not until he's two. This is Gilly, the maid my brother sent, and this is her son."

"Hello, little one," Olyvar cooed, his voice higher than usual. "Are you a happy little man? Are you a happy chubby little man?" The babe gurgled, pleased. "Oh yes, yes you are—" He abruptly stopped, stood up, and offered Sansa his arm. "My lady," he said graciously, his cheeks flushed. Swallowing the urge to burst into laughter, Sansa took his arm, leaving behind a baffled Gilly, a very happy baby, and a very oblivious cat sleeping on the featherbed.

As they walked to the chambers Ellaria shared with Prince Oberyn, Sansa found her nerves beginning to tingle. She would meet four of her goodsisters today, four women she must impress.

Sarella would not be one of them. The daughter of a Summer Island captain, she had spent the last two years in Oldtown. Olyvar wouldn't say what she was doing, but Sansa had a pretty good guess based on how he spoke of Sarella's love of learning. Nymeria she already knew. Prince Oberyn's second daughter had been born within the walls of Old Volantis, and would turn four-and-twenty within a moon's turn. As for Ellaria's three youngest, Obella, Doree, and Loree, they were at the Water Gardens wth Princess Elia and Prince Doran.

No, today Sansa would only meet the eldest sand snakes, and Olyvar was happy to give her advice as they walked. Tyene she had seen at court already; Olyvar suggested she ask Tyene about needlework. Elia, who was Sansa's age, could be easily befriended with talk of horses, especially if Sansa introduced her to Lady Brienne.

"Meria was supposed to be at court," Olyvar mused as they climbed a set of steps. "Arianne said she was busy with whatever Lady Alyse was doing before court began. Meria is the one who makes peace among us; she's very diplomatic. Ask her about music, and she'll be as happy as Deziel in a garden." His face fell. "Don't mention the harp, though. Ask her about her qithara."

Sansa nodded. Meria was the same age as Tyene, supposedly sired on a Dornish maid the night of Princess Elia's wedding. In truth she was Princess Elia's child, Olyvar's only full sibling, born Rhaenys Targaryen. Apparently she had taken the truth of their parentage... rather poorly.

"What about Obara?"

Obara was the eldest sand snake, a woman of six-and-twenty sired on an Oldtown whore when Prince Oberyn was a youth of seventeen studying at the Citadel. All Sansa had heard painted her as an ill-tempered woman who drove her horses as hard as she drove herself. Mannish, the woman in the baths had said, and Sansa thought of Brienne's awkward discomfort about her looks.

"Obara... takes getting used to," Olyvar said tactfully. "Oberyn didn't bring her to Sunspear until she was eleven, and... she's never forgotten being called the whore's whelp. She was always being compared to the rest of us, and never in her favor. Eventually Prince Oberyn taught them to bite their tongues, but... Obara is used to insults being hidden behind compliments, and is quick to take offense."

Sansa drew a deep breath, holding it for a count of four before releasing it again. What was it Arya said? I must be as calm as still water. She breathed, and counted, and they were through the door.

The solar was as inviting a room as she had ever seen. The floor was covered in tiles set in beautiful geometric patterns, gleaming with colors like pearl, aquamarine, and sapphire. Ornately carved chairs with plump cushions circled the hearth; a long table ran parallel to the windows, covered in fruit arranged in fanciful shapes and foods she had never seen before. There were flagons of water, mead, and wine for quenching the thirst, and bowls of lemonwater for cleansing the fingers.

Nymeria and Tyene sat beside each other on a bench, gossiping over cups of mead. In the corner stood a sullen big-boned woman who must be Obara; the short girl beside her gesturing wildly as she talked about horses must be Elia. In a chair by the fire sat Ellaria, joined by a pretty darkhaired woman with a qithara resting gently on her lap.

"Lady Meria," Sansa said, preparing to dip a curtsy.

"Oh, please don't bother," Meria said, waving for her to stop. Her eyes were a dark amber. "We are sisters now, and besides, if you curtsy then I must rise to do the same, and I just managed to steal my favorite chair from Elia."

"I think she spared her mother five minutes before fleeing to talk horseflesh with Obara." Ellaria hid her disappointment beneath a smile and a shrug.

"Olyvar!" Obara's voice was sharp and loud; she crossed the room in two long strides and clapped her brother on the back. "I wish I could have been there when you gutted that beast; I'd have fed him his entrails before he died."

"He gelded him, or near enough," Sansa ventured, unsure if that detail had made its way south.

"Princess," Obara said coolly, and that was all Obara said to her for the next hour. Unwilling to interrupt Nym's reunion with Tyene, Sansa found herself listening to Meria play the qithara with deft fingers while Elia rambled about her favorite horse, the best places to ride at Sunspear, and how unfair it was that her sister Obella had been left behind at the Water Gardens. She was also very indignant about her mother's failure to bring Prince Oberyn back to Dorne.

"He promised we could tilt when he got back," Elia grumbled, wincing as she placed a hand on her lower belly while Ellaria eyed her daughter like a hawk.

"I'm sure my sworn sword would be glad to joust with you," Sansa soothed. "Lady Brienne of Tarth won a tourney in the Reach—."

"You flowered, didn't you?" Ellaria asked sharply. Elia glared.

"Three moons past, when you were gone. There was blood everywhere, and my belly feels like a horse keeps kicking me."

"Excuse us, princess," Ellaria said, rising to her feet. "My eldest daughter and I will be having words." And with that, mother and daughter left the solar together, Elia still whining, Ellaria murmuring something about hot bricks wrapped in a thick cloth. Obara stalked off as well, intent on finding a knight who owed her money from a wager.

Nymeria left shortly after, stolen away by a pair of pretty blond twins whose hooded blue hawk hairpins marked them as Fowlers. Nym was holding hands with one of them as the other regaled her with all the gossip she had missed. Tyene joined Sansa and Meria by the fire, listening as Olyvar recounted the chain of events which had led to his unexpected marriage.

"Well," Tyene finally said. She had interrupted only to make gentle entreaties as to Sansa's health after such a distressing year. "You have outdone yourself, Olyvar. I thought only Obara could be so brash." She turned to Sansa. "The embroidery on your court gown was exquisite; I heard you did it yourself? Embroidery and infuriating Lannisters are such happy qualities in a goodsister." Her embrace was as warm as the kiss she pressed to Sansa's cheek.

Then it was just the three of them: Olyvar, Sansa, and Meria. She had long since given up plucking her qithara, but now she set it aside.

"You seem like a lovely girl, Sansa," Meria said as she rose to her feet, "but before you go to the Water Gardens I must warn you that Aunt Elia is very, very angry."

"It's not her fault," Olyvar protested hotly. "She didn't know father had sworn not to fight, and when he didn't step forward she chose Brienne of Tarth. It's not her fault the High Septon wouldn't allow a female champion, worthless Lannister lackey that he is."

"That's technically blasphemy," Meria remarked, amused. "So you admit that fit of suicidal heroics was entirely your fault?"

Sansa winced at the same time as Olyvar. He'd walked right into the trap.

"So mother is actually furious with me?"

"Right in one. From what little Elia said, her namesake might have spit fire when she first heard the news."

Olyvar's face, already guilty, dropped even further.

"Are you angry with me, Ria?"

Meria sighed, then slipped an arm around her brother's shoulders. "No, not really. It makes it so much easier for Willas and I."

"Oh, good, I—" Olyvar stiffened. "—for Willas and you to do what, exactly?"

Meria blinked at him, nonplussed. "To get married, silly. Remember how father used to let us add notes to his letters to Willas? Well, we argued so much over music and horses that when I was fifteen father let me borrow his seal so we could write each other directly."

"You've been writing Willas Tyrell for five years and you never told me?"

Meria snorted. "Oh, as if you don't have any secrets. Besides, we knew nothing could ever happen. A Dornish bastard wed the heir to the Reach? But two years ago…"

"Mother told us the truth." Olyvar sank his face into his hands. "Tell me you didn't send a raven telling Mace Tyrell's son that you're a trueborn Targaryen."

"Oh, a moment ago he was Willas, now he's Mace Tyrell's son? I thought you liked him."

"I did, until five minutes ago," Olyvar muttered.

"And no, I didn't tell him. Father did while you were at the Red Keep."

"He did what?!"

"You had just wed the King in the North's sister! Father thought you had finally decided to prepare to claim the Iron Throne; he was so pleased."

Olyvar made a groan reminiscent of a dying cat. "I didn't— father never said—the queen wanted to marry Sansa to some raper!"

"And instead of kidnapping her or faking her death, you suggested marrying her yourself."

"I didn't know there were other options!"

Meria slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand, utterly vexed. "Of course you didn't," she groaned, staring at the carved ceiling as though it held the answers she sought. "And I suppose father didn't bother to tell you that all the gold Petyr Baelish embezzled from the Iron Throne is sitting in your wayns?"

"The WHAT?"

"Excuse me?" Sansa asked, unsure if the siblings remembered she was still in the room. Indeed, from the way they looked at her, she suspected they might have forgotten. "Isn't this a conversation that should be had with Princess Elia?"

Meria's smile was all teeth. "Why yes, good sister. Yes, it is."


NOTES

1) I added the distributary Shell river (named for the extinct House Shell of the First Men whom the Andal Martells conquered when they arrived in Dorne) and turned the land between Lemonwood and Sunspear into a river delta.

This makes the populations of the Planky Town and Sunspear much more plausible, not to mention why the Martells were such petty lords before Nymeria but powerful enough to rule all Dorne afterward. It also gives the Rhoynish water witches, who are barely mentioned but who fascinate me, an important legacy.

2) GRRM describes the Shadow City and Sunspear as basically dusty hellholes. Fuck that bullshit; if people are living there in such large numbers, it has to have a coastal/Mediterranean climate with occasional rains. Also, since the Shell river isn't canon, where the fuck was Sunspear getting potable water??? The Greenblood is about a hundred miles away, no aquifers are mentioned, and you don't build a city of that size if you just have a couple good wells! The Alhambra in Spain, which was my inspiration for Sunspear, was built next to the river Darro.

3) If GRRM can use Jonquil, which is French for daffodil, I can use Girasol, which is Spanish for sunflower.

4) In canon the Tower of the Sun has lots of thick windows of colored glass. A medieval palace in a Mediterranean climate would never have glass windows, because they substantially raise the temperature of the interior rooms. Moorish architecture favored open windows to allow air flow; they were genuises at designing buildings which would stay cool in summer and warm in winter.

5) As I've said before, my inspiration for Dorne comes from Moorish Spain, and that means Islamic baths, which were luxurious as hell.

6) Yes, I went a little berserk with the architecture this chapter. But Moorish architecture/Islamic architecture is so gorgeous!!!! The geometric patterns, the symmetry, the sense of harmony... the inside of the dome of the Tower of the Sun is based off the mosaic dome interior of the Selimeye Mosque in Erdine, Turkey, which is technically early modern period but I don't care, google it because LOOK HOW PRETTY.

The stucco in the Alhambra was originally painted; people carved all this! By hand!!!! *screech of delight*

7) I got curious about homicide rates in medieval England. According to one study, the annual rate was 13 homicides per 100,000 people. Fan estimates suggest Dorne has 3 million people; that's 390 murders per year. Jon's gonna have so many violent new friends! Arianne's bribe of 10 silver stags is equal to 3,800.

8) The canonical ages of the oldest sand snakes and Oberyn's whereabouts in his youth make no fucking sense. I have beaten the timeline into shape and made several of the sand snakes younger so that Oberyn isn't knocking up an Oldtown sex worker when he's 13-14

9) Arianne is a bit different due to ripple effects of Elia's survival. No Viserys marriage plot means no fear of being disinherited, she gets married in her late teens/early 20s, and she has Aunt Elia as an additional mentor/parental figure.

10) We last see Doran at the end of May, 300 AC in canon, and his gout is very bad. I decided that by December it's much worse.