Mid July, 300 AC

Olyvar sighed as he stretched his left arm, his mind still groggy from sleep. Today marked the seventh full moon of the year. Three moons had passed since the trial by combat, two since his knighthood, and one since Maester Barris removed the plaster cast.

The break taken when Ser Gregor crushed his shield had healed cleanly, thanks to the mercy of the Smith. But the fractured bone had not been the worst of it. The Mountain had grabbed Olyvar halfway up the forearm, crushing flesh and muscle in his iron grip. Ellaria said he bled through his bandages for almost a full day, so badly that the maester feared he might have to cut away the mangled flesh, perhaps even take the arm below the elbow.

Thankfully that had not proved necessary. After the Stark girl paid her brief and only visit while Olyvar slept, Barris had come to change the bandages. Olyvar's dreams had been dark and full of terror, and in his fevered tossing and turning he had soaked half the sheets in blood. When the maester examined the arm he found the damage not so bad as it had first appeared. With regular application of stinging poultices the skin had mended, though he would always bear the mottled scars.

Olyvar rose from his bed with a groan of exhaustion, gingerly drawing his bedrobe over the tender pink skin of his left arm before sliding his feet into soft slippers. Thankfully the cornerfort had its own bathhouse, one of King Jaehaerys' additions to the Red Keep. He could smell the steam before he reached the chamber, the scent of spices and citrus wafting through the door as Dornishmen entered, the ladies having taken their turn the previous morning. An attendant took Olyvar's bedrobe and slippers and he climbed into one of the massive wooden tubs with a grateful sigh, the warm water sloshing.

His left arm tingled, the scars turning colors as he scrubbed his skin clean. An ugly wound, but honorably won. Despite serving as Sansa Stark's champion, he had barely seen the northern girl since she became one of the queen's ladies. The Queen Regent had declared the capital to be in a state of mourning for Lord Tywin. Rather than spending her time hawking and hunting with the Tyrells or showering the Dornish with her insincere charms, Cersei Lannister spent all her time shut up with her ladies, doing needlework and listening to music.

Prince Oberyn's attempts to invite Lady Sansa to the cornerfort had been firmly rebuffed, as had the Tyrells' attempts to pry the northern princess away from the queen. Cersei Lannister was always ready with plausible excuses as to why the girl could not leave her side. Sending Bel to sing for the queen and her ladies was hardly much consolation for the poor girl being locked up with the queen all day, but Olyvar hoped Lady Sansa would take some comfort in hearing songs of the north. Since Sansa was technically no longer a prisoner but an honored guest, there was no reason why she should not be permitted to listen to the music of her home.

Bel was delighted to assist with any endeavour that irritated the queen. Olyvar had a sneaking suspicion that the singer's brothels were responsible for the wild stories about the red wolf being Sansa herself. Dornishwomen did not forget nor forgive. Spreading rumors that undermined the Lannisters was the very least he would expect from a woman who had lived through the Sack of King's Landing.

Olyvar took out his frustrations in the practice yard, mindful of Barris's advice not to overwork his left arm lest he injure it before it healed. Poor young Podrick Payne had been completely forgotten in the aftermath of the Kingslayer's disappearance, so Olyvar mostly sparred with him. Ser Jaime's other squire had been quickly snatched up by a knight from the Westerlands, but Pod had no one. The young squire was quick enough to give Olyvar a halfway decent bout, but weak enough that any blow he landed by mischance did no grievous damage.

To Olyvar's confusion and dismay Prince Oberyn had grown distant since Lord Tywin's death. When he wasn't attending small council meetings he was shut up with Cedra Santagar, surrounded by ledgers and account books. More than once Olyvar considered demanding to know what was going on before deciding he probably didn't want to know. He really was a terrible liar; let his father keep his own secrets.

Olyvar cast his eyes about the bathhouse, eyeing the Dornish lords. With his father preoccupied he would need to spend his day with one of the bannermen. But which one?

Lord Tremond Gargalen sat alone in his tub, a powerful man gone slightly to fat, snowy beard falling to his chest. A day with Lord Tremond meant stories of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, the old lord's beard bristling with indignation as he recounted the deeds of the infamous Golden Company. Occasionally his mind would wander and he would abruptly switch to stories of House Nymeros Martell. Prince Doran had squired for the old knight in his youth, and Tremond was still very fond of Princess Elia, the long-awaited second child. As Olyvar didn't feel in the mood for stories, he looked at the next tub.

Lord Harmen Uller and Ser Ulwyck Uller sat with a few of their household knights, enjoying a bowl of fruit. The brothers were nearly as old as Lord Gargalen, their hair a deep grey that Ellaria teased them over. She was the only one who could get away with such impudence, being Lord Harmen's natural daughter. Their presence in King's Landing perplexed Olyvar. Harmen had been named for his esteemed ancestor, Lady Harmeria Uller, the Dragon's Bane. It was she who had commanded the scorpion that put a bolt through the eye of Queen Rhaenys' dragon Meraxes, luring the dragon close by dousing the battlements in sheep's blood.

While Lord Harmen enjoyed playing the fond grandfather to Ellaria's brood, as well as Oberyn's older children, he also despised Lannisters, Targaryens, and those who were not Dornish. Much as he opposed Princess Elia's marriage to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the assault on the princess and her children had won House Lannister his undying enmity. He barely hid his delight at Lord Tywin's humiliation and subsequent death; Prince Oberyn ordered him to remain in the cornerfort lest he start openly gloating in front of the Westermen. Harmen indulged his frustrated bloodlust by trouncing Olyvar and the other youths at tiles. Olyvar was not in the mood for that either.

The Manwoodys had taken possession of the largest tub in the bathhouse. Lord Dagos Manwoody was the eldest among the Dornish retinue, seventy years of age, still tall and vigorous despite his numerous wrinkles and even more numerous liver spots. Once there were three Manwoody brothers, Dagos, Olyvar, and Myles. Olyvar Manwoody had wed Princess Loreza Nymeros Martell, Olyvar's grandmother. The prince consort had died of a wasting illness shortly before Olyvar's birth, only a few months after the death of his beloved Loreza. Sometimes his great uncles still grew teary eyed when telling Olyvar of his namesake, and Olyvar beat a hasty retreat, torn between sorrow for their loss and shame at his own lack of feeling. He had never met his namesake; how could he mourn a grandfather he had never knew?

Lord Dagos's middle aged sons, Mors and Dickon Manwoody, were best avoided, given their constant arguing. Both men seemed to enjoy fussing over such paltry things as whether Mors had properly tuned his oud. At the moment they were debating how to best train horses, slapping the water for emphasis while Lord Dagos and Ser Myles ignored them, their attention focused on the attendant offering warm pastries.

Ser Ryon Allyrion loved music even more than the Manwoodys, especially hymns to the Seven. It was pleasant to while away an afternoon listening to Hamish the Harper while Ryon accompanied the singer on his drums, Ser Daemon on his qithara, but Olyvar did not feel in the mood.

Olyvar did not play an instrument, despite years of Meria's gentle nudging and Obella's persistent begging. It was the only area of his education that Aunt Elia had permitted him to neglect, though she did remind him to work on his singing from time to time. Every service in the sept required the singing of at least a few hymns, and Olyvar did his best not to shame himself.

"Good morning," Deziel yawned, climbing into Olyvar's tub without so much as a by your leave, his dark brown skin luminous in the steam.

Ser Deziel Dalt was the Knight of Lemonwood, a dutiful, amiable man of twenty five. It was almost absurd how well his lands and sigil suited him. Ever since arriving in King's Landing Deziel haunted the gardens of the Red Keep, searching for rare plants that he might surreptitiously take back to the orchards and gardens of Lemonwood.

"Mind if I join you today?" Olyvar asked, passing Deziel a bar of soap.

Olyvar enjoyed the time in the fresh air, despite the flock of Reachermen always hanging about. There seemed to be dozens of Redwynes, Rowans, Hightowers, Fossoways, Bulwers, Cranes, and the like, not to mention the Tyrell cousins. One of them, little Alla Tyrell, stared at Ser Deziel whenever they crossed paths before fleeing, her cheeks pink. Olyvar felt sorry for her; Obella was nearing the same age of embarrassing infatuation with every tall youth who crossed her path.

"Of course," Deziel replied. "But if one more damn Reacherman asks me about the Summer Isles, I'll shove a lemon up his arse."

Olyvar snorted. While Alla Tyrell's harmless crush did not bother Deziel, being constantly mistaken for Jalabhar Xho, the Summer Island prince, very much did. Damn the Young Dragon and his idiotic book. Sandy, salty, and stony Dornishmen indeed. Daeron I Targaryen's account of his conquest of Dorne was as inaccurate as it was annoyingly well-written. The people of Dorne ranged from pale and fair to near as dark as Summer Islanders, a fact which no one outside of Dorne seemed able to grasp.

"If the lemon doesn't do any good, you can always borrow my spear," Olyvar offered.

Mid morning found them in the gardens, accompanied by Jynessa and Perros Blackmont. Jynessa usually joined them because she enjoyed walking, Perros because he was as curious as a cat. An excitable boy of sixteen, Perros was eager to learn about new things, whether it be strange plants or myths of ancient days. Jynessa blamed their father, a Jordayne cousin who lived for dusty scrolls. Perros was always filling Olyvar's ear with whatever he had read most recently; the entire journey up the Boneway, he had been immersed in books of northern legends, tales of skinchangers and giants and children of the forest.

As Perros and Deziel paused to examine a crimson flower neither of them recognized, Olyvar's thoughts turned pensive. Legends might grow and change over the centuries, but they usually began with a seed of truth. Could the Stark girl truly be a skinchanger? In the stories skinchangers were almost always evil, malevolent brutes who practiced blood sacrifice and mated with animals.

There were similarly gruesome tales about the Targaryens, but most of those were known to be entirely true. Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters had burned thousands of men and hundreds of castles, holdfasts, and villages. The entire realm bore witness to Maegor's cruelties, Baelor's follies, and Aegon the Fourth's corruption. Aerys the Second openly raped and beat his wife for their entire marriage, or so Aunt Elia told them on the rare occasions she could be prevailed upon to discuss her time in King's Landing.

Olyvar was still pondering legends and dead kings when he sat down to sup with Ellaria and Nym. They were midway through the first course when Prince Oberyn joined them, sitting down with a sigh of annoyance.

"I saw Bel," Oberyn mentioned as he accepted a goblet of wine from a serving man. "The queen was not pleased but she did let her play for the ladies." Oberyn drank deep, rather than sipping as was his wont. "Bel told me Lady Sansa sang some northern ditty for her while the queen was distracted, but she was acting very queer about it." Oberyn shrugged and drained his goblet before holding it out for more.

Over the meat course Olyvar learned why his father was drinking so much. The small council meeting had proved even more vexing than usual. The Young Wolf was alive and furious, Bronze Yohn Royce had the knights of the Vale holding the Riverlands' border with the Crownlands, Lord Edmure Tully had somehow escaped the Freys and returned to Riverrun, Storm's End still defied Lord Randyll Tarly, and all the queen could talk of was wedding Sansa Stark.

"She's like a bitch with a bone," Oberyn groused. "Ser Kevan could barely keep her off the issue for a quarter of an hour before Cersei was back at it."

"What of Robb Stark?" Nym asked. A raven had arrived yesterday from the King of the North, the Trident, and the Vale; the whole castle knew thanks to the shouting coming from the Tower of the Hand.

Oberyn grinned. "Our Young Wolf has sharp teeth. The peace treaty Lord Tywin signed promised ninety thousand golden dragons as wergild for Eddard Stark."

"An easy promise, when he expected his friends of Frey to dispose of the wolf," said Nym. Their father nodded.

"Now Robb Stark demands the entire sum, along with another ninety thousand for Lady Catelyn, various sums for the northern lords killed at the Red Wedding, and his sister into the bargain. Should King Tommen fail to pay the blood money and restore Lady Sansa to the bosom of her family, Robb Stark threatens to descend upon King's Landing with fire and sword."

"I'm sure the queen loved that," Ellaria said dryly. Olyvar smiled grimly, taking a sip of Dornish red mulled with orange peel and cinnamon.

"Just so. Ser Kevan prevailed upon her that Lord Tywin's honor demanded that the treaty be upheld."

Olyvar was so startled that he almost spat out his wine.

"His what?"

Oberyn made a face. "No one cares more about Lord Tywin's memory than our dear Ser Kevan. Lannister gold will sail north within the month; no doubt Lannister vengeance will be the first order of business come spring when the peace ends."

"What about Lady Sansa?"

His father frowned. "The terms of the treaty required all hostages to be ransomed and returned. The Queen Regent claims Lady Sansa is no longer a hostage but an honored guest. Who better to represent the King in the North at court than his beloved sister?"

Nym mimed gagging on her bread while Ellaria gripped a cinnamon stick tightly in her hand, heedless of the wine dripping onto the table cloth.

"The small council shared your... eloquent opinion," Oberyn said, one eyebrow raised. "The queen replied that the poor mad girl requires a gentle husband to ensure that she is well looked after. She did not tell the council who she had in mind, but the eunuch saw fit to inform me that the queen had approached Sandor Clegane, Sir Ilyn Payne, and Morros Slynt. Cersei intends to make the girl pick her husband, force her to be wedded and bedded, and then tell Robb Stark it was a love match."

Ellaria snapped the cinnamon stick in half, and Nym turned green.

"No one would believe that," Nym said hotly. "Is she mad?"

Oberyn shrugged. "Cruel and foolish would be more accurate, I think. Ser Kevan will yield to her in order to secure her support on more important matters. Within the next month Cersei will marry the girl off and damn the consequences."

"No."

All three of them turned to look at Olyvar. He had risen from his seat at some point, his fists clenched so tightly they were trembling. Uncle Doran was going to be very angry with him, and Aunt Elia would be livid, but he couldn't stand aside, no more than he had that day in the throne room.

Olyvar swallowed. He would worry about their fury later. First, he had to persuade the Red Viper to strike.


Dun dun DUUUUUN!!! Speculate wildly below!

1) Fleshing out the Dornish retinue was so much fun

2) Yes, public bathhouses were a thing in the early and middle Medieval period

3) Robb chose 90k golden dragons because that was the amount of prize money offered at the tourney celebrating Eddard becoming Hand of the King. Also note that Robb asked for the same amount for Catelyn, because he valued her not a penny less *sobbing*