Mid December, 300 AC
"Shh, good girl," Olyvar soothed, stroking Patience's dark mane. The dun mare snorted and shook her head, distressed. He frowned. What could be amiss? The coast road was flat and wide, the small company riding at an easy pace. "What's wrong, hmm?"
Princess Sansa rode a few horse lengths behind him, conversing under her breath with Brienne of Tarth. Yet she tilted her head and glanced his way, as though she'd heard his mumbled question. With a gentle kick she urged her own mare forward.
"Patience has a stone in her shoe, ser," Sansa told him. "Her left hind leg; she says it hurts." She smiled sweetly, pleased with rendering her assistance. Olyvar returned her smile, doing his best to cover his unease. Sansa had not spoken a single word, nor had the mare made any sound in reply.
When the retinue paused to water their horses, Olyvar checked Patience's hooves. A jagged rock was stuck in her shoe, just as his wife had said. He removed it, then offered the poor mare a handful of dried apples. She lipped them out of his palm, her velvety nose soft against his skin. When Sansa drew near he offered her apples for her own mare, but she shook her head.
"Snowsister thinks they're too chewy."
"Oh, never mind then—" Before he knew what was happening his wife had snatched the apple rings from his hand, a mischievous look upon her face.
"I already ate all of mine, and Brienne likes them too. My thanks for such a fine gift, ser." Smiling, Sansa trotted back to her sworn sword, one hand gripping her reins and the other her prize.
Brienne's face was even homelier than usual, thanks to the enormous purple bruise blooming across her right eye. Such a bruise would offend Nym's vanity and Obara's pride, but the maid of Tarth seemed oddly well-contented.
A few days after their arrival at Sunspear, Olyvar had wandered into the yard to find Brienne of Tarth sparring a knight in the green and blue of House Drinkwater. Though their swords were blunted, their blows were not. Brienne had utterly thrashed the older knight, her only injury the result of a unlucky elbow to the face. When the knight yielded, the crowd of onlookers applauded, led by Meria and Princess Sansa, whose gentle smile seemed sharper than usual, almost wolflike. His sister and his wife murmured to each other as the crowd dispersed. The next morning Utha Drinkwater was dismissed from Princess Arianne's ladies, sent back to Clear Bend.
For some unknown reason, Obara was much friendlier to Sansa after that. She had watched the spar as well, a bloodthirsty smirk upon her face, and challenged Brienne to a friendly spar before they left Sunspear. To his embarrassment, Obara won, a feat Olyvar had not managed since departing the Tor. Initially he had benefited from Brienne's lack of experience in fighting against spear rather than sword, but the maid was nothing if not determined, and by Yronwood she was winning two of three bouts.
He had sulked to himself for most of the day after her first victory. Tall as she was, Brienne was still much shorter than the Mountain. Would his fellow knights think less of him? Olyvar nervously waited for their mockery, but little came. By the end of the day, after reviewing their bout over and over, he grudgingly accepted his defeat. Shorter she might be, but Brienne was much faster than the Mountain, her endurance unfathomable given her size. She followed her opponent's every move, conserving her formidable strength, watching and waiting for the right moment to strike.
Not only that, but a spar was far different than a trial by combat with a maiden's life at stake. There was no battle fever to spur him on, to sharpen his senses and lend strength to his arm. He was also a little ungainly in his own body of late, thrown off by an unexpected growth spurt. Olyvar had resigned himself to reaching only six feet, but since his bout against the Mountain he had added another two inches to his height. To his delight and his sister's annoyance he could now rest an arm on Obara's head if he stood on the tips of his toes. It was only fair; she'd done the same to him when he was younger, a short page desperately waiting for the growth that preceded manhood.
A sharp laugh rang out; Obara had joined Sansa and Brienne. It had been impossible to dissuade all of his sisters from accompanying them to the Water Gardens; only Nym knew the truth of Meria and Olyvar's birth, courtesy of a very stern conversation with mother Elia and Uncle Doran before departing for King's Landing. Tyene and Obara thought it an ordinary visit to their sisters and beloved aunt. He suspected Arianne knew; if so she was doubtless dying to share the secret with Tyene. But it was not for nothing that Aunt Elia had spent years tutoring her nieces and foster daughters in the importance of discretion.
It was midday when they reached the Water Gardens, having left Sunspear in the first soft light of dawn. Blood orange trees shaded the many pools and fountains of clear water, bright fruits hiding among their leaves. Treasure flowers in vivid two-toned shades of gold and orange ringed the base of each tree, their leaves shading the soil to keep it from turning dry. As they walked through a courtyard a gardener scurried out of their way, a glass jar of oil and a brush in his hands.
"What was he doing?" Sansa asked curiously. They walked arm in arm as was proper, her steps thoughtful and measured as she looked about.
"Sometimes vipers lay eggs in the shade of the bushes," Olyvar explained. "Brushing them with oil prevents their hatching. The children here are under the protection of House Nymeros Martell; any risk to their safety cannot be allowed."
Sansa nodded, her wide eyes taking in the fluted pillars and arches of pale pink marble. They were even more beautiful than the ones in the Old Palace, richly carved with swirling leaf-covered vines and the blossoms of every flower found across Dorne. A breeze brushed cool fingers through his hair, the familiar scent of salt filling his nose.
A servant led them to a terrace overlooking the beach, the best spot to watch over the naked children playing in the surf. A few rode each other's shoulders, pushing and shoving and shrieking with glee.
"Oh!" Sansa covered her mouth with her hand, horrified. A pair of older children had succeeded in knocking over their younger foes, the defeated children falling with a tremendous splash. "Oh, no, no—" she looked about frantically for the closest servant.
"They're fine, princess," Olyvar reassured her, pointing. Undaunted, the losers were rising spluttering to their feet, the smaller one clambering back up onto his partner's shoulders for another bout. "The children can swim, and there are attendants already on the beach in case of mishap."
Sansa furrowed her brow, confused. "Do they always play like that?"
Olyvar smiled, remembering the days when he was a part of the chaotic fray.
"It is a time honored tradition. I was five when I first rode upon Obara's sturdy shoulders." He snorted. "We screamed like hellions, but we usually lost. Obara insisted that we take on the largest, strongest boys, the sons of smiths and fishermen and knights."
"It's not my fault you were scrawny." Obara retorted. She was also on the terrace, along with Tyene, Meria, and Nym. His sisters drew closer, the better to join their conversation, as did Ellaria and Arianne.
"I suppose you all played together?" Sansa asked. Nym smiled, her long braid draping over her shoulder.
"I refused to carry Olly. I was eleven, too close to maidenhood to sacrifice my dignity acting like a pack mule."
"You were a bit of a priss at that age," Arianne teased, slipping an arm around Tyene's waist. She looked at Sansa. "I did not share such reservations."
"You and the Fowler twins were a menace," Olyvar grumbled.
Arianne smirked. "Don't forget what a terror I was when Garin carried me."
"An orphan of the Greenblood who hit his growth spurt early," Olyvar explained to Sansa. "They were a nightmare, and very smug about it. Thankfully Arianne left the pools before I turned seven, and my fortunes improved. Meria and Tyene were both solid mounts; we won at least half our bouts."
"What about Sarella?" asked Sansa. Olyvar grinned fondly.
"Sarella preferred to read on the terrace, or dig for shells upon the beach; she only ever served as a mount for Obella. When I was ten and Elia was six, she decided no partner would serve except her only brother, and I spent half a year carrying her across the pools. Obella was only four, too young for the Water Gardens, but she was as determined as any of our elder sisters. She had to fight El, and Sarella had to be her mount because she was taller than Meria or Tyene. Or me," he admitted ruefully. "After much begging and pleading Sarella yielded, though she refused to join the battles on the beach."
"Saltwater dries out her hair," Tyene explained, noting Sansa's confusion. "Her mother was a Summer Islander, and Sarella has her tight, dense curls. Saltwater turns them brittle; the pools were freshwater, and besides, they were safer for little Obella. Even so, Ellaria hovered the entire time; she was carrying Dorea then, and too slow to leap into the water if anything went amiss."
"Sarella was so terrified of upsetting me that she almost never fell," Ellaria remarked. She tapped her cheek with her finger, feigning deep thought. "I seem to recall there was a solid week where they defeated all comers."
"I miss Sarella," Olyvar murmured.
"I miss my mother."
Sansa was so quiet he scarce could hear her. He glanced at his sisters; Arianne had begun telling a story about the time Prince Oberyn had taken her to the ruin called Shandystone along with Tyene and Sarella, Tyene occasionally interrupting to fill in details Arianne had forgotten. With a gentle tug he drew Sansa away from the press, far enough across the terrace that they would not be heard. Long minutes passed as Sansa watched the children playing, her eyes wistful.
"Can you swim, or are all the rivers frozen solid?" Olyvar asked.
The princess laughed softly. "You forget, ser, I am half a fish. My mother the Lady Catelyn taught us all to swim in the pools of our godswood. Sometimes Robb and Jon would even swim in the moat; Jon was always the strongest swimmer. Arya thought it was funny, that he swam so well when he was the only one without Tully blood."
"When did you last have the chance to swim?"
"When I was at the God's Eye." Noting the look of guilty panic in his eyes at once again shoving his foot in his mouth, Sansa shook her head. "Before Harrenhal, not after. When I was on the Isle of Faces."
He did not recall Sansa mentioning the Isle of Faces in her fragmented explanations of her travels, but he knew better than to interrupt. Sometimes questions drew her out, but sometimes she retreated inside herself instead.
"It was as beautiful," she said, almost to herself. "Waters that sparkled like sapphires, ancient trees, meadows full of fragrant flowers. The beach was pebbled, though; I never saw a sandy beach until the Tor. There was a little bay where I would go each morning to float upon the water, feather light. One day I swam to another bay, looking for the berries that grew near the shore. Instead... there were bones, so many bones, but they were dark as night and shone like stars."
"Dragonbone," Olyvar whispered, unable to help himself. Sansa nodded.
"Once she was Quicksilver, dragon of Aenys Targaryen and his son Aegon after him. Balerion slew her in battle, Maegor the Cruel perched upon his saddle. She fell into the lake, and her rider with her, but only she washed up upon the isle, so many years ago. Clusters of arrowroot and sprigs of lavender grew between her ribs; a birch tree sprouted from her skull."
"The Rhoynar believed life and death were the twin daughters of Mother Rhoyne," Olyvar said softly. "The river nourished her people, but they never forgot that she could take life as easily as she gave it."
For a moment they fell silent, the only sound the distant crashing of the waves and the cries of seagulls. A parapet encircled the terrace, the wall just the right height for Olyvar to lean upon his elbows and contemplate the serene tableau. He was watching clouds drift lazily over the sea, pondering what he would say to mother Elia, when a piercing shriek assailed his ears.
"OLLY!!!"
"Ollyollyollyolly, you're back!"
A pair of small boulders crashed into his legs; arms wrapped around him like a kraken's tentacles. His back smacked into the hard stone of the parapet, but Olyvar was laughing so hard he barely noticed the pain.
"Little sisters!" He wrapped his arms around Doree and Loree, gripped tight, and lifted them off their feet. Their dark hair was longer than he remembered, bound up in the same complicated manner favored by El and Obella. As they wiggled and squealed he could see that Loree was missing both front teeth; Doree's smile was a mix of baby teeth and adult teeth only half grown in.
"Put me down put me down—" Doree ordered.
"Pick me UP—" Loree demanded.
"Olyvar, sisters. It is good to have you home," Obella said, raising her voice to be heard over the joyous babble. At twelve she was too old to sprint across the Water Gardens; for perhaps the first time in his life he could not spot a single stain or wrinkle upon her gown. In the distance behind her he could see a wheeled chair pushed by Elia, garbed as always in tunic and breeches. A white-haired man accompanied them, the captain of his uncle's guard. Strong despite his years, Areo Hotah still needed only one hand to clasp his longaxe.
Obella turned to Sansa, whose amusement sparkled in her eyes. "You must be Princess Sansa." She dropped a halfhearted curtsy. "I am Obella Sand, and these are my sisters Dorea and Loreza. Welcome to the Water Gardens."
"If she's a princess, why isn't she wearing a tiara?" Olyvar winced; he had put Doree down and picked Loree up, and consequently she was shouting in his ear. "Mama Elia and cousin Arianne are princesses, and they always wear a tiara. Mama Elia let me try hers on!"
"Volume, please," Olyvar begged, unable to cover his ears without dropping her. "Inside voice, Loree."
"But we're outside," she replied mulishly.
"She does have a point," Nym smirked. Unamused, Olyvar took three long strides and dumped Loree into his older sister's arms. Nym swore under her breath, groaning at the sudden burden of over threescore pounds of giggling girl.
"I don't have a tiara, sweetling," Sansa informed Loree, who blinked, confused by this unexpected reply.
"Why not?"
The butt of a longaxe tapped against the stones of the terrace, once, twice, thrice. All eyes turned to the prince in the wheeled chair; even Loree fell silent and scrambled down from Nymeria's arms, small hands brushing the wrinkles from her gown.
Prince Doran Nymeros Martell had aged ten years since Olyvar last saw him. Pain clouded his uncle's dark eyes; his face was pale and drawn. A Myrish blanket covered his ruined legs, but there was no covering his swollen arms and gnarled hands. Lumps of knobby flesh bulged from most of his fingers; one finger was half-missing, a bandage covering the cut where it must have been amputated.
"Prince Doran," Sansa murmured, dipping a low curtsy. "Prince of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear, Shield of the Rhoynar and Defender of the Faith." If the prince's appearance upset her, she showed no sign. Her voice was steady, her poise perfect.
"Rise, child," Doran said, his own voice strained. "Be welcome, Princess Sansa of House Stark. I did not expect my nephew to return from King's Landing with so rare a jewel, but I am pleased to call you my goodniece."
"You are too kind, my prince." Sansa rose to her feet. A giddy shriek rose from the beach; Sansa turned by instinct, a little smile bringing out the dimples in her cheeks.
"Would you like to join the children for a little while?"
Sansa stared at Prince Doran, her eyes wide, and for a moment her armor fell away to reveal the child who hid beneath the princess. "I-I could? But-but I'm too old, I cannot—" she gestured helplessly at her chest.
"There are bathing tunics," Ellaria said gently. "Come with me, princess. You too, ladies," she called to her daughters and foster daughters. Unsure of what was happening, Olyvar stayed put as Ellaria led his wife away, the rest of his sisters trailing after them.
Prince Doran sighed, the noise turning into half a groan as he attempted to push the wheels of his chair. Elia had pushed him onto the terrace, but she had gone off arm in arm with Obella, Doree and Loree following at their heels like ducklings. "Arianne, Olyvar, I need to speak to each of you."
"Of course, father," said Arianne. She strode behind his chair, taking charge of the handles. Uncle Doran preferred to sit under the blood orange tree that shaded one end of the terrace, and she rolled him there slowly, careful not to jostle his aching limbs.
When his uncle was settled, his blanket wrapped around his legs and a cup of wine in his hand, Olyvar went to one knee, some instinct of apprehension curling around his heart.
"I know I acted without your leave, uncle, I—"
A trembling wave of Prince Doran's hand bade him be silent. For a while they sat in quiet, the stone of the terrace warm against his knee, a breeze rustling in the leaves of the orange tree. A ripe blood orange plopped to the ground, immediately hidden by the leaves of the jasmine bushes that bordered the terrace.
"You have a kind heart, nephew," his uncle said at last. "Ellaria wrote me much of what happened in King's Landing; I see no need to waste time on apologies and excuses. Save your breath for your mother."
Olyvar flinched. "Yes, uncle."
"Princess Elia was taken ill yesterday; she has not yet risen. She will send for you when she is ready; perhaps in a few hours. It is Arianne with whom I needed to speak. For you I have another task."
"I am yours to command."
Doran laughed weakly. "Always so eager to serve your family. I saw the greeting you received from Dorea and Loreza; many knights would refuse to tolerate such childish folly."
Olyvar frowned, confused. "You always say children are made for folly; why should I act differently with my sisters just because I have been knighted?"
"A fair question." A spam of pain crossed his uncle's face.
"When did you last have your wine?" Arianne asked, concerned. The wine in his cup was a pale sweet lemon wine, not the dark sour red Maester Caleotte laced with milk-of-the-poppy, the only remedy for the pain caused by Doran's gout.
"I will have some when we are done speaking. There is much you do not know, much that I must tell you." He stretched out his hand, the white bandage on his half-finger bright in the sun. Arianne did not look away, but she paled at the sight. "Caleotte removed it a month past, and six of my fingers are near as bad. Only three toes are left to me now; my ankles are the size of apples." Arianne covered her mouth, now slightly green. "The maester wants to cut off both feet, in hopes of buying more time."
"Then we must make arrangements immediately, father, you can't—"
"Arianne." His uncle's voice was fond. "I have endured nearly four long years of endless agony. You are as ready as you will ever be. For the love you bear me, please do not ask me to die by inches."
Arianne nodded, tears welling up in her eyes as she choked back a sob.
"Quentyn is on his way to visit me one last time. Soon your lady mother will return from Norvos; Trystane is to remain in her care until he comes of age. I do not doubt that she will give you honest counsel, as she once gave me. The customs of Norvos are not those of Dorne, but a fresh pair of eyes often see a problem more clearly than those clouded by tradition. We shall speak today, and tomorrow, and every day until the Stranger releases me from the feeble prison my body has become."
His uncle turned to Olyvar.
"You, nephew. Long have I watched you grow; you are as dear to me as my own sons. I see so much of your mother in you..." A gnarled finger brushed a tear away from Olyvar's cheek. "I know why you acted as you did. How could you not? You have spent your life learning from your sisters. You are as brash as Obara, as implacable as Nym, as patient as Meria, as devout as Tyene, as thoughtful as Sarella, as determined as Elia and Obella."
"What did he get from Doree and Loree?" Arianne asked with a watery chuckle. "An unquenchable taste for blackberry tarts?" Her father handed her a cloth to wipe her eyes, his hand shaking from the exertion.
"The way you see the world," Doran said softly. "Children are wise, in their way. Tell them life is unfair, and they will demand that you make it fair. What does a child care for the complexities of politics, of hard decisions made for lack of any alternative? Small wonder you chose to fight the Mountain for the sake of a girl you did not know."
"How could I not?" Olyvar could not stop the words from spilling forth. "Sansa stood before the Iron Throne, alone and friendless, and defied Tywin Lannister as the entire court looked on. Tywin the Faithless she named him, oathbreaker, murderer, craven."
"So I heard. For all her youth she is as gifted with words as you are with the spear. But come, Arianne has waited long enough; you and I may speak later. I said I had a task for you, and you swore you were mine to command."
Olyvar listened as his uncle explained, pausing now and then to catch his breath when a pang of agony crossed his face. "I am sure you think it strange, what I ask of you," Doran concluded finally. "But it must be done before you speak to Elia."
"I shall do my best, uncle."
"That is all I ask." He dismissed Olyvar with a feeble wave; Olyvar rose to his feet and turned away.
"You never knew Olyvar's mother," Arianne murmured under her breath when she thought Olyvar out of earshot. Doran sighed heavily. "That was not where I meant to begin, but it is as good a place as any. My solar, please, the breeze often carries words beyond the intended ears, and sometimes the children run up to beg for sweets."
The wheels squeaked softly as his uncle rolled away, Arianne pushing the chair while Hotah followed behind. A few guards in the orange livery of House Nymeros Martell remained stationed at the far edges of the terrace, but otherwise Olyvar was alone.
Unsure of where to begin, he returned to his earlier place by the parapet looking over the beach, once more resting his elbows upon the top of the wall. There were five new figures playing in the waves among the naked children, three maids and two girls. The maids wore faded yellow bathing tunics that stuck to their skin; the girls were naked like their fellows, brown skin gleaming. At this distance he could not tell Doree and Loree apart, nor could he tell who was riding Elia and who was riding Obella. Both maids seemed to have discarded their recently discovered dignity like an ill fitting gown.
He could recognize Sansa, who was the palest and tallest of all the children. Somehow she had acquired a rider, a brown haired girl who looked to be one of the youngest present. Clearly unused to carrying such a burden, Sansa wobbled at the first shove from her opponent, and the second shove sent her reeling backwards. There was no need for a third; her rider leaned to the side, eager to do some shoving of her own, and Sansa lost her balance. Both girls tumbled into the sea, their opponents cheering.
At first Olyvar feared such play was too rough for the ladylike girl, but then he recalled hearing of snowball fights contested with equal ferocity. Sansa rose to her feet, bent over so her rider could mount again, and rejoined the fray. His elder sisters watched from a safe distance, far enough up the beach to deter attack but close enough to enjoy the mock battle. Olyvar could not say how long he observed the children at play, but it was long enough for his elbows to grow stiff from pressing against the stone parapet.
He turned away from the beach with a sigh, his steps wandering toward the pools sheltered between the largest courtyards. Only a few children romped in the clear waters, those who were too young to risk the tides and currents of the sea. Some sat on the edges of the pools, dangling chubby legs. Small hands pulled apart orange segments and threw them into laughing mouths, heedless of the sticky juice staining their faces. Others practiced floating and swimming, assisted by older children who felt inclined to teach rather than join their brethren in the sea.
Near the center of the pools stood a large fountain. Its base formed the shape of a blazing sun; a tall spear rose from its center, surrounded by a ring of shorter spears. Water streamed from their points in graceful arcs before splashing into the pool below. It was there Olyvar sat, idly dangling one hand in the cool water as he gazed upon the children.
"Ser?"
A tall shadow stood over him; Olyvar turned. Brienne of Tarth was nothing if not sensible. She had packed away her heavy plate shortly after they passed Yronwood, replacing it with chainmail and a surcoat blazoned with the sigil of House Tarth, yellow suns on rose quartered with white crescent moons on azure. Even so, she still sweated in the heat; the surcoat was made of wool, ill-suited to a Dornish afternoon. Mindful of her duty to her sworn sword, Princess Sansa was having new surcoats made of cotton, but such work took time.
"Lady Brienne," he replied, one hand beckoning over a servant whose tray bore flagons of cool qatarmizat.
Even the proudest Yronwood could not resist the Rhoynish delicacy, a drink made from lemon juice, orange blossom water, and honey. Sansa had nearly made herself sick the first time she tasted it; she'd drunk almost an entire flagon before Ellaria noticed and moved it out of reach.
"Just because it isn't wine doesn't mean you may drink all you like," Ellaria said firmly, unmoved by the pleading in Sansa's eyes. Adorably embarrassed at being chastened by her goodmother, his wife kept herself to only two cups at a time thereafter.
One eye on the sweat dripping down her forehead, Olyvar filled Brienne's cup up to the brim. She accepted it gladly, waiting for him to pour his own cup before taking a sip of her own. They drank in companionable silence, interrupted only by the rippling of the fountain and the laughter of children.
"Where is Princess Sansa?" Brienne finally asked. "I have searched the courtyards and could not find her; a servant told me she was with you."
Olyvar wiped his mouth, amused. "Your dedication to duty is admirable, if perhaps unnecessary. The Water Gardens are the safest place in Dorne; they have to be, with so many noble children entrusted to my uncle's keeping."
"I meant no disrespect," Brienne stammered, a dull flush rising in her cheeks.
"None was taken. Sansa is playing on the beach below the eastern terrace, along with my sisters and Lady Ellaria—" His voice trailed off as he caught sight of a lady in green silks embroidered with golden quills, and he rose to his feet, handing his empty cup to the servant who lingered nearby.
"Lady Aliandra," Olyvar said, bowing. "May I present Brienne of Tarth, heir to Evenfall Hall and sworn shield of Princess Sansa Stark? Lady Brienne, this is Lady Aliandra Jordayne, youngest sister of Lord Trebor Jordayne of the Tor, and lady companion to my aunt, Princess Elia Nymeros Martell."
Brienne bowed low, her straw-colored hair hiding her face. "My lady. Lord Trebor was a most gracious host; I am honored to meet his kinswoman."
"Well met, my lady," Aliandra demurred, turning her gaze back to Olyvar. "Ser Olyvar, your lady aunt wishes to speak with you within the hour. Princess Elia also bade me send for Lady Meria and Princess Sansa; where might they be found?"
"On the beach, my lady," Olyvar answered. Aliandra wrinkled her nose, annoyed. Much as she loved Princess Elia, whom she had served since Olyvar was little, she despised getting sand upon the hems of her gowns. "I should be glad to fetch them for you, if it please you."
"It does, ser." Aliandra turned on her heel, then paused. No one was looking at them; the children were busy playing, and Brienne was occupied in returning her cup to a servant. "One other thing—"
She reached up and tweaked Olyvar's nose, just as she used to when he misbehaved. The tightness of her grip was much more painful than he remembered. "You frightened your aunt half to death, Olly," she hissed under her breath, one eye on Brienne. "Thank the Seven she wasn't in the city to see the trial; no matter what Prince Oberyn wrote she was certain you would perish from your wounds."
Guilt gnawed at his belly as he strode to the beach with Brienne, his eyes blind to the beauty of sea and shore. He found Meria first, talking with Nym in a quiet voice. Sansa was still playing in the waves, serving as a mount for the same fierce skinny girl he'd seen earlier. Her balance seemed to have somewhat improved over the past few hours; her mount managed to knock over an opponent before a small hellion took Sansa in the back of the knees and they all fell over.
Most of his sisters were easily distracted by Olyvar's suggestion that Brienne show Elia the finer points of tilting at quintain, though Brienne seemed rather less enthused at being suddenly surrounded by a nest of snakelings. Tyene gave Olyvar a searching glance, and Nym followed Meria from the beach, continuing their quiet conversation as Sansa regaled Olyvar with tales of rubbing snow in her sister Arya's hair, happy and forlorn by turns.
Too soon it was time for Sansa to abandon him so that she might wash the sea from her skin. Olyvar changed as well, hoping for a distraction from the twisting in his gut. Little had changed in his chambers since he left the Water Gardens over a year past, but for the new chest of clothes beside the old. His favorite orange shift was sweat-stained from travel, but he found an old scarlet shift that had once been Prince Oberyn's. The last time he tried it on it was much too big; now it fit well enough, if awkwardly in places. His old amber tunic was much too small; instead he wore one of his new tunics, a sand-colored silk blazoned with his ten-headed golden snake.
The walk from his chambers to Meria's seemed to last an eternity. He arrived to find Nym idly arranging Meria's hair, her mouth pursed thoughtfully as she pinned braids into place. Today Meria wore scarlet robes over a dark grey shift; he did not recall seeing such robes before.
"There's my favorite brother," Nym said as she stood back to admire her work. An elegant crown encircled Meria's head, composed of braids of dark hair, sprigs of orange blossoms artfully tucked into the braids at odd intervals.
"I'm your only brother," Olyvar sighed.
"That we know of," Meria teased. "Breathe, little brother. I'm sure Aunt Elia won't have Areo Hotah take you out to the chopping block. Although," she muttered under her breath, "she might be tempted when Prince Oberyn returns."
They found Sansa in her chambers, waiting patiently as her northern maid brushed out her long auburn hair. Usually only maidens wore their hair entirely unbound; he wondered if Sansa knew the message she was sending to any Dornishman with the slightest amount of wits. Then again, given her deft courtesies, it likely was intentional. Her gown today was a light grey silk, the color almost pale purple in the sunlight as they passed through the courtyards. His mother resided in a set of chambers overlooking the sea, where cool breezes danced through the graceful arched windows and the laughter of children could be heard echoing from the shore.
Princess Elia Nymeros Martell did not appear to be in a laughing mood. She sat in her wheeled chair as if it were a throne, the tips of her fingers slightly clenched, her legs stiff beneath her gown. As a child he vaguely recalled her walking about with a cane, the effort leaving her weary. After a series of falls Prince Doran had insisted upon the wheeled chair, not knowing he would one day require one for himself. Mother loved her wheeled chair, as did her foster children, even if Aunt Elia did sometimes "accidentally" run over their feet when they were misbehaving.
They waited quietly as a servant brought refreshments, setting them on a side table. Only when they were alone did Olyvar bow, Meria curtsying beside him. At first he thought Sansa was curtsying as well, until he realized she'd sunk to her knees, eyes wide as she wept silently. Mother Elia blinked at her in astonishment.
"Child... what..."
"I saw you die," Sansa sobbed hysterically. "I saw- Ser Gregor- I saw what he—" the rest of her words were incoherent. Completely poleaxed, Olyvar sat beside her on the floor, wrapping long arms around her so that she could sob into his tunic.
"Here." Meria handed him a cup of qatarmizat. "Sansa, do try to breathe, it will be very embarrassing if my brother rescued you from King's Landing only for my mother to slay you with her beauty."
Sansa hiccuped into his chest, one hand reaching out for the cup. As she sipped it Olyvar looked up at his mother, noting how quickly alarm turned to concern turned to compassion.
"I did wonder... why you warned me," Princess Elia said, her words slowly and carefully chosen as always. Sansa emerged from Olyvar's tunic, the cup of qatarmizat already half empty. "The nightmare... you showed me... you saw all of that?"
Sansa nodded, another pitiful hiccup escaping.
"How?"
Sansa looked up at Meria, her chest rising and falling as she took long, slow breaths, gathering the strength to speak. "The weirwood, at Harrenhal. I knew Princess Elia was there for the great tourney, so I thought, if I could speak to her through the tree..."
"Could you do it again?" His sister sounded less curious about the insanity of sending visions through trees and more interested in how her new goodsister might be of use.
"I don't think so? I had to try again and again before I found Princess Elia; I almost faded away before I could warn her. And I was weak for months afterwards. I think I lost too much blood."
Olyvar's racing thoughts skidded to a halt. Lost too much blood? What on earth was she doing? There was pointed questioning in his wife's future, when her tears weren't still drying on his tunic.
"However... you achieved it... I owe you my life... and those of my children. I would... do you the honor... of a curtsy... if I could." She gestured at her rigid legs, at how her feet pushed against the footrest of her wheeled chair.
"Is that why you asked her here?" Meria asked. Her face was calm, but he could see the thoughts whirling behind her dark eyes as mother Elia shook her head.
"No, daughter. There is much that I must tell you, secrets I lacked the strength to share when Olyvar came of age." Elia snorted. "Your uncle Doran thought it too soon to tell either of you. My elder brother would shave his head if he thought a single hair might know his secrets, the foolish man."
"Perhaps that explains Varys," Olyvar japed halfheartedly. Elia shrugged.
"Who knows what goes on inside that eunuch's head. Nonetheless. I reminded your uncle that half-truths can be as dangerous as lies, especially when children guess at what they are not supposed to know. When Meria turned sixteen we shared a secret with your cousin Arianne, with each of your sisters, and with each of you. After four moons, only Nym and the pair of you had kept the secrets you were given. Arianne failed for telling me, despite Doran's command that she not breathe a word. Well, he may be Prince of Dorne, but I am your mother, and when Olyvar came of age he could no longer deny me."
Mother Elia drew a long, shuddering breath. Speaking always tired her, speaking of the past even moreso. With Meria's help she sipped at a cup of qatarmizat and nibbled at a piece of flatbread topped with thin slices of rich sheep's milk cheese.
"What we speak of today will be all of it, the good and the ill. I cannot delay any longer, not with the news coming from the east. What I shared over ten years with my brothers in bits and pieces, you must hear in an afternoon."
"Mother, no," Meria urged, dropping to her knees. "We can be patient, tell us part tonight, another part tomorrow."
Princess Elia shook her head. "No, my sweet girl. I would rather have done with it. You and your brother must know this now, before you hear the sailors' rumors." Ever perceptive, she caught Meria's sideways glance at Sansa. "Your goodsister deserves to know as well. She endured long months in the Red Keep and yet Ellaria said she heard not a single thoughtless word cross her lips; Princess Sansa will hold her tongue as carefully as you do."
"I swear it by the old gods and the new, I swear by the bones of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn." Sansa rose from the floor, her spine straight as steel. Three chairs had been set around Elia's; she chose one of them and sat, arranging her skirts deliberately. Meria took the seat closest to their mother; Olyvar took the last seat, between his sister and his little wife. For a little while they waited, listening to the steady rhythm of his mother's breath.
"I cannot remember a time when I did not know the Red Keep. Oberyn was a babe in our mother's arms when first we went to court. Princess Loreza had served Princess Shaera as a girl; as a woman the princess asked her to become one of little Rhaella's ladies. Rhaella was a gentle child, just twelve and newly flowered. Your grandmother said she would fuss over Oberyn no matter how much Aerys mocked her for it. He was always mocking her, was Aerys." Her lips pressed together tightly.
"Rhaella wept rivers when Jaehaerys commanded her to wed her brother, damn that woods witch and her prophecies. Shaera could not talk him out of it; he imagined as they grew older they would become a love match. The marriage was not supposed to be consummated until Rhaella was sixteen; they were still clothed when the court finished bedding them. When the maid found Rhaella hiding in the bloody sheets the next morning King Aegon almost disowned Aerys. He would have, but for Aerys' charm and his silver tongue."
"After Summerhall things grew much worse. Now Jaehaerys was king, and Aerys his only son and heir, the father of a babe born in smoke and salt. Then Jaehaerys died not three years later. I was five when the crown passed to Aerys, Oberyn three. Poor Rhaella was sixteen, already a mother with a babe of three.
"Even so, Aerys dared not touch Rhaella again, not for years. Shaera had her own ladies serve as Rhaella's bedmaids; Princess Loreza encouraged him to seek out mistresses who were older, women experienced in the pleasures of the flesh. For a time, it worked. Tywin Lannister was not the Hand my mother would have chosen, but he restrained Aerys' most extravagant impulses, and Steffon Baratheon gentled his temper, which was always cruel."
"After Queen Shaera died, Aerys took charge of Rhaella's ladies. He wanted younger women about his queen, women who had not known him as a suckling babe. Princess Loreza graciously resigned before he could dismiss her. I was nine when we returned to Sunspear to stay. While Doran traveled the Free Cities and Oberyn served as page to Lord Quentyn Qorgyle, I spent those years by my mother's side as she ruled Dorne."
Princess Elia smiled. "She would not foster me, not with my health so erratic. It was a lovely curse, a bitter blessing. When I was sickly father would read to me, or tell me terrible japes; when I was well enough to leave my rooms I saw feasts and follies, I saw my mother hand down judgments and weigh her counselors' wisdom."
His mother's amber eyes grew sad; for a moment she stared into the distance, overwhelmed by grief and memory.
"The Manwoodys say our Olyvar has his namesake's awful sense of humor," Meria teased. "Olyvar Manwoody patronized half the mummers in Sunspear, or so say our Manwoody cousins."
"He did," Elia said, coming back to herself. "Silly as he could be, there was sense beneath his japes. Your grandsire was relieved when Lady Joanna Lannister died before Princess Loreza could arrange a betrothal between our houses; he met Lord Tywin once and despised him ever after. Ser Olyvar was even less pleased when Aerys demanded that I wed the crown prince. The realm believed it my mother's victory, to succeed where Lord Tywin had failed. Nor was she ignorant of the opportunity for us to have a voice at court. Still..."
"I barely remembered Rhaegar from when we were children. He was a quiet boy, always off with some obscure tome. The man I wed was tall and strong, still quiet yet with a core of iron beneath his beauty. He was gracious, gentle... when Princess Loreza died shortly before the wedding he offered to postpone the ceremony. I declined, of course, but our marriage began with some promise of affection, of mutual respect."
"It did not last. I had thought over time his fondness would turn to love, yet... Rhaegar was fond of me as a man is fond of a particular hound. He was delighted when I conceived shortly after the wedding, he said not a word about the babe being a girl with my Dornish looks... but he also would not let me nurse her. The princess must have a brother, he said, and a woman who nurses is slow to regain her fertility. As if I were a prized mare for some stallion in his stables!"
Her fingers clenched, knocking her empty cup of qatarmizat to the floor.
"I was bedridden six months after your birth, sweetling. Rhaegar gave me three before he resumed paying me visits in the night."
Sansa covered her mouth with her hands, a tiny gasp escaping her lips. "He... he raped you?" She asked tremulously. Princess Elia inclined her head, her brow creased as she thought.
"I never said no," she finally said. "His attentions were always gentle; some tome claimed women were more fertile after they reach their peak. My body was sore; to be sweetly worshipped was not so bad. Rhaegar ignored me during the day, busy with ravens and knights and who knows what else. My only company was my few Dornish ladies, Ashara Dayne, Aliandra Jordayne, and a few others. They kept me company during those long days."
"I was excited, when old Lord Whent announced his tourney. To see the world outside Dragonstone again, to see lords and ladies from across the Seven Kingdoms... and, frankly, I thought it might also distract my lord husband from his loving attentions. At six months Rhaenys was as healthy as a child twice her age, and I looked forward to showing the kingdom my strong daughter. I had not perished in childbed like some of them had hoped, nor born some sickly babe."
"Even Aerys' unexpected attendance could not mar the tourney. His squabbles with Lord Tywin were well known; stealing his heir for the Kingsguard did not shock me as it did others. The banners flew brightly, knights clashed in the lists while maidens swooned from the stands. Ashara and Aliandra were free to cheer for the Sword of Morning; of course, I was bound to give my favor to my husband. As Rhaegar vanquished one knight after another, I was the most envied woman alive... and then I was the most pitied."
"I do not blame your aunt, child," she said, turning to Sansa. "You may not have her look, but you have her height. Lyanna was thirteen, as tall as her brothers and much prettier. Robert Baratheon bragged about how beautiful she was, even before her first flowering. They were to wed when she came of age, a prospect which seemed to thrill him much more than it did her."
"When Rhaegar crowned her she turned to stone. There were no sultry smiles or bold looks, I promise you that. She hid her feelings just as I did, determined to act as though nothing was amiss. When we returned to Dragonstone Rhaegar could not understand why I was so angry. She was the Knight of the Laughing Tree, the mystery knight who so infuriated his father. Was it not clever, how he had acknowledged her bravery without arousing his father's wrath?"
"And what of the Starks, said I? What of Baratheon? Their wrath was little and less to him. When I told Rhaegar half the lords present thought he was declaring Lyanna his mistress, he patted me on the head and told me not to fret. As if I were some ignorant girl, not a princess two years his elder!"
For a moment his mother shook with fury, her eyes burning. "I denied him my bed, but you were already in my belly, Olyvar. Carrying you was much harder than carrying Meria; when your grandfather passed at the end of ninth month I took to my bed, worn down by grief and exhaustion. Rhaegar's maesters hovered like rats, so I prevailed upon him to permit me midwives from among the orphans of the Greenblood, herb women famed for their skill. Rhaegar did not care for the maesters so long as he had his heir, so it was easy enough to persuade him to indulge me. Nor was it difficult to persuade him of the need for quiet, for no visitors beyond my faithful ladies."
"For Lady Ashara's sake," Meria whispered. Sansa looked from his sister to his mother, confused.
"Yes, Ria. At Harrenhal she spent one night with a lover, a lover whose name she never shared, and I never asked. Aliandra thought, perhaps..." Mother Elia hesitated. "She saw Ashara kissing a dark-haired northman against a tree in the godswood. Whether it was Lord Brandon or Lord Eddard she could not say. Whoever sired her babe, the boy arrived a month after Olyvar's birth, with Ashara's violet eyes and her mother's pale golden hair. One of the wet nurses pretended she had born twins; lords rarely bother to note a wet nurse's whelp."
"When Olyvar came I had spent nine long months pondering the strange vision I had beneath the heart tree at Harrenhal. I had told no one of it, no one but Ser Arthur, who shared the nightmare sent by a red direwolf with a maiden's eyes. I refused to obsess over prophecies as my husband did, but still, I was afraid. My fear only grew when Rhaegar came to see the babe. Twice I almost died in childbed, and as I nursed my newborn babe all he spoke of were promised princes and a dragon with three heads. I was surprised when the maesters told him I could not bear another living child and he took the news well."
"Less than a moon later he rode off with Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Arthur Dayne. He would do that, sometimes, when the mood struck him. Usually he would go to Summerhall, to play his harp under the stars and craft sad songs about the lives lost there. An odd pasttime, but harmless enough. I had Ser Lewyn Martell to guard me and give me comfort, and there were two precious babes to cuddle."
She took a deep breath, and Olyvar winced, knowing what was to come. This part he knew already, but Sansa listened, mouth agape, as Princess Elia told of Lyanna Stark's abduction at the end of the fourth moon in the year 282 AC. She told of Brandon Stark's frantic ride to King's Landing, of his demand for single combat against the crown prince, the man who had taken his little sister. She told of Brandon and Rickard's deaths without trial, slain while Aerys watched and laughed, she told of Aerys' demand for the heads of Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark, guilty of nothing but being near to Lyanna, she told of the unease that roiled the kingdom as lords chose sides.
It was the second month of the following year when Aerys summoned Elia to King's Landing, realizing he needed a Dornish hostage to prevent a Dornish uprising that would place his grandson on his throne. No one had heard from Rhaegar since his abduction of the Lady Lyanna, so Ser Gerold Hightower was sent out to find him. It was not until the sixth moon that Rhaegar returned, over a year and a half since he abandoned his wife and children.
The next part of the story brought tears of anger to his mother's eyes as she halting recalled the tale of romance Rhaegar had spun to explain his absence. His third child must be a child of ice, and what woman could bear such a child but a Stark, with winter flowing in her veins? Their union was destiny; her first flowering came the same day they reached the Tower of Joy.
He had not told Lyanna such things, of course. She was a sheltered child, yet still a little wary of the crown prince who came riding out of the woods like a prince from a song. To her he spoke of the power of a crown prince to set aside an unwanted betrothal, of the need to hide her away until Lord Stark and Lord Baratheon's wrath could fade. The Tower of Joy was an old towerhouse in the Red Mountains which Arthur Dayne had once showed Rhaegar as a boy; Rhaegar spent the long ride south laying siege to the innocent maid, wooing her with flowers and songs and even the occasional bout at swords.
Her first flowering sent Lyanna into a pit of despair, the long looked for sign of her womanhood coming so far from home. It was Rhaegar who comforted her, who kissed her tears away, who encouraged the first tentative brush of her lips against his.
"As if that mattered, whether she gave the first kiss freely," Elia snarled, her fingers clenching. "She knew not what she did."
Rhaegar could be patient, when it suited him. Long months of kisses eventually became caresses; he did not take her maidenhead until her fifteenth birthday, and then only after saying vows in a small grove of trees. Aegon the Conqueror had two wives, why shouldn't Rhaegar? Olyvar wondered if Lyanna had truly believed such nonsense, or if she had forced herself to believe it, now that she was helplessly ensnared in Rhaegar's web.
It was Ser Gerold Hightower's arrival that shattered the glass garden in which Rhaegar had kept his child bride. The news of Lord Rickard's and Brandon Stark's deaths had reached them months ago, but at Rhaegar's command the news was kept from Lyanna, lest she be overcome by grief. Ser Gerold Hightower did not know, and when he offered his condolences, Lyanna had tried to slay Rhaegar with his own sword.
Lyanna had failed miserably, of course; rather than hide her feelings and wait for him to share her bed, she attacked him in broad daylight, screaming her fury at his deception. Nothing could calm her rage, nor stop her from attempting to escape her prison. Rhaegar dared not leave the Tower of Joy until her belly was large enough to somewhat hinder her reckless escape attempts.
"I could not speak, I was so angry," mother Elia said. "And so I bit my tongue, and sent for the children, two of his precious dragon's three heads. Rhaenys came, with the black kitten he gave her before leaving Dragonstone; a wet nurse brought Aegon from his cradle. And Rhaegar smiled, and praised their beauty, and left for the Trident without ever realizing what I had done."
"He did not know his own children?" Sansa's voice was soft, but her eyes were hard.
"No more than Aerys did, no more than the rest of the court did. As a girl it bothered me, how so many north of the Red Mountains could not tell Dornishmen apart, so long as we had dark hair and skin some shade of brown, but as a woman it enraged me. They expected a girl of two-and-a-half with a Dornish look, and a babe of a year with pale hair and purple eyes. Rhaenys had only been seen briefly at court and then at Harrenhal, Aegon not at all. Rhaella suspected, I think, but she said nothing. To survive each day was all she could do; I could not share my burdens with her."
"I expected to be summoned to court long before Aerys' raven reached Dragonstone. One of my maids had a girl close to Rhaenys' age, though her skin was lighter and her build smaller. Jonquil was her name; she had the prettiest curls in her hair. As for Aegon, many knew of his pale hair and purple eyes, but my maids said nothing of the color of his skin, nor the shade of his hair. Blonde and silver are both pale, both common to the Targaryen line. I swore to Ashara that I would protect Gawaen as if he were my own, that when the war was done I would foster him and raise him as Aegon's brother."
"Ashara was not happy, but she knew I would rather die than let harm come to her child. And so the day Aerys' raven landed she took ship for Braavos with Aliandra and my children and most of my maids. It was not unusual, for her to carry messages for me, and Oberyn had set up a household in Braavos while he roamed the Free Cities. Once she delivered her precious burden she returned to Starfall."
"Aerys was angry to have no other Dornish ladies to hold hostage, but his wrath had better targets than a frail gooddaughter. He expected me to be feeble and sickly, so I gave him what he expected. I kept to my chambers with my foster children, attended by only a few maids of Aerys' choosing."
Tears dripped down Elia's face as she told them of those long months of confinement. Jonquil cried for her true mother at first, but after a few months she babbled mama at Elia, knowing no better. She would run all over their chambers, hug the kitten too tightly, even sneak down to Rhaegar's chambers sometimes, having heard the maids sigh over her handsome, brave supposed father. Elia taught the girl her colors; Jonquil discovered the magic of turning book pages by herself as Elia read to her. Gawaen had known Elia since his birth; he seemed to notice little amiss. When they arrived in King's Landing he could barely wave bye bye and pull himself up to stand; as the months passed by he learned to give hugs and kisses, took his first steps, and could even toddle a bit if someone held his hand.
Then came the Battle of the Trident. Uncle Lewyn was dead, along with ten thousand Dornishmen and the crown prince whose folly had led to their doom. Aerys sent Rhaella away to Dragonstone, but Elia he kept close, as if her presence might conjure more Dornish spears betwixt him and his enemies.
"I did not know the sack was happening until it was too late," Elia said, her eyes glassy. "The maids chosen by Aerys told me nothing; Ser Arthur Dayne was in charge of defending Maegor's Holdfast while Ser Jaime Lannister guarded the king. Arthur abandoned his post when he saw men scaling the keep, but... the day of the sack was a bad day for my legs. I could barely cross my chambers, let alone chase Jonquil when she raced to see why there were noises coming from below. The maids had fled; the guards were gone. I determined that if I could not catch Jonquil, I could at least take Gawaen from his cradle, hide him away in a secret cupboard the eunuch had once shown me."
Her voice caught in her throat. "I was too slow. Ser Gregor tore the babe from my arms; he laughed as he smashed his head against the walls. I can still feel the blood on his hands as he grabbed me..."
Olyvar reached for his mother's hand, letting her grip his fingers while Meria pressed a cloth to their mother's cheeks, dabbing at the tears. It was Sansa who poured a new cup of qatarmizat and pressed it into Elia's hands, her own tears dripping down her nose.
While their mother wept Meria took up the tale. Ser Arthur Dayne had arrived just in time to interrupt the Mountain's assault of their mother, but the Sword of Morning was already bleeding from many wounds. When both knights lay on the floor, one wounded and one dead, Ser Jaime Lannister had finally shown himself and ordered the Mountain to stand down. It was he who carried Elia to the maesters while the city burned and smallfolk died.
No one told Elia anything, except for Varys, who was oddly solicitous of her pain. Two days after the sack he mournfully informed her of what the lion had done with her children's bodies, of how the stag had looked away and how the direwolf had howled with rage.
It was Eddard Stark who escorted her home, after lifting the siege of Storm's End. With Arthur dead only Ashara Dayne knew where the Tower of Joy lay hidden, and she gave the answer freely when Elia sent a raven from Sunspear, guilt weighing down her limbs like stones. Ashara promised to come to Sunspear, to hear Elia's apologies in person, yet when the raven came from Starfall it bore word of not only Lyanna's death in childbirth along with her babe, but Ashara's death by her own hands.
"I am honored to be entrusted with such bitter memories," Sansa said when Meria finally ended the tale. "But... what has this to do with rumors from the east?"
"Dragons."
Olyvar and Sansa turned to Meria as one, staring at her with wide eyes and open mouths.
"Was it Arianne or Garin himself who told you?" Elia asked. Meria shrugged elegantly. "Neither. Sailors talk to everyone, and everyone loves to repeat their wildest stories. It is true, then?"
Elia nodded. "Yes. Over a year ago, Daenerys Targaryen hatched three dragons upon the Dothraki Sea. They were seen in Qarth, then Astapor; now they are in Meereen, which she has taken by right of conquest."
"Daenerys is Sansa's age!" Olyvar exclaimed, bewildered. "Wait, no, if she was born at Dragonstone, she'd be... sixteen?"
"Indeed," Elia said dryly. "I see your math tutors let you play with your sisters too often, hmm?"
"Is she coming west?" Meria asked.
"Who knows? But for the first time in two hundred years there are dragons in the world, and a Targaryen who thinks herself the last of her line has them. The Seven only know what she intends to do, but there are two paths she might take should she leave Essos."
"First, she might learn of her kin and decide to support your claim to the Iron Throne. She can only ride one dragon, after all, and there are two of you, one for each dragon without a rider. Second, she might refuse to acknowledge you as her kin, and claim the Iron Throne for herself in fire and blood. Gods help us if she takes after Aerys; she will make the Dance of the Dragons look like the battles in the Water Gardens."
"How would she learn of her kin?" Olyvar did not understand; only his mother, his uncles, Ellaria, Meria, Nym, and Sansa knew the truth.
Elia smiled a joyless smile. "Because you are going to Essos. No, not you, Ria," she said when Meria leapt to her feet. "I will not send both my children into the dragon's lair; one of you must stay to forge alliances within Westeros, and I seem to recall you've already begun such work, thanks to your bedamned uncle."
Meria blushed, for once struck speechless. Uncle Oberyn was lucky mother Elia didn't travel outside of Dorne anymore; Olyvar had the feeling when next she saw him he would be in for the tonguelashing of his life.
"As for the beasts themselves... tell me, Sansa, what was it like, raising a direwolf pup?"
"Lord Eddard was very stern," Sansa replied, surprised at the sudden question from her goodmother. "The kennelmaster would not go near the direwolves; it was our duty to train them, though at first Farlen would keep watch with the wolfhounds, in case... a direwolf is not a dog, father said, to beg for a treat and run away whimpering at a kick. The gods only know how many men Grey Wind slew in Robb's battles, or Nymeria hunting rapers in the riverlands. A dragon, let alone three..." she bit her lip. "Were Aegon and his sisters skinchangers?"
Mother Elia glanced at her sharply. "When the sailors in Planky Town first began talking of dragons, we sent to the Jordaynes for every text they had, or copies from those too frail to travel."
"There was nothing about skinchanging," Meria sighed. "Honestly, mother, that was how I knew; you wouldn't have cared unless there was some truth beneath the sailor's wild stories. You shouldn't have asked me to help unless..." Meria put her head in her hands. "It was another test, wasn't it." Mother Elia raised an eyebrow. "Whether it was the blood of Valyria as they claimed, or some other sorcery, who can say? But not every Targaryen became a dragon rider, even when there were dragon eggs for every cradle."
"What is to become of me, if Olyvar goes to Essos?"
The three Nymeros Martells turned to look at Sansa; Elia tapped a hand on the armrest of her wheeled chair.
"It does pose a problem. Oberyn told the queen that Olyvar wished to travel the Free Cities, but leaving you here will raise questions. You could stay here at the Water Gardens; we might claim your health suddenly declined, unused to the heat. Cersei will assume Olyvar did something terrible to you; if not, Oberyn will suggest the idea."
"I don't like that," Sansa said quietly. "I owed him my life even before we swore vows before the Seven."
"Meereen will not be like Dorne," Meria cautioned. "Daenerys could be as mad as Aerys or as cruel as Cersei. Even if she is all goodness, you are not needed there. This is a quest Olyvar must take on his own."
"Why? Can he speak to dragons?"
"No," Meria laughed. "Can you?"
"Probably."
Olyvar folded his arms as his mother and his sister stared. Sansa had listened long enough; it was only fair to let her speak her mind. Much as he trusted his family to keep her safe, he had sworn to give her the same respect Oberyn gave Ellaria, and that included giving her a say in her own whereabouts.
"Did you not tell them?" Sansa blinked at him, then looked at Elia and Meria. "I can speak to animals, in my mind. I've been able to ever since Lady, my direwolf died. A gift from the old gods, along with..." she hesitated. "Along with my skinchanging. That was how I escaped the Red Keep, I turned into a red direwolf. Knocking Joffrey over was an accident. Mostly. If I can speak to cats and horses and direwolves, why not a dragon?"
"A fair point," Meria conceded. "Just one little problem, goodsister." Her eyes met Sansa's, dark amber against deep blue.
"What, pray tell, will we be telling the King in the North?"
NOTES
1) Let's talk about egg addling! Snakes reproduce in one of two ways. Some give birth to live young, with the eggs hatching while still inside the female snake. Most, however, lay eggs and then incubate them like birds do. Goose egg addling is the practice of brushing oil onto goose eggs. The female goose continues sitting on her eggs, but the coat of oil deprives the embryos of oxygen and prevents them from hatching. Why not just smash the eggs? Well, because then the mother goose will just build a new nest somewhere else and lay more eggs. Given the similarity between reptiles and birds, I thought addling viper eggs made perfect sense.
2) So I looked up swimming in medieval Europe and found out that swimming was, for about 1,500 years, an incredibly rare skill limited to fishermen and sailors. Jon being a strong swimmer who learned in Winterfell's moat is canon, but, uh... GRRM seems to have overlooked that medieval moats were typically used for catching the sewage from the garderobes. Gross. On the other hand, some medieval moats were kept stocked with fish and eels! What???
So, I decided that in order to keep the moat clean for fishing/swimming, Winterfell has gong farmers. Those poor, poor men.
Since medieval ladies didn't swim, I invented a swimming tunic for Sansa based off swim costumes from the late 1600s-1700s that I found in an article.
3) Arianne Martell is supposed to be 24 in canon, the same age or slightly older than Tyene. Since I adjusted the Sand Snake's ages based on Oberyn's known whereabouts, there is now a four year gap between them. They still became best friends, because their personalities were the same.
4) Quicksilver was the dragon of Aenys I, then his son Aegon the Uncrowned. Quicksilver died in the Battle Beneath the God's Eye, slain along with her rider by Maegor the Cruel, who was mounted on Balerion.
5) Gazanias, also called treasure flowers, are a gorgeous type of daisy native to Spain, while jasmine is the national flower of Tunisia.
6) Lemonade does, in fact, go back as far as the medieval era! Qatarmizat was a simple solution of lemon juice with sugar; in Tunisia people made citronnade with lemon juice, sugar, and orange blossom water. Other recipes used lemon juice, honey, and water.
7) Elia has a mild form of cerebral palsy. In canon her illness is never specified, but we know she was born a month early and not expected to live. Cerebral palsy is a group of congenital disorders caused by brain damage before or during birth. Symptoms can vary wildly; in Elia's case, she has stiff legs, difficulty walking, chronic fatigue, a higher than usual susceptibility to respiratory illness, and a mild speech impediment which she can mask only with effort. Women with cerebral palsy can have children, but they are at increased risk of preterm birth and other adverse pregnancy outcomes, which tracks with Elia's need for extended bedrest after her first labor and the second nearly killing her.
8) Elia's favorite sheep's milk cheese is based on manchego, the most famous cheese from Spain.
9) Funnily enough, some medieval physicians did believe women could only get pregnant if they orgasmed. Weird. And really sexist!
