December, 302 AC


Olyvar stared at his writing desk, dimly aware that his mouth was open. Thank the gods Edric was already snoring on his pallet. A knight-master was supposed to have some dignity, but this...

With a silent gulp Olyvar lifted the bundle, examining the stack of letters. How could there be so many? He counted at least a dozen bearing the white wax of House Stark, many of them thick. Those sealed with orange wax were fewer, but thicker, and the three sealed with yellow wax stamped with a fat toad were thickest of all.

"Damn it, Meria," he muttered under his breath.

"What is it?" A sweet voice called from the terrace. "Is aught amiss?"

Olyvar pinched the top of his nose, resisting the urge to sigh at his foolishness in yet again forgetting Sansa's absurd hearing. No matter that she sat at the edge of the terrace, he might as well have shouted in her ear. As he did not intend to shout, and felt odd speaking to someone he could not see, he pulled his bedrobe tight over his shift and ventured out into the night.

He found Sansa sitting on a bench beside the pool, staring into waters whose still depths reflected the stars and the waxing crescent moon. Moonbeams bathed her in silver light, the evening chill brought a rosy blush to her cheeks, the breeze ran gentle fingers through her unbound hair. His mouth was oddly dry.

"Olyvar?" Sansa asked, the faintest hint of nerves hidden beneath her steady tone. Stupid, he'd been silent too long and made her anxious.

"Nothing amiss," he assured her. "Did you see the letters that Chatana Qhoru brought? I'm surprised the ravens didn't break their backs carrying Meria's."

"Oh!" She gasped, and to his relief she smiled, dimples blooming in her cheeks. "Thank the old gods and the new, I thought they'd never come."

He couldn't blame her. The wait seemed interminable, each passing day only deepening his yearning for word of home. It was over a year since the swan ships departed Meereen, bound for Sunspear with their cargo holds packed with goods from the Jade Sea. At Meereen they had taken on almost nothing, save food, water, and three locked chests containing coded letters, one each for Feathered Kiss, Cinnamon Wind, and Sweet Nutmeg. Their caution proved warranted; an autumn tempest sunk Sweet Nutmeg off the coast of Lys, and Cinnamon Wind would have joined her, if not for the skill of the captain and his crew, who jury-rigged a mast even as waves swept over the deck.

"Agreed," he said, sitting beside Sansa. By force of habit she turned her back on him, and he began combing his fingers through her hair, gently separating the long tresses into three sections before beginning to plait them. "It will take years to decode them, I'm afraid. Much as I trust Maester Perceval and Lonnel..."

"You'd rather read the letters first," she murmured, stifling a yawn. Small wonder she was tired, it was her wont to rise at dawn, if not earlier. For a short while they sat in companionable silence, his long fingers making quick work of the braid.

"And Lonnel's penmanship is an awful hen scratch," he admitted, securing the end of the braid with a leather tie from his pocket. Sansa turned, brushing the waist-length braid over her shoulder.

"I can help," she offered, her eyes searching his. "No, you wanted to read them first, of course..." her face brightened. "I'll sit up with you. I can work on the ones from Winterfell whilst you work on the ones from Sunspear."

Attempts to dissuade her fell on deaf ears, and so when the maid returned, it was to find them both at the writing desk, quills scratching away. Without saying a word Gilly hung a kettle over the fire, and soon there were two steaming cups of amber tea.

"There was really no need," Sansa protested as her maid added sugar to one of the cups. "Really, you should be abed."

"So should you, princess," Gilly replied, giving Olyvar a glare and giving his wife her cup of tea.

Even such mild impertinence was almost shocking, coming from his wife's maid. Servants generally did their work quietly, careful not to disturb their betters, but back at Sunspear he barely noticed Gilly, who avoided drawing attention at all costs. The wildling girl was as shy as a fawn and as skittish as a rabbit; when he thanked her for awaking him the night of Lord Robett's misguided kidnapping attempt, she looked as if she wanted to either sink through the floor or turn invisible.

Long months in Meereen slowly dulled her terror. By the time her son's second name day approached Gilly was brave enough to ask that Olyvar stand at her son's naming ceremony as one of his sworn protectors. Not bold enough to ask him herself, though, she'd beseeched Sansa's aid in making that request.

"It took all Gilly's nerve to ask me to stand for the child before the Mother," Sansa had sighed. "When Septa Lemore told her that a naming ceremony also required a sworn protector before the Father... men frighten her, still."

"I should think so. A girl of sixteen is rarely mother to a child of two by her own choice."

Sansa shuddered. "She speaks of it little, but what she lets slip is enough to curdle blood. She has never known fathers as anything but tyrants who either beat their children—" something flickered in her eyes, some awful knowledge, unspoken "—or utterly ignore them."

"My father was nothing like that," he replied, thinking of long hours listening to stories or practicing with the spear. Then he remembered, and his mouth twisted, a bitter taste upon his lips. "Uncle Oberyn was nothing like that. Rhaegar, on the other hand..."

Thoughts of his two fathers still occupied his mind on the day of the naming ceremony. Light filtered through the stained glass windows of the little sept as Septa Lemore anointed the babe with the first five of the seven oils. Then she stepped aside, permitting Sansa to bring forward the Mother's oil as the child squirmed in Gilly's arms, utterly confused as to what was going on, and doing his best to get free so he could run away.

Most babes slept through their naming ceremonies. The Faith of the Seven held that babes should be anointed and named on the same day as their birth, and in the Seven Kingdoms those who followed the old gods were in the habit of doing the same, though without the septon or the oils. Wildlings, however, apparently did not name their children until they reached the age of two. Odd, that. The child flailed as Sansa dabbed oil on his brow, accidentally smearing it down his nose.

A choked laugh echoed through the sept. Olyvar was accustomed to naming ceremonies, having attended them for all of his younger sisters, but Daenerys had never seen one before. Intrigued, the queen had declared her intention to attend the ceremony as soon as she heard of it. Prince Consort Aegor's gentle attempts to explain the brief, solemn nature of the ceremony had only piqued her interest, and so now they both stood in the first pew, with Ser Barristan Selmy of her queensguard at the door of the sept. Daenerys watched the ceremony as intently as if it were some mummer's show, though at least she had the sense to cover her smile as Olyvar stepped up to anoint the child with the Father's oil.

"I, Olyvar Sand, do swear by the Father to take this child under my protection," he said solemnly, dipping his thumb in the oil and pressing it gently to the child's brow. "I shall help him follow the light of the Seven, and should the Stranger take his kith and kin, I vow he shall have a place in my household until he does come of age."

The child blew a raspberry at him; it was Olyvar's turn to choke back a laugh as Gilly frowned, mortified.

"What is his name to be?" Septa Lemore asked, her lips quirked in a half smile as Olyvar returned to his place.

"Kit!" The toddler gurgled, waving a chubby fist. Beside him Sansa stifled a giggle; in her own pew Daenerys laughed aloud.

"Samrik, son of Gilly," the maid answered firmly.

Samrik was three now, as boisterous as he was curious. Over a year had passed since his naming ceremony on the fourth day of twelfth moon. Olyvar recalled it exactly because the next day was Sansa's fifteenth nameday, her first since they left Dorne. He'd arranged a small feast to mark the occasion, with singers and dancers and storytellers, and he'd hired the same ones again for her sixteenth nameday last week. Best not think of that.

With a heavy sigh Olyvar dipped his quill in ink and returned to his task. Lonnel had drilled the cipher into his head for weeks; he barely comprehended a single word as he unraveled the code one letter at a time. That was for the best; if he read whilst decoding, it would only slow him down. A brief glance at Sansa made him wonder if she did the same. Her brow was furrowed; was there bad news in her letters?

The longer they stayed in Meereen, the more he worried about Sansa. Many nights he awoke to find her drenched in sweat, drawing short, quick breaths that did nothing to fill her lungs. Her lips would open in a silent scream, and his arms would close tight about her waist as he pulled her to his chest and helped her count her breaths, his lips pressed against her hair.

When she could speak again, she told him of her dreams. Nightmares, in truth. Goosebumps rose on his arms, and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. As a youth he put little stock in portents, omens, or harbingers. Dreams were naught but the confused imaginings of the sleeping mind, strange and inexplicable, but meaningless. Now... welll, learning that he only lived and breathed because Sansa had dreamt of his mother's death cast rather a different light on things.

And what an ominous light it cast. Some of Sansa's nightmares were memories twisted by fear, echoes of the horrors she'd seen and dangers she'd faced. Her father's blood seeping into the steps of Baelor, her sister's scream as a man swung at her with a sword, her own terror as a crossbowman pointed his bow at her. But the rest of them... she dreamt the world was a frozen wasteland, consumed by blizzards, stalked by dead men and their unnatural masters. She dreamt of empty bellies and hollow eyes, of biting winds and sheets of snow that suffocated beasts in their cold embrace.

Seven save us, when winter comes. Olyvar glanced across the table, at Sansa still scratching away with her quill. Much as her dreams terrified her, he knew she yearned for home. She thrived in the cool winds that chased the Dornish from the terraces, she longed for the snows of Winterfell much as Deziel yearned for the orchards of Lemonwood. And Olyvar wanted to take them home, he did, but returning to Westeros...

He shook his head to clear it. Focus on the letters. The sooner he finished translating them, the sooner he could abandon the stiff chair for the soft featherbed. The Hour of the Stranger came and went; his fingers began to cramp. It was well into the night when they finally finished and retired to bed, each holding a stack of parchments. Olyvar climbed in first, and he stared intently at the first letter from mother Ellaria as Sansa slipped off her bedrobe and slid beneath the blankets, clad only in a thick wool shift.

"What news from Dorne?" She asked.

"The sailors were wrong," he replied, tears beginning to well behind his eyes. "Arianne gave birth before Uncle Doran died, not after. He was able to hold the babe and give blessings before he passed." He rubbed the tears away, determined not to lose his composure. The seven days of mourning were long past, as were the seven months of daily prayers for the dead, and Doran would not want him to weep for the end of his uncle's suffering.

The rest of the letter was less upsetting, being filled with happier news. Obara was learning to joust so "she might show little Elia how it is properly done." Elia's devotion to the lance had not ebbed since his departure, and in fact only grew stronger after her encounter with Brienne of Tarth. He suspected one of the more recent letters would report broken bones and a prolonged estrangement betwixt his most martially inclined sisters, Seven help him.

Sarella remained in Oldtown, forging links at a steady pace whilst the maesters persisted in their obliviousness to her deception. At the moment she was studying the higher mysteries in hopes of forging a link of Valyrian steel. Back in Sunspear, Obella, now flowered, had taken to playing cyvasse with her cousin Trytane and Princess Myrcella, when she wasn't busy writing poetry. Her subjects were a different knight every time the moon turned. In hopes of providing an appropriate target for her daughter's blossoming affections, mother Ellaria had begun searching for a good match amongst the younger sons and bastards of Dorne, and asked Olyvar to inform her of any likely candidates. He would have to ponder that later.

His youngest sisters remained at the Water Gardens with mother Elia. Dorea had outgrown her tiny morningstar, and was now trying to decide whether she wanted a bigger one, or whether a mace might suit her better. Finally, Loreza progressed steadily in her lessons, and was determinedly working on two embroidered handkerchiefs, one for her brother Olly, and one for her goodsister the princess Sansa. No doubt he would find them in one of the chests from Sunspear sitting on the floor.

Meria's first letter from King's Landing was a misery, her second an ordeal. The words blurred together as he read, paragraph after paragraph of the names of lords and ladies and knights and patricians, their names and holdings and grievances. He would need to make himself a chart later, if he was to have any hope of remembering even half of them.

Lord Randyll Tarly's siege of Storm's End continued, though Meria believed it would end before the year was out. He would need to check her most recent letter. As of fifth moon, Meria reported that the Stormlands were an utter mess of petty infighting and simmering feuds, thanks to the divide betwixt supporters Stannis and Renly and the consequences of having no lord paramount for over two years. That would soon change, however. Lord Ronnel Penrose meant to put forth a claim to Storm's End based upon his descent from the eldest of Lord Steffon Baratheon's sisters. Meria thought his claim likely to succeed, as the family was of the closest descent from the Baratheon line. Better yet, the Penroses unanimously despised Stannis, blaming him for the death of Ronnel's heir, Ser Cortnay.

Succession issues also plagued the Westerlands. House Brax had lost almost every member of its main line during the War of Five Kings, and Lord Flement Brax, the old lord's third son, still struggled to establish his authority, what with having a Frey wife who apparently boasted of the Red Wedding to all and sundry. The new Lord Lydden was deeply unpopular; not only had Joffrey Lydden reduced Deep Den's charity to the Faith and begun hanging every poacher, he'd also raised rents and scourged a septon who dared give sermons against greed. The new Lord Jast was a boy of five with only a sickly mother to guard him from ambitious uncles; the old Lord Banefort was a vigorous man in his sixties, until his health went into a sharp decline. Both his sons had perished in battle, followed soon after by the death of his beloved wife in a riding accident. Now his heirs were a pair of middle-aged daughters, both widowed with children, and an assortment of male cousins.

Olyvar almost pitied Cersei Lannister. The queen must be running herself ragged trying to hold the Westerlands together and prepare for winter. Grand Maester Pycelle's maid said that letters arrived from the castellan of Casterly Rock every fortnight, no doubt reporting the many needs of the Westerlands to the Lady of the Rock. Despite Meria's success at drawing information from the queen whilst she was in her cups, she remained close-mouthed about Casterly Rock. Once Cersei had complained about some issues with sewage filling the cells beneath the Rock, and blamed her brother Tyrion's incompetence, but then she'd gone oddly silent. Stricken by the reminder of his loss, perhaps, though gossip said there was little love between them.

On and on the letters went, crammed full of news and scandal from the Reach and the Crownlands, even the Vale, but Olyvar could take no more of it, not now. His eyelids fluttered shut, and for a while he dozed. It was still dark outside when he awoke to a loud gasp of horror, and turned to see Sansa engrossed in a letter, her mouth agape.

"What is it?" He slurred, his head muddled.

"Lord Bolton's bastard tried to kidnap Arya."

He shook his head, trying to clear away the stupor. "What? Did he get her? Is she well?"

Sansa turned to him, eyes wide. "No, he- she cut the bastard's throat, and then she cut off his head and threw it at Lord Bolton."

Olyvar blinked. "She did what."

"Lord Bolton surrendered, and when he tried to flee his own smallfolk killed him. Everyone thinks Arya did it, there's a song and everything. And Arya hates it." She gave a nervous giggle. "She asks that I write her a better one, or 'stupid people will sing "The Beautiful Bane of the Boltons" at me until I'm old and grey.' Then Arya says now she understands why I didn't like 'The Radiant Red Wolf,' and she's sorry she didn't show more sympathy."

Sansa drew a shuddering breath, tears filling her eyes. "She... I... she's growing up so fast, she's almost fourteen now, and I haven't seen her since she was ten, and it's all my fault, if I hadn't fallen in the river, if I hadn't chosen to stay when Brienne offered to bring me home..."

Gently he put an arm around her, letting her sob into his chest. It was not the first time she'd wept for her family, nor would it be the last. He thought she'd made the best decisions she could, and had told her so before, but guilt and reason were strangers. All he could do was hold her, which he did until her tears ceased, and a fanciful notion seized him.

"I know what you need," he said, giving her a look that was full of mischief. "Deziel set the cooks to attempting to make crispels for his breakfast, stuffed with orange custard. He said yesterday's were almost acceptable, and he hoped they'd have them properly made today. The dough should be ready by now, I would think."

Sansa laughed, half appalled, half eager. "No, no, you cannot go stealing Ser Deziel's dainties."

"Would a knight commit theft?" Olyvar asked, feigning horror as he placed a hand on his chest. "Seven forbid. I am merely preventing a beloved friend from falling prey to the dreadful sin of gluttony."

"How noble of you," Sansa said, eyes sparkling, dimples in her cheeks. That decided it. He was out of bed in a flash, pulling on a long tunic and sliding his feet into slippers. He closed the door behind him to the sound of Sansa's halfhearted protests. Brienne of Tarth and Ser Symon Wyl had the night watch; Lady Brienne gave a startled laugh at Olyvar's mussed hair and wrinkled clothes, whilst Ser Symon merely stared at him, implacable.

Olyvar took the steps two at a time as he descended to the kitchens. The cooks were up to their elbows in dough, preparing the morning bread. With the application of his best High Valyrian and a little coin, Olyvar soon found himself watching from a corner as a burly cook fried two crispels, filled them with custard, basted them in a honey, and handed them over.

Sansa was half dozing when he returned, her long frame sprawled across half of the bed in a most unladylike and rather endearing way. He hated to wake her, but the crispels really were better warm. Ah well, he might as well amuse her.

"My lady fair!" He announced with a flourish, sweeping a low bow whilst carefully balancing the tray with the other hand. "Behold! I return from the perilous quest unharmed, and bearing treasures from distant lands!"

Sweet as the crispels were, they were not half so sweet as the sound of Sansa's laughter.

Alas, their childish antics proved but a brief respite from their cares over the next few days. Olyvar and Sansa had thought they would have perhaps four months to compose answers to the letters they had received as they waited for the swan ships to sail to Yi Ti and back. Chatana Qhoru dashed those hopes asunder when she bluntly informed him that none of the Summer Islander captains were willing to sail any further east.

It seemed that an unusual number of ships were vanishing in the Cinnamon Straits that lay betwixt the Summer Sea and the Jade Sea. Pleased as they were with their ample profits from the last voyage, the captains were not willing to risk their ships against this new corsair king. Olyvar could not blame them. In tenth month word had come of the sacking of Port Moraq; the corsairs had burned half the docks to the ground, the green flames burning for days. Most blamed wildfire, but the Quhuru Mo, captain of the Cinnamon Wind had very, very quietly told Olyvar that a few spoke of seeing a dragon, one with wings of bronze and jade, the same colors as that of Rhaegal, the only one of Daenerys' three dragons whom Olyvar had never seen. He would have to press her harder about the dragon's whereabouts, though the notion made him uneasy.

That was a problem for later. First he must decide what to say in the reports he sent back to Sunspear. Chatana Qhoru and her fellows had given him five weeks, the time it would take for them to make repairs and fill their holds in Meereen before sailing west. His thoughts whirled round and round like ships in a storm as he prepared a cold compress for Sansa, abed with a sick headache as she often was during her moonblood.

"You look as miserable as I feel," she groaned as he gently laid the damp cloth on her head. "At least Viserion will be in a good mood today." She made a face. "I'm trying, I really am, and I still can't sway him from his dislike."

"You can't make everyone love you," he teased. "It would be unfair. Don't take it to heart, he's an ill-tempered beast. If it makes you feel any better, remember that you may not be able to sway a dragon, but you can sway his rider as you please."

To his annoyance, Viserion did seem pleased by Sansa's absence. When he brought the dragon out into one of the small yards outside the Great Pyramid he twined about Olyvar like a cat, letting him scratch beneath his chin as heat rippled off his scales. Though Viserion was yet too small to bear Olyvar's weight, he could feel their bond deepening as his senses grew attuned to the dragon's emotions and intent. Still, he could not actually speak to the dragon, not like Sansa could. Oh, he spoke to the dragon aloud, conversing to him as he would to an unruly, heavily armed younger sister, but he wished he could hear the dragon's responses as words, not blurs of meaning.

"She healed your neck, you ingrate," he reminded Viserion as he rubbed oil over the dragon's scales, working it into the dry spots in his crest and spines. "And she helped convince your mother to let you fly free. You could be more friendly."

Viserion blew his nostrils, shooting a slender jet of pale gold flame.

"I know it hurt, that's not her fault. You don't have to like her, but you will carry her with me someday."

The response was rather akin to a shrug of amusement, laced with contempt. Perhaps it was all the autumn rains that vexed him. As Viserion disliked flying in the rain, he spent most of his time back in the dragonpit under the pyramid, sulking and clawing at the walls of his hated lair. At least he wasn't melting the doors anymore.

Thankfully the skies were clear today. As soon as Olyvar finished with the oil, Viserion flexed his wings and took off with a glad shriek, rising above the city until he found a current of warm air. With a sigh Olyvar leaned against a hitching rail, watching the way the sun shimmered off the dragon's wings.

"Fancy seeing you here," a languid voice remarked.

"Didn't I tell you?" A wry voice answered. "Crispel thieves prefer to hide in plain sight."

Olyvar resisted the urge to heave a deep, heavy, beleaguered sigh. He'd known they'd find him sooner or later, he'd just hoped it would be later. Girding up his courage, he turned to face his unwanted visitors.

His sister Nym lounged upon a bench near the base of the pyramid, daintily nibbling at a half-eaten crispel. Deziel sat beside her, eyeing fingers sticky with honey before shrugging and licking them clean.

"Is it theft if the thief immediately confesses?" Olyvar asked, taking a seat beside them. "You were never going to eat six of them in one go, your belly would have ached for days. Would you have preferred that I awake you to ask permission first?"

Deziel winced. "Gods, no. What, am I a phoenix, to rise at dawn from the ashes of the night? No one should arise before the Hour of the Crone, unless at dire need. I retract my accusations, lest you take the lesson that telling the truth is to be feared."

Now it was Olyvar's turn to wince. Though they'd slowly mended their friendship during their time in Meereen, Deziel was of the mind that forgiving did not mean forgetting, though he only rarely pricked Olyvar with reminders of their quarrel.

"Why must you keep bringing that up?" Olyvar asked, annoyed.

"For your own good," Deziel said, eyes solemn. "Kings oft fall into the habit of justifying their every whim, and I'll not have that for my dearest friend."

"I'm not a king."

"Not yet," said Nym, her dark eyes scanning the yard, making sure no one was listening in. An unnecessary precaution, given how quickly the yard emptied whenever Viserion was present. "And why is that, dear brother?"

"Because I don't want to be a king," Olyvar snapped, keeping his voice low. "Because I don't know if I can trust my dragon, or if I can trust Queen Daenerys. Because claiming a crown means starting a war. Because winter is coming, and fighting amongst ourselves will only lead to ruin."

Look at the children, Olyvar, Uncle Doran's voice whispered. The children are the realm, and you must remember them, in everything you do.

He could not stop remembering them. Ser Gulian Qorgyle spoke eagerly of rebuilding Dorne with royal coin, and Olyvar saw chubby little King Tommen, only ten, his head bludgeoned to pieces. Ser Symon Wyl spoke coldly of vengeance against the Lannisters, and Olyvar saw gentle, clever Myrcella lying in a pool of blood. Lady Toland spoke mildly of raising armies, and Olyvar saw countless orphans wailing in the Water Gardens.

A hand shook him by the shoulder. "Stop daydreaming," Nym scolded. "You've ducked and dodged this conversation for weeks, and I've had enough of it. Much as I love idling with Jennelyn day after day, I am weary of wandering unfamiliar streets."

"We all are," Deziel added. "There is only so much hunting and hawking and training a man can take. Were you less loved, I think Ser Symon would be forcing you to make a decision at dagger point. I want to go home, Olly. I want to see my brother and my cousins, I want to show Brienne the orchards before I talk the poor lady's ear off telling her about them."

"Sansa said her ladies were content."

Nym snorted. "As much as we can be. The Seven truly blessed you; your wife is the most pleasant company I've ever enjoyed, save for Jennelyn and her sister. It almost made suffering Daenerys tolerable, before she decided to ignore us. Even so, we long for hearth and home as much as the men do."

"Daenerys is another concern. She still speaks of the Iron Throne as if it were her birthright."

Deziel rubbed at his eyes. "That cannot be helped. So far as she knew, she and her brother were the only Targaryens in the world. Now she knows the truth. You cannot let her dreams deter you from your claim."

Olyvar scowled at him. "I'm less concerned about her dreams and more concerned about her armies."

"Oh?" Nym asked, tossing her dark braid over her shoulder. "What of them?"

Though he knew she questioned him to make him think, he still misliked her careless tone. "What of the thousands of Unsullied, the Golden Company and the rest of the sellswords, the devoted freedmen she might raise as levies? What of the red priest with his foresight and the black dragon who looms overhead like the specter of death? I don't know, Nym, why would I possibly be worried about them? I'm sure Daenerys would be delighted if we stole one of her dragons and fled in the night! No, she wouldn't possibly catch word of our plans, let alone have us arrested and executed!"

He stood, his anger driving him to pace. "Even if we got away clean, she might send ships in pursuit. Or she might finally claim Drogon and descend upon us with fire and blood. When we left Dorne all of you entrusted your lives to me, I would not throw them away to win myself a crown."

"We knew the risks of facing a dragon queen," said Deziel. "If not the full reason why Prince Doran saw fit to send us across the sea. A Dornish king upon the Iron Throne is worth my life."

"And mine," said Nym.

Olyvar stared at them, appalled. "Have you forgotten the Targaryen blood that runs in my veins? The blood of Aegon the Conqueror, whose rage turned half of Dorne to desolation? The blood of Viserys the First, whose amiable negligence led to the Dance of the Dragons? The blood of Aegon the Fourth, whose deliberate malice tore the realm asunder with decades of Blackfyre rebellions? The blood of Rhaegar, whose selfish obsession with prophecy led to the rape of young Lyanna, her death in childbed, and the slaughter of poor Jonquil and Gawaen?"

"Evil men, all of them," Nym agreed. "Every house has had its monsters and its fools, the Targaryens more than most. But unless you've been concealing a desperate desire to wed Meria—"

Olyvar made a disgusted noise, nauseated by the very idea.

"Exactly. You are not a Targaryen in any way but that of blood." Her mouth twisted. "No more than I am a Vhassar, utterly useless for aught but managing slaves and whining about how tiring it is to manage slaves."

"Let us say that you step aside for Daenerys to press her claim," said Deziel. "Yes, Daenerys has proved amiable enough, if ignorant of Westeros. She is still a woman, which is enough alone to set many lords' teeth on edge, the utter fools. Not only that, but she is a godless foreigner who worships neither the old gods or the new. She rarely speaks the common tongue, and then with a Tyroshi accent. She cannot control the black dragon, nor escape the fact that she took one as her husband. Oh, and despite two years of attempts she has yet to successfully birth a babe or show any interest in naming you or Meria as her successors should she prove unable to bear a living child."

"Fair," Olyvar allowed begrudgingly. "Yet what if I press my claim? I am Dornish, and look it, which will bring disdain from the marcher lords. Even those who do not harbor disdain for Dorne are like to call me a feigned boy, Gaemon Palehair come again, a mere pretender."

"I think riding upon Viserion might quell such doubts," Nym chuckled.

"Yes, I have bonded with Viserion, and someday I shall ride upon his back. But for every smallfolk who speaks of dragons with wonder, there's another who speaks of the storming of the Dragonpit and the holiness of the Shepherd whose mob slew four dragons in a single night."

"A ray of sunshine, is our Olyvar," Deziel said dryly, shaking his head as he rose to his feet. "Always looking on the bright side. Seven save us, I've not seen you so miserable since Princess Sansa's name day."

"Leave off," Olyvar warned.

"As your grace commands." And with an irrevent bow, Deziel departed, doubtless intending to hunt down Brienne for a midday ride. Too bad that she was guarding Sansa until the Hour of the Maiden, and then planned to spar with the Kingslayer so as to educate her gaggle of adoring squires. Had Deziel asked, Olyvar would have told him, but as he had not... well, it was fair repayment for Dez searching him out, haranguing him, and then leaving him alone with his sister.

Nym raised a thin eyebrow; he could almost hear the lecture already. "Speaking of your lady wife..."

"Haven't I enough to dwell on?" he told her, his stomach tying itself in knots. Nym's gaze softened, and she gave him a sisterly embrace. A brief talk about the letters from Ellaria, and then Nym took her leave, muttering something about root of hellebore. Good, he thought as he stared across the yard, observing the trickle of activity beginning now that the dragon was gone. Olyvar was in no mood to be teased about that again.

Deziel had nearly laughed his head off when Olyvar confided that he had absolutely no intention of pressing his marital rights with his wife now that she had come of age. Bad enough that he'd trapped Sansa in a marriage because he failed to realize there were other ways to rescue her from King's Landing. Yes, she had trusted him enough not to flee with Brienne, but that was because she wanted to meet Princess Elia, not because she found him a desirable husband. And when she stayed with him and sailed to Meereen, that was because she felt it was her duty to use her skinchanging to help protect the North from the peril of dragons.

True, sometimes he wistfully wondered if his wife had grown fond of him. Sansa laughed at even the worst of his japes, and seemed to enjoy his company. But then, so did mother Ellaria. Sansa came to him when she needed advice, she entrusted him with her dreams and nightmares alike. But then, so did his younger sisters. Sansa was always touching him, brief touches during the day, and long ones when she curled against him at night, both of them well covered by shifts and stockings. But then, so did her cat; he couldn't avoid the ginger menace leaping on his lap at every opportunity. Besides, all her touches were chaste and modest, not preludes to something more. Although, there had been an odd moment, after her nameday feast...

Olyvar shoved away the memory of bright eyes gazing at him, of lips slightly parted as Sansa leaned up, hesitating for what felt like hours before kissing him on the cheek. You must think of the consequences of your actions, you cannot afford to be as reckless as your father, mother Elia had said. That was why he could not kiss Sansa as he wished, nor ask her whether they should consummate the marriage. He could not risk her agreeing out of some sense of obligation, he could not, must not take advantage of her kind nature, he could not ask her to seal herself to him when they were trapped together thousands of leagues from Westeros. Sansa was sweet to everyone, he must not delude himself that she was secretly longing for him as he had begun to long for her.

The sound of approaching footsteps disturbed his thoughts. When he saw who it was, Olyvar bit back a grown. He might miss being constantly swarmed by his sisters and the other children of the Water Gardens, but Seven save him, couldn't a man have some solitude so he might think in peace?

"Well met, cousin," Aegor Blackfyre called when he drew near.

"Well met," Olyvar answered, resisting the unworthy impulse to shove the prince consort into the horse trough. Aegor might be amiable and well-educated, and Olyvar might enjoy their informative discussions of law and history and governance, but when Aegor sought him out at odd times of the day, it only meant one thing. "How is Queen Daenerys?"

The prince consort's handsome face crumpled as he sank onto the bench, his indigo eyes rimmed with red. "Well enough. She's meeting with her Unsullied today."

"And?" Olyvar prompted.

A heavy sigh; Aegor ran his hands through his fine silver hair. "Her moonblood has returned."

"And... that's... bad?" Olyvar asked, confused. He'd thought Queen Daenerys had agreed to pause her attempts at conceiving an heir, to give her body time to heal after she miscarried again, back in fifth moon.

"Her last moonblood was over two moons ago, and Irri said she bled more heavily than usual when it began last night. Too heavily for a moonblood."

Oh. He slung an arm over Aegor's shoulders, letting his distant kinsman lean against him as he wept in silence. Damn his father, and his foster father too. Illyrio Mopatis and Jon Connington should be here for Aegor, soothing his hurts and giving him counsel. Instead they'd given him retainers, men and women so loyal, so proud of their Young Griff, that he could not bear to disappoint them by showing any sign of weakness.

How vile it was, to raise a child saddled beneath the heavy weight of so many expectations. Septa Lemore expected Aegor to be as pious as Baelor the Blessed. Haldon Halfmaester expected Aegor to be as learned as Jaehaerys the Conciliator. Ser Jon Connington expected Aegor to play the harp like Rhaegar, fight like Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, and become a greater king than any Targaryen ever was. Perfection they had asked for, and perfection they had received, and now Aegor paid the price. He dared not even show vulnerability to his wife, for fear Daenerys would despise him.

"At least Daenerys took the news well?" He ventured, when Aegor stopped shaking and sat up once more, his back straight as an arrow as he wiped his cheeks with the handkerchief Olyvar had given him.

"I didn't tell her. She had not suspected she might be with child; why crush her hopes once more?"

Olyvar listened sympathetically as Aegor poured forth a litany of woes. Daenerys was pushing herself too hard, taking on more and more of the burdens Aegor usually shouldered as her Hand. Almost every day she held court or met with her council, trying to determine what, if anything, the queen should do about the chaos in Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys. And the triarchs of Volantis were threatening war, when they weren't busy trying to squash the unrest amongst their own people. Aegor feared the coming election would be a bloody one; the red high priest Moqorro had seen a vision of three tigers roaring within a cage of black stone walls.

"Dany turned so pale I thought she might faint, but the next moment she was making japes as if nothing were wrong," he sighed. "One would think she expects her counselors to turn on her if she shows any dismay. Well, the Shavepate might, but he's been troublesome enough already, and the rest love her as much as I do. Why can she not see it?

"If I were king," Aegor said bitterly, "I could order her to rest, and to return some of the burdens she's claimed from me. Alas, I am not, and the last time we argued about it, she told me she knew her own strength and would not be usurped by her consort."

"Really?" Olyvar frowned. That was rather unreasonable, given that she was the one who made Aegor her Hand in the first place. How dare he… seek to lighten her load by fulfilling the responsibilities she'd given him?

"I'm sorry," he replied. "Sansa wondered why the queen spent so little time with us of late." Though Olyvar and his wife still dined with the queen and prince consort once or twice a month, Daenerys otherwise ignored the Dornish retinue, a snub that had not gone unnoticed by the lords and ladies.

"Oh, come now," Aegor said with a flash of irritation. "Would you add to her burdens? I see no point in her suffering through more needlework; I know the customs and courtesies of Westeros well enough for both of us."

"You know them well," Olyvar allowed. "Your lady wife will want your help again, when this frenzy passes."

"All she wants from me is a child," said Aegor, a scowl marring his face. "If she's not with her council she's with her Dothraki ladies, or her scribes, or her Unsullied; the only time I have her to myself is when she comes to bed late in the evening. And then we barely speak; I feel less like a husband than a stallion put out to stud."

Olyvar stared at him for a moment, taken aback. "Uh…." What on earth could one say? His tutors never instructed him on how to counsel a man suffering marital troubles, let alone difficulties in laying with one's wife. "I… will pray to the Father and Mother to help set matters aright?"

Aegor clapped him on the back and stood, giving him a rueful smile. "As shall I. My thanks for letting me fill your ear." He paused, thoughtful. "I am glad to return the favor at need."

"A kind offer, and one I shall keep in mind." As if his mind wasn't packed full to bursting already.

"See that you do. In the meantime, I suppose I'll have to think of a suitable nameday gift for you."

Finally, mercifully alone, Olyvar lay back on the bench, looking up at the scattered clouds. In the distance he heard Viserion shriek; the white dragon enjoyed riding upon the winds, his wings as graceful as a swan ship's sails.

My nameday… gods, it would be here in only a few weeks, scant days before the ships set sail. Crone, help me, he prayed. Olyvar would need all her wisdom to decide what he must do.


I love tormenting sweet dorky Olyvar. Love problems, existential angst, terrible friends who plague him….

Aegor: my wife doesn't talk to me unless she wants me to fuck her

Olyvar, a mostly-virgin wholly unprepared for this conversation: uhhh thoughts and prayers? (Sincere)

The last chapter got… way less comments than usual. Trying not to be ungrateful, but it really bummed me out, especially since figuring out the lore took so much time/energy.

Up next:

129: Sansa IV

130: Jon V

131: Arya VI

132: Edythe II

133: Dany V

NOTES

1) Meria only started using the yellow wax and toad of her name sake as her personal seal *after* she found out her birth name and heritage. Everyone has their weird coping mechanisms.

2) Yes, Samrik is named after Sam :)

In my interpretation of Free Folk culture, giving a child the exact name as a loved one is considered unlucky. For example, Tormund's sons are Toregg and Torwynd, not Tormund Jr. There is no existing character named Samrik; the most common endings for male Free Folk names are -mund/-mond/-mun, -en/-on/-yn, -el/-ell, -wynd/-wyn/-wyl, -ick, -ger, or -ard.

Well, Samund/Samond/Samun/ Samyn/Samen/Samon are all out because it's a baby, not dinner for a bear. Samel/Samell/Samwyl is too close to Samwell, Samwynd/Samwyn sounded stupid, Sammick is a sandwich, and Samger/Samard are even goofier. So, Samrik.

3) Please observe the hilarious contrast between what Meria and Olyvar expect Cersei to do versus what she's actually doing.

4) Crispels are essentially medieval doughnuts, thin pastry cut before being fried and then basted with warm honey. The touch of having them filled with orange custard was a bit of whimsy I couldn't resist.

5) Root of hellebore was one medieval remedy for lovesickness. Uh... at least Nymeria wants to help?

6) This fic is now longer than ASOS and ADWD. The fuck?