There was nothing in his trunk that was fit garb for the occasion. As this was a marriage Tyrion had at least somewhat been amenable to (and he was entirely dependent on the Martells' goodwill), he felt it would be graceless to waddle up to Arianne in something frayed, dotted with winestains or just too Lannister. I'm already getting the bloody heir to Dorne, I'll not beg for something to wed her in as well. In short order he gave up the clothing he'd brought from King's Landing up as a bad job, irritably slamming his trunk shut.
"What have you to be surly about? That sun princess has teats bigger than your head." Bronn said, a dagger beneath his nails.
"D'you know, you'd do just as well to simply clip those claws of yours."
"D'you know, you'd do just as well to ask one or other of the sun princes to borrow their seamstress awhile."
"I doubt they know much about clothing dwarves down here."
"Did they know fuck all about it in the capital?" There was a knock at the door.
"My lord?" Pod's voice came through the wood.
"What is it?" Tyrion forewent the patience he sometimes reserved for the boy.
"You've a visitor."
"Unless they're bringing me a dragon egg, beg of them my pardon. I'm in a bit of a bind here."
"Had I both a dragon egg and a mind to give it to you, my lord, I'd have done so already." Prince Oberyn said cheerfully on the other side of the door.
"Oh? And here I thought you were just holding out on me. A dragon egg would do splendidly for a dowry." Tyrion replied dryly.
"Do you know, I've rather been thinking about that."
"Dragon eggs?"
"No, my lord. Dowries." Oh, gods.
"Right, give me a minute to think of an inoffensive way to tell my worthies to fuck off awhile."
"Let me save you the mental strain, my lord. It seems that the owner of the establishment you recommended to me has arrived at the docks, with a few of her girls and most of her wealth in tow." Tyrion was dumbfounded. What is Chataya doing here? And with the better part of her worldly wealth…I'll need to visit her and see why she left the capital. He stopped himself. It would hardly be proper for me to call on Chataya with a marriage to Arianne Martell waiting in the wings. He turned to Bronn, who was grinning ear to ear.
"I suppose I'll know right where to find you should I need you."
"You will," Bronn replied, "but if you need me and I'm elsewhere, well, that's bad news for you, isn't it?"
"Then you'd best get Chataya situated sooner rather than later and return to me as quickly as possible."
"Oh, aye. As soon as possible." Bronn said before stalking from the room. Tyrion stuck his head into the corridor, Pod nimbly leaping aside.
"I'd hate to disappoint the lady Tyene with news that you could not be pulled away from the likes of Marei and Yaya."
"Go suck a lemon, dwarf." Bronn called back over his shoulder, a deal more sharply than was his wont. Ooh, right between the legs. Pod followed without needing telling to. Though I doubt Bronn will heed him any more readily than he does me. Only then did Tyrion remember that Prince Oberyn was standing behind him. Rather than serve the viper whatever lukewarm spew that might manage to bubble up in his mind, Tyrion turned to him and shrugged. To his surprise (and mounting weariness) Prince Oberyn looked not a jot discomfited.
"We seldom hold tourneys in Dorne," the man said, "but it might be worth talking my brother into just to wager on whether Tyene might grant your Ser Bronn her favor." Vipers and serpents and snakes, Tyrion thought, and here I stand with my cock in my hand.
Prince Oberyn must have noticed his unease.
"Shall we walk then, my lord?" he asked, as if they were not standing in as Martell a place as could be imagined. As if I have a choice in anything he might ask. Despite Tyrion's stunted legs, for once a man of proper height moved slowly enough that no frantic waddling to keep up was necessary. And I know how fast this particular snake can slither, when there's something in front of him he wants. Tyrion heard the Red Viper's spear sink into the Mountain's chest once more. Rather than toward the hall or even Prince Doran's solar, it seemed Oberyn was leading him further up, away from the busier parts of Sunspear. Where only the little birds may hear, Tyrion mused, winged…or otherwise. "I don't suppose my broaching the topic of a dowry was much something friendly to your ears." Oberyn finally said.
"Well, as it happens, I might be able to cobble together a single dragon out of all I brought here. A pittance for a princess, but then, I was hardly expecting to wed up when I followed you from King's Landing."
"My lord, even the kindest merchants would not part with gold for all you own, not if you threw in the very clothes you wear. But why would you be expected to provide such, when it is the woman's family who tosses in some carrot to sweeten the being rid of her when she is sold like a mare? As I recall, that is how it is done in Westeros outside Dorne." Tyrion swallowed, unsure just what game Prince Oberyn was playing now.
"Princess Arianne did do the asking when the topic came around. About marrying, you see."
"Oh, I do." The viper's grin made Tyrion curse himself. I sound like Pod. "It is only fitting, as she is a princess and so overtops even you, my high lord Lannister, on the pyramid of birth. Since circumstances are such that expecting anything more than wit from you is obviously foolish, I hope you will not mind if I offered something on behalf of my brother, my niece and House Martell." Tyrion blinked. All this to avoid offending me?
"Well, my prince, truly, I'm all ears." he replied carefully. The sphinx had returned on Prince Oberyn's face, a look by now Tyrion knew to be singularly able to induce an aching mind.
"It seems my nephew has rather become embroiled in his tour of the Free Cities." The prince sounded exasperated- which was enough for Tyrion to know that was the last thing Oberyn Martell truly felt. As if anything in this world could weary the Red Viper.
"Oh, dear. I do hope he hasn't wandered too far astray, hm?" Tyrion asked, sounding solemn and feeling wary.
"Lys, or so my brother's been told. Doran has asked if I might retrieve Quentyn before he can come to any harm."
"If that be the case, I can only wish you a swift and productive journey, my prince." Oberyn looked at him.
"I would have thought a man with such a…curious streak as you would snap at the chance to see Lys for yourself. A quick jaunt across the water and back before Arianne has a chance to miss you."
"I might pull myself to Asshai with my tongue and return to find Arianne has yet to miss me." Tyrion replied. "My bird to the capital has flown, no doubt by now the King's mutton chopped Hand knows I've shed Sansa Stark. It's nothing more to him, he may well have written me off after a fashion." Oberyn's smile became an impatient line. Small chance of that, Lord Imp. Lord Tywin was not one to commit such oversights. He may have closed the door on winning the north through Sansa Stark, but Tyrion remained a Lannister as much as he.
"Arianne can wait, my lord. Talk of slave revolts, city turning on city…Quentyn is not safe, even if he himself does not realize it."
"That may be, but in Lys he will be as far from pitched battle as one is like to get." Assuming one is not versed in history and has never heard of the Triarchy. That Prince Quentyn would be safer in Sunspear, Tyrion did not doubt, but there was no call to go running off across the Narrow Sea to wipe his princely rear, either. If indeed he's in Lys at all. His reticence to be moved almost seemed to perplex Prince Oberyn.
"There are other tales as well-" Tyrion wondered if anyone had ever been bold enough to interrupt the Red Viper, but he held up a hand all the same.
"My prince, there are tales of mermaids most every day in Lannisport, yet the harbor patrols never seem to turn one up. Trust me, not every fanciful tale is worth getting worked up over." Either you will tell me something, snake, or this conversation is at an end. Again, the sphinx usurped the viper.
"I was told you would not be an easy man to reach."
"You were told true. Whether or not it pleases you I cannot say, but it is what it is."
"Oh, it pleases me. I am more than glad that, troublemaking little stump that you are, you do not leap at the first shiny opportunity that comes your way."
"If only the same could be said of you, my prince. Whatever you're slithering toward, keep right on slithering, I'm certainly not going to stop you." Prince Oberyn stopped, leaned against a pillar. Coolly, he regarded Tyrion. "No doubt you fancied me a regular shit-stirrer, particularly after my performance at my trial."
"I did have an inkling something to that effect. My lord, if there's anyone in Westeros, in all the world, with an appetite for trouble to match my own, it is you."
"Perhaps. You may have a viper's speed, my prince, but even a viper must be patient when on the hunt, yes? It does not lash out at every movement, fangs splayed and damn the consequences. Do not let your fear of inaction spoil whatever shit you're stirring."
"I've seen all I wish to see of inaction." Oberyn's words were curt.
"There's inaction and then there's hiding under your desk for twenty years, pretending the world isn't spinning past you. A few weeks, a few months even…the finest vintages take time to age. Slow down, my prince. Give my family time to forget me. You and I will take great pains to be seen enjoying ourselves come my wedding day, so much so that word is bound to reach the capital. Of how much I am enjoying Dorne and House Martell's hospitality, of how I'd rather leap out Prince Doran's solar window than leave. Once Arianne and I are wed, both in the flesh and more importantly, as far as Lord Tywin Lannister knows, then I am at my most free to…move further."
Moving back down toward the sounds of the Dornish court, Tyrion changed the subject to something wholly more mundane.
"As for Dorne's seat on the small council-" At this, the viper snorted.
"The smallest ever there has been. Old done men, Reachmen, and anyone your family can find an excuse to give a seat to."
"Yes, well, unless Prince Doran intends Prince Trystane to claim the seat upon his marriage to Myrcella, someone else must needs fill it."
"Why? What does Dorne want with King's Landing?" Come, my prince, you're smarter than that. I know it, you know it, and I know you know I know it. "You yourself said you wished to be forgotten by the capital. It will hardly be possible with a Martell in House Lannister's midst."
"Well then, perhaps Prince Quentyn might do. A bit of experience in assisting Tommen rule, a taste of Westeros outside Dorne…" Though Tyrion had no way of knowing just where the prince truly was, he spoke as if he were somewhere in Dorne. Though the Red Viper looked singularly unlikely to allow his nephew to go to King's Landing filled with Tyrell power and House Lannister's besides, he answered as if the notion were a matter of 'when' than 'if'.
"Quentyn knows Yronwood better than he does Sunspear. It would do him good to see the wider world, perhaps find a bride in the capital." the prince said. Meanwhile, best pray he hasn't found a bride in Lys, Tyrion thought. When they reached Sunspear's hall, Tyrion was unsurprised to see the Dornish present so taken aback by the Red Viper's jolly mood. It helps to have a dwarf to throw at your problems. Prince Doran was absent, a thing Tyrion gathered was nothing out of the ordinary, but Maester Caleotte approached Oberyn with a raven's words in hand. The prince opened it with a steady flourish, making more than one woman in the hall giggle as he read the message. "Well, my lord, it seems the Tyrells might regret not pushing Willas on the queen dowager."
"Oh?" Tyrion asked. It's from King's Landing, he knew, but who sent it?
"The Fossoways of New Barrel have proposed a match between one of their uncles and your sister." He looked over the paper, viper's eyes alight. "An apple is poor fare for a lion, wouldn't you say?"
"Perhaps, but it's perfect fare for a jackass and Cersei is at least as much one as the other." And she wondered where Joffrey got it from. The hall rang with Dornish laughter, Tyrion putting waving away the letter's words as if Lord Tywin had decided to wed Cersei to a chair.
"I suppose that won't please Lord Mace, the Fossoways are his vassals. Reaching for Cersei's hand, some might call that overstepping." Oberyn said mildly.
"I don't care how old this Fossoway is, it won't be Cersei's hand he reaches for." Tyrion replied, hands cupped in front of him. The laughter only got louder. Oberyn Martell alone refrained, watching Tyrion over the letter. Your Mushroom, my prince, Tyrion thought.
That evening found Tyrion returning to his bedchamber sober, an adjustment he'd resolved on after he went face first into that Myrish rug. The day had been longer than those he'd spent in King's Landing with a belly full of wine, but he was looking forward to sleeping through a full night without having to wake with a head that felt as ugly as it looked. He had a hand on the bed, ready to flop down when he realized something lay between him and sleep's most welcome embrace. Fumbling with a candle, Tyrion found himself looking at not one, but two sets of garb tailored it seemed to fit someone just his size. One comprised of an emerald-green doublet matched with black breeches while the other was red slashed quite stylishly with gold thread over dark green hose. Clothing for a high lord. He knew from experience, though, that even the most resplendent clothing could not make a dwarf any taller. Or regrow a nose. They were lighter than the sort of fabrics worn in the capital as well. Well, small good I'll be if I topple over from heatstroke in the middle of mine own wedding. A strip of purple silk no longer than his forearm was beneath the outfits, still warm to the touch. Tyrion ran it through his fingers, thinking as the candle burned low. Could it be, truly, that Arianne Martell was actually relieved to have been matched to him? That he, with stunted legs and a missing nose, was someone preferable to her other prospects? How could such a farce be possible? Perhaps she knew more of her father's plans than Tyrion had been led to believe, or at least had her suspicions. As he lay on the bed, the candle winking out, another possibility occurred. I am no threat to her. Certainly, I am not about to steal Dorne out from under her, I have no reason to try, and that has been Arianne's cardinal worry since she was still half a girl. The purple silk wormed its way around a finger. Perhaps she truly is that relieved that marriage to me seems a small price to pay for her own bloody birthright. Even if he did the bare minimum, Tyrion knew he could preserve that goodwill. And I am capable of more than that. Paired with whatever game the Red Viper seemed hellbent on pulling him into, Tyrion wondered if he'd have even have time to brood on Cersei's doings, and on Lord Tywin's.
The day Joffrey wedded Margaery Tyrell, Tyrion had spent the entire ceremony wrestling with a full bladder. Luckily, he forewent his morning cup(s) of wine when the day came for him to wed Arianne Martell. We emptied more than one vault to make that wedding a thing to remember for century. Well, if nothing else, it was certainly memorable. The guests who had come to see the heir to Dorne wed Lord Tywin's Bane were no more than a tenth those who had roosted in the Red Keep, the coin spent no more than a hundredth of what his lord father had. Yet no one seems to much mind. The prevailing mood seemed to be that the occasion was a Martell one, the lack of Lannister wealth and the absence of Tyrell worthies only buoying the spirits of the Dornish. Tyrion had, in a fit of ingenuity, worn the red doublet with the black breeches so as to forgo green entirely. A Tyrell color, he mused. Though the guests were comparatively few, Sunspear's small sept would have been packed to standing room only, and so Tyrion would wed Arianne Martell out in the biggest of the courtyards. Where the sun can see, and where we're not all like to suffocate each other. This Dornish practicality, I do believe I love it more by the day. Prince Doran, in a rare public appearance outside, had one hand wrapped in gauze with the excuse that Maester Caleotte had bled a nasty fly bite. Were the Dornish to see what's really beneath that gauze, tales would spread. Doran could scarcely go without appearing at his own daughter and heir's wedding, however, and so there he sat, Aero Hotah nearby always while Oberyn served Tyrion another course of sphinx-gaze. Behind them, he spotted Myrcella seated next to Prince Trystane, demure and reserved as ever, though she smiled when she caught sight of Tyrion. The rest of House Martell's number followed, legitimate and otherwise. Behind them were the rest of the Dornish lords who could be bothered to stir, all a palette of orange, red, gold and bronze. Enough of them, Tyrion thought. Their opinion of you is not your concern. To his relief his betrothed wore a blue gown that, though it bared her shoulders, was not transparent. She seemed almost nervous, though it was clear to Tyrion as he took his place beside her that he was the furthest thing from her thoughts.
"I forgot I owned this." she finally whispered to him as the pair knelt before the septon.
"Oh? A shame, it's perfectly lovely." Tyrion replied, the septon stuttering a bit.
"You don't think it's too brazen? Hardly the sort of thing a Martell weds in."
"In my experience, it's exactly the sort of thing a Martell weds in." Sniggers, giggles and low laughter came up from the rows behind them, the septon going paler and paler.
"If I'm honest, I just wanted to see if it would fit."
"It certainly seems to. You have a gifted seamstress, my princess. Wherever did you find one so talented? I asked for garb in King's Landing and got a burlap sack."
"Oh dear, my lord. Let me tell you all about it!" Arianne's words set the guests to laughing aloud. Why not? This marriage is farce enough, any good farce ought wring a few genuine laughs from its audience. "Shall I busy you with a riddle, my lord?"
"I'd like nothing better." I'll need something to keep me awake- I've only just sat through a wedding or two, I can't even use the Seven-Pointed Star as a distraction.
"When is a daughter a son?" His immediate thought was not something fit for expression at one's own wedding. Then he remembered where he was and who she was. Ah, more a jest than a riddle.
"Why, princess, when she's a sun of Dorne!" he declared. Tyrion took pity on the septon and bid him say his piece, even as the Dornish court laughed and clapped. Though, he thought, Arianne looks ready to keep this up all day.