He kept quiet as they pulled into dock the next afternoon, still wrestling with whatever riddle Oberyn had posed him. To hungry ears, their conversation had been no more than baseless gossip, idle musing on ill outcomes and what to do if the worst should befall House Lannister. What was said and what was meant were two different beasts, though, and Tyrion well knew it. He spotted a carriage waiting for them, flanked by a dozen disciplined spears.
"I wouldn't have figured you for a carriage rider, my prince."
"Would you rather ride through the streets of Sunspear with your ugly Lannister head held high? Shit would be the least of what the people might throw." Oberyn replied idly, embracing Ellaria Sand when she emerged from below. Flaming torches and live scorpions perhaps.
"Then I suppose I'll accompany you."
"Good. Ser Sellsword and your squire will have to ride, but none will take issue with a nameless sword arm or a stuttering squire." The notion of their privacy being intruded on by a dwarf did not much please Ellaria Sand at all, but then Oberyn had not brought Tyrion along for her personal comfort. At least, so I figure, he thought, suddenly feeling wary. He is Dornish after all. Though the spearmen acted as though the Red Viper returned were invisible, more than one flinched at the sight of Tyrion. Even uglier than my repute. Perhaps that might serve in some capacity. The way up to the castle took them through the shadow city, an ever-shifting maze of tents, crates, boxes and barrels. Tyrion wondered how many of Varys' little birds flew unheeded in the safety of those shadows and shuddered. He played no part in my rescue, he thought, yet caused no obstruction to my leaving. Once the castle gates closed behind them and they passed the torchlit threshold into the sun-faded orange sandstone of House Martell's redoubt, Oberyn turned to his paramour. "See to our girls, make certain they're bathed and dressed for tonight. An auspicious guest has arrived, and I'll present him at the feast welcoming me back." Ellaria seemed perfectly content to quit Tyrion's company, off to give her cohort of the Red Viper's bastard daughters a looking over.
"Your youngest four, I think, my prince. Or have I mixed it up?"
"Elia, Obella, Dorea and Loreza. Lovely girls, each has her mother's nature to a point." But at that point the honey stops and the poison begins. The Red Viper's doing, no doubt.
"Of course. And your elder daughters, I must confess I can't recall them either. I might have heard them in passing, but…" Oberyn grinned.
"Obara, my eldest. My brother once described her as the tip of the spear. Then Nymeria, of Old Volantene blood, Tyene of the healing hands, blame her septa mother, and Sarella." Not once did he call them bastards.
"So many new names, how is one poor dwarf to remember them all?"
"A poor dwarf storied for his wits ought manage eight new names."
"Will all of them be at this welcoming feast of yours, then?"
"All but Sarella. She's been with her mother these last few years, though I do miss her. She is perhaps the cleverest of my not insubstantial brood." Oberyn said fondly.
"I daresay you know my brother's children's names?"
"Those I know," Tyrion said quickly, trying to save a bit of face, "Princess Arianne, Prince Quentyn and Prince Trystane, pledged to mine own niece."
"As a recital as impressive as it was necessary. Congratulations are in order, my lord." he said as he led Tyrion to lordly apartments two floors down from House Martell's. "Your worthies will stay in the rooms beside yours, to keep your party close for your convenience." Tyrion saw his own arrangements were newly furnished, the dust of a great bustle still lingering faintly in the air. Set up at the behest of a raven sent when we were still at sea, he thought. Then this Dornish visit truly wasn't something planned ahead of time.
"And my niece?"
"Princess Myrcella's lodgings are directly above yours. In fact, that staircase next to the lovely tapestry of Nymeria's ten thousand ships will take you directly to her door and her to yours." Tyrion turned to see red bricks spiraling up and out of sight. Lannister red, he mused. A stupider man might take that for a good sign. "Shall I leave you to your reunion? Sunspear seldom plays host to dwarves, but I'm sure there's clean garb to be found for you."
"Perhaps a bath as well, my prince. Especially if I'm to attend your homecoming feast." Tyrion said, mind already headed up the red brick steps. "I'll see to it you're accommodated. At nightfall I'll return for you, shall I?"
"At your leisure, my prince." Oberyn nodded and set off, leaving Tyrion to wonder at the whims of the Red Viper. "Make yourselves as presentable as you're like to get." Tyrion told Bronn and Pod. "I'm hardly going to allow myself to drown in a sea of Dornishmen."
"And we're the bit of wood you're to cling to, eh?" Bronn asked.
"You're not going to become enamored of any 'red wenches' smelling like a week-long voyage." That seemed to do the trick, Bronn stalking off to find a washbasin with Pod on his heels. He'd do well to get accustomed to bathing if he wants to wave that knighthood under highborn noses.
Though the staircase was lit by sconces as Tyrion ascended, he got the distinct impression that the way up was tight and winding by design. To slow down those unfamiliar with the castle. Going up with longsword drawn would have been awkward, but those jabbing down with spears or long knives would be able to skewer attackers on a whim. Once he made it to the upper landing he found himself staring at twin mahogany doors, the Martell sun bearing down on a dragon's bones half-buried in Dorne's dunes. Tyrion felt a pang of regret. Meraxes. Aegon would have done better to send Visenya to Dorne and Rhaenys to the Vale. He waddled up to the doors and knocked, feeling a bit self-conscious. It's been what, two years? Myrcella had been the gem of his siblings' litter, there could be no doubt. Tommen was a good boy, but he was a follower. Not that Westeros is like to follow a woman. The specter of the Dance of Dragons loomed large in the memory of Westeros, particularly in Oldtown, from whence the greens had sprouted. To say nothing of the Citadel. The maesters would sooner burn the place down than take instructions from someone born without a cock. It seemed if all went according to plan, Tommen would reign. With a Tyrell queen, surely he can't be in a better position. The doors opened and Tyrion beheld Ser Arys Oakheart, grown tanned from his time in Dorne. The knight flinched at the sight of Tyrion's missing nose while he regarded Ser Arys coolly. Handsome, courteous, cordial. No doubt more than one Dornish wench had looked twice at him, perhaps thrice. He wondered if they'd find him so handsome if they learned that when ordered by Joffrey to beat Sansa Stark, noble Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard had obeyed. Reluctantly, halfheartedly, but you obeyed, ser. That Tyrion would not forget. One could not fault brutes like Meryn Trant or Boros Blount for being brutish. Knowing better and doing wrong anyway makes the doing all the worse.
"My lord…" Ser Arys spluttered, "…I…how did you come to be here?"
"Oh, a snake rather led me by the nose. Just now I'm rather looking forward to a reunion with my niece, ser, and I'm under strict instruction from my lord father to ascertain she's in good health and good spirits." As soon as possible, he left unsaid. Ser Arys swallowed. So nervous, ser?
"I'll wait without. The princess is on the balcony praying with her septa." The tall, handsome, obedient Kingsguard knight passed Tyrion without another word, even going so far as to pull the doors shut behind him. And now I'll see how the Martells tend to a grandchild of Tywin Lannister. According to his loving lord father, Ser Arys had sent word that Myrcella was beloved of both her betrothed, Prince Trystane, and Princess Arianne. Curiously, Arys' letter had made no mention of Prince Quentyn. Something else I'll need to get to the bottom of.
He found Myrcella in the company of a septa evidently provided by the Martells, if her Dornish cast was anything to go by. At his approach Myrcella turned to look, going wide-eyed and giving a gasp of glee. That's the first time anyone's been so glad to see me.
"Uncle!" she cried, dashing over. Her mirth faded almost as soon as she began to move though, no doubt due to the ruin Ser Mandon Moore had made of his face. And it was hardly something to sing of to begin with. As he had when she was a girl, he twirled her in a circle before setting her down while the septa looked on bemusedly.
"You've grown taller." he observed. He expected to see more of Cersei in Myrcella's face, but it was Jaime that shone in the girl's countenance. Tyrion was also rather startled to recognize the ghost of Lord Tywin in Myrcella's features. A Lannister through and through, in short, and surrounded by Dornish vipers. Tyrion found himself growing anxious. The Dornish "alliance" had only come to mind as a ruse to get Myrcella out of King's Landing should it fall to Stannis. That corpse had been buried, though. Perhaps it would be appropriate to send Myrcella somewhere else. Not the capital, the gods forbid. No, perhaps the Rock. Then he thought on the mention Prince Oberyn had made of her. Why, he'd almost made it sound as though she could not be someplace better. His tone had not been one would use to refer to a hostage, either. Or even a ward. I came here thinking I could tumble through and lounge about eating oranges and drinking Dornish wines. I knew the faces of King's Landing, and the people who wore them, but this is a new game. His inner turmoil was not lost on Myrcella.
"Are you well, Uncle?" she asked.
"Well as a dwarf can be in the middle of a great big war, sweetling." He tapped the nose he didn't have. "It looks much worse than it is. But I'm of no import, you must tell me all about your years in Dorne." She smiled and turned to dismiss her septa, who Tyrion noticed, did not move to leave until directly dismissed. "We might have sent you along with someone out of the Great Sept of Baelor." Tyrion said, following Myrcella to the balcony's railing. The girl has sound instincts. It will be hard to overhear us. Even if Varys had little birds living in Sunspear, they could not hide in empty air.
"Septa Vylette is lovely. She's not so stringent as some of the septas I've had…I don't know why a girl ought to have such severe spiritual guidance." Tyrion well knew, of course, but he was hardly going to say it to his niece's face. Why, guard dogs to keep the charming rakes at bay. More than one Targaryen princess had lost her heart to the scum of the earth, and nearly all had come to ignominious ends. However, Myrcella's eyes were not so guileless as her words, and she didn't elaborate until she looked back into the room to see that the doors had well been shut. "Lovely…and Dornish." she added.
"You think her a spy?" Tyrion asked. To his amusement, Myrcella shrugged.
"I could scarcely think otherwise, no? What loyalty would a Dornishwoman have to a Baratheon princess? They have a princess of their own here." There was no malice in her voice, no irritation. She's given her septa nothing, Tyrion realized. She knew what was afoot from the offing. "Oh, speaking of Dornishwomen, Uncle…" her tone dropped lower. "…you'll want Ser Arys recalled to King's Landing, I think. Or at least your lord father will."
"Will he?" This, Tyrion was surprised by. "He's been seduced by Princess Arianne, I'm sure of it. The way he looks at her, the way she looks at him…" Tyrion pursed his lips. He could see it all perfectly well. Would that Ser Arys had been so keen to find a reason to defend Sansa Stark's honor as to lose his own to Arianne Martell. He might have kept his head.
"Is it true, what I've heard, Uncle? Is Joffrey truly dead?" Myrcella asked, quite knocking Ser Arys from his thoughts. Tyrion nodded solemnly.
"He is, sweetling." There was no grief on her face, but then Tyrion did not suppose there would be. Only alarm. She knows that Joffrey's murder is a declaration that no Lannister is beyond reproach.
"I heard, too, that you were the only accused. Well, you and Sansa Stark, who vanished from the wedding."
"I was. If not for Prince Oberyn proving my innocence in a trial by combat, I would not be here now." Relief dusted her features. She harbors not the first thought that I might have actually done it. Tyrion found that curious, as much as he was absurdly grateful.
"Mother would kill you a dozen times before you'd kill Joffrey once." Myrcella said, as if reading his thoughts.
"Perhaps if she heard it from your own lips, she'd believe you." Tyrion replied, sinking into one of the chairs. Myrcella's expression told him she knew better. He wondered if perhaps the girl was not so blind as Jaime to what Cersei was. She deserves a better mother than Cersei. Better a bad one than none at all, though. She filled the chair across from him, a table in between filled with some sort of board, little pegs and pieces dotting here and there. "Cyvasse, Uncle. It came from Volantis."
"Indeed." He saw men and siege weapons, mountains, even elephants and dragons. But no dwarves, he observed. The makers must have envisioned a world without them.
"Uncle," Myrcella asked, as if unsure she were fit to do it, "have you wondered any who might have killed Joffrey?"
"Endlessly. Though, I was rather pressed to keep my own ugly head on my shoulders to shift Payne's sword somewhere else. No matter how many times I go over who was there, I can't finger who might have done it. I can't pick out one person who oughtn't have been." Myrcella bit her lip, though not from tears.
"Well, what about who wasn't there who ought have been?" Tyrion felt his eyebrows flee into his hair. "They would not a newcomer to court. Someone who had until recently been there a long time, long enough to know how things were going. Who was with who and against who." Of all people, Mace Tyrell's voice came to Tyrion then. "You will miss the king's wedding", he said to Littlefinger. Marriage to Lysa Arryn might have slowed another man's departure precipitously, but Petyr Baelish it seemed had gone before the hour had passed. And he was the one to bring the Tyrell plot to spirit Sansa to Highgarden to light as well, when Varys most assuredly could have done so. A very bad feeling began to grow in the pit of Tyrion's stomach. Trust Littlefinger to milk chaos the way a farmer will a cow!
Myrcella noticed his disquiet.
"Well, I'm sure it will all fall out. The dust is settling, isn't it? I heard Robb Stark was killed by the Freys at his uncle's wedding…who holds the north for Tommen now?"
"The Freys, aye…and the Boltons, too. The Karstarks as well, as vengeance for the Young Wolf's execution of Lord Rickard. As for the north itself, Roose Bolton has been made overlord." With Arya Stark, as Father had called her, to marry to the Bastard of the Dreadfort.
"Then Grandfather has erred." Myrcella said. Her bluntness made Tyrion blink. "Has he not? This Lord Bolton betrayed Robb Stark for overlordship of the north. Why should he not, once the snows fall, betray us for a higher laurel still? Come winter, when Grandfather will have no alternative but to let the north lie as it falls, I would not be surprised if this Roose Bolton crowns himself King in the North."
"You seem rather certain all this will come to pass." Tyrion said, though he was wondering what Lord Tywin would have made of his granddaughter's musings. Perhaps he's bet on just that thing. Let Bolton crown himself, let the northmen and ironmen bleed each other dry. Then when spring comes, both will meekly enough return to the fold. "It will or it won't. But enough of such unpleasantness. I have still to introduce you to my betrothed, Uncle. And Princess Arianne, too."
"It is a long voyage back to King's Landing, I'll see about finding Ser Arys a berth." Cersei would take it ill, no doubt, that Myrcella's sworn protector had been all but dismissed, but there were other white cloaks. Hmm, Tyrion thought. Perhaps it's better to let Ser Arys twist in the wind awhile. Whoever Cersei sends will no doubt be worse. Travel had its dangers though, over land or sea. A chance, perhaps, to rid Jaime of such a stalwart brother as Ser Meryn or Ser Boros. An opportunity for Jaime to fill the ranks of the very cloaks he commanded had not yet come, Cersei or Lord Tywin intent on using the Kingsguard as quickly as they would coin. Perhaps he'll even thank me, should we chance to meet again. "Lead on, Myrcella. I have learned to expect little in the way of patience from Dornishmen, particularly Prince Oberyn." Myrcella giggled and rose, her withdrawn contemplative manner gone.
"Sometimes they serve wine before the meal, as it were, just to keep those who've come early amused."
"Well then, all the more reason to join them before the best wines are gone. Dornishmen are hardly known for their temperance. Their tempers, however…" That set Myrcella to giggling all the way back through the castle.