I should have known better. I had let the same arrogance that had infected the Empire also infect me. Victory was a drug, and once you partook in it, you craved it more and more. Coming off the conquest of Harrenhal, I had become complacent, secure in my ability to run circles around the nobility who, quite literally, obtained rank through nepotism over merit.
The bait had been irresistible, so even if I had been more appropriately wary, I was not sure if I could have stopped myself from trying. The Vale would have changed everything if they had sided with me. Now it seemed that that was never going to happen, and that, in hindsight, should have been obvious.
The fall from the heights of the Eyrie was not dangerous for me. I felt some pity for the poor guard as he watched my descent slow while he continued his rapid fall. As I heard the wet impact of his landing, I calculated the appropriate vector and slowed further. I had to apply it several more times and managed to land in a roll to break my fall without suffering any harm.
I saw bodies, and parts of bodies, here. There must have been at least three other people who had been dropped from the Moon Door in the last month, though it was difficult to tell exactly from the mess. Despite the long fall, it probably was not quite long enough to reach terminal velocity. Royce's body had been shattered nearby, and I saw pieces of him spread out in a large radius. The Arryn guard however had landed on his back, and his skeletal structure was mostly intact, even if his flesh had been obscenely distorted. His belt had shattered, and his knife lay away from his body. I decided to chuck the belt to the side but kept the knife.
I didn't want my enemies to know that I lived, at least not until the prisoner exchange. Would they come to retrieve my body? Looking around again, it seemed unlikely. There didn't seem to be an obvious path, and the cliff side was slightly under the highest waycastle. With that knowledge, I just needed to descend further and get back to Ser Barristan as quickly as possible.
It bothered me that I didn't quite know how he would react to the news of my execution. Would he besiege the Vale? Continue the original mission of saving the Westerlands? Do nothing and wait for Ser Cortnay to give further instructions? It was bad form for an executive leader not to have succession planning, but honestly, the universe began and ended with me, at least from my perspective. It never seemed important to worry about what would happen to the Stormlands if I croaked.
This was a unique circumstance, but failing to plan was planning to fail. This would be another issue I would rectify when I had the chance. I needed to move quickly, and fortunately I had options. There was more distance to fall; when we had climbed up the waycastle paths on mules, it had been harrowing for some of my Stormguard. The quickest way to get to the bottom would be to just fall further, and so I did.
The feeling was exhilarating, even if it wasn't true flight. I pushed myself a little and used a few horizontal vectors to get further away from the Gates of the Moon. Since I intended to go further down, the drag of gravity was not a hindrance. As I fell, I realized that while I could never truly fly like I had in my second life, if I were to invent paragliding, I would be able to do quite a bit with it. It would be something more useful at night, but I added it to my seemingly endless mental list of things to investigate.
The rest of the journey to my army on foot was dreary. I opted to avoid any possible attention, so I did not steal a horse. A few days of travel and then a nighttime vertical vector to the mountainous sides of the Blood Gate and a few more leaps away from prying eyes, and I was finally out from behind the Bloody Gate. I was hungry, exhausted, and royally upset. Baelish had not been a target of my ire, but now he was.
The view of my army when I closed in on the camp made me proud. They had pickets and palisades, even ankle breaking holes. It had been ingrained in them to do this every night they camped. The latrines were positioned appropriately, and there were regular patrols.
Edmure and the other hostages could not have arrived yet, so I decided to attempt to sneak in. This proved easy because, like all war camps, we had camp followers. Fewer than most armies due to my emphasis on speed, but it really wasn't possible or even beneficial to try to prevent smallfolk from joining the camps. The servants, squires, and the whores were all part of the economic ecosystem of war. I was rather disheveled in appearance, and by keeping my head down in the dark, it was not easy to spot me.
I got rather close to the command tent before a pair of guards asked me where I was going.
I raised my head. "I need you to stay calm. Do not give a sign that something is unusual. Instead, take me to Ser Barristan immediately." My voice was soft, but I used my command voice, and the guard's jaw dropped in shock before he hastily obeyed.
Ser Barristan had an additional pair of guards outside of his tent, but after another brief exchange, I was let in. I cautioned them all to speak no word of what they'd just seen; if they did, they would be committing treason.
Ser Barristan's normally stoic face went through a rapid series of facial contortions. After a few seconds, he rasped out, "How?"
"That is indeed a tale, ser. I was led into a trap, devised by our former Master of Coin. Baelish has some hold over Lady Arryn; I suspect it is amorous in nature. I was ejected through the Moon Door, but I managed to leap out with one of the Arryn guards as well. As we tumbled down to the rocks below, I positioned myself above the guard."
I took a breath and continued. "I clung to him in a crouch, and right before we landed, I threw myself up and away from him with all my strength. That leap from his body must have been enough to save my life. Fortunately, I sustained no serious injuries."
This was, of course, complete bullshit. Just like children who think that leaping up right as a broken elevator is falling to the ground will save them, there was no way I could arrest that velocity with simple strength and a jump. By my calculations, we were falling nearly sixty meters a second by the end, possibly a bit less with the Arryn cloak catching the high winds. I didn't know how much upward force any human could generate, but it was certainly less than six meters a second, let alone sixty. Without my magic, I would have been a red smear on the ground.
Ser Barristan's disbelieving expression also seemed to think the odds of success for such an act were rather low, but without a knowledge of how physical forces interacted beyond intuition, I felt I could sell it well. The ground itself was mountainous and rocky, but they didn't necessarily know that. Maybe I also rolled into a bush or a large gust of wind flared at just the right time. I didn't have to make these suggestions; the human mind would look for explanations and fill in the gaps. Individuals like Ser Bonifer would credit divine intervention from the Seven, but hopefully most people wouldn't be so naïve.
"I feel as if I am in a dream – a pleasant one, if strange. Lady Myrcella, we thought you dead. It was all we could do to stop your army from charging the Bloody Gate."
I blinked. "Besieging it could make sense, but why would they attack? The pass is too narrow; all the advantages belong to the defender."
"I know, and so too do most, but fury swept through the camp like nothing I have ever seen."
This was very confusing to me, but I chalked it up to the Stormlands and their reputation for battle; they really would take any excuse to throw themselves at the enemy. I was grateful for their zest since it was wartime, but after the war, managing these battle-addicted freaks would be a challenge!
"I'm glad that you kept them under control. I do not want to endanger the exchange, so we will keep my survival quiet, for now. After the exchange is done, we will send word to my family that I live."
Ser Barristan searched my eyes for a moment. "The agreement has already been struck, and the scales are imbalanced. I had to confirm with Brienne at the Bloody Gate that it was your desire. I was concerned that you had been coerced in some way; we are trading powerful nobles, including a soon-to-be Lord Paramount."
"I will not abandon those most loyal to me."
The corners of Ser Barristan's lips curled up slightly. "Once again, Lady Myrcella, I am proud to serve under you and to lead your Stormguard. In the future, we will need to be more on guard for acts of base treachery."
"Agreed. Once we have the hostages, we will move our host to meet with the Freys and then see what the Vale does."
"What is your plan, my lady?"
"The Vale is mobilizing; their banners were called prior to my arrival. If they seek to challenge us here, I mean to show them the price for their treachery."
"They will have numbers on us, and be fresh."
"The Arryn host will be as green as the fields of the Reach. It will be too disruptive to the supply chain we have worked out in the Riverlands to feed King's Landing if we allow the Vale free rein. I also suspect that they will view us as demoralized and outnumbered, and they will be eager to prove in more than treachery that they are all in for my uncle."
Ser Barristan's eyes danced with delight as he spoke a single word. "Good."
"However, if they choose to sit and wait, we still have our own task ahead of us in the Westerlands. Either way, our men should be ready for war."
That will make the battle maniacs happy, at least.
***
"What do you mean, we've only gathered 18,000 men? I called on the muster even prior to Myrcella's arrival, and before that, the Lords of the Vale knew to be ready." Petyr Baelish asked waspishly.
Lyn Corbray looked amused as his brother explained.
"The events in the Eyrie have caused significant discontent. Several of the knightly houses demand further explanation on why Trial by Combat is being disallowed by Lady Arryn. Recall, Lord Royce had practically ruled the Vale for two decades. His manner did not win him many friends, but he was respected," Lyonel answered.
Petyr's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are they outright refusing to raise their banners?"
Lyn snorted. "Of course not, Littlefinger; they are just dragging their feet and demanding explanations via raven. Some lords also see more gold in providing a healthy harvest to the war-torn Seven Kingdoms and won't want to bring up a full muster of all their levies."
Lyn saw Petyr nod in understanding. The Citadel had announced the start of autumn; winter would not be long in coming. A healthy harvest from the Vale while the rest of the Kingdoms fought tooth and nail would command a higher price than normal.
"It explains some of it, but the full muster of the Vale should be upwards of 35,000."
Lyn shrugged. "Five thousand went to war already; less than half returned. You should have allowed a trial by combat. I would have sliced any foe to pieces with Lady Forlorn. People love their traditions, and they want to have the right to trial by combat in case they are ever accused of something."
"There was no sense in taking chances; we've gone over this."
"Let me fight Albar Royce then. Have Lysa tell the lords she has heard their petitions and has changed her mind to once again allow knights and lords the right of trial by combat. You have me; I'll win against anyone."
Baelish stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"I had hoped to force a confession from him in open court, but the dullard seems to withstand the hot pincers well enough. I will have my men try again in earnest for the next couple of days, and if they fail to extinguish his well, we will compromise."
Lyn's brother put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't muck this up. When I'm to marry Ysilla Royce, we need all the male Royces of both main and branch houses gone. While ironic, we wouldn't want to fail with the last man."
Lyn rolled his shoulder, throwing Lyonel's hand off.
"I'm twice as good as you with a sword; you both need to stop doubting me. I've slain two Kingsguard; neither could best me. Albar Royce is a middling knight at best. Any more talk of this, and I will take it as an insult."
"I do not doubt you," Baelish replied, "but when men grow close to their goal, they fear what may go wrong. Can we expect for more of the muster to join after the trial, then? How many do you need to guarantee that you can destroy the Stormlands host?"
"It may appease some, but at the most, I suspect another 5,000 more. As for what is needed to guarantee victory? My Lord Baelish, such things are never a guarantee. We already have the numbers to probably win, but we are still facing the Bold – nothing is certain." Lyonel replied.
"Leading a dispirited army, brother. Their efforts in Harrenhal will have been for naught with the release of Lord Edmure and the other Riverlands nobles. Their liege lady is dead. The Vale now joins the Lords of the Narrow Sea; the Reach, Dorne, the North, and the Greyjoys have been content in raiding the Lannisters. They cannot win, and their army will soon melt away."
Lyn could not stand his overly cautious brother. He wondered if it would be best to have him killed sooner than originally planned.
Lyonel shook his head. "Or, they are enraged beyond reason and will fight to the last. Word of Myrcella Baratheon's famous piety and favor of the Seven is no little matter. By all accounts, the Stormlands had become fully united behind her. We have the numbers, and our men will be fresher, but it will be no easy hunt."
Baelish frowned, looking annoyed. The plan, as Baelish had explained to Lyn, was to crush the Stormlands army with the full might of the Vale. Afterwards, there would be little need for the Vale's further involvement, but it would have proven to their new King that they backed his cause in more than just executing Lady Myrcella.
"We will wait for the additional 5,000. If the Stormlands army slips away, so be it. We can pursue and potentially rally more of the Riverlands, now that Edmure will be joining us. And Lyn, do not allow Albar overlong to speak. Kill him quickly and decisively in the trial.
***
Bran saw his father approach with a long face. Eddard Stark looked weary and troubled. Bran knew why, and knew that he was mistaken. The dreams last night had been vivid. Myrcella always looked perfect. Hair, visage, and clothing immaculate. Her expression typically serene and open, her smiles gentle and true. Yet in the dream, her smile was something different. It was a rictus parody, and he saw her fall with absolute certainty while dragging a blue-cloaked guardsman with her.
Bran thought that was it, but then he saw her again. She was there, mounted in the dark, save for a sea of torches all around her. Blade in hand, he saw dead falcons all around her, trod underneath hooves. The word FURY was echoed by the shadows around her, and she wore that same hideous smile.
His dreams were always difficult to understand, to make sense of. This time, it was clear. Myrcella had somehow survived; how, he knew not, but he knew that a great many men of the Vale would die. His dreams had not ended there. He also saw two wolves fight against a lion, and the lion was driven back. In another dream, one wolf faced a lion and was slain; the wolf was Grey Wind. Again, he felt it clear. Duty had to fight beside Grey Wind.
"Bran, I have some news that may be hard for you to hear," his father began.
"Is it about Lady Myrcella?"
"How did… ah, your dreams. What do you think you know?"
"That Lady Myrcella fell from a great height. The vision beheld falcons, so I suspect it was the Eyrie. I remember reading a story that the Arryn family executed people by throwing them off their castle."
"Yes, it is called the Moon Door; part of the wall was turned into a door, and executions are done by throwing people out of it."
Bran nodded. "Everyone thinks that Lady Myrcella is dead, but she is not. She will also be killing a great number of the Arryn soldiers. I believe that the battle will take place at night."
Eddard looked down at him in confusion. "Bran… I know that you don't wish it to be true, but no one could survive a fall from that height."
"No one could take Harrenhal without dragons either," Bran rebutted.
His father grimaced. "That isn't the same. We don't know how your dreams work; you cannot use them for false hope."
"I know. I know that she lives, and I also know that Duty must go with Grey Wind. Father, I know you still doubt, but this is important. Grey Wind, maybe Robb as well, will die to the Lannisters, unless they are together."
The Lord of Winterfell looked down at his son and nodded his head.
"Very well, Duty can go with Robb. Robb will be in command of our outriders and will be directly scouting the Old Lion's host that is headed in our direction."
Bran grinned. His father had listened! The vision of Grey Wind's death could be prevented. He ran up to Eddard and hugged him. The embrace was tight, as the stressors of the field and the uncertainty of this bitter war was felt. They held each other for over a minute.
"I do not know if I should hope for your dreams to be true, Bran. I spent many years in the Vale; I do not wish to hear of their loss in battle after they have joined King Stannis."
Bran could understand that. Myrcella was the enemy. She didn't feel like an enemy to him. Tywin Lannister was an enemy. The Hound was an enemy. They felt like enemies – she didn't. The squire could not explain it, but it was a certainty etched into him.
"If they were responsible for sending Myrcella down a mountain, are they really our allies? I cannot imagine a reason to have her killed instead of just taken captive. The Stormlords could stay their hand if she was a hostage, but would they stop fighting with her death? I was their captive for a time, and they loved her. That love must have only grown greater after Harrenhal."
"You have a good head on your shoulders, Bran. And you are right. Both the King and I have questions for Lady Arryn. When all is said and done, there will be a great many lords, ladies, and knights who will be called to account for their actions. We like to view ourselves and our own allies as without fault, but war drives men to do terrible things. We are lucky to have a King who does not tolerate the darker aspects, but many a foul, dark deed is done out of sight."
Eddard had duties to attend to and instructions to give to Robb; Bran followed behind and would make sure that Robb accepted Duty's support. Finally, his dreams had proven to be useful again. When word came back that Myrcella was still alive, his father's confidence in his strange ability would be ironclad. Now, if only he could banish the image of Myrcella's twisted smile from his mind. He much preferred her normal one.
***
Kevan returned to Tywin with the latest information on their march. As was his new normal, Tywin was not in the largest tent with all his banners in front; instead, he spent the evening in a smaller one nearby. Kevan wore one of the five Valyrian Steel daggers that had been hastily made. The blacksmith had been vocally frustrated that he couldn't make two swords from Heartsbane. It shocked Kevan that someone not of nobility was so free with his opinion. The man was exceptional and one with a rare talent with Valyrian Steel, but if he had spoken to Tywin in that way, he would have lost his hands. Still, he had done what was requested, and Tywin had a normal-length sword. Kevan, Tyrek, and three others now had daggers that could potentially kill another shadow demon.
Kevan still felt unease from that day. He had to be misremembering some of the details from his fear and the dim light. In his memories, Myrcella moved with a speed and precision that seemed greater than even Jaime's. Surely, that was not the case, but in the dark, the mind was wont to play tricks.
But there were more important things to focus on in the present. Their quick march had already led to some problems, even before confronting the enemy. The soldiers were weary, and their footwear was worn, even for those lucky enough to have something worthwhile. When word had leaked to their host that the Vale had joined Stannis, morale began to sink. First in ones and twos, now they had a real problem with desertion. The Crownlands and Westerlands levies and the free riders were melting away.
The men-at-arms and knights were still, for the most part, loyal. At least for now. Tywin had publicly hanged a score of men to teach others the consequences for deserting their post, but that hadn't slowed it much. They didn't have time to chase down those who abandoned the host, and so they had to march on and make do with less.
"Tywin, we have a problem."
"What is it now?"
"Our outriders are having trouble. The Stark wolves are proving to be a menace; there aren't a lot of the enemy out there, but every time there is a skirmish, we get the shorter end. Those howls put the men even further on edge. Stories of how those beasts helped bring down the Mountain have added to the terror."
Tywin's jaw clenched.
"We should have brought Ser Addam with us."
"Tywin, we've been over this! Someone competent had to hold the city."
Kevan realized that he had started to grow more short-tempered with Tywin. Their relationship had always been one where Tywin commanded and Kevan obeyed, only occasionally offering advice but never arguing. The stresses of the war and the hopelessness of the situation were fraying their bond.
"It is too late now to fix, so we'll waste no more time discussing it. We know that Stannis is out there, and Haystack Hall still stands. We will push forward. We will know soon if Stannis intends to fight or if he intends to run. What's the word from Ser Barristan? And do we know what the Tyrell host or the Dornish are doing?"
"We will know more once we reach Haystack Hall; there are no routes for ravens to land until then, so all word is carried by riders. Last told, Ser Barristan was awaiting the prisoner exchange, and that should be done within the coming days."
"He still refuses to reject it? He can appease his honor by reminding people that she was coerced."
Keven shook his head. "Ser Barristan stated that those were Lady Myrcella's last wishes and he would abide by them. After the exchange, he intends to retreat from the Vale and continue to the Westerlands, unless the Vale seeks a battle. Then he will fight them."
"He cannot stand against the full might of the Vale. Have another raven dispatched and order him to retreat the moment the exchange is made. If he can outmarch the Vale force and make it to the Golden Tooth before they force him to battle, he will have the numbers to deal with the Tyrells," Twyin said wearily.
That was a mighty if, given that they would be marching through the hostile territory of the Riverlands. If they could do it, the Vale would either have to take the mighty fortress or travel hundreds of leagues south and make for the gold road. Golden Tooth was no Harrenhal or Storm's End, but it was a doughty fortress that could not be taken easily.
Ser Barristan and Lord Lefford together could match the numbers of the Tyrells. If they could force a battle and a victory… well, it would free the Westerlands and the gold that was there. They could hire mercenaries and free riders and then march to challenge the Vale field army or descend upon the Reach.
Meanwhile, we need to survive Stannis, the Dornish, and the second Tyrell army.
Long odds, perhaps too long. There seemed no way out of the dire circumstances except victory after victory. At least they should still have the numbers on Stannis, even with a few thousand levies deserting.
Horns sounded through the camp, followed by the clamor of shouting. Kevan and Tywin rushed out to see what was going on. The men were in an uproar about word of an incoming attack. People were rushing to and fro with hasty orders, but after a few minutes it was clear that no army was materializing.
Kevan growled in irritation. These sorts of false alarms sapped the energy of a host, but the real danger was that they would be sluggish when a real unexpected attack occurred. Tywin returned to his tent, and Kevan went to go see what had triggered the false alarm. They did not have much further to march, and for good or ill, he welcomed the battle. His house wore the sigil of the lion, and he felt much like an aged and past-his-prime lion who was now surrounded by jackals and hyenas, sensing weakness. Let the clash happen and be done with it. They would either roar in triumph or be put out of their misery.
***
When Stannis's fleet of ships was spotted heading south by friends loyal to him, Oberyn chose to act. The new King was sure to be where the fighting was. Oberyn had grown bored of the fief he had conquered. With the Stormland forces away from their homeland, there were no great battles to be had. His brother was still dragging his feet, and more and it became more and more clear that Doran never intended to do much, at best mimicking what the Tyrells had done in the latter part of Robert's Rebellion. That would not suffice for Oberyn.
Ellaria joined him along with six hundred men; he had intended to leave the remainder in Weeping Town under Obara's command. However, she had pleaded to stay with him, and he had relented. At the same time, he sent word to his friends in Essos and planned to have a few mercenaries join him. Looking at the map, there were only a few places the King could be going to. Parchments, Tarth, Storm's End, Griffin's Roost, or Rain House. Given what he knew about the Baratheon family history, he doubted that Stannis would needlessly risk Shipbreaker Bay for anything but a large prize. Storm's End would be costly to storm, so his bet was that Parchments or Tarth were the targets. Tarth would just be a stepping stone, but depending on the goal, he could see the advantage in ensuring that there were no friendly ports about.
Oberyn took his swifter vessel for the journey and soon made landfall at Parchments. The town still flew the Baratheon banner instead of Stannis's new one; however, it was under siege, and it was clear that the army of Stannis was nearby. Oberyn was directed to travel west. In return, he forewarned them that up to another 1,000 mercenaries from Essos would be arriving soon and to send them to follow as quickly as possible.
His paramour was with him, but once battle began, he intended to send her back to the vessels with some guards. In the meantime, he intended to enjoy every bit of life, especially in the last hours before the fighting would begin.
"I still feel you should have told Doran your change of plans."
"They'll be calling him the Late Lord Doran by the time this war is done; I must uphold the worthiness of the Martell name."
She kissed him. "Liar, you were bored, and being petty."
"Maybe…"
Further talk would have to wait for the next day. Oberyn was eager for battle, but he was not eager to speak with the new King. Stannis was his absolute opposite in so many ways, so he didn't expect to get along with the man, but there would be no avoiding it.
***
Margaery Tyrell was excited to see her husband-to-be. Though, the process was turning out to be quite more intriguing than she'd expected. Lord Martell had advised them that he was agreeable to a match between their houses, but wished for the potential matches to first meet Margaery and see how well they interacted. Margaery thought it sweet, though she intended to make sure that it was the eldest that she wed. A union to a second son was quite a step down for a woman of her station. Still, she would do it if she must; the alliance between Dorne and Highgarden was important.
Margaery would not enjoy the heat. Though with autumn coming, hopefully it would soon be more bearable. Their journey on the fastest vessel in Lord Redwyne's fleet was made with good time. She pointed out the two towers of Dorne to her mother when they came into view. The Spear Tower was where they kept noble prisoners, while the Tower of the Sun was the seat of House Martell. Margaery understood that Doran would be meeting them there instead of his usual place of residence, the Water Gardens. She felt honored that the man with such a painful condition had moved on her behalf. No doubt, Dorne wished this match as much as her family did.
When their ship docked, they were met by a delegation of Dornish Lords. At their head was an old knight, Ser Manfrey Martell, cousin to Doran Martell. He was the castellan of Sunspear and promised that their every need would be attended to.
"They could have had one of his sons present for the greeting," sniffed Alerie. She kept her voice low so as not to be overheard.
Margaery patted her mother's arm. "They may be indisposed; there is a war going on after all."
The people were different but looked excited and happy to see her. Margaery knew that she was considered one of the most sought-after brides in all the realm. There were actually not many people here for it to be the capital of Dorne. She supposed it had to be a bit like Winterfell or the Eyrie, which were places where the head of house ruled rather than being the largest cities. White Harbor had a larger population than Winterfell, and Gulltown had a larger population than the Eyrie; this had to be a similar scenario. She waved back at the crowds, and their procession moved to the Tower of the Sun.
When they arrived, they were shown to a sitting room outside of where Lord Martell would greet them to discuss the betrothal. A guard approached and spoke with Ser Manfrey. Margaery's eyes wandered the sitting area; there were tables and chaise lounges as well as regular chairs. The floors were heavily carpeted with intricate patterns.
"Lady Alerie, Lady Margaery, forgive the delay, but Lord Martell's prior meeting has run woefully over its allotted time. You are free to wait here, and we will of course summon any refreshments you desire."
Another man, by the name of Ricasso, introduced himself as the seneschal. He moved Alerie over to the side to discuss their rooms and quarters for the Tyrell guards they'd brought with them. Margaery suddenly found herself approached by a man with the most vivid blue hair she had ever seen, maybe following the custom of Tyrosh? She recalled hearing of sailors hailing from there dyeing their hair. He had a youthfully handsome face with eyes a shade of dark blue. After approaching, he bowed his head.
"Lady Tyrell, I presume. I am Young Griff and owe you an apology."
Margaery looked him over again. His clothes were of fine quality, and he was groomed well. He had not given his surname, which was odd, but given his hair, he may be from one of the Free Cities in Essos. He was likely older than the age of maturity, but not by much.
"I am quite sure that we have never met; what offense do you claim to have caused me?"
He smiled, his teeth white and straight. "I would never offend you, but I must apologize on behalf of my father, who is causing Lord Martell to be tardy with his meeting with you."
"And your father is…?"
"Griff, leader of the Golden Company. We may be riding with Dorne and the Reach quite soon. My father does tend to be long-winded; would you care for a seat?"
Margaery looked at her mother, who was speaking at length with Ricasso. It would be inappropriate to go off with this stranger, this mercenary, but sitting in this room full of Dornish guards and within eyesight of her mother would not be amiss. If the young man spoke truly, he could very well be fighting alongside her family very soon, and for that he deserved her courtesy.
So seated, she looked at the table between them. There were trays of various meats, cheeses, and thin wafers. They sat either side of a board with figures on it. The figures, or pieces, were Intricately carved, depicting horses, spearmen, and even a dragon among others.
"This game before you is called Cyvasse, a popular game in Volantis and Lys. Father says that it is a wonderful teaching device for learning strategy. Would you like to learn to play?"
Margaery kept her face placid but was starting to suspect that something odd was going on. The way Lord Martell was making them wait, the way her mother had immediately been pounced on in a distraction – no, this had been deliberate. She had never met Quentyn Martell, but this did not match the description of the Prince of Dorne. Trystane Martell did not fit either, and the man before her was older than the younger Dornish Prince. Who was he?
Knowing that whatever was done here had been planned, she saw no reason to be difficult. She gave her best courtly smile and gladly accepted.
Young Griff was charismatic and clearly intelligent. He was respectful, knew his courtesies, and explained the rules of the game in an easy-to-understand manner. She found herself liking him and hoped that the Golden Company would join the war effort. They played the game, and he asked her questions on what the Reach was like, to which she answered in a way that flattered her home. She ended up losing, but he complimented her on doing so well for her first time.
They ended up playing for over an hour, and finally a large guard announced for Margaery and Alerie to enter.
"Forgive me, Margaery – that man very nearly made me break my courtesies. How much minutia is necessary to prepare rooms? No, I do not care what scent is on my handmaid's pillow, nor do I particularly care what music is available for dinner. Who was that man you were speaking to?"
"Young Griff, the son of the mercenary leader of the Golden Company."
No further conversation could take place as they stepped before the twin thrones of Dorne. Doran sat on neither, seemingly preferring a more comfortable chair. He bowed in greeting and apologized for the delay.
After pleasantries were exchanged, Doran grew serious.
"I fear that I have not been completely honest with you." Margaery felt a chill – had this been a trap?
"Oh, forgive me for frightening you both – that was not my intent. I corresponded with your brother, but some things cannot be entrusted to ravens. Yet, he did tell me that you knew his thoughts on the state of the Seven Kingdoms."
"I… I'm not sure if I understand, Lord Martell," Alerie replied, puzzled.
Doran took a heavy breath. "The war between Stannis Baratheon and Tywin Lannister may soon draw to a close. Stannis is not a friend to your house, nor a friend to mine. We both rallied our banners because we had a common enemy. But what comes after the war?"
Margaery's heart began to race. Was Doran suggesting that they break with Stannis? That would be dishonorable, and yet… she knew that Willas would consider it. Stannis, by all accounts, was a hard man and did not like the Tyrells due to her family's siege of Storm's End. The proposed marriage between Willas and Sansa Stark, the daughter of the King's Hand, was to protect them from further acrimony with Stannis once the war settled.
"What I am asking is – would Willas Tyrell consider rallying his banners to a third party, to someone not aligned with Stannis or Tywin?"
"Lord Martell, this is unexpected, and I am wary that this may be a test of our own loyalty to the King's cause," she said before her mother could speak.
Doran smiled at her. "Smart, but I would have little patience to be used for such a ploy. I will ask again – if another claimant, who could offer your house much, put forth their name, would you consider supporting them?"
"Without knowledge of who that would be, it is not possible to answer."
Doran looked at her intently. "I do not hear a no, and I will take it that your brother shares similar views. I now have more confidence in asking you – would you like to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?"
Margaery was stunned – was Dorne going to simply ignore the hereditary rule and crown Quentyn Martell? It was absurd – the rest of the Kingdoms would not consent to that. Margaery would not mind being the queen – she had been asked once before, when they'd intended to parade her in front of Robert Baratheon in hopes he would set aside Cersei in favor of her. That had not worked out, and Margaery could not see how this would end any better.
"Lord Martell, I am not quite sure how to respond, but I do not think this has much chance of success. The other lords of Westeros would not appreciate ignoring the succession so thoroughly," Margaery replied and saw her mother nod sharply in agreement.
"No doubt you think I mean to wed you to my son and crown him King. If that was my design, I agree that you would be foolish to accept. No, I would wed you to the rightful King of Westeros. Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen, did not die in King's Landing when the Lannisters sacked it. He still lives, and he is returning to Westeros."
Margaery sat back, thinking furiously. How was that possible? But if it were true, and the Reach and Dorne backed him, it could work. Many individual houses supported the Mad King even when their overlords sided with Robert. Houses like Grafton, Darry, and Grandison were just a few examples who sided with the King over their Paramount Lord. Should they believe this was Aegon Targaryen, they may very well call their banners for him once more. It would not just be two kingdoms alone against the rest of Westeros.
"This seems far-fetched – why smuggle one child out and not both, and their mother too?" her mother suspiciously questioned.
"There are certain proofs we have, my lady, and I also wish to assure you both – should you decline the match between Aegon and Margaery, you will be safely returned to Highgarden. We are not the Vale, and your well-being is assured."
Not the Vale?
Margaery put aside that confusing statement for the moment to focus on more important matters. Would her brother support this? Did she want it?
Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. If I am honest with myself – yes, I want this. With grandmother and Willas nervous about Stannis, this will be the better way to grow the strength of our house.
"Lord Martell, I am confused about one issue. Why not wed Aegon to your own house?"
Doran gave her a wry look. "Once Aegon came to me, that was a path we were considering. However, my daughter shamed me and made a poor impression upon Aegon. You, however, made a better one."
"Young Griff… he's Aegon!" Margaery's voice rose with the epiphany.
Lord Martell nodded. "He is; what say you? Will you and your brother consent to this match? Will you help return Westeros to its rightful rulers?"