Lord Jason Mallister, a tall, broad shouldered man with gray hair and heavy brows, stared up at a leaden sky pouring down endless sheets of rain.
He was soaked through, but he still stood at the bow of the Swift, a small, nimble galley he’d chartered at Saltpans.
The ship was bound for distant Dorne.
They’d need to cross Crab Bay, round Crackclaw Point, give Dragonstone and Driftmark as wide a berth as possible to avoid falling into King Stannis Baratheon’s hands, slip past the coastline claimed by the Iron Throne, and finally leave the Stormlands behind them entirely.
The lord’s clean shaven, sharp featured face showed nothing but displeasure.
Everything about this journey, promising to be both long and dangerous, grated on him.
The rain, the miserable pitching of the deck beneath his feet, his own foul mood, Lord Tully’s hasty decisions, and his own gloomy premonitions, all of it.
That Edmure had gathered the finest fighters in the Riverlands and led them west without him hadn’t done anything to improve his temper either.
The lord’s men, Captain of the Guard Ser Lin among them, along with a handful of soldiers, stood behind their master, talking quietly among themselves.
Someone suggested a meal.
The Lord of Seagard watched, tight lipped, as his guardsmen settled near the rail and pulled simple food from their packs, boiled bacon wrapped in onion skins, hard boiled eggs, garlic, bread, pickles, ale.
He said nothing, only drew his long cloak tighter around himself, down past the toes of his boots.
His body servant had already settled into the cabin assigned to them, and his squire, a boy from Lolliston, hovered close by, watching for the smallest sign he might be needed.
The lord spat over the rail and watched the brief arc of it vanish into the waves below.
He had to admit, Edmure Tully finally seemed to have woken up, to remember he was a great lord in his own right, master of vast lands, rather than some pale echo of the North and its boy king.
The river lords had certainly noticed the change these past weeks, and their spirits had lifted for it.
Still, sailing all the way to Dorne on a diplomatic errand felt like a genuine ordeal in its own right.
Jason held real affection and respect for Lady Catelyn Tully.
Even after she’d wed and become a Stark, moved far off to the North, his loyalty to her had never wavered; they’d been friends since childhood, after all.
But he took little pleasure in how things had unfolded since, or in the part this particular woman had played in it all.
“Fine weather we’re having, my lord,” the ship’s stout, barrel chested captain said, stepping up beside him.
His name was Rax, called the Unsinkable, a nickname he’d apparently earned through hard experience.
“The Seven aren’t feeling generous with us today.
Then again, common folk say a venture begun in the rain is bound for good fortune.” The Unsinkable, like most men of the sea, struck him as a deeply superstitious sort.
“Old wives’ talk,” Mallister muttered, watching the waves, the color of the sky itself, streaked gray with rain.
The Swift’s bow cut through them again and again, throwing up foam and salt spray with every plunge.
Some of it reached his face, settled on his clothes.
His stomach turned, though he showed no sign of it.
The wind picked up.
The distant shore, thick with spruce, slowly vanished into the damp gray murk.
Sunlight pressed faintly against the low clouds without ever quite breaking through.
The sail, raised despite the weather, snapped taut as it caught a gust, and the whole ship lurched.
A merchant vessel passed to port.
“Perhaps so,” the captain agreed, planting his short legs wide for balance.
He’d been unfailingly polite and obliging the whole voyage, ever since Lord Mallister’s men had made him a quiet promise before they’d set sail: that his family would be looked after.
It wasn’t the most inspiring way to win a man’s loyalty, but the captain would clearly do everything in his power to keep his ship and his passenger out of the wrong hands.
And there were plenty who’d pay well in gold for a prize like the Lord of Seagard, to say nothing of whatever business had sent him sailing south in the first place.
Day after day, the Swift glided on southward.
Off the starboard beam near Dragonstone, two galleys spotted them, a crowned stag on their banners.
It took every bit of the captain’s experience to steer them clear of an unwanted encounter.
Near Estermont Island they very nearly fell into the hands of its lord, Eldon Estermont.
Had the Swift’s hull not been recently scraped clean of barnacles, they might not have slipped away in time.
An imposing galley flying a green turtle chased them until nightfall, finally falling behind somewhere around the latitude of Bloodstone.
The captain let out a long breath of relief.
Mallister felt no particular urge to celebrate.
Lord Edmure had handed him a genuinely difficult task.
Left to his own judgment, he’d never have agreed to it, would have looked for allies closer to home instead.
But his son Patrek got on well with Lord Tully, and the journey mattered, first and foremost, for the future of Seagard and its lands.
If the mission brought even modest success, the Lord of Riverrun wasn’t the sort to leave such service unrewarded.
The weather grew hotter by the day.
Even the sea itself slowly changed colour, shifting from dark blue and gray toward turquoise and lighter blue.
The waters around the many islands of the Stepstones stayed busy with shipping.
The war hadn’t touched this stretch of sea, and trade, as ever, remained a profitable business.
The Lord of Seagard watched these vessels pass with a certain wistful envy, steep sided, roomy ships loaded down with spices, incense, amber, pearls, fine timber, dishes, wine, grain, southern fruit, cloth, curiosities from the east, everything that could be bought or sold anywhere across the breadth of Westeros.
It struck the lord as a genuine shame that Seagard, coastal though it was, sat so far to the northwest.
His own men and ships traded with the Fingers, with Barrowton, with Bear Island, and in peaceful years had been frequent visitors among the Ironborn, making their way as far as Lannisport and Oldtown besides.
Trade with those last two had always paid well.
But here, along the Narrow Sea, everything moved on a far larger, simpler scale.
Gold flowed through these waters like a river.
They rounded the Broken Arm of Dorne, and before long the lighthouse and palace spires of Sunspear came into view, the ancient seat of House Martell.
The midday sun looked twice the size it ever did over the Trident.
It wasn’t merely warm here, gentle, welcoming; it burned.
Its merciless light scorched everything it touched, people, clothing, weapons, the ship and its rigging alike.
Through the thick soles of his boots, Lord Mallister could feel the deck baking beneath him.
It felt as though someone had lit twin forges beneath each of his arms and set the bellows going at full pace.
Everyone aboard looked worn down, exhausted, short tempered.
How, he wondered, did the Dornish manage to live in a furnace like this?
“Sun, rock, and sand,” Jason muttered into his mustache, taking in the approaching city of Sunspear.
He might as well have added scorched earth to the list; it lay everywhere he looked.
Only the rare oasis, its leaves faded pale from the relentless heat, broke up the bleak picture at all.
Mallister knew that some three leagues further north lay the Water Gardens, a genuine paradise of fountains, shade, and cool groves.
As with any paradise, reaching it wasn’t a simple matter.
He could only hope the Prince of Dorne, should he agree to receive him at all, might see fit to do so in that fabled retreat instead of the baking city below.
The Swift docked at the pier, taking its place among dozens of other vessels.
Sunspear’s harbor didn’t rival King’s Landing or Lannisport for sheer traffic, but plenty of ships crowded the waterfront all the same.
The bright, multicolored sails of Braavos and Lys were easy enough to pick out from anywhere.
A Vale merchant unloaded bales of wool nearby.
A dozen different tongues and dialects mixed together in the noise.
Deals were struck right at the rails of docked galleys.
The air smelled of sweat, cinnamon, dried fish, and the stale water sitting in the holds.
“Swiftwing,” Captain Rax said quietly, pointing toward one of the other ships.
Over the course of the voyage, his relationship with Mallister had thawed somewhat; the reward waiting for the Unsinkable once the crossing ended safely had done wonders for the man’s general mood.
“I know those lines anywhere, my lord.
Out of King’s Landing.
And that one there, that’s the Daring Wind.
See the carved scrollwork under the bowsprit?
Unmistakable, that.” “About what I expected,” Mallister said.
The lions fluttering merrily on both ships’ banners did nothing to lift his spirits.
He wiped sweat from his brow, weighing how much this development threatened his mission.
Word had already spread that Princess Myrcella was visiting Dorne, but the presence of these particular ships felt like an unwelcome reminder, a quiet assertion of the Iron Throne’s reach, right here in Sunspear’s own harbor.
A pity the galleys showed no sign of moving on, riding steady at anchor in the bay instead.
Coming ashore down the gangway, Lord Mallister followed the captain’s advice and made for a guest house called the Old Rhoynar.
They picked their way through the narrow stone streets of the Shadow City, which wrapped itself around Sunspear’s castle on every side.
Lighthouses, tall towers, the walls and roofs of wealthy homes and palaces rose here and there against the sky, most of them tiled in red or pale yellow clay.
Passersby and idle onlookers gave them little more than a passing glance; clearly this city saw its share of more interesting, more important, wealthier visitors than a small foreign party.
Following Lord Tully’s instructions, the Lord of Seagard and his men had changed into plainer clothes and did their best to hide who they truly were.
At most, onlookers might have guessed they hailed from somewhere in the north.
But to Dornish eyes, everything beyond the ruined Tower of Joy counted as the North.
Let them guess as they pleased, if the puzzle even interested them.
At the Old Rhoynar, Lord Mallister was shown to one of the finest rooms available, and immediately sent Ser Lin ahead to make contact with the Martells.
The wait stretched on.
In the meantime, he managed a proper bath, a meal of peppered meat, and his first real taste of Dornish wine.
He sat by the window, gazing thoughtfully down at a small square below, a statue of some past ruler of Dorne standing at its center.
The early southern dusk settled quickly over the city, smoothing away its bright colors, softening its noise.
The air, at least, felt fresher once the sun had gone.
Jason’s thoughts drifted through a dozen different channels.
He’d settled on one of them when a knock came at the door.
His squire, recognizing Ser Lin, let the knight inside.
“Drink first.
Talk after,” Mallister said, pushing the wine toward the captain.
“And you, Od, light a few more candles.
It’s growing dark in here.” “My thanks, my lord,” Lin said, taking the offered cup and draining it in one go, grunting with satisfaction as he wiped his moustache.
“Well?” “It wasn’t easy getting past the gate at all.
Harder still to arrange a meeting with Areo Hotah, commander of the prince’s guard.
A formidable man.” “And the prince himself?” “No, he didn’t speak with me directly.
But Hotah stood in on the whole conversation.
I’d wager he’d already received his instructions beforehand.” “And?” “Prince Martell has agreed to receive you tomorrow.
He’s invited you to the palace.
Late in the night.” “Has he.” Mallister couldn’t stay still, and paced the small room.
“He’s wary of something, choosing an hour like that.
What’s your read on it?” “I’m certain of it,” the guardsman said, stepping back toward the door.
“It seemed to me Sunspear’s people were more than a little puzzled by your arrival.
And Lord Tully’s name didn’t exactly brighten anyone’s mood either.” “You think so?” Mallister glanced sideways at him, and pressed the captain with question after question, how the meeting had come about, what exactly Areo Hotah had said.
Success or failure here might hinge on the smallest detail.
Eventually, having drawn out everything useful, the lord dismissed Ser Lin and stretched out on the bed.
More than a full day remained before the meeting with the prince.
He needed to think through what, if anything, could usefully be done with that time.
The prince was hardly likely to welcome a messenger from the Riverlands with any real enthusiasm.
That much was to be expected.
A shrewd man like Martell would have guessed his purpose already.
And really, what was there to guess?
The whole business lay in plain view.
And yet the prince had still set a time to meet him.
Jason chose to read that as a good sign.
Correlation, that was the word for it.
Mallister hadn’t known the term himself before; he’d never once come across it in his life.
Lord Tully had taught it to him, along with its meaning.
A connection between events.
Some measure of dependence linking two or more people, or states, or circumstances.
It could set off an interesting chain of decisions, or consequences.
A shared hostility toward the Lannisters, say, paired with a shared need for allies.
A mutual unwillingness to bow to whichever bastard of Cersei’s currently sat the Iron Throne.
Only Dorne, it seemed, was already thinking along those lines, while the Riverlands burned thanks to the Starks and found themselves in an extraordinarily difficult position.
Would the Martells actually risk it?
Would they even want to?
Could he convince them, lay out every reason clearly enough to matter?
Jason doubted it would work.
But long habit, seeing any task through to its proper end, whatever the odds, wouldn’t let him simply give up on it either.
com/Hezzario