“Well met, Lord Mallister,” Doran Martell said, thin, dark haired, dark browed, his voice giving away nothing, no warmth, no smile.
He looked unwell, tired, and yet somehow noble and sharp minded all at once.
The prince sat in an elaborate wheeled chair, moving himself along with visible effort, plainly suffering from gout.
A long jacket of fine linen and light trousers couldn’t quite hide how badly swollen his legs had become.
At his throat, in the open collar of a silk shirt, hung a golden ornament on a chain, a sun pierced through by a spear.
Mallister had met Dornishmen before, though none so influential as this.
He knew their customs, their dress, their manner well enough.
Still, the inner chamber where he was received left its own impression on him.
Several lamps, patterned carpets, tiled floors and walls, ornate plasterwork overhead, gold and silver vessels tucked into niches, chairs and benches of fine ivory upholstered in soft leather, all of it set a particular mood.
“An honour to meet the Prince of Dorne,” the lord said, inclining his head.
“Areo, see our guest seated, and pour him some wine,” the prince said, with the barest wave of his hand.
Tall, spare of words, no longer young but still clearly strong, the guardsman silently gestured Mallister toward a chair beside a round table laid out with fruit and light fare.
A golden basin held ice, chilling a jug of wine within it, a genuine pleasure to look at, even at night, after such heat.
Pomegranates, peaches, blood oranges, dates, grapes, all of it looked almost too inviting to resist, and the scent alone was enough to make his head swim.
Hotah poured the wine himself, then crossed to his prince, took hold of the chair’s arms, and rolled him carefully closer to the table.
Even in the dim light, Hotah’s fair, weathered face told the Lord of Seagard at once that the man wasn’t Dornish born.
“I’m listening, Lord Mallister,” the prince said, leaning back and closing his eyes, as though suddenly weary.
“It’s a delicate matter I bring, but one that could serve Dorne as well as the Riverlands,” Jason began.
He knew full well how difficult a knot he had to untangle here.
He was aware, too, that somewhere close by, in Sunspear itself or perhaps out at the Water Gardens, Princess Myrcella Baratheon was currently a guest.
King Stannis had written openly that she wasn’t truly Robert’s daughter at all, but a common bastard, born of Cersei’s relationship with Jaime the Kingslayer.
Whether that was true or not remained unclear.
Mallister, for his part, held to Lord Tully’s view on the matter: that whoever won this war would ultimately decide such questions for everyone else.
If the Lannisters and their allies came out on top, the realm would forget these dangerous rumours soon enough, and no one would dare question the legitimacy of Joffrey, Myrcella, or Tommen ever again.
If someone else won instead, well, then everything would hinge on that victor’s will, and whatever circumstances happened to prevail.
As always, it amounted to a genuinely tangled knot of competing interests, intrigue, friendship, and old enmity all woven together.
Myrcella was betrothed to Trystane, Doran’s youngest son.
On the surface, that made it seem as though Dorne had little reason to shift course or take any real risk.
That impression, Mallister already suspected, didn’t tell the whole story.
Lord Tully, who had somehow learned a great many secrets no outsider should reasonably know, had told him something of the Martells’ long simmering thirst for vengeance over Elia’s death, of the Red Viper’s own ambitions, and of Princess Arianne’s restless, difficult temperament.
He’d also somehow learned that the Dornish were quietly seeking a path toward Daenerys Targaryen.
Jason had come prepared for all of it, as best he could.
Preparation, though, guaranteed nothing.
“Dorne finds itself in a rather comfortable position just now,” Martell said quietly.
“Or perhaps it’s about to improve further still,” Mallister said, unwilling to waste time dancing around the point.
People said the prince was a genuinely sharp man, one who weighed, compared, and planned carefully.
There was little use speaking to him only in hints.
“The Riverlands need an ally against the Lannisters.
House Tully and House Martell could build real, lasting friendship on shared interest alone.
We’ve no disputed lands between us, no dynastic quarrels, no old blood feuds keeping us apart.
Nothing separates us, no death, no grievance.
A union between our houses could prove genuinely strong.” “And what exactly does Riverrun have to offer Sunspear?” Martell showed neither surprise nor real interest, sitting exactly as he had been, only his fingers shifting now and then, his eyes opening briefly before drifting shut again.
The lamps had been arranged, deliberately it seemed, so that shadow fell squarely across his face.
“A military alliance.” “If my memory serves, Riverrun remains a vassal of the North, sworn to the self-proclaimed King Robb Stark.” “Everything’s changed since then.
We stand as equal allies now.” “How interesting.” The prince’s voice carried no real interest at all.
Either he’d already learned this somehow, through channels of his own, or the man was simply a remarkable actor.
“And how would you prove such a claim?” “I carry the appropriate documents,” Mallister said, producing them.
Areo passed them along to the prince, who read through them quickly.
“I see no trace of Robb Stark’s signature anywhere on these.
Nor his seal.
What, exactly, is the worth of your papers, then?” “There never was a signature, or a seal, confirming the Riverlands as a vassal of the North.
The whole arrangement was settled in spoken word alone, and never formally confirmed before it fell apart again, just as quickly as it began.
And so did our renewed independence.” “Amusing.” The prince allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile, the first Mallister had seen from him.
He seemed, if anything, to be warming to the conversation.
“So Riverrun has begun playing its own game, then?” “Hardly a game,” Mallister said.
“This is a matter of our survival.
Nothing more.” “And that’s truly how Lord Tully sees his situation?” “Exactly so.” “And in doing this, he doesn’t consider it a betrayal of Robb Stark?
His own nephew?” “Not at all.
The king knows, in broad terms, about my mission here, and understands its purpose well enough.
But Riverrun answers to itself now.” Mallister wasn’t entirely certain of his own words as he said them; this was simply what Edmure Tully had told him to say.
Whether the man had left something out, or shaded the truth somewhere along the way, the Lord of Seagard couldn’t have said.
“It seems to me Riverrun means to build its future on rather fragile, uncertain ground.
Too many loose threads here, too much left unsaid.” “And yet, even now, the Riverlands remain one of the nine great regions of Westeros,” Mallister countered.
“And the Lannisters are enemies we share in common.
It was the Lannisters, after all, who killed your own sister, Princess Elia.” Jason could have sworn the Prince of Dorne flinched at that.
So the Martells hadn’t forgotten, not really.
Edmure Tully hadn’t steered him wrong.
The words struck true, like a skilled archer’s arrow finding the one gap in an enemy’s armor.
“That alone isn’t enough,” Doran said, after a long pause.
Areo Hotah stood by the wall like a living statue, hearing everything, saying nothing, utterly still.
“My lord remains unwed.
He would gladly receive Princess Arianne’s hand.” “Isn’t he already promised to someone?” Doran raised an eyebrow.
“Lord Tully reached a preliminary understanding with House Frey, that he’d marry one of their daughters.
At the moment, though, that arrangement looks increasingly unlikely to hold.” In truth, Mallister had no real idea how Edmure Tully intended to extract himself from that particular tangle.
He was simply relaying his lord’s own words.
“Your consent, and Princess Arianne’s, could change everything.” “An alliance with a ruined Riverrun, at war with the Westerlands, the Reach, and the Crownlands all at once, doesn’t strike me as especially promising, or profitable,” the prince said, a trace of dry sarcasm slipping into his voice.
“You’re right that we’re battered.
Our lands have been trampled and burned.
But the Riverlands remain strong for all that.
Every castle but Harrenhal still stands unconquered.
And the North remains our loyal, capable ally.
We can fight on, and fight well, for a long while yet.
And if Dorne joins us, the balance tips decisively.
We strike the Westerlands and the Reach from the north, you from the south.
They won’t be able to stand against that.” “Were I younger, and a good deal more foolish, I might find myself swept up in speeches like that,” Doran said, something almost like humour in his tone, though nothing in his face or eyes matched it.
He was still bargaining, clearly, still probing for whatever else might be offered.
“Tell me, how does Lord Riverrun picture the future division of Westeros?
Many small, separate kingdoms again, the way things stood before the Targaryens arrived?
Or will Robb Stark eventually set his crown aside and bend the knee to whoever ends up on the Iron Throne?” “Lord Tully would be content with something close to King Robert’s old order.
He’d bend the knee himself, gladly, provided every land he held before this war stays firmly within his domain, and provided he keeps the title of Great Lord.
That said, he’s not entirely closed to discussing the idea of separate kingdoms either, if that’s where things lead.” “Ambitious enough.
How well do those ambitions actually match Riverrun’s current situation?” “Let time be the judge of that.” “And Robb Stark, in all this?” “That’s more delicate.
But we’ve no obligation to march into the grave simply because the North does.” “That sounds a great deal like betrayal, put plainly.” “Not at all,” Mallister said, with real heat in his voice.
In truth, he took no pleasure in how things now stood.
He’d have gladly stood behind Lady Catelyn and her eldest son to the very end, given the choice.
But if it truly came down to total ruin, if the only road ahead led straight over a cliff, he’d do whatever it took to save his own home.
The Mallisters had held Seagard for a thousand years and more, and he had no intention of being the one who broke that long tradition.
“And Robb Stark understands that as well as anyone.”
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