Doran Martell showed no sign of committing to anything that night.
They spoke for a long while longer, though Jason could easily have skipped most of what followed; little of real substance passed between them.
Nothing was settled, though Martell seemed in no hurry to let him go either.
The following evening, Mallister was invited back to the castle, and the conversation picked up where it had left off.
Jason was beginning to understand Dorne’s reasoning a little better now.
Martell, whatever indifference he put on display, genuinely needed allies.
Badly, in fact.
And the prospects on offer clearly interested him.
But he meant to avoid every unnecessary risk, and play only the safest hand available to him.
He was also, plainly, waiting on word from King’s Landing, where Oberyn the Red Viper and a considerable number of other prominent Dornish currently found themselves.
It was there, at the very foot of the Iron Throne, that the true shape of the future was being hammered out.
And Doran’s own position here depended heavily on whatever the Red Viper managed to accomplish, and how matters ultimately settled.
Left entirely to himself, Mallister likely never would have puzzled out half of this.
But the information Lord Tully had armed him with helped him read Doran’s game, at least in part.
“Riverrun knows you’re seeking an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen,” Jason said, near the end of their second conversation, playing his strongest card.
The simple fact that they knew this much clearly struck Martell hard.
“Lord Tully has no objection to it, none at all.
If her dragons survive and grow to their full strength, if she agrees to ally herself with Dorne, and if she ever sails for these shores, Riverrun would be willing to support a Targaryen restoration.” “Your words are nothing more than guesswork,” Martell said, though even a fine actor could only hold his composure so far; he faltered for just a moment before regaining his usual stillness.
“Dorne has no dealings with Daenerys Targaryen.” “I’m not here to press you, or convince you of anything,” Mallister said, with a shrug.
“I’m only passing along Lord Tully’s own thoughts.
He said it doesn’t concern him how you mean to sit in two chairs at once.
Your intrigues are your own business.
Whatever the outcome, he’ll accept it.” “What exactly are you suggesting?” “That you mean to marry Prince Trystane to Myrcella Baratheon on one hand, while quietly offering Daenerys Targaryen your support on the other.” “It seems I never truly knew Lord Tully at all,” Martell said, smiling faintly after a pause.
“Everything I’d been told about the man clearly doesn’t match reality.
How did that come about, I wonder?
You wouldn’t happen to know?” “That’s not really my concern,” Mallister said.
He knew how to fish well enough, and he could feel now that he’d well and truly hooked this particular Dornishman.
The prince was interested, whatever he showed on the surface.
Perhaps he was even a little unsettled by it.
The Lannisters, after all, might well learn of the Martells’ flirtation with Daenerys Targaryen too.
No real proof existed, only words, spoken quietly.
But words, presented the right way, carried their own weight.
“I’ll confess, your arguments have made an impression on me.
But I’m not prepared to answer anything definite just now.
I need time to consider it properly.
We’ll return to the matter of a possible match between Princess Arianne and Lord Tully at a later point.” “As you see fit.
Though while we wait, Riverrun keeps sinking deeper into a war it may not win.
You risk losing a real opportunity here, and a loyal ally along with it.” “If you’re determined to keep fighting, and need strength to do it, I suppose I could help somewhat.
You, Lord Mallister, would do well to accept Sunspear’s hospitality and remain here a few weeks longer.
Incognito, of course.” “But the fighting continues in the Riverlands, all the while.” “I recall being taught, long ago, that only madmen start wars they cannot win,” the prince said, folding his hands, gazing up at the ceiling.
“I’ll provide coin.
Through my own contacts in Essos, you could hire a mercenary company and have them at Saltpans quickly enough.
It should help you hold the line for some time yet.” “A mercenary company?
Which one?” The offer suited Mallister well enough.
Not perfectly, of course, but the important thing was that the Martells had finally taken a real first step.
Jason knew Edmure, back in distant Riverrun, had already discussed exactly this possibility with him before he’d left.
“The Shining Banners could reach Saltpans quickly enough.
They’re currently stationed near Pentos.
I’ll see to chartering the ships across the Narrow Sea myself, but Lord Tully alone will stand as their employer of record.
Your name, and mine, stay well out of it.
Dorne keeps its hands entirely clean.” “I see.
What are they capable of, and how many men do they field?” “Around twelve hundred, mostly cavalry.
Quite formidable in open country, agile, well trained.
They’ve also weathered sieges before, and know something of defending a fortress as well as taking one.
They won’t go to waste, I promise you that.” “A force that size won’t turn the tide on its own.
Too few men, surely.” “Let’s begin modestly, and see how matters develop from there,” the prince said, in a reassuring tone.
“I have another company in mind besides, should the need arise.” “Good.” “I’ll also provide you with a raven, so you can write to Riverrun about our preliminary understanding.
Word your letter carefully, mind; it could be intercepted along the way.
If our enemies work out what it actually means, I’ll have no choice but to see you executed, and deny any part of this entirely,” Doran warned him plainly.
“That’s roughly what I expected going in,” Jason answered, equal parts relieved and unsettled.
For the time being, until matters resolved one way or another, he’d remain an honored hostage here in Sunspear.
And should anything go wrong, he and his men could just as easily be quietly, efficiently beheaded, with no fuss at all.
Doran’s caution offered little real comfort.
One could say the man had agreed to help, in his own fashion.
But how could anyone actually prove it, if it ever came to that?
Jason alone had spoken with the prince, alone knew of his consent.
Dorne, funding mercenaries to fight the Lannisters, if pressed, the Martells would simply deny everything in unison.
No doubt they’d route the whole arrangement through a third party, even a fourth, until no thread led back to Sunspear at all.
The prince clearly meant to weaken the Lannisters from a safe distance, while keeping his own hands entirely clean throughout.
Genuinely cunning, and genuinely farsighted, that much Jason had to admit.
Doran Martell, it seemed, had mastered the old Dornish art of pulling chestnuts from the fire with someone else’s hand entirely.
How very Dornish, watching two rivals tear at each other, stepping in only at the perfect moment, and reaping the rewards of a victory that had cost him nothing.
The prince insisted that Mallister and his men move into the castle itself for the remainder of their stay.
They were watched closely, kept carefully out of sight of anyone who might recognize them for what they were.
Jason remembered everything Edmure Tully had hoped he might accomplish here: meeting Arianne, Quentyn, and Trystane Martell directly, establishing some working relationship with the Yronwoods or the Fowlers, Dorne’s second and third most powerful houses.
None of it, unfortunately, came to pass.
Areo Hotah and his guardsmen watched them far too closely, tracking every step, catching every stray word that slipped out.
But Mallister did get his raven.
All that remained was writing the letter itself.
He sat a long while in the room they’d given him, staring out at the blinding heat beyond the window, feeling for the faintest stir of a breeze, chewing absently on a goose quill, working out how best to word his message.
Then, quite suddenly, he smiled.
He’d found his answer.
In a broad, sweeping hand, Jason wrote: It isn’t easy.
A preliminary correlation has emerged.
Await word from Pentos.
He sprinkled sand over the wet ink to dry it.
No signature.
No date.
No names anywhere on the page.
And yet that single word alone would tell Lord Tully exactly who’d sent it, and that real progress had been made.
Correlation.
Jason felt certain that even if the Lannisters or the Tyrells somehow intercepted the bird, they’d be left puzzling uselessly over where it had come from, where it was bound, and what on earth those few lines were even meant to say.
The raven, once the prince had reviewed the letter himself, took flight, and the Lord of Seagard remained behind in Dorne.
It stung, a little, knowing that right now he wasn’t out burning Lannister castles and villages himself.
But Patrek, his son and heir, was doing exactly that, out there on his behalf.
For now, there was nothing left for Jason to do but wait, and find out whether Dornish hospitality lived up to its considerable reputation, same as it did everywhere else in Westeros.
com/Hezzario