A horse whickered impatiently behind him, from amidst the ranks
of gold cloaks drawn up across the road. Tyrion could hear Lord
Gyles coughing as well. He had not asked for Gyles, no more than
he’d asked for Ser Addam. Or Jalabhar Xho or any of the rest,
but his lord father felt Doran Martell might take it ill if only a
dwarf came out to escort him across the Blackwater. Joffrey should have met the Dornishmen himself, he reflected as
he sat waiting, but he would have mucked it up, no doubt. Of late
the king had been repeating little jests about the Dornish that
he’d picked up from Mace Tyrell’s men-atarms. How many
Dornishmen does it take to shoe a horse? Nine. One to do the
shoeing, and eight to lift the horse up. Somehow Tyrion did not
think Doran Martell would find that amusing.
He could see their banners flying as the riders emerged from the
green of the living wood in a long dusty column. From here to the
river, only bare black trees remained, a legacy of his battle. Too
many banners, he thought sourly, as he watched the ashes kick up
under the hooves of the approaching horses, as they had beneath the
hooves of the Tyrell van as it smashed Stannis in the flank.
Martell’s brought half the lords of Dorne, by the look of it.
He tried to think of some good that might come of that, and failed.
“How many banners do you count?” he asked Bronn.
The sellsword knight shaded his eyes.
“Eight . . . no, nine.”
Tyrion turned in his saddle. “Pod, come up here. Describe
the arms you see, and tell me which houses they
represent.”
Podrick Payne edged his gelding closer. He was carrying the
royal standard, Joffrey’s great stag-and-lion, and struggling
with its weight. Bronn bore Tyrion’s own banner, the lion of Lannister gold
on crimson. He’s getting taller, Tyrion realized as Pod stood
in his stirrups for a better look. He’ll soon tower over me
like all the rest. The lad had been making a diligent study of
Dornish heraldry, at Tyrion’s command, but as ever he was
nervous. “I can’t see. The wind is flapping
them.”
“Bronn, tell the boy what you see.”
Bronn looked very much the knight today, in his new doublet and
cloak, the flaming chain across his chest. “A red sun on
orange,” he called, “with a spear through its
back.”
“Martell,” Podrick Payne said at once, visibly
relieved. “House Martell of Sunspear, my lord. The Prince of
Dorne.”
“My horse would have known that one,” said Tyrion
dryly. “Give him another, Bronn.”
“There’s a purple flag with yellow balls.”
“Lemons?” Pod said hopefully. “A purple fleld
strewn with lemons? For House Dalt? Of, of Lemonwood.”
“Might be. Next’s a big black bird on yellow.
Something pink or white in its claws, hard to say with the banner
flapping.”
“The vulture of Blackmont grasps a baby in its
talons,” said Pod. “House Blackmont of Blackmont,
ser.”
Bronn laughed. “Reading books again? Books will ruin your
sword eye, boy. I see a skull too. A black banner.”
“The crowned skull of House Manwoody, bone and gold on
black.” Pod sounded more confident with every correct answer.
“The Manwoodys of Kingsgrave.”
“Three black spiders?”
“They’re scorpions, ser. House Qorgyle of Sandstone,
three scorpions black on red.”
“Red and yellow, a jagged line between.”
“The flames of Hellholt. House Uller.”
Tyrion was impressed. The boy’s not half stupid, once he
gets his tongue untied. “Go on, Pod,” he urged.
“If you get them all, I’ll make you a gift.”
“A pie with red and black slices,” said Bronn.
“There’s a gold hand in the middle.”
“House Allyrion of Godsgrace.”
“A red chicken eating a snake, looks like.”
“The Gargalens of Salt Shore. A cockatrice. Ser. Pardon.
Not a chicken. Red, with a black snake in its beak.”
“Very good!” exclaimed Tyrion. “One more,
lad.”
Bronn scanned the ranks of the approaching Dornishmen. “The
last’s a golden feather on green checks.”
“A golden quill, ser. Jordayne of the Tor.”
Tyrion laughed. “Nine, and well done. I could not have
named them all myself.” That was a lie, but it would give the
boy some pride, and that he badly needed. Martell brings some formidable companions, it would seem. Not
one of the houses Pod had named was small or insignificant. Nine of
the greatest lords of Dorne were coming up the kingsroad, them or
their heirs, and somehow Tyrion did not think they had come all
this way just to see the dancing bear. There was a message here.
And not one I like. He wondered if it had been a mistake to ship
Myrcella down to Sunspear.
“My lord,” Pod said, a little timidly,
“there’s no litter.”
Tyrion turned his head sharply. The boy was right.
“Doran Martell always travels in a litter,” the boy
said. “A carved litter with silk hangings, and suns on the
drapes.”
Tyrion had heard the same talk. Prince Doran was past fifty, and
gouty. He may have wanted to make faster time, he told himself. He
may have feared his litter would make too tempting a target for
brigands, or that it would prove too cumbersome in the high passes
of the Boneway. Perhaps his gout is better.
So why did he have such a bad feeling about this?
This waiting was intolerable. “Banners forward,” he
snapped. “We’ll meet them.” He kicked his horse.
Bronn and Pod followed, one to either side. When the Dornishmen saw
them coming, they spurred their own mounts, banners rippling as
they rode. From their ornate saddles were slung the round metal
shields they favored, and many carried bundles of short throwing
spears, or the double-curved Dornish bows they used so well from
horseback.
There were three sorts of Dornishmen, the first King Daeron had
observed. There were the salty Dornishmen who lived along the
coasts, the sandy Dornishmen of the deserts and long river valleys,
and the stony Dornishmen who made their fastnesses in the passes
and heights of the Red Mountains. The salty Dornishmen had the most
Rhoynish blood, the stony Dornishmen the least.
All three sorts seemed well represented in Doran’s
retinue. The salty Dornishmen were lithe and dark, with smooth
olive skin and long black hair streaming in the wind. The sandy
Dornishmen were even darker, their faces burned brown by the hot
Dornish sun. They wound long bright scarfs around their helms to
ward off sunstroke. The stony Dornishmen were biggest and fairest,
sons of the Andals and the First Men, brown-haired or blond, with
faces that freckled or burned in the sun instead of browning.
The lords wore silk and satin robes with jeweled belts and
flowing sleeves. Their armor was heavily enameled and inlaid with
burnished copper, shining silver, and soft red gold. They came
astride red horses and golden ones and a few as pale as snow, all
slim and swift, with long necks and narrow beautiful heads. The
fabled sand steeds of Dorne were smaller than proper warhorses and
could not bear such weight of armor, but it was said that they
could run for a day and night and another day, and never tire.
The Dornish leader forked a stallion black as sin with a mane and
tail the color of fire. He sat his saddle as if he’d been
born there, tall, slim, graceful. A cloak of pale red silk
fluttered from his shoulders, and his shirt was armored with
overlapping rows of copper disks that glittered like a thousand
bright new pennies as he rode. His high gilded helm displayed a
copper sun on its brow, and the round shield slung behind him bore
the sun-and-spear of House Martell on its polished metal
surface. A Martell sun, but ten years too young, Tyrion thought as he
reined up, too fit as well, and far too fierce. He knew what he
must deal with by then. How many Dornishmen does it take to start a
war? he asked himself. Only one. Yet he had no choice but to smile.
“Well met, my lords. We had word of your approach, and His
Grace King Joffrey bid me ride out to welcome you in his name. My
lord father the King’s Hand sends his greetings as
well.” He feigned an amiable confusion. “Which of you
is Prince Doran?”
“My brother’s health requires he remain at
Sunspear.” The princeling removed his helm. Beneath, his face
was lined and saturnine, with thin arched brows above large eyes as
black and shiny as pools of coal oil. Only a few streaks of silver
marred the lustrous black hair that receded from his brow in a
widow’s peak as sharply pointed as his nose. A salty
Dornishman for certain. “Prince Doran has sent me to join
King Joffrey’s council in his stead, as it please His
Grace.”
“His Grace will be most honored to have the counsel of a
warrior as renowned as Prince Oberyn of Dorne,” said Tyrion,
thinking, This will mean blood in the gutters. “And your
noble companions are most welcome as well.”
“Permit me to acquaint you with them, my lord of
Lannister. Ser Deziel Dalt, of Lemonwood. Lord Tremond Gargalen.
Lord Harmen Uller and his brother Ser Ulwyck. Ser Ryon Allyrion and
his natural son Ser Daemon Sand, the Bastard of Godsgrace. Lord
Dagos Manwoody, his brother Ser Myles, his sons Mors and Dickon.
Ser Arron Qorgyle. And never let it be thought that I would neglect
the ladies. Myria Jordayne, heir to the Tor. Lady Larra Blackmont,
her daughter Jynessa, her son Perros.” He raised a slender
hand toward a black-haired woman to the rear, beckoning her
forward. “And this is Ellaria Sand, mine own
paramour.”
Tyrion swallowed a groan. His paramour, and bastard-born, Cersei
will pitch a holy fit if he wants her at the wedding. If she
consigned the woman to some dark corner below the salt, his sister
would risk the Red Viper’s wrath. Seat her beside him at the
high table, and every other lady on the dais was like to take
offense. Did Prince Doran mean to provoke a quarrel?
Prince Oberyn wheeled his horse about to face his fellow
Dornishmen. “Ellaria, lords and ladies, sers, see how well
King Joffrey loves us. His Grace has been so kind as to send his
own Uncle Imp to bring us to his court. “
Bronn snorted back laughter, and Tyrion perforce must feign
amusement as well. “Not alone, my lords. That would be too
enormous a task for a little man like me.” His own party had
come up on them, so it was his turn to name the names. “Let
me present Ser Flement Brax, heir to Hornvale. Lord Gyles of Rosby.
Ser Addam Marbrand, Lord Commander of the City Watch. Jalabhar Xho,
Prince of the Red Flower Vale. Ser Harys Swyft, my uncle
Kevan’s good father by marriage. Ser Merlon Crakehall. Ser
Philip Foote and Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, two heroes of our
recent battle against the rebel Stannis Baratheon. And mine own
squire, young Podrick of House Payne.” The names had a nice
ringing sound as Tyrion reeled them off, but the bearers were
nowise near as distinguished nor formidable a company as those who
accompanied Prince Oberyn, as both of them knew full well.
“My lord of Lannister,” said Lady Blackmont,
“we have come a long dusty way, and rest and refreshment
would be most welcome. Might we continue on to the city?”
“At once, my lady.” Tyrion turned his horse’s
head, and called to Ser Addam Marbrand. The mounted gold cloaks who
formed the greatest part of his honor guard turned their horses
crisply at Ser Addam’s command, and the column set off for
the river and King’s Landing beyond. Oberyn Nymeros Martell, Tyrion muttered under his breath as he
fell in beside the man. The Red Viper of Dorne. And what in the
seven hells am I supposed to do with him?
He knew the man only by reputation, to be
sure . . . but the reputation was fearsome.
When he was no more than sixteen, Prince Oberyn had been found abed
with the paramour of old Lord Yronwood, a huge man of fierce repute
and short temper. A duel ensued, though in view of the
prince’s youth and high birth, it was only to first blood.
Both men took cuts, and honor was satisfied. Yet Prince Oberyn soon
recovered, while Lord Yronwood’s wounds festered and killed
him. Afterward men whispered that Oberyn had fought with a poisoned
sword, and ever thereafter friends and foes alike called him the
Red Viper.
That was many years ago, to be sure. The boy of sixteen was a
man past forty now, and his legend had grown a deal darker. He had
traveled in the Free Cities, leaming the poisoner’s trade and
perhaps arts darker still, if rumors could be believed. He had
studied at the Citadel, going so far as to forge six links of a
maester’s chain before he grew bored. He had soldiered in the
Disputed Lands across the narrow sea, riding with the Second Sons
for a time before forming his own company. His tourneys, his
battles, his duels, his horses, his
carnality . . . it was said that he bedded men
and women both, and had begotten bastard girls all over Dorne. The
sand snakes, men called his daughters. So far as Tyrion had heard,
Prince Oberyn had never fathered a son.
And of course, he had crippled the heir to Highgarden. There is no man in the Seven Kingdoms who will be less welcome
at a Tyrell wedding, thought Tyrion. To send Prince Oberyn to
King’s Landing while the city still hosted Lord Mace Tyrell,
two of his sons, and thousands of their men-at-arms was a
provocation as dangerous as Prince Oberyn himself. A wrong word, an
ill-timed jest, a look, that’s all it will take, and our
noble allies will be at one another’s throats.
“We have met before,” the Dornish prince said lightly
to Tyrion as they rode side by side along the kingsroad, past ashen
fields and the skeletons of trees. “I would not expect you to
remember, though. You were even smaller than you are
now.”
There was a mocking edge to his voice that Tyrion misliked, but
he was not about to let the Dornishman provoke him. “When was
this, my lord?” he asked in tones of polite interest.
“Oh, many and many a year ago, when my mother ruled in
Dorne and your lord father was Hand to a different king.” Not so different as you might think, reflected Tyrion.
“It was when I visited Casterly Rock with my mother, her
consort, and my sister Elia. I was, oh, fourteen, fifteen,
thereabouts, Elia a year older. Your brother and sister were eight
or nine, as I recall, and you had just been born.” A queer time to come visiting. His mother had died giving him
birth, so the Martells would have found the Rock deep in mouming.
His father especially. Lord Tywin seldom spoke of his wife, but
Tyrion had heard his uncles talk of the love between them. In those
days, his father had been Aerys’s Hand, and many people said
that Lord Tywin Lannister ruled the Seven Kingdoms, but Lady Joanna
ruled Lord Tywin. “He was not the same man after she died,
imp,” his Uncle Gery told him once. “The best part of
him died with her.” Gerion had been the youngest of Lord
Tytos Lannister’s four sons, and the uncle Tyrion liked
best.
But he was gone now, lost beyond the seas, and Tyrion himself
had put Lady Joanna in her grave. “Did you find Casterly Rock
to your liking, my lord?”
“Scarcely. Your father ignored us the whole time we were
there, after commanding Ser Kevan to see to our entertainment. The
cell they gave me had a featherbed to sleep in and Myrish carpets
on the floor, but it was dark and windowless, much like a dungeon
when you come down to it, as I told Elia at the time. Your skies
were too grey, your wines too sweet, your women too chaste, your
food too bland . . . and you yourself were the
greatest disappointment of all.”
“I had just been born. What did you expect of
me?”
“Enormity,” the black-haired prince replied.
“You were small, but far-famed. We were in Oldtown at your
birth, and all the city talked of was the monster that had been
born to the King’s Hand, and what such an omen might foretell
for the realm.”
“Famine, plague, and war, no doubt.” Tyrion gave a
sour smile. “It’s always famine, plague, and war. Oh,
and winter, and the long night that never ends.”
“All that,” said Prince Oberyn, “and your
father’s fall as well. Lord Tywin had made himself greater
than King Aerys, I heard one begging brother preach, but only a god
is meant to stand above a king. You were his curse, a punishment
sent by the gods to teach him that he was no better than any other
man.”
“I try, but he refuses to learn.” Tyrion gave a
sigh. “But do go on, I pray you. I love a good
tale.”
“And well you might, since you were said to have one, a
stiff curly tail like a swine’s. Your head was monstrous
huge, we heard, half again the size of your body, and you had been
born with thick black hair and a beard besides, an evil eye, and
lion’s claws. Your teeth were so long you could not close
your mouth, and between your legs were a girl’s privates as
well as a boy’s.”
“Life would be much simpler if men could fuck themselves,
don’t you agree? And I can think of a few times when claws
and teeth might have proved useful. Even so, I begin to see the
nature of your complaint.”
Bronn gave out with a chuckle, but Oberyn only smiled. “We
might never have seen you at all but for your sweet sister. You
were never seen at table or hall, though sometimes at night we
could hear a baby howling down in the depths of the Rock. You did
have a monstrous great voice, I must grant you that. You would wail
for hours, and nothing would quiet you but a woman’s
teat.”
“Still true, as it happens.”
This time Prince Oberyn did laugh. “A taste we share. Lord
Gargalen once told me he hoped to die with a sword in his hand, to
which I replied that I would sooner go with a breast in
mine.”
Tyrion had to grin. “You were speaking of my
sister?”
“Cersei promised Elia to show you to us. The day before we
were to sail, whilst my mother and your father were closeted
together, she and Jaime took us down to your nursery. Your wet nurse tried to send
us off, but your sister was having none of that. ‘He’s
mine’, she said, ‘and you’re just a milk cow, you
can’t tell me what to do. Be quiet or I’ll have my
father cut your tongue out. A cow doesn’t need a tongue, only
udders.’ ”
“Her Grace learned charm at an early age,” said
Tyrion, amused by the notion of his sister claiming him as hers.
She’s never been in any rush to claim me since, the gods
know.
“Cersei even undid your swaddling clothes to give us a
better look,” the Dornish prince continued. “You did
have one evil eye, and some black fuzz on your scalp. Perhaps your
head was larger than most . . . but there was
no tail, no beard, neither teeth nor claws, and nothing between
your legs but a tiny pink cock. After all the wonderful whispers,
Lord Tywin’s Doom turned out to be just a hideous red infant
with stunted legs. Elia even made the noise that young girls make
at the sight of infants, I’m sure you’ve heard it. The
same noise they make over cute kittens and playful puppies. I
believe she wanted to nurse you herself, ugly as you were. When I
commented that you seemed a poor sort of monster, your sister said,
‘He killed my mother’, and twisted your little cock so hard I
thought she was like to pull it off. You shrieked, but it was only
when your brother Jaime said, ‘Leave him be, you’re
hurting him’, that Cersei let go of you. ‘It doesn’t
matter’, she told us. ‘Everyone says he’s like to die
soon. He shouldn’t even have lived this
long.’ ”
The sun was shining bright above them, and the day was
pleasantly warm for autumn, but Tyrion Lannister went cold all over
when he heard that. My sweet sister. He scratched at the scar of
his nose and gave the Dornishman a taste of his “evil
eye.” Now why would he tell such a tale? Is he testing me, or
simply twisting my cock as Cersei did, so he can hear me scream?
“Be sure and tell that story to my father. It will delight
him as much as it did me. The part about my tail, especially. I did
have one, but he had it lopped off.”
Prince Oberyn had a chuckle. “You’ve grown more
amusing since last we met.”
“Yes, but I meant to grow taller.”
“While we are speaking of amusement, I heard a curious
tale from Lord Buckler’s steward. He claimed that you had put
a tax on women’s privy purses.”
“It is a tax on whoring,” said Tyrion, irritated all
over again. And it was my bloody father’s notion. “Only
a penny for each, ah . . . act. The
King’s Hand felt it might help improve the morals of the
city.” And pay for Joffrey’s wedding besides. Needless
to say, as master of coin, Tyrion had gotten all the blame for it.
Bronn said they were calling it the dwarf’s penny
in the streets. “Spread your legs for the Halfman, now,”
they were shouting in the brothels and wine sinks, if the sellsword
could be believed.
“I will make certain to keep my pouch full of pennies.
Even a prince must pay his taxes.”
“Why should you need to go whoring?” He glanced back
to where Ellaria Sand rode among the other women. “Did you
tire of your paramour on the road?”
“Never. We share too much.” Prince Oberyn shrugged.
“We have never shared a beautiful blonde woman, however, and
Ellaria is curious. Do you know of such a creature?”
“I am a man wedded.” Though not yet bedded. “I
no longer frequent whores.” Unless I want to see them
hanged.
Oberyn abruptly changed the subject. “It’s said
there are to be seventy-seven dishes served at the king’s
wedding feast.”
“Are you hungry, my prince?”
“I have hungered for a long time. Though not for food.
Pray tell me, when will the justice be served?”
“Justice.” Yes, that is why he’s here, I
should have seen that at once. “You were close to your
sister?”
“As children Elia and I were inseparable, much like your
own brother and sister.” Gods, I hope not. “Wars and weddings have kept us well
occupied, Prince Oberyn. I fear no one has yet had the time to look
into murders sixteen years stale, dreadful as they were. We shall,
of course, just as soon as we may. Any help that Dorne might be able
to provide to restore the king’s peace would only hasten the
beginning of my lord father’s inquiry—”
“Dwarf,” said the Red Viper, in a tone grown
markedly less cordial, “spare me your Lannister lies. Is it
sheep you take us for, or fools? My brother is not a bloodthirsty
man, but neither has he been asleep for sixteen years. Jon Arryn
came to Sunspear the year after Robert took the throne, and you can
be sure that he was questioned closely. Him, and a hundred more. I
did not come for some mummer’s show of an inquiry. I came for
justice for Elia and her children, and I will have it. Starting
with this lummox Gregor Clegane . . . but not,
I think, ending there. Before he dies, the Enormity That Rides will
tell me whence came his orders, please assure your lord father of
that.” He smiled. “An old septon once claimed I was
living proof of the goodness of the gods. Do you know why that is,
Imp?”
“No,” Tyrion admitted warily.
“Why, if the gods were cruel, they would have made me my
mother’s firstborn, and Doran her third. I am a bloodthirsty
man, you see. And it is me you must contend with now, not my
patient, prudent, and gouty brother.”
Tyrion could see the sun shining on the Blackwater Rush half a
mile ahead, and on the walls and towers and hills of King’s
Landing beyond. He glanced over his shoulder, at the glittering column following
them up the kingsroad. “You speak like a man with a great
host at his back,” he said, “yet all I see are three
hundred. Do you spy that city there, north of the river?”
“The midden heap you call King’s Landing?”
“That’s the very one.”
“Not only do I see it, I believe I smell it
now.”
“Then take a good sniff, my lord. Fill up your nose. Half
a million people stink more than three hundred, you’ll find.
Do you smell the gold cloaks? There are near five thousand of them.
My father’s own sworn swords must account for another twenty
thousand. And then there are the roses. Roses smell so sweet,
don’t they? Especially when there are so many of them. Fifty,
sixty, seventy thousand roses, in the city or camped outside it, I
can’t really say how many are left, but there’s more
than I care to count, anyway.”
Martell gave a shrug. “In Dorne of old before we married
Daeron, it was said that all flowers bow before the sun. Should the
roses seek to hinder me I’ll gladly trample them
underfoot.”
“As you trampled Willas Tyrell?”
The Dornishman did not react as expected. “I had a letter
from Willas not half a year past. We share an interest in fine
horseflesh. He has never borne me any ill will for what happened in
the lists. I struck his breastplate clean, but his foot caught in a
stirrup as he fell and his horse came down on top of him. I sent a
maester to him afterward, but it was all he could do to save the
boy’s leg. The knee was far past mending. If any were to
blame, it was his fool of a father. Willas Tyrell was green as his
surcoat and had no business riding in such company. The Fat Flower
thrust him into tourneys at too tender an age, just as he did with
the other two. He wanted another Leo Longthorn, and made himself a
cripple.”
“There are those who say Ser Loras is better than Leo
Longthorn ever was,” said Tyrion.
“Renly’s little rose? I doubt that.”
“Doubt it all you wish,” said Tyrion, “but Ser
Loras has defeated many good knights, including my brother
Jaime.”
“By defeated, you mean unhorsed, in tourney. Tell me who
he’s slain in battle if you mean to frighten me.”
“Ser Robar Royce and Ser Emmon Cuy, for two. And men say
he performed prodigious feats of valor on the Blackwater, fighting
beside Lord Renly’s ghost.”
“So these same men who saw the prodigious feats saw the
ghost as well, yes?” The Dornishman laughed lightly.
Tyrion gave him a long look. “Chataya’s on the
Street of Silk has several girls who might suit your needs. Dancy
has hair the color of honey. Marei’s is pale white-gold. I
would advise you to keep one or the other by your side at all
times, my lord.”
“At all times?” Prince Oberyn lifted a thin black
eyebrow. “And why is that, my good Imp?”
“You want to die with a breast in hand, you said.”
Tyrion cantered on ahead to where the ferry barges waited on the
south bank of the Blackwater. He had suffered all he meant to
suffer of what passed for Dornish wit. Father should have sent
Joffrey after all. He could have asked Prince Oberyn if he knew how
a Dornishman differed from a cowflop. That made him grin despite
himself. He would have to make a point of being on hand when the
Red Viper was presented to the king.
A horse whickered impatiently behind him, from amidst the ranks
of gold cloaks drawn up across the road. Tyrion could hear Lord
Gyles coughing as well. He had not asked for Gyles, no more than
he’d asked for Ser Addam. Or Jalabhar Xho or any of the rest,
but his lord father felt Doran Martell might take it ill if only a
dwarf came out to escort him across the Blackwater. Joffrey should have met the Dornishmen himself, he reflected as
he sat waiting, but he would have mucked it up, no doubt. Of late
the king had been repeating little jests about the Dornish that
he’d picked up from Mace Tyrell’s men-atarms. How many
Dornishmen does it take to shoe a horse? Nine. One to do the
shoeing, and eight to lift the horse up. Somehow Tyrion did not
think Doran Martell would find that amusing.
He could see their banners flying as the riders emerged from the
green of the living wood in a long dusty column. From here to the
river, only bare black trees remained, a legacy of his battle. Too
many banners, he thought sourly, as he watched the ashes kick up
under the hooves of the approaching horses, as they had beneath the
hooves of the Tyrell van as it smashed Stannis in the flank.
Martell’s brought half the lords of Dorne, by the look of it.
He tried to think of some good that might come of that, and failed.
“How many banners do you count?” he asked Bronn.
The sellsword knight shaded his eyes.
“Eight . . . no, nine.”
Tyrion turned in his saddle. “Pod, come up here. Describe
the arms you see, and tell me which houses they
represent.”
Podrick Payne edged his gelding closer. He was carrying the
royal standard, Joffrey’s great stag-and-lion, and struggling
with its weight. Bronn bore Tyrion’s own banner, the lion of Lannister gold
on crimson. He’s getting taller, Tyrion realized as Pod stood
in his stirrups for a better look. He’ll soon tower over me
like all the rest. The lad had been making a diligent study of
Dornish heraldry, at Tyrion’s command, but as ever he was
nervous. “I can’t see. The wind is flapping
them.”
“Bronn, tell the boy what you see.”
Bronn looked very much the knight today, in his new doublet and
cloak, the flaming chain across his chest. “A red sun on
orange,” he called, “with a spear through its
back.”
“Martell,” Podrick Payne said at once, visibly
relieved. “House Martell of Sunspear, my lord. The Prince of
Dorne.”
“My horse would have known that one,” said Tyrion
dryly. “Give him another, Bronn.”
“There’s a purple flag with yellow balls.”
“Lemons?” Pod said hopefully. “A purple fleld
strewn with lemons? For House Dalt? Of, of Lemonwood.”
“Might be. Next’s a big black bird on yellow.
Something pink or white in its claws, hard to say with the banner
flapping.”
“The vulture of Blackmont grasps a baby in its
talons,” said Pod. “House Blackmont of Blackmont,
ser.”
Bronn laughed. “Reading books again? Books will ruin your
sword eye, boy. I see a skull too. A black banner.”
“The crowned skull of House Manwoody, bone and gold on
black.” Pod sounded more confident with every correct answer.
“The Manwoodys of Kingsgrave.”
“Three black spiders?”
“They’re scorpions, ser. House Qorgyle of Sandstone,
three scorpions black on red.”
“Red and yellow, a jagged line between.”
“The flames of Hellholt. House Uller.”
Tyrion was impressed. The boy’s not half stupid, once he
gets his tongue untied. “Go on, Pod,” he urged.
“If you get them all, I’ll make you a gift.”
“A pie with red and black slices,” said Bronn.
“There’s a gold hand in the middle.”
“House Allyrion of Godsgrace.”
“A red chicken eating a snake, looks like.”
“The Gargalens of Salt Shore. A cockatrice. Ser. Pardon.
Not a chicken. Red, with a black snake in its beak.”
“Very good!” exclaimed Tyrion. “One more,
lad.”
Bronn scanned the ranks of the approaching Dornishmen. “The
last’s a golden feather on green checks.”
“A golden quill, ser. Jordayne of the Tor.”
Tyrion laughed. “Nine, and well done. I could not have
named them all myself.” That was a lie, but it would give the
boy some pride, and that he badly needed. Martell brings some formidable companions, it would seem. Not
one of the houses Pod had named was small or insignificant. Nine of
the greatest lords of Dorne were coming up the kingsroad, them or
their heirs, and somehow Tyrion did not think they had come all
this way just to see the dancing bear. There was a message here.
And not one I like. He wondered if it had been a mistake to ship
Myrcella down to Sunspear.
“My lord,” Pod said, a little timidly,
“there’s no litter.”
Tyrion turned his head sharply. The boy was right.
“Doran Martell always travels in a litter,” the boy
said. “A carved litter with silk hangings, and suns on the
drapes.”
Tyrion had heard the same talk. Prince Doran was past fifty, and
gouty. He may have wanted to make faster time, he told himself. He
may have feared his litter would make too tempting a target for
brigands, or that it would prove too cumbersome in the high passes
of the Boneway. Perhaps his gout is better.
So why did he have such a bad feeling about this?
This waiting was intolerable. “Banners forward,” he
snapped. “We’ll meet them.” He kicked his horse.
Bronn and Pod followed, one to either side. When the Dornishmen saw
them coming, they spurred their own mounts, banners rippling as
they rode. From their ornate saddles were slung the round metal
shields they favored, and many carried bundles of short throwing
spears, or the double-curved Dornish bows they used so well from
horseback.
There were three sorts of Dornishmen, the first King Daeron had
observed. There were the salty Dornishmen who lived along the
coasts, the sandy Dornishmen of the deserts and long river valleys,
and the stony Dornishmen who made their fastnesses in the passes
and heights of the Red Mountains. The salty Dornishmen had the most
Rhoynish blood, the stony Dornishmen the least.
All three sorts seemed well represented in Doran’s
retinue. The salty Dornishmen were lithe and dark, with smooth
olive skin and long black hair streaming in the wind. The sandy
Dornishmen were even darker, their faces burned brown by the hot
Dornish sun. They wound long bright scarfs around their helms to
ward off sunstroke. The stony Dornishmen were biggest and fairest,
sons of the Andals and the First Men, brown-haired or blond, with
faces that freckled or burned in the sun instead of browning.
The lords wore silk and satin robes with jeweled belts and
flowing sleeves. Their armor was heavily enameled and inlaid with
burnished copper, shining silver, and soft red gold. They came
astride red horses and golden ones and a few as pale as snow, all
slim and swift, with long necks and narrow beautiful heads. The
fabled sand steeds of Dorne were smaller than proper warhorses and
could not bear such weight of armor, but it was said that they
could run for a day and night and another day, and never tire.
The Dornish leader forked a stallion black as sin with a mane and
tail the color of fire. He sat his saddle as if he’d been
born there, tall, slim, graceful. A cloak of pale red silk
fluttered from his shoulders, and his shirt was armored with
overlapping rows of copper disks that glittered like a thousand
bright new pennies as he rode. His high gilded helm displayed a
copper sun on its brow, and the round shield slung behind him bore
the sun-and-spear of House Martell on its polished metal
surface. A Martell sun, but ten years too young, Tyrion thought as he
reined up, too fit as well, and far too fierce. He knew what he
must deal with by then. How many Dornishmen does it take to start a
war? he asked himself. Only one. Yet he had no choice but to smile.
“Well met, my lords. We had word of your approach, and His
Grace King Joffrey bid me ride out to welcome you in his name. My
lord father the King’s Hand sends his greetings as
well.” He feigned an amiable confusion. “Which of you
is Prince Doran?”
“My brother’s health requires he remain at
Sunspear.” The princeling removed his helm. Beneath, his face
was lined and saturnine, with thin arched brows above large eyes as
black and shiny as pools of coal oil. Only a few streaks of silver
marred the lustrous black hair that receded from his brow in a
widow’s peak as sharply pointed as his nose. A salty
Dornishman for certain. “Prince Doran has sent me to join
King Joffrey’s council in his stead, as it please His
Grace.”
“His Grace will be most honored to have the counsel of a
warrior as renowned as Prince Oberyn of Dorne,” said Tyrion,
thinking, This will mean blood in the gutters. “And your
noble companions are most welcome as well.”
“Permit me to acquaint you with them, my lord of
Lannister. Ser Deziel Dalt, of Lemonwood. Lord Tremond Gargalen.
Lord Harmen Uller and his brother Ser Ulwyck. Ser Ryon Allyrion and
his natural son Ser Daemon Sand, the Bastard of Godsgrace. Lord
Dagos Manwoody, his brother Ser Myles, his sons Mors and Dickon.
Ser Arron Qorgyle. And never let it be thought that I would neglect
the ladies. Myria Jordayne, heir to the Tor. Lady Larra Blackmont,
her daughter Jynessa, her son Perros.” He raised a slender
hand toward a black-haired woman to the rear, beckoning her
forward. “And this is Ellaria Sand, mine own
paramour.”
Tyrion swallowed a groan. His paramour, and bastard-born, Cersei
will pitch a holy fit if he wants her at the wedding. If she
consigned the woman to some dark corner below the salt, his sister
would risk the Red Viper’s wrath. Seat her beside him at the
high table, and every other lady on the dais was like to take
offense. Did Prince Doran mean to provoke a quarrel?
Prince Oberyn wheeled his horse about to face his fellow
Dornishmen. “Ellaria, lords and ladies, sers, see how well
King Joffrey loves us. His Grace has been so kind as to send his
own Uncle Imp to bring us to his court. “
Bronn snorted back laughter, and Tyrion perforce must feign
amusement as well. “Not alone, my lords. That would be too
enormous a task for a little man like me.” His own party had
come up on them, so it was his turn to name the names. “Let
me present Ser Flement Brax, heir to Hornvale. Lord Gyles of Rosby.
Ser Addam Marbrand, Lord Commander of the City Watch. Jalabhar Xho,
Prince of the Red Flower Vale. Ser Harys Swyft, my uncle
Kevan’s good father by marriage. Ser Merlon Crakehall. Ser
Philip Foote and Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, two heroes of our
recent battle against the rebel Stannis Baratheon. And mine own
squire, young Podrick of House Payne.” The names had a nice
ringing sound as Tyrion reeled them off, but the bearers were
nowise near as distinguished nor formidable a company as those who
accompanied Prince Oberyn, as both of them knew full well.
“My lord of Lannister,” said Lady Blackmont,
“we have come a long dusty way, and rest and refreshment
would be most welcome. Might we continue on to the city?”
“At once, my lady.” Tyrion turned his horse’s
head, and called to Ser Addam Marbrand. The mounted gold cloaks who
formed the greatest part of his honor guard turned their horses
crisply at Ser Addam’s command, and the column set off for
the river and King’s Landing beyond. Oberyn Nymeros Martell, Tyrion muttered under his breath as he
fell in beside the man. The Red Viper of Dorne. And what in the
seven hells am I supposed to do with him?
He knew the man only by reputation, to be
sure . . . but the reputation was fearsome.
When he was no more than sixteen, Prince Oberyn had been found abed
with the paramour of old Lord Yronwood, a huge man of fierce repute
and short temper. A duel ensued, though in view of the
prince’s youth and high birth, it was only to first blood.
Both men took cuts, and honor was satisfied. Yet Prince Oberyn soon
recovered, while Lord Yronwood’s wounds festered and killed
him. Afterward men whispered that Oberyn had fought with a poisoned
sword, and ever thereafter friends and foes alike called him the
Red Viper.
That was many years ago, to be sure. The boy of sixteen was a
man past forty now, and his legend had grown a deal darker. He had
traveled in the Free Cities, leaming the poisoner’s trade and
perhaps arts darker still, if rumors could be believed. He had
studied at the Citadel, going so far as to forge six links of a
maester’s chain before he grew bored. He had soldiered in the
Disputed Lands across the narrow sea, riding with the Second Sons
for a time before forming his own company. His tourneys, his
battles, his duels, his horses, his
carnality . . . it was said that he bedded men
and women both, and had begotten bastard girls all over Dorne. The
sand snakes, men called his daughters. So far as Tyrion had heard,
Prince Oberyn had never fathered a son.
And of course, he had crippled the heir to Highgarden. There is no man in the Seven Kingdoms who will be less welcome
at a Tyrell wedding, thought Tyrion. To send Prince Oberyn to
King’s Landing while the city still hosted Lord Mace Tyrell,
two of his sons, and thousands of their men-at-arms was a
provocation as dangerous as Prince Oberyn himself. A wrong word, an
ill-timed jest, a look, that’s all it will take, and our
noble allies will be at one another’s throats.
“We have met before,” the Dornish prince said lightly
to Tyrion as they rode side by side along the kingsroad, past ashen
fields and the skeletons of trees. “I would not expect you to
remember, though. You were even smaller than you are
now.”
There was a mocking edge to his voice that Tyrion misliked, but
he was not about to let the Dornishman provoke him. “When was
this, my lord?” he asked in tones of polite interest.
“Oh, many and many a year ago, when my mother ruled in
Dorne and your lord father was Hand to a different king.” Not so different as you might think, reflected Tyrion.
“It was when I visited Casterly Rock with my mother, her
consort, and my sister Elia. I was, oh, fourteen, fifteen,
thereabouts, Elia a year older. Your brother and sister were eight
or nine, as I recall, and you had just been born.” A queer time to come visiting. His mother had died giving him
birth, so the Martells would have found the Rock deep in mouming.
His father especially. Lord Tywin seldom spoke of his wife, but
Tyrion had heard his uncles talk of the love between them. In those
days, his father had been Aerys’s Hand, and many people said
that Lord Tywin Lannister ruled the Seven Kingdoms, but Lady Joanna
ruled Lord Tywin. “He was not the same man after she died,
imp,” his Uncle Gery told him once. “The best part of
him died with her.” Gerion had been the youngest of Lord
Tytos Lannister’s four sons, and the uncle Tyrion liked
best.
But he was gone now, lost beyond the seas, and Tyrion himself
had put Lady Joanna in her grave. “Did you find Casterly Rock
to your liking, my lord?”
“Scarcely. Your father ignored us the whole time we were
there, after commanding Ser Kevan to see to our entertainment. The
cell they gave me had a featherbed to sleep in and Myrish carpets
on the floor, but it was dark and windowless, much like a dungeon
when you come down to it, as I told Elia at the time. Your skies
were too grey, your wines too sweet, your women too chaste, your
food too bland . . . and you yourself were the
greatest disappointment of all.”
“I had just been born. What did you expect of
me?”
“Enormity,” the black-haired prince replied.
“You were small, but far-famed. We were in Oldtown at your
birth, and all the city talked of was the monster that had been
born to the King’s Hand, and what such an omen might foretell
for the realm.”
“Famine, plague, and war, no doubt.” Tyrion gave a
sour smile. “It’s always famine, plague, and war. Oh,
and winter, and the long night that never ends.”
“All that,” said Prince Oberyn, “and your
father’s fall as well. Lord Tywin had made himself greater
than King Aerys, I heard one begging brother preach, but only a god
is meant to stand above a king. You were his curse, a punishment
sent by the gods to teach him that he was no better than any other
man.”
“I try, but he refuses to learn.” Tyrion gave a
sigh. “But do go on, I pray you. I love a good
tale.”
“And well you might, since you were said to have one, a
stiff curly tail like a swine’s. Your head was monstrous
huge, we heard, half again the size of your body, and you had been
born with thick black hair and a beard besides, an evil eye, and
lion’s claws. Your teeth were so long you could not close
your mouth, and between your legs were a girl’s privates as
well as a boy’s.”
“Life would be much simpler if men could fuck themselves,
don’t you agree? And I can think of a few times when claws
and teeth might have proved useful. Even so, I begin to see the
nature of your complaint.”
Bronn gave out with a chuckle, but Oberyn only smiled. “We
might never have seen you at all but for your sweet sister. You
were never seen at table or hall, though sometimes at night we
could hear a baby howling down in the depths of the Rock. You did
have a monstrous great voice, I must grant you that. You would wail
for hours, and nothing would quiet you but a woman’s
teat.”
“Still true, as it happens.”
This time Prince Oberyn did laugh. “A taste we share. Lord
Gargalen once told me he hoped to die with a sword in his hand, to
which I replied that I would sooner go with a breast in
mine.”
Tyrion had to grin. “You were speaking of my
sister?”
“Cersei promised Elia to show you to us. The day before we
were to sail, whilst my mother and your father were closeted
together, she and Jaime took us down to your nursery. Your wet nurse tried to send
us off, but your sister was having none of that. ‘He’s
mine’, she said, ‘and you’re just a milk cow, you
can’t tell me what to do. Be quiet or I’ll have my
father cut your tongue out. A cow doesn’t need a tongue, only
udders.’ ”
“Her Grace learned charm at an early age,” said
Tyrion, amused by the notion of his sister claiming him as hers.
She’s never been in any rush to claim me since, the gods
know.
“Cersei even undid your swaddling clothes to give us a
better look,” the Dornish prince continued. “You did
have one evil eye, and some black fuzz on your scalp. Perhaps your
head was larger than most . . . but there was
no tail, no beard, neither teeth nor claws, and nothing between
your legs but a tiny pink cock. After all the wonderful whispers,
Lord Tywin’s Doom turned out to be just a hideous red infant
with stunted legs. Elia even made the noise that young girls make
at the sight of infants, I’m sure you’ve heard it. The
same noise they make over cute kittens and playful puppies. I
believe she wanted to nurse you herself, ugly as you were. When I
commented that you seemed a poor sort of monster, your sister said,
‘He killed my mother’, and twisted your little cock so hard I
thought she was like to pull it off. You shrieked, but it was only
when your brother Jaime said, ‘Leave him be, you’re
hurting him’, that Cersei let go of you. ‘It doesn’t
matter’, she told us. ‘Everyone says he’s like to die
soon. He shouldn’t even have lived this
long.’ ”
The sun was shining bright above them, and the day was
pleasantly warm for autumn, but Tyrion Lannister went cold all over
when he heard that. My sweet sister. He scratched at the scar of
his nose and gave the Dornishman a taste of his “evil
eye.” Now why would he tell such a tale? Is he testing me, or
simply twisting my cock as Cersei did, so he can hear me scream?
“Be sure and tell that story to my father. It will delight
him as much as it did me. The part about my tail, especially. I did
have one, but he had it lopped off.”
Prince Oberyn had a chuckle. “You’ve grown more
amusing since last we met.”
“Yes, but I meant to grow taller.”
“While we are speaking of amusement, I heard a curious
tale from Lord Buckler’s steward. He claimed that you had put
a tax on women’s privy purses.”
“It is a tax on whoring,” said Tyrion, irritated all
over again. And it was my bloody father’s notion. “Only
a penny for each, ah . . . act. The
King’s Hand felt it might help improve the morals of the
city.” And pay for Joffrey’s wedding besides. Needless
to say, as master of coin, Tyrion had gotten all the blame for it.
Bronn said they were calling it the dwarf’s penny
in the streets. “Spread your legs for the Halfman, now,”
they were shouting in the brothels and wine sinks, if the sellsword
could be believed.
“I will make certain to keep my pouch full of pennies.
Even a prince must pay his taxes.”
“Why should you need to go whoring?” He glanced back
to where Ellaria Sand rode among the other women. “Did you
tire of your paramour on the road?”
“Never. We share too much.” Prince Oberyn shrugged.
“We have never shared a beautiful blonde woman, however, and
Ellaria is curious. Do you know of such a creature?”
“I am a man wedded.” Though not yet bedded. “I
no longer frequent whores.” Unless I want to see them
hanged.
Oberyn abruptly changed the subject. “It’s said
there are to be seventy-seven dishes served at the king’s
wedding feast.”
“Are you hungry, my prince?”
“I have hungered for a long time. Though not for food.
Pray tell me, when will the justice be served?”
“Justice.” Yes, that is why he’s here, I
should have seen that at once. “You were close to your
sister?”
“As children Elia and I were inseparable, much like your
own brother and sister.” Gods, I hope not. “Wars and weddings have kept us well
occupied, Prince Oberyn. I fear no one has yet had the time to look
into murders sixteen years stale, dreadful as they were. We shall,
of course, just as soon as we may. Any help that Dorne might be able
to provide to restore the king’s peace would only hasten the
beginning of my lord father’s inquiry—”
“Dwarf,” said the Red Viper, in a tone grown
markedly less cordial, “spare me your Lannister lies. Is it
sheep you take us for, or fools? My brother is not a bloodthirsty
man, but neither has he been asleep for sixteen years. Jon Arryn
came to Sunspear the year after Robert took the throne, and you can
be sure that he was questioned closely. Him, and a hundred more. I
did not come for some mummer’s show of an inquiry. I came for
justice for Elia and her children, and I will have it. Starting
with this lummox Gregor Clegane . . . but not,
I think, ending there. Before he dies, the Enormity That Rides will
tell me whence came his orders, please assure your lord father of
that.” He smiled. “An old septon once claimed I was
living proof of the goodness of the gods. Do you know why that is,
Imp?”
“No,” Tyrion admitted warily.
“Why, if the gods were cruel, they would have made me my
mother’s firstborn, and Doran her third. I am a bloodthirsty
man, you see. And it is me you must contend with now, not my
patient, prudent, and gouty brother.”
Tyrion could see the sun shining on the Blackwater Rush half a
mile ahead, and on the walls and towers and hills of King’s
Landing beyond. He glanced over his shoulder, at the glittering column following
them up the kingsroad. “You speak like a man with a great
host at his back,” he said, “yet all I see are three
hundred. Do you spy that city there, north of the river?”
“The midden heap you call King’s Landing?”
“That’s the very one.”
“Not only do I see it, I believe I smell it
now.”
“Then take a good sniff, my lord. Fill up your nose. Half
a million people stink more than three hundred, you’ll find.
Do you smell the gold cloaks? There are near five thousand of them.
My father’s own sworn swords must account for another twenty
thousand. And then there are the roses. Roses smell so sweet,
don’t they? Especially when there are so many of them. Fifty,
sixty, seventy thousand roses, in the city or camped outside it, I
can’t really say how many are left, but there’s more
than I care to count, anyway.”
Martell gave a shrug. “In Dorne of old before we married
Daeron, it was said that all flowers bow before the sun. Should the
roses seek to hinder me I’ll gladly trample them
underfoot.”
“As you trampled Willas Tyrell?”
The Dornishman did not react as expected. “I had a letter
from Willas not half a year past. We share an interest in fine
horseflesh. He has never borne me any ill will for what happened in
the lists. I struck his breastplate clean, but his foot caught in a
stirrup as he fell and his horse came down on top of him. I sent a
maester to him afterward, but it was all he could do to save the
boy’s leg. The knee was far past mending. If any were to
blame, it was his fool of a father. Willas Tyrell was green as his
surcoat and had no business riding in such company. The Fat Flower
thrust him into tourneys at too tender an age, just as he did with
the other two. He wanted another Leo Longthorn, and made himself a
cripple.”
“There are those who say Ser Loras is better than Leo
Longthorn ever was,” said Tyrion.
“Renly’s little rose? I doubt that.”
“Doubt it all you wish,” said Tyrion, “but Ser
Loras has defeated many good knights, including my brother
Jaime.”
“By defeated, you mean unhorsed, in tourney. Tell me who
he’s slain in battle if you mean to frighten me.”
“Ser Robar Royce and Ser Emmon Cuy, for two. And men say
he performed prodigious feats of valor on the Blackwater, fighting
beside Lord Renly’s ghost.”
“So these same men who saw the prodigious feats saw the
ghost as well, yes?” The Dornishman laughed lightly.
Tyrion gave him a long look. “Chataya’s on the
Street of Silk has several girls who might suit your needs. Dancy
has hair the color of honey. Marei’s is pale white-gold. I
would advise you to keep one or the other by your side at all
times, my lord.”
“At all times?” Prince Oberyn lifted a thin black
eyebrow. “And why is that, my good Imp?”
“You want to die with a breast in hand, you said.”
Tyrion cantered on ahead to where the ferry barges waited on the
south bank of the Blackwater. He had suffered all he meant to
suffer of what passed for Dornish wit. Father should have sent
Joffrey after all. He could have asked Prince Oberyn if he knew how
a Dornishman differed from a cowflop. That made him grin despite
himself. He would have to make a point of being on hand when the
Red Viper was presented to the king.