281 AD
Somewhere on the Isthmus
"...and may the gods of forests and fields, lakes and streams, lowlands and ravines bless him. Rest in peace, Ailis Reed." Howland, now officially the head of House Reed, finished reciting the local prayer and cut the rope that secured the coffin with the deceased over a giant depression filled with water.
The ancestral "crypt" of the main clan of the swamps was a match for them. It was essentially a gigantic pit completely filled with clear spring water, the bottom of which was not even reached by sunlight. But the strangeness of this place didn't end there.
It was here that the King of the Neck lived—a gigantic lizardman, as large as a medium-sized ship, whose mere appearance sent my heart into my boots. And as it turned out, he paid no attention to humans at all. Not at all. When I asked Howland why we were still alive and not being digested in this monster's guts, he said only two things that completely stunned me.
The first is that the lion-lizard was the guardian of the Reed family and protected their burial place for thousands of years.
The second is that this creature was a vegetarian, living off the algae that grew in the depths of the ravine on the corpses of their clan and, according to legend, bred by the Children of the Forest themselves.
So on the way back to the castle, I had a lot of things to think about.
The tournament ended, to put it mildly, not in the best way.
After Rhaegar's outburst, it took all I could do to keep Oberyn from leaping on his brother-in-law in a rage and smashing his face in. Although at that moment I understood him perfectly—I only had to look at Elia, whose face had instantly gone blank, tears of hurt and incomprehension welling up in her eyes, to make my fists itch. Thank goodness the ladies-in-waiting were nearby, including my sister, who somehow managed to calm the shocked princess of Dorne.
Later, in the next two days after the tournament, when all the guests were leaving for their estates, I was in the royal tent several times, accompanying Oberyn, and saw the wound the dragon prince had inflicted on his wife.
Elia Martell had never enjoyed good health. When I first saw her at Sunspear, she resembled a clay figurine crafted by the finest artisan—beautiful, yet utterly fragile. And this fragility played a cruel trick on her. The birth of two children in quick succession—Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon—had exhausted her body. In the coming years, she needed peace and tranquility to recuperate and regain her lost beauty.
But Rhaegar's outburst put an end to that possibility. When I saw her in the royal tent, bedridden by her weakness, her face haggard and her hair streaked with gray, it became clear to me that Elia wouldn't live much longer.
And this infuriated me. No matter how rarely we saw each other, we could still be called pen pals. She was always kind, educated, and gentle. A miracle of a person.
Seeing all this, I tried to convince Oberyn to transfer her to Dorne under the pretext of meeting her relatives and resting after the birth. And the second prince agreed with me. But everything ran into two insurmountable problems: Rhaegar's refusal, unwilling to let his wife go, and Elia's own refusal, for whom separation from her children, who would certainly not be allowed to go to Sunspear, was tantamount to death.
But the worst thing was that Elia was the only one who suffered from the actions of the heir to the Iron Throne.
Yes, this outburst of his, as the minstrels called it, "quenched all smiles," was a scandalous breach of courtly etiquette, clearly perceived as an open courtship. But the prince's rather peculiar reputation played a role. He was already perceived as a man without a king in his head, often acting contrary to many rules for reasons understood only by himself. Because of this, even Lyanna's fiancé, Robert Baratheon, merely laughed at the situation and said Rhaegar had given his bride her due.
But the brothers of the main culprit perceived the prince's gesture as an attack on their sister's honor. As a result, Brandon and Eddard Stark, along with Oberyn, had to be restrained by force to prevent them from altering the Targaryen's face.
So I left the tournament with mixed feelings. On the one hand, Osgiliath's goods had been a hit, and I could expand my manufactories in the northern part of the city. Plus, I'd gained customs immunity in Maidenpool, Gulltown, Hall, and Jade, having defeated the Lords of Mouton, Grafton, Estermont, and Velaryon. But all of this was overshadowed by the simple realization that the Seven Kingdoms could now be considered a powder keg with a lit fuse.
Soon Westeros will explode, and I will have to participate in it, because my liege lords, the Martells, are too closely tied to royal power. And I don't have the strength for that.
"What a nasty situation," I thought, ducking slightly to avoid getting hit in the forehead by branches. After all, most of the Isthmus trails were created by lake dwellers for themselves, and I, with my height and broad shoulders, barely fit into their small boats and paths.
- How much longer, Howland?
"No," the new lord of the swamps replied, steadily working his oar and propelling us forward.
As I promised, immediately after the end of the tournament, I took Reed and several lords hurrying to White Harbor with me and went to the Isthmus for the funeral of Lord Ailis.
I took a rather crude revenge on the three squires who had offended my green acquaintance. First, I pitted the knights they served against professional feudal horsemen (having bribed the steward, as I had with Lyanna), who fleeced them blind. Then, like an angel descending from heaven, I offered them a deal. Their squires would compete in archery with Howland, and the loser would have to perform the "target-apple" trick—standing with a fruit on his head while being shot at. The knights, of course, cared about their charges, but as soon as they saw the pouch of ten gold pieces, all their love and support vanished.
In the end, those three idiots who decided to mock Reed ended up shitting their pants twice . The first time, when they found out who they were competing against and what the penalty was for losing (and they knew who the winner was among the archers), and the second time, when they felt an arrow pierce the apples on their heads, just millimeters from their scalps.
"Yes, I'm quite the sadist," I thought, looking at Howland, still as satisfied as a cat who's had his fill of sour cream. After all, anyone would enjoy taking revenge on someone who's wronged them, paying them back a hundredfold, and the local aristocracy was no exception. It could be said that for most of them, avenging old grievances and creating new ones was the meaning of life, like the Blackwoods and the Brackens.
Our small group—me, representatives of the Reed family, and their vassals—arrived at Dozor-na-Serovodye a few hours later. There, after dining on the bounty of the Isthmus, consisting of river fish prepared in dozens of ways, seaweed, and a local liqueur reminiscent of anise, I said goodbye to my hospitable hosts and set sail for home, taking with me the lioness I'd captured and tranquilized.
Osgiliath awaited me and there was still much work to be done.
*
282 AD
Castle Osgiliath, Sunfire Valley
"The Year of True Winter. A fine name. It suits it well," Oberyn said thoughtfully, reclining in his usual pose—a glass of wine in hand, comfortably reclining in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. Still young—he had only recently turned twenty-five—with his finely sculpted features, thin, arched eyebrows, and large eyes, black and glittering like rare royal amethysts, he looked nothing like the drunkard and debauchee he was.
"What are you talking about?" I asked, puzzled, applying the healing potion to my lips. While Oberyn could be called a waster of life, I was more of a workaholic, always in a hurry. Tall, with a strong build, a rather handsome face, and not very long black hair that covered my ears. Gray had already crept into it.
"About everything," Oberyn said with a certain sadness, looking through the glass's transparent walls at the shimmering burgundy liquid. "Not only was last year a false thaw, but it's as if real winter has settled in people's hearts."
— Are you talking about the situation in the other kingdoms?
- Yes. As if this stupid fuss around our Mad King wasn't enough, Rhaegar has been acting strangely lately.
— Did you receive a letter from Elia?
"Yes. According to her, he's constantly absent from King's Landing, traveling through the Crownlands and the Riverlands. And it would be fine if he simply didn't spend time with his sister, though he deserves a good beating for that." Oberyn practically growled the last part of the sentence, shaking his fist somewhere toward the north. "And he doesn't spend time with Rhaenys and Aegon either, he's forgotten about them completely. Although he used to often play with his niece and visit his nephew."
"Let me guess." I sighed sadly at this point. "Did it start after that damn tournament?"
— Yes. After he recognized that northern savage as the Queen of Love and Beauty.
"And I told you and Doran you shouldn't have agreed to this marriage," I started my old refrain, continuing to nag the Prince of Dorne. "How many times have I told you not to get involved with this crazy family? Huh? How many times have I told you this marriage is unfair? That the royal family benefits more than yours."
"Many, many times," Oberyn drawled wearily, having long since acknowledged the truth of my words. "But today is a special day—it's time to unload a few recently learned facts on him."
"And I'll repeat it again. Are you aware that Elia is so weak now that the birth of another child would surely kill her?" My words made the Dornishman jump on the spot, turning sharply toward me and grabbing me by the lapels.
"From where?" His voice at that moment resembled the hiss of an angry snake, not a human one.
"I learned about it from Thea a week ago," I replied, disengaging the stunned prince and, taking a small flask from my belt, poured thirty grams of forty-proof whiskey, made in the Osgiliath distilleries, down his throat. You could say the Red Viper was one of the first to try it—the first barrels had only recently matured. "She overheard the prince and Pycelle's conversation. You know that after the birth of their daughter, Elia was bedridden for six months. And when she gave birth to Aegon, she nearly died. In the end, the High Maester told Rhaegar that she and the child she had conceived would not survive another birth."
Oberyn, slumped in his chair like a broken doll at this news (and a good dose of strong liquor), was naturally unaware of it. Naturally, neither he nor Doran knew. This news was known only to a small circle of the royal court, and they tried to keep it secret. Of course, you can't hide an awl in a sack, and someday this news would become public knowledge, but now, in the turbulent times of the approaching storm, it was very important.
For it was now known that if anything happened to Prince Aegon, or, God forbid, he took on his grandfather's traits, then... At best, the marriage would be dissolved, sending Elia home and marrying Rhaegar to another noblewoman, thus extracting from Dorne everything they wanted in these troubled times. At worst, the girl would simply die in hopeless childbirth, leaving behind two cold corpses and a joyful, widowed dragon prince. In either case, the Martells and all of Dorne would gain nothing, only lose strength and men in someone else's squabbles.
Of course, all of these options have one big BUT. If Prince Aegon turns out to be a sane and healthy young man, then nothing terrible will happen. But we must be realistic—in this snake pit called the Red Keep, where the king's lackeys battle the prince's faction, where instead of a loving father and grandfather, a madman who enjoys burning people alive roams the corridors, and another madman with his own unclear motives, and where five hostile kingdoms lie beyond the walls, the boy's chances of survival are close to zero. It's more a matter of time before a small, silver-haired corpse is found in the cradle of Maegor's Holdfast.
I understood this, Oberyn understood this right now, putting his head in his hands in shock, and Doran, who received the raven from me a few days ago, should have understood this.
"Is it that bad?" the Dornish prince finally asked, leaning back in his chair and gazing out to the horizon.
"You have no idea," I replied melancholically, watching Lyon swing a small wooden sword in the courtyard, under the envious gaze of his sister, whose hands were still too small and weak to even hold a wooden knife. "We haven't even discussed the antics of our 'beloved' king yet."
I ignored the obscene tirade as usual, although I must note that each time Oberyn came up with or found something new and previously unheard by me, listening only to the last question:
— What did he do again?
"He burned the man in charge of food procurement for the Red Keep in a wildfire." The Dornishman's face lengthened slightly, and the only question in his eyes was "Why?" "Several vials of poison were found in his chambers, and according to the Master of Whispers, he intended to poison the entire royal family. He was burned without trial or proof."
"Has he completely lost his mind?" Oberyn said indignantly, knowing full well that most "poisons" are used as medicine and there's no fine for possessing them.
"There's more to come," I said, grinning. "You remember the Northern Alliance, right?"
— An alliance of the houses Tully, Stark, Arryn and Baratheon?
"Yes. My trading partners (Bolton is a pleasure to deal with, after all—for a little extra gold, he readily agreed to pass on some information) reported that they're almost ready. Immediately after Lyanna Stark marries Robert Baratheon and Catelyn Tully marries Brandon Stark, they'll make their move."
"What?" Oberyn asked, puzzled, even setting his glass of wine down on the side table.
"It's no secret that for the Northerners, the leading figures in this alliance, the greatest humiliation in the last thousand years was the act of their last king, Torrhen the Kneeler. According to rumors circulating among the Northern lords, he, in alliance with the Vale of Arryn, the Riverlands, and the Stormlands, plans to issue an ultimatum to the king. An ultimatum about the independence of the North and granting the other three kingdoms the same privileges as Dorne." I unloaded another stunning fact on the second prince. "The North needs independence, otherwise it will simply die out in a few centuries."
- What are you talking about, Fel?
"Oberyn, did you know that three centuries ago, before the Conqueror's arrival, the Northern Kingdom was several times more populous and wealthier?" I asked, seeing that the whiskey had taken effect and the Dornishman was reacting more gently to such news. The main thing is not to let him drink any more today. "After the unification and opening of the borders between the kingdoms, such a steady influx of people gradually poured out from there that Cregan Stark, the 'Old Man of the North,' even imposed a quota on the number of families allowed to leave the North while he was Hand of the King for a day. And now they are gradually dying out—more and more people are leaving those lands, like my father, and the harsh winters, the raids of the wildlings, the Sisterhood, and the Ironborn are perfectly conducive to this. And the Starks understand this perfectly. And they want to restore their kingdom's independence to stop this."
Silence reigned, broken only by the singing of birds, the clatter of a wooden sword against a mannequin, and the cacophony coming from the direction of the city.
Perhaps my plot was one of two things that had given me even the slightest pleasure in the past six months. Orchards were being planted, covering four-tenths of the valley according to plans, and villages were being built according to a unified plan, where gardeners and beekeepers would live, tending the fruit trees and the bees that collected their honey. Recently, the first shoots of hemp had appeared, planted in separate fields north and south of Osgiliath.
Oh-oh-oh... how I thanked the gods when I learned that there was no cannabis culture in this world, and that no one knew about this drug. So, with a light heart, I sent one of the galleys to Ghiscar for one of the best strains of this herb, which is already sprouting (though I still took precautions by surrounding the seeding areas with a palisade and doubling the guard). In the future, it will be used to produce hemp, clothing, and, most importantly, paper, which requires no bleaching and is of much higher quality than paper made from wood.
There were some incidents, too. My initial plan to make the northern district of the city a crafts district, with several closed quarters, went down the drain. Porcelain, strong alcohol, perfume, hemp paper, weapons workshops, and glass… the number of closed industries grew so large that I decided to cut corners and turn the northern district into a closed crafts district, inhabited only by clans of artisans who had sworn an oath of eternal loyalty to me and to keep the secret of their trade at the cost of their lives, in exchange for a certain percentage of the profits. This practice is well-known and widely used in the Free Cities, and given the markup they were selling all their goods at, in a few years they would be rolling in gold.
All the remaining manufactories, those engaged in less "secret activities," had to be relocated to the western district, originally planned as a mixed district. The southern district remained a residential area, where most of the townspeople lived, while the central district, flanked by the eastern district and the port, became a marketplace, now constantly filled with incoming merchants. And the eastern part of the city was occupied by my castle.
"And soon it will be time to lay the foundations of the western fortress," I thought, thoughtfully tapping my fingers on the armrest of my chair. "Minas Itil is almost ready. Only a few months of work remain. The main thing is that there are no unpleasant surprises."
I was brought out of my meditative state of what changes I needed to make in my allotment and how to control it (this, by the way, was the main reason for my gray hair) by a question asked by Oberyn.
— The Crown won't agree to this?
"No. As long as the Madman, who sees conspiracy everywhere, is in power, the only thing they'll get is an accusation of rebellion," I said thoughtfully, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
— And if this offer is made to Rhaegar?
"It'll be even worse. Do you remember the tale that's been circulating among the Targaryens for the last half century?"
"You mean that nonsense about the Prince who was promised?" Oberyn asked with a slight grin, pouring himself another glass of wine. He had to be stopped, as he'd already drunk too much today.
"That very same one. And our Silver Prince sincerely believes it," I stated, a fairly common fact, known to every courtier close to the heir. "And he won't dare lose men on the eve of the 'great darkness.' And the agreement itself will put an end to the Targaryen power—within a century, the remaining lands will regain their independence and the era of the true Seven Kingdoms will begin."
Silence fell once again on the small balcony, giving Dorn's second in command time to think and get his thoughts in order, and for me to simply relax quietly, lounging in a soft chair.
"So it's war..." When the sun had already begun to sink towards the horizon, Oberyn said, waking me from a light slumber.
"It turns out that way," I answered thoughtfully, observing a very strange picture—a serious Oberyn.
- And when will it start?
"I don't know. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe in a year." My fingers began to tap out a rhythmic beat on the wooden armrest, letting those in the know know—I don't know myself and I don't want to know. Because war is a very terrible thing, where my second life could easily end.
"Then I'll tell you now, while peace still reigns in our lands." Oberyn's words surprised me greatly, sending me into a slight stupor as I waited for the end of the sentence. "Fel, I want to ask for the hand of your sister, Elia."
- Phar-r-r…
His words made me choke, staring in disbelief at the man known as Dorne's most notorious womanizer, the one whose nickname, the Red Viper, strikes fear into most hearts, the one who has already fathered six bastards (and those are just the ones we know about). And he just asked for my sister's hand in marriage?
"Oberyn, when did you get so drunk, you bastard..." I was about to give him a good slap, when...
"Felix! Urgent letters from the Riverlands and King's Landing!" I was interrupted by Robin, who burst onto the balcony with a loud cry and handed me two small scrolls.
"Since it's urgent, I need to read it quickly. And I'll come back to this joker," I thought angrily, promising a Dornishman a full-contact training duel and began reading the letters, the contents of which destroyed peace in the Seven Kingdoms.
The first was simple and short, sent by Lord Remis, one of the minor lords of the Riverlands who owed me heavily, and it read: "Lyanna Stark was kidnapped by Rhaegar Targaryen ten leagues from Harrenhal and taken to an unknown destination."
This news alone made my hair stand on end, and as soon as I read the second letter sent by my man from King's Landing, I realized that I was very much mistaken.
"Brandon Stark, Geoffrey Mallister, Kyle Royce, Elbert Arryn, and squire Ethan Glover arrived at the city walls and demanded that Prince Rhaegar come out and return his stolen sister. In response, Aerys orders their capture and their fathers to appear at court to confess."
"Their fathers will never forgive the king for this. The war won't start today or tomorrow. It's already begun."