Chapter 130– The Axe–King of Norvos in Sunspear
Rhaegar leapt from his dragon's back and surveyed the noisy crowd. Even on his second visit, Sunspear still felt strange and new to him.
Sunspear was built of dun-colored mud and straw bricks, far less beautiful or luxurious than the pale-red marble of the Water Gardens. The city, jutting into the sea on three sides, stood on the eastern edge of a peninsula, with the western side given over to the sprawling Shadow City. Dust, sweat, spice and smoke scented every alley; noise and bustle filled every corner. Sunspear was indeed small, yet its heavy exotic flavor and its three marvels more than compensated for its cramped disorder.
The first things that caught Rhaegar's eye were the three wonders of Dorne: the slender Spear Tower, its gilded iron spike lifting the whole height to roughly a hundred-and-eighty feet, piercing the clouds; the mighty Tower of the Sun with its graceful arches of gold and leaded glass, beneath which lay the dual Throne Room of the Princes of Dorne, symbolizing the union of spear and sun—Rhaegar felt it still fell short of the Dragonpit in King's Landing, though the latter's dome had been "remodelled" by him into a barracks; and the dun-colored Sandship, a great war-galley turned to stone.
Rhaegar decided that the great Lords of Westeros were all lovers of wonders; their seats had to be carved into sheer precipices, as impregnable as heaven's own moat. Famous examples were the Eyrie, Storm's End, Harrenhal and Casterly Rock. By comparison Sunspear and Riverrun were rather modest—probably a matter of strength. The mightiest Lords had been the first to crown themselves. The Tyrells were an exception, inheriting fertile Highgarden and rising fast. The Martells had also styled themselves princes, but only by clinging to the Rhoynar—nouveau riche, in truth.
The triple gate in the western wall of Sunspear was thrown open to welcome the distant guests, who could now ride straight to the Old Palace instead of threading miles of narrow alleys, hidden courtyards and noisy bazaars.
Dornishmen and Dornishwomen alike were fiery and wild.
They shouted the names of King Aerys II Targaryen and his retinue, especially that bewitching young prince.
The Princess of Dorne of House Martell led the welcoming party outside the Curving Wall; two ranks of Dornish spearmen kept the fervent crowds at a respectful distance.
House Martell had chosen purple-and-yellow layered silk, embroidered with the spear-piercing-sun, leading the procession with stewards, castellans and maesters. Behind them came the great Lords of Dorne in flowing robes of every color. Dornish Lords preferred silk or satin, sleeves fluttering, waists cinched by jeweled belts.
Rhaegar could easily pick out the three Dornish stocks: the salty Dornish, supple and olive-skinned, with flowing black hair—excellent fishermen and sailors, the Martells being prime examples; the sandy Dornish, darker, who warded off the fierce sun with bright scarves tied to their helms and were the fewest; and the stony Dornish, tallest and fairest, descended from Andals and First Men, brown- or blond-haired, though their faces were somewhat weather-worn. The Young Dragon himself had classified the three.
What drew Rhaegar's eye were not the Martells or their bannermen, but one huge axeman guarding Prince Doran Martell—utterly out of place among the spear-bearers. That would be Areo Hotah, Doran's Norvosi captain.
King Aerys II Targaryen's entourage was no less splendid. The four greatest Lords bedecked themselves in brocade, gold and gems, each representing one of the four great houses—dragon, lion, stag and rose. Ser Brynden Tully should have marched with them, but Rhaegar had left him to hold Bloodstone. King Aerys II wore black with crimson hems, every button a dragon—gilded, ruby-eyed—while a heavy gold chain at his throat bore three great square rubies, the Targaryen colors of black and red. His silver hair and purple eyes, his regal ornament, proclaimed royalty. Lord Tywin wore scarlet with a roaring Golden Lion; Ser Steffon Baratheon wore black silk embroidered with twelve golden stags; Lord Mace Tyrell wore a green velvet robe trimmed with soft gold roses and rose-shaped clasps.
"Long live Prince Rhaegar!"
"Prince Rhaegar smiled!"
When Rhaegar's black boots touched Sunspear's ground every other splendor paled beside the silver-haired prince who had just descended from dragon-back. Handsome princes were rare enough—one so tall, lithe and mysterious rarer still. Rhaegar stood about six feet, already tall for his age, and expected to finish near six-five. A silver circlet set with red gems bound his hair; he wore black silk worked not with twelve red dragons but with twelve Silver Demon Dragons of his own sigil, and at his side hung the dragon-bone hilted Valyrian steel blade Shadow.
Rhaegar's violet eyes held warmth, courage, sunlight and resolve. His gaze swept the crowd, matchless in bearing—graceful, witty, open-handed and naturally regal.
The Dornish onlookers roared approval; beside such perfection the rest looked like shepherd boys.
"I too have a gift for you!" The Princess of Dorne had her daughter step forward; Princess Elia Martell produced a glowing red dragon brooch.
Rhaegar, noting the girl's blush, accepted the gift. Prince Oberyn Martell glowered—coolness itself compared with his shy yet eager sister.
"You're certainly popular; your parents will have their hands full." The Princess of Dorne laughed, and Rhaegar bowed and stood aside while she welcomed King Aerys II Targaryen.
"You should have brought Queen Rhaella Targaryen and Lady Joanna; the children could have met." The Princess of Dorne accepted Rhaegar's present with a hint of reproach toward King Aerys II and Lord Tywin.
"The other princes are still babes, and if you miss Rhaella you may sail to King's Landing. After the Iron Throne's sweep the coasts are calm." King Aerys II spoke proudly, claiming the victory everyone knew belonged in the field to Prince Rhaegar.
"Your kindness is noted, Princess, but the children are too small for such a voyage." Lord Tywin Lannister answered flatly; he dealt only in facts and would not risk his offspring.
Then came the family introductions, the Princess of Dorne beginning with her eldest son, Prince Doran Martell.
"Allow me to present my two little flowers—my daughter Princess Elia Martell and my good-daughter Mellario of Norvos." The Princess proudly indicated two girls: Elia and, beside her, a girl of about five feet, perhaps sixteen, olive-skinned, big-eyed, with glossy black curls—full-figured and pretty, clearly younger even than Elia.
Rhaegar marked the small girl as Doran's foreign wife, Mellario of Norvos. Doran himself looked much older, thick-browed and plainly fond of younger women.
But the man Rhaegar most wished to meet was Areo Hotah of Norvos. At sixteen he had completed his training, married his axe, and branded a long-axe on his chest. Norvosi slave-soldiers were famed for strength, and Rhaegar's curiosity quickened.
Hotah met the prince's gaze without change—steel obedient only to Prince Doran Martell.
Rhaegar suspected the Bearded Priests of Norvos possessed a rune: the axe-rune of strength, authority and weight, forging superbly fierce holy slave-soldiers.
Areo Hotah had broad shoulders and a shock of black hair.
The ash-wood haft of his longaxe alone measured six feet.
To Rhaegar he looked a pocket version of the Mountain.
Like the Mountain he relied on brute strength rather than agility—a human battering-ram. The Mountain was terrifyingly strong, but that was all; Rhaegar, after all, carried the flame.
Looking at Hotah, Rhaegar itched to test the man.
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