Upon leaving the Princess' quarters, I found Grey, Jack, and Jace in one of the lower rooms of the Old Palace. I knocked on their door in our familiar three-one-two pattern, and when Jace opened it, he already knew it was me.
"My lord?" he asked, rubbing at his eyes. I could hear loud snoring from further into the room. That would be Jack, no doubt. Gray's head peeked out of a corner, hair standing up like he'd just been standing in front of an industrial fan.
"Get ready, arms and armor," I said simply. "Meet me outside in five minutes. I'm going to need an escort for what's coming."
He didn't question me after that.
The Old Palace was quiet as dusk turned to evening. I saw some servants moving about, lighting braziers and lamps. Guards posted at regular intervals stood beneath banners of the spear and sun. I waited out by a side entrance for no more than two minutes before I heard boots echoing on the stone.
"Action, m'lord?" Jack was grinning despite the sleep creases on one side of his face. His brother looked more solemn beside him, even as his eyes stayed sharp as always. Behind them, Grey was struggling to pull up his sword belt.
"Hopefully not," I said, already turning toward the domed tower across the courtyard. "If my hope's not enough, well, that's when you come in."
xxx
The walk from the Old Palace to the Tower of the Sun was full of gardens and flowerbeds and water fountains. A beautiful, idyllic place. If the Martells travelled to the Water Gardens for peace and tranquility, I could only imagine the paradise that place must be.
Prince Doran Martell was still holding court when I arrived. Princess Elia had told me they started their procedures later here, after the worst of the day's heat had passed, and court tended to go well into the evening.
The great hall of the Tower of the Sun was vast without feeling cavernous. High, arched ceilings reminded me of the cathedrals of old. A wide central aisle ran straight as a spear toward the raised dais, its marble surface polished to a dull gleam by centuries of feet. On either side rose thick columns of pale sandstone, each carved with flowing Rhoynish patterns, waves and suns and spears intertwined into stony tapestries.
I could see narrow windows set high against the walls, but as the sun had already set, eight vast hearths provided light and warmth to the room, along with tall bronze braziers set against columns and alcoves. From the braziers, faint fingers of smoke filled the air with the smell of incense and citrus oil and something drier I couldn't identify.
The twin thrones stood upon the dais, elevated slightly by just a few steps. One bore the spear of House Martell, worked in gold along its backing. The other carried the blazing Rhoynish sun.
In my mind, I compared this to the great monstrosity that had been the Iron Throne the one time I saw it in person, a giant hunk of dark metal curling up like a dragon's tail into a tall seat. I knew which one scared me the most, at least.
Despite being spoiled for choice, Prince Doran did not sit upon either throne. He stood at the foot of the dais, hands clasped together as two farmers argued before him. I didn't hear much as I walked into the hall, but one red-faced farmer was screeching about irrigation rights and land stones being moved while the other rattled off counterfactuals. Doran listened without interrupting them, his expression composed to the point of softness.
He looked much different than what I had in mind. My mental image of him was that of a sick man in a wheel chair with a soft body and bloated joints, while here, more than two decades prior to that version of him, he was still tall, slender, and relatively good-looking.
It would explain how he pulled off marrying her. Standing to the prince's side stood Lady Mellario of Norvos. Even heavy with child—which I expected was the soon-to-be-born Arianne Martell—she looked like Aphrodite come to life, olive skin glowing softly in the yellow light of the braziers.
She watched the proceedings with an attentive calm that mirrored her husband's. One hand rested upon the swell of her belly, the other played slowly with her long, voluminous dark hair. I never expected to feel a pang of envy for Doran Martell, but there was a first time for everything in life.
Nobles lined both sides of the aisle, gathered in loose clusters and murmuring among themselves while court business unfolded. I took them in slowly as I tried to find my target among them, Grey and the twins flanking me like shadows.
Among the gathered highborn, I saw sigils from all across Dorne. The proud blue hawk of House Fowler stitched upon a knight's tabard, the crowned skull of Manwoody on a black sash worn by a rotund man. A woman bore a small lemon pin at her collar, House Dalt of Lemonwood. Nearby, a shorter man wore a doublet embroidered with black leopards, Vaith's sigil, while farther down stood a man whose badge bore the black adder of the Wyls, infamous even among Dornishmen.
Near a recessed alcove along a wall stood a knight clad in blue and white, the colors of House Santagar of Spottswood. And beside him, I spotted the man I was looking for.
I had never seen Lord Ormond Yronwood before, but the moment my eyes fell upon him, I knew. Heavier around the chest and with his sandy-blond hair thinner at the top, the resemblance between him and Ser Anders Yronwood was still unmistakable. Especially as Ser Anders stood just a few feet away. It had to be him.
I slowed my pace and stepped into the alcove where several nobles conversed in low voices. With a subtle signal, I told my lads to stay behind, close enough to be seen but far enough it didn't look like I was trying to intimidate anyone.
"Lord Yronwood," I said.
The older man turned, a date pinched between thick fingers. His eyes moved over me slowly, as if trying to figure out if I was someone he should give two fucks about or just go back to his dates.
"Aye," he said at last. "And who might you be?"
"I am Ser Galladon of Tarth, my lord," I answered. "I came to ask of you a great favor. One that might yet save a man's life."
Before he could respond, a smooth, familiar voice cut in.
"Well," Ser Anders said, eyes flicking over my clothes with open disdain, "look who found himself new clothes."
Lord Yronwood's gaze shifted between us. "You two know each other?"
"I thank you for your kind words, Ser Anders," I said, keeping my temper in check. This was more important than annoying dornish lordlings and their petty words. "And yes, my lord. Your son and I were presented earlier, while Lady Ashara escorted me to my rooms."
"Indeed," Anders said, satisfaction thick in his tone. "Ser Galladon is a proud Stormlander, father. They produce strong men, don't they? Though not the brightest. Thinks himself clever in front of Dornish ladies, at the expense of his betters."
A few nearby nobles smirked. I felt heat rise in my chest but forced it down.
"I recall your own choice words," I replied calmly, "about myself and certain horses. Words better left unspoken in polite company. I would hope neither of us allows barbed tongues to interfere with serious matters."
Lord Yronwood snorted and popped the date into his mouth, chewing as he studied me. "Serious matters," he echoed. "Go on, then. This about the Lannister fellow?"
At the word Lannister, interest seemed to grow from the nearby nobles. Conversations quieted, people shuffled closer. Dorne liked to think themselves separate from the rest of the kingdoms, but Lord Tywin had held the position of Hand for going on fifteen years now. That meant something even here.
The Santagar knight spoke before I could. "Ah, I knew I recognized the name." He smiled widely at me. "You must be the young man who won the recent tourney at Lannisport, yes? The one for Prince Viserys' birth."
A bit taken aback, I only said, "Yes, ser, that was me."
Would this happen everywhere I went now? It had been a month since the tourney, and I had been stuck in the Fair Winds the entire time. But the world, and word of mouth, kept moving.
It made sense too. The tournament at Lannisport had been the grandest of the generation. Given I had my hands full, I had not paid much attention to anything except for the jousting, but there had been the melee and archery competitions, axe-throwing and wrestling in the northern fashion, squire tournaments, nightly shows and open feasts for the commons.
If not for Harrenhal, it would be the tournament of a lifetime.
"My brother wrote to me just a few days ago when he arrived home," he went on. "Said he saw you riding against Ser Arthur Dayne. Some of the best jousting he's ever seen. You should be proud, ser."
I remembered there being some knights from Dorne in the first stages of the jousting, besides Ser Arthur himself. It wasn't inconceivable that some returned home before me, or took faster ships making less stops. Still, I would have to get used to my new-found fame.
A few steps away, Ser Anders Yronwood stared at me with narrowed eyes, as if rethinking his previous assessment of who I was. I ignored him, and after more polite words with the knight, who introduced himself as Ser Symon Santagar, the head of his house, I turned to what really mattered.
"Lord Yronwood," I tried again. "As you say, it is about Ser Gerion. He's fading quickly, my lord. Struck by an unknown poison the maester cannot cure. The pirate who wielded the poisoned blade—"
"Aye," Yronwood cut in easily. "I saw him earlier."
I blinked despite myself. I wanted to skirt the matter entirely and simply focus on Ser Gerion, but he admitted it so easily that it threw me off.
"Disgusting creature," he continued. "Didn't even have the stones to behave like a man. Just begging and whimpering. Not much to expect from pirates."
"Then you know," I pressed, "that unless the poison can be identified, Ser Gerion will not survive. He must be given appropriate care, and soon."
Yronwood regarded me for a long moment. Something like amusement flickered across his face.
"Ah," he said. "You mean Prince Oberyn." His lips curved with scorn at the name. "Save your breath, boy. I command no princes. Oberyn's comings and goings are no concern of mine."
"You would grant him safe passage, then?" I asked. "Through your men on the road."
"Whatever problems the prince may or may not encounter on the road," Yronwood replied with a smirk, "are beyond my control."
"If Ser Gerion dies," I said, voice tight, "his blood will be on your hands, my lord. Lord Tywin will not suffer his brother's death quietly."
Yronwood laughed outright. "I should fear lions now?" he scoffed. "I am the Bloodroyal, boy. Let Tywin Lannister send as many gold-headed cunts into my mountains as he likes. Better men have tried. Better men lie buried beneath Yronwood stone."
Ser Anders nodded proudly at his father's conviction. "We Guard the Way," he added, their house's words as the masters of the Boneway.
"Even then," Ormond Yronwood continued, feasting on another date, "my hands remain clean of lion's blood. Ser Gerion's passing would be a tragedy, no doubt, but not one of my making."
"You would have me beg on my knees, ser?" I asked through gritted teeth. "I'm not so proud not to plead for a friend's life."
Ser Anders chortled. "Are you often comfortable on your knees, Tarth?"
A wave of quiet laughter spread through the people nearby. Princess Elia wasn't lying. The Yronwoods seemed to have a lot of support among the Dornish nobility.
Lord Yronwood snorted again. "You need not bother." He waved a hand airily. "As I said, this matter is nothing to me."
xxx
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