Chapter 38: Thorns and Snakes

Year 291 After Aegon's Conquest.

Westeros. The Reach. Sun House.

Sun House, the ancestral seat of House Cuy, bannermen to the Tyrells, bore little resemblance to the other castles of the Reach. The fortification was constructed from massive rectangular stone blocks, fitted together with seamless precision. Perched upon a stony hill overlooking the tranquil, warm waters of the Summer Sea, the fortress drew the gaze of mariners with its towers of yellow and orange. The sandstone used in their construction had been brought out of Dorne. Indeed, the castle was a child of two cultures: Dornish and Reachman. Its inhabitants were no less intriguing.

Maidservants dressed in light, revealing gowns of Dornish cut stood alongside pages garbed in blue doublets embroidered with exactly six yellow roses. The knights lined up along the road leading from the castle gates to the keep, the central stronghold, carried curved Dornish scimitars at their belts, yet instead of the robes familiar to the Dornish eye, these warriors draped surcoats emblazoned with the arms of House Cuy over their shoulders. Even the faces of the men suggested that in the Tyrells' southernmost domain, Dorne and the Reach had intermingled. Half the warriors possessed swarthy skin; green eyes sat beside brown and blue. Truth be told, at least a dozen of these knights had certainly been born beyond the Swiftwater, the river that divided the sands of Dorne from the fields of the Reach in these parts.

Today was a special day. Sun House played host to personages of great importance. Prince Doran Martell of Dorne himself had arrived in the company of his brother! A month ago, this would have been a monumental event for every inhabitant of House Cuy’s ancestral nest, from the Lord to the lowliest scullion. Now, however, the faces of the maids, pages, and other castle smallfolk expressed weariness rather than awe. The reason was plain: Olenna Tyrell herself had already been their guest for a fortnight. The arrival of another high party meant only that their burdens would double.

To be sure, once this protracted reception ended, every one of them would boast until their dying day of their near-personal acquaintance with such luminaries. But for now, from the servants to the masters, all prayed to the Seven for mercy, for the Queen of Thorns had proven even more exacting and acerbic than the rumors suggested. Even Ser Emmon Cuy, Lord Branston’s younger brother, something of a troublemaker and a rake, walked a straight line after his first reprimand from Olenna Tyrell, becoming a near-paragon of knightly virtue. As his brother the Lord joked: he was now fit for the Kingsguard or even as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Such jests only soured the young man’s expression further, and a rumor spread through the castle that this lover of tourneys and carousing was ready to flee to Essos if the Queen of Thorns remained at Sun House for much longer.

The mounted cavalcade halted roughly ten paces from the porch, where the Lord stood on the bottom step with his brother and wife. A carriage, which had been being unloaded from a Dornish ship since morning, rolled forward. Its carved door, adorned with gold and silver inlays, was thrown open by a pair of dark-haired boys who had leaped down from slender-legged stallions. As the silk-draped interior was revealed, Doran Martell himself stepped out, leaning on his cane. Behind him emerged the Red Viper, his perennial smirk upon his lips. Both were clad in classic Dornish robes of gold, upon which a master tailor had depicted patterns of natural motifs. The brothers differed only in their weapons and their countenances. Doran settled for a status-bearing dagger in a costly sheath, the gems upon it alone could have built a couple of Sun Houses, while Oberyn remained true to himself; at his belt hung one of the ancestral sabers that had shed the blood of House Martell’s enemies for two hundred years. The younger prince would have brought his favorite spear as well, but it remained in the carriage; Doran had convinced his brother not to display such blatant defiance toward the Reachmen.

"I welcome you to my home, Princes Doran Martell and Oberyn Martell," a man no longer young said, bowing his head with dignity.

Lord Branston Cuy was not a man of great height or mighty muscle. A lean, brown-haired man in his forties, his stature suggested someone who had never laid hand to spear or sword. But neither prince was deceived by his thinness or the lack of visible scars. Both Doran and Oberyn knew well the storied past of Lord Cuy. Branston was surely among the hundred most skilled warriors in the Seven Kingdoms, though he never participated in tourneys or melees, maintaining that a warrior should show his valor in war. Few in the Reach, that capital of chivalry, shared such a view, but none were eager to argue with Branston. Lord Cuy had joined the War of the Ninepenny Kings and the Greyjoy Rebellion almost as a volunteer, and his company had harried the enemy's blood sorely. Galyeon of Cuy, the singer famous throughout the Reach, born in the town that stood near the castle, had even composed a few songs about the Lord of Sun House.

"Be guests in our home," smiled a young woman with a thick braid of wheaten hair—Lady Antuana, the Lord's wife.

The young man in the costly azure surcoat merely bowed, lower than his brother.

"We gratefully accept your hospitality, Lord Branston, Lady Antuana," Doran smiled somewhat stiffly, struggling to hide the sudden bout of excruciating pain shooting through his legs.

"I heard that a wondrous blackberry ale is brewed in the Cuy lands; a few tankards after the road would not go amiss," Oberyn interrupted the flow of the conversation, standing at his brother's right shoulder.

The younger Martell broke the long, formal greeting required by etiquette intentionally. Doran might hide his true emotions from the demons of the Seven Hells themselves, but not from the Red Viper. Oberyn would rather play the arrogant youth with hot blood and a needle in his backside than let his brother endure pain for the sake of empty pleasantries. Moreover, since Olenna Tyrell had not come out to meet them personally, likely pleading age, it was well within the bounds of propriety to disregard tradition slightly and deliver a retaliatory barb toward the Reachmen.

"The rumors did not deceive you," Lord Cuy said with a faint smile, his cold blue eyes boring into the younger prince. "The table is already laid, so let us not keep our guests waiting!" With a wave of his hand, the ranks of servants and knights broke into small groups and set to work. Horses were to be led to the stables, the lesser Dornish knights were to be escorted to a separate hall, and the guests' belongings were to be carried to their chambers.

The guests and the masters of the castle proceeded inside, conversing on trivial matters like the falling price of grain and the emboldened pirates in the Stepstones.

The actual meeting for which the high parties had visited Sun House, the nearest castle to Dorne in the Reach, took place only three days later. Until then, the Martells had not even glimpsed the Queen of Thorns, who had claimed a cold and general malaise. Neither Doran nor Oberyn believed the excuse for a moment, but they were forced to concede, as formally, the traditions had been observed. The princes were certain: this was all a ploy to unbalance them, thereby gaining an advantage in the upcoming negotiations. But here, Lady Olenna had miscalculated. Doran, accustomed to enduring far greater discomfort every day due to his illness and well-versed in intrigue and the art of negotiation, was as calm as a sand viper in ambush. Oberyn, who was considerably stung by such blatant disregard, was excluded from the game by his brother in the most "underhanded" way—Doran simply suggested meeting Lady Tyrell alone, precluding the presence of the volatile Red Viper at the parley table.

When Doran entered the room on the highest floor of the castle, he fell into a brief stupor. He had imagined his meeting with Olenna quite differently.

The chamber, illuminated by the morning sun, was not particularly large. The stone floors were covered with thick green carpets, and a marble-lined fireplace burned in one wall, warding off the morning chill. The stone walls themselves were wainscoted with dark, lacquered wooden panels to the height of a man’s chest; above that, the wood was draped in blue silk where the golden inverted triangles of the six roses shimmered—the Cuys had missed no opportunity to display their wealth to their guests.

By the fire, their backs to the door, stood a pair of armchairs. One was occupied by Olenna, who did not even turn in Doran's direction! Only the soft click of the door being closed by a servant jolted the prince from his trance. Masking his face with a meaningless, light smile of "goodwill," the prince reached the empty chair and, leaning his cane against the armrest, sat down with relief. Making the journey to the top of the castle when every step was agony was no small feat, even for one who had once been among the finest spearmen in Dorne.

"Won't you even say hello or offer a lady some wine?" a soft female voice drifted from the neighboring chair.

A mocking sneer was nearly hidden in the softness and friendliness, but Doran caught it with his keen ears, and his smile faded. Tearing his gaze from the hearth where logs, nearly reduced to charcoal, crackled as they died, Martell turned to his interlocutor.

They were separated only by a small round table of weirwood, upon which sat a blue glass decanter and a pair of goblets. One was nearly empty; the other remained untouched. Beside the alcohol sat a couple of small but deep vases woven from silver wire. One held Lady Tyrell's favorite biscuits; the other held candied figs, something Doran had never in his life refused.

"No. I shall not wish you health, Lady Tyrell. By all appearances, you intend to outlive us all anyway; there is no need to lengthen the term further," Martell replied, looking into the lively eyes of the elderly woman as he filled both goblets with wine.

"You are a touchy man," the woman said, sipping the tart vintage and biting into a shortbread biscuit with relish, sending a pinch of crumbs onto the table.

"Not at all. Vindictive, rather. Without that quality, we rulers find life neither sweet nor long. Allow someone to spit on you once, and soon you'll drown in it." Carefully chewing his favorite dessert, the man speared another fruit with a small two-pronged fork.

"Truly? Perhaps then I should recall why the eldest of my grandsons limps?" Olenna arched a brow and bared rows of surprisingly even, white teeth in a cunning smile. In a world where the peak of dentistry was the extraction of a diseased tooth, flashing such a smile after fifty was a grand achievement.

"You shouldn't. That matter is settled. If we begin to recount every grievance between the Tyrells and Martells, we shall find ourselves at war instead of in alliance."

"Oh, so you have come here for an alliance?"

"Yes." Doran decided not to weave the lace of diplomacy with one who had ruled since before his birth. "Precisely for an alliance. You, like us, cannot stand tall alone."

"And yet you, like us, are no longer so vital to the man in whom we place our hopes. At least, not vital enough for him to take a bride from either of our Houses. To say nothing of the... step I suggested," Olenna nodded, turning her gaze back to the fire.

Martell winced inwardly at her behavior—she had not ceased her attempts to provoke him—and also turned toward the hearth. The silence, filled only by the crackle of the flames, was broken by Tyrell herself.

"It has been a long time since I ventured out of Highgarden. Beautiful though it is, I shall always feel the same tenderness for sunny the Arbor. Ah, the peaches grown in my homeland are more wondrous than any other fruit." Sipping the burgundy liquid from her glass, the lady continued, "And the taste of Arbor Gold is incomparable. This, by the way, is from my private stores. The grapes for it were harvested during the Dance of the Dragons."

"If you fear a repetition of the history of the Greens and the Blacks involving your great-grandchildren and my grandchildren, why did you suggest such an escape from our current predicament?" Doran raised his eyebrows, glancing at her.

He had correctly understood the allusion to the Dance of the Dragons, the civil war that had cost the Targaryens the mighty beasts that kept the Seven Kingdoms in fear. That internecine strife, though it had occurred over a century and a half ago, remained a vital landmark in Westerosi politics.

"Suggested? The Seven forbid, there was no such thing in my letters to you," the elderly woman waved a hand dismissively, her face a picture of feigned astonishment.

"No, certainly not. You merely compared Viserys the Blood Dragon to Aegon the Conqueror and mused that all great scions of House Targaryen prefer polygamy," Doran raised his goblet.

"Exactly. No direct proposals. But let us stop wasting time; I have little enough of it left as it is."

"Oh, you think of time. It is precisely because it is so fleeting that I waited three days for our audience."

"Old age. It comes for all who aren't lucky enough to die early," Olenna grumbled, ignoring the complaint entirely. "Margaery shall be the senior wife; her son shall inherit the Iron Throne," the Queen of Thorns said, moving to the heart of the negotiations.

"Out of the question. Arianne is already fourteen; Viserys is fifteen. They are quite capable of having children, whereas your granddaughter is but eight. How can one who plays with dolls and gathers roses in the gardens of Highgarden stand above a grown woman?"

"She can, rest assured. It may be that your daughter plays with dolls, you would know best, but my granddaughter is fond of books and mathematics. The Reach has far more gold, and our army outnumbers the Dornish threefold. What is there to discuss when even Dorne buys its grain from us?"

"We were the first to offer aid to the Targaryens, while you came only once the table was set. Oberyn has already fought shoulder to shoulder with Viserys, while your envoy, Lord Costayne, offered nothing but pretty speeches at a feast in New Ghis."

"Is that so? Has little Tommen taken up diplomacy in his twilight years? I always thought him more warrior and merchant than diplomat. Or was your brother, Oberyn, so struck by the words of the Lord of the Three Towers that he mentioned them at Sunspear? Truly, Costayne is not the best of diplomats; perhaps Dorne simply lacked even those, which is why the Red Viper was so surprised."

"The Tyrells simply will not be permitted to grow so powerful. Even by Viserys himself. The fact that former stewards managed to wed their daughter to a King is already quite a feat."

"Of all Dorne’s advantages, the only one is that you reached Viserys first. There it ends. What can you offer the Targaryen? Infantry? His is far better and more numerous. Cavalry? He has light horse in abundance. But knights, provisions, gold, a fleet? No. You have little enough of those yourselves; there is no question of sparing men and resources for a liberation army. All that will remain in Dorne to defend Dorne."

"You shall have one fewer seat on the Small Council than we. You will not interfere with our acquisition of lands from the Baratheon holdings. For the next twenty years, grain shall flow into Dorne at half the market price, and there shall be duty-free trade for our merchants in the ports of the Reach. Margaery and Arianne shall be equals in their marriage to Viserys. My great-grandson, the son of Arianne’s son, shall take the throne after the death of Margaery’s offspring."

Olenna did not answer immediately. Doran began to worry that he would receive only a handful of sand for his demands and would have to find some way to rectify the situation, but Lady Tyrell finally spoke.

"Our Houses shall have an equal number of seats on the Small Council. Discounted grain for only the next ten years. You may take all the Baratheon lands for all I care, if Viserys Targaryen allows it, but in exchange, you will support us in our claim for parts of the Lannister and Tully domains. Duty-free trade is out; your merchants already gouge us for Essosi goods. As for the succession... I am not opposed. Provided our agreements do not crumble like a sandcastle before the wave of Viserys’s will."

"Yes, Oberyn said that the obedience within his circle is absolute," Doran exhaled with relief.

He had managed to defend the main points, even gaining a bit more than he had planned. Now, the challenge was to convey this pact to the future son-in-law himself.

"I believe the young dragon should be told of our arrangement. And as an envoy, I see your brother. How did you put it? Oberyn fought shoulder to shoulder with Viserys? I believe he will be able to convince the Blood Dragon of the wisdom of the path we propose," the Queen of Thorns said, her lips curling into a smile.

At this suggestion, Doran nearly groaned, cursing his own tongue inwardly with every foul word he knew. Now, if the young Targaryen chose to be angered by such proposals, the Martells would be the first to suffer as the primary "culprits." Returning the strained smile, Doran drained his wine in one gulp. He would have to think carefully on the words he would put in his brother's mouth. The price of an error was far too high.