Chapter 114 111

The Vale. 298 AC.

Lord Axel Arryn.

The secret arrival of the Prince of Dorne was no secret to anyone, so I saw no point in their attempts at concealment. That evening a feast was held in honor of our guests. The Vale and Dorne shared no bitter blood feud, and so the two parties got along well enough.

The feast had been a long time coming regardless. We had been pushing ourselves to the limit for months, and a rest was overdue. The Dornishmen simply provided the occasion. Wine, food, music, soldiers' tales, praise for those who had distinguished themselves, and women of loose virtue hired specifically for the night. My own serving girls I was reluctant to involve; they would end up with child and then I would have to deal with the consequences. Not everyone took the same care with bastards as Oberyn or Ned. The overwhelming majority couldn't have cared less.

After midnight the most sensible guests, or the weakest, began drifting off to their chambers, preferring to wake up in bed rather than under a table. Most of the high lords, however, would sit until the bitter end, until the last knight had been felled by the most treacherous enemy of all: drink.

I had no desire to drink myself into a stupor, so I decided to go and sleep. My departure from the feast drew disappointed groans and a wave of pleas to stay, but I was unmoved. I had already beaten Uncle Yohn, Lord Glevood, and old Melcolm in the drinking contest as it was.

The nobles' sullen murmuring died out and turned to cheers and whistles when I hoisted a stunned Tyene over one shoulder. When a wriggling Nymeria was thrown over the other, the hall erupted. Oberyn, surrounded by women, only laughed harder and shouted something.

In my chambers the two light burdens were deposited carefully onto the bed. A moment later I joined them. The lovely ladies put up token resistance, though they wanted it no less than I did. It was rather entertaining in one's cups, keeping both women in place while disarming Nymeria and simultaneously shaking out Tyene's poisons.

That night I became entirely certain of one thing: Dornish women were the finest in the world.

...

The Eyrie felt as though it had died. It was ten in the morning, the overwhelming majority of guests were still sleeping it off, and the corridors were deserted. I, having already finished my morning training, was sifting through reports sent in by the rangers. The information was not to my liking. Someone was supplying the mountain clans with weapons so they could stir up trouble across my territories. As much as I wanted to pin it on Littlefinger, who had already been caught scheming against me, I decided not to dismiss the matter with a wave of the hand. The most obvious answer was not always the correct one.

Before long, a disheveled Oberyn appeared, doing his best impression of a functioning person. He loved feasts and was frequently the most energetic participant at such gatherings, which he paid for afterward. Noticing that the aftermath of the feast had left absolutely no mark on me, he wrinkled his nose and dropped onto the couch, leaving me to finish my letter to Hunter.

I looked at my friend, and I did not shy away from that word, and found myself thinking about his boundless appetite for love. At the feast I had deliberately brought in the hired women so that my serving girls would be left alone, yet this serpent had managed to find a couple of them and drag them to bed. I was certain they would fall pregnant, and the ranks of the little snakes would grow by another daughter or two. Why daughters? Eight more or less acknowledged daughters said it all.

"What sort of business is so pressing that it cannot wait until after midday?" I asked Oberyn, pouring wine for both of us to ease the morning.

"Oh, nothing much, only the fate of Westeros and thousands of people," said the Red Viper, accepting the wine graciously, though he frowned the moment he took his first sip. "Seriously?! You still drink this swill?"

"Why does every person I know consider it their personal duty to comment on my taste in wine?" I asked the room at large, but seeing that Oberyn was fully prepared to share the "truth," I pressed on. "Oberyn, we are not strangers to each other, so I will ask plainly: what do the Targaryens want from me?"

"You've already had your fill of pretty words about honor, oaths, and all that other rubbish in the Red Keep, so I'll be a bit more straightforward: Rhaenys wants you to help her take the throne," and there it was... a smile spread across my face.

One sentence, and so much information packed inside it. I had assumed all along that Rhaenys and Dorne were working in tandem with Viserys and the Dothraki, yet it turned out she was aiming for the crown herself. Equally pleasant was the discovery that they were not deferring to Doran. I had no trust in the ruler of Dorne; he would betray anyone the moment a profit came into view.