Chapter 29 26

In 288, Prince Doran Martell organized a tournament in honor of my nameday. The most amusing part was watching the nobility of Dorne express their displeasure by sending third sons and other inconsequential relatives while hiding behind claims of pressing business, and some did not even bother to invent excuses. Because of this, there were more lords from the Vale present than from Dorne itself. My uncle, Lord Yohn Royce, set aside everything he had going and came in person, and brought with him an excellent full suit of knight's armor. That pleased me greatly, not the armor, but the fact that my uncle had come at all.

What was painful was that my father did not come. He sent only a messenger with a letter and a gift. The letter contained nothing of interest. It was plainly written from a template, the work of one of his scribes. Standard well-wishes, naturally. Written the way you might write to a distant acquaintance, not a son.

The gift, however, was a king's ransom. The Valyrian sword of House Arryn, Bloodbeak. It had been reforged from the sword of House Mudd, the kings of the Trident. Bloodbeak was a one-handed sword with a hilt set with precious stones and housed in a beautiful scabbard. Its total length was 121 centimeters, the blade itself just under 95. Valyrian steel is almost always a dark grey bordering on black, with a visible pattern of rippling waves across the surface, but Bloodbeak was a pale grey.

I loved that sword from the first moment I held it. Light, sharp, unyielding, it sat in the hand as though it had been made for it, and it conducted magic beautifully. It could even channel the magic of the Shadow Realm, which was no small thing. As a Nazgul I had carried a blade capable of conducting that energy, one that even amplified it, but it broke easily. Morgul steel was never designed for prolonged combat, unlike Valyrian. In my estimation Valyrian steel is the superior of the two by a considerable margin.

Beyond that I received the usual assortment of trinkets: books, jewelry, luxury goods. Doran gave me a Dornish black colt. Oberyn and his daughters together presented me with a rare volume on poisons. Nymeria then gave her own private gift in the form of herself. Arianne gave me an eyepatch made from the hide of a Sothoryos wyvern. The reason for it was my left eye. Its yellow iris and grey sclera unsettled people, and the swollen veins did nothing to improve matters. I was entirely indifferent to it, but the princess was not. So now I wear the patch constantly.

The tournament, like the feast, passed well enough. There were scuffles, but nothing came to bloodshed. Oberyn won the joust and crowned Ellaria Sand, the natural daughter of Harmen Uller, Lord of Hellholt, with the crown of love and beauty. She was Oberyn's paramour, and had already given him two daughters, Elia and Obella Sand. This became the subject of considerable teasing at Oberyn's expense. The gods in their mercy had apparently decreed that Prince Oberyn Martell would father only daughters, for the world could not sustain two Oberyns. Everyone laughed at that, Oberyn included. The Red Viper then departed with Ellaria to make an attempt at producing a younger Viper.

During those years I kept up a correspondence with Robert and Ned. Ned already had two trueborn children and a third on the way. He tended to stay quiet on the subject of the bastard twins. For the most part we wrote about each other's affairs and accomplishments.

My conversations with the Baratheon ran along different lines. He complained about sycophants and flatterers, about the absence of real fighters willing to face him. I had to promise to knock him around the training yard properly, since the other lords either let him win deliberately or simply gave up the moment things got difficult. Good news on another front: Robert had finally managed to give Cersei Lannister an heir. The realm breathed easier at that. If Robert died without issue, there would be chaos. The child was named Joffrey Baratheon. All well and good, except that the rumours reaching me suggested Joffrey was the image of a Lannister through and through. Golden hair, green eyes. Nothing of the Baratheons about him whatsoever.

This was also the last tournament held in my honor in Dorne, since the next would take place in King's Landing or the Vale. My time as a ward was drawing to a close and soon I would be free to do as I pleased. Oberyn invited me to travel with him to Essos, but I declined for the time being. I wanted to see the people I cared about.

...

The Harbor, King's Landing, the Crownlands. 288 A.C.

"Five years gone, and this place has not changed by so much as a whiff. Still reeks of filth and rotten fish." I looked at the decaying city with undisguised contempt. I genuinely could not understand how my father and Rob found it agreeable to live here. In five years they could have built at least a rudimentary sewer system. The treasury was full, the king's father-in-law was a goose that shat gold, five kingdoms were backing the Baratheons. What more did they need to install a functioning drain?

"I cannot argue with that, though the smell has changed somewhat." Uncle Yohn agreed with me. The two-meter giant had decided to escort me to King's Landing after the tournament.

"It changed because it no longer smells of burnt flesh. When did you last come here?" The stench of charred meat lingers badly in large cities, but a month of work should have returned things to their previous state. Evidently my uncle had not visited this "splendid" city since the royal wedding.

"I left for Runestone directly after the royal wedding. There was a great deal to get to grips with and I had to find my footing quickly." Which confirmed it.

"What can you tell me about the current balance of power here?"

"Not the full picture. What I know is this: Jon is the King's Hand, old Estermont is Master of Laws, Stannis is Master of Ships, Maester Pycelle and Varys kept their old positions, and there is something of a scandal brewing around the Master of Coin right now. Alesander Staedmon was caught doing something or other and they are looking for a replacement."

"Interesting. I wonder what exactly Rosby did." I said it mostly to the air. And already waiting at the dock was my father with his retinue.

...

"Axel."

"Father." And then I was pulled into an embrace. Unexpectedly, it was pleasant.

"How glad I am to see you." He broke away and looked me over from head to toe. From his smile he seemed satisfied, though the eyepatch drew a brief shadow of something across his face.

I looked into his eyes. Such blue, familiar eyes. The eyes of a father who loved his son. Since we had last parted he had aged, and aged considerably. His hair had gone entirely white. The lines on his face had deepened. There were shadows beneath his eyes and he had begun to stoop slightly. He gave the impression that ten years had passed since we parted, not five.

"I am glad to see you as well." I had intended to keep him at a distance. He had given me away as a hostage, after all. But looking at this old man now, something in me would not allow it.

"Oh, Lord Royce, forgive me for keeping you waiting. It has simply been a long time since I last saw my son." My father turned to Uncle Yohn.

"Think nothing of it, my lord Hand. Sons are our joy and our future." Did anyone else catch the thin edge of mockery in that?

"Right then, Axel, come along. Your chambers are already prepared. I will be free this evening and I want to hear about your time in Dorne over a family dinner."