"You will have to dine with them," Doran said.
Oberyn turned the king's invitation over. "I have managed it before."
"And afterwards?"
"Afterwards I shall complain to you. Would you prefer a letter, or shall I save it until I return?"
Doran waited. Beyond the closed door, the last of the servants' footsteps faded. The screens had been lowered against the afternoon sun; narrow bars of light crossed Oberyn's sleeve and the parchment in his hand. Below the gallery someone was teaching a child to swim. Doran heard the repeated instruction to let go of the edge.
Oberyn laid down the invitation.
"I know why you are sending me. You need not ask whether I can endure the sight of a Lannister every time we speak of King's Landing."
"I am asking whether you will speak to the men sitting beside them."
"Some of those men toasted Robert while Elia lay dead."
Doran's fingers stopped upon the loose tie of his robe. His brother had not raised his voice. He seldom needed to when he spoke of their sister.
"And some command men we will need."
Oberyn looked towards the screens. Doran let him. He could hear the child laughing now, breathless with the discovery that the water would hold him.
Rhaenys had learned in those pools. She had learned to ride here, to read a difficult letter without moving her lips, to strike Obara's shield and keep her feet beneath her. Through all those years she had answered to Deria Sand whenever a stranger called. Doran wanted more for her than another safe year in his gardens.
"If we are to bring her out of Dorne," he said, "we must have somewhere to take her. Lords who will receive her. Men who will hold a road while our own cross the mountains. I cannot obtain those things by sending another merchant to listen in a winesink."
"You could begin with the houses that fought beside us."
"Which of them would do so again?"
"That is what you want me to ask?"
"Not in those words."
Oberyn drew his chair closer. Its leg caught the corner of Doran's footstool, and pain shot through the swollen joint. Doran caught the arm of his chair before he could stop himself.
"Forgive me." Oberyn knelt to move the stool back.
"Leave the cushion."
"It has slipped."
"I know. Leave it."
His brother obeyed. For a little while they said nothing. Oberyn poured water into Doran's cup and put it where he could reach it without leaning.
"Stark will not abandon Robert," he said at last.
"I would be a fool to expect it." Doran took a careful drink. "Nor Arryn. Robert is still the boy they knew, whatever he has become to everyone else. And Hoster Tully has daughters married to both."
"A fortunate pair of weddings."
"Very. A quarrel between any two of those houses has a third to mend it. We must reckon with that."
It was easy to speak of the North as Stark and the Vale as Arryn. Letters arrived with one lord's seal; armies were counted beneath one banner. Yet lesser lords had sons to place, disputes their great lord had judged against them, old obligations which had become burdens. He had spent too many years hearing petitions to believe affection always followed obedience.
"Their bannermen need not love one another," he continued. "But displeasure is not enough. A man may curse his lord over wine and still ride when summoned. Find out what he would actually risk."
Oberyn took a mouthful of water. "For a princess he believes dead?"
"For a marriage. A wardship. Trade through his port. An acquaintance with you that he chooses to continue after the king's feast is over. Begin with something he can accept."
"You would have me come home with invitations."
"I would have you know whose invitation is worth accepting."
"And how much am I to offer in return? You cannot expect men to speak freely while I give them nothing."
"You may invite their sons here. Offer to show them our horses, our ports. A place in your company, if you think the man would be useful."
"My company?"
"You have seldom objected to finding it."
"Young lords require more attention than most." Oberyn considered him. "There are men who would send a son merely to get him out of their own hall."
"Then send that son home. I trust you to know the difference."
He meant it. Oberyn had lived among men Doran knew only through their seals. For this he needed his brother's judgement more than his obedience.
Oberyn set his cup down beside the king's letter. "An invitation from Mace Tyrell would be interesting."
"Would you go?"
"If he ever sent one."
"Willas writes."
At that, Oberyn's expression changed. "Willas writes more than his father would like, if his father knew how often."
"About horses?"
"Among other things. His last letter accused me of praising a mare I had never seen."
"Had you?"
"Her grandsire was excellent."
Doran found himself smiling. "That was not the question."
"Willas said much the same. He wants to see her walk before he pays for her breeding." Oberyn rubbed a thumb along the rim of his cup. "He has a better eye than most men who can still sit a tourney saddle. His father prefers to remember whose lance put him on the ground."
"Willas does not blame you."
"No. He is more gracious about it than I should be."
The ruined leg had given an old dislike a face and a name. Doran knew how often the story was repeated in the Reach, and how rarely anyone troubled to mention the letters that had followed it. Willas was Highgarden's heir. His friendship did not cease to matter because his father resented it.
"Write before you leave," Doran said. "Tell him you will be at the tourney. Ask whether there is anything you can do for him there."
"And wait for him to ask me to mend his sister's marriage?"
"There is no marriage yet."
"Mace intends there to be."
"So I hear. I would like to know what the king intends."
Oberyn sat back. The sunlight had moved from his sleeve to his hand.
"A Tyrell queen would make our task considerably harder."
"Yes." Doran was glad his brother said it plainly. "Mace would have good cause to defend his grandson's inheritance. We should discover how close he is to obtaining it before we count upon his discontent."
"And if Robert refuses him?"
"Then learn whether he blames Robert, Arryn, or the queen. There may be a difference between them that we can use."
"You are thinking of Willas for Rhaenys."
Doran looked down at the invitation. Prince Tommen's nameday, with a tournament and feasting to follow. Robert could summon half the realm to celebrate a child while Elia's daughter could not be called by her own name outside a locked room.
"I am thinking that she will need a husband, and that Highgarden has an heir. I have promised neither of them anything."
"You would hear her first."
"Yes."
Oberyn held his gaze until Doran added, "And I would expect you to tell me honestly what sort of man he is."
"That I can do."
"Rhaenys will have questions of her own."
"She asked what we would do if her husband's family helped win her throne, then expected to rule through her."
"What did you tell her?"
"That she should put the question to you."
Doran met his brother's eyes. "She would have Dorne behind her."
"She knows. She wants to hear how you mean to keep the crown hers."
"Then we shall discuss it this evening," Doran said.
"Keep writing to Willas," he continued. "Do not turn the first friendly letter into a bargain his father must approve. At court, speak to his brothers. See whether Lord Tyrell listens to his wife or his mother when they disagree. Find out who has been encouraging this royal match."
"And who wishes they would all go home."
"That may be easier to discover."
Oberyn laughed softly. He had begun to consider whom he would meet; Doran could see it in the way he studied the invitation again. His brother remembered faces, favours, the name of a man's favourite horse. Men who would weigh every syllable before the Prince of Dorne often spoke freely to Oberyn and regretted it later.
There were limits. Tywin Lannister would remember exactly whom he was addressing. So would the men responsible for Elia's death. Doran had not forbidden his brother to seek them out. To do so would only make Oberyn wonder what he was being denied.
"If you find a man willing to speak further, arrange a second meeting," he said. "You need not bring him to Sunspear at once. I can send someone to him."
"With what authority?"
"Enough to discuss what he asks. Any promise touching Rhaenys comes back to me."
Oberyn nodded.
Doran drew another letter from beneath the dark river stone beside his cup.
"Aron has sent word from Dragonstone. Lord Black has accepted the king's invitation."
"Then Arthur will be there."
"I expect so."
He passed the letter across. Below the news of the visit, Aron described occupied houses where he had sold roof tiles, a quay crowded with imported timber, and work still going forward beyond it. Eight moons had passed since the fighting at sea. Merchants had long since stopped arguing over how many pirates Stark's son had killed and begun asking what else he meant to buy.
Oberyn read the page once. "Ashara's boy is spending his prize money."
"Aron still finds buyers for his cargoes."
"Arthur used to complain of every journey that took him near a court. Now he has a lord who receives royal invitations."
"His sister's son," Doran said. "I doubt he considers it the same obligation."
"I should like to ask him."
"Do. Speak of Ashara. Of home. Find out whether he would welcome another visit." Doran waited until his brother looked up. "But you tell him nothing of Rhaenys."
Oberyn's mouth tightened. "I know."
"He might come here before you could explain why he must not."
"I know that too." He folded Aron's letter along its old crease. "She will ask whether I spoke to him."
"Then be able to tell her you did."
For a moment Oberyn looked as though he meant to say more. Instead he laid the report down and rose.
"I shall take Obara."
"Have you told her?"
"I thought I would wait until you had decided whether I was fit to be allowed among other people."
Doran reached for the little bell. "Send her in."
Obara arrived with dust on her boots and her hair bound back. She glanced at the royal seal as her father opened the door for her, then at the two cups on the table. Oberyn took his chair again. She remained standing until Doran waved her to the bench.
"Your father is going to King's Landing for the tourney. He wishes you to accompany him."
She looked at Oberyn. "When?"
"As soon as our passage is arranged."
"I shall need to send for my saddle."
"Send today," Doran said.
That brought her attention back to him. Obara had the patience to drill the same fault out of a girl's sword arm for half a morning, but little for a journey discussed without a departure.
"Does Deria know?" she asked.
"Not yet."
"She will want to come."
"She stays here."
Obara nodded. "I will tell her myself. And see that Nym keeps her practising while I am gone."
"Tell her I will come to her this evening," Doran said. "There are things she should hear from me."
He did not want Rhaenys learning of another journey from a servant carrying saddlebags past her door. She had waited for news from him often enough.
Oberyn asked his daughter to bring the writing case from his rooms. "I owe Willas a letter before we sail."
"About the mare?"
"About that too."
When she had gone, Doran rang for Caleotte. He drew the king's invitation towards him and turned it so the maester would see the date.
"Our answer goes today," he said. "My brother and his daughter will attend."
* * *
At Highgarden, Margaery had managed half a curtsy when the silk pulled tight beneath her arms.
"I cannot go any lower."
"That will do until she has loosened it," Olenna said.
The seamstress knelt beside the stool. Margaery raised her elbows while Alerie drew her curls clear of the collar. Gold flowers covered the green silk from shoulder to wrist. There were too many of them, but her granddaughter had chosen them herself and had already endured three women telling her where they ought to go.
"Let it out here," Alerie said, touching the seam beneath the girl's arm. "She must be able to reach across a table."
"And dance," Margaery added.
"And dance."
Willas sat by the open window with his bad leg stretched before him. He had surrendered his table to the sewing basket without complaint, though Olenna had seen him rescue a letter from beneath a length of ribbon. Beyond his shoulder lay the gardens, where Margaery and her cousins had spent half the summer riding whenever their septa looked elsewhere. Now there were gowns for mornings, gowns for suppers and a travelling chest nobody would let the girl pack herself.
A servant laid a heavy woollen cloak across its open lid.
"Are we staying for winter?" Margaery asked.
"Your father wishes to be prepared," Alerie answered.
"For several winters, by the look of the wagons," Olenna muttered.
Willas smiled down at his letter. Mace had spoken to the steward about extending their lodgings before speaking to his daughter. Olenna would have preferred the girl to hear of it at breakfast, when she had asked Alerie to tell her, rather than find out among the pins.
Garlan appeared in the doorway, his hair damp from the yard. He had dressed for supper but missed a spot of dried mud beside his ear.
"Have you come to laugh?" his sister asked.
"I was hoping to ask a favour."
"For the joust? I have begun one."
"Then I had better ride."
"You had better win. I pricked my finger twice."
He complimented the flowers and offered her his hand when the seamstress said she might step down. Margaery tried another curtsy upon the floor. This one succeeded.
Mace arrived before the woman had gathered her pins. He stopped in the doorway to admire his daughter, then made her turn so that he could see the back.
"Very fine. Though I shall never understand how a gown requires so many women to finish it."
Alerie drew a pin from her cuff and returned it to the seamstress. Mace stepped aside to let the woman pass, then kissed Margaery's brow.
"They have made you beautiful, sweetling."
"She was beautiful when they began," Alerie said.
"And now the prince will see it."
There it was. Her son's pleasure was so plain that Olenna almost softened towards it. He loved his children. He also wanted everyone in the realm to see what splendid children they were, preferably from below a dais.
Alerie sent Margaery behind the screen to change. Mace waited until the sewing women had gone, then shut the door and drew a letter from his belt.
"Renly will receive us when we arrive. He has offered to arrange a supper with the prince."
"Has the king asked to meet Margaery?" Olenna enquired.
"He invited us."
"He invited the realm, Mace."
His smile diminished. He unfolded the letter and began to read. Renly wrote warmly of their journey, of Loras's progress and of the welcome awaiting them. Several young nobles would attend the supper. There would be ample opportunity for Margaery to become acquainted with Joffrey.
"You see? Renly understands what I have in mind."
"I imagine the men loading your wagons understand it."
"Mother."
Willas held out his hand, and Mace passed him the letter.
"Robert need only meet her," her son continued. "There is not a girl in the realm better suited to his son. Her birth, her accomplishments, the strength of our house—"
"Yes, yes. You have been telling me since she could walk. Sit down, you great oaf. You are making her sound like a broodmare at a fair."
Mace glanced towards the screen and sat, offended. Alerie had pressed her lips together. Olenna knew that expression of old; her gooddaughter would chide her later, once she was certain she would not laugh.
Willas finished the letter.
"Renly says nothing of the queen."
"We shall pay our respects to her," Mace replied.
"Before or after she hears that her husband's brother has been arranging her son's company?" Olenna asked.
"He is the boy's uncle."
"And she is his mother. I would begin there."
Alerie held out her hand for the letter. "I shall write to her myself. Margaery ought to be presented before attending the supper."
"Certainly. There is no need to make a difficulty of it."
Olenna left that unanswered. Willas was looking towards her, waiting until his father had finished.
"I would ask Renly something first," he said. "Has Robert already approached Lord Stark?"
Mace turned in his chair.
"About Sansa," Willas added.
"There has been no announcement."
"Then we have time to discover whether there is anything to announce."
"The girl is younger than Margaery. She has been brought up in the North."
"She has been brought up by Eddard Stark," Willas replied. "That may matter more to Robert than anything else."
Olenna watched him lay his own letter beneath Renly's. She had spent years asking him to consider what another man wanted before telling her what Highgarden could offer. Mace still answered the second question whenever she asked the first.
"Lord Arryn would welcome the match," Willas continued. "He raised them both. His wife is Lady Stark's sister, and Lord Tully would have a granddaughter beside the throne. We would be asking Robert to disappoint people whose judgment he has trusted for years."
"The North cannot offer what we can," Mace insisted. "Stark is already loyal. A marriage to my daughter would bind the Reach to Robert's line."
"A sensible argument," Olenna said. Her son brightened. "Now tell me why Robert should prefer it to having Ned Stark for kin."
Mace's fingers tightened upon the arm of his chair.
"He wanted to marry Stark's sister," she continued. "He may be pleased enough to see his son marry Stark's daughter. If he were choosing solely to please himself, I would expect Sansa to be queen."
"You speak as though the matter were settled."
"It may not even have been discussed. Find out before you offer a dowry."
Margaery emerged from behind the screen in her ordinary gown. Garlan moved his cup from the window seat to make room for her.
"Renly believes the king can be persuaded," Mace said.
Willas glanced down at the letter. "He would gain a great deal by persuading him. Loras serves him already. If he helped Margaery become queen, Father would have reason to support him at court."
"And if Robert refuses?" Olenna asked.
"Renly still has our friendship."
"And your sister has been seen pursuing a prince who will marry somebody else."
Willas looked towards Margaery, then back to their grandmother.
"We need not let it become that public. Renly can arrange company for her without discussing a marriage. His help is still worth having."
"Of course it is. I want to know how much he has actually done before your father thanks him for a crown."
"I have promised him nothing," Mace protested.
"Then try to reach King's Landing with that distinction intact."
Her son reached for the wine. Garlan rose to pour it for him, and Olenna waited while they settled themselves. Outside the open window, a groom called for someone to hold a horse. Hooves struck the paving, followed by a short, indignant whinny.
"The queen might prefer another match," Willas said at last. "Lord Stark already has the king's ear whenever he wants it. If his daughter married Joffrey, that influence would continue into the next reign."
"Do you suppose she would welcome your father instead?"
"I think she might prefer a man who had to bargain with her."
Olenna lowered her cup.
Willas met her eyes. "Stark need only ask Robert. We would need her goodwill."
She considered that, then nodded. "Worth finding out. Your mother may have more to tell us after she meets the queen. But do not build your plans upon Cersei disliking a girl she has not met. She may find a northern girl with her father half a realm away less troublesome than a Tyrell surrounded by cousins."
"Then Mother's letter should concern the presentation," Willas said. "Nothing about remaining at court."
"For now."
Alerie had moved to the small desk beside the travelling chest. "I will send it this evening."
"And when she is received," Mace declared, "they will see how well she belongs there."
"When she is received, we shall thank the queen," Olenna told him. "You may leave the proclamation until later."
He shifted in his chair. "You make a simple visit sound like the negotiation of a peace."
"You ordered lodgings through the winter."
Margaery looked at her father. He spread his hands.
"Only should we wish to remain, sweetling."
"Will Mother stay?"
"If you do," Alerie assured her.
The girl relaxed a little. Olenna was glad she had asked. Mace had imagined his daughter in the Red Keep so often that it scarcely occurred to him she might have questions about living there.
"Robert has accepted our service since the rebellion," he said. "We joined him against the Greyjoys. He has no cause to mistrust us."
"He pardoned you. He still remembers which banners you fought beneath. And I would expect Stannis to have something to say about a Tyrell bride."
"We made our peace with Robert."
"Robert ate throughout the siege."
Mace's face darkened. Willas moved before his father could answer.
"Renly cannot speak for Stannis," he said. "Even if they both remember Storm's End."
Olenna gave him a brief nod. Stannis held the castle now, and the Stormlands with it. Renly's seat on the council made him useful, but his friendship would not quiet the brother who had nearly starved beneath Tyrell banners.
"I shall speak to Robert privately," Mace announced. "I can ask what he intends for the prince without committing myself."
"Then enquire. Leave the gold out of it until you have heard an answer."
"I know how to conduct myself."
"I have had many years to observe it."
A knock brought the steward with a question about the wagons. Mace gave an answer from his chair, found it insufficiently understood, and went out to inspect the arrangements himself. Garlan followed when he heard the horses mentioned.
Olenna waited until the door closed.
"You need not smile, Willas. He will be asking you how much he can afford."
"I shall tell him how much more he may obtain if he waits."
"Yes. He will listen to that."
Her grandson drew the letters together. "Loras should meet you before the city. You can speak freely on the road."
"Garlan has asked him," Margaery put in. "I shall ask too."
"Your letter may have more effect," Willas replied.
"Ask him about the prince," Olenna said. "His temper. His companions. What he does when he loses."
Willas nodded.
"He does not write much about Joffrey," Margaery admitted. "Mostly about Lord Renly and the yard."
"Then give him something else to write about." Olenna crooked a finger. "Come here, child."
Margaery came to stand beside her chair. Olenna took her hand.
"Your father has been praising you to everyone. What have you been doing?"
"I asked Loras whether the princess might like Megga and me to join her riding. And what Prince Tommen likes."
"Has he answered?"
"He said he would find out. I thought Myrcella might ask us to come again if she liked our company. Then Mother would have a reason to ask whether we could stay."
Olenna drew the girl closer and kissed her cheek.
"Well done, sweetling. You have given rather more thought to being invited than your father has."
Margaery smiled at once. Alerie looked up from her writing.
"You should have told me. I shall mention that you hoped to meet the princess."
"And Tommen?" Olenna asked.
"Everyone writes about Joffrey. I thought his brother might be pleased that somebody remembered him."
"He may be. Remember him after you have been introduced as well."
"I meant to."
Olenna squeezed her hand. "I believe you. And Myrcella must not find you forgetting her whenever Joffrey appears."
"That would be rude."
"It would. It would also make your father's intentions plain to a child."
Willas leaned forward. "Their friendship would still be worth having if the king chose Sansa."
Margaery's smile faded a little.
"So would hers," Olenna added. "Do not arrive thinking of the girl as your enemy. She has done nothing to you."
"I have never met her."
"Then you may find you like her. We shall learn what the king intends. In the meantime, your mother will approach the queen, your brother will ask the questions your father has forgotten, and you may enjoy the visit."
"And Father?"
"We shall try to keep him away from anyone who agrees with him."
Margaery laughed. Olenna released her hand, pleased to hear it.
Willas turned to the second letter. "Loras also expects Lord Black. With Ser Arthur."
"He will want another bout," Alerie said.
"He has mentioned it twice."
"He mentioned the first one often enough," Olenna recalled. Her grandson had sent a drawing to explain how the younger boy had got beneath his guard. "Perhaps this time he will spend less of the letter telling us why he should have won."
"There is a great deal being said about Dragonstone," Willas continued. "I should like a better account of what Lord Black has done there."
"We have one of his clocks," Alerie said. "We know what his work is worth."
"And now he has a fleet and Ser Arthur at his shoulder," Olenna replied. "Robert is fond of him. I shall be interested to see what he asks of that fondness."
"He is still very young."
"So I hear whenever somebody tells me what he has done." She glanced at Margaery. "Be courteous to him. And if Robert spends the feast praising him, watch the prince."
"To see whether he is jealous?"
"To see how he bears it."
Alerie finished her letter and laid it aside to dry. Supper would be served soon. From the passage came Mace's voice, asking a servant where his eldest son had gone.
"Here, Father," Willas called.
"Good. Come along. We shall eat together before everyone scatters."
Margaery went to the sewing basket and brought out Garlan's favour. One petal of the gold rose was larger than the others.
"I have promised him this," she told Olenna. "Must I give the prince something too?"
"Has he asked?"
"No."
"Then finish your brother's."
The girl folded the silk over her needle. Willas rose and reached for his cane; she went to take his free arm.
"Will you be lonely when we go?"
"With half of Highgarden finding reasons why I must settle something before Father returns?"
"In the evenings."
"A little," he admitted. "You will have to write."
"Everything?"
"As much as you wish."
They went out together. Mace was waiting in the passage, and Margaery stopped to show him the favour. He praised it extravagantly. Olenna heard him promise that Garlan would win, just as he promised that Joffrey would love her.
She took Alerie's arm and followed. Let him be right about the joust, at least. It would give them all a pleasant supper afterwards.
* * *
Robb caught Theon's sword against his shield and drove him back three steps before the edge of the well brought them up short.
"Yield."
"With that great thing on your arm? Give me one and try again."
"You chose to fight without it."
"I chose to show you how a man might fight without it. You were meant to learn."
Robb laughed and lowered the wooden sword. Theon immediately struck him across the thigh.
"And there is your lesson."
"That was after."
"After what? I had not yielded."
A pair of grooms had stopped beneath the arch to watch. Robb took his sword up again, but Martyn's voice carried across the yard.
"You have time to wash. You do not have time to begin another."
Theon offered his sword hilt first, all courtesy now that he had landed the last blow. Robb snatched it from him and took both to the arms rack. His leg smarted. He would have won the next exchange, shield or no shield, and Theon knew it.
They had been in White Harbor three days. Each morning the captain had wanted a different wind, and each morning Robb had thought of the tourney beginning without them. Today the ship would sail. Martyn had brought the word himself, finding them in Lord Manderly's yard before breakfast.
Robb pushed his wet hair from his forehead. Above the white walls, gulls circled in a sky clear enough to see for miles. There was no sign of the clouds the captain had objected to yesterday. He hoped the man had noticed.
A servant met them beneath the arch with a packet from Winterfell.
Robb broke his father's seal while Theon peered over his shoulder. The king's invitation had brought them this far south already; for a dreadful moment he imagined being called home. Then a second folded letter slipped from the first, and he recognised Jon's hand.
He caught it against his chest before it fell.
"Well?" Theon demanded.
"Jon wants us at the tourney."
"I told you he would be there."
"He asks Father to let us come." Robb grinned down at the page. "He does not know we have left."
"Does he ask for me?"
Robb held the letter just beyond his reach. "There is something here about keeping you away from the archery."
Theon caught his wrist. They struggled briefly over it until Robb saw the parchment beginning to crease and let go. Theon read standing in the archway, while a servant carrying a basket of linen had to squeeze past them.
"Gawen and Vaelor," he murmured. "He means to enter them both."
"And himself, I would wager."
Theon looked at him over the parchment. "You cannot ask him to stay among the squires merely so you can have another try."
"I can ask him to bring a sword into a yard."
That earned a grin. Robb had practised the answer to Jon's winning blow at Runestone so often that Ser Rodrik had begun attacking him from the other side to stop him expecting it. He was stronger now. His reach had grown. Jon would have improved too, with Arthur beside him, but Robb wanted to find out by how much.
He took the letter back. The last lines were hurried, squeezed beneath the rest. There was no question about ships or the men who had gone south to seek work. Jon simply wanted them with him.
Robb read those lines twice.
His father's note told him to present himself to the king and Lord Arryn promptly, and to remember that Martyn had charge of the escort. At the bottom Ned had added a message for Jon: ask about his hand, and tell him his father expected a proper answer.
"Still worrying over that?" Theon asked.
"Jon would say he was well if the hand fell off."
"He would want to know why you had not caught it."
Robb folded the letters together, smiling. He could hear his brother's voice now, quite plainly.
They washed, changed, and went up to take their leave of Lord Manderly.
Wyman sat by an open window with breakfast before him. He had been told of the sailing already, but insisted that they eat while the horses were taken down. The smell of hot bread made Robb realise how hungry the practice had left him. He took a chair when offered; Theon waited until their host waved him towards the other.
"Your father will have my letter before you reach King's Landing," Wyman told Robb. "And you will find rooms ready when you arrive. My man will meet you at the quay."
"Thank you, my lord. Jon is coming too. Father has sent his invitation after us."
"So I hear. With enough baggage to occupy a quay of his own, if the masters are to be believed." Wyman watched Robb spread butter over his bread. "What is he bringing?"
Robb paused. "He has not told me."
It was the third time someone had asked since their arrival. A shipmaster had wanted to know how many galleys Jon meant to build; one of Wyman's knights had asked about his fine white salt. Robb knew something of the plans, but nothing he could promise these men.
"Will you ask him to keep some of it for my buyers?"
Robb put down his bread. "I can ask him to speak with them. I do not know what he has promised already."
Wyman studied him a moment, then nodded.
"Tell him I have merchants at the tourney, and they have coin. I should like them to come home with something besides tales of what the men of Gulltown bought."
"I will tell him."
"Before Robert gets hold of him, if you can. The king has always liked a battle told over supper."
"The tale will have grown on its way there," Theon said. "It certainly has on its way here."
"Has it?"
"Last night the captain at your table gave Jon three thousand pirates to fight. He began with two, before they refilled his cup."
Wyman laughed. "Then it is fortunate he went to bed when he did."
Robb smiled, but the numbers troubled him. At Winterfell they had read the accounts eight moons ago: ships taken, men freed, men killed. Now strangers made the fighting larger every time they spoke of it. Jon might have to spend half the feast explaining what had never happened.
"He lost men," Robb said. "They never seem to add those."
Wyman's hand stopped over the dish.
"No," he answered. "They seldom do."
For a moment the only sound was a cart passing below the window. Robb looked down at his plate, wishing he had said it differently. He had not meant to rebuke his host. Wyman reached for his cup and let the moment pass without making him explain.
"Your father tells me you mean to compete."
"In the squires' melee, my lord."
"Good. We must have someone to cheer for. Though I advise you to leave a little time for the feast. A young heir does well to know the men with whom he may have to deal."
"Father said much the same."
"Then listen to him. He made friends in the Vale who have stood beside him ever since." Wyman turned towards Theon as well. "There will be men from every part of the realm. Find a few you like, and write to them when you come home."
"I shall begin with the ones who do not strike after yielding," Robb said.
"I never yielded," Theon replied, and Wyman asked for the account of their morning's practice.
By the time Martyn came to fetch them, Robb had eaten two pieces of bread and most of the fish. Their host heard that Tommen's nameday cloak had gone aboard safely, promised that any later letters would follow them south, and held out his hand.
Robb clasped it. "There is one I would like to send before we go. Would your maester send it to the Redfort for me?"
"Lord Horton?"
"Domeric Bolton. If he is still there."
Wyman nodded. "Ask for whatever you need."
They were given parchment in the next room. Through its open door Robb could hear Martyn answering Wyman's questions about the passage. Theon fetched his arrow case and sat beside the window, turning each shaft against the light while Robb drew a stool to the writing table. He put two aside with damaged feathers.
"Domeric meant to come north," Robb said. "He told us at Runestone. He was still speaking of it in his last letter."
"Perhaps Lord Redfort has found someone worth keeping him in the Vale."
"Then he can bring her."
Theon laughed. "Put that in. Lord Redfort will enjoy it if he reads the letter first."
Robb had begun with Domeric's name. He paused with the quill above the next line. They had promised another race beside the horse lines at Runestone. Domeric had been carrying his battered shield, pleased for them both despite his own defeat. Robb remembered telling him to come and speak to Father himself. He had meant it then, but there had always seemed to be time.
He dipped the quill again.
We are sailing for the king's tourney today. Jon will be there, and I would have you join us if Lord Redfort gives you leave. You spoke of coming home. Come by way of King's Landing, and we can make the passage north together afterwards.
He asked Domeric to stay at Winterfell before going on to the Dreadfort. There would be horses waiting, and Robb had not forgotten the race. He did not say he would win it. Domeric would know that was what he intended.
"Theon is coming as well," he read aloud as he wrote.
"Tell him I won at Runestone."
"He was there."
"Tell him I mean to win again."
Robb added that Theon expected them to watch him shoot. Theon closed the case, keeping the damaged arrows out, and came to read over his shoulder. He found nothing to object to, which was unusual enough to make Robb glance up.
"Will that do?"
"Aye."
Robb signed his name. When the maester came for the letter, he asked whether there was time for it to reach the Redfort before Domeric left. The man could promise only to send it at once. Robb watched him carry it out, then hurried after Martyn before the captain could begin calling for them.
Outside, White Harbor was bright with sunlight. Along the descent to the water, children pressed themselves against doorways to let the riders through. Theon had put on his fine black doublet, the golden kraken spreading across his chest. Robb noticed that he had cleaned the silver gull he had won in the Vale and fastened it where anyone could see.
"You have polished that again."
"It was tarnished."
"You polished it yesterday."
Theon looked down to adjust it. "Salt air."
At Wyman's table they had heard that Ser Harras Harlaw might ride in the king's joust. Theon had asked who brought the news and whether the man had seen him depart. He had said little about it afterwards.
"Do you know Ser Harras well?" Robb asked.
"I knew him. He came to Pyke when I was a boy."
"Will you speak to him?"
"Why would I not?"
"I did not say you wouldn't."
Theon kept his eyes upon the way ahead. A cart made them fall into single file; when the street widened again, he brought his horse back beside Robb's.
"He may have seen my mother."
Robb looked at him. Theon was still watching the street.
"I hope he has," Robb said.
Theon nodded. That was all. Robb let him ride without another question until the roofs gave way to the harbour and both had to draw aside for a team hauling a laden wagon uphill.
Their ship waited beneath the white merman. Men called from her deck as the last of the horses crossed the planks. Beyond her, fishing boats were working into the harbour, their crews shouting at one another over a tangle of oars. The smell of pitch and fish grew stronger as they approached the water.
Robb dismounted beside Martyn and gave his reins to a groom. The captain wanted them aboard. He sounded cheerful now that they could no longer ask him when he meant to leave.
Theon went ahead. Robb stopped long enough to draw Jon's letter from inside his coat.
For eight moons his brother had been safe on Dragonstone. There had been letters enough to prove it. Yet Robb still remembered standing beside Father while the names of the dead were read out, waiting for the list to end. Fergus had been among them. Fergus, who had ridden away in black with the others, and whom Robb had expected to see whenever he next saw Jon.
Someone else would be serving in his place now.
He had wanted to ask about that in a letter. Each time he began, the words had sounded stiff or prying, and he had written about the horses or Arya instead. He could talk to Jon when he was there. They could walk somewhere without an old knight listening over their shoulders, and Robb would not have to guess how his brother had taken a question by how long the answer took to arrive.
Theon waited at the top of the plank.
"Are you coming?"
Robb tucked the letter away and crossed to him. Below deck a horse stamped; overhead, a sailor was climbing with a rope looped over his shoulder. Theon caught Robb's sleeve and drew him out of the man's way.
"I want to see him," Robb said.
"So do I."
Theon's hand lingered upon his arm, then fell away. They went to the rail together while Martyn counted the men aboard.
The shoremen cast off. Robb watched the gap widen between the ship and the quay, one hand upon the warm wood. He wished Domeric could be certain to come. He wished Father had come, though he had understood the reasons when they were given.
Theon leaned beside him, squinting towards the harbour mouth.
"Jon had better have found us somewhere decent to practise."
Robb smiled. "He will have."
* * *
Daenerys caught the corner of the awning before it touched the puddle. She had washed it yesterday and spent most of the evening mending the tear. The sailmaker would make her wash it again if she brought it back dirty.
"Through here, girl."
She turned sideways between a stack of casks and the shop door. Inside, three men were stretching canvas across a table. The sailmaker cleared a place for her bundle with his elbow, knocking an empty cup to the floor. He left it there while he unfolded her work.
Daenerys held the other end. He pulled at the seam, looked closely at the corner she had patched, and grunted.
"Better. Do the others that way."
She waited while he found her coins. One had rolled beneath a weight. When he pushed them across the table, she counted them into her palm before putting them away.
There was another bundle beside his stool.
"Those too?" she asked.
"Tomorrow. I've yet to cut out the rotten parts." He turned to a man whose yellow beard was tied beneath his chin. "You can have this one now. Come back in two days for the rest."
"I'll be loading then."
"Send someone."
The man sighed and lifted the awning onto his shoulder. Daenerys moved towards the door to let him pass.
"At least leave me time to put the things up before King's Landing. Half the harbour is trying to get there."
"Then you'll have company." The sailmaker bent to retrieve his cup. "What is it this time?"
"A tourney for the little prince. Tommen. After the harvest."
Daenerys had heard sailors talking of a tourney that morning. She had scarcely listened until one had said the king would feed everyone who came. She wondered if he meant everyone, even the people who only stood outside to watch.
The captain shifted the bundle. "A stop at Dragonstone first, if the wind serves. I've cloth to put ashore in Blackburn."
Daenerys followed him out.
"Do you know Qavo Ryndoon?"
He looked down at her. "Who?"
"A shipwright. He went there from Myr. His daughter is my friend."
"There are yards at Blackburn. Someone will know him."
"Would you take a letter?"
He had started towards the quay. She went with him, keeping beside the wall as a cart passed. The awning hid most of his face.
"A small one," she added. "I could pay."
"Bring it here when I collect the rest. Put her father's name on it, and the yard. I'll give it to someone ashore."
"Could you bring an answer?"
"If there's one waiting when I come back."
He stepped off the kerb and shouted to a sailor sitting on a bollard. Daenerys stopped. She wanted to ask how long he would stay at Dragonstone, but the sailor was already coming for the bundle and neither man was looking at her.
Two days. She could write a little letter in two days.
On the walk home she tried to remember what Naella's handwriting had looked like. They had tied a bundle together when Qavo's family left Myr, struggling with the spare sailcloth Salla had given them. Naella had held the knots while Daenerys pulled. She remembered that clearly, and little Tala sleeping against Anara through all the noise of their departure. She could not remember whether Naella had written her name anywhere.
Perhaps she would not recognize Daenerys's writing either. She would have to say who she was at the beginning.
Before she went upstairs, she counted the money again beneath the arch. Bread, lamp oil, something to put by for the room. She could spare two coins if she took the other bundle tomorrow. Those she tucked into a fold of her sleeve. She had never paid anyone to carry a letter. Perhaps two would be too little. He might want more to bring an answer back, and she did not know how long that would take or whether she would still have work when he returned.
Viserys was in their room, cutting a frayed end from the leather on Ser Willem's sword. Beside him lay bread and a few olives in a dish. He looked at the empty cloth under her arm.
"Did he pay you?"
She showed him the coins.
"All of it?"
"Yes." She set the cloth on the bed. "May I have a little parchment?"
"What for?"
"I found a captain who goes to Dragonstone. He said he would take a letter to Naella."
The knife stopped against the leather.
"You told him our names?"
"I told him hers."
"And where we live?"
"No. I only asked if he could take it."
Viserys put the knife down. "You are not writing to Dragonstone."
Daenerys had been afraid he would say that. She had thought he might let her if it cost very little, but she had not asked the captain how much. She should have asked.
"It would go to the shipyard," she said.
"Who pays the shipwright?"
She pulled at a loose thread in the wrapping cloth.
"Who, Dany?"
"Jon."
"Lord Jon. Do you imagine Qavo would refuse him if he asked to see it?"
"I'm writing to Naella."
"Her father builds his ships." Viserys rose and went to the shutter. The room grew too warm when it was closed, but he drew it in until the noise from the street softened. "What would you tell her?"
She had thought of so many things on the way home. Now she could only think that he would object to each one.
"I wanted to ask if they were well."
"And tell her we are in Tyrosh. Then she tells her father, and he tells someone else. By the time it reaches the castle, they know which ship brought the letter and where its captain found you."
"He found me at the sailmaker's."
"Where you go every day."
"I needn't tell her about this room."
"You will put your name on it, won't you?"
She had to. Naella could not answer a letter without knowing who had sent it. Daenerys wished she had asked the captain more before coming home. He might have known a way to do it safely.
Daenerys looked at the cloth in her hands. She had been pleased that the sailmaker trusted her with more work. She knew the way without having to think about it, even when the carts blocked the usual turning.
"Naella wouldn't tell them to hurt us."
"She need only tell them where we are."
Outside, someone called for a boy to bring water. Viserys waited until the shouting stopped.
"Do you remember Narbo's house?"
"Yes."
"How kindly everyone spoke to us?"
"I remember the door."
That silenced him. Daenerys remembered it closing, and being on the wrong side when her brother called her name. She had no wish to remember the guards. She put down the cloth.
"Qavo wasn't there. Neither was Naella."
Viserys looked away. "You cannot know what people will do because you like them."
"She was my friend."
"Years ago."
Daenerys hated that answer most. She had worried about it herself. Tala must be much bigger now. Naella might have other friends, girls who knew her house and saw her every day. She might have forgotten the things Daenerys wanted to ask about.
"That's why I want to write."
He turned from her and opened the shutter again. Light fell across the bread. She had not eaten since morning, but she did not want to sit down and let him think they had finished.
"Your letters say where we are."
"My letters go to men I choose."
"You let Narbo know."
"Enough."
She flinched at his voice. Viserys saw it; his hand dropped from the shutter.
"You think I enjoy this?" he asked. "You think I wish to spend my days asking other men for what should be ours?"
"I didn't say that."
He watched her, waiting for something more. She wanted him to sit beside her and ask what she would put in the letter. Once he might have helped her choose the words. But if she asked now, he would want to tell Qavo things, and she would have to argue again.
Viserys returned to the bed. He broke the bread and held out the larger piece.
"Eat. You can think about it tomorrow."
"The captain comes back the day after."
"Then there is time."
She took the bread. He pushed the olives towards her and picked up the sword. Presently he asked whether the sailmaker had given her another bundle. She told him it would be ready tomorrow.
"Wait for me before you go. I'll come with you."
Daenerys nodded. She could still see the captain stepping down from the kerb, already turning away before she had finished asking her questions.
That evening she searched through the scraps Viserys kept beneath his writing things. There was a piece with enough clean space on the back. He had used the other side to add up the cost of their passage to Tyrosh. She remembered the voyage better than the numbers: sleeping with her ear against a bundle, waking whenever a foot struck it, then being afraid to move because someone might take the place.
She laid the parchment on the stool and began with Naella's name.
For a while she wrote only questions. Was Anara well? Had Tala learned to sew? Was their house near the yard? She wanted to know if Naella could see the sea from her window. By then she had used more than half the space without saying anything about herself.
She added that they were in Tyrosh and that she had work mending awnings. The letters were too large. Viserys always told her to leave room at the bottom, and now there was scarcely any.
She looked towards him. He had fallen asleep with one boot still on. The knife lay on the bed beside the finished sword. She moved it to the stool before returning to the last line.
She wanted to ask Naella to write back. To do that, she would have to tell her where an answer could find her. She held the quill over the parchment until a drop gathered at its point, then put it down.
There was room for the sailmaker's name, if she wrote small. In the morning she could ask whether he would keep a letter for her.
Daenerys left the space empty. She waited for the ink to dry, folded the parchment, and put it inside her sewing roll with the coins for the captain.