Once seated in his high-back seat, servants on hand to assist the knights and lady to their own seats, Prince Viserys pauses. He looks at the men, and then Lady Reyna.
“Lady Reyna, your brother is dead. Lord Garvys was killed, some ten days past. My heart grieves for House Tyrell, and I know the king’s heart does the same,” the Hand of the King says, not leaving it for someone else to take the burden of delivering the news.
The blunt delivery is like a sucker punch. Reyna has hardly finished arranging her salt-scented skirts before the news falls. The breath leaves her lungs in a little sigh and she simply looks at the Hand for a long moment before she breathes again, slowly and painfully.
Then, finally, she looks to Ardon. “Our brother is dead,” she says slowly, testing the words and finding them bitter on her tongue.
The ironman sits with his head bowed, his silence suggesting dark thoughts. As Viserys gives the news again, he looks up to voice them, glancing first at Reyna as she takes the ill tidings.
“Sandstone and Hellholt risen already you said,” he says after Ardon’s question. “And Sunspear? Oakenfist and—”
There is the faintest of pauses, as he glances at his wife and good-brother, “—Ser Meros?”
“He was betrayed, murdered, and Ser Mavros Uller led Qorgyle forces out of the desert to slaughter Lord Tyrell’s encamped host,” he goes on, dully. “Hellholt—ruled by Uller’s sister, though she was a prisoner last I’ve heard—rose too, slaughtering the garrison there. The whole of the Dornish desert between the Greenblood and the Torrentine is under their control now. Of Sunspear, nothing. The news is fresh, only a day old. They would only recently have learned of it in Sunspear themselves ... that is, those who did not have some reason to know…”
A longer pause, and then Viserys adds after consideration, “I am sorry to speak so bluntly ... but despite this, it may mean little or nothing. Qorgyle and Uller are old and done. It may be the unreasoning vengeance of those with nothing to lose. A tragic loss, but the rest of Dorne may be cowed—especially if Ser Alyn is able to make free of the ships and troops under his command, to secure Sunspear and the other ports.”
This makes Reyna look up. “Lord Qorgoyle? And Mavros Uller?” she asks, pushing back the grief and shock and staring at the hand in growing horror. “But we… we -helped- them. Highgarden sent extra grain to Sandstone to ease the smallfolk’s want, and Uller… I -recommended- him to Garvys.”
Carefully now does she avoid Ardon’s gaze, as if to meet it is to break utterly. “-Can- he secure Sunspear?” she asks then, her voice curiously flat.
“Uller.” The name is spoken like a quiet curse. Ardon’s brown eyes burn with anger and regret. “I never should have left Garvys.” His fists are clenched at his sides.
He glances at Viserys. “It will take a swift act of force. Ten days lost already, but there may be time to break them before they gain momentum.” His mind races. “I should go to Highgarden and call the Reach’s banners. Ten days lost.”
“If Ser Alyn is free, yes.”
The lines of the ironman’s face seem to have hardened, blade-sharp: “Your grace, Qorgyle and Lady Uller may be unreasoning, but Mavros Uller is not. And if there are none of our men left save at Sunspear…swift force, as Ardon says. Two of their great houses rebelling successfully is a powerful temptation to the others.”
Then to Ardon he says, “Don’t leave in haste, Ser Ardon. We must consult with the king. There is the chance -that in two weeks time, Ser Alyn will have dealt with it all by himself. But if you wish, send word to Ser Emmyn and prepare the way in case the king calls the banners… Perhaps Lord Tarly may be called on, to send some forces to the foot of the Prince’s Pass, as well. It would do no harm.”
“I will send the ravens within the hour,” Ardon replies quietly. “I have faith in Ser Alyn… but Dorne is a sleeping giant, and this is a day I have dreaded.”
He is silent, preoccupied, but shoots Reyna a quick reassuring look.
Reyna nods dumbly at the Hand’s reassurance, though she seems little comforted by it. “Your Grace,” she says quietly when there is a lull in the war talk, “will there be any question of Highgarden’s loyalties when the court hears this? Le… Lord Leo is far too young to come and swear his fealty to His Grace the King.”
She returns Ardon’s glance and for a moment, looks as if she might reach her hand to him. But such comforts are not for this place, or this discussion, and she clasps both her pale hands together in her lap.
“Redwyne,” Dagur thinks aloud. “Perhaps a raven to Lord Redwyne as well to ready his ships. If Ser Alyn can keep a knife at Marence Martell’s back and control this, well and good. But if it spreads and men must be spread, the Boneway and Prince’s Pass will be no easier than they were the first time.”
A long pause, and then unhappily, “... if it’s still held by Ser Alyn.”
“If it is not,” Ardon interjects quietly, “then we must… and will… be ready to move swiftly.” He pauses. “What of Garvys’ host?” he asks. “The survivors should not be left to die. If there are any left, that is.”
Now Reyna sits quietly as talk of Dorne swirls around her, her brown eyes on her hands. But she does not weep; there is no sign of a tear in those somber eyes. Doubtless she is considering the coming firestorm, and what it might mean. Or perhaps she is simply listening and thinking nothing.
“If there are any left,” the ironman says, crossing his arms upon his chest, “they have fled into the desert and are as good as dead already. Or they have been taken captive. I doubt Qorgyle or Uller will be in the mood to ransom them.”
He pauses for a moment, then; the talk of ransoms and captives leads, inevitably, to the thought that he finally voices: “The Dornish here. What of them?”
“About here, is Sandstone, as you know, sers.” He points. And then , shaking his head, he traces a line south. “The desert, and nothing of note for some thirty leagues or more, when—if—they reach the inhospitable shores of the Summer Sea.” And then, staring at the map, he traces a line northwest. “A longer path, with desert and then mountains…. No, it is hopeless.” He shuts the book with a loud *thump*, and pushes it away from him.
“The hostages? The gods know. Yet .... yet I think the king will wait and see what comes. Perhaps he shall take some of them with him to Dorne, if it comes to that, as visible reminder of their state and the surety their lives stand for.”
Reyna rises quietly then, her grace both inborn and deliberate so as to disturb the men as little as possible. “By your Grace’s leave,” she says quietly. “I have been a fortnight away from my children and have no place at a counsel of war.” She makes the Hand a perfunctory purpose before looking to brother and husband.
“I will go to the Tyrell manse, and have them brought to me. I… want our people about me,” she says to them both, eyes cast down. She touches her brother on the face with her fingertips, her husband on the shoulder, then glides out the door without waiting for the Hand to give his permission.
The lives of these hostages mean little to them, I think,” Ardon murmurs, once Reyna is out of earshot. “A few lives, dear as they are, are a small price in exchange for our eviction.” As the door behind his sister closes, his scowl deepens. “My lords, in candor, I am surprised this day did not come sooner. Against my judgment I left Garvys, and I regretted it from that day til now.” Ardon glances at the Hand. “Your grace, I beg of you to urge haste to the King. My brother’s touch was not deft, and there may only be a small window of opportunity before the house of cards comes tumbling down.”
The ironman does not give the map more than a passing glance, nodding to Reyna as she leaves before saying to the others: “Little or no, they are all we have to wager if Oakenfist cannot hold.” He rises too, then: “I had best go see to them now. Their guards will have to be increased. A Dornish face on the streets now is as likely to cause trouble as not.”
But he pauses, “And, your grace…if it comes to it, I would wish to go to Dorne as well. I would be of more use there than here, I think.”
Rising stiffly, Ardon tosses the hem of his sea-cloak over his shoulder. “If you’ll forgive me, there are matters I must attend to,” he says to the Prince in a strained and weary voice. “By your leave, your grace.”