A day like any other day, the sun setting in the west, a growing chill to the air, and no more so than at the height of the Tower of the Sun, beneath the golden dome. But a palace guardsman has brought a visitor to a side-chamber, where the Prince is wont to work, signing documents, holding private audiences. A door is knocked, words exchanged with a servant outside, and then a voice can be heard saying, “Show the lady in.”
Seated, Prince Marence has set aside a quill in an inkpot, a parchment with various ribbons and seals affixed to it before him. “Lady Joleta,” he says courteously, though he seems a little tired. “Please, sit. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
The heiress to Salt Shore dips a graceful curtsey as she is shown inside, then sits where indicated. Her hawkish black eyes take in the Prince of Dorne’s countenance, even as her lips curve in a polite smile. “My Prince. Thank you for seeing me.” She moves to the point of the meeting, “I have a few matters to discuss, if it pleases you. The tension with Westeros remains on the forefront of my concerns. One of my cousins, Ser Armand, is a man of a diplomatic tongue and a clear head. He begs to offer his services as a diplomatic envoy to the court of the Dragon. During my time there, I was not entirely friendless. My recommendation to a few noble lords and ladies in King’s Landing might ease his transition and support his credibility.”
Armand Gargalen was better known at Salt Shore for his curiosity and easy personality than for his fighting skills or physical prowess. He never had to worry about bullies, though, because he was always under the wings of his older and bigger brother, Willum, known as Wild Will.
In his first and only battle, aboard the Dornish fleet that was defeated by Lord Velaryon at the Broken Arm, Armand performed well but was captured along with his father when their galley was boarded. He spent the following years as a hostage in his own home, and only when Prince Martell and King Baelor reached a peace agreement has found the freedom to leave Salt Shore and visit Sunspear. He hopes that the capital of the Martells will be the first step of his travels.
A moment’s pause, and then Marence allows, “I have had thoughts of such things, of an embassy.” He considers the Gargalen heir briefly, and then his eyes turn down to the parchment before him. He pushes it away, to the side, as he says, “But not yet. Not before the king is in better health. I fear the chance too great at present that some pretext would be used by those opposed to his peace, a pretext such as one of our emissaries drawn into a conflict…” His voice trails off, as he measures his thoughts, and then offers, “A feud, say, between a Gargalen and the kinsmen of the man you were forced to wed. Your brother, Ser Corrent, took some wound in just such a cause, if I remember rightly.”
Joleta nods slowly, “Aye. My brother took offense to the bruised cheek and cut lip I received from my future husband as a betrothal gift.” She muses, “Ser Ethos’s irrationality is no secret in King’s Landing. If his cousin of Baratheon was not looking after him, any number of his enemies would have ended him. Still, Ethos may be likely to attempt some foolishness with a Gargalen, he will not be -less- inclined to do so with any Dornishman that might act as a diplomatic envoy. I have every confidence that Armand could avoid being drawn into a conflict, or at the very least, put the blame for such righteously where it would belong.”
“As you say, Lady Joleta,” Marence says, agreeably. “When an embassy from my court is sent to King’s Landing, your cousin will be counted among them. It depends on word from the king. He was being transported to Storm’s End, apparently… with luck, it will not be so much longer.” A silence follows, his brow furrowing faintly. “That is,” he says, “if matters have not grown too much worse than they are now. But there are hopes, there, to see matters settled in the Boneway and on the Marches…”
Then, after a heartbeat’s pause, he changes subject and asks, courteously and with a hint of realizing he’s late to it, “Would you like some wine, my lady?” before motioning to a servant off by a sideboard.
“Thank you, my Prince.” Joleta smiles politely, smoothing her silk robes. “I hope you will not think ill of me for saying so, but the rumors of the proposed match between the Princess Ariana and Coran Wyl are disturbing to me. I have grown quite close to the Princess during our time together in King’s Landing and I have an inkling on how the court in Westeros would view such a marriage, in light of Lord Guerin’s actions.” She dips her chin, “Undoubtedly, the same thought has occurred to those wiser than I.”
A lift of his dark brows at that, but Marence keeps his own council as the servant pours wine into two cups and brings them to the table. Taking one, Marence takes a swallow of the wine. “If it brings Wyl to heel, I should think the King’s Hand will not care very much,” Marence says, clearly unconcerned. “In all of our communications, he has been a ... reasonable man. Not one easily swayed by emotion, his or that of others.”
He pauses, to swallow more wine, measuring his words out again. When done, he explains in a way suggesting he’s repeated this argument, or one like it, before, “And I cannot think only of what the Iron Throne will do, however. The Boneway is not just Wyl—it is Yronwood, too, and you know the difficult position Lady Yronwood’s recalitrance is putting me in. If Lord Guerin were to remember his duty, it will take her chief ally from her.”
“Or it may seem that Wyl did your bidding, my Prince, and is rewarded by a Martell bride for his heir. The death of the Young Dragon is remembered as an act of great treachery.” Joleta counters, in a quiet, conversational tone. “It would not be such a great leap from one event to the other. But I am more concerned that Wyl and Yronwood want this war very much. Wyl seems to be wanting more reinforcement along the Boneway, which could be interpreted as an act of war.” She pauses, “I do not envy your position, my Prince. My primary concern is for my own home and people, you must see all of Dorne. Salt Shore is not prepared for another siege.”
“‘Treachery’,” says Marence, as if tasting the word. “My brother’s, whose hand dealt the blow? Or mine own, as Prince of Dorne, though I was never consulted?” He shrugs his shoulders, then, dismissing the question. “But in either case, Wyl played almost no part in it, other than being one among many lords—your father among them—who fought against King Daeron. Why should the Iron Throne hold any grudge against Lord Guerin, when they do not hold it against me? King Baelor forgave his brother’s killers, and marched here on bare feet to make a peace. I do not believe he will give it up so easily.”
He stops, apparently letting you respond, but a thought causes him to suddenly start again. “I mean to send Wyl more spears, if you wonder, my lady. Good, loyal spears, however, men as much there to prevent Lord Wyl’s banners from causing trouble as to make sure the Marchers do not do the same. But I can only do that if Guerin Wyl accepts their presence. And so we… negotiate.”
“Because there are many in Westeros who want another war as badly as they do in the Mountains and only need the suggestion of justification to push their interests. The Hand, or even the King, may not be able to hold them back, not when forces on both sides are so eager to engage.” Joleta sips her wine. The idea of sending reinforcements to the Boneway causes a tiny line to appear between her brows as she sees this as playing into exactly what Wyl and Yronwood might want: the appearance of a build-up of forces as a prelude to war. One more drop of oil on smouldering coals.
“Regardless, my Prince, I needed to speak my peace and I thank you for hearing me. I have one final request, though it is one not without some controversy. Still, the right decisions are not always the easy ones.” She pauses, “Assuming that King Baelor keeps his promise to me and my marriage is dissolved, I still intend for Devin to be my heir. The annulment will name him bastard and I would beg the favor of a writ of legitimacy for him.”
A faint shake of his head, as Marence considers one reply and then rejects it. Instead, addressing matters indirectly, he notes, “If it comes to pass that Lord Wyl remembers he is my bannerman, you may trust that the Hand and the King would be kept appraised. If there is anything I am not, Lady Joleta, it is precipitous.” But that leaves the matter closed, so far as he is concerned, and instead he concerns this new request. “Legitimized? Well… Is this something Lord Davit favors, my lady?”
“Shall we say he is wrestling with it?” Joleta manages an ironic half-smile, then adds, “The boy is the most unlikely of babes. He should have died when I learned of Ethos’s treachery. He should have died on the journey down the Boneway. He should have died on the ships between Wyl and Sunspear. He should have died when I travelled from Sunspear to Salt Shore. He should have died at his early birth. But he didn’t. In spite of everything he has overcome, the boy lives and thrives. Even my father must acknowledge that. He may be the only child I will ever bear, truth be told. His coming was nearly the end of me. I could go on that by keeping him in Salt Shore’s succession, there is a greater likelihood of some accord with the Stormlands. But all of that aside, it is not right to deny my son his inheritance simply because he had the misfortune of being fathered by Ethos Mertyns.”
“Hmm.” An utterance, that’s all, as Prince Marence considers the case Joleta sets out. A hand lifts, to stroke at his bearded chin, considering. Then he answers, “I am willing ... but Lord Davit must be willing, as well. I would not sow discord in Salt Shore, my lady, over this matter. However just the case you put, it is for him to decide who he is willing to see his seat pass to. He is a proud man, your father.”
“It is the only way to settle the matter that I am willing to accept. Devin’s situation is not typical and there will be those in Mistwood that will always say he is the rightful heir, in his own time.” Joleta reasons, “Even if I wed again and have more children by another man, he will always be a means by which the seat is contested. To avoid the inevitable conflict in the future, I can see only two paths. One, is to forestall those who would use him by granting his inheritance outright. The other is not something I will accept. I am not one to throw the child of my body into the sea.”
“Nor am I,” Prince Marence says, at the end of that. “You have thought matters through, my lady. And you can let Lord Davit know that I have heard you out, and think you make a good case, and commend your arguments to him.” Which sounds quite good, really, until he adds, “But… I will not force him, nor see discord grow. Do your best to convince him.”
Joleta dips her chin. “Thank you, my Prince, for your recommendations and for hearing me. I will take no more of your time and bid you a restful night.”