“I am like them when I have to be,” replies Caitrin, arm over her eyes. But there is something almost unbearably sad in her tone, just for that moment. “But I have not been truly as they are since… well, since before Blackmont fell the first time.”
Then she lifts her arm just enough to squint at him. “I wonder if there -is- a maester about. He might have something to make my head stop aching. Or I could send you to fetch me some wine.”
There is, indeed, a maester; a busy one, scribbling away with quill and ink with some difficulty as he treads on the heels of the robed figure of Prince Marence as the Lord of Sunspear dictates something to him. A pair of palace guards follow behind, and a trail of courtiers meander idly behind him. He hardly breaks stride as a group of maidens pour towards him, and then past—after making their courtesies, of course—when he breaks into the bright blaze of the day in the courtyard.
He does pause there, however, blinking against the brightness for a few moments. The maester nearly bumps into him. It’s hard not to notice the prone figure in her hammock, nor the knight at her feet. A pause, and he turns, saying something to dismiss most of those trailing behind him, but the maester and the guards. He approaches, then.
“You could ask me to fetch some wine, yes,” the knight says agreeably. He cocks an eye towards the sudden gathering in the yard and the Prince’s approach: “Do you think you are the only one among them who has seen her home fall?”
He seems more curious than mocking, rising without waiting for an answer. “Your grace,” he greets Marence with an elegant courtier’s bow.
It would seem there is a reply on Caitrin’s lips, but then she hears the Knight’s greeting and she is on her feet as swiftly as before, bending into a low curtsy as if wine never passed her lips. “Good day, your grace,” she murmurs, every inch the court maiden again. But there are still lines of pain around her eyes, and she does not really raise them high enough to see Marence’s face—the sun is up there, after all.
“Ser Laurent,” Marence says, nodding his head in acknowledgment. “Lady Caitrin. I hope the day finds you well.” He considers the Blackmont lady, and perhaps in the passage of his eyes across her countenance he recognizes that his hope might not be fulfilled. “You may lie down. We need stand on no ceremony.”
The maester peeks around behind him, apologetically, as he studies the woman with a more clinical interest, while Marence adds, “I have shared my condolences with your father and grandfather, Lady Caitrin, but I am glad to have the chance to express them to you as well. Your cousin Lord Andrey was a brave man, whatever else one may say of him.”
Caitrin shakes her head. “A bit of wine, and I will be all right, my lord,” she says to Marence. She catches the eye of one of the Prince’s guards and raises her brow sweetly. A moment later, a boy is collared and sent running. But she sobers then and nods, but she does not reply at once.
Instead, she casts her dark eyes around the courtyard before speaking. “Thank you, my lord. I admired him enormously. Were I a man…” She smiles and shrugs. “I likely would have died beside him. My prince…” she hesitates. “There are whispers about Blackmont itself. The Westerosi… well, are they true? Has the Dragon really t…” She breaks off and swallows fiercely, unaccustomed to such emotion. “Has he really taken it from us?”
“Brave indeed,” Laurent agrees, straightening, “to stand against Garvys Tyrell for so long. But little wonder it was Mavros Uller who brought him down in the end. He always was an effective man, Ser Mavros.”
There is little to read in his inflection save a mild interest. “Or so they say,” he adds with a vague gesture. As for the rest, he says nothing, merely watching the woman with cocked head.
The maester looks dubious, very dubious indeed, at Caitrin’s pronouncement. He shakes his head behind the prince’s back, but says nothing. Marence considers her again and then nods slightly. His expression and manner is formal, even distant. “I have had word from King’s Landing. It’s the king’s desire to grant Blackmont to more loyal blood…” A pause, and then he adds, “I mean to write to him expressing the loyalty Ser Perros and all his kin have shown. Perhaps he might reconsider.”
Another pause, and then he shrugs. “Or not. Your cousin Ser Michael is still at large, and defiant to all reports. The king knows these things.” And from that he slides to a slightly different subject. “Knows them from Ser Mavros, not to say the least. Uller rides for Sandstone, taking Lord Andrey’s remains there so that Lord Tyrell may look on it to his satisfaction. I am sure his grace will command a proper burial for him, as he did for Lord Vaith.”
“That would be fitting. Similar burials for similar deaths. They both did, after all,” Laurent comments mildly, leaning against the sept wall, “meet their end under a flag of parley. Does Lord Tyrell mean to make Sandstone his base then, your grace? Or will he keep moving as he has been?”
Caitrin only nods at this, several times and with eyes downcast. “I hope so,” she murmurs finally, looking up and seeming mostly composed again. She listens, keeping her thoughts to herself, until the boy returns with her wine, and plenty besides for Marence and his retinue, and for Laurent. So she drinks temperately. “Is Lord Tyrell…” she begins, then nods in echo of Laurent instead.
Marence’s eyes regard Laurent before he says in agreement, “Yes. It would seem fitting.” The wine arrives, and he takes up a cup, taking a swallow of the strong, sour red. And yet he looks at the two before him, thoughtful as he does so. A swallow and he says, “Lord Tyrell does not open his mind to me. Yet he was in Vaith last moon, and in Godsgrace most of this moon, so I suppose he intends it. Perhaps he’ll try to consolidate the gains Lord Qorgyle has made, thanks to his castellan, and will move on to Skyreach or perhaps Starfall the moon after.”
All this is said with no particular emotion or interest—just facts and speculations given out in a casual investigation. “Though,” he adds, “I admit, I wonder at it. There is still Lord Manwoody in the Boneway, even if his followers have grown quite shy. With the Prince’s Pass opened… But no, Lord Tyrell knows his own mind, I am sure.”
“And Red Rhys,” the Dalt knight murmurs, gaze turned inwards. He is silent for a few moments, then, lips pursed, before stirring himself: “He is an impatient man, Garvys Tyrell. Perhaps he has simply grown bored of sparring with Lord Manwoody.”
On the heels of that comes a less flippant remark: “Just as well for the rebels Oakenfist finds himself too occupied here to sail west along the coast. It would go hard for them, caught from both sides.”
“May Oakenfist remain so for a while, then,” murmurs Caitrin into her wine cup. Then she is silent again, listening as she always listens, keenly but without seeming to listen at all.
A silence, after that. It’s clear that Marence considers saying something to those last words, and then thinks better of it. Instead: “Like enough, Ser Laurent. But Ser Alyn’s ships are to escort in supplies, grain, and the like from the Reach. Some of Lord Redwyne’s bountiful cogs, I gather. I’ve made arrangements to encourage a market when they arrive; no duty fees and so on. Trade must increase both by sea and by land, if we’re to recover our strength.”
The other reasons for why Ser Alyn might be pinned to Sunspear and the shadow city—the murders, the conspiracies that seem to always swirl yet never seem to touch the prince—are not touched upon.
Nor does Caitrin mention them. “Yes, that it must,” she says instead, referring to increased trade. “Perhaps they will allow more Free Cities ships through again. I have missed our little luxuries from over the sea. But my lord, must you really relieve -all- duties? How can we grow strong if we do not feed our coffers as well?”
“They will be glad of it, no doubt. Lord Redwyne and his master. Coin,” the Dalt knight replies pleasantly, “does have a way of easing war’s sting.” He pushes away from the wall, “Why, my lady, we will grow strong as the Iron Throne grows strong. Like a babe suckling at the mother’s breast.”
He bows again to Marence: “Your leave, your grace. Your brother is planning some amusement, I believe.”
A hand—the one bearing his signet ring—lifts to rub at the beard along his jaw, and Marence smiles. “The lord treasurer had the very same concern. Only for that particular market, my lady. But it seems to me that Dorne will be better off if the merchants have more coins rattling in their purses, and more goods bought and sold.” Of course, it’s well-known that the Martell treasury itself is nigh on the verge of empty, but Marence avoids the topic.
At Laurent’s bow, the prince nods his head even as a grimace crosses his face. “Of course, ser. But I’d be careful with his ... amusement. There’s talk of a race; drunken talk, no less.”
Caitrin makes a pretty curtsy to Laurent, but under her smile is a look that say she would prefer joining Rhodry as well. But it if a fleeting look. “As my lord decrees,” she demurs to Marence. “Merchants must pay their own duties, after all. Might I suggest…” she glances at Laurent again, and now her expression is decidedly sly and foxy, “raising the tax on the pillow-houses? We may as well soak the Westerosi there if we cannot in the ports…”
“Then, your grace,” Laurent replies with a lazy smile, “I shall be sure to wager upon myself. A sober man against sodden ones is easy coin.”
But at Caitrin’s suggestion, it fades; he meets her gaze, plainly shocked into disapproval: “My lady! It is not proper that an innocent maid like you should speak of such things. What would you know of pillow-houses anyway?”
Shaking his head, he hands the hovering attendant his untouched cup: “Here, give it to my lady.” And with that he is gone, strolling across the yard towards the inner one.
Marence offers a wan chuckle at Laurent’s parting remarks, and he gives the man a knowing look. And then, unmodestly, he muses aloud. “‘A penny for the prince’ will be what they call it, I imagine; they love their pillow house poetry. And would it be a penny per act? But that has a double-edge, surely. Sailors are not the only men who visit the pillow houses…” He sounds doubtful of the idea, and takes another swallow of wine before handing the cup back to the serving boy. “Still, if it is a temporary levy while the transports are in… Mayhaps, mayhaps.”
Caitrin blushes as a maiden should. “I am sure my lord will discover how it may be done,” she says, sipping from her wine before letting the cup go back to the boy—is that regret in her eyes? “Subtlety is demanded, but how can we countenance their dissolution without at least turning a small profit? It would, of course, send a strong message of your grace’s disapproval of such things, as well. A penny is a small price compared to a man’s soul.”
“And a woman’s,” Marence adds, still smiling. “Well. I am sure the septons will be pleased, at least. I’ll think on it, Lady Caitrin. Thank you.” He stands there for a little while in silence, beads of sweat by now having formed on his brow, as is the way of things in Dorne. Then he looks to where the Sand Dog departed, and remarks, “A man after my brother’s heart, our Ser Laurent. Do you know him well?”
“Not -very- well, no,” Caitrin replies. “He seems not to take many things very seriously, but I suppose he has earned that right. Most loyal to your grace,” she adds, bending her head. “Not a regular sept-goer, never speaks of his mother or father, or anything of his past, really. He does get on with your grace’s brother, yes.”
“Yes…” Marence says, trailing some idle thought. “He was my uncle’s squire, and defended him most nobly when he fell.” And ... that’s that; Marence says no more. The maester clears his throat, then, and reminds the prince of an audience he was to have with Meros Tyrell. “Ah. Yes.” Marence is not precisely enthused…
“Well, good day to you, Lady Caitrin,” the prince says with a straight face. “I’d suggest some place cooler to recuperate from your discomfort. A chamber in the Sandship, mayhaps. And iced milk doubtless… ? Yes, the maester agrees. But you know your own health best.”
“Your grace has a capital idea,” Caitrin replies, seizing on the suggestion. “I will do just as you suggest. You might take a bit more wine yourself, my lord, if you must meet with Ser Meros.” She makes a face, then bends into a graceful curtsy. “Good day, my prince. Be well.”