Soon noon comes, and the latest round of services at the royal sept are due to begin. And therefore it’s no surprise to see King Baelor, escorted by a handful of palace guards, making his way from the Tower of the Sun. And it’s no surprise that there are those at court who wait for this moment, this brief time when Prince Marence is free of his tedious negotations with the young, zealously pious Targaryen king. Marence himself appears, escorted by just one of the palace guard, and a certain frustration is plain as he talks to the knight, a frustration tightly reined in but still revealing how worn the usually mild prince is.
Making his first appearance at the palace since his return from Lemonwood three days past, Galwell Dalt mingles with some of the courtiers, bowing respectfully if stiffly as the pious king makes his way towards the Sept. Spying Marence, he rises from his bow and approaches first among the courtiers, and beckons his man Liam to follow. “Good day my prince,” he greets smoothly with a flash of teeth. “I see our godly visitor attends to his prayers, mayhaps you would care to attend to some wine during this brief respite?” he offers.
One man and then another approach the prince, seeking his time, and he waves them away irritably—small concerns and complaints, something his seneschal or one of his brothers (well, Cadan, in any case) could attend to. When the Dalt knight approaches, however, he pauses ... and then with a forced, tight smile on his lips, nods his head. “Very well. His grace leaves me with a parched throat, to say the least.” A moment’s pause, as he looks about, and then he directs the way towards a side-chamber. He leaves the guard orders to block the way, after seeing that wine is fetched.
Once settled in the chamber, having taken a seat at a sideboard, Marence lets out a long sigh. But he utters no complaints, even if they’re swirling in his mind. “Are you new returned from Lemonwood, ser? We have missed you at court,” he announces, though he’s hardly had time to pay attention to comings and goings at the Old Palace since Baelor’s arrival.
Galwell follows the Prince to the sideboard hands clasped behind his back until it is time to sit, which he does only after Marence is seated. Then as he adjusts the lay of his robes of deep Dalt purple, he nods. “You are gracious to say so, I have missed court as well. As good as it was to see home again, it was time to return and put myself at your disposal.”
Born the second son of the Knight of Lemonwood Galwell Dalt refused to be limited to becoming his brother’s steward. So at age 14 left the service of his uncle Falion, and became the squire of Perros Blackmont, the seneschal of Sunspear.
Four years later, he was made one of the Prince’s factors and at twenty, when he was knighted, he had accumulated a sizeable fortune for himself. He spread that fortune around Sunspear and the Shadowcity liberally, in the form of loans, feasts and frolics, which earned him a wide range of contacts both noble and common and at twenty-five, he was made an Officer of the Mint and his fortune only continued to grow.
Even King Daeron’s invasion didn’t seem to stop his rise, as he earned notice for being among the first to respond to the Prince’s call-to-arms by raising a host of sellswords and hedge knights to help defend Dorne. While those men fought, Galwell continued to prove his worth at the Sunspear, ensuring wealth flowed into the Prince’s coffers and supplies flowed to the soldiers in the field.
Only when the Westerosi were at the gates of Sunspear did he take up arms himself, fighting in the company of his good-brother the Hellknight, only to be wounded and absent the day when his good-brother was struck down. After the surrender of Dorne, Galwell was chosen as one of the hostages to go to King’s Landing. At first Galwell planned to escape to the Free Cities and continue to resist the invaders in exile, but when his niece and nephew were added to the list, he yielded to duty, and submitted in order to be on hand to protect them.
In the years since then Galwell has been one of the most reclusive of the hostages, focusing his attention on the education of his niece and nephew, and maintaining his fortune through his merchant contacts in the city. Though he has reached out carefully over the years to renew his family connections among the hostages, and to recruit a few more contacts among the knights, lords and merchants of King’s Landing.
“I have wished at times that I had more time to decide such things,” Prince Marence says, frowning, brow faintly furrowed. “There are many good knights and ladies who are idle, now that so many have returned from their years in the Red Keep. Some wait, offering themselves to Dorne’s service, but . . . ” He shrugs unhappily. He quiets, as well, as there’s a soft knock at the door. A servant enters, with goblets and wine. As the servant pours, Marence resumes, “But in any case, now there is time enough to think about such things. You were one of the best of my factors, ser. Shall you resume such a role, is that your interest? Or do you have a suggestion as to where you would be best suited?”
“If my Prince wishes it so, I would gladly take up my old duties but, I will not lie, I had hoped for a greater responsibility. Dorne needs coin if it is to rebuild and it needs a treasurer that can ensure it will have that coin,” Galwell takes up his cup and takes a sip, before lowering it again and running his finger along the rim as he raises his eyes to meet the Prince’s. “I might be too bold in saying so my prince, but I believe I am the man for that job. I think I have proven to have the skills required, but I also have the contacts, here, in Westeros and the Free Cities, that will be needed to strengthen Dorne through its treasury and put the damage of the war behind us.” He pauses then, waiting for sign from the Prince if he has stepped to far, or if his suggestion is being given serious consideration.
He takes a swallow of wine, does the prince, relaxing in his seat. He hears Ser Galwell out, not interrupting, attentive… And then a another swallow of wine, and it’s clear he’s considering. “Lord Treasurer, then?” he asks. “An ambitious request, ser. It is true, the treasury is not what it was, and I am sure you have heard that the present Lord Treasurer wishes to return to her home after her years of service. You would not ask otherwise, would you?” That last seems a rhetorical question, a certain weight to his gaze suggesting that he understands that that may not exactly be the case…
But then he says, “You have been gone a long time, ser. Through no fault of your own, and yet, there it is. Some may resent it, to have you assume such a place so rapidly. You were the best of my factors, it is true, but some have toiled these long years still, and might rightly expect to gain the office for themselves once vacated.” He pauses, takes another swallow of wine, and then says, “It is a puzzle. One that I wrestle with daily, all these different demands that much be balanced. A mummer has not half the dexterity a prince must have.”
Galwell sits back and smiles a courtly smile as he sips at his wine and listens. When Marence has finished Galwell nods and sets down his cup. “I do not envy your burdens my Prince. It is a fine balance that must be struck; after all for one man to rise others must endure disappointment and skill must sometimes give way to other demands. However, in this matter, can Dorne afford to have less than the most skilled man as Lord Treasurer? And if it is disappointing my former collegues you fear, I ask, do they have the friends that I do? Did they serve as Ser Perros’ squire? Or can claim as close a tie to the heir of Salt Shore as I can? I should think unless they are more skilled then I in finding coin for the realm, their disappointment is a small price to pay for Dorne’s prosperity.”
Marence leans back in his seat, and a hand lifts to rub at his bearded cheek and jaw as he regards Galwell. He considers in silence like this, before he says, “I do not know if you are the _most_ skilled, ser. There are others who served as long, and as well. Yet ... it is true, not all are so well acquainted with the seneschal. A good relationship between the Lord Treasurer and Ser Perros is a necessity.”
He dithers, mulling this over. In the end he says, “Yet there is form to be followed. I will not force one treasurer out before her time, when she has offered leal service. Yet, she leaves us soon enough. Until then, what? I have it in mind to name you my Lord Bailiff. A grander title than factor, ser, and from there you may do me—and Dorne—a service for a few months more.” A distinct pause there, a penetrating gaze from his dark brown eyes, so often seeming nothing if not thoughtful yet at times like this taking a steely quality to them. Then he announces, “And then . . . and then I should be pleased to name you Lord Treasurer, ser. I trust you shall excell in the lesser office, to make the choice of you for the greater something that will meet little argument.”
Galwell recovers his cup and drinks rather than meet the unexpected steel in Marence’s gaze, but when the cup is lowered the Dalt knight wears a pleased smile. “The forms must be followed, yes, and I would not see a loyal servant turned out before her time, it would not serve,” his cup is set aside and Galwell straightens the lay of his robes. “I will be pleased to serve as your Lord Bailiff my prince, and when it comes time for me to rise higher still, you may be assured no one will say ought against it. At least, no one of consequence.”
“Were that it were true,” the Lord of Sunspear says, with his lips twisting into something of a grimace. “Some of your rivals, ser, have their own supporters among the great and mighty of Dorne. You may find some might ... hold ill-will towards you. Out of envy, if nothing else.” A beat, and then he says, “But I am sure you have anticipated this, and will carry out your duties ably, regardless of such nuisances.”
Galwell smile is small but confident as he nods to the Prince. “Sadly true,” he admits of his previous boast. “There will be some who say ill of me because I have in their eyes stolen the rightful place of some favorite of theirs, however, I am confident I will be able to silence such opposition,” then with a sincere look of gratitude, he inclines his head to Marence. “Thank you my Prince, you will not find your trust misplaced.”