It is one of the most lovely days that a King’s Landing summer can produce, with a cool westerly breeze that sends the fouler smells out into the bay, and an azure sky overhead, marred only very occasionally by the puffy sort of clouds in which children find horses and dragons romping.
So the hall of the Saltcliffe Manse is sweet with fresh air and fresh rushes as the manse’s lady descends the stair in a gown of rose silk and cream lace to tend to a vase of roses set upon the vast trestle table set near the windows. She fusses with the golden blooms only a moment however, before glancing over an unrolled map laid at the ready and weighted at its corners.
Besides the map and the flowers, the table is laid with a light repast, bread and cheese and crisp summerwine; at the door, a maid stands ready to open it.
Outside, the clap of hoofs and the jingle of harness can be heard on the breeze, and it’s clear the expected guest has arrived. And in some number, for the sounds suggest several horsemen. A call as a groom shouts at another to come and help, and then a brief pause before at last a guard at the other side of the door announces in a muffled voice, “Ser Mavros Uller is without!” The maid turns a look to her mistress, and then pulls open the door with her eyes demurely cast down. The Dornishman’s dark eyes seem to take in the room in a flash, and then he’s through the doorway and approaching.
“Ser Mavros,” Reyna says, looking up once the Dornishman has entered. Behind him comes a smaller man clad in black, who moves past the Uller as if he were not even there.
“Be welcome,” Reyna goes on, making him a curtsy and gesturing toward the table. “My lord will join us presently, but in the meantime, you will not object to Ser Edmund keeping us company.” The words lilt up like a question, but it is clear that the wiry Reaver is here to stay from the stance he takes at Reyna’s side.
“Not at all, Lady Reyna. My thanks for taking the time to see me on such short notice,” the Dornish knight says, eyes turning towards Ser Edmund before he offers the man a brief nod. He’s a strange sort of Dornishman, affecting the style of the court rather than his native fashion, but he seems comfortable enough dressed as a courtier rather than a warrior. As he moves towards the table, making note of the map with a passing glance, he remarks, “I’m pressed for time myself. Little more than week before I must set sail on one of his grace’s warships for Sunspear, and there’s much to be done on behalf of Lord Ganlos.”
“Lord Qorgyle, of course,” Reyna says, settling herself gracefully into a chair with Edmund just behind her. The maid comes to pour the wine, and Reyna is quiet until she is gone.
“There you are, Ser Mavros, as nice a summerwine as you are like to find off the King’s own table,” she says, beckoning him to sit and take up his cup. “What service can the Tyrell do you, ser?”
“Sunspear, is it? And Lord Gandlos to be served first. You are a busy man, Ser Mavros.”
The Iron Serpent descends the stairway leading up to the gallery and private chambers, buckling on his swordbelt as he comes. Unlike the Dornishman, he is dressed as no courtier but in plain black garb; the silver flash of the belt’s buckle is the only adornment about him.
Mavros checks the motion to seat himself, as another voice intrudes. “When your lord calls, a loyal man does as he desires to the best of his ability, ser. My thanks to you as well, for meeting with me.” A moment’s pause, intelligent eyes seeming to measure up the young knight, and then he turns a brief smile to Reyna as he sits. “Summerwine suits the day, doesn’t it?” he asks rhetorically as he accepts the cup. A sip . . . and then he gets down to business.
“I won’t say that it’s what the Qorgyles can do for Lord Tyrell that I’m here about, because I’m sure you hear some variation on that on a daily basis,” the Dornish knight says, forthrightly, gaze moving to the map. “I believe, and Lord Ganlos concurs, that Sandstone might offer some help to two vexing problems that Lord Garvys has to deal with.”
With Dagur’s arrival, Ser Edmund absents himself, departing the way he came out the front door into the day. Reyna smiles briefly at Dagur, then draws the map nearer with her fingertips. “It is true that my brother has marked Lord Qorgyle’s loyalty to the crown,” she says, tapping Sandstone with a fingernail. “But would this not be better addressed to my brother himself?”
As the ironman is assessed, he seems to take the Uller knight’s measure in turn before turning away. Reaching the hall, he crosses to the table to fill himself a goblet, and, in the wake of his wife’s question, asks laconically: “And what problems?”
“Lord Garvys is hard to reach from King’s Landing, at least by the likes of me,” Ser Mavros says, shrugging his shoulders with casual nonchalance despie the implication that his being Dornish is reason enough for Lord Tyrell to ignore him. “I am sure I will make the attempt to meet him once I am in Dorne, but he is a busy man, as great lords often are.” A slow sip of wine, and then he shifts in his seat to look at the map. “It was well thought to have a map at the ready. A good one, I see, but that’s no surprise.” He sets the cup down on the table, and gestures to the area between Yronwood and Godsgrace, “This is where Lord Garvys is now, according to Lord Cargyll and Ser Reynard when I last spoke to them. On his way to Godsgrace, to spend a moon’s turn and settle matters.”
Then his finger trails westwards to Vaith. “He’s heard of trouble in Vaith, some unrest, but I’ll suppose he wants to see if Beslon Smallwood and the Bright Banners s can deal with it.” A pause, a glance to Dagur, and then he remarks, “Knowing sellswords as you and I do, ser, what do you think of Smallwood’s ambitions?”
“You have the King’s ear, ser, which is no small thing.” Reyna sips her wine and then pushes the map nearer Mavros and her husband. Of sellswords, she knows nothing, and so keeps her peace, saying only, “Garvys is weary of these little rebellions, I know, so it seems the most likely course of action.”
“Ale. Coin. Women.”
The ironman comes to stand behind Reyna’s chair, looking down over her head at the map: “But then, Beslon Smallwood is no common sellsword. Garvys will likely find the trouble put down by the time he reaches Vaith.”
He sips slowly, “Put down one way or another. And he is indeed weary as my lady wife says, so he will welcome it.”
“What,” he asks, turning the question around as he glances up at Mavros, “do -you- think of his ambitions?”
“I would not be so sure, Ser Dagur, that Beslon the Bad has such small ambitions. He is not a common sellsword, as you say,” Ser Mavros resplies, lips pursing for a moment. “The king has asked me about Smallwood, and what his prospects are if he was granted the Red Dunes. There are certain members of the small council who think it just, in retribution for Serion Vaith’s troublemaking.” Troublemaking that lasted until the Qorgyles apprehended and put Lord Serion to the sword, but that goes unsaid.
“For my part, and Lord Ganlos’s, we do not think it wise,” Ser Mavros goes on, wine forgotten. “Lord Serion’s activities have made him a hero, whatever one wishes. By night, beside fires under the stars, there are songs about the one-armed leopard and his endless courage. Smallwood and the Bright Banners cannot compare to a legend, and some of the men Beslon the Bad has in his company are three times worse. Rapine is not unknown, though I gather Smallwood’s hung a few of his own when he feels like it’s necessary.”
Slowly, understanding dawns on Reyna’s face, and she sends a glance upwards to Dagur. “There are other considerations as well, Ser Beslon’s deeds quite aside,” she muses, drumming her fingers once over the Prince’s Pass. “Giving estates away to Westerosi lords has not proved… popular. Dare I mention Ser Wallace?”
She pauses to drink, turning their words over in her head. “So you would have me suggest to my brother that gifting the Red Dunes to his pet sellsword mightn’t be wise.”
“Small ambitions? Not Beslon the Bad, no. He might not be a common sellsword but he is an uncommon whoreson.”
The ironman catches Reyna’s look, his own opaque, before looking to the Dornishman: “Popular or not, there is little trouble the folk at Vaith could cause him, especially if Garvys leaves him more men. To whom would you see Vaith go if not him?”
“You are too kind to Smallwood, my lady, to give him the style of a knight. He’s many things, but he’s never sworn a knight’s vows. It says something of the man, I think.” Taking up his cup again, Mavros takes a swallow of his wine, listening to what the two say. Shifting in his seat again, he taps at Vaith, and then drags his finger due north. “It’s not Vaith’s people that are the true problem, ser. It’s Lord Manwoody. I have it on good authority that he’s been sneaking men through the desert with an eye of building a force to throw out the Bright Banners. He hopes, I think, to spark a rebellion throughout Dorne.” He lets that sink in, before turning his attention back to Reyna.
“I have, of course, informed his grace and the small council. Doubtless word is already winging to your lord brother,” Mavros says, voice bland. “But as to my advice to them, I do not know if that will be shared. So I bring it to you. Manwoody’s plot will only work if Vaith’s people provide their support, and then join when the time is right. Much would be done to undercut that support, if Ser Jossart Vaith were confirmed as heir and lord. The king is hesitant, for his own reasons, but I believe voices such as yours might make the difference. If word comes to Vaith that his grace has taken Ser Jossart’s hand and raised him to his father’s seat, it would do much to calm matters, I think.”
“Yes, precisely,” Reyna says, sitting back in her chair. “Marry Ser Jossart to a good Westerosi girl with a loyal family, and give him back his inheritance. It is not rewarding Ser Serion’s rebellion, but allowing his son to proclaim his loyalty to the crown.”
“So you see it, my lady.”
Dagur rests a forearm along the back of the woman’s chair, studying the map again: “Everyone might not. Serion Vaith has caused more grief to the Young Dragon than any other rebel lord. And in return, his son wins Vaith and his daughter warms Aegon’s bed. There are some who would see it as weakness.”
“Indeed,” Mavros responds, crisply. “It is the difficulty. I have not met Ser Jossart in all my time here—for obvious enough reasons, he does not care to meet me. I do not blame him; I doubt I could look into the face of a man who had been involved in my own father’s death, the Seven bless his memory, whether it was justice or not. My good-brother needed to be brought to justice, to give Dorne a chance at peace, and so it was accomplished. Now, Lord Ganlos strives to make that peace a reality. So ... that is his advice.” A pause, and then he adds, “I gather the Dondarrions—or Lady Dondarrion, at least, and her daughter—have been urging Ser Jossart’s elevation to lord. Yours would not be the only voice supporting him, at least. I suspect I know which young lady hopes to share his bed.” A thin smile, at that, but it’s soon gone as he looks back to the map while sipping at his wine.
“Carmella Dondarrion is young and perhaps too easily lead by her mother,” Reyna says rather tartly. “I love her dearly, but I would not see her wed to him. I do not think that such a marriage would appease anyone, given that her mother is an Yronwood.”
She looks up at Dagur when she says that. “If it were a northern girl, one whose father does not hold a border estate… a girl from the Riverlands or the Vale, perhaps. Someone solidly Westerosi.”
“Perhaps,” Dagur says neutrally to the woman. “Very solidly Westerosi.”
“What is your interest in this, ser?” he asks the Dornishman, gaze direct. “Or do you only strive for peace as Lord Ganlos does?”
“You know the prospects better than I, Lady Reyna, and I hope you would make suitable recommendations to the king and the small council,” the Dornishman says, “if you think that course of action good. For my part, Lord Ganlos will be pleased to know that you have at least given it your consideration.” Another swallow of wine, and then his cup is empty and he sets it down following Dagur’s query. He matches the gaze, and responds, “Perhaps I hope to make amends for my part in his father’s death, ser, and to avoid the curse of the gods for kinslaying. Serion Vaith is not of my blood, but he wed my sister, and that made us brothers in the eyes of gods and men.”
A long pause, and then he chuckles. “No. I am more pragmatic. So is Lord Ganlos. He is an old man; tough, but old. He feels the years on him, and he wants to make sure that when he passes, his house is in a strong position. We are reconciled that Dorne will be ruled from the Iron Throne, unlike many of other lords and knights in Dorne. It’s simple wisdom, to prove one’s loyalty and ensure one’s place in the firmament.”
“If they will hear the suggestions of a woman, I will make them,” Reyna demurs, though it is clear that behind her eyes her mind is at work. She moves automatically to refill Mavros’s cup.
When it is done, she glances again at Dagur, then asks with the ironman’s own bluntness: “What are your own hopes for when he does pass, Ser Mavros? Does not Lord Ganlos have a son who is hostage here?”
“A difficult business, proving one’s loyalty,” the ironman agrees, no hint of irony in his voice, dark eyes generously shaded with it. “Ser Balan Qorgyle,” he supplies his wife with the name, then. “He did well at the Battle of the Blind.”
He falls silent, sipping his wine and leaving Mavros to answer.
“Indeed. Ser Balan, a brave man, though I fear he has never warmed to me.” A rueful look passes over his face, before he murmurs a thanks and takes up the renewed cup. “I doubt he will have me as castellan, but it is of little concern when there are such pressing ones. I’ve no designs on his inheritance—or that of my niece, Lady Liane, if you are wondering.” He considers the husband and wife for a long moment, and then says, “I will be blunt. I could claim that with Dorne at peace, I’d be satisfied to retire to a manse somewhere; perhaps even north of the Red Mountains. But in truth, I hope to have a voice at the little court in Sunspear, to smooth tensions and improve relations between the Iron Throne and its vassal Prince. Steward? Lord Shariff? Who can say? I do not know what destiny will bring me, but I’m not one to sit idle and watch the future pass me by.”
That’s certainly bold enough, and plain enough. He’s not a man of small ambitions, either.
“I am rather fond of Lady Liane, so I am glad to hear it,” Reyna says wryly, smiling a little at his plain speech. “Well, Ser Mavros, you are an honest man, at least. You said there was another matter as well?”
“Of course,” Ser Mavros says, and leans forward to bring attention back to the map. A hand stretches out, and a finger traces the line of the Prince’s Pass through the mountains. “Andrey Blackmont has been a vulture here, in the Prince’s Pass, causing great consternation. You mentioned Ser Wallace, and I fear he’s part of the reason why these problems persist. My nephew is a ferocious man, and he knows the mountains as well as any. Better than Chester, certainly, in any case.”
Mavros waves a hand, gesturing at the western part of Dorne. “Ser Wallace has refused aid from Lord Ganlos, and has done his best to make it plain that he doesn’t intend to allow others the chance to assist him. Your lord brother, distracted with other matters, has let it lie… But it is harming shipments of grain, which have trickled almost to a stop via the Pass. Now much of the grain in the west comes in via the harbor at Starfall, and if anything, Ser Wallace is profiting by his failure to take Blackmont.” He glances, sidelong, and then adds, “Doubtless he is honorable and that is not his intention, but it is the result. Sandstone might help matters, however, to restore some safety to the pass.”
Garvys is not so enamored of Ser Wallace that he would turn a deaf ear to your logic,” Reyna says, again in that same wry tone. “But this touches on our own coinpurse, if you will, since Highgarden profits most from sending that grain into Dorne. It costs far less to take it along the Prince’s Pass, and my nuncle Emmyn is not best pleased that we must resort to more costly shipping.”
She pauses, chewing a corner of her lip in thought. “What do you and Lord Ganlos propose, then? Blackmont is proving a very wily foe, is he not?” For answer to this, she looks up to Dagur. “It is difficult, I understand, to navigate those mountains if one does not know them well.”
“Another chance for you and Lord Ganlos to prove your loyalty,” the ironman comments, studying the map. He straightens, grimacing, when Reyna looks to him: “I had word of the trouble Blackmont was causing when I was at the Boneway. It is difficult land, yes. There are places where a score of men could take thrice their number.”
He glances at Mavros: “Is Sandstone quiet enough that Lord Ganlos can afford to send part of his strength elsewhere?”
“Lord Ganlos is well-loved, ser,” says Ser Mavros, smiling at that… and then gives it a flinty edge. “And those who don’t love him, know better than to make any trouble. He may be blind and old, but it does not make him weak.” A pause there, a sip of wine, and then he shrugs. “Our solution is simple enough. Ser Wallace cannot refuse if Ser Emmyn makes a contract with Lord Ganlos to provide three hundred spears to escort caravans in the Prince’s Pass. Lord Ganlos would take payment in kind once the grain is safely through, for grain’s valuable in Dorne, and in short supply. He’d lay some by to keep his people fed, and perhaps sell a portion to keep his spears paid. Otherwise, he wants nothing more… well, except as Ser Dagur says, to show his loyalty. That is worth more than the grain.”
“And the cost of three hundred spears is less than the cost of cargo ships?” Reyna asks, raising a brow. “We must make our profit, Ser Mavros, and giving grain in return for to Sandstone protection would, of necessity, push our prices up at market. Uncle Emmyn would be able to tabulate the difference, but without his ledgers, I cannot.”
She looks at Dagur again for a longer moment, then returns her gaze to Mavros. “This is beyond my power to negotiate, I fear. It is my thinking that until the Pass is cleared of Blackmont and his men, neither Emmyn nor Garvys would agree to even the possibility of grain going to rebels in any portion. Perhaps if Lord Ganlos undertook to rid us of Blackmont for good…”
“You ask a lot of Ser Mavros, my lady,” the ironman says, but he seems to be faintly amused rather than chiding her.
He turns his gaze from Reyna to the Dornishman, “But then, he asks a fair bit himself. She speaks the truth, ser. Ser Emmyn may find a small loss, if there is indeed one in sending the grain by ship, preferable to the risk of any of it feeding Blackmont’s men.”
He pauses, then adds, “Three hundred of Sandstone’s spears or no.”
Ser Mavros pauses a moment, and then sets his cup down. “You’ve a fair concern, my lord and lady,” he says, though he seems unwilling to admit it. “Yet catching Andrey…” He glances at the map again, eyes flicking between Sandstone and the Prince’s Pass, and he adds, “Even if Lord Ganlos agreed to make the effort, there is still Ser Wallace to consider. He acts practically as if he’s been named Warden of the Prince’s Pass, and is jealous of his chase after Lord Andrey. If Lord Ganlos were to send spears to root out Lord Blackmont, Ser Wallace would turn them back out of mistrust.”
“And why would Ser Wallace then allow those same spears to accompany grain along the Pass? He would not profit from that grain himself,” Reyna counters, shaking her head.
“Let me be frank, Ser Mavros. Your offer is a fair one, there is no doubt, but while Blackmont persists, the Pass is not safe for so much as one bag of grain. If you went to Garvys with Lord Ganlos’s proposal to root out the rebellion in those bloody mountains and he agrees to it, he will see to Chester. Garvys is stretched thin, and Chester does little to change the way things stand.” This, of course, she puts to Dagur for confirmation.
She pauses a moment, then traces a line with her fingertip from Highgarden down to Sunspear along the pass in question. “You wish to prove your loyalty. A grain escort is a pretty gesture of loyalty to the Tyrell, Ser Mavros. Rooting out Lord Blackmont… now that would be true loyalty to crown.”
“He tries but he does not have the men to hunt Blackmont in earnest and keep Starfall safe,” the ironman confirms, finishing his goblet and moving to refill it. “You could even lead them yourself, ser,” he adds casually. “You have helped take one rebel lord already. What is another one to the tally?”
A flat look to Ser Dagur at that last remark, and then Ser Mavros turns an eye back to the map, turning that over. “Two rebels to the tally of Mavros Uller and Ganlos Qorgyle,” he remarks idly. A hand clenches, fingers rubbing against the palm, and then at last he shrugs. “If it must be done, so be it. We’ll put the proposal to Lord Garvys again, and see if he gives Lord Ganlos’s men a writ to act in the Prince’s Pass to bring Andrey Blackmont to justice. Last time, he let Ser Wallace decide, but perhaps he’ll think differently now that Blackmont has gone so long unapprehended.”
He makes to stand up then, continuing, “I thank you for your time, my lord and lady. If you should send a report of this meeting to Lord Tyrell and Ser Emmyn, to help them make a decision in these matters, Sandstone would be grateful. Aye, and Dorne as well, once there is a true and lasting peace.”
“I will send it indeed, and you will have a letter of introduction to Garvys before you depart, as well,” Reyna replies, rising herself. “I am convinced of Sandstone’s good intent, and I shall do all in my power to see that Lord Tyrell makes best use of it. For the good of the Seven Kingdoms.”
The ironman steps away as Reyna pushes the chair back; for his part, he adds nothing to her avowal, merely nodding to the Dornishman and beginning to turn away.
But then he pauses and smiles: “You misspoke, ser. He is not merely my lord. He is yours as well.”
Ser Mavros looks at the younger man then, and for the first time he frowns. He voice is brusque when he says, “I am not like to forget it, Ser Dagur, nor is Lord Ganlos.”
And then he softens, and offers a bow to Reyna. “My sincere thanks, and that of Lord Ganlos,” Ser Mavros says, more courteously.“If it is not forward, I will leave you two gifts: sandsteeds from Dorne, a matched pair, a palfrey suitable for a lady and a war-trained stallion for a valiant knight. They had been intended as gifts to the royal councillors, but his grace has been generous to them with his own prizes from Dorne, and it seemed little point to add to the largesse.” He gestures towards the window looking out into the courtyard. “I took the liberty of bringing them and having your grooms see to their stabling. If you do not wish them, I’ll take them away again, and apologize for my presumption. Doubtless I can find someone else who will want them, as there’s no room for them on the ship to Sunspear.”
No amount of court training or etiquette can hide the look of sheer delight that crosses Reyna’s face; it is a mark of her training that she does not race like a child to the window that very moment.
“Ser Mavros,” she says, turning the full force of her courtier’s coquettish smile on him, “it -is- a bit presumptuous, I will admit, but for my part… you speak to my own heart, ser. I am truly sorry I could not give you more satisfaction, but I will do what I can. And I think that at the very least, Emmyn will see that Sandstone has an extra measure of grain to feed her folk. That, at least, I can promise you.”
For his part, the ironman does step to a window and twitch the drapes aside. Where Mavros’ flash of temper had left him unmoved, this seems to have an effect, for he raises his brows when he turns back: “A handsome gift.”
He pauses, then says, face unreadable again: “But I fear we cannot accept it.”
He glances at the woman: “I would, however, offer to buy the palfrey if you are willing.”
Ser Mavros seems well on the way of saying some pleasantry over Reyna’s pleasure at the gift, when Ser Dagur intervenes. It gives him ... pause. He looks between the two, husband and wife, and then says, “It is for you to say, my lord and lady. Lord Ganlos will think me mean to barter over a horse, but I will explain it to him.”
“Pray explain to Ser Ganlos that we wish only to deal openly and fairly with him,” Reyna says, that same training serving to hide any disappointment or surprise she may harbor over her husband’s decision. “It would cause undue comment if we were to accept such precious steeds as gifts; but I will make a good faith offer on the warhorse as well, on my brother Ardon’s behalf. He has great appreciation for sandsteeds, and will treat him very well.”
“Tell him it was in his interests and he will understand readily enough. As my lady says, if we choose to aid you in what you have suggested,” the ironman says bluntly, “I do not want talk that her support or mine can be bought with gifts. And it would do nothing for Lord Ganlos to be seen doing it.”
“Of course. You are wise, my lord and lady, to think of that; it had not crossed my mind.” Ser Mavros says, and bows again. The matter of price is soon concluded—he _is_ a Dornishman, trained to haggling in its bazaars, and drives a hard bargain. Once all is said and done, he takes his leave of the Saltcliffe manse, mounting on a horse—a plain enough palfrey, not a sandsteed, for him—and making off with a lone escort.