Viserys and the Red Viper walked together toward the wooden dais beside the training yard, a temporary structure built for the highborn to observe the martial contests.
Banners fluttered from the platform: the three-headed red dragon of House Targaryen, the seven-pointed star of Andal tradition, and the river-blue banners of the Rhoynar.
"What grudge did you hold against old Lord Yronwood?" Viserys asked, glancing at the Red Viper. His curiosity was piqued; he smelled a story.
The Red Viper might be ruthless, but he wasn't mindless. Killing a high lord over a mistress seemed too simple.
"Your Grace knows the name of House Yronwood, surely," Oberyn said.
It was a rhetorical question. House Yronwood was one of the top twenty great houses in the realm. Viserys was well-versed in genealogy and heraldry.
"The Warden of the Stone Way, the Bloodroyal, the Lord of the Green Hills," Viserys recited. "Every title rings with power. It is said House Yronwood has always been one of the most powerful and wealthy bannermen beneath House Martell of Sunspear, and that some Yronwood lords have harbored thoughts of replacing them."
Aside from lacking a seaport, the Yronwood lands were nearly perfect. They controlled the valleys near the Boneway and the prime real estate of the Green Hills.
The mountains provided natural defenses for these fertile lands, which were rich in timber and minerals—iron, tin, and silver.
Compared to the arid scrubland held by most Dornish lords, Yronwood sat on a goldmine.
Unfortunately for them, the native Andal nobility lost out to the Rhoynar invasion. Nymeria's armies had elevated the Martells—originally a minor coastal house—allowing them to rise like a balloon. House Yronwood had never truly swallowed that pill.
Though the Bloodroyal did not rebel during Aegon's Conquest or the Young Dragon's invasion, they had joined the Blackfyres three times, siding with Bittersteel in rebellions against the Iron Throne.
"Precisely because they hold the best lands in Dorne, the Yronwoods have the power to stir up trouble. They have wealth, and they fought for the Black Dragon three times to seize power," the Red Viper admitted candidly. "And I happened to know that old Edgar did not respect Doran. on the contrary, he sought to drive a wedge between us."
"Edgar was a large man, known for his temper and impatience. So, everything fell into place."
Whether poison was involved or not didn't matter in the end; Edgar Yronwood died from wounds taken in the duel.
Viserys found this plausible. Doran's melancholic face and cautious nature were destined to be less popular among the fiery Dornishmen than the charismatic Red Viper.
House Yronwood liked to meddle, but House Martell remained internally united.
"But because you killed old Lord Yronwood, Prince Doran had to send his own son, Quentyn, to be fostered by them," Viserys noted.
"I didn't think about the consequences at the time; I only cared about my own satisfaction. But Quentyn is a good lad. He understands family and duty. He thinks too little, perhaps, while Arianne thinks too much," Oberyn said frankly.
Viserys was speechless. Quentyn was indeed a solid, if tragic, figure.
House Martell used Quentyn as a tool to appease their vassals. No wonder the short, plain boy eventually gambled everything on a desperate bid for glory.
"I was a monster in my youth. Someone should have cut out my tongue," Prince Oberyn said, downing a cup of wine. "I was too clever, and too arrogant. I often regret it now."
Character is destiny. The Red Viper's sharp tongue and fiery temper had drawn much hatred over the years.
Viserys sipped his lemon water, sensing that the Red Viper didn't regret killing old Yronwood at all. He only regretted that his loose tongue had ruined a potential match between his sister Elia and Baelor Hightower, the "Brightsmile."
"So I often repent. I am Dornish, after all; my passion often overrides my reason. Now, I generally follow Doran's lead. But we are all human. Even Doran, for all his reason, was blinded by desire in his own marriage."
"Many lives have passed," Viserys said. "Dwelling on the past is a sign of aging."
"True," Oberyn agreed. "I regret Elia's choice, and I will spend the rest of my life seeking justice."
"Justice." Viserys marked the word. Justice is something only the victors can dispense.
---
King's Landing, the Red Keep, the Hand's Private Solar.
The Hand's solar in the Tower of the Hand was much smaller than the King's, furnished with Myrish carpets, tapestries, and golden-glassed round windows that gave it an intimate, private air.
Varys, the Master of Whisperers, looked at the old man before him: Jon Arryn. With Robert Baratheon neglecting his duties, only the Hand held the realm together.
In his youth, Jon Arryn had been handsome, with blue eyes, blond hair, and an aquiline nose. But time had stolen his looks; by the time he married Lysa Tully, he had already lost half his teeth.
Still, physically, he remained robust for his age. There was no other great lord in the Seven Kingdoms quite as old as he. Even Tywin Lannister and the Queen of Thorns were a generation younger.
"Is your intelligence accurate?" Jon Arryn asked gravely.
"Oh my, you doubt my sincerity, Lord Hand?" Varys covered his mouth, feigning distress. He wore robes of purple velvet and soft slippers, smelling faintly of lilacs and powder.
"Is this King of Andalos truly the last scion of the Targaryen dynasty?" the old Hand asked.
"My little birds sing a true song. Many merchant captains have heard of Viserys's fame in Braavos. After earning gold, he took land in Andalos, raising armies that swell like a balloon."
"This is..." Jon Arryn rubbed his throbbing temples. It had only been a few years. How had that beggar prince found the means to return?
"I worry for you, Lord Hand," Varys said softly. "After all, it was you who argued against sending assassins for the children, against the wishes of King Robert and Lord Tywin."
"Let us not speak of the past. To kill children is not the way of knights or honor," Jon said sternly. "If Robert could defeat Rhaegar once, he can defeat his brother a second time."
"You are right, my lord. As long as King Robert has his warhammer, no one can stand against him," Varys said with a simpering smile.
"Even so, the treasury..."
"The treasury empties quickly. Rebuilding the Royal Fleet, the King's wedding, the tourneys, the hunting... you know how it is. If we must raise a great host again... the coin..." Varys trailed off hesitantly.
"Gold depreciates before the Iron Throne. Lord Tywin has gold. If it comes to it, I will write to him," Jon said.
Jon Arryn's relationship with Tywin was delicate. Tywin was younger, but he had served as Hand for twenty years. If Tywin came to King's Landing, his pride would accept nothing less than the Handship, yet Robert would never trust him.
It would be another compromise, another alliance. Jon hated it, but there was no choice. Just as he had arranged Robert's marriage, he would have to stitch this together.
Jon felt less like a Hand and more like a seamstress, endlessly patching a fraying tapestry. Because the Baratheon dynasty lacked absolute military dominance, compromise was an essential step.
"A wise move," Varys praised. "Lord Tywin will surely be happy to secure his grandson's inheritance. Everyone knows the Lion and the Dragon are mortal enemies."
"Keep gathering intelligence," the old Hand reminded him. "I will speak with the King again."
"Very well, my lord. Though I see the King is already furious, ready to march at any moment. But from what I know... spending a few coppers on a few sorrowful men might be cheaper."
"Assassins... this..." Jon closed his eyes. It was dishonorable. But Robert's nature would not allow him to wait. He would have to talk to him again.
"My lord, one more thing," Varys added. "With the dragonspawn rising again, and King's Landing being the seat of the old dynasty... for your safety, perhaps someone should taste your food?"
"That is something only a coward would do, Varys," Jon warned.
"You are truly a man of honor..." Varys bowed, praising him outwardly while mocking Jon's stubbornness internally.
"Go now." Jon dismissed him.
"Now... now is not the time. Aegon is too young," Varys thought as he turned to leave, his own plans forming. He was a triple agent, after all.
He would stall the Red Keep's actions. Let Robert choose assassins if he wished, but Varys would find a way to warn Viserys. As for a cross-sea invasion, that couldn't be organized in a year or two.
This delay would buy Viserys time.
"Jon! Jon!" Lysa Arryn's voice rang out as the Hand's young wife burst into the room.
She was bloated and soft, her pale face powdered heavily. In her youth, Lysa had been a pretty, slender girl with a shy demeanor. After marrying Jon Arryn and suffering multiple miscarriages, her figure had begun to swell.
"What is it, Lysa?" Jon asked gently. Their marriage lacked love, but for the sake of honor, he treated his young wife with kindness.
"I want you to come with me to the Great Sept of Baelor. To pray sincerely to the Mother," Lysa pleaded.
"I will, Lysa. But I have other matters to attend to right now."
"Fine." Lysa pouted, clearly displeased.
"I was thinking, Lysa... perhaps, just a suggestion... when the time is right, I might bring Harrold here as my squire. Or perhaps send him to the Gates of the Moon to learn the ways of the Vale," Jon asked cautiously.
"Are you saying I won't bear a living child?" Lysa's face flushed red with rage, her fists clenching. "No! I am still young! I will not have another's brat be your heir!"
The Knight of the Gate was usually the position for the heir to the Vale. Even a fool like Lysa knew its significance. She would never allow it.
"Please, my lord. We will have our own child," Lysa fell to her knees, grasping Jon's hand.
Though she disliked his aged face, everything was for power. Future power.
She needed a child to secure her position, and perhaps to see more of her beloved Petyr.
A childless widow... if Harrold Hardyng came to the Eyrie, her fate would be miserable.
"Alright, alright. Go now. I have work to do..." Jon waved his hand wearily.
The matter of Harrold was dropped. Whenever he mentioned it, Lysa went mad.
Old Jon Arryn slumped back in his chair, a wave of loneliness washing over him.
He had never loved Lysa, but he had accepted the terms of the alliance and treated her with honor. A child would be best, but they remained childless.
"Everything I do is for Robert. He is the King, and the child I loved," Jon thought.
And the other child, Eddard Stark, was far away in the North.
They were great lords now, but back then, they were just young orphans.
Robert had always been a big child, loving play more than the crown. He was devoted to wine, women, hunting, and fighting.
Sometimes Jon wanted to throw off the burden of the Handship. It was too tiring, too worrying.
A seventy-year-old man, burning himself out completely.
The Vale, surrounded by mountains, was home.
Many became Hand for power or profit, but he was just an old workhorse, a patcher of holes.
"No, I cannot leave Robert," Jon told himself. Regardless of Robert's lifestyle, the Handship was his honor and his shackle.
High as Honor. Jon remembered the past. The Baratheons had sent the orphaned Robert to the Eyrie to learn governance. From that day on, Jon had treated him as a son.
Sadly, he rarely saw Robert or Ned these days. One was lost to drink, the other to the cold North.
So many of the young heirs he loved had died.
His brother Ronnel, dead of a bad belly. His nephew Elbert, murdered by the Mad King. His cousin Denys, the Darling of the Vale, killed at the Battle of the Bells.
A long life brought long loneliness. The people surrounding him now—Varys, Littlefinger—he could not feel their hearts.
"Jeyne, Rowena... if only you had given me a child, how sweet life might have been," Jon Arryn touched his wrinkled cheek, lost in memory.
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