Rhaegar watched Duke Mond's face flush scarlet; the Duke was, after all, a man who had already died once on the battlefield, and his outlook had become freer and clearer.
As the saying goes: when a state keeps outspoken ministers, it will not perish; when a family keeps outspoken sons, it will not fall.
Regrettably, many monarchs never grasp this truth.
"Throughout history, Dorne and we have fought long wars with grievous casualties. The Marches, the Stormlands, The Reach—even the Westerlands—harbor hatred for the Dornish. Even if nobles and warriors feign peace at the king's command, their hearts still nurse that old grudge."
"Secondly, to win Dorne's support, the Crown's policy toward them has been far too generous. To incorporate Dorne into the Seven Kingdoms, you granted them privileges—intermarriage with the royal house, something never offered to Tyrell, Tully, Stark, or Lannister; retention of their royal style; continued use of Dornish law; payment of taxes to the iron throne only, and even then merely under occasional oversight from the Red Keep."
"Most crucially, Dorne's strength is limited, its populace sparse, its distance from King's Landing vast; at best they are a band of self-serving defenders. Brave enough when guarding their own sands, they feel little zeal for marching to defend King's Landing, and crossing half a continent makes them a paltry ally." Duke Mond opened his throat and poured out every grievance. With dragons gone and no fear of dragonseed scattering, forging strong alliances through marriage was the sensible path.
Rhaegar blinked; such bluntness was rare, yet for Westeros's greater good it was pure gold.
Both Jaehaerys II and Rhaegar carried Dornish princeling blood. Ever since Daeron II wed the Princess of Dorne, Targaryen and Martell had enjoyed a warm honeymoon. Yet Duke Mond's words cut straight to the bone; this was Westeros's reality—ever shifting alliances. As an insider, he saw too clearly the perils of courting Dorne too closely.
"I have weighed these very points," Jaehaerys II said. Few nobles dared speak so frankly to a king.
Jaehaerys stroked his beard, as if drifting back to those turbulent years. "One root of the Blackfyre Rebellion was King Daeron II's friendship with Dorne. The Crown gained a Dornish ally but offended multitudes who felt the throne favored Dorne and showed weakness; Prince Baelor's dark hair lacked the warrior's mettle of Daemon Blackfyre."
"That is politics: a game of gain and loss. We won Dornish hearts yet lost portions of The Reach, the Marches, the Stormlands—even the West. Beyond right or wrong lies simple reckoning." Jaehaerys sighed; he had pondered the court's view of Dorne, and the Duke's words rang true.
The realm had stood two or three centuries, but the old kingdoms endured for tens of thousands. Hatred outlives love. Riverlands and Westerlands hated the Iron Islands; Reach, Stormlands, and Marches hated the Dornish. King's Landing looked down on all, deeming only its own nobles true, while courtiers scorned the Dornish for their favored status.
"Yet breaking the status quo is riskier than keeping it. If the Crown swings round, we offend Dorne. We can only hope the next generation finds balance." Even clever hands can cook without rice; Jaehaerys had no better course.
The scant numbers of House Targaryen were the greatest woe. Few to begin with, and then their incestuous pairings produced precious few Dragonseeds to wed out. Had there been plenty, sending a few to every great house would have made the dynasty unshakable. With the War of the Ninepenny Kings over, the Royalist host began withdrawing from the Stepstones.
After losing their dragons, holding the Stepstones was deemed unprofitable; though the islands were a powder-keg, the realm lacked strength to garrison them.
The surviving Ninepenny Kings still clung to Essos, yet posed no great threat.
In the war young knights and dukes had risen to prominence—chosen by history and by their elders' design: Duke Hoster, the Blackfish Brynden, Tywin the heir of the West, Ser Steffon of the Stormlands, and Prince Aerys of Dragonstone.
Outside King's Landing's gates the clarions of victory sounded. King Jaehaerys II and his queen, Princess Rhaella, Prince Rhaegar, Duke Mond, Ser Steffon, Princess Elia of Dorne, Lady Joanna, and others waited anxiously.
The gate shimmered with jewels, furs, and the gleam of gold; the perfume of Lords and ladies seemed strong enough to drown all else. On this dazzling day each sought to outshine the rest, for victory lends timid hearts a borrowed glory.
Then they saw the ranks of soldiers—armor blotting out the sun, spirits sky-high—galloping toward them.
Ser Gerold Hightower led the royal host home in triumph. The Ironborn had sailed straight for their isles; Gerold's men hailed chiefly from the Crownlands, Stormlands, and West. Expecting those iron savages to bend the knee in thanks would have been futile.
Triumphal music soared; under every gaze the soldiers seemed drunk on acclaim.
Ser Gerold wore enameled white plate, rode a white destrier, and draped a white cloak across his shoulders, a white shield strapped to his arm—truly a White Bull. A herald raised the standard bearing stag and dragon counter-changed.
Behind him rode other knights who had won great honor: the triumphant Lord Roger displaying the red lion, Ser Barristan bearing wheat sheaves, Prince Aerys in a triple-headed dragon helm with rubies on his breastplate, Tywin's brother in a lion helm and crimson cloak, and the Tully brothers—estranged yet riding side by side.
Though the White Knights' garb was plainer than most, they remained the most glorious knights alive.
For a moment the knights vaunted their prowess; every eye in King's Landing was upon them.
"Your Grace, by your leave: after many days the host returns in honor." Ser Gerold dismounted and knelt, heart still racing. Though the campaign had known early setbacks, it ended in glory.
"Rise, ser. You have added new luster to the iron throne and the White Knights," King Jaehaerys said, pride ringing in his voice.
"A knight's highest glory is to serve Your Majesty through fire and flood; I count it no sacrifice." Gerold bowed, then gestured toward Barristan behind him.
"Your Grace, permit me: this is the war's greatest hero, savior of Bloodstone, the fearless Ser Barristan Selmy. I commend him to you; he shall join our brotherhood of White Knights and forge a yet grander legend."
"So granted—and my own honor thereby!" The king smiled freely, his cares half-vanished.
Ser Barristan bowed, and the mood crested. brass trumpets blared; had White Knights not been bound by honor, suitors would have queued that night.
Barristan's face burned; honor outshone wine, and he was still a hero of twenty-odd summers.
He had abandoned dreams of wife and heirs, surrendering his claim to Harvest Hall; henceforth he would live for honor alone.
Harvest Hall had been famed for grain; henceforth it would be famed for its warrior's valor.