Lord Olivar Yronwood
For the past hundred years, war with the northern neighbor had never ended well for Dorne. The Martells might ascribe certain victories to themselves, but a man capable of seeing further than his own nose could not fail to notice the consequences. Take, for instance, the previous war with the Dragon King. The late Lord Yronwood, Olivar's uncle, was a loyal vassal of the Martells and followed Prince Morion's call: he felled scarce nigh a fifth of his forests to build ships for the invasion fleet, called the banners, and boarded a ship himself along with his four sons. None of them returned, and their bodies were never found; Yronwood passed to Olivar's mother, and then to him.
Their domains had recovered during twenty-seven years of peace, but then the Prince in Sunspear wished to play with dragonfire once more. Lord Olivar knew that flirtations with the Lyseni would end in no good, and lo: Princess Aliandra was wed to a Lyseni, and his bank had thrust its hand into the purse of every lord—he himself had been forced to invest coin in certain dubious projects of the Triarchy. Lord Olivar knew that war in the Stepstones was harmful to Dorne: it harmed trade both with the Seven Kingdoms and with Essos, but Qoren knew better. Lord Olivar knew that the dragons would return, and they had returned.
The lands to the south and east of the Greenblood were scorched. Of every seven villages they met on the road, only one remained intact, and that most likely because the winged fiery death had not seen the miserable hovels from its heavens. There was neither castle, nor tower, nor even a fortified outpost that did not greet them as charred ruins, blackened with soot and ash, around which the sand had not turned to glass. From the ruins, through which the wind chased dust, ash, and grit, the twisted, gnarled hands of the burnt dead reached out to them.
All this destruction and death were caused by dragons, of course, yet the responsibility for them lay with Qoren Martell. His grandmother, Princess Mara, had managed to learn the lesson and made peace with the Iron Throne, but Qoren always wanted more: more gold, more lands, more glory... and look where it had led him, all Dorne, and Olivar Yronwood himself. Beneath the very walls of Sunspear.
Yronwood had been to the capital of the Principality more than once, of course, but for the first time he saw it at the head not of a solemn procession, but of a host of five thousand. The Shadow City beneath the walls of Sunspear was black; here and there pillars of smoke still rose, and the acrid smell of burning hung in the air. On the Winding Walls, snaking through the whole city to the castle, the banners of the Martells fluttered only in places, pitiful and charred; the first of the Threefold Gates were broken down. The Tower of the Sun, one of the two main towers of the Martell stronghold, looked unlike itself: the magnificent dome of crystal and gold had partially collapsed, and now gaped with a disgustingly huge hole.
"My Lord?" inquired Ser Daven Drinkwater of his liege. "If anyone remains there, they surely have already noticed us. We must attack."
"Attack what?" chuckled Ormond, Olivar's younger brother, and, leaning demonstratively over the pommel of his saddle, spat into the roadside dust. "A pile of charred bricks? The gates are broken, no one guards them. We shall enter the city—and the matter is done."
"It may be a trap..."
"Hardly does Qoren have strength left for traps," Olivar drawled. "The city is ravaged, and little remains of Nymeria's towers."
At that moment, a small cavalcade rode out from the gates—five riders under a rusty Martell banner—and galloped straight for Yronwood's position. Lord Olivar's retinue and spearmen livened up, tried to form up around their liege, but he checked them:
"Calm yourselves and do not fuss."
"Gods bless you, My Lords!" the first Martell herald exclaimed rapturously. "Princess Aliandra greets you!"
"Princess?" Yronwood raised his brows in surprise. "And what of Prince Qoren?"
"Prince Qoren perished in the defense of the city," the messenger reported mournfully. "The accursed Red Wyrm burned the Shadow City, incinerated its peaceful inhabitants and valiant defenders, destroyed the dome of the Tower of the Sun..."
"So, the princely throne is occupied by the Princess?"
"Aye, My Lord, Princess Aliandra succeeded her father, may the Father Above be merciful to him. She awaits you in the Tower of the Spear."
Yronwood nodded silently and gave spurs to his stallion, sending him after the herald, and his vassals, bannermen, and army followed him. The herald, evidently, chose to pay no heed to this, and that was wise: he could not hinder it even if he wished. So far, everything looked as though a loyal vassal of Sunspear had brought his troops with all possible haste to aid his liege. In part, this was true: when the dragons began methodically burning every hovel on the Broken Arm, Qoren decided that the Targaryens were preparing to land right beneath his walls, and summoned Yronwood to defend his lands. Olivar hastened, but not for that.
The Lord was not offered guest right—that was good, as it obliged him to nothing. Qoren was dead—that too was good, though Olivar was disappointed that he could not exile him to the Wall in golden chains, as Nymeria had once done with his ancestor. That a girl not yet flowered sat in Nymeria's seat—that too was good; children have few allies. There remained, of course, her Lyseni...
"And what of... the Princess's spouse?" Yronwood inquired of the guide before the very city gates.
"Lord Drazenko proclaimed himself Gonfaloniere and Regent until Princess Aliandra comes of age."
Chuckles mixed with curses reached Olivar from behind his back: Drazenko Rogare was a lord neither by birth nor by merit; he had no more right to the lofty title of temporary ruler of the Principality than the meanest scullion in the castle kitchen, and he had not yet become a husband to his wife. Although, the Stranger knows.
Obviously, Rogare expects from him an oath to the new Princess. The Lyseni surely have no support now either in Sunspear or anywhere nearby—judging by what they saw on the left bank of the Greenblood, not half the number of his detachment could be gathered for seventy leagues around. Does this "Gonfaloniere" understand why Yronwood has come here? Perhaps Drinkwater is right, and 'tis a trap?
They rode through the torn-out gates and entered the city. Up close, the destruction proved even more horrifying: the brickwork of the houses was blackened, cracked, and melted, which made the already unpleasant suburbs of the Shadow City entirely disagreeable. The intricacies of the streets, in which one could wander a whole day, had surely become a trap for its inhabitants; for the first time, Lord Olivar thought that dragonfire was in a sense merciful to the survivors—the fallen burn and do not rot.
Riding past yet another wrecked house (evidently, at some moment the Blood Wyrm decided to trample the ground), Yronwood asked:
"The losses are undoubtedly great. We saw no one on the walls; does anyone remain in the City Watch at all?"
"Few, My Lord," the herald responded. "The greater part burned, some were trampled, some eaten, some fled... In the whole city, not three hundred can be gathered."
"And Sunspear?"
"Lord Drazenko's men hold it. Essosi, mercenary scum through and through—as the dragon flew in, they climbed into the deepest pit and sat there whilst the castle shook. Would that they had been buried there..."
"So, you like not this Lyseni?" Ormond, drawing level with them, goaded the herald.
"There is a certain... baseness in him," the Martell man became candid, but quickly realized he had blabbed too much and muttered something crumpled in his justification.
Olivar was pleased with this: if the city is almost empty, then consider it already in their hands, and a handful of mercenaries is no hindrance. The Lord of Yronwood cast a quick glance at Drinkwater; Ser Daven nodded understandingly and turned his horse away, giving quiet orders on the move. Of course, five thousand for a city is somewhat few, but then not so much remained of the Shadow City either.
Meanwhile, the road went up, they passed another gate (also smashed), then another (merely charred). The last line was guarded by a couple of dozen Essosi; to Olivar's slight surprise, each of them wore an orange surcoat with the orange sun of the Martells, and their weapons, as the Lord managed to notice, were not so bad.
At last, they found themselves in the inner courtyards of Sunspear. Here, long furrows from dragon claws, white on black stone, were added to the traces of hellish flame, but the picture of monstrous devastation remained unchanged: it seemed that in the whole castle, formerly reputed the most beautiful in all Dorne, if not all Westeros, not a single undamaged building remained. Even the sturdy Sandship, which had been the Martell citadel even before the coming of the Rhoynar, lay in ruins with a smashed roof. Here and there people bustled, lazily and reluctantly clearing the debris; an acrid smell of garlic and pepper drifted from the former kitchens.
They were already awaited on the steps of the Tower of the Spear. Surrounded by mercenaries dressed in Martell colors stood Drazenko Rogare, white-haired like all the seed of Old Valyria. A golden circlet with a large ruby bound his forehead, and many noble ladies might envy the number of chains on his neck and rings with precious stones. Yet the nature of the newly-made "Gonfaloniere" could hardly be called repulsive: he was a handsome man, neither fat nor thin, with regular features, slightly younger than Yronwood himself. And the more noticeable was the contrast between him and his little spouse.
Aliandra Martell, Princess of Dorne, could have been taken for Drazenko's daughter, were it not known that the bonds of marriage linked them. The girl was quiet and sad, her dark eyes red either from smoke or from shed tears; it was said she loved her father greatly. Both the Princess and her husband wore no armor, preferring bicolor red-and-yellow satin, undoubtedly Lysene. Rogare coughed quietly, and the Princess, starting, hurriedly pronounced:
"My Lords, welcome to Sunspear."
"Unfortunately," picked up Drazenko; he spoke the Common Tongue surprisingly fluently, "we meet you in a moment of sorrow and deep need. The treacherous attack of the Westerosi Prince on his accursed dragon has left deep scars on the body of this fair castle, and on the body of the whole land. Prince Qoren, my unhappy good-father, fell the death of the brave defending his subjects, and my dearest spouse was forced to enter her inheritance before her time. Deeming it my duty as spouse and kinsman to ensure the protection of my wife and newly found homeland, I have perforce taken upon myself the heavy burden of regency. Your so timely appearance, Lord Olivar, is an undoubted manifestation of your unchangeable sense of duty, for which the ancient House of Yronwood is famed. Chambers have been prepared for you and your companions in the Tower of the Spear, but before you can rest from this burning and stench, I propose to settle certain formalities..."
"Aye, formalities ought not be left for last," said Olivar, thoroughly wearied by the lengthy and flowery verbiage.
Aliandra smiled a practiced smile and just as practicedly extended her small hand for a kiss. It was assumed that Lord Yronwood would approach her, bend the knee, swear fealty for himself, his house, and his vassals, and afterward press his lips to the ring too large for child's fingers. Lord Yronwood's own design had but one common point with this plan.
Olivar covered the distance to the little Martell in a few steps, drew his sword from its scabbard in passing, and with a single motion slashed Drazenko Rogare across the chest. He toppled onto his back with a surprised wheeze, and in the next instant Yronwood drove the blade into his heart, ending the agony.
Battle was already seething around them: mercenaries grabbed weapons and rushed at Olivar's men scarce had he raised his blade; someone was already screaming, someone was already lying in a pool of his own and others' blood on the ground. Olivar grabbed the girl, dumbfounded by what was happening, and jerked her to himself so she would not flee.
"Lay down your arms!" he bellowed, shouting over the ringing of swords. "Your master is dead! Lay down your arms, and you shall receive your money! You shall be able to clear off back to your Essos!"
"What are you doing?" squealed Aliandra. "You are a traitor! What are you doing?!"
"I am repaying the debts to your House," answered Olivar Yronwood and only tightened his grip.
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