Ten leagues beyond the city gates, the Dornish host appeared, their banners rising from the fading green of the distant woods, carried by the thunder of hooves and the clamor of voices.
From there to the river stretched a field of mud—his own handiwork from the last battle.
So many banners. It seemed the Martells had brought half of Dorne's great lords to King's Landing. The thought unsettled him the more he turned it over in his mind.
King Daeron I had once written that the Dornish were divided into three peoples: the "Salty Dornishmen" of the coast, the "Sandy Dornishmen" of the deserts and river valleys, and the "Stony Dornishmen" of the Red Mountains. The Salty Dornishmen bore the most Roynish blood, while the Stony ones had kept most of their native features.
"How many banners do you see?" he asked Podrick.
The squire squinted. "Eight... no, nine."
"My lord," Podrick added shyly, "there's no litter among them."
"Indeed," Tyrion said. "Doran Martell always travels by litter. But today, it's Oberyn Martell we welcome. Look—there he is."
The Prince of Dorne bore the marks of age upon his face—faint lines, thin brows, and eyes dark and sharp as a viper's. His nose and brow were keen, his black hair gleaming with only a few silver strands, forming a widow's peak above his brow.
"Prince Oberyn," Tyrion urged his horse forward. "You are as vigorous as the stories say—and fiercer still."
"Flattery, Lust Demon," the prince said, his tone cutting though his lips curved in a smile. "You're far more handsome than I imagined. Who'd have thought such a handsome face could have buried so many men in the Blackwater Rush?"
"It's a pleasure to meet you, my lord," said the woman beside him. She wasn't strikingly beautiful, yet her exotic allure and sensual grace drew every eye.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, my lady," Tyrion replied. She was no Arianne Martell—her age alone made that clear.
"This is my lover, Ellaria Sand," the prince said, catching his thought. "You're looking for Arianne? There she is."
Arianne Martell rode forward from the column. She was voluptuous and beautiful, with olive skin, dark eyes, and a mass of glossy black curls. Yet she was short, especially astride a horse.
"She told me if you weren't as handsome as the rumors claimed, she'd stay hidden in the ranks," the prince said with a booming laugh.
"Uncle!" Arianne protested, her irritation fading the instant her eyes met Tyrion's. "It's a pleasure to see you, Lord Tyrion."
"Enough, Ellaria," Oberyn said. "You've had your look at the Lust Demon's charm. Let us speak alone, shall we?"
He spurred his horse ahead. Arianne followed close behind, and Tyrion had no choice but to keep up as they drew away from the main host.
"Good heavens, Uncle, he's even more handsome than Renly Baratheon." Arianne's gaze never left Tyrion. "And compared to Prince Rhaegar? Is he as handsome as Prince Rhaegar?"
"If both his eyes were purple, I'd think he was Rhaegar," the prince said.
"I'd advise not letting my father hear that," Tyrion replied. "And I'd rather not die from a hammer to the head."
"Then Robert had best be careful if he ever meets you," the prince said. "Are you as skilled with a sword as your brother?"
"No, my lord. I'm not particularly proficient in single combat," Tyrion answered honestly.
"A man who can't wield a sword crushed Stannis at the Blackwater Rush!" the prince nearly shouted. "And that fat fool Mace Tyrell didn't want you?"
"Lord Mace's daughter is meant to be queen," Tyrion said.
"I don't need that. I'm already a princess," Arianne said. "Unskilled in arms, yet able to command on the battlefield—you must be a man who loves adventure."
"I wouldn't say that. I value my life," Tyrion said. "But trouble always seems to find me."
"Handsome men are my weakness," Arianne laughed. Unlike Margaery, she didn't bother to cover her mouth. "And if they have an air of danger and mystery, I find them irresistible."
"Uncle, when shall we send word to Father? Tell him I'm quite satisfied."
"You're far too impatient," Oberyn said. "We should inspect the goods first. What if he's a dud? Perhaps I should have Ellaria help you test him."
"Uncle!"
Tyrion glanced at Arianne. Her expression was hard to call angry. If Lord Mace Tyrell thought like the Prince, Margaery and Joffrey's betrothal would never have lasted.
"Tyrion," the prince said suddenly, "would you care to share Ellaria with me? I'm sure she wouldn't refuse."
"No, my lord, thank you for the offer. I have no such inclination."
Share her? he thought. What next, he finishes with his mistress and comes for me?
"Uncle!" Arianne called again. "You sent everyone away just to say this?"
"I can't stand you both," she said, kicking her horse forward. "Let's see who reaches the city gates first." With that, she galloped off.
She was gone soon after. Tyrion didn't believe she truly fancied him—it was likely just courtesy. The Dornish kind? No, just a pleasant illusion.
"Tyrion," the prince said, "we've met before."
"When, my lord?"
"Oh, many years ago. My mother ruled Dorne then, and your father was Hand of the King—to another king."
"The difference between that king and this one is probably smaller than you think."
"I visited Casterly Rock with my mother, her consort, and my sister Elia. I must have been fourteen or fifteen, and Elia a year older. I remember your brother and sister were eight or nine—and you had just been born."
Tyrion remembered that his mother had died giving birth to him. The Martells had come to Casterly Rock while the whole castle was still in mourning. Poor timing indeed.
"I must admit, your crying was remarkable back then. You could wail for hours, and nothing but a woman's breast could quiet you."
"I'm still the same," Tyrion said.
"Ha!" The prince laughed. "What do you think of Arianne?"
"Charming and well-mannered."
"She, like you, never won her father's favor," Oberyn said with a sigh. "In truth, she's more like me. She could have achieved greatness—just as you could have."
"I've achieved only a little."
"Your fates are alike. I hope you'll treat her kindly." The prince nudged his horse, quickening his pace. Tyrion followed close behind.
When they reached the city gates, Arianne was already there, scattering copper coins to the poor gathered outside.
"What took you so long?" she called.
"Princess , I'm not skilled at riding," Tyrion said.
"Those unskilled at riding," the princess replied, "are only fit to be ridden."