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“I will speak with you in your solar,” Lady Moriah of House Dayne said with some finality. A woman past her sixtieth name day but unbent by time and the hardships of life.
Lord Eddard Stark, not used to being ordered around, least of all in his own castle, met her dark eyes and thought better of arguing. The walk to his solar gave Moriah time to consider the Lord Paramount. Or at least his appearance.
Dark haired, long faced, eyes a steely gray, as grim as an undertaker. She could not imagine what her daughter Ashara had been thinking taking such a man to bed. And now, years after the deaths of two of her children, both of which could in one way or another be put at the fault of this man, Moriah still could not understand why.
Moriah had been born a Qorgyle of Sandstone. Located in the harsh and unforgiving dunes of Dorne. It was because of House Dayne’s water that a marriage had been brokered between their two Houses.
Water was life in Dorne. Not gold or silver, no common riches were held higher. Water was life.
She had married Lord Ulrick Dayne and bore him four children. Her eldest Davos had died of a wasting sickness, but not before bearing a son of his own, Edric. Arthur was slain by the very barbarian leading her further into his castle, at the behest of a child killer and usurper. Ashara, in her grief, had thrown herself from the top of Starfall.
She had only one child left. Little Allyria. Already people pointed out she’d be a beauty, maybe even as beautiful as Ashara, of whom many called the most beautiful woman of her age.
Moriah was determined her last child would have more since than her elder sister.
Once safely in the Northman’s solar and away from prying eyes and listening ears, she spoke, “Lord Stark, I – appreciate you making the time for me.” Such banal banter with her son’s murderer tasted like ashes on her tongue. No doubt the savage before her could see as much on her face. “I know it is no small task to find room and bord for my men and horses.” She’d taken fifty knights and accompanying squires with her from Dorne. Along them Darkstar, the head of House Dayne’s cadet branch at Hermitage. And of course, the Prince Oberyn Martell.
“Of course, my lady.” To her ears he sounded pained. Did he regret the death of her son? The death of her daughter? The stillborn granddaughter that shared his retched blood?
She cared not for his pain, if he had any. Moriah had seen his pregnant Tully fishwife, his two sons and two daughters. House Stark was thriving, while her own family were down to two. “No doubt you are wondering why I made the journey to your – lovely kingdom. After all, no Dornishman has ever traveled to the heart of the North. Nor have they wished too. My late daughter being the exception. And we both know how that fared.”
Lord Stark once again wore a pained visage, “My lady, as I explained when I – delivered your family sword, my families honor demanded that I wed my brother’s betrothed. Tying the North and the Riverlands together before we set out to war. I never meant to dishonor the Lady Ashara, of whom I held great affection.”
Moriah smiled darkly, “yes, I recall your last visit to Starfall. Where you found yourself duty bound to deliver the sword that once belong to my son, along with his slain body. Your arrival also had a great impact on my daughter, though not nearly as much as the rocks she flung herself upon.”
Stark’s face crumbled like a boy who’d been denied his sweets. The great warrior of the Usurpers War & the Greyjoy Rebellion, she had to turn away, not being able to stomach the sight of him.
“My lady, please…”
The whine of his words was enough to make her want to leap across his desk and take a dagger to him. The gall of him, to act like the injured party. Her family was dead. Her children were dead. Age be damned, she was sure she could wound him with her dagger. And that would be enough. Dorne had learned well from Oberyn and the usefulness of poisons. But House Qorgyle had from its very conception, known the uses of venom. Their sigil was three black scorpions over blood after all. But as much as his death would please her, and the picture of his tongue going black from rot and vanes collapsing onto themselves did bring her great joy, she wasn’t here for personal vengeance.
“But I am not here to reopen old wounds. I’m here to look towards the future of our Houses, yours and mine.”
Stark continued to look like a kicked dog, but did find the words to speak, “our Houses, my lady?”
Gods but he was stupid. He must be the warrior come again, because she could not imagine how such a dull creature had lived this long and through two wars. She really would have to take him by his hairy paw and lead him where she needed him to go.
“You will betroth your heir, Robb Stark to my last living daughter, Allyria. Their wedding to take place after she has flowered. You will betroth your eldest daughter, Sansa, to my grandson Edric. Their wedding to take place after she has flowered, but until then she will foster at the Water Garden’s with Prince Doran. You will betroth Jon Snow to Sarella Sand, Prince Oberyn’s bastard daughter. You will convince your king, the baby killer, to legitimize Jon and give him either the name Dayne, or Martell. And finally, you will give Jon & Sarella vast holding on the western coast of the North, the peninsula Sea Dragon Point and The Stony Shore.”
Lady Moriah explained, point by point, calmly and with all the care one would give to a dull-witted idiot. Finished, she leaned back from his desk into the barely cushioned chair she’d been given to sit upon. Honestly, even cushions seemed too difficult for these ice-covered savages.
Elia Sand might have been a better choice, tying the new northern House to both House Martell through her father and House Uller through her grandfather. But the girl was barely three name days old, Sarella at least was about the same age as the boy. Though far more interested in books then boys at the time being.
Finally, Stark’s pained look was replaced with one of confusion, though she wasn’t sure because that look of aching stupidity might simply be how he always looked. “Why would I do that? My son must marry into the North, and my wife has plans for our daughter as well. And Jon? A Martell? A Dayne?”
Rolling her eyes, Moriah finally underlined the very reason why he would cave to all her demands. “Because if you don’t, if you decide to hold myself and my party against our will or slay us, my steward has orders to send a letter to Prince Doran explaining how Jon Snow is the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. How you’ve known this since finding him at the Tower of Joy, of hiding him as your bastard son and allowing the usurper and Lannisters to go unpunished for the rape and murder of his sister, Princess Elia, and the butchery of her children.” If that didn’t make the situation clear enough, maybe she’d take a piece of parchment and dry him a picture, the usurper standing beside Eddard’s head on a spike, Dorne marching on the Crownlands, war spreading across Westeros.
Maybe she’d even find some red ink, pretty colors might get this dullards attention quicker.
Lord Stark’s face paled, a new emotion finally taking root, anger, though it was quickly replaced with a clean slate. “My lady, I don’t know where you’ve gotten your information, but Jon is my bastard son. This fiction you are spewing is just noise.”
“Really?” Did this hairy savage think he could banter words, or weave a tale that could convince her of his lies? “I was privy to what my son was doing in Dorne, Lord Stark. Of the Lady Lyanna’s condition. Of your arrival into Dorne, sans child, and your need of a wetnurse when you delivered my sons bones to Starfall. All of which has been carefully detailed in the letter, waiting Prince Doran’s hands. So please, don’t embarrass yourself further. I don’t wish for a contest of wits, my lord, it makes me feel like a bully.”