The Tower of the Hand (98 AL)

The Hand's Guard were one hundred of his own men, handpicked from among the knights and household guardsmen at Highgarden. They were armored in ring mail and gilded steel breastplates, with cloaks of a deep forest green. Each man carried a spear and a shortsword, though the officers carried longswords. They were a highly disciplined force, finely equipped and trained, quartered in the Tower of the Hand.

Two of them stood guard outside the Hand's solar, and they bowed to the Crown Prince, politely asking him to wait a moment in the antechamber while a servant was sent while the Hand's solar to inform him of the Prince's unexpected visit. Lord Tyrell came out to meet the prince personally, finely dressed in a green doublet that was trimmed and elaborately embroidered with gold thread.

"Good afternoon, your grace," he said, bowing. Though finely dressed, he was a rather ugly man, with an oddly shaped face, thinning hair and narrow distrustful eyes. His appearance gave off the impression of slow-wittedness, but the Lord of Highgarden was anything but and Prince Maegor had learned that fact well during his years squiring for the Hand's brother. "I would have prepared a more bountiful table if I had know you would be joining me, but you are as ever, welcome to what I have."

He ushered Maegor into the solar, where a platter sat on a small table covered in maps. There was about three-quarters of a cold capon, which appeared to have been stuffed and roasted with raisins and olives, drizzled in honey. There was tray of finely sliced beef, so red it might have been raw, and a massive loaf of bread, though a large hunk of it was already missing. There were several large hunks of cheese, several different types, and a decanter of wine that was about half full.

Lord Tyrell frowned, as always, when he thought of Highgarden. "Better than during my childhood, I suppose, but not well," he said, his voice filled with dramatic melancholy. "Your grace has been there more recently than I, but I received a letter from my brother just a fortnight past and he indicated all was mostly well. The Reach will recover, though it will take time. The Scars of the Hector's War run deeply indeed," the Hand added gravely.

"And how do you fare yourself, my lord prince?" he asked politely.

Lord Tyrell beamed at the thought of the Crown Prince taking part in matters of statecraft. "Indeed, your grace. As you may know, Lord Orys Dondarrion was killed but days ago on Dragonstone, attempting to bond one of the dragons on Dragonmont," he said, matter-of-factly, smearing some soft goat cheese onto a hunk of bread and taking a large bite, washing it down with some pear brandy.

"This upsets the power balance the Marches; Lord Dondarrion's widow and his young son hold Nightsong with her knights and castellan, though I misremember the fellow's name. But Lord Orys was far more formidable commander, and you can be sure that when the Dornish learn of his death they will seek to take advantage," he continued, taking the remaining leg off the capon and gesturing at the map with it as he spoke.

"Her grace the Queen has not yet chosen to confide her plans for Dorne in me, though I imagine she will wish to find a new husband for Lady Caron, as soon as possible without appearing unseemly and insensitive," Lord Tyrell replied thoughtfully. "You are quite correct about Nightsong, however. Lady Caron's six year old son is now the Lord, but he cannot hold it against the Dornish, and certainly not against a neighbor like Quentyn Fowler. His wardship will be coveted by the Stormlords, but the Queen will need a man strong enough to resist predation from the south."

Prince Maegor vaguely remembered that Quentyn Fowler was a general in Dorne, and had besieged and nearly sacked Nightsong recently, though he could not remember when it had happened. "What would you do about Nightsong, your grace, if you were in your lady mother's place?" Lord Tyrell asked.

"Do not underestimate the Dornish, your grace," Lord Tyrell cautioned gently. "Many have done so before, to their misfortune, even your grace's own kin. With four dragons of their own, the Princess of Dorne is more powerful than she has ever been, despite Lord Baratheon's seizure of the Boneway. Does your grace have a particular candidate in mind to receive the wardship of the young Lord of Nightsong?"

"I would give Lady Helaena's hand to my brother, Ser Garen, who is unwed and would be a staunch ally to the crown against the Dornish incursion from the South," Lord Tyrell replied, without missing a beat. "I would also command Lord Baratheon to prepare for an invasion, and order the Arbor Fleet to sweep around Dorne to blockade Sunspear and cut off its shipping lanes to the east. When an army is assembled in Yronwood, I would march west, and hook around south of the Marches to come upon Skyreach from the south, while my brother pushed from Nightsong in the North."


The Hand paused to take another large bite of bread and chefs, before continuing. "That is the way to take the Prince's Pass, your grace, for when Skyreach falls Blackmont and Kingsgrave will fall soon after. When we control both passes into and out of Dorne, half their lords will beg to serve us, though the other half will surely fight to the death."

"That is hardly a fitting response for a dragon, some might say, your grace, though there is wisdom in it as well. A good King must consider all his options before making a decision, and must accept leal counsel from his advisors when he is unsure of the proper course," Lord Tyrell replied amiably. "My ancestors have fought the Dornish since yours still lived in Valyria, however, so I hope you will take my word that the only way to truly subjugate Dorne will be with fire, and blood."

Lord Tyrell raised his own cup in toast, and drank deeply.

"You remember the festival of Zyraxes, it is the Queen's favorite. You know that I keep to the Seven, but I imagine there will be games and feasting and contests of skill and strength," he replied. "Meryn will be remaining in the Arbor with Lord Leyton, but Carallen and Sarah will be coming to court for a time," he added, eyeing the prince carefully.

"Your lady mother is a rather forbearing woman, your grace. My father, and his father before him fought loyally for House Targaryen against the High Septon who commanded us to rise against them. It is written in the Seven-Pointed Star that 'rebellion is the sin of witchcraft'. Aegon the Conqueror was anointed by the High Septon and chosen by the gods to rule over Westeros; it is only proper that his descendants continue to do so," Lord Tyrell replied evenly.

"He did, your grace," Lord Tyrell confirmed laconically. He took another long draught of wine, and then spread more cheese over another hunk of bread, taking a large bite and chewing slowly. It was clear he did not want to discuss the Queen's late husband; he was a topic of some taboo in the Red Keep, and it was sometimes quietly said that when the previous Lord of Rosby had fallen down a staircase and cracked his skull five years ago, it was because he had been overheard the day before gossiping at court about the Queen's role in the death of King Aegon.