GOT : Chapter 40

"You win." Gerris shook his head, handing the spyglass back to Gulian. "Shall I do the trot of shame back to the end of the convoy?"

"I think you've embarrassed yourself quite enough." Gulian laughed. "Just forget about it and try to look presentable when we eventually reach the camp."

Gerris just nodded along as the group made their way towards the large camp.

...

He had never seen such a sight. Rows upon rows of tents decorated with banners of houses from the Reach to the Stormlands. It had seemed that Renly Baratheon had managed to sway at least sixty thousand men, if not more.

Fortunately for them, it seemed that the sentries were not distressed by their presence, and after confirming the party's intentions, offered to take them under guard to the main tents.

"Alright." Quentyn spoke up, clearing his voice. "Lucian, Ned, Will, Gerris, Gulian, Cletus, Nym, Arch, Lady Blackmont and twenty of the guard with me. The rest can start setting up camp, since it seems we'll be here for a little while."

Everyone nodded, but Lucian Toland, Lady Nymella's last remaining brother, with his long, red hair, spoke up.

"How can you be so sure, my prince?"

"Well, Bitterbridge is located along the Roseroad. It seems that King Renly wants to starve the capital out of any provisions coming from the Reach, and it seems that the Riverlands are currently burning from the Golden Tooth to the God's Eye, so nothing will be coming from there either."

"Smart." Gerris mumbled.

"The frog is coming?" Nymeria Sand teased.

"The frog comes as well; you should know that by now." Quentyn smiled back. "But as it turns out I do not have pockets…"

"No." Gerris protested. "I know what you are thinking and, no."

"You've got pockets in your doublet, Gerris." Quentyn smiled. "Come on, he doesn't bite."

The frog looked at him as if he was enjoying the situation, its eyes wide open and its head tilting from side to side, judging him.

"Fine…" Gerris relented, letting the frog hop onto his shoulder and into his doublet's pocket.

Unfortunately, the pocket itself was not large enough, making the frog's head appear for all to see.

"I bet you're enjoying this, aren't you?" he whispered annoyingly.

The amphibian croaked, as if mocking him.

Quentyn smiled slightly. Indeed, while the prince normally didn't care much for appearances and had a pouch on his person, this time he had gone and worn quite an expensive set. 

While he usually wore a small shirt or doublet, Quentyn had opted for a tunic made of the purest orange silk, adorned with the sun and spear of House Martell, and several golden streaks which Gerris could tell were made of pure gold, with rubies and small diamonds adorning the ensemble. 

Along with it, Quentyn had put on a more conservative mantle, darker this one, although it was adorned with tiger furs purchased from lands beyond Volantis.

"I look absolutely ridiculous." Quentyn sighed.

"So do we." Cletus pointed out.

Indeed, most of the dornish party was adorned with similar attire and regalia, which they would usually never wear but…

"It's for appearance's sake." The Red Viper's daughter pointed out. 

"The Reachmen like to show their wealth and power with their expensive clothing, it is only fair that we do the same for a show of our own wealth. You'll live it down. I don't enjoy wearing this princess attire either."

"It looks good on you, though." Quentyn japed, earning a punch on the shoulder and a smile from the dornish bastard.

"Don't worry, I'll take it off of you soon enough." the prince whispered, just in Gerris' earshot, earning a small smirk from the Red Viper's daughter.

Gerris just hoped that the bastard was right on it being only a temporary measure, because he felt completely uncomfortable in his golden doublet, even more so with a frog hanging from his right pocket. The amphibian, though, was seemingly enjoying the experience, looking around with those wide eyes.

Nevertheless, Gerris could not deny that the whole costumes made Quentyn look radiant…regal even. The whole procession had been meticulously prepared, and rehearsed. Quentyn would be in front, with both Edric Dayne and Jynessa Blackmont by his side. Then came Nymeria Sand behind them, and then Gerris, flanked by Cletus, Gulian and Will. 

Finishing this procession would be the cousins and second and third sons, with Arch and Lucian Toland closing the small march. Around them, a dozen well-armed Dornish guards, with their shields and spears in pristine condition.

They were soon joined by Tyrell guards as well as odd knights wearing the colours of the faith, who led them to a large tent flying a crowned stag banner. 

Getting access to that tent was quite easy, their venue having likely been announced through ravens, and soon enough, the small party – except for the guards, who had been told to stay outside – found itself inside a large tent filled to the brim with various lords and knights, boasting sigils the gods only recognized.

Standing tall in the middle of everyone was King Renly himself. A tall, lean man, with dark hair that fell onto his broad shoulders. The man was clean shaven, with eyes seemingly changing colour depending on the way Gerris looked at him. 

King Renly too was regal, and wore an attire fit for war. The king boasted a dark, green armor with golden streaks and a golden stag standing proudly on his chest. At his side was a magnificent helmet, adorned with two, large, golden antlers. 

Hardly practical, but definitely intimidating. Finally, he had on his head a beautiful crown of golden roses, with in front and in Gerris' full view, a stag made of dark green jade, which in turn had golden or ruby eyes, and pure golden antlers.

Gerris was stunned at the sight of this man, he nearly forgot that he was a Baratheon for a moment. 

This surprise only lasted a second, his eyes shifting towards the woman at Renly's side. Her hair was brown in colour, falling down to her shoulders, just like her king's. The Rose of Highgarden, he reminded himself. 

Indeed, a fair moniker, since the girl was a vision of the maiden herself, with her innocent eyes and splendid demeanour, her head adorning a small golden crown, while her body was covered with a splendid green dress embroidered with hundreds of little golden roses.

"Your grace." Quentyn bowed respectfully.

"Prince Quentyn Nymeros-Martell of Dorne." King Renly smiled, revealing his pristine, white teeth. "We have heard a great deal of rumours about you."

"All positive, I should hope."

"It is not every day that the Dornish send news of their kingdom, if you please. Much of what we know about you are words, but words that interest me a great deal." The king shuffled. "So far, it does seem indeed like you Dornish know how to dress, I shall concede you that. But who might your companions be?"

"Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall, Lady Jynessa Blackmont of Blackmont, my lady cousin Nymeria, Ser Cletus Yronwood, heir to Yronwood, Ser Gerris Drinkwater, heir to Yoricksbank, Ser Gulian Qorgyle, heir to Sandstone, Ser William Wells, heir to Highwater, Ser Archibald Yronwood and Ser Lucian Toland."

A few lords raised eyebrows and started mumbling, but Gerris paid no mind to it.

"It seems that you have done quite the entrance, prince Quentyn." The Rose finally spoke. "As my king said, it is not every day that the Dornish come visit us, and what we know of you comes from your uncle."

"I do try to make my own place in the sun." Quentyn gently replied. "My father rules Sunspear, and I shall rule after him."

"Indeed, but pardon my imprudence, prince Quentyn, but your sister is due to inherit Sunspear…"

"Except if she marries a man of equal or greater rank, your grace." Quentyn nodded back. "In this case, she is to be wed to your brother, Willas Tyrell, at a date to be arranged by your house and mine."

"Of course." The Rose of Highgarden smiled once again. "And pardon me again, but the scar that you bear, where did you get it from?"

"A tourney, your grace." Quentyn's fingers trailed on his scar for a moment. "Unfortunately, accidents happen at such events."

"They do." The Tyrell Queen nodded, keeping her small smile.

"My wife is very active in the affairs of the kingdom, please pardon her curiosity." The Baratheon King cut in. "And I have a few questions of my own. The first is, as pleasant as your company is here, what is your purpose?"

"To negotiate an alliance, your grace." Quentyn spoke bluntly.

"An alliance? This is the rightful king of Westeros!" Lord Mathis Rowan spoke up.

"To you, perhaps. But many call themselves king. There is a King in King's Landing, a King in the North, a King in the Reach and a King in Dragonstone." Jynessa Blackmont fixed him with a small grin. 

"There are too many a king running about the kingdoms these days."

"My brother Stannis?" King Renly scoffed. "He would make a terrible ruler. Stannis is feared, yes, but not loved. 

What does he have? A few sailors, a few sellswords and a few minor lords and lordlings. A hag of a wife and only a daughter for his line, who, as sweet as she can be, is tragically scarred by Greyscale. Hardly the makings of a king.

I on the other hand, command two kingdoms, a host of eighty-thousand and more besides. I have the full strength and wealth of the Reach, and the might of the Stormlands. I am young, bold, brave, comely, and married to the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms."

I'd like to take you up on that last bit.

"Stannis is no king." The young Baratheon continued. "And his line is as good as dead. By the end of the year, I shall give my queen a son, and I shall have defeated the bastard who calls himself king. As for the Stark boy, I shall give him the choice to bend the knee in exchange for justice for his murdered father. A proposition he will be sure to accept."

Quentyn raised an eyebrow at that last point.

"You make a good case, your grace. But you forget that according to Andal law, Stannis is the lawful king. And as ill-fitted as he may be, I hardly see him abandon his claim to you." Quentyn politely pointed out. "There are many kings in this kingdom, your grace. And it is my place to offer our terms for an alliance."

"I suppose there is no harm in hearing them." King Renly sat on his golden chair, his eyes drifting around the room.

"For our spears, we ask justice for our kin, slain in King's Landing almost five-and-ten years ago, whose murderers have yet to be put on trial. They are to be given to us, including Tywin Lannister."

The Reachers started mumbling between themselves, but the Baratheon king motioned Quentyn to continue.

"We ask that the next consort on the Iron Throne be a Martell, as to fulfil the late dynastic marriage pact, cut short by the Sack of King's Landing."

The mumbles grew in volume.

"Finally, we ask the expansion of our privileges, notably regarding trade and the tariffs put on Dornish goods in all ports of the Seven Kingdoms."

Gerris smiled. This was sure to get a reaction out of the Reachmen, and it did not fail.

"This is outrageous!" Randyll Tarly stood up, jolting Gerris who nearly dropped the frog out of his pocket. 

"You Dornish come here and ask for more and more still, and what would you bring us? A few thousand spears? Hah! I'd take a hundred Reachmen over a thousand Dornishmen any day. Run back and hide in your deserts while we win this war!"

"Bold words coming from someone who's yet to bloody their swords in this war." Nymeria Sand smirked.

A few snickers were heard amongst the party.

"Might as well let the Northmen and Riverlanders do all the work." Jynessa Blackmont pressed on. "After all, they know how to raise their swords."

"Mayhaps they're just too craven to fight the Lannisters." Cletus said with confidence. "It wouldn't be the first time the Reachmen feasted instead of fighting."

Too far, Cletus. Gerris wanted to slap him straight in the face. While it was true that Mace Tyrell was feasting with sixty thousand men at Storm's End, there still were twenty thousand men under the command of Lord Beesbury at the Trident. Twice the number of swords Dorne had sent. And his son was too keen on reminding him of that fact.

What ensued was less of a peaceful negotiation and more of a shouting match between the Dornish and the Reachmen, with the Stormlanders looking on, amused at the spectacle before them. Gerris was all too keen to join in, nearly coming to blows with a knight bearing the colours of two black roses and two silver chalices.

All the while, Quentyn was silent, eyes looking straight at the king and queen, with a stern expression on his face.

"Silence!" the Baratheon king finally erupted.

Quentyn did not open his mouth, but did make a visual show of toning it down.

"Prince Quentyn." King Renly continued, as the noise in the room died down. "You come here bearing terms that are extremely beneficial to your house. You wish justice? I shall grant you that. It was time that justice was done to the criminals that killed your kin."

About time. It took you long enough to realise this despite you sitting at the Small Council as Master of Laws. Justice could have been served long ago, but you just chose to sit by and do nothing. Like the rest of them.

"The rest of these terms are unfair to my other bannermen. However, I do not wish to rule over a divided realm." King Renly continued. 

"We shall discuss your terms in time, and hopefully come to an agreement benefitting us both. In the meantime, you are our esteemed guests here amongst Lord Caswell's castle, and as such are of course invited to the feast tonight and the melee in two days."

"Thank you, your grace. Remember, we can bring fifty thousand spears, and a lot more." Quentyn bowed his head respectfully with a sly smile, and the party left the tent under the amused eyes of the Stormlanders and the annoyed eyes of the Reachers.

The party slowly walked back to the now Martell part of the camp, with banners of the blazing sun, star and sword, vulture, green dragon and portcullis flowing gently into the wind.

Gerris entered the largest tent, following Ned, Quentyn, Gulian, Nymeria and Cletus in, with the rest quickly dispersing around camp. Hopefully none of them would try to pick a fight with the Reachers again.

"Could've gone better." Gerris quickly laughed at Quentyn, handing him back his pet who'd been relentless during the heated discussion back at the King's tent.

"I'd say it went fairly well." Quentyn chuckled, putting his pet on a large wooden table. "We are not to make friends with these people, just make sure they do not turn to enemies. The rest is out of our hands."

"I just hope we don't plan on staying here for long, I long to see Dorne again."

"I think we may be on the move sooner than you think." Quentyn mused, "But I doubt it'll be to Dorne."

Gerris did not have the time to ask what in the seven hells he was talking about, as the prince was soon approached by a Tyrell envoy.

"Prince Quentyn." The envoy approached. "Her grace wishes to see you in private when you have a moment."

"What does the king want now?" Cletus asked.

"Not the King." The Tyrell envoy corrected. "Her grace Margaery Baratheon, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

"What does the queen want?" Nymeria asked insistently.

Quentyn looked as confused as the rest of them, and eyed the Tyrell envoy with caution.

"I suppose I'll just have to find out."