A Knight Comes to Meet the Sun (Unfinished)

A knight from the Westerlands had come to request an audience with the ruling Prince of Dorne. That was a truly odd combination. While it was not out of the ordinary the other nobles might seek a meeting for this reason or that, knights typically did not. Especially not knights from the Westerlands. It was well known that those who served the Lannisters were not entirely welcome in Dorne. Still, Josmyn had been approached by his captain of the guard, Tristan, with the knight's wish. The noble rubbed his eyes, groaning at the thought of a Lannister messenger coming to call upon his spears. If that was what this was about, the messenger was going to be quartered and fileted before being sent back to Lord Tywin and his merry band of miscreants.

Before he made his way to the Seat of the Spear, the traditional throne of the Prince of Dorne, Josmyn made sure that he looked the part of a warrior as well as a prince. A knight was a man the respected strength and martial power. No doubt he would not take Josmyn as seriously as he should if he was only dressed in silks and linens. To remedy this, Josmyn donned his red enameled scale mail. While it did not confer as much protection as the plate mail most Westerosi knights wore, scale mail was better at deflecting arrows and strikes, instead of just absorbing the force. It was also much lighter, something that allowed it to be worn under the hot Dornish sun.

Over his armor, he wore the traditional sand silk surcoat emblazoned with the Martell sun and spear. In his right hand, Josmyn gripped an ancient spear that was more ceremonial than a weapon, though it could still be used in a pinch. A sword sheathed in a gold inlaid scabbard rested at his hip, this weapon a modern and fully live blade. However, as he was going to be surrounded by his guards and this knight but was one man, the prince doubted that he'd ever have cause to draw it. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry.

As he left his chambers, various guards and servants bowed to him, something that Josmyn still was coming to terms with. But a month ago, he had been a black brother and had not so much as had a servant, let alone a castle full of them. It was indeed a power rush. He grinned and made his way through the winding halls of the Tower of the Sun. The stone of the walls was a creamy tan color, a stark difference from the cold dark stone of Castle Black. When he drew near to the throne room, two guards forced open the heavy mahogany doors to reveal two thrones under a golden dome.

Sunlight forced its way through the leaded windows of the dome, bathing the round room and all of its pale marble in warm yellow sun. With slow, deliberate steps, Josmyn approached the dual thrones sitting on a dais in the middle of the room, for the Martells were the Princes of Dorne, the suns, and court life revolved around them. His eyes trailed over both of the chairs before taking his place on the Spear throne. His right hand planted the spear on the ground next to him, the spearhead pointing up towards the dome. With his left, Josmyn gave the signal for the visiting knight to be sent in. It would be interesting to hear his proposal, whatever it was.

The journey from King's Landing to Sunspear, Nash's first time on a ship, had been long and uneventful. Tholam Verosh, quite likely the most important merchant among his contacts, had jumped at the trade opportunity his 'dear, most-cherished friend' had offered him and, once the appropriate raven had been sent, the Lyseni had taken him on one of his most eye-catching cogs, the Tear of Pride, so that he might meet Prince Josmyn Martell and see that the ruling House of Dorne opened its doors to some of the more respected traders of Essos, under Verosh's watchful eye, of course. Their time together had mostly been spent playing games of chance and debating the manner in which the knight was supposed to address the most noble leader of those lands, which seemed to be a rather delicate subject, as far as he was concerned. A certain amount of groveling worked wonders for a simple trader, but he was not one of them: he was a knight of the kingdom of Westeros and the heir to one of its more notable families - it was going to be more complicated than that.

As he negotiated more things with his Lyseni partner, aside from a certain agreement that would bind him to pay a certain amount to the House of Lydden after the trade contract would be signed and, furthermore, each time his fellow traders made profit due to the discussions that were soon to take place, Nash understood that it was going to be his duty - and his alone - to show the ruling Prince that he had nothing to lose and much to gain by accepting the merchant's proposal. Now, he was not much of a diplomat and even less of a negotiator, so he had promised Tholam that he would take him out of the arms of his favourite boy if things took a turn beyond his capabilities well beforehand, but the Lyseni, a cautious man at the best of times, laughed his worries away and simply demanded for more firewine to be given to his guest. As far as he was concerned, the people of Westeros, his 'friend' among them, knew nothing of trading, but they could come to an agreement faster than they would have with a foreigner, hence the great attention the trader paid to his new-found negotiator's needs.

That aside, however, our hero had been able to do as he pleased while on the ship, so he took some time to learn the ways of brawling on a moving vessel from any sailor willing to trade blows with him and he happily lent a hand in the everyday tasks of the crew, which had earned the taciturn knight a certain amount of sympathy. As they came closer to their final destination, no sooner did Nash complain about the heat that his graceful host took him below deck, gifting him with a flowing Lyseni garment in deep green that had been carefully (and rather visibly, as the knight noticed) emblazoned with his family's coat of arms. It was so that he stood on deck with the crew of the Tear, singing a song in a language he could barely understand while garbed in a flowing garment that clearly showed the short-sleeved chainmail tunic he favoured beneath it and a pair of cloth breeches properly tucked inside his new wide-edged leather boots, his sword and dagger at the ready in their usual places, as they neared Sunspear. His clothing was not that of a knight, but it allowed him unmatched freedom of movement; that aside, if Josmyn Martell decided that he'd be put to death, there was little that even a full suit of plate could do in front of a group of well-trained Dornish spearmen.

As soon as they reached port, Nash himself leaped off the deck to properly moor the ship, leaving his merchant 'friend' with his crew and his drink; he was grateful to feel firm land beneath his feet and the sand steed he bought relaxed him further through the remainder of his journey, taking him through gate after gate and before the Old Palace, where he dismounted and ventured within with the same light, steady tread that he usually favoured; he wasn't as hot as he'd expected given the intensity of the sun's rays, but he was still grateful to go through the old edifice's halls and to wait before the throne room until its doors opened and he was sent inside.

Taking in the sights of the domed chamber with a few careful glances that also helped to reveal a number of guards and knights, the warrior-turned-trader (for that encounter, at least) stepped inside with his usual confident gait, stopping before the throne sat by his host and taking a deep, open-handed bow that let one of his knees touch the floor. "Your Grace, I am called Nash, heir to House Lydden of the Deep Den," he boomingly announced, "and I come bearing gifts from Essos and a trade proposal that I pray you find worthy of House Martell." Only then did he rise and look upon the man who held the throne and even then his solemn attitude betrayed little about the caution he showed with his glances.

Word count: 880

Clad in chainmail, the knight approached his throne, Josmyn watching his every move carefully. When he dipped into a bow, his armored knee touching the ground, Josmyn gave him a cursory nod before signalling with his left hand for the knight to rise. His dark brown eyes took in everything about the man. He was careful to follow courtly protocol. It was something he'd been educated in since he was a boy but as he was now the prince, he was still learning some of the more nuanced rules. However, a knight from minor house from another part of the Seven Kingdoms was accorded respect, though it was less of a gracious welcome than had he been a Dornishman himself.

While he was tempted to let the man's liege lord, Tywin Lannister, further color the welcome he would give to Ser Nash Lydden, Josmyn thought better of it. After all, it had not been a member of House Lydden that had been responsible for the rape and murder of his aunt and the slaughter of his baby cousins. That infamous deed had been done by a fellow bannerman, though not one that House Lydden had any sort of authority over.

As Ser Nash announced that he came bearing gifts from Essos and a trade proposal, Josmyn found himself intrigued, though highly skeptical. Why would the heir to a house in the Westerlands come to curry favor with the Prince of Dorne? He did not ask the question because he found himself unimportant. He asked the question because the man's actions before him made little sense. The Lannisters were not known for being forgiving overlords if their vassals approached other great houses. What was this knight up to?

Half of his mind screamed at Josmyn to throw the man out, to seize the ship he came on with all its accompanying wealth, and have him escorted to the Dornish border on the fastest Sand Steeds he could find. This surely was a Lannister scheme. Otherwise, it made no sense. However, it being a Lannister scheme made even less sense. Perhaps this man was simply acting outside the authority of his house? Still, that seemed highly unlikely and very uncharacteristic of what he knew about people from the Westerlands.

Nevertheless, the Martell prince steadied himself and schooled his face, ridding it of whatever minor showing of surprise might have found its way onto his features. Slowly drawing in a breath, Josmyn offered a polite smile before replying,“Welcome, Ser Nash of House Lydden. I, Prince Josmyn Nymeros Martell, bid you welcome to Dorne. I trust your journey here was a pleasant one?”

Quirking an eyebrow for emphasis as he laid his spear across both hands, the salty Dornishman spoke again, “Aye, you bring gifts to Dorne and you speak of a trade proposal? This is most unorthodox. Surely you are well aware House Martell is not enamored with your beloved liege lords, the Lannisters. For what purpose do you bring these things to us? By doing so, you slight Tywin Lannister. Why then would I enter a proposal with someone who is clearly not thinking straight. Perhaps our Dornish sun has sapped your mind.”

A few snickers rose up from those that had gathered about for courtly business that day. Martell had no intention of embarrassing the man before him but he could not take a chance that would bring Lannister attention to Dorne before they had finished their preparations. There were many machinations in the works and Josmyn would not have some knight from a den in the Westerlands mucking up carefully laid plans for the betterment of Dorne.

“After all, I am sure you know the song, the Rains of Castamere, far better than I do. Why your risk such infamy for your own house?” he asked, pausing for a moment, “I am flattered that you would approach me though your reasoning is baffling, Ser Nash. I mean these comments not as a slight to your honor, but as a way to make you see that I am doing everything I can to spare my people from the hardships of war.”

As he waited for the knight to reply, Josmyn considered signalling for his own man, the Captain of the Guard of Sunspear. It would do well to have him here, if this knight decided to do anything untoward. However, for the moment, he stayed his hand, signalling only for two glasses of fine Dornish wine to be brought for both himself and Ser Nash. The servant offered a golden goblet first to her Prince and then to the visiting knight.

“A cold glass of wine, Ser Nash, to show that while I am skeptical of your motives here, I still offer you hospitality and the guest right,” the Prince said plainly, smiling before he took a drink of his own wine as he watched for Nash to do the same. The food would come later, though by publicly announcing his intention to honor the guest right, Josmyn was all but guaranteeing that no harm would come to Ser Nash while he was in Sunspear. At least not by his hand or the hand of any of his retainers. The Prince could not and would not speak for any criminals that might prowl his lands. Perhaps this promise would make the knight more inclined to be honest about the reason he'd sought out the Martells.

"That it was, Your Grace." Satisfied with the manner in which he had chosen to address the ruling prince of Dorne, Nash maintained a stoic expression, knowing all too well that he was far from safe at that point. That was further proven by what the younger man did with his spear; his words concerning the Lannisters were merely icing on a cake that might well have proven to be poisonous for him. Those were things he had discussed with his trader friend well before embarking on the journey that had brought him there, however, so he had little concern in that regard. The chuckles of Prince Josmyn's courtiers were also expected, in all honesty - many were bound to be willing to ingratiate themselves with the leader of a house as powerful as his, after all - , but, even if they hadn't been, the Lydden heir would still have kept his demeanor just the same as it was.

Prince Josmyn Martell appeared to be a cautious man, in any case. While it may have been rather difficult to believe that he was truly concerned with the well-being of a rich, albeit minor House back in the Westerlands, he did word his concerns out quite clearly, albeit with a certain lack of finesse; a master manipulator he did not seem to be, which was good; Nash himself was quite far from that degree of expertise in the matter. He did accept the goblet of chilled wine, just wetting his lips and having a taste, so the laws of hospitality could be well satisfied; it was only then that he chose to speak again. "Your hospitality honours me deeply, Your Grace. In truth, I represent neither House Lannister of Casterly Rock nor House Lydden of the Deep Den," he began, "and I do humbly apologize in mine own name for any unpleasant thought that my presence may summon here," he added, deciding to also address the other people present in the hall. With that statement, he also planned on testing the spies House Martell may have had; surprise on behalf of his gracious host did not bode well for any of them, since there were threats that loomed on the kingdom from all sides.

"Indeed, I come on behalf of my cherished friend, Tholam Verosh of the Free City of Lys, who dared not approach you until a knight of Westeros vouched for him, in spite of his exquisite merchandise. Alas, many things about our realm still puzzle him." As much as he wanted to explain himself, Nash also felt like adding the slightest sting to his words as he spoke; after all, they were still part of the same kingdom, beyond the slights their ancestors may have felt from one another, and Nash himself was just as innocent as his family when it came to the rather nasty deeds his liege lords' bannermen had done unto some rather close relatives of the Prince's. "Even if Tholam may be a good man and one grown well beyond the need to fleece people, Your Grace, you would still be wise to mistrust me," he plainly stated, his expression just as calm and even as ever. "I may well be a spy sent on behalf of my liege lords or any other powerful man in the realm to appraise the new Dornish leader and his forces." His words had been meant as a jest, but what more could one do in Nash's position? As his father had stated many-a-time, his humour was bound to get him shorter of a head someday, but he felt that there was still time before that happened.

Only then did Nash drink deeply from the goblet that had been offered to him, the look of satisfaction he had as soon as his thirst had been quenched and the taste had enveloped his palate stating more about how he truly felt than words ever could. Beyond the sacred gesture of hospitality that he had been offered, his own reply to it was a proof of trust; the ritual itself was older than the institution of the Iron Throne itself and none dared challenge it, much less himself, but the weight of it was still felt throughout the realm, nevertheless. That aside, however, he still felt rather queer to be dressed as he was; for a moment, he even thought he'd heard one of the courtiers whispering about his foreign garb to one of his neighbours. With such thoughts in mind, his discomfort shadowed his features as he eyed the man who held his destiny in his hands at that time. There was still much to do before the owner of the Tear of Pride would be summoned to the Old Palace - if he would ever be.

Word count: 800
Total word count thus far: 1680

It was hard to tell just what this knight before him was thinking. It was clear that Josmyn reminding the Lydden heir of the crimes of his liege lord had left him, at least a bit on edge. That was precisely what the Martell Prince had been aiming for. This audience, in and of itself, was so eccentric that there was nothing the Dornishman wouldn't do to keep a strategic advantage in this discourse between the two of them. At least the fact that the noble had to address him as 'Your Grace' served to emphasize just how large the power differential was between them. After all, Ser Nash was but a knight and a Lannister bannerman. Idly, Josmyn wondered just how the man had earned his knighthood and how closely he kept to his vows. He assumed it was as closely as any Lannister man ever kept to any vows that he swore.

Curbing his more angry thoughts, at least temporarily, Martell watched as the man first wet his lips then began to answer his questions. It did not matter how much the man drank, the fact was that he did drink and that there were witnesses to this effect. What mattered was that they both behave in a civilized manner, no matter what past histories there might be. Still, it was not easy for Josmyn to stomach a sworn Lannister man in his throne room. People would learn what they were taught and they only lesson the golden lions of Lannister ever taught any of their people was treachery and deception. However, there was little Josmyn could do until the man openly showed his hand. The fact that he claimed to be representing neither his own house or the house of his liege lords almost made Josmyn laugh. Anyone from Westeros knew that no matter one's actions would always reflect back on their families, even if they claimed to be working for other interests. Even bastards that held no family name managed to represent their families, even if the families did not want them to do so. It was especially difficult to separate actions from houses when the knight was so readily trading on his name to even get the audience. It was a claim that made Josmyn even more skeptical of the man before him.

Taking a long sip from his own goblet before handing it back a servant, Josmyn kept his dark eyes locked on Nash Lydden. His comment about them being from the same realm was an interesting hint at an insult but one that made Josmyn chuckle greatly.
“My good ser knight, while we might be united under the Iron Throne, you and I are not from the same realm in the slightest. In Dorne, we are unconquered. We have truly free spirits and we treat all of our children like human beings. We do not sell off our daughters to the highest bidder nor banish our bastards for the crime of their birth. You know nothing of our realm and it will do you well to remember that,” Josmyn announced, his eyes narrowing at the slight. The Dornish were immensely proud of their heritage and as their Prince, it was Josmyn's duty to remind this Andal that they were the only member of the Seven Kingdoms that had been allowed to retain their titles and never bent the knee. They had joined of their own free will whereas his ancestors had been conquered.

As for his supposed friend from the Free Cities, it made no sense that a Lyseni man would use a Westerlands mediator when it was well known that Dorne as well as the Martell family were always welcoming to those from across the Narrow Sea, especially traders and merchants. However, Josmyn completely discarded all the words about Lydden being a possible spy for the Lannisters or his own interests. Josmyn cocked an eyebrow then waved a dismissive hand, though he was quietly plotting to have his guards frog-march this irreverent knight back to his ship. He could not injure the man without dirtying his hands and angering both the Old and New gods. However, nothing said the Prince could not end his stay much earlier than than the knight wished.
“Make no mistake, Ser Nash, I trust you as much as I would trust any man who was addle-minded enough to swear fealty to the Lannisters, which is to say, not much. As for your Lyseni friend,” Josmyn paused for a moment, “If he wishes to come before me, I will afford him the courtesy of listening to his proposal.”

Perhaps this knight had been away from court for too long or maybe he thought that he was doing Josmyn a favor. Whatever it was, he was testing the Martell's patience. If the knight had been a Dornishman or from any region than the Westerlands, the Prince of Dorne would not have been as short with him. As it was, Deep Den's heir was only getting a truly warm welcome from the rays of the Dornish sun. For the moment, though, Josmyn did not summon his guards to get rid Nash. Instead, he waited for the knight's reply, considering his various options should the hostilities further escalate.

As the Dornish prince spoke, his guest felt the air within his lungs slowly turning to a boil - and the searing sun that crept through the windows of the throne room had little to do with it. "Your Grace, I beg of you, treat not this unworthy man as you would a world who dares to look down upon truly valuable people simply because of their blood!" he beckoned, spitting the final few words, with a passion he never knew he had. While his solemn expression betrayed little of what he thought, his fiery eyes and his gestures spoke tomes. It was bad enough that his best warriors - who were among the men he trusted the most - were scorned in Westeros simply of because their past as brigands and sellswords. They had shed their blood and given their lives for him and whatever cause he deemed just, simply because he had commanded them to it, and he wasn't going to accept lip from a forsworn Black Brother only because a fortunate turn of events had brought him to become the leader of Dorne. He had as little love for the way in which Westeros - the parts of it that didn't include Dorne, at least - acted toward its useful men and women who may well have played a part in the realm's well-being as the ones deemed worthy of taking care of it.

"Indeed, I am a vassal of the Kings of the Rock," he added, " his eyes sparking malevolently, "and my family has aided and advised them long before Lann the Clever was even born." Sighing heavily, the Lydden heir prayed that the little lesson of history he was serving the latest Martell to sit the throne in Sunspear would not be in vain. "However, Your Grace, I have no love for the Lannisters - and let any of them still unaware of it hear my words. I do not treasure the King on the Iron Throne, young and foolhardy as he is, just as neither I nor any of my kin agree with the deeds our liege lord commanded unto your blood and that of the ones who were then rulers of Westeros. Nothing on this world may justify the slaughter of women and children - not even the Game of Thrones that those far more willing and able than myself play." He spoke of high treason and his words might well have gained him a slow and torturous death, but he had no interest in whichever play for power the latest Martell heir had in mind - just as he cared little for the schemes of his liege lords. "Should they be worthy, Your Grace, the West will be theirs and my kin, much as it is, will shed blood by their orders time and again. If not, pray pardon my coarseness, let the Stranger bugger them and may we have worthier men to follow after their fall." He paused, for further effect, then added one final statement to that matter: "Truly, I do not know who my liege lords had been were I born into a different family." His words hid a different meaning, one he had mentioned before - that the Prince condemned his guest much as the world had condemned him, because of his birth. Whether he would see it or not he did not know, just as he knew not what he would do next - but the younger man seemed observing and wise; he had to try.

Truth be told, Nash knew little about the unique traits of the realm he had decided to visit; that which he did know came from books and stories brought to him by the traders he did commerce with. He was aware of their history, true, but little could be spoken about how their latest leader thought and reacted. "Pray," he addressed one of the guards, "inform my squire, who's likely waiting for me outside this chamber," if he knows what's good for him, he mused, "to summon Tholam Verosh of Lys, owner of the Tear of Pride, before His Grace." The Lydden heir had nothing to hide from then on; he did regret to find one who seemed all too similar to young Joffrey leading the Dornish, but that was the way in which their world went. Were Josmyn Martell willing, he would live out his days in a cell somewhere in his realm or die just within the throne room that he had entered moments before; there was little a single man, exposed as he was, could do to prevent a fate like that. Nicophor, the man who had become his master-at-arms, had been in many such situations as a sellsword; he had survived with his brutal honesty and Nash hoped that he would be able to do the same.

"Your Grace, I come on behalf of a man who need not and will not trade with anyone, be they the Sealord of Braavos or one of the true rulers of Westeros, without the word of one of his trusted customers. He may provide Dorne with close to whichever goods you may need and his services are my gift to you." Nash had already started growing tired, as his tone of voice clearly underlined, since he was far from accustomed to speaking so much in so small a time, but he was playing his final card and there was little else, aside from his life, that he had to present to the Martell prince. "He has promised me a share of his profits, but I care little for them; what I do appreciate is being able to see your lands with mine own eyes. Do with me as you will, but I beg of you to listen to him. This civil war may come and go, but the Winter awaiting our lands - all of them - is soon to arrive; I have witnessed it first-hand at the Wall." His final card played, Nash bowed his head, awaiting the decision of the man sitting the throne before him. Aside from what he had said and done, he knew little else; it was up to the ruling Prince of Dorne to decide.

Word count: 1042
Total word count thus far: 2722

With yet another interesting turn of events, Josmyn found the man from Deep Den throwing himself on his mercy. Perhaps it was that this man was just out of practice when it came to dealing with courtiers and high lords. As it was, Josmyn was apt to believe that the man had spent most of his time around the men of the Free Cities. While he had never ventured to the continent of Essos, maybe this knight had grown used to the different cultures in that part of the world and forgotten about the delicate dance that all Westerosi. Up until this particular point in time, Lydden had said quite literally all the wrong things and left Josmyn with little choice but to appear the strong, vicious prince. Had the knight been from any other region or not made his quip about being a spy for the Lannisters, the tone of the meeting would have been drastically different. As it was, Martell had to keep up the appearance for his courtiers, lest they think him weak or bowing to the will of those that were not of Dornish blood.

The strength of Dornish identity was both a blessing and a curse, as it allowed Josmyn to easily martial his fellow nobles against outsiders but it also forced him into acting and dealing more harshly with outsiders who simply did not understand the various undercurrents of the court of Sunspear. Josmyn himself was forced to care about who someone's liege lord was, even if he did not personally have a grudge against an individual. It was even more important that Josmyn play up his rulership of House Martell and assert himself as such constantly in front of the nobles that had gathered in Sunspear. After all, he was a legitimized bastard that had assumed the throne after a terrible tragedy. It was necessary that he hold himself as a trueborn Martell would and speak as someone that had been raised to be a ruler of Dorne. That included hostility towards anyone that might even be associated with either the Baratheon or Lannister families.

Idly, he sighed as Nash Lydden began to lecture him. Judging from his body language, he was worked up, frustrated at the Prince's responses. Or perhaps he thought that Josmyn was a cruel and vicious ruler in much the same vein as the Lannister half-breed that sat on the Iron Throne. Whatever the cause was for Nash's anger and exasperation, Josmyn had to do something to diffuse the situation, both for his subjects and the man before him. He also did not wish to let the trading opportunity pass him by, both for Dorne and his own sake. With a slight twitch of his left hand, a page left the hall, going to seek out Tristan Rydralle, the captain of the guard of Sunspear and Josmyn's own sworn sword. Once Tristan had arrived, he'd have the man take Nash into a separate room where the two of them could talk more personally, without Josmyn having to keep up the appearance of the angry Prince out for revenge.

“Ser Nash, I care not that you will be receiving profits nor do I wish you any specific harm. However, you must understand that your timing as well as your impertinent tongue have, at the very least, aroused suspicion. You force my hand in this matter with your mannerisms and the fact that you have done little to allay any fears I might have regarding you and yours,” the Prince announced, awaiting for his loyal captain to arrive. Again, he shifted his hand so that the scepter like spear was again pointed up right. He drew in a deep breath and gave a slight shake of his head. Several times, he'd given outs to the knight before him but none of those outs had been taken. Would this one be? Josmyn hoped so. If not, the man would be signing his own death warrant and the Prince had no wish to bear witness to an execution. The day was far too beautiful and enjoyable to ruin it with some Lannister knight's blood.

His eyes were drawn to the doors of the throne room as they were pulled open to reveal Tristan swathed in gleaming red lacquered scale-mail and a bright orange cloak. A slight smile crossed the Prince's face as he gave a discreet nod to his guard. Rydralle would know what to do and would see that the man came to no harm. Perhaps he could even talk some sense into the man, though, at this point, Josmyn was not sure if the man even truly possessed a self-preservation instinct. It would be all Martell could do to keep his subjects from demanding the blood of the man that dared to talk down to the Prince of Dorne. However, both the guest right and Josmyn's own desire not to have an execution would keep him safe enough.
“Captain Rydralle, please escort Ser Nash Lydden to my private meeting room. I have other things I wish to discuss with him. Remain outside the door until I arrive,” he ordered, hoping that Nash would go peacefully.

Turning back to Nash, Josmyn locked his eyes on the man, trying to intimate what he was trying to do without words but doubting that he'd have any kind of success unless the knight's brain had spontaneously grown by leaps and bounds in the last five minutes. Though he was not one for prayer, Josmyn could not help but silently beseech the Seven to help him in this matter. While he was not interested in the least in perserving peace with the Lannisters or the Iron Throne, if this knight forced the matter, his imprisonment or death could potentially serve as the impetus for an invasion of Dorne. Though that would likely be a fool's adventure on the part of the invader, Josmyn did not want to tempt fate before several other key pieces fell into place. However, this outburst by Nash would have his bannermen clamoring for a war. Oh the pressures of ruling a kingdom as proud as Dorne. Still, Josmyn was happy to bear the burden and wear the mantle of House Martell about his shoulders.

“Please, Ser Nash, go with the Captain. No harm will come to you,” Josmyn assured, which caused a string of whispers to again erupt from the gallery of nobles. His head was already beginning to throb at the thought of having to placate them.

With every sentence that Nash uttered, he could feel the courtiers' aggravation engulfing the ancient chambers and, even if it was far more subtle, the Martell prince appeared to be more and more displeased with him. He had his own worries, so everything he said appeared to ring true - and a rather unpleasant sound it was - especially around a group of Dornishmen who were, doubtlessly, bred to hate and dread anyone and anything that smelled even remotely of Lannisters. Having thrown the odd ambiguous message in the mix, they who had ears for hearing were, surely, bound to hear something from him. It did help that he had become rather upset about the apparent lack of subtlety young Josmyn manifested, so his indignation had quite a bit of honesty to it, but there might have been more to his words than the blunt threats of King Joffrey. He had decided to go for the most risky route as far as negotiations were involved, but it hadn't been a conscious choice: anxiety had taken over him and he had made several errors that he told himself he might just live to regret. As the page left, no doubt to fetch the Dornish leader someone or something that could take care of the unpleasant guest without there being any need for the man of Martell blood to sully his own hands, Nash felt his heart pounding all the way to his throat.

Indeed, he had dug his own grave, if that was what to happen to him - and odds were that somewhere in the seven hells, at some point, he would meet with Verosh and he would torment him over ruining his potentially-lucrative deals. As he pondered over thoughts like those, his entire body felt as if it had been thrown into a tub of ice-cold water. Listening to Prince Josmyn's diplomatic chastisement with his head bowed, his gaze became clear and his breathing grew calmer and calmer, although he started to understand that there were very few things protecting him from a rather nasty fate at that point - and it wasn't due to the legendary Martell cruelty that things stood as they did, but rather to some rather blundersome manoeuvres on his part. Looking back to what had been said between them, it took quite a fair bit of willpower for Nash not to wince, as it had, probably, been a rather sorry display, but the courtiers and guards present at his audience appeared to be at least as confused as they might have been riled up - which wasn't the case for the ruler of Dorne, just as it seemed not to be for Captain Rydralle, the latest arrival, who might not have been entirely aware of what had happened between his master and their guest, but, even so, the knight noticed no malevolent intent on his face and in his posture.

Upon hearing the command Josmyn Martell gave the leader of his personal guard, it sounded to Nash as if he was, actually, going to get himself a private audience, which was one of the more ambitious things he had hoped, believe it or not, dear readers. There was always the possibility that his time with his gracious host be cut short - or pierced short, if one chanced to look upon the wicked points of the spears the Dornishmen appeared to be so fond of - , but it seemed that the Prince had more wits about him than our hero appeared to... and that thought sparked an idea into his mind. After receiving a rather warm invitation, given what had taken place between the two of them mere heartbeats before, to accompany the Captain, the Lydden heir rose his head to meet the former Black Brother's look; surprised, as he could have sworn that the younger man wanted to tell him something which seemed of no little importance, he then swept through the ancient hall with a wide-eyed gaze and a half-open mouth. "So much beauty..." he began, taking a deep breath and letting it out with a sigh. "Come what may, today I have seen the Sun," he added, with a gentle sort of satisfaction in his tone. With that and yet another deep bow, the knight followed Captain Rydralle to the destination Josmyn Martell gave him, his face betraying almost nought about the satisfaction he felt about having, quite likely, made most of them believe that he was irredeemably addled.

"Your Grace, my deepest apologies if I have taken my stratagem too far," or so he calmly greeted his host when he entered his private chambers as well, "but, alas, I could see no other way of making myself seem harmless in the eyes of your court," he began. "Indeed, there is more than trade at play here - if it please Your Grace, I may speak of it freely now that we are alone."

Word count: 824
Total word count thus far: 3546

Upon hearing that he would be escorting a member of House Lydden, Tristan had decided he needed to know more about the man he was escorting and so he asked about around for information. It was only a matter of time before he discovered that House Lydden were a House from the Westerlands, a supporter of House Lannister. The Northerner wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that. All of his life he had grown up loyal to the North and as far as most were concerned, House Stark were the North, and the Lannisters had murdered Ned Stark, the Warden of the North. He couldn’t help but feel the old ties to his previous home tugging on him, but he had a new home now, with new loyalties; he had to remember that, above all else.

As requested of him in times of such meetings, Tristan had remained outside of the Great Hall since he and a small group of his men had escorted Ser Nash Lydden within. He could hear nothing of what went on inside, not through the thick and heavy wooden doors that he now stood guarding. He knew that if there was trouble that Prince Josmyn would no doubt be able to hold his own against the Lydden man, at least long enough for someone to alert Tristan and his guards. That said, he would have felt easier being within the room, so he could better protect the man he swore his sword to, though supposedly it lacked diplomatic tact to have a guard of such prestige present, and who was Tristan to understand the finer details of such things?

However, such thoughts were lost to him when he heard the huge doors creek open behind him. As he turned he was met with a servant, who signalled that he had been requested within by Prince Josmyn. Without hesitation Tristan gathered himself together and entered the Great Hall. Entering the Great Hall when it was full, as it was right now, always made the Northerner nervous, especially since being appointed as Captain of the Sunspear Guards. He had never had such a high stature, such an important role. It was beyond his knowledge and experience, despite his training over the last month or so. However, if he had learned anything it was that the appearance of confidence was oft as valuable as actually being confident.

So with his head held high, and his chest somewhat puffed out, Tristan entered the Great Hall. His proudly polished red scale-mail shone brightly as he moved into the hall, the bright orange cloak of the Sunspear Guards flapping behind him as he moved. His sword was sheathed at his hip, though he carried his spear in his right hand. He’d quickly learned that everything Prince Josmyn had said about spears in Dorne had been true, and by carrying his spear with him it showed that he was ready to do his job at a moments notice, not to mention he was expected to carry it with him.

Tristan continued to move forward until he was positioned just behind Nash Lydden, slightly to his left. He looked to his prince, who he noticed gave him a discreet nod of the head; Tristan responded in kind by lowering his head and bowing in respect to his prince. “Captain Rydralle, please escort Ser Nash Lydden to my private meeting room. I have other things I wish to discuss with him. Remain outside the door until I arrive.” Prince Josmyn ordered. Tristan didn’t respond verbally, instead he simply bowed his head again, turning his body to the side to allow Ser Nash Lydden to lead the way. “Please, Ser Nash, go with the Captain. No harm will come to you.”

Tristan had almost expected Nash to cause trouble, though perhaps that was nothing more than him simply worrying too much, but Ser Nash did nothing of the sort, instead listening and obeying without objection or issue. Tristan was thankful for that, as despite being the Captain of the Sunspear Guard, the young Northerner held no delusions about his current general skill with a sword and spear. But nevertheless, Nash began to move out of the Great Hall, while Tristan followed closely behind, directing him to the princes private meeting chamber and making sure that the Lannister supporter did not attempt anything foolish.

Tristan heard Nash mumble some words, though he did not heard precisely what was said, neither did he care. Soon enough they had reached the private meeting chamber of the prince and Nash moved within, Tristan remaining outside to guard the door, as he had been ordered to. It didn’t take long for Prince Josmyn to arrive, for whom Tristan opened the door to the chamber and allowed him to enter first, following in behind him and closing the door for added privacy. However, almost as soon as they entered Nash began to speak.

"Your Grace, my deepest apologies if I have taken my stratagem too far but, alas, I could see no other way of making myself seem harmless in the eyes of your court," Tristan wasn’t too sure what he thought about what Nash was now saying. He had not been within the Great Hall to hear the entire conversation, but from what he was picking up now it seemed unrealistic that someone would go to such extreme lengths just to gain a private audience with Prince Josmyn, especially when it could have potentially ended up in an execution. "Indeed, there is more than trade at play here - if it please Your Grace, I may speak of it freely now that we are alone." Tristan knew his place, it was to guard the room from intruders and protect the man he had sworn to protect with his life, his prince, and as such remained in silence by the door.

Word Count: 981.

It had taken Josmyn far longer to pacify his nobility than he had expected. Indeed, it had taken many reassurances about this and that to ensure that his slew of courtiers did not take it upon themselves to see that justice was done to the Lydden heir. It frustrated him incredibly, having to stress the importance of not violating the guest right, even if it was a Lannister bannerman that the tradition had been extended to. Aye, he had been forced to summon the Septon in residence at Sunspear to help him placate those gathered, explaining that guest right was more about the honor and integrity of the host than who the guest was. It had taken this divine chastisement for the lords and ladies to admit it that executing Ser Nash after the guest right had been offered would assure they would have war from the Lannisters sooner, rather than later. Josmyn had further impressed upon them that if war came later, it would be easier for the Dornish to win a decisive victory and to assert their independence. This, more than anything, seemed to soothe their ire, at least enough for Josmyn to excuse himself to go see to the man that had caused him all this trouble.

Spear in hand as he rose from his throne, Josmyn fixed a grim look on his face to deter anyone from pressing the issue as he walked out of the hall, his enameled and filigree armor jingling slightly under his silk surcoat as he walked. As he made his way through the winding halls of the Tower of the Sun, thoughts flew through Josmyn's mind. Just what had brought on this interruption of court business? Whatever it was, it irritated the Prince greatly as well as threatening to upset some of the most carefully laid plans that he and even his uncle Doran had set into motion.

At least he could rest assured that Tristan would have the man well in hand and keep him from causing any more damage. Indeed, though Tristan had only arrived in Dorne a month and a half or so ago, the northerner had made great strides in adapting to Dorne. He carried a spear with ease though he might not be as practiced as Josmyn but that mattered little. The man had proven himself a man of honor and capable, though he'd only been at his current post for a few weeks. Aye, Tristan had even managed to stop complaining about the Dornish heat, or at least, he did so when he was not within earshot of Josmyn.

As he approached the door, Rydralle opened the door and followed him into the private meeting room, Josmyn instantly locking his eyes on the man that had caused him so much trouble. While it was true that Josmyn was interested in the trade connections that Tholam Verosh could offer, if Nash was going to be the intermediary, the Martell prince was all together willing to forgo them simply to spare himself anymore trouble.

As soon as he walked in, the knight began to rant about how this had all been an elaborate plan to make the knight appear harmless before the Dornish court. Truly, the man was addled minded. Not only did he not appear harmless in the slightest, all of the Dornish court was out for his blood. Only a fool would make those kind of enemies. Indeed, Josmyn could barely believe what he was hearing. This knight was utterly incompetent in dealing with those of higher rank than he. Even the guests he'd entertained from Essos himself were more well mannered before the Dornish prince and better-versed in ways to put the nobility at ease. Indeed, Josmyn had expected better from someone from Westeros that rubbed elbows with nobles of Essos as well. Instead, he'd gotten Nash Lydden and a grumbling crowd of nobles eager for blood. Well, no one had ever said that ruling Dorne would be easy.

“Harmless? You think that my courtiers think you harmless? How addle-brained are you? They are convinced you are part of some Lannister scheme, either to spy on Dorne or to taunt us into inviting the Lannisters to attack after we've harmed you. Harmless is the farthest thing from their minds and mine as well,” Josmyn reprimanded him, glaring harshly at the older man. This knight did not know just how close he had come to death. He shook his head before continuing.

“Indeed, it took both myself and the Septon of Sunspear to convince the nobles that killing you would anger the gods and set an ill-tide against Dorne. That is the only reason you are safe here and not being drug out by a mob of angry lords and ladies. You have vexed me terribly, Ser Nash and I am not sure if I want to hear the rest of your business,” the prince paused and sighed, “Though now that I have worked so hard to spare your life, I might as well hear what it is you have to say. Be warned, however, that if you attempt anything else like your little stunt in my throne room, Captain Rydralle will escort you and all with you to your ship in the most unpleasant, but non-lethal way possible.”

While the journey made in the company of Captain Rydralle, who looked quite imposing with his shiny suit of scale and quality equipment, had been rather uneventful, much to Nash's satisfaction, who often found that warriors tasked with responsibilities like the one he had tended to be rather... enthusiastic about satisfying them, even he had to know that both his arrival and his words must have caused quite a stir. He just acknowledged the younger man's guiding and went on his merry way to a place that he trusted was not seen by too many, finding himself rather grateful that the leader of the Prince's guards had remained outside the door. He didn't seem to come from Dornish stock, which might well have been useful if he planned to draw steel and nullify the distance advantage the aforementioned had with those spears of theirs... but no, that was folly, as he quickly reminded himself, removing that train of thought from his mind entirely. Instead, as he tried to listen in on the commotion he had unwillingly caused, he began wondering exactly where the fellow came from and how his sort had come to earn the trust of the rather insular Southerners, but that was also a topic for another time.

He could hear little about what went on in the throne room, but another voice appeared to have taken his side - and there had been some talk of gods and their ire, so he had to presume that even a bloody septon - or the bloody Septon the city had - needed to step in to prevent a rather nasty situation from escalating much further. That still didn't stop him from being quite smug about his business and the manner in which he handled it, even thought it was the riskiest idea he'd managed to cook up during his journey, but, when the young Martell explained to him exactly how much of a hare-brained prickmuncher he had been - well, not in those words, mind you, dear readers, but he might as well have used them, as far as the knight was involved - well, that was more than a bucket of cold water; it chilled him to the bone. He frowned, sighed and bowed his head, his entire face a mask of contrition and regret; things had definitely taken a very wrong turn and he only had himself to blame for it.

"I may as well shove a large weirwood up my... ahem. Begging Your Grace's pardon." To dig himself an even deeper grave, his rather obscene way of speaking also had to make an appearance. His tone was upset, but it was not the one he had while rather passionately disproving the fact that he had any way of speaking to those who could easily have him killed, tortured or both, possibly at the same time; his anger was directed toward himself. "Believe me, I shan't object if you do decide to take action against me, but I fear I am the only man involved in this endeavour who's not a maester, which makes me the only one likely to travel." He had even started rambling; the perfect introduction. For a few moments, Nash found his tongue tied and he appeared rather lost, truth be told, which was something that had rarely happened to him up to that point. How to explain their little quest without appearing more addled than he already had? Try as he might, he didn't manage to find anything worthy of such high hopes, so he decided to state it as plainly as could be.

"We - that is to say these maesters and myself, if it please Your Grace - have been trying to understand the Doom of Valyria and see whether one could visit what's left of the accursed place. Now, while we cannot yet be certain, we do have grounds to believe that it can be done." He paused, telling himself that it was hard to appear even more addled than he already had, so, with a deep sigh, he went on. "Your Grace can see my conundrum. Usually, in Westeros, Valyria is either steel or Targaryens - to seek the former is to anger some powerful people, to ask about the latter might very well be high treason, especially to those with my liege lords' blood." Thus, the proverbial cat was completely out of the bag - aside from the details concerning how such a daring conclusion had been reached, of course - but he was rather sceptical about the chances of being asked about them.

Word count: 767
Total word count thus far: 4313

With Prince Josmyn now in the room as well Tristans job had changed. He no longer had to simply contain Ser Nash Lydden within the room, he also had to protect his Princes life at all costs. Thankfully it didn’t appear as if Nash didn’t mean any harm, though Tristan wasn’t about to let his guard down and potentially make a fatal mistake. Despite his thoughts and concerns, Tristans attention quickly moved to the words being exchanged between Ser Nash and Prince Josmyn; in truth it was impossible to ignore them!

“Harmless? You think that my courtiers think you harmless? How addle-brained are you?” Tristan could instantly tell that Prince Josmyn was more than a little annoyed. This was unlikely to bode well for Ser Nash. “They are convinced you are part of some Lannister scheme, either to spy on Dorne or to taunt us into inviting the Lannisters to attack after we've harmed you. Harmless is the farthest thing from their minds and mine as well.” Ser Nash was being chastised like a child after having been naughty, though Tristan could not help but see the logic in Prince Josmyns reasoning; he had no idea what Ser Nash had been thinking, though in truth he had been absence and never heard any of the earlier conversation firsthand.

“Indeed, it took both myself and the Septon of Sunspear to convince the nobles that killing you would anger the gods and set an ill-tide against Dorne. That is the only reason you are safe here and not being drug out by a mob of angry lords and ladies. You have vexed me terribly, Ser Nash and I am not sure if I want to hear the rest of your business.” at this Tristan thought about interjecting, to ask if he could send a message to his guardsmen in the Great Hall to make sure nothing got out of hand with the remaining nobles. However, he decided against it; he had to place trust in his Dornish guards, if he was ever to earn theirs in return. “Though now that I have worked so hard to spare your life, I might as well hear what it is you have to say. Be warned, however, that if you attempt anything else like your little stunt in my throne room, Captain Rydralle will escort you and all with you to your ship in the most unpleasant, but non-lethal way possible.”

Tristan stood straight at that point, his armour making a noticeable noise as he moved; this had been done on purpose, to further emphasise Prince Josmyns point, though Ser Nash hardly seemed concerned with this fact as he spoke. "I may as well shove a large weirwood up my... ahem. Begging Your Grace's pardon." Tristan was surprised to notice that Ser Nash spoke in a tongue almost as common as he did, though the Knight certainly used more profanities that the newly appointed Captain of the Guard. "Believe me, I shan't object if you do decide to take action against me, but I fear I am the only man involved in this endeavour who's not a Maester, which makes me the only one likely to travel." even Tristan knew Maesters to be educated men who dedicated their lives to service and the pursuit of knowledge; in his eyes, Ser Nash had just taken the first step to redeeming himself.

“We - that is to say these Maesters and myself, if it please Your Grace - have been trying to understand the Doom of Valyria and see whether one could visit what's left of the accursed place. Now, while we cannot yet be certain, we do have grounds to believe that it can be done. Your Grace can see my conundrum. Usually, in Westeros, Valyria is either steel or Targaryens - to seek the former is to anger some powerful people, to ask about the latter might very well be high treason, especially to those with my liege lords' blood."

And thus light was shone on the truth of the situation. Tristan knew little of Valyria, outside what he had heard in stories or songs, but he knew enough to know that all who ventured there never seemed to return. What exactly did Ser Nash want from Ser Josmyn? Funding for the expedition, men, supplies? It wasn’t exactly clear, not to Tristan at least. He was unwilling to let any of his men go on such a dangerous expedition, they were needed to protect the capital and the Royal family within, though Tristan could most certainly see the advantages to such a journey, especially if it was successful; the lost secrets alone could potentially better Dornes situation.

“What is it that you’re asking my Prince?” Tristan asked, breaking the silence and speaking up for the first time. He was a man of few words, especially when on duty, but Josmyn had always asked him to speak his mind when he felt he should, and this was Tristan’s attempt to begin doing so.

Word Count: 837.
Total Word Count thus far: 1,818.

When the name Valyria was brought up, Josmyn did not know whether to laugh or cry, though he was certainly leaning towards the former. All of this had happened in his throne room because some Maesters and this daft knight wanted to go on an expedition to the lost city-state of Valyria. If Ser Nash's face was not so utterly serious Josmyn would have assumed he was being made part of a mummer's farce and indeed, Lydden's own behavior and language had Josmyn not quite ruling out that possibility. Truly, this day could not get more surreal.

As he studied the knight before him, trying to read his body language to he spoke of Targaryens and Valyrian steel weaponry. He was certainly a brave one, or perhaps someone who did not value his life. However, Josmyn ignored both of those as he considered the man's case. No doubt,the maesters would love to discover what it was that happened to Old Valyria all those years ago. Josmyn, himself though, while mildly interested in the subject of history, had far more practical concerns that graced his plate. His rule was young and war was imminent, no matter how much he and his did not want it. Indeed, it seemed that battle would soon be foisted upon them, either as they tried to assert their independence or as they declared for someone other than the Lannister half-breed that sat on the Iron Throne. That was going to be what consumed most of the finances of Dorne for the next year or so. And yet, the promise of the various treasures that could potentially be found in Valyria intrigued him. It would be quite the boon if a cache of forged Valyrian steel weapons could be found and distributed amongst the Dornish forces.

When Tristan spoke up, Josmyn looked back and nodded to his Captain, proud that the younger man was finding his feet when it came to dealing with nobles and knights. After all, he was going to have to deal with them on his own from time to time, without Josmyn there to lend credence or authority. This meant that Rydralle had to gain confidence in himself, rather than just relying on Josmyn's name and stature to enforce his rulings. Still, it had barely been over a month since he had received his new post and the Martell prince felt that the northerner was doing fairly well for himself.

Speaking up right after Tristan had, Josmyn kept his tone level, “While what you are proposing is certainly interesting, Ser Nash, I must ask as well, what is it that you wish of me?” He paused for a moment collecting his thoughts.
“Soon, whether I like it or not, Dorne is going to be brought into the War of the.. Five Kings, is it? I can scarcely keep count, what with everyone crowning themselves these days. While I might dearly love to sit, protected in Dorne while the rest of Westeros destroys itself, I will not be able to because whoever wins the war, will come for Dorne next. To this end, I must make preparations to protect my commonfolk as well as my nobles and soldiers as much as possible,” he explained, careful not to talk down to the knight for fear of making the situation flare up again.

Josmyn moved to lean against a nearby table, considering Nash still, as he moved.
“It is not that I am not interested in your expedition. To the contrary, I am indeed very curious about it. The fact remains that I must put the welfare of my people before my own curiosities. Perhaps I can spare some gold and equipment and perhaps even a small ship, but it will not be much and it will not likely be men, either. I am sorry if this was not what you wished to hear,” he apologized, more to be polite than because he was sorry. He still had not forgiven the knight for making such a scene in his throne room. Nevertheless, Josmyn Martell was always courteous, even to people he'd had to keep from getting skinned alive. It was something his mother had taught him as a boy. Granted, at times, he forgot his manners, though now that he was a prince, he could not afford to do so. Especially not if he wanted to avoid comparisons with the cruel bastard that sat on the Iron Throne.

The Valyrian Freehold. It was not a name many were willing to jest about; truth be told, the merchants from the East still spoke with great deference of their former masters, even if there were those who resented them and their ways far beyond the times when they lead the destinies of peoples beyond measure. The atmosphere in the smaller chamber appeared to change when Nash mentioned their name, in any case, and he was quite satisfied with that; if he could keep himself from pulling off any more blunders, the knight told himself, perhaps there would be aid for him to find in Dorne after all.

Of course, until one could think about such lofty goals, there would be questions that needed swift and clear answers; Captain Rydralle had demonstrated no less and the young man who ruled the beautiful lands where they were seemed to be of kindred mind. He opened his mouth to say something, but quickly stopped when noticing that his host had more on his mind. Indeed, while certain people went gallivanting about with their dreams of journeying and exploring the most forbidden of lands, others had kingdoms to defend, foes to put down, citadels to siege - Nash wasn't one for war, having had quite enough of it after having gone against the ironmen, thank you very much, but he could still understand those who were not of the same mind, especially when they had the weight of leadership on their shoulders.

"Your Grace. Captain." The knight decided that it would be wise to acknowledge both of them from then on when speaking his mind, just in case. "Pray, believe me that I want this war just as much as I want that weirwood. After having been at the Wall, this matter of succession seems to be... a waste of men and resources, if you would pardon my foolish tongue." He paused, just enough to breathe out a tremendous sigh. "The Targaryens shattered their teeth against Dorne, but some lessons are never learned," he commented, with a frown that made his opinion about anyone who would try to take Dorne by force all too clear.

"The gold and equipment are... always welcome, Your Grace, but a ship, that is more than even I might ask for." Nash couldn't make his surprise more obvious, even if his features still remained calm; his eyes and tone betrayed his thoughts all too plainly. "There are shipwrights from Braavos and Lys working upon a new manner of vessel, I am told, with a narrow, reinforced keel and quite interesting sails. Your gold would go toward commissioning one or finding a captain and a crew to man it, if it please you." Still unable to believe his luck, he peered at the Dornish ruler leaning against a nearby table, deciding that he had judged him all too harshly. "To answer your question," he went on, also acknowledging the Captain, "it is knowledge that I seek. The ways of the Smoking Sea, the present appearance of the peninsula, lore on the Doom and the ways of the Freehold... any such thing would aid my cause tremendously, Your Grace." Hope sweetened Nash's tone as he spoke; perhaps there were still things to be found in a library, or someone from the Free Cities who could shed some light or join his addled quest.

Word count: 562
Total word count thus far: 4875

“While what you are proposing is certainly interesting, Ser Nash, I must ask as well, what is it that you wish of me?” hearing as much put Tristans worries to rest, knowing that Prince Josmyn was of like mind with him only helped to further strength his confidence on speaking out over such matters. “Soon, whether I like it or not, Dorne is going to be brought into the War of the…Five Kings, is it? I can scarcely keep count, what with everyone crowning themselves these days. While I might dearly love to sit, protected in Dorne while the rest of Westeros destroys itself, I will not be able to because whoever wins the war, will come for Dorne next. To this end, I must make preparations to protect my common-folk as well as my nobles and soldiers as much as possible.” Prince Josmyn added.

Tristan couldn’t say that the very same worries hadn’t already crossed his mind. If Dorne was dragged into the war for the Iron Throne, or if it entered it willingly, Tristan had no delusions surrounding what would be his part in it. Even though he was the Captain of the Sunspear Guard, that did not mean he would be safe, far away from the war - it was quite the opposite in fact. Wherever Prince Josmyn and his kin went, Tristan was honour-bound to follow, and that meant even into the front lines of any war. The young Northerner was not Dornish by blood and he had not been there for very long, but that did not mean he was ok with the concept of Dornish men and women dying or suffering because of war.

“It is not that I am not interested in your expedition. To the contrary, I am indeed very curious about it. The fact remains that I must put the welfare of my people before my own curiosities. Perhaps I can spare some gold and equipment and perhaps even a small ship, but it will not be much and it will not likely be men, either.” Tristan was thankful for this. “I am sorry if this was not what you wished to hear.” the young Northerner was a little surprised by Prince Josmyns apology, even if it was to be no more than courteous. In his opinion the Prince had already been far more than generous.

"Your Grace. Captain." Ser Nash had decided it was time to speak up, and Tristan was waiting to hear what else he had to say. "Pray, believe me that I want this war just as much as I want that weirwood. After having been at the Wall, this matter of succession seems to be... a waste of men and resources, if you would pardon my foolish tongue." So Ser Nash had visited the Wall, and recently as well? This link to Tristans homeland peaked his interest, though he would not step out and change the topic so. "The Targaryens shattered their teeth against Dorne, but some lessons are never learned." both the young Captain were in agreement on that subject, at least, and he couldn’t help but say as much.

“And the bite of a Lion or the antler of a Stag is nothing compared to that of a Dragons.” he stated boldly, before returning to his earlier silence; for now he had nothing else to add, and was content to continue listening. Ser Nash continued onwards.

"The gold and equipment are... always welcome, Your Grace, but a ship, that is more than even I might ask for. There are shipwrights from Braavos and Lys working upon a new manner of vessel, I am told, with a narrow, reinforced keel and quite interesting sails. Your gold would go toward commissioning one or finding a captain and a crew to man it, if it please you." Ser Nash seemed surprised, though the older man did a good job of hiding it, though at that point Ser Nash turned his attention to Tristan. "To answer your question, it is knowledge that I seek. The ways of the Smoking Sea, the present appearance of the peninsula, lore on the Doom and the ways of the Freehold... any such thing would aid my cause tremendously, Your Grace."

While Tristan could respect that, his new position didn’t always allow him to do so, other more pressing priorities having since been pressed into focus for him. Turning his view towards Prince Josmyn, Tristan spoke up once more. “Perhaps a…small group of trusted Dornish men could join Ser Nash?” he began. If Dorne was going to put a stake in this venture, it made sense that they should protect it in return; as much as Tristan was starting to respect Ser Nash’s apparent intentions, the man was still a Lannister supporter and he was still a Northerner. “Some Valyrian steel could be very useful for my men, and it would only be fitting that the new ruler of Dorne had a fitting Valyrian steel spear to match his position.” Tristan had not even considered a weapon for himself, he had only recently been given his new sword and spear, and they were already far superior to anything else he had ever owned or wielded.

Word Count: 872.
Total Word Count thus far: 2,690.