Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki and Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

25th Day of the 8th Moon

The Lord of Storm's End

"This is an outrage!" For the first time Renly had seen, Pycelle was mad. The old, thoughtful man who looked ready to sleep at any moment was replaced with an energetic, frothing councillor so furious that spit flew with his every word. "Millennia of steadfast tradition will go down the drain if this is done!"

"Let us not forget the cost, my lords," Bealish added, always the copper counter. "Training, recruitment, and transportation are not free; the royal treasure cannot pay for any of this. All this coin must come from the Watch itself. Not to mention - the proposed changes might simply not work out anyway."

The Lord of Winterfell had his usual grim, icy mask in place, which made him look like a foreboding statue and the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch looked no less flinty. Both were hard to get a read on and extremely thrifty even with their words; speaking seemed a rare thing for the Northmen, but when they did, it was measured.

The Bold and the Kingslayer stood in silent support of the Grandmaester while his royal brother seemed… bored as usual. It was a miracle the northern lord had convinced Robert to attend this small council meeting so soon after the last one and sober at that. Well, not for long since his brother signalled to Tommen to refill his cup. Renly's golden nephew served as Lord Stark's page and cupbearer, and the northerner seemed to guide the youngest prince with a firm hand.

He could grudgingly admit that Tommen seemed far less skittish now.

"Yet you have not raised any ideas of your own, Grandmaester, Lord Baelish?" Eddard Stark asked, gaze slowly wandering around the table. Renly couldn't help but admit that the man knew how to look good - his garments were spotless black, and silver silk that complemented each other very well while accenting his robust figure, and the shortly-trimmed beard gave the man a dapper look.

Without the northern brogue, Stark could have easily been mistaken for a southern noble with a flair for lavishness.

"This break of tradition and removal of vows is dangerous," the Grandmaester retorted, hackles still raised, like an old mangy cat whose tail had been stepped on. "And so is this standing army by the way of old Ghis you're trying to cook up, my Lord Lannister!"

The malformed lion had been invited to these council meetings by Eddard Stark, of all people, for his love of knowledge and sharp wit. Renly had expected some friction between the direwolves and the lions, but so far, they got on well enough, albeit in a distant manner.

"One must draw inspiration from what works, Grandmaester," the Imp tutted and nodded gratefully to Tommen, who refilled his goblet with wine. "Because the current arrangement doesn't! The Night's Watch was already considered a standing army in all but name."

Tyrion Lannister's ideas were so daring they bordered on outrage, but, to Renly's chagrin, they were all well thought over. Beneath the veneer of a drunken, whoring dwarf hid a mind as sharp as Valyrian Steel.

"Such moves would make the Night's Watch a formidable force," Varys noted, face serious. "It could prove dangerous to the stability of the realm."

The Spider raised an important issue - Winterfell had its grasp on the Watch for millennia - and their influence there was unmatched. And strengthening the old order would undoubtedly strengthen the North a great deal. And the snow-bound kingdom was a hardy land producing dangerous men - their mettle tried and tested on the battlefield many times. With the current Lord of Winterfell, the North had never been as well-connected, and it was understandable that people were wary of him garnering even more power.

"The Night's Watch takes no part!" the old Mormont retorted vehemently. "And we cannot defend the Wall with a handful of farmboys, pickpockets, and poachers!"

"Selmy," Robert's voice rumbled, silencing the rest of them. "What say you about this?"

"It's a daring change, Your Grace," the old white cloak spoke after a few heartbeats of hesitation. "Perhaps too daring."

The words made the argument erupt again, making Renly's head pulse at the incessant noise-

"Enough," his brother slammed his fist on the table, silencing the full council room. "I've had enough of this childish bickering!" Renly almost choked at the irony - there was nothing childish here, and the situation at the Wall was indeed dire even without the grumkins and snarks, but the Watch being weak was fine by him - Winterfell would be spending men, time, and coin to pick up the slack anyway. "Ned, this whole thing was your idea, yet you've remained mostly silent."

"Many valid points are being raised," Stark said diplomatically - Renly still wasn't sure what the northern highlord thought on the question. "Mayhaps some time to consider things thoroughly would be in order?"

"Fine," Robert huffed, drained his wineskin, and waved to Tommen to bring him another. "Anything else of import?"

"Lord Commander Slynt has requested aid from the council," Baelish coughed, glancing at the guests who were not part of the small council.

"Mormont, Imp, join the next meeting. Selmy, invite our butcher's son in," his brother barked orders angrily. "Faster, before I piss myself!"

Unrepentantly crass as always - the black brother and the dwarf left quickly, and a sweaty Janos Slynt walked in. An unpleasant, frog-faced man who belonged in the black cells instead of offices of importance…

"There's too much trouble in the city, Your Grace, my lords," the portly man bowed deeply. His ornate gold-and-black plate glinted beneath the gilded silken cloak. It was an elaborate piece of work from Master Salloreon that cost a small fortune - not something that the Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks could afford with his salary. Renly had done his best to compare the work of every master smith in the city before choosing Mott. "The coming tourney has emptied all the realm's hedges and holdfasts into King's Landing."

"Surely it can't be that bad?" Eddard Stark asked. "This is hardly the first time a tourney has been hosted in the capital."

"Lords have been arriving from every corner of the realm, my Lord Hand," Slynt bowed, his voice oily like that of a well-practised sycophant. "Every lord brought a handful of knights, for every knight, we get a squire and two freeriders, three craftsmen, six men-at-arms, a dozen merchants, twice as many whores, and more thieves than I dare to guess. In a few days, all the inns and taverns will be full, and unrest has increased tenfold with these visitors. Last night, we had two drownings, half a dozen knife fights, two tavern riots, two rapes, three fires, robberies beyond count, and a drunken race down the Street of the Sisters. The night before, a woman's head was found in the Great Sept, floating in the rainbow pool. No one seems to know how it got there or who it belongs to."

"How dreadful," Varys shuddered. The Spider's skills in mummery were unmatched, and Renly would think him genuine if he didn't know better.

Lord Stark looked alarmed, but he was the only one - the others looked… uncaring. This was Renly's chance!

"If you can't keep the peace in the city, Janos, perhaps the gold cloaks need a commander who can." It would be the perfect moment to get Loras in a position of importance and power close to him.

Slynt puffed like an angry frog, bald head reddening, "Even Aegon the Dragon could not keep the peace here. I need more men!"

Yet his outburst did not seem to move anyone.

"And how many gold cloaks are in the City Watch right now?" Slynt sputtered and squirmed under Eddard Stark's stern gaze, much to Renly's chagrin. "So… you do not even know the number of men under your command, yet you demand more swords?"

The questions had all the councillors, even the king, looking at Janos Slynt, who was now beginning to sweat like a pig. Renly wasn't even sure the man could read or count beyond a dozen.

"Judging by the coin that goes in the City Watch, there should be about twenty-six hundred men there," Baelish helpfully broke the silence.

"That's more than enough to keep the city peaceful," Robert snarled, irritated by the length of the meeting. "Do your job, Slynt, or I ought to find someone who will!" His brother abruptly stood up, chair scraping sharply on the polished flood. "Enough of this charade, council's over!"

And just like that, the king all but dashed out of the chambers, followed by his white shadows, Selmy and the Kingslayer. It seemed that even Robert's generosity and patience were not endless - he could tolerate corruption well enough, but not incompetence.

Eddard Stark shouldn't have bothered dragging his royal brother here if he wanted a long and fruitful meeting…

As the councillors streamed out the chambers, Renly remained on his seat, thoughtful. Varys even nudged him carefully on his way out, but not before sending a meaningful glance at Tommen, who was following Lord Stark like a duckling. Truth be told, his nephew had no longer been acting like a scared cat since his return from the North, and there seemed to be some confidence in his gait now. This development took Renly completely aback because the new Hand seemed very intent on dragging Robert's youngest out of mediocrity.

The Spider's hints about Tommen were unnerving, to say the least - Renly wasn't sure what he was implying, but the eunuch loved his insidious riddles and games. Worse, he could not afford to ignore them as Varys only spoke with certainty, even in his implications. Yet the thrice-cursed Spider could not speak directly for once…

In a few years, Prince Tommen would be well-prepared for the many difficulties of governance.

Even ten days later, Renly still couldn't get the words out of his mind-

"My lord," he looked up, only to see the room had emptied aside from Eddard Stark, who was gazing at him with concern, the youngest prince by his side. "May I request a moment of your time?"

Renly sighed inwardly. "How may I help you, Lord Stark?"

"As you know, I've reluctantly agreed to keep Tommen as my page," the Hand said. "By twelve, he's to foster at Runestone with my Rickon for a handful of years. I've been wondering if you could recommend me some noble sons from the Stromlands to join them?"

"I'll think on it," Renly said, dazed. Thankfully, that seemed to satisfy the northern lord, who immediately left.

What had just happened? His ears heard the words well enough, but his mind was muddled, unwilling to let them sink in.

Head still spinning, the Master of Laws made his way out, headed towards his manse on the slope of Aegon's hill.

It was in the more reputable part of the city, halfway between the Iron Gate and the Red Keep. The manse, made of sculpted stone and pink brick the same hue as the Red Keep was crowning an extensive yard half-converted into an orchid, both walled by a thick brick masonry nearly ten feet high. The sprawling estate did not lack for anything - there was a deep well of clear water, along with a stable, and two cottages along with a small barrack to house the servants and the men-at-arms.

Having his place was necessary, as the walls of the Red Keep were not safe, both from prying eyes and ears.

The pair of Baratheon men-at-arms at the thick oaken gates nodded and let him through as he walked in. As he passed the walls, Renly finally could relax - the smell of privy was also replaced with the sweet, earthly smell of the orchid inside.

"Renly!" Loras leapt up from one of the benches at a side grove by the fountain surrounded by apple trees as soon as Renly entered. "What has you so dazed?"

The Knight of Flowers was garbed in a simple doublet of green velvet with three golden roses stitched proudly at his breast.

"Lord Stark made the strangest suggestion -" the words finally tumbled out of his mouth, and his shoulders felt lighter as the Lord of Storm's End sat on the bench by his lover. His former squire was not only his friend and lover but his only trusted confidant.

It was a small, circular clearing, walled by well-kept hedges from the side and crowned by a canopy of green branches above, with the paved entrance looking only at the mansion's face.

It was one of his favourite private places to spend time with Loras peacefully - the servants and guardsmen knew not to disturb him here.

"They are going after you now!" Loras hissed as soon as the tale of the council was finished.

"What?"

"Remember what the Spider said? Tommen is being prepared for a position of governance, and now Lord Stark is preparing connections for his page."

Renly could only blink at his lover's sharp words. "Of course he is - that's what everyone does. I gather that Stark plans to build Tommen into a future Hand for Joffrey."

"That he does," the Knight of Flowers agreed. "The master of whispers said more - the life of a royal councillor is fraught with danger."

Lord Stannis thinks someone assassinated Lord Arryn and made an attempt on his life.

The accursed whispers from the Spider would not get out of his head.

"And what of it?" Renly was beginning to get impatient.

"Don't you see, Renly?" Loras grabbed his hand, brow heavy with worry. "Your brother, Stannis, thinks someone was trying to kill him - and they did even after he fled King's Landing," Renly opened his mouth to object, but no words came - it was the first time his middle brother who weathered all sorts of insults, japes, and indignities simply left. Was someone truly trying to kill Stannis? "Jon Arryn died, and his wife fled immediately. The way I see it, Cersei Lannister is clearing the way to control the crown."

"There's no proof," was all the master of laws could reply.

"Do you need proof? More courtiers come from the Westerlands than the Stormlands, the royal household guard is more than half redcloaks. You meet a mishap, and who do you think would be the next Lord of Storm's End."

"...Tommen," the quiet words tore through his dry throat. Renly's blood froze. Suddenly, everything clicked with. Everything made sense.

Why else would Tommen require fosterings or hostages from the Stormlands? Was it the Queen's plan? Or maybe Ned Stark - he did marry his heir to Cersei's daughter.

"We have to go to the king-"

"No," Renly shook his head as the dreadful, cold feeling crawled up his spine.

"Why not?"

"There's no proof. Besides, what if he finds out? About us?" Renly knew what his brother loathed the most - cravens, liars, and sword-swallowers. Things would never end well if Robert ever learned about his proclivities. Stannis was proof enough of what happened when the king shunned you even a little, let alone openly. If Renly's secrets got out, he didn't doubt for a moment Robert might attaint him of his titles and lands; Cersei would doubtlessly whisper in the king's ear, and the Faith would not be much behind.

Worse, while Renly might have been Robert's brother, Lord Stark was his favourite - it would be Renly's word against the northern highlord, and Renly didn't like his chances.

"We must flee-"

"No," Renly denied immediately. "I'm not fleeing from some golden bitch! I can have wine and food testers in a handful of hours. Is not Lord Tyrell coming here for the royal tourney, along with half the realm?"

"The king has never decided to put away his gilded wife, and I doubt he would consider it now," Loras's voice grew desperate.

"Well, it's good that your sister is coming in person. If Margaery is half as pretty as you say, there's hope yet."

Truth be told, Renly disdained the idea of fleeing. Maybe a tactical retreat from the capital if things got bad. He did have to give it to Cersei - she was subtle in her moves, but now that he knew, preparations were easy.

"We should find proof of Lord Arryn's murder, then," the young knight muttered sullenly.

Renly rolled the thought in his mind for a few moments before nodding. "Indeed, that would drag Cersei down. You ought to do it."

"Me?" Loras pointed at himself, his amber eyes wide with surprise.

"Yes - there's nobody else I could trust." The words almost made the young knight melt then and there. "But you must be cautious and sneaky - I cannot afford to lose you."

His lover's lips quivered with determination as he leaned into him, allowing Renly to sling a hand over his shoulder. "I will do it."

They settled side by side together in a comfortable silence. It was so peaceful and quiet that Renly never wanted to leave. The revelations just now had left him reeling as if struck by a warhammer, but if there was one thing he knew, it was that one ought never to wait for your opponent to act.

"But first, accompany me to Chataya." There was nothing more he wished than to remove all their clothes here and ravage his lover, but there was still one more thing of importance to be done for the day.

The words made the young knight's face twist in a fierce scowl. "What by the warrior's balls would we do there?"

"It's for the tourney," the words felt sour on Renly's tongue. "There are no blasted records of the damned log-tossing, so I have to ask one of the Northmen that have made their way into the city." That made Loras accept eagerly.

"We should be careful with Lord Stark," Loras cautioned. "Who knows what dark sorcery he has mastered with that bloody direwolf and the ravens at his beck and call."

Moving against a powerful sorcerer like Lord Stark was too dangerous for now, but the Queen was a manageable foe indeed. Since Lord Stark's stay in the Hand's Tower, unnatural amounts of crows and ravens perched atop and watched anyone who approached with their dark, beady eyes.

Just the thought made Renly curse Eddard Stark and his stupid ideas again. Boulder-lifting, Horse racing, and javelin throwing were not too hard to figure out, but the log-tossing was another thing. Such barbaric practices had long faded in the South for nearly a millennia. Renly was half-convinced that Lord Stark only did that to take a measure of him and put him at a disadvantage.

At least it was settled on seven forms of competition that greatly mollified the ramblings coming from Faith. Still, the High Septon remained quite vocal about the displeasure of the Seven and the Most Devout for the lack of septons and septs in his niece's wedding.

Half an hour later, they were both cloaked and making their way towards the infamous brothel, guarded by a pair of burly Baratheon men who had discarded any signs of heraldry. The streets were even more lively than Renly remembered - many accents could be caught from the cacophony, including the rare northern brogue, which was more and more common in King's Landing with every passing day.

With Eddard Stark's arrival, it was as if the North had roused itself from its slumber and decided to make its presence known here. But this knowledge only made him feel apprehensive. There was a strong Westerlander presence here already, and the number of Northmen only increased his suspicion; Cersei must indeed have been working with Eddard Stark.

The Street of Silk was not a place Renly desired to visit, but at least the air here had a pleasant fragrance. This was only his third time here at the southern outskirts of Rhaenys' hill; the previous two were due to his duties as a Master of Laws.

"Who are we looking for?" Loras murmured so quietly that he could barely hear him.

"Either the brother of Lord Dustin or Hother Umber - both are supposedly in Chataya."

Chataya's brothel was easy to spot. The lamp of gilded metal and scarlet glass hanging above its door was infamous, along with its leaded windows. The exterior was significantly more refined than the surrounding buildings, and two burly men from the Summer Isles with skin as black as tar stood guard at the entrance.

Renly lifted his cloak to reveal the golden stag embroidered upon his shoulders, and the sentries immediately stepped aside, letting him and Loras through, though Renly signalled to his men to wait outside. There were no doors that the Baratheon sigil could not open in King's Landing.

The scent of exotic spice lingered inside, and the flooring was covered by an intricate mosaic of two naked women intertwined in love. Renly loosened the claps of his cloak, allowing his doublet underneath to show.

Behind the small antechamber into the common room, they found the hostess, Chataya, a tall woman with skin as dark as ink, wearing a scandalously revealing flowing gown of bright feathers and silk. Even her stride was graceful and gliding like a swan in a lake.

Moans and cries of pleasure sounded from above, making Loras shuffle uneasily beside him, a flush creeping up his neck. A popular brothel indeed.

"My Lord of Baratheon?" Chataya's voice was smooth and dignified despite her heavy accent of the Summer Isles. Renly couldn't help but admit she had more pride and dignity than half the ladies in court… "Are you here to follow in the footsteps of your brothers?"

"My… brothers?"

The words had almost stunned him. Robert's visits to such establishments were common occurrences. But what in the seven bloody hells would Stannis be doing in a brothel - besides trying to close it? If there was one man Renly truly knew, it was his brother, the Lord of Dragonstone, who was the dourest creature of law and duty ever borne. Most men would not manage to bed a creature half as ugly as Selyse Florent, even out of duty, but Stannis had always been exceptional in the oddest of ways.

"Yes indeed," the woman bobbed her head with a wide smile, revealing two rows of pearly white teeth. "Lord Baratheon's face is not something I can forget. The king got one of the girls pregnant over a year ago, and a moon after the birth, Lord Arryn and Lord Baratheon came to visit the babe."

Jon Arryn and Stannis coming together to visit?

"When was this?" Renly tried to calm down his thundering heart, but his voice still sounded hoarse.

"Oh, just a sennight before the old Hand passed away," Chatya shook her head sadly. "Poor old man looked quite spry for his age but refused any of the girls. Want to see the king's daughter too?"

This couldn't be a coincidence - and just before Arryn's death. Why would Stannis visit a brothel? Neither Arryn nor his balding brother held much love for each other, but to hear that they visited a brothel together.

After so many years in court, there had not been a single rumour about any affairs or whores from the Hand - the old lord had been so busy running the kingdom he had no time for such nonsense. And the only reason Stannis could ever visit a brothel was to close it and evict the whores…

Renly had to see for himself.

"Lead us, then," he murmured, throwing her a pouch of coins. "But not one word of our presence."

"Ours is a very discreet establishment, come," she smiled as the pouch disappeared between her bust and led him through the door into a door in the back. Down a narrow hallway, they took a turn left, up the stairs, a turn right, and they were faced with a small, narrow door. "She's here - I gave her half a year of rest after the birth."

Probably hoped that his brother would grace the brothel with his royal presence again. Which was folly - Robert wandered around on a whim and fucked whatever whore, tavern wench, or fishwife caught his eye.

Not knowing what to expect, Renly stepped inside and removed the hood from his head. Like the usual servant's quarter, the room was cramped, with a small nightstand, chair, and a simple bed. Inside was a young, red-haired girl with a heart-shaped yet freckled face, no older than Myrcella in age, garbed in a plain woollen gown with a small bundle in her hands. Even Loras looked so uncomfortable at the sight of the girl, probably a virgin prostitute - there was no lack for those at the choicer establishments.

"I named her Barra," the girl said quietly as soon as Renly leaned in to take a closer look at his bastard niece. "She looks so like him, does she not, m'lord?"

The babe was a wrinkly, ugly thing that almost made Renly recoil. Indeed, she looked like a Baratheon - the stormy blue eyes, the small tuft akin to coal and the pale skin were a clear contrast to her mother's brown eyes and a fiery mane crowning her head.

"That she does," Loras said, looking at the babe with a scrunched brow before tugging at his sleeve hurriedly. "Let's go - we came here for something else."

***

27th Day of the 8th Moon

Oberyn Martell

"How mad do you think your brother would be?" Ellaria was such a worrywart sometimes. She was dressed in a conservative bright orange gown that Oberyn loved to slowly peel off her skin.

"He has no way of knowing where we are," he smirked. It was a deliberate thing - the guilt of going against his brother had been lingering for a whole fortnight, but once it was gone, the feeling of freedom was exhilarating.

His paramour smacked his shoulder lightly. "Indeed, all you left him was a message that you got bored and decided to travel to clear your head."

Oberyn going off on his own to wander was not new - Doran knew he loved visiting new places and seeing new people. And fuck new women and men. Eight daughters were not enough - nine sounded better. A son would not be amiss either.

"I've never seen this city so lively," Oberyn looked at the overfilled streets of King's Landing. Peddlers, hedge witches and wizards, knights, traders, merchants, whores, farmers - you could see dozens of each glancing in any direction.

Truth be told, he had been forbidden from journeying to the capital by his brother after Elia's death. Not that it would ever stop Oberyn - he avoided the thrice-cursed city anyway.

"It stinks," Obara gagged, leaning on her spear. "Worse than a privy!"

It seems that Nymeria also regretted coming here - Tyene had chosen to stay in Sunspear with Arianne, while Sarella had gone to Oldtown in a daring bid to be the first woman to forge a full maester's chain. His four youngest daughters were left in Hellholt with their grandfather, Lord Uller.

Oberyn wanted to proudly proclaim it towards the heavens for all to hear, but it would ruin his daughter's chances, so he remained quiet.

"Stench or not, this is the heart of Westeros, and there are too many important people here," he reminded.

"Did you hear that?" He traced Ellaria's gaze to a handful of tipsy sailors gathered at a peddler's fruit stand.

"Hear what?"

"Apparently, the new Hand is a dark and powerful sorcerer," Nymeria responded, and Oberyn almost choked.

Ellaria, on the other hand, laughed directly, the melodic, pearly sound filling the air and attracting plenty of glances. It was why Oberyn was attracted to his paramour in the first place.

Obara, however, did not seem to get it, as her face scrunched in confusion. "What's so funny?"

"Eddard Stark is probably the biggest prude and the most straight-laced honourable man you can find in the kingdoms," he barely managed to eke out between his roars of laughter.

"He has a bastard, though," his eldest pointed out.

"I did say he's still a man," Oberyn said with a knowing smile. "He has so much honour that not even his bastard was left behind - from what I heard, Jon Snow has received the same tutoring as Robb Stark."

While his daughters had made fast friends with their cousin, Arianne, none of them were taught even half as well as any of Doran's children - and they weren't raised in Sunspear's halls. Frolicking around the Water Gardens and playing with noble children was different. It was a dangerous thing to give a bastard the ability to contest not only your heir in capability but also connections - while children born out of wedlock were not stigmatised in Dorne, they were far from equal to their trueborn counterparts in opportunities and status.

It seemed that the tourney had attracted a wide plethora of participants - even with an errant glance, Oberyn saw dozens of banners from every corner of the kingdom - including some he couldn't even recognise. Three wooden buckets on blue belonging to a looking and burly group… oddly familiar, but the name eluded his mind.

"Are you going to participate in the horse race, Ronard?" It was the rough voice of two… gaunt Valemen passing by. Oberyn couldn't decide if they were poor hedge-knights or well-off men-at-arms.

"Excuse me, good sers," he quickly caught up to the pair with a wide smile, Ellaria and his daughters lagging behind. "Pardon me, but I couldn't help but overhear something about a… horse race?"

"Aye," the taller one with sandy hair bobbed his head and eyed him warily while reining in his old chestnut mare, "This tourney is to be different, courtesy to the new Lord Hand n' the union between Winterfell and the Iron Throne. A Northern Tourney, they say. Aside from the traditional lists, there's also the javelin throwing, the boulder lifting, horse racing, n' the log toss."

He quickly bid the pair good luck and returned to Ellaria and his daughters, who had overheard the conversation.

"This is new," his paramour said with a frown. "Did you know a tourney was going to happen?"

"Not really. But I love it," Oberyn couldn't help but smile deviously. "This can be a golden opportunity."

Ideas upon ideas began churning in his head - he was glad to have brought his favourite sand steed along his arms and armour.

"A golden opportunity for what?" Obara asked, confused. Alas, this daughter preferred to use her spear more than her wits.

"Revenge," Nymeria answered as he nodded in agreement.

"We ought to find who will participate in each part of the tourney," he hummed.

Ellaria, however, looked around in worry. "Let's not forget a place to stay - it seems that most inns and taverns are full."

"Worst come, we'll stay in a nice brothel or the Red Keep," Oberyn said with a snort.

Important nobles could easily get some guest quarters in the Red Keep, and few equalled House Martell in importance, even if he was only the brother of the Prince of Dorne.

There wasn't much difference between the two - he had always thought the Red Keep was a brothel masquerading as a castle. After all, half the noblewomen were involved in some sordid affair or two, and all the men couldn't keep it in their breeches - the new king himself leading by example.

Not that Aerys lacked mistresses, if even half of the old rumours could be believed.

It seemed that his sudden decision to not only get away from his brother but come to the capital would pay off greatly, one way or another.