Chapter 78: Baelor 14
Late 163 AC
"Those aren't Martell banners," Lord Baratheon said, lowering his Myrish far-eye, the light from morning no longer blinding as it shone off the distant sea. "When we received word of Lord Yronwood's progress jumping ahead of our own, I hadn't thought he'd be able to take Sunspear before our arrival."
Baelor lowered his own far-eye, face grim as plans and thoughts mixed in equal measure. Sunspear would have been a grueling siege, greater than any they'd suffered through thus far, and yet for the city to not only have fallen to the most powerful lord still loyal to his brother, but also with the city seeming untouched by the usual ravages of plunder? Something was off, something he could not quite place.
"I don't believe there was a siege," he finally said, ignoring the sounds of their camp being packed up and the men arming themselves. "The city has recovered from the sacking after my brother took it, and yet Lord Yronwood's army remains encamped off a short way. If he has truly taken it, why does he not establish his men within the city's walls?"
"I suppose it might be the size of his forces," his foster father said. "A city taken can only handle the amount of men under Lord Yronwood's command for so long before beginning to buckle under the strain. Housing is not limitless, the whores are not free or numerous enough, and it would not take long for unsavory men within the ranks to begin taking liberties with the smallfolk. That, and Planky Town has yet to be taken, and if an enemy army were to lay siege to Sunspear, a larger army hemmed within the city would struggle to effectively strike back at their enemy, must as a larger force struggles against a smaller in a narrow passage."
That was the crux of it then, securing the city yet leaving themselves the room to maneuver should an enemy approach. Pulling his far-eye to the south and east, Baelor saw distant sails on the sea, signaling the coming of Lord Velaryon and his fleet. Word had been sent of his approach by raven many days before, and it would seem he was finally arriving, having bypassed Shipbreaker Bay to avoid the autumn storms. "Lord Baratheon, our esteemed Master of Ships sails closer. With luck they have not lost ships to any other storms, lest their precious cargo and the men sailing them be lost to the waves." His portion of the plans for finishing the quelling of the revolt in eastern Dorne was depending on those ships and the routes others would follow.
"I shall receive Lord Velaryon for the city, and bring to bear a portion of our forces to assist in ensuring the city remains firmly in our grasp," Lord Baratheon replied. "With my men ensuring order as the ships are unloaded, the supplies Lord Velaryon brings will just as well aid in ensuring the city does not revolt behind our backs."
"Then… I am to lead the men against Planky Town?" Baelor did not feel nervous, for he had long since grown accustomed to fighting in Dorne, and such inadequacies had given way to a silent acceptance of his duty and skill. Every castle and town may have been different in some way, but the longer this war had dragged on, the less the Dornish had wished to fight, and the easier it had become. The losses from disease, infighting, local famines, destruction by raiders… it was all taking its toll on their will to fight both the Iron Throne and one another. With hope, there would not be a fight for him to send good men to die for.
"I believe you to be up to the task, my prince," Lord Baratheon said, turning to him with a proud smile. "You have proven yourself a fine commander of men in the skirmishes we have fended off, ensured the health of the army when supplies were limited, and have earned the respect of the lords and smallfolk under our command. You take counsel seriously, assess the problems you can correct, and are willing to delegate that which is beneath you or out of your line of expertise. I will take the weak and sickly with me, whilst your own forces will join with Yronwood's own."
Baelor nodded, a tightness in his chest reminiscent of the feeling in Lord Wytch's training yard so long ago, when he first began his use of a bow. Genuine praise did not come often to him from those around him, not because others did not praise him, but simply because there were few who gave him such words without any expectations on their end, or because decorum demanded it. He believed their words, but few were those that said such words without the expectations of his station forcing them to.
"Thank you, Lord Baratheon," he said, returning a small smile for but a moment. "I shall do our cause justice and bring the mouth of the Greenblood under our control. Until then, my lord."
With a nod, his foster father began to move away, barking orders to lesser lords and captains to marshal the men, who had taken to resting atop the small bluff overlooking the vast swathe of sandy grasses between them and the city. Baelor's own men, his sworn swords and shields among them, began to diverge from the army proper, numbering at least two thirds of the forces they still had at their disposal. Portions of the medics, maesters, engineers and the very small baggage train moved with Lord Barartheon, whilst the rest joined with him as they moved out.
The lands around Sunspear were as dusty as he had remembered, with most vegetation being that of sparse grass, thorny shrubs and whatever trees could withstand the heat and long periods between rain being brought in from seaborn storms. To the south and slightly west of Sunspear was whatever portion of Lord Yronwood's army that had not garrisoned Sunspear, their tents and banners growing larger as they slowly approached. Whether by treacherous bribery or the city simply opening its gates to avoid a sack, he did not know, nor did Baelor care to find out. He couldn't stomach the thought of the suffering of Dorne's people bringing them to turn upon one another anymore than they already had. Hopefully the lord would be with the army, lest he and his men wait even longer to march upon Planky Town.
Though they had done so efficiently, like the well-greased gears in a cart, dividing the army had not been an easy task. Ensuring the safety of both portions took different lords and their retinues with them, meaning they were not as well balanced as they had been before, and with that further came the division of supplies, attendants and medics. Ideally, Baelor would have marched with the entirety of his forces, but after reaching the lands of House Toland, his men had seen battle after battle, retaking town and castle alike for moons now. Sometimes by force, sometimes with peace, but there had always been a price to pay, be it lives, supplies, or the most fleeting of all, time. His army was tired, they were filthy despite the soap from Wytch lands, and disease had begun to spring up whenever they did not find suitable rest. Whether it was from something plaguing the lands torn apart by war, or just the sheer exhaustion of fighting for so long, he did not know. Rather, he left it to the maesters and medics to take care of as best they could with whatever he could spare, so hopefully the men taking refuge in Sunspear would find that much-sought relief.
Yet time was not on his side as it was the sick. The Lord of Driftmark would soon sail towards Planky Town, as securing the Greenblood was vital, and with the mouth yet closed to all ships both at sea and further inland, there was no telling how great a fight he was to have on his hands, as none knew if the city would be as an open port or a fortress upon the water. So it was that Baelor converged on the Dornish camp with suitable haste, whereupon Dornish escorts arrived to identify and guide them. The camp had been established in an alcove where the sun did not bear down so readily on the men, the shade cooling pleasantly even as the sun continued to beat down upon them. With sworn swords and shields at his side, as he had learned he could never be too careful in Dorne, even amongst supposed allies, the two forces joined as Baelor made his way to the command tent.
The local lord entrusted with reclaiming much of eastern Dorne was not in his tent, but instead rose from his seat beneath the shade of an old, gnarled sandbeggar, the leaves equally as shading as the numbers of thorns. It was a succinct reminder that the people of Dorne were much like this tree; hardy, never far from water, and prickly if approached without care.
"Lord Yronwood," Baelor said, having never forgotten the man's face during and after his surrender in the last war, as such a day had been hard to forget after his… intervention with the former Lord Ladybright. Dismounting his horse and shaking himself of the dust that clung to his light robes and shawl, the prince was grateful his armor no longer singed his flesh beneath the sun's gaze. He had taken to wearing much of the trappings the Dornish did when dealing with the heat to protect his more exposed skin from blistering in the harsh heat or being roughed by blowing sand. Many lords and soldiers had taken to following his lead, and he supposed that from a distance his army and that of Lord Yronwood's would have appeared remarkably alike.
"Prince Baelor," the Dornish lord said, bread and salt offered immediately. The former was dry but thankfully free of dust. "Where is Lord Baratheon?"
"He has taken a portion of the army to aid in securing the city, and to give the most beleaguered portion some rest. We've been facing the occasional bout of sickness in the ranks and thought it best to sequester them in the more remote portions of Sandspear."
"A wise decision, as the harsh march is no place for men not in good health," the man replied. That he was not relaxing within the city spoke well of the man's commitment to his men. "He left you with command of the rest of your army?"
"Yes, and although their spirits are weary, they are good enough to march upon Planky Town with all due haste," the prince said. "Lord Velaryon's sails have been spotted far out to sea, set to first dock at Sunspear to add to the garrison and unload supplies before sailing upon the mouth of the Greenblood. As we do not yet know the state of the place, have your scouts reported anything?"
"None have attempted to infiltrate as per my orders, for they would be too easily identified, but from what they have reported the city seems quiet. Whether it is somehow deserted, fortified, or simply unwilling to mount a defense, I cannot say. What is your aim, my prince?"
"I intend to seize the town with as little bloodshed as possible and ensure the famine that has begun to grip Dorne is alleviated as quickly as possible," Baelor said. Vast shipments of grain had begun to move in from the Reach and Stormlands, and from further north there were ships docking at his orders to buy as much excess rice as they could from the Neck. "With the Greenblood's length under your control already, once we seize its mouth, we will have access to the deepest parts of Dorne by way of the river and its tributaries, and with that we will have secured near the entirety of the eastern half. Ships will be able to patrol the shores, bringing with them supplies, news, and serving to deter enemy forces from crossing back into the lands now at peace. Only time will tell if Lord Tyrell's efforts have been fruitful or not, as it has been difficult to receive word of what is happening in the west."
"With any luck, he will be facing successes to mirror our own, and this damnable revolt turned civil war will be finally ended," Lord Yronwood said, motioning to a squire. "I shall see to my men, and we shall march with you on your command."
The march towards Planky Town was a strangely quiet one, even for all he had seen in this war. Men who had been so boisterous were grim and serious whenever they were not at rest, and the sounds of the marching of men and stomping of hooves was dulled into a low hum by the sands and stones beneath them. Baelor had grown used to not only the march of an army, but also the Common Tongue of the Dornish variety, catching himself speaking a touch of their accent on occasion when he relaxed. Lord Yronwood was by all accounts a good lord and having been one of the first to bend the knee to King Daeron after the Battle for the Gates, had done nothing but show support for the Iron Throne through words and deeds alike.
Yet why did Baelor, even as he spoke with the older lord, feel a deep sense of unease when around him? It was as if he were handling a snake that had never struck him, and yet he saw the fangs clearly whenever the man spoke.
"… with luck, we will find Lord Martell somewhere in Planky Town."
Baelor resisted the urge to whip his head towards his riding companion. "Nymor Martell is missing?"
The lord seemed unbothered by this news. "I was in shock at first, but time has given me a calm mind to ponder the details. We could find him nowhere within the Sandship, my prince, and we have been scouring the place ever since we took the city. Vaults, storerooms, whatever passageways we have been able to identify, even the city itself has yielded no results. We know he did not escape on a ship, as the last time he was seen was well after the last ship left the docks at Sunspear."
Why did he not lead with news this important? If he had known he would have sent a runner to Lord Baratheon immediately to appraise him of such a situation. "If he is not in Sunspear, then Planky Town must be his hiding place, as he has not been found anywhere between Sunspear and the lands we have reclaimed to the north and west. Have ships departed the trading town since Lord Martell's disappearance?"
"According to my scouts, very few ships have docked there, and none have left since doing so," the lord replied. "Whether they have been seized or the crews don't want to risk the growing number of pirates further offshore, we do not know. The king forbade the blockade as it was during the Conquest, and yet ships slowed or stopped their sailing into Dorne's ports because of the war. Even in times as troubling as these, you would easily find profiteers bringing in bulk amounts of grain and such supplies to make a tidy profit off the suffering of famine-stricken smallfolk and lords alike. Yet for them to be so rare despite such a potentially lucrative market… it bodes ill."
"Yes, I have written to the king of suspicions that have been only building since the events at Skyreach. Lord Tyrell has also written to us, as infrequently as he is able, about his own suspicions as to exactly what has been occurring during this civil war." Plundered villages, massacred smallfolk, unidentified sellswords and raiders, poison, deceit, and countless other shadowy occurrences were compounding to paint a very, very muddled picture of the revolt. What would be true or false was anyone's guess at this point.
"I can only hope Lord Tyrell, among others, are awarded for their loyalty and efforts to end this conflict in the name of our king," Lord Yronwood said. "My family has fought long and hard in the past to ensure peace in Dorne, either by armies or by pacts forged through ink or blood."
'Or by poison,' Baelor thought, knowing full well the propensity of Dornish to engage in such actions. It was why he always kept tasters and those knowledgeable of poisons on hand, even in keeps of loyal Dornish lords. He'd already faced attempted murder at the hands of grieving smallfolk whose son had died fighting him, he dared not think of the lengths an aggrieved Dornish lord or lady would go to just to see him dead. "My brother will know well of your deeds done in his name, and you will be rewarded justly for it. He is not one to renege on such oaths, especially when they were given in good faith."
"That may be so, but the lack of House Martell's efforts to bring Dorne into the fold after the war, and the rhetoric of Arthur Martell before his sudden death give clear indication that his house is no longer fit to rule as princes of Dorne. Assuming such a title will remain in place, that is, and judging from his disappearance from the seat of his own House, I cannot see that House Martell will last much longer in the position it has held since unifying Dorne hundreds of years ago."
Was that a threat to House Martell's power and influence, or was it a threat to their very existence? Such words could be taken either way, and while he had yet to see any evidence of it, there was no telling what a lord hell bent on claiming lofty titles such as 'Bloodroyal' and 'Prince of Dorne' might be willing to do. Baelor remained silent, hoping nothing would happen to Lady Martell or her son in Stormhall and Lord Wytch's family in turn. After all, his friend had returned to his seat after Lord Toland's ports became a faster source of shipping grain and other supplies than the Boneway, and just in time too.
Casper's newest child, a son, had just been born amidst a gentle autumn storm that had left the land cool and wet for the first time in weeks. The letter Baelor had received was brief, but both the yet unnamed boy and Mylenda were in good health, and perhaps-
Baelor was driven from his thoughts by a horn blasting from the walls that surrounded Planky Town, vowing to visit Casper upon his journey back to Kings Landing. While not as formidable as those surrounding Sunspear, the walls he faced would still be a mess to handle if only because the city itself was primarily situated upon the water. Floating with the tides, what little had been built on the shoreline was more easily defended than attacked, and even if taken, there wasn't much to take in the first place, meaning there was little area to stage further assaults from. Even then, with the damage from Lord Velaryon's breaking of the town during the war long since repaired, fighting upon docks, floating ships and the long stretches of planks serving as the town's roads would be a struggle to overcome.
The large gate opened as banners appeared, fluttering in the breeze rolling off the sea. Not banners for surrender, or banners of House Martell, or even banners of some other Dornish house.
They were of House Targaryen, the three headed dragon flapping proudly in the breeze.
Simply trusting this apparent show of fealty was not enough for Baelor, and so he waited with bated breath as several riders, both from his army and that of Lord Yronwood's, cautiously rode down to the gate. They faced no opposition that he could see, no sudden trickery or attempts on their lives, and faster than he had anticipated, a pair of riders returned.
"They have declared for House Targaryen, my prince!" the rider cheered. The army, silent as Baelor, began to murmur and whisper amongst themselves at the prospect. This… this was a first. They had had plenty of towns surrender to them, but not even with a token of resistance? With the banners of his house flying proudly before he had even set foot within? Something had to be afoot.
Baelor barked orders to the captains and lords within his portion of the retinue, intent on taking advantage of this apparent good fortune with a plan in place should things go… suitably Dornish. With practiced coordination brought on by months upon months of war, half the men formed up in columns and began their march down towards the gates, with men on horseback riding alongside and the remainder moving to set themselves up along the outside of the town's walls. Baelor, with Lord Yronwood and half of his own forces, rode in the middle of the procession, his eyes darting to and fro for any sign of an attack.
The first column of men marched through the gates without issue.
Then the second marched through, to the sounds of a low rumble.
By the time Baelor and his portion had arrived, it was a scene of complete disarray. Not one of fighting off a sudden ambush, nor of his men losing their discipline and swarming upon the Dornish to loot and plunder, but one of befuddlement for every lord and man with him. Men and women streamed from houses and boat hulls, gathering in crowds along what served as main streets. Cheers, cries of relief, chanted hymns in Old Andalic mixed in a cacophony that drowned out the sound of his men spreading out to avoid overwhelming the docks beneath their feet. Targaryen banners, ranging from childish weaving to those finer than his own hung from balconies and windows, were draped across the threshold of doors, flapped proudly high on nearby ship masts, and were waved to and fro by innumerable smallfolk children atop the shoulders of their parents.
Unsure of why they were celebrating his coming, Baelor ordered the men to finish securing the town and to keep their wits about them. Yet even as his men dispersed, as confused as he was, the smallfolk lauded them. Young women kissed the cheeks of young men who had only been boys when they ventured to war, children threw flowers picked from the riverside at the feet of the marching men, and all around more and more smallfolk appeared. Men and women, young and old, beggar and merchant, all came before them, their spirits roused by the mere sight of him and his forces. Many were gaunt, their sunken features belying the struggles they had endured in the town, and yet just the sight of their prince was bringing them a strength and exuberance better reserved for holiday festivals of the Seven.
Yet above all of this, one name kept ringing out, one he had come to accept, yet had chosen not to lean into for his own sake.
"Fyrestorm!"
"Fyrestorm!"
"Fyrestorm!"
As he rode down the street, petals fell around him from the windows above, children giggling and laughing as they threw them. Men and women bowed before him, some prostrating themselves as if he were the coming of the Father himself, their thanks mixing into blubbering messes of cries of joy and cries of relief. A woman appeared by the side of his soldiers and spoke to one of his sworn shields. From her arms she produced a small child, hair like coal and eyes like dim emeralds, as gaunt as their mother as they squirmed from the noise, and Baelor watched as his sworn shield brought the young mother to him.
"What is your name, my lady?" he asked.
"Myriah, my prince," she replied, her voice somehow carrying over the din. She spoke better than most smallfolk, likely a merchant's daughter given the town's importance. "Is it true, my prince? Are we… are we saved?"
Lord Yronwood must have heard this, for he made a chopping motion to his men, and from their cloaks they produced a series of horns. Their trumpeting blasts echoed, a sound that dulled the gathered crowds into a manageable hum of indistinct, anxious whispers. Baelor nodded in thanks to the man before turning back to Myriah and placing his hand upon the child's head. "A boy?" he asked softly, the child calming as he looked into a prince's eyes.
"Yes, me first, dragon prince," the young woman replied. "Is it true? Are we saved?"
"Yes, Myriah, you and your son are saved," Baelor said, before turning to the crowd, his voice rising above the low din. "Even now, people of Planky Town, Lord Velaryon sails for your docks, not for destruction or plunder, but with ships laden with supplies on my orders and those of our king. Medicine for your sick, food for your bellies, and the means by which you may rebuild your lives. Planky Town is free once more!"
The roar shook the planks beneath his feet as Myriah retreated, her tears of gratitude and cries of thanks lost as Baelor moved through the town. Preachers atop crates cried out about the 'cleansing fire of the Fyrestorm' and that 'where his fire burns, life grows anew' along the shores of Dorne. Children joyfully moved with their parents, the streets that had once likely been deserted for fear of one another alive again with laughter, joy, and a sense of purpose.
"A short speech, but a good one my prince, though I'm not so sure about these septons proclaiming you as some sort of divine cleansing flame," Lord Yronwood shouted with a smile. "Once Lord Velaryon is here and the supplies are unloaded, we should be able to ensure that if Lord Martell is within the town, he will not escape our net. The men will have secured the far side with boats long before he could row himself to a stable and leave."
"See to it that you do," Baelor replied. "Should he be within Planky Town, he cannot be allowed to escape."
Baelor knew that a headache was coming upon him, even as the chanting outside had finally died away as the ships of Lord Velaryon's fleet disgorged supplies into the hungry trading town. Having learned at Casper's side the importance of putting production of food and supplies to sums, and then furthering his experience with the projects around Storm's End and elsewhere, Baelor had investigated the harvests and spoke with a great many people whilst in Dorne these past few years. From what he had gathered, the cogs carrying the bulk of the supplies were averaging a hundred tons of cargo, of which the majority was to be food supplies such as grain, dried onions, pickled vegetables and candied fruits. Having ensured that enough ships would be coming to provide food for Sunspear and Planky Town alike, he had not only doubled the amount of ships carrying such cargo, he'd also accounted for losing half of the supplies on each ship to pests as a worst case scenario short of outright sinking.
At the end, he had determined two months' worth of wheat and other grains would be needed to keep the people fed while other supply and trade routes opened back up, and although the town's numbers had swollen slightly from people seeking refuge, the town's population had never been truly tallied. So, he had originally estimated that the town numbered perhaps five thousand people before the revolt and civil war, and perhaps now was numbering six thousand.
He had brought enough grain to feed five thousand people for two months, not the six thousand likely residing upon the water, but he would have to make do with the supplies he had on hand. This was assuming no swaths of people would flee to the trading town now that it had been liberated, and the vast majority of eastern Dorne was once again under the control of the Iron Throne. Hopefully autumn storms would not delay the rice shipments from the Neck, lest he also need to import even more grain and other preserved foods from whatever Stormlords would be willing to part with their winter stock.
Yet for all the trouble logistics had given him, ones he had overcome time and time again, there was no overcoming the trouble that awaited him in one of the larger manses upon the water. Manse was a generous term, to be fair, for it was more a large ship, perhaps an old swan boat from the Summer Isles, that had been integrated into the structure of Planky Town. Tall enough to look out over several other shorter buildings, the uppermost decks served as the primary living quarters for the occupants, and the interior had been lavishly decorated in the Rhoynar-influenced Dornish styles.
The fact that the manse was owned by House Martell was a surprise, and an unwelcome one once he was shown what his men had discovered within.
Lord Nymor of House Martell.
Dead.
"For fuck's sake, not another one," Baelor hissed under his breath, making sure not to touch anything. The medics and maester tending to the body did so with care and proper gloves, lest the strange blade still lodged in the corpse's back be still coated with poison.
"A stiletto, my prince," Lord Yronwood observed, seeming a touch too calm about the situation after noticing Baelor's gaze upon the knife. Then again this benefited him in too many ways to discuss, so the fact the Dornishman was eating an orange brought in by the Velaryon ships was, to Baelor, rather distasteful. Even if the dead man before them had been a former foe, there was a respect to be shown for the deceased!
"Lewyn is going to be upset," Baelor muttered, rubbing his forehead. Remaining under Lord Baratheon's care and command, the former raider had proven valuable to their cause, often serving as an envoy when asking for surrender from obstinate towns. Yet the fact that his family was now going to number even less than before would surely be hard on the maimed man. "First his father died in his arms, and now his uncle has perished from this war, and both under suspicious circumstances."
"Were he legitimized, I might have assumed he may have had a hand in this," Lord Yronwood said. "Yet he remains a Sand, and I doubt his aunt would be willing to petition for him becoming a Martell so soon after her husband's demise. I can only imagine how else Nymor's children are going to feel, their father dead to a dagger in the back at their private manse in Planky Town."
"Not a dagger per se, my prince, but a Myrish stiletto. What one of those is doing here of all places is beyond me, given how they are most common in Myr itself, but that it was left in his corpse was to me, originally, a sign of incompetence. Yet now…"
"Yes?" Baelor asked.
The Dornish lord shrugged, as if unsure of his own answer. "Looks to me that the dagger was stuck enough in Lord Martell's spine that retrieving it would have taken longer than his killer was willing to spend to retrieve it. This tells me they must have been in a hurry for some reason. How long has he been dead, maester?"
"It is difficult to tell," the old man said with a grumble. "Factoring in the heat and humidity of the coast and river converging, along with the humors within his body, it is anyone's guess."
"Less than a day," the lead medic said.
"Truly?" Baelor asked, ignoring the scoffing of the maester.
"Yes, the body is stiff yet warm enough that he has not had a chance to fully cool. The warmer the area, we have found, the quicker a body begins to decay. We have made notes of this back at the old Wyl castle, marking such observations depending on the time of day, weather, winds, and much more. That, and there are no signs of insects eating at his flesh, nor masses of their eggs having been laid in or upon his body. The fact he does not yet smell also shows he has not been dead long enough to begin rotting."
"So, he has been dead within the past day, perhaps having been murdered today, though the exact time is impossible to know," Baelor said. "Dead to a stiletto common in one of the Three Sisters, a trinity of city states whose diplomatic ties with my brother's reign are as changing as the tides. Assuming they had nothing to do with this, and the weapon just so happened to be in the possession of Nymor's killer, then how do we proceed?"
"We announce his unfortunate passing to the public," Lord Yronwood said. "We should not go into detail on the matter, lest we turn the people against us by seeming nonchalant about the death of a major lord, but we must also not leave it a mystery, lest they assume we had a hand in the matter. The smallfolk of Planky Town will be our best bet trying to figure out who could have done this, and if they are still within the town or not."
"Given how they greeted us, it shouldn't be hard to seek their support on the matter," Baelor replied. "I will send a courier to Lord Baratheon, and with luck he will be able to send ravens to my brother the king. Depend on how my brother wishes to proceed with Dorne's eventual peace, either Myriah Martell is set to inherit Sunspear and the potential Lord Paramountship… or Maron is."
Lord Yronwood said nothing to that, instead deciding to finish his fruit before leaning against one of the walls. "Far be it from me to seek to make a prince's decisions, let alone that of a king, but do you really think the rest of Westeros would accept a Lady Paramountship for Dorne? Our ways are not entirely congruent with those of our neighbors, as per the heritage of the Rhoynar that Nymeria brought with her."
"Retaining the titles of the local nobility, especially those that have been used for centuries, is paramount to ensuring the people do not feel we are erasing them, merely bringing them into the fold of a greater collective," Baelor countered. He had seen it in Wytch lands that Dornish living there were accepted as just more members of whatever community they lived in, so long as they did not cause trouble and abided by the laws of the land in which they dwelt. Certainly, their own culture had begun to lessen in strength, but some parts had rubbed off into the local surroundings. After all, the Dornish were known for more heavily using makeup for celebrations and personal care, and the smallfolk in and around Stormhall had embraced this rather readily.
"Yet to allow the Martells to continue their disastrous rule, even with a regent for Myriah or Maron, will invite only trouble with the other kingdoms," the Dornish lord replied, pushing himself off the wall… only for a board to suddenly give way under his hand, twisting down upon the axis of the nail holding it in place.
"What is that?" Baelor asked.
"I was going to say just a loose board," Lord Yronwood replied, seizing the wood and ripping it from the wall. "Yet it would seem this manse is not without more surprises. Look at this."
Interested, Baelor wordlessly ordered one of his sword shields to investigate. Traps had been thankfully absent through most of the war, but it would not do to fall prey to one now that victory was so near. Then, after a few moments of rummaging through the alcove, his sworn shield retrieved a substantial bundle of parchments, of which Baelor took immediate possession. Taking them to a nearby table and taking a seat, he spread them out, not knowing how to sort them and instead picking a portion at random. He did not know the handwriting on any of these documents, having never seen Lord Martell's, but the contents within were… strange. They were filling him with an equal amount of despair, rage, and bone-deep exhaustion that begged him to ignore everything before him and just go to bed. Yet for his duty, for his house, and for Westeros at large, he could not simply pawn off these sudden duties before him, even if they would likely consume his nights for weeks to come.
"Some of these are ship manifests, or at least partial ones," the prince said. "Destinations, cargo, sellsword numbers, the dates in which they arrived or departed…"
"Are we to expect an invasion of sellswords from Essos?" Lord Yronwood asked, peering in the alcove to see if anything had been left behind.
"No, but these would explain why we have had reports of errant sellsword groups working for disparate lords," Baelor said. "Seems the former Lord Martell was saving the bulk of his strength, what remained at least, whilst hiring sellswords to raid and pillage whatever lords had not allied with him before this war. Instructions on which lords these sellswords would preferentially sell their services to, where the funds would be located, estimations on the coin needed to sequester away without raising suspicion with the Iron Throne, it is all here and more. Yet the dates… they are from before the war itself started, even before the revolt that spawned it."
"Then it may not have been Nymor that wrote this, but his brother and predecessor, Arthur."
Baelor nodded. "Looks like the former prince had been planning for this revolt for some time. It… it makes sense, given the violence that has shattered Dorne did not just appear overnight. Sellsword companies did not arrive after the civil war to pledge their services, but were already here, hiding in plain sight after coming to Dorne months in advance." Picking another sheet of parchment, Baelor quickly read through the ledger, his earlier good mood souring further. "Food stocks were skimmed to create caches for soldiers meant to harass our forces whilst avoiding pitched battles. A patchwork of lords across Dorne were in on this, at least originally, slowly building themselves up again to cast out Lord Tyrell and Lord Baratheon in open revolt. Yet for all these plans, on which I am certain will take several days to go through, that it all came crashing down with Arthur's death is… strange."
"The best laid plans fall apart when the planner is no longer alive to follow them, let alone adapt as needed," Lord Yronwood said, having found nothing else in the old alcove. "Strange, however, that these documents would be here, and not left in Sunspear, or better yet for the Martells, outright destroyed."
"That is just another strange circumstance of this whole mess, as the newer parchments, if the dates are correct, are from Nymor's hand. This one," the prince said, picking one whose edges had not begun to fray with time, "tells of additional sellsword companies arriving in Dorne as the war progressed, in ports friendly and unfriendly to House Targaryen, petering off as the months went by. Yet according to this, some of these could not be verified, and simply disappeared into Dorne before they could be questioned. Another speaks of certain officials to have been bribed to ignore ships that came and went… in Dorne and Kings Landing alike." He would have to notify his uncle as soon as possible about the latter.
"So there is another player in this horrid game," the Dornishman said with a frustrated sigh.
"More than one, if any of these notes are anything to go by," Baelor said. "These documents must be kept safe at all costs and corroborated with whatever scraps of information Lord Tyrell has managed to accrue in his own investigation. We must return to Sunspear at once with Lord Martell's body, and inform Lord Baratheon of what we have found." Turning to his sworn swords and shields, he bit back a grimace. "Search every nook and cranny of this floating manse. Every wall, every piece of furniture, every place something like these documents could be hidden from wandering eyes. Whatever you find, protect with your life and bring to me as soon as you can."
"Indeed, I shall have my own men redouble our efforts in Sunspear, to see if there is more to this conspiracy than just what you have found. Before this, however, I will see to it that the men left to garrison Planky Town will uphold the ideal you have espoused in your letters," the man replied. "Until then, my prince."
"Until then," Baelor replied, tempted to leave, and yet unwilling to set down the last sheet, even as his sworn swords and shields began to explore the manse with greater care for any other potential alcoves. This piece of evidence showed that Nymor had been meeting with someone, or several someones, no less than a moon ago. Whoever they were and whatever their goal was, he did not have the slightest clue, as they were only referred to what had to be names in code, and he had no way of knowing if they were still in Planky Town or not. Regardless, there had been a falling out between them and Nymor Martell, leading to his sudden death at their hands.
Had he been planning on exposing them in exchange for leniency for his predecessor's role in sparking the revolt-turned-civil war, and they had found out about his duplicity? Had they asked for too great a price for his cooperation? Had he offended them in some way that saw their secret relationship sour quickly? If so for any of these possibilities, who else could be at play that even the Martells and their secret allies were attempting to uncover? Just how deep could this all go?
He would likely never know, not unless these hidden players were brought to the light by force. Sighing, Baelor rose to his feet and shuffled the sheets of parchment back together. Hopefully his foster father could make better sense of this than him.