Sunspear, Dorne
In the golden halls of Sunspear, Brynden Tully was being served an array of delicacies by beautiful women during an ongoing feast. He sat as the guest of Prince Doran, Princess Elia, and the rest of the Martell family. As he drained another glass of wine, his throat continued to burn. The veteran drinker had been requested to gulp down a variety of poisons masked in a myriad of drinks. Fortunately, he carried a surplus of antidotes provided by Edmure, specifically designed to counter a vast spectrum of toxic substances.
"An interesting thing, this little bottle," Princess Elia observed, her eyes tracing the small vial Brynden held. "Due to my own health issues, I have seen treatments from across the known world. I know enough theory to discern most ingredients, but I would wager no one can make a tonic work as effectively as this. How exactly does your nephew manage it?"
"Aye, the boy has a genuine talent," Brynden replied. After realizing the Martells possessed concoctions that could potentially bypass his current antidotes, he had become remarkably cooperative. He was always ready to throw the Tully father-son duo under the horse at a moment's notice. "He boasts that if someone were to guide him from the side and he bothered to work seriously, he would be the finest healer in Westeros."
"Bullshit," Prince Oberyn interrupted with a sharp grin. "One is either good at something or they are not. Why the need for so many conditions?"
"Well, that's simply how the boy is," Brynden chuckled, a fond memory of his nephew surfacing. The last few weeks had been a peculiar sort of hell. Countless women had attempted to seduce him, but he knew well enough that they were poisonous—quite literally. In this nest of vipers, he found himself missing the boy whose words were often bitter, but whose heart contained no malice. "He says, 'Just because I'm good at something doesn't mean I have to like it. And if I don't like something, why bother working hard?' He truly is skilled in the art of healing, but he detests the tedium of the process. For any ailment, his first response is usually, 'Let me grind a few herbs; use these as balms.'"
"Hahaha! He sounds like the bearded priests of the Great Norvos," Prince Doran laughed, reminiscing about his time spent in that city. Those had been good days, when his relationship with his wife was still sweet. "They, however, maintain that bathing in blood cures everything. But it seems your family does not take your predicament seriously, Blackfish. There is still no response from the Trident. If this silence continues, I shall be forced to marry you off to a Dornish woman or send you straight to Ghaston Grey."
The Red Keep, King's Landing
"Hahaha!" King Aerys cackled, his voice echoing off the cold stone walls as he listened to the report of Tywin's humiliation. "A boy! Ha! Tywin could not even handle a child, and yet he dares to hold a grudge over fair Joanna? Varys, reward the lad. I cannot do it openly, so you must find a way."
"But is that wise, my Lord?" Varys counseled, his voice a smooth purr. He still struggled to understand how this particular fish had slipped through his nets. He had tracked every report since the Tully boy woke from his fever, and in just a few months, the lad was brazenly beating Lannister guards in the heart of the capital. "The boy is truly dangerous, and it appears the Prince shares a certain bond with him. What if he does something further in the naivety of his youth?"
"So be it. At most, ban any Tully member from the capital's politics. Tell them never to show me their faces again," the King decided on a whim, his focus shifting instantly. "Now, tell me of Rhaegar's involvement with the Velaryons and the Royal Fleet."
The Prince's Residence
Rhaegar arrived at his informal council later than usual, prompting jests from his companions. "Someone was embracing a fair maiden for far too long," one teased. "Even our shift is nearing its end, yet the Prince is still dreaming of last night."
"It would have been impolite to turn down a pitiful girl," Rhaegar retorted smoothly.
"Yes, the pitiful daughter of the wealthiest lord in Westeros," Oswell joked. He had been emboldened by the Prince's recent support, after being seconded to the Royal Fleet this morning as a nominal punishment. In truth, everyone knew it was the Prince maneuvering his own people into position. It was a daring move: taking a Kingsguard, theoretically under the sole authority of the King, and pushing him into the navy. It was a proclamation that Rhaegar was done hiding. Oswell's first assignment was a punitive expedition against the pirates of the Stepstones.
"Lady Cersei wished for me to punish Edmure, and in return, she offered herself," Rhaegar remarked. "But I am merely playing a part; there is no need to change my plans for a mere woman. My father has banished Edmure from the capital, which counts as me fulfilling my bargain."
"Good riddance," Jon Connington muttered, his mood visibly improving at the news.
"Now, Oswell, take the fleet and complete the task," Rhaegar commanded. "Be cautious; never underestimate how fickle the waves can be. My ancestral home is still ravaged by the volcano and the tides."
Myrish Merchant House, King's Landing
"...If we provide enough incentives, the women of the Trident can produce wealth from the comfort of their homes," Edmure argued, having spent days harassing the leader of the Myrish merchants. He was eyeing the gadgets and textile expertise of Myr. "In a single generation, the realm will undergo a qualitative change. Wealth will flow not just from grain, but from fruits, honey, fish, and, most importantly, textiles. It only requires your cooperation. Good Master, does your conscience truly not pity the poor women?"
"A noble and a merchant discussing conscience! Bring in a priest and it'll be a classic; I have never heard a better joke," the merchant laughed, steadying his belly lest he fall from his chair. Initially, he had thought Edmure was just another noble throwing coin away—a golden lamb. But here the boy was, asking him to betray his city and hollow its secrets from the inside, all while preaching a sermon. "I am not your vassal to be milked with words. I have been doing business for five decades—"
He was interrupted by a child entering the room to beg for food. The merchant's eyes flickered with a different light as he tossed the child a gold coin and took a hidden letter in exchange. He read it, pondered for a moment, and turned back to Edmure.
"However... Norvos has expertise in woolen craft. I will heed your call and connect you with a traitor from there. You can shear all the wool you want in the world then. Just do not forget a poor friend across the Narrow Sea who made it happen."
The message on the parchment had clearly shifted his attitude. Edmure guessed it came from Varys; the children were his little birds, after all. "As a show of sincerity, I obtained something for you," the merchant added, passing an attached letter to Edmure.
Edmure read it. It was a simple Caesar cipher from his father. The message was blunt: 'Uncle botched deal in Sunspear. Rescue at all cost.'