The feast had come and gone, and Olyvar could not have been more relieved.

He’d had many a conversation, there. Met many potential friends, and true ones. Potential enemies. Definite enemies. Now, more than ever, he felt out of his depth. Now, more than ever, he wanted to go home.

But he could do no such thing. Protocal and politeness dictated he stay long enough to at least see the tourney's end, if nothing else. And that asides... he was the Prince of Dorne, for better or for worse, and he had to do his best to rule it, to keep it safe-- and that meant wrangling every possible opportunity and concession out of this cursed city if possible. In that, Olyvar’d already had some success, thank the Rhoyne, with the deals cut with House Manderly and House Greyjoy.

Was it enough, though? Enough to keep Dorne safe, and protected?

Was he enough?

(Rhoyne, he missed his mother.)

She would have known what to do.

Yet, here Olyvar was, feeling as if he were stumbling about in the dark, desperately looking for a foothold in which to steady himself. And, the longer he felt like that, the more he began to understand why Lorzea had left the Sun Throne before.

(He tried not to let the resentment he had for her leaving it to him grow in turn.)

At any rate, he could no longer afford to idle. Negotiations on the dowry had to continue. He needed to consult with his Spymaster, and gain his council.

He needed to talk with his sister.

So, Olyvar opened the doors of his private quarters, and readied for his meetings. Be it kin, Ironborn, or whoever might seek an audience with him.

The Prince of Dorne sat behind his desk, and waited. For better or worse, he was here to stay.

Let’s begin.