My Prince,

Your goodbrother is mad.

I trust your judgement, my Prince, truly-- and I know that you wish us to be loyal to the Iron Throne.

Vickon Greyjoy did not.

My Prince… your goodbrother is dead.

His desires consumed him, and he set out to take Dragonstone from the King’s men who held it. To join him would have been tantamount to treason, and would earn us the ire of the Throne. To flee him would be to turn our backs to his cause, and to earn us his ire.

I chose, as I thought you would bid me, my Prince.

My ships sit in the capital, now, awaiting the chance to break past the Greyjoy blockade of the bay. I send this to you in warning. I do not think the Ironborn will take my defection so meekly, so I pray this reaches you quickly. Should the blockade break, or an opening appears, I will make haste for home as fast as the Mother wills.

…Forgive me, my Prince. I have failed you.

- Doran

The Prince stared at the letter, eyes raking line after line of ink, as if hoping that the words would change, given enough time out of eyesight.

They, of course did not.

Bringing a hand to his face, the Prince fought the urge the urge to sigh or shout or rage against the world. With every word written upon that cursed piece of parchment, he could feel Olyvar fracturing further and further. It was all he could do to keep the wave of loathing and despair at bay.

The Prince did not feel such things, for Vickon meant little to him-- but to Olyvar, the Greyjoy very much did.

Vickon is dead too, he wept. I set him on this path, I enabled this path. I have killed him. I--

“My Prince?”

Shaken from the hollow, whispered words from his mind, the Prince looked up from his letter to the other occupant of the room, his castellan-- the one who had brought him Doran’s letter to begin with.

“My Prince,” Qoren spoke again, and the Prince crushed the letter in his fist. There was nothing more it could give him, and there was nothing more he needed from it. It had brought him warning, and that was all he needed. “What are we to do?”

The Prince stared at his fist, the crumpled parchment coarse on his skin. Within, Olyvar was silent-- despondent resigned. For all that they were now two entities, they shared the same mind, the same thoughts-- and Olyvar knew what the Prince meant to do.

Yet, the Prince hesitated.

…Do you want me to do this? he asked. Gwynesse… she is the only one you reveal yourself to, since Daeron’s death. She is the last bit of happiness left to you. Do you… truly wish for this to be done? Tell me now, and I will find another way.

He was silent, once more, and the Prince waited for the damning reply.

And then, from within, Olyvar nodded.

Everything for Dorne, came the broken whisper.

The Prince closed his eyes, and nodded, swallowing the bitterness that Olyvar’s answer brought. …Everything for Dorne, he replied. Forgive me, Olyvar.

Their eyes opened, dark and resigned. The path before them was narrow, and both knew that there was only place it would lead them. There was no other path to walk down, but one other-- and neither would entertain it.

Olyvar would not be Nymeria. He would not flee.

(He would be Garin.)

(And he would die.)

“Ser Trebor,” the Prince called, “Ser Wyland.

“Bring me Sallei and Gwynese Greyjoy.”