Tyene loved her father, and found his company a vast improvement to that of her lord husband. By the time they had arrived at the capital, 301 A.C. With around 10,000 fighting men - and all the attendant merchants, servants, camp followers, squires and the like that that entailed - it had taken them another month and a half to march across the Stormlands and through the Kingswood. Surprisingly to no one, Renly hadn’t even batted an eyelash when she told him she was leaving Storm’s End to join her uncle’s host as they’d marched through the Dornish Marches. No one would be better up to the task than my daughter,” Oberyn drawled, casting an approving look over at his baseborn child as he praised her.
If the siege turns against us, someone will need to see to the evacuation by water. Thankfully, the Royal fleet holds Blackwater Bay. “Oberyn, you know we’re expecting a siege, don’t you?” The boy himself seemed considerably less pleased as he shuffled off to fetch more chilled summerwine for the third time since they’d sat down. Tyene was sure the boy’s father had been quite pleased indeed to get his younger son off his hands and into such a prestigious position. “I’ll send the serving boy for more,” Doran said, raising a hand to indicate to the boy who waited on him - some younger son of a minor lordling in the Torrentine, back in Dorne. Do you have more wine?” Oberyn added in, seemingly unaware of or apathetic to his brother’s concerns. “See Brother? Not a battle worth fighting. “I could not just sit in Storm’s End and watch my family suffer, Uncle,” Tyene shot back. The three of them - the Prince of Dorne, the Red Viper, and Tyene Sand Baratheon - sat in Doran’s solar on the cool autumn evening. I do not know what madness seized my brother,” Prince Doran said with sadness in his voice, looking over at his younger brother.
“Tyene, though I am very glad to see you, you should not have come here.
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