Chapter 111 — Undercurrents
"Whatever are you implying, Lady Larra?"
Franklyn Fowler answered with impeccable politeness, despite the sharpness of her tone. He smiled and replied:
"I received the raven from Sunspear three days ago. I assume you received yours as well—so where would the 'reminder' come from?"
"And besides, welcoming Her Grace is hardly a matter of 'glory.' It's nothing more than my duty to House Martell."
He spoke flawlessly—humble, loyal, and without yielding an inch.
Larra only snorted in reply. Her gaze slid away from Franklyn and snapped toward Lewyn Martell.
"And you, Lewyn—what exactly are you staring at? Planning to pretend you didn't see me?"
"Huh?"
Lewyn, who had been innocently staring up the mountainside, blinked and snapped back to reality. He scratched his head and laughed awkwardly.
"I was just… looking at the spot scars the Blue Queen from King Daeron I supposedly burned. No matter how many times I see it, it's always quite a sight…"
"Oh please. You're turning senile."
Her voice rose again, sharp enough to cut skin.
"When Daeron the Young Dragon invaded Dorne, the Targaryens no longer had dragons. Where, exactly, do you see dragonfire?"
"Oh… that so?"
Lewyn didn't get angry. He only scratched his hair again and forced a sheepish grin.
"Ahh… this is the trouble with age. The memory goes first."
"Horse shit."
Larra clearly had no intention of letting it go. She sneered:
"You seem to remember all your filthy little whores perfectly well. Every single one."
"And drop the decrepit act. You're barely thirty."
"…weren't you the one calling me senile five seconds ago?"
Lewyn swallowed the retort. He continued smiling stupidly, rubbing the back of his head like a boy caught stealing figs.
Lance watched the back-and-forth with raised brows.
These two are definitely sleeping together.
And honestly, for Dorne? Not surprising at all.
After all, Oberyn Martell once killed Edgar Yronwood in a duel because he'd seduced the man's mistress—and then had to flee across the Narrow Sea to play mercenary for a few years.
Dorne was… free-spirited.
"Ahem…"
Franklyn coughed twice, finally breaking the tense atmosphere. Then he introduced — with the grace of a man trying to avoid disaster:
"This is Lady Larra of Blackmont."
"And this is Ser Lance Lot—Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Surely you've heard of him. He is responsible for the safety of Her Grace and Prince Viserys on this journey."
He deliberately brought up the Queen, hoping Larra would restrain herself.
She didn't.
She glanced briefly at Lance — nothing more than a flicker — then immediately resumed glaring daggers at Franklyn.
"Perfect. Then today, in front of the Queen and the Lord Commander, we'll settle matters between Blackmont and House Fowler once and for all!"
"Must you pick now of all times?!"
Even good-natured Franklyn lost patience at that, voice rising in frustration:
"We are here to receive the Queen. Do not make a spectacle."
"Oh, I'm the one making a scene? You blockaded the entire pass! And that's not 'too much'?"
Their arguing rose quickly—two Dornish lords publicly quarreling right in front of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Lewyn shot Lance an apologetic sigh.
This was Dorne. Always had been.
Fiercely united against the outside world—yet always one spark away from brawling among themselves the moment the threat passed.
House Martell ruled Dorne… but did not micromanage Dorne.
Pay taxes, respect the pact, and fight when called—that was all that mattered.
Everything else? A Dornish lord would kill his neighbor over a goat and be drinking with him again next week.
Dorne had always been a land apart—closed, proud, and ferocious.
Even after several Targaryen invasions, the Dornish had never truly bowed.
To put it bluntly, this place was full of hard-headed barbarians in silk, every bit as stubborn as the North—if not worse.
Even after being absorbed into the Seven Kingdoms, Dornish lords held little love for the Iron Throne.
When an enemy threatened Dorne, every house stood shoulder-to-shoulder as a single fist.
But the moment peace returned, these short-fused lords were perfectly capable of splitting each other's skulls over a petty argument.
Even House Martell often struggled to interfere in their disputes.
As long as taxes were paid—
…and sometimes even when they weren't—
Martell usually let them be.
Hands-off rule.
That was how House Martell governed Dorne.
At least on parchment, they were the rulers of this land.
But listening to Franklyn and Larra barking at one another, Lance's head was beginning to pound.
For one brief, tempting moment, he wanted nothing more than to draw the greatsword on his back and cut both of them clean in half just for the silence.
"Enough!"
The moment they both reached for their blades—as if they truly meant to duel right in front of him—Lance snapped, voice loud enough to crack the air.
The two lords finally came to their senses.
Face aside, neither of them was foolish enough to actually start killing in front of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard… unless they wished to be executed on the spot.
"This is Dorne, my lords."
Lance forced down the impulse to solve the problem with steel and spoke coolly:
"The Targaryens rule the Seven Kingdoms, yes—but Dorne has always held considerable autonomy."
He tilted his head toward Lewyn.
"And since Prince Lewyn is here today, if there is a matter to settle between your houses, you may do so before him—and let the Prince deliver judgment."
Franklyn fell silent, accepting the point.
Larra, however, simply shot Lewyn a look dripping with contempt.
"Him? Oh he's very good at dropping his trousers, I'll grant that. But ruling and judging?"
A dry, humorless laugh.
"My Peggy does a better job."
"…Peggy?" Lance echoed, momentarily confused.
Larra smirked, enjoying the confusion, and delivered the explanation like poison:
"Peggy is a boar. A breeding boar. Every sow in Blackmont is mated on her schedule. And she manages time with more sense and fairness than Lewyn ever did."
"Enough, Larra!"
Even mild-tempered Lewyn finally snapped, face flushing with humiliation.
For a moment he silently congratulated his younger self for pulling up his trousers and fleeing from that woman when he had the chance.
Larra only smiled sweetly—sharp as a dagger.
"You gentlemen enjoy your little chat."
Her eyes glittered with suppressed fury, but her voice remained mockingly polite.
"I must return to feed Peggy."
With that, she spun her horse, cloak snapping like a banner in the wind, and led the Blackmont riders away in a thunder of hooves—swift, clean, and utterly unapologetic.
Lance watched her vanish down the road and chuckled.
"A noisy one, yes—but she doesn't seem like a bad sort."
"Gods preserve us."
Lewyn rubbed his brow in agony.
"She's trouble incarnate. I pray that's the last time we see her."
Lance and Franklyn exchanged a knowing look—then all three men burst into laughter.
—
But miles down the sandy road, Larra Blackmont slowed her horse.
She raised a gauntleted fist, signaling her riders to halt.
"Mother."
A knight approached—armored head to toe, though the voice was light and feminine.
Larra looked back toward Prince's Pass.
The sharpness in her eyes had vanished—replaced by something far colder.
"Give the order," she said quietly.
"Proceed exactly as planned."
"Yes, my lady."
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