Chapter 136 — I've Come, Your Grace
Prince Doran Martell stepped through half-congealed blood, his expression dazed and grief-stricken.
A man of restraint and calculation, Doran rarely allowed anyone to glimpse his true emotions. But before the courtyard's carnage—hell layered upon hell—envy, regret, and fear rose unbidden within him.
He lifted his gaze toward the courtyard's inner quarters—Mellario's lodgings.
His dark eyes flickered. Prince of Dorne though he was, in this moment he feared to look.
He feared word would come that his wife and newborn son had met the same fate as the others.
"Nothing, Your Highness!"
A man of middling height—sharing Doran's hair and eyes—hurried out and shook his head.
"We found no trace of Lady Mellario or Prince Quentyn.
Most likely… they were taken."
Doran exhaled shakily, relief washing over him as though a weight had fallen from his chest.
Then the world swam black.
Pain stabbed his knees, his legs weakened beneath him—and the Prince of Dorne collapsed into the bloodstained floor.
"Your Highness!"
His kinsman rushed forward; with the help of guards they pulled Doran upright.
Doran pressed trembling fingers to his temples, forcing his mind to clear.
His voice was hoarse yet resolute—trembling, but unyielding:
"Find them.
Find Mellario and Quentyn—no matter the cost."
"At once, Your Highness—"
"Wait."
Doran seized the man's sleeve. Their eyes met—Doran's dark regard filled with an anger utterly unfamiliar.
"Summon every one of our bannermen, Manfrey."
"If Mellario and Quentyn come to harm, we march north at once.
Targaryen will repay blood with blood—
tooth for tooth."
Manfrey Martell froze.
He had known Doran all his life—brilliant, measured, cold as polished steel.
But the man before him now… was a stranger.
In recent months the once-far-seeing Prince of Dorne had made one reckless decision after another. Manfrey regretted being absent when Oberyn seized the Queen's retinue—he had been at Wyl, collecting overdue taxes at Doran's command.
Peasants who owned nothing—not even trousers—had refused to pay. Two tax collectors had been slain.
To uphold Martell authority, Doran sent his most trusted to make an example.
Six heads on the gate had accomplished what diplomacy could not.
Whether those villages would survive the coming winter?
Not the concern of lordly men.
"Why are you still standing there? Move!"
Doran's snarl snapped Manfrey back to himself.
He bowed deeply, gathered his men, and departed—boots splashing through the corpses of the Norvosi bearded priests.
On the way out, Manfrey spared a glance at Areo Hotah's fallen subordinates—beheaded clean as if by the sun-forged blade of old House Dayne.
Such cuts spoke of a swordsman beyond mortal measure.
He swallowed hard and led the search party away.
Doran watched them go, his vision throbbing—like a hairline crack forming across his skull.
He wiped his brow—
but when he looked again, the phantom seam had vanished.
---
Plankytown
West of Sunspear where the Greenblood meets the sea, Plankytown linked Dorne's inland rivers to the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea.
A bustling harbor built entirely atop the water, its wooden streets clacked beneath every step.
Ships came and went in greater number than even King's Landing—sails crowding the horizon.
Before a broad merchant vessel flying the golden rose of Highgarden, two figures waited, scanning the eastern horizon.
Hoods drawn low, wrapped head-to-heel against Dorne's sun, they blended seamlessly among the locals.
"We must board, Your Grace."
Ser Hod stepped forward, voice tight with urgency.
"With Ser Lance's skill, he can cut his way back alone if he must.
But if we linger, Martell riders will reach Plankytown before noon.
Even if you do not fear for yourself…"
He glanced toward the sleeping child in her arms.
"Prince Viserys is in grave danger."
Queen Rhaella Targaryen never lowered her gaze.
Her voice held steel.
"Take the Prince to King's Landing.
See him home safely."
"I stay here."
"Lance gave me his word—he will come for us."
Hod stared, stunned.
A queen risking herself for a Kingsguard—
this lay far beyond his understanding.
Yet royal secrets were not his to question.
He clenched his teeth, looking to the sun creeping higher.
A knight leapt down from the ship, alarmed.
"Ser—we've passed our departure time by half an hour.
If we don't cast off soon, the harbor master—"
"I know!"
Hod snapped—then leaned close, voice low:
"We wait a little longer.
If the sun reaches its peak and Ser Lance has not arrived—
we force Her Grace aboard."
The knight hesitated—then bowed.
Their duty was to their lord, to their house, to the Prince.
They had already risked enough lingering here.
And aboard the ship weren't only Viserys—
but also Mellario and Prince Quentyn.
---
A shadow moved beside them.
A voice—icy, disdainful—broke the silence:
"What are you waiting for, Lord Roose Bolton?"
Not far away on the deck of a mid-sized merchantman, a massively fat man with a mop of greasy brown curls peered down at the harbor below, his face twisted in displeasure.
He turned toward the pale lord beside him—
Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort—and demanded sharply:
"If we delay any longer, the Targaryen woman will sail.
Or do you mean to strike once we're at sea and let the bodies feed the fish of the Greenblood?"
Roose Bolton's reply was as mild as ever, his expression unchanged—only the faintest flick of an eye betraying annoyance.
"Instead of asking me, my lord… why not give the order yourself?
My men are dead to the last.
Perhaps it is time you demonstrated your loyalty to Lord Rickard."
His tone remained calm, almost gentle—yet the message beneath was unmistakable. Roose Bolton was not pleased.
Rickard Stark had not trusted the Dreadfort fully.
The mission to contact House Martell in secret had come with a leash—
a watchdog assigned to keep an eye on Bolton.
And that watchdog now stood before him:
Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor.
Fat to the point of wheezing with every step, seemingly slow-witted… yet far from a fool. Roose had brought several dozen picked men from the Dreadfort—
while Manderly had arrived with fewer than ten retainers, clearly unwilling to dirty his own hands.
He had come to observe. Not to bleed.
And now that Bolton's force had been slaughtered almost to a man,
Manderly offered nothing but smug reminders of their task.
Roose could almost picture him back in Winterfell, whispering in Lord Rickard's ear, speaking of "Bolton's failures."
But Roose merely bowed, voice polite as polished glass:
"My thanks, my lord."
Wyman matched the bow—flesh quivering, smile wide and false.
For a heartbeat they resembled a couple at their wedding—
each ready to shove the other off a cliff the moment the vows were spoken.
---
A dull wooden thud rang out along the pier, dragging every gaze toward the harbor road.
A tall figure in a travel-stained cloak rode straight down the planks—
on horseback, no less—
two enormous swords strapped across his back.
"Oi! No horses on the docks, you bloody fool!"
The harbor-master swore and waved his men forward—but the rider did not slow.
Instead he reached into his cloak, pulled free a bloodstained sack, and tossed it toward them.
One guard reacted quickly—
blade flashing as he cleaved the sack midair.
And then—
gold rained from the sky.
Golden dragons spilled out, clinking and ringing across the boards—
some coins slipping between the gaps to vanish into the water below.
For a heartbeat, the entire pier froze.
Mouths hung open.
Throats worked.
Gold.
Real gold.
The rider's voice came low and dispassionate as he passed:
"My toll."
No one tried to stop him.
In the face of such wealth, even a murderer would have ridden through untouched.
Coins struck wood, splashed into water—
and in moments the harbor erupted into chaos.
Men dove like seals, fishermen and laborers shoving past the harbor-master's men.
Greed drowned fear.
Shouting filled the air.
Behind him, the rider allowed himself the smallest curl of amusement beneath the shadow of his hood.
Let them scramble.
The gold had come from the Old Palace—
taken from Martell coffers.
If Dornish coin returned to Dorne's commoners… well, who could begrudge it?
Step by step, the warhorse approached the merchant ship flying the golden rose.
The rider drew back his hood—revealing clear, piercing blue eyes.
From the deck, Queen Rhaella's breath caught.
Sunlight spilled over the knight's face—
sharp-featured, solemn, streaked faintly with dried blood—
and gilded every strand of his hair like thread-of-gold.
He reined in beneath her.
Raised his head.
And said, voice steady and unwavering—
as if the chaos behind him were nothing at all:
"I come as promised.
I am here, Your Grace."