Dorne, the Water Gardens.
The gentle murmur of fountains filled the air, mingling with the soft rustle of palm fronds swaying in the breeze. The scent of orange blossoms and lemon trees hung thick and sweet in the warm air.
But the peace of this desert oasis was shattered by a letter from the Stormlands.
Prince Doran sat motionless in his wheelchair, his expression calm but his eyes shadowed with storm-dark depth. His thin, trembling fingers gripped the letter brought by a mercenary envoy.
The handwriting of Viserys Targaryen—arrogant, naive—stoked a fury that burned behind Doran's composed face.
In the letter, Viserys wrote that he and the Hand of the King, Tyrion Lannister, were leading thirty thousand troops to conquer the Stormlands. He claimed to have learned of Princess Arianne's betrothal and had already announced it across the Seven Kingdoms, urging Dorne to send its armies to help him reclaim the Iron Throne...
Prince Doran almost roared aloud.
He had held his patience even when Oberyn was captured by the Easterner. He had remained still while kings rose and fell across the Seven Kingdoms, biding his time, waiting for the single, decisive strike that would matter.
And now, this foolish letter—and that even more foolish boy, Viserys—had thrown all his careful silence and secrets into the open sun.
Worse still, the soldiers Viserys claimed to command were nothing but Dothraki savages.
If Dorne tied itself to Viserys, it would be as if the whole of Dorne were thrown upon the flames.
After a long moment, Doran finally forced down the fury that threatened to consume him. He raised a trembling hand and rasped, "Summon Quentyn and Arianne."
Soon after, Prince Quentyn entered, dressed simply in a light linen tunic.
Arianne followed. Her steps were slow and languid, her crimson silk gown clinging to every curve. Thick black curls spilled over her shoulders, a few damp strands clinging to her smooth brow and slender neck. A faint flush lingered on her cheeks, her gaze still hazy and sated—clearly fresh from pleasure.
Since her confinement in the Spear Tower three months ago, she had grown even more reckless.
Prince Doran didn't look at his daughter. He tossed the letter onto the low table before them.
Quentyn unfolded it carefully, frowning in confusion. As his eyes swept over the words, his face went pale and his hands began to tremble. "Viserys... how could he..."
Arianne leaned closer. The moment her gaze caught the word betrothal, her languor vanished, replaced by a spark of excitement she couldn't hide.
"Targaryen..." she murmured, the name rolling from her tongue like a sigh. In her mind rose the images from songs and tales—the otherworldly beauty of the dragonlords, their silver-gold hair and violet eyes.
What would her future husband look like? Would he be as gallant and handsome as the "Young Dragonlord" Daeron, or as noble and captivating as the "Dragonknight" Aemon?
Her heart fluttered at the thought of a queen's life awaiting her.
Prince Doran saw it all—the fear tightening his son's jaw, the dreamy longing in his daughter's eyes.
The anger he had barely restrained surged once more, though his voice came out calm and cutting as ice.
"Thirty thousand Dothraki savages, borrowed from the easterners across the Narrow Sea. Think, what will they do in the Stormlands? Not conquer cities or hold lands—but pillage, burn, and butcher. They'll turn the Stormlands into ash, and the Targaryen name into a plague hated by all Westeros. If Dorne binds itself to him now, we stand against the whole realm."
"Father, then we must march at once!"
Quentyn lifted his head, his young face alight with earnestness. "Viserys needs us! Only Dorne's army can restrain those savages, can—"
"Restrain?"
Doran's cold laugh cut him short. "Quentyn, you are too naive. Who can restrain a horde of horsemen who know only blades and plunder? Viserys? He cannot."
His sharp gaze shifted between his children, but his thoughts had already turned elsewhere.
Who leaked word of the betrothal? The easterners?
No. That agreement should have been known only to Willem Darry, the Sealord of Braavos, and to themselves. Unless...
The image of his brother came unbidden to mind—Oberyn, still imprisoned across the Narrow Sea.
How much had the easterners forced from him? How much had they learned?
What were they truly planning?
A heavy silence settled over the pavilion, broken only by the endless trickle of the fountains.
After a long while, Prince Doran finally looked up, his gaze passing slowly from his son to his daughter. Then, at last, he made his decision.
"Arianne, put away your little schemes. Quentyn, you will depart for Sunspear at once. In my name, summon our vassals and muster ten thousand men. Lead the Dornish host through the Prince's Pass. Your mission is not to aid Viserys in battle, but to observe and test his army.
If—by some stroke of luck—or if that dwarf at his side truly has some talent, and they manage to gain a foothold in the Stormlands, repel the Stormlords or other foes, and seize the advantage, then you will represent Dorne and join his cause. But keep your distance. Maintain our independence. Dorne's soldiers answer only to Sunspear.
If... if he and his horse-riding savages are besieged in the Stormlands—by Cortnay, by Stannis, or by the Lannister legions—then your foremost duty is to bring Viserys Targaryen back to Dorne alive. At any cost."
Quentyn drew a sharp breath. "Father, this—"
Doran cut him off. "Remember! The game in Westeros is only half played. To reveal Dorne's hand now would only serve the schemers. We will wait until they tear each other apart, until they bleed themselves dry. Only then will the spears of Dorne strike from the sands. To act now would make us the target, torn to pieces by all."
He closed his eyes wearily and waved a hand. "Go, Quentyn. Take only those you trust. Remember what I've said."
Quentyn nodded firmly, his eyes steady with resolve. "Yes, Father. I understand."
He turned and strode swiftly from the pavilion, his figure soon lost among the swaying palms.
Arianne watched her brother's back disappear into the garden, then turned to her father, who sat with eyes closed in silent thought. Her red lips parted, as if to speak—but she held her tongue.
The glimmer of fascination for Targaryen beauty faded from her eyes, replaced by the weight of contemplation.
Could that "true dragon" truly be her salvation?