"Caesar's wife must be above suspicion."
Listening to Viserys's words, Oberyn Martell realized that Viserys was not Rhaegar. He was a quintessential Targaryen—fiery, sharp, and a true dragon.
If Arianne Martell were to remain simply the heir to Dorne and its ruling Princess, her promiscuity and indulgent lifestyle would be her own business; her men merely accessories. But as a prospective Queen, her reputation would turn the crown into a laughingstock.
Even whispers and rumors could tarnish the image of a King's betrothed, and Arianne's life was hardly discreet.
To press the matter of matching Arianne with Viserys would only invite humiliation. A beast of power like Viserys would not accept another man's leftovers. He was no longer the beggar king without a crown.
Even the passionate and liberated Dornish understood that chastity was a virtue expected of highborn ladies, especially when playing for the highest stakes.
To put it crudely, noble marriages were like trading goods in a market; the price depended on the quality of the merchandise.
Lysa Tully, with her aborted pregnancy, might have been an exception, but that was a desperate measure in desperate times. Hoster Tully had forced his daughter onto the elderly Jon Arryn because his position during Robert's Rebellion was critical, and the flames of war were hot.
Hoster had threatened Lysa with the same fate as the Blackfish—expulsion from the family—if she refused. Even Hoster admitted Lysa should thank the Gods that a great lord like Jon Arryn would take a woman who was "spoiled goods," especially since Arryn desperately needed the Tully swords and a new heir after the death of his own.
"I understand. There will be a new pact between us," the Red Viper said, taking a deep breath.
For the great lords, a fling was a fling, and a marriage was a marriage. The two could not be confused. The "Wild Wolf" Brandon Stark was the classic example: dallying with other women while enthusiastically courting Catelyn Tully, his social equal.
"A new pact. Beyond marriage, I still trust Dorne as my staunch ally," Viserys said, raising his cup.
Times had changed. Dorne had shifted from being the dominant partner in the Braavos pact to a supporting force for Viserys. His resurgence relied on his Andal and Rhoynar legions, not on waiting for Dornish spears to cross the sea.
"Still, it is not too late. At worst, we stand in line behind Ser Willem Darry and Ser Rolly Duckfield," Oberyn set down his cup with a self-deprecating smile.
Viserys didn't commit to an answer. Based on timing and loyalty, the Martells did indeed fall behind the Darrys and the Duckfields.
Ser Willem Darry had sheltered Viserys for six years. Rolly Duckfield was his new master-at-arms and loyal follower. They were perhaps second- or third-rate talents in the grand scheme, but they had protected Viserys when it mattered most.
In suffering, loyalty outweighs all.
Investment and return are always proportional. Adding flowers to a brocade is never as valuable as sending charcoal in the snow.
"How will you reward them?" Oberyn probed.
"I haven't decided on the specifics. But the Riverlands have no need for a Lord Paramount or a Warden. I will punish the Tullys severely, and I will restore wealth and honor to House Darry and House Mooton," Viserys replied coldly.
The ancient loyalist houses had suffered greatly under the new regime—lands strip-mined, heavy fines levied. As for the fence-sitting Tullys, it would be a crime against heaven not to smash them with the hammer of justice.
"Hoster Tully... a shrewd old man. He married into two ancient kingdoms," Oberyn said, his smile tinged with dark malice. "I hope that day comes soon. The Dragon's justice."
"We hid the pact intentionally back then to protect you. We didn't trust two small children to keep such a dangerous secret. But that deliberate silence has made the pact obsolete," Oberyn sighed. The marriage alliance was dead.
The fatal flaw of the pact was ignoring the power of time. They had underestimated Viserys and overestimated Arianne.
No one is a blank slate waiting for a paper promise to come true. Young people live as they please. Viserys had wandered the world, while Arianne had been consumed by her own plots for the Dornish succession.
"As the special envoy of my brother, Prince Doran, and a signatory to the original pact, I have the authority to amend or annul it," Oberyn emphasized.
"Then let us terminate this agreement, under the witness of the Gods," Viserys said.
Viserys felt a wave of relief. He had no interest in Arianne, who used her body as a weapon. As a subordinate, she might be manageable, but as a Queen? Intolerable.
---
Inside the white sept, only the Red Viper, Viserys, and Septon Ebony were present.
"The Father."
"The Mother."
"The Warrior."
"The Stranger."
Septon Ebony prayed devoutly before the statues of the Seven. "In the light of the Seven, the broken contract shall be mended, like a picture made whole."
The statue of the Father held scales, symbolizing divine judgment.
"The betrothal of six years past is no longer viable. The faithful daughter Arianne and the faithful son Viserys are strangers to one another, unknowing and unmet, and the marriage was never consummated. The change in circumstances is the cause for termination. It violates no moral law and is a sacred reason permitted by the Father. Are you certain you wish to terminate the agreement?"
"I am certain!" The Red Viper placed his hand on The Seven-Pointed Star.
"I am certain!" Viserys placed his palm on the holy book as well.
"Father, give justice."
"Mother, give mercy."
"Under the light of the Father, Viserys Targaryen, Oberyn Martell, do you willingly terminate this Pact of Braavos, bearing no ill will, understanding one another? Do you still hold love in your hearts and guarantee no future dispute between your houses?"
"I do!"
"I do!"
"The Gods have heard your voices. Please sign your names. I declare, under the witness of the Gods, the pact is officially terminated." Septon Ebony produced a parchment marked with the seven-pointed star.
Viserys and the Red Viper signed their names, and the Septon signed as a witness.
Finally, the pact was dead.
Viserys breathed a sigh of relief. Breaking an oath could be ugly, but he had successfully dodged the bullet that was Arianne Martell, the "Rotten Rose."
"One day, Arianne will understand that she saw only the grass at her feet and missed the mountain in the distance," Oberyn said with a touch of regret, but resigned to fate.
It was Arianne's nature—a creature of appetite.
Oberyn accepted that the world was full of regrets. But even without Arianne, they still had Rhaenys.
"No man is an island, Prince Oberyn. You raised Arianne the Dornish way, but you failed to tell her of the dangers and glories that lay ahead."
Viserys didn't bother criticizing Arianne further. After all, her rebellious antics were partly a reaction to Doran's secretive scheming.
---
That night, in the council chamber of the White Keep.
Viserys sat on his oak throne, looking at his visitor—a tycoon of the smuggling world.
"Great King of Andalos and the Rhoyne, Your Grace Viserys. Your fame spreads from the Narrow Sea to the Summer Sea," said Morosh the Myrman, an admiral of a mercenary fleet.
These smugglers mainly moved contraband, but when business was slow, they weren't above a bit of piracy.
Morosh looked somewhat Rhoynar-ish—a smooth, round-faced, middle-aged Myrman dressed in flashy silks, with a Myrish lens decorating his belt.
Most natives of Myr had olive skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. Maesters speculated they were kin to the Rhoynar, though Myr had existed long before Nymeria's flight, so the theory was debated.
"Have my toys arrived, Admiral?" Viserys asked.
Viserys had used Illyrio's connections to secure a smuggling channel, specifically to import Myrish crossbows and other munitions.
"Brand new Myrish crossbows, and Myrish lenses!" Morosh patted his chest with exaggerated assurance.
Morosh had his servants assemble a new crossbow—a double-shot mechanism, a thing of beauty.
"Very good. No triple-shots?" Viserys asked.
"I am terribly sorry, Your Grace. Triple-shot crossbows are exorbitantly expensive and their export is strictly banned. It would bring... trouble," the Myrman apologized.
"Very well. Aside from lenses and crossbows, I imagine you could also smuggle me a set of copper stills," Viserys requested.
The distillation equipment from House Greenvine was crude. To get the complex flavors he wanted, he needed copper pot stills.
"As you wish, Your Grace. Myrish artisans are professionals; their craft is unrivaled," Morosh said.
"Do it well. I hope for a happy partnership," Viserys said, eyeing the smuggler.
"It is my supreme honor." Morosh beamed. A dedicated smuggling channel for a Kingdom? He was going to be rich. "It's a pity my old friend, the Onion Knight, doesn't run with us anymore. He climbed high, but I have climbed to a King."
Viserys knew the smuggling world was a small web. The Onion Knight, Morosh, Salladhor Saan—the best smugglers on the seas all knew each other.
In the past, they would slip into Braavos, Myr, or Volantis under the cover of pitch-black nights, unseen by gods or ghosts, loading silks and spices to dodge tariffs.
Now, Morosh was moving cargo openly, delivering it straight to the rising Dragon King of Andalos.