Abel had never known heat like this. It was a physical weight, a shimmering blanket that made the air feel like it was boiling in his lungs. His fur-lined cloak was long gone, bundled up on the back of his horse alongside a heavy, salt-packed crate that smelled faintly of brine and old copper.
Sunspear was like nothing he'd ever seen. The walls weren't grey granite or ancient timber; they were built of mud and straw, baked hard by a sun that never seemed to sleep. Golden domes rose above the labyrinthine streets, reflecting the light with a brilliance that made his eyes ache. He wondered how these "mud houses" could possibly stand up to a Northern axe or a battering ram, but the people here didn't seem worried.
The women were the biggest surprise. Back in Karhold, a girl might give you a shy smile from behind a fence. Here, they were as fierce and bright as the sun. A girl with chestnut skin and dark, laughing eyes had stopped Matthew earlier, running a finger over his bare, sweat-slicked chest and tasting the salt before pointing them toward the Old Palace.
"Where did these northern bumpkins crawl out from?" the guard at the Triple Gate sneered. He had a thick red beard and teeth so white they looked like polished bone. His Common Tongue was thick with an accent that sounded like singing. "We don't have a 'King of the North' here. Go find a fountain and cool off before I throw you in a hole for a month."
Abel didn't get angry. He was an [Ice Warrior] now; he had the discipline of a man who had seen the worst of the world. He reached into his tunic, pulled out a rolled flag, and tied it to the hilt of his sword.
The white sunburst of Karstark and the grey Running Wolf of Stark unfurled in the dry breeze.
"Tell Prince Martell that I represent the King of the North and the Lord of Karhold," Abel said, his voice steady. "I have a gift for him. A gift for Princess Elia."
The guard's sneer vanished. His body went rigid, his eyes darting to the crate on Abel's horse. He didn't ask another question. "Wait here," he muttered, and he practically ran toward the palace.
An hour later, Abel and his men, Matthew, Yaris, Todd, and Owen were led not into the palace, but through a winding road to the Water Gardens by the sea.
It was a paradise of marble and orange trees. The air was thick with the scent of citrus and sea salt, a sharp contrast to the smell of rotting leaves and damp pine he was used to. Every breath felt sweet.
"I hear you've come a long way," a voice said. It was soft, gentle, and carried the weight of a long, tired life.
Under the shade of an orange tree, Prince Doran Martell sat in a wheelchair. His face was haggard, his skin sallow, and his legs were swollen to twice their natural size, hidden beneath an ivory sheet. He was toying with a red agate lion, his fingers red and inflamed from the gout.
Behind him stood Arianne Martell. She was stunning - olive skin, lustrous black curls, and a pink robe that left very little to the imagination. She watched Abel with the eyes of a desert viper, a predatory curiosity in her gaze.
"We have, Prince Martell," Abel said. He was nervous, but he kept his face like stone, just like the Young Master had taught him.
He signaled his men. They stepped forward and dropped their heavy bundles onto the red marble floor. Abel untied the largest one.
The head of Gregor Clegane rolled out.
It was massive, grey, and preserved in salt, but the features were unmistakable. The man who had haunted the Martell family's nightmares for fifteen years was staring blankly at the Dornish sky.
Doran's pupils constricted. He didn't jump. He didn't scream. He just stared at the head in a silence that felt heavier than the heat.
"You say it's him, so it is?" Arianne asked, her voice a dangerous purr. "Dorne and the North are strangers. How do we know you didn't just find a big vagrant and chop his head off to swindle us?"
Abel looked her right in the eye. "Young Master Eddard said the Princess might be suspicious. That's why we brought the rest of him."
Matthew and the others untied their packs. Piece by piece, they assembled the corpse on the marble floor. A man two meters and thirty centimeters tall. The cuts were clean, matching the limbs to the torso perfectly. Even the shriveled, pale "equipment" between the giant's legs was there, a final insult to the man's legacy.
Prince Doran gripped his agate lion so hard his knuckles turned white. He looked at the giant's remains, then up at Abel.
"And what," Doran asked softly, "does Robb Stark want for this gift?"
Doran already knew the Lannisters were offering Myrcella's hand in marriage to secure his loyalty. The ravens from King's Landing had been arriving for days. But looking at the meat of the man who killed his sister, Doran felt the gears of his long-hidden revenge finally begin to turn.
"The Young Master said this is a gift, not a transaction," Abel replied, bowing his head. "A gift requires no return."
Arianne let out a sharp, amused laugh. "But it makes for a very good stepping stone, doesn't it?" She looked at Abel with a new kind of interest. "I'm starting to think I'd like to meet this Young Master of yours."
"If the Prince is satisfied," Abel continued, "then Eddard will write to you in the future. He only hopes that the Prince might find the time to reply."
"I understand," Doran said. He signaled for his guards. "You've had a long journey. Will you stay and rest?"
"No," Abel said, shaking his head. "There is a war on. The King needs every man."
Abel and his squad turned and left, escorted by Arianne, who kept asking pointed questions about "the Karstark prodigy."
Doran Martell watched them go. He looked down at the Mountain's head and whispered to his captain, "Have Oberyn send men to watch them. They showed the Wolf's banner; the Lannister spies will have seen. Ensure they reach the border."
He sighed, his eyes fixed on the rotting giant. "There is no such thing as a free gift. But this one... this one I will accept."