[106] Westerosi Politics

Chapter 106: Westerosi Politics

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The Water Gardens hummed with the quiet melody of distant fountains and the gentle rustle of orange trees swaying in the breeze. Within Prince Doran Martell's private solar, that peace transformed into an oppressive silence.

Doran sat in his wheeled chair beside the open window, the parchment trembling slightly in his gout-ridden hands. The letter's seal—broken now—bore the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, though not from the king that ruled the Seven Kingdoms right now.

Sunlight streamed across the polished marble floor, creating a sharp line between light and shadow that bisected the room. On one side sat Doran, bathed in golden light, and on the other paced his brother. His younger brother was coiled with tension.

Oberyn Martell's boots clicked rhythmically against the floor as he moved, the sound breaking the silence like a heartbeat. His dark eyes never left his elder brother's face, searching for any hint of the thoughts behind that carefully composed mask.

"Three days," Oberyn said finally, breaking the silence that had stretched between them since the letter's arrival. "Three days since the Dragon King took her, and not a word from Arianne herself."

The words were heavy with accusation and fear. Doran's fingers carefully refolded the letter along its creases, the deliberate motion betraying none of the turmoil beneath. His face remained impassive, though a muscle in his jaw twitched slightly.

"But plenty of words from others," Doran replied, his voice steady despite everything. "The whole of Dorne whispers about it now—how the Dragon King plucked their Princess from her balcony." He looked up at his brother, his eyes hardening. "Don't expect words from her. It's her fault. She called him from the balcony, and he flew down."

Oberyn halted mid-stride, his expression darkening. "Maybe we should have put her in a tower without a balcony," he remarked with bitter humor, though there was no delight in his eyes. He resumed his pacing, shadow stretching and contracting as he moved through patches of sunlight. "What does our 'king' Aegon say about this?"

The emphasis on "king" carried all the venom the Red Viper was known for. Doran held the letter out to his brother, his movements slow thanks to the pain in his swollen joints.

"...The boy has made a strategically smart call," Doran said, his tone revealing nothing of his true feelings. "Read for yourself."

Oberyn snatched the parchment from his brother's hand, his eyes scanning the flowing script quickly. With each line, his expression darkened further, his lips pressing into a thin line until they nearly disappeared altogether.

"Brother. This reads to me that our silver-haired hope has abandoned us as quickly as he claimed us," Oberyn said, his voice dangerously quiet.

Doran said nothing, watching his brother's rage build with each passing second. The silence extended between them again, broken only by the distant laughter of children playing in the pools outside.

"He says he's 'somewhere safe'? Away from trouble? He won't come to Dorne because Viserys might look for him here?" Oberyn crumpled the parchment in his fist, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. "You pledged our spears to this boy, brother, and now he hides while my niece is held captive!"

Doran's expression remained unchanged, though something flickered behind his eyes—a brief acknowledgment of the truth in his brother's words.

"A calculated risk," Doran said quietly, but the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. "It makes sense from his position."

"Forgive me, but are you blind, brother?" Oberyn asked, frustration evident in every line of his body.

Doran said nothing. The silence itself was an admission.

"He failed you," Oberyn said sharply, jabbing a finger toward Doran. "I warned you about abandoning Viserys. I warned you the moment we heard he had wings and a dragon. You said everything will be alright when 'Aegon' takes a dragon of his own. Now he did. And what does he do? Neither of us knows!"

Prince Doran wheeled his chair away from the window, moving with practiced efficiency toward a map table displaying Dorne and its surroundings. The elaborate cartography showed mountains, passes, coastlines—all the natural defenses that had protected Dorne for centuries. Defenses that meant nothing against a dragon.

"I'll admit this doesn't please me," Doran said, his fingers tracing the outline of Sunspear on the map. "But he must have his reasons. If he were planning to abandon us, he wouldn't have bothered to write to us. I'll choose to trust him for now since we've already made the decision to go against Viserys." His fingers stilled on the map as he looked up at his brother. "Send an official letter to King's Landing demanding they return Arianne."

Oberyn sighed, the sound carrying all the weight of his frustration and worry. "You know why he took Arianne. He won’t just return her to us unless we hand over this Aegon."

“That is our nephew, Oberyn.” Doran turned his gaze back to the window, to the horizon where dark clouds gathered over the Summer Sea. “Since he’s claimed a dragon, that proves his Targaryen blood. We can take this little risk for his sake.”

The distant rumble of thunder echoed the unspoken fears in the room.

“I don't like this, brother.” Oberyn said after a moment of silence, following his gaze out the window.

"...Neither do I," Doran replied, gazing at the distant horizon where a storm gathers over the Summer Sea. Bad times might be coming for Dorne, but Doran wasn’t going to keep pretending to be a weakling.

****

I drummed my fingers against the carved surface of the Small Council table, enjoying the momentary silence before the discussions began. The midday sun streamed through the high windows, casting sharp bands of light across the chamber's stone floor.

The room smelled faintly of beeswax and parchment, an improvement over the usual stench of the city below. Speaking of, I still gotta fix that. But I need so much gold…

The table before me was now a smaller council than before, but one I could actually trust, more or less. Ros sat to my right, dressed in deep burgundy finery that complemented her copper hair. She'd taken to her role as Mistress of Whispers with remarkable ease. Behind my chair stood Brienne of Tarth, her white Kingsguard armor gleaming in the sunlight, hand resting on her sword hilt. Opposite me, Robb Stark sat with the rigid posture of a man unused to southern politics, but his eyes remained sharp and attentive.

I'd left several seats deliberately empty. Mace Tyrell was still in Braavos, and Grand Maester Pycelle was notably absent—the doddering old fool had served too many regimes, and his loyalties were suspect at best. Plus, there was that thing where he had romantic feelings for Tywin… I'd deal with him once I'd secured more trustworthy replacements.

I fingered the sealed letter bearing the Martell sigil that had arrived that morning, tapping it deliberately on the table.

"A letter came from Dorne today," I announced, cutting through the formal atmosphere. "By now, I trust everyone has heard about our Dornish guest, so you can guess what the letter contains. Princess Arianne Martell now resides in the Red Keep as our honored hostage."

Robb Stark's brow furrowed. Even though he'd learned the southern game quickly enough, he still maintained that refreshing Northern bluntness.

"Hostage, Your Grace?" he questioned, the words careful but direct. “I heard you and her share a… peculiar relationship, though.” Even if Sansa hadn’t told her about it, it would be difficult to miss the moans coming from the King’s bedchambers for three whole days.

As the brother of my wife, who was also a King, the news didn't sit well with him. But perhaps out of fear of his sister's treatment in the future, he didn't show displeasure outright.

I smiled. "It's simply insurance, Robb. It's a lot easier to keep women in check this way, I'm sorry if my words sound disgusting," I said.

Brienne of Tarth shifted uncomfortably behind me. Robb just sighed.

I leaned back in my chair and continued. "Anyhow, the issue is that Prince Doran made the unfortunate decision to support a pretender claiming to be Aegon Targaryen. He's a thief who stole one of my sister's dragons. With Arianne here, I now have something of equal value. Somewhat.”

Of course, a mere Dornish Princess would never have the same value as a dragon, but in the political landscape of manipulation, it evened out somewhat.

More than that, she's the insurance against burning Dorne to the ground, I thought but didn't add. Some thoughts were better kept private, even in this smaller council.

I tapped the sealed letter. "This will likely be a formal demand for his daughter's return, accompanied by promises and platitudes."

Then I broke the seal with my thumb, confirming my suspicions as I scanned its contents. "As expected. Doran claims ignorance of any plot against the crown and demands his daughter's safe return." I set the letter aside. "We'll let him stew a bit longer."

Let him feel what it's like to lose someone precious, I thought. Let him wonder if she'll return with her head or without it.

Ros unfurled a scroll of her own, her green eyes scanning its contents with practiced efficiency. "They lie, Your Grace. My little birds confirm it. Dorne has been amassing provisions and weapons at a rate that suggests preparation for significant conflict. They were preparing for war—likely alongside this 'Aegon.'"

“Pitiful. I expected a wiser choice from Doran,” I nodded. “Keep an eye on that. If they stop that preparation, let me know. Ah, and send a letter to the Second Sons. They can't stay on the outskirts of Dorne for so long, it's not a place people can live in. Call them here.”

“Understood,” Ros nodded. By now, she had proven herself invaluable, expanding the network of spies left behind by Varys and turning many of them to her—and by extension, my—service. She also had Petyr Baelish’s spies, of course. The whores were her original eyes and ears. Ros was a great helper of mine whom I appreciated.

The realm thought her merely a former whore elevated beyond her station. They underestimated her at their peril.

"What do you plan to do to Dorne, Your Grace?" Brienne asked from behind me, speaking for the first time. Her voice carried that peculiar mix of deference and directness that made her such an effective Commander.

I turned slightly in my chair, meeting her steadfast gaze. "...I’ll just hope that they will reconsider," I said with a cold smile. "Prince Doran may be crippled, but he's no fool. He understands what's at stake. No matter the case, Arianne is his heir. So, I hope for her sake that he reconsiders. If not, then… Well, you heard what Viserion did to Yunkai and Astapor.”

“....” The entire chamber fell quiet.

I turned to Ros, changing the subject to the more annoying culprit. "What news of Varys and this 'Aegon'?"

She pursed her lips, clearly displeased with her own lack of concrete information. "It's difficult for me to reach Essos with my birds, Your Grace, I'm sorry," she admitted.

"How bothersome," I said, feeling anger curl through my chest.

Rhegal should be here with me, or at least with my sister. Instead, it served some pretender.

I sighed after a moment. "Oh well. Dorne and Aegon's situation is merely one concern among many," I continued, my mind shifting to the broader game. "We face threats from beyond the Wall, across the Narrow Sea, and within our own borders."

“I have something to say on that,” Robb Stark straightened, producing a letter bearing the Night's Watch seal.

“Interesting,” I accepted it.

The parchment was weathered, suggesting a long journey. "From my brother Jon," he explained, his expression growing grim. "He reports wildlings fleeing south in unprecedented numbers, claiming the dead walk beyond the Wall."

I raised an eyebrow, watching Stark's face. I'd warned him about strengthening the wall, and he didn't understand why before. Hopefully Jon’s words would give him the reason to.

"Jon himself claims to have encountered and destroyed one such creature," Robb continued, his voice steady despite the fantastical nature of the claim. "A dead man who continued moving and attacking after death. Jon saved the Night’s Watch’s Lord Commander from that creature.”

I feigned my skepticism. "A bold claim from a bastard at the edge of the world.”

His jaw tightened at my tone, Northern pride flashing in his eyes. "Jon Snow is many things, Your Grace, but a liar is not one of them," he countered sharply. "He killed this... wight... with fire. Burned it to ash while it still moved."

The dragon blood in my veins seemed to warm at the very word ‘fire’. Just having Viserion would give me an incredible edge against the Wights, although the true white walkers themselves were invulnerable to dragon flames.

"Fire and dragonglass," I murmured after a moment, recalling the details from the TV show. Even in the history books of Red Keep’s library, they spoke of the Long Night, of ice demons driven back by flame and obsidian weapons. Childish tales, most would say, yet I knew the truth.

"What was that, Your Grace?" Robb asked since I'd spoken too low.

"The issue with these ‘White Walkers’ will be addressed," I assured him, raising a hand to stop his protest. "I'm sending a shipment of dragonglass from Dragonstone to the Wall, along with men to reinforce the Night's Watch. Dragonglass is a special kind of material that can kill wraiths, and perhaps the White Walkers too.”

The surprise on Stark's face was almost comical. He clearly hadn't expected such swift action on what many would consider a fanciful tale.

"The North thanks you," he said, inclining his head respectfully.

"Don't thank me, Robb," I said, leaning forward. "If these creatures are true, as your brother says they are, it'll be a danger to us all. Let's take this seriously, yes? And do reinforce the Wall before your brother's ravens start reporting armies of corpses marching on the Wall."

If the situation truly worsens, I'll fly north myself. I thought, imagining Viserion's flames sweeping across legions of walking corpses.

Ros cleared her throat delicately. "There is one more matter, Your Grace," she said, producing another scroll. "From the Iron Fleet. It seems Queen Yara Greyjoy is returning to Westeros and intends to visit King's Landing. Her letter states she wishes to present the first tribute from the raids of Essos personally and to discuss matters of mutual concern."

I felt a smile tug at my lips. Yara's visit wasn't unexpected, though her timing was interesting. "That's good news. Arrange suitable accommodations," I instructed. "I'm curious what our Iron Queen considers 'mutual concern'."

And even more curious to have her in my bed again, I thought, missing her embrace somewhat. She was a fun one in bed. Yara Greyjoy had proven herself both in battle and in more private arenas. Her submission had been particularly sweet.

Robb shifted in his seat, standing up. "In that case, with your permission," he began, "I must return to the North soon. If these reports from Jon are true, Winterfell must be prepared."

It has been a long time since they've been here. They would have returned earlier if I hadn't gone to Meereen.

I nodded slowly. "Of course. The North can't remain indefinitely without its King." I studied him briefly. "Will your mother remain here with your sister?”

Robb had a sad look on his face. "Yes. We want to bury our father's remains in the crypts of Winterfell. Lady Sansa seems content with her position, otherwise I'm sure she'd have loved to come for a short visit.”

Content enough, I thought, recalling Sansa's expression when she saw Arianne. Despite her displeasure, she was learning her place, adapting to her role as my bride with increasing grace.

"Then our business is concluded for today," I declared, rising from my chair. Ros followed suit immediately. "Prepare messages to Dragonstone regarding the dragonglass. And draft a response to Prince Doran—nothing committal, just enough to keep him uncertain."

As we filed out, our footsteps carrying us through the hallways, thoughts raced ahead to my next moves.

Aegon, Daenerys, the White Walkers, Tywin Lannister, the Vale.... so many pieces in motion, so many threats and opportunities intertwined.

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