[14] The Dornish Plan

Chapter 14: The Dornish Plan

—

The Water Gardens of Dorne carried a stillness that could lull even the sharpest minds into calm. The soft patter of fountains mingled with the faint cries of children playing in the shaded pools, their laughter bubbling over the low murmur of waves in the distance. Palm trees swayed lightly, their shadows stretching across the tiled paths that wound between the water and the gardens’ citrus groves.

The smell of salt clung to the air, mingling with the fragrance of orange blossoms, while the warm breeze teased the edges of silk curtains hanging from the Old Palace arches.

Doran Martell moved slowly, his steps slow, his frame leaning slightly into Oberyn’s helpful arm. The younger brother had adjusted his natural quick pace to match Doran’s measured rhythm.

Neither spoke as they left the gardens and ascended into the quiet shade of the palace corridors, where the sun's light softened into dim amber and filtered through windows.

Inside a grand chamber, Oberyn helped Doran onto a low couch. The elder prince sank back with a quiet sigh, one hand resting lightly on the armrest, his other lifting to rub at his temple.

“So,” Oberyn broke the silence as he leaned against the back of a carved chair, his sharp gaze fixed on his brother. “What do you think of him, then? After seeing his fighting style… and that dragon.”

Doran closed his eyes briefly as if to shut out the weight of Oberyn’s excitement. “You said he wants to invade the armies of the Five Kings on his own first?” he asked, voice slow and calculated.

Oberyn nodded, failing to hold back a smug smile. “That’s what he says.”

Doran opened his eyes again, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest. “...Then I don’t see any reason not to support him.”

Oberyn’s grin widened, his hand clapping briefly against the chair’s wooden back as he straightened. “So, you agree,” he said, the satisfaction clear in his voice. “I knew you’d be able to see the opportunity in this, brother. This is going to be big.”

Doran tilted his head, his smile faint but pointed. “I can see that. If he fails, what’s lost to us?” he asked, his tone soft. “If he dies, no one will trace him to Dorne. No one will know he ever stood in our gardens. And the Second Sons? They’ll retreat across the Narrow Sea, and we’ll be left untouched.”

Oberyn laughed lightly, a sharp gleam in his eyes. “But if he doesn’t die…”

“Then we gain the Iron Throne,” Doran finished, his tone colder now, like a knife’s edge hidden in the calm. His eyes locked with Oberyn’s, the faintest flicker of shared ambition passing between them. They weren’t interested in the throne because they wanted to rule the realm, but because if they had a King they could trust to sit on the throne, they’d finally be able to deliver… justice.

“We’ll get our revenge,” Oberyn added, his voice now low. There was no smile this time, just a raw hunger that lingered beneath his words. The mention of vengeance lingered in the air like smoke. His hand flexed against the back of the chair. “You’re wiser than me, brother. I know he’s strong, but… do you think he’s ready?”

“I think,” Doran said quietly, “that he has no choice but to be. The rumors about him aren’t true. He’s a strong man, and men like him don’t come this far without real fire in their blood. But… fire isn’t enough.” He paused, looking at his brother with a weighted expression. “We’ll watch. We’ll wait.”

Oberyn nodded slowly, but the gleam in his eye hadn’t faded. “Watching isn’t nearly as fun, but I suppose patience has its uses.”

“It always does,” Doran murmured.

The two brothers sat in silence for a moment, the faint sound of water from the gardens seeping into the room like a whisper. Then Doran nodded, and Oberyn clapped his hands for servants to hear, “Bring rich liquor. We’ll have guests soon.”

****

The golden light of the setting sun streamed through the narrow windows of the meeting room, casting shadows across the stone walls. The evening was settling over Dorne, the warm air carrying a stillness that was only broken by the occasional hum of the fountains in the distance.

Viserion lay sprawled across my lap, her heavy form rising and falling with her breaths. Every now and then, her exhales came with a faint, sharp snore that sounded more like the crack of a whip than the soft murmur of sleep. It was oddly endearing.

Although it worried me for how long I’d be able to hold her with my body. She’d soon become far larger than me, enough to carry me and such. Then again, that wasn’t a bad thing. I should be looking forward to it instead.

Prince Doran, seated comfortably across from me, observed Viserion with unmasked fascination. His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of his chair, his expression thoughtful as his gaze swept over her small, scaled form.

“How big do you think she’ll grow?” he asked after a moment, breaking the silence. “I’ve had the rare luxury of seeing the skulls of the last dragons in the Red Keep—what little was left of them. They were barely the size of a kitten when they died. But this one…” His eyes narrowed slightly as if measuring Viserion’s form against his memory. “This one is already bigger. Do you have any guesses of how much larger she might become?”

I glanced down at Viserion, running a hand absentmindedly over her ridged back. “I’m not certain about the exact size,” I admitted, though my voice carried an edge of confidence. “But she’ll grow larger than this castle. Much larger.”

Doran’s brows lifted at that, a flicker of intrigue passing over his features. Beside him, Oberyn let out a low chuckle, his fingers drumming against the hilt of his spear as he leaned forward slightly.

“A bold claim,” Doran murmured, though there was no disbelief in his tone. “Larger than the castle… It would be something to see.”

“It will be,” I said simply.

“I can’t wait to see,” Kinvara chimed in, smiling.

Doran gave a short laugh, shaking his head lightly. “Regardless, let us set dragons aside for now. Tell me, Prince Viserys—Oberyn tells me you intend to challenge the Five Kings. Which of them do you mean to strike first? And how do you envision Dorne aiding your cause?”

I leaned back slightly, my fingers resting lightly against Viserion’s side as I considered his question. The Five Kings. Joffrey Baratheon, Stannis Baratheon, Renly Baratheon, Balon Greyjoy, and Robb Stark.

Balon Greyjoy was an afterthought, barely worth the breath it took to think of his name. He was an isolated old fool playing a game too big for him, his influence barely brushing the edges of the mainland. Renly Baratheon was even less of a threat, a pretender doomed to die before he could achieve anything of note.

Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, was a greater concern. His armies were formidable, and his victories had carved his name into the histories already. But Robb Stark, despite his strength, was not my greatest enemy. He was naive, too honorable for his own good, and far too removed from my immediate goals.

That left Stannis and Joffrey.

Stannis Baratheon had always been a threat. In another time, the original timeline, he would have reached the walls of King’s Landing, his claim reinforced by the fire and blood of his faith. If not for Tywin Lannister’s intervention, he might have succeeded. My presence, a butterfly effect, might tip the scales in his favor this time.

But the true prize was none of them. Like a hawk, my eyes had always been focused on King’s Landing itself. Joffrey Baratheon.

The bastard sat on the Iron Throne—a boy-king bloated with arrogance and cruelty. He would like, like any of the other Five Kings, but his death wouldn’t be soon enough for my liking. That bastard was an irritating bastard, and I wanted him dead now. Both for what I’d witnessed in the show and also because of my pride as Viserys hated him the most since it was he who sat on the throne right now.

Additionally, to strike King’s Landing would be to strike at the heart of the realm. It would throw the continent into chaos, creating a wave that could topple the remaining players faster than they could react. And most importantly… Joffrey, that bastard….

“King’s Landing,” I said at last, my voice cutting through the quiet of the room. A faint smile tugged at my lips as I met Doran’s gaze. “I plan to kill Joffrey Baratheon.”

Doran’s expression remained calm, but his eyes flickered with something unreadable. Oberyn grinned and then let out a low whistle, leaning back with a wolfish grin.

“You don’t lack ambition,” Doran murmured, his tone carrying a note of approval beneath the caution.

“After armies,” I replied smoothly, “ambition is what wins wars.”

The game had begun, and King’s Landing was my first move. I couldn’t wait to leave.

**

**

**

Author Note: Next update on Sunday, happy reading!