For the first time since Elia's murder, Doran wanted to move his ivory dragon in his game of cyvasse. Unwise, but his patience was waning. Cyvasse was not the game he was playing so slowly and carefully. Like the Baratheons, Starks, Tyrells, Tullys and Lannisters, Prince Doran Martell played a dangerous game of intrigue – the game of thrones.

"The time is not ripe yet my prince."

Doran chuckled and said with a hint of sarcasm, "When will it ever be the right time? Even patient men grow…restless."

"Oh, my lord Doran, you have been more than patient." Lord Varys rubbed his hands and smiled enigmatically at him. Today he had worn the rich scarlet robes of a visiting magister from Pentos. A fitting disguise. "I only desire for you to wait a little longer. Our pieces are set on the board and it is almost time to play."

"Almost time to play, Lord Varys? The boy is of age to lead men to war, wed his long-betrothed and sire much-needed heirs. I will not live forever Lord Varys and nor will you. The more we sit and do nothing, the more suspicious Lord Stannis becomes. That man is suspicious of everyone and trusts very few – I applaud him for that, Lord Varys. At times like this, I wish Jon Arryn was still the King's Hand. A clever man, but more…trusting." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Lord Arryn was poisoned too early."

"It was not by Lenn the Red's hand, Prince Doran. Old Pycelle is a fool, but he knows his poisons – not quite as well as your brother, but good enough. I'd also checked our grand maester's records and even questioned our good friend Lenn; someone else poisoned Lord Arryn."

Doran raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

The eunuch shrugged. "I am as clueless as you my lord."

"You are the Master of Whisperers Lord Varys," Doran pointed out, moving his ivory elephant. "It is your duty to know."

"It seems our Lord Stannis has a distaste for eunuchs as well as Tyrells. In the council meetings, his eyes never dwell past mine for long and his beloved Onion Knight distrusts me too." He sighed dramatically. "It seems no one likes a eunuch these days. Even a helpful one." Doran studied the ivory catapult before glancing at the ivory trebuchet. With an impatient sigh, the Master of Whisperers moved and sat down on the empty chair opposite him. "We have a bigger game to play, Prince Doran," he said, leaning forward. "Much more important than your game of cyvasse. I hope you understand that my prince."

"I'm perfectly aware of it Lord Varys," said Doran mildly, "though cyvasse also clears the mind, no?"

"I enjoy a game of cyvasse as much as the next man, Prince Doran."

"I see."

"Prince Doran, the boy is not yet ready to take command of the armies – from what I saw today, he'll be ready in a year or two. However, you owe me answers do you not agree?"

Doran moved his trebuchet. "What would you like to know?"

"A little bird said there is to be a wedding here at the Water Gardens between the Lord of Starfall and your little cousin, sweet Matysse Martell. When I came to speak to you, I could not help but notice the lovely Lady Stark, her daughter and her husband's bastard. I do not see how their presence here will benefit us in our game, my lord. I am more concerned of the harm of their presence."

"Lady Stark suggested I send Quentyn to Winterfell to be Lord Stark's ward as her daughter is now mine and Jon Snow is Oberyn's squire. I hope Lady Stark did not become offended when I declined."

Lord Varys looked thoughtful. "You declined, Prince Doran?"

"It is a long journey from Dorne to the North, Lord Varys. I do not want my son trapped in the cold North when we begin the game. The Riverlands, the Vale, the Iron Islands, the Crownlands, the Stormlands and even the Westerlands are not our friends, Lord Varys."

"The Iron Islands are no one's friend."

Doran agreed with a firm nod. "Indeed Lord Varys. It is safer with all three of my children safe in Dorne."

"You've agreed to Lord Stannis's terms?"

"What choice do I have, Lord Varys? Inform him that Arianne is considering to be a septa? An unlikely story. No, Lord Stannis is a suspicious man and will sniff us out. He might be doubting us already. We had a good plan, Lord Varys, but you - without my or our good friend Lenn the Red's knowledge or consent – decided to end it by killing the young man in question." Now it was the prince of Dorne's turn to lean forward. "I believe you owe me answers now, do you not think? I am aware that Grand Maester Pycelle favoured the Lannisters during the Mad King's reign– do you favour the roses of Highgarden, Lord Varys? Would you've rather seen a Tyrell for queen than my Arianne?"

The eunuch rubbed his hands together again and grimaced. "You too, my lord of Dorne? You too? No one trusts a eunuch!"

Mayhaps no one trusts the Master of Whisperers. Catching a glimpse of Doran's solemn expression, Varys sighed a second time. "My little birds reported that he is not…sane," he confessed softly. "I went to see him for myself…he was too much like the Mad King, my prince. All signs of insanity were showing. It was too much. The realm cannot tolerate another mad king. Last time we had a mad king on the throne, it led to a rebellion and a Baratheon on the throne. All I want is peace in the Seven Kingdoms, Prince Doran. A Baratheon cannot keep peace in Westeros. For a few years yes, a few decades maybe, but for centuries? Never. Stags are not meant to be kings. Only dragons can rule the Seven Kingdoms."

"We of House Nymeros Martell have ruled Dorne for many centuries," Doran said, his tone cold. "Even before the dragons if you care to remember. We have a long history, Lord Varys. We were not descended from stewards and must I say we do not depend on the dragons? Dorne joined the Seven Kingdoms through the act of matrimony, eunuch. Not through defeat or conquest. The dragons decided to conquer Westeros but they could not conquer Dorne with their fire and blood as much as they tried. I want the boy on the Iron Throne because it is his rightful place and he is of my blood, not because my House will not gain more power as a loyal subject of the stags."

"I do not understand, my prince. Only a moment ago, you accused me for being closer to the Tyrells by eliminating the boy's uncle? Would you have rather your daughter as queen wedded to a mad king or your nephew as the rightful king on the Iron Throne with a Tyrell for queen?"

Doran dropped the cyvasse piece he was examining back onto his round table and wheeled himself to the wide window. He stared at the swarm of children of all stations running into the pools, splashing and laughing. A child's laugh is said to be contagious, Doran reflected. Dorne cannot rise against the Iron Throne on its own – it will bring naught but failure. We have a higher chance of defending our lands, but marching to the Crownlands? No, no. We have no chance. The Tyrells have the largest armies but they do not understand loyalty outside family…there is still too much at risk…what if the boy rejects the Tyrell girl for another? A chill struck his spine. What if the boy decides to wed a Stark? It would be the tourney at Harrenhal all over again. Another war, more deaths, another royal House gone, a new royal family. It would never end.

"It is a good time to gather more allies Prince Doran. Mercenaries, Tyrell men and your own will not be enough."

"Who else is there willing to rebel against the Baratheons?"

"The Lannisters? The Greyjoys?"

Doran could not resist a snort. "Lord Varys, Oberyn would rather stab himself in the eye than ally himself with the Lannisters. How can I ally with a man whose dog raped and murdered my sister? How can I befriend a man who ordered that leech of a soldier to murder my niece? No. I will never have my brother suffer by allying with the Lannisters."

"Come now my prince of Dorne," wheedled the wily eunuch. "Convincing Lord Tywin is much easier than Balon Greyjoy." He had a point. All that old Lion of the Rock cared about was the Lannister legacy.

"I only have the one daughter," Doran pointed out, "who is betrothed to Willas Tyrell but about to marry Renly Baratheon. I cannot engage her to the Imp, who I hear is full of wit. Oh the Imp of House Lannister is very clever, yes, but what will he inherit upon Tywin Lannister's death? Nothing!"

"Does that not serve your purposes, my prince? If your daughter weds Tyrion Lannister, she will remain your heir. Was that not what she always wanted? It is better than going through with that scheme of marrying Margaery to your eldest son. Of course it would have served our purposes much better if Renly Baratheon had married the beautiful Lady Margaery." Varys tittered. "Was that another fault of our grim Hand of the King?"

"You are the Master of Whisperers. Pray tell me."

"Come now Prince Doran. Do you truly yearn for me to inform you? You know as well as I do who is at fault."

Of course Doran knew. Once he sensed the end of Margaery and Renly's long-term betrothal and Lord Stannis's offer of Renly as a husband for Arianne, he felt a surge of anger – the first in a very long time. He wanted that bumbling idiot of Highgarden to die; he would've permitted Oberyn to poison him if he hadn't held his anger in check.

"It is surprising how a son of Olenna Tyrell can turn out to be such a fool," said Doran aloud. "When is he to know…?"

"Not until we move the dragon on the cyvasse board my prince of Dorne. Mace Tyrell will not hear of the plan until it is in motion. It is Lady Olenna who controls Highgarden, Prince Doran, not Lord Mace Tyrell. Forgive me Prince Doran, but ah, my stay in Dorne had been long enough. I must return to King's Landing. Do you not have a wedding to attend to?"

"One more matter." Doran turned and stared at the Spider. "What are we to do about Daenerys Targaryen?"


"Did our good friend the Spider bring warm tidings?"

Doran sighed. "Not now, Oberyn. We are at a wedding. Your impatience is like a child's. Can you not wait until the feast?" He ignored Oberyn's soft curse under his breath and returned his attention to the front of the sept. Both children were dressed lavishly, Lord Dayne in silver with a thin purple cloak emblazoned with a silver falling star and Matysse wrapped in white. They were both still young, but as Matysse now had her moon blood and Lady Stark unable to stay in Dorne for another year, it was decided for her and Lord Dayne to wed.

The septon cleared his throat. "Look upon each other and say the words."

"I will remain impatient until I see Tywin Lannister's head at my feet," Oberyn hissed quietly. "Elia deserves justice!"

"…Maiden, Crone, Stranger…"

"Take care, Brother," Doran murmured. "Do not mistake revenge for justice."

"…I am his and she is mine…"

"Justice, revenge, what does it matter?" Oberyn's black eyes flashed angrily. "I will not rest until my spears have tasted Tywin Lannister's blood!" Doran swiftly silenced him with a glare as Lady Stark gave him a questionable look.

"…from this day until the end of my days." The guests – including Doran – had broken into applause as Lord Dayne hesitantly kissed his bride on the lips. Doran smiled as Oberyn grudgingly clapped a few times at the urging of his paramour, Ellaria Sand, who sat on his other side.

The two children descended the altar steps and slowly led the procession to a less watery part of the Water Gardens for the feast. Doran noted that Lord Dayne made sure Matysse did not trip over her long cloak. Outside, the golden orb of a sun beamed at them and guided the newly-wedded couple to the festivities. As it was considered not a huge affair, the tables were set out differently. Situated the closest to the marble arches was the high table; scattered in front of it were small round tables, covered by fabric alternatively bearing the Martell and Dayne sigils and over them were platters of food, varying from traditional Dornish dishes like flatbread with chickpea paste and purple olives to an array of different fruit tarts and lemon cakes popular in other regions of the Seven Kingdoms, and of course, the wedding pie. Accompanying the plates of delicious food were flagons filled to the brim of shimmering Arbor gold, red summerwine which carried a sweet and rather fruity flavour, Dornish strongwine as dark as blood and declared to be as sweet as vengeance, mead, cider and the usual ale.

The Lord and Lady of Starfall were seated in the centre of the high table. Lady Stark had been given the honour of sitting beside Lord Dayne, but she'd elected to sit with her daughter, sister, good-brother and Jon Snow at one of the smaller tables – the one closest to the high table. Doran wheeled himself to the place at Matysse's left and Oberyn promptly sat down next to him. As Lord Dayne's father and mother were both dead, Matysse's parents were seated next to Lord Dayne instead. All the guests slowly sat down and with a nod from Doran, began eating and drinking and talking amongst themselves.

"What did the Spider tell you?"

"Try this," said Doran, pushing what appeared to be spiced lamb wrapped in flatbread towards Oberyn. "I hear it is delicious." He sipped some ale as he began studying the guests, a favourite game of his. Lady Stark looked happy chatting to Lady Dondarrion, who had given birth last year to a boy. After seventeen years of marriage to a Stark of Winterfell, she still seemed more Dornish than Northern – a Northerner would settle affairs quickly and leave; Lady Ashara Stark had been in Dorne for about two years, if not more. Beside her was her daughter, a pretty girl of seven with Stark grey eyes and long dark hair – half-Stark, half-Dayne. She was to be his ward for the next few years, and perhaps even good-daughter (if it didn't interfere with the great game of course). Today it wasn't Lady Stark or her daughter that fascinated him, nor the Dondarrions. It was the honourable Eddard Stark's bastard, Jon Snow.

For one, there was something very familiar about Jon Snow. Was it his mop of curly dark hair? His almost black eyes? His brooding nature? Doran just couldn't put a finger on it. Actually it was Oberyn who pointed it out to him five minutes after meeting him. He had accepted him as his squire without complaint but after Jon left to eat, Oberyn had asked, "Does he not look familiar to you?"

Currently Jon Snow was picking at his bowl of soup, spooning some up only to watch the liquid drip back into his bowl. Trystane used to similarly play with his food…when he was a child.

"Brother," Oberyn said again, "my patience is waning."

What patience? "You lack patience Brother," Doran remarked. "However, if it'll satisfy you…" He excused himself and wheeled away inside the palace, not so far that he could not see the guests. Oberyn leant against the marble colonnade as he waited eagerly for news.

"I may have made a grievous error," Doran admitted. Oberyn's eyebrows shot up. "A mistake? I doubt it. When do you ever make mistakes?"

"The matter of ah, the late Lord Dayne's bastard."

"That girl? You never saw her."

"Indeed. From Varys' reports, she does not seem as docile as we thought. The Spider also hinted at the possibility of her falling in love with Jon Snow. The last thing we want is for her to fall in love with a bastard – and Lord Stark's at that. I want the stag removed, but I do not want another mad king born from a brother and sister. The boy is aware of it, but the girl does not know. I had hoped that the little bird in the North would've succeeded in telling the girl of her true heritage – he obviously failed. If Quentyn was Lord Stark's ward, he would have a chance to seduce the girl who will be his wife."

"Not Trystane? He is better looking than Quentyn. If I was Lord Dayne's pretty little bastard, I would fall in love much faster with Trystane than Quentyn." Again, Oberyn had a good point. Last time Quentyn visited from Yronwood, Areo Hotah almost mistook him for a merchant. Short-legged and stocky with a plain face, his elder son Quentyn looked pleasant, but not very handsome. Examining Jon Snow, Doran suspected all the lads at Winterfell were much handsomer than Quentyn. Either way, that girl would wed one of his sons.

"That fool of Highgarden almost ruined the game," Doran revealed. "He would not have his precious daughter married to the king's brother unless he was given either Storm's End or Dragonstone."

"Typical of the Fat Flower. Accused me of crippling his son."

Doran shook his head with a sigh. "Not that again. I will tell you more later. We must return to the feast."

"I will still have the Mountain?" Oberyn pressed.

"We shall see. Come, let us eat. I would like to taste a blackberry or strawberry tart before Arianne and your daughters take them all."

"You? Blackberry tart?" Oberyn snickered. "I remember you vowing that you'll never eat food from King's Landing until you have tasted sweet vengeance. Was I hearing this or did you actually say it?"

"Did you drink too much strongwine already Oberyn?"

Oberyn glanced at the goblet in his hand. "When Elia died, I could not sleep for days," he said in a low voice. "When night fell, all I could do was plot the old lion's downfall. I would crave for his blood, and the blood of the two savage men who murdered our sister and niece. Nothing will bring Rhaenys back. Brother, do you remember Rhaenys? The sweet little girl who found pleasure in toddling around and chasing that black kitten of hers? Only a Lannister would order the death of a child. How many times did it take that bastard to kill her? Half a hundred thrusts. She died in pain, Brother. Considerable pain. Once old Tywin gains a green-eyed, golden-haired Lannister grandchild of his own, I will go to Casterly Rock and kill the child with half a hundred thrusts."

"No!" said Doran sharply. "Oberyn, you are once again blinded by rage! Here in Dorne, we do not harm children!"

"Oh do not worry Brother. No Lannister blood will be spilled in Dorne."

"You will not go to Casterly Rock and kill all the Lannisters you see by sight. It is against our House words."

"Against our House words?" Oberyn stared at Doran in wonder. "Brother! You are not thinking clearly! Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken! You are bowing in fear of the consequences of destroying House Lannister! You are bending in submission to the Iron Throne! You have been broken since Elia's death!"

"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken," Doran repeated slowly. "It is not me who had bowed to the unquenchable thirst for vengeance. It is not me who had bent to the desire to see blood. It is not me who had broke over Elia's death, Brother. I know our House words well – do you?"

Oberyn darkened. "Until the year's end, Brother," he warned grumpily. "I have waited too long. The Baratheons and Lannisters may have forgotten or don't care, but I remember. I will always remember."

"You have said that for the last two years Oberyn, yet you have not taken one step out of Dorne. All you've done for the last few years is brood. Let us return to the wedding, Brother. We will talk more later. As the children are both young, it had been decided that there will be no bedding tonight. If by then you are still in a sober mood, you are welcomed to come to my solar where I will share a…tale I heard from Lord Varys. It regards Lord Eddard Stark's marriage to Lady Ashara." Doran couldn't resist a smile as Oberyn stared at him, astonished.

"What is it?" said Oberyn urgently.

Doran's smile widened. "Tonight, Brother. I will tell you tonight." He began to wheel himself back to the garden. He paused. "Brother, try and keep this in mind: the Starks remember, the Lannisters always pay their debts, and we descendants of Nymeria and Mors Martell? We never forget."


This is early 300 AC, like a few days after the ASOIAF version of New Year's or something. Well that wraps up a very long Part 2! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I liked writing it :) Part 2's appendix will be uploaded shortly.