Chapter 21 – The 18th day of July, 299 years after Aegon's Conquest
The Iron Captain cracked a hearty smile, as he looked over the devastation he had wrought.
Little of Fairtown remained standing. His reavers had set it aflame as they swarmed ashore a fortnight past. The Iron Fleet had struck without warning, their sails appearing on the horizon with the dawn. The bells had barely begun to ring their alarm as they rowed into the harbor. It had turned out Lord Farman himself was absent. His castellan, Ser Gareth, had managed to raise the drawbridge and secure the castle, and since refused all offers to yield. His defiance had only left the rest of the island at the mercy of the invaders however. Ten thousand Ironborn had swept up and down its extent in the days since, burning the villages and plundering at their leisure.
Victarion took another swill from his skin, filled with freshly plundered Arbor red, as he observed the long lines of captives being loaded onto the waiting ships. Many were weeping, their chains clanking as they shuffled forward. The rest seemed beyond tears. Most were freshly flowered young women, for the Ironborn always hungered for more salt wives, but maybe one in three were men, fresh thralls to labor in the mines and fields and towns. The youngest children and the old crones had mostly been ignored, but absent a firm roof over their heads, many would no doubt starve come winter.
Such was the way of the world however. The people of Fair Isle were weak. Their conquest proved it, and now the strong would enjoy the spoils. Victarion had taken a few of the choicer offerings for himself. Already he had gained three salt wives, including one of Lord Farman's nieces. The girl was a bit young for his tastes, having only seen fourteen namedays, but she would blossom in time, he was sure. Blonde haired and green eyed. Why, she could almost pass for a Lannister bride. The thought made him smile.
Elsewhere, the campaign had gone much as Balon had planned. They had struck as soon as it was confirmed the Kingslayer had taken the armies of the Westerlands south. The Harlaws had laid siege to the Banefort and raided as far south as the Crag, while the Goodbrothers had sacked Kayce. His own niece, Asha, had gone the furthest, leading thirty ships against Feastfires. Lannisport itself was as yet untouched, but it was only a matter of time.
We reave as in the days of old he thought, with satisfaction. Yet he hoped Fair Isle would be just the beginning. It was a ripe fruit, but one the Ironborn had frequently plucked. His own father Quellon had sacked this very town once, just forty years past, in the days of the feeble Lord Tytos. His great grandfather Dagon had done the same, carrying off half the island's wealth and half a hundred women just on his own ship. A hundred years before that, it had been Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken, who had ruled the island for nigh on two years, before having his throat slit by a treacherous salt wife. A cautionary tale that Victarion thought. That is what happens when you take too many. Two and twenty was greedy. A man should be satisfied with four or five, if you picked them well.
The Iron captain did not come down to the ruined docks merely to exult in his triumph however. The Lord Reaper's own sails had been spotted on the horizon that morning. Now it was past noon, and the Great Kraken was laying anchor alongside his own Iron Victory. Victarion watched, with half a score of his captains and underlings, as Balon was rowed ashore.
"What is dead may never die" his brother said by way of greeting.
"But rises again, harder and stronger" they echoed, each taking a knee on the rocky beach.
Balon looked over the scene, his gaunt face writ with only mild approval. "The castle still defies you, brother?"
"The walls are strong" Victarion replied, with a flicker of irritation. "And the moat deep. Best to starve them out. No help is forthcoming."
Balon reached out a hand, helping him to his feet. "You are confident of that?"
"Do you doubt Asha? The Lannister fleet is still in port, and it is no match for us. Let them come, either way."
Balon grunted his agreement. "The old lion conserves his strength. All the better. Six years ago we needed to destroy it, before the royal fleet could come to their aid. Now things are different. Let the Baratheons and Lannisters fight each other, I say." He looked over the long lines of captives, then turned back to Victarion. "Walk with me brother. The castle will fall soon, but we must think towards the future."
The two of them proceeded down the beach, their retinues keeping at a distance. Balon was looking to the west now, where newly burnt fields slowly gave way to green forested hills. A spiny ridge formed the backbone of the island, some of the taller peaks lost in cloud. Then went on maybe half a mile, until Fairtown and its castle were almost lost from view behind them. Balon seemed deep in thought.
"Long have we raided this land" he said finally. "But why limit our ambitions there? We come time and time again, why not stay?"
Victarion considered this. "You mean to keep the island? You think Stannis will allow such a thing?"
Balon spat at the mention of the distant king on the Iron Throne. "I will beg of no such thing. We took the island, and we shall keep it, from any who would try to take it back. Even if they have grown wings."
Victarion grunted his displeasure at this. He too had been sceptical of the reports of the Maidenring and flying machines, but Asha had sworn to it, and he had never doubted his niece. He had been in the hall at Pyke when she had returned. He had expected Balon to rage at her for her disobedience, but the flying men had given her a number of queer gifts. A 'watch', a 'torch', a 'lighter' and even a sort of lightning beacon that could supposedly summon them when needed. When she had demonstrated such magic before the gathered Ironborn, Balon had seemed more subdued, cautious even. How could you defy a people so skilled in sorcery?
"Many new peoples have come to our shores. The Andals, with their seven green gods, the Targaryens with their dragons…and we have outlasted them all. Whoever these flying men are, we shall endure them as well" he had proclaimed, finally. Asha had also brought Stannis' offer that they raid the Westerlands. If nothing else, the Ironborn captains were eager for plunder, and Balon had soon relented. The campaign had been planned in some haste, but they had set sail by moon's turn. Now, on a field of victory, the Lord Reaper's confidence seemed to be returning.
"Shall we be fighting Tywin and Stannis both?" Victarion asked.
Balon stopped. "No, not if we can avoid it. That would be foolishness. Our last effort proved as much." His tone was bitter.
A thought occurred to Victarion. "Then what of Theon? The Starks have given him up to the king, last we heard."
Balon was silent a long moment, looking east now, over the sea. The Straits of Fair Isle were wide. They couldn't quite see the far shore from here, but a few of the distant peaks of the Westerlands were visible, poking up like storm clouds on the horizon.
"The wolves took him long ago" he said finally. The Lord Reaper did not elaborate. He turned back to Victarion. "Tell me brother, have you grown fond of this island?"
Victarion spat. "It is a touch green for my tastes."
Balon nodded. "And its people are soft, yet we are close to Casterly Rock here. It will need a strong ruler to hold it after we have taken it. I see no reason why you should not be that ruler."
Victarion smiled. "You do me great honor brother."
"Take another rock wife. Have strong sons with her. If the blood of the Ironborn runs strong enough, then our sons and grandsons shall be able to keep it. Make it the eighth Iron Island."
"As you say, my lord."
Balon turned back to the distant coastline. "But right now there are other matters. The royal fleet has passed the Mander, if the latest raven can be believed. They will be at Lannisport within a fortnight."
"Then we must sail with all haste. The city is ripe for sacking…"
"It is a juicy fruit indeed, but not one we shall be plucking this day."
Victarion frowned now. "I do not follow you, brother."
Balon was silent another moment. He seemed to be coming to some sort of decision. "We shall keep Fair Isle, and what other strongholds we have taken, but this new king is a fool to think I will ever bend the knee to him. No, not to him, nor this pretender queen. When the time is right we shall raise our banners on Nagga's Hill once more, but first we must remove certain obstacles from our path." He turned back to Victarion. "On the morrow you will set sail. Take the fleet to Feastfires and anchor it there. You will then go on to Lannisport, but not to plunder it. I have another task for you…"
######
That same day…
The Prince of Dorne crunched up the letter in his palm, stuffing it deep into his robes just as Areo wheeled him into the throne room.
He had not been looking forward to this meeting in the slightest. It seemed he had scarce returned to the tranquillity of the Water Gardens before duty had summoned him back. The ravens from King's Landing and Deep Den had been flying thicker and faster as of late, dark wings bringing darker words. And not even the darkest, if the whispers from Essos could be believed. But now the royal plane itself had landed, bringing with it something even worse that words. Before him stood a particularly large group of angry supplicants. Angry and important.
There were no flying men this time, but half the Small Council seemed to have come. Lords Florent and Celtigar, Ser Stevron Frey and Grand Maester Gormon, and that was just the beginning. From the king's host at Deep Den came several marcher lords and a pair of Kingsguard. From the Golden Tooth had come Edmure Tully and Catelyn Stark, each with a cluster of their respective bannermen. All of them had descended on Sunspear like flies on a fresh corpse.
By any ordinary measure it was an impressive gathering. Were it not for the flying machines, Doran would have assumed that only some rare occasion, a royal wedding, a great tourney or council perhaps, could have summoned such a crowd. He silently cursed the flying men. Maybe it was a mistake after all, Stannis letting them into the realm and seeking their counsel. Already they had made it so much smaller. It should have taken at least a moon's turn for any of these beggars to arrive on his doorstep, after a long dusty ride over the Red Mountains, or a fool's voyage through Shipbreaker Bay. Instead they had invaded his hall almost before he could be carried the three leagues back to Sunspear.
A wonder the plane did not crash Doran thought, as he was wheeled into position between the two thrones bearing the Martell spear and the Rhoynish sun. We could have lost half the lords in the Seven Kingdoms. With great effort of will, he kept his face blank as his swollen legs jolted with pain, the ebony wheels of his chair magnifying every crack and crevice in the marble floor. Looking around, he could see Stannis must have sent every envoy of note he possibly could. He even spied the Onion knight, standing behind the Kingsguard. The commoner's plain face looked out of place here no matter how he dressed, even with a fresh surcoat, breeches and boots.
Oberyn too had come of course, the Elia Martell landing on the beach outside just that afternoon, with near every Dornishmen still in King's Landing aboard her. Expelled was the proper word for it, not that anyone would say it. The Dornish Council seat was in jeopardy, he knew. Oberyn looked distinctly nervous, a phenomenon so rare as to be almost unheard of, but the lords around him looked eager. Gargalen, Uller, Manwoody…yes, these ones are hungry for blood and glory.
His eyes drifted over the rest of the hall, watching for those lords who clustered together and those who stood apart. Lady Delonne and the other Allyrions occupied a far corner. Yes, Godsgrace will be trouble, and right in the heart of Dorne. Lord Daeron Vaith and his sons stood nearby but was there a deeper meaning there? The Jordaynes and the Tolands were along one wall. Of their intentions he could not be sure. The Yronwoods had not come, but that was to be expected. Doran had charged their lord with fortifying the Boneway in case the war should come south.
The same was true of the Fowlers, guarding the Prince's Pass, and the Daynes had even longer to ride. Ser Symon Santagar stood with his daughter Sylva, who in turn stood with Arianne. My daughter and heir, but what even are her intentions? Doran thought wished he had more time to talk to his kin before the gathering. The eldest Sand Snakes, Obara, Nymeria and Tyene, were in a tight group right by Oberyn's shoulder. Their desire for vengeance was no secret. Like as not they would try and hunt down the Kingslayer themselves.
"My friends" Doran began softly, keeping his voice courteous. The crowd had been muttering amongst themselves at his arrival, but now silence finally fell. "Esteemed lords and ladies. Distant travellers and loyal subjects. Some of you are new to our hall, others just recent guests. But the hospitality of Sunspear is yours all the same. I must confess, we have not welcomed such a large gathering in some time. I know there is great trouble in the realm…" his eyes lingered over the Lords from the Reach. "And only that trouble could bring so many of you so far. So please…I welcome you to our hall. Please speak your concerns openly, so that all may hear it."
Silence met this proclamation. The gathered nobility seemed to look amongst themselves. Eventually, it was lord Florent who stepped forward.
"Prince Doran" he said, with a stiff bow. "We thank you once more for the hospitality of Sunspear, though it is our hope not to linger too long. I come as representative of his grace, and the Lord Hand."
"How fares his grace?" Doran asked, his tone innocent.
"He fares well, my prince. He is determined to bring the justice against house Lannister that it deserves."
"That is good to hear" Doran replied. Lord Florent waited a moment, but the Prince did not add anything further.
"His grace will bring this justice, but there is the matter of Highgarden" Lord Florent went on. "I am sure you are aware by now. It seems we have suffered a betrayal. Lady Arwyn Oakheart has allowed the Kingslayer passage through her lands. He marches on Highgarden as we speak."
"Then that is most unfortunate, my lord" Doran replied. He had heard as much a week earlier, of course, but he kept his face neutral.
Lord Florent nodded. "He marches with all the strength that is left to the Westerlands, or near to it. Fortunately, the castle lies on the east bank of the Mander. Lord Tarly and Ser Garlan are fortifying it even now. They have a strong host as well. They should have sufficient strength to resist him."
"Then that is most fortunate. Great walls surrounded Highgarden, I am aware, and the Mander is broad and deep."
Lord Florent paused. Perhaps he wondered if he was being mocked. He straightened his stance slightly. "My prince, we all know you are no fool. You are most aware of the strategic situation. If the Kingslayer puts Highgarden to the sword, the realm will suffer greatly. The swords of Dorne would be of great assistance in this regard."
"Dornishmen have no great love of Lannisters, it is true, but I do wonder, why is our involvement necessary? Surely the armies of the Stormlands, the Crownlands, the Reach, the Riverlands and the North combined can deal with this threat?" Doran asked, glancing at the representatives of the respective regions in turn. "And have not the Ironborn now sailed with you as well?"
"You are well aware, we fight more than just Lannisters" Lord Florent replied. "The Hightowers besiege my own seat. Brightwater Keep is strong, but the castle will not hold forever. If it yields, the Hightowers will be able to march their host north. Highgarden will be attacked from both sides."
"I sympathise with your plight, my lord, I do, but I must say, the betrayal of Lady Oakheart disturbs me greatly. If the great lords of the Reach won't defend the Reach, why should Dorne defend it?"
There was angry muttering at this. "A grieving mother" Lord Florent protested. "Her son died at the Red Keep, victim of Lannister madness, but she blames it on the flying men."
"Most unfortunate" Doran said again.
More muttering now. "Prince Doran" called a voice, and Doran watched as the king's new Grand Maester approached. Gormon was not quite so fat as his nephew, but easily twice the girth Pycelle had been. Where his predecessor had a long silver beard, his replacement had a shining crown. He bowed deeply, his long grey robes touching the marble floor.
"His grace understands your desire for peace. You do not wish to see Dornish blood spilt without good reason. I am sure all the loyal lords and ladies present share this concern, but one must also consider the realm as a whole. Dorne is part of the Seven Kingdoms. It has been for a hundred years. What is good for the realm is good for Dorne, and what the realm needs is peace. Peace will not return until Tywin Lannister and his pretender are dealt with. Lord Florent speaks it true. The armies of Dorne could assist greatly in this."
"Does the king not have a hundred thousand men in the field?" Doran asked innocently. He glanced back at Lord Florent, who had boasted of that number oft enough at their last meeting.
The Master of Laws looked almost affronted now. "Of course, my prince. We have more than sufficient swords. Casterly Rock will burn before the year's end" he proclaimed. Doran resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow. By what means will the king get flames from a stone? "This war will be won, but the swords of Dorne would be most useful in shortening it. Thousands of lives could be saved, and now the season is Autumn." He looked around for support. It was Lady Catelyn Stark who stepped forward, giving a shallow curtsey.
"Winter is coming my prince. Our noble bannermen would much prefer to return to their halls and homes, to bring in a last harvest before the snows come. But we cannot do so while the Kingslayer remains at large, to threaten us again."
"Aye, the Riverlands too have been devastated" declared her brother, Lord Tully. "It has been a long summer, and the winter could be just as long. We are planting a fresh crop, hoping for one more harvest, but many of the granaries were destroyed and must be rebuilt as well…"
Other lords and ladies stepped forth to make their pitch. To Doran's surprise, even the Onion knight had a turn, taking a knee along with a big man who appeared to be his squire.
"Begging your pardons, my prince. I have the honor to be Ser Davos Seaworth."
"Yes, I know who you are, onion knight" Doran replied. From the corners of the room, there were sniggers from some of his bannermen.
"Yes, my prince. I am no great lord of men, 'tis true, but the king did ask me to come here tonight. I have the honor to present to you my squire. Merrett of house Frey, ninth trueborn son of Walder Frey. He has had the honor to venture through the Ring, my prince, where the flying men looked upon him most favourably. They have healed him of his malady, of the headaches that have plagued him since he was a boy, and that no maester nor septon could ever cure."
There was more muttering at this. Doran looked upon the squire curiously. "Did they? And how did they achieve this…miracle?"
"Their healers, my lord" Davos went on. "They have great knowledge, and are very talented. In King's Landing, in Riverrun, and now the Twins and White Harbor, they are at work healing the sick and injured."
"It is true, my prince" called another voice, and Doran spied one of the river lords. He introduced himself as Lord Tytos Blackwood. He came with his son Lucas, who had apparently taken an arrow wound at Riverrun that the maesters had surely called mortal, only to be restored to good health. Several others made similar pronouncements, of family members cured of fevers and bleeding and other ailments. Two Crownlands knights presented their hands, where faint lines of stitching showed where severed fingers had been reattached after the Battle in King's Landing. Finally, Grand Maester Gormon stepped forward again.
"You see, my prince, why we gather before you in such numbers. Many of us have been touched by the mercy of the flying men, and live only by their skill and knowledge. We also wish to put to rest the terrible rumours about the late King Robert. You must realize the terrible lies that were told. The king did not die from his injuries in the Kingswood. He was simply healed, by talented healers. All this talk of raising him from the dead were Lannister lies."
And what of Beric Dondarrion? Doran wanted to ask, yet somehow he sensed the moment was not right.
"What you say is…impressive" Doran conceded after a while. "They are talented healers. This I can accept. Though you must admit, Grand Maester, that without this war in the first instance, your men would not have needed to be so healed."
Gormon was taking his turn to look affronted. "But it is more than just that, Prince Doran. The medicine of the flying men…it is unparalleled. In our world, men commonly do not count fifty namedays. In theirs, they often count a hundred or more."
"I have lived to fifty" Doran said "as have you, Grand Maester."
"But we are not common men, my prince" Gormon replied, his tone patient again. "You ask, what would Dorne gain from riding to the aid of Highgarden? Let us start with this. The king has talked with their ambassadors, and they would be willing to send their healers to Dorne, to build one of their temples of healing, a hospital, my prince, in Sunspear or the Planky Town. I urge you to consider this gift. They can heal you of what ails you." He glanced downwards, and Doran could not fail to notice the eyes of the hall wandering down to his gout-stricken legs, concealed as they were.
Doran grimaced, from what was a sudden mixture of pain and sheer embarrassment. Do they all think me so weak? He was just considering his reply when Oberyn finally stepped forward, taking a knee before his brother.
"Brother, my prince. You have heard the urgings of many lords and ladies throughout the Seven Kingdoms today. To their testimony, I will add mine own. His grace summoned me to Deep Den not two days past. He was greatly wroth upon hearing of the treachery of Lady Oakheart, living up to the Baratheon words, I would confess. He commanded me. I was to return with the swords of Dorne, or else he would find another man to be his Master of Lightning, one who has proved greater loyalty. House Martell will lose its seat on the Small Council, and the Dornish will not be welcome in King's Landing for some time."
There was more muttering at this. Some of it angry, though Doran couldn't be sure at whom. A voice soon cried above the din however.
"My prince, come now, let us ride!"
It was lord Tremond Gargalen who had spoken, stepping forward beside Oberyn. "Stannis gave us the Mountain's head. Our justice for Elia and her babes! We killed the Mad Dog, now let us kill his Masters!"
Several other lords joined in this call, from Dorne and beyond. "Aye" cried Ser Ulwyck Uller. "I have no great love of Tyrells, nor Florents. But Lannisters?" he spat. "Lannisters I fucking hate."
"Do you seek to marry one of your own sons to this pretender queen?" boomed a huge Northern lord. "Is that the way of it?"
"House Martell will never seek union with House Lannister" Doran said, quite truthfully.
But the clamour was growing now. The Sand Snakes were screaming as well. Doran was just going to order Areo to calm the audience when Oberyn stepped up, onto the plinth beneath the thrones. "My lords and ladies of Dorne. My brother does not wish to see Dornish blood shed. For this, we love him." He glanced at Doran, with a look of obvious affection on his face, though Doran couldn't help but feel worried. Oberyn, what in seven hells are you doing? Before he could object further, his brother turned back to the hall.
"He is a good prince, not a tyrant. He will not march us to war unless he believes it is right, and that it is the will of Dorne. So we must show him, it is what we wish. Let none plead ignorance. If you wish for our vengeance, for Dorne, for Elia, for her children, for the horrors House Lannister have visited upon the realm, then let it be known now." From his robes he pulled out a curious object, black and white in colour, on which could just barely be discerned the word Sharpie. With a faint popping sound he removed its top, then bent over. In a dozen swift paces he had drawn a thin black line through the middle of the hall. Oberyn straightened, turning to address them all.
"All who wish for this vengeance, for this justice, cross this line. Those who would prefer to hide in their holdfasts here in Dorne, remain where you are."
Several lords did not hesitate. Those who had returned with Oberyn stepped forward immediately. Gargalen, Uller and Manwoody. After a moment, Lord Qorgyle and his two sons. After some whispers, the Jordaynes stepped forth, but not the Tolands. Allyrion and Vaith remained where they were. Ser Symon came, though he seemed reluctant, following along with his daughter, Arianne and the Sand Snakes. Doran looked at those who remained. He was almost startled to see the brothers Dalt.
"Ser Deziel?" Doran asked of one of his most dutiful bannermen.
The knight of Lemonwood took a knee. "My prince…my sincerest apologies. The people of the Planky Town are faithful. They will not support this new king, or this new red god."
Doran might have said more, but there was a quiet cry from elsewhere in the hall.
"Ser Daemon?"
It was his brother who had spoken. Oberyn was looking back on the crowd with a tone of surprise bordering on horror. Opposite was his old squire, Ser Daemon Sand, the bastard of Godsgrace. Ser Daemon also took a knee, looking from Oberyn to Doran and back.
"I am sorry too, my prince…I did not think there could ever be a circumstance under which I would break faith with you…but I cannot break this faith. Our family have stayed true, since before the Andals first came to Westeros. The High Septon does not recognise this new king, so I cannot either." He stood, and went over to stand by his grandmother and her kin.
More muttering in the hall. Still, even with this defection, the defiant houses were in the minority. Examining the two groups of Dornishmen, Doran was doing some quick thinking. In fact, some quick arithmetic. After his conquest of Dorne, King Daeron Targaryen had claimed his opponents had mustered some fifty thousand swords against him, but the Young Dragon had exaggerated the scale of his conquest. The real number was somewhere around half that.
Doran looked at the Allyrions. Altogether Godsgrace could raise perhaps two thousand men. Throw in the other rebellious houses and that figure could double. He looked at the lords who stood with Oberyn. There was maybe eight or nine thousand there. The numbers were with them, but half of Dorne was still unaccounted for. It will depend on the Yronwoods he thought, uneasily. The most powerful of Sunspear's bannermen, they could command four or five thousand all on their own. If Lord Anders should oppose us…
He looked down now at his mutinous bannermen. Lord Vaith looked livid. Lady Allyrion seemed more nervous, as if fearful Doran would order their heads off then and there. I could arrest them all Doran thought. Areo would do it if he commanded, even if it meant breaking the guest right that held sacred over the hall. No he thought, as he dismissed the notion. We are at parley. All the rest of Dorne would rise in rebellion at such an outrage,
Oberyn had turned back to him. He was almost smiling, as if proud of the mess he had made. Now you've done it Doran thought lividly. Now you give me no choice.
"Go" Doran commanded, staring down his disloyal vassals. "Those who would recognize the pretender, leave this hall, now."
There was some movement, but others were defiant. "And what of the Starry Sept?" demanded Lord Vaith suddenly. "Will you burn it to the ground, my prince, as this fresh usurper burnt the Great Sept in King's Landing?"
A roar of outrage met this enquiry. Lords Gargalen and Uller began advancing on their neighbour, shouting a challenge, but several Allyrion knights stepped forward to meet them. Doran raised a hand for silence, but to his surprise the clamour continued unabated. He turned to Areo. "End this madness!" he commanded.
The big Norvoshi smacked the butt of his spear on the ground. A score of Martell guards around the walls did the same. When this failed to have immediate effect, Areo led several of them into the crowd. An Allyrion knight had his hand on the hilt of his sword. Areo demanded he remove it, or his hand would be removed instead. The young hero seemed to think better of challenging the captain and complied. To jeers and shouts and threats, the rebellious lords were quickly led from the hall. Ser Daemon Sand was the last to leave, looking back on the Martells with a look more full of sadness, than of anger.
Order finally returned to the proceedings. Lord Florent stepped forward again. "What say you, my prince? Will you prove yourself a loyal subject of the realm? Will you answer your king's call, and march to the aid of Highgarden?"
Doran was looking at his remaining bannermen now. The faces were still eager, angry even. Truly, they think me weak, even mine own brother. He glanced at Oberyn briefly. Damn you. You have turned Dornishmen against Dornishmen, precisely against my wishes. But he could sense defeat when it was upon him. If he continued to dither, his own position would be in jeopardy.
"What a strange day is it, when a Baratheon king and the proud lords of the Reach must beg favor of a Dornishmen, to save their homes" he said slowly. "On the issue of war, it seems clear we are far from a consensus."
Oberyn shook his head. "A few overly pious cowards, my prince, easily dealt with" there were cries of agreement.
Doran bid his tongue. Damn him. He found himself thinking of the letter, crumpled up in his pocket. It had been his last, best hope. As Prince of Dorne he had agents on both sides of the Narrow Sea. Vaes Dothrak was far for them to go, but go some had. Even at the temple of the Dosh Khaleen, there had been no sign of Daenerys Targaryen. He had not heard a whisper of her in months. She must be dead then, the same as Viserys. When her husband's khalasar had broken up, it had been her doom as well. More like than not she was rotting in the ground somewhere, a shallow grave on the Dothraki Sea. With her went his last best hope of an alliance, of marrying her to Quentyn or Trystane and making one of them lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Twenty years of plots and schemes, all wasted.
"Very well." He turned to Oberyn, no longer bothering to guard his angry tone. "Summon the banners, if you will. Rally them at the Prince's Pass. March them into battle if you wish! You will have no more objections from me."
He indicated to Maester Caleotte, who promptly grabbed his chair and began wheeling him from the room, every bump and crevice a small torture. Behind him there were cries of triumph, as the new alliance between the Iron throne and Sunspear took shape. The jubilation soon faded into the background, as the maester wheeled him through the quiet corridors of the old palace. Doran could not share in the good feelings. All he felt was shame. He had failed yet again, this time at keeping Dorne out of the war. Now Dornish blood will be spilt, and even worse, by other Dornishmen. He could only wonder how everything had gone so wrong.
And he wondered too, whatever had happened to the last of the Targaryens.