Arianne's eyes were upon him now, their sharpness softened by an expression that hovered perilously close to pity. "Do not be so quick to assume your fate," she said, her voice low and laced with a hint of teasing cruelty, like a blade wrapped in silk. "Your position as the son of Eddard Stark bears more weight than you may comprehend. You lack the sword-arm of Robb, true, but you possess something far more dangerous—a keen and restless mind. You will find your place, Edric, if only you learn patience. This is a game that unfolds at its own will, not yours."
A dark, mirthless laugh welled within Edric, only to be swallowed back like poison. He had grown weary of those words, of being counseled to wait and watch while others played their moves. His mind was a fire of frustration, stoked by the ever-present fear that his future dangled by threads in the hands of more powerful players.
He cast a glance from Doran to Arianne, two figures entrenched in their own webs of strategy and deception—figures whose reasons for playing the game would likely determine his worth in the end.
"And if Viserys does choose to claim his birthright?" Edric demanded, the weight of a thousand unanswered questions sharpening his voice. "What then becomes of me?"
Doran's response was quiet, measured, and laced with a certain gravity. "Then you shall do what you were born to do. Stand with us, Edric. So long as you understand the value of patience and the weight of your choices, your place will always be where you choose to stand."
Arianne's eyes held his, and her lips pressed into a line as thin and unforgiving as a dagger's edge. "You wield more power than you realize. But this is not merely about your desires. It is about what you are willing to sacrifice to achieve them."
Edric met her gaze, the tangled complexity of the moment wrapping around him like a constricting vine. Clarity brought no comfort; instead, it only revealed how deeply embedded he was in a game far larger than himself.
Turning his gaze back to Doran, his voice was laced with bitter defiance. "And why should I not march back to Winterfell, tell my father all that you have plotted, and unravel this madness? Why remain ensnared in your schemes, promises whispered in shadows? What future awaits me here—a placeholder, a second choice waiting for someone better to fail?"
His eyes were as cold as a winter morning in the North, but beneath the ice, there was a deep, unspoken wound. "Tell me, Doran—why should I not expose it all? Why should I not walk away from this?"
Doran's expression remained an unbroken mask of calm, though a shadow darkened his eyes, a brief acknowledgment of the storm Edric threatened to unleash. His fingers steepled before him, and he regarded Edric for a long moment—not with anger, but with the kind of quiet resolve borne from years of navigating treacherous waters.
"The North does not take secrets lightly, I know. But that is precisely why we must tread with care. The future of Dorne—indeed, the fate of the realm itself—depends on how well we manage these truths we hold."
His eyes flickered to Arianne for the briefest moment, as though silently acknowledging her role in this tangled web. "But you must understand, Edric, that sometimes the path to power requires sacrifices. And sometimes, the truth is a dangerous weapon—one that, if revealed too soon, could destroy everything we've worked for."
Arianne said nothing, but her gaze lingered on him, a faint trace of something unreadable in her eyes. Perhaps it was admiration for his sharpness, or perhaps something darker—a reminder of how the game was played, even when he didn't wish to play.
Edric felt his fists clench at his sides, the words biting at him more than he had anticipated. "So, you would risk everything for this? For some fleeting advantage in a game that could destroy the very thing I care about most?" His voice was low but intense. "The North isn't some pawn you can move on a board. And neither am I."
Doran exhaled slowly, as though contemplating the storm of emotions swirling in the room. "This is not about fleeting advantage, Edric. This is about survival. The North has its honor, its pride, but it also has its limitations. The realm is changing. Alliances are fragile, and to stand alone in these times is to invite ruin." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a softer but no less urgent tone. "The truth is a heavy burden to bear, especially when the wrong people learn of it. You say you care about the North, but sometimes it is not enough to simply care. You must act. You must choose what you are willing to protect—and what you are willing to risk."
Edric felt his throat tighten. Doran's words cut deep, but the sting only fueled his frustration. His mind whirled, caught between loyalty to his family and the disquieting realization that this world, this game of thrones, was far more treacherous than he had ever understood.
"And what of me?" Edric demanded, his voice sharp with a mixture of defiance and uncertainty. "What am I to you, Doran? A tool to be used when the time is right? Or am I something more?"
Arianne's gaze flickered to Doran briefly before turning back to Edric. Her lips parted, but she did not speak. She watched, as though waiting for Doran's answer, or perhaps for Edric's next move.
Doran sighed, his eyes reflecting the weight of years of diplomacy and betrayal. "You are not a tool, Edric. You are a piece in a much larger game. And your value will be determined not by what you choose to be, but by what you are willing to become. This betrothal was never just about Dorne and the North. It is about what happens when the North, the Targaryens, and Dorne all find their place in the shifting tides of the realm."
Edric's stomach tightened as the full weight of Doran's words sank in. There was no simple solution to this. There was no easy path forward. This was a game of power, of survival, and everything was on the line.
"You still haven't answered my question, Doran," Edric said, his voice low and edged with cold determination. "What am I to you?"
Doran met his gaze, unblinking. "You are my ally, Edric. And if you are wise, you will learn to see beyond the secrets and the games. There is far more at stake than you understand." He stood then, a silent gesture for the conversation to end, though his words lingered in the air. "But know this: The North is not the only thing that is fragile in this world. And it is not just your family's future that hangs in the balance."
The weight of those words echoed in Edric's mind as the silence between them deepened, a silence pregnant with the sense that something far more dangerous was afoot than he had ever anticipated. The stakes were higher than ever before, and Edric was no longer sure where his place in it all truly was.
Edric's fingers tightened into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to steady himself. Anger, cold and sharp, lanced through him, searing away the remnants of his uncertainty. He met Doran's gaze with an intensity that had never before surfaced. Edric's laugh came, low and bitter, cutting through the heavy air like the edge of a blade. His eyes, cold and dark like the winter winds of the North, fixed on Doran Martell. The calm in the Prince of Dorne's demeanor only seemed to stoke the fire in Edric's chest.
"So this is what it comes to," Edric said, his voice edged with ice. "The future of Dorne, the great schemes of Oberyn and Doran Martell, all reduced to a game of waiting and contingency. A marriage born of necessity, with no regard for those caught in the web. A placeholder, a tool, a second blade. That's all I've ever been, isn't it?"
"You've played us like pieces on a cyvasse board, and now you expect me to trust you? To rise with you? Tell me, Prince of Dorne, why should I?"
His gaze flicked to Arianne, her silence cutting more deeply than any words she might have spoken. He saw the tension in her shoulders, the faint quiver at the edge of her lips, and it only hardened his resolve. "You didn't even tell Arianne," he said, his voice softer but no less biting. Arianne's lips parted, but no words came. Her hesitation spoke volumes, and Edric shook his head, a mirthless smile curling his lips. "Of course not. Why would they tell you? Why would they tell either of us? We're only the pieces they move across the board."
He took a step forward, his presence colder and more commanding than it had ever been. "You speak of survival, of sacrifice, as though they justify everything. But you've made me your shield without ever asking if I wanted to stand in the way of your enemies. You've made her—" his voice cracked slightly as he gestured to Arianne—"your sword, and you want me to just be okay with it."
Doran's expression did not waver, but a flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps—passed through his eyes. "This is not betrayal, Edric. It is pragmatism. The world is not so kind as to allow for sentimentality."
"Pragmatism," Edric echoed bitterly, his lips twisting into a cold smile. "How convenient. Pragmatism is what you call it when you strip people of their agency, when you decide their fates without so much as a word of warning. What you've done isn't strategy—it's cowardice."
Edric's words hung in the air, and for the first time, Doran's gaze faltered. Just a fraction, but enough for Edric to press on. "You think this is survival, but it's not. It's fear. Fear of the Lannisters, fear of the dragons, fear of losing what little power you cling to. And in your fear, you've sacrificed the very people you claim to protect."
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Arianne's eyes were wide now, a flicker of something—pride, perhaps, or pain—dancing in their depths. Doran's composure, while largely intact, bore the faintest cracks under Edric's cold fury.
Edric cracks first though, he let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and hollow as it echoed through the room. He ran a hand through his dark hair, his fingers trembling with restrained emotion. "Of course," he said, his voice laced with frustration and bitterness. "Why am I even surprised? Always the second choice. The spare. Never the one anyone wants, just the one they settle for when all their grander plans fall apart."
His words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. He turned to Arianne, his gaze flickering between anger and resignation. "You were promised to a dragon prince, a boy with a crown of ashes. And when that dream started to crumble, they handed you to me. Not because I'm worthy, not because I'm wanted, but because I'm convenient. A Stark to keep the peace, a placeholder for something better."
Edric shook his head, his voice dropping, quieter but no less sharp. "Do you have any idea what it's like to live your whole life as the one people settle for? To always be the shadow of what could have been? I've had enough of it in the North, and now here I am, in Dorne, playing the same damned role."
He turned back to Doran, his anger flaring anew. "You talk about duty, about sacrifice, as if those words justify anything. But all I see is a man willing to twist lives into knots, to break hearts and forge alliances on the backs of people you claim to care about. And you expect me to be grateful? To play along?"
His voice turned cold, biting with the weight of his words. "But what I've learned, Prince Doran, is that second is always the one left behind. Always the one who picks up the pieces when everyone else is too busy playing their games." He looked between Doran and Arianne, his eyes hard. "And that's all I'll ever be, isn't it? The one who gets nothing but the scraps, while everyone else gets the glory."
He gave a bitter chuckle, though it was devoid of humor. "It's not even a surprise anymore."
"I will play your game though. Not because I believe in your cause, but because I have no choice. You've made sure of that. But do not mistake my cooperation for loyalty. The North taught me one thing, if nothing else: I am not a man to be used and discarded. I will remember this, Doran Martell. Every slight, every betrayal, every sacrifice you demand. And when the tides shift, as they always do, I will ensure that those who've played their games at my expense pay the price."
Doran's expression tightened, he sat straighter in his chair, his fingers steepling before him as he regarded Vish with a gaze that was both piercing and deliberate. When he spoke, his voice was low and measured, each word enunciated with precision, carrying the weight of his authority and intellect.
"You speak of being used as if it were unique to you, Edric. But this is the truth of power—the truth of survival. You believe yourself a victim of circumstance, but in truth, you are being given an opportunity—one that could shape your future, if you stop seeing yourself as a mere afterthought." His voice dropped, cool and controlled. "You think I haven't seen men like you before? Those who cling to their pride, only to find that pride is what keeps them from their destiny."
Edric's eyes narrowed as he met Doran's gaze, cold fury simmering beneath his calm exterior. He stood straighter, letting the silence stretch between them, and his next words came out slowly, deliberately.
"You mistake my frustration for weakness, Prince Doran. You're wrong. I'm not a man who will ever be defined by your schemes, your plans, or your choices." His voice was a low, cutting whisper. "And I am not a fool who will bend the knee to a game I never agreed to play."
"You've made it clear what I am to you, Lord Doran. A tool, a contingency. A blade kept sharp until needed, but never for its own worth. I've spent my whole life as someone's second choice. A shadow in my own family, and now, a placeholder in yours."
Edric's gaze flicked briefly to Arianne, his expression unreadable but colder than the Dornish sun could warm. Without another word, he turned sharply on his heel and strode out of the room, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor until they faded into the distance.
The days that followed Edric's cold departure from Doran's solar were a blur of tension and silence. Edric avoided Arianne whenever possible, her presence only a reminder of the heavy chains of duty that bound them both. The Martell palace, with its vibrant mosaics and fragrant orange groves, seemed muted in his eyes—a gilded cage that closed tighter with every passing moment.
Arianne, for her part, maintained her composure, though her sharp glances and clipped words betrayed her own frustration. She spent her time in council with her father or walking the sun-dappled paths of the Water Gardens. Whether she sought to avoid Edric or confront him, he could not tell, and he cared even less.
Two days passed in uneasy silence before the first raven arrived.
The missive was delivered to Doran in private, but its arrival carried weight beyond the ink and parchment. The air in the palace shifted, heavy with whispers among the servants and wary glances exchanged by courtiers. The tension grew thicker still, the guards at the gates doubled, and the faint sense of foreboding settled over Sunspear like an unwelcome shadow.
On the fourth day, another raven arrived, its black wings bearing tidings that carried the weight of distant storms. The parchment bore the direwolf of House Stark, the ink bold and unyielding. It was addressed to Edric.
He read it alone in the solitude of the guest chamber he had claimed as his own. The words were stark and unadorned, but they struck like a hammer upon an anvil:
Jon Arryn is dead. The King rides north. Prepare yourself.
News from the capital was rarely good, and the King's sudden movements were never without reason.
On the second day after the raven's arrival, Doran summoned Edric.
The Prince of Dorne sat at his desk, his fingers drumming idly on the surface, as Edric entered. Arianne, as always, was standing just behind him, her face unreadable.
"Come in,Edric," Doran said softly, his voice carrying a weight Edric Could not quite place. "The world has shifted, and it's time we discuss what that means for you."
Edric hesitated, but his feet carried him forward. He could not ignore the pressing tension in his chest, nor the looming uncertainty of the future. He stood before Doran's desk, his posture stiff, his gaze cool but unreadable.
"You have received the news of Jon Arryn's death, I presume?" Doran asked, though it was clear he already knew the answer.
Edric nodded, his lips tight. "And Robert Baratheon marches north. To Winterfell."
Doran's eyes met his. "Yes. That is the path the King has chosen. Eddard Stark will be called to King's Landing." His voice was measured, but there was an underlying urgency. "What happens next will affect the fate of not only your family, but this entire realm."
Edric's chest tightened at the mention of his father. "What does it mean for Dorne?"
Doran's expression darkened ever so slightly. "It means that everything is changing. The death of Jon Arryn is not a simple tragedy—it is a signal. Robert will need a new Hand, someone to steer the realm. Eddard Stark, your father, is the obvious choice. And with it will come the political upheaval that Dorne has long feared."
Arianne's eyes flicked to him, her gaze sharp, though her face remained composed. Doran leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled before him. "Your betrothal to Arianne... It was never only about Dorne. It was about timing, power, and leverage. With Jon Arryn's death, Robert's visit to Winterfell changes everything. Dorne will have a role to play—whether as an ally to the Starks or as something else."
Arianne stepped forward slightly, her voice quiet but firm. "The ties between Dorne and the Starks may soon become far more critical than they ever were. The game of thrones, Edric... it is not a game for the weak."
Edric's frustration boiled over. "And I'm supposed to just... play along?" His voice was sharp, but beneath the bitterness, there was fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of his own role in this larger game.
Doran's gaze did not falter. "I'm not asking you to be a pawn, Edric," he said, his words precise, each one falling like a drop of water into a still pool. "I am asking you to be a player. To see the board as it truly is, and to understand that we all have our roles to fulfill—whether that is in aligning with your father or stepping into a different kind of power."
Edric's breath came in short, sharp bursts as he tried to swallow the enormity of Doran's words. The life he had dreamed of—quiet, distant from the shadows of power—was slipping through his fingers like sand. The walls of the solar seemed to press in around him, the weight of the world bearing down on his shoulders.
"I'll do what's necessary" Edric said finally, his voice cold and distant, as though he had already resigned himself to the inevitable. His heart ached at the thought of leaving Dorne, of being forced to choose between his family and his loyalty. But the pull of his blood—the pull of Winterfell, of his father—was stronger than his bitterness.
Doran's gaze sharpened, and the calm that had previously surrounded him shifted ever so slightly, revealing a flicker of something more calculating beneath the surface. He spoke slowly, deliberately, as if imparting a truth that Edric could no longer ignore.
"And do not delude yourself, Edric," Doran continued, his tone unwavering, yet carrying an edge of inevitability. "Winterfell has already begun to turn its eyes toward Dorne, regardless of what happens with this marriage. You may not see it, but I do. The winds of change blow in more directions than we care to acknowledge. Danger is being sensed across the realm, and alliances are forming in response to the storm that threatens to rise."
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle in the room. "Even now, the Starks sense the shifting tides. They know that Dorne is a power that cannot be ignored, and they are preparing accordingly. Whether this betrothal to Arianne comes to pass or not, Winterfell has already made its move. The alliance is already in place. You do not have to marry my daughter to see that."
His voice became even more measured, more like the voice of a man who had seen the patterns of the world unfold time and time again. "They seek us for more than just bloodlines. They seek us for what we offer: strength, strategy, and the knowledge that Dorne stands not alone, but with those who are bold enough to see the coming dangers. The Lannisters are but one threat. There are others, and your father, Eddard Stark, is not blind to that. This marriage pact was never the sole reason for this alliance. It is simply a means to cement it."
Edric's voice rose, cold and sharp like the winds of the North, carrying the weight of generations and a fury that had been forged in blood. "You missed a crucial point though Lord Doran, Winterfell cannot support Dorne in good faith—not while you conspire to ally with the very bloodline that burned my uncle Brandon alive, strangled him as he fought to save his father. Not while you dream of restoring a house whose flames consumed my grandfather Rickard, who was roasted in his own armor, all while your precious Targaryens looked on, amused by their cruelty." His voice grew sharper, filled with a venom that refused to be contained. "How can you speak of survival, of alliances, when the very house you seek to join hands with left scars on the North that will never fade? Dorne may play its games, Prince Doran, but you forget what Winterfell has endured, what it has lost. I will not be the bridge between my family and those whose crimes still haunt us."
Edric leaned forward, his eyes dark with the storm of his emotions. "Do you understand what you're asking of me? To stand silent, to bind myself to this cause, while the memories of my family are spat upon? No. I will not betray my family's honor—not for Dorne, not for anyone."
Doran's expression did not falter, though his eyes darkened slightly, the weight of his words heavy with the authority of someone who had lived through more than his fair share of bloodshed. He leaned forward slightly, his voice carrying the calm yet undeniable gravity of a man who had seen the world in all its shades of cruelty.
"Your anger is just, Edric," Doran began, his tone heavy with the weight of history. "The crimes of Aerys Targaryen were beyond monstrous. He was a mad king—a tyrant consumed by his own paranoia and bloodlust. What he did to your family… what he did to the realm… was unforgivable. The North has every right to bear the scars of his madness."
He paused, his gaze piercing yet calm, as though seeking to draw a thread of reason through the storm of emotion. "But you must know this: Aerys's madness was his alone. It does not run through the blood of every Targaryen. I will not pretend to know Viserys fully, but I do know this—should I see even the slightest shadow of his father's cruelty or chaos in him, I will not hesitate to break this scheme. Dorne will not bind its fate to madness, nor will I allow my daughter to be shackled to a man unworthy of her or the realm."
Doran's voice grew softer, more insistent, yet there was no mistaking the steel that lay beneath his words. "You speak of blood and betrayal, and you are right to do so. But the past is not the future. I have watched the world burn once, Edric. I will not allow it to happen again—not by my hand, not by my house. If Viserys proves himself a spark of his father's fire, then this alliance will be ash before it even begins."
He leaned back, his hands clasping the armrests of his chair as his gaze held steady. "But if he is not… if he proves to be a man who can bring strength and stability to a fractured realm, then perhaps there is a way forward. A way to ensure that neither the North nor Dorne need ever bow to the Lannisters' grip on the throne. Madness is a fire that consumes everything in its path, and I will not fan its flames. You have my word."
Edric let out a low, humorless laugh, his lips curling into a bitter smile. His voice, when he spoke, was sharp and cutting, each word delivered with deliberate precision. "Your word," he echoed, the disdain in his tone unmistakable. "Forgive me if that does little to soothe the memory of my kin screaming in agony while the Targaryens looked on with indifference—or worse, delight."
He took a step closer, his eyes locking onto Doran's with a fire that betrayed his cold exterior. "Madness is a fire, you say? Then let me warn you, Prince of Dorne—should you misjudge Viserys, should your scheme reignite the horrors of the past, that fire will consume more than your plans. It will consume you, and it will consume your house. The North does not forget. We do not forgive."
Edric turned sharply, making his way to the door. His voice drifted back, colder than the winds beyond the Wall. "Pray that your judgment is sound, my lord. For if it is not, no alliance—neither Targaryen nor Stark—will save you from what follows."
Just as Edric's hand touched the door, Doran's voice rang out, calm yet commanding, cutting through the air like a blade. "Edric," he called, his tone firm, "There is one final matter we must discuss before you leave."
Edric paused, turning slightly. The Prince's voice was not a request, but a quiet summon.
"There has been a development," Doran continued, his fingers tapping once more on the armrest, his tone calm but deliberate. "Your father, Eddard Stark, has written to me. He has requested an adjustment in the timing of your wedding to Arianne. As the political landscape shifts with Robert Baratheon's movements, he believes that the alliance between Dorne and the Starks should be solidified sooner rather than later. He seeks a compromise of sorts."
Edric's brow furrowed, his mind racing to piece together the implications. "A compromise?" he echoed, though the word felt bitter on his tongue.
Doran's gaze sharpened as he met Edric's eyes. "Yes. Eddard's proposal is this: He would have you and Arianne wed in King's Landing, in the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, where the eyes of the realm will be upon you. A public statement, a show of strength in uncertain times." He paused, letting the words linger. "Alternatively, if you remain in Dorne, he is amenable to a more private ceremony, though that would mean the Starks' influence will be less apparent. Still, he believes the public wedding in King's Landing would better serve our mutual interests. The timing, however, must be adjusted. He insists that it occur sooner rather than later."
The words settled like a stone in his chest. Edric spoke sharply "And what is your response?"
"I have considered your father's request," Doran began, his voice measured as always, but there was a faint edge to it, a weight beneath the words. "While I understand his reasoning, I cannot in good conscience agree to hasten the wedding."
Edric's jaw tightened, his patience fraying. "I know of your reasoning, yet I'd like to hear it once more—if only to marvel at its absurdity."
Arianne's lips parted as though to speak, but she quickly pressed them together again. Edric turned his head slightly toward her, catching the flicker of unease in her dark eyes.
Doran's gaze remained steady, though his tone grew colder. "Because the sands are still shifting beneath our feet. Viserys Targaryen may yet prove his worth—or his ruin. To bind Arianne to you in haste would be to risk Dorne's future before the pieces are in place. A misstep now could cost us dearly."
The words cut sharper than Edric expected, though he should not have been surprised. "So, once again, Dorne waits," he said bitterly, a hint of mockery in his tone.
"We wait because it is prudent," Doran replied, unshaken by the barb. "But I am not blind to the advantage of placing you in King's Landing. The capital is the nexus of power in the Seven Kingdoms. Your presence there would solidify the perception of our alliance with House Stark and ensure that Dorne's voice is heard as the tides shift. If Viserys falters, we must be positioned to act."
Edric's jaw tightened. "So you would send us there, not as husband and wife, but as ambassadors."
"As symbols," Doran corrected, his tone precise. "Symbols of unity, of strength. You will represent Dorne's interests while the realm watches. And if your father is right—if a public wedding is the key to cementing our position—then the matter can be decided once you are in King's Landing. But until we see how Viserys navigates the game, I will not bind Dorne's future irrevocably."
Edric's lips pressed into a thin line, his thoughts racing. This was no mere invitation to a royal gathering. It was a test, a move on the game board that could set the tone for the future.
"And what," Edric asked, his voice low and steady, "Do you expect us to accomplish there?"
Doran's gaze sharpened. "You will observe. You will listen. The Lannisters, the Tyrells, the Baratheons—they will all be watching one another, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness. And you, Edric, will watch them in turn. Learn what you can. Protect Arianne, and protect Dorne's interests. That is all I ask."
The weight of the task settled heavily on Edric's shoulders, but he nodded. "And what if Viserys proves himself?"
Doran's fingers drummed softly against the armrest, a faint rhythm in the silence. "Then we will adjust our course. Until then, you and Arianne will carry Dorne's banner in King's Landing. The dragons may yet rise, but for now, we will play the game as it is. You must know however that I do not have faith in Viserys."
The room was silent, save for the faint rustle of the desert winds outside. Arianne was the one who broke the silence. Her voice was measured,
"How long until Robert Baratheon reaches Winterfell?" she asked, her dark eyes turning to her father, seeking the answer.
Doran's gaze shifted to his daughter, then to Edric, a hint of calculation behind his calm demeanor. "Robert Baratheon will reach Winterfell in roughly two weeks. After that, your father—Eddard Stark—will need time to prepare and then journey south with his family. It will take him at least another nine weeks before he reaches King's Landing, perhaps more with the weather growing colder and the roads more treacherous."
Edric nodded slowly, calculating the timing in his head. His heart was heavy with the weight of his choices. "And we can arrive at King's Landing only after father does, right?" he asked, his voice laced with impatience.
Arianne answered, her eyes locking with his. "We will travel with caution, but once your father reaches King's Landing, we'll move quickly. Our timing must align perfectly with his arrival. Dorne cannot afford to be seen as followers, only as allies."
"So all things considered the soonest we must leave is in 6 weeks."