Chapter 34: Whose Favor is Better. Part II.

Year 291 After Aegon’s Conquest.

The Seven Kingdoms. Dorne. Sunspear.

The midday heat of Dorne blanketed the ancient castle complex and the town that had formed beneath its walls. The rays of the sun mercilessly scorched the air, and the wind carried the heat along the winding streets of the Shadow City, forcing merchants to temporarily shutter their stalls and passersby to seek refuge from the blaze in the nearest taverns. There, beautiful Dornish women in light, diaphanous gowns offered cool wine straight from the cellars, along with spicy dishes and sweet fruits.

The inhabitants of Sunspear, the citadel of the Princes of Dorne, fared much better. Gardens filled with flowers, shrubs, and trees provided ample shade, while dozens of exquisite fountains offered much-needed respite.

By one such fountain stood a pair of comfortable chairs occupied by two men.

One was clad in a silk robe of vibrant orange, adorned with flowing patterns of nature embroidered in gold thread. A wide belt cinched at the waist emphasized the broad shoulders and well-defined chest of its young wearer, who sported a short beard and hair as dark as pitch. His somewhat predatory features were not at all diminished by a broad smile that revealed rows of white teeth. His brown eyes, however, were focused, tracking even the slightest changes in his companion’s expression.

"That is why I have come to Dorne. No matter how much my heart longed to be there, in the thick of the battle, my mind and my duty to my House prevailed, and I set out immediately," the young man concluded, his gaze boring into the face of his interlocutor. Throughout the narrative, the other man’s face had remained as unchanging as a porcelain mask brought by merchants from the Far Empire of Yi Ti.

"I see. Give me some time; all of this requires careful thought. Drink some wine meanwhile, I know you enjoy it, Oberyn," came the reply.

The younger Martell merely grunted at the blatant jab. Picking up his goblet, he took a sip of the tart wine and began to thoughtfully observe the fountain. A marble statue depicted a Dornish maiden in a light dress. The girl’s garment had slipped slightly from her left shoulder, exposing a full breast with the pert cherry of a nipple, while a mischievous yet daring smile seemed to say: “Are you looking at me? Look and enjoy.” In this statue, the very essence of Dornish women seemed captured—open, free, and bold. Lords from other regions of the Seven Kingdoms deemed the women of Dorne wanton because of this, and their men, who treated women as near equals, fools.

But Oberyn laughed openly at the clumsy slights of foreign lords. What could they know of real women? What could be known by those whose wives were mere hens, fussing only over dresses, jewelry, and embroidery? Those whose daughters admired not grim warriors capable of defending themselves and their kin, but vainglorious peacocks in shimmering tourney plate?

No, Oberyn was not like them. He did not consider women beneath him. The young man had grown up on his mother’s tales, which spoke not only of worthy warriors and rulers but of Princess Nymeria of the Rhoynar, who saved her people from destruction at the hands of the bloodthirsty Valyrians and eventually wed Mors Martell, blending the blood of Andals and Rhoynar. And what of Meria Martell, who defended the independence of Dorne and defied Aegon the Conqueror himself? Could some slip of a girl from the Westerlands or the Reach pull off such a feat? No! Even the proud Northmen, famed for their strength and invincibility in their snowy forests, eventually bent the knee! But not the Martells. Oh no, their motto was well-earned: Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.

"Still, I see no great reason for concern," Oberyn's companion finally emerged from his thoughts.

"But brother! Understand at last, we simply cannot sustain this!" The younger Martell half-rose from his chair. "I know you desire this greatly, you want to bind the Targaryens to Dorne as tightly as possible, but this time I fear your scheme will not play out."

At this statement, Doran only offered a crooked smile. His brother was, as always, too hasty in his conclusions; his hot blood gave him no chance to weigh matters with a cold head. Though Oberyn was remarkably resourceful, strikingly cunning, and a talented military commander, he was a mediocre administrator. And his schemes... Doran shook his head ruefully, recalling a pair of lords who had underestimated the Red Viper, only to pay with their lives, dying of "indigestion brought on by their excessive insolence," as his younger brother put it. In short, Oberyn’s reach was an intrigue leading to an enemy's death; he recognized no others, considering them unnecessarily "complex" and thus often doomed to failure.

"You do not see the whole picture," the elder brother began, but he was cut off by a sharp jolt of pain in his knee.

Silently gritting his teeth, the elder Martell drained his wine goblet in one gulp and hissed air through his teeth. He leaned back in his chair, wincing slightly at the sympathetic look from his brother. May all the demons of the Seven Hells take this cursed gout! Because of this disease, which even the finest physicians of Essos and Westeros could not cure, he, the Prince of All Dorne, could not even walk properly. Every step radiated pain, and though it was bearable for now, he felt the year was not far off when he would be unable to move without a cane. And to think he was once the First Spear of Dorne in his youth! Cursed illness...

"Viserys needs us. He needs us badly. He has but one dragon and an army no larger than that of Dorne. The boy cannot succeed alone. Even Aegon the Conqueror had three dragons, not one. Moreover, the Westeros of today and the Westeros of three hundred years ago are entirely different things. It is easy to defeat a great army piece by piece, but difficult when it stands united." Pouring himself another glass of wine, Doran took two large swallows.

The elder Martell’s mood was sinking into the Hells. In recent years, everything had gone awry. First, Oberyn had very short-sightedly quarreled with the Yronwoods, one of the Martells' most powerful bannermen, leading to an outcome extremely unpleasant for the princely house. The duel of honor with Lord Edgar Yronwood had ended well enough in itself—Oberyn won and even mercifully spared the hot-tempered aristocrat’s life—but there was one problem.

The Lord died anyway. The wounds Oberyn left festered and rotted, which malicious tongues quickly attributed to a poisoned blade. It was a serious blow to the Martell reputation, and Doran, having only recently taken the throne, managed to smooth over the incident only at a very high price. He had to send his eldest son, Quentyn, to be fostered by the Yronwoods. In truth, the boy was a mere hostage, guaranteeing the bannermen’s safety from their liege and even securing some minor concessions.

As for his younger brother, who had managed to sleep with the favorite mistress of the now-deceased Lord Yronwood, the Prince had sent him across the Narrow Sea to stay out of trouble, rightly judging it better for Oberyn to spend time away from home and those he had managed to provoke. As for the aristocrats of Essos... he could only ask the Seven for the repose of their souls.

And now his brother was here. For the third time recently. The first time, he brought news of Viserys Targaryen, a highly capable youth with excellent prospects. The second time, Oberyn’s very first words had made his elder brother clutch his heart and worry for the Red Viper’s sanity. To think of it—offering homage to a Targaryen prince, and in the name of the entire House Martell! Gods, if even one "extra" person found out, Robert Baratheon would not have left one stone upon another in Dorne!

When the Prince of Dorne finally recovered his wits and interrogated Oberyn on every word of his conversation with Viserys and every thought that had flickered in his brother’s reckless head, Doran didn't know whether to laugh or cry. An oath of fealty, and without any conditions! All the demons of the Hells, this idiot had effectively shackled the Martells to the Targaryens. Of course, there were options like a total renunciation of the oath, but... better for the whole House to drink poison. No one deals with oathbreakers. That thesis was debatable, and exceptions existed in every age, but it applied to individual knights and lords with tarnished reputations, not an entire Great House!

Renouncing an oath of fealty brought by all of House Martell would be the beginning of the end. It would be a perfect pretext to overthrow a liege, his de facto failure as a ruler. For what follows? If they break one oath, they might break another... the oath to protect the rights and honor of their vassals, for instance. This would surely be exploited by both internal and external enemies, of which the rulers of Dorne had accumulated as many over the centuries as a stray dog carries fleas.

On the other hand, a dragon. A real, living, and invincible monster. To the owner of such a creature, it matters not how large your army is or how impregnable your citadel. An unbeatable card, as Aegon the Conqueror proved to Westeros with the grim examples of the Field of Fire and Harrenhal. Serving such a master was attractive, very much so. Your liege would be indestructible, meaning his loyal vassals would always be in a winning position, all the more so if they stood by him when Viserys was effectively fighting alone against the world. Men who swear to you in a dark hour are inherently valued far more than the sycophants and schemers who take your side at the end, when the outcome and the victor are already clear.

It was a situation of "I would, but I fear." But the choice had been made for Doran by his more impulsive younger brother. The bones are thrown, as the sailors say. All that remained was to squeeze everything possible from the situation and try not to be swept overboard during the storm.

"You are looking too narrowly," the Prince of Dorne began to expand his thought. "Yes, Viserys becomes a tempting prize, and Dorne looks pale compared to the Reach. But he has already promised to take Arianne to wife. And my daughter simply must marry him! Otherwise, I fear the Tyrells will simply squeeze us out of power. They already have more men and ships, to say nothing of their gold and grain. The rulers of Highgarden will not miss their chance, and the Queen of Thorns will entwine her vines around the Iron Throne the moment the young Targaryen sits upon it. If Viserys’s wife also wears the golden rose rather than the sun pierced by a spear..." Doran shook his head; words were unnecessary.

No matter how much he wished otherwise, the Reach looked very favorable compared to Dorne. The Tyrells fought for the Targaryens until the end during Robert's Rebellion, while the Martells preferred to wait silently for the resolution. They had, after all, been deeply offended by the crown prince’s actions—being married to Elia Martell yet preferring some northern girl, Stark though she was. And even if Viserys held no grudge against the House of sands and rocks for this, the raw power of the "capital of chivalry" was overwhelming compared to Dorne. The Tyrells could field a hundred thousand spears against the Martells' thirty. Their fleet was also much larger and richer in war galleys due to constant skirmishes with the ironborn, and the sheer amount of gold and food the Reach could supply to a Targaryen made Doran grit his teeth. His lands could not even feed their own population, forcing them to buy from the Free Cities and other regions of the Seven Kingdoms; there was no question of a surplus to send to a liege across the Narrow Sea.

In short, from any angle, a marriage to Margaery Tyrell looked much better for Viserys than one to Arianne Martell. Only the Targaryen's promise offered hope. And now his brother was also suddenly against the wedding.

"Understand at last!" Oberyn waved his hand, rising from his chair to pace nervously back and forth. "Viserys is too valuable a match. We simply cannot swallow this piece of the pie. I do not deny the young Targaryen is a man of his word; he has not yet broken a letter or the spirit of a contract. He will take Arianne to wife. But how many days will my niece live after that? The Queen of Thorns, that cursed Olenna Tyrell, is a dangerous woman. Very! For the sake of her favorite granddaughter and the greatness of her House, she will do anything! I do not want to lose Arianne as well!"

At the last words, Oberyn’s eyes flashed fiercely, and Doran’s heart tightened again with grief. Yes... the Martells had already lost their women by marrying them to Targaryens. Their beloved sister Elia...

Doran’s fists clenched until his knuckles were white, and his voice suddenly turned hoarse:

"No! That will not happen again!"

"You said once before that we would surely have our vengeance, brother," Oberyn smiled bitterly. "Yet the cursed Lannisters still thrive and live without a care, only growing stronger. The Old Eagle still breathes the air and proudly wears the Hand’s regalia, and that fat boar still sits his heavy arse on the Iron Throne. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken," the Red Viper recited the House motto. "Has fear taken root in your heart along with your lameness?"

"Fear?!" the usually calm Doran suddenly roared, his face turning crimson as he bolted from his chair, ignoring the pain in his knees. "Fear?! You are not the one to speak of it! Our House has been given a magnificent opportunity, you only need to reach out and be able to protect Arianne, and you are afraid! And of whom? That old woman? She will die of old age by the time Viserys comes for the Iron Throne!"

"Tywin Lannister, Jon Arren, Gregor Clegane, Amory Lorch, Robert Baratheon." Approaching closely, Oberyn began to hiss the names of those responsible for Elia’s death into his brother’s face. "Will they also die of old age, in their warm beds, surrounded by children and grandchildren?! Is this the revenge you’ve been nursing all these years? Is this why you told me we must wait?! And I waited, by the Hells, I waited! For what? For the culprits to die of fucking old age?!"

"Calm yourself! No. We shall join our blood with the Targaryens, help Viserys take the Iron Throne, and nothing shall stop us on the road to vengeance! Nothing! If we yield, if we step aside and let the Tyrells graft their soft rose Margaery to the Blood Dragon... everything will turn to ash!"

"You are losing not only your legs, brother, but your mind! They will simply remove her, it matters not how." Turning away, Oberyn stepped back from Doran and collapsed into his chair. "They will frame her, disgrace her, poison her, strangle her, push her from a window... it matters not! The Martells will not be permitted to grow so powerful. And to avenge everyone responsible for Elia’s death, that isn't even necessary. It is enough that they are also responsible for the Targaryens' fall."

"Perhaps." Breathing out, Doran calmed slightly and sat back in his chair, inwardly wincing at the pain in his legs but keeping his face impassive. "But when revenge is the purpose of your life, you will never achieve anything greater than its fulfillment. Enemies must be destroyed or turned into allies, that is true. But remember what our mother taught us. The House must live on regardless of everything. And it is better to live well and be strong, for then there is a great chance the descendants will not squander all their ancestors amassed. When Viserys takes the throne, even if he does not marry Arianne, he will undoubtedly favor the Martells. But his children, who will succeed their father... they will be half-Tyrell. Not Martell. And that is when things will go hard for us. You know yourself, Dorne’s population is growing, and that is good, but we simply do not have the fertile lands to feed it. Without an increase in population, we will remain on the level of the North. Strong enough, but only on our own territory. Should the Northmen leave their snow-swept forests, or the Dornish their impassable deserts... what could we do against Lannister gold or the Tyrells' vast army? It is vital for us to bind the future ruler tightly. Otherwise, no one will allow us to grow our lands at the expense of the Baratheons or gain territory in Essos, nor will they admit us to real power. The most we could hope for in such a case is a plot of land somewhere in Slaver’s Bay and a single seat on the Small Council, but believe me, that is too little to stand equal with the greatest Houses."

"And what do you suggest?" Oberyn waved a hand, inwardly preparing to continue the argument.

He loved his niece too much, perhaps even more than her own father, Doran. No, it was nothing like that... it was simply that when Elia was gone, Oberyn had tried to drown his grief in tuns of wine. But one wretched morning he realized, he was more likely to drive himself into a grave than to fill that abyss of black melancholy with alcohol. And so he chose a goal worthy of a Martell: vengeance upon his enemies and care for his family. And his niece, a little caustic spitfire so like Elia as a child, became the solace that helped keep him afloat in the beginning. Later he learned the sweetness of women and the thrill of battle, but the vow made in those hard times he remembered well. No other Martell should die at the hands of enemies; at the least, he would do everything in his power to prevent it.

"A letter came to me. It contains a proposal for a solution to this problem. No, it is not ideal," at this point, Doran’s lip twitched with displeasure, "but it is quite feasible, and most importantly, it is a way out. In such a scenario, the Tyrells themselves will guard Arianne like the apple of their eye. Just as we will guard Margaery." Pausing for a moment, the Prince of Dorne grumbled: "If only they get along..."

With those words, Doran reached forward and picked up a wooden chest that had been sitting on the edge of the table. A lock clicked open with a small silver key, and the Prince drew forth a scroll. Impossibly expensive, snow-white paper straight from the Empire of Yi Ti was bound with a cord of green and silver threads, at the ends of which dangled two seals. The first was the golden rose of the Tyrells; the second, a vine covered in thorns. The personal seal of Olenna Tyrell.