"Stannis actually laying siege to Storm's End—what a farce…"
"Back then, it was by relying on the strength of Storm's End that he managed to hold out until Robert Baratheon won the war at the Trident, fully securing the Baratheon dominion and earning himself renown in the War of the Usurper."
It was still the Water Gardens. The Red Viper, Oberyn Martell, held a cup of summerwine in one hand, Ellaria Sand—his lover—cradled in the other, his words dripping with mockery.
The lord of Sunspear, Prince Doran Martell of Dorne, stood with his back to his brother, his gaze still resting on the children playing in the gardens.
His captain of guards, Areo Hotah, stood watch not far away, ensuring that no one could approach the place.
In response to his brother's taunts, Doran said calmly, "Kal Baratheon's war at Highgarden has made him anxious. If he still wishes to obtain what he wants, he must expand his strength."
"And that is precisely where his foolishness lies," the Red Viper snorted again with open disdain, delivering his final judgment.
Yet after speaking, the expression on his face turned solemn.
He drained the wine in his cup in one gulp. Sitting upright, Oberyn kissed Ellaria on the lips, then gestured for her to sit aside.
"As for the matter of the dragons… do you still stand by your view?"
Oberyn's seemingly unremarkable counterquestion abruptly pushed the previously calm atmosphere to its peak.
Even Areo Hotah, standing guard not far away, could not help but turn his gaze toward them.
Ellaria—who had just risen and had not yet had time to sit back down—stiffened slightly. She pressed her lips together, silently seated herself again, lifted the wine jug, and refilled Oberyn's cup.
Dragons…
The fighting at Highgarden could be said to have become, in recent times, a topic of enduring heat not only across the Seven Kingdoms, but even among the Free Trade Cities of the eastern continent.
At the same time, it had stirred up a new wave of adventuring fervor in search of dragon eggs—so much so that any scrap of news related to dragons was worth the price of more than a mug of ale.
And in this hushed atmosphere, everyone's gaze turned toward Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne.
"Perhaps you are right…"
After a long while, a sigh was heard.
Doran moved his wheelchair, turning himself around. He looked at his brother, whose expression was grave, and deep in his eyes there passed a trace of weariness that was not easily perceived.
"Then, if that is the case, we should—"
"But you should also know all the more clearly what Kal Baratheon did to House Tyrell at Highgarden."
Just as Oberyn was inwardly letting out a breath of relief and preparing to say something, Doran suddenly cut him off.
The Red Viper instinctively raised his head to look at him.
"You mean…?"
His brow lifting slightly, Oberyn reflected for a moment before grasping his brother's meaning.
"Kal Baratheon's ambition has already begun to show itself. The power he now holds has made him start to grow arrogant…" Doran said calmly and softly, his hands pushing the wheelchair as he moved toward his brother.
Oberyn's gaze remained fixed on him. "On what grounds?"
"If you mean that—because House Tyrell repeatedly schemed and betrayed him, and in the end, after their plot was exposed, lashed out in humiliation by joining with House Redwyne of the Arbor to seek revenge against him—and that he merely struck back a bit too hard as a result, then I do not agree with your view."
Oberyn did not accept Doran's assessment of Kal.
He continued, "I have met him, spoken with him. I was even thrown into prison by him over Robert's assassination—and because of that matter, I nearly lost my life at his hands. Doran, as far as I know, Kal Baratheon is not as you believe him to be."
"He is a rational, powerful, intelligent man, with sufficient awareness—a man more perfect and more outstanding than Rhaegar Targaryen."
"In my view, he would be a suitable king, and a strong king at that. That is why I suggested that we should, at the very least, maintain friendly relations with him."
"Moreover, he once bestowed upon us a noble gift."
The Red Viper rarely spoke at such length, but on a disagreement of such importance, he had to take responsibility for his name—for House Martell.
Yet in the face of his brother's string of "rebuttals," Doran still wore a smile, though the depth in his eyes remained unchanged.
"It seems you hold him in very high regard—you even treat him as a friend," Doran said, stopping the movement of his hands and halting before Oberyn.
He offered a casual comment on Oberyn's words.
Yet as he spoke, his gaze shifted toward Ellaria at the side.
"Could you pour me a cup as well? Though the Citadel has already announced the end of summer and winter is fast approaching, Dorne is always so hot."
"Of course, Prince," Ellaria replied.
Hearing Doran address her, Ellaria paused slightly in surprise. Then she rose and poured a cup of summerwine for Doran as well.
After finishing this, she did not sit back down. Instead, she glanced at Oberyn, then swayed away from the garden.
Time passed quietly. Only after Ellaria had left, and Areo had moved to a more distant position, did Doran stop drinking his wine.
Throughout this, Oberyn waited patiently.
"Summerwine truly is delicious, and only Dorne can produce it. It is a treasure that belongs to our Dorne, and we must cherish it," Doran said, setting down his cup and drawing out a handkerchief to dab at the corner of his mouth, his words carrying an implied meaning.
Only then did his gaze turn solemn as he looked at Oberyn, who had been waiting for him to speak.
"His dragon hatched at Robert's funeral. How much time has passed from then until now?"
At these words, Oberyn was taken aback, then frowned.
"Four months… or five? In any case, certainly less than half a year."
Oberyn was somewhat puzzled, yet he still calculated the time instinctively—though it was clear he did not place much importance on the question.
"Unheard of, is it?" Doran did not dwell on it.
"But when House Targaryen possessed dragons, the time required for a dragon to hatch from an egg and then grow to the point of forming real combat power took the efforts of two to three generations."
"In that process, there were even numerous cases of failure. Yet what did Kal Baratheon do?"
As he spoke, Doran lifted his head and looked toward the distant, azure sea, a place filled with the unknown and with danger.
A trace of bitterness appeared on his face.
"No one knows. The fact that he was able to hatch a dragon at all, like a miracle, was already enough to shock the world."
"And if you are just a bit more attentive, you will also discover that when Kal Baratheon acts, it is as though from the very beginning he knew he would certainly succeed—as if he could foresee the future."
"It is said that at Old Oak he even displayed a power akin to magic. One could say that battle—shrouded in confusion and rife with differing accounts—was won by him alone."
"He was once the Bloodwind?"
"But now he is a 'king,' the eighth incarnation of the Seven."
"Doran, what are you trying to say?" Oberyn's brow knit tighter and tighter.
"I do not know. I am very confused," Doran drew his gaze back and looked at his brother. "My subconscious tells me it is very dangerous, but I do not know where the danger comes from."
"I am worried…"
At this moment, Doran appeared utterly exhausted, his eyes filled with the marks of age and weariness.
Oberyn had never seen his brother like this before.
"I have a premonition that a change unlike any seen before will soon sweep across the Seven Kingdoms—greater even than what Aegon the Conqueror once brought."
"Perhaps only the arrival of the Andals in Westeros, their defeat of the First Men, and the bringing of the Faith of the Seven, iron weapons, and the institution of knighthood can compare to such a transformation."
"And all of this will be brought about by a single man."
"Dorne has always stood apart from the Seven Kingdoms. If matters truly unfold as I believe they will, then where should Dorne go?"
After hearing Doran's concerns, Oberyn fell into thought.
Yet less than half a minute later, he lifted his head, a confident smile hanging at the corner of his mouth.
"Are you not overthinking it?"
"Were the Targaryens not powerful? How many dragons did they possess? Yet even those who rode dragons and called themselves gods could not crush the pride that belongs to the Dornish."
"Leaving aside Aegon the Conqueror—later, when Daeron Targaryen the First sought to conquer Dorne, his endeavor lasted less than a single summer, yet it cost tens of thousands of lives, including that of the brave young king himself."
"'The Unworthy' Aegon the Fourth sent his own contrived 'dragon' to attack Dorne, only to become a complete laughingstock."
"His son, 'the Good King' Daeron the Second, finally brought Dorne into a unified realm… yet not through iron and fire, but through two carefully arranged marriages, along with a solemn treaty that guaranteed the Dornish ruling prince his title and privileges, and respected Dorne's local laws and customs."
"Doran, Dorne has endured much, yet to this day Dorne remains independent."
"We have our own pride—and that pride is never cowardice!"
Oberyn's words fell like hammer blows, firm and ringing.
As his voice faded, Doran fell silent.
He did not know how to refute his brother, Oberyn, for what he said was reasonable.
The Dornish fear bloodshed least of all, and they lack neither backbone nor resolve.
Yet here he was, the Prince of Dorne, weighed down by anxiety.
Doran gave a wry smile and shook his head.
"You are right. But, Oberyn, in such a great upheaval, I cannot place all my eggs in one basket. That is not cowardice—it is the responsibility that rests upon my shoulders."
The Prince of Dorne offered this explanation to his brother, then continued, "If everything turns out as you hope, that would naturally be a good thing. Dorne will carry on the same friendship it once had with House Targaryen, along with the pride of the Dornish."
"But if matters unfold as I fear, then the Dornish will not shrink from so-called 'conquest' either."
"Therefore, we must still maintain our former friendship with House Targaryen. Compared to dragons, the blood of the Dragonlords is not inferior to that of a bastard with a stag's blood running through his veins."
"Even if he truly is an incarnation of a 'god.'"
Seeing that Doran still held to his position, Oberyn's fingers twitched, and he gave up continuing the argument.
He knew Doran was right—for there was nothing wrong with acting this way.
Doran was indeed a qualified ruler.
So he spoke directly: "If we are to do this, then I will also need a navy to take part in this war. This is the last opportunity."
"As for what you have in mind—do it if you wish."
Things were still unfolding much as they had once been planned, yet not quite the same.
Doran understood this clearly. In response to Oberyn's words, he merely nodded.
"The several houses you contacted in your own name during this period are already prepared. An army of ten thousand—eight thousand infantry and two thousand cavalry—is sufficient to show your sincerity. Added to your past misunderstanding with Kal, I think there will be no problem at least at the outset."
"And since the matter of Storm's End has now occurred, I will give you a navy as well. But I can only provide around thirty warships' worth of forces. How you use them is for you to decide."
"That is enough. We do not need to truly fight," Oberyn said. Having received the assurance, he rose, brushed his robe, and turned to look at Doran.
"We are merely here to watch a play."
With that, Oberyn smiled, rose to his feet, and left.
He left behind only one final sentence: "After the war ends, I will do my best to secure you a seat on the Small Council. I believe that is what you desire."
…
The Reach. The main force of House Hightower marched along the Rose Road toward Highgarden.
On the road, Kal looked with interest at a letter he had just received.
"Dorne has actually taken the initiative—tsk, tsk. Truly a… hmm, how should I put it?"
Looking at the letter in his hand, Kal was somewhat surprised that House Martell had chosen to take a side at such a moment.
Although, in name, this dispatch of troops was done under the Red Viper's banner, such conduct made it difficult not to believe that this was Dorne's decision as a whole.
After all, if Doran had not given his assent—and if the houses providing the troops had not agreed—how could the Red Viper possibly have stirred up such a commotion?
Especially one carried out with such open fanfare.
And just as Kal was holding the letter and muttering in amusement to himself, Baelor Hightower—who had personally delivered the letter to him—laughed at his side and said, "Because Your Grace's war at Highgarden, and the fate of House Tyrell, served as a warning to House Martell."
"No, it goes beyond that…" he said. "I think that now, aside from your two uncles who remain 'stubborn,' all the other nobles already have their own measure in their hearts."
Hearing this, Kal looked at him with interest.
"Is that how Ser Baelor sees it?"
"Of course, Your Grace. That is beyond dispute!"
Kal had long since grown accustomed to his flattery. He folded the letter in his hand, lifted his head, and looked toward the distant end of the Rose Road, where Highgarden's castle was already visible to the naked eye.
He spoke casually, "Since people think this way, then I am curious—what gave my uncle Stannis Baratheon the courage to dare lay siege to Storm's End?"
"Does he expect Renly to join forces with him to oppose me?"
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