Daenerys Targaryen
"Allow me to greet you, Your Grace," Oberyn Martell said with a bow. His voice was rough and throaty. His companions inclined their heads as well.
"I, Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of Meereen and Westeros, am pleased to welcome such honoured guests."
Daenerys noticed the sharp look Oberyn gave her at the mention of Westeros. Even now, he was clearly fitting the fact that she considered Westeros her rightful domain into plans of his own.
"Rumours of you have reached us — of your beauty and your deeds," Oberyn remarked. "Men are already composing songs about you."
"You honour me," Daenerys replied with a slight incline of her head. She was grateful that her guests had chosen not to dwell upon the true state of affairs and the troubles tightening around her from every side. "Allow me to present my counsellors — Ser Barristan Selmy, Lady Missandei, and the commander of the Unsullied, Grey Worm."
Just as she had expected, Oberyn's gaze immediately shifted toward Selmy. It was plain they had met before and knew one another already. His companions, however, directed their attention toward Missandei.
And truly, she was worth looking at.
Servants seated the guests in elegant half-chairs and brought wine along with light delicacies. A slow and careful conversation began, both hosts and guests cautiously probing one another.
That discussion resolved nothing of consequence, and no agreement was reached. More than that, beyond vague assurances that they were prepared to help, Daenerys heard nothing concrete at all.
The following day, however, she met Oberyn upon one of the terraces of the Great Pyramid. This time the Red Viper proved more direct and insistent — insofar as such a thing could be said of a man like him.
"Yesterday you called yourself Queen of Westeros. Tell me, is that merely a pretty phrase, or do you intend to support it with action?"
The man had a talent for asking uncomfortable questions. Most troubling of all was the fact that she did not know where he truly stood and could not trust him.
"My forebears sat the Iron Throne for three hundred years. By rights, it belongs to me," the girl answered as cautiously as possible, speaking only well-known truths and refusing to reveal her hand.
"Westeros burns in war at present. The North and the Vale have risen against the Crown. The ironborn support them from their islands. You know this?"
"Of course," came her confident reply.
Aye, rumours reached her in abundance, though firm and reliable information was far rarer.
"If you intend to return to Westeros, now is the time. And you will find support there."
"And if I choose to return, will Dorne support me?" She looked into the Red Viper's brown eyes. The man stood a full head taller than she did. She had long since grown accustomed to such differences in height — Khal Drogo had towered over her even more.
But her husband had not possessed such an aura of danger and wariness.
Drogo had been stronger, larger, more imposing… The man before her, however, possessed formidable intelligence, insight, and experience. A very dangerous man.
"We will… under certain conditions."
"And what conditions are those?"
"Understand me correctly, Your Grace," Oberyn said with a faint smile. "It does not serve Dorne to wage war against Joffrey and the houses that support him for nothing. We must clearly understand our allies and their intentions. Do you know of the pact your father concluded with Prince Doran?"
"No."
"They agreed that his newborn child, should it prove to be a girl, would wed someone of House Martell. At the same time, a marriage contract was signed for your brother Viserys and my niece Arianne. Look for yourself."
In his hands he carried a dusty red leather folder. Now he opened it and extended the document within.
Daenerys took the heavy sheet of waxed parchment into her hands. Upon it were the sigils of House Targaryen and House Martell, only a little text, and several seals. Her father's signature stood there — King Aerys's — beside that of Doran Martell.
And despite the fact that all this had occurred before her birth, she felt a stir of emotion.
The document was a message from the past, a swallow carrying memories of lost kin.
Oberyn walked toward the edge of the terrace, clasped his hands behind his back, and calmly gazed out over sprawling Meereen below. Meanwhile, Daenerys read the document through twice in succession.
Everything appeared proper. And if the parchment was not a forgery, the agreement stated matters clearly and unambiguously. Viserys was dead, but she herself was now bound to wed Quentyn, son of Prince Doran.
"This agreement was concluded in the name of the King of Westeros, and the future child is named there as one of the possible heirs… Dorne will support my claim to the throne?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Oberyn replied with a nod. "It is quite simple. You marry Quentyn Martell and, in return, we transport your forces to Dorne, allow your people time to recover after the long voyage, and help you win the Iron Throne. It is an honest bargain."
(End of Chapter)
P@treon: /SadRaven
🥳The story is complete and available in full on my P@treon!🥰