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Riverrun's drawbridge lowered with a heavy groan. Columns of soldiers marched across it in tight formation, steel glinting under the torchlight like drawn swords ready for blood.
"You really think this is going to work?" one voice asked quietly.
"Has any battle our King Jon fought ever looked like it was going to be easy?" came the dry reply.
"Fair point. The whole of Riverrun is the bait. Stannis would be a fool not to bite."
Under cover of night, two older men stood on the battlements, watching the army file out. One was past sixty, the other nearing fifty. They spoke in low voices so no one else could overhear.
"Did he promise you something?" asked the older of the two—Stevron Frey, Rhaegar Frey's half-brother.
Rhaegar hesitated, then gave a small nod instead of answering outright.
"He offered to back you as Duke of Riverrun, didn't he?" Stevron pressed.
Rhaegar met his brother's eyes and didn't deny it.
"It's fine," Stevron said, his voice cold. "You can have the title. Just get that old bastard out of the seat. I've had enough of him ordering everyone around like we're still children."
For the father who had spent a lifetime lording over him, Stevron felt nothing but contempt. In most noble houses, the eldest son inherited and the rest made their own way. Old Walder Frey had played a different game—hinting that any of his children might inherit if they pleased him enough. After living this long, Stevron understood exactly what that meant.
Using Riverrun as bait had been a decision the Frey children had reached together. Their goal was simple: send their father away for good.
---
Not far from Sunspear, perhaps a few dozen leagues, lay the Water Gardens. A long-ago Prince of Dorne had built them to celebrate the marriage of a princess also named Daenerys into House Martell. Blood orange trees grew thick around the grounds, their heavy branches offering shade and screening the view from outsiders.
The heart of the place was the great fountain. Children played around it—boys and girls between five and twelve, some of them Oberyn Martell's bastard daughters, others from the Martell cadet branches. One girl stood out sharply: a child with bright green hair, the daughter of the Archon of Tyrosh. House Martell kept close ties with the Free City, close enough that the Archon had sent his daughter to foster at Sunspear.
"Hey! Watch this!"
"Look out—run!"
The green-haired girl leaped into the fountain with a splash, sending water flying in every direction. Laughter and shouts mixed with the sound of falling water, turning the garden into something that felt like a corner of paradise—easy to forget that a brutal war was about to tear across the same continent.
An aging nobleman sat in a lounge chair some distance away, watching the children. Prince Doran Martell's face was lined, older than most men his age. On ordinary days he loved this sight. He often said children's laughter was the sweetest music in the world, something that could make a man forget his troubles.
Today, he could not smile.
One of the secrets he had guarded for years had just been laid bare.
A sharp hiss of pain escaped him. His brow furrowed deep.
"Uncle?" The girl attending him—Sarella Sand, one of Oberyn's bastards, fair-skinned with striking green eyes—spoke quickly. She helped him lie back as his gout flared again. Doran's joints had long since twisted and deformed. He could no longer walk. That, too, was a secret he had kept from the world. Most days he left Sunspear's business in his cousin's hands and stayed out of sight.
Doran turned his head, still clutching the letter that had arrived that day. The secrets it exposed went far beyond his illness.
"Uncle, I'll fetch you some poppy milk," Sarella said.
"Wait." Doran forced the word out through clenched teeth. "Bring fire."
He raised the letter. He meant to burn it.
Sarella did not know what it said, but Doran's reaction told her enough. She hurried off without argument.
Doran endured the pain that felt worse than any blade through the gut and forced himself to read the letter again.
Your daughter Arianne Martell has been betrothed to Viserys Targaryen, son of Aerys the Second. The Sealord of Braavos stood witness. I require your neutrality.
Even after several readings, the shock had not faded.
Who had leaked this?
Willem Darry had arranged the betrothal for House Targaryen. The Darrys were known for their loyalty; Willem could have handed the Targaryen children over when Dragonstone fell and won himself riches and favor, but he had not. He had guarded them to the end, even after going blind.
On Doran's side, it had been his own brother Oberyn. Wild as Oberyn could be, Doran would never believe he would betray House Martell.
Who, then? Who could have known?
Some time later, in a haze of poppy milk, the worst of the pain eased. Doran's eyes drifted to the Mountain's head, sealed in resin not far away. He had thought Sunspear had gained a powerful ally. Instead he had found a dangerous rival.
Rhaegar, you bastard.
If not for him, none of this chaos would exist.
Doran handed the letter to Sarella to burn. She noticed a second, thinner sheet inside the envelope.
"Uncle—" She started to pass it over, but Doran cut her off sharply.
"Give it here. Now."
The urgency in his voice startled her. Doran was never one to show agitation.
She handed it over. He opened it and found not a threat, but a set of careful suggestions.
Prince Doran, for the gout you suffer, keep your diet light. Eat plenty of vegetables. Avoid fish, shrimp, and all seafood. While autumn crocus is poisonous, small amounts can ease the pain. Respectfully, Jon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar.
Doran's feelings twisted. A faint spark of hope flared—Jon knew enough about gout to offer real advice. Could there be a cure?
He crushed the thought almost immediately.
His own life meant nothing compared to House Martell's future. Even if Jon held a cure, Doran would never trade his house's interests for it.
Jon had no real cure. The letter was both warning and opening. Doran had always been a cautious man. Jon had used knowledge no one should possess—Doran's secret plotting to restore the Targaryens right after Robert's Rebellion—to apply pressure. If Stannis learned of it, Dorne would be trapped between two enemies.
Even though Jon did not yet know Varys had told Oberyn the truth about Young Aegon, the right move now was clear: do not tie down the southern army. Let it march north, help defeat Stannis, and clear the path for Young Aegon's return. Then Dorne and Young Aegon together could hold both Dorne and the Stormlands as a base to counter Jon.
Doran had no desire to fight Jon openly. There was nothing to gain.
Jon's message was simple: I know you have no wish to serve Stannis and fight me. I have no wish to fight you. Let's keep this limited.
The letter achieved exactly what Jon intended. Doran immediately sent a quiet message to Oberyn: keep Dorne's forces restrained. Do not throw them deep into the war between Jon and Stannis.
---
At Highgarden, after more than two months of preparation, the army had gathered near Bitterbridge.
Following Jon's instructions, they left behind a token force of roughly three thousand men in an empty camp—enough to look convincing from a distance, or to put on a show for any Martell scouts. Loras Tyrell, Garlan Tyrell, and Randyll Tarly led the true main force north to reinforce Jon's army.