"A Dornishman? Here?" Mace Tyrell's face flushed a deep, indignant red, resembling a pufferfish that had been poked with a stick. "Without the permission of my father, Lord Luthor Tyrell, Warden of the South, Defender of the Marches, and High Marshal of the Reach? This is an insult!"
He looked like a blossoming peony, or perhaps just an overinflated bladder.
The animosity between the Reach and Dorne was ancient, etched into the very stones of the Marches. For thousands of years, the Oakhearts, Peakes, and Tyrells had bled against the Fowlers, Daynes, and Yronwoods. Even after Dorne joined the Seven Kingdoms through marriage, the scars remained. Peace was paper-thin; hatred was bone-deep.
Rhaegar stepped between the sputtering Lord of Highgarden and the door.
"Peace, Lord Mace," Rhaegar said, his voice calm but commanding. "Prince Lewyn Martell is here at my invitation. He brings charts of the Stepstones that are vital for our victory. We must look to the future, my lord, not the past."
"Well..." Mace deflated slightly, though he still eyed the door with suspicion. "If it is your command, Prince Rhaegar."
The door opened, and Prince Lewyn Martell stepped inside.
He was the younger brother of the Ruling Princess of Dorne. Tall and lean, with skin the color of polished teak and hair as black as a raven's wing, Lewyn moved with the fluid grace of a water dancer. He was a sharp blade compared to Mace's blunt hammer.
"Prince Rhaegar," Lewyn said, bowing with an elegance that made Mace's earlier performance look clumsy. "Your valor is sung of even in Sunspear. My sister sends her regards. She says the return of the dragons proves that the world is indeed changing."
He offered a thin, charming smile. "I apologize for the intrusion. My nephew Doran is in the Free Cities, Elia is unwell, and Oberyn is... well, Oberyn is Oberyn. So the task of diplomacy falls to me."
Rhaegar nodded. He knew the Martell siblings well by reputation. Doran was cautious, Elia fragile, and Oberyn a viper in human skin. And their mother, the Princess of Dorne, had been a close friend of his own mother, Rhaella, and Lady Joanna Lannister. They had once planned to betroth their children, though fate had intervened.
"Lord Mace," Lewyn said, turning to the Tyrell heir. "We did not cross your lands. I traveled the Boneway, turned east near Summerhall, and came north up the Kingspyre Road. Your grass remains untrampled."
At the mention of Summerhall, a shadow passed over Rhaegar's face. The place of his birth, and the tomb of his great-grandfather Aegon V. It was a ruin of grief, but also a reminder of the price of fire.
"The war in the Stepstones is a stalemate," Rhaegar said, gesturing for them to sit. "The trade routes are choked. The Reach bleeds gold. Dorne bleeds gold. The West bleeds gold. The Braavosi are pressing the Iron Throne to act. We need a decisive blow."
The meeting room in the Jonquil's Rest had been arranged with a triangular table. Rhaegar sat at the apex. On his right, the puffed-up grandeur of the Reach. On his left, the lean danger of Dorne.
"Unity is the only path," Rhaegar continued. "The pirates and the Lysene exiles are our common enemy. They don't care if a ship flies a golden rose or a sun-and-spear. They burn them all the same."
"I have no quarrel with Dorne, personally," Mace declared, trying to sound magnanimous. "I am a generous man. I only wish they had asked before breathing my air. But for the sake of the realm, I will tolerate their presence."
Lewyn's lips twitched, but he bowed his head. "Your generosity is overwhelming, Lord Mace."
They got down to business.
"Dorne cannot commit a large fleet," Lewyn explained, his finger tracing a line on the map. "Our strength is not at sea. But we can offer safe harbor, supplies, and most importantly, pilots who know the currents of the Stepstones better than they know their own wives."
He looked at Mace. "The Redwyne Fleet is mighty, but the Stepstones are a graveyard for heavy ships. The currents around the Bloodstone can smash a galley to kindling in minutes. My pilots can guide your heavy ships through the treacherous waters, allowing you to bypass the pirate blockades."
"In exchange?" Mace asked suspiciously.
"In exchange, we want a share of the spoils. And security for our coasts."
Rhaegar watched them haggle. It was a clash of philosophies. The Reach was a land of plenty, of heavy cavalry and overwhelming numbers. They fought wars like a sledgehammer. Dorne was a land of stone and sand, of guerilla tactics and light infantry. They fought wars like a scalpel.
Mace didn't care about the gold. House Tyrell was rich enough. He cared about the glory.
"I will lead the van," Mace insisted. "The Redwyne Fleet will smash the pirate blockade. The knights of the Reach will storm the beaches."
"And while you are smashing," Rhaegar interjected smoothly, "Prince Lewyn's guides will ensure you don't smash into a reef. And I..."
He paused, letting the silence hang.
"I will descend from the sky."
A pincer movement. The Redwyne Fleet would form the anvil, a massive wall of wood and steel blocking the pirate retreat. The Royal Fleet from King's Landing would press from the north. And Rhaegar... Rhaegar would be the hammer.
"With the Reach's might, Dorne's cunning, and the Dragon's fire," Mace declared, his eyes shining, "it will be the greatest victory since the Conquest! They will sing of us, Prince Rhaegar. The Three Heroes!"
"Indeed, Lord Mace," Rhaegar smiled. "They will call you Mace the Magnificent."
Mace looked like he might weep with joy.
"But Prince," Lewyn said, his voice dropping to a serious whisper. "Are the dragons ready? They are young. A scorpion bolt doesn't care about lineage."
Dorne remembered the dragons. They remembered Meraxes. They knew that dragons could bleed.
Rhaegar stood up. "Come with me."
He led them out into the courtyard of the inn, which had been cleared for his arrival.
Above them, three shadows circled in the midday sun.
The Silver Emperor banked, his thirty-foot wingspan casting a massive silhouette over the yard. His scales were a blinding mirror. Balerion and Belaerys flanked him, their roars shaking the tiles on the roof.
They were young, yes. But they were fed on the best meat, strengthened by runes, and honed by the training over the God's Eye. They were not pets. They were weapons.
"By the Seven," Mace gasped, stepping back.
Even Lewyn looked impressed, his dark eyes narrowing as he calculated the destructive potential.
"They grow fast," Lewyn murmured. "Too fast."
"Fast enough to burn a pirate fleet," Rhaegar said.
The three men stood in the courtyard, looking up at the sky.
The True Dragon. The Fat Flower. And the Spear.
It was a strange alliance. But as the Silver Emperor let out a shriek that curdled the blood, Rhaegar knew it would be enough.
"We sail in a moon's turn," Rhaegar said. "To war."
~~----------------------
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