Sunspear
"I am happy to visit your magnificent palace. I hope Dorne and the Trident can usher in a new friendship. My uncle was surely of the same mind but lacked the skill in execution. I am deeply ashamed of his poor display, and I hope Your Magnificence won't hold it against the Trident," Edmure spoke while sipping a glass of milk. He laid the pleasantries on thick, as was his custom, throwing his uncle under the horse as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Our young friend knows how to be eloquent, but he is not enjoying the feast. You haven't touched anything else. Are you perhaps dissatisfied with Dorne?" Prince Doran played the diplomatic game like a seasoned veteran. He was hosting Edmure in private, lest the council demand the boy's head on sight.
"Not at all. I am simply missing my uncle. He usually shares a wealth of stories at feasts; if he were here, I would be more at ease."
"He is enjoying his stay in town. He even claims he doesn't want to leave."
"Why not skip the pleasantries and get to the matter? What exactly does Dorne wish in exchange for him? There is no need to waste so much poison in an attempt to entertain me. I prefer plain milk."
"You are bold," Doran remarked coldly, "but I have seen plenty of good boys who never got the chance to grow up."
"What is the point of being a grown-up if we can't be childish sometimes? Don't you think? As an appetizer to discussion, I will give you a well-crafted ballista. Sunspear would surely find use for one."
"We do not lack those. If the Tullys cannot produce something of actual worth, I cannot guarantee that Oberyn won't resort to underhanded tricks."
"It seems we are at an impasse. Why don't we delay until the evening? Some cool air might calm us down. We will restart negotiations then, and I hope we will have my uncle at the table. If you are afraid, you can bring guards—as many as you want. They won't matter anyway." With that, Edmure simply walked out of the hall.
"What do you think, Areo? Brynden claimed he was taught by this boy. There is a rumor the lad beat Tywin Lannister in the capital, but I cannot see what they claim. The boy is just a boy, possessed of all the impulsiveness of youth." Prince Doran watched Edmure leave and spoke to Areo Hotah, his Captain of Guards.
"Nothing particular, My Prince. Why don't we send Prince Oberyn? He holds a deep resentment over the matter of Princess Elia."
"So do I. But I don't have time to play house with a child. Let Oberyn handle him. You go as well; take Elia and show her how much we care for her," Prince Doran dismissed Areo. "Take most of the guards. I want all of Sunspear to witness the humiliation. Regardless, the kid did say to bring more people. Leave him with a breath of life; Hoster Tully will pay a good penny for his heir."
Edmure left the palace and began his search for Brynden. He was prepared for another sewer raid, but the gods smiled upon him. He found Brynden gambling in a tavern, sharing boisterous stories from the war.
"Uncle!" Edmure rushed forward and hugged Brynden. "It is good to see you safe. Why are you so weak? Why come to the south when the Trident needs you more than ever? The Lannisters are breathing down our necks; we need you."
"Has it been that long? I thought the trouble would start after the tourney. It is still a month away. We should leave then." Brynden shook himself out of his stupor, ready for action. He had lived long enough to know that plans in the real world rarely survived contact with reality.
"What a touching display. Now I feel like a villain for disturbing this meeting," Prince Oberyn said as he walked in. He was accompanied by a large number of guards who quickly surrounded the tavern.
"Gentlemen, don't you think this place is unsuitable for a kid like me? Why don't we move somewhere with a better view? Does Sunspear even have an arena, or is it just sand? Or do the men in the south not fight, leaving their women to trick enemies in bed?" Edmure countered.
"I will leave your corpse behind; your father will pay for the final services," Oberyn spat. The group walked to the front of the Tower of the Sun, the seat where the Martells conduct their council. Unlike the rest of Westeros, the Dornish are heavily influenced by Rhoynar traditions, with the council serving as their decision-making body.
"Why don't all of you come at once? That way I can accept your surrender and it will look like a magnanimous act. Fighting me individually will only bring you shame, trust me, friends." Edmure readied himself with his usual sword and shield combo, taunting his opponents.
"You're dead, my friend. I'll send you to your gods!" Areo Hotah shouted, rushing in while wielding his massive glaive.
Areo was nearly twice the size of Lord Lefford, whom Edmure had fought back in Riverrun. With practiced ease, Edmure dodged and struck in return. Areo grunted and struck again, while Oberyn launched a sneak attack. The rest of the guards joined in—some threw javelins, some made feints, and others formed a tight phalanx.
Edmure dodged, parried, and weaved, deflecting blows with his shield. Whenever a chance arose, he would strike his opponents in a remarkably boring fashion, making them believe they could almost dodge in return. His rigorous, orthodox fighting style made the entire scuffle look rehearsed. He then decided to take a chance and charged the spearmen in the phalanx head-on. He wanted to see if he could push them with pure strength. He failed to break the line, but almost threw the ranks into disarray. He disengaged and struck from the flank, dismantling the formation piece by piece.
"Are you really going to send the women then? I was merely joking; both my uncle and I are respectable men back home. We won't fall for unchivalrous ways," Edmure barked, nearing the end of the fight.
"Oh, really? You are so eager to see real women in Westeros?" A voice broke through the grunts of the fallen. A woman stood there at the head of a retinue of armed women. They looked different from other Westerosi; they all carried a very specific weapon: the Goldenheart bow.
"By the Seven!" Edmure exclaimed, dodging the last attempt from Prince Oberyn to land a blow. "What a luxurious lineup. Even I, the heir of the Trident, had to beg for a single such bow. And here we have a contingent of women carrying one each. Truly, trade brings wonders. I have to fight with merchants for sheep and horses, and Dorne gets to splurge on this level? Fair lady, who are you? Are you interested in charity?"
Edmure continued, "Let me tell you, the Trident wishes to improve the living conditions of its women. We are reaching out to people with a conscience to do good in the world. When we empower the economic productivity of the fairer sex, their position in the household increases. This is as inevitable as the sun rising in the east. Would you be so kind as to hand over those bows? They look heavy; I will be sure to take care of them, and thousands of women in my realm will praise you."
"Get away from my sister, you filthy dog!" Prince Oberyn shouted after missing a desperate lunge.
"Your sister?" Edmure only knew Princess Elia Martell as the daughter of the Martells in this generation. He jumped out of the arena, approached her, and bowed formally. "Many apologies for my tardy behavior, Princess." He gestured to his uncle with his eyes.
Brynden, unaware of the specific reason but following his nephew's lead, bowed as well. Edmure wondered why his uncle had seemingly forgotten basic etiquette before royals, unaware that Elia's marriage had been sabotaged by someone. Someone with a great deal of conscience and an urge to douse the world in it just to watch it burn. Back at Riverrun, Hoster sneezed in a meeting and continued planning how to trip up his eastern vassals.