Prince Oberyn Martell's arrival at the Fire-weed Estate marks the first meeting between Gendry and a high-ranking lord of the Seven Kingdoms, setting the stage for a secret alliance rooted in revenge and ambition. The Prince of Dorne seeks to judge if this "Hammer King" is a worthy instrument for his long-awaited vengeance against House Lannister.
"Welcome, Prince Oberyn!" Gendry called out as the visitor approached the gates of the Fire-weed Estate.
Oberyn rode a Dornish sand steed, a beast as black as night with a mane and tail like flickering flames. The horse was lean and agile, its neck slender and its head narrow and elegant—a mount bred for the scorching deserts of Dorne. While these horses lacked the sheer mass of Northern destriers and could not carry a knight in full plate, their endurance was legendary; it was said they could run for a day and a night without tiring.
"Dornish warriors are as numerous as the sands, but this one is peerless," Gendry thought, feeling the heavy, predatory aura the Red Viper projected.
A pale red silk cloak draped over Oberyn's shoulders, and his tunic was layered with copper scales that shimmered like a thousand new coins as he moved. He wore a gilded helm topped with a copper sun, and a round shield hung at his horse's flank, embossed with the sun-and-spear of House Martell.
"The Wolf King's name makes even the Myrmen tremble! How should I address you?" Oberyn asked, his voice smooth and dangerous. "Commander? Liberator? The Butter King? Or the Iron King? I do not even know your name. Let me see your face."
Oberyn removed his helm, revealing a long, melancholic face with deep black eyes that burned like coal-oil under thick brows. His features were sharp, his black hair shot through with only a few silver strands—the face of a man who was as stubborn as he was lethal.
"Names are just codes, especially for a sellsword," Gendry replied, removing his iron mask. "You may call me Warhammer. As for my appearance, it is merely skin; I trust a Prince would not be so shallow."
Gendry introduced his command council: Pretty Boy (Treasurer and Advisor), Maester Qyburn (Healer and Scholar), Fletcher Dick (Master-of-Arms), Longspear (Cavalry Commander), Iron Fist (Infantry Commander), Black Billy (Archery Commander), and Grey Wolf (Captain of the Guard). Though their titles were modest compared to a Prince's, Oberyn acknowledged each with a sharp, calculating nod.
"I was a sellsword once myself! Though that was many years ago," Oberyn remarked as they walked side-by-side.
"How long ago was that?" Gendry asked with genuine interest.
"Years. I was always restless," Oberyn said. "I studied at the Citadel and forged six links of a maester's chain before I grew bored and left. I served in the Second Sons in these very lands and eventually founded my own company. But in those days, I lacked the audacity you possess, Commander—to directly uproot the foundations of the Disputed Lands."
Oberyn looked at the Free Army recruits—former slaves who now moved with the energy of soldiers. "Chaos brings new life. I like what you've built here. Centuries ago, my ancestor Nymeria fled slavery in Essos to find a new home in Dorne. It seems the cycle continues."
Once they reached the top of the estate's tower, Oberyn signaled for privacy. "Let us speak plainly. I wish to discuss cooperation—not between Dorne and your kingdom, but between the Red Viper and you."
"You are as shrewd as they say, Prince," Gendry noted. Oberyn was acting as an individual, shielding his brother Doran from the political fallout of his schemes.
"I did not expect your Free Army to be so formidable," Oberyn admitted. "We can help each other. I seek a hammer for a specific task. I trust you know of the murders that took place in King's Landing sixteen years ago?"
Gendry went still. He knew the story well: the Sack of the city, and the "good deeds" of Tywin Lannister's mad dogs.
"Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch butchered the Red Keep," Oberyn hissed, his eyes darkening. "The Mountain dashed Prince Aegon's head against a wall. He raped and murdered my sister, Princess Elia, while her son's blood was still wet on his hands. Lorch stabbed Princess Rhaenys half a hundred times. I have waited years for their blood."
"And the benefit of this revenge?" Gendry asked.
"Benefit!" Oberyn laughed. "You are surrounded by enemies, boy. The Three Daughters will not tolerate your expansion. You need allies. Dorne has the finest sand steeds, the sharpest spears, and the best wine and spices in the world. You need them."
"I do," Gendry admitted. "And in return, I have Myrish lace and medicinal fire-weed. But to offend the Lannisters for your support is a heavy price."
"What is it you truly want, Commander?"
"I want Myr," Gendry said, his voice steady. "I want the Three Daughters. I want all of Essos."
Oberyn let out a thunderous laugh. "A madman! Truly, only a madman is fit to work with me. You sound like a man I once knew—the one who overturned a kingdom for a 'wrong love'. You even share his fondness for the warhammer."
The Prince looked out over the sea toward Westeros. "The lions have given the King several golden-haired children... but the seed is rarely that weak. We shall see how long their luck holds. I will stay a while, Hammer King. Let us see if you can survive the next storm."