Dorne, Sunspear.
Sunlight bathed the pink sandstone of Sunspear, casting a warm glow across the entire city.
This was the seat of House Martell, the rulers of Dorne, renowned throughout the world for its beauty and tolerance.
Inside the great hall, a long banquet table was laden with Dornish delicacies: spicy lamb, honeyed dates, figs, pomegranates, and Dorne's famous strong spirits.
Serving girls dressed in light silk garments moved between the guests, refilling cups and bringing more food.
Seated at the place of honor was Prince Qoren Martell of Dorne.
He was in his thirties, his skin bronzed by the Dornish sun, with black hair, lean features, and sharp eyes.
He wore a dark red silk robe with the collar left open, revealing an old scar across his chest—a relic from a duel with a knight of the Dornish Marches in his youth.
On either side of the Prince sat the commanders of the allied fleet.
To his right sat Lord Redwyne of the Arbor.
Lord Redwyne was in his early fifties, with reddish-brown hair combed immaculately and a neatly trimmed goatee.
To his left sat Tybolt Lannister, commander of the Lannister fleet.
Tybolt was Lord Jason's cousin, a forty-year-old man with golden hair.
Farther down the table sat several guests from the Iron Islands.
At their head sat an ordinary-looking young man.
Dalton Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands, known among the ironborn as the "Red Kraken."
Only in his early twenties, he wore his long black hair loose over his shoulders. Faint scars marked his face—souvenirs from countless battles fought at sea.
He wore dark gray leather armor with no cloak over it, leaving his well-built muscles exposed.
At his waist hung a sword with a spiral hilt and a dark, dull blade.
It was the Valyrian steel sword Nightfall.
He had taken it from a pirate who had died in battle.
Several equally fierce ironborn stood behind him. Unlike the others, they made no effort to sit properly. They sprawled in their chairs, devouring meat and draining cups of wine, utterly unconcerned with the looks they received.
Prince Qoren watched his guests with a courteous smile while quietly assessing them.
Now, with these three forces gathered together—and the allied fleet standing by at sea—they possessed enough strength to make any navy tremble.
But Prince Qoren clearly had no intention of allowing them to do as they pleased on Dornish soil.
"My lords," the Prince of Dorne said with a smile, raising his goblet.
"Welcome to Dorne."
"Drain this cup, and accept Dorne's respect for its guests."
Everyone raised their cups and drank.
Lord Redwyne set down his goblet and spoke with a smile.
"Prince Qoren, thank you for your generous hospitality."
"The Arbor and Dorne have never had cause for enmity. May that friendship endure."
Qoren nodded and replied with a smile.
"Lord Redwyne speaks truly."
"We Dornish do not care for hatred without reason."
Beside him, Tybolt picked up the conversation.
"Your Highness, we've come to thank Dorne for opening its ports and allowing the allied fleet to resupply."
"The Lannisters will remember this favor."
Qoren waved a hand.
"No need for thanks."
"Dorne opened its ports because it is dissatisfied with certain matters."
"But that does not mean Dorne will participate in this war."
The Prince paused and swept his gaze across the hall.
"Dorne remains neutral. That is our position."
"While you are here, you are my guests."
"But once you leave Dorne, what you choose to do is no concern of ours, nor will we take part in it."
Lord Redwyne nodded.
"Understandable. Your Highness has already done us a great service by opening the ports."
Tybolt nodded as well.
Only Dalton took a drink and lazily remarked, "Neutrality? Interesting."
"So if we encounter Dornish ships at sea, do we attack them or not?"
The atmosphere in the hall instantly turned cold.
Qoren looked at him. The smile remained on his face as he replied calmly, "Lord Greyjoy, Dornish ships rarely venture far from shore."
"If you encounter one at sea, it will most likely be a merchant vessel."
"Surely the men of the Iron Islands would not stoop to raiding neutral merchant ships during a war?"
Dalton grinned.
"Can't promise that."
The ironborn behind him burst into coarse laughter.
Tybolt frowned at the brazen ironborn and was about to speak.
Lord Redwyne beat him to it.
"Lord Greyjoy has had too much to drink. Please don't take offense, Your Highness."
Dalton shrugged and continued drinking.
The feast went on.
As the wine flowed, the atmosphere gradually grew more relaxed.
Lord Redwyne set down his cup and sighed.
"When you think about it, this war is truly a needless disaster."
"A perfectly good kingdom. Why divide it and slaughter one another?"
Tybolt snorted.
"Because of that pretender queen, Rhaenyra."
"She poisoned the late king and usurped the throne. She deserves death."
Dalton chewed on a piece of lamb and spoke around a mouthful of food.
"You fight your war. We do our raiding."
"Those things don't conflict."
Tybolt frowned.
"Lord Greyjoy, we are allies."
"Allies?" Dalton laughed. "The Iron Throne offered a decent price. Forty percent of whatever we take goes to us."
Tybolt's expression darkened, but he held his tongue.
Lord Redwyne quickly stepped in to smooth things over.
"Lord Greyjoy is joking."
"We have every confidence in the honor of the Iron Islands."
Halfway through the feast, Prince Qoren finally arrived at the matter that truly concerned him.
"My lords," he said, setting down his goblet, his expression growing more serious, "there is a reason Dorne opened its ports."
Everyone turned their attention to him.
"Rhaenyra Targaryen," Qoren said firmly.
"She invaded Tyrosh and partitioned the Three Daughters."
A trace of coldness entered the Prince's voice.
"Dorne has maintained close ties with the Three Daughters for generations."
"Our nobles intermarry. We trade with one another."
"Now Tyrosh has fallen, Myr has been occupied, and Lys is under siege."
"That is something Dorne cannot accept."
Lord Redwyne nodded.
"Understandable. The Three Daughters should never have been invaded."
"Therefore," Qoren continued, "Dorne has allowed the allied fleet to dock and resupply as a warning to Rhaenyra."
Tybolt asked, "And if the Greens win, Your Highness, will Dorne...?"
"We will congratulate the Iron Throne," Qoren interrupted.
"Dorne has already recognized Aegon II as King of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Afterward, relations between Dorne and the Iron Throne will remain as they have always been."
Tybolt was silent for a moment before nodding.
"I understand."
Lord Redwyne nodded as well.
"The fact that Your Highness is willing to say this much speaks to your sincerity."
Qoren smiled faintly and raised his goblet.
"Then let us drink—to honesty."
The guests raised their cups once more.
After the feast ended, the guests gradually departed the hall and returned to their chambers.
Dalton was among the last to leave.
He had drunk heavily, yet his stride remained steady.
As he reached a corner in the corridor, he suddenly stopped.
A woman stood there, dressed in a gown of red gauze.
A veil concealed her face, leaving only her eyes visible.
Those eyes were bright, filled with amusement, and fixed on him.
Dalton narrowed his eyes.
The woman stepped forward, bringing with her a wave of fragrance.
Dalton inhaled deeply. The scent carried an exotic allure that was almost intoxicating.
"What a pity," he said suddenly.
The woman smiled.
"What is?"
"What a pity this is Dorne," Dalton replied, a dangerous gleam flashing in his eyes.
"If we were at sea, I'd make you my salt wife."
The woman covered her mouth and laughed softly.
The sound was pleasant, like silver bells.
"Lord Greyjoy certainly knows how to joke."
As she spoke, she withdrew a folded piece of parchment from her sleeve and handed it to him.
Dalton accepted it casually and unfolded it.
After a single glance, his expression changed.
Surprise.
Shock.
And a hint of excitement.
He looked up at the woman and lowered his voice.
"You've got nerve."
"You realize everyone around here is one of ours."
"All I'd have to do is shout, and a spy like you would be torn to pieces."
The woman—Mysaria, spymaster of the Blacks—smiled calmly.
There was not a trace of fear in her expression.
"Then, my lord," she said softly, "you'll spend the rest of your life hiding in the Iron Islands."
Dalton's eyes narrowed further.
Mysaria continued.
"My lord, I risked my life to meet you because the Blacks can offer something the Greens cannot."
Dalton was silent for a moment before asking, "Why should I side with the Blacks?"
"You think you can win?"
"From where I stand, the Greens have the better chance."
"Perhaps," Mysaria replied.
"But what will the Greens give you?"
"Permission to raid the Blacks and keep the spoils?"
"How much is that really worth? Once the war is over and the Greens have won, you'll still be hiding in the Iron Islands, living as a pirate."
Dalton said nothing.
"But the Blacks are different," Mysaria continued.
"Tyrosh has suffered a setback, but we've already reached an agreement with Hugh."
"He has become Governor of Tyrosh, and once the war is over, he will be granted a title and become Prince of Tyrosh."
"The dragons claimed by those bastards will still fight for us."
She paused and met Dalton's gaze.
"Queen Rhaenyra has said that if you're willing to help us, the Westerlands can be yours."
Dalton's pupils contracted slightly.
The Westerlands.
The entire Westerlands.
That was worth far more than a share of plunder.
"Queen Rhaenyra's offer," Mysaria said slowly, emphasizing every word, "is that you replace the Lannisters. Why shouldn't you? The Westerlands will become your domain."
Dalton remained silent for a long time.
Mysaria was in no hurry. She simply watched him.
At last, Dalton smiled.
"That's... a generous offer," he said.
"Far more generous than anything the Greens have promised me."
Mysaria smiled.
"Then my lord is willing to consider it?"
Dalton nodded.
"I'll need some time to think."
Mysaria knew she had already succeeded.
Smiling faintly, she withdrew another piece of parchment from her robes and slipped it into his hand.
"A means of contacting us."
"When you've made your decision, send someone to find us."
She turned and disappeared around the corner of the corridor.
Dalton remained where he was, staring at the parchment in his hand.
A slow grin spread across his face.
The truth was... he was an ironborn with principles... but the offer was simply too good to refuse.
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