281 AD
Great Hall of the Ark of the Sands, Sunspear.
"To hell with those dragons!" A loud cry from a man dressed in rich silk robes embroidered with three black scorpions raged beneath the ceilings of the Martell Great Hall, reverberating and creating countless echoes. "What good have they ever done us? Eh? Not only did that brat Rhaegar abandon Princess Elia, running off with some northern savage, but his father has gone completely mad! He burned one of the Guardians alive! And strangled his heir! Trampled the Court of the Seven! May the gods bless him for that..."
"Shut up, Quorgyl!" Another shout, no less powerful, echoed through the hall. It came from a middle-aged man with a unique appearance in all of Westeros—beige hair and bright purple eyes. His identity was clear even without the embroidery on the sleeves of his surcoat, depicting a falling star and sword. Vorian Dayne, the current Lord of Starfall, needed no introduction. "Whatever your family thinks of the Dragons, they are our kings! And the Starks, Baratheons, Arryns, and Tullys have rebelled. We need to quickly raise an army and show them what happens when the Dornish go to war!"
— O-o-o-o-o-o…
The rising din briefly drowned out all other sounds in the hall, giving the impression that all the Dornishmen were just waiting for the chance to tear their enemies' throats out. But the lords saw everything and understood perfectly well—the only ones who wanted war were the Daynes and their vassals, since their lord's brother, the Sword of the Morning, was a close friend of the crown prince.
"Fuck you, Dain!" While the Quorgils weren't comparable in strength to the Martells, Ironwoods, Fowlers, and Dains, they weren't far behind either. Lord Quorgil took advantage of this, continuing to squabble, not mincing words. While most of the shouting initially focused more or less on the rebellion, within a few minutes the assembled lords had shifted to personal and past grievances they'd inflicted on each other.
"What should I do?" thought Doran, sitting at the head of the table, as he began to massage his temples from the tension and tried to concentrate.
Westeros was ablaze. King's Landing was daily bathed in the glow of green fires and the cries of those unfortunate souls who had caught the Mad King's eye. The Reach, the North, the Riverlands, and the Stormlands were mustering armies. Strange movements were taking place in Lannisport. That bastard Rhaegar, rumored to have taken Lyanna Stark to some remote location and raped her daily, had disappeared somewhere. And just recently, even more stunning news arrived: the first major battle in the nascent rebellion had taken place.
The Vale of Arryn is not so named for nothing. It is the strongest and most monolithic of the seven kingdoms that currently exist. But life has a way of throwing surprises: the powerful House of Grafton, lords of Gulltown, the Vale's main port, remained loyal to the king and closed its gates to its overlord. Jon Arryn would not tolerate this and led his troops to storm the city. The city was taken at the first assault, and Robert Baratheon, one of the two instigators of the rebellion, distinguished himself—the first to scale the walls and the first to slay a nobleman in this war. Ironically, that nobleman turned out to be Mark Grafton, Lord Grafton himself.
Something had to be done. And Martell didn't know what. On one hand, he wanted to send all the Targaryens to Hell, especially Rhaegar, for neglecting his dear sister so much, driving her to mental and physical exhaustion. But on the other, he realized that soon, egged on by the Small Council, Aerys would send him a letter with a simple condition: either he marches an army, or Elia dies. And that made things even worse.
Looking around the Great Hall once more, where all the bannermen, vassal lords, and more or less important feudal knights from all over Dorne had gathered, Doran realized once again that the Dornishmen would stand shoulder to shoulder only in the event of a common threat, when the factions of the Ironwoods, Daynes, Fowlers, Viles, Quorgyls, and the Martells themselves would fight for survival, and not for another share of power and wealth.
"I'm so sick of this," the Sunspear's master thought angrily and slammed his fist on the table with all his might, instantly cutting off the din.
Bang…
"Quiet!" The voice, strong and decisive, though not that of a mighty warrior or a seasoned killer, pierced the bones, compelling the others to listen and obey. Still, millennia of ruling over millions of people and a proper upbringing had left their mark—despite Doran Martell's rather "ordinary" appearance, only a few in the great hall didn't feel goosebumps run down their spines. "I have summoned you, my loyal vassals, for one purpose only—to decide Dorne's course in the coming rebellion. And what do I see? A crowd of dim-witted fools who cannot comprehend the full depth of what is happening. Understand—this is not Lyonel Baratheon's pathetic rebellion fifty years ago, crushed by the forces of the Crownlands alone! Three kingdoms have already rebelled, and another is on the way. If we don't do something, we risk returning to the days when we had to hide in the deserts for survival." Does anyone have any suggestions?
The Grandlord was treading on very thin ice. In other kingdoms, with the exception of the North, calling one's vassals "small-minded fools" was a very foolish move. But this was Dorne. A kingdom of deserts and mountains, heat and drought. There was no other way to get the others to forget their squabbles and return to discussion.
No one was willing to say anything. This meeting had already lasted three hours, and all the important lords present had already expressed their opinions.
Except for one person.
— Lord Temper, please. Speak.
"Thank you, my lord," replied the man who stood up, dressed in a light black doublet, trousers, and woven sandals, with a sun and flame embroidered on his chest. He had been sitting at the end of the table among the other vassal lords.
Felix Temper was familiar to everyone present. Tall, dark-haired, and young, he had long been synonymous with upstarts and the envy of the Dornishmen. A former Westerling with bright Lannister eyes who had quickly become rich selling exotic trinkets to the wealthy of the Free Cities, he was disliked by many, if not all, of them, but he was a force to be reckoned with. He was excessively wealthy and influential among the Essos merchants who formed the bulk of Dorne's economy, and his friendship with the Martells, to whom he presented the only Valyrian steel spear in Westeros, and his marriage to the daughter of the Volantine Triarch, considered one of the most (if not the most) beautiful women alive, further strengthened his position.
"An upstart," thought most of those present, with the exception of the Fowlers and Ironwoods, who had been profitably cooperating with the Lord of Sunfire Valley for several years. "But a dangerous upstart."
"Dear lords, I will not make a long speech and will say it straight away—the Targaryens are doomed to defeat." Before anyone present could even express outrage, a large, detailed map of the Seven Kingdoms was pulled from a long tube made of varnished mahogany and laid out, showing the locations of all major castles, cities, forests, rivers, lakes, and mountains, and clearly delineating the kingdoms' borders. A very rare and expensive item, obtainable only at the Citadel. "Let's consider the situation from a distance. Disregarding oaths, honor, and family ties."
In response to the Martell brothers' mildly displeased glances, Temper merely bowed slightly, his eyes asking for permission to finish. The other lords could not interrupt someone who had been given the right to speak by their liege lord. To do so would have been the gravest insult to House Sunspear.
"Four kingdoms are on the side of the rebels: the Vale of Arryn, the North, the Riverlands, and the Stormlands. Only the Reach and Dorne itself have declared their loyalty to the Iron Throne. The Iron Islands and the Westerlands are still silent." Whatever they might say about Temper, his voice was well-trained. Most of the lords were already watching his finger move across the map with interest, only occasionally whispering. "For you to understand my meaning, we must first assess the military potential of each side. Let's start with the Vale. Jon Arryn has already gathered nearly 15,000 soldiers under his command, four of which are the professional knightly cavalry for which this region is so famous. Now that Gulltown has been taken and Robert Baratheon has sailed to Storm's End to gather his army, the Vales will calmly gather the reinforcements that have not yet arrived and march into the Riverlands through the Bloody Gate. So at least 30,000 elite soldiers from the Vale will come to Riverrun."
- Knock...
In the complete silence, the sound of the blue falcon-shaped figure colliding with the spot designated as the Tully residence seemed thunderous. The numbers mentioned were too vast and terrifying, and the lords, the oldest of whom had commanded a maximum of a thousand warriors during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, were deeply impressed.
"Next up is the North," Temper continued, thoughtfully examining a figurine shaped like a direwolf's head—the Stark family crest. "Things aren't so bad here. The North may be the largest of the seven kingdoms, but in their case, that does more harm than good. To keep the western and eastern coasts covered and defend against wildling raids, they'll have to leave a significant portion of their forces at home. So the maximum the Targaryens face is 20,000 vicious northerners. But I wouldn't underestimate them too much—half of my soldiers are former northern highlanders, and they're individually superior in strength to their southern counterparts."
- Knock...
The direwolf figurine ended up in the place of Winterfell, and a crowned stag, carved according to all the rules of jewelry art, elusively appeared in Temper's hands.
"The Baratheons. Robert is the leader of the rebels. Surely everyone here remembers his relationship to the royal line, and why he has a claim to the throne?" The question was purely rhetorical, since the maesters drill two family trees—their own and the Targaryens'—into the heirs of a noble house from an early age. "But Robert will have a much harder time raising troops than his two allies. While the Vale and the North have been under the control of the Arryns and Starks for millennia, the Baratheons, like the Tullys and Tyrells, are a young house, only 300 years old. They lack the absolute loyalty of their vassals. But even so, Storm's End could easily muster around thirty thousand warriors within its walls."
- Knock...
Cape Durran was buried beneath the small foot on which the deer had been leaning, and a new figure appeared in the narrator's hands, as if out of thin air. This time it was a small white trout with sapphire eyes.
"Tully..." Temper drawled thoughtfully, looking into the wooden fish's blue eyes. "The situation here isn't so clear-cut. I won't say that Brandon's death and the pregnancy of Lord Hoster's second daughter, Lysa..." The murmur that arose at that moment was quickly silenced by a wave of Doran's hand, whose surprise was only indicated by a slightly raised eyebrow. Still, this fact wasn't particularly widespread and was carefully concealed by the masters of Riveran, having recently fallen into the hands of Lord Osgiliath through servants bribed back in Harrenhal. "...has at least had some influence on all this, but one simple fact must be taken into account: many houses, like the Mootons and the Darrys, will certainly support the king. They were too close to Rhaegar. But even so, the Riverlands will easily be able to field an army of twenty-five thousand.
- Knock...
"And that would give the rebels around 95,000 soldiers." The figure impressed everyone. An army of nearly a hundred thousand on this continent had only been assembled in ancient times, in the Reach, during the heyday of the Gardaner dynasty and their campaigns against the kings of the West, and in response to particularly successful Dornish raids. Of course, many of those present didn't take these words seriously—it's too hard for a person to accept something they can't even imagine. But there were exceptions—Doran, Yronwood, Fowler, Dayne, Jordain, Vait... the most powerful lords of Dorne, ruling domains with populations of hundreds of thousands, were well aware of WHAT kind of army was gathering in the north of Westeros.
"Now let's talk about the king's loyalists." Temper, speaking again, drew attention to himself again, twirling a small three-headed dragon figurine between his fingers. "The Targaryens themselves only own the Crownlands. Essentially, it's the smallest of the nine realms, excluding the Iron Islands. So they can field far less. Fifteen thousand swords, not counting the Gold Cloaks, who won't be allowed beyond the walls of King's Landing."
- Knock...
The three-headed dragon, its wings spread and one of its heads exhaling amber stylized as flames, took its place in King's Landing.
"But with the Westerlands and the Reach, things aren't so simple," Temper said thoughtfully, looking into the ruby eyes of the small, rearing lion. "Tywin Lannister can rouse eight thousand Red Cloaks with a single word, and within days, the rest of Casterly Rock's vassals will come running. So the Westerlands will have forty thousand swords, not counting the garrison left to defend the coast."
- Knock...
The lion took its place, and in the hand of the master of Osgiliath appeared the last figurine for the day - a very carefully carved golden rose.
"The Tyrrells can muster the largest army in all the Seven Kingdoms, but like the Lannisters, they will have to leave a sizable garrison to guard the Arbor, the Shield Islands, and the Ocean Road. Balon Greyjoy, however, is a true believer in the Old Law and will not miss a chance to plunder the 'Greenlanders' in times of trouble." Twirling a golden flower between his fingers, Temper kept his gaze fixed on the map, staring intently at the place marked Highgarden, forcing the others to grasp the gravity of his words. "Sixty thousand soldiers, at least ten of which will be heavy cavalry. That's how many the Warden of the South will bring to the war. Of course, these are only rough estimates based on the latest census and the current power of the noble houses, so the numbers may vary, but not by much."
- Knock...
The rose took its place in the High Garden, marking the end of this part of the story.
There was a brief silence, broken by one of the minor lords, a vassal of Manwoody:
"Why did you say the dragons would lose?" he asked, immediately switching to the familiar form. "According to you, the rebels only have a hundred thousand soldiers, while the king, even without our support, has a hundred and twenty thousand. The Targaryens have the advantage."
The laughter and whispers about the "foolishness of one upstart" that followed these words were very quickly interrupted by Doran's hard gaze and the predatory smile of Oberyn, who, because of his forced smile, looked more like a dangerous snake than a man, sitting next to his brother.
"Lord Lawheart, you're wrong about one thing." Though Felix's tone didn't change, the coldness and indifference that shone through in every gesture he made toward Manwoody's vassal was almost palpable. "As I said before, there are certain circumstances with the Reach and the West. The first is that Tywin Lannister will never enter the war on Aerys's side."
Having learned from bitter experience that it was better to let the man finish speaking than to incur the Grand Lord's wrath, those present remained silent, listening attentively to the former Westerner.
"Yes, the Great Lion and the King were once close friends, having gone through thick and thin together during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. But one must remember that a lion is a proud and strong beast, and will not tolerate mockery, even from a dragon." Temper's voice gradually increased in volume, giving the impression of a long-rehearsed speech that one yearns to listen to. "Remember the famous scandals that erupted at the tourney in 272 AC, when our King publicly harassed Tywin's wife, Joanna? And the rumors of her infidelity that followed? And what happened four years later at the tourney in Lannisport, in honor of Prince Viserys's birthday? Lord Dayne, if my memory serves me right, you were there and heard our 'wise' King's response to the Grandlord of the West's offer to marry his daughter to Prince Rhaegar?"
"You are the most intelligent of my servants, Tywin, but who would marry their heir to their servant's daughter?" Vorian Dayne said thoughtfully, his eyes gradually widening. "I remember that even after all these years. Everyone was too shocked by that statement at the banquet after the tourney."
"There. Do you think the Lion would tolerate something like that?" Temper asked, smiling ironically as he watched the gradually lengthening faces of the lords present. "And let's not forget the recent induction of his heir, Jaime Lannister, into the Kingsguard. Now Casterly Rock will go to his second son, Tyrion. The dwarf who killed his own mother, Tywin's beloved wife, at birth. A disgrace to their line. Someone Tywin truly hates. And let's not forget the constant scandals Aerys stirred up while the Lion was Hand. If the Shield of Lannisport still treats well the man who humiliated and argued with him for ten years, then one might suspect him of being a saint, who was not allowed to ascend by the Seven. What do you think the proud Old Lion will feel about the current dynasty?"
The answer was clear without words—pure, unadulterated hatred. Even the Dornishmen, far removed from the concepts of knightly honor and vassal oaths, understood that no matter how honest and loyal Lannister might be, he would not stand for the Targaryens. Simple human dignity, which men of the Great Lion's stature cherish like the apple of their eye, would not allow him to do so.
"The Reach is a similar problem. Does everyone here understand WHO truly rules Highgarden, after Luthor's recent death?" The next question required no answer, for it was obvious. "No matter how much the Tyrells protest their loyalty to the Targaryens, as long as the Queen of Thorns holds the reins of power, they will not truly enter this war."
"Why?" came the question from one of the lesser knights-lieutenants, seated on benches at the far end of the hall and remaining silent almost the entire time.
"Very simple," Temper replied, turning on his toes to address a man of venerable age, a white hawk perched on his chest against a blue background. "Lord Fowler, you've always kept a close eye on the situation in the Reach, and surely you were there when Olenna Redwyne and Luthor Tyrell married?"
"Yes," Old Hawk said thoughtfully, placing his hand to his chin, recalling the events of past years.
— Could you tell us how it happened?
"It happened almost thirty-five years ago. Aegon the Incredible, may the Seven bless his afterlife, arranged Olenna's betrothal to his youngest son, Daeron, while Luthor was betrothed to the king's eldest daughter, Sheira. I was fifteen then, a passing knight visiting Highgarden, and even then I saw Olenna making the rounds of the Highgarden court. She set her betrothed up with a squire, forcing him to forget all about women, and then climbed into Luthor's bed, binding the harmless oaf to her." As the story progressed, the eyes of everyone present gradually widened. It wasn't that what Fowler told me was some great secret, but such "details" were a revelation to most. "As she later told 'in secret' to her ladies-in-waiting, with one of whom I slept at the time, she couldn't stand the Targaryens and considered them dangerous madmen, unworthy of the Iron Throne.
The silence that followed was almost absolute, broken only by the soft sounds of Red Serpent's breathing and wine pouring into his glass.
"That's why the dragons have little chance of winning," Temper finally said, collecting the pieces from the table and rolling up the map. "There are thirty thousand of them at most, including all the remaining loyalists. Maybe fifty, if we all strain ourselves and send all our warriors to help. But even if we win, we'll gain nothing. The Vale and the North, along with Dorne, are natural strongholds that are very difficult to take, and they'll be waiting a long time to avenge the deaths of their lords."
At this point, the meeting fell silent. In the following days, many words were exchanged, numerous arguments and discussions took place, culminating in several fights, but time passed, and no unified decision was reached. There were too many contradictions and grievances among the Dornishmen to allow them to unite and reach a unified decision.
Everyone decided on two messages.
A threatening letter from the king and a note from Leven Martell asking for haste and describing Aerys's madness at its peak.
The decision was made. Felix Temper headed north to the Crownlands with an eight-thousand-strong combined corps, with two orders: save as many soldiers as possible and bring Princess Elia home.
*
- Congratulations, your plan worked perfectly.
"Thank you, Doran. If it weren't for your trust, I wouldn't have succeeded."
- But how did you manage to persuade the Ironwoods and Fowlers to help?
"Money, my lord. Simple money. I renewed my escort contract with the Ironwoods, and I bought some seedlings from the Fowlers."
- Not bad. I trust you, my friend. You remember your task, right?
— Leave the soldiers of the remaining lords on the battlefield and organize the kidnapping.
— Right. But remember—if anything goes wrong and even one hair falls from my sister's head... You won't live.