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Pat*eon : CaveLeather
Game of Thrones: The Dragon Who Remembers
Game of Thrones: What Must Be Done
The fierce sun scorched the harbor of Sunspear, causing the air to shimmer in the heat.
Almost the entire ruling family of Dorne had turned out, forming a magnificent and distinctly Dornish tableau on the docks.
Prince Doran Martell sat in a wheelchair inlaid with copper, wearing a long yellow silk robe symbolizing Dorne, his expression calm. Standing beside him was his brother, Prince Oberyn, dressed in tight black leather, his physique lean and powerful like a viper poised to strike, his sharp eyes scanning the juggernauts docking.
Princess Elia stood on Doran's other side, her gentle face holding a mild expectation; young Princess Arianne could hardly conceal her curiosity, her gaze darting between the two long-famous massive ships. Victoria held Princess Rhaenys with one hand and little Caesar with the other.
Behind them, the two burly, bearded guards, Areo Hotah and Bastian Fernandez, stood like iron towers, longaxes in hand, muscles knotting on their bronzed arms, silently displaying the Prince's majesty.
Oberyn's paramour, Ellaria Sand, gently held her and Oberyn's young daughter, Elia Sand. Beside her stood Oberyn's two elder bastard daughters—Obara Sand and Nymeria Sand. They had inherited some of their father's sharpness, their eyes full of curiosity and scrutiny towards the Ironborn.
When Euron Greyjoy and Balon Greyjoy, as representatives of the Iron Islands, stepped heavily down the gangplank of the Zhiyuan, the gaze of the entire harbor focused on them.
Euron stepped forward first, his pace steady, the sea breeze ruffling his dark curly hair. He stopped before Prince Doran's wheelchair and nodded slightly. "Prince Doran," his voice low and clear, cutting through the noise of the harbor, "thank you for the hospitality of Dorne. I apologize for troubling you to welcome us personally under this fierce sun."
Prince Doran raised his hand in a Dornish gesture of welcome, a polite, faint smile appearing on his face. "Lord Euron, the voyage must have been tiring. Sunspear welcomes the arrival of our allies."
Their gazes met in the air. Balon stood half a step behind Euron, his expression somewhat stiff. He nodded slightly to Oberyn and the others as a greeting. His bronzed face was devoid of emotion, clearly lacking patience for such formalities.
Euron's gaze swept over the Dornish welcoming party like a hawk, pausing briefly on Elia, Arianne, and Oberyn before suddenly freezing on the rear of the crowd—he actually saw Rhaenys, and little Caesar held tightly in her hand.
The two children were clearly excited, their small faces flushed red, but they were gently yet firmly held back by Victoria behind them, preventing them from rushing forward. Their lips moved as if they wanted to shout something, but stopped by Victoria's eyes and subtle movements. They could only stare with wide, round eyes, looking longingly in Euron's direction.
Just then, Ashara slowly descended the gangplank, holding the month-old Alexander. Her dark hair flowed with dazzling luster under the Dornish sun, her posture elegant and composed as she held the infant.
The moment her feet touched the dock, Princess Elia and Princess Arianne went to meet her like two graceful birds. Familiarly, they took Ashara's arms, one on each side, instantly spiriting her away from Euron's side and forming an intimate circle of women.
Elia gently cooed at Alexander, while Arianne began whispering private sisterly words to Ashara, shutting out the men and their serious pleasantries.
"A banquet has been prepared," Prince Doran spoke at the right moment, his voice peaceful yet carrying unquestionable authority, drawing everyone's attention back. "You have traveled far. Please follow me into the city, and let Sunspear extend the hospitality of a host."
The air was filled with the rich aroma of roasted lamb and Dornish Red. The Dornish welcomed this expeditionary force from the Iron Islands with their grandest feast.
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Halfway through the banquet.
Oberyn made a gesture, called Euron aside, and pulled him into a secluded side hall.
The noise of the banquet hall was shut out by heavy curtains. In this quiet side hall, only the scent of incense and old scrolls remained.
Oberyn Martell closed the carved wooden door behind him and slammed his golden goblet heavily onto the ebony table beside him, nearly spilling the amber wine.
"The Summer Isles?" Oberyn turned, his sharp gaze piercing Euron like a spear. "Now, there is no one else here. Tell me, what exactly are you thinking?"
Euron leaned leisurely against the cushioned windowsill, his fingertips gently rubbing the rim of his cup. He blinked and smiled. "People need to exercise more. Being trapped in the stone fortresses of Harrenhal and Pyke all day makes one's bones moldy. It just so happens there's this opportunity to stretch my muscles. Isn't that great?"
CLANG! Oberyn's palm slammed onto the table, making the wine goblet jump.
"Who's in the mood to joke with you!" Oberyn's voice suppressed his anger as he growled low, "The Stepstones! What about the Stepstones we agreed upon? Your son, Caesar, is still waiting for the throne you promised him!"
Facing Oberyn's fury, the smile on Euron's face faded slightly. He said indifferently, "I'm not joking, Oberyn. It just so happened that the Prince of the Red Flower Vale, Jalabhar Xho, was exiled to King's Landing. It just so happened that he asked us for help. It just so happened that I thought this was an opportunity not to be missed, so I agreed."
Euron asked in return, "An exiled prince, a legitimate reason, a rich but poorly defended archipelago. Isn't this much more 'opportune' than clashing head-on with three Free Cities simultaneously in the chaotic quagmire of the Stepstones?"
Oberyn's knuckles turned white. The wine in his cup splashed out from the violent shaking, spreading dark stains on the precious ebony table. He roared, "What about the Stepstones then! Is it because of your son with Ashara that the name of another son has already drifted away with the sea breeze?"
"My promise will absolutely be kept. Caesar is my son, and always will be. I haven't acted simply because," Euron did not retreat an inch from this interrogation, speaking clearly, "the time has not yet come!"
"Time?" Oberyn scoffed, anger churning in his chest. "What bullshit time! Are you going to wait for the people of the Three Daughters to die of old age, or wait for Caesar to grow wings and conquer that sea himself?"
"The time to solve it once and for all."
Euron's voice remained flat. "Lys, Tyrosh, Myr." With each name, his tone grew colder. "Just repelling them once, propping up a nominal king, and then what? Wait for their endless counterattacks, let the Stepstones become a bleeding wound forever draining our strength?"
Euron's gaze pierced Oberyn like an ice pick. "Only by thoroughly crippling them, sending their fleets to the bottom of the sea, draining their coffers so they cannot support another war, making them feel fear from the depths of their hearts so they never dare, nor have the power, to reach out and interfere in that sea again..." Euron's tone had no fluctuation but carried a heart-palpitating resolve. "Only then will the person sitting on the throne be a true king. Otherwise, he is but a precarious puppet constantly needing our rescue."
Oberyn's chest heaved violently. He stared dead at Euron. After a long while, he squeezed out the most crucial question through his teeth, his voice hoarse from suppression: "Then tell me, how long must we wait?"
In the quiet side hall, the air seemed to solidify.
Facing Oberyn's almost fiery questioning, Euron not only didn't answer directly but let out a chuckle. He reached out and wrapped his arm around Oberyn's tense shoulders, a gesture carrying an almost provocative intimacy.
"My brother," Euron said leisurely, "I remember, when you were young, you spent a few years as a mercenary in the Disputed Lands, right? That used to be your hunting ground."
Oberyn frowned, brushing Euron's hand away, his tone stiff. "So what? That's all in the past."
"The past?" Euron chuckled. "Experience is wealth. I think you can go back to your old trade and spend a few more years there."
"Why?" Oberyn's patience was clearly running out, snapping unhappily, "I want a reason, Euron. Don't speak in riddles!"
Candlelight cast Euron's shadow onto the wall, twisted and massive. He spoke slowly, "Lys, Tyrosh, Myr. These three so-called 'Daughters' have never stopped fighting over trade routes, ports, and taxes in the Disputed Lands. Assassinations, plunder, inciting rebellion... all sorts of dirty tricks are endless." His voice lowered, like a viper flicking its tongue. "I want you to go back and use the methods you are best at to thoroughly throw that land into chaos. Make them suspect each other, deepen their hatred, force them to pour more troops, more Gold Dragons, and fix all those greedy and anxious eyes dead onto the bottomless pit that is the Disputed Lands."
Oberyn's pupils contracted slightly. He seemed to catch the tip of the iceberg of Euron's massive plan. "And then?" he pressed.
The habitual smile on Euron's face vanished instantly, replaced by an almost cruel calmness. The words he spat out were distinct, each heavy as a thousand pounds: "And then, when they have bled dry in internal strife, exhausted their wealth, and are showing their fatigue—that will be the time for us to march east and uproot these three kingdoms in one stroke."
"Destroy three kingdoms in one stroke?!" Oberyn sucked in a breath of cold air. Even known for his audacity, he was shaken by this astounding ambition. He stared tightly at Euron, trying to discern if this was another bad joke. "Little Kraken, your appetite is truly not small... are you sure you can swallow that? That's not just a Summer Isles!"
Euron met his gaze without dodging. The fanaticism in his eyes was fleeting, covered again by deep rationality.
Euron admitted frankly, "I can't swallow it yet."
"But, in the future... I definitely will!"
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