Flowing Water Garden – Sunspear, Dorne
The Flowing Water Garden was one of Sunspear's most exquisite treasures. Verdant and shaded, tall palm trees swayed gently in the warm breeze. A crystal-clear stream wound its way through the garden, its bubbling melody blending with the rustling of leaves. Colorful blooms filled the air with sweet fragrance, drawing butterflies of every hue to dance among the petals.
Exquisite fountains shimmered beneath the sunlight, casting glittering arcs of water in every direction. The tranquil lake nearby mirrored the cloud-streaked sky perfectly, reflecting the soft azure and the golden stone walls of Sunspear's palace.
In one of the grand chambers overlooking the garden, Prince Doran Martell had summoned a private family council. All the direct members of House Martell were present, their expressions curious, some concerned, all focused on the prince seated in his wheeled chair.
Prince Doran opened a carved wooden box beside him and took out a roll of fine parchment. He handed it carefully to his eldest son, Quentyn Martell, before speaking in his calm, deliberate voice:
"This is a marriage contract signed more than ten years ago between House Martell and House Targaryen. The agreement was made for you, Quentyn, to marry Daenerys Targaryen. Few know of this pact. But now, I believe the time has come to honor it. You are to sail to the Stepstones and claim your bride. Bring her back to Dorne."
At once, Princess Arianne, seated nearby, voiced her concerns.
"Father, Daenerys is said to be engaged to Gavin Belerys, Lord of the Stepstones. He commands not only a fleet but dragons as well. Syndor, his great beast, is feared by many. Even with a contract in hand, sending Quentyn to take her would provoke Gavin—and risk his life."
Doran waved a hand gently, as if brushing away her worries.
"Recent intelligence confirms that Daenerys possesses a red hatchling. A dragon—no matter how small—is reason enough. A Targaryen name, paired with fire, is worth the risk."
The infamous Red Viper, Oberyn Martell, leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"If Daenerys has a dragon, Gavin will never let her go. Such a demand would be an insult. And insult breeds war. Dorne and the Stepstones might well come to blows."
Even young Trystane Martell added his voice, albeit cautiously:
"Uncle Oberyn speaks true. Our navy cannot match Gavin's fleet. The black ship, The Earl, alone wreaked havoc along our coast. The Dornish are not seafarers. For a single young dragon, this may not be a wise move."
Prince Doran nodded slowly, absorbing each word, before revealing the heart of his plan.
"Which is why I do not intend to challenge Gavin. I intend to offer him a bride." He turned to Arianne, his gaze soft but firm. "I want you to consider marrying him."
Arianne stiffened. The room fell into silence.
In Dorne, gender made no difference in matters of succession. As Doran's eldest child, she was heir to Sunspear. But marrying an ambitious foreign lord like Gavin could mean losing her claim, especially if the nobles began rallying behind Quentyn instead.
"Father..." she said quietly, "Gavin would be a fool to give up Daenerys Targaryen. She has a claim to the Iron Throne and now a dragon. Why would he trade that for an alliance with us?"
Doran's voice remained calm and composed.
"Because we control the Broken Arm—the lifeblood of his trade. One-third of his commerce passes through our waters. If we cut off those routes, we strangle his economy. And he's already at war with Lys. He cannot afford to fight a two-front war, not with the Iron Throne looming on the horizon. He needs allies—and we are the only ones positioned to offer true strength."
Oberyn crossed his arms, ever the skeptic.
"And what if Quentyn succeeds? Daenerys comes to Dorne. Will Robert Baratheon let her live? He had Viserys killed. He will send every assassin in the realm to finish what he started."
Doran's eyes narrowed, though his tone never shifted.
"Robert is a drunk and a spendthrift. The Iron Throne is drowning in debt. His treasury is dry. He cannot afford a war—not with the Reach, not with the North, and certainly not with Dorne. If he tries, he'll find our mountains sharper than any crown."
He turned once more to Quentyn.
"This is a gamble. Speak with Gavin. If he rejects the match, seek Daenerys in private. If you win her favor—and her dragon—we gain more than an alliance. The choice is yours."
Quentyn rose slowly, eyes filled with quiet resolve.
"I will go, Father. Whether it is Daenerys or Gavin, securing this union will be a great victory for Dorne."
Prince Doran gave him a rare, approving nod.
"Then so be it. Take care, my son. And may the Mother guide your path."
Dragonstone – The Seat of House Baratheon
On the churning sea, a royal galley bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon cut through wind and wave, making its steady approach to Dragonstone's black shores.
The island loomed like a stone leviathan rising from the depths—its jagged cliffs biting at the sky. Upon those cliffs stood Dragonstone Castle, an ancient fortress carved into the very rock, brooding and formidable.
As the ship docked, the royal entourage disembarked in ceremonial formation—guards bearing banners, armor gleaming in the gray light, their boots striking stone in rhythmic cadence.
King Robert Baratheon was the last to step ashore, his great bulk wrapped in a fur-lined cloak. He scanned the landing with a scowl. Stannis was not there to greet him.
Instead, Axel Florent, Stannis's uncle by marriage, bowed stiffly.
"Your Grace. Lord Stannis awaits you in the Map Room."
Robert's frown deepened.
"Of course he does. Never one for pleasantries, my brother."
He pushed past Axel, his pace fast despite the climb ahead. The winding steps of Dragonstone left him breathless before long, sweat beading on his forehead. Age was catching up with him, and so was the weight of his crown.
At last, the doors to the Map Room groaned open.
There, in the center of the room, Stannis Baratheon stood rigid beside the great table carved in the likeness of Westeros, hands clasped behind his back. His expression was carved from stone.
Robert grunted as he entered.
"You didn't come to greet me, Stannis. I'm your king, or have you forgotten?"
"You came as my brother," Stannis replied, eyes unmoving. "Not as a king."
Robert let out a bitter chuckle.
"Seven hells. I forgot what talking to you felt like. Always so cold. So damned humorless."
"Humor does not win wars," Stannis said.
Robert slammed a hand down on the table, rattling carved mountains.
"This Belerys boy. Gavin. He's building something dangerous. Daenerys at his side. A red dragon, the fleet, the Stepstones—all of it. He's another Aegon in the making."
Stannis's gaze flicked briefly to the carving of the Stepstones.
"You should have crushed him when he was weak. Instead, you pardoned him. Now he's beyond your reach."
Robert pointed a thick finger.
"That's why I need your fleet. Your mind. I'm not going to let this bastard light another fire in the East."
Stannis stepped forward, voice low.
"Then we must be patient. Cut off his ports. Starve his economy. Use Lys against him. When he's desperate, he'll make mistakes."
Robert paced the room like a caged bear.
"You sound like a Lannister with all this scheming."
"I sound like a man who intends to win."
Robert finally slumped into a chair, groaning.
"Fine. We do it your way. For now. But gods help us if those dragons grow any larger."
He reached for the wine set aside for him, but the decanter was empty.
"Lancel!" he barked.
The boy rushed in to refill it.
Stannis didn't speak again until Robert had taken a long gulp.
"You still intend to name Eddard Stark as Hand?"
Robert nodded slowly. "Aye. I trust him. And the court is rotten to its core. Ned's the only man I know who won't play their games."
"Then you'd better act quickly," Stannis said, "before the games consume the throne."
Robert looked down at the map, the shadow of Syndor's wings carved ominously near the Stepstones.
"One fire already burns. If we're not careful, the whole realm will follow."