No Need to Kneel

Read 20+ Chapter's Ahead in Patreon

"It's me. Are you surprised, Prince?"

Standing before the man seated high upon the throne, Oberyn Martell was struck by a profound sense of unreality. In the days leading up to this meeting, he and Ellaria had speculated endlessly, turning over countless possibilities for who might be seated upon this other Throne. But not once had they imagined this.

"To my knowledge, there's never been a marriage between House Manderly and either the Targaryens or the Velaryons. So if you truly are Clay Manderly… how are you able to ride a dragon?"

Oberyn's obsidian eyes locked onto Clay's face, as if trying to pierce through his calm façade, to find even the slightest twitch of falsehood. But he found nothing. Clay sat there with that same faint smile, his expression utterly unchanged.

"A reasonable question. But tell me, Prince…"

Clay leaned forward slightly, his back lifting from the throne as he spoke in a quiet, measured tone.

"Have you ever considered… that there might be more than one kind of dragonlord's blood in this world?"

That single sentence dropped lightly into the hall, yet it struck Oberyn like thunder in his ears. Another kind of dragonlord's blood? That was absurd. How could that even be possible?

And yet, if Clay Manderly truly was who he claimed to be, then Oberyn could think of no more reasonable explanation. The Targaryens had always insisted on marrying within their own bloodline, practiced incestuous unions—not only to preserve the purity of their lineage, but to deliberately slow the dilution of that blood.

Of course, there had always been a few among them who couldn't keep their loins in check, scattering seed across their own lands. But the blood spilled in those affairs, more often than not, led to bastards. And bastards, lacking noble lineage, rarely married into great houses.

Once their blood spilled into the common folk and was thinned over generations by peasant unions, the so-called "blood of the dragon" lost its potency—and its power.

"We'll have time to talk about that later. For now, all you need to understand is this: my descendants will still be able to tame dragons. That alone should suffice."

"I trust you must've seen my Gaelithox at the docks before you arrived," Clay went on, his tone blunt and sharpening, "so I don't want to hear another word from your mouth about bloodlines or breeding."

There was no mistaking the tone. Clay was no longer speaking as a peer, but as a monarch addressing a subordinate. And that, precisely, was the message he meant to send—to Oberyn, and by extension, to the entire Martell family.

His presence here, his arrival at this moment, would unavoidably shake the foundations of the Martells' political future. And not just a little.

Originally, the Martells had envisioned investing in Daenerys Targaryen, betting early and heavily on her claim. Even if she took the throne without broader support, Oberyn would have at least secured a powerful seat beside her—husband or not, a position like Hand of the Queen was almost guaranteed.

Among the sprawling Targaryen coalition, House Martell would have stood as the oldest and most deeply invested shareholders.

But now Clay has appeared. Not only had he seized the throne, he had done so with absolute authority—his word law, his rule unchallenged. And behind him stood House Manderly, which by now had risen to become perhaps the most powerful house in Westeros not among the traditional Great Houses.

That alone was a death knell.

Because it meant that what the Martells once wanted, and what Clay was now willing to offer, were not going to match. In the future, House Martell would certainly have a voice on the Small Council, but never the loudest one.

Clay had to lay down his terms. He had to make Oberyn understand exactly what was on offer. In plain terms: Join me, and I'll help you get your revenge. I'll even let you bring your resources into this alliance. And in return, I'll give you a prominent seat at the table.

But make no mistake… this was his table.

The stakes on the table needed to be clear from the beginning. These were hard terms, and they had to be spoken now. If everyone clung to their own assumptions, they'd end up talking past each other. And when the time came to divide the spoils, everything could collapse in an instant.

Oberyn, for his part, took Clay's bluntness with surprising grace. He glanced at Daenerys, who was watching him closely, and immediately grasped the truth—these two were entirely aligned, bound together, speaking with one voice.

That meant he held no advantage here. He hadn't come to stir trouble. He had come to speak of alliance, not to tear things down. And this was not the moment for petty defiance.

So the Dornish prince gave a crooked grin and said, "Alright then, Clay Manderly. Forgive me if I'm not quite ready to kneel to you just yet. A dragonlord Manderly… Gods, that's going to take some getting used to. Wouldn't you say?"

Oberyn Martell, after the initial shock, swiftly returned to his usual self. He didn't think his remark would anger Clay—after all, he had been invited here. That made him a guest. And guests, at least by Dornish customs, were afforded a little room to speak freely.

This young Dragonlord might be strange, even improbable, but Oberyn had always trusted his eyes. And reality had a way of justifying itself. With such a formidable monarch leading the way, Dorne might see fewer casualties in the wars to come.

Oberyn hadn't spent all those years in Dorne simply rolling in beds with his mistress and fathering little Sand Snakes. To him, women were merely one of life's pleasures. What truly thrilled him was the constant pursuit of the new—the strange, the exhilarating, the unknown.

Just as he had once studied at the Citadel and even forged a few links of his own chain in different metals, only to leave eventually when the Citadel ceased to stimulate him. That, in truth, had been the reason for his departure. It simply couldn't thrill him anymore.

Now, the Seven Kingdoms were ablaze with war, and only Dorne remained untouched by the blood-soaked storm. Every house still left standing had tried to court their favor.

Letters brimming with promises, threats, and thinly veiled bribes poured into the Water Gardens where Prince Doran resided, as ceaseless as snow in a storm. Even House Lannister, under Cersei's shameless hand, had sent a desperate, incoherent plea for aid.

Prince Doran received them all with a calm smile, whether goodwill or veiled threats. But Dorne did not budge. Under his quiet command, their troops shifted to the borders, applying pressure to the southern edges of the Reach and Stormlands.

It was a move that made for an intriguing bit of strategy. Right now, with the finest soldiers from all corners gathered in King's Landing, every major house was left vulnerable at home. So rather than raise alarm, Dorne's maneuver came almost as a relief.

Had they massed troops on only one front, it would have been a clear declaration of allegiance. But by spreading their strength between both regions, they sent a very different message—that they had no intention of letting anyone else's war spill into their lands.

After all, if they struck in both directions at once, it would provoke an overwhelming retaliation. Renly's armies would be forced to retreat and defend their lands, while Dorne would face the fury of both the Reach and the Stormlands combined. That was a burden they could not bear.

Oberyn Martell didn't yet fully grasp the intention behind his brother's deployment orders, but he had been watching the war that was spreading across the Seven Kingdoms with growing interest. It was then that the North's ambush of the western Lannister army caught his attention. And it was then that the name Clay Manderly seared itself into his memory.

He'd even gathered his men and retraced every move Clay had made in that campaign. When they finished, the Dornish nobles exchanged solemn glances, the silent weight of understanding settling in their hearts.

The reason was simple: had any of them been in Clay's shoes, they could not have done the same.

That was when Oberyn found his new thrill. He dreamed of one day leading his own army to the battlefield, to meet Clay Manderly face-to-face and have a proper, soldier's talk about the art of war.

What he didn't expect—what he never could've imagined—was that this wish would come true during this very trip, the one meant to forge an alliance with the Targaryens.

Although he still could not quite accept the idea of Clay sitting a throne while he himself pledged fealty. But gods… he wanted them to return to Westeros as soon as possible. Clay would raise his banners in White Harbor and march south. He would lead the Dornish host northward.

One from the south, one from the north—they would converge on King's Landing together, tear the golden lions from their den, and drag their broken bodies from the Red Keep. He would carry those bloodied corpses to his sister's tomb and let his little beasts gnaw on them while they still breathed.

"It's fine. No need to kneel. If loyalty could be proven with nothing more than a bent knee, the world wouldn't be half as chaotic as it is," Clay said, voice calm and steady. "Prince Oberyn, I asked you here because I believe we understand each other. So please—speak freely. I want to hear what you truly think."

Clay stood, took Daenerys by the hand, and stepped down from the throne together. They walked up to Oberyn and his paramour. Then Clay added with a faint smile:

"Come walk with me. The Good Masters keeps a garden here—it's surprisingly beautiful. Plenty of quiet corners for honest talk. A good place for men to speak their minds... and for the women to do the same."

Daenerys immediately caught on to what he meant. She stepped forward and took the hand of Ellaria, who had just risen to her feet. She smiled briefly at Clay, then gently pulled Ellaria away with her.

Oberyn watched the two women leave, gave a low whistle, and raised his eyebrows. He pointed at the wine glasses still sitting on the table and grinned.

"That's some good wine. You got more of that in the garden?"

---

Clay led Oberyn to the uppermost terrace of the pyramid. Don't assume gardens have to be built on the ground—if you've got enough coin, slave-traders can turn even the sky into their playground. Their extravagance knows no bounds.

"Damn, now this is something," Oberyn said with a low whistle. "Nice place you've got here, Manderly. Was this your idea?"

Oberyn stood for a moment, taking in the sweeping view of Astapor spread out below the balcony, then turned to glance at the lush greenery behind him. A low click of the tongue escaped his lips, half amusement, half genuine admiration.

Clay chuckled lightly. "What do you think, Prince? If I had the coin to build a place like this, do you really think I'd still be borrowing from the Iron Bank?"

He settled into a wicker chair, its seat cool beneath him, and shot Oberyn a glance from the corner of his eye, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.

"Fair enough. Still, even in the short time we've known each other, I can already tell—this isn't your taste. A man who's carved through over ten thousand Lannister soldiers doesn't strike me as someone who'd care much for rose gardens and fountains."

"Oh, don't say that," Clay said with a grin. "I do care—who doesn't love a beautiful view? It's just… now's not the time for that yet."

Oberyn let out a soft laugh as he sank into the chair opposite Clay, tipping back a generous swig of wine. The deep red glinted in the sun as he swirled it in his goblet, silent for a moment as he mulled over Clay's words. Then, setting the cup down with a quiet clink, he leaned forward and spoke plainly.

"Let me be honest with you. House Martell doesn't give a damn who ends up sitting on that spiky chair. The Dornish have always lived by our own rules—and we've never had much to do with the rest of you 'northerners' anyway."

By "northerners," he wasn't referring to Clay, nor to the hardy folk who lived beyond the Neck. In the Dornish tongue, the term meant everyone not of the sands and mountains—those from the Crownlands, the Reach, the Riverlands. All the rest. Just as those same northerners often painted all who lived below the Neck with one lazy stroke: southerners.

Clay raised an eyebrow and gave Oberyn a curious look.

"Now, that's where you're wrong, Prince. If you really didn't care, why are you here? You could've just stayed holed up in Sunspear, waited for someone to win the war, then sent a rider to King's Landing to pledge your loyalty. Done and dusted."

He couldn't help thinking Oberyn was still putting on an act. The thirst for vengeance burning in the Martells was likely among the fiercest in all the Seven Kingdoms.

Oberyn chuckled. "Alright, since you get it, I'll lay our terms on the table. I like your personality, Manderly."

His beard-shadowed face broke into a grin as he raised four fingers.

"First, the Lannisters' crimes must be punished. That's non-negotiable."

"Second, Dorne will fight for you and your Daenerys, but when you win, the Small Council must have a seat for us."

"Third, your children with Daenerys, no matter who they are, son or daughter, must marry into House Martell."

"Fourth, Dorne's territory must expand. The castles bordering the Stormlands and the Reach—those must come under our rule."

Clay listened patiently, nodding after each demand. When Oberyn finally stopped talking, Clay waited a beat, then asked with a hint of dry amusement:

"That's it?"

"That is it. My brother's terms, not mine. I am just the messenger," Oberyn said with a shrug. In today's Dorne, when it came to major decisions, Prince Doran's word still carried final weight.

"And what about your terms, Oberyn Martell?" Clay asked in a calm, deliberate tone. "It would not sit right with me as your host to have you come all this way for nothing."

Oberyn looked at him, slightly surprised by the question, then gave a slow, appreciative nod. He did not hold back.

"The Lannisters. My brother wants them driven out of King's Landing for good. But me? I want them to pay. I want justice for what they did to my sister."

"The Mountain and Tywin's heads. Will that be enough?"

Clay smiled as he spoke, yet his voice held a solemn weight that somehow brought comfort.

"Perfect. Just make sure you keep your word, Manderly," Oberyn growled, slamming his fist down on the table. He tilted his head back and downed the rest of his wine in a single breath, then let out a long sigh as he leaned back in his chair, visibly more at ease now.

"Now then, let us return to Prince Doran's terms," Clay said, tossing him another bottle of wine. The man drank as he did—measured, but relentless. Small cups would not suffice. Better to hand over the whole thing.

"Starting with the first point," Clay continued, settling in. "Beyond what I just promised you, the Lannisters will be weakened. That much is certain. As for how much… that depends on what happens on the battlefield. If they are weak enough, I will not hesitate to place the Westerlands under a new Paramount."

"And the second point. The Small Council. I cannot promise you the Hand of the King—at least not yet. I need that position to draw others into the game. If I fill the court entirely with Martells, do you not think it would start to look a little suspicious?"

"Fair enough. So what is the compromise?" Oberyn asked, resting the bottle against his thigh.

"Well, your people probably aren't suited to be Master of Coin, and I doubt you've got anyone for that job anyway. But Master of Laws? That I can give you. As for Master of Ships or Master of Whisperers, that's up to you. If you want them, fight for them."

"All right. Keep going."

"Third," Clay said, "in principle, I agree to it. But I will need to speak with Daenerys first. I cannot make that kind of promise on my own. If she agrees, giving you a child to seal the bond is possible. But you will need to guarantee that child's status."

"All right, let me be clear. We have no designs on the dragons. The Dragonlord's business belongs to the Dragonlord," Oberyn said with a nod.

"Very well. That brings us to the final point. I do not have a map of Westeros in front of me right now," Clay admitted, "but it doesn't matter. You want your lands to grow, and that is fair. From where I stand, I believe you deserve something. But there must be a limit."

He met Oberyn's gaze, his tone calm but resolute.

"We are comrades of the same generation, fighting side by side to reclaim the Iron Throne. The odds of us ever drawing swords against one another are slim. But our children—that is another matter entirely. One grows up in King's Landing, the other in Sunspear. Who can say what they will think of each other?"

"If my child comes to see your territory as too large, too strong, and begins to view Dorne as a threat to the crown… I do not want to live through another war like the one Daeron the Young Dragon started."

"And let us be honest," he went on, "everyone knows what Dorne is like. If you push too far north, and war ever breaks out, are you certain you can hold those lands?"

Clay was not saying it to provoke him. From his perspective, if they won the war, it was only natural to desire more territory. But the real concern was that taking too much might become a burden.

The border between Dorne and the Stormlands or the Reach was dominated by mountains. The terrain was harsh, and the roads were scarce and winding. Even if they managed to extend their frontier a little farther north, once war erupted, how were they meant to defend those castles?

Dorne's true strength lay in the sun-scorched deserts and valleys south of the mountains. The moment the fighting moved northward, it would turn into a logistical nightmare. With their limited resources, Dorne could be undone by supply lines alone.

And if they ended up abandoning those castles and falling back behind the mountain passes, the question would inevitably follow: what was the point of claiming them in the first place?

A few extra fortresses wouldn't change the balance of power between their two realms—but they would plant the seeds for trouble. Only a fool, blinded by ambition, would take that risk.

Oberyn sat in silence for a long while, his gaze thoughtful. Then he looked up and grinned, his white teeth flashing in the sunlight.

"…You make a good point."

**

**

[IMAGE]

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Chapter End's]

🖤 Night_FrOst/ Patreon 🤍

Visit my Patreon for Early Chapter:

https://www.patreon.com/Night_FrOst

Extra Content Already Available