Only Targaryens Here

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Clay understood perfectly well that for House Martell to suddenly recognize the Manderlys—a family once regarded as little more than provincial lords—as rightful rulers of the Seven Kingdoms, would not happen overnight. Such acknowledgment would take time. And perhaps more than time, it would take strength.

The Targaryens, after all, had not begun with legitimacy either. When Aegon Targaryen first sent word from Dragonstone, declaring his claim over the Seven Kingdoms, not a single lord bent the knee. No banners were raised in his name. No oaths of fealty were offered.

So what did the Conqueror do?

True to the words of House Targaryen, he brought his enemies fire and blood. Those who refused to yield were left with only one other choice: death. There was no third path, no room for compromise.

And so the Storm King died on the battlefield. The rulers of the Vale dropped to their knees in surrender. A war of wrath swept across the land like wildfire, wiping out the Gardener bloodline completely. Harrenhal, now a smoldering ruin, became the final resting place of the infamous Harren the Black and his sons.

Only then did the realm accept the Targaryens' rule—because every challenger bold enough to oppose them had already been destroyed.

Now, Clay was facing a situation not so different from the one Aegon had once confronted. With a dragon by his side, House Manderly had already, in truth, taken its first steps toward breaking away from the old Northern lordly order.

It was not difficult to understand. Gaelithox had grown so massive that concealing him was no longer possible. Once Clay returned to Westeros, the world would soon learn of the dragon's existence.

Fortunately, Daenerys Targaryen stood beside him, and in doing so, served as the perfect shield. Without her, House Manderly might have found itself in direct opposition to every great house in the realm.

Because let us be honest—if someone handed you a dragon, what would you think?

The tales of Aegon the Conqueror were carved into stone and song alike. And now another dragonlord had risen. If Clay Manderly chose to walk the same path, who among them could stop him?

That was precisely why he had chosen to land in Dorne, rather than march Daenerys and four thousand Unsullied straight back to White Harbor. In theory, that city was his home, the place where every resource and ally obeyed his will without question.

But luckily, Prince Doran of Dorne turned out to be exactly as Clay remembered him—a wise and calculating ruler. The arrangements Clay had made before setting out had lined up perfectly with the prince's wavelength, setting the stage for this promising beginning.

That night, not long after settling in, Clay and Daenerys received an invitation from Prince Doran. He had arranged a quiet meal in a secluded corner of the palace, and Clay knew this dinner was going to be important. So he arrived precisely on time—not early, not late.

Dorne's cuisine stood apart from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Isolated by geography, the culture of this land had evolved along a path entirely its own, distinct from every other region.

Especially when compared to the North, where Clay had spent most of his life. The North was bitterly cold, and the people who lived there burned through energy just to survive, which naturally made them prefer high-calorie, hearty food.

Here in Dorne, though, fruits with low heat and high moisture content took up a significant portion of the dining table. Even the other dishes often came paired with fruit-based ingredients.

It was already evening by the time they arrived, and the way the handmaidens flitted back and forth like passing clouds made it obvious—Prince Doran had gone to great effort for this dinner. With such a warm welcome from their host, there was no reason for the guests to be reserved or overly polite.

Leading Daenerys along, Clay approached the area where Prince Doran was seated. The prince sat in a large, cushioned chair, several soft pads propping up his body. His gout was severe, but not so much that it prevented him from joining them at the table.

"I hope the two of you find Dornish food to your liking," Prince Doran said with a gentle smile, lifting a hand in greeting but making no move to rise from his seat.

"I certainly should try the flavors of Dorne," Clay replied with a calm nod. "Thank you, Your Grace, for your gracious hospitality."

He took the seat that had been prepared for them, guiding Daenerys into her place as well. And this wasn't just a private meal among three. Also present at the table were Ellaria Sand, Prince Doran's eldest son Quentyn Martell, and his daughter, Arianne Martell.

If Clay remembered correctly, there ought to be a younger son named Trystane Martell as well, though he was conspicuously absent. Clay didn't bother to ask why; it didn't matter.

This gathering was, in essence, a private family banquet—an unmistakable sign of how seriously the Martells were treating this occasion.

Candles had been lit, their soft orange flames flickering in the ocean breeze. Once everyone had taken their seats, the serving maids silently withdrew. From this point forward, if any of them so much as overheard a single word, their lives would be forfeit.

With no one speaking at first, it was Prince Doran who broke the silence and brought up the topic.

"Clay," he began, "I hope you'll forgive me if I don't address you as 'Your Grace' just yet. I mean no offense, but it has all happened rather suddenly. The Martell family needs time to adjust."

Clay nodded without changing his expression. He understood exactly what the prince was getting at.

"It's fine," he replied. "Titles don't hold much real weight, not to me. Let's be honest; what you truly want is to support the Targaryens. You once married into their line, after all. Deep down, Your Grace, wouldn't it be better if I simply vanished? That would solve everything for you, wouldn't it? Unfortunately, your family lacks the ability to tame dragons. Otherwise, I'm quite sure you would have done just that already. Am I wrong?"

The sudden silence that followed was deafening.

The warmth that had just started to settle into the room vanished in an instant, as Clay's blunt words tore through the false pleasantries like a blade. No one had expected him to be so direct, so unflinching in laying bare the little calculations the Martells were still quietly weighing.

Prince Doran looked into Clay's deep, unflinching eyes and let out a quiet sigh. There was no use trying to deny it now. This young lord of House Manderly was far too sharp—and far too forceful.

In speaking so openly, Clay had ripped away the final shreds of polite pretense between them. He wasn't threatening them, not directly, but he was making something very clear: I know exactly what you're thinking—and I came anyway. So don't insult me with games.

"Clay," Doran said at last, nodding slowly, "you're right. If you were in my place, you would think the same."

He leaned back into the chair, resting his body against the cushions, and fell silent.

"I understand, Your Grace," Clay said. "That's precisely why I haven't done anything. Otherwise, this place would already be a sea of fire."

The Martells' expressions soured at those words, but not a single one of them dared to speak in protest.

They had all seen it—the silhouette of Gaelithox soaring above Sunspear. None of them doubted for a second that if even a single stream of dragonfire rained down, nothing in this palace would be left alive.

At that moment, it was Daenerys who stepped in to smooth things over.

"Prince Doran," she said softly, "I believe you and your family will stand with me and my husband in the war to come. After all, we share the same goal, don't we?"

Her voice was unmistakably her own—clear, poised, and touched with that unique lilt. She spoke the terms she and Oberyn had already agreed upon with Clay, now expressed in her own words. By the time she finished speaking, the tension around the table had begun to ease. The faces of the Martells noticeably relaxed.

A faint smile returned to Prince Doran's face as well. His eyes drifted toward Clay, who sat there looking as calm and indifferent as ever.

With quiet gravity, he said, "If Her Grace speaks true, then House Martell will stand behind the banners of Manderly and Targaryen."

Do not make the mistake of thinking the Martells were naïve or foolish. The truth was, they did not have much of a choice. Among the Seven Kingdoms, Dorne had the smallest population—even fewer than the North—so their capacity for war was painfully limited.

And what could they possibly gain by siding with anyone besides Clay?

Join Renly, and then what? Would Renly truly go to war with House Lannister over Dorne? Dorne was not worth that kind of gold, let alone territorial expansion. Renly's entire base of power came from the Stormlands and the Reach.

What about Stannis? What could that grim old rock offer them? He had only one daughter. If she married into Dorne, then once Stannis died, would the Iron Throne still belong to House Baratheon, or would it quietly become Martell's?

Backing Clay and Daenerys was clearly their best path forward. They only needed a proper way to ease into it.

But after hearing Prince Doran's statement, Clay shook his head slightly and raised a hand.

"For now, Dorne can only stand beneath the Targaryen banner. The name Manderly was never meant to step into the light—at least not yet."

"When our work here is complete, Your Grace, I ask for a moment of patience. I'll return to the North, back to my family. We will grow in silence and wait for the right moment."

"As you've seen for yourself, aside from my dragon, Gaelithox, the others have not yet matured into true instruments of war. Even Aegon's Conquest, for all its glory, lost a dragon here in Dorne."

"We have four now. That means time is on our side. And besides, the game between the Baratheon brothers and the Lannisters is still in full swing. Their armies are strong, their tempers hot. This is not the moment for us to act."

"So, Prince Doran, in the days to come, Dorne will raise the banner of Targaryen. But your duty is to hold firm, to defend against whatever threat may rise from the Seven Kingdoms."

Clay's plan was not complicated. Its strength lay in its simplicity, for the more intricate the scheme, the greater the chance it would fall apart once set into motion.

Prince Doran agreed wholeheartedly with one thing Clay had said—time was indeed on their side.

With each passing day, the dragons would grow larger. In Astapor, the Unsullied would continue to arrive in steady waves. And when Clay, the so-called God of War on the battlefield, returned to the North and consolidated the Manderly forces, Dorne would begin its preparations for war.

Then, when the great powers beneath King's Landing had torn one another apart over a shattered crown and could no longer muster the strength to go on, that would be the moment…

The moment Dorne would finally rise for its revenge.

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