Chapter 43: The Dornish Dilemma

Spring, 300 AC

The sun blazed high over the sun-drenched towers of Sunspear, casting long shadows across the sandstone walls of the Water Gardens. The salty breeze from the Summer Sea whispered through the palm fronds, mingling with the distant laughter of children playing in the cool pools. But beneath this idyllic facade, tension simmered.

In the heart of the Tower of the Sun, Prince Doran Martell sat in his solar, his gout-swollen feet propped upon a cushioned stool. The prince's face, lined with both wisdom and suffering, was turned toward the horizon, where the waves kissed the golden sands. But his mind was far from the tranquil beauty of Dorne.

The rise of Aemon Targaryen had reached even the furthest corners of Westeros, carried by raven and rumor alike. Dragons had returned to the world, and with them, the possibility of vengeance.

Doran's Deliberation

Doran's fingers traced the rim of his goblet, the Dornish red within reflecting the flickering candlelight. Across from him, Areo Hotah, his loyal captain of guards, stood silent, his longaxe gleaming by his side.

"Aemon Targaryen," Doran murmured, tasting the name like fine wine. "The son of Rhaegar."

Areo remained stoic, his dark eyes betraying nothing.

"The realm remembers the dragon's fire," Doran continued, his voice soft, contemplative. "But do they remember the blood it spilled?"

The memory of his sister, Elia Martell, brutalized and murdered during the Sack of King's Landing, burned as fiercely as it had the day he learned of her death. But Doran was a cautious man. Revenge was a dish best served cold—and with precision.

Oberyn's Fury

The doors to the solar burst open, and in strode Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, his dark eyes ablaze with righteous fury. His crimson robes swirled around him like liquid flame, and the ever-present smirk that usually adorned his lips was nowhere to be seen.

"Brother," Oberyn greeted, his voice a sharp blade. "We waste time with words. The Lannisters butchered our sister and her children. Now a dragon rises, and we sit idle?"

Doran raised a placating hand, his expression calm in the face of Oberyn's tempest.

"We do not sit idle, Oberyn. We watch. We listen."

Oberyn paced the solar, his steps echoing off the stone walls. "Aemon claims to be Rhaegar's son. But blood alone does not make him worthy. We should test him—see if he is the dragon reborn or just another pretender."

Doran nodded slowly. "And how do you propose we do that?"

Oberyn's smile returned, sharp and dangerous. "Send me to him."

Arianne's Ambition

Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting Sunspear in hues of orange and crimson, Arianne Martell joined her father in the solar. Her dark, curly hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her amber eyes gleamed with curiosity and ambition.

"You're thinking of Aemon," she stated, settling into the chair opposite her father. "Oberyn wants blood. But there are other ways to forge alliances."

Doran raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "And what way would you suggest, my daughter?"

Arianne's smile was slow, knowing. "Marriage."

Doran chuckled softly, the sound a rare warmth in the cool room. "You wish to wed a dragon? That's foolish, Arianne. If the rumors are true, he already has two wives."

Arianne's eyes sparkled with determination. "Rumors are just that—rumors. Besides, Dornish customs are more… flexible. Perhaps there's still a place for me at his side."

Doran considered her words carefully. Arianne was headstrong, but her mind was sharp. Though he doubted the likelihood of a marriage, sending her could open doors and provide invaluable insight.

"Very well," he said at last. "You will go to Dragonstone in place of Quentyn. Observe, listen, and see if there is an opportunity. But be careful, Arianne. Dragons are not easily tamed."

Arianne's smile widened. "Neither am I, father."

The Envoy

By the next morning, Arianne was ready to depart. She was accompanied by a small retinue of trusted men, including Areo Hotah, who insisted on protecting her personally.

"Take care, my daughter," Doran advised, his voice heavy with both caution and affection. "This is not just a mission of diplomacy. It is a test of your judgment."

Arianne leaned in, pressing a kiss to her father's cheek. "I won't fail you."

She departed Sunspear under the cover of dawn, her ship cutting through the calm waters of the Summer Sea toward Dragonstone, where dragons awaited and the future of Dorne would be decided.

A Kingdom Divided

As Arianne's ship sailed north, Doran returned to his balcony, gazing out over the endless dunes. Dorne had long been a land apart, its people proud and fiercely independent. But the tides of power were shifting, and even the sun-soaked sands of Sunspear could not remain untouched.

"The game is changing," Doran whispered to the wind. "And we must decide: will we be players… or pawns?"

Beneath him, the banners of House Martell fluttered in the desert breeze, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the gathering storm.