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Essos, Pentos
Tenth Moon of 57 AC
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The bay of Pentos was unusually calm when the Dornish galley The Golden Dune maneuvered toward the private docks of House Groleo. Unlike the heavy cogs of Westeros or the armored vessels that Xandar was beginning to deploy, the Dornish ship was slender, with sails of a sandy orange that contrasted sharply with the leaden sky of the Free Cities. From the mainmast, the sun pierced by a spear of House Martell fluttered heavily in the sea breeze.
On the deck, leaning against the polished wooden railing, Mara Nymeros Martell contemplated the pink brick towers of Pentos with a mixture of relief and cold determination. She wore the traditional garb of the dunes: a lightweight linen tunic of pale yellow, cinched at the waist by copper bands, and silk trousers that allowed her to move with a warrior's agility. Her skin, sun-kissed by the heat of Sunspear, stood out even among the bronzed Essosi sailors working the docks.
Behind her, her personal seneschal, an older man from the families of the Greenblood named Garin, inspected the chests that comprised the diplomatic gifts for Magister Groleo.
"Princess," Garin said, lowering his voice as the crew tossed the mooring lines to the freedmen on the docks. "Pentos has been welcoming merchants from Xandar for the past several moons. The streets are flooded with their goods. Even Magister Groleo is receiving shipments from the Xandarians at this very moment. If your brother, Prince Oberyn, believes we can maintain ordinary trade treaties with this man, I fear we are arriving too late to the market."
Mara did not tear her gaze away from the silhouette of Groleo's mansion, which rose on the hill overlooking the harbor.
"My brother Oberyn is a fine ruler for times of peace, Garin," Mara replied, her voice carrying the slow but dangerous cadence of the Dornish. "He knows how to keep the water wells full and how to speak to the marcher lords. But he is blind when it comes to his own son. Morion is gathering men in the Stepstones. He believes that because Westeros is ruled by a young king who writes laws instead of wielding a blade, the Targaryens have forgotten how to use their dragons."
"Young Morion is impetuous, princess..." Garin began, but Mara cut him off with a slight movement of her hand, adorned with copper rings.
"Impetuous is a generous word for a suicidal fool, Garin. My nephew is going to drag Dorne into a funeral pyre. He wants a war with the Iron Throne because his pride cannot bear that the Six Kingdoms look to the south with indifference. I have come to Pentos as an official emissary to renew the ties of the spice trade, yes, but I have also come because I refuse to be in Sunspear when the sky turns to fire due to the stupidity of my own blood. I need to see what cards this world holds before the board of Westeros shatters."
The disembarkation was swift. Half an hour later, Mara was escorted through the azalea gardens and koi ponds of Groleo's estate. The air smelled of rosewater, but upon entering the main halls of the counting house, the aroma shifted drastically. There was a chemical smell—clean, sharp, and biting.
Magister Groleo awaited her on his terrace, flanked by his usual pikemen. However, what caught Mara's attention was not the turquoise luxury of the magister's robes, but what lay upon his desk. There were no coarse parchments or ordinary horn inkwells. On the table rested a stack of paper, perfectly white and smooth, alongside a small artifact of polished iron that Groleo handled with evident fascination.
"Ah, Princess Mara!" Groleo exclaimed, forcing the suntuous smile that characterized the men of the Conclave of Pentos while stroking his blue-dyed beard. "Sunspear honors us with its most exquisite fragrance. Welcome to my humble terraces. I trust the Narrow Sea was not too unkind to your silks."
Mara offered a brief inclination of her head, keeping her posture straight.
"The sea is as restless as the minds of men these days, Magister Groleo," Mara said, taking the wicker chair a servant offered. "My brother Oberyn sends his greetings and the finest shipments of saffron and peppers from the sand hills. But I see your desk is already occupied by luxuries that do not hail from our gardens."
Groleo let out a chuckle that shook his generous flesh. He took the iron contraption—a Xandarian lighter—and pressed the object with his hand. A spark jumped, illuminating the terrace for a fleeting instant.
"The world is changing, princess. The men of Xandar bring marvels that make the Citadel's parchment look like scabbed dog skin and the tinder of my guards a prehistoric nuisance. This paper..." Groleo caressed the white surface with his gem-encrusted fingers.
"I have heard talk of Xandar in the ports of Plankytown," Mara commented, leaning slightly forward, adopting the calculating tone her brother Oberyn lacked. "They say their king is a man of blood-red hair who answers to no one beyond his own interests."
"A highly dangerous man for those who do not understand the value of a proper ledger," Groleo replied, shedding his artificial joviality for the stern tone of high politics. "King Caspian has taken Volantis and Qohor without shedding half the blood your ancestors used against the Conqueror. He has conquered their markets, princess. His products already control a vast portion of Pentos. Whomever does not buy what his ships bring will simply be left behind."
Mara remained silent for a moment, absorbing the information. As a Martell, she understood the power of physical resistance; Dorne had defeated the Targaryen dragons by hiding in caves and letting the desert seduce invading armies to their graves. But what Groleo described was a different kind of invasion. An invasion that did not use fire to destroy, but commerce to render the old structures entirely obsolete.
"And what does this red-haired king ask in return for his merchandise, Magister?" Mara asked, her eyes fixed on the iron lighter. "Because dragon riders never give anything away without a blood price."
"He does not want gold, princess," Groleo whispered, leaning over the table, ensuring his guards were well out of earshot. "In my opinion, he only wants what men before him have always craved—the Free Cities, of course."
Mara extended her hand and, with Groleo's implicit permission, took one of the sheets of paper. The texture was smooth, almost celestial compared to the rough parchments her brother used for decrees in Sunspear. She thought of Morion, of his rantic fleet of green wood and mercenaries bought with the dwindling coin of Dorne, plotting a war against dragon riders while in the east an empire was being forged—one that mastered time with copper watches and gold through merchandise more valuable than gold itself.
"My nephew Morion is an idiot," Mara said flatly, making Groleo arch an eyebrow at the Dornishwoman's bluntness. "He believes power is measured by the size of a sword or the number of ships you can launch against the Stormlands. He fails to see that the real world is governed from tables like this one."
"The youths of the great houses often possess blood too hot and heads too empty, my lady," Groleo agreed, slipping the lighter into his tunic. "But tell me, what is the true purpose of your visit to Pentos? I know the Martells do not send their only princess merely to trade peppers to me when the Narrow Sea is about to boil over."
Mara left the paper on the desk, smoothing it down with a single finger. Her mind, sharp and refined in the political subtleties of House Martell, was already tracing the line of survival her family would desperately need when the fires of Westeros consumed her nephew's folly.
"I have come to seek a safe-conduct that does not depend on the actions of my nephew, Magister," Mara declared, her eyes reflecting the cold twilight over Pentos. "Dorne has remained independent because we know when to fight and when to vanish into the sand. But if Westeros unites under Targaryen fire once more due to Morion's provocations, the sand will not be enough to save us. We need allies who understand that power resides not just in Jaehaerys's crown, but in the cargo holds of the ships crossing the east. I want you to introduce me to the emissaries of Xandar."
Groleo stared at her for a long moment, weighing the gravity of the princess's words. An alliance between the power Xandar was proving to be and the unyielding resilience of Dorne was a combination that could redraw the map of both continents forever.
"Vaellyn, the captain of the HMS Loyalty, is still at the north pier, concluding the contracts for the Myrish stonemasons," the magister said with a smile that already calculated his own share of the transaction. "Tomorrow morning there shall be a feast in these very halls. I believe Xandarian salt and Dornish spices will make an excellent combination for the table, princess."
It was entirely clear he was not speaking of spices.
Mara rose, adjusting the copper bands on her arms. The mourning of her attire was for the future she knew her nephew would dismantle, but her mind was already set on the new kingdom rising from the ashes of Volantis and Qohor.
"Let it be so, Magister. Tomorrow we shall see if the king of the east knows how to bypass the minds of the sand as masterfully as he commands the fire of the sky."
Stepping out onto the terrace, Mara watched the Xandarian ships floating by the north dock, their steel dragon figureheads slicing through the dark water. She knew she was playing a dangerous game, one her brother Oberyn would view as a betrayal of Dornish tradition. But tradition was useless when dragon fire rained from above, and within the commercial and military dominance Xandar had shown the world, Mara Nymeros Martell had found the only force capable of keeping her people free in the century that was about to unfold.