Every noble in the Seven Kingdoms with an eye on the South knew the rumors: Prince Doran Martell was a dying man. Word was his gout had gotten so bad he hadn't received a guest in two years, leaving the "Red Viper" to act as the face of the house while the Prince rotted in a wheelchair.
But as Tyrion Lannister rolled into the Water Gardens, he realized the rumors were garbage.
At first glance, Doran looked remarkably sharp. He sat straight in his chair, his skin wasn't the sallow yellow of a sick man, and his eyes were clear, the eyes of a man who actually got eight hours of sleep a night. Usually, a gout patient is a mess of whimpers and cold sweat, but Doran looked like he was ready to audit a ledger.
Taking a closer look, Tyrion noticed the Prince's hands and feet weren't the bloated, purple messes the gossip described. They were a bit reddish, the color of a carrot, maybe but nothing like the overripe grapes he'd expected. It was common knowledge that Doran's condition had been spiraling, yet here he was, looking... stable.
Only his knees showed the true struggle; the right one was swollen to the size of a large apple, while the left had a bump about the size of a plum. Still, for a man supposed to be on death's door, he was doing fine.
"Uncle!"
The shout broke Tyrion's focus. He looked over just in time to see Myrcella Baratheon abandon a game of Cyvasse. She left poor Trystane Martell staring at the board and sprinted toward her uncle.
"Myrcella!" Tyrion laughed, pulling his niece into a hug. He ran a hand over her soft golden hair, and for a second, a sharp pang of guilt hit him. She was ten years old, alone in a desert kingdom with no family, forced to grow up while her brothers were being buried in a city she couldn't return to. And he was the one who had shipped her off in the first place.
"You've grown, kid. You're almost as tall as I am," Tyrion teased, leaning back. "Is everyone treating you right? Trystane isn't giving you any trouble, is he?"
"Lord Tyrion, I would never!"
Trystane Martell walked over from the gazebo, his olive-skinned face a mask of mock-outrage. He gave a lopsided grin. "She's the one bullying me! She beats me at Cyvasse every single time. I've only won, like, twice in a month."
"I was letting you win those two times," Myrcella said, sticking her tongue out at him. "You just didn't notice."
Tyrion watched the two children trade jabs and felt a massive weight lift off his chest. If they were playing like this, it meant Myrcella was safe. The death of Tommen and the fall of the Lannister power base hadn't turned her into a prisoner - at least, not a miserable one.
"Lord Tyrion."
Ser Arys Oakheart stepped forward. The former Kingsguard looked out of place in the Dornish heat. He wore a snow-white cloak fastened with a gold oak-leaf brooch, his doublet embroidered with the green tree of his house. He'd traded his heavy plate for a light, studded leather jerkin—a necessity if he didn't want to be baked like a potato in his own armor.
"Ser Arys," Tyrion said, his tone turning serious. "I'm grateful for how you've looked after her. But I have to give it to you straight: Tommen's Kingsguard has been officially disbanded. Technically, your shift is over. You're a free man."
Tyrion signaled to Bronn. The sellsword, looking bored as usual, stepped up and handed a heavy leather purse to the knight. Bronn looked like it physically pained him to let go of that much gold.
"It's a thank-you gift," Tyrion explained. "If you want, I can arrange an escort to take you back to Old Oak. Your family is rich; I'm sure they'd love to have you home."
"No," Arys said, his brow furrowed. He didn't even look at the gold. "I took an oath to protect the Princess. I don't care if the King is dead or the guard is gone. I stay until she doesn't need me anymore."
"Ser, please," Myrcella said, reaching out to tug on his white cloak. "Take the money. We're going to need it if we're going to buy all those lemon cakes you promised."
Tyrion grinned. "Listen to the lady, Ser Arys. I don't think Stannis Baratheon is going to be sending you a paycheck anytime soon. He's not exactly the 'fond uncle' type."
Arys reluctantly took the gold and stepped back. Trystane took Myrcella's hand and led her back toward the beach, leaving Tyrion to face the Prince.
"Your Highness, my apologies," Tyrion said, waddling into the gazebo. "I got a bit sidetracked with the kids."
"No apology needed, Lord Tyrion," Doran said, gesturing to a cushioned chair. "Myrcella is a bright girl. She knows more than she lets on, but she plays the part of the happy child well. I've grown very fond of her."
Doran poured a cup of tea for Tyrion, then one for himself. They chatted for a while, a pair of brilliant minds dancing around the edges of the war. They talked about the snow in the North, the blockade at the Crossing, and the rising tides.
Bronn, meanwhile, had reached his limit for polite conversation. He leaned against a marble pillar and started to doze off.
Prince Oberyn, who had been vibrating with restless energy, finally snapped. He stood up and looked at the man in the black cloak. "Hey, Crow! You want to see if you can actually use that sword, or are you just wearing the cloak to hide how thin you are?"
"Let's go," Bronn said, eyes snapping open. He'd fight a prince for free just to avoid listening to more talk about tea. The two of them headed for the training yard, spear and sword already drawn.
Doran watched them go, then set his cup down. The smile vanished. "Lord Tyrion, I have to take my medicine soon, so let's cut the crap. You didn't come here to check on your niece."
Tyrion nodded. "I think you know why I'm here, Highness. You're just waiting to see if I'll say it first."
"Fair enough," Doran said. "I've heard the stories. I know Eddard Karstark has been using your name to warn the world about the dead walking in the North. He says the Seven Kingdoms are in 'extreme danger' while the lords play their games."
"It's not just a story, Doran," Tyrion said, leaning in. "Ravens have been flying for two years. Mance Rayder didn't lead a hundred thousand people to the Wall because he wanted to see the sights; he was running from a massacre. Now, the dead are at the gates of Eastwatch. They're looking for a way around the ice. If they find it, the Wall, the thing that's kept us safe for thousands of years, comes down. And once they cross the Neck? It won't matter how much sun you have in Dorne. The frost will find you."
Tyrion expected a long debate. He expected Doran to ask for proof, for gold, for more marriage contracts. He expected the man who 'swayed like grass' to hesitate.
"I agree," Doran said simply.
Tyrion blinked. "Wait, what?"
"I said I agree," Doran repeated, a small smile touching his lips.
"I... I don't understand," Tyrion stammered, his brain trying to catch up. "You're the most cautious man in the world. I thought I'd be here for a month just trying to get you to agree to a meeting."
Doran gestured toward the beach, where Myrcella and Trystane were building a sandcastle that looked remarkably like the Spear Tower. "My children grew up here. Trystane, Arianne... and Quentyn."
The Prince's eyes grew distant. "I sent Quentyn on a mission. A dangerous one. He thought he could tame a dragon to prove his worth to Daenerys Targaryen. He failed, Tyrion. He almost became ash."
Doran looked back at Tyrion, his gaze burning. "The man who saved him was Eddard Karstark. The Lannisters aren't the only ones who pay their debts, Lord Tyrion. My son is alive because of your King."
Doran leaned forward. "I will summon ten thousand Dornish spearmen. Oberyn will lead them North to the Wall. As for supplies, I'll have the ships loaded with grain and citrus and send them to White Harbor by the next moon. Is that enough of a reply for you?"
Tyrion sat back, stunned into a rare silence. "It's... it's more than I hoped for."
"Lord Tyrion," Doran said softly. "People think I'm weak. They think I'm the grass that bends to every wind. They see Oberyn as the viper - dangerous, unpredictable, deadly."
The Prince of Dorne smiled a cold, thin smile. "But they forget one thing: it is the grass that hides the viper until it is too late for the prey to run. Tell your King that Dorne is ready."
Tyrion felt a genuine shiver run down his spine. He realized then that he wasn't just talking to a sick old man. He was talking to the most dangerous player in the South.
"I'll tell him," Tyrion said, standing up. "And I think he'll be very happy to hear it."
[System Notification: Major Diplomatic Breakthrough: Dorne Aligned.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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