Qoren was stunned as a thought surfaced in his blank mind.
"You've already broken into my castle. Any closer, and you'd be breaking into my chambers!"
"What a coincidence!"
After a brief moment, Qoren finally regained his composure.
Aemon looked down at the man curiously and examined him shrewdly. Qoren had black hair and eyes, yellowish-white skin, thick eyebrows, and large eyes. He was dressed lavishly in a bright yellow robe with gold and jeweled ornaments around his neck and wrists, and a pouch hung from his waist. He was a refined man. He was the current Prince of Dorne, Qoren Martell.
"Roar!"
Vermithor's cold, ruthless eyes locked onto the tiny human insect. He opened his mouth slightly, and his throat rolled. Qoren felt a gust of hot, sulfurous air rushing toward him. At first glance, he saw the dragon flames accumulating deep in its throat.
"No!" Qoren gasped and stepped back. "Your Excellency, Regent, let's talk it over. Dragon flame isn't so easy to swallow."
"Calm down, Vermithor," Aemon said, showing him courtesy.
Vermithor closed his dragon snout and tilted his head to glance across the leafy courtyard. His bronze pupils gleamed fiercely. Countless Dornish soldiers in yellow armor poured into Sunspear, spreading out in small groups and weaving around the courtyard walls and corridors behind the false stonework. Some wielded spears and scimitars; others, longbows and powerful crossbows. They gazed fearfully at the dragon, hesitant to strike.
"Prince, is this Dornish hospitality?" Aemon asked, grinning.
"Are you a guest, Prince?" Qoren's legs trembled; his mind told him to stay calm and not lose face.
"I am your guest. I'm welcome?" Aemon demanded.
"Please!" Qoren slammed his legs together twice and stumbled sideways to make room.
Now, Aemon's curiosity intensified. He managed to overcome his fear of facing a dragon and think rationally. He's quite the character.
Spear Tower, Throne Room.
An empty, spear-carved throne sat in the room. Two low tables faced each other in the room, which was paved with faded marble. Qoren changed his trousers and sat at the table on the left.
He forced a smile and raised his glass. "Prince, please."
"Summer Red?" Aemon swirled the glass, looked at the blood-red liquid, and nodded. "Excellent." He returned the glass to its place.
Qoren's eyelids twitched slightly at this. Really cautious.
Perceiving something, Aemon glanced at him with a smile. His narrowed eyes made the other man's mouth twitch. He's not easy to deal with.
Bronze Fury Vermithor was "permanently" stationed in the forecourt. His long, thick tail rested on the city wall, blocking the gate. His ferocious head gazed at the Spear Tower. At the slightest sign of trouble, he would unleash a burst of dragon flame.
Qoren questioned himself, a slight psychological scar forming on dragons. If he could negotiate, he should coax them out.
Aemon, on the other hand, was much calmer. The Dornishmen were giving him a hard time. He shouldn't blame them for coming to their doorstep. Never mind that the Dornishmen had slain dragons before. Barging into their stronghold was impulsive.
Meraxes was still a full-grown dragon back then, no more formidable than Meleys and Caraxes are today. For Meraxes's death alone, a fat old man who wrote nonsense was solely responsible. So many dragons died in such horrific ways in A Dance with Dragons. Was that right? He could imitate Queen Visenya by riding his dragon straight into the enemy's stronghold and delivering a dragon's kiss. That would be the simplest and most effective strategy.
With Vermithor outside, who would dare touch him? Even those unafraid of death would hesitate in the face of his passive defense, [Rock Solid Purple]. He would never perish like Aemon. He just had to keep his mouth shut and avoid food or water, in case the Dornishmen tried to poison him. He was invincible!
"Prince, what brings you alone to Sunspear? What brings you here?" Qoren scowled.
"Peace!" Aemon boasted.
Qoren was unconvinced. "There's no peace. You rode a dragon into someone's castle!"
"You're talking nonsense!" Aemon retorted, citing examples such as: "Queen Visenya conquered the Arryns of the Vale; the Conqueror reclaimed Oldtown; and Rhoynar's warrior queen, Nymeria, helped Mors Martell unify Dorne."
"Which of these didn't seek peace through struggle?"
Qoren was speechless. The truth lies on the edge of a blade, and peace depends on the strength of the army. Dorne's peace over the years has been based on war. After all, the desert is barren, and supplies are scarce. With only one life left, we'll fight!
"Prince, please be more clear about your purpose." Qoren added a touch of seriousness. It was easy to guess the fundamental reason for their visit: Dorne's insatiable desire for power. Their presence proved that they wanted to negotiate. However, the negotiations shouldn't involve dragonfire.
"Then I'll be frank." Aemon chuckled. He certainly didn't intend to achieve his goals through threats alone. The Dornish weren't the Arryns, who were orphaned; the people of this barren land were known for their toughness. He had the heart and strategy to negotiate; he was a reasonable man. Vermithor's face was meant to encourage the Dornish to put aside their prejudices and reason with him calmly.
"All ears," Qoren said.
"Dorne is impoverished, and its people are living on the brink of subsistence. War won't keep them fed and clothed." Aemon spoke up, saying, "Marriage, and I'll open a trade."
"What's a trade?" Qoren wondered. He hadn't heard of it before, but it seemed to imply a trade. Politically sensitive, he immediately realized that this was the core issue of the negotiation. He automatically filtered out the rest.
"Trade, that's what..." Aemon explained.
"I see," Qoren said with a look of sudden enlightenment. Simply put, it's about establishing a market for mutual trade and exchanging what each side needs. However, there's a deeper meaning. Trade only exists when one side is strong and the other is weak; it doesn't exist when both sides are equally powerful. The Iron Throne is strong and Dorne is weak. Therefore, Dorne, lacking resources, would rely more on trade.
"Consider it. Maybe we can arrange a marriage," Aemon said kindly.
"There's no rush for a marriage. I only have one daughter." Qoren waved his hand and said sternly, "Planktown connects to the Greenblood River, so Dorne can engage in maritime trade. We'll buy whatever we want ourselves."
Aemon replied, "I control the Stepstones. Where can you trade?" The Sound is divided into two parts. The upper half stretches from Braavos and White Harbor in the north to Gulltown, King's Landing, and Driftmark in the middle, as well as Pentos across the Sound. The lower half comprises the Disputed Lands, the Stepstones, and Sunspear. The Triarchy of the Disputed Lands are trapped. With the Stepstones sealed, Sunspear is completely isolated. Any further maritime trade will require a different route via the Summer Sea.
To the west lie the Arbor and Oldtown. Dorne and the Reach are feuding, so it is impossible to buy any goods under the slightest control of the Iron Throne. To the east are Volantis and Slaver's Bay. He liberated Astapor and New Ghis. Although he didn't actually rule, his influence will last at least a decade. Once Myr is conquered, the Black Rose can be stationed in the two liberated city-states. The new council is incompetent, which makes it easy for the Black Rose to secretly seize power. The Dornish took such a risky voyage, so they shouldn't blame him for blocking the route to Slaver's Bay or continuing east to Qarth.
Volantis need not fear. As long as he and Sea Snake Daemon capture the Triarchy and control the Disputed Lands, Volantis will face a joint attack from all three city-states if it dares to sell supplies to Dorne. The archons of Volantis will not hesitate to decide which is more important. The South, however, need not be mentioned. The Summer Islands and the continent of Gossos have no need for maritime trade. They are utterly impoverished.
"Prince, Dornish soldiers are formidable, but they are hiding in the desert," Aemon said calmly. "We only have one chance. If we can't seize it, then we'll see how Dorne aids the Triarchy at sea. Another 'Battle of the Hundred Candles' might be in the cards."
Qoren's brow knitted into a knot at this. A threat! A naked threat.
"With your nod, I can make the deal. The trade will provide Dorne with the supplies it needs at a lower price than ever before." Aemon smiled faintly. He looked like a demon holding a contract, tempting people to sell their souls.
Qoren gripped his wine glass tightly and stared intently at the Targaryen before him. The enemy had blocked all his paths. Dorne and the Iron Throne had been locked in a stalemate for over a hundred years, not because Dorne was too strong, but because the Iron Throne was unprepared. Neither Aegon the Conqueror, Aenys I, nor Maegor the Cruel were ready. The previous king, Jaehaerys the Elder, was a good king whose death was mourned throughout Dorne, was equally unprepared.
Ten years earlier, the Targaryens didn't have as many dragon riders. The Triarchy ravaged the lower half of the Narrow Sea, drawing much of the Iron Throne's attention. Even so, during the Fourth Battle of Dorne, King Jaehaerys and his two sons fought in the world-shaking "Battle of the Hundred Candles." After that defeat, both the Iron Throne and Dorne realized one thing: As long as dragons existed, the Targaryens wouldn't attack. Beyond petty skirmishes, the Dornish had no means of resisting. Once they emerged from the desert, the Dornish were like fish on the chopping block, at the mercy of the dragons.
For this reason, after Qoren ascended the throne, the strategy had always been to aid the Triarchy in harassing the Iron Throne rather than charging headfirst and taking risks.
Aemon clearly understood both sides' positions. If I don't proactively attack Dorne, I'll secure the Stepstones. If Dorne resists, it's doomed. If Dorne retreats to protect itself and blocks the lower half of the Narrow Sea, it's tantamount to slow suicide. On top of that, I'll offer conditions for trade, would prevent Dorne from becoming desperate and launching a major attack at the critical moment of conquering Myr.
"Have you figured it out?" Aemon asked.
"Aren't you afraid of my alliance with Braavos?" Qoren threatened.
"Do you think Braavos alone can stop a dragon?" Aemon countered.
"With so many Free Cities allied, aren't you afraid the Iron Throne will be threatened?" Qoren asked.
Aemon shook his head and laughed. "I'm not the King of the Iron Throne."
Who was he threatening? Qoren was speechless and choked up. He'd forgotten. This wasn't Viserys the Young King but Daemon, the Prodigal Prince's son. A bad bastard called a butcher by those across the strait.
Aemon crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "I have no morals, so you can't kidnap me. Now, let's talk about the marriage."
Qoren sighed deeply, feeling that life was meaningless. He couldn't win in battle. The gap in physical strength couldn't be overcome with passion alone.
"No rush. Let's talk about the trade first." Aemon smiled faintly and, instead of mentioning the marriage, Qoren took a deep breath and forced himself to cheer up. The trade was crucial. Beyond the exchange of goods, it could ease the tension between the Iron Throne and Dorne considerably. Most Dornish princes yearned for peace. Unfortunately, the Iron Throne pressed too hard, resorting to either military conquest or ignoring them. The opportunity to sit down and discuss things amicably was hard-earned. At the very least, they could secure a few decades of peace.
The two men met face-to-face to define guidelines for trade. The location had to be on the Dornish border. Aemon chose the Stepstones. Not just any goods could be traded, and prices had to be specific. Goods were carefully and narrowly selected, to avoid conflicts over different prices. Dorne's specialty was probably the tropical fruits grown along the river. These included oranges, lemons, olives, and pomegranates. Outside of Dorne, these fruits were difficult to find. However, fruit was only a side dish. The real currency was Dorne's specialty: the Sand Warhorse. These slender, swift horses could gallop for two days without tiring. Westeros was in great need of horses, especially fine-bred ones. This need wasn't limited to Westeros but also extended to Essos across the Narrow Sea. No race in the world lacked horses, save the horse-loving Dothraki.
Dorne's trade was defined by the Sand Warhorse. Aemon's trade was based on essential salt: Salt, iron, tea, and horses. Iron was unsaleable because it would aid the enemy. Tea was unavailable, and horses were considered enemy goods. The only hard currency available was salt from the Disputed Lands. Westeros is in the agricultural age, so supplies are scarce. If the passageway is blocked, King's Landing will run out of salt and food within three months. In contrast, the Disputed Lands are fabulously rich. Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys produce salt and occupy vast tracts of fertile land. They also control the sea routes of the Stepstones. Money is flowing freely.
"Haha, you're trying to get something for nothing," Qoren said with a wry smile.
"If Dorne doesn't stop me, I'll turn around and attack Myr." Aemon said calmly.
Qoren closed his eyes, distraught. He longed to rally his bannermen and launch the Fifth Battle of Dorne. But the other side had dragons. They were fearless. They were sure to lose. Braavos and the other Free Cities were across the strait. If they lost, they could simply retreat. Dorne was in an awkward position. If they lost, they would literally be strangled.
"How old is your daughter?" Aemon suddenly asked.
Qoren's eyes snapped open, wary. "I hear you have several fiancées," He said, looking at someone like a scumbag.
Aemon frowned. Dorne has one good thing going for it: men and women are relatively equal. Women can inherit family fortunes and even become Dornish princesses. However, no matter how passionate and unrestrained they may be in private, marriage is very strict.
In the end, Qoren called his wife and daughter.
"Your Highness."
A charming young woman with black hair, black eyes, and yellow skin held a little girl with the same features in her arms. The little girl stared with clear eyes, sucking her thumb.
Aemon took a closer look. Two years old!
Qoren looked at her carefully and asked, "Are you going to marry her as one of your many wives?"
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