Gendry and Prince Oberyn Martell advanced along the rugged coastline. Once the land flattened, their pace quickened toward Myr. A portion of their forces had already been ferried ahead by Moroshya's fleet.
Some understandings required no words—only shared instinct. The Martells had few allies left, and a bastard lord commanding an army was too valuable to ignore.
"How does the Commander-in-Chief plan to deal with those centaurs?" asked the Red Viper.
Oberyn's face, long and melancholy, carried an intense, smoldering beauty. His dark eyes glimmered like oil lamps beneath sharply arched brows. His forehead and nose were equally pointed, and his black hair, streaked with a few silver strands, shimmered in the sun—a true "man of salt."
Gendry, by contrast, bore the storm's mark. With hair as black as polished jade and eyes as blue as the sea, he embodied the Baratheon spirit—tall, powerful, and unyielding.
"With soldiers and the walls of Myr, I've no desire to plunder for the centaurs. That's what merchants do," Gendry replied. "Most of the free cities lie on flat lands—perfect prey for them. If we truly want to crush them, we must face them head-on. Even Kohol's walls once held against their raids."
He turned toward Oberyn, his voice firm. "And now, we have your strength beside us, Your Highness."
Oberyn smiled faintly. "Dorne's wars are rarely fought in open fields. We strike fast—light cavalry, short spears, and heat. We wear our enemies down under the sun. But that won't work here. These lands are too open, too fertile."
"Then let your men be our reinforcements," Gendry urged. "The Wolf Pack and the Free Army will take the brunt of it. Together, we'll drive the centaurs back to their plains. If we don't, they'll soon be raiding the ports of Myr for scraps."
Oberyn's grin widened. "Then I'll be waiting to celebrate your victory, Commander."
As they rode on through the disputed lands, they passed rich soil and sprawling plantations. The masters were gone—dead or fled—and the freedmen who remained worked the earth in anxious silence. Even with the Dothraki burning towns like locusts, faith in the "Liberators" ran deep.
"Distribute the land," Gendry ordered. "Some of it will belong to the people; smaller plots to the freedmen. I want every acre measured, every head counted."
Oberyn blinked. "Measure the land? Count the people?"
"Yes," Gendry said. "Land and people are the pillars of rule. Too many slaves live without names; too many lords hid their numbers to dodge taxes. That ends now. A realm without order is no realm at all."
Within his mind's framework lay a vision: a kingdom bound by records and reform—townships, land registries, and a merit-based system for governance.
Oberyn gave a low whistle. "That's a cold and clever plan. The wealth of these lands could make any lord jealous. In Dorne, we lack both soil and numbers; even if we owned every grain of sand, it wouldn't be enough."
He gazed over the green fields wistfully. "You know, I've known your father a long time."
Gendry's jaw tightened. "Oh, I doubt he remembers how many bastards he's fathered. I've no reason to know him well." His tone was calm, yet steel lay beneath it. "I'll wait, watch, and grow stronger. Westeros will tear itself apart soon enough."
"Other houses might manage that," Oberyn said slyly, "but the Baratheons? Your founder was the bastard brother of Aegon the Conqueror."
Gendry's eyes flickered. "That's just rumor. And whoever inherits Storm's End—what's that to me? The Baratheons are a shattered line now. There's no profit in meddling with their quarrels."
"Maybe not," Oberyn said, "but the lords of King's Landing, Casterly Rock, Storm's End, and Highgarden don't see it that way. You took in a Targaryen orphan, didn't you? Tell me—you don't dream of that ugly chair in the capital? You don't crave vengeance for the exiles you shelter?"
Gendry chuckled. "You're a skilled persuader, Prince Oberyn."
Oberyn met his gaze. "I speak truth. Power tempts all men. Even King Robert's grandmother was a Targaryen princess—and in the end, the Baratheons burned the dragons down."
"The War of the Usurper wasn't ambition," Gendry countered. "It was madness—Aerys's madness, Rhaegar's folly. They destroyed themselves."
He smiled faintly. "Flies don't swarm a flawless egg. The Mad King cracked his own shell."
Oberyn nodded grimly. "Still, the Battle of the Trident buried a prince—and a dynasty."
"When we were young," he continued, "Robert Baratheon's wildness was legend. Women, wine, and duels—his storms of laughter shook every hall. They called him the 'Laughing Storm.'"
He chuckled bitterly. "He'd sing the crudest tavern songs when drunk—'A Barrel of Ale,' 'Forty-Four Barrels,' or 'The Bear and the Girl.' Gods, he found joy in filth."
"The Silver Prince and he truly were opposites," Gendry mused. "My maester told Daenerys and me of Prince Rhaegar—how he was born in tragedy at Summerhall, carrying sorrow like a crown. He loved music, the ruins, the stars. They said he'd lie beneath the moon, plucking his silver harp and singing of dawn, tears, and lost kings."
Oberyn's face hardened. "And yet that prince destroyed himself the day he crowned the wolf girl from the North. He doomed himself, my sister, and Robert alike." His voice fell to a whisper. "So many years ago… and still the wound bleeds."
Gendry nodded. The great tournament at Harrenhal—an omen of a doomed spring—lingered in every tale.
Oberyn's gaze drifted to the horizon. "If the gods hadn't played their tricks, I'd have been my father's firstborn. Doran would be the third. You've seen it yourself—I'm bloodthirsty. I crave battle. I'd rather be fighting in King's Landing. I've dreamt of it for half my life."
Gendry raised an eyebrow. "You say that, yet you'll still obey Prince Doran."
Oberyn gave a wry smile. "I must. Duty binds tighter than blood. You've heard of our humiliation—ten thousand Dornish dead, and Prince Lewyn among them."
Gendry knew the tale well. During the Usurper's War, the Mad King had taken Princess Elia hostage and forced her uncle, Prince Lewyn, to march with ten thousand Dornishmen under Rhaegar's banner. The host was slaughtered. Lewyn died with his sword still red.
"There will come another chance," Gendry said quietly. "A chance to challenge the Lannisters. On that, at least, we stand together."
Oberyn's dark eyes gleamed. "That's all I ever wanted—to avenge Elia and her children. To kill the Mountain that murdered them—and if I can, the dog's master too."
He kicked his horse into a gallop, wind whipping his crimson cloak. "Come, Commander! Let's drive those stinking centaurs into the dirt!"
Gendry followed, the thunder of hooves echoing across the plain. The ghosts of the past could not be relived—but the battles ahead would decide the future.
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