Two riders, one in black and one in red, galloped across the vast plains, leading the way. Rhaenys Targaryen and Aggo Blackpine followed close behind.
Prince Oberyn Martell rode a sleek sand steed, a mare with a slender neck and a fine, pretty head. Viserys Targaryen's black stallion, a Dothraki courser, was noticeably larger and snorted with delight as it ran.
Bred for the desert, Dornish sand steeds were generally smaller than common destriers and could not bear the weight of full plate barding. But the Dornish claimed they could run for two days and a night without tiring.
Viserys had considered acquiring some sand steeds for free, but their limitations were significant; they were best suited for light cavalry. For a heavy cavalry charge, the larger Andal destriers or Dothraki coursers were still superior.
"Looking at you reminds me of your mother, though she was a sickly lady from childhood. You are far healthier, Rhaenys." The Red Viper looked at his niece, seeing traces of Elia in her features.
Like her mother, Rhaenys was a classic salty Dornish beauty with flowing black hair, dark eyes, and olive skin. But unlike Elia, she was tall, vibrant, and full of life.
Elia Martell had been born a month premature. Though she survived, her constitution remained frail all her life. She was bedridden for half a year after Rhaenys was born and nearly died giving birth to Aegon. After that, the maesters told Rhaegar she could bear no more children.
"Her name and her smile are what we all remember," Rhaenys said, her voice dropping.
Her feelings for Rhaegar were complicated, but her memory of her mother was pure and loving.
"You should have come with me," the Red Viper said. "When I was in Braavos all those years ago, I wanted to take you away."
"Apologize to Uncle Doran and my cousins for me. I know they care. But I am a Targaryen. I must stay with Viserys and Daenerys. The blood of the dragon does not separate." Rhaenys bit her lip.
Oberyn shook his head. Rhaenys was young, but she had a will of iron.
"If the Gods wanted to play a jest on the world, they should have made me the firstborn and Doran the third. I thrive on blood. The Iron Throne should have had to deal with me, not my sickly, cautious, aging brother," Oberyn said, his voice deep and melancholic.
"Everything is fate. Only the journey through the mortal world is hard," Viserys mused as he rode. "If my brother Rhaegar were still alive, perhaps I would still be the Prince of Summerhall. Being the Prince of Summerhall wasn't so bad, but Essos offers a wider sky for me."
Rhaegar had died on the Ruby Ford, leaving everyone else to clean up the mess.
"Rhaegar, that fool..." the Red Viper cursed. "He was my good-brother. I shouldn't curse him, but..."
Rhaenys watched her uncle's outburst in silence. She knew Oberyn and Elia had been close, and Rhaegar's disastrous choices were indeed infuriating.
The riders passed the river plains and saw the heads of the bandits impaled on spears.
Crows were picking at the remaining flesh in the eye sockets. The long black hair of the dead—some smooth like the Rhoynar, some braided like the Dothraki—danced in the wind.
"These heads?" Oberyn asked, startled.
"Most of them fell by my hand. Leaving such men alive is a waste of food," Viserys answered calmly.
"You executed them yourself?" Oberyn studied Viserys intently, as if seeing the young man for the first time.
He had heard rumors about Viserys—that he was flamboyant, bloodthirsty, just, and fearless. He had been skeptical at first, but seeing was believing.
"Don't overthink it. I don't suffer from the Stark compulsion that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. I simply felt it was better to kill these lawless villains personally," Viserys said.
Killing was bloody work, but the stat increases were too good to pass up.
"It seems, compared to Rhaegar, you are the true dragon," Oberyn remarked. "Rhaegar loved his harp and his books more than the sword. When I sparred with him, I knew he never truly loved the song of steel."
Rhaegar had been an outlier in House Targaryen—melancholic, artistic, burdened by the sorrow of Summerhall. Viserys, on the other hand, seemed a return to the mean: a fiery temper and a dangerous, splendid warrior.
"You know your enemies well, Your Grace. But what is your next move?" Oberyn asked hesitantly.
Seeing the storm Viserys was raising in the East, Oberyn couldn't quite predict his trajectory.
"My enemies are everywhere now, Prince Oberyn. The Prestayns of Braavos, the Archon of Tyrosh, perhaps the Khals of the Dothraki Sea. But I have not forgotten the names in the West. The Usurper, Tywin, the Kingslayer, Stark, old Hoster, old Arryn. But for now... to go west, I must go east," Viserys said with a self-deprecating smile.
Soon, Viserys would be public enemy number one. When he eventually raised the banner of liberation, it would shake the world.
But Viserys didn't care. Politics was just baking a cake and dividing it. The vested interests were never his base. He would lead a coalition of the vengeful—Rhoynar, Andals, and eventually, slaves.
"Are you afraid, Prince Oberyn?"
"The Red Viper of Dorne does not know the meaning of fear." A smile touched Oberyn's lips.
"Would you be interested in joining my team?" Viserys asked directly.
Viserys had knights, septons, and water dancers, but the only man capable of commanding an army was Donnel Stone. The Red Viper was the only great lord with extensive administrative and military experience available. Viserys coveted his talent.
Legends about the Red Viper were myriad: his tourneys, his wars, his duels, his horses, even his bedmates—rumor had it he slept with men and women alike and had bastard daughters, the "Sand Snakes," all over Dorne.
He had traveled the Nine Free Cities, learning dark arts from poisoners; he had forged six links of a maester's chain at the Citadel before growing bored; he had fought in the Disputed Lands as a sellsword, first with the Second Sons and then founding his own company.
Whatever the rumors, they reflected his versatility and brilliance.
"I don't think I have much of a choice," Oberyn nodded.
"Welcome to the cause of Viserys Targaryen," Viserys said cheerfully. He had successfully poached a major asset.
The horses galloped freely, and soon the majestic White Keep loomed before them.
Viserys led his guest toward the white fortress atop the hill. He could tell the Red Viper still had something on his mind—likely the matter of the marriage pact.
"Come, Prince. Join me on the balcony of the Dragon Tower," Viserys invited. "Rhaenys, go and keep Daenerys company."
"Alright." Rhaenys waved goodbye. The world of men and their power games awaited them.
"Thank you for your kindness." Oberyn nodded.
Sitting together on the white balcony of the Dragon Tower, Oberyn gathered his thoughts. "As you can see, Your Grace... please forgive my late arrival. But there is another matter weighing on my heart."
"Oh? And what might that be?" Viserys asked knowingly, sipping his unsweetened lemon water.
"Arianne. You should have had a Dornish wife. Six years ago, I traveled to Braavos and met with Ser Willem Darry, who had saved you, Daenerys, and Rhaenys. witnessed by the Sealord of Braavos, we signed a secret pact. When you returned to claim the Iron Throne, Dorne would rise for you, and in return, you would take Princess Arianne Martell as your Queen..." Oberyn revealed the name.
Viserys sipped his lemon water calmly, showing neither surprise nor excitement.
Oberyn inwardly cursed. The original plan—Viserys marrying Arianne, Quentyn marrying Daenerys—seemed to be falling apart.
"We can still be allies, but I am not a bargaining chip," Viserys said. "Times change, and treaties must change with them."
"Arianne... Arianne is a beautiful girl. If we want to win glory, sometimes we must bear our responsibilities, Your Grace," Oberyn said quietly.
"You are right. But I learned of this news too late. It is too late, Prince. Both for me and for Arianne," Viserys set down his cup.
Oberyn drank his own lemon water in silence. Viserys had rejected Arianne outright.
"You certainly... certainly have the standing to refuse. If my own daughters weren't of such... awkward birth, I would have introduced them to you myself," Oberyn said, regaining his composure and laughing again.
Even without Arianne, there were Rhaenys and Daenerys. Viserys rejecting a prime marriage alliance simply meant he didn't value the Dornish alliance at that price.
Arianne was highborn to everyone else, but Viserys was no longer a child under someone's wing. He was a King in his own right, a dragon who had made the Rhoyne run red with blood.
"We came too late, in the end," Oberyn sighed. "Curse our blindness. We feared that if you knew of the pact back then, you wouldn't have stayed put for a day. You would have run to Dorne and brought ruin down upon us all."
"Perhaps. But after Ser Willem died, I had to kill the boy inside me. Prince, I have accepted my dream, but I no longer live in a fantasy."
"Besides the timing... I must ask. Do you have other reservations regarding Arianne?" Oberyn probed.
Viserys looked at Oberyn and replied coolly, "Caesar's wife must be above suspicion."
"I understand," Oberyn said, touching his forehead. "Then it is truly a trick of fate."
Arianne had indeed bedded Daemon Sand. They had hidden it from everyone, only to end up looking foolish in the end.