lotsstoryinpatre** : CaveLeather
Game of Thrones: Rune Bastard
Game of Thrones Wizard Dothraki
Game of Thrones: Knights Life
Game of Thrones Prince of the Rhoyne
The winds of Shipbreaker Bay had never stopped for tens of thousands of years. They had drowned more ships than any man could count, and Storm's End still crouched on Cape Wrath like a giant's clenched fist, defying the gales the way it had since the days of the Storm Kings.
Oberyn Martell stood on the battlements, the violent wind rocking him on his feet. The roar of it swallowed every other sound until he felt alone against the endless storm.
That was fine by him. In the howling gale his mind felt sharper, colder, clearer.
Word had already reached him from the Vale: Shireen had been crowned there, styling herself Queen Shireen Baratheon the First.
At first Oberyn had been puzzled. Young Aegon was about to land—what purpose did crowning the girl serve?
Then Varys's letter arrived and explained everything. The coronation was entirely Petyr Baelish's scheme, a way to lock down his own power. Varys wanted Oberyn to hold the Stormlands and keep the ground ready for Aegon's landing.
"Father," Obara shouted against the wind, "Young Aegon's people do not seem entirely—"
The gale stole the rest of her words. Talking was impossible, so Oberyn pulled her away from the exposed wall.
Father and daughter agreed: something was rotten inside Aegon's camp. Every man in it wanted the same prize—Aegon on the Iron Throne—but each of them was clearly playing his own private game. The alliance smelled of ambition, not loyalty.
Petyr's reputation needed no further blackening. Jon had used the Citadel to paint the whole realm with two simple messages.
First: the Long Night was coming. Stockpile grain. Waste nothing.
Second: the absolute truth about Littlefinger. Jon had never once spoken ill of Stannis—his real enemy—beyond quietly disagreeing with the demand for hostages and the refusal to put the Long Night first. Against Petyr he held nothing back. With or without proof he dragged every filthy deed into the light: how Petyr had goaded Lysa into murdering her husband, how he had whispered in Joffrey's ear until the boy took Ned Stark's head, how he had sent the assassin's dagger that nearly started the Stark-Lannister war.
Because of Littlefinger, Young Aegon's entire coalition looked morally bankrupt—ten times lower than anyone still sitting on the fence wanted to be. That made Oberyn's job of squeezing support out of the Vale ten times harder.
"You're right," Oberyn said at last. "Dorne sits at the far southern edge of Westeros. Even when the Targaryens still had dragons we never truly bent. We will not start now. We fear no one, and we do not need their help. We stand on our own."
On his advice Doran had already sent ships east toward Slaver's Bay. Perhaps the Dragon Queen would consider a Martell marriage. Daenerys's claim and blood were cleaner than either Jon's or Young Aegon's—and her identity was beyond doubt.
Varys's story was pretty, but it had one gaping hole: why hide the boy in Pentos instead of sending him to Dorne? That alone made Oberyn distrust the child's identity.
Still, he meant to hold the Stormlands until Aegon landed. One kingdom alone could not stand against the rest of Westeros.
He watched the Reach host every day. Then, before the Reach army ever arrived, Davos Seaworth rode up to the gates of Storm's End.
"So, Ser Davos," Oberyn called down, voice dripping with mockery, "you've already switched kings? Ready to serve a second one?"
Davos looked up at him, travel-stained and unflinching. "Your Grace, the answer is yes… and no. Jon has given me leave to call him 'Your Grace' only when I myself judge him worthy of the title."
Oberyn straightened as though the words had struck him. He had not expected that kind of restraint from Jon. It made the man more dangerous, not less.
Obara took up the attack. "Whether you call him king or not means nothing. You already treat him as the only rightful ruler. You came here to talk us into surrender, which is the same as pushing him onto the only throne that matters."
"Obara," Oberyn said sharply, "show respect. He avenged your aunt and your cousins."
"As you say, Father." Obara turned to Davos with a cool nod. "Then I will call him my lord duke."
Davos only smiled politely. He told them Jon already knew about Young Aegon—and that Dorne supported the boy only because they believed him Elia's son.
"Jon asks me to tell you the boy is not Elia's child," Davos said quietly. "He is the get of a Pentoshi merchant and a woman of Blackfyre blood."
"Proof?" Oberyn asked. Davos could see he was not truly shocked.
"Jon already knows Prince Doran's legs no longer carry him. He knows Princess Arianne was once betrothed to the Beggar King Viserys. Learning one more secret is nothing to him. You may choose not to believe it—but is it worth spilling Nymeria's blood for a boy whose name may be a lie?"
The Martells still called themselves Nymeria's heirs. Oberyn felt the first real crack of doubt. Dorne had no true quarrel with Jon. The worst that could be said was that his mother had taken Rhaegar from Elia. That was not Jon's crime. Blaming a man who had only just learned his own parentage felt unfair.
And Jon's reach for secrets was frankly terrifying—and unnervingly accurate. The gout had been proof enough.
If the story about Young Aegon was true, Dorne would become the laughingstock of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Your arguments are strong," Oberyn said at last. "But House Martell no longer wishes to swear to any king."
"You need not," Davos answered. "Jon has already said the greatest enemy of mankind is the Long Night. He will allow Dorne to remain free. He only asks that you remember this war is life against death. Dorne is still part of Westeros. When the time comes he hopes you will send aid against the Others."
The terms were so generous Oberyn's whole posture softened. Davos felt, not for the first time, how easy it was to work with Jon. Serving Stannis had always felt like fighting the entire world. Every face had been cold. With Jon everything simply… fell into place.
The clearest memory was still Riverrun: Jon talking Robb out of a crown with nothing but reason and shared blood. No blood spilled. Almost no raised voices.
Davos was not really here to persuade. He was only the messenger.
Oberyn had brought a little more than ten thousand spears. Across the field waited sixty thousand Reachmen led by the two most gifted commanders currently alive in Westeros. Only a fool would fight.
"Very well," Oberyn said. "I will withdraw. But I will speak to Jon myself. I want his personal, public guarantee: if Dorne refuses, he will never take a single golden dragon or a single spearman from us. And he will swear it before the whole realm."
Davos hesitated. That kind of open promise would set Dorne apart—above every other kingdom in the alliance. The other lords would not like it.
"A private word would not suffice?"
"No. It must be face to face, and it must be public."
Before Davos could argue further Oberyn had him politely escorted from the castle.
Davos left unsatisfied. Oberyn had given him no room to maneuver.
What he did not expect was Jon's response.
Through the Citadel Jon sent word to every corner of Westeros:
So long as Dorne supports no other king, Dorne shall remain free. I will take not one grain of wheat, not one golden dragon, not one soldier from Dorne against its will. If in the days of the Long Night any Dornishman chooses to ride north and fight the Others, Sunspear shall not hinder him. If Dorne ever needs my help, I will give it as a loan. Whether Dorne remains independent is a choice that belongs to the Dornish alone.
When the letter reached Oberyn he laughed out loud and checked the seals three times before he believed it.
All they had to do was hold the Prince's Pass. Nothing from the outside world would ever reach most of Dorne. Even if someone started preaching about the Long Night and the Others, the words would never travel far.
The terms looked fair enough that Oberyn accepted them without a second thought.
Of course, if the Others ever truly rose, he suspected he would ride north to the Wall himself just to see them.
As for Dorne ever needing Jon's help—he treated that as a private joke.
And so, on the first day Oberyn led his ten thousand spears south out of the Stormlands. On the third day Jon rode into Storm's End without drawing a single sword. By the fifth day the entire Stormlands lay under his control.