Pre-Chapter A/N:This one's a whole day late. Got my portfolio assessment tomorrow (think of it like a halfway test in my country's law school to decide if we're eligible to take the bar) so wish me luck. The next one might be a day or two late as well. More chapters on my patreon(https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga)— same username as here and link in bio.
LATE 109 AC
"How does it look to you?" I asked, handing the slab of glass over to Laena for her to examine. It had taken months and months of work. First, it was getting the town built near Bloodstone's new port. And then it was designing the furnace for the fire. A furnace that I had to situate in a different hamlet that the glassblowers would have to commute to and from on a daily basis to get to work, all in a bid to prevent spies from stealing my hopeful golden goose.
And then there came the trial and error of getting glass right. I knew a few bits and pieces of the process from my modern education, but what really brought it together was the admittedly basic expertise of the freed slaves when combined with the scientific method and room to experiment. It was glass, not rocket science, and now we had succeeded. Succeeded in a massive way.
"Laenor, gods, this is so clear. It doesn't even feel like I am looking through anything. How could this be? Is it sorcery?" she asked, peering at it like it held secrets that she could uncover by glaring at it hard enough.
"Not at all. Just really good science and a lot of work," I said with a sigh.
"So what does this mean? Does this mean no more negotiating with Dorne?" she asked.
"You're way too eager to go burning their coasts," I said with a smile on my face.
"They have it coming. They've just been wasting our time and dillydallying," she said. I nodded.
"Well, the Prince of Dorne has, but he is not the only highborn in the Kingdom," I said.
"What do you mean?"
"Qoren Martell believes himself untouchable. After I sent Uncle to Sunspear to negotiate, he moved out of the palace and now resides at an anonymous location. He probably assumes that if I don't know where he is, then I will be less likely to attack Dorne proper. And if I even do, then it won't matter because as long as I don't cut off the snake's head, then it can keep living and come to bite me later."
"I assume you used the word 'believes' because you're working on something to get your hands on him," she said rather than asked.
"Of course I am. Who do you take me for? The Prince of Dorne will be dead by year's end, or we will burn all the castles we can before the crown steps in. We can't really claim that we're waging war with the leave of the writ for long after the year runs its course, or claim that Dorne presented a threat to the Stepstones if we wait much longer and time just passes without them doing much, if anything."
"So we have to move soon, then," she said, nodding.
"Sweetheart, I made the first move months ago. Qoren Martell just hasn't realised what game it is we are playing," I said, accepting back the slab of glass.
XXXXXX- ICARUS JORDAYNE
"This might be the worst idea you've ever come to me with, Icarus," his friend said with a sigh.
"Is it? I think stealing into the shadow city in disguise to see if we could win some extra gold at the tables was a worse idea by some margin," he said back, smiling broadly. He knew he had him. Because if there was one thing about Yoren that he knew for sure, it was that his friend hated their Prince more than anything else. Where Icarus had accepted the death of his father as being the just consequences of the man's attempt to start a rebellion, Yoren saw the death of his as a grave affront that House Martell never apologized for.
"That was a bad idea because it almost got us killed. This is even worse because it will guarantee our deaths," he said.
"Have I ever led you wrong, Yoren? In all the years we've known each other—since we were boys, even?"
"You haven't. And that is what worries me, because the statistics say that you are overdue one wrong steering by quite some margin."
"Trust in the Seven that that day will not be today then," he said.
"How would we even do it? This is treason, Icarus."
"No more treason than when he sent me to Tyrosh hoping I'd be killed along the way, or when he slept with your wife and now parades a bastard right in your face." Icarus knew bringing up the young Quentyn had two possibilities. Either it would infuriate his old friend into joining the plot, or infuriate him into sending Icarus out of his castle with nothing to show for his efforts. But neither of these happened. Yoren sighed instead.
"Quentyn is most definitely his, then?" he asked.
"Can there even be any doubt? The boy looks as Martell as they come."
"Allyria's grandmother was a Martell, you know? I had hoped. She had looked me in my eyes and swore they never lay together." He turned to the bottle of wine, pouring himself a healthy gulp, and then doing the same for Icarus.
"But you've known, surely?"
"Sometimes, knowing is not enough," he said.
"I hoped. I hoped so hard that it would never come to it. I love that boy, you know? He's a sharp-mouthed little scamp, but I love him so much. How could I not? Now you mean to tell me I must see to his death?" What?
"Wait, wait, wait. I came here to secure an alliance against Qoren, not to see a child killed."
"And you will have your alliance. But before that, you will do something for me. Consider it your end of the bargain, if you would."
"What would you have me do, my friend?" Yoren barked a harsh laugh at the question.
"I wonder if you will still call me that when you know what you must do."
"Get it out already," he shot back. There were few things he wouldn't do to remove the noose around his neck that was Qoren Martell. Because if he tried once and failed, then it was practically guaranteed that he would try again when he felt he could get away with it.
"I said I must see to Quentyn's death. I misspoke, if you would. You will be the one to kill the boy, Icarus. Make it clean, please," he said, pouring another drink and taking a long swig of the rich Dornish red.
"You would have me kill a child, Yoren? A child you raised as yours? What in the seven hells is wrong with you?"
"I am a heartbroken man. Because now that you have opened my eyes to the truth, I cannot unsee it. And I would be damned before I see a Martell bastard rise to the throne of Yronwood. I will see to it that I produce more children after I deal with Allyria, but you must handle Quentyn. And you must do it before the day is ended. I will see to it that the security is lax in the castle proper tonight. I am sure you still know your way around Yronwood."
"Damn you, Yoren."
"I am already damned, Icarus. I am going to kill my wife, and I have ordered you to kill the boy I have raised as my son for so long. You think I don't know that I am damned? But this name I bear is not a light burden. How could I ever face my ancestors after allowing an insult like this one to stand? When I could claim ignorance, I had some protection, but you have robbed me of that. Now you will do my will if you want to see us aligned, my friend," he said, and Icarus wanted to pour the wine in his sick face and tell the Yronwood Lord that he should go do his killing by himself, but there was no chance of that.
The plan required Yoren's help. And there was no chance it would succeed without the backing of the second most powerful house in Dorne. The assurances made by Laenor Velaryon were only worth it if they could get the plan to work. He knew the dragon lord would watch them all die without an expression on his face if they couldn't do their part of the plan, and as far as Icarus was concerned, their part was the hard bit.
"Fine. I will see to it that the boy does not live past tonight. But when our plan begins, you will do exactly as I say in all things. If I say jump, you will jump. If I ask you to let a viper bite your cock off, you will let the viper bite your cock off. I do this for you, and you are mine in this," he said, knowing that if the gods were real, then he had just damned himself to an eternity in the hells. He just had to hope he didn't die before he managed to send a suitably large donation to the High Septon in Oldtown to secure a pardon.
"Have I not always been yours, Icarus?" Yoren asked.
—
He stared down at his hands; they were clean as always. He prided himself on having clean hands, a clean body, a clean mind. It was one thing his Grandmother had always stressed in his childhood. He scoffed to himself. One thing? His Grandmother had stressed so many things that picking one of them felt disrespectful. Punctuality, cleanliness, pragmatism, respect for one's elders, generosity towards one's lessers, and morality. What would she think looking down on him from the heavens now?
Childkiller. That is what he was now. Clean as his hands were, just a few hours ago, they had held down a boy not even old enough to have had his balls drop and forced poison down his throat. Even the death had been clean in the end. At least he kept his Grandmother's edicts on cleanliness close, even as he disappointed her in everything else. Loyalty to one's liege. She had taught that much as well. He knew his father had disappointed her when he began his ill-thought treason. But then his father's treason had been stupid and wasteful. His was a necessary evil. He was doing it for his life.
But value for one's own life was not one of the things his Grandmother had told him to hold close. After all, had she not been all about the family? Was the wise thing not to retire to The Tor, find a beautiful enough Knight's daughter, marry her, and sire a dozen boys on her? Let Qoren take his head when he pleased; his line would continue. But when had he ever been content with merely enough?
His Grandmother had taught him many things, but she had failed to teach him contentment. He wanted more than a wife with a chest of bronze as her dowry. He wanted more than a castle that was more wood than stone. He wanted more than to struggle to feed his people when the winter came and food from abroad became prohibitively expensive, even as the little that grew within Dorne withered and died under the cold winds.
He wanted more, and if the Seven would damn him for daring to dream of a better life than he had been relegated to by decisions made by men long dead, then he would damn the Seven themselves in turn. He squeezed his hands closed and turned to the man by his side.
"Are you ready? If you're having viper's belly, this is the time to turn about?" he asked.
"With you, Icarus, I will sail into the Seven Hells themselves. I was born ready," his oldest friend said in return, and he felt himself calm. This was just like every other lark they played as children in the shadow city or in Sunspear proper. Except this time, they were going to try to kidnap a Prince rather than steal some wine. Same principles, though.
They walked forward as one, having left their Sandsteeds some distance away. The rules around entrance into the fortress were old, and every noble son of Dorne learned them early enough. Some did it while held to their mother's breasts. Others, like he and Yoren, learned it playing at the feet of the Prince of Dorne themselves.
"Who goes you?" The prompt came from the shadows of the mountainous path. The wrong answer would lead to them being filled with more arrows than any man could count before they would even finish the statement.
"The snake, the scorpion, the venom. I ask you, my good man, who goes you?" The code, designed to be nonsensical quite intentionally, was more than just a test of knowledge. Say the words with the wrong accent, and it was over for you. Say them with too heavy an accent, and much the same would be the case. This was designed to prevent even Faceless Men from entry. Nothing the Targaryens could ever try would make its way to the Prince in here, at least that had been the intention. If only Nymeria had foreseen treason as the undoing of the Principality of Dorne. Well, if she had, then their plan would be even more difficult to execute.
"Well enough. What seeks thee in the shadow of the pass?"
"The milk of a mother's venom. What seeks thee in my mouth?" he replied the prompt perfectly again, and then he heard it. It was his fifth time here. Whenever the Prince did something and suspected the Targaryens would retaliate in some way, or whenever he was feeling more paranoid than usual, he retreated from Sunspear into his mountain fortress. The winch began to move, activating the mechanism that moved the thick wall buried into the side of the mountain.
"Good to see you, Icarus, Yoren," he heard the voice before he saw its owner. Even with as many torches as they had, the nature of a fortress built into the side of a mountain was that it was near impossible to properly light. He accepted the hug though.
"Good to see you as well, Gerold," he said. And he felt a twinge in his chest. If this man knew just what he and Yoren had come here to do, then he would remove their heads from their shoulders with that sword of his before they could even react. He would have to be removed eventually, because he would hunt them to the ends of the world once they did what they were about to.
"And Yoren, you little scamp, what's it been since I last saw you? Three years? Five? Not got the time for old teachers now that you are a High Lord and whatnot?"
"You know it's not like that, Gerold. Fatherhood. It just… it takes a lot out of you," he said.
"I'd drink to that one," he said instantly, tone sober and thick.
"The woman still disturbing you?" he asked.
"Less so now that I've had to come here, but she somehow always finds a way to have someone send a message. The boy needs this or that or this or that, a million times. I've spent my wages on her every need, and now she still wants more and more," he said. Gerold, years ago, had made the mistake of fathering a bastard on a serving girl, and the Prince refused to hear word of anything less than him taking total responsibility.
And Gerold, to his credit, had taken full responsibility for it.
"Ignore her then. You've done your best. What more could she need or expect?" Yoren asked.
"The city. You know how it is. With nothing from Essos, there's less food to go around, and even less of everything else. Things get more and more expensive, and there's not a lot for a former serving girl to do in the shadow city."
"You have a good heart, Gerold," he said. And wasn't that the truth. For all his flaws, Gerold Sand was a good man. And worse for their plan, he was an even better spear.
"Enough about me," he said.
"I assume you came to see the Prince."
"Yes, it's a surprise not having you at his door."
"This place—you know nothing gets in without the Prince's consent. There is no danger here. You can go on up; he's expecting you two."
"Thank you, Gerold," they said, walking past him and deeper into the fortress.
"Seeing you two would be good for him, even. He's not been himself since the last letter from the Velaryon Lordling," Gerold said, and Icarus nodded, moving along with Yoren.
They knocked at the door, feeling like children once again. At least he felt like a child once again. He couldn't quite speak for Yoren. And this wasn't the place to ask.
"Come in," he heard the familiar voice, still strong even as weathered as it had been by the years that had passed.
He opened the door, dropping to a knee as he stepped into the room. By his side, Yoren did the same. Yoren had confided in him how much he hated bowing his head to the man that had seen to his father's death. This will be the last time, my friend, he silently promised.
"Rise, my boys," he said, and they did so.
"To see the both of you, here and together, brings no small amount of joy to my heart," he said, smiling with browned teeth that had begun to fall. Qoren Martell was no longer the man he had once been. Black hair gave way to grey as the years wore on. Strong teeth browned and fell. Smooth olive skin wrinkled with the years, and the body of the man that had once been able to outduel any on the sands grew flabby with time.
"Thank you, father," he said, hating himself for using the title, even as he saw the flash of satisfaction in the man's eyes.
"So what brings you here? Do you have news from without?" he asked, as if he was not aware of every grain of sand that moved in Dorne itself.
"Treason, father." His eyes sharpened instantly. Age might have taken his body, but his mind had only been sharpened by experience.
"Whose? Who would dare?"
"Ours, father," he said, and then Yoren struck. The blow dart in the fold of his robes rose to his mouth before Qoren could even scream, and then he was slumped on the table.
A/N: So it is treason, then. Next six chapters up on patreon(https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga)(same username as here and link in bio), support me there and read them early.