Chapter 120 – The Viper and the Leech
At the command of the soon-to-be Prince of Dorne, Lewyn Martell didn't waste a word. He simply turned, nodded, and the order rippled outward.
Moments later, the two young daughters of House Fowler—the twin girls of Skyreach—were brought before the gathered host.
Their father had committed a crime bordering on treason, yet Lance, ever the knight, had forbidden mistreatment of the two maidens. Still, privilege was no longer theirs.
Barefoot on Dornish sand under a punishing sun, the twins winced and hissed with each burning step. For daughters of a great house—pampered and sheltered all their lives—this was torture in its purest form.
Balman Byrch, who still bore the three-headed dragon banner across his shoulder, merely glanced sideways at their discomfort. Not a word of pity crossed his lips.
After that night—after what had happened—he finally understood. The silver-lit revel he'd shared with the sisters wasn't happenstance, but a ploy. Lord Franklyn had used them to lure Balman away so someone else could steal Lance's greatsword.
Yet from their confused sobbing later, it was obvious these girls had no idea what role they were meant to play. Foolish, yes. Treacherous, no. They had simply followed their father's orders… and Balman's handsome face had made obeying rather easy.
With Franklyn's blessing, they had eagerly demonstrated to Balman what "exotic Dornish passion" meant.
Once the truth clicked, Balman cast them from his mind. No matter how they batted eyelashes or brushed against him, he met every advance with outright indifference.
A living definition of "pretend nothing happened once your breeches are on."
---
"Seven above… you two truly look alike."
Prince Doran rode forward and signaled for them to stop walking on the scorching soil. Gazing at their nearly identical faces, he sighed.
"Even after watching you grow up at the Water Gardens, I still cannot tell which of you is Jeyne and which is Jennelyn."
His tone softened.
"Your father's fate is regrettable… but he sowed it himself. You must understand—there is no cause for resentment toward the crown."
The twins lowered their heads, silent and pale. They understood all too well.
They were not clever girls—more fond of handsome faces and bedroom games than politics—but even they grasped the scale of the disaster their father had attempted.
To be alive, clothed, fed, and safely escorted to Sunspear? That alone was proof of Targaryen mercy.
Doran noted the lack of bruises and nodded, satisfied.
---
"Your Grace!"
He looked up at Queen Rhaella, voice steady and clear.
"Franklyn Fowler acted alone. House Martell had no part in his scheme, nor any knowledge of it."
"But as the ruling house of Dorne—and his liege lord—we will answer for this insult to the Queen."
Two large guards stepped forward, draping thick blankets over the twins' feet and legs, sparing them further pain.
"Jennelyn Fowler," Doran declared, "will serve as Your Grace's maid. When this royal visit concludes, she will accompany you to King's Landing—never to return to Dorne."
"And Jeyne Fowler," he continued, "my brother Oberyn will take as wife. She will remain in Sunspear, where she will learn discipline and humility. After bearing her first child, she will be sent back to Skyreach to inherit the Fowler name."
He paused. His dark eyes gleamed—just faintly—with cunning.
"And lastly…"
"…Skyreach shall pay a fine of fifty thousand gold dragons for this offense against the Queen."
The courtyard exploded.
Murmurs, gasps, curses—fifty thousand gold dragons was no trivial punishment. Even the Lannisters or Tyrells would wince. For a Dornish marches house, it was ruinous.
Could the Fowlers possibly afford it?
But Doran Martell was no fool—if he said they would pay it, then he already knew how.
"Of course," he added calmly, "fifty thousand is substantial. Nearly two years of Sunspear's taxes."
"So House Fowler shall have time."
"Ten years."
"In ten years, Your Grace, every coin will be delivered to the Red Keep. None missing."
---
Lance couldn't help it—he nearly laughed aloud.
This boy… slick as an oil merchant.
Doran Martell had managed to salvage the situation with almost elegant ruthlessness:
No real losses to Martell.
No stain on Dornish unity.
Fowler punished.
Targaryen appeased.
And Oberyn conveniently gifted a bride.
Sending one twin to King's Landing as a "maid" was simply the old game played across Westeros—hostages disguised as courtiers.
It was politics at its most… Dornish.
As for Doran Martell arranging for his brother Oberyn to marry Jeyne Fowler, the elder twin and heir of Skyreach—
well, that was worth savoring.
Dressed up in loyal rhetoric, it sounded like punishing treason in the name of the Iron Throne.
But stripped bare, the truth was simple:
House Martell was devouring House Fowler's future.
The Fowlers' main line now consisted of only two daughters.
Once Jeyne wed Oberyn and bore a child with Martell blood, Skyreach would forever become a satellite of Sunspear—its heir carrying the sun-and-spear in his veins.
And for Oberyn, a second son who traditionally would inherit nothing, this conveniently handed him a castle and a legacy.
A tidy little arrangement.
As for the fifty thousand gold dragons…
Heh.
In Lance's opinion, if even a third of that money eventually reached King's Landing, it would already mark Doran as a man of rare honesty.
The Targaryens would not go to war over mere coin.
Send a few emissaries later to cry poor on Fowler's behalf, flatter the King, swear undying loyalty—
and with Aerys's temperament, he would probably grumble and wave it away.
Doran's maneuvering had:
• Soothed the Targaryen queen,
• Stripped House Fowler to the bone,
• Secured lands for his troublemaking brother…
Three birds, one stone.
---
"Very well," Rhaella declared.
"I accept House Martell's sincerity."
As expected.
After such an elaborate gesture of submission, she could hardly continue pressing the issue—
and truthfully, she was far too uncomfortable to continue the confrontation anyway.
The heat clung to her like wet cloth. Her tight black gown was soaked, sticking to her skin in frustrating, intimate ways. If this dragged on much longer, she feared she might make a sound no queen should make in public.
Doran exhaled, relieved.
"Please, Your Grace—enter the city at once."
Seeing her flushed cheeks and trembling breath—assuming it was caused by sunburn—he respectfully withdrew.
Lance moved to guide her back toward the carriage, when a slender hand pressed atop his own.
"Like this."
She met his eyes, voice low and breath unsteady.
"Hiding in a carriage is unworthy of a Targaryen.
Let the Dornish see their queen in full."
Rhaella's tone was regal, but Lance rolled his eyes.
He knew exactly what was going through this woman's head.
Still… she wasn't wrong. With a resigned sigh, he nudged the horse forward, and the two swept past Doran Martell—riding as one toward Sunspear's gates.
---
Sunspear
Sunspear's fortifications were a masterpiece of Dornish engineering:
three tall, winding walls embracing the castle like coiled serpents, its three towers—Spear, Shadow, and Water—rising above the shimmering haze.
Most travelers would be forced to wind through the Shadow City before reaching the inner gates.
But not a visiting queen.
The three monumental gates were already thrown open, allowing the column to ride straight through—swift, direct, honored.
Much like Lance himself, who was only a heartbeat away from riding straight into the Queen's chambers if she kept pressing against him like this.
---
"Look! The Queen—Targaryen's Queen!"
"By the gods, she's beautiful—skin like cream! I've never seen anyone so fair in Dorne!"
"And that white knight behind her—look at the size of him! Those eyes… that man's killed at least five people, I guarantee it!"
The streets erupted.
Dornish crowds were never shy—every compliment, every crude guess, each shout of admiration rang loud and clear.
Cheering swelled into a roar.
If not for the disciplined ranks of soldiers holding the lines, chaos would have been guaranteed.
Rhaella waved gracefully, radiant and commanding.
The wet cling of her riding gown and the blush on her cheeks only heightened her allure—dazzling the masses.
---
In a Shadowed Balcony Above
"So," a pale-faced man murmured from the second floor of a tavern, watching the queen ride by.
"She is quite something, isn't she?"
He turned to the man beside him—a dark-haired Dornish prince leaning lazily on the railing.
Oberyn Martell's eyes tracked Rhaella with predatory fascination, black and sharp as a viper's tongue.
The pale man's thin lips curved.
"Convince your brother to join our cause, and you won't have to wait until the Targaryens fall."
"By tomorrow, you could taste the Queen for yourself… Prince Oberyn."
Oberyn inhaled slowly.
For a heartbeat, even he—infamous hedonist that he was—looked tempted.
Watching the queen ride off with the towering white knight at her back, he lingered, almost wistful… before finally turning toward his visitor.
He snatched up a goblet of expensive Dornish red and downed it in one breath, wine spilling down his bare chest.
Then he laughed—bright and wicked.
"Tempting. But I am not a man who forces the matter."
His viper-dark gaze pinned the northerner.
"I adore the pleasures of flesh—men, women, anyone beautiful enough.
But I am not fool enough to gamble House Martell's future for a woman's body."
He tossed the goblet aside and sauntered toward the beaded curtain behind him.
Before he could disappear, he glanced over his shoulder.
"Be grateful, northerner. Before I tell the Targaryens you're here, leave Sunspear."
Several slender arms emerged from behind the curtain, pulling him inside with laughter.
"Unless," Oberyn added with a smirk, "you'd care to join us?
You're not quite handsome enough… but as a guest, I suppose one could be spared for your enjoyment."
---
The pale man bowed slightly, declining politely.
"Too generous, Prince."
Rebuffed yet unruffled, he turned to go. A messenger, nothing more—success or failure did not belong to him.
But at the threshold, he paused.
"Oh—one more thing."
His expression sharpened.
"If it interests you… you could always exchange that Kingsguard's life for the Lannister heir."
Behind the curtain, Oberyn barked a laugh.
"When you northern fools manage to catch that heir, come speak to me again!"