The port of Crown Town bustled with energy, the salty sea breeze mingling with the fresh scent of newly cut timber.
Oberyn stepped onto the solid wooden planks of the dock, surprise flickering across his face as he took in the unfamiliar land before him. Beside him, his paramour Ellaria Sand scanned the surroundings warily.
They had come under Prince Doran's command to negotiate with the Easterner who now held the Stepstones and the Three Daughters, with the goal of bringing the Targaryen siblings back to Dorne.
Their ship had first made port at Tyrosh, but there they learned that Lo Quen resided near Crown Town, in a fortress called Conquest Keep.
Oberyn, who prided himself on having traveled the breadth of the eastern continent, had never heard of any such stronghold rising in the Disputed Lands. Yet upon arriving, the sight that greeted him left him utterly astonished.
Their carriage rolled eastward along a broad, newly paved stone road for several hundred feet. Between the coast and the hills stretched a thriving town, its neatly built stone houses layered along the slopes and connected by a web of clean, intersecting streets.
A swift, crystal-clear river—like a silver ribbon—divided the town in two, with several sturdy stone bridges spanning its breadth.
Oberyn sat silently as the carriage entered Crown Town, his expression darkening.
The streets were crowded and lively, filled mostly with silver-haired, violet-eyed Lyseni, their faces bearing rare, carefree smiles. The cries of vendors, the chatter of townsfolk, and the rumble of wagon wheels over cobblestones blended into a vivid symphony of life.
But another sight quickly drew Oberyn's attention.
All along the streets, the Lyseni women—dressed simply but cleanly—were pregnant, seven or eight out of ten with visibly swollen bellies. They moved in pairs or small groups, some browsing at market stalls, others carrying baskets of fruit and vegetables, their laughter filling the air.
Immigrants... breeding...
The Easterner had brought these Lyseni here not merely as settlers, but to take root—to build a new generation.
A chill of unease ran through Oberyn. What exactly was this man's intent? He sensed that what awaited him here would be far more complicated than he had expected.
As the carriage pressed deeper into the city, Oberyn's astonishment only grew. The scale of the place defied belief.
Could this town truly have been built by the Easterner in just a single year? How many hands, how much labor would such a feat demand?
And then his gaze lifted—to the fortress that crowned the hill above.
At the end of the main avenue, rising from the hilltop like a white spear thrust into the sky, stood the mighty Conquest Keep.
Through the carriage window, Oberyn stared upward. The main tower soared over two hundred feet high, constructed entirely from blindingly white marble. Under the blaze of noon, the whole castle gleamed like an immense gemstone, casting dazzling light in every direction.
Two towering curtain walls encircled the fortress like a giant's arms, their battlements lined with tall watchtowers, grim and imposing.
Oberyn could clearly see armored sentries pacing the ramparts, their polished steel glinting in the sunlight. A subtle, suffocating pressure seemed to settle over him, carried on the sea wind that filled his lungs.
The carriage halted before the massive oak-and-iron gates of the outer wall. After their identity was announced, the gates creaked open slowly, heavy chains groaning in protest.
Beyond the gatehouse, the view widened dramatically. Between the outer wall and the higher, thicker inner wall stretched a broad circular yard.
To the left stood rows of stables, where powerful warhorses snorted and stamped. To the right, blacksmiths worked furiously at roaring forges, the ring of hammers echoing without pause.
At the center lay a wide, dusty training field where soldiers in chainmail practiced precise thrusts and cuts in unison. Beyond that, warehouses lined the perimeter, and armed guards patrolled between towers and corridors, their armor clinking with every step.
Their escort led them along the base of the inner wall. The inner gatehouse was offset from the outer one, forcing them to follow a curved passage before reaching the next entrance.
Then, as they began climbing the long stone staircase to the inner keep, a deafening roar split the air.
A massive shadow swept across the steps.
A blast of wind struck like an invisible hammer, throwing Oberyn and his companions from their feet. Cries rang out as they tumbled down the cold stone stairs amid a cloud of dust and shattered gravel.
Oberyn pushed himself upright, coughing, and looked up.
A vast crimson shape was gliding low overhead, its wings beating with hurricane force. The creature's long neck twisted downward, and a pair of molten-gold eyes swept over them with a cold, detached gaze—like a god surveying insects.
A dragon.
Though smaller than the colossal golden beast that had ravaged Bloodstone Isle, this red dragon was still nearly forty feet long. Its scales shimmered with a dark, bloodlike luster, and each exhalation carried the burning scent of sulfur.
It let out a deep, thunderous growl, then surged upward with a violent beat of its wings, spiraling high into the sky before circling the spires of Conquest Keep.
"Hmph."
Oberyn brushed the dust from his cloak, his face dark with anger. His eyes fixed on the crimson shape circling overhead, and a cold snort slipped through his clenched teeth—a sound born as much of fear as of deep offense.
Passing through the taller, shadowed archway of the inner wall felt like stepping into another world.
Before them spread a carefully maintained garden. Fountains shimmered in the sunlight, scattering rainbow light through the mist, their gentle murmur filling the air. Beds of roses bloomed in vivid colors, their rich fragrance almost intoxicating. A few ancient oaks stretched their thick, knotted branches wide, casting cool, dappled shade across the paths.
Their escort led them onward into the main hall of the keep.
The vast interior struck immediately with its scale and splendor. A soaring dome hung with enormous crystal chandeliers—not yet lit, yet already magnificent. The walls were adorned with massive tapestries woven in vivid, mysterious colors. Tall, narrow stained-glass windows filtered sunlight into bands of shifting color that rippled across the polished black marble floor like liquid light.
At the far end of the hall, a raised platform climbed several steps high. Covering the wall behind it was a great banner—gold cloth bearing a red dragon. Beneath it stood a throne of obsidian: simple in form, yet brimming with power.
Upon that throne sat Lo Quen.
He wore his usual black robes, unadorned and understated. His hair and eyes were as dark as ink, and though his posture seemed at ease, when his deep, unfathomable gaze fell upon Oberyn, the Dornish prince felt an invisible weight pressing down on him—heavier even than the dragon's stare moments ago.
The memory of his capture during the Battle of Bloodstone rose unbidden in his mind, shame and caution intertwining in his chest.
Lo Quen regarded the wary, brooding prince before him with a faint, knowing smile.
After taking Myr, he had returned to Crown Town. Under Qyburn's management, more than a year of construction had transformed the settlement into a thriving city.
The hundred thousand slaves he had brought from Lys now lived there. Though still called slaves, Lo Quen treated them little differently from free folk. They were permitted to marry, to own property, and to lease or purchase homes in town.
He had even enacted policies to encourage childbirth—any couple with at least three children received financial rewards, and in some cases, a house in Crown Town free of charge.
The result was loyalty bordering on devotion. The Lyseni population flourished; most of the women now bore the unmistakable signs of pregnancy.
Conquest Keep, the heart of it all, was finally complete—and Lo Quen had taken residence within its walls.
"Prince Oberyn," he said at last, his lips curling in a faint, unreadable smile, "what brings you across the Narrow Sea to my court?"
Oberyn drew a slow, steadying breath, forcing down his emotions. He stepped forward and inclined his head respectfully.
"Your Grace, I come at the command of Prince Doran Martell, my brother, to discuss a matter of trade."
"Oh?" Lo Quen's eyebrow rose slightly, his tone curious. "Speak."
Oberyn lifted his gaze to meet Lo Quen's directly.
"Your Grace, Dorne is prepared to offer a great sum of gold as a gesture of good faith—in exchange for the Targaryen siblings under your protection, Viserys and Daenerys."