"A hefty sum?"
Lo Quen gave a quiet laugh, as though he'd just heard a joke. "Prince, I have just conquered the Free Cities of the Three Daughters. The treasuries of Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr lie open before me. Gold, I have in abundance. Tell me—how much can Dorne truly offer? Three million golden dragons? Five? Forgive my bluntness, but Dorne's entire annual taxes likely amount to less than those of any one of the Three Daughters."
Oberyn's eyes flickered with anger, but he forced it down, recalling his brother's orders and the purpose of his mission. "Your Grace, the Targaryen siblings hold no practical value to you. Dorne is prepared to offer one hundred thousand golden dragons in exchange for them. It is the greatest show of sincerity Sunspear can afford."
One hundred thousand golden dragons—enough to make even proud Dorne bleed.
Lo Quen's smile disappeared. "Their value, and whether they have any, is not yours to judge, Prince."
Oberyn's face shifted under Lo Quen's cold stare—anger, restraint, then calm. After a pause, he smiled faintly. "Since Your Grace's decision is final, we won't press the matter further. Still, Dorne has brought a few gifts. When you were crowned, I was your prisoner and had no chance to pay my respects."
He lifted a hand in signal.
Several Dornish retainers entered, carrying heavy oak chests. When the lids were lifted, they revealed rows of wine casks neatly packed inside.
"Dorne's Summerwine," Oberyn said with an easy smile, "renowned across the Seven Kingdoms."
He uncorked a bottle himself, releasing a rich, heady fragrance of grapes and oak that filled the room. "These are the finest casks from our cellars, presented especially for Your Grace's table."
Lo Quen's gaze slid over the deep red bottles, then back to Oberyn's face. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "In that case, I shall accept them gladly. It happens to be nearly time for lunch. Stay, Prince—join me. We'll sample this fine vintage together."
A flicker of surprise crossed Oberyn's eyes, but his smile never faltered. He bowed gracefully. "It would be my honor, Your Grace."
...
The dining hall occupied the castle's second floor, its tall windows opening to an endless expanse of blue—the Summer Sea stretching to the horizon.
A long table draped in white silk gleamed beneath the sunlight, its silverware polished to brilliance. Servants moved quietly between the guests, serving the bounty of the Three Daughters: golden-roasted quail stuffed with sweet fruit, fragrant goose bursting with rich juices, and a steaming stew of lamb thickened to perfection.
Yet the Dornish party ate little. Their eyes kept flicking toward the corner of the table, where several bottles of Summerwine had been opened.
Oberyn exchanged a brief, imperceptible glance with Ellaria.
He rose, lifting his crystal goblet filled with wine the color of fresh blood. His smile was bright, his voice bold. "Your Grace, may your kingdom be as unshakable as this Conquest Keep—and as boundless as the Summer Sea!"
He drained his cup in one smooth motion.
Ellaria followed, tilting back her glass without hesitation.
Lo Quen, however, did not drink.
His long fingers toyed with his own goblet, swirling the crimson liquid slowly. The wine clung thick to the sides of the glass, glinting like a ruby in the sunlight.
His gaze lingered on the composed faces of Oberyn and Ellaria, a faintly mocking smile curving his lips.
"Tell me," he said softly, "are you both very eager to see me drink this?"
Oberyn's smile faltered for only an instant before returning. "Why would Your Grace say that? With such fine wine before us, we naturally hope to share a toast with you."
"Share a toast, celebrate together?" Lo Quen chuckled. "Prince Oberyn, your name—and your methods—precede you. I've heard quite enough to know better."
His eyes narrowed. "Shall I guess how Edgar Yronwood died? Did you truly think I would drink whatever you placed before me without question?"
Oberyn gave a dry laugh, spreading his hands. "Your Grace, you misunderstand. Look—Ellaria and I have already drunk. If there were poison, would we not already be dead?"
Lo Quen's smile sharpened. "The Red Viper's antidotes are said to cure every venom—surely they can cure his own."
Ignoring the darkening expressions across from him, Lo Quen raised his cup. Under the stunned gazes of Oberyn and Ellaria, he tipped it back and drank the blood-red wine to the last drop.
Lo Quen set down the empty cup. "I've finished drinking. Now, can you tell me the truth?"
His tone was calm, his expression unchanging.
Oberyn and Ellaria stared at him, eyes fixed, as though waiting for something to happen.
Time seemed to stand still. Only the sound of waves crashing against the shore broke the silence.
Several breaths passed. Lo Quen remained perfectly composed—no sign of pain, not even the slightest frown.
Ellaria gasped. "Impossible! How are you still alive? This poison kills within moments—"
Lo Quen's lips curved in a cold smile.
Of course he wasn't poisoned. He carried the blood of a true dragon. Any venom that entered his body was neutralized the moment it touched his blood.
The last flicker of hope in Oberyn's eyes died, replaced by the deadly glint of a viper.
He slammed a hand on the table. The poisoned dagger hidden in his sleeve slid neatly into his palm. With a flash of steel and a hiss of air, he lunged for Lo Quen's throat.
But Lo Quen was faster.
"Boom!"
The sound was like thunder splitting the air.
Without rising from his seat, Lo Quen lashed out with his right foot. The heavy oak dining table exploded upward as though struck by a battering ram, sending silver platters, wine bottles, and rich dishes hurtling toward Oberyn and Ellaria.
Crash. Clatter.
Cups shattered, sauce splashed across the floor.
Oberyn and Ellaria were flung backward like cut kites, slammed hard against the cold stone wall before crumpling to the ground.
The dagger flew from Oberyn's grasp, clanging as it skidded across the floor.
The thick oak doors of the dining hall burst open.
Guards in full armor flooded in like a tide, spearpoints glittering as they pressed down on the struggling pair.
Heavy boots thudded across the floor as Oberyn and Ellaria were yanked roughly to their feet, their arms wrenched behind their backs and pinned tight.
Lo Quen rose slowly, stepping over the wreckage of the table until he stood before Oberyn.
He looked down, voice level and cold. "Did Prince Doran send you? No—he wouldn't send you to die. This was your idea, wasn't it? You wanted to poison me, wait for my death, then use the Targaryen siblings to control my dragon and turn it against the Lannisters. Is that it?"
Oberyn's head jerked up, eyes wide with horror.
He had come ready to die today, determined to kill this Easterner. Once Lo Quen was dead, the Targaryens could bond with the dragons—and through marriage, bind them to Dorne's cause.
But this man had not only seen through the assassination, he had laid bare the deepest core of their plan, stripping it naked before him.
It felt like standing exposed under a burning sun.
Lo Quen ignored his shock. "Really, was all this scheming necessary? If you want revenge on the Lannisters, that can be arranged right now."
"What… what do you mean?" Oberyn rasped, unease flooding through him.
Lo Quen didn't answer. He simply waved a hand. "Take them away. Keep them under strict guard. Everyone they brought—lock them all up. No exceptions."
Oberyn still had his uses.
The Dornish were dragged out struggling as the guards returned to report, "Your Grace, envoys from Yronwood Castle request an audience."
Lo Quen rubbed his brow. Today, it seemed, Conquest Keep had become the meeting hall for half the Seven Kingdoms.
...
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