Chapter 101 — Dorne's Army Approaches
In the great hall of Sunspear, beneath banners stitched with sun-and-spear sigils, the envoys of the Triarchy presented their gifts—boxes of saffron, ingots of gold, and sapphires cut to catch the Dornish light.
The Myrish envoy, Font, was a short and corpulent man, swathed in a magnificent coat of purple-and-gold silk. Rings crowded every finger—cat's-eye, lapis lazuli, garnet, tiger's eye—each gemstone competing for attention as he gestured.
Despite the richness of the gifts, neither Prince Enrik Martell, ruling Prince of Dorne, nor his son Prince Qoren Martell, showed the slightest pleasure.
Font chuckled softly.
"Your Highness, these are merely tokens of goodwill. Should Dorne dispatch an army to the Stepstones and join the Triarchy in opposing Prince Daemon Targaryen, the shipping lanes will be cleared. Trade will flourish again. Gold and jewels will flow into Dorne without end."
Prince Enrik, dressed in loose robes of sand-brown silk, idly scratched his ear, his expression weary rather than tempted.
"Dorne is pressed on every side," he said.
"To the west, Lord Lyonel Tyrell of Highgarden has dispatched banners of the Reach. Houses Rowan, Florent, and Tarly mass near the mountains by Blackmont, threatening our western passes.
"To the north, Lord Borros Baratheon of Storm's End has gathered the Stormlands' strength at Nightsong and Blackhaven, blocking the Boneway and Prince's Pass."
Prince Enrik's voice grew heavier.
"Siege engines are already being constructed—trebuchets, towers, ladders. Stormlands knights have begun raiding into the Red Mountains, clashing with our outriders."
He paused, then added dryly,
"As for the Reach—Lord Tyrell feasts and holds tourneys in his pavilion. The Reach is strong, but it is also cautious. Unless dragons descend upon Dorne itself, the knights of the Reach will not lightly bleed in our mountains."
Prince Qoren took up the thread.
"Our coasts fare no better. The Redwyne Fleet, Ironborn longships, and vessels from Oldtown harass our shores. The Salt Shore, the mouths of the Torrentine and Sulfur River—none are safe.
"Ironborn raiders have even sailed upriver, plundering villages near Starfall. Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, has already moved the coastal folk inland."
He glanced toward the windows, where the sun blazed mercilessly over the desert.
"Plankytown grows quieter by the day. Merchants fear dragons. Families flee to valleys and oases, remembering how Aegon's dragons burned the city time and again."
All of this, they knew, was no coincidence.
Prince Daemon's hand lay behind it.
The Reachmen and Stormlanders had never forgiven Dorne. From ancient wars to recent raids, hatred had been inherited like blood. Dornish armies had once burned Highgarden and Oldtown alike; even the legendary Oak Throne of the Reach Kings had been reduced to ash by Dornish fire.
The Stormlands remembered just as well.
Since the days of House Durrandon, blood had flowed freely along the Boneway. Even in peace, Dornish raiders crossed the Red Mountains to strike north.
House Caron of Nightsong, House Dondarrion of Blackhaven, House Selmy, House Swann—their histories were written in battles against Dorne.
On land, armies pressed in.
At sea, Dorne stood exposed.
Since Nymeria of Ny Sar burned her fleet, Dorne had never rebuilt true naval strength.
Prince Enrik exhaled slowly.
"The Triarchy has long been a friend to Dorne," he said. "We wish to aid you. But with enemies at our gates, we struggle even to defend ourselves."
He shook his head.
"King Jaehaerys the Conciliator lies ill. The Iron Throne is guided by his grandsons—Prince Viserys and Prince Daemon. It is clear enough they intend to tighten their grip on Dorne."
He spread his hands.
"Inform the thirty-three Archons of your Supreme Council. Dorne cannot send men."
Font frowned deeply.
"Your Highness," he said urgently, "these armies exist only to pin Dorne in place. Should they march into the Boneway or Prince's Pass, they will suffer as all invaders have before.
"But if Daemon conquers the Stepstones, he will strike Dorne from both land and sea. When that day comes, Dorne will stand alone."
Prince Enrik hesitated.
Sweat beaded on his brow as he turned to his son.
"If we allow Daemon to take the Stepstones…"
Prince Qoren answered before he finished.
"Father, remember the Battle of the Hundred Candles. Remember Marion's Folly."
Silence fell.
Prince Marion—Prince Enrik's elder brother—had been bold, reckless, and consumed by hatred for the Targaryens. Ignoring counsel, he had launched a great sea invasion of the Stormlands.
For half a year he gathered pirates, mercenaries, and ships from across the Narrow Sea. Scorpions and crossbows lined every deck.
Yet King Jaehaerys himself had answered.
Vermithor, Vhagar, and Caraxes descended upon the Dornish fleet.
Not a single ship made landfall.
A hundred burning hulls lit the night like candles upon the sea.
Prince Marion died, and with him his line.
Prince Enrik closed his eyes.
"We will not repeat that mistake," he said at last. "If the Triarchy desires Dornish aid, send fleets to break the blockade of our coast. Send sellswords to defend our passes.
Only then will Dorne consider the Stepstones."
Font's face fell.
"You risk losing your claim to those islands," he warned.
Prince Enrik laughed softly.
"Claim or no, barren rocks matter little when enemies stand at your door."
Prince Qoren added coolly,
"When Dorne is secure, perhaps we will speak again."
The envoy departed Sunspear in defeat.
Prince Enrik sighed heavily.
"One day we may seek the Triarchy's aid—and find none offered."
Prince Qoren scoffed.
"Thirty-three Archons squabbling like fishmongers cannot stand against Daemon Targaryen and Lord Corlys Velaryon. Dragons decide this war."
Prince Enrik swallowed.
"So the Stepstones will fall."
"They will," Prince Qoren said. "And we can only hope Prince Viserys proves gentler than his brother."
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