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Dorne was truly a fascinating place!
This land, though neither abundant in resources nor densely populated, had nonetheless withstood the might of House Targaryen and their dragons for over a century. Only in the end, through a carefully arranged marriage alliance, did they finally complete the unification of the Seven Kingdoms.
Even now, the title borne by the ruler of Dorne remained "Prince," a rank that was, at least in theory, one step above all the Wardens of the realm. It was a mark of respect from the Seven Kingdoms for the fierce resistance Dorne had once mounted.
True to their house words—Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken—outsiders could march into Dorne and slaughter its people, but to make the Dornish bend the knee? That was a near-impossible feat.
In truth, for the past hundred years, House Martell of Dorne had maintained particularly close ties with the Iron Throne. Daughters had been traded back and forth in marriage like well-placed game pieces, their bloodlines intertwining more deeply with each passing generation.
If loyalty to House Targaryen were measured in the entire Seven Kingdoms, all other houses would have to take a step back. Dorne stood at the front of the line.
Which is precisely why, when Rhaegar took Lyanna Stark as his mistress and fled south to father children with her, publicly dishonoring Princess Elia who remained behind in King's Landing, Dorne still chose to side with the Targaryens during the war.
If one viewed the past century of marital alliances as a long-term investment, then that investment only yielded returns so long as a Targaryen remained on the Iron Throne. That was their shared bloodline, and their future was tied to it.
Look what happened after Robert Baratheon took the crown—was there a single Martell sitting on his small council? Not one. Dorne was immediately pushed into a position of political passivity.
Measured by strength alone, Dorne had no chance of prevailing against the other six kingdoms united under the Iron Throne. Without that central authority's favor, they were bound to suffer even in the pettiest of disputes.
Take the perpetually contested borderlands, for instance. Bloody skirmishes were routine. And since the Stormlands were the king's own domain, how could Dorne ever expect support in such conflicts?
Politics, after all, could not be governed by swords alone. If one revered nothing but force, then in the end, one would inevitably be devoured by it.
So, theoretically, any of the great houses might seek to move against Clay and Daenerys—but not Dorne. Their interests were deeply intertwined with the Targaryens. At this point, they were likely desperate for the royal host to land as soon as possible.
Because of that, in Clay's future designs, House Martell would play a critical role. If their support could be secured, then this great game of his would finally come alive.
At present, Clay had no idea how the siege of King's Landing was progressing. But with the three major powers at the table all going all-in, this round was bound to end in devastation for someone. No matter who lost, the consequences would be unacceptable.
If fortune turned against them, heads could roll. Just like that, a contender might be eliminated from the game altogether. Even the luckier ones would be forced to retreat into the shadows, nursing their wounds and biding their time for another chance.
One way or another, at least one or two factions would be crippled by the end of this conflict. That much, Clay believed with certainty.
Each of the three contenders brought their own strengths to the table. They were all veterans of power, masters of calculation. As for who would ultimately emerge victorious—Clay truly couldn't say.
His memories of the original timeline were now worthless. He was no longer a mere spectator. He had stepped onto the board himself, plunging headlong into this ruthless game of blood and power.
After sending off Tycho Nestoris, the envoy from the Iron Bank, Clay entrusted a letter to be delivered under Daenerys's name. It was carried by Ser Barristan, that living archive of Westerosi knowledge, and it took him nearly half a month to reach Sunspear.
The letter, written on elegant parchment with meticulous care, made its winding journey to the very heart of Dorne—to the Water Gardens, where House Martell held court.
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Prince Doran Martell, the famously cautious and composed ruler of Dorne, held the letter in his hand. Though his face betrayed no emotion, the storm of sand that raged within his heart was anything but calm.
"Ser Barristan," he began, "I know of you. Once the Lord Commander of Robert's Kingsguard. How curious. And now, you're the one delivering this letter. Truly, the ways of the world are unpredictable."
Maintaining the same composed posture he had held moments ago, Prince Doran offered a faint, measured smile as he passed the thread of conversation back to Ser Barristan. It was clear he intended to draw more from this unexpected envoy of House Targaryen.
The letter itself was written in a hand both graceful and elegant, its script bearing the softness and subtlety that could only come from a woman's touch. According to Ser Barristan, it had been penned personally by Her Grace, Daenerys Targaryen.
Prince Doran found the claim largely believable. And yet, something in that delicate calligraphy gave him pause. Beneath the polished strokes of her pen, he sensed an undercurrent of steel—an unmistakable aura of blood and battle hidden within the beauty.
Having spent decades in the seat of a prince, Doran Martell had seen his share of letters in every shape and shade. He trusted his instincts.
To his mind, the style felt more like the writing of a man who had marched across a battlefield, not a young girl adrift in exile.
"Indeed. None of us can see what lies ahead. That is why I've come here—to try and carve out a future that, if nothing else, will hold meaning for me."
"You speak plainly. At least you've spared me the courtesy of dressing up your words in flowery nonsense."
Prince Doran gave a slow nod, then gestured toward the parchment with deliberate grace as he asked:
"As mentioned in the letter, you've invited my brother Oberyn to Slaver's Bay. What I find myself curious about is this: how exactly did this girl, Daenerys, manage to seize a city without outside support... and govern it effectively, no less?"
The rumors of Daenerys and her dragons had already begun spreading across Essos. But the word had yet to reach Westeros. With the war in full bloom, each great house had recalled their spies from across the Narrow Sea to focus entirely on the conflict at home.
This, in effect, had bought both Clay and Daenerys precious time.
In truth, this letter had been dictated mostly by Clay himself. Yet neither he nor Daenerys had breathed a word of the dragons. Though Clay was certain Dorne would ultimately align with their cause, he still believed in caution. After all, a careful voyage lasts a thousand miles.
Some truths were best not written down. Better to let someone see them with their own eyes. That was why Clay had insisted on summoning Oberyn Martell.
He bore no particular affection for the infamous Red Viper. But he knew full well that inviting Prince Doran was never an option. The prince's health had long been in decline—his body wracked by years of gout, his movements constrained by constant pain. More than that, he was too cautious by nature. A poor choice for a venture such as this.
As for Doran's question, Ser Barristan had already prepared his answer.
"Her Grace possesses a strength that draws others to her. Many have chosen to follow her. The conquest of Astapor is only the beginning of her rise."
Clay had warned him explicitly not to reveal his own presence. Not because he feared House Martell would turn against him, but because the mention of an unfamiliar name might disrupt Oberyn's journey or sow unnecessary doubt.
From the moment Gaelithox had spread his wings and soared into the sky, the name Clay Manderly had ceased to belong to Westeros. A dragonlord is a dragonlord. That was not something to be taken lightly.
"Is that so? Then it seems Her Grace Daenerys is not one this prince can afford to underestimate."
Prince Doran nodded again. He neither confirmed nor denied the old knight's words. Talk of 'charm' was always a convenient excuse. A woman, no matter how beautiful, without real strength or power would be little more than a plaything in a man's bed.
And yet here she was—this last princess of House Targaryen—silently taking a city for herself. Doran did not believe for a moment that she had no force behind her.
There had to be someone else helping her. Without allies, how could a young, exiled girl ever come so far?
Once the thought clicked into place, Prince Doran immediately grew alert.
The Martells had long supported the restoration of House Targaryen, not merely out of sentiment, but as part of a carefully laid plan to avenge the blood debt owed by the Lannisters. At the heart of that plan was Daenerys herself—she was a crucial piece.
Now, with Viserys dead, Daenerys was the last true-born Targaryen. She was a woman, and a woman would need a man beside her.
Even if their own kin could not become her consort, House Martell had to move quickly to place themselves under her banner.
Doran could feel it… the shape of danger forming just beyond his reach. He did not know who it was that now stood behind Daenerys. But if this force had already begun to root itself at her side, then even if House Targaryen reclaimed the throne, Dorne's ambitions might still be left in the sand.
And more than anything else, the sacred vengeance sworn against the Lannisters might be lost in the chaos such a power shift would bring.
That, above all, was something House Martell would never tolerate.
Which meant there was no longer any room for hesitation!
Oberyn Martell had to go to Slaver's Bay. There was no other choice.
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