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The journey out had been blessed by the wind, but the return voyage was plagued by headwinds. After drifting across the open sea for over a month, Oberyn Martell finally stood upon the deck of a grand ship bearing the sigil of the sun pierced by a spear, the proud banner of House Martell. Before him stretched the waters of Slaver's Bay.
Traveling at his side was Ser Barristan Selmy. The old knight had once advised Oberyn to change the sails to something plain and colorless. After all, for House Martell to so brazenly appear in the waters of Slaver's Bay—should any Westerosi eyes be lurking here—it would certainly not bode well.
But the Red Viper, eyes dark as the endless night, had only laughed at the suggestion. As he put it, he had come to find Daenerys Targaryen. They were family, and in his view, family had no need for such caution or pretense.
And besides, the great Oberyn Martell would happily drive his spear up the ass of anyone who dared threaten those he considered his own.
To that, Ser Barristan could only shake his head. That was just how the Prince of Dorne had always been—flamboyant, proud, and utterly unrepentant. This time, he had arrived in full regalia, bringing with him his mistress, Ellaria Sand, without the slightest attempt at discretion.
All along the journey, Oberyn had repeatedly questioned Barristan about Daenerys. In his eyes, if his dear cousin had any true strength, she might as well march straight back with him to Sunspear.
Back in Westeros, the Iron Throne remained contested by the two Baratheon brothers, still locked in their vicious struggle. The latest news was that Renly, who had been leisurely touring the Rose Road, had suddenly launched a rapid march and was now the first to arrive beneath the walls of King's Landing, immediately beginning his assault on the capital.
However, due to close proximity, Tywin Lannister—having finished negotiations with the North—had already returned with over twenty thousand men and had reinforced the city's defenses in advance. As a result, Renly suffered some losses, but made little headway.
As for Renly's more serious elder brother, Stannis Baratheon, reliable news confirmed that he had summoned his bannermen to Dragonstone. He had since departed the island, but where exactly he intended to strike remained unknown, even to Oberyn.
As their ship neared Astapor, it had been over ten years since Prince Oberyn last laid eyes on warships bearing the black-and-red dragon sigil of House Targaryen. And it wasn't just one ship.
He narrowed his eyes. Having traveled widely in his youth, the Dornish prince recognized immediately that beyond the sailors on board, there were men clad in black armor and helms—warriors, not crew.
And the name "Astapor" sparked a sudden realization. Oberyn turned sharply to Barristan Selmy, his gaze piercing and his voice tinged with an odd note.
"Ser Barristan," he said slowly, "you're not about to tell me those Unsullied answer to your queen, are you?"
Barristan Selmy, who had been lost in thought, allowed a faint smile to touch his lips as he heard the question. He understood immediately—Oberyn Martell had been shaken.
Not that the Dornish prince was some naïve youth. Anyone with even a passing knowledge of the Unsullied would ask the same question. Their reputation extended far beyond just Slaver's Bay, after all.
Barristan hesitated for a moment. Technically, the Unsullied did not serve Daenerys directly. Their loyalty belonged to the one who held the command whip of the Unsullied, King Clay. Still, given Clay's relationship with Daenerys, it was not wrong to say they fought beneath her banner.
"Yes," Barristan replied calmly. "These Unsullied fight beneath the banner of House Targaryen."
The moment those words left his lips, Oberyn's thoughts began to race. He had spent time in Essos in his youth, and he knew very well exactly what the Unsullied were worth.
What If Daenerys had simply stolen them?He pondered the possibility. But he quickly dismissed the idea.
Before their sale, the whip of command always remained in the hands of the slave-traders. To seize the Unsullied from them would require nothing less than annihilating the slavers altogether.
And if she had that kind of power—then what difference was there between stealing the Unsullied and simply conquering Astapor outright?
Just as this thought crossed his mind, Oberyn suddenly noticed something unusual. On the sea to the port side of his ship, a long and imposing fleet had appeared upon the sea, its sails bearing a sigil he immediately recognized. If his eyes weren't mistaken, that was… the Iron Bank of Braavos.
He turned abruptly. His eyes locked onto Barristan's face with a sharp, unwavering stare. Word by word, he spoke, voice heavy with meaning:
"Don't tell me… those people are here to pay a visit to your queen as well?"
The Iron Bank hadn't come discreetly. This wasn't a lone vessel sailing quietly into harbor; this was an entire fleet, an unmistakable show of force. There could be only one explanation for this: the Targaryen ruler had already struck a deal with Braavos. Oberyn didn't even need to guess what was on board. Gold, surely, but more than that—bulk shipments of weapons, food, maybe even warhorses.
He grabbed Barristan by the breastplate, his grip so fierce that the metal groaned under the strain.
"Tell me, Barristan. What exactly has your queen done? Who the hell is backing her? Don't take me for a fool. The Unsullied, now the Iron Bank—where is all this power coming from?!"
Barristan Selmy frowned, just about to answer. But then his gaze shifted—he looked past Oberyn's shoulder, up toward the sky behind him. And the hand gripping Oberyn's arm suddenly slackened.
"Your Grace," he said quietly, "I believe… you'll want to see this for yourself."
Oberyn Martell was instantly infuriated. This old knight had been playing the riddling sage all the way here, and now they had finally arrived, he was still dodging with vague hints and cryptic gestures. I swear, if you—
Then the sounds erupted.
From all around the fleet came a chorus of shouts, cries of shock and awe. And then, a strange sound—a pressure in the air, like something immense cutting through the sky. The seasoned warrior in Oberyn reacted on instinct. He turned.
He turned, and froze…
There, descending from the sky, was a dragon—a massive creature with scales like sapphire and molten gold. It swooped down toward the Iron Bank's fleet at breakneck speed.
The roar that tore from the beast's throat echoed across the sea, a sound so primal and deafening that Oberyn's mind blanked. For a moment, he simply stood there, stunned, paralyzed. Beside him, the strikingly beautiful Ellaria Sand had her mouth agape, lips parted in astonishment, as if turned to stone.
The great dragon dropped lower, circling around the fleet with majestic ease, its wings slicing through the wind. Then it soared upward once more. Oberyn, whose eyesight was exceptional, caught the detail in perfect clarity. There were people riding on its back. To be exact, two of them.
The usually unflappable Dornish prince, under the watchful gaze of Ser Barristan, did something that nearly made the knight laugh aloud.
He rubbed his eyes… hard.
Trailing behind the mighty blue-gold beast, three smaller dragons followed, their wings beating rhythmically. They shrieked in youthful tones, their cries higher, more raw, but no less unsettling as they flew over the deck of the fleet.
Oberyn's throat worked a few times as he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He had no idea how he managed to steady himself, but by then, Barristan had already stepped to his side.
"Welcome to Astapor, Prince Oberyn. I do hope Their Graces' little greeting didn't frighten you or your companions."
It was a blatant lie, of course.
Daenerys and Clay, who sat atop Gaelithox's back, had not even known Oberyn would be arriving today. They had come for the Iron Bank, and the dramatic display had been meant for the Braavosi.
A show of force, if there ever was one.
Power displays could sometimes be foolish, but at the right time, they could win the respect that words never could. And this—bringing a strategic bomber of fire and fury like a dragon directly over the Iron Bank's fleet—was precisely that kind of move.
Barristan didn't know how the Braavosi were reacting. But as for the Dornish prince at his side, well… his eyes were still blinking rapidly, as though trying to reboot his brain. His mouth opened once or twice, attempting to speak, but nothing coherent came out. Too many questions collided in his mind, leaving him completely speechless.
Oberyn's thoughts were in complete disarray. He had just witnessed a dragon—not a rumor, not a whisper, but a living, roaring titan of the sky. And not just one—four. Four dragons!
And the largest one, the one clad in shimmering blue and gold… how in the world was it that massive?
And besides… who exactly was the man riding that dragon?
How could there possibly be anyone in this world—aside from Daenerys—who could command such a creature?
A hundred possibilities flitted through Oberyn's mind in the space of a breath. He didn't yet know what this meant, but one thing was certain: this was a message that brought both promise and danger.
The hopeful part was simple: the dragons had returned. After more than a century, House Targaryen once again held their ancient power. With dragons under their command, their claim to the Iron Throne was no longer in question. It was carved in stone. Once the weaklings of the Seven Kingdoms saw the dragon with their own eyes, they would abandon their keeps and fall to their knees in submission.
But what made Oberyn uneasy… was the man on the dragon's back.
Something in his gut told him the truth. This dragon, the biggest and most terrifying of them all, did not belong to Daenerys. It belonged to him.
And if that were so… then this Targaryen queen, whatever her titles may be, might no longer hold the crown alone.
Oberyn Martell was, by nature, a simple man. In his view of the world, family vengeance always came first. And if this Dragonlord could promise him revenge against the Lannisters… then he saw no need to challenge him.
But afterward, he still bore the name Martell. He still carried the weight of his house. Dorne would surely back the Targaryens, but in return, they would demand their fair share in the realm that followed.
He had embarked on this journey with high spirits and firm resolve, but now, that confidence had begun to waver.
As he looked upon the beaming face of Barristan Selmy, the old knight grinning ear to ear, Oberyn Martell finally understood just how this exiled princess had managed to build such a vast dominion.
Well, damn!
When a dragon lands right on your doorstep, what other choice do you have? Unless the Good Masters of Astapor were complete fools, they had no choice but to throw open their gates and pledge their loyalty to Daenerys on the spot.
"Barristan," Oberyn said at last, his voice tight with irritation, "…would you kindly tell this clueless fool who that man just now was?"
Even Barristan could hear the grinding of the Dornish prince's teeth.
"No need to worry, Prince Oberyn," he said gently. "His Grace is already waiting for you in the city. I can tell you this now—it was His Grace who invited you here. Dorne plays a crucial role in His Grace's grand design."
"Hmph."
Oberyn Martell didn't appreciate how Barristan had just described his family, as pieces on someone else's board. But deep down, he couldn't deny it. This Dragonlord, along with the beast he commanded, did have the right to make such claims.
By the time the warship docked, the Unsullied were already assembled in neat rows along the coastline, waiting in silence. It wasn't that they recognized the Martell banner, the blazing sun pierced by a spear, but simply that they knew this was the vessel Barristan had departed on.
Once they disembarked, Barristan gestured toward Oberyn and his wife as they followed him off the ship, then turned to one of the Unsullied officers.
"You recognize me, don't you?" he said plainly. "Kindly inform His Grace that the distinguished guests from Sunspear have arrived. Please ask him to prepare to receive them in the palace."
Strictly speaking, the Unsullied took orders from no one but Clay. But even so, the soldier before them was still human, and not without judgment. He knew this old man was one of the king's personal guards, and the couple behind him clearly weren't ordinary travelers either. After a brief moment of hesitation, he nodded and replied:
"Very well. But before that, the two of them are not permitted to approach His Grace's residence."
"Understood," Barristan replied calmly. "I'll make arrangements for them to stay in the city until His Grace gives further instructions."
He knew all too well how these Unsullied operated. There was no use arguing with them over protocol. Without another word, he led the frowning, thoughtful couple through the gates and into the city.
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[Chapter End's]
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