The transition was as sudden as it was profound. For days, the world had been a canvas of cold grey and deep, churning blues, the air sharp with the chill of the Narrow Sea. Then, as their silent ship rounded the arm of Dorne, the world bloomed into vibrant color. The sea shifted to a sparkling turquoise, and the air grew thick and warm, scented with salt, sand, and the distant, heady perfume of exotic blossoms.
For Dacey and Lyanna, it was an alien landscape, beautiful but oppressive in its heat. Dacey kept a hand near Lyanna, her eyes scanning the sun-drenched cliffs with the ingrained suspicion of a northerner far from home. Daenerys, however, stood at the rail, her silver hair a stark contrast to the ochre coast, and felt a faint, ancestral hum in her blood. This was a land of sun and harsh beauty, a place that felt more like the tales of old Valyria than the damp, green lands she'd fled.
"We cannot sail this vessel into Sunspear's port," Oberyn stated, his voice practical. "It would cause a panic and show our hand to every spy from here to King's Landing. We land discreetly."
Following his guidance, the ship navigated a series of hidden channels, its advanced systems mapping the treacherous coastline with ease, before anchoring in a secluded cove shimmering with heat. The sun was a hammer, and the white sand was blinding. A smaller, high-speed boat was lowered into the water. Maximus, Oberyn, Dacey, and Daenerys descended, leaving the others behind. Oberyn had insisted on Daenerys's presence; a Targaryen setting foot in Dorne was a political statement of immense weight, a ghost returning to haunt the Usurper's peace.
They were met not by a welcoming party, but by a single, imposing figure standing at the end of a private dock: Areo Hotah, the Captain of the Guard for House Martell. His longaxe was held loosely in his hand, but his presence was as unyielding as the Dornish sun. Flanked by a dozen elite guards in shimmering light armor, the welcome was courteous but laced with the threat of absolute authority.
"Prince Oberyn," Hotah's voice was a low bass rumble. "Prince Doran awaits you at the Water Gardens." His gaze, heavy and assessing, lingered on each of them in turn—Dacey, the powerfully built warrior woman from a land of ice; Daenerys, the impossible silver-haired ghost of a fallen dynasty; and Maximus, the boy who was the cause of it all.
Oberyn greeted the captain with familiar ease, but even he deferred to the man's official duty. "A long journey, Hotah. I trust my brother is well?"
"The Prince is as he always is," Hotah replied, his expression unchanging. "Follow me."
They were escorted through winding stone paths and fragrant, shaded gardens, the sudden coolness a welcome relief. The air was alive with the sound of trickling water and the laughter of children in the distance. They had entered the very heart of Dorne's power, a place of serene beauty that masked a patient, long-held thirst for vengeance.
They were led to a shaded pavilion of pale marble, overlooking a series of pools where fountains danced and children of high and low birth alike played in the sun-dappled water. It was here they met the Prince of Dorne. Seated in his wheeled chair, Doran Martell appeared physically frail, his body stooped and afflicted by gout. But his eyes, dark and intelligent, missed nothing. He was the calm, still center of the vibrant world he had built around him.
Oberyn knelt. "Brother."
Doran gave a slight, tired smile. "Oberyn. You have returned. And you have brought guests." His gaze settled on Maximus. "You are the boy who fell from the sky and pulls miracles from his sleeve. The one they say commands demons."
Following their plan, Maximus did not begin with magic. He stepped forward, Dacey at his shoulder, and gave a respectful bow. "Prince Doran," he began, his voice steady. "My brother Oberyn has told me of your... long memory concerning House Lannister. I have come to offer you something you have long sought: proof."
He produced a sleek, dark data slate. At his touch, it shimmered to life. "Prince Doran, my house was destroyed by an alliance of our enemies. I have recovered their correspondence."
Holographic images of the letters flickered in the air above the slate, the scripts of Tywin Lannister and Olenna Tyrell clear and damning . Maximus provided the context, his voice cold and precise, detailing the conspiracy to eliminate House Mormont as an economic and military threat. Doran listened without interruption, his face a mask of calm contemplation. This was it. The moment he had waited for since Elia and her children were butchered in King's Landing. Not just rumor or suspicion, but undeniable proof of Tywin Lannister's treachery, a casus belli that the realm could not easily dismiss.
When Maximus finished, Doran was silent for a long moment. "You have given me a motive for war, Lord Maximus," he said, his voice soft but resonant. "But the lions of Casterly Rock have claws and teeth. You have lost your home and your people . What means do you possess to wage such a war?"
This was the moment. Maximus nodded to Dacey, who unsheathed her Mormont "cloud steel" sword. The blade's unique, swirling pattern seemed to drink the sunlight. Maximus offered it, hilt-first, to Areo Hotah. At Doran's nod, the captain took the blade. With a grunt, he swung his own famous longaxe, a weapon of legendary Dornish steel, aiming to test the metal.
The sound was a sharp, brittle crack, not a clang. A large chip of steel flew from Hotah's axe, skittering across the marble floor. The guards gasped. The Mormont sword was flawless, its edge unmarred.
As the guards stared at the broken weapon, Maximus quietly commanded, "Ordis, display the tactical map."
A fully 3D, holographic map of Westeros materialized over the table between him and Doran, glowing with a soft blue light. It showed real-time positions of known Lannister and Tyrell forces, information impossible to possess.
"I no longer have Bear Island, Prince Doran," Maximus said. "I have something better. I have the means to produce weapons that can shatter our enemies' steel, and the intelligence to know where their armies are before they do. What I lack are the raw materials and the allies to build a force large enough to bring justice to our shared enemies."
Doran Martell looked from the shattered axe to the impossible map, and then to the determined boy before him. He did not give a simple "yes." He was too cautious. He made a slow, deliberate gesture.
"The sun is setting," Doran said, his voice final. "It is a poor host who lets his guests deliberate on war on an empty stomach. You and your companions have my gratitude for bringing this… information… to my attention. You have my protection. You will be honored guests here in Sunspear while I consider all you have shown me. We have much to discuss."
Later that evening, in the quiet solitude of his private solar, Doran Martell stared into a goblet of wine, the candlelight dancing in its depths. The door opened and Oberyn entered, closing it softly behind him.
"Well, brother?" Oberyn asked, pouring a goblet for himself. "You have your proof. You have your weapon. The viper has been coiled long enough. Is it not time to strike?"
Doran sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of years. "You have brought me a dragon, a bear, and a boy who holds the power of a god, brother. You speak of freeing us from the Lannister yoke, but I fear you have only brought me a new master." His gaze was troubled. "This boy… his power is absolute. He destroyed the Citadel as a passing thought. What is to stop him from turning such power on us should we displease him? How do we ensure that in trading the lion's chains, we are not simply fitting ourselves for a dragon's collar, one whose links are invisible but infinitely stronger?"
Oberyn sat opposite his brother, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "I have spent days on a ship with him, Doran. I have watched him. He is not a tyrant. He is a boy who has seen his world burned, and he carries that fire inside him. But it is a fire for justice, not for conquest. He mourns his people still; I see it in his eyes when he thinks no one is looking."
He leaned forward, his voice earnest. "And look at who he surrounds himself with. The northern girl, Dacey, is his conscience. She is honor-bound, fierce as any of our warriors, but tempered with a protective loyalty that guides him. He listens to her. And the Targaryen girl… I have begun her training. She is not her mad father. She has spent her life running. She desires a home, not a throne built of skulls."
Oberyn's voice grew more intense. "Yes, their gifts are terrifying. That is why we cannot afford for them to be our enemies. This power exists in the world now. We can either stand against it and be swept away, or we can guide it, partner with it, and use it to forge a future where Dorne is not a vassal to anyone, ever again."
He stood and walked to the window, looking out at the moonlit gardens. "Think of it, brother. Beyond vengeance. With their knowledge, we could bring more water to our deserts. Our people could have food in such abundance that no child in Dorne would ever go hungry. Our soldiers could be armed with steel that no other army can break. This is not just about vengeance for Elia. This is about securing the future of House Martell and all of Dorne for a thousand years."
Doran was silent, his long fingers steepled before him. Oberyn's words struck a chord, appealing not to his passion, but to his deepest desire as a ruler: the prosperity and security of his people.
"His power makes him a king, whether he wishes it or not," Doran finally murmured. "And kings need allies."
"Exactly," Oberyn said, turning back to him. "He needs our legitimacy, our armies, and our counsel. We need his power. It is a partnership, brother. A true one. The kind that can remake the world."
Doran took a slow, deep breath, a decision solidifying behind his weary eyes. The risk was immense, but the potential reward was a future for his house beyond his wildest dreams. "Then we will continue these discussions in the morning," he said. "Ensure our guests are comfortable. They are, for now, the most valuable pieces on the board."