End of 277 A.D.
Castle Ark of the Sands, Sunspear
This is my second time in Sunspear, but I'm still struck by the incredible contrast. Westeros, the Seven Great Kingdoms, a land of knights and their ladies, honor and dignity, castles and tournaments—and then, bam!, one of the kingdoms, in its architecture, clothing, and customs, isn't all that different from ancient Persia on Earth. Of course, there are its own peculiarities, like the rank of lords, the existence of a knightly class, and the belief in the Seven, but they're not particularly noticeable, blending seamlessly into the local flavor.
My ships arrived at Sunspear Harbor this morning, and by midday, an invitation to a reception arrived from the Martell residence. Only I, with a two-meter-long mahogany case slung across my back, and Oberyn, with his daughters Nymeria and Obara, went. The Dornish prince was so glad to be home that he practically skipped along the familiar streets and passages, accompanied by Obara and me giggling.
The Martell Palace itself reminded me more than anything of a chimera, crafted by two different architects. And if at the very beginning, as our small company crossed the main gate, it seemed winding, with ornate patterns and decorations carved from stone and yellow marble, then as we approached the keep, we increasingly encountered perfectly straight corridors, sharp-angled embrasures, and seemingly ancient square buildings, more characteristic of Andal architecture than Rhoynar. The cultural mix that resulted from Nymeria is still visible to the naked eye.
Oberyn led us to the famous Tower of the Sun, adjacent to its twin, the Tower of the Spear, which in ancient times gave Sunspear its current name. Crowned by a vast dome of crystal gilded with white gold, up close it truly resembled a small white sun, miraculously located so close to the earth.
Having followed the younger Dornish prince up a few more openings and, having undergone another check for weapons (one of those blockheads, with an axe no less powerful than mine, even tried to take away the case, but received a somewhat rude verbal refusal in the form of several Valyrian curses), we entered a giant solarium.
Illuminated with all the colors of the rainbow, thanks to the dome of the tower, and furnished with exquisite furniture made of the most expensive types of wood (I recognized the Qohor golden pine, the wall white cedar and the Volantean fruit tree) and marble, the office of Doran Martell, like any Grandlord, with its very appearance inspired its visitors that the owner of this place was a powerful man and not deprived of power.
And this feeling quickly evaporated as soon as Oberin took just a couple of steps into the room.
"Brother!" A frail, black-haired girl, apparently Elia Martell—Oberyn's adored older sister and the only princess of Dorne—flew into him with a loud cry. "You're finally back!"
"And you're back for a long time, sister!" the Dornishman said with equal joy, spinning the girl around the room like a top, completely oblivious to the four other people present in the solarium.
The eldest of them was a thin, thirty-year-old man, dressed in a simple white robe with sun-patterned embroidery and a white arafat shawl that completely covered his head, revealing only his face with kind brown eyes, a straight nose, and a light stubble against which his daughter rubbed herself with delight. Arianne Martell, still an only child, dressed in a beautiful orange dress, basked in the lap of her father, Prince Doran Martell. I can already tell that the future princess and ruler of Dorne will grow into an incredible beauty. Just like her mother.
Lady Mellario, born in Norvos and having met her husband there, sat in a wicker chair next to the prince, her gaze intently studying our "merry" company (especially me, Nymeria, and Obara, who had shyly hidden behind my legs). Although I understand her—she was only fifteen when she became First Lady of Dorne. That happened two years ago, and because of that, she missed Oberyn and doesn't know how to behave around him (or his children, with the exception of Tyene, who was playing among the pillows in one corner of the solarium).
"Ahem, Oberyn, perhaps you'd like to say hello to the others?" the Grandlord of Dorne finally said, returning his younger brother to this mortal coil.
He quickly released his sister from his embrace, who swayed slightly as she sat down in another chair, and walked up to Doran, making a playful bow, and then to Mellario, gallantly kissing the outstretched hand.
"Older brother, niece." A nod toward the little girl, who opened her eyes and looked intently at the unfamiliar guest. "Daughter-in-law." A nod, smoothly flowing into a playful bow. "The source of eternal good humor, the second Prince of Dorne, the Red Viper, and simply a magnificent man in his prime (look, he's already stealing my phrases) has returned home." And straightening up, he burst into loud laughter, supported by Princess Elia's ringing laughter and the smiles on the faces of the grand lordly couple.
"Perhaps you'd like to introduce us to your companions?" the prince continued the conversation, seeing his brother reach for the wine jug sitting on a small stand, and his daughter climb off his lap and run toward Obara and Nymeria, who were still hiding behind my legs.
"Ah, yes, how could I forget?" Oberyn, interrupted from downing his first (but not last) glass of wine, turned around with a flourish and gestured in my direction. He was clearly in a very good mood—I'd long since noticed his habit of turning into a clown when he was happy. "Allow me to introduce my close friend and comrade, almost a sworn brother, who has saved my life many times, Rogue Trader Felix, nicknamed 'Bastard of Fortune.'"
Oberyn wasn't lying about the nickname at all—rumors spread by my sailors and competitors that my squadron always had a favorable wind and all dangers passed it by had earned me the nickname "Lucky Bastard" (or, in a more obscene version, "Lucky Bastard") in the Free Cities and Slaver's Bay. All I could do was bow slightly, paying my respects to my hosts, and quietly push the girls, who had been lingering there for a long time, out from behind me.
"And these are my eldest daughters," Oberyn said, stepping closer to them and pushing them toward the center of the solarium. "This larger, more brazen one is Obara, and the smaller, prettier one is Nymeria. She takes after me in beauty. Yes?"
Seeing that their dad was behaving as usual, they more or less relaxed, and, following little Arianna, went to Tiena, so as not to interfere with the adults' conversation.
"I'm very grateful to you, Felix, for looking after my wayward younger brother," Doran finally said, ignoring the indignant Oberyn who had plopped down in a chair and poured himself a second glass of wine. "I hope he didn't cause you any trouble?"
"Of course not, Prince Doran. Prince Oberyn behaved as befits a true…" I was about to begin my traditional praise of the nobles to their relatives (there were a couple of moments when I had to transport the children of Great Lords or Volantean nobles), when I was interrupted by a raised hand.
"It's just my family here, and no one else," Martell said with a kindly smile. "Let's cut the pretense. For over three years, you've successfully kept an eye on my wayward brother, whose antics are still remembered throughout Dorne. You're already an honored guest and a friend of our family, if nothing else."
"So what did our Captain Pink Flamingo do? I'd like to hear it from you personally." Princess Elia's unexpected question was followed by Oberyn coughing, choking on his wine in surprise. He managed to clear his throat, quickly surveyed the solarium, and, not noticing any signs of surprise on the faces of those present, looked at me with undisguised resentment.
"Did you really think I didn't report to Prince Doran for all your antics?" I looked at him in surprise. "If it weren't for his patronage and timely assistance, we would have been killed in Qarth for your troubles in Volantis three years ago. So he knows about all your adventures over the years."
Oberyn blushed and then turned pale, looked around furtively and, seeing confirmation in his brother's eyes, he only sighed resignedly and collapsed in his chair.
"He knows about the drinking bout with the Meereenese gladiators, doesn't he?" he asked me with some hope, while his sister and Mellario began to listen intently. Apparently, Doran hadn't shared much about his youngest's adventures.
- He knows.
— And about my raid on the Island of Women?
- Same.
— About the Dothraki?
"Was it when you started insulting that khal while sailing along the Rhoyne, which later resulted in an unplanned raid on Seloris? He knows."
— Lannisport?
"You mean the time you drunkenly decided to pee off the city wall and ended up hitting a delegation of local Lannisters? He knows."
— And what about the incident in Yunkai?
— Was that the time you accidentally burned down the brothel, or the incident with Yurkhazo Yunzak, from whose house you stole half the wine supply because he insulted you?
- Both.
"He knows." At this point, Oberyn clutched his head, seeing the way his own sister and sister-in-law looked at him. A mixture of admiration and slight disgust.
— And what about that incident in the Upper Town?
"Are you talking about that incident in Norvos, when you decided to find out why Prince Doran was attracted to the local women and broke into some noble family's house, sleeping with one of the daughters of the local aristocracy?" As I continued my monologue, Mellario and Doran's eyes gradually widened, and I barely kept from laughing out loud. "No, I didn't tell you about that incident."
The laughter that followed—mine, the children's, and Elia's—was perfectly matched by Oberyn's brother's wife rushing up to him, demanding to know where the house was and the girl's name. According to the Dornishman, Mellario had an older sister back in his native Norvos, whom her parents were soon planning to marry off. So she worried everything would go to hell if Oberyn had broken into the wrong house.
Later, when the entire company had smoothly migrated to one of the many small reception halls, having "lost" the children along the way, and had dined heartily at Doran's request, I began to recount Oberyn's life over the years. After all, letters can't describe every event and detail, and a personal account offers a greater sense of the events.
We finished in the late afternoon, when Lady Mellario and Princess Elia had gone about their business, leaving the three of us alone (not counting that axe-wielding man who followed the Grand Lord of Dorne like a shadow). Only then did the serious conversation begin.
"I'm very grateful to you for helping me with my brother," Doran said, folding his hands and looking at me intently. "And every help should be rewarded. I won't beat around the bush and just ask the question straight away—what do you want, Felix?"
Here's the final part of the idea. The main thing is not to screw it up.
"You already know, Prince Doran," I replied, trying to maintain a more relaxed posture. "I've hinted at this several times in my letters, and you don't seem to be a fool who couldn't understand the hint."
"The Lordship and lands of the Red Valley," the Prince of Dorne drawled.
"Correct." The Red Valley is a region of the Red Mountains, formed almost thirty-five years ago after the Great Earthquake. It's a beautiful place with mild weather, a convenient harbor, and ideal for building a fine city and castle, if not for one problem. There's a complete lack of water. The hard rock makes it impossible to dig wells, and the nearest sources are far away in the mountains. This greatly hinders farming—the soil is depleted too quickly. Because of this, the land is home to only a small fishing settlement of two hundred people and a small garrison of Martells, who claimed the land for themselves to avoid creating any more excuses for the Ironwoods and Fowlers to tear each other's throats.
"I won't ask why this particular location was chosen, as I've heard of your business acumen and understand you'll definitely make a profit, but there's one problem," Doran said thoughtfully, judging by his expression, as if he were pondering something of his own.
"And what is it?" I asked, already guessing the answer.
"A pretext, my friend. The simplest pretext," the Grandlord said instructively, pointing his finger upward. "Personally, I wouldn't mind granting you the title of vassal lord and the lands of the Red Valley. I'm sure in a few years it will become a prosperous land, whose taxes will flow steadily into the Martell treasury, and your friendship with Oberyn guarantees the loyalty of you and your descendants. BUT, I can't simply grant you a title. All my vassals, who have become increasingly difficult to keep in check in recent years, will be outraged by the entry of a merchant into their ranks, no offense intended, and they might decide I've become another Tytots Lannister, easily manipulated. I need an official reason that will shut most of them up, and then deal with the rest. Do you have such a 'reason'?"
And so we come to the most important point. It's best not to advertise my work as a "nanny" for the younger brother of the ruler of Dorne, as it would harm the ruling house's reputation. Besides, such services aren't enough to grant a lordship. Now everything will depend on how well I understand the mentality of the local lords and the significance of status items for them.
"Yes, Prince Doran," I said, placing the case I'd brought on the table and opening it, revealing its contents.
"Woah-ah-ah..." Oberyn let out an admiring sigh almost immediately, while Doran's upbringing forbade such an emotional reaction. But even the naked eye could see he was in shock. He'd thought I'd offer a fortune for the title of lord, not particularly valued among the Seven Kingdoms nobility, and then he'd slap savage restrictions and conditions on my land use. But he didn't expect me to offer THIS. "Is that what I think?"
"Yes. A weapon of Valyrian steel," I replied, watching everyone's eyes widen with admiration. It was for this that I had approached the E-Ti auction houses, where, judging by the books found in the Citadel, most of the steel produced on the market went back in the days of Valyria, and where it was much easier to obtain than in Westeros or the Free Cities. It was for this that I had traveled to Qohor, where the local smiths had reforged two of the four ingots I had purchased into this beautiful spear, lying in a mahogany case. "The Bloody Sun Spear. Forged from three pounds of Valyrian steel in Qohor, changing its color to a blood-red. Six and a half feet long, with a ten-inch tip, perfect balance, and the shaft was made from the worked heartwood of an ironwood tree, a tree that grows exclusively in the North and is as strong as gunsteel."
Oberyn, fascinated, began running his fingers over the patterns and the blade, unable to believe that his house, for the first time in its history, possessed a weapon made of Valyrian steel. And I understand his delight. I used to think of Valyrian steel as a luxury favored by local lords, but when the Bloody Sun effortlessly pierced half a centimeter of tempered steel, everything fell into place. Anyone wielding such a weapon on the battlefield became nigh invincible. It's almost as if, for him, everyone else fought in undershirts and with rotten sticks that could easily be broken over a knee, and the only danger to him were fellow "chosen ones."
"Ahem, ahem." Doran was the first to recover, able to control himself and not possessing the same passion for spears as Oberyn, who had fallen into the astral plane for so long. "Your reason is sufficient. If it's not a secret, where did you get it and how much did it cost you?"
"I bought the ingots in Y-Ti for forty thousand gold dragons and had them custom-forged in Qohor for four thousand," I answered, holding nothing back. Doran would have figured it out anyway, after questioning his younger brother in more detail later. As it was, I gained another trust point and shocked Martell a bit again. Of course, Tywin Lannister had been searching for a Valyrian steel blade for his family for years, offering half a million gold dragons for it, and now some merchant had it for a mere forty-five thousand. Although that figure should be doubled—a sword of metal would have cost twice as much.
"Very well, that's reason enough to grant you the title of Lord Vassal," Doran finally said, smiling and nodding to himself. "I'll begin preparing all the documents today and notify the other vassals. I'll ask you to remain in Sunspear for a few weeks, until early next year, I think. We'll need to design a coat of arms and come up with a motto, and then send messengers to the Citadel and the Red Keep. You can remain in the castle for now; the servants will escort you."
"Thank you," I replied, feeling like a child inwardly delighted. Finally! I'm a Lord, and it doesn't matter that it's only in name for now—the word of the Grandlord of Dorne is law here, and it can be trusted as the law of hospitality. I was almost out of the room when I heard someone calling my name and, turning, looked at the composition of two Martells, one of whom was clutching a spear almost lovingly to his chest, while the other was pouring himself wine.
"What did you decide to name your House?" Doran asked me, jotting down a few notes on a piece of paper.
The question was actually very important, but it had been decided long ago. I had come up with a name for my House long ago and had no intention of changing it.
— Temper. House Temper. Tempered by the sun's fire.