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The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 37: An Avalanche of Betrayal
In the days that followed the king's pardoning of the Reach nobles, the blockade was officially lifted.
The merchant guild, under the direction of its guild master and Joffrey's Master of Trade, Lark Distar, immediately began trade at full capacity. Ships filled to the brim with grain and goods flowed into the capital's harbor once more, and once again the city's markets bustled with activity.
On Dragonstone, Stannis's remaining loyal forces were defeated in a brief but decisive assault. The ancient Targaryen fortress was seized, its garrison surrendering without their king to lead them.
The war was officially over.
And now, ravens were dispatched.
They flew from King's Landing's rookery in a great black cloud, each carrying a unique message sealed with the royal sigil. They flew north to the Vale, south to Dorne, west to the Riverlands, and across the narrow sea to the Iron Islands.
Each message bore the same essential content: an invitation to the capital.
To swear fealty to the new king, and attend his official coronation by the High Septon.
The first raven arrived at the Eyrie as dawn broke over the Mountains of the Moon.
o-O-o
The High Hall of the Eyrie was built of cold stone and colder winds, echoing with the anxious murmurs of the remaining lords of the Vale.
At the center stood Lord Yohn Royce, a broad-shouldered man with a square jaw and iron-gray hair, his bronze armor inscribed with the ancient runes of his house catching the pale morning light.
Since the demise of Jon Arryn and Lysa's fatal plunge through the Moon Door, leadership of a fractured Vale had fallen squarely to him.
The heavy oak doors groaned open. A young steward hurried down the vast chamber, carrying a rolled parchment sealed with red wax.
"My lord," the steward bowed low, catching his breath. "A raven from King's Landing."
Hands instinctively moved toward sword hilts. The lords exchanged grim glances.
Royce took the parchment, noted the crowned stag of House Baratheon, and cracked the seal. His eyes scanned the ink before he looked up, his voice carrying the heavy weight of command.
"'To the Lords of the Vale, greetings,'" Royce read aloud. "'It is with great pleasure that I inform you of the end of the War of the Five Kings. Stannis Baratheon, the pretender who sought to usurp the Iron Throne, has been defeated and slain. His forces have been scattered, and peace has been restored.'"
A heavy silence fell over the hall.
Peace.
Royce continued.
"'In recognition of the bonds between our houses, and in honor of the memory of Lord Jon Arryn, who served my father King Robert as Hand, I extend an invitation. I ask that Lord Robin Arryn, rightful Lord of the Vale, and his bannermen, travel to King's Landing to attend my official coronation and to swear fealty. I swear upon the name of Jon Arryn, and upon my father King Robert, that you shall have safe passage. Guest right shall be extended to all. This I vow before the Seven.'"
Royce lowered the parchment. The hall erupted.
"It's a trap!" Lord Templeton declared, his face flushing red. "The boy king wants to lure us south and put us in chains!"
"Why should we trust any oath a Lannister makes?" another lord shouted.
"Jon Arryn raised Robert Baratheon like a son," Lord Hunter said quietly. "To swear on his name... that is not done lightly."
"Words are wind," Templeton shot back. "Our vanguard was just shattered outside the Bloody Gate by Tywin Lannister's host! We stay behind our mountains!"
Royce raised a gauntleted hand, silencing the room.
"And how long do we hold behind these mountains, Symond? A month? A year?"
"As long as we need to."
"They won't storm the mountains. They are not fools," Royce said bluntly.
"Our host is depleted. The Reach and the Westerlands are completely united under this new king.
They will do what Mace Tyrell is famous for—they will blockade our ports, cut our trade lines, and let us starve.
The Reach controls the breadbasket of Westeros, and the Throne has the coin to sustain a siege for years. How much food do we truly have stored in the granaries?"
The resulting silence answered the question.
Lord Hunter spoke up, his tone measured.
"The war is over. The other kingdoms have bent the knee. We would be isolating ourselves to starvation for no political gain."
"We don't have a choice," Lord Nestor Royce added flatly. "We can argue all day, but the truth is simple. We bend the knee, or we starve."
One by one, the lords nodded, their resistance collapsing under the weight of logistical reality. Even Templeton clenched his jaw and conceded.
Yohn Royce turned to the Maester waiting in the corner. "Write to His Grace. Inform him the Lords of the Vale accept his invitation. We will come to King's Landing to swear fealty."
As the hall began to clear, Royce remained standing at the center of the room.
His gaze drifted toward the heavy drapes of the side chamber where eight-year-old Robin Arryn was kept. The boy had done nothing but weep since his mother's sudden death, a fragile, broken thing inheriting a fractured realm.
Now, Royce had to lead that fragile boy straight into the lion's mouth. Closing his eyes, the Bronze Royce offered a silent, doubting prayer to the Seven.
"Let me be right about this. Let the boy king be a man of his word."
o-O-o
Riverrun stood proud at the confluence of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone, its red sandstone walls gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Inside the main hall, three men sat around a heavy wooden table, cups untouched.
Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun, sat with his head in his hands. Beside him stood his uncle, Ser Brynden the Blackfish.
Across the table, Robb Stark, the new Warden of the North, stared blankly at the map before him, his fingers tracing the silver-and-wood scabbard of Ice—the cultural opium Joffrey had gracefully returned to him after his surrender.
At his feet, Grey Wind paced restlessly.
All three men were trying to ignore the muffled, raw shouting coming from the solar down the hall.
"—EIGHT HUNDRED DISGRACED GOLD CLOAKS, NED!"
Catelyn Stark's voice fractured through the thick timber door.
"YOU BARELY SURVIVED THE CAPITAL, AND NOW YOU MARCH LIKE A PRISON GUARD TO A FROZEN GRAVE?!"
Robb winced, closing his eyes.
"She has been at it since his column cleared the gates."
"Your father chose an honorable exile over execution, Robb," the Blackfish said quietly, his usual sharp humor completely absent.
"You signed the King's peace to save his life and Arya's. But your mother only sees the Wall at the end of his road."
The heavy oak doors burst open. A young steward sprinted into the hall, carrying two rolled parchments.
"My lords! Dispatches. One from the capital... and a second from the North."
Edmure grabbed the first parchment, breaking the royal wax seal of the crowned stag. He read quickly, his eyes widening as he scanned the ink.
"The war in the south is officially over," Edmure breathed, looking up. "Stannis is dead. Joffrey trapped his ships with a harbor chain and burned them with Wildfire."
He paused as he kept reading.
"Then he personally slew Stannis himself in single combat, and now the Reach has bent the knee."
The Blackfish shook his head. "The boy king truly did it."
"There's more," Edmure continued, looking at Robb. "It is the formal invocation of the Peace of the Wolf-Stag we signed at the capital."
He turned his attention to his uncle before looking back to Robb.
"Joffrey is summoning us to King's Landing to attend his coronation and formalize our oaths of fealty. He is honoring the guest right clauses, and he has officially authorized the agricultural reparations you negotiated for the Riverlands."
"So the boy is keeping his word," the Blackfish observed, leaning over the table."Ever since we traded the Kingslayer back for your father and sister, we've had no leverage left to force their hand. It's a bitter pill, but at least this new King honors the ink he signs."
"Joffrey is a man of his word, Uncle," Robb said sternly, while his mind couldn't help but drift to the 7,800 northmen who fell before that city's walls.
He reached down, resting his palm on Grey Wind's massive head. The direwolf didn't lean into the touch—its yellow eyes remained locked on the northern door, a low, vibration-like rumble pulsing in its chest.
"The public tale will call it a magnanimous reconciliation, but we all know the truth of why I knelt. But still, the Riverlands are starving, and since he agreed to the treaty we should take the grain and the coin."
The Blackfish turned to his nephew and new liege lord.
"You have to go to the capital, Edmure."
The room fell silent.
The Riverlands had suffered terribly during the conflict. Gregor Clegane—the Mountain—had led raids throughout the region, burning fields and villages, slaughtering smallfolk.
Edmure nodded slowly, already feeling the crushing weight of his new duties settling on his shoulders.
"I will go. I will swear the formal fealty to save our people." He nodded, "nearly a quarter of the Riverlands' fields have been destroyed, and when winter comes, many of my people will starve.
"Robb."
The Blackfish said, his voice dropping into a more serious tone.
He was staring at the second parchment, which the steward had laid before the Warden of the North. The wax was a hurried, smeared glob of wax in the shape of a bear.
House Mormont.
Robb tore it open. His eyes tracked the jagged script from Lady Mormont, who he'd requested check on Winterfell before she returned home while he'd been stuck in the Riverlands for his wedding.
The young Warden went entirely rigid.
His hands shook letting the parchment slip from his fingers, fluttering onto the heavy wood. Grey Wind let out a low, mournful howl that echoed off the sandstone walls.
"Robb?" Edmure asked, leaning forward. "What is it?"
Robb's chest heaved. The breath rattled in his throat, his face draining of all color until he looked like a fresh corpse.
"Winterfell," he whispered, his voice cracking violently. "Theon... Theon brought the Ironborn. The castle has fallen."
The Blackfish grabbed the letter, his eyes darting across the ink. His breath hitched.
"Theon?" He asked unconvinced. "That can't be true."
"It's true. Lady Mormont wrote that Maester Luwin told her with his dying breath it was him, but that's not the worst of it," Robb choked out, dropping to his knees as the world collapsed beneath him. "Bran…Rickon... He killed them. He murdered my family."
Edmure gasped, slamming a fist onto the table in horror. The muffled shouting from the solar suddenly felt distant.
The title of King in the North was already dead, dissolved on a blood-drenched plain. Robb had given up his crown to protect his family and his people, only for a knife to plunge into his back from someone he thought of as a brother.
"Muster the horses!"
Robb snarled, his grief instantly hardening into a terrifying, wild fury as he stood up, his eyes bloodshot.
"We ride north. I am going to kill Theon Greyjoy myself!"
o-O-o
The air in the royal solar was thick with the scent of melted wax and stale ink.
Joffrey sat behind the heavy oak desk, his face impassive and unreadable despite the deep, jagged scar splitting his right cheekbone. His hands were clad in tight black leather riding gloves, resting flat against the dark timber.
During the morning's dressing change, Grand Maester Pycelle had been visibly unnerved, muttering under his breath as he applied the willow-bark salve.
By all laws of medicine, the severe char-burns Joffrey sustained from catching Stannis's burning blade barehanded should have been weeping, swollen, and prone to the rot.
The deep-seated ache was very real—a relentless, thrumming pulse in his palms—yet the raw tissue beneath the bandages remained unusually warm and bone-dry, knitting at a pace that defied Pycelle's oldest texts.
It wasn't an instant miracle—the deep-seated sharp pain remained, and his dexterity was far from restored.
The old man had babbled about 'unusual humors,' but Joffrey was content to let the old maester stew in his own confusion.
Across from him sat Tyrion, sorting through a massive stack of administrative ledgers. He glanced at Joffrey's hands—resting near the warm brass casing of a desktop oil lamp before Joffrey pulled them back to flex his tight black leather riding gloves.
"Pycelle looked as though he'd seen a ghost when he left your chambers, Your Grace," Tyrion noted, setting a ledger aside. "I suppose your recovery is moving faster than his old books account for."
"The pain is real enough, Uncle," Joffrey said evenly, flexing his glove-bound fingers once against the lingering warmth of the lamp before resting them flat on the desk.
"But the realm doesn't wait for skin to heal."
He slid a letter across the desk toward his uncle.
"A letter from Riverrun. Winterfell has apparently fallen."
His uncle and the others looked shocked at the king's words, as he continued.
"Theon Greyjoy took a handful of longships up the western coast, slipped through the Stony Shore, and caught Winterfell completely undefended before murdering the younger Stark boys."
Tyrion paused, his eyes scanning the text as his eyebrows shot up.
"Seven hells. Balon Greyjoy's boy?" He tossed the letter back onto the desk, his expression darkening.
"I imagine Lord Stark's submission to the Crown won't sit well with his northern vassals if the peace accord leaves their own homes entirely unprotected."
"Robb Stark is a capable commander, but he is exposed," Joffrey said, and to Tyrion's surprise, there was a genuine note of frustration and concern in the king's voice—not for the crown, but for the Starks.
"I didn't sign that treaty just to watch the North dissolve into an unmitigated civil war. A fractured, bleeding North is dangerous for everyone. Robb needs to get home, reclaim his seat, and hang the Greyjoys."
The new Master of Laws studied his nephew, surprised by the sincere investment in the northern alliance.
"He will undoubtedly march immediately," he said.
"But an army moving over land is slow, and the Ironborn have the coastlines. If the Crown intervenes directly, we risk violating the sovereign boundaries of the peace accord we just ratified."
"That's why we won't intervene with armies, at least not yet. We'll use logistics," Joffrey countered, "We have thousands of surviving Stannis rebels and captive Stormlanders taking up space and eating our grain after the battle. Empty the cells. March them north, and give them to the Night's Watch."
Tyrion blinked, processing the brutal efficiency of the command.
"Well, it certainly saves us the cost of executions. It will also thin the mouths we have to feed in the capital, and reinforces the Wall against the wildlings."
"It secures the far boundary so Robb doesn't have to worry about wildings while he clears his own woods," Joffrey explained.
"Second, Dragonstone. Stannis's garrison has officially surrendered. I am issuing a royal mandate to convert that fortress into a state-managed mining operation. I want the volcanic glass—the obsidian—mined at maximum capacity."
His uncle frowned, genuinely perplexed by the sudden pivot to masonry.
"Obsidian? Dragonglass, Your Grace? It's brittle and completely useless against standard steel plate or heavy weaponry. Why waste the manual labor on volcanic rock when we desperately need iron?"
"Because it has a unique trade and industrial value, and it keeps a newly conquered, volatile garrison occupied with exhausting, heavy manual labor so they don't have time to plot a counter-rebellion," Joffrey lied smoothly.
"We extract the resource, store it in the capital registries, and let the smallfolk see that the Crown doesn't let a single acre of royal land sit idle."
Tyrion studied his nephew for a long moment, his eyes lingering briefly on the king's tight leather gloves, which were slowly stretching and curling his gloved fingers. A slow, deeply impressed smile spread across his scarred face.
Eventually he just nodded his head. The young king hadn't been wrong so far so he just decided to put his trust that he knew what he was doing.
"Penal reallocations to fortify the Watch, resource exploitation on Dragonstone, and keeping the Starks stable enough to drive out the rats," he murmured, shaking his head with genuine respect.
"It is ruthlessly practical, Your Grace. I will begin drafting the royal decrees immediately."
"Good," Joffrey said, leaning back as his gloved hands relaxed.
"See to it, Uncle. Let the Starks handle their traitors, but make sure the machinery of the Crown is ready for whatever comes next."
He pushed his chair back and stood before taking a deep breath as his shoulders suddenly became heavy.
"See to the decrees, Lord Tyrion. I need to speak with Lady Sansa before the evening reports arrive."
Tyrion didn't speak, he just moved to fulfill the king's command, though he glanced at Joffrey's back as he left the solar.
o-O-o
The Great Hall of Pyke was a cavern of salt-stained stone, shivering under the relentless assault of the howling winds outside.
At the head of the long table sat Balon Greyjoy, his jaw set in a hard line. To his right was his daughter Yara, her hand resting near the dirk at her leather belt. Further down sat Victarion, the massive Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet, and the wild-eyed priest Aeron Damphair.
Standing before them all, entirely unbothered by the hostility in the room, was Ramsay Snow.
The bastard of the Dreadfort wore dark, damp leathers and a smile that showed too many teeth.
"Give me one reason," Balon said, his gravelly voice dripping with malice, "why I shouldn't have you thrown from the cliffs."
Ramsay's pale eyes gleamed.
"Because without my father's help, your little conquest is dead in the water. You took the coastal castles while the wolves were distracted, true. But the game has changed."
He paused, looking at each of the Greyjoy family's faces.
"The War of the Five Kings is officially over."
The hall went dead silent. Balon gripped the edge of the table.
"Joffrey Baratheon has broken Stannis at the capital, the Reach has fully bent the knee, and the Iron Throne is completely unified."
He let the reality sink in before aiming a mocking look at Yara.
"The moment the Iron Throne turns its eyes north to enforce the peace accord, a unified realm will systematically wipe House Greyjoy off the map."
Ramsay locked eyes with Balon.
"Just like they did the last time you pushed the kingdoms too far."
Several of the Ironborn lords bristled at the insult. Hands moved toward weapons, but before anyone could move Balon raised a hand, and they became silent.
Balon's jaw clenched tightly. "Get to the point, bastard. What is Roose Bolton offering?"
"An avalanche," Ramsay said flatly.
At his words the Ironborn looked at each other in confusion.
"My father has established a line of communication with a man named Mance Rayder. The King-Beyond-the-Wall has unified a hundred thousand wildlings."
He began to explain as he moved through the center of the hall looking at the many different lords of the sea.
"They are desperate—fleeing something in the far north that has them utterly terrified. They want south of the Wall, and they don't care who they have to kill to get there."
Victarion laughed, a harsh barking sound.
"You want us to ally with savages?"
"Not ally. Use them," Ramsay corrected, his smile widening.
"Mance Rayder needs ships to bypass the Watch. He will promise anything for passage. My father's proposal is simple: the Iron Fleet ferries the wildling horde around the Wall, unleashing thousands of starving, desperate raiders straight into the Stark rear flank."
Yara leaned forward, her eyes narrowing.
"And what stops these savages from turning on us once they are on land?"
"Nothing," Ramsay shrugged.
"That is the beauty of it. Let the wildlings and the Stark loyalists butcher each other. While the North burns in chaos, my father's forces will sit safely inside the Dreadfort, and once both sides are thoroughly depleted, we sweep in, execute the surviving savages, and claim the ruins."
Many of the Greyjoy family's eyes widened at the sheer ruthlessness of the plan.
"The boy king gets a pacified realm, the Boltons take Winterfell, and the Ironborn keep the northern coasts because the Throne won't waste the blood to root you out."
"This is insane!"
Theon suddenly stood up from the far end of the table, his voice shaking with a mix of terror and rage.
"You cannot trust a Bolton, and you cannot trust wildlings!"
He turned towards the center of the table locking eyes with his father.
"They are playing you!" he pleaded. "The moment the Starks are dead, the Boltons will turn those savages on us, or hand our heads to the King as a victory court prize!"
"Sit down, Theon," Balon ordered coldly, unmoved by his son's words.
"Father, listen to me!"
He pleaded, looking desperately at his sister, who only watched him with a tense, warning frown.
"You are gambling the future of our entire house on a hornets' nest!"
"Watch your tone, boy."
Victarion growled, his gaze already drifting to the map, counting the ships needed to move a horde. Theon shouted in frustration, turning on his heel and storming out of the hall, the heavy oak doors slamming shut behind him.
Victarion snorted, breaking the tension. "The wolves raised him to be a craven."
"He successfully took Winterfell for us, uncle," Yara reminded him quietly.
She then turned back to Ramsay.
"If your father wants to play kingmaker with a wildling horde, we will need total control of the waters to ensure they land exactly where we want them."
"Mance Rayder will do exactly as he is told until his people are safe," Ramsay lied smoothly, fully intending for the wildlings to bleed the Ironborn too.
Balon sat back in his chair, his fingers drumming slowly on the armrest. He looked at his brother Victarion, a dark, treacherous calculus forming in his mind.
"Let the Boltons think they are hiding safely in the pathetic fort, let the wildlings think they are gaining a new home," he thought to himself. "Once the Iron Fleet holds the gates to the sea, we will dictate who lives and dies in the North."
"Tell your father his terms are acceptable," Balon said finally, his voice cold and resolute. "We will provide the ships. Let this avalanche of his begin."
Ramsay bowed mockingly, his teeth bared in a victorious grin.
"A pleasure doing business, Your Grace."
As the bastard was escorted out, the seeds of a massive, multi-layered betrayal were firmly planted in the salt air. Every faction believed they held the knife. None of them knew the true scale of the horror they were about to unleash.
o-O-o
The Water Gardens of Dorne were a sanctuary of cool water and pale stone, standing in sharp contrast to the sun-baked sands beyond. Prince Doran Martell sat in his wheeled chair beneath a shaded pavilion, watching the shallow pools below.
His face was lined with the quiet patience of a man who fought a constant war against his own failing joints, but his mind remained entirely clear.
Before him, the children played.
His daughter Arianne splashed water toward the younger girls, her laughter, as always, a soothing reminder of the woman he'd loved and lost.
Nearby, Princess Myrcella chased Oberyn's daughters with genuine enthusiasm, thoroughly adjusted to the warmth of the deep south.
Doran's son, Trystane, stayed close to her side, his youthful attention entirely captured by the golden-haired princess.
Doran smiled faintly at the sight.
"She is happy here," Doran murmured.
"Happier than when she arrived," his brother Oberyn agreed.
Oberyn lounged in a cushioned chair beside him, while Ellaria Sand sat draped across his lap like a silk wrap, her fingers tracing the collar of his open robe.
Oberyn didn't break eye contact with his brother as his thumb traced a slow, teasing line up the bare skin of Ellaria's thigh, eliciting a low, amused hum from her.
"The poor girl was terrified of us. Thought we were going to slit her throat to spite her grandfather."
"Some in Dorne still want to," Doran said dryly, pointedly ignoring his brother's casual display.
The tranquil moment was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps. Areo Hotah approached, his massive longaxe held casually in one scarred hand.
"My princes. A raven from King's Landing."
Oberyn's hand paused its slow tracing, his fingers lightly gripping Ellaria's hip to subtly shift her weight as his gaze sharpened. Both brothers exchanged a look, and the ease of the afternoon instantly evaporated.
Doran took the parchment, noted the crisp wax seal of the crowned stag, and broke it open. His eyes scanned the text and his expression remained completely unreadable.
"Well?"
His brother purred, leaning forward just enough to steal a brief, unbothered kiss from Ellaria's jaw before locking eyes with his brother.
"What does the boy king want?"
Doran read the parchment aloud.
"'To Prince Doran Martell of Dorne, greetings. It is with great pleasure that I write to inform you of the end of the War of the Five Kings. The pretender Stannis Baratheon has been defeated and slain, and peace has been restored to the Seven Kingdoms.'"
Oberyn snorted, his fingers idly twirling a dark lock of Ellaria's hair.
"Peace. What a convenient word for a Lannister."
"'In recognition of our houses' friendship, and the bonds forged through Princess Myrcella's residence in your care, I extend a personal invitation,'" he continued, his mouth twitching slightly at the next lines.
"'I ask that you travel to King's Landing as my honored guest to attend my official coronation. I understand travel may be difficult given your condition, and so I offer you every accommodation within the Red Keep. I look forward to strengthening the ties between Dorne and the Iron Throne.'"
The prince of Dorne lowered the parchment. For a moment, only the sound of splashing water filled the pavilion.
Then Oberyn let out a sharp, genuine bark of laughter, shifting Ellaria off his lap with a smooth, fluid grace as he stood up.
"The boy has balls, I'll give him that," Oberyn said, leaning forward.
"If the rumors from the east are true—if he truly slew Stannis on his own while fighting on a bridge of burning ships—then this 'Young Lion' is either an absolute madman or the most dangerous thing to sit that damn throne since Aegon the Conqueror."
"Or both," Doran said softly.
He stared at the ink, his mind sorting through the collapse of their years-long plot.
"Viserys is dead in the east. Slain by the horse-lords. Our long-term Targaryen strategy has died with him."
Oberyn's playful demeanor vanished in an instant, replaced by a cold, predatory intensity. Ellaria felt the shift, her hand resting supportively against his shoulder.
"Which means we need to adjust our strategy."
His brother nodded while holding his chin.
"The Lannisters and Tyrells are fully unified, and the North has submitted under a formal peace treaty and the Riverlands with them, but the new foundations of the realm are still volatile."
He noted, taking a deep breath while his fingers tapped the arm of his chair.
"Joffrey is betrothed to Sansa Stark, but the girl is politically isolated. Meanwhile, the Tyrells appear to have rushed to bind Margaery to the younger prince, Tommen."
"Highgarden moves quickly, but betrothals are not weddings," his brother added.
Oberyn's eyes drifted back to the gardens, tracking Arianne's bright smile, sensual movements among the handmaidens.
"Arianne is intelligent, beautiful, and thoroughly wasted hidden behind these walls. She could turn a young king's head if given the chance."
"I cannot travel to King's Landing," Doran admitted, looking directly at his brother. "My health will not permit it. But Dorne must have eyes in that court if we are to survive. We must know exactly what we are dealing with before we plot our next move."
He leaned forward, his voice turning into a quiet command.
"Take Arianne. Attend the coronation as the official proxy of Dorne. Dissect this boy king. Find his weaknesses, analyze his administration, and see if he is another obstacle or an opportunity to our justice."
Oberyn turned back, catching Ellaria by the waist and pulling her back against his chest with an effortless, practiced charm.
"It would be my absolute pleasure, brother. The capital can be so wonderfully entertaining in the youth of a new reign."
"Oberyn."
Doran warned, his tone suddenly hardening.
"I know what you're thinking, brother. You see the capital and you see an open door for vengeance. We are not ready to move against Tywin Lannister, and you will not touch his mad dog."
"At least not yet." He added.
"I will be the very picture of Dornish courtesy, brother," Oberyn promised, raising a hand in mock innocence. "I will smile, I will bow, and I will play the game exactly as you wish."
Doran watched his brother step away to prepare, a lingering trace of anxiety settling in his chest. His brother had always played the game, but he played by his own rules—and his rules rarely left men breathing.
Looking back out at Trystane and Myrcella laughing in the water, Doran closed his eyes. The old plans were ash.
A new, far more dangerous king ruled from the Iron Throne, and Dorne was finally stepping onto the board.
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