Ever since Tywin Lannister surrendered to the Iron Throne on the battlefields of the Riverlands, this strange military standoff had naturally come to its end.
A single hair pulled could move the whole body; at this moment, House Martell naturally no longer had any reason to keep its army stationed here.
Renly, too, had no patience left to keep bickering with Oberyn Martell.
In the borderlands of Dorne, after all, there was no one who truly liked House Martell.
So even if Jon hadn't brought the head of Gregor Clegane this time, Renly would have still found a way to end this meaningless standoff.
As for the gift Jon delivered—essentially, to Renly, it was only a reference, an embellishment at best.
And that was one of the reasons why, from the moment he met Oberyn, the two had immediately begun trading barbs.
There had been plenty of such quarrels lately—endless squabbling, yet each side forced to stay on guard.
Beneath the surface, both men had already been burning with irritation.
So when he heard Renly's words, Oberyn merely let out a cold snort.
"The King's order for the campaign was sent to all Seven Kingdoms, Renly. You're the one who blocked Dorne's army from marching in royal service—you're the traitor here."
"And you still have the gall to ask about my stance?"
"If I were Robert, believe me, you'd already be rotting away in a dungeon for the rest of your life."
Oberyn's face was full of mockery, refusing to give Renly a single straight answer, sidestepping the issue entirely.
"You think there's any meaning in arguing this?"
Renly's displeasure showed plainly on his face; his gaze grew colder by the second.
"Or perhaps you're just waiting for the next thing delivered to you not to be a gift—but the Iron Throne's campaign decree against Dorne's defiance?"
"If that's what you're counting on, then I suppose the Lannisters would have plenty to say."
Having won the war and stood as victor, Renly spoke with solid confidence—his threats rolled easily off his tongue.
Yet, facing Renly's menace, Oberyn's expression showed only disdain.
However, when his eyes fell upon the chest before him, his scornful smile deepened, and the chill in his gaze slowly eased.
Shrugging his shoulders, Prince Oberyn's tone softened slightly.
"Fine, you're right, Renly—this war is indeed over."
"Since the Lannisters have lost, that's the best outcome for us."
"Especially when the son of Robert has brought me such a fine gift."
"So, if our help is no longer needed, then of course Dorne will withdraw its troops."
A mocking smile curved Oberyn's lips.
"And if you wish, we wouldn't mind helping you drive away those hyenas from the Free Cities who've caught the scent."
Having said that, Oberyn lifted his goblet once more, his expression laced with ambiguous amusement. Behind the rim of his cup, his eyes narrowed, studying the man before him—Renly Baratheon.
It seemed he was quite well-informed about what had happened on Dragonstone and along the Stormlands' coast.
But Oberyn Martell's words only made Renly's face darken further.
If it weren't for these ambiguous bastards hoarding their armies here, he wouldn't have had such trouble dealing with those ragtag bands of mercenaries in the first place.
Feeling vexed, Renly replied coldly.
"No need. The Stormlands have enough strength to handle them."
After that, Renly had no desire to remain seated any longer.
Since his objective had been achieved, he didn't wish to stay here a minute more.
Renly Baratheon stood, turned on his heel, and prepared to leave the Dornish-style command tent.
Watching the displeased Renly depart, Oberyn Martell remained lounging in his chair, making no move to stop him.
His eyes still carried that same unreadable, sardonic gleam.
Yet clearly, Renly failed to notice.
Just as he reached the entrance of the tent, Renly seemed to recall something.
"Oh—by the way, there's to be a feast tonight at Blackhaven, to celebrate the victory and to welcome Ser Jon's arrival."
"If Prince Oberyn wishes, Blackhaven would be glad to receive you."
Renly didn't linger long in the Dornish camp. After settling the matter of their military standoff with Oberyn Martell, he immediately returned to Blackhaven.
As for Jon, he remained behind.
...
"Lord Edric Dayne?"
A guard glanced curiously at the northerner brought by Prince Oberyn's own men.
Then he pointed toward a nearby tent. "If I'm not mistaken, he should still be inside. You can probably find him there now."
Following the guard's direction, Jon and his companions stepped over the drifting sand and made their way toward the tent.
When they arrived outside, the prince's guard first peered at the silhouette within—
Then called out in a clear voice, "Lord Edric Dayne, you have visitors."
"Visitors? Who?" came a youthful voice from within the tent—it was a child's. "Is it Lord Beric Dondarrion?"
There was a note of excitement in his tone.
Jon stood outside, puzzled by the sound of the voice inside the tent.
But before he could ask, a flurry of footsteps followed, and a boy with platinum-blond hair—barely reaching Jon's chest in height—burst through the curtain.
He had large, deep blue eyes tinged with violet, shining brilliantly.
After rushing out, he looked around eagerly, eyes searching left and right.
Yet the one he hoped to see was nowhere to be found.
"Lord Edric Dayne is… a child?"
While Jon was still observing the boy before him, Bronn whispered to the guard who had led them there, his tone a bit odd, as if his mind were turning over some private thought.
The guard, however, ignored him.
He bowed briefly to Edric Dayne and said, "Lord Edric, Ser Jon Snow requested an audience. Prince Oberyn asked me to bring him here."
Having stated his purpose, the guard hefted his spear and left without another word—swift and clean.
And so, only Edric Dayne, Jon, and Bronn were left standing, staring at one another in awkward silence.
Seeing that the one who had come wasn't Beric Dondarrion, Edric Dayne finally realized his mistake and blushed in embarrassment.
Instinctively, he wanted to retreat back into his tent.
"Ahem—are you Lord Edric Dayne?"
"I am Jon Snow of Winterfell, son of Lord Eddard Stark."
Looking at the boy before him, Jon quickly performed a knight's salute and introduced himself, though his eyes still lingered curiously on the handsome child before him.
Edric Dayne, who had been shy at first upon meeting strangers, froze for a moment when he heard the words Winterfell, Eddard Stark, and Jon Snow.
Then, his mind swiftly connected the three names together.
At once, his deep blue eyes with their faint violet hue brightened with delight.
"So it's you—my milk brother!"
A radiant smile spread across Edric Dayne's face as he spoke rapidly, clearly excited to finally meet someone he had only heard stories about.
But as soon as those words—milk brother—left his lips, both Jon and Bronn were left stunned.
They exchanged glances, each seeing confusion in the other's eyes.
"You mean… we're brothers?"
Jon hadn't fully caught the phrase, but he'd heard the word brother clearly enough.
He widened his grey eyes, his face filled with shock.
Then, as a realization struck him, he blurted out in surprise: "Your mother—she's Ashara Dayne?!"
That sudden remark, however, left Edric Dayne equally dumbfounded.
The two stared at each other in mutual bewilderment, both sensing something strange, though neither knew exactly where the misunderstanding lay.
Fortunately, Edric was the first to recover.
"Ser Jon, my mother isn't Ashara Dayne—she's my father's sister, my aunt."
"And when I said you're my milk brother, I meant that you and I both nursed from the same woman."
"We were both fed by Wylla—she was my wet nurse and served House Dayne for many years."
Edric covered his mouth and chuckled softly, but after organizing his thoughts, he patiently explained to Jon.
He more or less understood what Jon had been thinking.
And with his explanation, Jon finally realized he'd made yet another blunder.
"She must've been quite the woman!" Bronn muttered under his breath, unable to resist commenting.
Jon turned and shot him a sharp glare before hastily apologizing to Edric. "I'm sorry, my lord, he didn't mean anything by it. He's just… flustered and doesn't know what to say."
It was, once again, another awkward blunder.
"Don't worry about it, Ser Jon Snow—and there's no need to call me 'Ser.' I'm only a cupbearer, not even a squire yet."
Edric was gracious and understanding.
"And though you find me a stranger, I know of you. I've heard plenty from Wylla."
"She told me stories—about Lord Eddard Stark, and about you as well."
Edric Dayne smiled brightly as he spoke, his lips moving quickly, looking every bit the lively child.
But faced with that innocent smile, Jon only felt his embarrassment deepen.
He already knew, without needing details, what kind of stories those were.
King Robert Baratheon himself had once spoken of them—on the road from the North to the Riverlands, he had talked with Jon's father about a woman named Wylla.
The King had said that Ned Stark had lain with a young girl during the Rebellion, calling her "the mother of your bastard."
Jon had been there as a guard that day, standing beside Kal, attending the two men.
If his memory served him right, his father had named the girl Wylla—though he had refused to say more after that.
Robert had laughed loudly, jesting that for a woman to make Eddard Stark forget honor even for an hour, she must have been truly irresistible.
That name—Wylla—had burned itself deep into Jon's memory.
And now, after the initial awkwardness passed, a nervous tension began to seize him.
Because he suddenly realized that the answer he'd been searching for might be right before him.
His hands clenched uncertainly, unsure where to rest.
By instinct, one moved to the hilt of Pale Justice—but he quickly caught himself and withdrew.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, not knowing how to begin.
Sensing Jon's sudden unease, Edric Dayne looked at him curiously.
"What's wrong?" Edric asked with concern.
Faced with the question—and with the truth pressing on his chest—Jon's breath grew short, his hands and feet stiff with anxiety.
Looking at the fair-haired boy before him, he finally forced the words out, halting and strained.
"If… if I were to ask—did Wylla ever tell you… whether I… whether I'm her son?"
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