"Arianne is going as well? Then our fleet won't be returning?"
Hearing her father's decision, Obara couldn't quite understand what he meant.
"Because the current king no longer has a queen beside him. This may be Arianne's opportunity."
A gleam flickered in Oberyn's eyes as he spoke, not minding enlightening his daughter with a bit of worldly knowledge.
Obara froze slightly upon hearing that, then quickly understood her father's meaning.
Arianne Martell was the eldest daughter of Prince Doran Martell—the ruler of Dorne—and his wife, Mellario.
According to Dornish tradition, she was not only a princess of Dorne but also the heir to Sunspear and the dominion of Dorne.
Given Arianne's status and position, she was naturally worthy of becoming a queen.
Just like Princess Elia Martell once was.
In truth, Arianne's standing was even higher than Elia's had been.
If Arianne sought to claim such a place for Dorne—and were she to bear the Iron Throne a prince—then Dorne would once again return to the center of power.
That would be a good thing.
Understanding her father's intention, Obara and her sister Nymeria Sand exchanged a glance, joy reflected equally on their faces.
And thinking of what their father's decision could bring to Dorne, Nymeria's breathing unconsciously quickened. "Father, does Arianne truly have a chance?" she asked. "Now that the war has ended, there must be more than one person eyeing that position."
Nymeria, twenty-five years old, was Prince Oberyn's second eldest bastard daughter, born of a noblewoman from Volantis.
Among the famed Sand Snakes, she ranked second.
Unlike her elder sister Obara Sand, she possessed the beauty her sister lacked.
Though she too was a daughter of the Red Viper, Oberyn Martell, her skin was a soft and alluring ivory.
Her figure was slender as a willow branch, her straight black hair braided into a long plait bound with red-and-gold cord, and her eyes were dark as night—just like her father's.
Paired with her high cheekbones and full lips, Nymeria Sand exuded a distinctive, striking allure.
Yet alongside her beauty came a sharp, lethal edge.
She was known for always carrying more than a dozen blades upon her person.
As for Nymeria's concern, Oberyn narrowed his eyes, silently weighing in his mind what enemies Arianne might face if she pursued such a goal.
After a brief moment, the corners of Prince Oberyn's lips lifted.
"Arianne will have many rivals for love—but I believe in her."
Thinking of the "challenges" Arianne would soon face, and recalling her temperament, Oberyn's confidence only deepened.
Yet, it was clear he had no intention of speaking further on the matter.
He kept the rest of his thoughts to himself.
Draining the last of the summer red in his cup, Oberyn looked again at his two daughters, his tone shifting as the topic turned.
"Oh, I almost forgot—since the Iron Throne has sent us a gift, I suppose we should return the favor."
"It's time to bring this war to a true end."
"I'll personally draft a letter to Arianne and Quentyn, telling them to bring the fighting across the Narrow Sea to an end as soon as possible."
"Mmh~ so, let those sellswords go back. It seems the time hasn't quite come yet—"
As he spoke, a strange gleam flickered between Oberyn's brows, and the mocking curve at his lips deepened.
"And I want them to make the Martell fleet the key to breaking the stalemate at Dragonstone—and if possible, to gain the friendship of Stannis Baratheon along the way."
"That, I think, would serve us well."
With just a few casual words, Oberyn decided the course of the ongoing war across the Narrow Sea, his tone light and indifferent.
Hearing her father brush aside the previous topic to speak of serious matters, Obara Sand—who knew at least part of what lay behind it—couldn't help showing a trace of doubt.
"Would those sellswords agree to that?" she asked.
"If there isn't enough gold to satisfy their appetites, I imagine they'll find something to do about it."
Obara sounded puzzled—for if this matter were brought into the open, it would be little short of betraying their own allies.
Yet Oberyn's smile only grew more sardonic.
"That isn't our concern. What we need to do is simply inform our allies of our decision," the Red Viper said coolly, his words brimming with confidence.
"As for how to handle it, I believe our friend understands it better than we do—and I trust he'll see that the necessary work is done."
"But before that—heh…"
Oberyn let out a few low, cold laughs, then narrowed his eyes once more, his gaze settling on Gregor Clegane's severed head before him.
His voice dropped to an almost inaudible murmur. "We still need a bit of preparation. Soon—"
He muttered those cryptic words, the mockery on his face growing colder still.
Like a serpent flicking its tongue with a faint hiss, hiding itself beneath green leaves and desert sand.
Hearing her father's words, Obara Sand parted her lips slightly.
Watching her father's deliberate air of mystery, confusion still lingered in her heart.
Yet this time, she neither pondered further nor questioned him—she merely nodded silently in acknowledgment.
"Then, Father, I'll make the necessary preparations. I'll return to Dorne with the army, and as for the Mountain's head, I'll personally carry it and hand it to Prince Doran myself."
Receiving Oberyn's instructions, Obara Sand rose to her feet, bowed to her father, and stepped forward to lift Gregor Clegane's severed head from the table, placing it carefully back into the nearby chest.
However, just as she was about to leave the tent with her sister Nymeria Sand to prepare the army's withdrawal, Oberyn, lounging lazily on his chair, seemed suddenly to recall something.
"Wait."
Oberyn stopped the two, his gaze turning toward them.
The sisters turned back, puzzled.
"Nymeria and Tyene—you two need not return to Dorne yet. You'll come with me to King's Landing. I may need your help there."
Hearing this, Nymeria glanced at her sister. Though she didn't quite understand what her father intended, she still nodded in agreement.
But Obara Sand was clearly dissatisfied.
"What about me, Father?"
Seeing that among the three sisters who had come with the host, both of her younger sisters were being taken along to King's Landing while she alone was to return home carrying a dead man's head, Obara felt greatly displeased.
"I wish to go with you as well! As long as you need me, I'll be your sharpest spear—just as when you made me choose between you and Mother!"
Watching his daughter's petulant outburst, Oberyn couldn't help but laugh.
The smile on his face now was entirely different from the cold, serpentine one he had worn earlier.
Compared to the venomous chill from before, there was now rare warmth in his eyes.
"Obara, the task I've given you is far more important than what your sisters will be doing."
"I want you to return and await Prince Doran's command—and stay ready at all times."
"We may soon find ourselves very busy."
A glint of light flickered in Oberyn's eyes. Though his tone was gentle, he left the deeper meaning unsaid.
Hearing her father's reassurance—and seeing the calculating look that hinted he was plotting something—Obara quickly set aside her irritation.
She was a warrior, a fighter—someone who had never truly seen herself as a woman.
Her earlier outburst had merely come from the feeling that her father had no use for her.
But now that he had said there was something more important awaiting her, Obara Sand no longer felt any discontent.
"I'll be ready at all times, awaiting your and Prince Doran's command!"
...
"This damned road—I'm already starting to miss my warm bed!"
Along the King's Road, a spirited procession advanced.
At its head rode King Robert Baratheon upon a stout warhorse, grumbling to his Hand, Eddard Stark.
His gaze was vacant as he looked far into the distance, toward the now clearly visible King's Landing. In his eyes flickered a trace of longing—like a weary traveler in a barren desert, dying of thirst, suddenly catching sight of an oasis of life.
As for Lord Eddard of Winterfell, whose ears were about to grow calluses from hearing the same complaints, his face showed only fatigue.
He didn't reply immediately. Instead, he raised his head to glance at the city now looming near, then turned to look back at the string of prison wagons following behind them.
Among these wagons, the most distinguished prisoner was none other than the former Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West—Tywin Lannister.
Noticing the Hand's gaze upon him, Tywin, seated alone in his carriage yet maintaining the same calm composure, returned the look toward Eddard Stark.
His face remained expressionless, never once showing a smile—merely an unshaken stillness.
Yet Eddard seemed to perceive a faint hint of mockery in those eyes, and for some reason, it left him unsettled.
Perhaps it was simply exhaustion from the journey—or maybe this damned weather truly was unbearably hot. Eddard thought as much, gathering his wandering thoughts back under control.
He had stayed at Harrenhal for half a month, spending every day handling one matter after another.
After all, with Tywin Lannister's unexpected choice to surrender, though the war had ended in a relatively peaceful manner, the follow-up tasks—reception, resettlement, and countless related troubles—were nothing short of a mountain.
Moreover, the tedious social dealings he despised appeared endlessly before him, yet he could not refuse them.
As Lord of the North, the greatest beneficiary of this war, and the King's Hand, these burdens naturally fell upon his shoulders.
Thus, when King Robert—bored and impatient—had insisted on returning to King's Landing, Eddard silently yielded to his will and chose to accompany him.
As for the Lannister army, Robert had yet to decide what to do with them.
In the end, he crudely divided them into three groups.
One portion was handed over to the northern host—those whose crimes on the battlefield had already been confirmed through trial.
They were the most vicious, the most guilty of all.
However, since Tywin Lannister had surrendered rather than been defeated, Robert, beyond executing a few symbolic beheadings, decreed that the rest should don black cloaks and head for the Wall to join the Night's Watch.
There, they would live out their remaining years, atoning for their sins—while at the same time replenishing the long-depleted ranks of the Watch with new strength.
As for the remaining smaller portion, it was somewhat special—these men were handed over as compensation to the Riverlands lords who had suffered the heaviest losses in the war.
They were knights or noble sons from various houses.
By obtaining them, the Riverlands would receive a share of recompense—perhaps the most straightforward way to do so.
To avoid unnecessary trouble, after consulting with Robert and gaining his approval, Eddard chose to entrust these men to House Tully of Riverrun, allowing them to distribute this "cake" among their vassals.
This would help the Tullys restore some internal cohesion after their defeat in the war.
After all, the Riverlands—broken apart by a single assault—had behaved oddly during this sudden conflict.
Eddard Stark had keenly noticed that something about the situation felt off.
But now he lacked the energy to concern himself with such "trivial matters," and could only do what he could to aid Catelyn's family.
Of course, these were merely the initial compensations.
The Westerlands were a tempting piece of fat meat, and that was one reason why Eddard chose, for the time being, to step back and avoid the conflict.
He needed time to think calmly.
As for what came next—it would depend on how that "cake" should ultimately be divided.
It was a tangled, complicated affair that could not be resolved with a single stroke, and all parties would have to negotiate a reasonable arrangement.
But that was a matter for later.
The last and largest portion of the remaining army—the ordinary soldiers—was, of course, placed under the control of the Iron Throne.
However, for the moment, they could only remain stationed at Harrenhal under temporary supervision; it was impossible to bring them all to King's Landing.
Later, they would be divided into several groups, disbanded and reorganized in batches, and then gradually sent to the capital as reinforcements.
Throughout this process, there would be some elimination, with the best retained.
It would also be a lengthy matter—at least half a year before everything could be properly managed and absorbed.
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