Abel had never experienced such heat before. His thick, fur-lined cloak, suited for the bitter northern winters, was useless in the scorching southern sun. He had removed it hours ago, bundling it atop his horse's saddle alongside a gruesome cargo—the head of Gregor Clegane.
The city that rose before him was unlike any he had seen. Its walls were constructed of mud and straw, their sun-baked surfaces glowing golden in the morning light. Most roofs were rounded and gleamed as if reflecting the sun itself. Abel could not imagine these delicate structures withstanding a blade, an axe, or the impact of a battering ram. Yet, Sunspear had stood for generations, a testament to the resilience of Dorne.
Even the locals fascinated him. Girls along the road stared with wide-eyed curiosity, as though these northerners had never been seen before. One particularly striking girl, with chestnut hair and dark, sun-kissed skin, approached them with a smile. She ignored the sharp tang of sweat clinging to the men from their long journey and touched Mathew's exposed, muscular chest, running her fingers over him before putting them in her mouth to taste. Then, with a flirtatious nod, she pointed the way to the Old Palace, residence of House Martell—a well-known secret to Sunspear's residents.
Abel's group was met by a Dornish soldier at the Triple Gate, a man with a thick red beard and piercingly white teeth. His voice, thick with the local accent, was sharp and rude. "Where did these northern bumpkins come from? A King of the North, or House Karstark? Never heard of them." He waved a long spear threateningly. "Go. Go cool off somewhere else. Speak another word, and I'll throw you into the dungeon for a month to rot!"
Abel anticipated such hostility. He did not flinch or argue. Instead, he stepped back, reached into his chest, and drew out a flag. Tying it to his longsword, he raised it high. The bloodthirsty Running Wolf emblem fluttered in the wind, stark and defiant.
"I represent the King of the North, Robb Stark of Winterfell, and Earl Rickard of House Karstark," Abel declared firmly. "Please convey a gift to Prince Doran Martell, Lord of Sunspear."
They had traveled south cautiously, avoiding main roads and concealing their identity until the last moment. Abel's young master had warned that if their claim were doubted, revealing themselves might be the only way to gain an audience. It was a risk, but the stakes of diplomacy in these times demanded bold action.
The guard's brow furrowed as he considered the flag. "Why didn't you show this sooner?" he muttered. Then, after a pause, he said, "Wait here. I'll ask. Whether you meet the Prince depends on your gift's value."
Abel added quietly, "Please also mention that our gift concerns Princess Elia Martell."
The guard stiffened at the mention of her name. Without another word, he quickened his pace, disappearing behind the gates.
From the Triple Gate, a broad, straight flagstone road led directly to the Old Palace, a path that spared visitors from getting lost in Sunspear's twisting alleys. Half an hour later, Abel, accompanied by Mathew, Yaris, Todd, Owen, and their packs, walked along this road. Their supplies and silver stags had been carefully prepared by Eddard and Earl Rickard. Despite the support, the journey had been arduous and dangerous.
Bandits roamed the roads in this war-torn land. Many had once been caravan guards, soldiers, or farmers, but circumstances had turned them into desperate thieves. Abel himself had killed at least five such outlaws, and the memories still haunted him. One in particular—a child not yet fifteen—had confronted him with a pitchfork, only to be impaled by a javelin. The boy's twisted, terrified face was burned into Abel's memory. The world was cruel, he thought, more so than any map could convey.
"We're here."
The guard's unique accent broke Abel from his thoughts. Instead of stopping at the Old Palace, they were guided along another road, winding toward the Water Gardens, a luxurious private residence by the sea. The gardens were fragrant, with rows of orange trees and red marble pathways. Abel inhaled deeply, letting the sweet scent lift his spirits. The air reminded him that life, even in war, could be unexpectedly beautiful.
A soft sound drew his attention—a single orange falling from a tree. Beneath its shadow sat Prince Doran Martell. His wheelchair was inconspicuous under an ivory-white sheet, yet it could not hide the ravages of illness. His legs were swollen, his fingers gnarled and red from gout, and his face haggard. Despite this, a faint, welcoming smile graced his lips.
Arianne Martell stood behind him, radiating elegance. Her pink robe complemented her tall, alluring frame, and her olive-toned skin gleamed in the sunlight. Her black curls framed a face at once sweet and ambitious, like a perfectly ripened peach.
"Prince Martell," Abel began, his voice tight with nervousness. He laid down his bundle with care. Untying it, he revealed a gruesome sight: the severed head of Gregor Clegane.
"My young master knows the sins this man committed," Abel said quietly. "He sent me to present it as a gift."
Doran's pupils constricted sharply, but his face betrayed no emotion. He looked at the head with measured calm.
"You claim this is true? Dorne has no alliance with the North. You are at war. How do I know you didn't kill a random vagrant and bring him here to trick us?" His tone was calm, yet sharp.
Arianne's eyes glimmered, fixed intently on Abel, curiosity and suspicion mingling. He felt his heartbeat quicken, silently urging himself not to embarrass his young master.
"Prince Martell," he said carefully, "it is natural to doubt such sudden visitors. But this is only part of the gift."
He signaled to Mathew, Yaris, Todd, and Owen, who each set down their packs and untied them. From them, they produced carefully preserved parts of Clegane's body. In the scented orange grove, they began to assemble a grotesque reconstruction, standing over two meters tall. The body was meticulously reassembled, each cut precise, a chilling testament to Abel's skill. Even the most intimate details had been preserved, pale and shriveled with death. The air was a mixture of sweetness from the gardens and the faint stench of decay.
Prince Doran's fingers gripped his red agate lion tightly, the pain in his hands a reminder not to betray his thoughts. He regarded Abel with the same calm exterior he had maintained throughout.
"And what do Robb Stark and House Karstark hope to gain with this gift?" he asked, his voice steady.
Ravens had already carried messages from King's Landing. Doran knew Myrcella might soon arrive in Dorne, yet he remained focused on revenge. He had never forgotten the Lannisters' crimes and intended to dismantle their power piece by piece.
Abel bowed deeply. "My young master says this is merely a gift, not a transaction. A gift requires no return. Yet it may serve as a stepping stone for further correspondence."
Arianne, unable to hide her curiosity, interjected, "I am intrigued. I want to meet your young master."
Abel ignored her teasing and continued, "If Prince Martell accepts this gift, my young master will write to you in due course. We also hope you may respond at your leisure."
"Good. I understand." Doran nodded and dismissed them. "You need not stay. The matter is settled. Do you require a place to rest?"
Abel shook his head. "No. The war continues, and His Majesty requires every man in the North."
Prince Doran inclined his head, then spoke to Arianne. "See our guests off for me."
"Yes, Father." Arianne's presence was commanding as she followed the five men, casually inquiring about Abel's young master.
Doran waved to his guard, whispering, "Have Oberyn send men to watch over our guests. Their banner has been seen; they may attract attention."
The guard nodded and left. Doran exhaled, eyes drifting to the reconstructed body. "There is no such thing as a free gift in this world," he murmured, a trace of wry amusement in his voice.
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