Chapter 127 – The Poisoned Fang Revealed
"A marriage alliance?"
Queen Rhaella frowned slightly when Doran raised the subject.
Before coming to Dorne, she had not failed to consider that this request might arise—but still…
"I'm very sorry, Prince," she said after a moment's thought, folding her hands neatly before her in a formal posture.
"Though I am fond of Elia, the King has already dispatched Lord Steffon Baratheon across the Narrow Sea to seek out a pure maiden of ancient Valyrian blood."
"Just before we departed King's Landing, Lord Baratheon wrote to inform us that a suitable candidate had been found and would soon be brought back to Westeros to wed Rhaegar."
"You know as well as I do that the King's authority is absolute. Even as Queen, I cannot overturn his decision. That said, even without a marriage alliance, the friendship between House Martell and House Targaryen remains unshakable. Of that, there is no doubt."
Her response was measured, dignified, and impeccably reasoned—leaving no obvious flaw to exploit.
Yet Prince Doran followed with a single sentence that stunned everyone present.
"You haven't heard yet, Your Grace?"
"Lord Steffon Baratheon's ship was caught in a once-in-a-century storm in Shipbreaker Bay."
"Everyone aboard—including the lord and his lady wife—perished. There were no survivors."
"What?!"
The Queen cried out despite herself, losing her composure as her hands gripped the arms of her chair and she nearly rose to her feet.
Fortunately, the white-armored knight behind her stepped forward at once, gently pressing a steadying hand to her shoulder.
Meeting Lance's calm, reassuring gaze, Rhaella regained control, settling back into her seat and drawing a deep breath.
"Where did you receive this information, Prince Doran?" she asked, her voice tight, her chest still rising and falling with restrained shock.
Doran did not hesitate.
"From the Stormlands. I only learned of it this morning. The news should spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms shortly."
"Though I grieve deeply for Lord Baratheon's death, Your Grace…"
He rose, walked forward unhurriedly, and personally poured her a cup of costly, sweet Dornish summerwine.
"The Valyrian-blooded maiden lies at the bottom of the sea with the wreckage. Perhaps… we might revisit the matter of Prince Rhaegar's marriage to Elia."
"And as it happens," he added thoughtfully, sliding the wineglass across the table toward her,
"earlier this morning, to affirm Winterfell's defiance toward the Iron Throne, Lord Rickard Stark named his heir Benjen Stark and sent him to Riverrun to negotiate a marriage pact with Lord Tully's eldest daughter—following Brandon Stark's death."
"And even more curiously, Tywin Lannister's eldest son is also in Riverrun—said to be there under the Hand's orders, negotiating marriage with the Tullys' younger daughter."
"If these reports are accurate, then the North, the Westerlands, and the Riverlands are on the brink of forming an unbreakable alliance."
The barrage of revelations struck like hammer blows.
The Queen sat frozen, staring at the dark red wine in her cup, momentarily unable to speak.
What such an alliance meant was clear—even to her.
If House Targaryen failed to secure a reliable ally soon, they would be left isolated upon the Iron Throne.
The Stormlands? The Reach?
No—Steffon Baratheon, though of Targaryen blood, was dead, if Doran spoke truth.
And his heir—the one implicated in Rhaegar's kidnapping—was now a wanted man, whereabouts unknown.
Even if that boy somehow returned safely to Storm's End, whether he would support the Iron Throne was far from certain.
Worse still, the Baratheon heir was also the foster son of Jon Arryn of the Vale.
Something was deeply wrong.
Terrifyingly so.
For the first time, the Queen felt a tightening in her chest—almost suffocating.
Unknowingly, House Targaryen had been maneuvered into isolation among the Seven Kingdoms.
"Are your sources reliable, Prince Doran?"
Just as despair threatened to swallow her, a steady, composed voice cut through the silence.
White robes advanced, placing themselves naturally between Prince Doran and the Queen.
Clear blue eyes met the Dornish prince's gaze, calm yet probing.
"I do not question your honesty," Lance said evenly.
"But these matters were wholly unknown to us until now. I must ask—are you certain?"
At the sight of his tall, resolute figure, the Queen finally exhaled, the weight on her chest lifting as reassurance returned.
Prince Doran, however, frowned—dark eyes flickering with displeasure.
He had been so close.
Doran had deliberately exaggerated certain facts—for instance, Tywin Lannister's eldest son had already left Riverrun, and that slippery old trout Hoster Tully had by no means agreed to a marriage alliance with House Stark.
All of it was calculated.
A carefully constructed assault on the Queen's psychological defenses—meant to force the marriage through in one decisive blow.
As Prince of Dorne, Doran had to think in terms of long-term harmony with the Iron Throne.
It had been a full century since Dorne last bound itself to the Targaryens by blood—far too long. He could not be certain that a dynasty obsessed with conquest and war would not one day turn its dragons southward again.
Dorne had never feared war.
But Doran did not wish to see his rule drenched in blood.
And the surest path to peace was marriage.
More importantly—once Rhaegar and Elia were wed, their firstborn son would stand as a natural heir to the Iron Throne.
A prince carrying Martell blood would once more sit upon the throne.
And Dorne, long relegated to the margins of power, would finally move—step by step—into the very center of the Seven Kingdoms, steering the course of the realm.
For a newly crowned prince, Doran's ambitions burned fiercely.
---
"I'm afraid, Ser—"
Facing Lance's probing tone, Doran felt a flicker of irritation.
"I do not believe I am obliged to explain myself to you."
"Of course, Your Highness."
Lance did not press the issue. Instead, he inclined his head politely.
"However, as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and a member of the Small Council, His Grace instructed me before we departed King's Landing that all major decisions must be discussed between myself and the Queen before any answer is given."
"Prince Rhaegar's marriage is no small matter. I don't believe we can provide a response so hastily."
Internally, Lance scoffed.
The King was already deeply dissatisfied with Rhaegar. If Aerys learned that Rhaegar had pledged himself to House Martell without his consent, the consequences would be disastrous.
Rhaegar's personal wishes were secondary.
If the King reneged later, it would damage royal authority and poison relations with Dorne—much like how Tywin Lannister had once insulted the Martells by offering his dwarf son, souring West–Dorne relations to this very day.
"But…"
Seeing the smile drain from Doran's face, Lance suddenly smiled instead.
Under the Queen's puzzled gaze, the white-armored knight walked over to Viserys, who had finished eating and was quietly watching the adults talk. Lance reached out and gently ruffled the boy's silver hair.
"If I remember correctly," he said casually,
"you have a daughter about Prince Viserys's age, do you not?"
Doran's eyelid twitched.
Yes—he and Mellario had a daughter. Arianne Martell.
But she was the eldest child of Dorne, his heir.
Was Lance suggesting she be married to Targaryen's second son?
Absolutely not.
"I'm afraid that would be unacceptable, Ser."
Doran rejected the notion without hesitation.
Even if he agreed, Mellario would never allow it. Sacrificing an heir to gain influence within House Targaryen was an appalling bargain—unless Rhaegar conveniently died.
And that was unlikely. By all accounts, the prince was strong and still healthy.
Wishing for Rhaegar's death was far less realistic than hoping the King would lose his mind and execute his own son.
"Then I suppose there's nothing more to discuss."
Lance spread his hands with feigned regret, then took Viserys's hand and bowed slightly.
"My apologies, Your Highness."
"It is now Her Grace's rest hour. I will discuss your proposal with the Queen further before any reply is given."
"Farewell."
With that, he lifted Viserys into his arms and gave the Queen a subtle look.
Though she didn't understand his sudden urgency, Rhaella frowned, saw the seriousness in his expression, and rose at once. She nodded politely to Doran and followed Lance out.
Doran remained seated, face dark, slowly spooning up a mouthful of purine-heavy seafood soup, watching them leave in silence.
After a moment, he spoke coldly into the shadows.
"Tell Oberyn—move. Now."
---
"We must leave immediately."
On the way back, before the Queen could speak, Lance murmured urgently:
"If what he said is true, the situation is dire for the Iron Throne."
"I'm not in King's Landing. The old man can't handle this alone—he needs me."
Hearing this, and seeing the seriousness on his face, Rhaella's first reaction was not relief—but jealousy.
After everything I've done… and you're still thinking about that withered old man?
What are you even thinking?
"And there's more," Lance continued.
"Doran Martell is dangerously ambitious. If today he dared to pressure you over lunch, tomorrow he may dare to detain us here as hostages—to force the King's hand."
"And his brother is unstable. Anything is possible with him. Staying in Sunspear is far too dangerous."
That finally eased her unease.
She quickened her steps.
Then—
As they neared the Water Gardens, dozens of soldiers in dark yellow leather armor burst from the brush, spears raised, encircling them instantly.
"What are you doing?!"
Lance moved at once, shielding the Queen and Viserys behind him.
"This is Queen Rhaella Targaryen!"
The soldiers parted.
A wheelchair was pushed forward.
Oberyn Martell sat upon it, his black eyes fixed on them like a serpent's.
"I would never dare harm the noble Queen of House Targaryen."
He grinned, tongue sliding slowly over his lips—just like a snake tasting the air.
Then, in a cold, rasping voice, he said:
"What I want… is you."
"Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."