"You have better options, Lord Garin," Rhaegar said, cutting to the heart of the matter. "You are wealthy. You have the ear of the Martells. Why risk everything on a dream?"
It was a test. Rhaegar needed to know if Garin was a romantic fool or a pragmatic ally.
Garin's face hardened. "The Martells? They are the jailers of my people. Nymeria was a hero to some, yes. But to us, she was the woman who burned our ships. She trapped us here in this red dust, forced us to marry Andal lords and worship Andal gods. We have never forgiven her."
He gestured to the river. "We call ourselves Orphans for a reason. We mourn our Mother Rhoyne. The Martells gave us a place to live, but they took away our soul."
"And you think I can give it back?" Rhaegar asked.
"I think you are a breaker of chains," Garin replied. "You are the Guardian of the Narrow Sea now. You control the Stepstones. You have dragons. If anyone has the power to clear the Rhoyne of pirates and plague, it is you."
"The Rhoyne is a graveyard," Rhaegar warned. "Stone Men. Greyscale. The Shrouded Lord. It is not the paradise you remember."
"I know," Garin said, his voice heavy with sorrow. "But it is home. And a grave is better than a prison."
Rhaegar studied the old man. There was a steel in him that reminded Rhaegar of Tywin Lannister, though tempered by a profound sadness.
"How many men can you raise?" Rhaegar asked.
Garin hesitated. "Soldiers? Few. We are boatmen, healers, midwives. But we are everywhere. On every river in Westeros, in every port in the Free Cities. We hear things. We see things. A thousand swords are useless if you don't know where to swing them. But a thousand eyes... that is power."
"Spies," Rhaegar noted.
"And healers," Garin added. "The Rhoynar know secrets of medicine that the Maesters have forgotten. We can keep your army alive when others would die of fever and rot."
"You make a compelling case," Rhaegar admitted. "But why me? Why not the King?"
"Because the King is a statue," Garin said. "You are the storm. I watched you in the tavern. You cursed that Myrishman without touching him. You have the old magic in you. Fire calls to water, Prince Rhaegar. We are opposite elements, but we are part of the same song."
Rhaegar felt a chill. He knows.
"Very well," Rhaegar said. "We have an accord. You serve me, and when the time comes, I will help you return to the Rhoyne."
"Then let us seal it with a gift," Garin said.
He reached into a chest and pulled out several pieces of blackened, charred wood. They looked like driftwood, but as Rhaegar took them, he felt a distinct, cool pulse against his skin.
"Fragments of Nymeria's ships," Garin whispered. "Saved from the fire by my ancestors. They are carved with the runes of the Water Wizards. Most of the magic died with the witches who fought Prince Garin, but a few sparks remain."
Rhaegar ran his thumb over the wood. He could see faint, swirling patterns etched into the grain—runes that seemed to flow like liquid.
[System Notification: Ancient Item Acquired - Rhoynar Ship Fragment.]
[Description: Contains dormant Water Runes. Can be studied to unlock hydro-magical affinities.]
"This is a generous gift," Rhaegar said, genuinely impressed. The loss of magic was a tragedy for both their houses. The Rhoynar lost their water, the Targaryens lost their fire. Perhaps, together, they could find them again.
"There is one more thing," Garin said, lowering his voice. "We have eyes in House Yronwood."
Rhaegar looked up sharply. "The Bloodroyal?"
"They are the Martells' oldest enemies," Garin explained. "And they have long memories. They fought for the Black Dragon three times. My people in Yronwood tell me that Lord Edgar still receives letters from the Golden Company."
"Blackfyre," Rhaegar murmured. "The male line is gone, but the cause remains."
"The Golden Company never breaks a contract," Garin quoted. "Unless it is to invade Westeros."
"Keep watching them," Rhaegar ordered. "If the Yronwoods move, I want to know before they even saddle their horses."
"As you command, my Prince," Garin bowed.
Rhaegar stood up, tucking the ship fragments into his robe.
"You have chosen a dangerous path, Garin."
"I am an Orphan, Prince Rhaegar," the old man smiled, a sad, knowing smile. "I have nothing to lose but my exile."
Rhaegar left the hut, stepping back into the blinding Dornish sun. He felt the weight of the wood in his pocket, cool and heavy.
He had come to Dorne seeking an alliance with the Martells. He was leaving with something far more interesting.
Fire and Water, he thought, looking toward the river. The song gets louder.