The Dornish Gambit CH 1 (Patreon)

Sunspear, 13AC

The bells of the Sunspear rang out in the evening desert air. Lewyn’s father claimed it was in victory over the foreign invaders, but if empty holdfasts and sand fused into a grotesque facsimile of glass by dragonfire was what victory looked like Lewyn would hate to see defeat.

Nine years of war had nearly brought Dorne to her knees. One in three men lay among the sands and mountain passes that had broken the Tyrell army and rare was the keep that hadn’t been ravaged by those seven-damned dragons. Worse were the number of precious wells that Princess Meria Martell had ordered her vassals to despoil in a desperate attempt to deny the invaders succor. Prince Lewyn Martell was quietly sure that the only reason House Yronwood hadn’t risen in rebellion again was that the Dragon King had let loose the leash on his forces when Skyreach fell. 

“At least it’s over,” he muttered, hands slowly relaxing their vice grip on the ledge as he overlooked the city, as the sun slowly set over the horizon. Lewyn couldn’t help but think it cruel that what was such a beautiful vista a decade ago now only evoked images of dragonfire and blood-drenched sands.

“Aye, my prince,” Quentyn Qorgyle agreed, “a remarkable thing your father and sister have done, convincing the Lecher King to remain on his side of the mountains. I can only hope the price is bearable.”

Lewyn knew Quentyn understood better than most the efforts House Martell had gone to to end the war. He had been fostered with the Martells shortly before the invasion started in earnest, his family hoping that with Quentyn being of similar age to both Lewyn and his elder sister Deria House Qorqyle blood might end up on the throne of Sunspear. As a result, Lewyn and Quentyn had spent much of the war fighting side by side, first in the sands around Hellholt and later under the walls of Capitol when Aegon had arrogantly flown back to King’s Landing. The young heir still had a shard of glass from Rosby’s defenestration as a keepsake. 

“In that, at least, we are lucky,” Lewyn replied, “Aegon is tired of war and wishes to begin building something out of the lands he has conquered. He just needed a good enough reason to convince himself that the war should be ended.”

“And what reason did your father give him?”

“My sister marched into King’s Landing with the skull of Meraxes and a letter promising to return the bones of his sister-wife,” Lewyn said, “or what wasn’t ground into dust after House Uller shot the bitch out of the sky. Otherwise Prince Nymor promised to throw the cunt into the ocean and see if the Hoare’s Drowned God would enjoy a Valyrian plaything for the rest of time.”

“Do the Wetlanders know their new king sold their sacrifice so cheaply?” Quentyn asked.

Lewyn stared out into the city before he answered. Below, he could hear the people crying out in response to the pealing bells. Exultations of joy mixed with wails of grief, both finally given leave to be released. Turning fully to face Quentyn he answered quietly, “I don’t know, but it will not be from my lips they’ll find out.”

Quentyn hummed in agreement. House Qorgyle could no more afford to continue to fight the Targaryens than the rest of Dorne. 

“What next?” he asked, after taking a sip of wine. “Dorne will carry the scars of this war for generations, but what will you do now that the bleeding is done?”

Lewyn turned back to look over his family’s city; it told a disheartening story. Even before the war the Shadow City barely deserved the name. A dishevelled collection of wine sinks, stables, smitheries, it was less a shining example of Dornish resilience and more a condemnation of his Houses’ rule. There were jewels hidden amongst the city and across the realm like so many oases in the desert, but they were surrounded by poverty, and misery, and sand. Dorne had never been the richest of the Kingdoms of Westeros, but the invasion had laid bare that continuing as they had would see the Martells bowing to the Dragons within a handful of generations. 

“First we will feast,” Lewyn declared. “The realm must see House Martell unbowed, unbent, unbroken. They must see that my father can sit on the throne in peace just as well as in war, and that Deria is an heir worth dyeing the sands crimson for a chance to court. So we will feast in victory even as our people starve in the street and drink from poisoned wells, because a Dorne that isn’t united behind House Martell is not a kingdom that can deny a dragon, but a collection of keeps waiting for the second sons of Reach and Stormland dogs.

“And then after we feast we must work. I, we, must strive to ensure that this can never happen again. That is what is next. Not just rebuilding what was burned, but erecting something new entirely. A Dorne that can turn back the sister-fucker and his hordes at the passes, not bleed them on their way home.”

“A stirring speech, my prince, but how do you intend on doing this?”

“That is the hard part,” Lewyn admitted wryly, “but I suspect it is going to involve far less spear-work than I would hope for and more copper-counting than I have ever done before.”

Quentyn grimaced at that. Neither young man had enjoyed their lessons with the maester growing up, and they had only become fewer and further between as the war had dragged on.

“Well my friend,” he said, “I am with you as long as you will have me. My sister has a firm hold as the Lady of Sandstone, and I expect that I will be replaced as heir with one of her own line soon enough. I’m sure she will forgive me my adventures as long as I write to her any discoveries we make that can fill her empty coffers.”

“I will be glad to have you!” Lewyn laughed, “If only to serve as a second spear to hold back all those we are inevitably going to upset. Now finish that cup and come help me greet the Lords and Ladies. The Targaryens paid to have enough of us assassinated that I’m sure I don’t know all the newer nobles.”