The Dornish Gambit CH 6 (Patreon)

Planky Town, 14 AC

His father had forwarded Lewyn’s request for information about looms to a family the Martell’s had worked with before in Braavos, and all there was left to do was wait. Lacking a bigger project to focus on, Lewyn focused on the day-to-day governance of Planky Town.

Planky Town held a complicated place in the annals of House Martell. Originally conceived of by the Red Princes as a way to extinguish the language of their great grandmother, Princess Nymeria, they had designed Planky Town to be the only legal place for the Orphans of the Greenblood to trade, making it punishable by death for the Orphans to buy or sell on Dornish soil, forcing them to trade with floating merchant houses. Once the Orphans were resigned to patronizing the fledgling Planky Town, the Princes had then decreed that the only language to be spoken on the boards of the Town was to be common, under pain of exile from Dorne. To further mock the legacy of the Rhoynish refugees, the Princes had built Planky Town out of boats and barges, as if pushing the Rhoynish to take up flight once more.

The reason for the Princes' hatred of their own lineage had been almost entirely lost to time–Lewyn suspected intentionally–but the general consensus was they despised the influence the Rhoynish culture had on the Faith of the Seven.

Whatever the impetus for the decision, the citizens of Planky Town continued to build on the water, long after successive princes and princesses of House Martell had struck down the most heinous policies of the Red Princes. When Lewyn had asked the people of Planky Town why, he had received an answer that generally fell into one of two molds: It’s what we’ve always done and Why would we waste good riverside farmland by building on it?

Nowadays, Planky Town was a sprawling labyrinth of floating platforms that stretched almost a third of the way into the Greenblood. Centuries of experience had taught the builders of the the town that building further into the river would result in the current growing strong enough to rip the mooring lines of barges free, sending them into the sea, the spirits of the Red Princes eternally trying to purge Dorne of the Rhoynish. The piers served as the boundary line for further outward growth, while conveniently affording the merchant vessels that stopped over in Planky Town the deepest harbor possible.

While Planky Town couldn’t expand further into the river, it could and had expanded further down it, like fingers of algae, growing chaotically in patterns only the Gods could see. The town wasn’t permanently affixed to the bottom of the river, and instead relied on anchor chains from various points in the city to keep it more-or-less in place. As a result it rose and fell with the river, barges growing closer together and further apart as thick, pitch soaked lines allowed, the bridges that connected the various platforms only anchored on one end to allow them to slide freely with the tide. It looked like a living thing, laid down by the Smith; its chest rising and falling as it slumbered in the cool waters of the Greenblood. 

Planky Town hadn’t been directly governed by House Martell in generations. Initially, they were distracted by wars elsewhere and Planky Town seemed to run well enough on inertia. When his family had the attention to spare once more, it sparked a fierce argument with House Dalt on who had the rights to govern the town. They claimed that Lemonwood’s demesne stretched to the shores of the Greenblood. The Princess Martell at the time argued that Planky Town wasn’t on the shore of the Greenblood but was in fact in the river and thus a holding of House Martell. Both sides agreed that it was best for neither side to exercise direct authority and Planky Town was left to continue its self governance. It was only the vacuum left by the Targaryen invasion that had allowed Lewyn’s appointment to go uncontested. 

When he had first arrived he had quickly purchased one of the largest houses on the sea-ward side of the floating town. The ancient citadel that the Red Princes built during their Rhyonish suppression campaigns that overlooked Planky Town from the shore had traditionally been the seat of House Martell in the area, but Rhaenys Targaryen had razed it to the ground in the opening days of the war. Lewyn had not the time, resources, nor inclination to have it repaired, so he would have to be satisfied with his floating manor. 

Not that it would count as a manor anywhere else in Westeros. Built over the bones of four pole boats lashed together, it was larger than most any other building in Planky Town but still small by noble standards. In order to not capsize, no building in the floating town was higher than three stories tall and most didn’t even break one story. 

What the manorhouse did offer was an unobstructed view of the mouth of the Greenblood and a cooling breeze whenever there were westerly winds. Lewyn had spent many a night watching the sun sink into the Summer Sea, sipping a glass of Dornish Red and wondering if his family would still rule these lands in a hundred years or be burned out by dragonfire. He thought there was irony in the fact he was more worried about Valyrians now, centuries after the doom, than his ancestors who had first set out Planky Town as a meeting place would have been when the Freehold was at its height. 

Lewyn had converted the first floor of the manor into a collection of offices, the council chamber, and–where he found himself one afternoon two weeks after his father sent his request to Braavos–a hall for receiving petitions. 

Although he had negotiated the position of Wāli to very intentionally not be a lordship, it still by necessity shared most of the same responsibilities. Listening to and adjudicating complaints of the citizens of Planky Town was one of the most time consuming and easily his least favorite. He had been raised with lessons on how House powers and influence had developed and had shifted over the centuries; how to raise a levy and lead it in war; how to negotiate trade deals with the Free Cities. He was not trained in how to navigate the arguments of–

“Wāli, he spoiled my catch!”

“Your catch? The fish were never on your line you adder!”

“But ‘tis my spot! My pa fished there and his pa before him! You can’t just be coming and stealing a man’s fish from his spot.”

“Spot my sandal up your ass, Albin! Ain’t no such thing as a dedicated spot.”

–fishing rights.

“Goodmen! Enough!” Lewyn rubbed his forehead wearily before he continued, “Albin, Goodman Daks is correct, you cannot lay claim to a spot unless you own it and last I checked the banks of the Greenblood belonged to House Martell.”

Before Daks could begin celebrating, Lewyn barrelled on, unwilling to let this argument drag on any longer. “And Daks, it is improper to set up so close to another fisherman. You have walked this earth long enough to know better.”

Both men were mulishly silent as Lewyn considered how to rule.

“Goodman Daks, I find that you have unjustly affected Albin’s catch and fine you a third of what you have caught since you began encroaching on where he casts his line. Half to be paid to the office of the Wāli, half to Goodman Albin.”

As both men left the hall grumbling Lewyn slumped down into the chair that was serving as his ersatz throne. Turning to Quentyn he begged, “please tell me that was the final petition of the day?”

“I am afraid not, my prince,” Quentyn said, “there is one more request to address the Wāli.”

“Send them in,” Lewyn groaned, signaling the guard at the door to fetch the last petitioner. He straightened up when he saw that it was a septon who had entered.

“What brings a member of the Faith before the Wāli today, Septon?”

“Greetings, Prince Lewyn,” the septon said with a deferential nod, “I humbly bring before you an issue that has troubled Planky Town since the abomination darkened our skies ten years ago. In her rage she paid no care to avoid the Sept Upon the Water as she unleashed hellfire upon our town and burned it with the rest of Planky Town. The faithful have had to use an abandoned store front and crude idols to pray to the Seven ever since. I beseech you, divert some of the timber from your northern trade to rebuild the temple to our gods.”

Lewyn was aghast. “I had no idea the situation was so dire. Of course, House Martell stands with the Faith. I will set aside one part in seven of my timber to rebuild the sept.”

“Bless you, Wāli,” said the septon, “your family continues to be a shield and a shelter to the faithful.”

The guards and observers in the room muttered appreciatively as Lewyn asked, “forgive me septon, but why is this the first I am hearing of this? I have been in Planky Town for moons now.”

At this the septon merely gestured benevolently, “we are Dornish, my prince, we endure. It is only now that Planky Town has recovered physically that we must begin to heal spiritually.”

“You speak wisely, Septon,” Lewyn said, “join me for a cup of tea so we can further discuss the needs of my people.”

Lewyn carefully poured the Septon, who had introduced himself as Septon Anders, a cup of spiced tea before sitting and pouring one for himself.

“Tell me Septon, how have the faithful taken to my coming here?”

“Joyously my prince,” Anders said, “they see the work you are doing and they see their lives improving and they thank the Seven for convincing your father to send you.”

“No stirrings of resentment I need to be concerned about then?” Lewyen asked, “I should’ve known that the sept was in need of rebuilding much sooner.”

“Only the grumblings of old men,” the septon assuaged, “saying they did just fine without a Wāli for decades when they are in their cups.”

Lewyn laughed at that before turning serious once more, “and how is the faith reacting? To myself and the Targaryens?”

Septon Anders took a slow sip of his tea, trying to buy a moment to arrange his thoughts, “Yourself, the brothers and sisters have no qualms with, although we wish we saw you in the sept more often,” he looked at Lewyn with a gimlet eye before continuing, “as to the Targayens, the Faith is… divided.”

Lewyn felt a frisson of concern trace his spine. “How divided?”

“Philosophical arguments, nothing more, my prince” Anders assured hurriedly, “the Valyrians are clearly heathen warlords, damned to the Seven Hells, but they have stepped carefully around Faith. We pray that they would depart back to Dragonstone, but it is the position of the High Septon that as long as they do not try to convert the faithful or hunt the brothers and sisters, then the blades of the Warrior Sons should stay sheathed.”

Lewyn hmmed and then asked, “does the local clergy agree with this position?”

Ander’s face tightened briefly with disdain before he forcibly relaxed, “We do, Wāli. It is distasteful, but ultimately I think the wisest position. Too many blessed souls have already fallen to dragonfire.”

“I will not argue with the preachings of the High Septon then,” Lewyn said, “I have plenty of work to do here in Planky Town already.”

“Ha!” Anders laughed, “Yes, I heard while I was waiting to share my petition. Fishing rights will always be acrimonious in this town. Many a young–and old–man I have had to try to impart the wisdom of the Crone into about how fist fights are not the solution to fouled nets.”

Lewyn groaned. “Don’t remind me. Every week there is a new dispute about the same three things. I don’t know how my ancestors managed to rule Dorne for centuries without cutting the heads off every goatherd that graced their halls to complain about his neighbor’s goats. I’ve been holding court for barely a year and already I would rather be back in the sands around Hellholt, trying not to be killed by the Tyrells.”

“It comes with age, my prince, and you are doing important work, ensuring that no one is denied the Father’s justice.”

“How does the Faith handle disputes?” Lewyn asked, “Surely not every begging brother with a bone to pick petitions one of the Most Devout?”

“Mm, no they do not,” Anders said, “if there is a conflict serious enough to seek redress, it is argued in front of a panel of seven Septons, unless it involves a Most Devout, in which case the other Most Devouts and the High Septon will sit in judgement.”

“That's what I need!” Lewyn said, snapping his fingers, “a group of judges to rule on these smaller disputes. Men and women who actually know something about fishing rights and merchant quarrels.”

“My prince!” said Septon Anders, “that would be a monumental change in the rights of nobility! Surely you cannot give away your power so impulsively?”

Lewyn shrugged and finished his cup of tea before answering, “I will talk it over with my council first, but I am inclined to the idea. The judges would be appointed by myself and be vested with my authority, so it is not like I am surrendering anything in truth, only delegating.  Besides, I am not actually governing as the Lord Martell of Planky Town, merely the Wāli. There is no change to the noble tradition.”

“Sophistry at best, Prince Lewyn,” Ander said, “but if you are committed to this path then you should at least consult your father for his approval first.”

Prince Lewyn nodded, “You give good council Septon. I would make that permanent and have you join Elder Ferris, Captain Ormund, and Heir Qorgyle in advising me. It is unforgivable to make the representation of the Seven in Planky Town wait at my door like a beggar.”

“You honor me, my prince, I accept your offer gladly.”

“Good, then it is done. Now I will let you be until the next council meeting. It seems I have another letter to write.”