TBOV: Chapter Twenty-One: The Watchers of the East

Chapter Twenty-One: The Watchers of the East

“I have my own kingdom here.”

―Saera, when asked if she meant to return to Westeros

…

The sun hung low over Sunspear’s spires when Qoren Martell stepped onto the grand terrace, heart pounding with a subdued tension. Below him stretched the palace courtyard, awash in vibrant silks and braziers that burned with aromatic oils. Musicians played lilting Dornish melodies, and guests—lords, knights, envoys from Westeros—moved about, their laughter subdued by the desert wind that carried a promise of dusk. He breathed in the warm air. Tomorrow, Aliandra would be crowned Princess of Dorne, and in so doing, Qoren would set aside the mantle he had worn for half a lifetime.

He should have felt relief—indeed, he did, in some small measure—but a lingering anxiety gnawed at him, like a dull ache behind the ribs. He closed his eyes and remembered his younger days, how he had aspired to lead Dorne to a new era of independence, free from Westerosi meddling. Yet in the end, he had done only the opposite in a bid to see his legacy survive.

Footsteps echoed behind him. Qoren turned to see his middle child, Coryanne, approaching with a quiet urgency. Her dark hair caught the fading sunlight, and her expression was grave. Beside her strode her brother Qyle—tall, lean, face schooled into a deliberate calm that nevertheless betrayed the flaring tension in his eyes. They were so different from Aliandra, both in looks and temperament, yet they shared that Martell pride.

“Father,” Coryanne said in a subdued tone. “We must speak.”

Qoren nodded, guiding them away from prying eyes to a lesser balcony. A wrought-iron railing overlooked the sea, tinted orange and gold by the setting sun. The hush of the tide below did little to soothe the unspoken tension in the air.

“Is this about tomorrow?” Qoren asked. He did not need an answer—he could read it in their faces. He folded his arms across his chest, adopting the stance he wore at court when hearing pleas. But these were his children, grown though they were. The weariness in him ached all the more.

Qyle exhaled first, bristling with restless energy. “You name Aliandra your heir, Father, after everything that’s happened? After you’ve seen how close she is—” He caught himself, voice dropping to a hiss. “To him?”

“The Butcher,” Coryanne finished bluntly, as though naming him might conjure him from the shadows. “The same man you yourself have admitted is dangerous. The same man who twisted your arm into selling off half of our kingdom. And now you would hand Aliandra the scorpion’s tail—Dorne itself—while she is entangled with him?”

Qoren’s throat tightened. “Aemond Targaryen is a cunning man, yes. And dangerous.” He pressed his lips into a thin line. “All the more reason it is beneficial for us to hold him close. Aliandra’s bond with him can temper that danger… even you must see that.”

Qyle snorted in disbelief. “She’s besotted. The entire palace whispers of how she steals away to his chambers every night he is here, how she leaves at dawn with a flush in her cheeks—”

“Enough,” Qoren said, voice cutting. He glanced about, though the nearest servants were distant. “Such talk serves no one. What’s done is done. Did you truly expect me to disinherit her? Aliandra is my eldest, and I love her. For all her boldness—her recklessness, if you must call it that—she has the will to hold Dorne together in these shifting tides.”

Coryanne gave a bitter laugh. “Father, the Lords of Yronwood and the Daynes might question your love for them, if they see you enthrone a princess who births a white haired babe soon after our greatest foe makes an appearance. Would you really let her put a Targaryen bastard on your throne?”

Qoren’s gaze hardened, and the dryness of the desert clung to his throat. “I would remind those lords that the realm’s fortunes ride on an alliance with the Crown. We Martells remember the old wars. The Stormlands and the Stepstones were a warning—And don’t be too soon to forget that without Aemond’s allowance, we starve in our own sands. A few arch-lords might grumble, but once they are beset with a hungry people, they will be eager to sing a different tune. I do not doubt Aliandra has grown fond of him. Though I question the wisdom of it, I cannot deny the benefits. If she can steer him, if she can keep him at least partly in our corner, then Dorne stands to prosper. She is cunning enough, and beside what sense is there in crying over spilt wine?”

Coryanne’s lips parted, but before she could speak, Qoren lifted a hand. “As for tomorrow—she will inherit. Do not attempt to convince me otherwise. I am weary of rule, my children. My failing health is no rumor. These bones ache, and the realm grows too tumultuous for me to manage with the vigor it demands. Aliandra is prepared to lead. She has a strong circle about her: your cousin Ryam, Lord Uller, the Daynes, and yes—even the Butcher if it comes to that. I do not care for his appetites, but I would prefer she hold his ear than some lord across the sea.”

“Do you not fear the day he decides to discard her?” Qyle asked, bitterness sharp as a cactus spine. “What then?”

Qoren let his gaze drift across the evening sky. The sun’s last rays painted the horizon in a blaze of crimson. “Unfortunately, the Butcher wants Dorne far too much for that to even be a consideration, son.” He turned back to Qyle and Coryanne. “Tomorrow, I crown Aliandra. And you will kneel to her as your princess. This is my will. Regret only comes from half-measures. Aliandra knows what she does, even if her passions entangle her. We must trust in that. And if we are wrong—then let us be wrong together, as a family.”

He turned from them, motioning for the corridor that led back to the main keep. They walked in strained silence. At last, they came to a small courtyard ringed by date palms, starlight glimmering overhead. His children departed, each in silence. Qoren lingered, leaning against a carved pillar etched with sunspears and coiling serpents. He let the evening breeze cool his face. One by one, the palace lamps were extinguished, leaving only faint flickers in the highest windows.

He thought of Aliandra. Would she prove cunning enough to harness the Butcher’s ambition? Or would she be consumed in the end, leaving Dorne to languish under the Crown’s iron fist? In the end, he turned his gaze to the night sky, to the glitter of distant stars, and exhaled a last, weary sigh before making for his chambers. Tonight, the weight of rule lay on him for but a few more hours. Tomorrow, Aliandra would stand in that place—and gods help her, for she chose this path and there would be no turning back.

✥✥✥​

Saera Targaryen reclined on a tasseled divan, draped in a delicate mantle of amber silk that caught the warm lamplight of Triarch Agon’s private chamber. The sweet musk of incense hung in the air—some mixture of rare Volantene spice and resin from the Painted Mountains, cloying yet alluring. She curled a strand of her platinum hair around one finger, regarding Agon with half-lidded eyes.

He sprawled at her side on a lush heap of cushions, a goblet of dark wine in his hand. Though one of the most powerful men in Volantis, he seemed at ease in her company, disarmed by her warmth. Or perhaps it was only the wine. Saera knew better than to underestimate him. There was flint behind his handsome façade, a soldier’s discipline tempered by the cunning of a Triarch.

She let out a soft sigh. “You teased me all evening, promising news from the delegates you sent across the Narrow Sea,” she said. “Is it good or ill?”

Agon shifted, setting his goblet aside on a lacquered table inlaid with jade. “Good enough—for now. The Westerosi court received our men amiably. But your cousin’s demands were… robust.”

Saera’s brow arched. “Indeed?”

Agon pulled himself upright. “It is as we feared. One-eye claims Volantis must strengthen ties to the Dragon’s Bank and the Merchant Guild before any assurances of good will can be made. Westerosi oversight, of sorts, to ensure peaceful dealings. Triarch Liraenos favors granting them these rights—claims it is a trifling price for stability.”

Saera smiled. “But you disagree.”

A flicker of something—worry, mistrust—passed through Agon’s eyes. “For much we loathe each other, Aethon and I both balk. We suspect Liraenos plans to line his own pockets with this scheme at the expense of the rest of us. The demands are absurd; Volantene merchants made vassals in all but name.”

Saera nodded sympathetically. Truth be told, she felt a rush of quiet triumph—such gossip was always interesting and profitable to hear. She pressed closer to Agon, one hand resting lightly on his knee. “I have heard rumors that the Butcher’s army press further inland by the day. Some speak of them near Ny Sar, even at the islands of Dagger Lake. They have already annexed the ruins of Ghoyan Drohe, or so the heralds claim. If that is true, what next? Selhorys, a step from here?”

Agon’s laugh came short and mirthless, his expression turning stony. “Exaggerated, no doubt. The land between even Ny Sar and Selhorys is cursed, half-devoured by the Sorrows. Aemond Targaryen or not, the wise will not tread near Chroyane. The stonemen and the greyscale would see his army undone. I doubt even a dragon would survive long in that blighted city.”

Saera’s lips curved with a subtle scorn. “So you believe your empire safe by virtue of a curse?”

Agon dismissed her concern with a wave. “Have no illusions, sweet Saera, I do not trivialize Aemond. But he wages enough wars. His blockade on the Stepstones, the annexation of Lys, Tyrosh and Pentos, his continued conflict on the Braavosi and Myrish—he is too mired in tangled alliances and bad financing to risk another front. Volantis is no Lys or Tyrosh. We are mighty still. If you have any caution for me, my love, voice it freely. But do not ask me to yield to fear”

Saera let the tension in her features relax, offering a playful tilt to her smile. She leaned in, brushing her mouth against his ear. She tasted the salt of his skin, the wine lingering on his breath. “I will not speak of fear,” she murmured. “Only reason.”

Agon drew back, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. “You worry too much.”

Saera said nothing, only allowed herself a gentle smile. She had gleaned what she came to learn: Volantis would likely swallow the Crown’s terms if pressed, no matter Agon’s bluster. It was enough. She would send word soon—silently, discreetly—to those in the city who paid well for such knowledge.

Outside, the red-glazed windows shimmered with the last rays of the dying sun, painting the chamber in a wavering tapestry of gold and carmine. Saera cast her gaze at the patterns on the floor, wondering how many steps remained before her scorned family would arrive at her doorstep—and whether Volantis truly believed they could stand against dragons.