Dorne, the Water Gardens.
The fountain burbled, palm leaves rustled in the breeze, and the sweet scent of orange blossoms and lemon trees filled the air.
Yet a letter from the Stormlands utterly shattered the tranquility of this desert oasis.
Prince Doran sat in his wheelchair, his face expressionless, but a deep shadow darkened his eyes.
His thin fingers gripped the letter delivered by a mercenary envoy, trembling slightly.
On the paper, Viserys Targaryen's handwriting, with its arrogance and naïveté, filled him with fury.
In his letter, Viserys said that he and his Hand of the King, Tyrion Lannister, were leading thirty thousand troops in a campaign to conquer the Stormlands. He had also learned of Princess Arianne's betrothal and announced it to the Seven Kingdoms, and hoped Dorne would send troops at once to help him reclaim the Iron Throne...
Prince Doran almost roared in anger.
When the Easterners captured Oberyn, he had managed to hold his troops back.
Kings had sprung up one after another in the Seven Kingdoms, yet he had remained unmoved, watching the shifting fortunes of the Seven Kingdoms, gathering strength, and waiting for the chance to strike a fatal blow.
This foolish letter and the even more foolish Viserys had dragged all of it into the sunlight.
And the so-called soldiers under Viserys's command were plainly a horde of Dothraki savages.
If Dorne tied itself to Viserys, it would be placing all of Dorne over the flames.
Only after a long while did he barely suppress the rage that had almost burned away his reason. He waved a hand and said hoarsely, "Summon Quentyn and Arianne."
Soon, Prince Quentyn strode inside, dressed in a simple linen tunic.
Princess Arianne followed close behind.
Her steps were languid, her scarlet silk gown clinging to her graceful