The air in the manse was thick with the scent of perfumes, decadence, and the addictive sweetness of Lyseni wine.
Mors Yronwood sat rigidly on a velvet chair that likely cost more than a warhorse, his calloused hand resting near the pommel of his dagger. He did not trust the Free Cities, he did not trust the perfumed men who ruled them, and he certainly did not trust the man sitting across the pompous carved table.
Magister Varos was draped in a luxurious Myrish lace, his fingers and body draped in gold and sapphires. Less than a year ago, Varos had been a magister of middling influence, dealing in ornaments and timber. Now, he was one of the most powerful men in the Triarchy.
Mors knew the rumours. Everyone who sailed the Narrow Sea knew them. Varos's ascent had been paved with a startling string of tragedies. Magister Nyessero had thrown himself from his balcony in a sudden fit of madness. Magister Drazenko had choked to death at a feast. Another had wasted away from a rot that no healer could identify. Accidental deaths and sudden illnesses, all perfectly timed to clear the path for Varos.
And then there was the woman.
She stood on the edge near the balcony, away from the light, draped in a gown of dark crimson. Varos had introduced her simply as Lyssaria. She had not spoken a single word since Mors had arrived, but her presence made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
"The Triarchy is greatly pleased with the courage of your countrymen, Lord Mors," Varos said in a heavily accented but coherent common tongue. He poured a cup of Lyseni white wine and slid it across the table. "The blockade has been excellently done. The Westerosi lords are bleeding gold by the day, trapped between our ships in the Stepstones and your spears in the Marches."
Mors did not touch the cup. "My brother will not bleed our men for your pleasure, Magister. We will move only if Princess Mara commands us to mobilize. We follow Sunspear. That is the end of it."
"Of course," Varos smiled smoothly, leaning back. "Princess Mara plays a bold game. But wars cannot be won with boldness alone. They are won with supply lines, coin, and men. The Triarchy possesses all three. We are prepared to offer a substantial influx of gold and sellswords to ensure the Dornish lines do not break when the war inevitably starts with the Iron Throne."
Mors narrowed his eyes. "These are words you must speak to the princess and the other Martells. Why have you invited my house for this?"
Varos chuckled. "Well, to put it simply, my lord, the Triarchy wants more in return than what was initially promised."
Mors's blood boiled at the magister's audacity, but he decided to entertain him for now. "And what is it that the Triarchy want more?"
"Nothing from the Princess," Varos said softly. "Everything from...you."
The Dornish knight went still as the silence in the room suddenly felt very heavy.
"Explain yourself," Mors demanded, his voice dropping dangerously low.
"Princess Mara is arrogant, but she is not a fool," Varos said, caressing his ringed fingers. "She will fight this war for a time. But when the dragons finally fly south, and they will fly, Lord Mors, she will sue for peace. She will retreat to Sunspear, bend the knee just enough to save herself and her own kin, and leave the Triarchy to face the brunt of the Iron Throne alone. We cannot allow that."
"So you wish to bribe House Yronwood to fight the dragons when the Martells will not?" Mors let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "You have too much gold and too little sense, Magister. We are not sellswords to be bought."
"I am not buying a sword, Lord Mors." Varos leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto the knight. "I am buying a King."
Mors's hand snapped to his dagger, pulling it an inch from its sheath. The scrape of steel was loud in the quiet room. "In Dorne, those words are rewarded with a flayed skin, Magister. You speak of treason."
Varos did not flinch. "I speak of the truth. House Yronwood provides some of the finest soldiers in Dorne. You guard the Boneway. You take the brunt of every march, every skirmish, every Westerosi incursion. You bleed, while the Martells sit in their high tower and claim all the glory. 'Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.' A pretty lie, paid for with Yronwood lives."
Mors's jaw tightened. Varos was striking at resentments that ran centuries deep. He hated how his brother had to bow so low to Mara Martell. He hated the arrogance of Sunspear. But he was not a fool.
"No Essosi offers a kingdom out of the goodness of his heart," Mors said coldly, his hand still on his blade. "If you want to fund a civil war to overthrow the Martells, you want something massive in return. Speak it plainly, or I will walk out that door."
Varos nodded, abandoning the pleasantries. "The Triarchy is growing. The Stepstones are merely the beginning. We require a permanent, unassailable foothold on the continent of Westeros. A port city that can anchor our fleets and control the southern trade routes."
"You want a piece of Dorne?"
"We want Sunspear," Varos said flatly. "And when everything is settled, we want House Yronwood to officially renounce any and all claims to the Stepstones. We secure the islands, and we take the Martell seat."
Mors stared at him, genuinely shocked by the sheer audacity of the demand. "You ask for the ancient seat of the principality."
"I ask for a dusty port and a grand tower," Varos countered. "Your ancestral seat is Yronwood. You hold the mountains. You hold the true strength of the land. Let the Triarchy have the docks of Sunspear to manage our trade, and we will ensure that House Yronwood rules everything from the Red Mountains to the Summer Sea. With our gold and your spears, no house in Dorne could stand against you."
Mors slowly pushed the dagger back into its sheath. His mind was racing.
It was a staggering price. And it was madness that he was even listening to this, but he could not help but imagine the scenarios.
Giving up Sunspear to foreigners would enrage the lesser lords. But if the Triarchy provided enough sellswords and gold... his house could crush any rebellion. He could help restore his House to the pinnacle of power. Their birthright.
But the risk was catastrophic.
"Princess Mara commands tens of thousands of men," Mors argued, his voice betraying his temptation. "Even with your aid, a civil war would shatter Dorne. If we strike at Sunspear now, the Reach and the Stormlands will march right through the Boneway while we are fighting each other."
"Which is exactly why you will not strike now," Varos said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You will follow Princess Mara's orders. You will march on the Marches. You will fight the Targaryen vassals. You will let the war escalate."
Mors frowned. "Now you want us to fight for her?"
"We want you to let her bleed her loyalists dry," Varos corrected. "Commit your levies, yes, but keep your elite veterans, your true strength, held back in reserve. Let the Martell forces take the full brunt when the war begins. Let them face most of the Targaryen steel. The longer this war goes on, the weaker Sunspear becomes. We want the Iron Throne to exhaust the Martells for you."
Mors saw the shape of the trap. It was insidious. It was brilliant, should it work. They would use the Targaryen war effort as a hammer to crack the Martells, and then House Yronwood could sweep in and shatter them completely.
"And when the dragons come?" Mors asked.
"When the dragons come, the Martells will burn," Varos said coldly. "And House Yronwood will retreat to the mountains, perfectly intact, ready to sign a treaty with the Triarchy."
Mors looked at Varos. He looked at the wine. He thought of his ancestors, and he thought of Princess Mara's condescending smile.
Still, hesitation gnawed at him. To betray the ruling house while foreign armies sat at their borders... it was a great dishonor.
From the shadows, the woman in red finally moved.
She stepped into the sunlight, the ruby at her throat shining bright with an almost hypnotic light. She did not look at Varos. Her eyes, the colour of fresh blood, locked entirely onto Mors.
"Before the Rhoynar came with their ships and their water-witches," Lyssaria said, her voice sweet and soft, "your fathers did not bow. They were the High Kings. The Bloodroyal."
The words hung in the air. They pierced through Mors's honor, striking his pride. The Bloodroyal. He looked away from the woman, unable to hold her gaze, and reached for the cup of wine.
He took a slow and long sip.
"I cannot answer you now. I shall need time. And it is not my decision to make. It's my brother's. He is the Lord of Yronwood. Not me. I need to speak with him."
Lyssaria smiled, and so did Varos as he replied.
"By all means, Lord Mors. Think on it as long as you require. And we shall speak with your brother after that. In the meantime...," Varos clapped his hands, and three beautiful Lyseni women entered the chamber. "Please enjoy the hospitality."
Mors looked at the women, looked back at Varos. He took the wine, downing it in a single gulp and nodded.
Lyssaria took that as her cue and left the chamber with a smile on her face.