Chapter 235 — The Princess of Dorne
Dorne.
Within Sunspear.
The old palace hall—once filled with the fragrance of Dornish wine and the constant melody of court music—now lay drowned in lifeless silence.
War had stripped away more than lives.
It had hollowed out prosperity itself.
Dust veiled the tall stained-glass windows. The pale sunlight that filtered through seemed weak and exhausted, slicing through the heavy, stagnant air.
What should have been a victory feast…
felt more like a reckoning no one could swallow.
The Dornish nobles sat along the long tables, exchanging uneasy glances.
Golden goblets stood untouched.
The pale violet wine reflected faces worn with fatigue, anxiety, and quiet resentment.
There was no clinking of coins.
No celebration of spoils.
Only a harsh truth:
Sunspear was empty.
To purchase ten thousand Unsullied, Doran Martell had drained the palace dry.
Statues, brass lamps, ancient manuscripts—even the golden cradle meant for Prince Quentyn—
Everything had been sold.
And still it wasn't enough.
He had borrowed vast sums from the Iron Bank of Braavos.
Now, Sunspear—and the wealth of House Martell accumulated over centuries—was nothing but a hollow shell burdened with crushing debt.
The victors had rushed in expecting treasure.
They found dust… and ledgers.
At the head of the table sat Lance Lot.
Clad in his striking white armor, he looked utterly out of place amid the decay.
His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest—slow, rhythmic, indifferent.
To his right sat Lady Jynessa Blackmont.
Her gaze was sharp, observant, idly rubbing the bronze clasp at her belt as she studied every reaction in the room.
Across from her, Anders Yronwood sat calm and unreadable.
Beside him, Lady Delonne Allyrion looked tense and irritable, her carefully styled hair unable to hide the strain on her face.
The air was thick with disappointment.
They had waged war across all of Dorne—
And gained nothing.
Clink.
The sharp sound of dish against dish shattered the silence.
All eyes turned.
Lewyn Martell.
Head lowered, he was eating.
Not delicately—
but ravenously.
Dried snake meat, bread, chickpea paste, even honey—his table overflowed.
He had spent over a month imprisoned by Doran, buried in darkness, surviving alongside rats and despair.
Now free, he devoured everything like a man reclaiming lost time.
Each bite carried a desperate intensity—
As if he were chewing through the days stolen from him.
Grease coated his beard.
He didn't care.
And outside—
His nephew's severed head hung upon the bronze sun of the palace gates.
Yet even that… did not slow his appetite.
"Everyone."
At last, Lady Delonne could bear it no longer.
She straightened, forcing authority into her voice—but failing to hide the strain beneath it.
"Doran Martell has mortgaged everything to the Iron Bank. There is nothing left to divide."
She scanned the room—carefully avoiding the man in white at the head.
"In that case… we return to the previous proposal."
"Dorne cannot remain divided. We need a ruler—a prince—to unite us."
Her gaze sharpened as it turned to her side.
"Lord Anders Yronwood—his legacy, his strength, his influence—make him the natural—"
"Ha…"
A few quiet, cutting laughs.
Then silence again.
No one supported her.
No one even pretended to.
Some stared into their wine.
Others studied the grain of the table.
Some simply closed their eyes.
Delonne's face flushed red.
Without power, words meant nothing.
If her house's elite soldiers were still intact, opportunists would have echoed her.
But now—
Her voice sank without even a ripple.
Worse—
Anders Yronwood simply picked up a piece of bread, examined it, and set it back down.
As if she hadn't spoken at all.
"Yronwood's 'prestige'?"
A cold snort came from the far end.
Mors Dayne of High Hermitage rose, voice dripping with contempt.
"He couldn't even defeat the Red Viper—nearly died for it!"
"Mind your words!"
Delonne snapped, fury blazing.
"This is a discussion about Dorne's future—!"
"Exactly."
Mors cut her off, stepping forward.
As a cadet branch of House Dayne, pride bled through every word.
"My cousin, Lord Davos Dayne, fielded nearly ten thousand elite troops!"
"They were the sharpest spear in Dorne!"
"Who here contributed more?!"
This time, murmurs of agreement followed.
But no one noticed—
Jynessa's expression had darkened.
Yronwood. Dayne.
Every proposal ignored one name—
Hers.
House Blackmont had bled for this war.
Her mother had led the charge, breaking Martell defenses—
dying beneath a storm of crossbow bolts.
Jynessa had taken up the blood-soaked vulture banner—
And carved a path through death itself.
And now?
At the table of power—
She was already being erased.
Mors continued, voice swelling with pride.
"Our blood is royal! Our ancestors were kings!"
"Therefore, I propose—the Prince of Dorne should be—"
CRACK!
A porcelain plate shattered at Jynessa's feet.
Fragments scattered across the stone floor.
A silver fork clattered among them.
"Sorry."
Her voice was calm. Cold.
"My hand slipped."
She didn't even look down.
"Go on."
Mors frowned—but continued.
"I propose—the Prince of Dorne—"
A roar exploded.
Not human.
A dragon's roar.
It tore through the hall—
shaking stone, silencing all voices in an instant.
The roar was deafening—so overwhelming it made hearts tremble, as though even the stone walls themselves were groaning under the force.
Then—
A blazing stream of crimson dragonfire tore across the hall.
It skimmed along the edge of the round table and scorched the stone floor less than a meter from Mors Dayne's feet.
So close… it nearly burned him alive.
Cold sweat drenched his back instantly.
For half a second, time seemed to freeze.
The air warped under the heat, hissing as it burned.
The edges of the fine carpet blackened in an instant, curling into ash.
A wave of scorching heat slammed into the nobles nearby, forcing them to lean back, breath held, faces pale.
Mors stood rigid, not daring to move even a finger.
He could almost feel his eyebrows singe—
death had brushed past him.
In the suffocating silence that followed—
At the head of the table, Lance Lot calmly raised his hand.
Unhurried. Casual.
He patted the massive head of his dragon, fingers sliding across its hardened scales.
A faint, unreadable smile curved his lips.
"Apologies."
His voice was cold, indifferent—like he was stating something utterly trivial.
"My dragon… seems to have eaten a bit too much. It needed to… digest."
The tone was absurdly casual—
as if he were saying his dog had made a mess at the door.
Then his gaze lifted.
Those icy blue eyes swept over Mors, sharp and mocking.
"You may continue."
Continue?
Mors felt as if a mountain had dropped onto his chest.
Continue?!
How the hell was he supposed to continue?!
Sweat beaded down his face.
All his earlier arrogance had been crushed into dust.
Even a fool would know—
speaking now was a death wish.
Just look at Lady Delonne—silent, rigid, not daring to breathe.
After a long, suffocating pause—
"Since no one else has anything to say…"
Lance leaned forward slightly.
"Then I will."
His gaze swept across the hall before settling briefly on Jynessa Blackmont.
He could see it clearly—
Beneath her composed exterior burned anger… and the unwillingness to be overlooked.
She had the courage and resolve of a ruler.
What she lacked…
was the shameless ruthlessness to claim power for herself.
"Lord Davos Dayne."
Lance called him out directly.
"If not for Lady Jynessa Blackmont breaking the defenses at the Scourge River—"
"Would your forces have reached Sunspear at all?"
Then his gaze shifted.
"And you, Lord Anders Yronwood—"
"How long would your eastern armies have lasted under Martell's encirclement?"
"Would you have avoided being crushed one by one?"
Silence.
No one answered.
Even Davos Dayne opened his mouth—
then thought better of it.
"Two days ago—outside this very city."
Lance continued coldly.
"If not for me… and my dragon—"
"Would any of you still be sitting here, calmly discussing spoils?"
"Answer me, Lord Dayne."
"Lord Yronwood."
"Lady Delonne."
He named them one by one.
Only silence replied.
Every noble lowered their head.
Lance nodded slightly.
Satisfied.
In the game of power—
strength was everything.
Strength was legitimacy.
"Lady Jynessa Blackmont."
His tone shifted—still calm, but absolute.
He turned fully toward her.
"Your courage. Your judgment. Your leadership on the battlefield."
"Your contributions to the liberation of Dorne—none can deny them."
He paused.
Then, without warning—
He spoke.
"Therefore—by the authority of the Iron Throne, and my power as Regent—"
"I, Lance Lot, hereby declare two decisions."
"First."
"I will take Lady Jynessa Blackmont as my wife."
"The honor of House Blackmont shall stand alongside the Iron Throne."
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the hall.
This was the most direct—and unbreakable—union of power.
The Regent would become House Blackmont's ultimate backing.
And House Blackmont…
would rise to the very summit of Dorne.
Jynessa's head snapped up.
Shock filled her eyes.
She opened her mouth—
But no words came.
Disbelief. Confusion.
And something deeper—something she couldn't name.
But Lance didn't wait.
The second blow fell immediately.
"Second."
"Lady Jynessa Blackmont shall inherit all rights and duties of the Prince of Dorne."
"She will rule all of Dorne—"
"And swear fealty to the Iron Throne."
His voice rang out, final and unquestionable.
"She shall be—"
"The Princess of Dorne."
Lance rose slowly.
His gaze swept the entire hall one last time.
"I have spoken."
"Who agrees?"
"Who objects?"