Chapter 171 — Dorne? Dorne!
Dorne's borders stretched north to the Sea of Dorne, east to the Stepstones, and south to the Summer Sea.
Between these lands rose the Red Mountains—a natural barrier that separated Dorne from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.
Sailing south through the Redwyne Straits, following the currents for just two days, Podrick finally caught sight of that towering mountain range rising from the land.
Dorne was the hottest region in Westeros—rocky, mountainous, dry, and barren.
And from the sea, the mountains truly looked… red.
A harsh, sun-scorched crimson stretching endlessly across the horizon.
Beyond them lay something even rarer—
The only desert on the continent.
A landscape utterly unlike anything found elsewhere in Westeros.
At last, their ship docked at the harbor of Sunspear—the seat of House Martell and the ruling center of Dorne.
After disembarking, Podrick and his group bid farewell to Captain Nicholas, agreeing on a method of future contact.
Then, without delay, they headed toward the city ahead—
A place that looked, from a distance, like a great ship cast ashore and turned to stone.
Sunspear stood at the eastern tip of a sandy peninsula, surrounded by sea on three sides.
Most of its structures were built from brown clay and straw.
Rough. Weathered. Alive.
As he walked forward, Podrick recalled everything he had studied about Dorne.
Because in his plans—
As his influence grew in the Summer Islands—
Dorne, and House Martell, would be indispensable.
Before truly leaving Westeros behind—
This was his final stop.
The ground beneath his feet felt different from the Riverlands or the Crownlands.
The air was dry—almost painfully so.
The sea breeze carried a salty, almost harsh scent.
And though the Citadel had already declared the end of the long summer—
Here, it felt as if summer had never ended.
The sun burned relentlessly overhead.
Within moments, it made the skin sting.
After experiencing Dorne's "welcome," Podrick and the others quickly pulled up the hooded cloaks they had brought from the ship—shielding themselves from the scorching heat.
A thoughtful gift from Captain Nicholas.
After all, a man who traveled as widely as he did knew every land along his routes.
At the same time, this would be their final stop before departure.
They needed to hire guards—
Because even now, the Stepstones were far from peaceful.
Leaving the docks behind, they moved deeper into the city.
Sunspear's layout was unlike any other.
Built along a coastal hill, its houses rose layer upon layer.
To the west lay a sprawling settlement known as the Shadow City.
Three curving walls encircled the main stronghold.
And beneath their shadows, the Shadow City stretched outward—clusters of mud-brick shops and windowless dwellings clinging to the castle's base.
The clay-built homes remained cool even under the blazing sun.
Inside the city, stables, inns, taverns, and brothels were all located toward the western side—the direction from which they had entered.
Curiously, most of these establishments had no enclosing walls.
Their interiors were laid bare, visible to anyone passing by.
New houses leaned against old ones.
Structures grew from one another, generation after generation.
This was how Sunspear had taken shape—
Slowly. Repeatedly. Relentlessly.
Though called a "city," its scale barely surpassed that of a large town.
A strange, chaotic, almost ugly place.
Like a larger, sun-baked version of Flea Bottom.
Narrow alleys twisted like a maze.
Confusing. Dense. Alive.
And yet—
Compared to Flea Bottom, this place held something more.
Energy.
Freedom.
Hope.
---
As they walked further, the markets buzzed with life.
Spices from Dorne—and from lands far to the east—filled the air with rich, unfamiliar scents.
Eventually, the four of them, along with a hired carriage from the docks, arrived before the three great curved walls—constructed some seven hundred years ago.
These triple walls wound through Sunspear and the Shadow City alike, forming layered defenses.
According to their driver—
Even the bravest invaders would lose their way within them.
But Podrick wasn't here for that.
His destination—
Was the inner city.
---
The three heavily guarded gates that led directly inside.
And so, he walked forward.
Two soldiers immediately stepped in front of them.
"Halt. Restricted area. No passage."
"If you're merchants, return to the market."
The wagon behind them, loaded with goods, had already marked them as traders in the guards' eyes.
Podrick didn't argue.
He simply raised a hand—
And gestured to Gendry, who had been following closely behind, his eyes still darting everywhere in fascination.
Gendry carried little at the moment—aside from the massive, cloth-wrapped greatsword Ice strapped across his back, he held only a large square box in his hands.
At Podrick's signal, he stepped forward and passed the box over.
Podrick took it, then looked straight at the soldiers blocking his way.
In a clear, steady voice, he said:
"I am no merchant. I am Ser Podrick Payne of the Westerlands. I've come to pay my respects to Prince Martell—and to present a gift to House Martell."
As he spoke, he lifted the box slightly in demonstration—but made no move to open it.
The two guards exchanged glances. A visiting noble was not unheard of, though hardly common. Still, something about this one felt… unusual. Most nobles would travel with banners proudly bearing their house sigils, yet this boy had none.
Even so, neither guard doubted him. Impersonating a noble carried severe consequences, and everything about Podrick spoke of genuine status—his youth, well-fed physique, refined bearing, and carefully maintained appearance. His companions only reinforced that impression: a strong dark-skinned attendant, a sturdy young man who looked like a squire, and an elderly man clad in a maester's robe.
After a brief assessment, one of the guards stepped forward, bowed respectfully, and spoke in a calmer tone. "Ser Payne, please wait here. We will announce your arrival."
There was no hostility, no unnecessary inspection—just efficient procedure.
Podrick found that… surprising. Back when he had served as commander of the City Watch in King's Landing, the gold cloaks had practically defined corruption—extortion, bribery, exploitation. Of course, they never dared target true nobles, but hedge knights, merchants, mercenaries, and common folk were another matter entirely. He had spent no small amount of effort cleaning up that rot during his tenure. After all, in times like those, it was already difficult enough to attract merchants into the capital—letting parasites drive them away was simply unacceptable.
The guard who spoke quickly left to report, while the other immediately called over additional soldiers to assist. Even the rented horse was led into the shade.
Podrick and his group were guided to a pavilion to wait. The guards resumed their duties without distraction. Aside from the two who had initially stopped them, no one paid them much attention.
With a trained eye, Podrick observed the defenses. The triple gates were heavily guarded—elite soldiers, well-equipped, composed, disciplined. Even under the blazing Dornish heat, their posture remained steady, their armor immaculate. In King's Landing, such standards might not stand out, but here, in Sunspear, it spoke volumes. These men were hardened, reliable.
Before long, servants arrived, bringing a silver water pitcher, several cups, and a platter of fresh fruit. Podrick took a few sips—the cool water washed away much of the oppressive heat at once. Jalabhar and Qyburn did the same. Only Gendry, after draining two full cups, eagerly turned his attention to the fruit, devouring it with enthusiasm. These were things he had never even seen before, let alone tasted.
As Podrick waited, quietly taking in the city's strange yet vibrant beauty, a sudden thunder of hooves echoed in the distance—fast, loud, and numerous. Even the guards turned their heads.
Then came the banner—a blazing sun pierced by a golden spear. At least thirty riders followed beneath it.
At their head rode a woman. Not tall, but striking. Her dark curls whipped in the wind, her olive skin gleaming beneath golden-brown garments.
Before she even drew near, her voice rang out, sharp and commanding: "Who is Payne?! Who is Podrick Payne?!"
The shout snapped everyone's attention toward Podrick. Even Qyburn and the others looked at him curiously. The tone… was almost accusatory.
Which made it all the more puzzling. Podrick had never been here before. There was no possible connection. And yet, the one sent to receive him was a woman—and not a subtle one at that.
Podrick set down his cup, rose, and stepped forward into the open courtyard.
The rider closed the distance rapidly, and only when she was less than two meters away did she pull hard on the reins. The horse reared high, hooves slicing the air before crashing back down.
Podrick didn't flinch. Didn't blink. A faint smile even curved at his lips.
The woman remained mounted, looking down at him. Her brows knit slightly—irritation, confusion, scrutiny flickering across her expression.
Podrick simply smiled back.
Finally, she raised her riding whip and pointed it at him. "You are Podrick Payne? Why didn't you move?"
"Because…" he replied calmly, "I didn't react in time."
"...…"
For a moment, she was speechless. That was not the answer she had expected.
Her expression hardened. "You really are Podrick Payne?"
Arianne Martell was undeniably beautiful—even on horseback. Olive skin, large dark eyes, and flowing black curls that shimmered in the sunlight. Though not tall, she carried herself with undeniable presence, and even her anger held a certain charm.
Podrick couldn't help but think of the women back in King's Landing. Suddenly, this bold, slightly rude princess seemed… almost endearing.
He nodded patiently, that same faint smile lingering. "I am. But before asking someone's name… shouldn't you introduce yourself first?"
Arianne blinked. "Incredible… You don't know who I am, and yet you dared to come here? To request an audience with my father?"
Podrick didn't answer directly. Instead, he tilted his head slightly. "Your father? Then you're a Martell as well?"
Before she could respond, another voice spoke.
A young man stepped forward—neither tall nor particularly striking, but solidly built and composed. "She is my sister, the eldest daughter of Prince Doran Martell and Lady Mellario. By Dornish law, she is the heir to Sunspear and Dorne—Princess Arianne Martell."
Podrick shifted his gaze from Arianne to the boy.
"So the one standing before me… is a princess of House Martell."
A faint trace of amusement colored his voice.
"Then why is it that you seem to understand hospitality better than she does?"
Compared to Arianne's aggressive entrance, this young man had dismounted, spoken politely, and shown restraint.
And that difference… was impossible to ignore.