Chapter 173: You will have the friendship of the Dornish forever, Lord Payne
The autumn at the Water Gardens was unexpectedly pleasant. Even under the blazing sun, the place carried a coolness unlike anywhere else in Dorne.
Blood orange trees cast long, dappled shadows. Pale pink marble paved the courtyards and garden paths, stretching beneath carved columns and graceful arches. Pools and fountains were everywhere, their waters murmuring softly as the sea breeze rolled in—salted air mixed with the rich scent of citrus, blood orange and lemon lingering thick in the atmosphere.
Sand, water, flowers, fruit trees—everything blended into a palace that seemed half garden, half oasis.
And at the entrance of this palace, three figures were already waiting.
One of them stood tall and broad-shouldered, with greying hair and a long axe—its wooden haft alone nearly six feet in length—resting in his grip. A crimson cloak hung from his shoulders, fastened over leather armor with a golden brooch. He stood like a wall, expressionless, eyes sharp and unwavering as they locked onto Podrick and his companions the moment they stepped inside.
Opposite him, another man leaned casually against a vine-wrapped stone pillar, arms folded. Where the first was rigid and upright, this one was languid—but no less dangerous. His gaze was cold, serpent-like. His face bore the marks of time—fine lines, thin brows, and eyes as black as endless night. His nose and brow were sharp, his shoulder-length dark hair glossy, streaked faintly with silver, forming a widow's peak above his brow.
The two men stood in a subtle pincer—front and side—shielding the man seated at the center.
That man was Doran Martell—Prince of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear, and master of the Water Gardens.
He sat upright in a wheelchair, a finely embroidered blanket draped across his knees. His hair was silver-grey, his brows the same. His face bore the marks of time, yet his expression was calm, even warm, with a faint, measured smile resting at the corners of his lips.
Before Podrick could even approach fully, Doran spoke, his voice steady and welcoming.
"Welcome, traveler from afar. The Water Gardens are honored by your presence."
Behind him, the palace bloomed like an emerald set within the desert—flowers and greenery flourishing beneath carved stone and shaded colonnades.
Podrick stopped several meters away, lifting his chin slightly as he studied the man before him.
This Doran Martell was nothing like the versions he had once imagined. Not frail, not distant—but composed, dignified, almost gentle. And yet—
Podrick's gaze dropped briefly to his hands.
Twisted. Swollen. Each finger distorted, knotted with bulging gout, like clusters of misshapen grapes beneath the skin.
A quiet understanding settled in his mind.
He turned slightly, glancing at Arianne Martell and Quentyn Martell.
Quentyn said nothing, standing half a step behind. Arianne, however, gestured forward.
"This is my father—Prince Doran Martell, ruler of Dorne and lord of Sunspear."
She then gestured to the man leaning against the pillar.
"And this is my uncle, Oberyn Martell. Though most know him by another name… the Red Viper."
Finally, she nodded toward the white-haired warrior.
"And this is my father's captain of guards, Areo Hotah, of Norvos."
With the introductions made, Podrick inclined his head politely.
"I am honored to stand before you, Your Highness."
His gaze moved across all three men before settling once more on Doran.
"And Prince Oberyn—I have long admired your reputation."
"And Captain Hotah… I suspect you are a warrior worthy of great respect."
His tone was calm, neither humble nor arrogant—perfectly balanced.
Only after the formalities were complete did Arianne speak again.
"Father, Uncle—this is the man now spoken of across the Seven Kingdoms… the 'Gate Guardian War God'—Ser Podrick Payne."
Podrick nearly winced internally.
That ridiculous title again.
Yet, unlike him, the three men before him reacted very differently.
Their expressions sharpened.
Especially Oberyn Martell—the Red Viper straightened from his relaxed posture, his gaze turning keen and dangerous.
Even Areo Hotah remained perfectly still—but his eyes tightened ever so slightly.
Only Doran spoke.
"Welcome, Ser Payne."
Three pairs of eyes fixed on him—each carrying a different weight.
Podrick smiled faintly, meeting their gaze without hesitation.
"I come… in friendship."
A scoff followed immediately.
Oberyn's voice cut in, sharp as a blade. "The friendship of the Lannisters?"
Doran shot him a glance—but did not stop him.
Clearly, it was a question they all wanted answered.
Podrick remained relaxed.
"No. I represent no one. I am here… of my own will alone."
He lifted a hand slightly.
"And I have brought a gift—for you, and for House Martell."
Behind him, Gendry—who had been standing stiffly ever since entering—snapped to attention and stepped forward, presenting the large wooden box.
The "gift."
Podrick had mentioned it twice already.
Now, everyone's attention shifted to it.
The box itself was unremarkable—plain wood, nothing ornate. Yet the weight of expectation around it was undeniable.
Podrick took it from Gendry and handed it forward.
Quentyn reacted quickly, stepping up to receive it with both hands before carrying it toward his father.
But just as he approached—
A hand stopped him.
Areo Hotah stepped forward, blocking the path without hesitation.
Even though this was his prince's own son.
"There is no need to be so cautious," Doran said gently. "If Ser Payne meant me harm, I doubt he would go to such lengths."
"It is my duty, my prince," Hotah replied, unmoved.
The exchange made Podrick's teeth itch slightly.
He exhaled, then said plainly, "If you're concerned, Captain… you may open it yourself."
Hotah gave him a brief look.
Then, without ceremony, he took the box, lifted the lid—
And revealed its contents.
Inside lay a skull.
Large. Pale grey-white.
A human skull, stripped clean of flesh.
For a moment—
Silence.
Confusion flickered across the others' faces.
A skull… as a gift?
But for Doran Martell and Oberyn Martell—
The reaction was immediate.
They froze.
Then—
Something broke through.
Hatred. Relief. Shock. Grief.
All at once.
Doran's voice trembled, barely above a whisper.
"…This is…?"
Doran's eyes reddened.
He instinctively reached out—wanting to touch the skull, to confirm it with his own hands—but forced himself to stop midway, fingers trembling in the air.
"'The Mountain'… Gregor Clegane's head."
Podrick's voice was calm. Flat. Almost casual.
He spoke of the skull's origin as if he were commenting on the weather—light, unbothered.
But the effect of those words—
Was anything but light.
Doran and Oberyn Martell exchanged a single glance. No words were needed; both already understood.
Behind them, Arianne Martell and Quentyn Martell were not so composed.
They stared at each other—then both cried out in shock.
"What?! Whose head did you just say that was?!"
Arianne's disbelief came out raw and unfiltered, exactly as bold as her nature.
Quentyn, by contrast, restrained himself—but his voice still carried doubt.
"Ser Payne… I do not mean to question your honor. But this… is difficult to believe. Are you certain… this truly is Gregor Clegane's skull?"
Podrick merely shrugged.
"Of course. As genuine as it gets."
Oberyn stepped forward then.
His eyes burned—two cold flames fixed on Podrick.
"And how did you come by it?" he asked, voice low and sharp. "We have heard nothing of Gregor Clegane's death."
Podrick spread his hands slightly.
"If no one spreads the news, and no witnesses remain… then naturally, no one would know."
He spoke evenly, without haste.
"I encountered him by chance—while escorting Sansa Stark back to her brother, Robb Stark."
"The beast made a poor choice. He tried to rob me."
"So I took his head."
A pause.
Then, just as calmly—
"As per an agreement between us, I boiled the flesh away with lime and preserved the skull properly."
"If you doubt me, you may ask House Stark. Sansa—and her sister, Arya Stark—would be more than willing to testify."
"After all… I not only killed the Mountain, I also saved that poor Stark girl from him."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Her fate was never meant to end in tragedy on this continent."
Then, almost as an afterthought, he gestured toward Gendry.
"My squire here—King Robert Baratheon's bastard—was present as well. He can confirm everything."
His voice remained steady.
Clear. Logical. Unassailable.
Time. Place. Witnesses. Evidence.
Everything aligned.
At that point, any further doubt could no longer be voiced openly.
If Podrick were lying, it would be easily exposed.
And more importantly—
There was no reason for him to lie.
Which meant—
The gift was real.
And the fact that Gregor Clegane had died at this young man's hands—
Was also real.
Doran understood this instantly.
He forced down the storm surging within him—his face flushed, his breathing uneven.
Then, gripping the arms of his wheelchair, he leaned forward—
And bowed.
Deeply.
"Your gift… is beyond precious."
"It is a treasure worthy of any king—yet to Dorne, to House Martell… there is nothing more valuable."
His voice trembled—not with weakness, but with emotion long buried.
"Ser Payne, I must apologize for our doubts regarding your honor and your justice. I hope you will accept my sincere apology."
"And… on behalf of House Martell—"
"I thank you, with all my heart, for your generosity."
He lifted his gaze, meeting Podrick's eyes.
"Ser Podrick Payne…"
"You shall forever have the friendship of Dorne—and House Martell."