Chapter 119: The Feast at the Water Gardens
Along the three-league coastal road, Rhaegar rode from Sunspear to the Water Gardens.
The Water Gardens stood beside the beach, a private palace of the rulers of Dorne made of gardens and fountains.
The silver dragon circled overhead with two companions; the dragon beat its vast wings and descended slowly.
Rhaegar leapt from the dragon's back and gazed at this beautiful sanctuary.
"Go, my friends!" The moment Rhaegar landed he noticed Silver Emperor and Balerion's restlessness; the gardens had too many fountains and too little space to land, and the dragons yearned to soar above the sea. Rhaegar stroked Silver Emperor's head; with permission the three dragons spread their wings joyfully and flew toward the ocean.
Rhaegar watched the dragons vanish into the sky; they loved freedom. With a simple spell he could sense them across short distances.
In the Water Gardens Rhaegar smelled the salty sea breeze, the sweet scent of fallen blood oranges and rich lemons; the only noise was the laughter of children in the fountain pools.
Children of every class and every family could come; together they played on the beach, in the pools and fountains. A kindness, Rhaegar thought—he loved those laughing children, symbols of peace and the future.
Compared to Sunspear's chaos, noise, and crowding, the Water Gardens were peerless.
Rhaegar recalled Summerhall, the Targaryen summer palace, now ruined by fire—only broken walls and endless sorrow remained.
House Martell descended from the balconies in orange, yellow, and scarlet stripes along with Dornish lords; leading them was the Princess of Dorne with her three children—Doran, Elia, and Oberyn. Orange, yellow, and scarlet were the Martell colors: an orange field pierced by a golden spear through a red sun, the spear the ancient sigil of House Martell, the sun for the Rhoynar.
From the balcony one overlooked countless pools and fountains; blood-orange trees cast shade and pale-pink marble paved every garden and courtyard, carved pillars and graceful arches completing the scene.
Rhaegar saw the princess and her children bore the classic salty Dornish look—olive skin, black hair, and eyes—clear Rhoynar blood. Doran was born in 248 AC, Elia in 257 AC, Oberyn in 258 AC; the younger two were inseparable, and all were older than Rhaegar.
The three watched the silver-haired, violet-eyed prince arrive—pure Targaryen beauty and presence. Rhaegar bound his hair with silver rings, wore a black coat embroidered with red dragons and black trousers, and at his waist hung the shadow-cleaver with its bone hilt—tall, handsome, merry, and dazzling.
"How good to see you!" the Princess of Dorne studied Rhaegar and smiled. "Campaigns and steel weather men, yet you've scarcely changed. Congratulations on your victory in the Stepstones—your mother and I will be proud of you, child."
"And you look as youthful as ever!" Rhaegar replied.
Rhaegar knew the Princess of Dorne was no simple woman; proud as any Dornish, quick to anger and slow to forgive, she now sought advantageous marriages for her younger children—starting with the offspring of her old friends at court: Rhaella's child, Joanna's child.
Rhaegar had come to Dorne both as envoy for Prince Aerys and for his own ends—to secure Dornish aid so Bloodstone customs might thrive. He was now inspector of Bloodstone customs and oversaw construction of the new station.
The Princess of Dorne introduced her children to Rhaegar; he already knew their names, yet etiquette demanded the formality.
"My eldest son and heir, Doran." She indicated Doran, born in 248 AC, now a quiet, reserved youth who seemed gloomy or simply too restrained; after two infant brothers died he had long been an only child. Rhaegar greeted him, but Doran's face remained dour, as it had since childhood.
"My second child, my little flower, Elia."
Rhaegar offered courtesy; Elia was no great beauty—dark eyes, flat chest—but a kind, graceful lady frail from chronic illness. Rhaegar knew she had been born a month early and never fully recovered.
"Glad to meet you, prince." Elia said shyly, cheeks faintly flushed. Frail and sickly, she rarely left the palace; though many noble youths buzzed about the princess, none satisfied her brother Oberyn's scrutiny. After his scorn and their proud mother's disapproval, Elia remained unwed. Beside those fluttering Dornish lords, Rhaegar was simply on another level.
To be honest, beyond dragon blood and Dornish support, marrying Elia offered little. The princess ranked neither in health nor beauty. Yet wantonness was wrong—he could not give every girl a home.
"My youngest son Oberyn is a warrior too!" the Princess of Dorne announced with pride.
Rhaegar exchanged a few pleasantries with Oberyn—tall and lean as a Dornish spear, visibly sharp. His black hair shone, nose and forehead pointed, eyes jet-black as endless night, calling to mind a viper.
Rhaegar quickly praised the three Martell siblings: a brooding prince, a sickly princess, a warrior—or viper. Each stood distinct.
Surrounded by courtiers, Rhaegar chatted with the young Martells, neither warm nor cold.
"The Water Gardens were Prince Maron Martell's gift to his beautiful Targaryen bride, Princess Daenerys Targaryen, sealing the union and friendship of the Iron Throne and Dorne. Today we welcome a young, heroic Targaryen warrior, symbolizing lasting amity between the Iron Throne and Sunspear!" the Princess of Dorne declared.
"Long live King's Landing! Long live Sunspear!"
"Long live peace!"
"Friendship forever!" the crowd cheered.
Then Oberyn stepped forward, inviting Rhaegar to a bout—a dance of blades.
"Let us offer a dance before the feast, prince," Oberyn said stiffly.
Rhaegar accepted without hesitation. He sensed Oberyn's skill—first-rate; add poisons and other tricks and the advantage grew. Yet to the fiery Dragon Prince, that was all.
"Oberyn, you're being rude!" the Princess of Dorne protested.
But the Dornish cleared a circle; they love a fight to the death.
"Have at you!" "Have at you!" Steel flashed; Rhaegar flicked his blunted sword in flowing arcs.
Oberyn's swordplay was swift and venomous—lunge after lunge, built on agility. Alas, he faced a dragon strengthened many times over.
Rhaegar moved with greater vigor; every blow carried crushing force that numbed Oberyn's arms and shoulders. Steel screamed on steel. Oberyn marveled: Rhaegar seemed a giant of endless strength.
Against such raw power and speed Oberyn soon tired. Rhaegar blazed like wildfire, blade unstoppable; Oberyn's ripples faded, and Rhaegar claimed an easy victory.
"Your sword-work is excellent, prince," Rhaegar said.
"Had I a spear, I might have won," Oberyn replied, unbowed.
Applause followed; the crowd had backed Oberyn, yet the pretty prince proved fiercer.
Rhaegar wondered what he'd done to offend Oberyn, then realized: perhaps Oberyn avenged his sister. A bit of a sister's champion, Oberyn had stuck to Elia since childhood. Seeing Rhaegar's lack of ardor had sparked his fury—so very Oberyn.
Guests applauded the princely show of friendship—a fine prelude to dinner.
The Dornish had prepared a lavish feast for the Iron Throne's prince.
Stuffed peppers with cheese and onion, lamprey pie, honey-roasted capon, gillyfish, goat roasted in honey and stuffed with raisins, onion, mushroom, and dragon pepper—even grilled snake, its rub of mustard seed, dragon pepper, and a drop of venom.
Rhaegar ate heartily; Dornish heat was unlike anything else. Blood oranges for fruit, summer red for drink, lemon-egg soup and viper broth—seven snake meats stewed with dragon pepper, blood orange, and a hint of venom. The meat tasted much like chicken, fiery hot.
The Dornish board, though less bountiful than the Reach's, bore its own spicy charm.
Hall full, every guest in joy.
All seemed well—yet no trace of magic or runes, Rhaegar noted.
House Martell carried Rhoynar blood, yet no sorcery flowed. Years of war had brought no dark-magic tales—only guerrilla tactics and hard resistance.
Perhaps I should seek those orphans and try my luck, Rhaegar mused.
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