Dorne – Sunspear
Ten days later, the noon sun hung in the sky like a red-hot gold coin, blazing between the Red Mountains and the Summer Sea.
Pierce's small fleet—the Golden Crab and her two caravels—glided into the harbor known as the Sand Snake's Kiss, three leagues outside Sunspear.
The port wasn't huge, but it was smartly built, using natural reefs and man-made breakwaters to create a perfect sheltered anchorage.
The docks were already packed. The hot, dry Dornish air carried the sharp mix of spices, leather, and fresh fish.
The moment Pierce stepped onto the wooden pier, he was greeted by exactly the welcome he'd expected—and the one he hadn't.
Prince Oberyn Martell stood at the very front of the welcoming party, flanked by two lines of Dornish guards in bronze scale armor carrying long spears.
The Red Viper was dressed in a magnificent deep-red silk robe today, the collar and cuffs embroidered with coiling golden snakes. His black hair was neatly tied back, and that trademark smile—three parts mocking, seven parts razor-sharp—curved his lips.
All around the docks, Dornish nobles, merchants, and curious commoners pressed in for a look. A fabulously wealthy new lord with close ties to the royal family was big news in Dorne.
After so many years of unity, Dorne wasn't as closed-off as it used to be. People from the rest of Westeros could come and go freely now.
"Lord Pierce Celtigar," Oberyn stepped forward, right hand over his heart in the classic Dornish salute. "Welcome to Dorne. The sun and sand greet you."
Pierce returned the bow with perfect grace. "Prince Oberyn, thank you for meeting me in person. This honor is… unexpected."
"Honor?" Oberyn laughed, bright and open. "You've earned it, my lord. The rise of Golden Port, the renovations in King's Landing and Dragonstone, and that little… 'incident' you had in the Stepstones. Right now the entire Narrow Sea is talking about you."
His eyes flickered with something complicated for a split second.
"Some people are already saying your wealth rivals what the Sea Snake Corlys Velaryon had at his peak."
It sounded like flattery, but the question underneath was obvious. Pierce's expression didn't change. He just gave a modest smile. "Rumors always exaggerate. House Velaryon built their fortune over generations. I've only had a few lucky years and a couple of clever ideas."
After a few more polite exchanges, Oberyn gestured toward the waiting carriages.
Pierce had brought only a small retinue. Among them was Lys—now dressed in proper handmaiden clothes, face still a little pale—and her five nervous women. The rest of the guards and sailors would stay at the arranged lodgings near the port.
The carriages rolled along a hard-packed road of earth and gravel, heading northeast toward Sunspear itself.
The scenery changed gradually. First came the port warehouses, workshops, and simple houses, thick with the smell of fish and sweat. Then scattered farmland, vineyards, and orchards appeared. Dornish farmers used clever water-wheel systems to irrigate everything from figs and olives to small wheat fields and thick-leaved desert crops Pierce didn't recognize.
Closer to the city the buildings grew denser. Mud-brick homes gave way to stone. Street vendors shouted about pottery, spices, colorful cloth, and desert specialties.
And when the full outline of Sunspear finally rose before him, even the well-traveled Pierce couldn't help but feel a spark of awe.
This wasn't the grim, fortress-like castles of the rest of Westeros. Sunspear looked like a living work of art grown straight out of the desert.
The castle stood at the eastern tip of a sandy peninsula, surrounded on three sides by the salty sea. Only the west connected to the bustling Shadow City. Three curving walls of Dornish sandstone formed the most striking defense—not straight and rigid like northern keeps, but sinuous like snakes wrapping the main keep and even spilling into the city streets, blending fortress and town in one seamless whole.
The walls were warm from the sun, etched with faint wind-scoured patterns. Three successive gates offered shortcuts through the curves. Above each archway sat the Martell spear-and-sun sigil mixed with Rhoynar sun motifs.
Twin towers rose above the old palace. The Spear Tower was built of hard black obsidian mixed with sandstone—straight, cold, and topped with a spear-point spire that gleamed coldly in the sun. Opposite it, the Tower of the Sun wore amber-colored glazed tiles, each one stamped with the Rhoynar sun. In daylight the whole tower seemed to glow with golden fire, telling the story of Dorne's fusion with the Rhoynar.
And the dark-brown Sandship—the most legendary part of Sunspear—looked exactly like a giant stone ship that had sailed out of the sea and beached itself forever. Its prow thrust toward the waves, the stone rippled like water-worn hull planks. The contrast with the warm yellow sandstone around it was striking, and the sea wind against its walls still sounded like distant sails.
"Now that's impressive, isn't it?" Oberyn noticed Pierce's gaze and sounded proud. "Sunspear wasn't built just for defense—at least not only for that. Our ancestors wanted a palace that could actually breathe in the desert."
Pierce nodded in genuine agreement. The carriage passed under the outer archway and entered the castle proper. Inside, the place truly felt alive, exactly as Oberyn had promised.
Courtyards were filled with drought-resistant cacti and bright desert flowers. Fountains, though modest, ran cool and clear. Many corridors had huge arched windows covered only by thin colored gauze that blocked sand but let the breeze flow freely.
Vibrant tapestries hung on the walls, depicting the Rhoynar crossing, Princess Nymeria's wedding, and the great deeds of past Martell princes.
But Pierce also noticed the clever design beneath the beauty. The internal layout was a deliberate maze—forking paths, sudden dead-end corridors, spiral staircases leading who-knew-where, and decorative lattice walls that could easily hide spy-holes or secret passages.
No wonder Prince Doran preferred the open, simpler Water Gardens. Staying too long in this labyrinth would wear on anyone.
The carriage finally stopped in a courtyard at the base of the Tower of the Sun. Oberyn led Pierce down a mosaic-tiled corridor into a wide circular hall.
At the center was a small fountain. Low couches and cushions surrounded it—classic Rhoynar style.
The most striking thing was the special chair at the far end. Not a throne, but a wide wheeled yew chair padded with silk cushions. Seated in it was Prince Doran Martell.
He looked even older than the rumors suggested. In his mid-fifties, but the sunken eyes, deeply lined face, and swollen, twisted hands from gout made him seem seventy.
He wore a plain white linen robe with a thin blanket over his knees, but those deep brown eyes were still sharp and clear, as if they could see straight into a man's soul.
Behind him stood a tall guard in sleeveless leather armor embroidered with the spear-and-sun, holding a double-bladed longaxe. Bald, stone-faced—Arys Oakheart? No, this was Areo Hotah, the Norvoshi captain of the Martell guard.
"Lord Pierce Celtigar," Doran's voice was slow and steady, carrying a soft Dornish accent. "Forgive me for not rising to greet you. The journey must have been tiring."
Pierce stepped forward, right hand over his heart, and bowed. "Prince Doran, it is my honor to be received by you. May the Dornish sun always shine on House Martell."
The greeting was flawless—respectful but not servile. Doran gave a small nod, his gaze lingering on Pierce for a moment before flicking briefly to the pale Lys and her women behind him. He asked no questions.
"I hear you ran into some… small trouble in the Stepstones?" Doran said slowly.
"Nothing too serious," Pierce answered calmly. "Captain Lys's men mistook my fleet for easy prey. The matter has been resolved. Captain Lys… has seen the error of her ways and now serves me." He stepped aside and motioned Lys forward.
Lys took a deep breath, stepped up, and dropped to one knee. "Your Highness, I… apologize for my past actions." Her voice was dry but steady.
Doran looked at her with no expression. After a few seconds he spoke. "The pirate affairs of the Stepstones have nothing to do with Dorne. Since Lord Celtigar has handled it, that is enough."
The words were neutral, but the line was clear: Dorne had no connection to pirates and took no official stance on Pierce's actions.
Everyone in Sunspear knew about Lys. The Martells had probably helped her rise in the Stepstones from the shadows. But noble houses never admitted those kinds of ties out loud.
Pierce understood perfectly and let the subject drop. He signaled his servants to present the gifts.
For Prince Doran he had commissioned a specially designed wheelchair. Unlike ordinary ones, the wheels were wrapped in thick, springy black rubber. The seat and back were padded with swan velvet, the armrests adjustable. The frame even folded with precise gears and shock-absorbing springs.
"I heard Your Highness has trouble with your legs," Pierce said, demonstrating how it folded and unfolded. "The rubber wheels reduce bumps. The cushions adjust to your body. It folds small enough to travel with. I hope it brings you some comfort."
Doran's eyes flickered with real interest. He had a guard wheel it closer, ran his hands over the rubber tires and soft pads, then tested the adjustable armrests himself.
After a long moment he looked up. "A very clever design. This gift… shows real thought. I accept it. Thank you."
Truthfully, Doran was thinking far beyond comfort. This level of craftsmanship already rivaled the best workshops in Myr. It meant Pierce could produce far more dangerous things than fancy wheelchairs.
The other gifts followed. For Oberyn, a matched set of Valyrian steel dagger and short sword with ruby hilts. For the rest of the Martells, jewels, silks, perfumes, and fine Essosi and Crackclaw craftsmanship.
Once the gifts were presented, Doran introduced the family members present. Besides Oberyn there was his eldest son Quentyn Martell, second son Trystane, and eldest daughter—and heir—Arianne Martell.
Arianne was in her early twenties, with the classic Martell olive skin and black hair, but her eyes were a rare deep violet. She wore a thin dark-green gauze dress, barefoot, with delicate gold chains at her wrists and ankles. She radiated a wild, lazy beauty as she openly studied Pierce with bold, direct curiosity.
"Lord Pierce," she said after her father's introduction, voice carrying that husky Dornish lilt. "I've heard so many stories about you. It's a pleasure to finally meet the man himself."
"Princess Arianne," Pierce replied smoothly, "your beauty is like a star in the desert night—impossible to forget."
Dornish women were a force of nature. Maybe that was why the rest of Westeros looked down on them—true equality of inheritance made some lords nervous.
After the brief pleasantries, Doran announced that lunch was ready. It was nearly noon, and even inside the well-ventilated Tower of the Sun the heat still pressed in.
They moved to an open terrace overlooking the sea. A cool breeze swept across the table, making the meal far more bearable.