Dorne – Sunspear
Dorne's food was shaped by Rhoynar culture and the desert itself, so it tasted nothing like the rest of Westeros. Spices and chilies turned up in almost everything.
The fiery Dornish stew was basically their version of hotpot—tender lamb, chickpeas, and all kinds of local desert greens simmered with chili, cumin, and a dozen other spices. Pierce found it genuinely addictive. Then there was the grilled lizard meat—charred over coals until the skin crackled. It tasted a lot like chicken, but denser and more satisfying.
Cilantro-and-lemon grilled fish, vegetables pickled in olive oil and herbs—every dish had its own bold kick. Their staple was a flat, chewy desert flatbread, and the drinks were the famous Dornish wines plus a light cactus-fruit brew that went down dangerously easy.
Pierce noticed that Oberyn's three older Sand Snakes were also at the table.
Obara Sand, the eldest, looked about twenty-five or twenty-six—tall, powerfully built, with a no-nonsense face and the unmistakable vibe of the big sister who'd kick your ass first and ask questions later. She wore practical leather armor and kept a whip coiled at her hip.
Nymeria Sand was around twenty, with her father's black hair and lively, mischievous eyes. She was stunning and knew it.
Tyene Sand was the youngest of the three at the table, maybe fifteen or sixteen, dressed in a soft lavender gown. She looked sweet and harmless—until you remembered she was the one who loved poisons.
Sarella Sand was studying at the Citadel in Oldtown, and Elia Sand was off commanding the mercenary company "The Serpent's Brood" in Myr, so they weren't present. Both girls were roughly the same age as Tyene and had already started carving out their own names.
Halfway through the meal, Arianne steered the conversation exactly where Pierce knew it was going. She set down her silver cup, violet eyes locking onto his. "Lord Pierce, we all admire your… commercial talent. The new ales, beers, and fruit wines from Golden Port are everywhere on both sides of the Narrow Sea now. Even the feasts in Lys and Tyrosh serve them."
Her tone stayed polite, but the meaning was crystal clear.
Pierce put down his knife and fork, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and answered evenly. "Thank you, Princess. The brewing is just a few improvements. What people really like is the price and the everyday drinkability. Compared to the sweet wines of the Arbor or Dorne's strong reds, mine are cheaper and perfect for regular use."
"Exactly—that 'perfect for regular use' part," Arianne leaned forward, "has cut deeply into Dorne's wine sales. You know our land isn't like the Reach. We don't have endless fertile fields. Our grain yields are modest."
"Foreign trade—especially exporting strong wines, olive oil, gems, and spices to the Free Cities and the Summer Isles—is how we buy the grain and supplies we need."
She paused, her voice still calm but carrying a faint chill. "But the last two years, orders from Lys, Tyrosh, Myr, even Pentos have been dropping. Pentos has stopped buying our wine entirely."
"Our merchants investigated. The middlemen and taverns there are switching to cheap stock from Golden Port and Dragonstone. My lord, if this were just noble-to-noble competition, Dorne might overlook it. But the scale of your business… is now threatening the foundation of our economy."
The atmosphere on the terrace turned ice-cold. Obara's hand dropped to her whip. Nymeria's playful smile vanished. Tyene kept nibbling her dessert, but her eyes sharpened like daggers. Areo Hotah didn't move, yet the air around him suddenly felt lethal. Even Quentyn and Trystane stopped eating and stared at Pierce in tension.
Behind him, Lys went pale, her fingers trembling. She knew exactly how vicious Dornish revenge could be.
Pierce, however, looked completely unbothered. He even took a slow sip of the strong Dornish red, letting the fiery fruit explode across his tongue, then set the cup down and swept a calm gaze across every Martell face.
"You're right, Princess," he said clearly. "My business has hurt Dorne's wine trade. And I'll be honest with all of you—I have no intention of stopping. Golden Port needs revenue. My people need work. Brewing and selling wine is currently the most stable and profitable source we have."
The blunt refusal stunned the entire table. Even Prince Doran's eyelids lifted slightly.
"And the reason Dorne is losing market share," Pierce continued, "is because Dorne has zero real commercial strategy and doesn't understand marketing."
The temperature on the terrace shot straight to boiling. Every Martell looked ready to leap across the table.
Pierce ignored their outrage and kept talking, but the subject suddenly shifted. "However, I didn't come here today to fight over a few city-state contracts. I came to ask House Martell one question—a question that's been eating at you for seventeen years."
He leaned forward, eyes moving from Doran to Oberyn to Arianne.
"Do you still want revenge?"
Dead silence. Only the distant crash of waves and the soft flutter of gauze curtains.
"Revenge for Princess Elia Martell," Pierce said, each word deliberate. "For the woman the Mountain Gregor Clegane ran through with his sword. For Rhaegar's children smashed to pulp by Lannister soldiers. For every Dornishman who died in Robert's Rebellion."
Oberyn shot to his feet so fast his chair screeched across the stone. His face twisted with rage, black eyes blazing. "You dare—"
"I do," Pierce cut him off, voice still calm but carrying steel. "Because I see reality. The Lannisters control the Iron Throne. Tywin Lannister is the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. His daughter is queen, his grandson is heir, and his gold and armies prop up the entire realm."
"Reality is that Dorne is isolated. The Reach and Stormlands hate you. The Vale, North, and Riverlands are tied to the Baratheons. Reality is that Dorne is short on money, grain, and manpower. What exactly are you going to use for revenge? Curses?"
He turned to Oberyn, gaze sharp as a blade. "If curses and rage were enough, Tywin Lannister would have died a thousand times already. Instead he's thriving and his house is stronger than ever."
Oberyn's fists cracked, ready to lunge, but Doran raised one hand. The old prince stared at Pierce, deep-set eyes churning with pain, fury, humiliation… and the faintest flicker of something else.
"Then why ask, Celtigar?" Doran's voice was hoarse. "You're a Baratheon ally. Stannis's future good-son. The Lannister-Baratheon alliance is ironclad."
"Because I see farther than that," Pierce sat up straight. "The alliance on the Iron Throne is rotten. King Robert drowns in wine and whores. Queen Cersei and Stannis hate each other. The Lannisters and Tyrells are already circling for blood. More importantly, I understand where real power comes from."
He looked around the table. "In Westeros, true strength isn't ancient bloodlines or fancy titles. The Freys have only been lords for a century and they're the strongest house in the Riverlands. Why? Because they have gold, soldiers, and they control the crossing."
"What does Dorne lack? Not courage. Not hatred. Not history. You lack money. You lack people. You lack soldiers."
He let the words sink in. "But with enough gold, people and soldiers will come running. You could build an entirely new city outside Sunspear. You could hire the best mercenaries and craftsmen in the world. You could stockpile food and weapons. And when the time comes…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
The terrace stayed silent, but this time it was the silence of shock and calculation. Even hot-tempered Obara had her mouth open.
Pierce gave them a moment, then delivered the final offer. "Prince Doran, Prince Oberyn, Princess Arianne, and everyone here—I didn't come as an enemy trying to steal your business. I came as a partner."
He stood and walked to the edge of the terrace, looking out over the blue Summer Sea and the busy harbor below.
"I can help Dorne redesign its industries, create new trade goods, and use my fleets and networks to open bigger markets for everything you produce. I can teach you how to market—how to make your wines, olive oil, gems, and spices worth ten times more. In return, Dorne gives me a steady supply of goods and your support on this soil."
He turned back to Doran. "We make money together. We build real strength. And when the alliance on the Iron Throne finally cracks, when the Lannisters show weakness… Dorne will hold real gold, full granaries, and elite forces recruited from every corner of the world."
"Only then can you truly avenge Princess Elia."
He walked back to the table and picked up his cup. "So, Prince Doran… are you willing to work with me? For Dorne's future and for House Martell's long-held dream?"
Every eye turned to Doran.
The old prince stayed quiet for a long time, fingers absently stroking the blanket on his lap. His gaze searched Pierce's face, weighing, judging. Oberyn's jaw was clenched. Arianne held her breath. Even Areo Hotah's grip on his axe tightened.
Finally Doran raised a hand. A servant poured wine. Though his fingers trembled slightly, the motion was firm.
"Dorne… is willing to hear the full details of this plan." His voice was low but carried across the terrace. "Lord Pierce, after lunch we will speak in the Water Gardens. It is… quieter there. And cooler."
Pierce smiled and raised his own cup. "It would be my honor."
Two goblets met with a soft clink. Sunlight poured through the gauze curtains, turning the amber wine into liquid fire. The afternoon heat of Dorne still pressed down, but something in the air had already changed forever.