Dorne – Water Gardens
The afternoon sun was still brutal, but the second you stepped into the Water Gardens the heat melted away like a bad dream.
This green oasis west of Sunspear was Dorne's miracle and Prince Doran's favorite retreat. Compared to the endless yellow sand outside, it felt like an emerald dream dropped straight into the desert.
Crystal-clear streams drawn from the Greenblood snaked through the grounds via an ingenious system of stone channels, feeding dozens of pools and fountains of every size.
This was classic Rhoynar engineering—the same knowledge that still fed their people and reminded them of a lost golden age.
Tall date palms, fig trees, and olives cast wide pools of shade. Beneath them grew exotic flowers from the Summer Isles: flame-red bird-of-paradise, purple cascades of bougainvillea, and night-blooming white star jasmine that filled the air with sweet perfume.
Children's laughter drifted from the shallow pools in the distance—kids from every class in Dorne splashing and playing. That was Doran's rule: three days a week the Water Gardens belonged to every child, no exceptions.
Oberyn led Pierce along a shaded path beside one of the streams, gesturing proudly at the stone channels and plants.
"The design is smarter than it looks. See how those channels curve? Every bend was calculated so the water slows just enough to drop sediment while staying crystal clear. The reeds and cattails along the edges filter impurities with their roots."
He pointed out hidden rock formations and flower-covered gazebos. "Best sightlines in the garden—perfect for watching everything without being watched. My dear brother holds most of his quiet meetings right there. The whole layout was planned around the wind too. No matter how hot the day gets, there's always a cool, breezy corner by evening."
Pierce listened closely and nodded. The place looked natural, but every detail was deliberate—Rhoynar mastery of water and gardens mixed with the Martells' love of secrets.
They reached a large open pavilion at the heart of the gardens. White marble columns held up a domed roof. In the center stood a beautiful three-tiered fountain, spraying rainbows in the sunlight. Soft couches, low tables, and chilled fruit wines were already set out.
Prince Doran sat in his new wheelchair, pushed by Areo Hotah. Arianne, Oberyn, and the three older Sand Snakes took their seats. Pierce was given the place of honor. Lys and her five women waited quietly in the shaded outer edge of the pavilion.
A servant brought a bottle of deep amber wine and several of the crystal-clear glass goblets Pierce immediately recognized—his own Dragonstone workshops had made them.
Oberyn poured with a flourish. "This is 'Blood of the Burning Sun' from the Sulfur River vineyards—one of Dorne's finest strong reds. The river water carries special minerals, and the valley's huge day-night temperature swings give the grapes a unique… fire."
Pierce lifted the glass, inhaled the rich aroma—deep fruit with a strange mineral edge, like hot stone rather than sour sulfur—then took a sip. The wine hit like warm flame in his chest, then unfolded into a long, spicy finish.
"Damn," he said, genuinely impressed. "This has soul. It shouldn't just be drunk. It should be collected, discussed, celebrated!"
"You named it perfectly. This is what great wine should be. I was going to bring something special, but this is more than enough."
He took a bite of the lemon cake a servant offered—made with Dorne's fragrant lemons, the perfect sweet-tart balance to cut the wine's heat—then got straight to business.
Arianne leaned forward, violet eyes locked on him. "Lord Pierce, you mentioned 'marketing' earlier. How exactly would that work? We Dornish know how to make wine, but selling it… the Arbor lords have us beat there."
Oberyn cut in with a crooked grin. "Speaking of selling things… you're the expert, my lord. That 'Star Selection' contest that shook the entire Seven Kingdoms—the one that made Nymeria the new 'Star of Tomorrow'—you were the real power behind it, weren't you? Littlefinger was just the front man."
The pavilion went dead quiet. Everyone stared at Pierce. Doran leaned forward slightly. Areo Hotah's grip on his axe tightened. Even Lys in the shadows looked up in surprise.
The story had spread far and wide, but most people thought Littlefinger was the mastermind. Only the Martells—thanks to Oberyn's sharp analysis—had pieced together the truth.
Pierce didn't deny it. "It was my idea and my gold. Littlefinger supplied the venue and connections. We were partners. Nymeria's talent and hard work did the rest."
"Just partners?" Nymeria Sand laughed softly. She'd been quiet until now, but her voice carried that silky Lysene purr. "The 'Star of Tomorrow' is famous across half of Westeros. Her portraits are printed on silk and sold in Braavos. Even the Prince of Pentos wants to hear her sing. I heard the Sealord of Braavos is thinking of inviting her to perform at the opera house. The old courtesans are losing their minds."
Tyene Sand blinked her big innocent eyes, voice sweet as honey. "So Lord Pierce really is good at… making things famous, right? Like you said—making things valuable."
Pierce looked at the sharp-eyed family and knew they'd caught the point.
He stopped dancing around it. "Exactly. The Star Selection was pure marketing. We created demand, manufactured buzz, and set a new standard. The same playbook works even better for Dornish wine—because the wine already has history."
He leaned forward, tapping the stone table. "My plan has three steps. First—build hype. Six months before the actual tasting gala, we start spreading rumors across every major city."
"Dorne has discovered a legendary lost cellar. House Martell will reveal a cache of ancient wines from Nymeria's time. Hire poets, merchants, even paid bards to turn it into songs. Make sure every noble feast in Lys, Tyrosh, Braavos, Pentos, and the Summer Isles is talking about it."
"Second—scarcity. We don't release too much 'ancient wine.' Total bottles? No more than fifty. Ten for free tasting at the gala, twenty for auction, and the last twenty… never sold. They stay as Martell family treasures and ultra-exclusive diplomatic gifts. The less people can get, the more they'll want."
"Third—elevation. The gala can't just be drinking. Turn it into a cultural event. Invite the best bards to compose songs on the spot. Commission famous artists to paint custom labels for every auction bottle. Award winners a signed 'Master Taster' certificate from Prince Doran himself. We're not selling wine. We're selling status, taste, and membership in the highest circles."
He looked around the table. "Dorne's location is actually perfect—north to the Seven Kingdoms, east to the Free Cities, south to the Summer Isles. You're a natural hub. But you've always seen yourselves as producers, never as brand owners. That's the real waste."
His words landed like thunder. Everyone sat stunned.
"Once the brand is established, the rest is easy. From then on, any wine connected to Dorne becomes synonymous with gold."
Prince Doran stayed quiet for a long moment, then spoke slowly. "Lord Pierce, you make a strong case. But all of this assumes Dorne has enough high-quality product to support the brand. Wine is only one piece. You mentioned other opportunities?"
Pierce smiled. The real moment had arrived.
"Of course." He motioned for a servant to bring forward an elegant wooden box. Inside were several one-foot-long stalks of sugarcane—purple-red skin, rock-hard. "This is sugarcane, from the far south of Sothoryos. The stalks are loaded with sugar. Crush them for sweet juice, boil it down into pure sugar—cheaper, cleaner, and easier to store than honey. The leftover pulp can be fermented into liquor or used as animal feed."
Arianne picked up a stalk, peeled it like Pierce showed her, and took a bite. Her eyes widened. "So sweet! Sweeter than the ripest figs!"
Oberyn tried one too and whistled. "If we could grow this… wait." His brow furrowed. "This needs a lot of water, doesn't it? Dorne's biggest problem is water. Our current channels barely support the vineyards, olive groves, and basic crops. Large-scale sugarcane? Impossible."
"That's why I brought the second item," Pierce said, clapping his hands.
Four of his guards carried in a huge sealed wooden crate—six feet long, three wide, four high. Plain on the outside, but three colored hoses came out of it: red, blue, and a thinner black one.
The red hose ended in a hand pump. The blue one was open. The black one dripped into a clay jar.
"This is the Purification Core—my craftsmen's latest invention," Pierce said calmly. "It turns seawater—or any brackish water—into clean, drinkable, irrigable fresh water."
The pavilion went dead silent. Everyone stared at the box like it held a dragon.
Oberyn's voice was hoarse. "That's… impossible. The Citadel's maesters have studied it for centuries. Distillation only gives tiny amounts and costs a fortune—"
"I know what the maesters can do," Pierce cut in. "They can't do this."
He signaled a guard to bring over a barrel of fresh seawater from the harbor—cloudy and salty. He plunged the red hose's pump into it and started cranking.
A low, wet, almost organic gurgle came from inside the crate. Seconds later, clear water began dripping from the blue hose, quickly becoming a steady stream.
At the same time, thick, dark, foul-smelling sludge poured from the black hose into the jar.
Pierce filled a glass from the blue hose and handed it to Areo Hotah. "Captain, you're the most loyal guard here. Please taste it."
Hotah glanced at Doran, got a nod, and drank deeply.
Everyone held their breath.
Hotah frowned, tasted again, then rumbled, "No salt. But… it has a strange sour note, like old rainwater. Drinkable, but the taste is poor."
Pierce nodded. "First-pass water always does. We removed the salt and impurities but also some natural minerals. For irrigation it's perfect. A second filter plus a little mineral addition makes it taste normal."
He patted the crate. "One Core processes about a hundred gallons of seawater a day and produces seventy gallons of usable fresh water. No fuel needed—just regular cleaning and maintenance."
Oberyn shot to his feet and stared at the still-flowing blue hose. "What's the price? How much gold for this miracle?"
Pierce held up one finger. "First year—free rental to Dorne. I want five pilot sugarcane plantations in the Sulfur River valley and along the Greenblood where it can grow best. Dorne can pay the rental in sugarcane—ten thousand gold dragons' worth per machine per year—or in cash."
His voice turned serious. "Two conditions. First, only my trained technicians may service or repair the machines. No one in Dorne may disassemble them."
"Second—if any machine is destroyed through negligence or tampering, compensation is one hundred times the build cost—five thousand gold per machine means five hundred thousand gold in damages."
The Water Gardens had never been so quiet. Only the fountain's gentle splash broke the stunned silence.
Pierce had just handed Dorne the keys to unlimited water… and the price was loyalty, secrecy, and partnership.
He smiled at the Martells and raised his glass.
"Shall we talk business?"