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Dorne – Water Gardens
Tyene sucked in a sharp breath. Obara's eyes flew wide. "Five hundred thousand gold dragons?! That's straight-up—"
"But it's worth every single coin!"
Oberyn cut his daughter off. His gaze never left the blue hose still dripping clear water. His voice dropped low, thick with excitement. "If this actually works… if Dorne can turn seawater into fresh water… then the whole coastline, every inch of that salt-ruined land… it could all become fertile fields again."
He looked straight at Pierce, eyes burning with raw hunger. "Sugarcane… is just the beginning, isn't it?"
"Exactly," Pierce smiled. "Just the beginning."
He signaled his servants again. This time they carried in several larger crates.
The first one opened to reveal dozens of beautiful glass bottles from his Dragonstone workshops. Each held about a liter of deep purple-red liquid with whole grape pieces floating inside. The mouths were sealed with thick, flexible black rubber stoppers and wax.
"Grape preserves," Pierce said, popping one open with a special tool.
A sweet, wine-scented aroma flooded the pavilion. "Fresh grapes, peeled and seeded, soaked in sugar syrup, sealed in glass, then heat-sterilized. As long as the seal holds, they last over two years. Anywhere in Westeros or Essos, anyone with coin can enjoy perfect grapes any time of year."
He opened the second crate—more jars filled with peaches, pears, apricots, even Dornish cactus fruit in sweet syrup.
"Fruit in syrup. Same idea. Eat them straight as dessert, bake them into pies and cakes, or dilute them into special sweet drinks."
The third crate held neatly wrapped dried fruits—raisins, figs, dates—all in oiled paper.
"Dorne's sunlight is a gift from the gods!" Pierce scooped up a handful of deep-purple raisins. "Dry climate, almost no rain—perfect for drying fruit. But limited tech and farmland have kept you from cashing in on the real value."
He glanced at the distant Purification Core with open pride. "But now everything changes. With these machines, you can grow whatever you want without fear."
"I'm sure you'll choose wisely and skip the low-value wheat…"
Arianne already had a jar of grape preserves in her hands, staring at the plump fruit inside. "These… shipped north to the Vale or the Free Cities where fresh fruit is rare…"
"Will sell for a fortune!" Oberyn finished for her, eyes gleaming. "A jar of grapes in the dead of winter? Northern lords would kill for it."
"The merchants in Braavos would pay even more," Nymeria added. "They have deeper pockets."
Pierce nodded and pulled out the final item—small cloth bags of tiny black seeds.
"Watermelon and honeydew melon seeds from Yi Ti. I found them on my travels. Some oases there have a climate like Dorne, but their melons are incredibly sweet and juicy. I want to test them here. If they take, Dorne could become one of the greatest premium fruit regions in the known world."
This had been part of Pierce's plan from the start. Truthfully, he didn't need more gold. Turning gold into raw materials let him create even greater value.
When the entire continent of Westeros became his supply base, he could manufacture whatever he wanted.
Ruling as a king sounded fun, but spending the rest of his life stuck in a smelly, sweltering castle? No thanks.
Quietly transforming this world's productivity was also one of his goals. He had no interest in being the center of attention. His true path was treating this world as a chessboard and moving everyone on it like pieces.
He looked around at the Martell family, voice full of temptation:
"Imagine it: Dorne will no longer just mean 'strong wine and olive oil.' People will say: want the best wine? Go to Dorne. Want the sweetest fruits? Go to Dorne. Want fruit that lasts a full year? Go to Dorne. Dorne's sun, sand, and huge day-night temperature swings will stop being weaknesses and become the unique advantage that creates rare delicacies."
"From then on, Dornish ships won't just carry barrels of wine. They'll carry glass-bottled preserves, vacuum-sealed dried fruits, jams, jellies, and juices made from Dornish produce. Every item will be high-value. Every shipment will bring back more grain, weapons, mercenaries, and… influence."
Prince Doran closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, the usual tired, patient look was gone. Real fire burned in those deep-set eyes.
"Pierce Celtigar," he said slowly, "Dorne… is willing to work with you. Not just in business. From today forward, House Martell considers you a true ally. In Sunspear, you will receive the same respect and authority we give our own."
He had Areo Hotah wheel him closer and extended his gout-twisted hand.
Pierce took it firmly. One hand young and strong, the other old and weakened—but at that moment, they gripped each other tightly.
Under the blazing sun, with water murmuring and children laughing, an alliance that would reshape Dorne—and eventually all of Westeros—was officially sealed.
...
...
Sunspear – Great Hall
One month later, word had spread to every corner of Dorne.
House Martell was throwing a grand feast to welcome Lord Pierce Celtigar of Golden Port.
Invitations flew like a net across the Red Mountains, border forts, and estates along the Greenblood.
This was the largest celebration Sunspear had seen in seventeen years. The last time had been to mark Dorne's formal joining of the Iron Throne.
In truth, many didn't see it as a celebration. To most Dornish, it had been a humiliation—an "conditional surrender" or "shameful compromise."
As losers of Robert's Rebellion, Dorne had avoided being carved up, but no one in the Seven Kingdoms had dared try anyway.
After losing the dragons, the royal family had relied on marriage to hold things together. The Mad King had made many mistakes, but marrying Rhaegar to Elia Martell had been a masterstroke—it planted a Dornish dagger in the back of both the Reach and the Stormlands.
If Dorne had gone for open revenge, the Stormlands and Reach would have suffered most. That was why Jon Arryn had personally brought Prince Lewyn's body to Dorne and used a mix of courage and cunning to calm the furious Dornish lords.
The normally chaotic streets of the Shadow City had been scrubbed clean. Shops flew colorful banners.
Noble carriages from across Dorne packed the open ground outside the city gates. Their banners snapped in the hot wind: House Yronwood's black portcullis on yellow, House Wyl's striking viper, House Dayne's falling star sword, House Fowler's hooded hawk, House Jordayne's quill and checkerboard… Nearly every major Dornish house had sent their lord or heir.
Inside the triple curving walls of Sunspear, lanterns and banners hung everywhere. The Tower of the Sun's glazed tiles glittered in the sunset. The Spear Tower blazed with massive torch baskets. Warm light poured from the Sandship's windows.
The air smelled of roasted meat, spices, and rich wine.
The Martells were sparing no expense. Pierce had brought them the promise of even greater wealth, so they were determined to treat their honored guest with every courtesy.
The feast was held in the largest hall of the Tower of the Sun. The chamber was over a hundred feet across, with a soaring dome and walls hung with enormous tapestries of the Rhoynar crossing and Martell history.
Dozens of long tables were arranged in a graceful arc, leaving a wide central space for performances and mingling. The high table sat on a raised dais. Prince Doran occupied his new wheelchair in the center, flanked by Oberyn and Arianne. Pierce, as guest of honor, sat beside Arianne.
Lys, attending as Pierce's follower, had been given a prominent seat. She wore a modest but elegant deep-blue gown, her hair carefully braided, light makeup hiding the paleness from her wound.
But from the moment she entered the hall, her eyes had been frantically searching the crowd.
Until she found her.
Lady Vira Wyl sat with the Wyl contingent, not far from the high table. She looked thinner than Lys remembered, wearing a pale gold gown embroidered with the Wyl whip sigil.
Her black hair was gathered in an elegant knot, exposing her long neck. She wore the standard noblewoman's polite, distant smile.
But when their eyes met, that smile froze. Shock, wild joy, and deep pain exploded across her violet gaze.
Count Lawrence Wyl sat beside her—a sturdy Dornish lord in his forties with the typical Wyl hawk nose and thin lips.
He saw Lys too. His face darkened like a gathering storm.
His hand dropped to the hilt of his dagger, then quickly let go. No matter how furious he was, he wouldn't dare draw steel at a Martell feast. That would be suicide.
But the cold glare he shot Lys was unmistakable: You dare return.
Pierce saw everything. He calmly sipped his wine and watched the entertainment:
Dornish dancers swaying to drumbeats, their skirts blooming like flowers. A Lysene violinist playing haunting melodies. Acrobats juggling flaming torches.
Halfway through the feast, Pierce excused himself to "freshen up." Instead of heading to the privy, he had a servant deliver notes.
He had invited Lawrence Wyl and Ormond Yronwood for a private discussion, claiming urgent business.
Lawrence Wyl was the current head of House Wyl.
Ormond Yronwood was the son of the late Lord Edgar Yronwood—the man Oberyn had killed. A sharp-eyed man in his early fifties.
The two houses maintained only surface-level peace. Privately, Ormond hated Oberyn with a passion for murdering his father.
Both men were curious why Pierce wanted to meet them, but they couldn't refuse. Pierce represented not only himself, but the Iron Throne.
Soon, the two lords arrived at a quiet receiving room in the Tower of the Sun. Pierce sat alone in a carved chair bearing the Martell sigil. His guards had secured the area and spread word that the honored guest had drunk too much. No one would question him.
"Please, sit," Pierce said casually, though his eyes were sharp.
The two men stared at him warily.
Lawrence Wyl didn't sit. He snorted coldly. "What game are you playing, Celtigar? If this is about that whore Lys—"
"It's not about her," Pierce cut him off calmly. "It's about what the two of you have been plotting. More precisely… about the secret agreement between you and Prime Minister Jon Arryn."
Crash!
Ormond Yronwood's wine cup slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor. All color drained from his face. His eyes bulged. "You… what did you say? I don't understand…"