Gendry and the Red Viper rode side by side along the rugged coastline, the hooves of their mounts striking a steady rhythm against the hard-packed earth. Once they cleared the coastal ridges and reached the flat plains of the Disputed Lands, they could push their horses to a gallop toward Myr.
Out on the water, Morosh's ships were already cutting through the waves, ferrying the heavy infantry toward the besieged city.
A silent understanding settled between the two riders. House Martell was starved for allies who possessed the strength to strike, while a bastard warlord building an empire from scratch desperately needed the legitimacy and seasoned lances of a Great House.
"How do you intend to handle the horse lords, Commander?" Oberyn asked, his dark eyes fixed on the horizon. The Red Viper's face was sharp and lined, his high cheekbones framing eyes that held a dangerous, simmering vitality. Silver threaded through his black hair, a subtle betrayal of his age, yet he sat his saddle with the coiled tension of a much younger man.
Gendry kept his gaze forward, the wind ruffling his thick, coal-black hair. "With disciplined spears and the walls of Myr at our backs. I have no interest in raiding; I will leave that to the Dothraki. But the flatlands of the Free Cities invite a cavalry charge. If we want to break them, we must meet them in the open."
"The screamers were not invincible beneath the walls of Qohor," Oberyn noted smoothly.
"And now, I have the spears of Dorne to flank them," Gendry replied.
"Dornish doctrine dictates we avoid massive, pitched battles," Oberyn warned, a faint smile playing on his lips. "We rely on light horsemen, swift raids, and the brutal heat of our deserts to bleed an enemy dry. The Disputed Lands are vast, open plains. Our usual games will not play out the same way here."
"I only need your support on the wings," Gendry said, his voice hard with certainty. "The Wolf Pack and the Unsullied will break their charge. If we do not cripple them here, they will scour the lands until Myr starves."
"Then I look forward to the victory feast," Oberyn chuckled.
They rode past sprawling, fertile estates. The fields were overgrown, the manses abandoned. The Myrish masters had either fled or died in the uprisings, leaving the land in a state of suspended animation. Despite the looming threat of the Dothraki locusts, the freedmen in the scattered villages watched Gendry's column pass with a quiet, fierce reverence.
"And what of all this?" Oberyn gestured to the rich earth.
"I will divide it," Gendry stated matter-of-factly. "A portion will be claimed by the state. The rest will be partitioned into smaller plots for the freedmen. I plan to survey the land and take a full census."
Oberyn pulled back slightly on his reins, turning to look at the young commander. "A census? Land registries?"
"Exactly. Taxation and manpower are the spine of rule. The slavers kept their property off the ledgers to avoid tariffs, and half the population doesn't even possess a family name. That ends now. The towns will be structured, the people counted, and merit will dictate advancement, not the thickness of a master's purse."
Oberyn let out a low whistle. "Ruthless, yet terribly pragmatic. The wealth of this land is staggering. Dorne is too arid; even with complete control over our people, our numbers are finite."
The harsh climates of Dorne, the North, and the Stormlands kept their populations the lowest among the Seven Kingdoms.
"I knew your father, many years ago," Oberyn remarked, shifting the conversation as effortlessly as a blade changing hands.
Gendry's jaw tightened. "I did not. I doubt he even remembers how many bastards he sired." He had long ago decided to bury his anger, choosing instead to quietly accumulate power while waiting for Westeros to tear itself apart.
"Other houses might dismiss a bastard, but you are a Baratheon. The blood of Orys runs in your veins—the rumored bastard brother of Aegon the Conqueror himself."
"Rumors and ancient history. I have no claim to the Stormlands, nor do I want one," Gendry deflected. Stepping into the Baratheon succession crisis would only put a target on his back.
"The Great Lords of King's Landing, Casterly Rock, and Highgarden will not see it that way. You command an army, a fleet, and you shelter the Targaryen girl. Do not tell me you do not look at that ugly iron chair and consider taking it for the exiles."
"You have a silver tongue, Prince Oberyn," Gendry said, finally looking the Dornishman in the eye. "You and your brother have spent years hunting for an edge. Nothing would please Dorne more than to see the Baratheons bleed each other dry."
"It is not a threat, merely an observation. Power has a gravity to it," Oberyn replied smoothly. "After all, Robert's own grandmother was a Targaryen princess, yet he smashed the dragon's dynasty all the same."
"The Rebellion wasn't born of Robert's ambition. The Mad King and Rhaegar built their own pyre," Gendry countered. "Flies don't swarm an uncracked egg. Aerys's madness and his son's foolishness brought the realm down."
"Whatever the cause, Rhaegar fell at the Trident," Oberyn murmured, a shadow crossing his face. "We were young then. The heir to Storm's End was already a legend of wild indulgence. Women, wine, and melees. They called him the laughing storm. He loved crude tavern songs—'A Cask of Ale,' 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair'—and bellowed them whenever he was drunk."
"He and the Silver Prince were night and day," Gendry noted, recalling the histories Qyburn had taught him. "Rhaegar was born in the tragedy of Summerhall. He preferred the ruined halls to the Red Keep, sleeping under the stars and playing songs of twilight and fallen kings on his silver harp."
"A beautiful, melancholy fool. He should never have crowned the Stark girl," Oberyn said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, silken hiss. "He ruined himself, he ruined Robert, and he ruined my sister. A False Spring, and a very long winter."
The Tourney at Harrenhal hung between them, a ghost that refused to rest.
"If the gods had been kind, I would have been born the eldest, and Doran the third," Oberyn continued, his knuckles white around his reins. "I possess the bloodlust. I have dreamed of putting King's Landing to the sword every night for fifteen years."
"You say that, but you defer to Prince Doran's caution," Gendry observed.
Oberyn offered a bitter, self-mocking smile. "There is no other way. You know the history. The Mad King held my sister, Elia, hostage in the Red Keep. He forced my uncle, Prince Lewyn, to march ten thousand Dornishmen to the Trident to die for Rhaegar's folly. I will not lead Dorne into another slaughter without a blade already at our enemy's throat."
"We share an enemy in Casterly Rock," Gendry offered. "At least when it comes to Tywin Lannister, our paths align."
Oberyn spurred his horse into a faster trot, the bronze scales of his armor catching the fading light. "The past is ashes, Hammer King. But in you, I finally see a spark. I want justice for my sister and her babes. I want to butcher that dull-witted brute, Gregor. And then, I want to take the head of the man who held the leash."
The Viper bared his teeth in a smile that reached his eyes. "But for now... let us go kill some men who smell of horse and sour milk."