Westeros, Dorne, Sunspear, The Water Gardens
The Water Gardens were the crown jewel of Dorne, a sprawling oasis of fountains and blood-orange groves overlooking the sea. It was the favorite retreat of Prince Doran Martell, built centuries ago by Prince Maron as a gift to his Targaryen bride, Daenerys. It was meant to be a symbol of peace; today, it was a sanctuary of secrets.
Doran sat in his wheelchair, watching the noble children splash in the pools. His face was a mask of weary patience, but behind his eyes, the gears of a slow, cold revenge were turning. His legs, swollen and useless from gout, had tethered his ambition to a chair, forcing him to become the "Grass" that hid the Viper.
Areo Hotah, the massive Norvoshi bodyguard, stood like a statue behind his master. His grip on his long-axe never wavered, even as he sensed a familiar presence approaching.
"My Prince," Hotah rumbled. "Your brother has arrived."
Oberyn Martell—the "Red Viper"—strunted into the pavilion with a predatory grace that his older brother had long since lost. He was accompanied by his paramour, Ellaria Sand, who looked at him with a smoldering intensity that ignored the presence of others.
"Iced wine," Oberyn noted, grabbing a flagon from Doran's side table without asking. "The only thing that makes the heat of Dorne bearable."
"You've been gone for weeks, Oberyn," Doran said, his voice level. "I sent you to King's Landing to observe the Lion. Instead, you vanished."
"The capital is a cage of fools, brother," Oberyn replied, settling Ellaria onto his lap with an unabashed intimacy that made Doran's jaw tighten. "I've been tracking something far more interesting. Magic is returning to the world. It's bleeding into the soil, and the source is sitting in Tyrosh."
Doran looked at his brother. "You sent Sarella to him."
"She has always been the cleverest of my brood," Oberyn smirked. "She wanted the Citadel, but the Citadel is a tomb for old men who fear the dark. I sent her to Aegon. She reports that Barristan Selmy and the Imp of Casterly Rock have already pledged their swords to him."
Doran's eyes narrowed. He hadn't yet received word of Tyrion's defection. "And what does this 'Aegon' want from us?"
"He sent a message through Sarella," Oberyn said, his expression turning grave. "He says if Dorne wishes to settle the debt for Elia and her children, the time is now. He's planning to strike The Stormlands."
The House of the Book of Gold
In the archives of the Tyroshi Archons, Jon was sifting through scrolls that hadn't been touched since the Valyrian Freehold. He was flanked by Sarene and the newly unmasked Sarella Sand.
Sarella had shed her "Alleras" disguise, revealing a lithe, bronze-skinned woman with a sharp wit and a gaze that lingered on Sarene with a predatory curiosity.
"Lord Aegon, here!" Sarene called out, her silver hair shimmering in the lamp-light. "The journals of Jynnaera Velarys. It contains the navigational charts for Pterodactyl Point and the Basilisk Isles."
Jon leaned in. He wasn't interested in gold; he was looking for the Long-winged Dragons of Sothoryos. Legend said these creatures were cousins to the Valyrian dragons, perhaps the raw material used by the blood-mages of old to forge the Targaryen mounts.
"Lomas Longstrider's accounts are more accurate," Sarella countered, pulling a separate scroll from the shelf. She unrolled it with a professional flourish, her fingers tracing the coastlines of the green hell that was Sothoryos. "The Valyrians never conquered the Point. They feared the plague-winds and the monsters there. Are you certain you wish to go, my Prince?"
"I need wings," Jon said, his voice echoing in the silent library. "The Red Keep has walls. I intend to fly over them."
He handed the map to Sarella. "Copy this. Sarene, stay and assist her. I need to find Salladhor Saan; he claims his ancestors were Pirate Kings in the Basilisk Isles. He'll have the sea-currents."
As Jon left the room, the atmosphere between the two women shifted instantly.
"You're very quiet, Sarene," Sarella said, her quill scratching against the parchment with a rhythmic, hypnotic sound. "Is it because you've never seen a real map, or because you're worried I've seen through you?"
Sarene stiffened. "I don't know what you mean, Lady Sand."
"Dorne is a land of vipers and poisons, sweetling," Sarella whispered, looking up with a mocking smile. "But Lys... Lys is the land of 'The Lust-Touch.' It's a dark magic that makes a man a slave to his own desire. Tell me, has Aegon felt your touch yet? Or are you waiting for Salladhor Saan to give the order?"
Sarene's face drained of color. "I am a loyal servant of the Chainbreakers."
"Are you?" Sarella stood up, her hand brushing Sarene's shoulder in a way that felt like a threat. "Because you smell of the Alchemists' Guild in Lys, not the medical corps. I wonder... when the Dragon finds out his little secretary is a shadow-spy, will he burn you, or will he give you to me?"