Dorne, where the sun is generous and scorching. Yet in the Water Gardens, fountains and shade turn the intense heat into a pleasant coolness. The fragrance of orange and lemon trees fills the air, while children play in the shallow pools in the distance. Their laughter rings clear, mingling with the soft murmur of water, creating a scene of peaceful serenity.
However, seated in his wheelchair, Prince Doran felt no peace. He stared intently at the letter in his hands. It was from his daughter, Arianne. The letter assured him, with complete certainty, that Aegon Targaryen, who claimed to be the son of Rhaegar and Elia, was indeed who he said he was. It urged him to raise his forces at once and seize this rare opportunity.
Prince Doran trusted that Arianne would not intentionally deceive him. Her longing for the family's glory was real. But he also doubted her judgment. She was too easily swayed by heroic tales and dreams of restoration.
Could this young man truly be Aegon? Prince Doran thought calmly. It seemed entirely possible. Varys, that cunning spider, could easily have swapped an infant. But doubts lingered. Why keep this secret? Why even Willem Darry kept in the dark? Was it just for secrecy's sake? Or did Varys have a deeper plan?
He thought for a long time, his gaze shifting to the children playing, though his mind drifted far to Storm's End. The Seven Kingdoms now—House Lannister sat on the Iron Throne but was bogged down in turmoil. House Stark had crumbled, the Reach remained quiet, the Stormlands and the Vale were in constant conflict...
Indeed, no one seemed better suited to unite the rebel forces or to overthrow the Lion's rule than this unexpected Targaryen heir. Hadn't all those years of patience been spent waiting for this moment? A chance to avenge Elia and restore Dorne to its rightful place? And his brother, Oberyn, still held by that Eastern man, his fate uncertain.
He could not wait any longer. There were risks, but opportunity waited for no one. Finally, he slowly raised his head, meeting the gaze of the Captain of the Guard, standing silently behind him.
"Areo."
Areo Hotah, his signature long-handled axe in hand, gave a slight bow. "Your Grace."
"Have the maester write to Storm's End immediately." Prince Doran's voice was steady.
"Accept their terms. Dorne will send a large army to support the cause of Rhaegar and Elia's son, Aegon Targaryen. But... we must have assurances. Aegon must marry Arianne as his Queen to cement the alliance between Dorne and the Iron Throne. Furthermore, once the Seven Kingdoms are settled, he must spare no effort to secure Oberyn's release from the Easterners."
This was not merely a set of conditions, but a test. If the other side genuinely sought cooperation and recognized Elia and Dorne, there was no reason to refuse these reasonable demands.
Prince Doran's eyes burned with intensity. "And tell Norvos the plan is in motion. Have their men depart from Pentos and land in the Crownlands to answer our call."
At the mention of "Norvos," a brief glint of sharpness flickered across Areo Hotah's otherwise impassive face. He asked no questions, simply thudding the end of his axe against the ground.
"As you command, Prince."
He turned and swiftly left. The courtyard was left with only Prince Doran, the sound of children's laughter, and the gentle flow of water. Seated alone in his wheelchair, he gazed at the peaceful scene he had created, yet his mind continued to work, turning over thoughts and plans.
If Arianne became Queen, House Martell would almost monopolize the position of Queen of House Targaryen, and Dorne's influence would once again be at the heart of power.
The demand to rescue Oberyn was driven not only by brotherly duty, but also by the pride of Dorne and the need to curb the Easterner's ambitions. Yet, his thoughts drifted more toward the East.
That Eastern man who had risen through dragons and armies. His instincts told him this man was no good, his ambitions stretching far beyond the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea. He also held Daenerys in his grasp—another crucial pawn.
In Doran's original, long-laid plans, Daenerys had been reserved for Quentyn...
Quentyn.
At the mention of that name, a deeply complex emotion flickered in Prince Doran's eyes. Shortly after dispatching the letter, Prince Doran made another decision. He commanded Areo Hotah to bring "Quentyn" before him.
Since the disastrous melee at Ashford, "Quentyn" had lived in the shadow of his father's neglect. He spent his days in fear and anxiety, growing sullen and withdrawn, dreading that the promise of succession once made to him might also be taken away. When he was brought before his father, his face bore obvious unease.
Prince Doran did not look at him but instead gazed at the largest fountain in the center of the courtyard, its spray refracting tiny rainbows in the sunlight.
"Do you remember what I told you then?"
The prince's voice was utterly unremarkable.
"Quentyn" gasped, his heart pounding wildly. He remembered all too well!
Years ago, his father had summoned him privately, declaring Sunspear's future was his to claim. He was to strive for excellence, learning how to become a worthy Prince of Dorne. In that moment, Quentyn had been filled with pride. The long-held inferiority complex born of being an adopted son vanished, replaced by visions of a glorious future. He had even privately imagined himself seated upon Sunspear's throne.
But now, gazing into his father's calm yet unfathomable eyes, a chill suddenly rose from his heart.
"Father, I remember... you said I..." He tried to repeat those words.
Prince Doran cut him off immediately.
"I said Quentyn Martell would inherit Sunspear, and that remains true."
"Quentyn" heard this and felt a surge of joy, almost letting out a sigh of relief. But his father's next words shattered all his illusions in an instant.
"Because his sister, Arianne, will bring the highest glory to the Dornish and become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And my son, Quentyn, will remain in Dorne as the ruling prince. But you are not Quentyn Martell."
"Wh... What?!"
The young man was struck as if by lightning. His face drained of color, his body swayed, and he nearly collapsed to the floor. "No... this can't be true! Father, what... what are you saying?"
Prince Doran's gaze held not a flicker of emotion as he revealed the secret buried for years.
"The true Quentyn Martell is now across the Narrow Sea. Soon he will lead the armies of Norvos to land in the Seven Kingdoms, joining the Targaryen cause. He will win glory for Dorne, avenge Elia, and restore our honor. Consider this: House Yronwood and House Martell have been enemies for a thousand years. How could I possibly give my true son to our sworn foe to raise? Rumors abound that Mellario and I were estranged, forcing her to flee to Norvos, but that was merely a necessary pretext.
After Quentyn was born to Mellario and me, we devised this plan together. We swapped the true Quentyn with the son of a servant of similar age from the Water Gardens, sending that servant's son to Yronwood. After bearing Trystane, Mellario used our alleged discord as cover to depart Westeros with the true Quentyn, returning to her homeland of Norvos. As a Norvos noble, she ensured my eldest son received the finest education and most rigorous military training there. Oberyn's exile to the eastern continent was also at my behest. He secretly liaised with Norvos to strengthen ties. Ultimately, we secured Norvos's pledge: they would provide military support to Dorne, with my son Quentyn Martell personally leading the forces to reclaim the Seven Kingdoms."
His gaze fell once more upon the young man crumbling before him.
"And you—the child from the Water Gardens used to replace Quentyn—you fulfilled your duty well. You drew unwanted attention, protecting the true heir."
"Quentyn" collapsed utterly.
He had always believed he was merely unloved, never realizing he had been nothing but a pawn all along—a meticulously engineered decoy. A tidal wave of absurdity and despair engulfed him. Tears streamed down his face as countless details from the past flooded his mind.
Why was his appearance and physique so ordinary, unlike those of Arianne or Trystane? Why had his father's gaze always carried scrutiny rather than pure affection? Now, it all made sense.