Chapter 52: Dorne IX

Early 158 AC

Arthur sat silently in his tent, the heat of the day dissipating as the sun drew near the horizon. Soon, it would be night, and he would return to his lonely bed, to contemplate the future of his house. Yet he could not do so, for across from him sat an emissary of the one who had taken Dorne from House Martell, bit by bit, lord by lord, until only Sunspear remained.

"Lord Royce, of House Baratheon," he said, looking over his opponent, noting the lack of the man's foster son by his side. "I take the boy king has elected you as emissary?"

He had come under a banner of peace, and were it the dragon king himself, some of his Dornish lords might have sought fit to break it, so great was their desperation. Yet Arthur knew better, especially with the entirety of the Valyrian's army camped outside of Sunspear itself. To do so, or even attempt such an act, would see Sunspear torn to the ground, and every living soul in its walls snuffed out. Still, given the number of guards and sworn shields present, near double his own, Arthur accepted that they would take no chances. As for his own safety, well, Nymor would fight on if he were betrayed and taken prisoner. It was a good thing, then, that he had no trueborn children of his own, ones that would readily surrender where his brotherly heir would hold fast. Lewyn's fate was yet to be rectified, but perhaps a concession could see his plans for his bastard come to fruition.

"Indeed, Prince Arthur, of House Martell," the younger man said, resting in the chair across the table.

"Would you care for refreshments?" Even with much of their supportive lands now cut off, there were still much in House Martell's stores for guests.

"No," the Stormlord curtly replied. "After the past moons, given the amount of poison that has been increasingly thrown our way, we politely decline such hospitality."

"I see." A fair reason, hence their own waterskins and satchels of preserved food. "Have any died?"

"None that you would know, many hedge knights and minor lords have suffered or died, but most others have survived. Lord Velaryon narrowly escaped an assassin's dagger a fortnight ago."

"I see. It is good my mother Aliandra does not yet live, it would have broken her heart to see her Oakenfist sail against Dorne."

"Lady Baela Velaryon nee Targaryen would beg otherwise. She has given him trueborn children, and for that, he loves her as he does the sea."

"Still, to think of what might have been. What does the dragon king wish of me?"

"King Daeron, First of His Name, wishes to subsume Dorne into the fold. With Westeros united, he sees that we can bring an end to conflicts that have plagued so many of our kingdoms in the past."

"What of the reaving Ironborn? The wildlings in the North? Or the mountain clans in the Vale? There are others that give trouble to the Iron Throne, why not focus on them, rather than conquer an independent land and people?"

Royce shrugged. "They each shall be dealt with as necessary. Dorne, however, has much more to answer for than those wild savages and waterlogged reavers."

"Oh?"

"The raiding, for instance. It is to stop. Too many have died and too much has been destroyed, and it is high time to put such practices behind us."

"Raids have occurred from both sides, Lord Baratheon," Arthur replied. "Do you deny the knowledge that parties of Stormlands, in the past, have crossed into our lands unprovoked and burned what they could not carry off?"

"I have never denied our shared quarrels, over countless generations," Royce said. "Yet there have been no such raids from Stormlander folk in near two generations. Your lords, on the other hand," he added, pointing at Arthur, "have escalated their attacks in that same time, and within the past five years have wrought more destruction than any comparable Stormlord raid in the last five generations."

"I see. The men who did these things were never sanctioned by House Martell. It was of their own actions these came about, so why hold all of Dorne responsible?"

"Such raids were a source of wealth and glory not so long ago for any Dornishman who could ride or wield a sword. Do not try to deny the allure of bastards and minor sons gaining their greater desires in raiding their neighbors. It has always been the allure of rewards that sends many men off to distant wars, and this was no exception."

"Yet the most recent raid was no war, and yet you treated it as one. The survivors have spread throughout Dorne, terrifying children and burdening friends and families with their survival."

"A vassal of mine gave them what they deserved, and sent the survivors as a reminder of what happens to those who raid outside of war. Let fools and idealistic youths see the cost of raiding, rather than only the rewards."

"Ah, yes, a Lord Wytch I am told. Took my bastard's eye, as well as those of many more, to say nothing of his… flesh pillars. Does he yet live?"

"That is none of your concern."

"Oh, but it is, Lord Baratheon. One does not just take an eye from a Dornishman and expect him to forgive and forget so easily."

"There will not be any forgiveness in this generation, Prince Arthur. In future ones, perhaps, but after the raids these past five years, not for any old enough to remember."

"Raids are a natural course of action to bloody green boys against a foe you have not yet entered open war with. Yet, as I said, you treated this ancient source of gold and glory as an unprovoked act of war."

Royce grimaced. "The first raid was repelled as all were before it. For the second, however, it wasn't a war until you Dornish made it one. I saw what the Wyls and their bastard left behind in the Stormlands."

"Oh?" He had long heard the stories from countless sources, but if this man had been there…

"Aye, Prince Arthur, I was there last year. I saw what was left of the bodies, the ruined villages and fields. My men buried or burned more smallfolk than I care to admit, to say nothing of what occurred further into my kingdom."

Arthur felt no need to defend the Wyls. Few Dornish liked them, and after the rumors had spread of what they had done with those under their command, it was no wonder many saw the dragon boy's conquest as recompense by the gods for sinful deeds. Trying to quell such rumors would only put him at odds with those that listened to them the most, and Arthur could not squander his time fighting the minds of his people. He could only redirect them in times like this, and right now, they had to be united against these invaders.

If only their folly hadn't led to the loss of so many more Dornishmen, trained men who could have perhaps slowed the advance of the dragon king far better than others. "So then, in addition to these raids ending once and for all… what does your king want of House Martell?"

"To bend the knee and swear allegiance to House Targaryen. To ensure that this end to feuding between kingdoms brings about lasting peace, one where all my benefit from it."

"You know the words of my house, Lord Baratheon. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken, and those words have served our house well since our Andal ancestors founded it."

"Yet you have not always ruled Dorne. In times, you were vassals to other, greater lords, or one of many petty kings clinging to whatever lands you could claim for your own. How can those words be true, then if your rule has never been as long or true as that of the Starks, Arryns, or Durrandons?"

"The Dornish are a fickle people, they do not take well to the trampling of their independence, as your king has no doubt seen already. Besides," Arthur replied, leaning back in his chair, "the sun always sets, but arises the next day, no matter how long or dark the night. The sun does not bend or bow to anything or anyone, and can never be broken, only… hidden, for some time, before making its fiery return."

"The same can be said of many things," Royce replied. "Storms come and go, but will always be with us. The seas will never dry, nor the mountains crumble to rubble. Winter always comes, sooner or later, and you would do well to remember that, prince."

"Say I was to bend the knee willingly, here and now. What happens then?"

"Forces are put in place so that Dorne is kept pacified until it can recover, I am told. You would be named as Lord Paramount of Dorne, with all the powers and prestige that come with such a title."

"What of my title as prince?"

"No longer, as one shan't be a princely house if one is under one king."

"What of tariffs?"

"Save for those specifically between certain kingdoms, all such taxes would be abolished. Trade between the kingdoms would resume, and even be encouraged, so long as bandit kings and their ilk do not suddenly arise from nowhere to attack non-Dornish caravans."

"What of the end of the raids? Would you make every participant pay a wergild for every slain smallfolk?"

"Restitution would be paid to the lords whose lands were so thoroughly ruined by the raids, and every Dornish lord would be held to paying a portion of their income as restitution for the war."

"What of our own lands ruined by war?"

Lord Baratheon was silent at this for some time. "There are… discussions on how to proceed on such a matter, prince. There are those that would see you left to rebuild for yourselves, where other, kinder lords, would see aid lent to the lands most devastated by the war. The rebuilding of orchards, vineyards, canals, wells and the like, the lifeblood of many Dornish people and lands."

"What of the pirates from the Stepstones? Your kingdom and my own have long known the suffering from those who deal in flesh, and they have resurged in power ever since the Lysene Spring."

"The king has plans for them, but that is not important to this discussion," Royce said. "So I ask you, Prince Arthur of House Nymeros Martell, would you bend your knee to King Daeron, First of His Name?"

Arthur sat in silence, his options already weighed, but no less important. Many of the points given by Lord Baratheon were harsh, but not entirely unfair. The thought of the other kingdoms paying some kind of recompense for the destruction of Dornish lands was something to consider, but not enough to surrender. Who was to say if such honeyed words would not be recanted if certain lords raised enough of a fuss on either side? Who was to say how the smallfolk would react to their conquerors aiding in rebuilding what they had lost?

No, he could not allow for that. The entire plan behind a future rebellion, if they were indeed conquered, was for the smallfolk to rise in greater numbers than the enemy could hope to combat. A thousand tiny stings from a thousand ants could topple even the greatest of beasts, and death by so many cuts was something the enemy could not hope to counter. Yet if the smallfolk did not rise up, or worse, sided with the ones who invaded on behalf of stopping such troublesome raids, and even betrayed their own lords who sought to cause trouble…

That could not happen, for all would be lost, and Dorne would never again know freedom from the Iron throne.

"I'm afraid I must decline such an offer now, Lord Baratheon. Dorne will not fall until the will of its people has been broken, and as my house words say, we are not yet in such a sorry state."

His opponent sighed. "Very well then, Prince Arthur. The king will not like this, but it matters not. We shall march on Sunspear, and with it, take Dorne by force, and make you bend your knee."

"We shall see about that," Arthur said, the two and their retinues rising to depart. Negotiations were over, war was here. "We shall see."

Arthur's arms were heavy, tired from swinging and the jarring from every block he'd had to make.

The rays of a winter Dornish sun were no less scorching to the ones that called Dorne home than it was to those who had conquered its lands. First Men and Andals before them had fought and adapted to the wilds, turning barren land into orchards and pastures, homes and castles. Yet for all their tireless and timeless efforts, and the will of Dorne's people, it had ultimately not been enough. The dragon king had arrived with near his entire host at the lowermost walls of Sunspear, their banners as teeming as the sands along her shores. The great dust from their camp had stretched as a tan cloud above them, blotting out the winter sun itself, casting the land into twilight in the absence of a wind.

When the first wave of that massive army came, they took to seize the shadow city, its squat and thick buildings ideal for sheltering close to one of Sunspear's three Winding Walls. Banners great and small, from every kingdom, were present in that first great charge, many he did not recognize, but many more that he did. From Lannister and Tully to Arryn and Baratheon, Belmore and Crakehall, Darklyn and Estermont, Hastwyck and Marbrand and Tarth and Volmark and so many others. Yet leading this charge with a thunderous roar was the banner of Stark and many other Northern lords, their howls sounding over the charge as if a great mass of hellhounds were descending upon his seat. Siege machines upon Sunspear's walls fired upon their great mass of men, ballista and collections of rubble and stone alike, but for every man or group they hit, more would just take their place.

Arthur's breath hitched in his throat, coated with dust and barely able to bellow orders in the chaos around him.

Traps had been lain in the shadow city, pitfalls and spikes and weakened supports, but it was for naught, and the buildings were taken quickly. Under falling rocks, pots of boiling oil, and whatever ballista bolts yet remained, two more waves of the dragon's army rushed forward, pushing along battering rams covered with numerous shields and trailed by men wielding large ladders. The dragon king had had no large siege engines of note, thank the gods, for wood near Sunspear was nonexistent, and with an army this size, Arthur had dreaded to think of how many terrible machines they might have used to simply break through the defenses. To haul even their smaller ones would have taken its toll, and the army of theirs must not have had the supplies to wait out a siege for more to arrive and assemble. Yet for all their lack of greater siege engines, ladders and battering rams they had aplenty, which quickly moved in after their first objective had been taken.

In the lowermost set of walls, smallfolk yet held to their homes, their doors barred and barricaded with all they could. Streets had been jammed with carts and torn down market stalls, to act as barriers to the invaders, to funnel them into areas where their numbers would mean nothing, and they could be killed by archer or spearmen alike. Yet as the ladders met the defended walls, and the first of the rams broke from a pair of ballista bolts breaking its frame, two more waves of the dragon army surged forward. Arrows materialized from countless enemy archers, arcing towards the walls in clusters so thick, there were times the enemy army was not even visible behind their curtain of death.

Then the men began to climb the ladders, Stark and other Northmen banners rallying as they arrived at the top, whose defenders were just recovering from that massive volley of whistling death. Another battering ram came to the lower gate, the first's pushing their ram alongside others, serving as a tunnel of to shield oncoming attackers from arrows and stones.

As death came to Sunspear, Arthur had hoped that, somehow, the gates would hold.

They did not. With a great crash, the gates were torn down, and swarms of the enemy ripped the remainder apart.

He hoped the walls would hold long enough to be reinforced, or for the enemy to be driven back.

They did not, and the enemy pushed out or slew every defender within.

He hoped that reinforcements would arrive in time to reclaim the gatehouse.

They did not, unable to push against an enemy swelling in number with every passing moment, and thus the dragon king claimed the lowermost walls.

As a great surge, more and more men, some upon horseback, most on foot, charged through the broken gates and towards the ladders. Thousands of Dornishmen charged into the paths they were needed, to funnel the enemy into killing squares where their numbers would do no good. Shining shield and spear met wave after wave of attackers, blood and screams mingling in the dusty air. Arrows fell like hail across the battlefield, enemy volleys mixing with whatever Dornish archers yet fired at targets of opportunity.

Arthur wheezed as a blow that would have gutted him glanced off his armor, the attacker knocked back by one of his sworn shields and skewered to the ground.

No matter their defensive measures, no matter their training, the numbers of the enemy were too great, their ferocity far exceeding what it should. Those spears and shields of Dorne were crushed within the hour, and the last of the lowermost defenses taken. What survivors Arthur had seen retreated under arrows to the next set of walls, the gates barring behind them. More of those battering rams approached under what arrows the defenders had yet to spare, forming a great serpentine line of shielded avenues for the invaders.

When the second set of gates fell, Arthur had felt his heart sink. More and more of the enemy army was now in Sunspear's walls, and with it came the destruction he had long since feared. A sack of the lower levels was expected, even as the battle raged on, but the second Winding Wall fell within two hours. As remaining barricades were torn asunder and smallfolk swarmed by the enemy, he could hear a cry on the air that was not his own, one he had heard since childhood but never truly put a name to. As he watched, even fewer survivors retreated to the third and final set of walls, and it was here that Arthur, along with so many others, found themselves a part of the defense.

A blow from an axe, Northern maybe, knocked his shield from his grip, his arm singing in pain from the blow. Pivoting away from a followup, Arthur felt a great slab of wood, more a table than an actual shield, slam into his side, knocking him from his feet and onto the muddied, bloodied ground.

"Surrender!" voice cried, as more and more men poured through the third and final gate. Three hours, for three hours Dorne had held the third and final gate, but in the end, amidst the dead and screams of dying men, it fell, and they were overrun. They were tired, they were injured, and the numbers of the enemy had proven too much for them to outlast. As he tried to raise his sword, a heavy boot stomped on his arm, and Arthur heard a sharp crack. Suddenly limp, his grip failed, and his sword fell from his hand.

Rough hands dragged him to his feet, and he was thoroughly searched for any weapons, not that he had any remaining. He'd lost his dagger in the eyesocket of a charging hedge knight, and hadn't been able to retrieve it before he'd been pushed back to the steps of one of his favorite fountains. Blood ran in rivers in this great courtyard, and all around, more and more men threw down their weapons, raising their hands in surrender. Great cheers echoed across the plundered city as what may have been the final defenders laid down their arms. The war was over. Sunspear had been taken, and with it, the last bastion of Dorne's independence.

Arthur Martell was tired. Every man around him, drenched in blood, sweat and tears, their bodies aching as they were roughly shoved into clusters, held in place by men with glinting spears and hardened gazes. The survivors whispered amongst themselves as the wounded whimpered. More and more men, from all the kingdoms under the Targaryen rule, slowly trickled into in the courtyard, many in varying states of injury. An hour it took, Arthur wagered, for them all to gather, and from their ranks came other, more familiar faces.

"You survived," his brother Nymor said, ragged and battered, but alive. He'd have to get that gash across his cheek looked at.

"As did you, brother," Arthur said. "Your family?"

"Alive and well, thank the Seven," he replied. "Given the courtesies of their station, along with the other families of our gathered lords, per the words of Lord Baratheon and the… Fyrestorm."

This was… unexpected. "Truly? He is here?"

"Aye," his heir said, unsaid fears heavy between them. "We would have done better if Lord Yronwood had sent any of his men."

"Indeed," Arthur replied. "No doubt they had made a deal with the dragon king for some prize in exchange for cooperation." They'd not admit it though, surviving Dornishmen would no doubt seek the ruin of Yronwood and others if they so obviously collaborated with the enemy. No, Lord Yronwood would take advantage of whichever side could bring him the most gain, and if the winds had shifted, they would say they'd been playing along the entire time. It was what Arthur would have done in such an untenable position. The letter from Lord Jordayne, at least, gave a reasonable explanation. Hard to send supplies and men when the enemy was camped inside your lands and very home.

Not that it mattered now. Dorne had been taken, but to his dying breath, Arthur vowed this was not the end. Just as the sun always set, once more it would arise, much as water returning from a formerly dry well. It would take time, yes, but the people of Dorne…

"Your son survives," Nymor said, wiping away his sweat.

"Lewyn lives? Where is he?"

"In the company of the Fyrestorm as well."

Oh no. That was not good.

Before the dark thoughts could form, trumpets blasted as men, cheering and stomping the butts of their spears into the flagstones, parted before a procession of Targaryen banners. Atop his horse, what could only be King Daeron rode into the square, followed closely by his Kingsguard and more than a few sword swords and shields. By the Seven, he looked both a man and a boy at once, the Valyrian features a stark contrast to the many men around him.

Dismounting, with even more men surrounding Arthur and his surviving lords with spears, swords and shields at the ready, the boy king looked them over. He was dirty, had some blood on his armor, but other than the sunburn, seemed reasonably unaffected by the siege. Had the boy even fought? Or had he hung to the rear, safe, and only slew defenseless prisoners who gave him no respect?

"So then, Prince Arthur," he said, and gods, was that voice laced with arrogance. The authority of a king, no doubt, but arrogant nonetheless. "We have taken Sunspear, and with it, Dorne. The unfinished business between my ancestors and yours has reached its natural conclusion. Do you finally yield to House Targaryen and the Iron Throne?"

Silence hung, but given the faces of his surviving lords, the soon-to-be-former Prince of Dorne bit his tongue. They all wished to return to their families alive, and not as bones. They could try again a later day, once their strength had recovered and their conquerors grew complacent. The smallfolk would be with them, they would have to be after so much death and destruction wrought by these invaders. There was nothing Arthur knew of that could make the smallfolk turn against their Dornish lords that the enemy was capable of.

"Aye," he said. "On behalf of my fellow Dornish lords, I surrender… King Daeron."

The maester had reset his broken arm, and with his sling itching, Arthur rejoined his family. Nymor's gash had been sewn up nicely, and while none had been harmed, his brother's heirs didn't look very well. Little Myriah had cried herself into exhaustion, being just shy of eight namedays, and little Maron was only four, too young to understand what was going on around them. To think, they would someday be Nymor's heirs, and would lead to Dorne when it needed them. Marriage alliances, strong ones, would be needed to see such plans succeed, and with so many second sons now heirs, he would have to determine the best fit for each.

The doors opened, and escorted by a trio of Stormlander guards, Lewyn limped into the room. The men, glaring at their family, departed soon after, slamming the great doors behind them.

"Father," his bastard said, stopping before them. He looked better than they did, but he'd also been in the thickest of the earlier fighting. It was any wonder he wasn't missing a limb or had more cuts.

"Leywn," Arthur replied, helping him into a chair. "Have your injuries been tended to?"

"Aye, the medics have said I'll live with little scarring. What they rubbed on my wounds stung worse than a scorpion, though."

"Medics?" Nymor asked. "What are medics? Did their maesters not tend to you?"

"Nay, uncle, but it was for the best. I'd have been waiting a long time, and I saw what happens if your wounds are cleaned quickly," he muttered, barely gesturing to his missing eye. "As for the medics… they are healers, skilled ones too, attached to the Stormlander forces on behalf of one of their own lords."

"Which one?"

"Lord Wytch," Lewyn said with a shudder. "The man takes my eye, but his men save my life, and those of many other Dornishmen. Have the Seven cursed us to hate a man who maimed us, and yet also owe him our very lives?"

"Nay, son, but for such skilled men-,"

"And women, uncle, there were women among them as well. Under heavier guard, to be sure, but none made any advances towards them. At least, not after one tried and was beaten into a bloodied mess by the other injured."

"These medics… are they treating everyone?" Arthur asked. He needed to learn as much as he could if he was to see Dorne free once more. Such apparent mercy could be useful…

"Aye, even some of the greater lords, or at least the ones who don't like maesters," the Martell bastard replied. "I overheard them tending to the heir of House Stark, one… Rickon, I think? In the attack on the lowermost Winding Wall, I heard he took a large stone to his head."

"Is he expected to live?" Nymor's wife Iris, formerly of House Fowler, asked as she rocked her exhausted daughter in her sleep.

"From what I could hear… yes. It does not look good, though. He may never be the same man he once was, they said."

Whether or not this 'Rickon' lived mattered little to Arthur. Now that Dorne had been conquered, for now anyway, it was time to put into place plans he had been preparing, ever since that first declaration of war had arrived in Sunspear. "Son," he said, placing a hand on Lewyn's shoulder, lowering his voice. One could never be too careful. "In times such as these, we must look first to our own. Forget about this northern savage, for I have a task of you."

"Yes father, whatever you need," he replied softly.

"The lands of House Wyl are unruled, and it will not be long before one of their former vassals tries to petition our new 'king' for that lordship. This will secure Daeron their loyalty, something we cannot afford. In exchange for peace, for now, I would petition Daeron to name you as the newest lord of those lands."

"As lord?" Lewyn asked, stunned. "I… I know you have given me more than most bastards could hope for education, but lord?"

"Aye, nephew," Nymor replied, hushed and serious. "You will not be a Martell, nor will you ever have a claim to Sunspear, but you will be given the chance that bastard Alfrid could only have dreamed of. The lands are easily defended, rich, and the lords there will answer to a scion of House Martell."

"Indeed, for you will be needed," Arthur added. "My son, you will be given the chance to found your own house, one that will replace the Wyls and serve to counter two threats to our house."

"Two?"

"Aye. Besides the Targaryens, the absence of the Yronwoods has raised our suspicions. With you to their north, we can effectively prevent them from trying to call upon the dragon king for aid in the event of… trouble."

"I… I am not worthy of such an honor, father."

"Yet you are the only one we would entrust this honor to, son," Arthur said. "You will rebuild those lands to keep the Yronwoods in line, and more importantly, prevent any enemy from so easily moving through the Boneway once more. It may take a year, or two, or five, or even ten, but I will see Dorne free. However long I give you to put those lands to rights must be spent wisely."

"I… I understand, father," Lewyn said, bowing. "I will make you proud."

"That you will, my son," Arthur said, some small part of him filled with gleeful pride. Yes, this will work, it must. "That you will."

"What will you call yourself, nephew?" Iris asked, little Maron nodding off next to his sister.

"I… I believe it would be somewhat as the Wyls, but not their own," the soon-to-be-former bastard said. "I… I would be Lord Lewyn, of House… Wyse."

"Wyse, a good name, for the wisdom you gained at the expense of your… adventures," Nymor said. "It will also make renaming the towns under your banner much easier. What of your sigil? Your house words?"

Lewyn remained silent at that, a thoughtful expression adorning his marred features.