The Eminence in GOT-Chapter 43: Interlude. An old friend

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P.O.V. Oberyn Martell.

292 A.D.

Castle Osgiliath, Valley of the Solar Flame, Dorne.

«Bhe... Who's going to drink this stuff? - Feeling the liquid burning like a wild flame, which tasted like wild wormwood, descended down my throat, I asked loudly. - It's as bitter as a lemon peel!

«Yes? Strange... - Fel looked at me in surprise, holding a small glass bottle half-filled with an emerald drink that shimmered in the glare of the midday sun. - In Lorath and Braavos, it's almost being snatched up. This bottle..." he shook it in front of my face, "it goes for three gold Valar.

«How much?!!! - I shouted in shock, disbelievingly looking at the big square glass with the drink splashing at the bottom. - For that kind of money you could buy a barrel of normal Dornish wine, not this nasty stuff. - I threw the rest of it out the window in annoyance and poured a more familiar drink from a cold keg that stood on a special table in a bowl of ice.

«Everyone has their own tastes, Oberyn. - Fel replied calmly, shrugging peacefully. - I like cognac better than wine and other kinds of liquor.

«Remembering how much effort and money you put into making this stuff and how much it costs on the market, I'd be more surprised if you didn't like it. - A smirk crept onto my face as my old friend slowly savored the amber-colored drink, which had a sweet aroma of caramel, spices, and nuts.

Friend...

I met Felix Temper almost eighteen years ago, in Sunspear Harbor. At the time, I took him for a brash peddler who owned three good ships and didn't know the difference between a noble and a nigger.

Turns out he really didn't. So on the way to Volantis, where he was to take me on my brother's errand, I was beaten more than once and once swam in the icy sea, almost drowning. After that incident we had a conversation that became the basis of our friendship.

It turned out that he, like me, had been trained at the Citadel, was a very intelligent and well-read man, a good warrior, defeating me six times out of ten, and just a good guy, with whom we had a hearty rest when we arrived in Volantis. And then our adventure began.

The Far North, Qarth, the Bay of Traders, the Golden Empire of I-T, the Summer Isles, Omber, Lorath, Norvos, Quokhor... I've been everywhere I've followed this lucky bastard.

But life has its black and white streaks. After I returned home, the nightmare began. The Targaryens' "favorable" proposal, my little sister's wedding, the Harrenhal Tournament, the Baratheon Rebellion... the death of Elia and her children at the hands of Tywin Lannister....

I clutched the armrests of my chair in rage, making Fela look at me in surprise. He was the one who had completely changed our course when this turmoil began. If it hadn't been for his actions, we would have lost almost all of our personal army along with my sister, weakening the rest of the Lords of Dorne to the delight of the other Lords of Dorne. And as angry as Doran and I were at him in the beginning, even at one time planning to slip him one of the rare gut-decomposing poisons, we eventually realized it was foolish and useless.

I don't know about my brother, but I soon forgave him. I couldn't be angry at a man who was as grieving over his sister's death as we were, and who had done everything he could to save her. Though it left a residue.

«How's the division of the Ironwood lands going? - I was distracted from my gloomy thoughts by Fela's voice as he sat in his chair, enjoying the sunlight falling on his face.

We were in his solarium, which was more library than lord's private office. It was a huge cylinder, with tiered cabinets against the walls, filled with scrolls, books, and talmuds hidden behind dark glass, with a desk in the center, littered with papers, ink, and wax candles. We sat on the upper tier, on a small balcony set at the very ceiling and lit by the zenith of the sun through the large glass dome that replaced the roof, enjoying drinks from local workshops and discussing the outcome of the recent war.

«Bad. - Without trying to hide my irritation, I said. - The Fowlers have lost all sense of proportion, demanding the Port City and all the lands before it as a reward, and the Jodeans are no better - they want the Iron Forest for themselves. You were the easiest to negotiate with. At least you demanded something proportional, though I don't understand why you need Gray Island.

«A base and a staging point for the fleet. - Fel explained, pouring some of the amber drink into his glass. - The lagoon of the Valley of the Solar Flame is not very large, and if trade continues to grow at the same rate, there won't be enough room for ships. So battle ships will be based at the Grey Fortress and only join the trade squadrons when they pass by. Yeah, and those are the only lands I'll be able to make a decent profit from. By the way, how's Doran? Did you find what you were looking for?

«Yes. Letters and jewels from the Western Lands. - I took out a bright ruby from my belt pouch, a gemstone mined only in the domains of the lions and their vassals. - As my brother had suggested, the Lannisters had aided the Ironwoods and quietly strengthened them in preparation for a change of grandlord.

«But they did not succeed. - Fel smiled, raising his glass.

«It didn't succeed. - I mirrored the smile and clinked the outstretched glass.

«A clink...

Immediately after the Stag's coronation, the current Hand, Jon Arryn, the Great Falcon, as he was nicknamed after his elevation to second man in the Seven Kingdoms, arrived in Sunspear. He had one goal: to make peace with Dorne, stopping thirty thousand enraged Dornish from entering the war, furious over the deaths of their princess and her children.

The brother was succinct. Abolition of taxes, abolition of obedience to the king and the Hand, abolition of personal vassal oaths, and non-interference in the affairs of Dorne by the rest of the kingdoms under any conditions. In fact, my brother demanded that Arryn give Dorne de facto independence, even though we were still technically part of the Seven Kingdoms.

Arryn balked.

Arryn bargained.

Arryn almost begged.

But he couldn't change anything - every time it was pointed out to him that the treaty had been broken and that Elia, Aegon, and Rhaenys were dead, recognized as dead in the troubled waters of Blackwater Bay after years of searching.

As Doran said, if war broke out, there would be no winners, and the Seven Kingdoms would simply return to the time before the Targaryens came. After all, who could support Robert's rule?

The Northmen? No. After Baratheon quarreled with the current Keeper of the North, he wouldn't be out of his lands for years.

The Riverlands? No. They, along with the Kings and Stormlands, suffered the most damage in the Rebellion and wouldn't be able to support the Iron Throne properly.

The Vale? No. The situation was too unstable in the Hand's fiefdom after the rebellion of the Graftons and several of his vassals.

The Vale? Certainly not. Mace Tyrell already held a grudge against Baratheon, and if the war continued, the former Gardener fiefdom would be ravaged by ironborn who never swore an oath to the House of the Stag.

Only the Lannisters remained. The West could field nearly sixty thousand trained warriors - twice as many as we could. And, as Doran said, they would have won. But what would have happened after that... A complete devaluation of royal power, when the king, by definition the strongest man on the continent, wouldn't have the strength to put down a rebellion in a single realm. And full Lannister power, which neither Arryn, nor the Tyrells, nor the Tullys, nor the Starks want. Rebellions, riots, and ruin. That's what would follow our "defeat."

And Jon Arryn, as an experienced politician, understood that. So the terms were accepted and now no one in Dorne was above Doran.

"A brilliantly played game." - I smiled with the corners of my lips, looking up at the ever-blue sky of the Temper fiefdom.

Doran had changed since his sister's death. More brooding, closed off, and suspicious. He trusted only his family and his personal power. That is why he did not put all the grapes in one basket, and in addition to the secret pact with the surviving Targaryens, he began to overtly and covertly strengthen the personal forces of our House.

Weapons were forged, soldiers were trained, new gardens and wineries were built, and craftsmen were brought in from Myr to begin building spice greenhouses in the Water Gardens. All this was helped by the considerable taxes received from Felix and his "gifts" for small privileges, such as granting a bastard a family name or the right to build a system of forts in the north of the Red Mountains to protect his lands from possible attack.

But there was one unpleasant problem. The Ironwoods.

Back in the days of our mother, the deceased Edara, who was a very mild ruler, Olivar Ironwood had greatly elevated his house, making it the sole maritime power of Dorne and collectors of tolls from all ships in the Dornian Sea. Then there was that silly story where that great-aged moron had a temper tantrum over his whore mistress and died of the simplest poison, and all good relations between our houses went down in the Blaze.

After the Rising, out of the blue, the Ironwoods began to dramatically gain strength and provoke their neighbors. They illegally taxed the Tempers' ships, squeezed the Fowlers' gardens, tried to buy the Jordains' saltworks for nothing, and began demanding that their brother raise little Quentin for them, recalling a case from ten years before.

All the aggrieved houses wondered why the Ironwoods were so dispersed that they dared to bark at four not the weakest houses.

The answer came three years ago, when the Jordains found a ship from the Western Lands washed ashore on their lands, carrying weapons, armor, and money in its holds. It was clear to even a fool that the Ironwoods were secretly backed by the lions, seeking to bring discord to the heart of Dorne, though there was no clear evidence.

«Remind me again why we didn't tear those bastards apart right away, but waited three whole years? - I asked a surprised Felix thoughtfully. - What was to stop us from doing the same thing Tywin did to the Reines and Tarbeck thirty years ago?

«Sometimes even I don't understand the way you think. - Fel replied thoughtfully, winding a loose lock of hair that had grown to his shoulder blades since the fight with the Dothraki. - You do remember that bloody Lannister was the king's best friend then, don't you? So he got away with destroying two of the strongest families in the West. It wouldn't have worked on the Ironwoods. Tywin would have persuaded Robert through his daughter, the Queen, and the Small Council to help the deceased Andres. And that drunkard would have agreed without a second thought. And no Jon Arryn could stop him.

«That's true..." I said thoughtfully, taking a sip of wine that tasted like it came from the Fowler vineyards. How long ago did Fel start doing business with them? - Is that why you suggested we wait until the Ironborn had risen? Doran didn't tell me, but how did you know that, since even the Westerners screwed up and lost their entire fleet? I laughed once again, remembering a recent birthday present from Fela. Painters, sculptors, musicians and singers flock to his city from all over Essos and Westeros, knowing how much he loves and encourages people of the arts. So one of the artists commissioned painted a simply stunning portrait - Tywin Lannister looking out over the burned fleet. Distorted facial features, shaking hands, pale green eyes full of despair, and in the background a burning Lannisport, with ironborn feasting on the rooks, drinking wine from the helmets of the Red Cloaks. Everyone was delighted. Even Doran, who had recently gotten into the habit of always keeping a straight face, smiled and ordered the painting to be hung in the most prominent place, handing the artist ten gold pieces.

«The answer is simple, trade. - Replied the smiling Fel, who also remembered his gift. - I have several treaties with the Mormonts, the Riswells, the people of the Cold Coast, and House Harlow. It was Rodrik Harlow who warned me not to send fleets to the Sunset Sea, and I learned from the Riswells and Dustins that Baelon was secretly buying pine and ironwood, the main type of wood for building ships.

«And from this you deduce that the Iron Islands are preparing to rebel? - I asked in surprise. There were too few facts for such a conclusion, and my brother wouldn't have agreed to begin preparations to destroy the Ironwoods if he wasn't sure.

«Not only that. There were many reasons, and Doran knew them as well as I did. - Dorne's richest man, as always, downplayed his abilities. I'm sure my brother missed a few points. - The Iron Islands have always been a bandit's haven. They're not used to earning their own bread. More than that, they pride themselves on it, thinking it beneath their dignity to cultivate fields or herd cattle. And they haven't plundered the lands of Westeros since the days of Dagon Greyjoy. Too many people, too many disgruntled people, too little food, an unstable continent, and Baelon, who fancied himself a great king, a follower of the Old Law. It was obvious to a fool that rebellion would soon break out.

"And you took advantage of it," I continued mentally. As soon as the Royal Navy joined with the Redwyn fleet, sailing through the Shield Islands, forty Temper warships and an army of Fowlers attacked and captured Port Town on the Red River, the main anchorage for the entire Ironwood fleet, and the Jordain armies and ours rushed to storm the Ironwoods, taking those bastards by surprise. For the sake of the day, all four Houses quarreled in public, with Felix swearing at Old Hawk in public, and Marcus Jordane and Doran exchanging cold glances so eloquently that rumors of our enmity multiplied and grew daily. So when the secret alliance mobilized armies and began to bring them to the borders of their lands, the Ironwoods were only wary-Andres was anything but an idiot.

But it was too late.

When the opposing armies abruptly united and began to attack their lands, the former Keepers of the Stone Road possessed only three thousand warriors instead of the traditional seven. They simply didn't have time to prepare.

The assault on Ironwood Castle was long and bloody. The locked Ironwoods were not going to surrender and fought like true tigers, counting on the help of the Lannisters and their allies in Dorne, in the form of the Allirions and the Waits, who had already begun to gather troops. But in the middle of the second month the castle fell - Felix brought his big battle ballistae, twice the size of the usual ones, to the walls, and in a day just pelted the whole castle with incendiary vessels with oil and some nasty stuff, which, though very much inferior to Wildfire in strength, but completely fulfilled its work. The next attack was repulsed only by the few survivors, who looked more like burned men and could barely hold their weapons because of fatigue.

The Ironwoods were completely dead - early in the bombardment one shell had hit the window of the main tower, turning the solarium where the unsuspecting Andres and his brother and their wives were in into a branch of Hell on Earth. Their son Cletus was also burned to death in one of the castle's corners, and could only be identified by a ring with an engraved lattice crest on his finger. So of the former Royal Blood, Guardians of the Stone Road, High Kings of Dorne, Red Marka and Greenbelt, only one Lady Inis remained, recently married to Rion Allirion, heir to the Gift of the Gods.

Thus ended the story of one of the mighty houses of Dorne, leaving only a memory in the pages of history.

«To victory! - I said loudly, raising my glass to the ceiling.

«To victory! - Fael answered me, knowing full well my habit of toasting out of turn.

Later, when the amount we drank doubled and another barrel of wine appeared on the table, but this time it was Arborian, the topic of the children came up.

«Well, tell me, Obi, what the hell are your children, and I'm the one raising them?! - Temper, who was already a little tipsy, was indignant, and his drunkenness was evident only in his unsteady gaze. - Obara, Tiena, and Nymeria live with me all year round, and you leave those little buggers here all the time!

«Hey, don't insult Jin and Wolf! They're fine... - Remembering the last prank of these half-Northmen, which consisted of ambushing Arianna with overripe oranges, I realized my mistake. - ...Well, what else was I supposed to do?! I can't take them to tournaments, can I? They'd bleed me dry. - I fought back, drinking another glass of wine.

«Don't change the subject! You can't leave Dorne, not to go to the tournaments. Why the hell did you go to Highgarden and leave the Tyrell heir nearly crippled! А?! - I nearly bit my tongue and spat out all the wine on the Myrian carpet that lined the balcony.

«Come on! Willas turned out to be a good guy and understood. We even started texting. Turns out he's a pretty good horse guy for a spaceman.

«Mace and Olenna Tyrell are the only ones who don't have the same point of view! If I hadn't pulled out all my connections and sent that expensive healer from Qarth, he wouldn't have been able to move his knee for the rest of his life, but now he's only limping! - Remembering how angry my brother was that Fel had weakened his "duty," which we hadn't even planned to use, knowing that with people like him it was better to do everything voluntarily, I had a wicked smile on my lips.

«Okay, okay... My bad, light septonuska. Your pious parishioner Oberyn will promise to pray at the faces of the Old and New Gods, donating them a whole glass of this fine wine! - I laughed at my own joke and drank the drink with pleasure, giving off soft and warm sun, willow barrels, notes of "noble mold" and delicate taste of semilloni and muscadelle grapes. They could still make wine on Arbor, though it was far from Dornish red.

«You are a buffoon, not a "pious parishioner" Martell. - Temper said doomedly, settling comfortably in his chair so that after a moment of unobtrusive silence he could dumbfound me with the next phrase. - So when are you going to propose to my sister?

«Pfuh-rhhhhh...- I spat out all the wine in surprise, still staining the expensive carpet at Fela's disapproving look. - Why are you doing this all of a sudden?

I asked for the hand of his sister Elia, my sister's namesake, almost eight years ago. I had fallen in love with this girl, with a light and cheerful character, an engaging and versatile facial expression and a great passion for black and slightly vulgar jokes, unlike my strict and closed older sister Thea, at first sight. She was a bright and refreshing ray even in the heat of the Dorne desert, making me happy just by looking at her. But war broke out... and Elia had to stay in her home castle in the Western Lands, with her father and mother, while her older brothers tried to do something about the war. Failing. Felix failed, and Aerys, as the brother of one of the king's supporting lords, was left by the cunning lion to guard the Golden Road near the Deep Hole, keeping deserters and brigands out of the Western Lands.

Later, when Fel earned the nickname "Bloody Jackal" and Westerners were hated throughout Dorne our alliance became impossible. But what's different now?

«Oberyn, my sister is twenty-seven and she's still a wench. Her reputation as an old maid isn't far behind her, and she can't find any proper suitors. - Felix said sadly, rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly.

«Why is that? - Not even considering the Tempers' part of the dowry, which wouldn't be small, but the Kolds, their main clan, weren't the poorest house in the West and had one of the newest and most secure castles in all of Westeros, Coldhall.

«All of them are either from impoverished ancient families or sword knights. And they all want only one thing: their sister's dowry. There's not even a whiff of humanity there. So I see only one way out, and my older brother agrees with me. - Replied the friend, taking a sip of wine from his glass. - It's you.

«Я?

«Well, yes. - Fel answered cheerfully. - First - you're the only one who does not need her dowry, second - you're cute, and thirdly I'm sure that on pain of being without manhood you will not cheat and hurt her, knowing that this fist ... - he clenched his ogle, the size of half my head - ... will always be able to reach you.

The friendly smile still shone on his face, but I could see in his eyes that Fel wasn't kidding. There's still a story going around Dorne about how a knight who had molested his sister Thea, saying that "for a good sack of gold he would marry the sister of a jackal," was dueled from head to groin with a terrible Temperian Valyrian steel axe, the Soul Ripper. Though his friend had received a dangerous wound in the duel with Tarly, he was still a warrior - yes, he was no match for the best swords in the kingdom, such as Selmy or the scorching Lannister, but he had more than enough strength to kill an inept man who could only swing a tournament spear. By the way.

«What about Thea? - I remembered that ulcer, which by some miracle (I won't point my finger at the green-eyed one sitting next to me), became the maid of honor and later the nanny of the former royal family. - You married her to that northern lord... the cold one.... what's-his-name, Bolton or something.

«You won't believe this, but it was consensual. Ruse's wife had recently died, leaving him only a sickly Domerick, and Thea had long wanted to get away from me and "stop being a burden to her older brother." Even though she knew full well she wasn't. - Sparodied as always calm voice of the older twin Fel, curved his lips. - So that's where these two came together. And I'll tell you, I don't know whether to feel sorry for my sister or Bolton, for they're both terrible in their cold anger.

«So that boy who was training with Alaric today..." I asked in surprise, remembering the little man with the black hair and the icy blue eyes.

«Yes. That's Domeric. - Fael got up from his chair and stretched upward, crunching his vertebrae with pleasure. - Ruse has sent him to me as a squire and asked me to keep an eye on him, making sure he's in good health if possible. Now, we've gotten off topic again. Elia will be in Osgiliath in a couple days and I need to know. Will you marry her or not?

Remembering how I'd grown cold to women in recent years and my brother's constant lamentations about my marriage, and figuring that there wouldn't be much to complain about in the chaos of the Ironwoods' destruction, I answered almost immediately:

«Yes.

***

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