"He who controls the spice controls the universe."
―Baron Vladimir Harkonnen
…
Prince Qoren Martell never thought he'd miss the days when the name "Targaryen" meant nothing but a sour taste in the Dornish mouth and a few charred corpses on the wrong side of the border. Then again, that was before the war. Before the blockade. Before rumors of starving peasants in the hinterlands rattled the Old Palace's very walls. Before trade ships languished in port, half-laden with fresh dates that'd rot for no vessels could cross the Stepstones.
Now, here he sat, on a high-backed chair that gave him a fine view of Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon—the quite obviously bastard-born princelings who'd soared all the way from Braavos on dragons. Supposedly. Qoren hadn't seen those beasts in flight. Maybe they left them roosting somewhere. Maybe they didn't exist at all. Gods, if only that were true.
He sat upon the high seat of Sunspear's Old Palace with a brooding silence that stretched as long as the shadows cast by the late afternoon sun. Though his father's throne had always seemed to him a symbol of endless desert cunning—unbent, unbowed, unbroken—today, Qoren Martell felt only the weight of obligations and careful calculations. The braziers burned low, adding a faint warmth to the hushed hall, and the battered dunes of the Dornish Sea glittered faintly through the open windows in the distance. Dorne might be known for its stubborn independence, but Qoren saw with chilling clarity how the present conflict threatened to extinguish that very pride.
A hush lay upon the throne room: servants pressed against marble columns, spearmen in burnished helms stood at attention. In the courtyard below, the desert wind rattled through palm fronds, a restless susurrus that somehow managed to soothe his troubled mind. His attention returned then to the so-called "Black" Targaryens. Bastards or no, they wore the mantle of dragonriders. In another time, that fact alone might have made him hold his tongue for fear of their wrath. But times had changed, and Qoren was not so sure these particular scions of House Targaryen had teeth enough to strike terror into Dorne. Not when they had much to fear themselves.
The elder of the princelings did most of the talking, speaking in polite, measured tones, a smile hovering on his lips as though it might charm Qoren into compliance. "…my mother, Queen Rhaenyra, stands ready with her allies in Braavos to liberate the Stepstones from—"
He'd prattled on in that vein for a time. After moons of hearing the name Targaryen on every whispering tongue, Qoren had all but soured on the entire brood. Still, he'd not made himself Prince of Dorne by ignoring messages from across the sea. Near the end, Qoren had caught enough to know the gist: Rhaenyra's forces, funded by the Iron Bank and aided by Braavosi ships, intended to break the Westerosi blockade at the Stepstones. They wanted Dorne to muster its fleet—pinned behind the Sea of Dorne like a hawk in a cage—and to meet the Braavosi armada for a grand assault.
Qoren seriously considered the proposal. For good reason. With each day that passed, shipments from the Reach and Westerlands became more crucial to feeding Dorne's lesser houses. The slender farmland along the Greenblood could not sustain them alone. That alone was no cause for alarm. What troubled Qoren was the grip Prince Aemond held upon this trade, firm as a mailed fist around the throat of a debtor. How swiftly One Eye had encircled them—with that accursed guild and bank of his. If the blockade could be shattered, the trade lanes to Essos might reopen. Dorne could free itself from the creeping reliance upon Westeros for vital goods, the same chokehold that now kept Qoren's folk fed and clothed, if only just.
Qoren's attention returned to the princes. For all their speeches and entreaties, neither Jacaerys nor Lucerys looked entirely comfortable standing in a Dornish throne room. Nor did they appear especially confident that their mother's cause would be welcomed. Lucerys, the younger one, let his half-formed scowl speak volumes. A lad still, but old enough to know when odds were poor.
Qoren exhaled through his nose, letting the sound fill the chamber. Before he could form a response, a new voice interjected.
"You assume we have means to strike at the Westerosi fleet without consequence," said Aliandra, Qoren's daughter and heir, languid and poised, perched upon a low divan near the foot of her father's dais. Dark hair framed a face that was too clever by half, and the dryness in her tone revealed no admiration for Jacaerys or the "Queen" he served. "But what of the might behind the blockade? This Aemond Targaryen you speak so ill of, the same man who forces us all to weigh our choices in fear—what is Rhaenyra's answer to him?"
She asked it softly, almost demurely, but Qoren knew that tone. His daughter's words often concealed barbs, a willingness to see the truth of a matter without flinching. She had grown ever more vocal of late—like a viper uncoiling from a heated rock, ready to strike. Yet, more recently, there exists something else there, too…a subtle tinge whenever she spoke of Aemond One-Eye. But Qoren could not place it, nor did he dwell on fleeting impressions—his mind was too full of the war at hand.
The girl did not wait for Jacaerys' response. Her voice came again, gently, but with an edge of amusement. "And what does your mother propose when The Butcher—" her lips curved slightly at the sobriquet—"takes to the sky atop Vhagar? You speak of armadas, princes, but a single pass of that old beast will lay waste to a line of galleys. Did that not happen to your own forces when what remained of Lord Borros' fleet attempted to flee the Stormlands?"
Jacaerys stiffened. "My mother will—"
"She will what?" Aliandra asked softly. "Ask her patrons for gold to bribe the dragon?"
Qoren could see Jacaerys bristle at his daughter's barbs. "Aemond Targaryen is no paragon," he said. " He's a tyrant with stolen power—"
"And how does that help your cause?" she returned. "For all your condemnation, none of it changes the truth: Vhagar sits under his command. He slew Caraxes—so the tales go—and your Rogue Prince father, the mightiest warrior among the Blacks, could not stand before him."
Lucerys's cheeks flushed. "He needed four dragons to best Caraxes. A fair fight it was not. Even the greatest dragon can be brought low by four."
Aliandra only cocked her head, the corner of her mouth curving at Lucerys's vehemence. "True enough. Yet did not the Rogue Prince lose again in the tourney that followed, singly, to Aemond? There were no dragons to blame there. Merely steel and skill. Unarmored, and with a common blade, Aemond faced him. Daemon had a Valyrian steel sword and wore half a forge on his body, yet still lost."
Qoren rapped his knuckles on the arm of his seat, drawing all eyes to him. "Be silent," he said. He did not raise his voice, but it was enough. The throne room stilled, silence falling like a drawn curtain. They were all fools if they expected a simple solution. The blockade, the Targaryens, the dragons, the presence of Braavosi gold and warships—it was a swirling knot with no obvious thread to tug free.
Qoren exhaled through his nose and steepled his fingers. His eyes closed briefly as he thought of the reams of parchment that had crossed his desk these last months. Missives from Myr and Tyrosh, from Pentos too, all lamenting the blockade that starved their commerce to all but Westeros. They had begun forging closer ties with Braavos, hoping in vain that coin might match dragons. But Qoren saw how precarious the alliances were. Should the Braavosi captains anchored at Tyrosh grow restless, or should the island city's supplies strain beneath the load of their fleet… a disorganised rout would follow long before they even met the Westerosi at sea.
He reopened his eyes. "Princes," he said, schooling his voice into a careful politeness. "You have come to me asking for ships and men. In truth, I share your displeasure at this blockade. My people suffer the same constraints. And yet…" He spread his hands, letting the silence hang. "Dorne does not make hasty choices."
A flicker of relief lit in Jacaerys's eyes. He latched onto Qoren's words. "Prince Qoren, your wisdom is well-known throughout the Free Cities. I beg you to consider this alliance. Should we succeed in reopening the Stepstones, the lifeblood of trade flows anew."
Qoren nodded, though his face remained a mask. By the Seven, how tempting it was. To slip from the stranglehold of the Greens' blockade, to remind House Targaryen that Dorne would not be yoked like some docile swine. Yet one victory at sea might only awaken the wrath of the Butcher, as the smallfolk taken to calling him. Fitting name, that bastard.
"Thank you for bringing your mother's offer," Qoren finally said with regal courtesy. "I shall give it the thought it deserves. Tell your mother and her allies in Braavos that they shall have my answer in due time."
Jacaerys's shoulders sagged, though he tried to hide his disappointment behind a respectful bow. "Then we beg leave to remain in Sunspear for a fortnight, Your Grace, until—"
"No," said Qoren. "You'll have better welcome in the Planky Town, I think—or beyond. Dornish hospitality only stretches so far. I will send word when I have decided. Unless you prefer to fly back to Braavos in the meantime."
Jacaerys inclined his head, though Qoren sensed the frustration thrumming beneath his princely façade. He gestured for Lucerys to follow. Together, the Targaryen youths bowed stiffly and made their exit. Qoren did not rise from his seat, and the hush of the throne room deepened once they were gone.
For a long while, Qoren remained silent, studying the swirling mosaic on the floor: sunbursts and spears intertwined in patterns older than the current feud. At last, he exhaled, drumming his fingers lightly on the arm of the throne.
Of course, One Eye does not act without purpose. Qoren had learnt that some time now. The kingmaker wanted something. Qoren knew what, but was uncertain of his willingness to provide. We have remained free for centuries, he wanted to say, but the words tasted hollow. Dorne had bested Targaryens before—but those had been earlier generations, with fewer dragons overhead. And even then, they only just managed. The times had changed, and no Dornish steel could ward off hunger if Aemond Targaryen severed what remained of their lifeblood.