"Lord Caesar has ordered you to cease operations."
Gavin, the steward of Samwell's lands on Eagles Nest, handed over a letter from Samwell to Chiman.
As he looked at the man before him—a person who had grown strange and distant over the months—Gavin couldn't help but feel a chill down his spine.
Over three months ago, Chiman had received Samwell's order to scour the wildling tribes around the territory. Since then, Gavin had been hearing more and more disturbing rumors about the man. All the tales were unvaryingly filled with blood and brutality.
The wildling traitor, the bloodthirsty fiend, the unbeatable beast, the harbinger of terror from the Isle of Eagle…
By now, Chiman was infamous throughout the Red Mountains, his reputation dark and fearsome.
Yet his results were undeniable. Every wildling tribe within a hundred miles of Eagle's Nest had submitted, and those who refused had been sent to the grave by the "Harbringer of Terror." The number of wildlings living on Samwell's lands had swelled to over thirty thousand.
On paper, this was excellent news. But Gavin found himself unable to feel joy; instead, he felt a gnawing worry that Chiman was slipping out of control.
Originally, Samwell had given Chiman a hundred trained soldiers and allowed him to recruit five hundred wildlings, but Gavin knew that Chiman's followers had long since exceeded a thousand. While Samwell's stores continued supplying only the allocated six hundred, Chiman had, no doubt, been seizing provisions from conquered tribes to support more men.
Now that he had grown his forces and spread his dark reputation, would Chiman truly stay loyal to Lord Caesar?
Chiman stood silently, reading the letter. He wore a fine linen tunic, clean and unstained, yet he exuded a heavy smell of blood.
"When will the lord return?" Chiman asked, his tone flat, without a hint of emotion.
"He didn't specify," Gavin replied, his voice tense. "But it should be soon. So, you should come back to the Isle with me immediately. As for your forces—dismiss any soldiers exceeding Lord Caesar's authorized numbers."
Chiman lifted his eyes from the letter, and Gavin noticed something eerie. Chiman's eyes were pale, almost blending with the whites, giving him a chilling, snake-like gaze that slithered over Gavin's skin and made him shudder.
"What's happened to your eyes?" Gavin asked, his voice trembling.
"Perhaps the gods' punishment," Chiman replied with a twisted smile. "Or maybe… a gift from the devil."
Gavin swallowed, regretting his decision to come here in person.
This mad dog had gone rabid.
Cold sweat prickled on Gavin's forehead as he considered what to say next, when suddenly a soldier came running up to them.
"Lord Chiman! The Rock Tribe refuses to submit!"
Chiman turned to him, a glint of genuine delight in his eyes. "They refuse to submit?" His smile was wide and cruel, overflowing with excitement. "Then let them be destroyed. Order the attack."
"Yes, my lord!"
"Wait!" Gavin gathered his courage and intervened. "Lord Caesar has ordered you to stop!"
Chiman turned back to Gavin, his smile eerie and unsettling. "Don't worry," he said softly. "I'll prepare one last gift for the lord."
Gavin clenched his fists but didn't dare press further. He knew this mad dog would likely kill him without a second thought.
The deep sound of war horns filled the forest, followed by the cacophony of battle cries.
Chiman led his forces to the front lines, leaving Gavin to stand in stunned silence.
A guard approached Gavin hesitantly, asking, "Lord Gavin, should we try to stop him?"
Gavin rolled his eyes. "Why don't you go and try, then? See if he doesn't just kill you."
The guard fell silent, realizing the futility of resistance.
Gavin sighed and walked up a nearby hill, where he could survey the battlefield.
Below, the Rock Tribe's settlement lay along a small stream and was now being relentlessly attacked by Chiman's men. The battle was ferocious; the air was thick with the scent of blood, and soon the stream was running red.
Gavin watched in silence.
The fighting continued from midday until sunset, and at last, the Rock Tribe's defenses collapsed.
Despite his unease, Gavin descended from the hill to walk through the blood-soaked remains of the village. He was somewhat relieved to see that Chiman's men were sparing some of the captives.
But as he approached a small hut in the village's heart, he heard cries and pleas for mercy from inside.
"We surrender! Please, don't kill us! We're willing to submit!"
Gavin stood at the door and saw Chiman withdraw his sword from a wildling woman's chest.
"They've already surrendered," Gavin said, trying to keep his tone calm.
Chiman turned and grinned, covered in blood and looking like a demon.
"A tribal leader can't surrender," he replied with a smile, slashing a young boy's throat.
"Please! We surrender! Don't kill my children! I beg you!" the chieftain pleaded.
But Chiman's response was to drive his sword through the chieftain's heart.
"You—" the chieftain gasped, blood filling his mouth. "You'll go to hell! I curse you!"
"I like you much better like this," Chiman replied with a cold smile, taking in the dying man's twisted, wrathful face.
Satisfied, he drove his sword in again.
---
After passing through three heavily guarded walls, Ser Arys Oakheart finally reached the gates of the Old Palace.
The Loaynor-style towers with their golden domes and sunlit glass glinted in the sunlight. This was the heart of Sunspear, the center of Dorne's power.
But for Ser Arys, the white-clad representative of the Kingsguard and the Iron Throne, it was a hostile and dangerous place.
Dressed in his white cloak and armor, he carried a small wooden box as he stepped into the Old Palace's hall, his booted steps echoing against the marble, drawing the attention of the Dornish nobles gathered inside.
They fixed him with cold, angry stares, but Ser Arys ignored them as he proceeded forward.
Before him on the high platform were two seats, one emblazoned with the golden spear sigil of House Martell, the other with the sigil of the sun and spear—a symbol of the Roynar people who had helped House Martell unite Dorne.
At the platform's center, he saw Oberyn Martell pushing a wheelchair forward. Sitting in it was a thin, pale man with graying hair.
The hall fell silent. The nobles all directed their gaze toward the man in the wheelchair—Doran Martell, the ruling Prince of Dorne.
Oberyn positioned the wheelchair beside the seat adorned with the golden spear. Doran settled into it, while Oberyn stood at his right, and Arianne, Doran's daughter, took her place at his left.
Ser Arys knelt before them. "Esteemed Prince of Dorne, I bring a decree from King Joffrey."
"And you bring my daughter's head," Oberyn spat, his voice seething.
"Your… illegitimate daughter," Arys replied, trying to soften the blow. But his words only fueled Oberyn's fury.
"She was still my daughter!" Oberyn roared. "You killed her! Without trial, without justice. Is this the Iron Throne's version of justice?"
Arys sighed, setting down the wooden box. "Prince Oberyn, I understand your anger. But you acted outside the law. If you hadn't killed Lord Petyr Baelish and Grand Maester Pycelle, and if you hadn't escaped the dungeons, the king might not have taken such drastic action."
Oberyn sneered. "I didn't kill Petyr. Not that you'd believe me anyway. I know better than to expect justice from the likes of you. If I'd stayed in King's Landing, I'd have met the same fate as my daughter."
Resigned to the hostility, Arys pressed on. "Prince Oberyn, the king demands you return to King's Landing to face trial. Otherwise…"
"Otherwise, what?" Oberyn interrupted, his voice dripping with scorn. "Will he march on Dorne?"
The nobles erupted in anger, their shouts filling the hall. The room pulsed with a fury so fierce that Arys could feel the air itself crackling with danger. He doubted he'd leave the palace alive if he spoke the wrong words.
Swallowing his fear, he turned to Doran, hoping for reason. "Prince Doran, please reconsider. Refusing the Iron Throne's request will only lead to war."
"War?" Doran's voice was faint and papery, but it silenced the hall instantly.
Arys knew Doran was frail and sickly, yet in that moment, he felt the prince's gaze pierce him more sharply than Oberyn's rage.
"Yes," Arys said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Please think carefully, Your Grace. War with the Iron Throne could bring rivers of blood to Dorne."
"Are you threatening me?" Doran asked quietly.
"No." Arys hesitated, trying to find the right words. "I'm simply conveying the king's command."
"Then it is your King who threatens me."
Arys was lost for words.
Doran gave a thin smile. "When your king threatens House Martell, does he forget our words?"
He leaned forward, gripping the armrests of his chair, struggling to stand.
Princess Arianne saw this and rushed forward to support him, but was pushed away by her father.
"No need." Prince Doran bent his body and slowly stood up.
Beads of sweat were visible on his forehead, and his legs, like dead branches, were shaking constantly, but he manage to finally stood up: "Unyielding."
"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken"
In terms of population, wealth and military strength, Dorne is considered last among the Seven Kingdoms, but under the leadership of the House Martell, they were the last kingdom to submit to the Iron Throne.
It took only two years for the Targaryens to conquer the six kingdoms, and it was not until two hundred years later that Dorne was finally incorporated under the rule of the Iron Throne, and even that was through marriage.
The Sun has never been a symbol of weakness.
"Since your King wants war, then..." Prince Doran's weak body was still shaking, but his voice was extremely firm,
"I will give him war!"
"War! War! War!" The Dornish nobles in the hall roared madly.
Amid the surging sound waves, Ser Arys closed his eyes tiredly, no longer having any hope for the future situation.
War, what a cruel thing.
(End of this chapter)