The Dornish nobles were escorted into the council hall of Storm's End.
Upon seeing Lord Anders Yronwood return from Sunspear, they surrounded him, eagerly inquiring about the outcome.
When they learned that Princess Arianne had agreed to the prisoner exchange, relief spread across their faces, and the tension in the air dissipated.
The mood grew lighter, and many began heaping flattery upon Anders, recognizing his influence.
When Prince Doran Martell was wheeled into the hall, however, most of the Dornish nobles merely cast indifferent glances in his direction. None approached to pay their respects.
It was as if their lord was a stranger, unworthy of acknowledgment.
A few nobles still harbored respect for their liege but, seeing the majority's cold response, chose not to act differently.
They already knew, from Anders's reports, that Doran was excluded from the prisoner exchange. Clearly, Caesar had no intention of letting the mastermind behind the assassination plot go free.
The implications were clear: if Doran could not return to Sunspear, the political landscape of Dorne would shift dramatically.
Arianne, they believed, lacked the strength to hold the region together. The decline of House Martell seemed inevitable.
Anders Yronwood, on the other hand, appeared poised to take the reins of power in Dorne, prompting the other nobles to cozy up to him in anticipation.
Doran, for his part, remained unfazed by the cold reception. He quietly fiddled with a piece from a cyvasse set, though his trembling hands betrayed his inner turmoil.
It was unclear whether the tremors stemmed from his gout or his frayed nerves.
In just a few days, Doran seemed to have aged a decade. His exhaustion was etched into every line of his face.
Footsteps echoed through the hall.
Moments later, the nobles began to murmur greetings of "Your Grace" as Caesar entered.
Doran finally raised his head and saw the young Storm King stride into the room.
To Doran, Samwell Caesar's appearance had not changed much, save for the crown of Aegon the Conqueror now perched on his head. Yet that single addition transformed his entire demeanor.
Doran recalled Caesar's miraculous resurrection on Bloodstone Isle, followed by the otherworldly events that ensued. The bitterness in his heart deepened.
Samwell ascended the throne, his gaze sweeping slowly across the hall before he spoke:
"I bring good news. Sunspear has agreed to the exchange. Twenty thousand Stormlands soldiers for forty-eight of you."
Then, he added pointedly:
"Doran Martell is not included in the exchange."
Doran showed no outward signs of disappointment or anger. Instead, he asked calmly:
"Caesar, what do you plan to do with me?"
Samwell ignored the question and addressed the other Dornish nobles instead:
"Before you leave, I have one final demand."
"What demand?" Anders Yronwood asked.
Samwell pointed at Doran:
"This man, for his own selfish schemes, put you all in danger. Each of you will stab him once, and then you may return to Dorne."
A heavy silence fell over the hall.
"And if we refuse?" asked Harmen Uller.
"Then you stay here," Samwell replied bluntly.
"Your Grace," Anders interjected, "if you detain the Dornish nobles, Sunspear may refuse to release the Stormlands army."
"Then we'll postpone the exchange," Samwell said nonchalantly. "Feeding forty-odd nobles won't cost me much. Meanwhile, Sunspear can continue hosting my twenty thousand soldiers. Let's see who loses patience first."
He added with a smirk, "And I'm not asking you to kill Doran—just one stab each. A drop of blood is all I require."
"Where should we stab him?" Anders asked cautiously.
"Wherever you like," Samwell replied, the corners of his mouth curling upward. "As long as there's blood."
The nobles, initially hesitant, began to relax.
This didn't seem like an unreasonable demand.
It wasn't as if they were being asked to kill Doran outright.
If anything, it felt like a symbolic punishment—a minor act of retribution.
Moreover, many of them harbored their own grievances against Doran. This was as good an opportunity as any to vent their frustration.
"Don't fall into his trap," Doran warned, his voice steady despite his frailty. "This is a sinister ploy. Once you've shed my blood, Dorne will be irreparably divided—"
"Be quiet, Doran!" Anders Yronwood snapped, cutting him off. "Haven't you harmed Dorne enough? Your unilateral decisions have made us all prisoners. Is one stab from each of us too much to ask?"
Doran turned to Anders, his gaze cold and piercing.
"So, the Yronwood family can't wait to replace House Martell. Let me remind you, Anders, that building true authority takes time—a long time. Instilling loyalty in the minds of Dornish people is no simple feat. Your ambition won't guide Dorne to stability; it will plunge us into chaos, handing opportunities to outsiders."
"No matter what you say, Doran," Anders retorted, stepping forward to take the sword offered by a guard, "this is the price you must pay for your mistakes."
With that, Anders drove the sword into Doran's thigh.
Doran screamed in pain as blood gushed from the wound.
Though the blow was not fatal, it was no mere scratch. The sword pierced clean through Doran's leg—an agonizing injury for an elderly man already afflicted with gout.
Anders's act emboldened the other nobles.
Countess Delonne Allyrion followed, taking the sword with a shout of, "For Dorne!"
She stabbed Doran's left arm, drawing another anguished cry.
Next came Ser Denys Dalt, Lord Tremond Gargalen, and Lord Quentyn Qorgyle—one after another, sword after sword.
They avoided stabbing Doran's vital organs, but even so, the cumulative injuries were severe.
Though Samwell had only asked for a token stab, the psychological trap was clear.
Each noble rationalized their actions, thinking their individual blow wouldn't be the one to kill Doran.
Yet, as each successive strike worsened his condition, the collective harm became undeniable.
Blood soaked Doran's wheelchair and pooled on the floor.
His initial cries of pain faded into faint, pitiful moans.
When it was Lord Harmen Uller's turn, Doran, trembling, pointed a bloodied finger at his own chest.
It was a plea—to end his suffering with a merciful death.
Harmen avoided his gaze. After hesitating for a moment, he stabbed Doran in the thigh instead.
He dared not deliver the killing blow.
Everyone in the hall understood this unspoken rule: Doran's death was to be a shared burden.
With so many contributing to his demise, the Martells couldn't possibly hold everyone accountable.
At last, all forty-eight nobles had taken their turn.
In the heavy stench of blood, they stood in silence, avoiding their liege's gaze.
"Well done," Samwell said with a satisfied nod. "You've earned your freedom. You'll be escorted to the Boneway, where the exchange will take place."
After the guards led the Dornish nobles out, Samwell approached Doran.
The former Prince of Dorne was too weak to speak, blood trickling from his mouth.
"Doran, do you see it now? Your vassals despise you."
Doran struggled to respond, but no words came. Fresh blood spilled from his lips, and his body slumped unconscious.
Samwell turned to Qyburn, the maester.
"How long can he last?"
Qyburn grinned, his voice oozing with malice:
"If Your Grace wishes, I can keep him alive indefinitely."
"That won't be necessary," Samwell replied, his gaze sharp. "Just make sure he survives long enough to return to Sunspear. Let him die there."
"As you command, Your Grace."
(End of Chapter)