He paused deliberately, savoring the flicker of shock in Anders's eyes before continuing:
"The Dornish are divided into Stony Dornishn, Salty Dornishn, Sandy Dornishn, and the Orphans of the Greenblood.
House Yronwood stands for the Stony Dornishn, bearing the pure blood of the First n and the Andals.
And House Martell? They are of the Salty Dornishn, long steeped in Rhoynar blood and culture. Even their title, 'Nyros,' proclaims them the 'blood of Nyria.'"
Lo Quen's tone sharpened, carrying a subtle incitent.
"A thousand years ago, before Queen Nyria's fleet of ten thousand ships arrived, your great ancestors called themselves High Kings of Dorne, ruling vast parts of the land.
It was House Martell, borrowing the strength of foreign Rhoynar, that crushed the Yronwood and stole Dorne's sovereignty.
Why? By what right does House Martell rule Dorne through the ages, while House Yronwood remains beneath them?
What the Iron Throne cannot give you, I can.
Under my rule, Dorne will return to Westerosi tradition, casting off these Rhoynar titles. And the whole of Dorne will be guarded—by you, Anders Yronwood."
Anders Yronwood was struck dumb.
It wasn't only the promise of being made Warden of Dorne that shook him, but the depth of this Easterner's grasp of Dorne's tangled ethnic rifts and ancient grudges.
Stony Dornishn, Salty Dornishn, Sandy Dornishn, Orphans of the Greenblood...
These divisions, which even many Westerosi lords could barely keep straight, he spoke of as if reciting from mory.
As Lo Quen said, Dorne had never been truly united.
The Stony Dornishn, led by House Yronwood, dwelt in the Red Mountains, with features closer to the Seven Kingdoms' norm—tall, fair, blond or brown-haired. They had long resented House Martell, the "outsiders" who rose through Rhoynar blood.
The Salty Dornishn, by contrast, lived along the Narrow Sea coast, with jet-black hair and olive skin.
The Sandy Dornishn, harsher still, lived in deserts and valleys, darker-skinned than the Salty Dornishn, their faces ruddy from the blazing sun.
And then there were the Orphans of the Greenblood—descendants of those who followed Queen Nyria a thousand years ago, who still clung to Rhoynar gods and refused to blend fully into Dornish life.
So while Dorne was not a land tearing itself apart, it was far from one heart.
Especially between the Stony Dornishn of House Yronwood and the Salty Dornishn of House Martell.
The humiliation of losing the High King's throne a thousand years ago remained a thorn lodged deep in House Yronwood's pride.
Anders's heart wavered violently.
Here before him stood an Easterner with a dragon capable of burning the Seven Kingdoms' fleet to ash, with an undead host impervious to steel.
With such power, House Yronwood might truly drag House Martell down and seize Dorne's rule.
But then ca the thought of the Iron Throne's strength. As Oberyn had said, one dragon might not be enough...
Lo Quen caught the conflict flashing in Anders's eyes. The mont was ripe.
He stoked the fire with a secret ant to shatter Anders's certainties.
"Lord Anders, there is an old matter you should reconsider.
Decades ago, Prince Oberyn quarreled with your grandfather, Lord Edgar, over a paramour. In their duel, Oberyn used... let us say, certain thods, and Lord Edgar died.
To make ands, Prince Doran sent his eldest son, Quentyn Martell, to Yronwood Castle as your foster son..."
Anders frowned, cutting him off impatiently.
"Those old tales are known to every soul in Dorne. What are you trying to say?"
Lo Quen's smile turned enigmatic.
"What I an is—what if, and I stress if—the boy sent to your castle was never Prince Doran's trueborn son at all, but a carefully substituted impostor?"
"What?!"
Anders Yronwood shot half to his feet, his face etched with disbelief.
"Impossible! Absolutely impossible! Quentyn grew up in Yronwood. I watched him all his life. I know him better than Doran himself!"
Lo Quen leaned forward, his gaze sharp as a spear.
"What if the exchange happened before he ever reached your walls? What if it was done at birth itself?"
The audacious, chilling thought struck Anders like a hamr blow.
He froze, mind reeling back to Quentyn's appearance—so unlike that of his siblings, Arianne and Trystane.
Arianne and Trystane bore the unmistakable traits of the Salty Dornishn.
Black hair. Olive skin.
Quentyn, however, had brown hair, a high forehead, a square jaw, and a broad nose.
Lo Quen floated this theory because he knew all too well from his past life the fierce debates over Quentyn Martell's true identity.
Ga of Thrones had its "three turtles": Jorah Mormont, the Turtle Man forever crawling after Dany; Victarion Greyjoy, the Green Turtle, big and dim; and Doran Martell, the Ninja Turtle, master of patience and hidden sches.
Prince Doran, that fad "Ninja Turtle," was known across the realm for his patience and inscrutable sches. If one were to na the true masters of political maneuvering, Prince Doran's na would always be among them.
Oberyn's entry into the Small Council, Arianne's betrothal to Viserys, the later probing into young Aegon's true identity, the theories of the real and false Quentyn, possible contingency plans hidden in Norvos, even sending Sarella Sand to the Citadel—
All of it was enough to send chills down Lo Quen's spine. Had he not already known the story, even he might have been deceived by Doran's outward frailty, mistaking him for an easy mark.
When Doran sent "Quentyn" across the Narrow Sea to seek Daenerys and fulfill the betrothal, his stance was deliberately ambiguous, and the escort pitifully thin. By contrast, House Yronwood provided its best n, even including its heir.
Such an odd arrangent, combined with Quentyn's unusual appearance, pointed to a troubling possibility.
The boy sent to Yronwood may have been no Martell at all, but a Sand plucked from the Water Gardens—Doran's smokescreen to placate House Yronwood while hiding his true heir.
The real Quentyn, anwhile, could have been kept safely in reserve as a hidden card.
House Yronwood raised "Quentyn" as a maester, knight, and heir—perhaps hoping to use him as a bridge to Daenerys and her dragons for their own advantage, or even to undermine Doran's designs.
But they may never have realized they were the ones being played.
Anders collapsed back into his chair, his face shifting through storm after storm, fine beads of sweat breaking across his brow.
The theory was outrageous—yet once planted, doubt spread like wildfire.
After a long silence, his voice ca out dry and hoarse:
"You... do you have proof?"
Lo Quen spread his hands, looking open and sincere.
"Direct proof? A midwife's testimony? No. Only those present at Quentyn's birth would know the truth.
But, my lord, all you need do is recall Quentyn's features, compare them with Princess Arianne and Prince Trystane. Think of Prince Doran's treatnt of Quentyn...
And most of all, think of Doran Martell himself. With his depth of scheming and cautious nature, do you truly believe he would hand his eldest son over to be raised by a house he counts as a blood enemy?"
Anders let out a long, heavy breath, as if purging the shock and turmoil trapped in his chest.
Slowly, he nodded, his eyes sharpening into sothing hard and cold.
"If this is true, House Yronwood and House Martell will be bound in a blood feud that ends only with death. But before that..."
Lo Quen cut in smoothly, understanding at once.
"Before that, tonight's conversation will remain only between us."
Anders gave no reply, just a faint nod, tacitly agreeing.
His only thought now was to return to Dorne at once, to rally every resource and uncover the truth of Quentyn's identity.
This was about the honor—or disgrace—of a thousand years of his house.
But then the reality of his present situation crashed back over him. Lowering himself further, he forced his voice into sothing almost pleading, edged with deference:
"My lord, forgive my bluntness, but what do you intend to do with us captives? My daughter Ynys's wedding is soon approaching..."
Lo Quen arched an eyebrow, feigning puzzlent.
"A wedding can be held any ti. For now, you and the others are my honored guests. Naturally, I cannot release you so easily."
Anders swallowed his frustration and the spark of anger in his chest, bowing his tone even lower, almost humble.
"My lord, you may not know—my daughter's betrothed, Ser Ryon Allyrion of Godsgrace, is also in your dungeons. If you permit, I could write to Dorne. House Yronwood would gladly pay a rich ransom for the release of us both."
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