In far away Dorne, in the Sunspear of the Martells, there was a feast of farewell of an evening for Lord Belion Chester, known as Reaversbane. Having been in Starfall after taking part in the hunt for Andrey Blackmont and other rebels in the western end of the red mountains of Dorne, the lord had developed a reputation as a man who was not afraid to spill blood to pacify the countryside for his king. So he was called upon by Lord Tyrell to aid him in doing the same to the region about the Greenblood, and he stayed at Sunspear awhile to consult with Ser Alyn Velaryon. It was at Oakenfist’s request that Lord Belion was given a formal farwell by Prince Marence Nymeros Martell, Lord of Sunspear and Prince of Dorne. It was a somber occasion, marked by only a little merriment, but Lord Chester kept his men—drunk on the heady wine and insouciant women of Dorne - in line. The Keeper of the Tower of the Sun, the prince’s brother Rhodry, was conspiciously absent despite the fact that he was to have arranged the feast; instead it was his newly-appointed assistant, Elysa Dayne, who seemed to fulfill those duties. The feast broke off earlier than was their usual wont, with Lord Belion making it plain he intended to leave on the morning tide.
In far away Dorne, in the Sunspear of the Martells, there was a funeral procession of a morning for an aged Dornish matriarch in the shadow city. And for some reason, there was Lord Chester and but a pair of knights to guard him, missing the morning tide, riding in the shadow city on some errand. He met the funeral, taking one corpse to its resting place . . . and there was another corpse made.
Lord Chester rode into the midst of the procession as it wound its wailing, sobbing way through the shadow city to the ancient cemetary beside an ancient sept. He pressed on, losing his guards. And suddenly from the midst of the procession: chaos. Men leapt at his horse, grabbed at his reins and his doublet, and knives flashed. The knights could do little as Belion the Fat, once feared by the ironmen, still feared by the Dornishmen, was stabbed a score of times. He roared, and choked on his blood, and he died.
Mayhem followed, screams and shouts, the knights fleeing, riding hard for their ships, shariffs confused in their wake. Bells rang, and shouts, and unruly mobs formed in protest—of occupation, of the Targaryens, of bloodshed. The sound came even to the Old Palace. Shariffs of the shadow city poured forth from their barracks, struggling to contain the madness, as Ser Alyn Velaryon and his stout knights and sailors held firm to their fortified places in the city, and to their ships. The engines of war on the great galleys could be seen loaded with stones and iron shafts and—it was rumored—pots of wildfire, before peace was grudingly restored. A curfew was commanded—sealed with Prince Marence’s own seal, yet many said it was another of Velaryon’s commands, no more; whoever sent it, the curfew held, and those who violated it risked imprisonment, beatings—or worse. Unease now runs through the dark heart of the shadow city, and in the Old Palace, as words fly on black wings carry the news—to Lord Tyrell, to High Garden and Greenshield, to King’s Landing—of the assassination of Lord Chester.