The mornings in Dorne smelled of citrus and heat.

Here, the stone was honeyed and warm beneath your bare feet, carved in sweeping curves that caught the light like poured gold. The palace rose along the cliffs above the Sea of Dorne, its terraces open to wind and salt, to the endless shimmer of water below. Pomegranate trees bent heavy in the courtyards, and somewhere—always—there was music. Pipes, laughter, the low hum of a lullaby carried through archways.

Nymera and Lucerys did not walk. They stormed.

They were born minutes apart, and spent every waking moment proving it meant nothing at all.

Nymera led, always—sharp-eyed, sun-browned, her curls a wild halo that refused taming. Lucerys followed only to overtake, all mischief and quick hands, his laughter louder, his schemes bolder. If Nymera was the spark, Lucerys was the wildfire that chased it.

“Luca,” you call, your voice threaded with warning and fondness both.

Which means he has done something.

Again.

This morning it is the fountain—someone has decided it is a ship, and someone else has decided it should be sunk. Water sloshes over carved stone, sandals abandoned somewhere in the wake of their conquest.

Jacaerys watches from the shade of a colonnade, a cup of spiced wine forgotten in his hand.

“They are going to break something,” he murmurs.

“They already have,” you reply easily.

You are not concerned.

You never are.

You move through the palace like the wind that shaped you—barefoot, unbothered, gold threaded through your braids catching the sun. Silk clings to your waist, leaves your shoulders bare, your skin warm as the stone beneath you. As you pass him, you press a kiss to his mouth without breaking stride.

He catches your wrist anyway, tugging you back just enough.

“You should stop them.”

“You should,” you counter, smiling.

Nymera shrieks in triumph as Lucerys slips, dragging them both into the shallow basin with a splash that echoes off the sandstone walls.

Jacaerys exhales, slow, resigned.

Then he laughs.

It comes easier here. Everything does.

He had not meant to love you—not like this, not so completely—but Dorne has a way of unraveling intention. Of softening edges. Of turning duty into something warmer, something dangerously close to peace.

And your children—gods, your children are made of it.

Salt and fire. Sun and storm.

Nymera emerges first, soaked and radiant, chin lifted as though she has conquered something rather than fallen into it. Lucerys follows, grinning like a conspirator, already reaching for her again.

“Come here,” you call at last.

They come, eventually.

Always.

You feel his gaze linger as they gather around you—small, wild things drawn into your orbit—and for a moment, everything settles.

Here, there is no war.

No crown waiting.

Only sun-warmed stone, the sound of the sea, and the life you have built in defiance of everything expected of you.

But seasons turn, even in Dorne.

🐉☀️

Dragonstone in autumn is all iron and shadow.

The warmth does not follow you north.

Black stone swallows the light, the halls long and echoing, carved from something older than comfort. The sea below is no gentle shimmer here—it roars, relentless, striking against the cliffs as though it means to break them.

Nymera hates the shoes most.

She slips them off whenever she can, darting barefoot through corridors despite every nursemaid’s protest, her laughter ringing sharp against the cold stone. Lucerys is worse—quieter here, yes, but no less dangerous. Where Nymera charges, he plots.

“Luca,” you warn, softer this time.

He is already halfway up a narrow stair he is not meant to climb.

Jacaerys catches him before he can vanish entirely, hauling him back with practiced ease. “You will be the death of me.”

Lucerys only grins.

Nymera, watching, looks impressed.

You stand at the far end of the hall, straight-backed and unyielding as the sea beyond. Silks have given way to heavier fabrics, though you refuse to dull yourself entirely—gold still gleams at your throat, your wrists.