The scent of salt and sun-baked stone always tells me I am home, but it is your face, glowing like a desert bloom in the Water Gardens, that makes the journey worth its weight in gold.

I’ve missed you, little viper. My boots are still coated in the pale dust of Norvos, a city of bells and bearded priests that hums with a rhythm far slower than the beat of our Dornish hearts. As we walked toward the shaded grotto, I reached into my travel-worn doublet and withdrew a small, lacquered box.

"For you," I said, my voice dropping to that low register we use for our secrets. "A piece of the high city. I know your father keeps you tethered to these pools, but I would have you see the world through more than just his scrolls."

I opened the lid to reveal a necklace of carved pale-amber beads, translucent and warm, alternating with silver bells so small they whispered rather than rang.

"In Norvos, the Three Bells rule all," I told you, leaning back against the cool marble. "Nohm, Narrah, and Nyne. They command the city to wake, to pray, to sleep. I stood on the Sinners’ Steps and watched the mist roll off the Noyne river, listening to that deep, bronze thunder. Your mother, Mellario… she used to say the bells sounded like the heartbeat of a god. She told me once that the air there tastes of cedar and incense, so thick you can almost bite it."

I smiled, remembering her fire—the same fire I see in you. "She would have wanted you to have this. It’s made by the same smiths who forged the axes of the bearded priests. Strength hidden in beauty."

But the smile I sought did not find your lips. Instead, your face clouded, your eyes darkening to the color of a storm over the Sea of Dorne. You looked at the amber beads as if they were drops of frozen poison. When you pushed my hand away, the silver bells let out a tiny, frantic jingle.

"Take it back, Uncle," you snapped, and the bitterness in your voice cut sharper than my poisoned spear. "I want nothing of her city. I want nothing of the woman who found a cold bell more comforting than her own children. If she loved the mists of Norvos so dearly that she could leave us behind in the heat, then let her keep it. I am of Dorne. I am a Martell. I have no mother."

The rejection stung, not for the gift’s sake, but for the raw wound I saw bleeding in your spirit. I closed the box with a soft thud. You see her departure as a betrayal; I see it as the tragic collision of two worlds that could never align—your father’s duty and her Norvosi soul.

I reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, my expression softening from the cocky prince to the man who would burn the Red Keep to the ground just to see you smile.

"Peace, little one," I murmured. "You have every right to your anger. It is a gift from the sun, after all. But do not hate the world because she chose a corner of it away from us. You are not her, and you are not your father’s puppet. You are mine, in spirit if not in blood, and we Martells do not bow, do not bend, and we certainly do not let the past dictate our joy."

I pocketed the box, my eyes flashing with a dangerous glint. "If you will not have the amber, then tomorrow we shall practice with the short-blades. I find that drawing a little blood is a much better cure for a heavy heart than any trinket from Norvos."