Red Keep, King’s Landing — Three Days After the Wedding Feast

The Red Keep had not yet recovered.

What was meant to be a wedding celebration remembered for its grandeur had curdled into rumor and dread. A young knight lay dead, brutally beaten in the middle of the hall. The groom had vanished for a day and returned with his face hollowed by grief. And Queen Alicent had entered the feast in a gown the color of war.

Servants whispered about the way Ser Criston’s hands trembled when he wasn’t gripping a sword. About the blood that wouldn’t come out of the stone. About how the greens and blacks were being drawn — not in ink, but in silence.

King Viserys sat the Iron Throne more often now, as if pretending his authority was enough to hold the cracks at bay. At his side, Rhaenyra — newly wed and already burdened — listened and learned.

So when the raven came, it stirred something sharp and unexpected.

“From Sunspear. Sealed in Martell orange and gold,” Maester Mellos declared.

The council had not expected a reply — certainly not acceptance. The invitation to Dorne had been ceremonial at best, a half-hearted gesture extended from tradition rather than expectation.

Yet the letter read:

“Her Serene Highness, Naerys Nymeria Martell, Princess of Dorne and Blood of the Rhoynar, shall attend upon the court of the Iron Throne. In the spirit of future peace and understanding, and in honor of the crown’s heir.”

The silence in the council chamber was near-sacred. No one spoke. Even the fire crackling in the hearth seemed to hush.

Otto Hightower, recently reinstated as Hand of the King, cleared his throat. “A diplomatic maneuver, no doubt. A chance to assess our… tensions.”

Lord Strong chuckled softly. “Or an omen. When the snakes begin to stir, something has shifted in the sand.”

Viserys raised a trembling hand. “Then let her come. Let us welcome her. Let her see the strength and unity of House Targaryen.”

No one dared to correct him.

Two Days Later — The Arrival

Dawn broke soft and gold across the ramparts, and with it, the first glimpse of the Dornish.

They did not arrive as most lords of Westeros did — with trumpet or fanfare. Instead, they came in hushed reverence, like a desert storm gathering on the horizon.

Fifteen riders on lithe sand-colored horses, their armor glinting dull bronze and copper in the sunlight. Long spears adorned with tassels. Crimson banners edged in sunbursts and silk. At their center, a woman rode sidesaddle atop a coal-dark mare, her silks flowing like water.

Princess Naerys Nymeria Martell — a vision of Sunspear’s lineage.

She was veiled, but the thin fabric shimmered with gold thread, and the shape of her eyes was unmistakable — dark and sharp, like an obsidian dagger honed over generations. Her skin glowed with the warmth of her homeland, and her bearing was one of practiced grace, not submission.

The Red Keep’s guards stiffened at her approach. Queen Alicent stood poised on the stone steps, flanked by Ser Criston Cole and the highborn lords of the court. Rhaenyra was present as well, her crown shining in the morning light, her gaze wary.

As Naerys dismounted, she moved like silk poured over marble — cool, fluid, assured.

She did not kneel.

Instead, she bowed her head only slightly and smiled, slow and knowing.

She looked past Rhaenyra, past Alicent — toward Daemon, who stood near the shadows, a faint smirk curling his mouth. Naerys didn’t flinch beneath his stare. If anything, her eyes glimmered with amusement.

“So many dragons,” she said softly. “And still the air smells of smoke.”