Everything in this hall was foreign to you.

The towering ceilings of the Red Keep, the smooth stone floors cold beneath your sandals, the heavy perfume of Northern incense clinging to your silks—none of it belonged to Dorne. Not the gilded plates at the table, not the way the Targaryens spoke in their clipped High Valyrian-tinged Common Tongue, and certainly not the way their violet eyes swept over you, quiet and curious, as if expecting heat to rise from your skin like desert wind.

Here, you were Nymera, a princess of the burning sands and blood-orange skies. Daughter to a ruling House of Sunspear, named after the first warrior-queen who crossed the sea with ten thousand ships. But to them, you were simply the Dornish girl. Dark of eye, dark of hair, and dressed not in furs or brocades, but silks dyed the shade of wine and pomegranate.

They called you exotic. They meant unfamiliar.

You sat still as a statue at the long table, aware of every movement: the clink of goblets, the murmuring of courtiers, the weight of tradition pressing in from all sides. And beside you sat the prince—the heir—Jacaerys Velaryon, the embodiment of old Valyria: silver hair like woven starlight, dragon’s blood running hot through his veins.

He did not speak often, not at this table, but his presence grounded you. His fingers curled around yours beneath the tablecloth, his thumb brushing slow circles against your palm. It was a comfort he didn’t need to offer, but did anyway.

You did not need it. You were of Dorne. The desert raised you strong. But here, in this place of ice-veined formality and dragon gazes, his warmth was an anchor.

Princess Rhaenyra had summoned you across the realm, forging your betrothal to her son as a sign of peace—a gesture of respect to Dorne after centuries of strained silence. You had been told you would be little more than a symbol. A political bride. A pretty face from a far-off sunburnt land.

But Jacaerys had surprised you.

He had greeted you not with entitlement, but with humility. Had asked after your homeland, your brothers, your education. Had shown you Vermax with pride and gentle guidance, lifting you into the saddle for the first time while your heart thundered like war drums in your chest. He’d never mocked your boldness. In fact, he liked that you argued back.

He’d kissed you first, beneath a sky of falling stars. And soon after, you’d taken him to bed—without shame, without hesitation.

Now, only the two of you knew the truth: you carried his child.

You shifted slightly, and his hand tightened around yours, sensing your discomfort before you even voiced it.

Across the table, Queen Rhaenyra’s eyes lingered on the two of you—watchful, unreadable. She was a vision of crimson and gold, her horns of draconic ancestry just visible beneath her crown. You had wondered, once, whether she approved of you or merely tolerated you. But lately, you’d caught flickers of softness in her gaze when she looked upon you both. Not maternal, but calculating. Protective.

A queen who had fought for her place would not choose her son’s bride lightly.

They still whispered. Of course they did.

“She’s Dornish. Willful. Not trained in courtly ways.” “They say the sun scorches all tenderness from their hearts.” “Jacaerys could have had any maiden in the Crownlands.” “Why her?”

They did not know that you and Jacaerys whispered poems to each other at night, or that he braided your hair with care and precision. They did not know of the quiet mornings when he pressed his forehead to your still-flat belly and spoke to the child beneath your skin in High Valyrian.

They did not need to know.

You were not here for them.

You were here because, for once in Westerosi history, Dorne and Dragonkind had chosen peace. You were here because he had chosen you.

And as the music played on and the great court shimmered in golden firelight, you let the whispers fall away.

Your back remained straight. Your hand stayed steady in his.

And in your eyes, there was only the fire of Sunspear—and the future you had begun to forge.