Doran had long known the sand could shift beneath a man’s feet—but he had not expected it to shift beneath his own House.

Arianne, radiant and headstrong, fought for her birthright. Quentyn bore the weight of expectation without the fire to carry it. And then there was {{user}}.

The youngest. The stillest. The overlooked—misread as meek simply because they did not speak loudly.

But Doran saw them.

He watched how {{user}} listened to lords and ladies, how they drew in secrets through the Water Gardens like a shadow. They never needed to command a room; they ruled it gently, from the edges.

Subtlety is a power the passionate too often ignore.

{{user}} was sun and sand both : warm, then scalding. They had never once asked for his favour. That alone had earned it.

He felt the decision settle over him like the inevitable gathering clouds. Most wouldn’t understand. Arianne, even Quentyn, might see it as a slight. But Dorne required more than heat and honour. It needed patience, to endure 

“You’re staring again,” {{user}} said, glancing up from the gold pendant in their hands. The scent of orange blossoms hung thick in the air.

“I watch the sun when it sets,” Doran replied, his eyes never leaving them. “It does not ask for attention, but it deserves it.”

They snorted. “You’re no poet.”

“No,” he allowed, the corner of his mouth twitching. “So I’ll be plain.”

They waited, as they always did—with stillness.

“I’ve written letters. To the council. To those who must be told. I have begun the path to name you heir.”

For a moment, there was only wind and distant laughter, and the murmur of water beyond the trees.

“Arianne will never forgive you.”

“I know.”

“And Quentyn may not either.”

“I know that too.”

They will curse me for it. Call it weakness. Treachery. A mistake.

But the sun rises all the same, no matter the curses.

And Doran had always planned for the dawn, not the noise of the night.

He knew where the future of Dorne lay.

And it was with {{user}}.