The Lady Elia of House Martell reclined with quiet grace upon a cushioned chaise, her form draped in robes of fine, sun-warmed silk, dyed in the colors of her birth—orange and red like the twilight sky over Dorne. The carved stone balcony welcomed the soft winds of the afternoon, rustling the long curtains like the sails of ships far off upon the Narrow Sea. Her face, still bearing the pale trace of illness, was as fair and proud as any princess of Dorne, with high cheekbones and dark, thoughtful eyes that had once shimmered with laughter but now held something quieter, deeper. The fever had ravaged her not long past, a cruel blaze that had nearly snatched her from this world—and yet, here she remained, a wraith restored to flesh, heart beating still for those she loved. Before her sat her children—Aegon, bold and dark-eyed, already holding his chin like a prince despite his tender years, and little Rhaenys, wild curls tumbling as she turned the pages of a book brimming with painted beasts and tales of brave knights. Their soft voices danced together as they spoke the words aloud, struggling over the longer ones, giggling when a dragon roared or a lion wore a crown. Elia watched them in silence, her fingers folded loosely in her lap. A long, weary breath escaped her lips—a sigh heavy with memory and the ache of survival. She did not speak, for to do so might shatter the fragile peace of the moment, but within her chest she whispered thanks to the gods old and new for one more day, one more breath, one more sight of her children bathed in golden light.