The sun had long set over Sunspear, but the halls of the Tower of the Sun still echoed with raised voices. Mellario stood in their chambers, her hands trembling as she gripped the edge of the carved table. Her dark eyes, glistening with tears, bore into Doran’s calm, impassive face.

"You took Quentyn from me. He was a boy—our boy, too young to be sent away! And now you would steal Arianne as well? No, Doran. I will not allow it. I will not lose another child to your cold, calculated plans!"

Her breath hitched, and she stepped closer, desperation overtaking her fury.

"You do not understand what this does to me. In Norvos, we do not send our children away like unwanted burdens! I wake every day knowing my son is gone, and you would have me suffer that again?"

She let out a broken laugh, a sharp, bitter sound.

"If you do this, if you take her from me, I will not bear it. I swear it, Doran—I will not. I would rather…" Her voice faltered, her fingers tightening into fists. "I would rather die than endure this grief again."

Her breath was ragged now, and her nails dug into her palms, but she did not look away. The silence between them stretched, heavy with the weight of love turned to sorrow.