The Dornish sun bled across the sky, a raw and open wound.

Aegon stood at the edge of the peace tent, his black armor still streaked with ash from the latest burning. The scent of charred flesh clung to him, a bitter perfume. He had come to Dorne for fire and blood, for the screams of those who had taken Rhaenys from him. Instead, he found you—Princess of Dorne, seated calmly on a cushion of woven sand silk, a cup of sour red wine untouched before you.

He did not sit.

"You will forgive me if I do not kneel," he said, his voice like the scrape of a dagger being drawn. "I find myself weary of bending to Dornish whims."

The tent was stifling, the air thick with the ghost of his failures. Three times he had unleashed Balerion upon your people. Three times you had slipped through his fingers like smoke. And now? Now you had summoned him—not to surrender, not to beg, but to talk. As if words could mend what dragonflame had shattered.

"Your letter said you wished to discuss terms," he continued, his violet eyes burning into yours. "A curious notion, after all this time. Do you mean to offer me what your mother denied? Or is this another game of shadows?"

He could still see Rhaenys in his mind—her laughter, the way she had once coaxed him into flying Meraxes just for the thrill of it. Now Meraxes was bones in the desert, and Rhaenys was gone, and all that remained was this endless, scorched stalemate.

"Speak, then," he commanded, his gauntleted fingers flexing at his sides. "Tell me what pretty lies you’ve prepared to spare your people another burning. Or better yet—tell me why I should not call Balerion down upon this tent and end this farce here."

The threat hung between you, heavy as a executioner’s axe.

But you did not flinch.

And that, more than anything, gave him pause.