Daeron left the council chamber and headed straight for the dragon pit.
He was still surprised by Rhaegar's sudden coronation. How bad had the infighting gotten in Dorne for them to force Rhaegar's hand like that? Even Prince Doran couldn't stop it?
If Daeron were in Rhaegar's place, he would have taken the Stepstones, rested his men, then struck hard at Lys once the moment was right. Claiming a full Free City was the only way to justify calling yourself a king.
Instead Rhaegar had patched one hole by ripping open another, handing Daeron every excuse he needed. One wrong move from Rhaegar or Dorne and both would pay.
"Rhaegar's the lightning rod for now," Daeron muttered. "But Dorne's been a thorn for too long."
"Your Grace, where are you going?" Barristan called, hurrying after him.
Daeron stopped. "Find Oswell Whent. I have orders for him."
"Ser Oswell stood the night watch, Your Grace. He's resting."
"Wake him. This is royal command."
Barristan's face tightened. He turned on his heel and went to fetch the knight.
A short while later Oswell appeared in full armor, still blinking sleep from his eyes.
Daeron didn't waste time. "Ser, I need you in Dorne. Find Lord Anders Yronwood and deliver this letter." He handed over the sealed parchment he'd written earlier.
Oswell took it with both hands, hesitation clear in his voice. "Your Grace… any special instructions?"
His mind was a storm. He had been Rhaegar's man to the bone, even after the prince abandoned the throne. Years in the Kingsguard had finally forced him to choose loyalty to the crown over old friendships. Now the young king was sending him alone on a mission that smelled of espionage.
Daeron met his gaze steadily. "The letter explains everything. Work with Lord Anders. I want every scrap of information on House Martell and the other Dornish lords—how they're fracturing, who's pushing back against Doran, who might be open to new friends."
Oswell nodded once, understanding flashing in his eyes. "I'll leave at first light."
"Good. Draw whatever coin you need from the treasury. Go."
Oswell bowed and left to prepare.
Daeron watched him go, thoughts turning cold. "Dorne's been sucking blood from the Targaryen line for too long. Time to make them feel the pinch without starting a war they can't win."
"Your Grace?" Barristan asked quietly, still shadowing him. "Anything else?"
Daeron smiled faintly. "I'm flying to Dragonstone. Jaehaerys should have news for me by now."
---
Sunspear. The Water Gardens.
Prince Doran sat in his wheeled chair on the shaded balcony, face drawn tight under the Dornish sun. His wife's letter still burned in his pocket like acid.
Below, in the courtyard, two boys circled each other with wooden swords.
One was tall for his age, black hair and gray-blue eyes, a serious little face already carrying the weight of his father's melancholy. Young Aegon—once Snow—moved with quiet precision, every strike measured.
The other boy, Quentyn, was stockier, olive-skinned, his dark hair streaked with faint silver. He fought like someone who knew he was outmatched but refused to yield.
"Careful, Aegon," Quentyn warned, voice gentle even as he swung.
Aegon blocked, face grim. He didn't speak much these days.
Areo Hotah stood behind Doran's chair, axe across his back. "The boys train well, my prince."
Doran didn't answer right away. His eyes stayed on Quentyn. "I'm sending him to Yronwood as Lord Anders's squire."
Areo's eyebrows rose. "My prince… the lady will not like it."
Doran's mouth twisted. "My lady wife can write all the letters she wants. Oberyn killed the old Lord Yronwood. We still owe that debt. Sending my heir to serve there shows good faith. It may be the only thing keeping Anders from drifting toward the Iron Throne."
He had no choice. The Dornish lords were howling for blood after Rhaegar's hasty coronation. Some called Doran a traitor for backing a man who now called himself king without permission. Others whispered that the Martells had lost their nerve.
Quentyn would go. It was the price of peace.
"And Arianne?" Areo asked carefully.
Doran's face darkened. "My daughter thinks she can keep Quentyn and the Targaryen girl apart forever. She forgets who rules here."
He touched the letter in his pocket again. His wife's words were clear: You mean to disinherit Arianne and give the princedom to Quentyn. She wasn't wrong. But saying it out loud would only make the fracture worse.
"Send the raven to Rhaegar," Doran said at last. "Tell him to stop hesitating. Take Lys while he still can. If he drags his feet any longer, the Iron Throne will come for all of us."
---
Myr. The Governor's Palace.
Tristifer, the so-called Merchant Prince, poured wine into golden cups and smiled like a man who already smelled profit.
"Dragon King Daeron, your visits always bring good fortune. What can Myr offer you today?"
Daeron sat cross-legged on the thick carpet, ignoring the dancing girls and the heavy perfume. "I hear Myr has a new sail design. Wind-Rider, they call it. Twenty-five percent faster even in dead calm. I want it for the royal fleet."
Tristifer's smile faltered for half a second. "That design is… very new. And very expensive."
Daeron took a slow sip of wine. "Name your price. And while you're thinking, tell me how many of those sails you can deliver before the next moon."
Outside, the Narrow Sea wind tugged at the banners. Far to the west, storms were gathering over Dorne and the Stepstones. Daeron intended to ride those winds straight into the heart of every enemy who thought they could play the game better than he could.