The sun hung high and cruel over the Shadow City, beating down upon a serpentine line of hastily assembled nobles, knights, and envoys stretched past the outer gates of Sunspear. Banners of silk and felt—the black portcullis of Yronwood, the red cockatrice of Gargalen, the purple field strewn with lemons of Dalt—snapped listlessly in the hot, salt-laden breeze off the Summer Sea.
Because the ruling house had sent out its summons on such short notice, only those within a few hours' ride through the coastal dunes could answer. Most houses were represented by younger brothers, sharp-eyed cousins, or trusted castellans, their escorts sweating beneath heavy wools and boiled leather.
Above the arched threshold of the Threefold Gate, a captain of the Martell household guard stood silhouetted against the blinding sky. He held his spear haft grounded firm against the sandstone parapet, a parchment sealed in dark orange wax clutched in his left fist.
"By decree of the ruling house," the captain's voice boomed down into the sweltering courtyard, "the threshold of Sunspear is bound. Know this before you cross: whosoever harbors malice in their heart against Sunspear or the ruling blood of Prince Nolan Martell shall not draw another breath. Death awaits the traitor at the gate."
A wave of outraged murmurs rippled through the line. Horses shifted uneasily, their hooves clattering on the baked flags. An envoy of House Santagar stepped out of the ranks, his hand resting white-knuckled on his sword hilt as he gestured wildly up at the ramparts.
"Is this how Martell honors his vassals?" he spat, wiping sweat from his brow. "We ride through the heat at a gallop to answer an urgent summons, only to be threatened like common cutthroats at the door?"
"It is for Sunspear's safety," the captain replied, his iron visor glinting in the harsh glare, utterly unbothered by the nobleman's indignation. "As decreed by the Wizard of Dorne."
At the mere mention of the Wizard of Dorne, a heavy silence descended upon the assembled lords. It was not the uneasy hush born of courtly intrigue, but the wary quiet reserved for a force no man fully understood.
They all knew the tales. It was he who had called rain upon Dorne's parched sands, turning drought into abundance. It was he who had broken the Reach's invasion and driven its armies back across the Red Mountains.
And from every port and caravan came the same whispered rumor—that the Lord of Salt Shore, of House Peverell, commanded a sapphire dragon, the very beast said to have laid waste to swaths of Reach territory in sapphire flame. Whether every tale was true mattered little. The fear they inspired was real enough.
But some are eager to prove his house untainted, a young knight of House Dalt stepped out of the crowd. He adjusted his tunic, squared his shoulders, and marched toward the archway with a defiant stride. The crowd held its collective breath as his boot hovered over the threshold, then settled onto the flagstones within.
Nothing happened.
He exhaled a long breath, a nervous grin breaking across his face as he offered a mocking bow to the guards above before swaggering deeper into the courtyard.
Relief broke over the gathering like a cooling wave.
"See?" called a lord's cousin from Gargalen, clapping his hands together. "The blood of Dorne has nothing to fear!"
He stepped forward, followed closely by a lady of House Toland and her personal guard. One by one, they crossed beneath the sandstone arch unharmed, their confidence restored as laughter and eager chatter began to replace the tense silence.
Then came a quiet servant from a minor coastal retinue, carrying a heavy, iron-bound chest of gift-wines intended for the feast. He kept his head bowed in quiet deference, trailing two paces behind his master's gilded spurs.
The moment his sandals crossed the threshold, there was a sickening, silent flash of blinding light.
Without a sound, the servant's skin withered into smoldering charcoal. His eyes burst into white embers, and his frame collapsed inward like brittle parchment, disintegrating into a pile of fine, drifting black ash before he even hit the ground. The heavy wooden chest tumbled from his lifeless grip, shattering on the flagstones and spilling dark red wine across the dust like a pool of freshly shed blood.
Panic erupted.
Women shrieked, pressing back into the crowd as men drew their steel with ringing metallic rasps. Horses reared in terror, their handlers fighting desperately to keep control as the wind caught the black ash, scattering it across the velvet doublets of the horrified nobles. The ward had ignored the loyal lords, but it had caught the assassin hidden in plain linen.
Standing mid-column under a dusty travel cloak, a man with ink-stained fingers stared at the dark stain on the stone. His heart hammered against his ribs, though his face remained a mask of hollow indifference. He was a Root—planted to weave ruin into the heart of the Old Palace.
Slowly, he raised his gaze past the screaming crowd, through the shadow of the archway, toward the shaded colonnade inside Sunspear.
There, standing quietly among the palace staff, was his brother. Having arrived hours before the ward was spun, he was already safely entrenched within the palace walls. Their eyes met across the fatal boundary for a fraction of a second.
His brother inside gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head before melting back into the cool shadows of the courtyard.
The message was clear: the sorcery was absolute. Pure intent could pass, but any covert malice would burn to cinder upon entry.
He pulled his hood lower over his eyes, turned his back on the chaotic crowd, and slipped away into the narrow, winding alleys of the Shadow City. They could not walk through the gates—not while the magic held. To breach Sunspear now, they would have to find a way to break the shield from the outside, even if it cost them their lives.
"Is this necessary?" Dareya asked, her gaze fixed on the shimmering shield enveloping Sunspear's towering spires like a tangible heat haze.
The Peacebringer, Princess Deria, stood rigid upon the high balcony, her dark eyes reflecting the ward's unnatural gleam.
"The wizard must have his reasons," she replied, though a shadow of doubt flickered across her weathered face.
Something felt deeply wrong—an unseen tension humming in the dry desert air—yet the wizard's presence at court offered a strange, unsettling reassurance. He was here, and so long as he wove his craft, Sunspear's walls remained absolute.
Deria turned her chin slightly toward her daughter.
"Where is the Targaryen princess?"
"She remains in her chambers," her daughter answered in a low, measured voice, smoothing the silk of her yellow gown against the rising sea breeze.
Princess Deria offered a slow, deliberate nod, her gaze drifting over the sprawling roofs of the Old Palace. A warm sea breeze carried the scent of salt from the Summer Sea, mingled with the fragrance of lemon blossoms from the gardens below.
A fragile quiet settled over the city, burdened by the blood spilled at the gates, yet the business of state would not be halted by an assassin's ashes.
"Then let us go down," Deria murmured, her voice calm and assured, tempered by decades of leadership and hard-won experience. "May this banquet bring peace and good fortune to Dorne."
In the quiet sanctuary of her guest chamber, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen stood near the open balcony, staring out at the harsh, sun-baked spires of Sunspear. Her red dragon, Meleys, the Red Queen—the pride of her youth and her constant companion—was gone from her side. The bond they had shared had been broken, leaving a cold, hollow ache in her chest that no grand title or hollow promise could ever heal.
Her soul burned with a bitter, simmering hatred for King Viserys. His weakness had sent her to Dorne to treat with the wizard over Prince Daemon's fate, and that choice had brought her to this scorched land, where she had lost the dragon that had defined her bloodline.
Her thoughts were abruptly shattered by the sound of hushed, hurried footsteps echoing down the stone corridor outside.
Instinct honed by years in the perilous court of King's Landing took over. Rhaenys stepped silently into the deep shadows behind the thick tapestry hanging along the stone wall, holding her breath.
"The shield needs to be broken," a coarse, muffled voice hissed from the hallway. "Inform the sisters and brothers. The moment the ward falls, we shed the blood of the ruling house."
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the retreat of soft, rustling footsteps fading down the corridor.
Rhaenys remained frozen against the cool stone, her pulse hammering in her throat. A dark, spiteful part of her tempted her to stay silent—to let the sands of Sunspear drink the blood of the Dornish court, to let the banquet descend into slaughter and betrayal.
Yet, the memory of the Wizard of Dorne flashed in her mind. She knew the absolute, terrifying extent of Lord Peverell's power; if bloodshed broke out and she was found complicit by silence, the wrath of the sorcerer would spare no one.
Gathering her silks, Rhaenys left her chambers and swept through the winding corridors of the Old Palace.
She then found Thaddues in a sunlit courtyard, surrounded by the fragrance of orange blossoms and pale sandstone walls. He was not weaving dark spells or pondering grand strategy; instead, he stood near an ancient, ornate fountain alongside his young disciple and the youngest Martell princess, watching over them as they cleared withered leaves from the basin.
"Are you certain a deity really lives in this fountain?" Mereya asked, casting a skeptical glance at Thaddues as she wiped her wet hands on her apron. "It looks like ordinary water to me."
"It is quite real," Thaddues replied, a faint, indulgent smile touching his lips.
The young girl scoffed, tossing a wet leaf aside.
"What if it is merely a ghost playing tricks?"
Before Thaddues could answer, Rhaenys stepped into the courtyard, the rustle of her skirts breaking the quiet chatter.
"Can I have a moment, Lord Peverell?"
Thaddues turned to face the Targaryen princess, his expression calm and attentive.
"Of course," he said smoothly.
He glanced back down at the two children playing by the water.
"You two stay here and keep cleaning. And remember—do not take off those necklaces."
The children nodded and returned to their task.
Thaddues walked over to where Rhaenys stood in the shade of the archway. His dark eyes searched her face.
"Have you reached a decision, Princess?"
Rhaenys let out a slow, heavy sigh, casting a cautious glance back toward the deserted hallway behind her.
"I heard something in the corridor just now," she murmured, her voice laced with grave solemnity. "There are rats creeping through these halls, Lord Peverell. They plan to break your shield and usurp the ruling house."
Thaddues' expression hardened, his features setting into a solemn mask. He studied her closely, measuring the weight of her words.
"And why tell me this, Princess? What made you decide to bring this treachery to my attention?"
"Meleys," Rhaenys answered plainly, the name of her lost dragon heavy on her tongue.
A small, knowing smile touched Thaddues' lips.
"What I told you before remains the truth," he said softly, turning his gaze back toward the two children laughing by the splash of the fountain. "The bond was broken, but it is not lost forever. You must mend it by taming her once more. It is the only way."
Hearing his words, Rhaenys felt a fresh wave of venom rise within her, cursing Viserys once more. Yet beneath the fury, a flicker of genuine hope stirred within her.
Thaddues stepped toward the center of the courtyard, pausing just before he left her side. He glanced back at Rhaenys, his gaze steady and unreadable.
"Your efforts here will not be forgotten, Princess," he said quietly. "When the banquet is over, you shall receive your reward."
With those words, he turned and walked away, leaving Rhaenys alone with her thoughts, her heart caught between lingering resentment and a hope she scarcely dared to embrace.
TBC
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