The sun judged sinners and fools alike.
Kael Varyn crouched low on the dune, heart slamming against his ribs like a war drum. His bare chest was streaked with sweat and yesterday's blood from a tavern brawl he barely remembered. The Valyrian steel sword — stolen from a Lannister corpse outside Yronwood — felt foreign in his calloused hands. He wasn't a hero. He was a bastard who had survived by being useful to the wrong people and disappearing when they no longer needed him.
He should have been in a brothel. Instead, he was here because of dreams that felt like memories that weren't his.
The ground convulsed.
Sand exploded upward in a choking cloud. When it settled, the dragon egg lay half-buried like a wound in the earth — massive, black as night, cracked along one side with faint red veins that glowed dully, almost reluctantly.
Kael's mouth went dry. Part of him wanted to run. The louder part whispered that this could be the only thing that would ever make him matter.
Shouts rose from the caravan below.
Lady Ysira Uller emerged first, silk robes clinging to her curves from the heat. Her expression was one of controlled irritation, but Kael caught the flash of raw hunger in her green eyes when she saw the egg. House Uller had been weakened since the last Dornish rebellion. This egg wasn't just treasure to her — it was a path back to relevance… perhaps even a throne behind the Martells.
Behind her came Sylva, copper-red hair wild, bow already half-drawn. She was no noble. A former street thief Ysira had "rescued" three years ago. Her loyalty was real, but so was her terror of returning to nothing if her lady fell.
And then Mira Sand stepped out — silver-white hair, grey eyes flat as steel. Prince Qoren Martell's most trusted spy. Kael had heard rumors she reported directly to him… and sometimes to higher powers in King's Landing who still feared Dornish fire.
All three women looked at him like he was a problem that had just become interesting.
Kael half-slid, half-fell down the dune, landing awkwardly and cutting his palm on a sharp rock. He cursed under his breath.
"That egg," he said, voice rougher than he intended, "it's mine."
Ysira tilted her head, studying him with the cold calculation of someone who had poisoned relatives for smaller advantages. "Yours by what right? Because you bled on it?"
Sylva's arrow pointed at his chest. "He has the eyes. Targaryen bastard. We kill him now and deliver the egg to Prince Qoren. That would buy us favor."
Kael forced a crooked, nervous grin. "Favor? You think Martell will share power with you? Or will he just take the egg and thank you with a polite knife in the back?"
A flicker of doubt crossed Sylva's face. Good. Seeds planted.
Mira remained silent, but Kael noticed how her fingers brushed the hidden compartment in her sleeve. She wasn't here for Ysira. She had her own orders — probably to secure the egg for Dorne's long game against the fragile Iron Throne under Bran Stark.
The egg pulsed once. Soft. Almost questioning.
All four of them felt it — a faint warmth in the blood, like a finger tracing the spine. Ysira's breath caught for half a second. Sylva shifted. Mira's mask slipped just enough for Kael to see a flash of unease… and something dangerously close to fascination.
Kael swallowed. For the briefest moment, his eyes met Ysira's. Not lust. Just the uncomfortable recognition that she was beautiful in the way a dagger is beautiful — deadly and precise. She looked away first.
From the north, hooves thundered.
Black and gold banners rose. Not the royal Baratheon army. These were Ser Gwayne Baratheon's men — a younger cousin of the late King Robert, ambitious, cruel, and deeply in debt. Gwayne had spent the last two years selling his sword to anyone who could pay, while quietly claiming he deserved Storm's End. If he brought back a dragon egg, he could buy legitimacy… or burn his rivals.
Ser Gwayne himself rode at the front — broad-shouldered, red-faced from drink even at midday, with a smile that promised pain.
"Kill the Dornish whore and her pets!" he bellowed. "The egg belongs to the Stormlands!"
Kael's stomach dropped. He wasn't ready. None of them were.
Ysira's voice stayed calm, but Kael heard the political mind working behind it. "If we fight together now, bastard, it doesn't mean I trust you. It means we both need to live long enough to betray each other later."
"Fair enough," Kael muttered. His hand was still shaking on the sword hilt. He hated how obvious his fear was.
Sylva lowered her bow slightly, but her eyes stayed on him — wary, angry, and just a little curious about the man who bled violet.
Mira moved closer to Kael, close enough that her sleeve brushed his arm. "Don't die too quickly," she whispered. "I have questions about your blood… and what else it might be hiding."
The first Baratheon riders charged down the dune.
Steel sang. Arrows flew.
And beneath their feet, the dragon egg pulsed again — slower, quieter, as if it were listening to every hidden motive, every budding betrayal, every fragile human flaw.
Curious.
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