The Dornish sun hung high over Sunspear when the crimson and black banners of House Targaryen flapped in the dry wind. The procession of the Hand moved like a shadow across the copper sands, small and purposeful—no more than a dozen riders, armored in gleaming plate and ringed in the royal hues. At their head rode Lord Brynden Rivers, his pale hair bound back, his long black cloak trailing behind him. Over his left eye, the patch remained, stark as a black sigil over bone-white skin. The red eye that remained was ever watchful.
Beside him rode Ser Donnel of Duskendale, sworn sword of the Kingsguard, white cloak streaming. The others followed in silence, a storm of hoofbeats echoing through the canyons of Sunspear's walls.
At the gates, they were received with formal grace by Prince Maron Martell.
The years had lined the Dornish Prince's face, but the same cautious warmth played in his voice. He wore a robe of burnt gold and rust-red silk, his thin frame adorned by a sash of suns and spears.
"Lord Hand," Prince Maron greeted with a courteous bow. "Sunspear welcomes the Dragon's eye."
Brynden bowed in return. "My Prince. The realm endures."
"And Dorne endures with it," Prince Maron replied smoothly. "Come, let us speak under shade."
They were led through Sunspear's winding towers into a tiled solar chamber where vines curled over carved stone, and cool breezes drifted from the shaded balconies. Servants brought forth platters of spiced lamb, olives, stewed dates, and the sweet wines of Vaith. Brynden partook only lightly.
They spoke of the realm: of the Great Spring Sickness and the harvests it had blighted, of the new king's bookish rule, of pirates troubling the Stepstones and merchant lords growing restless in Oldtown. Maron was cordial, as always, but in his eyes lay the ever-calculating mind of a prince who had once married for peace and watched his wife carry the banner of another crown.
Then, after a lull, Brynden set down his goblet.
"I would see your wife," he said, voice even.
Prince Maron gave a faint nod, as though he had expected this. He took a long sip of wine before replying.
"She walks the gardens most afternoons… She finds peace in the laughter of children. You may go to her."
A pause. A glance between two men who once stood on opposite shores of loyalty.
"But," Maron added softly, "I cannot promise how she will receive you, Lord Brynden. Time dulls many wounds… but not all."
Brynden rose without comment and inclined his head. "My thanks, My Prince"
Scene: The Water Gardens
The Water Gardens shimmered beneath the sun, a mosaic of tranquil pools and laughter. Children of noble birth played among the fountains—Martells and Daynes, Tolands and Yronwoods—all welcome within its shaded cloisters. The perfume of lemon trees mingled with the crisp scent of salt air, drifting in from the sea beyond.
Brynden found her where he knew he would.
Princess Daenerys Martell, once Targaryen of Dragonstone, sat upon a marble bench beneath an awning of silk, watching the children with a quiet smile. Her hair, silver-gold and thick as ever, was braided in the Dornish fashion, adorned with tiny sapphires. Though decades had passed since she left King's Landing, her beauty had not faded—merely deepened, sharpened by the sands and winds of Dorne.
She turned as if sensing him before he spoke.
Her eyes, the color of pale lilacs, rested on him.
And her smile vanished.
"Brynden," she said, voice low, careful, and without warmth.
The children continued their play, oblivious. Water splashed, laughter danced in the air—but between brother and sister, a long silence stood.
The Hand of the King bowed deeply.
"Princess," he said.
Her gaze flicked to the eyepatch, then back to the lone red eye.
"You've come far," she said.
"The realm calls," Brynden replied, standing straight as a spear. "And the blood."
She turned away from him then, back to the children.
"And what would the blood say to me now, after all these years?"
Brynden's face did not shift. His eye never left her face.
"What it has always said," he answered. "That the realm must be preserved."
At that, she stood slowly, her silk robes falling around her like petals.
The sound of children laughing in the pools filled the silence between them. Neither moved. Neither reached for the other. They stood side by side, watching the splashes of joy beneath the lemon trees and the golden sky—Daenerys with her lilac eyes hardened by loss, Brynden with his single red eye unreadable.
No more words passed between them.
Not yet.