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The solar overlooking the Water Gardens had always been Aliandra's favorite room in the palace. From here, she could watch children play in the pools below. Today, however, the sight brought her no comfort. The setting sun cast long shadows across the orange groves, and she found herself wondering if this might be one of the last peaceful sunsets Dorne would see.
Prince Qoren Martell sat behind his desk of polished olivewood, his weathered hands folded before him as he studied his daughter with eyes that had seen too many wars. At fifty-three, her father bore the weight of ruling a kingdom that had never truly bowed, and Aliandra could see the toll it had taken in the lines around his dark eyes and the premature silver threading through his black hair.
"Father," she began, "I've made a decision about the Targaryen matter. I will meet with House Targaryen and Velaryon at Snake's Pass in one month's time, under a peace banner."
Qoren let out a harsh snort that echoed off the chamber's stone walls. "Peace banner," he muttered, leaning back in his chair. "Tell me, daughter, what exactly do you plan to discuss with them? Perhaps the weather? The quality of Dornish wine?"
He's going to fight me on this, Aliandra thought, steeling herself for the argument she'd been preparing for days. But I won't let pride destroy what's left of our family.
"I plan to discuss terms that might prevent Dorne from burning," she replied evenly. "Lykard murdered Laenor Velaryon with wildfire, along with his dragon. That act has consequences—"
"Consequences," Qoren interrupted, his voice rising. "You speak as if I don't understand what my son has done. Do you think I'm blind to the danger he's placed us in?" He stood abruptly, pacing to the window that overlooked the gardens. "I've never met Corlys Velaryon in my life, daughter, nor have I ever encountered Rhaenys Targaryen face to face. But I've read about them. I know their achievements, their temperament. The Sea Snake didn't build the greatest fleet in the known world by being merciful to those who wronged him."
Aliandra watched her father's reflection in the window glass, seeing the pain he tried to hide.
"They won't settle for words and gold," Qoren continued, his voice growing bitter. "They'll want to see Sunspear burning and our heads on spikes. And honestly, daughter, if our roles were reversed, if some Dornish lord had murdered one of your brothers, would you be content with a peace meeting?"
Aliandra knew the answer, had wrestled with it during countless sleepless nights. If someone killed Qyle or Lorella, I would throw them in the snake pits. I would want to hear them scream. But understanding their enemies' motivations was exactly why she had to try.
"Our situation is dire," she admitted, moving to stand beside her father at the window. "But we have something they want, Daeron Velaryon. Vaemond's son is alive and well in our custody."
Qoren glanced at her with something approaching amusement. "Ah, so that's why you insisted he have proper chambers rather than the cell we'd prepared. I wondered about that particular mercy." His expression darkened again. "But bringing them their nephew won't change anything, Aliandra. You could deliver a dozen Velaryon hostages, and it wouldn't balance the scales. Corlys will want blood for this, and Dorne has plenty of blood to give."
Always so pessimistic, Aliandra thought, though she couldn't entirely blame him. Years of ruling a kingdom surrounded by enemies had taught Qoren to expect the worst from every situation. But sometimes the worst doesn't have to happen if we're clever enough to prevent it.
"Why shouldn't we at least try?" she pressed. "What harm is there in attempting peace?"
Qoren turned from the window, his dark eyes serious. "Peace is a noble goal, daughter. But there are times when peace is impossible, when the wounds are too deep, the grievances too great. Some conflicts can only end in blood."
Aliandra felt her patience slipping, frustration building in her chest like steam in a kettle. "You speak as if we have no precedent for this. Did Dorne not kill Rhaenys Targaryen during Aegon's Conquest? The woman he loved, not Visenya, whom he married from duty, but Rhaenys, who held his heart?"
"That was different—"
"Was it?" she challenged. "Aegon the Conqueror had every reason to reduce Dorne to ash after Rhaenys died. He had Balerion, and Vhagar. He could have burned every castle, every town, every farm until nothing remained but sand and bones. Yet Nymor Martell found a way to make peace."
Qoren's expression grew thoughtful. "Prince Nymor had a letter, something that convinced Aegon to withdraw his forces and sue for peace. To this day, no one knows what was written in that parchment but his daughter who died decades ago, but it was powerful enough to stop a grieving king with dragons from seeking vengeance." He looked at his daughter with raised eyebrows. "Do you have such a letter lying around, Aliandra? Some secret that would make the Targaryens forget their thirst for justice?"
If only it were that simple, she thought, feeling the weight of what she was about to propose. But sometimes the most powerful weapons are the ones we forge from ourselves.
"I don't have a letter," she said quietly. "But I have something else to offer them. Something that might serve as a bridge between our houses and ensure lasting peace."
She watched her father's face as understanding dawned in his eyes. The color drained from his cheeks, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"No," he said flatly. "Absolutely not."
"Father—"
"You're mad if you think I'll sacrifice you to appease these dragons," Qoren snapped. "I won't offer my daughter like some tribute to King Viserys, watching him decide which of his supporters deserves a Dornish wife to warm his bed and bear his children and have all of us bow to the dragons."
"You think they would treat me like a prisoner," she said, keeping her voice calm despite the storm in her chest. "That whoever I marry would see me as a conquered enemy rather than a wife."
"Wouldn't they?" Qoren demanded. "You would be a symbol of Dorne's submission, a constant reminder of our defeat. Do you truly believe you'd be welcomed as an equal among those people?"
Perhaps not at first, Aliandra admitted to herself. But marriages can become partnerships if both sides are willing to try. And I've read enough history to know that sometimes the conquered can influence their conquerors as much as the reverse.
"Dorne fought dragons once before," Qoren continued, his voice rising with passion. "We can do it again. We have the desert, the mountains, the people's loyalty. Let them come with their fire, we'll bleed them until they're forced to retreat."
"And how many will die in that bleeding?" Aliandra shot back, her own composure finally cracking. "How many smallfolk will burn when Prince Aenar rides Cannibal through our villages? How many children will starve when their parents are ash?"
She moved away from the window, pacing across the solar as memories flooded back, not her own, but stories passed down through generations of Martells.
"Do you remember what Princess Meria said during the Conquest?" she demanded. "Our great-great-grandmother, the Yellow Toad of Dorne? Her famous words when Aegon demanded submission?"
Qoren's jaw tightened. "That was different—"
"'I would rather see all my people die than bow to these invaders,'" Aliandra quoted, her voice taking on the cadence of a maester reciting history. "And what happened, Father? She got her wish. Thousands died. Farms burned. Towns were abandoned. Children starved in the ruins of their homes while she sat in Snake's Eye Cave, proud that her people had never knelt."
Aliandra saw her father flinch, saw the way his shoulders sagged as the weight of her argument hit home.
"Pride," she continued, her voice softer now but no less intense. "It's always been our greatest strength and our deadliest weakness. We're so afraid of appearing weak that we choose death over dishonor, ash over compromise."
She thought of Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt, and how different his story had been. "Do you know what happened to the North when Torrhen Stark bent the knee? They kept their lands, their customs, their identity. House Stark still rules from Winterfell. Their people live, their children grow strong, their heritage continues." She met her father's eyes. "What would have happened if Torrhen had chosen pride over pragmatism?"
"The other lords will never agree to this," Qoren said. "They'll see it as surrender, as betrayal of everything Dorne has stood for."
"Then we convince them," Aliandra replied. "We show them that sometimes the greatest victory is knowing when to stop fighting." She moved closer to her father, noting the conflict in his dark eyes. "I don't want to be a sacrifice, Father. But I also don't want to watch Qyle and Lorella burn because we were too proud to find another way."
The mention of her younger siblings hit its mark. Qoren's face crumpled slightly, the facade of the stern prince cracking to reveal the worried father beneath.
"Qyle is only thirteen," he whispered. "Lorella eight. They've done nothing wrong, they don't deserve to pay for Lykard's madness."
"No, they don't," Aliandra agreed, feeling tears prick at her eyes. "And if we're smart, if we're willing to swallow our pride just once, they won't have to. We can make this work, Father. We can save our people and our family."
She thought of the reports that had reached Sunspear, descriptions of Prince Aenar's dragon, Cannibal, and the wildfire that poured from its throat. The beast was rumored to be larger than Balerion had been, more savage, more destructive. Some claimed its flames burned hotter than normal dragonfire, hot enough to melt castle walls like candle wax.
"Fighting five dragons is suicide," she said quietly. "Especially when one of them is Cannibal and the other is Vhagar. Even here in Dorne, we've heard the stories. They say his wildfire can burn through anything, that he's more beast than dragon. How do we fight something like that?"
Qoren was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the Water Gardens where children still played in blissful ignorance of the storm approaching their homeland. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with the weight of impossible choices.
"Even if we delivered Lykard to them in chains," he said slowly, "there's no guarantee they would be satisfied. Grief and rage don't always listen to reason."
Aliandra nodded, her heart breaking for the pain in her father's voice. She knew he loved Lykard despite everything, loved the boy he had been before whatever darkness had claimed him in Asshai. But love alone couldn't protect Dorne from the consequences of Lykard's actions.
"I know," she said softly. "Which is why I have another plan, if this diplomatic approach fails."
Qoren looked at her sharply, something like fear flickering in his eyes. "What other plan?"
Aenar Targaryen
The darkness behind Aenar's eyelids shimmered like heat waves over desert sand, and suddenly he was no longer in the Red Keep. He stood in a place that felt more real than memory, more vivid than any dream had a right to be. The Iron Throne loomed before him.
But this wasn't the throne room he knew. The walls bore different banners—dragon and direwolf flying side by side, and below them, the sun and spear of House Martell.
"We did it," came a voice beside him, soft and wondering.
He turned to see Daenerys as she had been in life—not the broken woman of his final memories, but the queen in her glory. Her silver-gold hair was braided with small bells that chimed softly as she moved, and her violet eyes held the fire of dragons. She wore a gown of deep blue silk embroidered with silver dragons, and her hand rested protectively over her still-flat stomach.
"We actually did it, Jon," she continued, using the name that had been his first, his truest. "King's Landing is ours. The Iron Throne is ours."
To his other side stood Rhaenys, not The Queen Who Never Was, but Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Rhaegar and Elia. She was beautiful in the way that Dornish women could be, with olive skin kissed by the sun and dark hair. Her purple eyes, the mark of Old Valyria, sparkled with quiet satisfaction as she gazed up at the throne.
"Our Father would be proud Aenar," she said simply.
Jon felt the weight of kingship settling on his shoulders like a familiar cloak. He had been Jon Snow the bastard, then Aenar Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Three heads of the dragon," Daenerys whispered, reaching for his hand. Her fingers were warm, real, alive. "Just as the prophecies foretold."
"The realm is whole again," Rhaenys added, taking his other hand. "No more pretenders, no more war. Just... peace."
The scene shimmered, and suddenly Jon found himself in the Tower of the Hand, standing behind a massive oak desk while across from him, Oberyn Martell paced like a caged viper. The Red Viper wore his usual yellow robes.
"This is madness, Your Grace," Oberyn snarled, his Dornish accent thick with emotion. "Rhaenys is Rhaegar's daughter, Elia's daughter. Her blood is as royal as any Targaryen's. Why should she be passed over for succession?"
Jon felt the weight of the crown on his head, heavier than before. "Because Daenerys's child will be firstborn," he replied, his voice steady despite the tension crackling in the room. "The laws of succession are clear—"
"Laws written by Andals and Northmen," Oberyn interrupted, his hand moving instinctively to where his spear would normally rest. "Dorne has always followed different customs. The eldest inherits, regardless of gender. Rhaenys has as much claim—"
"Enough." The voice cut through their argument like a blade through silk. Both men turned to see Rhaenys entering the chamber. She wore a gown of deep orange silk that complemented her coloring perfectly, and her dark hair was pulled back in an elaborate Dornish style.
"Uncle," she said gently, moving to place a calming hand on Oberyn's arm. "Your loyalty to my memory honors me, but Aenar speaks truly. I accept this decision."
Oberyn stared at his niece as if she'd struck him. "Rhaenys, you cannot simply—"
"I can and I do," she replied firmly. "Our marriage was born of love, not political necessity. Aenar, Daenerys, and I chose each other freely. I will not let that choice be poisoned by questions of succession and inheritance." She smiled softly. "Besides, do you truly believe Daenerys's children will be raised to forget their Dornish aunt? That I will have no voice in their upbringing, no influence over the realm's future?"
"Your mother would have wanted—"
"My mother would have wanted me to be happy," Rhaenys said firmly. "And I am, Uncle. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I truly am."
The scene shifted again, flowing like water into another memory. Now Jon stood in a smaller chamber, this one clearly belonging to someone with Dornish sensibilities.
Arianne Martell sat across from him, her beauty as striking as ever but tempered now by the responsibilities of ruling. As Princess of Dorne, she had grown into her role admirably, though Jon could see the cost it had taken in the lines around her dark eyes.
"You're removing him from the Small Council," she said, and it wasn't a question. Her voice carried disappointment but not surprise.
"I have to," Jon replied, feeling the weight of the decision. "Oberyn's behavior has become... problematic. His opposition to the succession, his constant challenges to Daenerys's authority—it's undermining the stability we've worked so hard to build."
Arianne nodded slowly, her fingers tracing patterns on the polished wood of her chair's arm. "Uncle will not be pleased," she said quietly. "But I understand your position. I'll speak with him, try to make him see reason."
"I don't want to lose his counsel entirely," Jon said earnestly. "His knowledge, his experience—they're valuable. But as Master of Coin, he has too much influence, too many opportunities to sow discord."
"I know," Arianne sighed, and for a moment her carefully maintained composure slipped. "Father's death hit him harder than any of us expected. My father was always the tempering voice, the one who could calm Uncle's more... volatile impulses." She looked up at Jon with sad eyes. "Without that anchor, I fear he's becoming someone I barely recognize."
"I'm sorry," Jon said, and he meant it. "I know how much family means to you."
"Family," Arianne repeated softly. "Yes, it means everything. Which is why I'll do whatever is necessary to protect what remains of mine."
The dream-memory flowed again, and Jon found himself in a much happier scene. Daenerys sat in a cushioned chair in their private chambers, her hands resting on her growing belly. She was perhaps six months along, her pregnancy evident but not yet uncomfortable. Her face glowed with that particular radiance that seemed to touch all expectant mothers.
Arianne knelt beside the chair, an ornate wooden box open on the floor between them. Inside, Jon could see an array of gifts—silk scarves in brilliant colors, jewelry wrought with intricate Dornish designs, bottles of various oils and perfumes.
"For the little dragon," Arianne said warmly, lifting a tiny gown of soft yellow silk. "Though I suppose we should say 'little dragons,' given your family's tendency toward twins."
Daenerys laughed, the sound like silver bells in the wind. "One will be quite enough for now, thank you. Though Jon insists it will be a girl."
"Father's intuition?" Arianne teased, glancing at Jon where he stood near the window.
"Something like that," Jon replied, though in truth he couldn't say why he was so certain. Perhaps it was the dreams, the visions that sometimes came to him in the deep of night. Or perhaps it was simply hope, the dream of a daughter who would grow up free and loved, surrounded by family who would protect her.
Arianne reached into the box again and withdrew a bottle of deep red wine, its glass so dark it was almost black. "And this," she said with a mischievous smile, "is from my personal collection. The finest vintage Dorne has ever produced. Though you'll have to wait a few more months before you can properly appreciate it."
Daenerys reached for the bottle, examining the elegant script on its label. "It's beautiful. What's the occasion?"
"Must there be an occasion for celebrating new life?" Arianne replied. "Besides, I wanted to ensure you had something special waiting for after the birth. Something to toast your daughter's health and happiness."
"Or son," Daenerys added automatically.
"Or son," Arianne agreed with a grin. "Though I think your husband may be right about this one being a girl."
The memory began to fade at the edges, but not before Jon caught the way Daenerys's fingers traced the bottle's neck.
The final scene crystallized with horrifying clarity. Jon walked into their bedchamber to find Daenerys sitting on the edge of their bed, one hand pressed to her temple while the other held a wine cup. The bottle Arianne had given her sat open on the nearby table, and Jon's blood turned to ice as he saw the small amount missing from its contents.
"Dany, what are you doing?" he demanded, crossing the room in three quick strides.
She looked up at him with tired violet eyes, her face pale and drawn. "I have such a headache," she said softly. "It's been pounding all day, and I thought... I thought just a small sip might help ease the pain."
"You're pregnant," Jon said, his voice tight with sudden fear. "You can't—"
"It's barely anything," Daenerys protested, though she set the cup aside at his obvious distress. "Surely a few drops won't hurt—"
But Jon was already reaching for the cup, already seeing the way her hand trembled slightly as she released it.
"How much?" he asked urgently. "How much did you drink?"
"Jon, you're frightening me," Daenerys said, her free hand moving protectively to her belly. "What's wrong? It's just wine—"
The dream shattered like glass striking stone, and Jon/Aenar jerked awake with a gasp that tore from his throat like a physical wound. His heart hammered against his ribs, and cold sweat soaked through his sleeping clothes.
For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was, when he was. The dream had been so vivid, so real, that part of him still expected to see Daenerys beside him, still expected to hear her voice asking what was wrong.
His head throbbed with a dull ache that seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat, and his mouth felt as dry as the Dornish desert. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was or what had happened. The familiar stone walls of his chambers in the Red Keep gradually came into focus, along with the late afternoon light filtering through the tall windows.
"About time," came a familiar voice from his left. "I was beginning to wonder if you planned to sleep through tonight's feast."
Aenar turned his head carefully, as the movement sent another spike of pain through his skull, to see Daemon lounging in a chair beside the bed. His father had clearly made himself comfortable during his vigil; a half-empty wine cup sat on the side table, and Daemon's usually immaculate appearance was slightly rumpled, as if he'd been sitting there for some time.
"What happened?" Aenar asked, his voice coming out as more of a croak. He pushed himself up against the pillows, ignoring the way the room seemed to spin slightly around the edges.
Daemon's eyebrows rose in mock surprise. "I was about to ask you the same thing. One moment you were reading Princess Aliandra's letter like any other piece of correspondence, and the next you were dropping like a stone. Quite dramatic, really. I had no idea diplomatic communications had become so physically taxing."
The memory crashed back with the force of a wave against rocks. The letter. The peace negotiations. And at the end, those impossible words that had felt like a dagger to his heart: "Aenar, Dany. Once this war is over. I want us to build a House with a Red Door and Lemon Tree Outside."
Aenar's hand moved instinctively to his chest, where beneath his shirt lay the silver direwolf necklace, the one tangible link to his mother and, through her, to his true past. How could anyone know about the red door? How could words from conversations that had happened in another life, another world, find their way into a Dornish princess's letter?
"The letter," he said slowly, buying himself time to think. "There was something... unexpected in it."
"So I gathered," Daemon replied dryly. "Care to enlighten me about what exactly was so shocking that it caused you to collapse like a maiden at her first tourney?"
Aenar could hear the concern beneath his father's casual tone, could see it in the way Daemon's purple eyes studied his face for signs of distress. But how could he possibly explain? How could he tell his father that someone, somehow, knew about conversations he'd had with Daenerys Targaryen in a life that had never been, in a world that existed only in his memories?
"I..." Aenar began, then stopped. His mind raced through possible explanations, each one more inadequate than the last. "I think I was more tired from the journey than I realized. The stress of the return, the political situation with Dorne. It all caught up with me at once."
Daemon's expression didn't change. "Exhaustion," he repeated slowly. "From reading a letter."
"It's been a long few days," Aenar said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing, perhaps a bit too quickly, as another wave of dizziness washed over him. "The sea voyage, the audiences, the Small Council meeting. I should probably rest before tonight's festivities."
"Should you?" Daemon asked, and there was something pointed in his tone now. "Because from where I'm sitting, it seemed less like exhaustion and more like you'd seen a ghost."
The words hit closer to home than Aenar was comfortable with. In a way, that's exactly what had happened, he had seen ghosts, heard voices from a past that shouldn't exist, been confronted with evidence that his deepest secrets might not be as secret as he'd believed.
"I'm fine, Father," he said, moving toward the washbasin to splash cold water on his face. The shock of it helped clear his head slightly, though it did nothing to ease the growing knot of anxiety in his stomach. "Just a momentary weakness. It won't happen again."
"Won't it?" Daemon stood as well. "Tell me, son, what did those words at the end of the letter mean? The part about the red door and lemon tree?"
Aenar's hands stilled on the cloth he'd been using to dry his face. In the reflection of the water basin, he could see Daemon watching him like a hawk.
"I don't know," he lied, hating how the words tasted on his tongue. "Some Dornish custom, perhaps? Or maybe Princess Aliandra is... eccentric in her diplomatic correspondence."
"Eccentric," Daemon mused. "That's one word for it. Though I find it curious that such an eccentric message would affect you so strongly."
Aenar turned away from the basin, forcing his expression into what he hoped was casual indifference. "I told you, it was exhaustion—"
"And I told you I don't believe that," Daemon interrupted, his voice sharpening. "I've seen you fight battles, conquer cities, burn men alive without so much as blinking. Yet a few words in a letter have you collapsing like you've been struck by lightning?"
Daemon had always been perceptive, it was one of the qualities that made him both a formidable ally and a dangerous enemy. But right now, that perceptiveness felt like a trap closing around him.
"Some mysteries don't have simple explanations," Aenar said, moving toward the chamber door. "Perhaps we should focus on more immediate concerns. The feast tonight, the situation with Dorne, the—"
"Running away?" Daemon's voice cut across the room like a blade. "That's unlike you, son. Usually you face problems head-on, with fire and blood if necessary. This sudden desire to avoid uncomfortable questions is... illuminating."
Aenar's hand was on the door handle now, his escape route clear. All he had to do was walk through it, claim he needed to prepare for the evening's festivities, and this conversation would be over. At least for now.
But something in his father's tone made him pause. There was more than suspicion there, there was hurt. Daemon felt shut out, excluded from whatever was troubling his son, and that knowledge cut deeper than Aenar had expected.
"There are things," he said slowly, not turning around, "that are difficult to explain. Things that might not make sense, even to family."
"Try me," Daemon said quietly. "I've seen enough strangeness in my life to be quite open-minded about explanations."
For a moment, Aenar was tempted. The weight of carrying his secrets alone had grown heavier with each passing day, and the thought of sharing that burden, even partially, was almost overwhelming in its appeal. But how could he begin to explain reincarnation, past lives, memories that belonged to someone else? How could he tell his father that he wasn't really Aenar Targaryen at all, but Jon Snow wearing his son's face? How could he explain that he wasn't really his son at all? Aenar knew that Daemon was never supposed to marry a Lyanna Stark and have a child with her; his first wife was supposed to be Rhae Royce, not Lyanna Stark, a woman that didn't even exist in the history books as far as Aenar had read during the Dance of Dragons.
"Some things are better left buried," he said finally, his hand tightening on the door handle.
"Are they?" Daemon's voice was closer now, and Aenar realized his father had moved across the room without him hearing. "Because in my experience, buried things have a tendency to claw their way back to the surface at the most inconvenient times."
Aenar finally turned to face his father, and was struck by the genuine concern he saw there. Daemon's usual mask of casual arrogance had slipped, revealing something more vulnerable underneath.
"Father—"
"I worry about you," Daemon said simply. "These past months, you've changed. Grown harder, colder. More willing to burn first and ask questions later. And now this...collapsing at the mere mention of some cryptic words that apparently mean more to you than you're willing to admit."
Aenar could feel the distance that had grown between him and those he cared about, could see how his increasing ruthlessness had affected his relationships. But he couldn't explain it.
"I'm trying to protect our family," he said instead. "To ensure House Targaryen's strength and security. Sometimes that requires difficult choices."
"Does it require lying to me?" Daemon asked bluntly. "Because that's what you're doing, son. Looking me in the eye and lying about something that clearly matters a great deal to you."
Aenar felt cornered, trapped between his need for secrecy and his love for his father. Every instinct screamed at him to deflect, to change the subject, to find some way out of this conversation before it went too far.
He took a step toward the door. "I should prepare for tonight—"
"Who is Arya?"
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