The flight from Bloodstone to Sunspear was short, a mere hop over the Broken Arm of Dorne. From the air, the connection between the Stepstones and the mainland was obvious—a shattered bridge of land that had once bound Westeros to Essos before the Children of the Forest broke it.
Rhaegar rode the Silver Emperor, with Balerion and Belaerys flanking him. Below, the sea turned from the grey-green of the Narrow Sea to the brilliant turquoise of the Summer Sea.
He looked down at the coastline. It was a harsh, unforgiving land. Where the Reach was a lush tapestry of fields and orchards, Dorne was a skeletal hand of red rock and yellow sand. The eastern coast was scrubland, dry and parched. Further inland, the deep desert began.
Meraxes died here, Rhaegar thought. My ancestor Rhaenys and her silver dragon, brought down by a Scorpion bolt through the eye at Hellholt.
It was a land that had resisted the Dragon for centuries. The Targaryens had lost queens, dragons, and kings to the Dornish sands. Daeron I, the Young Dragon, had conquered it with forty thousand men, only to lose it—and his life—in a rebellion.
Even the peace brought by Daeron II, who married Myriah Martell, had come at a cost. The special privileges granted to Dorne—keeping their royal titles, their laws, their customs—had angered the lords of the Reach and the Stormlands, fueling the Blackfyre Rebellions.
Blood and sand, Rhaegar mused. We are bound to them by marriage, yet divided by history.
He thought of his great-grandfather, Aegon V, and his dream of a unified realm bound by marriages to the great houses. A dream shattered by his children's hearts. Duncan the Small had spurned a Baratheon for a commoner. Jaehaerys had spurned a Tully for his sister. Shaera had spurned a Tyrell.
I will not make those mistakes, Rhaegar vowed. I will forge the realm with steel and fire, not just parchment.
The dragons roared as they crossed the coastline. The sound echoed off the red cliffs, a sound not heard in Dorne for a hundred years.
Ahead, Sunspear rose from the sea on a crooked spit of land.
It was a strange, beautiful city, utterly unlike King's Landing or Oldtown. The Winding Walls snaked around the Shadow City, a labyrinth of mud-brick houses and bazaars that clung to the castle like barnacles.
Dominating the skyline were the Three Towers.
The Spear Tower, slender and deadly, rose one hundred and fifty feet into the air, topped with a thirty-foot spear of gilded steel. It was the prison of the castle, and a symbol of Martell strength.
The Tower of the Sun, with its dome of gold and leaded glass, burned like a second sun in the harsh light. Beneath it lay the throne room, where two seats stood on a dais—one for the Martell Prince, one for the Rhoynar Princess.
And the Sandship, the ancient, dun-colored hulk that looked like a massive galley turned to stone, the original stronghold of House Martell before Nymeria's arrival.
Rhaegar felt a flicker of curiosity. The Rhoynar brought water magic with them across the sea. Is there any left? Or did it dry up in the desert like everything else?
The smallfolk in the Shadow City looked up, pointing and shouting. To them, a silver dragon in the sky must look like a ghost. The Ghost of Meraxes, returned to haunt them.
But Rhaegar did not land at Sunspear. The heat of the city was oppressive, a physical weight.
Instead, he banked the Silver Emperor west, following the coast road toward the oasis of serenity that lay three leagues away.
The Water Gardens.
A place of fountains and marble, built by Prince Maron Martell for his Targaryen bride, Daenerys. A place where the children of lords and smallfolk played together in the pools, oblivious to the games of thrones.
A place of peace, Rhaegar thought as the green gardens came into view. Let us see if it lasts.
He signaled the descent. The Silver Emperor folded his wings and dropped toward the shimmering pools, the wind of his passage sending ripples across the water.
The Ruling Princess of Dorne was waiting.