The Water Gardens were a miracle of marble and moisture in a land of dust.
As Rhaegar landed the Silver Emperor on the pristine white sand of the beach, he could smell the scent of blood oranges and lemons drifting on the salty breeze. The only sound was the laughter of children splashing in the pools—highborn and lowborn alike, playing together under the watchful eye of the Ruling Princess.
Peace, Rhaegar thought, dismounting. It smells like citrus.
He sensed the dragons' restlessness. The gardens were too enclosed, too fragile for three growing beasts.
Go, he commanded silently through the bond. Hunt.
With a rush of wings, the Silver Emperor, Balerion, and Belaerys took to the sky, banking toward the open sea. Rhaegar watched them go, feeling a pang of envy for their freedom.
He turned to the palace.
Descending from the terraced balconies was the Ruling Princess of Dorne, flanked by her children and the nobility of Sunspear. They wore the colors of their house—orange, red, and gold—bright as the desert sun.
The Princess was a woman of commanding presence, though age and illness were beginning to touch her. Beside her stood her brood.
Doran Martell, the heir. Born in 248 AC, he was a man of few words and deep thoughts. He leaned heavily on a cane, his face etched with a premature melancholy. He looked at Rhaegar with calculating eyes.
Elia Martell, the flower. Born in 257 AC, she was delicate, with large, dark eyes and a gentle smile. She had been born premature and never fully recovered her strength, but there was a quiet grace about her that commanded respect.
And Oberyn Martell, the Viper. Born in 258 AC, he was lean and dangerous, moving with the coiled tension of a snake about to strike. His eyes were black and burning with an intensity that unsettled most men.
"Welcome to Dorne, Prince Rhaegar," the Ruling Princess said, her voice warm but regal. "You have grown since I last saw you. Your mother writes of you often."
"Princess," Rhaegar bowed, kissing her hand. "The hospitality of House Martell is legendary. It is an honor to finally see the Water Gardens."
"My children," the Princess said, gesturing.
Doran nodded stiffly. "Prince Rhaegar."
Elia curtsied, a blush coloring her cheeks. "It is a pleasure, my Prince. We heard of your victory in the Stepstones. They say you are a warrior born."
"War is a necessity, Lady Elia," Rhaegar replied gently. "Not a joy."
He looked at her. She was kind, he could tell. And she had the blood of the dragon through the first Daenerys. But she was frail. Too frail for the trials ahead, he thought pragmatically. I cannot save everyone.
Then Oberyn stepped forward. He didn't bow. He stared.
"They say you are fast," Oberyn said, his voice sharp. "For a northerner."
"Oberyn!" his mother scolded.
Rhaegar smiled. "I am fast enough."
"We shall see," Oberyn murmured, a challenge in his eyes.
The welcome feast was held in the cool shade of the colonnades. The tables groaned under the weight of Dornish delicacies: peppers stuffed with cheese, lamprey pie, honeyed chicken, and roast kid.
And snake.
"Roasted viper," Oberyn said, offering a plate to Rhaegar with a smirk. "With a sauce of dragon peppers and mustard seeds. It bites back."
Rhaegar took a piece and ate it without flinching. It was spicy, the heat blooming in his mouth like a small fire.
"Delicious," Rhaegar said, taking a sip of Summerwine. "Though a bit... chewy."
The courtiers laughed. Oberyn's smirk widened into a genuine grin.
"My lords!" Oberyn stood up, holding a blunted tourney sword. "The feast is fine, but the blood grows sluggish. Prince Rhaegar, would you do me the honor of a dance?"
"Oberyn, sit down," Doran sighed. "This is a state visit, not a fighting pit."
"I accept," Rhaegar said, rising. He removed his outer robe, revealing the black tunic beneath.
The crowd cleared a circle on the pink marble tiles.
Oberyn moved like water, his blade darting in and out, testing Rhaegar's defenses. He was fast—incredibly fast. He fought with a style Rhaegar hadn't seen before, fluid and deceptive.
But Rhaegar was a dragon.
He parried Oberyn's thrusts with efficient, brutal grace. He didn't dance; he dominated. He used his superior reach and strength to force Oberyn back, controlling the center of the circle.
Oberyn tried a feint, spinning low to strike at Rhaegar's leg.
Rhaegar anticipated it. He sidestepped, caught Oberyn's blade with his own, and twisted. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the Dornish prince's sword clattering across the floor.
Before Oberyn could recover, Rhaegar's blade was at his throat.
"Yield?" Rhaegar asked softly.
Oberyn breathed hard, sweat glistening on his forehead. He looked at the blade, then up at Rhaegar. For a moment, there was anger. Then, respect.
"If I had a spear," Oberyn panted, "it might have been different."
"Perhaps," Rhaegar agreed, lowering his sword. "Next time."
The applause was polite but enthusiastic.
"Well fought," the Ruling Princess said, though her eyes were sharp. She knew what this meant. Her son, the best blade in Sunspear, had been bested by the Dragon Prince without breaking a sweat.
As the feast continued, Rhaegar found himself watching the fountains.
The Martells were Rhoynar. They came from the great river Rhoyne, where water wizards once sang to the turtles and raised walls of water to drown Valyrian dragons.
Nymeria burned her ships, Rhaegar thought. But did she burn the magic, too? Or is it hidden, like water in the desert?
He looked at the servants, at the dark-skinned orphans serving wine.
The Orphans of the Greenblood, he remembered. They still follow the old ways. If the magic exists, they will know.
He turned to Elia, who was watching him with wide, admiring eyes.
"Lady Elia," Rhaegar asked. " tell me about the river."
The game of thrones was played with swords and marriages. But Rhaegar was playing a different game. And he needed all the pieces.
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