Back in Sunspear...
Doran watched everything carefully from the head of the table, the servants' stares, Rhaego's restrained reactions, and the way Arianne's eyes kept drifting toward their guest.
His expression remained calm, but his fingers slowly turned the stem of his wine goblet, a clear sign he was observing and calculating.
Before the silence could stretch too long, Trystane leaned forward, unable to hold back.
"I thought a dragon's horns would be bigger," Trystane blurted out, then immediately looked embarrassed.
"I mean… in the stories they're always huge and terrifying. Yours are… smaller. Kind of elegant, actually."
Quentyn shot his younger brother a warning look, but even he couldn't completely hide his own curiosity.
His gaze kept drifting to the faint scales along Rhaego's collarbone and the hard ridges from his chest beneath the white silk.
Arianne watched her brothers with clear amusement, one eyebrow slightly raised, saying nothing yet.
Rhaego let out a soft breath that might have been the start of a laugh.
"I get that a lot," he said, glancing at him with a faint, easy smile. "I think I disappointed a few people in Meereen as well."
Trystane relaxed a little at that, encouraged.
"They will grow, won't they?" he asked. "The horns?"
Rhaego reached up, brushing his fingers lightly against one of the small, dark protrusions.
"I think so," he said.
"Though I'm not entirely sure how large they intend to become. Hopefully not so much that I can't fit through doorways anymore."
A small smile flickered across Trystane's face.
"And your tail? Does it have a mind of its own? Can you control it completely?"
"Mostly," Rhaego replied, lifting the dark, scaled tail slightly so the spade tip was visible above the table.
"It has… instincts. Sometimes it moves before I think about it. Especially when I'm nervous."
Beside him, Quentyn finally spoke, his voice quieter and more serious than his brother's.
"You said you flew here," Quentyn said at last. "Across the sea."
Rhaego nodded once. "Yes."
Quentyn's eyes shifted briefly toward his back, as if trying to picture something not currently visible.
"And your wings… are they truly large enough for that?" There was no mockery in the question. Only careful curiosity.
Rhaego hesitated, just a fraction.
"They are," he said. "Larger than they look… when they are not there."
That earned a faint, puzzled look from Trystane.
"Not there?"
"They fold," Rhaego explained simply. "Or… withdraw, in a way. I don't fully understand it myself yet."
Arianne finally chimed in, her voice smooth and playful as she looked at her brothers.
"Careful, you two. You're making our guest feel like a spectacle." She glanced at the servants who were still stealing looks, then turned back to Rhaego with a warmer smile.
"Though I must admit… You wear strangeness very well, Prince Rhaego."
Rhaego shifted. He gave her a small nod, trying to stay composed.
"Thank you, Princess. I'm still getting used to it myself."
Doran watched the entire exchange with quiet interest, his fingers slowly turning the stem of his wine goblet. A faint, knowing smile played on his lips.
Doran let the light conversation linger for a few moments longer, then spoke, his voice calm but carrying the quiet weight of authority.
"Enough talk of horns and tails for now," he said mildly, though his eyes never left Rhaego.
"You have come a very long way, Prince Rhaego. Tell us… How does your mother fare in Meereen? My brother's letters spoke of growing troubles. The Sons of the Harpy, I believe they are called."
The table grew quieter.
Rhaego straightened slightly, his expression turning serious. He chose his words with care.
"She holds the city, My prince," he answered respectfully.
"But it is difficult. The Great Masters resent losing their power. The freedmen are hungry and restless. The Harpies strike from the shadows… poisoned wine, knives in the dark. Every step forward feels like two steps back."
Doran studied Rhaego with renewed interest.
"And you?" the Prince of Dorne asked.
"What role do you play in your mother's court? Oberyn spoke highly of you in his letters. He called you… promising."
Rhaego hesitated. His tail curled tighter beneath the table. Then met Doran's eyes steadily.
"I train with the Unsullied every morning, and with Prince Oberyn at noon," he said.
"I listen when my mother holds court. I have helped establish learning houses in the lower city for the freedmen's children, places where they can learn to read, to count, to understand more than just how to serve. A city that does not teach its young will devour itself."
He paused, then added quietly, "I also… advise her when she allows it. Mostly on small things. How people think. What they fear. What might make them loyal instead of afraid."
A small, thoughtful silence followed.
Arianne listened closely, her expression composed and attentive. There was no playful teasing now, only quiet evaluation. She watched Rhaego with new interest, noting how carefully he spoke, how measured his answers were despite his youth.
A small, wry smile touched Arianne's lips.
"You seem to be doing well enough," she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.
"Considering you survived a shipwreck and still look this composed while my brothers treat you like a new exotic animal."
Trystane grinned. Quentyn, however, remained quiet, watching Rhaego with careful, measuring eyes.
Doran's fingers continued their slow rotation of the wine goblet, but his eyes had sharpened.
"You speak with surprising wisdom for one so young," he observed. "And you seem to understand the value of patience. That is rare."
Rhaego gave a small, humble nod.
"I have seen what happens when people act too quickly out of anger or fear," he said.
"My mother has dragons… but dragons cannot solve everything. Sometimes the hardest thing is choosing not to burn what you wish to save."
Trystane looked impressed. Even Quentyn's serious expression softened slightly, though he still studied Rhaego with cautious respect.
Arianne leaned back in her seat, studying him with a thoughtful tilt of her head.
"He speaks more sense than half the envoys we've hosted," she said lightly.
Doran leaned back in his chair as well and a faint, satisfied smile touched his lips.
"You are a curious young man, Prince Rhaego. I believe Dorne and your mother may have much to offer one another."
Doran took a slow sip of wine, then said softly.
"Dorne has long memories, Prince Rhaego. And longer ambitions. If you and your mother are truly what my brother claims… then perhaps your arrival here was not an accident."
He let the words settle over the table like a quiet challenge.
Rhaego met Doran's gaze steadily, though his heart beat faster.
"Perhaps not," he replied.
"But I have learned that the sea takes what it wants… and gives what it chooses."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Doran gave a small nod, as if acknowledging something unspoken, and reached for his cup.
"Wise words," he said quietly.
Servants moved again, refilling goblets, placing fresh dishes between them. The soft clink of plates and cups filled the silence that followed.
Trystane was the first to recover fully. He reached eagerly for a piece of flatbread, though his eyes still flicked toward Rhaego every few seconds, curiosity far from satisfied.
Quentyn, more restrained, took a slow sip of wine before reaching for the roasted lamb. His gaze lowered now, thoughtful rather than probing.
Beside him, Arianne waited until the servants had stepped back before she leaned slightly toward Rhaego, her voice low enough that only he could hear.
"You speak like someone much older than you are," she said lightly, though her tone held something more thoughtful beneath it.
"It's almost disappointing."
Rhaego glanced at her, caught slightly off guard.
"Disappointing?" he echoed.
She took a small sip before answering, her lips curving faintly.
"I was expecting a reckless dragon," she said. "Not one who thinks before he burns."
A faint smile tugged at Rhaego's lips as he reached for his own cup, more out of something to do with his hands than thirst.
"I think my mother would prefer it that way," he said.
His tail shifted slightly beneath the table as he finally reached for the food, breaking his own stillness. He took a small portion of the saffron rice, careful, measured… aware of every eye that still drifted back to him now and then.
Across the table, Doran watched it all.
Not the words.
But the spaces between them.