Time had passed since the night Rhaego and Arianne vanished from the Sea Tower.
Prince Doran Martell sat in his private solar, the afternoon light filtering through the lattice windows in thin golden bars. A scroll lay open on the low table before him, freshly delivered by raven from one of his agents in the Stormlands.
The wax seal was already broken.
He read the message again, his expression calm, almost serene. Only the slight tightening of his fingers on the parchment betrayed the storm beneath.
…a young man claiming the name of Aegon Targaryen has landed with the Golden Company near Cape Wrath.
They have taken Griffin's Roost and several smaller holdfasts. More castles are falling daily.
The Stormlands are in chaos…
Doran set the scroll down slowly.
A prince in the Stormlands. A Targaryen claimant with an army.
But that was not what truly troubled him right now.
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled through his nose.
His thoughts drifted back to the last meeting with Arianne, her passionate arguments about helping the dragon prince secure allies in the Reach, her frustration when he had chosen caution instead.
He had not forbidden her from going.
He had simply… not chosen her.
Perhaps it was time to make up for that small disagreement.
He raised his voice just enough for the servant waiting outside the door.
"Send for my daughter Arianne. Tell her it is urgent. I have a task for her in the Stormlands."
The servant bowed and hurried away.
Minutes passed. Then longer.
When the servant returned, he looked nervous.
"My prince… Princess Arianne is not in her chambers. Nor in the Water Gardens. The guards say she has not been seen since last night."
Doran's fingers tightened on the arm of his chair.
"Find her," he said, voice still calm. "Search the palace."
Another servant was sent. Then another.
The second returned even faster, bowing low.
"My prince… the dragon prince, Rhaego… he is also not in his chamber. His bed has not been slept in. The balcony door was left open."
Doran closed his eyes for a long moment.
Of course.
He had listened to Arianne's arguments. He had weighed them carefully. And still, she had chosen to act on her own, taking the dragon boy and flying off.
He had underestimated her.
That, at least, was clear.
A flicker of frustration, rare and sharp, passed across his usually placid face.
How had she known? How had she learned of his intentions so quickly? Had one of his own servants spoken out of turn? Or had she simply guessed and decided to defy him?
It didn't matter now.
She was gone. And she had taken the dragon prince with her, almost certainly heading toward the Reach.
Doran opened his eyes and looked at the servant still waiting.
"Send for my son Quentyn," he said, voice steady once more.
"Tell him it is urgent. And bring me fresh parchment and ink."
When Quentyn arrived a short while later, he found his father seated at the table, writing in his careful, measured hand.
"Father," Quentyn said, bowing respectfully. "You called for me?"
Doran set the quill down and looked at his second son. Quentyn was dressed for travel, simple clothes, a plain cloak, the kind of outfit that would not draw attention on the road.
"Yes," Doran said.
"There has been news from the Stormlands. A young man claiming to be Aegon Targaryen has landed with the Golden Company. They have already taken Griffin's Roost and several smaller holdfasts. The Stormlands are falling into chaos."
Quentyn's eyes widened slightly. "A Targaryen pretender?"
"Perhaps," Doran replied.
"Or perhaps something more. I need you to go there. Quietly. Take only those you trust completely. Feel out the situation. Find out if this is truly a Targaryen claimant… or someone else trying to take the Stormlands for their own purposes. Do not go near the Reach. Your sister and the dragon prince are likely already heading in that direction. I do not want any complications."
He slid the freshly written letter across the table.
"Deliver this when the time is right. Report back as soon as you have clear information."
Quentyn took the letter, his expression serious.
"And Arianne…?"
Doran's gaze was steady.
"Arianne has chosen her own path," he said quietly.
"You are not your sister," Doran said gently, "but you have strengths she does not. For now, we must deal with what is in front of us."
Quentyn bowed again. "I will not fail you, Father."
As his son left the solar, Doran leaned back in his chair and stared at the scroll still lying open on the table.
A dragon prince had flown away with his daughter.
A claimant had landed in the Stormlands.
And the careful, patient game he had spent years planning was suddenly moving much faster than he had intended.
Doran Martell closed his eyes and allowed himself one long, slow breath.
Elia…
The name rose unbidden, bringing with it the old, familiar ache.
For years he had waited, plotting in silence, dreaming of the day the lions would finally pay for what they did to his sister and her children. Rhaego was more than just a dragon. He was a living link to that old wound and perhaps the key to finally closing it.
The restoration of the dragons was only the means. The Lannisters would pay. The Mountain would pay. The Iron Throne itself would feel the sting of Dorne's long memory.
And now his own daughter had taken the most valuable piece off the board and flown away with it.
Rhaego Targaryen the living dragon prince, the boy who could breathe fire and ride the sky. He was out there, loose in Westeros, with Arianne at his side.
"Patience," he whispered to the empty room.
But even he could hear the frustration hidden beneath the word… and the quiet, burning hope that refused to die.
He wondered, not for the first time, whether Arianne would ever truly understand the cost of impatience or how fragile the path to vengeance truly was.
A soft sigh escaped him.
"Quentyn," he murmured to the empty room, already calculating the next move. His second son was loyal, steady, and far more obedient than Arianne.
If anyone could quietly investigate the chaos in the Stormlands without drawing attention, it was him.
Yet a quiet, bitter thought lingered in the back of his mind.
She has always been her uncle's daughter.
Oberyn would have laughed at this moment. He would have approved of Arianne's fire, her willingness to act. But Oberyn was not here to bear the consequences.
Doran's fingers drummed once against the armrest, slow, thoughtful, deliberate.
A dragon had flown from Sunspear, carrying his daughter into the sky. Another had landed in the Stormlands, bearing a name long thought buried beneath blood and stone.
Two dragons.
Two paths.
Or perhaps… only one.
His eyes opened, dark and intent.
If the boy in the Stormlands was truly Elia's son, then the game had changed in ways he had never anticipated. If he was false… he was still dangerous.
A false dragon could ignite half the realm before the truth was known.
And Arianne…his fierce, headstrong, brilliant daughter had taken the real dragon and flown straight into a realm already beginning to fracture.
Doran reached for the scroll again, smoothing it flat with careful hands.
"Too soon," he murmured. "All of it… too soon."
But the world had never waited for careful men.
It never had.