"Dorne is sand and scorpions, and bleak red mountains baking in the sun."
―Reznak mo Reznak to Skahaz mo Kandaq
…
Rhaenyra Targaryen sat in a high-backed chair of carved ebony, hands folded in her lap, the weight of fresh calamity pressing against her ribs. She had grown used to the echo of her own pulse whenever ill tidings arrived, yet today, those beats felt particularly loud. The hearing room in the Palace of Truth stretched before her like a cavern—pillars of dark marble, floors of polished jade, and towering windows draped in violet hangings that caught the last of the day's light. Beyond those windows, Braavos's canals wound their labyrinthine ways, shops and manors crowded along watery streets. The city seemed calm, at least from a distance.
But Rhaenyra knew better.
News of the Battle of the Stepstones had come that morning: a decisive defeat, disastrous for Braavos and its coalition. Worse yet, Dorne—long courted by Braavosi envoys and even Rhaenyra's own sons—had sided with the Greens at the final hour, crushing all hope of a route to safety. Countless Essosi war-galleys destroyed, hundreds more captured or burned. In a single night, the Titan's grand push had been undone.
Now, she found herself once again in the presence of Armeno Sarren, her chief sponsor, and the rest of Braavos's War Council. A hush had fallen—fresh agony shared by all. Only the hiss of the braziers broke the silence.
Koja Terys had issued summons to deliberate the next steps. The Sealord himself, a tall older man with sunken cheeks, presided from a dais. The atmosphere was as tense as any war council Rhaenyra had attended in Westeros—perhaps more so, for here she was a foreign queen in exile, reliant on the generosity of proud merchants who had lost much at her behest.
Armeno, ever stoic, stood close by her. The patriarch of Braavos's arguably wealthiest family, he radiated a composed dignity that belied the headache she knew he felt. His third daughter was betrothed to Jace, a marriage arrangement that had once seemed a golden opportunity. Now, not so much, especially not after such a crushing defeat.
Rhaenyra drew a slow breath, recalling the words of the letter. There would be a reckoning today she knew. At the far side of the room, Marogro Otharys, head of the most powerful family in Braavos with a grudge against the Sarrens, glowered openly. He had made no secret that he considered the war with Westeros a fool's errand. He had refused to even consider Rhaenyra's cause from the start, citing her half-lost crown and questionable alliances. Today, he seemed in an even fouler temper than usual.
Koja, hands folded behind his back, spoke at last. "The news is confirmed: The fleet we dispatched has been near destroyed. Thousands drowned or burned. The remainder scattered or forced to surrender. Our stores of ships in the Arsenal are reduced by half. This defeat… cripples our immediate ability to challenge the Westerosi at sea." His voice was measured, but behind it Rhaenyra sensed the sting of suppressed fury. The battle was too total a defeat to swallow easily.
A murmur rippled through the gathering. Then, inevitably, Marogro stepped forward. "And whose fault is that, my friends?" he demanded, gaze flicking with venom to Rhaenyra. "Had we not cast ourselves into this mad alliance, we needn't have lost so much—nor antagonized a realm led by actual dragon lords."
Rhaenyra stiffened, though she kept her jaw set. Armeno was quicker to respond, stepping between them with an even glare. "Watch yourself, Master Otharys. Braavos was never forced at swordpoint to support Her Grace. We chose to stand with her claim because the Titan's trade routes were threatened by the Greens from the start. Had we stood idle, the blockade would have strangled our commerce in time. Do not pretend Rhaenyra alone is the cause."
"The cause?" Otharys's voice rose. "Oh, let us see! Since the moment this exiled queen arrived, we poured gold and manpower into her so-called righteous war. And our reward? Flames on the sea, a blockade grown nigh unbreakable, and the treacherous Dornish turning traitor at the last. Where is your precious new Targaryen throne, Rhaenyra? Where is the payback we were promised?"
Rhaenyra felt her cheeks flare with a hot mixture of guilt and anger. She opened her mouth to speak—but Sarren lifted a hand, eyes cold as chipped onyx. "You will not speak to Her Grace with such disrespect," he warned. "She is a guest of our august city; do not shame the rest of us with your poor conduct. We in Braavos made our choices knowing full well the dangers. We are no babes in arms."
Otharys spat. "And now our people bleed for it."
Tension mounted palpably. The Sealord watched from his high seat, face unreadable. Rhaenyra was about to stand—dignity demanded she defend herself—when Koja Terys cleared his throat sharply.
"Enough," Koja said, cutting into the argument. "We are the leaders of Braavos, not squabbling children. We must address the crisis at hand."
His voice carried the weight of authority given him by the city's leadership. Even Otharys grudgingly silenced his tirade. The Sealord stirred, glancing about the hall. "We shall have order," he intoned, a quiet finality that brooked no defiance.
Koja drew a breath. "We have lost this battle. The Westerosi blockade stands stronger, with Dorne allied to the Greens. For the near future, another assault on the Stepstones is unthinkable. Such efforts would be folly."
At that, the chamber buzzed with murmurs and uneasy shuffling. For Braavos to admit futility was a bitter pill indeed.
Koja continued, "Yet we are not beaten entire. The fleet can be rebuilt; new keels laid daily, once we reclaim our finances and workforce. But that will take time—moons, if not years. Meanwhile, we must find new trade routes to keep the Titan fed." He gestured to a large map behind him, lines leading eastward toward Ibben, Lorath, Saath, and the northern seas.
Rhaenyra found some measure of relief in the matter-of-fact tone. It could be a second chance. Koja's strategy seemed to revolve around shifting Braavos's commerce away from the Narrow Sea, offsetting the blockade's stranglehold by forging trade pacts in the northeast. She had heard reports of the ongoing negotiations with the Ibbenese. For Braavos, it was a pragmatic retreat—one that could preserve the city's lifeblood while fleets were rebuilt.
Koja folded his arms. "In the meantime, we must redouble shipbuilding in the Arsenal. Our people must see that Braavos remains strong, or the Titan's name will falter. If Westeros believes we are cowed, they may press further. We cannot allow that."
Otharys, still sulking, gave only a tight grimace. But others around the table—merchant captains, lesser patriarchs—nodded at Koja's words. Then the Sealord spoke again, voice low and resonant. "We rebuild. We persevere. The Titan does not kneel."
✥✥✥
Prince Qoren Martell stood upon the Old Palace terrace as he had done so many times before, gazing over the wide courtyards, the lofty date palms, and the distant dunes turned gold in the afternoon sun. An arid wind carried the faint spice of desert sage, stirring the silken pennants that hung from Sunspear's high walls. Qoren's realm—Dorne—had once prided itself on independence, outlasting dragons and Targaryen might. Now, the times were changed, and he felt the weight of those changes on his shoulders like a clawed talon pressing down.
He ran a hand along the sandstone balustrade. From here, he could glimpse the small harbor beyond the palace gates, where war galleys under the Martell sun-and-spear bobbed in the shimmering waters. That harbor had been tense with possibility ever since his fleet made its choice at the Stepstones. A choice, Qoren reminded himself, that saved us from a different doom. If Braavos had triumphed, he might have chosen another course. But Braavos did not triumph. The Greens did. And Dorne reaped the spoils of aligning with victors.
He was not so naive as to think the Butcher Prince would fling open every gate to him, but by the Seven, Qoren would see Dorne repaid somehow. For the first time in centuries, the Princes of Dorne had chosen to stand with a Targaryen on the battlefield—that alone merited consideration. So he had written to Aemond, proposing further talks to "renegotiate the blockade's impositions," as he had phrased it. In truth, he wanted more than a few small concessions. He hoped he would succeed.
Now the day's heat pressed heavily, and Qoren retreated indoors to his private solar. In the cool shadows of the chamber, he had barely settled at his desk when a servant hurried in with a roll of parchment on a silver platter. Qoren felt an unaccustomed flutter in his chest. Aemond's reply, no doubt.
Without a word, he took it and broke the seal—a simple circle of black wax impressed with the Three-Headed Dragon—and scanned the slanting lines of domineering script:
Prince Qoren of Dorne,
Your message is received. The alliance you demonstrated at the Stepstones was both prudent and pleasing to the realm. His Grace, King Aegon, will not soon forget Dorne's contribution. I, too, acknowledge our mutual interest in lifting certain burdens from your ports in recognition of your loyalty.
I shall fly to Sunspear that we may speak plainly and in good faith. Expect me within the fortnight.
— Prince Aemond Targaryen
…Not the Butcher? Qoren thought snidely. He exhaled as he put the letter away. A fortnight—hardly any time at all. The text was brief but decidedly favorable, with no mention of conditions or disclaimers. For a moment, relief warred with suspicion. The Butcher Prince always moves with purpose. If he comes in person, he must want something beyond a mere courtesy.
Qoren found himself recalling the stories: how Aemond had grown into a cunning statesman as well as a fearsome warrior. If so, Qoren must match that cunning. He rose, rang a small bell to summon a scribe. The door opened, revealing a slender man in plain desert robes, ink-stains on his fingers.
"Send letters at once," Qoren instructed. "To House Jordayne, House Yronwood, Dayne, and Manwoody. Inform them that Prince Aemond Targaryen will arrive within a fortnight and that we will hold a proper reception. Also, quietly request that the lords remain calm—no provocations. Let them know I will handle all negotiations personally. We want no overzealous fool spoiling this moment."
The scribe bowed and hurried away. Qoren turned next to the wall, where a silver-inlaid spear hung crossed with a gilded scimitar—the symbolic arms of Dorne. We have fought Targaryens before, repelled them with desert cunning. Now we find ourselves allied with them. He still struggled with that reality, but in war, choices are seldom pure. He had chosen survival and potential prosperity over empty pride.