The wind off the Narrow Sea stirred the banners above the Red Keep—crimson and gold, Targaryen and Martell. For the first time in a hundred years, the sun and spear of Dorne flew beside the three-headed dragon. And below those entwined standards, King Daeron II Targaryen welcomed the emissaries of Sunspear with open arms and oaths of peace.
The pact had been sealed in ink and blood.
Princess Daenerys would wed Prince Maron Martell, and in doing so, accomplish what Aegon the Conqueror and Daeron the Young Dragon could not. The Seven Kingdoms, at long last, would truly be seven in name and truth.
But Daenerys felt no triumph.
The court was alive with talk and toasts. Songs were sung of roses and fire, of dragons and sand, of two proud lines entwined. And yet the princess sat silent at her brother's side, a goblet of Dornish red untouched in her hand.
Later that night, as the revels echoed through the halls of the Red Keep, Daenerys left her solar and descended alone into the godswood. She found him where she knew he would be, beneath the black boughs of the heart tree, its pale face etched in sorrow.
Daemon Blackfyre stood with his back to her. He wore no sword, only a dark doublet clasped at the throat, embroidered with three-headed dragons the color of smoke.
"I heard," he said, without turning. "Maron Martell. A Dornish prince for the dragon princess."
She stepped closer. "I wanted to tell you myself."
"I'm glad you did." At last, he faced her. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight—grief buried in fury, or perhaps the other way around. "Does he please you, this sun-scorched prince?"
"I do not know him."
"Then perhaps that's for the best." A bitter smile curled his lips. "Better to wed a stranger than love another and lose them."
Silence stretched between them like a blade.
"You are not alone in this, Daenerys," he said. "I too have been... promised. To the Arcon of Tyrosh's daughter. That old drunken fool of a Father made the match years ago, thinking to buy sellswords and fleet."
She stared. "Daeron means for it to happen?"
"Aye. He means to uphold every decree our father made—no matter how mad. It is his way. His peace must be built on every stone Aegon tossed into the sea." Daemon's voice cracked like a broken oath. "I would break it, if I could. All of it. I would run with you. Burn the ports. Damn the Martells, the Tyroshi, the crown. But I cannot."
"I know." Her voice was soft. "And I would not ask you to."
Daemon stepped to her. "Then why does it feel as though I've lost everything?"
Daenerys placed a hand on his cheek. "You haven't. You never will. You were my first friend. My shadow and shield. My love." She smiled through the tears she refused to let fall. "I am grateful to the gods for the days we had."
"Days," he echoed bitterly. "Not years. Not lifetimes."
She nodded. "But they were ours."
He kissed her then—fiercely, desperately. The kind of kiss that tasted of salt and ash and things that could never be. She let herself fall into it, one last time.
When they pulled apart, the night itself seemed to hold its breath.
They did not see the two figures watching from the shadows beyond the godswood—King Daeron II, silent as stone, and Brynden Rivers, pale as a ghost with red eyes gleaming like embers, and a haunting raven-like birthmark on his cheek.
The king did not speak. Nor did the bastard who had served him faithfully since boyhood.
They only watched, as the fire between a prince and princess flickered for the final time.