The Red Mountains loomed before them, red and gold and gray beneath the burning sun. Jagged peaks clawed the sky, and narrow passes twisted down into the endless sands of Dorne. At the base of one such pass, the Targaryen host had made its camp.
Tents of crimson and black rose from the stony ground like strange blooms. The banners of House Targaryen streamed from poles and pikes, their three-headed dragon snapping in the hot wind. Balerion rested nearby, a black mountain of coiled flesh and iron scales, his wings spread wide to soak in the heat of the day. Not far off, Vhagar and Meraxes crouched atop outcroppings of stone, their great golden eyes watching the horizon.
Within the royal pavilion, Aegon studied a map of Dorne laid across a long table of rough wood. His armored finger traced the winding course of the Greenblood River, past the ruins of the broken Arm, southward to Sunspear. Orys Baratheon and Daemon Velaryon stood close by, exchanging low murmurs. Edwell and Crispian Celtigar hovered in the shadows, offering quiet counsel. Grand Maester Gawen dabbed at his brow with a damp cloth, already wilting in the Dornish heat.
The flap of the tent stirred. Queen Rhaenys entered, her silver-gold hair tied back with a crimson ribbon, her armor light and gleaming. Behind her came Queen Visenya, a colder presence, clad in a coat of ringmail dark as smoke.
"My lord," said Rhaenys, her voice as bright as the sun above. "I would propose another way."
Aegon lifted his gaze from the map.
"Speak."
Rhaenys stepped forward, her eyes shining with fervor.
"Let me fly to Sunspear," she said. "Let me parley with Princess Meria. She is old, near seventy years if the maesters have it right. Her bones must ache with every breath. Perhaps she will see reason when she beholds a dragon at her gates."
At her words, Visenya's mouth tightened.
"You waste your breath, sister," she said sharply. "Princess Meria is no crone to be cowed by shadows. They call her the Yellow Toad of Dorne, not the Bent Reed. Her back is straight, though her skin sags. She will not yield."
"Perhaps not to fire and blood," Rhaenys replied gently. "But words may yet sway her where swords would fail. I do not go to kneel. I go to speak."
Aegon studied her a long moment, his face unreadable. The tent crackled with the heat outside and the unspoken tension within.
At last he nodded.
"Go, then," he said. "But take care. If you see aught that seems amiss—treachery, traps—send the signal. Meraxes can be seen for leagues."
"I will," said Rhaenys.
She leaned forward and kissed Aegon lightly upon the brow, a rare gesture of public affection between them. Even Visenya softened, her stern mouth easing for a heartbeat.
Rhaenys turned and strode from the tent, her crimson cloak billowing behind her like a trail of fire. The camp stirred as she mounted the steps to Meraxes, the great silver dragon lowering her head with a rumbling growl of greeting. Rhaenys swung easily into the saddle strapped between the dragon's shoulders.
With a cry, she spurred Meraxes skyward. The dragon's wings unfurled with a crack like thunder, and the earth trembled as the great beast leapt into the sky. Sunlight danced across Meraxes' silver-white scales as she climbed higher and higher, turning her snout southward toward Sunspear.
Aegon and Visenya watched from the mouth of the tent, their faces turned upward.
"She is too bold," Visenya said quietly.
"She is Rhaenys," Aegon replied.
Together, they watched the shrinking shape of dragon and rider until it vanished into the blue blaze of the sky.
Beneath the Red Mountains, the Targaryen banners rippled and snapped. The war for Dorne had begun—but whether it would be won with flame or words, none could yet say.