The sands of Dorne stretched endless and shimmering beneath the beating sun as Rhaenys Targaryen soared above them. From her perch upon Meraxes, she beheld a land like no other she had seen: not the green hills of the Reach nor the rocky coasts of the Vale, but a barren beauty of rolling dunes, salt flats, and sparse thorny brush.
Ahead, Sunspear rose like a spear of golden stone jutting from the shoreline, its three towers reaching for the sky. The sea lashed against its walls, the waters blue and bright under the harsh sun. A city of stone and sun and sand, unyielding.
As Meraxes descended, the streets below emptied. Doors slammed shut, and from the rooftops, dark eyes watched the dragon circle the palace. No bells rang, no banners unfurled in welcome. The silence of Sunspear was a heavy thing, thick as the desert heat.
At last, Rhaenys guided Meraxes to land outside the city's broken walls. Alone, clad in her armor of black and crimson, her silver-gold hair crowned with a dragon circlet, Rhaenys dismounted and approached the gates of Sunspear. She bore no sword in hand, only her words.
The gates creaked open slowly, and a group of Dornish guards emerged, sun-browned and lean, their spears tipped with venom. At their head was a stooped old woman wrapped in flowing yellow silks, her skin sagging and spotted with age, her hair thin and white.
Princess Meria Martell—the Yellow Toad of Dorne.
Rhaenys bowed her head in greeting, but the old woman did not return the courtesy. Her pale yellow eyes glittered with cunning.
"You have come far, Queen Rhaenys," said Meria, her voice as dry as dust. "Come then. Speak."
"I come bearing the words of King Aegon Targaryen, First of His Name," Rhaenys said, her voice strong, "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. He bids you to bend the knee, to join the realm and find your place under the Iron Throne. He would spare Dorne the sword, and the dragon's flame."
Meria did not blink. Her cracked lips parted in a thin smile.
"I will not fight you," she said. "Nor will I kneel to you. Dorne has no king. Tell your brother that."
The air between them seemed to shimmer, hot with more than the sun. Rhaenys held the old woman's gaze a long moment before speaking again, her voice like the first rumble of distant thunder.
"I shall," she said. "But we will come again, Princess, and the next time we shall come with fire and blood."
The Dornish guards shifted at that, tightening their grips on their spears. Yet Princess Meria only laughed—a dry, brittle sound like the crumbling of ancient stone.
"Your words," said Meria. "Ours are Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. You may burn us, my lady... but you will not bend us, break us, or make us bow. This is Dorne. You are not wanted here. Return at your peril."
For a moment, neither queen nor princess moved. The dragon behind the gates stirred, restless, sensing its rider's anger. But Rhaenys mastered herself. She had given her word to parley, not to burn.
Without another word, she turned on her heel and made her way back to Meraxes. The guards watched her go, spears glinting in the sun, the gates of Sunspear closing once more behind her with a resounding boom.
Above, the sky seemed to crackle with the promise of fire yet to come.
Rhaenys mounted Meraxes, her heart heavy but resolute. She would return to Aegon, bearing the answer of Dorne.
It was not peace they would find here.
It was war.