The Water Gardens shimmered in the light of the high sun, fountains bubbling softly beneath carved stone arches, the scent of orange blossoms thick on the warm air. Children's laughter rang like bells beneath the boughs of lemon trees. Here, the heat was a balm rather than a burden, and Princess Daenerys of Dorne—once called the Flower of the Realm, now Mother of Sunspear—watched her children run barefoot through the tiled courtyard.
Her eldest son, Prince Qhoran, named for a distant Dornish ancestor and bearing the pale silver hair of his mother, raced ahead of his younger siblings. He was swift, full of questions, clever and bold, with violet eyes that mirrored hers. Her second child, a dark-haired daughter named Nymeria, chased after him with shrieks of laughter, her sand-colored skirts pulled up above her knees. The youngest, Vaelya, no more than a babe, cooed in the shade of her nursemaid's arms.
Daenerys had learned to find peace here. To breathe. She had grown into her role as Princess of Dorne, wife to Prince Maron, mother of his heirs, and a beloved figure among the smallfolk and courtiers of Sunspear. In Dorne, birth mattered less than honor, and she had come to love the unbowed spirit of its people. She had not thought often of King's Landing in years—not truly.
Not until today.
She had just finished tending to young Vaelya, wrapping her in a silken blanket of Martell red and Targaryen black, when the sound of low voices carried through the open arches of the pavilion. Her handmaidens, Syria and Jeyne, were speaking in hushed tones beyond the gauze-draped doorway.
"She said it was Ser Andros of Lemonwood who brought the tale," murmured Myria. "One of those courtiers returning from court... the Blackfyres grow bolder."
"Not just bold," Jeyne replied. "They say the king's hand is tied. That some in court would sooner see Daemon Blackfyre take the Iron Throne than Prince Baelor."
Daenerys stepped through the veil. "What is this you speak of?" she asked, her voice soft, but carrying the weight of command.
The two handmaidens fell silent at once, wide-eyed.
"I do not enjoy spying," she said gently. "But you spoke of Blackfyre. I would know what has reached Dorne."
Jeyne hesitated, then curtsied. "Forgive us, my princess. We only heard fragments. A delegation from the Crownlands—Dornish courtiers from court—came to speak with Prince Maron. They said that… that whispers from King's Landing grow louder. That House Blackfyre's influence spreads, especially in the east, and in the marches. That… Ser Daemon… may be readying himself."
"Readying for what?" Daenerys asked, though she already knew the answer.
"Some say… war, my princess. Or something close to it."
The word war echoed like a shiver down her spine.
Her throat tightened. She turned away from them without another word, returning to the terrace overlooking the pools. Below, Qhoran had fallen into the water with a splash, and his sister was laughing so hard she could scarcely breathe.
The laughter stabbed her like a blade.
Daemon.She had not heard his name spoken in this tone in years—not with reverence, but with fear.
She could still see the boy who had once knelt in the dark of the godswood, vowing love in whispered promises. The young man who held Blackfyre, their father's sword, who kissed her as though they were the only two left in the world. She had watched him turn from a bastard to a nobleman, and into a legend. Now he teetered on the brink of something else entirely.
A pretender, or a usurper.
If the rumors were true… if Daemon Blackfyre truly intended to press his claim…
Daenerys touched her stomach instinctively, the memory of her last childbirth still raw, and then looked at her children playing below.
She whispered his name into the wind once more, as if to call the truth from the ghosts of their youth.
"Daemon…"