"Why don't you continue this inside the hall?"
The voice did not come from the ruling prince. Though he stood at the forefront of the royal retinue, sweat glistened across his brow and tension etched every rigid line of his posture. The command came instead from an elderly woman emerging from the cool shade of the colonnade. Low and weathered by age, her voice carried the quiet, unyielding authority of one who had outlived kings and humbled conquerors.
Princess Deria Martell.
She was the living history of Dorne. Advancing with slow, deliberate steps, her frame was bent beneath a century, yet her eyes remained as sharp as freshly honed daggers.
Prince Nolan and Princess Maris supported her on either side, offering their arms for balance. Though the old princess leaned upon them, no one present mistook who held true authority. Their hands steadied her body, but her will carried the weight of Sunspear.
"Grandmother," Princess Dareya called softly, hurrying to the old woman's side.
Rhaenys turned toward the newcomer, her brows knitting together. The aged princess was unfamiliar to her, yet the quiet deference shown by every Dornish noble present spoke volumes. Even Prince Nolan stood with his head slightly bowed, as though awaiting her leave to breathe.
Only then did understanding dawn upon Rhaenys. She had heard a rumor that in Sunspear, the peacebringer still alive to this day.
This old woman could only be Princess Deria Martell.
Seeking even the smallest measure of common ground, Rhaenys searched the old princess's face for a flicker of diplomatic understanding—a silent acknowledgment between two women who had borne the burdens of power.
She found none.
The Old Viper did not spare her so much as a glance. Every ounce of her attention rested upon the man standing beside the carriage.
"Very well," Thaddues said, his calm voice drifting through the dry air like an autumn breeze. "The sun grows rather tiresome."
His gaze shifted toward the carriage.
"Merlin, step out."
The carriage door opened with a soft, unnatural click, as though answering magic rather than craftsmanship.
A young boy stepped onto the sun-baked stone. His hair shone like spun silver beneath the blazing Dornish sky, its brilliance contrasting sharply with his pale, flawless complexion.
The instant Rhaenys saw him, something ancient stirred within her blood.
One glance was enough. She had spent her life among dragonlords and knew their stamp when she saw it.
Before the question could escape her lips, Sunspear's guards gently but firmly took her by the arms, guiding her toward the palace so her wounds could finally receive proper treatment. She offered no resistance. Her strength was fading due to bloodloss.
Merlin froze where he stood.
His pale eyes locked upon Meleys.
The Red Queen crouched low in the courtyard, her crimson scales muted beneath a dusting of ash. She made no move to rise, her head lowered in quiet submission before Thaddues. Even when her rider was led away, she stayed still. The sight drained the color from the boy's face until he clutched his robe with trembling hands.
Thaddues barely looked at the beast.
"Leave."
He neither raised his voice nor spoke in High Valyrian. There was no flourish of wand or gesture of command. Yet the single word descended with the weight of an ancient law.
Meleys released a low, mournful whine.
The dragon that had burned armies and laughed at scorpion bolts slowly dragged herself backward. Wings folded tightly against her body, she retreated from him with the reluctant obedience of a beaten hound, sending a chill through every Dornish guard who witnessed the impossible display.
Only after the dragon had withdrawn did Thaddues turn toward the frightened child.
"Come here."
His voice softened.
Merlin immediately relaxed, every trace of fear melting into complete trust. He hurried to Thaddues' side, his small boots clicking softly against the stone.
Together they approached the waiting royal family.
"Lord Thaddues," Prince Nolan said with a respectful bow, he had seen how the wizard of Dorne subdued a dragon in his eyes. "Thank you for coming."
Before Thaddues could reply, Princess Deria fixed her grandson with a glare sharp enough to silence the courtyard.
"You presume to speak for this house as though you command its guests, Nolan?" Deria asked, her raspy voice carrying enough steel to make the prince lower his eyes. "Your political blundering nearly invited another Burning Day upon Sunspear. Hold your tongue before your betters."
A faint smile touched Thaddues' lips.
"It is quite all right, Princess Deria," he replied. "I was already on my way."
As they crossed into the cool shade of the palace, Thaddeus gaze settled upon the young woman walking a measured pace behind Prince Nolan.
Princess Dareya, the heir to the throne of Dorne.
"How have you been, Princess?" he asked gently.
The simple greeting nearly unraveled the heirs composure.
Moons had passed since she had last stood in his presence. Time seemed powerless against him. He remained as impossibly youthful as ever, a man untouched by age, his beauty as unsettling as the quiet power that surrounded him. He was no mere foreign lord but a living legend—a wizard whose actions had sent shockwaves through the Seven Kingdoms without ever leading an army.
For the briefest heartbeat, Dareya wanted nothing more than to forget crowns, duties, and ancient rivalries. She wished only to stand beside him as a woman rather than as the future ruler of Dorne.
Reality returned with the weight of generations.
The blood of Nymeria flowed through her veins, and she could almost feel her grandmother's watchful gaze upon her back, measuring every breath and every hesitation. She swallowed the emotion rising in her throat and forced herself into the composure expected of an heir.
"I have been well, my lord," she replied.
Her voice faltered for only an instant before settling into calm confidence. Turning toward the silver-haired boy at Thaddues' side, she seized upon the safest distraction.
"And who might this be?"
They entered the council chamber, where cool sandstone walls and soaring arches shielded the room from the relentless Dornish heat. At its center stood a long table of polished ironwood, already prepared for discussion.
"Oh, this is Merlin," Thaddues answered as he took a seat at the head of the table. "My second unofficial disciple."
Merlin glanced up at him.
Receiving a small nod of encouragement, the boy stepped forward and offered a flawless bow. The movement possessed an elegance that felt strangely timeless, as though inherited from a forgotten age rather than taught in recent weeks.
"My name is Merlin, Your Graces," he said politely.
Helena's relentless instruction had left no room for error, and it showed in every measured movement.
"What a lovely child," Princess Maris remarked as she guided the Peacebringer to the chair at Thaddues' right, though caution lingered behind her smile. Her gaze never quite left Thaddues, as though sensing the faint, unseen current of magic that seemed to cling to him wherever he went.
Princess Deria leaned upon her seat, studying the boy with the practiced scrutiny of a ruler who had spent decades judging men at a glance. Her attention lingered upon the unmistakable color of his hair.
"A charming child," she said at last. "Though I must admit, Lord Peverell, you possess rather unconventional tastes when choosing your disciples."
Thaddues answered with nothing more than a faint smile.
He gave the bottle in his hand a gentle shake.
"It is not a matter of taste, Princess," he said quietly.
"It is his fate."
The heavy oak doors opened once more.
Rhaenys Targaryen entered the chamber.
The maesters had done what little they could within so short a time. Fresh bandages wrapped tightly around her wrist though dark crimson had already begun to seep through the linen. Every measured breath carried pain, yet she refused to allow weakness to show. Her chin remained high, sustained by the indomitable pride of Old Valyria.
The moment her eyes fell upon the silver-haired boy seated beside Thaddues, that pride hardened into resentment. She had heard everything.
"A disciple?" Rhaenys said, unable to conceal the bitterness in her voice. "To draw a child of water into your shadows?"
Thaddues paused and turned his gaze toward Rhaenys.
A quiet chuckle escaped his lips.
"You dragons truly believe the world revolves around you, don't you?"
Ignoring her glare, he flicked a finger. The carved chair to his left slid back on its own. With a small gesture, he invited Merlin to take the seat.
Only after the boy had settled did Thaddues lean forward, resting his forearms on the table. His gaze met Rhaenys', calm and unwavering.
"The boy is no mere child of waters, Queen who never was. "
His voice deepened, filling the chamber without ever rising.
"His blood does indeed trace its origins to the Freehold. Yet it descends from a lineage far older, far purer, and infinitely greater than House Targaryen. Your ancestors were little more than shepherds compared to the dragonlords whose blood flows through his veins."
The declaration struck the chamber like thunder.
Rhaenys opened her mouth to protest. Ancient titles, proud histories, dragons and conquerors—all rushed to her tongue before dying there.
She looked from Thaddues to the silent faces surrounding the table.
She was wounded.
Her dragon had been subdued without battle.
She sat deep within Sunspear, surrounded by those who would not come to her defense.
For perhaps the first time in her life, she understood the meaning of utter helplessness.
Without another word, she lowered herself into her seat, her jaw clenched so tightly that pain shot through her teeth.
Around the table, silence settled like a funeral shroud.
Prince Nolan folded his hands together. Princess Maris lowered her gaze. Dareya sat with perfect posture, deliberately avoiding Thaddues' eyes lest her carefully maintained composure betray her.
Only Princess Deria remained entirely unmoved.
With both hands resting upon the head of her cane, she observed the unfolding exchange with the detached patience of someone who had witnessed kingdoms rise and crumble long before anyone else in the chamber had drawn their first breath.
Thaddues lifted the bottle once more. He looked at it with amusement for a moment before setting it upon the polished ironwood table with a soft clink.
His gaze swept across those assembled.
"Now," he said, his voice calm, "shall we discuss the matter before us?"
Rhaenys drew a slow, measured breath. Pain flared beneath the fresh bandages wrapped around her wrist, but she gave no outward sign beyond the tightening of her jaw. Whatever humiliation she had suffered in the courtyard, she remained a princess of House Targaryen. If she could no longer negotiate from strength, then she would negotiate with dignity.
"The Iron Throne had no knowledge of the invasion of the Reach," she began, her voice steady despite the exhaustion weighing upon it. "My cousin, King Viserys neither ordered nor sanctioned it. It was the reckless ambition of a prince and those foolish enough to follow him."
She paused briefly before continuing.
"The Reach has already paid dearly for that folly. Your sapphire dragon saw to that. Lord Tyrell's host lies in ashes, and fields that once fed half the realm have been reduced to cinders. Justice has already been answered with fire."
Thaddues regarded her in silence.
His expression never changed.
The stillness stretched until it became almost unbearable, pressing upon the chamber like an unseen weight. No one dared interrupt. Even the servants lining the walls seemed reluctant to breathe.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough that every soul in the chamber instinctively leaned forward.
"A mother's wrath is not my own."
He rested comfortably against the back of his chair, his fingers loosely interlocked.
"She was a mother long before she became a dragon. What you witnessed was not my judgment, but hers."
A mother? Rhaenys thought. Had Daemon... or the Reach... slain one of her hatchlings?
Everyone around the table was left in confusion, except Merlin, who seemed far more interested in admiring the ancient Dornish carvings adorning the walls.
Thaddues eyes settled upon Rhaenys once more.
"And do not speak of the Iron Throne as though its existence were immutable."
The words were delivered without anger, making them all the more unsettling.
"Believe me, Rhaenys, your bloodline still has a part to play in what is yet to come. Were that not so, the Iron Throne would have vanished long before this day."
The chamber fell deathly still.
No boast echoed within his words.
No threat was spoken.
It was simply stated as fact.
A cold chill crept down Rhaenys' spine.
She had seen dragons melt castles and reduce armies to rivers of ash. She had watched kingdoms bow beneath dragonfire. Yet none of those memories inspired the instinctive dread she now felt sitting across from the quiet man in dark robes.
He was not speaking as a king defending his realm.
Nor as a conqueror seeking glory.
He spoke with the detached certainty of someone discussing the changing of seasons.
Thaddues leaned forward once more, the faintest trace of a smile touching his lips before vanishing just as quickly.
"Now," he continued, "let us address the true purpose of this meeting."
His fingers folded neatly atop the table.
"What is the Iron Throne willing to sacrifice for the return of its prince?"
The question lingered unanswered.
No one around the table moved.
Even Princess Deria remained silent, content to watch as the Queen Who Never Was weighed the fate of her house against the impossible man seated before her.
Thaddues simply waited.
He neither hurried nor pressed for an answer.
"Take your time," he said softly.
"I have all the time in the world."
TBC
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