Chapter 142 Daenerys's rejection

Evening Visit

In the quiet of evening, Daenerys was teasing Viserion in her chambers when—

Boom, boom, boom!

A knock broke the calm. A maid stepped inside and bowed."Your Grace, a man who calls himself Quentyn Martell is at the gate. He says he's the son of Prince Doran of Dorne and requests an audience."

Daenerys arched an eyebrow. She thought for a moment, then nodded."Summon Brienne. Prepare the reception room. I'll see him shortly."

There was unease in her heart. The Stepstones and Dorne had never engaged in significant diplomacy; they had merely shared toll revenues in silent cooperation. Yet now, first came Margaery of House Tyrell—and now, House Martell?

She gently patted Viserion's snout, stood up, adjusted her gown, and made her way toward the reception room.

Outside the window, the sunset streaked the sky in crimson and gold, casting Daenerys in a mysterious, almost ethereal glow.

Escorted by Brienne, resplendent in armor, Daenerys entered the softly lit reception hall. Quentyn Martell was already waiting.

He was tall, bearing the signature features of the Dornish—olive-toned skin bronzed by years under the harsh southern sun. His robe of fine satin rippled with every movement, adorned with polished copper, shimmering silver, and crimson-gold embellishments that caught the low light.

Upon seeing her, he bowed deeply.

"If I may be so bold, Your Grace, I am Quentyn Martell. I come on behalf of Dorne."

Daenerys gave a polite nod, her expression unreadable."Welcome, Lord Quentyn of Dorne," she said coolly. "What brings you to my door?"

With solemn precision, Quentyn retrieved a small, ornate metal case. From it, he withdrew a rolled parchment and held it out to her.

"Dorne has long honored our bond with House Targaryen," he said. "My aunt, Elia Martell, was wed to your brother, Rhaegar. This document," he nodded to the parchment, "was drafted by both houses years ago. It details an agreement: that a Martell would wed a Targaryen. I have come to fulfill that promise—by marrying you, Your Grace."

Daenerys took the parchment, her eyes scanning its faded ink with care. After a few silent moments, she returned it without hesitation.

"I'm sorry, Lord Quentyn. But I am already betrothed to Ser Gavin Velerys. And more importantly, I question the authenticity of this so-called pact. I will not marry you."

Her voice was firm—unyielding. There was no room for debate.

Shock and disappointment flickered across Quentyn's face.

"But... don't you wish to reclaim your rightful throne? With Dorne's support—and your dragons—we could make it ours!"

Daenerys frowned, her tone sharpening."I believe in Gavin. He has already given me the strength to rise again—even my dragons came to me through him. You are standing in his territory, proposing marriage to his betrothed. That is a grave insult."

She stepped back."Because I believe you are ignorant of the full situation, I won't hold it against you. But you will leave tomorrow. A ship will be prepared to return you to Dorne."

She turned to go, but Quentyn's voice followed her.

"Wait! Dorne offers Gavin great rewards. My sister, Arianne Martell, is willing to wed him. In return, we'll grant favorable trade rights—and full military support for his campaigns in Essos."

Daenerys stopped. Her expression darkened like a thundercloud.

"Gavin will never agree. But if you insist, feel free to wait for him to return. I do not recommend it, however. His dragon, Syndor, has... a temper."

Without another word, she swept out of the room, Brienne following.

As they walked through the silent halls, Daenerys muttered with rising frustration.

"One after another—they're all circling Gavin. First Tyrell, now Martell. They think the chaos of war gives them a chance to seize power through him."

Brienne glanced at her with calm eyes."You must understand, Your Grace—dragons are power. Anyone who controls one could become a conqueror, like your ancestors. But in my view, you have nothing to fear. Lord Gavin is loyal—and no offer from Dorne will sway him."

Daenerys let out a slow breath."I'm not afraid of Dorne," she said. "It's Margaery that worries me. She and Gavin exchanged letters long before I arrived. And you saw her at the council yesterday—clever, beautiful, impossible to ignore."

Brienne shook her head slightly."Your Grace, forgive me for saying so, but you're no less captivating. You are the rightful heir to dragons and the rightful fiancée of Ser Gavin. That speaks louder than charm."

Daenerys chuckled."Perhaps I'm overthinking. After all, there is precedent. Aegon the Conqueror had two queens." She paused in thought. "Brienne, prepare a dinner. I wish to dine with Lady Margaery tonight."

Though puzzled, Brienne bowed."As you command."

The skies above the sea gleamed a deep sapphire. Wisps of clouds drifted lazily across the horizon, while seabirds wheeled through the air in graceful arcs.

Then, with a roar that split the silence, a massive golden dragon burst from a cloud bank. Its scales glittered like molten coins in the sun. Below, the seabirds scattered in alarm.

Upon the dragon's back, Gavin leaned forward, wind whipping through his hair. He gave the beast a gentle pat.

"Down, Syndor," he murmured.

With a powerful cry, Syndor tucked his wings and dove toward the Island of Lys like a streak of living gold.