Chapter 62: Playing with Fire

Meanwhile, in Sunspear, Doran Martell sat in his study, once again contemplating the letter that had been delivered to him several weeks earlier.

The letter bore a red ink seal, written on high-quality parchment, with clear letters traced in beautiful, elegant handwriting, direct in tone, yet courteous.

What disturbed Doran the most was not the content of the letter, but the manner in which it had appeared. No guard had seen the messenger. No servant had brought it. And he himself had found it on his desk at dawn, among reports and paperwork, as if it had always been there. That silent presence said more about the author than the written words themselves.

Doran took a deep breath and placed the parchment on the table, next to an untouched glass of sand wine, just as Arianne entered, wrapped in silk, with that same blend of grace and pride that reminded him of her sister Elia.

—Father —she greeted, approaching with light steps—. You were looking for me?

—Yes. Sit down —he said with a glance—. I want you to be prepared. In a few days, we'll be receiving an important visitor.

—Who? —she asked, taking a seat across from him.

—Daenerys Targaryen. Or rather... Daenerys Drakul Targaryen.

—The exiled princess is coming to Dorne? —Arianne asked, frowning, as if the announcement made no sense at all—. Why?

Doran closed his eyes for a moment, suppressing the sigh building in his chest. Of all his daughter's flaws, impulsive, impatient, stubborn like her mother, her lack of a clear understanding of the political game worried him the most.

—Because she is not just an exiled princess —he said, slowly opening his eyes to look directly at her—. She is the de facto Queen of Meereen. The recognized ruler in Qarth. The wife of the conqueror of Yunkai and Astapor. Of Vlad Drakul. Together they control cities, trade routes, armies... and dragons.

—Dragons? —Arianne repeated with a half-smile, tilting her head—. Come now, father. Those are just old wives' tales.

—A hundred such tales —Doran replied calmly, yet firmly— become a fact. Our spies have seen them in Meereen. A week ago, in Braavos. Unless you know something that my vast web of informants doesn't, we must act as though the dragons are real.

Arianne didn't answer immediately. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her robe while her gaze wandered out the window. The name that truly lingered in her mind wasn't Daenerys, but Vlad. The shadowed figure behind Meereen's throne, the man surrounded by stories that brushed the edge of the impossible.

—I've heard more about him than about her —she admitted, without looking at her father—. They say Vlad Drakul has no shadow. That he can walk through fire without burning. That he impales his enemies for fun. Are those things true?

Doran didn't respond with scorn or irony. He simply rested both hands on the arms of his chair and met his daughter's gaze with seriousness. It was clear he did not appreciate jokes.

—What is true —he said— is that he appeared out of nowhere. That he commands the Dothraki, the deadliest cavalry in the known world. That he has raised an army without a family name, without a banner, without royal favor. He is intelligent, focused, and dangerous. Underestimating him would be a mistake Dorne cannot afford.

—Is he after the throne? —Arianne asked.

—I don't know.

—But you think he is —she pressed. She knew her father well.

—I don't know —Doran repeated honestly—. But what I do know is that his wife is coming to Dorne. Why she comes remains to be seen. But I hope that when she arrives, you'll behave as the heir to this house should.

Arianne smiled softly. The smile of an obedient daughter.

—Of course, father. I will welcome her as she deserves.

Doran didn't respond immediately. He watched her for several seconds before sighing, but said nothing more.

Arianne thought herself clever, but the sad truth was that she had begun playing the game without fully knowing the rules. Her intentions were so obvious to Doran that he almost pitied her.

When she left him, Arianne walked through the halls of Sunspear without haste, letting the warmth of the marble beneath her feet relax her. Her mind, however, moved swiftly. The arrival of the exiled princess might be a complication, but she would not let that stop her. She didn't need dragons or armies. Her play had already begun.

While her father wove alliances and crawled before lions and the Throne, she was preparing her own crown. Soon, Myrcella would be queen. She had practically trained the girl for that purpose, and with her by her side, the Dornish would cry out her name.

And with her on the throne... the lion would finally pay his blood debt.

The sun burned high over the sandy-colored walls of Sunspear when the palace gates opened with ceremony. Daenerys had arrived without incident and had left the port without fanfare, accompanied only by a handful of men, her face hidden beneath a silk hood and veil.

The escort that accompanied her stopped at the foot of the stairway: a few elite soldiers, Vlad's five bloodriders, Missandei, and a small entourage of servants and porters. They were not many, but more than enough to ensure her comfort and safety. Although, in truth, she no longer needed protection.

Daenerys walked at the front, flanked by the bloodriders, her steps soft and measured. Everything about her radiated beauty and elegance.

There was something about her walk that felt hypnotic, as if she didn't walk at all, but floated above the marble tiles. The white linen robe she wore seemed to move with a life of its own, and her nearly silver hair flowed like a cascade over her shoulders, barely hidden by the veil and hood.

From the cool shadows of the entrance hall, Arianne saw her arrive alongside her father, and for a moment, just one, she felt small.

Arianne was beautiful, and she knew it. In fact, she wielded it as a weapon. She knew what she stirred in both men and women: desire, respect, envy. How to make men kneel and women whisper with admiration.

But that woman crossing the hall outshone her. Outshone everyone.

Arianne looked at her, and she knew, even with her face covered, that she was in the presence of the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. And what she felt wasn't admiration, but envy. Rage. Desire. Everything she herself was used to provoking... and that infuriated her.

Doran, ever the diplomat, inclined his head from his wheeled chair. It was all the courtesy he could offer.