Chapter XVI: The Wedding Tourney

It was a year to the day since the wedding that bound sun and dragon.

The Iron Throne room stood in stern splendor, shafts of light slicing through the narrow windows to catch on the blades that made the throne. The Targaryens' seat of power was cruel and sharp, a thousand swords fused by dragonfire, where kings bled if they sat too proud. King Daeron II Targaryen sat atop it now, clad in crimson and black, his beard neatly trimmed, his long fingers resting lightly upon a pommel twisted like a gryphon's wing. Though his face was calm, there was a weight in his eyes—a burden taken up with the crown.

Before him stood Prince Maron Martell of Dorne, flanked by a small retinue of Dornish nobles dressed in robes of light silks and sunfire hues. The prince's dark eyes were steady, his bearing graceful. He wore no armor, only a fine surcoat embroidered with the blazing sun-and-spear of his house, and the copper-hued circlet that marked his princely rank.

The lords of the realm watched in silence. Some with curiosity, others with disquiet. Lord Lyonel Tyrell of Highgarden, his face inscrutable beneath his golden beard. Lord Stark of Winterfell, grim and solemn despite the heat. Even the silent Lord Tully, Lord Arryn, and the Great Lords of the Crownlands—all were present to bear witness. The Dornishmen had come, and all the realm watched to see if peace could truly hold.

Prince Maron stepped forward to kneel before the throne.

"I, Maron of House Martell, Prince of Dorne and Lord of Sunspear, do swear fealty and service to the Iron Throne and to my liege lord, Daeron of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. I swear to be your man, to uphold the peace between Dorne and the Crown, and to deliver to your Majesty what is owed in gold and grain, in sword and soldier, so long as the Crown shall do the same in kind."

His voice rang out across the throne room like the chime of steel on steel. No whisper followed.

King Daeron II inclined his head and spoke, his tone formal, but not cold. "Dorne is now of the realm, as it should ever have been. Your oath is received with honor. Let all here bear witness: the sun and the dragon now fly as one."

Then, with a glance to his maesters and lords, Daeron added:

"As a mark of our enduring trust and amity, the lands of Dorne shall retain their ancient titles and traditions. Henceforth, the rulers of Sunspear shall be known still as Prince and Princess, in honor of their history, and the collection of taxes within Dorne shall proceed by Dornish custom, with oversight from the Crown lessened in recognition of your peoples' independence and past wrongs suffered."

Gasps and murmurs echoed through the hall at that—less oversight? Some lords bristled, others looked intrigued, but none dared speak openly.

Prince Maron only bowed once more. "The dragon shows wisdom. And Dorne shall not forget."

From the crowd, Princess Daenerys stood quietly in her Dornish silks beside Queen Myriah Martell, her expression composed, her eyes veiled. She did not meet her brother's gaze, nor her husband's.

Later that day, in celebration of the unification and the oaths sworn, a great tourney was held upon the fields beyond the city walls. The king's banners flew alongside those of Sunspear, and a hundred knights entered the lists to tilt for honor, glory, and the favor of ladies now allied by peace.

Among the names called was one the realm had not forgotten.

Ser Daemon Blackfyre.

He entered the field in black armor chased with crimson, his shield bearing the red three-headed dragon on a black field—the dragon reversed, the knights whispered, though the herald did not call it so. The sword he bore at his side gleamed with dark Valyrian steel: Blackfyre, the sword of kings, the blade once wielded by Aegon the Conqueror himself.

When Daenerys saw him from her place in the royal pavilion, her breath caught in her throat. He did not look up at her, not once. His face was a mask beneath the helm. But when he took his lance and rode into the lists, all the crowd knew that fire had not yet burned itself out.

And in the stands above, King Daeron II sat with his eyes narrowed—not at Daemon, nor at the field—but at the future taking shape before him.