Chapter XVIII: To The Lands of Sands

The banners of House Martell flapped high above the procession as it made its slow, steady way south along the Roseroad. Gold and orange cloaks, the sigil of the sun and spear emblazoned on each rider, gave the caravan the look of a flame moving across the land. At its heart rode Princess Daenerys Targaryen, now a bride of Dorne, bound for the palace of Sunspear.

King's Landing had fallen behind her like a memory half-dreamed and soon to be forgotten. She had taken one last look at the Red Keep upon their departure—a city of stone and smoke, of whispered promises and shattered dreams—and said nothing. Her brother, King Daeron II, had kissed her brow at the gate. "You do the realm a great service, sister," he had said. "You may not see it now, but one day you will."

She had said nothing then either.

Prince Maron Martell rode beside her, his bearing courteous, his words soft-spoken. He was a man of five-and-twenty, lean and thoughtful, with dark eyes that gave away little. Where many men might have forced conversation or hidden awkwardness behind japes and hollow mirth, Prince Maron simply rode in silence for the better part of their first days, watching the land pass, making his presence known in calm, quiet ways.

It was only after crossing the Greenblood that he spoke with purpose.

"We Dornish are strange to your kin," Maron said one evening, as they made camp beneath a grove of lemon trees. "And yours are strange to us. But I would see that strangeness bridged, not feared. You are of my house now, Daenerys. Not as a captive or a prize, but as a partner. I would know you."

Daenerys studied him in the fading firelight. There was no guile in his words, no hunger in his eyes as there had been in so many others. And yet she felt the weight of all she had left behind—the towers of Dragonstone, the marble corridors of the Red Keep, her mother's quiet piety, her brother's heavy crown... and Daemon.

"What would you know, my prince?" she asked.

Maron tilted his head. "What gladdens you. What frightens you. Whether the sun is too hot on your skin or if you like lemon in your wine. Whether you dream of children, or peace, or dragons."

"I dreamed of a different life," she replied softly. "But dreams are wind. They shift, and scatter. I am learning to be content with what is."

"You are brave," he said.

"No," she said, "only dutiful."

And Maron Martell, for all his quiet dignity, did not press her further.

As they crossed into Dorne proper, the air grew dry and sharp, the land a patchwork of ochre hills, stony ridges, and olive groves. Daenerys had never seen a sky so vast, or stars so bold in their brightness. Sunspear rose in the distance like a spearhead thrust from the sea, its towers rising from the earth in sharp defiance of wind and wave.

The palace of the Martells was no match for the grandeur of the Red Keep, nor did it seek to be. Built from fused stone and blood-red sand, the palace was built for heat and silence, its courtyards open to the sky, its shadows long and cool. The Water Gardens, Maron's favorite place, sprawled like a secret paradise west of the city walls.

It was there that Daenerys first allowed herself to breathe.

Children played amongst the pools, running barefoot over tiled paths. Fruit trees grew heavy with oranges, pomegranates, and lemons. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine. And when she laughed for the first time in months, she surprised even herself.

"Perhaps," she murmured, "the sun is not so cruel after all."

Prince Maron smiled beside her and said nothing.

But he offered her his hand.

And this time, she did not hesitate to take it.