Chapter XX: Letters & Distant Memories

The parchments bore the royal seal—one the crowned dragon, the other the blazing sun-and-spear. Servants brought them to her in the midmorning, just after she had broken her fast beneath the shaded terrace overlooking the Dornish Sea.

Princess Daenerys Martell, once of House Targaryen, now of two worlds, opened the first with delicate fingers.

To our beloved sister Daenerys,

It warms my heart to hear that you are adjusting well to Sunspear. Queen Myriah and I were pleased beyond words to receive your letter. You are sorely missed at court, though we know you serve a higher cause now—the lasting peace between our realms.

We trust Prince Maron treats you with the honor due a princess of the blood. May this marriage, born of duty, one day know contentment and true companionship. You are remembered here with love, and I hope you find joy in the warmth of the Dornish sun and the laughter of its children.

Your brother always,Daeron II, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men

Daenerys smiled faintly, her eyes lingering on Daeron's flowing script. She imagined him in the solar at Maegor's Holdfast, pen in hand, dictating the words to his maester or scrawling them himself between councils and court.

The second letter bore the softer, more intricate hand of the queen.

To sweet Daenerys,

Your words brought such joy to my heart that I read them aloud to my ladies twice. I miss Dorne more with each passing season in King's Landing, and your letters remind me of home—the scent of lemon blossoms, the rustle of sand beneath silk slippers, the songs of the wind among the towers of Sunspear.

Once you feel more settled, you must allow Maron to take you to the Tor and the Scourge, and let your feet touch the golden shores of Ghost Hill. And the Greenblood River is like a ribbon of glass winding through the dunes, perfect for quiet sails on late afternoons. There is so much of Dorne still waiting for you, sweet sister.

Your sister by law and by love,Myriah

Daenerys set the letters down beside a bowl of sun-warmed figs. The sea breeze tugged gently at her pale lavender skirts, and she tilted her head back to feel the sun against her brow. Despite the growing warmth, she did not sweat nor swelter. Targaryens were forged in fire, and the Dornish sun was no threat to her.

She thought of the Water Gardens and the peace they brought her, the laughter of the children, and the still silence of the desert nights beneath a thousand stars. Dorne was not a cage, she realized—not like the Red Keep had sometimes felt. It was a quiet place, where no one whispered behind doors or plotted in shadows. But nor was it home, not yet.

Her eyes drifted east, to where the sun climbed the sky above the sea.

And her thoughts turned, unbidden, to Daemon.

Was he still at court? Had he remained near Daeron's side, or returned to Tyrosh to honor his long-dormant betrothal? Had he spoken of her, even once? Did he—

She stopped herself.

It had been a year since their last embrace. A year since he kissed her brow and whispered that no crown, no name, no war would ever change how he loved her. But that was the past. Their lives had been drawn upon different pages now, and hers was here, in Dorne, with a husband who brought her to gardens and built her peace.

Yet still... when the wind came from the north, she fancied she could hear his name in its sigh.