CHAPTER XXI: The Sun & The Dragon

The wind that swept through Sunspear carried with it the dry scent of spice and dust. In the upper terrace of the Tower of the Sun, where colored glass cast golden mosaics across the walls, Prince Maron Martell sat beside his princess.

It was evening, the sun low upon the horizon, painting the sky in hues of ochre and blood-orange. Beneath a carved stone awning, the prince poured two cups of spiced wine, his long fingers steady, his expression calm. He was not a man of bluster or fire, Daenerys had learned—Maron Martell was a man of thought, and tonight, he chose to share his thoughts freely.

"Sometimes I wonder," he said, handing her the cup, "what might have come to pass had the dragons not flown south."

Daenerys tilted her head. "You mean Aegon's dragons?"

Maron nodded. "Balerion, Meraxes, Vhagar. The might of House Targaryen—fire given wings. No one can deny Aegon the Conqueror's strength, his vision, or his legend. But even a conqueror must ask himself: what price must be paid for a throne? For a crown?"

He sipped. The shadows of the dying day flickered across the bold angles of his face. "Dorne did not burn easily," he continued. "We bled, we scattered, but we endured. My people remember. The scars of Sunstream, of Sandstone, of Blackmont—they are remembered still."

Daenerys looked down into her cup. "We remember too, in our own way. But we often call it victory."

"Yes." Maron's lips curled into a wry smile. "Victory looks different on opposite ends of the spear."

They sat in silence for a time, the only sound that of the wind rustling the orange trees below. When Daenerys finally spoke, her voice was soft.

"My brother, King Daeron... you admire him."

"I do," Maron said. "He is more than just a scholar or a peacemaker. He understands that where steel failed, words may yet prevail. That diplomacy, too, can be a form of conquest—one that leaves fewer widows behind."

"Then you honor him by wedding me."

Maron turned to her fully then. "I did not know what kind of woman you would be, Daenerys of the Dragonlords. I feared you would be cold, distant... forged in pride, not tenderness." He touched her hand gently. "But I have come to see your heart is warm, even if your skin does not burn beneath our sun."

A smile touched Daenerys's lips—small, but true.

"You speak of Aegon's dragons," she said, "but it was Queen Rhaenys who first sought peace with Dorne. She rode Meraxes to Sunspear, not in war, but in hope. She offered peaceful submission. But Princess Meria Martell refused. And when she returned... The Ullers welcomed her with scorpion bolts. Queen Rhaenys died at Hellholt, her dragon Meraxes with her. There was no more peace after that."

Maron nodded solemnly. "I have seen the ruins of the Hellholt's old keep. Even now, the stones bear scorch marks."

They looked toward the sea then, the salt wind cooling their skin.

"It is strange," Daenerys murmured, "that we speak of centuries past, and yet here we are—Martell and Targaryen, joined not by fire or war, but something... gentler."

"I built the Water Gardens for you," Maron said quietly. "I wanted you to have a place here that was your own. A sanctuary. Not a palace of chains and whispers, like the Red Keep."

Daenerys's eyes shone. "You built me peace."

Maron touched his forehead to hers, a moment of quiet reverence between a Dornish prince and a dragon princess who had both endured too much of the world's expectations.

And far below, in the gardens where children laughed and splashed in shallow pools, the legacy of fire and blood met the still strength of sun and sand—and learned to soften.