Chapter XXIII: The Gathering Dark Clouds

Night had fallen over Sunspear, but the warmth lingered in the stones. The sky above the Tower of the Sun was streaked with stars, and the desert wind carried a stillness that Daenerys once found comforting. Tonight, it offered no such peace.

She found Prince Maron Martell in the solar, seated before a low table where a flagon of arbor red stood untouched beside a parchment sealed with the mark of the Star of Dorne. He looked up as she entered, reading the concern in her face before a word was spoken.

"Tell me," Daenerys said softly, closing the door behind her.

Maron studied her for a moment. His eyes were deep brown, calm like the Red Mountains themselves, but she could see the tension behind them. He gestured to the cushioned bench across from him.

"You should not speak of this," he said, his voice a murmur barely above the sound of the breeze. "Not outside this room. Not even to your handmaidens."

"So it is true?" she asked.

He poured her a cup of wine, but she did not touch it. Maron exhaled and leaned back, fingers tented beneath his chin.

"Some of it, yes," he admitted. "Enough to warrant worry. My envoys returned from King's Landing only a fortnight ago. They say… that your brother the King and Daemon have not seen eye to eye in many moons. Words have been exchanged. Sharp ones, in full view of the court at times."

Her heart stilled. "Daemon?"

"Yes. King Daemon of House Blackfyre, First of His Name now, as he styles himself. He holds court at Dornish Marches, has gathered many of the old marcher lords to his side. He has… sons. At least seven, with Rohanne of Tyrosh, his lady wife. And two daughters to add"

"Seven?" she echoed, her voice faint.

"More than Daeron has," Maron added with a shrug. "And the eldest of them, the twins Aegon & Aemon Blackfyre, bear swords, not scrolls."

Daenerys looked down, folding her hands in her lap. The candlelight caught the glimmer of her wedding ring—Martell gold and Targaryen silver entwined like sun and flame. "Do you think… he does this because of me?"

Maron was silent for a long moment before answering.

"Perhaps… in part. But not in full." He leaned forward, his tone gentle. "We have been wed almost seven years, my lady. If your brother Daemon intended to rise over your betrothal, he would have done so the moment our vows were made. That was a wound of the heart. What stirs now is a wound of the crown."

"Then why now?"

"Because others have stirred him," Maron said. "He was ever proud, but not foolish. Yet men like Ser Aegor Rivers whisper poison into his ear. Others, too—Ser Quentyn Ball, they call him Fireball, and the name suits. They speak of betrayal, of stolen birthrights, of the sword Blackfyre being proof of Daemon's claim. And the more they speak, the more some listen."

Daenerys closed her eyes. She could see it too clearly: Daemon standing in the yard of the Red Keep, laughing as he swung a wooden sword. Daemon at her side in the library, asleep over half-read histories. Daemon, years later, with Rohanne on his arm and almost a dozen children at his heels, no longer hers in any way except memory.

"Daemon was never ambitious for the throne," she whispered.

Maron nodded. "No. But ambition is a fire easily fed by others. And he has loyal men—dangerous men—who would sooner bleed the realm than see your brother Daeron rule."

"And Daemon lets them?"

"He listens. That is enough. He has not raised banners… yet. But there are gatherings. Feasts. Tournaments. Words spoken in shadowed halls. Dorne has not forgotten the past, nor do we turn a blind eye to the future."

Daenerys looked up at him, her violet eyes heavy with sorrow.

"Then war may come."

Prince Maron reached across the table and took her hand.

"And if it does," he said softly, "you will not face it alone. You are a Martell as well as a Targaryen. And Dorne does not forget who its princess is."