Chapter XVII: Spears of Dorne, On The Move

The sounds of steel echoed across the stony yard beneath the towering ramparts of Sunspear. Dawn light shimmered on armor and spears as ranks of Dornishmen assembled under banners kissed by the rising sun. The colors of House Martell—red and gold—whipped in the wind, joined now by lesser houses: Yronwood, Fowler, Manwoody, Jordayne.

Princess Daenerys stood atop a high balcony, her children beside her, watching the host gather. Their innocent cheers at the sight of so many men in shining armor contrasted bitterly with the heaviness that settled in her heart. She had seen such hosts before—riding in tourney, not to war. But now, there was no cheering crowd, no flower-strewn field. Only sharpened swords and solemn silence.

Prince Maron stood beside her, his face carved from Dornish stone. When the children were ushered away by their maids, Daenerys turned to him.

"It has begun," she said softly.

He nodded, his jaw set. "The fighting worsens by the day."

"What news?" she asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Prince Maron led her back into their solar, away from the ears of their attendants. He poured a goblet of water—sweetened with lemon and mint—and handed it to her before speaking.

"The Crown has suffered heavy losses. Ser Quentyn Ball leads the Blackfyre vanguard through the western heartlands. He stormed Lannisport and struck down Lord Lefford at its gates. Lord Damon Lannister rode to repel him but was routed in turn."

Daenerys closed her eyes. "The Lannisters defeated… and the Mander?"

"The crossing turned red," Maron said. "Lady Penrose sent her sons to hold the ford. Quentyn slew them all—save for the youngest boy, whom he spared out of some strange mercy. They say he bowed to the Lady before riding off. Others say it was to show the realm the difference between Blackfyre steel and Targaryen resolve."

"And Daemon?" Her voice was quiet.

"He has pressed deep into the Crownlands. He leads from the front, with Bittersteel at his right hand and his twin sons riding at his side. Aegon and Aemon… barely men, but already blooded. They fight like true dragons, they say."

Daenerys sat in silence, the goblet untouched in her hands.

"The smallfolk whisper his name in awe," Maron continued. "They call him 'The Trueborn,' 'The Black Dragon,' 'The King Who Bore The Sword.'" He looked at her. "He is yet to sit the Iron Throne, but his victories speak louder than any royal decree."

She looked up at him, eyes shining with restrained grief. "He will not stop."

"No," Maron agreed. "Not until he reaches King's Landing. Or dies before its gates."

"And what of my brother? Daeron?"

"He holds his court at King's Landing still. Baelor Breakspear commands much of the royal host. He has the support of the Reach and Stormlands, but… the tides turn fast. Too fast."

Daenerys turned back to the window, watching the columns of Dornish spears move like a river of bronze.

"Are you sending them?" she asked. "To fight in this… this war of brothers?"

Maron did not answer immediately.

"I have sworn fealty to your brother," he said at last. "As has Dorne. Our banners march for the realm, for the peace Daeron swore to uphold. Not for bloodshed. But the Black Dragon has forced our hand."

She nodded, though her heart clenched.

"We have tried peace," she whispered. "Now all that remains is fire."

Maron stepped beside her and took her hand. "You will not ride to war, my sun-and-stars. Not now. Not while our children still dream beneath this roof."

"I know," she replied. "But my heart rides with them. And with him…"

Her words trailed off into silence, carried away by the sea wind.

Below, the drums of war thundered anew. And in Daenerys's soul, the first tears of fire began to fall.