Chapter XVIII: Ashes of Redgrass Field

The corridors of Sunspear hummed with life. Laughter echoed from the barracks, songs drifted from the kitchens, and even the stony-faced guards allowed themselves small smiles as they exchanged news. In the courtyards, noblemen and stewards spoke in jubilant tones, though their voices lowered when Princess Daenerys passed by.

She noticed the change at once.

In recent months, she had avoided letters from King's Landing, ignored whispers from the campfires of returning men, and refrained from asking about battles that could only wound her heart. She busied herself with her children, with her gardens, with the scrolls of Dorne's ancient poetry—but not with war.

And yet now, peace walked the halls of Sunspear. Not the uneasy kind born of silence, but the kind that follows a storm.

Daenerys entered her husband's study without warning, as she had done countless times. Prince Maron sat behind a table piled with dispatches and sealed scrolls. The windows were open, letting in the sea breeze, but even that did not clear the weariness from his face.

"My lord husband," she said gently. "Why does Sunspear sing?"

Maron looked up at her, but said nothing at first. His eyes betrayed a weight not yet spoken aloud.

"I thought you did not wish to know," he said carefully.

"I did not. But the castle knows something I do not, and I would not be the only one kept in shadow." She stepped closer, searching his face. "What news, Maron?"

He exhaled slowly and stood, walking to the wine table. He poured two cups of chilled red and handed one to her. His fingers lingered around hers.

"The war is over," he said. "The Blackfyres have been defeated."

Daenerys felt her heart still. The words, long-dreaded, were finally spoken—but not yet complete.

"And Daemon?"

A pause. A silence so deep, the seabirds could be heard crying from the tower spires.

"Slain," said Maron, voice heavy with sorrow. "He fell at Redgrass Field. Alongside his twin sons, Aegon and Aemon."

Daenerys turned away, her wine untouched. Her breath caught in her chest.

"Who?" she whispered. "Who struck him down?"

Maron's voice dropped lower. "Ser Brynden Rivers. He commanded his elite unit of archers, the Raven's Teeh, upon Weeping Ridge. When the tide turned against the Blackfyre host… he loosed the volley that slew them. He shot down Daemon and his sons himself"

"And Bittersteel?" she asked, almost afraid.

"He escaped. Took the sword Blackfyre and fled with Daemon's widow and children across the Narrow Sea. The remnants of his host are scattered. The war is done… but the seeds remain."

Daenerys moved to the window, gripping the frame. Below, Sunspear's courtyards basked in golden light, but her heart turned to dusk.

"They speak of victory," she said softly. "But I feel no triumph."

Maron came to stand behind her. He did not speak, only rested a hand on her shoulder.

"I loved him," she said, after a long while. "Not as a brother. Not only. He was fire and shadow, and he loved me more fiercely than any man might ever again."

"I know," Maron said. "And still, he chose war."

"He chose what he believed was his," she murmured. "What they told him was his."

Her tears did not fall, not yet. But they swelled in the corner of her eyes as she stared into the horizon—toward the east, toward the Narrow Sea.

"Will they ever return?" she asked.

"If they do," Maron answered quietly, "we must be ready."

Daenerys nodded. Her fingers pressed against the stone. "Then peace has come… for now."

The wind moved through the curtains, and Sunspear's walls bore silent witness as Princess Daenerys mourned a past love, a dream, and the part of her heart that died with him on the field of Redgrass.