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"House Martell will offer no further help to Rhaegar in any form."
Prince Doran kept his word and didn't push a single step past the line.
Daeron lost interest in the conversation. He raised his voice. "Ser, see Prince Doran out to rest."
The hall doors opened. Ser Barristan and Ser Jon escorted the man away.
The first round of talks had failed, but Prince Doran didn't look discouraged. He refused the Kingsguard's help and wheeled himself out on his own.
"Ungrateful."
Daeron liked the Dornish even less now.
---
Red Keep. The gardens.
With the help of his guard captain, Areo Hotah, Prince Doran rolled past the trees and into the godswood beside Blackwater Bay. There were no weirwood trees here, just a small pavilion and a quiet stream.
Laughter rang out.
A handful of Dornish-looking girls chased each other through the grass, short spears and whips in their hands, their voices bright and sharp. The Sand Snakes were training hard and having fun doing it.
Watching the young, lively figures, Prince Doran felt some of the tension ease from his chest. A small smile touched his mouth.
"They're something, aren't they, Areo?"
Areo raised an eyebrow and glanced toward the flower beds beside the pavilion.
Oberyn Martell strolled out with one arm around his paramour and a wine cup swinging in his other hand, looking every inch the carefree prince.
"How are you feeling, brother?" Oberyn asked.
Seeing him so openly indulging himself, Doran's brow creased. "Seeing is believing. This young king is far more capable than Aerys the Second ever was… and he likes Dorne even less."
"Hmm."
Oberyn pretended to think, then grinned. "Isn't that because we backed Rhaegar and picked the wrong side?"
There was no point pretending otherwise.
Doran sighed. "That's exactly why we need to show our loyalty now. We have to change how he sees us politically."
Dorne's foundation was too thin.
Dragon King Daeron was like a living conqueror. He had swept through the Stepstones and the Triarchy cities, and no one could stand against his dragons. If the king's old prejudice against Dorne didn't change, disaster would come eventually.
"I think you're overdoing it," Oberyn said. "Rhaenys and Arianne are doing fine here. We just need to mind our own business in Dorne. Why would that provoke him?"
Doran didn't agree.
In his eyes, Oberyn was being too optimistic.
With the North and the Vale fractured, the new royal domain expanding, and Highgarden's power being cut down, the young king wasn't just expanding outward. He was also weakening his own vassals from within.
So far, only the Lannisters under Tywin had escaped the pressure.
Doran asked himself: with the history between House Martell and House Targaryen, how could they ever be trusted the way the Lannisters were?
One wrong move and he might not even keep his seat as Prince of Dorne.
"Oberyn, stop playing around," Doran said. "Spend time with your nieces and nephews. Leave a good impression."
"A good impression?"
Oberyn looked around the godswood. Only a few Sand Snakes were playing here. The reason outsiders stayed away was obvious.
Dornish reputation didn't buy good impressions. It never had.
---
For the next several days, Prince Doran kept requesting meetings with the young king. Every time he was turned away, but he never complained. He looked almost admirably persistent.
On the fifth day, the Kingsguard finally gave him an answer. He was summoned back to the council hall.
"I saw Rhaenys and Arianne yesterday," Doran said, continuing where they had left off. "They're doing well here."
King's Landing's climate suited them better than the dry heat of Dorne. Both girls looked polished, their skin clearer and brighter.
Daeron had no patience for small talk. "If you have something to say, Prince, say it plainly."
He had kept the man waiting long enough.
Doran straightened in his chair. "Your Grace, House Martell truly wishes to contribute to the eastern campaign. We ask for nothing more in return."
"There's no such thing as a free lunch."
Daeron didn't believe it for a second.
Doran took a slow breath. "You understand Dorne's situation better than most. The endless sand has made our people stubborn and tough. The Greenblood gives us what little softness we have. Our people don't crave war, but we need more resources to survive. We have no choice but to look outward."
"Backing Rhaegar was one gamble. Backing you is another."
The meaning was clear. He had bet everything on Rhaegar and lost badly. Now he was putting what little he had left on the Iron Throne, hoping to turn the game around.
But why should the Iron Throne help Dorne?
Daeron stayed calm. "Pretty words. But I still don't see anything I actually want."
Dorne had nothing the Iron Throne needed badly enough.
Was House Martell going to abolish the title of Prince and become simple Dukes? The two titles meant the same thing in practice—both were ways of paying lip service to the Iron Throne while doing whatever they wanted.
"On my own authority, I'm canceling the betrothal between my eldest son Quentyn and Rhaegar's daughter Visenya."
Doran had clearly struggled with the decision before offering it.
Daeron looked mildly surprised.
The man was using a promise Rhaegar had made and trying to trade it here?
Still, Doran didn't have much else worth bargaining with. Daeron gave a short nod. "Fine."
There was still fighting to be done in the disputed lands. He didn't have time to waste on Dorne. If they wanted to talk peace on their own, that suited him well enough.
"I'll inform Rhaegar," Doran said, visibly relieved.
After that, the conversation grew easier.
Doran smiled. "House Martell will always stand as a loyal ally when the Iron Throne needs to fight abroad."
Daeron gave a noncommittal hum.
"House Martell has some trade ties with Volantis," Doran continued. "The archons there seem hostile to the Iron Throne. You should be careful."
Another hum.
"False dragon kings are springing up all over the eastern continent. Qohor and Norvos both have their own pretenders—"
Daeron accepted every point without argument.
Varys's reports had already covered most of it, but hearing it from Doran carried a different political weight. The Prince of Dorne was making it clear: the Iron Throne's real enemies lay across the Narrow Sea, not in Dorne.
By the time they finished, it was nearly midday.
Daeron offered, "Stay for lunch?"
Doran wasn't foolish enough to mistake the question for a real invitation. He smiled and shook his head. "I've already taken too much of your time, Your Grace."
This time, Daeron watched him leave.
"Oh, one more thing," Doran said, pausing at the door. "I heard Prince Viserys hasn't been betrothed yet, but he already has someone in mind?"
Daeron answered evenly. "That's right."
"Then congratulations are in order."
Doran offered the polite words with a smile and wheeled himself out.
Both men understood exactly what Doran had been hinting at by sending Arianne to King's Landing. He had hoped to arrange a match between her and Viserys.
But as the Iron Throne grew stronger, House Martell had lost its chance at that kind of alliance.
Bringing it up again would have been rude.
"Prince Doran is weak," Daeron thought as the doors closed. "That's fortunate for House Targaryen."
Dornishmen had always been known for being wild, ruthless, and stubborn. If this generation of Martells had all been like Oberyn—reckless and willing to burn everything down—it would have been far more dangerous.
"Though it still wouldn't have been that dangerous."
Daeron smiled to himself and headed for the queen's chambers to eat.
In two months, Shaena would give birth.
House Martell had arrived at the perfect time to attend the celebration for the Iron Throne's future heir.
---
Time moved quickly after that.
Daeron spent his days in council meetings, working out how to free the slaves in the three conquered cities. The work felt endless, like harvesting the same fields over and over. Painful, but strangely satisfying.
"Your Grace, there's movement in the Dragonpit."
Two Dragon Guards appeared in the great hall. Even these hardened men looked excited.
Daeron stood up at once. "I'm going now."
He couldn't afford to linger. If he stayed, the overworked ministers would drag him right back into more paperwork.
He reached the Dragonpit quickly.
"Uncle!"
"Brother!"
Rhaenys and her two younger siblings were there with Daenerys. All four children stood outside the entrance, waiting obediently.
Daeron waved them over. "Come with me."
The unclaimed dragons were all on Dragonstone. A few curious children wouldn't cause any real trouble.
Inside the pit, the Dragon Guards had formed a circle.
Their commander, Jacaerys, could barely contain himself. "Your Grace, it's the egg that was laid earlier."
No one needed to lead the way. Daeron walked straight to the underground nursery where the dragon eggs were kept warm.
The air was hot and thick, smelling of dried grass and faint dragon musk.
A small green dragon sat on the stone floor, vertical pupils fixed on the newcomers. It opened its mouth and gave a warning hiss.
The green dragon—Rego.
Daeron's face lit up. "Well, look at you. Finally decided to come out."
The Dragon Guards had rushed to find him the moment the egg hatched.
Rego hissed again, wings flapping as it tried to rise, only managing to kick up a cloud of dust.
"Wow, it's beautiful!"
Daenerys peeked out from behind Daeron, eyes wide with wonder.
Rhaenys's face glowed with excitement. She held her younger brother and sister back, keeping them at a respectful distance while they watched the tiny new dragon.
"Is that really a dragon?" Visenya asked, her usually cold expression cracking with curiosity.
Aegon didn't even try to hide it. He stood close to his sister, gray-blue eyes darting between the floor and the dragon, desperate to look but trying to seem composed.
"Come closer," Daeron said, smiling at them. "Have a proper look."
There was no point hiding things from children. It only made them feel small and resentful later.
Rhaegar still had two dragon eggs of his own. Whether they hatched or not, they would eventually go to his children. The crown would simply record them, collect any new eggs from that line, and keep the total number of dragons under control.
In plain terms, Rhaegar's branch currently had a limit of two dragons.
Any future eggs or young dragons from that line would go to the crown. If they wanted to claim a new one, they would have to ask permission first.
The rules would depend on the situation.
But for now, the important thing was simple.
A new dragon had hatched.
And its name was Rego.