While Gaemon prepared to return to Wendwater Domain, a profound shift was taking place at the southernmost tip of Westeros—in the sun-scorched land of Dorne.
Dorne was a land of miracles. Most of it was desert and jagged rock, the climate brutally hot, water scarce. Yet somehow this harsh realm remained the only corner of Westeros that still refused to kneel to House Targaryen.
It was ruled from Sunspear by House Martell.
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Old Palace, Sunspear
As the ancestral seat of House Martell, the Old Palace was breathtakingly beautiful. Lush greenery and vibrant flowers surrounded the entire complex. At the center of the Water Gardens lay a large rectangular pool, flanked by sunken flower beds and elegant double-tiered colonnades. Every visitor who stepped into this paradise was left awestruck.
But today the palace felt heavy and oppressive.
Dozens of Dornish lords had gathered in the courtyards, their faces grim. The air was thick with tension. Everyone knew something momentous was happening.
Deep inside the palace, in a lavish bedchamber, a crowd of people stood in solemn silence. Some had the olive skin, black hair, and dark eyes typical of Dornish blood; others were fairer, with golden or brown hair. All wore light silk robes. Every eye was fixed on the grand bed at the center of the room.
Lying there was the ruler of Dorne—Prince Doran Martell.
The once-strong and dignified prince was now a shadow of himself. His body had wasted away to skin and bones. He lay gasping for breath, barely clinging to life.
His heir, Maron Martell, knelt beside the bed, gripping his father's right hand tightly. He leaned close, straining to hear the dying man's final words.
Doran's voice was so weak it was almost a whisper.
"Maron… remember… do not… provoke the Targaryens lightly. We… are not their match right now. You must… endure… be patient…"
Maron's jaw tightened. The young man, hot-blooded and proud, saw his father's caution as weakness—a stain on Dornish honor. But looking at the man who had ruled Dorne for decades and was now moments from death, he forced himself to nod.
"I understand, Father. I will remember."
Doran could see the reluctance in his son's eyes, but he no longer had the strength to argue. Any further warnings would be meaningless without someone willing to follow them.
With that final thought, Doran's consciousness began to fade into darkness. In his delirium, he thought he saw someone familiar calling to him.
"Mother… Mama… is that you? Have you come for me?"
His voice was barely audible, yet somehow everyone in the room heard it clearly.
The moment the words left his lips, Doran's hand went limp in Maron's grasp. His half-closed eyes slowly closed for the last time.
The Prince of Dorne had answered the Stranger's call.
"Father! Father!"
Maron's cry of grief tore through the chamber. Though his heart burned with different ambitions, he played the role of the grieving son perfectly.
The maester stepped forward, checked the prince's pulse, then bowed his head solemnly.
"My lords… the Sun of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear, Prince Doran Martell, has passed into the embrace of the Seven."
A wave of mourning swept through the room. Lords lowered their heads, murmuring prayers to the Seven as they paid their final respects.
Soon, the Silent Sisters arrived—veiled figures in gray robes—to prepare the body according to ancient custom.
Everyone began filing out of the chamber, leaving the final rites to the sisters.
As they left, the lords instinctively drifted toward Maron Martell.
The old prince was dead. The new one stood before them.
In Westeros, death was the ultimate reminder: when a man dies, the candles go out and the tea grows cold.
The shift in loyalty was immediate and seamless.
Surrounded by the growing crowd of nobles, Maron Martell walked out of the bedchamber and headed toward the throne room of the Old Palace.
More and more lords joined the procession. Some had been inside the chamber; others had been waiting in the gardens. All now flocked to the new Prince of Dorne.
Everything had already been prepared. Though Doran had only just passed, the coronation ceremony was ready to begin at a moment's notice.
In the magnificent throne room of Sunspear's Old Palace, Maron Martell sat upon the ancient seat of House Martell while the High Septon of the Dornish Faith placed the golden sun crown upon his head.
Maron leaned forward slightly to make the task easier. Once the crown was settled, he sat straight once more, every inch a prince.
The Septon then took a long, simple silver spear from an attendant—two meters in length, unadorned, austere, and deadly.
Maron stood and accepted the spear with both hands. He raised it high above his head, displaying both himself and the ancient weapon to every lord present.
The new Prince of Dorne had taken the sun and spear.
Dorne had a new ruler.