The Great Sun Hall in the Tower of the Sun was already alive before the first course was ever served.
Torches burned in tall iron sconces along sandstone walls carved with Dorne's long memory—sunbursts worn smooth by time, forgotten battles half-claimed by myth, and the proud sigils of houses that had bent the knee only in name. Colored glass lanterns hung from arched beams overhead, scattering amber and gold across polished stone floors like heat haze made visible.
At the center of the hall stretched the banquet arrangement. A raised long table of dark polished wood reserved for House Martell, with lower tiered tables arranged beneath it for lesser nobles, visiting lords, and merchants wealthy enough to buy proximity without ever truly earning it.
The hall was already full despite night only just settling beyond the palace walls. Laughter rose in careful waves—never loud enough to become careless. Wine flowed freely, though never without awareness of who watched and who remembered. Musicians played near the eastern alcove, their strings soft, deliberate, designed not to command attention but to keep it gently tethered.
It was celebration—but also statement.
And in Dorne, statements were rarely simple things.
A spear struck stone once.
The sound cut clean through the hall.
"Princess Dareya Martell of Sunspear, and Princess Meyra Martell!"
The response was immediate, but controlled.
Heads turned. Conversations lowered. Some nobles rose halfway before remembering themselves and settling back down. Others simply inclined their heads with practiced ease, watching without giving away too much. In Dorne, attention was never absent—it was simply restrained, like water held just below the brim of a cup.
House Martell ruled less like a blade at the throat and more like the desert sun—constant, patient, impossible to ignore.
Princess Dareya Martell entered first.
She moved through the hall as though she had been born to its weight. She acknowledged the gathered lords and ladies with measured grace, neither cold nor inviting. In Sunspear, even warmth was taught discipline.
Behind her came Princess Meyra Martell.
Where Princess Dareya was composed sunlight, Meyra was movement—quieter, quicker, harder to hold in place. Her attention drifted easily through the hall, curious without seeming careless, and now and then a restrained smile threatened the dignity expected of a princess of Sunspear. People watched her not from obligation, but because she made them wonder what she might do next.
They reached the high table.
Prince Qhorys Martell, second son of House Martell, rose as they approached.
"Sisters," he greeted.
"Brother," Princess Dareya replied, easing into her seat with a faint smile. "You look as though you've already decided tonight will bore you."
"I haven't decided,"Prince Qhorys said calmly. "I'm still evaluating the dessert."
Princess Meyra tilted her head. "That sounds like judgment in advance."
"It is caution," he replied. "Dornish desserts are ambitious. One should never trust ambition blindly."
"That's why we enjoy them,"Princess Dareya said.
A few nearby nobles chuckled under their breath.
The table settled into its rhythm—small talk, trade reports, wine harvests, dry jokes about heat and sandstorms. Conversation moved easily, but never without purpose.
It was during the third round of wine that a household guard rapped his spear on the floor once more.
The hall shifted instantly.
"Thaddues Peverell of House Peverell!"
The name did not belong to Dorne.
That alone was enough.
Recognition rippled outward in uneven threads. Some had heard it spoken by Princess Dareya herself yesterday. Others knew only fragments—rumors carried by servants and guards who spoke too freely when they thought no one important was listening.
And some knew nothing at all but all watched.
Thaddues entered without haste.
His attire was Dornish in cut—light, practical, suited for desert heat—but the color broke expectation. Deep royal blue, nearly black in torchlight, embroidered with fine silver threading that caught the glow only when he moved.
Behind him walked Esteban. He did not wait for the household guard to announce him. He did not need to.
There was discipline in his posture, the kind learned in long service where hesitation meant something. He stood as men did who were used to being obeyed without speaking first. His eyes moved once across the hall, measured, then settled—already accounting for exits, angles, and distance.
Prince Qhorys noticed him immediately.
His gaze sharpened. He knew him.
Former sworn sword to the late first prince. A man once known more for silence than speech, for precision rather than pride. After the prince's death four years prior, Esteban had vanished from court life without explanation. Some said retirement. Others said exile he had chosen himself.
Prince Qhorys had not expected to see him again.
Especially not here behind this mysterious young man.
Esteban met Prince Qhorys's gaze only briefly. Long enough to acknowledge him. Not long enough to invite anything more.
They both inclined their heads, and the moment passed without comment.
Princess Dareya rose almost immediately, followed by Princess Meyra.
"Come," Princess Dareya said, already moving. "You'll sit with us."
A murmur ran quietly through the hall. Not surprise—but attention sharpening. Invitations to the high table were never given lightly, even in Dorne. Especially not to outsiders.
Thaddues inclined his head.
"Your Highness honors me."
Princess Dareya exhaled softly. "Speak like that much longer, and I may begin charging you for every sentence."
"I will account for it," he replied.
"That sounds uncomfortably like you're negotiating for mercy," she said.
"That was not my intent," Thaddeus said evenly. "Though I can see how it might be taken that way."
Princess Meyra watched them with faint amusement. "Careful. She taxes coin, wine, and patience in equal measure."
"I heard that," Princess Dareya said without looking at her.
Princess Meyra only smiled wider.
As they walked, Princess Dareya glanced sideways at Thaddeus. "Tell me then—how fares the Shadow City? Still refusing to surrender itself to sand and myth?"
"It endures," he said. "Out of habit, mostly. Possibly spite."
Princess Dareya gave a small, approving huff. "That sounds Dornish enough to outlast better kingdoms."
"Survival often begins as stubbornness," he replied. "Only later is it called wisdom."
That earned a brief, approving hum from her.
They reached the high table, Princess Dareya offered the seat next to her. Thaddues didn't stand in ceremony.
Prince Qhorys, in front, studied Thaddues openly now.
"So," he said, "you've drawn their eyes."
"I would not call it that," Thaddeus replied. "They are simply looking."
Prince Qhorys leaned slightly. "And you travel with him."
His gaze drifted to Esteban, who stood near the high table, while a few household guards kept watch over the Great Sun hall.
"Yes," Thaddeus said. "Esteban is my horseman."
A brief pause followed.
"When I acquire land in Dorne," he added, "I intend to appoint him steward. He will manage it."
The words settled without ceremony.
Qhorys did not answer at once. His eyes lingered on Esteban a moment longer than before.
"A horseman," he said at last.
"Yes."
"And steward of land yet unclaimed."
"That is the intent."
Another pause.
Esteban did not move.
Prince Qhorys exhaled once through his nose, faintly amused.
"Bold claim," he said. "For something that has not been granted."
Princess Dareya leaned back, studying him anew.
"So," she said lightly, "you arrive in Sunspear speaking of land as though it already knows your name."
"I did not think it improper to mention," Thaddeus replied. "Not at this stage."
"That is because you did not ask for it," Dareya said. "You only spoke in a way that leaves little room for refusal."
Thaddeus regarded her for a moment, then spoke evenly.
"I came to Sunspear for land among its nobility," he said. "That was my purpose."
Princess Dareya's expression did not shift at once. Only her attention sharpened. His words lingered longer than expected. She remembered what reward he might be given; none fit better than land.
Before the exchange could settle further, the guard struck his spear again.
Harder this time.
"Prince Nolan of Sunspear! Princess Maris! Maester Pyren!"
The atmosphere shifted.
Voices lowered without agreement. Cups paused halfway to lips. Conversation thinned at the edges, careful now, as if each word had to be weighed before being spoken.
Prince Nolan entered first, composed and deliberate. Princess Maris followed at his side. Behind them came the Maester, his chain catching faint firelight as he crossed the hall with careful steps.
They took their seats without ceremony in the High table.
Prince Nolan lifted his cup.
"To the safe return of Princess Dareya and Princess Meyra Martell."
The hall answered.
Wine returned to hands. The talk returned slowly, quieter than before, careful in its shape.
Prince Nolan engaged Thaddeus in polite discourse. Princess Maris, softer in tone, asked questions that carried more concern than politics. Thaddeus answered each with calm precision, neither overstepping nor retreating.
It was then that he realized the current ruler of House Martell was still not yet in his fifties. Even his wife, the Princess and mother of Princess Dareya and Princess Meyra, carried a beauty that time seemed reluctant to touch.
Then Maester Pyren, sitting next to Prince Nolan spoke.
"I have heard," he said, voice steady, "that you can do things most men cannot explain."
Princess Dareya sighed beside him. "Curiosity has always been a Maester's undoing."
The Maester did not stop.
"Show me a miracle," he said quietly.
Thaddeus regarded him for a long moment.
When he spoke, his voice carried the calm of someone stating something already known.
"And if I do?"
The Maester gave a faint, skeptical tilt of his head. "Then I will know I was mistaken in what I thought I understood."
Princess Dareya muttered beside them, "That is a dangerous kind of curiosity."
Thaddeus gave a faint smile.
"I do not require belief," he said. "Nor permission to be misunderstood."
He lifted his goblet and drank once.
When he set it down, the metal held still for a heartbeat longer than it should have.
Then it began to change.
The goblet folded in on itself quietly, as though the shape had loosened its memory of what it was meant to be. Silver-blue shifted and tightened, edges drawing inward until there was no cup left at all.
In its place rested a small dragon, no larger than a bird, wrought in fine metal.
Its wings twitched once.
Then it lifted from the table and flew.
Gasps did not come immediately. First came disbelief. Then silence realizing it had no explanation.
The dragon circled the high table once, slow and deliberate, casting shifting reflections across stunned faces. It passed above Princess Dareya, then Prince Qhorys, then Prince Nolan and Princess Maris.
Then it turned toward Maester Pyren.
The air warmed. A breath of fire erupted—not uncontrolled, but precise. A warning rather than destruction. It stopped short, heat pressing against skin and cloth without crossing into harm.
The Maester did not move. He did not speak. For a moment, even his breathing seemed uncertain.
Then the dragon returned.
It returned to the table. In the blink that followed, it was a goblet again.
Silence spread through the hall, unchallenged. Conversation broke in pieces, and even the music lost its rhythm.
Thaddues looked at the Maester calmly, as though nothing had changed at all.
"That," he said evenly, "is not a miracle."
He picked up the goblet again.
"It is magic."
TBC
Want to stay 15+ chapters ahead? Join me on Patr*on.
Patr*on.com/Rabbinwriter.
Be a Chapter Seeker!
Bea Chronicle Reader!
Be a Lore Archivist!
Or buy me a coffee ~~~
NEXT FREE CHAPTER 100PS!