The quiet of the late hours hung heavy over Sunspear, broken only by the steady, rhythmic ticking of a grand clock and the soft crackle of a dying hearth.
Thaddues stretched, rubbing the lingering sleep from his eyes as he sat up. Even a wizard whose prowess was spoken of in hushed, reverent whispers in the shadow-draped halls of Dorne could not cheat the basic, unforgiving demands of biology. He was, to put it plainly, starving.
With a faint crack, he apparated, appearing silently in the grand receiving hall where he saw two children still wide awake.
"Why, pray tell, are the two of you still lingering about at such an ungodly hour?"
The sudden intrusion tore through the silence. Merlin flinched, snapping back into a rigid, defensive posture, while the young girl across the table gave a muffled squeak. Between them rested a marble chessboard, its carved pieces shifting and nudging one another in enchanted, restless animation—the very set Thaddues had sent across the sea for the young princess's birthday when he had conveniently failed to make an appearance.
"My Lord!" Merlin exclaimed, his voice tight, his posture instantly stiffening into the guarded composure of a child who had seen far too much of the world's cruelty far too early.
Princess Mereya, however, wasted no time on courtly composure. Shedding all royal pretense, she leapt from her cushioned chair and marched toward him with all the imperious fury a nine-year-old Dornish royal could muster.
"Lord Thaddues!" she demanded, her dark eyes flashing with the fiery pride of House Martell. "You dare present yourself after snubbing my birth-nameday feast? Is the Great Wizard too magnificent to grace Sunspear with his presence, or did the desert sun intimidate you?"
Thaddues offered a mild, polished smile and dropped to one knee, bringing himself level with her blazing gaze. He met her glare without the slightest hint of embarrassment, his tone impeccably smooth despite the scolding.
"My deepest apologies, Princess," he said before continuing. "I assure you, my absence was not born of disrespect. I was simply detained by matters of paramount importance—research that required my undivided, uninterrupted devotion."
It was a half-truth, naturally. He had little patience for feasts and celebrations. Endless formalities and hollow conversations held no appeal when he could be alone with his research.
He had spent months modifying the properties of local flora, painstakingly adapting traditional potion-making techniques to the native herbs of Westeros. Now that the System had a conversion function, it could, whenever he wished, convert the herbology books in his collection into Westerosi-adapted versions, replacing their original ingredients with native equivalents. With that final hurdle overcome, his research had at last come to an end.
Mereya folded her arms, her chin raised high in classic Martell fashion.
"A poor excuse, my Lord, though I suppose the enchanted chess set stays your execution. For now."
Thaddues chuckled, amused by the sharp, dramatic flair inherent to Dornish royalty. He glanced back toward the quiet boy, whose posture had relaxed only a fraction.
"And what of the rest of the keep? Where is your elder sister, the heir to this sun-drenched realm?"
Mereya let go of her indignation, sighing with dramatic flair.
"Princess Dareya is trapped in the solar with Prince Father and Mother. They are drowning in parchment."
"They are drafting summons and invitations to the high lords of Dorne, my Lord," Merlin added, his tone measured, carefully stripped of unnecessary emotion. "It is for your welcome banquet. The Prince insisted that no house of import be omitted."
Thaddues inclined his head, a wry smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Ah, the unbearable burden of hospitality. A grand feast in my honor, arranged by people who would much rather be sleeping, for a man who would much rather be left alone."
He stood up, smoothing down his robes with practiced elegance.
"Speaking of sustenance, my stomach is voicing its grievances rather loudly. Will the two of you join me for a midnight raid on the larders?"
The children looked at each other, then back at the animated chess board. A rogue knight was currently attempting to beat an opposing pawn over the head with its stone gauntlet.
"I must respectfully decline, Lord Thaddues," Merlin said, inclining his head with a formality beyond his years. "The Princess has me cornered, and retreat would be... detrimental to my tactical standing."
"What he means to say," Mereya chimed in, pointing a decisive finger at the board, "is that I am currently crushing his defense, and a Martell does not abandon a victory in progress. Go satisfy your common belly, my Lord. We have a battle to finish."
Thaddues raised a single eyebrow at her grandiosity.
"Very well, your Highness. I shall leave you to your bloody conquest."
Turning on his heel, he glided down the vaulted corridors toward the dining hall. The servants, alerted by household guards, were already flitting about in a flurry of quiet efficiency. Steaming trenchers of roasted fowl, dark bread, and rich Dornish vintages were laid out upon the long oak table the moment he took his seat.
Settling into the high-backed chair, Thaddues poured himself a goblet of spiced wine and took a long-awaited bite of roast meat.
Sunspear promised little peace. Even so, with hot food upon the table and dry Dornish wine in his cup, Thaddeus supposed he could endure whatever courtly nonsense awaited him.
A maid hurried through the narrow sandstone passages of the Old Palace, her slippers whispering over sun-warmed flagstones. Even beneath the fading light, the day's desert heat still clung stubbornly to the ancient walls.
Rounding a blind corner, she collided headlong with a towering household guard. The force of the impact sent her tumbling onto the dusty stones, her skirts spilling around her in a swirl of orange silk.
Before she could rise, the guard extended a calloused hand, pulling her effortlessly to her feet.
"Forgive me!" she cried, her voice carrying just loudly enough to echo through the winding corridor for any curious ears.
As the guard leaned closer to ensure she was unharmed, she stepped within arm's reach, her voice sinking to a whisper hidden beneath the rustle of cloth.
"Send the message. A banquet is being held, and a Targaryen will attend."
"It will be done, sister," the guard murmured, giving the slightest inclination of his head.
"May the Old Gods watch over you, brother," she replied, smoothing the dust from her skirts as though recovering from nothing more than an unfortunate stumble.
Without another glance, they drifted apart, each disappearing into the quiet, sun-baked maze of Sunspear as though the encounter had never happened.
Neither servant nor guard looked back.
The message disappeared into the shadows, carried by those who thrived on secrecy and hidden designs. Yet elsewhere, another faith was taking root—not in whispered conspiracies, but in plain sight, its followers earning trust through deeds rather than deception.
In the Reach, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen was about to witness that difference for herself.
Rhaenyra wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, her ladle dipping rhythmically into a steaming cauldron of thick pottage. Beside her, Alicent Hightower moved with practiced grace, handing out wooden bowls to the scorched, destitute survivors of the Reach.
The royal effort to feed these displaced, traumatized victims was a necessary, grueling display of crown charity.
Yet, as Rhaenyra paused to catch her breath, her gaze drifted past the royal soup lines toward a far corner of the ruined settlement.
Another group was working alongside them, distributing hearty provisions with quiet, disciplined efficiency. They wore no fine silks, but rather heavy woolen cloaks dyed in distinct, vibrant hues—deep blues, muted greens, rich reds, and earthy yellows. Had it not been for the striking absence of the Seven-Pointed Star upon their breasts, Rhaenyra might have mistaken them for a newly formed order of septons and begging brothers.
"Who are they?" Rhaenyra asked softly, leaning closer to Alicent without breaking her rhythm.
Alicent glanced up, her brow furrowing as her eyes tracked the vibrant cloaks across the ash-dusted square. Unsure of the answer herself, she subtly signaled to the Kingsguard standing guard at their flank.
"Ser Harrold, who are those men assisting with the rations?"
Ser Harrold Westerling straightened, the white cloak of the Kingsguard settling across his shoulders as he inclined his head.
"They belong to a rising order out of Driftmark, my Lady. Word is they worship a deity of the sea—a god they claim preserved their lives when they were lost at sea during a brutal gale."
"Driftmark?" Rhaenyra murmured, her interest piqued. A shadow of suspicion crossed her face as she considered the Velaryon stronghold.
"Did Lord Corlys permit a new faith to establish roots on his own island?"
"He may well have, Princess," Ser Harrold replied in a lower tone. "The founder of the congregation is none other than his own brother, Ser Vaemond."
The revelation gave Rhaenyra pause. Though still only a child, she had heard her father speak of Ser Vaemond Velaryon often enough to know he was a proud and ambitious man. The news struck her as oddly out of place.
Yet, as she looked back at the hungry crowd—at the frightened children receiving hot food from the blue-and-green-robed strangers amid the soot and rubble—she pushed those suspicions aside.
Whatever divine power or earthly political scheme had birthed this new movement, their hands were currently dry, their soup was warm, and their presence eased the burden on these desperate survivors.
"Whatever prayers they whisper or gods they follow," Rhaenyra said quietly, dipping her ladle back into the cauldron, "they are keeping our people alive tonight. That is enough."
TBC
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