Visitors from the Yellow Sands

The silk robes of the Dornish envoys swept across the flagstones of the banquet hall, spreading the sweet fragrance of Shalan Flower petals mingled with the scent of Dragonblood Grass tea.

The lead envoy wore a gilded mask that revealed only a pair of amber eyes. When he bowed, the sun sigil on his cloak flickered beneath the candlelight.

"Your Grace, Your Grace the Queen." The envoy's voice came through the mask, cold and metallic. "Princess Marei Nymeros Martell has entrusted me to present these Shalan Flower petals—the lands of Dorne have never yearned for peace as they do now, just as the desert yearns for rain."

Jaehaerys's fingers continued tapping lightly against the edge of the map, his gaze falling upon the gilded tray held by the envoy. The sealed letter bore scarlet wax stamped with House Martell's golden spear sigil. "The embers of the Three Daughters Alliance have yet to burn out, and your peace comes at a most opportune time." His tone was mild, yet the laughter in the banquet hall vanished at once.

The envoy appeared prepared. He drew a parchment scroll from his sleeve. "The princess is willing to offer ten border fortresses as collateral, guaranteeing that Tyrosh will no longer lay claim to the Stepstones." He paused, and his amber eyes glimmered faintly behind the mask. "To demonstrate this sincerity, Her Highness has also expressed her heartfelt admiration for a certain warrior—the warrior who tamed the ancient wild dragon, Glutton. Legend says his dragonfire burns hotter than the midsummer sun. The princess has one humble request: she wishes to witness that power with her own eyes."

Daemon held the dried stem of a violet, its morning dew long since evaporated. He noticed Baelon's knuckles whitening slightly, while Daemon Targaryen ground his heel against the floor—restless as Caraxes before it breathed fire. Only Jaehaerys remained calm, as though the "warrior" mentioned by the envoy were merely an ordinary tribute.

"Daemon bears Targaryen blood. He is the son of my son Aemon." Queen Alysanne suddenly spoke. Her voice was not loud, but it cut cleanly through the murmurs. She draped her half-woven cloak over the back of her chair, her movements carrying unquestionable authority. "He is the grandson recognized by Jaehaerys and me." Her sharp gaze swept across the table, lingering for a moment on Taimond's faintly smiling face.

The envoy turned his mask toward the queen, a trace of amusement entering his voice. "That is precisely why the princess wishes to seek a marriage alliance for her youngest daughter. Dorne's Sand Snakes never concern themselves with a husband's past; they value only the strength of his future—such as a black dragon large enough to cover half a mountainside."

The words were sparks cast into boiling oil, and low discussion instantly erupted throughout the council hall.

Rhaenys's silver fork scraped softly against her plate. Corlys gripped her wrist, though his eyes remained fixed on Daemon.

Theomore Manderly's Adam's apple bobbed as if he were calculating the possibility of a marriage alliance between his own house and Daemon Blackfyre.

But those words were like ice water poured down Daemon's spine.

A marriage alliance? The knuckles gripping the dried flower stem turned white with force.

Memories of blood and fire from his past life suddenly scorched him. Maron Martell had taken Daenerys from him—the love he had buried deep in his heart and lost forever.

Worse still, when he had raised the rebel banner of Blackfyre against Daeron II's court steeped in "Dornish flavor," the vipers of the desert had remained on the sidelines. Only when victory and defeat were about to be decided had they bared their fangs and seized the greatest benefits!

One root of his rebellion had been the Seven Kingdoms nobility's hatred of Dorne's excessive influence.

And now they were offering him an olive branch of their own accord, targeting him—the man bearing the name "Blackfyre," the one they saw as existing "outside the rules"?

How ironic. How sinister! Those olive branches were plainly steeped in the venom of division.

"Princess Martell's youngest daughter is only eight." Baelon's voice sounded like iron being ground. "It is far too early to discuss marriage."

"Dornish betrothals are never a trifling matter." The envoy spread his hand, revealing a pigeon-blood ruby ring resting in his palm. "The princess said this 'Sandheart' once belonged to her sister-in-law, the widow of Prince Marlion Martell, who died in the War of the Hundred Candles. Before her death, she said that Targaryen dragons and Martell spears need not have spilled so much blood."

The War of the Hundred Candles in 83 AC. Daemon's fingers tightened.

That had been the year Jaehaerys, Aemon, and Baelon, riding three dragons, had shattered Dorne.

The Dornish actually used the scar left by that war to make their case. They hinted that they remembered the blood feud while posturing as those willing to "let go of old grievances"—and the fulcrum of it all was him, this sudden "bastard dragon king."

"We shall discuss the matter of betrothal another time." At last, Jaehaerys picked up the sealed letter. With a light pinch between his fingers, the wax crumbled apart. "But your sincerity must convince Glutton as well." When he raised his eyes, amber candlelight reflected in his pupils. "Tomorrow, take your men to see the Dragonpit. Tell House Martell that Targaryen dragons know their friends, and know their enemies even better."

As the envoy bowed and withdrew, Daemon caught sight of a silver chain beneath his cloak. Hanging from it was a small dragon pendant, its scales rough, as if it had been hastily carved from obsidian. Glutton's outline. The Dornish had even investigated his dragon thoroughly.

After the feast, Daemon encountered Viserys in the corridor. Moonlight streamed through the arched windows, weaving silver threads over his indigo cloak. "Grandfather wants you in his study." Viserys handed him a lantern. "The Dornish letter mentioned the Triarchy's promise to them—if House Martell sends troops to contain us, they will receive half of the disputed islands."

Oak logs burned in the study's fireplace as Jaehaerys stirred the ashes with a poker. A replica of Aegon I's Conqueror's Crown hung on the wall, its spikes still stained with imagined blood. "Do you know why they chose you?" the old king asked without turning around. "Among the Seven Kingdoms, only Dorne has never shied away from bastards inheriting lands. They think you are like them, someone outside the rules."

Daemon watched the flames dancing in the hearth and remembered the bastards who had supported Blackfyre in his past life. They had shouted, "Blood does not care for birth," yet after his defeat, they had been the first to turn their cloaks. "They do not want me. They want Glutton."

"And division." Jaehaerys set down the poker, and sparks scattered across his dragon-patterned slippers. "Baelon just returned from outside. Glutton has been particularly restless tonight—the Dornish mixed Dragonbreath Grass into their Shalan Flower petals. To a wild dragon, that is the scent of provocation." Suddenly, he smiled, understanding filling the wrinkles on his face. "But they did not account for Glutton recognizing only you as its master now."

Glutton's low cry drifted in from outside the window, far gentler than it had been at dusk. Daemon remembered Queen Alysanne's unfinished cloak, and it felt as though the velvet still brushed his fingertips. "I will not marry a Dornish Sand Snake."

"You may choose for yourself." Jaehaerys drew a parchment scroll from the bookshelf, covered in portraits of noble girls from the Seven Kingdoms. "But House Martell's schemes must be made to recoil upon themselves."

When he returned to his bedchamber, he placed the bouquet of violets in a crystal vase. Moonlight shone through the petals, casting fragmented shadows over the wall. In the distance, the Dornish envoys' tents remained lit, like a lone wolf wandering outside the Red Keep in the desert.

They had not discussed how more than three dragons were outside the Dragonpit. Vhagar was too large, Glutton hated restraint, and Caraxes also seemed to want to remain outside the Dragonpit with its old and new friends.

Glutton roared again, this time with clear wariness. Vhagar answered immediately, ancient yet imposing. Daemon walked to the window and saw three bursts of flame rising in the direction of the Dragonpit—Caraxes's red, Vhagar's bronze, and Glutton's black.

The three dragons wheeled through the night sky, their firelight illuminating the clouds. The Dornish had likely never expected their provocation to draw the three dragons closer together instead.

Daemon touched the dragon-shaped brand on his shoulder, where the warmth of morning porridge still lingered. He knew that history had veered off course the day he tamed Glutton. The Dornish choice was merely the first undercurrent in that deviation.

And he, this black dragon from the future, had to hold his ground—and make every watcher understand that Blackfyre dragonfire had always burned traitors alone.

The night deepened, and the bells of the Red Keep struck ten. Daemon tossed the obsidian dragon pendant deliberately dropped by the Dornish envoy out the window. It cut across the night sky like a fleeting meteor before finally falling into the dark current of the moat.