Dorne, Sunspear.
Sunlight filtered through the vines, casting scattered flecks of light across the stone table. They fell on the letter, shifting gently with the breeze.
Doran Martell sat in his wheelchair, his finger moving slowly along the words on the page.
His fingertip brushed the surface of the parchment, pausing briefly at the end of each line of the battle report.
"Naval battle of the Gullet. Targaryen against Stannis Baratheon. Targaryen victory."
"Trial by combat at Duskendale. Aegon Targaryen personally slew Gregor Clegane. Targaryen victory."
"Siege of King's Landing. Targaryen took the city in a single day. Targaryen victory."
"Siege of Stokeworth. Targaryen annihilated Jaime Lannister's army of twenty thousand. Targaryen victory."
"Battle of Stone Hedge. Targaryen against the Riverlands Coalition. Targaryen victory."
"Battle of the River Road. Targaryen against Wendel Manderly. Targaryen victory."
"Battle of the Trident. Targaryen against Robb Stark. Targaryen victory."
"Battle of Silverhall. Targaryen against the Westerlands garrison. Targaryen victory."
"Sack of Lannisport. Targaryen against Victarion Greyjoy. Targaryen victory."
He finished reading the last word of the last line, but his finger stayed where it was.
"It truly beggars belief," he said.
His voice was quiet, as though he were speaking to himself.
He lifted his finger and leaned back in his wheelchair.
Sunlight fell across his face, and he closed his eyes for a while. The sound of water in the Water Gardens drifted over the courtyard wall, droplets from the fountains pattering softly against the flagstones.
Aegon Targaryen. His nephew. Elia's son.
Seventeen years ago, he had believed that child was dead.
Dead in King's Landing, killed by the Mountain, alongside his mother.
When news of that atrocity reached Sunspear, Doran had sat in his study all night without speaking.
Seventeen years later, a boy calling himself Aegon Targaryen had suddenly appeared across