Chapter 133 — Dawn Approaches
The Old Palace.
The Water Mirror Courtyard.
The courtyard lay beside the triple-arched fountain. Through hidden channels, seawater was drawn in, cooled, and recirculated, forming a veil of fine mist. The windows faced the Summer Sea.
Beneath the lofty dome hung three massive bells. Stirred by the gentle sea breeze, they chimed softly, their clear notes echoing through the air.
Mellario lifted her head, gazing absently at the three bells. They reminded her of the three great bells of Norvos—Num, Nara, and Nyr—whose tolls could be heard across the entire city. Their ringing told the people when to wake, when to sleep, when to work, when to pray… and even when to couple.
To ease Mellario's homesickness and help her feel at ease in a foreign land, Doran Martell had ordered this courtyard built within the Old Palace, modeled after the customs she remembered.
"The child is choking."
The soft voice broke her reverie, pulling Mellario back to the present.
She looked down and realized that her newborn son, Quentyn Martell, cradled in her arms, had stopped nursing. His tiny face was flushed red, his breathing uneven.
Thankfully, this was not her first child.
She quickly lifted him upright, resting his small body against her shoulder, and gently patted his back.
A moment later, a clear burp escaped.
Mellario rocked him lightly. The infant soon drifted back into peaceful sleep.
After placing Quentyn gently into the cradle, she turned—only to meet the cold, restless gaze of Queen Rhaella Targaryen.
"How long do you and your husband intend to keep us locked away like this?" the Queen asked icily.
"Let me be clear—if anything happens to Lance Lot, I will not sit here and wait for death."
"Targaryens do not yield to threats."
Rhaella's voice carried the unmistakable weight of a final line drawn.
Yet Mellario merely sat down calmly and poured her a cup of chilled milk sweetened with honey—a drink favored among the nobles of the Crownlands.
"To be honest," Mellario said softly, leaning back in her chair, her eyes steady as they met the Queen's blazing stare, "I do not know what Doran is thinking, Your Grace."
"He was never an impulsive man. The Doran Martell I knew was restrained, deliberate, cautious to a fault. I truly cannot understand why he would act this way in Sunspear."
"But this is the truth," Rhaella snapped, her voice rising.
"Your husband ordered his despicable brother to abduct their own guests within Sunspear—a woman and a child."
"This is not merely treason. It is dishonor of the vilest kind—something even filthy bandits would hesitate to do!"
She counted the Martells' crimes one by one, each word sharp with accusation.
Mellario, however, only lowered her eyelids slightly and shook her head with quiet composure.
"Saying these things to me serves no purpose, Your Grace."
"I am but a woman from a Free City across the Narrow Sea—one who chose to marry into Westeros. Whatever my husband decides, all I can do is stand behind him."
"Rather than wasting your strength on anger here, perhaps it would be better to rest. The sun will rise tomorrow, as it always does."
Rhaella's eyes flashed.
"That may be true for you," she replied coldly,
"but for me, every minute spent here is nothing but danger—and torment."
The Queen narrowed her eyes slightly, folding her arms across her chest in a guarded posture. Her long fingers tapped lightly against her sleeve as she spoke coldly:
"If you and your child were invited to King's Landing as guests, only to be forcibly detained and stripped of every guard you brought with you—how would you feel?"
"You are a mother too, Mellario."
"You should know better than anyone that a mother will do anything to protect her child."
Faced with the Queen's nakedly threatening gaze, Mellario—still recovering from childbirth—merely smiled faintly, as though entirely unbothered.
After all, she was surrounded by her guards.
"Please, calm yourself, Your Grace."
She pursed her lips and glanced at the silver-haired prince asleep on the bed, then spoke gently:
"Earlier today, Prince Doran mentioned to me that your Lord Commander of the Kingsguard once proposed a marriage between Princess Arianne and Prince Viserys."
"At the time, he rejected the idea. But after further discussion, we came to feel that it was… actually quite an excellent proposal."
She leaned back into the broad chair, smiling as though the matter were trivial.
"If you agree to the marriage, I can advise him to allow you and Prince Viserys to return safely to King's Landing."
Just as the Queen frowned, puzzled at the sudden revival of an old subject, Mellario's smile deepened. She looked at her directly and continued, word by word:
"But only if—"
"—Prince Viserys ascends the Iron Throne."
"That is impossible!"
Rhaella sprang to her feet at once, fury blazing in her indigo eyes.
"You rejected this proposal when Lance Lot first raised it! Now you dare bring it up again—after committing such shameless acts?"
"Does Dorne truly value the dignity of House Targaryen so cheaply, Mellario?"
"And besides—my firstborn, Rhaegar, is the Crown Prince. Aerys will never agree to replace the heir unless—"
She froze.
A realization struck her like lightning.
Her eyes widened in disbelief as she stared at the woman before her, one trembling hand rising to cover her mouth.
Seeing the Queen's reaction, Mellario's smile grew all the more satisfied.
"You will agree, Your Grace."
She leaned forward, lifted the untouched glass of honeyed iced milk from before Rhaella, took a casual sip, and set it down again.
"Of course, it will take time. But I am certain that in the end, you will accept my proposal."
"You're dreaming!"
Rhaella's voice shook with fury and hatred. She pointed a trembling finger at Mellario.
"If you dare lay a hand on Rhaegar, I swear by the Seven that I will order Ser Lance Lot to—"
She stopped.
Her heart sank as she remembered: Lance had already been captured.
The Queen stiffened, then collapsed back into her chair, a quiet sigh escaping her.
"Lance Lot…"
At the sound of his name, Mellario murmured it once under her breath, then shook her head regretfully.
"A pity. I admit, I rather admired that handsome young knight."
"But given Oberyn's temperament, I fear you will never see him again in this lifetime."
She closed her eyes slightly, as though mourning the loss of a gallant man.
Silence fell over the chamber.
After a long moment, the Queen spoke again—her voice calm, unwavering.
"He will come."
Mellario opened her eyes in surprise.
What she saw were eyes filled with absolute conviction.
"He will come," Rhaella repeated.
"He promised to bring Viserys and me safely back to King's Landing."
"Lance Lot never breaks his word—no matter the cost, even his life."
"Hmph."
Mellario snorted dismissively.
She had heard the stories of Lance Lot's exploits—but in a fortress as heavily guarded as Sunspear, with the man already taken into custody, she saw no possible way for him to succeed.
Unless…
Unless he rode a dragon, like Aegon Targaryen of old, and bent all of Dorne beneath dragonfire.
But that was absurd.
Dragons had been gone for over a century.
Even the tales from across the Narrow Sea—of wild dragons stealing cattle—were surely nothing more than exaggeration and rumor.
And yet—
"—Fuck!!!"
A thunderous crash echoed in the distance.
Mellario's hand jerked. The glass trembled violently, ripples spreading through the icy milk.
She looked up sharply.
A column of fire suddenly roared into the sky, flames spiraling upward amid thick black smoke.
Startled, she rose and rushed to the doorway, gripping the frame as she looked out.
Then more fires erupted.
One. Two. Three.
At least five separate blazes bloomed across the Old Palace.
Smoke writhed upward like the tentacles of some monstrous sea creature from Rhoynish legend, flooding stairwells and archways alike.
"This is—"
"Dragonfire."
The Queen's voice cut in, calm and absolute.
Mellario turned.
Rhaella, who moments ago had seemed defeated, now stared at the inferno with eyes blazing, firelight reflected in their depths.
"Rhaeseryon Targaryen…" she whispered.
"What?"
The name faded into silence. Mellario frowned deeply.
She had never heard that name before.
Shaking her head, she dismissed it as madness—a grieving Queen's fantasy of dragons reborn.
Still—
"Frelna!"
"My lady!"
The towering bearded priest rushed in at her call, gripping his massive axe with both hands.
"Send two men to investigate what's happening."
"At once!"
Frelna turned—
And two black shapes were hurled through the doorway.
They slammed into the ground at his feet.
His companions.
Their throats had been cleanly opened. Blood pooled rapidly beneath them.
"WHO GOES THERE?!"
Axes thundered to the ground as dozens of bearded priests formed ranks.
Then—
Boots echoed on stone.
From the shadows stepped a knight bearing two swords, blue eyes glinting with lethal calm.
Armor scorched. Presence unbroken.
"Lance… Lot."
Mellario gasped.
Before anyone could react, his voice rang out—mocking, fearless:
"No need to call for help, big man."
"When the fires rose, nearly every guard in the Old Palace ran to contain them."
He scanned the courtyard.
"Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Forty…"
"And us."
Six armored knights emerged from the shadows behind him.
They formed up instantly—shielded formations locking together—while Lance stood at the front, twin blades poised like the hammerhead of the formation.
Someone whispered in awe.
Another swallowed hard.
Hod George, Hellholt's guard captain, eyed the enemies warily. Too many foes.
"This won't work," muttered Ser Hode quietly.
"There are too many of them."
Lance didn't even look at him.
Instead, his gaze lifted toward the eastern sky.
The darkness was thinning.
A pale sliver of white had begun to creep over the horizon.
He reversed the black blade behind his back, raised the white greatsword before him, and spoke—his voice steady, resonant, unshakable:
"Hold fast, gentlemen."
"The night is ending."
"Dawn… is almost here."