The heavy, metallic tang of salt and sun-baked mud hung over the flats below Sunspear. Where the winding streets of the Shadow City had stood only a day before, there was now a broad, scarred expanse of cracked and drying silt. The floodwaters had retreated into the sea, leaving behind a ruined landscape where thousands had lost their lives.
Some had fallen in the battle between Thaddues and the Old Gods' Vessel, while many more had been claimed by the flood Deria had unleashed. Their bodies lay scattered beneath the wreckage, and many were never recovered, swept out to sea or buried beneath the mud and ruins.
Across the muddy plain, the Dornish funeral rites were already underway.
The dead of Dorne were being given back to the earth, as they had been for generations. Hundreds of graves had been dug into the higher terraces above the flood line, beyond the reach of the returning tides. Quiet hands lowered linen-wrapped bodies into the dark soil while others filled the graves behind them.
There were no great funeral pyres, nor columns of smoke climbing toward the heavens. Only the steady scrape of wooden shovels and the murmured prayers of the living accompanied the dead into the earth.
At the center of the burial ground, the ancient crypt of House Martell had been opened for the funeral of the Peacebringer of Dorne.
But there was no body to place within it.
There was no body left to bury. In her final moment, her body had been consumed by the terrible power she had unleashed. What remained had been gathered and placed upon a dark velvet cloth before the crypt.
At its center lay the artifact, the scorpion bolt that killed Meraxes—reforged decades ago and balanced into the shape of a heavy spear—the weapon she had wielded when she prayed to Mother Rhoyne. Its metal remained faintly discolored from the power it had endured.
Beside it rested the necklace given to her by the Goddess herself. Its pale blue stones still gleamed despite the blood and ruin surrounding them.
The rest of her possessions had been arranged around the two relics: a carved cyvasse piece, a silver comb, the embroidered cloak of House Martell, and the ring of state she had worn for decades.
Standing before them were the children of Prince Nolan Martell, with their mother, Princess Maris, behind them.
Maris's face was hard and still beneath the Dornish sun. She held herself with the dignity expected of a princess, her knuckles white where she gripped the folds of her black mourning gown. She had not wept before the assembled people of Dorne, though the grief in her face needed no tears to be understood.
At the front stood Princess Dareya, heir to Dorne. Beside her stood her brothers, Prince Qoren and Prince Qhorys. The elder's jaw was clenched, his expression carrying the restless anger of a young man searching for someone to blame. Qhorys stared instead at the spear that had belonged to his grandmother.
Princess Mereya, the youngest, remained close beside them, one shoulder pressed against her brother.
Further back, separated from the Martells yet watched by many of the mourners, stood Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.
She wore neither red nor gold. Her hair had been bound tightly behind her head, and she was dressed in plain black mourning clothes. She said nothing and offered no ceremony of her own. She had come simply to stand among them.
A dragonlord mourning beside the people of Dorne.
Thaddues stood half a step behind Dareya.
His robes were dark and without ornament. He watched the mourners move among the graves, his gray eyes fixed upon the earth. For once, the Wizard of Dorne had no words.
Near the youngest Martell stood his apprentice, Merlin. The boy kept his hands tucked inside his sleeves as he watched the rites in silence, too young to fully understand the scale of what had been lost, yet old enough to know that Sunspear would never be quite the same again.
The priests of the Rhoyne and the septons of the Seven moved along opposite sides of the burial ground. Their prayers mingled in the evening air. The old Rhoynish chants carried the grief of those taken by the battle, while the septons answered with solemn prayers for the souls of the dead. Two faiths, ancient rivals in other lands, shared the same mourning ground that day.
At last, the final relics of Princess Deria were carried into the Martell crypt, where the tombs of the Martell founders lay.
Dareya watched without blinking.
The stone slab was pushed into place, sealing away her grandmother's spear, her necklace, and the few possessions that had survived her final battle. There was no body beneath the stone, only the remains of a life that had shaped Dorne for decades.
Dareya's fingers curled into a fist. Her nails bit into her palm, but she scarcely felt the pain.
She had entered the burial ground as a granddaughter.
She left it as the heir to Dorne.
The sun had long since disappeared beyond the horizon when Dareya finally found her way to Thaddues' chamber.
The sky above Sunspear had turned a deep purple-black. The smell of wet clay and salt lingered in the air, drifting through the open windows and settling over the stone halls.
Thaddues' chamber was almost completely dark. Only two arclamps burned beside the walls, their weak lights throwing restless shadows across the room.
The oak door opened.
Dareya stepped inside.
She had discarded the ceremonial cloak she had worn during the funeral. Now she wore a simple dark gown, without embroidery or jewels. Without the trappings of royalty, she looked younger than she had that morning.
She closed the door behind her.
"I need answers."
Thaddues sat beside the open window overlooking the ruined Shadow City. He did not turn immediately.
Dareya walked closer.
"What happened out there?" she asked. Her voice was controlled, though only barely. "Was this why you built the shield? Gods… who were those people? What were those things that came for Sunspear?"
Her breath caught, and for a moment the grief she had fought to contain threatened to spill over.
"Tell me," she whispered. "Please. I need to know what happened to my people."
Thaddues remained silent for several heartbeats before turning toward her.
The light coming from the arclamp caught his face.
He looked exhausted. Not merely tired, but diminished by something that sleep alone could not mend.
Dareya's composure finally gave way. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she turned toward the window before he could see the others gathering behind it.
"You know..." she whispered. "When you stepped out of the hall.. I was afraid."
She swallowed hard.
"I have never been that afraid before."
Thaddues rose and crossed the room. There was none of his usual measured precision in the movement. He simply pulled her into his arms.
Dareya stiffened for a heartbeat before surrendering to the embrace. She pressed her forehead against his chest while he held her, and for a time neither spoke. The room was quiet save for the soft hum of the arclamps, their pale glow washing over them like moonlight.
Beyond the window lay the ruined Shadow City.
Dareya had lost her grandmother. Dorne had lost thousands of its people.
"The ones who came here were followers of the Old Gods," Thaddues said at last.
Dareya lifted her head.
"The Old Gods of the First Men?"
He nodded.
"And what happened today?"
Thaddues hesitated.
"I don't know."
The words were quiet, but the admission carried more weight than any declaration he could have made.
"I knew they were coming. That was why I raised the shield. But I did not understand what they were capable of." His gaze drifted toward the darkness beyond the window. "I never imagined they would be so desperate as to sacrifice their own lives just to break the shield. I never imagined…"
He fell silent, the words failing him.
"So many."
Dareya pulled away and looked at him. Only then did she notice the tears on his face.
Her hands rose slowly and settled against his cheeks.
Thaddues froze.
The Wizard of Dorne—the man who had stood against dragons and the Old Gods' Vessel, who always seemed to have another spell, another plan, another answer—had none now.
"It wasn't your fault," Dareya said.
Thaddues looked away.
"I could have done better."
"Lord Thaddues—"
"I could have done better."
His voice cracked.
"Your grandmother should not have died. Those people should not have died. I had the power to protect them."
His gaze returned to the ruined city.
"And still, I watched them drown and be devoured."
The words seemed to break whatever remained of his composure. He lowered his head until his forehead rested against Dareya's shoulder.
She said nothing at first.
Then she wrapped her arms around him.
"You have done enough," she whispered.
Her own tears slipped freely now.
"Grandmother knew what she was doing. She made her choice. She chose to stand between Dorne and death."
Dareya tightened her arms around him.
"She chose to save us."
Thaddues remained against her shoulder for several moments before his breathing finally steadied. When he pulled away, he wiped his face with his sleeve, saying nothing of what had passed between them.
Dareya did not mention it either.
Some grief was not meant for courts, councils, or histories.
Thaddues returned to the window.
His gaze settled upon the ruined city below, where the fresh graves lay beneath the darkness.
Since arriving in Westeros, he had believed he understood this world.
He had known its kings, its wars, its dragons, its betrayals. He had carried the history of Westeros in his mind as though it were a record of what had already happened—and what was yet to come.
But now, that history was changing.
The world he remembered was no longer following the path he knew.
He remembered Rowena's words.
'Playing with fate is dangerous, Thaddues.'
There would be no turning back now.
Thaddues looked back at Dareya. She stood beneath the light of the archlamps, her face still wet with tears. Yet beneath her grief, something had changed. The girl who had entered the chamber was still there, but the burden placed upon her that day had already begun to shape the woman who would follow.
She was the heir to Dorne.
And the realm would not wait for her to be ready.
"You must prepare, Princess."
His voice had returned to its usual calm.
"The world is changing."
His eyes returned to the ruins beyond the window.
"And it will not wait for us to heal."
TBC: entering the next arc after one more chapter.. Will be at the HOD arc....
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