**274 AC - Sunspear, The Great Hall**
The Norvoshi arrived like a small invasion.
Not hostile—nothing about their approach suggested threat—but *present*. The kind of present that made people notice. Made guards straighten. Made servants whisper and point.
Kael watched from the battlements as the column approached Sunspear across the sand. Twenty men in formation, moving with the particular discipline of people who'd been trained by someone who believed disorder was a sin.
At their head: a giant.
That was Kael's first thought—*giant*. The man had to be six-and-a-half feet tall, maybe seven, with shoulders that looked like they'd been carved from mountain stone. He wore the traditional garb of a Norvoshi bearded priest—simple robes, but somehow they looked less simple and more *functional* on him. And across his back: a poleaxe that was taller than most men and looked like it could cut through castle walls if its wielder wished it.
"Seven hells," Oberyn breathed beside him. "That's not a man. That's a siege weapon that learned to walk."
"Areo Hotah," Doran said from Kael's other side. He'd climbed the battlements despite his ankle—wrapped tight, but still bothering him. "Mellario's protection. Her family sent their best."
"Their best is terrifying," Oberyn observed.
"Good," Kael said. "Terrifying means effective."
They descended to meet the Norvoshi in the courtyard. Princess Neria was already there—dressed formally, because the arrival of foreign soldiers required proper ceremony—with Mellario at her side. Doran's wife looked relieved and anxious in equal measure, one hand resting on her swollen belly.
The giant—Areo Hotah—dismounted with surprising grace for someone his size and approached. He moved like water, Kael noted. Smooth. Economical. Every step placed with purpose.
*Trained*, Kael's enhanced mind catalogued. *Very, very trained. This isn't just a big man who knows how to swing a weapon. This is a master.*
Areo Hotah stopped before Princess Neria and bowed—deep, respectful, the kind that said he understood hierarchy and chose to honor it.
"Princess Neria Martell," he said, and his voice was deep as thunder but surprisingly gentle. "I am Areo Hotah, formerly of the bearded priests of Norvos. I have been sent by the family of Lady Mellario to ensure her safety and the safety of her unborn child. I pledge my axe, my life, and my service to House Martell for as long as my lady requires it."
The words were formal, ritualistic. But something in the way he said them—the absolute certainty—made them real.
Neria studied him for a long moment. "You are welcome in Sunspear, Areo Hotah. My daughter-by-law speaks highly of you. She says you've protected her family for many years."
"Since I left the priesthood, Princess. Twelve years."
"And you're willing to stay in Dorne? Far from Norvos? Far from everything you know?"
"My lady is here," Areo Hotah said simply, and his eyes found Mellario. "Where she is, I am. That is my purpose."
Something about the way he said it—the absolute conviction—made Kael's chest tighten.
*That's devotion. Real devotion. The kind that doesn't calculate or question. The kind that just* is*.*
Mellario stepped forward, and despite her pregnancy, she moved with the grace of someone who'd been trained in the dancing of Norvos.
"Captain Hotah," she said, and there were tears in her eyes. "Thank you. For coming. For—" Her voice broke slightly. "—for still being willing to protect me. Even after everything."
"You are my charge," Areo Hotah said. "That has not changed. Will never change. Until my death or yours, I serve."
Doran stepped forward, and Kael saw the calculation in his eyes—assessing, measuring, trying to determine if this giant was threat or asset.
"I am Prince Doran Martell," Doran said. "Mellario's husband. You'll be protecting my wife. My child. That makes you part of my household. Part of my family's security."
"Yes, Prince."
"I need to know—" Doran paused, choosing words carefully. "—where your loyalties lie. If there were a conflict between Mellario's wishes and Dorne's needs, whose command would you follow?"
Areo Hotah was quiet for a moment, and Kael could almost see him thinking, weighing, considering.
"I am sworn to protect Lady Mellario," he said finally. "But Lady Mellario is sworn to you. To House Martell. To Dorne. Therefore, what protects Dorne protects her. What serves House Martell serves her." He met Doran's eyes directly. "Unless you order me to do something that would harm my lady or her child, there is no conflict. We want the same things."
It was a good answer. Diplomatic without being evasive. Honest without being confrontational.
Doran's expression softened slightly. "Welcome to Sunspear, Captain Hotah. I think you'll find we take protection seriously here."
"I have heard of the Echo," Areo Hotah said, and his eyes found Kael. "The prince who has never lost a fight. Who killed a dozen pirates and their captain in single combat. The stories have reached even Norvos."
"Stories exaggerate," Kael said.
"Perhaps. But I think not in this case." Areo Hotah's expression was impossible to read behind his beard. "I would be honored to train with you, Prince Kael. To see if the stories are true."
"You want to fight me?"
"I want to *learn* from you. There is a difference."
*Oh*, Kael thought. *Oh, I like him.*
"Tomorrow," Kael said. "Training yards. Dawn."
"I will be there, Prince."
---
**Later That Night - Princess Neria's Solar**
Kael had rehearsed this conversation a hundred times in his head. Had planned exactly what to say, how to say it, which arguments to use.
All of that fled the moment he actually stood in his mother's solar, facing her across her desk, with her looking at him like she already knew what he was going to say.
"You want to marry Ashara Dayne," Neria said before Kael could open his mouth.
Kael blinked. "How did you—"
"Kael. My darling son. My strange, brilliant, impossible son." Neria stood and came around the desk. "You've been looking at that girl like she's made of starlight for the past year. Everyone in Sunspear knows. The only question was when you'd work up the courage to say something."
"I—" Kael found his words. "Yes. I want to ask Lord Dayne for her hand. With your permission."
"Why?"
The question caught him off-guard. "Why?"
"Yes. Why? You're sixteen, Kael. You have time. You could wait. Make a more political match. Marry someone who brings alliances or gold or strategic advantage." Neria tilted her head. "But you don't want to wait. You want Ashara. Now. Why?"
*Because I died once and learned that time isn't guaranteed. Because I know futures where everyone I love dies and I can't save them. Because Ashara sees me—really sees me—and doesn't look away.*
"Because I love her," Kael said simply. "Because she's kind and clever and brave. Because she believes in me even when I tell her impossible things. Because—" He paused. "—because life is short and uncertain, and I don't want to waste time pretending I don't want what I want."
Neria studied him with eyes that missed nothing. "You're very certain. For someone so young."
"I've always been certain about the things that matter."
"Yes. You have." Neria moved to the window, looked out over Sunspear. "The Daynes are a good house. Ancient. Honorable. An alliance with Starfall would strengthen Dorne's ties to the western coast." She turned back to face him. "But that's not why you want her, is it? The politics."
"No."
"Good. Because marriages built on politics alone tend to crumble when the politics change." She came back to the desk, sat, and gestured for Kael to sit as well. "I'll write to Lord Dayne. Express House Martell's interest in a marriage between you and his daughter. But Kael—"
"Yes?"
"This isn't just my decision. Or Lord Dayne's. Ashara has to want this too. And from what I've observed, she's a romantic. She believes in songs and true love and knights who fight for their ladies." Neria's expression softened. "You can't just offer her a practical marriage. You have to offer her a story worth living."
"I know."
"Do you? Because you're not a song, Kael. You're something else. Something harder. Something that kills pirates and plans wars and sees futures no one else can see." She leaned forward. "Can you be both? The practical warrior and the romantic hero?"
Kael thought about Mumbai. About dying in an alley. About choosing to step in even though the mathematics said he'd lose.
"I can try," he said.
"That might be enough." Neria pulled out parchment, began writing. "I'll send the letter with our next raven to Starfall. But in the meantime—talk to her. Make sure she wants this. Because a marriage neither party wants is just a prison with paperwork."
"She wants this," Kael said, and he was certain. As certain as he'd been about anything.
"Then you're a lucky man. The Dayne girl is special." Neria sealed the letter with red wax. "Now get out. I have approximately seven hundred other things to deal with today, including planning an invasion of the Stepstones."
Kael stood to leave, but paused at the door. "Mother?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For understanding. For not—" He searched for words. "—for not treating me like I'm too young to know what I want."
Neria's smile was sad and proud at once. "You stopped being too young the day you were born, Kael. You came into this world looking at it like you'd seen it before and found it wanting. That hasn't changed." She waved him away. "Now go. Find your lady. Tell her what you've told me. And for gods' sake, try to be romantic about it. Ashara Dayne deserves poetry, not military strategy."
Kael left his mother's solar with something light in his chest—hope, maybe, or joy, or the particular certainty that came from making choices that felt *right*.
He found Ashara exactly where he'd expected: in the gardens, sitting beneath a lemon tree, reading a book of Dornish poetry.
She looked up when he approached, and her smile was sunlight.
"Kael. I was hoping you'd find me."
"I'll always find you," he said, and sat beside her.
"That's very romantic. Did you rehearse it?"
"Maybe."
"I like it anyway." She set down her book. "You look like you have something to say. Something important."
"I talked to my mother. About us. About—" He took a breath. "—about asking your father for permission to marry you."
Ashara went very still. "Oh."
"If you want me to. If you—" Kael stumbled over words he'd rehearsed a hundred times and now couldn't remember. "—if you think you could be happy with someone like me. Someone who's not exactly a song but is trying very hard to be worth loving."
"Kael." Ashara's hand found his. "You're already worth loving. You're the most worth-loving person I've ever met. And yes—yes, I want that. Want you. Want a future where we don't have to pretend we're not—" She paused. "—whatever this is."
"What is this?"
"I don't know yet. But I'd like to find out. Properly. Without hiding or pretending or worrying what people will think."
Kael felt something in his chest expand—warm and painful and impossibly real.
"My mother's writing to your father. To formally request—" He paused. "—but I wanted to ask you first. Because this is your choice. Your life. And I won't—I can't—make it for you."
"Then I choose you," Ashara said simply. "I choose the strange prince who sees things no one else can see. Who fights like the gods themselves trained him. Who dies and comes back and tells me impossible truths because he trusts me to believe them." She squeezed his hand. "I choose you, Kael Martell. If you'll have me."
"I'll have you," Kael said, and his voice came from somewhere deep and true. "For as long as you'll let me. For as long as I live. For—"
She kissed him.
It wasn't his first kiss—there had been that serving girl when he was fourteen, fumbling and awkward and immediately regretted—but it was the first one that *mattered*.
The first one that felt like a promise.
The first one that made him think: *Yes. This. This is worth fighting for.*
When they finally broke apart, Ashara was crying and laughing at the same time.
"That was very romantic," she said. "We should do that again."
"We should," Kael agreed.
And they did.
---
**274 AC - King's Landing, The Red Keep**
Prince Lewyn Martell had been to King's Landing exactly four times in his life, and each time he'd liked it less.
The city was too crowded. Too loud. Too full of people with knives hidden in their smiles and poison on their breath. Give him Sunspear any day—clean desert air, honest heat, people who stabbed you in the front if they were going to stab you at all.
But duty was duty, and House Martell needed someone to present their case to the Iron Throne.
So here he stood in the Small Council chambers, wearing his best doublet—Dornish orange and yellow, because he refused to dress like a Stormlander or Westerman just to please these people—and trying not to notice how everyone was staring at him.
King Aerys II Targaryen sat at the head of the table, and Lewyn's first thought was: *Oh no. The stories are true.*
The king had always been beautiful—Targaryen beautiful, with the silver hair and purple eyes that marked his bloodline. But there was something wrong now. Something in the eyes. A wildness. A tension. Like a wire pulled too tight, waiting to snap.
Next to him: Queen Rhaella, looking tired. Sad. Like she'd stopped hoping for things to get better.
Around the table: the Small Council. Lord Tywin Lannister as Hand of the King, looking like judgment carved from marble. Grand Maester Pycelle, ancient and obsequious. The Master of Coin, the Master of Laws, all the minor lords and sycophants who thought proximity to power made them powerful.
And standing behind the king's chair: Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
Twenty years old. Silver-haired. Purple-eyed. Beautiful in the way songs said princes should be beautiful. And looking at Lewyn with something that might have been interest.
"Prince Lewyn Martell," King Aerys said, and his voice was high. Sharp. Like breaking glass. "You've come a long way. Bearing a petition, my Hand tells me. About the Stepstones."
"Yes, Your Grace." Lewyn bowed—proper depth, proper form. "House Martell seeks the crown's permission to deal with the pirate problem in the Stepstones. With extreme prejudice."
"Extreme prejudice," Aerys repeated, and something flickered across his face. Amusement? Paranoia? "You want to kill pirates."
"We want to clear the Stepstones of all hostile forces, Your Grace. Establish Dornish control. Build fortifications. Create safe shipping lanes for all vessels traveling between Westeros and Essos."
"Dornish control," Lord Tywin said, and his voice was cold as winter. "The Stepstones are disputed territory, Prince Lewyn. They belong to no kingdom. If Dorne simply takes them—"
"Then Dorne is doing what everyone else has failed to do for generations," Lewyn interrupted. "My lords—Your Grace—pirate raids have increased threefold in the last decade. Dornish ships. Stormlander ships. Even Reachmen vessels. The reavers grow bold because no one stops them. Because everyone treats the Stepstones like someone else's problem."
"And you want to make them Dorne's problem," Pycelle said, stroking his beard. "A noble gesture. But expensive. Dangerous. What does House Martell gain from this expenditure of blood and gold?"
"Safety for our ships. Control of strategic waterways. A foothold in the Narrow Sea that benefits all the Seven Kingdoms." Lewyn looked directly at Aerys. "And we ask nothing from the crown's coffers, Your Grace. This will be funded entirely by Dorne. We only seek permission. Recognition of our right to act."
Aerys tilted his head, and the gesture was eerily bird-like. "Why?" he asked. "Why now? What happened to make Dorne so interested in the Stepstones?"
*Because my nephew killed a pirate captain and his sister almost died and we're all tired of waiting for bad things to happen.*
"Because three weeks ago, a Dornish vessel carrying members of House Martell—including my sister Princess Neria and her children—was attacked by pirates from the Stepstones," Lewyn said. "We fought them off. Killed their captain. But it was close, Your Grace. Too close. And it made us realize: this has gone on long enough."
The room went quiet.
Lord Tywin's expression didn't change, but Lewyn caught the slight narrowing of his eyes. Calculating. Assessing.
"Members of House Martell," Tywin said carefully. "Were any harmed?"
"Some sailors died. My nephews fought—Prince Kael killed the pirate captain in single combat. But the royal family survived intact."
"The Echo," Prince Rhaegar said suddenly, speaking for the first time. Everyone turned to look at him. "Your nephew. Prince Kael. They call him the Echo of Sunspear. He's never lost a fight."
"So the stories say, Prince Rhaegar."
"Are they true?"
"Every one." Lewyn couldn't help the pride in his voice. "The boy is—he's something special. Fights like he was trained by all the masters in history simultaneously."
Rhaegar's expression was thoughtful. "I would like to meet him someday."
"He would be honored, Prince."
"Yes, yes, fascinating," Aerys interrupted, waving a hand. "A prodigy with a sword. Dorne has always produced those. But we're not here to discuss your nephew's martial prowess. We're here to discuss the Stepstones."
He stood—abruptly, the kind of movement that made everyone tense—and began pacing.
"Tywin. My Hand. My friend." Aerys turned to Lord Tywin. "What say you? Should we let Dorne play at being conquerors?"
Tywin was quiet for a long moment, and Lewyn could almost see the calculations happening behind those green eyes.
"The Stepstones are a persistent problem," Tywin said finally. "And Dorne is uniquely positioned to address it—close proximity, naval capability, motivation. If they succeed, the crown gains safer shipping lanes without expending resources. If they fail—" He paused. "—the cost falls entirely on House Martell."
"So you support this?"
"I think it's worth allowing them to try. With conditions."
"Conditions," Aerys repeated. "Always conditions with you, Tywin. What conditions?"
"That any fortifications built remain loyal to the Iron Throne. That Dornish control doesn't interfere with trade or passage. That this is framed as Dorne acting on behalf of the Seven Kingdoms, not as an independent action."
"Reasonable," Lewyn said, though inwardly he was calculating how much autonomy those conditions would actually cost them. "House Martell has no interest in defying the crown. We simply want to solve a problem that affects us all."
Aerys studied him with those wild purple eyes. "You're very diplomatic, Prince Lewyn. Too diplomatic. Dornishmen are usually all fire and sand and temper. You're—controlled. Why?"
*Because my nephew is planning something bigger than you can see, and I need to not screw this up.*
"Because I'm representing my house before the Iron Throne, Your Grace. Temper has its place. This isn't it."
Something flickered across Aerys's face—approval? Suspicion? With him, it was impossible to tell.
"Prince Rhaegar," Aerys said suddenly. "You've been quiet. What do you think? Should we let Dorne have the Stepstones?"
Rhaegar stepped forward, and somehow the room seemed to brighten slightly. The man had presence—the kind that came from breeding and training and something else. Something that made people want to follow him.
"I think," Rhaegar said carefully, "that Prince Lewyn has presented a compelling case. The pirates are a problem. Dorne is offering to solve it at no cost to the crown. And—" He paused. "—there's strategic value in having an ally strong enough to control the Narrow Sea approaches. If war ever came from the east, having fortified islands between Essos and Westeros would be advantageous."
"War from the east," Aerys murmured. "Always war. Always enemies. Everywhere I look, enemies."
The room went very, very still.
Queen Rhaella spoke for the first time, her voice soft but firm. "Husband. Prince Lewyn has traveled far to bring this petition. Shall we give him an answer?"
Aerys turned to look at his wife, and for just a moment, something like sanity flickered in his eyes.
"Yes. An answer." He returned to his seat, sat with careful precision. "Very well. House Martell has the crown's permission to address the pirate problem in the Stepstones. Build your forts. Clear your waterways. Do what you must. But—" His finger pointed at Lewyn. "—any territory you take remains part of the Seven Kingdoms. Subject to the Iron Throne. Not some independent Dornish principality. Understood?"
"Perfectly, Your Grace."
"Good. Then we're done. Dismissed."
Lewyn bowed again—proper depth, proper form—and turned to leave.
But Prince Rhaegar's voice stopped him. "Prince Lewyn. A moment, if you would."
Lewyn paused. Turned back. "Prince Rhaegar?"
"Walk with me. I'd like to discuss something."
They left the Small Council chambers together, walking through corridors that were too ornate and too cold, until they reached a balcony overlooking the city.
Rhaegar leaned against the railing, looking out over King's Landing with an expression that might have been sadness.
"Your nephew," Rhaegar said without preamble. "The Echo. What's he like? Beyond the fighting, I mean."
The question caught Lewyn off-guard. "He's—intense. Thoughtful. Protective of his family to the point of obsession. Why?"
"I'm curious about prodigies. About people who exceed normal human capability. What drives them. What they want." Rhaegar turned to look at Lewyn. "The prophecy speaks of—" He stopped. Shook his head. "Never mind. Forgive me. I'm being cryptic."
"The prince's prophecy is the prince's business," Lewyn said carefully.
"Yes. It is." Rhaegar was quiet for a moment. "Your family is gathering strength. Taking the Stepstones. Building alliances. Planning for—something. What?"
*You're too perceptive. That's dangerous.*
"The future, Prince Rhaegar. We're planning for the future. As all great houses must."
"A vague answer."
"A true one."
Rhaegar smiled—sad and beautiful. "I think I would like to meet your nephew. And your niece. Princess Elia. I've heard she's—" He paused. "—remarkable."
Every instinct Lewyn had screamed warning. "She's fragile, Prince Rhaegar. Beautiful, yes. Kind, yes. But fragile. Not—" He chose his words carefully. "—not suited for the kind of life that comes with being close to the Iron Throne."
"Perhaps not," Rhaegar agreed. "But remarkable things are often fragile. That doesn't make them less worth protecting."
*Oh no. Oh no no no. He's interested. In Elia. This is—*
"I should return to Sunspear, Prince Rhaegar. Report to my sister. Begin preparations for the Stepstones campaign."
"Of course. Safe travels, Prince Lewyn." Rhaegar extended his hand.
Lewyn took it—firm grip, brief, appropriate—and felt something cold settle in his stomach.
*Kael saw this coming somehow. Didn't he? That's why he's been so frantic about protecting Elia. Because he knew—or suspected—that the crown prince would notice her.*
"Prince Rhaegar," Lewyn said carefully. "My niece is precious to us. If anyone—anyone at all—were to approach House Martell about a potential match—"
"They would do so formally. Respectfully. With full understanding of Princess Elia's delicate health and the concerns of her family." Rhaegar's purple eyes met Lewyn's. "I understand the value of precious things, Prince Lewyn. And I don't handle them carelessly."
It wasn't a promise. Not quite. But it was close enough that Lewyn felt the weight of it.
*I need to get home. Need to warn them. Need to—*
"Safe travels, Prince Rhaegar."
"And to you."
Lewyn fled the Red Keep like a man escaping a burning building.
Which, in a way, he was.
---
**Two Weeks Later - Sunspear, Training Yards, Dawn**
Areo Hotah stood in the center of the yard, his poleaxe held in ready position, and looked like a statue carved from muscle and patience.
Kael circled him slowly, Solemn Vow drawn, assessing.
They'd been doing this every morning for two weeks now. Training. Testing. Learning each other's patterns and rhythms. And every morning, Kael learned something new.
Areo Hotah was *good*.
Not good like Arthur Dayne, who was brilliant and flashy and fought like a song given flesh. But good in a different way—economical, patient, perfectly precise. Every movement served a purpose. Every stance maximized defense and created openings for offense simultaneously.
This was what happened when you spent years doing literally nothing except perfecting the art of protecting someone.
"You are holding back," Areo Hotah said, his deep voice carrying across the empty yard.
"I'm learning," Kael corrected.
"You have learned enough. Now fight me properly. Or I will be offended."
Kael grinned—feral and sudden. "Don't want that."
He *moved*.
The Taskmaster gift and the Super Soldier Serum worked in harmony—his body executing techniques he'd absorbed from watching Areo Hotah for two weeks, but faster, stronger, enhanced beyond normal human capability.
Solemn Vow came in high, feinted low, reversed for a thrust that should have gotten past the poleaxe's reach.
Should have.
Areo Hotah's axe moved—not fast, but *perfect*—and batted Kael's blade aside with the kind of leverage that made strength irrelevant.
"Better," Areo Hotah said. "But you are still thinking. Stop thinking. Just be."
*Easy for you to say*, Kael thought. *You've been training with that axe since you could walk.*
But he tried. Let his enhanced reflexes take over. Let his body move without conscious thought.
And suddenly the fight became something else.
Faster. Cleaner. More dangerous.
They moved across the training yard like dancers—Kael's Valyrian steel blade singing against Areo Hotah's poleaxe, neither giving ground, neither finding an opening.
"YES!" Areo Hotah's voice was delighted. "Now you are fighting like the Echo! Now you are—"
Kael saw the opening. A fraction of a second where Areo Hotah's defense was compromised by his own momentum.
Solemn Vow slipped through, came to rest against the big man's throat.
"Yield?" Kael asked, breathing hard.
Areo Hotah was breathing hard too, which was saying something. "You are very good, Prince Kael. The stories do not exaggerate."
"You almost had me. Three times."
"Almost is not enough. Not when protecting my lady." Areo Hotah stepped back, and Kael lowered his blade. "But I have learned much. Your techniques—the way you adapt, copy, improve—it is like watching many masters fight inside one body."
"That's exactly what it is," Kael admitted.
"Then you are blessed. Or cursed. Perhaps both."
"Definitely both."
They moved to the water barrel, drank deeply, and Areo Hotah studied Kael with eyes that saw more than most people's.
"You fight like a man who has something to protect," he said finally. "Not just duty. Not just honor. Something personal. Something that drives you beyond what is reasonable."
"Everyone I love," Kael said simply.
"That is a heavy burden. What happens when you cannot protect them all?"
*I die trying.*
"I adapt," Kael said aloud. "I find another way. I—"
"Prince Kael!" A servant—running, which meant urgency. "Prince Lewyn has returned! He's calling for the family in the Great Hall!"
Kael and Areo Hotah exchanged glances.
"That does not sound like good news," Areo Hotah observed.
"It never does."
---
The family gathered quickly—Neria, Doran, Elia, Oberyn, Mellario with Areo Hotah standing behind her like a mountain, and Ashara because she was always with Elia now.
Prince Lewyn looked exhausted. Dusty from travel. But most concerning: he looked *worried*.
"We have the crown's permission," he said without preamble. "King Aerys agreed. We can take the Stepstones. Clear out the pirates. Build our forts."
"Then why do you look like someone died?" Oberyn asked.
"Because someone might." Lewyn's eyes found Elia. "Prince Rhaegar expressed interest. In you, Princess. He asked about you specifically. What you were like. If you were—" Lewyn paused. "—if you were remarkable."
The room went deathly silent.
Kael felt ice flood his veins. *No. Not yet. It's too soon. She's too young. I'm not ready for this.*
"Prince Rhaegar," Neria said carefully. "The crown prince. He expressed interest in Elia."
"Yes."
"Did he—did he make an offer? A formal proposal?"
"No. Not yet. But the interest was clear. And when a crown prince expresses interest—" Lewyn didn't finish. Didn't need to.
When a crown prince expressed interest, it wasn't really interest. It was inevitability.
"No," Kael said. The word came out flat. Hard. "Absolutely not."
Everyone turned to look at him.
"Kael—" Neria started.
"No. She's not marrying him. She's not going to King's Landing. She's not—" Kael's hands were shaking. "—she's not leaving where I can protect her."
"It's not your decision," Elia said quietly.
"It should be."
"But it's not." Elia stood—carefully, always carefully—and crossed to where Kael stood. "Brother. Look at me."
He did. Saw his twin—fragile and fierce and impossibly brave.
"I know you're scared," she said. "I'm scared too. But if the crown prince wants a match with House Martell—if that's what's coming—then refusing might cause problems we can't afford."
"I don't care about—"
"You should. We all should. This isn't just about me. It's about Dorne. About our family's position in the realm. About—" She took a breath. "—about whether we can afford to refuse the Iron Throne."
Doran cleared his throat. "She's right, Kael. If Prince Rhaegar makes a formal proposal—and it sounds like he will, eventually—we have to consider it seriously."
"Consider it?" Kael's voice rose. "Consider sending Elia to a city where the king is going mad? Where politics are bloodsport? Where she'd be isolated and vulnerable and—"
"I wouldn't be alone," Elia interrupted. "Uncle Lewyn would be there. He's planning to join the Kingsguard, aren't you, Uncle?"
Lewyn nodded reluctantly. "If Elia married Prince Rhaegar, I'd petition to join. To protect her from the inside."
"And Prince Rhaegar is not his father," Doran added. "By all accounts, he's kind. Thoughtful. Decent. If Elia had to marry into the royal family, he's—" Doran paused. "—he's the best option."
"The best option is her staying here!" Kael was shouting now. "Safe! Where I can protect her! Where we all can protect her!"
---
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