Hot wind rattled the white cloak of the Kingsguard.
Even though winter crept over Westeros, the Dornish sun never bowed to the cold.
Sweat stread down Lance Lot's jaw as he sat astride his horse, frowning into the shimring dunes.
Gods… this heat is unbearable.
The farther south they went, the hotter it grew.
Even the body Lance had reincarnated into—raised in the temperate heart of the continent—had never endured such blistering weather.
Under the blazing sky, his white armor felt less like protection and more like a frying pan.
If not for the padded lining beneath it, his skin would have been seared raw already.
No wonder Dornishn never wear full plate…
He glanced back.
Even the twenty Crownland knights escorting the Queen looked half-cooked, their linen underclothes soaked through with sweat.
Yet every man still held his reins steady, every gaze sharp and loyal.
"Are… you not hot?" Lance finally asked.
Beside him, Lady Jynessa Blackmont rode tall in her full armor—head to toe in steel—looking entirely unbothered.
"Hot?" she echoed, giving him a sideways stare.
"This? This is nothing. You should co in Eighth Moon. The sun lts the earth. If you stand out too long, you'll die of heatstroke."
"…Huh."
Lance snorted softly.
Sure, he was currently fantasizing about stripping off his armor and letting the wind cool the rest of him, but compared to the suffocating heat of his past world, this was tolerable.
Still… this woman, pretty as she was, had not bathed in many days—Dorne's water was scarce.
Wearing full armor in this heat? Lance imagined the sll when she finally took it off.
Jynessa stiffened.
"You're thinking sothing rude," she accused, narrowing her eyes.
Lance coughed twice, face stiffening.
"I was rely wondering… how far we still have to Sunspear."
She didn't buy it, but she flicked her chin forward.
"Look ahead."
The knights crested the final dune.
And there it was.
---
Sunspear.
A city carved from ruddy sandstone, three towering spears of architecture thrust high into the desert sky.
The Tower of the Sun, glowing honey-gold beneath the sun.
The Shadow Tower, its carved snakes glaring from the windows.
And the Spear Tower, its arched river-gate welcoming ships in and out along the Greenblood River.
Lance, despite himself, murmured:
"Holy shit. Sunspear is huge."
The Martells did not skimp on ceremony.
Two or three miles from the city, Lance could already see a massive procession lined up in perfect rows.
Dozens of standards bearing the sun-and-spear snapped in the wind.
"Ser Balman!"
Lance raised his voice sharply.
Balman, the loyal blond knight, already understood.
He and several n fell back, unfurled the banner—and the black three-headed dragon on red rose into the Dornish sky.
A silent declaration:
The Queen of Westeros approaches.
A rider burst from the Martell formation.
Athletic, composed, clad in flowing yellow robes—accompanied by guards.
He reined in twenty paces from the Queen's carriage.
"Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne, greets Queen Rhaella Targaryen and Prince Viserys!"
Lance glanced instinctively at the man's legs.
In the original tiline, Doran's gout would later cripple him, his once-strong legs wasting away until he required a wheeled chair.
But here—he rode hard and straight.
Healthy. Strong.
Not yet afflicted.
"Please wait a mont, Prince Doran," Lance replied dutifully.
He swung his horse toward the Queen's carriage, rapped on the wooden fra, and lowered his voice.
"Prince Doran awaits Your Grace. You should receive him."
The curtain lifted instantly.
Queen Rhaella's serene, elegant face appeared—frad by sunlight and the faint shimr of heat.
She looked prepared—every last stray lock had been smoothed by Ashara at her back. The queen wore the Targaryen black bodysuit, cut to show the sweep of her curves like a crafted silhouette.
On her chest, the three-headed dragon gaped and reared—an emblem that seed ready to devour everything before it.
There was, if nothing else, an unmistakable air of regality about her.
"I don't have a mount, ser. Are you really going to make the queen walk?" soone muttered.
Queen Rhaella's lips curved. Her bright eyes slid to the tall Kingsguard in front of her; she lifted her chin with noble ease. From the look in her eye, she intended to ride with Lance.
Before Lance could answer, Balman—ever eager—popped up beside them at the queen's faint complaint. "I can give Your Grace my horse!" he blurted, chest puffed.
The instant the queen turned that cool gaze on him, Balman's grin died. Her stare held a quiet, lethal promise; Balman shivered.
"Carry your banner properly, boy of the Byrch family." Her voice sliced through the heat—cold enough to make the air feel thinner. "If the Targaryen banner falls, I'll have you buried in Dornish sand myself."
Balman swallowed and, shoulders hunched, planted the standard harder into his shoulder and slid aside.
When he stepped back, Rhaella looked at Lance again; the flirtation in her eyes was blatant.
Well, fine—no pretense tonight, then.
Lance scolded himself inwardly. They had gone too far that night already; the window had been broken down between them. But the old king—stubborn as a Riverlands ox—would he really ask Lance to sire an heir on his behalf, and not do it face to face? If there were honest intent, Aerys would have said it himself, not used the queen as proxy.
So Lance had made an excuse: travel is dangerous, we won't stop at inns. With a carriage full of three won and a child, there'd be no chance for private indulgence anyway. And the queen, left to swallow her impatience, had endured it like a caged fire until Sunspear.
"You afraid you'll fail to keep your queen safe, Kingsguard?" Rhaella's voice hardened as she took him unflinchingly to task. "I, Rhaella Targaryen, by royal command order you to bring to et the next Prince of Dorne."
She spoke grandly—every syllable the part of sovereign. "This concerns the friendship between Targaryen and Martell; you understand, Ser Lance Lot."
Her posture, her words—she looked every inch the queen, and the girls behind her gazed at her with obvious adoration.
Ashara's eyes glittered like a fang. Lance scowled inwardly. With Dorne's famously permissive ways, Ashara would likely be delighted, not shocked, and might very well join in.
Three won—and the Dornish princess besides—being warm and close on a single carriage gave Lance ideas he should not have had. The three-year-old Viserys, of course, was oblivious; let the kid play.
Rhaella smiled and Lance, who had decided on a reckless burst of courage, simply picked her up and set her astride the poml in front of him.
He ant what he did: if she intended to make sothing of him there in public, she'd have to try.
Under the glaring sun they rode, Lance holding her around the waist. The queen's body rose and dipped with the horse; Lance kept his chest rigid so as not to show weakness. The horse's motion brought their bodies into frequent, awkward contact. The queen's hips shifted and pressed, and Lance felt every inch.
"You can't run away from it, Lance Lot," Rhaella murmured, close enough that only he could hear. She sounded confident, almost prophetic: "You and I are Targaryen by bond. Our union is written. Our children will be lions of dragon blood—riding dragons and re-raising the na of Targaryen across the world."
Lance did not answer. The new body he inhabited responded keenly to touch in ways his old one never had. Being desired so blatantly by a queen made his head spin, and his discipline thinned.
No. He steeled himself. He would not fall here on the road. He vowed—quietly—to restrain himself until Sunspear, at least.
Then Rhaella launched a surprise: she leaned back against him.
Gods—
A full-on, cheek-to-cheek assault. Lance nearly lost his balance.
"That tune you played that night—'To Rhaenyra'—I liked it." Her breath ward his ear. "When we're in Sunspear, co to my chamber and play it for properly."
Lance snorted, the laugh half defiant, half fluttering. No matter what, he would not jump off the horse and stumble into the queen's bed. Not his style. Not his honor—he told himself that, hard.
They rode on into the city, and the reception was as ceremonious as expected. Prince Doran himself reined out to greet them, awkward with his own pride. For a mont Lance thought—watching Doran's easy composure and strong legs—that the old gouty fate had not yet co for him.
"Welco to Sunspear, Your Grace!" Doran offered with polite warmth.
Rhaella accepted the greeting with unruffled dignity—though a flush rose to her cheeks under the desert sun. She turned the conversation to diplomacy at once: "I regret that I could not attend Princess Nyria's funeral," she said, "but as a sign of Targaryen goodwill I have brought your sister safely to Dorne."
Relief showed on Doran's face. He had heard of the abduction; to learn the princess arrived unhard eased him.
"Martell has always admired the Targaryen crown," he replied brightly—then blanched as Rhaella's eyes narrowed. "The sun is perhaps too enthusiastic for our guests," he joked, and imdiately ushered them forward.
He also was not blind: Doran had received the ravens about the earlier ambush. He looked over at Lewyn and said in a quieter tone: "Prince Lewyn—bring forward the two daughters of House Fowler. The people of Targaryen must be answered."
Lance heard the request and stiffened. The diplomatic needle had already begun to point to those the Martells suspected. He felt the road's dust still on his boots and the queen's warmth at his back. The welco had the gloss of ceremony—and beneath it, the thin ice of consequence.
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