They watched from the terrace above the godswood, the moonlight casting long shadows across the ancient stone. Below, beneath the heart tree, the Princess and the Black Dragon stood entwined in a final embrace, their whispers lost to the rustling leaves.
King Daeron II Targaryen stood with his arms folded into the long sleeves of his dark red robe, his crown resting heavy on his brow. Behind him, still as the statues that flanked the balustrade, stood Ser Brynden Rivers, his pale face unreadable, red eyes fixed unblinking on the scene below.
"They do not see us," Daeron said at last, softly. "Or if they do, they do not care."
Brynden inclined his head. "Would you wish them to?"
"No," the king replied. "Let them have their moment. It is the last they shall share." He sighed and turned from the view. "There is no place for love in this. Not in rule, nor war, and less still in peace."
Brynden Rivers followed his king inside, his silent steps like a shadow's. "You made the choice that had to be made, Your Grace."
"I made the only choice," Daeron said. He walked slowly down the long gallery, each step echoing in the high-vaulted hall. "My father spent a decade squandering fleets and gold in vain efforts to conquer Dorne. Wooden dragons. Tyroshi mercenaries. Ten thousand dead for sand and pride. All to end with Dorne still free, and Westeros poorer for it."
Brynden said nothing.
"So I thought, if fire and steel cannot bind them to the crown, then perhaps marriage might." Daeron stopped at a high arched window and looked out again—this time, toward the city. "A prince for a princess. A Dornish sun for a dragon. The realm united not through conquest, but through alliance."
"Wise," Brynden said. "Unpopular in some quarters, but wise."
"Oh, I am well aware." Daeron gave him a thin smile. "There are those who mutter that Dorne should have been brought to heel with swords. That to give them a seat on the Small Council and my own sister as a bride is dishonor."
"Let them mutter," Brynden said. "Most of those who cry loudest for war have never felt a blade."
Daeron chuckled, a humorless sound. "They would rather I wed Daenerys to Daemon. A match of the blood, dragon to dragon. A match of fire." His voice cooled. "But fire burns. And Daemon—he is flame without temperance."
"Yet he is popular," Brynden noted. "Too popular. Too much like what the realm thinks a king should be."
"Yes. Tall, comely, a peerless warrior with sword in hand and a crown in his dreams." Daeron looked out again. "And now legitimized by our father's folly. Given Blackfyre, cheered by lords and knights. Some already call him 'the sword's true heir.'" He shook his head. "I could not risk that match. Not when Daenerys is beloved. Not when the memory of Aegon the Unworthy still festers like an old wound."
"So you gave her to Dorne," Brynden said simply.
"I gave her to peace," Daeron corrected. "A lasting one, I hope. And I believe it is not only for the good of the realm, but for her. In Sunspear, she will be honored. Cherished. She will be more than just a pawn on a board of dragons and bastards."
Brynden nodded slowly. "It was the right choice, Your Grace."
The king looked once more toward the godswood. Daemon was gone. Only Daenerys remained, her silver-gold hair catching the moonlight as she stood still beneath the weirwood's sorrowful gaze.
"I hope she believes that," Daeron murmured. "In time."
And with that, he turned and walked away—King of the Seven Kingdoms, peacemaker, and brother, ever at war with the man behind the crown.