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... ens hummed with the quiet melody of distant fountains and the gentle rustle of orange trees swaying in the breeze. Within Prince Doran Martell's private solar, that peace transformed into an oppressive silence.

Doran sat in his wheeled chair beside the open window, the parchment trembling slightly in his gout-ridden hands. The letter's seal—broken now—bore the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, though not from the king that ruled the Seven Kingdoms right now.

Sunlight stream ...

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