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Sara Stark
'Deeper, deeper, Sara Stark. Deeper,'
Sara ventured deeper into the crypts, her breath steady despite the growing darkness. The air was damp, the silence thick. Suddenly, her foot caught on something, and she stumbled, sending the lantern tumbling from her grasp. In an instant, the crypt was swallowed by darkness, but she felt no fear. Darkness was her friend. The fire was what truly terrified her.
"Ow!" she muttered, rubbing her forehead, feeling the warmth of blood trickling down her skin. A sudden footstep echoed in the silence, making her freeze.
"Who's there? Father, is that you?" she shouted, her voice quivering as her eyes darted toward the sound. The silence felt oppressive, and then, light pierced the darkness. A lantern floated toward her, casting eerie shadows on the stone walls. It stopped five feet away, blinding her momentarily. As she squinted, she saw the figure holding it—a man she didn't recognize.
"Who are you?" Sara asked warily, rising to her feet and backing away, her heart racing.
"I apologize if I startled you, dear child," the man said softly, his voice calm and reassuring. "Please, forgive me."
Sara didn't know why, but she felt she could trust him, yet a strange sense of recognition hit her. She was certain that she had seen this man before.
"...Do I know you?" Sara asked hesitantly, leaning in slightly to get a better look at his face.
The man smiled kindly, the warmth of it reaching his eyes. "Yes, we have met once before. As for who I am... just a kind old man."
"An old man?" she repeated, her brow furrowing as she studied him. His features were unfamiliar.
His long, flowing robes of deep maroon with subtle hints of yellow and red draped elegantly over his form. The wide sleeves hung loosely around his arms, and a dark sash cinched the fabric at his waist. His long, gray hair was neatly pulled into a bun atop his head, while a well-trimmed beard and mustache framed his serene expression.
"What do you want?" she asked, though her voice held less suspicion than before.
Sara was confused how she had never seen him before; his choice of clothing would stand out like a sore thumb in the North, but Sara reminded herself that this old man was in the Crypts of Winterfell, a place only for Starks.
"You need to leave, or I will call father. This place is not for you, and how do you get into Winterfell, what do you want?" Sara demanded, her voice tense, eyes narrowing with suspicion. Her hand instinctively moved to the small blade hidden in her dress. She knew how to use it, even against an old man, if need be.
The stranger remained calm, his gentle smile unwavering. "Forgive me for being here, Lady Sara. I know this place is for Starks only, and I respect that. I only wish to have a talk with you, and I will be on my way." The old man said with the same gentle smile.
Sara knew she should not trust strangers, but this man was different. She couldn't help but feel like she could trust him somehow. She was sure she had never seen him before, and yet, he felt familiar to her.
"You said I have met you once before, when? I don't remember seeing a man with red clothes around Winterfell. I'm sure everyone would have noticed you right away." Sara remarked, her tone edged with skepticism. The old man chuckled softly, stroking his beard.
"I tend to go unnoticed, Lady Sara. People rarely see me, especially when they are young. And when they do... it is often a sad day," he replied, his voice tinged with sorrow as if carrying the weight of something she couldn't yet understand.
His cryptic words made Sara uneasy. She couldn't imagine how someone dressed so boldly in red and maroon could ever go unnoticed. "I'm young," she said cautiously, "and you said it's a sad day when young people meet you. Is today a sad day? Why are you here?" Her grip tightened on the hidden knife.
"That won't be necessary, young lady. As I said. I'm not here to cause harm to anyone, at least not today." The Old Man said cryptically, and Sara was getting annoyed by him.
Every moment he was here, he was staying in a place where he didn't belong. Sara had once beaten a boy up when he tried to sneak into the Crypts, which were of House Stark, and this old man was feeling too much at home here. How can someone even feel at home in a graveyard? Who was he? The Stranger?
"Well, what do you want? My ancestors sleep here, and I don't want your presence to disturb them?" Sara said with a sharp voice, sounding older than she was for a moment.
The old man nodded slowly, turning his gaze to one of the Stark statues. His expression softened as he looked upon the stone faces of the dead. "Indeed, they rest here," he murmured, his voice quiet and reflective. "But sometimes... I wish they'd stop building these statues. Poor souls."
Sara frowned, catching his whispered words. "What do you mean? They're dead. They rest in peace, in paradise," she said, her voice softening. A smile flickered across her face as she spoke of her family's afterlife.
The old man didn't meet her gaze at first, but his expression was heavy with sorrow, as if the weight of countless deaths hung over him. "I will not disturb you longer than necessary, Lady Sara Stark," the old man said gently, offering her a soft smile. "I only wish to help you." His voice was calm and reassuring, yet Sara's instincts remained on edge. Despite that, a part of her—a small part—felt like she could trust him.
"Help me? How?" Sara asked, her voice cautious as he took a step closer. She stiffened, her fingers brushing the hidden blade in her dress.
"Tell me, why do you refuse the Dragon Egg gifted to you? The dragon growing there is dying, Lady Sara. The poor soul wants you back."
Sara didn't know how the man could know that, but Cregan and Princess Rhaenyra had told her something similar. She felt bad, but then she remembered him—the FIRE. SHE COULD FEEL THE BURN. The fire from her dreams, she knew dragons would burn her.
' She knelt, trembling, her voice cracked and hoarse from sobbing. "I didn't do it," she begged, the words tasting like ash. Her throat seared as if a burning coal had lodged itself there. But the man in the shadows remained unmoved; his face cloaked in darkness except for the cold, grey eyes staring back at her with disdain.
"Please, Your Grace. Believe me. I didn't know it was poisoned," she choked out, the words barely escaping as a lump formed in her throat. From the darkness, a monstrous dragon's head emerged—green scales gleaming, eyes burning like molten bronze. It felt like staring into the face of death itself.
Her heart pounded in terror as the dragon leaned in, its gaze filled with hatred that mirrored its master's. Desperation overwhelmed her, and she sobbed, her hands trembling as she tried to find the strength to speak.
"Your—" her words were swallowed by her scream as flames engulfed her, devouring her whole.'
"NOOO! PLEASE DON'T BURN ME! I SWEAR, I DIDN'T KNOW!" Sara screamed, her voice breaking as the fire in her mind seemed all too real, the heat closing in on her. She felt the flames crawl over her skin, the dragon's scorching breath consuming her—
Suddenly, a gentle hand rested on her shoulder, pulling her back. The crypt flickered back into focus, and the fire vanished. All that remained was the old man standing beside her, his eyes filled with sorrow and understanding.
"Shhh," he whispered softly. "You are safe here, Sara. No dragon is burning you."
But his words did little to soothe the raw fear in her chest. Her heart thundered, still racing with the memory of flames. The dragon, its green scales, his bronze eyes, but as much as the dragon terrified her. The man stared at her, his eyes filled with madness and rage, a rage that could burn the whole world.
Sara felt her eyes burn with unshed tears, and right now, she wished Cregan was here with her. His hugs always made her feel better, but she remembered the words he said to her in their last conversation. Cregan had never talked like that with her, but she couldn't blame him, not this time.
"I can't believe you. You dragon killer. You are heartless. I cannot belive you are my sister!!"
His words cut deeper than any sword could. She wanted to love her dragon as much as he did, but she remembered what would happen. They would burn her.
"Do not fear the flames. They will not burn you." His voice felt gentle, and his touch on her shoulder made the fear fade away like smoke.
Her legs steadied beneath her, and her heart no longer raced as wildly. It was as though the old man had lifted her fear away with just his presence. "I don't want a dragon," she whispered, almost to herself. "It's better that way."
The old man sighed, a deep, weary sound that echoed in the quiet crypt. "Tell me, Lady Sara," he began softly, "do you remember the poor direwolf pup you found in the snow?"
Sara did remember him, the poor thing. His fur was cold like ice against her fingers, so cold that the Maester had feared she might lose her fingers from holding the direwolf for so long.
"I do." Sara said with a tiny voice.
"You cursed the world for taking him away, you cursed the mother for abandoning him."
"Why would she abandon him?" Sara said indignantly.
"Because the direwolf was born weak, my Lady. Nature is fascinating but can be very cruel. The weak are left behind to die. That's how it has worked since mankind has existed," the old man said with a sad expression.
"Do you remember the name you gave him?" the Old Man asked in a kind tone but with a hint of longing, as if he, too, had experienced something similar.
Sara felt tears running down her cheeks. She had not said the name for a very long time, but she still remembered it.
"Silvereye." she muttered the name; it felt bitter to say the name. She had not said that name for so long.
She had found the poor direwolf in the snow, brought him to Winterfell, and begged the Maester to save him. She had been foolish and had thought the Maesters could heal anything. So she started thinking of names to give him once he was better. She had noticed that his eyes were silver. So, giving him the name 'Silvereye' was easy. It had not occurred to her that her poor direwolf might not make it, and when the Maester had given her the news. She remembered crying and grieving for him for a whole month until Cregan found his own direwolf and told her she could play with him as much as she wanted. Shortly after Silvereye's death, the dreams of the Dragon burning her came, and her life was never the same.
"Tell me, Sara." The old man made her face the darkness of the crypts. He was to her right side, speaking with a hushed tone. "You cursed the mother for abandoning the pup, and yet, you want to do the same to an innocent dragon."
She gasped and felt her heart freeze for a moment; she hadn't thought of that. She could almost see Silvereye looking at her, his face floating before her, and looking at her disappointment. "No. I-I--He will burn me. I don't want to BURN." Sara screamed hysterically, feeling tears running down her cheeks.
"Shh, you are safe." Once again, she felt her fear disappear as if the old man was doing something. "I understand your fear. It is not easy to like dragons. But this one is innocent. Think of Silvereye. Maybe he returned to you. Maybe his soul is inside that egg, and he wants to reunite with you, but this time, as a Dragon. Will you truly abandon him to die like his mother did?"
Sara felt disgusted with herself. How could she allow him to die like that? The Dragon had done nothing to her. But she knew what would happen; she knew they would burn her.
No, I don't need to keep him, she quickly concluded. She knew from her mother that Dragons could take care of themselves after they reached two years old.
Only two years, she thought. After two years, she could tell him to fly away. The Dragon gets to live, and she will not be BURNED. "I will not let him die. Not Again." She muttered under her breath, and the old man patted her on the shoulder before moving his hand away.
"Before I leave, I want you to remember this from me: We never choose who we love. Embrace your love. Remember this; you will understand one day, " the old man said cryptically, confusing her.
Sara then remembered something that made her freeze on the spot. How did the Old Man know about SilverEye? It was impossible. She had been alone when she found him in the snow; the only ones who knew about him were her parents, Cregan and Maester.
"Wait." Sara spun around, her voice catching in her throat. "How do you...?" The question hung in the air, unfinished, as her eyes scanned the crypts. He was gone. The old man had vanished without a trace. Even his own lantern was gone.
A cold shiver ran down her spine as she stared at the empty space. Her thoughts turned to the egg, and without another moment of hesitation, she bolted out of the crypts.
Soon, she reached her chamber. No one seemed to have noticed her absence as if no time had passed at all. Her eyes drifted toward the fireplace, and there it was—the dragon egg, still nestled in the flames, its scales gleaming in the firelight.
Cregan, she thought, knowing he must have been the one to place it there after their little fight. Sara felt her heart beating faster. She could feel it again, the fire burning her skin, but this time, she remembered SilverEye. She remembered the Old Man's words. She swallowed thickly and walked slowly and nervously towards the dragon egg.
The flames danced around the dragon egg, its scales shimmering with beauty. As she drew closer, she could almost hear it—the faint, distant pulse of life inside, the dragon calling out to her, waiting.
The door creaked open behind her, but she didn't need to turn. She knew who it was.
"You're standing this close to the egg, and you're not screaming your head off! Did something change?" Cregan's voice was sharp and bitter as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
Sara didn't look at him. "I'll keep it."
She heard Cregan's sharp intake of breath, and before she could react, he jumped for joy, sweeping her into a tight hug. "YES! I knew you'd—"
"Only for two years." Sara's voice cut through his excitement like an icy blade. His arms dropped from her, and he recoiled as if stung.
"What do you mean?" Cregan asked, his voice darkening with anger again.
"Mother said dragons don't need constant care after they're two years old," Sara explained, her tone cold, resolute. "I'll keep him for two years, but that's it. Once he reaches two years, he'll leave Winterfell. He doesn't belong here."
.
.
.
'
' "Your Grace, what can I do for you?" Arianne asked, rising to her feet the moment Aenar's voice reached her ears. The door creaked open, revealing Aenar.
He stepped into the room like a ghost—his once bright eyes were hollow, bloodshot, and rimmed with dark shadows. He stared ahead, unfocused, as if searching for something... or someone. But there was only emptiness. The tears that had once flowed freely now seemed to have dried, leaving behind a raw, swollen redness that carved a haunted look into his face.
His mouth hung open, trembling, as though he was on the verge of speaking—perhaps to call her name. But no words came.
Aenar didn't respond to Arianne's words. He merely closed the door behind him and stood there for a moment, silent, before finally turning to face her fully.
"I wanted to meet with Daenerys, Your Grace," Arianne said, her voice hesitant. "But she refused to open the door." She watched him step further into the chamber, his eyes scanning the room as if searching for something that wasn't there.
"Daenerys is mad with grief. She blames herself for her death." Aenar's voice was hollow, devoid of feeling, as if the weight of his sorrow had drained him of everything.
"It wasn't her fault," Arianne replied quickly, a note of urgency creeping into her voice. "Daenerys is not to blame for what happened, Aenar."
"You're right," Aenar muttered, his voice low. But then, something dark flickered in his gaze. "It's not her fault."
Arianne's breath caught in her throat as his words took on a sudden, chilling edge. His eyes, once glazed with grief, now burned with a smoldering fury, and he fixed her with a stare so intense she felt her knees weaken.
"Your Grace?" she stammered, her voice faltering. She instinctively backed away as Aenar took a step toward her, his face twisted with rage.
"Why?" Aenar's voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but the fury beneath it was unmistakable. "Why did you do it?"
Arianne's eyes widened in confusion, panic rising in her chest. "I... I don't understand—"
"WHY DID YOU POISON HER?" Aenar's voice exploded with sudden rage, his eyes blazing as he took another step forward, his whole body trembling with fury. "WHY DID YOU KILL MY DAUGHTER?" '
.
.
Aenar's heart raced as the wildfire flames engulfed Seasmoke and Laenor, their agonized screams tearing through the night. His eyes widened in disbelief as Seasmoke's burning body was flung into the air, plummeting toward the ocean with a thick trail of smoke spiraling behind it.
"Save zirȳ!(Save Them)" Aenar shouted, his voice strained as he urged Cannibal downward. The massive dragon descended swiftly, and Aenar knew this was his only chance to save them. Dragons were too heavy, and Laenor, clad in armor, would sink like a stone. If Cannibal missed, they'd be lost to the depths.
Seasmoke and Laenor hit the water with a splash. For a moment, their bodies floated on the surface, but Aenar's breath hitched as they began sinking into the dark waters. Cannibal's enormous claws plunged into the sea, grasping for them. Aenar held his breath, knowing Cannibal wouldn't have time for a second attempt.
As Cannibal's claws closed around them, Aenar exhaled in relief, ordering the dragon to fly straight for Dragonstone. His heart pounded in his chest as they soared through the stormy sky, the rain lashing against his face like icy needles. The dark clouds churned above, blotting out the stars, and the full moon barely cast any light on their path.
Come on, come on, Aenar silently pleaded, his eyes locked on the distant outline of Dragonstone. He glanced back toward the burning ships and saw his father and Rhaenyra still in the heat of battle. The flames consumed the ships, but did they know about the wildfire?
He clenched his teeth. Caraxes might survive an explosion, but Syrax... Aenar's stomach twisted at the thought of Rhaenyra and her dragon meeting the same fate as Laenor. But there was no time to warn them without risking Laenor's life. He had to trust they would see him flying away.
Cannibal let out a thunderous roar, catching Syrax and Caraxes's attention and their riders. Upon seeing Aenar flying away with Cannibal. The two started following him.
The rain fell harder now, drenching him as they flew. The wind howled in his ears, but through the storm, he thought he heard something—someone calling his name. Aenar shook it off, focusing on reaching Dragonstone as fast as Cannibal could carry them.
It felt like an eternity before Dragonstone finally came into view, the looming fortress barely visible through the storm. Aenar guided Cannibal to the castle's main courtyard, bypassing the Dragon Fields. They needed a Maester immediately.
Cannibal's massive body landed with a heavy thud, the ground shaking beneath him. The force of the landing was so intense that the roof of a nearby building crumbled under the impact. Aenar wasted no time, scrambling down Cannibal's side, his legs trembling from exhaustion and adrenaline.
His eyes went straight to Cannibal's feet, still hovering above the ground. There, cradled carefully in the dragon's claws, were two motionless figures—Seasmoke and Laenor.
Cannibal carefully let Laenor and Seasmoke slide from his claws before settling his leg away from them. With a powerful sweep of his wings, he launched himself into the air, using the nearby wall to push off. The stone crumbled under the force, collapsing as the dragon soared into the stormy sky.
"Your Grace, what is happening?" The night guards rushed over, eyes wide as they watched Cannibal vanish into the darkness.
"The Maester! I need a Maester now," Aenar commanded, his voice booming with urgency. Two of the soldiers didn't hesitate, sprinting inside the castle to fetch help.
Aenar turned back to Seasmoke, and the sight made his heart break in two.
The dragon lay crumpled on the ground, its form now a charred and broken ruin. Its wings were tattered and singed, with large portions of membrane burnt away, leaving skeletal frames that jutted awkwardly from its sides. The leathery texture of the wings, now cracked and blackened, flaked away like ash in the hot wind, the smoke from the recent explosion still hanging heavily in the air.
The scales that had once shimmered like armor were cracked and melted in places, fused together where the heat had been most intense. Some scales had fallen away completely, revealing raw, burned flesh beneath—charred black in some places, seeping blood in others, where the fire had torn through the dragon's thick hide.
The dragon's head lay heavy on the ground, its once regal snout marred by burns that scorched across its face. One of its eyes was blinded, leaving it milky and useless. The other eye, a golden orb, now glimmered faintly. Smoke curled from its nostrils in faint, irregular puffs.
Its chest rose and fell with great effort, each breath a laborious, shuddering heave. The deep wounds along its flanks pulsed weakly, revealing scorched flesh and bones beneath where the explosion had torn through its once formidable body.
The dragon's maw hung slightly open, rows of jagged teeth visible, but it no longer bared them in a snarl. Now useless and broken. Blood and ash mixed around its lips, trailing down its chin and staining the earth beneath it. Its forked tongue flickered weakly, tasting the air for the last time.
Its tail now lay limp, the end scorched and twisted from the blast.
Aenar felt like he was looking at Rhaegal and Drogon. Their sight was the same: breathing heavily and dying despite how much he tried to save them.
And beneath one of the charred wings of Seasmoke stood a form that barely resembled a man.
His figure was scarred by fire. His skin was now a patchwork of burned flesh, marked by deep ridges and uneven textures where the fire had consumed him. His face, barely recognizable, was a grotesque mask of scars. The skin was tight in some places, stretched unnaturally over bone, while in others, it was jagged, charred, and puckered as if parts of him had melted under the heat and hardened again into disfigured ridges.
One side of his face was worse than the other—the eye above it almost sealed shut by thick, ropey scars, while his mouth pulled into a permanent sneer from the tautness of the damaged tissue. His remaining eye remained closed.
His hands were a horrifying sight. The fingers were gnarled and twisted from the burns. Patches of skin had been grafted poorly, leaving parts of raw flesh exposed in places where the grafts had failed. Where fingers should have been smooth, they were instead knotted and swollen, giving him a claw-like grip. The nails, blackened and cracked, barely clung to what was left of his digits.
The armor had melted and fused back together with his skin in some places. His neck, collarbone, and parts of his chest were burned so deeply that the outlines of bones could be seen beneath the thinned layers of scar tissue.
The faint smell of charred flesh clung to Laenor's body, the heat of the wildfire still lingering in the air. He let out a deep, ragged breath through his cracked lips as if waking from a long, terrible slumber.
"Laenor!" Aenar shouted in relief, rushing to kneel before him. "Keep breathing. The Maester is coming," he pleaded, his voice trembling. But Laenor rattled with each breath, his one eye slowly opening—an abyss of darkness staring back at Aenar, full of pain and defeat.
"Don't speak, save your strength," Aenar urged desperately.
"...I-I'm...sorry...Sea...smoke," Laenor's words came out in a rasp, broken and painful.
"Don't talk, Laenor. Just breathe,"
Laenor drew one long, shuddering breath. His eye found Aenar's once more, the darkness within it now filled with sorrow. "F...Father... I—failed. I'm...sorry... I failed... again..." His words faded as his head slumped forward, lifeless.
Aenar stared at Laenor's still form, an image of Arya flashing before his eyes—the way her gaze had locked with his just before the end, blood pouring from the gash in her neck. Laenor's chest no longer rose. He was gone.
At that moment, Aenar saw them all. Daenerys, Rhaenys, Arya, Robb, Tormund, Val, Eddard Stark. Each of them was lost, and now Laenor and Seasmoke are lost, too.
A roar of anguish erupted from Aenar, echoing through the night.
King's Landing
Alicent strode through the long corridors of the Red Keep, the soft clink of armor following her as two guards flanked her steps. She reached the heavy wooden door, opened it, and crossed the threshold without hesitation. When the guards moved to follow, she raised a hand.
"Stay here," she commanded, her tone brooking no argument. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving her alone in the God's Wood.
Before her, the Weirwood tree stretched tall and imposing, its pale bark glowing eerily under the full moon. The carved face stared back at her, its ancient, hollow eyes unnerving in the soft blue light. Alicent looked away quickly, unwilling to meet its gaze any longer, and spotted a man sitting nearby. He lounged in a chair, a cane leaning against the table beside him. The table was set with plates of sweets and a pitcher of wine as though it were a casual meeting.
"You know, it was Torrhen Stark who created this place," the man said with a knowing smile, tossing a strawberry into his mouth. "Aegon Targaryen wanted a God's Wood in King's Landing, and the former King of Winter made it happen when he was called for a great ceremony."
"Lord Strong," Alicent interrupted, her voice cool and sharp. "As fascinating as this history lesson is, I trust you didn't invite me here to discuss dead men." If I wanted that, I would have continued talking with my husband. She wanted to add, but she kept that part to herself.
Larys Strong chuckled softly, unfazed. "Why not? People often underestimate our history. One could learn everything they need to know from it," He turned his gaze to her as he pushed himself to his feet with the cane, limping toward her with slow, deliberate steps.
The shadows from the moonlight cast deep lines across his face, obscuring his expression. His eyes, however, gleamed faintly beneath his heavy brow, unreadable.
His sharp features—prominent cheekbones, a gaunt face—gave him a haunting look, accentuated by the disheveled dark hair that framed his face. He was dressed in fine fabrics of black and charcoal grey, his cloak fastened with an intricate sigil-shaped pin on his shoulder. His hands rested atop the cane, fingers clasped as though it were a staff of authority.
"Your Grace," Larys began, his voice smooth as silk. "The tales of your beauty do you no justice." He offered a twisted smile.
Alicent's lips tightened. "If I wanted flattery, I'd spend my time with the fools of the Red Keep," she retorted, her voice cold. "Even Mushroom could manage better."
"One should never underestimate those they deem beneath them, Your Grace," Larys replied, bowing his head slightly though there was a hint of irritation in his voice. "My name is Larys Strong, and I've come to offer you a gift."
Alicent's eyes narrowed. "And what gift would that be?"
With a sly smile, Larys reached into his pocket and pulled out a scroll. He handed it to her with an almost theatrical flourish. "A message from the Red Lady... to Queen Alysanne."
Alicent's fingers closed around the scroll as her heart quickened. She unfolded it carefully, scanning the contents. A slow smile crept across her face as she realized the implications. Finally, she thought. This was the opportunity she'd been waiting for—to rid herself of that whore once and for all.
Without hesitation, she crossed to the nearest torch mounted on the wall and fed the letter to the flames. The parchment blackened and curled, turning to ash in moments. She turned back to Larys, her expression one of satisfaction.
"It seems we've reached an agreement, Lord Larys," Alicent said, her voice smoother now. "I accept your gift."
Larys's smile widened, dark and knowing. "I'm pleased to hear that, Your Grace."
Princess Aliandra Martell
Aliandra Martell sat in the sun-drenched courtyard of the Water Gardens, lazily sipping wine from a golden goblet. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders, and a light breeze played with the ends of her flowing gown. She watched the waves crash against the distant shore, utterly content in the peace of Dorne.
Aliandra has long, wavy hair cascading over her shoulders, framing a face filled with a mischievous, knowing smile. She has dark, smoky eyes. A delicate, golden headpiece rests on her brow, adorned with a single red jewel that catches the dim light.
She is dressed in a sheer, flowing gown that clings loosely to her body, revealing the soft contours of her skin and her large bosom. Gold bangles adorn her wrists, and intricate, serpentine armbands coil around her upper arms. A simple gold necklace hangs down to her chest, where it delicately rests.
That peace was shattered when her younger brother, Qyle, strode into the courtyard with a determined look on his face. Aliandra raised an eyebrow. Whenever Qyle had that expression, it usually meant some grand scheme was brewing in his mind.
"Aliandra, we need to talk," Qyle said, his voice brimming with intensity.
She sighed, already half-amused by whatever nonsense was about to spill from his mouth. "Oh, do we? Should I be bracing myself?"
Qyle ignored her teasing. He stepped closer, his face serious. "I've been thinking. The Seven Kingdoms are in chaos because of the war in the Stepstones. This is our chance."
Aliandra leaned back in her chair, raising her goblet to her lips. "Chance for what exactly? To watch from afar as they tear each other apart? Because that's what I'm perfectly content with, dear brother."
"No, Aliandra," Qyle said, his tone insistent. "This is our chance to *conquer* Westeros. Dorne fought back against the Conquer and his sister wives. We can be the ones to bring all the kingdoms under our banner."
Aliandra almost choked on her wine, barely managing to suppress a laugh. "Oh, Qyle," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "That sounds *so* simple. Let me just walk up to King's Landing, wave my hand, and the Iron Throne will magically be ours. Why didn't I think of that before?"
"I'm serious, Aliandra," Qyle snapped, his face flushing with frustration. "We have the opportunity! With a strong enough alliance—"
Aliandra cut him off, waving her hand dismissively. "Strong enough alliance? Who exactly is going to line up behind *you*, Qyle? The Sand Snakes? Oh yes, they're just dying to follow the brother who spent half his life with books and scrolls."
Qyle's frown deepened. "You mock me, but I'm not the boy you think I am. I've trained for this. Father sees the potential—"
"Father sees a lot of things, dear brother," Aliandra interrupted, standing from her chair and gracefully walking toward him. "And not all of them are wise."
She circled him slowly, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Let me remind you of a little history lesson: Dorne didn't fight back the dragons, we got one lucky shot and that somehow convinced people like you that we will get lucky again. Why would we start playing that game now? Hmm?"
Qyle's jaw tightened. "Things are different now. We could—"
"Conquer the world, become legends, and all that nonsense?" Aliandra finished for him, her tone sharp and playful. "Qyle, you wouldn't last a week trying to keep King's Landing under control, let alone the rest of Westeros. Besides," she added with a smirk, "who in their right mind wants to rule all of that chaos? Let them squabble. Let them kill each other for a crown that weighs too heavy. We don't need it."
Qyle's fists clenched at his sides. "You always mock me."
Aliandra sighed, her teasing demeanor softening. She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm not mocking you, brother. I'm reminding you to think bigger than just conquest. We're Martells. We're not meant to rule in the same way the other houses do. We thrive on our own terms, through cunning, patience, and yes, sometimes letting others destroy themselves while we sit back in the sun."
Qyle looked down, frustrated but clearly taking in her words.
"Besides," Aliandra said with a sly smile, "if anyone is going to conquer Westeros, it'll be me. And when that day comes, I'll be sure to let you know."
Qyle couldn't help but crack a small, reluctant smile at that. "You never take anything seriously, do you?"
"Of course I do," Aliandra replied, walking back to her chair and picking up her goblet. "Just not your delusions of conquest. Now, drink some wine and enjoy the sun, brother."
Qyle shook his head, chuckling softly. "You'll never change."
"Thank the gods for that," Aliandra said, grinning as she took another sip of her wine.
But their peace was shattered when they heard footsteps. Aliandra settled down the goblet to face the good knight, holding a scroll, his face white as he approached.
"Ser Art, did father send you?" Aliandra asked, the playfulness disappearing from her tone.
"My Princess. Your brother is back home." The knight said gravely, his voice quivering.
"Coryanne?" She asked hopefully as dread filled her heart.
"No. Prince Lykard has returned."
At that moment, Aliandra felt the joy turn to ashes in her mouth.
"We are returning home, Qyle. Right now." She ordered in a booming voice. Her heart turned cold, and the face appeared once again.
This face appeared like a ghost before her eyes. She didn't know who he was, but he had curly dark hair and grey eyes and was extremely handsome. She didn't know who he was, but she felt like she should know him.
Aliandra mounted her steed, caressing her face. "Shhh, steady, Kalandra. Let's see what my little brother wants." She said, but the cold feeling in her heart only grew as she rode towards Sunspear.
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