25th Day of the Eleventh Moon, 281 AC – Sunspear & Starfall, Dorne
The sun of Dorne burned hot even as winter deepened elsewhere. In the halls of Sunspear, fury burned hotter still. Lords and knights filled the solar of Prince Lewyn Martell, voices raised, fists clenched, the air thick with anger.
"They have taken Elia!" cried Lord Jordayne. "Our princess rots in the Red Keep, her children hostages to a mad king!"
"Then let us ride!" shouted another. "Let us bring fire to the Reach, to the Stormlands, to the wolves who drag us into their war!"
At the head of the hall, Prince Doran sat pale and still, his hand pressed to his cane, his face unreadable. Beside him, Oberyn paced like a caged viper, his eyes blazing.
"Every day she lives beneath that monster's gaze is a day too long!" Oberyn spat. "And what do we do? Sit and wait? We are Martells! We are Dorne! Will we let our sun's daughter burn without lifting a blade?"
Doran's voice was calm, though the words carried iron. "And if we march now, brother, what do you think the dragons will do? Kill her children the moment our banners cross the Prince's Pass? You would have us bring her head home instead of her laughter?"
Oberyn's fists clenched. "Then we do nothing? We wait while wolves and stags fight their war, while our blood sits in chains?"
Doran's gaze lowered. "Sometimes the only way to shield is to wait. The storm must burn itself before we can end it."
But the lords muttered, restless, their fury barely held in check.
And in the shadows of Sunspear, women whispered Elia's name in prayer, their voices trembling. Shield her. Shield her.
---
Far to the west, at Starfall, the halls of House Dayne were quieter, though no less heavy with sorrow.
Ashara Dayne walked the high terraces, her violet eyes on the horizon where sea met sky. The letters from the north lay in her chambers, whispers of the rebellion carried by ravens. She read them until the ink blurred, until she saw not words but the calm face of a stranger who had spoken as though he carried centuries in his breath.
"Jin Mu-Won," she whispered to the wind. "You walk among wolves now. But do you remember us still?"
Her thoughts were broken by the sound of hooves. She turned — and froze.
Arthur Dayne had returned. Her brother dismounted in the yard, pale but unbroken, Dawn slung across his back. The greatsword gleamed even in shadow, pale as starlight.
Ashara ran to him, her heart surging. "Arthur!"
He embraced her, though his face was grave. "I have returned for a time. The king holds me no longer at court, for there is no trust left between us. But my oath binds me still."
Ashara searched his eyes. "And Elia?"
Arthur's face tightened. "She is a prisoner in all but name. Rhaegar is gone. The king raves. The city trembles."
Ashara's breath caught, her heart aching. She thought of Elia, of her children, of her laughter fading in the shadow of wildfire. "And no one stands for her?"
Arthur hesitated, then said, "There are whispers. Of a man who did. A stranger, not of this land. They call him the Shield."
Ashara's heart surged, her eyes bright. "Then he lives."
Arthur studied her, frowning slightly. "You have heard of him?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "I have seen him. At Harrenhal. He is no knight, but he carries himself as though he has lived a hundred lives. His vow is unlike any I have ever known."
Arthur's gaze was troubled. "Be wary, Ashara. Whispers grow in war. Men make legends of shadows."
But Ashara's heart was steady. She remembered the man's calm eyes, his words like stone. She remembered how he had stood where no one else dared.
"He is no shadow," she said softly. "He is real. And he will not let Elia burn."
---
In Sunspear, Oberyn raged louder, his voice echoing through the halls. "If no one else will save her, I will ride alone! Let the kings burn, let the wolves howl — I will not wait while Elia's children weep!"
Doran caught his arm, his grip iron despite his frailty. "No. You will wait. For if you ride alone, you will not bring her back. You will only send our mother another grave to mourn."
Oberyn tore free, his breath ragged, his eyes blazing. But he said no more. He stalked from the hall, leaving silence heavy behind him.
The lords muttered still, their tempers hot, their oaths sharp. But none dared march without their prince's word.
And so Dorne simmered, its fury contained, its grief unhealed.
---
At Starfall, Arthur sat in the hall with his sister, Dawn laid upon the table between them. His voice was quiet, but his words cut deep.
"Rhaegar spoke of destiny at Harrenhal. Of prophecies and songs of ice and fire. But prophecy does not shield children. It does not keep women from burning. Perhaps I have sworn my sword to the wrong crown."
Ashara touched his hand, her eyes soft. "Then swear it to her. Swear it to Elia. Swear it to her children."
Arthur's eyes lifted, troubled but resolute. "And if it is too late?"
Ashara's voice trembled, but her gaze was steady. "Then perhaps it is not the kings who will save her, but the Shield."
Arthur looked at her long, searching, but found no doubt in her eyes. At last, he bowed his head.
"Then may the gods send him swiftly."
---
In Sunspear, the lords whispered vengeance. In Starfall, a sister whispered hope.
And in both, one name threaded through fire and sorrow: the Nameless Shield.
Not a lord. Not a prince. Not a king.
But the man who might yet stand where no one else could.
---