Dorne

Six moons had passed since the Stark brothers' meeting in Winterfell's solar. The North thrived, its canal linking the Sunset Sea to the Narrow Sea, pouring gold into White Harbor and the western coast.

Alaric Stark pushed his magic further, crafting potions to grow eagles to the size of griffins, their wings now spanning twenty feet, soaring over the Wolfswood. In his workshop, he labored on a teleportation gate, a runic arch to bend space, but the complex circuits weaved and glyphs demanded years of refinement. "It'll change the North," he muttered, etching runes, "but not today."

Now, Alaric journeyed to Sunspear, capital of Dorne, to treat with Princess Meria Martell. Sailing on a winter's pride ship, he led a small retinue—twenty Winter Wolves, and a cart of trade goods: whiskey, glass, paper, and grain. The Dornish sun scorched the sandy path as he approached Sunspear, its sandstone towers rising like spears against the azure sky. Prince Nymor Martell, Meria's son and heir, met him at the gates, his olive skin glistening, a spear in hand, his yellow cloak embroidered with the red sun-and-spear of House Martell.

"Prince Alaric Stark," Nymor greeted, his voice warm but wary, dark eyes assessing the wolf's massive form. "Dorne welcomes you. My mother, Princess Meria, awaits in the great hall. Your… beast is a marvel, but we'll stable it safely. Come."

Alaric dismounted, patting his wolf's flank, its eyes glowing with loyalty. "Thank you, Prince Nymor. Lead on." As they walked through Sunspear's streets, Alaric noted the people—gaunt faces, hollow cheeks, hunger etched in their eyes, yet defiance burned brighter.

Men clutched daggers, women whispered of vengeance, and children stared with unbowed pride. Aegon's war had burned their homes, slain Rhaenys and Meraxes, but Dorne stood unbroken.

Nymor led him to the great hall, its walls adorned with mosaics of suns and scorpions, cooled by high windows. Princess Meria Martell, eighty and gnarled as a desert root, sat on a cushioned throne, her cane a spear's shaft, her yellowed eyes sharp as a viper's. Her granddaughter, Deria, twenty, stood beside her, her dark curls framing a face both fierce and curious. Alaric bowed, his furs stark against Dornish silks.

"Princess Meria Martell, Prince Nymor Martell, Princess Deria Martell," Alaric said, his voice steady. "I am Alaric Stark, sent by King Torrhen to treat for trade and friendship between our kingdoms. The North offers its hand, not its sword."

Meria's lips curled, her voice dry as sand. "Prince Alaric, the wolf who tamed dragons. Dorne bids you welcome. Your journey was long to Sunspear. Rest and enjoy our hospitality. Trade talks can wait until you're refreshed. My people will see to your men and… wolves."

Alaric inclined his head, smiling. "Your generosity honors me, Princess. I'll accept, and we'll speak of trade when you deem fit."

Nymor gestured to a servant. "Show Prince Alaric to his chambers. Ensure his needs are met—food, water, shade." The servant led Alaric to a airy room with a balcony overlooking the sea, its walls draped in orange silks. 

After washing the dust from his face and changing into lighter furs, Alaric was summoned to lunch in a sunlit hall. Meria, Nymor, and Deria awaited, seated at a table laden with spiced flatbreads, olives, roasted peppers, and watered wine. Alaric entered, bowing. "Princess Meria, Prince Nymor, Princess Deria, thank you for your welcome."

Meria raised a cup, her eyes glinting. "Sit, Prince Alaric. You've seen our sands, our people. We're no strangers to hardship, but we endure. Join us."

Nymor nodded, his spear leaning nearby. "A Stark in Sunspear—tales will be sung of this, Prince Alaric. Eat, and tell us of your North."

Deria, her dark eyes bright, smiled. "Welcome, Prince Alaric. The North's a mystery to us, but your name's known even here."

Alaric sat, taking a sip of wine. "The North honors Dorne's strength. I've come to build bridges, not burn them. Tell me, Princess Meria, has the war with Aegon settled at last?"

Meria's laugh was sharp, like breaking glass. "Settled? After seven moons of fire and blood, yes, the dragonspawn learned his lesson. Aegon burned our halls, razed Sunspear's shadow city, slew his own sister-queen, Rhaenys, when Meraxes fell at Hellholt. But Dorne? We fled to the dunes, struck from shadows, poisoned his wells. He burned empty stone, lost men to our spears, and gained nothing but ash. Meria Martell kneels to no one, and my people are my steel. The war's done, Prince Alaric—Dorne stands."

Alaric nodded, his face grave. "I warned Aegon at Moat Cailin—Dorne's no Harrenhal. Your people love you, not just your castles. He paid for his pride with his sister's life."

Deria leaned forward, her voice eager. "Is it true, Prince Alaric? Did you summon a titan to cage Aegon's dragons? The sailors speak of it—a giant of wooden statue, capturing Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes, forcing Aegon to yield. Did you truly do it?"

Alaric smiled, setting down his bread. "It's true, Lady Deria. I summoned a titan. I stood at Moat Cailin's gates, drew on the earth's magic, and raised a wooden giant to bind the dragons. Aegon thought to burn us, but we burned his pride instead."

Nymor's eyes widened, his spear forgotten. "A wooden giant? How does it look, Prince Alaric? The tales say it dwarfs the Wall, but sailors exaggerate. Tell us true—what's this titan like?"

Alaric's voice grew vivid, his hands gesturing. "It stands four hundred meters tall, twice the Wall's height, carved from living wood, its grain pulsing like veins. A thousand arms spread from its shoulders, each strong enough to crush stone, swift enough to snatch a dragon mid-flight. I stood on its head, guiding its will, as it caught Balerion's wings, Vhagar's legs, Meraxes' jaws. Its face is serene, like a weirwood's, but its power is the North's wrath. It looms over Moat Cailin now, the Guardian of the North, watching the South."

Meria's cane tapped the floor, her face shocked. "Twice the Wall? Four hundred meters? Old gods or new, that's no mortal work. You caged three dragons, humbled a conqueror. Dorne respects such strength, Prince Alaric."

Deria gasped, her hands clasped. "Four hundred meters! It's a god made wood! How did you wield such power? Did it tire you, or is your magic endless?"

Nymor leaned in, his voice awed. "A titan that size… it's beyond Valyria's dreams. Did it truly bind all three dragons alone? What's it made of, to withstand their fire?"

Alaric chuckled, sipping his wine. "It's wood, but infused with magic—stronger than steel, alive with my will. It held fast against dragonfire, twisting to stifle their flames. It took years of study and training. I was weary after, but the North's will sustained me."

Meria nodded, her eyes narrowing. "A marvel, Stark. Now, you've mentioned trade. Our trade's suffered—your canal, linking your seas, has ships bypassing Dorne's ports. Planky Town's quieter, our coffers lighter. Why come now?"

Alaric met her gaze, his voice earnest. "That's why I'm here, Princess. The North's canal enriches us, but I'd see Dorne prosper too. We offer trade—grain, timber, healers to ease your hunger, and our glass, paper, whiskey. In return, we seek your sand, finer than ours, for glassmaking and also your spices and fruits only available in dorne. It'll make our wares the envy of Essos, and fill your vaults with gold. Let's build wealth together, not rivalry."

Nymor's face brightened, his voice hopeful. "Grain and timber? Our people starve after Aegon's fires. Your aid would mend wounds, Prince Alaric, and sand's plentiful here. It's a fair trade."

Deria nodded, her curls bouncing. "Your glass is famed in Braavos, they say. With our sand, it'd shine brighter. I like this, Prince Alaric—Dorne and the North, hand in hand."

Meria's eyes softened, her voice firm. "Well spoken, Stark. We'll talk trade tomorrow, after breaking fast. You've traveled far—rest today, enjoy our hospitality. Sunspear's yours until then."

Alaric bowed, smiling. "Thank you, Princess. I look forward to our talks." They finished lunch in silence, the Martells' faces thoughtful, Alaric's mind on the morrow's negotiations. He retired to his chambers, his wolves resting in the courtyard, his eagles soaring above, as Dorne's sun set over a kingdom unbowed.