Sunspear

The Dornish sun hung high after lunch, its heat softened by the sea breeze that wound through Sunspear's halls. Princess Meria Martell, her eyes glinting with calculation, turned to her granddaughter. "Deria, show Prince Alaric our castle. Let him see the heart of Dorne."

Deria's lips curved into a knowing smile. "As you wish, Grandmother." She gestured to Alaric Stark. "Come, Prince Alaric. Sunspear has wonders even a wolf might appreciate."

Alaric, his grey cloak catching the light, followed her, his direwolf-sharp senses attuned to the sway of her hips and the teasing lilt in her voice.

Alaric needed no book to read Deria's intent. She was a flame, and he was content to let her burn close, though he felt the stirrings of something deeper, a pull he hadn't expected.

As they entered a vaulted corridor lined with vibrant mosaics, Deria glanced over her shoulder, her dark eyes gleaming. "Tell me, Stark, does Winterfell have halls as bright as these, or do you all brood in the dark like your wolves?"

Alaric's lips twitched. "Winterfell's walls are warm, Princess, but they don't dance with color like yours. We save our fire for the hearth—and other places."

Deria laughed, a sound like chiming bells, and brushed her fingers against his arm as she led him toward a balcony overlooking the City. "Other places, you say? I thought Northerners were all ice and duty."

"Most are," Alaric said, leaning against the balustrade, his gaze locking with hers. "But I've learned to bend the rules. Like a certain river I carved through the North."

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Oh, yes, the White Knife's new path. They say you dug it with a giant of wood. Is it true, or do Northerners just spin tall tales?"

Alaric raised a hand, and a tiny vine sprouted from a crack in the stone, curling briefly before vanishing. "No tales, Princess. Just power."

Deria's breath caught, but she masked it with a coy smile, leading him onward. In to the Gardens, she paused by a fountain shaped like a serpent, its waters glinting in the sun. Her fingers trailed through the pool, splashing lightly toward him. "Our ancestors swam here, free of northern furs," she said, her voice low, leaning close enough for him to catch the scent of citrus and spice. "Do Starks swim, or do you freeze in your rivers?"

Alaric caught a droplet on his finger, his eyes never leaving hers. "We swim, Deria. And we don't shy from heat." He let the droplet fall, his voice dropping. "Though I wager Dornish waters burn hotter."

She bit her lip, her gaze lingering before she turned, beckoning him toward a hall of relics. "Come, wolf. Let's see if you can keep up."

Inside, Deria showed him Nymeria's treasures—burnished spears, a crown of gold and onyx, and a scorched shield from a dragon's flame.

Her hand lingered on his as she passed him a goblet of Dornish red. "This shield stopped a dragon," she murmured, her breath warm against his ear. "Think your magic could do better?"

Alaric took a sip, the wine bold and heady. "I didn't stop dragons, Princess. I caged them. And their riders." He set the goblet down, his fingers brushing hers. "But I'd rather not cage Dorne."

Deria's smile was a challenge. "Good. We break chains here." She stepped closer, her silk dress whispering against his cloak. "But we don't mind a little… entanglement."

Alaric's pulse quickened, but he kept his face impassive, falling further into her spell yet savoring the dance.

In the shade of a garden grove, they sat beneath a canopy of blood-orange trees. Deria's bare shoulder brushed his as she leaned in. "You've seen our past, Stark. Now show me your magic. Prove the tales."

Alaric's lips twitched into a mischievous grin. "As you command, Princess." He placed a hand on the earth, and the ground trembled faintly.

Wood sprouted, twisting upward, shaping itself with uncanny precision into a life-like statue of Deria—bare as the day she was born, every curve rendered in polished wood. Her eyes widened, a gasp escaping her lips.

"Prince Alaric!" Deria swatted his shoulder, her cheeks flushing despite her boldness. "Make it disappear!"

With a chuckle, Alaric waved a hand, and the statue dissolved into the earth, leaving only scattered petals. "I thought that was what you were aiming for these past two hours," he teased, leaning closer. "Now you're shy? I thought Dorne did things differently than the south."

Deria's blush deepened, but her eyes sparkled with defiance. "We do," she said, her voice softer now. "But you can't parade my naked statue publicly."

Alaric's gaze held hers, his voice dropping. "So it's fine if I do it privately, then?"

Deria looked down, her silence louder than words, her fingers twisting a strand of her hair. After a moment, she met his eyes again, and they spoke of lighter things—Dorne's wines, the North's winters—yet the air crackled between them.

As the sun dipped, they joined the court for dinner, trading glances across the table, each moment fueling the unspoken tension.

That night, Alaric lay in his guest chambers, the desert's warmth lingering in the air. A creak broke the silence—the door. Soft footsteps followed, then the rustle of silk. A woman's voice, warm and teasing, cut through the dark. "I know you're awake, Stark. You can turn around."

Alaric turned, his eyes adjusting to the moonlight spilling across the room. Deria Martell stood there, her silken robe half-unfastened, her smile as bold as her lineage. "So," he said, propping himself up, a smirk playing on his lips, "come to give me a private show, Princess?"

Deria stepped closer, her smile bold as her lineage. "You asked this afternoon, wolf. I couldn't leave a guest… wanting." She let the robe fall, a whisper of fabric pooling at her feet. Moonlight traced her curves, and Alaric's breath caught.

He rose, closing the distance, his hand finding her waist. "Dorne's fire burns bright," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear.

Deria's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him into a kiss—fierce, hungry, like a desert storm. They moved as one, a dance of heat and shadow, her laughter soft against his skin as they fell to the bed.

Her touch was bold, his reverent, each moment a spark that blazed through the night. The world narrowed to her sighs, his whispers, the rhythm of two souls unbound by crowns or conquests.

As dawn's first light crept through the shutters, Deria lay against him, her hair splayed across his chest. "You're trouble, Stark," she murmured, her voice sleepy but content.

"And you're a flame, Martell," he replied, his fingers tracing her shoulder. "I'm not afraid to burn."

Sunspear's walls held their secrets, and the day's challenges loomed. But for now, the wolf and the sun lingered in the quiet, their fire smoldering still.