Outing

The morning sun bathed Sunspear's great hall, its mosaic walls of suns and scorpions glowing under slanted light. Alaric Stark sat at a polished table with Princess Meria Martell, eighty, her cane propped beside her cushioned throne, her yellowed eyes sharp.

Prince Nymor Martell, her heir, leaned forward, his spear resting against the wall, while Princess Deria Martell sat poised, her dark curls framing a face alight with curiosity, her gaze flickering to Alaric with a warmth kindled the previous day. 

After breaking fast with flatbreads, yogurt, and dates, Meria tapped her cane, her voice dry but commanding. "Prince Alaric, you've tasted our hospitality, seen our city's heart. You speak of trade to bind North and Dorne. Aegon's fires cost us dearly—our ports wane as your canal draws ships from Planky Town. Speak your terms, Stark. What does the North offer, and what do you seek?"

Alaric, in lighter furs suited for Dorne's heat, met her gaze, his eyes steady. "Princess Meria, Prince Nymor, Princess Deria, the North seeks partnership, not rivalry. Our canal thrives, but Dorne's strength is vital to Westeros. We offer grain, timber, and healers to mend your war-torn lands—your people hunger, and we'd fill their bellies. Our glass, paper, and whiskey, famed in Braavos, can flow south, enriching your markets. In return, we seek your sand, finer than ours, for glassmaking silks, exotic fruits and spices. With those flooding Essosi markets with gold for us both. An exclusive deal—North and Dorne, trading sand for grain, timber for glass, no middlemen. Let's rebuild your ports and our wealth together."

Nymor's eyes brightened, his voice eager. "Grain and timber? Our smallfolk starve, Prince Alaric, their homes ash from dragonfire. Your aid would heal wounds, and sand's abundant in our dunes. Your glass dazzles—my traders saw it in Lys. With our sand, it'd outshine Valyrian work. This deal could revive Planky Town. What terms for exclusivity?"

Alaric leaned forward, his voice precise. "Exclusivity means Dorne's sand goes only to Northern glassworks, and our grain, timber, and goods flow first to Dorne's ports. We'll set fair prices—sand at half Braavos's rate, grain at cost to ease your hunger."

Deria's lips curved, her tone admiring. "But what of Aegon? Will he not resent this bond?"

Alaric's smile was sharp. "Aegon's pride is bruised, Princess, but he's bound by our… agreement at Moat Cailin. His South squabbles while our trade bypasses them, strengthening North and Dorne. If Aegon objects, my titan still stands, and your spears are legend. We'll hold our own."

Meria's laugh was a rasp, her cane tapping approval. "Bold words, Stark. You warned Aegon of Dorne's thorns, and he bled for ignoring you. I like this deal, and my people need food, not fire. I'll have my maesters prepare a contract first. Agreed?"

Alaric nodded, bowing slightly. "Agreed, Princess. Send the contract to Winterfell when it's ready. King Torrhen will sign, and trade will flow."

Nymor raised his cup, smiling. "To North and Dorne, then. May our ports thrive, our people eat."

Deria's eyes lingered on Alaric, her voice soft. "To friendship, Prince Alaric. You've brought hope to Sunspear."

They clinked cups, sealing the deal's intent. Alaric stood, adjusting his furs. "Princess Meria, I'd see Sunspear's city before I depart. May I explore?"

Meria waved a hand, her eyes glinting. "Go, Stark. Deria, guide him—show him our streets, our spirit. Take guards, but let him see Dorne's heart."

Deria rose, her orange silks shimmering. "Come, Prince Alaric. Sunspear's alive, even after war." Alaric followed, his retinue of ten Winter Wolves trailing, led by Deria and six Dornish spearmen.

They roamed the city, its markets bustling despite hardship. Stalls offered olives, dried figs, and crude blades, but faces were gaunt, eyes defiant. Children ran barefoot, their ribs stark, yet they laughed, hurling pebbles at imaginary dragons. Alaric's heart twisted, his eyes softening. "They suffer," he murmured.

Deria glanced at him, her voice low. "Aegon burned our homes, but not our will."

At a seed merchant's stall, Alaric bought sacks of lemon, orange, and fig seeds, paying with Northern silver. Deria raised an eyebrow, her tone curious. "Seeds, Alaric? Planning a garden in the North?"

He grinned, slinging the sacks over his shoulder. "Something like that. Come, let's leave the city." They rode beyond Sunspear's walls to a barren plain, sand stretching to the horizon, dotted with scorched stumps from Aegon's fires.

Alaric dismounted, scattering seeds across the dust. Deria, perched on her sand steed, frowned. "What are you doing, Alaric? Nothing grows here—sand chokes roots."

He winked, his voice playful. "Just watch, Princess." Kneeling, he clasped his hands, sage mode lines etching his face, black and green circuits glowing. Nature chakra surged, his will sinking into the earth. "Sage Art: Wood Release." The ground trembled, and sprouts erupted, swelling into saplings, then trees—lemons, oranges, figs—thousands strong, their branches heavy with fruit, a green oasis blooming in minutes. The air thickened with citrus scent, leaves rustling in the breeze.

Deria's jaw dropped, her eyes wide as saucers. "Gods… Alaric, how?" She slid from her horse, stumbling toward a lemon tree, its fruit gleaming. Alaric approached, chuckling, and gently closed her mouth with a finger. "Careful, Princess. You'll catch flies."

She snapped out of her shock, swatting his hand, her voice awed. "Don't jest, Stark! How did you do that? Thousands of trees, grown in moments! It's… it's magic, yes, but how? Tell me true!"

Alaric leaned against a fig tree, his sage mode fading. "It's nature energy, Deria—energy drawn from the earth. I fed it to the seeds, urging them to grow, shaping wood with my will. The titan at Moat Cailin's the same principle, just… bigger. It's not just magic; it's life, bent to purpose."

Deria's eyes narrowed, her tone eager. "Can I do it? Can Dornish learn this magic? I'd grow orchards in every desert, feed my people forever!"

Alaric's smile turned serious. "You could, with training—years of it. Awakening circuits learning control. It's not quick, but it's possible. Your spirit's fierce enough."

She stepped closer, her voice soft but determined. "Will you teach me, Alaric? I'd learn, no matter how long it takes."

He tilted his head, his grin sly. "Now, that's tricky, Princess. Sharing such knowledge requires a contract—a magical one, binding you to secrecy, loyalty to our alliance. It's not just teaching; it's trust. You'd need to consult your grandmother, weigh the terms."

Deria bit her lip, nodding. "I'll speak to Grandmother. She'll see the value—trees from sand, food from nothing. But I want this, Alaric."

He nodded, his voice gentle. "Talk to your grandmother. And Deria—make sure these fruits reach your people. They're gaunt, starving. Every lemon, every fig, give it freely."

Deria's face softened, her voice firm. "I will." She turned to the spearmen, her tone commanding. "Fetch the fruit—every tree, every branch. Distribute it to the city, no coin, no barter. Now!" The soldiers saluted, drawing knives to harvest, their faces awed by the sudden bounty.

Alaric and Deria returned to Sunspear, the city stirring as soldiers carried baskets of fruit, handing them to wide-eyed citizens.

Children bit into oranges, juice dripping, while mothers wept, clutching figs. "The wolf prince!" a man shouted, raising a lemon. "He feeds Dorne!" Alaric's heart swelled, but he kept his face neutral, Deria's proud glance warming him.

At the palace, Alaric retired to his chambers. Deria strode to Meria's solar, her steps quick. "Grandmother," she began, closing the door, "Alaric's grown thousands of fruit trees from barren sand, fed our people. He can teach me his magic—grow orchards, heal our deserts—but it requires a contract, binding me to secrecy and alliance. We must discuss this, now."

Meria's cane tapped, her eyes gleaming. "A wolf who plants trees in Dorne? Speak, child—tell me all."