Aliandra Martell stood proudly, high in the Tower of the Sun, where the golden dome glittered in the relentless Dornish heat. From her vantage point, she could see the sprawl of Sunspear laid out before her, a mosaic of whitewashed walls, terracotta roofs, and bustling markets. The city, with its narrow, winding streets and bustling squares, seemed to pulse with life, a stark contrast to the arid desert beyond.
The wind carried the scent of the sea, mingled with the spices from the market and the fragrant blooms. Aliandra's gaze drifted to the Shadow City, a labyrinth of winding alleys and shadowed courtyards, where the hum of voices and laughter rose like a symphony. It was a place of secrets and shadows, where the whispers of the common folk were as potent as any council meeting.
Her mind wandered to the responsibilities she bore as the ruling Princess of Dorne. The weight of her ancestors' legacy pressed upon her shoulders, a mantle she wore with both pride and determination. Dorne was a land of fierce independence and defiant spirit, and she was its keeper. The challenges were many; from maintaining the delicate balance of power with the other great houses of Westeros to ensuring the prosperity of her people amidst the harsh climate.
Quite changed from the moment her neighbors to the North decided to fight over that ugly throne.
Aliandra's thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a procession winding its way through the streets below. Bannermen in the colors of House Martell, oranges and reds ablaze in the sunlight, marched in perfect unison. They were preparing for the wedding, a spectacle that promised both celebration and political intrigue. She knew that behind the festivities lay a stage for alliances and enmities to be forged.
The weaker parts of her heart ached for the days when her father ruled, and she was free to roam and explore the secrets of the palace. But those days were gone, and she had been forced to grow into her role, embracing the challenges and triumphs that came with it.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the city, Aliandra took a deep breath. She was a Martell, a ruler of Dorne, and soon to be Queen Consort of all Westeros.
At that moment, as she stood overlooking Sunspear, Aliandra Martell felt like a power in itself. Her children would be Rhoynar and able to ride dragons, ambition fueled her every future action. With a final, resolute gaze, she turned back to her chambers, her sister and brother waiting on her as they were used to doing.
"Your dress is ready, sister." it was a beautiful thing, a gown of deep gold and crimson, the colors of House Martell, with golden vipers swirling with black dragons on the cuffs, neck, and at the bottom of the dress. "Too many dragons but I guess it is natural given your future husband."
"Don't be so negative, brother, it is an elegant thing." her sister said in response to their brother's comment on her wedding gown.
Aliandra then hummed and stroked a hand along the fabric, "Where is Baelon? He left before dawn and on the back of his dragon."
"A scout reported the beast flying west towards the Torentine." she narrowed his eyes, wondering what her husband was up to and why he felt the need that she shouldn't know about his coming and goings.
Right now, many guests coming to celebrate the wedding are converging on the Sandship. "I hope he knows we marry within a few days and hadn't gone too far away."
Near midnight was when the Last Shadow returned.
The flickering candles cast long shadows on the cold stone walls of the small council chamber. Otto Hightower's heart pounded with a mixture of fury and disbelief as he stood at the head of the table, facing his grandsons, Aegon and Aemond. Their faces, so familiar yet so alien in their defiance, stared back at him with an unsettling blend of arrogance and disdain.
"Do you have any idea the risk you took?" he began, his voice sharp and controlled, each word a dagger aimed at their recklessness. "Sending Arryk Cargyll to assassinate Rhaenyra and her children? A plot so reckless it borders on madness."
Aegon's sneer deepened, and he leaned back in his chair with a look of utter contempt. "Madness?" he spat, his eyes blazing with defiance. "You speak of madness while you scribble away with your quills and ink, achieving nothing! This war needs blood, not parchments filled with empty words!"
Aemond, ever the shadow of his older brother, smirked, his single eye glinting dangerously in the candlelight. "It seems our grandfather has grown weak with age. We need action, not your endless councils and letters."
Otto could feel his laughter bubbling up, harsh and cold, cutting through the tense atmosphere. "And this is the wisdom of a king?" he retorted, the words laced with mockery. "Charging headlong like a bull with no sense? Your impulsiveness will be your undoing, Aegon. Wars are not won by mere brute strength but by strategy and cunning."
The rage in Aegon's eyes was almost tangible as he slammed his fist on the table, the sound echoing through the room. "Enough! Your time has passed, old man. I need a Hand who understands what it takes to win this war. Someone who can deliver results, not empty promises."
Looming to Aegon's left was Criston Cole, a new hands pin on his breastplate.
The determination in Aegon's eyes was a slap in the face, a stark reminder of how far apart they had drifted. "You would dismiss me?" he asked, his voice barely concealing my disbelief and anger. "For what, the likes of Ser Criston Cole? A man who knows only the sword and nothing of statecraft?"
"Yes," Aegon replied, his tone defiant. "Ser Criston will be my new Hand of the King. You are dismissed, grandfather. Take your quills and ink and leave."
Aemond's mocking voice cut through the heavy silence like a blade. "Perhaps you'll have better luck writing your memoirs."
Otto's eyes blazed with a mix of fury and sorrow as he turned away, the weight of betrayal heavy on his shoulders. "Remember this day, Aegon," he said coldly, the words a solemn vow. "The day you chose folly over wisdom."
Without another word, the Hand of the King exited the chamber, leaving Aegon and Aemond behind.
The flickering candles cast a dim glow on the Hand's chambers, illuminating the scattered parchments and open chests. As Otto stood by his desk, methodically packing away his quills, inkpots, and documents, a sense of resignation weighed heavily on his heart. Each movement was slow, deliberate, and he couldn't shake off the feeling of betrayal.
The door creaked open, and his daughter, Alicent, stepped in. Her face was a blend of concern and determination, the same look she had worn so many times when trying to protect her children.
"Father," she said firmly, "I heard what happened. Aegon dismissing you... it's preposterous. You cannot leave. He needs your counsel now more than ever."
Sighing deeply, Otto's hands paused mid-air as I folded a piece of parchment. "It seems my counsel is no longer valued, Alicent. Your son's impetuousness has blinded him. He sees only the immediate, the bloody path, not the grander scheme."
Alicent moved closer, her eyes pleading. "You are the architect of this kingdom, Father. Without you, Aegon will be lost. Ser Criston Cole cannot provide the guidance you can."
His expression hardened as he resumed packing, the bitterness in his voice evident. "It was a mistake to name Aegon King. My heart always leaned towards Baelon. He would have been my first choice. A king of reason and prudence. But we were swept away by ambition and fear. And now, look at the mess we have created."
Alicent's eyes flashed with determination, her hands clenching into fists. "Aegon is the rightful king. He has the blood of dragons. He is our best hope. You cannot abandon him now, Father. We must stay united, guide him through this tumult."
He stopped, his gaze piercing as he looked at his daughter. The weariness in his eyes was unmistakable. "You are blind to his folly, Alicent. Aegon's recklessness will be the downfall of us all. I have tried to steer him towards wisdom, but he will not listen. And now, he seeks the counsel of a swordsman over a statesman."
Alicent stepped closer, her voice softening, a plea in her tone. "Father, please. I need you. Aegon needs you. We cannot afford to lose you now."
Otto closed the lid of a chest, his movements deliberate and final. He turned to face her, his expression a mixture of sorrow and resolve. "My place is no longer here, Alicent. I have done what I could, but the path he chooses is his own. Remember my words. In the end, wisdom will prevail, or folly will consume us all."
Alicent stood silent, her heart heavy with the weight of their shared burden. Otto picked up his chest and strode towards the door, leaving her standing in the dim light of the chamber.
6 Days Later
Criston Cole's army thundered through the Crownlands, their first target in sight: the Castle of Rosby. The modest stronghold of House Rosby surrendered without much resistance, its lord quickly swearing fealty to Aegon Targaryen. Criston accepted their loyalty with a curt nod, his mind already on the next objective.
The army moved swiftly, pressing on toward the city of Duskendale. The looming towers of House Darklyn's seat rose against the horizon, but they would soon be overshadowed by smoke and fire. Criston's forces stormed the city, overpowering the defenders with brutal efficiency. Flames roared through the streets, consuming homes and shops alike. The cries of the fleeing townsfolk echoed in Criston's ears, but he remained unmoved. He had a mission, and sentimentality had no place in it.
The sun dipped low in the sky as they arrived at the Dunfort. The clash of steel and the shouts of men reverberated through the fortifications. Within hours, the battle was over, and the defenders were subdued. Lord Darklyn, bruised and bloodied, was dragged before Criston. The lord's defiance was palpable, even on his knees. Behind him, the captured soldiers of House Darklyn knelt, their fates hanging in the balance.
Criston approached Lord Darklyn, his expression hard. "You have a choice," he declared, his voice cold as winter. "Pledge fealty to Aegon Targaryen, the Second of His Name, or meet your end here and now."
Lord Darklyn lifted his chin, his eyes burning with unwavering loyalty to Rhaenyra Targaryen. "I will never betray my queen," he spat. "Do your worst."
Without hesitation, Criston drew his sword. The blade gleamed in the dying light as he swung it with precision. Lord Darklyn's head fell to the ground, a final act of defiance carved into his lifeless features.
The soldiers watched in silence, their resolve wavering. Criston turned to face them, his sword still stained with their lord's blood. "Who will bend the knee?" he demanded.
One by one, the soldiers and the new heir of House Darklyn bowed their heads, pledging loyalty to Aegon. Criston sheathed his sword, satisfied with the day's work. The Crownlands were one step closer to submission, and he would see to it that none stood in the way of his king.
And, after the mainland was clensed of disloyalty then the Narrow Sea houses would either meet the gods or kneel to their king.
Ser Criston Cole stood beneath the ancient boughs of the forest, the shadows casting a cloak of secrecy over his encampment. The remnants of House Rosby and Darklyn's levies had swollen his ranks, now a force of five thousand men, steeled by recent defeats. The murmur of the nearby river provided a deceptive tranquility as Criston retreated into his tent, seeking solitude amidst the war council's constant chatter.
In the dim light, he poured over the campaign map of the Crownlands, the flickering candle casting a dance of shadows over the parchment. His fist, calloused and battle-worn, hovered over Rook's Rest. The Queen Mother's brother, Ser Gwayne, had persistently argued for a march to the Riverlands. Foolish, Criston thought. The Riverlands could wait. Control over the Crownlands was paramount, the very heart from which all other victories would spring.
His dark, brooding eyes shifted to the name etched onto the map: Dragonstone. Memories of Rhaenyra surged, once a beacon of light when he served as her sworn protector, now a source of bitter resentment. Love had turned to loathing, and the fire within him burned with a new fervor: to show her the depths of his rage, to prove that she had erred grievously by not fleeing with him to the distant city of Volantis when fate had offered them the chance.
Ser Criston's thoughts lingered on the past, the flicker of old emotions extinguished by the present's harsh realities. His resolve hardened. The attack on Rook's Rest would be his message to her—a prelude to the reckoning that would inevitably come.
As nightfall draped its velvety cloak over the desert, the Sandship of House Martell stood illuminated by the flickering light of a thousand torches. The castle, carved from the sands of Dorne, its ancient stones having absorbed the heat of the day and released it into the cool night air.
Inside the grand hall, the atmosphere was charged with tension. The wedding of Baelon Targaryen and Princess Aliandra Martell was an event that had drawn both the Reachmen and the Dornishmen together, uneasy allies in a union forged out of necessity.
Baelon Targaryen's allies from the Reach stood in attendance, their fine attire reflecting the opulence of their houses. Jon Roxton, stern and vigilant; Owen Fossoway, with his green apple sigil prominently displayed; and Quentyn Redwyne, son of Dickon Redwyne, each accompanied by their retainers, formed a formidable presence. Their faces were set in expressions of guarded anticipation, aware of the historical enmity between their people and the Dornish.
On the other side of the hall, the Dornish lords and ladies were equally impressive. Lord Dorian Qorgyle, with his hawk-like gaze; Ser Ulrick Dayne, Lady Dyana Wyl, known for her sharp wit; and Lord Gerold Yronwood, the Bloodroyal, exuded confidence and independence. Aliandra's siblings, Qyle and Coryanne, stood close by, their faces a blend of pride and apprehension.
The tension between the two factions was palpable. These were men and women who had fought each other for generations, their blood spilled across countless battlefields. Now, they were expected to stand side by side, united by the marriage of a Targaryen and a Martell. Whispers and murmurs filled the hall, each faction eyeing the other with suspicion and wariness.
Baelon Targaryen stood tall at the altar, his silver hair catching the torchlight, casting an ethereal glow. His expression was one of stoic determination, his violet eyes scanning the room, assessing allies and potential threats alike. He wore the colors of his house, black and red, with the three-headed dragon emblazoned on his chest.
Princess Aliandra entered the hall, her presence commanding and regal. She wore a gown of deep gold and crimson, the colors of House Martell, and a diadem of sunbursts and spears adorned her brow. Her dark eyes met Baelon's as she approached, a silent understanding passing between them. This was not a union of hearts, but of minds and wills, each recognizing the other's value and strength.
The ceremony began, the words of the septon echoing through the hall. Vows were exchanged, hands were bound, and the fates of two great houses were sealed. As the crowd watched, the tension slowly began to ease, replaced by a cautious hope. This marriage, this alliance, held the promise of a new era, one where old enmities might be set aside in favor of a shared future.
Baelon spoke of his wish to do things how his ancestors had done, not the way of the Andals or the Rhoynar, Aliandra didn't want to but there had to be some compromises with the concessions he gave to her in securing this alliance.
The torches cast long shadows across the hall, adding an air of mystique to the already solemn atmosphere. The guests fell silent as Baelon Targaryen and Princess Aliandra Martell moved to the center of the hall, where the sacred Valyrian wedding tradition would unfold.
A brazier had been set up, its flames dancing and crackling, casting a warm glow over the couple. Beside it lay a small silver box, intricately engraved with ancient Valyrian runes, containing the ceremonial blades. The septon stepped back, allowing Baelon and Aliandra to take center stage, their eyes locked in mutual understanding.
Baelon drew the first blade, a slender, elegant dagger forged in the days of Old Valyria. Its blade gleamed in the torchlight as he held it aloft. Aliandra followed suit, drawing her own dagger, the twin to Baelon's. They turned to face each other, the flames between them a symbol of the fire that bound their houses.
With a steady hand, Baelon made the first cut, a shallow slice across his palm. The blood welled up, dark and rich, and he extended his hand toward Aliandra. She mirrored his action, her own blood mingling with his as their hands clasped together, the warmth of the flames intensifying the moment.
As their blood mixed, Baelon recited the ancient Valyrian vows, his voice strong and clear:
"Un saȳres, nykeā pāsagon. Hen udrenka sirūlys, iā kīvā sagon. Hen kībagon, iā qelitsos. Perzys iā verdagon. Ñuha prūmi mijegon, hen udrenka iā zālagon, Ānogar vēzos, nykeā iā ñuha prūmi toliot. (With blood, we are bound. From this day until the end of days. From darkness, to light. Fire to blood. My heart is yours, from this day until the end of days, Our time, mine and yours, to the end.)"
The hall was hushed, the weight of the vows resonating with all present. The Reachmen and Dornishmen watched with a mixture of awe and respect, witnessing a moment that transcended their long-standing enmities.
As the vows concluded, Baelon and Aliandra released their clasped hands, the blood marking their bond as it dripped onto the stone floor. They raised their joined hands above the flames, allowing the heat to seal their commitment.
The septon stepped forward once more, anointing their hands with scented oils, a symbol of purification and renewal. The flames flared briefly, casting a bright, almost blinding light, before settling down to a steady glow.
With the ceremony complete, Baelon and Aliandra turned to face their guests. The hall erupted in applause and cheers, though some clapped with more enthusiasm than others. The marriage was not just a union of two individuals, but a merging of their houses, their fates intertwined by blood and fire.
As the celebrations gradually wound down and the last of the revelers made their way to their chambers, the castle of the Sandship was cloaked in the tranquility of night. The flickering torches cast dancing shadows on the walls, their warm glow guiding Baelon Targaryen and Princess Aliandra Martell to their private quarters.
The tension between them was tangible, a mixture of anticipation and attraction. As they entered their chambers, the grandeur of their surroundings seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them in the hushed intimacy of the night.
Baelon closed the heavy wooden door behind them, the quiet click echoing in the room. He turned to Aliandra, his violet eyes meeting her dark gaze. For a moment, they stood in silence, the gravity of their union settling over them.
With deliberate steps, Baelon approached her, his hand gently brushing against her cheek. He leaned in, their breaths mingling as he whispered, "For tonight, let us forget the politics and the ambitions. Let us be simply man and wife."
Aliandra's heart quickened at his words. Despite the calculated nature of their marriage, there was a spark between them, a shared recognition of the power they held together. She nodded, a small smile playing on her lips, and took his hand, leading him toward the opulent bed draped with silken sheets.
Their movements were tentative at first, each touch a careful exploration of the unfamiliar. But as the night deepened, so did their connection, their initial hesitance giving way to a genuine warmth and tenderness. The barriers of duty and strategy melted away, replaced by a growing intimacy that neither had anticipated.
In the quiet cocoon of their chambers, Baelon and Aliandra found a fleeting solace in each other's arms. The world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the two of them to navigate the delicate balance between their roles as rulers and spouses.
Rhaenyra sat at the head of the painted table in the dimly lit chamber, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows on the faces of her Black Council. They had been in the midst of discussing strategies and supply lines when the heavy doors suddenly burst open.
Jacaerys, her eldest son and heir, stormed into the room, his face flushed with urgency. "Mother, I bring dire news!" he proclaimed, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
The councilors turned their heads in unison, eyes wide with anticipation and dread. "Rosby and Duskendale have been sacked!" Jacaerys continued, his breath ragged. "Criston Cole is leading Aegon's army, they have struck hard and fast. Our strongholds are being lost. Rook's Rest is sure to be taken next if we do not act."
A collective gasp rose from the council. Shock and outrage flickered in their eyes, especially for those representing House Rosby and Steffon Darklyn, his brother Gunther was away at Duskendale and hadn't returned, this must have been the reason why.
Rhaenyra felt a cold dread settle in her chest, her half-brother was content hiding behind his walls so why now decide to make war near King's Landing.
"We must retaliate at once," Jacaerys urged, his young eyes blazing with determination. "We can take to the skies on our dragons, sweep down upon their army, and reclaim our strongholds. From there, we march on King's Landing and end this once and for all!"
Rhaenyra's heart ached with the weight of her decisions. She had long debated the cost of war, the lives lost, the cities ravaged. Her desire to protect her children, her people, warred with the necessity of securing her rightful throne.
She raised a hand to calm her son. "Jacaerys, my brave boy, we must tread carefully. An assault on the capital could lead to thousands of deaths, and I cannot bear the thought of losing any of you in that hell."
"But Mother," Jacaerys pressed, leaning forward with fervor, "if we do nothing, Aegon's forces will grow stronger. We must strike while they are vulnerable."
Rhaenyra's eyes hardened with resolve. "I will not be responsible for the deaths of thousands, Jacaerys. We will find another way to win this war, but not through reckless retaliation."
Jacaerys's face twisted with frustration and anger. "You're making a mistake," he snapped, before storming out of the chamber, the heavy doors slamming shut behind him.
Baela, his betrothed, cast a concerned glance at Rhaenyra before hurrying after him. The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of their predicament settling heavily upon them.
Rhaenyra took a deep breath, her decision unwavering but Gormon Massey broke the silence, his voice filled with frustration. "Your Grace, we have the men and the means to strike back. Your concern for the casualties is holding us back. We need to act decisively."
Rhaenyra's anger flared. "I am your queen, Lord Massey, and it is my duty to consider the lives of my people. Do not forget your place!"
Gormon Massey's eyes flashed with defiance. "And do not forget that we fight for you," he retorted before storming out of the room, his departure as abrupt as Jacaerys's.
Simon Staunton, Lord of Rook's Rest, rose from his seat, his expression solemn. "Your Grace, may I have your leave to return home and prepare my men? If the Greens intend to take my castle next, I must be ready."
Rhaenyra nodded, her resolve unwavering. "You have my leave, Lord Staunton. Prepare your men and fortify Rook's Rest. We will need every stronghold in the days to come."
With the council dismissed, Rhaenyra retired to her chambers, her heart heavy with the weight of leadership. She resisted the urge to go after Jacaerys, telling herself, "He will be alright. Baela is with him."
The burden of her decisions and the path ahead pressed down on her, but she knew she had to remain strong. The realm depended on it.