Why had Doran told him this? Why now, and why in such detail? It defied reason, defied the calculated restraint he had always associated with the Prince of Dorne. Such a revelation felt reckless—uncharacteristically so for a man who measured his words as carefully as a master penned histories.
Edric sank onto the edge of his bed, his head in his hands, the weight of it all pressing down on him. None of it made sense. To entrust him, a supposed "placeholder," with such knowledge? To unveil the intricacies of a plan that spanned years, if not decades, without certainty of his loyalty? It felt like a move made in desperation—or perhaps something far more dangerous: arrogance.
The pieces of the puzzle lay scattered before him, but every attempt to arrange them seemed to uncover new questions instead of answers. Was Doran testing him, probing his resolve, his loyalty? Or was this revelation a calculated gamble, one designed to tie Edric more tightly to Dorne's cause by sheer weight of responsibility?
His hands curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms. Whatever the truth, one thing was clear: Doran Martell had not merely confided in him. He had burdened him, shackled him with the knowledge of a scheme that could reshape the fate of realms.
Edric stood, pacing the length of the room, his hands running through his hair as he muttered to himself. "Why now? Why tell me this? What is he trying to gain?
Edric's pacing halted abruptly, his gaze falling to the desk where a letter lay, the Broken Stark direwolf embossed in deep grey wax upon its seal. He had read it before—once, twice, a dozen times—but now, in the wake of Doran's revelations, its words took on a new, crushing weight.
He hesitated before reaching for it, his hand hovering over the parchment as if touching it might make its contents more real, more binding.
Edric,
The snows of Winterfell grow heavier, yet it is not the frost that weighs upon my mind. The decisions before us are like swords without hilts—sharp, cutting, and leaving no easy way to grasp them. I write to you now, not as your father alone, but as a lord and as a servant of the North. You have been sent to Dorne not merely to secure a marriage, but to lay the foundations of an alliance that could shape the future of our house and of Westeros itself.
Why reach so far south when our enemies and challenges seem so near? The answer, my son, lies in the shifting tides of Westeros. The North is strong, but we cannot stand alone against the forces gathering around us. Our land is vast but sparsely populated. Our armies are loyal but few in number. And the dangers we face are multiplying—not just from the south, but from the Wall and beyond.
The Lannisters, with their cunning and their gold, tighten their grip on the Iron Throne. They move like shadows behind King Robert, their ambitions veiled but ever-present. Already, they weave their webs of influence, seeking to control every corner of the realm. We in the North have long endured our autonomy, but the Lannisters threaten to make all of us their pawns. Dorne, too, has suffered under the weight of Lannister treachery. The Martells do not forget, and neither do we.
An alliance with Dorne is more than a counter to the Lannisters. It is a chance to bolster our strength in a world where alliances are as crucial as swords. The South and the North are different, yes, but in our differences lie our potential. Dorne's armies are strong, its fleets capable, and its people resilient. They understand survival in ways that echo our own struggles in the harsh winters.
Marriage has always been a tool of diplomacy, a way to bind houses as tightly as blood. Your betrothal to Arianne Martell is more than a union; it is a symbol of trust, a promise of shared purpose. Arianne is proud and strong, a woman of fire and conviction. Winning her trust will not be easy, but it is vital. The Martells respect strength, but they also value honesty. Show them both, and they will see the worth of what we offer.
This alliance is my way of taking precautions, of ensuring that the North is not left vulnerable to the changing winds of power in Westeros. In these uncertain times, it is better to err on the side of caution, to forge bonds now that may one day save us all.
Hold fast, my son. The winds of winter are rising, but with allies such as the Martells, we may yet see spring.
Your father,
Eddard Stark
The North needed Dorne. That much was clear. His father's arguments were unshakable, the logic undeniable. And yet…
Edric's fingers tightened around the parchment, the edges of the paper crumpling slightly as his grip betrayed the turmoil within. He stared down at the words, their meaning settling over him like a layer of frost.
The truth was plain now, unavoidable: the Starks had no choice. The North had no choice. His father's wisdom was undeniable, his reasoning sound, but it didn't make the realization any less bitter. Dorne, for all its treachery and cunning, was the best hope the North had of weathering the storm that was coming.
Edric's gut churned, his jaw tightening. Doran's words echoed in his mind, the revelation still fresh, still raw. The Targaryen restoration plot was a blade hidden beneath silken promises, and he was being positioned to wield it—or perhaps to fall upon it. His stomach roiled at the thought of his father trusting Doran Martell, of Ned Stark speaking of alliances without knowing the full truth. How could his father not see it? How could he not know?
And yet, how could Edric tell him?
The betrayal he felt was not just directed outward. It clawed at his own chest, festering with every heartbeat. To write back, to confess what he had learned—that Doran had no intention of aiding the Starks alone, that the Martells sought to raise a dragon as much as they sought vengeance—would be to undo everything his father hoped to achieve. It would make an enemy of Dorne at a time when allies were most needed.
But to stay silent?
Edric stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the stone floor with a jarring screech. He paced the room, his boots heavy against the flagstones. Silent. He was being asked to remain silent. Or was he simply too much of a coward to speak? He could still hear Doran's voice, calm and measured, when he revealed the truth of Oberyn's plans. It hadn't felt like a confession. It had felt like a test.
What would his father do if he knew?
Edric clenched the letter in his fist, the edges of the parchment biting into his palm. He was his father's son, bound by duty and honor, but here, in this sun-drenched land of serpents and secrets, those things felt like shackles. Did his father know how deeply the Lannisters' shadow stretched? Did he understand how precariously the North balanced, with enemies in every direction and friends that could not be trusted?
The Stark words rose in his mind, unbidden: Winter is Coming. Always, always, they were a reminder of the cold inevitabilities of their lives. But here in Dorne, it wasn't winter he feared. It was the fire. Fire and blood.
He stopped pacing, his breathing uneven. A choice had to be made. To tell his father was to risk the fragile alliance. To keep Doran's secret was to betray his father's trust, his own honor. Edric pressed his hands to the table, staring down at the letter once more. His father's faith in him, his father's expectations—they pressed against his ribs, a weight too heavy to bear.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, the boy he had once been wanted to cry out, to run back to Winterfell and leave all of this behind. But the boy was gone, buried under the man he was being forced to become.
When he opened his eyes, the words of his father's letter stared back at him. You must act not for yourself, but for all who call Winterfell home.
"Damn it," Edric hissed through clenched teeth, slamming his fist against the table. He felt the sting of the impact shoot up his arm but welcomed the pain. It was grounding, real, unlike the shifting sands of Dorne and the lies that surrounded him.
He would have to decide soon. Would he write back and tell his father the truth, even if it risked unraveling everything? Or would he keep the secret, his father's faith in him be damned, and play the role Doran had crafted for him?
The answer wasn't clear. Only the weight of the choice, the burden he now carried, was certain.
The door creaked open, and Edric spun toward it, his fist still clenched around the letter. Arianne Martell stepped inside, her movements unhurried, her gaze sharp. The light from the fire caught the gold and orange embroidery on her gown, making her seem like a living flame.
"You look troubled, Stark," she said, her voice smooth as silk, though there was a flicker of curiosity in her dark eyes. "Has my father given you more to think about?"
Edric stiffened, his grip tightening on the parchment as though she could see through it, see the words that weighed on his soul. "What do you want?" he asked, his tone harsher than he intended.
Arianne raised an eyebrow, closing the door behind her with deliberate care. "Is that how the Starks treat their hosts? I came to see if you were well. Or, perhaps, if you needed someone to talk to." She tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a faint smile. "You seem… unsettled."
"I'm fine," he replied, though the words came out brittle, unconvincing.
Her gaze flicked to the letter in his hand. "A message from Winterfell?" she asked, stepping closer.
Edric hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. He moved to tuck the letter into his tunic, but Arianne stopped, just short of touching him. Her hand hovered in the air, and her expression softened.
"Edric," she said, her tone gentler now. "You don't have to carry the weight of the North alone. My father… he can be difficult to trust, I know. But if we're to be allies, truly allies, then you must trust me. At least a little."
He stared at her, unsure whether to laugh or lash out. Trust her? Arianne, who was as much her father's daughter as anyone could be? Arianne, who could weave a web as deftly as a spider?
"Why are you here?" he asked again, his voice low but steady now.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, as though she sensed the battle raging within him. "Because I know what it feels like to be caught between duty and desire," she said after a moment. "Because I've seen the look on your face before—on mine." She stepped closer, close enough now that he could smell the faint scent of citrus on her skin. "You're angry. Torn. And if I had to guess, your father's letter has only made it worse."
Edric clenched his jaw, his mind racing. Was this real? Or was this merely another game, another way to draw him into the Martell web?
"I don't need your advice," he said finally, his voice cold.
Arianne's lips twitched, her expression poised and unreadable, as if she knew he'd break the silence before long. And break it he did.
"Do you even believe he has a chance?" Edric asked, his voice softer now, yet edged with incredulity. "Viserys. Do you truly think he can be what your father hopes for—a king worthy of this rebellion? Or is he just another dreamer doomed to fail before he even begins?"
Arianne paused, her hand resting on the smooth wood of the doorframe. For a moment, it seemed she might simply leave without answering, but then she turned back, her gaze meeting his. In the flickering firelight, her eyes were shadowed, the weight of her thoughts etched into her face.
"A chance?" she repeated, her tone faintly mocking. "You ask if I think Viserys Targaryen has a chance. As if chance is something that can save him." She crossed the room in measured steps, her voice low, yet laced with a grim certainty. "What I think, Stark, is that Viserys will get himself killed before he ever sets foot in the Seven Kingdoms."
Edric stared at her, caught between surprise and disbelief. "That's a rather bleak assessment," he said after a moment, his tone cautious.
"Bleak," she echoed, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. "No,Edric. It's honest. I've heard the stories, same as you."
"He is impulsive, reckless, and far too enamored with the idea of power to understand the patience it takes to claim it. He does not command respect—he demands it. And that is a dangerous flaw in a world that answers such demands with steel."
She moved closer, her gaze hardening, her words cutting with a sharpness that left no room for sentiment. "Viserys is not his brother. He is not Rhaegar, the prince of songs and tragedy. He is not Aegon the Conqueror, riding dragons into glory. He is an angry, petulant boy clinging to the scraps of a lost dynasty, and anger alone does not make a king. It makes a corpse."
Her words hung in the air like the toll of a bell, heavy and final. Edric wanted to argue, to challenge her cynicism, but the quiet conviction in her tone made it difficult to speak.
"Then why does your father back him?" he asked, his frustration rising to the surface. "Why gamble Dorne's future on someone you clearly think will fail?"
Arianne's eyes darkened, her expression hardening. "Because my father isn't gambling on Viserys," she said quietly, her voice sharp and deliberate. "He's gambling on the idea of him. On the name, the legacy, the fear that the Targaryen banner still strikes in the hearts of men. If he succeeds, then Dorne has a hand in the restoration. If he fails…" She shrugged, the gesture almost indifferent. "Then we were never involved."
Arianne's lips twitched into a faint, bitter smile. "I believe in Dorne," she said simply. "I believe in survival. My father's plans, his games—they're a means to an end. And that end is keeping our people safe, keeping Dorne strong. If that means aligning with a broken dragon, so be it. If it means marrying me off to someone like you…" Her gaze flickered, something unreadable flashing in her eyes. "Then so be it."
Edric's voice cut. "You do know that I am obligated to tell my father of your Targaryen Restoration plan."
Arianne froze, her expression hardening as the weight of his words sank in. The flicker of firelight danced across her face, casting shadows that made her seem sharper, more dangerous.
"You'd do that?" she asked, her tone calm, though her eyes betrayed a glimmer of anger. "Risk a war between the North and Dorne? Risk tearing apart the fragile alliances your father has been trying to build?"
Edric straightened, his jaw tightening. "You're asking me to remain silent about a scheme that could throw the realm into chaos. A scheme that could cost countless lives—all for what? A gamble on a broken king and a dream of fire and blood?"
Arianne took a step closer, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper. "And what do you think your father will do with that information, Stark? March north and declare war on Dorne? Break the pact he so desperately needs? The North is strong, but even you know it cannot stand alone—not against the Lannisters, not against the South, not against what's coming."
Edric stared at her, the firelight casting flickering shadows across her face. Her words were harsh, but there was a truth to them that he couldn't ignore. Still, the knot of unease in his chest refused to loosen.
"And what happens if I tell him anyway?" he asked quietly, though his voice lacked the bite it had before.
Arianne's expression shifted, softening just enough to let a trace of vulnerability slip through. "Then you doom us both," she said simply. "You ruin any chance we have of standing against the lions, and you force your father to fight a war he isn't ready for. You'll win nothing, Edric. Only ruin."
The weight of her words settled heavily on his shoulders, and he turned away, unable to meet her gaze any longer. The fire crackled in the hearth, the sound loud in the heavy silence that followed.
"I won't decide tonight," he said finally. "But don't think for a second that I trust you. Or your father."
Arianne gave him a faint, bitter smile. "Trust is a luxury, Stark. And one we can't afford."
"Just remember this," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "The Lannisters have already sunk their claws into the North. If you want to free yourself, you'll need allies. And whether you like it or not, Dorne is the best chance you have."
Edric said nothing, his mind a storm of conflicting emotions. As the firelight flickered across the room, he felt the weight of the choice before him pressing down like never before.
Arianne stepped closer, her movements slow and deliberate, the distance between them shrinking until she was just a breath away. Her perfume—a heady mix of jasmine and orange blossoms—hung in the air, but her eyes, sharp and unyielding, betrayed no softness.
"Edric," she said, her voice smooth, yet carrying an undeniable weight. "Let me be clear though. Right now, in this moment, I am threatening you."
Her words hung in the air, a promise and a warning all at once. There was no room for misinterpretation—no doubt about the gravity of what she implied.
She let the statement hang in the air, heavy with unspoken menace, her proximity forcing him to confront the full weight of her presence. There was no fire in her tone, no dramatics—just the cold, calculated certainty of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
"Dorne doesn't make empty promises, Edric," she continued, her voice as smooth as silk drawn over steel. "And we don't take betrayal lightly. If you think for a moment that my father will allow years of careful planning to be undone by the whims of a single Northern boy, you are sorely mistaken."
Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles, a cruel echo of her usual charm. "So, consider your next move carefully. Because whether you like it or not, you're in this game now. And in this game, the price of crossing Dorne is steep."
Arianne didn't step back, and didn't give him room to breathe. Her closeness was a deliberate act, a reminder of her power, her control, and the very real consequences of defiance. "Do you understand me?" she asked, her voice soft but deadly, her eyes daring him to challenge her.
The following days passed in a blur of urgency and tension. Edric, though his heart weighed heavy with doubt, threw himself into the tasks at hand, knowing that hesitation could no longer afford a place in his thoughts.
Dorne had its demands, subtle but ever-present. A proper estate in King's Landing was essential, for the Red Keep, with its Lannister whispers and watchful eyes, was no place for a Martell bride—or for those who sought to broker alliances with the North. Edric and Doran worked side by side, their uneasy accord held together by necessity. Edric noticed how Doran's words carried precision, his voice always calm but never lacking in veiled intent.
The estate they chose belonged to an old it belonged to House Vaith, a lesser vassal of Sunspear, and though modest by Dornish standards, it was modest compared to the sprawling grandeur of the royal residence, but it carried the unmistakable touch of Dornish elegance.
Work began immediately to restore the estate to its former splendor. Couriers were dispatched to Sunspear for silks, spices, and furnishings, each item a statement of Dorne's influence. Edric, though unfamiliar with the intricacies of Dornish decor, oversaw the arrangements, ensuring that his and Arianne's preferences were met. It was a strange feeling, preparing a home he would soon share with her, yet every decision felt like a necessary step toward solidifying the fragile union.
In the quiet hours of the evening, Edric found himself pouring over letters and ledgers, his mind a whirlwind of strategy. Doran, true to his word, offered counsel where needed, his insight sharp and often disconcertingly accurate. The Prince of Dorne had a way of speaking that made Edric feel as though every question he posed had already been anticipated.
Beyond logistics, there were the private preparations. Letters were exchanged with Winterfell, Edric keeping his father informed of their progress while carefully omitting the more troubling revelations Doran had shared. The weight of Eddard Stark's expectations loomed over him, a silent reminder that failure was not an option.
The people of King's Landing began to whisper of the alliance, their curiosity piqued by the sudden flurry of activity around the Vaith estate.
Edric moved through it all with a measured composure that belied the storm within. Every decision, every small triumph in preparation, felt like a step closer to an inevitable reckoning.
The letters from Winterfell arrived regularly, each one heavy with the events unfolding back home. His father's handwriting, though familiar, felt distant as Edric read the words.
The first letter detailed the arrival of King Robert Baratheon in Winterfell. Robert's arrival was no surprise; his visit had been expected for some time, but it was a harbinger of change. The tension in the letter was palpable. Eddard spoke of Robert's increasing reliance on wine and his ill-advised schemes, the laughter and revelry of King's Landing at odds with the reality of the realm. But it was Jon's decision that weighed most heavily on Eddard's mind. The letter was careful with its words, but the meaning was unmistakable: Jon Snow, despite all efforts to change his mind, had chosen the Wall.
Edric folded the letter and sighed. Jon had always been one of his few remaining connections to Winterfell, someone who understood the cost of duty better than anyone. That he would choose the Wall was not entirely surprising. Yet it stung, as if a piece of the Stark family had been wrenched away to face the cold, unforgiving darkness of the far north.
Another letter arrived soon after, the seal of the Stark family heavy with significance. Eddard wrote of the betrothal between Joffrey Baratheon and Sansa, an alliance with the Baratheons and essentially the Lannisters, as dangerous as it was it was inevitable. Edric's fingers tightened around the paper. His sister's engagement to Joffrey, a boy with cruelty in his veins and ambition in his heart, would only serve to deepen the chasm between the Starks and the Lannisters. His father's words were pragmatic, as always—this was a necessary step to secure the North, but Edric could not shake the bitter taste it left in his mouth.
The last letter was the hardest to read. Eddard's words were strained, more like an official report than the loving letters of a father. Bran had fallen. The fall had been more than just physical; it was the beginning of something darker, something no one could yet fully understand. Bran's fall—if it was truly a fall—made no sense. Edric felt an uneasy knot form in his gut as he read it. Bran had always been so careful. He would never have climbed unsurely, his footing was never insecure. And yet, here he was, described as having plummeted from the same tower he had scaled so many times without incident.
No. Edric wouldn't believe it. Not Bran. Not like this.
Even from the other side of Westeros, Edric's thoughts couldn't help but race. He knew Bran. He could almost hear his voice, steady and confident, echoing through the stone walls of Winterfell and if something had happened to him—something that led to that fall—Edric could no longer convince himself it was an accident. Something wasn't right.
He folded the letter slowly, feeling the edges of it tear at his resolve. His mind whirled with questions that had no answers. Was it sabotage? A set-up? Or was there more at play here, something darker, a plot that only Bran had stumbled upon?
Bran wasn't dead, thank the gods for that, but to think of him so broken, so unreachable—it was almost too much to bear. The boy who had always been so full of life, so full of promise, now lying there in that unconscious state. It was hard to imagine, harder still to accept.