The Sea Snake stood at the helm of his flagship, the Sea Snake, watching fire paint the distant shoreline. Even from here, he could hear the pirates' screams carried across the water. Laena and Vhagar's silhouette dove again and again, each pass bringing more destruction.
"By the Seven," Vaemond whispered beside him, his younger brother's face pale in the reflected yellow light. "I've never seen her like this."
"Good," Corlys replied coldly. "Let them all see what happens when they strike at our house." He turned to his brother. "Does it frighten you, Vaemond?"
"No, Laena is showing the rage and power of House Velayron."
Movement on the horizon caught Corlys's experienced eye. Ships – many ships – emerging from the darkness like shadows given form. He raised his Myrish far-eye, counting quickly.
"One hundred ships," he announced, his voice carrying to nearby officers. "Flying colors of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh." His lip curled in contempt. "Sellsails and pirates playing at being a proper fleet."
"No Dornish ships," Vaemond noted.
"Of course not," Corlys scoffed. "House Martell is too clever to commit openly. They'll wait, watch, see which way the tide turns." His eyes narrowed as he studied the approaching vessels. "But some of those ships carry their gifts."
Years of experience told him what to look for – ships riding slightly lower in the water than they should, crews that seemed too careful in their movements. Wildfire carriers, disguised as ordinary warships.
"My lord," his captain called out. "Shall we prepare the scorpions?"
"Yes." Corlys turned to survey his own fleet. Thirty ships, each equipped with massive scorpions mounted on their decks. Not the anti-dragon weapons the Dornish used, but something new – designed specifically for this battle. "Load the fire arrows!"
The command echoed across the water as crews rushed to ready their weapons. Each scorpion bolt had been specially prepared, its head wrapped in oil-soaked cloth and designed to penetrate deep before the flames could spread.
Above, Meleys circled with Caraxes, Rhaenys and Daemon waiting for their moment. They knew the plan – once the wildfire ships were dealt with, they would burn the sails of the remaining vessels, trapping them for the fleet to destroy.
"Incoming!" someone shouted. The enemy fleet had spotted them and was moving to engage.
Corlys raised his hand, waiting as the distance closed. The night air was thick with tension, broken only by the distant sounds of destruction from the island and the creaking of ships.
"My lord," Vaemond said quietly, "if we're wrong about which ships carry the wildfire..."
"We're not wrong." Corlys's voice was iron. "I've spent thirty years at sea. I know what to look for." His eyes tracked the approaching fleet. "There – the third ship in the second line. Watch how it turns, how careful they are with it."
The distance continued to close. Five hundred yards. Four hundred. Three hundred.
"PREPARE TO LOOSE!"
Crews adjusted their aim, accounting for wind and distance. The night air filled with the creak of scorpion mechanisms being drawn back.
"For Laenor," Corlys whispered, then raised his voice to a roar. "LOOSE!"
Massive bolts erupted from the scorpions, their flaming heads cutting red trails through the night sky. The first volley – forty bolts in all – arced toward the enemy fleet.
Most struck normal ships, causing damage but nothing catastrophic. Then one found its mark.
The explosion was spectacular. Green fire erupted from within the struck vessel, spreading outward in all directions. Nearby ships caught in the blast were instantly engulfed, their crews barely having time to scream before the wildfire consumed them.
"SECOND VOLLEY!" Corlys commanded. "ADJUST AIM STARBOARD!"
More flaming bolts flew. Another explosion, then another. The enemy fleet's formation began to break as ships tried to avoid the spreading wildfire.
Above, Caraxes dove toward the intact ships, Daemon's war cry carrying across the water. "DRACARYS!"
Dragon flame lit the night, carefully aimed at sails and rigging. Ships that tried to flee found themselves dead in the water, easy prey for the Velaryon fleet.
"Watch the wind!" Corlys shouted as he saw wildfire beginning to spread across the water's surface. "Don't let it drift toward our lines!"
Meleys joined the attack, Rhaenys guiding her mount with precision born of years of experience. Between the dragons above and the scorpions below, the enemy fleet was being systematically destroyed.
"They're breaking!" Vaemond called out, excitement overcoming his earlier fear. "Look – they're trying to retreat!"
"Let none escape," Corlys commanded, his voice carrying across the fleet. "Every ship, every sailor – none live to tell the tale."
A massive shadow passed overhead – Vhagar returning from the island, Laena directing her mount straight into the naval battle. The great dragon's roar shook the very air as she dove toward the fleeing ships.
"Seven hells," Vaemond breathed. "She's not even trying to be careful with the wildfire."
'Be careful, Laena. I don't want to lose you too.'
The battle, if it could still be called that, became a slaughter. Caught between dragons above and the Velaryon fleet's scorpions, the enemy ships had nowhere to go. Those that weren't destroyed by wildfire explosions were either burned by dragon flame or rammed and boarded by Velaryon ships.
Corlys watched it all from his command position, issuing orders and coordinating the fleet's movements. Each burning ship, each screaming sailor, was payment for Laenor. But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
"Orders, my lord?" his captain asked as the last few enemy ships burned.
"Search for survivors," Corlys commanded. "If you find any, question them about their connections to Dorne. Then execute them."
"All of them?"
"All of them." Corlys's eyes reflected the green flames that now dotted the sea. "Let the message be clear – those who side with our enemies share their fate."
"Ship approaching port side!" the lookout screamed. Through the chaos of fire and smoke, a massive galley with a black hull emerged, its ram aimed directly at them.
"Brace for impact!" Corlys roared, gripping his war axe. The collision shook the entire ship, wood screaming against wood. Above the crash, he heard the distinctive sound of boarding planks dropping.
Lord Celtigar, red-faced with battle lust, laughed manically as he drew his sword. "Finally! I was getting bored watching dragons have all the fun!" He turned to his men. "Who wants to send some pirates to their watery graves?"
Pirates poured across the boarding planks, screaming war cries in a dozen different languages. Corlys met the first one with his axe, the steel blade cleaving through the man's shield and into his chest.
"Watch your left, brother!" Vaemond called out, running a pirate through with his sword. The deck became slick with blood as the battle intensified.
"Seven hells, this is living!" Celtigar bellowed, cutting down two pirates with a single sweep. "Nothing like steel on steel! No offense to your daughter's dragon, Lord Corlys, but this is how real men fight!" He headbutted a charging pirate, sending the man stumbling back into his companions.
Corlys fought with the precision of decades of experience, his axe finding gaps in armor and flesh. "Mind your tongue, Celtigar, or I'll feed you to Vhagar myself!"
"Ha!" Celtigar ducked under a sword swing and gutted his attacker. "The day's too fine for threats! Look at these dogs run!" He kicked a fallen pirate overboard, the man's screams cut short by the wildfire-tainted waters below.
More pirates jumped across, led by a huge Summer Islander with a goldenheart bow. Arrows began finding marks among the Velaryon crew.
"That one's mine!" Celtigar shouted gleefully, charging through the melee. "Come on, you great black bastard! Show me what you've got!"
The Summer Islander dropped his bow and drew a curved blade nearly as tall as a man. Their weapons met with a crash that rang above the battle's din.
"Just like old times," Vaemond grunted, parrying a spear thrust.
"Old times didn't have this much wildfire," Corlys replied, splitting a pirate's skull. The green glow of burning ships cast everything in an eerie light, making blood look black on the deck.
"Seven-fucking-hells!" Celtigar's voice boomed across the deck as he fought the Summer Islander. "Haven't had a fight like this since the Myr Campaign! Your head's going on my wall, you magnificent bastard!"
The Summer Islander responded with a cut that would have taken Celtigar's head if he hadn't ducked. "The only head on display will be yours, pink man!"
"Pink man?" Celtigar roared with laughter even as he countered. "I'll show you pink, you cocky shit!" His next strike opened the Summer Islander from shoulder to hip. "Ha! Now you're red like the rest of us!"
More Velaryon ships were pulling alongside, their own crews joining the fight. The pirates found themselves caught between multiple forces, their initial advantage of surprise lost.
"Form up!" Corlys commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Shield wall! Push them back to their ship!"
The discipline of the Velaryon forces showed as they formed a solid line, shields interlocked, pushing forward step by bloody step. Pirates began falling back, some jumping overboard in panic, choosing the burning water over facing the advancing wall of steel.
Celtigar, blood-soaked and grinning like a madman, hefted the Summer Islander's massive sword. "Beautiful weapon! Almost as beautiful as watching these rats swim!" He cut down another pirate. "Come on, you salt sons of whores! Who else wants to die today?"
The remaining pirates broke, fleeing back to their ship. Corlys raised his axe. "Archers! Make sure they don't live to reach it!"
Arrows darkened the air, dropping pirates into the sea. Those few who made it back to their ship found no safety – Meleys chose that moment to sweep low, her flame turning the pirate vessel into an inferno.
"Now that," Celtigar said, wiping blood from his face, "is how you end a proper fight!" He turned to Corlys. "Though next time, try to leave some more for us groundbound warriors, eh? Dragons are impressive and all, but there's nothing like feeling steel bite flesh!"
Corlys surveyed the carnage on his deck, noting with pride how few of his own men had fallen. "Get this mess cleaned up," he ordered. "And someone find rope – Lord Celtigar needs to tie that new sword of his to his back before he drops it overboard."
"Rope? Bah!" Celtigar spat, though he was still grinning. "This is what I call a proper night! Fire, steel, and dead pirates! Almost makes me forget we're just getting started with those Dornish snakes!"
"Oh, we're far from finished," Corlys agreed, his voice turning cold as he looked south again. "This is just the first blood drawn. House Martell will soon learn what it means to face the full fury of dragons and the sea combined."
Rhaenyra
Rhaenyra watched from above as ships tried to flee the carnage. Let them run, she thought bitterly. Let them tell stories of what happens to those who challenge dragons.
But another voice whispered in her mind: They'll call you weak. The smallest dragon, the pampered princess who stayed safe in the heights while others fought.
"No," she said aloud, determination hardening her voice. "Not tonight." She leaned forward on Syrax, feeling her dragon's eagerness. "Vōttar" (Dive!)
Syrax tucked her wings, and they plummeted toward the fleeing ships. The wind whipped Rhaenyra's silver-gold hair as they descended, and she could hear her father's warnings, Aenar's cautious voice – but she pushed them aside.
"Dracarys!"
Syrax's flame wasn't as massive as Vhagar's or as devastatingly hot as Cannibal's wildfire-like breath, but it served well enough. The first ship's sails caught immediately, the fire spreading faster than the crew could react. Screams echoed across the water as men jumped overboard, choosing the sea over the flames.
"Arghūn!" (Again!) Rhaenyra commanded, and Syrax banked for another pass. Two more ships fell to their attacks, then a fourth, then a fifth. Each burning vessel took longer than it would have for the larger dragons, requiring multiple passes, but Rhaenyra felt fierce pride in their accomplishment.
See? she thought. We're just as capable.
She spotted a sixth ship trying to slip away through the smoke. "konīr!" (There!) she urged Syrax lower, preparing for another attack. The dragon's wings spread wide as they lined up their approach.
Something bright arced through the night – a burning scorpion bolt. Rhaenyra realized too late what it meant as the burning bolt struck the ship.
The explosion was immediate and became everything she saw. Green wildfire erupted from the ship's hold, the blast wave catching Syrax mid-dive. Her dragon screeched in terror, instinctively wheeling away from the intense heat, but not before Rhaenyra felt it sear across her skin despite her armor. Thankfully, she had been far enough not to be burned to death.
In the chaos of their desperate turn, something struck her hard in the stomach. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. Looking down, she saw a broken arrow tip caught in her armor's plates – it hadn't penetrated, but the force of the blow at such speed...
Pain bloomed across her abdomen, deep and nauseating.
"Tolī" (Up,) she gasped, fighting the urge to double over. "Tolī, Syrax" (Up, Syrax!)
The dragon needed no encouragement, climbing rapidly away from the wildfire's reach. But Rhaenyra's mind raced through her options. She should return to the fleet, seek help for her injury. That would be the sensible choice.
And prove them all right, that voice whispered again. The weak little princess, running home at the first taste of pain.
She straightened in her saddle, ignoring the stabbing agony in her stomach. "Ivestragī daor" (We're not done,) she told Syrax, though her voice was strained. "Daor ūndegon" (Not yet.)
Her dragon keened uncertainly, sensing her rider's distress.
"Nyke ivestretan ivestragī daor" (I said we're not done!) Rhaenyra's voice carried the steel of command now. "Pryjatan istan skoros īlōn kostagon gaomagon? Keso jāhor ūndegon iā īlon ēdruta!" (They want to see what we can do? Then let's show them!)
Below, more ships were trying to escape the destruction. Each movement sent fresh waves of pain through her body, but Rhaenyra grit her teeth. She was blood of the dragon, heir to the Iron Throne. She would not show weakness.
"Vōttar" (Dive,) she commanded again, even as black spots danced at the edges of her vision.
Syrax hesitated for just a moment before tucking her wings once more. As they plunged toward their next target, Rhaenyra smiled grimly through the pain.
Through smoke and flame, Rhaenyra spotted it – the flagship of the pirate fleet attempting to slip away in the chaos. It was massive, at least three decks, with elaborate carvings on its hull that gleamed in the reflected firelight. The sea around them had become a tableau of destruction, with burning ships and wildfire turning the water itself into a deadly maze.
This is it, she thought, ignoring the throbbing pain in her stomach.
"Hāedar" (Down!) she commanded Syrax, and they dove through the smoke-filled air. As they emerged from the cloud cover, she saw dozens of archers on the deck, their bows already drawn.
"Gō vyzys, ābra" (Come on, girl,) Rhaenyra whispered to her dragon.
Arrows filled the air like deadly rain. Rhaenyra pulled hard on Syrax's spikes, and the young dragon rolled sideways, avoiding the worst of the barrage. A few arrows struck Syrax's scales, bouncing off with metallic pings that made the dragon hiss in irritation.
They were close enough now that Rhaenyra could see the fear on the sailors' faces. "Dracarys!"
Syrax's flame caught the massive sails, spreading rapidly across the rigging. Men screamed and scrambled as fire rained down upon them. Rhaenyra felt a fierce joy even through her pain – until she remembered the wildfire. Any ship this size would likely be carrying it.
One more pass, she thought. Finish it properly.
But as they banked around for another attack, the defenders were ready. This time, the arrows came in a coordinated volley. Rhaenyra tried to turn Syrax away, but they were too close, too committed to their dive.
Pain exploded in her leg as an arrow found its mark. Another struck her arm. Then came the third hit – a direct strike to her chest that made her gasp in agony. The armor held, but the force of the blow left her struggling for breath.
"arghūn." (Again) she tried to command, but Syrax had other ideas. The dragon could sense her rider's pain, feel the weakness in Rhaenyra's grip on her spikes. With a defiant screech, Syrax pulled away from the battle, ignoring Rhaenyra's attempts to turn her back.
"Daor" (No!) Rhaenyra shouted, her voice thick with pain and frustration. "Ivestragī daor! Lēda jāhor īlon—" (We're not finished! We have to—)
A massive shadow passed overhead – Cannibal, with Aenar on his back. The great black dragon opened his maw, and what emerged wasn't normal dragon flame. Green-tinged fire poured forth in a massive stream, not aimed at the ships but at the water itself. Where it struck, wildfire bloomed across the surface of the sea, creating a burning barrier that stretched for hundreds of yards.
Rhaenyra watched in awe as the retreating ships realized their predicament. They couldn't turn back toward the Velaryon fleet, but going forward meant sailing through a sea of liquid fire. She saw several ships try to find gaps in the flame, only to catch fire themselves, the wildfire spreading across their hulls like hungry serpents.
"That's how it's done, cousin," she heard Aenar call out as Cannibal drew alongside Syrax. His voice changed when he saw her condition. "You're hurt."
"I'm fine," she tried to say, but the words came out slurred. The world was starting to spin around her.
"No you're not. You have done more than enough for tonight."
The dragon needed no further encouragement, already winging toward the Velaryon ships. Behind them, Rhaenyra could hear the screams of dying men and the crack of burning timber as the trapped pirate ships met their fate.
At least I proved I could fight, she thought hazily as consciousness began to slip away. At least I showed them...
The last thing she saw before darkness took her was the sea itself burning green and gold, as if the very gods had decided to paint the night with fire. Then everything faded to black, and Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, slumped forward on her dragon's back, her blood running down Syrax's golden scales like crimson tears.
.
.
Pain was her first awareness - a deep, throbbing ache that seemed to pulse with each beat of her heart. Rhaenyra's eyes fluttered open to find herself in her bedchamber in Dragonstone, the familiar dragon-carved columns rising above her bed.
Father will be wroth, she thought bitterly. She could already hear his voice: "You gave me your word, daughter. Your word that you would not seek battle."
She attempted to shift position, but agony lanced through her chest, arm, and leg. A small whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it. The sound seemed to mock her, another reminder of her failure.
While others claimed victory, I lay here like some invalid, she thought. Lord Corlys, Uncle Daemon, Laena, and Aenar - they won the battle. And what did I accomplish? Nothing but proving those who doubted me right.
The door creaked open, and a serving girl entered carrying fresh linens. Upon seeing Rhaenyra's open eyes, the girl's mouth formed a small 'o' of surprise. Without a word, she dropped into a hasty curtsy and fled the chamber.
Rhaenyra let out a bitter laugh that turned into a grimace of pain. Even the servants flee from the sight of me now.
True to her prediction, barely three minutes passed before hurried footsteps approached. The door opened again, revealing Aenar and Laena, both still in their battle-stained clothing.
"You're awake," Laena said, relief evident in her voice as she rushed to the bedside.
"How do you fare?" Aenar asked, his purple eyes studying her with concern.
Rhaenyra managed a weak smirk. "Well enough for someone who looks as though they've been used for archery practice." She tried to sit up straighter but failed to hide her wince.
Aenar's low chuckle filled the chamber. "At least your sharp tongue remains unharmed."
"The only part of me that does, it seems." Rhaenyra's attempt at levity couldn't quite mask the frustration in her voice.
Laena moved to the window, checking that none were within earshot before closing the heavy shutters. "You gave us quite a fright, you know. Syrax brought you back barely conscious, blood all over her scales."
"I failed," Rhaenyra said quietly, the words tasting like ashes in her mouth.
"Failed?" Aenar moved closer, his expression softening. "You burned five ships on your own. I saw you dodge volleys that would have brought down a less skilled rider."
"And then I had to be rescued like some helpless maiden in a song."
Laena shook her head. "Even Vhagar has to retreat sometimes. There's no shame in living to fight another day."
The door closed with a solid thunk, and Aenar leaned down, pressing his lips to Rhaenyra's in a gentle kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes held both tenderness and concern.
"You could have died," he whispered, his hand cupping her cheek. "What would that have proved?"
"That I was worthy," Rhaenyra replied, hating how small her voice sounded. "That I wasn't just the pampered princess they all think me to be."
"Worthy?" Laena's voice held a note of exasperation. "You're the blood of the dragon. You proved your worth the moment you joined the battle instead of hiding behind castle walls."
"But-"
"No," Aenar cut her off firmly. "Listen to me. True strength isn't about never falling. It's about rising again afterward." His thumb traced her cheekbone softly. "And you will rise again, stronger for this lesson."
Rhaenyra leaned into his touch, drawing comfort from his presence. "Tell me of the battle's end. How many ships did we destroy?"
"All of them," Laena said with fierce satisfaction. "Not a single pirate vessel escaped the trap. Father says it's one of his greatest naval victories."
"And House Martell?"
"Will soon learn what it means to wake dragons," Aenar promised, his voice taking on a harder edge. "But for now, you need to heal."
Rhaenyra caught his hand as he started to pull away. "Stay? Both of you?"
Laena moved to sit on one side of the bed while Aenar took the other. "Of course," she said softly. "Though you should know - your father's ravens will likely arrive soon. News of the battle will reach King's Landing within days."
"Let them come," Rhaenyra said, trying to sound stronger than she felt. "I am dragon, am I not? Dragons don't hide from consequences."
Aenar's lips quirked in a small smile. "No, they don't. But perhaps they might occasionally listen to those who love them?"
"Perhaps," Rhaenyra conceded, managing a weak smile of her own. "Though I make no promises."
Aliandra
The setting sun cast long shadows across the marble floors of Sunspear as Aliandra paced in her solar, her hands trembling.
Lykard, you fool, she thought, not for the first time. Your pride and cruelty will doom us all.
Her mind wandered to Lorella, sweet Lorella with her pet snakes and mischievous smile. Eight namedays old, too young to understand the danger their brother had brought upon their house. The thought of dragons descending upon Sunspear made Aliandra's blood run cold.
She sat at her writing desk, drawing out fresh parchment and her finest quill. The words flowed quickly, born of desperate necessity:
'To the noble House Yronwood/Dayne,
The vipers nest has been stirred, and dragons take wing. I'm not writing to you as the Heir of Dorne, but as one of you, a storm is coming, and this time, I fear we might not have a lucky shot. We must speak with utmost urgency. The fate of Dorne may depend upon it.
With grave concern,
Princess Aliandra Martell'
She sealed both letters with the Martell sigil, pressing perhaps harder than necessary. When the maester arrived, she fixed him with a stern gaze.
"These must fly tonight," she commanded. "And speak of them to no one, not even my lord father."
"As you command, my princess," the old man bowed, tucking the letters into his sleeves.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of court duties and forced smiles, all while her mind thinking of ways to calm things down. By nightfall, her head ached with the strain of maintaining her composed facade.
When she finally reached her bedchamber, she was surprised to find the door slightly ajar. Inside, a small figure sat huddled on her bed - Lorella, clutching her latest pet snake, a beautiful copper-colored creature that wound lazily around her arms.
"Sister?" Aliandra asked softly, closing the door behind her. "Why are you?"
Lorella looked up, her eyes wide and frightened in a way Aliandra had never seen before. The snake, sensing its mistress's distress, flicked its tongue rapidly.
"I had a bad dream," Lorella whispered, her voice small. "Might I... might I stay with you tonight?"
Aliandra's heart melted at the sight. She crossed to the bed, sitting beside her sister and smoothing her dark curls. "Of course you may, little viper. Nothing can harm you here."
Lorella seemed to relax slightly at her touch, though her grip on the snake remained tight. "Promise?"
"I promise," Aliandra said, helping her sister under the covers. "Now, tell me of this dream that frightens you so."
Lorella's lower lip trembled. "There was a man... a terrible man with eyes like ice. He sat atop a great black dragon with green eyes."
Aliandra felt her blood freeze. "Go on, sweetling."
"He... he pointed at me and...'" Lorella continued, her voice breaking. "Then he said 'Dracarys' and the dragon..." She buried her face in Aliandra's shoulder, unable to continue.
"Shhhh," Aliandra soothed, wrapping her arms tightly around her sister. "It was just a dream. No harm will come to you, I swear it by the sun and spear."
"But what if it wasn't just a dream?" Lorella looked up, wisdom beyond her years shining in her tear-filled eyes. "I heard the servants talking about brother Lykard. They say he's done something terrible."
Aliandra chose her words carefully. "Our brother has made choices that may bring difficulties, yes. But you need not fear. Dorne has withstood dragons before."
"The servants say these dragons are different," Lorella whispered.
The snake had wound its way up to Lorella's shoulder, as if trying to offer comfort of its own. Aliandra reached out to stroke its smooth scales, buying herself time to respond.
"Listen to me, little sister," she said finally. "Do you know why our sigil bears a spear as well as a sun?"
Lorella shook her head.
"Because while the sun may burn bright and fierce, it is the spear that strikes true. Dragons may have their fire, but we have our wit, our will, and our ways." She tapped Lorella's nose gently. "And most importantly, we have each other."
"Will you teach me to be clever like you?" Lorella asked, snuggling closer. "Mother says you're the smartest person in Dorne."
Despite her worries, Aliandra couldn't help but smile. "Mother exaggerates. But yes, I will teach you everything I know." And pray to all the gods it's enough to keep you safe, she added silently.
As Lorella drifted off to sleep, her snake coiled protectively around her wrist, Aliandra remained awake, staring at the painted ceiling. Her own dreams had been troubled of late - visions of shadow-wings and green fire, of a woman with silver-gold hair standing amidst burning sands. But unlike Lorella's nightmare, her dreams offered hope as well as warning.
There must be a way, she thought fiercely. Some path through this storm that doesn't end in fire and blood. Her letters to Houses Yronwood and Dayne were just the beginning. She would need more allies, more plans, more options.
She looked down at her sleeping sister, so innocent, so precious. "I won't let them harm you," she whispered. "Any who try must first face the fury of the sun."
But even as she made this promise, Aliandra knew the real challenge would be finding a way to keep it. Dragons were coming to Dorne, and this time, they brought with them not just fire, but vengeance. She could only hope her dreams would show her the way before it was too late.
She lay down beside her sister, her eyes closing, ready to rest after a long day.
Aliandra woke with a start, immediately sensing something was wrong. The air felt different - cooler, heavier with salt than the dry warmth of Dorne. Her arms reached instinctively for Lorella, but found only empty space.
"Lorella!" she called out, panic rising in her throat. Her voice echoed strangely in the unfamiliar chamber.
As her eyes adjusted, details emerged that made her heart race faster. The walls were adorned not with the sun and spear of House Martell, but with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
"You must be Aliandra!"
She whirled around at the voice, her hand reaching for a dagger that wasn't there. Before her stood a young woman near her own age, and for a moment, Aliandra thought she was looking at another Dornishwoman. The stranger had the olive skin and dark hair of Dorne, her features suggesting Rhoynar blood, she was beautiful with sharp features like a Martell. But then Aliandra saw her eyes - bright purple, unmistakably Valyrian, seeming to glow in the strange light.
"Who are you?" Aliandra demanded, showing no fear in front of this woman.
The woman's smile was both gentle and knowing. "I am Princess Rhaenys of House Targaryen."
NOTE: Aliandra is not a reincarnation of Rhaenys, like how Jon is born as Aenar Targaryen. Rhaenys Targaryen and Aliandra Martell are still two separate characters.