The sun rose over Sunspear, casting golden rays through the great hall's high windows, where mosaics of suns and scorpions gleamed. Alaric Stark sat at a polished table with Princess Meria Martell her spear-shaft cane beside her cushioned throne, her yellowed eyes sharp as ever.
Prince Nymor Martell, her heir, sat attentively, his yellow cloak bearing the red sun-and-spear, while Princess Deria Martell leaned forward, her dark curls framing a face alight with anticipation, her gaze warm from yesterday's flirtations.
After breaking fast with spiced yogurt, flatbreads, and blood oranges, Meria tapped her cane, her voice rasping. "Prince Alaric, you've fed our people with your trees, shown us your titan's might. Deria speaks of learning your magic—a bold request. You mentioned a contract to share such power. Tell us its terms, Stark. What binds us, and what do we gain?"
Alaric, in light furs, met her gaze, his eyes steady. "Princess Meria, Prince Nymor, Princess Deria, the North values Dorne's alliance. The magical contract ensures trust. Its core term: Deria, or any Dornish I teach, must never use this magic against the North—neither to attack our lands, harm our people, nor aid our foes. In return, I'll awaken Deria's circuits with a potion and unlock the magic in her blood. The contract binds her soul—breaking it brings pain, perhaps worse. It's a safeguard for both our realms, ensuring peace while sharing power."
Nymor's brow furrowed, his voice cautious. "A contract binding the soul? That's no light oath, Prince Alaric. What else does it demand? Will Deria be free to use this magic in Dorne's defense, or is she leashed to Northern whims? And how do we know it's fair—no hidden traps to favor Winterfell?"
Deria's eyes flicked to Alaric, her tone eager but sharp. "I want this magic, Grandmother, Father, but Nymor's right. What are the full terms? Can I grow trees like you, Alaric, or summon titans? And what happens if I misuse it? I'd hear every detail before I sign."
Alaric nodded, producing a parchment glowing with faint green runes, its edges shimmering. "Fair questions. Here's the contract." He slid it across the table, the runes pulsing as if alive.
"It forbids using magic against the North, directly or indirectly—no attacking our lands, aiding our enemies, or teaching others to do so without my consent. Deria can use magic to defend Dorne, strengthen its people, or grow its deserts, freely. The penalty for breaking it? The chakra I awaken turns inward—pain, weakness, perhaps loss of magic. No traps, Nymor; the contract binds me too—if I misuse Dorne's trust, my own magic falters. It's mutual. I'll teach Deria to wield magic, starting with her blood's latent power, perhaps tied to your Rhoynar roots. Titans? That's years away, but she'll learn enough to feed Dorne."
Meria's eyes scanned the parchment, her son peering over her shoulder, muttering as he read. After a long silence, she nodded, her voice grudgingly impressed. "No loopholes, Stark. It's fair—harsh, but fair. Deria may sign, if she wills it. This magic could heal our land, but the price is steep. Are you ready, child?"
Deria's face set, her voice firm. "I'm ready, Grandmother. This power could save our people, grow our deserts. I trust Prince Alaric—he's fed our city already. I'll sign."
Nymor hesitated, then nodded. "If Mother agrees, I trust her judgment. Sign, Deria, but be wary—this magic's a gift and a chain."
Deria took the quill, signing her name in bold strokes. The runes flared green, sealing the contract with a soft hum, binding her soul to its terms.
Alaric produced a small vial, its liquid shimmering like starlight. "This potion awakens your circuits, Deria. It'll make you stronger, unlock your magic—but it hurts, like fire in your veins. Drink, then lie down. It'll pass quickly, but it's not gentle."
Deria's eyes met his, noting his serious expression. She nodded, her voice steady. "I understand, Peince Alaric. I'm no stranger to pain." She drank the potion, wincing at its bitter taste, and Alaric gestured to a cushioned bench nearby. "Lie there."
As she reclined, Alaric handed her a handkerchief. "Bite this—it'll help." Moments later, muffled screams escaped her, her body trembling as the potion burned through her, awakening her circuits.
Meria's cane gripped tightly, her voice sharp. "What's happening, Stark? Is she safe?"
Nymor stepped forward, his face pale. "Alaric, this looks like torture! Stop it, or explain why she suffers!"
Alaric raised a hand, his voice calm. "It's the potion, reshaping her body to channel chakra. It's painful but safe—I endured it, as did my brothers. She's strong; it'll pass."
A minute later, Deria's screams faded, her breathing steadying. She sat up, sweat beading her brow, her eyes bright with new power.
Alaric smiled, his voice gentle. "You're awake, Deria. Your body's now as strong as ten grown men. Try lifting that shelf." He pointed to a heavy wooden shelf laden with books and bronze ornaments.
Deria stood, her movements fluid, and grasped the shelf with both hands. With a soft grunt, she lifted it effortlessly, holding it aloft as Meria and Nymor gasped.
"Gods," Nymor whispered, "she's stronger than my best spearmen."
Deria set it down, her face alight. "It's… incredible, Prince Alaric. I feel like I could wrestle a sand steed!"
Alaric's grin widened. "That's just the start. Now, magic. There are two kinds: learned techniques and blood magic, tied to your lineage. Let's find yours." He stepped closer, his voice guiding. "Close your eyes, Deria. Search within—feel the energy, like a river in your veins. It's there, waiting."
Deria obeyed, her face serene. After a moment, her brow furrowed, then relaxed. "I feel it… warm, flowing, like water under the sun."
Alaric nodded, his voice soft. "Good. Move that energy to your palms, slowly, like pouring wine. Then open your eyes."
She did, and a ball of water shimmered in her hands, rippling like a living pool. Meria's cane clattered, her voice stunned. "Water? In Dorne's sands? How?"
Nymor's eyes widened, his voice awed. "It's… beautiful. Is this her magic, Alaric? Where does it come from?"
Deria stared at the water, her voice a whisper. "It feels like… home. Like the rivers I've never seen."
Alaric's smile was knowing. "It's Rhoynar blood, from Princess Nymeria of Ny Sar. Her people wielded water magic, bending rivers to their will. It's in your veins, Deria, awakened by the potion. You can shape water—streams, mists, perhaps more with practice."
Meria's laugh was sharp, her eyes gleaming. "Nymeria's gift, reborn! You've given my granddaughter her ancestor's power, Stark. Can you teach her more of your magic?"
Alaric nodded, his tone measured. "I can teach her learned magic—reinforcement, projection, control—but I can't stay in Sunspear. My duties call me North, to Winterfell, Moat Cailin, and beyond. If Deria's willing, she can come with me, learn in the North under the contract's terms."
Nymor's face tightened, his voice protective. "Send my daughter to the North? It's a frozen land, far from our sands. Will she be safe, Alaric? And what of Dorne's needs?"
Deria's eyes flashed, her voice firm. "Father, I want this. Alaric's magic could save Dorne—grow rivers, not just trees. I'll go, learn, and return stronger. Grandmother, you agree?"
Meria's cane tapped, her voice grudgingly approving. "Bold, child. Go and learn, but keep Dorne's heart. Alaric, we trust you—for now."
Nymor spoke, his tone practical. "What of your potions, Alaric? Can we buy them for our knights, our soldiers? Strength like Deria's, magic like hers—Dorne could use it."
Alaric's expression turned serious. "I can sell potions, but they're administered in the North. Each recipient must sign the contract, take the potion under my watch—no cheating, no theft. We can add clauses for Dorne's safety: no magic used to rebel against House Martell, no teaching others without your consent. It keeps your realm secure, your lords loyal."
Meria nodded, her eyes calculating. "Wise, Stark. A contract to leash magic and rebellion. We'll draft terms, ensure Dorne's strength. You've thought this through."
Alaric bowed slightly. "The North values order, Princess, as does Dorne." He paused, then asked, "When can I depart? I'd see Dorne's holdfasts—Hellholt, Yronwood, Starfall. I'll plant orchards as I did yesterday, ease your people's hunger."
Nymor's brow rose, his voice curious. "You'd roam Dorne, planting trees? Why, Alaric? You're no Dornishman."
Alaric's face grew somber, his eyes darkening. "I bear some blame for Dorne's suffering. Aegon's frustration with the North—my titan, our defiance—spilled onto your sands. Soldiers die in war, choosing their fate, but women and children? Starvation's crueler than dragonfire. I'd plant trees to feed them, restore what I can."
Meria's gaze softened, her voice low. "You've a heart, Stark, rare for a prince. Go, plant your trees. Deria will join you—her presence will open every lord's gate, from Skyreach to Sandstone."
Deria smiled, her voice warm. "I'll ride with you, Prince Alaric. Our lords will welcome a wolf who grows orchards."
Alaric nodded, his tone resolute. "Then it's settled. In two days, we'll ride." The meeting ended, and two days later, Alaric, Deria, and six Martell spearmen left Sunspear. They set out for Dorne's holdfasts, Alaric's mission to heal a wounded land, Deria at his side, her water magic a spark of hope for a desert reborn.