Three moons had passed since Prince Alaric Stark, Princess Deria Martell, and their retinue of twenty Martell spearmen left Sunspear to tour Dorne's holdfasts. Starting from the sun-scorched capital, they journeyed north to the Red Mountains and the ravaged lands hardest hit by Aegon Targaryen's war—Hellholt, Yronwood, Starfall, and smaller villages like Sandstone and Skyreach.
Alaric used lemon, orange, and fig seeds, planting orchards in barren sands using his Sage Art: Wood Release.
Everywhere they went, word of his deeds—growing trees with magic, feeding the starving—spread like wildfire. Smallfolk cheered his arrival, shouting "Wolf Prince!" and "Tree-Giver!" as children ran alongside, clutching fresh fruit.
By the third moon, tens of thousands of trees dotted Dorne, from the Greenblood to the Torrentine, their branches heavy with bounty.
Throughout the journey, Alaric and Deria grew closer, their bond deepening beyond flirtation. Under starlit nights, he taught her the basics of magic—reinforcement to enhance strength, projection to conjure small water shapes from her Rhoynar blood.
"Focus, Deria," he'd say, guiding her hands to form a shimmering water orb. "Feel the river in your veins." Her laughter, her fierce determination, stirred his heart, and her teasing glances—brushing his arm, lingering near—met his own playful smiles.
By the journey's end, their connection was unspoken but undeniable, sealed by shared purpose and quiet moments under Dornish skies.
The smallfolk, awed by Alaric's orchards, began calling him "Messenger of the Old Gods" or "God of the North," tales of his titan and trees blending into legend. In villages, mothers named sons Alaric, and bards sang of the wolf who fed Dorne.
As the retinue returned to Sunspear, its sandstone towers gleaming, the city buzzed with gratitude, banners of sun-and-spear waving alongside crude wolf sigils drawn by children.
In Sunspear's great hall, Princess Meria Martell awaited, her cane a spear's shaft, her yellowed eyes warm. Prince Nymor Martell stood beside her, his yellow cloak bright. The hall brimmed with Dornish lords—Uller of Hellholt, Dayne of Starfall, Yronwood, Blackmont, and lesser knights— their faces alight with respect.
Alaric bowed as Meria spoke, her voice rasping but strong. "Prince Alaric Stark, Dorne welcomes you home. Your trees have fed our people, eased our darkest hour after Aegon's fires. Sit, rest, and accept our thanks."
Alaric inclined his head, his eyes warm. "Princess Meria, Prince Nymor, your hospitality honors me. I only sought to mend what war broke."
Meria gestured to a lady-in-waiting. "Show Prince Alaric to his chambers. Ensure his comfort—food, water, shade."
The lady, a young woman in red silks, curtsied. "My Prince, your bath is prepared, and fresh clothes await for tonight's feast in your honor."
Alaric smiled, bowing. "Thank you, my lady, and you, Princess Meria, for your generosity." The lady led him to his airy chamber, his wolves stabled below, his eagles perched high. "The feast is at dusk, my lord," she said, departing. "All is ready."
Alaric bathed, the warm water soothing his travel-worn body, and donned a tailored Northern tunic, grey with a direwolf embroidered in silver, suited for Dorne's heat.
As dusk fell, a maid knocked. "Prince Alaric, the feast is ready. Princess Meria bids you join."
"Show me the way," Alaric replied, his voice calm.
He followed her to the feast hall, its mosaics glowing under torchlight, tables laden with spiced lamb, olives, flatbreads, and Dornish red. Lords, knights, and ladies filled the hall, rising as Alaric entered, their cheers echoing. "Tree-Giver!" "God of the North!"
He nodded, greeting each lord as he passed—Lord Uller's scarred grin, Lady Dayne's violet eyes, Lord Yronwood's firm handshake—before reaching the high table where Meria, Nymor, Deria, and an empty chair awaited.
Meria stood, her cane steady, her voice warm. "Prince Alaric, sit among us. You've fed Dorne, honored our alliance. Sunspear thanks you."
Nymor raised his cup, smiling. "To the wolf who plants trees, our friend."
Deria's eyes sparkled, her voice soft. "Thank you, Alaric. For everything."
Alaric bowed, taking his seat. "Your words humble me, Princess. The North and Dorne stand stronger together." They exchanged pleasantries—Nymor on trade, Deria on her water magic, Meria on Dorne's recovery—as servants brought dishes, the hall alive with laughter and music.
Midway through the feast, Meria stood, her cane rapping for silence. The hall quieted, all eyes on her. "Lords, ladies, knights of Dorne," she began, her voice carrying.
"Prince Alaric Stark came to us a stranger, a wolf in our sands. He asked nothing, yet gave everything—Fruits that feed our children, orchards where Aegon left ash. He fought no war, yet won our hearts. Dorne will never forget his aid in our darkest hour. For this, I grant him a gift: the land south of Sunspear, where the Greenblood meets the sea. There, we'll build a castle, the Water Gardens, for Prince Alaric and his heirs. He owes no allegiance to Dorne—this is his, freely given, a home in our sands. On behalf of my lords, knights, soldiers, and smallfolk, I say: thank you, Prince Alaric, from the bottom of our hearts."
The hall erupted, lords pounding tables, knights raising swords, smallfolk at the edges cheering. "Tree-Giver!" "Messenger of the Old Gods!" Alaric stood, his heart full, and bowed deeply.
"Princess Meria, Prince Nymor, Princess Deria, lords and ladies of Dorne," he said, his voice resonant. "Your gift overwhelms me. I accept the Water Gardens, not for gain, but as a bond between our peoples. I planted trees to ease suffering, not for glory. Your thanks, your welcome, is reward enough. The North honors Dorne's unbowed spirit, and I'm proud to call you allies, friends." He raised his cup. "To Dorne, to the North, to peace."
The hall roared, cups clinking, voices shouting, "To Alaric! To Dorne!" The feast resumed, music swelling, as Alaric and Deria exchanged a glance, her smile promising more than words. Sunspear celebrated its savior, the Water Gardens, a new chapter for a wolf in the desert.