The dawn light barely crested the horizon as Alaric Stark mounted his hoverboard. Winterfell receded behind him, its grey walls and direwolf banners fading into the snow-dusted plains. The eight-hour flight to Dorne carried him over thawing rivers and golden sands, the hoverboard slicing through clouds like a blade.
By nightfall, Sunspear's sandstone towers loomed, their sun-and-spear banners fluttering in the warm breeze.
Alaric descended at the gates, the board folding neatly onto his back. Guards, spears in hand, eyed him warily, their faces lighting with recognition. "Prince Alaric! The Tree-Giver returns!" one called.
Alaric nodded, his voice calm. "Tell Princess Deria I'm here. I've news for her and Prince Nymor."
After ten minutes, Deria Martell emerged, her orange silks flowing, dark curls loose in the evening wind. Her eyes lit with joy, and she rushed forward, pulling him into a fierce kiss, her hands tangling in his furs. "Alaric," she breathed, pulling back, her voice thick with longing. "I missed you more than words."
Alaric smiled, his eyes warm, kissing her forehead. "And I you, Deria. How's Ares?"
She laughed softly, linking her arm with his. "He's asleep, dreaming of wolves and spears. Come—your quarters await. We'll talk tomorrow; you've flown far."
They moved through Sunspear's halls. In Deria's chambers, warmed by braziers and scented with citrus, she helped him shed his furs. "Rest now," she murmured, curling against him in the wide bed. "I've missed this too." Alaric pulled her close, their shared warmth lulling him to sleep, the day's journey forgotten.
Next morning, after freshening up—Alaric bathing in rose-scented water, Deria braiding her curls—they made their way to the dining hall, its mosaic walls glowing under the sun. Ares Nymeros Martell, four, sat at the table, his dark curls tousled, grey eyes bright as his father's, a wooden spear toy in hand.
Beside him was Prince Nymor Martell, his yellow cloak embroidered with a sun and a spear, his olive face lined but welcoming. Servants laid out flatbreads, yogurt, dates, and spiced olives.
Ares spotted Alaric and leapt from his chair, running with a shout. "Father!" He crashed into Alaric's legs, hugging fiercely.
Alaric scooped him up, spinning him once, Ares's laughter echoing. "There's my little wolf! Have you been spearing shadows, eh?"
Ares grinned, baring small teeth. "Aye, Father! I speared three today! And I made an ice spear with magic—like Mother's water!"
Alaric carried him to the table, settling him on his lap. "Good lad. Show me later." He nodded to Nymor, clasping his forearm. "Prince Nymor, Sunspear shines brighter each visit."
Nymor smiled, his voice warm. "Alaric, you honor us. Come, sit and eat."
They broke fast amid chatter—Ares regaling Alaric with tales of spear practice and ice tricks, Deria teasing her son about "spear-wielding wolves," Nymor asking of Northern trade. "Your canal's made Braavos jealous," Nymor said, breaking bread. A
laric nodded, feeding Ares a date. "Aye, and Dorne's spears guard it. Ares, tell Father of your latest lesson."
Ares beamed, his hands glowing blue as he conjured a tiny water orb, shaping it into a spear. "See? Sharp as Grandfather's!"
Nymor chuckled. "He's a Martell through and through. You've taught him well, Alaric."
Breakfast ended with Ares being sent to his tutors; the boy protested, but scampered off with a guard. Alaric, Deria, and Nymor moved to Nymor's solar, its walls hung with tapestries of Nymeria's conquests, a map of Dorne spread on the table.
Nymor poured watered wine, his voice curious. "Now, Alaric, Deria's spoken of your journey north—beyond the Wall?"
Alaric leaned forward, his eyes steady. "I had started building a kingdom beyond the wall. Free folk clans swore to my banner after I bested their chieftains. Giants and Children of Forest, too, a hundred strong. No kneeling, just unity. We've built at the Fist of the First Men a kingdom for the wilds, to end raids south."
Nymor's brow furrowed, his skepticism plain. "Giants? Little folk from legends? And a kingdom beyond the Wall? Alaric, you've fed Dorne, humbled Aegon, but this… it strains belief."
Alaric shrugged, his smile easy. "Believe or not, Nymor. When it's settled, I'll invite you—see the giants, the Children, the free folk thriving. No rush; it's early days."
Nymor chuckled, raising his cup. "Fair enough, Stark. If you've tamed the wilds, Dorne stands ready to trade with your new realm."
The talk shifted to trade. Details flowed until the afternoon, clauses for exclusivity, tolls, and mutual defense hashed out.
After midday meal—roasted lamb, figs, and wine—Alaric sought Ares, finding him in the garden with his tutors, practicing ice shards. "Father!" Ares cried, running over. Alaric grinned, slinging his hoverboard. "Fancy a flight, little viper?"
Ares's eyes widened, nodding furiously. Alaric strapped him secure, the board humming to life. They lifted off, soaring over Sunspear's towers, Alaric banking sharply, diving low over the sands, then looping high. Ares exclaimed in thrill, his laughter wind-whipped. "Faster, Father! Like a dragon!"
Alaric chuckled, steadying the board. "Hold tight—we'll race the sun!" They flew until dusk, Ares's joy a balm to Alaric's soul, the bond between father and son as strong as the magic that bound their worlds.