General POV
Winterfell's courtyard was buzzing with a type of energy Cregan Stark wasn't entirely sure how to process. It wasn't the usual chaotic hustle of soldiers preparing for war or servants running around like chickens with their heads cut off. No, this was more like the calm before a storm—a storm made of hugs and awkward family reunions. Wonderful. Just the kind of day Cregan Stark, 9-year-old Lord of Winterfell, was totally prepared for.
Standing with his hands clasped behind his back (because that's what "serious" lords did, right?), Cregan tried his absolute hardest to look like he knew what was going on. Which, honestly, he didn't. But as far as he could tell, no one else was stepping up to the plate. So, he was just gonna roll with it. "Look confident," his brain said. "Keep it cool," it added. Easy, right?
Beside him was Rhaenys Targaryen, his betrothed, looking every bit the future queen of Westeros. She was calm and collected, but there was a sparkle in her eyes that made it clear this wasn't her first reunion either. Rhaenys, who was already 11 but somehow carried herself like someone twice her age, shot him a knowing smile. Her lips said one thing—"Don't screw this up, Cregan,"—but her eyes said "I'm just here for the drama."
And on the other side of Cregan stood his mother, Ashara Dayne. She looked like she had everything under control—like she always did—her sharp, graceful demeanor making it clear that if this family reunion went off the rails, it wouldn't be her fault. Nope. Not Ashara. Of course, the second Cregan glanced at her, he could practically hear her mental commentary: "Don't screw this up, Cregan."
Of course, today of all days, they had to welcome home Aunt Lyanna. The Lyanna Stark, the one who was "dead," and yet here she was—alive and well, riding into Winterfell like some kind of legendary hero, disguised as a humble septa, obviously. How did no one see that coming? Seriously, it was like the plot twist of the century, but without the dramatic music.
And then there was Jon. His cousin. Or, uh, Rhaenys' half-brother. That was still a bit complicated. He was standing next to Lyanna, looking like a young Targaryen—tall, lean, and absolutely impossible to miss. His violet eyes screamed "I'm secretly the son of a dragon and a Stark" in a way that made Cregan want to simultaneously laugh and roll his eyes. As for the resemblance to House Stark? Yeah, Jon definitely had it—especially that brooding, mysterious vibe that made him look like he was born to stand in front of a fireplace, looking all moody.
Cregan took a deep breath, hoping his "I'm totally the Lord of Winterfell" act would hold up. But inside? He was feeling like a kid trying to play grown-up in front of an audience. Don't mess this up. Don't mess this up.
"Welcome to Winterfell," Cregan said, trying to sound all authoritative, though he was kind of worried he might accidentally break something in the process. "We are honored to have you here."
Lyanna's eyes shimmered with emotion, and she shot him that look—the kind that screamed, "You're a Stark, so I'll pretend I'm not about to cry in front of you." Which, of course, made Cregan feel like the worst person alive, because the last thing he wanted was for her to cry. He was barely holding it together himself.
"It's good to be home," she said, her voice thick with the weight of years. Cregan swore he could hear the 'before I ran away and totally messed everything up' in there, but he didn't say anything. That was definitely not something you pointed out at a family reunion.
And then, boom—the hug.
Lyanna practically launched herself at Ned. Her brother. The one she'd been away from for all these years, and now, apparently, he was getting a full-blown Lyanna Stark bear hug. Cregan could only stand there awkwardly, looking like someone who'd accidentally walked into a room full of people crying about a puppy.
Ned, ever the stoic Stark, wrapped his arms around his sister like it was just another Tuesday. Except, Cregan could tell his uncle was holding back some tears. Not that anyone would admit it. Starks don't cry, they just… they just look moody and occasionally punch things, right?
"I've missed you," Lyanna said, her voice breaking as she pulled back. "It's good to be back where I belong."
Cregan had to fight the urge to shift his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. He wasn't really the hugging type, and emotional reunions? Yeah, those weren't on his list of things he could handle without wanting to burn something to the ground. (Literally. He'd learned how to do that with a flick of his wrist by now.)
Meanwhile, Rhaenys, ever the drama queen (and yes, Cregan absolutely loved her for it), couldn't resist leaning over and whispering in his ear, "Are you going to cry, too?"
"Me? Cry?" Cregan shot her a look, though he had to admit, there was something in his throat making him feel… something. But no. He wasn't crying. He was going to be a grown-up. He was definitely not crying. Nope. "I'm just—uh, testing my emotions," he muttered, trying to sound authoritative and failing.
Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's one way to do it."
Jon, ever the brooding mystery child, was standing back with Lyanna, arms crossed, like he'd just walked out of a medieval emo music video. Seriously, the kid was eight but already had a whole "dark and tortured soul" vibe going. He really needed to stop looking like he was about to brood into the sunset.
Ashara, who had somehow managed to look elegant the entire time, leaned down and whispered to Cregan, "Get your head on straight, my son. Don't ruin this."
It wasn't until after the hug-fest that Cregan realized: Oh, right, I'm supposed to be in charge of this family now. No pressure, right?
At that moment, Jon caught his eye. And for a split second, Cregan saw something in those violet eyes—something that said "Yeah, we're both weird. But we're in this together."
It was, of course, incredibly awkward. But hey, it was family, right?
—
Alright, folks, gather 'round. You're about to witness the weirdest family reunion of all time, with a side of awkwardness and a generous helping of emotional overload. Picture this: Benjen Stark—Ned Stark's usually stoic younger brother—has had the emotional walls around his heart smashed in spectacular fashion. He practically lunges at Lyanna, and for once, his face isn't a stone-cold mask. It's soft. And maybe a little… teary? But who can blame him? They haven't seen each other in, what, a few decades? They hug like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Then, as if on cue, a whole family of Starks decides that their emotional walls need to come down, too. Robb, Arya, Sansa—there they are, standing there looking like they've just walked into an episode of Keeping Up with the Starks.
Robb's the first to step forward like the little peacekeeper he is. "Welcome to Winterfell, Aunt Lyanna," he says, his grin a little stiff, but you know what? He's trying. It's adorable.
And then, Jon—poor, socially awkward Jon—is standing there like a deer in headlights, probably trying to figure out if this is actually his family or if someone slipped him a bad copy of the family reunion script. He glances around nervously, like he's wondering if someone's going to pull a fast one on him and shout, "Gotcha! This is all a prank!"
Cregan, who's nine years old and somehow already a master of the Savage Burn, gives Jon the most encouraging thumbs-up ever. It's the kind of thumbs-up that says, "You're gonna be okay, kid." Jon, not entirely convinced but desperate for anything to feel normal, manages a small smile and mumbles, "It's nice to meet you." Yeah, Jon. It's definitely nice to meet them, even if your awkwardness is radiating off you like a furnace.
Arya, of course, has zero time for any of this awkwardness. She darts forward with all the enthusiasm of someone who's just discovered a new toy. "Are you really a wolf-blood?" she asks, practically vibrating with excitement. Her wide eyes show she's about five seconds away from grabbing a map to track down any and all wolves.
Sansa, ever the lady, curtsies with the grace of someone who's been trained by the gods of royal etiquette. Her smile is polite, just the right amount of stiff, like she's rehearsed this moment in front of a mirror. "Welcome, Aunt Lyanna," she says, in the soft, sweet voice that probably belongs to someone far more regal than a six-year-old.
Lyanna, totally overwhelmed by the sheer Stark-ness of it all, takes it in. Her heart feels like it's going to burst, not because she's suddenly surrounded by a lot of family, but because this is the life she should have had. "Thank you, all of you," she says, blinking away a few tears. "I'm so happy to be here, with my family."
And then—just when you think this emotional rollercoaster can't get any more intense—Elia Martell walks in. Oh, yeah. Just casually. She's standing behind Ser Arthur Dayne like the best bodyguard-slash-best-friend combo you could ever dream of.
Elia and Lyanna share one of those long, meaningful looks that's packed with more history and unspoken words than any amount of conversation could ever manage. You know the kind. The kind that makes everyone else uncomfortable, but you can't stop watching because you're dying to know what's going on.
Then Elia steps forward, her voice low and a little rough, but that's what happens when you're so used to walking through life like you own it. "Lyanna," she says, just her name, but it's everything.
And, well, Lyanna's not exactly known for keeping it together when it comes to Elia. She's the one person in the world who makes her lose every ounce of composure. So, she rushes forward, pulls Elia into the kind of hug that makes you believe in love and soulmates and all those things you pretend aren't real but secretly hope for. "I've missed you so much," Lyanna whispers.
Meanwhile, Jon and Cregan are just standing there, totally unsure of what's going on. But Cregan, little savage that he is, simply raises an eyebrow and glances at Jon. "Yeah, kid. Get used to it. It's about to get weirder."
Ned, ever the grounding force, steps forward and clears his throat like a man who's about to give a speech that's both fatherly and entirely practical. "Let's go inside," he says, his voice deep and sure, carrying that Sean Bean-esque charm. "We have much to catch up on and many stories to share."
And Cregan? Well, Cregan—being the little badass he is—looks up at the rest of his family with a grin that's pure mischief. His nine-year-old self has just witnessed a level of emotional chaos that would've been overwhelming for anyone older, but he just stands there, wide-eyed and looking like the future's not so bad after all.
Maybe, just maybe, they've all got a chance to live openly, without any more secrets.
—
The morning sun stretched across the sea in streaks of gold, like it was trying to impress someone, but really, it was just a little too late to fix the hot mess that was about to happen. Euron Greyjoy, Captain of Silence, self-declared king of the Iron Islands, and all-around nightmare in a leather coat, stood at the prow of his flagship with a grin that looked like he'd just swallowed a whole chicken and was savoring the bones.
His crew, the finest collection of unsavory characters you could ever find if you were hunting for trouble in a very specific, very dangerous catalog, scrambled to get things moving. The Silence sliced through the water like it had a vendetta against the waves, and knowing Euron, it probably did.
"Ready the men," Euron barked, his voice smooth as silk—except if that silk was really rough around the edges and had been soaked in cheap wine and bad decisions. His crew, which looked like a bunch of pirates who had been too lazy to clean up after their last raid, swarmed around him, ready to kill, loot, and break things like they had nothing better to do. And honestly? They didn't.
The ships surged forward, and Euron's grin grew. It wasn't just smug anymore—it was positively giddy. The Silence and its crew had one mission: to ruin the Lannisters' day. And by "ruin," I mean "turn Lannisport into a flaming wreck."
"They won't even know what hit them," Euron muttered to himself, just loud enough for his second-in-command to hear.
"Are you sure, Captain?" his first mate asked, glancing nervously at the horizon. "The Lannisters—"
"Shut up," Euron snapped, raising a hand. "I didn't ask for your opinion. I asked if the men were ready."
The first mate nodded quickly. "Aye, ready to burn the place down, Captain."
"Good," Euron said, clapping him on the back so hard the poor guy nearly fell overboard. "Let's give them a reason to start praying to whichever gods they think will save them."
Before the first mate could respond, there was a loud crash as an Ironborn ship collided with the first Lannister vessel in the harbor. It was like a wedding crashing—except instead of cake and champagne, there were axes, swords, and fire. Lots and lots of fire.
The sound of steel hitting steel was almost drowned out by the yells and curses of Lannister sailors, who were barely awake enough from their early morning wine to get a decent defense together. Euron, meanwhile, was having the time of his life, watching the chaos unfold like it was the world's most entertaining play.
"Well, well, well," he called to his men, hands on his hips like a proud schoolteacher. "Isn't this just perfect? Look at them scatter. It's like watching puppies try to fight a bear."
The Ironborn crew roared with laughter, even as they hacked their way through the Lannister ranks, looting and setting things on fire as they went. Flaming arrows shot through the air, crashing into the sails and sending plumes of smoke billowing up like a firework show gone horribly, horribly wrong.
"Where's the gold?!" one of Euron's men yelled, his eyes gleaming.
"It's all mine, you dolts!" Euron called back, raising his hands to the sky as if he were receiving the praise of a very unholy audience. "Gold, shiny things, pretty little trinkets! They're all mine! And if you find something really nice, just hand it to me with a bow and a smile, and we'll pretend I didn't notice you taking half of it."
Euron's men cackled, the sound echoing over the screams of the Lannister soldiers, who were now either drowning or running for their lives.
"That's how it's done, lads!" Euron shouted, spinning on his heels dramatically. "You think you can just show up at my doorstep and tell me what I can and can't take? Oh, no. No, no. We take what we want. And right now, I want Lannisport."
The Lannister fleet was going down faster than a tavern wench's skirt after too much wine. Ships exploded, sending splinters and wreckage flying like fireworks. The fire spread, making everything look like a warzone in a very cinematic way.
"Take a good look at the wreckage, boys!" Euron shouted to his crew, his voice booming over the chaos. "This is what happens when you don't pay respect to the Ironborn! You see this? This is what winning looks like! Not like those Lannisters who sit in their fancy chairs and talk about honor, and gold, and—"
"Captain!" someone interrupted, pointing at a ship that was still afloat but was now very much on fire.
"Ah, yes. That ship is going to be my new favorite thing," Euron said with a smile that could've belonged to a shark circling prey. "And if anyone else sees anything shiny, I'll take that too. And don't forget—if you touch my shiny things, I'll cut off your fingers. Just a little reminder."
As the Ironborn looted, burned, and conquered, Euron stood there, taking it all in. His grin never faltered. He was basking in it, like a cat in the sun. Or maybe more accurately, like a lion with a freshly stolen throne.
When the last of the Lannister ships sank beneath the waves, Euron turned to his crew, eyes gleaming with triumph. "Gather the spoils," he ordered, cracking his knuckles with far too much satisfaction. "And if anyone even thinks about keeping something for themselves, remind them who's in charge. And that would be me. I've been planning this moment for way too long."
As the crew scrambled to collect their loot, Euron leaned on the rail of Silence, gazing at the flames that danced on the horizon. This was more than just a victory. It was a statement. A declaration. A message to the world that the Ironborn were back, and they weren't just raiders—they were rulers.
"The Ironborn are back," Euron muttered to himself with a smirk that could've split the sea in half. "And if they thought Balon was ambitious, they're going to love me."
With that, he turned toward the horizon, already planning his next conquest. Because in Euron's world, the only thing better than taking a city was taking another one. And maybe, just maybe, burning it down.
—
Tywin Lannister's study was less of a room and more of a war council disguised as an office. The bookshelves groaned under the weight of history, the fireplace crackled menacingly, and the golden lions embroidered on the tapestries seemed to flicker in the firelight, as if they were alive and really hoping someone would give them something to maul.
At the center of it all sat Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and the human embodiment of 'Do not test me today.' His green eyes scanned the parchment in his hands with all the warmth of a tax collector delivering bad news. His mouth was so thin it could have sliced through Valyrian steel.
"Summon my brothers," he said, his voice sharp enough to shave with. "And my sons."
First through the door was Kevan Lannister, because of course it was Kevan. He was the kind of guy who probably made to-do lists before breakfast. Dutiful, reliable, and forever the family's most responsible adult. His expression darkened as he read the letter Tywin practically threw at him.
"The Ironborn?" Kevan muttered, like the words alone left a bad taste in his mouth. "They dared to attack Lannisport?" He exhaled, already rubbing his temples. "And under Balon Greyjoy's lunatic of a brother, no less?"
"Yes, Kevan," Tywin said, with the barely-contained patience of a man explaining long division to a particularly stubborn goat. "Because Balon himself would have been far too subtle."
Before Kevan could respond, Jaime Lannister strolled in with all the urgency of someone arriving late to a party they didn't want to attend in the first place.
"Heard the Greyjoys decided to play pirates again," Jaime said, dropping into a chair like it had personally offended him. He raised his golden hand—the one that still felt more like a bad joke than a part of his body—and examined it like it was somehow more interesting than the news. "So, do we have a plan, or are we just skipping ahead to the part where we put Euron's head on a spike?"
Tywin gave him The Look. You know, the one that had reduced entire noble families to nervous wrecks. The one that made even Cersei pause before talking.
"Jaime," Tywin said coolly, "if you're going to speak, try to contribute something useful."
Jaime sighed theatrically. "Ah. That's where I've been going wrong all these years."
Before Tywin could dignify that with a response, the door swung open again, revealing a walking, talking manifestation of sarcasm.
Tyrion Lannister, age sixteen, four feet of sheer trouble.
"I received your kind invitation, Father," Tyrion said, waltzing in with a goblet of wine he had very clearly stolen from the kitchens. He took a sip and smacked his lips. "You'll be delighted to hear that I only had to threaten one servant to get here on time."
Tywin's jaw flexed. He did not roll his eyes, because Tywin Lannister did not roll his eyes. But the energy was there.
"Sit down," he ordered.
"I'd rather stand," Tyrion replied, taking another sip.
Kevan shot him a warning glance, but Tyrion just smiled, because consequences were for people who weren't Lannisters.
The next arrival was Tygett Lannister, broader than his brothers, battle-worn, and radiating the distinct air of a man who really, really hated politics but had the misfortune of being born into a family that lived for it.
"Tygett," Tywin said, inclining his head. "You were at Ashemark when the attack happened. What do you know?"
"That Euron Greyjoy is every bit as insane as the stories say," Tygett said, crossing his arms. His leather doublet creaked in protest. "Burned the fleet. Raided the town. Killed anyone who didn't move fast enough." His mouth pressed into a grim line. "He's making a statement."
"He's making a mistake," Tywin corrected.
And then there was Gerion Lannister, who leaned against the doorway looking entirely too amused for someone who had just been summoned to a war council.
"So," Gerion drawled, "when do we start burning their ships?"
Kevan sighed. Jaime smirked. Tyrion took another sip of wine.
Tywin exhaled slowly. "We don't retaliate like some common sellsword company," he said. "We respond with precision. With power. With finality."
Gerion grinned. "Oh, so we burn all their ships. Got it."
Tywin ignored him, because that was honestly the best strategy for dealing with Gerion. Instead, he turned to Kevan.
"Summon the bannermen. Every sword in the Westerlands will be ready to march within the fortnight."
Kevan nodded, already mentally drafting the necessary letters.
Tywin turned to Tygett. "You will oversee the rebuilding of the fleet. We will have ships again, and quickly."
Tygett gave a sharp nod.
Finally, Tywin turned to Jaime.
"You will lead the counteroffensive."
Jaime blinked. "Against the Ironborn? With one hand? What part of 'I am physically incapable of holding a sword properly' are we skipping over here?"
Tywin's expression didn't waver. "I don't need you to fight. I need you to lead."
Jaime exhaled through his nose. "And here I was, hoping for an easy year."
Tywin turned to Tyrion next. "You will go to King's Landing and ensure the Crown funds this war. If the king complains, remind him that his throne is paid for with Lannister gold."
Tyrion gave a mocking bow. "As you command, Father."
And then Gerion raised a hand. "What about me? Do I get a cool mission?"
Tywin barely glanced at him. "You are going to find out everything there is to know about Euron Greyjoy. Every ship. Every move. Every ridiculous madman thought that passes through his skull." His gaze was like a sharpened blade. "If we're to kill him, I want it done properly."
Gerion's grin widened. "Oh, I like this plan."
Tywin stepped back, surveying his family.
"The Greyjoys think they can wound the lion," he said, his voice calm, assured, deadly. "They think themselves storms." His gaze flickered to the map of Westeros spread out before him. "They will learn that the lion does not bow to the wind."
The fire crackled behind him.
Outside, the ravens were already taking flight, spreading messages across the realm. Knights strapped on their armor. Soldiers sharpened their swords.
The Westerlands were preparing for war.
And the Ironborn?
They had no idea what was coming.
—
Riverrun was a stronghold straight out of a bard's epic—majestic stone walls, a scenic moat, and the kind of defensive positioning that made besieging it a logistical nightmare. Inside, however, the grandeur ended at Lord Hoster Tully's solar, where the lord himself was currently hacking up a lung between sips of wine and bouts of pointed sarcasm.
"Ah, the Ironborn," Hoster rasped, waving the crumpled missive like it was a particularly offensive tax ledger. "Of course. Because what would the world be without a few salt-crusted lunatics reminding us that ships exist?" He took a deep breath, coughed violently, and then muttered, "I should've died a decade ago."
Edmure Tully, his son and heir, straightened his shoulders, attempting to radiate leadership. He mostly radiated mild panic. "Father, we must respond quickly. We can't allow the Greyjoys to raid our lands unchallenged."
Brynden "Blackfish" Tully snorted from his place by the window, arms crossed, the very picture of a grizzled war veteran who had long since lost patience with… well, everything. "Yes, Edmure. Let's ride to the coast and politely ask Euron Greyjoy if he wouldn't mind dying for our convenience."
Edmure scowled. "I'm serious, Uncle. If we don't act, the Ironborn will see us as weak."
Brynden rolled his eyes. "The Ironborn see anything without gills as weak. That's not strategy, that's a personality disorder."
Hoster sighed dramatically, as if enduring the conversation itself was more exhausting than his failing lungs. "Edmure, let's think before we charge off with all the tactical brilliance of a drunk hedge knight. The Ironborn want us to be reckless." He gestured vaguely toward his goblet, which a harried servant rushed to refill. "A lesson, son—when you play against an idiot, don't become one."
Edmure's mouth opened, possibly to argue, but Brynden clapped a hand on his nephew's shoulder with the kind of force that suggested he wasn't letting go anytime soon. "Look at it this way," the Blackfish said. "If we rush out there like you want, we split our forces, leave the Riverlands exposed, and then we get to be remembered in the histories as the Tullys who made the Freys look competent."
Edmure frowned. "We wouldn't—"
"We would," Brynden assured him. "And then I'd have to fake my own death just to avoid the embarrassment."
"Enough," Hoster grumbled, rubbing his temples. "Brynden, for the love of the gods, stop traumatizing my son. Edmure, stop making it so easy." He leaned forward, suddenly looking like a man used to command. "We summon our bannermen. The Riverlords may hate each other with the passion of a bad marriage, but they will come for this."
Edmure nodded, clearly relieved to have something to do. "And the Freys?"
Brynden let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. "Ah, yes. Walder Frey. Our trusted ally. By all means, Edmure, go to the Twins and ask for help. Just count your fingers when you leave."
Hoster coughed into his sleeve. "Walder won't play his usual games when the Ironborn are at his doorstep. Not unless he plans to marry off a daughter to Euron Greyjoy."
Brynden smirked. "Well, that'd be the first time a Frey bride was the better end of a bargain."
Edmure groaned. "Must we joke about everything?"
"Yes," Brynden and Hoster said in unison.
The room descended into a flurry of motion. Couriers were dispatched, banners unfurled, armor polished at speeds that suggested someone had just realized Brynden was the type of man to inspect it personally. The Blackfish himself oversaw the defenses along the Red Fork, barking orders like a man who enjoyed making squires cry.
At one point, a young knight hesitated while assembling a shield wall. Brynden stepped up beside him, arms crossed. "If the Ironborn kill you because your shield is crooked, I'm not avenging you. Just so we're clear."
By nightfall, the Riverlands were officially mobilizing.
Standing atop the walls, Edmure watched as the first of their bannermen arrived, their sigils rippling in the torchlight. He shifted beside Brynden, who—despite his general air of disapproval—hadn't actually left his nephew's side all evening.
"Do you think we'll win?" Edmure asked, voice quieter now.
Brynden adjusted his sword belt, gazing out over the growing force. "We have to," he said. "Because if we lose, I'm going to have to listen to the Freys gloat, and I'd rather swim the Trident in full armor."
And with that, the Riverlords prepared for war. The Ironborn thought they were raiding scattered villages and weak-willed nobility.
They were about to find out just how wrong they were.
—
The Ironborn Poke the Viper
In Dorne, where the sun could fry an egg on a shield and the air smelled like oranges, sea spray, and barely contained political scheming, the news of the Ironborn raids hit Sunspear with all the grace of a drunken sellsword crashing a noble feast.
Prince Doran Martell sat in his solar, reclining with the patience of a man who played politics the way other men played cyvasse—several moves ahead, with a touch of smug satisfaction. His fingers traced the rim of his goblet as he read the missive, his expression shifting ever so slightly from 'mildly concerned' to 'someone just insulted my taste in wine.'
Arianne Martell, his daughter and the undisputed queen of exasperated sighs, paced in front of his desk, wearing the expression of someone this close to throwing something expensive. Her golden-brown eyes practically burned holes into the floor.
"The Ironborn think they can raid Dorne?" she demanded, her voice sharp enough to slice through Dornish steel. "Did they forget about the part where we live in a land of endless sand and sun? They must've roasted whatever few brain cells they had left!"
Areo Hotah, the human mountain with an axe, stood behind Doran like a very well-armed statue. He rarely spoke unless absolutely necessary, and even then, his words were measured, like he was rationing them for winter. "They do not need to conquer, Princess," he rumbled. "Only to steal and leave."
Arianne threw her hands up. "Oh, wonderful! So we're just supposed to let them turn our coast into a shopping trip for their little murder spree?"
Doran exhaled through his nose—his version of an eye-roll. "No, Arianne. But neither will we respond like fools." He placed the missive down with the same delicacy one might use to set aside an overcooked piece of fish. "The Ironborn thrive on recklessness. Dorne thrives on patience."
"Father," Arianne said, pressing her hands against the desk and leaning in, "they thrive on the fact that nobody stops them. We could end this before it starts."
Doran, unimpressed, raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And how would you suggest we do that?"
Arianne straightened up, tossing her braid over her shoulder with the kind of confidence only a Martell could manage. "We take the fight to them. We sink their ships before they make landfall. We drag them through the sand, force-feed them their own salt pork, and send what's left of them back to Pyke in a barrel."
Doran took a long sip of wine before setting the goblet down with the slow precision of a man contemplating whether his daughter was always this dramatic or if today was just special. "A creative approach," he said dryly. "However, I would prefer a plan that does not require sending Dornish troops to die on burning ships in the middle of the Sunset Sea."
Arianne groaned. "So instead, we sit and wait?"
Doran smiled, the kind of smile that made people very nervous. "No. We prepare. We set our traps, reinforce our ports, and remind the Ironborn that Dorne is not a place they can plunder without consequence." He turned to Areo. "Call the banners. Have our fleets patrol the coast. And send word to the Greenblood captains—we will be needing their ships as well."
Areo gave a solemn nod. If he approved of the plan, he didn't say it, but then again, Areo didn't really do enthusiasm.
Arianne huffed but didn't argue. At least, not immediately. "Fine," she said after a beat. "But if one of them does step foot on our shore, I want to be the first to introduce them to the concept of regret."
"Naturally," Doran replied smoothly. "I would expect nothing less."
Within hours, Sunspear buzzed like a kicked beehive. Messengers sprinted through the halls, scattering sand and overheard gossip. Armors were polished, spears sharpened, and warriors muttered Dornish curses that would make a Septa faint.
Down at the docks, Arianne strode along the piers, watching as the fleet was readied. She turned to Areo, who had materialized beside her in the way only a giant man in heavy armor shouldn't be able to. "They say the Ironborn fear nothing," she said, crossing her arms.
Areo's deep voice rumbled like distant thunder. "Then they have never fought a Martell."
Arianne smirked. "Good. Let's show them why that's a mistake."
Back in his solar, Doran sipped his wine and watched the horizon darken. The Ironborn had made their move. Now, it was Dorne's turn.
And when a viper is patient, it is very dangerous.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!