[1955 Words]
-Westeros, The North, Winterfell, 284 AC, 4 Days after the birth-
The wind crashed against the shutters of Winterfell's windows, bringing with it the chilly, cold that the North is famous for. Within a bedchamber, a hearth burned, casting light throughout the stony walls and flags stitched with direwolves, the sigil of House Stark.
Eddard Stark stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a softened thud as he held it back, trying not to make much sound. Upon a big bed sat Catelyn Stark, her auburn hair falling over her shoulders in waves.
In her arms, swaddled in grey and white linen cloth, lay their son. Robb Stark, a year and a few moons old, was nursing from his mother's teat as she looked down at him with a smile.
Near the fireplace, apart from the warmth of the mother and child, lay another babe in a cradle carved of weirwood. His eyes, dark but full of life, just like his mother's, watched with a look that Ned did not want to know or wanted to tell himself on his young face. Ned's gaze remained there a moment longer.
He crossed the chamber slowly, his boots making thudding sounds against the floor. The firelight touched his long face, catching in the beard he had grown fuller since the war. There were new lines around his eyes, for what reason, there were just too many to list.
"Cat," he said at last, his voice low but firm, "why do you tend only to Robb, whilst leaving Jon to lie alone?"
There was a faint reproach in his tone, restrained but present. Catelyn lifted her eyes to him. Hurt and bitterness flashed in her eyes like thunder in a storm.
"Ned," she said his name, the initial tone she was going to use thrown away. "I did not like that you brought this... thing beneath our roof, to be brought up beside your trueborn children. I will not cast him out because you will not allow me to, but neither shall I take him as my own."
Her gaze flicked toward the cradle, filled with hate, pain, and most of all disgust, before returning to her lord husband. Ned took a step back as though he was struck.
He looked upward to the ceiling as if he was looking through it and up at the sky. Just then, the winds picked up speed as if the old gods themselves were looking down on him for letting this happen to his nephew.
'This is for the promise I made to you, sister. This will keep him safe. I am sorry.' The thought came to the forefront of his mind, telling him why he let this happen, thinking that if she treated his nephew as a bastard, no one would ask questions.
When he faced her again, the Lord of Winterfell stood in his place, not knowing what to do, whether he should just tell her or keep it secret... but then he came to a decision.
"That… is… acceptable," he said, each word like a stab wound at his heart. "You need not treat him as your own. However, you will summon a wet nurse when you feed Robb. The boy shall not go hungry beneath my roof."
The voice he used then was not that of a husband's, but a lord's, cold, calm, and as immovable as the Wall.
Catelyn's lips thinned. Disgust flickered across her features, yet she lowered her head. "As you command, my lord." She said with force politeness while Ned had a hurt look, but hurried over to Rob, and rubbed his head, said soothing words, and did the same with Jon a moment later, under the reproachful and disgusted gaze of Catelyn.
Beyond the windows, the wind howled as a raven came all the way from down south and landed in the ravenry. A soldier ran to Ned to tell him of the news from King's Landing.
-Westeros, Dorne, Sunspear, 284 AC, 5 Days after the birth-
Within a solar showered in the amber light of the late afternoon sun, Doran Martell sat at a carved desk of dark Dornish cedar. Fine silks clothed him, light and fit for the heat of Dorne, dyed in the oranges and reds of his house.
Before him lay parchment, weighed at the corners with smooth river stones, and he wrote with quill and ink with a steady hand. At the right side of the desk, within easy reach, rested a polished cane of carved bone and gold.
The door to his study creaked open, and soft footsteps crossed the tiled floor. Two young girls entered.
The elder, eight name-days old, with dark sun-kissed skin and big dark brown eyes that looked at everything with amazement. The younger, four, shared her coloring, though not so richly touched by the sun, and her bright amethyst eyes shone with a curious light.
Behind them came a woman clad in silks cut in the Dornish fashion, light and daring, the valley of her breasts unashamed beneath gauze and gold thread. In her arms, she carried a babe wrapped in soft linen. A warm smile curled her lips as she watched the girls hurry toward the man at the desk.
They made to climb upon him as children will, but he lifted a hand gently, forestalling them. "Careful, my suns, this old man's bones aren't what they used to be."
The woman stepped closer. The babe in her arms gave a soft coo, then a wide yawn, before settling to sleep against her breast.
"Thank you. You have no idea how much this helps us," the woman said softly, her gaze settling upon the Prince of Dorne. Doran looked back at her with a patient smile, dark eyes that held a thoughtfulness beneath heavy lids.
"It is no great thing, Allyria. A prince's duty is to his banner men and their blood. If I cannot shelter them, what sort of lord would I be?" His voice was calm, yet there was something more beneath it. "Tell me, how fares the little one?"
As he spoke, he reached out with his right hand to smooth the dark hair of his daughter, Arianne Martell, pride gleaming in his gaze. With his left hand, he brushed gentle fingers over the head of his niece, thought by the realm to have perished in the sake of King's Landing, Rhaenys Targaryen.
His touch lingered a moment longer than it should have as his eyes drifted outside, beyond the high windows, over to where King's Landing should be with a look of hate inside his dark brown eyes.
'You will pay for what you have done, Lannister scum,' he thought before he went back to looking at Allyria.
"I am grateful, my prince… but I would ask a request of you as well." She lowered her head as she spoke, hands tightening about the sleeping babe, but not enough to hurt her. When she noticed, she loosened her grip.
Doran Martell lifted one brow, scrutinizing her over steepled fingers. "A moment before you make your request."
He withdrew his hands from the children's hair, the softness leaving his features like a receding tide. "Arianne, take your niece and seek out your mother. She should be upon the terrace adjoining her chambers.'
His tone brooked no argument. Arianne Martell dipped her head at once and took the younger girl by the hand. As they departed, Doran made the smallest motion with two fingers. The guards stationed outside of the solar straightened and followed at a discreet distance, their spears ready for anything.
The doors shut with a muted thud. "Now," Doran said, and there was no fatherly tone in his voice that was there just a second ago, only the Prince of Dorne. He laced his fingers together and rested his chin upon them, his dark eyes bore into Allyria's purple ones. "You may now speak your request."
Allyria took a silent breath. "I would like to have Elaena remain here in Sunspear. Let her be counted amongst the Sand Snakes… or serve as lady-in-waiting to Princess Arianne." Hope filled her voice, though she strove to stop it. She was all but begging that her sister's daughter be raised in Sunspear.
Doran looked at her, letting the silence stretch for a moment. "Why would you desire such a thing?" he asked at last, with genuine confusion in his gaze and tone. "The child is your sister's blood, no, the daughter she died bringing into this world. Why send her from you and her family?"
"It is not my wish to part with her," Allyria answered quickly. "But I fear her father may claim her. There are rumors carried south from the North of how Lord Stark's other bastard fares poorly beneath his roof at the hands of his wife. I would not see my niece suffer such a fate. I would like to spare her of that stigma from the southerners and their gods."
Aware of her strong faith in the Seven and their views on bastards, they left Catelyn Stark's name unsaid. Doran leaned back slightly in his chair, turning her words over in his mind. After a few moments, he gave a slow nod.
"Very well. The girl may remain. She shall be acknowledged as one of Oberyn's natural daughters." His mouth curved faintly. "I think that will not displease you. Nor will it trouble my brother. In truth, he may well believe her his own."
He inclined his head. "She will dwell here in Sunspear and, in time, attend upon Arianne as her lady-in-waiting."
Relief tore across Allyria's face like the morning dawn over the desert. 'Thank you, thank you, my lord. You have my gratitude, now and always...'
Her words were cut short as he lifted a hand, forestalling further thanks, his gaze sharpening once more. Doran did not smile, but his dark eyes lingered on Allyria.
"There is one more matter," he said at last, his voice soft as drifting sand. "Should the day come when Dorne calls her banners against the Baratheons… you will stand with us. With all that you possess. You will do what you must, whatever you must, to see Dorne prosper… and House Martell prosper most of all."
Allyria did not flinch; no look of betrayal crossed her face; no tremor of doubt disturbed her face. She inclined her head in acceptance, accepting the terms of what had been asked without protest.
"I will," she said simply. Doran's lips curved then, though the warmth did not reach his eyes.
"And one more thing," he added gently. 'All that has been spoken here, everything seen and heard within these walls, shall go no farther. Not to friend, nor kin, nor septon. This chamber keeps its secrets. Do we understand one another?'
He spoke mildly, yet there was something beneath his calm words. Even seated, even needing a cane to walk, Doran Martell seemed a king cobra waiting to strike. Allyria swallowed and nodded, more fervently now. "I understand, my prince.'
Dorne had lost much: Elia Martell butchered and raped, her son Aegon Targaryen smashed against cold stone, and such wounds did not fade with time. They endured, they festered, till they could come back to kill.
And so House Martell gained not simply a sworn woman, but a hidden blade, the starry blade of House Dayne, waiting for the day when vengeance might at last come to pass.
But the raven coming into the raveny would carry news that is very unwanted, but could also be used, as Dorne is known to use poison, due to the twin snakes of Dorne, the King Cobra and Red Viper.
[Author's Note: If you're confused about anything, stick with me, I'm making this as we go! I will most likely have 5-10 chapters ahead of this one saved up on Patreon for those who want to read ahead. Patreon is up and run or at least it should be; it is under review, but it should be working.
Disclaimer: I have a rough idea of where this is going, but I haven't mapped out every single detail or an overarching idea. So if you have suggestions to make the story better or who you might want to see, please leave a comment and review! Oh, I will be posting 2 chapters a week, Tuesday and Thursday, until I have ten or more chapters saved up, so something like my other fanfics won't happen. I hope you like the story. While I do use AI, I don't think it is slop, and if there is any, I will try to change it and or add humanity into it, but just give me a chance.
Next time: It will show the POV'S of Tywin, Ser William Darry, and the other Taragaryens as I meant to do all in this chapter, but without this, it was 1900 word so I stopped there and I am making this in the middle of the night after taking a sleeping pill, so bear with me, and if you did not understand, Elaena Sand/Dayne is the meant to be stillborn daughter of Ashara Dayne & Ned Stark and yes Rhaenys Targaryen lives and if you want to know how want and read. See you then!
Ending Note: Thank you for the support. Have a great( if you're not religious) and or blessed day, and check out my other account where I publish Og novels. It's called Fiction_Dragon! :)]