"Alyn's wife, Baela Targaryen, disliked hearing about Aliandra."
―A Wiki of Ice and Fire
…
Three days of feasting and no sign of the Butcher.
These were Qoren's thoughts as he stood on a sun-baked terrace overlooking the tournament grounds outside Sunspear. Tents flapped in the desert wind, bright with Dornish colors—scarlet, orange, and gold. Lords and knights, lesser scions, merchants from lands near and far, all drawn by Qoren's invitation: a grand reception spanning multiple days, meant to greet Aemond Targaryen with proper fanfare. Only, the Targaryen had failed to appear, and Qoren endured the polite inquiries and occasional grumbles from guests who expected the star of the show.
He exhaled, feeling the dryness in his throat. The Prince is not one to be trifled with, he reminded himself. But he might have sent a raven if delayed. Beyond the lush courtyard, minstrels played a lively tune, unaware of their host's growing impatience.
His gaze drifted to the sandy horizon, shimmering under the midday sun. It had been this way for three days: celebrants jousting, sampling spiced Dornish wines, forging alliances or enmities, while Qoren hovered in a swirl of courtesy. And still no dragon in the skies.
Aliandra, his daughter, lounged against a carved stone pillar, entertaining half a dozen young men in flamboyant attire. Or so it would seem—though her eyes, half-lidded, betrayed disinterest. Qoren watched her, noticing how she stifled a yawn at one man's flowery compliment. His other children, Coryanne and Qyle, were also engrossed entertaining guests of their own, though they seemed more invested in their respective discussions than their older sister.
Just then, a servant in yellow-laced robes hurried up, breathless. "My prince," he whispered by his side, bowing low, "a great dragon has been sighted. Circling above the old dunes outside the city."
Qoren exhaled—relief, annoyance, curiosity all at once. "At last," he muttered. He nodded at the servant. "Summon a small escort to meet the prince. And have an extra horse saddled. Move quickly."
The servant scurried off and he glanced at Aliandra, who had caught the stir and was dismissing her admirers with a polite smile on her face. She drifted to Qoren's side in a swirl of bright skirts. "What is it, father?" she asked, brushing a swirl of dark hair behind her ear.
"He is here," Qoren said simply.
Aliandra crooked a brow. "Oh? Took him long enough." Her tone was one of faint interest.
Qoren gave a small grunt. "It did. Gather yourself." He swigged a final mouthful of the spiced wine and set the goblet on a passing tray. "We'll greet him at the pavilion's entrance."
...
Some quarter-hour later, Qoren stood beneath a canopy of woven palm leaves set up at the front of the festival grounds. The day's heat still bore down harshly, though the sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon. The crowd parted, excited murmurs rushing through them, as a small column of riders approached. At their head rode Prince Aemond, silver hair unmistakable even in the golden half-light.
He wore black riding leathers, dusted with a fine layer of sand. His posture upright, single violet eye scanning the throng, as though measuring each face in a single sweep. The Dornish around him offered a hush of curiosity, caution, some thread of resentment. They remembered how this Targaryen had crushed Braavos at the Stepstones, how he burned and slaughtered his way through the Stormlands just across the sea from Dorne. They also recalled the old wars. Qoren felt the tension in the air, brittle as sun-baked clay.
Beside Qoren, Aliandra straightened, smoothing an imaginary crease in her dress. Then she stepped forward slightly, a slight smile on her lips that might fool those not attuned to her sharper edges.
Aemond halted his mount before them, dismounting in a graceful motion. One could almost forget his many deeds. The Butcher Prince had a certain elegance about him now, a faint smile that might be real or might be all artifice.
Qoren inclined his head in greeting. "Prince Aemond. Dorne is honoured by your presence. We feared you might not come while the celebrations ran their course."
Aemond handed his reins to a waiting guard. "I would not miss the warmth of Dornish hospitality," he said, voice smooth, "you would have to forgive me. I had some matters to resolve personally."
He turned to Aliandra, who offered a small curtsy, her face wearing a pleasant expression. "Prince Aemond, we are delighted you've finally arrived," she said, her voice honeyed. "A few more days and father might have had to toast you in absentia."
Aemond's single eye flicked over her. There was a flicker of a smile—if such a minimal movement could be called that. "Princess Aliandra," he greeted, turning slightly to nod politely at Coryanne and Qyle who had quietly joined them upon his arrival. "Truly?" he said, his gaze panning back to Aliandra. "Then I am fortunate to arrive before my own toasts go stale."
Aliandra laughed lightly, the corners of her mouth quirking. "Your tardiness fueled the festivities, I fear. We had to amuse ourselves."
Aemond nodded once, apparently unoffended by her lightly teasing tone. Qoren stepped aside, gesturing for him to join them in the main pavilion. "We've prepared an informal welcome, if it pleases you. The lords and ladies will want to raise a cup to your presence."
And so they entered the final day's festivities—a swirl of music, final jousts in the yard, and lords toasting the union of Dorne and the Crown's cause. Aemond was ushered into a grand tent pitched for the final hours of feasting, where fresh fruit, spiced meats, and sweet wines lay in abundance. Qoren observed as the prince strode in, his presence centering the crowd. Aliandra, for her part, hung close, occasionally slipping in a mild question or jest. She flashed a smile that Qoren recognized as her best political face.
The swirl of conversation hushed, all eyes turning. Musicians eased into a bright, bold tune. Here, dozens of Dornish nobility had gathered—Daynes, Yronwoods, Santagars, Gaunts by marriage, and lesser lords, each wearing the vivid colors of their houses. They parted respectfully as Qoren led Aemond to a raised platform draped with House Martell's sunspear.
Unlike her siblings, Aliandra followed them, a half-step behind her father. A servant pressed a goblet of pomegranate wine into Aemond's hand, another into Qoren's. Aliandra accepted one for herself. The noise in the pavilion swelled, expectant.
Aemond surveyed the crowd as if picking just the right moment. Then he raised his goblet. "Lords and ladies of Dorne," he began, his voice carrying with practiced authority. "I thank you for this warm welcome. Dorne has ever been fierce, and that ferocity now stands behind righteousness. I salute your bravery, your honor, your passion, your beauty—To you, noble Dornish, I drink."
He lifted the goblet. A wave of raised cups followed, a ripple of applause and shouts. Qoren sipped, feeling the warmth of spiced wine across his tongue. The speech had been short, pointed. He noticed many lords exchanging nods of approval. The Butcher had, in his own way, salved some old wounds by assuaging Dornish pride.
For a while, the festival resumed in earnest. Aemond wandered among the crowd, clasping wrists or exchanging measured pleasantries. Servants refilled wine with a promptness unusual even for Dornish gatherings—clearly mindful of the prince's comfort. While he was saddled with interactions of his own, Qoren hovered close enough to note the man's deliberate charm, kept at a distance from some, more cordial with others.
Eventually, the sun bled orange across the dunes, and the day's festivities wore to a gentle close. Lords trickled away from the pavilion, speaking of tomorrow's contests or returning to their lodging in Sunspear's halls. Qoren, at last, signaled to Aemond that the time had come for a more private talk.
They reconvened in a shaded corner of the palace courtyard—a smaller, quieter space with a few braziers to keep out the desert night's chill. Aliandra eyed them from afar. Aemond had doffed his cloak, revealing the sleek cut of his doublet, black as a crow's wing. Qoren motioned for servants to bring fresh dates and a clay pitcher of water. The day's heat left him parched, and negotiations demanded a clear head.
"Shall we begin, my prince?" Qoren said softly. "We had sought this meeting to finalize Westeros's stance on the blockade of the Stepstones."
Aemond nodded, hooking an arm on the back of his chair. "Indeed, Prince Qoren. You have my thanks for your boldness at the Stepstones—your fleet was crucial in the final assault."
Qoren nodded. "Dorne put forth its might, yes. But in doing so, we hope to see some relief. The Stepstones remain strangled, and Dorne's trade strangles with it. We have kept our promise, siding with the Crown. We want the blockade lifted to allow us free commerce with the parts of Essos you are currently warring with—the import of grain, most especially."
Aemond's expression cooled. "Surely, you know what I want then. Dorne has a proud history, but let us not pretend we can do without the rest of Westeros. The Crown invests heavily in continuing the blockade. Braavos and its allies must be contained, or the war festers anew. Without a guarantee of your allegiance, I cannot simply open lanes for you."
Qoren drew a measured breath. "Dorne has always resisted outside rule. We do not intend to sacrifice our independence for a war we did not start. We only desire the blockade lifted for crucial goods." He forced calm into his tone, though inside he bristled.
Aemond let silence linger, that single eye glinting in the firelight. Then, "Full assimilation," he said. "That is the ideal solution. A formal acceptance of the Iron Throne's suzerainty—no more disclaimers. If you yield, we'll welcome you as the seventh realm in truth. I would need not write a single decree for no Westerosi ships, regardless of origin, would be turned back at the Steps."
Qoren's jaw tensed. "That is non-negotiable. We do not intend to relinquish our sovereignty."
A faint dryness touched Aemond's lips. "Then you must accept that the Crown's blockade stands. The best I can offer is partial relief—exemptions for a few key Dornish exports, and a small corridor for certain imports essential to the creation of these exports. But for this I would have to demand more; a third of your fleet shall join mine in a broader blockade I plan to impose on the entirety of the Narrow Sea. No trade shall depart or enter the ports of the Free Cities that aided Braavos." He spoke as though listing items on a ledger. "Pentos, Myr, Tyrosh, Lys. All to be choked."
Qoren paused for a long moment, still processing the words. Then his stomach lurched at the sheer scope of what was said. "That is half of west Essos," he murmured, gobsmacked.
Aemond only nodded. "If they would meddle in Westeros's affairs, I must ensure they regret it. Let them all feel the Crown's hand. Regardless, if you are to agree to this, then you would need to accept a further stipulation—I will be purchasing a control stake of all your ports through the Merchant Guild, meaning you would have to accept Westerosi oversight on the trade that would be allowed. The Stepstones remain closed for other goods, including any large-scale grain imports. If you need grain, you may buy from Westeros, as we will see fit to supply it. I am willing to quadrupel the current supply from the Westerlands and double what you currently can purchase from the Reach."
A swirl of frustration coursed through Qoren. "That cedes excessive control of our commerce to you," he said tightly. "We want—"
"It is either that," Aemond interjected, "bending the knee or remaining walled off from the seas entirely. Perhaps watch your people starve if your desert yields too little. I doubt your lords would prefer that."
Silence stretched. Qoren glanced aside. He thought for a long time, once more reviewing his options. In the end, he saw no better path. Slowly, he gave a single nod. "Then let us refine the details."
They spent another hour locked in terse negotiation, line by line. Aemond insistence on Guild branches in every major Dornish port—Planky Town, Yronwood's river mouth, Spottswood, all of them—remained. The Crown would purchase controlling stakes from the lords concerned and station men of their own in supervisory roles. Qoren managed to pry a few extra concessions: certain Dornish exports (fruits, fabrics and Dornish yew) that Aemond initially resisted would pass the blockade, albeit with quotas and heavy oversight. The final terms left him uneasy: yes, Dorne would have more trade than before, dispelling the fears of mass starvation, but the Butcher's grip on their commerce tightened further.
By the time the last parchment was scrawled with their signatures, the braziers burned low. Qoren felt wrung out. Aemond folded the document, tucking it into a leather satchel. A glimmer of satisfaction lay behind his calm expression. Qoren recognized the look of a man who'd gained more than he'd lost.
"There," the Butcher said quietly. "We do what must be done. Neither of us is truly pleased, but it is as close to a favorable outcome as we can craft."
A swirl of desert wind gusted in from the open arch, stirring the dying flames. Qoren forced a polite tilt of his head.
Aemond gave a thin half-smile, and stood. "We can speak further on the morrow. For now, I shall retire." He touched Qoren's shoulder in a gesture that might be called friendly if not for the weight behind it. "My thanks, Prince Qoren."
✥✥✥
The courtyard lamps burned low when Aliandra at last excused herself from the evening's bustle of laughter and cordial chatter. The day's festivities had worn on with a splendid array of music, dancing, and drinking, all quite merry—until, at length, the crowd began to disperse to their respective quarters.
The princess glided like heat through the halls—barefoot, silent, scenting of oranges and crushed hibiscus. The stone corridors of Sunspear held the memory of sunfire even in the depth of night, warm underfoot, the air thick with salt and secrets. The sand-silk robe she had worn all day hung loosely from her shoulders, the ties half undone. Beneath it, she wore little more than skin and will.
She passed no guards. Her father's men had been dismissed early, too deep in their wine to mark her passing. The minstrels had played their final tune, and Qoren had retired to his private solar with his closest advisors, muttering of ledgers and shipments and what scraps of sovereignty Dorne might yet clutch in its sun-scorched hand. While she had been distant from the discussion, Aliandra had not missed the tight line of her father's mouth after the Targaryen carved more of Dorne into his ledger like so much meat. Nor had she missed the faint gleam in the Butcher's eye after he did it.
She hated the man.
She wanted him.
His rooms had been granted in the Old Tower, high above the western courtyard, with its weather-worn gargoyles and narrow, winding stairs. She climbed without a lantern. Darkness clung to her like perfume.
At the chamber door, she paused. Her breath stilled. No guards. No noise beyond the heavy cedar door carved with ancient spears and curling serpents. She pushed it open.
The scent hit her first. Not perfume, not Dornish oils, but leather, steel, and something faintly smoky—dragon scent, she decided. Fire and salt.
Aemond Targaryen stood by the window, cloaked in half-shadow. He had removed his coat but still wore his black linen tunic, the high collar framing the sharp lines of his face. His silver hair gleamed in the moonlight. He was pouring himself a measure of wine from a flagon, and did not look up.
"You walk like a thief," he said quietly.
Aliandra smiled. "Only because I've come to steal."
He turned. That single violet eye studied her, flat as glass. His features were sharp, patrician, severe. If he was surprised, he did not show it. Aemond did not speak. He took a sip of water, then set the goblet down with perfect care. She saw his hands—long, pale, uncalloused—and thought of how many had died at his command.
Aliandra walked to the center of the chamber. "I thought the Butcher Prince of Westeros would be larger."
"And I thought the Jewel of Dorne would be quieter."
A pause. "You find me irritating?"
"Yes."
She circled him slowly, barefoot on cool stone, the silk of her shift whispering. "I find you fascinating," she exhaled, desire burning in her eyes.
"Flattery is wasted on me."
"Who said I was flattering you?" She grinned. "You are far too arrogant."
"You're trying to provoke me."
She smiled sweetly. "Is it working?"
He turned to face her fully now. The moonlight caught his profile, the scar cutting down his sapphire eye. Beautiful, in a cruel way. She felt the thrill of danger—a prickling warmth beneath her skin. He looked at her like a man assessing a blade.
"I've no interest in these games. They are a fool's pastime."
"You think me foolish then," she said.
"I think you spoiled. And reckless."
"Why? Are you afraid, my prince?" she asked softly, lifting her hand at last to graze her fingers along the plane of his jaw. He didn't flinch, but neither did he move toward her. "Indeed, my father would be displeased to hear of this; myself, unchaperoned in your chambers at this hour."
"No," he murmured. "But I tire of this debate."
Aliandra stepped in. Her body was flush with his now, heat to heat. She pressed her mouth near his neck, whispering: "Then let us stop talking."
She kissed him.
He didn't respond. For a breath, for two. And then—he did.
Aemond's hands were sudden on her waist, strong, sure, unyielding. He pushed her back against the cool wall, eyes blazing. The kiss turned hard, devouring. When he pulled away, it was only to look at her, truly look at her.
"Foolish girl," he muttered after a moment and turned away.
Aliandra was confused. "Why?"
"I'm married," he said flatly, turning back to his desk with a kind of languid grace. There he brought another cup of wine to his lips.
Aliandra licked her lips, ignoring the faint sting to her ego. "Married or no, your bed can hold more than one occupant. Your wife is not here—nor does she own you." She let her gaze roam over the lithe lines of his back, the glimpses of muscle. The knowledge that he had allowed her so close excited her all the more. "Besides, men have taken more than one mistress before. Are we to pretend you do not keep a few?"
A faint snort. "Rumors," Aemond said, but he did not deny it. He spared her a glance. "You should leave." The quiet in the room pulsed with danger.
Aliandra ignored him and took a step closer, letting her candle's glow wash over the planes of her face. She was the Jewel of Sunspear, heir to Dorne, and the most desired maiden of these dunes. Her laughter could cut. Her glances could kill. And she had decided tonight she would taste the Butcher for she could think of no greater first to be had.
Truly, She was going nowhere until he took her tonight.
With a shuddering exhale she pressed her fingers into the small of his back before running her fingers along his waist to cup at the fore. "I am the heir to Dorne," she said softly, pressing her cheek into his back. "Have you ever considered what might happen should I bear a silver-haired babe?"
He paused. She sensed the tension in him, the breath that slowed in his chest. He turned to face her, the lamp's glow dancing over his features—sharp, almost predatory. "Do you understand truly what it is you offer?"
Aliandra lifted her chin. "Yes."
He regarded her for a long moment, jaw tight. "You assume I have a blind hunger for dominion over Dorne." His brow crooked by a small degree. "I have your kingdom already in my grasp, Aliandra. Hungry or not, I need not impregnate you for a claim."
She only smiled. "Perhaps not. Yet in these matters, a direct line is so much more… assured. Why leave it to chance or endless negotiations, when Dorne itself might yield more willingly through me?"
He studied her in the uncertain candlelight, the flicker of flame dancing along the planes of his face. She felt the hush of the moment, more electrifying than any idle festival banquet. Then, with a measured exhalation, he muttered, half to himself. "Your father would not be amused."
"My father is a statesman," she replied, the words turned sharp. "He wears courtesy like armor and convinces himself that patience is strength. He does not yet see the storm gathering—perhaps chooses not to. But in time, he will come to understand my reasons."
She took a step closer, her voice softening—submission. "I know you, Aemond. More than you think. You are not the sort of man who lets anything slip from his grasp. You would sooner burn Dorne to ash than let it float free."
Her gaze held his, unflinching. "And with every moon, your shadow grows longer. The seas speak of your victories, your enemies flee, vanish or kneel. You will come for us. Not today, not perhaps this year, but you will. It is in your nature."
She tilted her head, letting her hair spill like shadow across one shoulder. "I would rather be part of this storm, Aemond… than caught beneath it. You want Dorne. If I were the mother of your child—who could dispute your claim to these lands?" She stepped, her confidence growing as she pressed into him again. "In return, I am assured my House has a place of supreme standing in your kingdom. No other way can we rise so quickly to prominence despite contributing so little in comparison."
He watched her steadily, face giving little away, but the air in the chamber felt electric. She sensed his pulse, or perhaps it was hers. A long moment stretched. Silence. Then, slowly, he lowered his head. Their mouths met—not with tenderness, but heat, restraint snapping like thread.
Aemond kissed her like a man starved.
Her hands tangled in his hair. His arms found her waist, pulled her tight. There was no ceremony to it, no sweetness, only fire and need and the deep, unspoken understanding that both of them were playing with knives.
When he lifted her, it was with terrifying ease.
And as he laid her down upon the silken coverlets of a foreign bed in a land that not-quite-so secretly hated him, she smiled into his mouth.
The Butcher, she thought. At last.