Sunspear – One Month Later
The Dornish heat clung to the air like prophecy yet unspoken.
Michael stood atop the sandstone walls overlooking the Sea of Dorne, his black cloak fluttering slightly in the ocean wind. Below, Sunspear bustled with renewed life—markets growing, soldiers drilling, ships being repaired and launched with quiet purpose. Dorne had not been this alive in years.
And yet…
Something felt wrong.
He watched a raven glide across the sky, veering northward. It bore no colors. No sigil. Just a plain scroll tube latched to its back.
He didn't need to guess where it was headed.
"Another raven?" Arthur Dayne's voice cut in behind him. "That makes three this week."
"Four," Michael corrected. "One left yesterday at dusk. Quiet one."
Arthur stepped beside him. "Whispers?"
Michael nodded. "From the North. The Riverlands. Even Oldtown. Word of unrest. Tension. And rumors."
Arthur sighed. "Always rumors."
"Except," Michael said slowly, "these feel different. They're not about bandits or coinless knights. They're about heirs. Claims. Shattered oaths."
Arthur leaned against the battlements. "And which bastard's going to reach for a crown this time?"
Michael didn't smile. "The better question is: how many?"
King's Landing – The Red Keep
Varys moved through the tunnels beneath the throne room like a spider returning to an old web. His robes whispered against stone, his breath even and calm. He paused before a sealed door and tapped thrice with his ring finger.
The panel slid open.
Within stood a man cloaked in shadows. His voice was low.
"You should not have returned."
"I never left," Varys replied with a pleasant smile. "And the realm has begun to tremble in my absence."
The man said nothing.
"Robert drinks himself into madness. Cersei Lannister pulls strings meant for kings. And Jon Arryn, Seven bless his soul, was the only man holding it all together."
The other man finally stepped forward. "And what do you want me to do?"
Varys tilted his head. "Just keep your sword ready. Storms are coming, and all the old bloodlines are stirring."
He turned, pausing before he left.
"Oh. And send word to Dorne. Let them know… the game is beginning."
Winterfell – The Godswood
Ned Stark stood beneath the weirwood tree, the red leaves rustling around him like whispers of old memories. His thoughts, for once, were not of his children or the North.
They were of a name.
Aegon.
A child he was told had died.
A child he now believed may yet live.
He did not know how. Or where. But the letters from Dorne—encrypted, unsigned—had begun to reach him. Warnings wrapped in riddles. Pledges veiled as poetry.
And at the heart of it all, a name.
Ser Michael.
Ned had heard it once before. From Arthur Dayne, on the eve of a battle they had both walked away from in blood and guilt.
"He's not like us," Arthur had said. "He's something older. Wilder. But if he's chosen to protect the boy… then there's hope."
Ned closed his eyes and whispered into the tree bark:
"Keep him safe. Gods, keep them all safe."
Sunspear – Later That Night
Michael stood in the candlelit solar with Prince Doran. The prince's cough had worsened of late, though he did his best to hide it.
Doran held up a scroll with the Arryn falcon etched on the seal.
"Jon Arryn is dead."
Michael frowned. "Poison?"
"Whispers say yes. Maesters say no. But I trust the whispers more than robed fools."
Michael leaned forward. "What does this mean for us?"
Doran was silent for a long time before he finally said, "It means the lions are growing bold. The wolves will stir. The stags will roar. And dragons—real or false—will not be left sleeping."
Michael said nothing.
Doran continued, "You've trained Aegon. You've turned our scattered spears into something unified. But you must prepare, Ser Michael. The Seven Kingdoms will burn again."
Michael's hand clenched around the hilt of his sword.
"Then let's build a fire of our own."
Atop Sunspear – Midnight
Elia Martell stood with her daughter on a high balcony. Rhaenys now bore a blade at her hip and a deadly confidence in her eyes, forged under Arthur's guidance. The girl had grown into a shadowdancer—a weapon cloaked in courtly grace.
"Do you think they'll come for us again?" Rhaenys asked, voice low.
Elia nodded. "Yes. But this time, we're ready."
Below them, in the silent courtyard, Michael stood with Aegon, watching him recite commands to his men, directing their drills. His voice was calm. Authoritative. Like a king.
"I've had the same dream, mother," Rhaenys whispered. "Of a throne of swords. Of fire on both sides. But Michael always stands in front of me."
Elia turned to her daughter. "That's what shields do. They stand until the world itself crumbles."
Final Scene – Somewhere in the Stormlands
A hooded rider dismounted and handed a raven-scroll to a man by the fire.
The man—young, bearded, dressed in black armor with a golden crown stitched over a stag's skull—read it in silence.
Then he grinned.
"So the Targaryens are stirring. Let the dragon come. I'll break his back like I'll break my brothers."
Renly Baratheon.
The youngest stag smiled wide into the flames.
"Tell our spies in the Reach—begin the sowing. I want gold, I want blades, and I want banners."
"And if your brother Robert finds out?" one of his men asked.
Renly's voice was like ice.
"Then he'll join the list."
Sunspear – Doran Martell's Solar
The chamber was warm with the scent of spiced wine and Dornish incense. Candlelight danced along the red-gold walls as trusted voices gathered at Prince Doran's summons.
Michael stood near the map table, arms crossed, eyes scanning the gathered. On his right, Arthur Dayne leaned lazily against a column, pretending to drink while watching everything. On his left sat Elia, composed but sharp-eyed, with Rhaenys seated beside her. Aegon stood by the window, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword as he listened intently.
Across from them: Oberyn Martell, shirt half-open, a smirk already curling his lips; Lady Nymeria Sand, arms folded, eyes cold and calculating; and Ser Ricasso, the prince's ever-loyal steward.
Doran, slow in movement but swift in mind, finally broke the silence.
"The old lion will not rest. The usurper's throne is weak. The wolves stir. We have the boy. We have swords. We need… allies."
Michael stepped forward.
"Then it's time we decide where those allies will come from. We've remained quiet for ten years, preparing for this moment. If we're too late—if the wrong banners rise first—it won't be just Aegon's claim that dies. It will be every drop of royal blood left in Westeros."
Elia glanced to her son, then to Michael. "So who do we write first?"
Doran nodded. "Let us begin with the obvious. The Reach?"
Oberyn scoffed. "The Tyrells are flatterers and coin-counters. They'll bend whichever way the wind blows, and right now, that wind still reeks of Baratheon ale."
Michael shook his head. "They're not trustworthy. Not yet. Not until we show strength."
Nymeria Sand leaned forward. "What of the Riverlands? The Tullys?"
"They followed Robert," Rhaenys said, voice colder than expected. "Edmure Tully is too green. And his uncle, Ser Brynden, is loyal to House Stark."
That was when Michael raised his head fully.
"Then that's who we write to."
Doran blinked. "The Starks?"
Michael nodded. "Yes."
A beat of silence.
Arthur arched a brow. "You're serious."
"I am," Michael said. "They lost nothing in Robert's Rebellion except pride. But the Lannisters have spent the last decade tightening their grip around the Crown. That can't sit well with a man like Eddard Stark."
Oberyn frowned. "You know of him?"
Michael nodded. "Only by name. And by what Dayne's told me. An honorable man. A hard man. The kind who remembers oaths—and how they're broken."
"I wouldn't have thought you and Ned Stark would align," Arthur muttered.
"I wouldn't have thought the world would turn to ash," Michael shot back. "But here we are."
Aegon finally spoke. "What would a Dorne–North alliance even look like? We share no blood. No trade. No history."
"No," Michael replied, walking to the table, tapping the Neck with one finger, "but we do share enemies."
He moved his hand to King's Landing, then to Casterly Rock.
"Tywin Lannister. Cersei. Joffrey. If Robert dies—and make no mistake, he will soon—it will be chaos. The lions will push their boy forward. The realm will fracture. The North will want independence. But if we offer them a better path—an alliance, a shared cause—they may take it."
Doran studied him for a long time.
"Elia… thoughts?"
Elia looked to Michael. "If the wolves have truly grown tired of lion claws at their throat, they will listen. And if we send the right messenger… they'll do more than listen."
"Who would that be?" asked Nymeria.
Michael replied without hesitation.
"Me."
Everyone turned.
"I fought for the crown they helped destroy," Michael continued. "But I saved the prince. Kept my oath. And more than that, I look like someone who doesn't belong to this courtly world. That might be the only language the North still respects."
Doran's voice was quiet.
"And if they turn on you?"
Michael gave a grim smile. "Then I'll know where they stand—and I'll die doing my duty."
Oberyn leaned back, swirling his wine. "I don't hate this plan."
Arthur stood from the wall. "I'll go with him."
Doran looked surprised. "You'd leave?"
"Only for a time. The Sword of the Morning riding beside the Black Wolf of Dorne will raise eyebrows in the North. Might open more doors than just letters."
Michael turned to Aegon. "You'd be safe here. You'd keep training. Growing. Preparing."
Aegon hesitated… then nodded. "Bring me allies, Michael. I'll make them loyal."
Rhaenys smirked. "And if they refuse?"
"They won't," Michael said flatly. "Not once I speak with them."
Doran leaned forward slowly, and with a cough into his sleeve, said:
"Then write the letters. To Winterfell. To the Blackfish. To the Vale, if you must. But the first raven goes north. And the second… to someone I've kept quiet from the world too long."
He turned to Ser Ricasso.
"Send word to the Water Gardens. Tell Quentyn Martell… to return home."
Everyone froze.
Even Oberyn's wine stopped swirling.
Michael blinked. "Quentyn? Your son?"
Doran's eyes glinted with something long-hidden.
"We may need more than dragons and swords to hold the Seven Kingdoms. We may need a king's blood that no one sees coming."