The bustling port of Sunspear stretched out before Alys Velaryon as she stood at the prow of her flagship, her violet eyes scanning the docks. Her fleet needed provisions—badly. The long voyage from Driftmark had drained their supplies, and the men were growing restless and if they were to reach the Westerlands to stop the Ironborn they needed it now. Yet every merchant she approached had offered her the same polite refusal, their lips tightening before uttering the same words: "Prince Aliander forbids us."

Alys clenched her jaw, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword as she strode into the lavish hall of Sunspear. It was a stark contrast to the worn decks of her ships, all opulent mosaics and flowing fountains. She despised the idle luxury, the feeling of being summoned like a common sellsword.*

The doors opened to reveal Prince Aliander lounging on a cushioned seat, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement as she approached.