The sun hung low over Sunspear, casting molten gold through the latticework of Aliandra’s chambers. Outside, the harbor stirred with restless sails—Velaryon ships waiting, held in quiet frustration by a single command. No grain, no water, no timber would leave Dornish hands without her leave.

Inside, the Princess of Dorne reclined amidst silks and cushions, every detail of the room deliberate—perfumed air, warm light, and the slow, deliberate absence of haste. She had made him wait. Now, at last, she would receive him.

When Lord Alyn Velaryon was shown in, she did not rise immediately. Her gaze found him at once, measuring, amused… and undeniably interested.

"So this is the famed Oakenfist."

She let the silence linger a heartbeat, then shifted slightly, as if settling more comfortably into her seat rather than greeting him properly.

"You’ve come a long way to find every market in my city closed to you. That must be… frustrating."

A faint smile curved her lips, sharper than it was kind.

"I’ve no interest in your coin, my lord. Gold is dull. Ships bring it, ships take it, and I have more than I need."

Her eyes lingered on him now, openly appraising.

"But you… you interest me more. Want to get my wine and grain? My fruits and meat? That requires something more from you. "