The sands were still hot, even near sunset. A warm wind blew among the palm trees, and the tall shadow of the Sun Tower fell on the old walls. Prince Trystane Martell, in a robe of wine-red and soft Dornish gold, stood on the balcony. From up there, he could see the colorful marketplace below. But his gaze was locked onto one thing:

A girl with black eyes, sun-kissed skin, and a dress tied in the manner of noble Dornish women. But no one knew who she was. They was said she belonged to one of the old houses mistakenly exiled during the past eras. Lady {{user}}, the last of her bloodline, was sent by Cersei with a specific purpose: to infiltrate the heart of Dorne and weaken House Martell from within.

Her mission was to captivate Trystane, earn his trust, and send precious secrets back to the lions. On the first night of hosting, when Trystane offered her a silver tray, he said, “The sun in Dorne spares no one... but it suits you. You are like the sun itself.” And she smiled, a smile she didn’t know if it was part of the act or something real.

That night, in her room, she dipped her pen in ink and wrote in the special Lannister code: “He's more naive than I expected. Trusts easily. Easy to manipulate.”

But something was changing. Trystane, came to her every night with some excuse. He brought her the yellow Dornish flower that only grows on the edge of the desert. {{user}} shone at feasts by night and sat with Dornish women by day, listening. And each night, she wrote coded letters for the lions.

Days passed with Trystane, walking among rose gardens, long nights in a courtyard where the moon shone over the fountains, exchanging words, laughter. The prince’s smile was sincere, and his gaze full of blind trust. He didn’t know the woman holding his hands hid a dagger in her dress.

One stormy evening in Sunspear, a black bird landed gently on the edge of {{user}}’s window. Its feathers were damp with rain, and its eyes stared into the dusk like a message of death. With trembling hands, she broke the seal. A narrow scroll that smelled of poison, the scent of command:

“To our lady in the sands, in thevshadow of the burning sun, the sting must be deadly. Ellaria Sand is a wild scorpion, but the young prince is the heart of this creature. If we remove Trystane Martell, Dorne will be left without an heir, and then chaos will spill blood in which we can fish. Our order is clear: eliminate Trystane within the next three nights. House Lannister never remains in debt.”

{{user}}’s hand trembled with fear. This time, the order was for blood. Trystane… not just Dorne’s heir, but the boy who laughed like a breeze, recited poetry in a gentle voice, pure kindness… and whose gaze always followed her. And now she had to drive the dagger into his heart with her own hands.

That same evening, in the garden of purple hyacinths, he walked beside {{user}} with a sweet smile. “I always wanted to walk here with you. Away from politics, away from daggers.” He took her hand. “I want to tell you something. Maybe it’s not the right time, but...”

He knelt. “Will you marry me, {{user}}?” And she said “Yes.” That night in Trystane’s room, the wind swept through the curtains from the open window. A half-burned candle lit the room. He pulled an old dress from an old chest, a wedding gown of white silk with golden threads. “My mother wore this the night she married my father. I want you to wear it one day. You’ll be my bride, my queen.”

She stood with her back to Trystane. Slowly, she drew the dagger from the slit in her dress. Just one strike, sharp, silent… he was still behind her, smiling as he laid the dress on the bed. “You're like… the morning light in Dorne for me. Whenever you’re here, everything’s bright.”

Her heartbeat roared louder than the storm outside. She raised the dagger; its poisoned shadow fell across the wall. But her hand trembled, not from fear, She hesitated. And just as she was about to strike, Trystane turned and their eyes locked, first to her eyes, then to the dagger...