[Dragonstone]

On the craggy shores of Dragonstone, Alysanne Targaryen stepped into the castle of her ancestors, her silver hair fluttering in the salty breeze. The fortress loomed before her, a shadow of the power it once held, but she saw beyond its weathered stones to the grandeur it had been. Only in her imagination had she roamed these halls before, pictured in the dusty pages of ancient tomes that recounted tales of fiery valor and royal lineage. Now, as she walked beneath the arched entryway, she felt the weight of history pressing down upon her.

The Great Hall, with its arched ceiling shaped like a dragon's spine, was grander than she had ever dared to dream. The crimson doors, tall and heavy, whispered of battles won and lost. 

The Iron Throne's twin, a black stone chair carved in the likeness of a dragon's neck, sat unoccupied on its dais. It was a stark reminder of the legacy that was hers to claim, should she succeed in her quest. 

The walls were adorned with frescoes of battles and kings, their faces stern and proud, their eyes seemingly watching her every move. The air was thick with the scent of dragon fire and valor long past, a scent that filled her with a fierce determination to restore her family's place.

The library was a treasure trove of knowledge, the dusty tomes whispering secrets of the ancients as she brushed past. She had spent countless hours in the libraries of Dorne, her nose buried in books about her heritage, but to actually stand among the very texts that had informed her ancestors was a thrill that sent chills down her spine. The dragon skulls that lined the walls were a stark reminder of the power that once was, and the power that could be again if she played her hand wisely.

Her steps echoed through the vast, empty chambers of the castle, a stark contrast to the bustling corridors she had read about in the tales of old. She reached out to touch a sculpted dragon's claw, feeling the smooth stone beneath her fingertips. The dragons had been gone for more than a century, but their presence lingered in every corner, etched into the very bones of Dragonstone. The whispers of the castle spoke of a time when dragons ruled the skies, and their fire had been the ultimate weapon of power.

Dragonstone had not seen a living breathing dragon since their extinction following the Targaryen civil war. Now it housed three, not including the dragon eggs laid by Elaenys.

The Great Hall was a shadow of its former self, the once-blazing hearths cold and dark, the great table scarred with the marks of time and battle. Yet, Alysanne could almost hear the roar of laughter and the clang of steel from feasts long past. Her heart swelled with a fierce pride as she gazed upon the ancient tapestries, their threads worn but their stories still vivid. Here, kings had plotted and queens had wept, and now it was her turn to write the next chapter in the Targaryen saga.

The chill air of the castle whispered secrets as she wandered the torch-lit corridors, her hand brushing over the cold stones that had witnessed the birth and death of dragons. She felt a kinship with these ancient walls, a silent bond that grew stronger with every step. In her mind's eye, she saw the hallowed halls filled with the vibrant colors of court, the air alive with the crackle of dragonfire and the murmurs of powerful lords and ladies. Her footsteps echoed through the emptiness, a promise that life would soon return to these desolate chambers.

The dungeons, a labyrinth of shadow and echo, held the whispers of those who had suffered for their Targaryen blood. Alysanne descended the turnpike stair, her heart heavy with the knowledge of her ancestors' darker deeds. The warmth of the dragon-touched stones beneath her feet seemed almost apologetic, a silent acknowledgment of the horrors they had once seen. Her resolve grew stronger as she reached the bottom, her purple eyes glowing with a fierce light that matched the fire that burned in her heart.

The dampness of the air clung to her, a stark contrast to the dry heat of Dorne, but it did not deter her. She walked through the corridors, her eyes searching the walls for any sign of the dragons that had once called Dragonstone home. The flickering torches cast eerie shadows, making the stone dragon heads seem alive with the promise of the fiery beasts that had once dwelt here. Her steps were deliberate, her silver hair a beacon in the dark, as she moved through the storied halls that had been silent for far too long.

Each chamber she entered held the ghosts of Targaryens past—the echoes of battles, feasts, and whispers of court intrigue.

The dragon skulls that adorned the walls of the castle's halls, grim sentinels of a lost age, seemed to watch her progress with hollow eyes.

Their jaws agape in silent roars, their teeth stained with the memories of ancient battles, Alysanne felt the weight of their gaze upon her. She had read about these hallowed halls in dusty tomes, her imagination painting vivid pictures of the grandeur that had once been. But the reality of Dragonstone was starker than any ink and parchment could capture. The castle's grandeur remained, but it was a grandeur marred by the ravages of time and the neglect of those who had claimed it in her family's stead.

The wind howled through the battlements, carrying the scent of the sea and the promise of change. As she walked, her boots clicking against the stone floors, she couldn't help but feel the ghosts of her ancestors at her side, whispering the secrets of the castle's storied past. The black stone walls, scarred by time and the elements, held a solemn silence that seemed to mourn the loss of the Targaryen reign.

It was here that she felt most alive. The weight of her heritage settled upon her shoulders like a cloak made of dragon scales, the very essence of her lineage coursing through her veins. It was a burden she would carry proudly, a destiny she would embrace with every breath. Alysanne had studied the annals of Targaryen history, had memorized the lineages and battles, but to stand here, in the very place where it all began, was to finally understand the gravity of her birthright.

Despite having a garden, named for her ancestor, the first king of Westeros, the island lacked the resources to grow and sustain crops or livestock. Instead, most food came from the surrounding waters.

Alysanne wished she could change this as she had in Dorne.

Perhaps the land was preemptively deemed barren.

Alysanne had studied the ancient tomes and scrolls detailing the agricultural practices of the Valyrians, and she was determined to bring life to the desolate island. She had seen the potential in Dorne, and she knew that with the right knowledge and resources, Dragonstone could thrive as well.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and she turned to find Laenor, her husband, striding towards her with a letter in hand. His features were a mix of excitement and solemnity, a look that made her heart race.

"Alysanne," he called out, his voice echoing through the deserted halls. "You have a letter. It is from across the Narrow Sea, which leads me to believe it is from your aunt, Daenerys Stormborn."

Her heart skipped a beat at the mention of her aunt's name. The woman who had walked through fire and conquered cities was now reaching out to her. It was a sign, she thought, a nod from the gods themselves that her quest was not in vain. She took the letter with trembling hands, breaking the crimson wax seal and unfolding the parchment carefully.

The words danced before her eyes, a mix of excitement and trepidation swirling within her. The letter spoke of an alliance, a joining of their armies to reclaim the Iron Throne. It was a proposal filled with hope and a hint of desperation. Alysanne knew that Daenerys had dragons of her own, and the thought of their combined might was both thrilling and terrifying. The dragons of House Targaryen had not flown together in over a century, and the potential for their fire to sweep across Westeros was a power unparalleled.

"What does she say?" Laenor asked, his eyes searching hers for any clue.

Alysanne took a deep breath, her eyes scanning the parchment. "Daenerys writes of her victories in Essos, the cities she has liberated and the dragons that fly at her command." Her voice grew stronger with each word, the flame of her ancestors' ambition burning brighter in her gaze. "She speaks of her desire to see our family restored to the Iron Throne and proposes a meeting to discuss terms of an alliance."

"Well, isn't that a good thing?"

"Yes and no. Yes, because it means she is reasonable, meaning we might be able to avoid another Targaryen civil war."

"And not?"

"I have only just secured Dragonstone. To leave so soon afterwards is not smart. We haven't guaranteed the loyalty of those in the castle. Even if I left soldiers behind, there is no guarantee they wouldn't attempt a mutiny, especially Ser Gareth."

Ser Gareth was the last to surrender. Most of the garrison had wisely laid down the arms at the sight of the Targaryen Queen and her dragons. Not Ser Gareth.

Instead, he fought, and lost, a battle against Laenor, before ultimately surrendering.

Yes there were her dragons. But, she refused to selfishly put them in harm's way if it could be avoided.

"They could even send word to Stannis of my arrival."

"He is still alive?" Laenor asked.

"Yes. For now at least. But, the weather has delayed his arrival to siege Winterfell. His men, the Southerners at least, are not accustomed to such weather."

Alysanne's gaze drifting out to the sea beyond the castle walls. "We must proceed with caution. An alliance with Daenerys would be a powerful one, but we must ensure that we can trust her envoys. I will write her back and express my desire to meet, but I will not leave Dragonstone unguarded."

Laenor nodded in agreement, his own hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "Your safety and the security of your claim are paramount. We shall send our most trusted advisors and knights to negotiate the terms of this alliance."

"My cousin Quentyn is already in Mereen. Apparently he was the one to propose the alliance."

"Were you aware of this?"

"Not quite. Though, I expect it was my uncle's doing."

Though he was the ruling Prince of Dorne, Alysanne had unofficially appointed him as her Hand of the Queen.

They walked the battlements, the salty breeze carrying the cries of distant seagulls. The castle was a stark contrast to the red sands of Dorne—foreboding, yet strangely comforting in its ancient might.

"The dragons seem restless," Laenor observed, glancing at the open-roofed dome that housed the dragons. Visymera, the obsidian beast, paced back and forth, her orange eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for prey or a challenge.

"They can feel the change in the air," Alysanne murmured, her gaze following Visymera's movements. "They know their time is coming."

The dragon's scales glinted in the fading light, a stark contrast against the gloomy stones of the castle. It was a sight that had once been commonplace in Westeros but had long since become a myth, a memory painted onto the pages of history. Now, with her dragons, Alysanne felt the beginnings of a new chapter unfolding.

"We shall write back," she told Laenor firmly, her eyes never leaving the dragon's majestic form. "Tell her I have reclaimed Dragonstone for House Targaryen and that I am open to discussing an alliance. But," she added with a steely resolve, "I will not leave the security of our ancestral home for the sake of haste."

"A wise choice."

So that was exactly what she did.

In the quiet of her solar, Alysanne penned a reply to her aunt. She wrote of her own trials and triumphs, detailing her journey from Dorne to Dragonstone and the battles she had won. She spoke of the dragons that had hatched for her and the allies she had gathered in her quest to claim her birthright.

Her hand was steady, her words measured and precise. She knew the weight of the parchment she held, the gravity of the words she was committing to it. This was no mere letter; it was a declaration of intent, a bridge built across the Narrow Sea.

"Daenerys, my aunt," she began, her quill gliding over the parchment. "Your letter has reached me here on Dragonstone, our ancestral seat, now reclaimed in the name of House Targaryen." She paused, the significance of her words resonating through the quiet room. "Your victories in Essos are a testament to your strength and valor. The dragons you have freed from their eggs are a beacon of hope to those who still believe in our family's divine right to rule."

Alysanne dipped her quill in ink once more, continuing to scribe. "I am honored by your proposal of an alliance, as we both share the same goal: the restoration of our dynasty to the Iron Throne."

Her hand paused for a moment, contemplating her next words. "I have secured Dragonstone, and with it, the loyalty of several key houses. However, our position here remains precarious. I cannot abandon the castle that is rightfully ours for a hasty meeting. Instead, I suggest that we send envoys to negotiate the terms of our union, ensuring that our interests align and our trust is well founded."

As she wrote, Alysanne couldn't help but feel a sense of kinship with her distant aunt. Both had faced adversity, both had seen their family torn apart by the ambitions of others. Yet, together, they could forge a new destiny for House Targaryen.

"I am eager to explore the possibilities of our alliance," she continued in her letter. "Our combined forces could bring peace to the realm, uniting it under the protection of the dragons as it was in days of old."

As Alysanne wrote, she could almost hear the whispers of the castle's ghosts, the echoes of battles and feasts that had taken place within these very walls. Dragonstone had once been a bastion of Targaryen power, and she was determined to restore it to that former glory.

The quill paused again as she contemplated the gravity of her next words. "I have taken Oldcastle, Hornwood, and the Dreadfort, increasing my influence in the North. Our dragons grow stronger with each passing day, and our allies more steadfast. With your dragons and my own, we could conquer the realm and bring an end to the tyranny that has gripped it since Robert's Rebellion."

The candlelight flickered, casting shadows that danced across the ancient tapestries adorning the walls. Alysanne felt a thrill of anticipation as she wrote. This alliance could mean the end of the usurper's rule and the return of the Targaryens to the Iron Throne. Yet, she knew she had to tread carefully.

"My cousin Quentyn has proven a valuable emissary," Alysanne wrote, her silver hair shimmering in the soft light. "I trust him implicitly. He shall be my voice in your court, speaking of our shared dreams and the future we wish to forge together."

The letter was sealed with a dollop of crimson wax, imprinted with the seal of House Targaryen—a dragon with three heads. Alysanne felt a pang of regret that she could not simply fly to Mereen on the back of Elaenys, her pearl white dragon, to meet her aunt in person. But she knew that the journey was fraught with danger, and she had too much at stake to risk it lightly.

"Send this with all haste," she instructed the raven master, her voice carrying the weight of the message. "It is of the utmost importance."

The raven took flight, its dark wings disappearing into the horizon as it carried her carefully crafted words to the distant lands of Mereen. Alysanne watched it go, her thoughts racing ahead with it. An alliance with Daenerys could mean the end of the tyranny that had befallen the realm. With dragons on their side, the Targaryens could reclaim their birthright and bring peace to the lands torn apart by the usurper's reign.