The sun was beginning to dip low over vast expanse of Dorne, casting long shadows across the dry desert. The heat of the day still clung to the air, but the breeze that began to stir was warm, almost like an embrace. In the distance, the sand dunes shimmered beneath the fading light, while the dry scent of earth and spice hung heavy. The desert, never truly quiet, hummed with life.
Up on a hill behind a village near the coast, a small weirwood tree stood—its leaves sparse, a stark contrast to the great heart trees of the North. It was here that Old Wyllen sat, his old bones aching, pipe in hand, and a bag of oats resting at his side. Beside him, a small child named Haddy sat with her legs dangling over the edge of a low stone wall, her flaxen hair damp from the heat.
They sat in quiet for a while, the silence broken only by the whispering of the weirwood's leaves in the warm wind. Wyllen took a slow drag from his pipe, exhaling the smoke in a lazy arc, and then spoke, his voice low but clear.
> "Funny, this weather," Wyllen murmured. "Feels like summer never left. Crops grow easy, cows fat. No snow for years now. Not normal, not for the North. But I ain't complainin'. No, not me."
Haddy squinted up at him, her big eyes searching his face. "Mama says it's just the way the seasons go. She says the winters'll come again."
> "Aye," Wyllen replied, his voice softening. "They will. But not like they used to. Not like during the Long Night."
The child tilted her head, intrigued. "Was it really all dead people? Like bones and blue eyes?"
Wyllen let out a long breath, his gaze distant now as if he could still see the ghosts of those terrible days. "Aye. All that and worse. Cold that bit deeper than steel. Fires that wouldn't burn long. Folk dyin' and risin' again. I saw a man scream with no mouth left to scream."
Haddy hugged her knees to her chest, but her curiosity was still stronger than her fear.
> "But they're all gone now?"
Wyllen nodded slowly, his wrinkled hand stroking his beard. "Aye. They're gone. And we're here because others stood in their place. Starks, wildlings, even that dragon queen from far off. They fought, and so we live to see another day."
Before he could say more, the soft crunch of boots on the dry earth reached their ears. A man in the familiar livery of the Sandguard came into view, his dark face streaked with sweat. His spear hung loosely at his side, the tip dragging through the dust. It was Joro, a tall, weary figure, returning from his shift.
Haddy's face lit up as she spotted him. "Joro, you're back early!"
Joro smiled, his lips tight with weariness. "The sun's finally gone, little one. My shift's over."
He sank down onto a stone beside them with a heavy sigh, resting his spear against the wall. Wyllen watched him with a knowing look, the weariness of the man speaking volumes.
> "Long day?" Wyllen asked.
Joro nodded slowly, wiping his brow. "Aye. The heat's hard on the bones. But it's quiet tonight, at least. Quiet's good."
Haddy tilted her head, her innocence shining through as she asked, "Did you fight any of the dead people? Like in the stories?"
Joro's smile faltered for just a moment, and he glanced at Wyllen before speaking. "That's a tale for the old folk to tell, little one. Some of us fought, but not many. I was just a boy then. But I've heard the stories. Many of us have."
Wyllen shifted his weight, his gaze distant once more. "The dead came, but not just the dead. Men and women from all over came to fight. The North. The wildlings. Even Dorne sent its blood. They all stood, even when we couldn't. And some of 'em didn't make it back. We owe them."
Joro nodded slowly, his face hardening with the weight of memory. "We owe them more than we can ever know."
Haddy's voice was soft but sincere. "I'll remember too."
Wyllen smiled, an old warmth crossing his features. "Good. It's important. To remember."
Joro glanced at the horizon, his gaze distant. "We owe them. All of them. They gave us this peace. This quiet."
The three of them sat in silence, the wind cooling as the sun dipped lower. The weirwood's branches rustled softly, and the vast desert stretched endlessly before them, each of them wrapped in their own thoughts.
Finally, Wyllen rose, stiff from sitting too long in the heat. He brushed off his tunic and stretched. "Time to move along, I think. The night don't wait for nobody."
Joro gave a small chuckle, standing with him. "No, it don't. Dorne's always watchin'."
Haddy ran ahead, her small feet kicking up dust as she skipped down the path. Joro's eyes lingered on the horizon once more, his thoughts turning inward.
> "We owe them," he whispered to the wind. "The ones who didn't come back."
Wyllen and Haddy walked slowly back toward the village, leaving the desert behind them, but Joro stayed behind a moment longer, his eyes cast on the land that had been protected by the blood of those who had fought and fallen.
The desert night crept in, its coolness like a shadow, but the peace that came after the storm still hung in the air—like the whisper of the weirwood's leaves, still rustling with the memories of those who had given everything.
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Chapter End.
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