A Dragon Kissed by Sun

Oberyn Martell - After 3 Months

"Can I come with you?" This question was asked countless times today; his children were following Oberyn for the whole day. Almost like a snake following his prey, and now he was the prey of four dangerous snakes.

Yesterday came the letter from the "King"; apparently, the fool Baelon Greyjoy decided to call himself king of Iron Islands, the War has started, Robert Baratheon had called his banners to go to the Iron Islands and execute the traitor.

Oberyn had been joyful to hear the lions had taken a significant hit from the Iron fuckers, but knew he needed to go to war.

Usually, Oberyn would have wanted just to find an excuse, any excuse to not go in the War and help the Stag after what he had done and what the Lannisters had done. But Oberyn knew of his plan with Doran, which involved him taking out a Whisper before they start preparing for Jon becoming the King of The Seven Kingdoms; once the Whisper is out of the picture, they can genuinely start the first step to crown Jaehaerys Targaryen.

Oberyn had decided to delay telling his kids except for Obara that he would go to war as much as possible. Still, apparently, his curious Niece Ari had somehow found out and told Jon, Obara and Nymeria.

At first, his children, especially Jon, had almost yelled at him in anger for deciding to help the Stag, but Oberyn promised them that this was part of the Plan to take Revenge on Aunt Elia and her children, which seemed to calm them, but the worst came next.

"I want to come," Jon asked again behind him, following him around like a lost puppy, followed closely by Obara and Nym.

Deciding that enough was enough, he turned around at his children, who didn't flinch or even looked slightly frightened by his angry face.

"Jon, this is War; this is not a game. Do you want to come with me because you want glory?" Oberyn spoke, looking at his only son, who didn't break eye contact.

"No, I don't care about that; I want to come and be there to watch your back and make sure you will return Home to Us," Jon stated with determination, his voice slightly breaking at the end, the thought alone of losing his father made Jon afraid.

Oberyn didn't expect that answer; usually, young kids and children of his age thought that War was fun, a place to earn eternal glory and that pointless crap, but Jon seemed to want a reasonable thing. Oberyn felt pride for his little prince, and his eyes turned to look at Obara and Nym; both of them appeared to be in the same mind as Jon.

Sighing, he thought that if Jon was at least 14 name days, he would have at least considered it, but his young prince was only six, still young, very young.

"Listen," Oberyn started and kneeled in front of Jon, putting his hand on his shoulder. "If it makes you feel better, Art is coming with me," Oberyn spoke, mentioning Arthur's name. Jon's lips twitched upwards slightly; he knew Ser Art was good at fighting, perhaps even better than his father despite hating the thought.

"When you will return?" Jon asked with a tiny voice, thinking that he could go there and help him if his father took longer to return than he thought.

Oberyn knew he couldn't just say it. Wars were long, from months to years; he knew this rebellion could last up to a year.

"I will return within a year, my little Boy, be Strong and Be Smart, don't get Lazy," Oberyn spoke with a jape at the end at Jon, who had a face of determination.

"Yes, Father, I will make you proud," Jon stated; Oberyn kissed his cheek before he ruffled his hair, much to Jon's annoyance.

'I'm already proud of you,' Oberyn thought with a smile, looking at his rich purple eyes.

Walking away, Obara followed him, knowing she would come with him; Jon left to reach the library; he wanted to read with Alyanna. Nym followed him since he found reading with Jon something she enjoyed, especially when they were talking about Dragons, Dire Wolves and other creatures of power.

Night soon came to Dorne; Jon was sleeping as dreams showed him the Past of Dragons.

Aegon stood at the Painted Table looking over the lands of Westeros, his new desire. "Westeros should be united under one King, rather than these little Kingdoms." Aegon Targaryen was always one to get straight to the point. He had seen the way that the so-called Kings acted with each other and decided they were not fit to rule. "Why should they fight between themselves on this small continent when one great man could rule over all the land?"

"And how would you unite them?" Orys Baratheon questioned. He was seen as the sensible one in the preparations, looking at the finer details whilst Aegon looked at war.

"I don't know yet, and I will convene a war council in the morning. Now enough talk of war, where are my sister-wives?" Aegon was tired of talking and wanted action, but he knew that he would have to wait until he would get what he wants.

"I believe they're in the bedchamber already, my Lord." With a small bow, Orys left the painted table and returned to his bedchamber.

Aegon then took the long journey to go to his bedchamber where his wives were waiting. In Westeros, it was considered very wrong to wed your sister, but for generations, Targaryens had wed brother to sister in order to preserve the bloodline they had established. This ancient tradition had predated the Doom that fell onto Valyria, which caused the Targaryens to feel to Valyria's remaining stronghold, Dragonstone.

Aegon stepped into the bedchamber and immediately undressed. It took him several minutes to realise that neither Visenya nor Rhaenys were in the room with him. With an exasperated sigh, he got himself up and moved to the balcony. From here, he could see his sisters out in the courtyard. He smiled as he saw their Targaryen silver hair blowing in the wind. They were deep in conversation, and no doubt Aegon would hear about it soon enough.

As the time approached midnight, Aegon wished to sleep, but sleep he would not. As the date of his planned invasion of Westeros approached, he slept ill and dreamt of repetitive images: the burning of men and grass, great columns of stone so hot they were melting, a young boy in a courtyard and a fleet of ships lay waste across the sea. It was these images that kept Aegon awake. It was these images that made him doubt himself. Still, he attempted to get some sleep and wondered what insight this night would bring.

Upon the following day, Aegon awoke to an empty bed. He got up and dressed immediately before going to study the Painted Table, a new ritual he had adopted. He had hoped the Orys would have told his councillors of his plan for a war council that morning and was glad to see Orys, Visenya and Rhaenys waiting for him at the Painted Table.

"Where is Daemon?" Aegon was concerned that his close friend, and the best sailor he knew, had disappeared at a time when he was needed. "I specifically asked for a war council; how can this occur when we are one member short?

"Give him time, Aegon, now to business." Rhaenys tried to diffuse the tension and stress that was clearly already built up in Aegon.

"Yes, well, as you know, it is my ambition to unite these so-called Seven Kingdoms under one ruler so that Westeros will be able to prosper in a way not seen before. It is my opinion that we should prepare for war immediately because the longer we wait, the more time these so-called Kings have time to prepare for our invasion." Aegon knew that his ideas would not be received well, his council were more cautious than he was, but he had seen himself as King and knew it was his destiny.

"My Lord, is that wise? We have little strength to our army, and despite the added help from your heritage, I don't know whether it will be enough to take these Kingdoms for your own." Once again, Orys made Aegon doubt his plans. "Would it not be wiser to wait for more support and then attack at our strongest?"

"We would run the risk of fighting enemies at their strongest too, get them at a time of surprise, and they will crumble with their holdfasts, let me assure you." Daemon was good at bold entrances, even if they later than needed.

"Daemon, glad you could join us." Orys had always distrusted Daemon but did not say anything that may offend Aegon, "it is still a great risk."

"With respect, Orys, anything we do will have great risks; this is a war we are talking about." At least Aegon was glad Visenya had made her point. Orys would argue with Daemon and place doubt on Aegon, but when one of the women got involved, he knew the game was up.

"It's no greater threat than when I have gone to the holdfasts undercover." Aegon regretted what he said immediately. Only Visenya and himself knew about this and could have almost predicted the response he got.

"You mean you have already visited these places?" Rhaenys said incredulously. She was the epitome of Targaryen beauty, the silvery long strands falling on her shoulders and the deep violet eyes that drew you in when you stared at them. Still, she often lacked the intelligence of war that Visenya had, preferring poetry and singing.

"Of course, I must understand my enemy before I plan war; now there is a great deal to discuss, let us sit." Aegon invited the group to sit around the table as breakfast was served

"I intend to inform the so-called Kings of the Seven Kingdoms soon of my preposition to unite the continent into one Kingdom but to do this. I will require some lords to rally to my side and a credible story to threaten these Kings already. How would you suggest I go about this?"

Aegon looked around at the faces he would soon trust in war and studied them in detail. Orys had some elements of Targaryen blood, such as the violet eyes, but his hair was as black as night, which he inherited through his mother. Rhaenys looked the part as a future queen in her new red gown and her hair flowing over her shoulders. Visenya looked more prepared for the war to come, wearing clothes that looked like dragonskin and an hungered look in her final person Aegon studied was the man at the end, Daemon. He was new to their council but had already proven useful. He was a small, weedy man who looked like he could barely lift a bag of wheat, yet he was smart and strategic and a great help to Aegon.

"We could establish ourselves at the Blackwater Rush, perhaps crown you and then gain support from neighbouring lords." Daemon had once again proven his use to Aegon and was glad to have his support in this upcoming battle.

"Wouldn't that annoy Harren? Should we risk such a bold statement at the start of our campaign?" Aegon admired Orys for trying to continue a plan to appease everyone. His half-brother was not against war but had taken a more modest approach to war after seeing the reaction of the others at the meetings.

"No matter what we do, we will annoy one of the Kings, we have to start somewhere, and I feel it is as good a place as any. Besides, that is the point of our conquest. Orys, call the bannersand prepare for invasion. Daemon, I want the ships ready and prepared for sailing before the week is out, and my beautiful wives, we must prepare for our fight." And with that, Aegon left the room with a wife around each arm, out of the castle and to the courtyard. From here, he saw the beauty of Targaryen heritage in all its glory. "Magnificent as always," Aegon sighed. "These are what will win us this war."

Above them, the three Targaryen dragons flew around in some form of dance, showing the start of what was to come.

What is This?

The azure blue sky of the Dornish lands was bare of any clouds. The sun, looking like a yolk, scorned the vast desert with its scorching rays, condemned all living beings to wither away. It baked Rhaenys's exposed arms, provoking red dots to bloom on her porcelain skin. As the wind tousled her hair and whipped it about her sun-kissed face, the great beast between her thighs purred. Rhaenys felt its throat vibrate with tenor of its cry- Meraxes was tired.

The sun had been in her face when they crossed Prince's Pass, the gateway through the Red Mountains. A host of Dornish spearmen guarded the pass, but Rhaenys did not engage them. Now the sun was above her head. Wherever her eyes went, it was a trackless stretch of red and the white sands.

Sometime after midday, the dragon queen descended upon Vaith to demand its submission. The castle was tall and pale, built in the hills east of the restless dunes of Dorne.

She found the entry unbarred. From the huge archway hung House Vaith's coat of arms- three black leopards standing on a yellow pile on orange. Her footsteps echoed on the floor; there was no sign of guards; everything was eerily quiet like the haunted towers of Valyria. The stillness of the castle sent shivers down her spine. The mirthful garden, where children played joyously only a moon ago, the halls, stables and servants quarters, all were empty- as though someone had wiped out their existence.

Eventually, Rhaenys came upon the town under the walls. The narrow streets were barren, the stalls were shut, as were all of the doors throughout the settlement. The only sound was the soft drip-drip of the water that leaked through the drains, which carried water straight from the river Vaith. She gathered them in her palm and splashed the water in her face: they were the blood of the dragon; heat does not affect them the same way as they do common men but the desert sucking the life out of even dragons.

Her heart lurched as she saw a set of curious eyes peering behind the windows of the huts. A few more windows opened, and as many heads appeared- all women, some children and a few older men. Their eyes were colder than desert at night and unrelenting.

"Where are your Lords?" Rhaenys asked.

"Away." They answered.

Once again, Rhaenys mounted her dragon. Meraxes spread out its leathern wings; its pale, ivory scales gleamed in the sunlight. It followed the river downstream to Gods grace, the seat of House Allyrion, but was too met with disappointment.

On she flew. Down the desert where Greenblood met the sea. The floating city of the Planky Town, where hundreds of poleboats, fishing skiffs, barges, houseboats, and hulks sat baking in the sun, tethered to each other with ropes and chains and planks. Meraxes dropped her off a little away from the city. There too, she found only a few old women and small children. They peered up at her as Meraxes circled overhead.

Where are your men? Away.

Finally, the queen's flight took her to the shore of the summer sea, to Sunspear, the ancient seat of House Martell established by the Princess Nymeria of Rhoynar, the great warrior and voyager, a queen by her own right and held the admiration of Visenya.

She found the Princess of Dorne waiting in her abandoned castle shielded by no more than thirty men and women. The back of the throne, moulded in the likeness of the sun, supported her large structure. She radiated dominance, determination and defiance. "The Yellow Toad of Dorne," Argilac the Arrogant had named her.

Meria Martell seemed older than the land itself. At her age, she should have one foot in the grave. She was very fat, blind, and almost bald, her skin sallow and sagging, but her voice never faltered.

"I am glad to find you in good health, Queen Merina."

"Princess Merina." The old woman corrected her in a rough yet stern voice. "In Dorne, we take the title of Prince and Princess. A custom I understand you are unaccustomed to. Come closer, dragon queen. I cannot see you, but I can smell your presence. They talk of your beauty from Wall to the Water Gardens. Would that I weren't blind I could witness your beauty.

"But you are not here to entertain the whims of an old woman. Tell me, how may we show our hospitality."

"By not taking up the title Queen as you have always done. We offer your a house chance to seize glory with the greatest dynasty that will ever be. Join our cause, and you will forever have a seat in the King's council. Join us, and you will never have to suffered in the hands of the Lords of Reach."

The Princess laughed. It was dry, shrill and soon turned into a fit of violent cough that was only stopped after a mouthful of wine.

"Look at our history, child. Dorne has no short of glory. We had fought in Valyria, in Essos and in Westeros. You offer glory to half of your population. We offer glory to both men and women. In this land, we are truly equal where your women cannot set foot out of the towers they are locked in all life."

Rhaenys marvelled at the zeal of the woman. Out of all who had resisted them, she was the most formidable despite never resorting to physical fights.

"I admire the spirit I truly do. But you are the leader of your people. Would you watch them being slaughtered because you were too proud to bend the knee?"

"My knee has worn off, my dear, but why'd anyone slaughter my people when we have wronged none?"

"It is not a matter of right or wrong. We have offered you peace more than once, and you still scorn us. Believe me, we mean every word we say- anyone that stands in our way, we will vanquish them."

"I will not fight you," Princess Meria declared. "nor will I kneel to you. Dorne has no king. Tell your brother that."

"I shall," Rhaenys replied. "but we will come again, Princess, and the next time we shall come with fire and blood."

"Your words," said Princess Meria. "Ours are Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. You may burn us, my lady, but you will not bend us, break us, or make us bow. This is Dorne. You are not wanted here. Return at your peril."

Frustrated, Rhaenys sighed heavily. "Very well. Hide and run away as you had run from Valyria. It is all you can do."

"We do. But we Rhoynar people have survived and lived to watch Valyria perish."

What is this Dream?

The Dornish were feisty; Rhaenys could give the roaches that. For six years Rhaenys and her sister Visenya had fought alongside their brother Aegon, King of Westeros, to bring Dorne into the realm. They'd tried it through peace during the conquest, and it had not worked, and now they were going to try and do it through war. Lord Harlan Tyrell and Lord Rosby had suffered the consequences of their initially lax approach, and then Orys, sweet, devoted Orys, had been captured and had lost his hand before Aegon had relented and ransomed him. Their brother had not been happy with Aegon, and as such, had resigned his handship, much to her love's hurt and surprise.

Below her, the lands of Hellholt burned. The seat of House Uller was one that she had decided she would try to take. Aegon was burning away to Sunspear, and Visenya had reduced Yronwood and the lands around the Boneway to little more than ash. Lord Yronwood had burned to death in his castle. His heir was a little girl, who had bent the knee to Aegon after what Visenya had done. House Uller was dangerous though, they were the house of Prince Nymor's wife, and as such, Rhaenys was under the opinion that if she did enough damage, Prince Nymor might come to his senses and ask his mother to stop this carnage.

She could hear the people below screaming. It filled her with no joy or sadness or anything. This was what the Dornish lords had brought upon their own people, through their refusal to see that Aegon was meant to rule their land. She had seen the face of a little boy in Starfall after she had accompanied Lord Theo Tyrell to put the castle to the sack. The boy had been about her Aenys age, and as such, she wondered whether or not his father and mother were willing to die for the Martells or even the Daynes, given the way they simply seemed to ignore the suffering of their people.

A bolt was fired at her, and it narrowly missed her and Meraxes. She laughed, so it seemed the Ullers had been paying attention then and had found some way to bring a challenge to her. She scanned the land below her and found where the source was coming from; she urged Meraxes down lower to ensure that she could get full use of her flames. When she was within range, the Ullers fired another scorpion bolt. Rhaenys looked at it as he came, and then she drew her morning star and swatted the thing to the side, laughing. Her blood was pumping. She stared at the Dornishmen and women on the battlements staring at her in abject fear. "Jalaana." She whispered to Meraxes.

She watched as Meraxes burned the Dornishmen on the battlements, she heard their screams, she heard their cries for help and for mercy, and she thought of what had been done Orys, to Lord Harlan and to Lord Rosby, and she ignored them. As if sensing her anger, Meraxes let out a loud roar and resumed burning with greater intensity. Silver flames emerged from her mouth, and as such, the battlements were soon reduced to nothingness. A crack sounded in the air as they dissolved into dust. Rhaenys urged her mount upwards to see what more needed to be done.

As they got higher into the air, another scorpion bolt was released, but this one fell a lot shorter than the previous one had. Rhaenys looked at the castle below her. Hellholt was a smoking ruin. She heard a horn sound, and she knew that the army under the command of Brandon Stark, heir to Winterfell, had come. She had been surprised that the Starks had agreed to send a small force southwards. But it seemed Lord Torrhen was desperate to show his loyalty, especially after Visenya had gone and paid him a visit.

Rhaenys watched as the remaining Uller strength wilted away under the threat of the Northern army. When she saw the white flag being raised onto the battlements, she urged Meraxes down. Her mount landed gracefully, and she dismounted. She looked around and saw burned corpses and ash. She felt sadness but also relief, perhaps now things would be different, and the Dornish would finally turn against the Martells.

Jon suddenly opened his eyes, breathing heavily, his little hand on his chest, trying to catch his breath. Why am I dreaming this? Jon asked himself.

His eyes raised again and saw he wasn't in his room anymore, he was in a dark place, his bed gone, and he was lying on strange branches.

"This is a Dream", Jon spoke, "Is it?" Turning around, he was met with... Jon looked at the face with confusion, almost looking at a face carved in a Tree. Looking closely, he saw his body resting against the tree, his face old, full of wrinkles. He was the oldest man Jon had ever seen.

"Who are you?" Jon asked respectfully; his father and uncle always told him to respect old people and to always be wary of the wisdom behind them.

"The question, is Who are you?" The old man said, his voice low and rusty.

"I'm Jon Sand, son of Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne; who are you?" Jon stated with pride in his voice.

The old man chuckled at the young's man words. The way the old man looked at Jon reminded the young boy of the way, uncle Doran and sometimes Art would look at him.

"My name is Brynden Rivers, young Prince,"