Summary:

With the mind of a Volatene and the temper of a Martell,

Gael will make a name for himself in Westeros,

for his bastard sisters and the promising discovery of a iridescent gold egg,

he will fight for his father's revenge and his right to rule a free Dorne.

Author's Note: I own nothing. AU Universe. This will cover Pre-Robert's Rebellion and onward loosely following the books. I will begin in the year 279 AC, and the appearance of the dragon egg will begin in Chapter 10, so brace yourself for impact. I will switch the POV between my OC protagonist Gael Sand, and then with the Targaryen royal family in King's Landing. This was written purely for fun, but if some facts seem off, please tell me, don't belittle me, thank you, and enjoy!

THE RISING SUN

Chapter 1: Gael

The hot and heavy air clung to Gael's shoulders,

condensation of sweat dripping down his sunburnt back,

as the he attempted to thrust his whip at the sword wielding girl with pierced nipples and stretched ear holes the size of baby fists.

"Fuck you Hoga," she was fast, and a good two heads taller than him.

While for Gael, his bare chest and feet burnt red, made every well-spent thrust in enduring pain and still he was losing against her.

Struggling to keep up, he had to try, he had to in front of the shadowed audience, his whip coiled and slapped the heated air shimmering off the flagstone courtyard, and the salty seagull-crying breeze from the Orange Shore was their only reprieve from the almighty bright monster in the sky.

"What's wrong Widow's son," Hoga teased him, "can't fight today?"

Day in, Day out, she said the same. His untouchable dueler, his slave girl, and yet she had no problem with making her stabs,

she even enjoyed it, seeing him fall so low to her, and having no choice but to put up with his shortcomings.

Hoga made plenty of hits with her blunt broadsword, he had more purple than skin these days, "Gael come on! Are you afraid of losing to a girl? Again?"

Hoga's triumphant grin leaked into Gael's,

whose scarred lips grew upwards, his chin dripping sweat when he saw his first chance, "no."

Gael, the Boy Master, pulled his whip, this time it caught around Hoga's leg, and she fell backwards, hard on her skinny ass, "you stopped paying attention."

"Gael!"

He turned his lanky body at the call of his name, the hoarse voice commanded him from the place where the audience was watching, "come here, and stop that roughing around!"

"Why?" He wiped the sweat from his face, not in the mood to finish, not when he was just winning, "I need more practice."

"Do not question me boy," it came from the dark shade of the common room at the Merchant House of Volantis, a great oak table sat there, with chairs, and concealed guests too, and the whack of the walking stick against the smooth marble pillar meant he was frustrating her, "I have a man I want you to meet my son, come."

He did not have much of a choice, this was after-all her courtyard, her swords, her rules, "Fine I am coming, fuck-" he got a solid punch in the face for turning away, fell flat on his knees, and his palms rubbed hard against burning rock, tearing skin. It stung.

Hoga gloated, "Got you!"

Gael's hands bled against the sandy stone, pieces of rock got into the cuts, he could not get the pieces out, "Hoga! You bloody bitch-"

"Hah," the slave girl stuck his tongue at him as he rubbed at his swelling cheek, defeated by her once more, "I told you that I would win-"

"GAEL! Come here, right now," he was in trouble, the elderly crone had very little patience with him as it was, and out from the dark she hobbled, with company.

Gael picked himself up, wiping his bleeding knee, and walking over to the petite hunchback of familiar dark eyes, wisps of hoary white hair, and from her sweaty head glazed patches of pink patchy skin in the unrelenting sun, "what is it?"

The old woman's wrinkles stretched into a frown, disappointed with his attitude, "This man has come to visit us," she extended her saggy hand, the Widow's wrinkled skin reminded Gael of a dried up prune, definitely an uninviting view to the girls he usually watched, but still for the visitor's sake, she was his lovely grandmother, and the respectable pimp of the Merchant House.

"Yes, grandmother."

"Do you know this man," she asked of him, her cane tapping the floor, her silent communication only increased with the intensity of her flapping fan, her freckled arms jingled with twenty dragonbone bangles, "does he seem familiar to you? His face?"

This was more than a mere question, this was something he should know, a test.

Gael looked at the stranger, trying to remember him, but this man, lightly armored greaves, vambraces, spaulder, impressive steel codpiece, grinning snake-eyes, sharp nose, and thick black hair did not strike him as someone he would have forgotten.

Surely the emblazoned copper sun, could not be more, "he is a Westerosi," that as much was clear, "what is the big fucken deal?"

"Your grandson has a tongue on him," the man rubbed his impressive black moustache, Gael could only hope for the day he inherited his own, "something from you perhaps?"

"Never," the Widow spit the green phlegm she chewed on occasion, "you little fool, this is a Prince of Dorne," his grandmother smacked him with her fan, "show him your respect."

"Yes, grandmother."

"He is a cute one," the Prince threw himself on the cushions, and so did they, trying to sit lower than he, "did you raise a parrot or a boy?"

That earned him a few laughs from the actual Widow's Sons that guarded his grandmother, and Gael hid his distaste poorly, not really caring about his manners, and more of how Volantis men should be wanting his respect, and not the other way around.

Gael was of the Old Blood. A little Lord in his own right from his grandfather's blood on his mother's side. Volantis was different from Westeros, if you had the Old Blood you were untouchable. But that did not mean that you were loved. Even the Old Blood loved to hate their true rulers, Triachs, three rulers abode in the magicked two hundred foot Black Wall, prideful, oppressive, and untouchable, that was the Volantenes' way, a quiet fury, he asked, "does a Prince have a name?"

"My name is Prince Oberyn Martell," the man's widow peak scrunched up as his thin eyebrows rose, "and you," his accent was very strong, he did not hide it, "are you the Gael I been hearing about," they shook hands, his larger hand refuse to let him go, "you know how to use that whip?"

Grandmother found it funny, "He knew his way around a whip since he was four," her old hands kindly rubbed Gael's dark haired-head, and Oberyn looked impressed, and he would soon learn she was never finished in praising him, the centerpiece of their families power, "he has big shoulders to fill. His grandfather was the great Triarch Vogarro, and his mother, my daughter, runs the House of the Tiger in his stead."

This was surprising news to the Westerosi, he released Gael, whom rubbed his numb hand, "I thought Malaquo Maegyr ruled the Tiger?"

The widow of the waterfront shrugged, "it is the same thing, here, come, come Prince Oberyn Martell, you must be starving, eat, eat," she pushed the man towards cold soup that appeared like purple honey in Norvosi silver bowls, swirling in it was sweet beats, next was a golden gemmed goblet of sweet red wine to wash it down, and a sweet tight pussy named Elena for later.

"I will enjoy these gifts," Prince Oberyn shoved his tongue into the girl's mouth, she moaned with him, and Gael coughed loudly while covering the growing bulge in his pants. This embarrassing new development had been happening all the time now.

Hoga laughed her horse laugh, obviously catching on to his horny state, but thankfully his grandmother did not, "delicious," said the Westerosi Prince eyes roaming over the offered refreshments, his mood lustful, and his dark eyes hooded, "do you know who I am girl?"

Elena spoke demurely, "No my Prince."

"I am from Dorne, across the Narrow Sea, you should come to visit me, bring your friends," he asked as Elena, a fifteen year old perfumed paramour bouncing on his knee, a babe in every sense, because even Gael had yet to have her, passable virgins were rarely sacrificed, and he knew that with the gleam in both women's eyes, his grandmother was up to something.

His grandmother's men were shifting in their sweat, Elena's eyes were alight with fascination, and the fact that his mother had not come to fetch him, Gael knew this visitor was here for something dangerous or expensive, such was the way of foreigners in Volantis.

When Prince Oberyn had his fill, he spoke his needs, "I wish to see your daughter."

"You know I cannot let you do that," his grandmother stroked the hand of her very own sex slave, thick blonde hair hung around his well cut cheeks, and a black tear in the corner of the manslave's eye made it known that he was not here of his own free will, "she rarely leaves the Black Wall these days."

Oberyn stroked the hair of his own borrowed pet, "She will not like that she missed me-"

"True, but what Vogarra doesn't know will not kill her," his grandmother placed her hand over the male pleasure slave's taut arms, appraising the sinew and skin, she never looked so old, "she is spoiled as my only child. Marriage only spoils her more. Your visit will do nothing good for her."

Oberyn brought the wine to his lips, sipping, mulling that news, "I don't have to meet her, I only wish to meet someone within the Black Walls, is there no one that can get me in, just for a bit?"

Grandmother pursed her lips, just a bit, would be hard enough, "I wish I could help you," she did not relent, Gael could see that the conversation was going nowhere, his grandmother rarely gave in.

"You're not really helping me," the Prince disagreed.

She knew it too, used it to her advantage, "You must understand Oberyn. This is not Westeros, freed slaves don't live in the Black Walls, among the nobility, it simply is not done," if you looked closely you would see the Widow's own battle scars, deep cuts to rid slave tattoos, "you've seen it, there are Valyrians with pussies whiter than my daughters, no impossible, I can't ruin my family's reputation on a whim," she would for a great sum if the Prince was smart enough, he smartly tried doing so, "no, it's not the money. No amount of honors can make your blood valuable. You are born free, or born a slave, so it is Prince Oberyn. So even if I wanted to, they would never allow me back in."

Gael tore off a piece of bread, the answer came to him as he chewed, his eyes meeting the matriarch of his family, "can I bring him in grandmother?"

"You could do that boy?"

Gael frowned, not liking the interruption, "I am not a boy," Hoga laughed through her hands, she knew it would tip him over the edge, "shutup Hoga, or I will leave you here when I go back home."

The Prince seemed surprised, Gael was a little proud of that, perhaps he did have more power than he thought, Oberyn lifted the overflowing goblet to him, he spilled some on the Qohor imported table of white oak, careless, "of course you could, you live in the city do you not? With your mother?"

"Yes, I am the Old Blood," Gael watched the way the man destroyed his grandmother's table, stains would remain once he left, but that did not bother him as much as he first thought, "I do live there."

"Perfect," the Prince's moustache danced on his smile, infectious, "fetch your beast, we should get going-" he drank the rest of the wine, taking the rest to go with them, and leaving Elena frowning in losing a possible patron, "sorry lovely, the gods be good, and we will meet again," he gave her a long kiss, moaning, "or I will have to kidnap you to keep all for myself."

The paramour Elena giggled as she was kissed goodbye, the Widow did not like that, her mouth in an ugly twist, and Gael felt his stomach rumble with anxiety.

"Coming Gael?"

What could Gael say, he did not stray away from the Prince's face, and made quick work to finish his whole wine as he left too, "Coming my Prince."

Gael did not get far.

She would never let him leave so easily, "Now just wait a moment, you are not leaving!"

Not this again, he tried to ignore her. Grandmother was still playing her game, she had not dismissed him, and so he was not surprised when a hoarse shriek flew from her lips, she stood to her impressive five foot height, "You can't go, I forbid it-"

Gael could ignore her no longer, "We aren't doing anything wrong grandmother," that much was true, despite the excitement teeming in Gael's veins at escorting a royal through Volantis, bringing the West into the Valyrian fortress would ruffle feathers, and that was not something he wanted to miss, "I want to show him our great city, take him to mother-"

"NO!"

Grandmother scratched her pleasure slave's beautiful golden skin, he yelped holding his face, and was dismissed, the excitement turned stale, an uneasy silence following in the common room that had not been there before, "No Gael you are staying here! Prince Oberyn, the boy does not know what he speaks of, he dishonors us all-"

She was being ridiculous again, senile female, Gael sighed, "Now grandmother, stop fussing," the little Tiger did not see the problem, "I live in the Black Walls, I can take my Prince, my guest, it's my right," it could be that simple, he had the higher status than anyone in this courtyard, "I can take you in. I need only get my things," he kissed his grandmother's frowning lips, "I will return," he promised her, hoping she would not stay upset.

"Do not worry about her. Come my Prince, I will take you," Gael promised, they left the moss covered courtyard, Hoga hot on his heels, because she was just as excited to lead the foreigner, this would be far more fun than staying in the old and debauched Merchant House, and under the thumb of his grumpy grandmother, "come on Hoga, get Vox."

Hoga bowed for the command, "Yes, Master."

His dark skinned slave-girl ran through the bustle of busy street, across the way her back glistened with sweat, and it disappeared into the shade of his grandmother's stables to get their ride.

"Well that is something I never missed," Gael felt the Prince lean over him, his height was domineering, and the Westerosi coughed when the dust bowl hit them in the face.

Gael knew when to keep his mouth shut from the dust bowls, "Oh yes, the heat, it gets to us too, in the summer you could cook an egg on the street, my friend Malarro said he could cook it if I shaved my-"

The Prince interrupted, "I meant the slavery."

"What?"

The Prince was staring at Gael curiously, with something he had not seen there before, because the foreigner had not been able to look away from the putrid sweat of unwashed bodies, large hungry eyes, skeleton frames, tattered rags, and the boy could, he forgot to look, "you do not approve of our slaves? Have you seen better?"

"No, it's not like that at all."

"I can speak to their Masters if you find them comely?"

"No, what about your slave," Hoga's frizzy head, white-robbed frame, and smooth ebony skin was a stark difference among the many others like her, unbathed and whipped daily, "why should she call you her Master? She is your age, maybe older?"

The eleven-year old Gael found it silly, "Age does not dictate, if I am her Master or not."

"Quite the contrary," he leaned back against the wall, rubbing on his moustache, "age can mean a great deal, you should have respect for your elders. You could lose out on a great lesson they could teach you," the Prince slapped his lips together, pleased with himself, "something my father once told me."

Gael grumbled, biting back, "If I did then you would be stuck with my grandmother, and would never get what you wanted in the Black Walls."

"Hah, smart boy, your more than a parrot, heh," the Prince said as the great shadow came over them, led by Hoga's in chains, silencing, stinking, massive belly, more massive cracking joints of bulbous legs, and a grand trumpet as the beast recognized her Master's son.

The Prince was humbled by the sight, "you are far too young to be a Master Gael, well the Master of anything at all."

Gael's smile vanished, "let me show you," he took his whip out, the weight felt right in his hands, and he only had to lift it over his head, shouting commands at the great shadow, "Mazigon! Keligon! Keligon," and the elephant went to its haunches quicker than he had expected. It's large meaty head bent in submission, ears flapping at the dust and flies, and its large dark eyes Gael no longer payed attention to closed shut.

"There, you see? Even this beast knows I am its Master," the Boy Master was thrilled at his show of power, "that is the way boys are raised here, to be their own masters," Gael said climbing to his palanquin, "what do you say to that my Prince?"

The Westerosi had his arms around his chest, staring off into the bustle of slave ripe street, and even a Boy Master could tell, he was not impressed.