The sun always beat harshly in Dorne. Even in the dead of winter, the heat was sweltering. Most of the land was sun-scorched and windswept. There were oases, to be certain, but they were few and far between. It was in one such oasis, however, that a comely youth reclined side-long on a velveteen chair, bracing his head on one hand. Over the site of the oasis, a palace was in the process of construction. The only finished portion of the grand building was an ornate, red limestone portico which shielded the young man from the harsh sun.

The boy was no more than ten-and-six, yet he looked as if he could be older. He had an angular, handsome, feline face with a strong jaw. He had olive skin and lush red lips. His brown mop of wavy hair was loosely brushed to the side. He had a lean, wiry body from years of training with the swiftest combatants in the Free Cities.

His wide blue eyes gleamed with interest as he viewed his workmen constructing the greatest palace Dorne would ever know. The project was his lord father's idea, the current ruling Martell, Prince Mahtka. An ambitious and cunning man, Mahtka desired to ensure to all of Westros that his House would once again be a force to be reckoned with. Establishing his new palace, which was to be called Rosehold, and moving his seat there was the first step in a complex plan Mahtka had undertaken.

The youth who sat under the portico was the lord's eldest son, Prince Masuma. He was far kinder than his father, but his ambition and cunning were just as prominent. Many said the boy was observant, and wise beyond his years. This had earned him the nickname the "Young Cat", after his fathers reputation as the "Old Shadowcat". Of course, no one ever called the boy this to his face.

Masuma's brilliant eyes analyzed the construction, one eyebrow cocked in concentration. Two servants padded into the shaded portico from the sprawling laborer's camp, carrying the prince's lunch. They were followed by the family maester, a thin, balding, aged man named Tarwic. He waited patiently while the servants presented Masuma with platters of red chicken spiced in curry and Dornish peppers, followed by a bowl of blood oranges and a cup of sweet Arbor wine. The young prince politely refused the former and placed the blood oranges on an adjacent table. He then took the cup of wine and dismissed the servants.

"My lord prince," Tarwic greated, scratching his large hooked nose. The Maester had an almost comical look to him, and many of the household staff had affectionately taken to calling him "the Buzzard". His thin neck was perpetually stooped as a result of the many maester's chains he wore, which only added to his bird-like appearance.

"Well met, Maester Tarwic," Masuma said in his purring tenor voice. "How fair you this lovely, scorching afternoon?"

"Well enough. I fear my scalp may be burnt," the older man joked amiably. "I bring news my lord."

"I do pray it is good news."

"It depends on how my lord prince interprets," the maester informed.

"You're killing me with suspense Tarwic," Masuma jested with a smirk. The boy's brilliant blue eyes were full of amusement, twinkling like two sapphires in the sunlight.

"Mad King Josephys is dead, found killed in his sleep. King's Landing feigns mourning, but I doubt anyone besides the Tyrells is truly sad the man is gone."

Prince Masuma considered for a moment, his smile fading. The Mad Tyrell King was dead with no apparent heir...

"Who has claimed the Iron Throne? Josephys had no children, and his wife has been dead for near two years. He has no siblings to speak of; his closest relations are a few cousins and uncles in Highgarden," Masuma thought aloud, his voice taking a sharper edge as he calculated.

"Last I heard, the Grand Maester has yet to read Josephys' will, in which is contained his line of succession. If no heir is named, your lord father is as good as any contender for the Iron Throne," Maester Tarwic confided, his voice dropping to a softer tone near the end.

"This news is troubling, yet... If Dorne can secure the throne, we shall be restored our rightful place amongst the great Houses of Westros. I must think on this. Thank you for your service, good Maester Tarwic. You are dismissed," the young prince said with a contemplative smile.

Musama stood from his plush chair and surveyed the land around the oasis. He straightened his crimson silk and samite tunic and sash, and held his head high. The boy was kind, it was true, but he would not mourn the King's death. As heir apparent to Sunspear and all of Dorne, Masuma had been taught that his enemies did not deserve his compassion, only his wrath. He could save his warm heart for his own people.

As the sun lowered over the soon-to-be Rosehold, Masuma smiled to himself. The Iron Throne may very well be his...

OoOoOoOoOoO

Prince Chrys Stark sat lonely in his tower in Maegor's Holdfast. As son of the Hand, he had been given lavish quarters in the Tower of the Hand, a floor under his father's solar in the Red Keep. Chrys sighed, looking out over King's landing as the moon rose over the ports, and further off, Blackwater bay. The city never really slept, Chrys had learned as soon as he arrived, nearly a fortnight before. Earlier that day, bells had rung incessantly, their dull tolling marking the passing of the late King Josephys.

Chrys' father had been busy all day, arranging the funeral, setting up an investigation into the king's death, preparing the documents for the reading of his will. At first the wolf prince had roamed the castle while his father attended his duties, but he soon grew bored and decided instead to practice his sword work with the Red Keep's Master of Arms. Chrys was a quick learner, and an even quicker fighter. Ever since Arya the Unbroken, at least one Stark of Winterfell learned the water dance of the Free Cities. The prince had wanted to take up the exotic fighting style ever since he heard the old tales of his fierce ancestor. Chrys was given his thin water dancer's sword on his ten-and-seventh naming day, three months prior to coming to King's Landing. Still a novice to the graceful fighting style, Chrys was already a force to be reckoned with. His slim, sinewy frame may have appeared weak, but he had hidden power and speed in his lean muscles.

Chrys swept his shaggy brown bangs out of his silvery-blue eyes and looked dreamily over the city once more. He had a sleek, lupine face with graceful, almost feminine lips and thick, arched eyebrows. He was very comely indeed, and would make a handsome groom for a highborn lady some day.

If, of course, he could get over his terrible shyness. The boy was courteous enough, and amiable amongst friends, but he was a hopeless mess amongst strangers. He stuttered, stammered, and avoided all eye contact. Chrys's lord father, the King in the North, had always tried to get the boy to open up, but no matter of socialization, not feasts or tourneys would cure the boy of his timidity.

"Not in bed, are we?" A deep, regal voice asked. The boy instantly recognized it as his father's. The Hand was a tall man with large broad shoulders. He had a stern, flat face that may have been attractive once, but was now deeply lined and weathered. He had a mane of unruly brown hair and the same grey-blue eyes of his son. He also sported a close cropped beard which he maintained with great care. For all this, he looked a kindly lord, and he was quite honorable, no man could deny.

Known by his honorable title "the King in the North", Benjamin Stark was no more than a glorified lord, albeit a powerful one. In truth he was no real king; the title was strictly ceremonial. More importantly he was the King's Hand. Many said Benjamin was the greatest hand the realm had seen since before Jon Arryns time of old.

"It's too loud here," Chrys complained, gazing back outside. His black doublet ruffled in the early spring breeze. "I miss Winterfell."

"As do I," admitted the Hand. "Fortunately for you, you will only be here for a week more. I must remain here until such time as the new king is crowned, and maybe longer still."

Chrys' father sounded tired, and who was to blame him? From the crack of dawn right up until the man went to sleep, Benjamin was serving the realm and performing his duties. He had left the comforts of Winterfell, his wife, and four children when he was asked to serve in King's Landing. While they visited as for as possible, the Hand would sometimes feel as lonely and burdened as possible. It hadn't helped that over the past few years, King Josephys' sanity was only so-so, until he finally succumbed to madness. When he died, he wasn't ruler, not in truth. He was little more than a figurehead, but a well respected one at that.

"I wish you could come back home with me. The girls miss you, mother too," Chrys said.

"I miss them as well. I miss you all every night, every morning, every hour that I blink my eyes and take breath. But I have duties here. Someday, if the gods are good, I will return to Winterfell and we shall be one family again. But until then, my place is here."

It was with these words that Chrys was comforted enough to go to sleep, despite the ever-present clamor of the royal city.

OoOoOoOoO

In a rather shoddy inn, not too far from Flea Bottom, a man in a dark woolen cloak waited at a candlelit table. His hood was drawn up to conceal his hideously scarred face, though it might once have been beautiful.

"M'lord, I came as soon as I heard. Did you use–" a dark-haired wench began to ask before the man cut her off with a hand.

"I used what was necessary. They will think he died in his sleep, that is all they need to know," the scarred man said, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper.

"M'lord is pleased then?" The woman asked. She wore the red robes and skirts of the red priests of Asshai.

"As pleased as I am won't to be. Now leave me with your payment, red whore," the man snarled, handing over a bag of gold dragons.

The woman gave him a dirty look, but made on her merry way ten dragons richer.

It made no longer mattered the cost. The hooded man only desired one thing: for Westros to burn.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXx

So how was that for an opening chapter? I just finished "A Storm of Swords" and I had an awesome idea for an SYOC. Now I will say that I also have been feverishly working on "Between Now and Forever" and "The Secret War", my other SYOCs and I will be updating them soon so please check them out. Now then for this story: set 200 years after the War of Five Kings, the realm endured centuries of peace under Targaryen, then Tyrell rule. All of the Houses which existed during the War of Five Kings exist now, however the Greyjoys are no longer considered a great House, and instead the Targaryens have been restored. Daenarys was lifted of her barren curse and was given children after she claimed the Iron Throne, therefore restoring the Targaryen rule. After a few decades, the Tyrells wed into the royal family. War may be brewing on the horizon and new and old houses must band together or die fighting. Along with the Seven, the old gods, the Lord of Light, and the drowned god, cults to the Dothraki horse gods and the Lord of Harmony have sprung up in Westros as a result of Dany's conquest. The SYOC form will be on my profile for characters, households, and Houses, of you should choose to create and original House for your characters.

OC Form

Name:

Titles/Nicknames:

Age:

Gender:

House (if any):

Social Status (Lord, lady, commoner, farmer, etc):

Appearance:

Personality:

Backstory:

Clothing (at least three sets):

Armor (if any. Remember, warrior women are a strange sight in Westros):

Weapons:

Religion:

Region of habitation:

Motives (Iron Throne? Protecting a loved one? Remaining neutral? Etc):

House Form

House Name:

Colors:

Words:

General characteristics of members (physical and personality):

Members (provide small descriptions for each member):

Pledged to (One of the Great Houses):

Hold:

How Westros views them:

Motive:

Banner: