Author's Note: Six-Eyed Vixen here with another new chapter. A bit late but hope y'all still enjoy reading this.;)
Prince Oberyn of House Martell, surveyed the scene before him with a critical yet hopeful eye. The courtyard, once echoing with the clang of metal and the grunts of exertion, had fallen silent. Two figures, a young man and a woman, stood frozen mid-swing of their cumbersome hammers, their faces a mask of shock.
The man, tall and lean with a shock of blue hair that screamed of an elaborate dye job, bore a faint resemblance to Rhaegar. The woman, with her dark hair and fiery eyes, was a spitting image of Elia in her youth. There was no mistaking them – Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen, the children of his deceased sister Elia.
A wry smile tugged at Oberyn's lips. Varys the Spider, had been right. The years in hiding hadn't dulled their fire. It simmered beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.
"Surprised, are we?" he rumbled, his voice surprisingly gentle for a man known for his viperish wit.
Aegon recovered first, his olive complexion flushing a touch red. He lowered his hammer slowly, his gaze unwavering. "You're, Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne" he stated, his voice almost a whisper. "Our uncle."
Oberyn chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "Indeed I am, young Aegon. And you, my dear," he turned to Rhaenys, "must be the formidable Rhaenys. Your guardian here speaks highly of your skills."
"You know who we are?" Aegon inquired, his voice surprisingly deep for his age.
Oberyn allowed himself a sardonic smile. "One doesn't forget the faces of those they swore to protect."
The weight of his words hung heavy in the air. Aegon and Rhaenys exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them.
"In recent years, things have changed. Robert Baratheon's incompetence has helped me be sure of a safe passage for you two to Westeros, although only for a short time." Oberyn declared, his voice firm. "Doran, my brother, sees an opportunity. He wishes to meet with you, to discuss the future."
A flicker of suspicion glinted in Rhaenys' dark eyes. "Safe passage? Opportunity? Speak plainly, Oberyn Martell. We've spent our lives learning to survive in the shadows, not navigate political games."
Oberyn raised a placating hand. "No games, niece. Only a chance. The realm grows weary of the Baratheon's iron grip. Whispers of rebellion bloom in the west, and Dorne… well, Dorne has never forgotten the wrongs inflicted upon House Martell."
His voice hardened with a glint of barely contained rage. "Elia, your mother, was more than just my sister. She was a beacon of light, stolen from us by a fat tyrant's greed. Dorne craves justice, and perhaps…" he studied them both intently, "...perhaps a restoration."
Silence stretched, thick with unspoken emotions. Aegon, his jaw clenched tight, seemed to wrestle with a storm of internal conflict. Rhaenys, ever the strategist, met Oberyn's gaze head-on, her voice steady.
"Restoration of what, exactly?" she pressed. "The Iron Throne?"
Oberyn inclined his head. "Indeed. The Usurper sits upon a throne built on lies and butchery. He has bled the realm dry, mocked the customs of our people, and left Elia's memory a stain on the floor of King's Landing."
The words hung heavy, a stark reminder of the brutal past that had shaped their lives. Aegon, his jaw clenched tight, spoke with a quiet intensity. "The Iron Throne… you believe Dorne would support a Targaryen restoration? An open rebellion to restore the rule of the former kings?"
Oberyn's smile was a touch sad. "Dorne has never forgotten the wrongs inflicted upon House Martell," he admitted. "But whispers of discontent are rising throughout Westeros. Robert Baratheon's reign has brought only chaos and discontent. The people yearn for a leader, a true king."
He took a measured step forward, his gaze unwavering. "You, Aegon, are the rightful heir. Your presence, your claim, could be the spark that ignites a fire across the realm."
The weight of Oberyn's words seemed to settle upon Aegon and Rhaenys like a Dornish summer sun, heavy and unrelenting. Years of whispers, coded messages, and stolen glances at faded tapestries depicting silver-haired dragons of old now culminated in this stark reality: they were Targaryens, and the Iron Throne, a symbol of both glory and tragedy, beckoned them with a siren song of fire and blood.
Aegon, his olive skin a stark contrast to the unnatural blue of his hair, flushed with a mix of duty and resolve. He glanced at Rhaenys, searching for guidance in her dark eyes, a mirror to their mother's.
"A fire across the realm," Rhaenys echoed, her voice betraying a hint of the fire that danced within her. "But how do we fan those embers into a blaze that can destroy the Usurper?"
"We are but two dragons shorn of our wings, raised in the darkness of shadows, with only a thirst of vengeance that could easily turn into ash in the face of the Baratheon storm." She continued with an uneasy face.
Oberyn chuckled, a dry, humorless sound that almost sent shivers down their spine "Small embers can spark great wildfires, little niece. The realm remembers the Targaryen reign, its triumphs and its follies. There have been good kings and bad kings, but none as bad as Robert Baratheon, change must come, and it must come swiftly."
"The people yearn for a symbol, a beacon of hope to rally behind. And you, Aegon, are that symbol. The last living dragon, heir to the Iron Throne. Your very presence will sow doubt in the hearts of Baratheon loyalists and ignite a flicker of rebellion in those yearning for a change."
He gestured towards Jon Connington, who stood like a silent guardian, his weathered face etched with a mixture of pride and apprehension. "Griff has honed your skills at arms, instilled in you the discipline of a warrior. But a king needs more than just a strong sword arm. He needs to be charismatic, having the ability to forge alliances, to inspire loyalty and obedience, even from those who may harbor doubts in their heart."
Oberyn's gaze swept across the courtyard, taking in the remnants of their training session. Hammers lay abandoned, their heavy silence a stark contrast to the vibrant city life that pulsed beyond the walls.
A flicker of sadness crossed his face, a fleeting glimpse of the grief he had buried deep within. "But vengeance alone will not bring lasting peace. We need a ruler who understands the needs of the people, who can forge a path towards a brighter future for all of Westeros. A ruler who can unite the fractured kingdoms and restore balance to the realm."
He fixed Aegon with a piercing gaze. "Are you ready, young dragon, for it is your duty to reclaim the Iron Throne from the one who taints it now? You will have to be prepared to face the trials that lie ahead, to shoulder the burden of a kingdom teetering on the brink. Are you willing to become not just a king, but a conqueror?"
Silence descended upon the courtyard, broken only by the distant cries of gulls wheeling over the bustling Myrish harbor. In that charged moment, Aegon felt the weight of history settle upon his shoulders. He looked at Rhaenys, their eyes meeting in a silent conversation. He saw in her reflection not just a fierce warrior, but a potential queen, a woman born to rule.
He straightened his back, a newfound resolve hardening his features. "This is a heavy burden to bear," he declared, his voice ringing with newfound conviction, "but I will not carry it alone. As long as I have my sister and my precious people by my side, and those who believe in our cause, we can overcome any obstacle. Together, we will be the best rulers Westeros has ever seen. Believe it!"
A flicker of amusement danced in Oberyn's eyes, a spark of recognition for the boy's unwavering determination. This wasn't just a Targaryen seeking to reclaim a birthright; this was a leader in the making, one who understood the importance of trust and unity.
"Good," Oberyn said, his voice low and firm. "Then let us begin. Dorne may not be able to offer open rebellion, but we can provide you with the tools you need."
"We can offer safe passage through Dorne, discreet allies who can help spread your message, and resources to build your strength," Oberyn elaborated. "But remember, this dance will be delicate in its execution. The eyes of your enemies are everywhere, and whispers can turn into screams all too easily."
Aegon's jaw clenched tight. "We all understand the risks, Uncle. We've spent our lives living in hiding. But hiding is not living, not truly."
"Good. Then let's not waste any time. You'll depart for Dorne in three days. In these three days and on our way to Dorne, you'll be tutored personally by me in the art of courtly intrigue, the forging of alliances, and the wielding of power that goes beyond the battlefield."
The excitement in Aegon's eyes was not mirrored in Rhaenys', it seems she didn't have much of a tolerance for politics unlike her brother. Three days. Three days until they would take flight much like dragons with their wings growing wider everyday.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the courtyard, Oberyn watched the young Targaryens spar, their movements imbued with a newfound intensity. A wry smile touched his lips.
Three days later, under the cloak of a moonless night, a Dornish ship slipped silently out of the Myrish harbor. Aegon and Rhaenys stood at the bow, the salty wind whipping their hair. A sense of anticipation thrummed through them. Dorne awaited the; land of their mother, brimming with a promise of a future far grander than anything they could have ever imagined.
Oberyn, leaning against the railing, watched them with a mixture of emotions. There was a pang of sadness for Elia, a wish that she could see her children now, strong and determined. But there was also a sense of hope, a flicker of optimism for a future where the Targaryen dragon might once again soar above Westeros. The road ahead wouldn't be easy, but with cunning, strength, and a touch of Dornish sand in their veins, he believed these young dragons had the potential to rise from the ashes and reclaim their birthright. The dance had begun, and Oberyn was ready to play his part.
Prince Doran Martell, the ruling head of House Martell, sat uneasily in his solar within the serene Water Gardens of Sunspear. Sunlight streamed through the ornate latticework, dappling the cool, polished marble floor with a mosaic of light and shadow. Yet, despite the usual calming effect of his oasis, Doran found himself beset by a gnawing anxiety.
News, whispered on raven wings and cloaked in secrecy, had reached him from his brother, Oberyn. News that had shaken the very foundation of his cautious, calculated approach to ruling Dorne. Oberyn claimed to have located the children of his beloved sister, Elia – Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen, presumed dead these long years since Robert's rebellion.
Doran had harbored deep skepticism. Varys, Robert's masters of whisperers, had been the source of the information, and Doran knew the Spider's web of intrigue was vast and often tangled with deception. Yet, a flicker of doubt remained, fueled by the uncharacteristic certainty in Oberyn's raven. His brother, known for his impulsive nature and sharp tongue, wouldn't be swayed so easily by unsubstantiated rumors.
The silence in the Water Gardens, usually teeming with the playful shrieks of children and the murmur of conversations, seemed to stretch and echo in Doran's ears. The weight of anticipation hung heavy in the air, as thick and palpable as the humidity that clung to Sunspear during the long summer months. Every rustle of leaves, every distant cry of a bird, sent a jolt through him. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the heavy oak doors to his chambers creaked open, shattering the stillness.
Four figures entered, casting long shadows across the sun-dappled floor. Doran rose from his seat, his eyes sweeping over the newcomers. Recognition flickered within him, accompanied by a surge of disbelief. At the head stood Oberyn, his usual roguish grin somewhat subdued by the solemnity of the occasion. Behind him stood Jon Connington, the former Hand of King Aerys, his weathered face etched with a mixture of years spent in exile and a newfound resolve.
However, it was the two figures flanking them that truly stole Doran's breath away. A young woman stood tall and proud, her dark hair cascading down her shoulders like a midnight waterfall. Her eyes, a startling dark like the Dornish twilight sky, held a depth of apprehension and a flicker of fire that echoed eerily of his beloved sister Elia. The resemblance was uncanny, a spectral echo of his past whispering secrets in the hushed chamber.
Beside her stood a young man, lean and wiry, his features a curious mix of familiarity and foreignness. The olive skin, a stark contrast to the unnatural blue of his hair, betrayed his Targaryen heritage inherited from his mother. But in the set of his jaw and the proud tilt of his head, Doran saw a ghost of Rhaegar, the silver prince whose arrogance had led to so much devastation. Yet, in his eyes burned a steely resolve that held echoes of Elia's quiet strength.
Doran felt a whirlwind of emotions battling within him – disbelief, grief, and a flicker of something akin to hope. These children, presumed dead for years, stood before him, living testaments to a past he had tried so desperately to avenge for all these years. Their arrival threatened to upend the delicate balance he had so meticulously maintained between Dorne and the Iron Throne. Yet, as he gazed upon their faces, a flicker of warmth ignited in his heart, a spark of brotherly love rekindled for Elia through these, her living legacy.
Doran Martell, propelled by a surge of emotion he hadn't felt in years, pushed himself to his feet. The gout that had plagued him for moons, forgotten in the face of this overwhelming revelation, seemed to loosen its grip for a fleeting moment. He took a hesitant step forward, then another, his cane clattering to the polished marble floor with a forgotten thud.
Surprise flickered across Oberyn's face. In all the years he had known his brother, Doran had been a creature of meticulous habit, his movements measured and deliberate. This sudden display of unrestrained emotion was as shocking as it was welcome.
Doran stopped before the young couple, his gaze sweeping over their faces. Time had done its work on them, sculpting them from babes he barely remembered into young adults brimming with a potent mix of defiance and uncertainty.
A lump formed in Doran's throat, a well of emotions threatening to spill over. He had spent years carefully constructing a facade of stoicism, burying his grief under layers of pragmatic calculations. But now, in the presence of these living memories of his sister, the dam threatened to burst.
With a shaky hand, Doran reached out, not for his cane, but for Rhaenys. His touch, surprisingly warm for a man known for his reserved nature, landed gently on her shoulder. The weight of years, of loss and unspoken longing, seemed to press down on him.
"Rhaenys," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. "The last time I saw you, you were just a babe, cradled in Elia's arms. Aegon…" His voice faltered as he turned to the young man, "This is the first time we meet."
A tear, escaping the vigilant control he usually maintained, traced a path down his cheek. Doran didn't bother brushing it away. This raw display of vulnerability felt both terrifying and liberating. "You have both grown so much," he continued, his voice low and heartfelt. "More than you can possibly imagine. And to see you here, standing before me… well," he took a shuddering breath, "it brings back a flood of memories, both joyous and sorrowful."
"But seeing you here, alive and well… it is a balm to a wound I thought would never heal." He concluded.
Doran's voice, heavy with emotion, seemed to hang in the air, filling the previously silent chamber with a potent mix of regret and a newfound hope.
The presence of his children, now opened a different path before him. A path fraught with danger, yes, but also with the potential to avenge past wrongs and restore balance to the realm.
Doran, the cautious prince, felt a sliver of the fire that burned in Oberyn and these young Targaryens flicker within him. The game had changed, and for the first time in years, a spark of excitement, almost forgotten, ignited within his heart. He knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy, but perhaps, just perhaps, the time for calculated caution had passed. The time for action had finally arrived.
Aegon, still reeling from the unexpected hug from his uncle Doran, felt a surge of warmth bloom in his chest. It was the closest thing to familial affection he'd ever experienced, and a stark contrast to the years spent dodging suspicion.
"Thank you, Uncle Doran," he said, his voice thick with a mix of gratitude and emotions he couldn't quite decipher. "It's good to finally meet you."
Naruto, ever the strategist, recognized an opportunity. Here, in Sunspear, surrounded by potential allies, a display of power could solidify their position.
"Hmph! This one is genuine too, seems like you've got lucky with your family this time, Brat." Kurama's cynical voice rumbled within his head. "Although, I would suggest you keep your guard up, Naruto. He's one of those schemer types."
Aegon smiled at the Fox's words knowing he only wanted him to be safe. He took Kurama's Advice to heart but, right now, he craved a shred of normalcy, a semblance of the family he'd never truly known.
Doran's gaze flickered to the unnatural blue of Aegon's hair, a flicker of something akin to understanding passing through his eyes. "The dye job is…unique," he remarked, a hint of a wry smile playing on his lips.
"It is," Aegon admitted, a ghost of a smile mirroring his uncle's. "But necessary for our survival."
"Uncle Doran," he began, his voice respectful yet firm, "we are grateful for your hospitality. We understand the burden our arrival places upon Dorne."
A flicker of surprise crossed Doran's face, a hint of respect replacing the initial shock. "Burden?" he echoed. "Perhaps. But also… hope."
Aegon straightened, his voice ringing with a resolve that echoed in the cavernous hall. "We come not as refugees seeking a mere roof over our heads," he declared, his gaze sweeping across the two Dornish princes.
"I could conquer the Seven Kingdoms single-handedly but that is not the path I will choose. A kingdom forged through tyranny is one built on sand. No, I seek a different kind of strength – a strength forged in unity, in the bonds of shared blood and history"
"Your passion is commendable, nephew. However, gaining my support did not require such a grand declaration. House Martell will stand beside you unbowed, unbent and unbroken."
A stunned silence descended upon the hall. Aegon, momentarily thrown by his uncle's sudden declaration, blinked in surprise.
Oberyn, ever the impulsive one, broke the silence with a booming laugh. "Well said, brother! It seems the sun finally shines on Sunspear." He clapped Aegon on the shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Welcome, nephew. Welcome home."
Rhaenys, her dark eyes narrowed in skepticism, leaned closer to Aegon. "Uncle Doran," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, "are you certain? This is a monumental decision."
Doran, his gaze fixed on Aegon, remained unfazed. "The past cannot be changed, Rhaenys," he said softly. "But the future…" his voice trailed off, a glint of steel flickering in his eyes. "The future can be reshaped. Aegon is of Targaryen blood, that much is undeniable. And Dorne has always had a… complicated relationship with the Iron Throne."
He turned back to Aegon, a hint of a challenge in his voice. "However, your claim alone won't win Dornish support. You'll need to prove yourself worthy, Aegon. Prove you possess the strength, the temperament, and the wisdom to not only reclaim your birthright, but to rule justly."
Aegon met his uncle's gaze head-on, determination hardening his features. "I understand, Uncle Doran. I am prepared to face any test you deem necessary. Dorne's trust will not be misplaced."
A slow smile, a rare sight on Doran's face, spread across his lips. "Good. Then let us begin. Tell me, Aegon, what do you know of the current state of Westeros? Of the forces arrayed against your claim?"
Aegon straightened, a glint of strategy entering his eyes. He launched into a detailed account, gleaned from years of Varys' whispers and Jon Connington's experience. He spoke of the Lannister and their unwavering grip on power, the growing discontent amongst the smallfolk, and the ever-present threat of the King lurking beyond the Wall.
As Aegon spoke, Doran listened intently. He seemed intrigued by the young man's passion and strategic understanding. Oberyn, with a mischievous glint in his eye, leaned towards Doran and whispered, "Looks like we have ourselves a dragon with a plan, brother."
Doran simply nodded, a flicker of hope, long buried, rekindled in his eyes. Perhaps, just perhaps, the tide was finally turning. The dance had now begun, and Dorne, the viper in the sands, was poised to make its move. But the path to the Iron Throne would be fraught with peril, and Aegon and Rhaenys, the last dragons, would have to prove himself worthy not just to Dorne, but to the entire realm.
Amidst the burgeoning plans and whispered strategies, a sudden caw from outside shattered the tense focus. All heads turned towards the open window as a raven, a black silhouette against the azure sky, swooped into the chamber.
With a flurry of agitated wings, it landed on the polished marble windowsill, a rolled parchment clasped tightly in its beak. Jon Connington, ever the dutiful knight, rose with practiced ease and retrieved the message.
Doran's eyes narrowed as he recognized the distinctive red wax seal - a mocking spider emblazoned upon it. Varys, the enigmatic Master of Whisperers, had sent a raven. A flicker of apprehension crossed his face, a reminder of the ever-present game of shadows played in King's Landing.
Jon carefully unfurled the parchment, his weathered hand tracing the elegant script. A hush fell over the room as he began to read aloud, his voice a low rumble.
"To Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen," the message began, the words heavy with veiled meaning. "News has reached my ears, carrying on whispers in the wind, of your arrival in Sunspear. A homecoming long overdue, I imagine."
A small, humorless smile played on Oberyn's lips. Varys, ever the master manipulator, couldn't resist a touch of theatrics. Aegon and Rhaenys exchanged a knowing glance - their reclusive lifestyle hadn't been quite as secret as they'd hoped.
The letter continued, detailing the discovery of Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen, Aegon and Rhaenys' long-lost aunt and uncle. Jon's voice grew grave as he relayed Varys' chilling revelation - Viserys, consumed by desperation and a twisted sense of entitlement, was planning to sell his young sister, Daenerys, a mere child of twelve, into marriage. The price? The promise of a Dothraki khalasar, one hundred thousand strong, at his command.
A collective gasp rippled through the hall. The image of a young Daenerys, bartered like a chattel, ignited a flicker of protectiveness within Aegon and Rhaenys. Though they had never met her, the shared blood that bound them demanded action.
"We cannot allow this," Aegon declared, his voice firm with resolve. "Daenerys is our family. We cannot stand by and let her be sold into such barbarity."
Rhaenys nodded, a steely glint in her coal black eyes. "Varys may have his own motives," she mused, "but in this, our goals align. We must ensure Daenerys' safety."
Doran, ever the strategist, stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Pentos," he murmured, the ancient city nestled on the eastern coast of Essos flashing in his mind's eye. "That is where Viserys and Illyrio Mopatis are said to be holding court. A dangerous journey, but perhaps one that needs to be undertaken."
Oberyn, a grin splitting his face, slammed his fist on the table. "A daring rescue mission! Now that's a game I can get behind! Let's show these Dothraki savages their place!"
Aegon met Doran's gaze head-on, his jaw set with a resolute defiance. "Uncle Doran," he began, his voice resonating with newfound purpose. "We are grateful for your hospitality, for the chance to forge an alliance with Dorne. It is a bond we deeply value, and one we will not forget."
A flicker of understanding crossed Doran's face. He knew the fierce loyalty that ran deep within Targaryen blood, the unyielding sense of responsibility towards family. Though a part of him yearned to solidify their position in Dorne before venturing out, another part, a more primal one, resonated with Aegon's desire to protect his kin.
"I understand, Aegon," Doran said finally, his voice low and measured. "Daenerys' fate is a concern not just for you, but for all of Westeros. A Dothraki horde in the wrong hands could spell disaster."
A hint of relief washed over Aegon. He had braced himself for a struggle, for Doran to prioritize Dorne's safety above all else. Yet, the man had surprised him, showing a flicker of the compassion Aegon had only ever glimpsed in stories about the late Prince Oberyn.
"We will remain in contact, of course," Doran continued. "Varys' ravens can find us here in Sunspear. Keep me informed of your progress, your plans. Dorne's support, when the time is right, will be yours."
Aegon straightened, a spark of gratitude burning in his eyes. "We wouldn't expect anything less, Uncle. Dorne's help will be invaluable in the fight to come."
Turning to Rhaenys and Jon Connington, Aegon issued a decisive command. "We leave for Pentos at dawn. Gather our supplies, make the necessary arrangements. Time is of the essence."
A flurry of activity followed. Jon Connington, ever the meticulous planner, oversaw the packing of provisions and the securing of passage on a discreet ship bound for Essos. Rhaenys, with her quiet efficiency, ensured their weapons and armor were battle-ready.
Oberyn, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of excitement and concern, approached Aegon as he stood gazing out at the sun dipping below the horizon, painting the Dornish sky in hues of orange and purple.
"A bold move, nephew," Oberyn said, clapping Aegon on the shoulder. "But a necessary one. Just remember, Pentos is a nest of vipers, no less treacherous than King's Landing. Keep your wits about you, and don't trust anyone blindly."
Aegon nodded, a grim smile playing on his lips. "We understand, Uncle. We've spent our lives learning to survive in the shadows. Pentos will be no different."
As the last rays of sunlight faded, Aegon, Rhaenys, Jon Connington, and a small contingent of Dornish guards, handpicked by Oberyn, found themselves aboard a waiting ship, the salty sea breeze whipping at their cloaks.
The journey to Pentos was fraught with uncertainty, the fate of Daenerys Targaryen hanging in the balance. Yet, within Aegon, a fire of determination burned brightly. He wouldn't let his kin fall victim to another's greed. He would stand as her protector, a dragon rising to defend his own. The dance had taken an unexpected turn, but Aegon, the last dragon, was ready to face the music. The journey to protect his family had begun.
And with this, Naruto/Aegon makes his first proper ally in the Game of Thrones. It's only gonna get harder from here.
Next chapter will be the start of the Dothraki mini arc.
Also wanted to point out the reception of this fic so far has been extremely awesome.
This chapter was beta'd by Adventreader221.