Author's Note: Six-Eyed Vixen here with another new chapter. Hope y'all enjoy reading this.;)
The clatter of the latch on the back door sent a tremor through Jon Connington. It wasn't the sound itself, but the promise it held. A tremor of anticipation, a tremor of apprehension. He set down his bowl of watery broth with a sigh, the meagre meal doing little to quell the churning in his gut. Years spent amidst the damp and chill of this Tyroshi hovel hadn't dulled his senses.
He rose from his chair, the stiffness in his joints a constant reminder of battles fought and loyalties tested. The damp chill of his Tyroshi hovel had seeped into his bones, a constant companion in this lonely exile. Yet, beneath the gnawing aches, a flicker of something akin to hope flickered to life. Varys, the enigmatic Spider, had kept his promise. The Targaryen children, Aegon and Rhaenys, stood on the threshold of his life once more.
Jon, or Griff as he was known here, shuffled towards the doorway, his steps measured with anticipation. A lifetime of loyalty to the Targaryen dynasty pulsed within him, a loyalty that had only intensified with every passing year of exile. For years, he had been haunted by the fact that he had failed Rhaegar and his children. But here, with the arrival of these children, a chance at redemption presented itself.
He pushed open the door, a sliver of apprehension mingling with the anticipation that gnawed at him. Standing in the dim hallway were four figures, cloaked and shadowed. A girl, no older than twelve he judged, her dark eyes narrowed in a wary assessment. Beside her stood a youth, younger but with a defiant set to his shoulders. Behind them, a wizened man with a scholarly air, and a woman with a warrior's posture, their expressions unreadable.
The girl spoke first, her voice carrying a hint of steel. "Are you supposed to be this Griff person? You look quite different from what I expected"
Jon felt a flicker of amusement tug at the corner of his lips. A Targaryen, for all their faults, was never one to mince words.
"You can call me Griff," he rumbled, his voice roughened by years of disuse. "And you must be Rhaenys. And you," he turned to the boy, "are Aegon."
The boy, Aegon, met his gaze squarely, a fierce intelligence burning in his eyes. A flicker of something… familiar… danced within those depths. A memory, half-forgotten, surfaced in Jon's mind – a memory of silver hair and lilac eyes, a playful smile on a young boy's face.
His silver prince. Gone these many years, yet a phantom echo lingered.
Jon cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus on the present. "Welcome," he said, his voice gruff but sincere. "You are safe here, for now. Come in, let us get you settled."
He ushered them into the spartan room, the meagre furnishings doing little to mask the air of neglect. Shame flickered within him. This was no palace befitting a prince and princess, nor was it suitable for their companions, the maester and the swordswoman.
The girl, Rhaenys, scanned the room with a critical eye. Her expression remained guarded, a stark contrast to the boy, Aegon, whose eyes glowing with curiosity seemed to devour the scene.
He gestured towards a worn tapestry hanging on one wall. With a practised flick of his wrist, he revealed a small, concealed alcove behind it. Inside, a few meagre bedrolls and a couple of chests were stacked haphazardly.
"This will be your living area," he explained. "It's not much, but it will suffice for now. Varys assures me arrangements are being made for a more… suitable location in the near future."
He suppressed a pang of worry. Varys' web of influence was vast, but even he couldn't guarantee complete safety. The Usurper's eyes and ears were everywhere, and the whispers of surviving Targaryen heirs wouldn't go unnoticed for long.
The children exchanged another silent glance, a silent conversation passing between them. Finally, the boy, Aegon, spoke. "What are we going to do here, Griff?" His voice held a mix of curiosity and defiance.
Jon straightened his back, a spark of determination igniting within him. "We prepare," he said, his voice firm. "We train. We gather allies. And when the time is right, we will take back what is rightfully yours."
He glanced at the woman and the scholar standing silently in the room. "Serra," he addressed, "...and Haldon," Jon continued, his gaze lingering on the maester for a moment. "assure me of your discreet tutelage as well. These children need both a warrior's training, but a scholar's mind. Haldon, can you sharpen their wit as Serra sharpens their swords?"
Serra, her face an unreadable mask, gave a curt nod in acknowledgement. Haldon, however, cleared his throat and stepped forward, a hint of concern flickering in his eyes.
"My lord," he began, his voice raspy with age, "while I understand the importance of discretion, wouldn't a more… secure location be preferable? This ramshackle dwelling offers little protection in case of an attack."
Jon understood Haldon's concern. He himself had voiced similar worries to Varys, but the eunuch had been adamant. This location, on the outskirts of Tyrosh, offered a blend of anonymity and accessibility that suited their current needs. Still, Jon needed to reassure them.
"Haldon," he said, his voice firm, "rest assured, Varys has taken every precaution. This location is known only to a select few. Besides, with me and Serra here, I have no doubt we can repel any immediate threat."
He gestured towards a slightly worn map hanging on the opposite wall, depicting the sprawling continent of Westeros. "In the meantime," he continued, his voice taking on a firmer tone, "we can begin your lessons here. Haldon, you can start by familiarizing them with the different regions, the houses that hold them, and the current political climate."
Haldon's face brightened at the prospect. He unfurled a scroll, revealing intricate family trees and sigils, and launched into a detailed explanation of the Seven Kingdoms, his voice filled with a scholar's passion.
As Haldon spoke, Jon couldn't help but steal glances at Aegon. The boy sat perched on a rickety stool, his brow furrowed in concentration as he absorbed the information. A spark of something akin to Rhaegar's own intelligence shone in his eyes – a thirst for knowledge that mirrored his late prince.
His gaze then shifted towards Rhaenys. Unlike her brother, she remained restless, her fingers drumming a silent rhythm on the rough wooden table. Her dark eyes darted around the room, taking in their surroundings with a sharp alertness. She was more cautious, more observant, a natural leader in the making.
A pang of sympathy stabbed at Jon's heart. These young lives, uprooted from their only known home, thrust into a world of danger and uncertainty. Yet, despite their situation, they exuded a quiet strength, a Targaryen resilience that mirrored the sigil of their house – a three-headed dragon, ready to rise from the ashes.
He cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. "Tonight," he announced, "we will break bread together. A simple meal, but a chance for us to get acquainted. Tomorrow, we begin your training in earnest. The road ahead will be long and arduous, but know this: you are not alone. We will face these challenges together."
A flicker of hope ignited in Rhaenys' eyes, momentarily replacing the wariness. Aegon, his gaze fixed on the map, seemed to be already formulating strategies in his mind. Serra, an ever-present stoic figure, simply nodded in acknowledgement.
Jon, a faint smile playing on his lips, felt a renewed sense of purpose. These children, these last embers of the Targaryen dynasty, were his burden to bear, his legacy to protect. He would not fail them. He would not fail Rhaegar's memory. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room and Jon Connington knew their path to reclaiming the Iron Throne had just begun.
The stale, salty air of Tyrosh clung to Aegon like a second skin,despite the relentless Tyroshi summer sun beating down on the rickety roof. Three moons had waxed and waned since their arrival in Tyrosh, a monotonous cycle of lessons, training, and the gnawing frustration of confinement. The cramped living quarters, initially a source of amusement for Kurama, were now a constant reminder of their precarious situation.
"This is pathetic," the fox grumbled in his mind, his voice tinged with annoyance. "Stuck in this glorified rat hole while that weasel Varys dilly-dallies with suitable locations."
Every morning, the musty room echoed with the clash of steel as Serra put him through his paces. Her movements were a blur of deadly efficiency, a stark contrast to Mero's brute force approach. Here, Aegon learned the art of using his opponent's momentum against them, of striking with lightning speed and pinpoint accuracy. It resonated with him on a deeper level, a welcome change from the barbaric swinging of a sword.
Kurama, ever the voice of reason within him, rumbled in agreement. "This Serra… she reminds me of that old hag, Tsunade. All bark and a surprising amount of bite."
Naruto chuckled internally. The analogy wasn't entirely inaccurate. Serra, like Tsunade, possessed a formidable strength that belied her outward appearance. But unlike the boisterous Sannin, Serra maintained an air of stoic detachment, her praise as rare as a sunrise in the dead of winter.
Aegon parried a series of lightning-fast strikes from Serra. Her movements, honed by years of mercenary experience, were a blur of deadly grace. Aegon, however, was no longer the clumsy boy who'd first arrived in this dingy hideout. Months of relentless training had moulded him into a formidable swordsman.
He twisted his body just in time, the wooden practice sword glancing harmlessly off his shoulder. With a grunt, he launched a counter-attack, channelling the agility and fluidity he'd learned as Naruto Uzumaki. The tip of his blade sang through the air, narrowly missing Serra's throat.
"Good," she grunted, a hint of grudging respect in her voice. "But not good enough."
A frustrated growl rumbled within Aegon. He knew she was right. He was getting better, his swordsmanship a blend of brute force and his unpredictable agility. But Serra, a seasoned warrior, could still anticipate his moves, exploit any hesitation.
"Calm your mind, Naruto," Kurama, the demon fox sealed within him, rumbled in a low, gravelly voice. "Focus. Use your instincts."
Aegon closed his eyes for a fleeting moment, shutting out the surrounding sounds, focusing solely on the rhythm of Serra's attacks. He sensed her blade coming, not just from sight, but from a deeper, almost primal connection.
He ducked, rolled, and came up behind her in a blur of motion, the tip of his blade pressed against the small of her back. Disarmed. Again.
Serra, for the first time, let out a surprised laugh. "Finally caught me off guard, haven't you?" she said, turning to face him, her face breaking into a rare smile. "Impressive, Aegon. Very impressive."
Aegon, with not even a hint of exhaustion on face, lowered his sword. A surge of satisfaction warmed him, a flicker of pride that he quickly suppressed. He still had a long way to go, but today, he had finally managed to get one over her.
Serra raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eyes. "Just a lucky guess, or is there something you're not telling me, Aegon?"
Aegon remained silent. It wouldn't do to reveal the true nature of his heightened reflexes to anyone, especially not here. He simply shrugged, a noncommittal gesture that seemed to satisfy her curiosity, for now.
"Enough for today," Serra announced, sheathing her sword. "Wash up. Come the morrow's first light, Haldon has a particularly… stimulating lesson planned for you and Rhaenys."
Haldon's lessons were a different story compared to Serra's lessons. Maps and scrolls replaced swords and sweat. Aegon, surprisingly, found himself drawn into the intricate tapestry of Westeros' history – the rise and fall of dynasties, the complex web of alliances and betrayals. Haldon, with his passion for lore, painted a vivid picture of the Seven Kingdoms, each region distinct in its culture, climate, and power struggles.
He returned to the cramped living area, where Rhaenys sat hunched over a thick scroll, her brow furrowed in concentration. Their shared living quarters were far from luxurious, but Aegon was starting to feel a sense of… belonging. These were the only people who knew his secret, the only people who understood the strange whispers in his head.
"Haldon's history lesson tonight, huh?" Rhaenys asked, a wry grin playing on her lips. "Any bets on how long it takes him to put us to sleep?"
Aegon rolled his eyes, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Probably before he even gets to the Dance of the Dragons," he said, referring to one of Westeros' most infamous civil wars.
Their playful banter was interrupted by Haldon, who entered the room clutching a stack of even thicker scrolls. A flicker of excitement, carefully restrained, lit his eyes.
"This evening, young Targaryens," he announced, his voice carrying a hint of restrained enthusiasm, "we embark on a journey into the fascinating world of… dragons."
Four and a half years.
The phrase echoed in Rhaenys' mind as she surveyed the bustling harbour of Tyrosh. It felt like a lifetime and yet, a mere heartbeat. Time had warped and stretched during their exile in this cramped, damp hovel. Yet, within its confines, they had grown, not just physically, but in ways they couldn't have anticipated.
Rhaenys traced the worn leather cover of the worn copy of "Rogue Prince" in her lap, the Tyroshi air whipping at her exposed legs.
So much had changed. Aegon, once a fiery but impetuous boy, was maturing into a formidable young man. His silver hair was now a startling blue,mirroring the colour of Griff's own hair, a necessary disguise courtesy of a potent dye Haldon had procured.
Serra, their stoic swordsmanship instructor, remained a constant presence, her movements as precise and deadly as ever. Haldon, the chainless maester, had become more than just a teacher; a confidante who possessed a source of seemingly endless knowledge about the world. He had opened their eyes to the rich tapestry of Westerosi history, igniting a burning desire within Rhaenys to reclaim their birthright.
Now, they were leaving for Myr. A new location, Griff had promised, a place where they could finally breathe a little easier, train more openly. The news should have filled her with relief, but a strange apprehension gnawed at her. Leaving this hovel, their only home for the past few years, felt like stepping into the unknown once more.
Varys, the one Griff called Spider, had finally secured them a new haven – a secluded villa nestled amidst the rolling hills of Myr. It wasn't a palace, but it was a world away from the oppressive gloom of their Tyroshi hideout.
"Lost in thought, princess?"
Rhaenys turned to see Serra approaching, her expression unreadable as always.
"Just thinking," Rhaenys admitted. "About what lies ahead."
Serra grunted, a hint of amusement flickering in her dark eyes. "Myr won't be a vacation," she said. "But it will be a stepping stone. A safe haven to hone your skills further, to gather allies, to wait for the right moment."
"How long will we have to wait?" Rhaenys blurted out, the frustration that had been simmering within her finally bubbling over. "Years? Decades?"
Serra's gaze softened slightly. "Patience, princess. There will be a time for action. But for now, focus on what you can control. Hone your skills, learn everything you can about Westeros, about your enemies."
Rhaenys knew she was right. Yet, the thought of years spent in hiding, of biding their time while the Usurper, Robert Baratheon, the wretch who killed her father and had the gall to smile at her dead mother, sat on the Iron Throne, gnawed at her. She was a Targaryen, a dragon, and she yearned to unleash her fire on those who had wronged her.
"Finally," Rhaenys muttered under her breath, a hint of relief lacing her voice.
Aegon, standing beside her, his blue hair catching the sunlight in an unnatural glint, chuckled softly. "About time, wouldn't you say? I swear, I could smell mildew in my sleep."
Rhaenys smirked. Aegon, despite his newfound maturity, still retained his playful spirit. They spent the next few hours talking and packing everything into
Dawn arrived, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The salty breeze carried the excited chatter of sailors and the rhythmic creak of the ship, sounds that had become a comforting lullaby over the years. This morning, however, the breeze held a whisper of something new – promise, perhaps even hope.
A longboat awaited them, bobbing gently on the waves. It contrasted starkly with the cramped fishing vessel they'd been confined to for years.
Griff, his face weathered by years of hardship, stood beside the boat. The burden of their mission seemed to have etched deeper lines on his once-proud face. Yet, a spark of determination still flickered in his eyes, a spark mirrored in Aegon's.
Haldon, his scholarly demeanor momentarily forgotten, bustled around them, ensuring their meager belongings were secured aboard the longboat. Even Serra seemed a touch less stoic, a hint of anticipation lingering on her usually emotionless face.
As Rhaenys climbed into the boat, she cast one last glance at outskirts of Tyroshi towards the place that had been their refuge for so long. It was a place of hardship, but also of unexpected bonds. A place where they had not just grown physically, but as warriors and as people..
With a push from a burly sailor, the longboat cut through the water, leaving the familiar harbour behind. The open sea stretched before them, vast and limitless, mirroring the unknown future that awaited them in Myr.
Rhaenys leaned against the weathered gunwale, the salty spray a cool kiss on her face. The rhythmic lap of the waves against the boat was a soothing counterpoint to the thrumming of her own heart. Myr awaited.
What secrets, what allies, what battles might lay ahead? She didn't know, but one thing was certain – She was a Targaryen, and she would not be cowed.
Aegon, disguised as a blue-haired Tyroshi boy, disembarked onto the bustling docks of Myr with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. The salty tang of the sea air was replaced by the heady fragrance of exotic spices and grilled meats. Unlike the cramped Tyroshi hovel, Myr seemed alive with a vibrancy that both excited and overwhelmed him.
"Keep your head down, Naruto," Kurama rumbled in his mind. "Don't draw attention to yourself."
Aegon gave him a mental nod. He understood the importance of remaining anonymous. Griff, their guardian, had mentioned a powerful benefactor in Myr, someone who sympathized with their cause. But with whispers of the Usurper's reach extending far and wide, Aegon couldn't afford to be careless.
A sharp elbow dug into his side, jolting him back to the present. Rhaenys, her dark eyes narrowed in concentration, gestured towards a group of men unloading crates from a nearby ship. "See that sigil?" she whispered, pointing discreetly. "A gold spear piercing a red sun on an orange field, that's the sigil of our mother's family."
Aegon's eyes followed her gaze. House Martell. The only family he and Rhaenys had left.
"Fascinating," Haldon, their ever-patient tutor, chimed in, his voice barely a murmur. "Myr has long been a hub for Dornish trade. Perhaps House Martell plays a role in your benefactor's network."
A flicker of hope ignited within Aegon. 'Could the benefactor that Griff was talking about be one of my uncles from Dorne?' He wondered.
"Myr is a city of contrasts," Haldon continued, adjusting his spectacles as he surveyed the bustling marketplace. "A haven for merchants from all corners of the world, yet known for its strict social hierarchy. Here, power resides with the magisters, a group of wealthy merchant lords."
As they navigated the crowded streets, Aegon couldn't help but notice how Serra, their stoic swordsmanship instructor, seemed to move with a newfound alertness. Even Griff, his weathered face etched with worry, seemed intrigued by his surroundings.
"Interesting place, Myr," Griff muttered to Serra, his voice low. "Reminds me of Pentos in its heyday, before the chaos."
Serra grunted noncommittally. "Perhaps," she said, her gaze scanning the crowd. "But Pentos never struck fear into the hearts of pirates quite like Myr."
Aegon exchanged a worried glance with Rhaenys. Pirates? Myr, a haven for merchants, also housed pirates?
The day unfolded in a whirlwind of activity – finding their assigned lodging in a relatively quiet corner of the city, familiarizing themselves with the Myrish currency, and enduring another session of historical analysis with Haldon, this time focusing on the intricate history of Dorne.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the city, Aegon finally found himself alone with Rhaenys on their relatively smallbalcony. The city lights twinkled below them, a mesmerizing display of life and energy.
"So, Myr," he said, breaking the silence. "Pirates, magisters, and Dornish trade routes – seems like Griff picked a fascinating place to hide us."
Rhaenys smirked. "Fascinating, and maybe a touch dangerous. But at least it's not a damp hovel anymore."
Aegon couldn't help but grin. Leaving Tyrosh was a bittersweet experience, but Myr, despite its secrets and potential dangers, offered the promise of something more – a chance to truly begin their journey back to Westeros.
"We'll be ready, Rhaenys," he said, his voice filled with newfound determination. "No matter what Myr throws our way."
Rhaenys returned his gaze, her dark eyes reflecting the dancing city lights. "We are the blood of the dragon," she said, her voice a steely whisper. "We'll adapt, Aegon. Together."
The future remained uncertain, but as Aegon gazed out at the vibrant city of Myr, a sliver of hope bloomed within him. This was just the beginning. Their exile in Tyrosh was over. The road of life had taken a sharp turn, but Aegon, with Kurama simmering within him and Rhaenys by his side, was ready to face whatever challenges Myr had in store for them.
Jon Connington, alias Griff to the world, stood on the bustling docks of Myr, watching the unloading of a particularly large vessel. A knot of anticipation twisted in his gut. Today was the day Rolly, who was said to be a man of questionable temperament but undeniable skill, was due to arrive. He had entrusted Rolly with a crucial task – honing Aegon and Rhaenys' abilities beyond the traditional swordsmanship and knifemanship Serra had drilled into them.
A boisterous laugh cut through the din, shattering the quiet Jon had sought. A large man, broad-shouldered and sporting a bushy beard, swaggered towards him, a retinue of similarly burly men trailing behind. Rolly of the Golden Company himself.
"Griff!" Rolly boomed, his voice carrying over the clamour of the docks. He clapped Jon on the back with surprising force, nearly sending him sprawling. "Heard you needed a touch of the unorthodox."
Jon winced, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Indeed, Rolly. My young charges have mastered the basics of swordplay. Now, they need to learn the art of adapting to any weapon, any battlefield."
Rolly's single, good eye gleamed with amusement. "Leave it to me, Griff. I'll turn them into a pair of dancing dervishes, deadlier than a viper with a hangover."
Jon led Rolly through the bustling city streets, the sights and smells of Myr assaulting both men's senses. They reached a secluded courtyard, a hidden gem within their holdfast. Here, Aegon and Rhaenys awaited, their faces etched with extreme focus as they sparred with each other.
Time had been kind to them. Aegon, his once-silver hair now a startling blue, moved with a lethal grace that belied his young age. Fourteen namedays old, he was already taller than many grown men, his olive skin stretched taut over prominent cheekbones. A ghost of Rhaegar, his father, flickered in Jon's mind – the same piercing violet eyes, the same lithe build honed by relentless training.
Aegon disarmed Rhaenys with a lightning-fast flick of his wrist, her wooden practice sword clattering harmlessly to the floor. A triumphant grin spread across his face, a flicker of something akin to arrogance that Jon quickly squashed with a pointed cough.
"Good," Jon finally spoke, his voice gruff but laced with a grudging respect. "But remember, Aegon, a true warrior, never underestimates their opponent."
Aegon conceded the point with a curt nod, his competitive spirit always simmering just beneath the surface.
Rhaenys, too, had blossomed. Gone was the fiery, headstrong child of his first meeting. In her place stood a young woman, her beauty a potent blend of Targaryen fire and Dornish grace.
"Here they are, Rolly," Jon announced, gesturing towards the young Targaryens. "Aegon and Rhaenys. They're eager to learn."
Rolly surveyed them with a critical yet somehow assessing eye. "Eager, eh? Let's see how eager they are when they're swinging around a hammer longer than their limbs."
Aegon's lips twitched into a defiant smirk. "Bring it on," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I've bested Griff in a duel, a hammer can't be much harder."
Rhaenys simply crossed her arms, a glint of steely resolve in her eyes. "We're here to learn, Rolly," she said, her voice firm. "Test us as you see fit."
'This is the right path. Rolly, with his unorthodox methods, is the man to prepare them for the challenges that lay ahead of them,' Jon thought.
He watched with a flicker of pride as Aegon and Rhaenys sparred with Rolly Duck. The unorthodox weapons master had them wielding hammers, their movements a blur of deadly grace.
Yet, their swings lacked precision. Aegon overcompensated with brute force, his swings echoing a bit too loudly off the wooden practice dummies. Rhaenys, but the uneven weight distribution of the hammers threw her off balance on more than one occasion.
A satisfied grunt rumbled from Rolly's throat. "Not bad, you two," he rumbled, his single eye twinkling with amusement. "You're starting to get the hang of these overgrown mallets."
Aegon grinned, sweat beading on his brow. "Just the basics, Rolly. We've got a long way to go."
Jon couldn't agree more. The Iron Throne wouldn't be won through brute strength alone. Yet, witnessing their progress, their determination to master each weapon, filled him with a renewed sense of hope. He glanced towards Serra, her stoic face betraying a hint of a suppressed smile, a rare testament to Rolly's unorthodox methods bearing fruit.
Their training session was interrupted by a knock on the heavy wooden door. Serra moved with practiced ease, returning a moment later with a man cloaked in a dark travelling cloak. The hood obscured his features, but the sigil stitched onto the cloak – a spear piercing a sun – sent a jolt of surprise through Jon. A flicker of recognition danced in his eyes, a memory from a lifetime ago etched onto a familiar hand that emerged from the cloak.
"Griff," the figure spoke, his voice a low rumble. "We need to talk."
Jon recognized the voice instantly. It was Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper himself, and their mysterious benefactor in Myr. Varys, the enigmatic master of whispers, had revealed the truth of Aegon and Rhaenys' survival, but Oberyn, had only been truly convinced when he saw them with his own eyes.
Oberyn, however, had chosen to remain in the shadows, a necessary precaution in a kingdom rife with treachery. He had orchestrated resources and support from afar, remaining a silent guardian for Aegon and Rhaenys.
"Oberyn," Jon acknowledged, ushering him inside. "What brings you here?"
A tremor of shock rippled through Aegon and Rhaenys, their movements faltering mid-strike. Years of living in the shadows, of whispers and coded messages, hadn't prepared them for this moment. Their gazes darted towards the cloaked figure, recognition dawning on their faces with a jolt that mirrored the one in Jon's chest.
Here, in this secluded Myrish courtyard, stood a living legend – Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper. To them, he wasn't a mysterious benefactor but a whisper of their past, a connection to a family they only knew through stories and smuggled keepsakes. The weight of that realization hung heavy in the air, momentarily eclipsing the rhythmic thud of hammers against wood.
Oberyn removed his hood, revealing a face etched with years of experience, his dark eyes ablaze with a familiar fire. "News from Dorne," he said, his voice laced with a hint of urgency. "My brother, Doran, finally sees an opportunity. He wishes to meet with Aegon and Rhaenys."
Jon's heart pounded in his chest. This was a pivotal moment. A meeting with the Martells, their only remaining family, could solidify their claim and potentially bring Dorne into their fold. A decisive turn in the path to reclaiming the Iron Throne.
With the appearance of Oberyn, things are finally starting to get heated. Next chapter will be focused on Dorne.
Juggling three POVs and time jumps created a dense chapter, but it was a blast to write ngl.
Wonder if any of you guys noticed a hint at which character from House of the Dragon, Rhaenys is going to be a mirror of, in this chapter?