POV: Doran Martell
Dorne, Sunspear, 281 AC.
The hot desert wind blew fiercely through the windows of the Tower of the Sun. The stone towers of Dorne's capital rose against the horizon like eternal sentinels guarding the vast sea of sand that surrounded the city. The sun, merciless and unyielding, was at its peak, casting everything below in a harsh, orange glow. Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne, stood by the window of his chamber, gazing out at the desert while anxiously awaiting news.
His mind wandered far beyond the horizon, but his heart was anchored in the room where his wife, Mellario, labored to give birth. Doran was known as a man of great patience and composure, always measured, always one step ahead. But now, as he awaited the birth of his son, he felt vulnerable. In silence, he prayed to the gods, old and new, for his wife's safety and for the safe delivery of their child.
His wife, Mellario, was from Norvos, far to the east, and her foreign beauty had captivated him from the moment they met. Her dark hair cascaded in loose waves, contrasting sharply with her pale, ivory skin—so unusual in this sun-scorched land. Her almond-shaped eyes, a deep, warm brown, held a fierceness and an intensity that had drawn him in. Now, however, those same eyes were filled with pain and determination, and her beauty, normally so composed, was marred by the struggle of childbirth.
Footsteps echoed behind him, breaking the tense silence. The door creaked open, and Areo Hotah, his captain of the guard, entered.
"Your Grace," Hotah said, his deep voice low and respectful but carrying a grave weight. "The maester has asked for you. The time has come."
Doran nodded, trying to conceal the surge of anxiety that had been building within him. He had always understood that being a prince meant bearing responsibilities that few could imagine, but the uncertainty surrounding the birth of an heir was something entirely beyond his control.
"Take me to her," he said, his voice steady but tinged with a tremor of fear.
The two men walked through the cool, shadowed corridors of the castle, where the thick walls shielded Dorne's nobility from the relentless heat outside. As they neared the chambers where Mellario was, the muffled sounds of her cries reached Doran's ears, cutting into him like invisible blades.
The maester stood by the door, his expression serious and tired, the look of a man who had seen many such nights. He bowed slightly as Doran approached.
"Prince Doran," the maester began, carefully choosing his words. "Your lady wife is strong, but this is a difficult birth. You must prepare yourself."
Doran inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He knew that many births ended in tragedy. Mellario herself had suffered a miscarriage years ago, something that had shaken them both deeply. But now, he had to keep hope alive—for her, for him, and for the future of Dorne.
"I wish to be with her, Maester," Doran said, meeting the man's gaze with determination.
The maester hesitated briefly, then nodded.
"Follow me, my prince."
As they entered the room, the heat felt more oppressive. Mellario lay on the bed, her dark hair clinging to her sweat-soaked skin, her face pale and contorted in agony. She gripped the hand of one of the servants so tightly that her fingers had gone white. When she saw Doran, her eyes met his, and for a brief moment, she tried to smile, but another wave of pain quickly overtook her, forcing a guttural cry from her lips.
Doran approached the bed, kneeling beside her and taking her other hand gently in his.
"I'm here, Mellario," he whispered, his voice soft, trying to offer her the calm he didn't quite feel. "You're strong. Our son is almost here."
"Doran..." she gasped, barely able to speak between labored breaths. "If something happens..."
"Nothing will happen," he interrupted, his voice firm yet tender. "You will survive. We will survive. Dorne needs you. I need you."
She couldn't respond as another wave of pain gripped her, a scream tearing through her body. The maester, stationed at the foot of the bed, observed closely, giving quiet orders to the servants to keep the room prepared. Time seemed to stretch, each second feeling like an eternity.
Then, finally, after what felt like a lifetime of cries and agony, the piercing cry of a newborn filled the room. The maester rose, the newborn baby in his hands, and Mellario collapsed back onto the bed, breathing heavily, but with a look of relief washing over her features.
"It is a boy, my prince," announced the maester, cleaning the small, wriggling body before wrapping him in a soft cloth.
Doran's eyes gleamed with emotion as he looked at the maester, hands outstretched to receive the child. The newborn's cries echoed still, strong and full of life. Doran held him gently, studying the tiny face, his features still undefined but holding the promise of a bright future.
"Quentyn," Doran whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "He shall be named Quentyn, in honor of my father."
Mellario, weak but smiling softly, nodded.
"Quentyn..." she whispered.
But in that moment, something changed.
POV: Quentyn Martell
Everything was dark. A strange cold enveloped me, but I couldn't understand what was happening. I tried to make sense of my surroundings, but my mind was a fog of confusion and disorientation. I couldn't see. I couldn't feel anything beyond the strange sensation of being trapped in a body that wasn't my own.
Where was I? What had happened? Memories, fragmented and scattered, began to push their way into my mind. There had been... pain? Yes, pain. And light. Bright, blinding light. A car? The thought was vague, distant. And then... nothing.
I tried to move, but my body felt weak, alien, as if I didn't know how to control it. My limbs didn't respond the way they should. All I could do was... cry. Yes, that's what I was doing—crying. The sound filled the air around me, and I realized, in a panic, that it was my own voice. But that wasn't right. I wasn't a baby. I wasn't supposed to be a baby!
I wanted to scream, to shout for help, but all that came out were feeble, desperate cries. My throat burned with the effort, but the sounds were still those of an infant. My mind raced with a thousand questions, none of which I could answer. How? Why?
There were voices around me—muffled, distant—but they were near enough for me to catch a few words. "Quentyn," someone said. Quentyn. They were calling me Quentyn.
Quentyn... Martell?
The name sparked something in my fractured mind. Dorne. Martell. It couldn't be. It was impossible. But as I lay there, helpless and confused, the truth began to settle in, heavy and undeniable.
I had been reborn. And not just anywhere—I had been reborn as Quentyn Martell.
My eyes fluttered open for the first time. The world was a haze of colors and shapes, but as my vision cleared, I noticed the eyes of the man holding me. His gaze was intense but soft, and his face—dark-skinned and noble—held an expression of love and awe. My own eyes reflected in his. They were a brilliant amber, gleaming like molten gold.