297 AC
The sun-drenched halls of Sunspear glowed with the warm, golden light of the afternoon, but within the sandstone walls of House Martell, a colder fire burned. The news from across the Narrow Sea had reached Dorne, and with it came the stirring of old wounds and the whisper of vengeance.
Prince Doran Martell sat in his solar, his weak legs propped up by cushions, his hands resting lightly on the arms of his chair. His eyes, however, were sharp and calculating, fixed on the letter that lay open before him. The reports were clear—Aemon Targaryen, the bastard son of Rhaegar, had risen in Essos, claiming Daenerys and commanding dragons.
Doran's heart ached with the memory of his sister, Elia Martell, and her children, butchered during Robert's Rebellion. But beneath the grief was a simmering desire for justice—or vengeance.
The door to his solar burst open, and in strode Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, his dark eyes blazing with fury. "Another Targaryen bastard," he spat, pacing the room like a caged predator. "Rhaegar's spawn, as if we needed more reminders of his failures."
Doran's voice was calm, but firm. "Aemon is not Rhaegar."
Oberyn rounded on his brother, his expression fierce. "No, but he's the product of Rhaegar's betrayal. If not for his precious Lyanna Stark, Elia would still be alive. Her children would still breathe."
Doran sighed, the weight of years pressing down on him. "Perhaps. But Aemon is a tool, Oberyn. A means to an end."
Before Oberyn could respond, Arianne Martell entered the room, her golden-brown eyes gleaming with curiosity. "A dragonlord," she murmured, settling into a chair with feline grace. "Imagine what it would mean for Dorne if he were to marry into our family."
Oberyn barked a harsh laugh. "You'd marry Rhaegar's bastard?"
Arianne shrugged, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. "Why not? Power is power. And a dragonlord husband would make me very powerful indeed."
At that moment, the Sand Snakes arrived, their presence filling the room with a chaotic energy. Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene exchanged amused glances before Obara snorted. "Arianne, dreaming of dragons again?"
Nymeria smirked. "Careful, sister. Dragons have sharp teeth."
Tyene's soft voice was laced with mockery. "And they don't take kindly to little princesses trying to leash them."
Arianne rolled her eyes but said nothing, her thoughts clearly lingering on the idea of a union with Aemon.
Doran raised a hand, silencing the room. "Enough. This is not about marriage or grudges. This is about opportunity."
Oberyn's eyes narrowed. "You mean to ally with him?"
Doran's gaze was steady. "I mean to see where his loyalties lie. If Aemon seeks vengeance against the Lannisters and Baratheons, then we may have common cause."
Oberyn's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "And if he doesn't?"
Doran's voice dropped to a whisper, cold and resolute. "Then we remind him of the blood debt his family owes ours."
The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them like a shadow. The Martells were patient, but they never forgot. And now, with dragons stirring across the sea, the time for vengeance might finally be at hand.