Game of Thrones: The Legend of Quentyn Martell

POV: Quentyn Martell

Dorne, Sunspear.

In the dim light of the cradle, Quentyn Martell watches the stars and the moon illuminating the night of Sunspear, his tiny fists clenching and unclenching as he lay in his cradle. It had been a few months since his visit to the Water Gardens.

"A few months?" he corrected himself inwardly, a baby's body incapable of vocalizing such thoughts. "No, it has to be moons"…. No calendars here, only moons and seasons. "Damn, the sense of time here sucks !" Quentyn complain. —If I were to guess, my birth might've been in April. Then If my timing is still sharp, from what my parents and uncle talked about the tournament should take place in November, which means we're somewhere around…" His infant mind struggled to calculate, but thoughts flickered like candle flames. "September? Yes, let's stick with September."

Yet beneath this contemplative façade lay an inexorable weariness. As much as his mind raced with thoughts far beyond his years, his body felt persistently heavy. Quentyn sighed—He was frequently plagued by a sensation every other babe surely felt: fatigue.

"I thought the my tiredness was normal and all infants were tired creatures, How naïve I was!" In truth, it was not simply babyhood that burdened him; it was the mental weight of memories, contemplations and plans colliding with an infant's limitations. "I´m an adult man trapped in a merely a small being. Ugh!" He grunted softly, his chubby cheeks squishing together adorably. "It's not fair. My brain consumes calories like wildfire with the thoughts I'm having and yet all I have is this insufficient diet of my mother's milk."

As if on cue, the scent of his mother's breast filled the air—a warm, comforting aroma that instantly made him feel safe. He could hear her soothing voice singing lullabies meant for a child unaware of the burdens of destiny. "bedtime little prince". his mother comments with a softness smile on her face. He smirked softly, the irony of his predicament teasing him. "It's not like there was a study on the amount of calories a baby has to consume and unfortunately her milk is not magic". 

The mind of Quentyn begins to recap the plan he prepared to try to save Rhaenys—his cousin, the princess whose fate had hanging in his hands to decide whether she will have salvation or cruelty.

After his mother put him back in the cradle and went to bed to sleep he began to practice what he was doing until now breathing and practical exercises to improve diction that he learned in his other life. And when he realized that his mother was indeed asleep he began to practice actually speaking. —Well I hope my plan works and they don't burn me because of witchcraft. he mutters to himself before finally falling asleep after training until his throat feels uncomfortable.

Sunspear, 281 AC, next day.

The morning sun rose high over Sunspear, casting vibrant rays over Dorne's desert sands. Quentyn squirmed in his mother's arms as the Martell family approached the training grounds, where Oberyn was sparring with a handful of soldiers. His lean frame moved fluidly, his spear twisting with ease as he struck against opponents with impressive agility.

Ellaria, standing nearby, watched with a mix of admiration and lust in her gaze. "Your brother is quite the spectacle, my Prince" she remarked to my father, while chuckling softly.

Doran rolled his eyes with a smirk. "He certainly thinks so. But he's skilled, I'll grant him that."

Arianne tugged at her mother's sleeve. "Mother, will Uncle Oberyn teach me one day too?" Her eyes sparkled as she watched Oberyn land a swift strike on a soldier, his movements as fluid as water and fierce as a desert wind.

My father nodded slowly. "He will, if that's what you wish." He gazed thoughtfully at Oberyn, then at Quentyn in Mellario's arms. "One day, Quentyn, you may learn from him as well," he murmured to his son, who was watching his uncle's movements intently.

Quentyn, his tiny hands clutching at his mother's dress, observed Oberyn with fascination. "He's even more skilled than I'd imagined. I thought he was just ok, but it looks like he didn't use everything he can do in the fight against the mountain. The spear might be my weapon of choice, after all it's considered the king of weapons". Yet he thought with an internal sigh — But carrying a spear every day? A bit unwieldy. I'll have to find a solution to that.

As Oberyn caught sight of his family, he grinned and lowered his spear, sweat glistening on his brow. "If I'd known my nephews were watching, I would've made more of a show," he called out, his tone teasing.

His father raised an eyebrow, his expression steady but not without a hint of concern. "If you don't start taking things more seriously, Oberyn, your life may one day could be at risk."

Oberyn chuckled, twirling the spear effortlessly before setting it down. "Now, brother, you know I live by a different creed. Besides, when have I ever been reckless in a fight?" His grin widened as he looked at Doran, who responded with a faint sigh.

"Well, are you done showing off now?" Doran asked dryly. "We'd best get to lunch if we're to discuss your journey to Harrenhal." Oberyn nodded, signaling his readiness to join them.

After the sparring session has completed, they walked over to a shaded area where a feast had been prepared. Servants bustled around, setting up dishes laden with Dornish delicacies. Quentyn nestled against Mellario, with a sleepy demeanor but observing the lively exchanges and laughter of his family.

As they sat for the meal, Doran turned to his wife with a thoughtful expression. "A raven arrived earlier this morning," he announced quietly. "Elia sent word. She's recovered from the birth of her daughter and sends her love to us, especially to Quentyn."

Mellario's eyes softened. "It's wonderful to hear. She's been through much; she deserves peace." She glanced at Quentyn, her expression warm. "One day, you'll meet your aunt and cousin, little one."

Oberyn took a deep breath and smiled, raising his cup in a toast to the Seven. "I thank the gods for our sister's recovery. But Elia should never have married that prince," he said, his voice filled with a mix of concern and relief.

Doran remained steady, but with a hint of understanding. "That was our mother's decision, Oberyn, and Elia also agreed to the marriage. It wasn't forced upon her."

Mellario interjected with a light smile. "It's the dream of many noble girls to marry a prince. And Elia likely felt no different, especially with the promise of an alliance between the Martell and the Targaryen. There was no way she could refuse the proposal."

Catching the cue, Doran looked at his wife with a playful glint in his eye. "Tell me my wife, would that have been your wish as well?"

She laughed softly, shaking her head. "I said girls, my love, not women. For the sake of our children, I want to be as far away from political conflicts as possible."

Oberyn's face lit up with a roguish grin. "I plan to leave for Riverlands soon for the tournament; I'd say that the trip will take approximately two moons at the most. I'll make the journey worth every mile, you can trust that." He took a long sip of wine, his gaze distant as though already imagining the adventures that awaited him on the road.

Oberyn leaned back with his characteristic ease, savoring his cup of wine, when he felt a soft hand on his shoulder. Turning slightly, he saw Ellaria standing beside him, her gaze both playful and determined.

"I won't be left behind, you know," she said, her voice carrying a gentle conviction. "I'm going with you to Riverlands."

Oberyn's eyebrow lifted in amused surprise, though his expression softened. "Oh, really? Are you sure you're ready for the chaos of the tournament, my love? The journey itself is far from gentle," he teased, though he couldn't quite mask the glimmer of pleasure in his eyes.

Ellaria tilted her head, a smirk on her lips. "For someone with such charm, you forget I can hold my own in any place, with any company," she replied, unfazed. "Besides, I've no intention of missing out on the spectacle or leaving you free to cause trouble all on your own."

Oberyn chuckled, reaching for her hand and kissing it. "Well, I wouldn't dream of going without you then. I'll just have to make sure you see all of it – the good, the wild, and whatever mischief comes our way."

With a shared laugh, the two exchanged a knowing glance, their plans already unfolding between them. The warm afternoon sun cast soft rays over the table, illuminating the group as laughter echoed across the shaded courtyard. Plates of spiced meats, fresh fruits, and rich Dornish wine lay spread before them as family and friends filled the space with the sounds of shared stories and laughter.

Just then, a soft murmur escaped from Quentyn's lips, drawing the attention of everyone around the table. His small face scrunched as if in a trance, his eyes rolling back turning him completely white, his voice barely a whisper yet clear for everyone present to hear:

"The dragon prince of melodies shall claim his fight,

but it's the crown that will spark the night.

In the arena, where roses of ice shall gleam,

a new queen he will proclaim.

And winter's wind shall bloom in love,

a soft touch sparking wrath above.

Then shields and swords to war shall go,

and innocent blood will stain the ground.

"The sun queen with her daughter, in flames of sorrow will be.

With misfortune chasing them in form of a mountain.

But beneath the burning sun, they shall stay,

lest the speared sun be shadowed in dismay.

Those who linger near the dragon's keep

may find no rest, nor peace, nor sleep.

Heed the call to sands afar,

where shields will guard."

After fulfilling the prophecy he fell silent, his eyes rolling back to normal before he let out a soft sigh and closed them, pretending to drift into sleep. The room fell into a stunned silence, each family member exchanging anxious, bewildered glances.

Quentyn doesn't need to see the expressions of those present to know they must be in shock. "Damn my throat is killing me, I practiced until now to try to speak fluent but even then I forced my baby's throat too much". he thought to yourself. — Well, I had to create a prophecy to make the message less aggressive. If a newborn baby talks about what will happen, even with the protection of my parents, I would probably be attacked by witchcraft by religious followers. "a doubt that I have is why Dorne follows the Faith of the Seven religion, they have such a different culture from others Westeros".

in relation to the members of the room a flicker of concern crossed Mellario's face as she held her son closer, a worried glance shared with Doran. Oberyn looked intrigued, his lips twitching in a half-smile, while Arianne stared, wide-eyed with a mix of fear and fascination.

As tension settled over the room, Quentyn nestled further into his mother's embrace, his little heart steady and calm. Inwardly, he knew he'd laid the first stones of his plan, even if it was hidden in cryptic words. The room remained silent, the gravity of his words settling over them like a shadow, hinting at a future yet to unfold.