Chapitre 1: Chapter I - Revelations
Chapter 1 - Revelations
A/N: Right, pardon the long wait, here is the start of the rewritten Master of Dorne! One thing to note is that I could not find a Rhoynar name generator or list anywhere, so I settled for a Dornish name list on Reddit, taken from the CK3 AGOT mod.
Chapter I: Revelations
Undisclosed Hideout
The cave was cold, dark and damp, the ground rock-hard and riddled with puddles where water slowly dripped from above, a nearby pond the source of humidity and survival. The reddish-hued stone cast an ominous orange glow the colour of vomit, illuminated by a small fire that did little to ward off the cold.
A group of men and women clad in bright-coloured robes, tailored in geometric-patterns and with medium-toned colours, stood vigil over the pond as they softly chanted prayers in their native tongue - a beautiful lilting tongue with occasional guttural sounds - their eyes closed and their faces taut with anxiety, the sweet burning incense the only thing calming their nerves.
Oh Blessed Mother, Sweet Mother Rhoyne,
Today we seek thine vision, thine plans for the future in these times of uncertainty and doubt.
Few are your true children left, the Andals our bane,
Slaughterers of our children and destroyers of our redoubt.
Oh Mother Rhoyne, please bless us with thine vision,
Thine mercy, thine generosity.
Show us the way you envision,
For the sake of our triumphant victory.
The water rippled, and images soon manifested in the water's reflection.
A three-headed dragon flew overhead, and castles, towns and villages burned as far as the eye could see, thousands of corpses irrigating the ground red with their blood. Crimson and black, the colours of this dragon, dyeing all of Westeros with its colours. Yet the banners of Great Houses - Stark, Lannister and Arryn - still fluttered in the wind, placed shorter than the banner of the three-headed dragon.
Yet as the dragon's colours faded, they saw that such colours painted only a small, miniscule portion of all Westeros, the other Kingdoms preserved and left alone and their power kept intact as if nothing had changed, a monument to the continent's everlasting stagnation.
Then, they saw the three-headed dragon tear itself apart in a grisly show of blood and gore, cackling like a mad villain. Surrounding the mad dragon were men serving under the banners of the Great Houses - men the dragon spared in its hubris - hurling spears and arrows and taking it down after a long and bloody fight.
Yet even as the men of the Great Houses celebrated their victory, they swiftly went back to fighting each other as they had done for countless millennia, uncaring of the tidal wave of cold sweeping in from the north. Entire castles fell before the blizzard, and preceding the snowstorm was waves upon waves of walking corpses, slaughtering everything in their path with fang and claw and rusted weaponry.
At the very centre of the horde of the dead stood a group of white-skinned, blue-eyed men, embodiments of the element of cold, smiling with sadistic glee as they beheld the carnage, fields and forests of the dead as far as the eye could see.
Dominating all these pale men - these monsters - were a pale man and pale woman with monarchical garb, crowns set upon their brows glittering with the light of diamonds.
The gathered crowd looked into their eyes, and saw the blackened abyss.
They all fell flat on their behinds, shock and denial echoing throughout the cave as they desperately tried to make sense of this foreboding vision. Eager for an answer, they peered back into the reflection, desperately praying for a sign.
Once again, images manifested in the water's reflection.
It showed a single wailing babe, born to overjoyed parents who celebrated the coming of their firstborn child. Olive brown skin, silky smooth hair and piercing brown eyes who beheld astonishing intelligence and childlike glee.
As the child grew into a boy, they could see parched desert land blossom to life, flora and fauna where water flowed in great rivers and canals built by hard working engineers. The people thrived and prospered, enjoying strong food security and stately housing, protected by legions of disciplined troops flying proud banners - crimson banners bearing a white sword-bearing arm.
Gradually, the sword-arm was replaced by a cunning, wily fox, the embodiment of adaptability, anonymity, diplomacy and swiftness of action.
The banner of the sunburst fluttered in the distance, the troops of House Martell seeking to put down this challenger to its dynastic rule. Said troops were mercilessly washed away by water and burned by fire, as if the Martells incurred the wrath of the Heavens.
The banner of the Sunburst burst into flames, crumbling to ash and scattering to the winds. Soon, the banner of the crimson fox submitted to the banner of the three-headed dragon, and the flames of war subsided, paving the way for a blossoming field of flowers.
The visions ended, and it was here that fierce deliberation erupted amongst the gathered crowd.
"Have you not seen the visions? It is clear that there is hope for the Rhoynish!"
"Can you truly trust these visions!? For all I know, this prophesied saviour may be our doom instead! House Martell is a villainous house who spat on our traditions and gratitude, but it is the ruling house of Dorne!"
"And if we do nothing, nothing will change and nothing ever will! We must take the initiative and seek out this house, and take the next step forward!"
"Mother Rhoyne damn you, Garen! I'm perfectly fine with this lifestyle our people lead, I don't think we need any change!" Cursed a young woman, her black hair slick down her shoulder, brown eyes flaring with anger.
"Do you? Do you, Marei!?" Cursed Garen, "It's because of the accursed Red Princes that we cannot openly practise our culture and religion, and because of the Andals, our Water Magic has degraded as countless generations of skilled masters are hunted down and slaughtered by Andal fanatics! And you think we don't need to change!?"
"At least it's far less risky and doesn't put our very survival at stake!" Marei retorted, "I admit, I dislike us being forced to practise our culture in secret, but it's better than taking such a high-risk gamble!"
"Fine, if you don't want to do this, then you're free to take your leave!" Garen declared.
With no further argument, Marei and fully half their group left the cadre of Water Wizards, leaving Garen to deal with the remainder who anxiously looked to him for guidance.
"Garen, what do we do now?" One of the juniors, a young boy named Garic, questioned.
"We make for Arsalm," Garen decided, "It's our best bet."
"But what if Marei is right?" Garic questioned, "What if this newborn babe isn't our saviour?"
Garen took a deep breath, steadying himself.
"Even if he isn't… it's better to die doing something with your life, than to die by doing nothing," He affirmed.
With that, they left for their destination.
IIOII
Arsalm (Swordport)
Arris Rada, Patriarch of his house, wandered restlessly outside the birthing chambers, biting his thumb nervously as he anxiously awaited for his wife's ordeal to be over. Young and spry with a masculine, sun-tanned body, he bore a single vertical scar across his left eye, his sandy yellow eyes filled with turmoil and his slick black hair slick with sweat.
His wife Aimelia endured this terrible ordeal for hours now, and at its climax her screams shot through the roof like a volcanic eruption.
Please, let this be over. Please, Mother Rhoyne, let both of them survive…
Soon her wife's screams ceased, and the healthy wails of a babe followed, echoing throughout the chambers as the sign of a Mother-blessed miracle.
One of the midwives opened the door and said to Arris with a beaming smile, "Congratulations, My Lord! It's a baby boy!"
Swiftly did Arris burst into the birthing chambers where he beheld his beautiful wife, sweet sweet Aimelia, the jewel of the desert and the light of his life. At the age of ten and eight - same as he - she was a comely and matronly woman with wide hips and an ample bosom, her glossy olive skin glistening with sweat. Her blue eyes beheld their newborn son with unbridled joy, shedding tears of happiness and relief, her long black hair reaching past her shoulders.
"Look, my love," Aimelia gasped, "Our son."
Their newborn, firstborn son was so soft and round with baby fat, and to their eyes he looked so fragile and innocent he did not deserve to be born in such a tumultuous time. He smiled at him, and as if sharing his joy, the babe smiled back if only for an instant.
"What shall we name him?" Aimelia asked, "After your grandfather, maybe?"
"No, I have another name in mind," Arris countered, "There was a brave and loyal soldier of our household, and one I owe my life to. He was a man of few words, but his actions spoke volumes of his character - strong and steadfast and loyal above all else. His name was Arin, and that shall be my son's name."
"Such a wonderful name," Aimelia smiled, "And yet… I cannot help but fear for him. Our House is not what it used to be, and the three Houses of Nasyr, Barra and Haro continue to encroach on our trade routes."
Arris heaved a heavy sigh, "The War of Four Houses devastated our loyal vassals, and these new Houses are tightening the noose on us. Now we're even beginning to face the danger of losing our arable land, thanks to them whispering poison in the Princess's ear."
"Meria is just that, the Yellow Toad," Aimelia mouthed, "She, like countless generations of her predecessors, are content with the status quo and do nothing to change things for the better, be it for Dorne or their household. And with House Targaryen readying for war against the realm of House Hoare, why is it they do nothing?"
"And us being one of the last Rhoynish houses that still keep to the old ways has earned us few friends in the Royal Court," Asraz lamented, "O Mother Rhoyne, how far your children have fallen…"
Just then, a servant opened the door of the birthing chambers and informed Arris, "My Lord, a group of strangers are at the castle gates, requesting for an audience. They claim to be the Orphans of the Greenblood."
"...Did I hear you correctly?" Arris questioned.
"Yes, I do not lie, My Lord. They claim to be the very same Orphans of the Greenblood," The servant reiterated.
Arris nodded slowly, while Aimelia narrowed her eyes in confusion.
"Send them in for now," Arris ordered, "I will meet them in my solar."
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone