The night the twins were born was a night of fire and fury.

The winds howled like dragons, battering the ancient walls of Dragonstone. Waves as tall as the castle's towers crashed against the cliffs, shaking the very foundation of the volcanic island. Thunder roared above, louder than any war cry, and streaks of lightning illuminated the blackened sky, as though the gods themselves were locked in battle.

Rhaella Targaryen, Queen of a crumbled dynasty, screamed as the storm outside raged in unison with the storm within her. The midwives huddled around her, their faces pale, their hands trembling as they worked tirelessly to save her and the babes. The air in the chamber was thick with the copper tang of blood and the acrid stench of sweat. Rhaella's breaths came in ragged gasps, her golden hair plastered to her forehead as she fought to bring her children into the world.

"Your Grace, you must push," Urged the maester, his voice breaking as he wiped his brow. He had never seen a labor so fraught, nor a storm so fierce.

It was as if the gods themselves mourned the end of House Targaryen.

Rhaella's fingers clutched the silk sheets, her knuckles white, her lips moving in a silent prayer. Perhaps to the gods. Perhaps to her son, Rhaegar, who would never see his children.

The storm clawed at Dragonstone with a ferocity unmatched in living memory. Winds howled through the narrow corridors of the castle like the anguished cries of the dead, shaking ancient stone walls and threatening to rip the stronghold apart. Rain lashed against the windows in torrents, and the sea raged below, its waves crashing against the volcanic cliffs with deafening force. The air carried the acrid tang of sulfur from the Dragonmount, a reminder of the restless mountain that loomed over the island—as if the world too were mourning.

Beyond the chamber door, the castle was alive with tension. Loyalists hurried through the halls, preparing for their departure. King Aerys II was dead, his body stabbed by Ser Jaime Lannister, and Prince Rhaegar had fallen on the Trident. The might of Robert Baratheon and his rebellion bore down upon them. Dragonstone, once a bastion of Targaryen strength, had become a final refuge—and a tomb waiting to happen.

Viserys, the queen's young son, was kept in a distant chamber, away from the chaos. A nursemaid clutched him close, whispering soothing words as the boy cried, his small hands clutching his mother's crown. He was too young to understand the enormity of what had been lost, or the weight of what lay ahead.

In the birthing chamber, the storm reached a crescendo, and with a final, guttural scream, Rhaella bore her first child into the world. The room fell silent, save for the infant's thin, reedy cries. A midwife quickly wrapped the babe in a cloth, lifting it into the dim light of a single flickering candle.

"A girl," She whispered, almost reverent.

The child's skin was pale, her hair damp and streaked with silver-gold, the mark of her Valyrian lineage.

But Rhaella was not done. Her body convulsed anew, and the midwives exchanged panicked glances. The queen gasped, her eyes wide with terror.

"Another?" One of the maids murmured. None of them had been prepared for twins.

The storm seemed to roar louder, shaking the chamber as if the gods themselves were bearing witness. The queen's strength ebbed with each passing moment. She cried out again, her voice raw and hoarse, and a second child entered the world.

Her head fell back, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Blood continued to pool beneath her, soaking the bed and dripping onto the cold stone floor. One of the midwives pressed a hand to her neck, her face crumpling with sorrow as she found no pulse.

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was dead.

In the chaos that followed, no one noticed the lone figure slipping through the shadowed halls of Dragonstone. Ser Andren Qorgyle, a knight of Dorne, moved with practiced stealth, his footsteps silent against the stone. He had come under the orders of Prince Oberyn Martell, his task shrouded in secrecy even from his comrades.

Elia Martell's murder at the hands of the Lannisters had ignited a fire in Oberyn's soul. He remembered his sister's letters, how she had spoken of Rhaella's fears for her unborn child. The Mountain's brutality had robbed Elia of her children, but Oberyn would not allow the same fate to befall the last hope of House Targaryen.

The knight reached the birthing chamber undetected, his dark cloak blending into the shadows. Inside, the midwives bustled about in confusion, trying to clean the bloodied chamber and decide what to do with the infants. Ser Andren's gaze fell upon a babe, swaddled in hastily wrapped cloth. Her hair shimmered in the candlelight, unmistakably Targaryen.

There was no time for questions. The storm would mask his escape, but only for so long. Assuming there was only one child, Ser Andren scooped up the nearest babe and tucked her securely beneath his cloak. The tiny girl stirred but did not cry, her silence a blessing as he slipped out of the chamber.

The sea raged as Ser Andren guided his horse to the waiting boat, his heart pounding with urgency. The child remained silent, her small face pressed against his chest. Behind him, Dragonstone loomed, its jagged silhouette illuminated by flashes of lightning. For a moment, he thought he saw movement atop the Dragonmount, a glimmer of something vast and serpentine shifting against the volcanic rock. He blinked, and the vision was gone.

Beneath the volcanic mountain of Dragonstone, something stirred. The storm's fury reverberated through the caverns, the heat of the earth mingling with the chaos above. Deep within the ancient heart of the mountain, where the flames of Old Valyria once burned, a rumble echoed. It was faint, barely perceptible, but it was there—a sound like the shifting of scales and the low, guttural growl of something awakening from centuries of slumber.

The mountain breathed.

The knight pushed the thought aside. His duty was to the babe, to the promise he had made to Oberyn. As the boat pushed off into the stormy waters, he cast one last glance at Dragonstone. The island seemed alive, its firelit peaks exhaling plumes of smoke into the turbulent sky. The gods were restless.

By dawn, the storm had subsided, leaving Dragonstone battered but intact. Viserys and the surviving infant were taken aboard a ship bound for Essos, their nursemaid clutching the queen's crown like a talisman. None aboard the ship knew of the second child. None knew that the last hope of House Targaryen had been divided, scattered across the realm like ashes in the wind.

And deep beneath the volcanic mountain, something ancient stirred. The night of the storm had awakened it, a presence older than memory, its power long dormant but never extinguished.

Far from Dragonstone, the Dornish knight cradled the silent babe in his arms, his face grim but resolute. The girl would grow far from the shadow of her family's fall, her true name hidden even from herself.

The journey from Dragonstone to Dorne was grueling, a blur of salt, wind, and secrecy. Ser Andren carried the infant through stormy seas and treacherous roads, his crimson cloak shielding her tiny body from prying eyes. He barely rested, barely ate, his thoughts consumed by the weight of his failure. Two babes had needed saving, yet he carried only one.

When Sunspear's golden towers finally came into view, Ser Andren exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The babe stirred in his arms, her faint cries breaking the silence as he crossed the gates into the palace. The Dornish sands, warmed by the desert sun, seemed a world away from the cold fury of Dragonstone's storm.

Oberyn Martell awaited him in the shadow of a stone colonnade, his posture rigid, his dark eyes burning with unspoken rage and sorrow. He had been pacing for hours, his mind a storm of memories and regrets. The news of Rhaella Targaryen's baby had stirred something raw in him—Elia's voice, trembling with fear as she spoke of their fate; the laughter of her children, silenced by Lannister cruelty. He had sent Andren with a singular purpose: save the baby. Protect the innocent. Do what he could not do for his sister and her children.

When Ser Andren approached, Oberyn's gaze locked on the bundle in his arms. He stepped forward, his hands trembling as he reached out to take the babe. For a moment, he hesitated, his breath catching in his throat. The knight placed the infant carefully in his prince's arms, stepping back as if to give Oberyn space to confront the enormity of what he now held.

Oberyn cradled the child, her tiny form dwarfed by his strong hands. The weight of her was so light, so fragile, yet it crushed him with unbearable grief. She was swaddled in soft wool, her silver hair peeking out, her pale cheeks flushed with the heat of the journey. Her violet eyes blinked up at him, unfocused, innocent, and unaware of the burden her birth had placed on the world.

A sharp inhale escaped Oberyn's lips as he gazed down at her. His knees weakened, and he sank to the cool stone floor, unable to stand under the weight of it all. Tears, hot and unrelenting, spilled down his face, carving trails through the sharp angles of his features. He brushed a trembling finger against her soft cheek, his touch reverent, as though she might disappear if he pressed too hard.

"Elia," He whispered, his voice breaking, "Oh, Elia."

The memories surged forward like a tidal wave. His sister's laughter, her gentle voice, her fear as she spoke of the Targaryen twins she wished to protect. The sight of her broken body, her children's bloodied corpses. The helplessness he had felt then came roaring back now, and for the first time since her death, Oberyn Martell wept openly.

The babe stirred in his arms, her tiny fist brushing against his chest. Her small movements pulled him from his grief, grounding him in the present. This child—this impossibly small, impossibly fragile child—was his chance to do what he could not do before. His chance to protect.

"You are alive," He murmured, his tears dripping onto the babe's blanket, "You are alive, and I will not fail you."

He bent his head, pressing his lips to her forehead. His tears mingled with her warmth, and his voice dropped to a whisper, trembling with conviction, "I swear to you, little one. I swear by the sun, the sand, and the blood of my sister. I will protect you. I will shield you from harm until my last breath. No one will hurt you. Not while I live."

The babe stirred again, her eyes fluttering shut as she drifted into a fitful sleep. Oberyn rocked her gently, his grip tightening as if he could hold her together through sheer force of will. For the first time in years, his grief found purpose. He could not save Elia, nor Rhaenys, nor Aegon—but he would save this child. He would raise her as his own, shield her from the world's cruelties, and ensure her survival against all odds.

Oberyn remained there on the cold stone floor for what felt like hours, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. And to him, she was. She was a symbol of hope, of redemption, of all that he had lost and could not lose again.

When Ellaria Sand found him, she stopped in the doorway, her heart breaking at the sight. She had known Oberyn for years, had seen him in triumph and despair, but she had never seen him like this—raw, broken, and vulnerable. She approached slowly, kneeling beside him and placing a hand on his shoulder.

"She's beautiful," Ellaria whispered, her voice soft, her eyes glistening as she gazed at the sleeping babe.

"She is all we have left," Oberyn replied, his voice hoarse, "She is my sister's will, her wish to protect those who cannot protect themselves. I will not fail her."

Ellaria's gaze softened as she brushed a finger against the babe's cheek, "What will you call her?"

Oberyn hesitated, his mind racing. A name. She could not bear her true name, not here, not now. The world was not safe for a Targaryen, not yet. She needed a name that would shield her, hide her, while still honoring her roots.

"Jaeda," He said finally, his voice steady, "She will be Jaeda Sand. But in my heart, she will always be more. She will always be..."

He paused, his lips trembling as he found the words, "She will always be fire."

Ellaria nodded, her hand lingering on Oberyn's shoulder as they sat together, watching over the sleeping child. The storm that had raged through Oberyn's soul began to calm, though the grief would never truly leave him. He pressed his forehead to Jaeda's, his tears finally drying, replaced by a fierce determination.

"You will live, Jaeda," He vowed, "And you will rise."

Thus began the life of Jaeda Sand, the girl who would grow to be more than anyone ever imagined, raised by the man who carried her family's grief like a banner, his love for her as unyielding as the Dornish sun.

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[ what do we think so far? ]