Talk of Quentyn's whereabouts had gone silent long enough to cause panic amongst the troublemakers in Sunspear. The young Dornish prince had ambitions silly enough to lead even the most formidable men to deaths door, that much was known, however his letters went cold soon after he aligned with the Tattered Prince. On the other hand, Doran Martell had sensible and consistent, albeit shifty, plans, put together over the course of two decades behind the scenes of Westerosi politics - revenge for the Dornish who had fallen during Robert's Rebellion, and the subsequent loss of Oberyn Martell at the hands of a Lannister brute.
--But Meereen was no place for Dornish nobility, and the Prince of Tatters was no such friend to rely on. Rhaenys could attest to this... As Naela Sand, one of many bastard daughters of Dorne's Red Viper, she was a recent recruit of the Windblown as a mercenary found on the Rhoyne, willing only to unite with Quentyn in Slavery's Bay where the group were headed. The commander was dark and conniving with plots that she couldn't guess and wouldn't be told, though a clear knack for sticking his nose in places it needn't be. Unfortunately it had been weeks of side quests and distractions, with the company yet to directly penetrate the towering walls of the city.
Daenerys' sudden disappearance on dragonback encouraged Rhaenys to flee the nearby encampment and head towards the Dothraki Sea, despite her better instincts. It was land patrolled by savages, hordes of them, and her head would likely be mounted on a pike if she were one of the lucky ones. It was twelve leagues east of the Painted Mountains that she finally came across the Mother of Dragons. She was gorgeous with piercing violet eyes intense even from a distance, slim, fair, carrying the prototypal locks of her bloodline. It looked as if she had just woken - her hair was a mess and her expressions confused. There appeared to be blood between her thighs as she climbed to her feet. She was in no good spot to be under the weather.
Rhaenys felt drawn to her, more than she could understand - so much so that her instinct to support brought her forward through the tall grass into the small clearing, stopping at the foot of the hill on which Daenerys was mounted. ❝ I mean no harm, ❞ she insisted with both arms raised in surrender, lowering her head respectfully. The Sand Snake wore a loose-fitting yellow tunic covered by a black cloak, with matching trousers and worn leather boots, and a protective scarf that kept her mouth covered. Her hair was pitch black, tied loosely behind her head, and her eyes were dark brown with a lighter glow in the sunlight. She wore no jewels.
The self-proclaimed Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was her own blood, Rhaenys reminded herself silently. It was hard to adapt to the belief that she herself was a Targaryen. She was raised as one of many bastard daughters of Oberyn Martell and an absent Volantene whore, though showered with unconditional love nevertheless. It was only after her so-called fathers death that a letter was delivered and the truth was revealed. Doran quickly sent her to Essos, in part for protection, but it took no time for her to fall into a triangle of schemes. ❝ You're hurt, ❞ she suggested, eyes glancing at the smeared red on both her legs. ❝ Let's clean you up. ❞ Removing a blade the size of a small finger from her belt, Rhaenys cut off a piece of her cloak. @daecaerys
