[img=http://fc04.deviantart.net/fs70/i/2012/024/7/4/dornish_rebellion_by_filipehattori-d4ni0um.jpg]

[b]Westeros, The Stormlands, Summerhall[/b]

The sands whirled around him, the grains biting at his skin as he pulled himself across the ground. No matter how much effort he put into each haul, the storm of sand around him both hampered his process and made the world into one sight. He lost all trace of distance, the only markers being the mangled bodies slowly seeping into the ground. Despite the swirling cataclysm, the sun still beat down, obscured, but the heat still seemed to seep through into his very being, even as his life blood tainted the ground behind him.

"Daeron! Daeron!" He screamed , although the wind carried it away and the sand made him choke. He coughed, trying to clear his mouth, but only blood dripped from his pale, cracked lips. He tried, truly, to push himself on, but instead collapsed forwards, connecting with the coarse surface of the desert sand.

When he finally pushed himself up, one hand clutching his side, as if to hold in the blood which even now stained his fingers. There was just so much of it. Even as he felt his grip on reality slip away, he knew it was too much for him to ever walk away from this. Then, his other hand hit something. metal. Brushing away the sand, the sound that finally released itself from his mouth was some of a strained, garbled cry. The young features of the King looked up at him, his armour rent, there was no life behind his eyes.

Viserys Targaryen placed his head upon his nephew's breastplate, the tears that he had felt building finally escaping his eyes.

"I'm sorry brother...I failed you."

As he spoke, the corpse he lent on began to twist and shake, the sand storm seemed to change to, darknening, before a tongue of fire leaped from its confines, lashing Viserys away from the body, his vision ceased for a moment, and when he finally retained his sense, pushing himself up, he found himself at the eye of a hurricane of fire and ash. Daeron's body lifted, still convulsing, before twisting into the shape of a black dragon's head, where it's right eye should have been, only its skull was visible.

"Indeed you have, Viserys, as I always knew you would." The voice that confronted him was his brother's, the angry, violent man, rather than the quiet sullen one he had become. When the dragon's jaws stretched wide, Viserys flinched, crawling back, once more the young boy who could never understand his elder brother's rage.

"I tried to tell him, I warned him of this." All his composure gone, the retort was a fear riddled yell as the draconic face approached him. The tears had stopped, but Viserys could not control the desperate gasps that heaved his chest. Still, blood dribbled from the corners of his mouth.

"Warn him? It is not your place to deny the King his rights...you failed to deliver them to him." 'Aegon' spoke with increasing venom, even as the jaws widened, revealing teeth that ended in white hot tips. He could hear their heat, sizzling like metal. A touch he had felt before. Viserys had so much he could have argued, so much he could have said to tell his brother why he was wrong. At that sight, that sound, he could only respond one way, as he had before.

Viserys Targaryen, Hand of the King, screamed in terror.

The teeth were around him, biting, gnashing, as he disappeared into the endless darkness of the dragon. His skin hissed and melted, a smell he had tasted before. Blood poured from his mouth, but still he could scream, utterly broken by the assault to his body and senses. Just as he thought he could feel no more, as he felt two searing teeth clench on either side of his head, Viserys hit the ground.

The luxurious fabric that stopped his fall was an original comfort for the broken man, but then he began to remember their feel, and smell. A smell he had know for years a lifetime ago, a fragrance he had not known since.

"Viserys my child...it has been too long." Myrish, although Viserys had already known it would be. Struggling to his feet and turning to face the voice, he was greeted with a familiar face. One he had never hoped to see again.

"You are dead."

"It would appear not."

"I killed you myself.

"Poor Viserys...Never quite finishing the job? Well, I can't say I will ever let the same be said of me." In the man's hand, a poker, just as hot as the fangs of the dragon, but ended instead with the man's mark of ownership. As a technical prisoner, Viserys had always avoided its taint.

"I will die first."

"Perhaps, but it isn't for you." As the man spoke, she seemed to appear, shoved to his feet, but he knew not from where. Vittoria's hands and feet were tied, her clothing ripped away all except for her bedclothes. She screamed at him to help her. Before he even thought Viserys lunged, but chains, that he did not know were there, held him to some far off wall The man laughed at the Dragon Prince, before kneeling. It was clear, immediately, he wasn't to mark her in the usual place, a hand drifting and parting her clothes, revealing her stomach.

Vittoria screamed curses, not at the hand which was about to hurt her, but at Viserys, at his failure to protect and care for her. For his part, Viserys yelled countless threats at the slave master, before begging him, instead, to mark him, to have him.

Their screaming turned to one as the hiss of flesh filled the room.

---

Viserys awoke, sitting bolt upright and drenched in sweat. His hand groped beside him, as his hyperventilation only continued as he found no Vittoria. His eyes scanned the room. Not trace of her or Snow. Desperation clawed at him, the miasma of sleep still gripping him, as he hauled himself from his bed. He was still dressed, having collapsed to sleep after another endless day of plans and war. He had his hand on the door, bolting across the room, before he remember. She was with Elaena and the King, it had all been a dream, a nightmare. None of it was real.

He collapsed against the door, running a hand through his silver hair, purple eyes held tightly shut. His breathing returned to normal, as he struggled with the mental images that had bombarded him. It had been years since he had been struck so awfully, but it had been a common occurrence back then. He did not believe much in the way of prophets, a lesser man may have seen it as a bad sign, but Viserys Targaryen knew better. He had not been back to war since the nightmares had reared their head, and he was going again. He would taste blood, and would have new sights to add to the recesses of his mind. That was when a banging crashed against his door.

"Prince Viserys!? There is something you must see.....The men, they've been..."

He was up before the stuttering could finish, the door swung open. The hurt gone from his eyes, even if his appearance was still ruffled from lack of care, and his bearing from exhaustion. A guardsman, the man was true troubled by his orders to bring the Prince then to care that he did not look nearly as well as he had at the feast a few mere days previously. Those who worked, even distantly, for the Royal family, had a better understanding of how they were in fact people, rather than the heroes of tales. They both rushed to the hill in question, beaten by only those who had initially found the bodies. The horns had started halfway through their journey. Viserys made a note to remember the guardsman had decided to come to get him immediately, rather than alarm the whole host first.

The six bodies clung to their stakes, the all-to-familiar stench of burnt flesh hung in the air. Blackened skin and wood, although it was mostly hard to tell where one stopped and the other began. The Stark-men arrived next, Vittoria's brother, Brodrik, leading them. Oddly the Alchemist arrived alongside them. This perplexed Viserys for a moment before he turned back to the corpses. Formalities could wait, when this was before them. Men from the other camps were not too far behind, although by this point Viserys had enough guardsmen to keep most away.

He knelt around the stakes, searching for footprints, or any trace of movement. There was little and less to be found, although he did not trust himself to find every detail, not right now,even if he was a competent tracker. The embers still glowed in the ash, and twelves sets of empty eye sockets glared down at him.

The familiar pant of the direwolf heralded his wife. Sleep still clung to her, but she was not disheveled as he, she had slept, and changed, while he had his mind tear itself apart....and hadn't changed. For a moment their eyes met, his gaze must have seemed pleading, as if for help, because he was met with concern. His trouble troubled her, but he could not hold the private moment for long. Shame crept through him. Even if it was a dream, he had failed, after bringing her into so much danger. It had felt so real, it wouldn't have surprised him to find the sigil of a certain Myrish slave trader seared over her navel.

Turning back to the corpses, beginning to sway in the Stormlands' wind, felt even this far inland. The Prince stood, speaking, both to himself and those few still within earshot, the strain felt on his voice even as he did so;

"It seems the war has its first victims...Let the Baratheon take a look at it. Double the watch for the day. After that...well, we have a conquest to earn."