Doran I
295 - AC
The sun rose lazily over Sunspear, its first light warm but not yet blistering. It cast long amber strokes across the walls of the Tower of the Sun, turning pale sandstone into molten gold.
In the private solar of the keep, the heat was gentler, filtered through silk hangings dyed in shades of red and wine. A single window was open, letting in the sighing breath of the morning sea.
Prince Doran Martell sat alone at a carved table of dark teakwood, a small stack of correspondence before him. He had a cloth of cool water upon his swollen left ankle, though even the dampness could not fully soothe the throbbing ache. He ignored the pain. Pain had been his companion for many years; today it was merely chirping.
What mattered was the letter in his hands.
A simple parchment. A simple seal. The direwolf of House Stark.
A letter from the Warden of the North, Lord Eddard Stark, addressed directly to him.
Doran ran his thumb over the wax one more time, though he had already broken it and read the contents twice before dawn.
The distance between our lands has always been great, my prince, Lord Stark had written in the plain, steady hand of a man who wasted no ink on flourish. But I speak to you today in hope and in purpose. I ask for your permission to acquire a shipment of sand steeds from Dorne, with handlers to accompany them. Their nature as hardy mounts of endurance is known to me. They would serve in the training and scouting efforts of my son, who has undertaken the task of rooting out dangers across the North's vast wilderness.
A courteous request. Almost humble. Yet… unusual.
An eyebrow had arched on Doran's face the first time he read it. He could not help the faint breath of amusement that had escaped him.
Sand steeds, in the North.
Snow-bitten, frozen, wind-lashed, forgotten North.
Doran leaned back in his cushioned chair, fingers steepled, and considered the strangeness of that notion once more. The boy Robb Stark was twelve—nearly a man grown by northern reckoning—and already had some band of young northern nobles riding at his command, if the whispers from White Harbor were to be believed.
But sand steeds? Why?
A northern horse was bred large and shaggy, all power and brute endurance through frost and ice. A sand steed was lithe, wind-swift, an arrow made of muscle and bone and will. They belonged to the shifting dunes, to heat that cracked lips and scorched the soles of one's feet. They did not belong in snow deeper than a man's waist, nor ice winds that could flay a face raw.
Doran read the letter again.
He found no false courtesy. No hidden slight. No veiled threat.
Eddard Stark was known across the realm for his honor—honor to the point of stubbornness, some said. The kind of man who would choose honesty even when it cost him. A man who had quarreled openly with King Robert over matters that others would have swallowed. A man who had grieved for Elia and her children, even when the king had not.
The memory of Elia's name pressed into his chest like a familiar thorn. It never left him. Elia was bone and breath in every decision he made.
He folded the letter and placed it down with great care, as if it were something fragile. Something with weight.
"It is strange," Doran murmured aloud, his voice measured and soft, filling the solar like warm sand drifting over stone. "To receive a request from the North… for horses of the desert."
A knock came at the chamber door.
"My prince?" a steward's voice murmured.
"You may enter."
A young woman stepped inside and bowed. "My prince, may I bring you anything? A fresh jug of water? Citrus tea?"
"No. Bring me Obara—no." He paused, correcting himself with a small sigh. "Bring me a guard. One who can be spared. I require Oberyn's presence."
The steward blinked. Her mouth twitched as if fighting back a smile. "Shall I… fetch him from his morning engagements?"
"Morning? It is barely past dawn," Doran said.
"Yes, my prince. That is… why I ask."
Doran exhaled slowly. "Yes. Fetch him, wherever he is. Preferably clothed."
A polite bow, a quick retreat, then silence.
Doran massaged the bridge of his nose. Summoning Oberyn Martell was always a matter of… unpredictability.
He glanced again at the letter.
It was not merely the sand steeds. It was who asked for them. And why now. And why so directly.
The North and Dorne had always been as far apart in interest as they were in distance. Northern lords kept to their snows, their wolves, their long memories. Dornish princes kept to their sands, their grudges, and their longer memories. Their histories ran parallel but never intertwined.
But now Lord Stark reached across that expanse.
For horses.
For purpose.
For trust.
Doran tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair. "What are you playing at, Ned Stark?" he whispered.
The thought that came next was heavier, quieter: Could this be the first stone in a new shaping of the realm? A realm where the Martells no longer stand alone?
Would that not be something.
There was a shuffle of footsteps, a muted scuffle of boots, and then—
"My prince?" A guard bowed awkwardly at the doorway. "I… found Prince Oberyn."
Doran lifted his gaze.
Oberyn Martell entered like the morning sun itself—glowing, languid, thoroughly disheveled, and smelling faintly of jasmine oil and other things less polite. His hair was tousled, his chest bare beneath an unbelted robe of purple silk, and he carried all the nonchalance of a man dragged from a warm bed too early for his liking.
Behind him in the hall stood a flushed serving girl and an equally flustered young man, both desperately attempting to wrap themselves in a single sheet.
Oberyn flashed Doran a lazy smile. "You called for me, brother."
Doran stared at him.
Oberyn shrugged. "I was busy."
"Yes. I can see that."
"You interrupted important business."
"I apologize," Doran said, deadpan.
Oberyn flopped onto a cushioned seat across from him, legs spread, robe threatening immodesty. "Well then? What crisis requires my presence at this unholy hour?"
Doran slid the letter across the table.
"Read."
Oberyn lifted the parchment, frowned at the seal, then at the neat stark handwriting. He read it once, then twice, then snorted.
"The North wants sand steeds?" He scoffed. "Have they gone mad? Will they race them across frozen lakes? Breed them with snow bears?"
"It seems they have a purpose," Doran said gently.
Oberyn flicked the letter back onto the table. "And why does this concern us, besides the amusement of imagining desert horses sinking in winter snow?"
"Because," Doran said softly, "it is a letter from Eddard Stark."
Oberyn's grin faded.
He leaned back, studying his brother. "Is that name meant to move me?"
"It should," Doran said quietly. "Because the king never cared for what happened to Elia. He laughed, drank, and fought tourneys while your sister's bones grew cold at King's Landing."
Oberyn's eyes darkened, heat simmering beneath them.
"But Eddard Stark," Doran continued, "spoke against it. He stood before the king in open hall and told him murder was murder, no matter who ordered it. He quarreled with Robert Baratheon in ways others feared to. He defended your sister's memory when so few dared."
Silence draped itself across the room.
Oberyn looked away, jaw tense. "That was long ago."
"I know," Doran said. "But I also know the realm shifts like dune sand under the moon. One day, alliances may matter more than grudges." He gestured to the letter. "The North is changing. We hear it from White Harbor, Barrowton. Ths Stark boy's little troop is not so little anymore. They are bringing order where the crown brings none. Even the Crownlands speak of it."
Oberyn raised a skeptical brow. "And what? You imagine that one day, the North will march beside Dorne?"
"I imagine," Doran said slowly, "that we should not dismiss an outstretched hand from a man who despises needless cruelty as much as we do."
Oberyn drummed his fingers on the table, expression caught between dismissal and thought.
"What do you want of me?" he asked finally.
Doran met his brother's eyes. "Go north."
Oberyn blinked. "You expect me to ride into snow and ice? To the land of stiff necks and colder beds?"
"I expect you," Doran said, "to gauge them. See if Lord Stark's honor is what they claim. See if the boy is worth watching. The future of the realm is built on boys now. The Baratheon boy. The Stark boy. Even the misplaced one, that sulks somewhere with his sister in exile. Better we understand them."
Oberyn's lips thinned. "You want me to be your eyes. Your snake in the snow."
"You are already the Viper," Doran said softly. "The snow will not change that."
For a long moment, Oberyn said nothing.
Then he sighed dramatically. "Very well. I will go play your diplomat. I will smile at their stiff northern manners and freeze my balls off in their icy halls."
"Excellent," Doran murmured.
Oberyn stood. "If I am to suffer such a journey, I will at least take my comforts."
"You will take Arianne."
Oberyn froze mid-stride.
"What?"
"You heard me," Doran said. His tone held no room for argument. "Arianne will go with you."
"That girl?" Oberyn's eyes widened. "Brother, she hates you at the moment. She hates me half the time. She rides like a sellsword, disobeys at every turn, and openly curses the very idea of ruling. She is fire without a pot to boil over."
"Yes," Doran said mildly. "Which is why she needs distance. She resents me for denying her that childish plan to run off to Highgarden. Let her see the world beyond these walls. Let her see responsibility. Let her learn that the North is not so easily charmed."
Oberyn barked a laugh. "She will charm half of Winterfell in a week and have their future heirs dueling over her."
"I understand that is a possibility but I doubt it would come true," Doran said dryly. "Nonetheless, she goes."
Oberyn studied his brother for a long, assessing moment. "You are not simply sending her for lessons."
"No," Doran said. "I am sending her to learn—about the realm, about herself, and about the Starks. And perhaps they can learn of us."
Oberyn groaned softly, closing his eyes. "I swear, brother, you burden me with more trouble than a sack of vipers."
"And yet," Doran said, "you will go."
Oberyn opened one eye, smirking. "Of course. Trouble is my favorite companion."
Doran allowed himself a rare, small smile. "Then it is settled."
Oberyn approached the table, plucked up the parchment, and held it between two fingers.
"To winter, then," he muttered. "To cold beds and colder tempers."
"To opportunity," Doran corrected softly.
Oberyn's gaze sharpened—dark, dangerous, thoughtful.
"To opportunity," he echoed.
He turned toward the door.
"And Oberyn?" Doran called softly.
The Viper paused.
"Try," Doran said gently, "not to start a war while you're there."
A wicked grin curled Oberyn's lips. "Brother… I never start them."
And with that, Prince Oberyn Martell swept out of the solar—barefoot, half-dressed, and carrying the Stark's letter like a coiled serpent ready to strike.
---
Oberyn I
295 - AC
The sun was only a thin rim of gold rising over the eastern horizon when he crossed the outer courtyard of Sunspear, boots whispering against the warm tiles.
A breeze swept through the colonnade, carrying the smell of oranges, sea salt, and the faint perfume of last night's wine. The palace stirred slowly at this hour — servants beginning their duties, guards taking positions along the walls, the distant sound of gulls drifting across the Quiet Sea.
Prince Oberyn moved as if he had all the time in the world, yet something in the set of his shoulders hinted that he was already bored of the day.
He had slept only an hour, if that. The girl and the boy he'd left tangled among the silk sheets had hardly stirred when the prince slipped away. A pity — they were spirited. He would miss the warmth.
He paused under the archway that opened onto the Water Gardens. The fountains glittered in the morning light; children's laughter echoed faintly from the pools where they splashed in blissful ignorance of politics, blood feuds, and northern snows. For a heartbeat, Oberyn envied them.
Then he remembered why he was awake so early, and the envy curdled.
"Doran has lost his mind," he muttered, tugging the loose knot of his robe tighter around his waist.
The memory of his brother's face, calm, polite, unyielding, surfaced with aggravating clarity.
You will go north, Oberyn. You will learn what can be learned. And you will take Arianne with you.
Arianne. The girl was as sharp as a sand snake's fang and twice as unpredictable. The idea of her in the North, stiff, cold, humorless North, was laughable. And yet Doran had insisted.
Oberyn snorted under his breath and continued walking.
He descended the wide stairs to the barracks courtyard, where his daughters were drilling with spears before breakfast. Their hair glinted in the sunlight — Obara with her wild mane, Nymeria with her dark curls, Tyene with her honey-gold tresses — each so different, each carrying a different part of their father.
Obara was the first to spot him. She halted mid-lunge and grinned like a wolf.
"Father. You look as though dawn offended you personally."
"It did," Oberyn said dryly. "And so did the man who woke me."
Nymeria tilted her head. "A guard found you in a bed again, didn't he?"
"Two beds."
Tyene clapped her hands, delighted. "Was it the man from Pentos with the green eyes?"
Oberyn smirked. "And a girl from Spottswood. Lovely pair. Very flexible."
Obara rolled her eyes. "What does Uncle Doran want this time?"
Oberyn flicked imaginary dust from his cuff. "To send me into exile. To the frozen hells of the North."
The three sand snakes froze.
Nymeria blinked. "The North? As in… Winterfell? Wolves and snow and solemn men with no humor?"
"The very same."
Tyene scrunched her nose. "Why?"
"Ask your uncle," Oberyn said. "He received a letter from Lord Stark."
That earned silence.
Even Obara lowered her spear slightly.
Nymeria spoke first. "The Warden of the North. The honor-bound one."
"Yes. The one who despises lies and deceit, if it is as they say." His tone darkened. "Which would be refreshing."
"And you are going to him?" Tyene asked.
"I am."
Obara planted her spear in the dirt. "Are you going for war or peace?"
"Neither," Oberyn said. "And both. Doran wishes to measure whether the North might someday stand with us. He wishes to understand the boy there — the Stark heir — and the father who raised him. And," he added with irritation, "he wishes for Arianne to accompany me."
Obara's eyebrows shot up. "Arianne? Is he trying to kill you both?"
Nymeria hid a smile behind her hand. "She will hate the cold."
"She hates everything at the moment," Oberyn grumbled. "Especially Doran."
Tyene, ever the careful listener, stepped closer. "Will you take guards? Or will you ride alone?"
"I will take enough soldiers to show respect, not enough to show threat." Oberyn glanced over the training yard. "Obara, choose ten of your best riders. Nymeria, find me three scouts who know every inch of the Prince's Pass. Tyene — gather supplies for a month's journey."
"And Arianne?" Nymeria asked delicately.
Oberyn sighed. "I will speak to her."
His daughters exchanged half-amused, half-pitying looks.
---
Arianne Martell was perched on her window ledge when Oberyn entered, one foot dangling over the drop, the other tucked beneath her. Her dark hair tumbled freely over her shoulders; her fingers drummed restlessly against the stone.
She didn't turn when the door opened.
"You're up early," Oberyn said.
She sniffed. "I heard you stumbling in before dawn. Walls are thin."
"Your father wants you."
"That is rarely good news."
"That depends," Oberyn said, leaning casually against a pillar, "on how you feel about snow."
She turned then, eyes narrowing. "Snow?"
"We are traveling to the North," he said bluntly. "To Winterfell."
Arianne stared. Then she laughed.
It was not a pleasant laugh.
"You and I?" she scoffed. "In the same carriage? Across the entire realm? To visit cold, stern northerners with icicles for spines?"
"Yes."
"Absolutely not."
"You're going," Oberyn said, tone light but immovable. "Your father commands it."
"He commands too much." Arianne slid off the ledge, crossing her arms. "He already crushed my plan to visit Highgarden. Now he wants to send me even farther? To freeze beside wolves?"
"You are not being punished," Oberyn said.
She arched a brow. "Could have fooled me."
"You are being prepared."
"For what?" she snapped. "For marriage? For politics? For ruling a land I might never even inherit?"
"For choice," Oberyn said softly.
That stopped her.
"You think everything is a cage," he continued. "You think your father locks you away because he fears your strength. You are wrong. He fears the world's attempts to shape that strength. He sends you North to see a different kind of rule. A different kind of loyalty."
"And what will I learn there?" she asked bitterly.
"Perhaps," Oberyn said, "you will meet people who cannot be swayed with flirtation or charm. Men and women who value blunt truth over beauty. You may hate it. Or you may learn from it. Either way, it will temper you."
Arianne stared at him, lips pursed. "And if I refuse?"
"Then you will make this journey twice as miserable," Oberyn said with a shrug. "But you will still journey."
She glared. Then sighed — long, dramatic, defeated.
"When do we leave?"
"In three days."
She groaned and flopped onto her bed.
"I will freeze. I will die. They will find my body in a snowdrift north of the Tor."
"Fur cloaks and fires do exist in the North," Oberyn said lightly, "or so the tales claim."
Arianne peeked up at him from behind a pillow. "And you expect me to trust northern tales?"
"I expect you," Oberyn replied with a smirk, "to complain all the way there."
Arianne pressed the pillow to her face to stifle her frustration… and a reluctant laugh escaped into the silk.
Oberyn's smile softened. For all her fire, she was still so young — and about to step into a world colder than any she'd ever known.
"Good," he said gently. "Laughter will serve you better than furs."
Arianne rolled her eyes, though her lips curved. "We shall see."