Oberyn I
296 AC
The wind off the Shivering Sea cut sharper than any dagger Oberyn Martell had ever handled, and that fact offended him deeply.
He stood at the prow of the Red Dune, boots braced, arms crossed over his chest as the ship creaked through ice-flecked waters. Somewhere behind him, sailors muttered curses about northern winds and Dornish tempers in equal measure, but Oberyn paid them no mind.
He was studying the horizon.
Dorne's waters shimmered like liquid sapphires; here, the sea looked like a dying steel blade. The sky was a color untouched by the Dornish sun—pale, cold, spiritual in its emptiness.
Behind him, his daughters voiced their complaints loudly enough to shame squawking gulls.
Obara spat into the sea.
Nymeria pulled her fur-lined cloak higher with dignified annoyance.
Tyene laced her gloves, her breath a soft mist, smiling as though the chill amused her.
Arianne pressed her hands to the railing and scowled at the water below.
"This is unnatural," she muttered. "The sea should never smell like it's rotting."
"It smells like the North," Oberyn replied lightly. "A land that refuses to die even when everything around it has."
Arianne huffed. "Poetic, uncle."
"Accurate."
She nudged his ribs. "And yet you still complain."
"A man can be brave and miserable at the same time."
She laughed, and the sound warmed him more than any fire.
The coastline emerged slowly from the fog: white stone towers, thick walls, and a fortress-city rising above the frozen shore—
White Harbor.
No place in Dorne resembled it, not in shape, structure, or spirit. Its walls gleamed not in sunlight but in frost, as though the city itself had been carved from winter's breath.
Oberyn narrowed his eyes with interest.
Sunspear was yellow and red, a spear piercing the sky. White Harbor was a pearl—solid, cold, layered with secrets.
He liked it already.
As the ship made berth, banners whipped in the icy wind: the merman of House Manderly, green and silver, tail curling elegantly beneath a trident.
A small army of dockworkers and armored guards hurried forward.
And at their head stood Lord Wyman Manderly.
He was a man as round as a Dornish wine cask, wrapped in furs stitched with silver thread. His cheeks glowed pink from the cold, his beard thick and snow-dusted. When he walked, the dock groaned in sympathy.
Still, he moved with surprising grace when he bowed.
"Your Highness," Wyman boomed, voice rich as warm butter. "And Princess Arianne. The Sand Snakes. White Harbor welcomes Dorne to its humble shores."
Obara whispered to Nymeria, "If this is humble, I fear what he calls abundant."
Nymeria smirked, but her eyes never left the lord; she was studying everything—the guards, the posture, the hidden meanings in every gesture.
Oberyn returned the bow, courtly and precise.
"Dorne is honored by your welcome, Lord Manderly."
Wyman's smile grew broader. "Come, prince and princess. There is a hall prepared—hot wine, warm fires, southern spices I had imported for this very occasion."
Tyene sighed contentedly. "Bless the gods for this man."
Arianne murmured, "If he offers baths, I may kiss him on the mouth."
Oberyn nearly choked on a laugh.
They walked through the bustling docks with Wyman in the lead, boots crunching over frost. Lanterns flickered weakly against the grey sky, and the smell of the harbor—salt, smoke, cold fish—hung heavy in the air.
A large company of Manderly guards waited with sturdy northern horses and a covered wagon for Arianne.
"I wish I could escort you myself," Wyman said regretfully, "but matters of the city hold me tighter than my belt."
Nymeria murmured, "From the look of it, that must be a mighty struggle."
Tyene hid her smile. Obara did not.
Wyman either didn't hear or chose to ignore it.
"But," he continued, "I am sending you with my finest riders. True men of the North. They will see you safely to Winterfell."
Oberyn inclined his head. "Your generosity is clear."
"There would be no danger on the road," Wyman laughed, waving fat fingers. "Quite the opposite, in truth."
He leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
"The roads have been unnaturally quiet of late. No bandits. No broken men. Even the mountain clans have drawn back."
Nymeria raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
Wyman smiled in a way that told Oberyn the man loved a good story.
"Since The Winter Sons came raging onto the Northern shadows."
The Dornish exchanged glances—curiosity, not fixation.
Obara crossed her arms. "Winter Sons?"
Wyman nodded proudly. "A small band of youths and seasoned men, led by the heir of Winterfell."
"Robb Stark, yes?" Tyene asked gently.
"Aye. Only two-and-ten, but bold as any Stark of old."
Obara scoffed. "A boy playing Lord."
"Aye," Wyman agreed, "and that's why it frightens the men who'd do evil. For a boy so young to ride out after them—well… that says much of his heart. And much of the North."
Nymeria adjusted her gloves. "And does he fight well?"
Wyman shrugged deeply. "Well enough that criminals flee before he arrives. Well enough that I hear the Karstarks, Glovers, and Umbers speak highly of him."
Arianne's eyes gleamed with interest, but she said nothing.
Oberyn watched her closely but remained quiet.
Wyman continued, "The boy's company travels as far as Deepwood and Last Hearth. Some even claim he's brought peace where grown lords could not."
Obara muttered, "Or he is a wolf pup with too large a bite."
Wyman frowned, offended. "Best not let such words slip in the hearing of Northerners, my lady. They are a loyal people. And they have grown… very fond of the boy."
Nymeria gave a polite nod. "Our apologies, Lord Manderly. Dornish tongues wag freely."
Wyman chuckled again, offense forgotten. "Aye, I've heard. Now—your escort awaits."
The guards saluted the Dornish delegation. Their armor was plain but sturdy, cloaks trimmed with otter fur, their faces weathered by long winters.
"These men," Wyman said proudly, "are loyal to the bone. They will not fail you."
Oberyn bowed deeply. "You honor us."
"And you," Wyman replied with genuine warmth, "bring a touch of sun to the North."
He gave one last bow, then lumbered back toward the city, shouting orders to the dockhands.
The cold air seemed heavier without his voice.
Obara spoke first.
"So. We ride north with stories of children battling brigands."
Nymeria replied, "Children become lords."
Tyene smiled. "And lords become legends."
Arianne crossed her arms, gazing down the snowy road. "Or disappointments."
Oberyn swung onto his horse, adjusting the clasp of his fur-lined cloak.
"Let us not judge until we meet the boy," he said. "The North values deeds over words."
Tyene's horse trotted beside his. "And should he be impressive?"
"That," Oberyn said with a grin sharper than ice, "would be the greatest surprise of all."
Snowflakes drifted around them—soft, silent, utterly foreign.
The Manderly column formed ranks.
Oberyn clicked his tongue, and their caravan began its slow, steady journey into the white wilderness of the North.
Toward Winterfell.
—--
Theon II
296 - AC
The halls of Winterfell were alive with motion that morning, more so than he had ever seen.
Servants scurried through the corridors, their breath visible in the cold, clanking pans and the scrape of boots against stone echoing through the keep.
The scent of woodsmoke mixed with the tang of iron from the armory and the faint sweetness of spiced bread being prepared for the Dornish guests.
Every corner, every torch-lit passage seemed to hum with anticipation and the nervous energy that came with hosting outsiders.
He lingered near the walls, watching the yard below where Lord Stark and Robb moved among the guards, adjusting banners and checking the arrangements for the arrival.
Robb barked orders like a man, his voice firm, yet tinged with the duty. Even from afar, he could see the careful balance Robb maintained: one he always had.
Earlier, a Manderly rider had arrived with news that the Dornish were on their way. Theon remembered the man's solemn expression as he spoke of the long journey from White Harbor, the unlikeliness of warmth in such a frozen land.
Inside the keep, Lady Stark and Sansa were busy preparing the halls for their guests. Sansa fussed over the arrangements of the tapestries and chairs, fretting over every detail with her usual attention to elegance, while Lady Stark inspected the food and drink, checking that nothing had been overlooked.
Arya, as usual, was nowhere to be found—most likely sneaking into the kitchens or the Winter Brew.
He adjusted the reins of his horse and stood at the edge of the keep, watching Robb climb the steps to check the banners along the walls.
The horns sounded suddenly, and the echo rang across the snowy courtyard, sharp and insistent. Long before the riders reached the gates, he could see them winding through the frozen fields, a line of men and horses moving steadily, determinedly toward Winterfell.
At the front rode a lone figure carrying the Manderly symbol.
Behind him came a man who seemed entirely out of place: tall, slender, and dressed in layers of fabrics meant for warmth but styled in a manner more suited to the sun-drenched sands of Dorne. His posture was calm, measured, yet there was an energy in his posture that suggested a predator disguised as a traveler.
Behind him came four women, three of them carrying long spears, their eyes sharp, their movements quick and purposeful.
They were raw, strong, and wild, and the wind seemed to bite at their skin, leaving their faces slightly crunched against the cold.
Their presence alone was unsettling, like fire in the middle of a frozen lake.
And then there was another. His breath caught as he saw her struggle with a cloak that was clearly too large, slipping at every movement, yet somehow emphasizing her presence rather than hiding it.
She rode with a dignity that seemed almost impossible under such cumbersome layers, the copper light of her hair glowing faintly against the pallid winter sky.
Her beauty was startling, and in the winter-drenched lands of the North, she seemed like a sun-dipped flower, delicate yet defiant, poetic as a song sung in a bard's tale.
He felt a strange sensation in his chest, an unfamiliar mix of admiration and warmth. He had grown used to the grim faces and hard stares of northern lords and soldiers; here was someone entirely unlike them, someone who seemed entirely untouchable yet entirely present.
The man dismounted gracefully, almost effortlessly, and the Manderly guards followed him in a steady line. Lord Stark came forward to greet him, the snow crunching under his boots.
"Prince Oberyn, Winterfell welcomes you," Ned Stark said, voice calm but firm, carrying the weight of authority with him.
"Lord Stark," Oberyn replied, inclining his head in a measured bow. His gaze swept across the courtyard, taking in the banners, the walls, and the faces of all who had gathered. "You honor me with your welcome. This is Princess Arianne, Prince Doran's daughter, and these are my daughters, Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene."
Ned Stark's eyes lifted to the princess, and he watched as she tried, somewhat awkwardly, to curtsy under the weight of her cloak.
There was a small, polite pause before she spoke, her voice quiet but steady:
"My lord," she said, inclining her head gracefully despite the fabric.
Ned Stark returned the gesture, extending his hand first to the princess with a bow that carried both respect and the weight of northern formality.
His eyes flicked briefly toward Oberyn, measuring, cautious.
Theon noticed the shivering among the Dornish, the cold gnawing at them in ways the North was accustomed to but they were not.
His daughters adjusted their cloaks and hoods while Arianne pulled hers tighter, trying to preserve her dignity and warmth.
"That cloak is far too large for you, Princess," a voice spoke up.
Theon turned slightly to see Robb, standing beside his father, arms folded but eyes attentive.
His youthful smile was evident, yet there was a caution in his manner that showed he understood the responsibility he carried even in small gestures.
"If I may?" Robb asked, stepping closer to the princess, he was shorter than the princess but only by a bit, Theon noticed.
He removed his own cloak carefully, then reached to take hers, draping it over her shoulders with gentle precision.
The princess accepted the gesture with a nod, though her lips curved slightly, the faintest smile touching her sun-dipped features.
"I believe it will be better for all of us to continue our conversation inside," Robb suggested, his tone polite but carrying the quiet authority of a lord. "The cold does little to welcome strangers."
Arianne inclined her head, and Oberyn's eyes sparkled with something he could not immediately place, approval? Amusement?
Both, perhaps.