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X--- Also before you read the chapter, this is a short chapter, I have been seeing a few people telling me this is Ai garbage and I would like to clarify this - X.
This story is edited by Ai, Yes.
The story is not written by Ai, it is edited.
English is not my first language so, I use it to edit some stuff, because I keep seeing errors all over the chapter. And to be honest, I just want to write a story, I would enjoy reading and I want people to experience it.
That's it, so if you think this is Ai garage, that is you, do yourself, I don't mind.
For the others though, thank you for reading my story.
Hope your day goes good.
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Oberyn III
296 - AC
Night in the North did not fall so much as descend, heavy and deliberate, like a cloak thrown over the world.
Even inside the stone thickened by centuries of frost, he could feel it—the chill pushing at the windows, the stillness beneath the walls, the strange hush of a keep that breathed even as it slept.
He stood at the window of his guest chamber, a cup of dark, bitter Northern drink warming his hand. The fire roared behind him, throwing gold over the stone and turning shadows into serpents along the walls.
Winterfell was a quiet place.
He had lived half his life in heat, in the desert winds of Dorne and the humid nights of Essos.
Silence to him was the pause before a blade slid between ribs, the moment before a poison took hold, the breath between chaos.
But this?
This was new.
He took a slow drink.
It was strange, how a boy had unsettled him.
Not frightened but unsettled, yes. Displaced. Forced to rethink things he believed were simple.
Robb Stark.
He came at Lord Stark's summon like a knight from a tale: steady steps, clean-faced, auburn hair tied behind his back, eyes bright but guarded. The Heir of the North, though not yet a man grown. A wolf pup with a wolf's gaze.
And when he had pressed him.
"Are you preparing for war?"
he had given the most disarming answer a boy could give:
"I am preparing for the realms"
He exhaled slowly, watching his breath curl faintly in the chill air near the window.
It was not arrogance. It was not bravado.
The boy believed what he said. And more than that—he understood the consequences.
That was what had unsettled him.
The prince smiled faintly to himself.
"Oh brother," he murmured, "what have you sent me into?"
He tore his gaze from the window at the faintest sound: light footsteps, purposeful, careful.
Obara.
She entered without knocking, which told him precisely what mood she was in.
Her coat was still on, trimmed with fur she had certainly complained about for the entire walk back. Her curls were tied loosely, and she carried a cup of mulled wine, steam curling like incense.
She arched a brow as she approached.
"You are thinking too loudly," she said, voice low, smooth as polished bone.
"Am I?" Oberyn replied, fighting a smirk. "I must be growing old."
"You must be troubled," she corrected, setting her cup beside his. "I never knew you to brood."
He leaned back against the arrow-slit window. "Guess the North has a way of pushing brooding upon a man."
Obara hummed softly. "Or perhaps the North has a way of showing you something you did not expect to see."
He eyed her.
Obara was not like her sisters, she was not fierce and direct as Nymeria or soft on the outside, steel beneath as Tyene.
Obara saw everything.
Sometimes more than he wanted her to.
"You saw him duel today," Oberyn said. "Both the boy and his bastard brother."
"Mm." Obara's smile was small, but thoughtful. "The bastard is skilled. Quick. Sharp. More refined in the blade."
"And Robb?"
Her golden eyes glinted. "Stubborn. Patient. Cold."
"Cold?" he repeated.
"Yes," she said lightly, as if she were discussing the weather. "He fights without heat. Without waste. Without much joy, even. Everything measured. Everything deliberate."
He considered that. It matched what he saw himself.
"A warrior born," he murmured.
Obara gave a small shake of her head. "No. A commander born."
He lifted one brow.
She took a slow sip of her wine. "Warriors rush forward. Commanders wait. And he waited today. He read us. He read us as if we were a page in a book."
"He is still a boy," He reminded.
She smiled faintly. "All the more reason to be wary."
He chuckled. "Are you afraid of him now?"
She shot him a look sharper than any dagger. "No. But I am… alert."
He almost laughed. "Careful my daughter, that almost sounds like a compliment."
"Almost." She leaned against the table, her expression cooling. "I do not like that so many Northerners speak of him as if he were grown. And I do not like that we were not warned."
"Warned?" He asked.
Obara's voice softened. "Prince Doran always sends us into places with our eyes open. This time he sent us blind."
His smile faded.
She was right.
Doran sent him here to see if the North was becoming anything it was not, to see if Winterfell is a place that still carries honor as many believed and from the words of Lord Manderly, he had expected a stiff northern boy, all honor and frost, mouthing off about wolves and bannermen.
He had expected someone predictable.
Someone who would sing about duty and glory or scream around with a sword like a savage.
Instead he had met a boy who saw opportunities in sand steeds.
Who thought mounted archers not as eastern tricks but as a strategy.
Who spoke of the realms with eyes that carried something Lord Stark feared and could not name.
He turned back to the fire and the door creaked softly again.
This time Tyene slipped inside, her steps light as feathers, her smile warm and easy. Her cheeks were red from the cold outside, her hair braided with beads that caught the firelight.
"Are we discussing the Stark boy?" she asked cheerfully, settling by the fire as if she belonged to the room itself.
Obara snorted. "Of course we are."
Tyene tucked her hands into her sleeves. "He's sweet."
He blinked. "Sweet?"
Tyene nodded. "Sweet-faced. Sweet-tempered. Even when he beats someone into the snow."
Obara rolled her eyes. "Your definition of sweet is concerning."
"He is," Tyene insisted, smiling. "He lifted Nymeria with such care. And he spoke gently to me when I left with her. You could see he worried."
"Worried for honor's sake," Obara countered. "Not for us."
Tyene's lips curved playfully. "Does it matter? He bleeds concern, even when he tries to hide it."
Oberyn found himself amused.
"Would you believe the tales Manderly sings of him?" He asked.
Tyene tapped her chin. "Some. Not all."
A mischievous glint lit her eyes. "But enough."
His smile thinned. "And what of his… ambitions?"
Obara snorted. "Ambitions? He is a flash of Northern pride. He speaks like his father. Cold, measured, honorable."
Tyene shook her head. "No. Not honorable, not exactly. Thoughtful."
They both looked at her.
Tyene shrugged. "He didn't fight Obara and Nymeria to win. He fought to judge. To understand. And then he won."
Oberyn leaned forward, intrigued. "Go on."
Tyene met his eyes, a rare seriousness settling over her features.
"Robb fights like a man who is measuring his enemies, not proving himself to it."
That stilled the air between them.
Obara's brows rose. "I did not expect that from you."
"Nor I," Oberyn murmured.
Tyene only smiled. "I know men. And I know boys. And I know boys trying to be men. He is none of those, it is as if-."
"As if?" Oberyn pressed.
Tyene's voice grew quiet. "It is as if he's a man trapped within to play as a boy."
"He's a leader. Even if he does not yet know what it will cost." She added. "The Greyjoy had his pride till the end but it was the word from Robb, which made him yield."
A silence wrapped around them then, warm and long.
Oberyn felt something stir in his chest—something like surprise, or perhaps memory.
Elia.
For a heartbeat he saw her smile in the fire, soft and tender.
She would have liked this boy.
She had always been drawn to gentle strength.
A knock sounded at the door.
Before any of them could rise, Arianne swept in.
Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her hair pinned in a cascade of dark curls, her cloak the deep orange of Sunspear sunsets, now dusted with snow.
She took the room in at once, her gaze quick, alert, hungry.
"Good," she said. "You're all here."
Obara smirked. "Did you expect otherwise?"
Arianne ignored her and sank gracefully into a cushioned chair, leaning forward with conspiratorial excitement.
"I heard you spoke with Lord Stark and Robb." She mentioned.
"I want to know everything," she said. "About him. About what you saw. About what we are dealing with."
Tyene giggled softly. "You are smitten."
Arianne's glare was immediate. "I am curious. There is a difference."
Oberyn chuckled. "I am beginning to doubt if there is."
She turned her gaze to him—sharp, pointed. "Tell me if I should be wary."
He studied her a moment, then said, "Wary? Yes."
Arianne did not flinch. "Of him? Or of what he represents?"
His lips curved. "Both."
Her expression tightened with interest.
Obara leaned back, crossing her arms. "What do you think he represents?"
He drew in a slow breath.
"The North," he said. "Its future, not its present."
Arianne's brows knit softly. "What?"
He stood, pacing toward the window once more.
Outside, the snow continued falling, silent and endless. Winterfell's towers stood dark against the sky, their shapes carved by centuries of winter storms.
"The father is duty," Oberyn said. "Steel. Honor. The old ways."
He turned back to them.
"But the son—Robb—he carries something else."
"What else?" Arianne pressed.
He tapped a finger to his temple. "Vision."
The word hung there, heavy as a blade.
Obara frowned, thoughtful. Tyene's eyes widened faintly. Arianne's lips parted.
Oberyn faced the fire, letting the heat kiss his palms.
"A boy with vision is more dangerous than a man with armies," Oberyn said softly. "Because he shapes the armies yet to come."
Arianne swallowed. "You believe he is… what? A threat?"
Oberyn tilted his head. "Not yet. But he could be."
Nymeria shrugged. "Most heirs could be."
"No," Oberyn corrected, "Most heirs dream, they dream of fame and glory, to be sung in towns by bards but this one, this one plans for it, this one takes action."
The flames crackled.
He took another sip of wine.
Arianne hesitated before speaking again.
"Do you think he knows what he is becoming?"
Oberyn smiled faintly.
"No," he said. "And that is the most dangerous part."
Tyene shifted closer to the fire. "I liked him."
Obara snorted softly. "Of course you did."
Tyene shot her a grin. "I like men who don't pretend. And he does not pretend. It is refreshing."
Arianne looked between them, something soft flickering over her features.
"And I think he respects us," she murmured. "Not for our titles, but for who we are."
His smile grew faint once more. "Respect is a coin that is hard to earn, closer to value in loyalty and trust."
She tilted her head. "Do you think we would lose it?"
Oberyn looked out the window again, at the falling snow.
"Faster than we could try to earn it back," he said quietly.
A heavy quiet settled among them.
Finally, Obara exhaled. "So what is our next move?"
Oberyn weighed the question carefully.
"We stay," he said. "We watch. We learn."
Tyene nodded softly.
Obara smirked. "And if he becomes a threat?"
Oberyn raised his cup, eyes gleaming with heat and danger.
"Then," he said smoothly, "We will already know the shape of the wolf before he bares his teeth."
Arianne smiled slowly.
"Good," she whispered. "Because I want to know him too."
Oberyn laughed low in his throat.
"You will have your chance, my sweet niece." He said and turned once more toward the window.
Outside, the snow fell harder.
Inside, the fire burned brighter.
His eyes slowly trailed back to the room and he wondered perhaps for the first time whether the two realms at the ends could be brought under the same banner in peace.
Only time will tell.