Doran II
296 - AC
The Prince of Dorne scratched absently at his temple, chasing an itch he neither expected nor welcomed.
The air in Sunspear was thick with warmth, heavy with the hum of bees drifting lazily between the lemon trees and the distant laughter of children splashing in the palace pools. Once, that sound had brought him peace. Once, it had reminded him that life endured, even after war and grief.
Now it only reminded him of what had been taken.
Doran sat beneath the shade of a carved stone arch, his swollen foot elevated on a cushion, a silk robe draped loosely over his thin frame. Pain throbbed through his leg in slow, rhythmic pulses, each one a quiet reminder that time was an enemy no prince could bargain with forever.
The letter in his hand was the true source of the itch.
A betrothal.
One he had not ordered, one he had not foreseen.
Oberyn's handwriting sprawled across the parchment in bold, slashing strokes, impatient even in ink. The words seemed to burn where Doran's fingers touched them.
The Stark heir fights like Daemon Blackfyre reborn and leads men like Torrhen never knelt. Bind Arianne to him, brother, and we gain the North's iron when the time comes for fire and spear.
Doran exhaled slowly, carefully, as if the parchment itself might shatter if he breathed too sharply.
Arianne's hand had always been spoken for. Or so he had believed. Spoken for in whispers and sealed promises, in a pact woven years ago beneath the fog-choked canals of Braavos. A pact meant to restore fire and blood to the Iron Throne.
The Beggar Prince.
A boy reduced to scraping through the Free Cities with his sister like rats clinging to the shadows of old glories. Doran's mouth tightened as he thought of them—fragile, hunted, dependent on sellswords and pity.
The pact with Ser Willem Darry had been a gamble, made when wounds were still fresh and hope burned hotter than wisdom. But time had worn that hope thin, like waves grinding stone into sand. Darry was dead. The children scattered. Their cause diminished with every passing year.
How long could Dorne afford to wait for ghosts?
Soft footsteps sounded behind him.
"What is it, my love?"
Mellario's hands came to rest on his shoulders, light but steady, her touch as familiar as breath. Her Norvosi accent wrapped the words in a lilting cadence that once soothed him like the bells of her homeland. Now, it carried echoes of old arguments, of nights spent apart, of Quentyn. Of the Yronwoods.
That wound had never truly closed between them.
He looked up at her, his expression gentler than the thoughts churning behind his eyes. Mellario had stayed when she might have left. She had endured his silences, his secrets, his waiting. That loyalty weighed on him more heavily than any crown.
He passed her the letter.
"Your brother writes of a match," she said quietly, "from where I least expected it."
Mellario read quickly, dark eyes moving over Oberyn's bold script. When she finished, she let the parchment fall back onto the desk with a sharp flick of her wrist. Even her anger was graceful, her silks whispering as she turned.
"I thought her hand was already promised," she said, her voice tight with a mother's instinctive fury.
Doran nodded once.
"It is."
She moved toward the window, sunlight outlining her form, the Greenblood glimmering far below like a coiled serpent. She did not look back at him when she spoke.
"I never liked that match," she said. "A fallen prince with no army, no land, no certainty. In Norvos, strength is measured by what a man holds, not what he once was."
Doran allowed himself a thin smile. "Westros is less honest. Here, men still die for names and blood bygone."
"The game," Mellario said sharply. "Always the game."
"Yes," Doran agreed softly.
She shifted her stance. "After Ser Darry's death, the Targaryens lost their shield. A single blade, a whisper of poison, there is little separating them from the Stranger. How can you stake Dorne's future on children who cannot protect themselves."
Mellario's fingers tightened against the stone sill.
"Oberyn writes of strength," Doran went on. "Of the Stark boy. He says the North stirs, trade flowing through White Harbor, young lords rallying to the heir. A power rising quietly, far from Lannister gold and Baratheon bluster but he does not want this match to go through."
"What?" She squinted, unable to understand his words.
"Read the last words once more," Doran said calmly while she followed.
"Fire and Spear come together?" She read.
He merely smirked as he explained.
"The Targaryens ruled the kingdoms for centuries, they still have supporters, even in the quietest corner of Essos." His eyes cleared as if he saw something distant. "And we still have debts that need to be repaid, I believe Oberyn is merely suggesting a way to extend their stay and gauge if the Starks are worth."
She turned then, eyes narrowing. "But isn't Eddard Stark, Robert Baratheon's brother in all but blood. The wolves swore their oaths to the Iron Throne. The North remembers, isn't that how the saying goes?"
"The North remembers, yes." Doran said calmly.
Mellario studied him closely. "If what you say is true and we stall the Wolves by these talks and break the betrothal once it is time, would they not be enraged, seeing it as an act of dishonor."
Doran allowed himself a small, knowing smile. "If what my brother says is true about Lord Eddard, then that is of no concern."
He leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Kings do not live forever. And we do not intend for this one to die comfortably in his bed. Loyalties fracture. Brothers turn on brothers. When that happens, the North will choose carefully where it stands."
"And if they choose wrong?"
"They shouldn't, we need to steer them clear and blood will remind them," Doran said, his voice quiet but iron-hard. "Blood always does."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant laughter outside.
Mellario finally spoke again, slower now. "We could agree to another match. Bind the North to us in blood, and if the Stark girl is of age, Quentyn or Trystan could be offered her hand."
Doran considered that, eyes half-lidded. Pieces moving. Lines intersecting.
Mellario stepped closer, her gaze searching his face. "But you play a dangerous game, my prince. Arianne would hate to be used as a pawn. She has your fire, not your patience."
"She is a Martell," Doran said softly. "And Martells endure. We bend only so the strike lands true."
He looked down at Oberyn's letter once more, at the bold certainty of his brother's faith.
Perhaps the North was not merely going to be their allies as he first thought but bound by blood, that would be good and perhaps it was the missing piece.
"Send a raven to Lord Stark."
—-----
Jon VII
The winds lay low this night, as if the storm itself had chosen to listen.
Jon boots crunched softly over frost-stiffened branches as he crossed the yard, the sound sharp in the quiet. Winterfell slept around them, towers rising dark against a sky scrubbed clean by days of storm. The clouds had finally broken, and above him the stars burned cold and bright, scattered like shards of ice across black velvet.
He drew his cloak tighter, breath misting before his face.
It had been Robb who woke him, quietly, insistently, standing by his bedside with a lantern and a look Jon had never learned to refuse. Not command, not plea. Something in between.
They were halfway across the yard now, the Crypts looming ahead, their stone mouth yawning open like a waiting grave.
"What is it about?" Jon asked at last, breaking the silence.
Robb did not turn. He stood before the Crypts' entrance, lantern held low, its flame guttering faintly. His shoulders were squared beneath his cloak, posture too still.
"I had a vision," Robb said.
Jon frowned. "A dream?"
"A vision," Robb repeated, quietly but firmly.
Jon followed him into the Crypts, the cold stone swallowing the night behind them.
The air changed at once, damp, old, carrying the weight of centuries.
Their footsteps echoed softly as they descended, the lantern casting long, wavering shadows across the walls.
"I was standing on the Wall," Robb went on, his voice steady, almost distant. "Or flying over it. Like a raven, maybe. I can't say which. I only know I could see everything, snowfields stretching forever, men no bigger than ants."
Jon listened, unease coiling in his gut.
"There was a glint," Robb said. "A pull. It led me south, over forests and rivers, straight to Winterfell. To the Great Hall."
They passed the first row of statues, ancient Kings of Winter seated with stone swords across their laps. Their faces were stern and worn, eyes eaten smooth by time.
"Then I saw a light," Robb continued. "Shining over the Crypts. And a wolf, grey, made of shadow and light both. It waited for me. When it turned, I followed."
They descended deeper, past another level, the air growing warmer despite the stone.
Jon swallowed. "Do you think it means something?"
Robb's steps never slowed. "I don't know. But I think he was guiding me, it would be a mistake to ignore it."
"Who is he?" Jon asked sharply.
Robb stopped.
Jon reached out, gripping his brother's shoulder before he could move again. "You said he guided you."
Robb turned slowly.
Jon's breath caught.
For a heartbeat, Robb's eyes burned green, bright as wildfire, alive with an inner flame that had no business being there. Not torchlight. Not reflection.
Jon had seen something similar before, something that had given him nightmares, the dripping ink of black pooling out but this time it was different.
"I cannot say," Robb answered.
Jon's grip tightened. "Robb, your eyes."
Robb closed them, drew a breath, and when he opened them again they were grey once more.
"I think we're close," He said, and turned away.
Jon stood there a moment longer, heart pounding, then followed. He had a thousand questions clawing at his tongue, but he swallowed them all. Robb would tell him when he was ready or not at all.
Trust, Jon reminded himself. He had always trusted his brother.
They descended to the third level. The air grew noticeably warmer here, faint steam curling along the stone.
"The hot springs run near this level," Robb said, as if sensing Jon's thoughts. "The old Kings built deep, but not without comfort."
They moved off the main path, down a narrower passage Jon had rarely walked. The statues here were older, more damaged, faces cracked, swords broken, names half-lost to time.
He stopped before one such figure.
The statue's body remained mostly intact, but its head had collapsed inward, features ruined beyond recognition. Cracks spiderwebbed across its chest. At its feet, a chiseled name lay half-erased by centuries of damp and neglect.
Jon leaned closer, lantern raised. "I can barely read it."
"That's because you're not meant to," Robb said.
He held out his hand. "Jon, the torch."
Jon made a step closer and took it from him, watching carefully.
Robb curled his hand into a fist and he struck the statue.
Stone cracked with a sharp, violent sound that echoed through the Crypts. Robb's fist plunged into the statue's chest as if the rock were rotten wood. Jon staggered back in shock.
"Robb!" he hissed.
He withdrew his hand slowly. Stone dust fell away, revealing a hollow cavity within the statue.
Something glimmered inside.
Robb reached in again and drew out a thin chain of silver, old but untarnished. At its end hung two small black fangs, polished smooth, sharp even in the lanternlight.
Jon stared. "What… what is that?"
He turned, smiling.
"A final gift," he said. "From the Hungry Wolf."
Jon's blood ran cold.
"The Hungry Wolf is dead," he said weakly. "A thousand years dead."
Robb extended the chain toward him. "Some things don't die so easily."
Jon hesitated, then took it. The silver was warm against his skin—warm, here in the depths of Crypts. The fangs were heavier than they looked.
"It's yours," Robb said.
"Mine?" Jon echoed.
"Yes." He nodded once. "It was meant for you."
Jon closed his fingers around the chain, a strange sense of rightness settling in his chest. "Why?"
Robb looked back at the ruined statue, at the darkness beyond. "Because some gifts are carried forward. And some debts are paid through blood."
"What is this?" Jon asked while holding it closer to the light.
"It is a catalyst."
Jon's eyes widened as he tilted his head to find, Robb standing over him with his figure now oozing in blackness, his eyes glowing a bright green and his hair covered in darkness.
"Robb, what's happening to you?" He asked in bewilderment.
He couldn't say for sure but it seemed as if Robb's mouth curved up a bit into an eerie smile.
"Jon, you have been given a chance to rise above." He replied. "I ask you this, are you willing to be my shadow? To guard me from death, to kill my foes, to pledge your life to my cause and to protect the ones I hold dear, are you willing to become my Eldritch Knight?"
The lantern flickered.
And a quiet settled down, Jon stood silently as his mind reeled in the words his brother spoke and the words he said before, back in Hearth.
'They are not gifts, they are bargains.'
He did not know if he should agree for he knew that bargains come with a cost but another thought reached forward, would be able to let Robb bear these costs alone.
He wished he would disagree but he could not.
"I am willing," he replied, clutching the chain as if holding his dear life.
Shadows thickened around Jon the moment the words left Robb's mouth.
"The terms have been agreed."
The air in the crypts grew heavier, as if the ancient stone itself had drawn a slow, deliberate breath.
The lantern flame guttered violently, throwing jagged shadows that clawed across the walls like living things. Jon felt the weight of those words settle on his chest like a slab of ice.
Robb stepped forward and the darkness seemed to cling to him, pooling in the hollows of his face, turning his familiar features into something sharper.
He raised his hand and placed it gently on top of Jon's head but the touch was cold.
His eyes flew open and the world around him fractured.
Ghosts of the Old Stark Kings materialized in a silent circle, surrounding him like pale sentinels risen from their tombs.
They stood unnaturally tall, their translucent forms glowing with a sickly white luminescence that hurt to look at.
Their mouths hung wide open in eternal, silent screams, black ichor dripping from their lips in thick, viscous strands that never quite reached the ground.
Their eyes were empty sockets filled with swirling void.
Jon recognized none of their faces, yet he knew them all, Brandon, Rickard, Thorren, Cregan, kings and lords long turned to dust, now watching him with accusatory hunger.
He blinked once and they vanished.
The crypt plunged back into near-darkness, but the shadows did not retreat. Instead, they surged forward, crawling up Jon's legs, his torso, his arms, enveloping him head to toe in a suffocating blanket of living night.
They pressed against his skin, seeped into his pores, filled his lungs with the taste of frost and old blood.
Then came the burning.
The silver chain in Jon's palm suddenly flared white-hot.
The two black fangs seared into his flesh like brands from the forge of hell itself.
Pain exploded through his hand, racing up his arm in white-hot rivers.
He tried to scream, but no sound escaped.
The chain melted, not into liquid, but into his skin, vanishing completely as though it had never existed, leaving only raw, blistered agony behind.
Jon's vision blurred as he collapsed and the darkness swallowed him whole.
---
He woke with a violent gasp, lungs burning as though he had been drowning in black water.
And it took a moment for him to realise, he was no longer inside the crypts.
Cold night air stung his face as snowflakes drifted lazily down from a starless sky.
He lay on the frozen ground just outside the entrance to the crypts, the heavy stone doors slightly ajar behind him and the lantern lay shattered nearby, its oil long since spilled and frozen.
Robb stood a few paces away, silhouetted against the faint torchlight spilling from the castle walls above.
He looked normal again. Just his brother.
Jon pushed himself up on trembling arms, every muscle aching as though he had been beaten with iron rods.
His right hand throbbed with dull, phantom pain, though the skin appeared unmarked.
"What… what happened?" Jon rasped, his voice hoarse and cracked.
Robb stepped closer, offering a hand to help him rise, his grip was firm and warm.
"I knighted you," Robb said simply.