The man who entered with Ser Willem moved like a shadow, gliding rather than walking, his boots whispering over the worn stones of the courtyard. His cloak was sand-colored and rimmed with fine black thread, and though his hood was drawn back, it seemed to cast its own shadow, half-shrouding a lean, sun-dark face. His eyes—dark as old wine—glinted with quiet amusement and a predator's calm.
He was not young, nor yet old, with sharp cheekbones and lips that looked carved rather than born. A thin mustache curved over his mouth, and his hair was black as raven's wings, combed back and tied at the nape. There was a smell about him—spice, sweat, and Dornish heat—as if he had carried the desert sun with him across the sea.
"Your Grace," Ser Willem said, his voice formal, though his hand lingered protectively near his sword hilt. "May I present Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell of Dorne."
It was strange to see Oberyn Martell here, in flesh and blood. In his old life, they had never met. Only later had Viserys learned, through fragments in Illyrio's mutterings and his sister's letters, that a secret pact had been forged in Braavos—Oberyn's doing. A marriage contract, drawn in ink and ambition, promising Arianne Martell to the exiled dragon prince. He had never known the taste of that hope before it had vanished.
Viserys inclined his head. "You honor me with your presence, Prince Oberyn."
A smile touched Oberyn's lips, not unkind but unreadable. "Not often one meets a king without a crown."
Viserys stiffened. Ser Willem's hand shifted at his belt, but he said nothing. The tension was there, brittle and quiet.
"I wear mine in my blood," Viserys replied, voice low.
Oberyn laughed—not mocking, but sharp. "Spoken like a Targaryen." He strode forward.
Oberyn's eyes searched his face. "You're smaller than I imagined. But then, dragons begin in eggs, do they not?"
Viserys kept his voice even. "Some hatch with fire. Others with blood."
Ser Willem stirred, but said nothing. His face was carved from stone.
Oberyn walked the edge of the courtyard, trailing a gloved hand over the stone wall. "It is a curious thing, to see the son of the Mad King in such a quiet place. I thought I would find you surrounded by sellswords and sorcerers, snarling proclamations and old songs."
"I prefer swords in hands and sorcerers far away," Viserys said. "I've heard enough songs to last a lifetime."
"A shame," Oberyn said, pausing. "Your brother Rhaegar had a voice like silver rain. Even when he wept, it sounded like beauty."
The name struck like a bell. Rhaegar. The man Viserys had long chased in shadow. The brother who had died beneath Robert Baratheon's hammer, ribs shattered and dreams drowned.
"Elia loved to hear him sing," Oberyn said softly.
A chill touched Viserys's spine.
He remembered the books. The whispers. The sack of King's Landing. Rhaegar's children—Elia's children—dashed upon stone. The Mountain's axe. Lannister gold.
"I know what was done," Viserys said. "I remember. Or have tried to."
"You remember it as a boy remembers war," Oberyn replied. "As story, not as scar."
Oberyn stopped walking. The air seemed to still.
"Elia was my sister," he said at last. "Her children were my blood. When I see your face, I see Rhaegar's. And I wonder—did he ever think of her, when he ran off chasing prophecy?"
Viserys met his gaze. "He thought of many things. Duty. Destiny. Songs. Too many things, perhaps."
For a moment, the only sound was the wind brushing against the rooftops.
Then Oberyn laughed—low and unexpected. "You're sharper than you look, Your Grace. I half expected madness in your eyes."
"There's time for that later," Viserys said.
Ser Willem cleared his throat. "Prince Oberyn came bearing a proposal."
Oberyn turned. "Call it what it is, Ser Willem—a gamble."
He looked back to Viserys. "Dorne remembers. But Dorne does not forget. Nor do we throw our lot in with ghosts. If the Targaryen name is to rise again, it must be carried by a man, not a memory. You are young. Green. Untried. And I do not give my niece to dreams."
Viserys's stomach tightened. "You speak of Arianne."
"Aye," Oberyn said. "She is proud, and clever, and cruel when she must be. Dorne will follow her. But she will not follow a mad king. Nor a weak one."
"Then what are you doing here?"
Oberyn smiled. "Testing the wind."
He pulled off his cloak and let it fall to the stones. Beneath, he wore a loose tunic and breeches that clung to his wiry frame like a second skin. At his hip was a long, curved dagger. He unbuckled it and tossed it aside.
"Come, Ser Willem. Stretch your legs. Let's see if this old bear has any fire in him."
"I am too old for posturing, Prince," Willem said. "But I will spar."
The two men circled, drawing practice swords from the rack. Viserys sat back, heart pounding. The clash began softly—taps and tests—but it grew with speed. Oberyn moved like water over rock. Willem, slower but solid, met him stroke for stroke. It was no dance—it was a storm.
And when Willem stepped back, sweat on his brow, Oberyn turned to Viserys.
"Your turn."
Viserys hesitated. "I can barely lift my arms."
"Then show me how you fight with it anyway."
The wooden blade felt heavier than it had that morning. He stepped forward, face pale, grip tight.
Oberyn did not go easy. He darted in like a snake, flicking the blade toward Viserys's ribs. Viserys blocked, barely. He stepped wrong, nearly tripped, swung too wide. Oberyn laughed and tapped him across the back.
Again. And again.
But Viserys did not yield.
When he fell, he rose. When the blade slipped, he found it. When pain lanced his shoulder, he grit his teeth and stood.
After a time, Oberyn lowered his blade. "That is enough."
Viserys's chest heaved. His tunic clung with sweat. His arms shook.
"Courage," Oberyn said, "is a kind of madness. You have that, at least."
He turned to Ser Willem. "I'll be at the Sealord's Palace for a few more days. Officially, I'm here to speak on trade and piracy. But I'll be at the Scorched Kraken on the morrow. There is wine, and rooms, and a place for quiet talk."
"And if I come?" Viserys asked.
"Then we talk further. Of marriage. Of dragons. Of war."
He picked up his cloak and swung it over his shoulder. At the gate, he paused.
"Fire alone is not enough to birth a dragon. It must burn true."
And then he was gone.
Viserys stood in the cooling courtyard, sword hanging loose at his side. His legs ached. His bruises throbbed.
But in his heart, something had lit.
A prince had come to test him. Not with kindness, but with sharp words and sharper steel. And he had endured.
It was not enough. But it was a beginning.
He would go to the Scorched Kraken. He would speak again with Oberyn Martell. And when he did, he would not speak as a boy, or a ghost, or a puppet king.
He would speak as a Targaryen.
And one day—he swore it—he would speak as a dragon.