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.
"My brother writes of a match," he 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.
"So did I."
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.
He shifted in his seat, pain flaring briefly in his leg, then continued. "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 I 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."
She turned then, eyes narrowing. "And Eddard Stark? Robert Baratheon is his 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 Arianne goes north, she would be surrounded by their loyalty, their gods, their cold. What if she becomes a prisoner, when you raise banners for your cause?"
Doran allowed himself a small, knowing smile. "Arianne would be no prisoner."
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 this match. Bind the North to us in blood. And if the Targaryen girl yet lives… 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 lantern."
Jon took 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."
The lantern flickered.
Robb's head snapped up without warning.
His gaze fixed on the darker passage ahead—where the lantern's light thinned and the shadows thickened into something almost solid. His body tensed all at once, shoulders drawing tight as if bracing for a blow.
He took a slow step back.
Jon saw Robb's hand slide beneath his cloak, fingers closing around the hilt of the short dagger at his belt.
"We should leave," Robb said quietly.
There was no hesitation in his voice. No uncertainty. Only certainty sharpened by instinct.
Jon felt a chill creep up his spine.
"What is it?" he asked, lifting the lantern higher, its light trembling slightly as it chased the dark. The passage ahead remained empty—stone, shadow, silence. "I don't see anything."
Robb's jaw clenched.
"I thought–" he began, then stopped. His eyes never left the darkness. "I saw—"
The silence stretched, heavy and watchful.
Robb shook his head once, as if trying to dislodge a thought that had burrowed too deep.
"It's nothing," he said, though the word rang hollow. "We should get going."
Jon swallowed. The Crypts felt different now—closer, tighter, as if the stone itself leaned in to listen. He nodded and turned, forcing his feet to move.
They walked back the way they came, their steps quicker than before. Robb stayed just behind Jon, one hand still near his dagger, his eyes flicking again and again toward the passage they'd left behind.
The darkness did not follow.
But it lingered.
And even as the warmth of the hot springs faded and the familiar rows of Stark kings came back into view, Jon could not shake the feeling that something unseen had watched them go.