# King's Landing, The Red Keep
The Lannister barge cut through the Blackwater's dark waters like a gilded knife, its lanterns casting golden pools of light across the choppy surface. At its prow stood Cersei Lannister, her golden hair caught in an elaborate arrangement of braids and jewels that had taken her handmaids three hours to perfect, her gown of crimson silk and cloth-of-gold announcing her status to anyone with eyes to see. She was magnificence made flesh, beauty weaponized and deployed with the precision her father had taught her since childhood.
She was also, beneath the perfect exterior, absolutely furious.
The Red Keep rose before them like a promise or a threat—three massive drum towers and barbican walls the color of pale red sandstone, made even more dramatic by the setting sun that painted them in shades of blood and fire. Aegon's High Hill had been the seat of Targaryen power for three centuries. Now it would be hers.
*Mine,* Cersei thought with fierce satisfaction, one perfectly manicured hand gripping the railing hard enough to make her knuckles white. *All of it. The throne, the crown, the power that comes with being queen. Everything I was always meant to have.*
Everything except the one thing she'd wanted most.
Behind her, she could hear her retinue settling into their positions—household knights in Lannister crimson, ladies-in-waiting chosen for beauty and pliability, maesters and stewards and all the apparatus that moved with a Great House's daughter when she traveled to claim a crown. Her father had spared no expense, deployed every resource at his command to ensure his daughter's arrival in King's Landing would be remembered for generations.
But Tywin Lannister, for all his legendary cunning, had failed to anticipate one thing: that his golden son and heir would choose frozen exile over duty to his House. That Jaime would abandon everything—his position, his family, his *sister*—to play nursemaid to dragon spawn in the North.
*Jaime.*
The name echoed in her mind like a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding. Her twin, her other half, the only person in the world who had ever truly understood her. The man who had sworn, years ago in the secret darkness of their shared bed, that nothing would ever come between them. That they would find a way to be together, always, no matter what obstacles their father or fate or the gods themselves placed in their path.
She had believed him. When she'd convinced him to join the Kingsguard—using every weapon in her considerable arsenal of manipulation and seduction—she'd done it to keep him close. Kings' guards served for life, never married, took no wives and fathered no children. It was perfect. He would always be near her, always available, always *hers* in the only way that mattered.
And then it had all fallen apart with spectacular, catastrophic completeness.
The Rebellion. The Sack. Aerys's death and Jaime's sudden, shocking transformation from the youngest Kingsguard in history to the despised Kingslayer. She'd expected their father to find some way to salvage the situation, to turn even that disaster to House Lannister's advantage.
Instead, Jaime had chosen *honor* over her. Had saved Targaryen children instead of letting them die as any sensible person would have. Had taken himself off to the frozen waste of the North to guard dragonspawn while she was left to marry the drunken oaf who now sat the Iron Throne.
*How dare he.*
The rage that thought generated was so pure, so absolute, that for a moment Cersei forgot to maintain her pleasant expression. Her face twisted into something ugly before she caught herself, smoothing the lines away with the practiced ease of a lifetime's dissembling.
She had learned young that beauty was power, that men were fools who could be led by their cocks if you knew how to smile and sway your hips just so. She had perfected the art of being precisely what men wanted to see—demure when demure was required, bold when boldness served, always beautiful, always untouchable, always just slightly beyond reach.
It had been child's play to catch Robert Baratheon's attention during their few brief encounters before the betrothal was arranged. She'd worn green to complement her eyes, had laughed at his jokes, had looked at him with just the right combination of admiration and innocent interest. The oaf had been lusting after her before their first conversation started.
But it was hollow, all of it. A performance given to an audience too stupid to recognize the contempt beneath the smile.
"My lady," came a soft voice from behind her. "We're approaching the water stairs. Lord Arryn's delegation is waiting on the quay."
Cersei turned, her expression once again perfectly composed—the mask of a Lannister bride coming to claim her crown. "Thank you, Senelle. Make sure the gifts for the king are prepared for immediate presentation. We want to make the proper impression."
Senelle—young, pretty, utterly devoted to her mistress in the way of those who recognize power and attach themselves to it like barnacles—curtsied and hurried away to relay the orders.
The barge glided to a stop at the water stairs with barely a bump, testament to the skill of the royal pilot. Cersei waited, perfectly still, as the gangplank was secured and her household knights took up their positions. Only when everything was arranged to perfection did she allow herself to move, gliding down the gangplank with a grace that drew every eye on the quay.
Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, waited at the base of the stairs with a small honor guard. He was old—older than Cersei remembered from their brief encounter at Casterly Rock years ago—with grey hair and lines carved deep into his weathered face. But his blue eyes were sharp, missing nothing, and his bearing spoke of authority earned rather than inherited.
"Lady Cersei," he said, bowing with exactly the proper depth for a Great Lord greeting his future queen. "Welcome to King's Landing. His Grace the King sends his regrets that he could not greet you personally—urgent matters of state require his attention—but he eagerly awaits your presence at the welcoming feast this evening."
*Urgent matters,* Cersei thought with barely concealed contempt. *Meaning he's drunk in his chambers and you couldn't pry him away from his wine and whores long enough to greet his bride properly.*
But none of that showed on her face. Instead, she smiled—warm, genuine, exactly what a bride should offer her future husband's trusted advisor. "Lord Arryn. The honor is mine, to finally arrive in this great city that will be my home. I've heard so many stories of the Red Keep's grandeur, and I confess I'm eager to see it for myself."
She extended her hand, and Jon Arryn took it with courtly grace, brushing his lips across her knuckles in the traditional greeting. His touch was brief, proper, revealing nothing of his thoughts.
"Then allow me to escort you," he said, offering his arm. "Your chambers have been prepared in Maegor's Holdfast, as befits your station. I trust you'll find them comfortable."
*Comfortable,* Cersei thought as they began the long climb up the serpentine steps toward the castle proper. *What a bloodless word for chambers that once housed Targaryen queens.*
"I'm certain they'll be lovely," she said aloud, pitching her voice to carry just the right blend of gratitude and excitement. "Everything about King's Landing exceeds my expectations. The bay, the city, the way the Red Keep catches the light—it's magnificent."
She meant none of it, of course. The city smelled like rot and fish and human waste, the bay was choppy and grey, and the Red Keep looked more like a prison than a palace in the fading light. But Lady Cersei Lannister, future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, knew better than to express such thoughts aloud.
They climbed in companionable silence for a moment before Jon Arryn spoke again, his tone carefully neutral. "The king has been... eager... for your arrival, my lady. He speaks of you often, praises your beauty and grace. I believe he's quite taken with the match."
*Taken with the gold it brings, more like,* Cersei thought viciously. *Taken with the Lannister name and wealth, with having the richest house in Westeros bound to his throne through marriage.*
"His Grace is too kind," she murmured, lowering her eyes in a show of maidenly modesty that had taken years to perfect. "I only hope I can be worthy of the honor he does me, becoming his queen and helpmate in the great work of ruling the Seven Kingdoms."
Jon Arryn's mouth twitched—amusement or skepticism, impossible to tell. "I'm certain you'll rise to the challenge admirably, my lady. The role of queen requires many talents—diplomacy, grace under pressure, the ability to manage complex household matters and navigate difficult political waters. From what I've heard of you, you possess all these qualities in abundance."
Was that a compliment or a warning? With men like Jon Arryn, it was always impossible to tell.
They reached the top of the stairs and passed through the massive gates into the castle proper. Servants lined the courtyard in neat rows, all in the Baratheon colors—black and gold, crowned stag prominent on every surcoat and banner. A reminder that this was no longer a Targaryen keep, that new powers ruled here now.
But as they crossed toward Maegor's Holdfast—the massive fortified keep-within-a-keep where the royal family resided—Cersei's attention was caught by a figure standing near one of the lesser towers. A man, tall and lean, with dark hair and eyes that seemed to see too much.
Lord Varys, the Spider. Master of Whisperers and keeper of secrets.
He didn't approach, didn't bow or call out. He simply stood there, watching her with that unsettling stillness that had made him legendary throughout the Seven Kingdoms. After a moment, he smiled—a gentle, knowing expression that set her teeth on edge—and disappeared into the shadows like smoke.
*He knows something,* Cersei thought with sudden certainty. *About me, about Jaime, about our father's plans. He's one of those people who makes it his business to know everything worth knowing.*
She would need to be very, very careful around the Spider.
They entered Maegor's Holdfast through its fortified gatehouse, passing under murder holes and past thick oak doors banded with iron. The interior was surprisingly pleasant—high ceilings, tall windows letting in the last of the evening light, tapestries and carpets that spoke of wealth and taste.
"Your chambers are this way," Jon Arryn said, guiding her through corridors that twisted and turned with defensive intent. "The queen's apartments, as they've been called for three hundred years. Queen Rhaella occupied them most recently, before she fled to Dragonstone. We've had them thoroughly cleaned and refurnished to more... current tastes."
*Meaning they stripped out anything that spoke of dragons and Targaryen glory,* Cersei translated. *Good. I want no reminders of the mad dynasty that preceded my own.*
The queen's apartments proved to be a suite of rooms that occupied an entire floor of the holdfast—bedchamber, sitting room, bathing chamber, dressing rooms, and quarters for ladies-in-waiting and servants. Everything was luxurious, elegant, designed to house a woman of the highest rank in appropriate splendor.
"I trust everything is to your satisfaction?" Jon Arryn asked, watching her with those sharp blue eyes that missed nothing.
Cersei turned, arranging her features into an expression of delighted gratitude. "Everything is perfect, my lord. I cannot thank you enough for the care you've taken in preparing for my arrival. Please convey my deepest thanks to His Grace as well."
"I shall." He hesitated, then continued in a tone that suggested he was treading on delicate ground. "There is... one matter I should perhaps mention before this evening's feast, my lady. A development concerning your brother."
Cersei's heart lurched, though she kept her face perfectly smooth. "Jaime? What of him?"
"As you know, Ser Jaime has... chosen a different path than many expected," Jon Arryn said carefully. "As you may have heard, he played a crucial role in protecting certain members of the former royal family during the Sack. In recognition of that service—and to ensure proper supervision and protection—he has accepted a position as guardian to the Targaryen children who now reside in the North under House Stark's wardship."
The words fell on Cersei like hammer blows, each one striking with precision at the composure she'd spent years building.
"The North," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Jaime has gone to the North."
"He departed with the Northern Army," Jon Arryn confirmed. "The king was... not pleased... but recognized the necessity of having a reliable guardian for children whose existence could otherwise prove politically complicated. Your brother's reputation, despite recent... difficulties... remains formidable in matters of personal protection."
*He chose them over me,* Cersei thought, and the rage that washed over her was so intense she actually swayed on her feet. *He chose guarding dragonspawn in frozen exile over staying here, over being near me, over honoring every promise he ever made.*
"I see," she managed to say, though her voice sounded strange even to her own ears. "That's... unexpected news. I had thought Jaime might serve in the capital, where his skills would be more... immediately useful to the crown."
"As did many," Jon Arryn agreed, watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read. "But Ser Jaime felt his skills were better employed ensuring the safety of innocents who had no choice in the circumstances of their birth. I believe he found the idea of protecting children to be... redemptive... after everything that occurred during the Sack."
*Redemptive,* Cersei thought bitterly. *He found redemption in abandoning me.*
"Well," she said, forcing a smile that felt like it might crack her face, "if that is where duty calls him, then I'm certain he'll serve with all the honor for which he's known. The Lannisters have always placed duty before personal preference."
The lie was so enormous it should have choked her, but she delivered it with perfect sincerity.
Jon Arryn studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. "Indeed. A quality the realm values highly in these uncertain times." He moved toward the door, then paused. "The feast begins at sunset, my lady. I'll send servants to assist with your preparations. And Lady Cersei—welcome to King's Landing. I believe you'll find your time here to be... interesting."
With that remarkably ambiguous statement, he departed, leaving Cersei alone in rooms that had housed Targaryen queens for three centuries.
For a long moment, she simply stood there, perfectly still, her composure holding by the thinnest of threads. Then, when she was certain she was alone, when the servants had withdrawn and the doors were firmly closed, Cersei Lannister allowed herself to feel the full weight of her rage and betrayal.
She moved to the window overlooking the bay, her hands gripping the stone sill hard enough to hurt. Below, the city sprawled in all its filthy, teeming glory—half a million people who would soon call her queen, who would bow and scrape and pretend to love her because that's what subjects did for rulers.
*All of it mine,* she thought savagely. *The throne, the crown, the power. Everything I was meant to have.*
Everything except Jaime.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. "My lady?" came Senelle's voice. "The servants are here to help you prepare for the feast. Shall I admit them?"
Cersei took a deep breath, smoothing her expression back into pleasant neutrality. "Yes, of course. And Senelle—have someone fetch me all the correspondence that's arrived from the North in the past month. I want to know everything about this... arrangement... my brother has accepted."
"At once, my lady."
As servants flooded into the chamber with gowns and jewels and all the apparatus required to transform a woman into a queen, Cersei began planning. Jaime had chosen exile, had chosen honor over her, had chosen to protect dragonspawn instead of staying by her side.
*Fine,* she thought coldly. *Let him freeze in his Northern waste. Let him guard his precious Targaryen children while I rule a kingdom. Let him learn what it means to abandon Cersei Lannister.*
She would marry Robert, would be queen, would have all the power she'd always craved. And someday—when she had that power fully consolidated, when she was secure on her throne—she would remind Jaime exactly what he'd given up.
She would remind him that loyalty to House Lannister was not optional.
She would remind him that some choices had consequences that echoed through generations.
But for now, she would smile. She would be gracious and beautiful and everything a queen should be. She would charm Robert and manage Jon Arryn and navigate the treacherous waters of court politics with the skill her father had spent years teaching her.
And somewhere in a frozen castle far to the north, her twin brother would realize—too late—that he had made a terrible, irreversible mistake.
*Winter is coming,* the Starks said.
Cersei smiled at her reflection as the servants worked their magic with cosmetics and jewels.
Let winter come. She would show them all what a Lannister summer looked like.
And it would burn.
—
# The Water Gardens, Sunspear, Dorne
*That same evening*
The Water Gardens had been built by Prince Maron Martell for his Targaryen bride two centuries past—a gift of love made manifest in pale stone and crystalline pools, in fountains that sang in the Dornish heat and gardens that bloomed year-round despite the desert sun. It was a place of peace, designed for children and contemplation, where the high-born and low-born alike could find respite from the world's harshness.
Tonight, it offered no peace whatsoever.
Prince Oberyn Martell paced along the marble colonnade like a caged viper, his every movement radiating barely controlled fury. The last light of day painted him in shades of copper and gold—dark hair gleaming, dark eyes burning with rage that had been building for weeks, jaw clenched so hard the muscles stood out like cords beneath his bronze skin.
"Exiled," he snarled, the word tasting like poison on his tongue. "Our sister and her children, sent to the frozen arse-end of the world to live among wolves and ice. Tell me again, brother, why I shouldn't ride north with every spear Dorne can muster and remind these Baratheon dogs what happens when they insult House Martell?"
Prince Doran Martell sat in his wheeled chair beside the largest of the pools, gout-swollen legs elevated, weathered hands folded with the patience of a man who had learned long ago that rage accomplished nothing without careful direction. Where his younger brother was all fire and movement, Doran was stillness itself—watching, calculating, playing games measured in years rather than moments.
"Because," Doran replied with the maddening calm that had infuriated Oberyn since childhood, "it would accomplish nothing save getting thousands of Dornishmen killed in a war we cannot win. And because calling it exile rather misses the nuance of the arrangement entirely."
"Nuance," Oberyn spat, whirling to face his brother with eyes that promised violence to anyone foolish enough to stand in his way. "Is that what we're calling it now? Our sister, forced to live in a frozen wasteland a thousand leagues from her home, raising her children among strangers who fought to destroy her husband's dynasty? And Rhaenys—our niece, our blood—betrothed to some Northern lordling who probably thinks Dorne is where they keep the dragons?"
He resumed his pacing, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "They should be here, Doran. In Dorne, where they belong, protected by their mother's people, surrounded by warmth and love and family. Not freezing their arses off in some gods-forsaken castle eating boiled turnips and pretending winter is something to celebrate."
Doran watched his brother wear a path in the marble, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of long consideration and longer patience.
"Sit down, Oberyn. You're making the servants nervous, and your pacing won't change anything that's already been decided."
"I don't give a withered fig what the servants think," Oberyn shot back, though he did finally cease his restless movement. "And decisions can be unmade, brother. Arrangements can be altered. Children can be brought home where they belong."
"Can they?" Doran asked mildly. "Tell me, in your expert tactical assessment, how exactly would you propose to extract Elia and her children from Northern protection? March north with an army? Storm Winterfell itself? Kill every Stark in your path until they hand over their wards?"
His voice hardened slightly. "Because that is what they are now, Oberyn. Wards of the North, placed there by crown decree, protected by royal writ. Any attempt to remove them by force would be seen as treason against Robert's throne. It would give them exactly the excuse they need to declare war on Dorne, to finish what the Targaryens started and burn Sunspear to the ground."
Oberyn dropped onto a marble bench with barely restrained violence, his hands gripping his knees hard enough to whiten the knuckles. "So we do nothing? We sit here in the sun and let our sister and her children vanish into the North's frozen depths? Let them be raised as Northerners, taught to forget their Dornish blood, their mother's heritage?"
"I didn't say we do nothing," Doran corrected, his tone carrying that particular note that meant he'd already thought through several moves ahead in a game Oberyn couldn't yet see. "I said we don't act rashly. There's a considerable difference, though I realize subtlety has never been your strong suit."
"Fuck subtlety," Oberyn growled, but there was less heat in it now—curiosity beginning to temper rage. "What game are you playing, brother?"
Doran shifted in his chair, grimacing slightly as his gout-swollen joints protested the movement. "Consider the situation more carefully, Oberyn. Strip away the emotion—I know, difficult for you—and examine what's actually occurred."
He held up one finger. "First, Elia and her children survived the Sack of King's Landing, when Robert Baratheon would have been perfectly happy to see them dead. Who saved them? Not Tywin Lannister, who let his dogs murder Rhaegar's other children. Not Robert himself, who was drunk with victory and grief. The Starks. Ned Stark specifically, and his sworn men."
A second finger joined the first. "Second, rather than being imprisoned or mistreated as hostages, they've been granted the status of protected wards. Wards, Oberyn. Not prisoners. That's a significant distinction under both law and custom. It means they're under House Stark's protection, yes, but also implies honor and respect rather than captivity."
"It also means they're trapped," Oberyn interjected bitterly.
"It means they're *safe*," Doran corrected with steel beneath the silk. "Safe from Robert's lingering hatred of anything Targaryen. Safe from Tywin Lannister's ambitions. Safe from the various factions at court who might see them as either threats or tools to be used in their schemes. The North is remote, yes, but that remoteness provides protection that proximity to King's Landing never could."
He held up a third finger. "And third—most importantly—consider the betrothal. Rhaenys is to wed the Lord of Winterfell himself. Not some minor lordling, not a younger son with no prospects. The Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, paramount ruler of half the continent."
"A wolf," Oberyn said flatly. "A boy whose father fought to destroy Rhaegar's dynasty."
"A boy," Doran replied with quiet emphasis, "whose *mother* is Ashara Dayne of Starfall. Dornish born, Dornish raised, carrying the blood of the First Men and the Rhoynar both. The same blood that flows in our veins, brother."
That brought Oberyn up short. "Ashara Dayne? But I thought—"
"You thought she'd disappeared into obscurity after Brandon Stark's death," Doran finished. "As did most of the realm, which is precisely what she and the Starks wanted everyone to believe. But the truth is considerably more interesting—and more advantageous for House Martell than you seem to realize."
He leaned forward, voice dropping though they were alone in the gardens save for distant servants. "Brandon Stark married Ashara Dayne in secret, before his father could force through the Tully match. The marriage was performed according to Northern custom, properly witnessed, completely legitimate. Their son—the boy our Rhaenys is betrothed to—was born here. In Dorne. At Starfall."
Oberyn's eyes widened as the implications began to penetrate his rage. "Born in Dorne..."
"Born in the sands of our kingdom, under our sun, breathing our air," Doran confirmed with satisfaction. "He may be raised in Winterfell, may learn to rule the North according to its ancient customs. But his first breath was Dornish breath, brother. His mother's milk was Dornish milk. That doesn't simply disappear because he lives among wolves now."
He settled back in his chair, hands folding once more with careful precision. "And more than that—consider what Ashara Dayne represents. She's no timid Northern wife who'll fade into the background, content to bear heirs and manage household linens. She's sharp as any Viper, educated in courts and politics, carrying the pride of House Dayne and Dorne itself. Whatever children she raises will know their Dornish heritage as well as their Northern blood."
"Including our niece's future husband," Oberyn said slowly, his tactical mind finally catching up to his brother's long game. "You're saying he'll be sympathetic to Dorne. More than sympathetic—raised by a mother who'll teach him to value his Dornish connections."
"I'm saying," Doran replied with the faintest smile, "that in one generation, we will have bound the North to Dorne through blood and marriage. The Lord of Winterfell will be half-Dornish by birth, married to our niece—a princess of the blood, daughter of our beloved sister. Their children will carry Martell blood, Stark blood, and Dayne blood in equal measure."
His smile grew slightly. "Tell me, brother—in twenty years, when Lord Cregan rules the North with Princess Rhaenys at his side, when their children play in Winterfell's godswood, will the North still be a foreign kingdom to us? Or will it be family?"
Oberyn sat in silence for a long moment, the full scope of his brother's vision finally becoming clear. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its sharp edge of fury, replaced by something more thoughtful.
"You're playing the long game," he said. "As always. While I wanted to ride north with spears, you're thinking in terms of decades and dynasties."
"Someone has to," Doran replied dryly. "You're far too fond of immediate violence to consider how today's choices echo through generations. Though I'll admit, your passion has its uses when properly directed."
"But they're still so far away," Oberyn said, some of his earlier pain creeping back into his voice. "Elia and the children, thousands of leagues distant in a land I've never seen. How do we know they're truly safe? How do we know they're not suffering, cold and miserable and longing for home?"
Doran's expression softened slightly—the first genuine emotion he'd shown during their entire conversation. "We know because Arthur Dayne is with them."
"Arthur?" Oberyn's eyebrows rose. "The Sword of the Morning? I'd heard he survived the Sack, but—"
"He serves as master-at-arms at Winterfell," Doran explained. "Teaching young Lord Cregan and his companions, yes, but also serving as protector to Elia and her children. Do you truly believe Arthur Dayne—who served Rhaegar with absolute loyalty, who holds honor above all else—would allow any harm to come to his prince's widow and children? He'd die first, brother. And so would anyone fool enough to threaten them while Arthur draws breath."
That seemed to ease something in Oberyn's bearing. "Arthur's presence does make me feel marginally less murderous," he admitted. "Though I still say we should visit. Make our presence known in the North. Remind the Starks that Dorne has not forgotten its daughter or her children."
"In time," Doran agreed. "When the political situation has settled more completely, when we can be certain such a visit wouldn't be misinterpreted as threat or challenge. For now, we maintain correspondence. We send gifts. We ensure through a thousand subtle means that Elia and her children know they are not forgotten, that Dorne stands ready to support them should they have need."
He fixed his brother with a steady gaze. "But we do not act precipitously. We do not give Robert or his Hand any excuse to question the arrangement or impose harsher restrictions. We play the long game, Oberyn, because the long game is the only one that matters when it comes to protecting family."
Oberyn stood, moving to the pool's edge where he stared down at his reflection in the still water. "I hate this," he said quietly. "I hate that we're reduced to plots and patience when I want to act. When every instinct I have says ride north and bring them home by force if necessary."
"I know," Doran replied with rare gentleness. "But this is how power actually works, brother. Not through dramatic gestures and bold declarations, but through careful positioning and patient accumulation of advantages. We cannot protect Elia and her children through violence. But we can protect them through alliance, through making their presence in the North not just acceptable but actively beneficial to everyone involved."
He paused, then added, "And there's one more thing you should consider."
"What's that?"
"The children themselves. Rhaenys especially—she's Elia's daughter, carrying our sister's intelligence and strength. Do you truly believe she'll allow herself to be swallowed up by Northern culture and forget her Dornish heritage? Or is it more likely she'll do what our sister has always done—adapt to her circumstances while maintaining her essential nature, bending the North to accommodate her rather than the reverse?"
Despite everything, Oberyn felt a smile tugging at his lips. "She is Elia's daughter. Which means she's probably already reorganizing half of Winterfell to better suit her preferences."
"Exactly," Doran replied with satisfaction. "Our niece is Dornish to her bones, just as her mother is. She may live among wolves, but she'll teach those wolves to appreciate Dornish wine and Dornish wit and Dornish ways. By the time she's done, half the North will wonder how they ever managed without proper spices in their food."
Oberyn's laugh was genuine this time, some of the terrible tension finally draining from his shoulders. "Gods help those poor Northerners. They have no idea what's coming for them."
"No," Doran agreed with a smile of his own. "They really don't. Which is exactly as it should be."
They sat in companionable silence for a while, watching the sun complete its descent beyond the western mountains. The Water Gardens settled into the quiet of evening, fountains singing their endless songs, children's laughter fading as families returned to their homes.
"I still want to visit," Oberyn said eventually. "When the time is right, when politics allow. I want to see my sister with my own eyes, know that she's truly well. Want to meet this nephew-by-marriage and judge for myself whether he's worthy of our Rhaenys."
"As do I," Doran replied. "And we will, brother. In time. For now, we must content ourselves with letters and reports and the knowledge that we've positioned our house advantageously for whatever the future may bring."
He glanced at Oberyn with something that might have been fondness. "Besides, you need time to learn more about Northern customs and culture. Can't have you offending our new allies through ignorance of their peculiar ways."
Oberyn grimaced. "I suppose I should learn more than 'they worship trees and think honor is more important than survival.'"
"That would be helpful, yes," Doran said dryly. "Though you've captured the essentials accurately enough."
As full darkness settled over the Water Gardens and stars began to emerge in the deep purple sky, the brothers continued their conversation—moving from recriminations to planning, from anger to strategy, from immediate grief to long-term vision.
Elia and her children were far away, yes. Living among strangers in a land foreign to everything they'd known. But they were alive, protected, positioned to build alliances that would benefit House Martell for generations to come.
It wasn't the outcome anyone had hoped for when war began. But it was, Doran reflected, considerably better than many alternatives. And in the game of thrones, sometimes "better than alternatives" was the closest one could come to victory.
"One more thing," Oberyn said as they finally prepared to return to the palace. "What about the letters?"
"What letters?"
"The ones Elia writes to Rhaenys. Surely she's maintaining correspondence with her daughter, even at this distance?"
Doran smiled. "She is. And those letters, brother, are probably the most valuable intelligence we have about what's truly happening in the North. Elia may have lost her husband and her home, but she hasn't lost her wit or her ability to observe and report with remarkable precision."
"Has she mentioned anything... interesting?"
"Oh yes," Doran replied with deep satisfaction. "According to our sister, young Lord Cregan and Princess Rhaenys are displaying a level of intellectual compatibility and mutual understanding that suggests their betrothal may prove to be a genuine love match rather than mere political convenience."
He began wheeling himself toward the palace entrance. "Apparently they spend hours discussing everything from infrastructure improvements to classical philosophy, and they've formed what Elia describes as an 'oddly mature partnership' for children so young. She finds it both endearing and slightly unsettling."
Oberyn laughed, following his brother along the moonlit path. "Unsettling how?"
"She says they sometimes speak as if they've known each other for years rather than months. As if they're continuing conversations that began long before they met. She calls it 'uncanny' but also 'remarkably promising' for their future together."
"Huh," Oberyn mused. "Maybe the gods do pay attention occasionally after all. Arranging things so they might actually be happy together rather than merely bound by duty."
"Perhaps," Doran agreed. "Or perhaps it's simply that two remarkably intelligent children recognize kindred spirits when they meet. Either way, it bodes well for our house's future connection to the North."
They entered the palace proper, leaving the Water Gardens to their evening serenity. Behind them, the fountains continued their eternal songs, water dancing in the moonlight, children's ghosts playing in the gardens where high and low mingled without distinction.
And far to the north, in a castle older than memory, a Dornish princess and a Northern lord learned to navigate a future neither had chosen but both were determined to make their own.
Winter might be coming, as the Starks always warned.
But Dorne had survived harder seasons than winter through patience and planning.
And this time, they had family among the wolves.
That would have to be enough.
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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!