Chapter Text
Dany was not the only one to see the snowflakes outside her window and groan. She’d lived long enough in the North by now not to be surprised by summer snows, but for one to arrive on the day that the Dornish party was arriving at Winterfell…what rotten luck. Half the castle had been predicting it, but Dany had been hoping they were wrong (even though Old Nan was hardly ever wrong).
The first thing Dany did in the morning, after seeing the snow, was go looking for Catelyn. Unsurprisingly, she found Lady Catelyn at a window, glaring at the scene outside.
She caught sight of Dany and gestured impatiently. “Old Nan was right,” Catelyn said, half-irritated, half-amused. “Twenty years I’ve lived here, and I still don’t know what people mean when they say they can smell the snow in the air.” She turned back to the window and conceded, “It shouldn’t slow them down on the road. Lord Manderly is with them, after all, and it’s not as if the snow will stick to the road, the ground’s too warm for that.”
“Perhaps we should have hot cider waiting for them in their rooms,” Dany offered, and Catelyn smiled.
“What a thoughtful idea,” she said, approving. Dany smiled back, basking in the older woman’s approval. Lady Catelyn had been entirely preoccupied with the preparations for Prince Oberyn’s stay, which not only were important in their own right, but a precursor to Dany and Robb’s wedding, which was now only three short months away. And Winterfell would be full of important guests for the wedding, not just the Northern lords, but Stannis and Renly Baratheon, the Tyrells, Lord Edmure Tully, and they’d received word from King’s Landing that the Hand of the King would be attending their wedding too.
With each illustrious name added to the list of guests, Dany could feel her own nerves rising, and knew that Lady Catelyn’s nerves were rising as well.
But even beyond that pressure, Lady Catelyn had a more personal reason for wanting this visit to go well, and Dany knew it.
As if she had read Dany’s mind, Catelyn sighed and said, still looking out the window, “I hope Ser Jon is everything he’s seemed to be in his letters. If he isn’t…” She trailed off, shaking her head.
“You fear your children will be disappointed,” Dany said.
“Not just them,” Catelyn said lowly, glancing around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. “Ned…he’s gotten his hopes up. If his nephew really is a decent man, a good and true knight who could be convinced to stay in the North…it wouldn’t be like getting his brother back, but it would mean something was gained out of the wreckage of the war.”
Dany chewed at her lip, choosing her words with care. “Regardless of who Ser Jon is or will prove to be, he’ll still have you and the children.”
Catelyn gave her a quick smile. “True.” She sighed a little. “Marriage is like this, sweetling. Their worries become your worries, their cares, your cares. And, if the husband is a decent man, it’ll be the same for him as well.” She gently stroked one of Dany’s braids, and took a deep breath. “But worrying will solve nothing, especially when we have guests to welcome who will be looking for a warm hearth after this weather.”
Dany was joined by Sansa soon enough, and the two of them trailed in Catelyn’s wake as she moved through Winterfell, checking the guest wing where the Dornish party would be staying, nodding in approval at the number of furs piled high on the beds. But even as they checked and rechecked all their preparations, the snow continued to fall outside, light but constant, and the wind had picked up by the time the call went out from the south towers that riders had been spotted, along with the banners of House Martell and House Manderly.
Out of consideration for their southern guests, Catelyn had decided that instead of making the Dornish stand outside in the snow during the official ceremony of welcome and introductions, that Steward Poole would meet them in the courtyard and have everyone meet them inside, in the warmer space of the Great Hall, where they wouldn’t have to stand outside in the snow and wind.
Dany had been ruthlessly pushing aside her own nerves for the past sennight, but even now as she stood with Robb on one side, Sansa on the other, her mind was racing ahead to facing Prince Oberyn, brother to the murdered princess who would have been Dany’s goodsister, had the war taken a very different turn.
It wouldn’t be the first time she had met someone who’d suffered due to her family, but Dany could never meet such moments in complete calm.
And so it was now, Dany twisting her hands together, even as she reassured Sansa that she looked lovely, brushed back Bran’s hair, and laughingly tried to scold Arya into not wearing that helmet, Gods above, where had she even gotten it—through all of that, her hands twisted together, her grip strong enough to make her own fingers ache.
And then Robb moved to pry her hands apart, silently taking her hand in his.
Startled, she looked up at him to find Robb looking back at her with perfect understanding. Dany knew that he could see her agitation, knew exactly why she was agitated, and wanted to give her a silent reminder that he would be at her side, regardless of whatever came next.
Had they been alone, Dany would have kissed him. As it was, all she could do was smile, and face the massive doors, which were being thrown open at last.
For a moment, all she could see was a mass of fur cloaks, and then her eyes adjusted. Dany’s first thought upon seeing Oberyn Martell was that she understood immediately why he was called the Red Viper. This was a dangerous man, whose eyes were sharp and keen as he strode forward with utter confidence, carrying the fur cloak on his shoulders as though he’d worn it all his life.
At his side was Ellaria Sand, his paramour and mother to his youngest illegitimate children. And—yes, those girls behind him, who all looked to be at least Dany’s age if not older, those must be the infamous Sand Snakes. There were more people in the Dornish entourage, of course, but there was one face that stood out immediately from the rest.
Last year, Ned Stark had quietly arranged for a family portrait to be hung in his solar. The portrait had been painted in his youth, just a few months before he’d left for his fostering in the Eyrie. It showed Rickard Stark surrounded by his four children, his heir Brandon at his right side and a young Ned at his left, his solemn expression making him instantly recognizable. Lyanna and Benjen Stark, as the youngest and smallest, stood at the front, with their father resting a protective hand on each of their shoulders.
Thanks to that portrait, Dany knew that Ned and Benjen shared similar looks, stick-straight brown hair and solemn faces. Brandon and Lyanna both had the same dark curls that on Rickard Stark had already gone iron-grey, and had been passed on to Robb a generation later, but unlike Robb, they had near-black eyes, sparkling with life and fire, even in a portrait decades old.
This meant that when Ser Jon Sand stepped into view, snowflakes just beginning to melt in his hair and the collar of his hastily-acquired fur cloak, Dany caught her breath, as did everyone who had known Brandon Stark while he was still alive, or had seen the portrait that was finally returned to the lord’s solar.
On instinct, Dany turned to look at Ned Stark, and then hastily looked away, her throat going tight in sympathy at the clear emotion on his face.
But Ned Stark was nothing if not a good host, and by the time the Prince had reached them, he was the sober-faced Lord of Winterfell once more. “Be welcome to Winterfell and the North, Prince Oberyn.”
Laughing, Prince Oberyn said, “A far kinder welcome than your skies have given us thus far!”
There was a rumble of laughter throughout the Hall, and the bread and salt ceremony was completed, and then the Prince was introduced to them all, in order of age. Which meant that after Prince Oberyn clasped hands with Robb, Dany was the next to greet him.
She dipped into a careful curtsey, and finally looked up to find Oberyn Martell’s dark eyes assessing her, his gaze cool even as his mouth smiled. “A classic Valyrian beauty,” Martell said, but Dany didn’t think it was a compliment.
“Thank you, Prince Oberyn,” Dany said, and gathered her courage. “I hope to have the chance to speak with you further.”
His eyebrow flew up, and he gave her a small nod. “Most certainly.”
The rest of the introductions were as easy as breathing after that by comparison, Lady Stark having determined ages ago that she would greet Ellaria Sand as though she were married to the Prince, and treat his bastard daughters as though they were trueborn.
His shamelessness should not reflect on us as hosts, Catelyn had said determinedly, before sighing, At least there is no wife he is betraying with his behavior.
So Catelyn was meeting Ellaria and the Sand Snakes with a calm smile, but in reality this was not the introduction they were all waiting for, and everyone knew it.
And Prince Oberyn knew it as well, as he said loudly, “But forgive me—I know there is one among us that you are particularly eager to meet. Ser Jon!”
And the young man wearing Brandon Stark’s face stepped forward, separating himself from the crowd. He was doing his best to seem unaffected by all the people staring at him, but Dany thought she could see a hint of nerves in his eyes. He still unhesitatingly approached Prince Oberyn, who clapped a hand on his shoulder and said with pride, “Ser Jon is one of the finest knights Dorne has ever produced.”
“You honor me, my prince,” Ser Jon said, his voice soft. It was a little odd, hearing a Dornish accent from a man with such Northern features. He glanced at Ned, who smiled and stepped forward.
“It’s good to meet my brother’s son at last,” Ned said, with utter sincerity. He reached out his hand, and Jon Sand took it. As they looked at each other, there was a hush in the Great Hall, everyone recognizing the importance of it—Brandon Stark’s son in Winterfell, at long last.
“Let me introduce you to your aunt and cousins,” Ned said, gesturing towards them all.
After greeting Catelyn with a bow and a kiss to her hand, and gratitude for her hospitality, Robb and Ser Jon came face to face. Robb, of course, extended out his hand with a smile. “Welcome home, cousin.”
Ser Jon’s mouth quirked upwards in a quiet smile. “Your welcome is indeed kinder than the weather,” he said dryly, and Robb laughed.
Then it was Dany’s turn. Remembering how Ned and Catelyn had welcomed her seven years ago, Dany offered her hand and smiled as kindly as she knew how. As Jon briefly kissed her hand, Dany said, “You are most welcome here, Ser Jon. As your cousins are making clear,” she added, nodding over to Bran and Arya on the other side of Sansa, practically bouncing with excitement, and Rickon peering around Bran’s legs to stare at Jon open-mouthed.
Ser Jon looked at them, winked at the children, and then smiled at Dany. “Thank you, Princess.”
Dany’s eyes momentarily went wide—she could not remember the last time she’d been called a princess to her face. But before she could correct it, he had moved on to greet Sansa with another smile and courtly kiss to the hand, and then to Arya, who immediately blurted out, “Did you bring your spear?”
Sansa groaned, but Jon said, “Of course.”
“Will you show us how to use it?” Bran asked next.
“Bran, Arya,” Ned reproved, but mildly.
Abashed, they both murmured, “Welcome to Winterfell, Ser Jon,” in near-unison.
Dany caught Robb’s eye and gently shook her head at Robb’s twitching lips, even as she wanted to smile herself.
The last of course was Rickon, clinging onto Bran’s hand and looking up at Jon solemnly. “Hello,” he said stoutly.
Jon went down to one knee and said, “Thank you, Lord Rickon.” He held out his hand, and a thrilled Rickon vigorously shook it.
As Ned turned to greet Lord Manderly, Catelyn gracefully gathered their guests to show them the wing where their guest quarters were. As she watched Wynafryd eagerly reunite with her grandfather, father and sister, Dany turned to Sansa and asked, “So what do you think of your cousin?”
“He is very handsome,” Sansa said, looking on as Rickon, Arya, and Bran circled around their new cousin, with Robb trying to shoo them off.
Dany raised her eyebrow and teased, “So is that the type of man you admire?”
“Of course, he’s—” Sansa blinked as she caught up to what Dany was implying. “Not like that,” she hissed, scandalized. “I just meant that he takes after his mother too, with his good looks. Don’t you think?”
“Perhaps,” Dany conceded. Jon Sand’s resemblance to his Stark kin was undeniable, but his features were also more delicate than Brandon Stark’s, his mouth fuller and more sensitive. Likely Sansa was right, and it was his mother’s blood leaving a mark.
“Also he’s too short for me,” Sansa continued, with a tone of absolute finality. “I’d like a taller man for a husband.”
Dany’s eyes followed where Sansa’s had gone, to land upon the face of Smalljon Umber, who towered over the crowd even as he leaned in to murmur something to Cley Cerwyn. “Like a giant? Or one with giant blood?”
Sansa whirled around to face Dany, eyes wide and startled. As Dany waited patiently, Sansa’s pink cheeks darkened to a deep rose, and whatever denial was on her lips withered away. “Have I been that obvious?”
“No, of course not,” Dany soothed, taking Sansa’s arm in hers. “I know you like him, but there hasn’t been any gossip of you pining away or making eyes at him, if that’s what you fear.”
Dany was being mostly truthful. Sansa’s behavior hadn’t caused any talk, but Sansa’s eventual marriage, and the most likely contenders for her hand were commonly discussed by the servants and guards, as Dany knew thanks to her maid Fenella.
“Honestly,” Dany admitted as they made their way through the crowd to her quarters. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this topic for a while, but I’ve never found the right moment. So I’ve had to grab it instead.”
“Grab it?” Sansa repeated, a laugh in her voice as they started to climb up the stairs. “You make it sound like a campaign.”
Dany’s own laugh felt a little forced to her ears. “Marriage is a military campaign, in its way.”
Once they were in Dany’s quarters and the door was safely locked behind them, Dany found herself at a bit of a loss. She had been meaning to talk to Sansa about this for ages, once the thought entered her head and never left, but now the moment was here, and Dany…wasn’t sure how to begin.
Well, the only way was to start. “Do you like Jon Umber? Enough to marry him?”
The shy smile on Sansa’s face was its own answer. “I do,” she admitted. “He’s so lovely, Dany.”
Lovely was perhaps not the first word Dany would have used to describe the Umber heir, but she could agree that Smalljon was a good man, that his tall, rangy frame and forthright manner was charming in its own way.
Sansa, meanwhile, was gushing about Smalljon’s ability to discuss tapestries and sewing with her sensibly, how he complimented her singing, how the last time she’d gone riding with Smalljon, Robb, Dany and Arya, Smalljon kept pace with her at the easy trot instead of rushing ahead—and then she cut herself off. “Dany, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Dany said.
“You have that crease between your eyebrows that you get when you worry,” Sansa retorted, lightly poking at Dany’s forehead to emphasize her point.
“Nothing is wrong,” Dany insisted. “It’s just that if you do like Smalljon this much, then I think you should talk to your parents.”
“Now?” Sansa asked. “But Father and Mother are so busy with your wedding and all the guests—besides, it’s not as if l’ll marry now, Mother always says she won’t let any of us marry before we turn eighteen.”
“Yes, now,” Dany said, firmly. I want you to have a choice. To be sure of the man you’ll marry, and the home you’ll have with him. And I don’t want…” She took a breath and plunged in, “And I don’t want that choice taken away from you. If there’s someone you like, really like, you should tell your parents as soon as you can.”
“Who would try and take away my choice?” Sansa asked, her bewilderment clear. “Father and Mother have always promised I would have a say in my marriage, and I’ve always known I have to marry in the North.”
Slowly, Dany reached out to take Sansa’s hands in her own. “I don’t want to frighten you,” she said, urgently. “Your parents haven’t said anything to me, I’ve not heard anything from Renly or Margaery. But the fact remains—now that Margaery is married to Renly, you are the most eligible maiden in Westeros. Many Houses would do anything for a chance to align themselves to your family…and half of Westeros will be attending this wedding.”
“You think someone will suggest that I should marry their heir?” Sansa’s face was showing a growing alarm, which Dany wanted to soothe, except…the best way to protect Sansa was to be honest with her.
“I think that Olenna Tyrell isn’t just traveling all the way from the Reach out of curiosity, not at her age,” Dany admitted. “And the heir to Highgarden is still unmarried.” She took another breath. “Also Renly has mentioned…Lord Arryn doesn’t seem to have entirely given up hope that he can convince your father to consider another match linking the royal family to the Starks.”
Sansa’s eyes went huge with terror, and Dany gripped her hands tightly. “By marrying Tommen to you or Arya, or Myrcella to Bran,” she said urgently. “Not even the Hand would dare suggest you marry Joffrey.”
Sansa shook her head in denial. “Father wouldn’t. He hates the Lannisters, he wouldn’t let any of us marry one of the Queen’s children.”
Dany fell silent. She wanted to believe that Sansa was correct, and yet, refusing the suggestion of the Hand of the King, or even the King himself, was a far different thing than refusing a command. And the Hand had been working to find Joffrey a highborn maiden to marry, looking to other Houses in the south once Margaery had married Renly. Neither Renly nor Margaery went into very much detail, but Dany had gathered that despite the ostentatious show of donations to the Faith and the carefully choreographed visits to the Great Sept by the crown prince, not everyone was believing that Joffrey had indeed turned over a new leaf.
Not when he still complained and sulked in the training yard, and not when it was known that he frequently visited the brothels on the Street of Silk. And certainly not now that the Queen had finally returned to the capital from Casterly Rock, eager to make her mark upon the court once more.
Whatever the mood in the capital was, Lord Arryn was having a hard time convincing major Houses that it was worth betrothing their daughters to Joffrey Baratheon, crown prince or no. Whether it was out of fear of what Joffrey would be as a husband, or what Cersei would be as a goodmother, Dany didn’t know and wouldn’t care, except for how it could affect the people she loved.
“I could be wrong,” she said slowly.
Sansa did not look as if she believed this. “If you’re so unsure about all this, then why warn me?”
“Because I want you to be able to choose,” Dany said. “If that’s marrying Willas Tyrell and becoming the next Lady of Highgarden, or marrying Smalljon Umber, or not marrying either of them…I want you to be able to have a say in your future, instead of being swept up by the machinations of far-away lords.”
Sansa looked down at their clasped hands, thinking. When she finally looked back up, her face was determined, blue eyes steely. “I’ll talk to my parents tonight,” she said.
Dany sighed with relief, then laughed joyfully as Sansa launched herself at Dany, pulling her into an enthusiastic hug. “Oof!” Sansa’s hugs were always startling in their strength; she’d become one of the best archers in the family, and her competitions with Arya were legendary stuff—not least of which because Dany was often called upon to play judge and peacemaker.
“Thank you, Dany,” Sansa mumbled into Dany’s shoulder.
Dany smiled and stroked Sansa’s hair. “Of course.”
The morning was interesting from the start.
Robb met his cousin Jon at his guest quarters to show him to the Great Hall and break their fast together. Jon was already ready and waiting when Robb arrived, and looking him over, Robb was relieved to see that someone (likely one of the Manderlys) had impressed upon Jon the need to wear multiple layers of clothing in the North.
Of course, Jon’s doublet was in a dark russet red, with gold and orange embroidery on the front, cuffs, and color, a vivid reminder of the House than Robb’s cousin served.
They made easy conversation on their way down the stairs, how well Jon had slept his first night here, the welcome news that it was not snowing today and yesterday’s snowfall had already melted–Jon’s relief at hearing this was palpable, and Robb hid his smile with effort.
But even as they talked and made their way through the stairwells and corridors, Robb felt this sense of disorientation, the same that he’d felt throughout the welcoming feast the night before—he’d been writing to Jon for long enough that Robb felt he had some measure of his cousin, but that was not the same thing as seeing him in the flesh, hearing him speak with a Dornish accent out of a face that resembled Robb’s closely enough that they could be mistaken for brothers.
He’d feel more awkward, except that Jon was glancing at Robb in much the same way.
Robb decided to address it openly. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Meeting for the first time after so long, seeing how much we look like each other.”
Jon looked surprised, then considered. “It is,” he admitted in his low voice. “In Dorne, I’m often the palest person about, no matter where I am in the kingdom. But here…” He gestured broadly with one hand, as if to indicate the North, and then moved his hand back and forth between them.
That was an element that Robb had never considered, and as he thought, he recognized what should have been an obvious parallel. “Dany deals with much the same, with her hair and her eyes. It’s gotten easier as time progresses, thank the Gods.”
“Ah, I imagine a Targaryen stands out at Winterfell far more than a half-Northern bastard in Starfall,” Jon agreed, looking remarkably relaxed even as he openly referred to himself as a bastard.
Robb chose to take it in stride, saying merely, “I hope the Dornish were politer about it. Northerners tend to be rather blunt.”
Jon snorted. “I’m almost afraid to ask what you would consider blunt,” he said dryly, and smiled as Robb scoffed.
As they settled at a table, Robb explained about the time they’d visited Barrowton, with Lucas Dustin comparing Dany to an albino laundress. Jon gaped at him in disbelief before laughing. Still chuckling, he conceded, “No one in Dorne has ever been that blunt.”
The maids quickly came forward once they were seated, and dishes of porridge, cheese and fruit were laid out before then, as well as cuts of venison. If the fare was not to Jon’s preference, as Sansa had fretted, he showed no sign of it, tucking into his meal already. (Though he did put a large number of berries in his porridge, and Robb signaled to one of the maids to bring them a jar of honey as well.)
Their relative isolation ended quickly, as Smalljon arrived and ambled over to join them, and then Domeric and Cley arrived as well. All of them were clearly curious about Jon, even if some (Domeric) hid it better than others (everyone else).
Finally, as the Great Hall continued to fill with more people, Theon appeared, sitting at the end of the table with an awkward nod to Robb, who gave him an equally awkward nod back. Thankfully, everyone else around them was paying attention to Jon’s description of the sea voyages he’d had, from his first one with Ser Arthur to Oldtown as a child, and his most recent trip to Essos with Prince Oberyn. Robb had already heard much of this through Jon’s letters, but he was happy to hear it again.
“To be honest,” Jon admitted, “The only city in Essos I really enjoyed was Braavos. The other cities were as beautiful, if not more so, but…” He grimaced and didn’t continue.
“What was wrong with them?” Cley asked.
“The use of slaves,” Jon said baldly after a brief pause. “It corrupts everything. In Volantis, we were staying with one of the triarches, Prince Vhassar. His manse was beautiful beyond words, his family were all gracious and elegant, the food was exquisite…and the morning after the feast, I saw the prince’s son nearly beat a slave girl to death for spilling a few drops of wine.”
Among the hisses and low murmurs, Robb said quietly, “You wrote to us that you were able to see the girl freed, though.”
Jon nodded, his face still solemn. “I ended up paying the cost for her, and once she’d recovered, we sent her on to my family to recover, and live as a free woman.”
“That’s only half of what happened,” a female voice cut in with amusement, and they all turned to see Obara Sand, one of Prince Oberyn’s daughters standing before them, her arms crossed over her ample chest as she smirked at Jon. Her clothing was similar to Jon’s—right down to the skintight trousers, unremarkable on his male cousin but scandalous on her.
“Lady Obara,” Robb said quickly, as he caught a gleam in Theon’s eye that signaled he was about to say something obnoxious, “Join us, please.”
“I’m no lady, my lord, but I thank you for the invitation,” Obara said smoothly, sitting into a seat—next to Domeric, who was valiantly trying not to ogle her legs or bosom, magnificent though they were.
“That’s basically what happened,” Jon protested, but Robb could see color rising in his cheeks. His cheeks only grew redder as Obara scoffed.
She turned to Robb and said, her voice sweet and her black eyes filled with mischief, “Your cousin has a very annoying habit of modesty. Very un-Dornish of him, I assure you.”
Grinning, Robb said, “Then please fill us in on what he left out.”
Jon softly groaned, his head tipped back in exasperation. “Obara—”
“When Jon came upon that pig Volantene lord trying to murder that poor girl, he shouted at him to stop, and when the pig wouldn’t, Jon rushed in and snatched the whip out of his hand—”
“He was still half-drunk from the feast the night before, it wasn’t hard to take the whip away,” Jon protested, his face growing even redder as the rest of the table hooted and exclaimed at Obara’s tale.
Obara ignored him. “Then, still holding the whip, Jon stood between the pig—”
“Will you call him a pig for the entire story?” Cley asked, to which Obara scoffed, “His name is not worth remembering, I assure you, but very well, Lord Pig was gaping at Jon like a fool, while Jon stood between the poor girl and shouted, ‘If you want to whip someone so badly, try your luck against me. At least I can fight back!’”
“Well done,” Smalljon said, slapping his hand on the table. Their conversation was gathering more listeners around him, a crowd starting to appear.
“It was well-done,” Robb agreed, hoping the reassurance would help Jon relax, but no—his blush showed no signs of receding.
“I’m surprised this Volantene—forgive me, this Lord Pig,” Domeric said, with a little nod towards a grinning Obara, “I’m surprised he was willing to sell, given how much you’d wounded his pride. Or was he too drunk to take offense?”
“Oh, he took offense,” Obara began, but Jon hastily cut in.
“It’s true, he didn’t want to sell. Thankfully, Prince Oberyn and the Triarch came upon us and were able to work out a compromise. I paid the worth of the girl according to their laws, and that was an end to it.”
“No it wasn’t,” Obara promptly said.
Jon turned to Obara quickly, and in a tone of great betrayal, he asked, “Must you?”
“Of course,” Obara said without any repentance, and amid the general laughter, Jon threw up his hands and muttered something in what Robb assumed was Rhoynish.
Amid the growing crowd, Wylla Manderly called out gleefully, “Never mind Ser Jon’s modesty, finish the tale!” to laughs and claps of approval. Robb grinned at Wylla, standing nearby with her older sister Wynafryd. Nudging the Smalljon to stand up with him, Robb got out of his seat and waved the girls over to sit down. Wylla eagerly went forward, but Wynafryd had to be encouraged by Robb, her behavior uncharacteristically shy.
As the Manderly girls settled in, Obara said with relish, “Thank you, my lady. The problem was that the slave girl—”
“Elodie,” Jon corrected, rubbing his face with his hands.
“Yes, yes, Elodie had family members that were also slaves in Vhassar’s household—two little brothers and her grandmother. The poor girl was afraid they would be punished in her place, and didn’t want to leave her family behind either. Jon, unfortunately, had already used up most of his purse in freeing Elodie, so what was he to do?”
“Couldn’t Prince Oberyn intercede?” Robb asked.
“My father tried, but Vhassar wouldn’t sell,” Obara explained.
“He said it would set a bad precedent,” Jon said, in tones of loathing. “If he let one visitor free so many of his slaves, all of his slaves would begin looking to foreign guests to buy them.” Looking at his cousin’s dark eyes flashing with remembered anger, Robb had no trouble believing Obara’s tale.
“So what happened?” a wide-eyed Cley asked.
“Thankfully, in addition to being a coward and a drunken fool, Lord Pig was also a gambler who fancied himself a master swordsman,” Obara explained. “What would be better revenge than winning a duel against the nephew of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning?” Obara paused at this point to send a pointed glare at Jon, before continuing, “And that, my lords and ladies, is how Ser Jon made the stupidest wager I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Glancing at Jon’s poppy-red face, Robb asked warily, folding his arms, “What were the stakes?”
“If I won, Elodie’s family would be freed with her,” Jon said. “I knew I would win, so I agreed to the duel.”
“But if he lost, Lord Pig would cut his sword hand off,” Obara said, throwing out her hands with a flourish.
The response was exactly as Obara Sand must have wished, everyone gasping, exclaiming. In the general hubbub, Robb stared down at his cousin. “You agreed to what?”
“That’s plain lunacy there, it is,” Smalljon said, to a chorus of nodding heads and muttered ‘Ayes’.
Injured and indignant, Jon protested. “It was not lunacy, I’d seen the fool fight before! A child could beat him, there was no real risk of losing.”
“You also told Father that you know how to fight nearly as well with your left hand, so if you lost your right hand it wouldn’t be so bad,” Obara added.
His voice rising above the noise of the crowd, Robb demanded of Obara, “Please tell me Prince Oberyn treated that as the nonsense it obviously was.”
“Sadly, my father agreed with him,” Obara grumbled. “It fell to Ellaria and myself to try and talk reason into this fool, but it was too late, the wager had been struck.”
“And as you can see,” Jon said, holding up his two hands and waving them before everyone, “I won, Elodie and her family are safe in Starfall, so everything worked out for the best.”
“Aside from you proving to be a reckless idiot?” Robb demanded.
“It was a calculated risk,” Jon said, but in the face of Robb’s skepticism, he conceded and said more quietly, “Honestly, I wasn’t thinking, I was just too furious to back down. If you’d seen the girl, you’d understand it too. She wasn’t even twelve.”
Robb remembered the rage he’d felt years ago as the Lannisters’ plots were revealed, and he thought of what he’d have done, if Joffrey Baratheon was standing before him at that moment, within reach of his sword. “Perhaps you’re right,” he agreed. “Some fights are worth waging.”
As Jon smiled, pleased at Robb’s understanding, Robb held up a hand and warned, “That won’t save you once my siblings and parents hear of this.”
Jon groaned, slumping in his seat. “I was lectured by everyone for months afterwards,” he said. “Surely the dozens of angry letters from my aunt will be enough.”
“Not really, no,” Robb said.
Meanwhile, Obara had been entertaining the crowd with a blow-by blow description of the duel itself, but was interrupted by Theon saying, “A grand tale, but if he’s really that good with a sword, I want to see it.”
There was a sneer in his voice that Robb didn’t like, but as Robb turned to face him with a frown, Jon said calmly, “Any time you like, Lord Greyjoy.”
“No better time than the present, isn’t that right, Sand?” Theon said with a flourish of his arm.
“Theon,” Robb began, sternly, but Jon waved him off.
“By all means,” Jon said, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Lead the way.”
“How…magnificent,” Ellaria Sand said, her eyes alight as she examined the roll of fabric in her hands. The silk was undyed still, yet it shone in the light like a pearl, subtle shades of blue and pink shifting back and forth. “And it’s truly made out of unicorn hair?”
“We have a small herd,” Catelyn confirmed. “We acquired them in a trade with the chiefs from Skagos.”
Both Ellaria and Tyene turned from the fabric to stare at her. “Truly?”
“I caution you not to be excited,” Dany said hastily. “They aren’t exactly the creatures of legend.”
“They’re more like goats with horns than horses,” Sansa helpfully added. “And they bite.”
“Bites or no, I must see one,” Tyene said gleefully. “Sarella will die of jealousy when she hears.” At a disapproving look from Ellaria, Tyene shrugged. “And I’ll bring her a roll of fabric back with us for her, never fear.”
“Is she also still in Dorne?” Sansa asked.
“She’s focusing on her studies,” Ellaria said smoothly, and the talk quickly turned to Dany’s wedding gown, which was being made in all unicorn silk. Thankfully both her gown and the wedding cloak were now finished, thanks be to the gods and dozens of helping hands, and the dress was safely shut away in Dany’s quarters, and the cloak still tucked away in a tiny alcove next to the main sewing room. For their Dornish guests, the cloak was revealed, and the responses were deeply gratifying. As Tyene pressed Sansa for details on how they’d contrived a way to make dragon scales for the cloak, Ellaria said to Dany, “You must be looking forward to the wedding.”
“I’m looking forward to the day it finally arrives, yes,” Danny replied with a laugh. “Right now it just feels like an endless loop of preparations.” Before the opportunity could slip, Dany asked quietly, “May I ask something of you?”
Ellaria tilted her head with curiosity. “But of course,” she said, following Dany so that they stood a little farther away from everyone else.
“I was hoping to speak to Prince Oberyn privately,” Dany began, then grimaced as she realized what that must sound like. “I mean—”
Ellaria laughed softly. “Don’t fear, I don’t believe you’re trying to arrange a tryst. As beautiful as you are, my dear, Oberyn would say you’re too young for him.”
Her cheeks hot, Dany plunged forward. “If I were to offer the Prince an apology, would he welcome it?”
Ellaria looked surprised. “An apology for…”
Surprised that she had to say it aloud, Dany said, “For my father and brother, and all the harm they caused.”
Ellaria’s astonishment only seemed to grow. A crease forming between her eyebrows, she lifted a hand as if she was about to clasp Dany’s shoulder but thought better of it. Her voice more serious now, all levity gone, Ellaria said, “Princess–my lady,” she corrected herself at Dany’s wordless grimace, “None of that was your responsibility. You weren’t even alive when the sack of King’s Landing happened—”
Dany shook her head. “I am the last Targaryen,” she said simply. “Whose responsibility is it to make amends, if not mine?”
Ellaria searched her face, and Dany met her gaze squarely. At last Ellaria sighed. “I still think you take too heavy a burden upon yourself, but—yes. If you wish it, I know Oberyn is willing to speak to you. You are kin to the Martells, after all–or, well, almost kin, I suppose.”
“Yes,” Dany agreed. “Almost kin.”
The opportunity came sooner than Dany expected, as not even a quarter of an hour later Mistress Sorana arrived, breathless and exasperated, to explain that Arya and Brain were shirking their lessons to watch their new cousin fight practically every Northern man in the keep.
As Catelyn sighed at her children’s folly, Sansa laughed incredulously and said, “Ser Jon’s not fighting everyone, surely.”
“Well he hasn’t lost a bout yet, so the challengers keep coming. It is impressive, I’ll admit, but as there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight…”
“Of course I’ll come down,” Catelyn said wearily.
Turning back to everyone, Catelyn began to apologize, only for Ellaria to laugh merrily and say, “Nonsense! In fact we’ll join you—it’s been a while since I’ve seen Jon really tested.”
“He shouldn’t have to test himself,” Sansa said, clearly indignant. “It’s not seemly, making a guest fight for hours on end—what is Robb thinking?”
Entertained, Tyene assured her, “I promise you, Jon’s very used to having to prove his skill and mettle—”
“That just makes it worse!” Sansa said in outrage.
As Dany, supported by Tyene, tried to reassure Sansa that her new cousin wasn’t being forced to fight at swordpoint, and Sansa replying that she knew very well men had absurd notions of what counted as entertainment, and normally she was quite content to leave them to it, but surely there were limits.
Eventually they arrived at the training yard, where what looked like two-thirds of the Winterfell household (and nearly all of their Dornish guests) were watching Jon fight against Domeric Bolton.
Both of them were stripped down to their shirtsleeves and within a few minutes, Dany saw very quickly what the fuss was about. Despite not being as fascinated with the sword as Arya, Dany knew enough to recognize a truly great swordsman at work—and Ser Jon Sand was absolutely that.
He wasn’t showy, exactly—it was that his every movement was so fluid, his every attack so precise, that he seemed to already know every move Domeric would make before it happened.
Around them Dany could hear the guards making various wagers–not on who would win, but how long it would take Ser Jon to beat Domeric. Bran and Arya were at the front of the crowd, watching starry-eyed until Catelyn corralled them, ignoring her children’s protests to deliver them into their governess’ custody—but not before Domeric was forced to yield, sprawled out in the dirt, gasping for breath. He didn’t look at all upset by his loss, actually grinning as Jon helped him to his feet.
Robb was near the Smalljon, focused closely on the bout—but not so focused that he didn’t smile and nod as Dany caught his gaze. Dany smiled back and then nodded her head to where Sansa was making her way to Robb, in a silent warning.
As Robb started being lectured by his sister, Dany made her way over to Wynafryd Manderly’s side, teasing her friend, “Don’t tell me you’re making a wager on Ser Jon as well.”
“Hm?” Wynafryd said, distracted. Her gaze was fixed on Jon Sand, who was now stretching out his limbs as he talked with Domeric, the two of them discussing a particular move. “Oh, Dany, I didn’t realize you were here.”
“I just arrived,” Dany said slowly, noticing the dazed look on her friend’s face. “I see Ser Jon’s reputation is well-earned?”
“He’s magnificent,” Wynafryd said fervently, then blushed under Dany’s surprised face.
Thoughtfully, Dany looked from Wynafryd to Jon, whose thin shirt clung to his body, whose dark curls were hanging over his eyes and flushed face, and then she bit back a grin. “I see.”
“You see nothing,” Wynafryd said quickly, even as she patted at her blushing cheeks in a vain attempt to cool them.The odd thing about Wynafryd was that she was so often completely unflappable, but when her composure did break, it was very obvious to see. “I am only stating the obvious.”
“His good looks are also obvious,” Dany said dryly, and laughed as Wynafryd nudged her with a sharp elbow.
“Hush!”
Dany wouldn’t have hushed at all, it was so rare to see Wynafryd discomposed that Dany planned to take full advantage of this opportunity—except that her attention was caught by the sight of Ellaria speaking quietly to Prince Oberyn. The prince had been occupied in watching Jon spar and making idle conversation with Ned Stark and Lord Manderly, but Dany saw the moment when he realized what Ellaria was explaining to him, because his gaze immediately found Dany’s, his eyes sharp and gleaming for one long moment before the mask of the affable libertine fell back into place.
*
“So it’s true,” Prince Oberyn remarked, looking from Dany to the carved face of the weirwood tree. “A Targaryen princess who worships the old gods.”
There was no one here but the two of them, so Dany felt comfortable finally saying, “I’m not a princess. Robert Baratheon had already taken the Iron Throne before I was born.”
“You are the daughter of a king, no matter how vile and unworthy he was,” Oberyn Martell said with a flick of his fingers. “I see no reason to pretend otherwise, especially in the North where they value plain speaking so much.” He glanced sidelong at her, before asking, “So why did you convert to the faith of these Northern gods?”
Dany paused for a moment, choosing her words with care. “When I first arrived in the North, I was terrified of Ned Stark. I nearly fainted when we first met. All I could think of was…was that my family had killed half of his, and that this would be his chance to finally get his revenge.”
The Prince stayed quiet, watching her with those glittering dark eyes.
“He brought me here, just the two of us. And he told me that it was a sin to lie before a weirwood tree, because the gods were watching you. He told me that I was safe in Winterfell, that…taking his revenge out on me would be an insult to the memory of those he’d lost.” Dany turned to look at Prince Oberyn squarely. “And I believed him, because he didn’t have anything to gain from making that promise. It was just the two of us here, no one else watching or listening. No one but the gods.”
“That’s what I believe in,” Dany concluded. “In a faith that requires you to be honest, that holds you responsible for what you do in this life.”
“And that faith is why you’ve asked to speak with me?” Prince Oberyn pressed.
Dany didn’t falter. “Yes.” She swallowed. “There is no…no apology I can make that would equal the value of who you lost due to my father and brother, but an apology is still needed. What happened to your sister and her children…it was wrong. My brother was wrong to abandon them, my father was wrong to keep them hostage. They were wrong and foolish and cruel, and your family suffered as a result. I am sorry.”
The Prince observed her quietly for a long, long moment, before he finally said roughly, “Of all the men still living who owe my House amends, you are not one of them.” When Dany would have protested, he held up his hand and continued, “But…I know the courage it must have taken, to approach me and speak of things others would happily choose to ignore. For that, I thank you.”
Dany bowed her head in acknowledgement, and as she lifted her head back up, the Prince sighed faintly. “Do you fear me, Daenerys? You shouldn’t—I have no interest in avenging myself on you.”
“I didn’t think you would,” Dany said frankly. “Aside from everything else, I don’t think you’re foolish enough to attack me here.”
Oberyn snorted. “I’m flattered,” he said dryly. He studied her for a moment longer before saying, “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” Dany asked, curious.
“Someone more…fragile. Isolated.” He tilted his head. “You might be the first Targaryen in generations to have their feet planted firmly on the ground.”
“I’m flattered,” Dany said dryly, echoing his own words. “As I’ve never met another Targaryen, I can’t compare.”
Prince Oberyn looked struck by that. “No, you haven’t,” he said slowly. “Do you have questions about your family? Your mother and mine were close friends, once.”
Dany was lost for words, a thousand questions flooding her mind, impossible to untangle. At last she asked slowly, “Was my mother…was she ever happy?”
The sympathy on Prince Oberyn’s face was clear. “As a child, yes. She was close friends with my mother at King Aegon’s court, but then she was forced into marriage at such a young age, and then there was the fire at Summerhall…your mother had many sorrows to keep her company. Too many. She was kind to my sister, though, as kind as she could be.”
Dany chewed at her lip. “And my brother? What kind of man was he to…” She lifted her hands up helplessly.
Prince Oberyn looked at her for a long moment before he answered, clearly working to master his anger at a man long dead. “Cold,” he said at last. “Cold and removed from everything. It was as if he was enclosed in glass. You could see him but never touch him, not truly.” His mouth twisted. “I thought no man worthy of Elia, but in truth, Rhaegar was the most unworthy of her suitors.” He glanced at her again and grimaced. “But that is my sister, and you asked for me to tell you of your brother.”
“It’s all right,” Dany promised him. “From what I’ve heard of him, he didn’t deserve your sister.”
Prince Oberyn tilted his head. “Do you truly view your family so clearly?”
Dany’s mouth twitched, and she said with a touch of irony, “I was raised by a man with little patience for delusion. I’ve never had the luxury of believing comforting lies about my family.”
“Particularly when you were marrying into House Stark,” Oberyn observed, but his eyes were shadowed as he looked at her. “A hard life for an orphan.”
Dany looked away. “I cannot complain of my fate,” she said quietly. “I’m alive. Everyone I lost, I lost them before I knew them enough to mourn them.”
“Like your brother Viserys,” the Prince commented, watching her closely. “I noticed that you didn’t ask about him.”
Taken aback, all Dany could say was, “No, I haven’t.”
“I didn’t see much of him, I will admit, but Elia wrote that he was a sweet child, if rather…excitable.” The faint pause before that last word caught Dany’s attention, as did the twist of Prince Oberyn’s mouth.
“Excitable? Or unstable?” she pressed.
“It was hard to say, given his youth,” Prince Oberyn conceded. “The last we heard, he was living in Essos with some loyalists that followed him into exile, after your mother’s death and the Baratheons storming Dragonstone.”
Dany was quiet, gathering her thoughts. At last she said, “I hope he is well and safe. And I hope he never tries to return to Westeros, for he would surely be walking to his own death.”
The prince inclined his head at this. “Well said.” He smiled finally and offered his arm. “I should get you back to your companions, Princess. Thank you again, for the apology and the conversation—it was very illuminating.”
“Of course,” Dany said, wondering why she felt vaguely dissatisfied. She’d accomplished what she’d meant to do, but if the Prince had gained insight into Dany’s character, she could not say the reverse—Oberyn Martell was as opaque to Dany as ever.
She said as much to Robb that evening before dinner, where they were taking some time to review the ledgers for the food stores—Catelyn had decreed that they should understand what money and resources were being used for this wedding, and Dany had spent enough time in the North (and before then, had been the ward of the famously frugal Stannis Baratheon) to be aghast at the sums being spent, even as she knew the Starks could more than afford it due to generations of careful stewardship, and to the new investments in mines and roads.
Robb listened to her carefully, and eventually said, “We knew that the Martells have their own objectives in reaching out to us now. Being wary of him seems reasonable to me, but…” He paused, before adding slowly, “But if I think of myself in his position, my sister’s murder unavenged, her killers unknown…I wouldn’t be guarded, I’d be howling for justice, failing that, revenge.”
“The Crown should’ve handed the killers to Dorne,” Dany said, and Robb looked startled at that.
“You think the King or the Hand knows which soldiers did the deed?”
“I can’t see how they don’t,” Dany replied frankly. “And from the way Renly speaks about Dorne’s relationship with the Iron Throne, it’s clear he knows that turning the killers over could have been done. And even if the Crown didn’t know, they’ve had twenty years to find out. They haven’t done anything to make amends, and it’s likely they never will.”
Robb looked even more disturbed by this, and muttered, “The more I hear about the South, the less I want anything to do with it.”
“Not even to try a fresh mango?” Dany teased, hoping to change the subject.
Ser Jon had brought a crate of dried mango strips, half of them candied, as presents for the Starks, and they’d proven to be such a hit that Sansa and Arya were now leading a campaign to have mango trees brought to Winterfell, hopefully to take root in the glass gardens.
“The gods help us when we run out of those,” Robb muttered, his mind clearly following the same path as Dany’s. “I swear, Arya’s going to try and sneak off into Prince Oberyn’s entourage when they leave. Between all the Sand Snakes wearing trousers and beating Theon with their spears, she’s already pestering Father about being fostered in Starfall.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Dany admitted with a laugh, then considered. “Do you think your parents would say yes?”
“Doubtful,” Robb said. “First, because Lord Dayne doesn’t like Father, and then because I don’t think they’d be willing to send any of us down south, even if it was to a place where they hate the Lannisters as much as we do.”
“Good,” Dany murmured, but she decided to go and speak with Catelyn tomorrow, just in case. Arya would likely do well in Dorne, but the idea of any of the Stark children being closer to King’s Landing, so far away from lands that were loyal to the Starks first and foremost—
“You’re going to talk to my mother about it tomorrow, aren’t you,” Robb said, his tone wry and knowing. Dany blinked, startled, then laughed. “I am, how did you guess?”
“Because you like to manage everything,” Robb said promptly. He paused for a moment, then added, “You don’t have to be the only one managing everything, you know.”
Surprised, and a little stung, Dany replied, “I’m not trying to, it’s just that there’s so much to do, between the guests and the plans for the wedding and the school—“
“And making sure Sansa doesn’t get trapped in a bad marriage?” Robb asked, his eyebrow lifted.
“How did you know about that?”
“My parents called me in to ask my opinion on Smalljon and whether I thought he and Sansa would suit,” Robb explained, and snorted. “The man willingly talks about tapestries and he can knit, I can’t think of a man who’d suit her more.” Dany lightly swatted at his shoulder, and Robb ducked, grinning—but only for a moment, before his smile gentled into something more quizzical. “Dany, why didn’t you tell me you were worrying about this?”
“You talked to Sansa too, didn’t you,” Dany murmured, realizing what had started this.
“She cornered me the minute I left Father’s solar to make sure I didn’t oppose the match,” Robb said. “Or suggest she go off to Highgarden and marry Willas Tyrell instead.” He tilted his head. “How long have you been worrying about this?”
“Just the last few months,” Dany admitted, looking down at her hands. “I trust your parents, Robb, of course I do—I just want to make sure Sansa has a say in her marriage, that’s all.”
“Of course you do,” Robb said quietly, an odd note in his voice. Before Dany could press, the smile was back on his face as he said ruefully, “Trust you to solve a problem none of us saw coming.”
Dany flushed at the praise. “Well, I do have to live up to the Skagosi’s name for me, don’t I?”
The Skagosi clans had taken to the news of a Northern school of healing with great interest, healers and midwives being prized members of their clans, and had willingly shared their own knowledge (including a herb that was so good at fending off infection for wounds that it nearly brought Maester Luwin to tears). To Dany’s delight, they had also sent two promising youngsters as students. The fact that Dany had spoken to all the chiefs in the Old Tongue hadn’t hurt, and by the end of their visit, Winterfell had a new trading link to Skagos, and Dany had acquired a nickname, Dragan cliste.
Clever dragon.
Robb smiled at this, and switched to the Old Tongue. “It’s a cunning and clever dragon I have for a bride, it’s true,” he agreed, tugging on the end of one of Dany’s braids. “Just tell me when something’s making you fret, aye?”
“Aye,” Dany agreed, and sealed her promise with a kiss.