The ship was a world unto itself, a sliver of impossible futures sailing across a sea of ancient history. It moved with a serene silence, propelled by forces that left no wake of smoke nor required the crack of a master's whip. For the Dornish contingent, accustomed to the creak of timber and the snap of canvas sails, the vessel's quiet grace was as unsettling as it was wondrous. The air, thick with the cold salt spray of the Narrow Sea, was a stark contrast to the perfumed warmth of Sunspear, and they wore their cloaks with a tightly coiled resentment for the northern chill.
The morning sun cast a brilliant, clean light across the main deck, where a section had been cleared for training. Here, the clash of cultures was in full, stark display.
Dacey Mormont stood with her feet planted firmly, a bastion of Northern resilience. Her movements were economical, powerful, and devoid of flourish as she guided a much smaller figure through a basic defensive stance. Lyanna, her face a perfect mask of concentration, held a small, weighted wooden sword, her brow furrowed as she tried to mirror Dacey's form. The little girl was the last piece of their old home, a living memory of Bear Island, and Dacey guarded her with a fierce, maternal devotion.
"No, little bear," Dacey corrected gently, her voice a low rumble. She knelt, adjusting Lyanna's grip on the practice shield. "Don't fight the blow. Absorb it. Let the shield do the work, not your arm. The strength of the Mormonts is that we endure. We do not break. We are the wall against the storm."
Watching from the shade of an awning were the Sand Snakes, draped in silks of saffron and crimson that seemed to defy the muted colors of the sea. Obara, the eldest, her face plain but hard, watched the lesson with a critical eye, her arms crossed over her leather-clad chest. She let out a soft snort of derision, just loud enough for Dacey's keen ears to catch.
"The Bear stands and endures," she murmured to her sisters, her voice laced with contempt for the northern philosophy. "How tedious. The Viper strikes once and ends it. A much more efficient use of one's time, wouldn't you agree?"
Dacey's jaw tightened, but she refused to rise to the bait, focusing instead on Lyanna. Nymeria, whose beauty was as sharp and fine as the daggers she favored, simply observed, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. She was a student of people as much as combat. It was Tyene, the youngest of the three, who made a move. She glided across the deck with a dancer's poise, her smile as sweet and cloying as a summer peach, and just as potentially poisonous.
"She has a strong spirit," Tyene cooed, her voice a light, melodic thing that seemed ill-suited for a vessel at sea. She knelt gracefully beside Lyanna, her blonde curls catching the sunlight. "But raw strength is not everything, little one. A woman has other weapons. Sometimes, a little sting in the right place is all you need." From a hidden pocket in her sleeve, she produced a small, exquisitely crafted dagger, its blade no longer than her finger and coated in a faint, purplish sheen. "See? Beauty can also be deadly."
"Enough," Dacey's voice was a low growl, cutting through Tyene's sweet tone like an axe through silk. She moved with surprising speed, placing herself squarely between the Dornish woman and Lyanna, her hand instinctively resting on the pommel of her own sword. "Keep your poisoned games to yourself. This is a lesson in honor, something you may not be familiar with."
"Honor?" Obara's harsh laugh cut through the air as she stepped forward, her hand resting on her spear. "Honor is what gets men like Eddard Stark killed and leaves their children orphans. We prefer to win."
From the rail, Daenerys Targaryen watched the tense tableau unfold. She saw Dacey's fierce, protective loyalty—a shield wall in human form. She saw the Sand Snakes' confident, dangerous grace—a dance of seduction and death. They were all women, yet they were worlds apart from any she had ever known. They were not pawns or broodmares; they were warriors, each formidable in her own right, and a part of Daenerys that had long been dormant felt a strange, thrilling kinship.
The standoff was broken by the arrival of their father. Oberyn Martell appeared on deck with a platter of fruits, his presence alone enough to dissipate the tension. "Sisters, Dacey," he said, his voice effortlessly charming and laced with authority. "Surely there is room for both the Bear and the Viper on this ship. We are allies now. Let us behave as such." He offered a piece of blood orange to Lyanna, who took it shyly, her eyes wide.
His gaze then found Daenerys. "And the Dragon," he said softly, his voice dropping as he walked towards her. "You have been quiet, little queen. You watch them, but what do you see?"
"I see strength," Daenerys replied, her voice gaining a sliver of confidence. "Different kinds."
"Good," Oberyn said with an approving nod. "The first lesson of power is to recognize it in others." He leaned against the rail beside her, his expression turning serious. "Maximus has offered you safety, a noble gift. But the world will not let you keep it. As long as you draw breath, men will hunt you for your name. They will see you as a symbol to be used, a claim to be sold, or a threat to be extinguished."
He looked her directly in the eye, his dark gaze intense. "You have the name of a dragon, but you do not yet have its fire or its fangs. I can teach you. I can give you the fangs you will need to survive in the viper's pit that is Westeros."
Daenerys was taken aback, a flicker of fear in her eyes. She had just escaped a brother who sought to control her; now a prince offered to shape her. "Train me?"
"I will train you in the Dornish way," he clarified, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. "It is a lesson my daughters know well. Not just with a spear, but with words, with wit, with will. I will teach you the art of observation, the subtlety of influence, and yes, the practical application of poison. I will teach you to be a player in the game, not a piece to be moved. You are the last of your line, Daenerys Targaryen. Will you be a victim, or will you be a conqueror?"
She looked from the proud Dacey to the deadly Sand Snakes, and then back to the prince who offered her not the shackles of protection, but the keys to her own power. A fire she didn't know she possessed began to smolder within her. "I accept," she said, her voice steady and clear.
That night, the stars were a brilliant, cold fire in the endless black sky. The ship moved through the water like a phantom, its only sound the whisper of the waves against its strange hull. On the foredeck, Maximus and Oberyn stood alone, a shared flagon of Dornish red between them, its spicy aroma a small pocket of warmth in the crisp air.
"This alliance of yours is… eclectic," Oberyn remarked, breaking the comfortable silence. "Northern bears, Dornish vipers, and a lost dragon, all in one cage. It will be interesting to see who bites whom first."
Maximus allowed himself a small smile. "We have a common enemy. That's a stronger bond than friendship, sometimes." He stared out at the dark horizon, his mind on the course he had charted. "I need to tell you, the destination has changed. We are not returning to Skagos. Not yet." He turned to face the Dornish prince, his young face set with a gravity that seemed at odds with his age. "I've set a new course. We're sailing for Dorne."
Oberyn froze, the wine flagon pausing halfway to his lips. A slow smile, equal parts amusement and danger, spread across his face. "Sunspear? You would sail directly into the viper's nest? My brother, Prince Doran, sent me to find a boy wielding impossible power. And now you intend to deliver yourself to his doorstep, gift-wrapped?" He took a deep drink of wine. "You are either braver than any man I have ever met, or a bigger fool. Tell me which it is."
"I am neither," Maximus said calmly. "I am an ally. And I am bringing your brother the one thing he has craved for nearly two decades: a reason to go to war, with the means to win it."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of the sea. Oberyn studied him, his sharp, intelligent eyes searching for the truth. "You speak of war and alliances as if they are simple things," he said softly. "You have power, boy. The being in my dream made that clear. But power without purpose is a storm that destroys everything, including the one who wields it. What is your purpose?"
Maximus knew this was the pivotal moment. To win the Viper, he had to show him his fangs, and his wounds. "My purpose is vengeance," Maximus stated plainly. "The same as yours."
He began the tale, his voice low but unwavering in the night air. He spoke of Bear Island's quiet prosperity, the sudden boom of wealth and innovation, and the envy it inspired. And then, he spoke of the betrayal.
"Eddard Stark led the attack himself," Maximus said, the name a shard of ice in his throat. "The honorable wolf, Warden of the North, came to my home not with a summons or a charge, but with swords and torches in the dead of night. He slaughtered my people, my family, on the word of others."
Oberyn's eyebrows rose. "Stark? I knew the man. Stiff. Honorable to a fault. It is not his way to lead an ambush against one of his own."
"It is, when he is made to believe he is dispensing justice," Maximus countered, his voice hardening. "He was a pawn, a weapon aimed at my family by cleverer, more ruthless hands. I have proof."
He saw the shift in Oberyn's posture, the intense focus that sharpened his features. "After the attack, I was able to recover information. Letters. Communications between the great houses, the Citadel, all of them. They thought they were so careful, but they left a digital trail I could follow." He laid out the conspiracy he had uncovered, the cold fury in his voice making the night air seem even colder. "Olenna Tyrell saw our trade as a threat. Tywin Lannister saw our steel as a threat. They conspired together, using Roose Bolton as their butcher. They fed lies to King Robert and Lord Stark, painting me as a traitor. The Citadel was complicit, their maesters spreading the rumors, seeking to suppress knowledge they couldn't control." He gestured vaguely towards the south, where Oldtown lay in frozen ruin. "I have already dealt with the Citadel."
Oberyn was silent for a long moment, his dark eyes seeming to drink in the shadows. He drained his flagon and set it down with a soft click. "So, the Lion and the Rose conspired to crush the Bear, and used the Wolf to do it," he mused. "It has the stench of their particular brand of politics."
He turned fully to Maximus, his demeanor shifting from curious observer to seasoned player. "Listen to me, boy," he said, his voice taking on a hard, instructive edge. "Your anger at Stark is justified, but it is misplaced. Honor was his weakness. Tywin and Olenna knew it, so they poisoned it and turned it against you. A man like that is a tool, not a mastermind. Our true enemies are the ones who held the hammer, not the honorable fool they chose to swing."
He leaned in closer. "You are right to come to Dorne. My brother Doran has played a patient game, waiting for the perfect moment to strike at the Lannisters for what they did to Elia and her children. But he is cautious. He will not move without certainty."
Oberyn tapped a finger on the rail between them. "So here is my counsel. When we stand before him in the Water Gardens, do not lead with your impossible magic. Lead with this." He tapped the rail again. "Lead with the shared enemy. Show him the letters. Give him the proof of Tywin Lannister's treachery. The viper does not need to believe in magic when he can see a path to his enemy's throat."
"How do we ensure he trusts it?" Maximus asked.
"My word will carry weight," Oberyn said. "And we will prepare the ground. I will send a bird ahead. My daughters will spread whispers among the court servants. By the time you stand before my brother, the idea of Lannister treachery will already be a serpent coiled in the minds of his advisors." He paused. "Once you have him, once Dorne has committed, then you may show him the true extent of your power. A ruler understands betrayal. Let him embrace you as a political ally before you ask him to embrace you as a god."
"And in return for this alliance," Maximus said, "you want my resources for your vengeance."
"And you want my key for yours," Oberyn countered smoothly. "Which brings us to this 'scrap planet' the titan spoke of. What do you know of it?"
Maximus described the vision Thanos had shown him—a desolate world covered in endless mountains of refuse, skyscrapers of junk, and a single, lonely robot. As he spoke, a memory from his past life—a life of movies and games—surfaced with stunning clarity. His eyes widened. "I know that world," he breathed.
"You know a planet from a dream?" Oberyn asked, skeptical.
"It was a memory," Maximus said, his voice gaining a feverish excitement. "From my old life. It was a story. A world humanity abandoned after they buried it in their own trash. Oberyn, you don't understand. Thanos called it a scrap planet, but he was wrong. It's a treasure trove."
He began to pace the deck. "Those mountains of trash are our mines. Millennia of compressed metals, rare earth elements, lost technology. In the story, humanity left on massive starliners. If even one of those ships, the Axiom, is still there... it would hold pristine technology we could reverse-engineer for centuries." He stopped and looked at Oberyn, his eyes alight with a vision of the future. "We can build fleets from that scrap. We can arm armies. We can build the city I dreamed of, a hundred times over."
Oberyn stared at him, the implications of what Maximus was saying dawning on him. The key he possessed wasn't just to a pile of junk; it was the key to an industrial revolution.
He smiled, a slow, dangerous smile that did not reach his eyes. "A partnership, then," he declared. "For the key to this... treasure of yours, I want more than just Lannister heads. I want you to arm Dorne. Our soldiers will carry your steel. Our spears will be tipped with it. We will not be your vassals, little lord. We will be your partners. Your technology will fuel our vengeance, and our armies will secure your southern flank."
"Agreed," Maximus said without hesitation, extending a hand.
Oberyn clasped his forearm, the grip firm and binding. "It is a deal." He finally looked away from Maximus, out at the dark sea. "Now, set your course for Sunspear. The vipers of Dorne have been sleeping long enough."