The heavy council doors had only just closed over the matter of Red Rain when they creaked open again. A young soldier stumbled in, out of breath, helm tucked under one arm. His eyes flicked across the assembled lords before fixing on Eddard.
"My lord," he said quickly, "a party has just ridden through the western road. They bear the sun-and-spear of Dorne. It is Prince Oberyn Martell himself, come with his household."
A ripple passed through the chamber. Maege Mormont muttered something about snakes slithering north, while Greatjon Umber gave a bark of laughter and rose to his feet. "The Red Viper, here of all places? Seven hells, I'll see this with my own eyes."
Chairs scraped, boots echoed, and one by one the northern lords moved to follow Eddard. Even Luwin looked uneasy, shuffling his robes as he trailed after.
Jinx did not move at first. He remained seated, masked face tilted slightly, as though tasting the moment. Beneath the black glass of his visor, violet eyes burned with an excitement no one else could see.
Oberyn Martell.
The name alone brought back an echo of his first life—the easy grin of Pedro Pascal, the warmth of a man he had once considered a friend beyond the screen. How strange, how utterly strange, to feel that same anticipation here. Would this Oberyn be like him? Would he bear the same charm, the same fire? Would the Seven, or the Force, truly grant him that gift of familiarity again—like how Ned Stark wore Sean Bean's face without knowing it?
Jinx's gauntleted fingers drummed once against the arm of his chair. "Interesting," he murmured softly to himself. Then he rose, fluid and composed, sliding Red Rain into place at his hip beside the crossguard saber.
Eddard glanced back at him as they made for the gate. "You seem almost eager."
From behind the mask, Jinx's voice came smooth, unreadable. "The Viper is not a man to meet lightly, my lord. But perhaps he is one worth meeting."
Together, Stark, lords, and the masked stranger strode through Barrowton's battered streets toward the gate, where the banners of sun and spear were already snapping in the wind. And though none could see it, beneath the mask Jinx's lips curved into the faintest smile—half anticipation, half memory.
The gates of Barrowton creaked open to reveal a blaze of sun-and-spear banners against the gray northern sky. Riders in flowing Dornish silks and light mail entered the courtyard, their horses snorting in the cold air. The northerners on the walls muttered—never had the South seemed so alien as when gilded saddles and bright crimson sashes spilled into their battered town still reeking of smoke and salt.
At their head, Prince Oberyn Martell dismounted with fluid grace. His cloak was a deep blood-orange trimmed in gold, his tunic loose and light despite the chill that made even the Mormonts' furs seem thin. Dark eyes glittered with mischief as his boots struck the muddy ground. Behind him came two young women: Nymeria Sand, with her bow slung casually over one shoulder, gaze sharp as a hawk's; and Sarella, restless and muttering, pulling her hood tighter against the northern wind.
"Lord Stark," Oberyn said warmly, bowing with a theatrical flourish more suited to a tourney than a war camp. "You honor me with such a welcome. It has been far too long since fire met ice."
Eddard inclined his head stiffly, hand resting on Ice's pommel. "You come far from Sunspear, Prince. May we ask what brings you to a land at war?"
Oberyn smiled, slow and knowing. "Curiosity. Whispers carried on raven wings. And, I will confess, a hunger to see whether the stories of the North's… stranger ally are true." His eyes slid from Ned to the masked figure standing just behind him.
Jinx.
Clad in black armor, mask glinting faintly in the torchlight, he stood with arms folded. No greeting, no flourish—just stillness that seemed to suck the air around him.
Oberyn stepped closer, boots squelching in the mud, and tilted his head. "And you must be he. The ghost from nowhere, who bends lords to listen and makes the frozen earth bloom. Tell me, do you smile behind that mask? Or is the mystery the smile itself?"
The northern lords bristled, Greatjon Umber shifting with a growl, Maege Mormont snorting like a bear who'd smelled a trap. But Jinx said nothing. Only a faint tilt of his head, as though amused.
Oberyn circled once, like a dancer measuring his partner. "I have seen many masks, stranger. On knights, on mummers, even on lovers hiding their blushes. But you—" He paused, eyes glittering. "—you wear yours as if the world itself does not deserve to see your face. That is… terribly enticing."
Nymeria rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath. Sarella groaned audibly. "Father, please—he's not going to swoon for you."
Laughter rippled nervously among the Dornish retinue. The Northerners only stiffened more.
Still, Jinx remained motionless. Then—finally—his voice, smooth and cool through the filter of the mask: "Charm is a blade, Prince Martell. Effective, but wasted when you do not know the armor you strike against."
Oberyn's grin widened, unabashed. "Ah, but even the finest armor has gaps, if one looks closely enough." He leaned in, close enough that his breath misted on the steel. "And I am very good at finding gaps."
The mask gave nothing away. No twitch, no intake of breath. But under it, Jinx's violet eyes gleamed, privately amused.
Eddard's jaw tightened. "Enough games. Prince Oberyn, you are welcome under my protection for as long as you remain here—but do not mistake the North for Dorne. We have little patience for riddles or charms."
Oberyn raised both hands innocently, stepping back with a chuckle. "As you say, Lord Stark. Though I cannot help but wonder… which will prove more dangerous to me: the wolf at my front, or the serpent in my shadow?" His eyes flicked once more to Jinx, lingering, probing.
And though none could see behind the mask, Jinx smiled quietly to himself. Oberyn Martell was exactly as he remembered—reckless, magnetic, and fearless. And it would be interesting—very interesting—to see just how far his charm would go against someone who could not be swayed so easily.
The feast at Barrowton had long since ended, the fires in the hall burning low. Most of the northern lords had retired, too weary from the day's bloodshed to stay awake. Only the faint echo of laughter from Dornish voices carried through the cold stone passages.
Jinx, as ever, had slipped away early. The godswood of Barrowton was not so grand as Winterfell's, but he'd found a place among the trees where the night air was quiet enough to think. He sat on a stone bench, mask glinting in the moonlight, when a soft tread approached behind him.
"Do you ever tire of skulking away from revels, masked one?" Oberyn Martell's voice was low and silken, warmed with wine.
Jinx did not turn. "Some find noise comforting. I find silence… necessary."
Oberyn emerged from the shadows, cloak loose around his shoulders, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. He leaned against a tree, watching Jinx with a wolfish interest. "Necessary, or safe? Men wear masks for one of two reasons: to hide a weakness, or to wield a weapon. I've yet to decide which you are."
The violet glow of Jinx's eyes glimmered faintly through the narrow visor. "Perhaps I am both."
Oberyn chuckled, stepping closer until the cold northern air seemed to carry Dornish spice with it. "You are infuriating, you know. No past. No name beyond a word that tastes of mischief. No face. And yet you walk beside lords as if you were their equal, their better. Do you not worry that curiosity might become a blade at your throat?"
"Curiosity cuts both ways, Prince," Jinx replied evenly. "You came north not for politics, nor duty. You came for me. To see whether I was shadow or substance."
Oberyn's grin spread, unabashed. "I will not deny it. The moment I heard whispers of you—sorcerer, whisperer, masked phantom bending the Starks—I knew I had to see. And here you are. A riddle in black steel. Tell me, stranger… what are you really?" His voice dropped into a near-whisper. "Man? Monster? God?"
For a long moment, only the whisper of wind stirred between them. Then Jinx slowly lifted a hand, pressing it to the clasps of his mask. With a faint hiss, the seal released. The mask came away, and for the first time Oberyn looked upon the face beneath.
The Dornish prince froze.
It was beauty and danger woven into one: flawless skin pale as moonlight, hair falling like dark silk, and those eyes—violet, luminous, carrying secrets older than kingdoms. Too perfect, too otherworldly, as if no mortal blood could have crafted such a visage.
Oberyn staggered back a step, one hand flying to his nose as blood suddenly trickled down it. He gave a bark of startled laughter even as crimson stained his fingers.
"Seven hells," he breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. "You are… unfair." He tilted his chin, grinning through the blood, eyes still drinking in Jinx's features. "No wonder you hide your face. If you walked unmasked, half the world would fall to its knees, and the other half would try to kill you out of envy."
Jinx gave no smug smile, only regarded him with quiet amusement. "Satisfied, Prince?"
Oberyn dabbed his nose with a kerchief, still chuckling. "Satisfied? No. Intrigued beyond reason? Entirely. And I begin to understand why the North follows you. Gods help us, I think I might too."
The mask slid back into place with a hiss, erasing the vision as if it had never been. Only the glint of violet eyes remained.
"Careful, Prince," Jinx said softly. "Curiosity may be the death of you yet."
Oberyn licked the blood from his lip, smiling wider. "Perhaps. But what a delicious way to die."
The mask hissed back into place, violet eyes hidden once more behind the ever-smiling visage. Without another word, Jinx rose to his feet, the movement smooth as if fatigue never touched him. He crossed the chamber to a small chest that sat beside his belongings, its wood darkened and bound with iron clasps.
From within, he drew out a crystal-clear bottle, the faint shimmer of Wolfblood Vodka catching even the dim light. He poured two cups, the liquid swirling like liquid moonlight, and offered one to Oberyn.
"Careful," Jinx said softly, tilting his own cup before sipping. "It burns like truth."
Oberyn raised his cup in salute, his smile wicked. "And truth is the rarest poison." He drank deeply, eyes widening briefly at the fire-and-snow taste, before smirking again. "Mmm. I see why your Northmen worship you already."
Jinx set his cup down, fingers laced against the table's edge. His voice dropped to something quieter, colder. "Now… let us not waste wine or words. I know why Doran sent you north. To see me. To weigh me like some curiosity against the scales of Dornish politics. But that alone would not have pried you from your paramour's bed. You came because of your own hunger. You want to know why."
Oberyn leaned forward, dark eyes gleaming with mischief, but also with honesty. "I have walked the length of Essos. I have studied with poisoners in Lys, kissed magisters' daughters in Volantis, and seen blood mages cut their own hearts in Qarth. I know the scent of power, Jinx. It drips from you like sweat. And here you are, training wolves' cubs in shadows, changing the course of the North. You are more dangerous than any sorcerer the world has whispered of since Valyria burned."
He swirled the vodka in his cup, gaze never leaving Jinx's mask. "I came because I want to see if magic is truly alive again. I came because if the world is shifting, I will not be left to hear it only in rumors. I came… because I want to taste the flame for myself."
For a long while, Jinx said nothing, only tapping a single black-gloved finger against the rim of his cup. Then, slowly, he laughed, the sound low and unsettling, echoing oddly beneath the mask.
"You are a man who cannot help but flirt with death," Jinx said at last. "And I am the sort of man who cannot help but answer curiosity with consequences. You may not like what you find, Prince."
Oberyn smiled wider, lips stained with vodka and wine. "Then let us find out together."
In the blink of an eye, the chamber was filled with a violent hiss, a sound like a serpent exhaling fire. Magenta-black light flared as Jinx's crossguard blade roared into existence. The blade burned so close to Oberyn's throat that he felt the searing heat prickle the fine hairs along his skin.
Oberyn's body jolted at first—the shock of flame and death that close—but he did not flinch away. His eyes, dark as a Dornish night, locked onto the mask before him without wavering. There was no plea. No retreat. Only defiance.
Jinx leaned in ever so slightly, tilting the blade so its heat kissed Oberyn's jawline. Fear, Jinx thought, probing with the Force. Or the lack of it.
But what he found was not the blank acceptance of a man broken, nor the reckless calm of one too arrogant to recognize danger. Instead, woven beneath Oberyn's carefully guarded composure, there was regret. It pulsed like an old wound.
Jinx remembered another moment—Eddard Stark, two weeks ago, when he had pressed this same test upon him. The wolf-lord's eyes had been steady, his voice steady too: "I learned how to die a long time ago." A resignation born from loss and duty.
But Oberyn… his defiance was different. His regret was sharper, more personal. Jinx did not need words to name it. He saw the echoes of a woman's scream, a baby's cry. He saw fire, steel, and the monstrous shadow of a knight known as the Mountain That Rides.
Elia.
Jinx pulled the blade back an inch, his voice low and edged like the weapon in his hand. "Your mask is charm. Your armor is wit. But beneath them both… you carry the weight of vengeance unclaimed."
Oberyn smirked, though it was strained now, his voice husky but steady. "And if I do? What of it?"
Jinx deactivated the blade, the room plunging back into shadow. He leaned back, his mask tilting. "Then I know the kind of man you are. And I know what drives you. Fearless men are many. Men who endure regret… they are the dangerous ones."
For a heartbeat, the silence between them was heavy, vibrating with unspoken truths. Oberyn exhaled, a sly smile tugging his lips again as if nothing had cracked him at all. But the blood trickling faintly from his nose betrayed what he had seen—and felt—when Jinx had pressed too close to his soul.
For a moment Oberyn simply stood there, hand brushing faintly at the blood trickling from his nose, smirk still curling his lips like armor against what had just been exposed. He tilted his head back and gave a throaty laugh.
"You look too deep into me, masked one," he said, voice low and honeyed, trying to regain the swagger that had always served him so well. "Most men see Oberyn Martell and notice the smile, the blade, or the bed. You? You go straight for the scars beneath. How very… inconvenient."
Jinx, still seated with the hissing saber now extinguished, tilted his head. The mask hid any expression, but Oberyn could feel the weight of being measured again. "Charm hides truth," Jinx said evenly. "But truth always bleeds through, sooner or later."
Oberyn wiped the last trace of blood away, and when he met Jinx's violet gaze behind the mask, his own grin had softened. Less mockery. More respect. "Then perhaps it is good you see it. For I prefer friends who know my regrets… and do not flinch from them."
With that, Jinx moved. He rose in one fluid motion, gliding over to his personal pack. From it he drew a bottle—its crystal-clear glass catching the faint firelight, the liquid within glowing faintly like ice kissed with moonlight. Wolfblood Vodka. The same northern spirit Oberyn had heard whispers of even this far south.
Without a word, Jinx fetched two cups. He poured with deliberate care, the clear stream singing against the metal rims. Then, slowly, almost ceremoniously, he reached up and unsealed his mask once more. The hiss of air filled the room before the face beneath was revealed: flawless, otherworldly, violet eyes luminous in the firelight.
Oberyn actually felt his pulse quicken, but he managed this time to temper the hunger, to cage the lust behind a sly smile. "Seven save me…" he muttered, shaking his head as if to clear it. "The gods truly favor me tonight, to drink in such company."
Jinx extended his glass, voice smoother now without the mask's distortion, resonant and strangely beautiful. "Then let us call it what it is. The beginning of something rare. A friendship built not on masks, but on truths shared."
Oberyn, eyes gleaming, lifted his own glass until it clinked lightly against Jinx's. "To truths then… and to dangerous friends."
They both raised their cups and drank deep, the second time that night Wolfblood burned its way into them—not with fire, but with a warmth that filled the body and lingered like the promise of something more.