Arianne II
296 - AC
Her uncle had said the North held people who could not be swayed by sweet smiles and pretty words.
His words had some truth in them, but not entirely.
The North was a land of blunt edges and hard truths, where the wind howled like a wounded beast and the snow fell relentless as a siege.
Smiles here were rare as summer roses, and when they came, they were earned, not given.
But she had learned in her short time at Winterfell that even the sturdiest oak could bend if you knew where to press.
The men of the North might not melt at a batted lash like the perfumed lords of Yronwood or the scheming foxes of Blackmont but they were men all the same—flesh and blood beneath the furs, with desires that burned hot against the cold.
She had seen it in the way the guards' eyes lingered when she passed through the yard, their gazes tracing the curve of her hips or the sway of her hair like starving wolves eyeing a doe.
Even in this frozen keep, where the air bit like a viper's fang and the sun was a pale ghost behind the clouds, men were men. It amused her, in a way.
She had half expected the cold to turn their cocks to stone, but no—the Northmen still stirred, still hungered. It was a small comfort in this gods-forsaken place.
The Stark girl had been around her like a pup, Sansa was curious and every bit as stiff as a septa, clinging to the ideals of ladylike propriety as if they were a shield against the world's cruelties.
She could see Lady Stark's hand in it—the woman's influence woven into every curtsy, every demure glance.
Catelyn Stark ruled her household with an iron grace, blending the riverland softness of her Tully blood with the unyielding honor of the North.
Her children reflected it: Sansa with her songs and stitches, dreaming of knights and tourneys; the younger girl, Arya, wild as a sandstorm, scampering about with dirt on her knees and questions on her lips.
Arya had taken to the Sand Snakes like a fish to water, trailing after Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene with wide eyes and endless queries.
"Tell me about the battles," she would beg, her small hands clenched into fists. "Did you really kill a man with a spear through the head?"
The little she-wolf's enthusiasm was endearing, a spark of fire in this icy realm, but it earned her mother's disapproving glances.
Lady Stark's eyes, cool as the Summer sea's depths, would slide over the Sand Snakes whenever they entered a room—dismissive, blatant, as if the sight of women wielding weapons was an affront to the gods themselves.
Arianne had caught those looks more than once, and they chafed like sand in a silk gown. In Dorne, women fought and ruled and loved as freely as men. Here, it seemed, they were expected to sew and smile and bear sons in silence.
Still, she had been learning the way of this cold keep. Winterfell was a place where words didn't carry meaning if said plainly; they were weighed like gold on a merchant's scale, tested for truth and intent. The people here were blunt as a maul, yes—guards who grunted responses, servants who met your eyes without flinching, and a Lord who spoke of honor as if it were bread and salt.
But beneath the bluntness lay a kindness she hadn't expected, a quiet hospitality forged in the fires of survival. A stableboy had offered her a warmer cloak without being asked; a maid had brought her mulled wine spiced with cloves, "to chase the chill from your bones, m'lady."
It was not the flowery courtesy of the Sunspear or the oily flattery of the South, but it was real, rooted deep as the weirwoods in the godswood.
And yet, for all its blunt kindness, Winterfell was a fortress of stone and secrets. The halls whispered with the footsteps of ghosts, the hot springs beneath the keep bubbled like blood from old wounds, and the air carried a faint tang of iron and earth, as if the land itself remembered the battles fought upon it.
She had walked its battlements at dusk, feeling the wind tug at her hair like invisible fingers, and wondered what ancient powers lingered in this place.
And it came to her as a surprise when her uncle came into her chambers with a letter in hand, his face alight with that Cheshire grin that meant he was plotting something wicked.
"My hand for the Stark heir?" she asked once more, wondering if Oberyn had fallen from his horse on the way back from the Wall and taken a blow to the head. The words felt absurd on her tongue, like a mummer's farce. She paced the room, her silk gown whispering against the rush-strewn floor, the fire in the hearth casting dancing shadows on the stone walls.
"It would be a strong match," Oberyn nodded, his smile unwavering, as if he were discussing the price of olives rather than her future.
"I do not understand," she said, her brows raised high, anger flaring like a spark in dry tinder. She stopped before him, hands on her hips. "Is this why Father sent me here? To make sure I would not be a threat for the seat of Sunspear, a threat to Quentyn? I am its heir, it is mine by right, and if Father thinks he can exile me—"
The fire crackled, breaking wood with a sharp pop that echoed like a whipcrack. The stone walls seemed to close in, the wind outside howling against the shutters, rattling them like bones in a crypt.
The bright flames spread light on Oberyn's face as they slowly curled up, casting his features in a play of gold and shadow, making him look like one of the old Valyrian lords from the tales—fierce, unyielding, with eyes that held secrets deeper than the Shadow Lands.
Obreyn felt a long laughter bubble up from his chest, clutching his stomach tightly as it escaped. "Your father loves you, Arianne."
She let out a breath and took a seat, the cushioned chair creaking under her weight. "I know he does, but love without respect is the kind I refuse to live under."
"You do not know what you speak of, my princess," he said, his voice taking a sudden shift from amusement to something harder, like the edge of a spear.
"Oh yes," she replied, standing once more, her brows raised in defiance. "Half a dozen times he has tried to marry me to toothless greybeards, each more contemptible than the last. He never commanded me to wed them, I grant you, but the offers alone prove how little he regards me. He just wanted to send me away, like a broodmare, so Quentyn could be named his heir."
Oberyn looked at her with half a mind to tell her everything. Doran had never been one to dismiss her as his heiress; he had another seat in mind for her, one far greater than just Sunspear.
The flickering light in the chambers cast long shadows across the stone walls.
The Red Viper's eyes, dark, piercing, and ever watchful, calmly scanned the room, ensuring no servants or spies lingered by.
This was something that should have been discussed in a place safer for secrets and he thought this would do.
Satisfied that they were alone, he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.
"My brother has always known the game well," he said, a hint of admiration threading through his words. "And thus, he plays it masterfully."
Arianne crossed her arms, her silk robes whispering against the dark floor. "He does nothing. That is all he ever does."
Oberyn smiled, a sharp, knowing curve of his lips that revealed the predator beneath the charm. "He knew you would reject those suitors, dear niece. That was precisely why he paraded them before you in the first place."
He paused, glancing toward the heavy oak door as if expecting an interruption. "The eyes of the realm, of the other Great Houses, the schemers in King's Landing, even our own bannermen, shouldn't be questioning why the heiress of Dorne remains unwed. So Doran put on a play, a grand performance to fool them all. Let them see the proud princess turning away lesser men, and they'll assume it's her fiery spirit at work, not some deeper design."
Arianne's brow furrowed, her dark eyes narrowing as she processed his words. She had always prided herself on her cunning, on seeing through the veils of deception that shrouded Dornish politics. Yet here she was, feeling like a pawn in her own father's game.
"And what was it he truly planned to do?" she asked, her voice biting with frustration. The idea that she had been manipulated, even for her own good, stung like a scorpion's tail.
Oberyn's expression softened, but there was a glint of excitement in his eyes, the thrill of unveiling a long-held secret. "Doran had plans to make you Queen."
The word hung in the air like a drawn blade. Her lips thinned, curling downward into a snarl that bared her teeth. Queen. The title echoed in her mind, stirring a whirlwind of ambition, dread, and a flicker of that childish dream she had buried long ago. But in this realm of usurpers and broken oaths, queenship often meant a crown of thorns.
"He expects me to marry a spawn of the Usurper? Or perhaps become mistress to the Baratheon king himself, warming Robert's bed while his Lannister queen seethes?"
Oberyn scoffed, his laughter a low, venomous rumble that spoke of old grudges and unquenched thirst for revenge.
"We have lost enough in Kingslanding," he said, his voice laced with a vengeful spirit that made the flames in the brazier seem to dance higher. "Doran would never send you there, not unless the Red Keep has been burned to the ground or sacked to ruins, its stones scattered like the bones of our enemies."
He rose fluidly from his seat, his lithe form moving with the grace of a warrior who had danced with death in the fighting pits of Essos.
Crossing the room, he approached a wineskin left carelessly by her bedside table—a gift from the Sand Snakes, who had proclaimed it a potent Northern brew, something to chase away the chill of the desert nights.
Oberyn uncorked it with a practiced flick, pouring a generous measure into a hammered copper goblet. He held it near the flames, letting the heat warm the liquid as tendrils of steam rose, carrying a sharp, earthy aroma that mingled with the incense.
"When you were but a girl, scarcely flowered," he continued, his tone grave now, "I was sent to Braavos as an emissary. There, in the long halls of the Sea Lord's palace, I met with Ser Willem Darry and a betrothal pact was forged between you and Prince Viserys Targaryen."
The words struck her like a whip, choking the breath from her throat. Her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms as the implications crashed over her.
Viserys Targaryen, the last true heir to the Iron Throne in exile.
A union that could restore the dragons and avenge Elia. But in Robert's realm, it was madness.
"What you speak of is—" she stammered, her voice a hoarse whisper.
"Treason of the highest order," Oberyn finished for her, his eyes locking onto hers with unyielding intensity. "The entire realm would band together against us. The houses that fought beside us in the Rebellion would now march from the other side, eager to curry favor with the Usurper and his golden-haired lickspittles. Dorne would stand alone, our sands soaked in blood once more."
Arianne nodded slowly, her heart pounding like war drums in her chest. Fear coiled in her gut, cold and insistent, but beneath it burned a spark of exhilaration.
"This must never come to light," she muttered, her gaze darting to the shadows as if expecting spies to emerge.
"It won't," Oberyn assured her, his voice firm as forged steel. "We will make sure of it." He nodded, and she mirrored the gesture, though the fear lingered in her eyes like a storm cloud over the Red Mountains.
A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire.
Oberyn finally lifted the goblet to his lips, taking a cautious sip. The liquor burned fierce and unrelenting, a Northern fire that seared his tongue and throat.
"By the gods!" he exclaimed, wincing as he set the cup down with a clatter. "This is strong."
Arianne allowed herself a faint smile, the tension easing just a fraction. But questions still swirled in her mind, demanding answers.
"And what became of the pact?" she asked, leaning forward. It wasn't that she craved the crown, power in Dorne suited her well enough, but the allure of queenship was a dream every girl had whispered to the stars at least once.
Oberyn sighed, settling back into his chair with the weariness of a man who had seen too many plots unravel.
"It fell apart like sand in the wind. Ser Willem died, and the Targaryens were scattered across Essos, The rebellion we might have sparked died before it could ignite."
"Why has it come to this?" Arianne pressed, her mind racing through alliances and strategies like pieces on a cyvasse board. "We could still reach out—ally with the Reach, perhaps. Arrange a marriage between Daenerys and Lord Loran Tyrell. The roses and the dragons could bloom together against the lions."
Oberyn shook his head, his expression darkening. "The Reach cares little for the Targaryens now, not as we had hoped. The Lannisters have been weaving their web of gold and influence across the Seven Kingdoms for years. The Tyrells would abandon any loyalty the moment they sniff a sweeter deal with the Baratheons or the lions. Mace Tyrell is ambitious and a fool, but he has Lady Olenna and she's no fool—she plays for the winning side."
Another silence enveloped them, thicker this time, as they both stared into the flames. The fire popped and hissed, mirroring the turmoil in her thoughts. Finally, she broke it.
"The Reach borders us and the Westerlands both. Wouldn't I be a better match for Lord Willas, binding the south against our common foes?"
Obreyn's expression softened, the firelight flickering in his dark eyes. "Perhaps it would have been possible a few summers ago," he admitted, his tone measured. "But ever since Lord Willas lost his leg on our joust, Lady Tyrell has grown resentful toward Dorne. She wouldn't approve of it."
He paused, the wind outside moaning like a restless spirit, the flames popping as if in agreement.
"Still, why the Starks?" she asked, the tales of Lord Stark and Robert Baratheon's brotherhood echoing in her mind. They were brothers in everything but blood, forged in the fires of rebellion, their bond unbreakable despite bitter arguments. Men like that reconciled in a heartbeat if given the chance.
"Lord Stark and the King are old friends, I know," Oberyn said, as if reading her thoughts. "But he hates the Lannisters just as much as we do, and while I do not see him turning against them, if we ally ourselves with the North, he must raise his banners to our call when we march against the gold shitters at Casterly Rock."
He stood tall and quiet as he said the next words, his voice carrying the weight of Martell's grudge.
Oberyn added, a cold hand pressed over her shoulder as he stood by her side. "Dorne at this moment does not have many friends. We have kept to ourselves since the Rebellion, and I wish to see it change."
"And that's where the North comes in?" Arianne asked, the chill air causing her nipples to tense straight beneath her gown, a reminder of how far she was from the warm sands of home.
"The North is vast and strong," Oberyn explained, his tone earnest. "Their loyalty is not bought with gold or flattery, but earned with respect. The Stark boy, he has already shown he can command men, bind them to him with more than blood ties. If we tie our house to his, we gain an ally who will not bend to the winds from the south."
She let out a sigh as she thought about the auburn-haired lad with his charming smile, his grey eyes that loomed over like a dark cloud before a storm. She thought him handsome, yes, but she also thought him young.
Her eyes loomed over the long stone walls and hard-blowing winds outside the keep. Should she say yes, this would become hers: long and away from the shining sun and glowing sands, a cold and hard place where warmth was found more precious than coins.
But she had seen the way the Starks treated their people—they were noble and honorable, something she knew she would not find much in the south, where smiles hid daggers and alliances shifted like desert sand.
She walked away, standing by the window and looking out to the lands, the chill air seeping through the cracks.
"Fine," she said at last, her voice steady. "If my father would approve, I would marry Robb Stark and bring our houses together."
Obreyn stood up with a clasp of his hands and a wide grin. "Wonderful. He is a good lad, would make a proper husband."
"You better wish I do not die out here in the cold, uncle," she said with a bite, her eyes narrowing. "Or I will haunt you till you go mad."
"Who said I was not already?" Oberyn laughed, the sound rich and echoing in the chamber. "But I'm sure you and the young pup can find more than one way to keep your warmth."
She shook her head with a smile as Oberyn walked out, the door closing behind him with a soft thud that seemed to reverberate through the stone.
She had seen the way the Stark heir carried himself, regal and noble, with a charm that hid something sharper beneath. He was handsome in a Northern way.
She had kissed him once, a light brush of lips against his jaw after he had bested her cousins in the yard, and felt him freeze like a statue carved from the Wall itself. It had amused her then, the way his breath hitched, the faint flush that climbed his neck. He was adept in the ways of a lord, yes, but in matters of the heart—or the bed—he was still a boy, green as summer grass and she was sure she could mold him into whatever she wanted.