Oberyn VI
296 - AC
The keep of Winterfell had taken on a strange, almost reluctant sense of festivity.
Two moons had passed since the Dornish party arrived, and Wintertown had swollen like a river in spring.
New huts sprouted along the edges of the old ones, their thatched roofs still pale and raw.
The brewery had nearly doubled in size, its great stone chimneys pouring thick columns of smoke into the cold sky day and night.
Oberyn could smell the malt and yeast even from the castle walls.
Barrels were rolled constantly, hammers rang against iron hoops, and the ever-burning flame in the brewery's heart glowed like a small forge of its own.
He walked slowly through the outer yard, hands clasped behind his back, red cloak trailing behind him.
Laughter drifted from the training yard where boys sparred, women bartered loudly near the gates and even the grim-faced guards seemed slightly less dour.
All because the nameday of Winterfell's heir was approaching.
His lips twitched into a half-smile.
He would never have guessed that these brooding northerners celebrated namedays. As it turned out, they usually didn't.
Resources were too precious, winters too long, and time too valuable to waste on such southern frivolity.
But this was different.
This was Robb Stark's three-and-ten nameday, and more importantly, a celebration of his safe return after nearly two years riding with the Winter Sons.
It was a few weeks after he had turned one and ten, when he decided to form his band and venture out to the North.
It never failed to bring a chuckle to his lips whenever the image returned to him, a boy of only one-and-ten, charging down on a screaming cutthroat with wild abandon.
That same boy had spent one year and six moons in the wild, before finally riding home.
His last nameday had been spent in a cold camp somewhere deep in the Wolfswood, surrounded by other boys, greybearded warriors, and endless trees.
No feasts. No songs. Only hard bread, colder steel, and the distant howl of wolves.
So it was only natural that his lady mother had insisted on celebrating his three-and-ten nameday with proper northern pomp.
A belated welcome home, and a quiet declaration that her son had survived the wilds.
He walked out of the castle and into the yard leading out to the glass gardens, drawn by the sound of laughter echoing off the glass panes.
Even before he reached the entrance, the warmth and joy spilled out like sunlight.
"He was pleading for a jug of water! I swear I thought he was about to cry!" Snow's voice rang out, bright with mirth.
"I think he did," Robb added, which sent his half-brother into another fit of wheezing laughter.
Arianne and the Sand Snakes were doubled over, clutching their stomachs.
Tyene had tears in her eyes. Nymeria was gasping for breath.
"Did he really?" Nymeria managed between laughs.
"Not only did he slip and fall in his own shit," Jon continued, barely able to speak, "He tried to climb back on his horse afterward and it kicked him square in the arse!"
"Stop—please stop!" Tyene begged, holding her sides.
"I can't breathe," Arianne wheezed, leaning against Robb's shoulder.
The two boys laughed even harder at the girls' suffering.
Oberyn paused just outside the entrance, watching them.
For a moment, something almost soft crossed his face.
They were all so young, barely more than children.
Robb and Jon were still growing into their shoulders, Arianne, though a woman grown, laughed with the abandon of a girl who had not yet been truly broken by the world.
His daughters were reduced to helpless giggles by a crude story.
'They are still so young,' he thought. 'No matter how many men they've killed or how sharp their tongues are, they are still children playing at life.'
Suddenly his eyes landed on something peculiar and they widened as he noticed it.
A crown of blue roses rested in her dark hair, carefully woven by hand.
The flowers were delicate, almost fragile against the harsh northern light.
Something twisted sharply in Oberyn's chest.
For one painful heartbeat, he saw another woman wearing blue roses and one who should have been wearing them.
He forced the memory down and stepped forward.
The laughter began to fade as they noticed him approaching.
"So," Oberyn called out, voice light and teasing, "Who exactly fell in their own shit?"
The group burst into fresh laughter and even Robb had to wipe his eyes.
"It was a lad, goes by Tebor of The Rills." Jon answered, still grinning.
"He rode with us for a time," Robb added.
"Sounds like a very clumsy boy," Oberyn said, chuckling along with them.
But the laughter died quickly as both Robb and Jon went strangely quiet, their expressions darkening.
"Yes, he was clumsy," Robb said, his gaze dropping to the ground.
The Sand Snakes exchanged confused glances, clearly hearing this part of the story for the first time.
"Clumsy enough to fall on his own sword," Robb added quietly.
The girls drew in a sharp collective breath, the laughter dying instantly.
Even Oberyn's expression sobered.
He had lost enough men in his life to know the bitter taste such memories left behind.
"He is not here with us now," Jon nodded slowly, his voice subdued.
Oberyn stepped forward and placed a firm, comforting hand on Jon's shoulder.
"Losing a man you fought beside is never easy," he said gravely, squeezing once. "The weight stays with you and their souls watch over us forever."
Jon stared up at him, bewildered while Robb wore the same puzzled look.
"What are you talking about?" Jon asked.
"Yes, what do you mean?" Robb echoed.
Oberyn blinked, slowly withdrawing his hand.
Nymeria came to his rescue, tilting her head. "You said he fell on his own sword?"
"Yes," Robb clarified, holding up two fingers. "He fell on his own sword and chopped off two of his fingers."
"Then you said he's not here with us now?" Obara demanded, nearly shouting.
"Yes, he's not here with us," Jon replied, as if it should have been obvious. "He's back with his family in the Rills."
"Wait! he has a family?" Robb looked genuinely shocked. "I thought he was an orphan boy."
"Oh, he is," Jon said casually. "But he got married, I heard from some men in Wintertown settled in from the Rills."
"Did he really?" Robb asked, eyes wide with surprise. "Our shitlad got married?"
"It seems he did!" Jon nodded with a smile.
Nymeria rolled her eyes dramatically. "Have I ever told you two that you're absolute fools?"
The boys exchanged a quick, mischievous look before bursting into laughter again.
He couldn't help but chuckle along with them.
"You had me there," he admitted, shaking his head. "Well played."
"What brings you here, Prince Oberyn?" Robb asked once the laughter settled.
"I came to steal a princess," Oberyn replied smoothly, bowing slightly. "One who happens to be my niece, would you be so kind as to release her, young lord?"
Robb smiled and shook his head, reaching out to take Arianne's hand. "Giving her up? Never."
Arianne laughed softly, rising to her feet, her crimson dress swayed as she moved.
"I'm sure my uncle doesn't mean to take me away forever, my young wolf," she purred, tracing her nails gently down Robb's cheek, a teasing touch that made the boy's ears turn pink. "I will return soon enough."
"Oooohhh!" Tyene and Nymeria cooed in perfect unison.
"I shall be waiting," Robb answered, his voice warm.
The girls made even louder noises of mock affection.
Oberyn and Arianne left the glass gardens together, behind them, he heard Nymeria and Jon wandering off in their own direction, voices low and easy, while the others remained, still laughing.
They stopped near a quiet tower overlooking the yard.
He reached up and gently adjusted the crown of blue roses on her head, centering it carefully.
"These roses, who gave it to you?" He asked.
"These roses," he asked softly, "who gave them to you?"
"My betrothed," Arianne said proudly, a genuine smile lighting her face. "He made them himself."
Oberyn let out a dry, humorless chuckle, the sound carried old pain.
For a moment, Arianne's face blurred in his mind with another taking its place.
The dragon deserved to die for what he did to his sister, for humiliating her before the entire kingdom, he deserved to die in the marshes of the Trident.
Oberyn's fist clenched at his side until his knuckles ached but he forced his hand to relax.
"We are to leave the North the day after his nameday celebration," Oberyn said with a heavy sigh. "I plan to speak with Lord Stark about breaking the betrothal before then."
Arianne nodded, but a sad little smile clung to her lips.
"So soon, uncle?" she asked, the mischievous grin returned, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I had thought I would have more time with my young wolf."
Oberyn sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Your wolf?" His voice grew stern and cold. "Do not become attached to something that began as an act, Arianne."
She crossed her arms and let out a long, weary sigh.
"I started this as an act," Arianne admitted, her voice softer than before. "I only meant to make a boy fall for me, but… he turned out to be more than that, he's man enough, and he… he grows on you."
She shook her head, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips.
"That he does," Oberyn said, smiling as he stepped closer, his expression, however, quickly turned serious. "But I worry that even if I do not raise the issue, Lord Stark will eventually suggest breaking the betrothal himself."
She raised her brows in confusion.
"Why is that?"
Oberyn let out a tired sigh, his usual playful demeanor fading into something heavier, almost resigned.
"Because, my dear niece," he said quietly.
"The North remembers."