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With Elia, Oberyn, and Ashara (Inside Oberyn's Chambers), Harrenhal - 281 AC:
Golden light filtered through the tall, narrow windows, but any warmth it carried was lost to the tension that smothered Oberyn's chambers. Harrenhal as always, loomed like an ancient beast outside the chambers, with its oppressive walls echoing the strains of discontent from every corner of the kingdom.
Oberyn Martell paced like a lion in a cage, his steps quick, each sharp footfall betraying the storm within him. His sun-bronzed face, so often a mask of wry amusement, now contorted with fury. His black eyes burned, and his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as if crushing his brother-by-law's throat in absentia.
"He insults you, Elia! He insults Dorne, and by the gods, he insults us all!" Oberyn's voice cracked through the room like a whip.
His restless movement never ceased, as though his body could not bear the stillness, the restraint. "Crowning that wolf girl… Rhaegar is a fool, a dreamer chasing shadows. Does he not see what he risks? He has unleashed chaos upon us all!"
Elia Martell sat on the edge of the bed, her posture as delicate and poised as the fine silks that draped her frail frame. She appeared as a sculpture might,— crafted by the finest hands, regal but fragile, as if one touch might shatter her. Her dark, soulful eyes bore the weight of her brother's rage, but behind them was a pain far deeper, more private. Her hands, folded neatly in her lap, trembled only slightly,— a detail only those closest to her might notice.
"Oberyn, you must calm yourself." Her voice was soft but carried the authority of a princess who had borne much in silence.
Her gaze flitted to Ashara Dayne, who stood by the window, silent, observing with a quiet intensity.
Ashara's violet eyes were cool and distant, as they often were, but beneath that serene exterior smoldered a quiet fury. She had always been the still waters to Oberyn's wildfire, but even she could not entirely suppress the disdain curling in her lips.
"Rhaegar has made his choice." Elia continued, her tone calm, though her voice trembled at the edges. "But we cannot act rashly. My children,— Aegon, Rhaenys,— must come first. I will not drag them into a storm of prophecy and pride."
Oberyn stopped his pacing abruptly, his gaze snapping to her as though struck by her words. The fire in his eyes burned brighter now, a conflagration barely contained.
"And what would you have me do, sister?" he demanded, his voice low, dangerous. "Stand idly by while Rhaegar flaunts his insult to you? To Dorne?" His jaw clenched tight, the muscle in his cheek ticking with frustration.
"The lords of Dorne will not take this lightly, Elia. Need I remind you, our land's loyalty was secured by your marriage? After this slight, do you truly think they will remain so loyal?"
Elia's lips tightened, her composure wavering for only a moment. She met her brother's fierce gaze with a strength he had often underestimated.
"I know my duties, Oberyn." she said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of her sorrow and her burden. "And so should you. If we act now, if we so much as breathe the wrong word, Aerys will ensure we all burn. You've seen it. You know what he's capable of. And Rhaegar,—"
"Rhaegar and his father flaunt their disregard for you and Dorne before the entire realm!" Oberyn snapped, cutting her off. His voice cracked with the strain of holding back his fury. "Do you think the Lord of Storm's End will take kindly to this insult to his betrothed? Or the Starks, whose daughter was cast aside like a bauble? Rhaegar plays with wildfire, and it is we who will be consumed by it."
It was Ashara who broke the rising storm in Oberyn's words, her voice slicing through the tension like Valyrian steel.
"Oberyn, enough." Her voice was measured, low, but held an authority that could not be ignored. She had been silent too long, watching Elia's exhaustion take hold. "You are right to be angry, but think clearly. Pride will only hasten our downfall. This is not about justice or insult alone. A rash word now could ignite a conflict that will burn the Seven Kingdoms. Do you think Rhaegar's madness is not seen by others? But if we act rashly, we will be the spark that lights the fire."
Oberyn's fierce gaze swung toward Ashara, the anger in his eyes momentarily redirected. For a brief, tense moment, it seemed he might turn his fury on her. But Ashara did not flinch. She met his rage with her own calm. Slowly, like a storm winding down, Oberyn's breath steadied. The fire, though still fierce, was tempered.
"You would have me do nothing, then?" Oberyn's voice was a bitter growl, barely restrained. "You speak of caution, Ashara, but what of justice? How long do we stand by and watch as the world burns around us?"
Before Ashara could respond, Elia's voice, now stronger, broke through the charged air.
"As long as we must." she said firmly, though the edges of her voice still wavered with exhaustion. "Rhaegar has slighted me, yes. But emotions cannot guide us now. If we act in haste, Aerys will use it as the justification he craves. The realm is watching, Oberyn. Aerys is watching. We cannot give him a reason to unleash his wrath on Dorne."
Oberyn's face hardened, his fury curdling into something darker. He dropped to one knee before his sister, taking her trembling hands in his own. The fire had not gone out,— it merely simmered, awaiting its time.
"Sister..." he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, "If it comes to war, if Rhaegar's folly leads us there, I will fight for you. I will fight for your children. And gods help anyone who stands in my way."
Tears shimmered in Elia's eyes, though she did not let them fall. She managed a small, weary smile, but there was no joy in it. Only sorrow, and resignation.
"Thank you, Oberyn." she whispered, her voice a thin thread of sound. "But pray it does not come to that."
Ashara moved to Elia's side, placing a hand gently on her shoulder, offering her silent strength. But her mind churned. She had seen ambition lead men to ruin before, but what she had witnessed at Harrenhal,— the crown of blue roses, the eyes Rhaegar had for the Stark girl,— terrified her more than any prophecy. Rhaegar had always been a man haunted by dreams, but this felt like madness. And madness, in the Targaryen line, often led to fire and blood.
Oberyn rose to his feet, the dangerous gleam in his eyes returning.
"Dorne will remember this slight." he said quietly, his voice a promise of vengeance yet to come. "And when the time comes for an answer, I will be ready."
Elia gave him a sad smile, the weight of her responsibilities heavy upon her slender shoulders.
"Just don't act too soon, brother."
Oberyn's gaze softened, though the fire still burned beneath the surface. He gave a short nod, but all of them knew that the insult would not be forgotten,— not by Dorne, not by the North, and certainly not by those already whispering rebellion against the dragons.
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At the same time:
The door creaked as Maekar stepped into his father's chambers, the air inside thick and suffocating. The pungent scent of smoke and incense clawed at his throat, and the dim glow from the hearth cast long shadows that danced across the ancient stone walls like restless phantoms. Harrenhal, always an imposing presence, seemed to close in even tighter within these rooms. But it was the man sitting by the window, framed in that flickering half-light, that made Maekar's chest tighten.
Aerys II Targaryen sat on a high-backed chair, his fingers twitching idly at the armrests. His once-glorious silver-gold hair had become an unkempt tangle, more a wild crown of ash than the regal mane of a king.
His violet eyes, once so commanding, now gleamed with an erratic, fevered intensity.
That gaze had always unsettled Maekar, as if Aerys could see straight into his soul, could find the darker corners of his mind and twist them.
"Come forward, my son." Aerys rasped, his voice a low, serpentine hiss. The smile that curled at his lips was thin and stretched, a grotesque parody of paternal affection. His gaze flitted over Maekar like a hunter appraising its prey. "When I saw you fall to your brother today, it was not pride that filled my heart, but disappointment."
The words struck Maekar harder than any lance. His jaw clenched as he stepped further into the chamber, the heavy door closing behind him with a dull thud that seemed to echo the weight of his shame.
The familiar rage churned in his gut, but he fought to master it, as he always did.
"Rhaegar struck my horse's legs, Father..." Maekar said, his voice tight but controlled.
"The last tilt was not an honest one." Aerys cackled, the sound jagged, grating on Maekar's nerves like steel on stone. The Mad King's laughter was unsettling, as if he found humor in the cruelty of the world,— or perhaps in the torment of his own son.
"Honesty? You speak of honesty in a joust?" Aerys spat, his sneer twisting into something more venomous. "We are dragons, Maekar. Dragons do not weep over rules. Your brother was not weak. You, my son,—" Aerys's eyes narrowed, and the flickering firelight made his face seem grotesque, monstrous,— "You could have crushed him, had you the will to do so. Perhaps I have failed you until now. Perhaps I have not taught you what it truly means to be a dragon."
Maekar's hands curled into fists, his knuckles white beneath his gloves. His father's words were a blade thrust into an old wound. The tourney, Rhaegar's victory, the roar of the crowd,— it all replayed in his mind like a cruel jest. He had been the most hard working brother, the most fearless fighter, but Rhaegar had won through a foul trick, a naive mistake in Maekar's judgment,— and now he stood here, enduring his father's scorn.
"I followed the rules, Father." Maekar said through clenched teeth, his voice a low growl. "But I will not make that mistake again."
Aerys leaned forward, a flicker of excitement lighting his crazed eyes. He reveled in the anger simmering beneath Maekar's words.
"That's it, my son." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, low and conspiratorial. The room seemed to darken further, the flames in the hearth burning lower, casting deep, twisting shadows. "Together, you and I, we could burn the world."
The words sent a shiver down Maekar's spine, but at the same time, something deep within him stirred. There was a pull to his father's madness, a seductive lure in the promise of destruction, of power.
"Rhaegar thinks he can undermine me." Aerys continued, his voice gaining a dangerous fervor. "With his whispers, his secret councils with the lords. He fancies himself the savior of the realm, but he is a fool,— just like all who bend to prophecy. But you, Maekar..." Aerys's eyes gleamed now, bright with manic glee, "You are not like him. The crown prince can easily be replaced, my son. Nothing is ever set in stone."
The words hung in the air, thick with promise and danger. Maekar felt his heart pounding, his pulse quickening as Aerys's twisted vision began to take root in his mind.
Rhaegar could be replaced. The thought had crossed Maekar's mind before, in darker moments, but to hear it spoken aloud by the King himself gave it weight, substance. It was no longer a fleeting fantasy; it was a path.
Aerys leaned back in his chair, watching his son with a smile that twisted his lips into something grotesque. He knew the seed had been planted.
"If I am to prove my strength, Father..." Maekar said slowly, the words deliberate, "I need something more. A symbol."
Aerys's gaze sharpened. "A symbol?"
Maekar stepped closer, his voice steady but filled with a dark, burning ambition that even he hadn't realized was there until now.
"Darksister." The name came out like a challenge, like a claim to something ancient, something powerful. The air in the room seemed to still for a moment. "The blade of Visenya Targaryen. It was said to be lost beyond the Wall. But if I were to retrieve it, if I brought it back, it would be more than a sword. It would be a sign of our strength. Our right."
Aerys's eyes flared with interest. His hand twitched on the armrest, as if reaching out to grasp the idea. Darksister,— the fabled sword of the first queens of House Targaryen. A blade as sharp as Visenya's will, a weapon feared and revered for generations.
"Yes... yes..." Aerys muttered, his gaze growing distant, lost in some fevered vision. "Darksister. It is more than a sword. It is a legacy. Bring it back to me, Maekar, and you may ask for whatever you wish."
Maekar's heart raced, the fire in his blood now roaring, consuming. His father's madness had lit something within him, and that fire was spreading.
"When I return..." Maekar said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur, "I will ask for my reward, Father."
Aerys's laugh filled the chamber, a wild, twisted sound that echoed off the stone walls. It was the laugh of a man who had forgotten the line between reality and his own delusions.
"Yes, yes! Go, my son! Bring us the sword, and you shall have whatever you desire."
Maekar bowed his head, a final gesture of fealty, but as he turned to leave the room, his mind was ablaze with ambition. The weight of what had just transpired settled on his shoulders like a mantle. His path was clear now, clearer than it had ever been. Darksister awaited him beyond the Wall, and with it, his destiny.
As the door closed behind him, the suffocating air of the chamber seemed to lift, but the heat in Maekar's veins only grew hotter. The tournament had been a humiliation. His father's words had stoked the fires of his ambition. But now, he had a way forward.
And when he returned, with Darksister in his hand, Rhaegar would not stand in his way again.
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Later:
Ashara's chambers were bathed in the warm, flickering glow of candlelight, but the light could not soften the tension that hung thick in the air. The stone walls, cold and unyielding, seemed to close in around them, the shadows lengthening with each uncertain moment.
Maekar stood at the threshold, his shoulders taut, as if bearing the weight of the day and the future that pressed on him. His steps were slow, deliberate, each one measured as though he carried something far heavier than his own body into the room.
Ser Gerold Hightower stood just beyond the door, a silent guardian of this moment of privacy.
Outside, the halls of Harrenhal were quiet, the sounds of the revelry from the tourney now but distant murmurs.
The final day of the greatest tourney in a generation had passed, but the echoes of its events lingered, gnawing at Maekar's pride, gnawing at his resolve.
Inside the chamber, the soft rustle of Maekar's cloak and the subtle crackle of the flames from the hearth were the only sounds. It was as though the room itself waited, holding its breath, unsure of what would unfold. Ashara Dayne sat by the window, her violet eyes distant, lost in thought as she gazed out at the darkness beyond the castle walls. The light from the candles cast a soft glow on her features, accentuating her beauty, but there was a tension in her expression, a quiet storm brewing beneath her calm.
When she heard his footsteps, she turned to face him, her eyes meeting his. For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the space between them filled with unsaid words and unspoken promises. The air between them was thick, heavy with what had passed and what was to come.
Maekar crossed the room in slow, deliberate strides, the weight of the day bearing down on him like a physical force. His defeat, the bitter taste of humiliation at his brother's hands, still lingered on his tongue.
The foul blow Rhaegar had dealt was as much a wound to his pride as it was to his body, and it festered inside him, mingling with the dark thoughts that had taken root.
Ashara rose from her seat as he approached, her fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against his, though she quickly stilled them. Her face was serene, but her violet eyes,— those eyes that had always seemed so calm, so controlled,— betrayed the turmoil she kept hidden beneath.
"You look troubled, Maekar." Her voice was a whisper in the stillness, soft and melodic, but filled with concern. She reached up, her hand tracing the hard line of his jaw, her touch as light as a breeze. "Did your father do something?" The question was unfinished, but the meaning was clear. They both knew what Aerys could be like. Mad, cruel, unpredictable. Her voice lingered, heavy with unspoken fears.
Maekar leaned into her touch, his breath warm against her fingers. His eyes, jewel-like purple and brooding, were clouded with frustration and ambition.
"My father is as mad as ever." The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable, and his weariness showed in the deep lines on his face. "But he gave me something to focus on. I won't be staying here much longer, Ashara. He's granted me leave to go beyond the Wall, to reclaim Darksister."
At his words, Ashara's brow furrowed, her hand stilling on his face as concern darkened her gaze. The very name,— Darksister,— evoked a sense of dread and legend.
The sword of Visenya Targaryen, lost to history, was more than just a weapon; it was a relic of a bloodline drenched in war, conquest, and the fire of dragons.
"Beyond the Wall?" Her voice held a note of fear now, though she tried to hide it behind reason. "Why now? The lands beyond the Wall... they're dangerous, Maekar. You've heard the stories, the rumors. Wildlings, the Others,—"
He cut her off gently, pulling back enough to meet her gaze fully. His eyes burned with something darker than ambition,— a hunger, a fire that consumed everything else.
"I know the risks. But I also know the rewards." His voice was firm, his words carrying the weight of his growing desire for power. "If I bring back Darksister, I'll have more than just a sword. I'll have a symbol, a symbol of what I can be. My father sees it,— something he never saw in Rhaegar."
Ashara's heart quickened at his words, her concern deepening. This was not just about a sword. She could see the change in him, the shift in his gaze, the fire in his voice. The Maekar she had known was daring, bold, a man who thrived on risk and danger,— but this? This was something else. Ambition had taken root in him, twisting into something darker, something she wasn't sure she could reach.
"And when you return?" Her voice was soft, but her question hung between them like a blade poised to strike. "What happens to us then?"
Maekar's hands moved to her waist, drawing her closer, his lips grazing the curve of her neck, his breath hot against her skin. His touch sent a shiver down her spine, the heat between them rising, but beneath that heat was something more,— something dangerous.
"When I return." he murmured, his voice thick with desire, "I will ask for whatever reward I wish. And I will ask for you, Ashara. I will make you mine. No one,— no one,— will stand in our way."
Ashara's breath caught in her throat at the possessiveness in his voice. His hands, warm and firm on her waist, pressed her closer, as though he could bind her to him with sheer will. She looked up at him, her heart racing as his words settled into her, sinking deep. He would ask for her. Not in the gentle way a lover asks, but in the way a conqueror claims a prize.
"You would ask to marry me?" she whispered, her voice barely audible, her lips brushing against his as she spoke. The weight of his promise bore down on her, heavy and inescapable.
Maekar nodded, his lips curling into a rare smile,— genuine, but touched with the fire that now consumed him. The ambition in his eyes had taken hold, and he could see it all before him: the glory, the power, and Ashara by his side.
"Yes. But before that, I need you to do something for me."
Ashara's gaze didn't waver, though her pulse quickened. She knew the weight of his words, the expectation behind them.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice steady despite the storm inside her.
"When I leave, I want you to go to King's Landing with Elia. Stay close to her, stay within the court. I can't have you running back to Dorne,— not now, not ever. When I return, I will claim you. I will not let you slip away."
His grip on her waist tightened, his words as much a command as a request. The possessiveness in his voice was unmistakable, and Ashara felt the weight of it pressing down on her, binding her. Yet, there was something intoxicating about it,— the way he looked at her, the way his ambition seemed to draw her in, even as she knew the danger that came with it.
She had always known that loving a Targaryen would come with risk, with fire.
But Maekar's fire burned hotter than most, fiercer. It consumed everything in its path, and she knew that once she let herself fall into that flame, there would be no escape.
"I'll go to King's Landing with Elia." she whispered, her voice soft but resolute. Her lips brushed against his as she spoke, her heart hammering in her chest. "But promise me, Maekar. Promise me you'll return."
Maekar's smile deepened, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was brief but fierce, filled with both passion and possession.
"I will return." he vowed, his voice a low growl. "And when I do, we will be together. Closer than ever before."
Their lips met again, the kiss deepening, their bodies pressing against each other as the heat between them grew. The world outside Ashara's chambers seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of them, lost in the moment, lost in each other. But even in that moment, Ashara could feel the weight of the future pressing down on them both,— inevitable, inescapable, and filled with the fire that would either forge them together or burn them apart.
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The next day, at the Gates of Harrenhal:
The morning sun was a pale smear against the sky, barely cresting the jagged towers of Harrenhal. The mist still clung to the land, a veil that dulled the contours of the cursed castle and the fields beyond. Maekar stood at the gates, his breath rising in small, white clouds that dissipated in the cold air. The earth beneath his boots was hard, frost-crusted, as though the chill of the far North had already reached this place.
Harrenhal loomed behind him, a monument to ambition and ruin, its blackened stones towering above him like the bones of a dead god. But Maekar's gaze was fixed on the road ahead, on the northward path that led to the Wall and the wild, frozen wastelands beyond it. His heart was steady, but a weight pressed on him,— an old weight, heavy with the expectations of his bloodline, his father, and the unspoken rivalry with Rhaegar. The defeat at the tourney was still fresh, a bruise to his pride, but it had not broken him. If anything, it had sharpened his resolve.
Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, stood beside him in silence. His gleaming white cloak billowed gently in the wind, a stark contrast to the blackened stones of Harrenhal.
His face, carved with the lines of age and battle, was as impassive as ever. Maekar had always respected the stoic Kingsguard, though he suspected Ser Gerold disapproved of this venture. But loyalty bound him, and like the ever-watchful shadow he was, Ser Gerold would follow.
For now, the world was still, the calm before a storm that Maekar felt gathering on the horizon. The lands beyond the Wall were a place of myth and danger, but Maekar did not fear it. He welcomed the challenge, the chance to reclaim something lost to his house. He needed this journey, not just for the sword,— Darksister,— but for himself, to carve his own name into the annals of history.
A soft crunch of footsteps on the frost-laden dirt broke the silence.
Maekar turned to see Oberyn Martell approaching, his steps light, his dark eyes gleaming with that familiar mix of curiosity and amusement. The Dornishman was dressed in rich, flowing silks, a sharp contrast to the cold landscape, his red and gold cloak catching in the morning breeze like a flicker of flame. His smile, ever-present and knowing, was as much a weapon as the spear he so often wielded.
"So..." Oberyn began, his voice as smooth as the Dornish wine he favored, but carrying an edge of intrigue, "I heard whispers that the daring prince is headed north. Beyond the Wall, no less. Quite the adventure for a Targaryen."
Maekar's lips curled into a faint smirk. He knew Oberyn's type well enough,— sharp, dangerous, always looking for the cracks in a man's armor. But Maekar had none to show today.
"You have sharp ears, it seems. Yes, I am headed north." His voice was firm, but there was an undercurrent of excitement in it, a hunger that belied the calm. "To retrieve something lost to my family,— Darksister."
Oberyn raised a dark eyebrow, his expression shifting from amusement to interest. "Darksister? A lost sword beyond the Wall?" He chuckled, but there was no mockery in it, only curiosity. "A Targaryen venturing into that type of cold? I thought your kind preferred the warmth of the South."
Maekar turned his gaze to Oberyn, his smirk deepening, but his eyes grew hard, flashing with ambition.
"I'm retrieving more than a sword, Martell." His voice dropped, weighted with meaning.
"I'm reclaiming a symbol of strength. A legacy. Darksister is a reminder of what we once were,— what I can become. My father sees it. He sees something in me that he never saw in Rhaegar."
The mention of Rhaegar lingered in the cold air between them. Oberyn's smirk faded, replaced by a look of quiet consideration. He knew better than most the dangers of ambition, the cost of chasing power in a world as treacherous as theirs.
"A dangerous quest indeed." Oberyn mused, his voice softening as his eyes flicked to the distant horizon. "But if you're going beyond the Wall, you'll need more than just a sword and the White Bull at your side. The lands beyond are no place for half-measures."
Maekar met Oberyn's gaze, the fire in his blood burning hotter now. His pride bristled, but he knew Oberyn was no fool.
"So?" Maekar said, a glint of challenge in his voice. "Are you offering to join us, Prince Oberyn? Or have you come simply to remind me of the dangers I already know too well?"
Oberyn's eyes gleamed, that familiar mischief returning to his expression. He shrugged, his lips curling into a smile. "Why not? I've always wondered what lies beyond the Wall. And it seems you could use another pair of hands. A Dornishman's hands, no less."
Maekar's surprise flickered for only a moment before he let out a low chuckle. Oberyn was many things,— brash, impulsive, deadly,— but he had a way of turning unexpected situations to his advantage. Maekar respected that, perhaps even liked it.
"Very well, then." Maekar gave a nod, his smirk returning. "We ride north together. The journey of two princes and the White Bull. It will be a tale worth telling."
Oberyn's laughter was rich and genuine this time. "Let us hope we live long enough to tell it."
Ser Gerold remained silent, his face betraying nothing as he watched the two princes. But the tension in his posture was unmistakable. He, too, understood the risks of this venture. The Wall was a place of death and myth, and what lay beyond it was worse still.
Without another word, Maekar, Oberyn, and Ser Gerold mounted their horses. The wind picked up as they rode out of Harrenhal's gates, the sound of hooves striking the hard ground echoing through the cold morning air. The path stretched before them, a ribbon of frost leading north, toward the Wall, toward the unknown.
As they rode, the landscape shifted. The warmth of the South faded, replaced by the biting chill of the North. The sky grew grey, the wind colder, more biting. Maekar could feel the winds of change stirring, not just in the air, but in his bones. This journey, this quest for Darksister, was more than just a retrieval of an ancient blade. It was the first step on a path that would lead him to something far greater,— power, glory and legacy.
None of them,— Maekar, Oberyn, or even the ever-loyal Ser Gerold,— knew what awaited them in the lands of ice and shadow.
But Maekar felt it, deep in his blood. The world was changing, and he was determined to shape it with fire and steel.
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Thoughts? (*Insert Sad expression meme*)