General POV
After a long, hearty dinner that was probably the most satisfying thing Oberyn had eaten since he'd left Dorne, and an evening spent lounging by the fire while the Manderlys tried to figure out who could drink the most wine without falling asleep in their food, Oberyn and Lord Manderly retired to a private sitting room for some more "serious" conversation. Of course, "serious" in Oberyn's world still had plenty of room for banter, teasing, and, if he was lucky, some flirtation. Not that he was complaining.
The room they entered was cozy, the warmth of the hearth mingling with the rich scent of aged wood and spiced wine. Oberyn sank into a plush armchair that felt suspiciously like it had been made for someone twice his size—typical of a Manderly. Across from him, Lord Manderly, looking like he could wrestle a bear and then cook it for dinner, poured himself a glass of deep red spiced wine, the kind that could probably set fire to your insides if you weren't careful. But that wasn't Oberyn's concern; he preferred the smoother taste of Arbor gold, which he now took a delicate sip of, enjoying the familiar warmth as it slid down his throat.
"Your hospitality has been… shall we say, exceptional," Oberyn said, leaning back in his chair, his eyes twinkling. "I could get used to this."
Lord Manderly's wide smile nearly cracked his face in half. "Well, you're always welcome here, Prince Oberyn. You know how we feel about our Dornish friends. Always a pleasure to host someone who knows how to drink with style."
Ellaria, seated beside him, flashed a smile that could melt the snow off the Stark's castle walls. She was leaning in a bit closer to Oberyn than necessary, her fingers brushing his lightly as she reached for her own goblet. Of course, the touch was innocent enough. Or was it? Oberyn wasn't sure anymore, but with Ellaria, it was hard to keep track of the line between what's friendly and what's, well, not.
"Too much talk about wine," she murmured, her voice smooth and rich, like velvet. "Is it not the purpose of a journey to seek more than just drink?"
Oberyn chuckled. "Always looking for adventure, aren't you?" His gaze lingered on her lips for a moment too long. "But you're right. And it's a good thing I'm not here just for the wine, or the company," he added with a wink, enjoying the way she rolled her eyes. Yeah, she loved me anyway, I could tell.
Lord Manderly, oblivious to the electric tension hanging in the air, chuckled good-naturedly. "Aye, but there is a certain charm to the hospitality of White Harbor. Even your sister might approve of our culinary delights. More than once I've had a Dorne visitor forget they had business to attend to because they were distracted by our food."
"Oberyn might not forget his business, but I could be distracted by the food, if there's enough of it." Nymeria Sand, sitting next to Ellaria, spoke up, her sharp gaze sweeping the room with the kind of cool calculation that always made Oberyn wonder if she was about to start a fight or broker a deal.
"I believe you could, Nymeria," he teased, swirling his goblet in his hand. "In fact, I'm sure you could sell a Manderly servant some fish, and still leave with a full plate."
"Only if they didn't try to charge me extra for the sauce," Nymeria replied, the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of her lips.
Obara Sand snorted. "Do you think they could tell you two apart if you both had your knives out, trying to haggle over fish?"
Lord Manderly laughed loudly at that, his belly shaking. "Oh, I'm sure I'd recognize you, my lady, from the sheer enthusiasm you'd bring to any transaction. Though I'd say your knives might be a tad overkill, hmm?"
"Oh, I'm sure you've seen worse," Obara said, her grin wicked. "But I won't promise to keep them sheathed if we go to that tavern down the road."
Lord Manderly raised a brow, clearly amused by the boldness of the Sand Snakes. "Ah, well, the tavern… It has a bit of a reputation. Good luck if you go there, though, it's not the place for those looking for peace and quiet."
Ellaria's gaze sharpened, and she leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "You don't think we're here for peace, do you, Lord Manderly? We'll take all the trouble we can get."
Her eyes never left his, and for a second, Oberyn thought he might need to step in, but then Manderly chuckled, his voice warm and deep. "Trouble's one thing, my lady. But if you're looking for more than that, you're in the wrong city. White Harbor knows how to throw a good feast, but you'll have to go a bit farther north for true adventure."
"I'm not looking for adventure," Oberyn interrupted smoothly. "I'm looking for family." He let that word settle in the room before continuing. "I plan to make my way to Winterfell."
The room quieted, and even Lord Manderly's usual jovial demeanor softened slightly. "Winterfell? That's quite the journey you're planning, Prince Oberyn. What's your business with the Starks?"
Oberyn leaned forward, his voice taking on a more serious note. "Family matters, my lord. My niece, Rhaenys, and my nephew, Aegon, are there. As is my sister, Elia. It has been too long since I've seen them, and I wish to ensure their safety. The North can be a dangerous place, even for those with strong allies."
Manderly stroked his beard thoughtfully, clearly taking Oberyn's words seriously. "A wise plan. The roads are passable this time of year, though I'd recommend a small retinue to be on the safe side."
Oberyn nodded, clearly appreciating the advice. "Your wisdom is always valuable, Lord Manderly. Would you be able to assist us with supplies for the journey? And perhaps some word to your northern contacts? We'll need all the help we can get."
"I'll have it arranged," Manderly said, already planning in his head. "I'll send word ahead to the villages along the way. No one will dare turn you away, I promise you that."
"I knew I could count on you," Oberyn said with a smile that was half gratitude, half mischief. He leaned back in his chair, giving Ellaria a playful glance. "And perhaps, once we've made our way north, we can see whether the Stark family is as agreeable as we hope. Maybe with a little more… Savage Burn to warm them up."
Ellaria laughed softly, eyes flashing. "Always Savage Burn, my love. But perhaps we should keep it in reserve for now."
"Agreed," Oberyn said, raising his goblet. "To family, then. And to the adventures yet to come."
"To family," Lord Manderly echoed, his tone full of approval. The room relaxed, the warmth of wine and good company filling the air, and Oberyn felt the familiar anticipation of the journey ahead. It was going to be a long road, but with friends like these—and Ellaria by his side—he wasn't worried in the least.
Of course, with the Sand Snakes around, he knew there would be trouble. And trouble, as they all knew, was always more fun.
—
Oberyn Martell slid into the chamber like a shadow, the warmth of the hearth welcoming him like an old friend. The fire crackled merrily, its golden light casting dancing shadows on the walls. But it wasn't the fire that held his attention. No, it was Ellaria Sand, lounging by the hearth with a glass of wine in hand, her eyes glimmering with that irresistible mix of mischief and mystery that had been his undoing for years.
"Oberyn," she greeted him, her voice low and rich, the kind of sound that could make even the coldest night feel like summer. "The children are asleep. They're getting so used to your bedtime stories about chaos and mischief."
Oberyn smirked as he crossed the room toward her. "I'm just giving them the kind of bedtime stories they won't hear from anyone else. A little adventure, a little danger—keeps their imaginations sharp."
Ellaria raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into that teasing smile of hers. "You certainly give them enough material to keep them occupied. What was tonight's story? Another narrow escape from a snake pit? Or did you defeat a dragon while blindfolded again?"
Oberyn laughed, sitting down beside her and reaching for her hand, brushing his fingers against hers just enough to make sure the spark between them hadn't dimmed. "I think it was more of a near-death experience involving some very bad decisions and a very enthusiastic sandstorm. But it made for a great tale."
She chuckled, squeezing his hand. "You're a walking disaster. And yet, somehow, it's... well, charming."
"I know," he said with a wink. "It's my best feature." He let the words hang there for a second before adding, "But it's only because of the people I've had the privilege of getting into trouble with. You, for example."
Ellaria leaned in closer, her voice dropping into a soft whisper. "You know, Oberyn, I think this... this quiet moment right here might be the most valuable adventure of all. No one's trying to kill us. No armies are marching on us. Just you, me, and the fire."
"True," Oberyn said, his gaze locking with hers, the space between them crackling with more than just the warmth of the flames. "But I have a feeling that quiet won't last. Not with the way you look at me."
She smiled that smile that made him weak at the knees, a smile that had been his undoing since the first time he saw her. "Oh, it won't last. But for now... let's enjoy it."
Before either of them could continue, a soft rustle echoed from the shadows, like something—or someone—was about to make their presence known. Oberyn's head snapped to the side, his hand instinctively going for the dagger at his side, but he stopped himself when he saw her.
The woman who stepped into the firelight was tall, with an air of elegance and confidence that made her seem like she was born to command the attention of a room. She was dressed in luxurious silks that swayed around her as she moved, each step calculated and graceful. But this wasn't the grace of a court dancer. No, this was a different kind of art—something wilder, more dangerous, and infinitely more interesting.
Oberyn raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Ellaria," he said, looking at her with that mix of curiosity and amusement he always wore when things were about to get... interesting. "Is this part of our adventure tonight?"
Ellaria's lips curled into a grin that matched his own. "Why not? We've always enjoyed a good surprise."
The woman—whose name, as it turned out, was Bella—stepped fully into the room. Her eyes were locked on Oberyn's with an intensity that made him lean forward, just slightly. The room felt like it held its breath, the air thick with something electric. Something... fun.
"Well, well," Oberyn said, leaning back with the kind of lazy confidence that only he could pull off. "This is shaping up to be an evening full of surprises."
Ellaria's chuckle was low, almost a purr. "Why settle for boring, when we can have something far more... entertaining?"
Bella stepped closer, her movements fluid and calculated, each step pulling Oberyn deeper into her spell. "I was hired by your lady," she said, her voice sultry and warm. "To... ensure you both have a memorable evening."
Oberyn's grin widened. "A memorable evening, you say?" He glanced at Ellaria, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Well, you certainly know how to pick 'em."
Ellaria leaned in, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, "I like to think I have a good eye for... talent."
Oberyn chuckled. "Clearly."
And just like that, the night unfolded in ways that could never be predicted, with the kind of adventure that left your heart racing and your mind spinning. It was the kind of night Oberyn Martell lived for—full of unexpected turns, wicked fun, and moments where the only thing that mattered was the people you chose to share it with. And as the fire crackled in the background, Oberyn realized that life—and love—were always better when they were just a little bit dangerous.
As for Bella, she was just the cherry on top of an already intoxicating evening, though Oberyn couldn't help but wonder what other surprises Ellaria had in store for him. Something told him, whatever came next, it wouldn't be boring.
But that was fine by him. Boring had never been his thing anyway.
—
In the shadowy depths of Asshai, where the very air felt thick with forgotten whispers and unseen eyes, Melisandre was doing what she did best—sacrificing hours of her life to the flames.
"Azor Ahai," she whispered, eyes half-lidded as she gazed at the flickering brazier in front of her. Her voice was soft, but there was an edge to it—an almost intoxicating edge that hinted at the depths of her obsession. She wasn't just performing a ritual; she was courting destiny itself. Her robes, crimson and rich, rippled as she moved, the fabric clinging to her like it was as in love with her as she was with the prophecy. Her hands—graceful, delicate, but undeniably powerful—danced through the air like a symphony of longing.
The flames bent toward her, swirling in patterns that mirrored her thoughts. They crackled and hissed, as if urging her forward, encouraging her to continue her search. "I will find you, Azor Ahai," she murmured, pressing her palms to the heat, her breath shallow with something more than just magic. "I will serve you with my body, with my soul. I have waited for you, for this moment... for you to rise, to save the world, to bring light from the dark." She smiled, a slow, sultry smile that made the shadows around her deepen, as though even the darkness knew it couldn't hide the hunger in her eyes.
The flames twisted higher, almost as if they were responding to her desire. Her heart beat faster, quickening with anticipation. "I've seen the visions. I know your fate, Azor Ahai," she continued, her tone a soft caress, her voice dripping with worship. "And I know where you will walk. I will follow, wherever you go, wherever you need me. I will serve you—body, mind, and soul—until the world burns and you are reborn."
Her fingers trembled slightly as she dipped them into the flame, but the fire didn't burn her. It licked at her skin, as if teasing her, like a lover's gentle touch. She laughed softly, her eyes closing as the warmth spread through her, making her skin flush.
"I can feel it," she whispered, her voice dropping to a near-sensual purr. "Your fire, your power. It's inside me. I am the fire's vessel, the fire's servant, and when you rise, I will rise with you. Together, we will make this world burn, and from the ashes… I will be yours."
Suddenly, the flames surged violently, and the vision came crashing through. A bleak, snow-covered wasteland spread before her, vast and empty like the hollow spaces in her heart. But then, through the swirling snow, it appeared—a creature. A massive black wolf, its fur darker than the night, its eyes glowing in shades of crimson and amber.
Melisandre froze, her breath catching in her throat. The wolf's gaze pierced her, as if it could see into her very soul, into the parts of her that even she didn't dare look at. It was as if the creature were judging her—probing her deepest desires. She could feel it—like it was searching for something more, something buried deep inside her.
"I see you," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. "You are a sign. You are part of it. Part of the prophecy."
The wolf didn't move, its glowing eyes locked on hers, an unspoken communication passing between them. The tension stretched on, thick and palpable, as if the air itself was holding its breath. And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the vision shattered, the wolf's eyes fading into the swirling patterns of the flames. The fire settled back into its usual restless dance, but the impact of the vision lingered, heavy in her chest.
Melisandre stood there for a long moment, her pulse racing, her thoughts spinning in a thousand directions. "Azor Ahai... or something else entirely," she murmured, eyes dark and hungry. She stepped back from the brazier, her body trembling slightly from the intensity of the vision, from the weight of what she had just seen—and what she was about to do.
She turned toward the shadows that crept in the corners of the room, as though expecting something—or someone—to emerge. A knowing smile curled at her lips. "It's not just the hero I've been searching for," she whispered, a thrill running through her. "It's something darker, something more powerful. And I will follow it. I will go north, to the very edge of the world, if I must."
She took a deep breath, the firelight casting shadows across her face as she ran her fingers through her dark hair, her lips curling into a smile of pure, unrestrained devotion.
"Azor Ahai... I will be ready for you," she murmured, the words almost a prayer, her body filled with a desire that burned hotter than the flames before her.
Then, with one last lingering glance at the fire, she turned away, ready to face the north—and whatever awaited her there.
—
In the bustling, chaotic streets of Volantis, Kinvara kneeled before a sacred brazier, her dark robes billowing around her like the night itself. The air, thick with the scent of spices and the clamor of foreign tongues, almost seemed to shrink away from her presence. The flames flickered in the brazier, casting her sharp, mesmerizing features into shadow, making her look like some kind of otherworldly being. Well, to be fair, she was a Red Priestess, so there was a good chance people did think she was otherworldly, and not just because of the whole "summoning the fire god" thing. She had that vibe about her, you know?
"R'hllor," she whispered, her voice low and almost hypnotic. It wasn't so much a prayer as it was an invitation—an invitation for fire to speak to her, to share its divine wisdom, to maybe—just maybe—get her a little closer to him.
You know who. The one everyone's been talking about. The prophecy guy. Yeah, that's right. Azor Ahai. The hero of fire. The burning flame of destiny. The man she was destined to serve, and oh, she was going to serve him. Not just with her words, oh no. With everything.
The flames flared up in response. Kinvara didn't even flinch. She wasn't new to this. She'd done this a hundred times, maybe more. But tonight? Tonight was different. The fire didn't just dance—no, it leaped. It snapped and crackled, twisting in impossible shapes, like it had something to say. She could feel the heat of it, the intensity of it, as though it were urging her to understand, to see beyond what was obvious.
The flames spun faster, taking shape before her. Snow. Snow, as far as the eye could see. A wasteland of white, cold, and endless. A place where winter ruled, and the land was as barren as the hopes of anyone foolish enough to try and settle there.
"Ah, the North…" Kinvara muttered, her breath catching in her throat. The sight sent a shiver down her spine. She knew it. This was it. This was the place. Where the cold waited, where darkness hung thick in the air like a storm that would never pass. But it wasn't just the snow that had her attention. Oh no, it was the wolf.
From the swirling darkness, a massive, jet-black wolf emerged. Its fur was as dark as midnight, and its eyes—oh, those eyes—glowed with the kind of intensity that could burn through a hundred hearts if it wanted. They weren't just eyes; they were the embodiment of something ancient, something that had seen the rise and fall of empires, that had witnessed the death of stars.
And Kinvara? She felt it. The weight of its gaze pressing against her mind, pushing into her, demanding to be acknowledged.
"Azor Ahai?" she whispered, barely daring to speak. She could feel it. The wolf—was it him? Could it be? "No, no, it's not just a sign. It's more than that, isn't it?" She inhaled sharply, trying to wrap her mind around it. The wolf wasn't just a symbol; it was part of the prophecy. It was waiting.
The fire snapped again, and before her appeared a figure. Tall, radiant—he was the embodiment of light. Azor Ahai. The one she had waited for. The one who would rise and bring fire to the darkness. Kinvara's heart thudded in her chest. Her lips parted in reverence. This was him. This was her destiny. This was everything.
"Azor Ahai," she breathed, her voice trembling. "He will come. He is real." Her hands clenched into fists, the excitement almost too much to contain. He was real. That was all that mattered. And she would follow him, serve him, worship him—completely.
As the vision began to fade, she watched the wolf's eyes burn out into the ether. The figure of Azor Ahai lingered only for a moment longer, and then the fire began to die down. Kinvara's pulse quickened, her skin alive with the energy of what she had seen. This wasn't just a vision. This wasn't just some hazy prophecy. This was real.
And she was going to be a part of it.
"Wait," she muttered, her voice almost frantic. "There's more. The wolf… it's a warning, isn't it?" She could feel the weight of it. The darkness. The destruction. It was coming. She could feel it in her bones.
Her heart raced as she pieced together the fragments of the vision. She couldn't ignore the wolf's eyes—the burning, unblinking stare. There was something more to it, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, but she knew it was important. Azor Ahai was the key, yes, but the wolf? The wolf was the herald of something else entirely. Something even greater.
"I will find him," Kinvara said, her voice quiet but filled with conviction. "I will find Azor Ahai. I will follow him to the ends of the earth. I will serve him with everything I am."
Her gaze turned to the shadowed exit of the temple, her thoughts already racing ahead, planning. She was ready. The fire had spoken, and she knew her path now. There was no turning back. She was going north. She would find him, serve him—mind, body, and soul. And whatever came with it? She'd be ready.
Her lips curled into a smile. "This is it. The true fire is coming. And when it does, we will burn the Others to the ground."
Kinvara stood, her movements purposeful, almost too graceful for someone so consumed with fire. Her hand touched the brazier one last time, and she could almost feel the flames whispering in her ear. As she walked toward the exit, she couldn't help but whisper under her breath.
"I will serve you, Azor Ahai. I will give you everything. And together, we will light the world on fire."
And somewhere, far to the north, the wolf waited.
—
In a grand manse in Braavos, where the salty sea breeze mingled with the scent of ancient stone and a hint of fish (because, let's face it, Braavos had a lot of fish), young Daenerys Targaryen woke up with a gasp. Her heart was hammering like a Blacksmith on his worst day, and for a moment, she was pretty sure she had just woken up from being chased by something out of one of those spooky stories she was told to avoid.
But it wasn't just any dream. Oh, no. She'd dreamt of him. The wolf.
And not just any wolf, either. This one was huge. Like, "this-wolf-could-happily-eat-your-horse-for-breakfast" big. Its fur was black as midnight, its eyes glowed redder than a Targaryen's temper on a bad day, and its growl sounded like it could shake the walls of the Red Keep. It was calling to her. Not in a creepy, "come follow me into a dark forest," kind of way (though, honestly, that was still a little weird), but more like... like it was her destiny to follow.
And that was the problem, because Daenerys Targaryen, future Queen of Westeros (probably), had a lot of destiny stuff hanging around her. But wolves? She didn't even know she liked wolves. Or if she could even handle a wolf that size. And yet—here she was—staring at the shadows of her room, hearing that wolf's growl echoing in her mind. It wasn't a question of if she was supposed to follow. She already knew she was. Her heart and soul? In sync with this monster wolf who was probably one bad day away from being a direwolf from those scary stories the sailors whispered about.
A faint sound, soft and soothing, cut through the chaos of her racing thoughts. "Dany?" The voice was her mother's, Rhaella Targaryen, the former Queen of Westeros, who had seen her fair share of disasters—and still managed to make sure Daenerys didn't walk into any dark corners at night.
Daenerys turned, her breath still ragged. There, standing in the doorway, was her mother. With her silver hair flowing like a river of moonlight, Rhaella looked like she had just stepped out of some ancient painting that depicted both royalty and quiet power. The kind of power that made people respect you even when you weren't trying. The kind of power Daenerys really wished she had right about now.
Rhaella raised an eyebrow as she crossed the room, her presence suddenly calming, like she was the only person who could stop the universe from falling apart. "You're shaking like you've been through a battle," she said, sitting on the edge of Daenerys's bed and brushing a few strands of silver hair from her daughter's forehead. "What's going on? Dream?"
Daenerys, who was definitely still freaking out, nodded. "Yeah," she said, her voice more of a squeak than anything remotely regal. "I... I saw the wolf. The big black one."
Rhaella's lips quirked into a knowing smile, like she'd heard this sort of thing before—way too many times, probably. "The big, black, fiery-eyed wolf?" she asked, one eyebrow raised in mock skepticism. "Did it ask you to join it in some delightful hunting expedition? Perhaps you've been stalked by an ancient spirit of the woods?"
Daenerys sat up, her wide eyes not at all amused by the joke. "Mothee, this is serious. It called to me. It—it—wanted me to follow. And I think... I think I'm supposed to. I don't even know why! It's not like I even like wolves!"
Rhaella let out a dramatic sigh, like she was somehow burdened with the knowledge that her daughter was meant for things bigger than most nine-year-olds could fathom. "You are special, Dany. We both know that. But, listen, not everything that calls to us is our destiny. Some things are better off ignored."
Daenerys raised her chin, the way she always did when she was being impossibly stubborn (which, if you asked anyone in the room, was almost always). "But it felt real. And it wasn't just any wolf. It was huge, and I was supposed to be with it. It was like we—like I—belonged together."
Rhaella blinked, her hand freezing midair as she tucked a piece of Daenerys's hair behind her ear. For a moment, the weight of the words hit her like a crashing wave. There was something in Daenerys's voice—something unshakable that made Rhaella realize that, whether it made sense or not, her daughter was, in some odd way, more than just a little girl in a foreign city.
"I see." Rhaella's voice softened, like she was trying to figure out the right words for the future. "Destiny is funny like that. It tends to show itself when you least expect it, and it won't let you forget about it. But it doesn't mean you have to understand it right now. You're still young. You've got time to figure out what it all means."
Daenerys stared at her mother for a long moment, trying to process the words. But the wolf was still there in her mind, pacing through the darkness like it was waiting for her to make the next move. And it wasn't leaving anytime soon.
"I don't think I can just forget about it, Mom," Daenerys said, crossing her arms over her chest. "I think I'm supposed to find it. I just know it."
Rhaella's smile faded, but there was no judgment in her eyes, only a quiet understanding, the kind that came from being a mother who had seen more than her fair share of strange and unexplainable things.
"Well," she said after a pause, brushing a stray tear from Daenerys's cheek, "maybe it's not about understanding. Maybe it's about letting it lead you, just a little while longer. But for now, you're safe here with me. And tomorrow is another day to worry about all that destiny nonsense."
Daenerys flopped back onto her pillow, but sleep didn't come easy. The wolf's growl echoed in her mind, calling to her in a way that couldn't be ignored. She wasn't sure how to explain it, but she knew she'd see the wolf again. The question was, when? And would she be ready?
"Do you think I'll see it again?" she asked, her voice soft but serious.
"Maybe," Rhaella answered with a slight, knowing smile. "But for tonight, let's let the dreams take their course. You've got plenty of time to chase down wolves later."
And with that, she tucked Daenerys back in and kissed her forehead. "Rest, Dany. Tomorrow, we face whatever comes next. But for now—sleep."
But as her mother turned to leave, Daenerys lay wide-eyed in the dark, thinking about the wolf. The night stretched on, heavy with unspoken promises.
The wolf was waiting. And she had no idea what came next.
---
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