Oberyn Martell was less than pleased to be back on Dragonstone. When Doran had first commanded him to go as a representative of the family, he had refused outright. He would have continued to do so, but then Doran had told him about that highly strange meeting he had had with Olenna Tyrell almost two years ago. There was every chance, Doran had said, that another war might be brewing, with Arthur Dayne and his bastard nephew somehow at the centre of it all, and it might not be one they could afford to sit out. Oberyn, despite his desire to be anywhere other than at the impending Stark-Tyrell wedding, agreed with the need to gather as much information as they possibly could beforehand.
Still, it was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do, stepping foot on the rocky, dreary island again after so many years, when he had never before been here without Elia. Though the wound his sister's death had left on him had mostly scarred over throughout the past
thirteen years, the sharp, near unbearable pain of it dulling to a steady throb, which, while never far away, was something he could almost live with, he felt it keenly then. He squeezed Ellaria's hand in his own, and did his best not to think of the times he had visited Elia and Rhaegar here, of bouncing Rhaenys on his knee and strolling through the harbour market, which seemed even more lively and bustling now than it had back then. He was not as successful in banishing his sister's ghost as he had hoped, but then he never had been. "It will be all right, my love," Ellaria told him, voice uncharacteristically soft. "We will only be here for a few days. Then you can report back to your brother in the Water Gardens, and we shall never have to set foot on this cursed island again."
Oberyn nodded jerkily, and somehow managed to keep his feet moving as they entered into the castle itself. They were greeted by Jon Stark, flanked by Arthur Dayne at one shoulder and a Tyrell boy at the other. The Stark boy was pretty enough, for a child, but nothing particularly remarkable. Oberyn saw nothing of his Dayne blood in his face, which was as Northern as they came. His resemblance to the Stark girl who had stolen Elia's husband away made it almost physically painful to look at him. Still, Oberyn held the boy's gaze as he inclined his head in greeting. He waited as some footman or other introduced him before putting his hand at the small of Ellaria's back and guiding her into everyone's line of sight. "And this is Ellaria Sand," he added onto his own introduction. "My paramour." The vindictive beast that had grown in the pit of his stomach for the past thirteen years crooned its excitement at the prospect of watching the boy squirm.
Jon Stark did not squirm. He took Ellaria's hand and kissed her knuckles, called her My Lady without so much as a hint of scorn or mockery in his voice. Belatedly, Oberyn remembered that for the first eight years of his life, this boy had carried the name Sand as well, that it might possibly be more likely do endear Ellaria to him than repulse him. Despite himself, he felt the first inklings of respect for the pup. "Will you let me stand with your sisters, My Lord?" Ellaria asked. It was a further test, but there was genuine mirth in her voice, and Oberyn was reminded that for all Ellaria's strength, for all that she pretended none of these petty lords' words and feelings ever got to her, she did not always have it easy or handle it as well as she appeared to.
Jon Stark smiled, wide and genuine, and Oberyn was struck dumb. Because he knew that smile. He dreamed of that smile, still, and woke up with tears in his eyes, so desperate for the blood of Amory Lorch he sometimes thought it would drive him mad. That was Rhaenys' smile, and Rhaegar's before her. He could not tear his eyes away from the boy's face, all of a sudden, and with a closer look, those features were not so Stark after all. He did not see Rhaeger, so much, or even Aerys. But he saw Rhaella reflected there, in his pointed chin and full, generous mouth, the delicate sweep of his long, thick lashes. His build was all Rhaegar, however, and standing there, flanked by Arthur Dayne and the Tyrell squire, the very air around him seemed to scream out the truth.
By the Gods. Eddard Stark had managed what Oberyn had not. Like Oberyn, he had not been able to save his sister, but a child of hers still lived. Oberyn's first, instinctive reaction was the almost overpowering urge to reach for the dagger in his belt and plunge it into the boy's heart. He had no right to be alive, to be breathing and strong and thriving when Rhaenys and Aegon were long gone, when Oberyn's own blood had been killed in the most horrific of ways. It was the boy's kind banter with Ellaria as he continued speaking with her, treating her like an
equal, that stayed his hand. It was his sister's memory that made him disregard the impulse completely.
In another world, one where Elia had lived and Lyanna Stark had still died, Oberyn's sister would not have hesitated to take the boy in. Elia was kind like that, soft and sweet where Oberyn was all too aware of his own barbs and sharp edges. Elia's heart would have gone out to the motherless child immediately, the way Ellaria's had to the daughters Oberyn had fathered before her, and she would have insisted on raising him alongside his brother and sister. 'He is still blood of our blood, remember', she would have said. 'Remember Mariah Martell and Daenerys Targaryen'. She would have fed him at her own breast if she could.
And Oberyn still loved his sister enough that he could try, at least, to see the boy for what he might have been, not for what he was. Forget this child of war who was alive when his brother and sister were not, and remember the boy who might have grown up as Aegon's closest friend and companion, hiding behind Elia's skirts when the world became too much to bear, the man who might have joined the Kingsguard or been Hand to Aegon's King. Forget the crimes of the boy's parents and remember that in that other, imaginary world, Jon Stark - or whatever his name might actually be - would have grown up calling Oberyn uncle.
Another one of those things he did not doubt Elia would have insisted upon. If the Gods had been kinder, this boy would have spent the hottest moons of his childhood splashing in the Water Gardens with Oberyn's own daughters. He would have learnt to hold a weapon alongside Oberyn's nephews, would have been babied by Rhaenys, who had always loved a headful of dark ringlets on her favourite dolls.
In this world... In this world, Oberyn doubted the boy would ever not be a source of pain. But more than that, he was their best chance at vengeance. He was their best chance at casting down the Baratheons and Lannisters and claiming justice for his slain siblings. Elia, with her own children dead, would have placed him on the throne herself, had she been alive to do so.
Oberyn knew better than to speak to Jon Stark directly. He had no knowledge of how much the boy knew of the great game that was being played with him at its centre. He grasped Arthur Dayne's shoulder instead, at the first chance he got. "I will speak with Doran," he promised. "I will do everything in my power to ensure your king has our spears."
Arthur grasped his shoulder back, squeezed, wordless, and walked off. No more words were needed.
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