It had been a long day.

It had been such a long, exhausting day that it was all Robb Stark could do to walk in a straight line from his council to the tent harboring one of his best fighters. His best fighter was perhaps a misnomer for a title; the man was anything but his. An ally, yes. Married into the family in a matter of mere months. Wed to the most beautiful woman in the north. But certainly not Robb's bannerman, not on his own volition.

But he was loyal, Robb didn't doubt it. The man fought for Robb's cause valiantly, and for that his men would do the same. So the King in the North owed him a great deal already, his sister's situation notwithstanding.

He didn't know what to think about owing a cunning man such as Oberyn Martell so much as a silver stag.

It was a thought which plagued his mind constantly, the wondering what Prince Oberyn would ask for in return. The Martells had been good thus far, inserting themselves quietly into the affairs of the north, offering men to accompany their new princess' cause. And all which was asked for in payment was loyalty.

That should a Martell come to seat the Iron Throne, you will support us in our reign.

It seemed an easy enough exchange, though it was a perplexing one. For one the Martells were known to avoid politics of the other six kingdoms, and they kept very much to themselves. Had done so for years. For another, as far as Robb could tell—or any of his eyes and ears—there were no attempts by the Viper's greater family to overthrow the inbred bastards, nor to wed Arianne or one of her brothers to Tommen or Myrcella respectively. It was once a match, Robb knew, for Myrcella to wed Trystane, but that was long gone, and the boy, Quentyn's whereabouts were unknown to the Stark King.

For the most part there was little time to dwell on the matters of the far south. It didn't truly concern Robb at the present time, but also it wasn't his domain. He would vouch for any place the Martell family took, should they acquire the Iron Throne, but he had no intention of bleeding for them to get there. Whatever plots they had, let them keep it. So long as his men may go home one day soon.

But those thoughts weren't what sent him to the side of the Red Viper, nor did he plan on speaking them aloud any time soon. No, what Robb wanted was advice more than anything. He grew weary of the way his men eyed Jeyne Westerling, he grew weary of the way Jeyne eyed Greywind. And now he had isolated his mother, and his men were quick to judge, there were few in the vicinity who were truly qualified to give battle tactic advice, fewer still whom he was inclined to listen to at the moment.

The Red Viper had plenty of battle tactic to offer, he thought. Prince Doran would be better still, of course, but given the rumors (vague and insubstantial as they were) his health didn't allow him to travel so far, let alone outside of Dorne.

The tent Oberyn was given was a generous size, and divided into three compartments. The first, and largest, was to act as a writing space, where the Viper could draft and send letters, mull over tactics, read up on the climate of the north. He was, as was just stated, no Doran Martell, who Robb was told loved reading as well as any Maester could, but he was intelligent and devoted, and had a lot of free time on his hands as well. (There were very few brothels for miles in any direction).

The second room was his own room, and Robb couldn't say either way how it looked. He only knew his was the second because his wife's was last, and she had told Robb this herself. It was the last room, and farthest from the entrance. Short of killing the guards outside her end of the tent and cutting a hole in the heavy fabric where she slept, there would be no getting in or out of their tent without surpassing Oberyn Martell, and the man seemed very doubtful anyone would ever do either option.

He walked in without thinking, really, else he would have bat at the flap a few times out of courtesy. But of course, he was King, and he had the right to go where he pleased—short of another lady's bedroom, perhaps. It wasn't truly in his nature to simply enter without warning, at any given rate, but Robb was quite tired and his manners were deplorable when his mind turned to mush, such as it was then.

"Prince Oberyn, forgive me," Robb began, realizing only a second too late that he hadn't asked to enter. The man he sought out was at a makeshift desk, scrolls of parchment scattered about amongst ink and quills and wax and candles. The candles, he noted, were tucked away from the paper in an act of practicality. His wife's doing, Robb didn't doubt.

The man was seated with his side bare to the door, his left half on perfect display. He was dressed in northern clothes, unlike any Robb had seen him wear when he first arrived. Practicality had dictated that choice, too, he didn't doubt, since the Red Viper appeared to be very unwilling to part himself from his Dornish heritage. From the wine he brought, to the clothes he kept, to the weapons he wielded, the second prince was everything that resembled Dorne.

Robb wondered if Oberyn ever looked at him and saw the same thing of the north in him.

Oberyn didn't give any indication that he'd noticed the arrival of the King of the North for several minutes, finishing his letter meticulously. Robb didn't take his eyes off the man, and grew steadily more irritated and more unsettled. Oberyn was excellent at making someone feel as though they ought to be swallowed by the earth for the sake of everyone else, and he could do it without a single glance or word. The northern pride Starks were famous for ran through Robb's veins as well as it had done for any Lord of Winterfell, but at the moment he was feeling exceedingly childish as he waited his turn to speak.

At last, at long last, the Red Viper set aside his quill with hands stained with ink, and leaned back, allowing a low groan as he stretched and drew his arms overhead.

"Your Grace," he drawled, sounding quite bored. "Forgive me, I find it quite unbearable to write for long periods of time. It is easier if I can write unstopped til finished, then not again for a day or so." He rose to his feet with all the sensual elegance of a serpent, and walked to the table propped in the far corner, along the wall of the divider between his bedroom and the sitting room.

"Of course," Robb grumbled, and allowed himself the leisure of following the Prince of Dorne, wordlessly grabbing a spare wine goblet and holding it out for Oberyn to fill, as he was filling one for himself. "It has been a long day," said Robb, by means of explanation. Oberyn didn't chastise, but hummed in obnoxious sympathy, and rested a hipbone up against the table holding the wine. His hand swirled the sour red contemplatively, his gaze far away and inward at the same time.

"Might we sit down?" Robb tried not to sound as irritated as he felt, but he really was fatigued, and courtesy dictated Oberyn offer him a chair any second now.

But the Red Viper merely smiled wryly and shook his head. "Alas, my recliner is quite taken up by a greedy little wolf."

Robb wheeled around on his heel to look to the opposite corner of the room where, lo and behold, there was a cushioned recliner, big enough for a grown man to lay back comfortably on, and sprawled out daintily on her side was none other than Oberyn's young wife, Robb's eldest sister. Sansa Stark. Martell, he corrected himself quickly, though he was certain he'd never grow used to the sound of Martell replacing a Stark name.

At least it is not Lannister, or Baratheon.

No sooner had Robb glimpsed his sister than he did turn away out of embarrassment and respect. She was fast asleep, yes, but she was wearing nothing but a shift, and her furs had slipped about her so her arms were uncovered and the curve of her hip was visible through the white linens.

"Gods!" Robb swiveled back around to cut Oberyn an angry glare. "You could have warned me," he hissed, although he had in fact entered without permission.

Oberyn chuckled good-naturedly. Robb knew well-enough to tell that it was an act, but it was a good one anyways. Were he even slightly younger and more naïve, he'd have been quite awestruck by the Red Viper and all his prowling glory. He very nearly was, anyways.

"She is fully clothed, and fast asleep. Your sister sleeps poorly enough that I don't wish to interrupt whatever slumber she might acquire, and I might remind you, you never knocked." Oberyn took a long drink of his glass and let out a satisfied sigh, tilting his head in consideration at his bride, Sansa Martell.

"It could have been any man who entered!" Robb continued, floored by his lack of consideration for Sansa's propriety. "They might have seen her…seen her…"

"Asleep? Without those stifling dresses? A lucky man, I assure you," the Red Viper dared to say it with a cheeky grin from over his goblet.

"You think my sister's honor a jape, my prince?"

Oberyn shook his head. "No. Do you think your bannermen likely to enter my quarters without permission, Your Grace?" Ah, there was that desire to be swallowed by the earth. Robb grimaced and hid it with a long sip of wine. He hadn't had the stomach for it before going to war, but after his father was…executed, it was sometimes the only thing which could help put him to sleep.

"I do not. But in event of emergency—"

"In event of emergency, he or she could leave a message with my attendant, who could come to find me thereafter. As I'm sure Daemon told you. So tell me, King of the North, what is it that brings you to my tent? Other than concern for your sister's…propriety."

Truly flustered, Robb fought for the upper hand by stalling. He looked over his shoulder once more to the woman reclined in the long seat and frowned pensively. Oberyn had been watching his line of sight and, on seeing his frown, spoke up.

"She has night terrors. I trust I needn't tell you what of." Robb shook his head, guilt threatening to consume him once more. Too long. He had left his sister in the clutches of the Lannisters for far too long and it ate at him like a flesh-eating insect. "It relaxes her to sleep where I am, and as I am needed at my desk most nights, she's taken to sleeping in the armchair. An innocent notion, I assure you."

"I know." And Robb did, despite the Viper's reputation, trust that he was telling the truth. Save for the initial bedding, Sansa had not been taken in bed (or anywhere else) by Oberyn since. Only once to make the marriage irrefutable. The gesture of trust, innate and profound, made Robb think deeply before speaking his next thoughts aloud. "Does she have trouble sleeping even when you are…present?"

"Sometimes," he shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. "She'll live. And she won't come to any further harm. That is all that truly matters; her terrors can be dealt with on a nightly basis, if need be."

"Forever?"

"You do not mean to suggest I would put your sister aside, do you?" Oberyn, as usual, didn't look offended in the slightest, but there is a mild affront to his tone that tells Robb to tread lightly.

"No," said Robb, suitably chastised. Gods, he did hate talking to the Viper most days. His good-brother, of all things. He could have never predicted such a turn in his life. Then again, he couldn't have predicted many things which had occurred in his recent past, Oberyn's involvement least of all.

The conversation was halted when, without warning, a tiny cry rose up in the tent, mewling and plaintive. It took Robb a second to place the source; it took Oberyn no time whatsoever.

The man was speaking lowly before he'd even reached Sansa's side. "There now, lovely girl. Shh…" Robb's eyes averted quickly, not before he caught sight of long, dark hands reaching down to gently stroke his sister's shining forehead, to bend his mouth to her temple.

"Oberyn…" Sansa murmured, loud enough to Robb to hear with some difficulty. She either kept her eyes closed or she couldn't see him due to Oberyn's close proximity to her. "O…"

"I'm here," he began stroking her hair. It was unnaturally addicting to watch, though it was as uncomfortable as it was reassuring. Robb had worried, between everything else, that Sansa was left in unsafe hands even now, after being put through so much. She had promised him repeatedly that her husband treated her well, and she would hear nothing of settlements or attempts to dissolve the union. In fact, the one time he'd tried, she had gone running to Oberyn at once. To which the Prince of Dorne had kindly but firmly set him straight, and requested that the pair be left alone in their marriage.

"I was not the man you envisioned as your good-brother," Oberyn had said somberly. "But I am who you have, nonetheless. For so long as she wants me."

Robb hadn't tried since.

It was clear now that Sansa had told the truth when she said she was happy with Oberyn. Strange that he should find reassurance in her night terrors… But there was no mistaking the way she sleepily reached out for Oberyn, the way she relaxed and softened under his presence.

"What are you doing waking up so late, hmm? My little wolf." Oberyn pressed a kiss to her head. "Do you wish to sleep in your bed? Sansa?"

"Hmm…no…" she yawned, and curled tightly around the hand he'd offered her, drawing it into her chest like a child holds a favored toy. "Stay."

"Unfortunately I have need of that hand," Oberyn replied, voice ringed heavily with amusement. The tone was lost on her, though, and she didn't so much as twitch at his words. "You are welcome to use them any way you please when I've finished."

Well, that was something Robb rather wished he could unhear.

Carefully now, the Viper of Dorne untangled his hands and drew back his limbs, sliding back into an upright position. Sansa was at peace once more, her face sweetly relaxed and pretty as a portrait. Gratitude and admiration seeped into Robb's heart, though he half-wished it would not. Owing the Viper… No, that was not a thing he took pleasure in at all. But perhaps for the sake of Sansa, he would accept it. Accept that the Prince of Dorne had done what he could not (what he had chosen not) to do. That he had saved Sansa before it was truly too late.

Words of thanks were on his lips, thank you and a good night because Robb realized he very well may be too tired for this conversation, and maybe it could wait until the morning. But when the man turned to face Robb, Oberyn spoke without any preamble, confident and assured and very much alert.

"Now then," Oberyn said, head tilted in plain deferral. "What did you have to ask me, Your Grace?"