Doran
A brisk wind stole past the drapes, carrying nights chill as it sent the thin mauve sheets softly fluttering inwards. Inside candle flames flickered, pulled by breeze, sending shadows dancing upon rich carpet and across desk. The sound of quill upon parchment ceased, wizened eyes turning, attention caught by the bright tongues of fire. Setting the feathered pen back to settle within ink pot, the man took pause, daring to gaze at the light of stars peeking through the window.
He continued to gaze upon them, long after the breeze had died and his chambers darkened once more, curtains returning to obscure heavens light, denying its entrance.
His hands, folded upon lap as he leaned into the back of his wheelchair, could pass for normal then, he mused, in the dark as they were. He could imagine them, not swollen and angrily red, but strong and firm, capable once more of wielding blade, of scribing letters without pain, feeling the softness of another without the reluctance the pity or disgust they tried to mask. How unfitting, for a warrior to suffer such an affliction as gout.
Now, for him, there was only the cyvasse board.
His hues disappeared behind closing eyelids, and what time he could afford himself to dream he took, simply imagining what it would be like to once more feel capable until the moment he heard footsteps. Closer and closer, they echoed in the empty halls, breaking their silence to stop before the door of his solar. Even without reopening eyes, he could tell who it would be.
The knock came, a pleasantry that was ignored more often than not, signaling the presence he already knew of, had been expecting for quite some time, followed by the creaking noise of the door swinging open. It was only by the grace of his brother's paramour that he been allowed so long a reprieve.
Doran waited, mind sharpening, pushing away impossible dreams. There was a more realistic one to discuss, one that had only just suffered setback. Two pair of feet entered, one that padded softly on bare soles, the other clad in leather and accompanied by the shifting of mail.
"Tell me true Doran, why is it that we do not simply tell her? You have avoided this for too long."
An unexpected query, he thought as eyelids cracked open wearily and shifted to look upon his junior. Hair disheveled and tunic partway open to reveal a triangle of tanned flesh all the way down to his belt, the Viper appeared in a state that he the women of their court fantasized about. He guessed he had only just been released by Ellaria.
Doran arched a brow, waiting expectantly for him to proceed. All the while Areo Hotah stood with back braced against wall, steady grip upon the shaft of his long axe as it stood tall next to him. It was touching, how the Norvosi stood vigil like always, yet saddening in a way as well, how the bearded man might actually perceive Oberyn capable of kinslaying.
Though their conversations could often be intense, he knew such a conclusion just as impossible as him rising out the wheelchair to be proclaimed cured.
"We already planned on using the boy, once properly trained and knighted to guard our pieces across the sea...Surely there are ways she can aid us?"
With a gesture to the seat across from his desk, the Lord of Sunspear began.
"Yes, the boy was very much a piece on which we had counted upon Oberyn, but only because we would have had time to persuade the boy, assure his loyalty to our cause. It is problematic, this turn of events, yes, but it is not as dire as you make it out to be. It remains to be seen if this is in actuality a fortunate turn."
Seeing his brother about to protest, Doran held up a hand, begging for patience. "I know you would have very much liked to train the next Sword of Morning, but the possibility did exist, that no matter how skilled your instruction, the boy would not prove as susceptible we as wished. Just as he carries the potential to be another Arthur, so too does he have it in him to be like his kin to the North. Wild, stubborn…honourable. That same honour could have seen him deny Viserys and Daenerys his aid on account of the Uncle and Grandfather slain by Aerys, or by simple virtue to avoid war."
"You think two Northerners from a family he has not seen nor communicated with could create so grand a predicament? From Ashara's apparent apathy to them, I do not see how..."
Doran watched as his brother leaned forward, a hand lifting to touch chin half in thought. "But I will cede the point for the nonce. However, you fail to reveal sufficient excuse for us not to confide in her."
Sighing heavily, the gout stricken man pushed back his chair so it was closer to the desk, plucking the feather from its ink-pot to begin writing anew. An action which he noted puzzled his brother.
"Lady Dayne has lost much. A lover, a brother and another again, and possibly son. If we allow her our secrets, we leave ourselves vulnerable. You forget, she knows how to play the games and bares no love for any dragon save Elia's children."
A long quiet reigned in the room heavy with thought, broken only by the scratchy scrawling of quill.
"...You believe she would betray us?" Oberyn inquired, equal parts incredulity and curiosity writ upon features.
"I believe a great many things Oberyn. Right now I believe not all remains lost when it comes to Alaric, that handing him over to squire for the White Cloaks may work to our favor given time. That one young knight won't truly amount to much when it comes to protecting Rhaella Targaryen's children."
With a few strokes more of the quill, Doran finished the final line and signed in his name, sprinkling dust afterwards for it to dry.
Weakly did he then slide it across to the desks edge, gesturing for it to be taken its contents to be revealed. Time ticked slowly by as Oberyn reached for the letter, fingers deftly lifting parchment up to eye level, and read the inked lettering.
"And above all, I believe a mother will do whatever she deems necessary to see her child safe."