(AN: This is a very short chapter meant to serve as a brief interlude as we go into what (I think) will be the second half. Hopefully a longer chapter won't be too far off)

The waves crash around them, smooth and powerful, hitting the side of the ship in even, rhythmic pulses.

"Is it true what they say?"

He looks to the man seeking information from him. "And what is it this elusive... 'they' ...says?"

"That the Mad King is dead. That he burned himself up."

He smiles. "So it would seem."

"Heard he was mad, but never thought a man could do that to himself, no matter how twisted his brain makes him."

"He is not the first dragon to burn." With his elbows leaning on the wooden edge of the ship, his eyes look out to waters leading them west. "And he will surely not be the last."

Another man calls out, hearing their conversation somehow, even on this loud and chaotic ship. "Killed himself a wolf before he burned up! Tis a wonder the whole country hasn't broken out in war yet."

Not yet.

He begins to pace the ship, trying to find a quieter space so his mind can find some peace with his thoughts. But it is folly to seek any kind of peace right now, even in his own mind. That feat has eluded him since he received the first missive bearing troubling news from Westeros.

It had been maddening to be so far away, unable to learn more, do more. But he had also been instructed to wait.

Something he hated. But he did as he was told.

Finally the beautiful parchment came that called him home, called him back, giving him purpose and a way to focus his anger and anxiety.

His pacing continues until he finds a quiet space at the end of the ship. Looking back, he can see night descending on the east already. And when he turns the other way, orange and red are only now beginning to paint the west.

"Shall you still not tell me what we will do when we arrive?" His friend, his companion is by him now. One he trusts nearly as much as family.

"How can I reveal what I do not know myself?" he asks his friend. "Nothing is ever safe in letters, always remember that. What you seek, what I myself want to know, is something I know must surely be too delicate to put to paper."

"So you ask for patience?"

He smiles. "Do you think I would ask something so ridiculous of you? I am merely stating the facts as they are, my friend."

"They say the new king is mad as well. That he challenges the robed men like his ancestor did before him. All for a girl."

"So they say." But he knows nothing is ever so simple.

"Will we involve ourselves?"

He turns to face his friend, smiling placidly in place of hitting him across the face for ignoring his previous request. "If you are so bored that you will ask me questions that I have already told you I cannot yet answer, perhaps we should entertain ourselves another way, my friend."

The man smiles, his eyes darkening with a desirous glint. "I would very much enjoy that, my prince."

Just as they are about to head away to distract and pleasure the other, a sailors calls out, "shore!"

His head snaps to the direction the boat his headed, his feet taking him quickly to the edge of the ship.

There, after so much waiting, he sees it on the horizon, the sun casting warm and hot across the land he knows and loves.

Home.

A nervous but wonderful energy begins to pulse through him. So much has been uncertain, so many unknowns. He had only received information in sparse and short missives with few specifics. But the details that were given to him, small but potent morsels, were enough to set him on edge without respite.

Until now.

He can feel the ship slowing as they ease into the port, the oars and wood creaking in harmony. The sound of the ship begins to mix with the murmurs of voices ashore, men shouting orders, traders cautioning for care with their goods, salesmen yelling prices aloud to hungry sailors. Spices and unsavory smells blend in the air.

And then there is the indescribable feeling of knowing what awaits him once he is free from the ship.

As soon as the ship docks, he jumps with ease to make his way up the plank, barely able to stop himself from running. Horses await him and his men, he shouts instructions for them to be led by the waiting emissaries who will guide them and take their crates and goods. But he cannot wait for so many, so he leaps on a waiting steed and goes towards where he is needed.

It is not long before he arrives at his destination, dust cloaking his face, and the setting sun shining on him like a mother greeting a lost child.

And then at the gates, there is a beautiful and achingly familiar face awaiting him. "You're late," the voice calls.

"Impossible. If I were truly late, you would have left already." Then they are face to face, and the man raises a gentle hand to his face, his own unmoving with the exception of so much emotion that shines in his brown eyes.

Doran smiles. "Welcome home, Oberyn."