Oberyn

'Brother.'

'Brother.'

Both himself and Doran had given each other a curt nod as Oberyn and his companions disembarked from the ship, while his brother gestured toward another ship in the harbour of Sunspear, no more than half a hundred metres away and bedecked in the flame-like colours of House Martell. The movement, Oberyn noticed, was stiff and pained, the swollen joints no doubt causing him pain. Ordinarily, he might have had some sympathy for his brother, but he was hungry and tired and frankly being told to fuck off.

'This will be the boat to take you to Meereen,' Doran said. 'I can't promise comfort or luxury, but it'll get you there in one piece. Do not fail us, brother. Elia will be avenged, so long as you focus for long enough for her to do so.'

'Doran, don't do this. A night is all we need, and then we'll be gone. Please.' Fatigue dripped into his voice, and for the first time since the rebellion Oberyn was, to his brother, vulnerable. The Prince of Dorne looked at him briefly but averted his eyes.

'Time is of the essence, Oberyn. If you want the ship, you will leave, and you will leave now.'

'Fine then. Is there any chance I might see any of my daughters?'

'They're currently indisposed. I'd be happy to pass on any message you have.'

The two brothers stared at each other—one a stone wall, one a thousand sharp daggers, neither yielding and neither breaking through. And then someone else spoke.

'Prince Doran. An honour to meet you,' said Aegon, every inch the king and every inch the conqueror, a true ruler in every meaning of the word. 'I would like to offer my thanks for your assistance in both the battle and our voyage. But I would ask you, as a supplicant and a guest, if you could extend your hospitality—after all, what harm could one night do?'

Doran simply looked up at him, without a doubt the more powerful figure in spite of how he was being restrained to a chair. 'Aegon Targaryen. The honour is mine. But I don't understand why you'd wish to stay longer than necessary—after all, I didn't think that dragons did particularly well in the heat of Dorne, in spite of tall their bluster about fire and whatnot.'

'We don't.' Aegon's tone was curt, and Oberyn could practically hear his teeth grinding.

'Of course,' Doran remarked smugly. 'Given all the excitement in recent times, I suppose I should ask—how is your sister?'

'I suppose…well, about the same as yours,' Aegon replied, an inkling of a smirk appearing on his face and his eyes meeting Doran's. Had it been anyone else, Oberyn would've killed them at the mention of Elia, but even he could see that Doran was in the wrong here.

He clicked, and a guard emblazoned with the sun and the spear grasped the handles at the back of his chair, turning him with a practiced deftness and wheeling him away. 'You have a day—rest, feed yourself, and then leave. I presume you'll be able to sort lodging with Ricasso.' He was near his palanquin now, and as the guard gently lifted him into it he turned to Oberyn. 'Don't let me down, Oberyn. For Elia.'

For Elia. Gods, that mantra had sent him all around the world, all so that one day he might get his revenge for his sister, and for what? Tywin Lannister had been killed while taking a shit by his own son and Amory Lorch had, by all accounts, been fed to a bear by the very man whose house Oberyn had battled against. Sure, he'd killed Gregor, but that had obviously come with its own complications.

For Elia. It had been a moon's turn since Doran had turned his back on them at Sunspear. He understood why he had, of course—even a simpleton could see that even the thought of hosting company exhausted Doran, and the prospect of having a number of reanimated dead people in your house would never quite be stress-free. Still, it had hurt to see his brother wash his hands of him.

'Everything alright?'

Oberyn turned to see Nymeria next to him, her diminutive frame pressed against the railing of the ship as she stared out at the ocean, at the far-off ruined spires of the Valyrian freehold and the mist that seemed to be steaming off of the sea.

'Of course,' he responded. 'Why wouldn't it be? We—a company of resurrected dead people—are only sailing halfway around the world, to try and get the aid of Daenerys Targaryen—the daughter of a notorious madman, by the way—so that we might use her dragons against the army of the living dead. Why wouldn't I be alright?' He laughed bitterly and fell silent, watching Robb spar with his old squire Daemon, Aegon and Arthur shouting at them from the side lines.

'I always fucking hated the sea.'

'Pardon?'

'The sea. I can't stand it,' Nymeria said, her brow furrowing. 'When I came back I heard the stories, of how I'd found a home for my people and burned my fleet so that we would be there to stay. And that's all true, of course. But the fact is, I felt sick every time I saw one of those fucking boats, so I had my men burn them. After that the sickness was gone.' She sighed. 'I thought I would die without ever having to step foot on a boat again.'

'You weren't wrong, though.'

Nymeria shot him a withering look. 'You know what I mean. Still, I'm excited for the first time in a long while, sea be damned. Do you really mean to tell me that you don't see this as an adventure in the slightest?'

Damn, she had him there. 'I suppose so, princess. Still, it's all going to seem rather far-fetched to claim we returned from beyond the grave, and I can't guarantee how Daenerys will feel about the son of Lord Stark being in Meereen. If she's her father's daughter, we'll likely be burnt to a crisp. Let's just hope she's her mother's.'

With that, silence reigned again as they both looked back to the sea.

Arthur

They may have been built on the backs of slaves, with their blood and sweat and tears as the mortar and their bodies as the bricks, but even as their ship drifted toward the harbour, Arthur was blown away by the pyramids of Meereen. They towered above the city, piles of polished white stone rising from the colourful brick shanties below them, with one—the Great Pyramid, he assumed—rising higher, the notorious bronze harpy noticeably absent. Oberyn had been telling them of Slaver's Bay, of his experiences during his travels and how they should conduct themselves once inside, and so Arthur was aware of the gross imbalance between the nobles in their pyramids and the commoners in their homes—still, based off the storied told of Daenerys, that may not be the case anymore.

Their ship docked, and as he disembarked Arthur could see a line of bronze harpy heads lining the city walls, damaged and dulled but still locked in their unique snarls and screams. For all else she might change, Daenerys would never be quite able to rid Meereen of the harpy.

'It really is a sight, isn't it?' Arthur turned to see Aegon gaze around in wonder, a strange grin playing at the side of his face. His hood was down, as few would stop to question one with such a Valyrian complexion, in stark contrast to how it'd been in Westeros. 'Before the conquest…me and Orys would often speak of visiting Essos, of forgetting all responsibility and living anonymously, going from place to place and never stopping. It was all talk, of course, but pleasant talk nonetheless. Gods, if only he could see it now.'

'I'm sure he'd be glad you could be here, Aegon,' Arthur said, unsure of how to respond.

'Ha! Unlikely, I'm afraid—he'd be more likely to grumble about me getting what I want again.' Aegon's tone was jovial, but Arthur could see the sadness in his eyes.

'By the gods,' Robb panted, pulling up behind them, his face red and his expression pained. 'How in the seven hells can you stand this heat?'

'It's not our fault that you grew up in that frozen waste that they call the North,' Oberyn said. 'We're three Dornishmen and a dragon—what else would you expect?'

Nymeria pushed past them. 'We should move. There's no point in just standing around.'

With that they moved, navigating their way through the cool shadows of the winding streets, slowly but surely getting closer to the Great Pyramid, where Daenerys was said to reside. Westerosi weren't too common around here, Arthur noticed, and he could feel a great many glares from those in the vicinity. His hand stayed on his dagger, and Dawn was never further than a second away from being ready for action.

'You!' came a shout from behind them, the common tongue marred by a thick Meereenese accent. 'Y-you're from Westeros, are you not?' The man talking was swaying on his feet, his eyes glassy and his nose near purple despite his dark complexion.

No matter where you are in the world, there'll always be drunkards. They're like flies, or something.

'We are.' Oberyn's reply was curt, and dangerously polite. Still, his hands didn't move toward any weapons, and the man's brief silence made all present think that any conflict might be avoided. And then he spoke.

'I fucking hate Westerosi.' He pulled out a cheap looking iron dagger and lunged towards them, swinging the rusted metal with wild abandon. Then he dropped, blood pooling from his nose from where Nymeria's fist met it, not breaking her stride. As he fell, she spat on his crumpled body and let out a long string of Rhoynish curses. They carried on, all in silent awe of Nymeria—after all, the maester's accounts of the warrior queen had always been vague; had she been an actual warrior, or simply the kind to sit atop a horse half a mile away and claim to fight. After this, any doubt had vanished, and they simply filed past the prone body on the floor.

It was sunset when they reached the Great Pyramid, its colossal form stretching up before them. There were thirty-three floors, Oberyn had told them, each one more luxurious than the one below, with the Queen's chambers at the top, overlooking the city, the bay, and the surrounding countryside to the north. It certainly was a sight to behold, and Arthur almost felt that seeing it had made the entire journey worth it, regardless of whether or not Daenerys accepted their proposal.

There was a short column of unsullied at the entrance, uniform and identical in their stance, in their expressions, in everything.

'We have urgent business with the queen,' Aegon said, his voice kingly and stoic and—had Arthur not known him—quietly terrifying, scarier in Valyrian than it had ever been in the common tongue. The unsullied he spoke to, however, had a face of stone—not even a flicker of interest in his eyes as he simply glared at Aegon.

'Our queen is not here. That is common knowledge,' he said, Oberyn translating for Robb. 'Be gone.'

'Not here? Where is she then?' Aegon asked, visibly irritated.

'That is not your business. Leave. Now.'

'It is vitally important that we speak to whoever is in charge. Please, let us pass,' Oberyn cut in. 'All our lives might depend on it.'

The Unsullied gave him a withering look. 'The King is…busy with matters of state, and the hand is preparing for war with the Yunkish. Whatever you need, you will have to wait.'

'Please,' Aegon said, his temper slipping. 'I am kin of Queen Daenerys, as is my friend here. She may be in great danger, and we may be the only ones who can save her.'

All he got in response at first was a distrustful look. 'I do not believe you. But…if you tell the truth and I turn you away, I will have failed my queen.' He turned and barked an order to the men behind him, with two of them stepping out of formation and approaching. 'You will hand over your weapons, and you will be brief. The hand is very busy and has no time for any of your falsehoods.'

With that, he raised a hand and beckoned over his shoulder, and the two soldiers who'd emerged a moment before led them up the steps, into the heart of the Pyramid. They walked for what felt like an aeon, and Arthur very much regretted putting on mail and leather that morning as the sweat began to accumulate all over his body.

And then they were there. Two giant doors of polished cream stone with massive bronze handles loomed before them, and the attendants in front of it visibly shocked at the sight of all these foreigners. They were young, Arthur saw, but not quite so young as many of the pages and cupbearers in Westeros. From beneath his hood, Robb gave them a quick smile, which vanished when he noticed the look he was getting from the unsullied. The doors swung open with practiced ease and the four of them entered.

It was a sizeable room, with the three figures on the dais far away enough that he could not quite make out their faces. There as a man on the left garbed in the armour of the unsullied, his helmet on the floor and his spear well within reach. Beside him was an old man, dressed in armour as white as his hair with a sword on his hip. He seemed familiar, Arthur thought, but it was more likely the associations he had with white armour. On the right was a woman, dressed in a simple—but clearly well-made—dress, who saw them enter and began to talk in a clear, high voice, her common tongue impeccable.

'You are in the court of Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons. You stand before the Hand of the Queen and Lord Commander of the Queensguard, Ser Barristan Selmy. Make your cas—'

She was interrupted by Arthur's laughter, echoing through the room as he walked over to the man in question. Gods, could it really be him? What are the odds? As he got closer, he realised that it was, beyond all doubt, Barristan the Bold—he was older, to be sure, but that was only to be expected—after all, he hadn't been the one to die decades before. He proceeded, a broad smile on his face as he approached his old sworn brother-in-arms. The unsullied, however, were less happy, forming a circle around the dais, with the man atop it reaching for his spear.

'Hello Barristan. You're looking well.'

'Who in the seven hells are you?' Barristan asked.

Arthur smiled and pulled down his hood. 'You really mean to tell me that you don't recognise me? Don't you remember the one man who could put you on your arse?'

'T-that's impossible,' Barristan said, his eyes wide and his hands shaking. 'Tell me your name—your true name—or I swear I'll kill you for making a mockery of my friend!'

'This is no mockery, old man. I'm as real as the time Prince Viserys used Ser Jonothor's helmet as a privy. As real as the look on Brandon Stark's face when we walked in on him and my sister. As real as—'

'Enough!' Barristan's voice was iron, but he took his hand off the hilt of his sword and his eyes softened. 'Arthur…can that really be you?'

'It's me, Barristan. It's a long story, though. Is there somewhere we can talk?'

Robb

So, this was Ser Barristan the Bold. He'd heard all the stories a thousand times over, of him infiltrating Duskendale and slaying Maelys the Monstrous. Seeing him now, a very human figure rather than the god he'd built him up to be in his head was slightly disappointing. Still, few people lived up to their reputations, and if all went to plan Robb wouldn't even need to witness his legendary sword skills. At least, not for now.

'So she's…gone?' Aegon said, pacing around the spacious apartment they'd been given. 'She just left on the back of her dragon and no-one knows where she is?'

'Well,' said Ser Barristan. 'I suppose that about sums it up, yes. The city is in chaos, the dragons are running rampant, and the Yunkish are at our gates. All the while, Queen Daenerys is nowhere to be found.'

'Not to mention our illustrious king and those reprobates in the masks,' spat the man who'd introduced himself an hour earlier as Skahaz mo Kandaq. 'I'm sorry that you've come all this way, but should her majesty return she'll have her hands full with keeping the city from falling into flames to help deal with those…stories you told.' Whilst Barristan had been strangely accepting of the truth after seeing Arthur and Oberyn, Skahaz had no such history and still viewed them with much suspicion.

'They were no stories, you bald fuck!' Oberyn shouted, jumping to his feet. 'That was the truth! We've all seen it, and we need her dragons if we're to survive!'

True, Robb had been terrible with politics, but he honestly believed Oberyn was somehow worse. The man had no tact and was currently insulting the man they needed on their side.

'Her Grace's dragons are not simply tools for you to point at your enemies. And what about when you've defeated them? What's to stop you from moving onto the next enemy, and the next after that? Are you even sure you'll be able to control them?' the shavepate responded.

'Gods, you're right,' Aegon muttered. 'If only there were someone here who knew anything about dragons at all, let alone how to ride, fight, and use them strategically. We really should've thought of that.'

'Even if the queen returns, however, two of her dragons have gone, and I doubt she'll be too willing to give you the third. They're her children, you see, and with the city balanced on a knife edge like it currently is there's no chance she'll give them up,' Barristan cut in. 'In any cas—'

The old knight was interrupted as a man burst into the room, blood on his forehead and fear in his eyes. He shouted something in comprehensible in Valyrian at Barristan before a blade protruded from his chest, a figure in a golden mask stepping over the slumped corpse, yanking out the blade with a distinct lack of finesse. He moved towards Robb and his companions, a small militia of men gathering behind him as he stepped through the threshold.

They were outnumbered two-to-one, with more on the way.

Robb couldn't remember the last time he'd had such good odds in a fight.

The two group charged at each other, the Sons of the Harpy in their golden masks against, frankly, some of the most skilled warriors in Westerosi history—Aegon the Dragon, Barristan the Bold, the Red Viper, and the last Sword of the Morning wielding Dawn, each fighting with wild abandon.

Robb dodged a blow aimed at his head, lifting his sword (which had thankfully been left close by when they'd been stripped of weapons) under the chin of his attacker, bypassing the protection of the mask entirely and exiting at the top of the skull. It was a good kill and a clean death, but Robb had no time to ponder it as another swung at him.

On and on it went, the bodies of the Sons of the Harpy piling up as their ranks slowly diminished, the tight ring of fighters formed by the Westerosi gradually loosening as they began to clear up the dregs of their opposition. The shavepate, however, was slowing—he'd taken a gash to the arm, and the crimson was dripping to the floor at an alarming rate. His swings were clumsy and his gait was unsteady, and there was an enemy moving towards him with obvious intent.

Robb barrelled into the man, sparing Skahaz the knife aimed for his ribs as both he and the Harpy fell to the floor, his sword clattering away. He was defenceless, and his opponent was already making his way to his feet, his dagger glinting in the torchlight. The man swung, once, twice, three times, with Robb forcing himself backwards from his position on the floor each time. He could feel the stone wall behind him, and as the man approached again, he knew what was about to happen.

It was sad to realise. Sure, he'd been given more chances than most, but the idea of rising from the dead in order to combat the Long Night, just to die at the hands of some zealot half the world away was disappointing.

And then the man fell, two feet of rippled steel bursting through his throat, showering Robb in the hot red blood. He crumpled, and a figure stepped out from behind him. She was beautiful in a traditional Valyrian fashion, with the tell-tale silver hair violet eyes, albeit with well-muscled arms that would've been the envy of Jon Umber, and the precision with which she withdrew the blade showed her to be a warrior of some skill. Gods, this must be Daenerys—true, he'd never heard of her being a warrior, but then again it was more likely to simply be a matter of news failing to reach the other side of the world.

She offered him a hand and lifted him up with ease, giving him a hard stare as he thanked her, reaching back down for his sword. The harpies were gone now, with Oberyn pulling his spear from the gut of a felled foe. There were more people in the room now, Robb noticed-some blue haired Tyroshi, a gaunt blond man, another Valyrian woman, and a small collection of people milling near the door.

'V-Visenya? Can that really be you?' Aegon's face was one of shock as he stammered his question, his gaze meeting the woman who'd rescued Robb a moment before.

'Hello, brother,' she replied, her elocution immediately highlighting her as nobility. 'Perhaps you'd like to tell me what the fuck is going on?'

A/N: Hello! Another chapter done, I hope you enjoy it and all that. Feel free to favourite, follow, and review, and as always thanks to those of you who have done. Sorry for the delay on this chapter-last week I moved back into a student house and so have spent the last week or so in a drunken haze actually doing stuff, as opposed to lockdown before where I had a lot of free time. Not to mention, this chapter was an absolute bastard to write and I'm still not fully happy with it. Oh well.

Hope you're still enjoying the story, and hopefully the next chapter will come sooner than this one-can't make any promises though.

See you next time,

-Kinginthenorth1 xox

InfinityMask-Sorry if you weren't a fan of the interaction between Ned and Stoneheart, but I just wanted to make sure that it would never be the same as it was before-while he's the same Ned as he was before he died, she is most definitely not the same Catelyn. As for Lann, we'll see his backstory at some point. And whilst Tywin would likely be very useful in the fight against the dead, he'd be too concerned about the iron throne, and would likely completely fuck up any plans for the long night.

Kingmanaena-Thank you! Glad you enjoyed it.

MiguelGiuliano .co-Yep, I suppose that is too bad. Don't know why you'd assume that Nymeria would be stupid-she's got one of the finest tactical and political minds of all the people that returned, and she's legendary for a reason. As for Azor Ahai and Jon, you'll just have to wait and see.

KingOfYawns-Cheers, glad you enjoyed the chapter. Obviously it's possible to rise high from nothing, but the fact remains that it's a completely rigged capitalistic system that prioritises the conservation of people's positions of power, rather than providing equal opportunity to those that are not born into a position of privilege.