The weather had been kind as Jon and Oberyn sailed their ship, the Sea Wolf, from King's Landing, granting them a speed uncommon for such voyages. It almost seemed as though they were favoured by some magical god of wind. However, their luck took a turn for the worse on the journey from Dragonstone to Gulltown. Caught in a fierce storm, the ship struggled against the raging elements, slowing its progress to a crawl. Jon couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps the gods themselves were conspiring to hinder their journey, a thought that crossed his mind as he stood on the prow of the ship, buffeted by wind and drenched by rain.
"Don't linger there too long, my Lord," called Captain Waylock from behind Jon, prompting him to turn around. "A man with no sea legs like you will get blown off in these winds."
The captain was a stout figure, his grey hair and the scar down his right cheek giving him a weathered appearance. He walked with a slight limp, the result of a vicious encounter with a shark that had left him permanently marked. According to the captain's tales, he had faced the beast single-handedly, providing his crew with sustenance for weeks afterwards, though the veracity of his stories varied depending on his level of intoxication. Jon listened with a hint of scepticism, equating the captain's exploits to Tormund's infamous encounter with Sheila the bear.
Descending from the deck, Jon sought refuge in the warmth of his cabin. The ship pitched and rolled with the force of the storm, the constant motion driving him to seek respite above deck. As he dried his hair with a linen towel, a knock at his door interrupted his thoughts.
"Come in," Jon called out.
Oberyn entered, carrying a flagon of wine and two goblets. "Only the best Dornish red will do," he smiled, pouring the wine.
"I'm not a big drinker," Jon admitted.
"So what?" Oberyn shrugged. "It doesn't stop you from indulging every now and again." He handed Jon a goblet, taking a seat opposite him.
Jon took a sip, finding it an excellent vintage. "Nice," he nodded with a smile.
"It is one of our best vintages, two hundred and eighty-one AC," Oberyn remarked, causing Jon to choke; it was the year he was born. "Ah, a sad year for most, but a good year for wine," Oberyn added, observing Jon's reaction. He then dipped his nose into the goblet. "Star anise, cinnamon, and black pepper," he identified, taking another sip. "I taste raspberry and black cherry. Mm..." Oberyn closed his eyes, relishing the flavours.
Jon took another sip, but as a non-wine drinker, he couldn't discern all the nuances Oberyn could. "It tastes like wine to me," he shrugged.
Oberyn offered Jon a brief smile, then his expression turned serious as he cocked his head. "Give me an honest answer, do you want to sit on the Iron Throne? You don't seem the type of desire it."
Jon sighed. "Am I that easy to read?" he asked. Oberyn nodded with a chuckle. "Aye, if it were up to me and Sansa, we'd spend the rest of our days in Queenscrown, running the town and..." Jon's voice trailed off as memories of their time in the cave surfaced. A smile crept onto his lips.
"And fucking?" Oberyn suggested.
Though the idea of spending the rest of his days in bed with Sansa held its appeal, Jon desired more. He longed for a family and security. Being a Lord in charge of Queenscrown was a far cry from ruling over the Seven Kingdoms. "I just want to have a family and be safe," he confided in Oberyn.
"Then the last thing you should do is become King," Oberyn deduced. "Which tells me there's another reason driving your desire for the throne."
"I'll tell you when we get to Winterfell," Jon promised, taking a large sip of the delicious wine. The alcohol loosened his tongue, and in truth, he could confide in Oberyn. However, he hesitated, fearing he might lose the Prince's support. Once they were in Winterfell, it would be harder for Oberyn to argue against him, especially with multiple witnesses to the threat of the army of the dead.
Oberyn nodded understandingly. "I can wait. Patience is a virtue."
Feeling emboldened, Jon decided to pose his own question. "How did you manage to persuade Tywin to let you leave King's Landing?"
"I told him I was journeying to Dorne to negotiate a match between my nephew, Trystane, and Princess Myrcella," Oberyn replied.
"He's bound to see through your lie," Jon frowned.
"By the time my ship reaches Dorne, we'll already be in Winterfell," Oberyn explained. "Did you catch a glimpse of my ship sailing away when we departed?" he inquired.
Jon recalled their departure from Dragonstone; the Martell ship had remained anchored, but he hadn't questioned it at the time, assuming they were preparing to depart. "No, I didn't," he shook his head.
Oberyn smirked. "We'll reach Winterfell before Ellaria even arrives at Sunspear. Or we would have, if not for this cursed weather," he sighed. "Tywin believed I was forging an alliance between the Lannisters and Dorne. Myrcella is a beauty, and her being a bastard is not a problem where I come from. But an incestuous Lannister bastard," he shook his head. "I doubt my brother would entertain such a notion."
"Which part is the problem?" Jon asked, his tongue was already loosened by the wine.
"The Lannister bit," Oberyn replied, and they both laughed.
"You mean the incest doesn't bother you?" he inquired.
"Your father was a product of incest, was he not?" Oberyn countered. Jon nodded. "My sister was married to your father; it's nothing to fear."
"Unless they turn out like my grandfather," Jon quipped, eliciting a laugh from Oberyn.
"True, he was. At least you have Stark blood to temper your dragonfire," Oberyn remarked.
"I'll drink to that," Jon raised his goblet. Oberyn joined him, and they both took a long drink before their conversation shifted to lighter topics.
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Jon awoke the following morning with a pounding head but a lighter spirit. It had been refreshing to enjoy the company of someone like Prince Oberyn. The man's wild reputation, confirmed from their first encounter, had only been reinforced by the tales Jon had heard the previous night. It was evident that Oberyn had led quite the adventurous life.
Jon believed that Prince Oberyn would be receptive to the idea of magic and mythical creatures being real. He would likely find Jon's story about the walkers believable and view the prospect of facing the army of the dead as an exhilarating challenge.
As Jon rose to attend to his morning needs, he noticed the familiar swaying of the room, though today it felt different. It wasn't the gentle rocking of the ship causing it, but rather the result of his overindulgence in wine. After relieving himself, he washed his face with the icy water from the basin to help sober up. Sunlight streamed into the room from the tiny portal that served as a window. Glancing outside, he noticed a faint line on the distant horizon, suggesting land.
Quickly donning his doublet, Jon made his way up to the deck, where he found Oberyn among the sailors, also gazing out toward the distant land. However, in the bright sunshine, it was difficult to discern any details.
They stood in silence for a moment before Jon broke it. "Is that Gulltown?" he asked, feeling somewhat foolish for not recognizing the land.
Oberyn shook his head. "It's Crackclaw Point. We'll soon be inside the Bay of Crabs. The captain informed me that if the weather holds like it is now, we should arrive at Gulltown sometime tomorrow."
"Thank the gods," Jon sighed in relief.
"Why are we headed to Gulltown?" Oberyn inquired.
"I have someone there awaiting a message from me. Then I have a task for her," Jon replied.
"Her?" Oberyn raised an eyebrow.
"A priestess," Jon corrected Oberyn, implying that the woman was celibate. Although the thought of Melisandre in a sexual context was enough to turn Jon celibate for life, he knew most men found her alluring. She had a way about her, a seductive aura.
"So what?" Oberyn smirked.
"I'm waiting for some messages. Hopefully, one from Littlefinger; he's trying to find an address for me, and for any news from my wife," Jon informed him.
"I look forward to meeting Lady Whitestark; she sounds quite the woman," Oberyn smiled, earning a glare from Jon. "You never even told me what she looks like."
"She's kissed by fire, with eyes as blue as the sky," Jon replied, sensing that Oberyn would appreciate the phrase "kissed by fire," and he was correct.
"Is that her hair colour or her temper?" Oberyn japed.
"Both," Jon laughed. "Kissed by fire is a Freefolk expression. It means having red hair. They believe anyone born with red hair is lucky," he explained.
"I like that," Oberyn said appreciatively. "I'm looking forward to meeting these Freefolk."
They stood staring at the faint strip of land for a while before Jon spoke. "You'll need to stay aboard the ship," Jon said. "We can't have anyone suspecting you are anywhere other than sailing to Dorne."
"I know," Oberyn said. "Gulltown is boring. I'll stay in my cabin and get drunk," he grinned.
Jon turned to retreat back to his room for something to eat. However, he was stopped by a loud quorking sound. He looked up and saw a raven flying towards him. Ravens didn't typically fly across the Narrow Sea, did they? When the bird hovered and perched itself on Jon's shoulder, he knew it was no ordinary bird. It was Bran.
Oberyn looked on at him in astonishment. "That bird likes you."
"Corn, corn," Bran quorked.
"Alright, alright, I'll get you some corn. Just... not so loud," Jon winced.
"I doubt the bird will understand you," Oberyn laughed, following Jon to his rooms.
Jon decided to let Oberyn in on the secret Stark ability to warg. "Follow me," he said, and Oberyn trailed Jon, with Bran perched on his shoulder, to Jon's quarters.
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Jon closed the door to his cabin, first ensuring that nobody was lurking outside, listening. "Coast... clear," Bran quorked, showing off, Jon thought. Bran must have deemed Oberyn trustworthy enough.
"What do you know of northerners?" Jon asked, careful not to use Oberyn's name.
"You live in a vast, cold climate. You are all pale, you revere the old tree gods, you have funny accents, and you make shit wine," Oberyn replied.
Jon smiled and turned to Bran. "Who is this?" he asked, pointing to Prince Oberyn.
"Prince... Oberyn... Martell... of... Dorne," Bran replied. "Corn..."
Jon made his way to his chest and retrieved the pouch containing the corn. He had hoped to use it in Gulltown, but he was pleased to see Bran early. Jon pulled out the corn and held some in his hand.
Oberyn eyed Jon and the raven apprehensively. "Did you teach the bird that?" he asked, while Bran ate the corn.
Jon shook his head. "This is Bran. He was raised as my half-brother, but he's my cousin," he explained, as he and Oberyn sat in the same seats as they did the previous night.
Oberyn raised his right eyebrow. "I can see the family resemblance."
Jon chuckled at Oberyn's sarcastic remark. "Bran is a skin-changer. We can all skin-change into our direwolves. In the north, we call it warging."
Oberyn looked suspicious. "I've seen many things, and I've read stories of skin-changers in the Citadel, but I never believed them," he said. "Can every northerner do it?"
"No," Jon shook his head. "It is a rare gift."
"Prove it!" Oberyn demanded.
"Ask him something I couldn't have taught him to answer. He can't see the future or know everything that has ever happened," Jon suggested.
Oberyn frowned as he thought carefully. "Who was my sister?" he asked.
"Elia... first... wife... of... Rhaegar..." Bran replied.
"Seven fucking hells," Oberyn shook his head. "And you can do this too?" he asked Jon.
Jon nodded. "Aye, I'm bonded with my direwolf, and I can do it easily. I've been able to see through his eyes to find my wife. I've also changed into a cat while in King's Landing. I used it to spy on the Lannister," he chose not to mention to Oberyn that Littlefinger was dead and the person he'd encountered was a fourteen-year-old faceless assassin, who had also been watching people in the Red Keep through the eyes of another cat.
"And your wife?" Oberyn asked.
"She can see through her direwolf, called Lady," Jon told him, before turning to Bran. "Are you at Queenscrown yet?" he asked.
"Yes... Varys too," Bran told him. "Sansa... gone... to Winter... fell."
"When?" Jon asked, confused as to why she would leave so soon and how she was transporting the egg. He hadn't warged since they left Dragonstone; he ought to check in on her tonight.
"Three... days," was the reply.
"Is it because of Varys?" Jon queried.
"North... council," Bran replied. "Ramsay... egg box..."
"Which direwolves are with Sansa?" Jon wanted to know.
"Lady... Ghost... Nymeria... Greywind..."
"Who is with her?"
"Robb... Theon... Tormund... Ygritte..." Bran quorked.
"How is Ser Barristan?" Jon had been worried about the elder Kingsguard. As Bran hadn't mentioned him, Jon presumed he must still be in Queenscrown.
"Better... in Queenscrown," Bran informed them.
Oberyn frowned. "Ser Barristan is one of your Kingsguard?"
Jon nodded. "He got injured while protecting Sansa. A bastard son of one of the northern Lords tried to kill her. We're taking him to Winterfell to answer for his crimes. He is Roose Bolton's heir and is the main suspect in killing his brother. I'll execute him when we arrive at Winterfell," Jon said.
Oberyn laughed. "This is a far quicker method of sending ravens."
"Aye, it is," Jon agreed before turning back to Bran. "Is there anything else I need to know?"
"Stannis... dead..." Bran said. "Tommen King. Letter... from... Arya... in Gulltown... Take a... chest... Baelish... office... address."
Jon felt a surge of gratitude towards Bran but kept his composure in front of Oberyn. He didn't want to reveal his secret mission to uncover Littlefinger's wealth. Instead, he shifted the conversation. "Whereabouts are Shireen and Davos?" he asked.
"Fingers," Bran quorked.
Oberyn frowned. "Shireen, you mean the Princess Shireen?"
"We rescued her from the Red Keep and are taking her north. She can take charge of the Stormlands," Jon explained.
"Ah," Oberyn nodded and smiled. "So you have at least one southron kingdom."
"Aye," Jon smiled. "We might have the Reach," he added.
"No..." Bran quorked. "Tyrells... traitors. Margaery... to wed... Tommen."
"Never mind," Jon sighed. "Margaery isn't the only woman in the Reach."
"I have to say, I'm impressed," Oberyn said. "You have more allies than I expected. I take it you are attempting to recruit the Vale."
"Sansa's cousin is the Lord Paramount of the Vale. Although he is still a child. Lord Arryn's mother is Lady Stark's sister; we hope we can persuade her to join our cause," Jon explained to Oberyn, although he couldn't tell him it all depended on Arya being able to fake being Littlefinger around Lysa Arryn. "That would give us four of the Seven Kingdoms. One either siding with us or staying neutral. I doubt the Ironborn will get involved. That leaves the Westerlands, the Crownlands, and the Reach."
"I will try to convince my brother to join your cause," Oberyn said. "But we will want something in return, a match, a good one."
"Aye, I can imagine," Jon sighed. "Lord Stark might be amenable to some suggestions. Or I can offer one of my own children. I will give you the same deal I offered Margaery, who appears to have gone back on her word."
"What is that?" Oberyn asked.
"One of my children to wed one of Doran's grandchildren," Jon offered. "It would tie Dorne once more to the crown, and a child of Dorne may one day rule." Jon wanted to wed his heir to one of Robb's children, which was why he wasn't being specific regarding which child he meant.
"I think Doran would be agreeable to such a match," Oberyn nodded. "I will put it to my brother. But it is best if you send the raven from Gulltown. The northern ravens will be watched as soon as Tywin knows of your plans."
"I will send the raven as soon as I get to Gulltown," Jon promised.
Oberyn stood. "I will go write out the messages, and you can prepare for whatever it is you are doing for Littlefinger," he said. "Even if my brother refuses, my daughters, the Sand Snakes, will join the fight," he added with a hint of pride in his voice.
"Every able fighter is welcome," Jon smiled, shaking Oberyn's hand before the Red Viper left to craft his letters. Meanwhile, Jon prepared to fit all of his belongings in one chest and take the others with him. He'd have to take one of the sailors to help him carry the boxes unless Oberyn wanted to disguise himself as a sailor and venture into Gulltown with him.
Jon would put the idea to Oberyn later, for now, he would get a bite to eat and concentrate on the job at hand, while the raven Bran had been inhabiting, fell asleep on his desk.
"By Bran, speak to you later," he whispered, before taking a bite of dry bread and washing it down with some ale.