Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warnings:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationships:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Stats:
Published:
2025-10-15
Completed:
2025-10-18
Words:
42,435
Chapters:
13/13
Comments:
64
Kudos:
14
Hits:
753

(WILL NOT BE REWRITTEN/COMPLETED/BROKEN NARRATIVE/PROSE MOSTLY) The Prince and the She-Wolf

Chapter 7: Chapter Seven: "The Viper's Leash: Doran & Oberyn"

Summary:

The tense conversation between Doran and Oberyn Martell continues. Doran, leveraging his authority as Prince of Dorne and his concern for Elia's safety, presents Oberyn with a calculated proposal: instead of a rogue confrontation, Oberyn will lead a significant Dornish host north as an official liaison to Rhaegar's army. It's a plan designed to give Dorne eyes and ears on the Crown Prince, maintain a degree of control, and provide Oberyn a legitimate channel for his anger. The brothers debate the terms of this fragile alliance, fully aware that a single misstep could doom Elia and plunge the loyalist cause into chaos. For Oberyn, it is the bitter realization that to protect his sister, he must serve the man he despises.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

Oberyn returned to his chair slowly, eyes narrowed. "Explain."

"Rhaegar sent a letter requesting that Dorne commit forces to his command," Doran said, pouring more wine for both of them with a steady hand. "He wants to gather what strength he can and march north to face Robert Baratheon. I am granting his request—in part. I will not send the whole of Dorne's strength to be commanded by a man whose judgment is... questionable at present. But I will send a significant contingent. Ten thousand spears."

Oberyn stared. That was nearly half of Dorne's full levy. "You would give him that many?"

"I would give Dorne that many," Doran corrected gently. "These men will march under a Martell banner. They will need a Dornish commander. Someone to coordinate with Rhaegar while ensuring Dornish interests are protected. Someone who can report back to me on his plans and his... state of mind."

The implication was clear. Oberyn's sharp mind pieced it together instantly.

"You want me to lead them."

"I do. Officially, you will be the commander of the Dornish auxiliary force, marching in support of the Crown Prince. Unofficially..." Doran gestured with his cup. "You will be in a position to watch him. To ensure he doesn't make decisions that endanger Elia. To apply pressure where needed. And—most importantly—to be in place to extract her and the children if the situation in King's Landing deteriorates."

Oberyn sat very still, the initial shock giving way to cold calculation. It was a brilliant move. Doran was leashing him, yes—but he was leashing him with a sword in his hand and an army at his back. He would have what he wanted: proximity to Rhaegar, the ability to confront him, leverage over the man who'd wronged their sister. But it would be wrapped in duty and legitimacy. He wouldn't be a rogue prince riding to pick a fight. He'd be the Marshal of the Dornish Host.

"And Rhaegar will accept this?" Oberyn asked, testing the idea. "Having me—Elia's brother, who he must know despises him—at his side?"

"He won't have a choice," Doran said simply. "It's my price for ten thousand spears. He can accept your command of the Dornish contingent, or he can march north with a handful of volunteers and face Robert Baratheon alone. He is a pragmatist, if nothing else. He will accept."

The distinction was crucial. Rhaegar would be the overall commander of the campaign, a prince of the blood leading the loyalist army. But Oberyn would command the Dornishmen within that army. A delicate, dangerous balance of power.

"What are the conditions?" Oberyn finished the thought, already knowing there would be strings attached. Doran never gave anything without extracting precise terms.

"Several." Doran counted them off on his fingers. "First: you do not challenge Rhaegar to single combat unless he gives you cause that I agree is sufficient. Wounded pride is not sufficient cause. An actual, direct threat to Elia is."

"Agreed," Oberyn said, his voice tight.

"Second: you maintain regular communication. Ravens. Riders. I want reports on Rhaegar's plans, the morale of the men, the movements of the rebels. I cannot make decisions in Sunspear without information from the field."

"Agreed."

"Third: you obey Rhaegar's strategic commands in battle. He is the Crown Prince and the overall commander. You have tactical autonomy over your own men, but when he gives an order for the army as a whole, you follow it. We cannot afford a fractured command when facing Robert's host."

That one stung. The idea of taking orders from Rhaegar was galling. But Doran was right. A divided army was a dead army. "Agreed."

"Fourth—and this is the most important, Oberyn—you do nothing that puts Elia at greater risk without consulting me first. No matter how justified your anger, no matter how much you wish for immediate satisfaction, you will not act rashly. You will be my brother, not a hothead seeking vengeance. Promise me."

Oberyn's jaw tightened. "And if there is no time? If a threat is imminent?"

"Then you use your best judgment," Doran said, his gaze intense. "But Oberyn... your judgment, not your anger. Promise me that."

For a long, tense moment, Oberyn stared at his brother. Then, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. "I promise. For Elia. My actions will be guided by her safety above all else."

"Good." Doran relaxed slightly, the tension leaving his shoulders. "Finally, when this war ends—if we win—you will help me secure Elia's position. Rhaegar will owe us a great debt. We will collect it, for her and for her children."

"And if we lose?" Oberyn asked, the question hanging cold in the warm air.

"If we lose, you get Elia and the children out of King's Landing before Robert Baratheon's army reaches the gates. By any means necessary. I don't care if you have to burn a path through the city. You bring them home to Dorne."

Oberyn smiled for the first time that night—a sharp, dangerous expression that was all teeth. "That is a condition I will enjoy fulfilling."

"Let us pray it does not come to that." Doran drank, then set down his cup with finality. "One last matter. The Stark girl."

Oberyn's smile vanished. "What of her?"

"We do not know where she is. We do not know if she went with him willingly or if she is his captive, as Robert Baratheon claims. If you discover her whereabouts..."

"What do I do?" Oberyn's voice was dangerously quiet.

Doran was silent for a long moment, his expression troubled. "You report it to me immediately. You do not act. You do not confront Rhaegar about her. You do not approach her. You simply... tell me. We will decide how to proceed together."

"And if she is here?" Oberyn pressed. "If he has hidden his... companion somewhere in Dorne, on our very land, while my sister withers in King's Landing?"

"Then we will have leverage," Doran said, his voice cold as stone. "Leverage to ensure Elia's safety. But Oberyn—listen to me. If you find the girl and do something rash, if you harm her or threaten her, Rhaegar will never forgive it. And that will put Elia in even greater danger." He paused, his gaze locking with his brother's. "Think, Oberyn. The girl is betrothed to Robert Baratheon. Officially, she is an abducted maiden. If she were to be found and returned to the rebels... it could be a path to ending this war before it truly begins. But it is a path fraught with peril. We will not walk it without careful thought."

Oberyn's hands clenched into fists on his knees. The thought of the northern girl being the key to anything other than Rhaegar's dishonor was infuriating. But the cold logic of Doran's point was inescapable.

"I understand," he said through gritted teeth. "I will not touch her. Not while Elia remains a hostage."

"Good."

They sat in silence, the weight of their precarious plan settling over them.

Finally, Oberyn asked, "Where is Rhaegar mustering his forces? Do we know?"

"Ser Lewyn reported that Rhaegar plans to establish a command post at Yronwood. It's centrally located, defensible, and Lord Yronwood is reliably loyal—or at least, ambitious enough to want royal favor." Doran pulled a map from a side table and unrolled it. "The Dornish host will begin to assemble there. You will ride to meet them."

"Yronwood." Oberyn studied the map. "Three days' ride from here. Maybe four."

"You'll leave the day after tomorrow. It gives you time to prepare, select your commanders, and gives me time to send word ahead that you are coming as Dorne's appointed Marshal."

"And Rhaegar? Does he know I am coming?"

"Not yet. But he will." Doran’s smile was thin. "I am sure he will be delighted."

Despite everything, Oberyn laughed—a short, bitter sound devoid of humor. "Yes. I am sure we will get along famously."

The tactical discussion complete, the silence that fell was different. Less formal. More personal.

Doran poured more wine—slowly, his movements careful in the way they became when his joints ached. Oberyn noticed but said nothing. His brother's pride was a fragile thing these days.

"Tell me honestly," Doran said quietly. "Can you do this? Can you work with this man without letting your anger destroy everything?"

Oberyn considered the question with a gravity he rarely showed. He stared into his cup, watching the dark wine swirl. "I want to hurt him, Doran. Every time I think of Elia's face when she learned what he had done, when she understood that the entire realm knew he had set her aside... " His voice dropped, raw with an emotion he rarely let surface. "I want to make him feel a fraction of that shame. I want him to understand the cost."

"I know." Doran’s voice was heavy with shared pain.

"But," Oberyn continued, and his gaze lifted to meet his brother’s, clear and resolute, "I love Elia more than I hate him. And if keeping her safe means marching at his side, taking his orders, and pretending to be a loyal ally while I am a viper in his midst... " He took a deep breath. "I will do it. I will hate every single moment. But I will do it."

"That is all I ask."

Doran reached across the table and gripped Oberyn's forearm. The gesture was brief but firm—a rare moment of physical connection between two brothers who expressed their bond through action more than touch.

"You are a good brother," Doran said, his voice quiet. "To both of us. Elia is fortunate to have you."

"Elia deserved better than this," Oberyn said, his voice rough. "Better than Rhaegar. Better than... any of it. She deserved to be cherished."

"Perhaps she was, once." Doran released his arm and sat back. "Love is complicated, Oberyn. It is not a song. It is not consistent. It is possible Rhaegar cared for Elia and still chose... this path. Both things can be true."

"That does not make it acceptable."

"No," Doran agreed, his expression sad. "It does not make it acceptable," Doran agreed quietly. "But understanding why people act as they do is not the same as forgiving them. You will need to understand Rhaegar if you are to command effectively at his side. You do not need to forgive him."

Oberyn drained his cup and stood, the decision made, the bitterness of it settling deep in his bones. "I must make preparations. Choose my commanders."

"Take the time you need," Doran said, standing as well, grimacing slightly as his knee protested. "Choose men who can keep their heads around Rhaegar’s people. Men who will not be easily provoked."

"Most of my men enjoy a good fight."

"Then choose the ones who love Elia more than they love fighting."

Oberyn gave a curt nod. "I have a list. Ser Daemon Sand, certainly. Ulwyck Uller. Nymeros Vaith—he's steady."

"Good choices."

As Oberyn moved toward the door, he paused. "Doran... the letter. Elia's letter. May I keep it?"

"Of course." Doran retrieved it from the desk and handed it over. "But Oberyn—remember her words. Don't let anger guide you. She needs us clear-headed."

"I know." Oberyn folded the letter carefully and tucked it inside his tunic, the parchment a weight against his chest. "I will try."

"That is all any of us can do."

As Oberyn reached the door, Doran called after him: "And Oberyn? One last thing."

"Yes?"

"Rhaegar is still the Crown Prince. He outranks you. Formally, you owe him deference." Doran's voice was measured. "I am not saying you have to like him. I am not even saying you have to respect him. But in public, in front of the men, you will observe proper protocol. Is that understood?"

Oberyn's smile was sharp as broken glass. "I will give Prince Rhaegar exactly the deference he has earned."

"Oberyn—"

"I will be polite, Doran. I promise. But I will not pretend to worship him the way his Kingsguard does. I am not Arthur Dayne."

"Just... try not to start a civil war before the real war begins."

"I will do my best," Oberyn said.

And with that dubious assurance, he left.

Oberyn returned to his chambers. The letter he had written to Elia still sat on his desk, unsealed and unfinished.

He read it one last time, then slowly, deliberately, crumpled it and threw it into the dying embers of his hearth.

What he had written was truth, but it was a truth born of fire and instinct. The path forward required ice and calculation. He would write a new letter to Elia—a careful, coded message of reassurance, letting her know he was coming north, that he would be near, that he would protect her.

But not tonight. Tonight, his mind was a whirlwind of strategy and suppressed rage.

He stripped off his sword belt and boots, falling onto his bed without bothering to undress further. He lay staring at the ceiling, the wine doing nothing to dull the sharp edges of his thoughts.

He was trapped. For all his skill with a spear, for all his reputation, for all the fear he inspired in his enemies, he was utterly powerless. He could not challenge Rhaegar, for that would endanger Elia. He could not refuse to help, for that would abandon her. He was being forced to serve the man he most despised in the world in order to protect the person he loved most.

The bitter irony was a poison in his veins.

This was not the glorious charge he had envisioned, riding to defend his sister's honor. This was a slow, humiliating march into servitude. He would have to smile, and bow, and call Rhaegar 'Your Grace'. He would have to stand by while the man who broke his sister's heart gave him orders.

A cold, deep fury began to build in his chest, far more dangerous than the hot flash of his usual temper. This was a rage that would not burn out. This was a rage that would wait.

I will follow you north, Rhaegar Targaryen, he thought, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. I will march in your army and I will smile and I will pretend we are allies.

But I will not forget. And I will not forgive.

And the moment Elia is safe, the moment my leash is cut... I will end you. Not for pride. Not for anger. But for her.

This I swear.

In two days, Prince Oberyn Martell would ride for Yronwood.

And the fragile loyalist coalition would gain its most dangerous ally.