General POV
The solar at Winterfell was quiet—well, as quiet as a room full of young girls could be. Sansa Stark, poised like she'd been trained by the gods themselves, was seated on one of the sturdy wooden chairs, carefully threading a needle through a piece of fabric. To anyone else, it might have looked like simple stitching, but to Sansa, it was a masterpiece in the making. She was probably imagining how her needlework would one day be the talk of the North. Or maybe the world.
Arya, on the other hand, looked like she was in the middle of a battle with an invisible army of needles. She was slouched in her chair, eyes narrowed as though the fabric was personally affronting her. Every few seconds, she let out an exaggerated sigh, the kind that could shake a tree branch if there was enough drama in it.
"This is so boring!" Arya groaned, flopping onto the table as if she was about to faint from sheer tedium. "Why do I have to do this? I'd rather be out running through the woods or training with swords, like Robb and Jon!"
Sansa, who was sewing what was most definitely going to be a perfect wolf design (no doubt a masterpiece of art that would be remembered for generations), shot her sister a look. "Maybe you'd enjoy it more if you actually tried," she said in her ever-so-patient tone. "Besides, what else would you be doing? Playing in the mud with the dogs?"
Arya made a face. "Mud's more fun than this," she muttered, poking herself with the needle for emphasis. "I bet Jeyne's having more fun than me."
Jeyne Poole, who was seated next to Arya, nodded vigorously. "Totally!" Jeyne said, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of being in the presence of all this needlework. "I can totally make dresses one day, and they'll be—"
"No one cares about dresses," Arya interrupted, rolling her eyes so dramatically it could've been a whole play in itself. "What's the point of making things that just sit there? I want to make something useful. Like a sword. Or a bow and arrow. Maybe a cool axe…"
"Oh, please," Sansa said, lifting an eyebrow as she carefully tucked a corner of the fabric. "What's an axe going to do? You'll ruin your hair just trying to hold it."
"I don't care about my hair," Arya said, smirking at her sister. "If I get too sweaty with an axe, it's because I'm too busy saving you."
Jeyne, who was a little more inclined to actually enjoy the sewing, giggled. "You could make a dress with swords, Arya. You could be the first knight lady."
"Not a lady," Arya said, pointing at her chest as if that made all the difference. "I'm not like Sansa."
"I am a lady," Sansa said, narrowing her eyes at her twin. "And I'll be the best one. I'll make dresses for all the ladies in the North. Maybe even the Queen one day."
Arya snorted. "You'd make a dress for the Queen and then what? Get her all tangled up in thread?"
"Girls," Aunt Ashara said, her voice soft but firm enough to hush even the most chaotic of them. She was sitting in a chair near the window, her elegance making the rest of them look like a wild pack of puppies. "Patience. It's a skill every lady needs to learn. Especially one who plans to manage a house as large as Winterfell."
Arya immediately turned her head toward Ashara. "You mean you expect me to be patient and calm while I do this?" she asked, as if Ashara had just asked her to fly on the back of a dragon.
"Aunt Ashara's right," Jeyne said, offering an innocent smile. "It's important to learn these things. Like how to care for the people you love."
"Maybe if I loved sewing, I'd care more," Arya grumbled, staring at her fingers as if they had betrayed her.
Ashara chuckled softly, clearly not expecting Arya to change her mind. "It's not just about making things, Arya. It's about putting care and effort into everything you do. That's what makes it valuable."
Arya's response was a spectacular eye-roll so dramatic it should've been illegal. "Right," she muttered, poking herself with the needle again. "I'll put effort into the sword part when I'm older. You can keep your valuable dresses."
Before anyone could respond, the sound of horns echoed through the hall. Not the kind of horns you hear when someone's trying to announce dinner. No, these were the kind of horns that meant something big was happening. Something important.
"Oh, finally!" Arya shot up from her seat, nearly knocking over her sewing basket in the process. "They're back! Jon and Robb are back! Cregan too!"
Sansa's eyes lit up, and she quickly forgot all about her stitching. "Cregan's home!" she exclaimed, practically jumping out of her chair. "I bet he brought us presents!"
Arya threw her arms around Jeyne. "They'd better have brought something good! I'll bet they've got all kinds of fun stuff."
Sansa wasn't listening. "Maybe he brought me some fabric for my next dress," she said, already imagining a new wardrobe she'd design for herself. "Something in red, I think. Red's the color of power."
Jeyne nodded enthusiastically. "Totally! You'll be the most powerful lady ever."
Arya glanced at her sister and rolled her eyes—this time with actual affection. "Yeah, Sansa. Power comes from dresses. That's the real lesson here."
Ashara, ever the calm one, smiled at the girls. She knew how much they enjoyed their brother's return. She also knew that Winterfell would be in for one lively evening, with presents, stories, and a little bit of chaos thrown in. As the sounds of the returning party echoed through the courtyard, Ashara stood, watching as the twins rushed to the window.
Below, the gates of Winterfell creaked open, revealing Cregan and his party riding in, their cloaks heavy with snow, their faces full of the kind of stories you only get from traveling through the wild. And just like that, all talk of dresses, needles, and patience were forgotten. The world outside Winterfell was calling—and nothing, not even sewing, could keep them away.
"Do you think he brought anything cool?" Arya asked, her eyes shining.
Sansa gave her a look. "Of course he did."
But before they could argue any further, the front doors of Winterfell burst open, and the next chapter of their story began.
And then, of course, a bear charged straight at Cregan Stark. Because why wouldn't it?
—
Cregan's POV
I've got to say, riding into Winterfell on the back of a direwolf is definitely one of the coolest things I've ever done. It's like stepping into a Hall of Heroes where all the bards stop mid-song and just gape at you. Except it's not just me they're staring at—it's Padfoot, my giant, slightly terrifying direwolf who looks like he could eat a horse and still be hungry for a second helping.
And then there's Rhaenys, sitting right next to me on Meraxes, her equally massive wolf. Together, we probably look like some kind of legendary pair, straight out of one of Old Nan's stories. You know, the ones where the hero rides in, all grim and mysterious, and everyone just stands in awe of them. Of course, I'm not sure anyone is going to care much about the fact that I'm rocking a bear-fur cloak. Sigh.
Winterfell's gates creaked open, revealing the familiar stone towers, the kind that always looked like old friends welcoming you home. And standing in front of those gates—yep, you guessed it—were the twins. Arya and Sansa, already peering out of the window, their faces a mix of excitement, curiosity, and way too much enthusiasm for my taste. Arya was practically bouncing, like a ball of energy that might just explode if she didn't do something crazy soon. Sansa, on the other hand, was trying so hard to play it cool that it was almost funny.
I turned to Rhaenys. "Brace yourself," I muttered. "We're about to get tackled."
She gave me a smile that could rival the sun. "I think I can handle a couple of overexcited cousins."
Before I could even hop off Padfoot, the twins were already charging down the steps, My mother trailing behind them with the dignity of a woman who was definitely not running after two seven-year-olds. Arya reached me first, flying at me like a cannonball and wrapping her tiny arms around my waist.
"Cregan!" she yelled, which was probably louder than necessary, but hey, that was Arya. "Did you bring us anything cool? Please tell me you brought something cool."
Sansa, predictably, wasn't far behind. She gave me a hug, but it was more of a dignified "I missed you" kind of hug. Not as enthusiastic as Arya's, but still very warm. And her eyes—yeah, I caught her eyeing my cloak like she was already planning to swipe it. I smirked.
"I missed you both too," I said, ruffling Arya's hair and earning a melodramatic groan from her. "And yes, Arya, I brought something cool. But you'll have to wait until we're inside for the reveal."
She crossed her arms and pouted like someone had just ruined her whole day. "Fine," she muttered, but her eyes darted straight to Padfoot. "Can I pet him?"
"Maybe later," I said, glancing at Padfoot, who was currently giving me that "Do I really have to like these people?" look. "First, let's get inside. Padfoot's a little, uh, selective about who he lets pet him."
From the corner of my eye, I saw Jon, Robb, and Aegon running toward us like they were training for some kind of race. And given the wooden swords still clutched in their hands and the sweat on their faces, I guessed they'd just finished some sort of mock battle. I could practically hear Ser Rodrik grumbling somewhere in the background about how they were slacking off in their drills.
Jon got to me first, his eyes immediately flicking toward Padfoot. "Cregan, is that a direwolf?" he asked, sounding like he might explode if he didn't get an answer soon.
"No, Jon," I said, deadpan. "It's an unusually large rabbit."
Robb immediately piped up, his voice full of awe. "No way. That's a direwolf. Where did you find him?"
"Found him in the woods," I said, trying to sound casual, but I could tell they were all wondering the same thing: Can I have one of these beasts?
Rhaenys, dismounting Meraxes with the grace of someone who definitely had royal blood, smiled. "The wolves found us," she said. "And as for getting one of your own..." She shot a playful glance my way. "That depends on whether you can convince one to like you. They're not exactly the cuddly type."
Jon and Robb's eyes lit up like they'd just been handed an impossible quest. Aegon, on the other hand, was eyeing Meraxes with the caution of someone who knew better than to get too close to something that could end you with one swipe of its giant claws.
"Are they dangerous?" Robb asked, still staring at Padfoot, probably trying to figure out how he could train one of these creatures.
"Only if you're stupid around them," I said. "If you treat them right, they'll treat you right. Well, mostly. Padfoot, for instance, has a tendency to 'accidentally' knock people over when he's in a playful mood." I shot Padfoot a warning glance, but he just looked at me like, What? I'm just big-boned.
Arya, of course, wasn't paying attention to any of that. She was already inching closer to Padfoot, her hand stretched out like she was trying to make friends with a bear that could eat her whole. "He's so cool," she whispered, absolutely starstruck.
"Careful," Rhaenys advised gently. "Let him come to you."
And to my surprise—Padfoot sniffed Arya's hand and then licked it. Arya practically squealed in delight and wiped the slobber off with the most dramatic, "Oh my gods, he likes me!" look on her face.
"Looks like he likes you," I said, grinning. "Just don't get too attached. He doesn't share his dinner."
By the time we walked inside, the twins were still buzzing about the direwolves, Jon and Robb were arguing over how to track a direwolf, and even Aegon had stolen a few glances at Meraxes like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
As we crossed the threshold of Winterfell, I couldn't help but grin. The North had its fair share of legends, but today? Today, we brought two of them home.
—
General POV
Oberyn Martell was leaning dramatically against the ship's railing, his dark hair flowing like some kind of brooding pirate lord in a cheap romance novel. Seriously, if he wasn't the one steering the ship, he'd probably have a black feathered hat by now. A strong gust of salt-laden wind whipped through his hair as he stared out at the horizon with the intensity of someone who probably spent an absurd amount of time practicing that "look" in front of a mirror. It was honestly impressive.
"Stop posing for the seagulls," Ellaria Sand called from beside him, her voice warm but the kind of affectionate teasing that you only get when you've spent a million years with someone. She nudged his arm with a smile that was all fond exasperation. "You're not fooling anyone. They can't even appreciate your cheekbones."
Oberyn didn't even flinch. In fact, he gave her a slow, dramatic smile that practically screamed "I know I'm ridiculously attractive." "My cheekbones," he said, his voice low and smooth, "are a gift to all creatures, feathered or otherwise."
Ellaria rolled her eyes but didn't look away. "You're insufferable, you know that?"
"Yes," he agreed, "but you love me anyway."
She smiled softly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "I suppose."
His gaze shifted north, the endless sea stretching out in front of them, glimmering like molten silver under the sun. "I think about Elia and the children often," he murmured, his voice suddenly quieter, the brooding pirate lord momentarily replaced by the loving father and husband. "It's been too long since I've seen them."
Ellaria's expression softened, and she leaned against him, resting her chin on her hand. "I know. I can't wait to see their faces again. And the Sand Snakes will love spending time with their cousins. Rhaenys is going to go absolutely wild."
Just then, as if summoned by the mention of her name, Tyene Sand appeared out of nowhere, practically bouncing across the deck like a dog who's just been told it's time for a walk. Her braids bounced with every step as she skipped over to Oberyn, eyes wide with excitement.
"Will Cregan be there?" she asked, her voice so high-pitched with enthusiasm that even the seagulls seemed to pause in midair to listen. "He's so cool! He has two Valyrian Steel swords now! And that smile that makes people faint! I bet he's going to make all the bards swoon!"
Oberyn squatted down to meet her gaze, eyes narrowing with mock seriousness. "First of all," he said, "you're too young to notice his smile. Second, yes, Cregan will be there. He's the Lord of Winterfell, after all. And I imagine the bards will be swooning over him before long, just as you predict."
Tyene grinned and spun around, skipping off in search of her next distraction. Obara, who was leaning coolly against the mast with the air of someone who was way too aware of how awesome they were, watched Tyene with a raised eyebrow.
"Why does everyone talk about Cregan like he's some hero out of a bard's tale?" Obara asked, a mix of exasperation and intrigue in her voice. She didn't look at Oberyn, but the words were clearly meant for him. "I'm more interested in seeing if Rhaenys has learned how to hold a sword without tripping over her own feet."
Ellaria shot her a pointed look, clearly not amused by the implication. "You mean," she said with a raised eyebrow, "you want to fight her again?"
Obara shrugged nonchalantly. "Training, Mother. It's called training. Look it up."
Ellaria sighed deeply, though it was clear she was trying to suppress a smile. "You're exhausting, but you're my exhausting."
Oberyn, completely unfazed by the familial chaos, turned back to the horizon, his face once again shifting into that mysterious pirate lord mode. "Let's just hope we bring everyone together this time," he said, his voice deep and full of gravitas. Of course, it was dramatic as hell. Because why not?
Ellaria gave him a playful nudge, this time a little harder, and grinned. "You're overthinking it, Oberyn. It's a family visit, not a trial by combat. Save the theatrics for when the wine is poured."
Oberyn gave her a sidelong glance, his lips curling into a knowing grin. "But where would the fun be without a little bit of drama?"
As the ship sliced through the waves toward White Harbor, Tyene was already making grand plans in her head about how she would get Cregan to let her hold one of his Valyrian Steel swords. Obara, always the practical one, was busy sharpening her daggers with a look that screamed, "Rhaenys better be ready for this rematch."
Nymeria, who had been sitting off to the side with a book, shot her sister a glance that said she was secretly hoping to join the rematch. And then, as always, Oberyn stood at the bow, watching the horizon, enjoying the feeling of being surrounded by his family. Quietly savoring the thought of all the chaos yet to come. And though it appeared calm now, anyone who knew Oberyn Martell knew better. Peace didn't last long around him.
But for now? For now, he could savor the journey. Even if, knowing him, the calm would last all of five minutes.
—
Cregan's POV
The Winterfell training yard was alive with the kind of noise that could make you think we were preparing for a war—or at least an awkward family dinner. Swords clanged, people grunted, and occasionally someone ate dirt. It was the usual chaos that came with me teaching my cousins how to wield swords, like an unintentional medieval circus act.
I, Cregan Stark—Master of the Savage Burn (okay, I made that part up)—stood at the ready, my twin wooden swords held in perfect stance, not because I was showing off, but because I definitely was. Padfoot, my loyal direwolf, padded along beside me like he had better things to do, but still kept a watchful eye on the action. I swear, he could probably teach these guys a thing or two about actual intimidation.
Uncle Arthur Dayne—aka "The Sword of the Morning" and the man who could make a sword look like an extension of his arm—watched us with his arms crossed. If he wasn't so cool, he would've looked like a grumpy old knight who'd forgotten how to smile. As it was, he just looked legendary. His gaze was intense, like he was one bad swing away from sighing and declaring us all hopeless.
Across the yard, my cousins stood in formation, ready for their inevitable defeat. Jon, looking like he had just read a book about "How to Be Brooding and Intense," tightened his stance like he was preparing for a duel with a dragon. Robb, my next challenger, looked like he was trying to figure out whether he should swing at me like a bear or a man. And Aegon? Well, Aegon was doing his thing—being annoyingly confident, smirking as if he had something to prove. Which, spoiler alert, he didn't. But hey, confidence was half the battle, right?
"Ready to see what you've got, boys?" I called out, twirling one of my swords just to make it look like I had style, and not because I definitely needed to distract them.
Jon gave me one of those serious nods. "Let's do this."
"Alright then," I grinned. "Prepare to have your minds blown."
Ser Rodrik Cassel, the toughest guy in the yard (even if he looked like he had a permanent scowl), raised a hand to start the match. Instantly, I leaped into action, my swords flashing like lightning—fast, brutal, and, if I'm being honest, a little bit unnecessarily flashy. Jon lunged first, all speed and precision, like a Stark should. Robb came next, all muscle and power, which wasn't a bad approach, except when you're up against me. And Aegon? Well, Aegon tried his best spin move—which looked more like he was trying to dance than fight.
"Come on, guys!" I taunted, easily dodging Jon's strike and parrying Robb's overhead attack. "This is supposed to be a challenge, right?"
Jon's eyes narrowed, which was his signature move. Robb growled under his breath, swinging harder, and Aegon attempted some ridiculous flip-kick thing that almost worked, until I casually sidestepped and sent him tumbling backwards.
Over by the sidelines, Arya was practically vibrating with excitement. She was whisper-yelling to Sansa, who was holding back giggles like a proper lady—mostly. Sansa, of course, was more interested in how my technique compared to everyone else's. Rhaenys, on the other hand, stood nearby with Meraxes, her direwolf, observing like she was definitely taking notes. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was just waiting for me to screw up.
Uncle Arthur didn't help much either, standing there with his usual "I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed" face. If there were an Olympic event for looking stoic and annoyed, he'd win gold every time.
The fight carried on like this—me dodging, blocking, and occasionally using my swords to dramatically spin in ways that made me look cooler than I actually was. Jon and Robb were getting sharper, no doubt about that. And Aegon, bless his heart, was trying. It was like watching a puppy try to be fierce. Cute, but not entirely successful.
Finally, I'd had enough. "Alright, alright, enough," I said, stepping back, chest heaving like I'd been through a marathon. "Not bad, lads. You've definitely gotten better. A little."
Jon smirked, a rare thing for him. "You're still impossible to hit."
Robb, wiping sweat from his brow, grinned. "But we're getting closer."
Aegon, who was dusting himself off after my last epic move, added, "Next time, you'll be the one on the ground."
I gave Jon a friendly ruffle of his hair—because nothing says "brotherly love" like messing with someone's personal space. "Keep dreaming."
Just as I was about to strut off like the victorious knight I was (because obviously I was), Uncle Arthur stepped forward, his presence immediately commanding everyone's attention. "Well done," he said, his voice as deep as a mountain, and just as intimidating. "All of you." He paused just long enough to make me squirm under his gaze. Then he added, "Cregan, you've improved."
Cue me trying to act cool, even though I was doing a happy dance on the inside. Uncle Arthur, the man who'd killed a hundred men before breakfast, was proud of me. Proud. That was like getting a gold star from a legend.
"Thanks, Uncle," I said, trying not to look like I'd just been handed a trophy.
As we headed back toward the hall, Arya was practically hopping on her feet, asking Jon for tips on footwork. Rhaenys was walking next to Aegon, giving him a look that might've been a mix of "you're lucky I didn't step in and save you" and "I'll lecture you later."
Me? I was just trying to keep a smug grin from spreading across my face. Sparring was fun, but watching my cousins improve made it even better. And when they finally did manage to land a hit? Well, I'd be there to congratulate them—because, hey, a little humility never hurt anyone. Right, Uncle?
I glanced over at Rhaenys, catching her eye for a second. She smiled, just the tiniest curve of her lips. Yup, she was watching. And she definitely approved of my "kicking their butts" technique. I grinned back.
Hey, if I had to go down in history as the best swordsman of my generation, I was okay with that.
—
General POV
The ship creaked as it docked at White Harbor, its wooden planks groaning like an old man trying to get out of bed. The city itself was a hive of activity—a constant buzz of merchants shouting their wares, sailors bickering over who should've tied the ship, and fish. Lots of fish. Seriously, if you didn't like seafood, White Harbor was probably not the place for you.
At the prow stood Oberyn Martell, looking every bit the seasoned traveler he was—tall, confident, and with that swagger that made him look like he could charm the pants off any noblewoman or tavern wench he came across. He was leaning against the railing, grinning as if he had just discovered the world's most perfect secret. Beside him, Ellaria Sand stood close, her dark eyes scanning the crowd with a mix of curiosity and amusement, her lips curled into that smile that made you wonder exactly what she was thinking. And judging by the way she was eyeing him, Oberyn had a good idea it wasn't about fish.
Behind them, the Sand Snakes were, as always, on edge—each of them ready to burst into action at the slightest provocation. Obara, ever the bold one, was practically vibrating with energy, her fingers itching for a fight. Nymeria had that calm, calculating look she always wore—like she was figuring out the most efficient way to rob a merchant. Tyene, the youngest, looked more than a little excited, though she masked it behind her coy, shy smile.
"You're staring, my love," Ellaria said, leaning in close enough that her breath tickled his ear. "Not that I mind, but you seem distracted."
Oberyn chuckled, his voice low and teasing. "I'm just admiring the view, my dear. The harbor, the people, the chaos—it's... quite the sight."
"And yet you have eyes for only one thing." Ellaria's smile deepened, that spark of mischief dancing in her eyes.
"Maybe two things," Oberyn quipped, nudging her playfully as he gave her a wink that could have melted the sun. "But who's counting?"
The Sand Snakes exchanged looks that ranged from disinterested to mildly entertained, but none of them said a word. They were used to their parents being... well, them.
The ship finally docked with a thud, and the gangplank was lowered with a creak that could only belong to something that had seen better days. On the dock, Lord Manderly was already waiting, his massive form towering over the crowd like an overenthusiastic bear.
"Prince Oberyn! Always a pleasure, my friend!" Lord Manderly boomed, his voice carrying across the pier as if he were announcing the start of a grand feast. His arms were wide open, ready for a hug that could probably suffocate anyone under a hundred pounds.
Oberyn stepped forward with a grin, offering a handshake that was as firm as the Lord's gut (and probably more than a little sweaty). "Lord Manderly, the pleasure is mine," he said, his tone smooth as butter, though his eyes flicked briefly to Ellaria, who looked like she was silently daring Manderly to try something funny.
Obara Sand stepped up next, all confidence and fire. "I'm Obara Sand," she said, her voice low and challenging, a smirk tugging at her lips. "And you're Lord Manderly, yes? Tell me, do you prefer your fish fresh, or are you the kind to appreciate a good salted one?"
Manderly chuckled deeply, shaking her hand with the kind of enthusiasm that would've made anyone else feel a bit self-conscious. "A strong one, I see. Well, Obara, welcome to White Harbor," he said, his voice thick with amusement. "I do love a good salted fish, though I'll admit, I prefer my guests un-salted."
Nymeria Sand was next, her eyes flicking over the Lord with the cool detachment of someone who had already decided whether or not they'd like him. "Nymeria Sand," she introduced herself, her voice sharp and to the point, just like her personality.
"Ah, Nymeria," Manderly said with a twinkle in his eye. "It's a pleasure to have you in White Harbor. If you need anything—anything at all—don't hesitate to ask. I'm a man who enjoys a good trade."
"Good to know," Nymeria said with a smile that was half-curious, half-skeptical. "I'm sure I'll take you up on that offer, Lord Manderly."
Then there was Tyene. Sweet, innocent Tyene—who, for all her softness, could probably twist a dagger in your heart before you had time to blink. She stepped up, shy smile and all, and said simply, "Tyene Sand."
Lord Manderly's grin softened, his voice almost tender as he spoke. "Ah, Tyene. It's a pleasure to have you here, my dear. You're the one who'll make this place feel... a bit more lively, I'm sure."
Ellaria raised an eyebrow at the Lord's reaction, but said nothing, letting Tyene's charm work its magic.
Oberyn couldn't help but laugh under his breath. "You have a way with people, don't you, my love?"
"Don't start," Ellaria muttered, though the smile on her face betrayed her.
Finally, with the greetings out of the way, the group made their way through the bustling docks and into the heart of the city. Oberyn felt that familiar twinge of nostalgia as the salty air filled his lungs and the chaos of the place enveloped him. White Harbor had always been a place of opportunity, of potential fun, of mischief—and he wasn't about to let that reputation die on his watch.
"I do love the North," Oberyn remarked, his tone more serious now, but still playful. "It's rugged, untamed, and full of... possibilities."
Ellaria's laugh was light, but there was something underneath it, a promise of more to come. "Yes, it is. And who knows? We might just find what we're looking for."
"What are we looking for?" Oberyn asked, his hand brushing against hers in a way that could've meant nothing—or everything.
Ellaria's smile was slow, seductive. "You know exactly what we're looking for, my dear. Adventure. And perhaps... something more."
Oberyn's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Ah, always something more." He winked, clearly enjoying the game they played.
And with that, they moved through the city, the Sand Snakes trailing behind them like the storm they were always ready to be. If White Harbor didn't have the reputation of being a place of chaos before, it would now. But Oberyn wouldn't have had it any other way. After all, what was life without a little bit of drama—and a few memorable encounters along the way?
---
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