Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dearest W.

Nine days hence, at the hour of the bat, I intend to find myself in want of friendship and temporary shelter. Permit me to beg of you the use of your study and the pleasure of your company for an hour or two. With your permission, I will be there.

Leave the window ajar.

O.

*

Willas takes the stairs up slowly, his cane in one hand and a candle in the other. A spare amount of moonlight comes filtering through the narrow windows in the stairwell, but not enough to see by, not in these warm summer days. His footsteps and the steel tip of his cane echo off the curving walls on his slow ascent. The way is dark and sharp, without the constant tread of footfalls to smoothen the stones, and icy pain lances up his leg with every step. Willas seldom ventures to this part of his chambers, but he presses forward. It will be done.

At the top of the stairs, he takes a few more weary steps round the room, lighting the lamps mounted on the walls, before easing himself into an armchair facing the wide window. The room is populated with a neat desk and a few chairs, and rows of bookshelves that conform to the wall’s curvature. Some glittering Tyrell granddame winks down at him from a portrait, her lord a stern counterpoint on the opposing wall. Willas had sent one of the chambermaids up early in the afternoon, to tidy up and lay out some refreshments, but the room still has the air of one which is neglected, rarely used.

His parents had wanted him relocated after the accident, to more accessible chambers whose rooms were all on one level, and closer to the ground. It would have made sense, but he could not bear the thought of leaving his childhood rooms then, and it is as unthinkable now. The windows face east, providing him with the sun’s warmth on mornings when he needs it most. He has calming views of the tiered gardens with their vined walls and abundant rosebushes, the Maester’s Turret with its constant animation and life, and further in the distance, the Mander ambles by.

There is a low chaise nearby, ideal for propping his foot unto, but not near enough for him to reach without vacating his seat. Willas soon gives up the attempt. Instead, he massages his aching leg with one hand, and reaches into his pocket with the other.

The letter is there, folded away neatly.

A shade of anxiety seeps over his skin. It would be greater if not for the pain, which as always requires a certain amount of mental power to manage. Willas is not a foolhardy man, can hardly be said to have taken many risks in his life, and the potential danger in this particular venture does not escape him. But when he could have stopped it, he did not, and there is much to be said for that.

He clenches and unclenches his fist, reclining into the arms of the chair. His hands feel as if they’re full of ants. They won’t stop moving. Willas wishes that he had brought his pipe up with him. Not just for smoking but for the sake of having something to do with himself. It does occur to him that the study would be the ideal place to smoke. His mother’s well-meaning fretfulness would not find him up here, nor would his father’s indulgent chuckles. He files the notion away for future reference. For now, his fingers squeeze and spasm again. He’s not entirely sure what to do with this empty, restless feeling.

Fortunately, it’s not a long wait.

The window is open by the barest notch, as had been instructed. Willas is looking at it steadily, so he is somewhat prepared when the hand appears at the sill, gripping hard. Nevertheless, his heart hammers away in his chest until the dark cloaked figure vaults fully into the room in a few lithe movements, and throws back the hood to reveal the dark, aquiline features of Prince Oberyn.

Truth be told, his heart continues to slam away beneath his ribs even after that. Willas rises slowly to his feet. It’s been a dozen or so years since the tourney. A constant correspondence with the man his family reviled had been the last thing he expected to arise from that day, but circumstance and the gods had made it so. Willas has come to know the prince through his letters; a bold man, quick of wit and laughter, charming when pleased and perilous when angered. His words had painted so vivid a picture that Willas feels as though he already knows the sharp-featured face in front of him, different as it is from the recollections of his boyhood.

Oberyn sweeps off his cloak and throws it onto a chair. The beginnings of a smile is already tugging insistently at Willas’ mouth.

“Prince Oberyn,” he says, bowing deep. “Midnight, a tower room, layers of secrecy… I should have known you would not be able to resist a dramatic entry on top of it all.”

The prince’s laughter bounces back at him from all sides of the little room. Willas is mildly surprised; Oberyn’s voice is not as he remembers it, lighter and more musical. His surprise does not end there; Oberyn strides forward, cups him by the cheeks, and kisses him soundly on each one. Willas can’t help but wobble a bit, and little tendrils of fire climb up his leg. He barely registers it; such is the intensity of the heat in his cheeks.

“Dramatic? I think you have just offended me, little flower.”

Willas tries not to smile at the old nickname; it is a duel fought and lost in a matter of seconds.

“Oh? So much for the fabled thick skin of the Dornish.”

This time, Oberyn’s laughter is close enough to puff across his cheeks. Willas finds himself being pulled into an embrace that is startlingly familiar for two men having just met again after two and a half seasons. Instinct moves him to return it however, and he does so with a light touch.

“A tongue that I could whet my steel upon,” Oberyn says, grinning. “Willas, my friend, you do not disappoint.”

“Well, you did come all this way,” Willas murmurs. He gestures Oberyn towards a chair, but his hand is ignored. Instead he finds himself being helped back to his own seat, a courtesy he submits to without comment. Part of it is pure wonder; his mind hasn’t yet caught up with the reality of Oberyn Martell vaulting through his window after midnight on a starry summer night. Part of it is gratitude; Oberyn helps him with an air of simple gallantry; no pity, no condescension. He pushes the chaise closer to Willas without being asked; Willas poses his leg onto it gratefully.

The prince strides back to the window to open it wider and roll up his sleeves, and Willas takes the time to observe him. His clothing is dark of hue and sleek in shape, leather armour that leaves room for movement and breath. The road’s dust clings to him in a thin film, but he manages to exude an air of easy restfulness. His inky hair is loose around his face, moving with every twitch of the wind, as if it cannot bear to sit still. In place of the spear rising on his back like the fabled tower of the Old Palace, he wears a wicked thin sword at his hip.

Willas can barely believe he is here, barely believe the wealth of emotion springing in his breast from the sight of him. When he’d first received the letter, a week or more ago, he had almost thought it a jape. But he has known Oberyn for long enough to tell the shape and scope of his jests, and this was not one of them. The raven had come from King’s Landing; that detail had not been difficult to figure out, and with that information, his mind had run in a thousand different directions.

“Might I trouble you for something to drink?” Oberyn asks, turning away from the window. “Water to start, perhaps. I am parched.”

Willas gestures to the corner table.

“I had the girl set out some fruit and Arbor Gold.”

Oberyn wrinkles his nose. “So, water, then.”

Willas only shakes his head. Oberyn’s smile disappears behind a chalice as he throws back a measure of wine as if it were water indeed, and not a fragrant, slowly-aged, ten year old spirit. He pours another glass that he hands to Willas when he walks over, then slings himself into the nearest chair, leg over the armrest. There is something both portrait-like and statuesque about the prince, even while he is in motion. Especially then. The beauty of his movement makes something twinge in remembrance. Willas had never moved like that, even before his leg, but he had hoped to. He never will now.

He massages his knee as he sips from the glass. Oberyn’s eyes are fast upon him.

“How fares the young Lord Tyrell?” he asks. “You look well, if weary.”

“That sums it up nicely,” Willas says. “I was surprised to receive your letter,” he adds, because it has to be said. Oberyn’s demeanour still suggests that this is a casual afternoon visit.

“I was surprised to receive your reply,” the prince says seamlessly.

“It was not a request easily denied. Not without more information.”

It is a clumsy way to probe, perhaps, but he would not be the man he is if he did not try. Years of long distance experience have taught him that it is a strange exercise, worrying about Oberyn, but as his friend, he falls to his duty.

Oberyn’s shadow smile races across his lips once more.

“I had an errand to run. More than that, I will not say, my friend.”

Willas expected as much, but his eyes still trace Oberyn’s features, searching for any hint, some kind of clue. He gives nothing away, but there is one part of the mystery that is clear to Willas. It is said that Prince Oberyn never leaves Dorne, but clearly, it would be many times more accurate to say that he is never seen outside of Dorne. On what business, Oberyn will not tell him, but with the shadow of the Rebellion still stark on the world’s surface after more than a decade, Willas suspects that his guess would not be far from the mark. The atrocities of King’s Landing had been many, and anyone with a mind of their own and ears to hear knew what had befallen the Dornish princess and her babes.

And with one’s ear to the ground, one could hear more. One could never think that Oberyn Martell had forgotten, would ever forget. One would be a fool.

“I demand that you fix that long face of yours, Willas,” Oberyn chides, breaking him out of his thoughts. He tosses something, and Willas feels a soft package land on his stomach. “A gift, for your hospitality.”

Willas handles the offering with care. Its contents become readily apparent after a little poking around.

“You are too kind. It is just what I needed, actually.”

Oberyn acknowledges his thanks with a nod of his inclined head, and then gestures to Willas’ leg.

“How is it?”

“Ah… as good as ever,” is the truthful answer.

Oberyn frowns. “Bad, then.”

“Yes,” Willas admits. “But your gift is most welcome.”

“I thought it might be.”

Hawking and horseflesh were not the only things that they had in common. Willas finds that, just as with women and politics, the Dornish seem to have a very sensible attitude about the herb. They do not view it with suspicion, but nor do they see it purely as the frivolity that so many others would label it. It had been Oberyn’s maester to recommend it to Willas at first, a few years after the tourney. He’s made periodical use of it ever since.

He rubs a pinch of the dried grass between his fingers, bringing a broken blade or two to his lips.

“I do not have my pipe with me,” he says ruefully.

“Here, I have a spare.” And he does indeed; Oberyn slips the pipe out of a pouch at his waist, and reaches across to pack and prepare it for Willas without being asked. Of the many unprincely behaviours that he has noted in Oberyn over the years, this is Willas’ favourite. He is of royal blood, but he serves his friends and close ones with a comfort and ease that most of Westeros would find appalling. Willas watches him fiddling neatly with the pipe, and for the second time that night, his face flushes with pleasure.

“You are very resourceful, my prince.” He takes the proffered pipe when lit, grateful to have something to do with his hands. The first sip is a tiny one, but it feels good, just the act of it. “Am I allowed to ask how you made your way into Highgarden? Found my chambers?” he asks.

Oberyn chuckles, a sharp sound.

“Is that a serious question, dear friend? It is child’s play for a single man worth his sand to breach the grounds of any castle. As for the finer points… none of your servants are disloyal, I assure you, but neither are they made of stone.”

Willas coughs on the inhale, and passes the pipe back to Oberyn. Just as with their wine and their feuds, the Dornish strain is bitter and sharp; if asked, he can use that as excuse for his heated face.

“Say no more.”

Amusement draws deep lines into the older man’s face, defining the crinkles at his eyes and lips.

“Have I embarrassed you?”

“No, no, not at all.”

It’s not a very good lie, especially given how his hand trembles by the minutest degree when Oberyn passes the pipe back, blowing out a perfect ring of smoke. He wags his finger playfully.

“Good. You must not go hunting after the poor fellow either.”

“On my honour,” Willas says, pounding his chest politely.

He doesn’t even have to turn to Oberyn to see that he is smiling harder than ever.

They pass the pipe back and forth a few more times, speaking of nothing in particular. Oberyn’s smooth voice and strong accent are extremely pleasing to listen to. Willas takes a few deep lungfuls, holding them in as long as possible before letting the smoke escape out the window and up to the stars. The familiar, cloudy feeling seeps into his head, muffling the world around him by the tiniest degree. It is both intense and calming, just as always.

After his third pull, Oberyn stops smoking when the pipe is passed to him. He talks more, instead, using his hands to gesture and emphasise. Willas glances at him beneath his eyelashes. He is suggesting that he walk Willas down too his chamber when the time comes, lest he break his other leg going down the stair and they inadvertently start another war between their Houses. Willas nods, only half listening, but entirely focused on looking. Whatever the prince had done or learnt in King’s Landing, Willas is glad that he made the detour down the Roseroad. They may never have a moment like this again.

The longest burning candle begins to flicker.

“It was very good to see your face, Willas,” says Oberyn.

“Yours as well,” says Willas. He fumbles on the words, feeling a weight hovering just above his shoulders. Oberyn looks at him fondly, and does not press the issue, passing him the pipe a last time.

“Perhaps one day we will do it in sunlight, even,” the prince ventures with a charming grin.

“Perhaps,” Willas agrees. “In a few years’ time, I may be journeying to the Citadel. I have always wanted to, and Lomys agrees that it can be done. It would be a good place to… meet,” he finishes, somewhat awkwardly.

Oberyn’s smile widens, and he snatches Willas’ free hand with a quick gesture, brushing his lips softly across the knuckles.

“Excellent. With your permission, I will be there.”

Willas contents himself with a nod for an answer, not quite trusting his voice. Oberyn smiles to himself, neither mocking nor unkind, and Willas knows that whatever is between them will one day come to light. They sit facing the window and the stars beyond, the only sounds the quiet intake and exhale of their breathing, Willas peaceably smoking until the pipe goes out.

*