FIC * Like pieces on a chessboard * ASOIAF * Doran, Oberyn

[renrenren3]

Title: Like pieces on a chessboard
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Characters: Doran, Oberyn
Words: ~950
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Summary: Doran and Oberyn discuss their plans to put one of their blood on the Iron Throne.
Beta: none
Notes: Re-posting all my old ASOIAF fic from my other account. This is embarrassingly old, it was written in 2009. If I remember correctly, this was for a challenge where we had to write an unlikely theory. I picked one about the Targaryens, because everyone is a Targaryen!



The game had been short and rather unrefined, but that had always been Oberyn's style. Even as a child he never had his elder brother's patience for planning.

Now he was squirming in his chair as Doran leisurely examined the cyvasse board in front of them, caring not for his recent defeat.

Instead he leaned forward, plucking an orange from a nearby basket. "I heard that you attempted to marry Arianne to Lord Estermont," he said casually.

Doran nodded, his eyes still fixed on the pieces. "It wasn't a very successful attempt," he replied, his voice neutral.

Oberyn snorted as he started peeling off the orange's skin. "Nobody expected it to be, save perhaps for that old fool," he remarked.

Doran shrugged, then he slowly rose from his chair and went to the window. The gardens were silent, save for the leaves rustling quietly in the breeze. The children were playing somewhere else today. A pity, Doran thought, for he liked to hear their voices and the sounds of their games.

But his own children were growing too quickly. He couldn't keep them playing in the gardens forever.

"Are these games of yours really necessary?" Oberyn asked, tearing Doran out of his daydream.

"Games?" Doran asked with a small smile. "I'm only looking for a husband for my daughter."

Oberyn took a bite of the orange, letting the juice trickle down his chin. "You don't have to pretend with me," he remarked. "I know you found one already, though outside our small number of friends nobody will know until the time is ripe."

Doran grimaced. "It pains me to keep secrets from my own daughter, but Arianne is too young to understand our need for secrecy." His legs were growing tired again. Perhaps he should sit down and rest for a little while. Lately he'd been forced to sit much more often that he would have liked. "In due time I will tell her the name of her betrothed."

"Viserys Targaryen," Oberyn said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Viserys the Third," he added in a mocking tone. "The prince who will never be king."

Doran lowered his head. "Out of the Great Houses, only us remember the Targaryens," he said.

Oberyn's eyes narrowed. "You mean we remember Elia and her children," he said. His voice was filled with a hatred that the years had never and would never quell.

Doran's sadness was just as great, though he tried to restrain himself. "And how could we forget?" he asked quietly.

He moved away from the window, sitting down heavily on his cushioned chair.

"So you still plot to place your own blood on the Iron Throne," Oberyn said after a short silence.

Doran nodded. "The Lannisters might decide to come spying into my private affairs," he said. "I have taken my precautions, but should they fail, they shall see my attempt to marry my daughter to the last Targaryen prince."

"A grand scheme," Oberyn commented.

"An impossible one," Doran corrected him. "As they will no doubt realize. The Narrow Sea is between us and Viserys and Baratheon spies are with him at any moment. Should he attempt to set sail for the Seven Kingdoms, his life would be forfeit."

Oberyn picked up one of the cyvasse pieces, turning it around in his fingers. "So you will be seen as moving your pawns in a futile attempt to place Arianne on the throne," he mused.

"And while they look at the pawns, they won't notice the king," Doran concluded.

Oberyn's head snapped up. "Is it time, then?" he asked.

"Yes," Doran said. Truthfully there were still many doubts in his mind, but he couldn't delay any more. "It seems that, after all, I will try to put my own blood on the Iron Throne. Our own blood."

"He is the rightful heir," Oberyn said. "The gods spared him so that we could get our vengeance."

"I pray that it will be so," Doran sighed. "But will the people accept someone who is supposed to be long dead? Will they accept a Targaryen king without the Targaryen coloring?"

The dark hair that had saved the boy as a babe might be his downfall as he tried to take the throne, and it was something that had worried Doran much.

Oberyn shrugged. "We are still a long way from that. Besides, we have proof."

Doran nodded, producing from the folds of his tunic a small parcel wrapped in red and black cloth.

"I believe it's time to tell the boy," he said.

"The king, you mean," Oberyn corrected him with a smirk.

Doran smiled despite himself. "He won't be a king until he's crowned, and that won't come for years."

Oberyn shrugged again. "He has been the king ever since his grandfather died under Lannister swords and the Usurper killed his father."

Doran winced. He had long since given up trying to reproach his brother for speaking so bluntly. He could only wish Oberyn was more careful while talking with other people.

He tried to massage some life back into his swollen fingers.

"Please send for him," he asked Oberyn. "My legs are troubling me again and I cannot well stand."
Oberyn nodded. "Would you like me to stay while you tell me?"

"Yes, please," Doran sighed gratefully. "It's a long story, and you have as much a right to tell him as I have."

He knew that Oberyn would understand. He watched as his brother opened the door and called Areo Hotah.

"Please summon my nephew Quentyn."