“Back for more, Richie?” A raspy voice cried out when a tall blonde man entered the alley. Nimbly, a broadly shouldered man with a bald marble as a head stepped into the moonlight, which was barely able to creep down into the narrow street.

Always, always back for more. “You know I’d miss that pretty face of you too much, Byran.” Richard swayed a little on his feet, using the wickered jug of fine Dornish wine as leverage to keep him walking straight. It was, however, difficult to continuously adapt to the ever changing counter-weight.

“Pah,” Byran the Bouncer spat, “the horses’ arses look better than my gob.” It was true. Byran had been ugly by birth, the halves of his face not being symmetrical. Then, during a lifetime of crime and violence, his nose had been broken several times over. “But maybe it’s them you miss? The arses.”

“True enough, ugly bastard,” Richard poked at the mountain of muscle and snickered, then took another swig of wine. “Step to. Open this watering hole’s door.”

Byran complied. “At once your lordship.” The thug sprung mockingly to attention. “I hope it’s large enough for that big radiant head of yours.”

The dark maw of the doorway only just revealed the tiny steps leading to the underground quarters that were his destination.

The waft of smoke, alcohol and sweat practically inflamed Richard’s nostrils as he passed a second door into the gambling den proper. The Shadow City sported several of these establishments. Places where the true night life happened, where men regardless of birth or race came together to roll dice, gamble, drink and fuck, to watch cock fights or boxing matches. All excellent pastimes that he had indulged in more often than not, but his real reason -Richard’s passion- was something else entirely.

With the experience and lack of sobriety befitting of a veteran sailor, the Prince of Dorne traversed the rowdy room of the den. Cries of recognition and greetings were exchanged as he passed by, raising his wine jug in response. Some Dornish girls tried to get him to sit down in order to claim his lap, but Richard brushed them off as if they were silk, apologising profusely and promising to find them afterwards.

Eventually, after a round of dice in which he first won considerably and then lost double the amount, Richard Martell reached the far end of the cellar.

A horse neighed happily upon his entry. Several boxes had been built into the wall, turning this part of the establishment into a stable. A large double door to the left gave access to the streets of the outer ring of the Shadow City.

“Oh Zeph,” Richard exclaimed with a merry sigh, “how I have missed you!” The horse in question, Zephyr, trotted in his box and pushed his body against the wooden panel, extending its slender neck to nible at Richard’s fingers. The softness, warmth and wetness reminded him of a different set of lips, in spite of trying to push those thoughts from his inebriated mind. He needed to focus, despite the wine.

Zephyr was a magnificent horse, a grey courser bred in Dorne, a sand steed; quick, strong and light with an excellent training to boot. Richard was extremely proud of Zeph’s elegant running gait and sublime endurance. “Are we going to win tonight, boy?” The sand steed whinnied affirmatively, at least, that was how Richard interpreted it.

"Prince Richard?"

Being invited to the Shadowcity den of sin had only happened after Lord Eddarion Stark had won no less than three out of four races just outside of Sunspear earlier in the day. He'd spent good gold on the sand steed he'd named 'Harlen' after a Winterfell guardsmen he'd known as a boy, before the man married the daughter of some Barrowland farmer and gone off to join her family farm. Harlen was black and white, his colors like clashing and intermingling clouds upon his form, his head all white and his arse end all black. According to the man who sold him, there was trouble brewing and the demand of good horses had gone up. Hence, Harlen cost triple what he would have just a month prior. 

Eddi didn't care about the trouble brewing, he only wanted the horse. And he'd pay the outrageous amount for it, even if it (and the sand colored sandsilk riding outfit he'd bought the day before) would leave him in the hedges on the way home. He knew, in his heart, a winner when he saw one. And Harlen was a winner; even tempered and calm until he got into the heart of the race. Then a competitive flare spread in the beast like wildfire, and there was no calming him until he'd won, or given what he had trying. The one race Eddi had lost earlier in the day was his own fault, not Harlen's. 

Eddi looked a boy amongst men in the gambling den, his voice soft, his eyes never staying on anyone once they saw him glancing their way--for fear of starting something on accident. But when the Prince of Dorne entered the secret den, Eddi Stark couldn't pass up the chance to greet him. In truth, normally he would never admit his birth in a place such as he found himself in now. And normally, that was how he liked it. But when in Dorne...why not say hello? The Starks of Winterfell had no conflict with the Martells. None that he was aware of, at least. 

Lord Stark almost blushed, as he nodded when the man turned and looked at him. "I am Eddarion Stark, of Winterfell. Your Princedom's sandsteeds are incredible. Well worth my trip down."

Compliments always were a good idea to start with, Vittoria had told him once. [i]But only if genuine[/i], she also told him. And after the success of the day he'd had...there was no sentiment his heart meant more fully other than 'The Old Gods are ancient' and 'Winterfell is home.' How could the truth hurt him?

Richard squinted at the youth speaking at him. He had not expected to find anyone else in the underground stables, access was restricted to riders and farriers. The races might be illegal but there were still rules and precautions. The Prince of Dorne pursed his lips as he raised an eyebrow inquisitively, though clearly not feeling threatened by the lone wolf. “You’re a long way from home, Eddarion Stark.” Richard let the ‘k’ linger in his mouth, as if he suffered from stammering, then took a few precarious steps towards the box containing the bay horse. He sniffed and proceeded to offer his newfound conversational partner the wine jug. “Drink,” he said, pressing the wickered portion of the container against Eddarion’s chest. “Got tired of winter?”

“Uh,” was Stark’s initial reaction to the order of ‘Drink’, followed by a beat of his heart, followed by taking the jug, and taking a long, thirsty, drink…followed by a squinting of his eyes, and a heavy breath after his drink. 

His already quiet tone was further strained, if only for a moment, by the heavy Dornish wine. “Very...potent, your Grace.” Eddi handed the man his jug back, and wiped at his mouth with the back of sandsilk sleeve. “My father sends each of his children off on quests ‘to discover our true selves’--except for Brodrik, who found himself by killing a Giant. And my father isn’t the type of man you say no to easily. So, I followed my heart...and went to find the best racing horse I could get my hands on. Where else to go, I ask you, but Dorne?”

“You could cross the Narrow Sea and ask the Dothraki. Then again, they’d carve you up and feed you to their dogs before you’d have the time to greet them.” Richard leaned back against a wooden support. “I see you found one of ours to your liking though. Curious colours though… very motley.” Talking about horses and mounts was something any man could, even if they weren’t his chief interest.

Eddarion Stark smiled, then. His shyness, his soft tone all gone as talk went to Harlen. In fact, the young Lord Stark was near beaming with pride. “I am fond of black, ill suited to the sun of Dorne as I’ve found it to be. But more importantly, in that sandsteed I knew I’d found a champion. He may appear meek, but he is not, your Grace. Get him amongst other horses, and he all but breathes fire to beat them in a race.”

“Are you a poet too, Stark?” Richard chuckled. “Perhaps I should have you compose a ballad for me. In fact,” a thought took shape in his foggy mind. “How about we put that boast of you to the test? The winner writes a song about the victor.”

At first, Eddi felt to shrink. He was no poet, far from it. But if there was a subject in all Creation that got his blood pumping...it was racing horses. Embarrassed as he was, might be it was the Dornish strong wine, or might be it was adrenaline found in being in such a place, in such a strange land, talking to a Prince of Dorne. For whatever he reason, he found himself grinning stupidty, and shrugging. “I may need the help of a Bard for the writing, but aye. Might be the loser if sings his song before your friends here?”

Richard almost sprayed wine all over the young horse enthusiast bursting out laughing. “Oh no,” he said after catching his breath. “Those would be nothing but lost verses. These yokels have no mind for the fine art of poetry. They can oly appreciate wine, coin and a woman’s assets. You’ll be performing it at my court. I’m sure my brother William will chastise me for making a fool of a scion of the oldest house in Westeros, but a Prince is entitled to his fun.” There was clearly no inkling of doubt in Richard’s head as to who would win a race. “The look on their faces when they’ll hear that rough accent of yours will be priceless!”

Eddarion Stark of Winterfell laughed at that, even as, to himself, he gulped at the prospect.