Oberyn I

It was dusk when their ship spotted the dornish shore. The sun was half-hidden behind the Red Mountains, and the last light of the day silhouetted Castle Wyl like a golden wreath, stretching the shadow of the castle’s twin towers onto the ocean like black spears thrusting at the waves.

Wyl rested at the inlet of a river with the same name. The small town ran only on the southern shore, with the castle looming at its back from the top of a hill, looking over the Boneway on its other side

Oberyn inhaled deeply, then sighed as he caught what he was looking for. Behind the salty spray of the sea, he thought he could already smell the distinct scent of dornish whores all the way at the waterfront. The smell of home. They’d already brought the lovely Jyrelle with them—which reminded him that Ellaria was still feasting on the girl back at his cabin. The girl had black-blue marks around her neck, where a former client had almost killed her and irrevocably crushed her voice box. But being a mute also meant she couldn’t wake up the whole crew when Ellaria got in one of her insatiable moods. That is what he loved; a man like him lived for variety.

To travel the world and savor all its tastes, that’s what he’d always wanted since he was a boy. That, and for the last twenty odd, years, vengeance. He’d gotten a good bite of the former—he’d been to all the major cities in Westeros save for White Harbor, and most of the free cities of Essos, and he intended to go even further in the future.

But the latter… all he’d gotten to do was chew on his bitterness and wait for his brother’s leash on his neck to loosen. Now, even Doran had agreed. It was time one of the men responsible for killing their sister got his due.

When they reached the docks, Oberyn spotted his three oldest daughters, Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene waiting for him with a small party of Wyl men behind them. He should’ve known they wouldn’t want to miss this. They’d gotten more than the slanted eyes from him, and a penchant for harboring rancor was one of those things.

After disembarking with Ellaria and Jyrelle, Tyene came running down the wharf and tackled him into a hug.

“Father!” she screamed against his chest in that soft voice of hers.

Obara and Nymeria sauntered behind their sister, greeting Ellaria first. He looked at them from over Tyene’s golden head. “I would’ve thought Arianne would do everything short of murder my brother to be here with you.”

Nymeria sighed, and Tyene hugged him closer still. Clearly a sore topic for them all. “She’s been… decidedly unhappy since Uncle Doran passed her as heir for Trystane.”

“I see,” he said. It seemed Doran hadn’t yet told her why.

Nymeria cleared her throat and smiled. “I’m glad you’ve finally arrived, father,” she said. She had her black hair tied into a long braid as usual, but she’d traded her silk dresses for boiled leather. “And with the purpose of your trip completed, too.”

He arched one of his eyebrows. “Did you doubt your old father?”

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“Never.” That was Obara, all mean-faced and wild hair, and proud of it. “But even with all the snakes in Dorne, we all know it’s that city that is the true viper’s nest.” She had a self-pleased smile on her lips.

Obara had his knack for the spear, but she’d never had his way with words. “Of course, daughter,” he allowed.

“So it’s true, then?” Obara said. “He’s really coming here? The Mountain?”

“Your last raven left much in the dark,” Nymeria said. “But the men you requested are here. We even played the mummer’s farce through. It was mostly moving peasants out of a couple of villages then giving them a few silver stags for their trouble.”

Oberyn nodded. He’d tell them what they needed to know later. “You did good work. Gregor Clegane left his hovel the same day I did King’s Landing. He should take a couple more weeks to get here.” Then he gave them a cat-like grin, and he could already hear their annoyed grumbling before he even said anything. “No less than can be expected from the Red Viper’s daughters, of course. Go with Ellaria to the castle, now. We’ve brought gifts from the young king to all of you. I’m sure you’ll enjoy them.”

“Gifts?” Tyene’s head popped out of his chest. Her wide blue-eyes tugged at something in him the same as when she was a child. That girl could get anything from anyone with hardly a look.

Obara spat on the ground. “Are we supposed to take gifts from some Lannister bastard now?”

“Watch how you speak, child,” he snapped. Obara seemed surprised at his tone, but she bowed her apologies quickly enough. “I wouldn’t underestimate the boy, were I you. The spider has ears everywhere, but from what I gathered, so has he.”

“But I thought…” Nymeria looked around first, then continued, lower, “I thought you mentioned we had… other plans. Why are we making friends with the Baratheon king?”

“We do,” Oberyn said, matching her tone. “And I spoke to Lord Varys about it. He says there’s a boy—her boy, and that he’s near ready to return. But nothing is certain. I will not get my hopes up before I look him in the face and see Elia in his eyes. And you all shall not speak about it. In the meantime, Doran has agreed that a good relationship with the Iron Throne is beneficial to us.”

The girls nodded, and Obara said, “As you wish, father.”

“And besides, I have found, daughter, that there are Lannisters, like Joffrey and Tywin and Cersei, then there’s young Tommen. The boy is courteous and friendly, cunning and ruthless. You all might even come to like him.”

Nymeria frowned. “How does that make him any different from the Old Lion, then?”

Oberyn laughed. “Well, he’s giving us the Mountain, no? Now, off with you. And is Ser Daemon with you as I asked? I have some words to trade with my former squire.”

Nymeria pointed back toward the Wyl men. From behind them, Ser Daemon Sand stood from where he sat in a crate and made his way over to them. He was a tall man, of a height with Oberyn, with sandy brown hair and a square jaw.

“Ah, and so the Bastard of Godsgrace appears,” Oberyn jested.

Daemon sighed. “This is not as fun if you don’t have an offensive epitaph, my prince.”

He laughed and continued to prod some fun at Daemon. When the girls left with Ellaria and Jyrelle, however, Oberyn’s smile faded and he gestured with his head. “Walk with me, Daemon.” Not even taken aback by the suddenness of his tone shift, the young knight followed him a ways down the stone pier in silence, farther away from the ship they arrived in so their conversation couldn’t be overheard. “Do you see that man there, with the white-cloak.” Oberyn pointed to where Ser Osmund Kettleblack talked with a few sailors, still on the ship.

Ser Daemon squinted. “Is that a kingsguard knight?”

“Indeed,” he said. “And during the fighting, when arrows are flying and swords are slashing, you are going to make sure Ser Osmund there has an accident and dies bravely fighting for his king.”

Ser Daemon stood stone-faced and silent for a full minute, before he nodded. “As you command, my prince.”