AN: As always, many thanks to 6thfloormadness who beta'd this and Robert Drake who helped me in writing! Enjoy!

THE SPEAR

He was the spear. The Spear of Dorne. The gleaming tip, glistening in the sun. The sharpened end of an edged shaft.

The Bay of Pentos came to him in the smell. The scent of the salty sea, coursing up through the gusty wind. It was not Oberyn's first time in Pentos. Nay, he had toured the Free Cities already, more than once. Albeit his first remained treasured in his heart. He had been six-and-ten, young and brash and foolish. A boy caught up in fear of confinement, afraid to die a wasteful death, a worthless end- to remain in the same corner he had lived for all his life.

Such folly, he chuckled back to the memory. Eager boy. The young boy who wanted to see the world. And saw, he did. All the Free Cities, all nine of them. Oberyn didn't remember Pentos for much. But he did Lys. He remembered the Lyseni that shared his bed that night, his first arrival to the City of Sigh. Pale woman, but with a fiery heart. Her hair was the purest of silver. Yet that Lyseni brothel seemed so far away now.

Years had passed in between. That eager young boy, brazen and rash. The boy was gone. And in his place, was both a father and a grieving brother. Years of joy- he remembered the smile that stayed on when Obara chose to return with him to Dorne, Oldtown left behind. Or when he returned from Volantis, Little Nym with him. Oberyn even smiled when Rhaegar… cloaked Elia with the red of the three-headed dragons.

Then Rhaenys was born. Black of hair, Elia in all but name. The sweet little girl that he remembered… who wanted to ride Balerion the Dread- yet dragons are dead, he told her. She settled for a black cat instead, he remembered. An ugly little thing. But Oberyn treasured them, for the dragons are dead, he had thought. Yet those years of joy quickly turned into years of grief- when the raven came to Dorne.

Nay, the dragons were not dead, lest so his sweet sister wouldn't die. The dragons were not dead, and they killed Elia. He remembered them. Them and their faces. Mad Aerys. "She smells Dornish," he said. Rhaegar… his sister's accursed husband. Her tormentor and her anguish. Oberyn dreamt of plunging his spear into his heart at night. He always smiled, Rhaegar. He mocked him, even in death, a jape left unsaid. His sister's thrice-damned husband. He had thought the brother, Viserys, to be different.

Oberyn bore no love for the dragons- not after the insults upon insults heaped upon them. Upon Elia. Upon Uncle Lewyn. Yet their quest for vengeance demanded them so, and the Mighty Lion had grown mighty by the side of the Usurper. And so he relented, swallowing his resentment. He traveled to Braavos, met Willem Darry, and signed the Pact. He didn't see the children. Nay,Darry was too fearful to let them out.

Yet it was all for naught, he thought with a smile. A thin smile of bitterness. And laughter coursed through his throat at such a thought. Of course, the boy was mad! The Gods did love their cruel mockery, after all.

Yet here he was. In Pentos. Clad in a gilded half-helm, green cloak hung low from his shoulder. Gold doublet upon his chest, a golden rose sewn on his right breast. Who would have thought? A Martell dressed as a Tyrell guard. Inwardly, Oberyn laughed at such irony. For thousands of years did the Reach and Dornish go to war with each other, blood spilling upon the Marches, painting the Red Mountains true to their name. Torn limbs in the sands of Dorne. Ashes in the fields of the Reach. Treason and war make strange bedfellows, indeed.

He looked to the right, to his Tyrell friend. Willas Tyrell was a boy of nineteen years of age. A boy, no matter how seemingly wise he would carry himself. No matter how careful he spoke his words, he was a boy, nonetheless. A boy that was his niece's betrothed.

Arianne had been told to stay behind on their ship, for it wouldn't do if a Tyrell heir came to the Free Cities to discuss trades with the oh so illustrious Magister of Pentos, yet while bringing the girl he was due to marry, newly-betrothed, no less. Not yet a fortnight. Though it wasn't the only reason. His Reacher friend insisted on the diversion consisting of casting an image of him staying behind in Tyrosh. Nay,Willas told him that they need to be Tyrells for the day. Oberyn didn't argue, nor was he insulted. Instead, amusement came to him at such a puzzling picture.

The Tyrell was clad in regality. The most striking piece of that was a silk-samite waistcoat, jet black with golden floral patterns and diamond-adorned silver buttons sewn into it, tight-fitting for his lean shape, queer in that it had high collars. He topped it with a thin hooded mantle- its color of emerald green, the color of his house and the Reach. Despite being lined with golden roses closer to his wrists and shins, it flowed swiftly with the coastal winds, unclasped. The Tyrell had his fingers resting at the knob of his black cane, trimmed with silver. He wore but one ring, a ring of crimson. Rubies, he thought. They glimmered as liquid blood would in a maester's glass. In crystal.

Oberyn thought that the Tyrell looked more delectable than ever. He ran his tongue across his lip, savoring the sweat under the cloudless day of sunlit Pentos. Half-a-dozen thoughts ran through his mind- sinful of nature. Carnal desires- of which he thought not for the first time. But alas, it wouldn't do for him to bed the intended of his niece. The Yronwood incident had been enough, Oberyn thought. If he persisted, his brother might feed him for true to the Bloodroyals should he dare to upset the betrothal of Doran's daughter.

Yet the temptation remained. He wondered if his Tyrell friend would concede in a battle in bed. Would he surrender? Would he spill? Men would be men, he thought. They might dress in plates and mails- all ridiculous and mighty. Yet they fell victims to the bed, all the same. Oberyn desired that- to unravel the mystery that was Willas Tyrell. He wondered yet again, would his friend be any different than other men? Would he disappoint? Oberyn didn't know, but he grew more curious and only more with the time that passed. To peel the Tyrell bit by bit, and taste the fruit inside. His curiosity demanded it. But alas, it wouldn't do. And Oberyn must surrender, even before the fight had begun.

He had first thought Willas to be more Doran than he. Calculative, a thinker- he who laid out plans before daring to move a piece. He had thought that the boy would be patient, as cripples tend to be. Calm demeanor to hide the sharper edges inside. Much like Doran- the grass for the snake. The sun and the spear. The spear is deadly, yet the sun even more. Doran is the sun… the sun who shines upon the spear. The sun is all-commanding. The sun is implacable. And I, the spear. Breakable and replaceable. Yet it is the spear that draws blood.

Yet he was all rose- all rose and its thorns. For beneath the petals, all nice-smelling, shades of lovely colors- were the thorns, sharp and prickly. Bloody thorns. Yet now as he thought more of the Tyrell, he found that they were not as different as Oberyn might once think of. The boy was eager, much like him in his youth- not that Oberyn hadn't changed over the years. Willias had not the patience to wait, as shown when he brought the news of Aegon's apparent survival to Doran. Rash and bold, he thought. But not as short-sighted as I was, it seems. Loathe it may him to admit, but it was imprudent to lay with the prick Yronwood's paramour, now that he thought back to it

The Tyrell was not Doran, nor was he Oberyn. He was both of them. The grass and the viper, all by himself.

He watched the Tyrell walk, radiating confidence. Oberyn settled to be a few steps behind him, after all, he was to be one of the Tyrell guards that would accompany the boy in meeting the illustrious magister. Illyrio Mopatis, of whom Willas had shared- was so dangerously intimate with that of Varys the Spider, the Master of Whispers from Aerys' court and still was, even during the Usurper's reign. To Willas' side was his brother, standing oddly tense. Garlan, his name. The boy who didn't like him much. Oberyn wouldn't fault him, yet he wouldn't grovel and beg forgiveness from the Tyrell either. Instead, he settled to be amused. After all, what is life if not to be enjoyed? Amusement could indeed, be found in every corner...

The door to the Magister's reception chamber was opened by two Unsullied, plump- as household Unsullied tend to be, spears in hand. Yet they were deadly still. There was no underestimating Unsullied, eunuchs they might be. Oberyn had learned the lesson the hard way during his time in exile- forging his own little sellsword company. The sight reminded him of himself, he whose spear was vengeance. The gleaming tip of sharp death. Like the Unsullied were slaves to their masters, Oberyn too was a slave to his revenge, in his own way. But now, a sliver of hope had sprung. Mayhaps with a piece of his sister left, it need not be that way forever.

The Magister was fat. Too fat to sit a horse, perhaps, save a warhorse. It was the first thing to come to his mind. Bloated cheeks and eyes resembling that of a pig's. The sweat dripping down his cheeks didn't help him alleviate the resemblance, either, Oberyn thought. He had a forked yellow beard, much like a Tyroshi. Queer. Oberyn could make out the belly sagging out from underneath the tunic of brown and yellow. The man was morbidly obese, and he had man-breasts, sagging down like sacks of sueve, much like an elderly woman, that is. He wore heavy perfume, the magister. The smell hit him right away- it wasn't pleasant. But then again, it was an unusually hot day in Pentos.

"Lord Tyrell!" greeted the man jovially to Oberyn's liege. "Do forgive me for not welcoming you upon your arrival to the city. But I was so tired, you see. I had this magnificent feast last night! Oh so magnificent, you should've come a day earlier, my lord. But alas, let bygones be bygones. Come now, I heard that you want to speak with me. Illyrio is confused on what a Westerosi lord would want from him."

"Magister Illyrio, no need to worry about that. It is us who thank you for meeting us on such short notice, in your magnificent palace, no less. Though I must emphasize that I am no lord of anything, Magister," denied Willas politely. His voice was measured and calm. "My father is the Lord of Highgarden, while I am but a mere heir until the Gods see it fit for him to return to their place, and me- to serve in his stead. But, of course, where are my manners, this is my brother, Garlan," he motioned to his brother, who nodded respectfully. "We have come to discuss… trade matters. Deals of significant importance, Magister."

The large man's eyes shone like a glutton upon a feast. He brought his large hand to stroke his forked beard. "Deals, you say? Well, Illyrio is always interested in those, hah!" He bellowed a laugh, slapping his belly. "Come now, come, my lords. It's lunchtime, no? How about we discuss this over a meal? I have the best cooks in Pentos, you see? I promise you- you shall find no finer food in the city than in Illyrio's manse!"

The Tyrell gave a soft smile to the eager Magister. "Lovely as it sounds, my lord, I'm afraid we also have other matters to see to in the city. But perhaps, some refreshments now and dinner tonight? Or in the morrow perhaps we can break out fast together. We do plan to stay in the city for a few days. Of course, as long as Pentos will have us."

"Illyrio will always be a friend to Westerosi. You shall have hospitality here, my lords. The Prince of Pentos might have barred his gates for me, but Illyrio has many friends in the city still!" the Magister bellowed jovially yet again, his shoulders jiggling up and down.

"I'm sure you do, magister. I have heard an inspiring tale of your steep rise to prominence. You were a bravo, were you not? Yet through able tradesmanship and connections, you have acquired vast amounts of wealth, which in Pentos, they say, means power. Commonborn, yet you climb your way up. Now a powerful man with powerful friends in many places. I respect that."

"Ah, so knowledgeable, my lord?" asked the Magister, preening almost as if a peacock. But his eyes- they held a dangerous glint. He feigned curiosity at Willas' words. "Indeed, indeed, you seem to have done a lot, I see. Illyrio is flattered to be known by a Westerosi Great House like House Tyrell. Yet not only do the Tyrells have titles of much authority, but last I heard- the Reach products are now traded vigorously in the Free Cities, many thanks to the efforts of your extended family. Many a Westerosi lord would frown upon trade - eh, what they call it? Ah, coppercounting, yes - yet you shy away not, my lord. Most curious I must say. Even more curious, last I heard you were at Tyrosh. Meeting with Archon Canzion. Most curious…"

The Magister's eyes were dangerous. Behind the rapacious eyes, were resolution, hard as stone bricks that made up the walls of the manse. He's challenging Willas… if he knows about Tyrosh- then- Then his Tyrell friend was right in suspecting that Varys and Illyrio used messenger birds in Essos, too. Very unusual… and unreliable. Yet the speed was indeed a temptation too hard to resist for them, it seemed.

"Oh?" spoke the Tyrell half-heartedly. As if the Magister's words concerned clouds in the sky. "Is it not common for heads of the City-States to receive foreign dignitaries? And generous the hospitality of Tyrosh might be, I'm afraid that I found no respite from the boredom of travel."

Oberyn's mind wandered to the meeting with the Archon, and he did curse again at that. To his nephew. Poor Trystane… Soon we will meet, nephew, if everything goes according to plan.

Magister Illyrio chuckled all-too-knowingly, then motioned to the nearby woman. A slave, for she was branded on the cheek. "Come, my lords, let us talk," he said as he invited them in. "But alas, our talk will be most unpleasant should there be two- or three too many heads in the room. Mayhaps, you can convince your guards to stay here, Lord Willas. My Unsullied will see to it. No harm will come to you here in Illyrio's manse. The walls are twelve feet high, none would dare!"

"Of course, magister. But I would like to keep my sworn shield, however."

"Ah yes, of course. Come, come, I will ask the servants to bring the best cuisines of Pentos for our talk. What a delight it will be!"

Willas nodded at him, to which he nodded back. They went. Scuffing almost silently to what was likely the Magister's opulent parlor. Oberyn followed the brothers and passed by one of the guards- an Unsullied, bearing spear and shield, with spiked top. Their eyes met, and Oberyn could see the hardness in the eunuch's eyes. He didn't budge, nor did he fear. A eunuch wouldn't stay in the way of Oberyn and whatever chance it was for the survival of a piece of his sister.

The room, while spacious enough, felt quite private. With a huge chair for a huge magisterial arse, of course. There were two Unsullied, their eyes hard as stone. The brothers sat and he stood behind them like a loyal guard. Oberyn must admit- that he bit his tongue to stop himself from laughing at the jape.

"Now, my lords, what is it that you wish to discuss with Illyrio? Wine? Cheese? I'm a known trader in cheese myself. Why, they call me-"

"The Cheesemonger, yes. We have heard the tales of the Great Cheesemonger of Pentos, Magister," said the Tyrell, only this time it was the brother- not Willas.

"Ah, so you do know!" replied the Magister, tilting his head from his grand seat. "What is it, then? I must warn you, though, my lords. Your new ships are very grand, indeed. But if it's what you're offering me, I fear that I have not the interest for them- nor can I afford, too. The other Magisters will tear me apart should it be that I possess the prized ships of the Reach, bidding be bypassed."

"Ah, well, it's… convoluted to say the least. I had heard from my Uncle, Lord Paxter Redwyne, that the Arbor's bidding pool for the ships has become… rather tumultuous as of late."

"Yes, yes, the Three Whores like their saber-rattling, no? Were their envoys indeed brawling like drunken peasants at the auctions as rumors suggest?" What an odd piece of gossip, Oberyn thought as the jovial man rambled on with visible delight.

"Actually it's not that, Magister. You see, recently- we have entered into lucrative trade deals. Most recently, with Qarth." At Willas' revelation, Oberyn felt chagrined- for he had confirmed it not before.

"I see. Egon Emeros is a vain man, how ever did you manage to wrestle gold from him, my lords? I shall admire you should you indeed be able to do that. The Pureborns are, after all-"

"I'm afraid they asked not to disclose their identities or alignment, Magister Mopatis."

"Hmm," he said, yet again stroking his beard. Oberyn had a fleeting desire to chop the beard off his cascading chins, tired of seeing the fat Magister running his sweaty hands through his forked yellow ugliness yet again. "The Spicers? Or the Thirteen? The Tourmalines are, after all, glorified pirates... But it seems that you have no desire to tell Illyrio, my lords. So I shall keep the guesses to myself."

"Thank you for your understanding. What we want is, Magister, for Pentos to open its gates to the Reach, a little more, perhaps. You trade heavily with King's Landing, Driftmark, and Duskendale. We are hoping to see if we can turn your sight to something a little bit more Southron?"

The Magister smiled and considered Willas' words carefully for a few moments. "Clever, how clever. I see now, my lords. The Tyroshi… you wouldn't dare to try to have me trying trades with the Reach without Archon Canzion's support. You're wary of the Three Daughters, then? They quarrel and quarrel- always, never ends, I tell you. You shan't pay them too much attention, my lords." He felt relief at that, maybe, the Fat Magister doesn't know about the contents of their deal with the Archon.

"I shall take your words to great consideration, Magister. After all, it wouldn't do to ignore the words of someone so wise- so experienced in trade. But I speak of more delicate matters… Yi Tish spices. You must already know by now- for it is an open secret- that our clippers allow us to trade with Yi Ti, for the first time in Westeros- ever since the days of the Sea Snake. These spices shall be of great interest to you, I believe?"

Mopatis laughed. He laughed a terrible laugh. An ugly sound. "Very clever. I haven't had this much fun in years, my lords. It is no wonder, then, how the Reach is on the rise- with a clever heir as yourself, Lord Willas, promoting trade even with the faraway Golden Empire. You have the spices in your hands. You have Tyrosh in the middle of our way, a dagger that now can be wielded by you, no? Ha! Clever indeed. But you're forgetting Myr and Lys, my lord."

"I forget none, Magister," answered Willas curtly. He had a tight smile on his face, Oberyn spied. "So, what do you think of our… proposition? I sought not the finer details, for now. We can always discuss them later."

The other Tyrell pitched in, "Indeed, what my brother said is true. We only wish to know your interest in the matter. And as you said, there are many of those who are powerful in Pentos, no?"

"So I engage with you now or risk losing a lucrative deal to other merchants?" Illyrio paused as he grinned widely. "One could say that you were born to a merchant prince of Essos, not to the warrior nobility of Westeros, my lords… But let none say that Illyrio Mopatis shies away from gold! Yes, my lord, I am very interested and willing to negotiate terms. Tomorrow sounds good, don't you think?"

Willas nodded. Soon. Soon my time comes.

"That will do, Magister. And I must tell you. It's such a pleasure to meet you. It really is," he said. Oberyn saw Illyrio preen one more time, opening his lips yet Willas cut him off, "However... There are certain matters that should be resolved before we commit to negotiations. Certain things- that are of interest to us."

"Do tell, my friend. If it is in Illyrio's power then Illyrio will certainly try to help his new friends."

"It concerns… eunuchs. They seem like such capable and valuable assets to have despite… well, you know. Maybe it is this lack of desire that allows them to be so successful. What say you, Magister?"

"You're... interested in acquiring the Unsullied?" At this, Mopatis paused as he let out a quick laugh, an ugly bark of a laugh- his nose snorting as if a pig's snout would. "Not that I am to judge but my, my, whatever would the other Westerosi lords think of that?"

Mayhaps the Magister was trying to dodge, or maybe he hadn't yet a clue- for his sly smile seemed as coy as ever. But it was as good an attempt at dodging as any,Oberyn thought. A well-played one. He's a good mummer, as can be expected from him. But still, if you knew what to look for, you could spot tiny changes in his demeanor and tone. He was discomforted by the remark. Good work, WIllas, now here's to surviving- for us to make it out of this alive.

"As formidable as they are, you're right that it would be unacceptable, not only due to what others might think and would do but also because of our own beliefs. I'm more interested in a certain eunuch, a certain one rather than many. The eunuch who whispers… such sweet things he whispered. I'm sure that you understand what kind of a eunuch I meant, magister."

"My… Lord?" the Magister asked, his voice confused. Yet his shoulder said otherwise, perhaps a lingering… a remnant of the once-proud warrior. The Magister had a statue, after all, that was proudly displayed upon the marble pool they came across in their journey to the heart of the manse. The statue had his hand raised high, a shimmering bravo on its grip. Later they were told by the servants that the naked statue was Illyrio in his youth. Oberyn grew amused, recalling the... finer details. Well, the man certainly thinks a lot of himself.

"No need for theatrics, Magister Mopatis. You are a powerful man and Lord Varys is ever elusive. But even the best marksman is bound to miss, at least once. The two of you grew up together, no? A thief and a sellsword. What sweet story…" Illyrio was shocked and displeased, that much was visible. Yet Willas continued, "Do pass my greeting to Lord Varys, will you?"

"Lord… Varys, my lord?"

"Yes, yes. Varys, the Spider. The Master of Whispers of Aerys Targaryen and Robert Baratheon. The Eunuch."

"I'm afraid you misunderstood, my lord Tyrell. Or gone... misled by the others. Illyrio has enemies as much as he has friends," denied the man. His eyes fleeted to the corners of the room, to the two Unsullied standing- ever stalwart- in the corners of the room. Oberyn's grip on the pommel of his sword tightened. "Yes, it's true that Illyrio follows the political court of the Westerosi. I know of your Baratheon King. Yet even if I know the name of his Master of Whispers, I fear that I-"

"Never plot with him? Never did once you two plot to smuggle a certain dead Prince of the Realm? Out of King's Landing during Tywin Lannister's sack, no less. Or faking the death of an exiled Hand of the Mad King?" Willas asked in a jovial tone.

"Very well, Illyrio must admit. Acquainted with Lord Varys I might be in the past, I'll give you that, for he was a spymaster- and Illyrio, a merchant, a rising one. Acquaintances, each furthering their own cause. But I know nothing about the prince you are speaking about. To be truthful, Lord Willas, this… this slander- I do not condone it. It sounds so outlandish I'm wondering how you came to believe it."

When neither Tyrell spoke, Illyrio continued, "I expected much more from you. A Magister of Pentos and the Eunuch in service of King Robert? Working together? Hah! Yi Ti would sooner be ruled by a Jhogos Nai!" He slapped his belly yet again, breaking into laughter. Distinctively fake ones.

"I speak of the boy you dyed in Tyroshi blue," Willas persisted as if the Fat Man's words were a mere breeze. "I speak of the Griffin who lives aboard the little ship that is the Shy Maid. I speak of his supposed son. What do they call him? Ah yes. I speak of Young Griff, the boy who sails up and down the Rhoyne- for all- for most of his life."

"Lord Tyrell, I'm afraid that I must ask you to leave should you-"

One of the Unsullied raised his spear, but Oberyn unsheathed his sword faster. In one short draw, he slashed through the Unsullied's spear, a weapon he knew all too well. Clank! The steel-tipped half fell to the floor. Willas rose, his hand gripping upon the top of his cane, almost as if to- twist? His brother stood by him, his hand moving to the sleeve of his tunic- a hidden dagger, mayhaps?

The Magister couldn't afford to kill his honored guests here. The man was clever enough to know that he had been pinned to the corner of his own manse. Should he dare, then Oberyn was sure that the wrath of the Queen of Thorns would see Pentos be reduced to ashes. What a comforting thought, to have such a formidable avenger of my death.

However, they couldn't afford to be forced to leave now. Not when they're so close. For Elia. And Oberyn's thoughts went back to the sweat-drenched days and broken spears upon the yards of Sunspear. The blood upon his scuffed hands. Blood along the length of his weapon. For Elia. All of it. For Elia.

With two Unsullied having already assumed defensive stances by his side, Illyrio was not cowered. He shouted in a bastard Valyrian dialect. Pentoshi? He knew not enough to make out the words, but Willas seemed to understand. The other Unsullied rushed inside the parlor- only stopped as words rang through the room yet again.

"We wish for peace, Magister Illyrio!" offered the Tyrell Heir to placate the man. "There is no need for unnecessary bloodshed. We can be allies here. Great allies."

"Your savage made the first move, my lord."

"Right you are. But ah," he wiggled his finger at the Magister. Oberyn smiled. "He's not my savage, you see. Magister Illyrio Mopatis, allow me to introduce you to such an esteemed guest. A dear friend of mine and my future good-uncle. He has much more interest in this… smuggling business of yours than I do to be truthful. A Royal guest for a royal man like yourself."

Oberyn's fingers dug into the base of his half-helm, the other hand of his unclasping the green cloak from upon his shoulder, the brooch of unassuming green marble falling into the floor. Oberyn had not the love for armor but on his friend's insistence, he took one on this trip and revealed it now. The plate of light orange hue hung above his waistline, wrought by a Qohorik master smith, decorated with burning sun and spear, each of red and gold.

He reaffirmed his grip on his sword, wielding it as to point its glinting edge to the Magister's throat. It was no spear- I am all the spear that Dorne needs- but he would make do with what he had. Oberyn saw the realization dawning upon the man, fear creeping up through his sunken eyes. He grinned at the sight. Bloodthirst coursing up through his hot-blooded body of a Dornishman.

"Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell of Dorne, called the Red Viper. Brother to Prince Doran Martell, the Prince of Dorne. And last, Uncle to the rightful heir to the Iron Throne… Prince Aegon Targaryen." Might I've been a lesser man, I would have blushed, Willas.

"Magister Illyrio," he spoke in a lazy drawl, inclining his head. "We are long overdue for a meeting, I fear. What is this that I heard about you having my sister's son, magister?"

AN: Many thanks to those who have remained in support of this story! I appreciate the feedback and suggestions, especially and mostly after the last chapter. Well, this chapter flowed really easily during writing, I must say. Got the first full draft in mere hours, and polished it for the rest of the week.

I think I managed to capture Oberyn quite well. Oberyn thinks of himself as the extension of Dorne. Dorne's vengeance. This plays into the title and general theme of this chapter- The Spear. The breakable, replaceable spear. He has accepted that. But with new revelation? Who knows what our dear Red Viper would do.

And his thoughts of Willas? Will his curiosity prevail after some time? He thinks of him as a mix of Doran and himself. Plotting but ready to spearhead their execution when convenient. Do you think Oberyn is right about our protagonist? I hope I showcased Oberyn and his… complexity of being a natural asshole but a sympathetic and charismatic-as-hell one at that.

Our beloved Cheesemonger also made his first appearance here. After capturing Varys quite successfully, I also hope that I manage to do Illyrio justice, too. To showcase his innate 'ugliness' and ruthlessness (in bits tho, this chapter doesn't focus on it). Like what are these two's endgame? A Spider and a Cheesemonger, working together. What is their angle(s)? That will be a journey, indeed, as we travel the story further and deeper.

Please, let me know what you think, any suggestions and criticism you have! Also, any guess for our next POV? :p