Chapter 5: Oberyn

He had been waiting for this day for a long time.

The Mountain dead, the Old Lion humiliated. It sounded like the opening to a bad jape, but it felt more to Oberyn to be a gift from the gods themselves. The Boy King was not shy with his price for this bounty he had offered up, and all it took was a few quick strokes of a quill to make it real.

And yet...

Dare he trust a Lannister? The Boy King claimed he was no Lannister, that he was all Baratheon, as did his mad brother, but Oberyn saw little difference between the two.

Dragonspawn.

They were all monsters in his eyes. Throats, ready and waiting to be opened for their crimes. Their crimes against Elia, against her children, against Dorne itself. His blood boiled, as any good Dornishman's did, at the sight of the golden lion on a background of red, the banner fluttering regally in the wind. Kill, a part of his body seemed to say, fuck the consequences and kill! Rip that bastard's throat out! Rip the whore! Kill them all!

Doran has a plan, his mind shot back. Doran always has a plan. Quentyn courts the Targaryen girl. Arianne plots to make Myrcella Queen. Patience will win the day, not mindless violence. You can kill now, but your children will pay the price for that killing, and so will you. And what good is victory if you cannot go home to tell the girls about it?

Thoughts of revenge, in the sense that Doran planned it, seemed sour to him now. He, like many of the others, had not been happy with Myrcella's presence in the Water Gardens. A Lannister! In our very home! The very thought had filled him with an unquenchable fury. But she wasn't a Lannister, he could now see, she was a girl. Not unlike Sarella just a few years ago. Curious, and playful, and innocent. Oberyn thought it a shameful necessity that he still thought himself capable of killing her. I wouldn't like it, but if ever the need arose, for my family...

And now, Oberyn could see that the Boy King was not much different. Tommen put up airs of being an earnest young lad in court, naive but good hearted, and similar airs of being a ruthless dealmaker in private, when he thought himself safe from prying eyes. In truth, however, he was ever as much a child as Myrcella was, as Myrcella is.

I merely want safety for my family, just as you want justice for yours.

No, what the Boy King really was, was a boy. A young one at that, who missed his sister and knew of the dangers he faced, but didn't quite know how to face them. A young boy trying to pull his bickering family back together. It was evident in his clumsy manipulations, his different facades, put up both in private and in public, all aimed at being the polar opposite of his brother and his father.

Who am I to deny a young boy his family? And if I can have the Mountain's head, and the Old Lion's pride at the same time, then all the better.

And with that thought in his mind, Oberyn penned the letter to his brother, and received a letter back just a few days later, enclosed with confirmation that the marriage had been completed. The trial commenced in earnest soon after. A long day of dry testimony, followed by one of the loudest tantrums Oberyn had ever seen a grown man throw. Well, I say a grown man...

It wasn't real, Oberyn could tell. There was anger there, in the dwarf, but his rage came off more theatrical than genuine. This suspicion was furthered by the subtle glances the Boy King and the Imp seemed to share over the course of the trial. At the end, the Imp raged, stamped his feet, threatened to poison all the inhabitants of the throne room, and declared that he had heard enough. He then proceeded to ask for a trial by combat.

It was now Oberyn's turn to share a glance with the Boy King. Blood, those eyes seemed to promise him, blood and bone for Elia. Oberyn stood from his seat then and there, and announced to the world his intent to fight on the Imp's behalf. Lord Tywin looked impassive, though Oberyn could tell from the clenching of his teeth that he was not happy. The Queen made little effort to hide her disdain at his decision, not that he paid her any mind.

And soon, enough, the day came.

Oberyn's spear was tipped with the finest Manticore Venom, his armour some light leather. He gave it an experimental twirl, testing the weight of the heavy shaft in his arms, looking at the tip with a sort of reverence. This spear-tip will be the one to slay the Mountain that Rides. I shall have it mounted, pride of place, back in Sunspear, alongside the Mountain's skull.

Before he entered the grounds where the combat was due to take place, Oberyn was forced to share a few words with the Boy King, "King Tommen, I expected to see you in your seat, not down here with me."

"I will be, in a minute. As it is, I came here to offer you some advice."

Oberyn was amused at the notion of this green boy giving him, the Red Viper, advice on combat of all things. What could he possibly have to offer? "Advice?"

He nodded sagely, his expression deadly serious, "No doubt you intend to dance around the Mountain, to whittle away at his strength and endurance until an opening presents itself. It is a good strategy, but you must remember it relies on distance." The Boy King's gaze travelled up and down Oberyn's body, landing back on his eyes with a fresh intensity, "I know you want vengeance, Prince Oberyn, but victory must take priority. Fight smart, and don't let your rage take hold till the Mountain is well and truly dead. He is a vicious and hardy beast, and I wouldn't take him for a corpse till his head is visibly separated from his body."

The Boy King reached into his tunic, withdrawing a sheathed dagger. He handed Oberyn the sheath, "If your spear fails you, for whatever reason, I want you to use this. Valyrian steel should cut through the Mountain's armour as though it were paper."

Oberyn accepted the dagger initially with scepticism, till he unsheathed it to find that the Boy King spoke the truth. The brilliant, swirling patterns on the steel were unmistakeable. For the first time, Oberyn felt something for the Boy King he had never felt before. Respect? Pah, not for a Lannister! Even still, Oberyn offered the King a solemn nod, placed the sheath on the back of his belt, and watched as the King went to take his seat in grave silence. All of a sudden, the task he had eagerly been awaiting became daunting.

He grabbed Ellaria close, kissing her as deeply as was imaginable, and groping her under her dress in the process, something she actively encouraged. It lasted a mere moment, but it was enough for Oberyn, a final goodbye, if it came to be necessary.

He emerged into the arena, for that is what it had become, with hundreds of spectators, and the Lannister colours proudly displayed. The smallfolk jeered his appearance, declaring their loyalties for the crown. Cersei watched him with an eagle eye, hate simmering behind her pleasant facade. The sight only encouraged him, and he went with a smile.

Once the High Septon had finished initiating the trial by combat, the fighting began.

The Mountain was, as ever, a fearsome sight. He was clad from head to toe in utilitarian grey plate, the kind built exclusively for practicality. His sword was five feet of battle-hardened steel, so heavy that only the Mountain could possibly work up the strength to wield it with one hand. He lumbered about, slower than Oberyn had expected, but no less powerful. When he swung his sword, Oberyn could tell he swung it hard enough to cleave an Ox in two.

There was little grace in those swings. They were wild, and would have, if they had landed, killed Oberyn in a single blow. As it was, the Mountain telegraphed his attacks well in advance, and seemed to be becoming fatigued mere minutes into the fight, what little mobility he had used sparingly, only taking measures to block or dodge when Oberyn's spear strayed near a chink in his armour. The rest of the time, he seemed content to hear the sound of Oberyn's spear strike and bounce off the plate he wore.

Oberyn danced around him in pretty circles, almost making a show of the whole affair. Inevitably, he was unable to resist the temptation to taunt the Mountain, "Have they told you who I am?"

The Mountain's response was breathless, yet still arrogant, emerging from his lips in a growl, "Some dead man."

"My name is Prince Oberyn Martell. Princess Elia was my sister."

Oberyn couldn't tell if the Mountain was attempting to goad him, or if he was genuine, "Who?"

"The Princess of Dorne!" Oberyn hissed, "You raped her, you murdered her, you killed her children." The Mountain grunted, and Oberyn repeated the words as though they were some prayer, "You raped her, you murdered her, you killed her children."

"You come to talk or to fight?"

Oberyn narrowed his eyes, sighting a break in the Mountain's defence, a gap between his shield, his sword and his armour, "I came to kill."

Still repeating his chant, the Mountain's irritation building at the sounds of his opponents speaking, Oberyn unleashed a flurry of blows. The first was aimed at his throat, bouncing off his gorget, the next at his eyes, the Mountain flinching back soon enough for the spearpoint to miss the gap in his helm by a hair and come falling down on his breastplate. "You raped her, your murdered her, you killed her children."

"SHUT UP!"

The Mountain, in his irritation, bull-rushed Oberyn, who swung around and made his move. Dancing around the Mountain's charge, he found himself suddenly behind him, and seized the opportunity. His spear moved forwards in a quick thrust, much in the same manner in which a Viper goes for the kill, and slipped through the small gap in the Mountain's armour, delivering a quick yet deep cut at the back of his knee.

The Mountain reeled in pain, turning with an almighty bellow and bringing his sword crashing down towards where Oberyn was standing. Oberyn met the blow with his shield, which visibly cracked under the strain, and retreated, his arm aching something fierce from the force of the strike. He retreated again as the Mountain wound up another strike, and then another, till his back was to the stable. The Mountain charged again, albeit now with a noticeable limp, and Oberyn dodged out of the way, the crowd beginning to hurriedly try to move out of the way, seemingly losing all interest in the trial.

Some were not so lucky, and a poor stable boy found himself being hacked to bits by Gregor in the midst of a blood-rage. His arm came off at the elbow, and when he screamed, the Mountain cleaved the boy in two with a single swing of his sword. He turned to face Oberyn, still chanting, and he stood up, now even more daunting a foe, covered from head to toe in blood and gristle.

"You talk too much," he grunted, "it makes my head hurt."

At this point, the Mountain was less lumbering than stumbling. The Manticore venom was making its way through his system, and every beat of his heart intensified the pain. Oberyn, recognising the symptoms and the fact that Mountain was not long for this world, was once again possessed by his lust for vengeance, "Elia. Say it! Elia of Dorne!" The Mountain raised his shield at Oberyn's next strike, and Oberyn used the moment to divert his swing into another gap in the Mountain's armour, landing a deep cut just under his elbow. He screamed, "Say it! ELIA! ELIA OF DORNE!"

He brought his spear down in a savage arc, losing all semblance of strategy in the process, the shaft striking the edge of the Mountain's shield and toppling him like a log, and breaking Oberyn's spear in two in the process. Oberyn, acting like a man possessed, charged his foe who now lay flat on his back with a scream, "ELLLIIIAAAAAA!"

He brought the broken end of the shaft down with all his weight, driving it into the Mountain's gut with all his strength and firmly pinning him to the ground. Once this was done, he came back around to the Mountain, till his face was almost touching Gregor's helm, "I swear to you, if you die before you say her name, I will hunt you through all seven hells." He grabbed his helm and rattled it, "ELIA OF DORNE! SAY HER NAME!"

The Mountain spasmed, lifting his arm and landing a heavy blow to Oberyn's gut , winding him in the process. He pulled Oberyn close, and whispered into his ear, "Elia of Dorne." He punched Oberyn again, and Oberyn could feel several of his ribs shatter under the weight of the blow, "I killed her screaming whelp." He smiled a bloody smile as he pushed his hand up to Oberyn's face, gripping his skull in an effort to crush it, "And then I raped her. And then I smashed her fucking head in. Like this."

He pulled back his other hand, ready to deliver a killing blow to Oberyn's skull. In the very moment, Oberyn remembered the Valyrian steel blade the King had given him, alongside his advice, and he withdrew the dagger from his sheath, desperately slashing at the wrist of the hand that clutched his skull in a vice-like grip. Thankfully, the steel cut through the flesh as though it was butter, the stump spraying blood onto Oberyn's face as he withdrew, and the Mountain's closed fist sailed through the air where Oberyn's head would have been just moments later, his other arm suddenly bereft of a hand.

Taking the opportunity, Oberyn backed away, prying the Mountain's now severed hand from his skull, and collapsed down, his chest heaving. He still felt the rage in his heart, but the pain of his ribs, and the hand-shaped bruising around his face compelled patience. He watched the Mountain's death throes from a distance, watching him struggle to stand, till eventually his heaving chest stilled. Wise advice, coming from a green boy.

When his breath had been still for more than a minute, Oberyn approached the Mountain's presumed corpse cautiously, watching for any signs of life, and made once more for his head. The Mountain leapt back to life, his one remaining hand reaching for Oberyn's neck, tightening around it. Oberyn, meanwhile, brought his dagger to the Mountain's throat, and hacked his head clean off, the Mountain's hand becoming limp around his throat, allowing him to breathe once more.

Oberyn rubbed the bruising around his throat, and then lifted the Mountain's heavy head for all to see. He looked first to Tyrion, who looked ill, his breakfast coming bubbling back up at the sight of the Mountain's maimed corpse. The Old Lion looked unimpressed, though Oberyn could tell that he was not pleased by the clenching of his teeth. You're next. Cersei seemed similarly perturbed, but made little attempt to hide her fury, her face twisted into a silent snarl. The King, on the other hand, raised his glass in a silent toast, nodded, and then offered Oberyn a small smile.

Oberyn grinned back, his bloodstained teeth glistening in the sun.

For Elia.

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