A throng of common folk, dense enough to halt a cavalry charge, stood in silent anticipation around the central market of Seven's Threshold.
Under the watchful gaze of the Gate of the Gods and its towering walls, the settlement sprawled with cobbled, winding streets and one- and two-story wooden buildings, spreading across the northeastern side of King's Landing. Countless market stalls lined the streets, their colorful array of wares and fresh produce painting a vibrant tableau, and filling the air with the mingled scents of ripe fruits, fresh bread, and a faint hint of sea breeze carried from Blackwater Bay.
The sensory feast was almost enough to mask the stench of King's Landing itself and the odor of hundreds of bodies, young and old, pressed together and perspiring in the early morning sun. Beyond that, Geralt detected an undercurrent of anticipation in the air, a tangible awe that held the crowd as silent as a tomb.
Despite their focus on the main event, they gave no heed to the pale, white-haired, snake-eyed monster killer from another world as he gently navigated through the crowd until he reached the front.
At the heart of the marketplace stood the centerpiece of the gathering: two men and a pig.
One of the men was the pig's owner, a weathered and tanned individual with a sturdy frame honed by at least thirty years of labor. He was clad in a simple, homespun tunic, trousers, and mud-stained boots, all in earthy tones. He nervously fiddled with the dark brown cap in his hands, his face bearing a familiar look of barely restrained worry tinged with a glimmer of hope, a look Geralt had seen a thousand times before. The man's pig, despite its impressive girth, lay atop a plain wooden cart in a pained slumber. Its pink skin had turned a sickly green, and its breathing was short and labored. Every so often, the poor beast grunted and whimpered in its sleep, as if tormented by nightmares.
This had become a common occurrence since the curse-breaking. Entire flocks of sheep had dropped dead from fright, brave dogs had turned into cowering, beaten mutts, and mighty steeds had become wild and dangerous, even to their own riders. The problem seemed unsolvable until the second man, and the reason for Geralt's presence, arrived in King's Landing a few days ago.
Varys had informed him about it yesterday and had kept a close eye on the matter. His spies had gathered scant information about him, save that he was a wandering septon who usually kept to the Riverlands and his name was Meribald. Moreover, he was said to possess the power to miraculously heal any ailment or injury presented to him.
Indeed, in a short time, tales of his supposed abilities had spread throughout the city. With just a prayer and the strength of his voice, even the most deathly ill or psychologically distressed animals would spring back to life, filled with renewed mental and physical vitality. With no other alternatives, it was no wonder the smallfolk had begun to congregate around him.
At first glance, Geralt didn't perceive anything particularly unusual. Meribald was perhaps thirty some years old, tall but not notably muscular, with thick black hair and a bushy beard speckled with gray. He was dressed more simply than even the beggars in the crowd. A roughspun robe of undyed wool covered most of his body, reaching down to just above his sandaled feet.
The only thing about him that identified him as a septon, rather than a wandering vagabond, was the seven-pointed crystal hung around his neck, which seemed to change color in the sunlight.
With a kind smile, and a reassuring hand on the owner's shoulder, Meribald spoke in a calm voice. "Have no fear, my friend. The Seven will provide, as they always have."
Climbing atop the cart, the septon kneeled and gently stroked the side and belly of the slumbering pig. The animal grunted in pain, its whole body shivering as if exposed to a freezing cold. One palm remained on its stomach, the other, he placed over its neck.
"Poor creature," Meribald said with pity. "Don't worry, the pain will soon end."
The septon's eyes fell shot, his face became serene but focused. Geralt felt the crowd around him shift on their feet, slowly drawing closer. Glancing about, he noticed their unblinking stares, the almost child-like wonder on their faces. Not one of them said a word.
"Father Above, we call upon you," Meribald began, his voice clear and soothing in the stillness. "Guide our hands and hearts, lend us your wisdom in this time of need. Grant us the strength to heal and to hope."
He paused, then continued, "Mother, your mercy knows no bounds. Watch over this creature, bestow upon her your gentle care. Let her pain be eased, her strength renewed. Warrior, grant us courage, to face the trials ahead. Help us to fight against the sickness that weakens this innocent creature."
Geralt felt his medallion tremble underneath his shirt. The air, already abundant with anticipation, slowly began to change as something else filled it. Something only he in the crowd could identify but they all surely would have felt too.
"Maiden, with your love, guide us towards purity and health. Let your light shine upon Truffle, cleansing her from within. Smith, in your craft and labor, we find resilience. Lend us your endurance, your resolve, to bring this creature back to health."
His medallion shook severely, the mounting Power in the air circled above their heads, passing in and through all the assembled people. Geralt felt it nestle and press against his temples.
"Crone, wise and knowing, guide us through this darkness. Show us the path to healing, let us not falter. And Stranger, you who walk in shadows, stay your hand. Let not this creature pass into your realm. Not today, not while there is still hope."
As the last of his words echoed and dissipated in the enveloping quiet, a sense of calm descended upon everyone present. Even Geralt momentarily lost focus, swept up in it before he collected his wits.
The energies around the marketplace paused, hanging frozen in the air as if encased in ice. Then, not with an overwhelming force, but like a gentle breeze one might encounter riding across an open field, it flowed into Meribald, traveled through his hands, and settled into the pig. The Witcher did not miss the transient glow that enveloped them for an instant.
Moments turned into minutes. No one dared to move, speak, or in some cases even breathe until the first signs of healing appeared. The pig's labored breathing ceased. Its skin changed hues within a few heartbeats, returning to a natural pink. Steadily, the animal opened its eyes and rose to its feet, now steady and strong. Wagging its tail like a dog, the pig immediately turned to the serene septon by its side and nuzzled into his stomach, snorting and squealing happily.
"There, there," Meribald laughed, patting and stroking it as it nearly climbed on top of him. "Did I not say all would be well?"
The pig snorted even louder and proceeded to shove its snout into his face, licking him. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause. Children looked on as if Meribald was a member of the Kingsguard visiting. Women laughed and wept. Men stared in awe and respect. Most began to recite the prayer of the Faith, while others huddled around the cart to get a better look at the local hero.
Geralt held back, waiting for the euphoria to pass and examining what he'd just witnessed.
Belief in the power of gods to conjure and wield spells was nothing new. Back at Harrenhal, Howland had performed similar feats on ravens and other creatures. The young crannogman would spend days, even weeks, in their company, communicating with them in the ancient tongue of the First Men. It was an old, daunting language that Geralt found unsettling to listen to. Yet, it seemed to put both the animals and Howland himself into a kind of trance that soothed and healed the beasts' wounded psyches. Now, this priest of another faith was doing the same.
The concept of faith-based sorcery had long been a point of contention among scholars, priests, and wizards back home. Geralt had read about it and even participated in many such debates himself. There were individuals who didn't possess magical potential in the "conventional" sense, yet could still command incredible feats of sorcery simply thanks to the strength of their conviction and the power of their belief. They could even have premonitions and prophecies of the future.
Priests often refused to acknowledge this as magic, instead considering it a gift from their chosen gods. Yennefer, who once left him speechless during a conversation on this topic, agreed with them, citing an instance when she had fallen into a trance on Skellige and sensed the presence of a powerful, otherworldly force during it. Geralt remained unconvinced. A sufficiently provoked farmer could cast a curse on his neighbor, while a priest who believed in his connection to a higher power could perform similar acts.
Nevertheless, if this Meribald could wield such power, he would be an ally worth having. Geralt concluded, setting aside his skepticism towards gods and his negative experiences with their many followers, and approached the septon.
The crowd had significantly thinned out during his musings. Those who stayed sought Meribald's help with their own troubles, some legitimate like a sick sheep or cow, others mundane and almost amusing, such as asking for a hangover remedy. The pig owner, caught between laughter and tears of joy, attempted to hand Meribald a pouch of gold. The septon, however, kindly refused.
"There are others who need this more than I, my good man," Meribald gestured to some of the beggars who sat waiting in the corners and along the peripheries of the street. "Dark days are ahead, and in such times, we must show each other kindness to endure and survive them."
"O-Of course, septon," The man sobered up, and bowed his head. "I will do as you say, I swear it. All my family will too."
As the farmer rode away with his happily squealing pig, Geralt made his way to the wandering septon. He stopped about ten feet away before calling out, "Septon Meribald?"
At the sound of his name, the man froze, his hand halfway down from waving to the departing farmer. He slowly turned around to face Geralt, his mouth hanging slightly open, his eyes focused in a frown of concentration. Gradually, a look of understanding, of recognition, appeared on his youthful face.
"... It is as the gods showed me," Meribald finally spoke after a moment of silence, his voice low and hushed. "The wayward wolf has followed the spider's trail, caught my scent, and has finally sought me out."
Geralt's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly at the septon's cryptic words. "You knew I'd be here?"
"... In a manner of speaking," the younger man responded with a smile. "Perhaps we should move this conversation indoors. I'm certain you have many questions for me, Master...?"
"Geralt of Rivia, Witcher," he replied, nodding his head towards the nearest tavern. "And you're right, we've got a lot to talk about."
The Bountiful Barrel was a two-story establishment with well-maintained walls and a signpost featuring a barrel overflowing with flowers, vegetables, and frothing ale. Inside, it was spacious, with sturdy wooden tables and benches strategically placed, leaving ample room for patrons to move about. Wooden beams crisscrossed the low ceiling, and a large, long-unused hearth dominated one side of the room.
The atmosphere was welcoming, especially when the tavern nearly erupted in cheer upon Meribald's entrance. In contrast, Geralt barely garnered a glance from anyone. The bartender even allowed him to take two kegs of ale without demanding payment.
They'd chosen a secluded corner table, away from the rest of the patrons. Geralt sat with his back pressed against the wall, Meribald opposite him, basking in the beams of sunlight that infiltrated the room.
"Thank you, although I'll only have a little," the septon said as the Witcher returned to the table. "Just enough to moisten my lips. I've found that too much can cloud the mind."
Geralt nodded in agreement, observing the man closely as he took the merest of sips. His medallion remained unresponsive to their close proximity, and there was no lingering sign of Power around the septon.
"Now then, Master Witcher," Meribald smiled, resting his palms atop the table. "I am prepared to answer any questions you may have."
"You knew I would find you and that the king's spymaster would guide me to you. You also," Geralt's voice dipped slightly, "warned that man of impending dark days. It's clear that you've had visions or glimpses of the future. How much do you know?"
Meribald's smile faltered, his eyes seeming to look past Geralt at something only he could perceive. "... I've had numerous dreams in recent months, Master Witcher. I've traveled down unfamiliar paths and roads, to a grand castle atop a hill that resembled a mountain. I've found myself among numerous flocks of sheep and a large, white wolf with red eyes standing amongst them, utterly unnoticed..." His voice became more distant, and Geralt's medallion twitched slightly.
"I've seen a vast, bleak forest stretching out before me. Tall, dead trees, their life claimed by winter, and hostile, blue eyes tracking my every move through it. I've felt the searing blasts of fire scorch my skin, melt my bones, and burn away my screaming mouth."
A fleeting look of horror washed over his face, turning his complexion as pale as death. Then, just as quickly, it passed and a slow, gradual smile reappeared. "I've felt the Mother's love tend to my ills and those of others. The strength of the Warrior imparting me courage. I've heard a kindly old voice tell me that death was nothing to fear…"
The brief recollection ended, Meribald closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Geralt's medallion settled down, and he remained silent while the other man took another sip of wine.
"These visions," he began after a pause, "how long have they been occurring? A year, or less?"
"The Seven first granted me their gift almost ten moons ago," Meribald sighed. "A boy had fallen ill with a dreadful fever. I tended to him as best as I could, but there was little hope of recovery. Then, one night, as I laid beside the child, bracing myself for the worst... I held onto his hand, prayed to the Seven to ease his pain, and-"
"And the same thing happened to him as the pig just now."
Meribald nodded and fell silent. Geralt took a swig of the bitter ale and mulled over this information. Ten months, just a short while after Ciri caused the Second Conjunction of Spheres and began reintroducing magic to this world. Or, in this case, opening the doors for those with strong emotions and beliefs to tap into it.
"These miracles are not something I use freely, you understand," Meribald said. "A gift is always a precious thing, especially so from the Seven. I've only made use of it more... regularly, as things have grown increasingly strange... more dire."
"So, they've manifested as visions and healing, never anything else?" Geralt rested his arms on the table, leaning closer. "You've never... conjured fire from your fingertips? Lightning?"
The septon looked as if he were on the verge of laughter at that, but the Witcher's stern expression and earnestness held him back. Instead, the young priest shook his head.
"No, never. True, I traverse dangerous, wild paths where few dare to tread, but I know those ways well and learned long ago to read the tracks of men and animals to avoid danger. Conflict… it is something I wish to avoid, if I can."
"I'm asking because..." Geralt trailed off, glancing around the tavern to see if any particularly curious commoner was eavesdropping on their conversation. Fortunately, they had the sense to realize Meribald was engaged in a serious matter and gave him space. "I'm asking because of the dark forest you saw, the unfriendly blue eyes. These are visions of the North, of an enemy that's threatening to destroy your Seven Kingdoms."
Meribald stared at him, not surprised but looking pained and deeply saddened, as if a knife had slowly twisted into his chest. "So it has returned again," he sighed, his gaze downcast. "War, back to claim lives and shatter men's spirits."
"Unfortunately, yes," Geralt said, not unkindly. "A regular war is challenging enough, but this? Nothing like it has been seen in these lands for thousands of years. The enemy your elders used to frighten you as children is back, and this time they intend to finish the job. If the people of these lands wish to survive, they'll need every advantage they can muster."
"Aye, I expect that we will," Meribald responded, his voice distant, a faint, haunted look in his eyes. The holy man sat there, silent, lost in his thoughts, his fingers gently caressing the crystal pendant hanging from his neck. From his previous words, Geralt deduced that he had experienced battle before and had developed enough wisdom to want nothing more to do with it.
He sympathised with that, having gotten embroiled in more fights and plots than he ever wished to. However, as was often the case, when the currents of history moved with such speed and force, attempting to stay out of their path was virtually impossible. Sooner or later, you were dragged into it, in big and small ways.
"Very well," Meribald took a deep breath, drawing strength from it, and opened his eyes with a clear, more determined expression. "The Seven Who Are One have brought me here and united us for a purpose. I do not intend to question it. My assistance and service are yours, Master Witcher. Tell me how I can help, and I will do it."
Geralt offered the man a sympathetic look and inclined his head in recognition of the promise. "Thank you," he paused for a moment. "To begin with, I'd like to better understand your abilities. I'd like to test their limits, see if and how they can be used in a fight."
"I haven't been in a battle in nearly twenty years, not since I was a naive lad who fought somewhere far from home. For kings and pennies I neither saw nor earned. Still," he sighed, "I stand by my promise. Lead the way, Master Witcher. Provide me with weapons, and we will see what the Warrior will grant me."
"Tell me honestly, old friend, does she remain as magnificent as you remembered?"
Arthur was not a maritime enthusiast, nor did he have a particular desire to become one. As long as a ship could keep him afloat and distant from the unfathomable depths of the sea, a regal galleon was just as good as a humble fisherman's skiff. Nonetheless, he could not deny the elegance of the Serpent's Kiss.
The galleon was a formidable yet sleak sight. At 60 meters long and 20 meters wide, its three masts towered like great, wooden edifices capped with iron, reaching high into the sky. Upon each one were folded sails in shades of vibrant orange and golden yellow. He was aware that its four decks were expansive and accommodating, capable of carrying a small army along with ample provisions and treasures.
Throughout the entirety of its sturdy hull, reinforced plating was punctuated and complemented by intricate carvings and ornate patterns etched into the wood, depicting scenes from Dornish lore. A serpentine figurehead, masterfully sculpted from the finest timber, adorned the ship's bow: a cobra with its mouth open wide, a long, metal spearhead protruding from its maw, glinting brilliantly in the midday sun.
"Aye," Arthur conceded, his gaze shifting from the ship to Oberyn who stood at his left. "The figurehead is a striking addition. Doran must have been ecstatic to foot the bill."
"Undoubtedly," Oberyn responded with a hearty chuckle, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. "As you well know, my brother finds nothing more delightful than indulging my whims!"
"Of course." The two continued laughing as they climbed up the lowered ramp.
As Oberyn was in no hurry to depart, the majority of the crew were enjoying their shore leave, engaged in various pastimes. Only a handful remained to greet them as they stepped onto the weather-worn deck. A mixed group of Dornishmen and others who Oberyn had recruited during his adventures in Essos. After paying their respects to their captain and his distinguished guest, they promptly returned to their tasks. Some busied themselves checking the condition of the rigging, ropes, and tackles, while others diligently scrubbed the deck of any bird droppings and inspected the woodwork for any signs of decay or damage.
Oberyn's quarters in the aftcastle were as ornate as ever. A carpet, painted in hues of blue and yellow, depicted the mingling of sand and sea in winding patterns that muffled their bootsteps.
Finely drawn and framed maps covered the eastern wall, some displaying various points across the Narrow Sea, others marked with a knife, showcasing crossed-out symbols of sellsail companies his friend had encountered and annihilated. The western wall was adorned with Oberyn's collection of vividly colored paintings: some depicted battles, others showcased throngs of people in various stages of intimate embrace. Arthur couldn't help but shake his head at these.
"Don't disapprove simply because you've never tried it," Oberyn warned teasingly. He navigated around a finely crafted table of redwood and produced a bottle of wine, accompanied by two glass goblets. These were crafted in the visage of the Black Goat of Qohor, its mouth gaping open and its horns serving as handles.
"I don't disapprove," Arthur retorted, leaning back comfortably into the cushioned redwood chair in front of the desk. "I merely wonder if those drawings have ever managed to disconcert anyone with whom you've negotiated."
"More often than you might think," Oberyn replied as he uncorked the bottle, a potent scent immediately permeating the air. It was Crimson Ambrosia, as sweet as cake and as dark as a fresh pool of spilled blood. He poured the wine into the two glasses. "Most men tend to overly focus on seeing three women who can bend their bodies in such ways."
A juvenile, curious part of Arthur yearned to question the feasibility of such a position, but he decided against it. Oberyn would surely never let him live it down. Instead, Arthur accepted the offered glass with a grateful smile, and brought it to his lips. The scent enveloped him, the sweet taste captivating his senses.
As he leaned further into his seat, Arthur closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander. For a few fleeting heartbeats, he was no longer in King's Landing or in the company of Oberyn. He was back home, watching the wind dance through the mountainous terrain, the trees, and the fields of blossoming flowers. He was on the Dornish coast, listening to the seagulls gliding overhead and the bells of Starfall's port echoing in the distance. Events, recent and forthcoming, all vanished from his mind and for that he was quite grateful.
Indeed, his moment of tranquillity was fleeting, the peace dissipating all too soon.
"At last, you look a little at peace," Oberyn commented, his voice bearing a rare hint of concern which Arthur recognized as genuine.
"I've had much on my mind recently, a great deal to... unburden myself of."
"So I've heard, as has much of the castle," Oberyn responded. His words were not judgemental but carried a tone of camaraderie, as if he was ready to lend an ear or a piece of advice. "Don't think I've not noticed how you and Ser Oswell have… stood apart from the other Kingsguard at the training yard of late."
Arthur waved a dismissive hand. "No doubt the castle is abuzz with gossip and rumors about our heated exchange with Barristan, and why we suddenly find ourselves with an abundance of free time," he admitted, his voice heavy with resignation. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not discuss it right now. The circumstances are neither pleasant nor something I wish to revisit so soon... I do enough of that in my private hours."
"Whenever you're ready, my invaluable company and exceptional wine will be at your disposal," Oberyn chuckled, seemingly unfazed by Arthur's somber demeanor. He leaned back in his seat, nonchalantly propping his legs atop the desk. "Very well, if it's a change of topic you desire, let's discuss something else. How about your daring battle against Harren the Black?"
Arthur couldn't help but crack a small smile at Oberyn's antics. He shook his head, the mirth in his eyes belying his stern exterior. "Fine, you relentless devil. But in return, I want to hear a tale of your own. No doubt you've been embroiled in some scandal or controversy during my absence, knowing your... habits."
Oberyn clapped his hands in delight, looking very much like the cat that got the cream. "You drive a hard bargain, Arthur Dayne. But a deal is a deal. I'll regale you with one of my misadventures after hearing yours."
The tension seemed to lift a little from the room. Arthur took a sip of his wine, savoring its sweet notes, and started to recount his own adventure, with Oberyn hanging on his every word. So engrossed was he in the narrative that, unusually, the Red Viper said almost nothing at all for nearly an hour, his expressions providing sufficient commentary. His lips curled in disgust at the tale of Harren's atrocities against his own kin, while a mesmerized wonder sparkled in his eyes as Arthur described the clash with the wraiths and their joint defeat of the accursed Ironborn king.
"And then their spirits passed on," Arthur concluded, taking another sip of wine. "With Harren's power broken, they finally find some measure of peace."
Oberyn, who had been watching Arthur throughout the tale with rapt attention, raised an eyebrow at that last sentiment. His features hardened slightly, the typically jovial air about him replaced with a thoughtful one.
"You speak of peace as though it were an easily obtained commodity, Arthur," he mused, swirling the dark wine in his glass. "Yet we both know, peace, true peace... It's elusive. As elusive as a dream, for most."
He lifted his glass to his lips, savoring a small sip of the Ambrosia before continuing. "Harren's wraiths were driven by their pain, their anger, their suffering for centuries. And you... You released them. Allowed them to find their peace."
His dark eyes flickered to Arthur, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I think there is a profound nobility in that. To offer solace to those lost souls, to release them from their eternal torment... That is the mark of a true knight, my friend."
Arthur couldn't help but give a small, appreciative nod at Oberyn's words. He knew his friend's beliefs were different from his own, knew that the Dornishman placed great value on personal freedom and individual choice. To hear such an affirmation from him was a deeply gratifying moment.
"Thank you, Oberyn," he replied, his tone sincere. "Your words mean more to me than you might realize."
"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, my dear Arthur," Oberyn replied, his tone teasing. "I am well aware of the weight my words carry. But enough of such serious talk. It's your turn to listen. Prepare yourself for a tale of scandal, intrigue, and my undeniably impressive charm."
Settling comfortably into the chair, Arthur listened, watched, and frequently laughed at Oberyn's latest escapade. As it turned out, Oberyn had run into a pair of Stormlander brothers visiting the Free City of Myr some months prior. What started as a harmless story of three noblemen whiling away the afternoon with drinks degenerated into a tavern brawl. This unruly episode escalated into a drunken chase through the city streets, ending with their pursuers dead and Oberyn in possession of an albino donkey.
"You should have seen Arianne's joy when I brought it to Sunspear," Oberyn chuckled, shaking his head. "Last I heard, she's even taken to bringing him along to her lunches and dinners."
"I'm sure your brother is overjoyed," Arthur replied with a knowing grin, which only widened when his friend burst into louder laughter. "Poor Doran."
"His life would be profoundly dull without me, though he'd sooner eat a rock than admit it."
"Doran certainly won't be bored in the months to come," Arthur replied, then almost winced as the somber meaning behind his words threatened to spoil their camaraderie. "I apologize... it just slipped out..."
"Nothing to be sorry for," Oberyn's dark eyes fell on the wine he swirled close to his chin. "War is coming, we can only pretend it's not for so long, especially when some of us will soon journey out to meet it ahead of the rest."
Arthur said nothing, he'd guessed his old friend would broach this particular subject sooner rather than later. He was quite surprised by how long Oberyn had held back in-fact.
"Still hoping to go to Valyria?" He asked, deciding it was better to get to the heart of the matter now.
"It is my fervent wish to do so," Oberyn's gaze settled on him from across the table. "Yet I sense that the Witcher is not overly keen to have me involved in the venture."
"The task is a difficult one, mayhaps impossible and Geralt is a thorough man. He wishes to be as certain as he can be with all the factors that will come into play, who he can trust, what man's abilities will be of the most use."
"Who is more capable than I?" Oberyn questioned, his smile almost fully concealing a trace of irritation in his voice. "I've captained this splendid ship for over a decade, seen and traversed more of the known world than most maesters, and my prowess as a warrior, as I'm sure you'd concur, is nearly unrivaled."
The latter was indeed a slight hyperbole, though not by a considerable margin. Arthur had bested Oberyn in numerous encounters. This rivalry had served as the foundation for their friendship. Geralt had also outmatched him in several duels since their return to King's Landing.
Although Oberyn did have superiors, there were hardly any who could stand shoulder to shoulder with him in his chosen combat style. Opting for a spear over a sword or hammer, the Red Viper built a formidable reputation. His jabs and sweeps were as swift as a lightning strike one moment, then agonizingly and almost hypnotically slow in their deliberate execution the next. With one blade he would attack, while another scraped the ground, hurling pebbles into his opponents' eyes to blind them. He was quicker on his feet than Arthur, executing leaps, nimble sidesteps, and jumps with an effortless grace that was unmatched by nearly anyone Arthur had ever observed or confronted.
In fact, Oberyn's only true superior in these aspects was Geralt. The Witcher had praised the prince's talents during a private conversation the previous day, stating that of all the Westerosi warriors he had battled, Oberyn's fighting style bore the closest resemblance to that of a Witcher.
Arthur refrained from verbalizing these thoughts, knowing it would only stoke his friend's already considerable pride and exacerbate his underlying irritation. Instead, he set aside his half-empty wine glass and leaned forward in his seat.
"You are indeed one of the most capable warriors in the realm. There are only a few men with whom I am confident we could prevail in any battle, and you are among them. Furthermore, Geralt is aware of your sailing prowess, your knowledge of Essos, and its diverse cultures."
"And yet?"
"And yet, he also knows that you can be quite a handful, thanks to me," Arthur retorted, holding nothing back. "You are fiercely loyal to your friends and family. You would go to war with all the other kingdoms to save us or seek revenge on our behalf. However, you can also be dangerous, Oberyn. To yourself and to those around you. Your temper is quick to flare, and you seem unable to resist the urge to retaliate for even the slightest offense, or stir up trouble simply out of boredom. That story you just told me? It's humorous and charming when it's just you involved, but if you were to attempt anything of the sort on the journey to Valyria? I would not hesitate to knock bloody sense into you for threatening the mission, as would Geralt."
He straightened in his seat, folding his arms, and calmly met Oberyn's glowering gaze. "This isn't some thrill-seeking endeavor. The task that lies ahead demands utmost professionalism. All the martial prowess and worldly knowledge won't amount to anything if the man wielding them poses a risk to the entire mission."
Oberyn's fingers tightened around the glass, the skin stretching pale from the pressure. The daggers in his eyes conveyed his fury, and Arthur had no doubt that his friend considered, at least for a moment, lunging across the table to initiate a brawl. With another man, Oberyn might have casually dismissed the words, seemingly laughed them off, only to produce a hidden blade and spill blood on the spot.
Arthur, on his part, merely returned Oberyn's stare with a seemingly mild interest, patiently waiting for the initial surge of anger to subside. It was a tactic he'd witnessed Doran employ many times, usually with success.
The Red Viper didn't shatter the glass, though his grip suggested he might. He didn't hide his rage behind a jovial smile or forced laughter. Instead, somewhat to Arthur's surprise and approval, he simply downed the remainder of his wine and set the cup down with more force than necessary and fell into a sullen silence that lasted nearly a minute.
"Listen," Arthur sighed, unfolding his arms and resting them on the table. "I know, as does Geralt, that beneath your thrill-seeking bravado lies a man eager to contribute to the war effort. A man who wishes to protect his friends, family, and countrymen from suffering and death. You are an able leader of men, a fearsome warrior and an excellent captain. You could be of great use in this task. The issue lies in how you present yourself: show the Witcher that you can take this mission seriously.
"Do you have knowledge of Valyria and Essos? Bring it all to Geralt, no matter how trivial or seemingly inconsequential it may appear. Better yet, write it all down, neatly organize it, and present it to him so that we can all more easily keep track of the information. When he asks you to recount something, speak honestly, without sarcasm or ridicule. Stick to the facts and for the love of all the gods," Arthur smacked the side of his foot, startling Oberyn, "keep your bloody feet off the table while doing so. It makes you look like a fool."
Oberyn's eyes flashed again with restrained anger, though not as intensely as before. He regarded Arthur with a slight tilt of his head, akin to an animal examining an unfamiliar creature.
"You've changed, Arthur," he commented, his voice a mix of respect and irritation. "You've never been one to speak so... bluntly."
"I've lost patience for lies and half-truths, to myself or others, as my sworn brothers have recently discovered."
Oberyn remained silent, though Arthur was certain he must have heard about the quarrel concerning the queen and Aerys. He would relay his own account of the event later.
"Not the wisest strategy in all circumstances," Oberyn pointed out, with some validity. "But... effective here. I've known you for too long to believe you'd be misguided in this matter. If you say this is how I can prove myself, then I will do it."
"It's not a guarantee of success."
"Neither is the whole endeavor, is it?"
Arthur released a dry chuckle at that. "No, it certainly isn't. But having the right man in the right place can never hurt, I've found. Even if some may initially doubt their inclusion to a task."
Oberyn nodded in agreement, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "You speak truly," he said. Instantly, his hands swept across the table, producing ink, a quill, and several sheets of paper from the drawers. He leaned forward, his fingers absently tracing his lips.
Arthur recognized this look immediately. Once Oberyn committed to a task, nothing in the Seven Kingdoms could divert or slow him down. A few hours later, after Arthur had provided guidance on what to include first, he excused himself to attend to his duties, leaving the prince engrossed in his work. Oberyn barely seemed to notice as a stack of papers detailing his knowledge of Essos, Valyria, and its many dangers steadily grew beside him.
Arthur departed, finding some measure of solace in aiding his friend and stepping away from his troubles for a while.