At first, Oberyn did not want to go to the tourney in Duskendale. He was notoriously unlucky when it came to jousting. Besides, he found the whole idea ridiculous. He was a Dornish horseman and a spearman, so he of all people knew perfectly well that tourney fights had nothing to do with reality. Besides, not long ago he had been fighting in the pits of Slavers’ Bay, where the blood was real, and the fights frequently were to the death. That was his idea of merry pastime!
The closest the northerners had come to that were fights with chained animals, wolfs or bears. Oberyn was not particularly squeamish, he could gut a bear if he had to, but there was no beauty in such a fight, no imagination. It was not something that could make his blood boil and his soul sing. So, he did not want to go.
Unfortunately, when he tried to explain all of that to his brother and his ruler, Doran just shook his head. “We need to do this, Oberyn. We need to show Baratheons that all the rumours about your brooding rebellion have no ground. They know you have come here waving your spear in the air claiming you would never bow to the new king.”
“And now you want me to bow?” Oberyn asked, his hand moving to the hilt of his dagger without him noticing.
“I wish you could,” Doran smiled with his usual, sad and peaceful smile. “But I know that would be too much to ask of you. No, all I wish is you to go to Stormlands and charm some ladies, maybe win some prizes, give the loose tongues something to babble about. Just show them that Dorne has come to terms with what has happened.”
Oberyn mumbled something not very noble, then suddenly his face brightened.
“You want to set the tongues wagging? Very well. I will go. But on one condition.”
Doran sighed heavily, already sensing that he had made a grave mistake.

They rode through the gates of Duskendale together, on a pare of matching Dornish steads. This, in itself, was already a scandal: a woman riding on a horseback like a warrior, her horse head in head with the horse of the prince. Moreover, she was dressed like a rider, with leather trousers clearly visible underneath her skirt. Her back was straight, her smile was wide, her laughter - a beautiful, melodic thunder silencing the voices of the gawking crowd. She had no banner or sigil nowhere on her dress, yet she was talking to the prince of Dorne like she was his equal, and he answered her in tone. Behind them, the long column of other lords and knights and other nobles rode with their banners hight in the air. There were other women riders too, even thought not many, some of them even had arms, but no one had caused so much confusion as the woman at the head of the column. No one knew her name, no one could guess her title.
They stopped the column when they saw the patriarch of the land, Lord Renfred Rykker walking to greet them. Oberyn jumped off his horse and made a galant gesture to his lady, but she barely touched his hand. She was a Dornish too, she did not need a man to help her dismount.
“Prince Oberyn, what an honour!” Lord Rykker started and abruptly went silent. He had to know his guests, it was his duty as a host. Even if he did not know the name, he had to, at least, recognize the banner and recall the family name. But the woman in front of him bore no banner.
Oberyn waited for a moment, allowing the awkward silence to grow. When all the heads were finally turned in their direction, he introduced his lady: “Thank you, Lord Renfred. Allow me to present you Ellaria Sand, the eldest daughter of Lord Harmen Ulwyck. My paramour.”
The gasps and the looks of horror on the faces around them were priceless.

Отредактировано Oberyn Martell (2023-07-01 21:47:39)

“I…” The lord had to swallow hard before he managed to find his voice again. Oberyn could read his dirty little thoughts like they were written on his forehead: this petty little man thought it was beneath him to talk to a woman without a title. Oberyn felt generous and decided to help him. He glanced around at the castle yard noticing banners everywhere.
“I see we have come late. I hope you still have place for all of us, and we won’t have to set up tents around your castle walls.”
It was sad like a joke. It was supposed to be a joke. But the old man grew pale anyway. Why? If the stormlander did not see it funny, but thought it was a thinly-veiled threat, it was all in his head. He had to think better. He had to remember that this was the first time the Dornish agreed to even meet his Great Lord, the so-called king Baratheon, and pretend to talk to him. He did not want to be blamed for another war, right?
“Of course, of of course, prince Oberyn,” lord Renfred managed a weak smiled. “Please, my lords and ladies, you must be tired from the ride,” he said it and immediately glanced at the Dornishmen, as if asking himself if he had said the right thing. Those Dornishmen were born in the saddle, he seemed to think, could they ever get tired from horses?
But Oberyn decided to let this slide. He wrapped one arm around Ellaria’s waist, and together they waited for a moment for the southern nobles to dismount. That did not take long. The servants took their horses, and moved away to the stables. Lord Renfred gathered all his cheer, or which he did not have much, and let the guests into the great hall.
Duskendale was an old northern castle, with a keep in the heart of it and all the other buildings swarming around it like a pack of sucklings nuzzling up to a warm barrel. They walked up a steep stare into the great hall, and the first things Oberyn noticed immediately were the giant fireplace at one wall and the mold on the other. The servants had done their best to scrub it off, but human hands could do nothing against the ill will of nature. A castle on the seashore on this side of the Red Mountains was doomed to be a wet, cold tomb with ocean breeze whistling angrily though the tiny holes called windows.
What a difference a several days ride could make! They had just left a beautiful palace, also overlooking the sea, with windows so huge one could walk straight though them, with open terraces and stone arches designed to protect not from the wind, but from the sun.
In the great hall, the lord called the castellan to show the guests their rooms. He was clearly happy to get away from the Dornishmen as soon as possible, before Oberyn - or, Seven forbigdEllaria, - decided to talk to him again.
They passed the great hall and walked through the passage leading to the bedchambers. The castellan was as calm as a morning sea, with no face expression at all. Oberyn decided he liked the change.
“My prince, for you we have prepared the rooms right there in the keep, next to the Great hall, and your noble companions can find themselves comfortable down the hall this way.”

Lord Rykker squeezed his teeth so hard that Oberync Ould hear them grinding, but said nothing. He gave the pair a curt “Please, enjoy your stay,” turned around and walked away. Oberyn chuckled and smiled to his woman. He had made the right chose when he brought her hear! She would show those bloody fools what Dorne has to say about their traditions!
“How about we go for a walk? Let’s give the servants some time to turn this tomb into a bedroom.” He smiled to Ellaria, took her by the arm, and two of them walked back into the main hall. It was not much of a hall, really, the castle was not all that large. It had two rows of columns flanking the main aisle, several rows of tables on the each side of the isle, a usual dais for maybe a dozen people. All in all, the hall could host probably a couple of hundred people and no more.
Oberyn walked straight to the dais. It was empty now, just one more wooden table among many more.
“Where would you like to sit tonight?” He asked Ellaria. He already new that Ellaria would be sitting next to him at this table. He would fight for her right to be there, if he had to. Or maybe he would not. Maybe he would sit together with her somewhere at the farthest corner of the room and start kissing her right in the middle of the king’s speech. That, perhaps. Would be even better.
He glanced around noticing that they were far from being alone. There were people all around them, noble as well as servants, and they had clearly overheard Oberyn. He grinned.

Отредактировано Oberyn Martell (2023-07-11 03:39:41)