Chapter 113 110

The Vale. The Eyrie. 298 AC.

For a considerable stretch of time, doubts had been gnawing at me, doubts quite unlike my usual self. It was not some philosophical meditation on existence, on the fate of the world, not a question of Eru's design, nor even the lives of millions of people. No, it was a single solitary life. Had I done right in giving in to the Old Lion's persuasions and sending a ship for Myrcella? She was not Robert's daughter and would never be my wife, just a pretty girl, and there were thousands like her scattered across the world. Yet for some reason I found it difficult to make peace with the death of a child I had read bedtime stories to and played games with.

Perhaps Morgan had been right, and I had gone soft. Nothing used to trouble me. During the Greyjoy Rebellion I had calmly ordered the killing of women and children, sometimes done it myself. In Essos I had thought nothing of mass torture, public executions, and selling people into slavery. And now... No, I felt nothing toward thousands of deaths, they brought me only a shadow of what satisfaction once felt like. But Myrcella's naive green eyes touched something in me.

My brooding was cut short by the swift arrival of guests. When I caught sight of a figure whose silhouette I could never mistake for another's, my mood lifted considerably. With a broad smile, I spread my arms wide and walked out to meet my old friend.

"Oberyn, you viper, why am I always the last to know it was you coming to visit me?!" A touch of reproach did nothing to stop me from embracing my friend after so many years apart.

I glanced at the people around us and noticed their stunned expressions. That only lifted my spirits further. I did not punish people over trifles, I thought, but my reputation, my conduct, and the mentality of the aristocracy had turned me into some strange, unapproachable creature, one you addressed only according to strict protocol, and I had responded in kind. I could not be bothered to change that state of affairs myself, which meant that anyone who had been in my retinue less than a year found my behavior deeply unsettling.

"Ha, I am glad to see you as well," a contest of grip strength began, one in which the Red Viper lost decisively. "Alright, alright, I yield! What strength you have! And what about your endurance?"

"Enough to drink you under the table," I understood perfectly well what kind of endurance the libertine was asking about, and deliberately steered the question elsewhere. The knights of the Vale would not appreciate Dornish humor; to them it would read as an insult.

I had already trampled over the rules of hospitality quite enough as it was. In Westeros the protocol for receiving guests was simple and well established. If the host outranked the arrivals, he was to meet them in his great hall, his throne room, "where the lord, in all his magnificence, ought to receive the visitor so as to display the strength of his house, and the guest ought to feel the weight of the moment." In the reverse case, when the arriving party stood higher in the aristocratic order, they were met in the castle yard, "demonstrating one's respect for the guest's house."

Oberyn was a prince of Dorne, but he held no real power and had come here traveling incognito, as a private initiative. For that reason I was technically required to receive the Red Viper and his entire retinue in the great hall. Only I couldn't care less about unwritten noble customs; they would be observed when they needed to be, but I was not going to put on a performance for a good friend.

"Lady Nym, you grow more beautiful with every passing year," I kissed her hand and greeted the old flame warmly.

"My thanks, Lord Arryn," the viper replied with elegant composure.

Since our last meeting, Nymeria had grown even lovelier. The last traces of childhood had faded entirely; her chest had filled out, her hips had widened, her waist remained as slender as ever, and her cheekbones had sharpened into something striking. Nym had become one of the most beautiful women I had seen on either continent.

Her younger sister Tyene had also grown into her looks. If Nymeria could be placed in the category of glorious warrior maiden, then Oberyn's third daughter was an innocent, sensual little novice. Enticing, but untouchable, you would poison yourself trying.

"Lady Tyene, you look well," hm... someone had dusted a little surprise onto her hands. If memory served, it was nothing serious, only a laxative, and one that had no effect on me whatsoever. "Still devoted to your hobby, I see?"

"Yes, my lord," a seasoned poisoner wearing the face of an innocent maiden and the voice of one of the Quendi, a lethal combination. "I try to give it all my spare time."

"The results leave something to be desired," and to the collective shock of everyone present I kissed her briefly on the lips. "Though you must be weary from the road, I do hope you will join me for a walk."

Poisoning one's neighbor was a child's game in Dorne. I found it amusing and played it with genuine enthusiasm. My chief rival in that particular pastime was Tyene, but try as she might, she had never once succeeded in poisoning me, and had frequently fallen victim to her own concoctions.

Given the difference in our stations she could not refuse me in front of others, and was obliged to accompany me on a stroll to look at the tapestries. By the time we returned, her own poison, delivered through the kiss, would have begun to take hold. And since I had added a touch of magic to it, she would need to take twice the usual dose of antidote, or the trouble would come back for her later.

"Of course, my lord," her expression did not change, but I could see the faintest twitch at the corner of her eye. She had clearly grown too comfortable in my absence.

"Dear guests, please, take my bread and salt," the Dornishmen partook, completing the ritual of guest right.

-------------------------

Patreon Advance Chapters: patreon .com / ElvenKing20