Tale of a Viper and a Doe || Oberyn Martell

xix. the champion

Oberyn and Ilyn were silent as they made their way back to Ilyn's chambers. It was only after Liz had been dismissed for the night, the loud doors clanging shut behind the handmaiden, that Ilyn turned to Oberyn and at last broke the silence.

"You intend to be his champion."

The words were not a question—and Oberyn did not do her the dishonor of denying what they both knew to be true.

"I wish to, yes," he admitted, his answer candid. The prince paused for a moment before giving a small, relenting sigh. "But he is your uncle, and should you desire, you shall be his champion; I will not stand in your way."

Ilyn blinked at Oberyn's words, surprised by the honesty which they possessed. Her heart seemed to tug at the sentiment, the notion that he would sacrifice the opportunity for his long-coveted vengeance against the Mountain for her sake. She knew merely by peering into his eyes that he truly meant every word.

In response, however, Ilyn gave a small, irritated sigh before shaking her head. "It does not matter whether I wish to or not—Tyrion would not allow it either way, the damn self-sacrificial bastard."

For a moment, Ilyn wondered if perhaps Jaime would be Tyrion's champion. She knew that Tyrion likely intended that when he had made the declaration—why else would he have so steadfastly refused to allow Ilyn to volunteer?

But... Ilyn had trained with Jaime, had seen what he had become. He could scarcely wield a sword with his left hand, much less win a duel against the Mountain. Besides, he had been the head of Joffrey's Kingsguard—he had been present when Joffrey had been murdered. And to now be the champion of the deceased king's alleged killer? No, Jaime could not be his champion.

Bronn would be Tyrion's next choice, but Ilyn also knew the Sellsword—he never did anything which would disadvantage himself. And knowing Cersei, she too was aware of the fact. He would be easy to buy—and no matter how good a friend he was to Tyrion, when faced with the choice of betraying his friend's loyalty for the sake of earning a large stack of gold or facing a murderous beast of a man to help said friend, the Sellsword would almost undoubtably choose the former.

At the words, Oberyn could not help but chuckle, the hands which rested casually on her hips tightening as he peered down at her. Ilyn paused momentarily at the noise, her obsidian eyes roaming his face as though to memorize every detail, every feature.

She gave him a wary half-smirk. "I don't suppose there is a way I can convince you not to do it?" she asked, remembering all which she had seen of the Mountain, the many jousts she had attended as well as all she had heard regarding his gift for torture. The thought of Oberyn at the barbaric man's mercy... she shuddered slightly.

Oberyn merely gave her a knowing look as he brought one of his hands up to cup her cheek. "Would there be a way for me to convince you not to, should Tyrion have allowed you to be his champion?" he asked pointedly. The half grimace she gave in response was answer enough, and the prince chuckled again softly.