A Vow Without Honor

The Vipers

(Stay safe out there everyone)

Oberyn

He watched the faces in the crowd closely, noting the subtle changes that had taken place over the last week. Though the cheers had not dulled in the slightest, the lords and ladies who made the sounds were beginning to show wear from such a long celebration. There were reasons such affairs were so short. Late nights of drunken revelry could only last so long, but Lord Whent's tournament had events planned for ten days.

Oberyn decided the only reason they remained so rowdy was that near most of them were still drunk.

The guiltiest was the young lord of Storm's End, who had shouted gleefully at every tilt. Robert Baratheon could probably be heard all across the tournament grounds – which was impressive given the size of Harrenhal – but House Martell had the unfortunate luck to be merely a few feet away. His ears were starting to ring after so much abuse.

He hummed, leaning back on his seat and kicking his boots onto the railing. It was the final round of the joust, and as such, the fools were delaying it as long as possible. A small troupe had begun a disastrous reenactment of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, tripping and falling over the joust barrier, their little wooden swords, their own feet. It was a simple performance that appeared to entertain the masses.

King Aerys most of all.

He was cackling from somewhere behind them again, which out of all his considerably random moods was perhaps the eeriest. His parched throat could barely manage the task, breaking down into a fit of coughs more often than not. Whenever the servants tried to bring him water or wine, he'd order them away.

Oberyn could hear his nails tapping against the wood, those long, grotesque things. Of all the things wrong with Aerys, they were probably the safest to stare at when speaking to him.

There was a reason he had scarcely left Elia's side.

"Are you not amused, Brother?"

His older sister looked radiant that morning, dressed in bold shades of orange. It contrasted well with her skin and hair, and demanded that everyone take notice of her. She'd been uncertain of the outfit at first, but he had insisted. It was only her second public appearance since being bedridden for half a year after Rhaenys' birth, and he wanted the realm to know their princess would not be going anywhere. She was stronger now.

And she was. The color had returned to her skin, and the light in her eyes was vibrant. She was still thin, but Elia had always been that way. He remembered an old maester commenting on her frail form and how poor a wife she would make – not fit for childbirth, he had said. He'd beat the man bloody, only sparing him for his sister's sake.

He had been twelve.

"I might have been a few days ago, but this tournament drags like a slow poison. A man can only watch so much."

Elia gave him half a smile. All she ever heard was her brother complain.

"You could always cozy up to one of the minor lords. That never fails to entertain."

"If not me, then everyone else, yes?" he replied with a chuckle, picking at some grapes he had been provided. Even the fruit north of Dorne seemed to lack flavor. "There is nothing more fragile than a lord confronted with the affection of another man. The Free Cities had a better grasp of the concept."

"Do you plan on returning?" Elia asked, taking a sip from her goblet as if it could hide the truth of the matter: she did not wish him to.