It’s a sleepless night in those damn dark cells beneath the keep. Oberyn half-expects them to send an assassin to kill him before the sun can rise… when they do not, he is left disappointed, tired, and perhaps a little irritable when the goldcloaks finally arrive to drag him from the Black Cell and up to the castle above. He is carted into the throne room and tossed before the Iron Throne, upon which King Joffrey Baratheon, First of his Name, sits looking more bored than the Prince would expect for someone who has just lost their sister.
 
Cersei Lannister on the other hand, now she looks as murderous and angry as Oberyn expects. Slowly, the Prince of Dorne tries to rise to his feet, only for a kick to the back of his legs to send him back to his knees. Flaring his nostrils, Oberyn keeps from whirling on the goldcloak behind him. Even with his hands tied behind his back, the Red Viper knows he could kill the man. It’s the dozen after that would be a struggle, restrained as he currently is.
 
Putting on his best smile, Oberyn Martell cocks his head to the side and focuses on the King, rather than his mother.
 
“Your Grace, I must confess some confusion. I was pulled from my quarters last night and tossed in a cell without explanation. May I inquire as to what is going on?”
 
Joffrey continues to look bored, while Cersei leans forward in her seat and speaks for him, hissing out in a tone so venomous that Oberyn wonders just which one of them is the viper in this moment.
 
“You know what you and your kind did you monster. Did you not think we wouldn’t notice your consort fleeing the city with the Master of Whispers?”
 
Varys had left with Ellaria? Strange, that wasn’t the impression Oberyn had gotten from the man. Letting some of his very real surprise leak onto his face, Oberyn adopts a look of polite confusion.
 
“Truly? I had feared the worst for her if I am being honest. I had not seen her since we parted ways after supper last night. Her doings were her own, I assure you.”
 
“Mother tells me that your brother killed my sister. I am duty bound to have justice for Myrcella’s death.”
 
The King finally speaks, and Oberyn can’t help but be incredulous at just how apathetic Joffrey sounds about the possibility of his sister’s demise. Is this truly the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms? He’d heard rumors that had turned even his stomach, and he’d certainly held no love for a brat that was more than likely Lannister all the way through. But the fact that he did not even seem to care… it lit a very personal fury in Oberyn’s chest, even as he responds to the King’s words as politely as he can still manage.
 
“I would not be so quick to jump to conclusions your grace. My brother is no killer. More than that, he is a cripple, confined to a wheeled chair. He has no reason to harm your sister. Perhaps your mother is merely misinformed. Myrcella Baratheon is well-loved in Dorne, a kind, beautiful girl. There is no one in Sunspear who would want to do her harm, least of all my brother.”
 
Cersei comes up out of her throne and her shrieking fills the hall.
 
“Your brother killed my beloved daughter and has the nerve to declare it the work of a fully grown dragon, and you dare to claim he is innocent of wrong-doing! You are just as guilty as he is, and I would see you die screaming for his crimes against my family! You are to be executed, here and now! What do you have to say to that?!”
 
Judging from the way the King is now leaning forward in his chair, excitement on his face, Oberyn doesn’t doubt that Cersei can and will have him killed here and now. And then he notices Tywin Lannister rushing into the throne room from one of the back halls behind the Iron Throne. The old man has the Hand’s insignia pinned to his front and judging by his face, he is not at all happy to be arriving late to this.
 
“Hold!”
 
Every eye in the hall turns towards Tywin, and in that moment Oberyn can see the old lion’s intentions. He’s going to deny Cersei her gruesome execution and he’s going to keep Oberyn alive for this or that reason. If Varys was telling the truth, news of Stannis Baratheon’s death at the fangs of a full grown dragon on Dragonstone will reach King’s Landing soon enough, and then Doran’s claims will have more weight. Oberyn could very well be let free at such a point.
 
And yet, something about owing Tywin Lannister his life displeases Oberyn greatly. No, more than that it enrages him. He would not have the man who ordered the deaths of his sister and her children save his life. He’d rather die screaming a thousand times over. But Oberyn has little faith that Cersei or Joffrey will overrule the old lion.
 
Which leaves only one option left to him. Jumping to his feet and side stepping the resulting kick to the back of his legs, Oberyn ends up a couple feet forward and his sudden movement draws all eyes back to HIM as he grins jovially and speaks clearly into the silent hall, preempting Tywin entirely.
 
“If I am to die for a crime I did not commit, I demand Trial by Combat! May my guilt or innocence be judged before the Seven!”
 
The sight of her father had transformed Cersei’s vicious snarl into a look of dismay as she too realized what Tywin was about to do. Now though, her dismay shifts to malicious glee and she leaps at the chance Oberyn has offered her, grinning almost ferally as she straightens up.
 
“The King accepts your demand Prince Oberyn Martell. You will be given a day to prepare and the Trial by Combat will happen tomorrow at first light.”
 
And that’s that. Oberyn is dragged off, not back to the Black Cells but to a more comfortable room within the Red Keep. The Dornish Prince can’t help but grin as well, especially when he sees the furious look on Tywin’s face as the old lion, frozen by Oberyn’s sudden words, stalks towards his triumphant-looking daughter.
 
Oberyn is given food and wine, which he happily shares with the servants who bring it to him. He is allowed to specify his weapon of choice from the spears he’s brought with him, but he is not allowed to touch them before the time comes for him to fight. This is most unfortunate, as he believes he knows who he will be fighting, and he’d hoped to coat his spear n manticore venom to make things especially painful.
 
Alas, he will have to make do without. In the end, the day goes by, Oberyn gets his sleep, knowing that this time, there most definitely will not be assassins. Even Cersei wants him to live long enough to die in his upcoming Trial now. When the next day comes, he is awake and ready for it.
 
Within the hour, Prince Oberyn Martell is walking out into the arena, dressed in light armor, spear in hand. Eight feet long, it’s shaft smooth, thick and heavy, Oberyn felt right at home with the weapon in his grasp. Even as his challenger approached, his desire for blood only grew, as did the smile on his face.
 
Gregor Clegane, the Mountain Who Rides. The Queen has unknowingly given Oberyn exactly what he came to this stinking, festering pit of a city for. The chance to kill his sister’s murderer lays in his grasp now, and he will not let it pass him by. There is no one at his side as he stands beneath his pavilion, sipping from a goblet of wine. Ser Gregor moves to his own pavilion and Grand Maester Pycelle moves to stand between them, speaking to the crowd.
 
“In the sight of god and men, we gather to ascertain the guilt or innocence of this man, Oberyn Martell. May the Mother grant him Mercy. May the Father give them such Justice as they deserve. And may the Warrior guide the hand-…”
 
A trumpet blasts and cuts Pycelle off and the old man falls silent, bowing slightly and departing from the ring. The Mountain pulls his sword from its sheathe, wielding the massive blade with one hand and stalking forward. Oberyn stalks forward as well, not bothering with showmanship or pandering to the crowd. He might very well have done so if Ellaria was here to watch him. He could scarcely resist showing off to her.
 
But no, there were no allies for the Dornish Prince here. Only enemies upon enemies. With Gregor Clegane having every physical advantage but speed and distance, those are the two traits Oberyn depends on most as he circles the massive knight.
 
“Have they told you who I am?”
 
“Some dead man!”
 
With a snarl on his lips, Clegane brings down the blade towards Oberyn’s head, but Oberyn easily dodges out of the way. Still, while there is a rage to the Mountain’s blows, it is well-contained. This is a creature who has long since been molded into a weapon of death, pain, and misery. His own lips curling back, Oberyn feints in and out, testing the massive man’s defenses and dodging his attempts to strike at the fleet-footed Dornish Prince. All the while, he continues to speak.
 
“My name is Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne. You killed my sister, Princess Elia Martell. Do you remember?”
 
The Mountain snarls as he throws out another blow.
 
“Who?”
 
Though Oberyn knows it should not, that single word gets under his skin. Still, much like the Mountain, Oberyn’s rage is well-contained. He is not the Red Viper for nothing. In and out he darts, dodging blow after blow, knowing each would have torn him asunder all on their own had but one landed. None do however, and slowly but surely, the Dornish Prince finds the chinks in Gregor Clegane’s armor.
 
Strikes with his spear begin to slice at the massive knight as he continues to dance around the Mountain of flesh and steel attempting to kill him.
 
“Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne. You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children!”
 
Oberyn’s strikes become faster and faster as he speaks. He keeps up the chant, as if it gives him strength. In a way it does. It feels as if Elia herself stands at his shoulder, gentle, frail hand pressed against his covered flesh.
 
“You raped her! You murdered her! You killed her children!”
 
Each successful strike angers Gregor more and more. But there is no distraction for Oberyn at this point. He is not playing to a crowd, he is doing this for his sister and himself and no one else. His words are for him and the monster before him alone.
 
“You raped her! You murdered her! You killed her children!”
 
The Mountain That Rides break, after a fashion. Even when he breaks however, it is only more rage, not despair or sorrow. With a roar of unbridled hatred and fury, the armored knight begins to lumber about the field, giving up all pretense of defense in order to attempt to chase Oberyn down and stick him like a pig.
 
“Shut up! SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!”
 
“YOU RAPED HER! YOU MURDERED HER! YOU KILLED HER CHILDREN!”
 
Even with Gregor baring down on him, even with his lungs filled with his chants, Oberyn stays a step ahead of the massive man and his spear tip finds purchase again and again against the Mountain’s flesh. Finally though, he finds himself set up for a killing blow without even realizing it. The Mountain That Rides charges at him directly, roaring like a beast driven mad rather than a man.
 
Oberyn sets his feet and then spins, building up momentum until finally, his eight-foot spear lances out, sliding right through the massive opening in Gregor’s defenses. The two feet of metal at the end of his weapon pierce right through the Mountain’s throat as Gregor Clegane impales himself. Of course, this does not stop the mass of flesh and steel’s momentum. Oberyn is forced to release his weapon, lest it be torn from his grasp. He is forced to leap to the side, lest he be crushed beneath the Mountain That Ride’s falling weight.
 
In the end, Gregor Clegane keeps going, the butt of Oberyn’s spear hitting the ground and sliding back. More and more of the thick wooden shaft slides up through the hole in Gregor’s neck, until finally the massive man falls forward onto his face, right in front of the dais where the King sits with his mother and his grandfather. Oberyn’s spear stands up straight, the last foot of it still embedded in the prone knight’s neck, and the rest of it coated in Gregor’s life blood.
 
The Mountain That Rides is dead. And all Oberyn can feel is disappointment. And yet, Elia’s spectral hand remains on his shoulder. He stays silent as he stares at the dead body of her killer, and his spirit feels a bit lighter. It’s as if he can sense his sister’s satisfaction with this justice. Even still, even if Elia would be satisfied with just this… Oberyn is not. He will not be satisfied until Tywin Lannister himself lies dead at his feet for his crimes.
 
Staring up at the dais, the Dornish Prince’s eyes meet with the old lion’s. They stare at each other for a long moment, before finally, Tywin stands up and steps forward, speaking as Hand of the King.
 
“It would appear Prince Oberyn has proved himself innocent before the eyes of the Seven. Despite his brother’s alleged crime against the Royal Family, the Prince himself is absolved of all guilt in the eyes of gods and men.”
 
Tywin does not sound happy to be saying the words, though to be fair, Oberyn doesn’t think he’s seen Tywin happy saying anything since he arrived in this city. Of course, where the old lion is merely unhappy, Cersei Lannister looks absolutely murderous. Oberyn directs a slight smile her way. He truly hopes she will try to have him killed in the days to come. The Red Viper welcomes the challenge, though given King’s Landing’s ilk, he doesn’t expect much of one.
 
“Prince Martell. Your retinue will be released, and you and your party will be given a ship and enough provisions to take you where you want to go.”
 
That gets Oberyn’s attention back on Tywin Lannister. The Dornish Prince’s smile is quite wicked as he lifts his brow.
 
“Oh? You assume I would want to leave, rather than clear my brother’s good name? No, Prince Doran sent me to King’s Landing for a reason Lord Hand. I shall remain as my brother’s emissary. I highly anticipate the joining of the King and Lady Tyrell. As far as these rumors of Princess-killing are concerned, I am confident that the truth will win out. My brother is not a murderer of children.”
 
That brings Cersei out of her seat, eyes wild with impotent rage.
 
“You would side with his absurd claim that a full-grown dragon swooped down into the middle of Sunspear solely to snatch up my Myrcella in its claws?!”
 
Oberyn does not want to give too much away, especially in front of so many witnesses. Instead, he settles for a truth, if not the whole truth.
 
“If that is what my brother says happened, I would believe him, yes. And if there is a fully grown dragon swooping about Westeros stealing maidens… well, we have much more to worry about, than being at each other’s throats, wouldn’t you agree your grace?”
 
Given Cersei’s inarticulate scream and her subsequent storming out of the area, Oberyn rather thinks she doesn’t. How unfortunate. Smile still on his face, Oberyn walks forward and pulls his blood-coated spear from the back of the dead Mountain’s neck. The puddle of blood beneath Gregor Clegane is still struggling to grow big enough to encompass his full body as Oberyn lifts his weapon in a salute to the King and his grandfather, bowing low and then leaving the arena as well.
 
He was telling the truth to the old lion. He intends to stay in King’s Landing, at least until the wedding… or until news from Dragonstone arrives, whichever comes first really. He wouldn’t miss these coming events for all the world, and with Ellaria hopefully safe enough in the Spider’s care (and if Varys tried anything, Oberyn had full confidence in his paramour’s ability to kill the eunuch) there was nothing that Oberyn truly feared in this rotted, festering pit of a city.
 
Let the Queen send her assassins. He’d be happy to thin out the number of snakes lying in wait in King’s Landing.
 
After all, vipers were notoriously territorial.
 
-x-X-x-
 
Two weeks and three attempts on his life later, Oberyn got prime viewing of Cersei’s reaction, when the letter came in regarding the news from Dragonstone. Stannis Baratheon dead by dragon, and tales of the black scaled monstrosity big enough to swallow a man whole, decimating the fortress’ defenses in the name of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.
 
For this alone, this beautiful moment where Oberyn got to watch from the sidelines as the Lannisters and the Tyrells had to face the facts that dragons had once again come to Westeros… well, Oberyn was ready to pledge his loyalty to the Dragon Queen then and there.