She was smarter, less stubborn. Impulsively, Jaime pulled her in and pressed a peck to her forehead before he moved on, watching amusedly out of the corner of his eyes as she blushed a bright red. The king dismissed her, and after offering Jaime one last parting look she left with her squire in tow.
...
Now, only Tyrion and Tywin and Tommen awaited him, and two members of the Kingsguard he was supposed to command.
"Brother!" Tyrion began. "Off to play the peacemaker, are you?"
Jaime lifted his hook. "Thought I'd try my hand at it," he japed.
Tyrion's mismatched eyes gleamed with mischief. "Oh," he said, "I'm sure the Riverlords will be thrilled to have you riding to their rescue."
Jaime shrugged, a smile tugging on his lips. "I've faced worse in my time," he said. "I'll be back before you know it."
"Well," Tyrion replied with a wry smile, "just try not to lose any more limbs on the way."
Jaime snorted. "I'll try my best, little brother."
Next was Lord Tywin. "Jaime," he said severely, eyes hard. "I'm glad to see you have some sense."
"Lannisters are no fools," Jaime reminded him sourly. "I haven't forgotten who I am."
"Yes," Tywin said simply, gaze gleaming with a quiet satisfaction after having finally gotten his way.
And finally, Tommen stood patiently awaiting him. "Your Grace," Jaime greeted him.
"Just Tommen for today, I think," he said, looking around. "Come with me, Uncle. I have some things I wish to tell you away from prying eyes and ears."
Jaime followed his king deeper into the wood, around a thicket of trees so that all the rest of the men fell out of sight. It looked like one of the Kingsguard might have wanted to protest, but a stern glare from the king struck Ser Loras dumb again.
When they were finally free of any onlookers, Tommen launched at him with a tight hug. "I'm going to miss you, Uncle," he said into his breastplate.
Jaime awkwardly patted his son's back with a gauntleted hand. "I'll miss you too." Tommen pulled away, eyes sharp again, and reached down into his belt and withdrew some crumpled letters from under his coat. "What are these?" Jaime asked as he took them.
"Insurance," Tommen said. "The Riverlands is a dangerous place, Uncle. Those there contain various orders that should enable you to do as I bid without too much obstruction from the Riverlanders or their Riverlords. Don't open them now, you can do that later. And finally, I have reason to believe that Lady Catelyn is not as deceased as she seems, but lives on as a vengeful wraith of her former self."
Jaime quirked a disbelieving eyebrow. "Is this a bad jape?" he asked, but Tommen's face did not turn. Jaime paled. Tommen's dreams haven't been wrong yet, he reflected with horror.
"No, Uncle, it is not," Tommen replied grimly. "That last letter was written by Arya Stark. That one with my seal on the top. In the event you wind up in the Lady Catelyn's undead custody, I want you to show her that. It might just stay her hand from lopping off your head. With it I have also packaged something else. Orders to slay all the Freys involved with the Red Wedding. That should help your case a little more as well."
Jaime nodded hesitantly.
Tommen smiled. "Do not fret, Uncle. And remember: Though regular steel may not slay such a wraith, Valyrian steel will still do the trick. May I see your sword?"
Jaime withdrew the unnamed blade, Valyrian steel shaded a morbid blend of smoky grey and scab-coloured crimson. Tommen took the blade into his own hands and inspected it with the dappled light shining through the leaves.
"Did you give it a name?" he asked.
"Not yet," Jaime said, shaking his head.
Tommen nodded his head, eyes transfixed to the metal. "Well, then you'll allow me to name it instead?"
Jaime shrugged again as Tommen looked over the sword. "As you please."
"Men say you broke your oaths when you slew the Mad King," Tommen began grandly. "I disagree. I say you broke your oaths when, like last night, you bedded your own sister, your own queen. This steel had an honourable owner, once."
Of course the king had known. Of course. His dreams must have told him. Jaime looked down in shame. He had no excuses to offer.
"It deserves an honourable owner once again," Tommen continued. "You'll break your oaths no longer, Uncle, and I think your sword should reflect this fact."
Jaime looked at the blade the king held in his hands.
"Oathkeeper will be the name," Tommen declared as he offered him the hilt. "For the blade and it's bearer both."
Jaime nodded sharply as he accepted the newly-dubbed sword.
Oathkeeper.
...
( Oberyn POV )
For Oberyn, the port of Sunspear was a sight for sore eyes.
The journey south had been meandering, and thrice now unfavourable winds had slowed their way. With every passing day Ellaria grew more impatient to see her daughters, and Oberyn to see his brother. And yet, there was naught he could do to allay their boredom. Oberyn stayed mostly in his cabin, welcoming the occasional sailor to their bed, several nights spent in the nude, grunts and squeals and groans the only sound as even Ellaria's seemingly endless lusts were exhausted.
And yet, regardless of what he tried, thoughts of murder still ran through his mind with every league. A spy...
No matter. Today was not the day for such suspicions, and Oberyn felt a grin grow in the middle of his face as they drew nearer and nearer to the dock. Obara, Elia and little Obella stood arrayed at the end of the quay, awaiting their victorious father on the prow of the Elia as it sailed ashore. Dorea and Loreza, presumably, would greet him either in the Old Palace or in the Water Gardens.
Obara, of course, had on her full plate, bronze glittering in the sunlight, leather straps for various swords and daggers crisscrossing her skin, her whip hanging off her hip in a loose loop. She had made an effort to look her best for him, he could tell; her rat-brown nest of hair was uncharacteristically well-combed, her clothing almost womanly. A savage grin graced her face, however, much like Oberyn's own.
Elia, on the other hand, seemed better put-together. Her long black braid trailed down her bare shoulder, her dress orange, held aloft by a ring of gold around her neck. Still, she was smiling, and Oberyn could see in the distance the outline of a dagger on her thigh when the wind blew her dress hither and thither. Beside her was the littler Obella, her dress of a similar cut, a more mischievous smile on her face. Her black hair shimmered in the sunlight and fell around her slim shoulders in straight lines, unbound and untamed, but still well-cared for.
When finally the ship was still, bobbing gently in the water as one of the sailors threw a rope out to tie it to the quay, the gangplank was lowered and Oberyn could go to see his daughters, Ellaria at his side. She swept little Obella up in a warm hug, even as Oberyn embraced the other two, and once all words were spoken they finally set off together into the streets of the Shadow City, guards flanking them as they reached the end of the quay.
All around, the city was silent in anticipation. The Spear and Sun Towers loomed in the distance. Crowds of well-wishers lined the streets, backs against mud-brick walls the colour of dun, and broke out in raucous cheering at his arrival. Whores leaned out from brothel windows, clad in naught but jewels and oil, teats sweating and swaying and glistening in the golden sun as they watched him pass. Today they'd service any man and refuse any coin in honour of the Mountain's demise at his hand. Oberyn smiled and waved as he walked past the rows of loyal Dornishmen on his way to the walls of the Sunspear.
"Our prince is here!" they cried. "Victory for the Viper!"
Compared to Tyrosh or Myr or even Kings Landing, the Shadow City was merely a town; and yet it was the nearest thing to a true city that Dorne had. The air smelled of dust, sweat and smoke, and the babble of voices could be heard at all hours. In the centre was the seat of House Martell; the Sandship and the Spear and Sun Towers, flanked on three sides by the sea, and on the fourth side mud-bricked hovels and shops and pillow-houses had sprung up, some with walls of their own. More hovels had arisen behind those walls, and so on and so on.
And so when they finally reached the gates, the cheering of the crowds still loud behind them, they were quickly welcomed inside. They went through the Threefold Gate, heading along the straight brick path, bypassing the winding web of alleys and narrow passages the walls made, and went into the Old Palace. Only once they had passed the thick walls of the castle did the shouts slip away, and when they reached the outer ward they found Ser Manfrey waiting to greet him. Beside him half the court was arrayed: the blind old seneschal Ricasso, young Maester Miles, and a dozen knights.
"Prince Oberyn," Ser Manfrey greeted him. "Sunspear rejoices at your return."
"I heard," Oberyn said, grinning.
"I have commanded the cooks to prepare a feast for this evening," he continued, "with all your favourites."
"I can hardly wait."
...
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