Overcome by emotion, Oberyn abandoned all caution—reaching out on instinct, he grabbed the severed head staring at him with those hollow eyes, yanking it up by the hair from the lime-filled chest.
Chunks of hardened lime fell from the torn neck.
Though dehydration had somewhat distorted the features—shrinking the skin of the cheeks and lips outward—the head, still well preserved, was instantly recognizable to Oberyn Martell.
Even in his dreams, he had never forgotten that face.
Yet to make absolutely certain, he held the head aloft and turned toward Jon and the others.
"Tell me this is Gregor Clegane's head!"
"Yes, Prince Oberyn. I saw Lord Kal take it with my own eyes—he personally gave it to me to present to House Martell as a gift."
"If you still doubt, these two can testify as well—they were Gregor Clegane's own guards."
Faced with suspicion, Jon quickly added the explanation.
The two Lannister soldiers who had just delivered the head went pale and nodded frantically.
With confirmation, Oberyn's hand shook all the more violently—rage and exultation surging together. The anger long sealed within his chest erupted as he beheld that face.
Gregor Clegane—the Mountain—loyal knight of House Lannister, and the house's blood-soaked, brutal hound.
It was this monster who had murdered his sister, Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne and wife of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne.
That hatred—Oberyn would never forget. Nor would House Martell.
Upon learning of Elia's death and that of her children, Oberyn had been consumed with fury, intent on continuing the war under the name of the Targaryens' last surviving heir, Viserys Targaryen.
If not for his elder brother, Doran Martell—then newly seated upon their mother's throne—restraining him, saying House Martell's strength was not yet enough to face such a war, that revenge now would only drag Dorne into ruin—
Then Robert's throne might never have stood firm.
And had Doran not later revealed his own secret plans for vengeance, Oberyn would surely have already struck back against Tywin Lannister, the true hand behind Elia's murder.
Holding the Mountain's head, thinking of the hatred and humiliation of these long years, Oberyn's eyes went red.
Seeing him trembling, nearly driven mad by emotion, Jon—who knew a little of the story—spoke softly again.
"There's another gift, my prince."
Jolted from the dark depths of memory by Jon's voice, Oberyn closed his eyes, slowly steadying his breath until his emotions calmed.
Then he moved the Mountain's head aside and looked down into the chest.
There lay a sheet of human skin—peeled off whole, from scalp to face, even the ears still intact—spread flat inside the box before him.
Beside that sheet of human skin lay a heart the size of a fist.
Oberyn recognized at once what species that heart belonged to.
"Whose is this?" the Prince of Dorne asked, his brow furrowing as he looked upon the two grotesque objects.
"Amory Lorch," Jon replied. "Lord Kal cut him into a thousand pieces in the square before the Great Sept of Baelor. What you see here are the largest two parts that remained."
Jon's tone was odd—clearly, the sight made him uneasy.
In the North, House Bolton of the Dreadfort was infamous for flaying their enemies alive, a cruelty the Stark family had long forbidden.
At Jon's words, Oberyn immediately recalled who this man was.
As he gazed at the flayed skin and the heart, then back at the Mountain's severed head still in his hand, the Red Viper suddenly threw back his head and burst into hearty laughter.
"A fine gift—it pleases me greatly!"
"Boy, go back and tell Kal Stone he has earned the friendship of House Martell!"
After laughing to his heart's content, Oberyn tossed Gregor Clegane's head back into the chest, answering the envoy's offer of alliance.
His gaze toward Jon now carried unconcealed delight.
"And that includes you as well, boy! So—you can tell me your name."
Seeing the mission truly completed and the tension lifted, Jon finally let out a quiet sigh of relief.
He hadn't failed; peace would soon return to the Seven Kingdoms.
Feeling the heavy weight on his shoulders ease, and hearing Oberyn Martell ask his name, Jon blinked, then a trace of nervousness appeared in his eyes.
"My lord prince, my name is Jon Snow. As for my father—he is Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North."
"Eddard Stark? Snow?" Oberyn paused, as if recalling something.
"You're the bastard of the Winter Wolf. I know who you are now."
With that, Oberyn couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle.
He twirled the dagger in his hand, his gaze toward Jon carrying a faint hint of amusement.
"You know me?" Jon asked, his tone a little rushed as if realizing something.
"I've heard stories about that honorable fellow—Eddard Stark's bastard son. Heh, quite interesting," said Oberyn with a low chuckle, the so-called Riddle Prince smiling to himself.
It seemed the Mountain's head truly was a fine gift—it had put him in good spirits and given him more patience.
Jon pressed his lips together in silence at the prince's laughter.
The seasoned Oberyn easily read what this young knight was nervous about.
"Don't tell me he's never told you who your mother was?"
The Prince of Dorne leaned back into his chair, teasing as he looked at Jon's tense expression and tightly pressed lips.
At that, even Renly turned his head with curiosity.
After all, this secret was not confined to the North—among the Baratheons too there was some curiosity about who the mother of that honor-bound man's bastard might be.
"In Winterfell, it's a secret. No one talks about it," Jon lowered his head and said quietly.
Hearing that, Oberyn pondered for a moment, then shifted his gaze back toward the chest.
"I'm sorry. I don't know who your mother was either."
"But if you truly wish to find out, perhaps you could ask House Dayne. They're part of my host as well."
"Edric Dayne, current Lord of Starfall, serves as Beric Dondarrion's squire. Yet as Lord of Starfall, he's rejoined our ranks."
Oberyn spoke lightly, glancing toward the man standing silently behind Renly and the others—the Lord of Blackhaven, Beric Dondarrion.
He had been the first to intercept Oberyn's forces after their change of course.
"As for Ashara Dayne—she's his aunt."
"I hope you find the answer you seek."
Among nobles, the ties of blood and alliance were ever tangled and unending.
"Thank you, my Prince!"
Having received news about his mother, Jon looked overjoyed, his young face wrapped in a broad smile.
He bowed to Oberyn and was about to turn and leave the place at once.
Seeing Jon so impatient to find his mother, everyone present was momentarily taken aback.
Fortunately, Bronn still had some sense of propriety and stopped the rash boy.
"Ser Jon, I may not have learned any bloody court etiquette, but I think if you walk out now, you might end up sleeping with the horses tonight."
Bronn leaned close to Jon's ear, muttering a reminder of his breach of manners.
He then raised his head and offered a sheepish smile to the lords in the tent.
Jon realized his mistake and looked embarrassed.
"Hahaha—looks like Eddard Stark really did keep that secret tightly wrapped. Look how anxious the boy is."
Renly let out a hearty laugh, easing Jon's awkwardness.
Oberyn too smiled broadly, showing his white teeth.
"No need to rush, Ser—you still have plenty of time."
"And here in Dorne, no one bears hostility or strange looks toward bastards. Boy, perhaps you should find yourself a Dornish woman—or maybe a man?"
"Which do you prefer? Or perhaps both?"
Maybe the gift Jon had brought was indeed so precious—so noble that even a Prince of House Martell found it hard to restrain his delight.
And so, toward this unfamiliar young man, the Red Viper actually showed a rare patience and gentleness.
Though his words dripped with teasing.
"I—I, uh, I—"
Jon hadn't expected Oberyn to make such a joke so suddenly, and with his earlier rashness still fresh, his face instantly flushed crimson.
At first, he wanted to deny that he liked men, but then realized blurting that out might not be proper—especially with Lord Renly right beside him.
Yet saying he only liked women would somehow make it even more awkward.
Caught in this tangled mess, his thoughts scrambled, and with his face burning, he could hardly form a coherent word.
Seeing Eddard Stark's bastard stammering so helplessly, Renly had to step in once again to save him.
"All right, Prince Oberyn Martell—you've received the Iron Throne's gift. Now I believe it's time for you to show House Martell's stance."
"Don't play dumb. You know exactly what I mean."
This time, Lord Renly Baratheon's tone was far less amiable. As he spoke, he pulled up a stool for himself and sat down, fixing his gaze sharply on Oberyn Martell.
For now, Jon's gift—and his search for his mother—were set aside, as Renly steered the conversation to the true purpose of his visit.
For indeed, this was what he had come for.
As for the ambiguous standoff between Dorne and the Stormlands—ever since the war at King's Landing had ended, Kevan Lannister's careful schemes had all gone up in smoke.
---
I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> patreon.com/TitoVillar
---