Oberyn didn't have to look for long. Just in the room next to his, two gold cloaks were enjoying wine while two girls sat on their laps, and one of them was belting out the lyrics to The Rains of Castamere at the top of his lungs.
Perhaps because of the wine, or perhaps the company, they didn't notice the man who slid open the room's doors until he was already inside.
One of them looked him up and down before adopting a smug, condescending expression. To men of the Westlands, Dorne was a land of peasants and bastards—nothing like the elitist hills of the Crag or the splendor of Casterly Rock.
—Lost, are you? —he asked, as if he had found a particularly repugnant pest.
—Forgive my rudeness —Oberyn replied in a measured and polite tone, though with a provoking smile—. We don't see many Lannisters in my land.
—We don't see many Dornishmen in the capital either —the man mocked.
—We don't like the smell —Oberyn replied, his smirk full of scorn.
Suddenly, Ellaria entered the room, followed by the brothel's manager, trailing after the unpredictable prince. She took Oberyn by the arm, trying to talk him down.
—Gods, look at that woman —said the other soldier, who had remained quiet so far, his eyes devouring Ellaria—. Why waste her on a Dornishman? Give her a bottle of oil and a goat.
The two men burst out laughing, but everyone else in the room wore a serious face. The prostitutes, who had been sitting on the soldiers' laps, recognized the signs. They immediately got up and scurried away.
Ellaria, who had been holding Oberyn's arm just moments earlier, let go. Even she didn't take insults to her homeland lightly—and a prince of Dorne certainly wouldn't either.
Oberyn smiled pleasantly as he walked slowly toward the soldiers' table.
—Do you know why everyone hates the Lannisters? —he said, more to himself than to them.
The two men stood up, tense, expecting trouble. But Oberyn went on.
—You think your gold and your lions make you better than the rest —he said, eyeing the swords resting against the table—. But want to hear a secret? You're not better than anyone… You're just a pair of very slow men with your swords.
Everyone in the room was completely still, bracing for the inevitable. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Oberyn needed only the smallest excuse. Killing Lannisters right in the capital, knowing they could do nothing about it, would bring him more satisfaction than the most exquisite orgy.
The tension broke abruptly when a deep, theatrical voice echoed through the room:
—How right you are!
A tall, blond, muscular man entered as if he owned the place. He wore only a fitted silk shirt and leather trousers, his hair tied back in a loose ponytail. He watched the scene with clear amusement.
The brothel's manager rushed forward to get him out of there. The situation was bad enough without some drunken noble adding to the chaos.
—My lord, this is a private roo— —He couldn't finish the sentence before the man simply gestured toward his face.
—Sleep —he said in a dull voice, and the boy collapsed to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut.
The whole thing felt unbelievably surreal. Oberyn, who seconds before had been ready for a fight, now felt a knot of unease in his stomach. Something about the situation felt profoundly unnatural.
Ellaria also seemed unsettled—by the man's appearance, but more so by his apparent ability to put someone to sleep with a single word.
—They think they're better than everyone —the stranger said, but this time with a persuasive, almost hypnotic tone.
Even though every part of Oberyn screamed that something was wrong, his mind insisted everything was normal. Even when the man literally dissolved into mist and reappeared behind the frozen Lannisters, the scene still felt perfectly acceptable.
—Two pieces of arrogant, condescending trash —he muttered as he grabbed one of their chins, examining him like a specimen.
Oberyn nodded involuntarily, as if he agreed with every word.
—I bet they're monsters too —the man went on—. Maybe they were here during the sack of King's Landing? What do you think, Oberyn?
—Yes... bastards... I should kill them... —the prince replied, like in a trance.
—Exactly, let's kill them —the stranger declared, placing his hands around the men's necks.
But then Ellaria snapped out of it. She shook her head forcefully and rushed to rouse her husband as well.
—Oberyn! —She shook him hard.
The prince broke from the trance instantly, disoriented. But as the full weight of the situation settled over him, he grasped the danger. He moved Ellaria behind him, shielding her with his body, then questioned the man through gritted teeth.
—Who are you? What did you do to us?
Vlad rolled his eyes. They had ruined all the fun. The truth was, he had come to the brothel on a whim, after watching those same men beat a beggar boy within an inch of his life.
He wasn't exactly a saint who would save every unfortunate soul, but he also wasn't going to let these bastards enjoy their night of wine and whores.
And his encounter with Prince Oberyn—whom he knew had arrived in the capital that afternoon—was a golden opportunity to make a memorable impression.
—Oh, come now, Oberyn. Don't be like that. It was just a little family joke —Vlad said with a smile.
—Family? —Oberyn asked, confused.
—On my wife's side, of course —Vlad shrugged.
—And who is your wife, my lord? —Ellaria asked, calmer now. The stranger didn't seem hostile toward them.
Vlad's smile turned predatory.
—Daenerys Drakul Targaryen.
The Dornish couple's eyes widened. They immediately recognized the man who had inspired so many tales.
—The Impaler Lord —Oberyn murmured, and his expression shifted into a defiant, jubilant smile, as if meeting this legendary monster in the flesh was a cause for celebration.
—In the flesh and blood —Vlad gave a theatrical bow, grinning.
He already had the feeling he'd get along well with Oberyn Martell. The way the man stared back at him with open challenge made it clear he would be great entertainment.