Time in King's Landing had passed without major incident for Vlad. He usually stayed close to Oberyn and Ellaria, trailing them through the gardens of the Red Keep, attending a few minor feasts, and occasionally visiting select brothels the couple frequented with cheerful nonchalance. As the days went by, his presence became familiar, though his figure still drew whispers from nobles and lingering glances from certain members of the court, both male and female.
He had exchanged a brief greeting with Olenna Tyrell; the Queen of Thorns scrutinized him from head to toe with her piercing gaze before returning to her idle chatter with Oberyn. Margaery showed more diplomacy, offering polite words in the sweet tone she reserved for all guests. Vlad was indifferent. To him, it was all mere theater, with every actor blissfully unaware of how the play would end.
During his extended stay in the capital, he gave his progeny precise orders: to locate and secure, through cooperation or death, any remaining alchemists or pyromancers in the city. He needed to determine whether wildfire could be effective against both wights and vampires. If so, it would become a strategic resource he needed to control.
The day of the wedding arrived without complications. The gardens of the Keep were adorned with golden and white ribbons, while the banners of Houses Lannister, Baratheon, and Tyrell waved proudly above the treetops. Music flowed constantly, blending with the scent of flowers and wine. The ceremony, officiated by a septon, proceeded as expected: thirty interminable minutes of vows, speeches, and protocol before the final declaration.
—Let it be proclaimed before gods and men that Margaery of House Tyrell and Joffrey of Houses Lannister and Baratheon are of one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be anyone who would try to part them —intoned the priest solemnly.
—With this kiss, I pledge you my love —repeated the newlyweds in unison, as applause erupted and the nobles nodded with varying degrees of sincerity.
Hours later, the feast began. The tables overflowed with delicacies: honey-glazed turkeys, whole roasted stags, pyramids of exotic fruits, and goblets that never emptied. Seven courses were served in honor of the Seven, followed by seven more to glorify the King. Vlad remained at a central table with Oberyn and Ellaria, exchanging few words. He observed quietly, wondering if the evening would unfold as anticipated or if he would need to intervene to silence the little monster king.
At one point, Queen Margaery rose with determination and a charming smile.
—My love, why don't we make the announcement?
Joffrey nodded impatiently, tapping a goblet to gather everyone's attention.
—Everyone. The Queen wishes to say a few words.
—We are very fortunate to enjoy this wonderful food and drink —Margaery began clearly— but not everyone among us is so lucky. To thank the gods for bringing a just end to the recent war, King Joffrey has decreed that the leftovers from our feast be given to the poorest in his city.
Applause followed immediately. Some nobles feigned enthusiasm, others seemed genuinely moved by the young queen's "piety," and several clapped out of sheer courtesy. Cersei flashed a frosty smile.
—You are an example to us all —she said in a tone flat enough to leave it unclear whether it was praise or mockery.
The hours passed amid wine, laughter, and greetings. Lords paraded before the newlyweds one by one, offering hollow words and rehearsed bows.
—Your Grace. My King. My Queen —said Brienne, with an awkward bow.
—Lady Brienne. How kind of you to come —replied Margaery, ever courteous.
—I am no lady, Your Grace.
—Did you just curtsy? —interjected Cersei, raising an eyebrow.
—Apologies, Your Grace. I never mastered protocol.
Joffrey, goblet in hand, leaned forward with a cruel spark in his eye.
—You're the one who stabbed Renly Baratheon.
—That's not true, my love —Margaery corrected gently, before the tension could rise— Brienne had nothing to do with it.
—A shame —Joffrey said coldly, leaning back into his seat— I'd knight the man who ended that pervert's life.
Brienne stiffened, but kept her composure.
—I only wanted to offer my congratulations and wish you both luck. The realm has been at war too long. I hope your reign is long and peaceful.
—Yes —Joffrey muttered, losing interest as quickly as he'd gained it.
—Thank you. I hope we see more of you —added Margaery with a diplomatic smile.
Finally, it was the Dornish party's turn. Oberyn approached with a relaxed step, measured tone, and charming smile.
—My King. My Queen. May this union be long and prosperous. It is an honor for House Martell to witness this occasion —he said politely.
Margaery returned the greeting with elegant composure.
—You are very kind to have made the long journey from Dorne, my lord. A pity your brother could not attend.
Joffrey caught her words and spoke with haughty disdain.
—Indeed. If I recall correctly, the invitation was for the Prince of Dorne, not his brother.
Margaery could barely conceal the grimace forming on her face. Playing the charming bride became difficult when Joffrey did everything in his power to escalate tension. Cersei, on the other hand, beamed from ear to ear. To her, Dorne was inferior in every way, and should be treated accordingly.
—Unfortunately, my brother's condition has worsened. He can barely move due to his illness —Oberyn said with feigned regret— But, as an apology, he sends a gift worthy of His Grace, Your Majesty.
It was a beautifully adorned spear, crafted with exquisite detail.
Joffrey seemed to remember he was supposed to act like a dignified and measured king. Putting on his best regal expression, he accepted the gift.
—I understand the circumstances, Prince Oberyn —he said after clearing his throat, as if kind words were a strenuous task— Send him my condolences. I hope his illness improves so we may meet.
—Nothing would honor him more, Your Majesty —Oberyn replied with a bow before withdrawing.
He returned directly to his table, where Ellaria waited with a kiss and a reassuring smile. Nothing soured Oberyn's mood more than dealing with the Lannisters—especially when he was technically sworn to one.
Vlad watched the scene from beside a column, goblet in hand, savoring the spectacle. It was clear that, except for Joffrey, no one was truly enjoying the feast.
In the distance, he spotted Grand Maester Pycelle making indecent suggestions to a young servant girl, veiled as a medical inquiry. Vlad had little regard for the old man; he had already ordered an investigation into his possible role in Aerys's madness. Depending on the findings, he would decide whether Pycelle deserved a quick death, or not.
As she watched him with disgust, Cersei approached him with an irritated expression. After catching the old man groping the girl in a repugnant way, she began arguing with him. Obviously, Margaery's gesture to win the favor of the people had upset her—whether out of jealousy, envy, or pure resentment. She then ordered the old man that, despite what the queen had said, the banquet leftovers were to be sent to the kennels.
When Pycelle tried to argue that the queen had given a different order, Cersei cut him off with a voice filled with fury:
—The Queen tells you the scraps will feed the dogs, or you will.
It was clear she refused to let go of the control she still believed she held over the throne, clinging to her authority.
Meanwhile, Oberyn and Ellaria stood to begin the inevitable protocol of greeting the nobles. They moved among the tables where the most important lords of the realm sat... or what remained of them.
When he saw Tywin accompanied by his daughter, lingering near the wine table, he couldn't help but approach directly, despite Ellaria's disapproving glance. She disliked her husband's recklessness when it came to the Lannisters, but all she could do was support him.
Oberyn approached with an elegant, calm gait, trying to appear casual. Beside him, Ellaria followed with a light smile and a beautiful blue dress that enhanced her features and beauty. Upon reaching Tywin and Cersei, the prince inclined his head slightly in a courteous gesture.
—Your Grace, Lord Tywin —he greeted with a serene voice.
—Prince Oberyn —Tywin replied, not bothering to hide his coldness.
—I don't believe you've had the pleasure of formally meeting Ellaria —Oberyn continued with feigned cordiality— Allow me to present to you the Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister, and Cersei Lannister, the former Queen Regent. Lord Hand, Lady Cersei: Ellaria Sand.
—My lord. My lady. A pleasure —murmured Ellaria with a charming smile and a discreet curtsey.
—I don't recall ever meeting a Sand before —Cersei commented with barely concealed disdain.
—We're quite common in Dorne. I have many brothers and sisters —Ellaria replied, the sweetness in her tone fading.
—Bastards are born of passion, aren't they? —Oberyn interjected, trying to lighten the mood— We don't scorn them in Dorne.
—No? How very tolerant of you —Cersei replied, venom dripping from every syllable.
—I imagine it must be a relief, Lady Cersei, to be free of royal responsibilities —Oberyn went on with falsely pleasant manners— So many years bearing the weight of the crown must have left your neck... a little stiff.
—I suppose you'll never know, Prince Oberyn —Cersei shot back with a poorly disguised smirk— A shame your elder brother couldn't attend the wedding.
—Please send him our regards —Tywin interjected, trying to regain control— With a bit of luck, the gout will subside in time and he'll be able to walk again.
—They say it's the disease of the wealthy —Oberyn observed casually— I'm surprised you don't suffer from it.
—The nobles in our lands do not live quite the same way as they do in Dorne —Tywin replied, keeping his composure.
Oberyn tilted his head slightly, and for a moment, his eyes gleamed with intensity.
—People everywhere have their differences. In some places, the nobility disapproves of those of low birth —he added, then looked directly at Tywin— In others, the rape and murder of women and children is considered distasteful.
Tywin said nothing, but his expression grew colder and more severe.
—How fortunate for you, former Queen Regent —he said next, this time to Cersei— that your daughter Myrcella was sent to live in the latter kind of place —Oberyn concluded, carefully emphasizing every word.
The silence that followed was tense. Cersei pressed her lips together, and Tywin met Oberyn's gaze with calm defiance.
Before anyone could say more, Joffrey seemed ready to give a speech, so it was time for everyone to return to their seats.
—I believe we've sampled enough wine for today —declared the Old Lion at last, casting a meaningful glance at his daughter— If you'll excuse us.
Oberyn gave an exaggeratedly polite nod, almost a mockery of court etiquette.
—Of course, Lord Hand. We wouldn't want to exhaust your limited... appetite for Dornish company.
Ellaria discreetly placed a hand on her husband's arm, a light touch loaded with meaning.
As the Lannisters walked away, Oberyn watched their stiff backs with a smile that didn't reach his dark eyes.
—That was unnecessarily provocative —Ellaria whispered, though her tone held more approval than reproach.
—As provocative as sending Gregor Clegane to rape and murder my sister —Oberyn replied quietly, taking the cup his wife handed him— But you're right. I'll save my finest lines for when you're not there to temper me.
Ellaria took a sip of wine, her eyes following Cersei as she crossed the hall with short, furious steps.
—That woman's already plotting revenge before she reaches the door.
—Good —Oberyn swirled his cup between his fingers, watching the ruby liquid in the torchlight— Let her try whatever she wants. I've waited long enough for this dance.
With a fluid movement, he offered his arm to Ellaria.
—Come, my love. We have a party to enjoy.
Then, with calm steps, they made their way back to their table to listen to what the king had to say… Obviously, it was unpleasant and in poor taste. Like most things that came out of Joffrey's mouth.