As the sun dipped low, Jon followed Renly Baratheon, accompanied by the maester, Bronn, and two Lannister soldiers, until they reached the main pavilion of the Dornish host.
The black box had already been handed to two men to carry together.
But as soon as they stepped inside the tent, their eyes fell upon a man with a broad chest, reclining lazily on a chair draped with tiger skin, a golden goblet in hand.
He swirled the wine lightly, and his eyes—black as a viper's under eternal night—fixed intently on the group entering his tent.
He had thin brows, a sharp nose, and a narrow forehead.
Wrinkles marked his face, showing he was no longer young.
His black hair gleamed faintly, streaked here and there with silver; it hung loose, forming a distinct widow's peak above his brow.
"It's a pleasure to meet you in person within your camp, Prince Oberyn Martell. This is precisely what we hoped for."
The moment they entered, before the attendant leading them could even announce their presence, Renly stepped forward with a friendly air, greeting the unrestrained man before him as though they were old acquaintances.
Jon followed silently behind Renly.
"I'd have preferred to meet you on the battlefield, Renly—then you'd make quite the fine trophy for me. Along with that handsome Tyrell boy behind you."
At Renly's greeting, the man with eyes like a viper slowly sat upright from the chair draped in tiger skin. From somewhere behind him, he drew a dagger and slapped it down on the table beside his wine.
He looked straight at Renly, without inviting the Lord of Storm's End to sit.
Swirling the goblet in his hand, he brought it to his lips and took a small sip, leaving a smear of crimson along his teeth and mouth.
Faced with Oberyn Martell's provocation, Loras Tyrell stepped forward.
"Prince Oberyn speaks with great confidence—but I can assure you, my lord's wagon would carry you in chains. Still, I'd offer House Martell a fair price to buy you back."
At those words, Oberyn's gaze flickered strangely. "So your confidence lies in the 'girl' standing behind you?"
Without even glancing at the Knight of Flowers, the prince cast a disdainful look toward Renly as he spoke.
Then, as if unable to restrain himself, he gave a scornful laugh and turned his eyes back to Loras Tyrell.
"I see he only knows how to cover himself in flowers—then lie down in bed."
"Hundred-Flower Girl, that's the only battlefield that belongs to you!"
"And I'm quite confident, after all, when it comes to dazzling blossoms—especially in bed!"
Oberyn Martell ignored the Knight of Flowers' challenge entirely, not even deigning to see the beautiful "girl" before him as a man.
He licked his lips; the words that slipped from his mouth were venomous and sharp, stabbing into the Knight of Flowers' chest like a poisoned dagger.
Never before had anyone called him "Hundred-Flower Girl."
Let alone claimed that his true battlefield was the bed.
Flushed with rage, Loras Tyrell was ready to challenge the infamous Red Viper to a duel on the spot—but Renly stopped him.
Resting a hand on Loras's shoulder, Renly's face was stiff, though he still knew what needed to be done.
With a cold expression, the Lord of Storm's End said, "We came here precisely so we wouldn't have to meet on the battlefield, Prince Oberyn."
"Then perhaps you'd rather we meet in bed?" Oberyn's eyes glinted with mock confusion.
"If the Prince truly wishes to test on the battlefield who shall become whose spoils, then I don't mind letting Dorne's army taste defeat."
"Just like the Lannisters now."
Oberyn Martell's venomous tongue provoked Renly, whose face instantly turned cold—the Lord of Storm's End wore an expression that said, as you wish.
"My lord—"
Following behind Renly and having done nothing yet, Jon was dumbfounded by how the conversation had suddenly derailed.
It reminded him of Kal's instructions, and unable to hold himself back, he stepped forward and called out softly.
He had no desire to see a perfectly good situation end in such an absurd way, nor to see another war ignite across the Seven Kingdoms because of it.
No one would welcome such a thing—especially if the cause of the war were a gesture of peace ruined by sharp words.
Renly's threat brought silence to the command tent.
Jon's soft call sounded especially clear in that stillness.
As for Oberyn, he narrowed his eyes at Renly's words; his expression revealed nothing.
Yet, a faint smirk soon tugged at the corner of his mouth—still mocking, though his provocations ceased.
Testing Renly, he had found the man more confident and daring than in their previous clashes. That alone made Oberyn Martell more certain of this party's true purpose—and lent some credibility to the rumors from King's Landing.
He then set down his wine cup, his sharp gaze flickering briefly toward Jon before glancing past Renly and the Knight of Flowers.
At last, his attention rested upon two figures standing behind them—clad in striking red and gold garments, together bearing a black chest in their hands.
"It seems the news from King's Landing wasn't false," Oberyn said, his eyes complicated as he looked upon the chest.
Sensing the sudden easing of tension, Jon forgot propriety for a moment.
"Prince Oberyn Martell, I've come by order of Lord Kal Stone to present a noble gift to House Martell."
"Lord Kal wishes to exchange this gift for Dorne's friendship."
Jon spoke exactly as Kal Stone had instructed him before departure, then signaled for the two Lannisters he had brought to lift the chest forward.
Renly, watching from the side, no longer appeared impatient.
Like Oberyn, his earlier firmness had been merely a show of stance.
Since the two sides hadn't drawn swords at the start, they certainly wouldn't now.
Renly was sure of that.
"Kal Stone—the newly appointed Warden of the East?"
"Your king's bastard son?"
Hearing Jon declare himself, Oberyn Martell's tone carried surprise.
Of course, the Prince of Dorne—who followed every turn of the battlefield—knew well of this Kal Stone's exploits in the war.
The name was hardly unfamiliar to him.
And combined with the recent rumors from King's Landing…
Oberyn's gaze unconsciously grew solemn, his eyes fixed intently on the unremarkable black chest.
"Yes, my lord prince."
Jon found it troublesome dealing with highborn men such as these.
He always felt these people were unpredictable—difficult to serve.
At Jon's signal, the two Lannisters following behind the group lowered their heads nervously. Trembling, they hurried forward with the chest in hand, their steps unsteady as they came before Oberyn and set it down in front of the Prince of House Martell.
Perhaps because of the sweltering heat, the not-so-heavy chest had still drenched both unfortunate Lannisters in sweat.
They didn't dare wipe it away and quickly stepped aside.
But at that moment, the Red Viper's gaze was not on them.
As the wooden chest was placed before him, Oberyn's usual ease and grace vanished; his entire body grew tense.
He no longer reclined on his chair but rose swiftly, picking up the dagger he had earlier laid upon the table.
It was plain to see that, before this unknown wooden chest, the ever-licentious Prince Oberyn Martell actually showed a kind of nervousness—one he had never felt even when first tasting a woman's flesh.
No, Oberyn had not been nervous his first time.
Not even his first kill had made him feel as he did now.
Staring at the chest before him, his expression turned grave, his gaze solemn.
Holding the dagger tightly, Oberyn stood before the chest.
He tilted the blade in his hand, then pressed its point against the wood.
With a light tap, a dull thud sounded from within.
"I hope this isn't a joke—"
Lifting his head, Oberyn fixed Jon with a chilling stare.
"This is no joke, my prince. It's a gift."
Jon thought Oberyn was merely being cautious and earnestly offered the explanation.
"A buy-one-get-one-free kind of gift!"
Seeing all these great men taking forever to act, Bronn—who had come along with Jon—apparently couldn't hold his tongue and interjected from the side.
"Buy-one-get-one-free?"
Ignoring who Bronn was and the levity in his tone, Prince Oberyn gave him a sharp glance, though he seemed puzzled by the phrase.
Still, the sellsword's crude remark broke his tension somewhat.
Fixing his eyes on the chest, he slid the dagger's tip into the gap of the lid and slowly pried it open with his hand.
What met his eyes was a severed head, preserved in white lime.
The head stared upward with lifeless, hollow eyes; its pale-blue, faintly purple skin looked dry and taut from loss of moisture.
It was a massive head—much larger than that of an ordinary man.
Perhaps the disbelief before death had frozen a grimace of horror upon its face.
And as Oberyn lifted the lid with his own hand, those hollow, lightless eyes seemed to stare straight at him.
The Red Viper, of course, was not easily frightened by a corpse's head.
Yet, looking at this head far larger than normal, he couldn't help but widen his eyes, his breath quickening.
"The Mountain!"
"Gregor Clegane!!!"
Oberyn Martell's voice came through clenched teeth, grinding with deep, unrelenting hatred.
The dagger in his hand trembled slightly.
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