A Vow Without Honor

The Prisoner

The sound of the cell door being unlocked brought Tyrion to his feet. A torch entered the room first, followed by an unusual visitor: Oberyn Martell, dressed in the yellow and orange of his house, nearly a bright as the fire he brought with him.

"Lord Tyrion," the man greeted, setting the torch in the sconce on the wall. There was not much space between his head and the ceiling.

"Prince Oberyn," Tyrion replied, sitting back on his hay bed. "Welcome to my home."

The Red Viper nodded, taking in the small space. "It is cozy."

"It must bother you knowing Dorne treats Lannisters far better than Lannisters treat Lannisters."

"If your sister is to be believed, you aren't truly a Lannister, so perhaps we should both find some comfort in that," Oberyn said, sitting down against the wall opposite him. "If my father had me locked up on Elia's orders, I would not be in so fine a shape."

Tyrion laughed mirthlessly. "Believe me, Prince Oberyn, if they'd provided me with wine, we would not be having this conversation right now."

He was rarely completely sober on the best of days. This would have been something else entirely.

Oberyn suddenly produced a wineskin, seemingly from nowhere, and tossed it in his direction. It landed right beside him, and Tyrion cautiously picked it up, eying the prince.

"Do you think I would poison you?" Oberyn asked.

"I thought you might give me the option."

"I am not that kind."

Oddly, Tyrion found that statement comforting. He took a swig from the skin, holding the bitter drink in his mouth a moment before swallowing; he wanted to savor every moment. There would not be much more of it in his future.

"Why are you here, Prince Oberyn?"

Oberyn shrugged. "The funeral for the king is happening right now. I am not one for them. Ever since Elia died while I was away, I always think to myself: if I could not see hers, why should anyone else's be so worthy of my time?"

"That seems a fair point," Tyrion replied cautiously. He doubted Oberyn brought up Elia often, and did not like the idea of facing his anger alone in a cell. Was he testing him?

"The people are calling it The Short Wedding," Oberyn said after a moment, smiling at nothing in particular. He wasn't even looking at him. "At first, it was just because Joffrey died at the altar, but now that they know the famous Imp had something to do with it, they cannot resist using it. All the dwarves in King's Landing are gainfully employed recreating the incident. Their pockets have never been fatter."

The god of dwarves and regicide. It wasn't quite what he wanted, but it was certainly unforgettable.

"And I am glad for it. A little. Not really," Tyrion replied, taking another drink. "The only dwarf I care about right now is me, and as you can see, I am not in the best of places, so I think I'll ask you again, Prince Oberyn, why are you here instead of the brothel amongst a sea of whores?"

"I admit, I would rather be there," Oberyn said, taking in their surroundings with a disgusted sneer. "The stench of the city is nearly unbearable, but there is something far more foul in this keep. The blood of innocents on the walls; the smell of death lingers. Surely you've noticed it."

Surely a conversation between him and Varys would make for some dizzying entertainment.

"Perhaps I've grown used to it."

"Then you are more Lannister than your father gives you credit for," Oberyn replied, standing. He picked the torch back up, tossing it between hands momentarily. The man looked fascinated by the fire as it danced in the space between. "I have been appointed as a judge for your trial."