From the heights of the Red Keep, Cersei watched the gardens from her balcony, seeing Oberyn as a lone figure bent over a parchment. He seemed absorbed in his writing while enjoying the view.
She had thought long and hard about how to convince him. They had not started on good terms, whether because of what her father had done to Oberyn's sister or because of the not-so-subtle remarks she herself had directed at his wife.
But Cersei didn't care; she already had the support of the Tyrell's and the Faith, even though both irritated her. She had been forced to accept that the "whore of Highgarden" would marry her son in exchange for their supposed backing.
The Faith, however, had been easier to secure. The devout High Septon, whom she had met thanks to the increasingly enamored septon Lars of the Vale, was as manipulable as any man from the slums; in fact, he was almost as fond of prostitutes as Robert had been, and to Cersei that was perfect: she knew what to offer him, how to tempt him and how to pressure him.
Many would wonder whether she would truly go as far as condemning her own brother. Apparently, Tyrion had no motive; there was no proof he had planned anything, nor that he hated Joffrey enough to kill him.
But Cersei believed it with absolute conviction. She knew that somehow that creature who had "destroyed" their mother at birth was involved; he might not have been the mastermind, but she was certain he had taken part.
Anyone with a bit of reason would understand that a conspiracy to murder the king would never have gone unnoticed by Tywin Lannister, much less by Varys and his network of spies.
But Cersei did not think that way; to her, everyone conspired against her out of envy and jealousy. After all, it was exactly what she herself did.
She decided to swallow her anger one more time and head down to the gardens to speak with the Prince of Dorne.
Oberyn was still there, dressed in a typically Dornish outfit and surrounded by several guards.
—Your Grace —Oberyn greeted her when he saw her, setting the quill down on the parchment.
—Prince Oberyn —Cersei replied with rigid courtesy— Writing letters?
—A poem, actually —he answered naturally.
The truth was that he was very curious to know what Cersei sought by approaching him.
—May I show you the gardens? —she proposed, forcing a tone of kindness.
—I could never refuse such a splendid escort —Oberyn replied with a smile, playing along.
—No, you could not —Cersei retorted as she walked beside him.
They advanced together, followed by the Dornish guards and the gold cloaks, an uncommon mix. But the walk was far from peaceful. Cersei knew well that Oberyn despised her, whether for her father or for her name, and she also knew he wouldn't waste a single chance to thwart her plans, unless she offered him enough of a reward.
Even so, she had to be cautious, so she walked at his side and kept up light, trivial conversation. She asked him about his stay in the capital, even about his daughters, and Oberyn replied with the courtesy of a gentleman, speaking naturally of Elia, whom he had named for obvious reasons.
Cersei used that moment to try to pull him into her terrain and spoke of her own loss, drawing parallels between both deaths as if it were a masterful political maneuver.
But to her misfortune, even the slightest insinuation that Elia's fate and Joffrey's could be compared made Oberyn's blood boil, though his self-control was strong enough to keep it hidden.
As they approached the harbor, Cersei made her move. As a grieving mother, she spoke of her daughter, of how she missed her; the act came almost naturally, because it was true, she genuinely missed Myrcella, but that wouldn't stop her from using the memory to obtain what she wanted.
So after shedding a tear or two in front of the Prince of Dorne, she handed him the ship she had prepared for her daughter, a gift she hoped would remind the girl where she belonged. In the capital, with royalty, not with those people she considered beneath her house in every way.
It was astonishing how even in her love Cersei could be petty and vindictive.
When Oberyn agreed to take the gift to Myrcella, Cersei knew it was time to make her play.
Cersei walked at his side with serenity as they descended the corridor. She feigned a deep sigh and glanced at him from the corner of her eye to measure any reaction on his face.
—I have thought a great deal about everything that has happened —she said softly, even adjusting the cadence of her voice— My son's death forced me to endure a pain I never thought possible… and I could not help but think of your own pain. Of what you must have felt when Elia… when all of that happened.
Oberyn said nothing, but the way his jaw tightened made it more than clear that he had reacted to her words. Cersei decided not to dwell on it; she assumed it was contained emotion.
—I put myself in your shoes, Prince —she continued— For the first time I understood injustice in my own flesh, your loss almost as if it were mine. And I wish… to offer something that might bring peace: for you, for Doran, even for Elia's memory.
At her side, Oberyn walked with the same elegance as always, and his face appeared calm, even kind, but inside something tore itself open in pure fury. The mere suggestion that Joffrey's death could come anywhere near what Elia had suffered made his blood burn like oil over fire, and the audacity, the sheer nerve, that it was Cersei Lannister who dared to make such a comparison nearly made him explode.
In a brief, violent instant, he imagined his hand closing around Cersei's throat and snapping it effortlessly, just to erase that sacrilegious comparison. The impulse was so strong he had to curl his fingers into a fist to contain it.
Even so, his expression remained gentle and understanding.
—And what could the Queen Regent offer Dorne? —he asked softly.
Cersei continued as if she had noticed nothing.
—Gregor Clegane.
For a moment, Oberyn's gaze lost its calm. It was not relief nor gratitude: it was confirmation that she was using him. She was using Elia for her political games, using his sister.
And still, Cersei interpreted his silence as a sign that she was reaching him.
—My son was taken from me… —she said in a tone meant to sound broken— just as your sister was torn from your arms.
Inside, Oberyn wished she would stop speaking. Every word that compared Elia to Joffrey was an insult, a blasphemy.
Elia had been raped and destroyed in front of her children. Joffrey had died at a feast, hated by half the city, wished dead by half the realm. That Cersei would dare even insinuate such a comparison ignited in him a fury so deep that only discipline kept him outwardly composed.
—If this gesture can ease your suffering… —she concluded— then I am willing to make it.
Oberyn inclined his head just slightly, not out of respect but to hide the murderous flash threatening his eyes. Cersei believed she saw gratitude there, but what truly shone was the silent promise that someday she would pay for daring to use Elia's name as a political tool.
—And of course —Cersei continued naturally— the trial of Gregor will take place immediately after my brother's. I thought it appropriate to close this sad story together.
Oberyn smiled, a polite smile.
—Then I will accept your offer, in Doran's name —he said— And I assure you this gesture will earn you Dorne's friendship.
She smiled, satisfied, convinced she had achieved what she wanted.
Oberyn kept walking at her side, silent and seemingly at peace, but inside one thought burned with the same intensity as his rage. If Cersei had not been useful, she would have died then and there. But Oberyn was patient, and he was clever; he knew when to strike.
Most importantly: now the Mountain was his. And the man would pay-pay for what he did to Elia, pay for the lives of her children. And Cersei… she too would pay for forcing him to accept using his sister's memory to take his revenge.
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Another chapter for today, guys! I hope you enjoy this arc. If you want another bonus chapter, just reach 150 Power Stones and I'll post the next part.
I'm quite happy with how this arc turned out, although it wasn't actually difficult to improve. I wrote the previous one during a week of constant insomnia and with only about three hours of sleep a day; it was practically just dialogue copied and pasted from the series. Luckily, I fixed it before posting it.