The Throne Room was so quiet that the faint crackle of burning candles could be heard, along with the distant, unceasing rumble of the waves.
Oberyn stood below the cold blackstone steps, neither kneeling as courtesy demanded nor showing any flattery or eagerness.
His head tilted slightly upward, his gaze sharp and cold as a honed steel blade, yet laden with complicated scrutiny, fixed directly on the silver-haired youth upon the throne.
He spoke first, breaking the silence.
His voice was low and his tone light, but every word carried a viper's inborn sting.
"That face of yours," Oberyn said, narrowing his eyes slightly as though inspecting some old object both familiar and deeply loathsome. His criticism was undisguised. "It really is hard to ignore."
He paused, as though tasting a bitter name on his tongue, then slowly uttered it:
"So much like Rhaegar. So much that, when I first saw you, I could barely stop myself from smashing that face with my fist."
He spoke with extraordinary calm, without shouting or agitation, yet his words were like ancient ice, sending an undercurrent of cold through the hall.
The knights of the Blood Oath Band standing on either side stiffened almost imperceptibly, their hands instinctively settling on their sword hilts.
Although their loyalty belonged to Aegon, the Prince of Dorne's undisguised malice and threats toward His Highness's father still struck their most sensitive nerve.
Aegon sat high above them, enveloped in the mingled shadows of the throne and the glow of flames in the wall niches.
At Oberyn's outrageously offensive words, his fingertips merely paused on the cold armrest before he slowly raised an eyebrow.
Rhaegar Targaryen.
His father in this life.
The "Silver Prince" whom the legends of Westeros and the songs of its bards had raised to the