The atmosphere in the hall froze.
Every gaze at the long table shifted between Galladon and Oberyn.
Lord William Mooton sensed the tension immediately. Forcing a laugh, he hurried to smooth things over.
"Haha, Galladon, since you're interested, allow me to introduce the other guests tonight—"
Before he could finish, Ellaria slammed her hand on the table and stood.
"Impolite child! Prince Oberyn is speaking to you. Can't you hear him?"
William Mooton began sweating at once.
Behind Galladon, Stoin and Salio's hands moved to their sword hilts.
Galladon calmly cut a piece of red wine–stewed beef, speaking without looking up.
"If I remember correctly, your name is Ellaria. May I ask which house you belong to?"
Ellaria's expression stiffened.
She was a bastard daughter of Harmen Uller of Hellholt—never acknowledged. Any answer would embarrass her.
Oberyn pulled her wrist gently.
"She is my companion. That is all you need to know."
Ellaria sat down, moved by his gesture.
Galladon nodded, tasted his food, and continued ignoring Oberyn.
Silence.
Oberyn was unaccustomed to being ignored.
Most men either feared him or confronted him directly. This boy simply dismissed him.
After another bite, Galladon raised his glass toward Lord Mooton.
"Your chef is excellent. If I pass through the Riverlands again, I will surely visit Maidenpool."
Oberyn's jaw tightened.
"Boy. Didn't you hear me?" he pressed.
Galladon set down his utensils and finally met his eyes.
"Has no one ever told you that you're rather annoying? Must you humiliate yourself?"
Gasps rippled around the table.
Oberyn's fingers flexed.
"You're asking for trouble?"
"Do you believe that when you speak, others are obliged to answer?" Galladon replied lightly. "One would think you were the Prince of Dorne."
The insult was subtle but cutting.
Oberyn was powerful, yes—but not heir. A younger son, infamous for poisoning his blade and killing Edgar Yronwood in a youthful duel. Feared, but without land or knighthood.
For a heartbeat, the room felt ready to explode.
Then—
Oberyn laughed.
"Ha! I like your temper, boy. You are not like other nobles."
The tension snapped.
Even Ellaria looked surprised.
"Galladon Tarth," Oberyn continued, tone calmer, "forgive my rudeness. I truly wish to know—does your holy sword truly exist?"
Murmurs spread.
Galladon inclined his head slightly.
"If you wish to know, ask me privately. Not across a dinner table."
For a moment, his presence overshadowed the Red Viper himself.
Oberyn studied him carefully.
"Fair enough."
It was half admiration, half retreat. He had no desire to provoke House Tarth publicly. The family was rising—wealth from trade, ties to the Hightowers, influence spreading.
Picking a pointless fight over pride would gain him nothing.
The dinner resumed.
Guests were introduced—knights from White Harbor, men of House Waynwood, minor Riverlords. Many looked at Galladon with new respect.
Strength commanded regard. Not flattery.
A Private Confrontation
After the feast, Oberyn caught up with Galladon in the corridor.
"Galladon Tarth."
Stoin immediately stepped between them.
Oberyn raised his hands slightly. "I mean no harm."
"If you seek friendship, it is unnecessary," Galladon said flatly.
Oberyn's expression twitched.
"If you want to see the holy sword—"
Galladon drew the Maid of Justice.
Shing—!
A clear ringing note echoed through the corridor.
A faint green radiance traced the blade's arc.
With a single motion, he slashed a blue-stone gargoyle statue beside them.
Bang.
Half the statue fell cleanly at the waist.
The cut surface was smooth as glass.
Salio inhaled sharply.
Oberyn stood frozen.
The blade glowed faintly in the dim light.
No ordinary sword shone so.
Not even Arthur Dayne's Dawn was said to emit light.
Oberyn stepped forward slowly, examining the severed stone. He stabbed the statue with a dagger. The blade barely scratched it.
Bluestone.
Solid.
Cut cleanly.
He fell silent.
Galladon sheathed the sword.
"Let's go."
He left without another word.
Oberyn remained staring at the ruined statue long after they disappeared.
Reflections
That night, soaking in the hot spring, Galladon reflected.
He disliked Oberyn.
And he disliked House Martell's methods.
For years they shouted of vengeance for Elia, yet did nothing decisive. They blamed the Mountain while ignoring the hand that commanded him.
Power required action, not endless posturing.
Galladon had shown the sword not for pride—but to end future entanglement.
Let the Red Viper understand clearly.
Departure
The next morning, Lord Mooton provided a carriage for the journey west.
No mention was made of the shattered gargoyle.
Galladon rode Thundersmoke. The others rode fresh mounts purchased in Maidenpool. Carina traveled in the carriage with their belongings.
They crossed the green farmlands of the Riverlands.
Toward evening, towering shapes rose on the horizon.
Massive, broken towers—blackened and colossal.
Each one dwarfing the Evening Star Tower of Tarth.
Harrenhal.
They had arrived.
(End of Chapter 27)
A/N:
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Happy Easter everyone