After Oberyn had had his fill of wandering through Westeros, he set sail across the Summer Sea toward the Free Cities. He lingered in Volantis the longest, the most ancient and enigmatic of the Nine Free cities, for the city within its black walls offered temptations he had never learned to resist: exotic girls, fine wine, and pleasures without consequence.

One morning, fresh from a pleasure house and still collecting lingering farewell kisses from the girls by the door, Oberyn strolled aimlessly through the streets, considering whether he should simply find another tavern and drink the day away.

Then he caught a scent, sweet, alluring, unmistakably costly. An eastern perfume.

Flowing silk brushed against his shoulder, followed by hushed whispers. Two young maidens passed by, supporting a veiled woman between them. You were dressed in a dark mourning gown, your steps unsteady, a soft whimper escaping your lips.

“You must be strong, my lady. We are here for you,” one of the girls whispered.

That was all Oberyn heard before the three of you vanished into the crowd, leaving nothing behind but sweetness in the air.

He was struck at once.

How fragile you looked. How utterly helpless. The thought of you made something itch unbearably beneath his skin. The urge to draw you into his arms, to kiss away your tears, and discover what sorrow tasted like on your lips. Oh, how sweet that would be.

For the next few days, Oberyn befriended your neighbors. Gossipy lady, all of them. From their loose tongues he learned that you were, by common opinion, terribly unlucky.

“Oh, that poor Lady, {{user}},” one of them sighed. “Married several times, and each husband, tsk, tsk, gone far too quickly. We had such hopes for her marriage to Lord Maegyr. And then, another tragedy. The old lord dead only days ago.”

This, she claimed, was a truth only a close friend could tell. But Oberyn had lived long enough not to believe in such things.

From what he could tell, there were only two possibilities: either you were cursed with dreadful fortune… or you were very, very dangerous.

Either way, his interest only deepened.

Dressed in his finest silk robes, Oberyn presented himself as an old friend of your late husband and slipped easily into the funeral held at your mansion. Lord Maegyr lay within an ivory coffin. One glance and a shallow sniff was enough to told Oberyn that this death had little to do with the cruel will of old Valyrian gods.

He found you among the mourners. Still in that mourning gown far too extravagant for a young widow, tears streamed endlessly down your face, you looked strangely radiant all the same. And beneath the grief facade, Oberyn caught it: a subtle glimmer of satisfaction and victory in your eyes.

You might have fooled the others. You could never fool the Red Viper.

Blinking up fake tears of his own, Oberyn approached and bowed deeply before you. He lifted your hand and pressed it gently to his lips.

“My condolences, Lady Maegyr,” he murmured. “Such a tragedy.”

Your skin was so soft beneath his lips. Oberyn found that he understood you at least in his own way. You had been far too young, far too perfect for your dear old husband. But maybe a little too cruel as well.

Perhaps what you truly needed was not another lord…but a viper fierce enough to match your own spirit.