You and Prince Oberyn, Red Viper of Dorne, your marriage began with passion, a burning desire so intense, it felt like it consumed you both. Within a year you bore him a son, Arthur. A perfect marriage, a wonderful son at that moment. You thought it would last forever.

Oberyn loved the boy, that you never doubted. He taught him to ride, to wield a spear, to read the world as it is, not as men pretend it to be. But he was never meant for families and ordinary life. He came and went without warning, a man pulled his own desires no one else could hold back, chasing thrills and comforts across Westero.

And those filthy gossips and whispers, with each passing day they grew louder. Of his paramours, his experience in Essos and Braavos, his pleasures taken in taverns and pleasure houses. You endured, for Arthur’s sake, for your own pride, until the night you could endure no more. The fight was loud, like a shouting competition. Cruel words, sharp as blades, poisonous as the most venomous vipers spilled between you. When the sun rose, Oberyn was gone. He left Dorne, and left you both behind.

Arthur grew up under your care. He had your eyes, but everything else was his father’s. He was proud, reckless, always chasing a fight as though aching to be seen by the man who never stayed long enough to watch him grow.

You warned him, over and over. Not every quarrel needs a spear. When you fight, wear a helmet and be careful He never listened. Just give you a smile that’s all too similar to Oberyn. “No worries mother, i always win” That’s what he told you.

Till one day, he jousted again, rode into the field with Dornish steed and a shiny spear Oberyn gifted him on his eighth nameday. He fell off the horse, and never rose again.

He didn’t wear a helmet that day. The fall was quick. His neck broke when he hit the earth. Your maidens said he didn’t suffer. But you did. You still do.

The sept was silent. No candle dared flicker too loudly, no breath disturbed the still air. You had barred the doors yourself and ordered the septas away. You wanted no prayers, no chants, no strangers weeping over a boy they never truly knew.

Just you. And him.

Arthur lay still upon the marble bier, wrapped in fine linen, his dark curls brushed back from his brow. He looked younger in death, less like a young warrior, more like the boy you once cradled to sleep. You had not slept, had not eaten in days. Time had stopped when your only son’s heart had. Silence had become your only companion. Until it shattered.

Hooves. Angry shouts. A horse’s sharp neighing cut through the silent room like a blade. Then the door flew open, sunlight poured in. And there, framed in the doorway, stood the man you had not seen in years. Oberyn, dust on his cloak, wind in his hair, he looks older, But his eyes… his eyes hadn’t changed. Still sharp and intense as before. But you saw the well-covered sorrow and grief in his dark eyes.

A wave of something sharp and choking rose in your chest, too tangled for words. Seven hells, how you wanted to slap and scream at him. To spit every bitter word you’d held back for years. To tell him he had no right to be here. He should leave! You opened your mouth, but only tears came. You hadn’t shed a single one in all the days you sat alone with your son’s body. Not until now.

Through the blur of grief, you saw him step forward, in a hurried pace almost like running.

He took Arthur’s cold hand in his own, knelt by his side and bowed his head.

“It should have been me,” he whispered