Oberyn Nymeros Martell, Tyrion muttered under his breath as he
fell in beside the man. The Red Viper of Dorne. And what in the
seven hells am I supposed to do with him?
He knew the man only by reputation, to be sure . . . but the
reputation was fearsome. When he was no more than sixteen,
Prince Oberyn had been found abed with the paramour of old Lord
Yronwood, a huge man of fierce repute and short temper. A duel
ensued, though in view of the prince's youth and high birth, it was
only to first blood. Both men took cuts, and honor was satisfied. Yet
Prince Oberyn soon recovered, while Lord Yronwood's wounds festered and killed him. Afterward men whispered that Oberyn had
fought with a poisoned sword, and ever thereafter friends and foes
alike called him the Red Viper.
That was many years ago, to be sure. The boy of sixteen was a
man past forty now, and his legend had grown a deal darker. He
had traveled in the Free Cities, leaming the poisoner's trade and
perhaps arts darker still, if rumors could be believed. He had
studied at the Citadel, going so far as to forge six links of a
maester's chain before he grew bored. He had soldiered in the
Disputed Lands across the narrow sea, riding with the Second Sons
for a time before forming his own company. His tourneys, his
battles, his duels, his horses, his carnality . . . it was said that he
bedded men and women both, and had begotten bastard girls all
over Dorne. The sand snakes, men called his daughters. So far as
Tyrion had heard, Prince Oberyn had never fathered a son.