Oberyn loved being a free spirited man. Traveling. Indulging in his pleasures with whomever he pleased whenever he pleased. So when he was arranged to be married he adamantly refused. He fixed his clothing, rubbing the bridge of his nose as his brother, the ruler of Dorne, spoke on the topic.

"She is the heir to our neighboring kingdom," his brother tried to explain. "This marriage will cement the peace treaty, Oberyn. I am asking you as a brother. Agree to this."

Oberyn leaned back. He knew how much his brother cared about optics, about Dorne. His tongue ran along his teeth before he let out a sigh.

"And you cannot marry her to some other more willing man?" he asked.

"No one that is the Prince," his brother said bluntly. "You'll meet her before the wedding so it is not a complete surprise. Trust me, I think you will like her."

Which now led to Oberyn seated at a table, his fingers drumming against the surface, sipping wine from his goblet, watching as someone slipped through the archway of the garden.