“My father will be displeased with you.”

　　“The happiness of Tywin Lannister has never been high on my list of concerns. Is it Domish wine you’re drinking?”

　　“From the Arbor.” 　　Oberyn made a face. “Red water. Did you poison him?”

　　“No. Did you?” 　　The prince smiled. “Do all dwarfs have tongues like yours? Someone is going to cut it out one of these days.”

　　“You are not the first to tell me that. Perhaps I should cut it out myself, it seems to make no end of trouble.”

　　“So I’ve seen. I think I may drink some of Lord Redwyne’s grape juice after all.” 　　“As you like.” Tyrion served him a cup. 　　The man took a sip, sloshed it about in his mouth, and swallowed. “it will serve, for the moment. I will send you up some strong Domish wine on the morrow.” He took another sip. “I have turned up that goldenhaired whore I was hoping for.”

　　“So you found Chataya’s?” 　　“At Chataya’s I bedded the black-skinned girl. Alayaya, I believe she is called. Exquisite, despite the stripes on her back. But the whore I referred to is your sister.”

　　“Has she seduced you yet?” Tyrion asked, unsurprised. 　　Oberyn laughed aloud. “No, but she will if I meet her price. The queen has even hinted at marriage. Her Grace needs another husband, and who better than a prince of Dome? Ellaria believes I should accept. just the thought of Cersei in our bed makes her wet, the randy wench. And we should not even need to pay the dwarf’s penny. All your sister requires from me is one head, somewhat overlarge and missing a nose.”

　　“And?” said Tyrion, waiting. 　　 By way of answer Prince Oberyn swirled his wine, and said, “When the Young Dragon conquered Dome so long ago, he left the Lord of Highgarden to rule us after the Submission of Sunspear. This Tyrell moved with his tail from keep to keep, chasing rebels and making certain that our knees stayed bent. He would arrive in force, take a castle for his own, stay a moon’s turn, and ride on to the next castle. It was his custom to turn the lords out of their own chambers and take their beds for himself. One night he found himself beneath a heavy velvet canopy. A sash hung down near the pillows, should he wish to summon a wench. He had a taste for Domish women, this Lord Tyrell, and who can blame him? So he pulled upon the sash, and when he did the canopy above him split open, and a hundred red scorpions fell down upon his head. His death lit a fire that soon swept across Dome, undoing all the Young Dragon’s victories in a fortnight. The kneeling men stood up, and we were free again.”

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