The air of the arena still crackled with violence, the sand wet with the blood of a man who had underestimated him.

His spear pinned his lifeless opponent in the sand. But the fight had never been for cheers. It had been for you.

That man had dared to lay his eyes on you too long, to let his tongue slip with a crude remark while Oberyn stood a breath away. A mistake he had paid for in blood.

Chest heaving, crimson streaks painted across his cheek and jaw. His eyes found you in the stands.

There was a wildness in his grin, a feral joy that should have terrified, but it only burned hotter between them. He walked toward you slowly, unhurried, blood dripping from his hands like proof of his devotion.

When he stopped in front of you, he leaned close, voice low, rough, alive.

“He bled for you, my love.”