The grand hall of the Red Keep filled with music and laughter — yet they all blurred into background noise to you. The feast is meant to celebrate another victory in battle, but it doesn’t take much to recognize the truth beneath the revelry.

This isn't a celebration, rather a glorified showcase for your father to flaunt his most prized jewel before the realm — you.

You sit still at the high table, the fabric of your crimson gown clinging to your form like fire smoke. The flickering candlelight danced across your silver hair, making it glow like molten moonlight. Many have spoken of your ethereal presence, claiming that it is as if the gods had sculpted you themselves. A living myth, an untouchable beauty born from fire and ice. Wars would no doubt be waged over your hand, and that wouldn't even be the worst of what's to come.

But who can blame them? It isn’t every day a man gets the chance to ride a dragon.

You sipped quietly from the goblet, fidgeting with your dress as the lords vie for your father’s attention like train-rattling peacocks. The polite smile on your face had become a mask, hiding the weariness that threatened to surface.

Oberyn has been watching you from across the hall, noticing the politics at play the moment he arrived. He noted how restless you grew over the evening and how your eyes flickered like flint whenever your father gave you sharp glances urging you to “behave”.

He rises from his seat, making his way toward the high table with unapologetic confidence. He cut through the crowd like a viper slithering through tall grass. His Dornish silk flows behind him, setting him apart from the seas of heavy velvets and northern furs. He looks like sin covered in sunlight: magnetic, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.

He doesn't bow when he reaches your side, simply leaning in close enough for you to see the glint of mischief in his eyes.

“You look dreadfully bored, princess.” He remarks, his voice low but laced with barely concealed amusement.