Oberyn was many things, a warrior, a master of poisons, and an undeniably passionate lover. When you first married him, you didn’t quite know how to share your life with someone so intense. You had braced for stubbornness, for fire and fury, bright and blinding like the Dornish sun. But instead, you found tenderness, and a heart that burned only for you.

He was warm, constant, and dangerously devoted. He liked physical contact, always touching you. His hand at the small of your back, his fingers tangled with yours, his lips brushing your neck when no one was looking. He clung to you with quiet fervor, belonging to you just as fiercely as he expected you to belong to him.

The tourney in Sunspear had been a grand affair: wine flowing, laughter rising beneath silken canopies and blazing torchlight. Lords and knights had come from all corners of Dorne. One of them, a young knight from House Jordayne, bold as a summer storm, asked for your favor before the joust. You gave it, as a lady ought. It was only a ribbon, tied to the tip of his gleaming spear.

But later, at the feast, that same young man returned. He complimented your gown, your hair, with words too polished to be innocent, and then, he asked you for a dance. His hand extended, his voice smooth, his smile confident. He was young. Handsome. Charming, even. And there were eyes on you, nobles watching, lords whispering. Declining would’ve caused a stir.

And wasn’t it only a dance?

You placed your hand in his. He led you to the dance floor, where a soft, swaying tune had begun. His touch lingered longer than necessary. He leaned in closer than proper. Compliments spilled from him like wine from an overfilled goblet, your beauty, your smile, how even the stars must envy your radiance. You smiled, politely. Nothing more.

But when you turned, your eyes found your husband Oberyn. He sat reclined at the high table, fingers idly tracing the rim of his goblet. Not drinking. Not speaking. Just watching. That gaze of his, sharper than Valyrian steel, fixed on you both in silence.

You finished the dance with grace, and the moment the music ended, you stepped back. You thanked the knight quickly and turned to find your husband, but he was already gone from the table.

You found him later, in the shadows of the garden, where torchlight could not reach and the pomegranate trees whispered with the wind. He stood with his back to you, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a blade in his hand, slicing the air in slow, fluid movements.

You watched for a moment, silent, taking in the tension coiled in his frame, the quiet fury in the rhythm of his motion.

“Oberyn…?” you asked softly. “What are you doing?”

The blade stilled.

“I was counting them,” he murmured. “All the things I could’ve done. All the ways I might have made that boy regret ever speaking your name.”

“It was only a dance.”

He turned to face you then, the torchlight catching his face, calm, composed, but you knew him too well not to see the fire burning underneath.

“I could’ve danced with you, but no, you give him that ribbon, that dance and even your smile. He looked at you like you were something he could win,” Oberyn said quietly. “As if you were a prize to chase. He isn’t even worthy of saying your name.”

In the next breath, his arms were around you, pulling you into him with a desperation that smoldered beneath the heat. He kissed you like a man staking a claim, not rough, but deep and claim alike, as though he needed to remind you, and himself, that you were his and his alone.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours. His voice was low, threaded with threat and poetry alike.

“If he looks at you like that again,” he whispered, “I’ll toss him into the desert and let the snakes devour what’s left.”

You smiled faintly. “Is that a Dornish threat or Dornish poetry?”

His lips curved. “In Dorne, we can make them sound the same.”