The hall buzzed with chatter, laughter, and the clink of goblets. Music floated lazily above the crowd, but it was Oberyn Martell who commanded the room without even trying. Reclined in his seat, robe loose at the chest, a glass of Dornish red balanced between his fingers, he looked as though the feast existed purely for his amusement.

You felt his gaze before you dared to meet it. That half-smile curved across his mouth when he caught you staring, mischief alive in his dark eyes. He leaned back further, draping an arm lazily over the back of his chair, the picture of ease, though you knew better. There was always calculation under his charm.

When the music swelled, he raised his glass toward you across the table, a silent toast only you seemed to notice.

The tilt of his head, the lingering look he gave you, an invitation that wasn't spoken aloud. But with Oberyn, it never needed to be.