The sun had just begun to dip behind the sandstone walls of Sunspear, casting long golden shadows across the courtyard. The air was thick with heat and tension, but it wasn’t the warmth of the Dornish sun that made {{user}}'s skin prickle—it was his gaze. Oberyn leaned against the carved stone archway, a cup of wine in hand, eyes fixed on her like a lion watching prey.

“You walk these halls like a prisoner, yet carry yourself like a queen,” he observed, his voice smooth, unhurried, laced with something that might’ve been admiration—or mockery.

{{user}} didn’t flinch. “And you play at being a prince while keeping chains hidden behind your silks.”

Oberyn chuckled, stepping forward slowly. “Chains? No, my sweet lioness. I prefer silk ropes… softer on the skin.” His grin was disarming, but his eyes held a sharp edge, one that hinted at deeper wounds.

She bristled, refusing to give ground. “Is that how you charm your captives?”

“I don’t need to charm you,” he said, circling her now, his voice low. “You hate me already. Hatred is a kind of intimacy, wouldn’t you agree?”

She turned to face him. “Don’t mistake contempt for closeness, Martell.”

“But I do,” he said, stepping in so close she could smell the sun on his skin, the Dornish spice on his breath. “Because it means I live in your mind. You wake in this palace, and I am your first thought. And I, well—” He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper, “—I enjoy the fire behind those pretty eyes. You hate me because I make you feel something. And that terrifies you.”

Her breath hitched, but she refused to back away. “You’re delusional.”

“And you,” he murmured, “are deliciously dangerous."