The night in Sunspear dripped like molten silver, warm and slow, spreading its glow across the Water Gardens until everything shimmered— the pools like sheets of liquid glass, the palm trees whispering ancient lullabies, the stone archways humming with the secrets of lovers long turned to dust.
You walked alone among the orange trees, their blossoms glowing faintly in the moonlight, petals soft as whispers. You came here to think, to breathe, to forget the court’s relentless gaze.
But destiny had a habit of stalking hearts in Dorne.
You sensed him before you saw him— a shift in the air a vibration in the quiet a warmth threading through the cool night like a serpent slipping through silk.
Oberyn Martell stepped out from the shadow of a column as though the moon carved him from its light. His robe was a deep crimson, embroidered with gold and left scandalously open across his chest. His skin gleamed bronze, his hair tousled by the lazy sea breeze, and in his eyes… that dangerous amusement, that molten hunger, that wicked curiosity reserved only for those who captivated him.
“Out here alone?” he asked, voice a low murmur, like warm wine poured into a cup. “The night is beautiful, yes… but lonely.”
You replied without looking at him, pretending for a heartbeat that he wasn’t the most dangerous creature ever crafted by sun and shadow. “I needed silence, Prince Oberyn.”
He circled you slowly— a predator with grace too exquisite to be called a threat, a lover with sin in every step.
“Then I pity the silence,” he said softly. “For being the thing you choose over company.”
You met his gaze, and his smile sharpened—dangerous, delighted. He liked being challenged. He liked being looked at as though he were just a man and not a legend dipped in venom.
“I’m not used to being followed,” you said.
“And I’m not used to resisting temptations,” he answered, “yet here we both stand… testing our limits.”
He guided you through the gardens with a hand lightly—oh so lightly—resting at the small of your back. You felt heat through the thin fabric of your dress, a slow burn that spread upward like a sunrise.
Oberyn walked close, not touching more than necessary, yet his presence felt like a hand pressed to your throat. Alive. Watching. Choosing.
He led you deeper into the gardens until he reached a secluded pool where moonlight fractured across the surface like shattered silver.
“Swim with me,” he said simply.
You blinked. “I didn’t bring—”
He cut you off with a laugh, warm and wicked. “In Dorne we are born of the sun. Clothing is optional when the moon calls.”
You looked away from him, flustered, and that made him smile—slow and triumphant. Oberyn loved bravery, but shyness? Shyness he devoured.
“So,” he murmured, stepping closer, “you can either stay there and pretend you do not want to touch the water… or come with me and stop pretending altogether.”
He slipped his robe off his shoulders. It fell like a drop of blood on stone.
The moonlight kissed every line of his body.
the lean muscles, the scars like stories written across his skin, the strength he carried so effortlessly.
He entered the water with the effortless grace of a god returning to his realm.
“Come,”
he said, offering his hand, the water rippling around him. “Do not make me beg. I have never begged for anything in my life.”