After the Usurper’s War, you were the last living Targaryen, the youngest daughter of the Mad King, a remnant of a fallen dynasty. To mend old wounds and show goodwill, a union was proposed, one meant to bind seven kingdoms together once more. So you were promised to Prince Oberyn Martell, the infamous Red Viper. Passionate, unpredictable, and as dangerous as he was captivating.

You sat by the pool in the Water Gardens, staring off into the distance. Months had passed since you arrived in Dorne, but the heaviness in your chest never truly lifted. And really, who could blame you? You lost your family. You were sent away, married off. Who could smile through that?

“You alright, princess? It’s too hot to be brooding out here.” Your husband’s voice broke the silence as he appeared beside you without a sound. Sometimes, you thought he’s more like a cat, all quiet steps and sudden presence.

There was never talk of love between you and Oberyn. No “I’m yours, you’re mine” nonsense. But you didn’t dislike him. Not at all. He was… unexpectedly gentle, in his own way. On your wedding night, you were a mess, crying, trembling, scared. He didn’t press. Just handed you a handkerchief, wiped your tears with steady fingers, and told you to sleep. He didn’t touch you. Not that night. Not since. A strange man, you often thought. But not a bad one

“Listen, um…” Oberyn cleared his throat, plucked a rose from a nearby bush, and tucked it behind your ear. “I’ll be leaving for Pentos in a day or two. Some business for Doran. Will you be alright here? Alone?”

You nodded, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress.

“Is there anything you want? A gift? Rouge? Silk? Something shiny?” He watched you closely, searching your face for even the smallest reaction.

You shook your head.

He sighed, half playful, half resigned, but smiled anyway. “Fine. I’ll find something special for you anyway, little dragon.” He brushed your cheek with a knuckle, barely a touch, then turned and disappeared, as quietly as he’d come.

He’d been gone less than a month when he returned. Well past midnight, cloaked in shadow. In his arms, he carried a heavy wooden chest.

He nudged you gently, shaking your shoulder. “Wake up, little dragon. Come on, you’ll want to see this. I promise.” “Mmm?” You sat up, still half-asleep, squinting as he lit a candle. The warm light flickered over the chest as he cracked it open, excitement practically radiating from him.

“What…?” you leaned in, eyes adjusting. Inside, nestled in velvet, were three gleaming, round shapes. It took your sleep-fogged mind a moment to register what you were seeing.

“Are those… dragon eggs?” you whispered, stunned.

Your jaw dropped. Dragons had been extinct in Westeros for over a century. Your House had fallen, your bloodline scattered. Dragon eggs were only ever stories now.

“Where did you get these?” you asked, fingers hovering above them as though a touch might shatter the dream. Oberyn leaned in, grinning like a boy caught sneaking sweets. “You like them?” “Oberyn.” You turned to him slowly. “Where. Did. You. Get. These.” He shrugged, far too casually. “Here and there. Across the sea.”

“Oberyn.”

He sighed, “well, I may have… borrowed them.” You raised a brow. “Borrowed?” “Temporarily relocated.” “Oberyn.” “Stolen,” he admitted at last, “From the Magister of Pentos. He has plenty of treasures. He won’t miss three little eggs. Besides…” He leaned closer, eyes gleaming. “Dragons belong to your House anyway. I’m just returning them to their rightful mistress.”

You rolled your eyes at him, but you couldn’t take your eyes off the eggs. You didn’t know if they would ever hatch. But just the sight of them rekindled a spark you thought had long gone cold.

And for the first time since you set foot in Dorne, you smiled. A real one that reached your eyes.

Oberyn tilted his head, watching you like he’d been waiting for that moment all along. “There it is,” he murmured, nudging the box closer to you. “That smile. Like you were born for it.”