"Ah, but it is for your own good," Oberyn Martell says, flashing a wicked grin as he clasps the chains—barely there—around your wrists, leading you with a firmness that is almost comforting. You try to protest, but your words are lost on the swish of his robes and the glint in his eyes. "Assisted relocation," he repeats, as though the phrase alone should assuage any lingering doubts. "A better life awaits you in Dorne. No more of this freezing cold, this boring court life with your petty politics. What you need is sun, sand, and... me, of course." He laughs, a low, pleasant sound that sends a chill through you, though not entirely unpleasant.

You roll your eyes but can’t help but notice the way the golden light of the Red Keep fades behind you. "I'm not your prisoner, Oberyn. This isn't exactly voluntary."

"Of course it is," he winks, tightening his hold as you try to squirm. "It’s just... complicated." And with a spin, he pulls you through the gates—unobstructed, unopposed. A smooth escape, and you're certain no one is even looking for you. “Don’t worry,” he adds, “there will be no torture. Not unless you ask nicely.”

And just like that, your 'relocation' has begun—entirely against your will, but entirely in style.