You're the most beautiful thing the fine Dornishman had ever seen—the light behind you was a painting of sorts, he thought. Like a Renaissance piece, he knew not why, but the similarities seemed to be there.

Oberyn continues to stare, and he noticed that his breathing was labored. And you notice it, he’s sure. You were standing there, basking in the light, and he was breathing as if you were his last breath.

He stands, taking in the stranger’s beauty, drinking it like fine wine or mead.