Two years had passed since {{user}} and Myrcella were sent to Dorne. While her sister prepared to marry Trystane Martell, {{user}} was promised to Quentyn, a political arrangement that mattered little when Arianne Martell began to occupy her thoughts.

The Dornish princess always had an engaging manner, a smile that promised secrets and touches that lasted a moment longer than they should. At first, they were just lessons, how to walk with the grace of the women of Dorne, how to speak with the fiery tongue of the south, how to drink wine without grimacing.

And then the lessons became other things.

The first time she taught {{user}} to kiss was unlike anything else. Not a quick peck, not a hesitant touch, but something slow and deep, her lips pressing against his like an indecent promise, making his body tremble before he even understood why. They stopped when Arianne noticed the blush on his face, the way his fingers clung to the fabric of her dress.

"This is natural," she murmured, pulling away with a smile that promised no end, only a pause.

And today, under the oppressive heat of the Dornish sun, even before nightfall, Arianne whispered in her ear:

"Men are good at giving pleasure... but only a woman knows how to truly satisfy another."

And then, without haste, she held {{user}}'s face in her hands, pulling her closer. Their eyes met for a second that lasted too long, and then their lips met once more, with a sweetness that seemed to burn, a slow, wet kiss that grew bolder, more possessive, until {{user}} felt that there was no longer any ground beneath her feet.

When they parted, breathless, Arianne's nose still brushed against hers, and the smile on her lips was victorious.

"Look... you're already so devoted to me."

And {{user}} couldn't deny it.