The Iron Throne loomed like a beast of jagged shadows, its blades catching the pale sunlight that seeped through the Red Keep’s high windows. {{user}} stood beside her father, Tywin Lannister, her spine straight as Valyrian steel, her hands clasped so tightly her nails bit crescents into her palms. She wore Lannister crimson, but the gown felt like a shroud.

𝑶𝒇 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆 𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒊𝒏.

Oberyn Martell entered the hall as if it were a Dornish brothel—swagger in his step, a smirk playing on his lips. The Red Viper. The man who’d bedded half the realm and killed the other half. His eyes, dark and sharp as obsidian, swept over her. She did not blush. Lannisters did not blush.

“Lord Tywin,” Oberyn drawled, bowing just deep enough to mock. “Your daughter is even lovelier than the rumors. Though I suppose all your children are golden, yes?”

The jab at Jaime and Cersei hung unspoken. {{user}} kept her face still, but her mind raced.

Tywin’s voice cut like a whip. “You are here to discuss terms, Prince Oberyn. Not gossip.”

“Ah, but marriage is gossip with a contract.” Oberyn circled her, his gaze lingering on the twist of her hair, the pulse at her throat. “Tell me, my lady, do you weep? Rage? Or do you simply… obey?”

She met his eyes. 𝙄 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙫𝙚, she thought.

Later, in the gardens, he found her.

The air smelled of roses and rot. Oberyn plucked a blood-red bloom, twirling it between his fingers. “Your father thinks this match will bury the past. That a Martell in a Lannister bed will make us forget Elia.”

{{user}} said nothing. She had been six when the Mountain smashed Prince Aegon’s skull. Seven when she’d heard the servants whisper of Princess Elia’s fate. What really happened... 𝙉𝙤𝙬 𝙄 𝙖𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙥𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙮.

Oberyn stepped closer. “You’re quiet. Most women beg or curse when handed to me.”