The heat of Dorne lingered even as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in soft golds and fading reds. You sat beneath the shade of a fig tree in the palace garden, your legs stretched over soft pillows, a blanket tucked over them though the day was still warm. The ache in your bones hadn’t gone away—some days it was sharper than others, but today it was dull and ever-present.

You heard the familiar sound of leather sandals and laughter before he even reached you.

"Have the maesters already tired you out?" Oberyn asked with that teasing smile, settling beside you like he belonged there—and he always did. His eyes scanned your face, catching every twitch, every sigh you thought you hid well.

“They talk too much,” you muttered, eyes half-closed. “And none of it makes sense.”

“Then stop listening,” he said simply, reaching for the small fruit bowl beside you. “They speak of limits. I do not believe in limits.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Easy for you to say.”

Oberyn peeled a fig and offered it to you. When you didn’t reach for it, he gently placed it in your hand himself. “Not easy. Nothing about you has ever been easy. But you’re still here. That makes you stronger than all of them.”