You knew Oberyn’s skills all too well—he wasn’t called the Red Viper for nothing. Quick, deadly, and skilled with a spear, he was a force to be reckoned with. But none of that calmed your nerves when he volunteered to fight as Tyrion’s champion. You weren’t together, but you were close—too close—and the thought of him facing the Mountain, a beast in your eyes, made your heart race with worry.

You found him training under the sun, his spear flashing with effortless precision. Unable to keep your thoughts to yourself, you approached him, your concern written clearly on your face.

He paused, lowering his spear as he met your gaze. With that signature smirk of his, he stepped toward you, his Dornish accent thick as he spoke.

“I’ll win. But I’d rather do it without causing you worry,” he said, his voice softening just for a moment. “Don’t fret, my dove. I’m more than capable.”