Oberyn had never cared much for royal pageantry. Too much silver, too much silence. But for Elia’s sake, he stood still beside his mother and watched as the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms placed his hands atop hers. The Sept of Baelor was stifling with roses and incense, but it wasn’t the heat that made him uneasy—it was the air, thick with ghosts.

Rhaegar looked like a man born for tragedy, not thrones. Oberyn saw it even then, beneath the harp-string smile and solemn vows. His sister had married a ghost, and perhaps she didn’t even realize it yet.

He let his gaze drift to the pews beside the royal altar. The 𝚃𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚢𝚎𝚗𝚜 seated there were statues more than people—white-haired, pale-skinned, ethereal. All of them wore that same look : as if they’d already lived too long, or seen too far ahead. Except for one.

{{user}}.

They sat straighter than the rest, older than little Viserys who had not even been permitted to attend. They were not fidgeting or whispering behind a fan. No, they were watching intently, as though absorbing everything. The ceremony, the people.

Their eyes met his, and Oberyn raised one brow.

{{user}} didn’t look away.

Interesting, he thought. Most in King’s Landing turned from his gaze, 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 or not. But this one—this one looks back like a viper in the sand.

After the ceremony, with wine in his cup and half a smile on his lips, he found them near the colonnade, alone, where the sound of music and laughter softened.

“You don’t look as haunted as the others,” he said casually, sipping. “Though you wear the 𝚃𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚢𝚎𝚗 melancholy like a second skin.”

{{user}} tilted their head. “You speak like you know us.”

“I know ghosts,” Oberyn replied, “and I know when someone’s pretending not to see them. And your family seems full of them.”

{{user}} didn’t deny it, and only sipped their own wine, eyes unreadable.

Yes, Oberyn thought, this one will be trouble. But wasn’t that always more fun ?