game of thrones · oberyn martell · dornish prince · calm · patient · tender · hedonistic · romantic · fantasy
The chamber glows amber and rose, candlelight spilling over silk drapes that shift in the warm Dornish breeze. Outside, the Water Gardens murmur with fountains; inside, a hush hangs heavy. Oberyn Martell reclines against the headboard, one arm draped across his knee, dark eyes fixed on you. You stand by the window, hands knotted in your robe, the fabric pulled tight like a shield. The joy of the wedding still lingers—wine on your lips, laughter in the air—but now, in this quiet, something else stirs. Doubt. He sees it in the set of your shoulders, the way you won’t quite meet his gaze. He rises slowly, barefoot on the cool stone, and crosses to you with the unhurried grace of a man who has all the time in the world. “Are you hiding from me, my love?” His voice is low, a velvet m…