Bound for Dorne
Pairing: Oberyn Martell x f!reader
Summary: You must marry the Prince of Dorne. He respects you, but he doesn't want you. Years later, things change, but something disturbs and upsets your serenity; so it's up to you to reveal the secrets and lies that threaten to disturb you forever.
TW: arranged marriage, Oberyn is older than you, use of female pronouns and reference to female features of the main character, use of you, Oberyn likes men and women like in the TV series, death, violence, smut. I will mark chapters with a warning if there are descriptions that might bother you.
A/N First of all, I owe you an apology for making you wait so long for this chapter. Life, work, and a thousand other things slowed me down far more than I expected, but I never stopped thinking about this story. Thank you to everyone who has stayed with me despite the long silence. Your patience and support truly mean more than I can put into words. This chapter marks the end of one journey and the beginning of another. From here on, the story finally reaches Dorne—a place I've been looking forward to writing for a very long time. As always, I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you for being here. ❤️
credits: divider created by @zaldritzosrose
MASTERLIST
Departures begin long before the road.
By the time the first light reaches the towers of House Florayne, the castle has already abandoned sleep.
Servants cross the courtyard carrying chests, blankets and travelling provisions. Stable boys tighten saddle straps with reddened hands while horses stamp impatiently against the cold stone. Above them, the green banners of House Florayne still sway in the morning wind.
Below, folded with careful precision, the sun of House Martell waits to be raised.
Today, the two houses will travel beneath the same sky.
A daughter leaves her father's home.
A prince returns to his own.
And everyone watching the preparations knows the same quiet truth.
Very few brides ever cross these gates twice.
You wake before anyone comes to summon you.
Not because you have slept well.
Because the castle no longer allows it.
Voices drift through the corridor outside your chamber. Boots against stone. Wheels grinding across the courtyard below. Doors opening and closing with unusual urgency.
For a long moment, you remain still beneath the blankets, staring at the ceiling.
This is the last morning you will wake beneath this roof.
The thought brings neither relief nor sorrow.
Only the strange emptiness of someone who has stopped belonging to the place she is about to leave... without yet belonging to the one waiting ahead.
You rise slowly and cross the room.
From the window, the courtyard is already alive.
Servants move with practiced purpose, passing one another without a word. Carts disappear beneath travelling chests, while men-at-arms inspect harnesses for the last time before the gates open.
Everything is moving.
Everything except you.
A gentle knock breaks the silence.
Two young maids enter carrying warm water, fresh linen and the gown prepared for the journey south.
Neither smiles.
One keeps her eyes lowered.
The other cannot help looking at you. Not with pity. With curiosity.
As though wondering what sort of woman Dorne will send back one day.
If it ever does.
“Lady Talia is waiting for you,” one of them says softly.
You nod.
There is nothing left to ask.
The two young women step aside to let you pass.
You leave your chambers without another word.
The corridors that had once felt unfamiliar now seem merely temporary.
You have learned where they lead.
Which staircases remain empty at dawn.
Which windows catch the afternoon sun.
Which doors should never be opened without permission.
And yet...
None of it has become home.
Servants move hurriedly through the galleries, carrying folded cloaks, travelling chests and bundles of provisions. Their voices remain low, swallowed by the stone walls, but the castle itself feels different.
Not restless.
Expectant.
You wonder whether it is possible to leave a place that never truly welcomed you... and still feel as though you are leaving a part of yourself behind.
Lady Talia's chambers stand at the end of the western gallery.
The carved oak doors are already open.
One of the household maids announces your arrival with a quiet bow before stepping aside.
You enter.
The room is warm despite the morning chill, scented faintly with cedarwood and dried lavender. Sunlight filters through tall arched windows, falling across polished furniture and neatly folded travelling cloaks.
Nothing is out of place.
Nothing ever is.
Lady Talia stands near the window, already dressed for the journey.
Her gown is immaculate, every fold deliberate, every jewel chosen with restraint rather than extravagance. She is not a woman who dresses to be admired.
She dresses to be obeyed.
Around her, three maids work in near silence.
One fastens the leather straps around a travelling chest.
Another folds garments with meticulous precision before laying them inside.
The third kneels beside an open coffer, making careful lists of everything that has already been packed.
No one wastes a movement.
No one speaks unless spoken to.
Talia does not acknowledge you immediately.
Her eyes remain fixed on the courtyard below, watching servants move between wagons and horses with the same attention a commander might reserve for soldiers before a campaign.
Only after several moments does she speak. “Close the door.”
You obey.
The latch settles softly into place.
Only then does she turn.
Her gaze moves over you slowly.
Not unkindly.
Not warmly.
Critically.
She notices the tiredness beneath your eyes.
The stiffness in your shoulders.
The way your hands remain folded before you, almost as though uncertain where they belong.
“You slept poorly.”
It is not a question.
“Enough.”
A faint pause. “No.” Her expression remains unchanged. “Enough would have remained invisible.”
Silence settles between you.
One of the maids finishes fastening the final strap around the chest before stepping back.
Talia glances toward her. “Bring Lady Florayne's things.”
The young woman bows immediately. “Yes, my lady.”
She disappears through the adjoining door.
For a few moments, only the quiet sounds of preparation remain.
The closing of a lid.
The rustle of linen.
The scratching of a quill across parchment.
Everything measured.
Everything controlled.
As though even departure had rules that could not be broken.
The young maid returns a few moments later.
She is not alone.
Another servant follows behind her, carrying a modest oak chest between them. It is smaller than the ones already waiting in Lady Talia's chambers, its corners worn smooth by years of use rather than travel.
They set it down carefully in the middle of the room.
Neither woman speaks.
Talia regards the chest in silence. “So little,” she observes at last.
The words are not mocking.
They are merely factual.
“You never had much,” she continues, her gaze lingering on the worn lid. “Perhaps that is a mercy. There is less to leave behind.”
You say nothing.
You are no longer certain whether silence has become obedience... or protection.
Talia gives a slight inclination of her head. “Open it.”
One of the maids kneels immediately.
The brass clasp clicks softly beneath her fingers.
The lid rises.
For a brief moment, no one moves.
Inside lies a life too small to fill a single chest.
Two simple gowns.
A spare pair of shoes.
A neatly folded apron, the fabric worn thin by years of work in a village bakery.
Nothing that would interest a noble house.
Everything that mattered to you.
The maid begins lifting each item with careful hands, folding what had creased during the night and placing it carefully into the travelling chest once more.
Lady Talia scarcely looks at the gowns.
Or the shoes.
She has already chosen what her niece will wear.
It is the things that have no place among a lady's belongings that draw her attention.
The maid reaches deeper into the chest.
Her fingers close around something wrapped in coarse linen.
She unfolds the cloth with care.
A small baker's knife rests in her palm, its wooden handle worn smooth by years of use.
The blade has been sharpened countless times, cared for rather than replaced.
The maid glances at it only briefly before looking to Lady Talia.
“You won't need that.”
Before the maid can set it aside, you step forward and take it gently from her hands.
Your fingers settle around the familiar handle with practiced ease.
For a fleeting moment, you can almost smell warm bread baking before dawn and hear your father's quiet voice correcting the angle of your hand.
“It comes with me.”
The maid hesitates.
Lady Talia watches you for a long moment before giving the slightest nod.
“Very well.”
The maid wraps the little knife once more in the coarse linen before placing it carefully inside the travelling chest.
Lady Talia waits until the lid is lowered and the brass clasps fastened.
Her gaze lingers on you for a long moment.
“You are no longer simply my niece.” Her voice remains calm. “From this day forward, every word you speak and every choice you make will reflect upon House Florayne... and House Martell.” A brief silence follows. “Do not forget that.”
You lower your eyes. “I won't.”
Talia gives a single nod. “Good.” She turns to the maids. “Take Lady Florayne to the courtyard.”
At once, one maid bends to lift the travelling chest while the other pulls the heavy oak door open.
You follow them into the corridor.
The castle is alive in a way you have never seen before.
Servants hurry from one chamber to another carrying bundles of cloth, wooden crates and polished chests.
Voices echo beneath the vaulted ceilings.
Somewhere below, horses whinny impatiently.
You pass through corridors that no longer feel unfamiliar.
Yet they have never truly felt like home.
Each step carries you closer to the life waiting beyond these walls. Closer to Dorne. Closer to a husband you barely know. Closer to a future no one has ever asked whether you wanted.
The maids continue without slowing.
You follow.
Until...
...something catches your eye.
An old tapestry hangs unevenly against the stone wall.
Just enough for a narrow strip of darkness to appear behind it.
You slow your pace.
“My lady?” One of the maids glances back.
You do not answer.
Your eyes remain fixed on the tapestry.
A draft slips through the narrow opening, stirring its faded fabric almost imperceptibly.
Without quite knowing why, you step closer.
Your fingers brush the heavy cloth aside.
Behind it...
A narrow flight of stone steps disappears into silence.
“My lady?” The maid takes a hesitant step towards you. “We really should go.”
You hear her.
Yet your feet refuse to move.
The staircase is old.
Far older than the corridors below.
Its edges have been worn smooth by countless footsteps, though dust now settles where no one seems to have walked for years.
You place one hand against the cold stone wall and begin to climb.
“My lady...”
The maids exchange an uncertain glance before hurrying after you.
The staircase twists once...
Then twice.
Until at last it opens onto a small landing.
Only a single wooden door remains.
Its iron handle is stained with age.
The wood bears no sign.
No crest.
No lock.
Only silence.
You hesitate.
Your fingers close around the handle.
It yields with surprising ease.
The hinges protest softly as the door opens.
A breath of stale air escapes the room.
Dust floats lazily through narrow shafts of morning light spilling from the tall window.
Everything bears the weight of years.
A fine layer of dust rests upon the bed beneath its faded canopy, upon the shelves, the furniture, the windowsill.
Even the embroidery frame beside the window has not escaped it.
Yet nothing has been abandoned carelessly.
The bed remains neatly made.
A shawl still hangs over the back of a carved wooden chair.
Books rest where someone last placed them, as though waiting for hands that never returned to finish the chapter they had begun.
An embroidery frame still holds unfinished stitches.
A dried flower lies forgotten between the yellowed pages of an open book.
Time has simply stopped.
You remain standing in the doorway, unable to cross the threshold.
It feels wrong.
As though you have stepped into a memory that was never meant to be yours.
The room is quiet.
Not empty.
Quiet.
The kind of silence that settles only where no laughter has echoed for many years.
Slowly, you begin to walk.
The scent is unlike anything downstairs.
Old wood.
Dust.
Dried lavender.
Parchment.
A faint trace of cedar escaping forgotten chests.
Not unpleasant.
Merely old.
Your fingers trail lightly across the back of the chair, leaving a narrow line through the dust.
You pause before the bookshelf. Its shelves bow ever so slightly beneath the weight of worn volumes. Some are bound in cracked leather. Others in faded cloth, their corners softened by countless readings.
None seemed arranged to impress.
They looked... lived in.
They had been read. Loved.
You lift one carefully.
A thin veil of dust slips from the cover as you open it.
Between two yellowed pages rests a single dried wildflower.
You cannot help but wonder who placed it there.
Whether she meant to preserve it... or simply forgot it between the pages.
Nearby, the embroidery frame still waits patiently upon its stand.
The needle remains caught in the linen.
A faded blue thread trails across delicate wildflowers left forever unfinished.
For reasons you cannot explain... your chest tightens.
Whoever lived here...
She loved books.
She embroidered.
She gathered flowers.
The thought settles quietly inside you.
Somehow, she begins to feel real.
Then...
Something catches your eye.
In the far corner of the room, half-hidden beneath a yellowed linen sheet, stands something almost as tall as yourself.
Curiosity draws you closer.
Carefully, you grasp the edge of the fabric.
Dust swirls into the morning light as you pull it away.
A large gilded frame emerges first.
Your brow furrows.
Slowly, you draw the cloth aside completely.
A portrait.
Your breath catches.
For a long moment, you simply stare.
You don't know how long.
Seconds.
Perhaps minutes.
Your fingers tighten around the forgotten sheet still clutched in your hand.
By every measure, she is a stranger.
And yet...
She doesn't feel like one.
Almost hesitantly, you step closer.
Your fingertips brush the carved wooden frame.
Not the painting.
Only the frame.
As though touching her image might somehow disturb the silence that has guarded this room for so many years.
Dust clings to your fingertips.
You draw your hand back slowly.
Your eyes linger on the portrait once more.
On the quiet smile.
On the life captured forever within the painted canvas.
A room left untouched.
Books read and reread.
Flowers pressed between forgotten pages.
An unfinished embroidery.
A shawl still waiting upon its chair.
A portrait hidden beneath a sheet...
...as though no one had ever found the courage to look at it again.
The answer settles quietly inside you.
Not because anyone has spoken it.
But because nothing else could ever explain this room.
You have never seen your mother's face before.
No one ever showed it to you.
No one ever spoke of who she had been.
Only of what had been lost.
Yet, standing in the silence of this forgotten room...
...you know.
Only then do your eyes wander across the room once more.
The books she once read.
The pressed flower resting between those pages.
The unfinished embroidery.
The neatly folded shawl.
One by one...
They cease to be forgotten belongings.
They become the only memories of her you will ever have.
You draw a slow breath.
It is time to leave.
As you turn toward the door, something catches the corner of your eye.
A faint glimmer.
Soft.
Almost swallowed by the dust.
Resting upon the small bedside table lies a silver hairpin.
Simple.
Elegant.
Its delicate vines curl around a single pale moonstone, worn smooth by years of gentle use.
Not hidden away.
Not carefully stored inside a chest.
Simply...
left there.
As though someone had removed it before going to sleep...
Fully expecting to reach for it again the following morning.
You step closer.
Your fingers hover above it for a heartbeat before carefully lifting it into your hand.
It is surprisingly light.
Cool against your skin.
You turn it over slowly, tracing the worn silver beneath your thumb.
Countless mornings.
Countless evenings.
She must have held it exactly as you do now.
Your fingers close around it.
You should leave it here.
This room is not yours.
Nothing inside it is.
And yet...
If you walk away now...
You will leave with nothing of her.
Your hand lowers almost of its own accord.
Carefully, you slip the hairpin into the pocket hidden within your gown.
Not as a keepsake.
Not as a jewel.
But as the only piece of your mother you are able to carry with you.
You take one last look around the forgotten room.
Then, gently, you pull the door closed behind you.
The hinges murmur softly.
Silence claims the room once more.
The silver hairpin rests safely within the hidden pocket of your gown.
You linger for only a heartbeat.
Then you turn away.
The maids are waiting exactly where you left them.
Relief softens their expressions the moment they see you.
“My lady...”
One of them steps forward before quickly lowering her gaze once more.
You offer a small, apologetic smile.
“I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”
Neither woman answers.
Instead, they quietly resume leading the way down the narrow staircase.
The air grows warmer with every step.
The scent of dust and old cedar slowly gives way to fresh air drifting through the corridors.
Voices begin to replace silence.
Servants hurry past carrying baskets of fruit.
Guards exchange greetings.
Somewhere nearby, someone laughs.
Life continues, blissfully unaware of the forgotten room hidden above their heads.
Together, you cross the palace corridors until sunlight spills across the stone beneath your feet.
The courtyard is already alive.
Stable boys hurry between restless horses.
Servants carry folded linens from one wing of the palace to another.
Guards stand watch beneath the banners of House Martell as the morning breeze stirs the orange silk.
For the first time since leaving that room, you feel as though you have returned to the present.
Then the great gates open.
Conversation falters.
Several guards straighten instinctively.
You follow their gaze.
Prince Oberyn steps through the entrance.
At his side walks a woman you have never seen before.
She appears to be several years older than you.
Black waves spill from beneath the hood of her light mantle, stirred gently by the morning breeze.
A fine layer of dust clings to the hem of her skirts, as though she has crossed half the city without once stopping.
She speaks quietly.
Oberyn listens.
For a brief moment, he answers with something too low for you to hear.
The young woman inclines her head.
Not submissively.
Almost thoughtfully.
Who is she?
The courtyard had been awake since dawn.
Servants moved between the castle and the waiting wagons, carrying trunks, rolled blankets, and provisions for the road. Stablehands checked saddles and bridles beneath the watchful eyes of the Dornish guards, while Florayne men lingered nearby, eager to be useful and uncertain where usefulness ended and intrusion began.
Oberyn stood near the stables, watching the final preparations with diminishing patience.
Everything was nearly ready.
The wagons had been loaded. The horses had been watered. Lady Talia’s belongings were being secured beneath oilcloth in case the weather turned before nightfall.
Only the farewells remained.
And farewells, Oberyn had learned, were often merely obligations made longer by sentiment.
“My prince.” One of his men approached and bowed. “The last of our supplies has been accounted for.”
Oberyn gave a brief nod. “Then see that no one decides we require twice as much before we leave.”
The guard’s mouth twitched, though he wisely suppressed the smile. “Yes, my prince.”
He had barely moved away when a familiar voice reached Oberyn through the noise of the courtyard. “Still wearing that expression, I see.”
Oberyn turned.
Zaraya crossed the courtyard beneath the archway. Dust clung to the hem of her skirts, and the morning breeze teased loose the dark waves escaping her hood. She looked as though she had come straight to him without allowing herself a single moment's rest.
She stopped before him.
“I had hoped you would still be here.”
“I leave within the hour.”
“I know.”
For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.
Oberyn let his eyes travel over her.
The journey showed in the dust upon her clothes and the faint weariness around her eyes. Yet it was neither that nor the haste of her arrival that held his attention.
A bruise, already darkening beneath the skin, marked the inside of her wrist.
His gaze settled on it.
“What happened?”
Almost instinctively, Zaraya drew her hand back beneath the folds of her mantle.
“Nothing worth delaying your departure.”
“What happened?”
His voice remained even.
It was enough.
She knew him well enough to understand he would ask again until she answered.
A quiet sigh escaped her.
“I've been asking questions.”
“About Cole.”
It was not a question.
She inclined her head.
“At first, they pretended not to know anything. Then they started asking questions of their own.”
“What sort of questions?”
“Who I was. Where I lived.” She paused briefly. “Who I spoke to.”
Oberyn's expression did not change.
“And yesterday?”
A faint smile touched Zaraya's lips, more out of resignation than amusement.
“Yesterday they decided courtesy was no longer necessary.”
She uncovered her wrist again.
“One of them grabbed me.”
Oberyn's eyes returned to the bruise.
“He regretted it.”
“I imagine he did.”
“I made certain of it.”
For the first time since she had arrived, the corner of Oberyn's mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
“I never doubted that.”
Zaraya answered with the ghost of a smile before it faded once more.
“People talk.” Oberyn remained silent. “Most of what they say is worthless.” Her gaze drifted briefly toward the bustle of the courtyard before returning to him. “Sometimes they forget who's listening.”
He watched her for a long moment. “And this time?”
“Someone let a name slip.” A pause. “I recognized it.”
Oberyn's expression remained unreadable. “They recognized that you had.”
She gave a small nod. “That was enough.”
His eyes returned once more to the bruise on her wrist. “They wanted to know how much you understood.”
“I gave them no reason to believe they frightened me.”
“And were you?”
A faint, almost amused breath escaped her. “No.”
Another silence settled between them.
Around them, the courtyard carried on as though nothing had changed. Servants crossed the flagstones with hurried steps, soldiers tightened saddle straps, someone called for another crate to be loaded.
No one paid them any mind.
“But they're afraid, Oberyn.”
That caught his attention.
His eyes lifted to hers.
“Afraid of what?”
“Not of the boy.” She glanced briefly toward the castle before lowering her voice. “Of what was hidden with him.”
Oberyn remained silent.
He had heard men lie.
He had heard men beg.
Fear rarely sounded like either.
It sounded like omissions. Like names left unfinished. Like conversations that stopped the moment a stranger entered the room.
“What did you hear?” he asked.
“Very little.” She paused. “And far too much.”
He waited.
Zaraya did not rush to fill silences. She never had.
“Someone spoke of an old bloodline.” His expression did not change. “Not by name. They were careful.”
“And yet you understood.”
“I understood enough to know they weren't hunting a runaway peasant.” The breeze lifted a loose strand of her hair across her cheek. “They're protecting something,” she continued quietly. “Or someone.”
Oberyn folded his arms. “And Cole?”
For the first time since arriving, uncertainty flickered across Zaraya's face. “I don't think he knows.” A brief silence. “I don't think he has ever known.” She met his gaze without wavering. “Whatever truth belongs to that boy... it was kept from him long before anyone came looking.”
The bustle of the courtyard seemed strangely distant now.
A horse snorted somewhere behind them. A wheel creaked beneath the weight of a loaded wagon.
Neither of them looked away.
Oberyn broke the silence first. “If they've been watching him for years...” He let the thought linger. “...they've been watching everyone whose life crossed his.”
Zaraya didn't answer immediately.
She didn't need to.
“They don't watch because people matter,” she said at last. “They watch because one day... they might.”
Oberyn's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “My wife knew him.”
It was a simple statement.
Nothing more.
“He worked on the estate. Their paths crossed.”
Zaraya studied him carefully. “And if someone believes she noticed something...”
“They won't care whether she did or not,” Oberyn finished.
“No.” Her voice remained calm. “They'll only care what she might know.”
Silence settled once more.
Oberyn's gaze drifted toward the castle.
The high windows.
The stone walls.
The life you had never been allowed to leave behind.
He remembered the quiet restraint in your voice.
The way you weighed every word before speaking.
Not fear.
Habit.
As though caution had become as natural as breathing.
His expression hardened. “If anyone lays a hand on her because of this...”
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to.
Zaraya had known Oberyn Martell long enough to understand what remained unspoken was always the most dangerous part.
“I know,” she said quietly.
“No.” His eyes met hers again. “You don't.”
Silence lingered between them.
At last, Oberyn broke it.
“I'll be leaving within the hour.”
Zaraya searched his face.
“With them?”
He gave a single nod.
“With my wife.”
For a brief moment, she seemed to weigh something she chose not to say.
“Then perhaps the gods have granted her a little time.”
Oberyn's gaze hardened.
“I don't believe in gods.”
“No,” Zaraya replied quietly. “You believe in what men are willing to do.”
A corner of his mouth twitched, though there was no amusement in it.
“And men rarely surprise me.” She lowered her eyes for a heartbeat.
“Let's hope they disappoint you this time.”
Silence lingered between them.
At last, Oberyn spoke.
“Come with us.”
For the first time, genuine surprise crossed Zaraya's face.
“With you?”
“With my wife.”
She let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “I don't belong in castles.”
“You've spent half your life walking through them.”
“As a guest. As something far less respectable than a guest,” she corrected dryly.
A corner of Oberyn's mouth lifted. “Perhaps.”
She shook her head. “Your wife deserves ladies who know how to embroider, gossip, and pretend not to hear what is said around them.”
“She deserves someone who actually listens.”
The smile disappeared from Zaraya's face. “Oberyn…”
“She'll have ladies at court.”
“Then why me?”
His answer came without hesitation.
“Because you're someone I trust.”
She searched his face, as though expecting to find the hint of a joke.
There was none.
“You trust me with your wife?”
“I trust very few people.”
A brief silence settled between them.
“You're one of them.”
Her gaze lingered on him for a long moment.
“You're asking me to leave the only life I've ever known.”
“I am.”
“And cross the Narrow Sea.”
“Yes.”
She lowered her eyes for a heartbeat.
“Why?”
Oberyn held her gaze.
“Because if someone laid hands on you once…”
He paused.
“…I won't wait for them to try again.”
Silence settled between them once more.
“You think they'll come back.”
“I think men willing to imprison an innocent woman over unanswered questions rarely abandon what they're looking for.”
Zaraya looked away.
For the first time since their conversation had begun, she seemed unable to find an answer.
At last, she let out a slow breath.
“You're remarkably certain.”
A faint smile touched Oberyn's lips.
“I'm certain of you.”
She looked at him again.
The surprise in her eyes had softened into something quieter.
Something almost touched.
At last, she gave a small nod.
“Then I'd better meet your wife.”
They walked side by side toward the waiting procession.
“She won't thank you for this,” Zaraya said quietly.
“Perhaps not.”
“Nor will I.”
“I know.”
Ahead of them, the courtyard had grown crowded.
Servants hurried between horses and wagons, voices overlapping in a constant murmur as the last preparations were made.
Oberyn's gaze drifted toward the procession.
You had just arrived.
“I don't know the first thing about being a lady's companion.”
“You don't have to.”
“No?”
“You only have to be yourself.”
Zaraya glanced sideways at him. “That has a habit of making respectable people uncomfortable.”
“Good.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “You've thought this through.”
“I have.”
“Long before you asked me.”
“Yes.”
Oberyn came to a stop before you.
“My lady.”
The greeting was formal, little more than an acknowledgment.
Before you had the chance to return it, he turned slightly toward the woman standing beside him.
“This is Zaraya.” His gaze settled on you once more. “She'll be accompanying you to Dorne.” A brief pause. “As your lady's companion.”
For the first time, Zaraya inclined her head with the respectful courtesy owed to the future Princess of Dorne.
“My lady.”
Before either of you could say another word, another voice broke through the murmur of the courtyard.
“Well…” Baelor stepped forward, coming to stand beside you.
His gaze wandered leisurely from Oberyn…
…to Zaraya…
…then back to Oberyn once more.
A slow, knowing grin spread across his face. “And who,” he asked with exaggerated innocence, “is the beautiful woman who's to be my little cousin's lady's companion?”
Oberyn met his gaze without the slightest hint of amusement.
“Her name is Zaraya.”
Baelor inclined his head ever so slightly.
“Zaraya,” he repeated, as though committing the name to memory.
His eyes lingered on her for a heartbeat longer than courtesy required.
“A pleasure.”
Zaraya acknowledged him with a polite inclination of her head.
“My lord.”
Baelor's smile widened.
“You're leaving with us, then?”
“I am.”
“How fortunate for my little cousin.” A thoughtful pause. “Travels are always easier when one has familiar company...” His gaze drifted lazily from Zaraya to Oberyn. “...especially at the beginning of a new life.”
Silence lingered for a heartbeat.
Oberyn met his gaze.
Then, almost imperceptibly, one corner of his mouth lifted.
Not in amusement.
Not in approval.
It was the faint, dismissive smile of a man who had seen through the remark long before it had been spoken.
Without offering Baelor the satisfaction of a reply, he turned away.
His attention settled on you instead.
“We should leave.”
Before you could answer, Talia stepped forward. “We're ready,” she said smoothly. “The journey will be a long one.”
Oberyn's gaze shifted to her. “For some of us.” A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Yours ends at the port.”
Talia held his gaze for a heartbeat.
Whatever answer rose to her lips, she swallowed it.
Instead, she smoothed an imaginary crease from her sleeve and turned to her son.
“Baelor.” He glanced at her. “Walk with me.”
Baelor's smile lingered for a moment longer before he inclined his head. “As you wish.”
He spared Oberyn one last knowing look before offering Talia his arm.
Together, they made their way toward the waiting carriage.
Silence settled in their wake.
Only the distant murmur of servants and the restless stamping of horses filled the courtyard.
Oberyn's gaze shifted to you.
More than once, he found your attention lingering on Zaraya...
...before it returned to him.
“I believe you've not been properly introduced.”
For the first time since joining them, Zaraya stepped forward.
She inclined her head with quiet courtesy. “My lady.” A brief pause. “I'm Zaraya.”
She offered nothing more.
No practiced smile.
No polished speech.
No attempt to fill the silence that followed.
She simply waited.
You opened your mouth.
For a fleeting instant, the words came naturally.
Then they stopped.
The voices of the past few months echoed louder than your own.
A lady speaks when spoken to.
Do not say more than necessary.
You lowered your head ever so slightly.
“My lady.”
Nothing more.
A brief silence followed.
Oberyn let it linger for no longer than necessary.
“At any rate…” His gaze swept over the courtyard, then toward the waiting horses and wagons. “We should prepare for the journey.”
Neither request nor suggestion.
A simple statement.
The moment had passed.
Servants hurried to their places.
Harnesses creaked.
A horse tossed its head, stamping impatiently against the cobblestones.
One after another, the wagons began to move.
The journey to Dorne had begun.
