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[versigny]

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[adorne]

[ Women of Dorne were proud and strong, and were they not both, they were at the very least unwilling to forgive a blight upon their self-image or their standing. This was both to Ellaria, who was now a mistress and not simply a chosen paramour.

Oberyn can still feel the sting from her open palm when he'd taken the time to tell her, her other hand in between his two palms. Regardless of the nature of how it came to be, it still wounded her ego, and he'd expected the resentment, but not the silence nor the careful avoidance. ]

I am warning you so that you can be prepared for the swiftness of their words, should they have judgments or reservations, or merely no need for formalities.

[ Another thing not often done in Dorne, but in her time spent in his home, he has noticed her opening up to the idea, blossoming like the rose she happened to be. Exposing herself to the sun and the warmth of it despite the softness of those petals.

Even now, when she basks in that glow, it surprises him so far from the woman he'd met before, in King's Landing. His quiet introspection peels up at the sides to unveil a lecherous smirk; he stalls beside an ornate topiary, fitting considering the verbal discourse between them. ]

A rose or a sundew? [ She was no longer a Tyrell, after all, and there was more than one kind of deceptive plant that she could parallel herself to. His amber eyes sparkle like mead under a sun dipping low over the horizon, tired of blessing their union with its rays. Oberyn had always been curious; he'd always had a taste for knowledge, danger, and the unknown, and she played right into his desires, despite their surroundings. ] Show me.

[versigny]

Thank you for your warning.

[ she means it sincerely: it would be easy, even understandable, if Oberyn were to leave Margaery on her own entirely after their wedding out of spite, to keep her vulnerable in a place she doesn't know well with culture that runs more deeply than the pretty utterances and superficial displays of King's Landing. many men have done worse with their intentional carelessness for a lot less.

when he stops, so does she, eyes narrowing under that same playful smile. this time, instead of keeping a respectful distance, she moves closer, owning the space between them as if it's entirely hers; not unlike a cat when it looks for a place to rest, especially when imposing itself on others. her hands travel up his arms, resting lightly on his biceps before moving up to wrap together around his neck. ]

Patience, my prince. I'm not so arrogant as to think I could be any danger to you when you're already on your guard.

[ the press of her body against his is deliberately slow, meant to be a distraction that pulls anticipation as a physical response. even if he can see through her ploy - and he most likely can - she doesn't care. after a day of careful formalities and being delicate, it's much more gratifying to indulge in a bit of harmless fun.

if he lets her continue, one of her hands will rake through the hair on the back of his head and tug with a gentle fist, meant to tilt his head up, exposing his throat. and there, she'll place a kiss - so soft that it might mimic the whisper of a blade. ]

ooc: sorry for the delay i hurt my hand

[adorne]

[ Her sincerity is a lecherous as her next move, and were he not so wise a man, he might be surprised by her cat that ate the canary enthusiasm now. The sun has fallen into the sky, a blood red casting shadows of blue, gray, and orange over the land. His homeland.

As much as he loved Dorne, he'd been traveling so long he didn't realize how much he'd missed it. Being here, even because of another wedding, filled him with a lust for life and rekindled an inner flame to a cresset long since extinguished.

The way 'my prince,' rolls off of her tongue peels his eyes from the sunset building on the skyline and to her angelic face. His mouth quirks up at one end, a smile in the face of her exploration, measured and therefore more memorable. Oberyn slides his hands down the silken back of the gown to reciprocate, splays his fingers out in five points as far as they will reach.

The tips of his fingers work toward the pursuit of tender tissue, moving past the landscape of supple flesh with intent to feel the musculature beneath, when Margaery grabs at the length of his hair. He grunts, for the first time too preoccupied with his desire and exploration to see it coming, and his chest rises to allow her the moment, eager to see where the softness and sharpness might meet. ]

I'm not known for my patience, Princess Martell. Few have deigned me with that virtue. Or any virtue for that matter.