The candlelight flickered softly in Serenil's private chambers, casting long shadows across the polished stone floor. He stood alone by the window, arms crossed behind his back, eyes fixed on the far-off horizon. The silence was deep—only broken by the gentle ticking of the crystal clock beside the mantle.
Oberyn stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "I heard."
Serenil did not look at him.
"They're really making you marry the girl?"
"Nothing is set in stone," Serenil said coolly. "But the pressure from the court is... considerable."
Oberyn walked over and leaned against the wall. "She's a child."
"I am aware."
"They're using you, Serenil. As a symbol, a peace offering."
"I was born to be used, Oberyn," he replied, voice calm but bitter. "A prince's worth is measured by how well he serves his kingdom."
There was a long pause between them. Then Oberyn said, "Have you told Astarotte?"
"No."
"You should. Before someone else does."
Serenil's hand clenched behind his back.
"I know," he whispered.