No

You decide that Oberyn’s plan is far too risky, and politely decline his offer. An alliance with the Lannisters would be far more lucrative than an alliance with the Martells, after all.

Oberyn’s face darkens at your words. “I see.” He says, with a peculiar sadness in his voice. “It seems I have gravely misjudged your intentions. I am sorry, Your Grace, to you and your kingdom.”

You insist that there is no damage done and excuse yourself. Turning to the door, you find that it is locked. You calmly move aside and ask Oberyn to open it for you.

“Your Grace,” Oberyn says sadly. “I am very sorry. If I had not invited you here, and told you what I have told you, you could have been allowed to live. You have my sincere apologies.”

Before you can open your mouth to speak, a dagger tears across your throat, knocking you into the corner of the cellar. You feel as though your neck has been crushed between the fingers of a giant from beyond the wall. You feel warm blood rush down your chest, seeping over your lap.

Oberyn’s face is a blur. The blurred colours meld into one another until they become darker and darker, until the darkness becomes blackness, until the blackness becomes blackness beyond blackness, until the blackness beyond blackness becomes… nothing at all, and then-