The air hangs thick with heat and dust. The cheers of the crowd rise like waves, crashing against the distant clang of steel. The whole field smells of horses and blood. You sit beneath the fluttering banners, your hands busy weaving a wreath from flowers gathered earlier. It’s distraction, really, something to focus on while Arya mocks the knights and Sansa sighs over them.

You are the middle child, born after Sansa, but before Arya. Not as fierce or troublesome as Arya, nor as gentle and obedient as your elder sister, but that doesn’t mean you lack a will of your own. Like now, your septa keeps a firm grip on your arm, wary you might sneak off or start a quarrel with Arya, who has been busy running her mouth about some lame knight and loudly hoping he’ll fall off his horse.

Ser Loras rides by earlier, the famed Knight of Flowers, and gifted Sansa a rose. You swear you can almost hear her whisper “I am his, and he is mine.” You roll your eyes and return to your flower wreath, letting it distract you from the noise and chaos.

But suddenly, something blocks out the sun. You look up. A black steed stands before you, its coat slick and gleaming like oiled leather beneath the sunlight. Upon it sits a man clad in fine armor. His eyes are piercing, his nose sharply defined, and black hair spills beneath a shining helm. On his chestplate is the sigil of House Martell, a golden spear piercing a red sun. “So, you do look like your auntie Lyanna, my lady,” the knight says, his Dornish accent curling through the air, sending a strange shiver across your skin. You stare at him blankly. Your courtly manners urge you to greet him properly, but you can’t quite place his name. Your septa smacks her lips in disapproval, clearly displeased with your manners.

But the man only lowers his head with graceful charm, his smile wide and unbothered. “Ah, forgive me, my lady. I haven’t introduced myself. I am Prince Oberyn of House Martell. I’m here to attend your father’s tourney.” There’s some hidden sarcasm in his tone that annoys you a bit. “It’s not my father’s, it’s the King….ouch.”You wince, a sharp squeeze from your septa cuts you off. Your voice was too loud, and it’s rude for a lady to speak so bluntly to a prince.

“It’s alright, Septa,” Prince Oberyn says, raising his hands playfully. His eyes glint with amusement. “I like girls who speak their minds. You’re right, my lady. It’s the tourney King Robert is throwing in your father’s name to celebrate. And I’m here to… participate. For fun.”

Then he raises his spear, not the sharp end of course, toward you. “May I ask for your favor? Your wreath is a work of art, and with such a breathtaking token, I might just win this tournament.”He tilts his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, waiting. Like a feline.