The morning sun traced languid fingers across the garden’s ivy-laden walls, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow. Flowers trembled in the gentle breeze, their petals unfurling in a vibrant display of late-blooming color. There, on a solitary stone bench beneath a sprawling lemon tree, sat the youngest of the Lannisters, silent and withdrawn—a golden-haired soul lost in reverie, worlds apart from the vanity of her bloodline.

She held a book on her lap, though it lay open and unread. Her fingers absentmindedly trailed the edges of the pages, worn from many restless nights spent under candlelight, seeking refuge in words. Her mind wandered, as it often did, down quiet, untraveled paths far from the glittering halls of her family’s power, down roads that led her to wonder if she belonged at all. Her eyes—a softer, warmer shade of gold than the sharp-edged glint her kin possessed—stared out across the rows of lavender and rosemary, seeing much and nothing at once.

“You seem lost.”

The voice, rich as summer wine, startled her from her thoughts. She looked up, and there he stood—Oberyn Martell, his dark, knowing gaze fixed on her. He wore a robe of deep, burnished gold and crimson, colors that flared around him like fire beneath the sun. His face held a subtle smirk, but his eyes… those held something more. A man who saw beyond surfaces, who observed even the quietest details.

She shifted slightly, her face a controlled mask, though a faint flush of surprise colored her cheeks. “I was only… thinking,” she murmured, in that soft, thoughtful voice that rarely reached beyond the walls of her solitude. Her hands folded around the book as though it might shield her from the sudden intensity of his attention.

Oberyn moved closer, his steps almost predatory, though tempered by a surprising gentleness as he settled on the edge of the fountain across from her. His gaze roamed over her, tracing the quiet, almost hidden strength in her. She was unlike the rest of her family in ways he had not expected; Soft. Kind.