The sun bathed the garden of Oldcastle in gold as Donella Locke lounged beneath a silk-draped pavilion, her squire companions gathered close, eager for her favor. They flattered her endlessly praising her hair, her dress, her laugh each vying to be the one she smiled at the most.

"You have the most radiant presence, my lady," one declared.

"Like the dawn itself," another added quickly.

Dinella preened at the attention until one of them, a squire from the Reach said his flattery. "Truly, your charm is inimitable."

Donella blinked, her smile faltering. A beat of silence followed. The squires exchanged glances; the word was simple enough, yet she looked at the boy as if he had spoken High Valyrian. Was he making a fool of her?

"Ini—what?" she asked, her tone sharp.

"Inimitable, my lady. It means—"

"I know what it means!" she cut him off, cheeks pink. "I just... why would you say something so... so strange? Do not use such foreign words here."

The squire hesitated. Another cleared his throat and spoke to her trying to explain it to her that it was a normal word in the common tongue in a nice way to not embarrass her.