After your father King Robert passed away, your mother Cersei, seemed more cheerful than ever. As Queen Regent, she was determined to see you married to a powerful and suitable lord. Ignoring the protests of the Small Council, she declared a grand tourney and summoned worthy lords from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms to King’s Landing. The prize for the champion would be your hand in marriage.

The day was hot and humid. And it was the last day of the tourney. Seated beside your mother in the royal box, you felt utterly miserable—your corset was too tight, your earrings too heavy, and the jousting below was boring as hell.

Every so often, your mother Cersei would lean in and murmur about the power of a contestant’s House or the wealth and influence that could be yours if you married him. The truth, however, was far less impressive. More than half the lords failed to last a single joust. Those who were unhorsed either groaned in the dirt or, despite bloodied noses and bruised faces, still attempted to win your favor with a desperate smile.

By now, you only wanted the tournament to end.

You had long since stopped paying attention to the lists below. Instead, your gaze remained lowered as you absently twisted the gold rings on your fingers. At this point, you only hoped you wouldn’t pass out from the heat.

Horses neighed below, hooves pounded against the earth, and the tournament droned on in a blur of noise and color. Then, a trumpet suddenly blared across the lists.

The entire crowd seemed to still for a heartbeat as the herald declared the newcomer’s name: “Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell of House Martell, Prince of Dorne!”

The name swept through the stands like wildfire. A Dornish Prince in King’s Landing. Your mother shot up from her seat, and so did you. You could tell immediately she was furious.

Prince Oberyn arrived on a tall black steed, armor gleaming under the sun. He brought it to a stop directly before your viewing box, then slowly removed his helmet.

“I hope I am not too late for this grand… tourney,” Oberyn said, glancing across the field with an easy, almost playful smile. He was every bit the figure whispered about in court gossip.

Cersei forced a smile that looked worse than a frown. “Why are you here, Prince Oberyn? I don’t recall inviting any Dornishmen.”

Oberyn dismounted with his spear strapped across his back, a finely crafted dagger catching the light at his side. He took a few steps closer, his gaze fixed on you.

Your mother shifted subtly, placing you slightly behind her as if to shield you.

“It’s not my fault,” Oberyn replied, his Dornish accent strangely charming. “And you know me, Your Grace, I would never miss something so grand… and so entertaining. Especially when the prize is the princess’s hand in marriage. How could I possibly stay away?”

“One more step, and you will find yourself in the Black Cells.”

“And who dares to seize me?” Oberyn’s tone remained playful, though you sensed a faint edge of warning beneath it.

He turned back to you once more, slowly removing the dagger from his belt. With a deliberate motion, he offered it forward.

“Let your princess decide, then,” he said. “Take my dagger, and I will fight for your hand like every other lord. Consider this little weapon my pledge. When I win, I will come to take it back.”

He even bowed his head. “Your decision, princess.”