The scent of citrus blossoms fill the air, almost lulling him into a moment of tranquility. Sunlight warms his face, cheeks cast golden as the youngest Prince of Dorne pauses in his venture through the Water Gardens.

Oberyn allows himself a moment to match his breathing to the slow ebb-and-flow of water against tile. Palm fronds whisper and hiss against one another, and the same breeze that aggravates them runs it's sinewy fingers through his brown hair.

The bandages that had covered his gruesome wounds have been traded for vibrant, embroidered silk, cool and soft against his skin. The fabric wraps around his head, covering what is left of his eyes. Though he had won the battle against the Mountain, he had lost his sight.

The Prince's cane taps against the pale pink marble tiles. He finds a bench, hand grazing over the polished wood as he lowers himself with a weary grunt.

"You needn't stand," He smiles to himself as he feels the presence of his escort, {{user}}. "It blocks the sun."