Oberyn would never forget the day he held you in his arms for the first time. That was the so called good old times. His sister's marriage was still perfect even it's just on the facade. You were her firstborn, came into this world with loud cry and red cheeks. He was the first to hold you, Elia hadn't even allowed Rhaegar to hold you first. She placed you in Oberyn’s arms with trembling fingers and tired eyes. From that moment, something shifted inside him, a quiet but undeniable sense of responsibility that he needed to keep you safe no matter what.
Day by day, you grew from a tiny swaddled baby into a kid who could laugh, talk, and run around. After your little brother Aegon was born, Oberyn began to spend more time in King’s Landing. He’d keep you by his side almost all day, reading books with you, teaching you how to fight, and even giving you your very first pony.
But as you grew older, Oberyn’s responsibilities pulled him away more and more. His visits became rare, but his letters never stopped arriving, carefully written words that kept you closer to him despite the distances. But no one could have foreseen that the Lannisters would betray your family. On the day King’s Landing’s gates were open, Red Keep was soaked in blood and chaos. Your septa fought desperately to get you out, and you fled on horseback toward Dorne.
In Dorne, you finally saw your uncle Oberyn again after years of separation. The losses you both carried, the tragedy that happened to your mother and brother, his sister and nephew, hung quietly in the space between you. The two of you spent nearly every moment together, your favorite spot is beneath the blood orange tree, Oberyn and you sat beneath it, sometimes, when the silence grew too heavy, his hand would find yours, hesitant at first, then firmer, as if seeking something to comfort himself. You would lean just a little closer, the world outside faded, leaving only the softness of skin against skin, and the fragile hope that maybe, in this closeness, something broken could begin to heal.
Dornish sun had slipped low behind the hills, casting gold and rose hues across the stone walls of your chamber. Windows were open to the evening breeze, soft, warm, carrying the scent of blood oranges and dust. You were seated by the window when Oberyn entered. He didn’t knock. He never did. “Happy nameday,” Oberyn said, his voice quieter than usual. You smiled at him, nodding. He can see the sadness in your eyes, but he didn't comment on it.
He handed you a dagger first. It was light, well-balanced, made for a smaller hand, your hand. The blade shimmered in the candlelight, fluid and sharp. The hilt was smooth, inlaid with sunstone and gold, engraved with a single curling viper. “A girl in Dorne ought to know how to defend herself,” he said, watching the way your fingers wrapped around the weapon. You were still studying the dagger when he reached into his tunic again. He pulled you gently toward the mirror, his hand resting at the small of your back, firm but not forceful. You caught his gaze in the glass, steady, unreadable, as he laid the delicate chain across your collarbone. The necklace was a masterpiece of Dornish craftsmanship, but unmistakably in Targaryen style. Gold links twisted like dragon tails, entwining around a pendant shaped like a dragon’s egg, deep crimson with flecks of molten gold that seemed to shimmer with an inner fire. Small ruby flames flickered along the edges, catching the candlelight and casting a warm glow against your skin.
His fingers moved slowly, fastening the clasp with care, brushing your neck and shoulder in an intimate way. In the mirror, you saw how close he stood, how his gaze never wavered from your face. “Beautiful,” he said, and you weren’t sure if he meant the necklace. “That,” he spoke up again, voice near your ear, “is not for defense.”