POV: Oberyn Martell
Harrenhal, Riverlands.
As the dust settled from the melee, the cheers of the crowd still echoed in Oberyn's ears. His arms and shoulders ached from the fight, but a fierce satisfaction blazed within him. He had bested Robert Baratheon in a contest of might and skill, emerging victorious to the resounding applause of onlookers. Robert, battered but undeterred, clapped Oberyn on the shoulder with a grin.
"Damn fine fight, Martell," Robert said, voice booming as he held his spiked warhammer loosely in one hand. "Come tonight, celebrate with me—there's a tavern full of the best wine and a few… choice distractions. Dornish or not, I think you'd enjoy the company."
Oberyn chuckled, letting his spear rest at his side. "I've heard stories of your… celebrations, Baratheon. But for tonight, I'll enjoy the company of family. Maybe another day I'll join you and see if the wine here is as good as they say."
Robert barked a laugh and nodded approvingly. "Suit yourself, Martell, but you'll find no finer company in Westeros! The way you fought—yes, I think we'll be fine friends." He clapped Oberyn's back once more, and with a final, appreciative nod, he strode off, already thinking of his night's revelries.
As Oberyn turned away, his family came to greet him. Elia, her eyes bright with pride, reached for his hand and squeezed it. "Magnificent as always, brother. You fought like a storm."
At her side, little Rhaenys clapped her small hands and looked up at him with wide, adoring eyes. "Uncle is amazing!" she squeaked, the joy in her voice filling Oberyn's heart with warmth.
Oberyn leaned down and ruffled her hair. "Yes, Rhaenys, your uncle is indeed amazing," he said, a proud smirk lighting his face.
Ellaria slipped up beside him, a soft smile gracing her lips. "Your talent is undeniable, my love. Not only in skill but in charm. You captivated everyone today, including me."
He pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "As long as I still have your attention, my victory means more than any title or prize."
The group lingered together, their voices mingling with the hum of the crowd and the distant cheer of Robert's boisterous celebration. But as the day wore on and dusk settled over Harrenhal, the tourney continued with its parade of events, each moment woven into the atmosphere of excitement and intrigue that had gripped the entire kingdom.
A few days later, the tourney's tales took an unexpected turn. Rumors of a mysterious knight, the so-called "Knight of the Laughing Tree," spread like wildfire. An enigmatic figure had entered the lists, unrecognizable in mismatched armor, defeating several knights who had bullied a squire. The mysterious knight had disappeared as quickly as they had arrived, leaving only a hum of speculation in their wake. Oberyn had laughed heartily at the tale, amused by the secrecy and flair of it all.
"Who do you think they were?" Robert had asked him over a horn of wine.
Oberyn had only smirked. "In Dorne, we respect a good secret. I'll not spoil a mystery so rich—let's leave it to rumor."
Robert had guffawed, clapping Oberyn's back again, and they'd shared a companionable drink, setting their competition aside.
But as the days progressed, the tournament reached its peak. The jousting contest had been fiercely fought, thinning out the competitors until only two knights remained for the final match: Ser Barristan Selmy, the greatest living knight in Westeros, and the Prince of Dragonstone, Rhaegar Targaryen. Watching from the stands with Elia, Rhaenys, and Ellaria at his side, Oberyn observed the contestants with a keen eye. He could not deny his admiration for Rhaegar. The Targaryen prince had defeated none other than Ser Arthur Dayne in the semifinal, an impressive feat that left Oberyn with a grudging respect. Rhaegar was as skilled as he was silent, a man of mystery and restrained intensity, and his valor in the lists commanded the attention of all who watched.
The final joust was held beneath a clear sky, and the stands were packed with lords, ladies, and commonfolk alike. As Rhaegar and Barristan rode forward, their armor gleaming in the sunlight, the crowd erupted in cheers. Oberyn could feel the thrill of anticipation in the air. Next to him, Elia watched quietly, her hand resting protectively on her daughter's shoulder, while Ellaria leaned closer, her gaze fixed on the field.
The match was fierce and brilliantly fought. Both knights rode with precision and power, their lances striking true. Rhaegar moved with an almost supernatural grace, his lance aimed with deadly accuracy. Despite Ser Barristan's unmatched skill, the Targaryen prince's prowess ultimately proved superior. The crowd roared as Rhaegar's final lance strike unhorsed Barristan, a feat no other knight had managed in years. Victory belonged to Rhaegar Targaryen. "He´s really good".
As the dust settled, Rhaegar dismounted and accepted the applause with a quiet humility that only intensified the crowd's admiration. But then, as was tradition, he turned to choose the "Queen of Love and Beauty," a title he would bestow upon a lady of his choice by crowning her with a garland of winter roses. Oberyn watched with mild interest, assuming Rhaegar would, of course, honor Elia.
Yet, as the crowd quieted, anticipation growing thick, Rhaegar did something none expected. He approached the Stark section of the stands and held up the garland, his gaze fixed on Lyanna Stark. A hush fell over the crowd, and Elia's face went pale. Oberyn's blood ran cold as he watched Rhaegar crown Lyanna, proclaiming her the Queen of Love and Beauty.
For a moment, Oberyn could hardly breathe, rage and disbelief warring within him. "How dare he? Elia, his own wife, is seated here—watching him humiliate her before all these people!". A surge of protective fury washed over him, his fingers clenching into fists. Every instinct within him demanded he defend his sister's honor, but he remained silent, knowing a confrontation now would only make matters worse.
Beside him, Ellaria placed a calming hand on his arm and murmured, "Remember Quentyn's words." Her eyes were grave as she recalled the prophecy: 'The dragon prince of melodies shall claim his fight, but it's the crown that will spark the night. In the arena, where roses of ice shall gleam, a new queen he will proclaim.'
The words struck Oberyn like a blow. "So it's true", he thought, his mind racing. "Rhaegar's actions have set something in motion—something dangerous". He forced his expression to remain calm, his thoughts reeling as he grappled with the weight of Ellaria's reminder.
Looking back toward Elia, who sat with her face stoic but her eyes wounded, Oberyn felt a fierce resolve settle over him. He leaned in, his voice low and steady. "We need to talk," he whispered, casting a wary glance at Ellaria before focusing on his sister.
The crowd continued to cheer, unaware of the storm brewing in Oberyn's heart. But as he watched Rhaegar stand with the garland of blue roses around Lyanna's shoulders, he knew one thing for certain: nothing in Westeros would ever be the same.