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Oberyn first realized he had lost Loras to his daughters on a warm morning in the training yard.
He entered the yard expecting to find Loras alone, working through the sword forms he practiced whenever sleep had eluded him. Instead, he found the Knight of Flowers circling Obara beneath the rising sun.
Steel rang across the stone. Obara attacked with the force of a charging horse, her spear sweeping low before rising sharply toward Loras’s ribs. Loras turned the blow aside with his practice sword and pivoted away.
She followed. He barely escaped the second strike. Oberyn stopped beneath the shaded arcade. Neither had noticed him.
Obara’s dark hair was braided tightly away from her face. Sweat darkened the linen between her shoulder blades. She fought as she always did, with compressed fury, each blow carrying the memory of every person who had once looked at a bastard girl and found her lacking.
Loras fought differently. He was faster and graceful enough that it seemed effortless, though Oberyn knew how many hours of repetition lived beneath every turn of his wrist. He had abandoned the ornate flourishes that delighted tourney crowds. His movements were direct and economical.
He was taking her seriously.
Too many men saw Obara’s anger and mistook it for wildness. They either patronized her or tried to overpower her, both of which ended badly.
Loras did neither.
Obara drove the spear toward his shoulder.
Loras caught the shaft beneath his arm and twisted. The weapon slipped from her hand. She immediately drew the dagger at her belt.
Loras laughed and stepped back. “That was not part of the exercise.”
“The enemy does not care about your exercise.”
“The enemy would have cut your throat while you reached for it.”
Obara stopped. Her face tightened. Oberyn waited for the explosion, preparing himself to intervene.
Instead, Loras tossed aside his sword. “Again,” he said.
Obara stared at him. “You disarmed me.”
“Then learn how not to be disarmed.”
Most men would have begun explaining. Loras picked up her spear and offered it back to her. Loras adjusted her grip, touching only after asking permission. He showed her how he had trapped the shaft and where her stance had weakened.
Obara listened. That alone would have astonished Oberyn enough to remain hidden. Then she tried again.
This time, when Loras attempted to twist the spear free, Obara released it deliberately, stepped inside his reach, and drove her shoulder into his chest.
Loras landed flat on his back. Obara stood over him. The training yard went silent.
Then Loras began to laugh with pure delight. Obara’s stern mouth twitched.
“You were right,” she said. “An enemy would not care about the exercise.”
Loras held up one hand. She pulled him to his feet.
“Again?” he asked.
Obara retrieved her spear. “Again.”
Oberyn leaned against a column and watched them.
Ellaria appeared beside him without warning, holding two cups of watered wine. She offered him one.
“How long have you been lurking?”
“I am observing.”
“You are smiling.”
“I often smile.”
“Not like that.”
Oberyn accepted the cup. In the yard, Loras corrected Obara’s footwork. She insulted his sword arm. He told her that if she spent half as much energy watching his shoulder as insulting it, she might strike him before midday.
Obara attacked again.
“He does not fear her,” she said.
“No.”
“He does not try to tame her either.”
“No.” Oberyn’s smile softened. “He likes her.”
“She likes him too.”
Obara’s spear caught Loras behind the knee. He went down a second time.
She offered him no hand now, only a satisfied grin. Oberyn sighed.
“Perhaps too much.”
*************************************************************
Nymeria claimed Loras three days later.
She did so by entering Oberyn’s chambers without knocking, throwing open the bed curtains, and announcing that she required a man with taste.
Oberyn opened one eye. Beside him, Loras stirred.
“What time is it?” Loras asked.
“Too early,” Oberyn said.
“It is nearly noon,” Nymeria replied.
“Exactly.”
She crossed to the wardrobe and began inspecting Loras’s clothes.
“What are you doing?”
“I require assistance.”
“With theft?”
“With shopping.”
Oberyn closed his eyes again. “No.”
Nymeria ignored him.
“There is a silk merchant newly arrived from Lys. He claims to possess dyes never before seen in Dorne, which is certainly a lie, but his work is said to be exquisite.”
Loras’s interest awakened visibly.
Oberyn opened one eye again. “Do not encourage her.”
Nymeria pulled out a pale green robe and frowned at it.
“You own too much green.”
Loras looked offended.
“I am a Tyrell.”
“You would remain a Tyrell in blue.”
“He does look very fine in blue,” Oberyn agreed.
Loras turned toward him. “You are not helping.”
“I have no intention of helping.”
Nymeria replaced the robe and selected a gold-edged tunic.
“Wear this.”
“Why do you require me?”
“Because Father thinks every garment should include hidden pockets for knives.”
“A sensible principle,” Oberyn muttered.
“And Ellaria refuses to spend four hours arguing over embroidery.”
“An even more sensible principle.”
Nymeria looked at Loras.
“You understand the importance of presentation.”
“I do.”
“You understand that beauty can be strategy.”
“Yes.”
“And you will tell me the truth if something makes me look pale or sallow or large.”
Loras climbed from the bed. Oberyn watched the sheet go with regret.
“You have convinced him,” he accused. Loras reached for his trousers.
“She made a reasonable argument.”
“She insulted half your wardrobe.”
“She was wrong about the green.”
Nymeria leaned against the wardrobe. “The merchant also sells jewelry.”
Loras paused. Oberyn groaned.
He did not see either of them again until sunset.
When they returned, three servants followed carrying boxes, folded silks, bracelets, belts, embroidered shoes, and one enormous mirror Nymeria insisted had been necessary.
Oberyn stood on the terrace as the procession entered his chambers.
“Did you buy the market?”
“Only the worthwhile portions,” Nymeria said.
Loras carried a narrow box beneath one arm. He looked both exhausted and happy.
“You were gone for seven hours,” Oberyn said.
“The merchant was difficult.”
“You enjoyed him,” Nymeria said.
“I enjoyed proving him wrong.”
“He claimed a certain blue would make me appear sallow.”
“It was the wrong blue.”
“You made him unpack twelve bolts of cloth.”
“He should not have challenged me.”
Nymeria turned toward Oberyn. “Your lover nearly caused a diplomatic incident over dye.”
Oberyn felt pride stir.
“How much did it cost?”
Nymeria’s expression became evasive. Oberyn looked at Loras. The young knight examined the ceiling.
“Loras.”
“It was her money.”
“That does not answer me.”
Nymeria kissed her father’s cheek. “Do not be dull. We brought you something.”
She took the narrow box from Loras and placed it in Oberyn’s hands. Inside lay a new sash of deep burnt orange silk. Along its borders, tiny green roses had been embroidered among golden suns.
Oberyn ran one finger over the pattern.
“Whose idea was this?”
Nymeria pointed at Loras.
Loras pointed at Nymeria.
Both spoke at once.
“His.”
“Hers.”
Oberyn looked between them.
Nymeria smiled first. “He said you would pretend it was too sentimental and then wear it constantly.”
“I said no such thing!”
“You said precisely that.”
Loras folded his arms. “You said he would claim the orange was not rich enough.”
“I did not!”
“It is perfect,” Oberyn said.
Nymeria looked smug. Loras looked vindicated.
Oberyn tied the sash around his waist. Then he caught Nymeria’s face between both hands and kissed her brow.
“You have excellent taste.”
“I know.”
He released her and turned to Loras, also kissing his head.
“And you are a corrupting influence.”
Nymeria had already begun directing servants toward her rooms. As she left, she called over her shoulder, “He bought more green.”
Oberyn looked at Loras.
“How much?”
“Not much.”
“Liar.”
Loras pulled Oberyn to him by the new sash and kissed him.
From the corridor, Nymeria shouted, “He is kissing you so you cannot argue!”
Oberyn didn’t care.
***************************************************************
Tyene came to Loras at dusk. Oberyn did not know this until later.
He had been with Doran, arguing about patrols near the Boneway, when Tyene found Loras alone in the orange garden. She sat beside him beneath a flowering tree and talked for nearly an hour.
Oberyn learned of it because Tyene joined him at supper and was unusually quiet and ate little. Her eyes kept drifting toward Loras. When the meal ended, she kissed Loras’s cheek before leaving.
Oberyn watched her go.
“What did she want?”
Loras folded his napkin.
“That is her confidence.”
“I am her father.”
“That does not make it mine to share.”
Oberyn stared at him.
Loras met the stare without discomfort.
“You would keep secrets from me?”
“If they belong to your daughters.”
“Dangerous answer.”
“The correct one.”
Oberyn wanted to argue. He also wanted to kiss him.
Two days later, Tyene found Oberyn on the terrace. She leaned beside him against the sun-warmed stone.
“You asked Loras what we discussed.”
“I asked what you wanted.”
“He told you no?”
“With far too much pleasure.”
Tyene smiled. For a while, they watched the sea.
Then she said, “I asked him how to know when affection is real.”
Tyene’s face remained calm, though her fingers worried at a loose thread on her sleeve. He waited.
“He said people speak too much about grand feelings,” she continued. “Songs and suffering and dying for one another.”
“That sounds like Loras.”
“He said he once thought love was proven by how much pain one could survive for it.”
Oberyn’s chest tightened. Renly lived unspoken between the words.
“What does he think now?” he asked.
Tyene looked toward the orange garden.
“He said love is also who remembers how you take your tea. Who notices when you become quiet. Who tells you the truth even when flattery would be easier.”
Oberyn smiled faintly. “Very wise.”
“He said desire can be real and still not be kind. And that anyone who wants access to your softness should not punish you for having boundaries.”
Oberyn looked at his daughter.
“Is there someone?”
Tyene’s mouth curved.
“That is my confidence.”
Cruel children. Oberyn had raised them too well.
“Do I know them?”
“Perhaps.”
“Should I threaten them?”
“No.”
“Would you like me to?”
Tyene laughed. Then she slipped one arm around his waist and rested her head briefly against his shoulder.
“No.”
Oberyn kissed her hair.
After a moment she said, “He did not speak to me like a child.”
“You are not one.”
“Others forget.”
“Loras does not.”
“No.”
Tyene lifted her head.
“I adore him.”
The words were simple, but they affected him strongly. He had not understood until then that his daughters had begun forming bonds with Loras that did not pass through him.
Loras was not merely their Father’s lover. He was becoming someone to seek out. Someone safe, whose counsel mattered to them.
Oberyn looked toward the open doors of the palace. Loras was inside somewhere, perhaps reading, training, arguing about horses, or buying another green garment the household did not require.
“He adores you too,” Oberyn said.
Tyene smiled.
“I know.”
**********************************************************
Sarella tested him.
She arrived in Sunspear carrying six books, two maps, and the absolute certainty that no knight famed for beauty could possibly be interesting.
Oberyn recognized the judgment immediately. She concealed it beneath excellent manners.
At supper, Sarella spoke of constellations observed from the Citadel’s towers and the different names sailors gave them across the Narrow Sea. Loras listened. He asked questions. Good ones.
That only seemed to irritate her.
The following morning, she found him in the library.
“You are reading the wrong translation,” she said.
Loras looked up from a history of the Rhoynar. “Am I?”
“The Maester Otheryn version softens everything that made Nymeria formidable. He disliked women who commanded ships.”
“Which translation should I read?”
Sarella had clearly expected resistance. Then she crossed the room, climbed the rolling ladder, and selected a heavier volume from the upper shelves.
“This one.”
“Thank you.”
Oberyn watched from the gallery above, unseen behind a carved screen. He had come to find a book on Braavosi poisons and discovered something more interesting.
Sarella pointed to a line in the text.
“This account was copied from an older Rhoynish song. The translator could not preserve the meter.”
“Could you?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then show me.”
What began as a correction became an argument. Argument became discussions. Within half an hour, books covered the table. Sarella explained Rhoynish grammar while Loras compared it to the old songs of the Reach. He was not as learned as she was and made no effort to pretend otherwise.
He did not flatter her. He did not become threatened when she corrected him. He listened with his entire attention.
By midday, Sarella had forgotten to be suspicious. She returned the next evening with a star chart. The night after that, she brought him to the highest tower.
Oberyn found them there beneath a dark, clear sky. Loras lay on his back across a blanket, one arm beneath his head. Sarella sat beside him, pointing upward.
“That one,” she said, “is called the Galley in Oldtown.”
“In Highgarden, we call it the Gardener’s Cart.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It carries the seasons.”
“It looks nothing like a cart.”
“It looks nothing like a galley either.”
Sarella considered. “That is true.”
Loras pointed to another group of stars.
“And that?”
“The Viper.”
He laughed.
“Of course Dorne has a Viper.”
“It predates Father.”
“Nothing predates your Father. He was born complaining about ancient history.”
Oberyn stepped onto the tower.
“I heard that.”
Loras did not startle.
Sarella did. “Father.”
“I came to discover why my lover has abandoned my bed for astronomy.”
Sarella rolled her eyes. “He asked to learn.”
“You could have asked me,” Oberyn offered.
Loras and Sarella both looked at him with matching expressions of disbelief.
“I am wounded.”
“You should be ashamed,” Sarella said.
“Never.”
He lowered himself onto the blanket beside them. Sarella resumed the lesson with the long-suffering patience of a maester burdened by idiots.
Loras listened while Oberyn watched him listening. Later, after Sarella fell asleep with her head against Loras’s shoulder, Oberyn carried her downstairs.
Loras followed holding all six books.
“She likes you,” Oberyn said.
“She tolerates me.”
“She brought you to the tower.”
“To improve my education.”
“She does not attempt to improve people she dislikes. She leaves them ignorant.”
Loras looked down at the sleeping girl in his arms. His expression softened.
“She is brilliant.”
“Yes.”
“She knows it.”
“Yes.”
“She should.”
Oberyn smiled.
“Now you sound like her father.”
Loras nearly missed a step.
Oberyn said nothing more.
But the words remained between them all the way down.
**************************************************************
Elia Sand bonded with Loras through disaster.
This surprised no one. She had inherited her namesake’s smile, her father’s recklessness, and the troubling belief that horses were more useful when moving at a speed likely to kill their riders.
Loras adored her immediately.
They rode together along the coast whenever duty permitted. Loras taught her Reach commands and how to guide a nervous horse without forcing it. Elia taught him Dornish curses and which stable boys could be bribed into forgetting curfew.
One afternoon, Oberyn received word that Elia had fallen. His heart stopped.
Then the messenger hastily added that she was alive, awake, and angry.
Oberyn found her in the stables. She sat on an overturned bucket with one torn sleeve, a bleeding knee, and dust covering half her face. Loras knelt in front of her with a bowl of water and a clean cloth.
“What happened?” Oberyn demanded.
Elia immediately looked guilty.
“She tried to jump the southern wall.”
“It was not the wall,” Elia protested. “It was the lower section.”
“It was stone.”
“The horse could have done it.”
“The horse had more sense.”
Oberyn crossed the stable. “Are you hurt?”
“My knee.”
“Her wrist as well,” Loras said.
Elia glared at him. “You said you would not tell.”
“I said I would not tell the stablemaster you loosened the horse without permission.”
“That is worse.”
Oberyn knelt and examined her wrist. Swollen, but not broken. Relief made him angry.
“You could have broken your neck.”
“I did not.”
Loras’s eyes flicked toward him, trying desperately not to smile. Oberyn heard himself in the words.
“I wanted to show him I could do it,” Elia admitted, her defiance faltering.
Loras’s expression changed. “You never need to risk yourself to impress me.”
“I was not—”
“You looked at me before you spurred the horse.”
Elia looked down.
Loras dipped the cloth into the water.
“I am already impressed by you.”
She glanced up. “You are?”
“You have better balance than most knights twice your age. You understand your horse. You are fearless.”
Elia brightened.
“Which is why,” Loras continued, “you must learn when fear is wisdom rather than weakness.”
The brightness faded. “That sounds like something old people say.”
Oberyn lifted one brow. Loras nearly smiled.
“It is something people say after they have frightened everyone who loves them and learned from the mistake.”
Elia’s gaze went to the pale scar beneath Oberyn’s collar. She knew the story of the Mountain. All of Dorne did.
“I was frightened when Father was hurt,” she said. Oberyn’s anger disappeared.
Loras’s voice softened. “So was I.”
“You still do dangerous things.”
“Yes.”
“Then why can’t I?”
“Because doing dangerous things does not require doing foolish ones.”
“I thought it looked heroic,” she admitted.
Loras began cleaning the scrape on her knee. “Heroism is often someone else’s name for poor planning.”
“That is deeply insulting.”
“You fought the Mountain while shouting at him.”
“I had a strategy.”
“You nearly died.”
“And won.”
Elia looked between them. “You argue like married people.”
Silence fell.
Loras dropped the cloth into the bowl.
Oberyn smiled slowly. Elia brightened, sensing weakness.
“Are you going to marry?”
Loras’s entire face turned red.
Oberyn took pity upon him. “No decision of that sort will be made in a stable.”
“Why?”
“The smell.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is all you are receiving.”
Loras resumed tending her knee with unnecessary concentration.
Afterward, when Elia had been delivered to the healer and ordered to rest, Oberyn found Loras beside the empty stall.
“You handled her well.”
“She is reckless.”
“Yes.”
“She wishes to be admired.”
“Yes.”
“She is more like you than is reasonable.”
“Yes.”
Loras turned toward him. “Do not look so pleased.”
“I am proud of all my creations.”
“You did not create her alone.”
“A technicality.”
Loras leaned back against the stall door.
“She frightened me.”
“I know.”
“I heard the horse fall and thought—”
His face tightened.
Oberyn stepped closer. Loras’s hand found the scar at his side, touching through the fabric as though reassuring himself.
“She is safe.”
“Yes.”
“You kept her safe.”
“She fell.”
“And you were there when she rose.” Oberyn kissed his forehead.
From the corridor, Elia called, “I can hear you being sentimental.”
Loras closed his eyes.
Oberyn laughed.
****************************************************
Obella decided Loras required dancing lessons.
Not because he could not dance, but because, in her opinion, he danced like a Reachman.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
Obella stood in the music room with both hands on her hips.
“Too stiff.”
“I am not stiff.”
“You count.”
“Everyone counts.”
“Not aloud.”
“I do not count aloud.”
“You move your lips.”
Oberyn sat beside Ellaria near the window, watching.
“He does,” Ellaria whispered.
“I know.”
Obella clapped her hands for the musicians to begin again.
Loras took his position.
She was still young enough that he had to stoop slightly to take her hands, but old enough to treat the lesson with seriousness.
“Dornish dancing is not about perfect steps,” she instructed.
“What is it about?”
“Feeling.”
Loras glanced toward Oberyn. Oberyn smiled.
“Do not look at him,” Obella said. “He will make it worse.”
“A wise child,” Ellaria murmured.
The music began.
Obella guided Loras through a quicker, looser dance than he preferred. She corrected his shoulders. Scolded him for watching his feet. Made him repeat the same turn until he stopped anticipating it.
At last, Loras relaxed. His movements changed. Less perfect and more alive.
Obella grinned. “There!”
“What?”
“You stopped thinking.”
“A rare achievement,” Oberyn said.
Loras glared toward him and missed the next turn.
Obella stamped one small foot.
“I told you not to look at him.”
Ellaria laughed.
Later, when the musicians rested, Obella climbed onto the bench beside Loras. She leaned close and whispered something Oberyn could not hear.
Loras listened solemnly. Then he rose and bowed to her.
“May I have this dance?”
Obella looked delighted. The musicians did not, but they began again when instructed.
This time, Loras let her lead. She made mistakes. He did not correct them. He followed every wild turn, exaggerated every sweep, and spun her until she laughed so loudly it echoed through the palace.
Oberyn watched from beside Ellaria.
“What did she ask him?” he said.
Ellaria smiled. “She asked whether anyone would wish to dance with her at a real feast.”
Oberyn’s heart tightened.
“Why would she ask that?”
“She is younger than the others. She thinks they are all more beautiful.”
“She is beautiful.”
“Yes.”
Ellaria rested her head against his shoulder.
“Loras told her that anyone with sense would be honored.”
Oberyn looked away from the dancing pair for a moment because the sight had become unexpectedly difficult to bear.
Ellaria saw. “You are crying.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“The musicians are poor. My eyes object.”
“Of course.”
Oberyn took her hand.
They watched together.
************************************************************
Dorea fell ill during the first autumn rain.
It was nothing serious.
A fever, the healer said. A childhood sickness that required sleep, water, and patience.
Oberyn possessed great quantities of the first two and none of the third. He checked her chambers every hour. Ellaria finally threatened to bar the door.
“You are waking her.”
“I am ensuring she is breathing.”
“She is coughing loudly enough to be heard from the Water Gardens.”
“She is small.”
“She is sleeping.”
Oberyn paced outside the room.
Loras emerged carrying an empty cup.
“What are you doing in there?”
“Giving her water.”
“I could have done that.”
“You were arguing with the healer.”
“She is overly calm.”
“The fever is already lower.”
Oberyn looked toward the closed door.
“She asked for you-”
Oberyn immediately reached for the latch.
“To leave her alone,” Loras finished.
Oberyn stopped. Ellaria laughed from inside the room.
“Traitors.”
Loras guided him toward the nearby bench.
“Sit.”
“I dislike that word.”
“I know.”
They sat. Through the door came the faint sound of Ellaria speaking to Dorea.
Oberyn leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“When they were infants, I used to place my hand beside their mouths while they slept.”
Loras’s expression softened. “To feel them breathe?”
“Yes.”
“You still do.”
“Occasionally.”
“Every time one of them is ill.”
“How do you know?”
“I have seen you.”
The door opened again and Ellaria stepped out.
“She wants the rose story.”
Oberyn frowned. “What rose story?”
Ellaria looked at Loras. He appeared suddenly embarrassed.
“It is nothing.”
Dorea’s small voice called weakly from the bedchamber, “Loras.”
Ellaria gestured toward the door. “You have been summoned.”
Oberyn caught his sleeve. “What story?”
Loras looked down at him. “The tale of Ser Loras and the terrible Dornish scorpion.”
“There is no such tale.”
“There is now.”
He disappeared into the room. Oberyn looked at Ellaria. She sat beside him.
“He made it up last night when she could not sleep.”
“What happens?”
“The famous knight finds a scorpion in his boot.”
“Plausible.”
“He becomes very frightened.”
“Less plausible.”
“He calls for the brave Princess Dorea, who captures it in a cup and saves his life.”
Oberyn smiled despite himself. “Does she?”
“Repeatedly. The scorpion escapes three times.”
From inside, Loras’s voice rose in dramatic alarm. Dorea giggled.
The sound eased something tight in Oberyn’s chest. Ellaria rested one hand on his back.
“He stayed all night,” she said.
“What?”
“He sat beside her when the fever was highest. I told him to sleep.”
“He did not.”
“No.”
“Why did no one wake me?”
“You had finally fallen asleep.”
“I should have been there.”
“You were there. For twelve hours.”
Oberyn looked toward the chamber. Through the partly open door, he could see Loras sitting beside the small bed. Dorea’s hand rested in his. Her eyes were closed, but she smiled as he described the scorpion escaping into a bowl of soup.
“He loves them,” Oberyn said.
Ellaria’s expression was gentle. “Yes.”
“Not because they are mine.”
“No.”
The distinction mattered. Loras had not merely extended his love for Oberyn toward those Oberyn loved. He had come to know each girl separately.
Obara’s fury.
Nymeria’s elegance.
Tyene’s heart.
Sarella’s brilliant mind.
Elia’s reckless courage.
Obella’s hidden uncertainty.
Dorea’s need for comfort.
And Loras loved them that way.
Ellaria squeezed Oberyn’s shoulder.
“You look surprised.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
Oberyn searched for the truth. “Because he came here for me.”
“Yes.”
“I thought perhaps I would always be the reason he stayed.”
Ellaria looked through the door. “You are one reason.”
A pause.
“Not the only one anymore.”
***********************************************************
Loreza was the youngest.
She loved Loras immediately and without caution. There had been no period of suspicion, no test, no observation. The first time she met him, she touched his golden curls and asked whether he was made of sunlight.
Loras had been helpless before her ever since.
She followed him through the palace when permitted. She brought him wilted flowers and stones she considered jewels. She demanded to sit beside him at meals and once told a visiting lady that Ser Loras was going to marry her father when they stopped being foolish.
Oberyn suspected one of the older girls had told her that. No one corrected her.
One evening, Oberyn returned from council to find Loras asleep beneath an orange tree.
Loreza lay curled upon his chest. A book rested open beside them, the shade of a tree covering them. Loras had one arm wrapped securely around her while the other hand rested protectively against her back. Loreza’s dark curls were tangled beneath his chin. A crown of crushed flowers sat crookedly upon his head.
Oberyn stopped several paces away. Doran sat nearby in his wheeled chair, reading a letter.
He looked up. “They have been asleep for an hour.”
“What happened?”
“Loreza refused her afternoon rest.”
“So Loras offered to read to her?”
“Yes.”
“And fell asleep first?”
“According to Loreza, he was pretending.”
Oberyn approached quietly.
The sight struck him. Loras was asleep in Dorne, not because he was exhausted from passion or keeping watch over a sickbed, but simply because he felt safe enough to drift beneath a tree with a child on his chest.
Doran folded the letter. “She trusts him.”
“Yes.”
“So do the others.”
Oberyn sat on the low wall opposite his brother. “I know.”
“Do you?”
Oberyn looked at Loras. “He came to Sunspear as my guest.”
“No, he came as your lover,” Doran corrected. “We treated him as a guest.”
“Your hospitality is overwhelming.”
“He was proud, wounded, watchful, and entirely too certain that charm could conceal all three.”
“He is very charming.”
“So you repeatedly informed us.”
Oberyn smiled.
Doran’s expression softened. “Then he remained when you were injured.”
“Yes.”
“He argued with my healers. Threatened my cooks. Rearranged your chambers without permission.”
“He improved them.”
“He nearly challenged a maester over the proper amount of milk of the poppy.”
“The maester was incompetent.”
“He was seventy.”
“Age is no defense.”
Doran sighed. Then he looked toward Loreza. “But he stayed.”
“Yes.”
A warm breeze stirred the orange leaves.
Doran continued, “The servants no longer ask whether Ser Loras will attend. They prepare his place. The stablemaster keeps his preferred horse ready. The girls seek him out without first searching for you or me.”
Oberyn looked up at him.
“He belongs here,” Doran said quietly.
Oberyn’s throat tightened. “Do you believe that?”
“I would not say it otherwise.”
“You spent months watching him as though he were an invading army.”
“He is a Tyrell.”
“A tragic condition.”
“He is also young.”
“He is not a child.”
“No. But he came carrying grief he had shaped into armor. I wanted to know whether he loved you or merely needed somewhere to place the devotion he could no longer give another man.”
Oberyn went still. It was a cruel question.
Also a necessary one.
“And?” he asked.
Doran looked at Loras asleep beneath the tree.
“He loves you.”
Oberyn exhaled.
“But?” he said.
Doran’s mouth curved faintly. “He also argues with me about irrigation canals.”
Oberyn stared. “He does?”
“He believes the western gardens are wasting water.”
“They are.”
“I know.”
“So why argue?”
“He enjoys it.”
Oberyn laughed softly. Doran rested both hands upon the head of his cane.
“He reminds me of you.”
“Then you should adore him.”
“I have survived one of you.”
“Barely.”
Loreza stirred. Loras woke instantly. His arms tightened around her before his eyes fully opened. He looked disoriented for a moment, then found Oberyn nearby.
His face softened.
“You are back.”
“I am.”
Loreza lifted her head.
“Papa.”
She climbed carefully from Loras’s chest and ran to Oberyn.
He caught her.
She wrapped both arms around his neck.
“Loras read the scorpion story wrong.”
“I did not,” Loras said, sitting up and adjusting the crushed flower crown with as much dignity as possible.
“You forgot the goat.”
“There was never a goat.”
“There is now.”
Oberyn kissed her cheek.
“A dire mistake.”
Doran observed him. “Ser Loras.”
“My prince.”
“You have flowers in your hair.”
“I am aware.”
Loreza pointed. “He is a princess.”
Oberyn smiled. “A very beautiful one.”
Loras glared at him.
Loreza cupped Oberyn’s face.
“You are going to marry him.”
Doran coughed into his hand.
Loras froze.
Oberyn looked at his daughter.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Has this been decided?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“Everyone,” she said, tilting her head in confusion, as if Oberyn was a fool for not already being aware of that. She wriggled from his arms and ran toward the palace before further interrogation could begin.
Silence remained behind her.
Loras removed the flower crown.
“It was Nymeria.”
“Tyene,” Doran said.
Both looked at him.
Doran appeared almost smug.
“She has been encouraging Loreza for weeks.”
“I will speak to her,” Oberyn said.
“Will you?” Loras asked. He sounded guarded. The young knight’s expression was careful now, vulnerability hidden beneath annoyance.
Oberyn approached him.
“I will tell her,” he said, “that such matters require patience.”
Loras’s shoulders stiffened.
“And privacy,” Oberyn continued. “And perhaps better timing than immediately after I spent three hours discussing grain.”
Doran began rolling his chair toward the palace. “I have heard enough.”
“You are always leaving when conversations become interesting,” Oberyn called.
“I am leaving before either of you forget I am here.”
When he was gone, Oberyn stopped before Loras.
The flower crown dangled from the knight’s hand.
“Everyone?” Oberyn asked.
Loras looked away.
“She is a child.”
“Yes.”
“She invents things.”
“Yes.”
“She once declared herself queen of the Stepstones.”
“A credible claim.”
Loras’s mouth twitched. Oberyn touched his face.
“You heard Doran.”
“I did.”
“You belong here.”
Loras’s eyes lifted. “He said that.”
“He meant it.”
“And you?”
Oberyn looked toward the palace.
Obara’s spear leaned against the training-yard wall. A box of Nymeria’s newly purchased silk waited to be carried upstairs. Tyene’s favorite tea had been placed at Loras’s usual seat that morning because he remembered she preferred it with honey. Sarella had left a book in his chambers with six corrections written in the margins. Elia’s horse wore a new bridle Loras had selected to better suit its temperament. Obella had demanded he save her the first dance at the next feast. Dorea’s scorpion story had acquired a goat. Loreza believed the matter was already settled.
Ellaria had long since stopped asking whether Loras would stay for supper. Doran argued with him as family argued, not cautiously, but with the confidence that disagreement would not cause departure.
Oberyn had spent months believing Loras’s place in Dorne existed through him. He had been wrong.
Loras had made his own place by caring for every person according to who they were.
“You are loved here,” Oberyn said.
Loras swallowed. “Because of you.”
“No.” The answer was immediate. “They first opened the doors because of me. They kept you because of you.”
Loras looked down at the crushed flowers in his hand. Oberyn tilted his chin upward.
“Obara respects you.”
“She enjoys striking me.”
“For Obara, that is respect.”
Loras almost smiled.
“Nymeria trusts your taste.”
“She thinks I own too much green.”
“She is often wrong.”
“Tyene trusts your heart,” Oberyn continued. “Sarella trusts your mind. Elia trusts you to tell her when bravery becomes foolishness.”
“That may take repetition.”
“Obella thinks you dance beautifully.”
“She said I dance like a Reachman.”
“She is working through it.”
Loras laughed softly.
“Dorea asks for you when she is frightened. Loreza believes you are made of sunlight.”
“That was before she decided I was a princess.”
“Both may be true.”
Loras looked at him with shiny eyes. Oberyn felt his own vision blur.
“And Ellaria?” Loras asked.
“She loves you.”
Loras’s breath caught.
“And Doran?”
“He has begun including your opinions in policy discussions. That may be the highest form of affection he possesses.”
Loras laughed again, though the sound trembled. Oberyn took both his hands.
“You did not merely become part of my life,” he said. “You became part of theirs.”
“I never meant to.”
“I know.”
“I only wanted—”
“Me?”
Loras smiled helplessly.
“Yes.”
Oberyn raised his hands and kissed his knuckles.
“You have me.”
“Do I?”
“Hopelessly.”
“I did not know I wanted this.”
“Dorne?”
“A family that did not need me to be perfect before it made room.”
The words entered Oberyn’s heart like a blade wrapped in silk. He remembered Loras arriving in Sunspear, polished, beautiful, and guarded. The Knight of Flowers had known how to earn applause, desire, and political value.
Love without performance had been another language. One he was still learning. So were they all.
Oberyn drew him into his arms.Loras came willingly, pressing his face against the prince’s neck. The flower crown was crushed between them.
“You are ruining my regalia,” Loras murmured.
“It was poorly made.”
“Loreza will be offended.”
“I will blame you.”
“She loves me more.”
“Impossible.”
“She said I am sunlight.”
“She once said I looked like an old lizard.”
“Children speak the truth.”
Oberyn caught him by the waist. Loras laughed and placed both hands against his shoulders.
“You are jealous of your own daughter.”
“I am jealous of all my daughters.”
“They had me most of the week.”
“Precisely.”
“Poor prince.”
“I have been abandoned.”
“You lurked outside the training yard. Followed us to the market. Appeared on the tower during Sarella’s lesson. Interrupted dancing.”
“I was maintaining vigilance.”
“You were hovering.”
Oberyn smiled. Loras’s expression softened.
“I love them,” he said.
“I know.”
“I did not expect to.”
“I know.”
“I know what they are to me. I don’t know what I am to them.”
Oberyn considered all the answers.
Lover. Knight. Guest. Counselor. Reluctant accomplice. Occasional princess. None was enough.
“The person they look for,” he said. “When Obara wants a worthy opponent. When Nymeria wants someone to tell her the truth. When Tyene needs advice without judgment. When Sarella wishes to be heard. When Elia falls. When Obella doubts herself. When Dorea is frightened. When Loreza wants sunlight.”
Loras closed his eyes. Oberyn kissed his brow.
“You are the person they look for.”
A tear escaped despite Loras’s efforts. Oberyn brushed it away.
“Do not tell anyone,” Loras said.
“That you have feelings?”
“That I cried.”
“I will tell all of Dorne.”
Loras struck his chest. Oberyn laughed and caught his wrist.
“There is my rose.”
“You ruin every tender moment.”
“I improve them.”
“You make them insufferable.”
“And yet you remain.”
Loras looked toward the palace. Somewhere within, the Martell family moved through supper preparations, arguments, laughter, and the ordinary rituals of a household that had ceased wondering when the Tyrell knight might leave.
Then he looked back at Oberyn.
“Yes,” he said.
Oberyn raised the crushed flower crown and placed it crookedly upon Loras’s curls once more.
The prince expected retaliation. Instead, Loras kissed him in gratitude. A kiss that said I found more than I came for.
When they parted, Oberyn kept his forehead against Loras’s. “You belong to them now,” he murmured.
“And to you?”
Oberyn kissed him once more.
“Always by choice.”
From the palace doors came Loreza’s outraged cry.
“You broke the crown!”
The youngest girl stood with both hands planted on her hips. Behind her gathered Elia, Obella, Dorea, Tyene, and Nymeria. Obara lingered farther back, pretending she had not come to look for them. Sarella held a book beneath one arm. They were a flock of tan skin, dark hair, and varied expressions.
Ellaria stood among them, smiling. Doran watched from behind with patient resignation.
Loras removed the damaged crown. “I believe it can be repaired.”
Loreza marched forward. “You squashed it.”
“Your father did.”
“Traitor,” Oberyn said.
Loreza took Loras by the hand. “Come. We make another.”
Loreza pulled Loras toward the garden. Dorea took his other hand. Obella began explaining how the second crown must be larger. Elia wanted thorns included. Sarella objected that thorns were impractical. Nymeria said it needed more color.
Obara followed to ensure no one used her spear to cut flowers. Tyene paused beside Oberyn, kissed his cheek, and hurried after her sisters.
Ellaria came to stand at Oberyn’s side.
Together, they watched Loras disappear into the small crowd of daughters, golden curls visible above their dark heads. He was laughing. Arguing. Being pulled in three directions at once.
“He looks overwhelmed,” Oberyn said.
“He is happy.”
“Yes.”
Doran joined them.
“He will require rescuing eventually.”
“No,” Oberyn said.
His brother looked at him. Oberyn watched Loras kneel so Loreza could place the first flower in his hair.
“Let them have him.”
Ellaria slipped her hand into Oberyn’s. Doran’s expression softened.
He had once thought loving Loras meant drawing him close, protecting him, desiring him, and making a place for him at Oberyn’s side.
Now he understood that love had done something greater. It had carried Loras beyond him and into his daughters’ confidences and his brothers’ councils. Into sickrooms, libraries, stables, markets, dances, and the tales told before sleep.
The Martells had not merely accepted Oberyn’s love. They had made Loras their own, made him family.
And for the first time, Oberyn felt no jealousy at watching the people he loved carry pieces of Loras away with them.
Oberyn stood beneath the orange trees with Ellaria’s hand in his and Doran beside him, listening to his daughters laugh as they crowned the Knight of Flowers for the second time.
Home, he realized, was not one person waiting at the end of a journey. It was everyone who looked up when you entered a room. Everyone who saved you a place.
Loras had come to Dorne for Oberyn. He had stayed because Dorne had learned to love him too.