Requested by: no one
Level: green
Plot: You are Oberyn Martell's favorite daughter
Based on: Game of throne

  The night you were born, Dorne seemed to hold its breath. The air was thick with heat, a suffocating veil wrapping around the fortress of Sunspear. The desert wind, usually fierce, moved slow and heavy, lifting swirls of golden sand that slipped through the cracks of windows and brushed against the ancient stone walls. Above the sleeping world, the stars burned bright, fiery as distant torches, watching over the land below. In the secluded chambers of the fortress, another fire burned. Not the fire of torches or braziers, but the fire of pain and life fighting to be born. Your mother groaned in bed, sweat beading on her forehead, fingers clutching the crumpled sheets. The midwives whispered words of encouragement, their hands swift and sure, but nothing could dull the searing pain that tore through her body.

  It was a long, exhausting labor. Every passing hour dragged like an endless shadow, and with it grew your father's impatience. Oberyn Martell, the Prince of Dorne, paced like a caged panther, muscles tight beneath sun-kissed skin, fists clenched. No one dared to stop him. No one dared to speak. They knew his temper, knew that behind his mask of control lay a storm waiting to erupt.

  From time to time, he stopped at the threshold, feverish eyes fixed on the woman fighting to give him a child. Fear gripped his chest in a way he would never admit out loud. He had faced death a thousand times—on the battlefield, in the arena, in the silent nights when vengeance was his only comfort. But never had death felt so close as it did in that moment. Never had he feared losing something so much. Then, finally, the moment arrived. One final cry tore through the air, followed by a smaller, more fragile sound—yet infinitely more powerful: your first wail. The midwives rushed to clean you, to check you, while your mother sank exhausted into the pillows, her eyelids heavy but her heart flooded with relief. Time seemed to stop when one of the women, with practiced and gentle hands, wrapped you in a light cloth and turned toward your destiny. Oberyn stepped forward, and for a moment, he did nothing. He simply looked at you. He was not sure what he had expected, but in that moment, his entire world shrank to the tiny creature in his arms. His daughter. His blood. His legacy.

  He held you with a tenderness few would have believed possible. The Prince of Dorne, the Red Viper, the deadly warrior and passionate lover, the man who feared nothing... yet in that instant, he was vulnerable. He gazed at you as if holding a secret whispered by the Gods themselves. Your skin was warm beneath his fingers, your tiny fists clenched at the empty air, your mouth opening in a demanding, powerful cry—as if you already knew you deserved the world. Oberyn laughed, a low, amazed sound, and held you closer. The midwives exchanged knowing smiles. They knew him well, the Prince. They knew he was not a man who bound himself easily, that his heart had always been a battlefield between love and freedom. But in that moment, they saw him change. They saw him break and piece himself back together into something new. With the back of his fingers, he brushed your cheek—a simple gesture, yet full of promises.

  <<My little viper>> he whispered, and fate sealed itself in those words.

  The Red Viper had found his most precious jewel, his desert rose. You would not be a fragile doll locked behind stone walls, nor a lady displayed in the noble courts. The blood of House Martell ran through you—hot and rebellious—and your father already knew he would never let you be tamed. As the night deepened and the wind lifted the desert sands once more, Oberyn held you in his arms, rocking you with the same confidence with which he wielded his spear. He smirked to himself, imagining the whispers that would soon spread across Dorne. The Red Viper's daughter had been born. And no one could predict the storm she would become.

  Your childhood was never quiet, nor could it have been. While other little girls played with ivory dolls and fine silks, you ran barefoot across the scorching sand, unfazed by the heat that would have made anyone else recoil. Your skin, kissed golden by the relentless sun, bore the marks of falls, of adventures, of a life that knew no chains. The wind whispered through the dunes, and you listened to it like an old friend, learning its language, letting yourself be carried into its wild dance. You climbed pomegranate trees with the grace of a cat, stealing ripe fruits with quick fingers, their crimson juice dripping down your wrists like blood. You leaped across the cliffs without hesitation, your heart pounding with the intoxicating freedom that only the open sky could grant. When you vanished into the fortress gardens, where the scent of orange blossoms mingled with the rustling of palm leaves, no one dared to seek you. They called you the daughter of the desert, an elusive mirage, a breath of storm.

  Oberyn watched you with a mix of amusement and pride. Never did he try to stop you. Never did he attempt to tame the fire in your eyes. He knew that extinguishing your flame would be the same as killing you, and if there was one thing the Red Viper would never allow, it was for anyone to break his daughter.

  He taught you to fight before you even understood what fear was. These were not lessons of harsh discipline or rigid instruction. They were games, challenges, deadly dances you accepted with laughter, unaware that, in those moments, you were becoming a legend. You wielded the blade with unsettling ease, your movements fluid like a river that already knew its path. He smiled, pleased, effortlessly blocking your sudden strikes with the ease of a man who had lived a thousand battles.

  <<I will never let you be defenseless, my little one>> he would say as your blades clashed in a metallic ring. Then, with a swift motion, he would disarm you, leaving you breathless, a playful smirk on your lips. But it never took long before you tried again—faster, sharper, deadlier.

  <<You are a flame>> he told you, brushing his calloused fingers across your cheek. <<You burn brighter than them all>>.

  And you knew it too. But the world was not ready for you. The whispers spread like ash in the wind. The daughter of the Red Viper was not like the others. She was not docile, not tamed, not bound by the whispers of the court or the expectations of her lineage. Some admired you. Others feared you. Some murmured poisoned words behind closed doors, wondering what place a creature like you could ever have in the great game of power.
But you only laughed, fearless, as if the entire world was nothing more than an endless stretch of sand waiting to welcome your light steps. And as your legend grew, so did the storm on the horizon.

   One evening, as the desert sky burned with the colors of a dying sun, your father leaned against the balcony railing, arms crossed, watching you with an expression that was both proud and troubled.

  <<You will have to marry one day>>. His words slip into the air like a poisoned dart. Not an order, nor a warning. Just a fact, a truth he knows better than anyone else.
You stop a few steps away from him, the light silk of your dress shifting with the evening breeze. The dying sun sets its golden hues ablaze, but you do not feel like a precious treasure meant for display. You cross your arms, feeling the warmth of the stone beneath your bare feet, and fix your gaze on your father, as if searching for something more in him than just those words.

  <<I do not need a husband, Father. I do not want to be anyone's wife>>. Your voice is firm, steady, without hesitation. Once, when you were younger, you would have laughed at such talk, brushed it aside as a foolish jest. But now, you do not feel like laughing. You know what it means, what it entails. Marriage is not a fairytale. It is a trap. It is a cage. It is a golden chain forged with promises of alliance and power. Oberyn laughs, but it is a joyless laugh, almost resigned. He runs a hand over the stone balustrade, lowering his gaze for a moment, as if searching for something in the marble's carved grooves—something that eludes him. When he looks back at you, there is something melancholic in his dark eyes.
  <<I know>>. Just two words. And yet, they weigh heavier than a sentence.

He takes a deep breath, as if his next words cost him more than he is willing to admit.
<<But the world does not move according to your will, no matter how much you wish it. They will come for you—suitors from every corner of Westeros and beyond. Lords with lands and riches, princes hungry for glory, men who will see you as a trophy to be displayed. Not all will be foolish enough to refuse a viper, and some... some will try to tame you>>.

  The thought makes your blood boil. Your breath slows, controlled. The sunset casts long shadows over the stone floor, stretching your silhouettes as if the future were creeping silently between you. Clenching your jaw, you fix your father with a defiant stare. <<I will make them bleed>>. It is not a threat. It is a promise. Oberyn stops smiling. His expression shifts, amusement dying like embers smothered by sand. In his eyes, there is something you have never seen before. Not fear—no, your father has never known fear. But it is something close. Something far more dangerous. He watches you in silence, as if seeing you for the first time, as if the child he once carried on his shoulders is no longer there. As if, in her place, stands something else. Something he himself helped forge.
  Then he moves. Slowly, he lifts a hand and brushes your cheek with the back of his fingers. It is a light touch, almost imperceptible, yet his fingers carry the roughness of a man who has wielded weapons all his life, the callouses of one who has lived and fought without ever backing down.

<<I know, my little one>>. His voice is softer now, a whisper lost in the wind. <<And that is what frightens me>>. You tense under his touch—not because it displeases you, but because you are not used to seeing him like this. Vulnerable. Oberyn Martell has never been a man who showed weakness. He has always lived as if death were just another lover, as if life were a game of dice he knew how to rig. And yet now... now it is different.

Perhaps because he knows this is a battle he cannot fight for you.
Perhaps because he knows the world will not be kind to you.
Perhaps because, for the first time, he fears he has made you too much like himself.

The sun sinks below the horizon, and with it, the last golden gleams disappear. Darkness slowly settles over the sands of Dorne, wrapping you both in a twilight that tastes of promises and condemnations. The wind blows stronger, making the torches along the terrace flicker. Father and daughter remain motionless, bound by their fierce love. Divided by a fate neither of them can stop. And somewhere, in the long shadow of night, the future waits.