"Prince Oberyn."
"I see my reputation precedes me."
"Well, I would be a fool not to recognize the man who has fucked half of Westeros."
"A fool you are not, it appears. Nonetheless, I confess it is good to be known," he told her as he grabbed a gobl...
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Ilyn groaned as she rolled over in her bed, the blinding sunlight filtering through the opened balcony doors and sending rays of relentless light into the lavish room. The chamber was empty, save Ilyn herself, all the handmaidens she refused to allow tend to her occupied with duties and chores elsewhere.
Ilyn had partied long into the night and far into the morning too, dancing and drinking far more than she should have—a fact which she was sorely regretting now.
She brought a hand to her forehead as she slipped from her bed, massaging the pounding headache. I'll need to ask Liz to have Cook concoct me one of her hangover cures.
The thought sent a pang of disgust through her body as she remembered just how foul the drink tasted—but it worked like magic. Perhaps it even was magic, though no one would be foolish enough to ask. Better to be oblivious about the sins you unwittingly commit than privy to the secrets of others which could end in your downfall.
It was past midday when Ilyn finally emerged from her chambers, a small battalion of guards in tow. As expected, her hangover was miraculously gone, and she was now adorned in a casual dress which she had bought in Braavos during one of her visits to Essos and the free cities.
Humming, Ilyn made her way through the castle grounds. She didn't quite know what she intended to do with the rest of the day, but a walk through the gardens seemed as pleasant a start as any.
The servant appeared then, seemingly out of thin air, and it was the reminder that she was in the Red Keep alone that kept Ilyn from instinctually drawing the daggers concealed on her leg. The servant girl—unaware that she had been moments from a slashed jugular—bowed to Ilyn and kept her head down as she spoke.
"The Queen requests a word with you in her chambers, my princess," the girl mumbled, and Ilyn groaned at the news. Cersei was no longer officially the Queen, but many still referred to the lady as such, merely from the years she had passed in the occupation.
If her stepmother wanted to speak to her... well that certainly only meant bad things. Ilyn's mind flashed to the events of the party yesterday and she cringed as she recalled some of her later, drunken actions. Still, she had done nothing which she believed Cersei would request an audience with her about.
Then Ilyn remembered Oberyn Martell.
How she had forgotten about the handsome Dornishman in the first place was a mystery itself—the time spent with him drinking and talking and infuriating her stepmother had been some of the most fun she had ever experienced in the capital, the unexpected pull between them keeping Ilyn entertained and laughing throughout the night.
It seemed that their efforts to piss off her stepmother had born fruit—though at what cost Ilyn couldn't say.
As she made her way to Cersei's chambers, walking as slowly as humanly possible, Ilyn's thoughts were captivated by memories of the time spent with the second Prince of Dorne; his laugh in particular seemed to be on constant replay in her mind, the adorable dimple and light in his eyes imprinted in her memory.
