Game of Thrones: The Legend of Quentyn Martell

POV: Oberyn Martell

Rinding to Harrenhal was a little fast because they have nothing to hold them back and they will be there tomorrow morning. Oberyn reclined by the fire, savoring the warmth against the cool night breeze, his sharp gaze flicking between Ellaria and Ferran as they discussed the upcoming melee at Harrenhal. With only a day's ride remaining to the fabled fortress, anticipation hung in the air. They had set up camp in an open field, shielded by a small cluster of trees, allowing them a sweeping view of the stars. Ellaria had prepared a simple meal of roasted meat and dried fruits, and the guards, seated nearby, shared in the meal, talking quietly among themselves.

Ellaria leaned forward, her brown eyes glinting with the firelight. "You know you'll face stiff competition in this melee, don't you?" She raised an eyebrow.

Oberyn smirked, spearing a piece of meat on his knife. "And you think I'm not ready? I may be outnumbered, but I know how to handle myself, Ellaria."

"Even against someone like Robert Baratheon?" she countered. "From what I've heard, he's a brute in the melee. Fast, brutal, and seemingly tireless in battle." She paused, glancing at Ferran, one of Oberyn's most trusted guards, who nodded in agreement.

"Everything they say about him is true, my prince," Ferran added, his voice calm but firm. "Robert Baratheon is built like an ox and hits like a mountain falling on you. I've seen him fight. He doesn't tire, and he doesn't stop. The man seems to enjoy breaking bones."

Oberyn gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Let him be as strong as he likes. He'll face my spear, not my bare hands. Besides, brute strength means nothing if it can't keep up."

Ellaria studied him, her expression tinged with worry. "It's not just about strength, Oberyn. Robert fights with a single-minded ferocity. He'll be hard to dissuade once he sets his eyes on you."

Oberyn leaned back, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. "Then he'll make an excellent opponent. But remember, Ellaria, I have never been one to bow down to brute force. I'd rather dance around him, wear him out."

Ferran folded his arms, nodding thoughtfully. "Your speed and precision are your greatest assets. But Robert is known to surprise his opponents. He's reckless but clever in his own way, unpredictable in a melee."

Oberyn chuckled. "I'll give him something to think about, then. He's not the only one with surprises." His expression grew more serious as he met Ferran's eyes. "But I appreciate the warning. Knowing my enemy is half the battle."

Ellaria's eyes softened as she watched him. "Just don't let your pride lead you into a trap, Oberyn. You're there to prove a point, not to end up battered."

Oberyn reached out, taking her hand in his. "You know me well. But trust me, my dear, I'll come out of that melee without a scratch. And I'll remind these lords what a Martell can do."

Ellaria sighed, a half-smile on her lips. "Then I'll hold you to that promise. Come back to me unscathed."

The fire crackled as they ate, their conversation drifting from tactics to lighter matters. But in the back of his mind, Oberyn kept thinking about the looming melee, wondering what other challenges awaited him.

The dawn was pale and misty as Oberyn and his company packed their camp and set out, the fortress of Harrenhal still a distant shadow on the horizon. As they rode, the mist began to lift, revealing the sprawling shape of the castle. Even from afar, Harrenhal loomed immense. Even from afar, Harrenhal loomed immense, the towers reaching toward the sky like ancient claws. Oberyn found himself both impressed and a touch unnerved.

"This," he murmured to Ellaria as they approached, "is nothing like the Red Keep. The King's Landing castle is majestic, yes, but this... it feels like it's meant to keep you out, to overwhelm."

Ellaria studied the castle, her brow furrowing. "It's vast, yes. And beautiful in its own twisted way. But there's something haunting about it, don't you think?"

He nodded. "The Old Palace in Sunspear feels… welcoming. Built with grace, meant to draw people together. This fortress feels as though it was meant to keep the world away."

Ferran rode up beside them, looking at the castle in silence for a moment. "A fitting place for a tournament, perhaps. It'll take all the noise and fury we can muster without feeling crowded."

As they drew closer, Oberyn noticed the guards posted at the gate. They eyed the Dornish company with a mixture of curiosity and respect. Dismounting, Oberyn reached into his coin pouch and pulled out a gold coin, tossing it to the guard with a smirk. "A little token from Dorne. Make sure you enjoy yourselves while we're here."

The guard caught it with wide eyes, a grin breaking across his face. "Thank you, my prince," he stammered, bowing. "It'll be well spent, I assure you."

Ellaria shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips as she watched Oberyn's effortless charm. "Already making friends, are we?"

Oberyn shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eye. "If they're going to remember Dorne, they might as well remember it fondly."

They led their horses through the courtyard, which buzzed with activity. Nobles and warriors from all across Westeros had gathered, their banners snapping in the breeze, and the sounds of laughter and clashing steel filled the air. Men sparred in open spaces, some testing their strength, others simply passing the time.

Oberyn left Ferran to tend to the horses and led Ellaria toward the pavilion where the contestants were signing up for the melee. They walked past tents bearing sigils from every corner of Westeros — the lion of Lannister, the wolf of Stark, the falcon of Arryn — and yet Oberyn felt no hesitation as he approached the pavilion.

"Prince Oberyn of House Martell," he announced to the scribe at the table. "I'll be joining the melee."

The scribe, a nervous-looking young man, hurriedly wrote down his name, barely concealing his surprise. "Of course, my prince. We're honored by your presence."

Oberyn signed his name with a flourish and nodded to the scribe before turning to Ellaria. "Now, we wait," he said, his eyes gleaming. "In a few days, the opening ceremonies will begin, and this tournament will be set alight."

Ellaria gave him an approving smile. "I don't doubt it. You're here to make an impression, after all."

As they made their way back to the encampment, Oberyn couldn't help but feel a thrill of anticipation. This was more than just a tournament; it was a chance to show Westeros what it meant to be a Martell, to remind them of Dorne's strength and resilience. In a few days, he would step into the arena, his spear in hand, and with each strike, each dodge, he would etch the name of his family into the memories of every spectator present.