acharmingbird:

She blushes, and hates it. She has learned to respond to courtly flirtations, honed her skills at talking to handsome young men who insist she is the loveliest woman they’ve ever seen; but there is something different in the way this Martell is addressing her. He is familiar, too familiar, and too smoot; it makes her immediately suspicious.

“I am happy to be a part of his grace King Joffrey’s court,” she answers, the words feeling formal and awkward on her tongue.

“I’m sure you are My Lady.” He told her as he watched her carefully. Everything he could see told him otherwise, but he wouldn’t say much on that matter.

“I’m sure you would be happier as a part of my father’s court in Dorne. Much less stuffy and uptight. No little boy’s ruling but actual men ruling a land.” Quyentyn didn’t care for who might hear him, not right now at least. Why should he? He was only here visiting with his Uncle.

“You could come back with my Uncle and I, see Myrcella in Dorne. I’m sure your “husband” wouldn’t mind” He suggested.