#oberyn martell x nameless oc

[radiowallet]

Meant to Be - Epilogue

The Endearment

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Fem!OC (nameless, third person), Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand, Ellaria Sand x Fem!OC (nameless, third person) Summary: Time marches on. WC: 1.5K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Canon-typical violence, grief, death, political intrigue, arranged marriage, soulmate shenanigans, drinking, the barest hints of pregnancy, female on female dynamics, oral sex (female receiving). Oberyn Martell comes with his own warning.

A/N: This is it! The last chapter! I'm surprisingly emotional for this one to end and I really can't explain it. Please look to the end for more notes. As always, a few things to keep in mind: This is an alternate universe that takes place after the main events of the show. Bran is still king of Westeros. Sansa is still queen of the north. Oberyn lives. Doran never had any children. Our Fem!OC is from Winterfell, but she is not a Stark and is a blank canvas physically.

To be alerted of new writing, please follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

~~Please see dedications at the end~~

Masterlist II Series Masterlist

Part 5 <<<

Endearing and sweet

Mine and yours

I hold your kiss on my lips

And my heart in your hands

Time is not always enough to heal. Some wounds are too deep, muscle and bone and blood unable to grow again over the gaping pain of loss. A sister and brother taken too soon are always a lingering scab across Oberyn Martell’s heart, and on the worst of days those wounds break open, and the treacherous concept of time starts all over. 

But it does lend itself well to building something new. Sometimes something unexpected. 

Oberyn leans back in his chair, head tilting to rest along the high back, crossing his legs and casting an eye out of the wide window framing the great hall, noting the position of the sun. Morning is nearly over, and despite his requests from the meeting the day prior, this council meeting is decidedly not. He sighs, loudly, before reaching for his cup, chasing his annoyance with a heavy slurp of wine. 

“And with this year’s tax revenu���“

“I do believe,” he nearly shouts, trying and failing not to slam his cup down, “we went over these numbers just yesterday, is this not correct, Lord Daemon?”

The other man tries and fails to hide his fear, looking up from the scroll spread open in front of him and immediately shrinking back in his chair. “I think there may have been some o-overlap in our agendas, my lord.”

“This entire meeting has been nothing but overlap,” Oberyn continues, his demeanor shifting from bored to deadly in the blink of an eye.

“It felt prudent. His lordship will be gone for some time and we wanted to be prepared.”

Oberyn stands then, the legs of his chair scraping loudly across the floor, and he delights in the wave of discomfort that filters through his council. 

“Let us consider you all prepared. My wife is waiting for me.” 

He pays no mind to the raise of voices, the members of his council clearly convinced no good could come from his absence. Oberyn was nonplussed, ignoring their outcry as he made his way back to his quarters. She truly was waiting for him, and he was eager to be back at her side. 

The visit north he had promised had been put on hold after Doran’s passing, the task of assuming his duties as Lord of Sunspear much more insistent upon his time than he cared for. She had handled the news with the same grace and duty he had come to know and love, standing at his side through it all. He could see now why Sansa Stark valued her friendship along with her support, and it was just another way he counted himself grateful that all manners of fate and choice brought them together. 

Things were settled now, the transition from one brother to the next complete. The strength of Dorne held true, unbroken and unbent, the sandy shores living on in peace. Oberyn felt more secure in the standing of his homeland, and though he did not relish the drop in temperature, he was pleased that he was finally making good on this one promise. 

Trunks were packed and loaded into the carriage, all manner of cloaks and fur lined fabrics stored safely away for the trip. Oberyn’s wardrobe had been distinctly lacking in that regard, but she was quick to a solution, the palace dressmakers tasked with her very specific requests.  

He had snapped his teeth at the idea of it — heavy fabric and brass buttons, his coat cinched tight around his waist and up the column of his throat. But she somehow found a way to turn his eye, standing behind him as the finishing touches were made on a rich red cloak. He cut an imposing figure, the shade almost violent, the symbol of Sunspear stitched into the fabric. 

He could feel her smile burning with pride as she brushed her hands along the wide expanse of his shoulders, her artistic fingers sending shivers down his spine. 

“The color is a bit unorthodox for northern customs,” he had teased, even as he preened before the mirror, back straightening and chest puffing out. She took his tone in stride, lips pressing hot and wet just behind his ear, her hungry eyes glued to his in the looking glass. 

“We do not see many vipers in the North. Allow me to present mine as I see fit.”

Oberyn moves his feet a touch faster, the memory of that day spurring him on. They had dismissed the seamstress with barely a glance, too busy stripping one another bare, and laying down together across the ruby red fabric. Oberyn can still feel the press of her lips as she whispered all the ways she intended to keep him warm between the stone walls of Winterfell as he fucked into her tight heat. 

Their union had strengthened ten fold over the passing months, even as the responsibilities of leadership came to rest upon their shoulders. Her mark upon him had spread easily, complimenting him but never changing. Everywhere he looked he could see her imprint upon his life. Her own throne beside his, her paintings hung on the walls, her moans painting their sheets. 

And in kind, she carries his marks with the same glow of pride. Books of poetry littered her desk, plum wine stained her lips, little pieces of himself left behind in her heart. 

True to their promises all that time ago, he was free to seek out time and pleasure on his own, but he found he preferred it best when she or Ellaria joined him. He still remembers with a spiteful sense of glee how members of his council had mentioned seeing the Lord and Lady of Sunspear walk arm and arm into one of the more luxurious bathhouses. 

It seemed the fates knew a thing or two, gifting him a match with just as voracious an appetite. 

But more and more he found himself content to remain closer to home, his bed there as full as his heart. It’s overly sentimental and he rolls his eyes at it all on his own, but it does not stop his heart from picking up speed when he reaches the door of their chambers. 

The sight that greets him on the other side is not exactly that of a woman who had assured him she would be ready to leave upon his return. 

But he cannot find it in himself to be vexed. 

Not when what he sees is so stunning. 

His soul’s match is laying back amongst the plush dressings of their bed, her body bare and her legs spread wide. She’s twisting back and forth, eyes closed and lips parted, begging for more more more in a way that his own groan slipping out to join her own, the unforgiving leather of his britches suddenly too tight. 

Ellaria is a generous lover, quick to meet his wife’s request and Oberyn steps closer just as one of her elegant fingers slides up inside her fluttering entrance, her lips never breaking away from that beautiful bundle of nerves.

It had been a natural progression, the two of them finding their way to each other. It was as seamless as two people walking together, their arms locked, and fingers laced, until finally they moved together as one, sides pressed together and cheeks on shoulders, closer than close and a sight to be held. 

Oberyn feels a foolish man for ever thinking there was a choice to be made. 

He does not go unnoticed for long, her eyelashes fluttering open, feverish eyes finding him and he is quick to move to her side, cupping the curve of her cheek in his palm. 

“Am I to assume we will be leaving late?” 

She smiles for him, nuzzling into his touch, but all words are stolen by Ellaria’s own lips pulling away. 

“Do not be mad at her, my love. We were restless and she looked so beautiful in the bath. I could not help myself.” 

Oberyn hums in agreement, letting his fingers trail down the column of her neck, squeezing gently, just enough to feel the gasp as it leaves her. He holds her gaze as his touch moves further down, up and over the peak of her breast until his hand rests along the slight swell of her belly, just starting to show with the promise of new life. 

“You are right as alway, my paramour. Our little wolf can be so hard to resist.” 

“Will you join us?” Ellaria asks the question sweetly, each word coated in honey, her dark eyes watching from where she rests her cheek along her thigh, two fingers now moving slowly in and out of her cunt. “Or must we leave her so unsatisfied?”

He smirks down at the two of them, before making a show of untying his robe and letting it fall to the floor. He could play coy, and insist they leave at once, but he knows there would be little use in denying either of them anything. 

He lets the last of his clothing fall away before he slides into bed beside her, his hand drifting low enough to join Ellaria’s, her cries for more finally answered. 

“I suppose not,” he murmurs, before pressing his lips to hers, always eager for the taste of her kiss. 

A taste he thought he had only dreamed.

———

A/N: If you told me my bingo card for the end of 2022 had writing a Game of Thrones fanfic, I do not think I would believe you. But I am so proud of myself for stepping out of my comfort zone, for trying out tropes that I don't normally seek out, and for taking on a new writing style in the fanfic space. I feel like I learned a lot in this process and I think I grew as a writer. I have had so much fun and trust me, this is a world I could see myself revisiting if the right prompt or request tickled my fancy. 🖤

Dedications: I have said this many times before, but it remains true: stories like this do not happen in a vacuum. I am so very grateful for the community here that has supported me through this and all of my writing. To every reader out there, thank you! Endlessly! Your support means more to me than I will ever be able to coherently explain.

To my dearest @astroboots who didn't blink an eye when I started spouting nonsense about Oberyn and arranged marriages and soulmates, she simply replied "Write it." You never let me think I can't do anything I set my sights on, and I love you.

To @magpie-to-the-morning who supported all of my love for this cheeky prince and who I sent blocks of smut to completely unprompted. You took it all in stride and begged me for more and your enthusiasm made me feel higher than high! Thank you so much!

And to my wonderful wife and Ellaria Sand's biggest fan @jazzelsaur You read every chapter. You listened to GoT facts you never thought you would learn. You laughed with me and and encouraged me and helped push me to make this story better than I ever thought it could be. I love you and I would be lost without you.

[radiowallet]

Meant to Be - Part 5

The Commitment

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Fem!OC (nameless, third person), Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand Summary: A choice is made. WC: 5.9K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Canon-typical violence, grief, death, political intrigue, arragned marriage, soulmate shenanigans, drinking, mentions of food, unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex (female receiving), praise kink. Arguing. Yearning. Feelings. Angsty feeling yearning feelings, friends. These two are so in it. Oberyn Martell comes with his own warning.

A/N: This is technically the last chapter. There is a brief epilogue I'm going to release at the end of the week. As always, a few things to keep in mind: This is an alternate universe that takes place after the main events of the show. Bran is still king of Westeros. Sansa is still queen of the north. Oberyn lives. Doran never had any children. Our Fem!OC is from Winterfell, but she is not a Stark and is a blank canvas physically.

To be alerted of new writing, please follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

~~Please see dedications at the end~~

Masterlist II Series Masterlist

Part 4 >>> Epilogue

Asked to oblige and engage 

But instead I commit my heart you

I breathe with ease in a choice all my own

And in kind, I hope you meet me there

The depth of the water surrounding Dorne still took her by surprise. She stares out at the sea, trying to track where it ends and the setting sun begins, but the horizon is lost, golden water bleeding up into violet sky. Her vision blurs, rich shades of yellow melting into sparkling blue, everything fading into the background as she loses herself in the wide expanse of it all, her heart sinking faster with each lap of the waves along the sandy shore. 

Oberyn’s confession swirled around and around her heart, a tempest all its own, land locking her at the center of his storm. Her own voice was lost; a peculiarity in its own right, with only calm waters left to meet her quiet gaze. 

She had half expected him to wait outside her door until an answer had been given, the insistence radiating off of him in waves. But he made no move to press her further on the matter, stepping away and allowing her all the time she needed. It seemed speaking his peace aloud was enough to temper his mood. With one last longing look he bid her good night for a second time, leaving her alone at the threshold of her door, only the hammering of her heartbeat to keep time with her staggered breaths. 

The pretense of sleep had been abandoned by sunrise, her restless steps taking her down the corridors of the palace and out to the beach, wide and sweeping, and still not enough. 

Love. He had spoken of love. Concrete and confident and grown out of the time they had taken to know each other. It was more than just a reaction born of soulmates and marriage arrangements. More than but still so entwined, like charcoal fingers tied tightly to his own, jars of paint brighter than any jewel, his eyes on hers as she spoke of a bitter cold and a friend left behind. 

Oberyn Martell loves her. 

What did she know of love? She scoffed at his poets and rolled her eyes at his endearments, teeth snapping in protest at their match. She clung to her stubborn independence, desperate for a choice that she swore was stolen, even as her own pool of water began to rise.  

She frowns, eyes fixed on the clouds, sparse in their presence, most retreating with the last of the summer storm. Her fingers dig down, wet sand cutting the delicate skin beneath her nail beds. She wonders how it would feel to dip her hands into the sharp sting of salt water; to wash away the sand as she moved deeper into the watery depths. 

Oberyn said he was waiting for her. He had described it as though he was swimming but it felt more of drowning — gasping, haggard broken breaths — a strangled prayer that he would vow until the dark sea swallowed him whole. Could she reach him in time? Could she swim that far?

She closes her eyes to the burn of the sunset, the embers of her mind catching along the edges of her heart, dreams of Oberyn refusing to come while she remains awake. She digs her fingers deeper, the sand cold and hard and wet. She is desperate, frantic to hold something between her hands; some sort of proof that is more than just the ache in her chest or twist in her gut.

The smell of the ocean. The taste of plums. Honey brown eyes watching from across the room.

It came in slow and steady, a rise of the tide she could not hold back if she tried. She could choose to look the other way, to keep her feet firmly planted on solid ground as she turned her back on the lap of water as it chased her heels.

Or she could choose to take a step forward, just enough, to meet the current halfway. 

———

The knock on his door comes just as the last traces of sunlight disappear from the sky, deep blue painting the world outside his window. Oberyn steps back from the balcony and towards the entryway of his quarters, his steps only faltering when the sound grows softer the further away he moves. He takes pause, just barely before his feet are carrying him back in the other direction before his head has a chance to catch on. 

Oberyn stops at the foot of his bed, eyes pinned to the door at the furthest corner of his quarters, the melody of knuckles knocking along the wood clear and sweet. He wants to laugh for the irony of it all, and so he does, his chuckle sharp and anxious as he surveys his path forward. 

He remembers a much younger man, angry and brash, just come of age and every bit the spoiled prince, shoving the heaviest of his bookcases in front of this very door. It had been a proclamation, one his young ego had preened upon with glee, shouting to his parents and all that would raise an ear to his tirade — Oberyn Martell would take no wife. 

He stands there now, twice over from that indignant age, looking at the door that leads to his wife’s chambers. The bookcase still sits in front of it, seemingly smaller now than he ever remembers it being, and his laugh takes on a fondness as he loses himself in childish actions that bled of so much more than political arrangements and romantic intrigue. 

It takes no more than a push of his hip and the doorway is cleared, his hand reaching for the handle, miles ahead of where his mind has already taken him. When the door swings open she is mid-knock, fist poised at eye level, her lips pulled into a thin, determined line.

Oberyn waits for his stomach to drop, dreading the feeling of icy panic that is sure to settle along his spine like an old, unwelcome visitor but it never comes. Instead, he is once again overcome with the serenity of her presence, peace and love making a home in the whole of his chest. 

He can’t help but to smile, a laugh still lingering on the tip of his tongue, this one teasing and light. 

“I know northern customs may not always align with Dorne’s own but I am certain you understand the implications of using this door, my wolf.” 

Her frown falters, almost breaking, but she does not bite back, her lips sealed impossibly tight even as her eyes trace the shape of his threshold. Oberyn opens the door wider, inviting her deeper into his own quarters but she does not move, hands flexing at her sides, nervous fingers reaching out into the empty air. 

He wants to encourage her, provide some small comfort that may ease the passage of her words, but he feels just as tongue tied. His confession still hangs in the air, heady and thick and so very honest, and though he meant it, means it still, the repercussions of his loose lips are still to come. 

Finally her eyes find his and she licks her lips, the quickest sweep of her pink tongue before she finds the will to speak. 

“You’re loud.”

“I…”

“I can hear you at all hours of the night.” 

“Sounds to me like you’re—“

“And you gulp your wine.”

“I do,” he agrees.

She breezes past him then, every bit emblazoned by the sound of her own words, her bare feet carrying her further into his quarters, drops of salt water and bits of sand left in her wake. Oberyn can only watch on in amusement, the volume of her voice rising with each swipe she takes at him. 

“You leave berry stains on my floor and plum pits on tabletops. I’d think you'd sooner die than clean up after yourself.” 

“Anything else?”

“You mouth along with the words while you read.”

“Do I?” He asks, moving in behind her, close enough to see a shiver chase his simple question across her shoulders. 

“Y-yes. It distracts me.” 

Oberyn refuses to touch her, instead hovering at her backside, letting her feel the heat of his body just barely out of reach. 

“It seems I am a troublesome match.”

She whips around, the silk of her dress tangling in her feet, eyes wide and fists balled tight. 

“You're stubborn. Impossibly so. I can hardly fathom it.” 

Oberyn bites his lip, the urge to lean in and kiss the poison away from her words stronger than ever. She is a breath away from him, the hook of his nose a ghost along her own, and still he does not move, his curiosity swelling up up up to meet the crest of her frustrations. 

“And…and…you love.”

She moves as if to reach for him but stops herself, still frantically trying to arrange her thoughts in some kind of order. He does not dare to interrupt, desperate to hear the end of her monologue, if only to be out from under this misery of unknowing. 

“You love your people. All of Dorne…it’s why you agreed to this arrangement in the first place. And your daughters. The way you look at them —”

Fingers find the curve of his wrist, anchoring along the beat of his pulse, and without prompting, she keeps speaking.

“Your brother and sister; you are devout in your feelings for them. And Ellaria. You love her so deeply, refusing to bend, to break. It’s who you are and I am remiss in the fact that I did not see it until now. Your heart aims true, and I would do better to trust in it from time to time.”

Oberyn feels his own breath catch in time with her words, lips parting as the watery depths of her eyes lock onto his own. Had it only been moments ago that she could barely stand to look at him? Had avoided his eyes as she stormed past him, the bite of her words melting into something soft and sweet and still so startlingly honest. 

“And what of your heart?” 

“You will ask me to say it,” she laughs, the sound watery but bright, a shy glance of tears brimming along the width of her eyes.

The chance to tease presents itself too easily. 

“It is my husbandly right.”

She scoffs, pushing at him with all her might. “I cannot believe I love you, Oberyn Marte–” 

And suddenly he cannot hold back anymore. 

———

The kiss is searing, liquid heat dripping down her spine as Oberyn fuses his lips to hers. He cradles her face, large hands cupping her cheeks and pulling her closer, as the kiss deepens into something smoother, seamless drifts of water crowding up into the sand. He coaxes her lips apart, a gentle sweeping of his tongue, stealing away her taste and leaving his own in its place. 

She moans, the sound of it swallowed whole, drowning in sunlight and sea salt, and with a break in their kiss and gasp of air, he pulls away, only to press his forehead tightly to her own.

“You must tell me now if you wish to wait,” he all but pleads before swooping back in to snatch one more kiss, his breath hot and haggard along the seam of her lips. 

“Would you be able to bear it?” She can’t help but tease, even as she pulls him back towards his bed.

“Not with any sort of grace, no.”

“In this we can agree,” she offers, stealing another kiss for herself before she falls backwards, the plush give of silk sheets and downy pillows softening her landing. 

She looks up at Oberyn, taking in his heaving chest and his flushed face. His eyes are wild, frantically tracing her form from top to bottom and back again, until finally he stops on her lips, still hopelessly swollen from his kiss. She resists the urge to squirm beneath his scrutiny, instead letting her legs fall open, the loose layers of her dress parting like the Dornish sea itself. 

Oberyn falls to his knees, hands bracing himself on the bend of her knees, pushing her legs that much wider. 

“Then it is decided,” he quips, the flick of his tongue touching the top of his lip, eyes never leaving hers. “We are to consummate our union?”

She starts to laugh, the sound bubbling up inside her, but it dies in her throat, cut short by the press of his lips to the heat of her thigh. He kisses upward, marking a slow path up her body, hot breath and wet tongue tattooed across her skin. His weight settles atop her, trapping her beneath him, her hands making equal measure along the broad expanse of his back. 

The shape of him is cruel, sharp angles and soft skin that she can feel herself craving, even with all of him so very close. It produces an ache, carving itself deep inside her, a cut to her bone as she tries to pull him closer still. 

His lips slant along her own, swallowing her gasps as a touch far more delicate than she ever considered glances along her curves. With a confident ease, nimble fingers loosen the sash around her waist, but it’s here that Oberyn finally stills, waiting for permission to take just a little more. 

She sits up, letting the rich shades of gold fabric slowly slip down her shoulders, goosebumps erupting across her skin. Oberyn tracks each one, honey brown eyes sticky sweet as he looks down at her bare body. 

“If I were to say I preferred this stage of dress to all others?”

She bites her lip, willing her fingers to steady as she reaches for the belt of his robe. “I am inclined to ask you to prove it, my love.” 

He groans, head falling back as she makes quick work of stripping him bare, his own robes falling away to reveal the red viper in all his glory. He is stunning; golden skin and dark hair, muscles hard-earned from years of battle and a soft belly born of his indulgent days. For a second she can only stare, mouth agape and eyes wide as she drinks him like a woman parched. 

Oberyn seems as distracted, her body and her words hypnotizing the prince into stunned silence. Slowly, his hands shaking,he cups the hinge of her jaw, thumb resting on the seam of her lips. She presses a kiss there, letting the tip of her tongue graze the pad of his finger, another groan slipping from his lips, throat bobbing and voice cracking as he finally finds word.

“Say it again, I beseech you.” 

She smiles despite herself, knowing that neither of them will tire of this game. 

A small part of her hopes that feeling remains forever. 

Another part of her knows it will be.

“My love,” she whispers, relishing the way the words sound to her own ear; a soft insistence that rings true in the quiet night.

Oberyn moans again, just as soft, his finger dragging gently down the length of her neck, and further down to rest atop the frantic beat of her heart. He pauses there, smiles, before cupping the swell of her breast in his whole hand. 

“You are nervous?”

“Excited,” she counters, and if possible his smile grows all the more wider. 

He pinches her nipple, the sting of pleasure screaming just shy of pain. His other hand is restless, fingers digging, squeezing, gripping to her curves, hard then soft then hard again, as if the idea of letting go was more than he could fathom. His cock is hard, pressed to the folds of her cunt, already soaked from his kiss. His touch. 

Him. Him.

Him.

“Do not tease,” she begs, refusing to be ashamed of the quiver that trails after her request, her hips canting up to meet his length, desperation coursing through her veins, nails scratching down his bare back, a silent plea for him to slip inside. 

Oberyn growls, but she can see the cracks in his resolve, his own hips thrusting into the jut of her hip. 

“I would have hoped to take my time tonight.”

“T-there will be time tomorrow,” she grinds out, her body aflame, desire settling painfully deep. “And the day after and after again.” 

Oberyn curses, one hand steadying her thrusts with a firm grip to her hip, the other finding the hinge of her jaw. He tilts her head until their eyes meet, the tip of his thumb forcing her lips wide. For the smallest of moments he does not speak, content it seems to watch her writhe beneath him, even as his own need for her goes unanswered. 

Without warning he leans forward, the tip of his nose tracing hers, his breath a heady mix of wine and salt and something more. She wants to swallow the taste of him down; to lick into the farthest corners of his mouth and keep him on her tongue forever, but his hold is true, keeping the whole of her pinned to the bed below. His whispers her name, a prayer between his lips, she is all the more desperate for him. 

“Be careful, my love. You may be giving me too much leeway in this arrangement.”

Oberyn fills her then, the length of him stretching her open inch by glorious inch, his lips capturing hers in a bruising kiss. She lets him take as much as he wants, content to bask in the feeling of their union, his hips slotted so sweetly between her legs, his hands so gentle in their iron grip.

It is unlike anything real or possibly imagined, colors she had dreamt of, but never thought to be real. The very same he had held out to her with unsure hands; a gift she used to bring her daydreams to life. Charcoal eyes bleed into golden skin, shades of grey giving way to scarlet lips and violet hands, and soon enough she is begging for more. 

“You are greedy,” Oberyn chides, lips finding her ear, teeth and tongue leaving their mark there as well. “But so am I, little wolf.”  

His thrusts grow frantic, his words a perfect match. 

“You take me so well. Made for me, for this. M-my cock deep inside you,” he spits out, filthy and tender and all for her. “You want this, yes? Want me to fuck you harder, my lady?”  

“Yes,” she sobs, the blunt bite of her teeth digging into the curve of his shoulder, coiled muscles giving way to her pitiful cries. 

Oberyn falls to the task easily, doubling his efforts, the tip of his cock finding that spot deep inside her and stealing the last of her senses away. It is not long before her pleasure is cresting upward, the crash of the wave inevitable. 

“S-so tight — fuck — exquisite pussy…I don’t t-think I can last,” he groans, his release trailing just behind her own. 

“Please promise this is no dream,” he begs, his hips faltering. It is all too quick, happening faster than either of them would prefer, but to stop now is an impossibility, so instead they cling to one another, gasping around the promise for tomorrow. 

“Please say you want this. Forever. Not just tonight….I could not bear it.” 

Words are failing her, her mouth dry, her fingers scrambling, the punch of Oberyn’s length inside her almost too much and still more than she could have ever hoped for. She is clumsy in her efforts but eventually her lips find the corner of his mouth, the kiss awkward and off center and filled with all the love she had to give. 

“I…gods…yes. Yes, my prince. I want this.”

It is the final push they both need, fingers tangling, phantom silk holding them together as relief slams into them just as the last of dusk disappears behind the horizon, the stars blinking to life one by one. 

Hours or perhaps only minutes later, Oberyn is pulling her onto his chest, his lips on the crown of her head, her own on the beat of his heart. 

“I did not intend your first time to be so…frantic.”

The admission is meant to be a comfort, his voice in her ear like warm honey, his fingers on her back like a gentle current. 

Still, she cannot help but laugh. 

His grimace is insistent atop her head and it is easy to picture the roll of his eyes as he waits so impatiently for her laughter to subside. 

“My love,” she starts, a snort breaking up her words, his fingers prodding into her soft belly. “Did you think that my first time with a lover?”

“Well, I can hardly be so insulted for assuming,” he murmurs. 

“Oh, dearest prince. How else are we to keep warm in the north?” 

Her answer gives him pause, and suddenly she is all the more anxious for his promise to visit the north. Her mind runs away with fantasies of Oberyn dressed in thick coats with fur lining the thick column of his throat, her nimble fingers slipping each button free as she teaches him all the ways to find warmth between the stony walls of Winterfell. 

It is a small miracle, but one she counts on with her entire heart, that proclamations of love and all that followed suit, did not steal away the push and pull born between them. She can feel the fire, a distinct burn that simmers even as she settles deeper into the warmth of his embrace. 

“I will need to hear more of this,” Oberyn murmurs, sleep already dripping around the corners of his voice. 

She closes her eyes, unsure she should dream now for the sake of rest. But there is comfort here in the consequence of her choice, and it is enough to sate her beating heart and quiet her restless hands, and it seems sleep is not so far behind. 

———

The spot beside Oberyn is empty, his hands brushing cold silk instead of warm skin, and instantly his mood has soured. It had not been a dream, he is certain. Her colors were too bright, her touch too strong. The memory of their kiss is still so close, dawn barely cresting up above the horizon, that he refuses to believe he conjured the entirety of it all in his mind. 

Her arrival at his quarters last night had been unexpected, his traitorous mind already committing to a life spent treading water; convinced his outburst had asked for too much too soon. But how to explain that it was more than a soul’s match or the proximity of convenience, that each minute spent in her presence had brought him to that very choice, and to her door that night. 

One could make the argument that all of this had been inevitable, the fates and gods above refusing to let either of them refuse their bond, but even so, their time together had only helped for that feeling to grow.

Some find their soulmates, Oberyn reasoned, but what of those that you make?

He drags one hand down his face, breathing deep through his nose before finally finding the courage to open his eyes, the first tendrils of sunlight just starting to snake their way across his bed. He tracks the golden glow across the empty space, following it with trepidation, rejection feeling more a heavy stone than anything else, sinking deeper in his stomach. Until –

The telltale sound of charcoal on parchment finds him, the quiet sound easily missed in the haze of his own doubt. Oberyn follows the last bits of sunlight to the far end of the bed, where she sits completely unaware of his undivided attentions. 

A waterfall of silk is wrapped around her form, barely enough to cover her most intimate of moments and he drinks in the sight. A book sits propped along the bend of her knees, her hand stained black moving across the page, her focus evident as she draws out whatever rests at the edge of her mind. 

He allows himself the opportunity to watch her, sunlight sneaking closer with each swipe of her hand, silk sheets slipping down her body to expose more and more of her skin to his hungry eyes. It’s an easy moment to rest in, his body waking up to the flash of her curves and the scent of her skin, and unlike the night prior, Oberyn intends to take his time. He palms himself, his cock already beginning to harden between his legs, just as her eyes rise to meet his own. 

“Do you normally rise with the sun?”

He hums, then laughs, pushing the sheets around his waist down low, shameless in his hope to beckon her closer. 

“That depends on what odd habits my bedfellows keep. I will say you are the first to rummage through my fireplace for bits of charcoal, and,” he squints into the rays of sunshine, confirming his suspicions. “Using one of my books in place of parchment.”

She has the decency to look shamefaced, if however brief. “I did not want to go back to my own quarters. Not yet, anyway.” 

He bites at his cheek, reluctant to discuss the peculiarities of their next steps so soon. He wants to remain in the waves of their union for a little while longer, where the rich shades of color have burnt away to reveal a soft halo of muted pastels. 

Still, he is compelled, reaching out to brush the tips of his fingers across her leg, her smooth skin warm beneath his gentle touch. 

“You are welcome to come and go as you please.”

Oberyn hopes the double meaning of his words is enough to press the issue forward in her mind, desperate for her to understand that he would never keep her from seeking a pleasure all her own. Selfishly, he hopes the same for himself, for all talk of marriage and soulmates have not changed any of his wants or needs. 

When her lips split into a smile, the curve of it dancing in mirth and he matches it with his own, something so clear spoken quietly between them. 

“And I offer the same to you, my love.” 

And then, with a lick of her lips and a nudge of her toes, “I am interested to learn more of these Dornish traditions.” 

“Oh? His grin grows wider, a thrum of pleasure curling up and around his spine. He inches closer, just enough for his lips to find purpose on the thin skin around her ankle. 

She shivers, but the teasing resolve in her voice remains. 

“I am a Martell after all.” 

Another thrill shoots through him, a possessive sting he had not thought himself capable of. He leans into it, kissing higher and higher, teeth nipping with each gasp she sets free until he is only a breath away from her core. 

“One taste,” he groans. “Would my princess grant me this pleasure?”

The endearment catches her unaware, and she stills beneath his touch, the plush press of his lips pausing in their lavished attention. Oberyn smiles into her skin, a veritable cat with the cream, peeking up at her, and delighting in her wide eyes and parted lips. 

“You’ve never called me…”

He laughs then, the sound still rough with sleep, letting the tip of his nose drift higher, coaxing the smallest of whimpers from her mouth. 

“And what a princess you are,” he admonishes. “Sand in my bed, charcoal in my books. If I didn’t know better, I would say you were raised by wolves.”

She giggles in response, the sound as sweet as milk and honey, but he delights more in how the sound breaks into a mewl of pleasure, his tongue slipping out to trace her folds. She is as decadent as he imagined, slick arousal like candy on his lips. He moves in closer, spreading her legs as wide as he can, anxious to have his fill of her. 

Her hands find the crown of his head as his tongue pushes deeper, her groans almost enough to drown out the sudden knock to his door. 

“O-Oberyn…”

“The way you say my name,” he preens, ignoring the insistent sound from across the room. 

“The — gods above — th-the door,” she tries again, but her attempts to alert him are half hearted, her hips thrusting down to meet each dip of his tongue inside her. 

Just as he’s considering how good it will feel to slip the tip of his finger inside her, desperate to feel the tight clench of her pussy, a throat clears loudly behind him. With a well-placed growl to her clit, he pulls away, realizing suddenly that they are no longer alone. 

“My lord?” 

It is one of Doran’s aids, his voice shaking, and Oberyn cannot help but hope with a vengeful bite that it is out of fear. 

“What could possibly need my attention when I am so obviously indebted to a much more useful activity?”

“It is your brother, my lord, he…he…”

Oberyn growls again, eyes pinned to her fluttering cunt, heedless of his and hers state of undress. “Out with it.”

“He is asking for you. The maesters say…”

They say he is out of time. 

———

Prince Doran Martell passed quietly; his younger brother at his side, his family in the wings, his people in quiet mourning. 

In the hours that followed, the courts convened, less concerned with grief and more so with the overbearing shadow of politics. A raven was on its way to King’s Landing before they had even begun to prepare Doran’s body, sudden worry that a pronouncement and a will would hold no bearings in the Red Keep and Oberyn’s birthright would somehow be denied. 

The prince seemed far less concerned with such troubles, merely casting a grimace at the news, a solemn nod and wave of his hands his only reply. 

Ellaria had been at his side almost immediately, offering support in a way that only the oldest and dearest of companions can. She knew him with an intimacy that most covet, and it was clear he took some solace in her company. But it was not long before she was called away, tasked with keeping her four girls as close as possible, ravens sent urging the eldest of Oberyn’s girls to return to Sunspear as well. 

Peace may have been the new rule of the land, but old habits were more difficult to stave off, and all of Dorne would sleep better with four of their most precious daughters back amongst the sand and shore. 

In the midst of it all, she felt compelled to stay at her husband’s side, desperate to help him but unsure of where to begin. Their waters had only just started to steady, flat footing found only the night before. It would have been easy to step away, to claim that the new glow of their joining was not enough to sustain such grief, but she refused. 

As the sun set and the place found a semblance of silence beneath the moonlight, she searched for him, her heart guiding her feet to the very place she knew to go. 

She stands at the threshold of the great hall, Oberyn’s back turned to her, his gaze set upon his brother’s throne, a glass mirror to the first few nights of their clumsy courtship. She approaches him, trying to match her steps to the soft streams of moonlight glancing across the floor.  

“I should have known I would not be capable of hiding from you.”

She bites her lip, a retort lingering on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it whole, leaving only silence between them. It feels out of place, ill-fitting and unneeded around his slumped shoulders and pallid complexion. When he turns his head, just enough to find her eyes across the room, she can see the deeply rooted lines, the red rims, and the pinched brow. 

Her fingers ache to soothe the lasting imprints of grief away, as if they were smudges along the edge of a painting. She has no doubt he would welcome the touch, his body seemingly caving in on itself the longer he keeps his distance, but she stays rooted to the spot for now, for reasons she is not even sure of. 

“Did you know that when my sister was murdered, my brother refused to march on King’s Landing?”

His back is to her once again, arms crossed and eyes on the throne, fatigue bleeding way to rage. 

“He made claim it was not in Dorne’s best interest.” Oberyn scoffs, shaking his head as if to dispel the ugly memory. 

“A queen was dead, the heir to the iron throne along with her, and the people did nothing. No outrage, no uprising. It was just another day. And my brother agreed with them! He—“

His voice raised with each word, his stance tight, his fists shaking. He looked every inch the venomous snake, poised to strike at the first opportunity. But she was unafraid.

“He did not seem to care that she was gone,” Oberyn admitted, the words uttered with broken disdain. “And now so is he.”

She moves fully into the room, letting her steps fall heavy on the porcelain floor. Oberyn turns to face her as she stands beside him, and it is only then that she sees the guilt etched into his features. 

“Why is it that I cannot seem to die?”

There is no answer that would soothe him. The truth is far too simple and life far too cruel. It could just as easily have been Oberyn to an early grave, unseen dangers or ugly circumstances finding him in a moment’s weakness he could not predict. She does not speak but instead finds a seat along the steps leading up to the throne, looking up at him through the length of her lashes. 

Oberyn watches her carefully, body swaying as if he wants to sit beside her, but he remains standing, lips slipping away from grimace in the name of something sentimental. 

“Doran was patient. Quiet. He refused to move without considering every outcome. Each avenue. It was why he was so well-suited for duty. I…I am so very different. I am not…”

“He chose you. You have his trust,” she reminds him, remembering the words of a dear brother-in-law she had only just begun to know, to love. 

“And what if he misplaced it?”

“I do not think that is possible, my lord.”

His smile tilts again, the angle rueful. “Still,” he counters, “I do not think I am meant for it.”

“Maybe,” she reasons, letting the tone of her own voice lighten, “and still you choose it.”

He finds her eyes again, his entire being softening, and without falter, he matches her tone. “And what of you, my little wolf?”

She moves to stand beside him now, facing the very thing she had dreamt of so long ago. She considers all the things that brought her here at Oberyn Martell’s side, and how those same tendrils of a cruel world and different choices could have prevented this moment. 

She takes his hand and breathes in deep, her heart finding the beat of his own. 

“I am where I am meant to be.”

———

Dedications:

To my dearest @jazzelsaur who has listened, read, reread, and encouraged this ridiculous fever dream of a story. I am 100% beta reading a soulmate/arranged marriage/GoT fanfic was not on your bingo card but the fact that you never once discouraged me means a lot. Thank you. ilu

To @magpie-to-the-morning BABE! Your love of this story makes me stupid happy! I have confessed to you that I am having so much fun writing it, and a big part of that has been sharing the experience with you. Thank you for this and for your friendship. ilu

[radiowallet]

Meant to Be - Part 4

The Development

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand, Eventual Oberyn Martell x Fem!OC (nameless, third person) Summary: Can a match of two soul mates develop to more? WC: 6.7 K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Canon-typical violence, grief, death, political intrigue, arragned marriage, drinking, mentions of food, vaginal sex. Arguing. Yearning. Feelings. Angsty feeling yearning feelings, friends. These two are so in it. Oberyn Martell comes with his own warning.

To be notified of new fics and updates follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

A/N: As always, a few things to keep in mind: This is an alternate universe that takes place after the main events of the show. Bran is still king of Westeros. Sansa is still queen of the north. Oberyn lives. Doran never had any children. Our Fem!OC is from Winterfell, but she is not a Stark and is a blank canvas physically.

Masterlist II Series Masterlist

Part 3 >>> Part 5

I trace the curves of your heart

Learn them and know them

Our friendship is meant for more 

To develop and grow and feel so much more

Elia was ever-present in Sunspear; too alive to be a ghost, too quiet to ignore. Oberyn can still hear her at the top of the stairs, her high voice calling for their mother’s input on a dress or an opinion on a necklace. He can still see her sneaking around the corner of the kitchen, long hair whipping away as she sneaks a piece of candy, the cooks chasing her with poorly veiled smiles. He can feel her in the drifts of sand beneath his feet, the sting of salt against his skin, the rise of the tide meeting him here as she once did.

He’s there now, walking along the same shore line they chased each other down as children, their laughter still tracing the crash of each wave. Elia is ever-present, his one constant, and despite the distance between them, Oberyn is reminded how different his life is without his older sister waiting just a few steps ahead of him. 

Doran has called his sentimental longing foolish too many times to keep track, the frequency more deliberate with every passing day. His humor surrounding the issue seemed to grow darker with each shake of his hand; every pain in his joints, every wheeze from his lungs. It is all Oberyn can bear, to listen without commentary as he watches the only sibling he has left wait outside death’s door. 

“Perhaps Elia had it right,” Doran half-joked, his eyes distant, his smile gone. “If one dies young then there is no risk of growing old.”

The joke had ended an already tense council debriefing, Oberyn very quickly losing his taste for his brother’s company. He could feel old wounds billowing up his throat and threatening to spill from his lips, suddenly too tired to remain in the presence of Dorne’s high council. 

He had taken to the beach soon after, desperate to walk in solitude. There was the smallest of hopes he could sort through the shambles of his guilt and anger and frustrations alike, but the scenery only seemed to spur his hostility forward. 

The storm that had been brewing overnight loomed larger by the second. The early summer warmth had turned clammy, cold wind churning the waves higher and higher still. Hazy clouds sit heavy at the bottom of the skyline, distant strikes of white lightning jumping from one to the next. 

Oberyn welcomed the sight, the rising waves a violent match to his anger. 

His privacy is snatched away, interrupted halfway down the beach, the presence of her, unexpected and uninvited. She’s sitting in the sand, the tide slipping closer to her bare feet with every wave that rushes in. She seems oblivious to the change in weather, her gaze pointed at her knees, one of her pathetic pieces of parchment held awkwardly, as she tries to keep the wind from carrying it away. 

Oberyn watches her sweep a piece of charcoal back and forth, her eyes flicking up to the waves and back down, the shape of them clearly escaping her. He casts his own glance at the skyline, daylight bleeding darker, despite the early hour. The storm will be here sooner than expected, and despite her critical eye, she seems oblivious to the dangers racing towards the shore. 

He moves across the sand, steps awkward and slanting, pitching his voice as loud as he can to combat against the crash of the sea.  

“Have you a secret wish to drown?”

She changes the course of her eyes to his towering stance, just long enough to give attention to his question then refusing to answer. Oberyn flails his arms, growling out a curse and spitting at the sand, all as the foamy sea inches rapidly towards them both. 

He does not allow himself to consider patience as a solution. 

“You are to return to the palace this instant.”

“Husband and soulmate you may be but you are not my keeper, Oberyn Martell.”

“For fucks…this is not a negotiation! There is a storm moving in!”

“Then let it come.” 

Oberyn curses again, moving against the wind to snatch the parchment away, the blunt charcoal flying in the opposite direction. He cuts off her protesting cries, pointing back towards the direction of the palace. 

“Now!”

“I am not some child for you to order about!” She shoots up, moving to push at his chest, her anger sparking in a flash, her face twisted into a new kind of annoyance. She tries to grab for the parchment crushed in his fist, but succeeds only in falling more into his arms. 

“A child would have the wherewithal to listen,” he sneers, one hand wrapping easily around both her wrists. “Instead I have a wife who ignores all sense and reason!”

Her lips curl into a smile, sickly sweet mockery coloring the laughter she blasts into his face. The sound is roguish, cutting across him in swift slaps just as the first drops of rain hit his cheeks. She leans in, just enough for the tip of her nose to ghost along his own, her breath hot where it mingles with the cold sea air. 

“Let us not pretend you are here out of any matrimonial obligation.”

She does not give him time to respond, wrenching her hands away and moving around him, heading back towards the palace just as he had asked her too. Oberyn turns just in time to see her retreating back, the wind whipping the tails of her silk dress into a frenzy, the rain soaking the red fabric, bleeding it black. 

He would love nothing more than to stand and admire her figure all while the thrashing, crashing storm drags him out to sea, the lasting image of her beautiful fury burned into his heart, but Oberyn Martell refuses to give up his right to the last word. 

“We chose this!”

She does not give pause as he jogs after her, picking up her pace to avoid the grab of his hands. He curses again, wiping his hand down his face, the rain pounding harder with each passing second. He shakes his hands, moves faster, and this time when he reaches out for her, his hold is true. 

“We made a choice! Yours! And mine!”

“Choice?” She yells, rain water clinging helplessly to her lips, her lashes, the apples of her cheeks. “You speak of choice? Don’t you see, husband? There never was! That right was taken from us the moment our hands touched! Perhaps even long before!”

Oberyn looks down where his hand is still wrapped tightly around her arm, even the heavy drops of rain unable to break between the touch of their skin. The rain continues to fall, soaking them to the bones, but it hardly matters. Without warning, he is taken back to the altar of their wedding and that very first touch of hands. 

His head is above water. 

He can breathe. 

“Why the desperation to keep me safe? Why?” Her voice cracks, breaking around her words, eyes watery and lips trembling.

“Because,” he starts, the answer coming as naturally as the beat of his heart “you are my –”

He stops. He chokes.

He thinks he sees a smile, just the smallest, before she pulls away from him for good. 

He forgets to swim for fear he may drown. 

———

“How has your time in Dorne been thus far, my lady?”

She glances to where Prince Doran watches her, his goblet poised just before the split of his lips, eyes warm in the glow of the candle light. When the invitation to dine with her new brother in law had come this afternoon her nerves had been tangled hopelessly, her and Oberyn’s nasty words still sitting heavy in her gut. 

The storm that he had promised was still raging outside her bedroom windows as she traced the elegant turn of Doran Martell’s quill, only the ends of his letters breaking into a jagged etch. As the lightning crackled in the distance, her heart thundering with the regret of cruel honesty, she wondered what it could be that the current Lord of Sunspear had hoped to discuss.

She had accepted, reluctantly unsure, but in hindsight she is glad she did. Doran is a kind man, a shrewd lord and a protective brother. It was clear after only a short time in his presence that he loved fiercely if quietly, and that love now extended to her.

“It has had its ups and downs, my lord, but the weather is agreeable and everyone has been so kind.”

“You are quite generous, my lady, but I must confess, you are an atrocious liar.” 

Heat creeps slowly up her cheeks, and she ducks her head for a bite of roast meat in a pitiful attempt to avoid Doran’s eyeline. She can feel his smile pinned to the crown of her head, the silence thick with intent between them. Finally she can take it no more and she chances a glance back in his direction. 

“Neither of us really prepared for this possibility.”

“Oh, I don’t think finding your soulmate is truly something you can plan for,” he reasons, and even though his tone is teasing, she takes it in stride, matching his smile with her own small one. 

“Is this truly the worst kept secret in Westeros?” 

Doran laughs, loud and deep, his head tilted back, eyes closed, and for just a breath of it, she thinks how very alive he looks, eyes bright and smile wide. But then his laughter breaks, a cough disrupting the moment, stealing the joy momentarily from the room. The prince is quick to recapture it, his hand finding hers, halting the lift of her cup and ensuring her attention is fully on him.

“My brother has a good heart. I think by now that is something we can agree on.”

She takes the time to release her goblet, turning her hand to clasp Doran’s just so, squeezing around his grasp to assure him of her attention. 

“But he is impetuous. It is the worst and best of him. In this he needs the trust of those around him.”

“Trust?”

“A far more difficult gift to give than love, but I can promise you, Oberyn would not take either for granted.” 

With that, he releases her hand, freeing her to reach for her wine again. She does, taking a long sip, letting the sweet taste of plums sit heavy on her tongue as she considers all that remains to learn of her husband. 

———

Oberyn trails the pad of his finger slowly up then down, gooseflesh forming in his wake as he maps the slope of Ellaria’s breast. Her breath comes in stuttering drags, parting her lips as he follows the same path along her other tit. He leans in, close enough to let his hot breath hit the pebbled peak of her nipple, a gasp rising up and out of her. 

“You are insatiable tonight,” she sighs, long fingers carding through his hair, a soothing motion that does little to curb his appetite. 

“Could one ever tire of such a decadent indulgence?” He emphasizes his point without hesitation, lips sealing around her nipple, tongue swirling a delicate pattern around the sensitive heat of her skin. 

“Then have your fill, my love,” she coos, pulling him up and over her, her lips tracing the length of his neck. 

He fills her slowly, inch by inch, relishing in the tight clench of her pussy around his cock. She is soaked, drenched in her own release and filled with his, the evidence of their night together sticky sweet between them. 

Oberyn could have her a thousand different on a thousand different nights. He could bury himself between her legs and drown on the taste of her, her tempered voice and supple skin wrapped around him from every end. Ellaria Sand has seen him in his best and his worst and all there could ever be, and still she stays by his side. He does not deserve the adoration she heaps upon him, the gifts of her body and mind and soul, when it is his own hands that are so very empty in return.

Something snaps inside him, a tipping point that dips the scales too heavy to one side. He grinds his hips down hard, teeth and tongue scraping along the delicate skin of her neck, the steady beat of her heart printed on his lips. He molds his body to her own, one hand bruised into her side, the other cradling the curve of her head, the two touches so diametrically opposed. 

A heavy storm crashing into soft mounds of sand.

“I want to feel you. Please, my love, let me feel you come again.”

Ellaria’s hips rise to meet his own, the tight grip of her cunt stronger with each thrust of his cock inside her, her mewls of pleasure drowning out the slap of their skin. They hold each other close and rock together, lips gasping as they crash together between panting pleas for more harder yes and more still. 

It does not matter that this is the third time he’s had her tonight – there is a certainty he will have her soon again – when the waves of their release crash into them, it is blinding, unfettered heat clinging to their skin as he fills her with his seed. 

It is later, much more so, the sunset finding the strength to break through the last of the storm clouds, that Oberyn finally rests, his head finding purchase along the plush give of Ellaria’s thighs. 

He breathes in the scent of her skin and licks the taste of phantom rainwater from his lips, his eyes heavy, his limbs loose. His robes are still piled at the foot of the bed, charcoal fingerprints staining the gold stitching, possibly forever. 

He thinks he could sleep, long and hard and deep, and yet he surprises himself when he instead chooses to speak.

“How is it that I lo—“ He cuts his own words off at the knee, refusing to say them out loud. “I hardly know her?”

The lightest touch finds the curve of his cheek, tracing the corners of it down to his chin and back up again, Ellaria’s tone giving him the answer in the form of a thinly veiled joke. 

“If only there was a solution to that very easily fixed problem, my prince.” 

———

The knock on her door is tentative, half insistent but with no discernible rush to it. She half expects one of the girls on the other side, the youngest two taking a shine to her during the many hours spent with Ellaria in the citrus groves, bonding over silly drawings and flower crowns. But when she pulls the heavy door open, it is not the wide eyes of a little girl she meets but the cunning ones of her soulmate. 

For a second she does not know what to say, the roof of her mouth tacky, the lingering taste of her honey tea still clinging to her tongue. She licks her lips to no avail, words failing a second time as she stares at the man she calls husband. He appears as tired as she feels, dark rings circling the curve of his eyes, his shoulders hunched, his robes just barely cinched shut, and his hand wrapped around…

“I brought you paint.”

She sees it now, small bottles clutched in his left hand, each one filled with liquid rich shades of reds and blues and yellows. He holds them up higher, their jewel tones catching in the early morning light, and suddenly she can see it so clearly in her mind – crashing waves and burning sunsets and the plush velvet of a throne – coming to life in vibrant blooming color beneath her fingertips. She opens her mouth and wishes desperately for the ability to say something. 

Anything. 

But her voice fails her yet again.

“They’re used mostly for shields and armor, but I thought maybe…you…” 

Oberyn’s words trail off, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. He grunts, drawing her eyeline back to his own, and she does her best to read the expressions drawn across his features. 

A small frown drags his lips down and away from the blush atop his cheeks, his brows caved in where he seems to be worrying over what to say next. Just as she thinks maybe she should push the door open wider, perhaps offer her husband more than just a blank stare and thick silence, he speaks again, an edge cutting across his tone, the plush of his lips pouting in the most dramatic fashion.

“Am I truly to be punished forever?”

If possible, the silence grows even thicker, the pair of them trapped in an impossible match of wills, every ridiculous and cruel thing they’ve said to one another sticking heavy and honest between them.

And then they are both laughing. Short, broken spurts of it, that grow louder with every breath they pull in, until the room is filled from corner to corner, the sound mixing with the bright yellow of sunlight and washing away the bitter taste of honey and replacing it with something so much sweeter.

———

Oberyn hovers towards the center of the room, close enough to see her but just far enough to keep his restless hands at bay. He had been surprised when she had pushed the door open, inviting him in and as equally surprised when he accepted. 

She kept her quarters tidy, save for the small writing desk at the far end of the room, its sturdy top covered in broken charcoal, stains of ink, and scraps of parchment. The doors to the balcony were opened wide letting in every drop of sunlight available so early in the morning. It also gifted them both a gracious view of the lemon groves, the sound of the waves of the Dornish sea crashing in the distance.  

He watches in interest as she sets the little jars of paint down in a neat row along the sill of a window, a heavy trunk set just beneath that she kneels upon to balance herself. She touches her fingertips to each one, as if to imprint herself upon the colors captured in the little glass jars, eyes distant as her mind begins to create. 

He knows now the paint had been the right choice. He had wandered the markets in search of a gift for hours, all manner of trinket for him to choose from. Dresses and jewels, yards of silk, spools of gold, endless options fit for a princess. But then he thought of charcoal stains, of hectic scratches on scraps of parchment, of eyes that searched the horizon for an answer to some unasked question. 

The paints had cost pennies but Oberyn was certain. They were priceless. 

She takes care with each one, eyes flitting from the luscious colors to the open window and back to him, her lips parting around an unspoken question. He wishes she would speak it now and end his misery, the tension from earlier having made the smallest of returns after she invited him over the threshold of her quarters. 

Oberyn knows it was untoward to appear at her door with no notice. Wife and soulmate she may be, but the unfamiliarity lent itself the strangeness of it all. He had felt landlocked when she left him behind on that beach, trapped from moving in either direction until the matter of their match had been broached upon. 

“Prince Oberyn?” 

She calls to him, straightening to her full height, twisting the jar of red between her fingers, eyes searching him in quiet observation. He steels himself for her questions of why, of how and when, fingers flexing around the tendrils of his nerves, his lungs too tight to draw breath.

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome, my lady.”

Breathing comes just a little bit easier after that.

———

“What is it you are reading, my lord?”

Oberyn glances up from the thick book laying open in his lap. The text is resting on his legs, criss crossed comfortably on the tiled floor of her balcony, and a bored shrug tilts his shoulders in one direction.

He had taken to stopping by her quarters regularly, coming and going much in the same way he had the very first time, something small to offer clutched in his hands. A bundle of paint brushes one morning, fresh rolls of thick, white parchment the next.

He had made a swift and awkward exit after each visit, her offer of a cup of tea politely declined with thin excuses and increasing embarrassment. His voice cracked as he rambled about needing to meet with Doran about all manner of things from trade negotiations to border disputes to what the cooks should make for supper. It would have been endearing if the rejection had not left her feelings so sore. 

An issue in and of itself.

But before he left he always took pause, one foot still inside the doorway, his head turned just enough to catch her eye. 

“What are your plans for tomorrow?”

This morning he came with a heavy tome under his arm and a bowl of fresh berries in the other, and this time when she offered him a cup of tea, he somehow found the words to agree. The tension felt just as broad as it had the day prior, stocky and wide spread between them. She paid it as little mind as she could, pushing the door wide enough to allow the prince entry. 

He had made himself comfortable, seated on the floor, the fruit set in front of him and his book splayed open, almost immediately engrossed in the elegant print set before him. She stood off to the side, one new paint brush held tight to her chest as she tried to fight the almost-memory of her body curled into his lap in place of his studies.

A ridiculous notion considering she has no real way to draw upon such an image. 

For a while they remained quiet; only the sound of a page turning rising to meet the sound of paint on parchment. But as the sun danced higher and higher into the sky, she swore she could feel Oberyn’s eyes on her, diverting his studious gaze from the words on the page to the paint on her parchment. She was making similar motions in kind, admiring the streams of sunlight as they kissed along the tops of his cheeks, his plush lips moving in time with whatever had captivated his attention so. 

“I am attempting to learn more about soulmates.”

“Do the histories cover these matters?”

He hums, turning a page slowly, but his eyes stay on her. 

“They do, but it is not a history book I have brought with me, but one of poetry.”

This gives her pause.

“I do not think the poets are a wealth of facts, husband.” 

For a second icy panic slips in between her heartbeats, worried that the intention of her teasing could be misrepresented by her blunt tone of voice, but he cuts that worry down at the knees, his own teasing smile breaching the corner of his lips.

“You would question them? Experts on true love?”

“I do not think it possible anyone save for myself can be an expert on my heart,” she muses, stirring the ruby red paint slowly, watching his features carefully for answers she was not quite ready to ask for.

“Then you have not been reading the right poetry, my wife.”

“Well then, I suppose you and I will simply have to disagree,” she chides, no venom to be had in her words as she turns back to her painting with finality. 

Behind her Oberyn laughs, the sound bright and sweet, unable to let anyone have the last word. 

“What else is new?”

———

They slip into this new routine easily enough, the agreement between them as unspoken as it is sure, meeting most days, allowing them the opportunity of one another’s company outside of all that is expected of them. 

Husband and wife. Prince and Princess of Dorne.  Soulmates.

But what of friendship?

———

“Why cherry wine?”

“It’s the only fruit that grows in the north.”

———

“It fascinates you.”

“Hmm?”

“The throne of Sunspear?”

He had grown restless with his reading, instead taking to aimless turns about her quarters as she fiddled with a crown of silk flowers — a gift for Loreza, not an ounce of hesitation in her admission.  

He had lingered at her writing desk, eyes raking over her odds and ends, small notes in slanted cursive and little doodles that kept more secrets than they shared. One particular piece caught his eye immediately.

She looks up from her delicate work, eyes focusing on the scrap of parchment in his hand, edges curling, charcoal smudged, but the image still clear. 

“I thought it was merely a chair,” she murmurs, eyes dropping back down, the confounding confession doing little to explain her fixation. 

He wants to pry, feels the urge pressing at the seal of his lips, but then she is looking at him again, the smallest glance of fear twisting her features.

“I dreamt of it…back at Winterfell.”  

For a second Oberyn is silent, a different sort of gravity settling on his shoulders as he takes in the weight of her words. After a moment’s brevity he licks his lips and laughs, short and hard and filled with mirth.

“It seems my poets have much to learn.”

———

“Why the red viper?”

“I like poison.”

“Clever.”

“Easy, wolf.”

———

“I still love Ellaria.” 

“I know. I feel it too.”

“Perhaps things would be easier if I did not.”

———

The summer heat refuses to break, even the shade of the lemon trees are not nearly enough to soften the harsh glare of the sun above. Ellaria’s hand is sweaty, her fingers slipping where they’re tangled together with her own as they walk slowly through the groves. The conversation had shifted from topic to topic before words were exchanged for silence, their shared company more comfort than anything else. 

Spending time with Ellaria had become an integral part of her life in the palace, the two women growing closer with each setting sun. They traded stories and secrets with equal give and take, finding common ground in their love of art, and taking part in spirited debates over the trivial goings-on of the Dornish court.

“Have you taken any thought on attending court? As princess you’re allowed certain funds towards your own aims.”

The pair slows, twin seats taken beneath a single wide branch, a sparkling pond at their back. She gives herself a moment to think on the question, so unsure of what would even be proper. It feels a decision that should be made with one’s head, an impossible feat with her whole being so entangled in matters of the heart. 

“Does anyone expect much from me? It feels as though I am meant to be merely window dressing. No one expects more than that. Not even myself; stumbling into my stations at every turn.” 

Ellaria does not take to her floundering with patience. She grabs both of her hands and holds tight, leaning in until she can feel the other woman’s breath on her cheek. 

“You, my dear one, are a friend to a queen, matched with a prince, raised side by side with wolves. Embrace it.” 

All she can do is nod, the advice as overwhelming as Ellaria’s insistent touch. They sit like that a moment longer, the sun still high, the sky so blue, another wash of silence engulfing them. The serenity stays with them until the shout of Oberyn calls their attention out towards where he is walking slowly towards them, a young girl at his side. 

He had been anxious the day prior, boundless energy pouring out of him as he paced the length of her quarters, unable to stop the smile splitting his features as spoke of Elia Martell. The feeling was ten fold inside her own heart, Oberyn’s own love for his daughters saturating her senses in the best way. 

The fourteen year old was home from the citadel, word of her uncle’s condition finally reaching her in the most western part of Oldtown. Ellaria had mentioned how the pair of them had not left each other’s side since she arrived late last night, the pair falling asleep mid-conversation, Oberyn’s arm tight around his daughter’s waist. 

They had woken early, intent on a ride across the sandy beaches, a moment the prince had been looking forward to greatly. 

“My El has no patience for her studies. In this we differ greatly. She is too wild for it. Would rather be on the back of her filly with the wind in her hair.”

She couldn’t help but wonder if the young girl would agree to take a ride with her at some point in her visit. Horseback was something she had only managed to master on the solid ground of a dense forest, but it would be untoward to ask a newly minted stepdaughter to help her find footing on the sandy dunes of Dorne? 

Another time perhaps, she muses to herself, happy to look on as the two of them laugh, their cheeks newly kissed by the sun, sand sticking to their boots and salt water dripping from their fingertips. 

Elia carries herself like her father, chin tilted high, sharp brown eyes and a rapt smile, her dark hair plaited elegantly down her back. She moves almost erratically, her steps wide then short, skipping around her father’s as they walk together. Ellaria watches with amusement, her own joy at having her oldest daughter home palpable. 

“He frets over all of them,” she shares, nodding in the direction of Oberyn and Elia. “But more so the ones he cannot keep close. Always anxious they would be pulled into some intrigue or another.” 

She nods, seeing firsthand how dangerous it can be to be an unmarried daughter in a world such as this one. Flashes of Sansa’s bright blue eyes, dulled from years of playing a pawn in her own life spring forth too fast for her to fight, and she can’t help the ache of loneliness she suddenly feels. 

Oberyn catches her eye at that very moment, brows creasing, his lips parting mid laugh as he takes her in from across the courtyard. Another sharp reminder of their bond, love and pain shared so equally it was difficult to know what went where and who was meant to keep it for their own. It was jarring, still catching her breath when she was caught so unaware. 

“He frets over other things as well,” Ellaria hums, a smile tilting across her pretty lips. “For instance, he still thinks there is a choice to be made.”

She does not look away from him, gaining casual ground as he and El move close enough to hear bits and bobs of their conversation, her eyes meeting his again beneath the bright sunlight break through the treetops. It burns, just a bit, but she finds that she cannot look away. 

“Foolish man.”

———

Oberyn is having difficulty concentrating. 

The day had been hectic, but in the most pleasant of ways, leaving him sated and at ease, the comfort of having his beloved El home with him again. She had spent the night before listening intently as he updated her on all that she missed in her time away, and in turn, the next morning he had told him of her studies at the citadel. 

He could not help how he chuckled at the fierceness in her eyes as she brushed the dirt and sand away from her horse’s slick coat, all but begging to cut her time there short. 

“I am not suited for an education, Papa. You must know my time is best spent elsewhere.”

Elsewhere, indeed. He feels grim at the thought, knowing what Elia craved was the cold steel of a lance in her hand, a challenge always burning at the tip of her tongue. It was his impetuous rage that she inherited, and perhaps in a different time he would allow her to abandon her studies in lieu of preparing for war. But times had changed, and though Westeros still felt as if on shaky ground, it seemed those days were set firmly in the past. 

As it was, an agreement had been struck. She would finish the last of the lessons she has been enrolled in, a duty she would honor. If at the end of it she still felt a thirst for something more wild in nature, then Oberyn would help her in any and every way he knew how. 

This satisfied her for the time being, throwing herself onto the back of the black filly, her easy smile returning, her sharp eyes already scanning the path that led from the stables down to the beach. 

“Next time,” she mused, a bit of nervous humor creeping along the edge of her words, “you should bring your new bride along.” 

The request was almost enough to knock him from his own steed, but he regained his composure quickly enough. 

Only to lose it again upon seeing his wife and his paramour lost in conversation beneath the shade of the lemon trees, hands clasped, foreheads barely a breath apart. 

His heart felt too full, flailing helplessly as watched the two women from across the courtyard. 

The feeling nipped at his steps for most of the day, easily set aside as he spent time with Ellaria and the girls. They had all retired for the evening, the younger girl’s desperate for their own time with their sister. He could hardly blame them for it, his own hunger for their company just as voracious. 

It made him long for a visit from the eldest of his three despite knowing that logic was the biggest factor at play. They would come when they could, a reality of parenthood he did not relish but accepted all the same. 

Alone for the evening, thoughts of his soulmate soon returned. There had a longing in her today, he had felt it strongly in the courtyard; a yearning he could almost taste for friendship and acceptance and the embrace of family.

It’s how he found himself in her quarters this night, watching as she went through the motions of her evening routine, sunshine traded in for the soft filtering of moonlight. It surrounded her in a stunning halo, encapsulating her beauty, and as distracted as he was, Oberyn finally felt a small fraction of peace. 

“What is in the trunk?” 

He had noticed it the first morning he had been allowed into her private space, the weathered wood thick and dark, a color not normally seen outside the hearty grounds of the north. He had a guess, more of an assumption really, but his restless mood was pushing him to tease. 

She casts the objection of his attention a sparring glance before giving him his answer. 

“My dowry.” 

He is up and across the room before she can squeak out a protest. 

“Is it not my husbandly right?” 

She bites her lip and scowls, both of them knowing that it very much was, even though no formal request for a dowry had been made. Oberyn had put his foot down on that; to equate a marriage to a sack of gold felt tacky and ill-suited, especially when the consideration that it was not born in love came into play. 

Not born into it, but certainly meant for it, Oberyn thinks, mostly in a joking manner. 

He flips the trunk open with a flourish, shooting her a wolfish smile over the turn of his shoulder before turning back around. Most of the contents are not surprising — a large bag of gold, a second of jewels — both he ignores. There are ribbons and stockings and robes, all folded neatly, perfect piles of silk and gauze left untouched. 

And nestled directly in the middle of it all is a dress. 

Shades of silver and grey and white, every bit a winter daydream, a vision Oberyn swears he can see at the forefront of his mind. He goes to lift it then stops, waiting to see if she will protest. When she stays quiet, he reaches back in, fingers wrapping gently around the edges of the dress. 

“It was my mother’s.” 

“And you didn’t want to wear it?” 

She doesn’t answer right away, falling to her knees beside him, eyes raking over her own belongings, the loneliness from earlier slamming him hard in the chest. Her fingers wrap around the wood, mirroring the hold he has on her dress and with little preamble she nudges the curve of her shoulder into his own. He can see her smiling from the corner of his eye, in on the joke just before she speaks it. 

“You didn’t find your bride beautiful that day, my husband?”

“Annoyingly so.” And then, “You would have looked beautiful in this too.”

She hums, noncommittal to his compliments as she stands and moves away. “There’s a veil in there too. A gift from Sansa.” 

“You miss her terribly.”

He is not asking. He does not need to. 

“I do.”

Oberyn looks back to the dress, years of history stitched into the fine fabric, beads and lace marching through time long after those who had loved it are gone. 

He thinks of his sister, his daughters, his lovers. He thinks of his family and of his people and the strength born into Dorne. His life and his home, still unbroken after all this time. 

He licks his lips and nods his head, standing quickly as a feeling just out of reach finally falls into place. 

“We will visit soon. I promise…I….”

It is her hands on his shoulder that pulls his gaze back to her, the tips of her fingers trailing sweetly to the belt on his robe, her smile light even through her tears and he swears — swears — he will never question this feeling again. 

“We will have to teach you how to properly tie your robes then, my prince.”

———

Oberyn had thought the storm was over. He had assumed the rolling thunder and crashing waves would no longer plague him after they receded from the shore and back out into the black depths of the Dornish sea. He had thought there would be peace. 

Quiet. 

He thought he would be able to breathe.  

He had been so very very wrong. 

Sleep evades him, the storm raging on inside his heart, waves rising up and crashing down, dragging out so far that he fears he may be lost to it forever. He had retired only hours prior, parting from her with more reluctance than ever before, and in that time he had only grown more sure of what he knew to already be so true. 

His knock is loud, insistent and he does not stop until her door opens wide, tired eyes and clumsy hands hastily tying her dressing gown closed. He does not wait for her to gather her bearings before he rushes in, unable to hold back anymore. 

“I cannot breathe.”

“I do not understand.”

“I love you,” he gasps, the words spilling out of him as if he were a broken vase, the cracks too deep to hold back the sheer volume of his affections. “I love you so and I cannot swim like this forever. I cannot. I am at the bottom of the ocean, waiting, where I cannot breathe. And you are the only one who can help me.” 

“My lord… I …. We… it is our bond…you do not—“

“I do,” he insists, fists balled and feet stamping. “Your messy scribbles and your thick robes and your stupid sense of honor. I love it all and then some, and I think you love me too. So say it. Say it, my lady and save us both.” 

He pauses, waiting as patiently as he is wholly capable for her answer. He knows he is a far cry from the venomous viper that he aims to be, his breathing ragged, his face flushed but it is not to be worried upon. The only concern there is in this moment’s notice is the choice she has to make. 

———

Dedications:

To my dearest @jazzelsaur who continues to listen to me gripe and moan and lament my google search and how it is literally nothing but Game of Thrones trivia and who beta read this chapter that I love but am so so nervous to share. Thank you, my love. I love you.

To @magpie-to-the-morning my pumpkin wife, who is this story's biggest cheerleader. Thank you, emma for loving this story and cheering me on and joining me in my daily Oberyn brain rot. I love you so so much.

[pennyserenade]

tags: nameless female oc x oberyn martell rating: e ( explicit ) warnings: smut, language, mentions of death, mentions of misogyny word count: 2k+ summary: screaming the name of a foreigner’s god, the purest expression of grief - hozier notes: this might make no sense at all but i’m so in love with oberyn martell and i’m trying desperately to encourage you all to be, too. we need more content, we do  original gif by: @anakin-skywalker​

FOREIGNER’S GOD

It is not easy to cleave the flesh of hatred from the bone and allow oneself to take the world for what is—not even for men like Oberyn. He clings to his hatred and his preconceived judgments like any sensible man would, carrying it on his sleeve alongside his heart, but he doesn’t let it weaken him.

“The world is cruel,” he tells the woman on top of him. He is anguished, and deep in thought. “It is the worst thing I ever came to know—the wickedness of this world. I was not allowed to be under that assumption for very long, either, and for that, I do feel sorrow.”

“Is it why you have so many children?” she asks. “To get that back?”

He shakes his head. “I have so many children because I take solace in what beauty this world has to give—sex being among those things.” A smile graces his plump lips. “And you. You are very beautiful. Though I suppose that goes hand in hand with sex, no?”

Her mind churns, and she finds does not want his cock as much as she does his thoughts at the moment. She is sure he does not know the power of his passed down knowledge, or the way she clings to his words long after she’s parted his chambers. She is not simple by any means, but he was given the wonderful gift of being born rich and beautiful, touched by the sun and the God who made it. He can tell her that she too is made of the same cloth—that her skin is just as beautiful and that he loves her—but what she really values is the moments he gives her the opportunity to feel as though she is; the moments he lets her explore his mind the way he does her body—without abandon.

“I was not given the pleasure of believing the world to be imperfect for long either,” she confides. “I don’t ever remember believing that. My sister said I came out of the womb knowing the misery of the world—it is why I screamed so loud.”

“Perhaps it is why we all come out that way,” he mumbles. His fingers trace along her breasts, but it is not inherently sexual as much as it is intimate. He is reaching out towards her, and she is letting him.

“Yes, maybe. My sister was very wise, had a lot of theories about the world.”

“Where is she now?”

“A grave, probably,” she shrugs, “Or with a man, married, though I’m not entirely sure those aren’t two of the same things.”

Oberyn looks at her with acute sympathy for a moment, and she lets herself be mourned for. It never feels wrong, the way  he does it. She finds it easy to confide in him for this reason.

“My sister is dead also.”

“I have heard of her. She seemed beautiful, Oberyn.”

He nods his head. “They ruined her.”

“The world is cruel to women,” she tells him. “You feel rage for your sister, I feel it. It is feminine.”

His eyebrow perks. “Feminine?”

“Very,” she gives him a firm nod. “She lives on in you, I think. You are violently angry on her behalf, but it is reasonable. You do not feel rage like men usually do; you feel it because with her, they took your innocence, and that rage is powerful. You are aware of what it is like to have grown before you should, too wear a crown much too heavy for your little head. Inside you is a child who never got to be a child, and you are in pain, and your pain makes you angry, but yet, you are silent about it. That is womanly.”

“You feel this way?” His fingertips stop their track on her skin. “You feel a feminine rage, or is yours masculine?”

She smiles down at him. “No,” she laughs, “Mine is feminine too.”

“What of you is masculine?”

“My shoulders.” She sits straight up, letting the sheet that wrapped around her fall down onto him. She gives him a clear view of the expanse of herself. He takes her in.

“I don’t think that.”

She frowns. “No?” She raises her hands. “What about these—they look like my father’s I think.”

“No. You are womanly.”

“Do you mean that as a compliment?” she asks.

“No—as a fact. I think you would be beautiful with broad shoulders and big hands. I like those features just the same as I do the ones you have now.”

She rests her hands on his chest. “You like cocks, too?” she asks him. It is not mean, not judgmental. She is asking him because she wants to know, not because she wants to tease.

He smiles. “I do, just as I like cunts. What about you?”

She smiles back at him. “I am fond of women.”

Oberyn wraps his arm around her before flipping them over. He rests between her parted legs as she eases into the mattress, and she feels his half hardened cock against her thigh as he adjusts. She can’t help but wonder what Dorne must’ve had to endure when he was in his sexual prime.

She clicks her tongue. “Always full of lust, my Prince.”

“I hate when you call me that.” He kisses her abdomen. “It is not something that matters.”

“You should be grateful to have a title that people can say without some sort of disdain or mockery.” Her fingers thread through his hair, “What I would give to be called something decent—and have it mean something.”

He peers up at her. “Are you trying to tell me you despise the way I settle into my position?”

“No, I do not mind the way you relish your riches. I think you’re much kinder than most who hold the same titles as you.”

“Then what problem is it that you have, petal?”

“You are masculine in the way you don’t know how to listen.” She laughs. He rests his chin on stomach as he focuses on her. “I’m telling you that you are fortunate, and that you should understand that. Nothing more.”

“I do understand that.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Not the way you would if you were me.”

Oberyn kisses her skin again, in a nature more gentle than she’s used to with him. “Do you want me to pay for you?” His breath fans against her skin, hot. “I do not mind. If you are in need of money, I will.”

“You need not try to fix anything, Oberyn. That was not the point.”

His tongue flicks out against the skin above her pubic bone. She watches him with intent as he returns his eyes back to her.

“I’ve never been good at listening,” he admits, “It has always been a fault of mine. I am stubborn, they say.”

“You are a man.”

“I think that’s a poor excuse, one invented by men to make women like you believe it is inherent to our beings to be flawed.” He presses another kiss down onto her skin. “It is a shame,” he mumbles against her, “We can be beautiful, you know? Better. Some just chose to be evil and of course they want you to believe it is because some God of theirs made them that way.”

“What are men like with you?” she asks. “How do they treat you when you’re with them like you are with me?”

“The same as you, which is how I know.”

“Put your lips on me,” she tells him evenly. “But be gentle.”

He smiles, and does not hesitate any longer. All the nipping and teasing he’s been doing has made him more than ready for those words to pour from her mouth.

He kneels before her, parting her legs more, inspecting her sex. She watches him with wonder—a genuine curiosity. He fucks beautifully, but not kindly; he slaps to the ass and bite marks, and on the most pleasant of days, he is a string of spit in her mouth or on her cunt and a hand wrapped dangerously around her throat. To see him attempt it, a sort of sex that will border on love making, piques her interest as much as it makes a delightful and delicious feeling form in the pit of her stomach.

He strokes himself lazily as his other hand reaches outwards to feel for her. He parts her folds, gathering some of her slick on his fingers. Her breath hitches at the contact; his fingers are cold against her, but it is not an entirely unpleasant sensation, just a new one.

His cock is hard as be when he lays down flat on his stomach in front of her. His fingers once more part her folds and he licks her all the way up to the sensitive bundle of nerves, but he does not stay there. He goes back down, dips his tongue into her hole, and his beautiful, aquiline nose rubs so gently—so teasingly—against her clit as he does. If he didn’t have a hold around her thighs, she would can’t her hips upward, pleading without having to say anything for more friction.

She appreciates the warmth of his tongue inside of her, despite her body’s greed. It is something she has had before, but not like this; he eats her out as though she is a meal for him to devour, not a treat before the main course. A soft moan emits from her mouth when she realizes that he’s rubbing himself against the mattress as he does so. She wants his cock and his thoughts, all at once. In fact, she wants all of him—a dangerous thought for a woman with a status far below his own. He can tell her that things like that don’t matter, but they do. Even a tongue as godly as his could not make this fact disappear. She can have him, but not in name—never in marriage.

Oberyn’s tongue licks upwards again, finding her clit. He enters a finger inside of her, testing her. It is an easy fit, so he puts another in, scissoring them inside her. It is out of habit that he does this, a precursor to fucking her, and when he realizes this, he readjusts himself, making a come hither motion that is more focused on her pleasure that it is his eventual one.

The combined pleasure of his mouth on her clit and his fingers working her cunt makes her weak, and the pleasure builds quickly. She feels engulfed in the flames of desire and struggles not to wiggle beneath him. She even tries to muffle her moans, but he doesn’t let her. His mouth leaves her and he says, “No, no, my petal. I want to hear your sweet sounds. They are music to my ears.”

So she does; she moans loudly as the orgasm washes over her, blinding her completely from anything over then it. It is consuming, what he pulls from her in that moment, and he does not stop, lapping up her juices on his tongue as her cunt moves uncontrollably beneath him, searching for both release and more.

It does not help the way he moans against her midway through. His soft sounds vibrate against her and a second orgasm tears through her. She grips onto his hair and whines so pretty for him, he can’t help but look up and admire the sight she presents to him. Sex makes her glow, and right now she looks positively ethereal bathed in the midday sun and the shine of her pleasure. He could watch her forever. Could cum just from the thought of her pretty little sounds and the sight of the breasts he always wants in his mouth. Has, when he was away and unable to have them. Does. Is.

He knew she was dangerous the moment he found himself requesting women who looked like her, and men who thought like her. He knew the men could not share the same quality of beauty, so he sought in them her mind, just seeking some quality that he could admire and lose himself in long enough for the pleasure to take its height.

The real thing was incomparable to all else, though. He would be a fool to admit that he did not love her, at the very least minimally. He even wanted to be slow, to draw orgasm after orgasm from her pretty little cunt just to hear the sound of pleasure draw from her throat to the air, sweetening the large expanse of rooms much too empty without her there.

It was now so much more than the lust that had drawn him towards her in the first place. This was powerful, the sort that will draw him towards the notion of marriage when he cock is in her, filling her to the hilt. She made him uncharacteristically possessive in those moments, wanting her, only her, wanting to know that his cock was the one who did it best for her.

Needy, she had teased him once, when he requested that she tell him she was his. His laugh had ghosted over her bare shoulder and she reached around to wrap her arm around his neck as he fucked into her. Oberyn came when the words poured from her lips—it was the most beautiful bit of fantasy he had let himself believe in.

He takes his mouth off of her when she tells him it’s too much, and a slight blush creeps across his features when he looks down at the sheets and sees his spend. He wants to blame it on old age, saying that he can’t last as he once had been able to, but it would be pointless because she knows that to be not true. She makes him feel like a giddy child, so loved up and enthralled by her he can’t even put his mouth on her without his cock responding in this way.

She does not tease. She is red and flushed, and wants his body near. Her foot comes up, beckoning him closer. Oberyn listens, abandoning his mess for the warmth of her flesh.

She wraps herself around his waist and brings her mouth to his, exploring it with her tongue. She takes his breath from him and he knows his lips must be bruised.

He likes to think he is the only one who receives kisses this passionate, that she wants only to give him something so intimate, but it is unfair to hold her to these desires. This is something he will never ask—that he be the only one—when he can’t hold true to those promises himself—and why should they? The world is so beautiful and as much as her body makes him possessive, he wants it to be worshiped by more too, to get what he may not be able to. He knows his touch is not as delicate as a woman’s, nor as a rough as some other men’s. She deserves these things.

He knows, too, that there are parts of her he cannot understand, and that she will need people who do. Understands that by trapping her into a marriage, he would be asking her to leave behind something integral to her being. She has a last name that belongs to no one, and he will not take from her that. She wouldn’t let him, even if he asked, he’s certain. This is what he values in her, among many other things.

The second being her desire to mother no children. She is firm in this and he does not mind, telling her he has many already.

All that possessiveness is so faint, a trait so unfitting for him that he doesn’t ever dare to stick around for long after his cock gives him back his mind. He looks at her adoringly and kisses her in a manner much too intimate. She hums against his lips and he feels perfectly content just like this.

Neither of them have to give anything to be happy with this. Neither of them really want to, either, content with their desire to not conform to another man’s beliefs. He is not fit for marriage, she’s not fit for motherhood, and that is just fine.

“With me, you will never have to plead to a Foreigner’s God,” Oberyn states. “No one hurt you so badly.”

She smiles. “You cannot promise me that, Oberyn, but I will be pleased with the promise that you will make me happy for a long time to come—that you won’t forget me.” She pushes back the hair pressed against his forehead. “That you never be the reason I must seek that sort of solace.”

He kisses her. “I promise,” he says. He is impossibly close—as close as he can get without entering her. He needs to be this close.

He knows what she says to be true, that he can’t protect her like that even though it is what he wants. It is a plain truth that everywhere in this world they are unkind to women like her—to women in general—and no amount of want in his body could make this ring untrue. All he can give her is his desire and his love.

He cannot cleave the flesh of hatred from his bones no more than he can eradicate the pain from hers, but what they can do is give one another is the sort of compassion they search for in others. They will be content with this. 

OBERYN : @hb8301​

EVERYTHING : @astroboots​ , @frannyzooey​ , @wyn-n-tonic​ , @rosiefridayrogersunday​ , @melaniermblt​ , @theorganasolo​​ , @amneris21​​ , @honestly-shite​ , @over300books​ , @elegantduckturtle​

[radiowallet]

Meant to Be - Part 1

The Arrangement

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand, Eventual Oberyn Martell x Fem!OC (nameless, third person) Summary: Preparations for Oberyn's future are made. WC: 4.7K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Canon-typical violence, grief, death, political intrigue, arragned marriage, drinking, mentions of food, allusions to vaginal sex, Oberyn being a sexy little shit. Oberyn Martell comes with his own warning.

A/N: Hello besties! Welcome to my first foray into a multi-chapter GoT fic. Before we dive in, a few things to keep in mind: This is an alternate universe that takes place after the main events of the show. Bran is still king of Westeros. Sansa is still queen of the north. Oberyn lives. Doran never had any children. Our Fem!OC is from Winterfell, but she is not a Stark and is a blank canvas physically. I'm excited to play around with two tropes I don't write (arranged marriages and soulmates) and try something different! Thank you for joining me on this little journey!

Masterlist II Series Masterlist

>>> Part 2

Arrange yourself for my heart

Plan for it, in all its splendor

Prepare and shape and mold yourself

To me, For me, With me

---------------

Oberyn had always considered Dorne to be the center of Westeros. The thought was born out of bias, his love for his home and his people always tilting the scales in a way most would deem unfair. But it was more than just a loyalty birthed from love that tied his heart to the southernmost part of the map. Dorne was beautiful - hills of sand, a burning sun, and two seas with water so blue and waves so deep. The fruit was sweeter, the wine stronger, the days dipped in languid honey gold. 

With the war over and justice delivered in more ways than one, Oberyn had thought there would be no better feeling than his return to the sandy shores of Sunspear. Even with his heartbeat muted with grief for a beloved sister lost, he still felt a soft swell of peace when his feet touched those first sandy dunes, the sound of crashing waves filling his head, the sun-soaked air coating his lungs.

Oberyn did not think it possible for that peace to be so easily taken.

“Marriage?”

“Yes, brother. Marriage.”

Funny how one word can skew the direction of one’s life so quickly. How the prospect of something that most would easily agree to, perhaps even take joy in, could shake and shatter an easy landing.

Doran says the word so matter of factly, leaning back in his wheelchair, regarding Oberyn across the long width of the table, his studious gaze more piercing than it has any right to be. A full breakfast is spread out between them — berries and cheese and honey-glazed breads sweeter than sin — meant as a welcome home in honor of the second-born prince, a celebration for his triumph over The Mountain. Tonight there would be a feast, one to mark the end of the war and the Lannister’s reign; a newly crowned King of Westeros to toast to. 

Oberyn had been looking forward to the pomp and circumstance, if only to give him a chance to drown himself in Dornish wine, the promise of sleeping off the effects in Ellaria’s arms in his own bed a tempting reward for his troubles. He had expected a lecture of some sort from his brother in the between of it all; a request he take a seat on some council or maybe a post within the city watch. He would have even entertained an encouragement to begin the search anew for his soulmate.

But now he sees his brother’s ploy for what it truly is. 

A trick.

A game.

An arrangement.

Tension stretches out between the two men, years of twisted perception coloring their opinions of one another, all manner of things unsaid mixed amongst the decadent feast that now lies untouched.

“I have never entertained the idea of a wife. Not once. I hardly see why you think I would now, my Lord.” Oberyn lets the last word drip from his lips with utter disdain, refusing to acknowledge the propriety of station when his brother has tried to trick him so. One of the many benefits of being second born was the lack of obligation on his part, and he had exploited the fact in excess, happy to allow his brother all the privilege of a crown. 

A privilege, it seemed in his brother’s mind, had run its due course.

“Because, Prince Oberyn,” Doran starts, his words spoken with a careful pace, “you are to be named my heir.”

The ground falls out from beneath his chair, every single sound within the great hall expanding and focusing in on him; every color too bright, every noise too loud. The crash of the waves against the palace walls is suddenly overwhelming, a sound that once reminded him of his home now a painful cacophony in his ears.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Oberyn is standing, one word heavy on the tip of his tongue, and yet it will not come. 

Doran, ever patient, continues on. “You will be Lord of Sunspear, Oberyn, as is your right by birth and by decree.”

“And if I refuse?” He murmurs, eyes trained on the grainy wood of the table below. “The marriage? Your throne?”

His eyes flit to the other man just in time to see his reaction. Doran, for his part, looks surprised, the sentiment pulling a chuckle from deep within Oberyn’s chest. Could his brother really be so obtuse? So set in his own ways? Was he truly incapable of accepting that some may not long for power? 

At the sound of his laughter, the older man scowls, dark eyes set upon him with barely cloaked anger. For a moment, Oberyn thinks he sees his brother move to stand, a pained look stealing across his features briefly before settles back further into his seat and speaks again. 

“Have you no sense of honor left, my brother? Did your battle with The Mountain steal the last of your love for your family away? Or perhaps justice was the only thing keeping you tethered to us?”

“I avenged our sister–”

“Who is gone! She is gone, Oberyn,” Doran urges, one finger pushing down onto the table, emphasizing his point with practiced precision. “And it is us who remain! To carry on, just the same as those who came before. It is our right! Our duty! We need an heir. A legitimate hei–”

“My daughters are legitimate!” The interruption is roared, the scream of his voice echoing up into the wide open ceilings, coated in an anger he had thought he left to die beneath the suffocating rubble of the Red Keep. The fury leaves him as fast as it came, and in its wake there seems to be only one option left.

He turns away abruptly, icy cold spite bleeding out between the brothers with every step he takes away.

---------------

The charcoal in her hand smells of smoke, earthy and bitter, a scent that will cling to her fingers long after the day is done. It’s a perfect bedfellow to the fire crackling in the far corner of the room, the bright blend of reds and yellows giving just the barest illusion of warmth. 

Winterfell was named well. Even with winter fading into the pages of the history books, the north still carried a bitter cold, one she feared she would never be fond of. 

Her entire lifetime had been spent between the cold stone, searching for moments of warmth beneath her mother’s skirts or father’s arms. They were stolen, like bits of bread or cheese when the cooks had their backs turned, a tiny treat to melt on her tongue when nothing else in the frigid halls of Winterfell could. 

Her parents were gone now, casualties of time and its ever pressing need to march forward. She counts the smallest of blessings that they were gone before the Walkers came, thankful at least that they were spared the heartache of war.

They passed quietly, together in their bed, hands intertwined, palms pressed tightly; soulmates destined to walk those last steps together. A strange twinge dips down low in her belly; something like jealousy, she thinks, that her parents found each other so easily. They moved together with such certainty. A confidence given by fate or the Gods or whatever it was that made the world exist as it did. 

And in contrast, she had decided long ago, that she would gladly trade the suredness of a match to her soul if it meant she got a say in the outcome of her life.

Still – did her life look any different now than it did back then? Perhaps in the grandest of schemes. But…

Her father had been in charge of the stables, her mother a close companion to Lady Stark. And now she held a similar seat, sitting near the side of Sansa Stark, once her childhood playmate, grown into the Queen of the North. School lessons and daydreaming exchanged for talks of trade agreements and wall management. If she closed her eyes it would be easy to imagine two young girls in thick dresses and fur lined coats giggling over future soulmates and happily ever afters.

For the smallest moment in time, Sansa had hoped her soul’s match to be Joffrey, waxing poetic about true love and blonde haired babies. Though there had been endless heartache surrounding the truth, it had been a day she celebrated when the raven arrived from King’s Landing, Sansa’s elegant handwriting informing her that she and Joffrey were not to be wed. 

So many things never came to pass, for either of them. Soulmates and love stories set aside in the name of survival, and through it all, she watched as the younger girl grew to hold the weight of a crown she was born to wear. And she was content to live the rest of her days honoring the Starks the same as her parents did, ever aware of all she has to thank them for.

A roof over her head and a job to do – a noblewoman by the queen’s decree – she helped uphold House Stark at Sansa’s behest and in return, was given the freedom to do as she pleases within the confines of Winterfell’s stone walls. Council meetings littered with talks of policy and procedures sitting neatly between walks through the woods and time spent fireside, her fingers stained black, her dresses soaked with snow, her head swimming with negotiations. Lineage and duty tied her to this cold place, history and love filled it with warmth. 

She considers the scrap of parchment in her lap, the blacks blended into varied shades of grey, a picture of an empty chair staring back at her. She traces the shape of it, a regal rendering, more throne than chair, but it looked lonely in the bleak streaks of black and white. Something missing that she couldn’t put a name to. 

The image had come to her in a dream, the compulsion to sketch it following quickly after. When the queen had dismissed her for the day, she retreated quickly and quietly to the main sitting room, fingers itching for the warmth of charcoal, for the smooth feel of parchment, the empty chair sitting heavy at the back of her dream.

Perhaps if she could see it, hold it, in more than just her mind’s eye, then its purpose would present itself. 

The only answer she’s given is the snap of the fire at the far end of the room. 

---------------

Oberyn has no desire to make mention of Doran’s plans to Ellaria. Upon his arrival to his quarters he sends for her, the servant given the task in a venomous tongue that he’ll remind himself to apologize for later. For now he kicks off his boots and strips down to his trousers, pacing the room from end to end, the monotony doing nothing to contain his frustrations. 

He considers the how and the why and the who of his current situation, anxious for someone to blame, desperate for a way out. He snaps his jaw and bites his teeth, sinking deeper into memories as he stalks about his quarters; marriage, to whatever end, never seemed as advantageous as most made it out to be. He had learned a whole lifetime’s history on the subject within the walls of the citadel, his own familial experiences confirming what books had taught him. 

A sister wed to a dragon in the name of peace —dead. A brother betrothed to his soul’s true match — alone. 

And now he…

No. 

Oberyn refuses to even consider the ridiculous notion coming to fruition.  

He leaves the very idea of weddings and brides and political good-will behind him, moving to the open terrace just off of his sitting room, intent to sulk in silence beneath the late morning sun. He throws himself down onto the nearest chaise, pouring himself a full glass of wine, and then a second, urging the sweet liquid to wash away the bitter taste of breakfast. His eyes close, the crash of the waves lulling him into a restless sleep, the heat of Dorne burning the backs of his eyelids as he ignores the reality of his brother’s sensible voice.

A different voice of reason is what drags him back from the flames. 

“Something troubles you.”

Ellaria Sand has always been too clever for Oberyn’s own good. She watches him with a calculating eye, a patience that matches his impetuous nature in more ways than he could bother to count, and in many ways she is his perfect match. There was no one better to lead his fledglings, his sandsnakes, his family. Even now, after years of sharing in each other, bending and curving to match their hearts together over time. They know what makes the other moan, cry, beg, and he is more than confident in his affections for her. 

But oh, how she vexes him so. 

“The only thing that troubles me is that it has been too long since I felt the curve of your body beneath my own.” 

She smiles, her lips yielding sweetly to him, but something curls at the back of her dark eyes, some sort of secret that he’s certain he should already know but cannot remember. He will not ask and she does not speak it. Neither would dare in the state that he’s in. Instead she steps between his spread legs, thin fingers loosening the sash that barely holds her dress to her skin, revealing herself to the Dornish sun above. 

Oberyn sits up, large palms smoothing around the dip of Ellaria’s hips to cup her backside and pull her forward until the weight of her settles in his lap. She fits to him, molds herself around his body, hard edges and soft curves matched in a way he knows and loves and craves more than words allow, the hard length of his cock fitting deep inside her warmth.

His lips find her skin, mapping a steady path up the column of her neck until finally they meet in a long overdue kiss. Their lips slant together, a soft press at first, just enough to remind him that she is here before he dips his tongue, eager to remind himself of her taste. She’s spiced honey and burning smoke, biting at the corners of his mouth, and Oberyn would gladly suffocate on her if given the chance. 

When he breaks away, it’s with a broken sob masked behind a curse, his forehead falling to her own. A wish neither of them would ever dare to say out loud hangs like a cloud above them, blocking out the heat of the sun. But it does not stop Oberyn from pressing himself to every inch of Ellaria’s skin, hoping against his own foolish heart that this is the day their match is revealed. 

---------------

Sansa Stark strikes an imposing figure. Her red hair and piercing blue eyes burn bright against the soft greys of Winterfell and yet she does not seem out of place. She moved through the halls with purpose, each step taken with intent, each decision made with a warm heart. She cared for her birthright with both her hands, holding it in a way so much like her father but in other ways not. 

She was born for it. Then bred for it.

 

And still, it exhausted her.

 

Sansa sits before her now, boots kicked off, wiggling her stocking-covered toes just out of reach of the fire, her head tipped back and her eyes closed, content in what must be her first moment’s peace since she walked into the great hall this morning.

 

“I’ve had a taxing day, and I’m not sure where to start.”

“Can I suggest the beginning?”

A sharp glare peeks out between long lashes before a crooked smile and the poke of a tongue are pointed her way. She can’t help but tease the queen. Their companionship has always bordered on familiarity, a shared affection between them born from a childhood raised together, a lifelong friendship cemented in the hours of war. Most nights were spent in a manner such as this, idle chit chat fractured between the complaints of leadership while the scratch of charcoal and the crack of the fire kept cadence with both women’s words. Tonight was no different, save for the topic at hand.

“Prince Doran has made a request of me.”

“A request?”

It was not unheard of but still strange to hear from so far south, especially in a time of peace.

 

“A lady for a betrothal to his younger brother.”

 

“The Red Viper?”

Sansa sits up, then nods, eyes trained on the fire, the flames seemingly giving her the strength to carry on. She makes no mention of her time at King’s Landing or her brief passing with the second-born son of Sunspear, her bottom lip caught between the uncomfortable snare of her teeth. If there is a statement to be made on him, on his character or his choices, the queen does not share it, instead watching as the shades of reds and yellows dance before her.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t found his soulmate yet. If the rumors are even considered to be half true, the numbers should be in his favor.”

Girlish snickers ring up high into rafters, the pair of them moving down to the floor, knees folded beneath them, goblets of wine tipping but not spilling in the process. They scoot forward, just enough to feel the warmth of the fire staining their cheeks, sneaky smiles shared between sips of wine.

“Were they asking after Arya?”

Sansa snorts with a roll of her eyes. “I think the entirety of Westeros knows what a fool’s errand that would be.”

 

“You, then?”

Her old friend tracks her gaze from the side of her eyes and they both smile and laugh. A fool's errand, indeed.

 

“Truthfully, Doran did not ask for anyone specific. I think he would be fine if I sent one of our mules as long as Oberyn is wed before summer arrives. No…the decision has fallen to me and my council.”

 

There is something Sansa is not saying, an annoyance left unspoken, digging a trench between the two women. Finally, with a huff and a laugh, she says what the queen is unable to.

 

“The council suggested I make the journey south and accept the Prince’s hand.”

The truth is what finally steals Sansa’s attention from the fireplace, and suddenly she is turning, grasping her hands and speaking with conviction. “I cannot make you. I would never. I…I know the agony of a forced nuptial.”

And then, softly, “But yes. Your name was the first.”

“I am not surprised,” she smiles despite herself. “I do vex the council so.”

 

“A woman of your nature, unmarried and unmatched, allowed to sit at your station is difficult for them to understand. But they forget that it is not their role to object to your presence.”

For a moment’s time neither woman speaks, choosing instead to sit together in silence, fingers tangled, the smell of charcoal and cherry wine permeating the air between them. A life of quiet snow and solid stone is considered, matched to the steady steps of duty and honor mixed with memories of love. She remembers her parents, the love they had for each other, and the love they held for Winterfell and the Starks. She matches it to her own heart, her own dedication, a life promised in honor of the north and to the woman sitting right beside her. 

The only answer possible presents itself clearly.

“I will go.”

---------------

The knock on the door is insistent, dragging Oberyn from sleep in a way he vows revenge for. He had been ignoring it the best he could, burying his face in the curve of Ellaria’s breast, lips finding the pulse of her heart, taking comfort in the beat of it. He’d be content to lay here, his cock hard between his legs, his lips shifting lower to capture the swell of her tit, but the knocking has yet to stop and it isn’t long before she’s pushing on his shoulder, telling him to take care of his business and hurry back to her.

He drags himself from the bed with a curse and a grunt, a cursory glance spared towards the open windows. The violet bursts coloring the sky tell him that dusk is fast approaching, and he can only assume it is a servant on the other side of the door to alert him that the celebrations will be starting soon. He makes the calculated decision to leave his robe on the floor, hoping to either scare whoever it is back to the kitchens or perhaps to tempt them inside to his bed.

 

Oberyn strokes himself slowly, his cock heavy in his hand, still slick with Ellaria’s arousal. He flings the door wide with an exaggerated flourish, a cheeky greeting dancing on the tip of his tongue.

“You can tell my brother I will be dining here tonight, but you’re welcome to jo-”

He stops short at the sight of Doran, dressed head to toe in regal shades of gold, seeming so tall when it’s Oberyn who stands and the Lord of Sunspear sits, his wheelchair pushed to the threshold of his little brother’s sanctuary.

 

“I’m quite alright, thank you. My tastes do match that of Dornish tradition but I’ll stop short of laying with my brother. We’ll leave that sort of thing to lions and dragons, yes?”

There is suddenly the weight of a robe around Oberyn’s shoulders and warm breath in his ear, Ellaria greeting Doran with a nod and a smile.

“It is good to see you, Prince Doran.”

“And you as well, my dear. How fare the girls?”

“Growing like weeds and twice a thorn in my side. They take after their father that way.”

“The best of us do. Speaking of, do you mind if I borrow your dearest paramour? I promise to only take a moment of his time from you.”

Oberyn watches the exchange through a frowned pout, arms crossed in a petulance he’s been wearing since this morning. The pair of them speak as if he isn’t even present, and before he has a chance to object to any of it, Ellaria is pushing him out into the hallway as he hastily ties his robe closed.

 

“I can only assume you are here to promise me that all plans of weddings and succession are done with. Perhaps even an apology to go along with this vow?”

“I think you know that I am decidedly not.”

“Well then you will be disappointed, dearest brother, to find that my stance on the matter has not changed.”

Doran sighs, his forehead falling to his hand, the years more apparent to Oberyn now than ever before. He thinks of maybe lightening the blow, an apology or an offer to sit at his right hand, to alleviate the sting of his refusal, but the words die on his tongue, his brother finding his voice first.

 

“You were given much leeway, Oberyn. Freedom. Mother and Father framed it beneath the guise of looking for your soulmate. A part of me had foolishly hoped, dearest brother, that you were doing just that.”

 

Oberyn wants to laugh, tries to, knocking his knuckles against the wall with a forced chuckle. But the sound breaks too soon and he looks away, considering the high arches and wide open space of his childhood home. How strange that all of sudden it feels entirely too small for his liking. When he finally turns back to Doran, he smiles.

 

“Who’s to say I wasn’t, brother? Skin to skin contact to find the true match to your heart. Is that not what the ancient tomes say?”

 

“You treat it like some game,” his older brother hisses, what sounds like a sneer chasing after his words. “But you do not know what it feels like. To find the other half of your heart, your soulmate. The whole world falls away. It’s a feeling unlike any other and you dismiss it, as if it is this fleeting thing you are too good for.”

Doran’s voice trails off, his eyes misting over in a way that Oberyn has only seen once before. He knows his older brother is thinking of his own love, his own loss; lucky enough to find his soulmate early on, unfortunate enough to lose her not long after. The pain had stolen the light from his brother’s life, any and all joy relegated to the back of his heart. Even the idea of taking a second wife in the name of duty had been too much for Doran to bear.

 

Oberyn was sick for the thought of it.

It hadn’t been hard for him to decide there and then that his love would never hold such rigid definitions

“But you do not know,” Doran keeps going, his voice crushed in frustration. “You run around with that Sand girl—“

“I love her.”

The admission rings out loud in the empty hallway, and Oberyn reveals in it, satisfied in his honesty, no matter the cost. 

“I have no doubt,” Doran agrees quietly. “But if you had found your soulmate, whether they be in the brothels or the beaches, what then? Could you bring yourself to choose?”

He refuses to look away, mournful eyes tracing Oberyn from top to bottom, and for a hair of a second he feels himself so small. Merely a lad desperate to ask his older brother what choice he should make. But the moment passes, impetuous frustration filling up the space between them yet again, his words boiling over the curve of his lips. 

“Why?” Oberyn hisses, bending down until he and Doran are nose to nose, as level a playing field as he can give himself. “Why now? When peace has finally found its way to us?”

“I am dying.”

He forgets how to breathe.

His vision blurs as his face goes numb. His fingers clench around empty air, fingernails digging deep enough to scar the skin of his palm. His skin pulls too tight. His blood burns too hot.

 

He stumbles back, can’t help but, another punch to his overwrought gut, his bare feet tripping as he tries and fails to find his footing.

“No…n-no. It is…you are…” He is muttering, mumbling in disbelief, unable to comprehend this one final truth laid down at his feet. His brother, the one he loves so dearly but resents more than he knows how to say…dying? Taken away? No.

“No.”

“The maesters have done all that they can, and still I grow weaker every day. There is no measure of time they can predict for me, but something in my bones tells me that any day marked as past is a gift that brings me closer to Mellario.”

“And you…have no heir,” Oberyn breathes out, the actuality of his brother’s request finally bearing witness before his eyes.

“I do, little brother.”

Oberyn clenches his jaw and turns away, ignoring the sting of tears in favor of facing the solution head on. There was no way about it now – he would become Lord of Sunspear – or risk allowing the decisions of Dorne’s leadership to fall to the new, and still so very young, king. And though he has no desire to play the game of thrones, it is not lost on him the rules that follow. 

Marriage.

Children.

This will fall to him now.

“Tell me about the girl.”

Doran gives a name; the same given by Sansa Stark, sent by raven only a few nights prior. 

“From the North?” He can’t help the incredulous sound of his voice, and he cringes inwardly at his own knee-jerk assumptions.

“Did your conquest of The Mountain and the end of the Lannister reign not appease you, little brother? Are you still carrying that thirst for vengeance inside you?

Oberyn scoffs. “Certainly not. The Starks were a victim of circumstance, same as most of us. I am just surprised. I thought they named the eldest girl their queen.”

“They did,” Doran confirms, his stance as steady as his answer.

“I did not think she was a fan of forced marriage, what with her messy history with them.”

“She was a little girl then. She is a queen now. Though if it helps alleviate your own feelings towards this particular arrangement, the lady took it upon herself to volunteer. Perhaps a desperation to hold on to her own agency. Not unlike someone else I know.”

“Volunteer? She has agreed to this? Then surely you will call her what she is, Doran – a crown-chasing child.”

“I can assure you she is neither. She is a woman grown and it is her allegiance to the north and her queen that has her agreeing to this arrangement. Nothing more.”

“Then she’s more fool than I feared,” Oberyn murmurs, touching his thumb to his bottom lip. 

“Well then, you’ll be two fools in matrimony. Rest well, my lord. Your bride arrives within the month.”

---------------

Dedications:

Biggest hugest thanks to @jazzelsaur and @astroboots and one poorly timed apple watch notification that inspired this fever dream insanity of a story. If not for the truly unhinged and chaotic nature of our DM's, this fic would never have been borne. Also shout-out to these two hoes for listening to me prattle on about GoT lore, soulmates, and all manner of "giving characters agency" discussion. I love you both a not normal amount.

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[radiowallet]

Meant to Be - Part 2

The Engagement

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand, Eventual Oberyn Martell x Fem!OC (nameless, third person) Summary: Preparations are made for a wedding, and both bride and groom are plagued by nerves. WC: 5.8 K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Canon-typical violence, grief, death, political intrigue, arragned marriage, drinking, mentions of food, allusions to vaginal sex, allusions to masturbation. Oberyn being a sexy little shit. Oberyn Martell comes with his own warning.

A/N: As always, a few things to keep in mind: This is an alternate universe that takes place after the main events of the show. Bran is still king of Westeros. Sansa is still queen of the north. Oberyn lives. Doran never had any children. Our Fem!OC is from Winterfell, but she is not a Stark and is a blank a canvas physically.

Masterlist II Series Masterlist

Part 1 >>> Part 3

Engaged with your heart

Intended for mine

Come to me and I will meet you

In between and all around

If Winterfell was named well, then Sunspear was preordained by the stars above. From her first steps out of the carriage she could feel the heat piercing through her heart, bright yellow streaks singing through the sky and cutting across her cheeks. Still, the chill of the north clings to her bones, a reminder of the home and family left miles and miles behind. She can still feel the puff of Sansa’s breath on her neck from where the two held tightly to one another, a prolonged goodbye that followed her across the territory, her dearest friend’s voice ringing in her ears.

“I should travel with you.”

“You’re needed more here.” 

Cold hands cupped her cheeks, ice blue eyes finding her own. 

“You can still change your mind.”

But she had refused to go back on her word, even as a deep curl of anxiety settled upon her shoulders, a bitter lining along the fur of her winter cloak. That same cloak is clutched in her arms now, a poor substitute for the friend she left behind, the yellow sun beating down upon her as she steps forward to meet her future. 

“My lady,” Prince Doran greets and she smiles despite herself, his smile small but warm. He strikes a formidable figure, even bound in his wheelchair, and when she bows, the respect she gives is heartfelt. She’s glad she had the foresight to wipe the last of the charcoal from her hands before arriving when the prince takes one gently in his own and places a friendly kiss along the ridge of her knuckles. 

Prince Oberyn stands tall beside his brother, the vibrant hues of his orange and gold robes contrasting with his cloudy demeanor. He gives a nod and then a bow, eyes connecting for the first time beneath the fiery tendrils of the Dornish sun. He does not move to take her hand and she does not offer, and yet…

She cannot look away. 

Something swirls low in her belly – nerves, perhaps – as she looks upon the man who she will call husband. 

He is more handsome than any books or rumors could ever truly do justice; a sharp jaw framed with dark facial hair, a hooked nose between cinched in brows, the deep brown of his eyes tracking her as she steps close to stand before him, a peak of tan skin, the column of his thick neck dusted with freckles. She feels like she can track them as easily as she does the stars, her fingers twitching at her side, suddenly desperate with the need to paint the constellations across his body. 

It’s an urge that comes and goes before she lets herself understand the meaning behind it, instead meeting her betrothed’s gaze head on as she curtsies.

“It is wonderful to finally meet you, Prince Oberyn,” she says, repeating the words she had practiced in her head again and again throughout her travels south, proud that they came out steady despite the hammer of her heart. 

Still he does not speak, but at the sound of her voice, his lips part, and she tracks the clench of his jaw as it loosens around the tip of his tongue. He tilts his head again, his eyes shifting, the color like sweet honey as he traces her features from head to toe. She tries not to shrink beneath his stare but it feels a true impossibility, sweat beading at the back of her neck, the slick of it sliding down to pool along her stiff collar. The sun is too high, her dress too tight.

Oberyn’s gaze too warm. 

But then he’s frowning again, looking out and away into the blue sky, fists balled tightly at his side. 

The rest of the pleasantries are tabled for later, the two pulled apart just as swiftly as they were brought together. A pair of women dressed in loose folds of gauze and silk lead her to her chambers with the offer to settle herself before dinner is served, and she leaps upon it, desperate for a cool splash of water on her overheated cheeks and a moment alone to catch her faltering breath. 

Her quarters are larger than she could have imagined, a sight her mind can barely comprehend especially when it feels like the biggest pieces of her heart are still waiting for her between the stone walls of Winterfell. But here in this sweeping space, every corner glowing with a light she did not know exists, she feels as if she could stretch her arms out wide and fill this space completely. 

The sitting room seems to spill endlessly outward, open doorways that lead to a terrace glittering beneath the late afternoon sun, the waves of the Dornish sea rocking a pleasant rhythm down below. It’s familiar, comforting, and already she’s picturing falling asleep to the soothing sound in her ear. Waking up to the creeping rays of a sunrise, the weight of an arm around her bare waist.

She frowns. Shakes her head. The memory is gone. 

As she steps in further, she spies a bed dipped in luscious shades of burgundy, and just beyond that, a porcelain tub. Her body aches to fall into both, the hardship of travel making itself known in the tightness that’s settled between her bones and the fatigue that plagues her mind. One of the women calls her attention away, a secret smiling pull at her painted lips.

“The door just past your bedroom leads to Prince Oberyn’s–”

“Liddy! What are you suggesting?” The other woman gasps, but her smile is just as sly.

“What? It’s not as if the Prince is so concerned with propriety. He’d probably welcome all thre–”

“I think I’m just going to lay down, thank you!” She shouts above their laughter, ignoring the pang of jealousy that threatens to rise up her throat as she watches them leave with their arms woven tightly, heads pressed together as they continue to swap teasing secrets. 

At the mention of his name, reality makes its presence known again, and it’s all she can do not to thrash at her own choices. The room suddenly feels smaller, enough to push her out into the open space of the balcony, sea salt air pricking at her skin. 

Oberyn had been less than pleased in her presence, and it was clear that their upcoming nuptials was not a day he was looking forward to. She couldn’t say she disagreed; it was not as if she had been climbing the trees up north in search of a husband to tie herself to. No — she was here out of duty to her home and love for her queen — but that did not mean she intended to approach the matter with a sour taste in her mouth. 

The Prince seemed to disagree. 

She glances back towards the bed, the archway of a door now visible just behind it. She feels no desire to go to it now, and bitterly, she wonders if she ever will. 

And yet she cannot look away. 

———

Dinner had been tense.

To say the very least.

A sullen Oberyn sat at the far end of the table, arms crossed, his food left untouched. It had been his mood for most of the afternoon, going about his business with a frown stitched permanently into his lips. 

He had barely spoken, his thoughts seemingly twisted in the darkest corners of his mind. Ellaria watched as he stomped from one corner of his quarters to the other, his eyes stealing to the doorway that led to where his future wife was resting, but never once did he move towards it. She had wanted to speak, perhaps suggest, maybe ask for an explanation of some kind…but with a bite to her own tongue, she fought the urge.

The northern girl was seated to his left now, a matching frown curving her features downward. Her movements were stilted as she picked at the plate in front of her, barely more than a bite making it past her lips. She still wore the same dress she arrived in, the heavy brocaded fabric wrapped around her like a fortress. Ellaria wondered briefly how much of Winterfell she still carried inside her, to be able to walk about Sunspear dressed in such a way.

Neither of them spoke a single word throughout the entirety of the meal, lips sealed shut and gazes pointed very much away from the other, leaving Doran and Ellaria to fill the silence. 

Every word felt stilted, awkward, like knives drawn across her skin. It wasn’t long before both she and Doran gave up the pretense of conversation all together, tired eyes meeting across the table in exasperation. She could hear the older man’s steady voice even as he kept his thoughts very much to himself.

Patience, my dear. We must have patience.

Ellaria did not possess the fortitude that Prince Doran seemed to pride himself on. Patience, she has found, never suited her when the ones she loved most were on the line. 

———

“You will go to her.”

Oberyn glances over his shoulder, his refusal burning at the tip of his tongue. He says nothing, instead ignoring Ellaria’s command with a frown and a shrug, turning his eyes back to the sky above. He had needed fresh air after dinner, craved it, like a drug he wished would flood his veins. He had come back to his quarters in a rush, barely gifting the others gathered in the great hall with a parting goodbye. Once in the safety of his rooms, he stripped himself of his robes and headed straight for the balcony, Ellaria trailing each and every step he took. 

“Oberyn.”

Again, he does not answer, fingers curling down and around the banister, knuckles bleeding white from the strain of his grip. He considers the shape of them, the pull of his muscles and the crack of his bones beneath the stretch of golden skin, wondering why he could not use them to piece together the messy shape his life had taken upon itself. 

These hands had studied ancient text, had held babes fresh from his lovers’ wombs, had avenged the death of his sister and her children. They had accomplished all he had set out to do, and yet now they choose to fail him. 

Behind him stands the love of his life, and one room over, the woman he is intended to wed. 

A woman he did not know. A stranger. A mystery.

But that did not stop the urge to reach out to her, to cup her cheek and touch his lips to hers; to take her hand gently and lead her to his bed. He grips his hands tighter to the polished wood, the compulsion following him even now, the want so strong it felt more of memory than daydream. Oberyn licks his lips and swallows, the sound like sand between his ears, before finally turning to face Ellaria, his decision final.

“Not tonight.”

———

And so it goes. Three nights more of the same; Oberyn’s petulant avoidance and silent fuming matched only by his betrothed’s stubborn frown and persistent presence. 

He had grown restless with nerves over the past few days, taken to pacing like a caged animal, torn between wanting to scream and desperate to fuck. He’s lost count of the times he’s sought the solace of his hand, hard cock gripped tight, thinking of anything but her. Anything but visions of her face and clever tongue that seemed destined to tease along the edges of his fantasies. 

He would normally call upon every brothel within the region as a sure distraction, but it’s only Ellaria he seeks out, when his grip grows tired and his knuckles ache. He pressed himself to her fully each time he filled her, tired of the facade, wishing inward and outward for her to be his soul’s match.

And still she haunts him. Haunts the place he once considered his safe haven; now overrun with the very essence of this woman he did not ask for but cannot seem to refuse. 

“As worse a pebble in my shoe and twice over the inconvenience,” his only reply when Doran had asked after his opinion of her. 

In the mornings he watches as she walks the courtyard, arms twined around her chest as if to shield herself from the frigid temperatures she left behind; a truly ridiculous notion considering the heavy dresses she continues to wear despite the warmth shining from up above. By her second day in Sunspear, Ellaria has taken to joining her, the girls trailing at their skirts as the two women walk beneath the shade of the lemon trees. Oberyn can see their lips moving from where he hides up above, though he isn’t sure why he does so. 

They do not spare him a first or second glance.

His mind conjures up the worst of what they could possibly have to discuss, and yet the sight of them arm in arm leaves a pit of something swirling low in his belly. He blames his overwrought nerves as he stomps away from the balcony, impetuous anger and unfurling desire sticking to his heels. 

During the day, she seems to disappear, though he hears the servants speak of her intricacies with kind smiles and earnest laughter. Charcoal nicked from the kitchen, small scraps of parchment along with, and requests for wine tasting of cherries instead of plums. He does not seek her out but it’s as if he can feel her on the other side of his bedroom wall, her furious hands scribbling away, her lips stained a cherry red. 

They are seated beside each other for every meal, her woodsy scent overwhelming and intriguing him, and it is all he can do not to drown himself in cup after cup of Dornish wine. He simply turns away and grits his teeth, leaving the table more hungry than he had been before the meal had ever started.

Come the fourth night, Ellaria has had enough. 

“The wedding is one week away.”

“We shall see,” Oberyn murmurs from his bed, eyes half-lidded as he watches his lover undress, stroking his cock, the pull of his hand slow, deliberate. The last of her clothing falls away and he feels his length twitch in his palm. 

“You will go to her.”

“Come to bed,” he coos, not bothering with a rebuttal, instead spreading his legs that much wider.

Ellaria does not move from where she stands at the foot of his bed, body bare and so very out of reach. 

“Tonight.”

Oberyn sits up, eyes narrowed, and teeth barred, a venomous refusal seeping through his veins like poison. But in a flash he thinks of her — bright red wine and bits of parchment, stained fingers and painted lips — and he falters. 

“Why do you not hate her?”

Ellaria’s smile twitches, but never falters. She crosses her arms as she moves to join him, her body curling easily into his own.

“Why should hate be the assumption?”

Oberyn thinks it seems most obvious but it does not stop him from saying the truth aloud. 

“I am marrying another woman, when it’s you that I…” he chokes off, shakes his head, then starts again. “I love you.” 

He hates this feeling. Loathes it. His confidence shaken. His heart inexplicably torn. Restless fingers reach for her and she complies, long arms resting along the broad shape of his shoulders. 

“I am happy, my Prince. Loved by a good man with his whole body and his fiery heart. He has given me four beautiful daughters and I am honored to stand beside him.”

“But you deserve more,” he hisses, the urge to jump to anger rising up his throat yet again.

She leans in to steal a kiss, her breath warm where it mingles with his own. When she pulls away, her smile is still as it was. 

“You forget sometimes, my paramour, that not all of us wish to sneak away from the life we’ve been given. Some of us know how very different things could be if the scales were to tip in another direction.” 

He nods, unsure if she is right but too tired to fight her on the matter. 

“Go,” she murmurs, lips kissing at the hinge of his jaw. “I will still be here.”

The promise is enough to push him out into the hallway and without a reason why his feet carry him forward. It isn’t until he’s stepping into the grand hall, his betrothed standing with her back to him, that he realizes he had no way of knowing that this is where she would be. 

———

“Trouble sleeping? Or have you been running with the wolves for too long?”

She does not jump at his greeting but her shoulders rise, something like nerves crawling up the the base of her spine at his intrusion upon her private moment. She sneaks a glance back, catching Oberyn’s expression in her sight line. He seems to take her silent reaction in stride, stepping deeper into the room, eyes pinned to her form. 

After a moment’s consideration, she cuts out a reply, her words bitter but her tone soft. 

“He speaks. And here I was only a day away from asking the Lord of Sunspear if his brother was mute.”

“Sharp teeth. Fitting.”

She frowns, turning to face him fully. “I am no wolf, Prince Oberyn.” 

His eyes are dark, casting a piercing stare from where he stares her down. His figure is striking, his shoulders rigid. His head held high. 

“What would you prefer I call you then? A lady, yes but not nearly a Stark and not yet a Martell.”

“I think my name would do just fine,” she offers before turning back around, her eyes tracing the shape of his brother’s throne. 

He says it now, almost as if he’s savoring the feel of it on his tongue, and she ignores the pounding of her heart as it sings for him, and still she can’t help but wonder how it would sound moaned between the silk of his sheets. 

Her frown deepens. 

“What do you want, my lord?”

She hopes he does not miss the hint of sarcasm she touches to his moniker. 

“Less of your presence, to start.”

It is like ice down her back, Oberyn’s stormy glare and tight posture matching the sting of his words. She does her best to wipe the look of pain off her face but she’s one beat too late. The prince does at least have the grace to look half-regretful for his honesty. She steps around him, suddenly exhausted from the unintended confrontation. She gives a small bow, tipping in close enough to smell the plums on his breath, and then it’s gone, stolen like a dream she can’t seem to remember. 

“I will see you tomorrow, my Prince. I hope you sleep well.” 

He calls her name just before she crosses the threshold, a request following in the swell of his baritone.

“Meet me here again. Tomorrow night.”

She doesn't reply, her only answer the soft step of her feet as she walks away.

———

The shape of the water eludes her. She watches the waves rise and fall closely, crashing up and down onto the sandy shore just below the jut of her balcony, wondering how it is they move the way they do. The parchment in her lap sits blank, her finger curled around a piece of charcoal, itching to bring the image to life but unsure where to begin. 

The sea seems so much more alive than she had ever thought it to be. She had tried to ignore it at first, the desire to match its fury on paper, instead keeping her eyes on the lemon trees lining the courtyard. They were familiar even in their newness, a shape she could easily replicate if she wanted. She had been walking amongst them every morning, alone at first and then not. 

Ellaria had proved good company, the other woman seeking her out on her second morning amongst the groves. She politely introduced herself and assured her she did not mean to pry upon her solitude, admitting outright that she was simply curious. The direct honesty was comforting in its own right, similar to the blunt cut of a northern wind. Before Ellaria could take her leave, she offered her arm in request.

“Will you walk with me?”

“I will.”

It was not meant to be a fast friendship. Those things took time. But she could feel a kinship forming that was a balm to the loneliness she had been ignoring with a steadfast stubbornness. 

Ellaria spoke with confidence, not in a way she lorded over anyone, but instead speaking as a woman who has seen a great deal of what the world had to offer. She did not force the conversation of Oberyn upon either of them but instead allowed it to come them naturally, before finally admitting she was the one who had sent him to her the night prior. 

“I know the situation is less than ideal, but I thought maybe…” Her words drifted into nothing, eyes watching Loreza pluck white petals from a low hanging branch, her small fingers gentle. Delicate. 

“Oberyn is as ferocious as the sea, and all the more deadly for it. Some say to be patient with him, to allow his tide to rise naturally.” Their steps slowed, Ellaria’s gaze matching her own, watching her daughter with unfettered love and adoration. “I never could understand waiting when I had legs of my own, content to meet him halfway.”

The other woman’s words carry more weight now than they did this morning. The sound of the sea is persistent in her ears, her legs curled beneath her, her head empty save for the sneered contempt of her future husband. Ferocious. Unpredictable. Loud. In any other circumstance, she is certain she would find him grating; enough of an annoyance to turn her back and never spare him another thought. But she intends to stand firm, the choice she’s made settling the argument before it’s even begun.

Oberyn’s invitation lingers at the back of her mind, and she wonders if he intends to wait for her. Or perhaps he took her silence as a decided refusal. Before she can stop herself she’s unfolding her frame and walking the familiar path back to the great hall. 

He is waiting for her, standing just inside the entryway, his arms crossed behind his back, his posture regal as he takes in the high ceilings and sweeping space. All of him seems to glow, the muted shades of yellow stitched into his robes catching in the candlelight. He seems at home half-hidden amongst the shadows, and she allows herself a moment’s breath, catching herself before she gets lost in the sight of him. She crosses behind him and up towards the center of the room, not able to find the right words to greet him, choosing instead to let her silence speak for her. 

For some time they simply share the space, no words to give in exchange for each other’s presence. Instead they pass the time as they had been since her arrival in Dorne – together, but not. 

It isn’t until the candles have burned down low, the hour far later than the previous night that Oberyn finally speaks.

“You do not like the dresses provided to you?”

She glances down at her dressing gown, thick fabric in shades of grey cinched tightly at the waist. The bulk of it was so very out of place on the sunniest side of the map, practically weighing her down, trapping her where she stood and yet she had clung to it. Desperately so. Her final piece of armor. That explanation is too intimate to give away so soon, and so she simply parrots his words from last night back to him.

“I am not yet a Martell.”

The briefest sting that crossed his features almost felt good in the moment, but alone in her bed she could not shake the guilt that stuck to her insides, sleep only finding her as the sunrise began to sweep slowly across the shore. 

———

“We could call it off?”

It’s their fifth night together in the great hall, but only the third time he’s chosen to speak. They’re both sitting; she curled along the steps that lead to his brother’s throne and Oberyn perched along the high council’s table, one leg propped up, his bare foot flat on the polished wood. She had averted her eyes a little too late, heat racing up her neck and sitting heavy on her cheeks when she realized the prince was bare beneath his robe. 

“What?” she asks, shifting her eyes carefully to his face before pointing them away again. 

“The wedding. Call it off. You could leave in the middle of the night. I would provide you with whatever you need.”

She is quiet for a moment, lips caught between her teeth, picking at her fingernails, soot staining the skin beneath and little done to wash the dirt away. She had considered it. Of course she had, in the lonely hours of the morning, aching for snow and leaves and cold stone beneath her feet, still trying to adjust to the silk and sand of Dorne. And yet…

Something kept her rooted in place, something that felt stronger than honor to a place or love for a queen. But as she sat in silence, struggling for words, Oberyn kept speaking.  

“No one would expect any more than what you have already given. It is not as if you are truly of noble blood.” 

She stands at that, the abruptness of her movements enough to jar him off his perch, both feet falling to the floor below. 

“Do you have any honor? Any at all, Oberyn Martell?”

Her face is twisted, her fists balled tight, and she moves quickly, refusing to let him see the tears that threaten to spill. With fast feet she moves out of his reach and back towards her quarters, one final reprimand slipping from her lips.

“I think you and I have very different ideas on what it means to be noble, Prince Oberyn.”

When she is finally alone, only the flicker of candle light to keep her company on the long walk back to her quarters, does she allow the tears to fall.

———

The smell of citrus always seems to burn brightest in the morning, the rise of the sun matching the yellow tang of lemon on his tongue. Most would think Oberyn to detest the early morning hour, his dalliances keeping him up until well into the night. It is a fair assumption but not always the most accurate.

There is a peace this early in the day; the air carries the slightest chill, the sky not yet filled with a fiery heat, tepid blues melting away to a shimmering orange across the shore. He reveals in it, when the mood strikes, finding solace in a serenity that is not always commonplace in his life. 

The courtyard is quiet, save for the slap of bare feet, Dorea and Loreza racing across the stone path, disappearing up into the lemon groves, and returning to where he and his brother wait, the bright yellow fruit clutched between their tiny fingers. 

Doran takes the offering with a smile, crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out as far as he can, the pair of them erupting into giggles that ring out to meet the sunrise. 

“Your papa and I used to do this very thing every harvest. Sucking the juice from the rind until our lips burned.”

The girls hang on his every word, asking to hear more and in the blink of an eye Oberyn is lost in the memory, same as Doran. Two boys racing down the curved steps, the rush of sea crashing in the background, their knees knocking and elbows jabbing, in search of an early summer treat. If he allowed himself, he swore he would hear Ellia’s voice chasing after them in a plea to slow down, her skirts rustling as she did her best to keep up. 

How simple things seemed. 

He’s back in the present before he can properly cling to it, his daughters still laughing as their uncle tears through the thick skin of the fruit for them. Oberyn tries and fails not to notice how his brother’s hands shake from the effort, and a pain he had been dutifully ignoring threatens to rise up. Doran, having caught his eye, is quick to divert the conversation. 

“I hear talk of a quarrel between you and your betrothed?”

Oberyn chuckles, head shaking from side to side, letting his palm cup the curve of his cheek, the first rays of sunshine starting to warm his skin. Certainly he is not caught off guard by the question, but his frustrations threaten to swallow him whole anyway. It seems unlikely he will find peace in this morning. 

“Who in your staff have you assigned to spy on us, my dear brother?”

“You give me far too much credit, Oberyn. This palace may be large but it is still a small world we live in. Word travels of its own accord. I have no need to rush it along. I am a patient man.” 

Doran hands each girl a large slice of lemon as he speaks, and they squeal as the sour taste hits their tongues. Oberyn watches them as they take off, now in search of blossoms for their hair, and he marvels at the simplicity of their hearts. He hopes they can hold tight to it, if only a little bit longer than he was ever allowed. 

“Go on, then. Tell me how I should do the honorable thing and offer her my apologies before tomorrow comes.” 

He should not be so surprised when his brother only laughs, passing him his own slice of lemon with a hearty jab of his elbow, so very reminiscent of all those summers lost in the long ago. 

“Oh, my brother! You are about to be married. You have your whole life to apologize. And with your track record it will be more often than not. I think perhaps you can simply count yourself forgiven if she meets you at the end of the altar.” 

“And if I am alone?”

“Well then,” Doran offers, shaky hands bringing a slice of lemon to his own lips, “perhaps she is not the fool you have made her out to be.” 

———

The layers of gauze and silk draped across her skin feel heavy, a sneaky trick considering how light the fabric felt in her hands earlier this morning. She had chosen the dress from the many left for her in her room, unable to resist the golden hues on today of all days, fingers tracing the vibrant stitching of the sun, crystals that seemed to glitter of their own accord framing the length of the gown. 

Each step she takes feels weighed down, her gait slipping on the polished floor, the beaded sandals tied to her feet foreign and uncomfortable. She shakes out her fingertips, desperate to tug at the necklace fastened around her neck, the ruby red jewels choking back her breath and stealing her voice, but Ellaria’s hand in her own stops her. 

Just beyond the double doors, sealed shut and hiding her from view, is the sound of music, the murmur of a crowd, a call of her name to signal her entry. It overwhelms and saturates, only the crash of the waves and Oberyn’s tempered anger filling the space between her ears. She feels too hot, too cold, and so very suddenly she wishes Sansa was here to hold her other hand. She curses inward, hating herself for refusing her friend’s offer to make this journey with her. How foolish of her to think this would be so easy a task accomplished. 

She can hear Ellaria call her name, once, then twice, and slowly she turns to look at her, trying to steady her heartbeat in the depths of her honeyed gaze. She licks her lips and blinks back the saltwater sting of tears, wishing her words would present themselves clearly.

“I was not until…I had not truly…he does not…” she glances back towards the doors then to the open windows, unable to look into Ellaria’s eyes when she finally admits the truth aloud. 

“I am frightened.” 

“I don’t think there would be anyone who would dare discount that feeling.” 

She nods again and tightens her grip around the older woman’s hand. “Will you…will you walk with me?” 

“I will.” 

They walk together slowly, and if not for the pomp, for the circumstance, it could just as easily be another of their shared moments between the lemon trees. But with each step further down the aisle the crashing sound inside her head booms louder. Waves slamming up against the rocks, drowning out the sense and sensibility of the choice she’s made, and waiting for her at the end of it all is Prince Oberyn.

He is dressed in the palest shades of yellow, save for the chain around his neck, the jewel at the center the deepest shade of scarlett to match her own. He stands tall, hands folded behind his back, his eyes watching as the two women move towards him. The look on his face is indiscernible, his lips parting around a silent question as he looks first to Ellaria, then to her.

She takes a breath in, holding it in her lungs until they burn, smoke and fire threatening to swallow her whole. Her head spins faster with each step she takes, her knees buckle, her steps falter. Beside her, Ellaria is balanced, the grip she has around her arm secure, her presence soothing. It is only when she reaches the altar and the other woman moves a hair away, do the tears she had been fighting all morning finally fall. 

She hears her name again, spoken gently, cutting through the screaming sound of the sea inside her heart. But it is not Ellaria’s soothing voice that pulls her to the present. Instead it is Oberyn calling out to her, and when she looks into his eyes, she finds an anchor waiting for her.

“Take my hand.”

She looks down at his offered hand, his palm open, thick fingers splayed out wide, an invitation and apology waiting in silent patience. She breathes in again, letting it leave her lips softly, slowly, the last of her nerves leaving her to stand tall before the man she’s chosen. 

For worse. 

For better. 

Oberyn’s lips twitch up, the smallest of encouragement, and after what feels like an eternity too long she reaches out for him, sliding her hand gently into his own. 

And the world goes blissfully silent. 

———

Dedications:

Forever and for always grateful for @jazzelsaur and @astroboots for keeping me on track with this one. Oberyn and Game of Thrones in general is so far outside of my comfort zone, and their support of this fic that embraces so many things at once has meant so much to me. I'm literally writing this story a sentence at a time, in between wrapping presents and making cookies and the mad dash end-of-year rush at work. So having the two of them to bounce ideas off of has been nothing short of my saving grace. I love you hoes. Thank you!

Also big thanks to @grogusmum for chatting Oberyn with me in the DM's. I am officially gone for that menace of a man and Hazel has been so wonderful in talking this story with me.