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catsteeth · 7 months ago

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The Caged Bird & The Leashed Dog

Sandor Clegane x reader

+:✿ Chapter - 14 ✿:+ I Am His And He Is Mine

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Summary: You are the daughter of Jon Arryn, you and your father travel to King's Landing with the intention of arranging a marriage for you. You catch a glimpse of The Hound during your first night in Kings Landing and it creates a mutual fascination even if he won't admit it.

CW: MDNI, SMUT, NSFW themes, Sandor “my wife” Clegane, Unprotected P in V sex, Oral sex (M rec), multiple reader orgasms, grinding, spanking, biting, headlock (during sex), misogyny, angst, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, mention of death, blood, threats of violence, mentions of arranged marriage, mention of family deaths.

A/N: Hey siri play bewitched by laufey

Word Count: 8.5K

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

The day had not even passed yet, and you were already attempting to find a septon to affiliate the marriage. Sandor said that he would, but you were he would have threatened the poor man into it. Besides, Sandor now laid in your shared chamber in a deep sleep after being fucked so well after so long of not having any of you.

So you took the opportunity to seek out a septon. However, Winterfell lacked one after the battle of the Bastards. You were half prepared to simply perform it yourself when you overheard Jon speaking about the men who had arrived in Winterfell to aid in the great War that was soon approaching. One of the men was a priest of the Lord of Light, Beric Dondarrion. It wasn’t the religion you or Sandor were raised in, however you didn’t care. If it eased the minds of Lords and Ladies that you and he were wed under a priest or septon you didn’t care what religion it was.

You found the man easily, his description wasn’t hard to remember. A man with one eye.

You approached the man somewhat nervous that someone would overhear your inquiry or that he would refuse it, “Hello.” you spoke respectfully and gently.

“My Lady.” The man said with a smile and a soft bow of his head.

You smiled in return, “Beric Dondarian if I am not mistaken?”

He shook his head, “You are not. And you are Lady Arryn.” He pointed to the falcon embroidered onto the blue velvet of your gown that Sansa had made for you.

You looked down at the embroidering and smiled, “Is it that obvious?” You chuckled, “Would you walk with me?” You asked as you tilted your head towards the path you wished to follow. Beric willingly followed you, “I- I apologize if this is asking too much, but I am to be married and Winterfell lacks a septon.”

“I am not a septon, my Lady.” He said as he shook his head,

“No, but I hear you are a priest, or close to one.” You said gently attempting to coax the man into marrying you and your betrothed.

“I speak the Lord's words, that is all.” He said humbly

“We wish to be wed before the war. Tonight in fact.” You said cutting to the point.

Beric smiled, turned to face you, “What God do you follow?”

You faced him, “Well, my intended has no real interest in it, and I admit I pay little mind to it as well. But we were both brought up in the faith of the seven.”

He sighed, “Not the Gods I follow, I am afraid. Who is the lucky man if I may ask?” He asked, attempting to divert your mind to something more pleasant.

“Sandor Clegane.” You said softly, disappointed.

“Sandor Clegane?” Beric asked with wider eyes,

“That’s right.” You nodded, looking at him with narrow eyes, unsure of his reaction.

“I’ll do it. Not the Gods I follow, but I can manage it.” Beric conceded, with a smile.

You stepped closer to him, “You know him? Sandor.” You asked with even more narrowed eyes.

Beric chuckled to himself softly, “I think you and I have much to talk about.”

And talked to you and he did. He told you all of he and Sandors journey, and Sandors clear devotion towards you. It only solidified your commitment towards this engagement.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Later that evening, after everyone had either taken to their chambers or flocked to the taverns, you and Sandor met in the Godswood. You saw him before he saw you. He wore black leathers and an old and tattered black cloak in an attempt to remain discrete. As if his large size wouldn’t have given away who he was.

You wore an ivory gown, with a blue lace trim. You were less concerned with remaining discrete. Come the morn you and he would be known as husband and wife, lord and lady throughout the realm. You’d have Ser Leon responsible for sending word around the realm, including Winterfell.

As Sandor turned, his deep brown eyes widened at the beauty of your appearance. His mouth twitched as he held back a smile as you approached him.

“You sure you want this? You can’t take it back.” He said softly as you came face to face with him.

“You’ve said that before.” You jested, remembered when he gave you the same lecture just before taking your maidenhood. Sandor sighed as his mouth twitched with annoyance. You smiled and placed a hand on his, “Yes, yes I’m sure.” You said sweetly, “Are you?” You asked, searching his deep brown eyes, he nodded as his hand came to caress your cheek. You smiled and he graced you with a soft smile in return. Your eyes quickly went to a man standing by the Heart tree, it was Beric, waiting for you and Sandor. “I found someone who could do it,” You said, still looking over to Beric.

Sandor looked in the direction you were looking in. As his eyes fell upon Beric he huffed. “Fucking hells…” He said as you and he approached Beric. Beric smiled at the both of you as you came face to face with him. “The fuck you doing here?” Sandor grumbled, making you smirk.

Beric smiled, “Wedding you to the woman I separated you from.” Beric looked around, noticing you and he were alone, “No witnesses?” He asked,

“Does it matter?” Sandor asked,

“Suppose not-” Beric began,

Sandor interrupted, “Then get on with it.” He huffed.

You and Beric smiled at one another, amused. “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” Beric said. Normally the groom would have had a cloak. Embroidered in his house's sigil, colored in his house's colors. But because he’d no time to have one made, nor did he have any desire to make you a Clegane, no desire to bring you closer to the horror of his family tree he wrapped you in the black cloak he wore. His protection would be fierce and loyal. Beric began “We stand here, in the sight of the Gods and… ourselves.” He said, noting the lack of witnesses, “In thanks and praise, to join two souls as one. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” You and Sandor looked upon one another, his eyes were beautiful, and his gaze was warm. “Father, Mother, Warrior, Smith, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…” Sandors hand slowly and discretely found yours, “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Hear now their words. Look upon one another and say the words.” Beric instructed,

You turned to Sandor, peering into his eyes, your eyes filled with emotion “I am his, and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days, whatever may come.” You said, placing a hand on his scarred cheek.

Sandor held the wrist of your hand that held his cheek, “I am hers, and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days, whatever may come.” He recited,

“Now the pledge.” Beric said, assuming Sandor would know what to do.

Sandor however did not know, “Pledge?” He asked looking back at Beric

“The pledge of love.” Beric explained, Sandor was still confused and narrowed his eyes.

“It’s the kiss.” You explained further.

It finally clicked, “In front of him?” Sandor asked with wide eyes. It was as if you had said he was to bed you in front of him.

“Come on, Clegane-” Beric huffed,

You turned Sandors face towards you, “I’ll say it with you.” you said trying to comfort him. Sandor sighed.

In unison you both said, “With this kiss, I pledge my love.” “With this kiss, I pledge my love.”

The kiss you and he shared, was soft, gentle, and smooth. It was covered in love and felt like a form of worship. As you pulled apart.

“Hold hands,” Beric said as he began tying a ribbon around your hands. “Now the vows.” Beric said hushly, pushing you to continue the ceremony,

You smiled as you looked up at Sandor, “And I take you for my Lord, and Husband.” You said sweetly, and softly.

Resting his forehead against yours, he spoke his vows, “And I take you for my Lady, and Wife.” His words filled with you a bliss you hadn’t felt in so long. No more could anyone force you into a marriage you did not want. No more would your love be a secret. And forever more would you be his and he would be yours.

Beric finished tying the ribbon around your clasped hands in union. “Then in the presence of Gods and Men, I proclaim (Y/N) of house Arryn and Sandor of house Clegane, to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever. Cursed be he who seek to tear them asunder.” Beric smiled, as the both of you looked upon one another, at loss for what to say, “You are now, husband and wife.” Beric said less formally as he began to walk away, “I have mended what I tore apart.” He said leaving you and Sandor at the heart tree. Without a moment of hesitation once left alone Sandor grabbed hold of you by your arms.

Pulling you up to meet his starved mouth. As his lips clashed with yours he pushed you against the tree, his hands roamed your body lustful, prideful of what was now his. You moaned into his lips, it was near torment to pull away, but you knew well enough this wedding alone would be scandalized. Being caught coupling against the heart tree within the Godswood would only add to that scandalization.

“Not here,” You held his face, “In our own chambers. We’ve fucked enough in the woods.” You said recounting your brief days of freedom after the blackwater.

Sandor nodded, and wasted no time rushing you off to your chambers.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・

In the beautiful light of the fire, Sandor unclothed before you, you watched mesmerized. You pressed your thighs together as he laid on your now shared bed. He looked upon you sweetly, as you took hold of your chemise and pulled it over your head. His eyes trailed over your naked body, he swallowed hard as he attempted to restrain himself from ravishing you right then.

You crawled towards him on your bed. You ran your fingers down his hairy and broad chest. Taking in all of him. You ran your hand over his scars, no doubt earned in battle, valiantly. Your hand stopped at one large scar that was just above his pelvis. Laying across his lower stomach. You thought of how deep it must have been to create such a scar. How his life could have been taken- without thinking of it you leaned down, and kissed the scar. Your soft warm lips made Sandors muscles tense.

His hand came to pet your head, running his hand through your hair, “Say those words again.“ He said, his voice so deep it rumbled in his chest.

“What words?” You asked, looking up at him, resting your chin on his stomach. The view made his arousal grow.

“You are mine.” He whispered,

You smiled sweetly at him, “I am yours,” You ran your hand down his stomach, “Only yours.”

“Mine-“ He began but was cut short by a groan that he tried to hold back behind gritted teeth as your hand found his tenting arousal.

You palmed it, with expertise, knowing just how he liked it, “And who do you belong to?” As asked, your voice is still gentle despite your clear power over him.

He smirked slightly, looking at you with love, “You.” he said, “Only you.” He said as his hand came to your chin, pulling you to his mouth. Almost immediately his tongue found yours as his hands found your body. Caressing your breasts gently, contrasting his calloused and rough hands.

You continued to palm his cock, cherishing the moans and groans that left his lips and poured into your mouth. Unable to resist it, you pulled his length out from his small clothes. Stroking it, slowly, almost teasingly.

“Fuck-” He hissed into your mouth with another sweet moan. You began to straddle his thigh as you rocked yourself against him as you continued to stroke his cock in your hand. His muscles tensed, only making it all the more pleasurable for you to grind yourself on his thigh. Making you buck your hips uncontrollably.

You had to stop yourself, as an uncontrollable desire washed over you. You seized your movements, making Sandor near whine if he hadn’t stopped himself. Instead he grunted, “What the fuck are you-” He asked as you lowered yourself between his legs. He sat up, unsure if he’d be able to control himself if you began what you were about to.

“Let me,” You said sweetly, “I’ve not done it properly to you.” You said gently as you stroked his length again, causing him to submit. He laid back into the cushion of your bed letting out a soft groan.

And so, you began. Taking his cock into your mouth, just the tip was enough to make Sandor grip onto the blankets, he grunted as you worked your way lower and lower. Careful to take your time. You worked your tongue along as you sucked.

He was large, thick and long, it was indeed a challenge, but one that you were set on. And his moans only encourage you. Masterfully, somehow, you were able to navigate what he liked most simply by listening to his moans and soon you fell into a rhythm. As you did you felt your core beginning to ache, almost painfully. So you slid one hand into the wetness of your cunt as you sucked your husband's cock. His hand came to your head, not harsh or forceful, just tangling his hand in your hair. Wanting to be close to you.

Once he noticed your hand, working you, his knuckles practically turned white gripping the sheets. “Fuck,” He hissed, “I can’t-can’t last long.” He said holding back pathetic moans. “I need your cunt.” He practically growled.

You’d be lying if you didn’t need the relief either.

So you released him, your lips swollen and your cunt aching.

Sandor pulled your face to his own, kissing your wet lips. “Such a pretty fucking mouth” He said into your lips. As he was distracted with your lips, you straddled his lap, beginning to push yourself down onto his cock, only making him kiss you with more fury as he and you moaned into one another mouths.

There was practically no burn, his cock was so wet, and your cunt was too. He could have slid in with ease, but you didn’t want him slowly. You plunged him into your cunt. Making him grip the plush of your hips. So tightly you knew it would be leaving a mark the next day.

Your lips parted from him, wanting to hear his moans, the moans you were working so hard on to produce from him. “You’re mine.” You said in a breathy moan as you rode him.

“Don’t forget that.” He said, as Your pace did not let up or slow. Moaning and not caring who heard it. Your hips rocked against Sandor as he moaned and groaned behind gritted teeth.

Without warning Sandor sat up, wrapping his arms around you as you bucked against him. His mouth ravaged your breasts, chest, and your neck.

“Sandor!” You moaned, making him buck his hips up into you. His cock was hitting that perfect spot in your cunt, and mercilessly pounding against your cervix. You clenched around him harder and harder, pulsing, “Gods! I need to-Sandor,” You called out to him pathetically, “I need to-I’m going to-” You plead desperately.

“I know birdie,” He said as he kept bucking into you, “Cum on me,” He said as his mouth went to your nipple, sucking at it as he bit slightly.

The bite sent a shock wave through you and you couldn’t help it, clenching down on him you felt the tension in you snap and you felt yourself shake. He held you as you reached your peak, “I want to fuck my seed into you.” He groaned deeply against your hot skin. All you could was nod, blinded by your orgasm. But soon you were shot back to reality as his seed shot deep within you. You felt the heat painting you from inside.

The only thing you both could do was collapse into one another arms as you laid there recovering the euphoria.

Panting against one another, laying in one another arms, feeling the others hot and sticky skin.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・

That was nothing like the wedding you were always promised. You were always told you were to marry a highborn lord, maybe even the prince. You were going to wed in a great sept, with all the lords and ladies of the seven kingdoms in attendance. Your father would give you away, and then you’d be shipped off to live with that lord for the rest of your days. But this wasn’t the wedding others wanted for you, this was the wedding you wanted for you.

Sandor had carried you off to your bathing chamber. After drawing you a bath he lowered your naked form into the warm water. He only in breeches, bathed you. Washing water over your hair, careful not to get any in your face.

“I want to know more.” You said, your eyes half lidded, in pure bliss at that moment.

“About what?” He asked gentler than normal.

“You. Your life.” You said sweetly, as you looked into his eyes. His eyes looked like a baby calf’s. Deep brown eyes, with long thick lashes. They made you smile.

“What about it?” He asked, rubbing his thumb against your cheek.

You smiled and shook your head, “I don’t know, that’s the issue. What of your family?”

Sandor sighed, “Father was a Knight for the Lannisters, Mother was a bastard of Crakehall.” He looked down, thinking back to her, “I don’t remember much of her. She died giving birth to a sister I don’t remember either.” You placed a hand on his, you didn’t know that you’d had that in common, “My father died hunting with Gregor. He says it was an accident but I know it wasn’t.” His tone got darker, “The day he died I left our keep and Gregor inherited it all. I went to King's Landing. I became the Lannisters' sword, their dog. I never went back to the keep.” He said, returning his attention back to you.

“You never want to go back?” You asked, with narrowed brows.

He shook his head stoically, “I’m just a second son. That land isn’t mine.” He said as he began to clean your nails with a washcloth.

“Your brother is a Queen's Guard now. He has given up his land.” You said gently.

He stopped, and looked at you, his eyes filled with... Fear? “I don’t want to go back there… I don’t want you there. When Gregor attacked me, it took three men to pull him off. Three fucking men to pull him off his own little brother.” He began to rile himself up,

“Shhh…” You said as you caressed his face, rubbing your thumb against his cheek.

He put his hand on top of the hand you caressed his cheek with, “I don’t want you near him.” He said earnestly, “My brother has taken any family I have ever had, he can’t take you.”

You sat up in your tub, getting closer to his face. “He won’t.” You said just as earnestly. As you sat back, you directed the conversation more pleasantly. “You are much more than a second son. What do you want?” Sandor looked at you confused, “My ambitions can’t be all we attend to. What do you want?” You asked gently

He thought for a moment, then answered, “Peace. I want to lay in a bed with you, after a day of eating, drinking, and fucking.”

You smiled, and took his hand, “I think we can accommodate that.” You said as you playfully bit onto his hand.

He smiled at you slightly, “I thought for fucks sure, you would marry some cunt lord right in front of me.” His tone darkened again,

“I wouldn’t have been able to.” You said as you kissed his hand.

“You wouldn’t have had the choice.” He sighed, “I don’t believe in fairytales and holy vows. But… here we are.” He looked at you in awe, as if you’d hung each star in the sky. “What's this vow? The one you promised to your mother. I never asked.” He asked, realizing he should have asked long long ago.

You looked down, fidgeting with your fingers, taking a breath before beginning. “My mother tried to give my father a son for as long as I could remember. Always on her childbed. And each time, she lost the babe. I was the only living babe she birthed. You can imagine the disappointment my father felt.” You sighed a laugh, attempting to make light of the pain you felt. Sandors eyes however felt the pain you did, “But with each birth it was more and more difficult.” You continued, “Her last babe came early… far too early. The maester wasn’t even in the Eyrie, he was below in the Moongates. It’s miles from the Eyrie.” Your eyes stared off somewhere distant, as if you were there as you retold the horrible tale. “My father left to retrieve him personally, as my mother labored. She didn’t want any of the handmaidens touching her. The pain was too great. She laid there bleeding and screaming. She only allowed me in. All her handmaidens were huddled in a corner of the room, watching in horror.” You shook your head slowly, thinking back on it, “When the babe finally came, my mother had lost so much blood, she knew she was dying. She held my face and made me promise that I would keep her son,” You took a deep breath fighting back emotion. “and her house, safe.” You looked back to Sandor, “I held that boy in my arms for hours. Edmure, I called him. He was so small, and fragile. I didn’t let any of the handmaidens touch him. I just sat there on the floor holding him. Rocking him back and forth. When the maester finally came, he demanded I give him the boy. So I did.” A single tear fell from your cheek as you finished, “He died right then.” You wiped it, and looked down. “My father named me heir, maybe to mend our broken bond, maybe to mend his favor to the Gods for he’d done to my mother. But not until he agreed to marry my aunt.” You said, your tone deeper.

After that. The truth was that if your father wasn’t beloved by you, or already dead in the ground, Sandor would’ve beaten him to a pulp for what he’d done.

Sandor forced you to look at him, pulling your gaze to his by holding your chin up. “I’ll help you get it. If anyone tries to stop you I’ll kill them. Anything you want I’ll bring it to your feet.” He vowed, as you rested your forehead onto his.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

The next morning, you were missing in attendance at Jon’s small council meeting. What they didn’t know was that you were sound asleep in your chambers with your new husband.

Jon sat there, annoyed as he said, “Where is (Y/N).” He looked to Sansa expecting she’d know, “She is part of this council, she should be here.”

“Unwell I presume.” Sansa said stoically.

“We must allow her some grace. The morning after your wedding night is often tiring or so I hear.” Varys, Tyrion's spider said. The air in the room was sucked out, Varys looked around “I surely cannot be the only one to know. They did it in Godswood last night.”

“Married to who?” Jon asked with furrowed brows,

“The Hound.” Varys said.

“The Hound?” Jon asked in disbelief.

“The Hound.” Sansa said, unphased by the news.

“You knew?” Jon asked Sansa, angrily.

Sansa shrugged, “I assumed it would happen.”

Jon scoffed, “How would you assume that? A man like that-”

“I shall retrieve her.” Sansa interrupted Jons ramblings, as she stood up ready to retrieve you.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

That night you fell asleep in one another’s arms. You were holding him close to your naked form. Rocking your hips slowly, with his cock still in you. When you finally drifted into sleep, neither of you moved from one another. So when you awoke he was still in you.

“Mmmphm.” You groaned as Sandor slid out of you,

“Sorry.” Sandor said as he brushed your hair from your face.

“It’s alright.” You smiled softly, “I’m just happy to sleep beside you.” You rested your chin against his chest looking up at him, he kept staring at you. “What?” You asked with a sweet smile.

“Beautiful.” He whispered as he caressed your face.

“I am a mess.” You said, and you weren’t wrong. Your hair was tangled from sleep, and you were half naked as your chemise was falling off of you.

“No.” You asserted, as he pulled your face close to his, kissing you sweetly.

“Handsome.” You said rubbing your nose against his.

“Fuck off,” He grumbled,

You raised your brows at him, “You don’t believe me?” You asked offendedly. When he shook his head you leaned down and bit his arm. Not deeply but enough to leave a pretty mark.

“Ah!” He moaned, “Fuck are you doing?” He asked,

“You think I’m a liar?” You said offendedly,

“Look at me.” He sighed, confident that he were not handsome.

“I am.” You said softly, confident that he was.

Just as you were about to kiss and most likely fall into another hour of fucking, a knocking at your chamber door interrupted any plans you may of had.

Sandor groaned as you in haste flew out of your bed and found a robe to cover yourself.

As you walked to the door you opened it slightly to see Sansa standing there.

“Is there something needed of me?” You asked softly,

“Your presence in the council meeting.” She said a bit annoyed.

You quickly stepped into the hallway with Sansa. Closing the door so no one would see your naked husband in your bed. “I am sorry, last night I could not find sleep-”

She interrupted you, “I am not stupid. The dragon queen's spider saw you and the hound wed last night.”

You sighed, “Well, I suppose that makes things easier.” You attempted to jest.

“Why did you not tell me?” She asked, earnest and hurt.

You stepped towards her, “No one was to know, not until afterwards. Then I would have told you, of course.”

“I would have made you a gown.” She said finding it hard to stay upset with you.

“I’ve no doubt it would have been the most beautiful in the realm.” You smiled, and she smiled back in return. You placed a hand on her arm “I am sorry.” You said earnestly. She sighed and nodded. Soon turning her attention to the state of your hair.

“What happened in there?” She asked

“Many things.” You said with a smirk.

“Many things?” She questioned.

“Many things.” You restated

Sansa huffed a giggle, “Rest, I’ll mend your obligations.” She said as she left.

You did as she asked,

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

As you rested your husband, now taking his duties seriously, set out to find you something to eat.

Not before finding trouble in the courtyard.

Word had traveled fast since one of the spider's informants had seen you and the Hound wed. And Sandor was not a fan of the new looks he was getting. They were different from the fearful looks he was used to.

Some man, a knight of some minor house in the North approached Sandor, “They call you the Hound. What noble lady would marry a Hound?” He asked unreasonably confidently. The other knights around him began to snicker, “Tell me, did you fuck her like a Hound, that why she was forced to marry-” The man couldn’t finish his insult before the Hounds fist met the mans jaw. The man hit the floor, his mouth bleeding and his jaw more than likely broken. All the snickering ceased.

Sandor looked around at all the men and said, “Any more words come out of any of your cunt mouths about my wife, I’ll take your head.” He began to walk before Tormund stopped him.

Tormunds eyes were wide and hurt, “She’s your wife?” he asked,

Sandor looked at him with pride as he leaned in, “Aye. She’s my fucking wife.” he said in a deep and low voice, as if it were a warning.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

It didn’t take long for Sandor to hear another person's opinion on his new betrothal. As he was leaving the blacksmith, after getting his dragon glass ax, he was approached by Jon.

“You married (Y/N), In the late hours of the night?” He asked angrily.

“Aye.” Sandor sighed, already tired by the interaction.

“Why?” Jon asked, clearly upset by the entire situation.

“Fuck do you think?” Sandor said, walking past jon.

“Why her, why my cousin?” Jon asked, following him.

“You share no blood with her.” Sandor said, his tone much calmer than Jons.

“Answer the question.” Jon commanded,

Sandor stopped and stepped closer to Jon, “She’s a strong woman.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed, “Aye, a strong woman who’s run from every betrothal that’s been offered to her-“

“Offered?” Sandor scoffed, knowing all of your other betrothals were against your will.

“Why her?” Jon finally asked.

Sandor stepped enough closer to Jon, making Jon take a step back. “We both know ‘Why her?’ What you and I both want to know is ‘Why me?’. And for fucks sake I don’t know.” He said earnestly

Jon searching for a reason could only find ones that weren’t true, was she pregnant, was he forcing her? “Did you- did-“

Sandor, knowing where his accusations were going, stopped Jon. Worrying if he finished his sentence he’d have to beat the cousin of his wife. “You’re protective over your own. Over her. I appreciate that. But she’s my own now too. And I protected her fuck lot better than you did in Kings Landing. Protect your sisters too. Don’t believe me? Ask her.” Sandor’s tone was softer now. Understanding Jons confusion because shared it too. “Dont think she’s some lost fucking babe in the woods. That fucking woman is more clever than that bald cunt you cling to. The only reason you have this bloody castle is cause of her. Without (Y/N) those Bolton animals would be here. My wife knows what she’s doing.” He said with pride, “Now, I’ve got to find something for my wife to eat.” Sandor said as he left Jon to stew in his anger and confusion.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

You however were no longer resting in your chambers. You were now walking with Ser Leon, around the battle preparations. You saw the men creating the armor for your knights

“You should be plating their armor with leather.” You said the man creating the armor.

“The Vale is known by silver and blue, My Lady.” The man said,

“The Vale will not survive this war if their soldiers die from the cold. Then they will not be known for anything. Plate them in leather.” You corrected the man.

“Yes, my Lady.” The man nodded his head.

You turned to Ser Leon, “And I want each man equipped with dragon glass swords, as well as daggers.” You said confidently.

“A wise choice my Lady.” Ser Leon said.

“When the time comes, Brienne of Tarth will lead the Knights into battle. You will lead our archers at the castle walls, Ser Leon.” You said

“My Lady, If I may…” Ser Leon said, and you nodded allowing him to express himself. “A Knight of the Vale should lead the Knights of the Vale.”

“Ser Leon, you have stepped up the challenges that Ser Cole left behind. And you’ve done a wonderful job at it. If we win this war I want you alive for the next. Is that clear?” You said with the cadence that of a queen.

Ser Leon nodded, “Yes, my Lady.”

You smiled, “Good, on with it then.” You dismissed him. As he left you noticed behind him was your Lord Husband.

“Husband.” You said smiling.

“Wife.” He said in return as he walked towards you.

“Did you get your ax?” You asked. Sandor held up the ax, allowing you to examine it, your pretty fingers gliding across the blade, “A pretty weapon isn’t it?” You said as you looked at the deep black color of the dragon glass.

Sandor smirked, “You know about weapons now do you, birdie?” He asked strangely seductively for a man who was hesitant to kiss you in front of another man just that night.

“I’ve become accustomed.” You said, raising an eyebrow at him.

Sandor leaned in closer to you, “I like watching you bark at those men.” He whispered,

You smirked, “I like the way you look at me when you watch.”

“Well…” He said, stepping even closer to you, “Some of your pretty knights keep following me around.”

“Does my Lord Husband not wish for this?” You asked, Sandor shook his head with a smirk. You looked behind him, noticing the two knights in question. “Ser Máximos.” You said,

“Yes, My Lady?” Ser Maximos said,

“You and Ser Agustin are dismissed. And let it be known my Lord Husband needn’t any protection. He does well enough on his own.” You commanded,

“Yes, my Lady.” Ser Maximos said as he and Ser Agustin left.

You looked back to Sandor, seeing his eyes hungry and lustful “Come Husband, I’ve a gift for you.” You said sweetly as you led him back to your shared chambers.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

And a gift you did indeed have. You had black armor made for Sandor, now that his last set of armor was ruined after he and Brienne’s battle.

“I had it made.” You said as you helped him put the armor on, “You cannot fight in a war without armor.” Sandor looked at you like you know that he could fight a war without armor, “I would not send you into one unarmored.” You explained.

“No bird?” Sandor asked as he looked at the armor, noticing that you did not brand his armor with your house sigil.

“You aren’t a knight of the Vale. You’re not owned.” You said clasping the last bits of his armor onto him “You’re a true warrior, in your own right. I wouldn’t brand your armor.” You said as you looked him up and down, as all of his armor besides his gloves were on, “Do you like it?”

“It’s armor.” Sandor huffed, not caring for the aesthetics of what he wore, “Thank you.” he said softly.

“The men who made it said it was quite difficult to get it right.” You said running your hands along his armor, admiring his body.

“That’s cause I’m a big fucker.” He grumbled,

“Yes…” You said lost in the filthy thoughts you were having by simply laying your eyes on his form in the armor. Your eyes found his, “It’s a good thing.” You clarified. Your hands found his, as you looked down you noticed his right hand knuckles were bruised, “What happened to your knuckles?” You said, running your thumb along them.

“Mhpm… The man's jaw was harder than it looked.” He said with a shrug, trying to blow it off completely.

“And why did you feel the need to hit another man?” you questioned,

“Because I didn’t have a blade.” Sandor said, you tilted your head at his response. Your face obviously showed that you were not satisfied with his answer. “The fucker had it coming.” He said frustrated, and angry thinking back to what the man had said. “Said some cuntmouthed shit about you.”

“What?” You questioned gently,

“Some old maid horseshit.” He huffed. You still stared at him waiting for more information unsatisfied with the answers he was giving you. “You were forced to wed me because I defiled you, there.” He huffed.

You smiled at Sandor. You hated to admit it, but it aroused you. That he would hit a man over an insult. His armor didn’t help calm your arousal either, you trailed your fingers against the skin of his neck, “I wasn’t forced. And I like it when you defile me.” You said seductively. Sandors hand came around your throat gently, about to ravage you, until, just like this morning, a knock fell on your chamber door.

“Who is it?” Sandor barked, angry someone dared interrupt.

“Ser Leon, my Lord.” Ser Leon said from behind the door.

“Fuck does he want?” Sandor rasped, low enough just for you to hear.

You smirked at his frustration, “What is it, Ser Leon?” You asked loud enough for Ser Leon to hear from beyond the door.

“Queen Danerys, Lord Snow, and Lady Sansa have requested your council, my Lady.” Ser Leon said.

You sighed, kissing your husband once more, sweetly before making your way to the council room.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

As you sat among the council members, Jon, Sansa, and Daenerys, your Lord Husband stood behind you, acting as your sworn shield.

You and the council heard the plea of Jaime Lannister, begging for him to be allowed to stay and fight in Winterfell. It was clear that Daenerys was not happy with the prospect of having the murderer of her father stay. And that you could understand.

However when it came time to decide whether or not he would be staying, Brienne of Tarth defended Jaimes plea.

Sansa, trusting her own sworn sword stated, “I trust you with my life. If you trust him with yours, we should let him stay.”

Daenerys, unhappy with this judgment, turned to Jon, “What does the warden of the North say about this?”

Jon, painfully conceded, knowing it would upset her. “We need every man we can get.”

Daenerys, still unhappy, in a last stitch effort turned her attention towards you. “And the East?”

Unafraid with your husband behind you, you stated confidently, “I trust the judgments of Lady Sansa, and Jon is right. If the threat is as great as you say, we need every man we can get.”

She looked upon you with angry eyes, “Very well.” Dany conceded, angrily.

As you rose from your chair, your Husband stood behind you. You and he walked down the hall together,

“I don’t think she likes me.” You said to your husband.

“Then she’s a cunt.” Sandor said,

“Saved your life did she not?” You questioned.

“Eh.” Sandor said, not disregarding any of that.

You smirked, and you looked back to Sandor, “How do you feel about it? Having another Lannister here.” You asked, genuinely wondering if it had made him uncomfortable.

Sandor shrugged as you and he walked, “Least that one didn’t try to fuck you.” He huffed.

“Fair point.” You said as you and he entered the library where you and Sansa were to discuss further battle plans with Lord Royce.

Not long after, Daenerys entered the library. You and Sansa stood in her presence.

“I would like to speak to the Ladies alone.” Daenerys said, looking at Lord Royce and Sandor.

Sandor stood his ground behind you. Unwilling to take any command from anyone other than you. You looked at Sandor, “It’s alright.” You said softly. Sandor nodded and left you, Sansa, and Daenerys to speak in privacy.

“I thought we were all on the verge of an agreement about Ser Jaime.” Daenerys said as she stepped towards you and Sansa.

“Brienne has always been loyal to me. I trust her.” Sansa said, in her tone it was clear that she did not trust Daenerys.

Daenerys smiled, “I wish I could have that kind of faith in my advisors.”

“Tyrion is a good man.” You said, attempting to defend your former betrothed, “He can be arrogant but has been nothing but decent.”

“I didn’t ask him to be my advisor because he was good. I asked him to be my hand because he is good, intelligent, and ruthless when he needs to be.” Daenerys said as she stepped closer to you and Sansa. “He should have never trusted Cersei.”

“Neither should have you.” Sansa said, boldly.

“I thought he knew his sister.” Daenerys said, with a smile.

“Families are complicated.” You said, sitting down.

“Ours certainly have been.” Daenerys said as she sat down as well.

“A sad thing for us all to have in common.” You said, trying to bridge a commonality between the women in this room.

“We share more than that. We all know what it means to lead people who aren’t inclined to accept a woman’s rule. And we’ve all done a damn good job of it, from what I can tell.” Daenerys said, kindly. Sansa smiled at her words. “And yet, I can’t help but feel we’re at odds with one another. Why is that?” She asked softly.

“What happens afterwards?” Sansa asked earnestly, “We defeat the dead, we destroy Cersei. What happens then?”

“I take the Iron Throne.” Daenerys said, you felt the tension in the room rise once again.

“What about the North? It was taken from us, and we took it back and we said we’d never bow to anyone else again. What about the North?” Sansa reasserted. You admired her boldness but knew she was choosing a dangerous path.

“Excuse me my Ladies-“ Lord Royce announced as he entered the room.

“What is it?” Daenerys said angrily at the interruption.

“Theon Greyjoy has arrived, my Lady.” Royce said.

“Theon?” Sansa said in disbelief.

She and Daenerys left the library in haste. You however, overwhelmed with the interaction, stayed behind. You cleaned up the books that you and Sansa were using. As you did, Jon entered the chamber.

“So, you’re a married woman now.” He said,

“Said the vows willingly.” You said in a sigh, not wanting to explain your love.

“The Hound?” Jon questioned you sharply.

“Sandor Clegane, is his name.” You corrected him.

“And you? Lady Clegane, now?” Jon asked, almost taunting you.

“I’ve kept my name.” You said calmly.

“He’s alright with that?” Jon questioned.

“According to law, If a Lady born in a higher station than her betrothed she keeps her name. Besides, he doesn't care about names.” You said as you put the books you were using back on their correct shelves.

“You sure he’s… right for you?” Jon asked, calmly.

“Why do you care?” You asked, turning to face him head on.

“You are my cousin-”

You interrupted him, “That’s not what you said when I arrived in Castle Black.” You said defiantly.

Jon sighed, “I was wrong. We might not be blood but I care. I do not wish to see you harmed.”

You scoffed, “And you think he will harm me? Why? Do you place a judgment on him because of his name?” You asked, walking towards him.

“I place judgment because of the brutality the Cleganes have inflicted.” He said, as if he knew better than you did.

“You’re playing the role of a protective brother now?” You held in a laugh, amused by how ridiculous his accusations were. He did not know him at all.

“Just heard stories is all.” Jon said

You signed, “He isn’t like his brother. He has committed dishonorable acts in the name of the King. But what was he to do? Besides, he has long atoned for them.” You said, attempting to ease Jon’s worries.

“You don’t think he’ll harm you?” Jon asked softly,

“I know he won’t.” You said confidently, “He is my Lord Husband, my sworn shield and sword. He serves me with faithfulness, valor, devotion…” Your strong headed and defiant demeanor dropped, replaced with a more soft and earnest one, “and love.” You said with a smile.

Jon sighed, and nodded “Alright then. You’re an intelligent woman, a strong one too. If you trust him-”

“I do. More than anyone.” You asserted,

“Then I’ll stand by him.” He said, finally giving in.

“Good. You've got a war to prepare for.” You said sweetly, with a smile.

Jon smiled softly and nodded “I’ll ready my men, you ready yours.”

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

As you went down to observe your Knights training, you noticed one much larger than the others, dressed in black armor. Your Lord Husband.

“Ah!” Sandor shouted as his sword clashed against the other knights.

“Well struck, Lord Clegane.” Ser Leon shouted from the observation deck. Sandor rolled his eyes at the new title the Knights had given him.

“Ser Leon?” You said as you approached him.

“Yes, my Lady?” Ser leon asked,

“How well do you believe my Husband will fare in the war?” You asked as you watched how savagely your Husband fought.

“Your husband?” Ser Leon asked, “The Lord Clegane will fare very well. Most men need to use two hands to hold a sword that big. Forgive me but I have never seen a man fight as he does.” Ser Leon said with a hint of intimidation in his voice.

“Neither have I.” You said with a smirk as you watched your Husband from below fight. You hated to admit it but it was making you wet, watching him brutally swing his massive sword, and land each blow.

“Excuse me, my Lady-” Ser Leon said as he left your side to correct another Knights training. “Ser Meryn! Do not hesitate-” You tuned out the rest of what he was saying as you watched your husband.

“Ah!” He shouted as his sword turned the knight's shield into a pile of splintered wood.

“I yield! I yield!” The knight shouted, Sandor dropped his heavy sword to the ground and walked off panting and huffing.

You smiled, biting your lip. “Very good, Husband.” You shouted down to him from the deck.

Sandor waited for you at the bottom of the deck. Once you finally reached it you and he began to walk back to your chambers. “Those knights keep calling me Lord.” Sandor complained,

“You are a Lord now.” You said, amused by Sandor’s hesitation to the role.

“I’m no Lord.” He said, huffing still out of breath from the training.

“You are now that you married to me. If you didn’t wish to be then you shouldn’t have.” You said sarcastically.

However Sandor did not find the jest funny. He pulled you into your chambers as soon as you reached them.

“Enough of that.” He barked,

You ignore his words, mesmerized by his armored body, and the wetness between your legs. “Your armor suits you well.” You said as your eyes trailed over his form. “I want to you to take me,” You commanded, “I want it hard.” Your hands grasped at the breastplate of his armor, pulling him closer.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.” His voice is dark and deep.

“All day I have been arguing, and commanding other men. All day I’ve been preparing for a war.” You said removing your shoes, and your socks. Rolling them down from your thighs, it mesmerized Sandor. “I’m frustrated, and aggravated. And now all I want is for my Husband, to fuck me hard enough I don’t have to think of any of it for just a moment.” You practically pleaded,

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He said, gently.

“You won’t, my love.” You said sweetly as you walked over to your bed.

You lifted your skirts presenting your ass to him as you bent over the side of your bed. You looked back at him with sweet and longing eyes.

Palming his hardening cock, Sandor walked over to you “Whatever my wife wishes.” He said as he landed a firm spank against your ass, making you yelp. “What you fucking get for biting me.”

“Do it again-“ You asked, and he obeyed, “Mphm!” You moaned,

“You like that?” He asked as his hand fondled your ass, soothing the spank he landed on it just a second ago.

“Mhhhmmmmm” You bit your lip, and turned yourself onto your back, looking up at your husband.

“My wife is a dirty little bird.” He said with a smirk,

“You make her one.” You said as you began to palm at breeches.

He grabbed your wrist taking it away “Ask nicely woman, I’m not one of those knights you bark at.”

“Please, my love-“ You begged, as he wanted you to, “fuck me- fuck me like a warrior in battle.”

He smirked, and grabbed ahold of your dress by your neck line, “This dress has been teasing me all fucking day. Pushing your perfect tits up just begging for me to fucking rip this open.” He said as he ripped the fabric with ease. As your breasts came exposed his eyes trailed over them, “Fuck…” He continued to rip off your gown until it was ripped clean from your body. Leaving you in your small clothes. However, that only aggravated him more, “Give me these.” He said as he ripped them off of your body, making your gasp. He looked at your small clothes, at how wet they were. “Seven fucking hells, birdie. You don’t need prepping do you? You’ve been this needy for my cock all day?” He asked, and you were so wanting that you couldn’t bring yourself to speak any words. All you could do was nod. Sandor smiled, “Show me. Show me how needy my wife is for me.” He said stepping closer, between your legs as you laid against the edge of the bed.

You began to rock your hips, rubbing your bare cunt against his clothed erection. “Please, please, please,” You begged, so desperate you tried to press the tented bulge of his pants into you. Sandor looked down and saw the visible wet mark you were leaving on his breeches. Without warning he pulled his hardened length out, and plunged himself into you, “Ah!” You cried out, He continued to push himself in and out of you at a brutal pace. “Harder!” you commanded. He hesitated for a moment, but soon flipped you over onto your belly. Continuing his brutal pace he wrapped his arm around your throat. Putting you in a headlock as he hammered his cock into your weeping cunt.

As he held you close to his chest, you held onto his strong arm as it was wrapped around your throat. Choking only slightly. Sandor licked and kissed at your ear as he moaned and groaned into it, “You feel too fucking good-fuck-keep clenching around me!” He commanded, as if you had a choice. It felt so good your cunt was spasming uncontrollably. “That’s it, that’s it, taking it so fucking well for me.” He encouraged you as his other hand pinched at your nipples, then roamed down towards your cunt, rubbing at your clit just as brutally as he was fucking you. He couldn’t help it, normally he’d wait for you, normally he could wait as long as he needed to but you were moaning so beautifully, and you were clenching around him so well he without any warning, spilt his seed into you.

The feelings of the heat was everything you needed to push you over the edge. You shaked hard, as you felt yourself cum on his cock, feeling your juices flow out of you and onto him.

Sandor laid you down gently, leaning over you, he brushed your hair out of your sweaty and flushed face, “Are you alright?” He asked, out of breathe,

You smiled up at him, “I am going to fill your belly with wine and chicken.”

Truth was, he had gone easy on you.

NOTE:

BIG SHOUT OUT TO THE GIRLS WHO GAVE ME SMUT SUGGESTIONS LMK IF YOU WANT CREDIT— I am growling and snarling behind the bars of my enclosure. Also I have such a good idea for a new fic and yall aren’t getting it for so long lol. Anyways….. enjoy..

Bambi

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theetherealbloom · 5 months ago

Text

AS GOOD A REASON - CH. 4 | OBERYN MARTELL

Chapter Four: I Will Be Your Executioner

Summary: You, who has made it her life's work to get retribution on those who mistreated and harassed you when you were a child. The scars on your body are a physical reminder of the suffering you endured at the hands of abusers, and they also provide the fuel for your years-long quest for retribution.

Paring: Oberyn Martell x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MINORS GO AWAY, GoT is full of serious and harmful topics, mentions of SA, Rape (not the reader), Murder, Violence, Gore, War, Poison, Scars, Burns, Scratching, Su!c!de, AU, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Blood, War, Religion References, Nudity, Domestic Abuse, Incest, Prostitution, Weapons, Fire, Horror, Character Deaths, Rewrite Alternate Universe, Sex, Alcohol, Revenge, Panic Attacks, Anxiety Attack,

Word Count: 9k

A/N: OMFGGGGGG I’m actually writing non-stop. Wtf. Guys this part is heavily inspired by many quotes from the Glory. It’s so goooooddd! Go watch it. ALSO LMAO sorry for the chonky chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: No Choir by Florence + The Machine

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

THE WEDDING RECEPTION

KING'S LANDING GARDEN, RED KEEP — AFTERNOON

The once-vibrant garden has turned into a scene from a nightmare. Joffrey’s lifeless body lies in his mother’s lap, the blood trickling from his nose and mingling with the vomit caking his lips. Cersei’s scream cuts through the chaos like a blade, her finger trembling as it points directly at Tyrion.

"You did this! You did this!" she shrieks, her voice cracking with grief and rage.

Tyrion barely has time to react before three guards seize him from behind, their grip firm, dragging him back. The entire court is thrown into disarray, nobles scrambling, unsure where to look or what to say. The shock hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating.

Your eyes flick to Sansa as she watches, wide-eyed and frozen in place. Ser Dontos Hollard, the fool, sidles up to her, his face pale with urgency.

“We have to leave,” he whispers frantically, his hand tugging at her sleeve.

Sansa looks to you, her expression a mix of confusion and terror, searching for an answer. You meet her gaze and give the smallest, subtlest nod, speaking in the quietest voice that only she can hear.

"Run."

You keep your posture relaxed, every movement calculated, as though the chaos around you is nothing but a passing storm. Let it swirl, let them scream, none of it touches you.

Cersei’s piercing voice shatters the air again. “Take him! Take him!”

The guards drag Tyrion away through the crowd, his face a mask of resignation. You shift, sliding further to the edge of the gathering, your eyes tracking Sansa as she and Ser Dontos disappear, swallowed by the throng of horrified nobles. As Cersei’s head whips around, searching for a new target for her grief, her shrill voice rises again.

"Where is his wife? Where's Sansa?!"

Tywin's voice booms over the garden, commanding attention with the force of authority, “Find her. Bar the gates of the city. Seize every ship in the harbor.”

The tension mounts as Cersei, distraught and frenzied, clings to Tywin. “Where is she?!”

“No one leaves the capital!" Tywin's voice echoes like a decree from the gods themselves. "No one!”

The wheels are turning, but you remain steady, unmoved, watching everything unfold like a distant observer.

KING'S LANDING, RED KEEP — DUSK

The bells toll ominously across the city, signaling not just the king's death but the beginning of a lockdown. What had begun as a celebration of young love and power had spiraled into a suffocating horror—a wedding turned funeral. The streets were locked down, the gates barred, and whispers spread like wildfire among the servants. Every corner of the Red Keep hummed with dread.

You sat in the dim light of your chambers, fingers tracing over the pages of your journal. On the list of names you had scrawled, Joffrey’s stood out, now crossed out in thick ink. The weight of his demise did not lift your heart, but there was a cold satisfaction in seeing that line through his name.

A knock on your door broke the silence. You didn’t even look up, your voice calm, measured. “Enter.”

Serena stepped in, her movements quiet and careful as she shut the door behind her, turning the lock with a soft click before coming to sit beside you. Her eyes fell to your journal, to the page you’d been reading, and her gaze lingered on the crossed-out name.

Her voice was soft when she asked, “Did you…”

You didn’t hesitate. “It wasn’t me who slipped the poison.” Your tone was blunt, matter-of-fact. Serena was smart—she could piece together the rest on her own. She nodded slowly, absorbing the truth behind your words.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said softly. “I’d still like to thank you. For doing this.”

Her gratitude was real, but it didn’t touch you. Nothing did anymore. You turned to her, your expression as unreadable as stone.

"I didn’t do it for thanks," you said, your voice as cold as the air before a storm. “I did it because people like him—people like them—will only understand one thing from now on.” You paused, holding Serena’s gaze, unblinking. “They will suffer, just as we have.”

Serena nodded, her lips tightening into a thin line. She knew. She understood.

And so, your revenge continued. Joffrey’s name may have been crossed out, but there were others. And as you sat there, cold and detached, you knew this was only the beginning of a longer reckoning. The suffering had only just begun.

THE NEXT DAY

STREETS OF SILK, CHATAYA’S BROTHEL — DAY

The city pulsed with a nervous energy, the fallout of Joffrey’s death rippling through every alleyway, every corner of King’s Landing. It was rare for you to have a day free from the palace, but amidst the chaos, no one had cared when a few servants slipped away. The Red Keep had become a den of paranoia, each person trying to avoid the eye of suspicion. A perfect time to disappear—even if just for a while.

As you walked through the streets, your steps silent, deliberate, you overheard a conversation between two guards. Their voices were low, yet their words unmistakable. Tywin plans to confront Oberyn. The Hand of the King knew of Oberyn's frequent visits to Chataya’s brothel—it was no secret that the Dornish prince indulged himself openly. Tywin’s suspicions were spreading like wildfire, and you needed to be there to hear what he might uncover.

Pulling your cloak tight around you, you kept to the shadows, slipping between the narrow alleys that twisted like veins through the streets of silk. The map of the city was etched into your mind as clearly as the secrets you kept—memorized over years of service, of watching and waiting.

You reached the brothel just as the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. Slipping through the back door, you moved with the practiced silence of someone who knew how to remain unseen. A shadow among shadows. The moans and laughter of the brothel’s patrons created a cover of noise, perfect for hiding in plain sight.

The scent of incense and sweat filled the air, thick and cloying, but you barely noticed. Your eyes were fixed ahead, scanning for any sign of Tywin or his men. You crept further into the brothel, slipping behind a large stone pillar that stood near one of the darker corners of the room. Hidden in the gloom, you were just another part of the architecture, unseen, unnoticed.

The dagger strapped to your thigh pressed reassuringly against your skin, a small comfort in the uncertainty of the moment. You had long since learned that in King’s Landing, secrets and steel were your best companions. One cut as deep as the other, and both had their uses. If anyone saw you, anyone grew suspicious—you would be ready.

You crouched lower behind the pillar, listening as Oberyn’s voice carried faintly from one of the rooms. His tone was as smooth and dangerous as ever, a man who never feared consequences, not even from Tywin Lannister. You stayed still, your heart steady but your mind sharp, waiting for the moment when Tywin would confront him.

You could feel it—the unraveling was only just beginning. The tension in the city would soon give way to something far darker, and you were determined to be ahead of it, to see everything before it was hidden away in shadows again.

As footsteps echoed down the hall, heavier, more deliberate, you pressed further into the shadows. Tywin. You could not afford to be seen, but you could not afford to miss this either. Information was your weapon. And today, you would sharpen it.

Just in time, you watched as three naked whores and Ellaria Sand stepped out of one of the rooms. Her dark, wavy hair cascaded down her bare shoulders as she laughed softly, her gaze briefly scanning the room before she and the others disappeared down the hall. The guards trailed after them, though one remained standing by the entrance. Close, but not too close.

The door to Oberyn’s room was slightly ajar.

You slipped inside with practiced precision, the heavy scent of incense clinging to the air. The room was bathed in the warm, golden light of the midday sun, filtering through the heavy curtains. Oberyn Martell was seated on the bed, shirtless and glistening with sweat, his bronzed skin catching the light as he stretched with the grace of a panther. The gods must have shown you some favor—he was still clothed from the waist down.

His gaze shifted lazily toward you, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as if your presence amused him. He knew you were there long before you entered.

“Would you like to sit?” he asked, his voice low, teasing. He gestured casually toward a chair in the corner, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

Tywin Lannister stood at the other end of the room, his expression as hard as stone, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of irritation. “No, thank you,” Tywin replied curtly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

Oberyn’s movements were slow, deliberate, as he rose from the bed, his lean body practically dripping with confidence. He stepped toward a small cart by the window, where a tray of wine and goblets waited. “Some wine?” he offered again, pouring himself a generous amount, the dark liquid swirling in the cup.

Tywin, still standing near the door, remained unmoved. “No, thank you,” he repeated.

Oberyn, with a patterned towel draped over his shoulder, took a slow sip of the wine, his eyes never leaving Tywin’s. “I'm sorry about your grandson,” he said smoothly, though the sincerity in his tone was questionable.

Tywin’s lips twitched, barely containing his disdain. “Are you?” he asked, the question laced with accusation.

Oberyn shrugged, moving across the room like a predator sizing up his prey. “I don't believe a child is responsible for the sins of his father. Or his grandfather. An awful way to die.” His voice was casual, but his eyes—those dark, piercing eyes—were watching Tywin’s every move.

The tension in the room was recognizable, thick enough to choke on. You remained hidden in the shadows, every word falling like stones in a still pond, sending ripples of suspicion through the air.

“Which way is that?” Tywin asked, his voice sharp.

Oberyn tilted his head, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Are you interrogating me, Lord Tywin?” he purred, settling onto a plush bed of pillows, lounging with the practiced grace of a man who feared nothing.

“Some believe the king choked,” Tywin mused, watching Oberyn closely.

“Some believe the sky is blue because we live inside the eye of a blue-eyed giant,” Oberyn replied, his tone mocking. He took another sip of wine before adding, “The king was poisoned.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, the faintest hint of suspicion creeping into his expression. “I hear you studied poisons at the Citadel.”

Oberyn’s smile widened, like a cat who had caught the scent of a mouse. “I did. This is why I know.”

Tywin’s voice dropped, edged with danger. “Your hatred for my family is rather well known. You arrive at the capital, an expert in poisoning, and days later my grandson dies of poisoning.”

Oberyn didn’t miss a beat. “Rather suspicious,” he agreed with a chuckle. “Why haven’t you thrown me in a dungeon?”

Tywin's gaze hardened. “You spoke with Tyrion in this very brothel on the day that you arrived. What did you discuss?”

“You think we conspired together?” Oberyn raised an eyebrow, amused.

“What did you discuss?”

Oberyn’s playful demeanor faltered, as he moved to stand, approaching Tywin, his voice dropping into something darker, colder. “The death of my sister.”

Tywin did not flinch, though his eyes gave away nothing. “For which you blame me.”

Oberyn leaned forward slightly, his voice like steel wrapped in silk. “She was raped and murdered by the Mountain. The Mountain follows your orders. Of course I blame you.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken threats. You remained perfectly still, your heart a steady drumbeat in your chest as you watched the two men circle each other, both poised for an attack that would never come.

Tywin, calm as ever, gave the faintest shrug. “Here I stand unarmed, unguarded. Should I be concerned?”

Oberyn smiled, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “You are unarmed and unguarded because you know me better than that. I am a man of reason. If I cut your throat today, I will be drawn and quartered tomorrow.”

“Men at war commit all kinds of crimes without their superiors' knowledge,” Tywin said, almost conversationally.

“So you deny involvement in Elia's murder?”

Tywin’s voice remained steady. “Categorically.”

Oberyn’s gaze sharpened, his smile fading into something colder. “I would like to speak with the Mountain.”

“I’m sure he would enjoy speaking with you,” Tywin said evenly.

Oberyn’s lips curled into a grim smile. “He might not enjoy it as much as he thinks he would.”

Tywin’s eyes flickered with a dangerous glint. “I could arrange for this meeting.”

Oberyn’s brow arched, intrigued. “But you want something in return.”

Tywin’s voice was calm, measured. “There will be a trial for my son. As custom dictates, three judges will render a verdict. I will preside. Mace Tyrell will serve as the second judge. I would like you to be the third.”

Oberyn’s amusement returned, but his tone remained cautious. “Why?”

“Not long ago, the Tyrells sided with Renly Baratheon. Declared themselves enemies of the throne. Now they are our strongest allies.”

Oberyn shrugged, taking another sip of his wine. “Well, you made the Tyrell girl a queen. Asking me to judge at your son's trial isn't quite as tempting.”

Tywin stepped forward, his voice dropping low. “I will also invite you to sit on the small council to serve as one of the new king's principal advisors.”

Oberyn studied Tywin, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I never realized you had such respect for Dorne, Lord Tywin.”

“We are not the Seven Kingdoms until Dorne returns to the fold,” Tywin replied, his voice cold, calculated. “The king is dead. The Greyjoys are in open rebellion. A wildling army marches on the Wall. And in the East, a Targaryen girl has three dragons. Before long, she will turn her eyes to Westeros. Only the Dornish managed to resist Aegon Targaryen and his dragons.”

Oberyn’s smile returned, slow and sharp. “You're saying you need us? That must be hard for you to admit.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change. “We need each other. You help me serve justice to the king's assassins, and I will help you serve justice to Elia's.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as Oberyn fell silent, his gaze turning inward, distant, as if he were calculating a hundred possibilities all at once. The tension lingered, thick and unspoken, between him and the absent Tywin. The delicate balance of power that had just played out was clear—two predators circling one another, masking threats with diplomacy.

You pressed yourself deeper into the shadows, watching Oberyn with a sharp, practiced gaze. His expression remained contemplative, still lost in the aftermath of his exchange with Tywin. Outside the room, the echo of Tywin’s footsteps faded into the distance, and the door clicked shut with finality, leaving behind an uneasy stillness that hung thick in the air.

But you had lingered too long. In a silent breath, you pulled back into the shadows, slipping toward the door like a shadow yourself. You moved swiftly, soundless, as you had been trained—disappearing without a trace. The world outside was teeming with noise and life, but none of it noticed your departure. You melted into the alleyways, your cloak drawn close, your steps swift and measured as you darted through the maze of streets that threaded King’s Landing.

The market was alive with its usual chaos, the scent of spices mingling with the salt of the sea, merchants shouting over one another, selling everything from silks to stale bread. You wove through the crowds, your face hidden beneath the hood of your cloak, eyes scanning your surroundings. You had always known how to vanish in plain sight.

But then, the sound hit you.

A sharp sizzle, the searing of meat against hot metal. Your steps faltered as the scent of charred pork filled the air, thick and overwhelming, clinging to your skin like smoke. For a moment, the world around you seemed to blur—the market, the people, the shouts—it all dimmed. Your breath caught in your throat, your chest tightening as the memories surged, unbidden, unstoppable.

Flames licking at your skin, the scent of burning flesh, the sound of your own screams echoing in the back of your mind. The fire that had marked you, that had seared itself into your memory, now clawed its way to the surface.

Your hands trembled as you stumbled into a corner of the street, your back pressed hard against the cool stone of a wall. The sounds of the market seemed distant now, drowned out by the roar of the fire in your mind. The panic clawed at your chest, squeezing tighter and tighter until it felt like you couldn’t breathe.

You gasped, desperate for air, the weight of your cloak suddenly too heavy, the noise of the market too loud. The edges of your vision blurred, and the ground beneath you felt like it was spinning. The world seemed to close in on you, suffocating, the past and present melding into one.

Burning.

You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms in an attempt to ground yourself, to remind yourself that you were no longer there. But the searing sound, the scent—it was too much. The memories flooded you, pulling you under. You pressed your back harder into the wall, trying to fight your way out of the suffocating panic, trying to escape the fire that only existed in your mind.

But it felt so real.

Your breaths came in short, shallow gasps, and your vision swam. You had to get out. Away from the market, away from the noise, away from the memory that gripped you like a vice. You pushed yourself off the wall, your legs shaky but determined, and forced yourself back into the crowd, pulling your cloak tighter around you.

With every step, you fought to steady your breathing, to clear the haze from your mind. The streets blurred around you as you moved, each footfall feeling heavier than the last, but you pressed on. Away from the market. Away from the sound.

Away from the fire.

KING'S LANDING, RED KEEP — AFTERNOON

By the time you returned to the castle, fatigue weighed heavily on your limbs. The maze of tunnels under the Red Keep stretched out before you like a winding serpent, familiar yet suffocating. Each step felt heavier than the last, your breath shallow, as the cool stone walls seemed to press closer.

As you rounded a corner, your thoughts interrupted by hurried footsteps, you almost collided with someone—Podrick Payne. His wide-eyed expression immediately softened when he realized it was you.

“Oh, my apologies,” Podrick stammered, stepping back in his usual bashful manner.

You shook your head, waving off the apology. "No, it was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going."

He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Oh well…"

There was something about his awkwardness, a sincerity in the way he held himself. Podrick was kind, genuine—a rarity in King's Landing. You had a peculiar way of prying information from him without much effort. It wasn’t something you set out to do, but it was almost as though the right questions spilled from your lips, and he couldn’t help but answer.

You tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing as you noticed the tension in his shoulders. "Are you heading somewhere urgent?"

Podrick blinked in surprise, glancing at the wineskin he carried. “Yes, I’m on my way to see Lord Tyrion in the cells.”

Your gaze dropped to the wineskin, lips curving into a faint smirk. "You’re bringing him wine?"

He nodded, looking somewhat guilty, as though he’d been caught red-handed.

"The guards will take it from you, you know that, right?"

Podrick’s expression flickered with brief defeat, but he nodded again. The innocence in his eyes spoke volumes, but you weren’t fooled. Deep down, you knew he was smuggling more than just wine. You sighed, rubbing your temples as the exhaustion from the day wore at your patience.

"They've chosen the judges for his trial," you added, your voice soft but deliberate.

Podrick glanced around as if someone might overhear, then leaned in slightly. “I heard. Lord Tywin, Mace Tyrell, and Prince Oberyn of Dorne."

"Word travels fast," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. Your eyes drifted over his face, reading the tension etched into his features. His frown deepened, and you couldn’t help but ask, “What’s wrong? You’re frowning.”

Podrick’s sigh was almost inaudible, but in the quiet of the dimly lit tunnel, it seemed to echo. He lowered his voice as if confessing a secret. "There’s something else. A man—someone I didn’t know—came to me. He asked if I’d testify against Lord Tyrion. Said I’d be named Ser Podrick Payne if I told the judges Tyrion bought a poison called the Strangler.”

Your stomach twisted at the mention of the poison, but your expression remained impassive. You frowned, though, as the weight of his words sank in. Podrick, in his innocence, stood at the crossroads of something much darker than he fully understood.

"You…" You took a slow, deep breath, steadying your tone. "Lord Tyrion has been kind to you."

He met your gaze, his eyes filled with uncertainty. "He has."

There was a heavy silence between you, the kind that lingered just long enough to feel uncomfortable. The weight of your secrets hung in the air, unspoken, but Podrick wasn’t foolish. He knew you were holding back, but he never pressed.

"Do you know what happened?" he asked softly, as though afraid of the answer. His voice was tentative, laced with the hope that you might offer him clarity. "Who did it?"

You blinked, your gaze distant, the apathy you had so carefully cultivated slipping back into place. His question lingered, but you gave him no answer—just a soft pat on his shoulder, a rare gesture of kindness in a world that had none to spare.

"You better be careful, Podrick," you said, your voice low, carrying a quiet weight. "You’re one of the rare ones out there who are truly good. Take care of yourself."

His lips parted as if to say something more, but you had already turned away, disappearing into the shadows of the castle, leaving him standing there beneath the flickering torchlight.

KING’S LANDING, QUAY OF THE PORT BY THE SEA OF THE RED KEEP — AFTERNOON

The salty breeze whipped across the sea, crashing waves against jagged rocks below as you crouched beneath the cliffsides. Hidden from sight, you watched with keen eyes as Jaime Lannister and Bronn sparred near the water's edge, the sound of clashing steel ringing in the air.

Jaime’s face was flushed, his breath labored, but his movements were sharper than before. He spun his sword with renewed vigor, pressing the attack against Bronn. But the sellsword was as sharp as ever, his parries quick, his footwork steady. They deadlocked, Jaime’s golden hand clashing with Bronn’s grip. With a wicked grin, Bronn swatted Jaime across the face, sending him sprawling onto the ground with an unceremonious thud.

Jaime let out a grunt, pushing himself up from the dirt. “What the hell was that?” he spat, wiping the dust from his tunic.

Bronn tossed Jaime’s golden hand back to him with a smirk. “That was me knocking your ass to the dirt with your own hand."

Jaime caught it, shaking his head. “You’re a rare talent. When you’re fighting cripples, anyway.”

“You learned to fight like a good little boy," Bronn quipped, his grin widening. "I’ll bet that thrust through the Mad King’s back was pretty as a picture. You want to fight pretty, or you want to win?”

Jaime’s jaw clenched. “You talk to my brother this way?”

“All the time. He got used to it.”

They sat together on a low stone wall, the tension easing between them. Jaime took a swig from a wineskin before handing it to Bronn.

“Do you think he did it?” Jaime asked, his voice low, hesitant.

Bronn shook his head. “No. Oh, he hated the little twat, sure. But who didn’t? Poison’s not his style. Or murder, for that matter. You want to know for sure, why don’t you ask him?”

Jaime remained silent, his gaze distant.

“You haven’t been to see him yet, have you?” Bronn probed, his tone carrying an edge of judgment.

Jaime stood abruptly, tossing the wineskin back to Bronn. “We’re done for today.”

As Jaime walked away, Bronn called out, “Your brother ever tell you how I came into his service?”

Jaime paused, his back still turned. “You stood for him in his trial by combat at the Eyrie.”

“Aye,” Bronn replied, his voice steady. “But only when Lady Arryn demanded the trial take place that day. You were his first choice. He named you for his champion because he knew you’d ride day and night to fight for him. You gonna fight for him now?”

Jaime’s silence lingered, the weight of Bronn’s words hanging in the air as he disappeared into the distance.

Once Jaime was gone, Bronn stood alone, shaking his head. That’s when you emerged from your hiding spot, the faint sound of your boots scraping against the stone catching his attention. He turned, spotting you walking towards him, your loose long-sleeve tunic billowing slightly in the wind, trousers and boots practical for the sparring you had in mind. The sword sheathed at your side glinted in the afternoon light, a far cry from the ladylike appearance most would expect.

You let out a low whistle, drawing a chuckle from Bronn as you approached. “You really handed it to him, huh?” you remarked, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Who knew today would be the day you make a joke?” Bronn quipped, his smirk never far from his lips.

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Might as well get a laugh in once in a while.”

Bronn gave you a quick once-over, his eyes sharp as always. “You here to practice?”

In response, you tossed a small pouch of gold coins at him, which he caught with a practiced ease. “It’s been a while. Was wondering if you were simply busy or if you’d run off.”

You shrugged, the weight of the past few days pressing on your shoulders. “Well, it hasn’t been quiet at the Red Keep.”

“Aye,” Bronn said with a knowing look, his expression softening for just a moment. Then, with his usual swagger, he added, “Well, let’s see if that sword of yours still works.”

The two of you squared off, the tension of the moment melting into the familiar rhythm of training. Bronn was a formidable opponent—quick, sharp, and never one to play by the rules. He tested you immediately, launching a fast strike aimed at your side. You parried it easily, the weight of your sword light in your hands.

"You've gotten faster," Bronn noted, his tone almost begrudging as he stepped back to assess you, his sharp eyes taking in every movement, every subtle shift of your stance.

You shrugged, gripping your sword a little tighter, the weight of his words sinking in deeper than he realized. Faster—it wasn’t just speed you needed. Strength. Precision. Ruthlessness. All of it would be necessary if you were going to do what needed to be done. Your thoughts flickered briefly to him, to the Mountain, and the moment you had been turning over in your mind, rehearsing endlessly in the quiet of your own head.

One well-placed strike—that’s all it would take. You’d studied his movements, watched how he fought. Brutal. Unforgiving. He crushed his opponents like insects beneath his feet, but there was always a weakness. There had to be. You just had to find it, and when you did, the Mountain would fall.

But you didn’t say that out loud.

Instead, you offered Bronn a casual shrug, masking the storm of thoughts beneath your calm expression. “Learned a few tricks while I was busy,” you replied with a half-smile, keeping your voice light.

Bronn smirked, though his eyes still lingered on you as if trying to peel back the layers of your thoughts. "Busy, huh? Hope those tricks keep you alive long enough to show me more."

He didn’t press, and you were grateful for it. There was no need to tell him, not yet. The time would come soon enough, and when it did, you'd be ready.

A FEW DAYS LATER

KING'S LANDING, THE THRONE ROOM — DAY

You stand off to the side, shrouded in the shadows of the grand pillars, your eyes flickering over the scene before you like a predator studying its prey. The High Septon stands at the heart of it all, his voice booming as he leads the coronation of Tommen Baratheon. The crowd has gathered, a sea of nobles dressed in their finest silks, feigning respect and devotion. Your gaze drifts, settling momentarily on Ser Jaime Lannister, who patrols near the back, his golden hand gleaming in the soft light.

"May the Warrior grant him courage and protect him in these perilous times," the High Septon intoned, his voice heavy with ceremony. "May the Smith grant him strength that he might bear this heavy burden. And may the Crone, she that knows the fate of all men, show him the path he must walk and guide him through the dark places that lie ahead."

Tommen’s face, still soft with boyish innocence, betrays the weight of the moment. You can see it in his eyes—the bewilderment, the fear hidden behind a facade of calm. He’s a puppet, and the strings are woven through the hands of those more powerful. But he’s not the one you’re watching.

The High Septon finishes, his hands raised toward the heavens. "In the light of the Seven, I now proclaim Tommen of the House Baratheon, First of His Name. King of the Andals and the First Men and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Long may he reign!"

"Long may he reign!" the crowd echoes in unison, their voices a rehearsed chorus.

Your eyes narrow as Tommen bows, exchanging a fleeting glance with Margaery Tyrell. The hint of a smile plays on her lips, barely noticeable unless you knew what to look for. It’s the look of a woman who knows exactly what she wants—and how to get it. Cersei sees it too, her expression tightening, though she maintains her grace.

You smirk to yourself. The plot never stops, not for a moment.

The grand hall is quieter now, though the air still buzzes with soft chatter. Tommen sits awkwardly on the Iron Throne, his small frame swallowed by its looming presence. Tywin Lannister stands beside him, commanding the room with nothing but his cold, stern silence. The line of courtiers shuffles forward, each taking their turn to bow and offer hollow pleasantries.

"Your Grace," Grand Maester Pycelle rasps, his aged voice grating against your ears.

"Your Grace," Varys follows, his tone smooth, unreadable.

Tommen exchanges nods and small smiles, barely keeping up the appearance of a ruler. Margaery lingers nearby, her gaze soft but calculating. It’s Cersei’s eyes that catch yours, though, burning with possessiveness and suspicion as they land on Margaery.

Your fingers twitch at your side, the weight of your dagger pressing against your thigh through the fabric of your cloak. There’s no need for it now, but the comfort of steel is a constant reminder of why you’re here—watching, waiting, collecting secrets like coins.

The crowd parts as Cersei approaches Margaery, offering smiles to the onlookers as she moves through the room with the grace of a lioness on the hunt. You observe it all, taking in the flickers of power, the undercurrents that ripple beneath the surface of every interaction.

You sigh, stepping away from the scene and slipping back into the shadows. There’s nothing more to see here. The coronation is just another piece in the larger puzzle, and the trial—the real battle—is yet to come. Your secrets can wait, for now.

KING'S LANDING, THE GARDEN — DAY

The day was warm, the sun casting a golden glow over the lush greenery of the royal gardens. The scent of blooming flowers mingled with the salty air from the sea, but none of that registered as you went about your tasks. Servant duties, tedious and endless, consumed most of your time. Today, it was carrying supplies from the kitchen to the gardens—bundles of herbs, fresh fruits, a few linens. You balanced them carefully in your arms, eyes scanning for a spot to drop them off before you moved to the next errand.

As you passed through the garden's winding paths, the soft murmur of voices caught your attention. You stilled, instinctively pressing yourself into the shade of a tall shrub, out of sight. The voices were familiar—Cersei Lannister and Oberyn Martell. The temptation to eavesdrop, to gather just a bit more information for yourself, was too great to resist.

You shifted slightly, your heart thudding in your chest, trying not to rustle the bushes as you angled your body closer. From where you stood, you had a clear view of Oberyn sitting on a stone bench, writing on a scroll. He paused as Cersei approached, her guards flanking her.

"Your Grace," Oberyn greeted her, his voice low and polite as he stood.

Cersei’s cold smile barely reached her eyes. "Prince Oberyn. Writing letters?"

"A poem, actually," Oberyn replied, his tone light, yet unreadable.

Cersei’s eyebrow raised slightly, more curious than amused. "May I show you the gardens?"

Oberyn glanced down at the scroll he had been working on before standing fully to his feet. "I couldn’t very well refuse a royal escort."

"No, you couldn’t," Cersei said, a slight edge in her voice. You could almost see the power shift between them as they started walking side by side through the winding paths of the garden, their steps measured, calculated.

You trailed discreetly behind them, clutching your bundle tightly, ears straining to catch every word.

"I didn’t realize you were a poet," Cersei remarked, her voice laced with feigned curiosity.

Oberyn chuckled. "Not a very good one."

"For your paramour?"

"For one of my daughters," Oberyn corrected, his voice softening at the mention of his children.

Cersei’s eyes flicked toward him. "You have several, don’t you?"

"Eight," he said, a touch of pride in his voice.

"Eight? Eight daughters?" Cersei repeated, incredulous.

Oberyn nodded. "The fifth is difficult. I named her after my sister, Elia."

At the mention of Elia’s name, your heart clenched. You had always known the depth of his loss, but hearing it aloud, even in passing, reminded you of the storm that brewed constantly beneath Oberyn’s surface.

"Beautiful name," Cersei mused.

"Yes," Oberyn agreed, though his tone darkened. "But I can’t say it without turning sad. And after I turn sad, I grow angry."

"Perhaps that’s why she’s difficult," Cersei remarked, her tone dripping with cynical wisdom. "The gods love their stupid jokes, don’t they?"

Oberyn's gaze narrowed slightly, intrigued. "Which joke is that?"

Cersei’s smile was sharp, almost mocking. "You’re a prince of Dorne. A legendary fighter. A brilliant man feared throughout Westeros. But you could not save your sister. I’m a Lannister. Queen for nineteen years. Daughter of the most powerful man alive. But I could not save my son. What good is power if you cannot protect the ones you love?"

Her words struck like venom, her bitterness palpable. You watched Oberyn’s face shift, his jaw tightening as the memories of his sister undoubtedly flashed behind his eyes.

"We can avenge them," he said after a pause, his voice resolute, cutting through the air like a blade.

Cersei met his gaze, her lips curling slightly. "Yes, we can avenge them."

Oberyn tilted his head, watching her intently. "You really believe Tyrion murdered your son?"

Without hesitation, Cersei replied, "I know he did."

Oberyn’s expression remained calm, though you could sense his skepticism. "We will have a trial, and we will learn the truth."

"We’ll have a trial, anyway," Cersei muttered, her voice tight with impatience. "I haven’t seen my daughter in over a year."

Oberyn’s face softened slightly. "The last time I saw her, she was swimming with two of my girls in the Water Gardens. Laughing in the sun."

Cersei’s eyes briefly glistened with unshed tears. "I want to believe that. I want to believe she’s happy."

Oberyn’s tone was gentle now, sincere. "You have my word. We don’t hurt little girls in Dorne."

Cersei’s voice was a mere whisper, filled with more sadness than she would ever admit aloud. "Everywhere in the world, they hurt little girls. Would you bring her a gift for me? I wasn’t there for her name day. I don’t know when I’ll see her again."

Oberyn’s gaze softened as he nodded. "Anything at all."

Cersei pointed toward the bay, her eyes lingering on a ship. "The best shipwrights in King’s Landing have been working on it for months. Myrcella loves the open water."

Oberyn’s lips curled into a small, understanding smile. "I will have it sailed down to Sunspear for her."

Cersei turned to face him fully, her expression momentarily vulnerable. "Please tell her... her mother misses her very much."

She left then, her guards following behind as her regal figure disappeared from the garden. Oberyn stood still, watching her go with an unreadable expression.

In the silence that followed, Oberyn’s voice cut through the air, calm and composed. "You can show yourself now."

Your breath hitched, but you stepped out from behind the pillar, clutching the supplies you had been carrying, your heartbeat still racing from all you had overheard.

Oberyn's dark eyes, gleaming with that unspoken intensity, never left yours. The weight of his gaze made the space between you feel smaller, heavier, as though every unspoken word lingered in the air. He took a slow step toward you, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and curiosity.

"I still don’t know your name," he said, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, though his tone remained casual, as if this was just another conversation, nothing more than passing the time.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you swallowed, straightening slightly. "It’s..." You hesitated for a second, then finally offered, your name.

Oberyn hummed in acknowledgment, his smirk widening just a little, as though your name now held a secret weight between the two of you. He moved closer, studying your face carefully. He repeated your name, tasting the name on his tongue like it was something to be savored.

A silence hung between you for a moment, but Oberyn had a way of piercing through it with his words. His eyes narrowed slightly, his head tilting just enough to catch your gaze again. "Tell me," he began, his voice soft but laced with a quiet danger, "did you poison the king?"

Your chest tightened at the question, though you knew it was coming. You didn't flinch, your heart steady despite the accusation hanging in the air. Meeting his gaze, you shook your head firmly, your voice calm but resolute. "No. I didn’t."

Oberyn’s intense gaze lingered on you, as if he was peeling away the layers of who you were, searching for the truth hidden beneath your calm exterior. His dark eyes burned with quiet judgment, tempered by curiosity. The corner of his mouth tugged upward, barely perceptible, when he let out a soft hum, the tension in his posture easing. "Good," he murmured, the single word carrying weight, as though it was meant to confirm something greater. Yet, behind his eyes, the storm never ceased, always swirling, always waiting.

You inhaled deeply, the air between you thick with unspoken things. For a long moment, you said nothing, your mind racing through the years, the faces, and the memories long buried under the weight of time and pain. The ocean waves crashed in the distance, steady and unyielding, much like the man before you. The ships bobbed on the horizon, their sails catching the wind as if they were fleeing toward freedom, away from all that was this city—this place of blood and betrayal.

You turned your gaze toward the sea, your voice low as you spoke, almost as if the memory itself had pulled the words from your lips. "You were right, your grace. I knew her… your sister, Princess Elia."

Oberyn’s expression flickered, a subtle shift from curiosity to something more personal, more vulnerable, as he stepped closer to you. His presence was quiet but commanding, the warmth of him beside you drawing your attention. You didn’t look at him; instead, you watched the ships, the waves crashing against the cliffs in the distance.

"It was a long time ago," you continued, your voice soft, filled with a kind of sorrow that time couldn’t quite erase. "I wasn’t a good person then… I don’t know if I am now." Your words hung in the air, fragile but true.

The wind whipped through your hair as the memory surged forth, pulling you back to that day—the day you first met her. You had been standing on the cliffs near Sunspear, staring down at the waters below. The waves had seemed so inviting, so final. You’d been ready to let go, ready to fall and end the pain that had gripped you for far too long.

But then, you heard a cry.

Princess Elia had been in the water, struggling against the currents, her graceful arms failing to keep her afloat. It was instinct, something primal within you that made you dive into the water, though you had been moments away from letting it take you. You swam with a strength you didn’t know you possessed, reaching her, pulling her to the shore. You’d saved her, though you had been prepared to die.

When you reached the sand, both of you gasping for breath, Elia had looked at you, her deep brown eyes searching yours, knowing, seeing far too much. "You were going to jump, weren’t you?" she had asked, her voice soft but piercing.

You had only nodded, the pressure of your decision still clinging to you like the seaweed wrapped around your legs.

Elia had smiled then, a gentle, sorrowful thing. "Thank you for saving me… even when you couldn’t save yourself." Her words had haunted you ever since.

The memory faded, and you were back in the present, the ocean still stretching before you, endless and indifferent. Oberyn stood beside you, silent for a long moment, absorbing your words. His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes flickered with understanding, with a shared pain.

"You were the one," he said quietly, almost as if speaking to himself. "The servant girl… the one who survived." His voice was careful, probing, seeking confirmation of a story long buried under the rubble of war and tragedy.

Your face remained void of emotion as you turned to meet his gaze, your eyes hollowed by the weight of the years and the scars you carried. "I haven't forgotten even a day," you replied, your voice eerily calm, devoid of the turmoil you felt. "Some hatred resembles longing. It's impossible to get rid of."

Oberyn's gaze lingered on you, his expression softening, though the tempest within him still raged. His eyes, dark and intense, mirrored the turmoil that churned beneath your own surface. “I’ve also hit rock bottom before,” he said, his voice carrying a rare gentleness. “So, I understand the weight of your anger.”

His words hung in the salt-tinged air, a bridge between the two of you—both bound by memories of a woman long gone, and a shared desire for something that felt like justice but tasted more like vengeance. The sea continued its relentless assault on the cliffs, indifferent to your pain, your histories, and the scars neither of you could erase. The world moved on, as uncaring as ever, while you stood still in the face of it.

Oberyn turned slightly toward you, his expression more searching now. "Is that why you came to King's Landing?" His question was quiet, but the weight of it settled between you like a stone dropped into a deep well.

Without turning to face him, you let out a bitter laugh, the sound lost in the crash of waves. "Isn’t that why you’re here too?"

The words hit him with a force that made him pause, a flash of something unreadable passing across his face. Oberyn was silent for a moment, studying you as if trying to gauge the depth of your resolve. He shifted, his usual confidence tempered by something more cautious now. "You know what revenge does to people," he said softly, his tone laced with concern. "I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. It devours you, bit by bit, until there’s nothing left but the anger. It’s… not something someone like you should carry."

You scoffed, the words cutting through you, sharper than any blade. "Someone like me?" you echoed, turning to face him fully for the first time since the conversation began. Your eyes locked onto his, challenging, as if daring him to explain what he meant.

Oberyn’s brow furrowed, a rare crease in the otherwise unshakeable mask he wore. "You carry enough," he said, voice low but firm. "You shouldn’t be the one to deal with this. It will change you."

His worry was unexpected, disarming even, and for a moment, you saw the weight of his own guilt reflected in his gaze—the burdens he carried, the losses he had never fully avenged. But there was also a flicker of something protective, something he wasn’t ready to admit to.

You turned back toward the sea, your heart heavy with a mix of rage and sorrow. The waves below crashed louder now, their rhythm matching the pounding in your chest. "I’ve already been changed," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the roar of the ocean. "There’s nothing left to take."

Oberyn stepped closer, his presence warm beside you, though the space between you felt vast. “There’s always something left,” he murmured, his voice softer now, the edge of worry still lacing his words. “You just don’t see it yet.”

The silence between you stretched long, as the sea kept its pace, unbothered by the weight of two broken souls standing on the cliffs above it. Neither of you spoke again for some time, each lost in your own thoughts, but bound by an understanding neither of you had expected.

Both here for vengeance. Both already paying its price.

KING'S LANDING, RED KEEP — EVENING

The evening air clung heavily to the Red Keep, filled with the scent of the sea and the distant hum of King’s Landing. After leaving Oberyn by the cliffs, the weight of exhaustion settled into your bones, dragging you through the motions of the day. Each task completed, each conversation had, felt like a necessary distraction—an anchor to keep you from drowning in your thoughts. Yet, none of it could quiet the storm within.

Once your duties were done, you retreated to your small chambers, the flickering light of a lone candle casting shadows against the stone walls. You sat at the edge of your bed, a leather journal resting on your lap. The worn pages were a map of your thoughts, your plans, your vengeance. You traced a finger over the spine, staring down at the leather-bound book that held all the pieces of your story. It was here, in the quiet of the night, that you could feel the weight of everything you’d worked for, everything you had planned.

Your revenge.

You glanced at the drawer where your dagger rested, a constant companion in this journey, but tonight you would leave it behind. Tonight was not for the blade, but for something else entirely. Whispered words from the servants confirmed that Ellaria was out in the brothels, and that knowledge settled something within you.

You changed swiftly into a nightgown, the soft fabric brushing against your skin, and draped a dark cloak over your shoulders. It shrouded your form as you slipped through the halls of the Red Keep, every step measured, your path taking you toward the guest quarters. Toward Oberyn.

MAIDENVAULT, GUEST CHAMBERS

KING’S LANDING, RED KEEP - EVENING

The corridors were dimly lit, and you moved like a shadow, slipping unnoticed through the Keep. The cold stone beneath your feet did little to deter you as you made your way to the door of Oberyn’s chambers.

You hesitated for only a moment, then pushed the door open, slipping inside before the guards could take notice. The room was dim, lit only by the pale silver of the moonlight filtering in through the window. Oberyn stood near the bed, surprised by your sudden presence, his dark eyes meeting yours as you stepped into the moonlight, the cloak falling away from your shoulders.

He closed the door behind him, his gaze flickering over you, curiosity and something else stirring in his eyes. "I didn’t expect company tonight," he said, his voice low, a touch playful as he stepped closer. "Is this what I think it is?"

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, your fingers moved to the ties of your nightgown, pulling them loose until the fabric slipped down from your shoulders, falling in a whispering heap at your feet. Oberyn’s smirk faltered as the moonlight revealed the truth—scarred, burned, and marred flesh stretching across your body like a grotesque map of past pain.

"It felt like a white night, and sometimes it felt like a polar night, too."

His amusement vanished, replaced by horror, by understanding. "Gods…" he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper as he took in the damage that covered every inch of you.

“Ugly, right?” Your voice was toneless, cold. “My scars.”

Oberyn’s eyes darkened, but not with revulsion—only fury, a quiet, simmering rage that burned behind his otherwise calm exterior. He didn’t need to ask who had done this to you. The answer was written in the jagged lines that crisscrossed your skin. He knew. He had always known the darkness that resided in this city, but seeing it on you, it seemed to strike deeper.

“They’re not ugly,” he said softly, stepping closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “They’re injuries.” His voice was a mixture of defiance and sympathy, the edges rough with something dangerous.

You shook your head, meeting his gaze with a stark intensity. "I’m not looking for a prince," you said, your voice steady and without emotion. “What I need is not a prince, but a headsman who will join me in the sword dance.”

Oberyn’s jaw tightened, the weight of your words sinking into the space between you. For a moment, you could see the conflict in his eyes—the warrior who knew the toll of vengeance, and the lover who wished to shield you from it. But as he looked at the scars on your body, the decision seemed to solidify within him.

"Once your revenge is over, your world will also be in ruins," he said, his voice still holding the trace of concern, but it was quickly fading.

"I’m already in complete ruins with no dignity left," you replied, your voice like iron. "So, go back. I’d like to stay faithful to my rage and vice"

Oberyn exhaled slowly, the storm within him finally breaking. His fingers flexed at his side, as if already reaching for the hilt of his sword. “I’ll do it,” he said, stepping even closer until his presence was all-encompassing. “I’ll be your headsman. I’ll join the sword dance.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as his words sunk in, the finality of them sending a thrill through you. “I’ll do whatever you say,” he continued, his voice like a vow. “As if it’s a royal command. Anything at all.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the violence in his words. “I’ll show you a wild sword dance,” he promised, his eyes locked on yours, filled with a deadly sort of resolve.

In that moment, you both knew there was no turning back. The sword dance would begin, and neither of you would emerge the same.

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