We do soft here.

PART 1: ELLARIA

Oh.

How lovely.

You had heard rumors of the allure of Ellaria Sand. 

Everyone in Dorne was well aware of Prince Oberyn’s beauty–and prowess, and cleverness, and rashness–portraits of the royal family had their place in the greater houses of Dorne. How often had you stopped to examine the copy in your father’s house? To light a candle for the old king and queen and their daughter, your distant childhood playmate, Elia? And each time, how long had you stared at the bowed lips of the youngest prince? You’d grown up knowing the faces of your princes like the hallways of your home.

But a Sand? A Sand would never be included in these portraits. All you ever knew of Ellaria was rumor, that she was Oberyn’s equal in many ways–in that same rashness, cleverness, and prowess. It was hard to believe she could be all of this and his equal in beauty as well.

But here she is before you, long and lithe, both steely and graceful, with skin that glows like an afternoon dune and a smile that could either cut your throat or kiss it. A burning goddess come down to walk in Westeros.

Just like everything in the royal home at the Water Gardens outside of Sunspear, she is sparkling bright, stony, ornate and fine. Not like your little country lord’s home, your father’s minor house in the Yronwood. You are very much a product of the warm wood and soft metals that come from the northern shores of Dorne. And, while Ellaria reflects the gold and marbles of Sunspear, like the Yronwood you feel very green. At least in the way of palace graces.

Your lack of which you managed to reveal for the past hour in the presence of both princes and two of your countrymen. How stupid you hadn’t thought to ask your father for more instruction in this matter!

“My father is at King’s Landing at the request of the royal wine steward, Prince Doran,” you had explained, arriving late to the council to which your family had been told to send representation. “I come in his place and with his regards. My apologies, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting; I’ve never been to the palace and don’t know my way yet. I…do not know which seat to take.”

Two men at the table had snickered under their breath. These two faces you knew from experience–Lords Vaith and Scourge from the river valleys. 

The last of the two men making up the four in the room you only knew from the Martell portraits. By contrast to their subordinates, the princes had smiled and simultaneously gestured to a seat opposite the lords. One of the brothers sat noble, gestured kindly, welcomed you to the palace. The other had his feet propped up on another chair, pointing with a jeweled hand before lazily bringing it back under his chin.

The council had been tedious and banal–an appeal by each lord for more control over the fertile fields above the valleys run mainly by your family, the economy and needs of each stronghold laid in aching detail at Doran’s feet. 

While Old Lord Scourge seemed to be earning sway with Doran, it was the younger, more virile Lord Vaith that seemed to have Oberyn’s full attention. The Red Viper contemplated his fresh nobility–Vaith had newly risen to Lord after the death of his father the year before. If you didn’t know Oberyn’s reputation so fully, you might have found his calculating expression more bewildering. Lord Vaith, on the other hand, was also versed in that same reputation and was sensing there was another way outside this room to catch the favor of the Martells.

It was difficult not to stare. A powerful aura poured off of Prince Oberyn, a confidence and easiness you often saw in Dornish men, but there was something else under it. Shrewdness. His glittering black eyes saw everything at the table. They saw Doran’s patience and Lord Scourge’s attempts at flattery. They saw the evidence of Lord Vaith’s overspending on his wardrobe when the man said his people were hungry. 

And he saw you observing all of this too. At one point you glanced his way only to find him quietly considering you. The corner of his mouth not hidden by his hand lifted and his nod was so slow and small that nobody else took notice, a secret between you like the languid solidarity of a blinking cat.

An entire hour went by and not once–not once–had anyone asked your opinion or allowed you to speak. You had been warned of this, instructed by your father to stay silent while the lords rambled, not to seem too desperate, to listen, observe, and state your own case calmly and wisely. He had faith in you to do this, and you did not disappoint him.

But neither did you serve him, because before long, the sand had run through the glass, that day’s hour was gone, and the council was retreating. Oberyn led the way, fleeing the room with Doran following, the older lord trailing and chattering in the older brother’s ear and did not seem to know that today’s session was over or that you would all meet again tomorrow for another say.

Doing your best to skirt the party and catch up to Prince Oberyn, you nearly managed to find his elbow but he turned a corner and cut you off, only to leave an opening on the other side for Vaith to swoop in and steal his attention.

“Pardon me, Prince Oberyn,” you both appealed at the same time, although Vaith’s voice was more charming while yours–rusty from lack of use for the last hour–creaked like a far off crow. It was not surprising that the prince took more interest in what the young lord–beautiful and willowy and blond and sining–had to offer and you fell back in defeat, letting them stride away down the arched balcony corridor together.

“In all the hells,” you cursed, your hands and jaw clenched, your desperation barely holding back a feral growl of frustration. This hadn’t been part of your strategy. The mission to come to the Water Gardens and find compromise for the valley was your main priority, but it was also an opportunity for a secret quest of your own. 

And the Red Viper–master of poisons–may just be the one to help you.

It is now, only after you curse, that you feel that you are being watched and turn to notice the woman lounging in an arched alcove just off the side of the balcony.

And she is breathtaking.

“What do you need from our Prince, my pet?” she asks, her turmeric dress barely hiding the shape of her body from the backlight of the sun off the sea. She leans an angled shoulder against the arch of the balcony. “I can help you. I have his ear–” eyelids heavy with kohl drop and raise, a look that appraises you and finds you worthy of consideration. “--among other bits and pieces.”

And this is how all the rumors of the Martells serve you...because you understand exactly just who is addressing you.

“Lady Ellaria–”

You’re halfway to a startled bow when she stops you. “No. Not a lady. But I can see that you are. You are not the one who should be bowing, but then, we do not bow to our betters here. We simply treat them with respect. And offer whatever service that we can. Once we have met properly.” She extends a hand, showing steely patience until you are compelled to lay your unsteady hand in hers and tell her your name. “Well then, Lady of the Yronwood, allow me to relay any message you’d like to the Prince. To be honest, official matters bore him, but I can make sure he listens.”

“I…” It takes a moment to speak. This generous offer, given with such command–yet still immediately welcoming–would be enough to steal your tongue. But there’s also the casualness with which she talks about the Prince, laying her status in his life bare before you and inviting you to take advantage of its privileges. And, of course, it is not every day a sunbeam incarnate deigns to speak to you, to hold your hand so gently…“I need to speak to the Prince on a private matter. A favor I must ask.”

“Ah. I see. A Lady of Dorne needs a favor of her Prince. Why not ask Doran? He will have more power to grant it.”

“It’s…it’s not…” There’s no good way to say it. “It’s not something Doran is equipped to provide.”

She lifts an eyebrow and draws your hand under her arm, meaning to hold you close and to guide you. “How interesting. Will you walk with me?”

It’s kind of her to ask, but you both know that you can’t refuse. She is already walking before the question lands.

“I was hoping to speak to you,” she says, leading you through the palace at a leisurely pace.

“Me?” It comes out a bit strangled. What is it about the palace that has turned you so meek? At home, you are a leader, respected by men twice your size, and here you feel out of place, compelled to follow and stand in awe. You need to stop that. You clear your throat. “Me.”

“Mmm. I saw you when you arrived. It’s not often that families send their women to appointments like these. Shame; even Dorne has much work to do. And I am often disinterested by the men they do send. Meeting new people amuses me, and men serve their purpose. But they also hide their secrets.”

“And women reveal theirs?”

“Women share theirs. It is a difference. You look shocked. Don’t worry, pet. I only mean that men will often answer a question with an intent to be charming rather than to inform. Ask them about their country and they will say that they will show you everything that delights. Women, though, will answer the question I ask. And truthfully. The good and the bad. Will you tell me about Yronwood? Oberyn and I have traveled the world, but yours is a corner that I have not seen, and so close to home.”

As she speaks, she absently reaches up to run her hand up and down your forearm, effortlessly creating an intimacy, as if she has decided that you are already her friend.

“Of course. What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” she smiles conspiratorially. “All of its secrets.”

While Yronwood is one of the only forested and green areas in Dorne that isn’t also mountainous, you have much to compare it to the Sunspear region and she has many questions. She wants to know about the foods there, the music, the customs. As you speak, she tours you along the halls of the palace, stopping here or there to point out a historical addition…or a subtle bawdy detail in the stonework. 

And you can’t help but to swallow every word with obvious gratitude. Not that you would want to hide it when she seems to warm to it so thoroughly.

“This is the main hall,” she says, sweeping ahead and stopping in the middle of the open-arched mosaiced room to spin toward you. The space is empty and dim in contrast to the bright, southern sunshine that pours in from open terraces. “Would you like to sit on the throne?” Her head bobs to the understated yet ornately carved chair behind her on the marble dias at one end.

“What?” you balk. “No…I…don’t think so. I don’t want to think what would happen if someone saw!”

Ellaria shrugs. “Eh. I do it all the time.” Moving to the chair in a few long steps, she gracefully folds herself into the throne. “Doran is too humble to care much. He says it is just a place to sit, and too far away from everyone else.”

“Still,” you whisper, glancing around just in case, feeling a spike in your heart rate when a servant passes by outside, too dark in here for them to see within. “Of course you can get away with it. Nobody would dare reprimand you.”

“Oberyn would,” she smiles, rising.

“Huh. That’s noble of him.”

This makes her tip her head back to laugh, a warm, low-throated joy escaping her. “He holds no reverence for the throne. He would just say it is a waste of time sitting on this one when I could sit on his.”

“He has a throne?”

You feel foolish the second it comes out of your mouth and shake your head in self-disappointment. Ah. Yes. We’re no longer speaking of furniture. 

But Ellaria only gives a sly smile. “Would you like to see the gardens? I think you would like the fountains!”

Oh, there’s no question of want, but the sun is getting rather high. “Is it shaded? Only this is the lightest dress I have and it’s much warmer down here than the forests.”

“Hmmm.” Her eyes are like the sky over the sea, constantly changing. Is she disappointed or angry at your answer? Before you can read it, her expression tilts to joy and then mischief, a spark igniting in her dark eye. “Let me take you somewhere else.”

Following her over sunwarmed marble and breezy terraces, she turns to make sure you are following her, with a smile that promises a rewarding surprise. 

Finally coming to a little door on the second floor, she ushers you into a room crowded with color. Rich saffrons and yellows, deep emeralds and chocolates made of silk and brocade and leather.

Ellaria immediately gravitates to a deep blue silk, rubbing it between her long fingers. “Vian? Are you here?”

“Aye, I’m out here on the veranda, having a smoke. What can I do for you?”

Vian emerges from the sun, tall and matronly, carrying a cloth she is embroidering in silver the very hue of the streaks in her dark hair. If you didn’t immediately understand she was the royal seamstress–and if she wasn’t blowing a huge plume of waterpipe smoke as she enters–you might have mistook her for part of the royal family. Even the employees are regal here…

“This is our new friend,” Ellaria runs her hands over your shoulders, ushering you forward. “It is often shady and windy where she lives and she needs something that will let her breathe here.”

Before the shock rolls off you–the shock of this gift, of Ellara calling you friend, the way she takes your hand and presents you like a lady–the seamstress takes a calculating look at your frame and nods. “I can have something simple if she needs it for dinner; more elegant if you want it for tomorrow.”

“Something appropriate for all occasions. As if you were making it for me, please. And I think this one?” Ellaria steps to the deep blue silk. “It would be so pretty on her.”

“Mmmm. I agree. Same trim?” Vian’s voice matches the low pang of a distant bell.

“Yes. Gold. Oberyn likes gold.” Returning to you, Ellaria takes your hand. “Vian will take care of you. It’s midday and I suppose I should make sure my daughter Dorea doesn’t frighten away yet another bowmaster. Perhaps we can visit the gardens this evening when it is cooler and you are dressed more comfortably?”

It’s only after her scent of orange blossom and the hem of her dress trails behind her through the door that you remember your manners and go after her.

“Ellaria? Thank you. This is very kind.”

Slowing in the walkway and wearing the sunshine like a shimmering cloak, she returns to you once more. “It is you who are the kind one here, pet.”

“Me?”

Her nod is slow, suddenly vulnerable. “You called me Lady. There are not many from outside these walls who would do that when they know who I am.”

“But…you are very much a lady.”

She smiles, allowing this, turning to go and letting her eyes be the last thing to leave you. “And you are a guest. As such, the Princes would want you taken care of. I am merely at their service. And yours.”

_____

After such an afternoon, it is painfully disappointing when Elliara is not at dinner.

Nor is Prince Oberyn.

Or Lord Vaith.

With every passing minute out of Ellaria’s presence it seemed the day had turned and took its warmth with it little by little. You had looked forward to basking in her glow again, and instead were met with the dour jowls of Lord Scourge yapping away with all kinds of unasked for advice towards Prince Doran and yourself and the few other guests in attendance. The golds of the afternoon have been replaced with purples and blues of the evening…that is, unless you counted the brown bits of chicken that stuck to Scourge’s mustache. The man seems to get more food in his whiskers than in his mouth.

Well. Just because your hostess has better things to do with her time than show a little country lady around doesn’t mean you can’t wander on your own. The Water Gardens are well known far and wide and most become acquainted with them under the high rays of the sun. How novel will it be to wander through them for the first time under the moon?

What you find, however, is more breathtaking than you might have imagined.

The pools are hidden under a spray of stars, the reflections doubling the night sky and creating a peaceful heaven in the middle of the still-warm sands. Night flowers are blooming–their aroma is heavier than the day blooms–musky, and adding to the whole scene a layer of pretty mystery. The wardens are helpful and point you toward a shallow pool where you can take off your shoes and wade a little without having to lift your skirts too high. It’s not so much the modesty, you explain, as it is the weight of them.

A happy half an hour is spent watching your feet step through the starfield so that you’ve almost forgotten your disappointment at Oberyn not showing at dinner and Ellaria not keeping her promise to walk with you.

But then you step into the next pool and find it sparkling with a different reflection.

There’s a light burning on the second storey, throwing its warm colors down through the cool ones and when you turn toward it–as one does with light, not because you knew what you would see there–you find the silhouette of a couple entwined, a man with broad shoulders pressing a taller, willowy man against the balcony pillar over and over, the latter's leg bent at the knee with his foot resting upon the balcony railing. Before long there is a third form snaking up between them, long-haired and serpentine and feminine–

How odd. You’ve never felt such jealousy before. Maybe never. It isn’t the way you were raised. But there’s something in the way Vaith’s chin tips up, how you can see his lips parting, now much pleasure the Prince is forcing into him, something about the way Oberyn’s paramour reaches between them to pull at other things unsheathed, movements that glide and slither and buck and twist…. You came here with a duty to your father and an ulterior purpose of your own, yet never thought or hoped to be a silhouette pushed up against a pillar between a Martell and a Sand. 

So why now, with your feet cooling in the stars, do you suddenly ache to burn in their light?

Trying to be soundless as the sands as you step through the pool and into your shoes, you do your best not to disturb the activities that Ellaria and Oberyn are known so well for and slip silently though the palace back to your room. And you find that by the time you reach it, your feet are not the only part of you that are damp.

You will fling yourself into bed and picture yourself being taken and touched by them–by one and then the other and then both in turn–but first, you are confronted by what is laying on the bed waiting for you.

A dress much like Ellaira’s. One that is made to hang low and ride freely, but fashioned to your particular shape. A pretty blue–the one that Ellaira likes–and trimmed in gold.

Oberyn likes gold.

One can hope for messages to be rendered in silk, no?

The gown is light enough that when you move it from the bed to the couch, it flutters in the breeze from the open balcony windows as the pools did when you waded through them and you are grateful that it will keep you cool in the heat of the sun here.

And as you take its place on your bed, you fantasize how lovely it would be if it attracted other attentions as well.

_____

The following day’s meeting begins much like the first, but this time you actively make the decision to enter late. The blue dress flatters you and exposes much more skin to the air than you’re used to, but oddly, feels more like armor. As you stride to your seat at the table, all eyes upon you, you meet them in turn with a respectful greeting, landing lastly on Prince Oberyn with a slow nod as you sit.

He doesn’t hide his bemusement, his gaze assessing this new armor–and the advantages it reveals–as Doran begins the meeting with an exasperated sigh of reluctance. And, like yesterday, the lords take control of the words in the room as you sit silently and keep a neutral smile. Vaith grows more desperate with his demands as he finds Oberyn’s attentions linger more on you than himself, and Scourge is indignant, believing his opinions deserving of more worth only because he has the dignity of age. Even though they are both lacking in the experience of actually working with the land they are squabbling over, they stupidly fight to illuminate their ignorance.

“What you are failing to address,” Oberyn speaks slowly, cutting through an argument between the lords, startling everyone to silence with his surprising willingness to participate, “is that the rightful steward of the Yronwood valley is not here. He has sent his representative.” The prince’s eyes slide to you, and he raises a finger in your direction before letting it drop and sighing back at the men. “He is confident that we will not be handing over control of those lands or he would have come himself and allowed his kin to deal with the queen’s wine instead.” This is said with light contempt not for Queen Cerci, not for her wine, but for their lack of understanding this. And it’s not lost on you that he is very gracefully holding you up as an equal in the room. “This is the second day we’ve sat here, the sand is running thin, and yet, we might save so much time if you would just let. her. speak.” Gaped jaws from the lords. Gracious, kind smiles from the princes. “Lady?”

Should you thank him? Or just show strength and take the table? A glitter in Oberyn’s eye tells you what to do, and so you turn to your contemporaries.

“I understand that you all would benefit to holdings in the valley,” you begin, sliding your gaze out of Oberyn’s hold and turning to the two men across from you, “and I’ve been listening to your proposals. But I think that I may have a better solution than a full land grab.” Here you explain that you would divide the valley in four and that each house have their own share, provided they are each willing to make up the same percentage to Sunspear as your family does each year, thereby keeping the flow of crops to the capitol the same. Yronwood would be happy to work the crops as usual for each of the lords, for another percentage of the crops, of course.

Lord Scourge huffs. “And I suppose your father will be deciding who will lay claim to which portion, knowing well which ones are more productive–”

“Why four? There are three houses, if you haven’t noticed,” Vaith lifts his chin in smug victory.

You make a soft show of a smile. “There would be four allocations because–as anyone who is skilled with land workings would know–land must lay fallow at intervals to keep its fertility. Each house would have control over one portion a year while one is fallow. That,” you nod to the fancy young lord and speak slowly for maximum understanding, “means three working plots, one for each family–yours, mine, and Lord Scourge here. Plus one at rest. That equals four. And as for your concerns,” you swap your kind attentions to the older man, “this means that the plots will rotate every year, and be given stewardship appointment with the approval of the Princes of Dorne.” Here you drop your sweetness and face the lord with genuine neutrality. “And it will be me as Head Steward–not my father–who would be making those decisions, Lord Scourge.”

While the lords take time to recover their tongues, you appeal to Doran. “I would propose this plan for a double rotation of eight seasons to give all houses a chance to turn good crops, with an assessment at the end of that time to re-allocate proportional control of the lands to those who can use it to its full potential.”

“You mean to return it to Yronwood if all goes poorly,” Prince Doran says, not without a sliver of amusement, and you shrug a shoulder.

“Possibly. That would be your call, your highness.”

“Well! As long as Yronwood is willing to work the land at the price of crops I don’t see a reason to object to this experiment.” When the lords protest, Doran listens silently to their concerns, only to give a final answer– “Your great houses have stood for centuries. What exactly can be lost in the space of eight seasons?”

As if on cue, the sand runs out, taking the Princes’ patience with it and, like yesterday, Oberyn is the first to leave. Not knowing if this decision was final or if there would be another chance tomorrow to find the Viper at leisure, you move to catch up to him before Vaith can have his way. But you’re stopped by the softer voice of Doran, still lingering in the doorway of the counsel room.

“Lady Yronwood. You know this will not sate their need for control over the valley for long.”

And with a little bitterness, you watch Oberyn disappear around a corner before turning back to your priorities.

“I know. But I’m hoping in that time that they might at least learn that the soil is rich enough to give them what they need and more so that they may be satisfied with having a portion of it rather than needing to cause conflict over the whole thing.”

“It didn’t sound like you were confident in their abilities to gain the skill to keep it.”

“Well then, your highness, we’re not interested in conflict. The House of Yronwood may earn your favor and protection as valued maesters of crops.”

“Even if the land is no longer yours?”

You nod, a little sadly. “It’s in our blood. As is our loyalty to Dorne.”

He casts his eyes down at the stones underfoot and sighs, disappointed in the situation, not hopeful for a long term peace, but when he speaks, it holds reverence. “Eight seasons buys time. I don’t think your father could have done as well with bluster as you have done with patience. Elia once said you were very clever.”

You mark the memory of sunshine in his voice as he names his lost sister and try to match it. “She only spent a season at our home, your highness, a long time ago when we were all very young. But I’m honored that she remembered me that way.”

It’s a surprisingly humble moment shared with the ruling prince of Dorne, a curtain you were not expecting to see behind. Without looking back up or saying another word, he nods and turns into the hall, his cane clicking on the stones, and takes his leave.

Elia. So many summers ago when the King and Queen were called away, each one of the children were entrusted to lords of Dorne… Only for a season. You hardly knew her at all. And yet, it seems, you owe her for a promising and lasting impression on the royal family.

“You are lost in thought. Were you disappointed?” You smell Ellaria before you turn and see her–night blooms in her hair. “Doran can be so glum. Fair, but glum.”

“It went as well as it could have, I guess. He was only reminding me of…family ties. Something long ago.” It’s the scent of night blooms from the gardens–spicy and rich–sparking a fleeting memory of her sliding between two silhouettes. And you can’t help a hitch in your breath when she takes your hand. “I was disappointed to have missed you at dinner last night. I was looking forward to our walk.”

“I’m sorry. But I had to supervise a meeting. But you still got to play in the Gardens, yes? You looked so regal wading among the stars, like the goddess.” When you can’t hide the shock of being caught, she laughs and pulls you along by the hand. “Let me show you.”

“I didn’t mean to…I was just in the Gardens and–”

“I only hope you found some pleasure in what you saw. Vaith is a bore and fucks like one too.” As she leads the way down a garden path, you thank the gods she doesn’t look behind her to speak or she would see the most deplorable mix of amusement and embarrassment in your pained smile. “I only wanted to get him worn out and sent away so I could intervene on your behalf.”

“Oh, well, I’d never think that Oberyn would be politically swayed by…that.”

“Eh. Unlikely. Love and lands are not the same to him. But I only wanted to turn his eye on you.”

As the path opens up to a small clearing, there in the middle is a life-sized statue of Mother Rhoyne–the ancient goddess of Dorne–in her telltale pose, dancing with one foot in the water and the other on the back of a turtle, her hair festooned with stars. Closer up, you can see that the white stone is covered in faint marks along her lips, cheeks, and breasts. Kiss marks. Stains. The same shade as Ellaria’s lip pigment. But it’s not the most surprising thing about the goddesss. What strikes you most is that the statue looks like…

“Me? I mean, he did advocate for me in today’s meeting, so I guess I really need to thank you for–”

Here, in the seclusion of the courtyard, Ellaria leads you up to the statue, dropping your hand to curl it around the stone waist of the goddess and draw herself near, lifting the other hand to cup the statue’s cheek. The way Mother Rhoyne is posed–looking downward with a quiet love and reverence–and how Ellaria looks back up at her, it’s like coming across a private meeting between two lovers, and you can’t look away, or stop from wishing to be involved.

“The moment you entered the palace I was entranced, you know,” she says, still curled around the statue, but turning her dark eyes to yours. “I thought that I knew you somehow.” Breaking free and taking your hands, she guides you closer, paralleling the statue, spreading your arms wide in a mirrored pose. “It wasn’t until I saw you in the garden last night with the stars in the pool at your feet that I saw you for the one you remind me of!”

It’s mesmerizing, the way her eyes sparkle as they see you in the guise of her muse and even as she steps back to take you in, you keep the pose, completely paralysed by her awe. But Ellaria does not leave you in suspense for long, stepping slowly forward, taking your face in her hands and pressing her lips to yours. Your arms fall naturally around her, the silken curls of her hair crushed by your forearms against her back, the bend of her body around yours. Her touch is both supple and strong, the rake of her fingers over and behind your ears is like a spellworking, bringing you in further, chasing her kiss, eager for more.

“But you are not made of stone,” she hums as she parts from you, pulling the tips of her fingers to the point of your chin, running them down and over your collarbone, assessing your contours without abandon now. “This dress is perfect on you.” She smiles, proud of her choices as her hand slides along your hip, drawing you closer. 

You do not resist and for some time you are treated to her blazing kisses, grateful again for the lightness of the dress. Not only is it helpful as your body temperature rises like a sinfully beautiful flame, but it allows for every detail to be felt–her hips, her hands, her breasts against your own–the open sleeves allow her to run her palms up your arms, smoothly running under the fabric to skate across your shoulderblades. The prince’s paramour tongues little kisses down the lobe of your ear, under your jaw, while her hands roam and explore. Before long, your head is swimming and each kiss across your collarbone is like a whole glass of wine, making your shiver and swoon. If only her hands were able to wander lower–

“Share your secret with me. What is this favor you want from Oberyn?”

The whispered question pulls you in the direction of sobriety and you hum in confusion, like being woken from a dream. Then, all at once, insecurity makes you wonder if this is all a game. Is she seducing you for information? Is she being kind to keep you from your goal? Is this all a farce? After all, she’s so beautiful…how could someone so lovely be so interested….? You’re suddenly aware of your body trembling, the rush of nerves coming thick and fast…

But then, over her shoulder, you have your answer. Mother Rhoyne stands guard as Ellaria strokes your hair and kisses your cheek…kisses your cheek in exactly the same place where a lipstick stain adorns the statue that bears a striking resemblance to yourself. Oh no, this is no game. Ellaria knows exactly what she likes and that alone is enough to cut your trembling down at least by half, and then again as she conspires with you, “Whatever you desire, I can do this for you.”

“I…I need a potion.”

This stops the gentle roaming of Ellaria’s hands as she brings a finger under your chin to look you in the eye, more serious now. “Who are you looking to poison, pet?”

“No one. Not a poison. A potion. One that I’m…not sure actually exists.”

Her curiosity piqued, she tilts her head in such a way that makes it almost impossible not to make a dive for her long, lithe neck. She places a fingertip to your trembling lip in an effort to calm it. “You could ask any maester–”

“No maester of repute would make me a strong aphrodisiac like the one I need.”

This brings her to a full stillness as she contemplates you, her face a slow unfolding of realization as she gracefully steps back. “I’ve made you nervous. I should be more gentle–”

You can see her assumptions as she is making them. “No. No that’s not–”

“Oberyn can do this for you. We can do this for you–”

“No, Lady Ellaria, it’s not for me. I’m not the one who–”

In an instant there’s a third voice in the mix of misunderstanding– “Mama!” –as a little body slams into your leg, little hands clutching your dress, and you look down to see a beautiful laughing little girl with Oberyn’s eyes, a copy of Ellaria’s smile melting off her face as she looks up and realizes that the woman in a dress like her mother’s is not her mother after all.

“Little snake in the grass!” Ellaria hisses in mock fierceness, swooping down with long arms and pulling the little girl to her hip. “You’re supposed to be in your lessons. Did you run away again?” The little girl only jams her fist to her mouth and looks at you with wide eyes and Ellaria bows her forehead to her, whispering in her ear. “This is my friend, a Lady. What do we do when we meet a lady?”

It takes a moment for the child to remember her lessons, and when she does, she is her mother’s miniature, demurely lowering her eyes and giving a graceful bow of the head before lifting her chin and keeping a strong–and possibly, secretly defiant–eye contact. The effect in such a tiny package is charming and your smile seems to tell her so, because she giggles before turning to cup her mother’s ear and whisper loudly into it.

“Alright. If you say so.” Letting her eyes apologize for her, Ellaria follows the path out of the little courtyard in the direction of her daughter’s pointing. “Apparently, Oberyn’s caught a monster. Most likely a lizard.”

“It’s a lizard-lion!” corrects the girl and Ellaria laughs.

“If you say so. We shall see.” With one last glance, she whispers to you, “Oberyn will help you!”

And all at once the courtyard is quiet, your only companions the hot breeze off the ocean, the static sparks still racing along your skin, and Mother Rhoyne smiling down at you. And while you saw adoration reflected back at Ellaria when she held the goddess in her arms, the statue’s gaze for you is more sly, knowing.

“You’re welcome,” she seems to say.

_____

PART 2: OBERYN

While the valley lords are still guests at Sunspear–yourself included–dinner is being served communally again tonight and it can’t come fast enough. A quick scan around the room and you spy Ellaria seated at the far end with a couple of her older daughters. You head in that direction but are promptly interrupted by one of the servants, a pretty boy with dark hair and golden skin.

“Lady Yronwood? This way if you please. Prince Oberyn requested you sit by him tonight.”

Darting a glance Ellaria’s way, she has her head turned from you, listening intently to her daughter. She doesn’t even notice that you’ve entered the room. It’s disappointing that you can’t even speak to her first, but what the princes want, the princes get, and so you nod kindly to the young man and follow him toward the main table.

The hall is lit with patterned lanterns that hang from the pillars, their light bouncing off the glossy mosaiced walls and the silky fabrics of the low chairs. The hall is set up in the traditional style with intricately carved, low, octagonal tables honeycombing the room, each one surrounded by a maze of seats. The chairs are more like ottomans with rattan backs, wide and cushioned, each one able to seat at least two people or more.

Oberyn is at ease on one of them, arms splayed along the back of one end of the settee, his chin over his shoulder as he listens to Vaith drone on. While he seems relaxed–legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, saffron robe open to a deep V blouse that shows more of his chest than anyone else here could sensibly get away with–the smile on his face is tight, bored, tolerant. One hand picks idly at the caning on the back of the chair. He’s waiting for a rescue.

Even with an invitation, it’s polite to ask. “Your highness? May I?”

Perhaps you should have waited for a break in Vaith’s monologue, but it seemed there might be none. You’re relieved when Oberyn’s attention falls on you, his smile warming, and he shifts on the settee not only to come to more respectful posture, but to make room for you. Vaith, for his part, gives you a cold stare before he moves to a more attentive group across the room.

“Please,” the Prince gestures to the spot beside him, and as you take your place, he leans over to the table, taking a small finger plate and filling it with an assortment of fruits and fried dough. “Our cook makes a very special date cake. I hope that you enjoy it.”

He sets the plate before you on the low table and your heart leaps at the gesture. It’s not uncommon in Dorne for hosts to personally serve their guests, but you didn’t expect that honor from a prince, no matter how casual the palace at the Water Gardens may be. As if to deter any fussy formality, he picks up one of the cakes from its communal bowl–a date in fried dough and sprinkled with spices–popping it into his mouth and resuming his casual position, leans back, eyeing you while he chews.

“So,” he says, elegantly, even with a mouthful, “You are a Head Steward of the Vinyards and yet your hands are not scared or calloused.”

You stop a cake halfway to your mouth, immediately conscious of your hands in the warm glow of the lanterns. “I… don’t work the fields. I help with the planning and I do inspect the vines, but I don’t have that much talent with my hands.”

“Pity,” he smirks, popping a berry into his mouth. “But talent comes in many forms as you’ve displayed today. Patience is a talent. Diversion is a talent.” He stops and watches you eat the cake. “It’s good, yes?”

The dough is cooked perfectly, crunchy outside, soft inside, with just the smallest explosion of spiced oil and then sweetness of the fruit, all coated in a sticky syrup so delicious that you forget your manners and lick your thumb to clean it off. The little moan that it pulls from you is just on this side of propriety. “By the gods–!”

A knowing chuckle. “Allowing yourself to enjoy delicacies…that can be taught, but it helps that you already have an appetite for sweet things.”

Heart pounding, you look to him for meaning. He only smiles and bites into another cake, black eyes glinting like part of the mosaics surrounding you.

A servant comes by and leaves a new cruet of wine and Oberyn leans forward to pour for you. “Doran reminded me today that Elia spent a summer in the Yronwood.”

“She did, but my memories are few and far away.”

He offers the cup with both hands, like a hopeful, graceful plea. “Will you tell me what you remember?”

While you would have done so out of loyalty to your prince, it’s the sincerity that tugs at your heart and asks for you to do a kindness for him now, as you would for any friend.

Over the next hour, you gladly grant his wish, finding that the more you speak, the more memories return. The time you had to rescue his sister from a bush that had caught her by the hair; a prank you both pulled on your mother; the way she loved the sunsets there. Her favorite food was lamb stew and when you remember this, Oberyn’s eyes light up and he laughs, remembering anew how Elia had come home and could not stop talking about the stew, that their cook had had to learn to make it for all of them, how she insisted on eating it every night for a week but soon got tired of it because she said it wasn’t as good as the original.

His laugh is full throated and genuine, and he’s hungry to hear all you have to give him. He’s easier to talk to than you expected, none of the boredom he displayed at the meetings, nothing of the venom of the Viper he is rumored to be. In fact, there are moments when he speaks about Elia that it’s like seeing through the hinge in a door, a quick glimpse of a deep hurt or longing behind it, but the expressions are fleeting and extinguished by a sip of wine or a mouthful of food and his want to take pleasure in the company that is alive and warm before him.

Oberyn is cutting but courteous, and you can see that he is constantly taking the measure of your mind, calculating and analyzing, and momentary lifts at the corner of his lips tells you that he likes what he is finding there. There is a point in the conversation where you ask his opinion. His only answer is a sideways glance and a low hum of an answer:, “I think you can guessssss.” Meaning he has found you to be parsing him out in equal measure.

When he realizes the conversation has veered toward talk of the valley and the land grab, he cringes, waving his cup through the air to ward off the unsavory business talk and changes the topic.

“Ellaria tells me you have been wishing to speak to me. You seek a favor.”

You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks and cast a glance around to the neighboring chairs and tables, not wanting a public audience for this request, grateful that the other lords have taken up a spirited conversation with some of the other guests. “Yes. But. I’d rather be discreet about it. It’s a delicate ask–”

“An aphrodisiac. A strong one.” He waits as you swallow your beating heart and nod. “I can do this. How much do you need?”

You hadn’t considered this, and you feel your eyebrows knit together as you formulate the answer, only to come up with a slightly distressed “I…I’m not sure. I don’t know how they work so I don’t know how much.”

“You’ve never used one, I gather.”

“No–”

“Then how do you know that you need it at all?” You jump to answer him–to find a way to correct him–but he doesn’t wait for a response. “My brother and I agree on your proposal for the valley, but we will be lengthening the rotation to twelve seasons. It is the best short term solution that we have. There isn’t any further discussion needed and the parties are dismissed. But you,” he says, using the lean forward to set his cup on the table in order to shift closer to you, “I want you to stay. A brew such as you ask will take some hours to steep, especially if you want full potency.” 

The last word is both whispered and enunciated in a way that is both matter-of-fact and deliciously conspiratorial. He’s close enough that his knee presses into yours and this all causes a shiver in your breathing. Judging by his expression, it doesn’t go unnoticed. “Thank you, your highness. I’m grateful.”

The knowing smirk from earlier returns. “Ellaria is right. You really do look like the goddess in this dress.” He reaches out to touch a little of the gold detailing on the sleeve, trying it between finger and thumb. 

But his purpose isn’t to judge the fabric. 

He has assessed you correctly then. Respect. Genuine connection. A little flirtation. Proximity. Some delicious anticipation. You can tell he’s enjoying the effect this combination is having on you, the way your breath synchronizes to his as he slows you both down. A viper hypnotizing its prey. 

This moment between you has caught the notice of Lord Vaith who breaks from his group and begins to head in your direction, ready to stake a claim. But it seems Oberyn made clear instructions that he was not to be disturbed while he was with you, because the same beautiful servant that turned you toward Oberyn at the start of the evening is now attempting to turn Vaith away at its end. 

Knowing that he’ll have limited time to escape, the Prince stands, placing a knuckle lightly under your chin, tipping your eyes to his. “I’ll have what you ask for tomorrow evening. Come to my rooms after you have dined.” Another sly smile as he takes his leave. “You know where they are.”

There is no mistaking what he means. Ellaria wasn’t the only one who saw you in the garden that night.

_____

It’s difficult to sleep; the night is sticky and hot and you can’t seem to reduce the volume or pace of your heart. 

There is no doubt that Ellaria adores you. But the prince showing obvious interest too? An evening invitation to his rooms can only mean one thing and there is no use trying to calm yourself or dabble in the possibility that you’re wrong. The only hope you have is for the heat to burn off before tomorrow night because you will most likely find yourself in a furnace of another kind.

They’ve had so many lovers, it’s hard not to feel intimidated.

But, you remind yourself, they’ve had so many lovers…so they know exactly what they want. And right now, for reasons that is only important to them, that’s you.

You wonder if it’s better to take matters into your own hands tonight or allow the fire to build. But in the end, you do what’s needed to sleep, to cool down, maintaining that you’ll burn longer tomorrow if you cast off some of your own heat now.

You can still feel the press of his knee, the touch at your chin. And her kisses have seared their mark onto your lips. 

Think of how this will feel when it is their hands on you instead of your own….

_____

The only agenda of the morning is to send a message back to Yronwood Hall to inform them of your extended stay. Beyond that, you suddenly feel adrift, leaving you open to nervous activity. Reading is too much sitting still, but wandering the palace seems odd when you don’t know if anyone outside of Oberyn and Ellaria know that you are still here and then for what purpose. But then, there are other guests around, extended Martells, Doran’s doctors, lords of other estates with their own dealings, even children of noble families are sent here to play in the Water Gardens while their parents are busy doing almost anything else. So surely nobody will take notice of one more lady around the place.

You’re about to chance a walk in the gardens when there’s a knock at your bedroom door.

“‘Morning, Lady,” Vian croaks as she sails through the door without stopping to ask if she can enter. But she doesn’t come in far or look around. Her focus is on you and the dress she’s fashioned for you, and she takes a lap around you to see it from all sides. “Hmm. I went a little long in the hem, but we’ll fix it for the next one.”

“I’m sorry, the next one?”

Stooping to experiment with the length of the skirt, she huffs out an affirmative. “Ellaria’s taken a liking to you and Prince Oberyn grants her whims. If you're still here it’s because they both want you around for their own purposes. It won’t do to have you running around in the same dress day in and day out, so I’ll get to work on another choice, something that keeps you cool and accentuates your assets.”

It’s difficult to catch your breath after that one. “Um. Is this… normal? I mean, is it obvious why I’m still here?”

“It’s not normal, but neither is’t unusual, Lady. More like,” she groans as she straightens to her feet, “a very honored guest. And it’s my job to anticipate that and extend that same courtesy. I won’t have you with not much but your heavy garb to sweat away in while you stay. We’ll get you outfitted with something more than just the one, dear. Hmm. Yellow? Red.”

A sudden idea. “May I suggest white?”

“White? I can’t make it as sheer as this with such a light color. That would make it indecent, Especially with the fountains….”

“I see. It’s just that…there's a statue in the gardens that Ellaria seems to like. She says it looks like me? Or I look like it? But it’s white stone and–”

“Huh. Now that you say it, I do see it. Oh. Ah ha….. Oh you’re going to be just fine here,” she chuckles, then the enigma’s gone. “Dress’s different style though. Still, very flattering. If you don’t mind it being without trim, it’ll be an easier build and quicker too.”

“You can do it?”

“Can I do it. Feh.” With a back wave of her long hand she moves herself through the door. “With you, easy. Ellaria wants a goddess which means Oberyn wants a goddess which means I have a goddess to outfit. Simple, flowy, easy work. No crown of stars though, that’s not my area….” She continues to explain to nobody in particular as she moves down the walkway toward her workroom.

Well that settles things then. It seems like your purpose here is both obvious and nothing to be scandalized by, so you head out for some air. Thankfully, the other guests pay you no mind at all and you’re able to walk easy.

Passing through the hall you can see a fencing lesson happening in a courtyard–two of Oberyn’s daughters and their fighting master. And Ellaria, watching with authority, determined that Oberyn’s children will be as fierce as their father, female or not. Reclining on a settee in the shade, she looks in every way the queen she should be were she of noble birth.

Leaving them to their business, you take a turn that you know leads to the gardens, fully intending to spend a day wading in their cool, shaded paths. Instead, your curiosity is drawn to a door standing half open.

The palace library reveals itself to be a modest room, but still well-stocked, considering that this is not a central seminary nor the main palace at Sunspear. There are only three cases of codexes along two walls of a space smaller than your bedroom, most of them looking to be histories and heraldry records judging by their shape and binding, plus a few map scrolls that lay abandoned on a central table. There’s a book laying open there that catches your eye though, and this is what brings you further into the room.

It’s an illuminated book on the subject of herbalism. Fern fronds and petals splay across its pages in green inks, along with a block text that obviously originated with a maester. Pieces of it are defaced, scratched out and contradicted or edited, the marginalia scrawled in deep burgundy script whose flourish hints at an eccentric and possibly egotistical note-taker.

“Are you learning anything?”

Oberyn’s voice causes you to jolt and spin, finding him leaning against a shelf behind the door, book in hand, watching you in bemusement.

“I didn’t realize I’d be disturbing anyone in here.”

Locking you in a stare, the prince reaches out a hand and pushes the library door away from himself, back to the half-closed position you’d found it in and he gives you a glib shrug. “It is a library like any other. It is open to anyone who wishes to use it.” He returns the book to the shelf before sauntering over, joining you at the table, turning to lean back against it. Placing two fingers on the herbalism volume, he drags it toward himself, licks a finger, turns a page. “Do you recognize this herb?”

The petals of the plant bloom in one corner of the page under his finger and you nod. “Common drillsap.”

Pursing his lips he considers you a moment before asking, “So you would recognize it if you saw it?”

“Of course; it’s very well known. It quickens the blood and has…amorous effects. Young women bake it into sweets to give to the men they like. It grows wild in the fields and at the beginning of the season it gets tilled into the soil. That’s actually one of the secrets of our wines.”

This causes him to crack a smile, laughter shaking out of him until he throws back his head, allowing you a very close look at his long neck, flexing into a delicious V as it meets the collar of his saffron robe. “No wonder your estate’s wines are so popular!”

For this moment, the princely edifice drops and behind it stands a grinning man, charming in his simple amusement.

“So this is all it takes?” You smile, confused, enjoying the bubble of his laughter as it runs dry. “You’re saying I have all the ingredients for what I need? That I needn’t have come to you?”

“Mmmm…” He idly flips a few more pages. “No. This is only a mild ingredient, good enough for a push in the right direction, but it does not create a flame. I have a better formula. I’m only looking for a flavoring agent that won’t counter its effects. Unnecessary, but the base ingredients are very pungent and something sweeter can only enhance the pleasure. But whether it was necessary to come to me,” he says, lifting his chin and challenging you with a lighthearted smirk, “remains to be seen.”

The viper has come out to play again and the air between you is building in static. The prince tends to test people with silence. Completely comfortable in it himself, he patiently waits for his prey to break.

And while you will have to fail his test, you have one of your own–holding eye contact–and at that, you will not lose.

“Your highness, I think you mistake me.”

Something begins to darken in his features, the smile fading. “Oh?”

“This potion I’ve asked of you… it’s not for me.”

Relief. He realizes you’re not rejecting him. “For your lover then.”

“I have none.”

“You have none?” A lift of the eyebrow.

“At the moment. But hopefully soon.”

Again his silence. Again your calm gaze.

It’s when he lifts his chin further–ever so very slightly–to gaze down at you with heavy lids, that you understand this test.

Alone with you, behind a partially open door, the prince leans back against the table with his arms crossed. He isn’t backing you into a corner, he isn’t touching you at all. Nothing here is a threat. You are being handed the power.

It’s like he’s daring you to close the distance.

And yet, you can’t.

He’s so beautiful, so alluring, so completely captivating and yet so, so intimidating. Want and fear dance in perfect sync within you and the spot where he touched your chin last night aches with the memory of his skin. That was just one knuckle….what would happen if you allowed yourself to ask for more–for all of it–and then never be allowed to have it again? Is it worth it to have him for a night? Maybe two at most? To live in a moment that you will compare against others long after it is done?

But then he whispers, taunting, “You tell me it is not for you, and yet it seems you lack courage. Are you sure?” 

It’s like a spring-release, and before you can judge yourself, before you weigh the scant possibilities of being mistaken or the consequences your heart might carry, you step into his space and draw his lips to yours with both hands.

As his coils tighten around you, it’s here that you find you were not wrong that he wants you. The only thing you misunderstood was the level of his desire for you. 

Kissing Oberyn is like kissing a god, a tempest, a pillar of flame all at once. He surrounds you like a torrent, holding your head and waist not only to keep you close but to keep you from swooning and falling out of his arms. And yet he is careful not to bruise you with angles, giving you the soft strength of his skin, his lips, his sigh upon your cheek, the curve of his nose over your jaw and the intoxicating tease of tongue rather than the bite of teeth on your ear. You had expected him to dominate and yet he offers an exchange of senses and full menu of elements: The earthiness of his scent, the wetness of his mouth. The light tickle of heavy breath. And the fire. Oh, the fire.

It is no wonder that a prince might have whatever he wants. Even with riches and nobility, even if he’s the best lay in the land, how could anyone deny him anything when he can kiss like this? He certainly doesn’t rest on laurels or take this step for granted; it’s obvious that he enjoys doing it well and wringing the most pleasure from it that he can.

A good omen for things to come.

But, as a prince, he is also used to having the control, and it is he who orchestrates the slow, slow conclusion to this meeting, the two of you sharing the same desperate breathing space for a moment before he speaks. “I assure you that this table is sturdy, but I prefer the pleasure of something more yielding. And Ellaria would be very disappointed if she did not get to share the first feast.”

You might be swooning, but your ears are still working. The first feast. Not just a feast, but the first.

Running a finger down the center of your chest and back up again, he stops it once more at your chin to bring you to stillness and make a memory of your features before leaving a last, long kiss upon your mouth, savoring it as if the hours he has to go without you is more than a scant few. Reluctantly sliding out of your embrace, he picks up the book from the table. “I have a commission to finish before you come to find me again. You will have your potion. But I don’t think you will need it.’

And with as much confidence and silence as he’d met you with earlier, he is out the door and gone.

This is, of course, an end to your fears, a banishment of doubt. There will be no questions when you knock upon his door tonight, no wondering what fate will unfold. And even if you can’t begin to guess what pleasures are in store for you, the three most important things are certain: 

There will be a prince and there will be his paramour.

And there will be you, the object of their desire.

_____

PART 3: TRINITY

The dress is beautiful. Silk, whisper light brocade, the design woven in feathers and orchard trees, white on white, tucked and tailored in all the right places, otherwise flowing freely. Vian is a wonder, you think; your very own fairy godmother. The way you find the gown arranged on your bed might as well include a message that says, “I’m almost sorry I’ve put so much work into something that is made to wind up on the floor.”

This time though, it’s like the opposite of armor, soft and vulnerable, no need for defense.

You know the way, no need to knock. A servant waits, and ushers you in before leaving the room.

Oberyn’s bedroom is large but not overwhelming, simple, tiled in light amber marble that reflects the lantern light in a glowing gold. The bed is on one side, low in the Sunspear style, the head set into a shallow blue-tiled arched alcove, the silk-covered pillows in a casual state of being shuffled about for comfort and lounging.

Across from it stands a modest short table surrounded by a few settees and upon which rests a crewet of deep burgundy wine and three cups. Beyond that is the other side of the arches, the balconies looking out to a starry Dornish sky and–as you know–the Water Gardens below. The far one frames two of the most elegant people you’ve had the pleasure to kiss and both of them turn to regard you with delight. 

And hunger.

Of course it’s Ellaria that comes gliding your way, wrapping a long arm around your waist, her other hand interlocking its fingers with yours as if she means to dance with you. But instead she bends her neck to kiss your knuckles and brings your hand to her chest, walking you over to a settee at the table and pulling you onto it. She curls herself around you, smoothing your dress and admiring your hair, taking your hand between hers with patient admiration as if you are a precious gift she can’t wait to unwrap. She dotes…and it’s not unpleasant. At all.

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?” you ask her, similarly taking a lock of her curls and letting it wrap around your finger.

“She’s just very giddy,” Oberyn smiles, sitting across from you and reaching for the wine. “It’s been a long time since she has taken the lead in an interest and I like to see her happy. However, you came here for something specific.” From behind a cup he reveals a very small vial filled with a clear liquid and places it before you.

“That’s…it?”

“I assure you, it is very strong. A few drops and you will find yourself running naked in the streets asking the sun itself to fill you with its seed. I know–” he assures you, cutting off your response, “--it’s not for you. Perhaps though, you might tell us who you think needs such potent encouragement?”

“First, will you tell me how to administer it? Can too much be dangerous?” 

With a self-satisfied sigh, he passes wine to you and Ellaria, taking a sip from his own cup. “Nothing poisonous. If you–or anyone else–were to take too much, you would simply run very hot, and then very tired, and then sleep it off and wake up to a slight headache.” As you and Ellaria drink, he points to the container of wine. “Three drops in a portion this size is more than enough. Drillsap will make it sweeter.”

The wine rolls over your tongue with a familiar bouquet. “Is this…?”

“Your family’s wine? Of course,” he nods, downing the rest of his cup. “You’ll excuse me for being gauche, serving a delicacy to its maker, but it is the very best we have. I thought you might be offended if I gave you something less refined.”

“No. I mean…is this…enhanced?” you swallow, gesturing to the vial, “With that?”

Pursing his lips, Oberyn leans back and surveys the whole of you while setting his own assets on display. “You should know that the ingredients in that vial are very precious. But that doesn’t mean that we expect you to…compensate us for it. You are free to take it and go, if you’d like. But I think Ellaria would be disappointed.”

Her arm curls around yours to grasp your hand tightly, and you squeeze it back. “I want to be here. I didn’t mean to imply that–”

He chuckles benevolently. “I believe you. But truly, I don’t think using the concoction would be worth the overstimulation. For any of us. I fully intend to enjoy this night.”

You can feel your heart skip to keep up. “So your highness would also be disappointed if I were to…opt to leave with the potion?”

“Devistated.” By the gods. How delicious he is when he flirts. “You do look beautiful in that frock, my dear, but I want Ellaria to remove it now. If you would, my love.”

“But wait,” you say as Ellaria–decidedly not waiting–begins to lower the sleeves over your shoulders, “you wanted to know who it’s for–”

Oberyn waves a dismissal as he stands to lazily remove his robe, revealing golden skin to his belt, trousers beginning to tighten. “Later. I promise you. I won’t forget to ask. Once my curiosity is piqued, I will have satisfaction. But for now…” Another wave of his hand asks you to stand so that Ellaria can finish opening her present. “If you please.”

Ellaria is gentle with her disrobing, delighted as she goes, running hands over newly exposed skin. “This is Vian’s work. I will have to send her praise. She deserves it, the way it makes you glow.” When she’s down to your foundations she takes your face in her hands and kisses you slowly, shedding your garments like casting off your title, your history, your inhibitions. 

Your head is buzzing and you eye the little vial on the table. Even if there wasn’t potion in the wine, certainly there’s still some in the air here tonight. But you lose sight of the table in exchange for the ceiling when Ellaria fits her mouth to your breast.

“Come to me, my dear,” Oberyn beckons and you face him bravely, Ellaria handing you off like a bride. Taking you lightly by the hand, the prince turns you around, making a full map and wish list before spinning you into his chest. You reach up to offer your lips to his, but he only bows his head to look into your eyes. “Ellaria and I have so many plans for you. Are you ready for us to guide you?”

Ah. This is a gift. He’s not asking for you to take the lead, he’s not telling you that you’ll take what you get. He’s making sure you understand that they’re placing your entertainment as high a priority as their own, that you are a guest and they’ll do the serving here.

You can feel your eyes go wide with wonder, your fingers clawing at his shoulders. You must seem so hungry as you moisten your parted lips and give a grateful nod.

Ellaria’s kiss lands on your shoulder, her voice tickling the back of your neck, her hands surveying your backside, running up your sides to cup you from behind. “Nothing rough for you tonight, my pet. We do not want to wear you out before the sun rises, but you are the one who tells us when you are finished.”

You feel yourself clench at this, a little disappointed because you’re already seeking release for your mounting tension, but Oberyn’s thumb strokes the ridge of your jaw, softly, lovingly, and he seeks a no-doubt level of trust. Snaking your fingers up the back of his neck into his hair, you pull his lips to yours and give in. Completely.

You can feel him smiling in the kiss, letting you take as long as you want, feeling Ellaria slip away as she retires to a settee to watch. He allows you to taste his skin, meet his tongue with your own, devours the little noises you can’t help but make when he takes the lead from you, until his mouth catches your ear–

“Help me with my clothes.” Another gift, this time one for you to open. “Do not rush.”

You take your time with the ties of his trousers as he runs his hands over your shoulders, your arms, your breasts. When you are able to pull them down enough to reveal him, he finally falls free and you have your first look at his erection–just as beautiful and substantial as the rest of him. He smacks your ass, only hard enough to make a little noise and cause you to jump and gasp.

There is laughter then, and more kissing, before he sits on the settee behind him and crooks a finger.

You look behind you to make sure that Ellaria isn’t feeling left out, but she’s lounging like a cat, enjoying the show. She only twirls her wrist at you as if to say, “Go on.”

Kneeling before him, you prepare to reach for him, to do what you would expect that he wants. And while he lets you take him in hand–to feel the weight, the shiver-soft skin over spear-hardness, the way it twitches with the hitch in his breathing–he stops your chin with one hand and gently removes your grip with the other.

“My boots, please.”

There’s blatant amusement in his smile; he’s obviously pleased, not only that you can’t wait to dive in, but that you feel comfortable here. In no way is he looking to demean you, he just wants to be freed of his clothes. 

You can help with that.

While you unlace his boots and pull them free, you can see Oberyn from the corner of your eye, watching you fondly, sometimes gazing over at Ellaria with another interesting expression, something near to gratitude...

He stands to let you remove his trousers, but doesn’t let you stay on your knees, putting out a hand to help you to your feet, to spin you around and press your back into his chest, to rut once against your ass, and bury his face in your neck. While his hands roam your breasts and fingers splay through your more sensitive parts, Ellaria watches. She’s getting restless, her legs squirming a little, her chest heaving a bit. You can see her nipples standing through her dress.

“My lover is beautiful, isn’t she?” Oberyn breathes into your neck, pinching a nipple, pulling a gasp from you, and from Ellaria by extension. “The mother of my children, my fierce Sand mistress. Isn’t she fine?”  You nod, eyes on her, cheek against his, his fingers working you slow and achingly steady. “I am the luckiest man in the world to share a bed with her, to get to fuck her. Would you like to know what that’s like? Wouldn’t you like to fuck her like I do?”

You nod, breathlessly, reaching up behind you through his hair to pull him closer. When you stretch out a hand to Ellaria though, he gently pulls your arm back down to your side, letting you know that he is the one doing the summoning tonight.

But she takes the cue, she stands, pulling a lace at the back of her dress, and like a battle standard, the whole silken affair slides off her frame and pools around her feet.

Long and lovely, her skin glows from within, like a lantern on a clear night. Her breasts are small and sharp, but as finely made as the rest of her, a filigree of collarbones and willowed limbs, delicate wrists and ample hips, hair like an upset flower basket, its contents spilling down her back. It’s finally her turn to join in and she does so gracefully, dipping her hips and scooping forward to grind herself against the back of Oberyn’s hand at your groin, putting more pressure on you, taking the leftover portion of your neck for her own lips, kissing your mouth open and gasping, rolling herself against you, drowning you in body heat and subtle perfumes and the soft sounds of sighs and wetness and suction.

Oberyn removes his hands to your waist to use your back for a few more lazy thrusts before leaving you to Ellaria, and she happily leads you by way of a dance of kissing and fondling over to the bed. There, you collapse together, lost in each other, feet no longer needed for support so that limbs can entwine, her hand pulling your leg over hers, the soft skin of her thigh taking the place where Oberyn’s fingers had so recently been. You find ripeness in each other, so much to touch, to scent, the softness of her hair, the tenderness of your breast, your tongues sliding in harmony, each of you finally finding freedom to discover in a way that hadn’t been appropriate in the gardens.

Ellaria may be focused on you, but she makes sure to keep eyes on her prince as well, an unspoken language telling him when she is ripe, when she is ready. When you can feel her slickness against your leg, she pulls you on top of her, straddling her, kissing you deep and holding out a hand to the prince.

Large hands grip your hips and maneuver you a little, pulling you both nearer the edge of the bed, but Ellaria keeps your lips to herself, wanting you to be the focus of her longing. Her knees come up behind your thighs and spread wide, and you can feel Oberyn behind you, entering her like your surrogate. His grip holds firm, pressing you back against himself with every slow thrust so you connect with his belly, most likely leaving quite a mess there.

But once the puzzle is put together and the rhythm is set, there’s no question as to what your role is. You’re here to kiss her, move with her, watch her face from a lover’s perspective while she writhes beneath you. She is a sped up sunset, a flow of water, she gasps for you and begs for you as you roll together, thrusting by no control of your own, her long fingers grasping at your neck to bring you down into a hard kiss, all while Oberyn’s hips, warm and toned, move you from behind. It’s breathtaking. Stunning. A masterpiece.

You could watch forever, but then you feel his hand snake around your hip, sliding on the sweat between your body and Ellaria’s, his fingers finding a home in you and matching his rhythm. This, mixed with the vibration of Ellaria’s moans in your mouth, you can feel the blissful summit arriving–

–which is precisely when he pulls his hand away and replaces his hold on your hips, thrusting harder, although slower, needing more push as you can feel her belly tighten, her body gripping his. Lacing her fingers with yours and pulling them above her head, throwing her arms wide, her back arches, her nipples pushing up to you and you take one between your lips as she emits a moan, a howl, a sound like the declaration of war. You’ve never seen such a beautiful woman climax so hard and it is the most holy thing you’ve witnessed in your life to this point.

When her body falls back to earth, you feel Oberyn pull away, hear the shuffle of his feet to the center of the room, the clink of carafe on cup, the pour of wine, all through the barely slackening huffs of the woman beneath you.

There is no moving away, her body keeps you locked in above her, and you lean on an elbow to sweep the damp hair from her eyes. “Yes?” Is all you can think to ask.

“Yes,” she nods, breathless, craning forward to catch you in a kiss. “You are not forgotten. Your turn is next.”

“I’m quite lucky to have had this, truly.”

Oberyn huffs a laugh, setting down his cup. “You aren’t calling quits just yet, are you?” He cascades onto the bed near you, reaching out to pull you from atop his lover so that he can soothe your bruised lips with his own while Ellaria catches her breath.

“Not at all,” you gasp between kisses, your hand traveling past his navel. “But what about you?”  

He traps it, not letting your touch wander too far. “You’ll see. Tonight, ladies first.”He is warm and broad, and you want to forge ahead, your hips aching at his thigh, wishing he’d touch you again. But he slows you with his kisses. 

This time it’s Ellaria’s hands you feel on you, pulling you up and off the bed, another lazy dance as she inhales your skin, blissful, high on you. When you feel Oberyn’s grip on you again, he is reaching up to you from behind where he sits on the edge of the bed, urging you back toward him. Ellaria takes your forearms and guides you backward, the dance a little awkward as your feet need to step out around Oberyn’s, his knees coming forward between your own.

It’s clear that you’re meant to sit on his lap, but Oberyn holds you upright while Ellaria kneels before you, holding your hands, causing you to bend forward to her.

It’s not certain what they are asking you to do, but Oberyn’s kiss falls gently on your ass as he purrs, “Let me guide you. Follow my lead.”

Slowly, gently, with care, he pulls down on your hips, asking your knees to bend. And that’s when you understand.

Together, the three of you take your time as you near him, his tip finding your entrance. You’re already so ready for him and he’s so solid, that once you’re connected, he can put his arms around you and guide you onto his lap, pushing up deep inside. By the time you’re fully seated, you can feel his face against your back, sighing in pleasure, his arms folded over your chest and stomach, holding you still, letting himself settle within you.

Ellaria continues to support you from the front until Oberyn is ready to begin, spotting you until he can pull you back into his chest and support you fully. He can’t thrust deep in this position, but the movement he gives you–the thick, shallow, pull and push–is delicious. Letting your head fall back onto his wide shoulder, you let him rock up into you, let him push your body down onto him, let his hand grip your breast, his teeth graze your shoulder.

Looking down, you watch his fingers flex dimples into your skin with every thrust, his toned thighs straining between your own, arched back as you are, you can’t see where he enters you… but Ellaria can.

It’s a beautiful exposure, her being able to see him pulsing through you, knowing he’s dragging himself over that sensitive spot deep within. She seems content to watch you this time.

But Ellaria and Oberyn have other plans for you. 

“Make her come, my love,” he groans, and spreads his knees, pulling you even further apart.

Crawling on hands and knees, Ellaria fits herself into this new space, running her lips along the inside of his thigh…then your own…you begin to shudder as you realize what’s coming.

Her face disappears below you as you feel her mouth on you and you life splits between the time before you knew this pleasure and everything to come afterward.

Her tongue–warm and wet–wanders over your landscapes, sucking at your textures, lapping at your riches while Oberyn continues to pulse you open and grip you tight against himself. She treats your bodies as one, tasting the spot of your joining, running her tongue all the way up him until it becomes you, causing Oberyn to moan into your back and you to grasp at the air, unable in the way he has you clutched to grasp hold of anything but Oberyn’s arms. If at any point you can’t feel her mouth, you can tell it’s on him as he grunts behind you, playing the gentleman and waiting for you to come first, anticipating the press of you around him. But Ellaria rarely leaves either of you wanting, and in her want to collect everything, she is generous with her attentions.

And so you are used, pleasured, worshipped, and almost literally feasted upon by a hungry mouth that seemingly wants to take you both whole into itself, pleasingly filled with a pulsing mass, every piece of you completely stimulated as you find yourself being guided to a precipice beyond your control.

And when you go over, when you break, the rhythm doesn’t stop. You simply tighten around his push, you flow over her suckling, and you create an orchestra of strangled cries and pleas–Oberyn growling behind you as he struggles to get you to your finale, your tears of pleasure running down into your sweat, mixing with Oberyn’s saliva on your back and the cocktail of pleasure that’s happening in the space between all of you.

Once you’re through to the other side, breathing in chorus, you feel both of them ease you up slightly, your legs unstable, shaking, just enough for him to fall out. Then you get to enjoy the pleasure of watching Ellaria take him into her mouth from between your legs.

You don’t get to see Oberyn’s face, but you can feel his whole body around yours as he finally allows himself to release, bringing you with him on his journey, all the tension, the involuntary thrusting as his instincts drive his seed as far into the warmth of Ellaria’s throat as he can.

What follows is quiet. Recovery. Three bodies in havoc upon a bed. Dampness and breathing. A glass of wine is brought to you at one point, sweetness coats your mouth, a sweeping touch across your forehead, the backs of fingers run down your cheek. Kisses cover your face, your breasts, your shoulders, your stomach, delicate hands, thick hands, caresses from both sides.

The night stretches out as arms pull you close, as limbs manipulate your own, as fingers and tongues slip through you, as masters of the body show you what pleasure your own can give you, even with the lightest friction in just the right amount.

There is no talk of stopping, no talk of anything at all, only an eventual, languid slowing, and then the silent agreement of sleep.

_____

PART 4: CONSENSUS

The room is dark when you wake next, the lanterns put out, most likely by gods know what servants who have probably seen countless human knots asleep on this bed. The night has grown chilly and you reach to your right for a warm body, but find an expanse of empty sheets. And then, turning to your left, you find yourself alone in the bed.

But the stars are bright enough to make a dazzling show through the arches, broken only by two pillars, and a broad-shouldered body against one of them.

“My prince?”

The silhouette of his sharp nose comes round and then disappears as he turns toward you, pushing away from the balcony and sliding back onto the bed. “Lady.” In a smooth motion, he reaches to pull a blanket over you both while scooping you close with the other arm. “Have we exhausted you?” His fingers go where they want to, scouting for entrance, finding you still slick. “Ah. Maybe…not…quite..” he says, as you receive his fingers with a contented sigh.

“Where’s Ellaria?”

“Mmmm.” His concentration splits as he grows hard against your leg, answering you between kisses. “She was sent for. One of the little ones is unwell. Nothing to worry over. She will be back.” Rolling you under him, he positions himself and pushes in without ceremony, content, slow, urging you to lock your legs around him so he can sink in deep and you can enjoy the full length of him this time. “You were going to tell me who this potion is for.”

“It’s..a family matter. Perhaps not a story for this exact moment–”

“I see.” He nuzzles into your neck as he thrusts long and lazy, giving a little yawn that ends with, “You’ve made Ellaria very happy tonight. I think you may be her new favorite plaything.”

You hum into a smile, running your fingers over his scalp and lightly up and down his spine. “And what about you?”

He moves sleepily for a while before lifting his head to look you in the eyes as much as he can in the darkness. “The beauty of sharing everything is that when we have the same favorite, we don’t have to fight over it.” He reaches between you to press his thumb just right and you come immediately, but shallowly. You’ve had so many crests tonight that your oceans have calmed. “Beautiful. You are a soft thing, aren’t you. But without fear. I like that.”

There’s still a pleasant shudder in your voice. “Do I have anything to fear?”

“Never.” Pulling out and rolling onto his back he draws you close, guiding your hand to his hardness, still wet with you. “Touch me.”

“Do you want me to take you in my mouth?”

“Mmm, no, my dear,” he closes his eyes and hums, content as your hand works him as gently as he has done for you. “Just touch. That pleases me. Now tell me your story.”

“The family matter? Now?”

“It is your family, not mine. Even so, the timing isn’t my concern.”

Of course, it’s Oberyn Martell. To him, business talk during sex is like business talk during a meal. You’re together, it’s a pleasure, why not chat as well?

“The potion is for my sister and her husband. They’re trying to have a child. But they need a little help.”

“Mmm. And who has the difficulty?”

“Both of them, actually. They’ve loved each other all their lives and have a special bond. But not in the ways that land in the bedroom. She isn’t so interested in those matters and he prefers to sleep with men.”

“And they are married?”

“It was a good family alliance. And they love each other’s company. They’re happy.”

“And your family allows him to keep his other lovers?” 

“You’re surprised by this, my prince? You?”

You can tell by the turn of his head that he’s cracked an eye to look at you. “Not everyone loves so freely. And if they do, they aren’t always honest about it. My balls, please.”

Changing up your pattern, you chuckle into your response. “You either haven’t heard about my parents’ marriage or you forget.”

Sighing into your touch, the prince delivers a long, sighed “Ah,” the sound doing the doubled job of expressing both understanding and pleasure. As warmth flows down over your hand and you use it to slide your grip around him, pumping soft and slow, kissing his jaw through his final tensing…and then, finally, he melts. Extracting himself from your embrace, he makes his way to the table to retrieve a napkin. “Of course. I understand.”

There’s no need to explain as he cleans you, his hands gentle around your own. The reputation he shares with Ellaria is similar to that of your parents…except that your parents are married, and never share their lovers together. But it’s no secret that they definitely accept that each have their own partners. 

“So this is an acceptable marriage in the Yronwood.”

“Of course. My parents led by example–that you can have lovers while still holding high adoration for your mate. The way I was raised, this,” you extract your cleaned hand from his and motion to the bed you lay on, “is not scandalous or unusual behavior in marriage, but a great expression of love.”

You feel him staring at you silently in the darkness, but silhouetted as he is against the stars, his expression is unscrutable.

His fingers drag over your knee and up your thigh. But they don’t follow the trail you imagine they might. Instead, his hand finds yours and lifts it to his lips. “And what about you? Have we made you happy tonight?”

“Immeasurably. You have exceeded your reputations. And that is impressive.”

“Good.” His fingers entwine with your own and he shifts to lay down with you again. “I am tired. Let me sleep on your breast.”

“Whatever you desire.”

Placing his ear above your heart, his head sinks heavy upon it. “This,” he breathes. “I desire this.”

_____

The next time you open your eyes, sunlight is starting to warm the marbled room, but still holds onto some early oranges and pinks. The bed is truly empty this time, but when you sit up, Ellaria takes notice from her spot where she takes breakfast at the table. She wipes her lips and rises, coming to curl beside you and wrap you in her arms, her robe slightly loose and falling open across her long, lovely legs.

“How did you sleep?” She says, kissing your hair, even as she finishes chewing her most recent bite. “Come. You should eat.”

When you stand, she wraps Oberyn’s yellow robe around you to ward off the morning chill and guides you to the table set with plenty of bread and fruit, as well as three cups and plates–Oberyn’s clearly used and finished. 

“Is Oberyn visiting your daughter? I heard she was ill. How is she?”

“Oh,” Ellaria rolls her eyes with a smile. “It’s a dramatic age. She had too many cakes at dinner and it was disagreeing with her. If I don’t watch her she will eat too many sweets every time. She is like her father that way. No, Oberyn is joining Doran for breakfast.” When she sees you acknowledging his used plate, she laughs. “As I said. Like father, like daughter.”

“He has quite an appetite.”

Ellaria only smiles conspiratorially for a moment, but it transforms into something more fond. “When I came back, you two were sleeping so sweetly together. It’s…been a long time since I’ve seen him so sound.”

“He doesn’t sleep well?”

She shakes her head, working through another bite of bread. “Not deeply, not usually. It’s something I know he needs, that sense of peace. I see the Martell trait in him grow stronger as he grows older. Melancholy can take him over more and more easily and he can’t fuck it away forever. And I watch him choosing fewer and fewer commoners to bring into the bed nowadays. He hates all the politics that he can’t run from but I think sometimes he likes to have someone that understands all of that. He needs the sympathy more than he knows.”

You don’t have a response to this, but neither do you hide your concern.

Seeing this, she rises and comes to sit with you, tracing your cheek up and around your ear. “No worries, pet. You were a sweet treat for him last night. For both of us. Would you come back and share our bed again? Did I make you happy?”

A flashback to her blissed smile from the night before as she dove between your legs. “Oh. Very much so. I would drop everything and come running at any invitation.”

Her kiss is fierce, needy, exceedingly happy. “Good,” she smiles, kissing your shoulder and nipping your lips again as the door opens. “That is what I wanted to hear.”

“My brother has consented.” Oberyn comes to sit at the table and Ellaria abandons you for him, taking his hand and joining him as if they were one. There’s a happy air around her, and you can’t help but notice a glow in the prince as well as he addresses you. “The House of Martell will offer a formal proposal to Yronwood, if the lady agrees.”

“The valley rotation proposal?”

“No, Lady.” He smirks. “A marriage proposal.”

You blink. They wait.

“Wait. What?? That was fast! Was it that good?”

Oberyn’s wry smile turns into a softer one as Ellaria tips back her head and laughs.

“Ellaria has chosen and if it makes her happy, then I don’t like to refuse. But in this case, she has shown that she knows what makes me happy as well. My brother has been sensitive to our partnership, but dancing around it, because this world would not accept the union as legitimate–”

“--but maybe I don’t want to force our love by marriage.” Ellia chimes in, hugging Oberyn’s arm tightly.

You pick up the thread. “And Doran has been pushing you to settle with a noble house. For an alliance.”

He nods. “This business of the rights to the valley can all be cleared up easily without the infighting that Doran abhors. You come from a high Dornish line, you are not promised elsewhere, your family would not be scandalized by our reputation, and–” He gestures to the bed.

The rest hangs unsaid between you.

And they adore you.

“Well,” you swallow, heart pounding, and smile down at yourself, shawled in Oberyn’s robe, a vision of the princess they’re suggesting you become, “I make a neat little solution then, don't I?”

Oberyn laughs at this and Ellaria leans back to watch it, throwing you a quick glance, delighted at the effect you’ve had.

“Politically speaking, yes.” He squeezes Ellaria’s hand before letting go and reaching for a berry, two breakfasts in and still insatiable. “Of course, there would be time to reject the proposal–” he cuts off a quick response from you, holding up a finger as he chews, “--on either side, with a negotiation period and the obligatory tour of the kingdoms and such nonsense.”

“Plenty of time to get to know each other better,” Ellaria smiles.

And you mirror her.

“So. Lady of the Yronwood. Do you care to join with the House of Martell and make Sunspear your home?” Oberyn asks with a lifted chin.

This is all so fast…but you don’t have better prospects and you’re happier this morning than you’ve been since you can remember. The wild smile creeping up your cheek is involuntary, invasive, you couldn’t hide it if you tried. “It depends…where will I sleep?”

He quirks an eyebrow, playing the game. “Wherever you desire. And with whomever you desire. But as my princess, my bed would also be yours.”

You nod sweetly. “I believe Yronwood will gracefully accept House Martell’s offer.” The look the couple give each other is warm, content, and relieved. “But how soon do we begin these negotiations? What are your plans after breakfast? Anything pressing to take care of?”

Ellaria smiles and begins to pull off Oberyn’s boots. And Oberyn? He meets your challenge, not missing a beat of the dance. 

“Just you, my dear.”

_____

MASTERLIST