#got oberyn

The wind howled through the trees as if the gods themselves were wailing, a warning carried too late. You rode hard, your fingers white where they clenched the reins, the pounding of hooves beneath you nearly drowned by the thudding in your chest. Your cloak streamed behind you like a banner, dark as a raven’s wing, and your direwolf, Harrow, loped silently beside you—shadow and fang. You’d meant only to arrive late, to avoid the noise and spectacle of the feast at the Twins, to enter with quiet dignity after Robb’s bannermen had gorged themselves and settled. But the smell on the wind had turned your blood to ice long before the Twins came into view—smoke, iron, and blood. The stench of betrayal.

You crested the hill and saw it all at once. The red flames licking the night, screaming horses, the sounds of steel on steel, and worse—of flesh torn open, of children crying, of men dying with your family’s name on their lips. Stark. You could hardly breathe. The banners of House Frey flapped in the smoky air, joined by the golden lion of the Lannisters. Freys and Lannisters. Blood and ash. You knew then, with a clarity that shattered your heart into jagged pieces, that this was no battle. It was slaughter.

“No,” you whispered, too softly for anyone but Harrow to hear. He snarled, ears pinned back, his muzzle wet with the mist clinging to the riverbanks. “We’re too late…”

And then the first arrow hissed through the air.

You ducked instinctively, the shaft grazing your cheek and searing fire into your skin. Blood splattered your collar, warm and immediate. Harrow roared—yes, roared, not barked—and launched himself into the woods as more arrows thudded into trees and mud, some striking dangerously close. You kicked your horse’s flanks and bolted after him, your heart crashing like a war drum. A voice shouted behind you—"Stark! That one’s a Stark!"—but it was lost to the wind.

You didn’t know how long you rode. Minutes? Hours? Your limbs burned, your breath came in sobs. Harrow guided you more than you guided him. Eventually, the trees thinned and the shoreline opened before you, the river dark as pitch, wide and endless. A ship stood docked, sails unfurled, rocking gently. Lanterns swung from her bow. A voice called, rough and accented: “We set sail now! If you're not on, you're left behind!”

You didn’t think. There was no time to think. You spurred your horse forward and leapt from the saddle before the ship’s crew could turn you away, landing hard on the deck as Harrow bounded after you. The sailors reeled back at the sight of him—black-furred, eyes pale as ice, his mouth dripping froth and fury—but you rose to your feet and grabbed the nearest man by the sleeve.

“Please,” you rasped. Your voice cracked from smoke and screaming. “Please, just go. Don’t ask me why. Don’t ask my name. Just go.”

The man looked you over—saw your fine dress, now smeared with mud and ash, saw the cut on your cheek, still bleeding, saw the direwolf that stood pressed against your legs like a silent sentinel. Whatever he saw in your eyes, it made him nod.

“Aye, girl. You're not the first ghost to come aboard bleeding.” He gestured with two fingers. “Hoist anchor! Let the Twins burn.”

You collapsed against the railing as the ship lurched away from shore, the gentle splash of water against the hull a grim contrast to the chaos you’d left behind. The flames still burned in the distance, and you watched until they blurred, until you no longer knew if it was the fire that stung your eyes or the tears. Harrow pressed his nose to your hand and whined, low and soft. You buried your fingers in his thick fur, your body shaking.

“They’re gone,” you whispered. “Mother, Robb… even Grey Wind. They’re all gone.”

Your voice cracked on your brother’s name. Harrow whined again and laid his head on your lap. Somewhere behind you, a gull cried. The river widened, then became the sea. You didn’t know where the ship was headed, and you didn’t care. You only knew you couldn’t look back.

But still, you did.

And the fire still burned.

The voyage had been long, but the sea had offered you a strange kind of peace—cold, constant, and vast, like the grief that lived in your bones. The crew of The Sand Serpent had become your shield and solace in those drifting days, rough men and weather-worn women who had grown used to the silent girl cloaked in black, with hollow eyes and a direwolf that paced the deck like a guardian spirit. Harrow had terrified them at first. Now, they tossed him scraps from their meals and offered gruff greetings as they passed, always keeping a respectful distance. They never asked your name. They didn’t need to. They knew loss when they saw it. And you knew that even if you’d arrived on their deck bloodied and broken, you were safe among them.

The call of gulls and the scent of sun-warmed citrus greeted you as the ship glided into the harbor. Sunspear rose before you like a mirage—red sandstone towers rising in elegant coils from the bronze dunes, domed roofs glinting beneath the brutal Dornish sun. The breeze that swept across the port was dry but fragrant, carrying the smells of spiced wine, lavender oil, and roasted goat. It was nothing like the North, and the moment your boots touched the stone pier, the heat wrapped around you like a living thing, coaxing sweat from your skin beneath your heavy Northern furs.

“Gods, you’ll roast in that,” one of the sailors chuckled, nodding at your layered cloak. He hefted a barrel of olives onto his shoulder and winked at Harrow. “Though your beast don’t seem to mind.”

You glanced down. Harrow was already panting, tongue lolling from his mouth, but his tail twitched at your side as if he were trying not to look too impressed with the land of endless sun. You murmured, “We’ll find shade soon,” and scratched behind his ears, your voice quiet from disuse. He pressed against your legs in reply, watchful as ever.

The crew disembarked to unload their cargo, and you walked among the market stalls that clustered along the sun-baked streets near the docks. Everything shimmered in golds and reds, brilliant silks hanging from awnings like banners, the air thick with the perfume of crushed dates, mint, and exotic resins burning low in clay bowls. The vendors called out in a cacophony of tongues—Valyrian, the other various guttural tounges of Essos, and the singsong lilt of Dornish. You ran your fingers over baskets of ripe pomegranates, glazed amphorae, and blades curved like the crescent moon.

People stared at you, but not with cruelty. Your Northern face stood out among their tan skin and black curls, your pale cloak marking you as foreign as surely as your quiet posture did. Still, they didn’t look with suspicion—only curiosity. But one pair of eyes lingered longer than the rest.

“You walk like someone with ghosts at her heels,” came a voice—smooth as silk and sharp as a dagger. You turned, slowly, and found him standing beside a fig seller’s stall, leaning lazily against a pillar of sun-warmed stone.

Prince Oberyn Martell was unmistakable. He wore no armor, only a light, ochre tunic that left much of his chest bare, the fabric clinging to his lithe frame. His skin was sun-kissed, his lips curved into a knowing smile. A woman stood beside him, her arm looped easily through his. She was stunning in a way that left the air feeling too thick to breathe—long-limbed, wild-eyed, a vision in crimson silk with curls cascading down her back like a dark waterfall.

Ellaria Sand tilted her head, studying you. “You’re far from the snows of the North,” she said softly. Her gaze fell to Harrow, who stood rigid beside you, his fur bristling. “And not just a traveler. That beast… only one house raises wolves.”

You froze, every instinct screaming to flee. But your feet stayed rooted. You had nothing left to run to.

“I know you,” Oberyn murmured, stepping closer. “You were not at the feast, but your face—your eyes. You're a Stark.”

Your voice came out hoarse. “And if I am?”

“Then we mourn the same death,” Ellaria said. Her voice held sorrow, yes, but also fire. “The Red Wedding was not just your family's funeral. It was an insult to all who value honor. A dagger in the back of the world.”

Oberyn’s eyes narrowed, but not in suspicion. In understanding. “They butchered your kin at a feast. Slaughtered your brother beneath guest right, murdered your mother while she begged. And still you live. That is no accident.”

You blinked, mouth dry. “I was late.”

“Then perhaps the gods spared you for a reason,” he said. “Come with us.”

You shook your head instinctively. “I don’t even know where to go.”

Ellaria stepped forward, her fingers light as feathers when she touched your arm. “Stay with us. At the palace. You will have protection, comfort… and something more.”

You blinked. “More?”

“A chance to fight back,” Oberyn said. “A chance for justice. For vengeance. The Lannisters have touched my family with betrayal and blood before. They will do it again. But not if we burn them first.”

Ellaria smiled, slow and warm. “And you’re beautiful. Tragic. Fierce. Stay, and you won’t need to be alone with your sorrow. You can share our bed, our fight, our future.”

You opened your mouth, but the words caught. The market faded around you—the calls of merchants, the buzz of heat and sun—and all that remained were their eyes. His, bright with promise and passion. Hers, gentle and wild, like an oasis in the sand.

Harrow nudged your thigh and sat beside you. Silent approval.

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you let out a breath. Not quite trust. But something close to hope.

characters ::

oberyn martell

aemond targaryen

aerion targaryen

i mainly write oberyn / aemond / aerion x ofc or reader , but feel free to ask anything in my requests !

key ::

𖤓 smut

❂ angst

☀︎ fluff

series ::

“ what fire owes ”

based on “ game of thrones ”

oberyn martell x ofc ( haella targaryen )

(coming soon)

“ sightless , yet seeing ”

based on “ house of the dragon ”

aemond targaryen x ofc ( laenora velaryon )

(coming soon)

“ when the quiet commands ”

based on “ a knight of the seven kingdoms ”

aerion & daeron targaryen x ofc ( aerra targaryen )

(coming soon)

one shots ::

The air inside the Twins is thick, almost suffocating. Your head is spinning from the wine, the noise, and the underlying tension you can’t quite place. The hall is alive with music and laughter, but there's something sour in the atmosphere, like rotten meat left too long in the sun. Winter is restless beside you, her silver eyes darting around, ears flicking with every cheer and clang of cups. You scratch behind her ears absently, trying to calm your own nerves more than hers.

You’re wedged between Roslin Frey’s nervous chatter and your brother Robb’s booming laughter, pretending to be more at ease than you feel. Your thoughts keep drifting south, to the warmth of the sun and a pair of dark, mischievous eyes that always seem to hold more secrets than you can pry loose. Oberyn. Your betrothed. The Red Viper of Dorne. He would laugh at this, laugh at your unease, call you too much the wolf in the lion’s den.

Winter growls low in her throat, her hackles rising. You glance down, heart skipping a beat. She’s never like this unless—

The music shifts, a sudden lurch from joyous melodies to something sharp, discordant. There’s a flash of movement, too quick, too chaotic, and then it’s all blood and screams and steel flashing in the torchlight.

“Winter!” you shout, but she’s already leaping, jaws snapping, fur bristling like a storm. She barrels into a group of Frey men, teeth sinking into the arm of one who’s rushing Robb. You’re on your feet, blade in hand—when did you draw it?—and then you’re fighting, the clash of swords ringing in your ears, too loud, too close.

It’s a blur of chaos. You feel the sting of a blade slicing across your arm, the burn of another grazing your side. You slash and parry, trying to reach Robb, to reach your mother—your family, your home, everything falling apart around you. Winter’s a whirlwind of white and red, tearing through the Freys, snarling and snapping, but there are too many.

You see it then, the crossbow, the bolt flying, and Robb’s eyes widening as it strikes. A scream rips from your throat, raw and desperate, but you don’t remember making the sound. Everything slows, like moving through water, and then you’re on the ground, pain flaring bright and hot in your side, your leg—where did that knife come from?

Winter is over you, growling, her fur wet and matted with blood—yours, hers, it’s hard to tell. You reach for her, fingers tangling in her fur, and then there’s Grey Wind, a silver blur crashing through the hall, jaws snapping around the throat of a man who’s raising his sword. For a moment, there’s hope, the wolves together, tearing through the carnage.

But there’s too much blood. You’re slipping, darkness creeping at the edges of your vision. You feel Winter’s weight on your chest, her muzzle pressed to your face, a low whine vibrating through her. You want to tell her it’s okay, that you’re okay, but you can’t seem to find the words. The world tilts, and then it’s all gone.

When you wake, everything hurts. Every breath is a knife in your ribs, every twitch of your fingers a fresh wave of agony. You’re not dead, but you almost wish you were. The ceiling above you is unfamiliar, high and vaulted, and the air smells different, warmer, filled with spices and salt.

South. You’re somewhere south.

It’s a slow, agonizing process to turn your head, and even slower to make sense of what you’re seeing. There’s a shadow in the doorway, tall and broad, and then he’s there, beside you, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch you.

“Oberyn,” you manage, your voice a rasping whisper.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at you, and it’s almost unbearable, the intensity in his eyes, the raw emotion you’ve never seen him wear so openly. Then he curses, long and colorful, something about wolves and stubborn northern women, and it’s almost funny, almost.

“You’re not dead,” he says finally, and it’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard because of course you’re not. Not yet, anyway.

“I thought…they said…all dead.” He’s shaking his head, and you realize, dimly, that he’s shaking too, trembling like the ground before a storm. “And then you show up here, bleeding all over my nice sheets.”

You almost laugh, but it turns into a cough, and he’s there, hands on your shoulders, his face close to yours, and he’s angry—no, furious—but not at you. Never at you. You wonder if he’s going to kiss you or strangle you, and then he’s doing neither, just holding you, whispering something in that smooth, honeyed voice, too soft for you to make out.

“Winter?” you ask, because it’s the only thing that matters right now. Where is she? Did she—

“Alive,” he says, and his voice is different now, something raw and aching in it. “Your wolf is alive. Nearly tore a hole in our healer’s arm when they tried to get close to you.”

You close your eyes, relief washing over you. Winter’s alive. She’s alive. And so are you. You want to say something, to tell him how much you missed him, how sorry you are for nearly dying, but the words are tangled up inside you, too big, too heavy.

“You’re a bloody fool,” he says instead, his hand brushing over your cheek, gentle now, so gentle it almost breaks you. “What were you thinking, going to that damned wedding? Your brother, your mother—” He cuts off, his jaw tight, and you see it there, the grief, the pain he’s trying so hard to hide.

You want to tell him it’s not his fault, that you had to go, that you had no choice. But you’re tired, so tired, and his hand is warm, and he’s here, and maybe that’s enough for now. You let your eyes close, feeling the press of his lips against your forehead, the last thing you hear before you slip back into darkness is his voice, low and fierce:

The heat of the Red Keep presses down upon you like the grip of a dragon’s talon, familiar and suffocating. The sun hangs high, casting the shadow of the city’s walls across the cobbled streets as your party makes its way toward the gates. The last time you saw the capital, it was burning under the rebellion’s fury, and now, it simmers with the fevered anticipation of another royal wedding.

You ride beside Oberyn, his dark eyes scanning the city with the sharpness of a blade. His grip on the reins is steady, but you sense the tension thrumming beneath his composed exterior. His fury is always close to the surface when it comes to matters of your family and Dorne's losses. And you—Y/N Targaryen, daughter of Aerys and Rhaella, sister of Rhaegar—bear a tempest of your own, carefully concealed behind your gaze. The memories of your brother’s fall, of your family’s ruin, burn like wildfire beneath your skin.

The Martell delegation rides in colors of red and gold, the sun and spear of Dorne vivid against the sky. Your children, seated on smaller mounts, ride behind you, their faces drawn with the solemnity of the occasion. The streets are lined with onlookers, their whispers threading through the air as you pass, a symphony of curiosity and unease. House Martell has not come to King’s Landing since the war, and now, your presence is a reminder of old wounds yet to heal.

As you approach the towering gates, you see the Lannister banners flapping in the breeze. The city guards, clad in crimson cloaks, stand rigid, watching your approach with wary eyes. And there, at the entrance, you catch sight of him—Tyrion Lannister, flanked by his sellsword Bronn and a small entourage of the royal court. The Imp’s sharp gaze meets yours, a flash of recognition crossing his features before his lips curl into a sardonic smile.

“Prince Oberyn, Lady Y/N,” Tyrion calls out as you dismount, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd. “King’s Landing is honored by your presence.” His tone is courteous, but there is an undercurrent of wariness, as if he is bracing for the storm he knows you carry.

You step forward, your gown—a deep, Targaryen black edged with the orange of Dorne—whispering against the stones. Oberyn is at your side, his presence a blazing sun to your cool flame. “The honor is ours, Lord Tyrion,” you reply, your voice steady. “It has been too long since we have graced the capital with our presence.”

Tyrion’s mismatched eyes flick between you and Oberyn, his smile tight. “Indeed. I trust your journey was uneventful?”

A smile, sharp as Valyrian steel, tugs at Oberyn’s lips. “For the most part. Though the closer we came to the city, the more it stank of Lannisters and Tyrells. A reminder of the filth that needs to be cleansed.”

There is no mistaking the venom in his words. The guards bristle, hands inching toward their weapons, but Tyrion merely raises a placating hand. “Prince Oberyn, let us not mar this joyous occasion with hostility. We are all here for the same reason, are we not? To celebrate my nephew’s wedding.”

Oberyn’s gaze darkens, and you feel the shift in his stance, the barely restrained fury that has always burned within him since Elia’s brutal death. “Are we, Lord Tyrion? Perhaps Dorne comes with another purpose.”

Silence falls, the tension thick and stifling. Tyrion’s eyes narrow, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “What purpose might that be?”

“To see justice done,” you interject, your voice ringing clear as a bell. You step closer, your gaze fixed on Tyrion. “For what was done to my family. To my brother, to my sister-by-marriage. To their children.” The words are knives, each one thrown with precision, and Tyrion flinches, just slightly.

Oberyn’s hand finds yours, a brief, fierce squeeze that grounds you. “Dorne remembers, Lord Tyrion. And we do not forgive or forget. I am here to ensure that the wrongs against my family are set right.” His eyes flick to you, then back to Tyrion. “And to remind you all that there is a true heir to the throne, one with the blood of dragons and the sun.”

Tyrion’s gaze shifts between you and Oberyn, calculating. “I see.” His voice is measured, the mask of the diplomat slipping back into place. “You know, there are many in this city who would see your claim contested, Lady Y/N. Many who believe that Robert Baratheon’s victory was… final.”

You meet his gaze, the fire of your blood rising. “The usurper is dead. His bastards are dead. And his children are no more than the spawn of incest and lies. The people will see the truth in time.” You take a step closer, feeling the weight of generations behind you, the legacy of fire and blood. “We have come to support the rightful claim, and we will not be silent.”

Tyrion studies you for a long moment, then inclines his head. “Your words are bold, Lady Y/N. But bold words often lead to sharp ends in this city. I hope you and your family will find your stay here… comfortable.”

“Comfort was never our aim,” Oberyn cuts in, his smile dangerous. “But I appreciate your concern, Lord Tyrion. Rest assured, Dorne can take care of itself.”

The anomasity is palpable as the two men lock gazes, a silent battle of wills. Then, with a slight bow, Tyrion steps back, gesturing toward the gates. “Welcome to King’s Landing, Prince Oberyn, Lady Y/N. May your stay be… eventful.”

You and Oberyn exchange a glance, and he gives you a small, reassuring nod. This is only the beginning. The game has begun, and the pieces are in place. As you step through the gates of the city that was once your home, you feel the stirrings of something ancient and powerful within you.