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valcya · 5 months ago

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An E rated A Song of Ice and Fire fic.

Saera is sold off to the Prince of Dorne in a marriage alliance. However, she soon realizes that she fits in far better with her new people than she ever did back home.

Read from the Beginning

Can also be read on AO3

Ch. 3: Wedding and Bedding

The wedding of Morion Martell and Saera Targaryen dawned bright and hot.

And much to his daughter’s irritation, the Conciliator himself had deigned to grace them with his presence, riding in upon the Bronze Fury the day before like some terrifying portent of doom.

Or perhaps just Saera’s doom.

“Father,” she had greeted when his great beast of a dragon landed in the courtyard.

“Daughter.” He smiled at her, clearly believing her still to be his pampered favored child.

She didn’t return it.

Saera was saved from replying when her betrothed stepped forward, ever the cool and aloof presence to balance out her sullen annoyance.

“Welcome to Dorne.”

The deliberate lack of her father’s title did not go unnoticed but—either because he was feeling especially charitable or his mind had begun to slip a lot earlier than than she had ever expected—Jaehaerys nodded his head in greeting anyway.

“Well met Prince.”

(He definitely noticed the slight then.)

“Please,” Morion said, sweeping his arm out and welcoming him into the shade. “You must be tired.”

“It was not so long a journey as that, but I accept your hospitality nonetheless.” Saera heard the unspoken threat in those words.

King’s Landing is not so far away on dragonback. Be assured that I can rain terror down upon you at a moment’s notice.

Her betrothed, however, did not rise to the bait. Only smiled pleasantly as he led the king out of the courtyard, Saera trailing after them with an uncomfortable mixture of curiosity and dread. Perhaps—if she was lucky—they would kill each other and she could call this whole thing off.

One could only hope.

———————————————————

Much to Saera’s chagrin, her prayers went unanswered and the wedding commenced on schedule.

She had never looked more the Targaryen bride, her silver-gold hair shining like moonlight and her gown a deep Targaryen red and black. She should’ve felt beautiful. Powerful. A princess of the most powerful house in Westeros. Instead she felt very much the sacrificial animal, bathed and adorned with the finest of oils and silk ribbons. Trussed up and prettied only to be carted out to be slaughtered on the alter.

Her father handed her off to Morion that morning half loving father and half conniving ruler.

“I’m giving you the jewel of my heart,” he told him threateningly. “You’d best not squander it.”

Saera had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. Vain creature though she was, she wouldn’t exactly call herself the ‘jewel’ of her family. That distinction went to her sister Viserra.

Though, if the rumors at court were anything to go by, their mother had already promised her perfect sister to the fat old Manderly lord. Clearly, Saera thought with no small amount of bitterness, Even the most highly polished of jewels was worth surprisingly little in their family. A coin was still a coin, no matter how shiny. And would, inevitably, be spent.

Her parents had certainly taught her that.

However, she didn’t have long to ruminate over that particular thought before her father stepped back and she found herself once more face to face with the smiling Prince of Dorne.

It wasn’t a kind smile. Though she couldn’t really say it was a malicious one either. It seemed almost…resigned.

Well, she thought tartly. At least I’m not the only one suffering.

The ceremony was brief. A few words spoken by a septon. Vows were exchanged. Her cloak of black and red was replaced with one of orange and gold. And then Princess Saera Targaryen found herself quite suddenly to be Princess Saera Martell.

How easy it is, she thought, to strip a woman of her identity and replace it with another.

The rest of the day was filled with feasting. An exhaustive display of wealth and privilege that Saera was sure was meant for her father.

See, it seemed to say as she took in the cloth of gold and mummers and exotic fruits and spices. Look what Dorne has. See how much we can spend on frivolity.

Saera, however, had no interest in playing mediator between her new husband and her shrewd father, instead opting to dance most of the feast. Her father—she knew without even looking—disapproved of such behavior. She caught his eyes once or twice following her spinning about from one partner to the next with an irritated frown. Her husband though…seemed neither jealous nor pleased when she flirted shamelessly with a local Dornishman.

Does he ever show emotion? She wondered as she twirled and spun with a particularly handsome Dornish lord she had already forgotten the name of. Would he still wear that benign, implacable stare if she dared fuck this man right in front of him? Or would he toast her efforts and return to his polite battle of wills with her irritating father?

Saera could’ve spent the whole night like that, indulging in drink and dance—and avoiding her strange husband and too-clever father—but eventually someone did the inevitable and called for the bedding.

Something strange happened then.

The hall went quiet.

Around her she saw the Dornish lords cast the Targaryen contingent bewildered looks. As if someone had said something especially gauche.

“Bedding?” The Prince of Dorne said quietly. He spoke slowly, steadily, as if perplexed that such a thing were even being considered. “I’m afraid we do not do such things here.”

“I see,” the king said, though Saera couldn’t quite make out his tone. Was he relieved? Angry? Of course, now of all times, he decided to become unreadable to her.

“But where will we get our fun?” Slurred one man, clearly too far into his cups to notice the shift in the atmosphere.

Morion turned his gaze toward the man, and—just for a moment—Saera thought she saw a hard flicker in his expression as he narrowed his eyes.

“I’m afraid my wife is not a part of the entertainment this evening.”

If possible, the room grew even more silent.

“Ser Alyx,” he continued pleasantly. “See to it my wife makes it to her rooms. I will be there shortly.”

A man appeared at her elbow then. Tall and handsome and fair where her husband and so many of his countrymen were dark.

“After you Princess.”

He was gentle with her. Shockingly so. His touch more of a suggestion than a true meeting of flesh.

She didn’t bother fighting him. Whatever was about to happen between her husband and her father, she wanted no part in it.

“Lead the way Ser.”

———————————————————

Saera had just enough time to take down her hair and put up her aching feet—clearly she had overdone the dancing—before Morion appeared, closing her bedroom door behind him with more force than she thought possible for him.

“Are there truly no beddings in Dorne?” She asked, watching him carefully. “Or was that just something you made up for my sake?”

Her husband eyed her with that cryptic mask of his.

“It is quite true, I assure you.”

“No beddings…ever?” Saera said, a little confounded.

He cocked his head to the side. “Were you looking forward to being groped by strange men on your wedding night?”

“No.”

Saera was many things. She liked having lovers. Liked the attention and pleasure they brought her. She even liked having several of them in her bed at once. But did she enjoy letting a mob of drunken men touch her and rip her beautiful gown from her body?

No. Even she had limits.

“Well then, perhaps you thought I would enjoy such a thing?”

“My Prince, I don’t know you nearly well enough to speak on such matters.”

He smiled. A small smile. Barely a tilt of his lips, but she saw it nonetheless. It felt like a victory.

“How will everyone know we consummated the marriage if there is no bedding?” She asked curiously.

Morion moved towards her then, striding across the room to sit in the chair by the window. He motioned to its twin, urging her to join him. Intrigued, she acquiesced.

“As you told me before, you are no maid,” he said plainly. “So there is no reason for anyone to believe it was not I who took your maidenhead.”

“But,” Saera wondered aloud. “Don’t you want to fuck me?”

It was a truly baffling thought. She’d never actually met a man who didn’t want to lay with her. She may not have been equal in beauty to the lovely Viserra but she knew she was pretty, exotic even—in a way still foreign to so many in Westeros.

Morion stared at her with those unfathomable dark eyes.

“Is that something you want?”

“I…” she trailed off, utterly confused.

She had no compunctions over sex. She liked it. And doing so with her new husband wouldn’t be any particular hardship. He was still young, not especially ugly or ill-formed, and he had been…kind to her.

And yet…he was so confusing.

He didn’t behave like any man she had ever met. If he were any of the boys and minor lordlings she had taken to bed, she would’ve already taken her clothes off. But he wasn’t like all those other lordlings.

Her husband, seeming to notice the turmoil in her eyes, and spoke

“I will admit Princess, you are not what I had expected for a wife,” he said candidly, echoing her own thoughts. “Nor, do I think, am I what you expected for a husband. Let us be plain. I will not pretend I did not marry you for anything but political reasons. You are beautiful, certainly. And I will not dismiss you from my bed. But you are not expected there. I will not force you. It is your decision to make.”

“And if I never wanted to share your bed?” She asked, half curious, half reckless.

“Marriage is more than sex Princess. Though, I admit, it is preferable with it I will not trouble you if that is not something you wish. All that I ask is that you take your other duties seriously.”

“What if I took other lovers?”

It was a risky thing to ask, to say, and yet Saera felt strangely…free. Like she could say anything and he would give her nothing but calm honesty in return.

“Then take them,” he shrugged. “You would not be the first, nor the last. We are more understanding of these things in Dorne.”

His nonchalance almost made her head spin.

“But…what about heirs?”

Surely ever lord, every prince, needed heirs? What else was she here for? But her husband just raised his brows.

“I have heirs. My sister has two babes already. Should I die without issue, Dorne will pass to her and her children.”

Never before had she met a man who was so…unconcerned with his own lineage. It tilted her entire worldview on its head.

“My father will not like that,” she said breathlessly, still reeling over the thought that she would never be expected to endlessly birth a series of squalling, wrinkled infants like her mother before her.

At last, she saw his mask fall. Just for a moment. She saw resentment in those eyes. Scorn. Not for her, Saera realized, but for her father. For her family who had laid waste to Dorne for so many years.

“Forgive me for saying, but I don’t particularly care what your father wants. I admit, I did not marry you for your beauty—though I will not pretend it doesn’t move me. I married you to spare my people any more unnecessary strife with your family and those dreadful beasts you call to heel.”

He was…he was…

“Perfect,” she breathed.

And then she kissed him.

———————————————————

Sex with a husband was quite unlike sex with a lover, Saera learned.

This was no clandestine meeting between adolescents. No frenzied meeting of flesh. No hurried push and pull before the inevitable disappointment that came when she was left unsatisfied.

Morion Martell was no green boy.

He was a thorough lover. Slow. Measured. He seemed to enjoy turning her into a gasping, shivering mess more than he did chasing his own pleasure.

The first time he put his mouth on her it was a shock.

She hadn’t thought such a thing was possible. Not in her limited experience. She was used to her lovers asking her to put her mouth on them, not the other way around. But Morion, he had no qualms doing so.

“Fuck!” Saera cried as he supped on her cunt.

Her peak, normally such an elusive creature when in bed with a man, found her quickly.

It was a revelation.

Was this how it always could’ve been? Had she just been fucking the wrong men this whole time?

“Again,” she whispered greedily.

And he seemed more than happy to indulge her.

It took little urging to roll him onto his back after that. Hold him down so she could seat herself on his straining cock. Dig her fingers into the flesh of his chest the same way his did her thighs. Her heart was as light as her cunt was full. She felt free. A joyous buzz in her head as she rode her husband to completion. Felt the bite of his fingers as he spent his seed inside of her.

“I think,” she said afterwards, lazily dragging a finger through the hair on his chest. Marveling over the contrast between her pale skin and his dark complexion. “I may enjoy being a wife after all.”

Morion laughed and finally—finally!—she saw the man underneath the mask. That spark of honest humor and vulnerability he had kept so hidden.

And like a dragon with its hoard, she pulled it close to her heart.

———————————————————

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#my fanfiction #asoiaf fanfiction #asoiaf fanfic #saera targaryen #asoiaf #fanfiction

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valcya · 9 months ago

Text

An M rated A Song of Ice and Fire fic.

Saera is sold off to the Prince of Dorne in a marriage alliance. However, she soon realizes that she fits in far better with her new people than she ever did back home.

Read from the Beginning

Can also be read on AO3

Ch. 2: Queer Customs

Saera wasn’t entirely sure what to make of her betrothed.

Her arrival in Dorne was met with the appropriate amount of fanfare and formality expected for a princess of the realm. A parade. Lavish exotic gifts from the Free Cities and the Summer Isles. Gushing praise over her otherworldly beauty and charm.

And, all the while, her husband-to-be had been surprisingly…distant. Besides their overly formal and rigid introduction upon Saera’s reception at Sunspear, she didn’t think the man had spoken more than a dozen words of substance to her.

All she knew of the mysterious Prince of Dorne could be summed up by his title (her equal in rank), his age (a full twenty years her elder), and his remarkably plain appearance (dark hair, dark eyes, burnt-brown skin, and a crooked nose that looked as if it had seen the wrong end of a fist).

It was infuriating.

“He doesn’t even speak to me.” Saera said to Aemon shortly after he arrived. Supposedly he had come to play chaperone as well as act as the crown’s representative until the wedding. In truth, she thought he was actually there to make sure she didn’t run away and ruin their father’s carefully laid plans.

Aemon, long used to his younger sister’s tantrums, simply smiled at her with those stupidly gentle eyes of his.

“That’s not true. He speaks to you every day.”

“About the weather Aemon!”

“Your complaints about the heat more like,” her brother said wryly. “Some dragon you are.”

Saera’s only reply was to throw a pillow at him.

Loathe as she was to admit it, her brother was right. She hadn’t yet adjusted to the harsh climate of her new home. Used to the warm and breezy weather of King’s Landing her whole life, the scorching sun and heat of Sunspear felt designed by some vengeful god to punish her. Her first fortnight there found her pale skin blistering and cracking any time she dared leave the shade.

“You’re so pale,” one of her servants had said after she’d burned her skin raw her first day there. It had been impossible to miss the way the woman had said it. Not with the usual awe and envy she was accustomed to, but with a pursed, concerned frown. As if puzzling over a particularly troubling conundrum.

After that Saera had spent the rest of her time indoors and as far away from the sun as she could help.

And all the while, the Prince of Dorne did…nothing. Oh he visited her daily (inquiring after her health and comfort) and took his evening meals with her (asking if the local fare was too heavily spiced for her palate) but somehow he remained as mysterious and aloof as ever.

He was a puzzle, her betrothed. A particularly vexing one.

And Saera had always hated puzzles.

He was just…so unlike any other man she had encountered. She had grown up around a whole assortment of men. Powerful men. Conniving men. Avaricious men. Lustful men. All with weakness she could exploit. And one such weakness, she’d learned early on, was pretty Valyrian princesses. A little flattery and a soft touch was usually all it took to get most such men to bend to her will.

Most men…except for her betrothed.

He was as courteous and mannerly as any other great lord she’d ever met. But utterly unreadable. And worst yet, completely impervious to her charms.

At best her flattery was met with an an insincere smile and her touches were either ignored or treated like the embrace of a friend or close kin.

She had…never actually had to try this hard before.

It was…vexing.

What did he want? Power? He was the ruler of an entire region. Wealth? Judging by his many gifts to her, he had that in abundance. Beauty? Well he certainly seemed immune to the features which usually brought her so much attention.

(Though for all she knew he preferred the company of plain-faced Dornishwomen over her.)

So…why? Why had he requested her hand? Had it truly been all for a marriage alliance? To bring peace to their long feuding families?

How very…boring.

Saera slumped upon the divan and stared at the ceiling.

Well, she thought sourly. If Father has anything to say about it, you’ll have your whole life to solve this mystery.

———————————————————

The first time Saera tried to convince her husband-to-be to send her home she’d been in Sunspear only four days.

“You can’t marry me.”

Morion Martell’s dark gaze was as calm and cool as the shaded alcove they sat in, away from the beating Dornish sun that blistered her pale skin until it cracked and bled. He did not sputter or condescend or shout, only tilted his head as if intrigued by this new turn in their conversation.

“And why, pray tell, is that Princess?”

“Because,” she smiled as she revealed her trump card. “I already gave away my maidenhead.”

It was the kind of statement that ruined other girls. Many a betrothal had been broken over such words, the girl banished back to her father’s keep or made to join the Silent Sisters as penance. She had seen it happen.

But Morion did none of those things.

“Ah,” he said pleasantly, as if they were discussing their favorite kind of cake over tea. “So did I. Does that bother you?”

Saera frowned.

Did he just…make a jape?

“You…don’t care that I’m ruined?”

He tilted his head, a strange smile on his lips.

“Is that what they teach girls up north? Do you consider yourself ruined Sweetling?”

Saera blinked.

Well, yes. That was exactly what she had been taught.

“I do not know what they think in the north, but here in Dorne we do not believe a girl is ruined simply by welcoming a cock into her bed.”

She blinked again, taken aback by such…frankness. No one had ever dared speak like this in front of her. Even the boys she’d taken to bed hadn’t dared whisper anything but sweet nonsense into her ear as they fucked their way inside of her.

“But…” she said, hesitatingly, possibly for the first time in her life. “How do you know if your children are yours if your wife is not a maid?”

The Prince looked at her with that inscrutable smile of his.

“We trust her. After all, it is a woman’s word that matters here. Her name and seal upon her marriage contract. Not some barbaric northern custom.”

Trust. It was such an…alien concept. To trust a woman. To let her have any sort of agency over her body.

Saera didn’t think anyone had ever trusted her with anything in her entire life.

“Besides,” he continued with a wry smile. “Do you truly think a woman unable to stray from her husband? Virginity does not guarantee a lifetime of fidelity.”

He…had a point.

And yet, Saera, still a creature of her particular upbringing, could not help but reply with the same words she’d heard so often whispered about Dornishwomen.

“Do you mean to say all the ladies of Dorne are whores?”

This should have been what did it. The words that angered him enough to send her home in a fury. Lash out at her even. She had certainly seen it enough times in the Red Keep with lords disciplining their wives for the slightest of transgressions.

But the Prince of Dorne, it seemed, was unlike most men in this way as well.

“Oh I’m sure some of them are,” he agreed with a laugh. “A few are even quite blatant about it. I dare say you might even find yourself targeted by a few at our wedding.”

Saera reeled back, shocked.

“You mean to say…a woman…would…with another woman…?!”

Morion hummed in agreement. Amused. “You’ll find many of my countrymen who are less…discerning with their affections here. We enjoy our pleasures in Dorne. Wherever we may find them.”

His words were shocking. Unsettling.

Intriguing.

She had…never even thought to imagine such things. Her septas spoke plenty about the abomination of men laying together but…women? Apparently the thought had never even occurred to the Faith either. Just another way in which women were overlooked. Even while sinning, people could not imagine a woman with enough agency to choose such a thing.

“I…see.”

The Prince smiled that queer smile of his.

“Yes, I’m sure you do.”

He had…certainly given her much to think on.

It was only later, after he’d returned her to her rooms, that Saera remembered that she remained, frustratingly, betrothed.

And she still (still!) had no idea what kind of man Morion Martell was.

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#my fanfiction #to wake up in the sun #asoiaf fanfiction #asoiaf fanfic #asoiaf #saera targaryen #fanfiction

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