#Forbidden Throne

[divaofmads]

Daughter of Water

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Female Reader (OC)

Warnings: Sacred virginity nonsense, Smut, +18, loss of virginity, sex with a stranger, fingering, standing sex, sexuality leaning more toward body-worship, dirty talk, fluff, mockery of absurd beliefs, use of the title “sacred whore” (though not to degrade the woman — you’ll understand when you read it), manipulative and mischievous Oberyn, Rough, Language!

Y/N: Your Name S/T: Skin Tone H/C: Hair Color

Word Count: 8.5k

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A/N: I'm not a professional when it comes to fanfiction. I just write as a hobby. I started writing thanks to the amazing people who do this perfectly. So if you're going to focus on my mistakes, please don't read it.

A/N 2 : I apologize for the mistakes I made in English that is not my native language and I am trying to improve my writing skills.

The dunes of Dorne shimmered even on starless nights, yet that evening felt dark and silent to Prince Oberyn Martell. The decision to exile him had begun with news from Highgarden. A covert assassination attempt against House Tyrell had failed, and subtle clues cast a shadow of suspicion upon Oberyn. The true perpetrator was never confirmed, but the delicate balance of power within the Seven Kingdoms was fragile enough to threaten Dorne's independence. Oberyn's courage and rebellious spirit made him an easy target for such intrigues. His brother, Doran Martell, saw no alternative but to send him into exile.

"The best thing you can do for Dorne," Doran said, "is to leave. This will be the salvation not just for you, but for our house."

As always, Oberyn responded with a smile.

"Exile me? Perhaps you're doing me a favor, brother. A fine excuse to explore the world beyond the Seven Kingdoms."

Upon leaving the warm sands of Dorne, Oberyn stepped into the complex and ruthless world of Essos. Exile offered him not just freedom but also the opportunity to discover the extent of his own boundaries. His first destination was Lys; known as the island of love and passion, this city was famed for its golden beaches, wealthy merchants, and renowned beauties. However, Lys's seductive façade quickly became monotonous for Oberyn. Dazzling women, gold-embroidered wine goblets, delicate incenses... These could not fill the void within a Martell's soul.

"Beauty becomes dull quickly," he muttered to himself, sipping wine on the terrace of a Lys inn. "The essence of pleasure lies in the unexplored."

After spending a few months in Lys, Oberyn set his course for Myr. Known for its fine craftsmanship, glassmaking, and ancient poison masters, Myr offered more than just hedonistic pursuits—it provided something to satiate his curiosity: the fine art of death.

While wandering through Myr's narrow, labyrinthine streets, Oberyn's eyes caught a shop he'd heard much about. Known as Tanith's "House of Spices and Elixirs," this establishment was a hub for poison dealers from across Essos. Upon entering, the air was thick with the scent of spices; dried herbs, snake skins, and finely ground mineral powders lined the shelves.

Tanith was an elderly woman; her eyes bore the faded memories of something once vibrant. Upon seeing Oberyn, she immediately recognized not just a customer but a student hungry for knowledge.

"Poison isn't wielded like a crude dagger, prince," Tanith said, retrieving a dark red powder from a shelf. "Poison requires patience and intellect. In the right hands, it's an art; in the wrong, a disgrace."

Under Tanith's guidance, Oberyn began to learn the secrets of poisons. He delved beyond the common toxins sold in Myr's markets, seeking rarer and more lethal concoctions. The impact of poison lay not just in the victim's physical agony but also in the psychological terror it induced.

Tanith taught Oberyn three fundamental principles:

1. The Power of Time: Some poisons acted instantly, while others consumed their victims slowly over weeks. Oberyn learned that a poison derived from the blood of the Lys snake left its victim debilitated for days, with death arriving only during sleep.

2. Deceptive Taste and Aroma: The deadliest poisons often appeared as innocent as a dessert. Oberyn tasted a poison from Old Volantis; when mixed with wine, it left a sweet, spicy flavor, yet a single sip ignited a burning sensation in the victim's veins.

3. Poison and Intrigue: Poison was not merely a physical weapon but a message. It was used not just to kill a king but to instill fear in a kingdom. Oberyn understood the importance of poisoning not just the victim but also those around them.

Under Tanith's supervision, Oberyn began crafting his own poisons. One of his most successful creations earned him the title "Red Sand" among the people of Myr. This sand-colored powder induced a sensation of sand coursing through the victim's veins, leading to death within hours. However, Oberyn used his poisons not solely for killing but also to slowly subdue his enemies and leave them in terror.

During his months with Tanith, Oberyn began to grasp the philosophy of poison. It was quieter than a sword, swifter than an arrow, and as powerful as a word. He researched the great poison masters of history; he listened to tales of a poison made from dragon blood used in the final years of Valyria. Compared to Myr, Westeros's tradition of poison seemed primitive.

One evening, he turned to Tanith and said,

"Poison is like a gift stolen from the gods. A swift death can make a king feel powerless; a slow one can strike terror into an entire people."

Tanith smiled and replied,

"But remember, prince. Poison consumes the one who wields it as well. If you go too deep, in the end, you may find nothing but yourself."

Oberyn, satisfied with the knowledge he had gained and the poisons he had crafted in Myr, still felt an emptiness within a longing for new places to discover and desires yet to be fulfilled. He had mastered the subtleties of poison, but now it was time for a different kind of adventure.

Leaving behind the warm, salt-scented air of Myr, Oberyn Martell burned with the yearning for his next journey. During his time in Myr, he had fed both his mind and his soul, yet the restless passion in a Martell's blood drove him to seek more. It was then, in a harbor tavern, that a tale sparked the beginning of his journey to Pentos.

The tavern, a wooden structure overlooking the port of Myr, was filled with the scents of wine and bursts of raucous laughter at dusk. Oberyn was drawn in by a drunken merchant’s tale. He spoke of the Prince of Pentos, who, as part of an age-old tradition, would be sacrificed to the gods after a season of poor harvests. A new prince would then be chosen in his place. But what caught Oberyn's interest most was the central figure of this ritual: Daughter of Water.

"Daughter of Water ," the merchant slurred, wine dripping from his lips, "is seen as a gift from the gods. She must be so pure, so beautiful, that when the new prince unites with her, fertility and peace return. The city waits for her for years, dedicates her to the gods. They say there's one now… her name is Y/N."

Oberyn listened to the words with a deep smile. He slowly lifted his wine glass and leaned toward the merchant. “Tell me, my friend. What is the story of this Y/N? And what kind of place is Pentos, that even the gods marvel at the beauty of its women?”

Pentos, a golden city overlooking the sea on the western shores of Essos, began to take shape in Oberyn’s imagination. Known for its brothels and harbor, Pentos was a hub where merchants, pirates, and nomadic warriors converged. But the city held far more than outsiders might suspect.

The narrow, stone-paved streets of Pentos were adorned with ancient mosaics, each telling a story from the city’s past. Golden-domed palaces stood as symbols of wealth, yet beneath this splendor lay a sharp game of fear and balance of power. Though it seemed as if Pentos was ruled by its lords, true power rested in the hands of merchants and wealthy families.

The people of Pentos fed their city with the gifts of the sea. Spices, exotic fabrics, fish, and precious stones from the East kept the port alive with motion. But behind this wealth were also the marks of poverty. Most of the houses were narrow, leaning on one another, barely letting sunlight pass through. The streets echoed with both the laughter of wine merchants and the silence of beggars crushed by hunger.

And in the middle of all this chaos, like an offering to the gods, the name of Daughter of Water, Y/N, was whispered among the people. Y/N was on the verge of becoming a legend.

What the merchant said had stirred Oberyn’s blood. The mere fact that Y/N had been chosen as Daughter of Water was enough to convince him to embark on this journey. But it was not just about a woman or a ritual. For Oberyn, Pentos was a new playing field. When the merchant said, “Pentos lives like prey caught in the talons of an eagle. It looks strong, but it always fears,” a sly smile spread across Oberyn’s face.

“Is it easy to get to Pentos?” Oberyn asked.

“Finding ships in the harbors isn't hard. But be careful—Pentos lords don't easily trust outsiders,” said the merchant.

Oberyn paid little mind to the man's warning. He was confident that with his wit and charm, he could get whatever he wanted in Pentos. At the port of Myr, he boarded a trade ship called the Silver Scorpion. The vessel was filled with exotic spices and rare fabrics, but for Oberyn, this journey was not about commerce—it was about discovering a woman and the dark secrets of a city.

As the Silver Scorpion glided over the waves, Oberyn pondered what lay ahead. The beauty of Lysandra, the ritual of the Water Maiden, the mysteries hidden beneath the golden domes of Pentos... This voyage promised to be one of his greatest adventures in Essos.

“Pentos,” he murmured to himself. “The gods truly know where to hide their gifts.”

As the Silver Scorpion approached the harbor, the grandeur and darkness of Pentos slowly entered Oberyn Martell’s view. The city’s golden domes and elegant seaside palaces suggested peace and order, but beneath that splendor was a chaos waiting to be uncovered.

The moment he disembarked, Oberyn scanned his surroundings. His eyes sought the order beneath the harbor’s chaos. Pentos seemed disorganized at first glance, but deep within its heart lay a hierarchy. Here, power was shaped in silence and shadows. Oberyn trusted his instincts—they would lead him to Daughter of Water, for a Martell never strays from his path.

He acted on the information given to him by the merchant he met in Myr. Daughter of Water was no ordinary girl. She was seen as a gift from the gods, venerated by the people. Such a being would not be hidden among the common folk; she would be kept in a special place, protected like a living icon.

Crossing the cobbled roads beyond the harbor, Oberyn made his way to the quieter and more noble part of the city. The northern quarter of Pentos was home to wealthy merchants and lords. Here, grand structures rose toward the sky, courtyards adorned with marble statues. But Oberyn knew Daughter of Water would be kept not just in wealth, but in sanctity.

As he traced her trail through the city’s bustle, a wine merchant whispered to him, “Daughter of Water? She’s in the Garden of the Gods. Beneath the golden arbors... but you can’t just walk in there.”

The Garden of the Gods was one of the oldest and most sacred parts of Pentos. Located on the city’s western slope, this area was a sanctuary dedicated to the old gods, filled with graceful statues and exotic flora. According to rumor, Daughter of Water resided there, under the watchful eyes of temple priests. The temple was open only to the chosen; within its walls, magic, tradition, and faith intertwined.

Before reaching the Garden of the Gods, Oberyn sought out more knowledge of Y/N from merchants and priests. Each described her divinity and beauty in their own way.

Y/N’s S/T skin was said to shine as purely and brightly as moonlight reflected on water. Her luminous complexion was viewed as a sacred sign by the people—as if the gods had touched her and crafted her with a purity unlike any other. Her H/C hair resembled the night sky: long, silky, and moving like waves in a gentle breeze. But what truly set Y/N apart wasn’t merely her physical beauty.

The priests said that the real reason people believed Y/N was sacred was because of the Blood Moon that appeared on the night of her birth. That night, Pentos fell into an eerie silence, and the city’s oldest priest declared that Y/N was “the rebirth of the gods.” Even more impressive was her voice, which seemed to enchant everyone who heard it. Her songs touched the hearts of those who listened, filling them with a kind of peace and awe. The people believed they heard the voices of the gods in her melodies.

Oberyn knew that entry to the garden was only possible for chosen individuals. But a Martell possessed the wit to turn obstacles into opportunity.

As Oberyn Martell moved through the narrow streets of Pentos, he gathered clues step by step to locate the Garden of the Gods. Every time he heard its name, he sensed a tremble of reverence in people’s voices. This place held not only beauty, but also mystery and power.

In the marketplace, he spotted one of the priests. The man was different from the others—his robe was cleaner, his walk more dignified. Most likely, he held a significant place in the temple’s inner hierarchy. Oberyn decided to follow him. He watched as the man began speaking to a merchant in a spice-scented alley. Observing from a distance, he noticed their interaction was based on mutual trust.

This insight offered Oberyn an opportunity. Even among the temple priests, some could succumb to worldly desires; for gold or prestige, no door was truly sealed. He needed only to wait for the right moment.

The next day, he witnessed a priest examining fresh flowers being taken into the Garden of the Gods. Oberyn seized the chance and approached, introducing himself as one of Pentos’s prominent merchants. He centered his conversation on the people's devotion to the gods and his "admiration" for the sanctity of the temples.

“Honored priest,” Oberyn began, with a subtle smile. “I’ve heard stories about the Garden of the Gods in Pentos. They say the gods left traces of themselves there. Tell me, what does such a sacred place look like?”

The priest responded with a cautious expression. “The garden is for the gods and their servants alone. Entry is not permitted for someone off the street.”

Oberyn’s lips curled slightly. “Someone off the street? Perhaps. But I didn’t come to Pentos as just another merchant. I’ve spent most of my life uncovering the mysteries of Essos. In Myr, Lys, Qohor... I’ve seen the signs of the gods. I believe in what you say, and I cannot help but admire what has been granted to you.”

The priest examined Oberyn’s confident tone. Still, he seemed ready to object. At that moment, Oberyn lowered his voice, speaking in a tone that balanced between a subtle threat and a tempting offer. “In this city, many speak of the sacrifices made by the temple priests, and of the sacred relics you guard in the Garden of the Gods. But sadly, some rumors suggest that this sanctity is no longer well protected. Such whispers could tarnish the priests’ reputation. However, a foreigner like me could see things in a very different light. I could help exalt the temple’s name, if we worked together.”

The priest evaluated Oberyn's words, sensing the subtle threat and flattery woven together. Turning him away carried risk; remaining silent, however, might make an enemy of a man as clever as Oberyn. In the end, they reached an agreement. The priest would lead Oberyn to the edge of the garden, but crossing the temple's boundaries would depend entirely on Oberyn’s own skill.

The massive stone gates of the Garden of the Gods were more magnificent than even the grandest structures of Pentos. The carvings above depicted ancient deities, each holding a different element of nature: fire, water, earth, and air. As Oberyn studied these representations, a phrase etched beneath the gate caught his eye: "Peace is found only in places blessed by the gods."

As the priest opened the gate, he turned to Oberyn. "Not everyone who comes here can feel its sanctity. But this place sees the soul. If you lose your way during this journey, it will be by your own choice."

When the gate opened, Oberyn felt the presence of another world. The Garden of the Gods was no ordinary garden. Towering marble columns reached toward the sky, and birds danced around them, transforming the temple grounds into a work of art. Water whispered from every corner, flowing through narrow channels that connected the courtyards.

Oberyn tried not to be swept away by the garden’s enchantment. "The blood of a Martell is sacred too," he reminded himself. Even amid such beauty, he remained focused on his mission. He could sense that Y/N was at the very heart of this garden. His eyes scanned every corner, every step calculated.

Oberyn Martell relied on his intelligence and sharp observational skills to move through the Garden of the Gods undetected. His desire to reach Y/N gave him a renewed sense of determination. As he watched the garden and its routines, he carefully noted the behavior of the priests, the patrol paths of the guards, and every small detail around him.

The first thing he noticed was the sacred order that governed the garden. The priests moved in a constant ritual rhythm, traveling to different sections of the garden at set times. The guards were vigilant, especially near the central pergola that lay at the garden’s core—an area under tight surveillance. Oberyn realized that a direct approach was impossible; he would need to find a flaw within the system’s structure.

Through his observations, Oberyn noticed that at specific times the priests gathered beneath a small pavilion in the garden’s corner. There, fruits and wines were offered as symbols of the garden’s sanctity, and the priests partook of these gifts while expressing their devotion. Yet Oberyn saw beyond the sacredness—he saw a glimpse of human nature: despite their faith, the priests consumed the fruits and wine with eager appetite, surrendering themselves to the moment’s comfort.

Oberyn recalled the months he had spent in Myr, learning the arts of poison. In the small leather pouch he carried, one vial contained an extract of a plant called Silent Shadow. The poison was not deadly; its effects were more subtle. It clouded the mind, dulled awareness, and slowed reflexes. For his goal, it was a perfect tool.

His next step was to mix the extract into the fruits and wine offered to the priests. But it had to be done without drawing attention. Oberyn purchased a few pomegranates and figs from a small fruit stall outside the garden. In a secluded corner behind the stand, he used a thin syringe to inject the poison into the fruits. He also treated a bottle of Pentoshi wine in the same way, preparing everything for his plan.

Oberyn discreetly placed the fruit and wine on a table near the pavilion, blending them in with the other offerings. When the priests gathered at the corner of the garden, they unknowingly included Oberyn’s contributions in their ritual. Soon after, he watched as they began to taste the sacred offerings, all while his plan took root.

The effects became evident quickly. The priests' movements grew looser, their speech slowed. Some chuckled softly; others gently swayed where they sat. Even the guards, having sampled a few bites, started to show signs of the same dazed state.

Oberyn knew this was his moment.

Oberyn, knowing this distraction would continue, decided to act. At this point, the most crucial part of his plan was to silently find the path to the center of the garden, to Y/N’s arbor.

The water channels running through the garden were another detail that hadn't escaped Oberyn’s notice. Passing under delicate stone arches, these channels connected every corner of the garden, extending silently toward the center. When Oberyn realized they were wide enough for a person to pass through, he decided to use them.

Taking advantage of the priests’ and guards’ scattered attention, he slipped into the most secluded part of the garden. There, a small arched tunnel marked the origin of the water. As he entered the tunnel, he stripped off his outer garments and began to move carefully, clinging to the damp stone walls. The humid, dark atmosphere tested both his mental and physical endurance. But Oberyn was used to such challenges; a Martell did not succumb to fear when opportunity presented itself.

As he moved forward with the sound of the water guiding him, he noticed a small stone staircase at the end of the channel. It led directly beneath Y/N’s arbor. Climbing the damp steps in silence, Oberyn advanced like a chess piece moved with careful intent. At the end of the tunnel, he spotted a sentry priest standing alert in the dim light. Now, intelligence and creativity had to serve as sharper weapons than any blade.

Looking around, Oberyn noticed thinly carved stone holes reaching up to the ceiling of the channel. These openings, combined with the sound of the water, created echoes that carried whispers across the garden.

A clever idea came to him to distract the priest. He picked up a small stone from near the entrance of the tunnel and placed it in the flow of the stream, waiting patiently. As the stone drifted with the current and clattered against others, it echoed, making it seem as though the sound had come from a distant part of the tunnel. But Oberyn wasn’t finished; to amplify the illusion, he gently blew air into one of the stone carvings, adding a whisper that blended with the rhythm of the water.

The priest suddenly stiffened. The rhythmic sound of the stream mixed with faint whispers must have seemed like a divine warning or sign. With unease, he turned his head and began to approach the shadowy entrance of the water channels. At that moment, Oberyn's cunning triumphed once again; while the priest waited for a sign from the gods, Oberyn glided up the stairs like a shadow.

The stairs led Oberyn to a chamber beneath the arbor. Here, on the surface of the stone walls, he saw carvings resembling ancient Valyrian symbols. Yet among them, Oberyn recognized the subtle outline of a mechanism. The stones shifted slightly when touched with care. With the patience honed under Dorne's blazing sun, he studied their arrangement. Moving with near-blind sensitivity in the dark, he found the correct alignment. As the final stone clicked into place, a soft mechanical sound whispered through the air and a stone door slowly opened.

A narrow passage led Oberyn just a few steps from Y/N’s arbor. Yet he could already feel her presence; the air itself seemed to hum with divine energy around her. It was as if her very breath filled the chamber.

But for Oberyn, the real challenge was how to approach her. It would take more than wit—it required a captivating strategy. This meeting with Y/N was less a hunt and more the final steps of a dance. He had reached the most sacred part of the garden, but as he neared Y/N, he prepared to don his mask: one of charm, danger, and cleverness.

When Oberyn Martell stepped into the sacred chamber of the arbor, his eyes lingered for a heartbeat. Y/N was far more than what the priests and the people of Pentos had described. The young woman seemed shaped by the very hands of the gods. Her S/T skin, so rare and pristine to someone who had grown under Dorne’s scorching sun, was like a canvas—pure and mesmerizing. The smoothness of her complexion reminded him of a mountain peak kissed by the first snow; cold, yet with an untouchable allure.

Her H/C hair, catching the flickering light of the torches in the room, resembled the night sky itself—each strand a shadow of starlight cloaked in darkness. It flowed down to her waist like a silken veil, framing her face in a way that made her seem like she belonged in a sacred portrait. But what struck him most were her eyes: deep, intense, caught between the golden flame of a dragon and the silvery gray of Valyria. Those eyes pierced through Oberyn’s gaze like an arrow.

Y/N left a divine impression not just with her beauty but with her very presence. Her movements were graceful—not in the way of a trained lady, but as though gifted by the gods themselves. The golden bracelets on her slender wrists, bestowed by the priests, chimed softly with each subtle motion. Yet Oberyn sensed those bracelets were shackles; Y/N was a bird in a cage, condemned to a fate she had never chosen.

A faint smile touched Oberyn’s lips—not one of victory, but of something deeper, a recognition. Y/N was not simply beautiful. She possessed a uniqueness unlike anything he had ever seen or experienced. This young woman could make him forget the flower gardens of Dorne, yet behind her beauty lay fragility and solitude.

"As beautiful as a goddess, and as fragile as a bird," Oberyn thought. "But a Martell fears neither gods nor cages." Y/N’s beauty stirred not only his admiration but also a hunger. He was not a man content with watching—he was a man of pursuit. But with Y/N, that pursuit felt elevated. This woman was more than a symbol offered to the gods—she was powerful enough to deceive the gods themselves.

Oberyn was captivated by not just her appearance, but the aura she emanated. The priests may have marked her as chosen by the divine, but in Oberyn’s eyes, Y/N held a power beyond their reach. The sorrow in her gaze ignited the fire in his Martell blood. His fury at her caged destiny, and his desire to truly know her, made him more resolute than ever.

"To only look upon her," Oberyn thought, "would be like gazing at stars and never daring to make a wish." Every movement she made, every breath she took, became less an image and more a melody in his mind. The fire of Dorne met the elegance of Y/N, and he knew this was merely the beginning.

Oberyn Martell would not accept that Lysandra belonged to the gods. In his eyes gleamed the resolve of a warrior and the passion of a lover. This bird would not remain caged—for Oberyn was a man who broke cages.

The Garden of the Gods in Pentos had lost none of its grandeur, even under the night’s shadow. Marble columns rose like phantoms in the moonlight, while the ancient trees overhead formed a canopy that veiled the sky. The soft trickle of water and the occasional chirp of birds gave the garden a sacred harmony with nature. The holiness of this place weighed upon the hearts of all who entered—but Oberyn Martell’s heart bore only one thought: Y/N.

“Y/N,” he said, stepping from the shadows with his usual confident, cunning smile. His attire—rich in black and red—was embroidered with golden suns of House Martell. He looked both noble and enigmatic, moving with the ease of a predator who cared little for the sacred. Y/N, under the moonlight, shone like a tale brought to life. But to Oberyn, this was no tale. This was the beginning of a mystery waiting to be unraveled.

“The Garden of the Gods... they say it’s a sacred place. But I’ve always been intrigued by how fragile sacred things can be. Just like you, shining here tonight.”

Y/N was sitting on the bench by the window; she quickly turned around and frowned at the stranger standing before her. There was more discomfort than fear in her eyes. "I don't know who you are, but you shouldn't be here. Only priests and the divinely chosen are allowed to walk in this garden."

Oberyn took a few steps toward her, and when the moonlight hit his face, that famous smile of his became more pronounced. "I did not claim my right from the priests, but from the night itself. I’m looking for something, Y/N. And I’ve found it."

Y/N's brows furrowed. "This isn't a place for games. Tell me who you are and leave."

Oberyn didn't seem affected by her authoritative tone. On the contrary, the smile on his face grew wider. "I am Oberyn Martell," he said, each word carrying the power of his name. "Prince of Dorne, son of the Snake, a wanderer who sings songs of love and death across the Seven Kingdoms. But tonight, I am only a man. And perhaps the Garden of the Gods has summoned me."

Y/N stared at Oberyn. "You came all this way just to find me? If achieving that makes you feel divine, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. I'm not a miracle, nor the embodiment of a prophecy. I'm just... someone born in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Oberyn took a step to sit beside her, but Y/N stopped him with a motion of her hand. "Don’t come closer. I don't care who you are. I’m in no state of mind to talk to anyone on behalf of the gods."

"I'm not speaking on behalf of the gods," Oberyn said, his voice warm enough to slowly melt Y/N’s defenses. "I speak for myself. And when I look at you, I don’t see a prophecy or a miracle. I see a woman. A woman who has bewitched me."

Y/N turned her eyes away from Oberyn. "Bewitched? I suppose after growing up in a brothel, being seen as sacred is somehow less unbelievable."

Oberyn was quiet for a moment. "A brothel?" he asked, his voice curious rather than mocking.

Y/N paused for a second, then shrugged and continued speaking. "Yes. I was born in one of the famous brothels of Pentos. My mother worked there. The women did everything they could to protect me, but I grew up in the middle of that life. If you’re wondering how I remained a virgin, the answer is simple: I was scary enough."

Oberyn raised his eyebrows slightly. "You were scary?"

"Yes," Y/N said with a sharp smile. "From an early age, I didn’t let anyone come near me. I outsmarted them, protected myself with fear. Eventually, the priests came and told me I was the chosen of the gods. Funny, isn’t it? Someone who grew up in the back rooms of a brothel suddenly becomes Pentos’s sacred symbol."

As Oberyn listened to her words, the smile on his face faded into a more serious expression. "I can’t say your story surprises me," he said at last. "But I must admit, it makes you even more captivating. Because it's impossible to believe that a woman who defends herself so perfectly could ever be ordinary."

Y/N shot him a sharp look. "Don't flatter me. I've heard enough praise before you ever walked into this place. If you want something from me, just say it!"

Oberyn took a few more steps closer, locking eyes with her. “You wonder what I want from you? I want the truth. I want to know what guides you beyond this prophecy nonsense, what makes you feel like a pawn in the gods' game. But most of all, I want to understand you, Y/N. Because your story is more sacred than anything in this garden.”

Y/N remained silent for a moment. The sincerity in Oberyn’s voice had begun to chip away at her walls. Yet deep down, she still questioned how trustworthy this man truly was. “Your tales and my truths are very different, Oberyn Martell. I gave up believing in fairy tales a long time ago. But if it’s the truth you want, I might keep talking.”

Oberyn lowered his head slightly, wearing that famous smile again. “I’m not just a storyteller, Y/N. I’m a man who knows how to seek the truth, and live it. And tonight, here with you, I’m ready to uncover the truths that touch your soul.”

In his eyes, Y/N could see the dark shadows of her own fate. This man could be the most dangerous and the most captivating person to cross her path. But standing before him, she was determined to keep whatever she felt tonight a secret.

Oberyn stood in silence before her. Her sarcastic gaze, tired smile, and disbelief might have dissuaded another. But for Oberyn Martell, this was nothing short of a challenge. His intelligence and charm were often sharper and deadlier than any blade.

“The chosen one,” Oberyn said, adding a sly warmth to his voice. “You once said how foolish you thought that title was. But I’ve been wondering something. When you reject it, is it truly because of disbelief? Or is it rebellion against something that was forced upon you?”

Y/N turned to him, brows furrowed. “You’re trying to understand me, aren’t you? Others have tried before. Priests speaking in the name of gods, dragging my mother through the dirt while lifting me up… They all told the same lies. But my mother… she was different. She was the only one who taught me how the world really works.”

Oberyn took another careful step forward. “Your mother was a prostitute. But she did everything she could to protect you from her fate, didn’t she? A girl who grew up in a brothel and managed to remain a virgin… That alone is an incredible story. What protected you, Y/N? Your mother’s love? Or your own will?”

Y/N looked down in silence. The sharpness in her voice had faded, replaced by sorrow. “My mother trained me. Not just to protect my body, but my soul too. It had nothing to do with the gods. But that doesn’t make me sacred. It just… means I survived.”

Oberyn didn’t let the moment slip away. “Survival is already a miracle, Y/N. Especially in a place like that, with a past like yours. Staying a virgin doesn’t have to be a sign from the gods. But it is a power. A power only you know, and only you can control.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to persuade me? Because if you are, you’re talking to the wrong person.”

Oberyn leaned in, his face close to hers. “No, I’m talking to the right one. Because you’re someone who rejects titles and prophecies. That makes you stronger. The reason so many people cling to you like you’re divine isn’t just your beauty, it’s your resolve. Y/N, they want to make you sacred because you control your own fate. And now, we can write that fate together.”

When Y/N saw the sincerity in his eyes, she hesitated for a moment. His words were chipping away at her walls. “What do you want, Oberyn? What do you really want from me?”

Oberyn shrugged with a soft smile. “Just one night… just one moment. To be with you, and leave all this prophecy nonsense behind.”

Y/N, while weighing the meaning behind his words, remembered her mother’s advice. Oberyn’s charm and wit offered her a world she had never known. But within that world, she realized she could make her own choices. This man was offering her an option.

She looked at Oberyn in silence for a while. Then, with a slight nod, she spoke. “If that’s what you want, then I will be with you. But that doesn’t make me sacred. It makes me a woman. A woman who can make her own choices.”

Oberyn leaned in with a look that was a mix of triumph and tenderness, taking her hand. “What is sacredness anyway? Where there are choices and freedom, there is true power. And being with you will be a source of strength for me.”

Y/N smiled softly. This man had reached the vulnerable parts of her. But most importantly, he reminded her that she could choose something of her own free will. A gift from the gods? Perhaps. But in that moment, she chose to simply be a woman.

Y/N stood up to come level with Oberyn. The room was cloaked in semi-darkness. Her cheeks flushed at the thought of experiencing such an intimate moment with a man for the first time, but the shadows would conceal her. Yet her skin glowed like porcelain in the candlelight, making it impossible not to notice the change in her color. Oberyn gently cupped her chin between his fingers and lifted it, making her look into his eyes. Her eyelids carried a subtle weight. Her gaze became more alluring, more intimate than ever before. As Oberyn looked into her eyes, he felt both a kingdom to be conquered and a goddess to be worshipped. Then his eyes wandered to her lips, curving softly upward. He slid his thumb down to her lower lip. Its hue resembled a rose fed with fresh blood. Her lower lip was fuller, each word she spoke a silent invitation for a kiss. He could no longer resist. As their faces drew closer, their skin touched, and he kissed her lips—an innocent yet sinful kiss.

Oberyn Martell’s kiss carried layers of meaning, passionate yet always in control. Y/N’s body trembled involuntarily. This was the first true intimacy she had ever experienced. Her lips were soft and shy, while Oberyn’s were like a storm of experience overtaking them.

The kiss began gently. Y/N’s trembling breath made the warmth of Oberyn’s lips even more vivid. When Oberyn slipped his tongue lightly between her lips, Y/N’s entire body reacted as though washed in fire. For the first time, she discovered the depth of her own desire. When Oberyn’s tongue touched hers, she instinctively held onto his shoulder.

The kiss became more and more sensual. Oberyn’s experienced lips tore through Y/N’s shyness, urging her toward boldness. Their tongues began to dance, as though trying to taste each other more deeply; with each motion, the dance became bolder and more intricate. Y/N’s first hesitant touch of her tongue drove Oberyn wild. Her fresh and innocent responses only fueled the fire burning within him. As he deepened the kiss, his hands slowly moved upward. His palms caressed the sides of Y/N’s delicate neck, tilting her head back slightly to make her fully surrender. His thumb pressed gently on the spot where her pulse throbbed; this small gesture allowed him to feel how alive and sensitive her body was. The rhythm of her heartbeat pulsed beneath his fingers like a melodic song.

The moisture of the kiss blended with the warmth that spread from Y/N’s lips to Oberyn’s beard. Oberyn deepened the kiss as if he wanted to savor the taste of her lips a little longer. His free hand slowly moved down to her waist. Y/N’s slender figure, for Oberyn’s strong hands, was as precious as the gold and diamonds that adorned her body. His other hand gently touched the small of her back, fingers gliding beneath the fabric as they explored the curves of her body. His fingertips traced the bends of her spine, offering both reassurance and a subtle invitation to his fire. With every touch, he could feel Y/N’s faint shivers. Her deep breaths were a sign of how willingly she was surrendering to his passionate caress. While Oberyn honored her innocence, he was also relishing the pleasure of breaking it with her.

When Oberyn finally slowed the kiss and pulled away from her face, a soft breath escaped her lips. Y/N’s cheeks were flushed with desire; her lips slightly parted, marked by the trace of his bite. Oberyn studied her face and spoke with a mocking smile. "The taste of innocence is so sweet. But you will never be innocent again, Y/N. Not with me."

Then, Oberyn bent his knees slightly, one hand behind her back, the other under her thighs, and lifted her into his arms. His feet glided over the carpet embroidered with pomegranate motifs symbolizing fertility and sanctity. Though his movement was graceful, it held the decisiveness of a warrior lifting his sword. Y/N’s body felt light in his powerful embrace. When Oberyn's hand held her back, his fingertips discovered the smoothness of her skin—silky, warm, and fresh.

As he carried her toward the bed standing at the center of the room, the walls carved from black marble and inscribed with ancient symbols seemed to close in around them. The heavy velvet curtains darkened with each step, surrounding them like a lingering echo.

The bed was draped in deep blue silk covers, rippling like sea waves, adorned with shimmering white floral motifs. An ornate golden headboard stood tall like a symbol of sacredness. But for Oberyn, it was merely a vessel—not for the gods, but for surrendering to desire.

As he laid Y/N down, his movements were as delicate as a sculptor placing a masterpiece, yet as assertive as a conqueror celebrating victory. When her back met the softness of the bed, every fabric and texture on her skin suddenly felt foreign. Oberyn paused for a moment; leaning over her, his lips nearly touching hers, his breath stirred her skin. "The gods offered you as a sacred body," he whispered, his voice a reverberating tone in the darkness. "But here, in this bed, your sanctity will be undone. The gods misplaced you... They left you in my hands, not theirs."

His hands glided gently down her sides, as though drawing a boundary between her smooth skin and the bed's fabric. Oberyn read both her fears and desires. As his lips returned to hers, his hands moved over the curves of her breasts, the fullness of her hips, her skin burning like fire under his touch.

The dress Y/N wore hugged every curve with its thin and soft fabric, yet it drew a line Oberyn had yet to cross. His hands moved toward the elegant slope of her neck. As he gently slipped the fabric from her shoulders, his fingers made their first direct contact with her skin. There was a beauty that was both inviting and provocative, stoking the flame already burning low in his loins. "Being this flawless... is it merely a coincidence?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

He slowly slid the dress down to her wrists. The fabric stretched slightly over the fullness of her hips before falling freely again. The idea of a man seeing her bare body excited her; her nipples hardened, the fine hairs on her skin stood on end, her breathing grew erratic, and her chest rose and fell with intensity. How long could Oberyn withstand such an enticing sight? He climbed on top of her, supporting himself with one hand on the bed while the other cupped her breasts. Their round shape echoed nature’s symmetry. When he rolled the hardened tips between his fingers, a shiver erupted from her spine and surged toward her loins. Oberyn, alternately soft and firm in his caresses, bent to kiss her lips once more, ensuring her body met each touch with delicate sensitivity.

His fingers, feather-light, traced a path from her breasts to her stomach and down to her waist, brushing her body with teasing strokes that danced along the curves brought to life by the deep contrast of candlelight. Y/N trembled under Oberyn’s every touch, her body tightening in pleasure as she tasted such new and overwhelming sensations.

When Oberyn released her lips and moved down to her breasts, she gasped in surprise as if she had discovered something unknown. Her areolas were enveloped by his mouth, her nipples caught teasingly between his teeth while his tongue continued to provoke the untouched areas. Yet his hands never strayed from her sinuous figure.

In the midst of all this lustful passion, Y/N noticed something—an ache pooling low in her body, unlike anything she’d felt before. The tension gathered in her pelvis, and her most intimate part pulsed with heat. One leg rested on the bed like a column, while the other bent slightly inward, as if trying to contain the trembling arousal spreading through her. She felt embarrassed. Oberyn’s sensual touches had awakened every sensitive cell in her body, preparing her for a climax she couldn’t fully comprehend, while a warm, slick moisture began to seep between her thighs.

Oberyn finally released her breast from his hungry mouth, and without lifting his face from her skin, he trailed his nose, lips, and tongue between the swell of her breasts down to her navel. He licked each spot the candlelight revealed, and the trail of saliva he left behind cooled her delicate skin like a breeze across silk.

Kisses soon accompanied the strokes of his tongue. As he moved closer to her pelvis, the pleasure seemed to intensify; when a soft moan slipped through her teeth and filled the room, Oberyn lifted his head and smiled. "You're finally starting to let yourself go," he said, not with mockery but with the feral intensity of an impatient bull. "How about mimicking the sounds you heard in the brothel, Y/N? You may have kept your virginity, but surely you've been exposed to memories you didn't ask for."

Y/N froze for a moment. It was as if she had forgotten how to breathe. She saw the certainty in Oberyn’s eyes. She had grown up in a brothel and witnessed the orgasmic expressions on women's faces—grimaces that seemed to mix pain and desperation, as if they hurt but still begged for more. Her mother always said the women in that house were on a wicked path, that they sold their feelings for money, and ever since, a woman's moan had felt like something shameful to her. But now, she understood—resisting the overwhelming power of the pleasure she was experiencing would be absurd. As Oberyn continued to taste her body, a louder moan escaped her lips. The tension in her muscles had eased, and she could feel his touch much more deeply now. Her mind had surrendered completely to the spell of lust.

But it seemed even this wasn’t enough for the prince. He straightened up and gazed at Y/N’s sculpture-like, flawless face with desire. "Come on, gift me the sanctity of your moans," he said, "let me help you—lie on your stomach, and part your legs."

She hesitated at first. Her womanhood was like a vault where an artist hid their most precious works—a mysterious sanctuary. And now she was about to open that mystery to a man she barely knew. Her nervousness slowed her movements, but she did as he asked, supporting herself with her arms. She lay face down, pressing her elbows into the mattress while her head and breasts hovered above. She slowly dragged her feet across the sheets and opened her legs. When the cool air from the window brushed against her burning sex, she realized just how ready she was for this man.

Meanwhile, Oberyn began removing his clothes. The sharp sound of skin sliding against fabric, the gentle thud of garments hitting the floor filled Y/N’s ears and echoed in her mind like a melody announcing the carnal pleasure to come.

When Oberyn moved to position himself on the bed, his knees on the bed again, the bed trembled with his movements. And when he finally placed his body on top of Y/N’s, she felt his strength and weight down to her feet. When Y/N’s body, which would make the gods jealous, merged with Oberyn’s, the missing piece of the puzzle was complete, they were in such harmony.

On the ceiling was a fresco dedicated to the gods. The fresco depicted dragons piercing the sky and sea goddesses. The pale light filtered through the fresco, adding a mystical air to the room and illuminating Oberyn’s bronze skin and Y/N’s S/T. The light from the fresco surrounded their bodies in harmony like a sacred halo.

Oberyn’s hand moved along the edges of Y/N’s body, stopping at the edge of the bed and her body, his fingers began to push the edge. “Come on, Daughter of Water, help me,” he said, leaning into her ear, his warm breath mixing with his words. His lips were so close, the goosebumps of his breath brushing against her skin.

Oberyn slid his hand from her waist, wedging himself between her and the bed. He struggled toward her groin, his fingers finally meeting a warm slick, a soft moan escaping her lips.

Y/N felt trapped beneath Oberyn. His weight, his strength, and the way his arm wrapped around her waist and lowered his hand to her fresh pussy made her feel like a captive, a prisoner who had forgotten her freedom. Her movements were completely restricted, and she realized that she had to surrender herself only to his touch. But what she was trapped in was the orgasmic moment Oberyn would give her, and she could remain in a prison of lust forever.

As uncomfortable as Oberyn thought it was when his beard dug into her skin when he placed his head on her neck, even that discomfort gave her a reason to get wet when the prince’s fingers started moving. The sloshing sound of her wet pussy caught her ears. Oberyn was slowly caressing the girl's clitoris in a circular motion, moving his fingers to the left side with a certain tempo, and with the sudden change of direction, he could feel the girl's whole body shaking under him. Then he dipped his index and ring fingers into her outer lips, stretching her swollen flesh on both sides, and reached the entrance of her vagina with his middle finger, and while stimulating this area, he continued to stimulate it with frequent up and down movements, sliding the precum he had collected up to her clitoris and pressing it hard.

Oberyn had passed his other arm under Y/N's ribcage and placed his hand on the girl's neck. As the girl was exposed to the naughty movements surrounding her inner lips, her tensed muscles struggled to lift her off the bed and get some rest from this maddening pleasure, Oberyn wrapped his arms and legs tighter around her body. Y/N was moaning now, as he wanted. A deep moan coming from her chest, a combination of pain and pleasure.

"Does this feel good?" he asked, knowing that the girl was in no mood to speak. And as he had expected, no words came from her lips except a groan. A dark and threatening air swept through the room as Oberyn repeated his question. The fingers around her neck tightened slightly.

Y/N's mouth let out a series of painful, broken cries, then she answered, her voice trembling. "Yes, I've always wondered about that feeling," she admitted.

“Oh, good,” Oberyn said, his fingers softly against her throat. But Y/N had become so sensitive to the sudden stimulation from her entrance to her clitoris that she buried her head in the pillow. She was moaning much louder now. But he was forgetting something. Oberyn wanted Y/N’s moans to echo throughout the room. So he pulled his hand from her pussy, tangled his damp fingers in her hair, and lifted her head violently off the pillow until his ears brushed her lips. He breathed through his teeth. “You will not do this, Y/N! If necessary, the priests and guards will hear your moans and come here, but you will never lower your voice, do you understand me?”

Y/N was afraid. She was disturbed by this rough treatment, by the disregard for her will. But she also wanted, absurdly, to continue this fear and for Oberyn to be harsher with her. And she was too ashamed to tell him.

She did as he said. When Oberyn placed his hand between her vulva and the bed again, his voice grew louder with the intensity of his caresses. Oberyn was pleased with her. He laughed softly. "Well done, Y/N," he said, "as long as you listen to me, it is inevitable that you will lose yourself in the 'sacred' pleasures of sex." As the girl moaned and shook more, a hardness that belonged to Oberyn continued to swell in her ass. He wondered how hard it would get, and was equally surprised. Back in the brothel days, she had watched the son of a young, rich family fucking one of the girls in the house. When he had withdrawn his penis from the woman's vagina while he was secretly looking at them through the open door, he had seen that it was a small and slender organ. It did not look very hard, though. Now, as the hardness she felt behind her increased, she felt sorry for the boy. And she understood why he had come there.

Oberyn rose from Y/N, choosing to look down on her squirming body, and when he placed his strong hands on her waist, turning her like a wooden puppet, he spoke in a tone that showed his admiration. "To touch you is like defying the gods. But it is worth it; I am willing to burn with your fire."

Y/N tried to catch her breath and digest his words. The intensity of Oberyn's gaze startled her, but it also made her feel stronger than she had ever felt before.

The invisible attraction between them grew stronger with each second as the captivating scent of basil and sandalwood filled their lungs.

Oberyn would prepare Y/N for their new position. She was wet enough, eager enough... But she was still just a young. This time he didn't ask her. He placed his hands under her knees and made her stretch her legs. This way, Oberyn could easily slide between her legs, making sure her slit, which was burning with pleasure and completely covered in precum, was spread apart so he could insert his cock between them.

Y/N gasped as her prince's vein-throbbing cock pressed against her inner lips, and she punched the bed with sudden force. "Fuck," she screamed. Oberyn laughed with pleasure. "What would the priests and common people do if they knew that Daughter of Water they worship as a sacred virgin was screaming lust under a foreign man?" he asked breathlessly, his voice stinging and mocking. The girl's virgin pussy was so wet that the liquid leaking from her legs began to spread on the blue fabric of the bed.

Oberyn was forcing his way into her vagina, first grabbing his cock in his hand and flicking it against her clit, then stroking it all the way around her vagina a few times, then inserting a few millimeters of his tip into her vagina, but it never went in. This was driving Y/N crazy. "Fuck you, Martell!" she screamed, a phrase she had heard a whore say in the past. "I want you inside me now." As rude as it had sounded at first, she now realized how useful it was.

Oberyn was provoked by the girl's words. With sudden movements, he grabbed her by the arms, straightened her up, and hugged her as if he wanted to crush her. He pulled the hair covering her ears hard and growled through his teeth. "Do you want me to fuck you like your whore mother, Y/N? Turn the holy virgin into a holy whore?"

Y/N was aroused by these words. It was interesting that Oberyn treated her differently than other people. "Yes," she moaned, "I want you to fuck me like a whore."

The more the girl begged him, the more Oberyn became greedy. "You really need to be fucked hard by a strange man, don't you, Y/N, huh? Tell me!"

Y/N moaned breathlessly, "Oh, yes, I just want to be Prince Martell's bitch!"

Oberyn got off the bed without letting go of the girl's arm and stood on his feet. He turned the girl's back to him and placed his chin on her shoulder. One of his hands was pushing her back as he spoke. "Bend over, my holy whore," he commanded.

Y/N did as he said immediately and pressed her upper body against the bed. Oberyn placed his strong hand on the girl's back to find the position she needed and made her chest press a little more against the bed. Y/N's full ass was now clearly visible to Oberyn's eyes. Smooth as porcelain and as aesthetic as a statue. Just below, between her ass cheeks, her full pussy lips were glistening with precum reflected by the candlelight. So needy, so delicious and worthy of being spanked without tolerance...

Oberyn first placed his fingers on Y/N's right ass cheek. He caressed it gently. Then he repeated the same for her left as he now held her cheeks with both hands and stretched them to the sides. And suddenly he slid his penis into the girl's vagina. Y/N was startled and breathless when she suddenly felt his cock in her vagina. She wanted to get up, but Oberyn's hand was still on her back, keeping her steady.

Oberyn’s cock completely enveloped Y/N’s vagina. It was neither too tight for him. He threw his head back in pleasure as the rough, warm walls of her vagina encased Oberyn’s smooth manhood. “Oh, gods! I hope they’re watching us.”

It had been a long time since Oberyn had been inside such a tight vagina, and he was lost in longing for the pleasure it gave him. Each time he pushed his huge snake inside her, his swollen balls slapped against her clit, stimulating both her g-spot and her clitoral, nearly bringing her to tears.

“You like that, don’t you?” Oberyn asked between growls. “Tell me you want me, Y/N, tell me you want your prince’s big, hard, juicy cock in your horny cunt!”

Y/N was panting. With the intensity of the pleasure she experienced, tears started to flow from her eyes and she started to cry, her moans became louder and echoed in all the frescoes. "Oh, yes, I want my prince's cock inside me."

A wild moan came out of her throat with each impact as he rooted it into her tight hole. And he continued to push rhythmically. "Feeling you from the inside is like a mortal tasting heaven."

Both of them were about to reach the peaks of pleasure. Y/N's tight vagina felt Oberyn's hardness and veined surface down to its smallest cell. Oberyn's penis, on the other hand, was wrapped in Y/N's warm and knotted walls, twitching like a pulse.

At this moment, Oberyn's attention was drawn to a mirror hanging on the wall opposite the bed.

Its frame was delicately shaped and decorated with mythological figures. Women's faces, looking up as if praying to the gods, were intertwined among sacred texts embroidered in gold. Its surface was like natural water, radiating a wavy light.

Oberyn grabbed Y/N's arms before he could pull her toward him. His head found its place in the curve of her shoulder, his lips caressing her cheek as he asked if the mirror was related to her sacredness nonsense. Y/N tried to regain her composure, her breath coming back to her. Then he answered. It was a mirror made solely to reflect Y/N's virginal and "sacred" body.

There was irony in Oberyn's eyes as he emerged from Y/N, examining her as if she were a being as fragile as glass. He gently wrapped his fingers around Y/N's arm and led her to the mirror, speaking in a voice that echoed off the cold stone floor of the room. "Is this it? Is this the holy light they believe in?

The mirror had made Y/N an icon in this world. To the priests, her silhouette on the mirror's shiny surface was a mark as pure as the touch of the gods. But now... this was a night when that holy glow would be tested.

He entwined his fingers in her hair and stroked her encouragingly. "A reflection, a vision shining on the surface of the glass..." then Oberyn touched her perfect curves as if introducing their naked bodies. "But you are the real thing, Y/N. Blood, living, human..." he pulled aside the hair covering her neck and kissed her passionately. Each kiss was wet and sincere.

Y/N turned her gaze away from the mirror. But Oberyn held her chin and turned her face back to the mirror. Now her reflection was not of the godlike light she was used to, but of the heat of excitement in her body.

"We will continue here," Oberyn said softly, almost a whisper. "You will see the girl reflected in the mirror free from her chains. Now...bend."

Y/N felt guilty despite everything. When she saw herself in the mirror, she felt in her heart that she had broken the trust of the people, the priests, and even her mother in her. While the words that had been flying in the air just now disappeared, the image reflected in the mirror hit her with all its concreteness. But she never gave in to the impositions of the people, she did not really want to play the role assigned to her. The reflection she saw had changed; she was no longer an innocent icon, but the silhouette of a woman who did not hide her feelings.

Oberyn ordered her in a harsher tone this time. And he grabbed her waist tightly and helped her bend forward with a rough intervention. Y/N spread her legs. Her clitoris and vagina were still pulsing, and the colorless fluid was leaking from her legs. And when Oberyn slid back inside her, she groaned, realizing that she was still as hard as iron. He fucked Y/N much faster now. He gripped her arms to support himself comfortably and control his movements, and pressed his fingertips tightly into her flesh. Her firm breasts, defeated by gravity, shook and quivered as Oberyn moved rapidly inside her. Her vaginal walls tightened and pierced her joints each time he entered, announcing his presence to her entire body, and when he left, he created a huge void.

Oberyn leaned toward her ear, his voice trembling with a snarl. "You want their imposed sanctity to be destroyed, don't you?" She was out of breath, her moans mixing with each other. "Look in this mirror," he said, his voice so firm that Y/N obeyed. "Your innocence, your beauty, the reflection they loved so much to worship. But tonight, the gods saw you differently." He pulled her arms tightly toward him, still thrusting; he pressed his lips to her ear. His growls were still wild and ambitious. "You are breaking free from being their temple and carving your own path." When Y/N looked into the mirror, the smooth, godlike silhouette that had symbolized her virginity was replaced by the traces of sin. Now, on the surface, a body moved by Oberyn's hands, a body shaking with passion, a lustful cry on her lips. This was the story not only of a body but also of the liberation of her soul. The moment came with a mocking smile that came from Y/N’s own voice. The words she managed to squeeze out between her moans were, “Perhaps the gods are not jealous of me, but of the pleasure I feel in sinning.”

Oberyn laughed softly at her words, then took her chin between his fingers, holding her face in the mirror. As if he were addressing the gods who ruled the room, he spoke into Y/N’s skin, almost a whisper but threatening. “Look and learn. This woman has rejected your lies, and now she lives here, with her own desires, her lust. That is true holiness. That is true power.”

With the spasms and twitches that betrayed the coming of a perfect orgasm, Oberyn pressed his lips to Y/N’s. They were kissing wildly. Wet and hard. Their tongues danced in harmony. He continued, his rasping voice not taking his lips away. “I will miss this night so much… I would take you to my palace.”

Y/N could not even answer for all the pleasure she was feeling. Oberyn continued to bite and kiss her ears, neck, and jawbone. They were now close to their orgasm, their moans echoing through the room.

"Y/N, are you ready?" he moaned. Y/N was in sync with Oberyn's pace. He spoke without taking his lips off hers. "Oh, Y/N, you're perfect for me." Oberyn let go of her arms and grabbed her waist to increase his pace. He sped up, faster and faster. The "snap" sound of their flesh slapping against each other drowned out his words.

Y/N closed her eyes tightly and breathed deeply. Her chest rose and fell. The pleasure made her head spin so much that when she stretched her arms out to the wall to keep her balance, her hands gripped the edge of the mirror tightly. "Oh, my prince!" The sacred mirror trembled along with Y/N's shaking body as Oberyn continued to fuck her at a steady pace. Her balance was completely off and she was leaning to the left, at an acute angle to the wall.

Oberyn finally came inside Y/N. He clenched his glutes so tightly in pleasure that her pits were clearly visible. Y/N came at that moment. As the electrifying electricity of her orgasm coursed through her body, she used her power disproportionately against the mirror, causing the already unbalanced sacred mirror to slide down the wall and fall to the floor as Oberyn wrapped his arms around her. The sacred mirror, now shattered into hundreds of pieces, now reflected Oberyn and Y/N's lust from every angle.

Both were out of breath. Y/N’s head was resting on the prince’s shoulder, her eyes closed and her legs shaking in exhaustion as she tried to control her breathing. If Oberyn hadn’t wrapped his strong arms around her, she would have collapsed to the ground. Her juices mixed with Oberyn’s cum and seeped from the sides of his massive penis, branching out from her legs and running down to her ankles.

Y/N’s eyes caught her reflection in the broken mirror on the floor. The impositions of virginity, sanctity, the gift of the gods had vanished one by one.

Her ears were still ringing when Oberyn released her. “No more sanctity,” Y/N said, her breath coming in short gasps, her voice carrying a dark pleasure and a hint of mockery. “The Water's Daughter of Pentos, destroyed by her own decisions.”

Oberyn took her face in his hands and kissed her passionately on the forehead. “Holiness is a chain only for the weak,” she said, her voice a whisper of defiance. “You are not a daughter of the gods, but of your desires and your freedom. If you have power in this world, it is your will to be your own.”

The reflection in the shards was a sign of chaos for Y/N’s people. The holy virgin was now tainted; a crisis of faith would erupt between the priests and the people who believed that her body would bring fertility. When the land lost its fertility, the priests would surely blame Y/N. But Y/N felt the lightness of freedom, not the weight of her sin, in the mirror.

“Oberyn,” she said, her eyes now on Oberyn’s. “These people sought to enslave me to their gods. But now I will show them that I am only mortal. I am neither holy nor cursed. I am only myself.”

Oberyn smiled, with the pride of a victorious general. "And so I chose you," he said, his fingers touching her cheeks. "These people wanted to use you for the gods, but you lit your own light. Now all will see that you belong only to yourself."

The mirror no longer symbolized holiness, but rebellion and freedom. Y/N's reflection reflected her own choice instead of the definitions that had once been imposed on her. The chaos of the people and priests would echo a revolution that had begun in front of the mirror.

The morning sun of Pentos rose above a continual chaos. The streets of the city were filled with talk of the fall of Daughter of Water and the lies of the priests. Whispers of Y/N’s loss of sanctity had spread to every corner of the city; the woman who had been seen as a symbol of fertility was now a sinner in the eyes of the people. The priests tried to erase the traces of this event that had shaken their faith, making promises to keep the people in check. But the roots of the chaos were too deep. The lands of Pentos would never be the same again.

Oberyn Martell stood on the deck of a ship that waited silently in the harbor, taking one last look at the city he had left behind. A wry smile was on his face, a combination of the destruction he had left behind and the freedom he had gained. Y/N had chosen her own path, and with Oberyn’s touch she had broken the chains imposed on her. Her virginity may have been sacred, but no one could offer that sacredness to the gods anymore.

This city was merely a stopover for Oberyn, the beginning of another adventure.

“Prince Oberyn,” the captain said, coming up behind him. “We are ready.”

Oberyn turned once more to Pentos. His eyes scanned the horizon of the city, his thoughts following the chaos he left behind. “Divinity,” he muttered to himself, “is a lie invented only by the weak. But chaos… that is the true gift.”

He walked across the deck to the prow of the ship. He leaned his hands on the side rails as the salty air rising from the sea filled his lungs. His heart beat with the excitement of a free man. The marks he had left on the city would not be forgotten for long, but Oberyn had no place in his life for the burden of the past. The seas and new horizons, pleasures to be discovered and vengeance to be taken, answered his call.

The skyline of Pentos grew smaller as the ship slowly left the harbor. Oberyn turned and looked to the horizon. The sun was drawing a golden path across the seas, heralding a new adventure. "The story of Pentos is over," he said to himself, "but mine is just beginning."

And so The Red Viper of Dorne set sail for new adventures, leaving a city full of chaos in his wake. The lands and peoples that awaited him were ready to bear the mark of Oberyn Martell.

[velieditss]

Forbidden Desires

Paring: Davos Blackwood x Bracken!reader

Cw: Mentions of emotional manipulation and betrayal, Reference to pregnancy loss

Summary: Finally, some truths come to light, testing everything you once imagined.

An: 2 more to go!!!

Part 8

At long last, after what had felt like an endless day, you were able to take a well-deserved bath. The hot water instantly soothed the tension in your muscles, yet it was not enough to rid you of the weariness that had taken root in every fibre of your being. It was little wonder you felt stiff and sore—sleeping in such a cramped space beside a man far taller than yourself, beneath the relentless downpour of rain, was far from a restful experience.

You sighed as Elena’s hands came to rest upon your arms, sliding the damp cloth over your skin and skilfully massaging the spots where exhaustion had left its mark.

“So, if he did not change his mind, I suppose he is even less likely to love you,” she remarked with a casual air, though a glint of mischief flickered in her gaze.

“He did kiss me more than once, that much is true—but he offered a most absurd excuse for it,” you huffed in disbelief.

“Oh? Did he?”

“A foolish excuse, not worth repeating.”

“That would have been a fine opportunity to seize.”

“I tried,” you murmured, warmth creeping into your face as the memory resurfaced. “But he stopped… He claimed I would never leave Raventree Hall if he were to…”

You gestured vaguely with your hands, avoiding the need to put the obvious into words. Elena arched a brow before breaking into laughter.

“Oh, do not be ridiculous,” she scoffed, covering her mouth when she caught sight of your murderous glare. “That was a lie. I have seen the way he looks at you, and I have overheard a thing or two.”

You shifted uneasily in the water, crossing your arms over your chest in a defensive manner.

“Then what was his true reason? I was willing—he knows that I was ready.”

Elena tilted her head, as though considering the matter from an entirely different perspective.

“Perhaps Lord Davos is more chivalrous than he seems and did not wish for your initiation into the pleasures of the marriage bed to be lacking an actual bed. And, as he still believes you will leave for home, he would never admit as much, would he?”

You were not wholly convinced, yet you had no better explanation to offer.

“Perhaps…” you murmured, recalling how, in the dead of night, he had shielded you from the worst of the wind, covering you with his own body. It had been the smallest of gestures, yet enough to show a measure of care. “However, trying to press him is like barking at the wind—both are equally futile.”

“And yet,” Elena pointed out triumphantly, “he recovered swiftly enough to ride through a storm in search of you—which, I must say, was a most magnificently heroic feat… He cares for you more than he is willing to admit.”

You rolled your eyes, though a strange tingling sensation traced its way down your spine.

“Do not put ideas in his head. He sought me out for his own interests, nothing more.”

Elena clicked her tongue in disapproval and, after a brief hesitation, adopted a more solemn expression.

“My lady, he is a man, one with a pride greater than that of a prince. He will not confess to you that you truly frightened him—but I was there. He did not hesitate to set out in search of you when he could have simply sent his men or waited for the storm to pass before going himself.”

“Only your words manage to keep my hope alive, Elena,” you replied, your tone tinged with a faint melancholy.

“In that case, my lady, we must acknowledge that we are in need of an ally.”

You opened your eyes and regarded her warily, yet you knew she was right. Davos’s predicament had grown beyond what you could handle alone. You needed Alysanne on your side.

You had spent the entire day dwelling on the matter, searching for the best way to intercept Alysanne and practically beg for her help. Because, to be honest, if anyone knew Davos Blackwood like the back of their hand, it was her.

However, no matter how much you tried to come up with a plan, in the end, she was the one who found you.

“You won’t be dining with him tonight either?” she asked as soon as you took your seat at the long table in the luxurious dining hall.

Her tone was casual, as if the question had no real implication. But you knew it did.

Alysanne had chosen to dine at the same time as you, and ever since the incident and your return, she seemed much more open and friendly. In fact, she had never been rude or distant; it was just that her management and responsibilities in the castle kept her busy most of the day, and only now had she made time to accompany you.

You discovered that once you managed to relax, her presence was almost comforting—like that of someone familiar in the midst of the unknown.

“No, why?” you answered automatically, without realizing that you had just let a golden opportunity slip away.

Elena noticed.

You had barely finished speaking when her gaze fixed on you as if she were on the verge of a meltdown. Her eyes widened with a mix of disbelief and frustration, as if she were silently screaming: What are you doing?!

Alysanne, for her part, tilted her head slightly, observing you with something akin to amusement.

“Well…” she said, taking her time to build suspense. “He’s been asking about you.”

You blinked, bewildered.

“me?” It was as if she had just told you that Davos had decided to name a raven as the new lord of the house in his father’s absence. “Are you sure he doesn’t have a fever again and is hallucinating?” you asked, caught between mockery and disbelief.

Alysanne chuckled softly and shook her head.

“He tried to disguise his question with silly excuses, but in the end, it was pretty clear that he misses your presence.”

That comment was hard to believe.

“Davos? Missing me?” you murmured, still trying to process it.

“Believe it or not, it’s true,” Alysanne said, amused. “Or well, maybe I’m exaggerating… or maybe I’m not.”

She could be lying, she could be telling the truth, or maybe both at the same time. With Alysanne, one could never be sure.

But instead of acting wisely, the response that left your lips was the least convenient one for someone trying to win over a man as stubborn as Davos Blackwood.

“Well, if he misses me so much, he’s welcome to walk down the stairs and sit with me.”

You smiled smugly, and, once again, felt Elena’s searing gaze on you. If looks could kill, you would probably be sprawled across the table by now.

Is this how you plan to win him over? her expression seemed to say without words.

However, to your surprise, Alysanne seemed pleased with your response. She rose gracefully and, without losing her smile, turned with every intention of delivering your message to her brother.

You watched her walk away with a growing suspicion in your mind. Something told you that Alysanne was enjoying this dynamic between you and Davos a little too much. Maybe she was just curious… or maybe, deep down, she loved the gossip that was brewing between the two of you.

Someday, perhaps, you would find out the truth.

You knew that if you let her go, you might never find the courage to ask for her help again. And you suspected that she already had some degree of fondness for your presence—so you had nothing to lose by trying.

So, before she could take the first step toward the door, you cleared your throat.

“Alysanne…”

She stopped and turned her head slightly, one eyebrow raised in evident curiosity.

“Yes?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out. Suddenly, your request felt ridiculous. How were you supposed to say it? Please, teach me how to seduce your brother didn’t exactly sound like something befitting a refined lady.

Alysanne waited a few seconds, then tilted her head and crossed her arms.

“Is something wrong, or did you just want to get my attention for no particular reason?”

You took a deep breath.

“Well… it’s just that… you see…”

Elena, still seated across from you, let out an almost imperceptible sigh. It was obvious she was holding herself back from stepping in and saying what you didn’t dare to.

Alysanne rested a hand on the back of her chair and looked at you with a mix of patience and amusement.

“Are you planning to finish your sentence, or should I start guessing?”

“It’s nothing important… or well, it is, but it’s not an emergency or anything life-threatening…”

“Oh, what a relief,” Alysanne said with feigned solemnity. “I was about to call the maesters.”

Her sarcasm went over your head as you kept rambling.

“It’s just that… you know Davos better than anyone. You know how he thinks, how he acts, how… he reacts to certain things…”

“Mhm.”

“And well… let’s say that if someone knew how to, uh… facilitate communication with him, that someone would probably be you…”

Alysanne narrowed her eyes and exhaled slowly.

“Darling, if this is an attempt to ask me to translate what goes on in my brother’s mind, let me save you the trouble: not even he understands how his head works half the time.”

“No, that’s not exactly it…”

Alysanne tilted her head and studied you intently. Then, something in her expression shifted.

Her lips curled into a lazy smile, as if she had just solved a riddle.

“Oh… I see.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“See what?”

“You want me to help you win over my brother.”

You pressed your lips together and avoided looking at Elena, who was probably on the verge of clapping with excitement.

“I wouldn’t say win over…”

“Oh no? What would you call it then? Strategic seduction? Emotional manipulation?”

You rolled your eyes.

“I just want him to… not hate me so much.”

Alysanne rested a finger on her chin, pretending to be deep in thought.

“My, what an ambitious goal.”

“You know what I mean!” you exclaimed, feeling heat rise to your face.

She laughed, clearly enjoying the situation.

“It’s not that I don’t want to help you, or that you need my help, as I can tell you have accomplished a lot on your own, but… why are you doing this?”

That question made you hesitate. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked. And if you were honest with yourself, the answer wasn’t entirely clear after all the changes and questions that had affected you lately.

“It’s not desperation,” you finally said.

“No?”

“No. I just… realized that maybe it’s time to listen to what I want, and not what others tell me I should want.”

She studied you for a few seconds, as if searching for cracks in your conviction.

Finally, she sighed and shrugged.

“Alright, I’ll help you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but on one condition.”

There it was. You couldn’t expect a Blackwood to do something without asking for something in return.

“What is it?”

Alysanne leaned slightly toward you, her playful smile gradually fading.

“I want to know what happened with your previous engagement.”

The air in the room suddenly felt heavier.

Elena tensed in front of you, and you instinctively averted your gaze.

“Why do you want to know that?”

“Because Davos doubts you. And if I’m going to convince him otherwise, I need to know the whole truth.”

You took a deep breath. You hadn’t expected that to be her price.

Finally, after a long silence, you nodded.

“Then we have a deal.”

“You’ll be the first to know my great secret.”

“And I promise it will never leave my lips.”

Strangely enough, you believed her.

When you saw him enter, the air seemed to grow denser. It was the first time you had laid eyes on him since the storm, since that night when you shared more than mere shelter. And although you had tried to convince yourself that it meant nothing, the mere sensation of seeing him again suggested otherwise.

Davos walked with his usual authority, yet there was a slight rigidity in his bearing, as if his body still bore the resentment of the past few days’ exertions. Nevertheless, his presence filled the room straightaway. Alysanne took her seat with a satisfied smile and signalled for you to do likewise.

“Splendid that you deigned to join us, brother. I feared the repast would grow cold whilst we wept over your absence.”

Davos shot her a cutting glance before seating himself at the opposite end of the table. You remained silent—not that you had nothing to say, but because you were at a loss for the appropriate tone. Davos, too, seemed unwilling to initiate conversation; yet, to your surprise, he did not appear irate. Alysanne poured herself a goblet of wine and turned her head towards you with evident curiosity.

“Tell me, what was your childhood like?” You blinked, taken aback by the question.

“My childhood?”

“Indeed. I imagine not all was quarrels and duels in your household, or was it?” Unsure whether her intent was genuine interest or merely to fill the awkward silence, you nevertheless replied. “No… not all was ill. My mother taught us from an early age to comport ourselves properly. My sister Barbara was always the favoured one, naturally. My father used to say she would make an ideal wife for a great lord.”

“And what did he say of you?”

“That I was too headstrong and argumentative for my own good.” Alysanne laughed, and to your surprise, Davos too managed a smile—a mere twitch at the corner of his lips.

“Does not sound like a poor judgment,” Alysanne remarked with amusement. “But do not think that my brother and I were ever so dissimilar.” Davos emitted a soft snort, as though he knew precisely what was coming.

“Do you truly wish to share this, Aly?”

“Oh, of course,” she replied with a mischievous smile. “Did you know that when we were children, Davos was rather obsessed with climbing the tallest trees at Raventree Hall?” You frowned in curiosity, while Davos clicked his tongue, clearly ill at ease with the turn the conversation was taking.

“Every time Benjicot and I ventured into the woods with him, we ended up pleading with him to come down before he did himself in. But no—he insisted that he could see farther than any of us.”

“That does sound… unexpected,” you commented, glancing at Davos with more interest than perhaps was wise.

“Oh, and that was not the worst of it,” Alysanne continued. “Once, Benjicot tried to mimic him and ended up lodged in a branch. Can you guess who had to climb up to rescue him?”

“It was not so dire,” Davos interjected, rolling his eyes.

“Ah, but until the branch broke and both of you fell into a thorny bush!”

You could not help but laugh—a light, genuine laugh. Davos looked up at you, and for a fleeting moment, his dark blue eyes met yours. It was an instant, ephemeral connection, yet you felt it deeply. For the first time, they did not seem like the eyes of an adversary.

The atmosphere at the table relaxed, and before you knew it, you too had eased. You brought the wine goblet to your lips, but as you did so, your gaze drifted once more towards Davos—with a newfound attentiveness. And that was when you saw it. Alysanne was watching you with an expression you could not immediately decipher. Then it dawned upon you. She was looking at you as you looked at Davos. Heat rushed to your face, and you quickly averted your eyes, as though such a swift change might undo what had just transpired. But it was too late. Alysanne had seen enough. And judging by the half-smile that played upon her lips, she was thoroughly enjoying every moment of it.

The conversation had taken on a more relaxed tone—a tone you scarcely thought possible given the history between you both. Yet there you were, sharing a dinner without hurling metaphorical daggers… for the time being. Not wishing the fragile harmony to dissipate so swiftly, you resolved to resume the conversation with Davos, this time with sincere interest.

“You have always been rather adventurous, have you not?” you remarked, casting a sidelong glance his way as you took another sip of wine.

Davos raised an eyebrow and rested his forearm upon the table, holding his goblet in one hand.

“Adventurous?”

“Yes, you know… climbing trees, flirting with death without any apparent cause.” Alysanne suppressed a laugh between her teeth, and Davos exhaled a nearly amused sigh before replying.

“I was never one to remain idle within the castle. I felt suffocated by its walls. So, indeed, any excuse was good enough to be outdoors—even if it meant tumbling from a tree from time to time.”

“It does not surprise me,” you said with a light smile. “But if you were neither in the castle nor falling from trees, where were you?”

Davos tilted his head, as though weighing whether to answer sincerely or with sarcasm. Ultimately, he chose sincerity.

“To be honest, the greatest amusement of my childhood was teasing your siblings.” Your eyebrow immediately arched.

“Raylon and Olyver?”

“The very same,” he confirmed, a glimmer of satisfaction lighting his eyes. “Of course, the fun was mutual, for they repaid me in kind many times over.” You could not help but laugh. The thought of Davos, Raylon, and Olyver spending their youth engaged in a war of childish pranks rather than life-and-death duels struck you as both absurd and fascinating.

“I cannot imagine it,” you admitted. “I always thought the hatred between you had been longstanding.”

“Not always,” Alysanne interjected. “Before matters turned so violent, it was all merely a children’s rivalry.”

Davos nodded absently, though you noticed his expression grew somewhat more tense.

“It is true that the hatred was largely stoked by our father and by the fact that our uncle killed your uncle more than sixteen years ago.” That was a fact neither you nor Davos could deny, and one on which you had both already sparred.

Then the question escaped your lips before you could stop it.

“What was it that led to the third duel?” In an instant, the atmosphere shifted. Alysanne slowly set her goblet down upon the table, her expression turning inquisitive. Davos, for his part, did not reply immediately. He merely rotated his goblet between his fingers as his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

A misstep. You knew it straight away.

The conversation had flowed so smoothly, the repast had been so… unexpectedly pleasant. Why, then, did you have to spoil it?

“You need not answer,” you said hastily, feeling a slight knot form in your stomach. “I was merely curious…”

Davos set his goblet down more carefully than before and, to your astonishment, did respond.

“It was not by strategy nor some grand design,” he began, his voice firm yet lacking its usual edge. “It was because your siblings began to utter things most unbecoming.”

You frowned, leaning in slightly towards him. “What sort of things?”

Davos exhaled slowly before meeting your eyes. “Things about Alysanne… and about my mother.”

The impact of his words was immediate. A heavy silence descended upon the table. Alysanne, who until that moment had been more entertained by the interplay between you two than by the repast itself, straightened in her seat, her expression hardening.

“What?”

“That is so,” Davos confirmed, his gaze fixed on the goblet before him. “Patience is not one of my virtues, and they knew it well. I had no intention of letting matters escalate, but once I heard what they said, I cared not to restrain myself any longer.”

Your mind raced, striving to recall if you had ever heard such rumours before. But no. You knew that the enmity between Davos and your siblings had grown personal, yet you had never imagined it to be over something so base.

You shifted in your seat, feeling an unexpected weight upon your chest. “I did not know…” you murmured softly, with utter sincerity. “Truly, I had no inkling.” Davos nodded subtly, his face devoid of any trace of anger.

“I suspected as much.”

You drew a deep breath and, without overthinking it, spoke once more.

“I am sorry. On behalf of my family, I am truly sorry. There is no excuse for such conduct.” It was the first time you had ever offered Davos Blackwood an apology. Yet the strangest thing was that it came from the heart.

Davos accepted it with a slight nod, words unnecessary.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Alysanne then inquired, her brow furrowed.

“Because it was not worth mentioning,” Davos replied promptly, rotating the goblet in his hand. “What they said was repugnant, indeed, yet I too reacted in a manner that did not help matters. Moreover…” He paused, his gaze darkening. “Had my father discovered their words, things would have ended far worse.”

Alysanne folded her arms and pursed her lips, as if attempting to find fault in his argument. But in the end, she said nothing.

Silence descended once more, though this time it was different—more reflective. You found yourself at a loss for words. You were uncertain what to say. The one thing that was clear was that, for the first time since arriving at Raventree Hall, you beheld Davos in an entirely different light.

The fresh night air eased the stifling heat of your thoughts. You had stepped outside in search of clarity, hoping the evening breeze would untangle the emotions left behind by dinner, but it had not been that simple. Davos’ words still echoed in your mind.

It was no surprise that Raylon and Olyver could be insensitive when they wanted to be. You had seen it countless times, had been a victim of it on more than one occasion. But hearing it from Davos, with such raw frankness, had been different. This time, you could not ignore it.

Benjicot had only been thirteen at the time. What kind of comments had been cruel enough for a child to consider taking up a sword as the only response? You did not know the exact words, but it did not take much imagination.

You let out a long sigh, resting your forearms on your knees as you gazed at the vast darkness of the courtyard. The torches at the entrance of Raventree Hall flickered in the wind, casting uneven shadows upon the stone walls. The silence was deep, interrupted only by the whisper of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl.

You had walked out with no real destination, only the need to breathe. You had not expected company.

“If you’re planning to escape, I’d suggest doing it before dawn betrays you.” Davos’ voice cut through the tranquillity of the night.

You did not turn your head immediately.

“Must you always assume the worst of me?”

“It’s just statistics,” he replied with a faintly amused tone.

Finally, you turned to look at him. Davos stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on you. The dim torchlight cast shadows across his face, giving him an even more imposing air.

For a moment, he simply observed you. Then, without another word, he descended a couple of steps and sat beside you. Not too close. But not too far, either.

He kept his eyes ahead, as if giving you time to decide whether you wanted to speak. And you did.

“I don’t miss Stone Hedge.”

Davos turned his head slightly towards you, as if your confession had caught him off guard.

“No?”

“No.” You exhaled a sigh, lifting your gaze to the star-strewn sky.

“They always told me home was wherever my father held power and my brothers imposed their will. But here…” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “Here, I feel like I can breathe.”

Davos did not respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed somewhere on the horizon, as though he were processing what you had just said.

“I thought you didn’t want to be here,” he said at last.

“I didn’t,” you admitted. “But… I don’t know, there’s something different about Raventree Hall. It’s not just the peace—it’s the feeling of being far from everything that always bound me. Even when I get lost in these endless woods, I’ve never felt like I needed to escape, despite the fact that we didn’t exactly have the best relationship.”

The breeze stirred his dark hair, and in the dim light, you barely caught the subtle movement of his lips before he spoke.

“Then stay.”

His tone was casual, as if the words held no real weight, but to you, they did. You turned your face towards him, studying him carefully.

“Does that mean you don’t want me to leave?”

Davos kept his expression impassive, but the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed his discomfort.

“It means it would be a shame for you to leave now that I’m starting to tolerate you.”

An ambiguous remark. Vague. Typical of him. But you weren’t about to let him get away with it so easily.

“You like me,” you stated with a mischievous smile.

Davos let out a scoff.

“I tolerate you. There’s a difference.”

You chuckled softly and, out of the corner of your eye, you noticed that he did too.

“Alysanne told me you asked about me before dinner. Did you miss my presence?”

For the first time that night, Davos was left without a response. You turned fully towards him, watching as his jaw tensed slightly, as if he were choosing his words more carefully than usual.

“Is that what she told you?”

“That’s what she told me.”

Silence settled between you. Davos looked away and exhaled slowly, as if trying to rid himself of his own discomfort.

“It wasn’t exactly like that.”

“Oh, no?”

“I just made a passing comment. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Of course,” you said with a teasing smile. “Asking about someone means nothing.”

He shot you a sidelong glance, narrowing his eyes.

“If you’re going to be insufferable about this, I take it back.”

“Too late.”

You savoured his discomfort for a second longer before sighing and turning your gaze back to the dark courtyard.

“About what you said at dinner… about the duel.”

Davos let out a short breath.

“You don’t have to apologise again.”

“I want to,” you insisted, turning towards him. “I didn’t know what my brothers had said. And even though I wasn’t the one who did it, they’re my family. It pains me to know they hurt you and your sister in such a way.”

Davos observed you in silence. For a moment, you feared he would look away. But he didn’t.

“Don’t take responsibility for them,” he said at last. “What’s done is done. It wasn’t your fault.”

“But it changed everything. You ended up being forced to marry me.”

Davos exhaled with something akin to amusement, as if, for the first time, he did not see that consequence as a tragedy.

“That was going to happen one way or another. The Blackwoods and the Brackens have always found a way to clash. This time, we were the ones who paid the price.”

His tone was calm, but his words left you silent for a moment.

“So you no longer see it as a punishment?”

Davos averted his gaze, as if admitting it aloud irritated him.

“Not entirely.”

Your chest tightened with an unfamiliar sensation. Perhaps it was the cold wind or the way the torchlight barely illuminated his face, but in that moment, Davos Blackwood did not seem like the man who had once looked at you with contempt upon your arrival. He seemed like someone you could… talk to.

You pressed your lips together before taking a breath.

“To be honest… I asked Alysanne for help.”

Davos frowned.

“For what?”

“To help me understand you. To make you hate me less.”

He looked at you intently, trying to decipher just how far you had gone with that request.

“And? Did it work?”

You smirked.

“It seems so.”

Davos let out a dry exhale and shook his head, but the hardness in his gaze had softened.

“I thought you were more cunning.”

“I am,” you said, and then your expression turned more serious. “And that’s why I think I should be honest with you.”

Davos remained silent, but his body tensed subtly.

“I’m going to tell you something no one else knows.”

His gaze grew more intense.

“I’m listening.”

You took a deep breath before speaking, feeling the weight of the words you were about to say.

“Before this marriage, I was betrothed to Lord Banefort.”

Davos did not react immediately, but he gave a slight nod, giving you space to continue.

“I was very young… too naive,” you admitted, with a bitter smile. “I thought I loved him.”

The confession came more easily than you expected, yet, saying it aloud still made you feel ridiculous.

“He deceived me,” you went on, feeling a pang of shame you tried to conceal. “I gave him my heart, surrendered to him, believing it meant something… but once he got what he wanted, he simply moved on to his next conquest.”

Davos remained silent, his expression unreadable as you glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

"Barbara and I were never the closest of sisters, but I never imagined she would be capable of getting involved with the man I was engaged to," you said, a hint of resentment in your voice. "I didn't care to hear her excuses, and she didn't seem to care about sharing it either." You exhaled heavily, rubbing your hands against the fabric of your dress.

"The only difference was that she was caught… and she was the one who ended up pregnant, not me."

Davos clenched his jaw.

"Shortly after, my engagement to Banefort was broken, and Barbara took my place. Two weeks before their wedding, she lost the child, and the marriage was postponed… three years have passed since then, and Lord Banefort seems like anything but a man about to marry."

His body tensed subtly. He said nothing, but in the firmness of his posture, you could tell he was processing every word.

"That’s why I don’t trust love," you continued, your voice quieter. "Because once, I believed in it… and it destroyed me."

The silence that followed was heavy, dense, as if each word still lingered between you.

You had spoken the truth. No masks, no strategies. Nothing remained between you except the silence stretching like a thin thread between two people who didn’t know what to do with what they felt.

At last, Davos spoke.

"He was an idiot."

You frowned, surprised by the sudden statement.

"What?"

Davos slowly turned his head toward you, his expression serious, firm, with no trace of mockery.

"Lord Banefort. He was an idiot."

You didn’t know what to say.

"I'm not saying it because of what he did to your sister," he continued, his voice lower. "I’m saying it because he had something he never deserved. And he wasted it."

Your heartbeat grew heavier.

"Davos…"

"You haven’t been the only one unwilling to trust," he interrupted, his gaze locked onto yours. "You haven’t been the only one to think this marriage was a sentence."

He took a breath, as if what he was about to say cost him more than he wanted to admit.

"But it isn’t. Not anymore."

The wind blew softly between you, tousling the loose strands of your hair.

"I don’t know when it happened," he continued. "I don’t know when I stopped seeing you as an obligation and started seeing you as…"

He fell silent, clenching his jaw, as if the word he wanted to say was too dangerous.

You weren’t breathing either.

Davos dropped his gaze to his own hands, tense on his knees. His knuckles were white, as if he was forcing himself to stay composed.

But when he looked at you again, something in him had broken. Something in him had given in.

"I don’t want you to leave."

Your heart stopped.

"But…"

"I don’t want you to leave," he repeated, more firmly. "I don’t want this to be just an arrangement, a truce. I don’t want to pretend that I wouldn’t care if you chose to go."

His words hung heavy in the air, each one falling with the weight of something that had been held back for too long.

"I don’t know what to call it," he admitted, his voice rough. "I don’t know if I even know how to feel it. But what I do know…"

He leaned slightly toward you. Not too much, but enough that his closeness set every fiber of your being alight.

"…is that if you ever come to love me… I don’t want it to be a lie."

The night was cold, but the warmth in your chest spread like an uncontrollable flame.

Words caught in your throat.

Davos held your gaze, waiting, expectant, as if the entire course of fate hung on this moment.

And deep down, you knew it did.

Because everything you had been before him, before this marriage, before this silent war between you… no longer existed.

You had changed.

He had, too.

And now, the only thing left was the truth.

A truth neither of you could keep ignoring.

Davos didn’t look away. He didn’t move, didn’t try to soften what he had just said. He simply waited, with the same patience he would face an inevitable battle.

Because that’s what this was.

No more games. No more strategies.

Just him. Just you. Just whatever you were willing to build together.

Your breath trembled slightly as you leaned in a little. Not much. Just a whisper of distance.

Davos didn’t pull away.

He made no sudden movements, didn’t try to take control of the moment as he might have in the past.

He only watched you, with those dark eyes that had always been hard, impenetrable… but now were just human.

Your hand moved instinctively, cautiously, as if afraid to break the moment.

You barely brushed his face, feeling the roughness of his beard beneath your fingers, the warmth of his skin in contrast to the cool night air.

Davos closed his eyes for an instant, exhaling a breath so soft it was almost imperceptible at your touch.

And then, you kissed him.

It was a soft kiss, gentle, like tasting something unknown for the first time.

There was no desperation, no urgency, no force of a battle fought in the dark.

Only the certainty that this was real.

That you wanted to do it.

That there was no other reason beyond the one burning in your chest.

Davos remained still at first, as if the mere fact that you were kissing him was something he was still trying to comprehend.

But then, unhurriedly, his hand rose to your cheek, his touch warm against the cold of the night.

He didn’t rush you. He didn’t claim more than you were willing to give.

He only responded.

Slowly.

With the same confidence with which he wielded a sword, but with a gentleness you never would have imagined in him.

The world around you disappeared.

The conflict between your families, the mistakes of the past, the fears still gripping your heart—they didn’t matter.

Only this moment existed.

Only him.

And when the kiss ended, when you pulled away just enough to breathe but not enough to break the connection, Davos rested his forehead against yours, his fingers still lingering on your skin.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

Because in the way he looked at you, in the way his thumb traced your cheek with an impossible tenderness…

You understood that he had felt it just as you had.

Masterlist

[queen-helaenas-pet-spider]

Post Ned's Execution Sansa wearing the same pretty green dress that she wore at the Hand's Tourney in hopes that seeing her in it will magically make Joffrey "fall in love with her again" and stop being a dick.

But the only person that truly fell in love with Sansa while she was wearing that pretty green Hand's Tourney dress was :

S A N D O R ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

{Technically, he loved he when he first saw her, but her comforting him and then oh so politely telling him that Gregor *Sandor's older brother who's about a BILLION times worse than Sandor and most of the villains in the series* ain't nothing but a B-I-T-C-H was what really cemented his love for her!}

[queenofthrones2]

Pure as the driven snow

Jon Snow x Stark!Reader (half-siblings)

Summary: In the cold heart of Winterfell, eldest daughter of Ned Stark finds warmth in the one place she shouldn’t: her half-brother, Jon Snow. As he prepares to leave for the Wall, one night beneath the godswood may be their last or their beginning.

Warnings: smut, incest (kinda), forbidden love, afab reader, Implied sexual content / smut (not explicit)

The snow never quite melts in Winterfell, not even in spring.

I used to think that meant the gods were watching more closely here than anywhere else and that their gaze brought cold with it, a kind of sacred chill. That was before I knew how much warmth could burn beneath all this ice. Before I knew what it was to love someone I should never touch.

Jon Snow was a part of Winterfell, like the wind that whispered in the stone or the way the sky darkened earlier here than anywhere else. He was always just there, just close enough to make me ache.

He was my half-brother. That’s what they said, what we were told since childhood. Ned Stark’s blood, not Lady Catelyn’s. He bore the name Snow like it was a wound across his back, a name that marked him as less than. But he carried himself with quiet strength, and a softness no one else ever saw. No one but me.

It started with looks held too long. Silent conversations across the training yard. Brushed fingers when we passed in the halls. I always thought he’d pull away. But he didn’t.

One evening, the sun was setting in streaks of gold and blood over the castle, and I found him beneath the heart tree in the godswood. His sword lay across his knees, forgotten, his brow furrowed like he was trying to pray and couldn’t find the words.

I stepped onto the snow, and he looked up at me. That look. Gods, that look. Like I was the only warmth he’d ever known.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly.

I knelt before him, gloved fingers trailing across the bark of the old weirwood. “Neither should you.”

A long silence stretched between us. The red leaves rustled above, like they too were holding their breath.

“I leave for the Wall in two days,” he finally said.

I knew. Of course I knew. I’d heard him speaking with Father, his voice low but firm. He wanted to be something more than a bastard, to find honor in a place where bloodlines didn’t matter.

“You’ll freeze there,” I whispered. “There’s no warmth past the Wall.”

“There’s no warmth here either,” he replied, looking at me like he regretted every word.

I reached for his hand. His fingers curled around mine without hesitation. And then he kissed me.

It was not soft or slow. It was desperate. Months, years of longing buried under duty and names we didn’t ask for, breaking free in a rush of breath and lips and tongue. I clung to him like the cold would take him from me if I let go, like I could stop time if I only held tight enough.

His cloak dropped to the snow, and mine followed. We laid beneath the red leaves, his hands reverent on my skin, my name on his lips like a prayer he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say. “Jon”, I whimper out, pleasure taking over me as I try to hold back my moans. I look up into his handsome face. I loved everything about him, especially those dark, long curls. His movements were harsh and desperate but loving at the same time.

And when we lay together afterward, wrapped in furs and breathless silence, I could feel his heartbeat against my back.

“I love you,” I whispered, not sure whether I wanted him to hear.

But he did.

“I’ve always loved you,” he said, and I could feel the weight of it in every syllable. “Even when I knew I shouldn’t.”

Forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest, they say.

The godswood was silent. The snow began to fall again, soft flakes settling on our clothes, our hair, our joined hands. Soon, he would ride for the Wall.

And I would be in Winterfell, not knowing that this is just the beginning of the Game of Thrones.

[wutheringmights]

Okay but I really want to see your review of Onyx Storm though because I can’t help but feel like this one was a lot safer in terms it’s themes regarding misinformation and propaganda than the last two books. Idk how to explain it properly. It just feels hollow

I don’t blame you for thinking the book is shallow and builds nothing on the series’s supposed themes of propaganda and misinformation-- Onyx Storm says nothing about it. Both Fourth Wing and Iron Flame had major plot points centered around uncovering some truth that had been obscured by the government. At best, Onyx Storm has a plotline about Violet’s dad being cryptic as hell. It’s a stretch to call it propaganda or whatever. 

We’ve already exhausted the existing misinformation plot line in Navarre. Yarros has to take it a step further. The natural progression from “there’s a secret war beyond our borders” is “the dehumanized enemy beyond our borders is human and possibly morally correct.” After we went out of our way to meet Theophanie, I was certain this was where we were going to go. Hell, Xaden was slowly turning into one! What an easy albeit cliche way to complicate the war.

 But, no. The story refuses to evolve. The venin are still horrific freaks of nature, and it is still right and just to kill them. They’re evil, and we’re good. I won’t put it past Yarros to wait until the last minute to pull this move, but I also wouldn’t be surprised if she never does it at all. 

Onyx Storm’s biggest problem is that it spends the bulk of its time on world building that ultimately does not matter. We spend hundreds of pages going to islands that’s not even on the inside cover's map, learning about their cultures, and getting nothing of value from it. The world building is shallow, painting their cultures in cartoonishly broad strokes. Here’s the warrior nation, here’s the smart people, here’s the partygoers-- these are really basic ideas! Where’s the substance?

The most valuable world building we get is more on how the gods work in this world, but it never quite feels like it’s important. Yes, one of the big plot points at the end of the book involves one of the gods. But until now, when has religion mattered to any of the main characters? There’s a scene where our main cast sits in a tavern (drinking lavender lemonade, of all things) and compares the religious differences between Navarre and Poromiel. Why am I learning about this through a table discussion? This could have been developed organically through the characters’ behaviors. But it’s not because, despite what a hearty lemonade-fueled debate would imply, none of them have been any shade of religious up until this moment. 

I harp on the religion point a lot because it’s the most thorough world building Yarros has to offer. When it comes to the cross-isle adventure, it’s the point she falls back onto again and again. Here’s a new country, here is the god they worship, and here is how that religion colors our entire cultural understanding of these people. None are more egregious than the last nation we make contact with. They worship some luck god, and our entire experience with them is more or less just a gameshow performance for a crowd. This is the only nation we make a meaningful political alliance with. That their soldiers are present in the final battle is vital. We only know these people through a weird lottery game. That’s it. 

There are smaller world building points she throws in as well, but none have as much thought dedicated to them as the religion. For example, it seems like all of these isles have a native language with some important people knowing the common tongue. Great. So... what is the common tongue? Navarre doesn’t seem to have a native language, so is their language the common tongue? If so, why? They’ve been isolationists for hundreds of years. Why would anyone need to know their language? If they have their own language, then why does Violet and all of her friends know the common tongue when, again, they’re from an isolationist nation? 

Why is there a common language? When it appears in fantasy works, it’s less because the author appreciates pidgin languages and the worldbuilding they require, and more because they do not want to deal with the logistics of characters of multiple cultural backgrounds being unable to understand each other. That’s fine. I am more than happy to accept a common tongue the same way I accept potatoes in a European-based fantasy.  

But Yarros clearly establishes Dain as the group translator. His entire purpose in our little quest squad is to translate.You have a translator. You don’t need a common tongue. But you do, so all of the effort you went through to build Dain up as a polyglot is wasted. He never gets to do any translational work. Why are you offering two solutions to the same problem? You did twice the work for no reason. 

(Put a pin in Dain-- I will have more to say about him later.)

What stings the most is that we know that all of this effort is for nothing. None of these extra island nations matter. We will never go to them again, and what importance they have will never justify the number of pages dedicated to them. This is a waste of time. 

Why are we spending so much time world building these nations when we still have very little idea about Navarre and Poromiel? Does anyone actually know what life is like for the average citizen of either country? How do they dress? What jobs are available to them? What do they do for fun? I barely have a grasp of the level of technology in this world. In fact, I keep forgetting that this is in a fantasy world and not some urban fantasy story.

Yarros’s characters don’t really mesh with the setting either. From the very first novel, the main cast has been a little too-aware that they are characters in a book-- they know they are in a fantasy story, and they think this is all very, very cool. 

Any suggestion of a situation being dangerous is undercut by a character’s sense that this is really cool or, conversely, really annoying. Unlike the earlier books, everyone in Onyx Storm quips like they’re in a Marvel movie. Every conversation is bloated by a barrage of  jokes. No one takes the setting seriously, which means that I don’t quite believe in the world we’re in. 

Moreso, some of Violet’s narration is... you know what? Just look at this:

Xaden’s hand tightens around mine, and he leans down to brush his lips against my ear. “The shadows here are not mine. I know your skill with a dagger. I’m not discounting your ability to protect yourself, but for the good of my sanity while I try to get Halden out of whatever mess he’s created, will you please stay by my side?” I nod. How can I not? He’s not asking me to hide behind him, nor did he leave me with Tairn to keep me safe. He’s just asking me to stay close. (226)

Are you serious? Why would you say this unless you know you’re in a romantasy novel written and published for BookTok? Why would a character reassure herself that she is still a strong independent female protagonist? Why is the fourth wall paper thin? 

Here’s another example:

“Nope.” I brush a kiss across his lips, knowing I wont need to use the weapons. “It wouldn’t be the first time I raised a blade to you.” He stares, utterly bewildered, then flashes a grin. “I’m not sure what that says about us.” Is it toxic? Maybe. Is it us? Absolutely. (408)

This one manages to replicate the feeling of spotting a SEO valuable word, but in print. Yarros, you’re just lying to the audience now. We all know Violet and Xaden aren’t toxic because every time something outside the bounds of the modern Hays Code happens, you pad it with reassurances to the reader that, truly, this is a very healthy relationship. 

I’m putting “toxic relationship” on a shelf, and I’m not giving it back until people absolve characters of the responsibility of being role models and they get to be the fucked up little freaks I crave. 

Beyond annoying quips and self-aware narration, a lot of plot armor is endowed onto the main cast by virtue of them being the main cast. On three different occasions, Violet and company disobey military orders and risk being court-martial. Every time, they avoid suffering the consequences of their actions. Why? Because Violet is too important to arrest (she’s not), or she uses a clever loophole to absolve herself of blame (the law does not work like that). 

It’s staggering how much the main cast breaks military law, and how little they suffer for it. General Aetos is supposed to be a villain, but honestly, I’m on his side; I too would be pissed if these bozos kept on endangering themselves and their comrades out of some stupid belief that they are more important than everyone else. 

This is such a weird trend when the previous books were really clear about the stakes of insubordination and the consequences of rebellion. Violet was tortured in Iron Flame. Where did that energy go? If Yarros let Violet suffer the consequences of her actions, she could have had something to pad out the plot between the end of the island quest and the beginning of the final act. As is, there’s a hundred-plus page slump where nothing of importance really happens. 

But Violet and company are the heroes, so the narrative will bend over backwards and comply with irrational logic to allow them to continue to do cool heroic things like breaking the rules and stuff. 

The strangest instance of the book’s self awareness is how the narrative treats Dain. 

As previously established, I think Dain is the most reasonable character in the series. Did he mess up in the first book? Sure, but given what he knew, it was the correct decision. He has continued to be a bastion of sanity since. And, because everyone kinda hates him, I’ve made it my mission to go up to bat for him. 

Dain is never out of character. He’s still the reasonable one. But god, the narrative sure likes to make him look like a loser. His contributions to the quest are negated both by the common tongue and by another character, Aaric, being a better polyglot than him. In a ritualistic fight, he’s the first person to be knocked out; and I assume the post-fight scene features him prone on the ground and bleeding out because he’s not mentioned past it. During the gameshow scene, he’s bitchslapped-- a “gift” far more humiliating than what everyone else receives. 

At one point, the cast cracked jokes about Dain being no help and his presence ultimately being pointless. Yeah, Dain doesn’t have to be here. He serves so little purpose that he can be written out of the storyline. But he’s here to be mocked because Yarros knows the reader wants to see the loser second male lead humiliated. 

I’m not even offended as much as baffled by it. I don’t think Yarros hates Dain. If she did, his treatment would be far more egregious. Instead, every joke made at his expense feels like a wink at the audience, like we’re collectively making fun of our ex-boyfriend. The narrative has to commit to Dain being the reasonable one, but it still wants to play into a fandom joke. 

Stop winking! The fourth wall should not be this transparent. Respect your narrative, your world building, and your characters! I begging you, on my knees, to be sincere for more than two seconds. If the book can’t ascribe to its own premise, how can I suspend my disbelief?

I don’t think this is so much of a symptom of Yarros not giving a shit or being a bad writer. I think Yarros can write, and I think she cares about composing a good story. I also think she is influenced by the goals of her publishing house, Red Tower Books. While every publishing house is ultimately a capitalist cog, Red Tower Books was engineered to prioritized marketing above all else. The New Yorker’s profile on the Tracy Wolf plagiarism case provides some context as to how Red Tower Books operates. (Site note: what gives software engineers the audacity to think they can “revolutionize” everything but software engineering?)

 All Yarros wants is to sell you a good time. That means not complicating your premise with sticky moral quandaries. It means abstaining from rigorous, thoughtful world building. And it means prioritizing a figment of fun over plot coherence. She never tries to sell us anything else. We should stop asking for more. 

[mageknife]

okay this is all based on thoughts i’m throwing together like a wendy’s soda fountain nightmare potion. but my theory is that the forbidden ones are only able to be summoned in places where the veil is thin, on account of their immense power and their being imprisoned deep in the fade by the evanuris. based on encounters with the forbidden ones, examples of such places are:

- kirkwall (xebenkeck). we know this for certain, as the veil being thin there is the reason behind kirkwall’s bullshit city planning and the fact that a lot of blood magic and possession happens there. the ancient tevinters who built the city did so specifically in a way that would allow them to take advantage of the thin veil and further wear it down so that they could do powerful blood magic there, presumably planning to summon xebenkeck, who is later actually summoned by tahrone

- emprise du lion (imshael): okay i’m not 100 that imshael was summoned in emprise du lion. but that’s where it’s encountered. it was summoned by keeper thelhen of clan virnehn in 9:40 and bound and then later michel released it. but a) emprise du lion is known to be a place where the veil is thin (as evidenced by a number of things while exploring there), and b) i don’t know where thelhen summoned imshael and i’ve given up trying to dig through the masked empire to figure out where specifically clan virnehn was located at the time. but i think celene and co. went southeast from halamshiral, which is where emprise du lion is. gave myself a headache with this one

- the grand necropolis (the formless one): this tracks. it’s full of wisps and spirits and demons. i don’t remember if it’s specifically mentioned that the veil is thin there but like it seems pretty likely. the formless one has been locked in the necropolis since the storm age. unclear how it got there or who summoned it but it sure is in there and also possessing a high dragon’s corpse which emmrich was sure to remind me every time i died and had to restart the fight against it. which was a lot

this all lines up with that theory well enough. right. which leaves us with:

- the middle of denerim apparently (gaxkang): is there any evidence that gaxkang actually was summoned/got into the mortal world in whatever way in denerim? not really. just the note from an unnamed guy saying that he “heard the same tales as a lad in denerim, felt the same pull” re: gaxkang, implying that it’s set up shop there, and that’s also where we fight it. but allegedly it has been jumping from body to body for millennia and thus has probably traveled all over ferelden if not all of thedas. there’s no reason for it to have stayed in one place unless it can’t go anywhere the veil is thicker (which could be something but is an idea based on almost nothing). HOWEVER the point of this post is i think the the veil being particularly thin in denerim would be really funny

[leiawritesstories]

When We Think of Love

Rowaelin Month 2024, Day 11 & 12: Song Fic & Forbidden Love @rowaelinscourt. inspired by "Soul Tied" by Ashley Singh

Word count: 3k

Warnings: angst. and pain. the song is quite sad. i'm so sorry.

A/N: this is a sort-of Regency era AU, so the language might be a little weird hahaha. also, Frederick got out of the basement. enjoy...?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Even though the gown was the latest fashion and only had two layers of skirts with a single underskirt and lightweight wore structure holding up its shape, Aelin felt weighed down by the fine silk that draped her frame, its rosy pink color completely at odds with the grey numbness clouding her mind. 

“You are a vision,” her mother announced, sweeping elegantly into Aelin’s dressing chamber. Evalin Ashryver, Duchess of Orynth, never walked. She floated, and she had taught her only daughter to do the same from the time she could stand. “But why are you pensive, my dear?”

“Simply lost in thought, I suppose.” Aelin painted a soft smile onto her lips. “Mayhap I am a bit nervous for tonight.” 

“As it is well you may be.” Evalin touched her daughter’s satin-gloved hand with her own. “I recall clearly the day my own parents announced my betrothal to your father. I declare I may not remember anything else from that evening.” 

Aelin gave the skirts a gentle shake, letting the fine silk drape more fluidly over the subtle hoops rounding out its shape. “Let us hope His Majesty is pleased with the arrangement, yes?” 

“Of course he is,” Evalin said, brushing away Aelin’s underlying concern. “The prince is the most advantageous match we could have made for you, Aelin dear, and Orlon has long been looking at the benefit of a military tie with Anielle. I know the two of you have only met a handful of times, but there will be ample time for you to become acquainted during the wedding preparations.” 

“I suppose there will be.” Aelin shifted her gaze back to the mirror, resisting the urge to reach up and rip the delicate silver tiara from its perch atop the coils of her hair. She was fourth in the succession for the throne of Terrasen, and she had grown accustomed to the ways in which her family demonstrated their royal position, but there were ever so many moments when she wanted nothing more than to abandon the crown and its weight and flee into the depths of the Oakwald. 

There, parted from society, she could be with her love. 

A soft knock rapped on the door, and Aelin’s lady’s maid entered, curtsying politely to Evalin. “Pardon, milady, Your Grace, but His Grace is ready.” 

“Thank you, Kaltain,” Aelin said. She turned to her mother. “We likely should not keep Father waiting; we know how quickly he disappears into his study if he does not have to make an appearance.” Evalin laughed softly and led Aelin out into the hallway and down the stairs, finding Rhoe waiting at the base of the sweeping staircase, fidgeting with his gloves. 

“Ah, there you are,” he said, looking up. “You look so lovely, my Fireheart.” He squeezed Aelin’s hands and leaned in to whisper into her ear. “I would embrace you, but your mother might strangle me for crinkling your dress.” 

She snickered. “She very well might.” 

“None of that unladylike noise,” Evalin hissed, prodding Aelin with her paper fan. She nodded at the pair of footmen by the double doors leading to the ballroom. “Shall we?” 

“I am as ready as I can be,” Aelin whispered as she placed her hand on her father’s arm. “Only help me not to fall.” 

“Of course.” Rhoe let Evalin glide into the ballroom, nodding and smiling and exchanging greetings with the swarm of beautifully dressed nobility gathered there, and at the swell of the small orchestra in the corner, he led Aelin into the throng. 

She fixed her smile firmly in place but coasted her gaze over the sea of blurred faces, seeking an anchor in the pair of pine eyes that seared into her soul. Catching Rowan’s gaze, she let loose a fraction of her anguish, silently crying her grief to him across the sea of elegantly clad gentry. 

Please forgive me.

~

Rowan Alexander Whitethorn, heir to the Duchy of Doranelle, had known Aelin since they were both small children. His family estate bordered her family holdings, but his father had only recently been elevated to the title of Duke, honored for his many years of service to King Orlon. Rowan vividly remembered the day he had first met Aelin—he was ten and she was seven, and she was a golden-blonde blur of motion on the back of a silvery mare galloping through the forest between their lands. 

“Whoa, there!” he cried in his childish voice, and he caught up with her as she managed to rein in her horse. “Are you quite alright?” 

She gave him a stare far too imperious to be coming from a young girl and tossed her hair with a sniff. “Kasida and I are perfectly fine, even though we are alone. I do not need to slouch along at a snail’s pace like my governess insists.” 

Rowan couldn’t hold back a giggle. “Pardon me, but I can’t imagine you…slouching along like that, miss…” He trailed off. “Um…” 

Her stare melted into a bright smile. “I’m Aelin. My papa is the duke of Orynth.” She held out her small hand, and he shook it. 

“And I am Rowan. My father is the duke of Doranelle.” 

“So we’re neighbors!” Aelin beamed. “I ride away from my governess very often, and I like this forest quite a lot.” 

“I like the forest too,” Rowan admitted. “It’s quieter than the manor.” 

“Sometimes I dream about living in the forest forever,” Aelin said, an odd kind of yearning flickering across her face. “But anytime I even mention it, my mama scolds me for reading too many faerie stories.” She shrugged. “I still like riding here.” 

“Miss Aelin!” The high-pitched cry echoed through the trees, and Aelin sighed. 

“That’s my governess. I ought to go and find her before she gets lost.” She smiled at Rowan again, and he felt the warmth of it in his soul. “It was nice to meet you, Rowan!” 

He managed to mumble some kind of farewell as she turned her horse around and rode off, only forming proper words once she was out of sight. It was nice to meet you too, Aelin. 

She had told the truth about riding in the forest often, and it became a habit of theirs to ride through the woods together, trading stories of what they were doing and wondering what the Oakwald, the near-mythical forest that spanned western Terrasen, would be like. As they grew older, Aelin’s stories turned from school lessons to etiquette lessons, and she had such a knack for imitating the stuffy old people at her family’s banquets that she made Rowan cry from laughter. Still, he allowed her to practice her lessons and her dancing with him, ignoring how frequently she trod on his toes when she was learning a new dance. 

And their childhood friendship turned into a partnership of sorts, a series of stolen moments of freedom and secret glances across a ballroom or dining room when their families were at a gathering together. Since she was not yet out in society, she was still largely overlooked during those events, and she was free to send him into stitches of laughter with her impersonations of the visiting nobility. He even asked her to dance several times, and she pretended to be a simpering debutante but still counted the music under her breath. He caught her any time she stumbled, and he caught each of her smiles too.

He was eighteen when he realized he had fallen in love with her. 

But she was only fifteen, so he kept it to himself, forcing himself to stay within the lines of friendship yet falling more in love with her every time she flicked a hidden glance at him during a long, boring dinner. She grew a bit more distant over the next few years, caught up in her mother’s constant lady lessons and working so hard—too hard—to be the portrait of a perfect lady, but at her eighteenth birthday ball, he worked up the courage to ask her for a dance. 

The smile that broke across her face, as bright and warm as it had been since the day he met her, kindled a wildfire in his heart. And late that night, hidden in a little-used gazebo in a corner of the Galathynius estate’s gardens, Rowan Whitethorn kissed Aelin Galathynius for the first time, and his heart surged towards hers.

Aelin made her debut at twenty, a few years later than traditional, but her parents had wanted her to wait a while longer so that society would be anticipating her debut. After all, she was fourth in line for the throne, and her marriage would undoubtedly be a topic of gossip and news from the moment she became eligible. Rowan longed for the day when he could bring her flowers and walk beside her in public, when he could finally bring the years of his love for her into the light of day, but he hesitated at the thought of exposing that delicate piece of his heart to the scrutiny of society and of Evalin Ashryver. For Aelin’s mother was a well-respected duchess, but he had seen the effects of her demanding nature on her daughter, and he feared the repercussions of her disapproval. 

He suspected, as he knew Aelin did, that one day their secret courtship would either have to be brought into the light of day or be torn apart by circumstance, but neither of them had wanted to address it. The unspoken bond between them was too precious, too beloved to be so shattered. 

Since her eighteenth birthday, he had courted her in secret, stealing precious moments and pieces of her heart beneath starry skies, foggy mornings, and shaded corners. He guarded every tiny bit of her with his life, from the letters in her tidy script that he kept tucked into his jacket pocket to the faint trace of her perfume that lingered on his collar when she kissed him. Although he could not shout his love for her from the rooftops, he reveled in their masked touches, in the flicker of humor in her eyes when she caught his gaze, in the echo of her laughter when he took her to the empty greenhouse on his family’s land and danced with her there under the sunset. With every encounter, he felt his soul drawn more and more towards hers, felt more and more as if his life were irrevocably tied to hers. 

And when he saw her across the ballroom that evening, when he caught sight of the tiara in her hair and the proud smiles on her parents’ faces and the man in the military jacket standing beside her mother at the front of the ballroom, when her eyes caught his and an ocean of anguish opened in them for a brief, wrenching moment, he felt that tie fracture. 

~

Aelin’s first kiss had been Rowan. 

Her first everything had been Rowan, the only one close enough to her heart to hold its fragile pieces and treat them with tenderness rather than callousness. From laughter-filled memories of her childhood to secret, stolen moments in the gardens during banquets and balls before her debut, to the all-too-few snatches of time she had been able to steal with him after her debut, when she wanted nothing more than his kisses and his gentle, reassuring words. 

She’d known for a long while, deep in the back of her mind, that her marriage would be a political one, for she was high in the line of succession. While it was unlikely that she would ever inherit, since Orlon could just as easily name someone else as his successor, her parents still strategized over which eligible noble could marry their daughter. They had settled on Prince Chaol Westfall of Anielle, the third son of the Prince of Anielle and a well-respected military officer. For him, marriage to Aelin was a massive step up, because he was so far down in the succession for the throne of Adarlan that he’d probably never known he was in line. For her, the marriage would secure military ties between Terrasen and Adarlan, a powerful alliance of nations. 

She did not know the man save for a few cursory meetings. 

At least, she supposed as she walked up to his side, he was not terribly hard on the eyes. He was even passably attractive, if a lady was drawn to brown-haired men in military uniforms with all the apparent personality of boiled potatoes. 

“Your Highness,” Aelin murmured, dipping in a graceful curtsy to Chaol. “It is an honor.” 

“The honor is entirely mine, Your Royal Highness,” he replied, bowing low. 

With a flourish, Rhoe and Evalin turned out towards the assembled crowd, Aelin still with her hand on her father’s arm. The crown quieted, and Rhoe smiled warmly. “We have delightful news for all of you this fine evening. Our daughter, Aelin, has accepted the hand of Prince Chaol Westfall in marriage, and with all good hope, they shall be married in two months’ time!” Applause rippled through the ballroom, and Aelin mentally prepared herself for an evening of simpering congratulations. Beaming at her, Rhoe lifted her hand from his arm and placed it ceremonially into Chaol’s hand, linking the hands of the young couple. 

“Would you like to dance?” Chaol asked, polite but also perceptive—he’d picked up on her unwillingness to be faced with a string of saccharine compliments from the noble ladies. 

She flicked him a crooked grin. “I would love to.”

He led her onto the polished parquet floor and swept her into a waltz, his steps sure and practiced, quick and light on his feet. She must have murmured in surprise, because he grinned, the expression almost boyish. “I took dancing lessons too, once upon a time.” 

“I almost forgot you were nobility under all that military regalia,” she teased. To her pleasant surprise, she found it easy to make conversation with Chaol, albeit mostly small talk and nothing about important issues. As the dance drew to a close, she skimmed her gaze across the ballroom and, once again, caught Rowan’s tormented eyes, his look a caress of her heart. 

Determination sparked suddenly in Rowan’s expression, and he meandered through the crowd, joining the queue of congratulatory nobility, but when he reached Aelin, he bowed like any other eligible gentleman and reached for her dance card. “Might you have a dance for me, my lady?” 

“I believe I do,” she said lightly, pretending this was just another ball and he was just another man who had asked her to dance. Chaol, who had no idea who Rowan was, simply shook Rowan’s hand and accepted his civil words, not noticing the well-concealed grief beneath the congratulations. 

Rowan escorted Aelin onto the dance floor, and he placed one gloved hand at the curve of her waist and took her hand in his free one. As he led her through the sweeping, intricate curves of the dance, he subtly tugged her just a fraction closer than appropriate, just an inch nearer to the unsteady pulse of his heart. “Did you know?” he murmured, and her fractured heart cleaved further at the anguish that pierced his words. 

“No,” she whispered, and she looked into his eyes, baring the depth of her own anguish to him. “I did not.” 

His gaze flicked out the open windows, glancing for an instant towards the expansive gardens, knowing the privacy they could steal, if only for a moment, out there. “One moment?” he asked, turning her smoothly in a circle so her skirts flared out in a perfect arc. 

“One moment,” she agreed, and she folded the mask of happiness back across her face. Rowan bowed over her hand as the dance ended, his lips just barely skimming the satin of her glove. He let her walk back towards Chaol, towards her parents, and he took an opposite course, stopping to dance with another young lady before he covertly stepped out a side door and disappeared into the gardens. 

Aelin waited a few more minutes before she touched Chaol’s shoulder and whispered to him that she needed a moment for relief, and she quietly slipped out a different side door, one that led directly to a refreshing room. Before she could reach the powder room, though, she turned down a different hall and went outdoors, entering the gardens through a little-known side gate. Her heart guided her down the familiar paths of the labyrinth, and she found Rowan in an alcove near the center, seated on a stone bench cast half in shadow by the faint sliver of moonlight. 

“Rowan,” she breathed, heart thumping unsteadily. 

In a rushed blur, his lips were on hers, his arms firm and strong around her waist, supporting her as her legs buckled. She cupped the back of his head and kissed him hard, desperate, the ache in her heart poured into the press of her lips, the curl of her tongue. When she drew back, tears shone in her eyes, but she tipped her head back so they could not fall. 

“I love you, Rowan,” she whispered. Simple, true, broken. 

Tenderly, his thumb stroked the line of her jaw. “I love you, Aelin.” Simple, true, ruined. “But you are betrothed.” He took a single step back, wrenching himself away from the woman who had brought warmth and healing and love into his life. Wordless, she could only nod, every regret and wish that shone in her eyes tamped down by the force of duty. 

She straightened her skirts, righted the dainty tiara in her coiffure, adjusted her gloves, and with one final lingering heart-searing gaze, she left the alcove, heading back into the manor, back towards her family and her betrothed and her duty. So too Rowan turned and walked out of the gardens, but he circled the side of the manor, went into the drive, and signaled his coachman. He climbed into his carriage, closed the door, rapped on the roof, and set his course for home. 

Where his own arranged betrothal awaited him.

~~~

TAGS:

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@mariaofdoranelle

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

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@fauna-flora11

@cynthiesjmxazrielslover

[siravalondulac]

✶⋆.° 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐣𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞

ariel and eric // the little mermaid (2023)

allie and will // avalon high (2010)

allerleirauh and king jakob // allerleirauh (2012)

katniss and peeta // the hunger games (2008-2010)

queen lisa and king moritz // rumpelstiltskin (2009)

gwendolyn and gideon // ruby red (2013-2016)

aurora and phillip // sleeping beauty (1959)

maleen and konrad // princess maleen (2015)

[mercurypetrel]

Sunwing posing Drogon

[cruciology]

My most random ship has got to be Sansa/Podrick. I’m right about this I know in my heart of hearts he would treat her right.

[muffinwalloper]

Attention is the beginning of devotion.

[velieditss]

Forbidden Desires

Paring: Davos Blackwood x Bracken!reader

Summary: Trapped in a small stone cupboard, you battle the cold, hunger, and discomfort as you wait for dawn. However, when your enemy—the last rescuer you wished for—finally appears in the torrential rain, you regret ever asking for help.

Cw: Davos tells jokes, someone call an ambulance

An: Guess who no longer has a broken arm!

Part 7

The wind howled through the ruins of the castle. The gusts were so violent that, from time to time, they cleared a space for the moon to be seen, though the rain was still so fierce that it seemed to bathe everything in a ghostly light. You could barely make out the lone tree, bent by the wind. The lightning struck in the distance, but the thunder was so deafening that it felt as though it were much closer.

Were it not for the biting cold, the gnawing hunger, and the discomfort of being wrapped in soaking wet clothes, crouched in a cupboard, surrounded by the three remaining stone walls of the once grand structure, you might have considered this a perfect revenge for Davos.

However, the stone ceiling was on the brink of collapsing, and the dry floor, with barely enough space to shield yourself within the crumbling castle, made your predicament even worse.

You had been sitting there for what felt like hours, the passage of time agonisingly slow. You would never find your way back to Raventree Hall amidst this darkness and rain. You would have to wait in this forsaken place until dawn, unless someone came to rescue you, though how likely was that? Elena would be worried, but perhaps Davos wouldn’t even notice—or care—that you had been gone so long.

Earlier, as you had watched a thick curtain of rain descend upon you, you had been both intimidated and thrilled. You had never seen anything like it before. You tried to escape the storm, but had failed.

Barely able to find your way to the ruins of the castle amidst the vast emptiness of an unfamiliar land, you dismounted in disappointment, for only a few walls remained standing, and the area was littered with fallen stones from the ruined structure. A large tree rose where what had once been a courtyard, or perhaps a great hall, now lay in ruins. Carefully, you made your way through the slippery, moss-covered stones, seeking shelter.

The remnants of a staircase should have led to an upper floor, but above there was nothing but wind and rain. You had hoped to find a staircase leading to a cellar, but the rain still poured relentlessly, limiting your visibility. The only thing that seemed remotely suitable was that narrow, doorless cupboard, which, though damp and moss-covered, offered a semblance of shelter and allowed you to rest instead of having to remain perched atop your mare.

About an hour later, you heard the sound of a horse approaching before the faint light appeared. You hurriedly rose, stepped to the threshold of your hiding place, and saw a tall figure, hooded, holding a lantern and guiding his horse towards where your mare was tethered. A great wave of relief washed over you; even if it was someone merely searching for their dog, they could return you to the Blackwood castle and save you from dying out here this night.

“Hello!” you called out.

“Here you are hiding…”

That voice. You would recognise it anywhere, the last person you ever wished to be rescued by. And what the Stranger was he doing here, instead of in his bed?

The thought of getting drenched again horrified you, but you supposed that Davos would not wish to remain here any longer than necessary. So, you said:

“I will come out, but only if you assure me that you can find the way back to Raventree Hall in the dark.”

He did not answer, and you promised yourself not to set any further conditions. You were not eager to step back into that torrential rain unless absolutely necessary, but when he approached and handed you the lantern before returning to the horses, you realised they might not be returning to the castle immediately. You placed the lantern in the far corner of your hiding spot, out of the way.

You went back to the threshold, but it was so dark outside that you could see neither Davos nor the horses. Was he looking for an even larger, untouched room? No, for that he would need the lantern. Perhaps he was unsaddling the horses, but he should have checked the room first, for it was not large enough to accommodate them both.

When he reappeared in the doorway, you stepped back to let him pass. Davos had to crouch to enter the cupboard; the ceiling was so low that his head almost brushed it, and inside, there would be no way for him to straighten up.

He tossed two leather sacks at you, set down a second, unlit lantern by the entrance, and shrugged off his coat, leaving it outside as it was drenched. You noticed how the coat had kept the rain from soaking his clothes, and his hair, tied back in a queue, was mostly dry.

“Are you not going to take us home tonight? You know the way, don’t you?”

“Yes, but it’s dangerous. The ground is sodden, the river has overflowed, and there are deep puddles outside. I’m not willing to take that risk.”

For a moment, you thought he was concerned for you, until he added:

“I’m not willing to put my horse in danger. It could slip and break a leg. We’re lucky we’ve made it this far without that happening.”

Of course, he wasn’t thinking of you at all. You gritted your teeth and waited for him to stay at the far end of the small space, which was too cramped for either of you to move freely.

“Spread the blankets before you take the food out of the sack.”

Food! You hurried to spread the blankets on the stone floor, sitting at the back of the cupboard before reaching for the other sack. Inside, you found a small meat pie and began to eat. He could have sat across from you, but instead, he lay down on one of the blankets, curling up beside you, propped up on an elbow, his head almost touching the wall. His legs were already taking up far too much room!

Before you could protest, you turned to him quickly.

“If you lie down here, there won’t be enough space for both of us.”

“There’s plenty of space. You can lie down too, just snuggle up beside me. I even brought you a pillow.”

You assumed he was referring to his arm, though you were still leaning on it and made no move to shift. It was an uncomfortable situation, trapped in a small space with your enemy. He certainly wouldn’t be pleased about it. And his leg...

You glanced with concern at his left thigh.

“Does your leg hurt? The stitches haven’t come undone, have they?”

“Would you like me to take off my trousers so you can have a look?” You must have had a very surprised expression, for he added: “The wound is well bandaged. And thanks to your care, it doesn’t hurt as much anymore.”

Was he thanking you? You remained incredulous until he added:

“You can consider this rescue as payment for tending to me. Now you can return home.”

He meant your home, not his, but you no longer felt quite so hungry, so you tried to let the comment pass without letting it sour your mood.

“How did you manage to find me?”

“The dogs led the way.”

“And where are they?”

“Probably still barking at the fox den a little further south. I rode here one summer, and when a sudden storm broke, I took shelter in these ruins. It’s the only refuge in this area, so I thought you might have found the last intact room of the castle.”

You wouldn’t call it intact, but you realised that Davos’s broad frame shielded you from many of the gusts of wind. Was that why he had lain down on the floor? If so, that was rather gallant of him.

“I used one of your garments to track you,” he said, pulling a cloak from the same basket, which you were grateful to see was still in perfect condition to cover yourself with. “I also found this.”

You felt the warmth drain from your face as he placed a small bottle in front of you. You opened your mouth, wanting to say something. You wanted to snatch it from his hands, but you feared he would become suspicious if you did, and that was the last thing you needed right now.

“It’s a medicine my mother gave me,” you replied quickly. “I have trouble sleeping.”

Only then could you take the bottle from his hands.

“Are you sure your mother isn’t trying to kill you?”

“Pardon?” You looked at him as though three heads had suddenly sprouted from his shoulders, and he simply laughed, shrugging.

“Your mother giving you a sleeping potion when you are in the house of her worst enemy is like handing you over on a silver platter.”

He had a point, and upon reflection, you realised you had given him a rather foolish excuse.

“My mother isn’t like my father; she really believes the best in people.” That wasn’t a lie. Your mother was quite the optimist, a true believer in kindness and empathy. “Her last words before she let me go were for me to make you love me so that I could enjoy a good life by your side.”

“So, that’s your mission? To make me love you?”

“I considered it at first, but when I saw you, I realised it was more likely that a dog would love me than you would.” He scoffed beside you but didn’t reply. “Anyway, I’m glad I managed to find this place.”

It was a clear attempt to change the subject, but he didn’t press, though he seemed slightly curious as to why you avoided his gaze.

“In this rain? You must have great eyesight.”

You shrugged.

“With some help.”

“From whom?”

“From witch spirits.” You flashed him a mischievous grin. He snorted, so you added, “When it started raining, I had just passed by here, so it wasn’t hard to turn back.”

“Your maid was frantic when you hadn’t returned from your ride after a few hours. Most of my men are out searching for you. I thought you had finally regained your sense and left Raventree Hall for good.”

In that case, why had he bothered to search for you himself? You thought about asking him, but you imagined it would only spark an argument, and that was the last thing you wanted in such a confined space... You certainly couldn’t leave or slam doors in here!

“At least you’re not in Wendish Town.”

Thank goodness, a neutral topic!

“Are we still in your territory?”

“No. As far as I know, whoever owns this stretch northwest of Riverrun has never occupied or cultivated it.”

“Are you sure?” you asked.

“Actually, no. It’s been several years since I’ve passed through here. It’s likely still under the command of Grover Tully.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing. Or did you plan to court his granddaughter to unite the two lands?”

“She’s a pretty girl.”

“Then why haven’t you courted her?” You saw him make a face.

“Just because she’s pretty doesn’t mean her ideas align with mine.”

“So, she’s stupid?”

“I don’t care about that, I just don’t see her as my wife.”

What a sad thing to say!

“Is that really all you aspire to?” you asked, surprised.

“What else is there?”

“Happiness, love, children…”

“That sounds like something you could aspire to as well.”

“And you can’t?”

“Love is fleeting, just like happiness. Though I would have liked to have children. I just don’t feel the need to rush it.”

“You’re a cynic... or at least not very optimistic, are you? Happiness and love are possible. How long they last depends entirely on you. You’d agree with that, wouldn’t you?”

“Both require work,” Davos replied with a grunt.

“More than work, a bit of effort. Or maybe nothing but acceptance. Sometimes, you just have to believe you can reach something in order to reach it.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Are you a philosopher too? You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

You didn’t let his scornful tone unsettle you.

“And as for not caring whether your wife is foolish or not, I very much doubt you’d want your children to inherit that trait. So that statement isn’t true. You would care.”

“I don’t have the chance to find out, do I?”

You tensed. The topic was once again about the two of you, and this was hardly the place to resume such a conversation, especially since you couldn’t move without touching him. Your knees brushed against his body, and his legs were in contact with your right side and hip. You wouldn’t even be able to get out of there without crawling over him. Wisely, you didn’t take the bait. You opened the sack with the blankets, took out two more, and handed one to him. He folded it to use as a pillow and laid his head down. He still had to keep his knees bent; otherwise, the rain would soak his feet.

“Try to sleep,” he said. “Dawn will come in a few hours. And if the spirits wake you up, just ignore them.”

“What spirits?” you exclaimed, your eyes wide with surprise.

“They say spirits roam some of the ruins of these old castles and watchtowers. I’ve never believed it, but you never know…”

“Do these ruins have a reputation for harbouring spirits?”

“I don’t know. But in any case, the spirits are harmless, so no screaming. Screaming gives me a bad wake-up.”

You rolled your eyes; if he hadn’t added that last bit, you might have believed he was being serious. You couldn’t quite figure out what he was up to that night—teasing, telling obvious lies… almost as if he had started to feel comfortable beside you, even while continuing to push you away.

But you didn’t want to lie next to him, even though he had closed his eyes to signal the end of the conversation. And you didn’t think you could sleep sitting up, no matter how much you wanted to. You weren’t cold anymore; in fact, the thought of sleeping next to him started to make you feel warm. But you covered yourself with the other blanket and lay on your side, with your back to him.

You also had to bend your knees because his legs kept you from doing anything else, but there wasn’t enough space on your side to bend them without pressing your backside against his. You were mortified; you hoped he was asleep and wouldn’t notice that you were touching him and that you couldn’t stop shifting to get comfortable, without success.

“If you don’t stay still in the next second, we won’t sleep tonight,” he said. You weren’t quite sure what he meant by that, but you stopped moving immediately. “And I’ll be the one giving you that medicine of your mother’s so you can sleep.”

The last thing you thought before drifting off was how nice it felt to feel his warmth while the wind howled and the rain kept falling outside.

Funny, because he had just threatened to kill you... unconsciously.

When you awoke, you discovered that your limbs and Davos’s were completely entwined. How on earth had you slept like that? You supposed you must have turned towards him in your sleep, for your head was nestled between his arm and his chest; one of his legs was stretched out, his foot peeking out from the shelter, though the rain had ceased. His other leg was bent between yours. You were certain that your leg—the one beneath Davos’s—was completely numb, but you dared not move to confirm it, for you would have been mortified if he woke and found you in such a position: curled against him as though you had sought to sleep in his embrace.

“The noise didn’t wake you.” You closed your eyes, as if that could stop the blush from spreading across your cheeks.

“What noise?” you asked, thinking of the spirits he had mentioned.

“Seems our horses had a fine night.” You weren’t sure if he meant what your mind was imagining.

“You mean they…” He nodded, and your mouth fell open in surprise. When he propped himself up on his elbow, your head slid down to rest on his forearm, allowing Davos to gaze down at you.

“You’re not displeased?”

“On the contrary. I’m glad she found some warmth this night.”

“And you didn’t? For, sprawled over me as you were, one might think you were rather comfortable.”

“It’s not my fault what my body does in its sleep. It’s hardly fair to hold that against me.”

“Isn’t it?” Davos said, tracing a finger along your cheek. “Husbands and wives always find a way to be comfortable with one another.”

“We’re not yet…” married, you meant to say, but he covered your lips with his. You didn’t try to pull away, not when you couldn’t find a reason compelling enough to do so. Soon, you stopped thinking altogether. The taste of him was intoxicating; you parted your lips and let his tongue slip into your mouth, your hand sliding around the back of his neck to caress him. Davos’s hand trailed down your neck to one of your breasts, brushing lightly over the nipple, which hardened at once. A delicious shiver ran through you, and only then did he cup your breast in his hand, squeezing gently.

You might have moaned; the touch of his hand was so pleasurable… You might have begged him not to stop, but instead, his kisses grew deeper, more fervent, and his knee slid between your legs, pressing against your core. This time, you did moan, but Davos’s lips swallowed the sound. Yet the pleasurable sensation he had stirred did not fade, and you felt an intense urge to rub yourself against him. Aroused and overwhelmed as he slid his tongue in and out of your mouth and caressed your breasts, you were overcome by an incomprehensible longing. But the cramped space you were in hindered your movements; it kept you from what you desired. You were trapped beneath Davos’s body, though in truth, he could…

Suddenly, the kisses ceased.

“No,” he said. “As much as you may desire it, I won’t do it, for if I did, you’d never leave Raventree Hall.”

It took you a moment to realise that he was boasting of his sexual prowess. He even smiled as he said it! You raised an eyebrow.

“Do you think you’re that good?”

“I’ve been told as much, at least in bed. But in this decidedly primitive place? Perhaps...” he indicated, shrugging nonchalantly.

You felt a strong urge to either laugh or strike him with something. Was he being serious, or was he once again teasing you? His smile suggested the second, and you began to think that perhaps he had started to feel more at ease beside you. Perhaps you had even begun to grow on him. It was a fleeting thought, yet you immediately doubted it, considering everything that had been said and done. Then, you let out a strangled gasp—had he just accused you of desiring him?

“What makes you think I...?”

He placed a finger on your lips to silence you.

“Protesting is useless. I can see it in your eyes, in the gentleness of your touch, but you’re mistaken if you think that will somehow make me love you,” he clarified, sitting up, seemingly preparing to leave.

Furious that such astonishing kisses could end so abruptly, you retorted:

“Well, don’t you dare blame me for what just happened.”

“I’m not blaming you,” he said, “I blame your mare. I haven’t heard two horses mating in a long time. Quite primitive, isn’t it?”

As he said this, he fixed his gaze upon you in a way that mesmerised you. In that moment, the fierce gleam that sometimes flickered in his eyes was not dangerous; it was passionate, and for an instant, you believed that he might desire you. But then, you dismissed that thought entirely, given everything that had been said and done.

He smiled again, but this time, it seemed mocking, as he added:

“It’s clear I wouldn’t mind having you in my bed, but mark my words: I’ll never trust you outside of it. You’ll never find happiness in this place, Lady Bracken. Children, perhaps more than you’d wish for, but nothing else. You’re still free to run.”

Ah, of course. At least, that’s what you thought. Perhaps you should tell him that your brother had threatened to lock you away. Or maybe you should poison Davos, just as your brother had suggested. In that very moment, you were more than willing to do so.

"You're beginning to sound like a parrot repeating the same thing". you replied, holding the cape over your shoulders.

When he left to saddle the horses, you stood up, gathered the blankets into the empty sack, and took the other one. However, you paused and emptied the food sack. You weren’t hungry. You hoped that Davos was.

You had already noticed that the sun was shining; stepping outside to bask in its warmth was simply wonderful. Everything changed when the sun shone; during the night, the landscape had looked so intimidating... but now it appeared lush and beautiful, although large puddles dotted the courtyard.

"I'm glad I found you."

Had you really just heard those words? Since Davos had his back to you while adjusting the girths on the horses, you couldn’t be sure. They suggested something very different from what he had said back in the hideout.

"Why?" you asked, breathlessly.

"Because if you had died in the heath, your family would have gotten exactly what they wanted: a reason to strip me of all my lands, throw me in prison, or hang me."

Quite an unromantic subject. By now, you should know better than to read meanings into his words that couldn’t possibly be true.

But, regarding what he really meant, you replied, "I doubt that. For now, you're a staunch supporter of the princess. The king and she wouldn't allow anyone to take your lands, much less your sister. She seems like she could be quite intimidating when she wants to."

Davos let out a laugh.

"Exactly. That’s precisely why we all know that the king and queen’s hand does not favour our allegiance to the princess. Things could change at any moment, my dear."

"In any case, I appreciate it. But really, why didn’t you abandon the search last night? You must have ridden for hours in the rain."

"Indeed... and I was tempted to do so."

That wasn’t exactly an answer, but he offered his hand to help you mount the mare. He brought you closer, but you ignored the gesture, as you were perfectly capable of mounting on your own. It might not have been the most graceful, but then again, nothing about the situation was graceful.

You placed a foot in the stirrup and asked again, "So why didn’t you leave me behind?" you exclaimed when he placed his hands on your backside and helped push you up.

"For self-preservation, as I’ve just explained," he replied, busy securing the supplies to the saddle.

Once both of you were mounted and moving away from the ruins, you looked back, wondering who might have lived there once.

"Really, you don’t know whose lands these are?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"What a shame," you remarked, "it has a lovely view."

“Thank the gods, Lord Blackwood found you,” Elena exclaimed, rushing towards you, her face marked by a mixture of relief and concern. You, who had been standing motionless at the stable entrance, looked at her in silence, the night’s dampness soaking through your clothes. “I was about to send a letter to your family.”

“Do you know what would have happened if you had done that?” you asked, surprised and slightly alarmed. Your eyes reflected genuine concern. “My brothers would have been quick to demand Lord Davos’s death, and not for some love that doesn’t exist.”

“He would deserve it,” she replied, slightly blushing, though her tone remained firm.

You shook your head, letting out a frustrated sigh.

“I’m fine, really,” you said, trying to downplay it. “It wasn’t as bad as it could have been.”

Elena didn’t seem convinced but let out a small puff of air.

“Did you manage to change his mind?” she asked, watching you with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.

You lowered your gaze for a moment, feeling the weight of your words.

“No…” you admitted with a hint of exhaustion. “And it’s getting harder. He still doesn’t trust my motives. It’s as if he overheard the last conversation I had with my brother.” You approached her and, without thinking, pulled the small vial from between your clothes. “He found this.”

Elena furrowed her brow when she saw what you were holding, but before she could make a comment, something in your face changed. You turned your gaze towards the stable’s threshold, and there, in the shadows of the entrance, you saw Davos approaching slowly. A knot formed in your stomach, and you nearly let out a frustrated groan, but then you realised that perhaps he hadn’t heard the whole conversation.

“We need to get rid of this as soon as possible,” you murmured, clenching your jaw. You couldn’t let that evidence fall into the wrong hands—this wasn’t a solution, at least not a peaceful one.

You grabbed Elena by the arm, urgency in your movements, and began walking quickly towards your chambers. However, before you could reach the safety of your room, a figure appeared in front of you: Alysanne.

She stopped dead in the hallway, blocking your way. To both of your surprises, she wrapped you in a sudden, warm embrace, leaving you speechless and paralysed by her closeness.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Alysanne said, her arms still around you. Then, she pulled away slightly, but not enough to lose contact. With one hand, she touched your face, inspecting you closely as if searching for any hidden injuries.

“Thank you,” you responded softly, almost inaudibly. It wasn’t easy to admit how vulnerable you became in the face of such gestures. “It wasn’t my intention to cause this mishap. I got lost in the woods, and the rain caught me.”

Alysanne nodded slowly, as if those explanations weren’t necessary, as if she already understood what you hadn’t said.

“I know,” she replied, her gaze fixed on you, warm yet sharp. “Your time here has made me understand that it takes much more to make you run.”

Her words hit you like a blow, leaving you speechless. It was something you never would have expected to hear from her, not in a thousand years.

“You hug her, but not me... there’s the affection you have for me.” You felt the presence of Davos behind.

“You’re hard to kill. I’m not worried about you,” she said, but immediately moved closer to envelop him in a strong embrace. “How’s your wound?”

Davos simply shrugged, saying nothing more, and that worried you.

“Let me see,” was more of an order than a question.

“Why are both of you so obsessed with my wound? I’m not going to die,” he responded, as he sat down in a chair, pulling up his trousers as much as he could.

“For the same reason you rescued me. It doesn’t do us any good for either of us to be dead,” you replied.

He had always removed his own bandage until now. The stubbornness added to the previous two moods, and besides, he was almost sitting on top of the bandage. How was I supposed to remove it?

You knew the answer to that question when he leaned on his right foot, not putting weight on the injured leg. You crouched down and removed the bandage before he could change his mind and make the task harder. The bandage only stuck slightly to the wound before the last piece of fabric came off.

After inspecting the wound and the stitches, you were satisfied with the results.

“There’s no redness or swelling; it seems the adventure last night didn’t harm you.”

“That’s debatable. My shoulder hurts a lot from sleeping on the stone floor.”

You ignored that.

“Unless you put your clothes back on, there’s no need to re-bandage it. The air will help the scab harden.”

“And are you going to dress me?”

You stood up and looked at him with an arched eyebrow.

“So early, and already in a bad mood?” you replied.

“A reaction only you provoke, darling,” he shot back.

“Well, what a compliment,” you quipped.

You only stopped when you heard a laugh from behind, catching sight of Alysanne, hands on her hips, a wide smile on her face.

“Anyone who saw you two would think you're a fully married couple.”

The two of you could only roll your eyes and pretend you hadn’t heard any of it.

Masterlist

[queen-helaenas-pet-spider]

Out of all the ASOIAF characters that want Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane is the ONLY ONE that HATES HIMSELF for it! Unlike SO MANY other men in this series {who will see someone they like and take them with no hesitation, and zero regard to that desired person and everyone else around them}, from the moment Sandor laid his Stark like grey eyes on her, and every blessed second he had with her after that, he actually FOUGHT those desires {which were made worse by his alcoholism}! He KNOWS Sansa is far too young for him, far too sweet for him, and miles above his station! He's SEEN how the world treats people like her! And most importantly, Sandor WAS HER!

Like Sansa, Sandor thought his life would be like the songs. While Sansa dreamt of being some beautiful, brave, gentle, and strong man's Lady or Queen and then be the mother of his children, Sandor dreamt of being a knight. They trusted too much, wanted to be loved by everyone, and had their lives shattered in the most DEVASTATING ways. And while their traumas affect them differently, she's still the ONLY one on the entire planet that TRULY understands him {you could argue that Arya *Sansa's little sister* does too, but not as much as Sansa}. And while Sandor grew to HATE everything about knights, the songs, etc, part of him still WANTS to be the kind of hero that he and Sansa used to love. And despite his many flaws, he's actually one of the very few "true knights" in the series.

And so, unlike those many men, Sandor fought his feelings for Sansa by trying to DISTANCE HIMSELF FROM HER. He stayed close enough to be sweet to her and protect her, of course, but also tried to make himself look as awful as possible. Said lots of cruel and lewd things, called her Little Bird, Child, Girl, etc instead of My Lady, Lady Sansa, Lady Stark, or just Sansa. And even after she REJECTED HIM, he also reminded a group of men {as well as himself} who were speaking ill of Sansa that not only is Sansa a LADY, but a PROPER LITTLE LADY. But to his great surprise and even greater despair, instead of watching her run for her life like everyone else does, all of his attempts to preserve what little honor they have left, only make {sadly just Book} Sansa all but CLING TO HIM like a damn FACEHUGGER.

Sadly, there were a few times {mainly in the books} where Sandor slipped up {mainly while he was drunk, which was almost the whole time they knew each other} and almost turned into Gregor {Sandor's older brother that's like ten to twenty million times worse} and all of those other men. He checked Sansa out, made some sexual comments about her still growing body, grabbed her too tight, broke in her room while she wasn't there and slept in her empty bed, pinned her to her bed at knifepoint, allegedly led a raping and killing spree at Saltpans, and admitted to Arya that he regrets not raping Sansa and tearing her heart out before he reluctantly left King's Landing without her.

But as disappointing as it sounds, Sandor {who again was almost always insanely drunk during those times} realized what he was doing, quickly stopped, and then went back to being what she REALLY needed at that time: Her guardian angel. Her dearest true knight. {I know, I know! "The bare minimum!", "The bar is in hell!", but Sansa and all the other girls and women in this series are BARELY even getting that!} He's innocent of what happened at Saltpans {it was another huge man, Rorge, who somehow got his grubby paws on Sandor's famous Hound helmet, and then wore it during the spree}. Also, Sandor's "confession" to Arya was made while he was literally DYING from some injuries he sustained while fighting that same group of men that were speaking ill of Sansa {which in my mind was Sandor trying to kill himself cause he just learned that the one he loves most married a man that they hated *and for good reason*, is accused of killing a king that they hated *and for good reason*, and is now on the run} and was hoping to be PUT OUT OF HIS MISERY. And since Arya didn't want to, he said awful things that he DID NOT MEAN FOR EVEN A MILLISECOND, things he KNEW would finally get her to change her mind, only for it to backfire on him BIG TIME.

While everyone else that wants Sansa Stark only wants her for her CLAIM, her STOLEN ANCESTRAL HOME, and her STILL DEVELOPING WOMB, Sandor Clegane is the ONLY ONE among them that wants Sansa because he actually LOVES HER. And though he many never know that Sansa DOES love him back {the way Sansa talks about Sandor in her chapters is DEFINITELY NOT out of hatred, though it would be understandable if it was. And if I told y'all to take a shot every time Sandor is mentioned in Sansa's chapters, y'all would die of alcohol poisoning} and get to be with her in that way, just seeing her and protecting her one last time would probably be enough for him. And if it isn't, well, then he'll probably just leave her again {either the normal way or through dying}. Because the only thing WORSE than never ending up with Sansa Stark is turning into his older brother.

[greatdevourer1231954]

My Archive of your own link

For any one interested, heres the link for my AO3 fics, hope you all like to read it and are interested for it.

https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreatDevoureR1231954

And here's a link to my Triniverse fics->

https://archiveofourown.org/series/4384510

[gaypengwing]

Live action when? 👀

[elitehanitje]

👑