ironfeather (ironfeather) wrote in usurper, @ 2011-12-27 00:36:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! house martell, ellaria sand, oberyn martell |
oberyn & ellaria
who: oberyn martell & ellaria sand. along with a princess and a whole bunch of little sands.
where: the water gardens, dorne
when: a few days after oberyn gets a talking to from doran
what: lovers reunited, offers made
Despite Prince Doran’s vise-like grip on the information that came in and out of Sunspear, the shame that Dorne’s princess bore was a flame that swept across the countryside. And in Hellholt, as Ellaria sat along the banks of the Brimstone, she knew that Oberyn’s impetuosity would not keep him long inactive. She imagined her prince striding over ground thoroughly soaked with dragon’s blood, raising spears in Dorne and leading a conquering column up the boneway and into King’s Landing --
No. With a shake of her head, she rose from the bank to wipe her hands along the creases in her silk trousers. A smile. “Last you were home, Prince, you came to Hellholt. Now, perhaps, I will draw you elsewhere.”
The beauty of the Dornish capital was in its dichotomous brutality and though Ellaria well-loved the mottled light and the cool marble splendor of the palace, it was the shadowy alleys that hid danger and bespoke of conditions gone awry in which she revelled. That, however, was not to be her place and so she sent a raven that was to be placed in Oberyn’s hands at the right time.
Leave that place; the Water Gardens. - E
Days later, she entrusted her horse to a youthful stable boy whose wide eyes only went wider when, sweeping aside the dove-grey veils which obscured her features, she planted a kiss upon the wide head and sent him scampering with her mare in tow. If her guesses were correct, she had enough time to bathe the road dust from her body before he arrived.
It was well timed, her missive -- perhaps too well timed, for Dorne’s youngest prince had been astride his blood bay when his young squire caught the heel of his boot in his hand to prevent him from motioning the beast into motion, his other hand offering up the slip of parchment as he squinted against the morning light. Oberyn, in turn, shielded his own against the glare as he smoothed the message out across his upper thigh, throwing a smile into the sun once he’d read its contents. We’ll see who gets there first, Sand.
Days later -- he had already been in residence at the Water Gardens, the road from Sunspear being shorter than the road from Hellholt. The ride had lacked the impetus of hurt and simmering anger that characterized his journey from King’s Landing; the Dornish air, run through with the tang of the sea, was a restorative -- as was the strength behind Doran’s hand is it struck, and the calm that did not, whatever Oberyn thought in his fits of fury, mask weakness -- and he arrived at the Gardens with something of his old smile on his face. A smile that merely broadened when he walked in on the sight of his eldest daughter playing sun and spears, an old Dornish children’s game, with her sisters and the various other children to whom the Water Gardens had been opened.
And now he sat looking over Arianne’s letter to her father, recently written and riddled with spelling mistakes, which he circled in brilliant red ink, much to the princess’ horror and Obara’s delight.
Choosing to leave her shoes behind, for the rosy marble was warm against her bare feet, Ellaria’s presence was heralded by the narrow-eyed stares of several children who did not recognise this interloper. She smiled at the nearest girl and, folding herself upon the rim of a fountain, beckoned that she come and join.
“You have your father’s eyes, child.”
The child smiled, her pretty little face lighting up, the pale skin of her cheeks dusted with freckles and still damp from her morning splashing around in the water. “And his hair,” was said with not a little pride, pointing at a curl of damp black hair before thrusting her finger in Ellaria’s direction. “Do you want to see him?”
The curl was inspected, lips pursed and eyes narrowed, before it was given a satisfactory tug. “Yes, I think you do. Prince Oberyn’s hair is black as jet, just like yours.” She smiled again, folding her arms over her knees. You beat me, prince. “Before you leave, I would have your name, princess.”
“Nym.” Not quite a princess for all that this child often pointed out the flaws in Arianne’s flawless courtesies. She stepped forward, touching Ellaria’s silks with a single finger, the small tip of her head indicating that she, in all of her childish wisdom, approved. “What’s yours? Your hair is black too, you know. Obara has brown hair -- it’s terrible, but she waves her morningstar around whenever we make fun of her, so we don’t do it much.”
“By all means, then, do not point out the colour of your sister’s hair.” (For this could only be a sisterhood, she presumed, and nothing less) -- “Perhaps, if Obara wishes, she will dye it black to match.” Ellaria’s chin met the palm of her hand as she gave Nymeria her unwavering attention. “Little Nym, I am called Ellaria.”
“Sand!” A delighted laugh skipped out from her lips. “Like me.” The girl reached for Ellaria’s hand, clasping it tightly in a beckon for her to stand. “Come, I will take you to Father.”
As Ellaria stood, she swept the little girl into her arms and planted a kiss upon the end of the pert nose. “Yes, little Nym. Just like you. We shall surround your father with little Sands.” A pause. “Now, lead on.”
“He likes to make people angry like that.” Every one of Ellaria’s steps was matched by two of Nymeria’s, quick and sharp as she pulled her through a colonnade of pink marble, the sound of children’s play growing louder until the only thing hiding the perpetrators was a line of orange trees, their slender boughs heavy with fruit.
Nymeria suddenly stood still, head cocked. “I was wrong. She’s playing with a flail, I think. Sister Obara.” After a pause for breath: “FATHER, IS IT SAFE TO COME THROUGH? OBARA IS STUPID WITH HER TOYS.”
After a muffled snort of laughter (and the sound of another girl child’s annoyance): “Yes, Nymeria.”
Hand in hand with Nymeria, Ellaria lingered in the doorway of the study. The children seemed to orbit around Oberyn who, at their core, had an air of restive peace that she had never seen in him. A hand to her breast as she bowed her head.
“Your handmaidens are wise as they are fair, my Prince.”
Nymeria dropped her hold on Ellaria’s hand to catch the orange Oberyn sent flying at her out of the air, a pink tongue poking out from between her lips when another child -- Obara, with her rat-brown hair -- made a sound of disappointment.
“My handmaidens need to leave now.” Oberyn, his eldest daughter’s flail held in one hand, tossed another orange, this time to Obara, who pulled forward with her cousin, both children looking up at Ellaria with dark eyes, both children missing the desire that crawled, naked and obvious, across the prince’s expression.
Nymeria, however, did not, and she flicked her fingers against Ellaria’s silks one last time before turning to lead her sister and cousin out of the room.
“I’m sorry to take him from you, my ladies.”
Her fingertips ghosted along the top of the child’s head as she lead the other girls from the room, finally turning a smile upon Oberyn.“ -- that one,” said Ellaria, sliding the door to a close with her foot as the girls disappeared down the corridor, “misses nothing.”
“That’s the idea.” With a heavy clunk of metal, Oberyn set down the flail before sliding up from his perch across the edge of a broad, marble-topped table, his feet as bare as Ellaria’s upon the rosy floor. He came to a stop before her, standing just out of arm’s reach. “And you lie. You’re not sorry.”
To be alone with Oberyn, after their months of separation, was as if all the muscle memory in her body suddenly fired at once. It was easy to damn a man so singular for having this effect upon her but, as was her wont, she welcomed the disorientation. She could admit that she missed him. This time, I will come to you. Her shoulders rose and fell as she stepped forward, sliding a palm along the flat plane of his shoulder -- “I do frequently lie, you are correct.”
“And you're presumptuous.” The smile lingering in his voice remained absent from his face, and even the former was tempered by a tension that had not existed the last time they met. But there was no mistaking his eagerness for her: it was in the heat of his hand as he wrapped it around her wrist, and in the strength underlying the pull meant to bring her closer. “Inviting yourself to my family’s home? My lady.”
“I told you, prince.” Her lips twisted into the vague impression of a smirk as his features came closer; the fine lines that had not been present when last she seen him were given scrutiny with the tips of his fingers. One foot hard upon the floor initially resisted his pull -- “I am not a lady.”
“Another lie, and I’ve yet to kiss you.” A tilt of his head as he released her wrist, only to drop his fingers on the exposed line of her collar bone. “I would have you be my lady. I’m wretched, Ellaria, without you.”
“You’re wretched in King’s Landing,” she said, her own hand sliding around his ribs to rest loose upon his hip. As if this declaration was the after-effects of too much time spent amongst dragons and he had lost his head. “And you may kiss me any time you like.”
Sliding his hand across her breastbone, his fingers splayed wide across the warm, smooth skin, applying a beat of pressure before slipping beneath the line of her silk. “I’m wretched,” he corrected. “And I want to do more than just kiss you. Forget King’s Landing.”
“There are many cures for wretched, Prince.” Finally letting herself step fully within the circle of his arms, her lips pressed light to the hollow of his neck. “And you may do more than just kiss me. But you must kiss me first.” For his words created a curious hollowness which still reverberated within her chest. Oberyn’s lady; how strangely unsettling.
Oberyn’s fingers went hard, curling claw-like and catching along the edge of Ellaria’s collar. Silk did not easily tear, but the garment was loose enough to wrench down to bare more flesh, flesh he filled his hand with as he walked her backwards, further into the room. “Yes, but I didn’t specify where.”
This possession was the way with them and the hard edge of desire seemed honed enough to split skin. “Oberyn.” A laugh and a single curl of her knees brought her jumping lithely into his arms, knees caught around his waist as she pressed her lips to his ear and breathed -- “Here; anywhere.”
Hunger for her coursed a hot path through him. A further step brought them to the desk -- a swipe of one arm sent Arianne’s letter floating to the floor as he placed Ellaria upon the marble, leaning low to then mark the center of her breastbone with a lingering kiss. Against her skin -- “I meant what I said.”
The tips of her fingers arced across the back of his head as she leaned upon the heel of one hand and pressed a smile to his temple. “You are not your own.” She imagined the pale and thin daughter of of a Riverlord coming to live in Sunspear, the sun bleeding the life from her as she turned to dust in her Oberyn’s tower. Her knees squeezed along his waist. “And I shall never marry.”
“I never said we should marry.” If he had ever been warm to the idea, the incident -- and its aftershocks -- at Harrenhal ruined his impression of it entirely. And despite his love of independence, Ellaria was right. Trapped by his own beloved name, Oberyn was not a free man. “-- I certainly never shall. It’s more convenient for my brother that way.” To dangle possible unions before the noses of interested allies, never to be fulfilled, but always promised...
After another kiss -- “Take all of this off.”
“You came back from King’s Landing a prince;” in reference to his command, her fingertip traced the line of the ruined folds which gaped from neck to waistline. She breathed him in, shouldering out of one sleeve, nonetheless. “And what of me?”
A prince who ran home with his tail between his legs. His smile was one-sided, barely touching his eyes; his fingers buried themselves within the soft folds of the fabric. “Tell me of you. You won’t say yes.” A question in the non-question of his voice.
“I won’t say yes to something I think you say out of anger; I will not be something that you regret.” The hem of his shirt was roughly pulled from his trousers before she shouldered from the other sleeve, now bare to the waist before him -- “My father has been often to Starfall and in the counsels of Ashere Dayne. Is that what you want to hear? I’ve been alone; on my own. But I have a very able handmaiden.”
Ellaria’s first remark went without comment from him -- she was right, in part, for he spoke out of anger, had spoken out of nothing but anger since Harrenhal -- just as her move to undress him in his turn was met with apparent disregard. It was her clothes that concerned him, her clothes and what lay beneath.
His fingers were slow across her skin. “A handmaiden to whom? And what does Starfall counsel?”
“To my whim --” and the latter word was shuddered with a breath as she leaned back, opening more of her body to his grip. “I know not. Something in the Boneway, along the mountains. Lord Harmen keeps his own counsel.” Her fingertips curled in his collar, pulling him toward her with a jerk of his arm.
“I would not want the Ullers of Hellholt as my enemies.” Half of them, went the maxim, burned hotter than the Targaryens, whilst the rest burned hotter still. It was fitting, then, that Ellaria’s touch burned like a brand, a sharp breath of his own scraping past his lips at the feel of her hands, whose silent command he followed, straightening up so that he could kiss her full on the lips. But only briefly; he pulled away, hand light on the base of her neck. “And what does your whim require of you?”
“Now, my whim requires you to tell me of all the worry-lines I see in your face.” With a push, the expertly folded scarlet silk which covered his chest sagged against his shoulders. “My whim requires that you be as naked as I am.” Throwing her hair over her shoulder, she leaned on the heels of her palms, basking in Oberyn’s gaze as if he were the sun from which she took her warmth.
“Why did you leave King’s Landing and why are you cloistered in the Water Gardens? I should have beat you here.”
“Has King’s Landing marked me so?” Taking a step back, he let the silk drip to the floor with one flick of his hand, followed by the belt of beaten metal rings, which fell upon itself with a jingle. But as for fulfilling the rest of her demands: his hands returned to her waist, pulling at the line of her trousers instead of his own, the tension deep within him tightening with every inch of revealed flesh.
There would be no forgetting King’s Landing, but perhaps, cloistered as he was, and now in the company of this most singular of women, he would find some momentary solace. He reached across to touch one bared breast, thumb and forefinger capturing her nipple in a firm grip. “Ride faster horses, Ellaria.”
It has -- was eaten up in a gasp caught between her teeth, modulated to half purr and half growl before her nails raked along the under side of the forearm that grasped her. Perhaps he would not tell her of his travails in the capital, but neither would she let him think her ignorant of what was plain to read on his face for those with an eye to it. “You lie to me, prince.” One foot caught him round the waist to jerk him off balance. “But your face cannot.”
With a forwards stumble, her well aimed assault forcing him to drop both hands upon the table in order to steady himself -- “What about?” And without a pause: “Ellaria, stay with me here. For as long as you want. Consider this your second home. But now--” A breath. “Now, Seven help me, I don’t want to talk.”
“I will stay with you as long as you have want of me.” His stumble was enough for her to slide herself beneath him, to give in to the friction between their bodies, as her hips lifted from the marble to sweep against his groin -- “Then fuck me, prince. Make me bleed. And after, we will talk and you will bleed for me.”***
The sweat of sex had long since dried on Ellaria’s skin and yet, these tumbles with Oberyn were more than sex or love-making as the Northerners attempted to call it. Bodies were brutal and messy, all heat and friction with coupling the most honest performance of that damnably human aspect. Not war; for anger was frailty, murder was weakness. But the creation and destruction that could be wrought upon a soul with startling alacrity; to be one, to be nothing. To, perhaps, be all. Finally, within the circle of his arms, she understood the maxims of the Lysene temples dedicated to the goddess.
And so, loose limbed and quiet, she danced two fingers over the flat plane of his belly and gave herself over to a satisfied sigh.
“It’s time to talk.”
It was easy -- seductively easy -- to let the demands of the body overrule the demands of memory, to forget shame and regret in lieu of physicality so vital it approached the sacred. And the silence that accompanied the heaviness of limbs was not unwelcome, for rather than lowering the floodgates to admit once more all that he would forget, he gave himself over to the study of the curve of Ellaria’s neck.
Breaking that silence, however, had a visible effect, a faint grimace seeping into his expression as he closed his eyes.
“Must we?”
“You must.” Rising to her elbow to lay her arm over his chest, her chin met her wrist at the high point of his sternum. “For if I am to be your lady, I must know you in the fullness of whatever you choose to be. Good or bad.” Her index finger scratched over his skin.
“I know the shame that your sister bore as a queen; I know of the trouble with dragons. But I do not understand what sent you away from her, your much beloved. What became of you in King’s Landing?”
Prevarication, perhaps, would work -- Doran utilized it so well, and Oberyn prided himself on being a fast learner. Lightly -- “I was struck by the desire for home. Returning to King’s Landing was a relief for all but me.” And then, after a beat, his voice acquiring a note of interest: “So you are to be my lady, then?”
“I’m not adverse to it.” A half-musing smile that, perhaps, hid the depth of feeling in her chest as she moulded her legs around him, leeching warmth from both him and the marble floor upon which they lay. But then, a darkening -- “Unless you are now thinking that I am a body for your use and no more.”
Oberyn would be given little quarter; she knew that he would deflect her desire to know of what took him from Elia. But nevertheless -- “My hand is all too near to your throat for such lies, prince, and inelegant ones, no less.”
“Your hand--” he lowered his to capture Ellaria’s wrist lightly within the grasp of his fingers; “knows how to deal in pleasure, not pain.” A kiss, then, to her knuckles before he released her and folded his arm beneath his head. “As for your body, lovely as it is, it is nothing to me without the mind that goes with it. I know who I want, not what.”
“Pain and pleasure walk a fine line --” was dangerously close to a hiss as she gave the underside of his chin a caress with the same knuckles before she rose to her knees. “I may be a Sand - like all your little Sands beyond the door, prince - but I do understand the familiarity of blood. I am my father’s daughter. Never mistake me for only.”
Then, to her feet. “Every breath is a lie. Who, perhaps. But with limits.”
Oberyn wondered that he could feel cold at all in the mild heat of the Water Garden’s, but Ellaria’s withdrawal from his side left every nerve beneath his skin crying out for her warmth. The sound of protest that escaped him as he sat quickly up was utterly boyish. “Limits. Only? Ellaria. Stop.”
“You are foolish, prince, to have made me love you thus. So, no.” Her hair, a dark cloud around her shoulders, was whipped to her back by a swiftly striking arm. “I asked you to share your trials with me and you will not. No, I will not stop.”
“You absolutely will stop.” His spine went concave as he rose, frustration in the hard breath pushed through his teeth. Sharing the weight of trials and triumphs both was not a thing he was accustomed to beyond the fold of his family, a skill that his siblings -- Doran with Mellario, even with Elia with Rhaegar -- had obtained through their lasting bonds to others. But Oberyn? He had gone from lover to lover without a care, and even those who had become paramours of any significance did not reach the level of intimacy he and Ellaria pierced so quickly.
“I...” A shrug of a shoulder as his gaze narrowed in thought. “I’m sorry. You’re the first--” A pause. “It is just that I’m ashamed.”
“The first and the only.” To see him rise and defend himself, to offer explanation in place of more evasion, gave her leave to soften. But only a little. “It seems like all these dealings with the North - all of these troubles with dragons - only brings shame.”
“In this instance, the shame is of my own making.” Perhaps Ellaria would make him bleed -- she would bleed answers from him, at any rate, for the need to confess suddenly rose in challenge to his natural inclination to keep silent.
“I attempted to kill my sister’s husband. And this after offering her my vow that I would not lay a finger on him. After being ordered not to by my brother.”
“ … and,” she reasoned, “the reason why you did not flee to the safety of Dorne with a thousand dragons in pursuit is that first, you failed in the attempt and second, there was a cover up.” With narrowed eyes, she stepped forward to lay her hands on Oberyn’s slim hips. Memories of Lord Harmen’s wife rose unbidden in her mind’s eye and before she could stop them, she sensed the hot trail of tears upon her cheeks that were wiped away with impatient thumbs.
“I too understand the guilt and the bitter taste of exile.”
A pause. “What you did was done of love. If Elia’s husband were any other but Rhaegar --” She shook her head. “Do you wish him dead?”
“It was done out of selfishness, I am told.” He pressed his curled forefinger to her damp cheekbone, pulling nearer by a step so that he could then draw her fully into the circle of his arms. “I cannot do many things out of love -- the eternal yoke of my status, Ellaria. I failed because I aborted the attempt and was judged by Rhaegar and Elia both. Dorne would be aflame if I’d succeeded, which has been impressed on my quite thoroughly by our Prince.”
Her final question caused him to look away. “I don’t know. I should have schooled him more thoroughly, perhaps. In any event, it is exile for me.” A small smile. “Fortunately I have an expert by my side.”
“It will not be forever --” she told him, drawing her fingertips along the prominent ridges before her hands left him entirely to lean against the edge of the marble desk. “And I know your siblings must have already cut their teeth upon your heart but --” And here, her legs crossed to punctuate her point. “Success would have meant your death.”
No, but it will be long enough. Instead of the words of exhausted self-pity, Oberyn offered Ellaria a smile along with the soft folds of her discarded silks. “I do enjoy being alive,” came with a suggestive cock of his brow. “So that is my story, my lady.”
“Yes,” a laugh. “Your lady.” Accepting his offer of her silks, with a smile, she draped the dove grey over her shoulder and around her waist before offering him a kiss. “Did it hurt as bad as you thought it would hurt?”
With a nod and a look so entirely solemn that it could only have been made in jest -- “I am in utter agony, Ellaria.” Her kiss was returned, deepened. “A raw, bleeding nerve, me.”
“So incomparably raw.” Fingertips upon his chin, she gave him a gentle shake and responded to the kiss in kind. Then -- “I will help you be whatever you wish to be, Oberyn. When you go back to King’s Landing for Elia, I will go with you.”
Though his inclination was to keep those who remained in Dorne out of the dragons’ city, her words filled the grey void he had carried in his chest since Elia’s dismissal of him with warmth. He reached across to pull the black cascade of her hair over her shoulder. “I wish to be myself. With you. If you’re amenable to that?” A grin.
“I am amenable,” she said, pulling her trousers over her hips before she wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled. “It is, however, quite odd to see a girl not yet thirteen swinging a flail as if she was born to it. Far be it from me to dictate your daughters’ past times but surely not a flail …?”
“Surely not?” he repeated, his smile going crooked as he peered at her with some measure of confusion. (His hands, however, on her waist, thumbs drawing circles on the smooth skin of her belly, did not suffer that same uncertainty.) “She’s a natural. Every weapon so far has been like an extension of her arm. A miniature sister of the Kingsguard, my Obara.”
“Tell me you at least remove the parts that can maim people.”
A miniature sister of the Kingsguard. Her eyes narrowed and, with a poke of her index finger into his chest, her chin rose. “I see what you’re doing.”
A laugh. Oberyn lifted her hand to his lips, administering a faint press of his teeth around her finger before replying. “Then you realize that removing those parts defeats the purpose of what it is I’m doing.”
“Far be it from me to tell you how to raise your daughters,” she said, curling her finger to add pressure to his teeth against her skin. “How many daughters, my love, for your Queensguard?”
Without a hint of modesty -- “All of them.”
Her brow arched. “How many so far?”
“Obara and Nymeria you’ve seen.” The faint rasp in his voice betrayed the suppressed laugh. “Tyene is with the younger children. And Sarellia was born a few months ago; I’ve yet to claim her. So, four. So far.”
“Nymeria is a most interesting child. I saw her little eyes; she sees all. She saw us.” She smiled, fingertips upon the back of his neck as she gave herself over to a slow nod. “So, my most potent prince, it is only a matter of time, isn’t it?”
Sexual practices were regarded with far more openness in Dorne than the rest of the realm, and Ellaria’s calm awareness of an onlooker was met with a casual shrug from Oberyn. “That one won’t need a flail,” he said, before brushing a kiss across her brow. “And I suppose that depends on you.”
“She will swing her intellect as Obara swings a moringstar, I am sure.” Before she returned his kiss, her lips paused a mere hair’s breadth from his mouth. “For the first time, I find, that I am ready. I want anything -- everything -- with you.”