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“Peace,” Oberyn whispered, as the boy’s hand went unerringly for his sword’s grip, even as his eyes flashed with surprised recognition. Margaery Tyrell whirled around. He held both hands out, palms up, and for a tense moment, no one moved in the room.
It was Margaery who broke the silence, rising to her feet. “Prince Oberyn,” she greeted, dropping into a perfect curtsey as her brother’s eyes widened. Oberyn eyed her cautiously for a moment: this girl was shrewder and better informed than her brothers. The brains ran in the Tyrell women, though the good looks were clearly shared by all. She wore green so dark as to be almost black, shot through with the merest hint of gold thread, loose enough to claim modesty and the appropriate grief. Nonetheless the allusion was not lost on him. It was, on the most basic level, a clever way to wear the colours of Highgarden, Baratheon and Lannister all at once.
He shot her his most charming smile and bowed. “Lady Margaery. Ser Loras.”
“What are you doing here?” Ser Loras demanded bluntly.
“Loras,” Margaery chided. “Please, Prince Oberyn. Won’t you have a seat? Wine?”
He chuckled, settling back into the richly upholstered chair she gestured him to. “Thank you, Lady Margaery. But in truth I was hoping to speak to your brother.” These are his chambers, after all, he mentally added, smirking.
“Loras…?” Margaery said, her tone wondering, before she noted the slight flush on her brother’s cheeks. “Ah.”
She turned back to Oberyn with a raised eyebrow. “The whole castle is a-sorrowing, Prince Oberyn,” she said archly. “Our king is dead and the city in deep mourning.”
He laughed delightedly. She was shrewd as a Dornishwoman, this Tyrell girl, sharp as Ellaria or any of his daughters. “And yet your eyes are dry as mine,” he mocked gently.
“It behooves me to maintain my dignity, you see, but truly, my heart is ravaged by grief,” she said calmly, betraying not a moment of hesitation.
“The Martells are not known for our love of the Lannisters,” Oberyn parried. “No one will chastise me for not weeping.” No one will dare, he left unsaid. “In fact if the charming Lady Cersei had not accused her Imp brother, I might well be in the dungeons. People are wary when the Red Viper sits at their feast.”
“The Martells are not known for their love of the Tyrells either,” Loras spoke: the first words that Oberyn had heard him say.
It was a pleasing voice. A straightforward timbre: strong, clear, lilting upwards, a young man’s voice. Oberyn rather suspected it would sound wonderful crying his name.
“And yet here I am,” said Oberyn. It was hard to keep the lasciviousness from his tone, so he did not try. Loras flushed harder, and Margaery sighed tolerantly, her mouth quirking wryly to the side.
“And yet here you are,” she agreed, rising to her feet with a rustle of expensive silks. “I will retire, gentlemen. Loras, don’t forget. And do it soon,” she emphasised, shooting him a warning glance that somehow encompassed Oberyn’s presence without even looking in his direction.
“At first light tomorrow, sister,” promised Loras, reddening again, faintly.
She curtsied once more in his direction, perfunctorily, then left, leaving the murmured “Goodnight, Prince Oberyn,” lingering on the air like her rose perfume.
With her gone, the room turned to silence and one-sided blushes. Oberyn thought, faintly, of asking Loras Tyrell what his sister had instructed him to do with such haste, but was distracted by contemplating the bow of his mouth – the perfect curve of the lower lip. Politics could wait. Dorne had no part in all this, not as of yet.
Loras’s hand twitched faintly, and then he asked, “Would you like some wine, Prince Oberyn?” He was already turning to the carafe of Arbor wine set on the sideboard. It was easiest, in moments such as these, to revert to faint courtesies. He busied himself with pouring, to better avoid the hot, dark gaze which fell upon him.
“If you will drink as well,” Oberyn allowed, and by the Seven, the man’s voice was intolerably, maddeningly smug and it somehow made him all the more desirable.
Oberyn rose to his feet noiselessly, so that when Loras turned he was a mere arm’s length away, suddenly far closer than he had been. Loras startled, but recovered his poise admirably. When he held out the goblet his hand was steady. There was no mistaking the intent in Oberyn’s eyes now, and for the first time since the Joffrey, that little shit, had fallen dead at the wedding, the concerns of House Tyrell faded from Loras’s mind. Anticipation was slowly taking over.
Oberyn took the goblet and drank, never taking his eyes off Loras’s face. “The wines of Highgarden are different from what we have in Dorne,” he murmured, taking one half-step closer and then another, and another. “The golds of the Arbor are pale, and sweet, and yielding, but I confess I care not for the reds.”
Loras took a long swallow of the wine, chiefly to moisten his throat and lips. It tasted excellent, as always, he was sure, but just at the moment he could hardly taste it. “And I have heard that the Dornish reds are strong and sharp and will bite at the tongue.”
Oberyn laughed, a low rumble in his chest. He drained the cup and set it down on a nearby table, watching as the boy took a more judicious sip. “’Tis true enough, what you say about the Dornish wines, but some are sweet as well. We fortify our strongwines with flowers and nectar, so that they lie heavy on the tongue. And what would your preference be, Ser Loras?”
“You strike me as a man with bite, Prince Oberyn,” breathed Loras, and then suddenly he was being kissed, hot and hard, the almost-empty cup falling from his hand as he instinctively brought his hands up to grasp Oberyn’s neck, to slide his fingers into dark hair. He opened his mouth and Oberyn pressed forward with the kiss, sliding his hands against the linen of Loras’s tunic, trailing gently down his spine only to grasp possessively at his arse. Loras sighed softly into the kiss, and Oberyn broke it to shove him back against the bed, where Loras fell with a resounding thump.
He shed his clothes at a frantic pace, watching the prince of Dorne do the same, his eyes lingering greedily on olive skin as he spread his legs to make space for Oberyn.
“Look at you, Tyrell. The gallant Knight of Flowers, eager as a whore,” Oberyn taunted, settling between Loras’s knees, bowing his head briefly to press a possessive kiss to his thigh.
“But handsomer,” Loras answered, grinning. There was no shame in this, after all – both of them were hard, although even as Loras reached for him, Oberyn swatted his hand away and tsked lightly, as though chiding him for impatience, instead leaning forward to take little nips at his jaw and throat, one calloused sword hand coming up to grasp his wrist as Loras arched upwards in pleasure. “And besides, I am sure that Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne finds many of his conquests eager.”
“And yet you did not know who I was, at the banquet,” Oberyn said, “You did not know it until your sister greeted me just moments ago.”
“Margaery was always the one who knew these things,” he said, the slender fingers of his free hand reaching out to tease at a nipple, which quickly hardened under the pads of his fingertips. He tapped it lightly twice before rolling it gently under his fingers, watching as Oberyn’s breathing quickened. Ellaria liked to touch him thus, Oberyn thought wildly to himself, and here was this beautiful young man doing the same things without any foreknowledge or forethought. “I merely saw an incredibly attractive man who had his eyes on me.”
Loras’s voice was filled with admiration; Oberyn was accustomed enough to praise, but he appreciated it nonetheless. For his part Loras allowed his hands to linger, the better to map the hard contours of the other man’s body. The prince they called the Red Viper was barely marked by battle, which to Loras’s mind proved his skill as an opponent, though some rational part yet cautioned that Oberyn Martell was said to poison his blades for the kill. But oh, how hard to be rational, how far away the thoughts of poison. If there was poison at work here it was the slow, drugging way Oberyn’s hand left his wrists in favour of tightening in the curls of his hair, slowly and inexorably forcing him to bare his throat further.
“And you knew me?” Loras continued their conversation from earlier. The words bobbed his Adam’s apple enticingly, and Oberyn leant down to lick a beadlet of sweat from the hollow of his throat. From there it was but a moment’s work to slide further down, his fingertips fitting in the divot of Loras’s back, his palms spanned against his waist, his mouth hot against Loras’s belly.
“I confess I did not,” Oberyn replied, the words fanning out against Loras’s stomach. He shivered at the sensation; delighted, Oberyn kept speaking simply for the satisfaction of seeing him twitch again and again. Loras was being delightfully responsive, and it would be the sheerest pleasure to see what reactions could be teased out of his slender, compact body. “But it was but a moment’s work to turn to someone and enquire about the handsome young man talking to Ser Jaime Lannister.”
“I would have asked after you too,” Loras said breathlessly, almost an admission: “Only then suddenly it all went wrong and I knew not if Margaery was in danger–”
“Shh,” Oberyn soothed. “I understand your concern for your sister.” I was once as concerned for mine, he did not say. “And besides, beautiful creature, you may repay the slight by telling me if there is oil or salve in your chambers.”
Loras shook with anticipation as he gestured to the small enameled pot on the bedside table. “That,” he said, and Oberyn rose with one fluid movement, seized the gilded pot and dipped his fingers in the salve.
Yes,Loras thought to himself, almost dizzy with desire. It had been a long time since anyone had taken him this way – not since Renly. Olyvar, yes, the squire, his mind returned him the image of the young man, long since gone from Loras’s life, but that had been done differently, not like this –
“Ah!” he cried out sharply, writhing as Oberyn suddenly thrust one long, hard finger into him. “Ah, that hurts, ah–”
“A little lesson, Loras,” crooned Oberyn, and Loras thrilled to the sound of it, his name in that Dornish accent, even as Oberyn withdrew the finger and thrust it viciously back in again. “To focus when you’re in bed with me.”
“Yes,” Loras panted, though whether he was agreeing or begging for more he could not tell precisely. It must have been good enough for Oberyn, though, because abruptly there were two fingers – more importantly, at the same moment a hot wet mouth suddenly closed around his cock and it was only with a truly superhuman effort that he did not buck, or come without warning, or any other of a dozen truly horrifying things. “Oh gods,” he cried, as Oberyn began to pump his fingers in time with the movements of his mouth.
“Prince Oberyn, please,” he begged.
“Hrmmm?” Oberyn asked, knowing full well what the soft vibrations against the boy’s sensitive head were doing. Already his fingers were white at the knuckles as he clenched the sheets.
“More,” Loras gasped.
Oberyn – ever the contrarian – pulled off Loras’s cock entirely, ignoring the whine that followed him, diving back in to nuzzle the boy’s balls as he pushed a third finger in, flicked his tongue over the delicate area just between his balls and his arse. Loras keened, his back wound tight as he raised his hips to meet those light flickers of tongue. The scratch of Oberyn’s beard against sensitive skin was driving him insane.
“Stop teasing me, please,” he ground out.
“I’ll do whatever I damn well please,” Oberyn purred, continuing to pump his fingers slowly in and out of Loras before dipping back down to continue the slow curl of his tongue and clever mouth against that most intimate of parts –
Loras groaned and let his thighs clamp down viciously, locking him in place just as he withdrew all three fingers and began to lick, pushing his tongue just inside the rim. “Nnmmph,” came the muffled sound; Oberyn glanced up as best as he could, what with the muscled thighs clamped around his ears – Loras had pressed his fist to his mouth, eyes screwed shut, desperately muffling himself even as Oberyn smirked in satisfaction and returned to the task at hand. Loras was tight, tighter than a woman, and the taste of the salve had the faint tingle of beeswax, as he pushed his tongue further and wormed a finger back in.
After what seemed like an eternity in which his whole world had narrowed down to the sheer intensity of Oberyn probing his arse with tongue and clever fingers, Loras heard the older man say, “Come here, Loras.”
“Yes,” he exhaled, clambering shakily to his hands and knees as Oberyn sat back on his haunches, mouth wet and swollen. He looked like he wanted a kiss, so Loras gave it to him, hot and wet and sliding with spit and the beeswax salve, how thrilling it was to think where that clever mouth had just been. And then Oberyn broke away and whispered, “Suck me,” and Loras made a greedy little noise in the back of his throat and dropped to his elbows in front of Oberyn, opening his mouth and sliding down in one smooth stroke.
Oberyn hissed in pleasure as Loras glanced up coyly at him. “Little minx,” he said approvingly, as Loras hollowed his cheeks and began to bob up and down in earnest. “How many cocks have you sucked, hmm? No, don’t answer,” he groaned, fisting one hand in those soft curls again to keep the boy down. “Let me believe in your… natural talents, shall we say?”
Loras managed a smile, and Oberyn brought a thumb to the corner of that red, red mouth, stroking the skin stretched taut around him. “Come, lover, enough,” he crooned, and Loras backed off slowly, ducking back in for just a teasing lick or two, as though wanting just that one taste more. “On your back,” Oberyn growled, and the boy went, falling backwards and spreading his knees open.
“They say the young Knight of Flowers is good with a sword,” Oberyn taunted.
Loras flashed him a quicksilver smile, and before he even realised, the boy had scrambled up – pounced – pinned Oberyn to the bed without pause. Even as Oberyn’s own reflexes kicked in and he pushed up and bore the boy off-balance with his superior weight, Loras had anticipated him already and offered no resistance, so that they rolled a complete turn and ended with Loras still on top, grinning close enough to brush noses.
“The young Knight of Flowers fights more battles than you would think, Prince Oberyn of Sunspear,” Loras whispered, and oh, Oberyn would punish him for his impudence later, spank the boy until his arse glowed and he begged to come, but for now all he could focus on was the ecstasy on Loras’s face as he reached behind to grasp Oberyn’s cock, holding it steady as he slid slowly, slowly, excruciatingly down, all heat and wet and tightness –
“Mmnah,” came the nonsense syllable, tumbling from the boy’s mouth as he got himself fully seated, and then Oberyn could take it no more and surged up.
Loras whimpered, tightening up – he hadn’t realised how full he would feel again, after all those long months without this particular pleasure. Oberyn Martell had broken his hold – not that he had been trying very hard, after all – and was now sitting half upright, hands braced on the bed, slowly but surely bucking into him, Loras’s own hips rising and falling in tandem with his own as he clutched at Oberyn’s shoulders.
“Oh gods it feels good,” Loras blurted, turning his face to mouth at Oberyn’s neck, his fingers sliding on sweat as he dug blunt nails into Oberyn’s back.
Oberyn chuckled lightly, giving a particularly hard thrust in response. Ah, but gods, he’s so tight, Oberyn thought to himself, and the sweet, almost involuntary little sighs as Oberyn moved inside him – “Of course it does. I’m known for this in Dorne.”
“Such – arrogance –” Loras gasped out between moans, laughter in his voice. “Hardly befitting – ah – a gentleman – don’t you – ah, oh – think, Prince Oberyn?”
“Mm, false modesty does no one any favours,” Oberyn purred, stroking gently down the boy’s back, dipping his fingers gently into the crevice between his buttocks, reaching down to where they were joined, as Loras gasped again to feel yet another touch just there. “I plan to acquire a similar reputation in King’s Landing, soon enough.”
“You are staying here, then?” Loras asked, his lips searching for a kiss. Oberyn obliged almost helplessly, bringing that reddened mouth to his own.
“And does that please you?” he asked, breaking the kiss and rolling them over in one smooth motion. He grabbed for a pillow and put it under Loras’s hips, then seized both ankles and dragged him wide open, legs wishboned apart. He took the barest moment to take it all in – the black-blown pupils of Loras’s eyes, the slight redness around his stretched hole, the rise and fall of a slender, well-muscled chest, the smooth arch of his back and his smoother skin – before he positioned himself and slid back in with a single, sharp thrust.
Loras shouted – so loud that someone must have heard, Oberyn thought amusedly to himself – and almost immediately began begging, without even the slightest touch of hesitation. “Oh, please, there, Prince Oberyn, mm, there, oh, there, please don’t stop –”
“Shh, how noisy you are,” Oberyn murmured, leaning down to nip at an ear, bending Loras almost entirely in half. “You will have half the castle at your door.”
Loras quietened, though he continued to writhe as best as he could with his movements so thoroughly restricted. “How could it not – ah, please, yes – how could it not please me,” he asked, guileless and wide-eyed, “I merely thought that the Dornish contingent was – mm, oh yes – merely here for the wedding –”
“Contingent?” Oberyn mocked lightly, picking up the pace, vaguely but increasingly aware that pleasure lurked, waiting, just on the horizon and gaining rapidly. “You and your fancy Southern phrases,” he said. “Still very coherent for someone being fucked in the arse, Loras. Let me try and remedy that.”
The next thrust moved the bed – the whole heavy construction of wood and featherdown skittered an inch across the floor, and Loras’s eyes were wide with shock and pain and pleasure as Oberyn hitched him up a touch and began pounding in earnest. For a while there, there were no other noises other than the slap of flesh against flesh and soft cries of pleasure, and then Loras cried out, “I’m close, please, Prince Oberyn–”
“Yes,” Oberyn gritted out, “Come for me, then, lover, look at me – look at me, I want to see your face as you come –”
Oh gods, Loras thought wildly. He found it oddly difficult to meet Oberyn’s gaze, those dark eyes staring so fixedly at Loras. He felt intimately aware of how obvious his flush was against his skin, and the frown of pleasure that had overtaken him minutes ago, ever since Oberyn had pulled him wide open and slid back into him –
He looked away. “I can’t,” he whispered, turning his head, only to find a gentle but inexorable hand on his chin, a finger brushing lightly against the corner of his mouth, turning him back to face the older man. “Yes you can,” Oberyn said, and damn the bastard, he stilled inside Loras, hot and heavy and ah, the pressure of it –
“Look at me,” Oberyn commanded then, and when he reached down to grasp Loras’s cock and began moving again Loras knew it was too much, “I’m coming ohgodpleaseyes just – more – there –“
Orgasm took him like a tide – he was almost helpless with the pleasure as Oberyn’s grasp wrung the orgasm out of him. The world had narrowed down to Oberyn braced over him and he felt himself trembling like prey in the sights of a viper as Oberyn growled low and thrust once, twice more, burying himself deep inside him, never taking his eyes off Loras even as he came, his jaw locked tight and tension written on his brow.
For a long moment neither of them spoke or even moved; Oberyn panted lightly and watched the little hitches in Loras’s breath, finding the little breaks in his composure oddly thrilling. He withdrew slowly, savouring the last clinging heat of the boy’s body, then collapsed beside him. Loras obligingly edged further to the side to give him space. For a while neither of them spoke, and then Loras stirred beside him.
“So I shall see you again, if you remain in King’s Landing?” he asked.
“I will,” Oberyn replied. “I trust you will remember me fondly to your brother Willas?”
“Willas speaks most highly of you,” Loras mused. “It would be remiss of me not to write to him and tell him of my encounter with Prince Oberyn of Dorne.”
“So long as he continues to speak well of me after your missive,” Oberyn said wryly.
“Well, that will depend on whether you manage to convince me to sing your praises,” Loras retorted, grinning.
“Impudent creature,” Oberyn laughed, his hands coming automatically up to stroke Loras’s back as he clambered up to hover over Oberyn, nibbling gently at the line of his jaw. “Again? I’m too old for this,” he teased. “And besides, I would not keep you from whatever urgent task your sister has entrusted to you.”
“Oh, ‘tis nothing of import,” Loras said lightly, refusing to rise to the bait and instead continuing to lay a trail of kisses down Oberyn’s neck. “If not now, then when? Shall I count on Dorne’s continued presence in King’s Landing for the near future?”
“Some will return to Sunspear, but I am staying,” Oberyn said, the calluses on his hand rough against smooth skin as he stroked Loras’s flank. “You must come and meet Ellaria.”
“I would be delighted to,” Loras replied. “But what keeps you in King’s Landing?”
“Family,” Oberyn replied, thinking of Elia. “The interests of Dorne,” he added, thinking of Tywin Lannister’s offer.
“Oh?” Loras asked, the syllable hanging delicately in the air.
“Stop fishing for information that I won’t give,” Oberyn said, bringing his hand down on Loras’s arse with a sharp smack. He was not altogether surprised, but still extremely pleased when Loras jerked against him with a low cry and looked at him with a fresh hunger in his eyes.
“You liked that, hmm?”
“Yes,” Loras said, pressing closer against him, his mouth closing against Oberyn’s. Oberyn let him lead the kiss this time, all languorous and wet and warm.
Oberyn broke the kiss. “Next time, then,” he promised, and grinned at the hunger in Loras’s eyes.