And So We Sing in Elegies -- Chapter 7
Oberyn Martell x reader
A/N: Me: *promises regular chapter updates and consistent activity*
Me, immediately after: *disappears for two months*
Lol I'm a clown, thank you all for your patience. Enjoy this chonky chapter! (And btw, I recommend listening to "Amy" from the 2019 Little Women OST during the second block/portion of this chapter. It's cute.)
Word count: 7k
Warnings: none
“You cheated,” was the first thing Oberyn said when he slowed to a stop at your side, now well past the city gates.
You couldn’t fight the grin that broke out on your face, lopsided and cheeky. “Oh, did I?” Your breath came out in quick pants--riding a sprinting horse for quite some time, especially one like Sheridan, could take a lot out of a rider. It was worth it, though, if only to feel the wind in your face and hear Oberyn’s laugh behind you.
“I argue,” he pressed, “that calling someone back under the pretense that you need assistance is cheating, my dove.” He tugged his wind-ruffled hair from his eyes, and you could see how he fought to stifle his amusement. He was referring to a few miles back--when you slowed your horse slightly and called for his aid, and then, once he turned around and grew near enough, you pushed Sheridan into a sprint and darted past him with a wink. It was enough to give you a hefty lead, and hearing Oberyn’s shouts of protest was definitely worth it.
“The first rule in facing an opponent is to not get distracted, my prince,” you laughed. “You should know such things, you taught me that yourself.” Oberyn huffed, giving you a dead-eyed stare as you grinned. He was quite the competitive one; you weren’t surprised to see him sulking.
“I demand a rematch,” he insisted. You giggled.
“Absolutely not.”
“You distracted me.”
“Perhaps,” you shrugged. “But you did fall for it, and I did reach the gates first.”
At that, Oberyn grumbled, something about cheater and mercy spilling from his lips. He was much too prideful to verbally admit defeat--but he didn’t argue further, and you knew that it was his version of concedement.
You threw him another grin. He only glared more.
Sheridan’s muscles shifted beneath you when you pushed him into a slow walk again, heading upwards to the building that loomed before you. Oberyn followed soon after, and you looked behind you to see the cavalcade--the one you left in the dust so long ago--barely reaching the first of the gates. They weren’t likely to catch you both at this point, but you’d meet them at the palace eventually.
The Tower of the Sun was a large, cream-colored building, with a dome of gold and stained glass windows that, during the right time of day, turned the throne room into an array of bright and vibrant colors. It was the room that held two near-twinlike seats on a dais--one for Oberyn, and the other for Doran--and the room that was used the most when they both were in Sunspear. It connected to the rest of the large, spacious palace of marbled floors and wide halls, all which overlooked the sea beyond and the city below.
It was a place that never failed to take your breath away.
For the most part, the gates all but hid the rest of the city from view, but you could still catch brief glimpses of the area surrounding you. The Threefold Gates cut directly through the wealthiest part of Sunspear, occupied by those who most benefited from the coast’s fishing industry and fertile lands. The wealthy had an air of snobbery around them, though, and so you always tried to avoid that area of the city. The times you found yourself there . . . hadn’t been pleasant.
You and Oberyn eventually ended up at the Old Palace stables, and you were greeted by a group of stableboys that took Sheridan and Alerah from you both and helped you unsaddle the horses. The rest of the caravan arrived a few minutes later, and you raced to take the well-wrapped box back from the guard you had entrusted it with earlier. Luckily, it was relatively unscathed--save some sand caught in the protective cloth.
Oberyn appeared at your side the moment you collected all your things, having walked up to you so quietly that you nearly jumped at his voice. “Should I bother asking what it is you’re hiding so thoroughly?” he asked, motioning to the box.
“I wouldn’t,” you shrugged, and you grinned when he let out a dramatic, childlike sigh.
He opened his mouth to speak, then--likely to protest further about keeping secrets--but then a voice sounded behind you, calling his name. You turned around to see a short, dark-haired figure in the doorway near the end of the stables--one that led to a long, stone hallway before eventually leading to the rest of the palace.
“Prince Doran requests your presence,” the woman called. Oberyn sighed.
“I step one foot into the palace and my brother sends for me,” he muttered, but you could hear the slight softness in his voice. “Rather unsurprising, if you ask me.” And then he turned to you, his brows lifted and his expression kind. “I’ll be seeing you this evening, yes?”
“Of course,” you told him--though, if you were honest with yourself, you weren’t necessarily sure you would. The palace was sure to be in a frenzy over tomorrow’s preparations, and you still needed to meet with Bronswell to retrieve Oberyn’s outfit and make sure the guest rooms were ready--
Though, Ellaria and the girls were arriving this evening, you reminded yourself. You’d force yourself to make time for them all, if you had to.
“Wonderful,” he responded, and he threw you a wink over his shoulder as he followed the servant into the halls. “Don’t run yourself ragged, though, my dove,” he called. “I’d loathe to peel you off my chamber floors again.”
You rolled your eyes as he laughed.
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The rest of the day was, unsurprisingly, chaotic. After visiting Oberyn’s rooms to make sure everything was in order and stopping by Bronswell’s quarters to see Oberyn’s completed evening attire, you took to helping some of the staff prepare the palace decorations. Though the main corridors, the gardens, and the dining hall were to be prepped for a crowd, the greater part of the evening would be spent outside in the courtyard--a large, spacious area towards the end of the palace that overlooked the sea. It was there that most of the flowers were to be placed, the garlands and lanterns hung, and the candles scattered throughout. There was to be a band playing that evening, too, as Oberyn had a fondness for the violin. And the flute. And the cello.
You worked with a group of others until well after the evening fell, giving you time to light the lanterns and set them up in the best areas to illuminate the courtyard. You were able to set up a small makeshift dais, too, adorned in garlands and vases of pale pink tea roses that were sent in from the north a day or so prior. You also placed a few wicker baskets near the dais’ daybed, as you knew from previous experiences how much the attendees loved to give gifts. And how many trips you had to make during the past celebrations to store them in his room.
Despite the chaos, however, everything seemed to be going smoothly. You had more than enough hands available for the work, and everything went exactly as planned, much to your relief. Perhaps if you finished your duties fast enough, you would be able to spend time with Oberyn and the others--hopefully.
An hour or so after the sun set and when evening had just begun to grow a little chilly, you were in the process of setting up a few more bouquets of roses around the courtyard when you heard your name being called.
Well, shouted, really.
You swiveled on your heel to find Oberyn and three others standing near one of the entrances, one a little shorter than the rest--but you weren’t able to make out anything more before a dark-haired figure ran directly into the lower half of your body, knocking the wind out of you. And then, before you could stable yourself, a second, slightly smaller force came ramming into you, and you nearly toppled over.
A small ‘oof’ escaped you as you stumbled back, and you reached down to clutch at your stomach--only to find a small, curly-haired head in your way. You grinned.
“Birdie!” Dorea squealed, her voice muffled by your dress. A smaller, higher-pitched voice echoed the nickname, and you looked down to see Loreza at your side, clutching you and Dorea both.
You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you. “Oh, my loves,” you breathed, detaching the girls’ hands long enough to kneel down in front of them. They each wore matching smiles on their faces, and it made your heart warm. You hadn’t seen them both in a year now--nearly to the day, as the last time they came to the Old Palace was on Oberyn’s name day the year prior. Oberyn visited them often in Lemonwood, of course, but you rarely went with him.
Since you’d last seen her, Dorea had begun to grow out of her youthful face. Her features became more prominent and defined, growing into her father’s eyes and her mother’s nose. Her mess of black curls fell just below her shoulders now, and you could see a spattering of dark freckles forming along her nose and cheeks, much more prominent than they were before. She was dressed similarly to her sister, adorned in a simple white tunic and brown trousers--though, unlike Loreza’s, her pants and shoes were splotched with dirt.
Despite Loreza’s clean clothes, however, she seemed rather unkempt, with her tunic untucked and her curls falling out of her braid. She seemed rather out of breath, too, as if she had been racing through the halls of the palace--or, more likely, sprinting in circles around her sisters. She tended to get overly excited in new environments, though. It wasn’t surprising to see her fluttering hands and bouncing feet.
Loreza giggled when you reached over to tap the tip of her nose. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen my little sprites.”
“Papa said he gave you our letters,” she said, grinning from ear to ear.
“Of course he did,” you told her, softening as you remembered what Oberyn had delivered to you a few months earlier. It had been addressed to Birdie, written in much neater handwriting than Dorea or Loreza’s--likely Obella’s. The contents contained a message from Elia and Obella, a poem from Dorea, and a small, messy lead drawing from Loreza. You had put it in your bedside drawer for safekeeping, and you looked at it often.
“Papa told us that you’ll come see us on his next trip, too,” a small, slightly deeper voice sounded behind the two girls, and you looked up to see Obella walking towards you all with a spring in her step. She, like Dorea, had grown into her features more, taking after her father with her brown, wavy hair and sharp jaw. She had a glint in her eye, too--a fiery spirit that she surely had also gotten from Oberyn. Unlike her sisters, however, she was dressed in a long, flowing dress, the orange color sitting nicely against her skin.
“Oh, did he now?” You raised a brow, and Obella giggled as she shrugged.
A taller and slightly leaner figure appeared at your side then, and you looked over to see a young woman with a tight braid and dark freckles staring daggers at her sister. “That was supposed to be a secret, Bella,” Elia huffed, her hands clasped behind her back as she bounced on the balls of her feet. Her face only softened once Obella grumbled in defeat, and you laughed.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” you winked at Elia, “I never heard a thing.”
“You never heard what?” a deep voice sounded behind the four girls, and you lifted your head to see Oberyn walking towards you all, a pair of familiar women trailing just a few feet behind.
“Nothing, my prince,” you shrugged. At your feet, Dorea and Loreza both giggled.
Oberyn hummed but didn’t speak more, instead stepping aside with a smirk and motioning to the two women behind him: Ellaria Sand, and her consort, Rhaea.
Rhaea was a beautiful woman with dark skin and wild curls from Southshore, who had met Ellaria when the woman came to visit the area a few years ago. She was a few years Ellaria’s elder--something that most people found odd, given how her youthful look never seemed to fade--and had a beauty that, if you were honest with yourself, made warmth rush to your cheeks the moment you saw her.
She was dressed in a flowing white dress and high-laced sandals, coupled with a few bracelets and a pair of earrings--and at her side, Ellaria was dressed similarly, albeit in orange instead of white. Ellaria’s hair was a bit shorter since you had last seen her, with her cheekbones more defined and her eyes a little brighter. Still, though, she looked just as joyous and beautiful as ever.
She stepped forward when you did, holding her arms out for you and calling your name. “My dear, it has been so long,” she hummed, drawing you in for a kiss on both cheeks. “I’ve missed you so.”
“Likewise,” you told her as she pulled you into an embrace, and you couldn’t fight the warmth growing within your chest. “I’ve missed seeing your faces around.”
You pulled away to see Rhaea near Oberyn’s side, and she bowed her head and held her hands out to you as she approached. Her fingers were soft as she squeezed your own, her expression even softer when she met your gaze. “Rhaea,” she told you. “It’s a pleasure.”
You found yourself fidgeting under her stare, your face growing hot as she dropped your hands. “I’ve heard so much about you,” you breathed, and she grinned.
“And I you,” she said. “I admit, though, I’m slightly disappointed to see that Loreza’s tales of you having a bird’s wings are false.” You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you--it seemed that the girl had taken your nickname a little too literally. Though, it wasn’t unlike her.
“If only,” you chuckled, and you lowered your hand to give Loreza’s head a soft pat. In response, she nuzzled into your side a little more. You caught the way Rhaea and Ellaria both watched her movement closely, something soft and warm creeping onto their expressions.
Ellaria hummed. “I hope our prince here hasn’t been running you too ragged,” she commented, throwing you a wink. “The busybody seems to forget that his workload bleeds onto his attendants’ plates, too.”
At that, Oberyn scoffed. “You think so lowly of me?” At his side, Elia let out a quiet giggle, covering it with the back of her hand.
“Sometimes,” Ellaria grinned. “Only when your pride grows a little too high.” You held back a laugh at Oberyn’s subsequent grumbling.
You had opened your mouth to speak, ready to join in on Ellaria’s teasing--but then she pulled Rhaea’s hand to her side, resting it in the crook of her arm, and you found the comment dying in your throat as you paused.
The conversation continued on, all three of them caught up in teasing and laughter, and you flicked your gaze between the three of them in earnest, but you couldn’t grasp onto their words. You couldn’t pull your thoughts from it--at how Rhaea squeezed Ellaria’s arm and sidled closer to her, how the latter folded her spare hand over Rhaea’s in response, how they both just kept on speaking was the most natural thing in the world--all of it.
It all just made you . . . hesitate.
They loved each other, deeply and passionately; that much was obvious. You could see it in their stares, their touches, their words. And since they had been together for quite some time, you had anticipated to see some level of that love flowing between them when you saw them together. But still--something about that touch, that intimacy of just one, singular gesture . . . it caught you off guard.
When was the last time you had seen something like that for yourself?
A small tap on your hip pulled you from your reverie, and you glanced over to see Obella looking at you curiously, a quiet question on her face. You swallowed.
Had your thoughts been so obvious?
Her concern seemed to fade when you smiled softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m alright. I was just lost in thought for a moment,” you explained. She leaned into your hand and gave you a smile of her own--but something in her expression told you she didn’t believe you.
“. . . wasn’t too warm, thankfully,” Ellaria was saying, and you looked up just in time to see her tap the side of Oberyn’s face. “Lucky you, not having a summer name day--nor one during the rainy months, too. A couple more weeks and your precious celebrations would be ruined.”
“Ah, a prince without his parties,” Oberyn mused. “What a loathsome sight.” He ruffled Dorea’s hair from where she was leaning against his side, which earned a giggle from the girl. In response, Oberyn grabbed her by the waist and picked her up. That one earned a squeal.
You snorted at his comment--and at the way he pretended to swoon, as if the image of him without yearly celebrations in his honor was such a wretched idea to imagine. “Thank the gods for smiling upon me, I suppose. I’d hate to bear the brunt of your tantrums every year.” You shot Oberyn a look as you spoke--you both knew exactly what instance you were referring to. He winked at you when you did so, and it only confirmed it.
A quiet, airy laugh fled from Rhaea’s lips, and she bowed her head as she fought to contain it. You felt a smile creeping onto your face as Ellaria raised Rhaea’s hand to her lips and kissed it.
Oberyn, however, let out an exaggerated cough, and pressed Dorea’s head against his shoulder in a sloppy attempt to cover her ears. “Careful, my dove, I wouldn’t talk negatively about me. You’ll only give my daughters even more ammunition.” One specific daughter, you thought, catching his implication immediately.
When he looked away, you reached down and tapped your knuckles against Obella’s own. She grinned.
You were about to tease him further--likely with the help of his daughters, no doubt--when you heard your name called from just behind you, earning a hush from the group. When you turned, you saw a couple of other servants you recognized from this morning standing in one of the exit doorways, one of whom had stepped forward to your side. When she gained everyone’s attention, she curtsied, acknowledging the prince, Ellaria, and Rhaea--calling the latter two M’Lady, which earned a snicker from Elia.
The servant girl turned to you then, folding her hands in front of her as she spoke your name. “If you’re able, the seamstress would like your assistance,” she told you. You sighed. Bronswell had a habit for last-minute alterations; she likely wished for your opinion again.
“It seems like you have your hands full this evening,” Ellaria teased once the girl had left, retreating back to the group before disappearing around the corner.
Oberyn hummed, rubbing a hand down Dorea’s hair. “We shouldn’t keep you,” he said. And, albeit begrudgingly, you agreed.
It was an effort to unclasp Loreza’s fingers from your dress, but eventually you managed to free yourself and took slow, measured steps backwards. You looked them all over. “I’ll see you all soon, alright?”
“Absolutely,” Ellaria smiled. Rhaea, Obella, and Elia all offered you a small parting wave in farewell as you turned around, Lorea and Doreza’s joyous laughs echoing in your ears as you headed for the exit.
You left the courtyard smiling.
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“You’re here rather early,” was the first thing you heard when you walked through Oberyn’s chamber doors the next afternoon, carrying a trunk in your arms. Unsurprisingly, you were summoned early that morning to continue prepping for the celebration, and you’d been running around the palace all day. Guests were expected to arrive for supper a few hours before sunset--which, luckily, you didn’t have to involve yourself with--before moving to the courtyard for the rest of the evening. Knowing past events, it would likely continue until the sun rose and well after you retired to bed. But you wouldn’t concern yourself with any after-party matters now--you already had too much on your hands as it was.
Oberyn was sitting on his bed when you pushed open the door, speaking with two people you recognized as his other hand-servants: Anthor and Dawn, a pair of twins a few years younger than yourself. Given that they worked solely at the Old Palace, you rarely met with them--maybe once or twice a year, only when it was absolutely necessary. They didn’t speak much, preferring to work in silence--to the point where you practically had to pry their names out of them during your first meeting. Still, though, they were kind. Thoughtful. Hardworking. Much more suited for the position you all held than you were.
The pair of them bowed their heads in greeting when you entered. “I found some spare time,” you answered Oberyn. “And I’m not sure how long painting will take me, so I’d rather finish early than risk making you late.”
Oberyn hummed. You took to setting up your things on his vanity as he finished speaking with the twins, and you turned your head just in time to see the pair bow their heads and step away. Anthor went straight to the chamber doors, and Dawn slipped into the bathing room--both so quiet that you barely heard the shuffle of their clothing. Anthor likely went to fetch Oberyn’s clothing from the seamstress, and Dawn . . .
“Have you bathed yet?” you asked, turning back to your things. You unlatched the clips holding the trunk closed and it popped open, revealing multiple cantilever trays holding your supplies. You pulled a few things out--some brushes, an empty cup, a towel, your sketchbook, and a small stone box--before moving it away, setting the trunk on Oberyn’s work desk.
“I am about to, actually,” he answered. “Dawn is drawing me a bath.” Sure enough, you heard the sound of a faucet squeaking in the other room, and then the sound of running water. You knew that the scent of lavender and sweet orange would soon follow.
“If you need me to--”
“No need to rush, my prince,” you told him over your shoulder. You were aware of exactly what he was going to say--that he’d hurry bathing if you needed more time to work on him--and you shut him down immediately.
“In fact, I forgot one of my brushes down in my chambers, so I’ll fetch it while you’re in there.” An obvious lie; you had double checked everything you needed before you came--triple checked, even--so you were sure you weren’t missing any tools. But you didn’t want to pressure him to rush on your account; it was his name day, after all. Everything should revolve around his schedule, not the other way around.
Plus, he had a tendency to walk around in the nude, and the last time you accidentally saw his rear, you tripped on your face in an attempt to flee the room.
So you were positive you could find something to pass the time until he’d finished bathing, if only to avoid having to repeat the past.
“If you insist,” Oberyn shrugged, and you were relieved to see that he didn’t notice you practically sprinting out the door.
Instead of heading towards your chambers, however, you made your way back towards the courtyard, sure that the servants there wouldn’t complain about having an extra pair of hands. It was just about noon, and guests were to be arriving in a few hours--so you were certain that everyone was already scrambling around to complete last-minute preparations.
You had just reached one of the open entryways to the courtyard when someone called your name from behind, and you turned your head to see a girl practically sprinting towards you. Another servant from the Water Gardens--one of the housemaids, if you remembered correctly.
She skidded to a stop when she reached you, a bundle of tea roses in the crook of her arm and a flustered look on her face. Strands of dark hair had fallen from her bun and brushed against her cheeks, and she frantically wiped them away with a free hand.
“You’re Prince Oberyn’s handmaiden, yes?” she asked, the words rushed and airy. She breathed a sigh of relief when you nodded.
“Wonderful. Well, there’s a handful of tea roses that arrived from the North,”--she waved the bouquet of flowers at you--”but they’re the wrong colors. And I’ve been tasked to put them somewhere, but I can’t find a good place for them without them looking odd, so I thought that perhaps you could put them in the prince’s private chambers, or his study, or even--”
You cut her off with a small laugh, taking the roses from the girl’s hands before she shook them to death. Sure enough, they were a mix of light blue--something you hadn’t seen in quite some time, given that they never grew naturally--and a pale lavender. You wondered how something so precious got mixed up in the shipments. “Don’t worry,” you soothed. “I’m sure the prince would love them.” In fact, you knew he would; after years of studying in the citadel, Oberyn knew plants and their meanings like the back of his hand. You were certain that he would find the meaning behind those flowers--and perhaps the meaning of why they were here, of all places--interesting.
At that, the girl visibly relaxed, and you nearly chuckled at her response. It was cute, that she seemed so frazzled over something so trivial. But she looked fairly young, and she had an almost lost expression on her face, as if she was still getting her bearings. She was likely new.
You hummed. “What’s your name, my dear?”
“Isla,” she told you immediately, and you responded with your own. She began to bow once you spoke, her head lowering slightly--
You caught her chin with the tip of your finger and lifted her head back up. “No need for that, Isla,” you tsked. “I’m of no higher standing than you.”
A feeling of guiltiness, almost, rose within your chest when she tried to bow, and you fought off a shiver. Having other servants refer to you as higher than them, more important . . . it always made you feel like a fraud. You worked for the royals, as did everyone else, and that was it.
You deserved no admiration because of your so-called status.
Isla frowned. “But you’re Prince Oberyn’s handmaiden--”
“Which provides me no official title,” you said. “. . . At least, none that actually counts.” You winked at her and withdrew your hand, and she looked down at her feet sheepishly.
“My apologies.” She spoke your name then--perhaps to see how it sounded coming from her own mouth, or perhaps to see your reaction when she said it--and sighed when you responded with a grin.
“It’s quite alright.” You looked down at the roses in your arms and fiddled with one of them for a moment--that is, before you remembered yourself, and you cleared your throat as you met her gaze again. “Well, I shouldn’t keep you,” you told her.
“Of course.” She began to bow again--but this time she caught herself and straightened, and her cheeks went red as you giggled.
“I’ll see you around, Isla,” you told her, and Isla offered a farewell and swiveled on her heel, heading back into the courtyard. You were about to turn around yourself, too, holding the roses a bit closer to your chest--but then you paused.
“And Isla?” you called, just as she was rounding the corner. She stopped and faced you almost immediately, a questioning look in her eyes--
“Remember to enjoy yourself this evening,” you told her. “This job isn’t all about work.”
Isla hesitated for a bit, but eventually she nodded.
“Of course,” she smiled.
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“What are those for?” Oberyn asked as you entered, dressed in a pair of leather trousers and a sleeveless white tunic as he sat at his vanity. At his sides were Anthor and Dawn, Anthor helping him with his jewelry and Dawn styling his hair. She seemed to be trying to bring out his curls as much as possible, only using a wide-toothed comb and her hands. It was a good look on him.
“They’re just some spare roses,” you replied, fiddling with the bouquet. “They arrived the wrong color, so a housemaid asked me if you would like them.” You found that Oberyn had just finished bathing when you returned earlier, and Anthor and Dawn had their hands full in helping him get ready, so you took it upon yourself to hunt down a spare vase and some sugar water while they finished up. You decided to set the roses atop Oberyn’s work desk for the time being, just until the vanity was cleared off.
“That I do,” he hummed, eyeing them when you stepped away from the desk. He kept staring at them until well after you walked to his side, preparing your brushes and paints as one of the twins fetched you a cup of water. You felt his gaze flick over to you once, then twice, before returning back to the flowers.
He was thinking--about what, you didn’t know. But you didn’t feel like questioning it.
The stone box you had pulled out from your trunk earlier was nestled against the vanity mirror, so you slid it towards you, untied the ribbons holding it shut, and pulled off the lid. Inside was a bowl, a miniature spoon, a small vial of alcohol, and an even smaller case of gold dust.
“Are you still set on using it?” Oberyn asked at your side, and you chuckled.
“I brought it here, if that gives you an answer.” He sighed in defeat.
The room fell silent as you and the twins continued working--Dawn finishing up Oberyn’s hair, Anthor helping him into his robes, and you preparing your supplies. Using the small spoon, you carefully scooped up a bit of dust and tapped it into the ceramic bowl, then mixed it with a few drops of alcohol. After a few moments, it turned into a thin paint.
“Ready?” Oberyn called, and you turned your head to see that both Dawn and Anthor had stepped away and began to tidy the rest of the room--likely just to give you space to work.
“Only if you are,” you told him--and then you raised a brow. “You’ll need to be an obedient canvas, my prince.” Oberyn smirked. “And what, exactly, does that entail?”
You huffed. “For one, no speaking, or moving,” you chided, motioning for him to move his chair back. You tapped the side of his knee with the end of your paintbrush, and he spread his legs wide enough for you to stand between them.
“And for another, no distracting me.” Which is already impossible, you wanted to say.
Unfortunately.
“No promises.” You tried to keep a straight face when he winked, but his responding grin told you that you failed--dramatically.
Grumbling, you flipped the paintbrush around in your hand and turned to the side, flicking your gaze between the bowl of paint and Oberyn’s face. You hummed under your breath--having to turn around every time you needed more paint would become irritating. Perhaps you could move the chair to rest against the side of the vanity, or simply turn it around so you could just reach past his shoulder--
“Something the matter?” Oberyn asked nonchalantly. He seemed rather content to sit and watch your mind run--shifting into your Masters Brain, as he labeled it.
You tune out the world when you work, he had told you once.
It’s intriguing to watch.
You sighed.
“Ah, what the hell,” you mumbled--and then you pushed your tools to the side, lifting yourself onto the vanity. You motioned for him to move closer, but he hesitated.
He lifted a brow. “What happened to propriety?” he quipped.
“You and I both know that propriety gets thrown to the pigs when my work is concerned,” you said. Which was true--you’d painted nude men and women countless times, and you’d climbed atop unstable objects and folded yourself into odd positions simply to get the right angle on a piece you wanted. All things that, if it hadn’t been for your art, you would have shied away from in an instant.
Surely, if you could handle studying male anatomy in detail, you told yourself, you could handle sitting so close to Oberyn Martell.
A breathy chuckle fled the prince’s lips, but he remained silent as he moved his chair closer to you. Your legs dangled off the edge of the vanity, resting between his own, with your bowl of paint and cup of water near your thigh and spare towel in your lap. Oberyn’s arms rested in his lap, fingertips fiddling with his rings, adjusting the cuffs of his robe--
And just as quickly as it came, you felt your resolve crumble in an instant.
You bowed your head to avoid his gaze, thumbing through your sketchbook so he couldn’t see the slight tremble in your fingers. And you choked on a sigh, too, hoping that he couldn’t hear the thrumming underneath your skin or the urge to flee tugging at your bones--
Despite it all, you forced yourself to swallow everything back, and you reminded yourself that it was for work until you managed to get your skittishness under control.
You met his gaze--and slowly, ever so slowly, reached for his face. “No moving,” you reminded him. Rule one.
Oberyn didn’t respond--only stared at you with lowered eyelids and quiet breathing.
When you touched his face, his skin was soft.
You hadn’t gotten so close to him in quite some time--at least, not in a way that was more than casual. You had touched his hands often, held them even, and you had brushed your fingers against his arm, but never his face. Never the skin of his cheek, or the curve of his brow, or the bend of his nose. Never like . . . this.
Your chest began to ache.
“Close your eyes,” you told him. He obeyed.
He flinched slightly when he felt the cold of your paintbrush above his cheekbone, leaning slightly into the hand that cupped his jaw before immediately correcting himself. The gold paint glided against his skin smoothly and without flaw--something that relieved you, as it made for less paint to use.
And less time to be here, you thought.
Less time to . . . control yourself.
You swallowed.
It took quite some time to force yourself to zone out--but eventually you were successful, and you found Oberyn Martell fading into a mere canvas as you began to paint. The world around you grew silent, the shuffling of clothes and feet and fabric dwindling into a steady, distant hum. All that existed was you, the paintbrush, and a smooth expanse of skin.
The design was simple: a shining sun in the middle of his forehead, a thin line leading from his lower lip to just above his chin, and a handful of staggered lines curving across the skin beneath his eyes to resemble streaks of light. It was straightforward, relatively easy.
Oberyn, ever the obedient listener, remained quiet and unmoving, letting your free hand dance across his face while you worked. Everything was peaceful; Dawn and Anthor had disappeared somewhere when you began painting, leaving the room in relative quiet as you completed the sun on Oberyn’s forehead and the sunrays under his eyes.
And for a while, you felt . . . calm.
But then, just as you began to finish up the line from his chin to his lower lip, you felt warm, broad fingers brush against your leg--a light and fleeting touch, stretching across the skin of your ankle before disappearing.
And just like that, your focus shattered.
Before you knew it, your paintbrush dragged a sloppy, jagged line from the bow of his lips to the side of his nose, barely stopping below the designs you had just finished. Oberyn’s eyes shot open, and he jerked back and retracted his hand in an instant. And it was as if your knee-jerk reaction yanked him out of some sort of reverie--from some state so relaxed that he didn’t realize he had been touching you until you jumped.
“Shit,” you cursed under your breath, scrambling to set down your paintbrush and wipe off the stray mark with your towel. “I apologize, my prince, I was caught off guard--”
Oberyn raised a hand, signalling for you to stop--or, in your case, to at least slow down. “It’s alright,” he said, pressing his knuckles against the side of your arm. “No need to apologize. I was the one that frightened you, after all. I overstepped.”
“You didn’t frighten me, I promise. I was simply too focused on my work and just reacted poorly to your movements--”
“Which means that I frightened you, dove.” He had retracted his hands farther away from you than you had anticipated, setting his palms against the chair’s armrests this time. Pressing his fingers into the wood, too--as if to prove he wouldn’t move them anymore. You fought the urge to sigh in relief.
However, the moment you opened your mouth to apologize again, he lifted a hand. “I’m not harmed, I just have a little more paint than anticipated,” he soothed. “That’s all.”
A soft, gentle smile pulled at the corners of his lips. And, miraculously enough, that one movement was enough to help you relax and soothe your frazzled nerves--at least a little.
Before you could help yourself, though, you chuckled. Oberyn lifted a brow.
“You look rather silly.”
He still had his hands pressed against the armrests when he leaned over to look behind you, humming at his reflection in the mirror. “I do, don’t I.” Slowly, he picked up the scrap towel and dipped it in the water cup before wiping at his cheek, scrubbing away the mess you made.
“See? No harm done.” That is, except for the blotchy red line stretching across his cheek.
And your wounded pride.
A heady sigh fled from your lips when he settled back in his chair, and you ignored the look he gave you when you did so--the one you recognized as his sign that you were overthinking. That, despite what your mind told you, nothing was as dire as you made it out to be.
And for the most part, nothing really ever was. Including, much to your chagrin, the mistake you just made.
You huffed, leaning forward with your brush to clean up a few spots on his lower lip that had been smudged. “At least the designs weren’t affected,” you said, more to yourself than to him. He seemed satisfied with it.
The silence that followed, though pleasant, still made you stifle a shiver as you began to clean your supplies and stack them together. And, still hyperaware of Oberyn’s movements, you noted how he slid his seat away from you quite a ways before standing. You didn’t mention it, though, and pushed yourself off the vanity and packed your things away in the trunk.
Oberyn was standing near his chaise when you turned around again, and you saw as he fiddled with his rings as he looked at you expectantly.
“How do I look?” He tilted his head slightly, and a stray curl fell onto his forehead, nearly touching the design you had just painted.
You knew, though, that Oberyn was looking for an honest answer; he wanted you to point out anything that looked off, and he wanted you to tell him without hesitation, too. And so you looked him up and down--at the umber-colored pants and boots, the emerald rings and gold necklaces, the cream robe with a gold neckline, the gold patterns you had just painted. It all looked good--beautiful, even--but still, something was . . .
“Something is missing.” Oberyn raised a brow, noting your expression. You nodded.
Pulling your lip between your teeth, you tilted your head as you thought for a bit. And eventually, something came to mind. “. . . I have an idea,” you muttered.
Oberyn remained anchored to his spot when you walked around him, heading towards one of his bureaus and pulling open the topmost drawer. Inside were a few different velvet boxes, and you cracked open the lids, looking for the right one--
“This,” you spoke aloud as you pulled out the middle box, setting it atop the dresser and tugging off the lid completely. Inside was a thin, golden circlet, welded to look like yarrow leaves twisted together. You picked it up with delicate hands and returned to Oberyn’s side.
The prince remained silent when you placed the crown on him, the golden band settling high on his forehead and flatting some of his hair. You clicked your tongue at that and pulled a few strands free, letting his hair fall over some of the band so it looked more presentable.
Oberyn looked back up at you when you lowered your hands--and it was only then, when you felt his breath on your cheeks, that you realized how close you had gotten to the prince. Again.
“What about now?” he whispered. And before you thought twice, you reached up once more, tugging that singular stray curl free from the rest.
“Perfect,” you told him.
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