Hi Nova!
Oberyn Martell x Stark!reader x Ellaria Sand
Reader escape the Red wedding with her direwolf and she has a cut in her cheek. She take a ship without knowing it go to sunspear. The guards see them and take them to the Martell family. 🤍 You can choose how it ends!
I really love your stories and i was wondering if i could join your Oberyn Martell taglist? 👀
No One Left but Us
- Summary: After escaping the Red Wedding, your journey brings you to two people that have thirst for the same kind of vengeance you crave.
- Pairing: Oberyn Martell/stark!reader (x Ellaria Sand)
- Rating: Explicit 18+ (violence, blood, gore)
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial
- A/N: You will be added to the tag list for Oberyn. 🫶
The wind howled through the trees as if the gods themselves were wailing, a warning carried too late. You rode hard, your fingers white where they clenched the reins, the pounding of hooves beneath you nearly drowned by the thudding in your chest. Your cloak streamed behind you like a banner, dark as a raven’s wing, and your direwolf, Harrow, loped silently beside you—shadow and fang. You’d meant only to arrive late, to avoid the noise and spectacle of the feast at the Twins, to enter with quiet dignity after Robb’s bannermen had gorged themselves and settled. But the smell on the wind had turned your blood to ice long before the Twins came into view—smoke, iron, and blood. The stench of betrayal.
You crested the hill and saw it all at once. The red flames licking the night, screaming horses, the sounds of steel on steel, and worse—of flesh torn open, of children crying, of men dying with your family’s name on their lips. Stark. You could hardly breathe. The banners of House Frey flapped in the smoky air, joined by the golden lion of the Lannisters. Freys and Lannisters. Blood and ash. You knew then, with a clarity that shattered your heart into jagged pieces, that this was no battle. It was slaughter.
“No,” you whispered, too softly for anyone but Harrow to hear. He snarled, ears pinned back, his muzzle wet with the mist clinging to the riverbanks. “We’re too late…”
And then the first arrow hissed through the air.
You ducked instinctively, the shaft grazing your cheek and searing fire into your skin. Blood splattered your collar, warm and immediate. Harrow roared—yes, roared, not barked—and launched himself into the woods as more arrows thudded into trees and mud, some striking dangerously close. You kicked your horse’s flanks and bolted after him, your heart crashing like a war drum. A voice shouted behind you—"Stark! That one’s a Stark!"—but it was lost to the wind.
You didn’t know how long you rode. Minutes? Hours? Your limbs burned, your breath came in sobs. Harrow guided you more than you guided him. Eventually, the trees thinned and the shoreline opened before you, the river dark as pitch, wide and endless. A ship stood docked, sails unfurled, rocking gently. Lanterns swung from her bow. A voice called, rough and accented: “We set sail now! If you're not on, you're left behind!”
You didn’t think. There was no time to think. You spurred your horse forward and leapt from the saddle before the ship’s crew could turn you away, landing hard on the deck as Harrow bounded after you. The sailors reeled back at the sight of him—black-furred, eyes pale as ice, his mouth dripping froth and fury—but you rose to your feet and grabbed the nearest man by the sleeve.
“Please,” you rasped. Your voice cracked from smoke and screaming. “Please, just go. Don’t ask me why. Don’t ask my name. Just go.”
The man looked you over—saw your fine dress, now smeared with mud and ash, saw the cut on your cheek, still bleeding, saw the direwolf that stood pressed against your legs like a silent sentinel. Whatever he saw in your eyes, it made him nod.
“Aye, girl. You're not the first ghost to come aboard bleeding.” He gestured with two fingers. “Hoist anchor! Let the Twins burn.”
You collapsed against the railing as the ship lurched away from shore, the gentle splash of water against the hull a grim contrast to the chaos you’d left behind. The flames still burned in the distance, and you watched until they blurred, until you no longer knew if it was the fire that stung your eyes or the tears. Harrow pressed his nose to your hand and whined, low and soft. You buried your fingers in his thick fur, your body shaking.
“They’re gone,” you whispered. “Mother, Robb… even Grey Wind. They’re all gone.”
Your voice cracked on your brother’s name. Harrow whined again and laid his head on your lap. Somewhere behind you, a gull cried. The river widened, then became the sea. You didn’t know where the ship was headed, and you didn’t care. You only knew you couldn’t look back.
But still, you did.
And the fire still burned.
The voyage had been long, but the sea had offered you a strange kind of peace—cold, constant, and vast, like the grief that lived in your bones. The crew of The Sand Serpent had become your shield and solace in those drifting days, rough men and weather-worn women who had grown used to the silent girl cloaked in black, with hollow eyes and a direwolf that paced the deck like a guardian spirit. Harrow had terrified them at first. Now, they tossed him scraps from their meals and offered gruff greetings as they passed, always keeping a respectful distance. They never asked your name. They didn’t need to. They knew loss when they saw it. And you knew that even if you’d arrived on their deck bloodied and broken, you were safe among them.
The call of gulls and the scent of sun-warmed citrus greeted you as the ship glided into the harbor. Sunspear rose before you like a mirage—red sandstone towers rising in elegant coils from the bronze dunes, domed roofs glinting beneath the brutal Dornish sun. The breeze that swept across the port was dry but fragrant, carrying the smells of spiced wine, lavender oil, and roasted goat. It was nothing like the North, and the moment your boots touched the stone pier, the heat wrapped around you like a living thing, coaxing sweat from your skin beneath your heavy Northern furs.
“Gods, you’ll roast in that,” one of the sailors chuckled, nodding at your layered cloak. He hefted a barrel of olives onto his shoulder and winked at Harrow. “Though your beast don’t seem to mind.”
You glanced down. Harrow was already panting, tongue lolling from his mouth, but his tail twitched at your side as if he were trying not to look too impressed with the land of endless sun. You murmured, “We’ll find shade soon,” and scratched behind his ears, your voice quiet from disuse. He pressed against your legs in reply, watchful as ever.
The crew disembarked to unload their cargo, and you walked among the market stalls that clustered along the sun-baked streets near the docks. Everything shimmered in golds and reds, brilliant silks hanging from awnings like banners, the air thick with the perfume of crushed dates, mint, and exotic resins burning low in clay bowls. The vendors called out in a cacophony of tongues—Valyrian, the other various guttural tounges of Essos, and the singsong lilt of Dornish. You ran your fingers over baskets of ripe pomegranates, glazed amphorae, and blades curved like the crescent moon.
People stared at you, but not with cruelty. Your Northern face stood out among their tan skin and black curls, your pale cloak marking you as foreign as surely as your quiet posture did. Still, they didn’t look with suspicion—only curiosity. But one pair of eyes lingered longer than the rest.
“You walk like someone with ghosts at her heels,” came a voice—smooth as silk and sharp as a dagger. You turned, slowly, and found him standing beside a fig seller’s stall, leaning lazily against a pillar of sun-warmed stone.
Prince Oberyn Martell was unmistakable. He wore no armor, only a light, ochre tunic that left much of his chest bare, the fabric clinging to his lithe frame. His skin was sun-kissed, his lips curved into a knowing smile. A woman stood beside him, her arm looped easily through his. She was stunning in a way that left the air feeling too thick to breathe—long-limbed, wild-eyed, a vision in crimson silk with curls cascading down her back like a dark waterfall.
Ellaria Sand tilted her head, studying you. “You’re far from the snows of the North,” she said softly. Her gaze fell to Harrow, who stood rigid beside you, his fur bristling. “And not just a traveler. That beast… only one house raises wolves.”
You froze, every instinct screaming to flee. But your feet stayed rooted. You had nothing left to run to.
“I know you,” Oberyn murmured, stepping closer. “You were not at the feast, but your face—your eyes. You're a Stark.”
Your voice came out hoarse. “And if I am?”
“Then we mourn the same death,” Ellaria said. Her voice held sorrow, yes, but also fire. “The Red Wedding was not just your family's funeral. It was an insult to all who value honor. A dagger in the back of the world.”
Oberyn’s eyes narrowed, but not in suspicion. In understanding. “They butchered your kin at a feast. Slaughtered your brother beneath guest right, murdered your mother while she begged. And still you live. That is no accident.”
You blinked, mouth dry. “I was late.”
“Then perhaps the gods spared you for a reason,” he said. “Come with us.”
You shook your head instinctively. “I don’t even know where to go.”
Ellaria stepped forward, her fingers light as feathers when she touched your arm. “Stay with us. At the palace. You will have protection, comfort… and something more.”
You blinked. “More?”
“A chance to fight back,” Oberyn said. “A chance for justice. For vengeance. The Lannisters have touched my family with betrayal and blood before. They will do it again. But not if we burn them first.”
Ellaria smiled, slow and warm. “And you’re beautiful. Tragic. Fierce. Stay, and you won’t need to be alone with your sorrow. You can share our bed, our fight, our future.”
You opened your mouth, but the words caught. The market faded around you—the calls of merchants, the buzz of heat and sun—and all that remained were their eyes. His, bright with promise and passion. Hers, gentle and wild, like an oasis in the sand.
Harrow nudged your thigh and sat beside you. Silent approval.
And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you let out a breath. Not quite trust. But something close to hope.
“…Take me with you,” you whispered.
