The Heir & Her Dragon (Modern Arianne x Viserys)
As much as he loves cunt—and Prince Viserys Targaryen loves a tight, wet cunt more than most—nothing quite compares to having his cock swallowed by a strong jaw.
Gods know there's little to love in this miserable sand dune. You can't step outside for five bloody minutes without getting sunburned. Food that doesn't set your mouth and lower intestines on fire is too much to ask. Don't get him started on the vulgarity; the neon sports cars and the gaudy gold jewelry. The water's too hard, the wine too dry, and the women—not that he has access to women outside the palace, his jailers see to that—but he saw the dignitaries who clomped through the palace in their draped fabrics with their noses in the air as if they're Princess Nymeria reincarnated. If he were honest with himself, which he rarely is, he would admit they all remind him too much of the smirking bitch who has had his brother—king of one of the greatest dynasties the world has ever seen—by the hair of his balls for over 30 years. It's no wonder Dornish men know their way around cocks, they probably take it up the ass from their women.
The man between his legs this morning is Bedwyn. Literally, Bedwyn. Twenty-one with a firm ass and a jawline straight off a statue of the Warrior himself. He even knows how to use his teeth, the light scrape along the head before taking the full length back down his throat has release tingling in Viserys' balls. Fuck. He grabs a fistful of coarse black hair and bucks, groaning as Bedwyn gags around his dick. Gods, he's gonna spill down this little slut's throat. Or maybe on his face. He can just see his seed sliding down the young man's chiseled jaw…
Naturally, he doesn't notice Oberyn Martell, dressed in his signature black slacks, jacket, and shirt unbuttoned down to his clavicle, watching the action like it's a futbol game or the formula races the Dornish can't get enough of. That is, until Viserys finds his wet cock standing in the open air as Bedwyn scrambles around the suite for his clothes, stuttering apologies to "His Prince."
Smoke. That's what he needs. If he has to talk to this man while his balls shrivel like prunes, he refuses to be sober. Not when the memory of waking up tied to a chair in a damp basement with a sack over his head is never too far behind the sound of Oberyn's voice.
"It appears you have been a very bad dragon, Prince Viserys…"
He doesn't bother to cover himself. Fuck that—these are his quarters. Instead, he takes a long drag of sweet lotus leaf, blowing out tangy smoke as he finally speaks. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
For all the nonsense about him being a viper, Oberyn moves more like a jungle cat. Graceful, predatory, as he strolls in the room with a hand in his pocket. "I see you are enjoying Sunspear's charms."
"Few and far between that they are—FUCK!" Viserys snaps. Oberyn's snatched open the drapes, bathing the room in the harsh Dornish sunlight, revealing the empty vodka bottles, half-smoked joints, and haphazardly discarded clothes strewn about. Bedwyn never did get around to cleaning.
"Do you think Sunspear is your whore house, Viserys?"
From the man who littered the place with his byblows? "That's fucking rich," Viserys grumbles. When the room goes eerily silent and he finds Oberyn staring two black, beady viper eyes through his forehead, he realizes his carelessness. But he doesn't back down. Staring down an infamous psychopath or not, he is a prince of House Targaryen. He bows to no one.
A pesky voice in the back of his head reminds him he'll bow to his soon-to-be wife.
Not to-bloody-fucking-day.
Despite the twitch in Oberyn's jaw, he remains still. Too still, if you ask Viserys. He looks ready to strike. "Need I remind you why you're here? Or how quickly your fortunes will change should my family rescind our gracious hospitality?"
Images of Rhaegar's dead-eyed rage demanding his prick placed on a spike outside Dragonstone make Viserys shudder. "No."
Oberyn nods. "Your valet will be up in five to get you dressed. It's Solstice Family Portrait day."
Oh, fuck him. A house full of fucking Martells and Oberyn's brood of upjumped muts is just what he needs.
"Smile, Viserys," Oberyn croons on his way out. "It's the holidays, after all."
Arianne Martell should have known something was amiss when the family photo shoot was rescheduled. She assumed it was yet another thing she loved—Solstice at Sunspear and all the press around it—snatched away in Father's little temper tantrum. Along with Sylva, her wardrobe, and day-to-day management of her own fucking life.
She thought she'd at least take solace in the holidays this year. Garibald may be more watchdog than personal secretary, but he had the Office of the Heir running with military precision. Every detail of the shoot had been perfect, down to the rack of Jeyne Fowler originals in Martell red and gold and the brunch buffet in the Sun Tower while she, her cousins, and latest edition to the family, Myrcella, were in hair and makeup.
It was almost enough to make her forget. Tyene's razor sharp prodding of her sisters, El's boisterous laughter, Sarella's breakdowns of the latest Westeros political dramas, and Obella swooning over tales from Myrcella and Trystane's honeymoon. The mimosas and eggs deviled with spicy dragon peppers and Bellegere Otherys' Solstice album thumping along in the background as they flitted about in their gold satin robes. Even her red gown, albeit demure, was the finest of Myrrish silk, cool and soft to the touch, and draped over her curves like a dream.
It was almost normal. Until he descended the stairs.
Twenty minutes late instead of his trademark hour. No love bites this time, or at least with the good sense to have them covered. The very picture of the perfect prince in his red and black baroque silk suit, though he was anything but.
But she managed—as a woman in power does—not to throttle him. She survived standing at his side during the family photos and even the torturous couples' shots, with his scrawny arm around her waist and too-soft-for-a-man-grown lips under her ear as they posed in front of the Solstice tree, without vomiting.
She'd only needed blessed relief when Father summoned her to his study, where she poured four fingers of rum, neat. But not even the sweet burn of Myr's finest cask could dull the shrieking panic triggered by Father's news.
"So not only am I shunned from Solstice in my future seat, but you would have me spend a week alone with Viserys?"
Father sighed wearily, always so weary. The very sound of her voice exhausts him these days. Then proceeded to speak to her as one does a child. Slowly and carefully, annoyance dripping from the edge of his voice.
He reminded her again of how long he'd endured her petulance and flouting of the rules. He'd allowed her to stay unmarried through most of her 30s. Turned a blind eye to her discreet affairs because she was, at the very least, good at her job. She had the public wrapped around her pinky finger through her style, charisma, and touch with the common people. It was she who led their charity initiatives, who wielded the power of the press and social media. She seemed, in every way, capable of leading the Principality of Dorne into the future…
One little mistake. That was all it took for Father to lay down the law. He gutted her personal staff, whom he saw as co-conspirators in the affair, and replaced them with lemmings who managed her day to the fucking minute. Starting with that uptight little prick Garibald. He brought in image consultants who purged her closet and draped her in dull, modest frocks.
And betrothed her to the vile waste of a man he now demanded she spend a "romantic holiday" with at the Water Gardens because this joke of an arrangement was turning into a massive press flop.
Prince Doran Martell of the Sovereign Principality of Dorne never raised his voice. Not when his eldest son, next in the line of succession until Arianne birthed an heir, renounced his title to join an extreme sect of Rh'llor worshippers in Meereen after falling for some religious nut on a diplomatic trip. Not even when the shady investors behind Dorne's Formula 1 bad boy, Gerold "Darkstar" Dayne, attempted to blackmail the Crown with compromising photos and videos of his only daughter.
But the eyes tell it. When Father's soft eyes went truly black, dark and hard as obsidian, negotiations were over. She recognizes the look from when he told her of her pending betrothal.
"You will marry the Targaryen boy or I will name Trystane my heir."
"Someday… you will be responsible for the welfare of 45 million people. All of them willful. Some wayward, some even criminal." He folds his hands on the desk and tilts his head. "You mean to tell me you cannot lead a single man?"
Somehow, it was worse than if he'd just said "yes."
