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When Jaime Lannister rode into King’s Landing with Brienne of Tarth at his side, nobody even looked twice. Jaime was still wearing his shit-stained rags aside from a pink tunic Roose Bolton had given to him, and yet nobody flinched. Brienne was what drew attention, but even that was only for a moment. And not only did the city folk lack a proper reaction, but they ignored Jaime. So when a stranger called out to him across the hallway a few days later, he was rightfully surprised, especially since this man did not seem hostile.
He was not even ten steps away from his chambers before he was stopped by that unfamiliar voice behind him. “Ah, the Kingslayer,” said a man with an accent Jaime could not quite place. The man in yellow slowly approached. “In Dorne, you are revered as a hero, Ser Jaime, for what you did to Aerys the Second.” The fact that this man knew Jaime’s name was even more shocking. “Songs are sung of you, bedside stories are told, and feasts are held in your name.” He was getting close now, close enough for Jaime to take a step back cautiously. “I must admit, I expected you to be taller. And more hairy. You look like a Queen I once knew. Do you know Cersei Lannister? I suppose so.” The mockery was getting old fast. The only person who was amused by it was the man who spoke it himself.
Naturally, Jaime was suspicious. Multiple questions in a row tended to make him anxious, so he ignored them. “Why would the Dornish waste half of a thought on Aerys Targaryen or on me?” Jaime did not know very much about Dornish people, but he knew that they cared little of what happened north of their borders, and that most of Westeros was north of their borders.
The man had dark hair, sun-darkened skin, and dark eyes. They only grew darker as he grew closer. But there was something significantly golden about him, as if he were carrying the sun in his breast pocket or if the sun only existed in the black depths behind his eyes. “You’re right,” he said smoothly. “We don’t care of Aerys Targaryen. But we care of you. You and your lion’s heart.”
“Very funny,” Jaime said with a tight-lipped smile. He hated that man for one moment, but then he stopped for another, and found it impossible to hate him again. “What’s your name?”
Bowing slightly, the man kept that mellow grin upon his lips. “Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne.” There was a pride reserved in him that only existed in royals, and it showed then.
At once, Jaime straightened himself. “My lord,” he addressed, a slight unease in his stomach. “I apologize for not properly addressing you.” Jaime realized he himself had not been addressed properly, but Oberyn was not wearing a white cloak and did not have such courtesy expected of him.
Oberyn was nearing Jaime very slowly, so slowly that Jaime had not even noticed how close he was getting. “No need, Ser Jaime,” he said with a slightly bowed head. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I have been pondering this day for years.” His eyes went up and down Jaime’s body. “An enemy of the Lannisters is a friend of mine.”
After looking to each side down the hall to make sure they were alone, Jaime glowered at the prince. Jaime was never sure if he was truly alone, not with Varys’ birds and Lord Baelish’s spies and Queen Cersei’s informants. “By the gods, I am a Lannister.” The knot in his stomach was tightening. “I’m no enemy of them.” As the words passed his lips, he found himself struggling to believe them.
Prince Oberyn threw his head back to laugh gently. “Oh, is that so?” His incredulousness offset Jaime. His fingers were nearing Jaime’s waist. “In that case, I have a few inquiries for you, Ser.” Oberyn gently took Jaime by the hips and pulled their waists together. Weak, Jaime did not protest or pull away. Their hips swaddled perfectly together. “Do you like to kill, Ser Jaime?” The prince’s voice was a whisper – a dark one, but he remained golden all the while.
It was blatantly obvious that Oberyn Martell was not talking about killing. “Depends on who I’m killing,” he answered softly.
Oberyn let a hand snake slowly up Jaime’s torso. “Men? Women?”
Glancing down, Jaime watched the bronze fingers of the prince trace along Jaime’s diaphragm. “Women,” he answered. “But not always.” He placed a hand on Oberyn’s waist, brushing his fingers over the soft yellow fabric of his surcoat.
The prince was growing closer by the instant. “Noble ladies?” he breathed.
“No,” Jaime said quickly, and then thought of his youth, and then rid himself of the thought just as quick.
“Whores?” Prince Oberyn’s black brow was furrowed in curiosity.
A smile spread across Jaime’s face. He looked away from the prince. “A few.” He tried to hide his smile, and eventually managed, but too late – the prince had seen.
Prince Oberyn took Jaime gently by the jaw and turned his head to face him, still keeping their hips pressed together and still with his other hand against Jaime’s midsection. “Tyrells?”
“Only one,” Jaime assured him. “Take a guess.” He loved the feel of a body against his own – a warm one with hungry eyes and a quick smile. It’s a small wonder why they call him a viper, Jaime thought as he pictured a fork tongue passing the prince’s lips.
Oberyn’s eyes were fixated upon Jaime’s lips. The hand gripping Jaime’s jaw untightened as Oberyn ran his fingers through the wiry blonde hair of Jaime’s outgrown beard. The hand on Jaime’s abdomen slithered further and further up Jaime’s body until his fingertips were brushing the skin where Jaime’s neck met his chest. “Lannisters?” Prince Oberyn neared his lips to the skin, so slowly and gently that Jaime could not tell if the prince’s lips were actually touching him or it was only his breath which tickled his skin.
Closing his eyes, Jaime tried not to think of Cersei. “Those rumors reach Dorne?” Oberyn Martell was already being more romantic and gentle to Jaime than Cersei ever had been, so Jaime decided to at least allow himself this pleasure – not that monogamy was a virtue in their relationship. “It’s a small wonder people loathe me all across the country,” he sighed.
The dark-haired prince straightened and looked Jaime in the eyes after he opened them. “I do not loathe you,” he promised. Jaime had never in his life heard those words from someone and actually believed them – with the exception of Tyrion, but he needed not speak the words for Jaime to understand. Prince Oberyn cocked his head slightly. “Should I?”
Jaime remained still as stone, only relaxing to fit the curved mold of Oberyn’s hips, waist, and hands; otherwise, Jaime let the prince do all the work. “Everyone else seems to loathe me. Perhaps there is some reason for it. Perhaps I am dangerous.” Jaime let his eyes close again, but then they opened. “Are you dangerous, Prince Oberyn?”
“Yes.” The prince answered with no shame at all, and Jaime was actually rather impressed. “And so are you.” Jaime was just as impressed at how Oberyn could uninhibitedly say such a thing, yet Jaime was not upset about it. The prince left a trail of wet kisses up the side of Jaime’s neck. “May I ask you another question, Ser?” he asked and kissed him again.
Jaime craned his neck to give Oberyn more room to work. “You may,” he said. The words accompanied breath.
“Would you like to kill the Lannisters?” The prince’s voice was a low growl. He used a lot of force in his wet kisses, yet he was gentle, luring Jaime in for more. Oberyn’s hands slid down Jaime’s body, and then up again.
He thought of his father and his sister. “Yes,” Jaime answered. His eyes were closed.
Oberyn grabbed at Jaime’s rear. “How much would you like that?” Heat was building up between them.
No matter that his eyes were closed, Jaime could feel Oberyn’s eyes upon him. “More than anything.” It suddenly hit Jaime that he should be submissive when talking to a prince, and especially when he was leading up to bedding one. “My lord,” he finished.
Grinning mildly, Oberyn backed off. He put his hands up to Jaime’s shoulders and leaned against him, pressing him against a wall. “As it seems, you and I are not very different.” The words were so ominous that Jaime felt like he should be taking them as a warning, but he decided not to. “Which way do you like it?”
It was easy to tell that Oberyn was not particularly interesting in heeding Jaime’s preference, so Jaime didn’t answer either way. “I won’t say,” he teased. “You’ll have to torture it out of me.” Jaime hadn’t much experience in foreplay. Not a single one of his sexual encounters involved it, not unless a hunt counted as foreplay. The only foreplay Jaime had performed was when he put his tongue between Cersei’s legs until she shuddered and gasped, but Jaime was not sure if that counted as foreplay at all, since there was no enjoyment in it for him.
“Is it torture you prefer?” Oberyn asked like he knew the answer. “I’m afraid I will not do that. I have other ways to make you talk. It is not so difficult to make a lion roar.”
Oberyn kissed Jaime, and Jaime matched the level of fervor. Tongues passed lips, and Jaime relaxed. Jaime quickly realized Cersei was not a skilled kisser and had never used her tongue well anywhere besides Jaime’s cock and rear end. Oberyn must have been in such places as well, but he was far more talented, and Jaime was soon lost. There was no time to breathe, and Jaime was growing dizzy. The friction between their hips was growing unbearable. Jaime could feel himself stiffening between his legs. He cracked a grin, and managed to hide it, but it was not possible. His smile broke the kiss.
Annoyed, Oberyn pulled his lips away. “Quit grinning, lion,” he said as he breathed. He grabbed Jaime by the jaw again. “Put those teeth away.” Jaime laughed gently at Martell’s audacity, raising an eyebrow. Oberyn did not seem amused. “You reek of sex and blood, but not of grief.” He paused and the tension in his brow faded. “Why is that, Sandor?”
Oblivious, Jaime stared at Oberyn for a few moments before he heard a voice from the end of the hall. “Ser Jaime,” Sandor Clegane called in his dark voice. Jaime turned to him, and saw him standing there, somehow suppressing a horrified grimace at what he was seeing. “Your presence is requested.”
Oberyn made no move to release Jaime or move away from him. “Can it wait, Hound?” He spat the last word. He neared Jaime and inhaled his scent, just brushing against his lips. Jaime wanted to press against him, to eat him alive. “I will only keep him from you for a few minutes,” Oberyn stated with his stressed accent and a smile.
Jaime grinned. “Only a few minutes?” He rested his hands on Oberyn’s slim hips. “How disappointing.”
“Urgently, Ser Jaime.” Sandor was getting annoyed. Jaime knew him as a calm man, but the stress showed in Ser Sandor’s voice and posture. “By the order of the Queen,” he finished, as if it were an afterthought.
At once, Jaime wriggled away from Oberyn Martell and stood to face Sandor. “What does Cersei want of me?” Jaime had been thinking about her for weeks. She had refused to see him, to even look at him. He was desperate to see her, to apologize to her, to fuck her.
Oberyn sneered from behind Jaime. “Cersei?” he repeated incredulously.
Glancing over his shoulder, Jaime repeated himself. “Queen Cersei,” he said strictly. “What does she want of me?” Jaime was getting anxious and took two steps forward.
Prince Oberyn stepped up so he was beside Jaime as well. “You are truly pathetic, Kingslayer,” the viper accused. It became instantly clear that Oberyn Martell was a manipulator and had no interest in Jaime at all. “What a wonder that we sing of you. You do not have a lion’s heart.”
Jaime looked Oberyn in the eyes for a second and saw the hate there. It was so strong that it sparked self-hatred. The feeling was caustic and painful. Like poison.
Sandor walked on before Jaime even started to follow him, because he knew Jaime would come. And he did.