"There's something on your mind, Prince Oberyn," Azaerys said as he battled with the Dornishman in the courtyard, wielding a training spear.
"You are full of flaws, Your Grace." The man smiled as he spun around and tried to strike his side, but to his surprise, the Targaryen managed to block him. "But you are very fit," he added.
"Spear is not my weapon of choice, Prince. That is why I asked you to accompany me in training with it. They say you are one of the finest." He smiled. "What troubles you?"
"I am sure you have already guessed it." Oberyn laughed as he shifted cleverly and disarmed him, forcing him off balance.
Azaerys sighed as he reached for the spear, only to lean back when Oberyn lunged, preventing him from arming himself again.
The Young King shielded himself with his armplates, bearing the heavy blows that bruised his forearms, before catching the Dornishman off guard by charging forward and tackling him to the ground.
Oberyn winced as he struck the earth, but just as he began to rise, he heard the scrape of wood and saw the Targaryen lift his spear. He instinctively blocked the blow aimed at his head.
With his experience, he managed to regain his footing, and their sparring resumed.
"You are strong," Oberyn admitted, and Azaerys smiled at him. "I am curious about the Daynes," the Prince finally said. The Young King nodded.
"Their mother was an illegitimate Targaryen, daughter of Daeron Targaryen and Viserra Velaryon."
"Oh." Oberyn gave a simple nod, and having received his answer, he lost all interest in the subject.
The Dornish Prince marvelled at how Azaerys endured for an hour, and marvelled even more when, without pause, he turned to spar with Arthur Dayne.
The Young King had spoken true when he said swords were his weapon of choice.
Arthur and he crossed practice swords, one in each hand, striking with ruthless precision. This was no mere sparring.
Oberyn had always known the Sword of the Morning to be unmatched, yet watching Azaerys hold his ground made him question his own mastery of the blade.
His form was not flawless, yet speed and strength more than compensated, and for a boy not yet fourteen namedays, he was frighteningly skilled.
His scholarly frame could easily trick any warrior into underestimating him, never suspecting the strength coiled within. Any lapse in caution would cost them dearly.
Oberyn admired clever fighters, but he loved those who were clever and strong. Azaerys was all that and more. He was clever, strong, and quick, quicker than most grown men.
Unwittingly, his eyes drifted to his niece. Her gaze shone bright as she watched her Intended spar with the finest swordsman in Westeros. She was clearly fascinated, and judging by her expression, utterly enthralled.
He laughed at how she fawned and rose, leaving them behind to visit the Pleasure House he had noticed the day before.
This place was so peaceful and beautiful that one might never wish to leave, especially with the Targaryens settled here. He wondered, though, if such peace had softened Azaerys' resolve to reclaim the Iron Throne.
He hoped not.
When Azaerys finally finished with Arthur, his body sore and aching, he returned to his chambers, the Dornish Princess following in his wake.
He did not ask why, his thoughts elsewhere.
The knights at the start of the hallway bowed as he passed. At his chamber door he stirred from his reverie and turned to her.
"Are you drawn to spears or swords, Princess?" he asked, gesturing for her to enter.
Arianne stepped inside, wide-eyed at the splendour of the chamber, lavish with gold, silver, and polished wood, both dark and pale.
It was a room fit for a King.
"I am not much of a fighter, but I favour daggers. Nymeria taught me their use, and my uncle taught me poisons."
"I see." He smiled. "You should learn to fight."
"Why, Your Grace?" she asked curiously, then mischievously added, "Do you prefer girls who can fight?"
"I do," he said, turning his gaze on her. "Your weakness could harm me in the future."
The smile on his lips deepened her blush, and she nodded.
She was but twelve, and her small stature forced her to tilt her head back fully to meet his eyes.
Azaerys found her endearing and gently patted her head.
"Your Grace, have you ever kissed a girl?" she asked, fidgeting.
"Yes. Why?" He could guess her intent and leaned closer.
She said nothing, only reached for his lips, and he let her.
As their mouths met, she faltered, unsure, and he guided her gently.
She gasped into his mouth when he lifted her with ease and seated her in his lap upon the bed. It was a mistake, for she soon began shifting against his hardening member.
"You have not yet bled, Princess," he reminded, and she flushed as her intent was laid bare.
"My cousin Tyene has not either, but that has not stopped her from enjoying pleasures," Arianne replied.
"Is that so?" He smiled against her lips and kissed her once more. "Someone approaches."
"Send them away..." she whispered, but her words were cut short by the knock and sudden opening of the door.
She leapt from his lap and straightened her dress, though the intruder had already seen.
"Allyria is searching for you. Go." Elia smiled at her niece, who blushed crimson and hurried out.
The elder Martell shut the door and turned the lock, prompting Azaerys to raise a brow.
"I need to speak with you," she said.
"Yes?" His voice was calm, though curious, as her eyes searched for wine. There was none.
Azaerys disliked drink, and Ashara seldom touched it either.
"Ashara is still a maiden."
"Yes. We are to wed on my fourteenth nameday." He reminded her, and she nodded.
"Ser Willem told me you refused to be tutored in the art of lovemaking."
"I dislike whores, Elia. He urged me to take one, experienced enough to teach me everything."
"Every highborn boy is expected to learn how to please a lady, Azaerys. Why do you think the great Houses look aside when heirs sneak into brothels?"
"I already know what to do." He chuckled.
"I am sure you do. I know you have seen much in your dreams. But watching and doing are not the same. Have you not learned this already with the spear? With the sword?" she pressed, and he sighed.
She was not wrong, yet he could not bring himself to lie with a whore. They repulsed him.
"A lord must know how to please and tend to his lady. For a King, it is even more vital. You have seen the past. What happens when men fail their wives in the bedchamber?" Her tone was light, yet her eyes searched his. "A girl always remembers the loss of her maidenhead. Always. The memory must be cherished, not marred."
"I will not bed a whore."
"There are maids..."
"Elia," he sighed. "I will not risk siring bastards. Even with caution, it may happen."
"Then take a royal mistress, as the Highlords of Valyria once did. Their bastards bore other names. Is that not how House Celtigar and House Velaryon began?"
"I cannot do that until I am wed and have trueborn heirs. To do so sooner risks confusion in the line." He stood and stripped off his robes, unbothered by her gaze.
Elia's eyes lingered as he shed all but his trousers and seated himself, wiping sweat from his body with a damp cloth.
The bruises mottling his arms made her wince. He was merciless in training, and his muscles trembled faintly with exhaustion.
She stepped forward, took the cloth from him, and moved behind to clean his back.
"There is something else," she said softly.
"Yes?"
"I need a lover." The words left her plainly. "I am still young, one and thirty, and I have my needs. With Aegon grown, I have too much time on my hands."
"Is there someone you fancy?" he asked with a sigh.
"Not before, but now I know whom I want."
He frowned.
"I want you," she said without hesitation. "And you need not fear bastards. I cannot bear another child."
Azaerys was silent, seeing her intent clearly.
"You need not do this, Elia."
"I know. But I know too that you would rather take me than some whore." She smiled faintly, though her hand trembled. "Do not refuse me. It took all my courage to confess this. If you turn me away, I fear I will never meet your eyes again..." She faltered, her hands resting on his shoulders as if for strength.
His silence gnawed at her until, just as tears brimmed, he rose and faced her.
He towered over her, tilting her chin gently upward.
Their lips met, and she was relieved. He had accepted.
Despite her experience, she was the one who trembled with nerves, her fingers lightly clutching at his bare shoulders as if to steady herself against the sudden rush of emotion. The kiss began tentative, his mouth warm and firm against hers, tasting faintly of the salt from his earlier exertions in the yard. She parted her lips slightly, inviting him deeper, and he responded with a careful exploration, his hands rising to cradle her face, thumbs brushing along her jawline in a soothing rhythm.
The hesitation lasted only minutes, the initial awkwardness melting away as their breaths mingled and quickened. Once he eased her from her robes, letting the silken fabric slide slowly down her arms to pool at her feet, revealing the soft curves of her body bathed in the warm light filtering through the chamber's windows, he guided her to the bed with a gentleness that belied his youth.
She lay back against the pillows, her dark hair fanning out across the linens, and watched him with eyes that held both vulnerability and desire. Elia found her confidence again and took the lead, her hands reaching for him, pulling him down beside her with a quiet urgency.
Their bodies moved with the hunger of one who had long been denied, her touches tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the heat of his skin and the faint tremors of fatigue that still lingered from his training. For him, it was the discovery of a new intimacy, each sensation amplified; the softness of her skin against his, the way her breath hitched when his fingers explored the contours of her waist and hips, drawing her closer.
She guided him with whispered encouragements, her lips brushing his ear as she showed him how to kindle the fire within her, her body arching subtly in response to his tentative caresses, the scent of her skin, a faint mix of Dornish spices and warmth, enveloping him.
Azaerys was already weary from the yard, and as Elia grew bolder, her movements becoming more assured and fluid, he yielded, helpless in her arms, surrendering to the waves of pleasure that washed over him. Her hands roamed freely now, mapping the planes of his chest and back, her nails grazing lightly in a way that sent shivers through him. He mirrored her actions, learning the rhythm of her sighs and the places that made her gasp softly, his own breaths growing ragged as their bodies entwined more fully.
The air in the chamber grew heavy with the scent of their shared warmth, the linens twisting beneath them as they moved together in a dance of mutual discovery and release, the soft sounds of their union echoing faintly in the quiet room.
And gods be witness, it was far harder than swordplay, yet far more enticing, demanding a different kind of focus and endurance, where every touch and glance held the power to unravel or uplift. He felt the build of tension in his core, a sweet ache that she eased with expert care, her body welcoming him in a union that blurred the lines between a stepmother and her son, their movements syncing like the ebb and flow of the tides along the Summer Sea.
For her, his youthful vigour and earnest attentiveness brought a fulfilment she had not known in years, her own peaks of pleasure cresting in gentle waves that left her trembling and sated, her fingers threading through his silver hair as she whispered his name.
It was a memory that would remain with him forever, the day he discovered something as enthralling as sorcery, a realm of sensation and connection that rivalled the mysteries of ancient spells and dragonfire, binding them in a shared secret beneath the watchful eyes of the old gods and the new.
Spent and weary, he drifted to sleep in her embrace, his head resting against her shoulder, the steady rise and fall of her chest lulling him into repose. Elia, too, succumbed, body eased and spirit lightened, her arm draped possessively over him as the last echoes of their intimacy faded into quiet contentment.
He had been untried, yet stubborn, and despite his fatigue, he had made the night a joy for her as well, his instincts and willingness to learn transforming what could have been awkward into something tender and profound.
With his warmth pressed against her, sleep took her gently, and she rested more soundly than she had in years, the burdens of her past momentarily lifted in the afterglow of their shared solace.