Della writes

The rain lashes against the stone walls of the estate, a rhythmic, violent drumming that underscores the suffocating tension in the room. He is close (closer than he has any right to be) and the scent of sandalwood and rain clings to him like a second skin. His teeth graze your earlobe, a sharp, stinging reminder of the "debt" he’s so intent on collecting.

"And here I think," he murmurs, his voice a low vibration that thrums through your very bones, "that I’m going to take my time deciding exactly how you’re going to pay that debt, and if you are capable of handling my... Worst."

The way he over-pronounces that final 't' is a deliberate strike. He’s looking for the crack in your armor, the moment your knees buckle or your eyes dart toward the door. He expects a victim. He expects a plea. Instead, you find the fire.

Your heart is a trapped bird against your ribs, but your hands are steady. You don't pull away. You don't even blink. You lean into him, the heat of his body an invitation you decide to accept on your own terms.

"You talk a great deal about my capabilities," you whisper, your voice smooth and dangerous as silk over a blade. "But you seem remarkably quiet about your own."

You reach up. Your fingers, cold compared to the feverish heat of his skin, find the intricate laces of his own doublet. You don't fumble. With a slow, deliberate motion, you hook your thumb into the first loop and pull. The leather gives way with a soft, sliding sound that seems louder than the thunder outside.

The shift in his posture is instantaneous. The predator stills. The "raw hunger" you saw behind his eyes a moment ago sharpens into something more complex... surprise, followed by a dark, shimmering respect.

"Still so brave?" he had asked.

You answer him now with action. You move to the next lace, your knuckles brushing against the fine linen of his undershirt, feeling the hard, rapid thud of his heart. It’s racing just as fast as yours. The realisation is intoxicating. He isn't the only one in control here; he's just the only one who thought he was.

"The storm outside doesn't frighten me," you say, looking up to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, the pupils blown wide until the irises are mere slivers of color. "I’ve lived through worse than a little rain. But I wonder... are you prepared for the wreckage this particular storm is going to leave behind?"

He lets out a sharp, jagged breath. His free hand, which had been hovering indecisively over the laces at your side, suddenly grips your waist. It isn't a gentle hold. It’s a claim, a physical anchor to keep him from drifting into the very chaos you’re inviting.

"You’re playing a dangerous game," he rasps, his lips now hovering just inches from yours. The taunting edge is gone, replaced by a raw, unvarnished intensity. "I offered you a chance to run. I offered you the mercy of fear."

"I don't want your mercy," you retort, giving the laces of his doublet another firm tug. The garment hangs open now, revealing the pulse jumping in the hollow of his throat. "And I certainly didn't come here to run."

The air between you is thick, charged with the same static as the lightning illuminating the room in strobing flashes of white and blue. Every brush of fabric, every shallow intake of breath, feels like a spark. He let out a low, guttural sound, a mix of a growl and a laugh. "Then may the gods help us both, because I’m done being patient."

He doesn't wait for the next lace. His hand slides from your side to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back. The "silent question" he had posed earlier has been answered, and the "very loud demand" is all that remains.

Outside, the storm finally breaks. A crack of thunder shakes the floorboards beneath your feet at the exact moment his mouth finds yours. It isn't a kiss of courtship; it’s a collision. It tastes of wine, salt, and the desperate, frantic energy of two people who have spent too long pretending they didn't want to destroy each other.

You pull him closer, your fingers finally abandoning the laces to grip his shoulders, anchoring yourself in the gale. If he wants to see your worst, he’s going to find that it looks remarkably like his own. The debt is no longer a burden. It’s a catalyst. And as the shadows of the room swallow the two of you, the only thing that matters is the heat, the hunger, and the beautiful, terrifying wreckage that is sure to follow.

He doesn't give you a chance to breathe, let alone retort. His hand slides from your nape into the thick of your hair, tilting your head back with a sharp, possessive yank that forces a gasp from your throat. He catches the sound with his mouth, crushing his lips against yours in a kiss that tastes of salt and lightning. It isn't a plea; it’s a takeover.

You don’t recoil. You drive your fingers into the open gap of his doublet, your nails scraping against the hard, burning expanse of his chest. The friction is a spark to a powder keg. He lets out a low, vibrating growl, his free arm hooking around your waist to hoist you upward until your toes barely skim the floor. He slams you back down atop the rich over-covered bed.

The heavy furs and silken throws swallow your impact, the layers of fabric rustling violently as he follows you down, pinning you into the plush mattress with the sheer weight of his frame.

His hands are a frantic blur, no longer possessing the cool precision he prides himself on. He grapples with the intricate laces of your bodice, his fingers catching on the delicate threads as he hunts for the ties he had been so meticulously loosening moments before. There is no patience left, only the raw, driving need to see the skin beneath the silk. He finds the main cord and yanks it, the fabric groaning under the pressure of his grip. He doesn't wait for the garment to fall... he simply shoves the heavy sleeves down your arms, his palms skidding over your ribs to find the heat of your waist. The sensation of his rough, calloused thumbs dragging against your soft skin makes your back arch off the furs, a silent invitation he answers by diving deeper into the wreckage of your layers.

You meet his desperation with your own, your hands fumbling blindly for the heavy embroidery and hidden fastenings of his doublet. Your fingers shake, snagging on the gold-thread patterns of his nobleman's garb, and you let out a frustrated sound against his lips. You manage to loosen the primary laces, the fabric straining before giving way, and you wedge your hands into the opening to shove the heavy, structured garment aside. You don't stop there. You reach for the fine linen of his undershirt, your nails catching on the fabric as you bunch it up, dragging it over his head with a frantic, uncoordinated energy.

The air in the room is freezing, but where your bodies meet, the heat is blistering. He helps you, shedding the last of his formal constraints with jagged, impatient movements that send fine trimmings skittering across the bedding. Every second spent with velvet or linen between you feels like an eternity of wasted time. You tangle your fingers in the silk sash at his waist, tugging with a feverish intent that makes him gasp, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as his breath hitches.

"I cannot collect from a phantom," he rasps, his eyes searching yours with a burning, desperate intensity. "Tell me. If I am to be your ruin, I want to know exactly who I am destroying."

You reach up, cupping his face, your thumb brushing against the sharp line of his jaw. The secret feels heavy on your tongue, a final barrier to be broken. You lean in, your lips grazing his ear as you finally whisper your name into the heat of the space between you.

He stills for a heartbeat, the sound of it seemingly louder to him than the thunderclaps outside. He pulls back just enough to look at you, a slow, dark smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He lets the name roll off his tongue purposefully, tasting each syllable as if it were a vintage wine he’s waited a lifetime to uncork. The way he says it is a claim... a deliberate, slow-motion conquest that makes the breath die in your throat.

"So," he murmurs, his voice a low, melodic vibration that settles deep in your chest. "That is the name... and those are the cries I'll be hearing into the night."

He counters by sliding his hand beneath the heavy, voluminous folds of your skirts, his arm disappearing into the mountain of velvet and petticoats to find the bare skin of your thigh. The contact is a jolt of pure electricity. You kick out, shedding the heavy outer layers of your gown until you are both a tangle of limbs and discarded finery amidst the rumpled covers.

His weight is a welcome anchor, pinning you into the softness of the mattress as he finally rids himself of the last of his finery. The transition from the stiff, regal constraints of his banquet attire to the raw, unyielding power of his touch is jarring, stripping away the last of the civility between you. He isn't a lord now, and you aren't a guest... you are just two forces of nature colliding in the dark between flickering shadows from firelight.

He moves with a sudden, renewed hunger, his hands mapping the curves of your body as if he’s trying to memorise you by touch alone. The storm outside is a distant roar, eclipsed by the sound of his ragged breathing and the rustle of silk against skin. There is no more room for hesitation; every movement is a frantic, driving effort to close the gap that has existed since the moment you entered this house. You reach up, pulling him down until his heart beats against yours, finally surrendering to the chaos you both invited.

... And you voted and were heard.

The words left your lips in a breathless, defiant exhale. A challenge he clearly hadn’t expected, yet one he was more than happy to meet.

"Do your worst," you whispered.

Lyonel didn’t laugh. The "Laughing Storm" was gone, replaced by a man who looked like he intended to dismantle you piece by piece. His hand, previously tangled in your hair, tightened just enough to make you gasp before he suddenly released the pressure, snagging your wrist in a grip of iron.

He didn’t lead you; he hauled you. The corridor blurred as he moved with the predatory grace of a man used to taking what he wanted. His boots rang out against the stone floors, a rhythmic, punishing sound that echoed the frantic beating of your heart. When you reached the heavy oak door of his quarters, he didn't bother with a key. He grunted, kicking it open, the thud resonating deep in your chest.

The door creaked and slammed shut behind you, and the sudden silence of the room felt heavier than the noise of the hallway. He didn't let go of your wrist. Instead, he pulled you toward the center of the room, where the embers of a dying fire cast long, flickering shadows against the Baratheon tapestries. Long hand stitched works of ancestral art either side of a heavy oak four poster bed. The pillars each corner resembling the form the giant trees once held in the forest. Tall and proud.

"You have a very dangerous tongue," he rasped, spinning you around so your back hit the solid wood of the trunks. He loomed over you, his silhouette massive and imposing in the dim light. "First you mark me in front of the court, and then you dare me to break you in private."

He reached out, his thumb tracing the bruising mark he’d just left on your throat. His touch was lighter now, but his eyes were burning.

"Do you have any idea what 'my worst' looks like, little bird? Or are you just hoping the Storm will be gentle with you if you ask nicely?"

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot and smelling of wine and spice.

"I don't think you want gentle. I think you want to see exactly how much of a beast I really am."

He leans in, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing heavy and synchronized with the frantic thrum of your pulse. One of his hands leaves your wrist, traveling slowly, possessively up your arm until his fingers tangle into the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to expose the column of your throat once more.

"You marked me in front of the court," he murmured against your lips, his breath ghosting over your skin. "You wanted them to see that you could make me crack. You wanted the scandal. You wanted the eyes of every soul in that hall on us."

He shifts, his thigh sliding between yours, anchoring you against the wood and forcing you to look up at him. The gold in his ear glints as he moves into the shadow of your jaw.

"But we aren't in the hall anymore. There are no witnesses here to save you. There is only the debt you owe. And you ask me to 'do my worst'..." he clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

"And here I think," his lips are hot against your ear, his teeth grazing the sensitive lobe, "that I’m going to take my time deciding exactly how you’re going to pay that debt, and if you are capable of handling my ... Worst." He over pronounced the 't' purposefully. Taunting.

His free hand moved to the laces at your side, his touch surprisingly steady despite the raw hunger behind his eyes. He doesn't pull them yet; he simply let his knuckles brush against the fabric, a silent question backed by a very loud demand.

"Still so brave?" he rasps. "Or is the storm finally starting to frighten you?"

He was performing now, the absolute scoundrel.

Still turning, slow and theatrical, one arm locked across the backs of your thighs and the other raised with his goblet as though toasting the room. The hall was loving it. You could hear them, the bright spike of feminine laughter, the appreciative roar from the men nearest the fire, someone banging a cup rhythmically against a table in encouragement.

"Enjoying yourself?" you asked, from somewhere level with his shoulder blade.

"Tremendously." He turned again, slower, milking it, and the laughter swelled.

You let him have three more seconds of glory.

Then you planted both palms flat against the solid plane of his back and pushed up.

It wasn't graceful. It wasn't meant to be. You got just enough height, just enough purchase, to get your mouth to the side of his neck where the skin was warm and unguarded, and you bit down.

The goblet stopped moving.

The crowd, sensing something had shifted, dropped to a delighted murmur.

Lyonel couldn't react. Not properly. Not with forty pairs of eyes on him and his reputation for easy, laughing confidence to maintain. You felt it, the effort of it, the way every muscle in his back and shoulder went rigid while he held himself perfectly still and composed his face into something presentable. His pulse was going very fast under your lips.

You held on a moment longer than necessary.

"Careful," he said, pleasantly, to the room in general. His voice was admirably steady. Only the faintest roughness underneath gave him away.

More laughter. They thought it was part of the show.

You released him and settled back, satisfied, your cheek resting against his shoulder blade.

He passed his goblet sideways to someone, anyone, without looking. Rid himself of it with the quiet efficiency of a man clearing the decks. His now-free hand found your thigh, and the performance was done. No more turning. No more playing to the crowd. His stride had changed, that shift from swagger to intent, and the hall parted around him without being asked.

Then his head turned, and his mouth found the flesh under your skirts of your thigh.

Warm lips against the sensitive skin, unhurried, deliberate. A kiss that knew exactly what it was doing and had no interest in pretending otherwise. Then the soft press of teeth, barely there, a mirror of what you'd done to him, and then the slow drag of his tongue against that thin, treacherous skin that had absolutely no business being as vulnerable as it was.

Your hand twisted into the back of his tunic.

"That," you said, and stopped, because your voice had done something unforgivable.

He lifted his head. Unhurried.

"A fair response," he said, almost conversationally, if you ignored the roughness running underneath it like a current, "is not something that can be played out in front of a crowd such as this." A brief pause. His thumb traced a slow arc against the back of your knee. "Without some form of... controversy."

The word landed with exquisite precision.

"But do keep it up," he continued, his voice dropping to something that existed only for you and the corridor door three strides ahead, "and I'll make sure you get the most fair of responses. One entirely deserving of the provocation."

You said nothing. Partly because you couldn't locate the architecture of a response. Partly because his thumb was still moving.

The hall saw it coming before he reached the door. The crowd had been watching the whole time, tracking the shift from performance to purpose, and as his intentions became unmistakable, as it became clear that Lyonel Baratheon was absolutely, genuinely leaving with you over his shoulder and no apparent intention of returning, the room made its feelings known.

It started with the bannerman. Of course it did. One long, appreciative holler that cracked through the hall like a whip, and then it cascaded, a wave of whoops and stamping feet and the bright percussion of cups against tables that chased you both across the last stretch of floor. Someone, the knight from the tilts you suspected, let out a whistle sharp enough to cut glass. The ladies who had been whispering behind their hands gave up all pretence of propriety and dissolved entirely.

Lyonel raised one hand in a loose, easy acknowledgement without breaking stride or turning around.

The roar peaked.

The door swung shut behind you and the noise collapsed to a muffled thunder through the wood, and there was nothing but corridor stone and torchlight and the sound of his boots on the flags and your own heartbeat, loud and traitorous, against his shoulder.

"Well," you said, into the quiet.

"Well," he agreed.

You tilted your head, letting a slow, considering smile spread across your face as if you were reviewing the merits of a moderately interesting trade proposal.

"Over your shoulder," you repeated, tasting the words. "That's the offer. A man who can't learn my name by conventional means resorts to luggage arrangements." You clicked your tongue, soft and disappointed, even as your heart was doing something catastrophically undignified against his hand. "I've had more elegant proposals from stable boys, Baratheon."

His grip on your belt tightened by a fraction.

"You have until three," he said, very quietly.

"Mmm." You leaned back, the stone cool against your shoulders, and looked at him with the patience of a woman who has nowhere better to be and all the time in the world. "And then what? You'll cause a scene in front of every man and woman who owes your king a levy? You'll make a spectacle of yourself for a woman who hasn't given you so much as a surname?"

"One."

"Think very carefully about what that does to your reputation."

"Two."

"Lyonel." You said his name this time, just his name, a single word with nothing attached to it. Not a concession. A test. You watched his jaw work.

"Three."

The world tilted.

You had exactly enough time to register the ceiling, the startled gasps of nearby courtiers, and the very firm surface of his shoulder against your stomach before his hand landed once, flat and decisive, against the back of your thigh.

"You," he said, and there was a roughness in his voice that hadn't been there before, something stripped of performance, "are going to tell me your name."

"Eventually," you agreed, from somewhere level with his belt, watching the floor pass beneath you with unseemly calm. "Perhaps when you've demonstrated that you're capable of asking nicely."

The sound he made was not quite a laugh and not quite a growl and entirely, catastrophically, something you intended to think about for a very long time.

The second smack landed with enough force to send a involuntary sound out of you that was neither dignified nor quiet.

The hall noticed.

You heard it ripple outward from the epicentre of your humiliation like a stone dropped in still water. A sharp feminine gasp somewhere to the left. A bark of male laughter, quickly swallowed. The music, bless the musicians, stumbled for exactly half a bar before recovering.

"Lyonel." Your voice came out steadier than you deserved credit for, given that all the blood in your body was currently making decisions about your face. "People are staring."

"Yes," he agreed pleasantly, and turned.

He turned. A full, unhurried pivot that swung you in a wide arc, one hand braced flat against the back of your thigh with a casual, proprietary confidence that made it abundantly clear he had done this before and found no difficulty in it whatsoever. You got a rotating panorama of the great hall. Goblets arrested halfway to mouths. A pair of ladies with their heads bent together, one with her hand pressed to her lips. A Baratheon bannerman who appeared to be having the best evening of his adult life.

A knight you vaguely recognised from the tilts actually raised his cup in salute.

You became aware, with a kind of detached scholarly interest, that Lyonel Baratheon was not straining. Not even slightly. He was carrying you across a crowded hall with one hand while the other accepted a fresh cup of wine from a passing servant with the ease of a man collecting his hat.

He was strong. Absurdly, almost offensively strong, in the way that men who have been swinging steel since boyhood sometimes were, where it stopped being performance and became simply the resting state of a body that had never been asked to be anything else. The shoulder beneath your stomach was solid as packed earth. The arm across the back of your legs didn't tremble.

You had, you realised, significantly miscalculated.

"You're enjoying this," you said.

"Immeasurably." He took a sip of wine. "You were saying something about substance?"

"I was saying," you replied, with great dignity, "that you are a barbarian."

"Stormlands born and raised." He turned again, slower this time, letting the room drink its fill, and you felt the collective held breath of approximately forty witnesses who were going to be dining out on this story for the better part of a decade. "We do tend toward directness."

Your hand, operating on some instinct entirely independent of your better judgment, curled into the back of his tunic.

Not to push away. Not to signal distress.

Just to hold on.

He felt it. Of course he felt it. His hand shifted against the back of your thigh, the pressure changing from restraint to something almost unbearably deliberate, a slow spread of warmth through the fabric that made your breath go short in a way that had nothing at all to do with the indignity of your position.

"Still thinking about the bannerman?" he asked, very mildly.

"I hate you," you informed him.

"You're gripping my tunic hard enough to wrinkle it."

"I'm trying to maintain some semblance of—"

"Of?"

You closed your mouth.

Around you, someone began to clap. A single pair of hands, slow and appreciative, and then two more, and then the particular kind of scattered, delighted applause that meant the hall had collectively decided to enjoy the entertainment rather than pretend they hadn't seen it.

Lyonel, the absolute menace, gave a small, courtly bow.

Which meant he bent forward.

Which meant you slid precisely three inches toward gravity before his arm locked and caught you, effortless, inevitable, the muscles of his back and shoulder barely registering the correction.

"Name," he said softly, once the bow was complete and the applause had crested. His voice had dropped back to that register that lived in your sternum. Not a demand now. Something quieter than that. The patience of a man who has already won and knows it and is simply waiting for you to catch up.

You turned your head. From this angle, you had an excellent view of his jaw, the sharp line of it, the faint shadow of a day's growth. The gold hoop catching the torchlight.

You weighed your options with the thoroughness they deserved.

Then you leaned up, close enough that only he could possibly hear you, and you told him.

The air between you was thick enough to choke on, flavored with the musk of his amber-scented skin and the sharp, fermented tang of the Arbor red on his breath. Lyonel was a man accustomed to the quick surrender—to women who tripped over their own feet the moment he leaned into their space.

You didn't trip. Instead, you let his forehead rest against yours for a heartbeat too long, long enough to feel the frantic, rhythmic thrum of the pulse in his temple, before you stepped back. Just an inch. Just enough to break the spell and leave his heat clinging to the empty air.

You let your gaze travel slowly—painfully slowly—from the silver at his temples, down the bridge of his nose where that stray curl mocked his composure, all the way to the gold glinting at his ear.

"Leverage is only useful if there’s a fulcrum sturdy enough to hold it, Lyonel," you said, your voice a cool contrast to the sweltering heat of the hall. You reached out, not to touch his skin, but to flick that stubborn dark curl away from his eye with the very tip of your finger. "And you seem a bit... precarious tonight. All that wine and 'liquid elegance' might make for a fine dance, but I’ve always found that smoke tends to dissipate the moment someone opens a window."

His eyes darkened, the "feline grace" sharpening into something more predatory as his smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. He hadn't expected you to move the goalposts.

You took the half-filled tankard from a passing servant without breaking eye contact with him.

"You're very bold for a man who hasn't even asked my name," you continued, tilting your head to match his earlier scrutiny. "You speak of quiet corners and surgical approaches as if the invitation was already written and sealed. Is that how it works in the Stormlands? You simply declare a thing yours and wait for it to fall into your lap?"

Lyonel let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-growl. He didn't retreat; he closed the inch you’d created, his hand moving from your hip to the stone wall behind your head, effectively boxing you in. The "ribbon of smoke" was starting to feel much more like outstretched fingers - teasing.

"I find," he murmured, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated in your very marrow, "that the things that fall easily into the lap are rarely worth the weight. If you want me to earn the name, I have plenty of 'leverage' left to spent. But don't mistake my patience for a lack of fire. I can be a very... persistent beast."

He reached for your drink, his fingers brushing yours with deliberate, searing contact, and took a slow sip while staring directly into your eyes. "Sour," he pronounced, though his gaze said otherwise. "I think you and I both deserve something much more potent."

You watched the way the torchlight danced off that single gold hoop in his ear, a pirate’s affectation that suited the rogueish silver at his temples. He was watching your mouth now, his dark eyes hooded and heavy with a hunger that wasn't for the feast.

"...and a fulcrum?" his voice dropping to a gravelly purr that vibrated against the sensitive skin of your neck. He moved his hand from the wall, his fingers splaying flat against the stone just inches from your ear. The heat radiating from his palm was a silent roar. "I’ve spent my life finding the exact point where things break, my lady. I assure you, my balance is impeccable, even when I’m... 'precarious'."

You didn't look away. Instead, you reached out, your hand hovering over the fine, dark silk of his tunic, right over the steady, heavy thrum of his heart. You didn't touch him—not yet. You let him feel the ghost of your warmth through the fabric, a taunt that made his jaw tighten until a muscle leaped in his cheek.

"You talk a magnificent game, my...lord," you breathed, leaning in until your lips were a fraction of an inch from the shell of his ear, mimicking his own invasive intimacy. "But the Stormlands are famous for their wind. Lots of howling, lots of blurring at the edges, and very little substance once the sun comes up."

Around you, the King’s cousins were beginning to notice. A few muffled snickers and pointed glances were thrown your way. A Baratheon was being held at bay by a woman with a sharp tongue, and the novelty was better than the music and dancing.

Lyonel’s eyes flashed—not with anger, but with a dark, appreciative heat. He liked the audience. He liked the stakes. He stepped even closer, his thigh hooking between yours, a bold, possessive move that forced you to either lean back against the cold stone or press into his hard, lithe frame.

"Substance?" he hissed, a wicked grin splitting his face. "You want to talk about substance while you're vibrating like a bowstring? I can feel your heart trying to jump out of your chest and into my hand. You’re not bored. You’re famished."

He lowered his head, his nose brushing against yours, the scent of sandalwood and expensive sin nearly overwhelming.

"I could take you right here on this table," he whispered, his voice a coarse promise that ignored the hundred pairs of eyes on you. "I could show you exactly how 'blunt' my force can be, and I suspect you’d be the one screaming for the windows to stay shut. You want me to earn your name? Fine. I’ll win it from your lips when you’re too breathless to remember your own house words."

You laughed—a low, melodic sound that cut through his bravado like a blade. You finally let your hand land, but instead of a caress, you grabbed the front of his tunic and hauled him down another inch, bringing your faces level.

"Then you’d better start winning, Baratheon," you shot back, your eyes dancing with a challenge that made his breath hitch. "Because so far, all I see is a man who’s had too much wine and not enough discipline. You want a 'surgical approach'? Then stop hacking away like a woodsman and show me something I haven't seen a thousand times from every second son with a title and a thirst."

You released his tunic with a sharp flick, patting his chest as if he were a particularly dim-witted hound. The disrespect was delicious. The hall went momentarily quiet as a nearby knight choked on his ale.

Lyonel stood frozen for a heartbeat, his face a mask of shocked, soaring desire. He looked like a man who had just been slapped and realised it was the best thing that had happened to him all year. His hand drifted down, his thumb hooking into your belt, pulling you flush against the coiled wire of his hips.

"You're a cruel, beautiful creature," he groaned, his forehead dropping back onto yours, his voice thick with an ache he was no longer trying to hide. "My 'leverage' is starting to make this tunic very uncomfortable, and you're standing there debating my 'discipline'. Tell me your name, before I lose what's left of my manners and carry you out of here over my shoulder."

Fic tags: mf, drunk, size kink, flexible, silver fox, smut, flirt, touch

The Great Hall was a cacophony of crashing tankards and drunken boasts, but Lyonel Baratheon moved through the chaos like a ribbon of smoke. He was tall and strikingly lean, possessing a fluid, feline grace that made the armored men around him look like stumbling statues.

As he drifted toward you, the heavy, salt-choked air of Storm’s End was sliced through by the scent on his skin. Deep, aromatic resins and pressed oils from far-off ports, a heady musk of sandalwood and amber that released into the air with every move he made.

He stopped just shy of touching you, swaying slightly with a rhythmic, liquid elegance that suggested he’d had quite a bit of wine, though his dark eyes remained flashing and sharp.

A flash of white teeth joined by a single gold earring against his jawline, glinting in the torchlight every time he tilted his head to study you. The thick, dark curls at his temples were shot through with sudden flashes of silver, giving him the look of a man who had seen much... and enjoyed every wicked second of it.

"You’ve been watching me navigate this shipwreck of a feast for an hour," he murmured, his voice a low, melodic rasp that felt like a physical weight against your skin. "Tell me, are you admiring or measuring, or are you just trying to find a perch upon which to land.. my pretty bird?"

He stepped closer, the heat of him radiating through his fine tunic. He wasn't built like the mountain-men of his lineage; he was all coiled wire and dense, lithe muscle. When he leaned in, his breath—spiced with rich Arbor red—brushed your ear.

"Because I should warn you," he whispered, his hand barely touching you, over the silk at your waist. A touch so light it was almost a taunt, "I’m much more dangerous when I’m focused. It makes me reach for things I’ve already decided are mine."

His eyes lower, following the line of your chin, under your neck. His head tilting slightly. A thick curl falling into place just across the bridge of his nose.

You raised a brow, eyeing the way his earring caught the light. "I heard the Baratheons were all blunt force and heavy hammers. You look like you'd sooner dance around a hammer than swing one."

Lyonel let out a low, coarse chuckle, his dark eyes hooded and hungry. "Hammers are for men who can’t find the gaps in the armor. I prefer a more... surgical approach. Besides," he added, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line over your hip, "a heavy tool is a clumsy thing. I find that being this 'flexible' allows for much more creative positioning once the doors are closed. Girth is a matter of where it’s applied, wouldn’t you agree?"

He leaned his forehead against yours, his silver-streaked curls surprisingly soft against your skin.

"Now, are we going to keep debating my anatomy in front of the King’s cousins, or are you going to help me find a quiet corner where I can show you exactly how I use my... leverage?"

Lyonel rode Fury, a beast as black as a coal-seam, his own blood singing with the primitive rhythm of the hounds. But for the first time in his life, he was not the most feral thing in the woods. Moira Mormont rode as if she were part of the horse. She had shed her cloak, her tunic damp and clinging to the powerful lines of her back, her hair a wild, dark banner behind her. She didn't use the beaten paths. She was a creature of verticality and violence, snapping low-hanging branches with her bare hands, her laughter a jagged, rhythmic sound that cut through the baying of the dogs.

When the Great Hart—a monster of eighteen points, ghost-pale and smelling of musk—finally broke from the thicket, a strange silence fell over the lead pair.

Storm’s End was a throat of stone, and tonight, it was breathing deeply.

The air in the Stormlands did not sit; it pushed. It was a heavy, restless thing, thick with the spray of Shipbreaker Bay and the scent of ozone that heralded a coming gale. Inside the colossal drum tower, the heat was an intrusion. A thick, humid blanket carrying the grease of roasted aurochs and the metallic tang of oiled mail.

Lyonel Baratheon stood on the high gallery of the Great Hall, his knuckles resting against the damp, grit-slicked stone. Below him, the pre-tourney festivities were a thrumming hive of yellow and gold. To Lyonel, this was a harvest. A time for testing the temper of men’s blades and the resolve of women’s glances. He enjoyed the friction of it; the way the southern heat made the reach for a cup of wine more urgent.

"The late arrivals from the North are through the gates, my lord," a page murmured.