summary: After the battle at Rook’s Rest all Gwayne wants is you. Hopefully longing just like he is and cherishing his safe return. And yet he is met with an absence that makes his breath hitch and grim remarks he does not appreciate. Despite being a lord and a noble knight he is also nothing but a man, and how long can a man go without the comforting presence of his wife? And especially a wife who is worth worshipping, every battle and every whispered word of blasphemy?
word count: 5.8k+
a/n: or to put it differently gwayne goes ‘where the hell is my mate with whom i can complain about the greens and their overgrown winged lizards’
“Ser Gwayne?”
He didn’t miss the call. It simply felt irrelevant at this moment, too shallow and meaningless to attract his attention.
Backnoise, perhaps even an annoying one that disturbed Gwayne’s thoughts that were turning more anxious with every second. He didn’t react, focused on scanning the courtyard with his gaze. He furrowed his brows, then grimaced to eventually run a hand over his tired face.
It turned from expressing irritation and discomfort of the travel to a look of deep worry. He could feel his breath growing heavy, barely rhythmic when his eyes moved from one person to another.
Even though he knew and memorized every inch of your face he kept replaying it in his head as if it could help him through the search. The search that slowly started to wear signs of desperation. He suspected that it was caused by the turmoil in his mind that howled and roared ever since he witnessed the huge winged beast on the ground, lifeless.
The closeness of the dragons brought up worry in him and it wasn’t something he cared to be ashamed of.
While brushing through his own hair to stick it back and get rid of the disgusting, sweaty feeling, he thought about your eyes which had a spark in them whenever they found him in a crowd. It was something your husband never got used to fully and it always thrilled him. It was so special that it turned to the main thing he could focus on during the travel back to King’s Landing.
It was the first time in your short years of marriage when he had to march to a true battle.
He imagined how you’d smile with your whole face, a shine of relief washing over you. Your lips would curve gently at first, before he’d gather you in his arms and then the soft greet would turn into a heartwarming laugh. Your lips…
Gods, your lips.
And yet you weren’t here.
The second headman of the Hightower army and Gwayne’s right hand cleared his throat again. “My lord?” He asked louder.
“Ah, yes,” he muttered while breaking out of his trance of worry and madness. “You are dismissed, commander. You did well.”
It was said quieter than he used to speak, not hesitating but not very sure either. He found it hard to focus, only managing to nod at his companion before his gaze shifted to the people gathered around again. Gwayne swallowed a bitter taste on his tongue and straightened his back.
He was falling into unnecessary insanity, surely.
“The men did well too, my lord,” the commander remarked with pride.
Gwayne clasped a hand on his shoulder like the good leader he always tried to be.
“Naturally. We brought a slain dragon’s head with us, after all. You deserve to rest, my friend.”
He couldn’t care less right now if he was honest with himself. You often pointed out his arrogance but lucky for him he also lacked the audacity to mention out loud that the dragon, the victory, the king’s suffering… It all meant very little to him right now.
He spotted the queen with ease. Handing his horse to a stableboy he approached her with his hand clasped behind his back.
“Alicent,” he greeted, probably betraying his outraged frame of mind with the annoyed tone.
He bowed his head. It was respectful enough, he hoped. He had no strength for bending his back, his knees, for ostentatious gallantry and for calling his little sister ‘queen’...
“Brother. I’m happy to see you unharmed and–” she spoke after having a good look at him.
Gods, she really resembled their mother when her eyes travelled all over him like that. It made him clench his jaw and look away from her, searching for you again. He was turning pathetic in it, he feared.
“Where is my wife?” He asked, interrupting Alicent’s words. Silence settled between them for a moment. Either she was unused to such savage manners, let alone from Gwayne, or the question troubled her. “Sister?” He called again when he was left unanswered.
The queen shook her head.
“I haven't seen her,” she said simply. “She is… Well, she is a woman hard to find these days.”
She clearly didn’t grieve that you weren’t her. It could be Gwayne’s own sorrow about it that made him so angry at his sister’s calmness. He breathed in deeply before turning to her.
“You dislike my wife.” It was a statement, not a question, and also not an accusation. Just a fact he found disappointing.
“No. I worry, that's all. She is just–” she cut and blinked at her brother’s unfamiliar expression. The corners of her lips fell further down. “She is of a peculiar character that I failed to notice before,” she explained, almost diplomatically which earned a scoff from Gwayne.
“You dislike her,” he repeated sharply.
“Brother,” she said with firmness that could bring an unruly child to peace. “As I said, I worry. She reminds me of Helaena and that is… It isn’t a good sign,” she said with a sorry face as if she was informing him of his wife’s deathly illness.
“You don't speak about your daughter with much fondness either,” Gwayne pointed out, despite noticing what she tried to say. “Makes me wonder how much of what you see I should put faith in…”
He knew the rationality of your mind. Your wit, your skills and intuition. He would never agree to bring you to a castle so full of viciousness as The Red Keep if he thought you were too fragile to bear it.
“Ser Gwayne.” He heard the voice of Criston Cole behind him which made him realize his tone has risen a bit. More than he wanted. The knight wandered next to him, bowing in front of the queen. “Could that be the truth that your marriage is not as cheerful as you described it to be?” He mocked , certainly recalling Gwayne's lectures.
Malicious cunt. In one moment Gwayne regretted ever mentioning his wife in the presence of a man like him.
“Ser Criston–” Alicent almost choked on her breath while trying to scold the knight, but didn’t find the right words. She turned to Gwayne with a look that could be taken for understanding. “Brother, I see that you worry. You are excused and forgiven.”
“Forgiven for–” Gwayne tried to clarify. Clarify, he told that to himself. In truth he sought an opportunity to argue and release some of his anger.
“Take the queen’s mercy and leave, ser,” Cole said firmly.
It would be below his decency to stay.
Gods, even though you left home with him he wished to see Oldtown as soon as possible again… Suddenly he thought that it could be a mistake. Disturbing your peace so much… On the other hand, if he never offered you would force him anyway. Of that he was sure.
Three months on the road. Alicent always thought you’re heedless and daring. Childish even. What woman with common sense would take up a travel this hard by the side of her lord husband? It was beyond her comprehension no matter how much he tried to understand your reasons. She could appreciate your devotion for her brother, though, and because of that she would never refuse her hospitality to you. That didn’t mean deep sympathy, naturally, and the lack of it was mutual, too.
The queen was faced with her own envy as well when she witnessed you offering comfort to her grieving daughter. You visit in the capital settled on unsteady days full of fear and pain. You were glad that Helaena allowed you to wrap your arms around her gently, even if you had to live under the jealousy of her mother’s gaze.
You felt bad for the dowager queen too. She was too hasty, too expressive in her dislike towards her to make you show compassion. You were also far too well-mannered to show pity.
One way or another, you saw the shadows of vultures that circled over the queen. She wasn't the one with true predatory nature toward the weak perhaps, but you were sure she would gather a harvest of corpses around her anyway. Your only hope was that neither you nor your husband will be amongst them…
You were plagued with the future as much as the past. It was an alliance of both that caused the decision of staying away while the army returned. You should be there awaiting your husband, you knew it but there was this vicious whisper inside you…
Gods, you managed to settle your mind on the matter when you knew it was already too late.
Running through the corridors of the Keep you made a few servants turn after you passed but you no longer cared. You brushed your hair out of your face before leaving the cold walls, stepping into the yard and stumbling onto Gwayne almost immediately.
“Husband,” you mumbled out of breath, too stunned to react properly.
You offered your hand to him, going for a handshake that made him freeze for a moment. It must have been a joke, he thought, but you made no effort to change it. To fix it.
He wanted to move closer, cup your face, smell your hair, remind himself of what true home meant, and here you were offering him your hand to shake.
Gods, no. He was a respectful man, always, but he now almost snatched your hand, leaned down and placed a long kiss on the skin of your knuckles. Not a peck, nothing chaste about it.
You didn’t dare to move and couldn’t help but look at the people gathered around. No one seemed to mind, save for the queen and the man beside her. You turned away as fast as you met her eyes.
Your breath hitched when Gwayne straightened his back and looked you in the face. Your love, your husband that you begged the gods to see again. He looked tired, that you expected, but he was also annoyed. Perhaps it was a mistake and your longing for him led you in the dark; you should have been more patient, stay in your rooms…
“Wife,” Gwayne said with a nod of his head. Only then you noticed he still didn’t let go of your hand. “You look even more delightful than I remembered.”
“It’s only been a few days,” you noticed in a hushed voice.
He grimaced as if you painfully belittled his feelings. Misled by your childhood’s grim experience you thought that it was your voice itself that angered him further. That he was just proper as always, greeting you because he had to before he would drown the memory of the fight in something of his own choosing.
Gwayne wasn’t fond of drinking, he certainly didn’t look around for other women nor he gambled, but in that moment you were sure it wasn’t you from whom he wanted comfort.
You could live with it. Despite the pained look on his face he made the effort to not flaunt it, to not humiliate any of you publicly, so you could do the same. Play the restrained, good wife until he could walk away from you freely without attracting any attention.
“Was the march hard, lord husband?” You asked in the tone of a stranger who made simple conversation.
His eyebrows twitched up at the sound of the title. It was almost unfamiliar coming from you. You, who knew how his name felt on your tongue whispered, cried out, moaned and in laughter… ‘Lord husband’ felt like an insult when he knew how sweet his true name sounded.
“The memory of you made it more bearable,” he answered but the smile didn’t really get to his eyes.
“Oh.” How could you not love him? Even in annoyance and when he wanted to be alone he could play the role of an admirer. “Well, I won't bother you with questions about the battle itself. It must have been horrible.”
He nodded and threw the last look around the yard before offering you his arm. He didn’t understand what in the name of the seven hells was going on but he knew he hated it. Perhaps if you stepped away, stayed in the company of each other.
But you didn’t jump into his arms when you both left, as he wanted. You allowed him to hold your hand, but that was it.
“It is behind us now, dear wife,” he explained to your worried voice. At least it was genuine, that he didn’t doubt. “That is what matters.”
“And that you are unharmed.”
It was strange, made his head spin, that you muttered such careful, lovable words while walking so unsure behind his side. He didn’t fail to notice that you weren’t close enough. Whenever you two strolled together you always rested against him, moved more into him than it was necessary and he adored it. It felt right, having you in his arms. He loved calling himself your husband, your lover, but if he was ever stripped from that he would at least want to be named your protector and supported. That’s how he felt when you showed him so much trust with your actions.
And now your bodies barely even brushed.
Dark thoughts settled in his mind. Did he cause you any pain? Have you heard a vicious rumor about him? Did… Did someone hurt you when he was away?
He called your name quietly, but you spoke up before it could truly get to you.
“Do you wish to have the chambers all to yourself?” You asked, turning your head to look at him. “I can't stay in the garden to offer you some space.”
He matched your gaze slowly, as if he was in pain from his shallow injuries, but it was just the shock. The look on your face seemed small to him, like an intimidated dove, afraid not only of her companion but also her own voice.
You never acted like that.
“I wish for no space,” he declared immediately and couldn’t hold back from moving his free hand up to brush your cheek with his fingers. “You offer strange things, dearest. If it's not too much to ask for, I want my wife's presence right next to me. Caring for me, if she feels strong enough today.”
You nodded and leaned more into his touch.
Gods, so the worry truly blinded you. It was still your Gwayne, after all.
“Of course. I meant no offence,” you explained, partially hopeful he wouldn’t question your behaviour any further. Only if you knew how troubled he was by it.
“And you gave none,” he assured.
“Good. I would love to care for all of your injuries. It will surely calm my nerves, knowing you are in good health.”
But would it really?, he asked himself.
In his common sin of arrogance he lied to himself that he wasn’t easily offended. Yet now he had to admit in front of himself. It struck him painfully.
“You don't seem happy that I'm back,” he noticed eventually while walking. It was a difficult thing to say, as hard as seeing it.
You stopped in your tracks.
“How can you say that? Of course I am.”
He hummed, clearly having a thought about it before stepping in front of you. He took both your shaking hands in his and held them, while lowering his head to you. “Speak to me, wife.”
“B–but I do, don’t I?”
Despite the exhaustion, the dark marks under his eyes and how unruly his hair looked, the lenient smile he put on was honest. There was also a visible fair share of worry in him.
“Something's happened, hasn't it?”
You shook your head, struck by the fact that he turned even more pale. “Nothing, husband, no. You know I would never lie to–”
“Then why are you so afraid?” He asked firmly, never stopping to gently brush your hands.
“I just... I missed you greatly.”
“You did?”
The question rang in your ears for a while. Your husband wasn’t sure if you spoke truthfully about your feelings towards him. You didn’t know if falling into laughter or sobbing was more due in this situation.
Your hands moved, not not only laying in his but interlacing your fingers.
“Yes,” you repeated. “I lived in fear and I was surrounded by strangers, Gwayne. Only the idea of seeing you again kept me sane.”
“I missed you too…”
He almost gave in into leaning closer, bumping your nose with his and resting his forehead against your face. Eventually he held back, too disturbed by your behaviour to let it lay unsolved.
“And yet I'm welcomed with distance and restraint,” he said. “Why?”
“Distance? I–”
But he didn’t let you finish. He moved your hands up to his chest. You could feel his warm breath over your skin.
“Why didn’t you kiss your husband when you saw him? Why didn’t you bless him with your touch if you missed him so?”
He saw your conflicted expression and he couldn’t hold back anymore. Freeing his hands from yours, he moved them to your face. You held onto his wrists gently when he cupped your cheeks like that. Just the way you wanted and dreamed about.
The tears went freely, you no longer tried to stop them when his fingers were placed on your warm skin.
“You terrify me, wife,” Gwayne confessed in a whisper, brushing away some of your tears. “Is it because you try to hide something? If you've experienced any wrongdoing... Gods, I promise that whoever hurt you will pay. Even if I have to go through this whole castle.”
“N–No,” you muttered at once, irritated by how weak your voice sounded. “It’s not that.
He’s never seen you like this before.
“Then…”
“It's my father,” you snapped eventually, annoyed yet glad you got it out of your throat. It was choking you, suffocating for the well part of the day and you had enough.
It should have been enough a long time ago.
“Your father, dove? What about him?”
“He hated it when we waited for him after battles. My mother thought it to be proper and I never understood her stubbornness, but–” The words died on your tongue. You felt foolish, a child again. Gwayne didn’t let you turn your head away from him. “He pushed me and my sisters away when we tried to hug him, and only shared a feast with us to not attract whispers. I suppose all he wanted then was to have a cup of wine and a quiet corner for himself. He was embarrassed by the displays of emotions... I thought–”
“You thought I would push you away like he did,” he said slowly and with understanding.
It sounded stupid, you didn’t even realize how much. You sniffed and took a deep breath to calm yourself.
“Well, I knew you wouldn't but... I felt it somewhere deep under my skin,” you explained and dried the tears on your cheeks. “I couldn't. The shame I felt back then. The feeling like I did something wrong... I couldn't fight it.”
Your husband nodded, taking in the sight of you with pride, not at all unpleased by how shaken up you were. He wasn’t easily annoyed by such things, on the contrary to when he couldn’t understand the situation.
“I see,” he said. He was out of words for a moment when you took his hand from your cheek and placed a kiss on it, just like he did to you every day. “I would never do that to you, you have my word.”
“I know. I always knew it, I just…”
“It is alright, dear. Don’t put me through it again, though. I’m not sure I can take it,” he joked, but there was some true seriousness buried within it. “Can you promise me?”
You smiled at him. Oh, how he missed that. “I can.”
“Good.”
His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him. There was no rush in Gwayne’s actions. He touched your hair, took his time in playing with it before brushing it behind. His lips found yours when his hand finally settled at the nape of your neck.
He kissed you like a man who was left without air ever since he saw you for the last time, and yet he still had the strength of his mind to not impose. To not appear desperate, starved, even if all he wanted was to devour every moment of your love that he was given. The thought of pulling back didn’t even cross your mind.
His lips weren’t as soft as usual. Drier from the harsh wind and sun as well as marked by a bruise and poorly cleaned dry blood. He lingered just over your mouth when he was forced to take a breath.
Gwayne pushed his forehead to yours, resting with his eyes closed as his hand still played with your skin and hair. It made you raise your hand as well, gently touching his face, tracing shallow wrinkles and searching for the familiar feeling of warmth caused by an injury.
“We shouldn’t stand here,” you whispered.
“Why, will you complain about the way I smell, or–”
“That’s not what I said,” you cut in and boldly draped your arm around his neck. Gwayne almost purred when you pressed your body against his. “I would never complain about my own husband’s smell, you know that.”
“Gods, you are right,” his voice broke a bit but there was no shame in him. Not in front of you. “You are right, we shouldn’t be standing here. I want you all for myself.”
“And that you shall have,” you promised with a bashful smile. “Just later. Allow me to have a proper look first.”
He hummed in displease when you stepped back to look at him. Only now he realized you were shying away from that before, silly girl…
“Don’t worry,” he spoke when he noticed how your eyes changed when you set them on a bloodied spot on his doublet, uncovered by the plate armor, “Alicent offered to send her maesters.”
It didn’t soothe your nerves and he was a fool if he imagined it would. You only grimaced and nodded in acknowledgment.
“What is it?” He asked, spotting the shift immediately.
“Her servants are…” You clasped your hands together in front of you and sent him an apologetic smile. “Well, the queen is very kind but I would prefer to tend to you myself, if that's not of much difference to you.”
But Gwayne shook his head with a small grin and showed you to keep strolling to your chambers.
“It is a crucial difference,” he said firmly. “I would prefer no other touch than my wife's. The wounds you dress yourself… they always seem to heal better.”
“Do they?” You asked, taking his hand in your again. “Then I suppose true care can do miracles. Thank the gods those are not necessary today. Well, at least not in flesh….”
“Strange times we live in,” he agreed, seeing that you were speaking of the realm’s position.
The realm’s and yours, as those who sat the closest amongst the family of the ruler, either it was Aegon or Aemond now – you weren’t sure.
“You and my sister,” Gwayne spoke up, “ didn’t find much common ground, I see.”
“We don’t hold love for each other, if that is what you ask about,” you admitted, making your husband chuckle.
“For that I had no hope. Still, I thought you might have some comfort in the presence of another… I believe I was very wrong.”
You tightened the grip on his hand.
“I don’t wish to offend you by speaking ill of your sister. She is the queen, after all and–”
“Wife,” he interrupted with fondness, as if to make you realize who’s side he was on. “When I first saw your sorrow today I feared it was her who had done something horrific to you. Now tell me all.”
So you did, even if there were no tragic tales or shaking plots to mention. Gwayne could be a great listener when he wanted and to you he was always.
He opened the door to your shared chamber when you reached it and let you pass. He could already feel his insides aching from how hard you made him laugh.
“So she goes, still not looking at me, now listen–” you cut to clear your throat.
Resting one arm on a nearby desk you clutched the other to the neck of your gown, the way the queen often did, and lowered your voice to match hers.
“I hear you are fond of politics, my lady… I said that local politics, yes, but not the capital one. That is... that is certainly too overwhelming for a woman like me.”
“Mm.” Gwayne sat on the bed without moving his eyes from you.
“And then: Well, I’m sure you are very grateful to my brother then, she says, for allowing you to be involved in it. Politics, she meant, even the local one.”
“Allowing?” Your husband questioned, still trying to fight the smile brought up by your little act.
“Yes! Her words exactly,” you squealed in emotion. “So I replied that if she knows you well, which I don’t doubt she does, then she knows you aren’t fond of all your duties. My husband, I went, is gravely bored by the matter of grains and wheat, let’s say, so to be a good wife I free him of this subject and tend to it myself. And then she gives me a look so dirty as if I just confessed I want to slay Ormund Hightower and take the title of lord paramount myself. Or murder one of her sons, whoever is king now, since I lost count in that…”
Gwayne thought for a while, then waved his hand. “I’m not sure, now that Aegon is… Well, the way he is.”
You quickly moved to his side and occupied the spot nearby. You lowered your voice almost to a sound of conspiracy. “He is not dead, though, is he? People whisper different things…”
“Not dead yet, at least,” he admitted indifferently. “That I can say.”
You frowned for a moment then shrugged.
“You see my point, anyway,” you continued.
“I do. And I know my sister well, I can imagine her killing you with her gaze.”
You nodded like he described it perfectly. “Even your father is less demanding and, gods, backward, than her.”
“He is. Yes, Alicent is…” he sighed while looking for a good word, then smiled and turned to face you. “She’s just Alicent.”
“She is.” It made you giggle. “Now let me prepare some water and clean cloths…”
He was rather properly cleaned up already but you wanted to have a look yourself and make sure he was unharmed. One of his squires came to help you take off his armor, then bowed to you and left.
“You’re staring, Gwayne…” you noticed while struggling with the laces of his green overshirt.
“I am.”
He really had no shame when it came to the things he felt for his wife.
You were already bent forward to see the strips and belts better, almost resting your head on Gwayne’s shoulder. He barely had to move to cup your lips with his and still he made sure to tug you closer, earning a half-swallowed whine from you. You would have fallen, your body collapsing into his, but he gracefully directed you to his lap, making you laugh at how cheeky he could be sometimes.
You didn’t break the kiss nonetheless, and moved against him with matching eagerness. He let out a deep, content sigh and it was the most beautiful sound you have heard in days.
Draping your arms around his neck and shoulders you allowed him to tug you even closer, his own arms caging you, wrapped around your middle. You picked at his lower lip earning a hoarse, pleased groan from your husband. It wasn’t hard and still you could feel the iron taste of blood on your tongue.
“Forgive me,” you said in worry, pulling away and spotting that the bruising opened again. “I’ve forgotten myself–”
But he didn’t care. He tugged you in for another kiss and only calmed down when you rested your chest and head against him. This is where he wished to be ever since they left the camp at Rook’s Rest. Here with your body in his arms.
“You know I found it harder to pray to the gods with every moment I spend away from you,” he confessed. You felt him shiver at the sensation of your breath over his neck. “I could only think about you.”
He moved one hand from your back to pick at his necklace and raised it to his lip. Where his sister wore a sign of religious devotion, Gwayne wore his reminder of loyalty to you. It was poetic in a way, much more romantic than you would ever imagine him to be. Before Gwayne you thought nothing of gestures like that, thinking you would never find happiness with a man like that.
“Stop, husband,” you hushed, brushing the side of his face. Eventually he allowed you to take a wet cloth and slowly run it over his skin. “It is blasphemy.”
“It's you,” he argued. “You are worth every blasphemy.”
What could you possibly say to that? What could you do instead of placing a kiss on his face and making your touch even more gentle? It was bliss, even despite the blood that ran with water and stained your fingers. For a while you could forget about wars, kings and battles that were to come.
The worry laid deeply, though, and the everlasting grim of the Red Keep never made it better. Your husband always noticed it on your face.
“What is it that scares you, dearest? I can see it.”
A sigh left you. “The walls. They have ears and eyes around here. It makes me go mad, husband.”
Some more blood dripped from his lip when he smiled.
“Then I promise to make sure to get you out of here before you start collecting bugs like my niece,” he said jokingly.
“You mock me,” you pointed out sharply and tapped his chest with your finger. “And my worry. too, when it is very adequate.”
“No, love, not at all. I don’t mock you.”
He coughed into his sleeve and made an innocent face. At least he was in a good mood.
“I am only being rational, even if you view it as paranoia. Oh, and trust me, Helaena’s company sometimes feels like she is one of very few sane people around here.”
Gwayne chuckled. “It must be bad if you say it.”
“It is bad. That’s why I pray for the war to be finished. So you can take off your armor for good and we can go home.”
“Not so many innocent lives could be spared?” He suggested.
Frolics.
“That too, of course. And honestly, I never want to see a dragon again. Not close, not far, not at all,” you said with a grimace.
Gwayne sat more comfortably with you in his lap, resting his back on the wall. He closed his eyes for a moment like he was dreaming, and yet it was nothing pleasant.
“The dragons, love,” he mumbled. When he opened his eyes there was nothing but worry in them, like he could recall the fire and death in its every detail even now. “They… Gods, they are nightmares.”
You watched your husband with carefulness, and dried his skin. “Do you wish to speak of it? The battle?”
You saw the hesitation on his face. The way he was questioning if he should bother you or not. Like he was picking between being a husband or a friend and trustee. Choice you never wished him to make.
“Do not offend me,” you said softly, “with the idea that I have not enough courage to bear those things you were forced to face.”
He nodded, yet no word of the battle itself left him at once. He needed time, you knew. Whenever something happened you tended to spend long nights talking about it in bed and you didn’t doubt it would be similar this time.
“We brought the head of the fallen beast…” he said.
“So it's true,” you hummed in awe. “I heard the voices from town. People didn’t like it.”
“No, they didn’t,” he agreed. “Truth be told, I don’t like it either. It stinks.”
“Reeks of a dead dragon? Who would have thought,” you teased ironically, making him stick his fingers more into the flesh on your waist.
“The only advance this place has over Oldtown,” you spoke up again, “is that rumors seem to be more reliable. To those who know how to understand them they are almost always valid. I find that entertaining.”
“Yes? And what did you hear, love?”
“I heard that your cousin is on his way here. And he’s with Daeron, too,” you informed proudly of your discovery. “People already whisper about another dragon.”
But Gwayne’s face fell and he sighed like the weight of the world was just dropped on his shoulders. For a moment you thought that it came from worry about his young nephew, but you finally understood when he spoke up.
“Are we not allowed some time away from him?”
It was sharp, annoyed, and ‘him’ must have been none other than Ormund Hightower.
“You haven’t seen him in months, Gwayne. There are two of us who don’t miss him, but…”
“I see him enough at home,” he remarked then lowered his head to your shoulder. “I’lll have to keep an eye on him when he’s around you,” he muttered.
“What? Do you have no trust in me, husband?”
“Oh, I have all trust in you,” he promised, feeling something bitter even at the thought of his cousin laying his eyes on you. “I just don't want him bothering you.”
You waved it off. “It will be fine. There is no need for you to get angry.”
“Him or his men…” Gwayne kept going.
You rolled your eyes and quickly got off his lap to dry your own hands and pick up the bandages.
“At least we’ll see your nephew again.”
With that he could agree.
“Yes, at least. You're fond of the boy, aren't you?”
“Yes. He’s… “You merely shrugged. “He is different from his siblings, you know? Perhaps Helaena… Well, the future of house Targaryen, I think, lies in Daeron alone. It's good that he's not cruel like his kins…”
Gwayne nodded and moved to stand up, slowly growing restless about the absence of your warmth against him.
“In that you might be just right, my dear. But Ormund… I keep no love for my cousin now that I have you to protect,” he confessed.
“I don't need–”
“I know,” he interrupted quietly and leaned to kiss the uncovered skin on your shoulder. “I know but I would go mad if you didn't allow me to be protective and just a little bit overbearing.”
a/n: you noticed that i made all of those hightowers quite crazy about smells, right? RIGHT? you noticed??
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gwayne hightower x reader
summary: to be a good wife, a woman must sacrifice a part of herself. at least, that's what you've always been taught. gwayne just might prove your expectations wrong.
w/c: 1.5k
tags: fem!reader. tyrell!reader. hurt/comfort. mentions of reader's parents' unhealthy relationship. mentions of misogynistic/canon typical expectations.
the day that marked your union with ser gwayne hightower was a lavish affair hosted in oldtown, but while most everyone else seemed to be of joyful spirit, the feeling of dread in your gut threatened to consume you.
it'd been growing there ever since otto hightower first proposed the match to your father, lord tyrell. with the looming matter of succession, otto endeavored to strengthen ties with highgarden ahead of any assured potential conflict.
it's not that you took issue with the man you were to wed. he is, after all, known to be a knight most handsome and noble. it was the prospect of becoming a wife at all that dampened your would be celebration.
your entire life, you've never once witnessed your mother and father share a moment of affection. it's quite the opposite, a marriage characterized by icy remarks and disregard.
your septa, in a misguided attempt to save you from the same fate, was always steadfast in her most important lesson— once you were wed, you would no longer be a lady of highgarden. you would be a wife, and wives are meant to be agreeable, lacking in opinion, and obliged to bear heirs.
thus, as you pledged yourself to the son of oldtown, that is what you resolved to be. nothing more, nothing less.
and it worked. for a little while, at least. ser gwayne is completely taken with you— poised, polite, and beautiful in the way that men write songs about.
but the man you married is quite clever, and it doesn't take him long to realize that you are perhaps too gracious.
for three moons now, he has toiled to earn your trust. to see what lies behind your mask of docile courtesy. truthfully, he finds it more challenging than any foe's sword or diplomat's politic.
his efforts have not been entirely fruitless, and he looks forward to the moments it seems he has earned your confidence to some degree. just days ago, you petitioned him on behalf of a young servant boy who's shoes had fallen to disrepair.
he acceded without pause, and watched later on as you presented new boots to the boy. a tender expression decorated your features as you spoke with him, a sight that was new to gwayne.
it tugged at something in the very center of his chest and strengthened his resolve.
while you took note of the way your husband's demeanor softens around you, especially when you are alone in his chambers, you surmised it must simply be fatigue, pity, or some mix thereof.
what other conclusion is there to draw, when he has only lain with you in the way a husband does his wife but once since your wedding night?
to think he must find you undesirable despite all your efforts is disheartening, to say the least. in your attempts to initiate intimacy, he returns your kisses briefly, but eventually pulls away and suggests, "shall we turn to slumber, wife?"
unbeknownst to you (and thankfully his father, as it would surely inspire his ire), gwayne cannot bring himself to bed you again. not when all he has found behind your eyes is obligation, rather than desire or affection.
so while he cannot help the indecent thoughts that sometimes invade his mind— like how you might look beneath him, blissful and desperate— he makes restraint a priority.
until he proves himself to you.
until you want him too.
as the sun begins its ascent above the horizon, you're perched on the ledge of your chamber window, staring down at the port of oldtown. while gwayne readies himself for the day, the dock workers and fisherman are already hard at work.
"you know..." your tone, somewhat pensive, draws his attention. "the mornings here are an oddity to me."
your hands fidget with one another in your lap, a display that does not escape his notice. "how do you find?"
"they are rather.. overwrought. the blinding light reflected off the sea. the salt that carries in with the breeze. the cries of the gulls..."
gwayne begins to suspect that your words are not meant for him— more so a personal observation spoken aloud. there's an element of your disposition that feels solemn, a circumstance that has grown more frequent in recent days.
approaching where you sit, he peers out of the window before turning his gaze to you. a thought occurs to him as he studies your face.
"what time i spend in highgarden, i find myself overextended with little opportunity to appreciate the scenery— tell me of the mornings there."
a fond smile graces your lips, much to his relief.
"oh, they are beautiful. periwinkle skies. the soft croons of doves. the smell of roses, sweet and faint. i... i miss it fiercely."
your eyes meet his, and frightened realization dawns upon your countenance as you mistake the sympathy written on his face for disappointment.
"b-but i am grateful to be here, husband. being in oldtown, with you, is doubtless a privilege many a lady has dreamed of."
his brow furrows and he takes a small step forward, closing the space between you.
"it aggrieves me that you oft refrain from speaking freely, my sweet wife. your words bore no offense. surely anyone would miss a home so lovely."
you look away bashfully, feeling as if you've been ensnared in some intricate trap.
hoping to relieve your apparent doubt, gwayne adds, "i should like to see one of these highgarden mornings together, wife. what do you say?"
your eyes widen as your gaze meets his, astonishment dominating your every feature. "you would go to such lengths on my behalf?"
"well, certainly." his head tilts ever so slightly. "is it not my duty to ensure your happiness?"
the question leaves you speechless. never had you been taught any version of marital duty that involved your own contentment.
you stand with a sigh, brushing past him and pacing the length of your chambers as you ponder his words. "i.. i could not possibly trouble you with my childish whims—"
he catches you by the wrist, his tone full of sincerity. "be assured, petal, it's no trouble at all. the journey is scarcely a day."
the term of endearment, a recent development, makes your cheeks feel warm. "my gratitude is yours for even entertaining such a notion, husband."
"husband.." he repeats, smiling at you softly. "when shall i have the honor of hearing mine own name from your lips?"
it's quiet for a moment as you try and fail to recall a time you heard your mother and father refer to one another so familiarly.
"is that your desire?" you finally ask.
he hums, considering the question. "my sole desire is to have you as you are— not the duty bound wife of this undeserving husband, but your true self, wherever she may be hiding."
your heart stutters violently in your chest. "oh."
he lets out a breath of amusement, your brief response potentially the most candid you've ever been with him.
"i'd wager i could make the arrangements to leave for highgarden in three days time. would that be agreeable?"
a small gasp escapes your lips. "truly? you mean it?"
"of course—"
you're both caught off guard when you press upon your tip toes and throw your arms around his neck. you miss the way his cheeks flush pink before he returns your embrace in earnest.
your next words are spoken quietly, but your husband hears them quite clearly. "thank you, gwayne."
you pull away just a few inches, and his smile is so wide that small dimples form upon his cheeks and his eyes shine brightly. you've always found him handsome, but the sight before you makes your knees feel a little weak.
"very well, then. i will see to our travels today," he affirms. emboldened by your proximity, he cannot refrain from leaning down to place a chaste kiss to your cheek. "i shall see you for supper this evening."
before you can process what's happened, much less muster up a response, you're left alone.
staring after the doors through which he disappeared, the pads of your fingers move to the place his lips met your skin.
an idea occurs to you that is equally exciting as it is intimidating— perhaps with ser gwayne hightower, there could be more to marriage than empty vows and hollow duty.
Valarr Targaryen x highborn!reader (no physical description, no specific house mentioned, pick one for yourselves:))
Summary: based on this idea. Valarr has always been a shy, slightly socially inept child, until you held out your hand and invited him to join your friend group. The friendship blooms, and soon you are each other's dearest, closest childhood companions. So close, in fact, that you write a pact to marry each other when you both come of age. When your family has to leave King's Landing, you are devastated, but Valarr promises you will meet again when you are to wed each other. A decade later, you've forgotten about the contract, but he never has.
Tags/Tropes: fluff! so much fluff! friends to lovers, he falls first and hardest, innocent love, betrothal, getting together, reader is oblivious and confused until the end, childhood friends, yearning Valarr, YEARN pretty boy yearn!, Baelor has a headache. Reader has supportive parents (don't we all wish for some)
Rating: sfw (surprise!)
My Masterlist
Spinoff
WC: 12,960 words (whoopsie)
-
197 AC
The godswood of the Red Keep was full of children's laughter. In the wake of the Blackfyre rebellion, it had been nigh on two and a half years since these woods had been graced with the pitter-patter of the small feet, loud giggles which cut through the air like little wind chimes and screams of joy. Now the little lordlings and ladies were returning to the godswood, the heavy air of solemnity lifted like a veil.
Valarr was sitting by the heart tree, watching the other children play come-into-my-castle from afar. The little prince, at the green age of five, was fidgeting with the hem of his cloak with his little fingers, wishing but not daring to join the game. In the middle of the makeshift castle's borders made out of tree branches, Aelor, his cousin, only one year his elder, was holding his court with a young courtier's son. Around them were at least five to six other children of the Keep, shouting out their suggestions for the identity of the lord of the keep.
"By your weirwood tree you can only be the bannerman of Lord Tully, Lord Bracken, and so I name you" the courtier's little son declared at the entrance of the tree branch castle, his chest puffed out in certainty.
"Wrong! You're all wrong! I'm Lord Blackwood, you've got my sigil all wrong!" Aelor shouted out in joy, pumping his small fist in the air. "Nobody made it into my castle, so I win!"
Valarr got up from his observation post, and timidly made his way to the group of boys. "Aelor, I want to play too! Maester Archibald said that I am good at learning the sigils of the houses! I could.."
"No! we don't have any more space for you, cousin. We're already too many, and we have to wait so long for our turns", Aelor cut him off. The older princeling had never liked his cousin very much, his mismatched blue and brown eyes and dark brown hair with only a thin streak of white drawing a stark contrast to the rest of his family. Everybody else had beautiful, pure Valyrian features, even Daeron, with his dirty blond hair, had lilac eyes to show for it. But Valarr looked half Dornish in coloring, just like his father Baelor.
Rejection stung Valarr's eyes, especially after he had been so brave to get up and ask the boys to play. As he nodded and made his way back to the heart tree, a small hand reached out and tapped on his shoulder.
When he turned around, he came face to face with you, a child of five as well. You had a big grin on your face, eyes twinkling and hair done up in a braided bun. He knew you from sight; your mother had come to court recently with her household to be a companion to his own mother.
"Our mothers are friends, so we should be friends too!" You exclaimed, "we're going to play monsters and maidens, you should come play with us!" You waved at the little group of boys and girls a few yards away.
Valarr blushed at the invitation. Though children were careless beings, they weren't careless enough to disregard the obvious hierarchy between their parents. Other children were taught to be weary of accidentally injuring him; leading to most other children's hesitation to let him into their games. He felt addressed to as an ordinary child for the first time in his short life, and grasped his first chance at a friendship with his small hands.
When he nodded, you took his hand in yours, shouted out to your little group of friends that he "absolutely had to join" your game of chase, and hurriedly dragged him to them.
That was the first time he felt the warm, fluttering happiness of making a new, genuine friend.
-
The two of you were fast friends, soon inseparable apart from the hours spent at your lessons. When Valarr would curl up with a fairytale book under a tree, his little head already adept with his letters, — maesters called him a prodigy, already reading deftly and starting to write at only five years of age — you'd sprawl out next to him and listen to him read aloud stories of knights, dragons, and princesses, begging him to read you another story before supper time.
"If we were the princess and the knight from the story, we could befriend the dragon instead of killing it", you mumbled, staring into the leaves rustling in the wind and the bright blue sky. "We could fly away on the dragon, and build a castle on a beautiful unknown island. Then we'd only eat cake, and go on adventures all the time, just the three of us. We'd declare the island ours, and nobody else would be allowed in!"
Valarr's cheeks flushed pink. You liked it when he blushed, you liked pink and you liked Valarr's squishy cheeks. It was a great combination.
"But what about our families?" He lightly furrowed his brows. Valarr, the little prince, so dutiful even at his age.
"They could still visit us whenever they want, they're family!" You exclaimed, as if it were the most obvious thing. "
"That'd be nice", he smiled lightly, already envisioning your castle on an island far away, living with you, the dragon, and flying into the sunset for adventures. He'd be your knight, and you'd be his princess. He'd protect you from any harm and get you all the lemon cakes you wanted.
-
198AC
When Valarr's sixth nameday came, you'd already been six for three whole moon cycles. By then, you'd been inseparable for almost a year, and your families were completely endeared by your friendship.
You woke up on the morrow buzzing from excitement for your closest companion's nameday, almost vibrating in your chair while breaking your fast with your parents. They suggested visiting prince Baelor's family in his solar to bring his son's nameday present, a richly ornamented saddle for his pony.
"Val's six too now, Papa!" you cried out, elated by the thought of being allowed to visit your friend so early in the morning.
"That he is, my darling." His eyes crinkled in amusement.
You were practically bouncing at the door when your household set out from your quarters, running laps around your parents and the servants holding the big boxes meant for Valarr.
When your little procession arrived at the door to Baelor's solar, you sprinted off and nimbly sidestepped the poor startled guards at the door, slamming the doors open and running into the room to see your dearest friend.
"Happy nameday Val!" You shouted, running straight at him and hugging him tightly. The impact of the hug was great enough that he let out a huff of breath, and only croaked out a quiet "thank you".
Behind you, your parents were apologizing to the guards, but entered nevertheless, and greeted the heir's household. The servants placed the present boxes on the floor next to the gift pile, then bowed before they took their leave.
"My prince, dear Jena, we wish you the jolliest and the most blessed nameday for Prince Valarr. Apologies for our daughter's.. overflowing enthusiasm to congratulate his little grace."
Your mother dipped into a curtsy, your father bowing his head next to her.
Lady Jena was having none of the formalities, and crossed the room in quick steps to greet your mother in a hug, followed by two quick kisses on the cheeks. "Thank you dearly to you both for the lovely wishes, that is most kind. And Baelor and I are simply delighted that our children are so close. It endears me greatly that their friendship blooms so wonderfully just as ours did."
As the adults sat on the high-backed lounge chairs while discussing their mysterious adult topics, Valarr and you padded to his little brother's crib, Valarr wishing to introduce you to his mere 3-weeks old baby brother.
"He's so little", you wondered at his impossibly tiny hands and feet.
"His name is Matarys", Valarr introduced him. "Matarys, this here is my closest friend", he then solemnly introduced you to the little newborn, stating your given and family name to the babe as if the little one was to remember it. You giggled at that, and played with his tiny hands.
"Do you want to open the gifts with me?" Valarr suggested, pointing at the high-piled boxes of gifts from the entire realm.
You nodded, excited at unboxing the undoubtedly beautiful gifts sent to the crown prince. You both sat at the foot of the pile cross-legged, delightedly tearing through the delicate packaging and revealing the gifts one by one. There was a bejeweled dagger, the pommel a golden dragon's head with a ruby in its open maw. The next was a beautifully stitched doublet, made of shining black and red velvet. Your parents had gifted him a gilded saddle and bridle for his pony, with jeweled ornaments running through the straps. As you looked through the gifts, your face suddenly saddened.
"What's the matter?" Valarr asked, his brows scrunching up in concern.
"I have nothing to gift you", you murmured, fidgeting with your necklace. It was a beautiful piece of jewelry, commissioned by Baelor at Valarr's insistent demand for your last nameday. The fine golden chain held a delicate pendant, a huge blue topaz placed between winding golden vines. Baelor and Jena had gifted you a matching diadem, a masterpiece done by the castle's goldsmith with blue topaz ornaments and swirling ivy vines.
You regretted not insisting on getting Valarr a present of your own, especially as he had asked his father to commission something so beautiful just for you three moons ago.
Valarr's eyebrows furrowed further in confusion. "Your parents have already gifted me the saddle and bridle. You have no need to get me anything else."
You shook your head, and looked down to the floor in consideration. Then, you took your ring off your pointer finger, a small signet ring with your family's sigil on it.
"I can't take that, that's yours." Valarr shook his head.
"Yes you can, I have many other rings just like this", you insisted as you took his left hand and slid it onto his index finger. "Also, now you have a gift from just me, which is good because best friends should always gift each other things for their namedays."
Valarr flushed while looking down at the signet ring on his finger. He didn't protest any longer, and smiled shyly at you. "Thank you. I'll always cherish it." He nodded solemnly with his promise.
-
The idea came to you on a sunny day, when you were both lying in the grass, out of breath from the last game of monster and maiden. The two of you hadn't found any other children to join you, already tied up in other games or off to lessons. But playing only with Valarr was just as fun as with the whole group, his company always beat everybody else's. You were looking up at the clouds, thinking that they looked like a herd of sheep traversing a light blue lake.
Suddenly, the idea struck you.
“Val,” you called, and he hummed in response. “We should get married when we’re older.”
Valarr craned his neck around to look at you, confusion evident in his eyes.
“If we get married, we could be best friends like this forever. Just the two of us. Septa Marya says that one day, my parents will choose a Lord for me to marry, but I don’t want to do that. We could get married like the princess and the knight, and go on adventures and see all the wonders of the world, just like in the books.” You continued, still gazing up at the clouds, imagining the scenes from the fairytales.
He smiled at that. “Yes, we should get married when we’re grownups. I’d like that. Maybe we could go sailing across the Jade Sea, I read that dragons still live there.”
You sat up, looking at him with a smile blooming on your face. "Do you promise?"
"I promise. On my honor." He sat up to face you, and nodded with all the solemness a six-year-old could muster.
"We need a more serious promise, though. In case we grow up and forget", you added.
Valarr hummed in agreement. "We could make a vow on the parchment. My father says that a promise made with words on a parchment and then sealed with the houses' sigils are binding."
"If you want to promise to marry me", he quickly added, a soft blush creeping onto his cheeks. "You don't have to if you don't want to." But your excitement took momentum, and now you were consumed by the idea of being being friends with Valarr forever, without having to marry someone you did not know yet like Septa Marya said.
"I want to! We have to get married Val, it would be the best thing! But," you hesitated. "How would we make the vow? I don't know how that works."
"I saw a parchment at my father's desk once, I can do it. We just need the big signet rings from our fathers so we can stamp the seals." Val's so smart, you marveled.
The rest of the afternoon was spent with barely muffled giggles and whispers, as Valarr fleshed out the plan for you. Your little conspiracy meeting only ended when your mothers each sent their maidservants to collect you for supper; even then, you parted ways reluctantly.
-
The two of you chose to execute your plan while the royal party was on a hunting trip. Your parents would be absent from the Keep, with only the servants and the maester or septa to keep watch over you. It would almost be too easy to sneak off to the Hand's Tower and draft an unofficial official document.
After your parents left the Keep, you sneaked to the solar, where your father's velvet doublet hung over the backrest of a chaise longue. When you patted the breast pocket, where you had observed your father tucking his ring into before riding off to the kingswood, you felt the distinct shape of a ring under your fingers. You pocketed it, evading the eyes of the maidservants. Your heart was beating wildly, and your hands were visibly shaking, never having taken something without leave before like this. But as you left the quarters and headed to the Hand's Tower, the anxiety soon turned into giddiness, with your giggles barely contained as you skipped the rest of the way.
This felt like an adventure, a mischief, something that the characters from your fairytale did. Like a princess outwitting a cruel witch to reverse her spells, or a young knight valiantly stealing the keys to the cage of his one true love from the pockets of the sleeping giant. If you did this, you and Valarr could live out your dreams, never separated from each other's closest friend.
Valarr was waiting at the door to his father's office, grinning widely from excitement. The door was not locked by some wonder, and the two of you padded in to the chamber, giggling and whispering from the excitement.
Valarr sat himself in his father's chair, sitting at the edge of the seat so he'd be able to reach over the desk, while you sprawled across the armchair, facing him. "So what now?" You asked. Valarr was the mastermind of this plan, after all.
"Now, we write our promises", Valarr stated, pulling out a blank parchment from a drawer after searching for a moment. He dipped the quill into the inkpot, and his hand hovered over the empty page. "Are you sure?" He raised his eyebrows, seeking your confirmation with a hint of insecurity in his expression.
"Yes! It's going to be amazing when we're married, Val. We're going to go see the God's Eye, the Free Cities, and have a baker make us treats for all meals!" You giggled. Your priorities clearly stood with confectioneries tied to the royal sugar bakers.
"I am going to need to see how to write just like father does", Valarr mumbled as he pulled a parchment with a filled out contract — something about orchards and taxes — and a seal stamped upon it, "it needs to look official."
Valarr was now leaning over the parchment, occasionally looking over to his reference material, brows furrowed in concentration so the letters would be as orderly as possible. While he painstakingly wrote down the short terms of your contract, you were busy lying across the armchair and listing off all the things you wanted to do once you were grown up. Valarr, ever the polite, dutiful child, made sure to answer with "yes, sure" or a hum every once in a while.
Once done, he pushed the parchment filled with his over to you, his eyes shining with pride. On top of the parchment, both of your names were listed with the proper titles.
This contract made on the fifth day of the seventh moon of year 198 AC between the two persons parties above binds them in a pact of marriage. When Prince Valarr Targaryen comes of age, the two parties will be joined in marriage in a sacred ceremony.
This agreement is valid in every corcom circumstance without conditions.
Signed,
Valarr Targaryen
Your lips moved quietly as you sounded the words out, stumbling over the unfamiliar words. Next to his signature at the bottom of the page, the three-headed dragon of his house was drawn clumsily.
"What is a pact?" You lifted your eyes, curious over the new word.
"I think it means an agreement or promise in official words, I found it on this sheet." Valarr waved the other parchment in his hand.
You nodded, quietly marveling at Valarr's adeptness with his letters. The words sounded so grown-up; and the penmanship was slightly wonky, but to you, it looked as perfect as any.
"Now what?" You asked again.
"Now you sign your name, and we stamp it. Then, it's official." Valarr said solemnly.
You took the quill from his hand, and dipped it into the ink. Septa Marya had shown you how to write your name, stating that it was the foremost essential thing a lady should be able to spell. You pressed the tip of the quill into the page, your effort evident in your furrowed brows and tongue sticking out of the side of your mouth. The signature was a little shaky, but it was written in your best cursive, and you reckoned Septa Marya would be proud. Then, you scribbled the sigil of your house next to it, just as Valarr had.
"Now, we stamp", Valarr put the stick of black wax on the desk, a slight look of hesitation on his face. He was afraid of burning his fingers on it, but he tried his best not to show it as he heated it against the candlelight and dripped the wax onto the parchment. He then rummaged through the drawers and produced a big signet ring, which he then pressed into the wax. You watched, fascinated by the process. Elated, you took the wax from his hand and copied his actions, stamping your father's signet ring into the little pool of wax.
"Is it done? Is it official now?" You bounced in your seat, clapping your hands from excitement while Valarr blew on the seals to dry them.
"It is", he confirmed once he was done, a big grin splitting his face. You squealed, then pulled him down from his father's chair to hug him tightly. You were going to marry Valarr, and now you were going to be best friends with him until the end of days.
-
The news of your departure from King's Landing came abruptly on a cloudy afternoon. Your parents had summoned you to the solar after your lessons, and sat you down on the armchair across from them with a serious look on their face.
Your initial confusion faded and a feeling of despair and sadness descended upon you as they explained that you'd all have to return home. As they went on about the inheritance conflicts between the minor houses of your region and how they, as their liege, would have to be present to manage the quarrels, your mind wandered to everything you’d be leaving behind. What of your friends here? What of the delicious cakes and beautiful gardens? And most importantly, what of Valarr, your best friend?
Their faces blurred as your eyes welled up with tears. Although you pressed your lips together to appear brave, a helpless sob wrenched itself from your mouth.
Your mother noticed your distressed state, leaving her seat to kneel before your armchair and hug you tightly until you'd calmed. Your mother's hand drew slow circles on your back, whispering words of consolation.
"When do we leave?" You asked as your mother loosed her hug, teardrops clinging to your lashes.
"In four days, at daybreak." Your father had a look of sadness as well, knowing that his daughter had found true, close friends at court. His guilt at having to tear you away from them due to his and your mother's duties as lord and lady paramount apparent in his expression. He’d always been exceptionally lenient to his only daughter’s wishes, but now he was faced with a wish he could not possibly fulfill.
But the promise. What of the promise with Valarr? You were going to get married. Panic washed over you.
"But what about Valarr? We were going to get married. I promised him," the truth spilled out of you with a new wave of tears. You let out a poorly contained sob, and your mother held you again in her arms as you buried your face in her shoulders.
"I'm sorry, sweetling. We both are. But sadly, it cannot be helped." She patted your back, assuming the talk of marriage was simply a talk of a child's whimsy, a play-pretend between two children. Children could be quite imaginative when playing, after all.
You sniffled, but nodded. No more fairytale readings with Valarr, no more playing lord of the crossing or monsters and maidens with the children of the court — and Valarr, of course —, and no more pony rides with your parents and Prince Baelor's household. Your little heart ached from the farewell, but you knew you could not stay when your parents were returning to your ancestral home.
When you took your leave to go to the godswood, your eyes were still red and swollen from the tears. Valarr spotted you from afar, and got up from his seat under the heart tree — our seat, you thought — to greet you, but his face fell when he saw your expression. He placed the fairytale tome on the ground, and walked up to you to meet you halfway.
"What's the matter?" His eyes searched your face, seemingly trying to guess the source of your distress from your look alone.
"We're leaving, Val. Mama and Papa just told me", you choked out, the lump in your throat from suppressing another sob growing almost painful.
His eyes widened at first, then fell into a sad frown. "But you're coming back, right?" he asked hopefully.
"I don't know", the corners of your mouth tilted down even further, "could be months, years 'till we get back.”
His gaze fell to the ground, his lips pulled into a taught, downward frown mirroring yours. He started fidgeting with the ring on his index finger, your signet ring on his index finger.
"It's going to be okay", he tried to be reassuring, though his voice shook slightly. "We took a vow, remember? When we're grown up, we'll get married, and we'll see each other again then. I will make sure of it."
"Promise?" Your voice trembled.
"Promise." Valarr nodded. Your Valarr. Your dearest, closest friend in the world. You nodded back, and you walked together to the heart tree, settling into your usual seats, and Valarr opened the book to read out your favorite story anew for the umpteenth time, the one about the princess, the knight, and the fearsome dragon.
-
208 AC
You sat on the terrace of your ancestral home, overlooking the gardens. The warm, early spring breeze threaded through your hair, the sun shining gently over your skin. The gardeners were working tirelessly, planting saplings and flower seeds for them to bloom once summer came. The watered wine on the side table had grown lukewarm under the sun’s rays, the open book in your lap laid forgotten as you watched the gardeners work their magic.
“My lady,” your maidservant called gently from behind you. “Your lord father wishes for you to join for afternoon tea in his solar now.”
You simply nodded, closing the book shut and placing it on the side table to stand up from your comfortable seat. Your mind was still firmly with the gardens, and what it would look like once the fruit tree saplings and the flowers bloomed. You hoped that there were peach trees among those planted today, peach tarts were truly one of the most delicious creations in the whole realm.
When you reached the double doors to your father’s solar, you waved off the guard’s question to whether he should announce your arrival, and swung the doors open yourself. Your parents were already seated at the tea table, lounging comfortably while leading a hushed discussion with smiles on their faces. You chose a chaise longue to sprawl on, and picked up a lime biscuit to nibble on.
“Father, mother, what might be the joyous matter you are discussing?” You raised an eyebrow, ignoring all the crumbs that were spilling all over your gown.
“We have royal invitations to the Red Keep, we leave in a sennight’s time,” your mother turned to you, a smile spreading on her face at the thought of visiting her dear friend, Lady Jena. “It will be marvelous to return there, do you remember when we spent a year at the Keep? You used to have quite a few friends there as a girl.”
You vaguely recalled the hazy memories, already a decade past now. Running through the godswood, learning to ride a pony, the games played with the other children, and the stories read under the heart tree.
“I remember,” you smiled, “I was devastated when we left. I think I had quite a nice time there.”
“You did,” your father smiled fondly. “And we think it would be nice for us to visit again. Your mother has missed Lady Jena’s company dearly, and you could reunite with your childhood companions. We would like for you to accompany us to the Red Keep.”
Your mind then jogged a deep-seated memory, Valarr. Your Valarr, who had been one of your dearest childhood companions. You remembered his plump cheeks, the curious white streak through his hair, and his mismatched eyes. For a few months after your departure, you had exchanged ravens - you had help from Septa Marya to write your letters - but, as children go, the contact had dwindled slowly. But he had always held a fond, nostalgic space in your heart.
The idea of seeing your childhood friend was not entirely unpleasant, you decided. You pouted in consideration, then asked: “What is the occasion, anyway?”
“The King has declared a royal tournament in honor of Prince Valarr’s sixteenth nameday. There will be plenty of our bannermen participating, and some of your cousins. You will not lack in company whilst we reside there.” Your father explained.
“And it would be a marvelous opportunity to find you a match! You’re a woman grown, love, and perhaps a handsome Lord or knight would catch your fancy,” your mother added joyfully.
You weighed the pros and cons on your mental scale, your pout persisting as you looked down at your tea cup. The long carriage ride to the Red Keep sounded dreadfull, but the occasion did seem quite merry. Plus, if you were lucky enough, you could secure a match of your preference as to avoid marrying an old, wrinkly Lord as some of your lady acquaintances had. Finally, you gave a nod in agreement.
“Wonderful! Remember darling, we leave in a sennight. Make sure to instruct your maids to pack your prettiest gowns! Oh, what a beautiful feast it will be,” your mother clapped her hands in elation, then sighed with a dreamy look. Your mother did always regard these occasions with her typical sense of whimsy, and her excitement to revisit her old friend, Lady Jena, only fanned her joy.
You nodded and smiled, perhaps it would indeed be nice to visit the place from your childhood again.
-
As the guests to his nameday tournament continued to stream in through the Red Keep’s gate, his eyes searched through the processions, his ears perking up at every announcement of the stewards. Most guests were arriving many days in advance to the festivities, but the presence he was most looking forward to was nowhere to be seen yet, despite the letter of acceptance sent by a raven days ago. He fidgeted nervously with the little signet ring on his right little finger, the child's ring now being too small for any other digit.
As he mechanically greeted the arriving Lords and Ladies, his mind kept wandering off to the neatly folded piece of parchment in his desk drawer. Only three more days, he reminded himself. Only three more days before his nameday, and there would be no more proposals of marriage pacts from houses he cared little for, no more dutifully reviewing the portraits sent from every corner of the realm, and he could finally declare his intentions before his family and the council.
As the sun started hanging low, his hopes for the day were starting to dwindle as well, before he spotted a procession in the distance, the unmistakable flag whipping in the wind with your sigil proudly stitched upon it. His heart leapt up in anticipation, but he commanded himself to remain steady at his father’s side.
It seemed to take an eternity for the carriage to finally pass through the gates and spill out its inhabitants. As he duly noted your father and your mother stepping out of the carriage, his eyes were tirelessly searching for your familiar face. When he finally spotted you, it felt as if the gods had slowed time before his eyes.
It had been almost a decade since you last saw each other. He had been besotted with you then, a simple playground child’s fancy, but now, the woman grown walking towards him, carelessly exchanging jests with your parents, snatched his breath away from his lungs and left him gasping for air. Time had changed you, but at the same time, it hadn’t changed you at all. The childish features had left your face, leaving behind a delicate, lovely visage, seemingly carved by the Maiden herself. The curvature of your nose, dropping into a philtrum and smoothing into the arch of your lips had stayed exactly the same as he remembered, as had the playful glint in your eyes.
As the rounds of greeting went by and you came to stand in front of him, he felt as if the gods had grasped him from the present and placed him back in time, standing dejected by Aelor in the godswood, as you tapped on his shoulder for the first time and invited him to join your group to play. He had fallen back then — as hard as a six-year-old with no real understanding of love could fall — but now he was helplessly spiraling again as you dipped into a curtsy before him.
"Prince Valarr," you greeted, his name falling from your lips sounded like the sermon bells of the Great Sept themselves to his ears.
"My lady," he collected himself and steadied his voice, "it is good to see you again after all this time." With all the grace himself, he carefully took your hand — a beautiful hand, he remarked — and kissed the back of it lightly. He could only hope that the slight nervous tremor would go unnoticed by you. When his gaze lifted to your face again, his eyes trailed down to your neck, where the blue topaz was glinting in the notch between your collarbones. The embers in his heart were fanned into a full-blown flame as he recognized the pendant, his pendant, a sign of his childish affection for you from a decade ago. You had kept it. What's more, you were wearing it even after all this time.
"As it is to see you," you smiled at his recognition, "I still hold our memories of childhood quite dearly." To anyone else, it might have come across as simple courtesy, but to Valarr, the fact that you held fond memories of him felt like salvation granted by the Seven themselves.
Valarr would have been content to stand there for the rest of eternity, holding your hand loosely in his grasp, looking at your face as the setting sun graced your skin with a golden glow. But as the round of greeting went by, he was forced to let you go, and greet the rest of your household in tow.
Then, he heard his mother speak words to your mother that sounded as though angels were descending from the heavens and blowing horns: "Dearest, it has been way too long! Oh, how I have missed you so. We must meet for a family afternoon tea, just our two households." She held your mother's hands in her own two hands, both giddy at the long-awaited reunion.
"Of course, Jena. Whenever you'd like. I'm sure my husband and my daughter would greatly enjoy it as well." Your mother beamed, and it was decided. Your two households would take afternoon tea in two days' time, in the privacy of the royal gardens. Valarr stole a glance at you, and his heart stuttered at your soft smile.
-
On the day after your arrival, you sat in the gardens under the white marble pergola with the other young ladies of court, as would be expected of you. Everyone was chattering excitedly about the upcoming tourney, which was no grand wonder as the castle seemed to be buzzing in preparations for it. The first day was set to be on the prince's nameday, with all the champions' jousts taking place on that day. The next few days would consist of melées and lower ranked jousts. You sat next to an old acquaintance of yours, a daughter of a bannerman of your father, only a year your senior, making her seventeen years of age.
"Oh, I hope Ser Devin will ask for my favor! How dreamy that would be," she looked into the distance with her eyes glazed over. Currently, she was swooning over your eldest cousin, who was part of a junior branch of your house and stood first in line to inherit his father's lands and castles. Personally, you did not understand the appeal, but politely smiled and nodded as to not spoil her fun.
"And are you looking forward to seeing any specific knights in the tilts, my lady?" A girl your age sitting on your other side inquired. If your memory serves you right, she was the daughter of a Stormlord.
"Oh, well I suppose I will cheer for my cousins, of course," you said, as it was common courtesy, "but otherwise, I must say that I am not quite sure yet. Perhaps the knights of the Kingsguard, they are famed to be the most magnificent knights of the realm, after all."
Some ladies sitting in your vicinity nodded at that. A girl you did not recognize started with a faint flush on her cheeks: "I most certainly am excited to see Prince Valarr in the lists, he is the very picture of chivalry, not to mention how handsome he is!" Murmurs rose in agreement.
Well, you could not deny her on that front. Valarr had definitely grown into his features; soft, pudgy cheeks had long been replaced by sharp, carved lines. His mismatched eyes he used to be insecure about only added to his handsome face. But frankly, you had a hard time imagining the sweet, timid boy from your childhood being so gallant in the lists.
"The Prince comes of age upon the first day of the tourney, I wonder what sorts of arrangements will be made in regards to choosing a match for him. How dreamy it would be to marry such a handsome prince! He is even the heir's heir, as if his gallantry and handsome were not enough." Another lady spoke out wistfully.
"Well, if it is his affection you are seeking, I am afraid we'd all be out of luck on that front," lamented a slim, brunette girl, surely a few years your senior. "He's already been presented with hundreds of potential matches and it's said that he turned down every single one of them, one of them from my own family."
"So do you suppose he simply has no intention to marry?" Your lady acquaintance's eyes widened.
"Aye, or I reckon he has a paramour, every man has desires, after all," snicked the brunette girl.
You frowned, as that sounded highly unlikely for Valarr, but held your tongue. As if the sweet, gentlest boy you used to know would ever dishonor himself and a woman that way.
"Whoever that woman is, I do greatly envy her," another girl you did not recognize sighed deeply, "What wouldn't I give to be in her place."
-
The afternoon tea on the day before the beginning of the tourney took place in the more private areas of the godswood, the little clearing in the woods had been transformed into a small gathering space, with chaise longues and cushions placed on the grounds beneath ornamented parasols. The only other presences aside from your two families were the servants, and the occasional small children running by, playing their games in the godswood just as you and Valarr had as children.
Lady Jena chatted happily away with your mother, lounging comfortably on the cushions. Prince Baelor sat on a chaise longue, facing your father, discussing lordly matters with him. You were sprawled out across the feather cushions and half-heartedly following the conversations when you heard someone clear their throat from behind you.
When you tilted your head back to face the person, the upside-down face of Prince Valarr greeted you. He was holding a hand out and lightly smiling, as far as you could tell from your position.
"Would you take a walk with me?" He asked, an almost unnoticeable hint of pink gracing the tip of his ears.
You have an affirmative hum, then got up to your feet to turn and face him. He was offering you his left arm to hold, which you gingerly accepted.
"Are you looking forward to the tourney, my prince?" you asked as to make polite small talk. He had grown into a quite tall young man, and you had to crane your neck to see his face at a close distance. As you did, you admired the beautifully carved lines of his cheekbones and jaw, he really had turned into an exceptionally handsome prince.
Valarr frowned slightly at that. "There is no need to be so formal, we did use to be quite close, after all."
"Well then Valarr," you corrected yourself, "are you excited for the tourney?"
Valarr's pink flush extended to his cheeks at the sound of his name falling from your lips. "Yes, among other things, I suppose."
"One's sixteenth nameday is always an occasion to look forward to," You agreed casually. "I am sure it will be a day to remember."
Valarr's steps slowed, which meant that you came to a halt with him in tow. "Speaking of sixteenth namedays," his cheeks were really quite pink now. You wondered if he was feeling warm under the sun's rays. "I believe yours has to come to pass three moons ago, if my memory serves me right." He smiled shyly.
You were slightly taken by surprise. Had he really remembered that detail?
"Yes, it has. Although, I denied my parents the pleasure of throwing a tourney or any form of extravagant celebration for the occasion." You mused.
"I had something commissioned for you," he reached into the pocket of his doublet with his free hand, and produced a small, square box. "You did tell me back then that best friends should always gift things to each other for their namedays."
You pulled your hand away from Valarr's arm to examine the box. When you opened it, small, ornate earrings made of twisting golden vines holding a blue topaz in the middle came to sight. Your breath caught at the goldsmith's intricate handiwork.
"Valarr, this is.." You searched for words. "Beautiful, thank you. It is really most thoughtful of you." It indeed was, as you noticed that it matched your necklace gifted from him all these years ago perfectly.
"You must forgive me," you scrunched your eyebrows, a slight pang of guilt going over you, "I did not bring any personal gift for your nameday. My parent have brought a-“
Valarr's smile did not falter as he interrupted your panicked words. "No matter, I had something in mind as to what you could gift me for my nameday, anyways."
You looked at him in confusion.
"I would like to ask for your favor to wear at the tilt tomorrow," his mismatched eyes searched your face. For what, though, you could not tell. "For old times' sake," he added hastily.
It made sense, you supposed. It was not unusual for knights to wear their sister’s, cousin’s, or a close companion’s favor, so Valarr simply must have continued to value your childhood friendship more than you expected. Still, it confused you as to why he would not wear the favor of a lady he wished to court.
“Of course,” you agreed, to his relief. “It would be an honor to have you wear my favor.”
He offered you his arm again to keep on walking, which you gladly accepted. As you walked further around the godswood, the sounds of children playing grew closer.
“Hai-yah!” a boyish voice cried out. When you turned your head in the direction of its source, you spotted two young boys, one with a shock of silver hair, another one with a tuft of auburn hair. They were wielding tree branches as if they were swords, clashing them against another and running wildly through the woods.
As you watched them, a strange sense of nostalgia bloomed in your chest. You distinctly remembered these woods, the familiarity growing stronger with every step. The two of you used to run through these very woods a long time ago, laughing wildly and jumping over the twisting roots.
“Little brother! Cousin! I must ask you to compose yourselves before our distinguished guest,” Valarr called out to the two boys. They slowly halted their wild chase, and padded over to you.
“My lady, may I introduce you to my brother, this is -“
“Matarys,” you interrupted Valarr’s introduction when you recognized the soft, auburn curls. He had been only a newborn when you last saw him, but Lady Jena’s auburn locks and Prince Baelor’s stern jaw was evident in the young princeling. “My Prince, it is an honor to meet you. Last I had seen you, you were still only a babe.” You dipped in a shallow curtsy and introduced yourself.
Valarr smiled fondly at you recalling the short meeting.
“The honor is all mine, my lady,” Matarys bowed, albeit a little clumsily. “Are you the lady friend my brother has been talking about?” He studied your face.
“Matarys,” Valarr hissed, the tips of his ears burning. Matarys let out a giggle, but held his tongue.
“And I’m Egg, my lady!” The silver-haired boy cried out, bouncing in excitement. “My name is actually Aegon, but everybody calls me Egg for short.” He grinned.
“It is a true pleasure to meet you, Prince Egg.” You dipped into a curtsy, your use of his nickname earning a giggle out of him.
“One day, I will be Ser Aegon of the Kingsguard! You see, I’m already training hard to be a strong knight.” He puffed his chest out, which reminded you a little bit of a small bird puffing its feathers to make itself seem bigger. You smiled fondly at his antics.
“Speaking of,” Egg turned to Valarr. “In case your squire cannot come, could I squire for you, cousin? Daeron does not wish to participate, but I would like to be a squire. Ser Donnel has already said I would make a good one! I-“
“Sure, cousin,” Valarr mirrored your fond smile at the little boy. “Gareth is quite healthy as of now, but at the event that he may not be able to partake, I will send for you.”
Egg whooped in joy, thanked Valarr, and took his leave by making an exaggerated bow. He dragged Matarys with him, who politely bid his farewells to you while Egg pulled at his arms.
“He has grown so fast,” you murmured as you resumed your walk, “sometimes, I cannot believe how time has passed by so quickly.”
Valarr hummed in agreement, and the two of you started back to the clearing.
-
On the bright and early morrow of his nameday, Valarr Targaryen used his privilege as a crown prince of the realm, and ordered his page to summon the Small Council for the first time in his short life. After he dressed himself in a formal doublet and trousers, he opened the small drawer of his writing table, and took the small, folded parchment out. He held it in his hands, feeling the weight of the hide and the wax seal. The passing of time and his frequent touches had frayed the edges, the surface smooth from the oils of his fingers. The creases and wrinkles showed that it had been folded and unfolded many times over the past decade, but the content etched in ink was still very much legible, clear as day. He tucked the parchment safely in his breast pocket before leaving his quarters.
He willed his drumming heart to calm on his walk over to the council chamber. The nervosity made him restless, his hands lightly shaking upon close inspection. As he waited for the council members to arrive, he mindlessly turned the signet ring with your house’s sigil on his right little finger, willing it to give him courage for what was to come.
The members of the council arrived one by one, some with still bed-tussled hair. His father, Baelor, was perfectly composed as ever, and raised his eyebrows at him in curiosity as to what the summons may be about. The remaining council members sat down groggily, and mumbled a good morrow and merry nameday wishes to Valarr.
“My Lords, father, I thank you greatly for your presence, and your heartfelt nameday wishes. I wished to bring a matter before the Small Council this morrow, ahead of the tourney starting at midday.” He did his best to speak with the quiet authority of his father, and stilled the small tremor in his voice. “As you all know, I have come of age today, and wish to let my intentions for marriage to be known. After all, it would be my utmost duty to the realm to marry and strengthen the line of succession.”
Many nodded, Baelor merely raised his eyebrows even further at his son’s sudden declaration of his interest for marriage. After all, he had sternly rejected every single courtships and proposals until now, and he had begun to suspect that he had no intention to marry at all.
“That is most wise, my prince,” croaked the old Grand Maester. “The council has a list at ready of all the eligible ladies of the realm, including-“
“Thank you, Grand Maester. However, that will not be necessary”, Valarr interrupted with a raised hand, “for I have been promised to a lady for nigh on a decade already.”
All eyes in the council chamber widened almost comically. Using the stunned silence, he took the parchment out of his breast pocket, unfolded it carefully, and placed it on the table. Baelor reached calmly for it, and read the words carved into it, remarking the childish handwriting. The Grand Maester rose from his seat, and leaned down from behind him to inspect the document as well.
“What is this?” his father asked, eyes lifting from the parchment.
“A marriage contract,” Valarr stated plainly. “It’s been signed by our own hands, and has the official seals of our houses on it.”
“I can see that,” Baelor furrowed his brows. “When-“
“My prince, if you would excuse me,” Grand Maester interrupted. “Marriage contracts usually involve witnesses, and I can’t seem to see any accounts of them.”
“I am a witness to this contract,” Valarr declared firmly. “I was there when it was written, signed, and sealed, obviously.”
“My apologies, your Grace, but a witness is usually-“ the old maester croaked.
“I am a prince of the realm, and a man grown as of today. Do you mean to doubt my abilities to stand witness to such significant matters?” His voice deepened, summoning an air of authority and sternness seldom witnessed in him.
The room fell into silence. Finally, the silence was broken when Baelor spoke. “According to the date, this was agreed upon when you both were but six years of age. Do you mean to stand by this contract nevertheless?” The look on his eyes was illegible.
“I do not take vows for naught, father,” Valarr stood his ground. “I have given my word upon my honor, and will stand by it. I have loved her since I was a boy, and will not take any other to wife.” He hesitated for a sliver of a moment, then added, “if she will have me.”
Baelor put the parchment down on the table, and pinched his nosebridge. The Grand Maester immediately picked up the document, and inspected it so closely, Valarr was worried he may bury his nose in it.
“My Lord Hand, the seals and signatures are indeed.. genuine. And if the prince and the lady are in fact, both of age, then I fear that there are no grounds upon which this contract can be denied.” He sighed.
Valarr watched his father’s reaction. For what seemed like an eternity, Baelor’s eyes remained closed, with his hand pinching the bridge of his nose. Finally, he opened his eyes to face his son, and placed his hands on the table.
“And you are certain, my son?” He asked, an exasperated look on his face.
“I have never been more certain, father.” The young prince met his gaze steadfastly.
“Very well,” Baelor huffed out, “I will speak to her father about this after the jousts today. Considering the delicate nature of this.. pact,” he waved his hand at the parchment, “I will need to approach this matter in a careful fashion.”
Valarr felt a great weight lifted from his chest, and breathed out in relief. Through the window, the sky seemed to shine a brighter blue, the trees the most vibrant green, and the sun’s rays graced everything with a golden glow.
“Thank you, father.” He bowed his head slightly.
“Do not thank me yet, son. We will see how the day goes, and whether her family will agree to this arrangement. Until then, nobody is to speak of this matter to those outside of this council.” With that, Baelor rose from his seat, and dismissed the council with a curt nod of his head. As Valarr watched the rest of the council members scurry out, he felt he could’ve hugged his father, so great was his gratitude at this moment.
-
The gates of the Red Keep was buzzing with excitement as carriages and horses carried the spectators of the tourney out of the Keep and towards the tourney grounds right outside of the city gates. As you sneaked a peek out of the carriage window, you could see children running alongside, shouting in glee as they made their way to the tourney as well.
You held a silk ribbon in your house colors in your hands, fidgeting mindlessly with it as you watched the narrow streets of King’s Landing pass by. The topaz earrings dangled from your ears, swinging along with every bump and pothole in the road. Your parents were chattering about the participating knights, and voicing their concern for your cousins’ safety. You were admittedly not too concerned about the matter, the jousting lances’ tips were made out of soft wood, made to shatter, and your overeager aunt and uncle had commissioned very intricate armors for your cousins to joust in.
When you rode past the city gates, your eyes were greeted by hundreds of colorful pavillions and banners snapping in the wind. The empty meadow outside of the city walls had been transformed into a marvelous tourney ground, bustling with life.
The carriage stopped, letting your family step out onto the spring grass. Your parents craned their necks as they searched for your cousins’ pavillion, which was spotted rather quickly due to the tall flag with your heraldry stitched upon it. You threaded your arm through your mother’s, walking past the busy squires, merchants shouting out for the nobles to look at their wares, and steelworkers hammering away in their tents.
Once arrived at your relatives’ pavillion, your parents eagerly entered, wishing to bid your cousins good fortune for their tilts. You were briefly distracted in front of the entrance by a small mouse scuttling about, watching its movements, when a warm touch on your shoulder startled you.
Your body whipped around in surprise, and yelped when you came face-to-face with Valarr standing before you in his armor. His broad frame, with the added breadth of the armor, easily towered over you.
“Hi,” he was already smiling, dimples forming on his chiseled cheeks. His mismatched eyes were glinting with something you could not quite place. When he spotted the jewelry dangling from his ears, his smile widened.
“Valarr, hi,” you breathed out.
“I wanted to come see you before the jousts started shortly,” he took a small step towards you. The heat eminating from his body was almost palpable, even through his thick steel armor. “For the favor.”
That made sense, you supposed. You did promise him a favor for the tilts today.
You were still holding the silk ribbon in your hand, the floral stitchings along with your house sigils had been embroidered by your own hands.
“May I-“ you gestured at his arm hanging by his side.
“Oh, yes, of course.” He slightly lifted his arm, allowing you sufficient space to wrap the ribbon around his upper arm, and secure it with a bow.
“It’s beautiful, thank you.” He took your hand, and bent down to plant a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “I must get going, the champions must be present when the start of the tourney is announced. I hope I’ll see you in the stands.”
"You will," you smiled back at him, "happy nameday, Valarr. And good fortune in the lists today."
"I have all the fortune I need, but thank you," Valarr mused, holding up the arm with your ribbon tied around it.
And with that, he took his leave. You blinked, processing whatever just occurred, then collected yourself and entered the pavilion to wish your cousins good fortune.
-
Your mother's closeness with Lady Jena ensured that your family's seats in the stands were situated right next to the royal box; offering an excellent view over the jousting grounds. As you sat, the herald blew the horn, marking the start of the tourney, and announced the champions as they rode in.
The crowd burst into a roar as the knights in shining armor rode in on their mounts, you quickly spotted Valarr, the white streak in his hair a clear beacon even from a distance. Your ribbon on his arm was snapping in the wind, you could faintly hear the whispers of courtiers speculating whose favor the Young Prince could possibly be wearing. Riding on his pitch black destrier clad in elegant armor, he really did paint a handsome picture, his body moving fluidly with the horse, adeptly commanding it with a squeeze of his legs and a light tug on the rein. His black armor with his house’s sigil enameled on the breastplate glinted in the sun, and you briefly wondered whether that was done intentionally as to blind his opponents in the sunlight.
The champions raised their swords as the crowd cheered, then all bowed their heads to the royal box in a show of respect before riding off to the sidelines where their squires were waiting. The champions’ first opponents rode in as well, searching for their squires in the chaos of it all.
“Helmet!” You heard Valarr shout out to his squire, his voice a couple notes deeper than usual. He was always soft-spoken and gentle, and you had never heard him sound quite so commanding before. Soon, his white streak was hidden under the helm, and he was only recognizable via his armor.
As the knights lined up by the lists, the warhorses were impatiently huffing and stomping on the ground. You squinted to see who Valarr’s first opponent be, and identified a blue enameled fish upon the armor. A Tully, then.
The horn blew, and kicking up a great dust storm, the mounts galloped forward, the riders upon their backs lowering their lances. The first pass was over in a blink, the wooden tips of tourney lances bursting against shields and armors, and you saw that some riders had been unhorsed already.
Your eyes seeked Valarr out, and to your relief, him and his black destrier emerged from the dust cloud victorious; his opponent lay unhorsed on the ground. Valarr dismounted at the sight, and walked over with a hand on the sword’s hilt to his opponent, struggling to get back on his feet.
From a distance, you faintly heard him yell out, “I yield, my prince! I yield!” Only then, Valarr eased the grip on his sword, and held his hand out to help him get off the ground. The crowd burst out in another wave of cheers at the sight; praising the Young Prince for his chivalry.
In the next tilts, Valarr faced five more challengers, one of them being his own cousin, Aerion Brightflame. He donned a spiky black armor, paired with a helmet showing a monstrous visage upon it. After two titillating matches, Valarr finally rode him down; after which Aerion rose against him, unsheathing his broadsword. The melée that followed was not short-lived, steel met steel in a flash of sparks and wooden shields splintered under heavy blows, until Valarr unarmed him and held him at swordpoint.
The crowd, highborns and smallfolk alike, were roaring in his support; a glinting hope in their eyes that Baelor Breakspear’s line proved to be just as skilled in arms as he was. An ember of pride was fanned every time he raised his lance arm after unhorsing an opponent, your favor waving in the wind. Maybe it really had brought him good fortune.
Your cousins fared adequately enough, Devin, the eldest, unhorsing two opponents before being unseated himself in the third tilt. The others had not been so lucky, and fell from their horses in their first rides. But they all seemed unharmed, aside from minor scraps and bruises.
The tilts, which started at midday, continued until the sun was nearing the western horizon and a pale moon shone on the opposite side of the sky. There was only one tilt left for the day; Valarr was to ride against Ser Roland of the Kingsguard. After a brief break, Valarr returned to the lists. He swung onto his black destrier, riding to the sidelines as his squire followed with the helmet and shield in his arms.
As Valarr held his helm in his hands, his head turned towards the stands. At first, you thought he might be looking at his family in the royal box, but his gaze came to rest upon you. His hair was matted from sweat, dark brown strands plastered across his forehead from the heat and exhaustion, but his face held a determined look. You held eye contact and gave your dear childhood companion an encouraging nod before he slid his helmet on. You could not be sure due to the distance, but it almost seemed as if the corner of his mouth lifted in a soft smile before it was obscured by the enameled helmet.
His squire promptly delivered him the shield and put the lance in his hand, and scurried off to the weapons’ racks as to be ready when Valarr would need his next lance.
Ser Roland looked formidable as well on the opposite side of the lists, he was sitting upon his chestnut warhorse, clad in all-white armor and cloak of the Kingsguard. He was older, and more experienced, which pushed the odds in his favor. However, Valarr rode as if he had been blessed by the Warrior himself that day, the memory of the success in the council chamber that morning filled his tired muscles with strength, and he felt almost battle-high.
Not a moment too soon, the herald announced the start of the final tilt. “May the Crone guide your lance, and the Warrior grant you strength!” He cried out, then blew the start horn.
The sound of the hooves striking the ground thundered across the meadow, the cheering of the crowds so loud your ears were threatening to ring. In a flash, both lances broke cleanly off the shields, and both riders remained seated. You held your breath as Valarr seemed to sway slightly, but he quickly regained his composure. As he urged his destrier around, you were not sure if the glint of his mismatched eyes gazing in your direction was only imagined or not.
The second pass was more brutal; the riders met in a clash of bursting wood again, but Ser Roland had met Valarr’s pauldron with the tip of his lance, sending the Young Prince reeling from his seat. In contrast, Valarr’s lance had harmlessly broken against the Kingsguard’s shield.
A collective gasp went up from the crowd as Valarr’s body lurched backwards, with only one foot remaining in the stirrups. However, to the delight of the spectators, his hooked his foot firmly around it, and pulled his body upright again, sitting tall upon his mount.
As the horn urging the third pass blew, Valarr kicked his destrier’s sides firmly with his greaves, riding with his torso lowered against his mount, and his shield raised in defense. In the final moment before impact, Valarr’s lance drifted laterally by a minuscule bit, its tip bursting against Ser Roland’s breastplate in a shower of splinters. Ser Roland was cleanly unhorsed, landing with an uff on his back.
The crowd erupted in a roar, and you felt yourself grin at his victory. He had won his nameday tilt, your sweet, gentle Valarr had truly grown into a most gallant knight.
While the cheers died down and Ser Roland was helped up by his squires, the herald climbed down from the stands and marched towards Valarr holding the wildflower crown. The victorious prince lifted the helmet off, revealing a proud smile upon his face. He nodded to the royal box in a show of respect, to which Baelor and Jena rose their cups in response.
Valarr took the wildflower wreath from the herald, and the grounds fell into silence in anticipation to which lady would be crowned queen of love and beauty by the Young Prince. You looked on in anticipation as well, but your breath caught in your throat when he urged his destrier towards your family.
He softly called out your name, and you felt all eyes turn towards you. “Would you grant me the honor of crowning you as the queen of love and beauty?” You almost choked on your own spit from surprise. “For old times’ sake.” He added in a hushed voice, his eyes glinting under the blueish lights of dusk. Despite the apparent exhaustion, he looked beautiful. In the background, you vaguely perceived an excited squeal from your mother.
You barely registered yourself nodding before you made your way down to the railing and lowered your head to accept the wildflower crown. Valarr gently lowered it on the crown of your head, and brushed a hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. In your daze, the deafening applause and cheers from the crowds sounded almost muffled in your ears. You accepted the crown in a haze of confusion and perplexity. To the onlookers, his eyes held the look of a man utterly enamored when gazing upon you, clear as day. Not that you noticed.
-
The festivities in the Great Hall were as grand as any, if not grander. King Daeron the Good had not been frugal at all when planning his grandson’s sixteenth nameday feast, quite the contrary in fact. There were seven absolutely extravagant courses gracing the tables, not even counting the appetizers and desserts. You dug in as your hunger had grown quite insistent during the day, t’was hard work sitting unmoving in the stands under the sun. Jests aside, the food was marvelous, every course truly a testament to the castle’s cooks.
When the last course had been cleared away by the servants, the guests started to take to the dancefloor. Strangely enough, Prince Baelor had vanished from the dais around the same time. Probably some matters of the realm, you brushed it off as the Hand of the King attending to some royal affairs. You adjusted the flower wreath on your head as it was starting to slide down to your brows, and watched the dancing pairs glide across the floor. As you reached for your goblet of wine, a warm hand reached from behind and tapped on your shoulder.
“Valarr,” your face broke into a smile when you saw the victor of the day’s jousts. “My congratulations for winning in the lists today, you rode splendidly.”
“Well fought, my prince,” your father, seated next to you, joined in with his own praises.
“Thank you, truly.” Valarr tilted his head in gratitude. “Would the queen of love and beauty grace me with her first dance?”
You looked down at his hand held out in invitation, before nodding and graciously taking his hand in acceptance. As you walked to the middle of the floor, heads turned as they spotted the crown prince and the flower wreath perched atop your head. You both took up the starting pose, with your hand placed on his shoulder, and his arms wrapping around your waist to rest on the small of your back. His hand gently held your free hand, and you drifted into familiar steps of the dance.
“Do not be alarmed,” Valarr whispered, “but I think my father has just summoned yours to his solar. I saw his page speak to your father, and leave the room with him.”
“Oh?” Your head tilted in bemusement. “Whatever might that be about?”
Valarr’s cheeks reddened at the question, and your confusion deepened. Perhaps he did not feel well discussing his father’s more confidential proceedings, so you decided to leave the topic for the sake of the poor boy. Your two families had been close for a decade now, surely they had enough matters to discuss. If it was important enough, your father would disclose it to you later anyways.
“Your final tilt against Ser Roland was magnificent, by the way,” you teased, “I had feared you might lose your seat during that second pass, but the recovery was quite impressive.”
The poor prince’s cheeks grew impossibly redder. Even as a child, he’d never been adept at handling praise. He could only mumble out a thank you. The contrast between the valiant knight at the lists and the blushing prince in front of you was almost adorable; perhaps Valarr had not yet entirely outgrown the sweet, timid boy he used to be.
As the song came to an end, a Lord you did not recognize stood in front of you, requesting your next dance. Valarr, ever the kind, dutiful prince, took his leave to return to the dais.
The status as the queen of love and beauty of the day came with a steady stream of dancing partners, you forgot their names almost as soon as they introduced yourself; you were never really adept with names and faces anyways. When your feet began to ache and you excused yourself to take your seat by your mother’s side, a page intercepted you just as you were about to pull out your chair. Your mother raised an eyebrow at that, her husband had been occupied in a meeting with the Hand for a good while, and apparently it now required your presence, as well.
“M’ady, I apologize for the interruption. The Hand and your father require your presence in the Hand’s solar.” The young boy, twelve years of age at most, stuttered out.
“Of course, would you be so kind as to lead the way?” You smiled as you lowered the crown from your head and placed it on the table, assuming you’d be returning in a short while.
-
The dim, torchlit corridors leading to the Hand’s solar were unfamiliar at first sight, but as you ventured further with the young page, the memories started swarming back. The afternoon teas with the two families, Valarr’s sixth nameday morrow, and sitting idly while your father discussed lordly matters with Prince Baelor surfaced with every step you took.
Soon enough, you stood in front of the familiar double doors leading to Baelor’s solar. This time, you patiently waited as the page announced you before stepping in. You were greeted by the sight of Baelor sitting at his desk, your father sat in the armchair facing him. The candlelights bestowed a rather serious atmosphere in the room.
“Father, my Lord Hand,” you took a shallow curtsy, “I have heard you sent for me.” You searched their faces for hints as to what this may be about, but failed miserably.
“My lady, thank you for joining us,” Baelor tilted his head. “We have quite important matters to discuss with you, specifically-“ he briefly searched for words, “regarding your marriage pact.”
Your head went blank. “..What?” What is it with a marriage pact now?
Letting the evidence speak for itself, Baelor slid a piece of parchment in your direction. You approached his desk, and lifted the document to your eyes. The parchment was obviously quite old, but not old enough to crumble in your hands. The soft, smooth surface indicated frequent handling, as did the numerous creases. The writing upon it was carved into the hide in a child’s handwriting, and it contained a very briefly written marriage contract between you and Valarr. When your eyes reached the end of the parchment, you identified your own handwriting as a child, crooked and wonky in a way the late Septa Marya used to scold you about. Your thumb traced the wax seals, worn down by time but still obviously genuine.
Oh. You now feintly recalled the day where you produced this document. It came as a surprise that Valarr had kept this all this time, but then all Valarr did the last few days was surprise you.
“Valarr presented this contract to the Small Council this morrow, he says he will not take anyone else to wife.” Baelor calmly explained, watching your face closely. “The Grand Maester has inspected the document himself, and has declared it genuine. I initially wished to discuss this matter with your father alone, but he has insisted on hearing your opinions on this. Believe me my lady, neither of us will see you married unwillingly on the basis of a pact you signed at the age of six.”
You briefly unpacked your mental balance scale, weighing your options. The benefits included the fact that 1. he was your dearest childhood companion, 2. he had grown into a quite handsome man, and 3. he was considerate, gentle and kind. The only drawback was.. Well, you rummaged through your head, but failed to come up with any.
“Will you have him?” Baelor asked, his eyebrows furrowed in concern at your silence.
“Yes, I will,” the words left your lips without a hint of hesitance as you placed the parchment back on the table.
“Are you sure, daughter?” It was your father’s turn to question you.
“Yes, why not?” You shrugged. “He’s grand.”
“Grand?” The Hand’s eyebrows rose in amusement at you describing his son as grand. You and Valarr’s antics today were certainly providing Baelor’s facial muscles with quite an exercise.
You nodded, as if your statement was to explain anything and you did not understand what the confusion was about. He truly was grand, after all. There wasn’t much else you could wish for in a future husband. The crown prince and your father were staring at you with a look one could only describe as bewilderment.
“Just to confirm, you will accept the terms of this.. contract, and take my son as your lawful husband?” Baelor asked, a slight look of confusion upon his eyes, wondering whether you had heard the question correctly.
“I will, my prince.” You nodded again, your casual tone steadfast.
“Then it is settled,” The Hand looked to your father, who nodded in agreement.
As you and your father took your leaves from the solar and shut the doors behind you, you came face to face with Valarr, who had obviously been pacing. His gaze shifted between you and your father, a look of hopefulness evident in his eyes.
“Val,” you softly called his name. “Guess we truly are getting married now.” You shrugged lightly, and giggled.
A sigh of relief punched itself out of him, and he looked to your father.
“You have my blessings, my prince. You can consider yourselves.. officially betrothed now.” He offered a slight bow.
“That is most wonderful news,” his face split into a smile as he stepped towards you to clasp your hand within his own two hands. “I swear, I will do the utmost to make you happy, anything you want. Simply tell me, and I will see it done. Even if it is not in my power, I promise I will make it so.”
You blushed, then looked down, suppressing a wide grin. Only then, your eyes trailed down to his right hand, where the small, children’s sized signet ring rested upon his little finger. Your breath caught in surprise as the torchlight glanced off the polished band.
“You kept it,” You murmured.
Valarr looked confused for a moment, but lowered his gaze to follow yours. When he realized what you’d meant, his joyous smile melted into a more calm, fond one.
“Of course I have, it’s from you. And I promised to always cherish it.”
Oh. You felt as though somebody had smacked you on the back of the head. Every hint, every glance, every word clicked into place in that moment. Valarr had been in love with you all along, since you were all but children. He’d taken care to remember all your childish promises to each other, even keeping the scrap of parchment tucked away safely for nigh on a decade.
“Have you really? After all this time?” Your voice was hushed, your heart picking up its pace in your ribcage. Your lips parted slightly in awe.
“Yes, love. It’s always been you.” Finally, he confessed, his beautiful, mismatched eyes gazing adoringly at you.
As if it was the most natural thing in the world.
- Epilogue -
When you returned to your family’s assigned quarters, your motherr was already waiting at the tea table, eagerly waiting to hear what all the fuss had been about. When your father retold the events of the evening, she was practically bouncing in her seat in excitement at your betrothal.
“In retrospect, I must ask you, daughter,” your father turned his head towards you, “have you been aware of the existence of that document all this time?”
“Frankly, I had forgotten,” you shrugged. “But now that I saw it, I do remember sneaking into Prince Baelor’s office that day.” Your parents tried to look scandalized, but the air of amusement was evident.
“Darling, she did try to tell us that one time, remember? When we told her we were leaving King’s Landing.” Your mother’s eyes lit up, recalling your confession which they both had assumed was simply a child’s fancy. “She said that she was going to marry him, and that they promised.”
“Well, nobody expects their six-year-old daughter to go and sign a marriage contract,” your father snorted. Honestly, that was a fair assessment.
“The most important thing is, it did turn out quite well,” you held up your palms in defence, a smirk on your face. “I am quite satisfied with the match, if I dare say so myself.”
Your parents laughed out at your understatement laced with a jest. Indeed, it had turned out quite alright.
Note: I loved writing this so much!! I already have so many ideas for little snippets of their first kiss, wedding night and fun little misadventures, so if it's wished for, I'll be more than happy to write them! Thank you all so so much for liking my initial concept for this fic, it means the world to me <3
Varka x f!reader
->You are tuning in to Part 1. Click here for: [Part 2]; [Part 3];
Synopsis: Some relationships must remain in the dark, whether it’s platonic or romantic. Yet the feelings that you thought were dead and buried slowly rise again as the expedition team returns to Mondstadt. Try all you might to invade his advances, but in the end, he patiently waits for you at the right moment.
Tags/Warnings: f!reader, reader is around 30s, an adventurers' guild's senior advisor as well, friendship reunion (?), angst, unclear rejection, both are have secrets, alcohol is consume (cause their mondstadters), emotional distance
Author's notes: Finally after almost a year hiatus, I made something. I waited until I finish my last exam of my college so that I can post this! Pls. don't let this flop (T-T).
(^. .^₎Ⳋ Got any ideas or messages? Place a letter on our board here. ₊⊹ˎˊ˗
Reblogs, comments, and likes on this post are always welcome!
When the Knight of Favonius Headquarters announced the expedition team making their homeward journey, you had never seen the streets of the City of Freedom bustle with anticipation and excitement. Husbands and wives gathered by the main road, while children ran across the streets playing with flowers in their hands, ready to hand out to the brave knights who partake in the expedition. The fragrant aroma of wine and sweet madame travel from the nearby taverns and restaurants, as if their return is the reason the city must celebrate outside of a few local festivities.
Of course, their safe return is of great importance: the threat in the north of Teyvat has dwindled, and it shall no longer be a threat to the city. Praise to the Anemo Archon, for he has protected the freedom and safety of his citizens. You are no exception from being glad and grateful for their successful expedition. But unlike other citizens, who are anticipating their arrival, you are not in a celebratory mood. You’re merely there for your work, as the Adventurers’ Guild’s senior advisor. Work like this often keeps you busy and leaves you less time for mere celebrations, but it’s something you have gradually adapted to.
However, it’s not the reason why you hurriedly slipped through the opposite direction of the stream of people, as your shoulders occasionally bump into others while your heart is pumping out of its usual rhythm. The passing thought of being in his line of sight made your chest even tighter; even a sigh of relief did not help your case of hiding in a secluded area, only to be interrupted by the roars of every Mondstadter from the main road.
“They have returned!” One cityfolk exclaims.
“Oh, thank the Anemo Archon, the expedition team has safely come home!” A deaconess rejoys.
“Welcome home!” A young child cheers, fighting for a spot from the balcony.
Mixtures of cries and cheers and flower petals danced into the air as the knights paraded their way into the city, with the sound of their armor and horses' rhythmic clanking escorted by the captains and vice-captains of the Knights of Favonius. Knights received their flowers being tossed and handed from eager children and wives, as men whistled and threw their hats into the air, and bards sang their songs of praise.
You should’ve walked away after witnessing the procession from the start and gone back to your own business as usual. But your eyes have landed on a certain person at the center–his masculine, rugged figure made him stand out amongst the party. He led these knights with a wide grin on his face, his disheveled blonde hair dancing against the gentle wind, and his forearm raised to greet the citizens. The ever-chivalric and easygoing Grandmaster Varka never disappoints anyone, despite his carefree attitude, which tends to collide with his paperwork. Perhaps it’s part of his charm—his ability to abide by the sense of duty while escaping unfavorable scenarios.
Had you realized that he acted the way he was sooner, you’d have been able to avoid the awkward fallout between you two years ago.
You definitely have no reason to be with the crowd, fearing that the feelings that have been sealed away long ago will burst again, and the cycle of emotional torture repeats once more. It’s just a coincidence that you were in such a position. Nevertheless, you couldn’t lie to yourself that the sight of him in good condition made your worries settle down. At the very least, he’s safe.
Just as you decided to linger for a while to see the very end of the parade, you swore that his gaze was leading in your direction. You can’t be certain about it; he was just scanning through the crowds one moment ago, yet somehow, he was able to shift his blue eyes to where you were. Cold sweats start to form on your skin, and you feel frozen by his gaze.
Turning your back against the main road, you resolved to be on your way and prayed to the archons that he hadn’t noticed you. The passing years made it difficult to return to what it used to be, and you both became distinct people you can barely recognize. There are no more reasons to stay for the rest of the celebration, no further reasons to be in his proximity if it means being on the constant edge.
Although the expedition team’s entry came to an end, the celebrations throughout the city still lasted throughout the day until the moonrise. Muffled bass of merriment leaks through the wooden walls of taverns, as you hear the songs of the bards being played alongside the clinking of glasses and plates from the Good Hunter. Even in this joyous night, you’re still preoccupied with unfinished work at the Adventurer’s Guild.
“Halt all commissions that require our members to fight until the morning after tomorrow.” You skim through the list. “They’ll still be celebrating until dawn, I’m sure, and it’ll be a headache for us when we hear complaints. Make sure that they’re sober enough.”
Katheryne nods as a thick envelope slides into your vicinity. “Understood, senior advisor. Meanwhile, there’s a letter from Advisor Linnea.”
You hummed in acknowledgement, hastily opening the letter, yet carefully read its contents. The anecdotes of her travels made you chuckle before folding them into your bag, deciding that you’d read the rest of the contents before you hit the hay. “Thank you, Katheryne. I’ll make my correspondence in due time.”
You bid farewell to Katheryne as you stroll through the city streets. The doors of the taverns dampen the distant clanking of mugs and laughter, which conflicts with the silent cold air of a moonlit night. The candlelight ever so flickers within the old lanterns as you hear tone-deaf voices singing along to an old Mondstadt hymn. You couldn’t help but feel nostalgic for the life before you became the senior advisor.
In earlier years, townsfolk spread whispers of a young adventurer who could easily conquer 4 Hilichurl camps in a day on her own. Others whispered that the same adventurer would drink several pints of dandelion wine after a day of taking commissions rather than the maximum amount. While these rumors were the favorite topic during the past time, it’s clear that most of these were mixed up with another person you used to accompany.
Unlike you, a young adventurer, your companion was a young boy from the Knights of Favonius. Half of those rumors described more of him than of you, as he shows more strength and resistance. The reason–you assume–was because he’s practically stucked to you like a lost puppy imprinting on someone that they thought to be their mother. It was annoying, as your impression of him was worse at best. He’d escape from his training just to partake in your own commissions, and his mockery kept on distracting you. That resulted in losing your cool in the midst of a hilichurl camp ambush. Once in a while, he'd let you watch his practice on an old-forgotten war-dance. You’d make fun of the young blonde whenever his balance was off or his grip slipped from his greatsword. It was almost amusing when he turned into the color of a pyro slime. But when he finally completes the dance with no mistakes, you can’t help but be captivated by his performance and his aura, as if he were a different person. He’d practice again and again, and you couldn’t bring yourself to pull out of his attention.
As time passed by and his duties increasingly demanded his presence, and later became the Grandmaster of the Knights of Favonius, connections were left forgotten. That performance, which you initially believed was solely for you, only lives in your memory.
You continue to reminisce as you walk alone under the old lanterns until a familiar figure from the guild comes into your vicinity. “Hey, Senior Advisor! I ain’t seein’ you with a mug on your hand.” Master Cyrus hooks an arm on your shoulder, while the other is occupied with a mug filled to the brim with the finest wine.
You huff. “There are some people in the guild who need to make sure that our guild doesn’t fall overnight, Master Cyrus.”
He only laughs out of response, tightening his arm around you. “That ain’t no fun, lad! Come, come, you too should loosen up.”
Before you could even protest, he forcefully drags you into the tavern, which you recognize as the interior design of Angel's Share, as the strong scent of alcohol hits you along with the sound of scraping of the chairs and the raw, localized shouts and cheers. At every corner of the tavern were either drunkards, bards, adventurers, or knights, and it doesn’t seem that they will refrain from taking more alcohol until one of them loses the bet.
“Enjoy yourself now, lad,” Master Cyrus led you to the bar, his free hand swaying directionless that his wine almost spilled onto you. “Your drink is on me. Go and fill to your heart’s content!”
“I appreciate it, Master Cyrus, but honestly,” You struggle to break free underneath the weight of him. “I think that I should hold back until everyone is sober up.”
“Aw, come on. Since when did you become a party pooper?”
“Since I became an advisor, all of the work has been directed to me.”
“Then all the more reason you should share a drink with us!”
The more you fight, the more Master Cyrus leans against his body weight onto you. You know better than anyone that he doesn’t take no for an answer, especially when it comes to alcohol. But annoyance is brewing up within you, and your patience to not physically fight your drunk boss grows thinner. “For the last time, sir,” Your voice strained by the minute. “I’d prefer if you let me—”
“There you are, Cyrus!” Just like that, the unbearable weight you felt a second ago vanished instantly. But in consequence, you freeze up after registering the familiar voice from your past.
Looking over your shoulder, locks of his blonde hair fall graciously over the scar on his face as his armor dazzles and clinks even at the slightest movement. That stupid grin of his is plastered across his face as if it hasn’t even worn off since this morning. “We’ve been wonderin’ where you went. Ain’t it rude to persuade a lady to drink?”
“Well, our senior advisor is missin’ all the fun!” Master Cyrus whines as he slithers his arm around the Grandmaster. “Weren’t you two close before? Why not help this old man convince her?”
You winced in response. There wasn’t any reason for Master Cyrus to mention it right out in public, even though everyone is too focused on drowning themselves. But Varka only laughs as though it were a passing thought. “If I were you, I’d be worried that my men can outdrink you before you could even pass out!” He points to the table where several knights and adventurers are seated.
“Oh, that ain’t right!” Within the speed of light, you never see the branch master run for his life. People cheer around him as he continuously drinks several mugs one after the other. You sigh, thinking that it will be a nuisance to deal with Master Cyrus by the next morning, while Varka finds this amusing.
“Thanks,” you say dryly as you sit by the bar, signaling Charles from the other side for your usual glass. You figured it’d be rude to leave the place early when you just arrived, let alone the man whose sight you’re trying to avoid. “I’d wish he knew to read the room while he’s drunk.”
Varka chuckles, taking this opportunity to take a seat beside you–Well, a seat apart by your left. “That’s how he is anyway, tryin’ to join in with the youngsters.”
You hum, offering nothing but the strained silence in a room full of energetic people. Neither of you initiated a conversation, nor did you want one. While you’re preoccupied tapping your fingers against the wooden surface, hoping that Charles would speed up making your drink, you sensed that Varka was fidgeting and looking at the shelves to the ceiling as if finding them suddenly fascinating. You have absolutely no idea why he decided to stay behind when he could’ve gone back to his table.
“So,” Varka exhales. “It’s been a while.”
You pause. “...Yes, it’s been a long time, Grandmaster Varka.”
“You seem to be doing well these days.”
“I’ve been managing.”
“I didn’t know you became one of the senior advisors.”
“I’m not obligated to update you on my life, Sir.”
Shutting down all of his pleasantries with dry replies made the air even thicker. The ambient chatter of the tavern and the songs of the bards grow louder, yet you remain trapped in your own world, pondering what facial expression he’s making: perhaps his forehead is creasing in annoyance, or he’s in a state of distress.
“I’m surprised that even though time passes by, you remain sharp-tongued.”
“Excuse me…?” You quickly turned to him, clearly dumbfounded by his unnecessary comment that no one even asked. You can’t even believe that, despite his position, he dares to leave remarks just to get your attention.
And it clearly did. It was his intention. He sat there, facing directly towards you with his chin resting on his palm, his face smiling–no, beaming with amusement.
“Now it’s definitely been a long time since I got to see that look on your face.” Varka bursts into laughter whilst you’re certain you have never felt more embarrassed than a child tripping over nothing. You don’t know if you want to slap the man out of anger or walk out. But with the remaining composure, you decided to huff it out as Charles set your Apple Cider in front of you.
“Well, you remained the same before the expedition began,” You mumbled, taking a sip of your drink, savoring the sweet taste of the cider running down your throat. “Good thing that the distance from the motherland hasn’t shattered your morale.”
“Hm, I guess you could say that,” You hear Varka’s voice shift, gaze directed to something behind you. “I’d be lying if I said it was easy. I can’t spare you the details ‘cause it’s, y’know… confidential.”
He’s lost in his own thoughts, just like a lost wanderer in an open blue sea. It’s the typical Varka—withholding just enough to keep you at arm’s length. He’d maintained professionalism between a Grandmaster and an adventurer, despite knowing him long enough, and making sure to avoid personal topics.
And this distance becomes worse after you confess during the Windfeast festival, a week before they set the expedition that started the other expeditions. Do you still remember what he said?
“I’ll think about it.” You still distinctly recall how the sweat beads formed on his forehead, and how his voice staggered while the distant noise of the city accumulated between the spaces of the back alley.
Since then, Varka has never come any closer, nor paid close attention to you. Even if you try to be convinced otherwise, you still vividly remember the quick shift of his eyes when they met yours, and how he seemed to be occupied so suddenly that going on a land survey alone became natural. And before you know it, the chasm between you widens. Even when you try to let go, you still carry the weight of that day like a leaden stone in your chest.
So you have no right to interrogate him, not like this. He pulled his eyes back at you, and whatever expression he was wearing earlier was masked with another grin. “But hey, what matters is that I’m back where I came from. How ‘bout you? How’s life been treatin’ you?”
Yeah no. Ever since you became the Grandmaster, ignoring me for years until you made your expedition, I’ve been emotionally messed up. Do you have any idea how long I prayed to Barbatos to make sure you’re safe? How long did I need to move on? No!
You wish you could say it to his face, watching the man fumble from embarrassment. But your good conscience always wins. It only remains in your cloud of thoughts, and you think of saying something more… respectable. “Not too bad, if I have to describe. I handle business on the sideline.”
Varka leans slightly forward. “Really now? What kind of business?”
“A cafe at Dorman Port.”
“That’s terrific! I’ll make sure to stop by sometime.”
“You prefer alcohol, Varka. I don’t serve as such there.”
“It won’t hurt if I try other things. Although it’s pretty far from the city.”
“I guess so.”
“Didn’t you consider having it near where you live?”
“I did.” You take another sip as you lower your gaze into your glass. “It is located near where I live.”
This confused Varka at first, but his eyes quickly widened by a fraction. “...I see,” He moved his mouth at a slow pace. “Then, may I ask the reason why?”
“You may not,” You curtly replied without sparing a glance. It's much easier if you just say that it’s for a better perspective, or it’s a marketing strategy. But you couldn’t bring yourself to lie, not when the reason for it all was right beside you.
What’s supposed to be a short reunion has now become a long, awkward moment between two acquaintances. It feels like Charles could easily cut the tension with a knife from where he’s been standing, while the patrons from the second floor fill up the air with a shanty sing-along with the thumping of their feet. You swirl your glass, hoping that it is a helpful distraction.
“Hey,” Varka rakes through his hair, face in distress, finding the right words to say. “I know this may or may not be the right time, but whatever happened to us in the past, I’m sorry about it.”
“Easy for you to say.” You scoff, disappointed even that it was the least of your expectations. He took his sweet time ignoring the long inconvenience of personal affection, and it genuinely pissed you off that all he had to say was to apologize.
“Look, Varka–” You took a large gulp of the cider, coughing momentarily— “You’re the guy that everyone has been looking up to. You’re basically a legend in Mondstadt; that puts us on different levels. So, what we can do now is move on, pretending like it never happened. We didn’t go through that, I’ve never said that, and you never asked for forgiveness tonight.”
The fact that you’re getting riled by the second made you well aware of your actions right now. It’s too late to even recover from this moment. He pursed his lips for a second and exhaled through his nose, taking your words into deep thought before even responding. “Let’s get on the same page, then. So if you just let me have–”
“Grandmaster!” A knight shouts from the same table where Master Cyrus is, waving his hand in the air loosely. “Have another drink, Master Cyrus said he doesn’t go for another round if you ain’t there!”
Other patrons hyped up in pressuring the blonde man to rejoin the table, howling and banging the tables with their fists to a rhythmic beat. Varka couldn’t resist the pressure on him; conversely, you knew that he just wanted more time alone with you to attempt to clear up the mistakes of the past. And you know neither of you is in the right place at the right time to discuss such matters.
“I must call it a night,” You down the remaining cider hastily. Planting the glass back on the wooden surface, you fished 150 Mora from your pocket as you prepared to leave. “It’s good to have you back, Grandmaster. I hope you have a fine evening.”
“Wait, wait. We really need to talk sometime.” He panically tails you a few steps behind. “You’re staying in the city ‘til the end of the week, right?”
You considered it, really, you did. All the facts, the consequences, and the cards in your hand. And it took you just a sharp look at the blonde man over your shoulder. “No, I planned to leave sooner. Until next time.”
The door clicked shut behind you.
Ever since you woke up this morning, the bustling streets have continuously pounded your brain like it’s about to explode by the second. Narrowing the cause does not help, whether it's from the very unexpected and unwelcome encounter last night, or the fact that the city didn’t sleep a wink.
Ideally, you wanted to stay in your bed, shutting your eyes tightly as you dream of another world. But your short time in the city would be a waste if you spent a day off. Between you and Master Cyrus, you’re the more responsible one. It comes with a heavy burden: Surveying nearby domains, categorizing the difficulty level of requested commissions, looking out for other guild members, and, of course, doing the actual paperwork. The latter is your least favorite, not because of the number of things you need to do, but because most of these were tossed to you.
And with the guild currently short of manpower, your plate has been full. You could only sigh as you left the inn with a half-empty cup of joe for another nearby land expedition. Not that you couldn’t help it, but it would be a blessing from the Celestia if nothing goes wrong for the rest of your trip.
So why is Varka with you? And where the hell did he come from?
“It doesn’t seem safe for you to go out on your own,” You hear his footsteps five paces behind you, the crunch of dead leaves sharp in the morning air. “You should’ve called someone from the guild or the knights.”
“I have never actually considered that,” You reply, the sarcasm dry enough to match the foliage underfoot. You take a long stride over the bushes. “Unfortunately, almost everyone from the knights and the guild are currently indisposed—some still insist on drinking. So I’m left to do my job alone. But you,” You pause to catch your breath. “I’d expected that you’re prioritizing something else, like doing your responsibilities.”
Varka shrugs. “I just got back from the north. Is it so bad that I wanted to catch up with what I’ve missed over the years? I can always go back to the headquarters after I have had a drink or two.”
“And let Jean handle your workload while you disappear? You sure know how to do your job.” Although it sounded harsher when it left your mouth, it earned a sheepish laugh from your companion behind. “Really, it’s unnecessary for the Grandmaster to join me. Go back and do your drinking and stuff.”
“Come now, I choose to join you. Don’t shoo me away,” He catches up as the metallic noise of his weapons rasps against his clothes. Once he matches his pace to yours, his height casts a shadow over you. “I understand that you don’t want me to talk about what happened, and I will honor that. But can’t we just hang out like this?” He brushed off a tree branch in front of you that you first instinctively ducked. “Think of it as a normal exploration of an adventurer and a knight. It’s good to go back to the good ol’ times, don’t you think?”
You stop in your tracks, your bag’s sling slightly creaks as you tighten your grip. He’s the one who has been torturing your heart for all these years, and he doesn’t deserve to just walk into your life so suddenly. You have a reason not to comply with him, and he knows that it’s what you want. Yet, is it really so bad to continue avoiding him? You’re well aware who suggested forgetting the confession you made in the past, and Varka is just complying with what you said last night. And that’s where it dawned on you: you haven’t said anything about not wanting to hang out with him again.
The person living inside your brain must’ve been slamming their own head into an imaginary wall. Knowing Varka, he’ll persist in finding loopholes even if you persist against it, just to justify his own means. And even if you convince him, who knows what move he would make next time just to earn a moment between two old friends?
“So, what do you say?” Varka peers over you.
“Fine, just this once. But on two conditions,” You clicked your tongue and faced up directly at the blonde man, placing your hands on your hips. “ One, don’t get in my way while I work. And two: I want to set respectable boundaries between us. Got it?” You stare at his dilated blue eyes before you walk ahead of him with a short sigh. “If you understand that, then hurry up.”
It was just a couple of demands that you set. Simple and professional. Both of you can follow it to the T. But Varka’s audible chuckle was so loud, followed by the metallic jingle of his gear, you can imagine how he’s practically wagging his tail without turning around.
Following what Varka said, it’s just like the old times of your youth. While you were occupied analyzing a domain and hilichurl camps, he chatters on with anecdotes of his own knightly missions, how he had a drinking challenge with the Pyro Archon, or that one time he had to prove his strength to a band of Eremites when they were in Sumeru. You could respond with the empty replies of “I see” and “that’s interesting” in between as you note down your observations of the area. But it seems that Varka did not understand the rules you’ve set, because the occasional banters and distant sound of his greatsword slash through the air is all you can hear as you mess up your writing for the 5th time.
You release a long sigh and reason out the sun’s high position in the sky to send Varka away for a break, most especially for you to rest underneath the nearby shade. Never had the thought crossed your mind that a few hours of this trip were taxing with the man. Perhaps it is your own fault that you forgot how annoying the Grandmaster was in his prime.
“Hey,” You instinctively tilt your head to the voice, and you feel the cold canteen spread across your forehead. “You seemed pretty thirsty. Want a sip?”
It took a second for you to snap out of the moment and brush off his offer. “If this is your way of loosening me with alcohol, then I have to decline.”
“It’s not,” Varka chuckles as he sits a respectable distance next to you and takes a sip before storing it back in his person. “It’s just water.”
You perked up. “Since when did you stop filling your can with booze?”
“Since we ran out of dandelion wine, we packed up during the expedition!” He leans his head against the thick bark of the tree. “Ah, old habits die hard, as they say. This reminds me of when my men and I were in Nod-Krai. After a long, fierce battle with the Wild Hunt—which, by the way, did give me a scar on my arm—we set up a temporary camp to recuperate, and look forward to drowning the remaining alcohol we saved up. But after taking a sip, it was not the booze we craved for, but sparkling water that someone had replaced one of the barrels with!
“Turns out, someone from the 6th company spilled it during the night before, and thought that we couldn’t differentiate sparkling water from alcohol. So I sent that knight into 20 laps for not reporting immediately, and sent a request to the Dawn Winery to send barrels of dandelion wine ASAP!” Varka puffs a laugh. “I also sent some letters to the headquarters at the same time, just to update our status anyway."
You were supposed to say something to amuse him. But the sight of Varka being dazed and the branches and leaves dancing to the wind caught you off guard. This is the second time it happened, where he disassociated for a second in the midst of your conversation. He’s so close yet so distant, sensing he is trying to hold off important information that he thinks you don’t need to know.
“I see.” You murmur, not knowing what to say this time. “I won’t pry to ask what happened, in honor of you respecting mine. But I have to ask: Is the expedition the reason why you’ve been so persistent in wanting to reunite with me recently?”
You don’t know what to expect from him, whether he’ll brush it off, tell you it's confidential, or make any other excuses. Varka stifled a snicker. “Yeah. It made me realize back then that I’d run out of stationery papers to send at least a letter to you.”
“What do you mean-”
“But now that I’m here and I have all the time in the world, I figured that I should hang out with you.” Varka cuts you off with a groan as he stretches his arms up, interlacing his fingers together as he rolls his shoulders, making his chest armor pop out, and yawns loudly. “Anyway, you’re going back to Dorman Port after nightfall, right? When are you coming back to the city?”
You stare at him for a good minute, clearly taken aback by the sudden cut-off before you could even process his question. “...Hard to say. Plus, I’m not the type of person who drops my schedule so easily.”
Varka shrugs. “Isn’t it so awful that my presence brings that disdain to you?”
“Even if you bribe or trick me, I’m not going to comply without a good reason.”
“Aww, not even to an old friend?”
“Not a bat of an eye, Sir.”
“And here I thought I finally got through you.” He drops his shoulder as he releases a sigh. “The Knights of Favonius are planning to hold a training collaboration with the Adventurers’ Guild to strengthen the brains and brawns of every knight and adventurer. Since you’re the senior advisor, I figured to ask for your help in the preparation phase.”
“So there is more than just wanting to roam around me.” You squint slightly, arms crossed around your bosom, and muscles tighten. “Is Master Cyrus even aware of your plans?”
Like an arrow shot through the middle of a target perfectly, the blonde man’s confidence falters, his mouth gapes to find the right words. “I-I’m sure that he knows! I mean, I already wrote about it in my letters to Jean a couple of times, and I’m pretty sure that he’ll remember what we discussed over a glass at the tavern.”
“If you have to lie, at least make it sound believable.” You sighed, massaging your forehead with your hand while you heard Varka groan in defeat. As much as you wanted to pull away from what he is trying to scheme, your judgment can’t label his proposal as a fabrication for his own means. Every Mondstadter is well-informed that the Acting Grandmaster speaks for the Grandmaster, and thus asking directly to Jean may imply your distrust of the latter. Not only will your reputation be at stake, but you're also gambling the guild’s reputation over a petty relationship.
A classic clash between personal and professional affairs, and there is only one man capable of pressuring you into a corner.
“...By the day after tomorrow, I’ll be marking my trip to Fontaine for business.” You broke the long silence, firmly looking at Varka’s gaze that made him jolt at the slightest. “I’ll be returning to Mondstadt five days after. Given that the celebration will last for a few more days, that should be sufficient for you to meet with Master Cyrus and the rest of the captains before I step in, no?”
Varka was so stunned by your proposal that he forgot he had to answer. “Ah—right, right! I swear on my oath as the Knight of Boreas, and the Grandmaster of the Knights of Favonius: I’ll make sure that our collaboration will be fruitful towards its great success!”
His fist snaps upward, touching his chest so forcefully that it creates a metallic jingle. Maybe it’s because seeing Varka’s charismatic grin after being sullen a minute ago made you cough out a laugh threatening to escape.
“Let’s get moving then,” You quickly rise onto your feet, dusting yourself off as you walk forward, avoiding looking at Varka’s reaction to your slip-up a moment ago. “I’m going to leave you behind if you continue stalling there.”
Even if you match onward, you know that Varka is following you without a shadow of a doubt, because his voice echoes your name as his footsteps crunch against the soil draw closer. His beaming smile can be felt against your back as he continues to ramble away, leaving you with your own quill and pen at hand. Albeit, you shoulder the burden of his complaints for not having to fight off monsters like it used to.
Regardless of how troublesome the Grandmaster was for the rest of the expedition, you both returned to the city with a sense of satisfaction. One individual has the data collected, while the other is looking forward to the upcoming days. As Varka bids you a goodnight before escorting you back to your inn, you, on the other hand, pray to Barbatos that you made the right decision.
On the eve of your departure, you decided to close your cafe a bit early, finally urging your staff to get off the clock and leaving the place to yourself before heading out for Fontaine. The silhouette of stacked chairs, empty tables, and the polished porcelain cups fades into the deep shadows. The usual bustling symphony of the daytime is completely gone, replaced by a heavy silence broken only by the sound of your quill eching through the paper of your ledger and a faint noise from the nearby restaurant. You sat behind the bar, comforted by a candle-lit lantern, stacks of documents, and the aroma of your freshly brewed tea just a few inches from you. Time seems to slow down at this hour, and your thoughts of the past few days finally catch up.
Just as you were finishing putting away all the things aside and going home, the sound of knocking rises from the front door. Despite the signage that reads your cafe is closed for the day, you still made a beeline to the entrance, mentally preparing yourself to tell the person behind the door to read the sign.
But rather than entertaining a customer, you were faced with a blue-haired knight underneath the pool of light, with dull-red eyes and an envelope in hand.
“It was quite a challenge to find you, Miss. With the given vague details of your whereabouts, I’m practically searching every corner.” The knight, whose name you later learn was Lohen, giggles in his attempt to lighten the mood. “Anyway, this is from the Grandmaster. It seems that it’s something of great importance for him to send this late in the night.”
Once the envelope is in your possession, you recognize the Grandmaster’s script as if it were the back of your hand. Rough yet precise, reading your name through Varka’s penmanship on the paper is as if you hear him calling your name sweetly. It’s an illusion that creeps in unbidden, but one you recognize so well as you once dreamt of it once upon a time.
You quickly thank Lohen, bidding him a good night as you go inside the dim cafe. Sitting straight in front of the glowing lantern, you open the envelope with a shaky breath and unfold the letter within it:
To Senior Advisor [Y/N],
Regardless of your distaste for my presence whenever I am in your proximity, I was supposed to make a trip to Dorman Port before you depart for a few days. But the duty of the Grandmaster cannot be ignored, as towering paperwork rises above my head and, well, Jean is basically holding me in confinement in my own office. As such, I resolve to write this letter.
First of all: How are you? I know we just met the other day, and I’m eager to meet you in the days to come, but I do wonder about your well-being recently. If the work either from the Adventurers’ Guild or your business gets the best of you, then please take a rest for a while. A human can only do so much, and we must look out for ourselves just as we take care of our blades.
I have talked with Jean and the rest of the captains and vice captains of the training collaboration on extent, especially about how the knowledge and skills the expedition team gained over the years can be fully utilized. The consensus was to proceed with the proposal, with a few suggestions at hand. And I’m soon to have a meeting with Master Cyrus to discuss such matters—once he’s completely sobered and the festivities wrapped up. So you needn’t worry about anything. I’m doing my best within my capabilities to honor our agreement. I am a knight of my word, after all!
A few nights before we arrived at the gate of Mondstadt City, numerous thoughts suddenly flew into my mind: How much has it changed since I last set foot in my homeland? Did the alcohol ferment too long, or has its taste differ now? Although the city hasn’t changed so much and my drink in my cup still tastes the same as years ago—something that I’m entirely grateful to Diluc for—we gain and lose many things as time passes. Such is life. Yet I can’t help but remember the things that we abandoned too carelessly.
So I know how much change you went through when I first glanced at you from the crowd. At least, that’s what I thought. But when I accompanied you on your recent land expedition, just as we used to go for a commission, I came to realize how you both change and remain the same person. You are confident and wiser, clear-headed and pragmatic at the same time. Master Cyrus has been singing songs of praise about you lately. Yet, it’s still you, and I’m left to wonder how long the expedition was that I didn’t recognize you.
Because time is an awful concept, I will express my current desire: I want to reconnect with you. I want to gain knowledge of your adventures and lessons that we can laugh together. We don’t have to discuss what happened before. I will honor that. But if you took this simple request as such, then forgive me. I just want to know your life so far, and yours only.
I expect that you would want to pull away from reading this letter at this point, and I can’t blame you. You need to prepare for a long journey ahead, and that includes rest. So I must hold from my rambles and await your safe return.
May the winds bless your trip.
Respectfully,
Grandmaster Varka
P.S. By the time you arrive back home, I will hold on to the hope that I will hear your tales of your trip, so that I may see the beauty of the world through your eyes.
You so swiftly folded and tossed a letter aside that you spilled the half-empty cup of tea. But you don’t care for the letter or the well-kept documents becoming stained at the moment. You’re more concerned with how his words pierced through you. Burying your face completely within the crook of your elbows, your arms flaring upward and outward. Hands locked into the sides of your head, you feel your blood spreading throughout your face as the candle within the lantern flickers.
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Knight In Shining Antlers- Lyonel Baratheon x Targaryen!Reader
Summary: You sacrifice yourself to the dragon. Will your stag come to save you?
⚠️ Warning: Targcest but no actual smut ⚠️
Word count: 6, 494 (my longest fic evvveeerrr!)
AKOTSK tag list: @ae-gax @galactict3a
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Your walk past all the tents feels mindless, but calming. Any chance you have to get away from your family you will, especially now you’re away from your sisters. Daeron and Egg were clever to escape (Egg can never keep anything from you), but you have to find little moments of respite from your father and Aerion where you could, especially Aerion.
You and your father get along when it’s just the two of you, but any comfort Aerion gives you, is wrapped in a suffocating bitterness.
Everything about Aerion is deceptive.
He never looks at you, he only leers. He never plays, only tricks. He never compliments, only flirts.
Unfortunately, being so close in age, he feels as though he owns you. The older you become, the worse his advances get.
He’s yet to actually touch you and his comments are just appropriate enough to leave room for doubt. Daeron watches over you, and Aerion never tries anything around the girls, but now, at a tourney, you feel trapped.
Your stroll past the tents becomes less mindful as you notice racks of wine and barrels of ale being taken into a large raucous golden tent. You look up to the flag- Baratheon. You’d heard things about ‘The Laughing Storm’ as he was known, but had never met the man yourself.
Deciding to wear your less lavish clothes seemed to be a good idea, as you manage to sneak through undetected. Taking a goblet of wine and a sweet tart, you find yourself a seat in the corner. While the party looks like a wonderland, you’d rather sit and watch. Just being in a room full of so much light and joy was enough to brighten your anxious heart.
The whole party is lively, and you find yourself laughing and clapping to the music. You seem to blend into the background and for you that’s fine, until the party stops.
Everyone hears the conversation between Lyonel and this ‘Ser Duncan The Tall’. The whole time your heart is in your throat and you feel you could cry. So used to the way your own family, especially Aerion, handles conflict, your anxious body prepares for the worst.
However, when no blood is shed and instead they dance together, your eyes widen in shock. Your body doesn’t seem to know what emotion to feel. Relief, fear and joy all rushing through your veins at once.
The only thing that seems to calm your confused heart is watching The Storm Lord himself, dance around so freely. You can’t help but laugh and clap along, his joy the most contagious thing you’ve ever felt.
Though you still sit in the corner, somehow Lyonels eyes find you, like they’re drawn to you. Once again your eyes widen as he stares at you with that enchanting grin, and your heart races as he pulls you from your seat.
Too shocked, you can’t seem to find your rhythm, but Lyonel helps you. Grabbing your hand, he twirls you around and dances like a bird trying to impress a mate.
When you giggle, Lyonels eyes shine somehow even brighter.
“Who are you, my lady?!” He shouts over the joyous party.
You can’t tell him, you just want to live in this moment. Sure, he’ll probably find out, but right now, you don’t want to be a princess, you just want to be you.
“No one important, my lord!” You shout back with a smile so wide it hurts.
Suddenly, Lyonel grabs you by your waist, dipping you as his lips graze over your ear. On instinct, your hands land on his strong shoulders for balance. His lips and warm breath against your ear and neck makes your skin tingle and your belly fill with butterflies.
“Somehow, I find that hard to believe, my lady.”
The speed in which he pecks your neck and drags you back up again makes your head spin.
Neither you nor Lyonel are sure how it happened, but one minute you’re swirling around on the dance floor, and now, the sun is beginning to rise on the other side of his tent fabric. While Lyonel had envisioned you in his bed, what he hadn’t thought would happen would be the both of you just talking all night.
Stepping out his tent after declining an escort back, it feels like you’ve left your fantasy world and now have to return back to your reality.
It all seems to rush in at once and it’s like you spend all day in a trance, trying to clear that fantastical evening from your mind. That evening of fun and comfort, of dance, laughter and just simply talking. Not having to pretend or overthink, but just being.
So caught in your trance, you don’t notice Lyonel staring at you from only a short distance away. In an attempt to try to avoid Aerion, you decided to visit your cousin Valarr at his tent.
It isn’t until you leave your cousins tent to venture back that he even makes himself known.
“‘No one important’, my arse,” he whispers deeply behind you.
The mix of the sudden voice and who it belongs to causes you to gasp as you swiftly turn.
“Careful now, princess. Traveling without your ladies or guards in a tourney and now almost striking a lord, you truly are a rebellious one aren’t you?” He asks cheekily with a wink and a wide grin.
You can’t help but match his cheeky smile, your own lips rising and teeth finally showing as you playfully shove him.
“Well, my lord, would you not offer your company to princess in such a dangerous place? Could be all kinds of rogues around here,” you mirror the cheekiness that he gives you.
The way your humour matches his own has the lords heart hammering in his chest. Both love and desire fill him so greatly that he almost forgets to reply to you.
“It would be an honour, my princess.”
Though your smile remains, you feel your heart has stopped. Though it is a title you’ve heard many times before, hearing Lyonel say it makes you feel like he means it. He says your title like he is willing to kill and die for it, like you are his princess.
Lyonel does feel that way and now as he looks at your face while he escorts you back, he realises what this means. He loves the Targaryen princess. He’s both terrified and ecstatic.
While your moment with Lyonel is one of cheeky smiles and fluttering hearts, the look on Aerions face as he watches on from a tall window, is of pure malice and hatred. You belong to him, not some fucking lord.
🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛
You try to race to your room before Aerion can find you, but unfortunately, he’s already beat you to it. Pressing your back against the door, your eyes close and your lips press up into a sweet smile, the memory of Lyonel still fresh in your heart.
“Now why can’t you smile like that for me, sister?”
Your blood runs cold and your smile drops. Slowly your eyes open and you can feel your heart in your throat as you see your brother lay on the plush sheets of the four post bed.
He doesn’t want an answer really, just interested in making you scared. The way your arms wrap around your body makes him chuckle darkly.
The sound of his boots against the floor make your heart race and your stomach churn, but you can’t move, paralysed from fear. Even as his fingers dig into your chin, you only move because he forces you to.
He’s so close you can see the rage in his violet eyes.
“You are mine, you belong to me,” his grip tightens, “you belong to a dragon, not some fucking stag lord,” he growls right in your face.
You will yourself not to cry, but it is no use. Unfortunately, your tears only seem to spur him on more, as his lips twist into an evil grin.
As he presses himself further against you, you can feel how hard he is for you. The thought of it makes you whimper and you force your face out of his grip, turning your head in a desperate attempt to escape him. Your defiance only makes him growl.
His tongue starts at your chin and licks your tear all the way up to your eye. His disturbing act causes you to let out a shaky cry and once again he pushes himself against, making it known he likes it.
“I will have you, little sister. I’ll make you round with my dragons and if I see you with the Baratheon fuck again, I’ll have his head sent to you personally.”
With one aggressive bite to your neck that makes you cry out, he shoves you against the wall and storms out.
Collapsing to the floor, you feel like you can breathe again. Sucking in as much air as you can, your eyes explode with tears as you wail and shake on the ground. In your terrified state, all you can think of is Lyonel. In that moment, he’s the only thing that calms your heart.
🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛
Maybe the middle of the night isn’t the best time to discuss your escape with Lyonel, but with the walls closing in, the sweet Storm Lord seems like your only option.
Only by some miracle do you manage to escape the castle walls without running into Aerion or your father, as venture to find him. The cold night air hitting your face as you run through the encampment.
Your lungs burn, tongue heavy and your heart races as you fly open the flaps to Lyonels personal tent. As you step inside, you have no time to take in either Lyonel or the decor, before you collapse to the ground; your fear and exertion becoming too much for.
“Princess!” Lyonel calls as he sees you hit the ground.
Collecting you in his arms on the ground, he strokes your hair away from your face as he looks to your face worryingly.
“What has happened, my love?”
Even through your exhausted haze, the sweet name and his touch still manages to make you giddy.
“If I am your love, I need you to believe the words I say,” you weakly speak as you look into his soft eyes.
Maybe you imagine it, but you’re sure you see Lyonel blush as he realises what he just called you.
“Tell me what’s happened.”
His face is brave and his words spoken so softly; he makes you feel truly cared for. With his strong arms wrapped around you, you push your face further into his chest. In that moment, you need him to help you feel brave.
He gives you the time too, just holding you until you’re ready to speak. Moments pass before a shaky sigh passes your lips.
“I-it’s my brother, Aerion,” while he lets you continue, his face grows hard at the mention of his name, “h-he came to me this evening. He saw us together, Lyonel.”
The image of what your brother said comes racing through your mind as you look into the storm lords eyes. Closing your own eyes and pushing your face deep into his neck, you continue through your sobs.
“He means to kill you unless I marry him! He said he wanted me to have his babies! I can’t do it, Lyonel!” Your sobs begin to overtake your words and both your cries and words fill Lyonel with rage.
“Pl-please Lyonel! Don’t let him take me!”
Your words break his heart and his own eyes begin to water as he looks into your blood-shot one’s.
“Whatever happens, I will always come for you, my love. We’ll run away, have an adventure of our own.”
His shining eyes and growing cheeky grin begin to fill you with hope, but you know it can’t be.
“No…. He’ll find us,” your words are meek as your gaze falls to your hands.
Lyonel won’t have his love lose hope. Taking your face between his warm hands, he gently forces you to look at him. He’s not aggressive like Aerion was, you want to see his hopeful loving eyes, so unlike Aerions rage-filled ones.
“I love you and no one will take you from me. You are my princess and my sweet dragon. Probably blow daisies and rainbows instead of fire,” this causes you to let out a teary but genuine laugh.
“There’s my sweet girl. Meet me at the tourney gates just after the last joust of tomorrow evening. I’ll give you everything you need and more,” he promises.
He’s so full of love and care for you, you can’t help but kiss him. It’s not long or heated, but it’s more than a peck. Feeling your lips against his, he is more than happy to reciprocate. His hand cards through your hair, holding you, but never tugging or pulling. The kiss is filled with enough love to know you believe him and that you want him.
“Don’t men usually kiss women before they declare their love?”
“Do you truly think there’s anything ‘usual’ about me, flower dragon?”
His rebuttal makes you laugh, and you silently begin to stand together.
“No, and I suppose that’s why I love you too.”
His face is shocked and full of adoration, but you don’t let yourself bask in it for too long. Supper will be soon and if Aerion doesn’t come for you, your father will.
“Good night, my handsome stag.”
🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛
Appearance means everything to Aerion, so when you heard the people talking of what had happened with him and Ser Duncan, you knew he would not take it lightly.
Rushing to where the meeting is being held, you are grateful for the guards, as they knowingly step back and let you listen at the door. Your heart races with more and more that you hear. Aerion was dragging your brothers, your father, your uncle and the kind Ser Duncan into an unnecessary battle.
You know you have an out, that you don’t have to stay around and watch your family kill each other. You are due to meet Lyonel this evening.
Torn between your family and your love, you almost don’t step away from the door in time as you hear hurried steps approaching. Luckily, your studied grace as a princess gives you an advantage, as you slip from the door, to the adjoining hallway.
Watching Aerion be dragged out by your father and seeing the fury in the young princes eyes, you know what choice you have to make. You know that Ser Duncan and anyone who chooses to fight by him would just be the beginning. You know you can’t fully tame the dragon, but maybe the seven will reward your bravery for saving your family from this stupid trial.
Taking a deep breath and swallowing your tears, you push down your fear and instead plaster on your perfectly sweet smile, that you’ve had to put on so many times.
“Aerion,” you softly speak as you glide towards his seething form.
His body, while still tense, curls towards you like a snake; his wicked grin is just as devilish.
“Hmmm, my name sounds so pretty when you say it, sister,” the words are both seductive and venomous, making your skin crawl and your stomach churn.
‘Be brave, be strong’, you chant to yourself, with visions of Daeron and Egg flashing in your mind.
Before your rational mind can stop you, you take one of his hands in yours, while your other hand cradles his face. His skin feels as cold as his heart. His grin grows at your actions, to both your disgust and relief.
“Please, Aerion, call off this trial. For our family,” you cant believe the words that are about to come out of your mouth “for me,” you beg desperately as you look deep into his wicked eyes.
As smoothly and viciously as the dragon he fancies himself to be, his hands wrap around your waist. You allow him to push your body into him, your mantra and visions of your brothers being the only thing stopping you from crying.
Just as swiftly as he pulls your body in, does his face push towards you, kissing you like he already owns you. You’re scared, but you go along with his movement.
His kiss is nothing like Lyonels. Aerions kiss is cold and claiming, for his pleasure alone. Whereas Lyonels was full of love and care, like he wanted to pour sunshine into your sad cloudy heart.
After what feels like an eternity, he pulls away. You try to keep your face soft and sweet, even as you feel his hard excitement pushing against your thigh.
“Marry me,” he demands more than asks.
“What?” You ask, trying to sound excited instead of petrified.
He can see and hear your fear, and it excites him.
“Agree to marry me right now and I’ll call the trial off,” he whispers cruelly in your ear.
You had prepared for this, but it didn’t make it any easier. Maybe marrying Aerion would keep not just your family, but the whole kingdom safe. Maybe you could think yourself a true Targaryen, able to calm and sway a dragon.
“Ye-yes, Aerion. I-I’ll marry you, m-my dragon,” you try so hard to sound seductive, even as bile comes to yours throat.
Your words cause him to groan as his hand wraps around your throat and he touches his forehead to yours. Your heart races and fear is definitely evident in your eyes.
“Now you be a good little wife and you tell me where you were planning to meet that ridiculous fucking lord. Don’t lie to me, sister, you are not as good at sneaking around as your loving future husband is,” his terrifying words are punctured as his hand tightens around your throat.
Tears pool in your eyes as you feel no other choice but to tell him.
Once he releases your throat with a proud smile, your body crumbles onto the floor. Silent tears fall from your eyes as you pray to the seven that Aerion would not hurt Lyonel.
You may not be able to be with your love, but you don’t want him harmed.
Protecting your family had to come first and you just hope you’ve made the right decision.
🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛
Aerion can’t just attack Lyonel at random, he can’t just sneak in and stab him. Aerion has to attack him in a way he knows will hurt.
The prince loathes the thought that Lyonel has looked at you, let alone touched you and Aerion himself must be the one to let Lyonel know how he has failed.
“She’s not coming,” Aerions taunting voice causes the Storm Lord to turn.
Aerion had hoped for rage-filled eyes, but is vexed to find Lyonel to be cool and calm.
“Thank you for making me aware, your grace,” Lyonel speaks as if he is thanking some kind of messanger boy, and the rage within Aerion begins to boil.
Lyonel had suspected something like this would happen and being older and wiser than the young prince, has more plans than just one.
“Well you’ve had enough women, you know how it is. They like to rebel when they’re younger with older men, but in the end,” Aerion pauses dramatically as he walks towards Lyonel, ensuring he has the lords full attention “they marry who they know is right for them.”
This does get a reaction from Lyonel, as his eyes go wild and his nostrils flair. Aerions smirks up at him in triumph as he begins to walk away.
“Just because she agreed to marry you, doesn’t mean she loves you, Aerion,” Lyonel calls after the princes fleeting form.
At this, Aerions smirk widens and he turns to face the lord for a final time.
“No, but the way she kissed me does. The way her tongue ran against mine and she moaned for me does,” Aerion knew he was bending the truth slightly, but he can’t help twist the knife into Lyonels wound.
This hit a nerve and Lyonels eyes filled with rage, while the princes filled with a sick joy. Lyonels nostrils flared as he tried to control his breathing.
When Aerion found you’d kissed another, he was enraged because he’s possessive and believes you belong to him. Lyonel hearing you’d kissed Aerion enrages him, not because he feels any form of betrayal, but because another had hurt his love. Aerions rage comes from selfishness, whereas Lyonels comes from love.
The young prince doesn’t comprehend Lyonels rage the way he thinks he does.
Walking away, Aerion believes he has won this fight, but Lyonel knows that he will be the one to win the war.
🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛
You stare at Duncan, standing their like a sculpture of a warrior. Though you are the one who is high born, you’re nervous to approach him.
Silent but swiftly you approach him, knowing Aerion will come looking for you soon. The knight looks just as stoic as you do, and once again, your heart worries for someone more than yourself.
“Ser Duncan,” though your voice is soft, it seems to startle the mountain of a man.
“M-my grace,” he stutters out as he begins to bend his knee.
Though hes anxious and has troubles of his own, he is still an honourable knight.
“What troubles you, ser Duncan?” You ask as you stare across the camp in the early morning light.
Most lords not awake yet and the ones that are awake, haven’t begun to even think about packing away their tents.
“I’m torn, my princess, but I don’t wish to worry you with such things,” turning to you he sees the unwept tears within your eyes.
“I’m more concerned with what troubles you, my princess.”
Within his eyes you can see deep worry, a worry that goes beyond your royal status. This is the worry of a man who genuinely cares.
You have no doubt he has learnt of you stopping the trial, but with your next words, it is obvious he knows not how.
“It’s about the trial of seven,” you softly sigh.
“The trial never occurred. If what I hear is correct, you are to thank for that,” his once pensive eyes now filling with joy.
While he begins to beam, you begin to wilt.
“Yes… that is because I agreed to marry the man you attacked, Ser Duncan,” you admit sadly.
Your head is hung low, too anxious and ashamed to look the kind knight in the eyes.
“What?!” He shouts in shock, the sound almost echoing in the camp.
Even as he turns to fully face you, your face is still sullen and turned to the ground. Tears begin to gently flow from your eyes as you take the note out of your cloak. With your eyes still down-turned, you raise the letter for Duncan to take.
“Pl-please give this to Lyonel,” you gently whimper.
Finally looking up at him, you don’t meet his eye, too afraid that your tears may become uncontrollable. Instead, you stare at his shoulders. You watch as your own hand gently lands on one of his giant shoulders. Using his strong frame as balance, you raise on your tippy toes.
Ever the gentleman, Duncan crouches as you rise. When you meet in the middle, your lips press a gentle kiss to his cheek. Hoping to the seven that Aerion is not watching you.
“Good bye, sweet knight,” you shakily but sweetly whisper against his ear.
Before Duncan can ask more or try to save you, like the valiant knight he is, you begin to vanish. Fast walking turns to running as the sun begins to rise and you know Aerion will awaken soon.
Aerion may often keep his plans and tricks from you, but last night, he made sure to make you aware that both of you will be leaving before anyone. Aerion never says fully what he means, but you can read him and you know he meant he’d take you away from anyone that could stop him. He intends to get you back to Kings Landing before Lyonel can take you from him.
You had cried yourself to sleep that night, knowing that if he got a head start of your father, he’d be able to manipulate you into convincing your father to let you wed. Aerion is vain, but not stupid, he knows there’s nothing he can do or say to convince Maekar to let you wed, but his sweet eldest princess can.
🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛
Lyonel might find the image of the giant knight running and dodging through his camp hilarious, if he wasn’t otherwise so mentally preoccupied.
“Lyonel! Lyonel!” Duncan calls as he runs towards the older man.
Though filled with worry, Lyonel still manages one of his signature smiles, as Dunk stands huffing and puffing in front of him.
“Slow down, lad, you’ll hurt yourself. Then where would I be without my fellow knight?” Lyonel grins at his friend.
Duncan’s face is red with both embarrassment and exertion.
“Good to know you decided to join me, Ser Duncan. Now, grab your horse, we’ll be leaving soon.”
The knights eyes go wide as he realises that maybe Lyonel doesn’t know about you and Aerion.
“Wait- Lyonel!” The young knight calls after his friend.
“Duncan, I don’t see you getting your horse.”
“M’lord this is important.”
“You don’t have to be so formal with me, Dunk.”
Walking through the camp as they speak, Duncan looks an odd sight, chasing after the Storm Lord like a lost puppy.
“It’s about y/n.”
“The princess, what of her?”
This enraged Duncan. Since the moment he met you, Lyonel has not shut up; swooning and sighing to Duncan over his ‘flower dragon’. Now, he acts as though you are just another Targaryen.
Grabbing Lyonel by the shoulders, he turns him around and slams him against a tree.
“Listen to me!” Duncan shouts in his friend’s face, honestly surprising the lord. “Your love is going to marry Aerion. She gave me this letter an-“
“I know, lad,” Lyonel grins as he snatches the letter from Dunks risen hand. The shocked look on the young knights face only causes Lyonels smile to grow.
“Now, as I was saying; get your horse, Ser Duncan. I need strong men to help me rescue my dragon from her cage.”
At hearing these hopeful words, Dunks rage melts away, and all that is left is his natural somewhat dopey joy. With a spring in his step, Dunk runs off to do as Lyonel says, ready to help him save the princess.
Laughing to himself, Lyonel shakes his head as he watches his eager young friend escape into the bustling crowd. Looking down at your note in his hand, Lyonels smile weakens, but doesn’t fully vanish. His heart thunders in his chest as he prepares himself for the words within.
The letter does not bare the dragon seal, it is simply folded many times, leaving the paper crumpled and slightly frayed. It’s as if you’d held it close to yourself, like a dangerous secret. Lyonel can feel tears in his eyes as he thinks about how scared you must have been giving this letter to Duncan.
He shakes the thought from his head as he begins to unfold the page. Lyonel knows that if he dwells on it too much, he’ll only break his own heart.
Seeing your hand writing on the page is like a breath of fresh air and Lyonel can’t help but let out a shaky breath as he begins to read:
‘Dear Lyonel,
There is no doubt Aerion has told you of our plan to wed. Even less doubt exists in my mind that he has done so in a way that would hurt you the most. For that, I am truly sorry.
I don’t know what my future will look like now, or if I’ll ever see you again, but I want you to know this. Even though I am to wed Aerion and will most likely be made to have his children, my heart will belong to you and you alone for the rest of my days.
I made this choice, my love, to save my family and hopefully try to stop Aerion from hurting anyone, especially you.
Please don’t come for me and please don’t attack Aerion. My heart would break if I knew I was the cause of any harm coming to you.
Promise me you’ll still be that sweet and funny man I love. Do not let this dim the light you bring to the world.
I love you, my handsome stag.
- Your flower dragon’
Reaching the end of the letter, tears are now falling down Lyonels face. To think you sacrificed yourself like this. You understand better than anyone else what marrying Aerion will entail, and that thought is even sadder.
Rage begins to spring forward as he thinks of that monsters hands on his lady. To think he will put his hands and his mouth on you, not to love you, but to claim you.
If you had left Lyonel for another man who would care for you and love you, then maybe he could accept it. The fact that it is Aerion and that you have been trapped by him, that is what breaks his heart the most.
Seeing Duncan ride back into the half packed camp, Lyonel knows he cannot let emotion take over him in this moment. Resting his head against the tree behind him and closing his eyes, he fills his mind with all the ways he will do to care for you when he does finally rescue you.
He thinks of how he’ll bath with you; sitting behind you as he kisses and washes away every touch Aerion has left on you. He thinks of the warm furs you will lay beneath and the fire in his room that will lull you into a sweet sleep.
Lyonel thinks of you safe and happy. With that thought in his mind, there is nothing that can stop him from saving his dragon.
🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛🐉💚🦌💛
Aerion sounds more like a salesperson than a fiancé, as he parades you around your pre-wedding party. You feel more like a prized kill in a hunt, instead of the lovely bride to be that you unfortunately are.
Maekar watches the act his son puts on for the lesser lords, his jaw so tense that his teeth hurt. It seems your whole family at the head table seethes in a heated unity. Most everyone, except Aerion, can sense the smoke and steam of rage erupting from the table. The perimeter of distance is obvious and jarring, as it makes a definite chasm of space between your family and the rest of the party. Even your young sisters can see your turmoil.
Though Baelors glare is not as powerful as your father’s, it is still definitely present. Baelor is usually well trained and able to stay pleasant and level-headed, even through the most tumultuous times. The union of yourself and the dragon is just that upsetting to the hand of the king. Valarr sits beside his father with the same glare on his face and anger within his eyes. Both men trying so hard to be civil. Even Valarrs sweet bride wears a scowl, vicious enough the frighten even the most seasoned warrior.
Daeron is surprisingly sober. While he wishes to drink the sorrows away of seeing you about to be married to Aerion, he feels a duty to stay sober, a duty to protect you.
Lastly, sweet Egg and your sisters. Egg feels a rage boiling inside him, wanting to be a true knight and wishing Ser Duncan were there to save the day. The girls aren’t angry like the rest of their family, more of a sadness. While they try to be joyous about your wedding dress and the party to come, they can’t help but know this isn’t right. They’ve read about the men in their story books that princess are meant to fall in love with and marry, and Aerion is nothing like them.
The night has come to an end and you can see the hungry look in Aerions eyes. It is a look that makes you ill and all you can think of to sooth your anxious body is Lyonel.
Lyonel has been all you’ve thought of to keep you calm. Yes, you look to your family and remember why you’ve sacrificed your life, but Lyonel is your light.
Everyday you imagine how he’ll save you. However, now as Aerion kisses down your neck and begins to caress your body, you begin to lose hope that your love will ever arrive.
“Come,” he orders as he begins to drag you away.
You try to mask your terror as playfulness.
“Where are we going, Aerion?” You giggle, hoping the act is working.
“Where all husband and wife go, my love,” he growls in your ear.
Panic, escape, Lyonel. Those are the only thoughts running through your mind. Your look of terror pleases the dragon.
“W-we are not wed yet, my love,” think of Lyonel. All you can do when you need to be seductive is to think of Lyonel. “While I crave you like no other,” pushing down your bile, you continue, “I want to stay true to our families traditions. I want you to claim me in a proper bedding ceremony, like Targaryen’s have done for so long.”
Aerions eyes widen in excitement and you’re so grateful it’s worked.
“As you wish, my love. Just think, tomorrow morning, you will be mine. You will be my wife,” he whispers aggressively in your ear, before flying down the hall to his own room.
Running into your room, your tear-filled vision only just make out your maids, as you yell for them to leave. You don’t bother to apologise as they scurry away, too filled with fear to be pleasant.
Throwing yourself on the bed, you crawl up, hugging your pillow like a child and cry yourself to sleep.
Daeron and Maekar stay awake hearing your wails until you eventually fall asleep. Unfortunately, sleep finds neither of them the whole night.
Staring at yourself in the mirror, your maids fuss about you, working to make you look perfect.
Of course you look like a bride, but you don’t look like yourself. You’ve always had a vision of what your wedding gown would be and this is far from it, this is Aerions vision, not yours.
You always dreamed of dark maroons with deep wine red, with tulle and a soft bodice. Aerions vision, is bright blood red with deep black, a tight bodice, with heavy velvets.
You don’t dare to face the image before you, your head so far down that your chin is on your chest. You don’t look like yourself, you don’t look like the sweet and strong Targaryen princess that you are. Instead, you look like Aerions property.
So trapped in your own mind, you don’t realise your family has even walked in.
“You look beautiful,” you hear Daeron speak.
Looking up, you blink the tears from your eyes. Seeing Daeron, Egg, your sisters and your father before you, you begin to feel like yourself again. Not a trapped little girl, but a brave Targaryen. You still have to go through with this marriage, but you won’t be afraid.
“Just like a princess,” Rhae says in awe.
Both Daella and Egg are older and can both see through your smile, but they’re brave for you. They look up at with bright grins, that don’t quite reach their eyes.
“Your mother would be so proud,” Maekar confesses, his usually stoic look replaced with a gentle smile.
You know that what he said has a deeper meaning, but you try not to dwell on it too long.
With a gentle voice, you thank them all. Your brothers each kiss your cheek and tell you they love you, before leaving to begrudgingly stand by Aerions side in the grand hall.
Taking in a big breath, you reach out for your father, only exhaling once your hand is around his forearm.
“I’ve got you, my brave girl,” your father whispers in your ear.
Unfortunately, you barely hear him. Your heart beats so loudly in your ears as you, your father and the two girls in tow walk down to your fate.
Suddenly, snapping you out of your dissociative trance, you hear the sounds of swords clashing. Fear fills you, worrying it is Aerion, that something has enraged him. However, as you see the face that comes around the corner, your fear is replaced with excitement.
Standing before you in his golden armour and his sword drawn, is Lyonel himself. Looking every bit the brave knight from the children’s tales.
“My love,” he sighs out in awe.
Breaking away from your father, you run into Lyonels arms. Wrapping your arms around him, your tears and wails spring from your body, like a burst damn.
“I told you I’d always come for you. This is true love after all,” he sweetly says as he holds your cheek and gently kiss you.
The moment is only broken by Maekars growl.
“This is treason,” he sneers at the storm lord.
“Yes, I know, but I would burn down your palace if it would mean that she wouldn’t have to marry that monster.”
“Lyonel!” You gasp in shock.
Maekar stares at him for some time, the hall feeling cold as you prepare for what’s to come.
“Then you deserve her more than any other,” Maekars softly spoken words surprise you all. “I give you my blessing. Keep her safe, Lord Baratheon, I will hold off Aerion. I will not call this treason, if you will allow me to walk my daughter down the aisle one day, to a man that actually loves her.”
Maekars vulnerable confession warms your heart and softens Lyonels hard face.
“It would be an honour, my prince.”
Lyonels surprised by the lack of disgust at his own words, usually one who hates the crown. However, right here, there is no crown, no thrown, only two men who love you dearly.
“Thank you, father,” you warmly cry to him.
Running into his arms for a final hug, you kiss his cheek, before running back to Lyonel.
Escaping down the corridors, you step outside into the fresh air of the morning. The cool breeze chills your face as you stand to enjoy it for a moment longer.
You are free.
“Come now, princess, we musn’t delay,” Duncan urges you, as you lifts you onto Lyonels horse.
Thanking him with a nod, you ride off with your love. Wrapping your arms around his warm body and pushing your face against his back. You’re finally safe.
Warnings: Reader is Baelor's Daughter, but Not Jena Dondarrion's (to Make Reader’s Appearance More Ambiguous); Reader is a Widow; Lyonel was Reader’s Suitor; Pining; Angst; Past Requited but Unfulfilled Love; Sun / Moon Dynamics; No Description of Reader's Appearance (Minus Having Long-ish Hair); Use of "You" but No "Y/N"
Word Count: ~3800 words
Plot: It was not meant to be. Baelor's only daughter would not marry Lyonel Baratheon. But years later, Ashford begs to differ.
Master List
There were many traits that you had inherited from your father. Among the most prominent was your inability to lie in. The early morning was always a time you tried to think clearly. For the past few years, it was the only time you were allowed to truly breathe and think without anyone else trying to influence your thoughts.
And it seemed that likeness continued even when you were supposed to be relaxing. Though, it remained unclear how a trip into the Reach was supposed to be relaxing.
Emerging from your tent when the sun had not yet fully emerged above the horizon, you drew your thick cloak around yourself to fight the early morning chill. The dew of the grass beaded on your shoes and soaked the edge of your cloak as you began your short journey. The few servants and guards who were awake as you passed bowed and kept out of your way.
Pushing the flaps of your father's tent apart, you stepped inside and offered a small smile. He looked up from his papers, as if he was expecting you, which he surely was, and returned the smile.
"Come. Break your fast."
He gestured to the seat beside him and placed some food in front of you. It seemed that no matter how old you got, your father still did not stop himself from taking care of you. You sat down as he poured you a drink as well and glanced at the papers in front of him.
"Anything interesting to note?"
"Not quite, I'm afraid." He placed a goblet in front of you and glanced back at the paper he had been reading when you arrived. "I am familiarizing myself with Ashford's agricultural production. I want to ensure that I treat our gracious host properly."
"I am quite sure that Lord Ashford will be tripping over himself when you arrive." You picked up a piece of toast and moved to spread a thin layer of butter over it. "How far is Ashford from here? Please tell me not much farther."
"Two hours, I believe. Though, I worry that your Uncle Maekar will try to reduce that time rather significantly."
You nodded and took a bite of your bread toast. “He is anxious about Daeron and Egg then?”
“I believe so.”
“It is not without reason.” You brushed your hands on a cloth to remove the crumbs and bit of butter. “Daeron was never going to willingly ride in the tournament.”
“I shared such sentiments with your uncle, but he disagreed.” Your father set down his papers and turned to you. “He hopes to believe, as every father does, that their children are merely larger, more independent versions of the children they raised. Children who did not bear the weight of life as a Targaryen prince or princess."
You took another bite of your bread before meeting your father’s stare once more. Ever since you had returned to King's Landing after your husband's passing, everyone had been tiptoeing around you. As if they were nervous that the mention of your dead husband would send you into hysterics.
You admitted, at least to yourself, that you did not even shed a tear at the funeral and therefore did not know why everyone insisted on such gentle treatment.
You set down the piece of toast and let out a sigh. “You are concerned about me?”
“I must admit that I worry about the comments and questions that may befall you in Ashford.”
You nodded slowly, glancing down at your plate. “You act as though words are poison arrows.”
“I have seen more men felled by words than arrows as of late.”
You sighed and fiddled with the ring bearing House Targaryen’s sigil on your finger. “I am not the first, nor last, young barren widow to befall Westeros or even House Targaryen. And I will endure my fate just as my predecessors did.”
“Perhaps, but there are other words I would prefer to hear you use to describe your fate other than ‘endure.’” Your father rested his hand on the table. “And I do wish that you would stop calling yourself ‘barren.’ You are still younger than the age your stepmother and aunts were when they had their last children.”
You forced yourself to stop fiddling with your ring and closed your eyes for a moment. “I tried for seven years to become a mother with my departed lord husband. I believe that is enough for me."
“Very well, but there are plenty of women who find happiness elsewhere. With studies or diplomacy or—”
“—I know,” you replied quietly, cutting off your father. “But for now, I do not mind mourning the life I could have had. I have finished mourning my lord husband, but not the future I thought I was promised.” Offering a small smile that did not reach your eyes, you added, “I will be fine, Father. I just need more time.”
He nodded and did not move to press the issue. You would come to him with your concerns when you were ready, as you had your entire life.
The two of you turned as the flaps to the tent drew again and your younger half-brother poked his head into the tent. “Uncle Maekar is waking up the camp.”
“I see,” Baelor sighed, arranging his papers. “I suppose we should not slow him down.”
Valarr nodded and disappeared, presumably to relay the message. Your Father stood up and leaned over to press a kiss to your head before his attendants walked over. You sighed and rose from your seat, off to prepare yourself for the tourney.
*~*~*
Ashford was quaint. There was a beauty in simplicity, but that was quickly becoming overrun by the tents and carriages that dragged up the mud. Stepping out of the carriage behind Kiera, you glanced at the growing town with curiosity.
“I believe I wish to explore,” you announced to Valarr, who frowned in response.
“That would be unwise. Especially alone.”
“I merely wish to stretch my legs,” you reasoned, folding your arms in front of you.
“I don’t see the harm,” Kiera replied, wrapping her arm through Valarr’s.
“I do,” Valarr sighed, returning his gaze to you. “What are you going to do if someone questions you?”
“I am not completely inept. I can craft responses to simple questions.” Your fingers drummed on your biceps. “And it has been long enough. I would know better than all in that category, I believe.”
“At least take a guard with you.”
“And draw more attention to myself?” You glanced down at what you were wearing. There was nothing flashy, but you removed the jewelry that could raise an eyebrow. Handing it to Kiera, you reached for your hood. “I’ll be fine. I just need some air.”
“If you are not back within two hours, I will send out a search party.”
You playfully rolled your eyes at your brother. “And may I remind you that I am the elder sibling.”
Pulling your hood over your hair, you turned and carefully slipped away from Ashford Castle. A few people cast eyes in your direction, but none with any sign of recognition. You noted the various Houses that were gathered for the tournament, quietly making notes to yourself. Who to greet, who to avoid, and the like.
But when you saw the banner with a stag on it, your feet grew rooted on their own.
It was hard not to grow sentimental. Of getting lost in the world of “what if” rather than the one you were currently living through.
Had you told Lyonel that he was a stubborn moron, and he had listened to you, you imagined your life would be much different now. Perhaps his energy of virility would have cured the barrenness that hung over your actual marriage. You would have been surrounded by a group of stubborn, loud children with dark curls. Perhaps one or two would have your features, but Baratheon traits always seemed to bully others.
He could be annoying at the best of times and unbearable at the worst, but you doubted he would ever make a fool of you.
“Are you just going to stand in the way like an arsehole or move—”
At the familiar sound, you turned around, startled out of your thoughts. But when your eyes locked with Lyonel’s and your hood slipped back just enough, the two of you appeared to be frozen in time. Or perhaps frozen in the past, to be more accurate.
“Princess,” he breathed out, eyes raking over what little identifiable features he could make out under your cloak.
You offered a nervous smile. “Hello, Lyonel.”
*~*~*
You handed your cloak to a servant, who quickly scurried out of the room, before turning back to where Lyonel stood, pouring wine into two goblets.
Perhaps you were a fool for accepting his invitation for a drink. A refreshment, he had called it. An innocent term that completely ignored the history that ran between you. You smoothed your hands down the front of your dress as a nervous tick.
“You have grey in your beard now,” you commented, walking around to the other side of the table. “And your hair.”
“Time is rarely kind.” He glanced up from his goblet, which had been nearly filled to the top. His eyes trailed over your face for a moment before he turned to pour wine into your goblet. “Though it seems that you were an exception."
You snorted lightly, gently running your fingertips over the smooth wood of the table. "I see that you remain a charmer."
"Better a charmer than a witch."
You could not help the roll of your eyes at the shit-eating grin that graced Lyonel's lips. "Do not tell me that you believe those ridiculous rumors."
"Not even for a second." Lyonel leaned over and placed a goblet in front of you. "But it is amusing that anyone could believe that you practice black magic. Let alone kill a man with it."
He took a sip of his wine as his eyes trailed over your figure. Your cheeks warmed and you reached for your own goblet. Taking a sip, you steadied your thoughts before returning your gaze to Lyonel.
"How is Storm's End? Last I saw you, you were only a 'ser.'"
"And happier for it." Lyonel drummed his fingers on the table as he took a rather dramatic flop onto the chair. "Storm's End has its dull points, of course. A couple nobles have tested my patience more times than I care to count." He lifted his goblet sarcastically. "But there is always drink to support me."
"I was sorry to hear about your cousin," you murmured, gracefully taking your own seat. "And his boy."
"I received your letter." Lyonel held your gaze as he rested his weight on his elbow. The soft stare morphed into one that contained a clear vein of annoyance. "I assume the prick did not wish for you to send it."
"My husband, you mean?"
"The dead one, yes."
You were certain that a widow who loved and was devoted to her husband would have thrown her goblet at Lyonel, stormed out of the tent, and proclaimed for all to hear that he had offended every notion of common decency. You were neither, however. So, you merely smiled as you moved to take a sip of wine.
"He was not aware I sent it. Not to my knowledge, at least." The smile faded quickly as you recalled the circumstances of your marriage at that point in time. "I believe by then, he had lost interest in me."
"Then he was a bigger cunt than I imagined."
"Perhaps," you replied quietly, fiddling with your fingers. "Though I would imagine many men would grow tired of a wife who did not show any ability to bear them an heir."
"Do not grant him excuses."
"It is not an excuse," you stated, noting the passion burning in his gaze. "Merely an explanation."
"Whatever it is, he does not deserve it."
"What about you?" you asked, trying to change the subject. "I did not hear any news that you have taken a wife."
"You would not have, for I have not." Lyonel took a long sip of his drink before glancing down at it, as if to inspect the liquor. "To the great disappointment of my advisors and bannermen."
"Perhaps they believed that when you became Lord of Storm's End that you would . . . mature in some respects."
"That is the trouble when a man lives three decades without any belief that he would become a lord," Lyonel replied, setting his goblet back down. "I rather think I was better suited to being the son of a second son than Lord of Storm's End."
You hummed, studying his face. Your eyes narrowed in scrutiny before a soft smile drew at your lips. "You can be more than capable in diplomacy when you want to be."
"Can I?"
"When you're not drunk," you qualified, causing him to chuckle.
"Yes, I suppose so." He took another sip of his wine before his eyes settled on you once more. "And what do you have planned?"
"For what?"
"Life. Now that you're free."
You chuckled at the absurd statement. "I'm not free."
Lyonel frowned and leaned forward. "Of course, you are. Unless your father intends to send you off to some other cunt."
You shook your head slowly as your lips pursed together. "My father will not marry me off. Nor would Valarr." You brushed some hair or fluff that stuck to the front of your dress. "But I doubt that any lord is begging my father for the opportunity to marry me given that I am barren . . . and a witch, of course."
"You are neither," Lyonel insisted, causing you to smile bitterly.
"It does not matter. People will believe what they wish, and the rest of us are simply left to survive the reality those beliefs create."
Lyonel sighed and leaned back in his seat. "I do not recognize the defeatism in your tone."
"Another effect of time, I suppose."
You took a breath through your nose as you stared him down. He held your gaze and straightened up in his seat wordlessly. The silence between you was rife with tension, and not the kind that would make someone blush. But rather the kind that would make someone scream, cry, and have a nervous breakdown.
"You are still angry with me?" he asked softly, though he clearly knew the answer.
Your lips wobbled with emotion before you forced them into a firm line. "For all the insults that you throw at my departed husband's name, you seem to forget that you had a chance to prevent me from sharing my life with him."
Lyonel sighed and looked away. "I did not."
"Yes, you did," you snapped, before forcing yourself to let a breath out through your nose and regain control of your emotions. "You did, and you know you did. And if you intend on merely being cruel—"
"—You know that is never my intention."
"Do I?" you countered quietly. "I told you that I loved you, that I wanted to marry you, and you left me in King's Landing like a fool, without warning and without explanation."
Lyonel sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. "I never intended to harm you."
"And do you believe that absolves you of the pain you caused me?"
"Your husband was a cunt. I do not dispute that. But that does not mean that you would have been happy in Storm's End."
"There is no guarantee of happiness anywhere." You paused, summoning your courage and poise. "But at least I would have known that it was begun with honest intentions. With good intentions."
"Your father and the Council would never let you marry the son of a second son of House Baratheon. Especially because I was not expected to inherit Storm's End."
"Do not blame my father for your cowardice." Your eyes narrowed as you remained pin straight in your seat. "Had you gone to him and given him an honest explanation of yourself and your intentions, he would not have ever denied the match."
"I am the coward?" Lyonel asked you incredulously. "Your grand plan was to just drop the news on your family and leave them with no other choice but to accept it. You never told him that you preferred me over the husband the Council chose for you." He threw his hands up in the air and leaned back in his chair. "Gods forbid Baelor Targaryen's perfect daughter be married to a lowly Stormlander!"
"My father married a Stormlander!" you snapped, unable to help yourself. It seemed that every time you were around Lyonel, he always sparked something uncontrollable within yourself. "You allowed your own hatred of my house color what your eyes were clearly seeing!"
"I clearly saw that I was never truly considered a suitor!"
"Maybe because everyone thought you would run away!"
Lyonel let out a loud curse and stood up from his seat. He turned away from you and ran his hands through his thick curls. Resting his hands on his hips, he let out a huff before he turned back to you. You, however, remained quiet in your seat. Your heart was beating out of your chest, but as the anger disappeared, you were left feeling hollow instead.
The curtains shifted and a servant poked their head into the room rather nervously. "My lord?"
"What is it?" Lyonel demanded, not taking his eyes off of you.
"Ser Donnel of Duskendale has come to collect the Princess on the orders of Prince Baelor."
"Of course."
You glanced up at Lyonel before you stood up from your seat. The servant stepped out of the room, most likely to inform Ser Donnel that you would arrive shortly. You stared at Lyonel, who refused to look at you for even a moment.
"Goodbye, Lyonel," you murmured to him, before you slipped from the room without another word.
You collected your cloak from a servant, who was kind enough to help you into it, before you joined Ser Donnel on the walk back to Ashford Castle. If he had any inkling of why you ended up in the Baratheon tent, he did not allude to it. And for that, you were grateful.
*~*~*
Perhaps you were not in your right mind. Perhaps it was a result of not sleeping well, or wine that was too strong. Perhaps you had allowed Lyonel to get into your head again. Perhaps you were being petty and needed to simply build a bridge and get over it. But as you stared at yourself in the mirror, you found you did not care.
They already called you a witch, barren, a failure, and every other word in between. What else could they call you that would hurt more than the words they already called you?
Collecting the favor that you were to give to Lord Ashford's second son, you left the room that was your temporary quarters and headed down the stairs to join your family. Kiera was the first to spot you and offered you an encouraging smile. Aerion was next and was clearly staring at the hints of your breasts. The dress you selected surely drew attention to them and you could not even be mad.
It was part of the reason why you selected the dress, after all. Aerion was merely the first sign that your intuition had been correct.
Your father turned from his conversation with Lord Ashford and raised an eyebrow at your chosen attire. Undoubtedly, he and the rest of the attendees assumed that you would still look the part of a grieving widow in some conservative, bland dress.
And the deep red dress with a low, but tasteful, neckline and gold thread embellishments was quite the opposite of that.
"You are well?" he asked quietly.
You nodded in confirmation and offered no further explanation. And he did not press further. He merely offered you his arm, which you took, before the procession began out to the stands. You took your seat on the other side of your Uncle Maekar and waited for your cue to give the favor to Lord Ashford's son.
Gwin Ashford began the proceedings by giving her favor to her eldest brother. Kiera followed, giving her favor to Valarr. And then it was your turn to give your favor to Lord Ashford's second son. You offered him a kind smile and soft words before moving to take your seat once more. As you sat down, however, your eyes trailed to the other end of the lists, to the challenger of the knight who curried your favor.
And the antlers were unmistakable.
Your heartrate ticked upwards as pass after pass was completed. Lances were broken. Knights fell. Some got up, some stayed down. Knights yielded. Others were victorious. Valarr defeated Ser Hightower without too much issue and waited by the stands for the other knights to conclude their bouts.
Among them, Ser Ashford and Lyonel.
They had broken several lances, and Lyonel had not let out that notorious laugh that earned him his nickname of "The Laughing Storm." He was taking it seriously. He felt he had something to prove.
Your nails dug into your palms as Lyonel and Ser Ashford ended up on the ground and traded their lances for swords. The crowd cheered with each clash, but it came as no surprise to you that Lyonel knocked Ser Ashford's sword from his hand and won. You watched as Lyonel put away his sword and removed his helmet, resting it under his arm. He offered a hand to Ser Ashford, who took it gratefully.
They exchanged words but were smiles as they collected themselves. Lyonel turned to the crowd, who cheered his name, and waved his arm, causing a spectacle as always. As his squire brought back his horse, so that he could join the other victors, Lyonel leaned down and picked up something from the mud.
He mounted his horse and started riding back to the stands. Your eyes locked with his and your ears seemed to shut out the noise of anything other than your heart beating in your chest. When he turned to greet your father and Lord Ashford, as was required, you finally realized what he picked up off the ground.
The favor you had given Ser Ashford now rested against Lyonel's belt.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, Stark! Reader, established relationship, CW suggestive, husband! Lyonel, Reader is with child, fluff!
Requested by @hyperfix-wip - Can I get a fluff req of Lyonel getting stark!r a direwolf puppy for an anniversary, and a couple years later he ends up having a rivalry with it for r 🤣
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Lyonel Baratheon Masterlist
You missed home more than you thought you would be. The way the snow shines underneath the sunshine, the cool air kissing your cheeks, and the Winterfell courtyard that was always so full of life and of course your family. No matter how much you prepared yourself for moving away from the North, it was no use when the nights in Storm’s End grows colder with its battering storms that is a different kind of cold than you were used to.
You’re used to the northern chill, how you could see your breath with each exhale, and how frost clings to your lashes. It’s a comforting cold that is so familiar to you that the freezing cold is etched into your bones. The cold in the Stormlands is vastly different, the kind of cold that sends your marrows into a dull ache, skin tugging with every deep inhale of petrichor that always hangs in the air. And the sound, the battering thuds of rainfall upon the stones of the great keep amidst the echoing splashes from the wild waves just outside. Whereas the sounds in the north are muffled by the snow, a mere whisper around the ancient soil.
Despite the fireplace of a man sleeping beside you, homesickness rushes through you like the lightning flashing just outside the chamber walls. You could see the flash of light just beyond the rattling windows, and you grip at your lord husband beside you, completely unbothered and used to all the noise.
Your cheek presses along his bare bicep to find the reprieve you’re looking for. You could smell the ink and parchment on his relaxed palms beside your head as his ring finger twitches in his sleep. Lyonel’s expression is soft and peaceful as he lays asleep beside you, absolutely exhausted from his duties as the new lord of Storm’s End, and his duties as your husband. His dangling earring is squished in between his cheek and the goosefeather pillow, and his lips are agape as he lets out an exhale that flutters your lashes.
You’d cuddle closer but you don’t want to stir him awake. As another thunder rolls and shakes the walls, you flinch, inhaling the lavender atop his skin to calm yourself. There were storms in Winterfell, but never to this degree. To think you would be used to it but the feeling of the ache of seeking your home doesn’t give you enough reprieve to fully feel at home in your husband’s land. Even when you really want to. You’re lady Baratheon now, and you must comport yourself and feel the rain upon your skin, but alas, you wish it would be snow instead.
“You look exceptionally pretty when you’re wallowing.” Lyonel’s voice cuts through the sound of the crackling braziers and the thunder clap outside. The lightning illuminates his features, the dark circles under his eyes, and the way his lips tug into a softened smile that is reserved only for you, you’d think that you did not just stir him awake from your clinging.
“Lyonel.” You sigh his name, smiling apologetically as you instinctively pull away, and yet he pulls you back by your nape gently, before rubbing at the crease in between your brows. “Did I wake you?”
“I felt a disturbance within my lady wife that made me so upset that it woke me up from my slumber.” Pulling you impossibly closer, he brings his lips to the crown of your head for a kiss, sniffing the scent of lavender in your hair. “That and the bloody storm is trying to reclaim our keep once again. Why are you awake, hm? Thought I exhausted you.”
You let out a chuckle, a thumb rubbing along the corner of his eye to rid of the crust clinging there. “I was for a moment, but I dreamt of home again.”
“Tell me, my she wolf.” Holding you close, he wraps his arms around you whilst pressing gentle pecks along your face until he could feel your shoulders ease.
“I dreamt of the snow beneath my feet, and the sound of direwolves howling in the distance.”
“Was I there to sweeten the dream even more?”
Chortling, you kiss his jaw with a smile. “You were, and you were completely freezing.”
“Sounds about right.” You could feel his smile on your cheek.
“I also dreamt of a fawn running around in the godswood. I think it’s quite telling.” His smile grows atop your skin. “Don’t you think?”
“I may not be a maester or a practitioner of magic but I think you are right.” Leaning away to look into your eyes lovingly, Lyonel shares a gentle smile with you, no matter how tired he is. “I suddenly had a profound thought.” His palm cups your cheek lovingly, thumb running over your skin affectionately.
“Tell me.” You whisper, a leg hooking over his waist and squeezing him to his delight.
“It’s high time we come visit your home. Perhaps the cold would be better for your disposition, the maester did recommend for you to not stress yourself too much. This old keep is not helping with that.”
“This keep is my home now too.”
“I know, but…” his rough knuckles instinctively brushes along your stomach that still doesn’t show the growing life within it, too early to show the signs. “It might be better for the babe to be born where his mother feels safer. I could manage my duties there through ravens, it would not be a burden to me. And it would make me feel at ease with you feeling comfortable there.”
“I feel safe here, Lyonel. It’s just that…I miss home, that’s all.”
“Has anyone told you that you’re far too kind for your own good?” His eyes narrow teasingly, before nuzzling his beard on the crook of your neck that sends you into a giggle.
“I’m a northerner, my love,” your laughter echoes around the chamber, quieting down the loudness of the thunder outside. Your fingers are in the curls of his hair, softly tugging as he kisses every space on your neck. “the ice just hides underneath all the softened snow.”
Head pulling away, cheeks reddened with a pink hue, Lyonel Baratheon, who once unseated the grey lion within fifteen lances, looks upon you with such love that it’s enough to part the grey clouds outside to make way for sunshine. “To the North then?”
You nod without question. “To the North.”
—
It has been a full month since you both settled in the north. Lyonel is still getting used to the cold that bites at his Stormlander skin, and yet he exudes the aura of a northerner. He’s trying his best and trying to keep up with your kin, and he’s doing quite well, more than you thought he would.
And he was right, being home is helping, and the maester has said that it’s doing wonders to the growing babe in your stomach. You’re starting to show now, and your dear father has commissioned a dozen or so gowns just for the occasion, citing that when your mother was with child, she always complained that her dresses were getting smaller each day. So he had all her old gowns repaired and made to fit your growing form.
You feel utterly coddled, Lyonel barely leaves you alone, and when he does rarely go out without you, he’d be home before the sun could set. And his arms would always be ready to receive you.
It’s one of those days where he has no choice but to leave your side. Your father and brothers had asked him to go hunting with them, so with some displeasure, Lyonel left to go on a three day hunt with them. You suspect that it’s your father’s ploy to give you some time for yourself, which you are grateful for, if not for the hunt taking three whole days without your stag by your side.
By the second day, you’ve become antsy. You don’t stay too long in your chambers because the room smells like Lyonel, even the furs and pillows smell like him. You dare not get the sheets changed though when it’s the only thing keeping you sane. Instead of walking aimlessly around the keep, you go to the godswood to pray, and each day he’s gone, you stay longer and longer. Despite the biting chill that runs down your spine, you stay there, just staring up at the red leaves and watching the frost cling to it like silk.
It’s the day when he’s supposed to come home, and yet the hunting party is still nowhere to be seen. You would worry, but you know that your kin wouldn’t let anything happen to your husband lest they see the ice in your veins.
A soft bark comes from the archway, and you turn to face the source, finding the said husband cradling a rather large and fluffy puppy.
“My love.” Your expression brightens the moment you meet with Lyonel’s eyes. “You’re late.”
“My apologies, my doe.” He mirrors your smile, crossing the distance as the snow crunches underneath his boots. “It’s this little one’s fault.” Moving the cloak over the hound, the puppy sets his dark eyes on you, tail wagging as his fine white coat looks as soft as the snow falling atop your shoulders. “We met him on our way to the hunt, and he never left my side. You and him have the same type in Stormlanders I see.”
Chuckling, you pet his fur, and you now know that he is as soft as you think he was. The puppy huffs at your hand, giving it a little lick, and it seems that he’s as taken with you just like he is to your husband. “He’s beautiful, I assume you’d want to keep him?”
“Only if my wife says so.” Lyonel has the softened look of a man pleading his wife, all big eyes, complete with his lashes fluttering and with a pout unbefitting of a lord paramount. The drifting snowflakes upon his dark hair like dotted stars along the night sky helps his case. You would’ve said yes anyway, you can’t just say no to him whilst he’s holding the most adorable creature. “The babe will have a companion.” He adds, brows raised to help convince you even more.
“Taking care of a direwolf would be hard work, my love. But I’m sure we’ll manage.” You peck the tip of Lyonel’s cold nose, before looking at his befuddled expression. “My father didn’t tell you it’s a direwolf, didn’t he?”
“He said it was a regular hound!”
—
“Thunder, where are you?” You waddle around Winterfell, your long furry cloak draping right behind you as you search every nook and cranny of the ancient keep. “It’s supper time, my sweet!”
“You’re calling the dog for supper before your husband?” Lyonel appears from behind a stone column, hands on his hips, a brow raised and looking like a northman in the bundle of thick furs and velvet he has on. If not for the Baratheon sigil and the golden hues on his doublet, people would’ve mistaken him for a Northman. Until he speaks that is. “You’re cruel, my love. It never crossed your mind that I’d want supper too?”
You stifle a chuckle, a hand caressing your growing belly as he walks closer in his longer strides. “I just thought that you were already at the great hall.”
Humming, Lyonel’s hand rests at the small of your back, massaging the ache there. Whilst the other rubs at your belly lovingly, as if the babe inside needed comforting too. “I came here to fetch you. I would never have supper without my lady wife.”
“Is it not because you needed a shield against my gossiping aunts?” Palms atop his sturdy chest, you gently caress him there, before rising up to intertwine your fingers above his nape, all the while gazing into his eyes lovingly.
“That too.” Leaning in and nuzzling your nose, he goes in for a kiss, savouring your warmth. But before his lips could meet with yours, he feels a wet snout poke his leg, and a tug right at the hem of his trousers. Lyonel lets out a defeated sigh while you laugh, a mirthful chime that is music to his ears. “Gods, Thunder, you always appear when you are not needed.”
Thunder barks softly, big puppy dog eyes gazing up at the two of you whilst his tail wags atop the stone floor, brushing away the freshly dropped snowflakes.
“Oh, he’s always needed.” Bending down, with Lyonel’s hand still on the small of your back, you scratch under Thunder’s snout, right where he favours being petted. “Aren’t you, boy?”
Lyonel feigns a huff, but from his smile alone you could tell that he’s resisting the urge to pat the growing direwolf, who is now almost the same size as the adult hounds roaming around Winterfell.
“Oh, come here, don’t be jealous, my stag.” You coo, standing back up to scratch Lyonel right under his beard. He rolled his eyes for a second, before melting at your touch and how your nails scraped gently at his jaw. “Look at you, I could practically see you wagging your tail, my good boy.”
His half lidded eyes open immediately, as if you offended him. The corners of his lips curl into a mischievous grin, and you know that you will be late to supper even more.
“Lyonel—!”
You’re lifted up, his arm hooked underneath your legs, and the other cradling your back. Your squeal echoes around the snowcapped courtyard, and Thunder gallops around the two of you, wanting to play too.
“You call me a hound? Let me show you how a hound shows his love, hm?”
—
Lyonel cannot deny it any longer but after four months at Winterfell freezing his antlers off, he could not bear to stay any longer. It’s not as dreary when you are near and whenever the Northmen have a feast it’s a good kind of revelry, but he finds that the walls have eyes in the ancient keep. As if the ghosts of last Starks stalk the halls, haunting his every move. He can’t believe it but he wants to go back to Storm’s End with you.
When he enters the shared chambers all weary and dreadful from another awful night of nightmares, and all he wants is to hold you and have a nap with his arms around you— Lyonel did not expect to find his side of the bed occupied.
There, laying down beside you with his head upon your belly is a sleeping direwolf, his white fur making it look like there is fresh snow fallen atop of you. The dog has grown as large as a foal, with long legs and a maw that could separate a man from his arm. But beside you, Thunder looks like any hound that now prefers you over him.
“Thunder.” Sighing, Lyonel yanks his cloak off and throws it haphazardly on the foot of the bed. “Move.”
“He’s asleep.” You mumble, eyes still shut as your fingers rake through his fur. “Don't wake him.”
“Where am I supposed to sleep?” Arms gesturing around the occupied bed, Lyonel runs a hand through his curls. “He’s a direwolf, he does not belong on the bed.”
Chuckling, you already know what your husband looks like before you could open your eyes. Reaching for him, his hand immediately slides around your own. “Come, there is plenty of space for an afternoon nap.” You scooch back, making the direwolf roll over before situating himself beside you once again. Opening the covers for him, you invite your husband to your side.
There is space for Lyonel beside you, but he’ll surely fall from the bed if he so much move a limb out of place.
“My love…” He points at the measly space when Thunder has a whole Dorne sized space on the bed.
“If you can move him then you can retake your bed, but as you can see…” you pat your belly. “I could not.”
Sighing, his eyes narrow at the sleeping direwolf. Thunder cracks one eye open, as if sizing him up, teasing and testing him before going back to sleep.
“Fuck me.” Head tossed back, Lyonel admits defeat to the direwolf, slithering underneath the covers beside you with a huff.
Your arm immediately curls around his torso, and he feels his frustration ebb out of him. “See, we fit.”
Grumbling, Lyonel cuddles closer, head pressed on your temple as his arm slithers from underneath you. You expect for that to be the end of the little one sided civil war he has going on with Thunder, but instead of your husband falling asleep with you curled around him, Lyonel takes you in his arms and hauls you around and away from Thunder, pulling you atop him and then back to his other side carefully and effortlessly.
You didn’t have enough time to process what happened when he’s the one curling around you protectively this time around. “Lyonel.” Chuckling, you muffle your laughter atop your palm.
“Shh, you’ll wake him.” He says atop your skin, nuzzling your neck and holding you tenderly. “Dream of me, my love.”
Lyonel took the direwolf home to be your sworn protector when he isn’t near, and to be the babe’s guard when he is born, but for now he shall battle with Thunder for your attention. All the while avoiding the large pointy teeth he has.
SUMMARY: You are not adjusting well to Westeros. Luckily, your husband is patient and kind and gentle. Unluckily, all of the other ladies in the Realm are aware of this as well. There are certain difficulties being married to Westeros’s most yearned-for prince, and after one miserable feast too many, everything you have been so desperately trying to quietly endure comes crashing down once you get your husband alone.
WARNINGS: fem!reader, hurt/comfort, reader is foreign (from Qarth), Westeros-typical xenophobia, starts with reader being jealous but escalates into a whole breakdown of her not feeling welcome in westeros, Valarr is also jealous/possessive at certain points.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I genuinely am not sure where this came from, I don’t even remember writing most of it last night LOLLL I think I woke up from a fever dream at 4 am and banged most of this out, no joke. BUT sometimes a girl just needs to have a very, very justified crashout with a husband who will listen and comfort </3 Valarr I love you euhuhuhuhu Also, got to explore some Westeros-typical xenophobia, which we will see more of in the HTTYD universe after Volantene reader comes to Westeros w/Aerion—but specifically, how bad it likely gets post-Dornish unification when the Storm lords and Reach lords are already losing their mind over Dornish influence in court, and now also having to deal with some foreign Essosi girls being married to their princes. No Kiera erasure here :P Kiera still comes to Westeros, but to marry Matarys, and her and reader become very very close companions. Anyway, enjoy, and ignore any errors I didn't edit LOL! Comments and reblogs v appreciated
“I was looking for you at the feast,” Valarr says as he enters your chambers. You can hear the frown in his voice as he shrugs off his cloak and tosses it on the chair on the opposite side of the room. “Why is it that I had to hear from my cousin that my wife left early because she was feeling unwell?”
You press your lips together, not answering him as you stare out the window—east, to the Blackwater, the Narrow Sea, and beyond. Far, far beyond. Your jaw is tight, and your throat is tight, and your chest is tight, and your eyes already sting—you have been here for two hours already, and he has only just returned. Did he only just realize you were missing?
The irritation drains from his voice as he pauses, looking in your direction and catching the tension in your shoulders. He says quietly, “You are upset with me.”
You stiffen when you hear him make his way over to you, raising your chin when you feel the cushions dip behind you. You exhale hard through your nose as his fingers ghost the nape of your neck, brushing your hair over one shoulder so that he can press his lips there.
You bristle instantly.
“Oh my,” Valarr murmurs—he has the nerve to sound amused, you can picture the boyish grin curling at his lips, and it enrages you. The nerve. “You are very upset with me.”
“Unhand me, you lecherous cur,” you snap, shifting further away. “I shall catch the pox if your touch lingers too long.”
You hear the smile in his voice as he asks, “And what have I done to deserve such a vicious accusation, ñuha jorrāelagon?”
My love.
His High Valyrian is honeyed as ever, soft and sweet to your ears, the endearment enough to make lesser women melt, but you are not lesser women, so you only toss him a furious look, because how dare he play the fool as though he doesn’t know what he’s done? How dare he try to abate your anger with sweet nothings?
“What have you done?” you echo furiously, gaze cutting as you whirl around to face him. Loathsome man—you hate that he is beautiful, and you hate that even in the face of your rage, his eyes are soft and adoring. “You shame me, that is what you have done.”
Valarr tilts his head to the side slightly, a glimmer of calculation and confusion in his mismatched eyes as he searches your face—as though he does not know what he has done, how he has shamed you. You detest him.
“Tell me how I have shamed you,” he says softly, shifting closer still. Loathsome, loathsome, loathsome—he lifts his hand to brush the pads of his fingers against your cheekbone, and when you try to pull away, he holds your chin lightly, keeping you in place, forcing you to look at him. “Tell me, so that I may fix it.”
You almost bite him for that—for the softness in his voice and the fondness in the eyes, the way he looks at you as though you are something precious to him when he has spent the better part of the evening making a spectacle of you before half of the court, letting that Lannister woman parade around on his arm.
“You should know already,” you hiss.
“I do not,” he says, and he sounds earnest. You despise him. Loathsome man. His thumb glides over your lower lip, free hand coming up so that he can cradle your face between them both. “If I have wronged you, I would hear it from your lips.”
You think to spurn him some more, to press your hands to his chest and shove him away, to leave your chambers and go seek out—seek out who? You have no one in this wretched keep. Your brothers are all back home, six thousand miles away, because your wretched father sold you to the Targaryens for trade. And your wretched friends—who were never truly your friends, clearly—abandoned you the moment they realized you would no longer be able to bolster their standing when you are three seas away.
You are alone. All you have is a wretched husband—a man you were promised would be gallant and charming and respectful, only for him to spend the evening smiling at another woman while the court watched to see how his foreign bride would react.
They hate you—they have hated you since the moment you arrived on your father’s gilded ships, smiling to your face and scorning you the second your back is turned. They pray for illness and poor health, that an accident would befall you, so that Valarr might take one of their Andal daughters to wife instead, and—
—and the cruelest part of it all is that, in this wretched court with these wretched people, the only person who has ever made you feel wanted is your wretched husband.
Valarr leans in to press his lips against yours when you do not immediately respond, soft and gentle as he always is, trying to ease the answer out of you.
A wavering sigh escapes you before you can stop it, and you melt into him far too easily, because Valarr is loathsome and wretched. You detest him, and you despise him, but he is—he is insufferably good to you. Has been since the moment the two of you were introduced, in spite of the fact that he was as forced into this marriage as you. He is as gallant and charming as you were promised, much as you wish him to be otherwise, and he treats you as though you are not some foreign prize ferried across three seas to warm his bed and strengthen alliances, but someone he chooses and wants.
It is the worst part of it, because if he were cruel and disrespectful, you think you could hate him properly.
“You are wretched,” you whisper against his mouth, voice unsteady with the remnants of your anger. “You stand there all evening with that woman draped upon your arm, smiling at her as though she were the Sun Maiden herself, and then you come here and kiss me as though I am meant to simply forgive you.”
Valarr draws back only enough to look at you, brows knitting together slightly.
“The Lannister girl?”
You glare at him. “Yes, the Lannister girl, you witless dragon.”
To your mounting fury, understanding finally flashes across his face, and then amusement follows close behind it.
You shove at his chest immediately. “Do not laugh at me.”
Valarr catches your wrists before you can shove him too far, laughter warm and breathless as he presses a quick kiss to the inside of your palm. He pulls you closer to him, one hand sliding around your lower back to drag you into his lap, and you hate that your arms instinctively slink around his shoulders. You hate that your anger dissipates, and you hate that the fury on your face drains into a pout, that you have to chew the inside of your cheek to stop the tears from building in your eyes.
You hate everything about this. You are not so weak, but weeks of suffering through this snake pit have taken their toll on you.
The amusement fades from his expression when he sees yours, one hand lifting to caress your cheek gently.
“I was alone,” you say, grateful that your voice doesn’t break. “I am always alone in this awful place. You are the only person I have, and you abandoned me to let that girl cling to you. If you wish to take a proper Westerosi wife, you are free to do so, but divorce me and let me return home. Do not force me to endure such humiliation.”
“Now, that is a bit drastic,” Valarr murmurs, and your lashes flutter as his fingers drag lightly along the nape of your neck, tangling in your hair to pull your head down so that he might ghost his lips against your forehead. “Why ever would I divorce you when I have only just managed to convince you to tolerate me?”
You make a soft, offended sound that he swallows with another lingering kiss to your lips. He tastes of honey and wine; you let out a breath that is far too shaky as his arms tighten around you, one hand soothing up and down your back.
“I am serious,” you mutter. “You make light of everything.”
“Only because you speak as though I have cast you aside for a girl I scarcely noticed.” His thumb rubs small circles into the small of your back. “Look at me, wife.”
You do not wish to. You fear if you do, he will see the tears that have started to gather in your eyes, and your pride has suffered enough tonight. You meant to stay angry and silent, but it is hard to do so when Valarr is—well, Valarr.
He waits anyway, because he always does, and when you still refuse to do as he says, he hooks two fingers beneath your chin, and tilts your face upward so gently that you barely bite back a whine. There’s a softness in his face, an undeniable fondness that makes your heart ache.
“I did not abandon you,” he tells you quietly. “I left your side because Lord Lannister cornered me to speak of the new trade agreements with Qarth and his daughter decided to preen while doing so.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye to catch a tear before it can fall. “Had I known you were miserable, I would have returned immediately. I thought my cousins were taking care to ensure you were not alone.”
“You should have known,” you say, spiteful, voice sullen.
“Yes,” he agrees easily, without argument. “I should have. Forgive me.”
You falter, because you prepared yourself for his infuriating charm and smooth talk, not for an apology—especially not one so genuine.
Valarr exhales softly through his nose, gaze roaming over your face before he rests his forehead down on your shoulder, arms curling a bit tighter around your waist until your bodies are flush. You let out a shaky breath before burying your face in his soft hair, eyes sliding shut.
“The Lannister girl is not what really upset you,” Valarr says quietly after a moment—it is a question, but it is not phrased as one, and you stiffen. You do not respond, but you do not need to. He knows the answer already. He admits reluctantly, as though the realization pains him to speak aloud, “I do not know how to make you happy here.”
“I am happy,” you say immediately, an instinctive, courtly answer, a lie that tastes like poison on your tongue.
“Do not lie to me,” he tells you, and then he lets out another heavy breath. You see his jaw tighten slightly before he speaks again. “I…” He hesitates, trying to find the words. “I thought if I loved you enough, the rest would matter less.”
You inhale at his words, watching as he pulls back to look at you again. The grief in his eyes makes your stomach turn.
“It is not you who makes me unhappy,” you say, because guilt eats at you. Valarr is the only person trying to make you feel comfortable in this wretched place—he goes out of his way to ensure you are included, to make you feel wanted and welcome, and you—you what? You turn on him the moment he glances away? As though none of the rest matters? You feel embarrassed suddenly, mortification rolling waves in your stomach and chest, because Valarr has tried. He has tried so hard, so desperately, and here you are making a mess of everything, because of a tantrum over something beyond his control. “Valarr, I—”
“Hush,” he chides, leaning in to swallow your words with another kiss. “I understand. You do not need to explain yourself to me.”
The tears fall in earnest at that, rolling over your cheeks silently as you stare at him. You are the wretched one—wretched and miserable, you have been blessed with a marriage to a man most women would kill for, and you ruin it with your gloom. Love from Valarr should be enough to outweigh the rest, so why isn’t it?
Valarr clicks his tongue lightly, lifting his hands so his thumbs can wipe your tears as they fall.
“None of that,” he murmurs. “I do not know what is running through that beautiful mind of yours right now, but enough of it. I know this is not an easy transition for you—you are six thousand miles away from your home and family, in a strange place with stranger people. I do not begrudge you for struggling to find your place here, nor for being upset when alone. I should not have left you.”
“I want you to be enough,” you say, and you mean it. You mean it so desperately—you need him to understand. This is not—it is not of your choosing; if you had it your way, this would be enough. “I want to be happy here.”
“I know,” he says gently, holding the weight of your head in the palm of his hand as you lean into him. “I know, ñuha jorrāelagon.”
“They all hate me,” you tell him. When his brows furrow and lips part to deny it, you continue before he can, “I can tell. Do not deny it.”
Valarr doesn’t respond for a long time, and then he says quietly, “You are beautiful, and you are my wife, and their daughters are not. You arrived on gilded ships with enough wealth to shame the majority of lords in Westeros, and then had the audacity to capture the affection of a prince they had long hoped to claim for themselves. They would have hated you even if I did not adore you so openly. They hate men for much, much less.”
“It is not fair,” you say, voice weak and childish. “I have given up so much for their favor. I dress how they expect. I speak how they expect. I act how they expect. I celebrate their holy days with them, and I go to the temples of their gods, and—”
“I know,” Valarr cuts in gently again, stroking your hair.
“Then why? What more must I do for them to accept me?”
Valarr doesn’t reply for a long while, an unreadable expression on his face. “Do not give up anything more for them,” he says. Your face twists, but before you can rebuke his words, he continues, “I mean it. The only thing that will help is time—I do not want you to cut away parts of yourself to satisfy the likes of vultures who would strip you of everything if given the chance.”
“It is easy for you to say,” you scoff bitterly. “You do not have half of the lords in this keep praying for your ill health and accidents to befall you. It is only a matter of time before their prayers turn to action.”
Valarr goes very still and very quiet. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the crackling of the fireplace, and you realize you have made a terrible mistake.
His hand slides from your cheek to your hair, holding you close as something cold flickers briefly through his eyes—your husband is gallant and charming, and he loves you despite the circumstances. Your husband is also a Targaryen, and the blood of the dragon runs hot through his veins; madness and greatness are always one flip away from the other. It is tamer in Valarr compared to his cousins, but it is there nonetheless.
“Who?” he asks softly. The quietness of it chills you more than shouting would have.
You shake your head immediately, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He lets you, but his fingers remain stiff in your hair, body tense and coiled against yours.
“It does not matter.”
“It does to me,” he says. “You think someone in this keep means you harm. You think they pray for your death so openly that you have come to expect attempts on your life—and you would have me ignore it?”
You shouldn’t have said anything. You know this court better now than you did when you first arrived; you know how quickly whispers become accusations, and how quickly accusations become bloodshed when dragons are involved. Valarr has always seemed gentler than the rest of his kin—arrogant, maybe, but what prince is not? He is easy laughter and soft smiles, and it lulls you into a false sense of security, because you forget he is still a prince of House Targaryen. Still fire and blood.
“It was only a figure of speech,” you murmur, another lie.
“You do not speak carelessly, wife.”
You fall silent at that, because he is right—you do not.
Valarr exhales hard through his nose. “Who has threatened you?”
“No one.”
“Who has frightened you, then?”
You do not answer, looking away. “I do not want to talk about this anymore.”
Valarr’s jaw tightens, frustration flashing across his face briefly. For a moment, he looks as though he wants to fight, but then he concedes, “Very well. But this will not be the last we speak on this.”
His hands slide under your thighs, and your eyes slide shut, arms tightening around his shoulders as he rises to his feet with your body wrapped around his, carrying you over to the bed and laying you back gently on it. He slips out of his tunic and leathers before joining you beneath the covers.
You immediately curl into his side, pressing your face into the warm skin of his shoulder, sliding one leg between his to be as close to him as possible. His arms wrap tight around you, holding you impossibly closer.
“You are wrong,” he says after a moment, and your brows furrow. “Not everyone dislikes you in this keep. My family adores you, and that, I fear, is one of the greatest accomplishments a person can claim, considering most of them can barely tolerate each other.”
“That is not true,” you say immediately, lips pursed.
“It is,” Valarr insists. “My father and brother love you. They cherish the mornings you join them in the library. They like hearing your stories of Qartheen culture and the Far East. My father wishes to broach the subject of you joining them more often, but he does not want you to feel obligated to come.”
“Oh,” you say, voice wobbly again, eyes suddenly very wet.
“And the twins adore you,” he continues. “Aelora gave quite the verbal lashing to a Marcher lord who spoke poorly of our union—” Of you, he means, because no one in this keep would speak poorly of Valarr, the perfect prince. “—and Aelor threatened to have him whipped if he ever repeated such a thing again. They do not forget the day you found Uncle Rhaegel teetering on the edge of a balcony in the west tower and looked after him until they were able to come and retrieve him.”
“I did not know that,” you whisper.
“And gods know how you managed to gain the affection of Uncle Maekar’s sons—”
“Affection is a stretch,” you disagree.
“You do not know my cousins like I do, wife,” Valarr says with a wry smile. “It is affection, I must insist. I have never seen Aerion so captivated when someone speaks the way he is when you do.”
Your face feels hot. “It is only because he is interested in Qartheen magic and our warlocks. He wants to visit the House of the Undying.”
“I digress, both Aunt Shiera and Uncle Brynden are well-versed in magic, and Aerion is hardly so starry-eyed when he badgers them for information,” Valarr counters dryly, though there is something pinched in his voice that piques your curiosity. “And even you cannot deny that Daeron is enamored by you—I have caught him reciting poetry for you in his drunken ramblings. You have thoroughly charmed him, that is clear.”
This time, there is no denying the bitterness in his voice. You smile against his skin.
“Are you jealous, husband?” you ask, peeking up from his shoulder to look at the way his jaw is tight.
“In truth, I have contemplated tossing them both into the Blackwater a concerning number of times this past week,” he admits flatly.
A laugh startles out of you before you can stop it, and the flat line of his mouth softens at the sound. He leans down to press his lips to your forehead, long and lingering.
“Daeron cornered me for an hour last week to ask whether you prefer sweet wines or dry ones,” he continues after a moment, bitter. “Claimed he wished to ‘better understand Qartheen tastes’ as though I am foolish enough to not realize what he is really doing.”
Your eyes crinkle. “That explains the odd assortment of wines he brought to the gardens when I was there reading, then.”
Valarr lets out an exasperated sigh. “To think my own cousin is trying to woo my wife away from me,” he mutters, “and so shamelessly at that. To think he has the nerve to ask my advice on how to go about it.”
You find yourself giggling despite yourself. “He is sweet,” you say at last. “Harmless.”
“He is a Targaryen prince,” Valarr says dryly. “We are very rarely harmless.”
You are smiling openly now, warmth spreading through your chest as the void of loneliness is filled little by little. You had thought yourself so isolated here, so painfully unwanted, that you never considered anyone beyond Valarr might genuinely care for you.
The realization leaves your throat terribly tight.
Valarr notices at once, expression softening as he tilts your face up toward him to brush his lips against yours gently. Once. Twice. Three times. You think you could lose yourself in the taste and feel of him.
“My brother is to be married soon,” Valarr says after a moment, fingers stroking your hair absently. “To the daughter of the Tyroshi Archon—my father finalized the betrothal this morning. I hope, perhaps, the two of you will get along, since she will also be far from home. It may make court easier for you, to have someone who understands what it is to arrive here alone in a foreign land—a companion.”
You peek up at him again, blinking once. Tyrosh. He presses his lips to your forehead. You say, voice small, “The Tyroshi like dyes and hats. I am not versed in them. What if we cannot find common ground?”
Valarr pauses, and then says, far too amused, “I think you will have enough common ground that you need not be familiar with dyes and hats.”
“Do not mock me,” you mutter.
“I am trying very hard not to.”
“You are failing.”
“Terribly,” he admits.
You make a wounded sound and attempt to bury your face back against his shoulder, but Valarr catches your chin before you can escape, smiling as he brushes his thumb along your cheek.
“Wife,” he says gently, “I promise you the Tyroshi girl will not arrive here expecting expertise in dyes and hats.”
“Perhaps I should read up on them just in case,” you say, gaze flitting away briefly. “Qarth is—it is a far cry from any of the Free Cities. Very different… very far. She might think me strange, and if I am strange, then everyone here will be strange to her. It would be good to have common ground in interests, so that she can keep some of home with her at least with me. I think it would make her more comfortable, don’t you?”
Valarr’s expression changes at once, and there is something devastating in the way he looks at you now—so warm and tender, so sickeningly fond that it makes heat creep up the back of your neck. Valarr loves you; he loves you so deeply and so openly that it is impossible for anyone to deny, not with the way he looks at you as though you are the most precious thing in the world. You gnaw at your bottom lip, unable to hold his gaze when he looks at you like this. He kisses your temple again, long and lingering, and then sighs against your skin.
“You are worried about making her comfortable,” he realizes quietly.
You blink. “Well, yes.”
You remember too vividly what it felt like to arrive here alone, standing in a hall full of people smiling at you with teeth instead of warmth. If the Tyroshi girl is lonely, if she looks around this court and feels swallowed whole by it, you do not want her to feel the way you did.
“You are extraordinary,” he murmurs. “I do not know how I got so lucky.”
Heat floods your face immediately. “I am speaking about dyes and hats, Valarr. Do not be ridiculous.”
“You are speaking about a girl you have never met and worrying over how to make her feel welcomed in a foreign court despite the fact that you yourself are still struggling here.” His mouth curves softly. “You do not even realize how lovely you are, do you?”
You scowl weakly. “You are biased.”
“Hopelessly,” he agrees, so sincerely that it makes you embarrassed. He adds after a moment, “You know what I think will happen?”
You eye him warily. “What?”
“I think the Tyroshi girl will arrive terrified.”
Your brows knit slightly. You know this. That is exactly what you are trying to prepare for.
“I think she will spend the voyage rehearsing how she ought to speak and smile,” Valarr continues, voice soft. Yes, she will, you agree, because that is what you did, too. “I think she will step into court and immediately realize she is being examined like a prized horse at market.” His thumb strokes slowly along your cheekbone. “And then I think she will meet you.”
Something in your chest twists painfully.
“She will see another woman who crossed the world alone,” he says. “Another woman who survived it, and learned this court well enough to navigate it gracefully despite how cruel it can be.” His lips curve faintly. “And then she will cling to you desperately for guidance while you panic over whether or not you understand hats sufficiently.”
You let out a startled laugh despite yourself. Valarr smiles at the sound instantly, gaze unbearably warm.
“There she is,” he murmurs quietly. “You look less like you wish to flee back across the seas now.”
“You make it very difficult to remain angry with you.”
“That is because I am devastatingly charming,” he says, ghosting his lips against your nose, over your eyelids, your forehead, settling on the top of your head. “Ask anyone.”
“You are insufferable, is what you are.”
He hums in agreement. “And yet, you cling to me still. I cannot be so insufferable then, can I?”
“I told you not to mock me, husband. My homeland is fond of its poisons—you might find sweet death laced in your wine should you push too far,” you threaten, but there is a smile in your voice, hidden against his shoulder, and his chest rumbles as he huffs out a laugh.
“I will endure the risk if it means I get to have you curled in my arms like this, ñuha jorrāelagon,” he murmurs, all warmth and devotion as he tucks you closer into his chest.
You lay like that with him for a long while, basking in his warmth and the comfort of his arms, eyes sliding shut as the drowsiness finally hits you, all of the day's stress and excitement sinking in.
You murmur at last, “You smiled at her too much,” before you can stop yourself. Then you add for clarification, “The Lannister woman.”
He vows, “I shall never smile at anyone besides you again.”
“I will poison you if you do.”
His fingers trail up and down your side, gentle and adoring, lulling you to sleep. “A just punishment, certainly. I should expect nothing less from my fearsome wife.”
You make a soft, sleepy sound at that, too exhausted to muster another threat, and Valarr smiles faintly against your hair.
Valarr’s fingers continue their slow path along your side, absent and affectionate. You think he believes you are half asleep already by the way he presses another kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment too long.
“You frightened me tonight,” Valarr admits quietly after a while.
Your lashes flutter slightly, but your eyes do not open. Your words are half slurred together as you ask sleepily, “I frightened you?”
“You spoke as though you truly believed I would cast you aside,” he murmurs. “That you were unwanted by me.”
You do not know how to reply to that, because a part of you had believed it, for a moment. You were forced upon him through politics and trade, and the rest of the court has made its opinions clear on you. You had let the insecurities get the best of you, with people around you whispering poison so sweetly it began to sound like truth.
“I choose you,” he says when you do not respond, fingers stroking your side again. “Not for your father’s ship and your family’s wealth. Not for trade with Qarth and access to the Jade Gates. You—because you do not look down on my brother for not taking to the sword the way everyone else expects him to, because my father’s eyes light up every time the two of you speak, because you ease the burden that weighs on my shoulder just by being in the same room as me. Because you are good and kind and worry about making sure another girl is comfortable here, when you still struggle yourself. Given the chance and opportunity to pick any woman in Westeros or Essos, I will always pick you—and anyone in this court who is bold enough to try to harm you will find themselves begging the gods for mercy before I am through with them.”
“You are very foolish,” you whisper weakly, barely awake.
Valarr’s lips curve. “Desperately so.”
“There are easier women,” you say quietly. “Women who your court would accept, who—”
“I do not want easier women,” he cuts in immediately. “I want you, and only you. I try very hard to be a good man—to follow in my father’s footsteps—but I would do terrible things to anyone who dared try to take you from me.”
Your chest aches. Loathsome man.
“I love you,” you say quietly, eyes heavy and voice slow, the steady beat of his heart and strokes of his fingers still doing quick work at ensuring you are half to sleep already.
“And I you,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “Sleep, ñuha jorrāelagon. No one shall ever touch you while I draw breath.”
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summary: Lyonel plays a game of provocation to stir some audacity in his newlywed wife, but she is quick to catch up after realizing the position she holds. Lord Baratheon’s assurances that he is not a jealous man turn out to be dramatically untrue.
tags/tw: age gap, arranged marriage, reader's family is a trigger warning, implied cheating, drinking, a lot of strange men (but all men are strange so...), attempted sa, JEALOUS LYONEL
word count: 7k+
this is the same universe as this fic, but can be read separately!
a/n: first thing: I have absolutely no words to describe how amazing the feedback on the previous fic made me feel. I'm so incredibly grateful to all of you <3
second: lyonel would go mad about making sure everyone knows his wife’s name (despite that calling her lady baratheon 100% turns him on), but I try not to use [y/n] since some readers find it annoying
“He looks fine enough. Quite a handsome man.”
You frown, turning your head to meet the side of your mother’s face. You were used to being judged with a tone of speech that people usually used while buying a horse – the one your mother used to scold her daughters – but hearing her speak like that about a lord was shocking. And not just any lord, but your future Lord Husband…
It was your younger sister, though, who was truly outraged.
“Handsome? Mother, he's gray!”
You could help but chuckle.
“Hush, you!” muttered the angered woman, but it was too late to kill the girl’s enthusiasm.
“And what do you think?” she asked you, with her eyebrows suggestively raised.
You thought for a moment, looking at the man from afar.
The turmoil in the courtyard happened upon Lord Baratheon’s arrival. Squires scattered around, knights proudly occupied their positions, and servants ran around, sometimes bumping into one another. Your Lord Father has ordered that he will welcome the grand guest on his own, only in company of his sons. You knew it angered your mother, but she didn’t dare say a word. Neither did you, obviously.
It was actually quite fortunate, being able to glare at Lyonel Baratheon and men from his suite without being noticed. It was a discrete chance to learn what you should expect. What you knew for sure, was that your mother’s words were not lies. He bared something intimidating about himself; perhaps it was the crown of antlers or the beard that gave him some seriousness. Still, even from the distance of the balcony you stood at, you could see the liberty in his moves.
Your hands have been shaky since the early morning, but now you felt at ease, just from looking at him. The men who accompanied him seemed equally confident, assuring you that the lord had an effect on people. His guard was down, which made your father look comically stiff next to him.
“He is indeed gray,” you agreed in a serious manner, before your lips curled in a smirk.
“Sister! Eww,” she screamed, letting out a fake gag at your words.
You didn’t have time to laugh. The rough hands of your mother slapped both yours and your sister’s heads from the back.
“You are disgraces… Gods, help me.”
You were lucky that she didn’t notice your expression of astonishment and mouth ajar. She was a critical woman, but even though she was respected and valued, she usually never allowed herself to size up men. A great matron like her gained her status upon being the backbone, the ever supporting wife. Despite her not grand age, her face was covered in wrinkles, eyes sharp as ever but exhausted. You knew what decades of biting one’s tongue and suffering can do to a woman, but, truth be told, it was difficult to feel sorry for her. Especially since she hated to be looked down at. Anyway, you couldn’t blame her grandchildren, your eldest brother’s babes, for being scared of their grandmother. Sometimes she scared you as well.
“We shall hope that he’s not a cruel man, nor a fool.”
She didn’t look at you twice, before she went back inside. Your sister must have sensed that anger overtook you, and she caught your hand right away. You didn’t expect your mother to protect you, take your side, but her frigidity was unnecessary.
“Even if he’s not a man of beauty, I’m sure he will treat you well,” the girl said quietly, not sure how to cheer you up.
She was a sweet thing, and despite being almost ten and five, she still looked up to you like she used to when she was small. In your eyes, she was still just a child – not out of a sense of superiority, but the wish to extend her childhood. Your soon departure seemed like a tragedy to both of you, and what bothered you the most was leaving her alone, unprotected from your cold mother, the cruelty of your brothers, and the forthcoming fate of wedlock. You knew she was next in line after you.
Nonetheless, a side of you, the selfish one you usually condemned, was glad that you were bid to leave. After laying your eyes on Lord Baratheon for the first time, you couldn’t force yourself to worry much about his temper. You knew enough terrifying men in your short lifetime to tell them apart from ones who didn’t worship harm.
“More wine?” It was the first thing he said to you on your wedding day in the voice you knew.
When he spoke to you in the few days he stayed at your home, he was always composed and jolly. Tonight, though, as you exchanged your vows, he sounded like a changed man. He appeared stronger, like his mere words could shake the chandeliers and blow the candles. Just when you battled your own body to not let your voice tremble, he held the courage for the two of you.
He smiled, filling your cup. You sat at the main table, surrounded by your family that you wished to say farewell to soon enough. “Thank you.”
Drinks didn’t sound like a bad idea every time you reminded yourself of the savage custom of bedding ceremony. Every time the crowd of guests cheered too happily, more and more drunk, you could see your brothers reach under the table, to hidden knives and swords. No one wished for any blood to be shed, but the young men, just like you, didn’t share your father’s view on the tradition. You could not be close, they mostly saw you as a silent setting of their important lives, but you were still their sister, whom they would protect from shame.
“We should have this wedding arranger once more.” Lyonel’s voice shook you out of your thoughts. You barely noticed that you sat still, only holding your wine close. Looking his way, you frown, and he shrugged, before explaining further. “More properly, with dancing and good music. What would you say, my lady?”
You glared at the feasting people. In your eyes it was enough, but truth be told, if he wanted dancing, you were ready to drag him to the center of the hall right now – everything, just to not stay in those walls longer.
“Oh, well,” you hummed, looking for an answer that would cover your desperation, “if that’s what you wish.”
He looked displeased not only by your answer, but also by the uncertainty. His shoulders feel just enough for you to notice, and now he looked like a man who collided with a hopeless fate.
“Not one for a strong opinion, are you?” he made an effort to chuckle, to not make you feel too bad. It was probably enough that he felt bad for himself.
You couldn’t help but swallow more wine. You placed the cup back on the table with a thud, as your back hit the chair. For a moment you lingered between your own anger, everything your mother taught you, and his sharp eyes on you, like he could see right through. He smiled again, more spontaneously and surprised, as he snapped his fingers.
“You are not dull, you’re simply biting your tongue!” he exclaimed, like it was the happiest news of the day. “Don’t. Now tell me what you think, lady wife.”
He turned your way like it was just the two of you conspiring against the whole room.
“I simply hoped to leave this place as quickly as possible.”
Lyonel whistles in content.
“Oh, Seven Hells, we will, darling! We will leave the second your lord father mutters his damn blessings in the morning, worry not. I meant we will party when we get home. In Storm’s End.”
He showed you to take your cup again, and the silver clink, as it met his.
“I like the sound of that, then.”
“I didn’t realize you would be so eager to leave this place behind,” he admitted.
“You have no idea, my lord.”
“Lyonel. I might be fond of the teasing, but I want you to call me by my name when we speak seriously.”
“Do you find yourself speaking seriously often, Lyonel?” you pried with a smug smile, and he only laughed.
No one dared to raise their voice about the bedding. You wanted to thank the gods in your mind, but just when you were leaving the room side by side with your husband, you saw a fuss at a nearby table. The two of you remained almost unnoticed which favored you, only a few sober ladies bid you good night with uncertain smiles. Just then, one of Lyonel’s men yanked a drunk lord back to his seat, before he could scream. If Lord Baratheon didn’t have the effect on you, it would never cross your mind, but now you could believe that he gave clear instructions about silencing everyone who went against his wish.
“You don’t fear me now that you spoke with me more, do you?” He asked as you sat in your chamber, outer clothing long abandoned on the floor. It thrilled you a bit, being this messy without getting scolded.
He occupied a chair opposite to your place on the bed. The safety of the arrangement made you hold your breath at first.
“No. For now, you proved yourself to be an honest man.”
“And before? Did they scare you, my lady?” You were slowly able to recognize when his voice turned more jokingly. It was hard to notice, truly, because of how agile he was in his teasing. “Your siblings or the servants? That I'm old and can't walk on my own- or I'm fat. I guess a fat husband is even worse than an old one, yes?”
“Not really. No one mocked me much.”
The corners of his lips turned when he made you laugh.
“What did they say about me then? They must have said something.” Right then, you knew your husband was a man who liked to hear things about himself. He could be humble, from time to time, sure, but only when he had a reason. Modesty wasn’t really a friend of his, on a daily basis.
“That you fancy a good party,” you admitted honestly.
“Oh, and did that worry you? Are you scared of a good party?” His question held something daring, and even though you didn’t know that about yourself for years, you liked a good dare.
“I’m … unaccustomed. I guess you'll have to show me what that is truly?”
He chuckled and leaned closer to slowly cup your cheek, like he silently offered you to pull away. “Gladly. I will show you that I host funerals more cheerful than your father’s greatest ball.”
You really wanted to remain serious, uphold his somehow intimate spirit. Especially, as he moved and looked at you with intrigued gentleness. A snort left your lips anyway, no matter how hard you tried to repress it.
“Well, I’m afraid it’s not a difficult task, my lord.”
His frown quickly changed into a dashing smile of satisfaction.
“I thought you’re a scared little thing, decent to the point of boredom, and look at you… You hold the will to become a true menace!”
“I merely stated the fact,” you noticed.
“And that’s a start.” He raised your hand to his lips, and left a kiss there. “You just brought my hopes up.”
“Hopes for a good married life?”
“I thought about fun, but you can call it whatever you would like.”
He kept a careful eye on your face to notice every possible twitch of discontent. Put on ease by his mood, rather than being offended, you settled onto nudging him with your elbow. Your mother would have your head for that, but Lyonel only snorted – as unlordly-like as you did minutes ago.
“Likewise, husband. Likewise.”
You boldly moved your hands to cling to the collar of his half unbuttoned shirt. His lips barely lingered over yours, when you heard a heavy crash from outside the door, followed by curses of few voices.
Lord Baratheon brushed your hair out of your face and placed it behind your ear, before getting up from his seat. Despite his shaky step, it was like watching your husband march to guard you from danger for the first time. Well, at least to you, not very sober either.
“Let us listen from here at least, m’lord,” laughed someone, before a laugh outside erupted.
Lyonel stood at the doorstep, looking out in the corridor. He raised his voice dangerously to dispel the gathered lords. He blocked your way to see them, but you knew their drunken faces, red from feasting and singing, would make you feel sick. You looked the other way, occupying yourself with the wine Lyonel left behind.
When he returned, you were sitting in the middle of the bed, growing uneasy. Before closing the door softly, he stayed still for a minute, looking outside like a real guard. His shirt was slipping from his shoulders, slowly revealing his broad back to you.
“They can only dream about listening to you, let alone see.” He held you close as you opened your mouth at the strange sensation of his beard on the soft skin on your neck.
“You're only mine to see.”
The words of your wedding night were the last possessive thing he whispered into your ear. It felt like the gods played with you with the same cruelty your mother held earlier. Just when you were blessed with a husband you prayed for, he decided to change.
You couldn't help but mistake his loose morals for disinterest. He appeared as a friend, a generous lover and someone who gave away some of his duties to you, but he didn’t treat you as his. Perhaps he was urging you to drown your sorrows into strange men's shoulders, just to make himself feel better about his own infidelity? You decided against speaking of it.
Soft bedding you were used to turned into furs, and it was easy to welcome the heaviness. You wore gowns of black and gold, hoping your husband’s house colors would at least be mentioned by him, but he called you beautiful no matter what. It seemed to make no difference to him.
Today, you accompanied Lyonel while he listened to his subjects. He valued your presence greatly on that matter, and even if he said it’s because of your wisdom, you knew he was simply bored by hearing out farmers and fishermen. When gathered people brought to his attention the problems with a new gamekeeper, he woke up a little.
When he ordered for him to be brought to the castle, you couldn’t predict that you would be the first one to see him. And certainly not that you will be met with the face of a man you knew.
You were on your way to your chambers, weary from the duties, but mind already occupied by another. This new life often felt like paradise, but even when rough reality creeped upon you, you were grateful for what you had.
You didn’t notice anything strange before you were held by a calloused hand and dragged behind a pillory in the courtyard. Staying still, you looked at the familiar lord from your family lands, as he raised a finger to his mouth. You most certainly would scream – you knew there were guards all around – if you didn’t recall your husband leaving the council right behind you. If you read his looks well, and you always did, he will want to speak to you privately, which meant he would be here to save you from trouble in minutes.
“Fear not, my lady.”
You stared at his clothing of a commoner, and it all clinked in your head.
“Are you hiding as a gamekeeper, my lord?” you asked, shocked and in distrust. Whatever the man planned, it wasn’t good.
“I wouldn’t use the word hide, but you could say so, my lady… Oh, my lady.”
“Wha-,” you yelped, when he fell to his knees and held your hand close to his chest, “What do you think you’re doing? Raise.” He stared at you half-dumbly, angering you even more. “Raise right now, or I will call the guards!”
He obeyed, but didn’t let you step away.
“I can’t make myself forget you…”
You scoffed, hardly gathering your thoughts. You were used to being joked at by your siblings, and despite it looking like a serious situation, it felt similarly. A madman who was just about to declare his undying love to you was, in fact, a rather bad joke anyway. Still, you wished that it was.
“I am a married woman, my lord, and I don’t…”
“Your husband is a fool if he doesn't appreciate a wife like you,” he declared right away. “I've seen him in the company of common wenches, much too entertained for decency. You don’t deserve that.”
Either it was the truth or not, you promised to protect your husband’s good name, and the word stirred some fury in you. “That is my worry,” you said from clenched teeth.
“You don’t seem very worried, my lady, and it surprises me greatly.” All you wished for, was to slap him across the face, but when you tried to move, he caught your other hand. Seriously startled you were ready to raise an alarm, when you heard heavy boots thud behind you. Your position didn’t allow you to see, but by the mere reaction of the man you could take a guess. He let you go, and took a step back. “My lord, we have met before,” despite the fear on his face, he kept his voice strong.
Unfortunately for him, Lyonel paid him very little mind.
“You’re the rascal we look for. If the accusations placed to your name will be proven to be true, you will rot in the dungeon, my dear forest fairy,” he mocked, waving his hand for the guards to take the man away.
You stayed silent, and allowed Lyonel to pull you close.
“Who’s that, really? He’s no servant of mine.”
“My father considered him for my hand. You had a drinking competition with him at our wedding feast,” you explained plainly, now absolutely calm when he was away.
“Ah… Did I win?”
“What do you think? Of course, you won.”
You both watched the fake gamekeeper being chained and dragged away in silence. Lyonel’s arm was thrown over your middle, and he lowered his head to you.
“I thought you were hiding from me, wife.”
“I didn’t mean to, but he dragged me…”
He looked at you like he was thunderstruck by your words. To your dissatisfaction, Lyonel wasn’t shocked by the thought of a stranger touching you. You never had a spirit for cruelty, but it wouldn’t be that bad if your husband had the man’s hands cut for laying them on you, as an example.
“You think I expect you to explain yourself? You offend my honor, my lady. Yet, you must know I have to judge him justly, no matter who he is to you.”
“Well, I just… wanted to assure you I didn’t go with him willingly. He is nothing to me.”
“You shall go wherever you would like, with whoever you like. My job is simply to make sure you’ll come back to me, willingly.”
When he first spoke to you about such things, you thought he lost his mind. It was truly absurd, but you learned that denying and asking him to stop only made it worse.
“My brothers used to complain that my standards are too high, and I demand too much.”
“Good. I like challenges. Even if I think your brothers know shit about high demands.”
“Well, my father was glad he got to choose a husband for me, because in their eyes I would turn away all the suitors.”
“I might dislike your lord father, and your stories don't make it any better, but in this I’ll be grateful to the old man,” he scoffed, then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll treat you better than any moron suitor ever could.”
And he did. He did, and you paid him back generously. It was an excellent life you led, and you found his weird games absolutely unnecessary. If he wasn’t the man he was, you would think he was testing you that way. But Lyonel Baratheon – it was most probable that he was bored and found fun in your disorientation.
Whenever you laid your eyes on a watchman for a second too long, he was right by your side to whisper filthy things into your ear.
“Do you want the man assigned to hold guard in your chambers?”
“I… what?” you scoffed, turning to your husband.
“I can have him walk with you, or send him to your room later,” he offered with an expression of a menace friend who lured you to the wrong things in the world. He acted like the spitfire mothers warned their daughters about, not like the man who held you at nights, and whose name you moaned.
You must have looked spoked, because he turned down his cheekiness. A serious look was even worse.
“And can I have my lord husband walk me to my chambers, perhaps?” you plead.
“Always, just say the word.”
Then there were the women commonly called as his lovers. You had a sharp eye since childhood, and Lyonel being so eager to keep you close only made it easier: since you came to Storm’s End, he wasn’t in the company of said women.
Another thing that proved you right, was their reaction. Keeping good intentions, you greeted the ladies kindly, when you passed them in the halls. All you were met with were scoffs. The unusual commission has stopped an elderly servant, who quickly caught up with you, greeting you with an angry look.
“Through my whole life, nobody ever dared to scoff at any Lady Baratheon,” he muttered, and looked up to you bravely. “You shouldn’t allow common whores to do that, m’lady!”
So you didn’t. You mentioned it to your husband, not allowing your voice to turn mad. Before he could respond, you sat opposite him. “My father. He kept many whores as well.”
“You have to listen, I-...”
He must have realized his position, because he didn’t even try to talk over you.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m speaking now, because my mother never did. She saw, but she was quiet in her rage. Just once… One of his women was very kind to all of us, me and my siblings. She watched over me and my sister sometimes. She was like a real mother, you know? Obviously, she wasn’t allowed to be close, but I think she grew to like us. Mother accused her of stealing her jewelry.”
“She did it?”
“Of course not. The girl was whipped in the courtyard with people watching. Mother made sure everyone was there to look. She was a good girl… young. Grown men shed tears for her. Now, I think my father loved the girl and still, he allowed mother her own revenge this one time. It was the worst thing I have ever seen. Worse than cut insides on the tournaments or men gutted by wild animals.”
Lyonel stayed quiet for a long while, and it seemed that for once he was the one puzzled and hesitant about your words.
“Are you telling me this as a warning, love?”
“I’m not my mother, nor ever will be.”
“I know.”
You weren’t sure if you meant it as a mute threat, but the view from your window the next morning surely made you smile. The women were sent away from the castle, escorted not by knights but stable boys. They all sat on a cart like hens, with faces of rage and despair. Lyonel didn't dare to look your way the whole day.
It was a secret bound to remain unknown if he pretended or really didn’t care about who you admired, but he certainly watched out for men looking at you. When an invitation to the tournament from your vassal came, his cheerful reaction quickly turned into a look of thoughtfulness. When you asked, he excused himself with some urgent duties. Pathetic lie to be honest – at this point you knew all his duties, and he was aware of that as well.
In the evening of the same day he gifted you two hounds, huge beasts which sent shivers down your spine when they bared their teeth. Lyonel said you can only keep them for the tournament, if they truly scared you, but you could already feel the affection overcoming you.
“Keep them close and put my heart at ease,” he asked in his usual dramatics. “I don’t want you to stay unguarded around gods know what bastards, while I’m competing.”
The event was held in the name of the host’s younger daughter. Lyonel started complaining about back pain somewhere in the middle of the trip, giving you an opportunity to tease him. He was particularly grumpy, which only made it more entertaining to you. You sometimes wondered if he did it on purpose.
“Look, there is the Lady.” You moved your head to show him the direction, when you entered the camp. “Isn’t she to your liking?” you mocked his behavior towards you.
“That little thing?” he scoffed. “Do you want me to read bedtime stories to her or what?”
“Oh, she is at an age perfectly suitable for marriage,” you argued playfully.
“Good for her. I already have a wife, one I’d prefer to keep.”
“I only want you to admit that she is a girl of beauty.”
“Well, she looks like she’s going to climb that poor servant next to her out of fear. That I’m sure about. Other things… I don’t really care about other things.”
“You should ask for her favor. It’s her name’s day after all. It’s only proper.”
“Whatever you say, wife. Maybe I will. Now I want to have a seat, a good drink and a different conversation with my wife.”
“A conversation about what?”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe all the lords that are already staring at you despite that we only arrived,” he said like it was nothing, “and the fact that I will beat their arses tomorrow.”
“Slowly, brave knight, you have enemies of an old man to fight first,” you joked, hinting at his complaining, and you could see it from his face that he didn’t appreciate that at all.
Your laugh made people turn their heads.
The ever lingering stench of horses, wine and sweat contrasted with expensive clothes of the nobles. Lyonel seemed to like everything a turney had to offer; even drunken yells from the crowd and the smell he welcomed with laughter. Where you sat, people threw disgusted looks to the crowd of common people every few moments, and the air was thick from all the perfume. You were glad you eventually overcame the dizziness, but at first you had to clutch your nails into the armrests to not slip from the chair.
Lyonel once muttered that Storm's End is no place for a man of sound mind, and let alone a lady like you whom he intended to spoil. Even though he held obvious fondness for his family home, he complained about walls being too thick, chambers too cold, sun not appearing often enough and sharp breeze.
But now? You would do a lot to feel the rough weather of the stormlands on your skin.
You focused on feeling the fur of your dogs under the palms of your fingers, as they stayed close to you. One of them sat at your feet, while the other laid its head in your lap.
You snapped out of your mind, when you heard the voice of your husband. He already mounted his horse, and a helmet with antlers asserted his head.
“Humbly asking for your favor,” he said, and you almost smiled, because humble was not a common word in your husband's vocabulary, “Lady Baratheon.”
You scolded him later for spoiling the young girl’s fun. You could see the lively way she watched other lords and knights, and being asked for favors thrilled her the most.
“Oh, stop it. It’s not like we could all perform in the name of one girl,” he argued, still playing with the gold ribbon you gave him. He had it around his wrist, and placed the end between his teeth.
You looked down at him and shook your head, as you tried to focus on properly caring for his injured temple. It wasn’t anything serious, but you knew that if your hand shook at least a bit, he would hiss theatrically.
“Also, I wanted something of yours.”
“Having my hand in marriage is not enough?”
He placed both of his hands on your waist and guided you closer, to stand between his legs.
“It's more than enough. It's everything, but I wanted everyone to see.”
You continued your work, but as you felt his fingers grip you tighter with every moment, you eventually dropped the wet cloth, and looked him in the eyes, cupping his head in your hands.
“Look at you… You are a jealous man.”
It was a damn good time to finally admit it. He rolled his eyes, but you had something to prove now.
“Say it.”
“For fuck’s sake, of course I am a jealous man, love.” You would lie if you said it was difficult to forgive him, when he looked up at you, his curls unruly covering his face. “It was all an act to not scare you off. You can't blame me, you were trembling when you first held my arm on a walk!”
“And you decided that the only cure to my worries is making me fuck half of your subjects?”
“I never made you fuck anyone, and you didn’t,” he noticed.
“You suggested it more than I would like.”
“Fair. Well, I supposed I succeed one way or another if you use such ugly words as ‘fucking’ without blushing.”
His bashful smile only grew wider, when you lightly smacked his head.
“You are awful!”
“Oh, I am, am I not? Your awful husband who wanted to gift you freedom…”
“I despise freedom like that.”
“Good. I have no use for my games anymore,” he finally admitted, pulling you to his lap.
Lyonel Baratheon was truly a jealous man, and he proved it to you over and over again – obviously, while still arguing that he is simply doing what a man should.
You found yourself in the bliss of early evening, calmly sitting in your favorite spot. You could roughly finish the first page of your book when you heard steps in the hall between your rooms and a yell of your name.
“There you are! Are you busy, wife?”
“Not necessarily, no,” you admit, closing your book and placing it on the table.
“Come then.”
Lyonel was already in front of you, taking your hand as you stood up. With an arm thrown over your middle, he led you to the balcony. The second you stepped outside, his heavy cloak was dropped on your shoulders, but he denied you a chance to mention it, by rushing you close to the stone railing.
“Now look.” He held you even closer, so you could see who he was pointing at with his finger. “Do you think that knight is handsome?”
There were multiple men fighting in the arena under the walls. The place never gathered much of your interest, until Lyonel was one of the fighters, from time to time.
“He is alright, I would say… Why?”
“Just alright?” he exclaimed, surprised and frowned, looking at the men more carefully. “What about the bigger one? The one to the left.”
“Are you asking in terms of… common sense of beauty, or about who I find handsome?”
“Doesn’t really matter. I have to choose one of them for escorting the carts to the market, and they all find it belittling and derogatory. I want to pick the prettiest of them ladies.”
You almost choked.
“You don’t fail to surprise me.”
“Never,” he said proudly.
“I mean it. That’s the most malicious idea I’ve heard in a while. I love it.”
At the feasts he hosted nowadays, he warmly welcomed your presence by his side, rather than urge you to converse with the lords, like he used to. He showed you around like he used to, only now his face turned into a dangerous dare, when men proved themselves too friendly towards you.
He didn’t mind eyes on you when he was close, though. He was Lord Baratheon, after all, and being the center of attention thrilled him as much as the glory of the battlefield. You were more reserved than him. Still, the jolt of realization of how much your family would disregard your fun made it even better. Perhaps your husband was right, you were a menace if going against the values you were taught was so welcomed by you.
You could almost imagine the displeased face of your mother, when you swirled on the dance floor. In those moments of bliss, if she truly stood in front of you, you would stick your tongue out, and go back to your fun.
It was a cold day wreathed with a feast. Rivers of ale and beer flowed, making the food seem better and company more approachable. Well, at least most of the time. Lyonel was telling jokes to you and his closest companions, and you would swear he was about to start shining as bright as the sun if someone cheered on him once again. An arrogant man he was, your husband, and greedy for applause. Nonetheless, you couldn’t help but laugh as loudly as the tipsy lords.
It seemed that not everyone was having such great fun, and it couldn’t be that way on a night spent in the hospitality of House Baratheon. At least not until Lyonel held the title of the Lord.
“M’lord… I want to fight against this fool here, and want to ask for your supervision,” claimed a tall man, who stood in front of your table, while keeping his huge fist in the hair of another drunken feller. This one was smaller, with a swollen lip and scared face. “He says he’s better than me, and I disagree.”
He spoke like it was an offense worth taking a life. Oh, you already knew Lyonel would love it. He stood up right away, abandoning his cup and clapping his hands with force that could break bones. A few grown men jumped in their places, making Lyonel smile, even if he pretended to not notice.
“Great. Today we fight!” he claimed, not really paying any mind to the conflict between the men. He looked around as people cheered, then quickly turned, bending his back to be face to face with you. “Shall we start from the crossbow? What say you wife?”
He knew you were quite fond of that, as luck was usually on your side.
“I won’t stand in the rain like a fool just for a shooting competition,” you declared with a smile, and waved your hand.
Rain wasn’t enough to stop Lyonel Baratheon, though, and everyone who thought otherwise was an idiot.
“Men! You heard your lady. Bring the targets inside!”
“My lord, is that wise?” One of his elderly advisors tried to reason with him, but the order was already said, and nothing could stop it.
“I think it would be wise of you to hide under the table, friend.” Lyonel smiled, clapping a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “You are a tall man. Someone might mistake you for a target!”
You didn’t mind some shooting, especially when Lyonel screamed and made a fuss about your victorious shot like they were at least aimed at a galloping deer, not a still shield. When the room willed with swords and morning stars… Well, then you knew it was your call to abandon the fun of the night and retire.
Lyonel kissed your cheek, swaying the heavy poleaxe he held, and bid you good night.
You knew drunk men as one of the greatest dangers a woman like you could face. That’s why the rumors of your husband being fond of his parties and drinks stirred some worry in you many moons before tonight. He proved himself to be a much different drinker than your brothers. While they turned to violence and rabidness, Lyonel was a social butterfly, too lively for his own good. The most harm he could bring was talking someone to death. He could be a terribly dangerous man no matter what state he was in, drunk or sober, but not only was it rare, but also never directed towards people without guilt.
One of the instincts that the liquor didn’t dull in him, was his good aim. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that it saved your life this night.
It was the wine in your blood that made you so cheerful and relaxed. You didn’t hear the steps that followed you as you strolled through the corridors. The absence of a guard under your door stirred no worry in you either. It was not the Red Keep, after all. You had no need for armed company all the time, even if it was useful on some gruesome days.
Closing the door to your chamber, you started unlacing your gown, which felt too heavy after the whole day. There was nothing better than hunching when no one looked, allowing your shoulders to fall, and your looks turn disheveled.
The nice chill of the room touched your arms and back, now only covered by thin linen, when the gown hit the floor. It was the last nice feeling you had, before rough hands yanked you back, making you hit somebody’s chest. The grasp traveling up to your neck quickly made you sober up, and in one reach you were armed with a heavy candlestick. Before any thought could go through your head, you stabbed your attacker without being able to look at him.
Hitting the floor, you crawled back and supported yourself on the wall. The man huffed in rage, and threw the candlestick to the side, making the thing scatter into little pieces. He looked like a human stripped from his soul. His eyes were red but blank, and saliva covered his lower face, making him look like a mad dog. Well, you wished that you had your hounds with you right now.
When you were sure it was all over – when he made a rabid step towards you, and you couldn’t blend into the wall any further – Lyonel entered the chamber, slamming the door with all of his force.
You didn’t dare to look away from the man who stood too close to you, even seconds after the bolt flew between the two of you, close to his head. The quill trembled from the shot, as the arrowhead was stuck in the wood, not far from your face.
“Did you ask him to leave?”
“Fuck off, old man…” The state of mental absence of the man was proved not only by his looks, but also the incoherent words.
“I’m talking to my wife, cunt. Now,” Lyonel rasped, and you could hear him grind his teeth, “was he invited here in the first place?”
You opened your mouth, instinctively wanting to scold him for thinking about such a thing in a moment like that. Luckily, fear stopped you from that. You guessed Lyonel would punish the man differently regarding if you named him your lover or not. Still, it was a wrongdoing to your dignity… let alone your taste.
“No. He attacked me…”
The man was lucky Lyonel didn’t have another bolt, because it would now be sticking out of his skull. Instead, he was hit with the heavy crossbow, thrown to the ground by the beast of a man your husband was.
A guard entered right behind. If not for your presence, he would be the next in line to land on his knees with his face turned into a bloody mush.
Lyonel shot him a murderous look and ordered for the stranger to be dealt with, while he gathered you in his arms. You marched the corridors in silence, and you could feel your hands trembling less. Your husband enveloped you with the heath of his own body, and you found yourself sitting by his side, with your legs in his lap. His personal chambers were not one of your favorites – too many stags, as you used to joke – but now they seemed like the most comforting place ever. He wouldn’t want you to go back to your room for a long time from now …
“If them fuckers want to prove themselves savage, we will no longer hold feasts in the main hall,” he whispered to himself in anger.
He had no idea what to say, how to comfort you, but he was not a man built for silence either.
“What? Where then?” you found your voice quickly, which surprised you as well.
“In the courtyard. With every single door to the castle closed.”
“And if it rains?”
“Do you take me for a man who gives a fuck about a few cunts sitting in the rain? I’ll gladly watch from the warmth of my chamber.”
You cupped his hand, to occupy yourself with his rings. Whenever your band brushed against his jewelry, it brought a shiver on your back.
“And what if I want to join them?”
“Forget it,” he said firmly, turning your head up with his finger. “From now on, you will be glued to my side.”
You chuckled, forcing your mind to abandon the memory of the terrible event. You could cry into his shoulder later in the night, but for now you needed to remain sane.
“Is that a promise or a threat?”
But Lyonel wasn’t jolly right now. He didn’t laugh, nor joked. The rarity of seriousness on his face made it even more terrifying.
“You’re only mine to look at. They’re not worthy of even a glimpse of you. I was selfless long enough.”
Summary: Lyonel forbade her from attending the tourney with him. When he finds her in the Baratheon tent during the party, he's livid. But like the wild storm he is, he doesn't show it until they're alone.
Warnings: sex, p in v, fingering, making out, talks of Targaryen incest, etc
He was full of life— full of emotion and chaos in every step that he took. But never had he been angry with you.
Perhaps you'd seen him exasperated by a few people around him. Maybe even heard profanities fall from his lips when something did not go his way. Crude words that he huffed out when the two of you made love.
But angry? Your Lyonel?
When you'd caught his eye across the Baratheon tent that night, you weren't sure what emotion he felt.
…
"I would not miss you if you would just let me attend alongside you," you tried in a last-ditch effort.
Lyonel is quite literally next to his horse. Once he mounts it, the journey to Ashford Meadow begins.
His hands run up your back soothingly. "No more of this," he softly commands. "Will you continue to cause such a fuss even in my absence?"
The moment the tourney was announced to the Lord Baratheon, you had asked to attend with him. Surely your own family would make the journey from the Red Keep. The very idea of seeing your father and brothers again filled your heart with thoughts of nothing else. But Lyonel had immediately shut down the idea.
You had practically begged for days. But again and again, you were met with a steady 'no',' no clear answer as to why, and some kind of distraction. And now, he was to finally leave.
"I just don't understand why I cannot attend," you softly admitted, fingers fidgeting with the seam of Lyonel's cloak.
"My greatest love," he sighed, moving to cup your face. He looked deep into your eyes. "A tourney is dangerous. Is my word not enough to satisfy you?"
"I will promise to you that when I am not at your side, I shall be with my family. There is no safer place—"
"You are a Baratheon. I intend to keep you that way." He lays a soft kiss to your lips. "You will stay here at Storm's End. I'll be back in a few weeks' time. That is final."
You want to be angry with him. He didn't explain a thing. Not one good reason to keep you from traveling to see your beloved father.
So there you stand outside of the castle, watching him go. He looks back once, just to make sure you would stay put. And he blows you a kiss.
But once he disappears from view, you begin to plan things a lady of your standing should never plan. Lyonel had always said he admired a difficult woman. So difficult you shall be.
…
Upon making it to Ashford Meadow, you avoided the House tents immediately. Lyonel had a habit of wandering around and being nosey; gossiping with the other lords was a favorite pastime. He would be somewhere you wouldn't expect and your plan would be ruined.
No. Instead, you decided to go immediately to where he was keeping you from: your family.
The guards at the castle were a bit confused. But upon seeing your identity, they let you in.
"The Princess of Dragonstone, Lady Baratheon of Storm's End," the guard introduced you. You always hated the long title.
But upon entering the room, you're met with the faces you had so missed.
Your father, Baelor. How there were new lines in his face from age. How his hair greyed more by the day.
Your uncle, Maekar. The ever usual scowl on his face that fell to surprise at the sight of you.
They both looked a bit shocked.
But Baelor was the first to cross to your side. "We were not expecting you, Rīnys." He took your hand in his. "But how my heart fills with joy."
"No overbearing lord at your side?" Maekar grumbled.
"Well, I…" You turned to the entrance to check for nosy servants. When you find none, you turn back. "Lyonel might not… know."
The silence wafts through the room like a loud ringing in your ears. The men have no expression.
Finally, Baelor's hand squeezes yours. "Does not know what?" He needs confirmation. He needs to hear the exact words of what he fears to come from your mouth.
"Of my…" you hesitate. "Of my whereabouts."
Maekar laughed.
"Ah," Baelor responds. "I am sure he's worried about you. Perhaps you should get back to him."
"No, Kepa," you say. "He doesn't know I am here. At all. At the tourney."
More silence.
Maekar's hand is covering his mouth, perhaps the first and only time he found anything amusing today after his sons ran astray. Perhaps he was just relieved that his perfect brother had issues with his children as well.
"Rīnys," Baelor softened. He took both of your hands in his. "I don't believe that was a wise decision. How can a husband care for his wife if she hides from him?"
"You do not understand—"
"I understand enough to know that you disobeyed your husband. A husband and wife are to be one, Rīnys. Should he find that you journeyed here alone…"
"Fuck him," Maekar huffed.
Baelor's head turned. "Brother."
Maekar only shrugged. "I would not have hidden my Dyanna away. Let the boy learn a lesson. Have her paraded around with us. She is a dragon. We are all cursed dragons, but dragons all the same. None of that deer nonsense."
"We will not interfere in their marriage." Your father turns back to you. "You are welcome to stay with us as long as you'd like. I'm sure Lord Ashford can have a room made up for you. But you must tell Lord Lyonel that you are here. Those are my conditions."
Your heart sank. "Alright," you reluctantly agree. "Do you think he will be angry with me?"
Maekar sat up. "Do rains fall over the Stormlands? Do not ask ridiculous questions."
"Don't listen to him, Rīnys. Be honest. Do it when the time is right. You love one another, don't you?"
You nod.
"Then the rest of it does not matter. Perhaps stay here for a bit and have a drink to ease your poor nerves."
"No, perhaps you're right. I should go now."
He gave a small smile. "You are always welcome to spend your time with us." He leaned in a bit closer. "Lord Lyonel loves you very much. I am sure his reasoning was just. He would not see you hurt without proper explanation."
He kissed the top of your head like he used to do when you were younger, and excused you.
As you rounded the corner of the room, you ran into a brick wall of a man. He was tall, with sandy hair and a worried look in his blue eyes.
"Forgive me," you immediately rush. "So clouded in my thoughts I did not see you."
"No, no," he stutters. "A million apologies, milady. I've always been a bit of a dunce."
You laugh at that. "No harm was done."
He ran a nervous hand over his face. "Yes. I… excuse me, milady. Your name?"
You smile, giving him your name. "Princess of Dragonstone and the Lady Baratheon."
The moment your full title comes out, you regret it. You wouldn't lie. You shouldn't. But the idea of someone knowing who you are before you've told your husband you are here sends a bit of panic through you.
His face falls. He immediately drops to a knee. "Princess. I did not know."
"Gods, please don't do that," you comfort. "I am more Baratheon than Targaryen at this point. Rise."
He stands, his cheeks a heavy red.
"Are you a knight?" You want to know if he would speak to your husband. If he even knew your husband.
"Y-Yes, milady. Ser Duncan."
You didn't know a Ser Duncan. And if a princess did not know a house, then surely Lyonel would not. You deemed it safe.
"Then I pray for bravery and luck for your tilts at the tourney, ser."
You shuffled away, a breath of relief escaping once out of range.
When was the right time to approach Lyonel?
Now, when the tents were being set up? No. He was probably already exasperated.
At supper? No. Not before an entire tent of people and you would embarrass him or yourself.
Later that night in your personal tents? No. In the dark, he would surely take you for a thief or worse. He would mostly likely get too drunk to recognize your touch in the dark.
This would be harder than you thought.
…
You had to admit that the Baratheon tent was quite the spectacle. Had you not been trying to hide from your Lord husband, you might have joined into the festivities.
But there you sit at the very furthest chair at the furthest table from his. You idly pick at your plate, praying to all above that others would not recognize you.
Being Baelor's daughter had blessed you with not having entirely Targaryen features; hiding white hair would be next to impossible. But a simple white streak along dark hair? Much more manageable.
When the others stood up and began to dance, you stayed far from the dance floor. You watched. Perhaps even gawked a bit. But you only wandered on the outskirts of the chaos.
And of course, your eyes moved to Lyonel many times. He still sat at the high table. You could tell his mind was wandering. He always got that look on his face.
You giggled to yourself as Lord Beesbury began to get too deep in his cups. His dancing was downright jolly and entertaining to watch.
You missed seeing Ser Duncan there. Not until you looked back at your husband— where the two of them now conversed.
Your heart dropped.
You couldn't make out the words, so you pushed through the crowd toward the nearest corner from them.
"The Seven above gave you tallness. So be tall. Or I will name you a heretic and burn you." He hesitated. "Drown you… drop you off a tall…" He huffed. "What do they do to heretics?"
"Burn them."
"Burn you. Fine." He threw his dagger to the table. "What have you brought me?"
You watched Ser Duncan panic. "Ser, I… beggin' your pardons. I didn't realize."
If you weren't hiding from Lyonel, you might have stood up for the poor lad.
Lyonel's eyes narrowed. "You wish to curry my favor some. Yet you come with an empty hand."
Duncan nodded in pity.
"Lord Cafferen, the smug cunt in red, he is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter, yet even he shined up this…" he gestures to the dagger, "bauble from his family's cellars, for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head." He leans back in his chair, ever the scene of a high lord. "Meats, coins, jewels for my wife. They all bring something."
At Duncan's blank expression, Lyonel's face morphs into realization. "You've come for my head then."
The bigger man's eyes widen. "W-What? No."
Lyonel's voice turns to a low growl. "Then why the fuck are you in my tent?"
You'd give anything to save the poor man. Perhaps if they try to take him away, you might step in finally.
"Su-Supper."
The high table is quiet for a moment.
Then Lyonel begins to laugh.
The rest begin to relax, giggling along.
"It… that actually makes sense," Lyonel murmurs.
"Supper," Duncan continues. "I… I only assumed your tent would be welcoming since… your wife is… she's such a kind soul."
And you're feeling sick once again.
You watch as Lyonel's eyes flicker with something darker. The smile drops from his face. "She is." He picks up the dagger again, pressing his finger to the tip of it. "What do you know of my wife?"
Duncan is beginning to sense that he did something wrong again. "I… I've only met her once, Ser Lyonel. I… It was a brief meeting."
Oh, how you wish the gods would strike you down now. You pull your cloak closer to yourself.
Lyonel smiles; it's anything but friendly. "Ah, so you've met my sweet dragon. Aren't you a lucky soul? She often extends her kindness to the most… unlikely of places."
"Yes," Duncan tries to ease. "Is… is she here? I hope she is not feeling ill."
Lyonel seemed confused. "Here? I've left her at Storm's End. Safe from wandering eyes."
"W-What? But I only saw her this morning. She seemed a bit distraught."
Yup. That's your cue to go sleep in the castle. There was no way you would stay and watch Lyonel's reaction to all this.
His voice was low and calculated. "You've seen my dragon? Today? Here?"
"Yes. Well, I believe so, milord."
Lyonel stands. "Dark of hair, with the streak of Targaryen silver down the side? You have seen my wife, Ser?"
"Aye," Duncan tries to ease. He has no idea what he's done. "A… a yellow, gold gown of sorts. Her hair was… was down…"
You curse at yourself for not even thinking to change your clothes since then. You desperately begin to push through the outskirts of the crowded dance floor to get to the exit.
The commotion catches the eye of one of Lyonel's men at the high table, who then leans in to whisper in Lyonel's ear.
You turn one last time, just to make sure you were safe.
And Lyonel's eyes found yours.
You were frozen, your hand on the fabric tent flap, so close to the fresh air you could feel it.
You saw no one else in the tent in that moment. It was only you and your husband. His eyes are unusually dark, even in the flickering light of the candles.
He stretches out his hand, slowly making a beckoning gesture.
You let the tent flap fall from your fingers in surrender.
Through the crowd you navigate. None are the wiser to the tension beginning to heat the room. All are too drunk to see how a dragon and stag will soon meet one another. His eyes never leave your figure.
When you step up next to Duncan's side, you politely nod. "Ser Duncan."
Unsure of what is happening, he nods back. "Milad—"
"Quiet," Lyonel orders him. He points at you. "Wife."
Your voice is lighter. "Husband." You don't have to look around to feel the eyes of the other lords at the table.
"You did not tell me you would be joining us tonight," he says, lightening his tone, but not his eyes. "I would have had a chair brought for you. No sulking around like a commoner."
You open your mouth to answer, but he cuts you off, looking to Duncan. "Do you like dancing?"
He smiled, finally relieved to have an easy question. "Doesn't everyone?"
When Lyonel smiled back, you knew you were done for.
He downed his cup, slamming it onto the table. He stepped up onto his chair and onto the table before jumping down onto the other side next to you.
His hand wrapped around your waist tightly, pulling you into his side. "I know you love dancing," he seethed into your ear.
"Lyonel—"
"Come!" He yelled over the crowd. "Let us dance! For my wife has decided to grace us with her presence!"
As the crowd cheered again and the music played louder, he pulled you down to the dance floor. "The Princess that just won't listen," he huffed. He turned to the others with a broad smile. "Now dance!"
And thus, your long night began.
He twirled you around, dancing in that way you loved so much. When your husband danced, he seemed free. He would let loose. And though it seemed to everyone else as if he was doing so tonight, only you saw the intensity of his gaze when it would land on you. He put on a good show.
Lyonel was already a few cups deep. The alcohol was beginning to flow in his veins. But anytime you tried to desperately reach for a cup to ease your nerves, he'd intercept. "Gotta keep you aware," he'd claim low in your ear.
Deep into the night, Lyonel was getting braver. His hands began to wander, his touch boldened.
He had you close, his hands on your waist. His face lowered down to your neck, laying a heavy, wet kiss there. You shivered at the contact of his rough beard, and he was delighted. His face wandered lower, scraping down your exposed chest. Once he got to the fabric at the top of your breasts, he began to lay a trail of kisses down to your stomach. Slow, steady, a show of possession. He knew how to make you feel things.
Then at your navel, he began to trail back up, only with his nose pressing a heavy line in its wake.
You were losing your breath, feeling the eyes of others around you. Embarrassment turned to lust. It stirred something in you to know how openly Lyonel wanted you.
When his face became level with yours, one of his hands wrapped around your throat. You gasped, not expecting something so bold of him. But he only grinned. He felt how your pulse picked up under his fingers. He didn't squeeze, only kept a steady pressure.
Then he leaned in to kiss you. When you began to lean in too, he pulled away with a low chuckle. "Cheeky girl." His eyes fall to your lips. "So desperate for me, you traveled all the way here. Even after I told you no."
Your brain was turning to utter mush at this point. "Lyonel—"
"Call my name, girl. Doesn't stop a thing."
But finally, he gave in, kissing you deeply. His lips clashed with yours, all his emotion evident in the way he held you closer.
He pulled you away. "You'll go to our private tent. I'll be there soon."
You'd imagined all day how this interaction would go, but none of them ended quite like this. When you pull away from his hands to obey him, he pulls you in one more time.
"If you like this dress, you'll take it off."
When you look in his eyes, they're dark and filled with lust. He's panting softly, lips swollen. At this point, you're not exactly sure who is winning or losing this argument. So you agree, watching as his face becomes jolly once more when he looks back at the crowd.
…
There you sat in your shift. Your nerves had come back, your hands fidgeting with the fabric as you tried to think of how this would go.
Would Lyonel punish you? He'd never done so before. Is it even allowed to punish a princess in such a manner when you're only a lord?
Didn't matter now. The law wasn't going to save you. Not from the Laughing Storm.
When the tent flap opened, you spun around, argument at the ready.
"Lyonel, I won't apologize for d—"
His lips are already on yours.
His hands wander over you, appreciative that now there is only one bit of cloth separating you two. A moan came deep from his throat, a satisfaction at having you just as he wanted.
"Difficult woman," he grumbled, eyes glimmering with mischief. "Must I never have my way with you?"
Your lips part. "You have me now, don't you?"
His hands are already yanking at your shift, pulling the skirt up and guiding you back onto the cot. You fall down on it with a giggle, and he's quick to crawl over you.
"Most difficult thing in my life," he says, kissing at your jaw. "How the gods must laugh at my daily torment."
His hand runs up your now exposed thigh and you shiver. "I need you," you admit.
He pauses. "Oh?" His hand squeezes. "You need me but you won't listen to me?"
You whine. "Lyonel, please—"
"Oh, yes. Beg, wife." He leans down to kiss you gently. "Beg I'll be merciful and give you what you want.”
You jerk as a finger traces over your clit. "There she is," he grins wickedly. "Knew my good girl was in there somewhere."
Lyonel takes his time prepping you, making you take his fingers slowly until you're putty in his hands. You scratch and plead and whine, and he relishes in every moment of it.
And when his cock finally bottoms out within your walls, he's more smug than ever. "I always do give you what you want, don't I?" He traces a hand over your cheek. "I spoil you. And what do I get for it? An unruly wife?"
You gasp as he pulls out, only to shove himself right back in.
"You take me so well. So well, girl." He's a bit lost in himself, continuing his slow thrusts. "Made for a Baratheon. Made for me. No fucking dragon gets to see this."
You pull at his hair, to which he sighs in satisfaction. "Lyonel, more…"
"Patience," he says, not stopping. He sits up to watch as his cock is sucked in by your core. "This cunt belongs to me. No one is going to take you from me."
You're a bit confused, thoughts broken by his statement. The lustful haze over your mind is clearing. "W-What?"
He presses your thigh up to your stomach. "My beautiful wife. No fucking Targaryens and their fucking incest… fucking hell."
You scratch down his arm, feeling that familiar twist in your stomach. "Lyonel…"
"Just the thought of those fucking blondes," he grunts. "Won't let them near you."
Before you can answer, he reaches out and rubs a gentle pattern over her clit. When your cunt tightens, he chuckles. "No one else can do this to you like I can. Play you like an instrument."
He knows you too well. He knows how to drive you to the edge. And when you do, he grins at the sight of you crying out to him. He knows how to prolong it as well, the smug bastard. And he manages to until he gives in as well with a heavy groan.
At the sight of you spent, he caresses your body— up your stomach until he leans over you. He places a gentle kiss onto your lips. "In my bed. In my tent. You're my Baratheon, aren't you?"
Tired, you barely have it in you to nod. He coos in mock pity. "My worn girl. Maybe next time, you'll listen to me."
You give in to sleep quickly after that.
He stands, redressing himself as he was before, though his hair is much more mussed than before (he can blame it on the dancing). He comes to your bedside once more, brushing hair from your face. "Lady Baratheon," he whispers to himself, a content smile on his lips. "What a storm you make."
And with that, he walked back out to the party to entertain his guests, content now in knowing that his wife was fast asleep in the tent over— safe, thoroughly satisfied, and smelling of nothing but him.
A most difficult woman, yes. But his difficult woman.
There's this lovely series "Despair of a Doe" if you're in the mood for something very soft and hurt/comforty.
I also really, really love his parts in the Spinster Series. Idk if you watch Bridgerton, but Lyonel and that reader are peak Kate/Anthony dynamic if you ask me.
Sansaorganas images are always a treat.
So are The-Darklings.
The first Lyonel fic I've ever read that is still one of my- if not just my favourite to this day is My difficult Woman
I have many more (or at least some more) in stock, so let me know if you want more recs!
okay first of all you’re so sweet to me ilysm 😭
I JUST STARTED DESPAIR OF A DOE THIS MORNING!!! that’s the one i’m making my way through today and so far omggg it’s so good i have no idea how this flew under my radar for so long!!! the way the author writes tickles my brain it’s perfect
i’m not caught up on bridgerton but i did watch the first few seasons specifically so i could watch anthony and kate’s season so that one will be next!!! as soon as you said that it jumped right up the list
Pairing: Baelor Breakspear Targaryen x female!reader
Status: On going
Content: Canon divergent / non-canon, pregnant reader, second wife reader, fluff, angst, injustice, mention of other characters, Baelor wanting to be a girl dad, injuries, brief descriptions of fighting, Trial of the Seven, pregnancy, mentions of violence and gore, family drama, targaryen family stress, Aerion being Aerion, takes place on the events of AKOTSK. No use of Y/N. No physical descriptions mentioned. SPOILERS
Disclaimer: English is NOT my first language so this may as well be written with my eyes closed and half delusional brain. Hope you enjoy it!
Main Masterlist
Sounds Joyful | 1
Your husband informs you about a Tournament that is set to take place on a moon's time, you are definitely going with him.
A refreshing man | 2
Your adventure in Ashford Meadow starts on a rather interesting way, children lost and new introductions.
Utter Chaos | 3
A new day of celebration ensures a tournament filled with chaos.
The Gods Listen | 4
Accusations are made, conversations take place and your heart cannot help but feel for the innocent.
Misdeeds | 5
Justice is to be made, in the eyes of some. In the eyes of others, it is simple injustice towards those with lesser knowledge. Unfortunately for you, your husband is bound by duty and honor.
A Trial of Madness | 6
Baelor breaks his promise to wake you and let you accompany him, though you do not stay put.
Something to hold on to | 7
Baelor lays fighting death while you stand stubbornly by his side.
Up to the Gods | 8
Your husband finally wakes up from his slumber, though it is brief as he keeps in and out of it.
Not one life but two | 9
The aftermath of learning that your husband doesn't remember you.
A childless mother | 10
A few days ago you had everything; your husband and your baby in your womb, now you have to face a great loss with many eyes on you.
A terrible idea | 11
You refuse to see Baelor, he refuses to see you even when he is starting to remember pieces.
See reason | 12
While they keep you drugged to avoid another incident like the one on the balcony, Valarr and Matarys worry for you. Valarr tries for his father to see reason, Baelor remembers your life together.
A burden to bear | 13
Baelor confronts you, you want nothing to do with him.
Feedback and ideas are always appreciated! I'd love requests for fics and I write (try to) for the characters that are listed in my masterlist!!! Feel free to let me know of any typos and something that I might have missed.
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Pairing: Baelor "Breakspear" Targaryen x f!reader — Lyonel Baratheon x f!reader
Summary: In your youth, you thought you were to marry the King's heir: Baelor Breakspear. Unfortunately, you did not marry, leading to coughing flowers. Years after, you encounter him once again, bringing back a sickness you thought gone. (8.1k)
Content: Hanahaki Disease, a love that can't be, mentions of blood and sickness, yearning, longing, young love, they marry another person, angst with a bit of fluff, No use of Y/N, no physical descriptions of reader.
A/N: Lately I've been too obsessed with Hanahaki Disease and how little you encounter it. The idea was to be a blurb first but I have no control. I included Lyonel cause I've grown attached.
Disclaimer: English is NOT my first language so this may as well be written with my eyes closed and half delusional brain. Hope you enjoy it! NOT PROOF READ AT ALL!!!
Masterlist ✦ Baelor Targaryen Masterlist ✦ Read on A03
𝝑⋆₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚.
Baelor Targaryen, the Crown's Prince and Heir to the Iron Throne. A beautiful, kind, chivalrous man. A man you considered your friend and on whom you were in love with. It was not something you did not see coming, after all, you were quick to form a bond as soon as you met him.
The day you first encountered him was the day of his sixteenth name day, a grand feast thrown in his honor to celebrate the first born son of King Daeron II and Queen Myriah. It never ceased to amaze you how loved he was by his parents, it was not a secret. Any person with a pair of eyes could see the love the King and Queen held for their eldest son and heir. He was their precious boy, that much was clear.
You were just a year younger than him, a highborn Lady of the Realm, yet you could not be more different from him. He was every piece of a Prince; honorable, dutiful, proper, brave, charming. While you were different from him, you still held yourself as any Lady of your station would. You were kind but stern when needed, you valued duty but it was not how your life was leaded by, you were proper enough but you leaned on the wild side.
Baelor found amusement in all of your traits and quirks, claiming you were a very appreciated acquittance to the dull atmosphere of the Court. Whilst you appreciated him as a steady hand that could help you navigate politics.
After seeing the friendship you two held, you were allowed to remain in King's Landing under Queen Myriah's protection. It too was a power play on your father's side, hoping that having you in court would strengthen your family's position or to see if a betrothal could have been made between the Heir to the Throne and you.
You would often attend to any gathering and feast that the Royal Family would throw, almost acting as one of them. The whole court could see, plain as a day, that you were favored by the King and Queen, as well as their sons.
Baelor would try to stick to your side as long as his duties would allow him, finding your company a breath of fresh air in the excruciating atmosphere of said events. He would save you from pestering older Lords while you did the same for him when Ladies were thrown at him by their fathers. You would dance, dine and drink through the night, finding a truthful friendship in midst of a life full of faux pretenses and shallow smiles.
It was safe to say that your friendship was a tight bond, one of the tightest seen in years. Anyone with a pair of eyes could see it. He was your most trusted friend and you were his.
Even when you would deny it to yourself, you had growing feeling for him. Feelings which you were sure, you were not as stealthy and secretive as you wanted to.
You were not sure if Baelor reciprocated your feelings and you were too afraid to ask, rather basking in the comfort of your shared friendship.
It would come to no surprise that, were any of you to have time away from responsibilities, you would be together; talking, walking through the gardens, sharing a meal, riding, reading, or anything that could be done with company.
You would even be there to see him train, book in hand. There was a place already designated for you in the balcony that faced the training yard. Queen Myriah would often join you, supervising her children's training, and keeping you company. She was a second mother for you and it was easy for both of you to enjoy each other's company.
It was almost if you were destined to be, and every day you found yourself falling harder for his mismatched eyes. You were there, in support of him the day of the Tourney where he obtained the name Breakspear by defeating Daemon Blackfire. You were over the moon when he won the tournament, making you more enamored with him.
In your mind, it was almost granted that talks of marriage were being held, no doubt that your father would allow a betrothal to happen between you and Baelor. Well, it was not a secret that the Royal Family had their eyes set on you as a possible match.
Unfortunately, life is does not resemble the fairy tales. Your little bubble was rudely popped one day as you were walking with Baelor by the gardens, talking about mundane matters. You noticed him to be fidgeting, nervous even, while you talked his ear away. It was not unusual for him to play with his rings, but this was more noticeable, worrying you to an extent.
"Is there something amiss, my Prince?" you asked him when you noticed him not paying attention.
"Pardon?" He asked, snapping out of his head.
You repeated your question, looking at him with a mix of worry and teasing.
"Oh" Baelor shook his head "I apologize, my head is completely elsewhere. Boring matters, in all honesty"
Blinking at him, you stayed silent for a moment, analyzing him “Are you certain, my Lord?"
He nodded "Yes. Matters of the Kingdom and the many burdens I must bear”
You smiled at him “Oh, poor Prince Baelor" you teased "so burdened”
He matched your smile, his kind mismatched eyes bright with amusement "Indeed, poor me. You mock me, my Lady, though I cannot find it in me to hold resentment for it"
“I must consider myself lucky, then" you giggled, feeling at easy any time he was around.
"Oh, I believe I am the lucky one, my Lady, to have the honor of your company" His words were kind and chivalrous as usual, though you could not shake the feeling that something was amiss.
Narrowing your eyes, you stared at him for a few seconds, trying to decipher what was in his mind. Looking around, you noticed that you found yoursleves alone, in a far end of the garden.
"May we take a seat, my Prince?" You asked him, though it did not sound like a suggestion.
He nodded, guiding you towards the concrete bank, allowing you to sit first before sitting himself.
“Now, we are alone." you said firmly, looking the side of his face and how his jaw was clenched “I wish for you to be honest, unburden and speak to me, my Prince” you pleaded "What is it that has you so pensive?”
He sighed, his shoulders dropping. “Something is burdening me, indeed, I cannot lie to you”
You tilted your head in curiosity “Then do not lie, you know I am your friend"
He then looked at you, his eyes shining with something you could not quite place "You are” he said firmly “Mainly the reason why I find myself lost in my own head”
You frowned at his words “Then I am responsible for your silence, my Prince”
He was quick to shook his head "Not in that way” he quickly reassured you "I have a quite difficult information to share with you and I find myself lost on how to do it"
You put your hand over his, trying to offer some kind of comfort "There is nothing you cannot say to me, my Prince”
He closed his eyes, apparently reluctant to say whatever he needed to.
You frowned, it was unusual of him to stay silent or be at a loss of words. "Baelor?" you dared call him by his first name.
“Don't" he choked out, filled with sentiment “It is hard enough for me to articulate without you calling me by name"
You blinked in shock at his tone, it was not harsh but it was not kind either. Something was really wrong.
“My Prince—"
"I will marry Lady Jena Dondarrion” he all but blurted out.
You felt the air knocked out of your lungs. You were expecting everything out of his lips. Everything but that.
“I do not think I heard you right, my Prince" you choked out, your voice sounded foreign to your own ears.
He lowered his head, looking at the ground under him "You heard me, my Lady” he whispered “Please do not make me repeat myself"
“But—" your tongue twisted “I thought we were supposed to get married?”
He sighed heavily “It was never consolidated" he said solemnly “Your father did not agree with a betrothal between us in the talks with my father, leaving the King to seek for another match that can benefits the realm"
“Please tell me you are jesting, my Prince" you begged, wiping your sweaty hands on your skirts.
"I am afraid I am not jesting, my Lady” he murmured, still not meeting your eyes.
You bit your lip, afraid to utter your feelings the wrong way, you could not do that to your parents, you must be strong and indifferent, even when your eyes stung with tears.
“What is going to happen to me?" you tried to find his gaze, though he was avoiding it.
He exhaled sharply “My parents are working with yours to find you a fine match. They will find someone worthy for you to marry, you shan't worry"
“Yet I find myself worrying" you spat bitterly. “This is not fair!”
“It is not" he nodded “Sadly, this is how politics work”
You could not believe him, he was acting so… distant and cold, completely opposite of how he had been moments before. It was as if he had changed in the blink of an eye.
“Would you be honest with me?" you demanded him, a little harsh that you usually would talk to him.
You saw him gulp before allowing his eyes to met yours finally “Yes"
Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself "I am afraid I have fallen for you” you confessed "I love you, my Prince. Do you love me?”
You could hear your heart beating while you waited for his answer.
One beat, two beats, three beats. Yet he said nothing.
“Say something!" your voice raised.
His body tensed instantly, his eyes becoming closed off and distant. "It is better if we carry ourselves with politeness, my Lady"
Standing up, you out distance between you “You cannot mean it"
He stood up too, his face not showing anything "I wish for you to find the love you deserve in a decent man, my Lady"
Your eyes sting with unshed tears, yet you would not show yourself weak in front of him now. “May I be excused, Prince Baelor?" you spat at him, your words cold and broken.
The slightest hint of emotion flickered in his eyes before disappearing "Yes, my Lady"
As you started to walk away his words stopped you for a second, your steps faltering.
His throat bobbed before he mustered courage enough to look at you, yet you did not turn to meet his gaze. "I apologize, my Lady, for getting your hopes up with something that cannot be. It is not how I expected things to go" Those words, leaving his lips, felt like someone has punched all the air out of your lungs.
His apology and the heaviness which with he spoke served to put the last stone to the tomb to your heart. Baelor was not a man who would show vulnerability in front of others, his station did not allow it.
“I am sorry I was fool enough to believe in a fairy tail" were your words before you continued to leave from those gardens that before held precious moments and now held heartbreaking ones.
You did not rush to your chambers, though it was all your heart desired; to find yourself in the comfort of your rooms so you could let your emotions consume you.
Your chest was hurting and your throat was raspy, as if something wanted to crawl out of it. You thought it merely being your heartbreak demonstrating you just how much it could feel, how much it could make you feel.
As soon as you closed the door after you, a fit of coughs rocked your body, violently heaving while air seemed to be taken forcefully from your chest. It was painful and never ending, your back arching in pain while you coughed into your hands. Eventually, it subdued, leaving just behind a sore throat while you heaved, trying to get air to your lungs. When you glanced down at your hands, you froze.
There, in your hands, were three petals. Wet with saliva and a trace of blood. Three pink petals.
Pink Camellias
You were no stranger to flowers and their meaning, it was actually one of your greatest passion while growing up, learning and caring for flowers.
Pink Camellias were known for their meaning; missing someone, longing and yearning. All of them resembling a love that cannot be.
But, coughing them? That was new, you have not heard of anything like it before. But you knew who would.
You wrote to your mother, asking if she had heard of anything resembling, and sent a raven to her, hoping and praying for a quick response.
𝝑⋆₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚.
The Flower Disease
That is what your mother had called it. She simply stated in her letter that you must make haste in returning home, as the reason for your flowers was in King's Landing.
She also told you to not say anything to anyone. It was your secret to keep and to stay away from the one your heart cried for. Stay away from Baelor.
After the whole endeavour, your father asked for you to return home in half a moon's time, though it would be too long for you personally. Petals kept crawling up your throat every time he was near.
To make matters worse, his soon-to-be wife was near to arrive, you did not think your heart would be strong enough to see them together.
You asked the King and Queen to depart before the established time and they agreed when they saw your pale and hollow expression. They merely thought that it was too painful for you to keep in a place that was no longer yours, and they were somewhat right.
You were ready to go back to your home a week before it was already planned, trying to avoid Baelor at any cost, though it was proving to be an easy task. He was avoiding you too.
On your last night in King's Landing, it was insisted that you broke supper with the Royal Family. It would be a heartwarming scene, were not this your goodbye from a place you so longed to call home.
King Daeron was sitting at the head of the table, Queen Myriah on his right, Baelor in his left. The place you would usually occupy in the table— by Baelor's side— was not occupied by his youngest brother, Maekar. It left you to sit in between Queen Myriah and Aerys.
The air was heavy with something too painful to describe, it was as if everyone was feeling your departure as much as you were. The tightness in your chest was growing every minute, along with the itching crawling up your throat, though you managed to not cough.
You could feel Baelor's gaze in you now and then, but you chose to ignore it. It would do any of you any good to keep clinging into something that cannot be.
Supper passed very uneventful, except for everyone's long faces. They knew you were parting in the morrow and they would lose someone very loved, someone they considered a part of them. A daughter, a sister, a future.
When you were back in your room, readying for bed, it all felt surreal. You were about to leave behind a life you thought you would have, it was a biter realization.
You stared at the petals you had coughed as soon as you were in the safeness of your chambers. They were weird enough, a flower that could not grow little beyond winter, and not in King's Landing, yet it was growing inside you, trying to choke you with it.
𝝑⋆₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚.
A noise woke you from your slumber. Startled, you sat in the bed, looking around in fright. In a corner there it was, the shadow of a man, standing next to, what seemingly was a hidden door. Maybe it was your still not awake state or the fact that you were growing frightened what had you opening your mouth to scream for a guard.
"Do not scream, my Lady"
Shit. That was Baelor's voice.
"Baelor?"
"Yes" he said, stepping into clarity, for you to see him.
"You cannot be here!" you said as soon as you processed that he was in your chambers "Leave!"
He took another towards you, but he looked… out of him. Stumbling slightly. "Would you deny me to see you?" he slurred softly.
He's drunk.
"This is not proper and you are not sober, my Prince"
He laughed bitterly "Since when have you spoke to me so formally?"
You felt your throat growing itchy "Since I found out you are betrothed"
His face fell, his shoulders tensing. It made you look older whenever he would put on that facade. "I did not ask for any betrothed but you"
"It does not matter. Not anymore" you responded composedly, trying to hold back into coughing violently.
For a few moments, you stayed silent, staring into each other's eyes.
He was the first to talk "I do not wish for you to go"
"Would you prefer I would stay here and watch you get married? Form a family?" you shook your head "We must accept we are not destined to be"
"Do not say that" He crooked out.
"It is the truth, Prince Baelor"
"Do not call me that. Call me as you used to do" he begged you, his eyes bloodshot.
"I cannot. I am to leave tomorrow and we will not see each other again" your voice was firm, even when this interaction was tearing you apart.
"My love—"
"Don't" you cut him off. "Save your honey words for your future wife. She deserves to be cherished and loved, not only a duty"
He muttered your name, his heart breaking.
You shook your head "Do not make this more difficult as it already is"
"Do not go." he said suddenly "I can plead father to allow me to marry you, I would find a way to convince your father. We can elope, we can run away—"
"Baelor, stop" you smiled at him sadly "there are implications bigger than us, were we to do any of the sort"
"I do not care—"
"But you will, some day. The regret and more would come to you sooner than later, I know you" your voice was soft.
"It would be worth it" he murmured, his words unconvinced.
Standing up, you made your way to him, hugging him "It will all be alright. You will marry the woman that has been chosen for you, you will respect and love her, have children and become, eventually, a wonderful King"
He sniffled, wrapping his arms tightly around you "I only want you by my side"
"We cannot be, maybe in another life" you whispered, fighting against the urge to cough.
You could feel the vines wrapping around your lungs, the petals trying to fight their way out.
"Maybe in another life" he conceded, kissing your forehead before separating himself from you.
He sent a sad smile on your way before turning and leaving the way he came from.
You were able to hold your coughs for a couple of seconds before dropping to the floor on your knees, coughing pink petals violently. This time they were complete flowers, not just petals.
Your sickness had a name, one that was too painful to name, yet you could never forget.
Baelor Targaryen
𝝑⋆₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚.
You left King's Landing the very next day, among goodbye and tears, yet Baelor did not show. He could not, it was too painful.
He never said it out loud, but he did held feelings, yet he had a duty.
It was for the best, you convinced yourself. You were sure, was he to show his face for a last goodbye, you would have spit so many flowers to populate the Red Keep's gardens.
When you arrived at your home it was with open arms and consoling words, your mother quickly assuring you everything would be fine, yet you were skeptical.
She took you to see a witch, one that was presumably an expert on said disease that haunted you. The witch took one glance at you and nodded, a knowing hum leaving her lips. With a gentle explanation she told you that your sickness was indeed tied to the man you loved and the fact that you could not be together.
She gave you three options; hoping that with time and distance it would go away, drinking a potion that would erase him from your mind and heart altogether or simply let it consume you and, after a while, die.
You choose the first one, after all, you doubted you would ever return to King's Landing. There was nothing waiting for you there.
The pain in your chest and the petals ceased as soon as you were far enough, focusing in your tasks at hand rather than focusing on the man you loved.
Months passed, news of his marriage with Lady Jena Dondarrion were heard from all across the Kingdom. Your parents, as Highborn Lord and Lady were invited, of course they went, leaving you at home.
A few years passed, and along with news of his first-born entering this world, there were also news of your engagement with a Lord. Or at least the son of a Lord.
Lyonel Baratheon. The laughing Storm.
As soon as you met him you realized he was a good man, an eccentric one, but alas good. He was a true gentleman, chivalrous and polite. His charming personality was one of the things you enjoyed. Your parents saw fit the alliance; he was to be the next Lord of Storm's End, you were a highborn Lady. It was a match made in heaven.
You were married a year into your betrothal, and you married in love with your husband. He always made you feel loved as well, he was a supportive man who enjoyed a little bit of freedom. You quickly adapted to Storm's End, even when it was a drastic change for you.
𝝑⋆₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚.
Years passed and you learned to navigate your life, with your husband and children. It was a fulfilling life, full of love and warmth.
The thoughts of him would pop in your head now and then, wondering how he would be doing, every time you would heard of him, of his sons and his family's achievements. You were happy for him, happy for the life he built.
Those pink camellias were not longer reminding you of the love that could not be, the last time you saw them — being spat by you— was before leaving King's Landing behind. Though every winter you would care for a little bush of them in your Glass Garden, one that Lyonel built for you.
Eventually into your marriage, your husband pried the truth out of you, making you confess about what had transpired between you and Baelor. He was at peace with it, so were you. He knew about the sickness that threatened you back then, but in his face was no jealousy when Baelor would be mentioned as he was aware the man still held a place in your heart.
When your oldest daughter's eighteen name day was nearing, your husband received a letter with the Targaryen sigil. It was coming from King Daeron II, asking for your family to join them in King's Landing for a short stay. Apparently, they wanted to see if your daughter would make a good enough match for Prince Valarr— Baelor's firstborn son— and talk about a possible betrothal.
Your first reaction was to say no, forbidding Lyonel to answer with a positive answer, you did not want to have anything to do with the Royal House. He allowed you to get it all out of your system, knowing your story with them. After long days of talking it over and over, you agreed. You were aware that you could not refuse the Royal Family, it would be a bad political move. Lyonel assured you that traveling there would not mean an immediate engagement. The visit was to talk it over, see if the Prince and your daughter would be a match, negotiate if necessary, but your hand— or your daughter's— would not be forced.
To say you were not anxious would be a lie. You were to visit a place that you once thought it was to be your home. You were to see people who loved you and whom you loved. And, of course, see Baelor.
The following days of preparations Lyonel would find you staring into nothing, lost in thought, something that would worry him. He was well aware that this would be hard for you, but you were personally required, after all, the both of you were the head of your House.
A few days before parting for King's Landing, Lyonel found you in your Glass Garden, tending to your many flowers, a piece of your old home he managed to get built for you.
"I do think those flowers are drowning, my Darling" his voice cut the silence you found yourself in.
"Lyonel!" you brought a hand to your chest, trying to stabilize your jumping heart "I do not like when you sneak up on me!"
He chuckled softly, moving to hug you by the waist "I could never dare, Darling. Though you were lost in your own mind" he said softly, tapping your forehead gently.
"I was tending to my flowers" you murmured back, swatting his hand away.
His grin grew, falling into that easy rhythm you had perfected over shared years. "You were drowning them"
With a huff, you separated yourself from him "Is pestering me all you came to do here?"
Lyonel feigned to be hurt by your words "You hurt me, my beautiful wife, I came here to grant you my company"
You sighed softly, rubbing your forehead "I apologize, Dear" regret laced your words "I have been feeling… volatile"
"Volatile" He mulled over the word. "I would refer to it as rather… temperamental"
With a roll of your eyes, you turned to tend to your flowers once again, as you knew he was right about you being temperamental.
"Darling" he said softly "Look at me"
You did, meeting his kind brown eyes with yours. He moved closer, his hands rubbing your arms in a comforting manner.
"What is tormenting that beautiful head?" He asked in a whisper "I do not like when you seem stressed. You should not be stressed"
You sighed softly "You very well known what is tormenting me"
"It will all be fine, Darling. It's been years" He tried his best to soothe you.
"What if it's — if I am not fine?" you asked him, voice shaking "What if it comes back and I choke to death?"
"I would never allow for that to happen" He brought you closer, hugging you to his chest, looking down at you.
"It is not something you or I can control. I chose what I chose back then because I never thought I would see him again, but to have our children marry? That is a completely different matter" you voiced your worries to your husband.
He hummed softly "It might have gone away, Darling. It has been more than 20 years since you last saw him"
"I do not think it is that simple, Lyonel" you murmured.
"What do you want to do? I could take our daughter by myself to King's Landing" He suggested, trying to ease your mind.
You shook your head "The letter was clear, we both must go to King's Landing. It is not something we can avoid"
"Alright, then we will go but we turn around the moment you do not feel comfortable" He said firmly, his grip tightening.
"Alright" you nodded softly "Thank you, Lyonel"
He kissed your forehead lovingly "You do not have anything to thank me for, Darling"
𝝑⋆₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚.
Lyonel, your daughter and you parted for King's Landing in the following days, deciding it would be faster and better to travel by sea. It was not your favorite form of travel but it would have to do.
It was, pretty much, an uneventful journey. Except that, for most of it, you kept feeling nauseous, the tide's movement not helping you.
Lyonel would glance at you worriedly most of the time, even helping you hold your hair if it got as bad as emptying your stomach.
Funny enough, a journey that was filling you with dread and bitterness, was full of excitement and awe for your daughter. She has always been the dreaming type, wanting to find love in a honorable and kind man, and you knew that Baelor's son could provide her of that. Deep down you knew that any child raised by him could only be the very image of honor, duty, gentleness and chivalry.
After seven days of travel by sea, you arrived at King's Landing, where the weather was heavy with heat, different from Storm's End.
It took you a while to get to the Red Keep yet it felt a lot longer for you. You kept fidgeting with your hands, anxiety crawling up your spine. Lyonel would try to take your mind off of it, to no avail, and he was growing concerned with every passing minute.
When the carriage stopped, you could only take deep breaths, trying to calm your racing heart. You were waiting on your names to be presented to exit the carriage.
Seeing your worried demeanor, Lyonel joined your foreheads "Easy, Darling. Breathe, I'm here with you"
You did as he instructed, nodding "Alright"
"…Lord Lyonel Baratheon, his Lady wife and daughter" you heard someone say.
"Time for the show" Lyonel murmured with a grin before exiting the carriage.
He waited for you there, hand extended to help you down. Trying to look presentable, you ran your palms on your gown before taking his hand.
The first thing you saw as soon as your eyes adapted to the light was the King and Queen. They looked older, but as kind as composed as ever. By their side there were more people whom you refuse to glance at, avoiding your eyes trailing to look for Baelor.
When your daughter joined you, you made your way towards the Royal family. As soon as you were a few steps from them, both you and your daughter curtsy in respect.
"Rise, my Dear" said King Daeron "You do not need such formality with us, you know better"
You smiled softly at him, "My King" you turned to look at Queen Myriah "My Queen"
Queen Myriah surged forward, wrapping you into a hug. "It has been too long, my Dear"
You nodded, a smile adorning your face "Indeed. It has"
King Daeron asked for your attention and you joined your husband and daughter. "Allow me to introduce my Good-daughter; Lady Jena Dondarrion."
You made your greetings and you are not a fool to see that she was beautiful and graceful. No doubt she would be a great Queen.
"And my grandsons; Prince Valarr and Prince Matarys" said King Daeron.
The young princes were a mix of their parents; Valarr resembling Baelor— he looked like him when he was younger, he even had the same mismatched eyes—, Matarys resemblance leaned more towards his mother— same red hair, same eyes.
After making your introductions, Valarr asked you and Lyonel if he would be allowed to take your daughter for a walk through the gardens. You agreed and Lyonel said that he would chaperone them to allow you to catch up with the Queen and King.
"Call for me if you need me" he whispered to you, waiting until you nodded before trailing behind the young ones.
You watched them go, lost in thought. A hand settling in your arm snapped you out of your thoughts.
"They will be alright, my Dear" Queen Myriah tried to soothe your worries.
You smiled at them, nodding. "It is hard to see one's child go"
Both the Queen and King nodded while Jena looked at you with sympathy. You shared the rest of your afternoon with them until Jena excused herself to go tend to her duties, leaving you alone with the pair who would have been your good-parents.
"I see you are happy and well cared for, my Dear" King Daeron said, a trace of parental love laced in his voice.
You smiled, thinking of your life "I am, Your Grace. Lyonel is a good man, he treats me right"
A gentle smile adorned both of their faces. "You have not asked about Baelor" noted the King.
You shook your head "I know the Prince must be occupied if he was not there to receive whom possibly would be his Good-daughter"
"He is, indeed" Queen Myriah nodded, a sad smile on her face "Though I believe he was not ready to see you"
You took a deep breath, trying to keep calm "It is not something you can prepare yourself for" you paused for a few seconds before continuing "May I ask, Your Grace, who suggested my daughter for a possible betrothal?"
"It was me" King Daeron said sheepishly "It seemed a good enough idea, after all, we know any daughter of yours will be just as splendid as you, my Dear"
His words made your face break into a smile. It was for everyone to see, the care and love they still held for you, even after all those years.
“Oh, so it is my replacement you look for?" playfully, you told them. They took no offense, knowing and appreciating your witt.
They laughed softly “We are looking for a wonderful match and a future Queen" King Daeron took a sip of his wine “You quickly came to mind, my Dear."
With a contemplating hum, you smiled softly “I do not know if I am ready to be this far from my daughter" you shook your head “I do not think Lyonel would accept to give our only daughter in marriage and have her as far"
Queen Myriah put a hand over yours "We understand and we only intend to see how well they connect, hands are not going to be forced, my Dear”
You sighed in relief "Thank you, Your Grace”
King Daeron stood up, fixing his clothes “I apologize, I have a small council meeting to attend to, my Dear" he smiled at you “Shall I see you and your family at supper?"
You stood up, curtsying "Of course, Your Grace”
He smiled before leaving you in company of her wife. Queen Myriah's eyes were quick to set on you, now free to talk about anything.
“Baelor is furious about this whole ordeal" She blurted out.
“Pardon?"
"He claimed you need not to be bothered” she continued, looking at you with a twinkle in her eye "That you were living your life and this… reunion might make you uncomfortable”
"Is he happy?” you asked instead, shifting the conversion.
Queen Myriah hummed “I believe he is achieved comfort and he loves his family"
You smiled softly “That is all I could wish for him"
She gave you a look, as if she was analyzing you "Are you happy?”
“I am happy" with a nod, you confirmed “Lyonel is a loving husband and father, he bends to my every whim and does not hold anything against me" you chuckled “He was willing to deny the King in order to bring me comfort and avoid me any stress"
She smiled at you, happy that you had found someone to love you just how you deserved “I am glad to hear it, my dear. Indeed a man in love with his wife"
Your talk was cut short when she was called away, having to tend to her matters but not before you assured her that you and your family would break supper with them.
𝝑⋆₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚.
“It all be alright, Darling” Lyonel’s hands run up and down your arms in an attempt to calm you.
"You should think me such and ungrateful wife, Lyonel” you murmured softly, ashamed.
A hum left his lips "Whatever can you mean?”
“You are here, trying to console me while I fret about seeing him even after years of us being married" you murmured, feeling beyond guilty.
Lyonel looked for your eyes “None of that. You are a great wife, my Darling" he said firmly “Answer me this, you fret about still being in love with him?"
"No” you answered quickly “I have made my peace with the way our lives are"
He started caressing your face "Then what is the problem?”
“I am not entirely sure The flower disease is gone, Lyonel" you whispered and it was true. The witch had told you it could go away with distance and time but it did not meant it would disappear.
He sighed softly "Promise me you will not get upset”
Uh-oh, he only muttered those words when he had done something you would get upset to.
"Lyonel” you said firmly.
“I went to see a witch before we parted from Storm's End" he said softly “I explained her about your disease and she gave me a potion, merely to be safe”
You stared at him in silence for a few moments “The potion would make me forget everything about him, yes?"
He nodded solemnly "Yes, if you were to cough up flowers as you did all those years ago, the potions would erase him from your memory and would start drying the flowers growing in your lungs"
Lyonel was not a jealous man, he was aware he was your husband as well as he knew Baelor had been part of your past, something that made it you. He would not change anything, but if your life was at risk, he would not stand idle watching.
You threw yourself at his arms, hugging him "Thank you” you murmured against his chest.
He chuckled softly, surprised “What for, darling?"
"For always taking care of me and for being so comprehensive with the situation at hand”
He kissed your head “Always, Darling. Always"
…
While you walked with your daughter and husband towards the Hall where you would break supper in company of the Royal Family, you could not help but notice the dreamy expression on your daughter's face. She was impressed by Prince Valarr, you could see it in her face. It was most likely she would say yes, were he to ask for her hand.
You were happy for her, you knew it was not love but it was hope, something precious at that age.
Entering the Hall, you held your breath, Baelor could be already there. And he was, along with his family and The King and Queen. You were greeted by everyone and you knew this time, you could not run. Baelor, along with Jena and their son, made their way to you.
“Lord Baratheon" Baelor nodded at him before his eyes found you. “Lady Baratheon"
When his eyes set on you, it was as if time had slowed down, you do not know how long you were staring into each other's eyes, but you forced your gaze away from his.
Both you and your daughter curtsied, as it was proper. “Prince Baelor” you muttered, your heart threatening to jump out of your chest.
“Thank you for accepting our proposal" He was now looking at Lyonel, forcing his gaze to stay away from you.
Your husband shook his head "We could have not refused the King”
“Still, we appreciate it" Baelor said, as proper as ever "Now, let us eat”
Lyonel nodded, allowing your daughter to walk in front of you. “Are you alright?" he whispered into your ear.
"So far so good” you smiled softly at him.
Dinner went by pretty uneventful, though you could feel Baelor's gaze on you now and then. It was shocking, to be honest, seeing him after all those years, after all that had happened. He looked different, older, but he was still him. Still his dark hair, his mismatched eyes, his strong posture.
Lyonel kept checking in on you through the dinner, waiting for the slightest signal that something was wrong, yet you did not feel any different.
After the King and Queen excused themselves, only both of your families were left, talking unofficially of what could possibly happen between both of your children.
That's when you felt it, a little tickle in the back of your throat, almost unmistakable for something else. It was something you had not felt since you left King's Landing, but you knew it all too well.
You tried to relax, not letting it affect you. Maybe it was a simple sore throat. Maybe it was indeed what had haunted you ever since you stepped foot into the Red Keep.
Without being able to help it, you coughed softly into your hand, something so small that you could have hid it as clearing your throat. Lyonel's gaze snapped at you, looking at you worriedly.
“I'm alright” you whispered with a smile, taking a sip of wine.
His eyes stayed in yours a few moments before nodding and going back to the conversation. You could feel something trying to crawl up your throat and you well knew what it was.
You hoped it had gone away, but then again, the Gods wanted to see you suffer, most likely.
Excusing yourself, you reassured Lyonel he should stay a little longer while you went to rest, saying you were too tired from your earlier travels. He stayed entertaining Baelor and his wife reluctantly, he could not leave the conversation midway and he knew that you would have tell him to go with you if you needed. And he would've dropped anything without a care should you need him.
As soon as you found yourself alone, you could not hold back anymore, coughing until a petal stared back at you, as if it was laughing at your naivety.
Of course it had not gone away, you had been warned that this could happen and your worse fear became true. You had to get out of King's Landing soon.
Later, Lyonel entered your shared chambers stumbling slightly. You had seen it coming, he drinking a little too much, as he love to do. He smiled widely at you when he saw you, making his way to kiss the top of your head.
You smiled at him, this was not the time to talk to him, you would have to wait for the next day to come. This was something you should tell him when he was sober.
𝝑⋆₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚.
When next morning came you rose early, while your husband kept sleeping, as usual when he would drink.
You decided to clear your mind, taking a walk in the gardens of the Red Keep, gardens that you spent a lot of time in your younger years.
It was a bittersweet feeling, reminiscing about what your life was back then and how have you got where you are now.
The raspiness on your throat had not gone away, persisting and reminding you that it was indeed there. You just hoped Lyonel would not take too long to wake up so you could make a decision.
You stopped by a bush of flowers, a colorful one that you used to love back when you lived in the Capital. Lost in thought, you missed to notice the presence looming near you, watching.
“I remember well that you loved those flowers" A voice cut the silence behind you.
In freight, you turned around with a hand over your chest, where your heart was beating overtime. There you saw the responsible for your scare. "Prince Baelor’
He offered you a polite smile. “Lady Baratheon"
You returned his smile, though yours was a bit more forced. "It feels strange to hear you calling me that” you confessed.
“It is, isn't it?" His chuckle was light, his eyes shining with something close to nostalgia.
You started to feel a tightness in your chest along with the scrape of your throat, though you forced yourself to stay idle.
"I see you are well, my Lady” He commented, his hands behind his back.
You nodded, clearing your throat before answering him "Indeed I am, my Prince” you smiled softly “You are too"
He nodded softly “I am, my Lady" he hesitated a moment before speaking “Does he treat you well?"
A smile pulled at your lips without thinking "He treats me like I am his whole world”
"You do not deserve any less” His voice was kind, laced with longing.
Your throat was itching more and more by the minute.
"It seems we are going to be family after all” Taking a deep breath, you muttered.
“It seems so" His eyes were looking at you intensely “Who would have thought?"
Silence reigned for a moment while you gathered your thoughts. "Prince Valarr, he would respect my daughter, right?”
He was kick to agree, nodding "Of course, he is a gentleman, my Lady. I assure you, should they marry, your daughter would be treated as she deserves"
A relieved sigh left your lips "Good. That is good” you said in a raspy voice, trying too hard to not cough. "I would have expected nothing less from your child”
A comfortable silence set upon your words, longing and nostalgia flooding his mismatched gaze, thinking of what could have been.
Do not cough. Do not cough.
He tilted his head "Are you feeling alright, my Lady?”
"I am quite—” before you could finish your sentence, a fit of coughs rocked through you. Quickly turning from him, you tried to hide the petals falling in your hands.
“My Lady…” He got closer, putting a hand on your back.
"Do not” you choked out "I shall leave”
He could not utter another word before you stormed out of the gardens.
You pushed through the pain and coughs while you ran towards the safety of your chambers. You needed your husband.
Lyonel was sitting on a chair, nursing a goblet of wine when you found him. Upon seeing you and the state in which you arrived, he was quick to stand up, knocking the goblet to the floor.
“Darling? Darling, whatever is wrong?" He said, holding you by the shoulders while the coughs wrecked your body.
You wheezed before being able to utter a single word, showing him the petals in your hands instead.
His expression paled instantly. "Fuck. Alright, we need to give you the potion”
He was quick to stand, making a beeline for his belongings, rummaging through to find the vial with the potion.
“Lyonel…” you choked out “I am— what if—"
He shushed you softly, ushering you into a chair while he knelt in front of you "I know you are afraid, I know you might not want to forget your memories of him but my paramount now is you are safe and sound"
You opened your mouth to say something, resulting in a choked sound as more coughs rocked your body, spitting now complete flowers.
Lyonel offered you the vial once again, he was insistent. “We knew this could happen, Darling"
A few seconds passed while you stared into the worried eyes or your husband, you knew he was right, you had to drink it and forget all about your young love. You could feel the vines wrapping tightly around your lungs, everything that you hoped it had gone away all those years ago was crashing down on you now.
You allowed yourself to think about everything that you had lived with him, his eyes and the young love you shared.
Goodbye, Baelor.
Giving your husband a nod, he brought the vial to your lips, helping you drinking it. He held you while your memories of Baelor started to vanish, along with the vines and flowers in your chest.
Hours later, you had forgotten everything about your past with the Prince, leaving everything you shared with him behind.
do not copy, reupload, translate or feed to artificial intelligence.
🀢 Storms and Dragons - You sneak away for one reckless night of freedom, only to wake in the bed of Lyonel Baratheon— who is now very much besotted with you.
🀣 Lyonel's drunk wife who is fascinated by Dunk's height
🀤 Settle This Like Stags!
🀥 Name the Riches - Lyonel plays a game of provocation to stir some audacity in his newlywed wife, but she is quick to catch up after realizing the position she holds. Lord Baratheon’s assurances that he is not a jealous man turn out to be dramatically untrue.
🀢 Faint Memory, Promising Pathways - Lord Baratheon is too occupied with the presence of his darling wife to follow his companions. He claims to remember the way… Well, nature isn't so bad, after all, then why not spend the whole day away from the castle?
🀣 Fair Trading - The fierceness of a storm and dornish habits don’t seem to match each other very well, but perhaps Lyonel Baratheon is not that much of a true abrupt stormlander. Or maybe it’s just that you, a princess of Dorne, can find it in your heart to accept such a stormlander as your man.
🀤 Baby Built Like a Fortress - Lyonel Baratheon had announced the birth of your child like a victory won in battle.
🀥 His Drunk Lady - Lyonel witnessing his wife getting drunk for the first time.
🀢 Wearing a revealing nightgown after an argument / being apart
🀣 Another knight crowning you
🀤 Spice tolerance
🀥 How they’d react to you hold their face within your hands, claiming you could hold all that you hold dear within them
🀢 Lose My Mind - The things you do to cause these men to lose their absolute minds.
🀣 W.A.P. - When various characters are magically transported to the modern world, you take them to the mall in your car. Halfway there, Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion's "WAP" comes on shuffle. Your phone is locked and you're driving, so they are forced to endure the entire song.
🀤 Godzilla, King of the Monsters - In which you show them Godzilla and tell them it's a real story.
🀥 Rollercoasters & theme parks - In which you bring them to a theme park.
🀢 She's My Wife - After dunk mistakes you for lyonel’s daughter, your husband notices how much the hedge knight seems to like you, so he offers him to spend a night with both of you—poor dunk doesn't know if he's being serious or if it's just a cruel joke, either way, he's down for it!
🀣 Fight for the Hand
🀤 Being your lover while you’re in an unhappy marriage
🀥 Like Father, Like Son - When you give birth to a son, everyone can tell how much he resembles your husband. Everyone, apparently, except his father.
🀢 Replica - After giving your husband several sons, you finally give birth to a daughter who is an exact replica of you.
🀣 Safeguarding Peace - You finally begin to feel safe and happy after a politically advantageous marriage to your husband. Of course, your father has to dampen it during a visit.
🀤 From Fawn to Stag - Unbeknownst to you, your husband has allowed your freshly six-and-ten son to enter the lists at The Tourney of Stonehelm.
🀥 Cryptic Pregnancy - How they react to your cryptic pregnancy.
🀢 Resting Bitch Face - How they react to your resting bitch face.
🀣 A Younger Them - How they react to you looking so fondly at their younger selves.
🀢 Wine, Women and Wonderful Vices - You decided tonight was the night to loosen up and ride a stag...
🀣 The Hunt - “Set yourself free in the forest and I will do nothing but hunt and eat you all day”
🀤 Checkmate - Baratheons are famously stubborn and prideful, and to make matters worse, a particular Baratheon called Lyonel married a woman after his own heart, much to the misfortune of all around them.
🀥 Bedding Ceremony - It's your honeymoon with your husband, lyonel. both inexperienced in this to a certain extent, but desire was often enough when lack of practice was the problem...
🀢 Fire in My Heart - Lord Lyonel Baratheon and his beloved wife become taken with the same night he'd met nights ago, offering him company in their friendship and their bed.
🀣 Being walked in on with their s/o
🀤 The Helm Stays On! - lyonel baratheon's pretty little wife can't get enough of her storm lord. when her need for him grows teeth in the middle of a highgarden celebration, she's wroth to leave it. but lyonel would give you anything you wanted, including stuffing you full beneath your skirts right there at the head table for all to see.
🀥 Holding the antlers while you ride him
🀢 Spinster - (II) - His pov - What if reader returned home before the scandal? - His pov - What if reader saved him instead? - Reader makes the first move - Jealous husband - Mornings in bed - Reader not realising she is being flirted with + defending husband - Reader is super competent and that really turns her husband on
