Just A Fanfic Author

The library of Storm’s End is quieter than the rest of the castle, which makes it the perfect location to spend a few hours relaxing while you’re visiting.

The thick stone walls keep out the worst of the wind, which has already picked up again. Shelves line the room from floor to ceiling, heavy with books that smell of old parchment and dust. Moreover, a ladder leans against one shelf, and a large window lets in pale afternoon light.

You trail your fingers along the spins, searching for something that catches your interest, when suddenly footsteps echo behind you.

However, you don’t turn at first, becoming very familiar with the sound of that stride. But what reaches you before anything else and forces a reaction out of you is the scent.

Soap.

“You washed up good,” you say, glancing over your shoulder, smiling before your eyes even meet his. “I can smell the soap from here. Lavender. Good choice.”

Lyonel grins as he steps beside you, broad and smug and entirely too pleased with himself. You notice how his dark hair is still slightly damp, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all. “Only the best for the future Lady of Storm’s End.”

You huff a laugh and shake your head. “You shouldn’t call me that. Firstly, because you’re not the Lord of Storm’s End yet. Secondly, my father hasn’t agreed to the union yet. He probably hasn’t even received the raven.”

“Oh, he will agree,” Lyonel says easily.

You raise a brow. “And what makes you so sure?”

He gestures to himself dramatically. “I’m a catch.”

You snort and swat his arm lightly. “You’re arrogant. That’s what you are.”

“Confident,” he corrects.

Shaking your head, knowing that there is no getting through him, you turn back to the shelves, though a small smile lingers. He isn’t entirely wrong. He is a catch. The future Lord of Storm’s End… strong, respected, and stubborn as the storm itself.

And yet… when you think of marrying into House Baratheon, it isn’t the title that warms your chest.

It’s him.

Finally, you pull out a book that looks promising and flip it open, scanning the first lines. You’re already immersed in the story, when you hear Lyonel shift beside you. He’s leaning back against the shelves, arms crossed. “Is that your plan for today?”

“Sure thing,” you reply, turning a page. “I enjoy reading very much.”

“Mm.” The sound is neutral, but you feel it. It’s like Lyonel is already buzzing at the mere thought of spending hours in the library reading about all different kinds of topics from history to politics. After all Lyonel Baratheon isn’t made for quiet studies.

“You don’t have to stay,” you say, glancing up at him before moving to one of the comfortable chairs near the window. You settle into it and open the book again. Properly this time. “I’ll survive on my own.”

Lyonel pushes off the shelf and follows anyway, dropping into the chair beside yours with a heavy exhale. “I’d be a terrible host if I left my guest alone.”

You lift the book slightly. “You’re never truly alone with a good book. Don’t worry.”

For a moment neither you nor Lyonel speaks, and you’re wondering what he’s going to do next. Will be truly sit here with you, watching you read or maybe pick up a book himself after all you’re sure he has read his fair share of books already and is no stranger to it.

You wait a moment longer, noticing how eventually his leg starts bouncing as Lyonel looks out of the window, watching how the leaves in a nearby tree rustle in the wind. He looks both beautiful and utterly miserable like this.

“Lyonel,” you say gently. “You don’t have to stay.”

He looks over to you immediately. “I want to. If that’s what you like to do today, then I’ll be here, showing you my support in your interest.”

Oh? So, that’s why he’s so stubborn. He’s trying to show you that he cares. That’s really sweet actually. “I know… But you really don’t have to spend every second of this weekend with me. Especially when it’s something that’s boring to you.”

His jaw tightens slightly. He hesitates. So, you close your book and give him a soft smile.

“Lyonel, if I’m here to stay as your future wife,” you say quietly, “we’ll have plenty more opportunities to spend time together. We have different interests and should do things without one another from time to time. This could be a great opportunity to practice that.”

The words hang between you, but only one word holds true meaning to Lyonel.

Wife.

Instantly, something changes in his expression. The restlessness disappears and his charming grin slowly returns, but there’s something deeper beneath it now. Something almost fierce.

Then he stands without breaking eye contact and before you can fully process it, he crosses the small distance between you and gently places both hands on either side of your face, tilting your head up toward him.

Then his lips crash into yours.

The kiss is hard and deep from the start, like he’s been holding himself back for too long and finally stops trying. His hands hold your face in place without hurting you, but you know that there is no way you could pull away from this even if you wanted.

Thankfully, you don’t want to pull away, allowing his mouth to claim yours with slow, deliberate motions.

But with each passing second you feel Lyonel growing more and more impatient as his need to get closer grows. Thus, you barely have time to breathe before his tongue slides along the seam of your lips.

And when you part for him, he takes full advantage, slipping inside and stealing the air from your lungs, luring a soft moan from your throat.

You try to keep up with his heated kiss, pushing back, matching his pace, but Lyonel only deepens it, tilting his head, angling you exactly where he wants you. It isn’t a fight, but he still emerges victoriously from the encounter.

Your fingers clutch at his tunic as the kiss turns dizzying, your lungs burning, your thoughts unraveling.

And when he finally pulls back, you have to drag on a shaky breath. You concentrate on breathing so much that you barely register when Lyonel’s forehead rests against yours. Neither when his thumb brushes your jaw, slow and grounding.

“I like that thought,” he murmurs. “Of your actually being my wife.”

“Yes… me too…”

Lyonel lingers one second longer, then lets you go. However, the smugness returns just enough to lighten the intensity. “I’ll come pick you up before evening.”

You nod, still slightly breathless. “I’ll be right here.”

Apparently happy with your reply Lyonel walks away without hesitation. And somehow, the library feels warmer than before.

__________________

You don’t know how long you actually sit there in the library reader, but after many hours, the words on the page begin to blur together.

You blink once… twice… and notice how much your eyes sting. And when you lift your hand to rub at your eyes, you only then notice how stiff your fingers feel from holding the book in the same position for far too long.

So, with a sigh, you place the book carefully on the table and lean back in the chair, stretching your arms above your head until your shoulders pull tight. You feel a faint ache running down your spine.

You hadn’t meant to sit for so long.

Almost on its own, your gaze drifts toward the window beside you. The golden light that had filled the library when you first entered had dulled into a deep amber glow. Moreover, long shadows stretch across the shelves and creep over the carpet and walls.

The sun hangs low, just barely clinging to the horizon.

“Oh,” you murmur, pushing yourself to your feet and rolling your neck slowly. “Looks like I read the whole afternoon…”

Somehow only now do you notice that the room doesn’t only feel noticeably darker now, but also quiet… and still. Too still even.

You glance toward the door.

Truth be told, you had expected Lyonel to interrupt you at some point. He doesn’t strike you as the patient sort when it comes to being ignored in favor of a quiet library and a bunch of books. You would have bet good coin he’d come striding in after one or two hours.

But he hasn’t. Which is… surprising.

After a moment curiosity eventually begins to outweigh your exhaustion. So, you smooth down your dress and make your way out of the library, closing the door gently behind you.

The corridors of Storm’s End seem to feel different at every other hour of the day. Right now the torches flicker along the wall, their light dancing across stone, but not in the same eerie way it did at night.

You watch as servants pass occasionally but none pay you much mind. A few times you thought about asking them if they had seen Lyonel but decided against it. However, when you reach a crossing of two hallways you hesitate.

Where would he be?

After several seconds of thinking you are about to turn toward the courtyard when you suddenly hear it. It’s faint at first, barely more than a low hum carried through the halls. But when you pause and really focus, you can make out muffled voices, laughter, and the distant sound of music.

“That’s odd,” you mutter, finding it quite unusual to hear evidence of a festive gathering at this hour and day, but follow the sound down a hallway you haven’t used yet regardless.

The noise grows clearer the closer you get, until you find yourself standing before a closed door you do not recognize. Voices spill from beneath it and you hesitate only a second before curiosity finally wins.

So, slowly, you push the door open just enough to peer inside and blink.

The room beyond is alive!

Candles burn in clusters along the walls, casting a golden glow over gathered nobles and knights. Small tables are scattered around the space, covered in platters of tarts, sugared fruit, roasted nuts, and cheese. Also, goblets of wine catch the light as they’re lifted and clinked together.

Furthermore, near the far wall, a small ensemble consisting of a lute, fiddle, and drum, plays something cheerful and light. Not loud enough to drown conversation, but lively enough to keep the air buzzing.

It’s clearly not a grand feast, but it’s unmistakably a celebration. Therefore, intrigued, you open the door wider and step inside.

The scent of wine and warm pastry fills your senses immediately. Laughter rises somewhere to your left and a pair of knights argue about something you cannot quite catch. Still, you weave your way through the gathering, careful not to brush too harshly against anyone, your eyes scanning faces in search of someone familiar.

“That’s the occasion?” You wonder, but see no banners announcing anything, and no formal arrangements suggest a political gathering either. It feels… spontaneous.

“There you are!”

You turn at the sound of his voice, already recognizing it easily enough.

Lyonel strides toward you through the crowd like the sea parts for him. His dark hair is slightly disheveled, his cheeks are faintly flushed, and his eyes sparkle with something dangerously close to mischief.

When he reaches you, you notice how he doesn’t slow down. Instead, his arm slides easily around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And this, up close, is when you can smell the wine on his breath.

“Are you drunk?” You ask, arching a brow as you look up at him.

“Buzzed,” he corrects immediately. “I’m not quite drunk yet.”

“Yet…” you repeat under your breath, already bracing yourself.

His grin only widens. You could easily continue this topic of conversation by asking him how many drinks he already had, for how long he had been drinking, or if he even remembered to eat something beforehand. But you decide not to dwell, and focus on something else.

“What is all of this about?” you ask, gesturing around the room.

Lyonel glances around as though he’s only just noticing the party himself. Then his expression shifts briefly, looking softer and almost pleased, before he shrugs one shoulder. “We’re just having fun.”

“Okay,” you fix him with a skeptical look. “But that’s not an explanation.”

Suddenly Lyonel leans down slightly, lowering his voice near your ear. “Must there always be a grand reason for things? Perhaps I simply decided that Storm’s End was too dull tonight.”

“I’m just pointing out that it looks like a party to me,” you point out, slightly defending yourself even though you don’t understand why. “But if it’s some private matter, I’m sorry to intrude.”

“Nonsense!” His head snaps back to look at you properly, offended on your behalf. “You’re not intruding. Not at all.” Then his arm rightens around you slightly, pulling you closer against his side.

“If anything,” he continues, eyes glinting, “you’re late.”

“Late?” you echo.

“Yes. Late,” Lyonel confirms with a final nod. “I was beginning to think the library had swallowed you whole.”

You narrow your eyes. “You knew I was there and could easily come and check. I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Oh, I came and checked, but it seems like you didn’t notice me at all.” He grins down at you. “But it’s fine, because I didn’t want to interrupt you. You looked… content.”

For a moment you don’t know what to say and simply look into his eyes like they could tell you more than his mouth is willing to. But all you see in them is a sparkle of emotion you can’t quite name… or are too afraid to name, because it looks too much like admiration and fondness.

But before you can dwell on it for too long, Lyonel suddenly moves, guiding you toward one of the tables, picking up a goblet, and pressing it gently into your hand. “Here, this will help you loosen up.”

“I’m perfectly loosened.”

Now it’s his turn to give you a pointed look. “Really? You don’t look like it.”

“I look perfectly fine.”

“Mm.” He lifts his own goblet now and takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving yours. “Can’t argue with that.”

For a while, you simply stand beside him, drinking your wine and letting the noise of the people wash over you. Laughter rises in waves, music spills through the space, and someone cheers near the center of the room.

Everyone truly seems to be having the time of their lives, and the more you drink, the more you begin to understand why, because the wine is strong… far stronger than you expected. It warms your throat, settles heavy in your stomach, then spreads through your whole body. After some time your limbs feel lighter and your thoughts blur at the edges.

Still, you take another sip.

And while you take it all in and enjoy your strong wine, beside you, Lyonel exhales. At first, you think he’s simply bored and will suggest you two should go somewhere else, but then it clicks. He’s not bored, exactly but restless.

Once you notice it, you can’t unsee it anymore.

The way his shoulders shift. The way his fingers drum against the stem of his goblet. The way his gaze keeps drifting toward the center of the hall where the dancing grows louder and wilder by the minute.

He’d thrive there.

Standing still on the edge of the room, only observing all the fun instead of partaking in it doesn’t suit him.

Moreover, even now, men call out to him. Someone even raises a cup in his direction… And yet Lyonel remains beside you.

This goes on for a few more minutes, and you begin to wonder if you should simply tell him to go. Urge him to enjoy himself properly instead of lingering here out of courtesy. You could stay after all and watch. You don’t mind.

So, you open your mouth, but before you can speak, Lyonel leans down. Close… too close… There’s a wicked sort of grin on his face again. The kind that means trouble.

“Do you like dancing?”

You blink at him momentarily confused, because you didn’t expect him to just ask you something out of the blue. “I…”

That grin widens.

And then everything happens rather quickly. You barely manage to place your goblet back onto the table before his hand finds yours. “Lyonel!”

But it’s too late. He pulls you forward without effort, weaving through clusters of people as if they part for him naturally once more. A few voices rise in greeting as he passes them and someone whistles, but Lyonel doesn’t stop. He keeps moving until you two have reached the center of the room.

“Wait! I didn’t say yes!”

“You didn’t say no either” he calls back, laughing, and then spins you.

You stumble on the first turn, startled, but his hand is already firm at your waist, steadying you. The world tilts slightly whether from the wine or the sudden movement, you’re not sure. But through it all, you hear his laughter.

“See?” he says over the music. “Much better.”

“You didn’t have to drag me on the dance floor if you wanted to dance,” you shoot back, trying to regain some dignity. “You could have just gone on your own.”

“And miss this?” He gestures vaguely at you, at the chaos, at everything. “Never.”

“I’m not really… used to this kind of dancing.”“Oh, you’ll be very soon.”

Before you can demand clarification, Lyonel pulls you into another spin that’s thankfully slower this time, giving you a second to catch the rhythm. The whole time, his hand remains steady at your waist, guiding rather than forcing. But the whole time you can feel how confident he is.

Lyonel isn’t stiff, not rehearsed when he dances. He’s like a storm that’s taking over the dance floor. You, on the other hand, are painfully aware of your feet.

“Left,” he calls out casually.

“That’s where I’m going,” you tell him over the music. “I know which one is left.”

“Do you?”

You glare at him, which makes him grin wider.

“Stop looking at the floor,” Lyonel then tells you.

“I’m not…” You begin, but don’t get to finish speaking, because Lyonel is already replying.

“You are.”

“I’m making sure I don’t step on you,” you try to explain the reasoning behind your careful steps and the urge to make sure you know where your feet are stepping all the time. But instead of thanking you for your consideration, Lyonel simply shrugs.

“I’d survive.”

Then he laughs again, and the sound does something strange to your chest, causing your heart to skip a beat.

He truly doesn’t seem to have any issues with the fast-best music. He moves like he was born for it with broad steps, loose shoulders, and occasionally clapping in time before pulling you into another turn. Then another. And another. Barely giving you time to overthink.

Even people around you cheer when he spins you wider this time, causing your stomach to flip.

“They’re watching,” you inform Lyonel, because at this point you don’t know if he knows or simply doesn’t care.

“Good.” Is the only answer you get before he twirls you again, but this time you’re ready. You anticipate it, making this twirl look far more purposeful and elegant than the previous one. Your skirt flares as you turn, and when you land back in front of Lyonel, you don’t even stumble.

His brows lift and then his wicked grin spreads wide over his face. “There it is.”

“There is what?”

“You.”

Before you can ask what that means, he shifts the steps, quicker now and more playful. He releases your hand for half a second, only to catch it again and pull you back in.

Your heart is racing. At first from nerves. Then from something else. And of course Lyonel notices.

“Stop thinking,” he tells you, as if he can see it all over your face.

“I’m not thinking,” you blatantly lie through your teeth.

“You’re calculating and trying to figure out my next moves,” he explains, and suddenly steps closer and forces you to take a step back only to stumble, but his hand finds your lower back to keep you upright. “I’ve got you. No need to think so much.”

His hand stays at your lower back for a second longer than necessary and you look up to him, breath slightly uneven. For a moment you think Lyonel is only giving you a moment to catch your breath before he continues to spin you around the dancefloor, but when he isn’t pulling you into another turn you begin to wonder why.

He’s just standing there in front of you, looking at you. It seems like underneath your heavy breathing and flushed cheeks he sees something he hasn’t noticed before.

“What?” you ask, suddenly aware of yourself again. But instead of answering you immediately, Lyonel only tilts his head slightly, studying you like you’re something unexpected.

“Come on,” he says after a moment, his voice lower than before. “Before you collapse trying to prove something.”

“I’m perfectly –“ You don’t get to finish your sentence, because Lyonel doesn’t argue this time. He just takes your hand again and leads you off the dance floor. This time not in a rush but in a more grounded way.

And only a moment later, the heavy wooden doors close behind you with a dull thud.

Instantly, the music becomes muffled, reduced to a distant thrum. The corridor outside is cooler, quieter, making the air feel sharper in your lungs.

You inhale deeply.

“Oh, thank the gods,” you murmur. “I just now realize how much I needed this.”

Lyonel chuckles beside you. “Overwhelmed?”

“Maybe a little bit,” you tell him truthfully and lean back lightly against the wall, still catching your breath. “Don’t get me wrong… after a while it was fun, but if that’s how you dance, I’ll need practice if I’m meant to keep up with you.”

His brows lift. “Practice?”

“Yes,” you look over to him expecting him to get what you’re hinting at. “Preferably somewhere without an audience.”

There’s a beat. Then he steps closer. “If that’s what you wish for, my lady.”

He’s close enough now that you can see the faint flush still clinging to his skin from dancing. A strand of hair has fallen loose near his temple, and without thinking, you reach up and brush it back. And somehow the gesture causes his expression to shift.

You wonder if you’re overstepping and pull your hand back, but before you can utter an apology he’s speaking again.

“I would gladly offer my assistance,” he says quietly. “Daily lessons, if necessary.”

“Daily?”

“I’m very dedicated.” He smiles, but it’s not the same wicked grin from before, but it’s softer now… and somehow more real.

And this is when the corridor suddenly feels smaller. The distant music fades further into the background. His hand finds your waist again, slower this time, resting there.

“Lyonel,” you say softly, though you’re not sure what you intend to follow it with.

Then he dips his head slightly. Close enough now that you can feel the warmth of him in the colder air. He hesitates only a fraction of a second, as if giving you room to pull away even though you’ve kissed before.

You don’t.

So, he leans in further, but before his lips can even so much as brush yours fast steps can be heard from down the hallway.

“Ser?”

You both freeze.

A servant stands just a few steps away, clearly having not expected to find such a blatant portrait of affection in the wide open. Quite inappropriate. But he doesn’t comment on it. He knows his place. Instead, he clears his throat and holds out a small folded parchment sealed with wax for Lyonel and you to see.

“It arrived by raven,” the servant continues carefully. “It was deemed urgent.”

The word urgent lands heavily and you feel Lyonel shift.

“Do you think the same thing as I do?” you ask quietly, watching as he steps back from you and walks toward the servant to take the letter.

His jaw tightens just slightly. “Most likely.”

The servant bows once the parchment changes hands and quickly retreats, leaving you alone in the cooler silence of the hall. And for a second, neither of you speaks.

Then you step closer, eyes dropping to the seal, and your breath catches. You would recognize that crest anywhere. “That’s…”

“… your father’s,” Lyonel confirms gently.

Your stomach twists. You hod both knew a raven would come eventually, but knowing it in theory is very different from standing here with the answer in his hands.

Lyonel breaks the seal.

The faint tear of parchment sounds impossibly loud in the quiet corridor and your heart begins to pound almost instantly. You don’t even dare to speak while Lyonel reads in silence. Instead, you hover, picking at your fingers, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, staring at his face if you might decipher the words through his expression alone.

But his face remains carefully neutral.

“Well,” you ask, unable to bear it any longer.

Lyonel doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes simply move across the last line and then he folds the parchment once more slowly. And for a brief, terrible moment, his expression gives you nothing. So, your throat tightens.

“Lyonel,” you breathe.

But then, the faintest spark returns to his eyes… and it grows… and then his mouth curves into a wide, unrestrained smile. “He agreed.”

You blink. “Really?”

“Yes, he agreed,” he repeats, this time unable to hide the triumph in his voice. “Your father have us his blessing.”

That’s all you needed. You don’t think and don’t even attempt composure. You simply throw yourself forward, straight into his arms.

Lyonel barely has time to brace before you collide with him, and then he’s laughing, the sound rich and bright in the stone corridor as his arms come around you automatically. Next, you feel him lift you slightly off your feet without much effort.

“I take it that means you’re pleased and don’t regret it?” he murmurs against your hair.

You laugh half breathlessly, half disbelieving. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he replies, holding you tighter, “I appear to be your future husband.”

The word hits differently now. Future husband. After a beat, you pull back just enough to look at him. You notice how Lyonel looks almost boyish in his delight… victorious… relieved… proud.

“And you were worried,” he adds softly.

“You can’t know that.”

“I saw you picking at your fingers.”

You glance down. Sure, you had been, but you didn’t think he’d see that. “That proves nothing.”

He huffs a laugh and brushes his thumb gently along your side, grounding you. “I told you he’d agree,” he says, voice low but certain. “I’m a catch, remember?”

“Still, what would you have done if he hadn’t?”

Lyonel’s smile turns slightly crooked. “I would have found another way.”

You believe him. Entirely.

But then suddenly like someone broke a spell that was cast over you two, the distant music from behind the door swells again. Instantly, Lyonel looks toward the door, then back at you.

“Well?” he asks.

“Well, what?”

“Seems we have something to celebrate.”

Your heart is still racing, but this time not from nerves. So, you squeeze his hand for confidence. “Alright. Try not to drag me this time.”

The next morning you wake slowly.

The first thing you feel, however, isn’t the warmth surrounding you or the soft sheets against your skin, but a certain weight that’s around your middle. It takes you a moment to realize that it’s an arm draped securely around your waist. Fingers resting low against your hip as if they settled there the night before and never meant to leave.

Moreover, your cheek is pressed against something firm.

A chest.

And this is when your memory of last night slowly returns. The storm that had woken you up in the middle of the night and Lyonel who had offered you comfort and company.

Lyonel…

Your eyes flutter open and you take in the dimly lit chamber around you as the pale morning light filters through the heavy curtains, turning everything slowly soft and gold. Then, you tilt your head slightly, just enough to see him.

Lyonel’s hair is tousled from sleep and his brow relaxed in a way you rarely see when he’s awake. There’s no smirk on his handsome face, no teasing words leaving his lips. It’s just him.

And you’re in his bed.

Sure, proper ladies don’t wake up in someone’s chambers. Moreover, proper ladies certainly don’t wake up wrapped around said person, as if they belong there. And as this realization sinks in, you can’t help the heat from creeping up your neck, but it’s not shame.

You remember last night more clearly now… The storm giving you courage… The way Lyonel looked at you when you stepped into his chamber… The way he said your name like it meant something.

And afterward, when everything had quieted and you lay exactly where you are now, he had brushed his thumb lazily along your side and said that he’ll send a raven to your father today. That’ll he ask for your hand in marriage.

Not out of panic.

Not out of guilt.

You shift slightly, careful not to wake him yet, and allow yourself the smallest, most satisfied smile. This weekend is truly full of surprises. You came here to reconnect with an old friend and as in right now it looks like you’ll leave with a fiancé.

Suppressing a chuckle, you lie back down, burrowing just slightly closer to his warmth, and close your eyes again. Lyonel’s breathing is slow and deep, and without thinking, your fingers rest lightly against his chest.

You could stay like this forever… but for now, a few more minutes need to suffice.

BOOM

Suddenly, the door slams open so violently it strikes the wall, and in an instant, you jerk upright before you can fully awake, heart leaping into your throat. You notice how cold light floods the chamber at once as someone strides inside.

“Ser Lyonel,” a servant calls briskly, already moving toward the window. “You are oversleeping again. Your training in the courtyard begins in mere minutes. You must –“

The curtains are thrown wide, allowing the morning sun to brighten up the room completely so that there is no dark corner anymore to hide in. Moreover, as the servant turns to face the bed, expecting the heir of Storm’s End to be buried under blankets, he witnesses in shock that he has company.

You.

The servant stares at you. And you stare at him as you become acutely aware of how this must look. You are seated upright in Lyonel’s bed, hair loose around your shoulders, sheet clutched to your chest, while Lyonel is still half asleep beside you.

“Good morning,” you manage faintly.

This is when Lyonel finally shits. His arm reaches out, tightening around your waist and pulling you back down into place against his chest. You suppress a yelp when your side hits the mattress again. Thankfully, no awkward silence gets the chance to stretch, because Lyonel speaks with his voice still rough with sleep.

“Get out and close the door.”

The servant makes a strangled noise. “But, Ser…”

Now, Lyonel opens open eye… Then the other… Then he follows the servant’s gaze that’s still on you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re really here or if he’s making all of this up.

Instantly, Lyonel pulls you closer against his chest. Possessive. Unbothered.

“Out,” he says firmly, causing the servant’s face to lose all color.

“My apologies, Ser,” the servant mutters while walking to the chamber door. “I didn’t realize –“

“Clearly.”

The word lands like a stone and the servant bows so quickly he nearly tangles in his own feet before finally retreating. And once the door shuts, silence returns, but you remain frozen, because Lyonel doesn’t release you yet.

So, slowly, you tilt your head back to look at him.

He exhales, and then, to your disbelief, he laughs. “What a way to get woken up.”

You gape at him. “Seriously? This is what you have to say? Is it normal for servants to just break down your door like a siege ram?”

“This is because you have never tried to sleep past training at Storm’s End.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.”

“You thought you could just sneak up in the morning?” Lyonel asks and you are certain you can hear the smirk in the tone of his voice. “Naughty.”

Then Lyonel shifts slightly, propping himself up so he can look at you properly. His expression is far too calm for a man whose honor – and yours – is currently hanging by a very thin thread. You’re not even sure he realizes that, so you open your mouth to remind him, but he beats you to it.

“You worry too much,” he says quietly, more serious now. “A raven leaves this morning. There is no reason to make a fuss.”

You lower your hands. “And if my father hears of this before your letter reaches him?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Then he’ll still hear that I intend to marry you and has no other choice, but to agree to our bond. At this point, it’s a win-win situation.”

The words settle between you. You argue with his twisted logic, because no matter how you turn it, he is right. Even if your family hears about your escapade, they know that no man will ever marry you after this. So, hearing that Ser Lyonel Baratheon Heir of Storm’s End intends to marry you is more than a good outcome.

“This is not how proper courtships begin,” you mutter regardless of your realization.

A slow smile curves his mouth. “No,” he agrees. “But it’s a memorable start.”

And despite yourself… you laugh.

After everything is said you and Lyonel don’t lie in bed for much longer. You both know it’s only a matter of time until the next servant or worse a family member will charge right in again and drag Lyonel out of bed.

“Come on,” Lyonel says at last, throwing the blanket off himself and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Let’s dress before another brave soul decides to storm my chamber.”

Cold air rushes in the moment he leaves the mattress, but you remain where you are, clutching the sheet high to your collarbone as he crosses the room without a shred of shame. He moves like a man entirely at ease in his own skin, and his scandal.

You watch as Lyonel pulls a shirt on and begins buttoning it, back turned to you. For him, it’s clearly easy to get ready to face the world beyond those walls, but your situation is entirely different and it seems that Lyonel needs a reminder of that.

“I can’t simply walk back to my chamber now,” you say. “Not after that.”

He hums, distracted.

“I mean it,” you insist. “I will not parade down the corridor in nothing but a nightgown.”

That makes him turn, and the smirk is immediate. “You didn’t account for that when you came to me last night, hm? Didn’t pack any spare clothes, my lady?”

“I didn’t think I would spend the night here.”

“Well, you were very comfortable.”

You narrow your eyes. “I was exhausted and you know that.”

The smirk deepens. “Oh, I do. You seemed pleased too.”

Irritated, you grab the nearest pillow and throw it at him. You were aiming for his face to whip out the smug grin, but it hits his shoulder with a dull thud instead. “Stop laughing! This is serious.”

His laughter softens into a low chuckle now, but he simply picks up the pillow easily and tosses it back onto the bed.

“Alright, my lady,” he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Let us solve your great dilemma.”

Then you watch Lyonel turn toward his wardrobe and begin rummaging through it. Fabric rustles. Hangers shift. And you continue to watch with suspicion. But then after a moment, he pulls something free.

A dress.

A golden-yellow dress, rich as sunset over the Narrow Sea. Lyonel holds it up with obvious satisfaction.

“There, he says. “Problem solved.”

You blink. “Why,” you ask slowly, “do you have a dress in your wardrobe?”

He glances at it as though only now noticing how strange it looks in his hands. “Hmm… I don’t even know,” he admits. “One of the servants must have misplaced it months ago. I never bothered correcting it. It took up little space.”

You study him carefully and notice he doesn’t look guilty only amused.

“And now,” he adds, stepping closer, “it appears to come in handy.”

Yes… seems like the gods are sparing you from more embarrassment this morning. So, you finally rise from the bed reluctantly, abandoning its warmth. The stone floor is cold beneath your bare feet as you cross the room toward him.

Lyonel doesn’t step back as you take the dress from his hands and hold it against yourself, judging the fit. It looks as though it might work.

Then you glance around the chamber, but there is nowhere to hide. Nowhere to change in dignity. And truly… there is little left for him not to have seen. So, you turn your back to him and pull your nightgown off your body.

Instantly, you can feel his attention shift. Moreover, the quiet in the room changes. For a moment no one speaks, the only sound that can be heard are of clothes rustle behind you as Lyonel pretends to focus on getting dressed.

The fabric of the dress settles over you beautifully. The color warms your skin, bright against the muted stone of the chamber. You smooth it down your hips, pleased despite yourself.

“It fits,” you murmur.

“I know it would,” he says with a proud smirk.

You glance over your shoulder, watching as he’s tying his boot now, but his eyes flick up briefly and linger.

“Don’t look at me like that.” You tell him before turning back away from him, gathering the laces at your back. “Lace me instead.”

He blinks. “Me?”

“You see another lady’s maid hiding behind the door?” You ask with a smug tone of voice.

Lyonel mutters something under his breath. Something that sounds suspiciously like ‘Gods give me strength’, but he rises nonetheless, and steps close. Next, you feel the heat of him at your back as his fingers take the laces carefully.

For a man who wields a sword daily, his hands are unexpectedly precise.

The first pull tightens the fabric around your waist, causing you to inhale sharply.

“Too tight?” Lyonel asks, voice lower now.

“No.”

He continues, threading and pulling, working slowly downward. Each tug draws you more snugly into the dress. More contained. More… his.

“You realize,” he says after a moment, “this is an excellent argument for marrying me quickly.”

You roll your eyes. “Because you can lace a gown?”

“Because you clearly can’t manage without me.”

You laugh softly. “I managed perfectly well before you.”

“Did you?”

“I did,” you tell him but the thought of not having to in the future settles pleasantly in your stomach. And when the final lace is secured, his fingers linger for half a second longer than necessary before he smooths his hands lightly down your sides.

“There,” he says quietly.

You turn to face him. Lyonel looks far too pleased and far too certain. And for a moment you two just stand there, looking at each other without saying another word. It’s like this moment doesn’t really need any words.

Unfortunately, it’s cut short, due to a knock at Lyonel’s chamber door.

“Ser Lyonel,” comes the same servant’s voice, but noticeably more careful now. “I must insist that you follow me to the courtyard at once.”

The servant tries to sound stern but fails. Still, Lyonel exhales dramatically once he realizes there is no way of getting out of this.

“Training without breakfast,” he mutters darkly. “Cruelty.”

You laugh softly. “You probably survived worse.”

“Barely.”

Then the knock comes again, even more hesitant this time. “Ser?”

“Yes, yes,” Lyonel calls out, already moving toward the door. “Calm your tits. I’m coming. You don’t need to batter the hinges off.”

With a strong pull, he pulls the door open, revealing the servant standing there stiff as a spear, eyes carefully fixed somewhere around Lyonel’s collarbone pointedly not looking past him. So, Lyonel leaves his chamber first, and you follow him, but once outside in the hallway your destinations already split you up.

Lyonel turns left toward the stairs that lead down to the courtyard. You, however, turn right.

You lift your chin and begin to walk with slow, measured, and controlled steps. You ignore the lingering glances and low whispers from servants and maids that you pass even though it’s nearly impossible. You notice how one dares to glance at the golden-yellow dress that you wear.

The signature colors of House Baratheon.

Your spine straightens further. If they’re going to talk, then let them talk about how confidently you walk. Still, when you reach your chamber at last and slip inside, closing the door firmly behind you, you can’t help but let out a deep breath.

“Finally,” you groan. “I didn’t remember the hallway being so long.”

You cross the room and sit before the small mirror. Your reflection looks different this morning but you can’t put a finger on what exactly has changed. So, with a shrug you begin to brush through your hair, taming the worst of the night’s aftermath. At the end, you twist it back neatly and pin it into something respectable.

Shoes next, because walking through Storm’s End without them is asking for blisters and splinters.

When you stand again, you look composed. You smooth your skirts one final time and head toward the door only to turn to the stairs that lead to the great hall.

Breakfast awaits.

__________________

The dining hall is quiet when you enter, which is unusual because Storm’s End is rarely silent. There is always wind against stone, boots against floors, voices carrying through corridors. But now, in the late stretch of morning, the long tables stand mostly empty. The chairs are pushed in and the plates cleared.

It seems you’re late.

However, just when you were about to turn around and leave, do you spot a single maid standing near the far end of the hall, polishing goblets until they shine.

She looks up when she hears your steps. “My lady.”

“Is there still food left?” you ask.

“I shall check the kitchen at once.” She announces and dips into a quick curtsy before she hurries out through the side door, leaving you alone in the vast chamber.

Once more the silence settles around you. To make waiting more barrable you decide to walk slowly toward the center of the hall, looking around and listening to your footsteps echoing faintly against the high stone walls. Sunlight streams in through the tall, narrow windows, which catch your attention.

You tilt your head slightly, looking toward the windows and you hear something. Something breaks the silence – a distant clang of wood striking wood. Also muffled voices.

Drawn toward it, you move toward one of the tall windows that overlook the courtyard.

Oh. There he is. Lyonel Baratheon with a practice sword in hand. Funny how you can see the difference between him and the others even from above. He moves fast, controlled, almost eager. And when his opponent lunges, you watch Lyonel pivot easily, blocking, then driving forward with force that makes the other man stumble back.

You have heard the stories. They call him talented, strong, and promising, but seeing it is different. HE doesn’t hesitate or falter even once.

Every time Lyonel presses forward with confident aggression, driving his opponent across the yard until, with a sharp twist and clean strike, he knocks the practice sword from the man’s hands. It clatters across the stone and a few watching squires murmur approval.

And then… As if he feels it… As if your gaze is something tangible…

Lyonel looks up directly at you.

Your breath catches and for half a heartbeat you wonder if he’s simply scanning the walls… but no. His eyes lock onto yours without doubt. And there it is. That grin that makes him look entirely too pleased with himself.

You shake your head, unable to stop the small laugh that escapes you. “Unbelievable. How can someone be so insufferably full of themselves?”

Below, he gives a slight tilt of his chin before turning back toward the yard as though he hadn’t just made certain you witnessed his victory.

“My lady?”

You turn and see the maid standing a few steps away, a fray balanced carefully in her hands.

“The kitchen has prepared something,” she says politely. “I hope it’s to your liking.”

You step away from the window, though not without one last glance downward.

“Thank you,” you say warmly.

She sets the tray before you at the long table and you take a seat without further conversation. You see fresh bread, soft cheese, grapes, and apple slices, and a small cup of something warm that smells like honey. It’s a simple breakfast, but welcome.

She curtsies again. “If you require anything further, you need only call. I shall be nearby.”

“You’re very kind.”

She offers a small smile and withdraws, leaving you once more in the wide, quiet hall. So, naturally, you begin to eat, reaching for the bread first.

__________________

You take your time finishing breakfast, but when you’re about done there isn’t much left on your plate anymore. Just a few cubes of cheese, three grapes, and two thin apple slices arranged neatly remain.

Now, you sip your warm drink slowly, letting the honey linger on your tongue. The sweetness is soothing and with the hall still this quiet it’s truly peaceful. Something you could get used to.

Then the door burst open, and you don’t even need to look up to know who just entered the dining hall.

“Well,” Lyonel announces to the entire hall, “that was fucking disappointing.”

You close your eyes briefly, before glancing over to him, watching as he strides in, hair damp with sweat, tunic clinging slightly to his shoulders, and a faint flush coloring his cheeks from exertion.

“I need a real challenge,” he continues, dramatic as ever. “Someone competent and daring.”

Then he drops onto the chair beside you without asking, the wood creaking under the force of it. Before you can react, however, he leans over to your plate and steals one of the apple slices.

“Excuse you,” you say flatly. “Is stealing fruit from my plate becoming a regular thing now?”

He takes a loud bite. “That might be the case.”

“You are insufferable.”

“And undefeated this morning.”

You place your cup down carefully and turn to him. You take him in for a moment before you wrinkle your nose and dare to speak the truth. “You stink.”

Immediately, Lyonel looks at you, deeply offended or at least pretending to be. “That is the scent of a real man, my lady. A man who won each and every fight this morning, I might add.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Well, I prefer my real man to smell of soap.”

You reach for your cup again, but Lyonel suddenly grins and shifts closer. Then his arm swings around your shoulder before you can even register it.

You shriek. “Lyonel! You’re sweating! Get off me!”

He laughs, tightening his hold deliberately.

“Don’t… Don’t touch me!” you gasp, trying to shove him away. “You’ll ruin my new dress!”

Instantly he freezes mid-laugh. Then, slowly – very slowly – he leans back just enough to look at you properly. “You haven’t changed into one of your dresses…”

You smooth the garment where it had begun to wrinkle due to Lyonel’s antics, avoiding his piercing gaze purposefully. “Of course not. Why should I?”

Lyonel reaches over, grabbing a grape from your plate, but never takes his eyes off you as he chews. “I like that.”

“Hm?” Now you face him.

“I like that you didn’t change out of the dress,” he tells you with a possessive undertone in his voice. “The colors suit you.”

Instantly, heat creeps up your neck. “It was merely convenient.”

“Sure,” he chuckles. “And it has nothing to do with the reason that it was me who gave it to you, hm?”

Your breath falters just slightly, but of course Lyonel notices. There’s rarely anything he doesn’t notice when it comes to what effect he has on you. To fake nonchalance you clear your throat and straighten your spine. “You’re insufferable… truly.”

“Well, aren’t you wearing my house colors at my table after waking up in my bed this morning?”

Your eyes widen. “Must you say it so loudly?”

“I could say it louder.”

You kick his shin lightly beneath the table, but it doesn’t have the reaction you wished for. Lyonel simply laughs. But then, as if remembering something trivial, he leans back casually. “Oh, and before you accuse me of neglecting your honor… The raven left a few minutes ago.”

You blink.

“To your father,” Lyonel adds, as though discussing the weather. “As promised. The raven brings him a letter with me asking for your hand in marriage.”

Your stomach flips. “You… really sent it?”

He nods once. “I said I would. I’m a man of my word.”

There’s no hesitation in his voice and no doubt. Still, you search his face for mockery. There is none. Only that steady, infuriating confidence. “You truly did it.”

“I don’t make idle promises,” Lyonel’s grin returns. “At least not about important things.”

You swallow, trying to regain your composure. “You still smell…” You stand quickly, gathering what remains of your composure. “Go and bathe.”

You don’t know what you assumed he might say next, but when Lyonel doesn’t move, but simply studies you for a long time you already know that it’ll be something unusual. “And if I invited you to join me?”

Your face burns immediately. “I would devline.”

“So quickly?”

“So firmly,” you counter, avoiding his eyes.

Lyonel leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “What a pity.”

Instantly, you turn sharply toward the doors. “Step teasing me and go wash.”

As you reach the threshold, however, his voice follows you across the hall. He sounds amused still as he says, “Perhaps next time, my lady.”

You huff, refusing to turn around. But you can still feel his grin on your back as you leave. And somewhere between embarrassment and anticipation, your heart refuses to calm.

The storm has not quieted.

Even with the heavy curtains drawn and the heat burning low, you can still hear the wind pressing against stone, and rain lashing against the windows. It rattles through the castle relentlessly, but as you lie on your side, eyes closed, and hands folded too neatly over the blanket you it’s not due to the storm that you can’t seem to fall asleep.

Still, hoping not to give away easily that you still struggle to sleep, you haven’t moved in several minutes. However, beside you, Lyonel shifts, which strongly indicates that he notices that something isn’t right.

“Can’t sleep?” he eventually asks, his voice hushed, roughened by the late hour. But there is no teasing in it now. Only warmth. “Is it still the storm?”

For a moment, you think about just not answering at all and continuing to fake sleeping, but finally decide against it and turn toward him instead.

Big mistake.

The firelight paints him in gold and he lies on his back, one arm tucked beneath his head, dark hair loose and slightly tousled against the pillow. Moreover, without his fine clothing, without the noise, teasing and laughter, and bravado, he looks different.

Softer even… But no less formidable.

The blankets are low around his waist, revealing the broad plane of his chest and the steady rise and fall of his breath. His throat even moves when he swallows, and your gaze drifts before you can stop it.

Gods… He is unfairly handsome like this… when he isn’t even trying to impress anyone.

Quickly you fix your gaze on his face again, noticing how for a brief moment something that might have been concern flickered in his eyes, subtle but certainly real.

“No,” you breathe, trying to put the right words together to explain yourself, but then your thoughts scatter completely. How are you supposed to explain to him why you feel a certain way when you don’t really understand it yourself?

“I think this is a mistake,” you manage at last.

He snorts softly, not cruel, just amused. “You’re overthinking.”

You press your lips together. Are you? Your jaw works as you consider it. Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps your tired mind is making up problems where none exist. The storm, the dinner, the way he looked at you mere minutes ago… maybe it has all developed into something bigger than it needs to be.

But your heart is still racing, and that feels very real.

Then, suddenly, his hand moves before you even realize it completely. Lyonel reaches up and brushes his fingers against your cheek, pushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is featherlight, but it’s enough to cause a shiver to run down your spine.

Furthermore, your breath falters, your eyes widen slightly, and you swallow against a throat that has suddenly gone dry.

And the whole time Lyonel watches your reaction closely.

“If you wish,” he eventually begins, and now you can hear it – the care in how he chooses his words, as though stepping carefully across thin ice. “I’ll escort you back to your chambers and get the fire going there. Maybe I should have offered that in the beginning to show you I’m an honorable man.”

Now he pauses, giving you space.

You think.

Your gaze drops to the space between you, to the blanket rising and falling with both your breaths. The bed is warm. The whole room is warm. And yet it isn’t warmth that keeps you here.

“I don’t want to go,” you admit finally, and it feels like confessing something far larger than you intended. Not just to him, but to yourself.

His brows draw together slightly, confusion flickering across his face. “Then what troubles you?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, turning your head away for a moment. Still, you can feel the weight of his gaze on you, steady and patient. “I just can’t…”

Your words trail off. Coward. You stare at the far wall, as though it might offer courage or something else that might help you to finally tell him what’s on your mind.

“Can’t what?” Lyonel asks quietly, but there is no pressure in it. No impatience, just curiosity.

So, you exhale slowly. “I just can’t ignore that you’re here with me… No matter how hard I try...”

Silence settles between you and suddenly the storm seems farther away now. Eventually, you dare to look back at him, and this is when you notice that something shifts in his expression. It’s subtle, but unmistakable.

Lyonel opens his mouth, likely to suggest he take the floor again. You basically see it forming, so you move before he can even begin to speak.

“… and I kind of like that,” you add quickly.

The words hang in the air between you, basically echoing off the walls.

I kind of like that you’re here.

I kind of like that the storm forced us into the same bed.

And for once, Lyonel Baratheon doesn’t immediately respond. He simply studies you – really studies you with his hand still near your cheek. It shifts slightly so that he’s not touching you anymore, just hovering as though he has to make sure he really understands what you mean to continue.

“You like that I’m here,” he repeats softly. It’s not mockery, but rather disbelief to a certain degree.

“I do.”

The fire pops quietly in the heart and Lyonel’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth before lifting again to your eyes. “And you think that’s a mistake?”

Your breath stutters, but you still manage to answer him. “Well… when you look at me like that, it makes it very difficult to think clearly.”

A slow smile curves his mouth, but it isn’t the wicked grin he often wears. It’s smaller… almost shy. “I’m looking at you the same way I did the whole day.”

“No,” you murmur. “You’re not.”

The air between you feels charged now, but before you could focus on it, his hand finally settles again against your cheek, thumb brushing lightly along your jaw. “Maybe not entirely… but if this is truly a mistake… why not make another one?”

His gaze shifts again, slowly, to your mouth and your breath catches. Suddenly, on the one hand, the room feels smaller and warmer. On the other hand, the crackling fire seems too loud and the space between you too thin.

“There’s something I really like to do…” Lyonel admits, and for the first time since you’ve known him, there’s a flicker of uncertainty beneath the words. And that alone makes your pulse leap.

You swallow against the sudden lump in your throat. “What is that?”

His eyes lift back to yours, dark in the dim light, searching, and asking without asking.

“Show me,” you whisper.

You’re not entirely sure what you’re inviting. You only know you don’t want him to stop. Then, something shifts in him and he moves closer slow enough that you could pull. His hand rises, fingers brushing lightly along your jaw before slipping beneath your chin, tilting your face upward just slightly.

You can feel his breath now.

Your heart is pounding so loudly you are certain he must hear it.

And then you feel it. His lips on yours. Soft at first as though he’s testing the waters, unsure how you will respond. But when you don’t pull away, but only inhale sharply against him, Lyonel pauses for half a heartbeat as if giving you time to change your mind.

You don’t.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt instead and that’s all the invitation he needs.

The kiss deepens slowly. Not rushed. Not reckless, but deliberate. His mouth moves against yours with growing certainty, and you can feel the restraint he’s trying to hold onto… the carefulness of a man who knows his own strength.

But then a low sound hums from his chest once you move your own lips against his with more confidence, leaning into the feeling. It vibrates between you, and it pulls a soft, unguarded moan from your own lips before you can stop it.

Lyonel stills for a second at that just enough that you know he heard it.

Then he shifts closer.

This other hand slides to your waist, warm and steady, anchoring you as he leans into you more fully. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and you feel the gentle pressure urging you back, and you yield without resistance, your body answering his instinctively.

Now, the storm outside fades into nothing.

There’s only this.

Only him.

Lyonel moves with surprising care as he leans over you, never breaking the kiss. He hovers above you now, broad shoulders blocking out the firelight, his presence surrounding you completely.

Your hands finally find their place too – one sliding up his chest, feeling the warmth of his beneath the thin fabric, and the steady rhythm of his heart. The other curls lightly at the back of his neck, fingers brushing through his hair.

He exhales against your mouth at that.

Then his kiss changes again – deeper now, slower… savoring. His lips move as though he is memorizing you. And the whole time his restraint is still there, but it is thinner, almost fragile.

Finally, he breaks the kiss, but only long enough to draw a breath, his forehead resting briefly against yours. His nose brushes your cheek, and his thumb strokes along your side where his hand still rests at your waist.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs, voice rougher now.

You shake your head before he can finish the sentence. “I don’t.” Your voice is breathless, but honest, and suddenly something fierce flickers in his eyes at that.

He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, but it doesn’t last long. His lips drift from yours, tracing the line of your jaw before finding the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

Your breath catches, and Lyonel pauses there for a fraction of a second, as if listening to the way your body responds, then presses a lingering kiss to your neck. His mouth moves slowly downward, not hurried, not careless. He’s truly testing and learning as each brush of his lips draws a reaction from you like a soft inhale, a shiver, the tightening of your finger in his hair.

At one point Lyonel decides that kissing wasn’t enough anymore. So, he barks his teeth and gently nibbles at your pulse, causing you to curve your back, another soft moan leaving your lips.

“Lyonel,” you whisper, not even sure what you’re asking for. Slower? Closer? More? Maybe all of it.

“I’m right here,” he murmurs against your skin, placing another kiss over the spot where he bit you. The sensation sends a tremor through you. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Then his hand shifts from your waist, sliding up along your side, not claiming, but exploring. And the whole time his touch is firm enough to ground you, and gentle enough to make you melt.

“All I want,” Lyonel continues quietly, brushing his thumb along your ribs, “is to make you feel good. Alright?”

You nod, breath unsteady.

He lifts his head just enough to look at you. “So, you’ll tell me if I do?”

“Yes,” you manage.

A slow, satisfied hum leaves him. “Good girl.”

The praise sends heat through you far more powerful than the storm outside ever could. But you can’t linger on that moment, because you feel how his hands move again, gliding upward along your sides. Moreover, you feel the fabric of your nightgown shift under his fingers.

He doesn’t rush nor tear or tug. Lyonel moves with care, as though this is something precious.

“Lift your arms for me, my lady,” he whispers near your ear.

You hesitate for half a second, but it’s not from doubt, but from the weight of the moment, and then you obey, raising your arms slowly.

The fabric slides away.

Instantly, cool air kisses your skin where his warmth had just been, but under Lyonel’s gaze, you feel anything but cold.

His hand traces lightly down your arm now, from wrist to shoulder, slow and deliberate as if reminding you he is still there. As if you could ever forget.

“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly, still with no jest in it. No smirk. Just certainty.

Then his hand moves again, slower now. From your shoulder down along your side, across your stomach. There his palm is warm against you, grounding even, while still exploring without claiming what isn’t his to claim.

Your breath turns shallow.

Next, his fingers drift upward again, tracing the center of you before sliding to the side, his thumb brushing lightly beneath the curve of your breast. There he pauses, but not frozen, simply waiting for a signal that tells him he can continue.

His thumb grazes you once, feather-light like it’s barely there. A question rather than a demand and your body answers before your mind can as a soft gasp slips from your lips accompanied by a tremor rolling down your spine, causing your fingers to tighten instinctively in the nearest anchor – what happens to be his hair.

Lyonel inhales sharply at that. And then, slowly, a smirk curves his mouth.

“Sensitive?” he asks, voice lower now as the teasing creeps back in.

You glare up at him, breath uneven. “Shut up.”

But your cheeks are flushed, and your grip has not loosened. And of course Lyonel notices everything, leading to his smirk widening slightly.

“Ah,” he hums thoughtfully. “So that’s how it is.”

His thumb brushes over the same spot again – not harder or rougher. Just enough to draw another sharp inhale from you, while he watches your face the entire time.

“I wonder,” he murmurs, voice dipping into something darker, “where else you’re sensitive enough to pull my hair.”

Your stomach flips.

“Lyonel,” you warn, but there is no heat in it nor does he listen to your empty threats anymore. Instead, Lyonel lowers himself bit by bit until his mouth closes around your nipple.

You gasp as a jolt of arousal shoots through you, and your back arches just slightly off the bed.

A low hum vibrates in his chest, pleased and possessive. The sound alone makes your skin prickle. His tongue moves in an unhurried circle, then he draws you back into his mouth, sucking gently with no rush nor mercy. He takes his time like he’s savoring something meant only for him.

Instinctively, your fingers sink deeper into his thick dark curls, gripping tighter than you tend. It’s ridiculous how quickly you unravel. Just his mouth, just his tongue, and already heat pools low in your stomach, your thoughts turning hazy.

You barely even notice how Lyonel shifts to your other breast without breaking the rhythm, leaving a trail of warmth behind. You’re breathing harder now, thighs pressing together, searching for some kind of relief from the ache building between them.

And of course, he notices.

“My lady,” Lyonel murmurs, releasing you with a pop before lifting his head. His pupils are blown wide, a wicked curve tugging at his mouth. “Is there something else that requires my attention?”

You hate that he can see right through you. You hate it even more than you like it.

He doesn’t wait for your answer. Lyonel’s hands slide down your sides, slow and certain, until they settle on your thighs. His palms are warm, grounding, as they press and knead lightly before guiding your legs apart.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears.

“May I?” he asks, though he is already moving, already coaxing you open beneath him.

You still nod and that’s apparently enough for him.

Lyonel leans down, mouth brushing along your inner thigh, then the other, teasing but never mocking. His eyes flick up to meet yours like he’s checking in like he’s making sure you’re still with him, still wanting this.

You are.

Then one finger hooks under the waistband of your underwear, easing the fabric aside. Instantly, the cool air against your heated skin makes you shiver, but before you can think to protest, Lyonel reaches to the nightstand and retrieves a dagger.

Your breath catches.

Next, with a quick, decisive motion, he slices through the delicate fabric, and the ruined garment falls away, leaving you fully exposed beneath him.

You should be embarrassed. You should say something. But instead, you only stare at him, chest rising and falling too fast, as he looks down at you like you are something he’s been waiting a long time to claim.

“What a sight,” he murmurs, his voice thick with admiration while his fingers stroke the sensitive skin on the inside of your thigh, each touch light but electrifying, causing your body to shiver in response, and your breath hitches, now coming in shallow, uneven waves.

“You’re already wet for me, hm?” Lyonel murmurs, his voice a mix of awe and satisfaction. There’s even a possessiveness in his tone, not harsh, but grounding.

And when his fingers slowly part you, the sensation sends a shiver down your spine, your body responding instinctively to his touch, making your back ache again and your hips move against him.

“So eager, my lady,” Lyonel chuckles, his voice dark and velvety, laced with an unmistakable heat.

However, his words barely register before he gently pushes a finger inside you, then another, the stretch slow and deliberate as he spreads you open. The sensation is overwhelming – deliciously so – and it’s all you can do to keep breathing.

Another moan slips out, loud and unrestrained, before you can stop it, and embarrassment flickers for a moment. But Lyonel’s reaction quells it instantly. His lips curve into a smirk, and there’s a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his tone soft but teasing almost reverent. “Enjoying yourself, hm?”

Without making you wait begin to move, his fingers pushing and pulling with a steady rhythm, dragging pleasure from you with every motion. Lyonel watches as your juice coats his knuckles, glistening in the dim light before dripping into the sheets below.

“You’re making quite a mess, my lady,” he whispers, his voice thick with amusement and admiration. But his words barely penetrate the haze of sensation as you write beneath him, too caught up in the blissful heat pooling in your core to form a coherent response.

“But don’t fret, my lady,” Lyonel murmurs. “I’ve got an idea to save my bedsheets. Mind if I rest it out?”

Before you can muster a reply, his fingers slip out, leaving you achingly empty. The loss draws a soft, involuntary whine from your lips, but Lyonel doesn’t stop to acknowledge it Instead, his hands find your thighs firm and gentle, holding them apart as he lowers his head.

Then his breath brushed against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, warm and teasing, followed by soft kisses placed with an almost torturous slowness.

For a moment, it takes your mind embarrassingly long to fully process what he’s doing, but when the realization hits, your pulse quickens instantly. Moreover, your hand reaches out instinctively again, fingers again tangling in hair.

“Please,” you whisper, the word fragile and desperate. You don’t even know what you’re asking for anymore, only that you need him. Need something.

Thankfully, Lyonel doesn’t leave you waiting for long.

His head dips lower, and the first touch of his tongue against your quivering clint steals the air from your lungs. The heat of his mouth, the deliberate swipe of his tongue, sends a sharp jolt of pleasure through you, and you can’t stop the screams that tear from your throat.

You really hope the storm is loud enough to drown out all the noises you make, no longer able to control the volume at all.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, holding him there, your hips bucking instinctively as the need for more finally consumes you.

“More,” you pant, the word spilling out between ragged breaths.

Lyonel chuckles against you, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through your already trembling body.

“My lady,” he teases, his tone smug but affectionate. “Who would have thought you’d beg so sweetly?”

The teasing only makes it worse. His touch grows more focused, more knowing, pushing you closer to the edge with steady precision. Every flicker of sensation pulls another sound from your throat, until your world narrows to nothing but him.

The press of his hands, the warmth of his mouth, and the certainty of his control.

Lyonel doesn’t rush you.

He drives you there.

And when the tension inside you finally peaks, it breaks with a gasp torn straight from your chest, your fingers clenching in hair as if he is the only solid thing left in a world that has tilted completely off its axis.

“You taste so sweet,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, lips still lingering far too close to you to think straight. “I could stay here all night.”

The thought alone makes your breath stutter.

The idea of him taking his time… of him drawing it out, watching you fall apart again and again, sends another wave of heat rushing through you. You can even feel yourself tightening, the tension coiling low in your belly, ready to snap.

And of course Lyonel feels it too.

His movements grow more purposeful, more intent, as if he senses exactly how close you are again. Every touch is calculated now, designed to pull you higher.

“Lyonel,” his name slips from your lips like a plea, your hips lifting helplessly. But instead of diving in deeper, he lifts his head, and for a moment you think he means to leave you wanting.

But he doesn’t go far.

Instead, he shifts upward, his body pressing against yours, heat against heat. The hard line of his hard cock brushes along your sensitive clit, and the contact alone makes you whimper.

“I must admit,” he says, almost conversationally, though his eyes are anything but calm. They’re wild, dark, and hungry. “Seeing you like this… it makes a man selfish.”

Your pulse pounds.

He leans even closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath warm against your lips.

“It makes you want to fill you,” he confesses quietly. “Completely.”

The possessiveness in his tone isn’t cruel… it’s consuming, and it makes your stomach flip and your skin burn. “Okay.”

“You don’t mind?” Lyonel asks, though his voice has already dropped into something rougher. “You don’t mind if I ruin you for anyone else?”

He asks you that, like he hasn’t done that already. So, your answer isn’t measured or dignified. It’s a breathless, desperate, “Please.”

That’s all he needs.

A dark chuckle escapes him, low and satisfied. “Gods help me,” he mutters, almost to himself as you hear him wiggle out of his pants, letting them fall to the ground. “I’ll never deny you.”

He doesn’t rush. Instead, he watches your face as he moves, as if memorizing every reaction again, every tremble. As if this – your surrender, and your trust – is more intoxicating than anything else.

“That,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth against your jaw, “may indeed become a problem.”

And soon after that, you can feel the heat radiating from his already twitching cock as he gently presses it against your entrance. Inch by agonizing inch, he fills you up, hissing and murmuring about how wet and warm you are, making you moan and gasp.

Thankfully, his preparation had paid off, and bottoming out wasn’t an issue. Still, Lyonel holds himself still for a moment, letting you adjust, before he starts moving slowly, deliberately.

“Gods,” he breaths, voice strained. “You’re warm… and you’re all mine right now. And you feel so good… So damn good.”

You can’t answer. Words have abandoned you. Only broken sounds escape as the pace increases, his control slipping into small, honest cracks. The storm outside rages on, thunder rolling through the chamber, but it pales in comparison to the rhythm he sets between you.

And soon you grip his shoulders more, nails digging into his skin as the pleasure intensifies. You’re close, so close, the world narrowing down to the feeling of himself inside you, the sound of his ragged breathing.

“Lyonel,” you try to warn him, but the word is swallowed by another moan. The pleasure is simply too much, ready to explode at any moment.

And when you feel your walls squeeze, Lyonel groans and even curses under his breath.

“Careful, darling,” he warns, already feeling his own climax approaching, and staying on top of himself is getting more and more difficult with your body reacting to him oh so well. “You’ll be the end of me. There is no way I can last long if you keep squeezing me like that.”

You manage a breathless laugh, barely coherent. “You don’t have to last much longer.”

“You don’t have to last much longer,” you reassure him. “I already came twice.”

Instantly, something shifts in his expression at that. Hungry.

“Fuck,” he curses like you admitting that he managed to make you come more than once is the sexiest thing you could have said to him, he puts one of your legs over his shoulder and rams into you with more desperation and force.

You moan and enjoy him hitting deeper inside you, taking you like the desperate man he is.

And as another orgasm washes over you, you hear Lyonel groan and lean down, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he spills his seed inside you, coating your walls with a warm, white flood. Moreover, he pulls you tight against his chest.

For a long moment, neither of you moves as you feel a warm trickle running down your inner thigh. It’s obvious to you that some of his cum just leaked out, probably staining the bed sheets Lyonel has been fussing over a moment ago.

And like he can read your mind Lyonel speaks.

“Don’t worry. That,” he murmurs hoarsely against your skin, “was worth every ruined bedsheet.”

For another long time neither one of you moves, and Lyonel’s face stays buried against your neck, breath warm and uneven as it slowly steadies. His arms remain tight around you, one hand splayed firmly at your lower back, the other still gripping your thigh as if he fears you might vanish if he loosens his hold too soon.

Outside, the storm has softened to a steady murmur against the walls of Storm’s End. Inside the chamber, the only sound is your breathing slowly evening out against his chest.

Eventually, Lyonel shifts first, to tug the blankets up around you both. Then he settles back against the pillows and guides you with him, one strong arm wrapping securely around your shoulders.

You go easily.

Your head comes to rest over his heart, listening to it still beating strongly. For a moment you close your eyes, listening to the rhythmic beating, while feeling Lyonel’s hand drift up and down your back in slow, absent strokes.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs.

“A little bit,” you admit, voice already thick with sleep.

A low hum rumbles beneath your ear. “I’ll have hot water brought up in the morning.”

You smile faintly against his skin. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” you tell him, enjoying his fingers combing gently through your hair now, untangling it in some places.

Then, for a long moment, it feels like he’s slowly falling asleep too. However, when his chest rises with a deeper breath, you already know that he’s about to say something with bigger meaning.

“Tomorrow,” Lyonel says quietly, almost into the dark,” I’ll send a raven.”

You blink against him. “A raven? To whom?”

“To your father.”

That makes you a little more. Your head tilts up slightly, but Lyonel keeps his gaze fixed on the ceiling, jaw set in a way that tells you this isn’t idle talk.

“I have to confess that I didn’t invite you to Storm’s End by accident,” he continues and suddenly his hand doesn’t move through your hair anymore. “There’s been… pressure.”

You frown faintly. “Pressure?”

“A union,” he says bluntly. “Other houses want it… House Baratheon wants it, and if I refuse long enough, they’ll choose a fitting partner for me.”

There’s a hard edge beneath the calm of his voice now. Lyonel Baratheon doesn’t like being cornered.

“They brought me a list,” he goes on. “Names. Alliances. Advantages… Yours was on it.”

Suddenly silence stretches between you, but it doesn’t last longer than a few beats, before Lyonel fills the space with more words.

“I nearly laughed,” he admits. “As if I didn’t already know your name.” Now he looks down at you. “But I wanted to see you first. I didn’t want to decide because of a name written on parchment… I have only pleasant memories of you. Of your sharp tongue, steady gaze, and that you never once looked at me like I was something to fear or someone to flatter.” A faint huff of amusement. “Gods know that’s rare.”

His thumb brushes along your cheekbone.

“If even half of what I remembered was still applying today,” he continues, voice lower now, more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it, “then I knew you were the right choice”

Not a convenient one.

The right one.

“So tomorrow,” he says, gaze steady on yours, “I’ll send word formally.”

Your heart skips.

“Not because they pushed me,” he adds firmly. “Not because of politics, and not because I’ve already had you in my bed, but because I chose you before they ever tried to.”

Your throat tightens. “Lyonel…”

He presses his forehead lightly against yours. “If you don’t want it, tell me now. I’ll burn the damned list and let them choke on it.”

There it is. That fierce loyalty. So, you shake your head.

“Good,” he murmurs.

Then he presses a kiss into your hair and pulls you back down against his chest, arm tightening around you protectively.

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Lyonel is very physically affectionate, but not in a shy way. For example, he drapes an arm around your shoulder in public, keeps a hand on your lower back when guiding you somewhere, or pulls you into his side when he laughs.

He’s not overly flowery with words, but his affection is visible. He’s also not shying away from kissing you in front of a crowd.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Having Lyonel as a best friend would mean he’s loud, loyal, protective, and ridiculously fun. He’s absolutely the friend who drags you to feasts and teases you mercilessly about anything. Also, he’d punch anyone who insults you.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Oh, he loves cuddles, but he pretends that he doesn’t care for it at first. But once he realizes you won’t tease him for having a softer side he lies on his back and pulls you on top of him, wrapping both arms around you and doesn’t let go. Then he rests his chin on your head and closes his eyes.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

He absolutely wants to settle down, but when it comes to cooking… Well, he can roast meat and boil potatoes, but that’s about it. Cleaning isn’t his strength either. He’ll try, but he’s messy and can’t seem to help it. He tosses his cloaks over chairs and leaves his boots wherever he stands. Sometimes it’s you who must pick them up and put them away before someone stumbles and falls.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

If he had to break up with you, it would wreck him. So, he wouldn’t do it lightly and wouldn’t do it cruelly. However, he’d be blunt and avoid dragging it out.

The whole time he’d keep his voice steady even if it costs him. But afterwards, he’d drink and brood… and regret.

F = Fiancé (How do they feel about commitment? How quickly would they want to get married?)

Once he decides you’re his, he’s serious. He wouldn’t rush into marriage recklessly, but once he’s sure he’d want it official.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

He’s strong by nature, so when he handles you gently, it’s deliberate and shows that he cares. He’s often rough, so when his hands touch you gently you instantly know he’s fond of you.

Emotionally… Well, he doesn’t always know the perfect words, but he stays and that’s what matters.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

His hugs are the best! They’re big, enveloping, and lifting you off the ground. And he hugs you quite often for example, when he’s proud of you, when he hasn’t seen you in a while, or when he’s drunk.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-Word?)

He doesn’t say it quickly. Lyonel feels it long before he finally admits it. And when he finally says it, it’s not dramatic like you would expect, but almost stubborn like he’s declaring something that has already been true for a while. It’s less of a confession, but a statement.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Oh, he gets jealous, but not in an insecure way… more like… territorial. If someone were to flirt with you for example, Lyonel would step closer, slide his arm around your waist and you’d notice how his voice gets deeper when he talks.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

His kisses are intense but never rushed. He likes to take his time and kiss you deeply, really enjoying the moment and the taste of your lips. But it’s not just your lips that he likes to kiss. No, when he’s protective he enjoys kissing your forehead and sometimes your temple.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Lyonel’s surprisingly good with children. They’re not scared of him like some adults sometimes are. That’s the reason why he lets them climb on him and teaches them ridiculous games.

And of course, he wants children. Loud, strong, wild ones like himself.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Lyonel wakes early, but he doesn’t get up right away. Usually, he stays in bed and watches you for a while before he presses a lazy kiss on your head. Only then does he get up.

But he’s not a true morning person. He’s grumbly but soft in the first few minutes of the day. It might be the years of early training sessions that force him to wake when the sun rises and he can’t seem to change that.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Nights are when he finally relaxes. You’ve noticed that he likes you beside him then, a hand resting somewhere on you while he calms down and eventually falls asleep.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Lyonel doesn’t open up all at once, so each confession feels earned. He might share a story from his past, when the moment calls for it, or show frustration he normally hides (especially in the early stages of getting to know you)

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

He’s not the most patient man in the world and can be hot-tempered, but not at you. When it comes to you, he cools down quickly.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

He remembers more than he lets on. Lyonel might pretend not to care about small details, but then months later he’ll reference something you said once in passing. This is when you realize he truly listens to what you say.

R = Remember (What’s their favorite moment in your relationship?)

The first time you publicly stood by his side, not to intimidate or overshadow him of course. This was the moment he realized you were his equal and he respected your strength.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you?)

Lyonel is extremely protective. It shows by him standing between you and danger, and him teaching you how to defend yourself. Moreover, he secretly likes it when you worry about him. When you patch him up for example. Or when you insist he rest.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, and everyday tasks?)

He puts in effort and it shows best in bold gestures like planned fests, bringing you gifts from tournaments, or simply showing up when it matters. He may forget dates though…

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

-        His Pride

-        Drinking too much

-        Getting loud in arguments

-        Struggling to admit when he’s wrong

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Oh, he knows he’s attractive, but he doesn’t obsess over it. Still, he keeps his armor polished and maintains his appearance. Moreover, he smirks when people stare. Confidence comes naturally to him.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Lyonel wouldn’t be incomplete without you because he’s strong on his own. But with you, he’s steadier, softer, and just happier. So, you don’t complete him, but balance him.

X = Xtra (A random head canon for them.)

He likes to carry you. So, no matter if it’s before or after marriage, he absolutely carries you over thresholds just to get a reaction out of you.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

-        Dishonesty

-        Cowardice

-        Cold Indifference

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Lyonel’s aftercare is surprisingly tender. After sex, the dominant edge fades once he’s caught his breath. This is when he brushes your hair back, presses slow kisses to your temple and shoulder, and checks your wrists and hips where he usually holds you tight.

He won’t say something overly soft though… that’s just not him, but a muttered, “You’re alright?” Yes, that’s his version of devotion.

B = Body Part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He likes his face the most. He knows he’s handsome after all and makes sure he’s well-groomed (taking good care of his hair and beard).

When it comes to your body, however, he likes your thighs. He likes gripping them, spreading them, feeling them around his hips. But what he’s truly obsessed with is your neck and collarbone. He simply loves leaving marks there. Subtle enough to hide, but obvious enough for him to know they’re his.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum, basically)

He likes cumming in you. But it’s less about the act itself and more about the idea of it. The mere thought of you carrying his child is what gets him. It’s possessive and deeply rooted in his identity as a lord of Storm’s End.

He’d also like to see evidence of himself on you, because it feeds that pride of his.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Oh, he has an armor kink and thinks about fucking you before he gets out of it. Not even necessarily the full thing… just partially armored like having the gauntlets still on or his chest plate merely unbuckled.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Lyonel is for sure experienced, but I don’t think he’s careless about it. He’s had flings, sure, but he uses his experiences to learn quickly what works and what doesn’t. So it’s less about showing off and telling everybody how many people he fucked but taking everything into account to make sure he can please you the best.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying)

He likes being in control, so he’s on top most of the time. But he’s open to any other position that allows him to see your face. Eye contact is huge for him, because he wants to watch your reactions.

However, once he trusts you, he’ll let you take control… but even when you’re on top his hands will still be guiding your hips. Lyonel never fully surrenders control.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? Etc.)

He’s mostly serious, but can help to tease you. Prepare for him to whisper smug remarks into your ear while he fucks you just to make you blush even more. But that’s the most “silly” thing he does in bed. Don’t expect him to laugh during it or make jokes.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? Etc.)

Similar to his face, Lyonel makes sure to stay groomed, but to a certain degree, so that it’s still masculine. It’s more like making sure he’s cleaned up nicely, not overly trimmed to perfection.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment? The romantic aspect)

He focuses on you, every sound you make he’s locking in and making sure to remember it the next time you two have sex.

J = Jack off (Masturbation headcanon)

If he’s away, he will jack off. And when he does, he thinks of specific memories not fantasies. He likes to remember things you actually did and words you said.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Lyonel has a biting kink. He enjoys biting your neck and shoulders and watching how his mark will stay there sometimes for hours.

However, he’s also a fan of restraint. He enjoys holding your wrists down and limiting your movements, allowing him to take control completely and leaving you at his mercy.

Moreover, he has a praise kink. Even though he enjoys it very much when you praise him, he loves it even more when he gets to praise you and tells you how well you take him.

L = Location (Favorite place to do the do)

He prefers the bedroom, because the mere thought of someone seeing you in your most vulnerable state is something he doesn’t enjoy very much. Seeing you slowly approaching your climax should be something only for his eyes to witness. He doesn’t share after all.

But if he’s sure no one will see? Well, then he’s not very picky. Table, wall, against the door, in a tent during a tournament. You name it.

M = Motivation ( What turns them on, gets them going)

It doesn’t take much for Lyonel to get going. You exist? He’s already thinking about how he can pin you down and make you cry out his name. You laugh at another man? Oh, he’s definitely dragging you somewhere private later.

N = No (Something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

He wouldn’t genuinely hurt you, but I do think he might press his hand around your throat still… lightly, not squeezing, only to test your reaction. But the moment he senses discomfort he stops immediately.

But anything that causes real harm like cuts and burns? Absolutely not.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Lyonel loves giving. It’s one of the few times he looks genuinely focused. Receiving? Well, he enjoys it (especially watching you) but he prefers being the one making you unravel.

P = Pace ( Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? Etc.)

He controls the tempo for sure. Lyonel moves slowly, when he wants to torture you and roughly when he wants to overwhelm you. He watches what you need in the moment and adapts.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He prefers depth over speed, but when he’s frustrated, he’s absolutely capable of just pulling you aside for a quickie.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? Etc.)

When it comes to risk, he’s open-minded as long as you’re safe. Moreover, he’s confident enough not to feel threatened by experimentation. So, if there is something you want to try in the bedroom it’s worth bringing it up in conversation.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

He’s not as young as he used to be anymore… still, the first round is nothing but intense. However, when it comes to the second or third round, this is when it becomes apparent that he needs a pause before he can fuck you with his dick again. Thankfully, his hands and mouth don’t take breaks ;)

T = Toys (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

First of all, he doesn’t really see the appeal of using toys on himself when he can have you. So, there’s no need for him to purchase anything of that sort.

When it comes to you, however, this is a little bit more complicated. He wouldn’t like toys replacing him. So, if you feel needy and he’s around, Lyonel would want you to come to him. Seeing you using a toy instead would bruise his ego. But if you asked for something small like something that enhances him or something that he could use on you. Sure, he’s not opposed to keeping that around in case it becomes handy.

U = Unfair (How much they like to tease)

Oh, he loves teasing and edging you. He loves to hear you beg for him, crying out his name. Especially, after watching you try to stay composed for a long time only to eventually fail.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Lyonel’s pretty vocal. You can hear low grunts, growls, and heavy breathing from him alongside praise. But he won’t scream and shout or anything similar to that. He’s too controlled for that.

W = Wild card (A random headcanon for the character)

He loves it when you scratch his back or leave marks on him as well. Outwardly, he pretends to be annoyed, but he secretly likes looking at the marks later. It’s like proof that he did well and it fuels his pride.

X = X-ray ( Let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

7.5 inches and thick

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

High. What is there more to say? Especially once he’s emotionally invested, there’s no escaping him.

Z = Zzz (How quickly they fall asleep afterwards)