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New addition: 

Lyonel Baratheon (A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms)

The Dragon and The Stag (IN PROGRESS series): Visenya Targaryen was far enough down the succession order that she considered her place in court to be near unimportant. Her father had promised to let her decide on her own time when to be married and instead she decided to enjoy life. Wine, art, music, sex. Everything that a princess of six and twenty should have never been doing. And then the decision was made for her: pick a lord, be betrothed, get married, and cease her indiscretions. But the headstrong princess would not be so easily reined in.

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Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw (Top Gun: Maverick)

home to you (series): When two people are meant to be together, fate will always find a way to bring them to each other. It's just that sometime it's no under the normal-est of circumstances. But a flower that blooms in adversity is the rarest and most beautiful of all, and Bradley will be ready to go through anything for the love of his Blossom.

read on ao3

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PEDRO PASCAL

oberyn martell (game of thrones)

of vipers and doves (series): Lady Y/N always dreamed of marrying for love, but coming from an old Westerosi family meant that love was never in the cards for her. However, fate seemed to smile her way once her betrothal to Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne came to be.

read on ao3

of viper and doves II (sequel): Almost four years later. Y/N and Oberyn Martell’s life couldn’t be better. Growing, happy family. Loving subjects. Nothing worse than a rainfall came to Dorne. Until a shadow flew above Sunspear, turning the life of the joyous family upside down.

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javier peña (narcos)

amami alfredo (series): Y/N is an opera singer who has a connection to a man who can possibly lead our favourite DEA team to Pablo Escobar.

read on ao3

frankie “catfish” morales (triple frontier)

The journey up the Kingsroad was even more dull than the one they had undertaken south all those weeks ago. At least on the way down, there were other things to distract from the weather (mainly the delightful sight of Visenya riding her horse a mere two feet from him) and the murderous intent that had not let up since the arrival of Lady Wylla’s urgent message.

The rain pelted over their head mercilessly, as thick as Dothraki fermented milk, the wind remained indecisive throughout – one moment it blew like a hurricane and the other it was a faint breeze – and only the thick cover of trees or the shabby roof of an inn provided the party with a temporary sanctuary. The warmth of a tavern fire, a mug of ale, and a heavy slab of some charred meat – that was the only comfort to be expected for the near future. If only for the nights the riders stopped to rest their steeds and their own heads. 

It was nothing that they as Stormlanders had not seen or dealt with before. It was in their nature, in their breeding, to endure and persevere, even battle the tempests.

Yet Lyonel found himself detesting every second of it.

His foul mood could be attributed to something other than the weather, of course. It was not only the further slight Cafferen had dealt upon his House – on Lyonel himself as his liege lord – that made his blood boil and the frown etch itself deeper into his features. Visenya not being there either was even more unsettling. 

Every night he would put this head down to rest on some starchy, straw-stuffed pillow, flattened with overuse, and his bedding would feel hollow – too hollow. The mead and ale tasted sour, and any food that passed his lips might have been empty air.

She was in his dreams, he saw her face around each corner and tree, he heard her voice on the wind. And the newly sprouted tufts of tiny blooms on the grassy slopes along the road blended together in a sea of blue and violet hues that were so much like her eyes. Even after waking – if after bouts of fitful rest what he did could even be called sleeping – the first thing his body wanted to do was reach for her and pull her into him. He wished to bury his face in her hair and breathe her in while his mind arrived at the precipice of wakefulness. Feel the curves of her arse and luscious legs fit against his front. 

And then he would come to realise she wasn’t there.

Gods! He missed her. 

And for the very first time in his not-so-terribly-long life, Lyonel longed to return to Storm’s End. For years he had sought adventure on the sea or land, agreeing to compete in any tourney or melee, attend any silly fete if that could only keep him away from that dull place. The ancient seat of his House…  now calling him back with the voice of his wife. And he wished to turn his courser around and follow it home. 

‘I will be back in a tenday,’ Lyonel told Visenya as they crossed the castle courtyard to approach his readied horse. Sterlyng, he was called – tall and grey as fog in the open sea with black socks that travelled up his fine legs before dissolving into a mass of silver. Lyonel’s most cherished horse. 

‘If my uncle proves difficult–’

‘I can handle Orys as well as the rest of the household until you return,’ Visenya assured him. 

‘I know, I know. He can be insanely stubborn, but he is an honourable man. He will respect my wishes for you to be in command of this place whilst I am away and defer to you in all matters.’

‘Well, I will certainly be busy with Jena’s labour in the coming days. So there shan’t be much command-ing to be done. There is not much time left, the maester is sure her pains are overdue.’

‘Good. If– If they ask for any decisions to be made… should a complication arise… you are empowered to make the choice.’

Whispers of the malady that had struck another servant girl overnight and had now infected young Orryn troubled him. He understood to a painful degree how the childbed could be a frightfully uncertain place – more akin to a battleground than anything remotely peaceful. And in times when illnesses were so easily spread amongst the populace, it was right that he should worry. He sent a prayer to the Mother that she see his dearest sister through this battle so that he may see her upon his return with a healthy babe upon her breast. 

‘I would’ve preferred Manfred be here, comforting her–’

Visenya reached her hands to him and pulled his face down gently. ‘She will be abundantly comforted. She is in safe hands, worry not. I will write to Lord Tarth the moment she delivers.’

Lyonel finally smiled; despite the anger and bitter desire for vengeance that had plagued him since the day before, there was no better remedy than his wife’s touch. He raised a hand to her face and twirled a single silvery curl that had escaped her long braid. He could already feel the loss of her and did not know if he particularly enjoyed the sensation, nor parting with her for such a long period of time. 

‘I know Cafferen deserves a punishment equal to his transgression, but think of his wife and daughters. Take pity on them. They too will suffer for what he has done if you do indeed take his head for it,’ she pleaded with him softly, then added, ‘When you’re done, return to me immediately.’ 

Her face was so close to his that he could inhale each of her exhales. Just close enough to sever the distance between them and claim a kiss from her if he only tipped his face downwards. 

‘Safe and sound… please.’

He meant to throw a jest, make her at ease if nothing else, but the trembling worry in her eyes travelled across the miniscule space between them through the air and through her shaking hands that were cupping his face. Whatever witty quip he had readied flew right out of his mind. 

He let out a puff of air and laid his forehead against hers. He breathed in the air she exhaled once more and let her anxiety be squashed inside him. Then he kissed her slowly, fervently, with all the feeling of a man who knew he was about to starve and was offered one last feast. 

‘I will be quite safe, beauty. I will be back before you notice my absence. In the meantime, gorge yourself on anything your heart desires. As a matter of fact, do whatever pleases you best. If it is drawing, I will be happy to listen to more of what you like to put down on paper once I return.’ 

He kissed her again. A brief peck of his lips was all he could spare as the sound of more of his guards pulling into the courtyard atop their own horses. Lyonel left Visenya’s embrace with the greatest of difficulties. The seabreeze picked up just as he had departed her warmth and a shudder went through him like the blow of a mallet to the belly. He climbed into Sterlyng’s saddle and glanced down at where his frowning wife stood watching him.

‘I will send a raven from Fawnton when I am done.’

And thus he left her in the middle of Storm’s End courtyard.

Lyonel thought despisingly, Others bugger me! I should’ve fucking brought her along.

The road ahead was growing darker. The small riding party that had left Storm’s End three days ago was closing in on a hamlet just past Bronzegate. Word had reached Lord Buckler of Lyonel’s approach and he had sent an invitation ahead, offering to welcome him and his men but the offer had gone unanswered. If not for the pressing matter ahead of him, Lyonel might have even welcomed the comfort of a proper bed, even the Bucklers’ piss poor ale. But Ser Joffrey Hasty waited for him, surely joined by now by the Musgoods who had been equally insulted by this blatant provocation. He would need to reach them all posthaste and assure them of House Baratheon’s unreserved support lest the ravens had not reached them first. 

And Lyonel loathed taking an even larger bed that would only remind him further of his dreadful wifelessness.

Lights began to pop like fireflies between the towering pines and the thicket, growing brighter as the party drew closer. The smell of smoke and the sound of voices became more apparent too. And as the last light of day finally dipped below the distant horizon, the small Baratheon party made it to their resting place for that night. 

There was a small tavern tucked between the ten hovels and thatched-roof houses that made up the hamlet, meant for one or two weary travellers and the smallfolk who resided in the area. Not something befitting the welcome of a Baratheon lord but it would have to do. Lyonel had to attempt sleeping tonight, mayhaps eat something other than a morsel of bread and a bowl of over-boiled stew, if he were to stand in judgement on the morrow and have decent mastery over his own body. To be able to swing the sword at least if not anything else.

The aged bartender leapt at the opportunity to house his Lord Paramount and Lyonel, in his desire to get a pail of water to wash himself and a hot meal for his party with haste, likely overpaid for their lodgings by about thirty gold. The leather purse dropped heavily in the old man’s hands and he busied himself by clearing out a table for them in the corner of the tiny hall while the tavern girls rushed to set up the rooms.

The night found Lyonel restless once more with a bed that was too stiff and not nearly full enough for his liking. He flipped to one side, then the other, rotating like a pig on a spit. The fire in his room proved good only to further stoke his ire and make any attempt at sleeping meaningless. 

Seven fuckers in the seven havens and all the devils in the hells too! 

Lyonel pushed off of the mattress and slipped into his boots, meaning to go for a walk and clear his mind. He dismissed the man standing guard beyond his chamber door with an absentminded wave of his hand. He did not care for the man to follow him like a shadow when his patience was already thin from exhaustion and thus he sent him away. The tepid tavern ale was another option to improve his mood and hopefully settle him down sufficiently enough to induce slumber. 

The steps creaked loudly under his boots but the sound was almost entirely drowned out by the bustle in the tavern’s main hall. Most men of his guard had huddled around their table with a tankard each, all of them too sloshed or too enamoured with the tales being shared in the firelight. Axel was with them, too – a young lass perched upon his thigh, her thin lips stretched wide, and a blush blooming on her face whenever his cousin pressed his nose in her dark hair (likely dripping filth into the shell of her ear along with promises of what he would do to her). Lyonel had half a mind to chastise him for this frivolity, tell him that they had more pressing matters than the ravishing of tavern wenches, but he decided against it. He knew well where his ire stemmed from and it was neither his cousin to blame, nor anyone else for that matter. 

Frankly, he wished it was him at that table with Visenya on his knee. He would’ve let her steer the conversation with his men while his hand snuck under her skirts and between her legs. He would bury his nose in her hair and listen to her struggle to keep her voice level while he plunged two fingers in her cunt. The idea of pleasuring her while others were close – at an arm's length even – had been present at the back of his mind on more than one occasion though now the resurgence of those same thoughts did not delight him as much. 

Because she wasn’t there.

Sufficiently wroth over it all (and to no small degree aroused by his own imaginings), Lyonel began winding his way out between tables and pissed drunk folks until a pair of hands locked around his upper arm, pulling at the sleeve of his shirt to draw him to an abrupt stop. He looked down to see a pair of cornflower blues gazing up at him dreamily. 

‘Is it true they call you the Laughing Storm, m’lord?’ The owner of said pair of eyes practically thrust her tits forward and slotted them at his side.

‘Aye,’ Lyonel replied with no particular enthusiasm. She might have been the type to rouse his interest some time ago. Frankly, any person who simply looked his way would’ve found themselves underneath him before the hour was up. But now he was as cold as stone in winter. And her eyes in particular – through no fault of her own, of course – were the entirely wrong colour.

The lass grinned hungrily. ‘I ain’t ever fucked a storm… if you don’t count a bastard Storm.’ 

His lack of reciprocity had likely made no impression on her and she pushed  herself further into his body. Lyonel pried her hands from his arm and dropped them unceremoniously. The lass pouted as a result.

‘I wish you well on your search. This storm is not interested.’

Leaving the girl was far easier than imagined. She may have stood there, deeply offended by his rejection, until the uproar of laughter from the large Baratheon congregation surely drew her away. If not a storm, she could use those wiles of hers to seduce a squall at least. 

Lyonel slipped out of the tavern and made for the miniscule stable yard. The wind had picked up again, trailing with it the smell of the woods and rain that had stopped sometime in the afternoon. The fragrant damp in the air still clung to his skin like a cold embrace and for one Lyonel was glad of it since it rid him of the bloody hardness in his breeches.

The stable yard was not as empty as he had hoped it to be. Apart from their band of horses which took up every last pen, there was another figure standing just outside one of the pens, talking softly to the horse residing in there. But the sharp crunch of gravel as Lyonel approached brought the figure’s attention to him. And the light of a nearby lantern revealed the stern face of his cousin who was gingerly running a brush along his horse’s long bronze neck.

‘I take it you did not see the appeal in drinking the poor innkeep’s last reserves with Axel and the rest of our party,’ Borys said as he made one final drag of the brush through the courser’s mane, cooing at the handsome beast as he did. He then dropped onto one of two short, three-legged stools by the pen’s door and pulled the second one closer to himself.

‘I have bigger things on my mind than to join in the merriment,’ he justified and sat beside his cousin. ‘Axel is welcome to it. His eternal good humour is a boon to all around him and only sometimes a detriment. And I doubt he could be forced into solemnity even if the gods commanded it.’

Borys gave a huff of amusement. ‘We should be glad of this “eternal good humour” then?’

‘What else is there to do with the lad?’

‘Send him off to sea perhaps? As we were. He could do with a few months on the open water and a girl to warm his cock only when they dock in some foreign port.’

That finally made a grin pop onto Lyonel’s face. ‘And you think that will make him settle down. Can a wild stud be so easily broken in?’

‘You were,’ Borys mused and gave his cousin a pointed look. ‘Though I suppose with a wife as… fine as your Visenya, anyone would come to see their nature changed.’

Lyonel could only hum as a response. The wind picked up again with a low howl, rattling the structure of the shabby stable. The doors of the pens budged with the change in atmosphere, the latches clicked, the hinges squeaked. Sterlyng huffed loudly somewhere in the dark and his rider felt a similar sound escape him. 

Especially at the mention of his wife.

The saccharine scent of petrichor and pine bark wafted into the yard and got him thinking. What would Visenya be doing now? It was late and she so enjoyed having a hot bath before retiring to bed. It calmed her enough to slip into an easy sleep the moment her head was upon the pillow. Her hair would surely still be a little damp but it would not stop it from spreading like a cloud of charcoal and silver around her head. And if Lyonel had been there he would cradle her head in the crook of his neck, mayhaps play with that one entirely silver curl at her nape, whilst her breaths evened out and she slipped into slumber. 

Or would she find it as hard as he did to fall asleep without his presence? Surely – nay, hopefully – not. She deserved her rest and he would think himself a true villain if he were the reason for her sleeplessness. 

Borys pulled a flask from a hook on his belt, uncorked it and took a deep swig of what it contained before handing it over to Lyonel. Good Redwyne vintage, smooth and rich. He should have remembered to pick some in his own wineskin, alas his thoughts were elsewhere. 

‘She wants me to show leniency,’ he told his cousin and returned the flask to his hands. ‘Or… ‘tis at least what I assume she inferred.’

‘If she believes it to be the wiser course of action…’ Borys replied stiffly. ‘You would rather take Cafferen’s head and be done with it.’

‘I would certainly prefer it. Chop it off and be back in Storm’s End before the week is out.’

Borys regarded him with a sense of amusement. ‘And back to Visenya. She has you completely unravelled, dear cousin.’

‘Am I unravelled? Or do I feel contented at long last to belong to a single soul?’ Lyonel looked at his bare hands that could have been at this moment holding her. ‘I love her. And I would do whatever she asked for if I knew it made her even remotely happy.’

He glanced at his cousin again but found his face stripped of emotion as he stared blankly ahead. ‘That is a very good thing.’

Lyonel had never known him to be particularly open when it came to matters of the heart. 

In their sailing days, Borys joined him and the other men in sampling the delicacies that were on offer though that rarely involved delicacies of the female variety. He knew his cousin was shy, thought he might even prefer the company of men (Lyonel enjoyed either), although when a couple of lads in Pentos had propositioned him, he had turned them down stone cold. He could very well have been wrong in his estimations, but the other man had never shown true interest in knowing another in that manner.

And Lyonel knew better than to push him into elaborating on his inner workings. Axel could take teasing from him, he would be quick with an equally biting remark and the pair could trade words the way they fought with swords. Borys was always different in that regard. Furthermore, he owed him his life and that was a debt that demanded a level of respect that went beyond what was expected of kinsmen. 

‘Very good thing indeed,’ Lyonel parroted what he had said a moment ago. ‘Yet it means I am giving breath to the idea of sparing the life of Jaspar fucking Cafferen.’

‘There are other forms of punishment at your disposal.’

‘Hundreds likely. Starting with a good flogging, I should think, and ending it with him strung up from his ankles in his own great hall.’

A huff of a laugh slipped out of Borys’s chest. He began gathering what little he had brought with him to the stable yard, finally sheathing his sword at his belt. ‘The decision will be yours, milord. I will follow you down whichever path you choose,’ he said after he had risen from the old stool. ‘I am weary. Let us collect my brother and retire before he manages to insult the poor inkeep by ravishing his daughter. Are we to set off at dawn?’

‘Aye,’ Lyonel groaned and bobbed his head in a stiff nod. A low ache thrummed in the back of his neck like a lute string being pulled too hard, too fast. He rubbed a hand over the troubling spot – he really needed to try and rest tonight. ‘Go. I need a moment longer here. But do make sure Axel is not causing a disturbance.’ 

Rest did not come easy to Lyonel even after spending an hour in the silent company of the horses. Once his mind settled enough for him to slip into unconsciousness, it was still not quiet enough to spare him dreams of things that had come to pass.

Mostly he dreamt of the sea… and of Visenya, standing atop the jagged, wet rocks at the base of Storm’s End, awash in seafoam and waning sunlight. 

The following morrow was as chilled as the one prior. The sun had barely crested over the horizon, the world was only now beginning to bask in the muted light, and the Baratheon party was closing in on its mark. Another band of horses and their riders appeared in between trees and bushes, a sea of colours that popped against a backdrop of greenery. 

‘Milord!’ Joffrey Hasty, clad in a dark purple cloak that partially concealed his mail, rode forth to greet Lyonel. The attention of the other men with him was now focused on their lord’s arrival and some twenty pairs of eyes met his in various shades of awe, shock, and a twinge of fear from the younger boys who had up until then only heard of their Lord Paramount. Mayhaps the legend of the Laughing Storm added to the air of danger about him, or it could have been the raised, sickly violet skin under his eyes. It was yet another day that Lyonel welcomed exhausted and in an even fouler mood.

Even Axel had grimaced when he’d caught a glimpse of him.

In one regard, the terrible state of him could work as a reassurance to his vassals that he had kept their plight at the forefront of his mind and had nary a wink for worry. They needn’t know that he was more concerned whether Visenya had another blanket on her in bed to keep her warm given the chill in the air that morning. Or that he had woken up with an insufferably hard cock after a brief dream that involved him pushing those same blankets away from her and fucking her until her mewls of pleasure had sadly ended that brief scene in his mind.

Lyonel greeted the Musgoods next – chiefly Ser Alfrid Musgood, the uncle to the current lord who was happily unaware of the threat upon his lands given he was still a babe barely out of his swaddling. 

‘I hope we can see this matter resolved,’ Ser Alfrid said tersely.

‘I intend to be done with Cafferen by sunset.’ Lyonel’s voice rose loud enough for all the anxious ears to hear. ‘House Baratheon is glad of your loyalty, my good sers, and we shall see that loyalty repaid.’

Fawnton Castle was a keep hardly any larger than the Ashoford’s own home – neither grand nor as ancient as most strongholds in the Stormlands, and it begged the question what gave Lord Cafferen the idea that he could promote himself to a higher status than his allotted place in the realm. 

My father, Lyonel scoffed to himself. 

That fool fed his sycophants with thoughts of grandeur and Jasper Cafferen had entirely forgotten himself as a result. How come neither the Wyldes nor the Steadmons ever gave him that much trouble; their lords were too amongst the old bastard’s close confidants but they fell in line the moment Lyonel took over as Lord. Orryn Baratheon had left his son with more troubles to mend and burning his former bed by comparison had been nothing.

The gates opened when they rode closer and first to greet the arriving party was Lady Cafferen herself. A wisp of a woman with thin blonde hair that was pulled frightfully tight in twin braids. Her hands wrung together at her front, pinching and pulling the fabric of her green dress, and only when he focused on their positioning did Lyonel notice that her belly had begun protruding quite significantly. 

Lyonel slid down from his saddle and walked up to Lady Wylla who dropped into such a clumsy curtsy Lyonel had to reach for her arm to steady her. 

‘Good mmmmorrow, milord. Thank the g-gods– Thank the gods for… bringing you so ssswiftly.’ Her voice was even smaller than her. ‘My lord husband–’ She took a breath to steady her words, ‘– My lord husband left for a hunt yesternight. ‘Tis a f-f-fo… ‘tis good you did not meet him on the r-road.’

Ser Alfrid stomped up behind Lyonel. ‘The bastard dares take our lands and goes on a merry hunt! The gall of him.’ 

‘Let us hope a boar has speared him clean through,’ was Ser Joffrey’s addition.

Lyonel.

‘Is this some trick, woman!’

‘Cafferen is here. She must be trying to keep him from us.’

The men were beginning to see Lady Wylla as a deterrent on their mission rather than an ally to their plight. Lyonel squashed that immediately.

‘If not for Lady Cafferen, I would not have been informed of what her husband had done so quickly. You should all be grateful for her aid and fealty.’

The young woman’s mouth twitched in a timid smile and she whispered a brief, ‘Thank you, milord.’

With Lyonel’s support and the mumbled words of reluctant gratitude from the Hastys and Musgoods, Lady Wylla ushered them all to the castle’s entrance with more power in her voice. ‘We can– We can use his absence to our benefit. There is ffffood for you all in the great hall. And a letter,’ she whispered only to Lyonel and handed him a rolled up piece of parchment from within the folds of her voluminous skirt, ‘from the princess. Arrived a few hours before you.’

Cafferen’s decision to leave his keep for a hunt proved to be a positive outcome indeed. The men in their party were tired, hungry, aggrieved. Had he been there to see them arrive, they surely would have torn him to pieces before he could have uttered a single word. And in their current situation, the warm hearth and pleasant meal that Lady Wylla provided them with could abate the hunger for blood and give them time to properly discuss what to do.

The mass of people standing around the long table were more akin to a war council. Lady Wylla was flanked by her two step-daughters who acted like her guard hounds from the very beginning, especially if one of the men scoffed or huffed whenever she nervously stammered through a sentence. At times Lyonel would almost forget that all three women were practically the same age.

Lady Ysabel, the eldest and most fierce of the two Cafferen daughters, eyed him carefully when he took the head of the table. She used the advantage of her height to partially shield her step-mother from him as though she did not entirely believe his lack of animosity against the poor lass. Lady Lucinda in turn kept her anger entirely directed at the castle’s steward whom she had all but dragged into the hall by the scruff of his neck. 

A manservant trotted around to fill each goblet with Lyonel’s own being swiftly drained as he used the moment when not a single man had yet remembered whom they needed to pursue for a resolution to read his wife’s orderly written letter.

My darling, my storm–

Gods damn him, he wanted to hear those names come out of her lips again and again until his ears bled. 

I pray that if you are reading this, you have made it safely to Fawnton. Worry not for me, all is well and I need you focused on the task at hand. As I assume you have noticed, Lady Wylla is with child. She must not be subjected to the worry that will surely come should you take Cafferen’s head and her being diminished in the world’s eyes as a wife of a traitor. You have the right to send him to the Wall, if you are not completely resolute in your desire for blood… please consider it. If not for the young women in whose company you are at present, then for me. I know well how it feels to be judged for the grave errors of my family, it is a torture I would never wish upon another. 

Return to me, I beg. I miss you terribly and I cannot bear it.

Visenya

Words of vitriol flew across the table, mostly directed from the infuriated men on one side towards the Fawnton steward who was attempting to defend his honour. All Lyonel could hear was the seductive chant of his beloved’s voice. And the words: I miss you terribly. 

If a decent number of people, his own cousins and men included, were not in the hall with him, he would’ve pressed the parchment to his face. Held it there, taken a whiff of what little of her scent had lingered on the material – anything to feel her close. Instead, he rolled it up and stuffed it in the inside pocket of his doublet. As close to his heart as he could have it.

‘If we must– if– if we could only ffffocus on what is to be done with my lord husband,’ Lady Wylla tried to interject.

The steward made the great error of judgement to scoff and mutter something likely scathing about his mistress which earned him a deafening smack across the face. Lady Ysabel, to the surprise of all gathered, had reached across the space in front of her kin to land the punishing blow. The poor man shrunk a further few inches as a result.

‘If I hear one more ill word spoken about my lady mother from your wretched mouth, I shall have your tongue, am I understood?’

The steward squeaked, ‘Yes, Milady.’

‘It is for your spineless arse licking that my father has driven our good name into the ground. I should let Lord Lyonel take your head as well, you impudent little rat.’

Not only had she put the fear of the gods – or rather, of herself – into the steward, but into most all other men around that table. The bickering came to an abrupt stop. Axel picked that very moment to lean towards his cousin and murmur, ‘If Borys has second thoughts, I think I might like to be married to her.’

The manservant came to Lyonel once to refill his goblet and this time he took his time with the bitter beverage. 

Lady Ysabel straightened her back and cast her eyes to the men across the table. ‘I know it is an unforgivable act that my father has committed, but do not think for a second that we are any less aggrieved than you, good sers.’ She then looked Lyonel square in the eye, unflinching. ‘We now have to carry the shame of sharing blood with a fool and a traitor.’

They too will suffer for what he has done if you do indeed take his head for it, his wife had so wisely put it half a week ago and Lyonel finally began to feel the weight of her words. I know well how it feels to be judged for the grave errors of my family, her letter had completed the puzzle in his mind.

‘Nobody is questioning the dishonour that Cafferen has brought upon you, milady,’ told her Ser Joffrey, calmer in his delivery than all the rest had been so far. ‘I believe we have all lost a sense of propriety and should show respect to the ladies in their home.’

‘Milord Lyonel–’ Ser Alfrid turned his gaze to his liege with a much more careful, measured voice after his temper had sufficiently cooled, ‘–we turn to you now. The sanctity of our lands has been infringed upon. By a neighbour no less. But we must demand satisfaction for this most grave disrespect. If not for our own honours, then for that of our Houses.’

A low murmur of approval sounded from all of their men. 

‘Your lands are yours and that remains unchanged. As for Cafferen…’

He’d set off from Storm’s End with the intention to hack the man’s head off and have his fate be a message to anyone who might think to follow in his stupidity. It was not wanton violence that he craved; there were a thousand issues he’d been left to deal with after his father’s death, but nothing could have prepared him for the seeds of turmoil that had been planted by the man in his relationship with his vassals. His father’s weakness which Lyonel once feared might have been passed onto him was now a reminder why he needed to act.

Politics were not so different from a joust after all. He had one target in this instant, all he needed was his good aim and the fortitude to stay surely planted on his saddle.  

Lyonel glanced at Borys who raised a brow.

There are other forms of punishment at your disposal.

There were indeed. And Visenya had wisely given him the bloodless option. 

The steward hiccuped for fear when his liege spoke to him directly, ‘As I understand it, you had a role to play in this fucking mess.’

‘No, no, milord!’

Lady Lucinda smacked away his hands that had clasped together in a sign of prayer. ‘Do not lie, man.’

‘What was your advice to your lord?’

‘I never thought he would–’

‘Ah! So you are a bigger fool than he and a dreadful steward if you do not think these matters through,’ Lyonel bit out harshly and the man before him started shedding far, pitiful tears of despair. ‘I do like a fool… when they amuse me at least.’

The heavy oak doors to the great hall opened with a groan as heavy as them. Through them strolled Jasper Cafferen himself, red in the face from sport and drink, his boots and at least a foot of his cloak caked in mud and grass. The sight was familiar as it had been a similar state he’d been when revelling in Lyonel’s pavilion at the Tourney. However, this time around he had indulged in his own inebriants rather than sneaking more and more of Lyonel’s reserves.

At first Lord Jasper did not seem to fully grasp why there were so many people gathered around his dining table and why all of them looked at him with murderous fury. Then slowly, with the effects of the alcohol likely abating and the drunken haze no longer clouding his senses, reality dawned on him in a flash. 

‘Seize him,’ Lyonel calmly ordered one of the men in his guard. He stepped toward Cafferen, followed by another two, their hands coming to rest upon the pommels of their swords as warning. Cafferen’s meagre pack sensed the threat to their lord before he did and drew their weapons in his defence. 

Borys’s blade was out of its scabbard in a flash of silver light. Lyonel’s hand came up to his shoulder; they’d faced far more terrible odds. If anything, he was entertained by the small (drunken) hunting party that had stupidly brandished their swords with the most unsteady hands.

The old fool immediately ducked behind the burliest of his guards although the man could have never taken on a room-full of men who had too armed themselves and outnumbered Cafferen’s pack ten-to-one. The massive guard was urged to step away to allow a Baratheon man to roughly take possession of Lord Jasper, pushing him forth and making him stand before the entire gathering like a child awaiting to be disciplined. 

‘Cafferen,’ Lyonel hailed the man, amused and mayhaps a little thrilled to see the growing fear in his eyes, ‘how fortunate you could finally join us. Your lovely wife told us you were hunting. I do hope – for your sake – that was done on your own lands, not on those of your neighbours.’

Lord Jasper grew even redder, his panic moulding into fury momentarily when he looked at the girl. ‘YOU BLOODY HALF-WIT! Did you send for these– these– ruffians to come into my own home!’

Neither the malice in his tone, nor the insult seemed to have much effect on poor Lady Wylla, but her shoulders still folded in on themselves and she made herself appear almost invisible. If not for the shield that were Lady Ysabel and Lady Lucinda, she might have even tried to melt into the stone floor so as to disappear. Lyonel wondered if she’d had to put up with such treatment from him for their whole, albeit brief marriage. 

He did not particularly like that impression left him to deduce. 

‘I would have you speak a little kinder to your wife, Cafferen. And give her thanks whilst you’re at it.’

‘Heh!’ The smug old cunt scoffed. ‘What thanks do I owe her?’

Lyonel nodded, making a show of stalking around the table and approaching the man. ‘She is the only reason I have reconsidered taking your head.’

‘My head!’ The self-satisfied smirk fell away from his face and it was he who stammered now. ‘Milord, I– I did no–’

‘You will tell me that you committed no infraction. That you have not stolen land from the Hastys and Musgoods. That you are loyal to me and House Baratheon,’ Lyonel drawled. ‘Had I kept to my own home and left you to your devices, who would’ve been next? House Horpe, the Fells?’

Cafferen was close to sobbing; it was curious whether remorse was finally catching up to him or if he was more concerned about the imminent threat to his life. ‘No, milord, I would never!’ 

‘I know! I should give you the keys to Storm’s End, let you take over as Lord Paramount. Would that suffice?’

The old man stumbled over his own words, apologies and prayers for mercy spilling forth. ‘Whatever my wife has told you… milord, it is– it is false! I only meant to–’

‘I tire of your excuses, old man. I should have dealt with you the moment my father’s body grew cold.’

‘Lord Orryn!’ Cafferen hung on the mention of him like a dying man clinging to life. ‘Lord Orryn would have spared me! I was his loyal man! His friend!’

‘You were a sorry sycophant,’ Lyonel interrupted him, his voice a roar that carried over the man’s cries. ‘He kept you around to have his ego stroked from time to time.’

‘Milord,’ Ser Alfrid called out behind him, ‘we expect a punishment worthy of the crime.’

‘And he shall be punished,’ Lyonel cast the assurance back, hoping that even if they could not see his face, they could hear the resolution in his voice. His hands rested easily upon his belt as he continued, ‘Indeed… my own wife reminded me of a truly fitting one.’

Cafferen made another faux pas then – he sneered. ‘I should have known. She’s been spilling poison in your ear, has she? There was talk at the camp in Ashford that you had been ensnared by some Targaryen whore. You really are your father’s son… getting your head turned by pretty women who open their legs for–’

The dagger – the very one Lord Jasper had given him as a conciliatory present at one of his feasts – was out in the air before Lyonel had even fully registered that his body had moved. Later on he would ponder over the poetry of it. The thin blade was wedged just below Cafferen’s chin, the sharp edge cutting into his neck and drawing a bead of ruby red blood to the surface. Another inch and he could be done with the old bastard forever. If not for dishonouring him then for dishonouring Visenya. 

‘I will not have slanderous filth spoken about my wife, Jasper.’ His words were biting, sharp as the dagger in his hand, and dangerously low. ‘My promise that I would be merciful and my deep respect for her is what is keeping this blade at bay. But say one more word about her and I will slit your throat and make your guards lick the floors clean of your blood. Am I understood?’

‘Yes, yes, forgive me, milord!’

‘You will be escorted to the Wall,’ Lyonel said then a little louder, ‘for the crimes of theft and poaching. You will have your steward to keep you company as the pair of you make your journey to Castle Black. It is a long and arduous ride, I’ve heard, so you will be glad of the company.’

‘But–’

‘If Lady Wylla’s child is a boy, he will inherit your title and land. If it be a girl, and if one of your daughters has a son, then the same will follow. Lady Wylla will be placed in charge of Fawnton as its steward in the interim – to do with as she sees fit. And if she sees fit to raise one of your daughters as the next Lady Cafferen, then she will have my ardent support.’

‘And you, Jasper Cafferen, will spend however long you have left of your miserable life as a nameless brother of the Night’s Watch.’ In a way, there was even more satisfaction to be had from this exchange. A kind that would have been short-lived had he simply taken his head. The desperation, sobbing, and snot dribbling into the wailing mouth of the castle’s former lord was surely to be a sufficient repayment to the affronted parties. 

Lyonel made a gesture to Cafferen’s guards who were now staring dumbly at the pitiable scene before them. ‘Take him. Leave now while the sun is still high and you should make good progress on your journey. Goodbye, Jasper – I pray I never clap eyes on you again.’

Cafferen was dragged out of the great hall along with the steward by one helpful Baratheon guard and another of his own men in a scene that could only be described as a further show of utter embarrassment. Lyonel raised an expectant eyebrow at Ser Joffrey and Ser Alfrid.

‘I think our business here is complete,’ said Joffrey Hasty first.

Ser Alfrid took a moment longer after which he nodded in agreement. ‘We are grateful for your aid and your judgement, milord. I hope to never have to see each other again under such circumstances.’

‘I hope you are right, Musgood. Give my best wishes to your lord.’

The other man chuckled, scratching his pale bearded cheek. ‘I doubt he will know what to do with this news. If he has taken a nap and has been nursed, he will be quite receptive.’

The larger portion of the gathered crowd filed out of the great hall until all that were left were Lyonel, his cousins, their guards, and the three Cafferen women. Lady Wylla, with her trembling hands clasped above her chest, walked around the table and dipped her head in gratitude.

‘I do not know how to th– I am in yours and the princess’s debt, milord.’

Lyonel smiled. Visenya would detest it if the poor girl thought herself indebted for this. ‘You do not owe us anything. My wife has enjoyed having a correspondence with you. A feeling I hope you share.’

‘Oh, yes! Yes, indeed.’ Her face softened and the worry subsided like a retreating wave. ‘She is most kind. I am– I am better with my words on parchment, but… I am glad of her friendship if I can count myself so lucky.’

Anyone would, Lyonel thought, anyone should.

‘I will– I will ask the servants to prepare some… some rooms for you and your men. You are welcome to stay and leave upon the morrow.’

‘Thank you, Milady. What I will need first is parchment and your fastest raven.’

Less than a quarter hour later, a bird flew south from the Fawnton rookery, carrying a parchment with the words.

You are the smartest woman in the realm and the best of wives, my dearest. I am coming home.

A/N: Our man YEARNSSSSSSSSSSSSS... guess it's gonna be a very happy reunion with the wife in the next chapter hehe😉

Next chapter

It wasn’t such an outlandish notion – being in love with one’s husband. 

Visenya remembered seeing the softness on her aunt and uncle’s faces whenever they gazed upon each other. When one of them had entered a room, or their eyes had simply wandered across the table at supper. Aunt Dyanna was a sweet woman, even sweeter when her husband was in her presence. And all that sweetness bloomed like a flower under the light of his love and adoration, and like a flower it had wilted with her passing. 

Along with all memory of Maekar’s softness.

For all her life, Visenya had known romantic love to be fleeting or doomed as described by ladies of the court who did not hold their husbands’ affections and had instead sought them out in others… albeit for a short amount of time. Or how in the love stories she was told of as a child, two lovers were either separated by destiny or death. 

Her parents had never truly loved one another. Father had spoken of his love for her mother on many occasions but she could see in his eyes that what he claimed was at best tepid water in a cup, and not that much of it. He had cherished her, had depended on her, as did she in return, but theirs had never been a love match.

Visenya loved her friends, that much was familiar to her. She loved Rod and Nira more than she had ever loved anyone else. She cared for them so deeply that being so far away from them pained her greatly, but she had loved them in a different manner altogether. 

What she felt now – that tumultuous, thrilling, terrifying feeling – was a novelty. And that love had only one mark, Lyonel. 

Lyonel. Lyonel. Lyonel.

Her heart sang his name, it called out to him as though the mere whisper of each syllable, each letter would bring his closer to hers. His touch was no longer just touch – it was water after a drought, it was air after almost drowning. It scorched with the intensity of dragon flame and yet it soothed instead of burning.

It thrilled and scared her to no end. 

Had it always been this way? Had this been the reason she had felt so drawn to him? Some part of her must have known it then, even in the course of her plotting to overturn her betrothal, even in the early days of their marriage, a part nestled deep in her heart knew that she would come to love him. 

It was that first kiss, Visenya was sure of it; the press of his lips against her own after he had won the bloody rope tugging challenge for her honour. It had felt like no other kiss had before. Skin glided against skin, the taste of him mixed with wine on her tongue. It scared her then just how much she had enjoyed it. All the kisses that had followed it had kept to the same addictive pattern. And every time, she would lose track of where she ended and he began.

It couldn’t be a doomed thing, this love that she had just become aware of. It couldn’t be something that would be ripped away from her – she certainly wouldn’t let it be so – and yet fear still gnawed at her. 

Everything was possible when nothing was certain. 

She had loved her father and had lost him far too soon. Lyonel was a young man in his prime, a remarkable fighter… but what if he fell during a joust, or a war broke out tomorrow and he was slain. Another person she held so close to her heart, taken away from her before their time. If the death of her father had left her a shell of a woman who could barely eat, sleep, or breathe without it hurting like a spear through the heart then how would she ever survive losing Lyonel.

And yet even with those dark thoughts crossing paths with those of pure, unadulterated joy, Visenya could only think of the matra that had been consuming her thoughts since being escorted out of the godswood by her husband. 

She loved him.

She loved him even more the following morning when he ushered them both out of the bedchamber with a pep in his step and a decisive note to his voice. You have prepared long enough. Time to take your rightful seat beside me, he’d said simply. At first Visenya could only blink back at him dumbly, her hand in his as they trotted off downstairs. Her heart fluttered in her chest at the contact as his hand closed around hers. Seven above, she had completely lost her senses. Everything that had up to that point been so simple and easy was now coloured in the myriad of shades that were all Lyonel. 

Her husband. 

The man she loved.

Orys could not contain the look of utter discomfort and dislike in his features, but any protest that might have been prepared in his arsenal of polite courtly behaviour was quickly quelled by his lord. 

‘My wife is joining us today,’ he cut him off before the greybeard could utter a single word. Then turned his gaze to all those gathered. ‘I trust you will make her feel welcome at this table.’

Visenya let her eyes flit over to her husband’s uncle for a brief moment, too preoccupied with staring at the man (she loved, loved, loved) who guided her into the empty seat to the right of his. Lyonel took the chair at the head of the table and flapped his hands, ordering the others to follow.

Visenya caught maester Maynard’s bleary grey eyes across the table and he sent a quick smile and a bow of his head her way. Despite what Lyonel might say about the man, he could be relied upon and she was for one glad to have him on her side. Borys’s head bobbed once and so did Simon’s, whereas Axel smirked over the rim of his goblet and threw the princess a wink. Visenya scanned the rest of the men gathered; her allies were enough to make her very first council meeting less of an uphill climb. The maester, Lyonel’s cousins, the steward, the castellan with whom she’d had very few dealings although she could see in his eyes he recognised her authority nonetheless. 

All that was left was Orys whose face now sported a permanent scowl at her taking her place on Lyonel’s right and practically displacing him from the position he had held until today. And as long as he was kept in the dark about her lack of progress in the marital bed, she would try to win him over with knowledge and reason until her other efforts bore fruit. 

A pitcher of wine held between a pair of small boy’s hands poked into her peripheral vision and at first Visenya almost believed them to be Egg’s. She turned her face, expecting to see a shaved head and a pair of mischievous violet eyes, only to be left momentarily disappointed it wasn’t him. Those hands belonged instead to little Lyonel who it seemed had been tasked with the important duty of being his uncle’s cupbearer. The boy filled his lord’s cup then the princess’s, his face split by an enormous gap-toothed grin – one of his bottom milk teeth had fallen some days ago and he had excitedly showed off his newfound ability to whistle through the hole – and moved along the table to serve the rest of the councilmen.

‘Let us begin then,’ Lyonel’s voice boomed like thunder in the vastness of the Round Hall. ‘Walter, I trust you have been able to arrange for extra help in the kitchens. I was informed of a couple people leaving us and more of the laundresses falling ill.’

The steward rose to answer.

‘Yes, Milord. I sent a word out yesterday to the village hall and a few women arrived today. I have taken the liberty of filling the empty spots in the staff with the more experienced amongst them.’

‘Excellent. Maynard, what of this illness now – a plague or a pox?’

Even if she hadn’t glanced to see him roll his eyes, Visenya could’ve heard it as easily in the tone of his voice. She nudged his leg under the table and felt his free hand come down on her knee to squeeze it. 

He met her eyes briefly. Listen to the man, hers warned. He’ll exaggerate again, just watch, his responded. 

Maester Maynard – unaware or simply disregarding the sarcasm in his lord’s question – stood on shaky legs and cleared his throat though his gravelly voice was no stronger for it. It must have been yet another night spent pouring over ancient medicinal tomes and the growing number of patients. 

‘I believe it to be the same malady that troubled Lady Cassana. I would be loath to call it anything but a very serious condition. It has rendered those afflicted with shivers, the inability to so much as rise from their beds, their body burning up–’

Lyonel held up his hand. ‘But you believe it to be curable.’ 

‘Not as of yet, Milord. Lady Cassana’s recovery was a good sign although I cannot say the same for one of the laundry girls whose state has worsened overnight.’

‘Is there anything we can do?’ Visenya asked and keenly felt all eyes at the table turn to her once more.

‘I have consulted my books and sent inquiries to Old Town. I have also received word from my fellow maesters at Haystack Hall and Blackhaven who have encountered a similar plight.’

‘I could send a raven with urgency to my cousin in Old Town. He has trained in healing and could expedite any inquiry you might have by looking for specific texts.’

‘That would be most helpful, Milady.’

Maynard bowed so low his balding head nearly touched the surface of the table then slumped back in his chair. Its legs creaked and the grating sound reverberated around the hall. 

Lyonel moved the discussion to another matter. Suffice it to say, he had given enough time to the maester and had had his fill of what he considered drivel and senseless fearmongering that was the old man’s forte, as he so frequently complained.  ‘How is this spring’s harvest faring thus far, Walter?’

Visenya tried her best to follow closely what was being said. She focused on gathering all her knowledge to the very front of her mind, flipping through imaginary pages and tomes of information. 

The ground outside the walls of Storm’s End had broken with the first inklings of sprouting wheat. From what she remembered Lady Viola saying, the sort they used was adapted to the harsher weather of the Stormlands so it would not suffer greatly to the winds and heavy rainfall. The farm hands had dug the ditches a little deeper this season to allow for more water to gather there and disperse within the soil. With any luck and the gods’ blessing, the steward assured them a healthy harvest was to be expected by late summer. 

‘Would it be prudent to check the castle’s supply of ready grains in the meantime?’ Visenya offered another question. ‘I only noticed last week that the castle’s pantry was only stocked with enough for a year.’ 

Walter began forming a response but was quickly halted by Orys raising his own voice. He made no indication he would rise from his seat to claim the floor, but he needed not to. 

‘Our grain stores are sufficient for this time of year. Any more and we risk having to throw away supplies we are not in need of.’

‘I understand but–’

‘I know it must be how it is done in the capital, princess. But this is Storm’s End. Our needs rarely exceed our means. There is no need to be wasteful.’

Visenya had to pause and remind herself that reaching across the table to punch her good-uncle would not be what a proper lady does. Even if the gall merited such an act. Instead she let her lips pull in a calm smile and continued with what she had meant to add before he had interrupted her.

‘I value your advice, ser. I, however, would like to ensure that our people do not starve in case this summer gives way to a long winter.’

Orys scoffed, ‘Last time we faced one such winter was–’

‘Thirty years ago,’ little Lyonel piped up from where he stood behind his uncle’s chair. ‘It was thirty years ago and what followed was a terrible pestilence upon the crops which caused a lot of people to die of starvation.’

It seemed despite his complaints of boredom during his history lessons, the young master Tarth had remembered some of what the maester had taught him. Lyonel turned to face the boy and beckoned him in. 

‘And do you think we should stock up in case another long winter comes to our doorstep?’

‘We should always be prepared,’ Lyo responded confidently. ‘I vote with my aunt Visenya.’

A scattered sound of chuckles sounded up and down the table with the notable exception of Orys who only glared with more intensity. Visenya noted down another victory for her cause, and thanks to the most unsuspecting ally of all.

Lyonel turned his attention back to his steward. ‘I say we must go with my wife’s suggestion then.’ 

She couldn’t have fallen in love with him more and yet she did. Her heart did a jubilant little jump in her chest that she had to hide behind a demure smile. 

Seven help me, Lyonel! I love you.

‘See if we can offer the Tyrells a nice deal. Some grain in exchange for a delivery of fresh lumber.’

‘Offer them some amber too,’ Axel suggested through a brazen grin. ‘Leo Tyrell’s daughter spoke of her fondness for it.’

Visenya was certain that such a discussion had been slotted between his own shameless flirtation with the young auburn-haired beauty, and in equal amounts prayed that it had indeed remained a flirtation. The last thing they needed was a slighted father who believed his (unmarried) daughter had been had by a randy Baratheon.

‘What are the news from our northern borders? Has Cafferen made any indication of his intentions?’

‘Should we ask the princess what she thinks,’ Orys commented through a tight-lipped smile that held no mirth. ‘She seems well prepared.’

‘Father,’ came Borys’s warning, close to a growl. 

Lyonel glared in his uncle’s direction but seemed satisfied with his cousin reining the old man in. ‘She is indeed. I believe she has found some common ground with the new Lady Cafferen. What say you, Visenya?’

Then he looked at her again, expectant and proud. 

The memory of the lass’s neat handwriting – and excitement over being approached by the Lady of Storm’s End – came forth in Visenya’s mind. ‘Lady Wylla believes her husband to be unrelenting in his desire to claim the grounds east of their keep.’ A plot of woodland that belonged to House Hasty. Lady Wylla had mentioned that given they were only landed knights, her husband thought them beneath him and thus their lands easy for the taking. ‘She did imply that a deal could be made to the old man that could turn him away from such rash actions. I have not sent a return word afore I could bring it to your attention.’

‘What does the lass suggest?’ Axel asked as he leaned back in his seat. 

‘A union. Lord Cafferen has two daughters from his first marriage who are both of age. Ser Joffrey Hasty has only recently come into his inheritance and is in need of a wife.’

‘You propose we have one of Cafferen’s daughters wed Hasty?’ The question came from the castellan, Ser Andrew. ‘Not wholly unreasonable, but the old fool might still threaten the sanctity of his neighbour’s lands even if he becomes his family by marriage. Might even think it an unwritten part of the betrothal contract.’

Visenya nodded. ‘The proposition of marriage between their two houses would need to come with strict stipulations, of course – including that he cease his activities and pay his outstanding tax in lieu of his second daughter’s dowry.’

The irony of discussing two other girls’ futures when she had fought so hard against such a crime being done to her was not lost on the princess. She let the uncomfortable feeling stew in her belly along with the spasms of her courses. The suggestion had in fact come from Lady Wylla herself who had grown to cherish her husband’s daughters and wished for them to be matched well. 

And a marriage to noble knights was what every young lady wished for. Every normal one at least.

So in some sense, Visenya could share the guilt with the other woman even if only she felt it so acutely now.

‘And for her betrothal, Lady Wylla suggested we offer up a member of House Baratheon.’

She watched Lyonel’s face tighten, particularly around his mouth and eyes. She needn’t be familiar with his most minute expressions to know he was upset, furious even. By allowing a marriage between one of his family members and the eldest Cafferen daughter, he would be allowing that insubordinate vassal claim another victory over him. 

It would fail to win him the respect he was owed.

But it was the only way Visenya could help him and she was determined to grab this puny win for his sake. 

‘No,’ Lyonel said curtly.

Visenya saw something akin to wild satisfaction crawl across Orys’s face for a moment before he schooled his expression into neutrality. 

‘Milord.’ She focused her response to her husband and not to his bloody arse of an uncle who was slowly chipping away at her resolve of making good on her earlier dream of striking him in his smug face. ‘It may not appear the outright victory we hope for, but it will put Cafferen in his place. And by setting out a very strict set of guidelines in the betrothal contract, he will have no excuse but to comply. It is the sage thing to do.’

‘Mayhaps the princess is still too green in such matters. A betrothal contract is a mere piece of paper that will hardly hold Cafferen to his word.’

‘And I would like to remind my good-uncle that it was a mere piece of paper that solidified my marriage to His Lordship and provided House Baratheon with a hefty sum of gold from the Crown. Including an extension of this House’s hunting grounds in the Kingswood and new trading deals.’

Lyonel’s chest deflated with a dramatic sigh and he gave Visenya a pointed look. You asked me to advise, she wanted to say, this is what I can offer. She tilted her head and wordlessly pleaded with him to consider; she was certain a plethora of complaints and curses would be delivered in the sanctity of their bedchamber later. But he kept it to himself, only visible in the tension of his face and hands that gripped the armrests of his chest until his knuckles paled and his blood vessels protruded from his skin.

‘And she believes it is the way to make her husband fall in line at last?’ Lyonel asked her, voice tense but level. 

‘She is certain of it,’ assured Visenya. ‘He is quite adamant for his daughters to be wed too.’

Both girls were of a similar age as Lady Wylla according to her letters and despite being only ten-nine and twenty respectively, Cafferen thought them old maids already. If advantageous marriages could be made for them – if only to get them out from underneath their father’s thumb – Lady Wylla thought it a perfect outcome for both sides. 

Lyonel grabbed his wine off of the table, gulped down an amount that was certain to quell his fury, then set his eyes upon his three cousins who occupied the left flank of the table, he sized each one up for the task. 

‘Which one of my handsome cousins is feeling in a marrying mood?’

Orys began to protest, ‘Lyonel, surely you–’

‘I quite like my freedom,’ Axel was the first to interject, raising his own goblet to his lord.

‘I think of returning to the sea,’ Simon added on his part. 

‘Lyonel, this is preposterous,’ Orys objected with fervor.

But the man that remained quiet through it all – not unlike his usual manner – was Borys who did not make a motion to oppose what was being suggested. He lowered his eyes to the table top, contemplating the grains and lacquer, before he glanced up. His eyes found Visenya’s first with an emotion that she could not clearly interpret, then his father, and finally Lyonel.

The two men shared more than blood. They had taken to the seas together, fought side by side, seen the wonders and terrors of the world. They were more akin to brothers than cousins, twins even. And they could reach an understanding with bare looks alone.

Lyonel knew who he could count on for Borys had, in his own fashion, put himself forward. 

‘Send word to Lady Cafferen first. Tell her we will consider the offer if her husband comes to Storm’s End and reaffirms his fealty.’

‘Borys! Borys!’ Visenya rushed to catch up to the retreating Baratheon in the corridor outside the Round Hall. The council had disbanded not too long after making a decision about what the betrothal contract would contain in its requirements of the other side: a renewal of Cafferen’s pledge, a resumption of his sending his share of tax with the outstanding balance to be settled in lieu of his daughter’s dowry, and a few more bits to ensure he doesn't think again about overstepping.

Borys turned immediately upon hearing her call out to him. When she stood but a couple of feet away from him, her lips pulled in a shaky smile. ‘I wanted to thank you for going through with this… and for lending me your sanctuary?’

‘I pray it helped.’

‘It did, thank you ever so much. I can surrender it back to you if you ask.’

‘I stand by my words from yesterday,’ he replied and bowed his head, ‘I am happy for you to be its new custodian. And as it seems, I will be wed soon so I will no longer have need of it.’

‘I am so sorry.’

Visenya had felt ill at deciding the fate of some young girl she’d never known, but she knew Borys. She had grown accustomed to his solemn demeanor and his laconic answers. So she felt sicker still at making a game of cyvasse out of his life and future.

Then Borys did the most unlikely thing possible – he smiled at her. It was almost too easy to miss, it was no more than a twitch of his thick beard that gave it away.

‘It is my duty as Lyonel’s cousin.’ Gods, she truly despised that word. Fucking duty. ‘And I… I admired how gracefully you accepted your own betrothal. Even if my brother and I suspected that it would be sooner or later that the pair of you would be joined in marriage.’

‘Were we that transparent in our comportment at the tourney?’

‘Lyonel was,’ he replied in short. Before Visenya could press him further, before she could ask if he meant that Lyonel loved her too (oh, what a wonderful thing that would be), Borys bowed one final time and left through the front gate of the castle.

Visenya followed his retreat for a moment until she was truly certain she could not call after him again, then turned back in search of Lyonel. Her belly still hurt a day after her courses had started and her lower back ached terribly. And with the exerting battle that was her first ever council meeting, she needed a rest and a chance to be alone with Lyonel.

The day had grown warm and humid, even more so when the rain came strong again, bucketing down over the ancient castle. Its inhabitants found refuge inside the walls after it became clear that there was hardly anything to be done outside that was worth getting soaked to the bone. And yet not thunder… Visenya longed to hear the fabled thunderstorms of these lands. 

The chamber had been cleaned and the bed set while she and Lyonel had been with the council. And the large copper tub was waiting patiently by the cold hearth, emitting the scent of a deep green forest that now forever reminded Visenya of her husband. 

Without a second thought, Visenya began undoing the laces and buckles that held her kirtle and underdress. She released her hair from its pins and let the ash-dusted curls tumble down her back. Her fingers reached around her waist to grab at the knots of her stays but felt another pair of hands meet hers.

Lyonel’s presence behind hers was warm and comforting. He was still quiet, probably still mulling over the discussion earlier, and did away with her undergarments without a word. 

Once the chemise was off of her, Visenya turned around and pressed her palms firmly against Lyonel’s chest. ‘I know that you won’t believe me now, but I am certain that this marriage alliance will serve you in the long run.’

She felt the tips of his fingers trail down from her arms to her sides, resting finally on her hips. Lyonel drew her in, his face coming in closer and his lips met hers in a gentle caress. She tasted him and the wine again – seven help her, she wanted that flavour on her tongue recreated in reality so she may have it to break her fast in the morning and sip on at supper.

‘You must allow me to sulk at least.’ He smirked slightly against her mouth which made Visenya chuckle. ‘If I am to suffer that man as a relation, then I must be permitted to be discontented at least.’

‘I will remind you that several members of my House that you greatly dislike are also your family by marriage,’ she jested softly and patted his chest. ‘There are worse things that could befall us, my brave stag.’

‘My brave stag?’ He pulled his head back a little and the smirk on his lips widened.

‘I am trying the taste of it in my mouth,’ she offered in return, a coy twin of his smirk on her face.

Lyonel hummed, ‘I should think… my storm?’

‘Mayhaps.’

‘My dazzlingly handsome warrior?’

‘Be serious, please.’

‘Am I not handsome, dear wife? I should think you would not be so willing a participant in this our union if I were not pleasing to the eye.’

I could care less if you suddenly grew a large mole on your forehead, I love you beyond your looks and your talent in battle.

Lyonel gave her bottom an affectionate pat and tilted his head towards the tub. ‘Get in, you’re likely spent after this shitfest of a council.’

Visenya had one foot inside the perfectly scented and heated water when she threw a look over her shoulder to watch as Lyonel shed his shirt, throwing it atop the bed where his vest was already laying in a heap.

She inquired, ‘Would you like to join me? It is an awfully large tub for me to be on my own.’

She thought she wouldn’t be all too upset if he declined. On account of her going through her courses and all. It would be understandable if he was slightly put off of her for the time being.

Yet what she craved in that moment was closeness; she wanted his body against hers fully and without the border created by clothes or bedsheets. And not with any promise of carnality, simply to have him there. This all-too-new realization that she was truly in love – mayhaps for the first time in her life – only made her want him closer. Wanted to feel the lightning-like thrill going through her body whenever his mouth was hovering over her skin and his hot breath melted her like a cheap tallow candle. 

So if he refused… Alright, Visenya might be a little upset over it. Mayhaps even more than a little, mayhaps even terribly cross for the rest of the day. 

But a beat later, after the invitation had made its way out of her mouth and across the room to him, Lyonel was practically jumping out of his boots and trousers – golden adornments still on him – and trotting off to join her at the tub.

‘Move forward,’ he grunted and settled himself behind her, arms coming to rest on the sides of the vessel to frame Visenya in. She leaned back, nestled against the thick rug on Lyonel’s chest. His legs bracketed hers, his soft cock pressed against her lower back (though for how much longer it would remain calm and obedient, she could not say), and his nose was pressed into her voluminous hair.

Warmth surrounded her entirely, coming from the water and the man sitting behind her. The persistent thrumming ache in her belly instantly subsided and gave more space for contentment.

A deep purr resounded in her throat.

After the tension that had built up in her upper back and arms, she felt her tightened muscles loosen, she began to relax and feel more like a cat, lounging happily in a sun spot after being fed sweet cream, than anything else. 

Visenya felt the familiar drag of a dampened sponge along the slopes of her shoulders, running down the length of one arm and then the other. She keened, loving the attention Lyonel was paying her, savouring this perfectly mundane act which to her held so much more meaning. 

I love him, that happy voice cheered on in her head. I love him. I love him. I love him.

‘You are certain you can trust Lady Cafferen? I will not judge you if you have your doubts but they must be known to me afore I make this match.’

‘I trust a woman who has been thrust into a position such as hers. A girl nigh on twenty and in charge of a castle and two daughters who could just as well be her sisters. She is adamant that she does not want Lord Cafferen to tarnish their reputations any further.’

Lyonel made a noise of understanding and agreement. He kept washing her shoulders and rubbing the muscles there which softened further.

‘I hope I did well,’ she said, voice so low it was close to a whisper. But her husband heard and hummed again in response.

‘I thought you were remarkable,’ he added. ‘Only further proof that you should’ve been by my side from that very first day.’

‘Your uncle would not have allowed it.’

‘He has his reasons for being a cold man. And yet he should mind his tongue when addressing you in company. I will have to remind him also that respect is owed, not a matter of fancy.’

Visenya thought back to her scorching urge to plant a smack across the greybeard’s face. And she knew well enough that such urges were best kept to the back of her mind where they belonged. She wanted Orys to – at the very least – come to respect her and hitting him wouldn’t have accomplished that.

‘I spoke to him once… a few weeks ago. He harbours some deep hatred for my family which would clue me as to the core reason he dislikes me so.’

Lyonel said nothing in response to that. He kept rubbing her arms and sides with the sponge. 

‘There are a thousand and one reasons us Stormlanders have a disdain for the Dragon house.’

He said it with such ease, such casualness, that if not for the heaviness of the statement, Visenya almighty have disregarded it altogether. Her heart which up until then had been enjoying a steady rhythm lurched in her chest. Had she misread his attention and care? Did he disdain her also?

He seemed to have read her as easily as a book once again. ‘That is not to say that I hold the same feelings towards you. You are entirely apart from the… less palatable members of your House.’

‘How? I was born a Targaryen and I will remain one for the rest of my days.’ A dragon never changes its scales was a popular saying for a reason. She could not deny who she was even if there had been many times in her life when she had longed to be in the skin of another. But the gods had ordained her to be born a Visenya, of House Targaryen. 

And however much she ran from that fate, it always caught up to her in the end.

Lyonel’s hand reached for her chin and turned her face sideways so he could look at her. The crease between his brows cut deep but his eyes were as warm as a summer sky. 

‘A similar line of thought came to me when I first met you,’ he confessed. ‘I wondered why I would enjoy your company as much as I did when I held no love for your family. And yet you were so… odd.’

Visenya’s mouth curled sideways. Not a very traditional compliment one might pay a lady. He was lucky she was so in love with him elsewise she might contemplate hitting him too.

‘You were different from the rest of them. None of that holier-than-thou, arses-kissed-by-the-gods behaviour. If they made themselves out to be dragons, you were the wild one amongst them.’ 

‘It is what made you so enticing,’ he continued. ‘Not to tame, nay – but to know. I never dreamt of being burnt alive but you made me want to suckle on a dragon’s cunt like some mad blaggard.’

His simile made her chuckle. She pecked the corner of his mouth. ‘Dragons have no cunts, Lyonel.’

‘No?’ His hand delved lower under the waterline, gliding the sponge along the full length of her breastbone down to her navel. His fingers inched forward, predicting the path of the porous lump in his hand. Until he let it fall to the bottom of the tub. And his fingers were slipping through the soft tuft of hair at the apex of her thighs and deftly between her folds. 

Visenya’s mouth fell open in a gasping oh! and one of her hands shot out to grip Lyonel’s forearm. 

‘I have eaten this delectable cunt and as I suspected–’ He pressed two fingers into the fleshy bud of her cunt and drew a much louder, insistent howl of pleasure from Visenya’s parted lips. ‘-- ‘tis fiery indeed.’

‘Lyonel, w-wait!’

‘Do you wish me to stop?’ As if to prove his words, he stilled his fingers against her sensitive flesh. The princess cried at the loss of pressure.

‘N-no.’

Lyonel resumed his torturous game of fondling her as the pressure in her belly reared its head back – entirely different to the ache that had been bothering her for the past day. This was the familiar and pleasurable prelude to something better.

‘I-I am still– still– ah!’

‘Still what, my flame?’ The self-satisfied smile in his words was loud enough that she need not have seen it to know it was there. ‘Use your words.’

‘Still b-bleeding.’

‘And I have been to battle, half drenched in blood – some of it mine, most of it someone else’s.’ He dipped his middle finger further down between her lips and pressed the tip of it against her entrance, massaging and torturing her some more. ‘I hardly blush at the sight of it.’

With that assurance and Visenya’s desperation for him to touch her, fuck her with his hand, Lyonel pressed another finger through the opening and began working both at a lazy pace. The heel of his hand replaced his digits at her bud and the feeling of it was fantastic. 

Every touch, every graze of his fingers, every press of his flesh against hers, brought Visenya closer and closer to an entirely new peak.

I love you! Gods, I love you!

The words were on the tip of her tongue, practically begging to be let out into the air, but she desperately held them back. Admitting it aloud, letting the sentiment ring clear and true, was something that still scared her. 

A thousand what ifs sped away in her mind’s eye and by the time she had grasped one to examine, another thousand sped past it. But the loudest and most cruel of them all was the question: What if he does not feel the same? 

Surely he had to. But if this sentiment which – albeit new to her – was what he felt too, how could he keep sane all the time and not utter it? She felt loved when he held her, she felt loved when he came to find her in the godswood and comforted her in her moment of sorrow, she felt loved when he showed interest in everything she said or did. 

He must love her… surely.

Lyonel’s fingers moved quicker then and the water sloshed against the walls of the tub. Visenya panted like a bitch in heat, needing more and thankfully getting in the form of her husband’s ministrations and his rough voice guiding her towards her peak.

‘So good… such a good girl for me… fucking gods, your cunt… fuck… shit… how bad I want you… oh, Visenya!’

A knock at the door. Too loud to be missed or ignored. 

‘Visenya?’

Fuck. It was Shyra.

The fingers pushing in and out of her core did not slow or stop, however, they only worked faster. 

‘I sh-should answer.’

‘Don’t you fucking dare. I need to feel you come around my fingers, beauty. Need it like air.’

‘Lyonel!’ Her voice hoarse and rising an octave through the haze of pleasure. 

‘Visenya, there’s a raven that’s arrived for you.’

Bless the sweet girl, she was a bloody good friend and confidant, but right in that moment the princess wished she would just let it go and come back later. Nothing could be so very pressing that they should stop.

‘Just a minute!’ She barely managed to cry out.

The pressure in her belly crescendoed with blinding force and she thought she had lost her sight for a moment at the intensity. She had never come so hard before, never had she experienced such a consuming and shattering wave of pleasure and ecstasy. 

‘That’s it… good,’ Lyonel muttered the praise over and over, her ear scorching hot from his breath. 

When Visenya had regained some of her composure and her mind had pieced itself back up after the thorough attention she’d received, she shakily rose from the tub and stumbled off to where her dressing gown had been left for her. She wrapped it hastily around her and tied the knot at the waist, looking back towards the tub where Lyonel was only then – very slowly and with no small amount of glee – slipped out of the water and made his way to her.

His half-hard cock stretched out towards her like it too begged for a taste.

Lyonel pulled her in by the belted waist and kissed her again. 

A third knock came from the other side of the door and he groaned in her mouth. This time they would have to answer. 

Only after the Laughing Storm – in all his naked glory – had been thrown a towel which he wrapped loose and low around his hips did Visenya invite Shyra in. And by the look of silent horror and violent shade of red colouring her face, the poor girl had likely put together what she had interrupted (and had nearly walked in on). Sneaking a sideways glance at Lyonel and the princess could see that he was not at all displeased about any of it. 

It actually seemed that his mind was still lingering on their embrace in the tub and his fingers in her cunt. 

Shyra, keeping her eyes on Visenya and not on her half-naked half-brother, thrust her hand forward and dropped a scroll into the princess’s open palm.

‘You asked me to inform you if Lady Cafferen wrote again,’ she muttered. ‘This has only just arrived.’

Visenya had not expected another letter so soon. In her last correspondence, she had assured the other woman that she would bring forth the suggestion of a match between their houses and that of Ser Hasty, and they had left it at that. 

The writing was much more rushed than usual, the letters slanted and jagged like something out of a medicinal recipe, and the words within were shocked with their panic. 

Visenya got to the core of it by key words and phrases alone.

Milady… terrible news… my husband… I swear I did not suspect him capable… the forest to the east and southeast… the Musgoods are in uproar… must inform Lord Baratheon...

The Lord in question must have been reading over her shoulder because the scroll was quickly ripped from her hands for him to give another read-through. His eyes were near bulging out of his head and his face grew hot with anger. 

‘Lyonel?’ Visenya reached out to touch his shoulder, hoping to soothe the burning rage brewing beneath the surface of his skin. The dainty scroll was crushed inside his fist and he stormed out of the chamber, pushing past the two women in nothing other than the cotton towel hanging on his hips and his loud-as-thunder fury.

Visenya thought then she need not hold out for a thunderstorm for much longer – one such tempest was stomping down the corridors of Storm’s End and bellowing for his councilmen to appear before him. In between curses to the gods and Lord Cafferen’s most insulting act of stupidity. 

She followed with haste and desperately called after her husband. ‘Lyonel! Lyonel, wait!’

They made it down to the floor below where the door of the solar slammed open and both Orys and Lady Viola slipped out – with little grace, mind you – confused over the cacophony. Both their appearance was wild and untamed, and most unlike how they always presented themselves, but it could very well have been the startling yelling overheard from the corridor.

‘Lyonel! You are naked!’ His mother screeched, breathless.

‘Fucking Cafferen!’ Visenya – out of breath and trying her best to tighten the robe around herself – finally caught up to her husband who threw the balled up parchment in his uncle’s hands. Orys’s reaction to the message was much more subdued although an all too familiar bulging nerve in his forehead and a twitch of his mouth were all the reaction Visenya needed to know he was just as furious. 

‘We leave at first light,’ Lyonel gritted out. ‘Have the maester send the fastest raven to Hasty and Musgood. They must be assured that their lord will act.’

Orys bobbed his head in answer and left to find Maynard.

‘Lyonel, what has happened?’

‘Cafferen has claimed land from his neighbours,’ he told his mother gruffly then turned back to his wife who again tried to placate him with a soft touch. Little could be done at present to relieve the fury that came like a tidal wave. 

Visenya was reminded that the Baratheon words were not so purposelessly chosen.

‘Write to Lady Cafferen,’ he said to her, slightly calmer if not for the heat in his eye, ‘tell her that I am coming for her husband’s head.’

Next chapter

A/N: As always, comments and reblogs are much appreciated, I'm a slut for praise!

The narrow winding stairway was all but deserted, save a few ancient cobwebs that had thickened into gauzy sheets along the walls with years of dust. But not a single spider, now the only living things in the passage were the occasional skittering rat and the two younglings making their way down the stone steps. The torch, clutched between the princess Visenya’s trembling fingers, flickered and illuminated the wisps of web for a brief moment before the light hurried away. 

‘Nye, please, slow down,’ Rod begged behind her, trying his best to catch up to his friend. ‘This is madness! We will get caught and be in serious trouble.’

Visenya groaned inwardly but did not slow her descent. There was too much to accomplish in one single night, and time was not on their side. 

And far too much at stake for her to stop and turn around.

She had made her choice and would need to stick with it, come what may. Even if the gods punished her and the whole world scorned her as a result.

The pale blue cotton headwrap, which would have elsewise been a welcome accessory to an evening attire, was wound so tight it was constricting the blood from reaching her head. Each step was shaky and her vision was beginning to funnel into a dark fog. 

Stay the course, she repeatedly reminded herself, just until the job is done. 

Rod, fed up with trying to stop his friend with words alone, grabbed her by the shoulder and made her look him in the eye. The torch light danced between their faces, the young boy’s was one etched with worry and the princess’s was filled with trepidation. 

‘This is not the way to do it, Nye.’

‘What else will you have me do? I cannot–’ Visenya’s breath was as shaky as her hands. ‘I cannot stop. I cannot let him do– Rod, I beg you, we must move.’

Tears were threatening to spill forward and she could not let them. The princess whipped around again to continue on her descent down the secret passageway before being halted again. 

‘There must be another way! You will get in trouble,’ the boy tried desperately to reason with her, but it was as good as trying to rein in a tidal wave. Once Visenya had set her mind on something, nothing could stand in her way. ‘I do not know what Lady Shiera told you–’

‘She told me what I need to do,’ she interrupted. ‘Exactly what I need to do. If you think that I have misread her advice, then you are wrong.’

‘No, you are wrong to trust that she has your best intentions in mind. You know what she is… what people say she is. What if this is some horrible– ritual or what if she wants your maiden blood–’

Visenya’s throat released the most intense and hopeless groan yet. ‘I will ask you again. What else will you have me do? For if you suggest you pull your breeches down and help rid me of my virtue, then by all means let us get it over with.’

Rod leaned away from her and in his eyes Visenya saw… deliberation. Rod was by far the closest friend she had ever had, closer even than her family could ever be. He was a confidant, a trusted ally in the tricky to traverse bog-like waters of court life. And having him do this would be easier, mayhaps even better than entrusting the task to a stranger. 

It was madness. She was a fool to even feed kindling to the thought. Not only for the simple fact that Rod was as green as her in all matters of the flesh but because he would suffer greatly if he were found to be the one who had deflowered her. And Visenya cherished him too much to allow that to happen. 

Nay, a faceless man from one of the pleasure houses would do. Someone with enough experience who would – unknowing of her true identity – be the guardian of her secret, preferably to his grave. Coins clicked together inside her skirt’s pocket, enough to pay for a fuck or whatever would be quicker. 

Or she could lower the square neckline of her dress a little further to expose her bulging breasts and entice a traveler in one of the taverns. A trader, a minstrel, anyone who would not bother asking after her name and origin, and would do the job without fuss. At least one man like that would not expect payment and she could waste the rest of her gold on getting stupid drunk. 

The lingering taste of mead she had snuck from a servant’s tray at dinner soured in her mouth, bile rising to meet it along with her panicked gasps for air. The princess slumped against the cold wall, her torch almost slipping from her hand.

‘Nye, Nye, ‘tis alright! Look at me,’ Rod urged her to calm and grabbed her face between his hands. ‘Breathe for me. Please, just breathe. I am sorry, it was silly of me.’

Her heart was beating hard against her chest, harder than it had the night before. She feared it might actually jump out of her body if it beat any wilder. Fear gripped her like a thorny vine and cut deep into the planes of her skin, the images of what could happen and everything that could go terribly wrong only making those thorns drive in deeper. 

After a few slower breaths that helped ease the ache and ground her back into reality, Rod pushed out another tentative question. ‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’

There was no alternative, Lady Shiera had made herself quite clear. No man coveted a woman who had already been used.

‘I need to drink something first,’ she said. ‘Something. Anything.’  

Rod nodded once then grabbed her free hand and hurried with her in tow down the rest of the steps. 

The sun shone right into her eyes, hot and annoyingly bright, and stirred Visenya awake. A low grunt spilled forth from her mouth and she grabbed the nearest item – in this case a pillow – to cover her face. After the tiring day she’d had and the lack of good rest that had followed it, she needed those last vestiges of sleep for a moment or two longer. 

‘I fear the sun will not cease its shine even if you hide from it.’

Visenya felt the mattress dip beside her and the pillow was pried away from her face. Lyonel came into view, the golden rays coming up behind him, turning the greys in his curls into molten silver, and he smiled. He had already slipped into his daily clothes – a pair of dark woolen breeches and a shirt so thin she could make out the shape of his body beneath it with the light passing so deliciously through the material. The border of fabric that barred her view of him felt like a personal affront. What the princess wanted most was for him to shed them, lay back down in bed (preferably on top of her), and shield her from the sun properly.

Lyonel leaned across the crumpled bedsheets, his hand reached for her face, and laid a kiss upon her mouth that was by far the best way to bring wakefulness to her mind. His lips moved slowly, tenderly, coaxing hers open for his tongue to taste the sleep on hers. Visenya reached for him and threaded her fingers through his hair. She needed him closer. 

‘You were not here last night,’ he mumbled into the kiss and pulled away far enough to look at her, his brows drawn together so a deep crease formed through his forehead. 

‘What? Of course, I was. I slept next to you,’ she countered through a bout of laughter. ‘Or are you losing your wits in your old age?’

‘I am in my prime, woman,’ Lyonel argued, equally as amused, and his fingers dug into her sides, eliciting a series of giggles from his wife. ‘No, I meant… you were somewhere else. In mind. Is everything alright?’

Visenya considered telling him of what Orys had said in that corridor. The biting words that man had thrown her way that still nipped at her heels and were amongst the several things that had kept her distracted throughout the rest of yesternight. The hurt they left behind had lodged itself between her ribs despite the princess’s best attempts to not give them that power. 

Orys had intended for them to cut and cut they did. 

It would not be wise to set nephew against uncle even if speaking about it might lessen the pain of being so intensely disliked by the old man, although nothing promised her that Lyonel would take her side. He had promised to take care of her – protect her – but what if the respect for his uncle outweighed any care he harboured for her? 

Visenya glanced down at where her hand had melded once more inside Lyonel’s. It was so natural how her skin met his, how their fingers grazed flesh. 

‘I do not think I can join any more training sessions,’ she admitted quietly. 

There was not a sound coming from the other side of the bed until a finger touched the underside of her chin, lifting her face up.

Lyonel looked worried. Then he asked, ‘Is it because of what happened? The attack…’

‘I felt–’ What had she felt? There was fear, above anything else. The barely there glint of steel that rushed towards her brought back horrid flashes of the past, ones filled with the sound of thrashing waters and the spill of blood. Fear accompanied by heavy remorse for what she’d done. ‘I felt that sensation again. The thrill you spoke of once.’

‘It is not uncommon. It lingers… especially after one’s first real battle.’

The words gave her pause. ‘Did it linger for you? How long?’

‘After I took to the seas for the very first time. We were set upon by pirates, off the coast of Lys. I had to defend myself and my men. The visions of the blood and fray stayed with me for some months.’

Months? She would have to endure that for months?!

‘Forgive me, I never imagined it would be the same for you. I should not have encouraged it.’

‘No,’ she stopped him with a firm squeeze of her hand; he was the last person who should offer apologies. ‘It was so sweet of you to include me. And Axel was a fine sparring partner.’

‘He was a prat and could have hurt you badly.’ Anger marred his eyes for a moment and Visenya was reminded of the same expression he bore when she had fallen. 

She smiled at him still and pecked his lips quick. ‘It would have been a waste of his talent if he had gone easy on me. I was alright. Although I think it will be better if I stay away from the training grounds. I should focus on my duties.’

‘Ah, yes… accounts, and granaries if I recall, and whatever my mother has in store for you. Try not to die of boredom or I will be forced to find another wife.’

That would likely make his uncle exceedingly happy. 

‘Only for a little while longer until I find my bearings,’ reasoned Visenya, ‘then I will be by your side in all council meetings to spare you of boredom.’

Lyonel let out a deep groan and fell back onto the pillows. ‘It is mostly an annoyance I suffer at the moment with Lord Cafferen’s continued disobedience.’

‘You mentioned it but I doubt I had the mind to listen yesternight.’ She propped her head on one hand, her other one rested gently atop her husband’s chest. ‘Care to tell me now?’

He took a breath and a moment to gather his thoughts into one coherent tale, then began. 

‘Out of all my bannermen, he is the most troublesome. All the others fell in line as soon as I took charge. Cafferen… he and my father squired together. He enjoyed privileges that should not have been so freely given to a vassal, especially not one as inconsequential as that old bastard.’

‘And I suppose your father gifted him those privileges,’ Visenya supplied in a voice so dry it might have been dripping in sand. 

‘His tax to Storm’s End was outrageously reduced while he kept collecting money from his own people at a rate they cannot meet. He is antagonising neighbouring vassals, encroaching on their lands. I meant to bring him to heel during the tourney. The prick had the gall to offer trinkets by way of showing his obedience–’

‘But I kept you otherwise occupied,’ added Visenya, feeling more than a little ashamed she had taken him away from more meaningful matters. Matters more important to the welfare of his people than engaging with her pretend courtship plan.

His hand came up to squeeze hers again and brought it up to his lips to kiss. Her palm prickled pleasantly at the sensation of his scratchy beard. ‘You were the finest distraction a man could ever hope to find in a woman. Even without your proposition, I believe I still would have found a reason to pursue you. If only to see you roll your eyes and scoff at me as you did then.’

It would have been nice. Visenya allowed herself to daydream for a moment about how differently their meeting would have gone, how much different they would have been if there weren’t any alternative plans to accomplish. Would they have still ended up where they were now? She prayed so.

‘What is your council suggesting?’

‘All sensible course of action has been abandoned since it has not worked thus far. Axel is of the mind that I should strip Cafferen of his title and give a portion of his land to the next two loyal lords or knights. The rest still see this as a measure too aggressive to amount to anything good. Borys, in particular, was opposed to harming the man.’

‘I’m afraid I would be in agreement with him. Is there no other way to handle this without resorting to extreme solutions? He is married, yes?’

Lyonel looked at her, puzzled. ‘To a girl young enough for him to have sired her. What of it?’

‘I could write to her,’ Visenya suggested, invigorated by the thought of having something she could do to help. ‘Your mother told me that I would need to maintain close companionships with all the ladies of the Stormlands. And a wife, I have been told, can offer her husband sage counsel.’

Lyonel quirked an eyebrow. ‘Oh, really? A wise advice in and of itself.’

‘Wise indeed,’ she agreed, ‘and I could use the chance to make Lady Cafferen’s acquaintance whilst drawing her to our side.’

He looked as though he considered it, turned the suggestion around in his head, giving it time to materialise amidst his own machinations. ‘I doubt it would be of use but we have no alternatives. Write to her, if you will. See if the girl can be reasoned with if her fool of a husband cannot.’

‘Good.’

Visenya threw a leg over his midsection and sat herself confidently across his lap. His cock swelled instantly inside his breeches when her bare cunt slotted along its shape.

‘I believe we have a few more minutes before you are whisked away from me to be the Lord of Storm’s End,’ she purred, leaning down to kiss along his collarbone and drag her tongue up to the shell of his ear. She felt a shudder as strong as a tidal wave go through him and his hands immediately reached to steady her naked hips. ‘But now I should like to fuck my husband.’

The days that followed continued under a similar repetitiveness; mornings were blessedly given away to moments spent atop or weaved amongst the bedsheets, before the day would split them apart for the better part of its course. Lyonel would be dragged off to council meetings, visits to the fields to inspect the planting of the spring wheat, training sessions with his cousins whenever they had the time, whereas Visenya would have to follow Lady Viola around the keep all day like an obedient pup. 

There was little doubt in her mind that the main reason for the inordinate amount of tasks on her husband’s daily schedule had less to do with his important duties as Lord but with a certain relation who seemed determined to keep him away from her. And Visenya had begun to wonder if Orys truly believed she’d put some bloody love spell on his nephew and thought that time away from her reach might snap him back to his senses. If anything the only spell Lyonel seemed to be under was one that brought out the competitive side of him, making him hellbent on bringing her to a finish as many times as possible in the little time they had and in many and varied positions. 

Bet that wouldn’t have been something that Orys Baratheon would have liked to know.

Nevertheless, the princess was adapting quickly, learning her place within castle society: where and when her input would be needed, which members of the household she should turn to for a number of things, and which ones should in turn seek her out first. 

Each new task was becoming less of a burden and rather an exciting challenge. 

The cook Nora – who implored she be called simply Cook since it was what most residents of Storm’s End referred to her as – was eager to bring Visenya up to speed on all matters that concerned her with regards to the kitchens. Anything from what food was being delivered to what positions needed filling. She was the one in charge of keeping the castle fed and therefore Visenya made it her mission to be her friend. 

Then there was the steward who (much like Cook) was intent on introducing the princess to his own duties, and where her role fell within that realm, as promptly as possible. If only to make the transition go about smoother. It meant getting better acquainted with the staff and memorising the names of close to thirty of them. 

Shyra was pivotal in unraveling the finer details about them all. Who was friends with who and such. And Visenya had made the point to single out the ones who were still cold towards her maid and monitor if their behaviour towards her changed in the slightest. 

She respected all labourers, she had spent time amongst many of them, but what she could never abide by was cruelty. Particularly when directed at her newest friend. If she caught wind – the faintest draft even – that any of those same people had resumed their torment, she would find herself with a few more empty positions to fill.

Unpredictable currents at sea and stronger winds had prevented Jena from boarding the ship that was meant to return her and young Lyonel to Evenfall, a letter being sent in their stead by way of raven to let Lord Manfred know that they would spend the last weeks of his wife’s confinement in her childhood home. Jena complained about being cooped up, of course. We’re Baratheons, we’ve seen worse storms by far and a little rocking in a wooden tub has never frightened us, she’d scoff. But it was getting harder for her to move around the castle grounds. Her belly large and heavy, the babe more restless than before, and the constant need to find a chamberpot bordering on desperation. Therefore her mother and maester Maynard had advised her to take to bed. Lady Viola was adamant; her daughter’s well-being and the well-being of the babe were her chiefest priority. Hence the daily work was split into smaller portions so she could look in on Jena, fussing over her as any mother would. 

Any normal mother at least. 

Visenya’s own would have hardly given it much thought as long as duty was done. She might have even rejoiced that the silliest of her children had finally done something right. 

Lady Cassana had too improved over the course of the first sennight and the ladies were allowed to visit her in her bedchamber. With the exception of Jena who was bid to stay away from her cousin a while longer lest she contract the same ailment in the last days of her confinement. Maester Maynard was still unsure of its nature and the manner in which it spread so he preferred to be on the safe side and keep the expectant away from any sickrooms.

Visenya found her husband’s cousin a delightful young woman who shared much of Borys’s calmness although that could have been brought forth by exhaustion from her battle with the curious illness. She was overjoyed to be conversing with someone other than the maester who’d been her sole companion for days, so much so that she would sit up a little straighter in bed whenever Lady Viola and Visenya came to call on her. After each trip to the kitchens to discuss menus and delivery schedules, Visenya would sneak a few morsels of fruit cakes for the young woman who seemed desperate for them. 

Hardly surprising, seeing as her diet had consisted of nought but broth and bitter teas. 

Close to a fortnight later and with the bulk of her “studies” completed, Visenya was a step closer to being a full-fledged Lady Baratheon. It gave her peace and a great deal of satisfaction knowing that there was nothing to bar her from her rightful place beside Lyonel. And with her letter to Lady Cafferen so warmly received by the young lady, she was sure that her first big success would come soon. 

It was practically waiting at her feet.

And what made her even happier was that she had begun seeing genuine acceptance in Lady Viola’s eyes. It had come in slow waves; first when Visenya took charge in rearranging the schedule for the laundresses after a couple of them had fallen ill, then another such glance came when the kennelmaster was in need of a helping hand whelping a hounds’s new litter. It had been a dirty business – she’d ended up sullying the new dress Shyra had made for her with all sorts of fluids – and not entirely lady-like as her own mother would have put it, but Visenya did not shy away from the task. 

‘I’d helped with many such births in my father’s house,’ the Dowager had told her while the pair of them handled the newborn pups. The tiny balls of sleek fur had yelped and yowled while their exhausted mother was being tended to by the kennelmaster. The old woman would recall fondly, ‘We had a whole army of hounds to guard the vineyards.’

Visenya had feared that her good-mother would find her taking over difficult but it appeared as though she was content with handing over the mantle once the princess had shown she could be entrusted with the heavy burden. Only if Orys would ease up too and her life would be much simpler. Although Visenya assumed he would only accept her if she completed her most important job: bearing a child for Lyonel. 

An heir, to be precise.

Not an entirely hard job to do.

If half the chores were as pleasant as that, Visenya would have agreed to walk up the altar much sooner. 

And having Lyonel as a lover had an added appeal.

Morning came in a hurry once more. Lyonel had little time to enjoy his wife’s affections, and instead placated her grumpy expression with a kiss and a gentle smack to her hind. A promise he would still ravish her when he was done with the business of the day. 

Visenya could at least expect a slower start to her own schedule. The lessons were completed, the Dowager was happy with her progress and was otherwise occupied with preparations for her daughter’s nearing labour. The princess considered spending her first free day by returning to some pursuits she’d abandoned before coming to Storm’s End. 

She had not touched her sketching journal in nearly a month. Her hand cramped at the thought, it had missed holding a stylus. Her whole body cramped actually, in particular her stomach. She was either terribly hungry or had eaten something poor at dinner the night before. Better not mention that in front of Cook, Visenya chided herself.

Shyra arrived with the freshly washed and pressed garments for the day, and her usual chipper attitude. She smiled brightly, bidding a ‘Good morrow’ to the princess as she crossed the chamber and laid out the clothes on a chair. 

Visenya propped herself up on the bed and greeted the young girl back. She could not wait to get dressed, grab her supplies, and get moving. The sun was out for the first time in a sennight. It would be a lovely day, she was certain of it.

She asked, ‘Did the stain come out of the blue frock?’

‘With a bit ‘o scrubbing and some effort.’ Shyra ran her hands over the daydress she’d brought, smoothing out any small creases that had formed. ‘I would’ve set out something more robust for you if I’d known you’d be mucking it in the kennels.’

Visenya smiled wider. It brought great joy to her heart that Shyra had opened up more and felt at ease to jest back and forth with her. ‘It was foolish, I know. But the pups were so sweet! I promise I will behave today.’

‘You better,’ the young girl quipped, ‘we’re down another girl at the laundry.’

‘Not another one!’

‘Laundresses fall ill all the time. It is part of the job.’

That was not a good enough reason. Three girls had now contracted some ailment and maester Maynard was too preoccupied with Jena to give them the attention they needed.

‘Hm. I will discuss with Walter if it wouldn’t be more prudent to try different soaps for the washing. Or mayhaps it is something wrong with the starch for the shirts.’

Shyra came around the bed to pull the covers back and Visenya threw her legs over the side of the mattress. She’d grown so used to the girl seeing her in all states of undress that she did not pretend to hide herself anymore.

‘I will find him for you after you’ve had something to eat. Will you take your breakfast in your rooms today or should I have it laid out in the solar?’

The thought of food was enticing even with her stomach bothering her as it did. 

‘I will grab something sweet from the kitchens,’ she said. Lyonel would be upset if he learned that she had  ‘Then go see Lady Cassana. She could do with a walk around the castle grounds after being cooped up for so long.’

Visenya lifted off of the bed and immediately knew something was wrong. 

The back of her legs, near her bottom, felt wet and sticky. It was different to the sensation she had when it was Lyonel’s seed smeared there; no, that sensation came accompanied by a sense of wicked satisfaction, her thighs would ache from being spread and hooked around his waist. Now the stickiness felt different, familiar still but horribly unwelcome, and entwined with a horrible ache in the lower part of her belly.

Oh no…

Visenya’s eyes began to water and even through the haze she could clearly see Shyra looking at the bedsheets. The princess did not need to turn to know what it was, but she did still if only to quell the last bit of hope that it wasn’t true.

Her courses had come.

Right on time.

Declaring themselves with a splash of red right where she’d lain a few moments ago.

A sharp cry of disbelief tore its way through Visenya’s throat. Shyra, thank the gods for Shyra, reacted with much more clarity; she reached for the top cover of the bed and threw it over Visenya’s shoulders, then began stripping each layer until she reached the strained bed sheet. The feather-stuffed mattress was too bearing the red sigil of her failure.

A failure to conceive.

The one most important task the completion of which everyone waited with no small deal of impatience.

And she’d failed.

Visenya remained where she stood and watched Shyra pile the sheets onto the floor before turning to face her. The girl’s eyes were as wide as her own and filled with as much worry. Without saying a word, she opened her arms to Visenya and the princess met her halfway. She dropped her face into the crook of Shyra’s shoulder and cried.

‘’Tis alright,’ the young girl cooed, ‘if the laundresses are too busy, I will wash these myself. It is not so bad of a stain, it will come out!’

Seven bless her, she thought Visenya was upset about the mess. And not for the clear fact that after more than a month of being married, after many instances of coupling that should have produced results, there was nothing to show for it. Nothing but that horrible bloody stain on her bedsheets and blood between her legs.

‘I thought– I thought by now– I cannot–’

Shyra shushed her and Visenya’s ragged breaths returned to a more normal rhythm. ‘W-Would you like me to call for Lyonel?.’

‘No!’ 

Visenya sharply pulled away. The last person she wanted to see her painted in her failures was her husband, the last person she wanted to disappoint. Lyonel had talked at length about the children they would have, what he would do for them, what he would teach them. The flame in his eyes had lit up for a whole different reason when talking of that future; he was excited and he deserved to be. Oh, what a wonderful father he would make, how natural and how caring. 

His duty to his people came with the duty to secure his line, the responsibility of which fell on Visenya’s shoulders. 

And she had failed.

Everybody knew of the virility of Baratheon men, everybody talked of how strong their seed was and how rare it was for their children to be born with features different to those of their father or even ailments. 

It was entirely her fault.

‘It must be normal. You must need time, ‘tis nothing uncommon… I’ve heard.’

Visenya let out a watery chuckle, devoid of all humour. She was grateful for how much the sweet girl wanted to reassure her, comfort her even if she was not deserving of such courtesy. 

‘I am sorry for adding to your workload.’

‘I don’t. Let’s get you washed and dressed for the day then I’ll go to take care of the bedding.’

By the time she reached the laundry hall with the sheets, half the castle would know. The staff would surely find out by seeing her wash blood off of the fabric and the rumour would trickle like water through cracked stone. All would know about it and Visenya was afraid of Lyonel to find out from someone else. Even if at present she was unable to bring herself to tell him the news.

Shyra, perceptive girl that she was, caught on and assured her that she would try and be as discreet as possible.

If Lyonel stayed away from any household members who might slip the information to him then she might be able to keep it a secret… at least until the end of the day. Then she would likely have to return to her own chambers for the duration of her courses. She doubted that he would find her much appealing in her current state and with the mess that she would make of his bed. 

Visenya walked over to the basin waiting on her dresser and splashed her face first, clearing the salty remnants of tears. Then grabbed a towel and dipped it in the water, cleaning her thighs slowly while Shyra looked for spare linens to wrap around her after she was done. The water turned from clear to pink in seconds, mocking the princess with its vibrant colour. Many times she had done so and many times she had rejoiced at the arrival of her moon blood. 

For the first time in her life she wished it’d be different. 

With the linens pinned and secured around her hips by way of a thin belt, Shyra finished dressing her in a soft cotton frock and arranged her hair into a thick coil at the back of her head. She promised again and again that she would be discreet, and left her to the quiet of the bedchamber.

Lyonel’s bedchamber. 

The other room was as she had left it on the first night – tidy but devoid of anything that belonged to her save the empty trunks. The hearth stood cold and silent at one end, having not been fed for weeks. The bed was empty, she would have to ask Shyra to prepare it for her.

Visenya’s satchel sat on top of a crate with her painting supplies – her last solace. She’d given up the sword and left it with the smith, she had not ridden a horse once in the time she’d gotten to Storm’s End, and she doubted there was any point of it now but to leave the castle for a day to clear her mind. One possibility was to hide her hair under a wrap, ride into the village, find the tavern, and drink herself silly. Hardly anybody would pay her any mind if she stripped her attire of anything that would suggest she was highborn, let alone the Lady of Storm’s End. 

Nobody would miss her, nobody would notice her gone.

Lyonel would, a pitiful voice chimed in. Lyonel would notice if he left his council session early and looked for her. And she could not embarrass him further by running away to drink and behave recklessly. 

As she had done too many times in her past. 

She crossed the chamber and stood before the crate. The sketching journal was still safely tucked inside the satchel, the long silver stylus tied with a thin strap to it lest it’d be lost. Visenya gripped the leather-bound book and pressed it into her chest. Her breast ached horribly and her belly churned with more than the spasms brought upon by her courses.

She was hungry but the mere thought of putting anything in her mouth made it run dry as though she had chewed sand. She could at least run down and ask Cook for some tea to settle her stomach. 

And so she did.

With the journal to her chest as a shield, Visenya made her way down the steps of the tower. The corridors were deserted, she encountered the occasional scullery maid or guard who made their usual rounds and greeted her with a bow of respect.

What respect Visenya was owed in this instance was not clear to her when apart from her studying how to run this castle, she had done it little service.

The words failure, failure, failure kept on chanting in her mind like a hymn on a holy day.

She padded carefully down the stairs, preoccupied with her own self-flagellating thoughts and the ache in her body that she had not initially heard the pair talking just beyond the corner she was about to turn. Until she heard her own name spoken.

‘What?’ A man’s voice came from around the corner, sounding both astonished and terribly amused. 

‘I saw the Thing bring a bundle into the laundry a few minutes ago,’ said a woman. 

Visenya recognised the voice as belonging to one particular maid of whom she’d learned enough to like her not. A young and somewhat pretty-looking lass who’d been one of the chief instigators to most of Shyra’s torment over the years. Uncontented with her own lot in life, she used to find particular sick enjoyment out of belittling the poor girl. 

Until Visenya had put a stop to it. And she felt sick knowing that more than likely the Thing the maid was referring to was Shyra herself.

She should have left her hiding place immediately; put an end to their conversation, scold them for their cruelty, mayhaps even threaten summary dismissal… but she stayed and listened. 

‘Seems like that princess has bled. I came to find you as soon as I could.’

The man chuckled. ‘May’aps she’s barren. Or she needs some kind of dark magic to make ‘erself come to be wiff child. Would not put it past the Targaryen bitch.’

Now was the woman’s turn to snicker darkly. ‘Must’ve ensnared M’lord with a spell. Though he was never known to keep his cock in his trousers.’

The pair laughed louder this time. Visenya felt anger rise in her chest; they could laugh at her fate all they liked but she drew a hard line at comments made about her husband.

‘I mean have you seen her?’ The woman made a gagging sound of disgust. ‘Doesn’t even look like rest. Her hair, ugh… and she’s so coarse and brown… and her eyes look more blue than purple… very plain.’

‘It’s all that Dornish blood, Tilde. Fucking savages they are. It’s a blessin’ ‘er uncle killed the Prince so we wouldn’t ‘ave no Dornish-looking cunt on the throne tellin’ us to love bastards and whatnot.’

The woman cackled even louder and the tinny noise rang through the empty stairway. Acid burned in Visenya’s throat. If there had been a line drawn somewhere, they had crossed it and ran miles past it. She pushed off of the wall and rushed forward to confront them. 

The pair had the decency to look at least a little afraid they had been caught. 

The young man began with a sputtering apology. ‘M’lady, we didn’t–’

Didn’t what? They had not seen her, had not heard her? As if that would make all that she had witnessed appear less revolting, less hurtful. 

‘I believe it is beyond time for the two of you to look for another place of employment. I apologise I did not see sooner just how unhappy you’ve become with your positions.’

‘M’lady, we were only–’ The woman tried to protest, her icy blue eyes welling dramatically with tears. 

‘No. Do not waste your breath,’ she spoke firmly despite her heart hammering in her chest and her own eyes stinging with angry tears. ‘I will inform the steward of it shortly. In the meantime, I suggest you pack your belongings quickly and leave without making a fuss. No need to bother the rest of the staff with the reasons for your departure.’

The two – now former – servants stared at her with dumbstruck looks on their mean faces before the princess turned on her heel and climbed back up the tower steps. She left them behind with the fruits of their own malice whilst she herself felt oddly satisfied to be rid of them for good. 

Until the satisfaction morphed back into resentment, directed at none other than herself. Did she feel bad for turning those two bullies out, leaving them without a source of income in a world where that was their only chance at survival? Visenya had half the mind to double back and take back what she had said, but she was hurt and angry. Angry that they had insulted Lyonel, insulted her father, and disheartened by the awful things they had said about her.

Barren.

That word replaced failure in its insistent and repetitive roar. Her head was as the dome of a sept, giving space for that word to bounce off the walls of her skull and echo. Visenya let the tears that had built up in her eyes flow down her face. What if she was? She wouldn’t be the first barren wife of a lord, not even the first with such problems in her own family. Most of the realm considered Lady Aelinor unable to bear a child for uncle Aerys even if it was well-known that he found books more enticing than laying with his own wife. Visenya had seen what such talk had done to her aunt, seen how it drove her to daily trips to the Great Sept to pray for a child that would never come lest Aerys did something about it.

The words spoken about her brother’s wife were even worse. Several failed conceptions, miscarriages, and two stillbirths, though Kiera had taken it on the chin. Having more honour in the nailbed of her smallest finger than the whole of King’s Landing combined, she tried not to give the gossipers the pleasure of knowing their sharp tongues had dealt a blow to her spirit. 

But the agony was plain to see in her eyes.

For Visenya it wasn’t a matter of not being seen to enough by her husband, nor failing to keep a pregnancy to its full term. Lyonel had done plenty, more than it would have been expected of him, and cared for her pleasure to boot. It was all her, the lack was with her. 

As if her body simply rejected the idea of doing its damned job.

And what was worse was the memory of her brother’s eyes – tired and despondent – mourning the loss of lives that would never come to be. Visenya would not bear it if she saw that same expression on Lyonel’s face.

The tears came down harder, her breathing growing more panicked. 

What if this was her final punishment from the gods? The end to a series of cruel tricks they played on her. Taking her father from her, setting her on a path she had never expected, then giving her a caring husband who made her happy, only to make her unable to give him a child and do her duty to him. A duty that was the only reason his uncle had not found a reason to turn her out of the castle.

Oh, Orys would be delighted to know. That would give him what he needed to demand Lyonel annul his marriage. She would be returned like damaged goods to her family, likely to never see him again or anyone she had grown close to in the last few weeks for that matter.

Was this a punishment for what she’d done? For the first time since coming to that castle, Storm’s End lost its hospitality and warmth. She felt a stranger in her home once more.

Her feet carried her forward until she stood in front of the door to the library. If the maester was with the rest at the council meeting, the place would be empty. She could curl up in a corner, calm herself down enough to sit with her thoughts and let time pass around her. Mayhaps the bookshelves mightvswallow her up in her sadness and make her disappear. If not physically then in some other manner at least. 

Visenya pushed the heavy door open and slipped inside only to find the library was anything but empty. 

Borys was walking in her direction between towers of parchment and leather with a large tome tucked under his arm. He stopped in his tracks as soon as he saw her or as soon as he’d seen the state of her. Visenya was certain she looked a right mess with tears still falling over the slopes of her cheeks and gathering along her jaw. 

‘Princess… is everything alright?’

Visenya forced a smile onto her face although she knew it was not convincing the solemn man in front of her. Borys drew closer, one of his hands reached for her and then retreated. Better not touch your cousin’s barren wife, she said to him in her head, I wouldn’t want the condition to catch and for you too to be cursed.

‘Nothing. I was feeling unwell.’

‘Should I call for the maester? He is still in the Round Hall with the council but he could make the trip upstairs if it is urgent.’

‘No, no,’ the princess assured him, ‘do not bother the man.’

‘Should I call for Lyonel then?’

‘I don’t want to worry him. I was merely looking for a quiet place to… to think. I will not keep you.’

Borys shook his head once and lifted the tome in his hand – it was twice the size of most books she’d read. ‘I came to fetch this. I will leave.’

Visenya nodded and angled her face down to hide yet another onslaught of tears. Perfect, she would not only be an embarrassment for the entire castle – nay, the entirety of the Stormlands – but she would also embarrass herself further by blubbing in front of poor Borys. He did not need to suffer because she was inept at putting a stopper on her emotions.

‘Come with me,’ he implored softly and despite her better judgement she obliged him. Mayhaps he could escort her to the kitchens and bid Cook take care of the silly, crying woman who had barged in on him. Visenya stood a foot behind him as they descended the stairs, not wanting to further disturb him. She held her journal to her chest and stroked a thumb along the side of her arm in a way to comfort herself when nobody else could. 

She wanted Lyonel, she wanted his arms around her so badly she was willing to forgo decorum, barge into the Round Hall, and demand he abandon the other men, and hold her. More tears spilled forth and Visenya squeezed her lips close as to stifle any sob that might have ran out into the quiet halls of the Drum Keep.

Borys made a right turn at the front door and brought them into the courtyard which was taking the longer route to the kitchens. Nevermind, she could do with a bit of fresh air to brighten her up. Even if her face had likely puffed up by now and Cook would notice she was upset from a mile away. It would be good to break the news to her first that she had dismissed two members of the staff without notice.

Seven bloody fucks!

The path Borys was taking was unfamiliar to Visenya. After he made for the stables which were in an entirely different direction to the kitchens, he walked right past them – Tempest was probably sleeping somewhere inside, bless him – and finally continued towards the tall stone wall that sat at the edge of the courtyard. A small archway led them into a place that Visenya had only been told of but had not visited before that day. The godswood. It wasn’t a part of the tour as it hadn’t been necessary and it didn’t have anything to do with her duties around the place so Lady Viola had skipped it altogether. The princess had planned to explore it in the near future, to see if it’s anything like the godswood in the Red Keep. That was the only calming place in the whole of King’s Landing. The only place where the noise of the city fell away, the stench dissipated, and nature took over all senses. As a child, the one-acre wood had been her most favourite hiding place, only Grandmama knew the spots where she would tuck herself into to escape anything from dull lessons to dull feasts.

Borys moved out of her way and extended his arm to welcome her into the green haven. ‘After you,’ he spoke with a soft and careful tone. Visenya worried she might have frightened him into treating her like a wounded animal that could bite him at any moment. She smiled tentatively and ventured forward.

The godswood was much bigger than she’d imagined and curving around the side of the tower like a massive green belt. There was a mix of firs and yews scattered throughout a larger portion of deciduous trees, offering plenty of good shade. It was a wonder she had not seen the wood sooner. It was possible she could see it from above if she found the right window. 

The grass was neatly trimmed, leaving behind only the flowers and low hedges that grew along the pebbled pathway. Borys continued walking forward and Visenya matched her pace to his, unsure of where exactly he was taking her. Until the trees pulled away slowly to reveal another, more striking one. Red leaves and pale bark – a weirwood. 

The tears abated and all but ceased to fall down her face when she stood before it.

‘I come here sometimes,’ Borys admitted, ‘to pray.’

‘I didn’t know you favoured the Old Gods.’

‘It is not so much about the gods, rather… a place to get away from others and meditate on matters important to me.’

‘I shouldn’t then–’ Visenya considered going back. She shouldn’t intrude on the man’s sanctuary, it was not right. Borys held out his hand and this time he grabbed her upper arm. Not roughly, but with enough urgency to stop her retreating. ‘Borys, I will be content with sitting in the library. I do not wish to intrude on your peace.’

‘This is a much nicer place if you intend to enjoy the sound of nothing in particular. And… think.’

The wood was not entirely silent; Visenya could hear the distant crashing of the waves against the rocks below and birds were chirping softly overhead, hiding amongst the leaves of the weirwood.

‘I am willing to relinquish it to you. I will not bother you with questions about what upset you but know that whatever it is, it will be alright.’

‘Will it?’ 

She was not so sure. The day had begun so easily and then everything felt as though it was collapsing all around her. If only she could make his father put up with her – not even like her, simply tolerate her – then mayhaps she would breathe a little easier.

‘Is it anything Lyonel did?’

‘No, of course not! He is perfect, he…’ He was everything really. ‘It is mine own silly feelings that are causing me distress.’

The princess and her husband’s cousin remained so for a little longer than a moment – with her holding her journal to her chest, sneakily wiping the remnants of water from her face, and him carefully taking her in as if to be certain she wouldn’t completely break. And when his observation proved sufficient, Borys bowed his head as he always did and left her to the company of the trees. 

Visenya turned around to face the weirwood again, mesmerised by its sullen expression. There were stories she’d read and ones she’d heard about the Children of the forest who had carved those faces in the times when giants roamed Westeros and magic was abundant in the world. 

A simpler time than the one they lived in.

She noticed a protruding root at the base of the trunk, large enough for her to sit on comfortably. A flock of sparrows stirred within the crown of the weirwood, flew off for a second, and made a circle overhead. Visenya followed their flight before they settled back inside the thick leaf cover. Their song was not as loud or as conventionally pretty as that of finer birds, but they made their presence known with tiny chirps and flutters of their wings. 

It would be nice to be a bird. Not concerning herself with being perfect, not concerning herself with duty. Simply existing as a small creature that could fly away at any moment. 

Her belly ached again, drawing her back into her sad reality. If it had been once she could have dismissed it as a fluke, pinned it to her rotten luck and moved on with the hopes that come next moon she would be blessed. But it was the second time she had not been able to conceive. It was surely a sign that she lacked the capabilities. 

How would she tell Lyonel that his hopes of growing a family with her might never come to be? It would crush him. He would be right to cast her aside if she could not bear him a child. An heir at least. She could tell him to look for it with another woman, another lucky lady who had not seen a cock in her life. Some chaste girl who could give him what she never could. 

The thought of another taking her place was another pain altogether. It was torture. 

It was not only the feeling of belonging and comfort that Storm’s End and its inhabitants had given her. 

She liked being married to Lyonel. 

She cared for him.

More than she had believed she could care for another.

In order to pull herself back from the abyss that was her own treacherous mind, Visenya centred herself in the small book in her hands. She untied the strings that held it close and pulled the stylus free. Flipping through the book felt like gazing at someone else’s life. Images of landscapes and people that had fascinated her once now felt hollow. 

A series of lifeless etchings on paper.

Until she reached the sketches of Lyonel’s hands. Rough and calloused that they were yet capable of both strength and softness. She wanted those same hands around her now, comforting her. 

She wanted her family too. She wanted her father there with her, she wanted her brothers. 

Several letters had come in the past weeks. Most of them from Lady Rosamund who wanted to bridge the distance between herself and the princess (her new dear sister, as she had written in the very first one) by any means necessary, and a couple from Lady Ellyn Hightower who welcomed her unreservedly to their family, bidding her care for her “sweet oaf of a brother”. Rod had sent letters informing her of Nira’s condition and how her belly had begun to grow, the state of the castle without her and without Baelor, the ascension of her brother to the role of Hand.

Valarr had sent nothing.

Visenya did not know how to interpret his silence anymore. He could very well be busy with the fragile state the realm had been left in after the death of their father. She used to feel she could read her brother quite well in the past despite the gaping hole that had formed between them some years ago after he had found her drunk, deflowered, and stumbling her way back into the castle in the wee hours of the morning. He had been angry for days after their altercation in her chambers, had not spoken to her for nearly a whole month but to ask her to pass the meat at supper or to inform her their father was waiting for her somewhere around the Red Keep. 

Now she did not know how to read him.

And she decidedly could not bear his silence any longer. 

Therefore she flipped to the final pages of the journal and looked at the empty space there. She tore out a single one, closed the book, and used it as a base to begin writing. The stylus scratched the bone-washed surface of the parchment with ease as words began to pour from her mind and onto it. 

Dear brother, it began with just enough affection as to not be without. He was indeed dear to her even if he found her lack of propriety in the past astounding. 

I have not heard a word from you in a terribly long time and need to break the silence. I am well and have settled in Storm’s End. I have taken to learning how to run the keep from Lyonel’s mother. I believe she is happy with me and how well I have assumed my role. I am writing to you because–

She could not tell him that her courses had come, of course. She could not scandalise him any further, but she needed to say it somehow. He was always so terribly clever, always mindful, and generous with his kindness. Even if he did not care much for her as a person, he could see that his sister was in need of his reassurance.

Right?

I am writing to you because I am feeling doubtful of my abilities to be a proper wife. It has been a little over a month since I married Lord Lyonel and I am yet to be blessed with a babe. I know you will consider it a punishment from the gods for my misdeeds in the past, and believe me I will share your sentiment, but I am afraid.

Afraid she would lose Lyonel forever.

What if this is truly my punishment? I am at a loss and I do not know how to continue. You always knew what to do and what to say. I hoped you might have a morsel of wisdom for your foolish sister. I understand if it is not within your merciful nature to forgive me at this point and I will accept my fate. But I need my brother in this trying time, more than ever before. I miss you terribly. I miss Matarys too. I hope you can tell him that, and that Storm’s End is everything he’s read in his book and more. 

I hope you are all in the best of health. Relay my greetings to dear Kiera as well. I hope she has found a new walking partner for her daily strolls in the godswood.

With love and devotion,

Your sister

Visenya finished the letter, read it over and over until she was sure of her own words. She folded the page on itself four times and thrust in the pocket of her skirt, patting the lump down with the promise she’ll run up to the rookery before turning in for the night. If the maester sent it off tonight it might reach King’s Landing by the morrow on the second day. It only remained for Valarr to read it and decide if he would respond to his sister’s plea for reconnection. 

A stream of wind blew through the tops of the trees, rustling them awake. Branches danced slowly with the soft murmur of leaves brushing against one another and the birds once again took up their chirping. They did not leave the safety of the tree this time. Visenya did not blame them; it was probably quite nice up there, amongst the bright red leaves.

She took a deep breath, then another, and another. The day had grown warm, but a seaward breeze carried a comforting scent of salt and algae. The waves kept on crashing into solid rock down below, the sound of thunder rumbled in the distance. Visenya looked up at the sky when the noise reached her. Even if the rain caught her there, the cover the weirwood provided was large and thick enough to keep her safe and dry. And she did not feel ready to return inside, even less so knowing that there was a likelihood those two servants she’d dismissed had helpfully spread the news about her state. Her only remaining hope was that the gossip wouldn’t reach anyone in the Baratheon family before she felt ready for them to know.

And she wanted Lyonel to learn it first from her.

Her fingers played with one frayed corner of the sketching journal. She had been somewhat relieved there was still one pastime that could bring her pleasure without rustling anyone’s (Orys’s) feathers and had looked forward to hiding away to draw… now she looked at the book without a mote of excitement or relief. 

I can still do something, she considered for a moment, just to pass the time.

A clean empty page, the stylus secured between her fingers, and Visenya began to etch short lines into the paper. There was not a goal she was chasing, there wasn’t even a particular subject she was thinking of. She drew a tree, she drew the smooth stone block pattern of the tower wall above the foliage, she drew it climbing up towards a small arched window. Her eyes flitted between things she could see around her and the page which was swiftly filling with various small sketches. She drew another tree, focused on the detail of its creased bark and the odd shape in which it grew. She drew a particularly brave blue tit which landed on a rock near her foot and gave her a curious look. 

Why would you be crying over silly human things, it seemed to ask with a tilt of its tiny bulbous head, look how easy I have it. The bird watched her some more, allowing Visenya to draw it as faithfully as she could for the short amount of time it posed for its miniature, and flew off to rejoin its mates in a flutter of blue and yellow.

The first signs of rain announced themselves with the fall of a few heavy raindrops and another rumble from the sky above. The wind picked up a little stronger at the very tops of the trees in the godswood but where Visenya sat she was quite snug. Sheltered by the massive white trunk of the weirwood and its red crown, she kept on sketching until her hand – not having done this particular exercise in some time – began to cramp along with her stomach. It rumbled threateningly once like the sky above. 

She really should have eaten something. 

A flash of something bright drew her attention to the pebbled path where through the hastening rain came none other than her husband. The one person she had been dreading and needing desperately to talk to. His ochre cloak was hoisted up in the air, covering his head while he closed the distance to the heart tree.

Visenya stuffed the stylus between the pages and closed the journal, using the trunk as a crutch to facilitate her standing up.

‘Lyonel, I–’

But he did not let her finish. The moment the tree covered him from the rain, he threw the cloak off and placed it around Visenya’s own shoulders. ‘I was worried about you, you mad woman,’ he scolded, worry marring his features. ‘Shyra came to me when she couldn’t find you. Then the rain started and Borys said he showed you into the godswood. You’re lucky you had the tree to keep you from getting drenched to your bones.’

The rain picked up even harder. It was as though the sky had split apart and the gods poured oceans-worth of water over their heads. There was no chance of either of the two getting back inside without being completely soaked to the bone and with a plethora of new maladies for the maester to fuss over. 

And there Visenya went again… mucking something up. She should’ve just thanked Borys for his concern and stayed holed up in the library.

Lyonel had her sit back down against the root of the heart tree while he ensured she was nicely wrapped in the cloak, then put one arm around her shoulders and brought her into his embrace. He was so solid and warm – gods, she had not noticed how cold the wind and rain had gotten until he had her in his arms. Her teeth began to chatter and a shiver ran down the full length of her spine to her arms.

‘There we go. You look quite peaky, have you eaten anything?’

‘N-no, had no appetite.’

Lyonel made a face. ‘Well, you must eat dinner at least… as soon as this rain lets up we can go back inside.’

She should tell him now, just get it over with while he was still on a tirade so he could use the remaining energy to be angry if he needed to. Yet when she opened her mouth, the words died on her tongue. She desperately wanted him to be happy, to have a good enough reason to be with her, and she could very well lose him now. 

‘What is wrong?’ The question came after a painfully quiet moment that Visenya had spent opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water. Lyonel rubbed his hand over her arm and back more vigorously, but stopped when he looked into her eyes. Eyes that were quickly filling with tears once more.

Gods, she was so pathetic…

‘I’m sorry!’

Lyonel furrowed his brows and his free hand came up to cup her cheek. ‘Visenya, what is wrong? What has happened?’

‘My courses came.’ She began to sob even harder, and after pulling her knees closer to her chest, she buried her face to hide away. She did not want to see the light dim in his eyes, did not want to take away his hopes. 

‘Are you in pain then? Ellyn was always in an insufferable amount of it when her moon blood came in. And I was usually the one to take the brunt of her anger.’

‘W-what are you ev-even on about?’

‘I am afraid I know very little about it, but having grown up with three sisters and one female cousin under the same roof, I am aware enough. Is it your belly troubling you or your head?’

Visenya could not for the life of her figure out when the other shoe might drop. Out of all thirty-something words he had uttered after her declaration, not one was tinted with upset, nor reproach. 

‘You’re not angry?’ The question seemed even more puzzling to her husband who was beginning to grow more and more visibly concerned. He probably thought she’d gone mad.

The corners of his mouth pulled in a tentative smile. ‘Whyever would I be angry, beauty?’

‘Because– oh, Lyonel!’ The tears doubled and tripled in their strength, streaming down in uninterrupted rivulets across her face. Instead of letting her hide back away inside the folds of her skirts and his cloak, Lyonel pulled her to his chest and had her curl into his side. Visenya felt even sillier when she could not catch her breath for all the hiccuping sobs that wrecked her body, and even more so when she was trying to explain herself and every syllable would get eaten by yet another sob. 

‘Take a deep breath for me, Nye. That’s it… slowly, slowly… Now tell me what made you think I’d be angry?’

Visenya wiped her wet (and very cold) nose with the back of her sleeve and angled her face away from him to compose herself as much as she could. ‘I thought by now, with how much we… I thought I would be with child by now.’

‘There is no rush.’

‘But it is expected of me,’ Visenya argued, now getting angry herself that he was being so obtuse. ‘I have been working so hard and there was but one thing left to do.’

‘I remember you saying you never wanted to be forced into pushing out an heir after heir.’

She whipped her head back around and asked through a trembling tone, ‘And what if I can’t? At all?’

Lyonel had no answer ready at first, caught off guard once more. The crease between his brows grew even deeper. He was not the type of man who enjoyed being uncertain of where a discussion was leading to.

‘I think,’ she paused. ‘I fear it might be a punishment for what I’ve done. For my indiscretions… Seven fucking hells, half of my family would rejoice for being so right about me.’

‘It is not nearly as bad as others have done.’

Lady Shiera’s voice suddenly chimed inside her head. If you do not want him to have you, then you have to dispose of the one thing he truly craves. And Visenya had done as instructed, an obedient little fool that was too scared to even stop and think what the consequences were. Rod had been right, she shouldn’t have trusted that woman.

‘I must tell you something,’ the princess told him softly, choosing then to avoid his gaze once more. This time, however, it was not from fear of seeing disappointment in Lyonel’s eyes, but out of shame for her own foolishness. ‘And I must ask you to not get upset.’

The Laughing Storm, her husband, ever a man of noise and jubilation, remained quiet and urged her to continue in her own time. His silent response was enough for Visenya to resume.

‘I know I’ve told you of my many liaisons with… a number of people, including my friend Rod and his wife. I have never regretted those relationships, nor what they gave me in terms of introduction to all the pleasures that could be had. But it all started– it started wrong. When I first flowered.’

‘I was three and ten, thought myself a great romantic already, and had caught the eye of enough suitors to give my mother peace. She worried constantly that I would be a difficult girl to match given my proclivity for disobedience.’

‘Your most interesting trait,’ Lyonel said which made Visenya smile mournfully. In truth, he was one of a very short list of people to think so. To most everyone else it was not so endearing.

‘But the one that stood out – and not for the right reasons – was my cousin… Aerion.’

The mere mention of the name made Lyonel go as rigid as a rock beside her. To him it likely brought memories of bruised cheek, cut lip, an enemy across a muddy field. To Visenya it brought much more than that and none of it pleasant. 

‘I was the only girl in the family at that time. His sisters… they came a few years later. But by that time, that madness in him had already found root. He became cruel, enjoyed tormenting the maids, ladies of the court. I was of a particular interest to him since I shared the blood of the Dragon. It made me special in his eyes…’

Her stomach burned with a deep seated pain and rage. Aerion had no right to think himself worthy of her, to think he had a stake on her. But once he had set his sights on a mark, he could hardly be dissuaded. That was very much proven with the zeal with which he hunted poor Ser Duncan. The bloodthirsty need for revenge over a petty squabble and an imagined slight was amplified in his own mind. It made it righteous and him – divinely justified in his aggression. 

‘One night… he snuck into my room. Nothing happened,’ Visenya reassured her husband immediately upon feeling his chest expand with a sharp inhale, ‘I scratched up his face worse than the castle cats would’ve and told him to never try that again. But he… threatened that he would simply bring his friends with him the following night. Whether he had intended for them to hold me down or do something else, I gladly never found out.’

Visenya took a moment to gather herself and draw a long, shaky breath of humid air.  The rain at this point was like a sheet of water coming down, the weirwood protected them still.

‘I did not know where to go… When I told Rod–’ she smiled when remembering his fervent determination, ‘--he offered to stay with me during the night, fight Aerion and his thugs if he had to. I could not let him get hurt so I went to the only person who might give me an out.’

Visenya had looked at her options then and had found them wanting. Her uncle would have sadly done nothing; his way of handling the violent outbursts of his second-born was to simply ignore their existence then thunder and rage at the consequences. Aunt Dyanna was preoccupied with Aemon and Daeron who at that point had begun complaining of intensifying and terrifying dreams, someone had to mind that he did not grab a bottle at first light and finish it before his servants even made it to his chambers to get him ready for the day. Visenya’s own father would have surely stepped in, he would have moved mountains and drained the sea for his sweet girl, but for the young princess it was a source of shame and she did not want to see it reflected in Baelor’s eyes.

She continued, ‘Lady Shiera was always known as a dangerous kind of beauty. Incredibly smart and perceptive… I went to her, I thought she would have something that would help me – a spell, a poison.’ Anything that would have spared her from Aerion’s vile attention. ‘She told me I needed nothing of the sort. There was one particular thing he wanted and that was control. My purity was something for him to hunt and capture. So she said if I– if rid myself of it, I would be free.’

‘If a man wants to fuck a whore, he can easily find one in the gutters of King’s Landing or in some dusty inn on the Kingsroad,’ Lady Shiera had told her through a wide toothy grin that had made Visenya sick to her stomach. ‘But a princess who’s been had… that is simply an unappealing target. No prince, nor lord will want you after that. Just come to me on the morrow when you need your special tea, little princess.’

Mayhaps the one sentence letter had truly been one of surprise. Who would have thought indeed that Visenya would find a man to want her, be tied to her and likely suffer by association for what she’d done. 

‘Rod helped me get out of the castle that night. We drank and then we found a brothel. One of the men working there agreed to… he took my virtue and my coin. An all too simple transaction really.’

Visenya finally looked at Lyonel, still half-expecting to find him looking back in anger, disapproval, mayhaps even remorse for agreeing to marry her. His whole line was at stake, the stability of his family and lands, and if Visenya could not provide…

Lyonel reached for her hand, prying it away from the journal that she’d held onto like a lifeline, and threaded his fingers through hers. It was not a loquacious decree of his support but more than that. Acceptance? He leaned his head forward and let his brow rest against Visenya’s. She felt his warm, steady breaths on the tip of her nose. The anxious beating in her chest eased first into a trot, then into a much calmer rhythm.

‘In the end it worked. Aerion was embarrassed, I hardly saw him for weeks after that. He would, of course, find ways of reminding me that I was tainted,’ she scoffed. ‘I did not touch another man for two summers after that.’

It was like taking a toy from a petulant child; when she had denied him what he believed was owed to him, he lashed out and when his interest floated away, he had found other victims to torment. 

Egg had sadly been one.

‘I should have–’ Before he could continue, Lyonel stopped himself, clamping his lips shut. But the meaning of what he had intended to say was more than clear to Visenya. 

I should have killed him when I had the chance. 

Many things should’ve and could’ve been done, many things could’ve been much different – if Aerion had been kinder, if their family hadn’t turned a blind eye to the growing issue of his descent into madness, if Visenya had dared to tell her father about his attempted assault. A small and likely self-destructive part of her mind whispered that it might have been easier to just let Aerion have his way with her and lose interest naturally after he had claimed what he had wanted. Egg might’ve been spared the horror of waking up with a knife to his bits and many nights spent running into Visenya’s bedchamber to beg her allow him to hide with her. 

She felt responsible for him, felt it was her duty to keep him safe from his older brother. 

‘After that whole ordeal, it was… purely for my personal enjoyment,’ she admitted. ‘I did not wish to be left with a bad taste in my mouth from that very first encounter. Yes, the man from the brothel was helpful–’ He had been reluctant at first to touch what he could clearly see was some highborn chit with too much ale in her belly and a rash idea on her mind. But her pleading and the purse full of gold she'd offered for his help and silence was enough to convince him. ‘I needed to feel like I still had control over my fate.’

The deluge slowed briefly but did not stop. The sound of water hitting leaves and the occasional bird fluttering their wings to shed any droplets that might’ve wet their feathers were their only companions in the godswood. Borys had been right about that place being right for one’s mind; Visenya felt somewhat calmer, especially after lifting such a heavy burden from her chest. 

Lyonel spoke up and his heavy voice added to the harmony of nature. ‘I still do not see, among all the things you’ve just told me, what would make you believe you are unable to have children or why I would be angry?’

‘I suppose… it is a fear of how many moon teas I’ve taken through the years. Or a fear that people might be right and gods do punish women like me.’

‘If that truly were the case, then there would have been no bastards in the world. And no whore would suffer the consequences of a night pillowing with some lord,’ he reasoned. Visenya was glad to hear the soft smile in his voice. ‘And you surely know that these rigid rules are in place to keep you from exploring your pleasure on your own terms.’

‘I know!’

Lyonel paused again and the princess waited patiently for him to speak. She looked up through her eyelashes to find him observing her, lost deep in thought. ‘You have not had the easiest time of it, let us be honest. And one or two courses in the early days of marriage cannot be a definitive confirmation of the inability to have children. Nevertheless–’ he added before Visenya could argue, '– I have plenty of strong, able cousins whom I can command at any time to marry and multiply. In Axel’s case it might even give him that final push he needs to grow up.’

A wet chuckle spilled from Visenya’s mouth. ‘I doubt there is a woman with enough mental fortitude to keep up with him.’

‘Who knows?’ He shrugged. ‘I could abandon the age long tradition of Stormlanders struggling against the Dornish, and have him wed to some southern beauty with a fiery temperament. Someone a little like you to keep him in line.’

The chuckle from seconds ago turned into a small laugh. Lyonel smiled at her in return.

‘Visenya, I do not doubt you.’ His hands reached for her face once more, cupping her cheeks and making her drink every letter and every word he uttered. ‘And for all that I am bound to do by duty to my House and my people, I care little how long it would take or even if we are blessed with a child one day. I lay with you not out of necessity but because you are the most fascinating woman I have ever met.’

‘I dismissed two of the staff today,’ she blurted.

‘You must have had good reasons to.’

Her breathing calm and her thoughts no longer in shambles, Visenya let out a sigh of relief. Lyonel pointed at the book in her hands.

‘The rain is easing up. Care to show me what you have in there? Once it stops long enough for us to return inside, I will have you neck-deep in a hot bath and order supper be sent to our chamber.’

‘Alright.’ Visenya smiled wider and opened her journal. 

‘Ah! The sketches everyone spoke of– they are quite good… they’re very good… are those my hands?’

He had flipped through the pages faster than she could have explained everything that her hand had captured, and discovered the studies in question. He turned and tilted his head, observing how she had translated reality onto paper, lifting his hand up to compare details.

‘I drew them at Ashford,’ she explained. ‘I suppose I found you fascinating as well.’

The gentle smile he had on his lips as he gazed at her sketches transformed into his signature smirk. ‘Of course, you would with hands as beautiful as mine. How do you draw these? This is no ink I recognise.’

‘It is a special tool.’ Visenya fished out her stylus from between the last pages and presented it to him. ‘It is made of silver. The parchment is treated with a mixture made out of crushed bone. It requires immense precision because every line you make cannot be altered, and when you scratch the page with it–’ she demonstrated in one corner, ‘–it stays. Over time the silver etchings turn from grey to a soft brown, see here?’

Visenya traced a finger along each line whilst Lyonel listened intently as she guided him through the proper technique and how she’d been taught. He asked question after question, prompting her to continue with her impromptu lesson. 

Even after the rain had slowed further, they did not move. 

Lyonel made sure to pull her as far away from her own despair as he could. The warmth coming from his body like undulating waves softened the shell that had calcified over Visenya during the day and his smile which she so adored made her feel at ease.

And just then, when Lyonel had decided they better head back inside, when he’d hoisted her onto her feet and wrapped an arm to maintain the barrier of heat that protected her, when he looked at her no differently than how he had yesterday, did Visenya realise something with startling clarity.

She was in love with him.

Next chapter

A/N: DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUN!!! Visenya's finally catching onto the fact that liking your husband, wanting to be with him 25/8, touch him, kiss him, want to see him happy, defend his honour, etc. might actually mean that you love him🤯 Likes, reblogs, and comments always appreciated, my darlings!

‘Mama!’

Lyonel Tarth stormed inside the chamber like a bolt of lightning piercing the sky or a wild horse charging past the hands of a wrangler, and his voice rang clear like a bell. The door cracked loudly against the wall and the slap of leather boots followed the boy’s quick approach. Young Lyonel bounced on the balls of his feet beside his mother’s chair and threw his arms around her neck. Jena chortled, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, her nose disappearing into a cloud of glossy, chestnut curls.

‘My darling boy,’ she cooed. ‘I trust you have finished your lessons for the day and this is not another convoluted escape attempt?’

Her son groaned, annoyed to be reminded of such mischievous endeavours that had likely been easily thwarted, and slipped out of Jena’s grasp for a moment. He began to form a response, arms folding over his chest and creasing the fabric of his pale blue doublet, when his uncle and Visenya’s own husband strolled through the door. 

‘I made sure he pays attention,’ Lyonel told his sister. 

'And how might I ask, did you achieve such an impossible feat when I know that your namesake is just as big a menace to his tutors as you once were.'

Visenya chuckled into her cup, asking herself if apart from his failed attempt at putting the castle's library to the flame – which was thankfully foiled by his other sister – there had been other ingenious ploys to avoid study. The princess in her youth had found it sufficient to draw in the corners of her books while the septa droned on and on about etiquette and decorum. She would have to ask for more stories from Lyonel himself or Jena, who would without a doubt have no qualms about embarrassing her older brother a little.

‘I had promised he would train with me and his cousins if he completes…’ He paused and stopped just behind the boy, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder. ‘Remind me what it was again, Lyo?’

‘Finish my history book, write a letter to my father and sister– which is silly for she is still a babe and cannot read!’ Young Lyonel slammed his foot to the ground but the older man re-directed his attention back to the list of tasks he had been required to complete with a squeeze of his hand. ‘Alright… I also did numeracy with the maester and we studied the history and heraldry of Houses in the Riverlands and the North. And there are far too many of them!’

‘That is an impressive amount of things to accomplish in less than a day.’ Visenya smiled at the young boy and a grin quickly replaced the irritated look on his face.

‘I thank you, aunt,’ he said with a polite little bow of his head before turning his attention back to his mother. ‘Can I go now, mama? We are to train with the lance!’

‘The lance?’ Jena blanched and levelled a warning glance at her older brother. ‘Is he not mayhaps too young for that?’

‘I am not,’ the boy argued passionately. 'I have already mastered the sword and the mace with our master-at-arms.'

Lyonel’s wide smile did not budge from his face. ‘I was not yet seven when they put me on a horse and thrust a lance in my hands. At least young Lyonel has the benefit of much more patient tutors, a myriad of men in his family at his back who will ensure he does not fall off and break his neck.’

'That would be nigh impossible for me for I am a fantastic rider!'

Jena disregarded her son's interjection for a moment. 'I know that well, brother… I only hope you will not start measuring him for tourney armour.’

The mere mention of such a possibility caused the little boy to light up like a torch. ‘Can I join you on the next tourney, uncle? I will prepare well, I promise!’

Visenya watched the excitement in his face that mirrored that of her little cousin with a striking familiarity. Of all tales that he liked hearing when sneaking into her bedchamber to avoid Aerion’s bullying, Egg enjoyed most the ones of hastiludes and great battles of the past. Redgrass Field and what had transpired on that faithful day when her family’s forces had defeated the Pretender had been enshrined into legend by the time he was old enough to hear of it. Visenya had told it so many times she might still be able to recite it in her sleep; the fierce fight between two warriors, their Valyrian steel swords clashing and slashing until one found its mark past the visor of old Ser Gwayne’s helm, leaving him blinded for the brief remainder of his life, an arrow from her cousin Brynden striking Daemon and his sons, then the Hammer and the Anvil came crashing down on the leaderless.

Ser Mallister had relayed the tale of the battle to her when she had asked him — he who had been present in the fight, atop a horse beside her own father — and then she told it to her cousin when he had asked for tales of famous warriors and seemingly insurmountable challenges. There had been a risk of the stories interacting poorly with Egg's overactive imagination and causing him to wake with nightmares, Visenya had worried that she had erred in doing so, but to the little boy that story was a treasure.

After hearing it, it was impossible to persuade him of the appeal in other tales. Brave knights, defending and rescuing the innocents was all he wanted. The story of Jonquil and Florian the Fool was a particular favourite of his and one that was as equally often retold in the nights when Egg would escape his bedchamber for the sanctuary of Visenya's. 

It made sense that other young lads like him would dream of becoming men who would go on to fight in storied battles and clash lances with other warriors in tourneys. Enwreathe their names in honour and glory. While there were still people to repeat those tales, passing them from mouth to ear, there would be boys who dreamed of greatness for themselves. And what Egg (much like young Lyonel) wanted most in the world was to be a knight, one worthy of legends and songs that would repeat his name for ages to come and remember his chivalrous nature. Gods willing, her cousin would grow to be a finer man than some of their relatives with Ser Duncan to teach him. 

Oh, how Visenya wished she could find where they had ended up, if only to know that her sweet little cousin was safe and sound.

‘You will begin as a squire, as all of us have in our youth,' Lyonel explained to his nephew who seemed to accept that fate for the time being. If his uncles had gone down the same path and came out knights then he too would likely follow their example. 'And when you are ready, I will bestow knighthood upon you myself. If your mother allows it, of course.'

He ended that with a cheeky wink aimed at both his wife and his sister, though the latter scoffed at his antics.

'She will allow it!' Young Lyonel threw his arms out in the air. 'Mama, you will allow it, will you not?'

'I suppose…' she agreed albeit reluctant still. 'But you will take great care and listen to what your uncle teaches you or I will hear no more talk of tourneys.'

That seemed to be a sufficient deal for young Lyonel who he was out the door quicker than he had come through it, his boots slapping even louder against the floor as he ran downstairs to get himself fitted into a more appropriate gear for his training session. Lady Viola rose from her chair, slowly and regally as did become her, sweeping her shawl around her slim shoulders in one smooth motion. Her rising from the table was an indication that their respite had been enough and they would continue with the tour of the grounds. 

But before she could urge Visenya and Jena to follow her, she briefly turned her attention to her son. 'I trust that you will keep the boy safe, Lyonel. Your sister is in a delicate state and cannot have any cause to worry.'

'He will be fine, mother. I have asked Borys to begin his training and he is the most patient by far.'

Lady Viola nodded, satisfied. 'I agree… Well, if that is all-'

'Actually if it is alright by you, I would like to take Visenya with me.' Lyonel extended his hand to Visenya and she slowly took it whilst gathering the pile of scrolls in her lap in her other one.

'Whyever would you need your wife present at the training ground?' Asked Lady Viola, her thin copper brows knotted and a deep crease cut through her forehead. 'No, the princess and I have much work to do.'

'For which you will have plenty of time in the weeks to come. Visenya could be of great help to me, making sure that young Lyonel is looked after so his mother need not worry.'

There was a look, a very quick and simple look shared between the siblings. Their eyes found each other, a flicker of something conspiratorial was exchanged for no more than a second. It was the kind of look that had taken years to perfect and execute without so much as a notice, and had Visenya not had a trained eye for detail she might have missed it entirely.

Jena lifted off from her own chair with effort, her hands gripping the armrests for support. She took a step towards her mother and intertwined their arms together. 'He has the truth of it, mother. The princess has done the larger portion of the work already, all thanks to your guidance, and her presence in the training yard would indeed ease my worry.'

Lady Viola looked between her daughter and son, then to Visenya, appraising all three of them with her eyes. Without meaning to and without much thought, the princess's hands came together in front of her, fingers picking at the loose skin around her fingernails. Her gaze was centred on the older woman, noting each minute expression, each twitch of her mouth. 

She could reject Lyonel's offer easily and he would not pressure her; why would she be needed at the training ground really? She was taught how to use a sword, not a lance. There were likely to be plenty of young Lyonel's own blood to mind and protect him from fall and injury. She would be entirely useless to them but to simply stay on the sides and observe. And even if she could offer help in any way, what good would it do? Although deep down a part of her protested wildly, she had to follow a certain set of rules to be accepted. If the Red Keep had closed its doors to her and her family had severed what little connection there had remained between them, Visenya had to at least try to fit in at Storm's End. And despite her boredom with the activities of the day, they had proven useful, illuminating. Observing practice would be diverting, but to what end?

Lady Viola's chest expanded and she released a slow puff of air through tightly pursed lips. 'I must admit I am quite tired myself… and it would be good if there was another to match Borys's sensibility. Alright, alright, but-' she paused and trained her eye on the princess herself, '-we must resume on the morrow. We have the accounts to look over, stocking of the granary-'

'Mother, the granary will be there tomorrow.' Jena began pulling the Dowager out of the room, though not before she had thrown a glance to Lyonel over her shoulder that said simply: you better owe me after this. 'But there is currently a boy who has been promised a lancing lesson. Come! I damnably crave something cold and pickled.'

'Alright, Jena!' And before she was dragged out of the small solar, the woman muttered to her daughter, 'I know when I am being handled, child.'

The couple was left alone in the chamber, with Visenya staring intently at her husband, awaiting a much needed explanation for his disruption of the plans.

'Well?' She prompted him.

Lyonel had the gall to smirk. 'What? Are you not happy with me for my gallant rescue.'

'We were doing an important exploration of the keep and the castle grounds,' she argued, folding her arms over her chest which barred his presumptuous approach towards her. If this was all a plan to have her pressed onto or over another surface, she was not going to be very pleased. Only a little mayhaps, but it would still vex her that he was making a mess of her carefully laid plans.

'I believe I gave you a very good tour yesterday.' Lyonel still tried to close the distance between their bodies, head dipped low so his face was getting nearer and nearer. His scent invaded her nostrils like a wave that crashed against the rocks, sudden and powerful. Sweet intoxication that she had to resist. For just a while longer. Somehow.

'A tour during which might I add,' she challenged with an equally daring quirk of her mouth; if he wanted to persist in his teasing, she could very well tease back, 'you could not keep your paws to yourself… Milord.'

'And I heard not a peep in complaint from you, princess.'

He was so near and so warm, Visenya felt her annoyance swiftly fizzle out from every pore in her body. It was becoming more and more shocking just how accustomed she'd become to his mere presence, how much comfort and ease it brought, though she chose not to dwell on it further. She would remind herself, better a husband whose closeness I relish rather than one the sound of whose breathing I cannot stand.

Lyonel's smirk remained firmly plastered onto his face as he drew her in with his hands on her upper arms. 'How did you fare?'

'Good, I hope. Your mother presented me to the staff, we took a trip around the grounds, and visited the various work buildings.'

'Gods, that must have been dull,' he grimaced, arms sliding down to her waist.

'Lyonel!'

'Am I lying?' He chuckled. 'Were you not bored to tears?'

Visenya chose not to dignify his remark with a response although that was enough of an indication to Lyonel that he was right. He threw his head back and let out a booming laughter that could have shaken the ground. 'Oh, you were! Admit it, there is nothing more odious than empty polite conversation.'

'I suppose you had a better time with your council.'

Lyonel passed some air through his nose, a groan rumbling deep in his chest. 'Not one bit. Terribly frustrating. You being present might have made the whole affair a lot more pleasant. I apologise for my uncle, he was damn rude to turn you away in that manner.'

Visenya smiled sweetly. 'It's alright. I do believe his intentions were honourable.' It was a lie. She was certain he despised her very being in his ancestral castle and likely would have taken her presence at a council meeting as a grave insult. No, she would stock up on knowledge of this castle, this land and its people, and that old prig would have to accept her. 'I take it the meeting did not go as smoothly as you hoped.'

'I rather not think on it now, I will tell you all about it later,' he promised, dropping his arms to his sides. 'Now… if I had not made other plans, I would suggest we return to our bedchamber and let my paws have some more fun pleasuring my hard-working wife.' He accentuated the last words with a playful smack to her arse. 'But we are needed somewhere else. Come, we must get you changed into something more appropriate.'

Visenya looked down at her dress; the hem of her skirt appeared slightly grey from walking through the courtyard earlier and there was a spot of something greasy she might have accidentally spilled on herself when the cook offered her a taste of the stew she was preparing for supper. Other than those small blemishes she still looked perfectly fine.

Lyonel must have caught her line of thinking and quickly pressed a kiss to her temple. 'You look beautiful, but you might have a harder time fighting in a dress than you did in a shift.'

'Fighting?'

'I thought you might enjoy diversifying your daily activities. You did train before, did you not? In the capital.'

'I did,' Visenya confirmed. She had after all thought of sneaking off to practice with her sword before they had reached Storm's End, and their relationship had developed in the way that it had. She had considered that the occasional exercise would pass the time if nothing else. Suffice it to say that the princess had hardly the want for such distraction from her daily life in the last few days. Although she would be lying if she said that the idea of a proper training with other people — with Lyonel himself even — would be an exciting opportunity.

She shrugged and added, 'I did not think that I would get the chance to, if I must be honest.' And in truth she had given up hope that she could advance in her training; her father had claimed she was adept by the time she had reached her fourteenth year and after he'd been made Hand he had less and less time to spar with any of his children. And when the master-at-arms made it abundantly clear that he did not feel comfortable teaching a young lady to wield a blade anymore, the air or a straw-made man became her only sparring partners.

'The way I see it is that it would be a great shame to abandon your training,' reasoned Lyonel, his voice firm with conviction. 'Fighting is like riding a horse — 'tis no good if you forget how to stay on the saddle. And every warrior should be afforded the chance to maintain their skill.'

'I am far from being called a warrior.'

Now it was Lyonel's turn to shrug. 'I remember someone telling me she wanted to be one as a child. Like that Dragon Queen. And if that is still so, we have somewhere else to be.’

The training ground was tucked around the Drum Keep's entrance, with the stables on one side and the armoury to the other. A perfect spot, Visenya thought as she was still unsure about how right it was to sneak around to join the men in training, especially when it was done behind the Dowager's back. It was doubtful that the woman would be impressed if she considered Visenya's presence at the training ground unnecessary, her being trained in swordfighting would be best kept a secret for as long as humanly possible.

The ground was strewn with sand and clumps of straw to make each tumble and fall a little less bruising than it would have been had the fighting been done in the paved centre of the yard. When Lyonel and Visenya reached the spot, his nephew was already in the saddle, atop a tall but spindly beast, likely an old warhorse that the groom was too fond of. The animal moved around slowly with a hint of a former strength it once possessed though its bony legs shook with each second step. Despite the horse's frailty, young Lyonel sat confidently against the saddle, with a shorter twin to the standard tourney lance in his right hand and wearing a helm that obscured his face. 

At the other end of the boxlike area there was a wooden post with a shorter perpendicular plank going through the top of it at one end of which hung a bag of what was supposedly sand or gravel. The bag did not move or sway even a little, waiting for a strike to come. 

Eric and Orryn were hacking away at two straw dummies at the very edge of the yard, beside a tall stone wall beyond which Visenya had not been yet. The two lads practiced jabs and slashes under the hawk-like gaze of their master, Ser Donal. Those were precise attacks meant to penetrate the armour of an opponent even if the straw men could not scream and wail to express which hit was the most accurate. The two boys laughed away as they did, likely imagining themselves as fighters winning a ferocious battle.

Way off in the furthest stall of the stables, Visenya managed to see the head of her beloved Tempest hanging out to munch on some straw. His coat looked clean and his hair – glossy and combed to a silken perfection. He did not give an indication that he had noticed his rider, content instead to enjoy the afternoon feast he’d been given, and Visenya did not mind at all. He seemed happy and well taken care of, and that was all she needed to know.

Borys, who was in his leathers and black-and-yellow gambeson, held the reins to young Lyonel's horse, guiding the boy to a starting position whilst muttering instructions only for him to hear. Axel was watching from the side, leaning against the wooden railing of the stables. His hand was rhythmically going up and down in the air, a half-eaten apple clutched between his fingers and being slowly reduced to nought but the core. And the large, aged groom whom Visenya had met earlier that day was beside him, his elbows propped on the wooden fence, the sleeves of his rough-spun cotton shirt rolled up his meaty arms, revealing countless healed cuts and callouses.

'Milord,' Axel slurred in greeting through mouth-fulls of fruit, his boyish grin growing even bigger when he spotted Visenya walking next to his cousin. 'We were beginning to wonder what was taking you so long.’ The implication was quite clear even if the man wasn’t wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at both his cousin and his wife. ‘Princess, I am glad to see you finally join us.'

'Did you assume I would scare easily by a bunch of sweaty Baratheons with sticks,' she teased back, earning a guffaw from the younger man.

'I should hope you have been embroiled in plenty of duels with one particular sweaty Baratheon and his mighty stick in the past couple of days.'

That earned him a clout to the ear from Lyonel even if the hint of a grin at the corner of his lips hinted at him being quite proud of himself.

Axel continued, 'The boy is doing well so far. Hasn't fallen off his saddle and managed to skim the corner of the bag on the second to last charge.'

The observation was more-so directed to his cousin rather than Visenya herself. She looked up at the man beside her who was carefully studying his young nephew as he prepared for another go. Young Lyonel secured his grip on the lance, the lengthy pole waving high above him in the air. Borys made a final appraisal of his posturing and hold, checked that all the straps on the saddle were secured correctly and gave a gentle, reassuring pat to the horse's neck. 

The animal snorted in response.

'Is there a particular reason you have him train on an older horse?' Visenya thought to ask. When Valarr had been younger and in the very beginning of his lance training, the master-at-arms and the groom had selected a younger, sturdier courser that had plenty of tourney experience. The beast was enormous, chestnut with white full stockings; it dwarfed the young prince that had perched atop him with an even bigger and heavier lance than what the Baratheon cousins had given the lad. Young Lyonel's one was ancient and not as striking by comparison.

'Older horses make for calmer mounts, M'lady,' said the groom.

'We all trained on one,' Axel supplied. 'They lack the temperament of younger ones, can be trusted not to buck and throw the lad over. Mead might be an old boy, but he has seen many a tourneys.'

'The horse's name is Mead?'

'Aye,' Axel huffed. 'He was one of several that were gifted to my uncle when Lady Ellyn wed. There was one named Pheasant that passed two summers prior, if I'm not mistaken-' the groom nodded along in confirmation, '-and another he called Rum.'

'My father had renamed most of them after beverages or meals he fancied,' then Lyonel added. 'Or even tavern wenches he'd enjoyed. It was a nightmare for the beasts to accustom themselves to it after they had already been taught their names.'

Axel scoffed, 'Quite fitting of the gluttonous bastard - eh, cousin? One for feasting and whoring, never proficient at either. Not like us.'

Visenya did not miss the flicker of upset in Lyonel's eyes, a shadow of anger that had been rooted deep within him. The number of times he had wasted his breath on telling her of the old lord Baratheon could be counted on one hand and never did he seem particularly pleased to be bringing him up. What little she knew of the man painted a detailed enough picture to know that he had not been a good man, not even a decent one. And despite some flickers of fondness in Lyonel's words when he recalled moments from his early childhood, moments when he had still loved his father, that love had died like a choked-up flame. She could not be sure if it had been the slow realisation of his father's nature or something a lot more sudden. Something suggested the final nail in the proverbial coffin might have been his assault on Shyra's mother and fathering a bastard right under the noses of his wife and children. 

And although Lyonel was too a man who enjoyed gorging himself on delicacies of any and all varieties, something the princess had learned even before she married the man, she noted that they were never at the expense of others, and never done with malice. And he despised having those qualities of his compared to those of his father. In Visenya's own estimations, it was mayhaps a blessing that she would never have the chance to meet her good-father. She doubted their relationship would have been anything but forcibly convivial.

What perplexed her even more was how Orys the Grimace was related to that man when he did not seem the type to even know debauchery if it was presented to him on a silver platter.

Young Lyonel adjusted his grip on the training lance one last time, adjusted himself on the saddle too, and with a sharp kick to Mead's sides, he flew towards the target. The horse charged invigorated, his legs that appeared seconds away from snapping under the weight of his rider slammed on the ground with a younger horse's strength. The boy extended his lance, pointing the tip at the bag and-

He missed the centre by no more than a few inches, skimming the edge of the cloth pouch and piercing clean through it. A handful of course sand seeped from the tear whilst Mead slowed his charge to a trot and young Lyonel turned him around so he could return to the starting position. 

'Fine work, young master Tarth!' Exclaimed the groom and clapped his heavy hands together. The horse approached their end of the yard and Borys grabbed the reins close to the bit so he could calm the horse to a slower pace.

'Good job,' he said to both the boy and the animal. Mead panted heavily, the faint tremor returning to his legs, but remained otherwise composed as the man in front of him patted his snout and spoke in a hushed voice. When the panting eased into a slower, more measured rhythm, Borys let young Lyonel slide off of the saddle. 

He however looked not at all pleased with himself. 

'That was… that was piss poor!' He kicked the sand in anger.

'That is not how a future lord speaks,' his uncle corrected and Visenya had to suck in her cheeks so as to not laugh. Of all the people in the realm to chastise someone for swearing, it was quite rich coming from him.

'But I have heard you say worse!'

'When?'

'This very day!'

'Lies!' Lyonel straightened his back and pretended to dust off an imagined fleck of dust from his gambeson. 'I have never cussed in my life. I am a paragon of grace and decorum.'

'Yes, you did!' The boy argued. 'You were leaving the Round Hall and you said that Lord Cafferen is a fat old twat who-'

He could not get out the entire list of colourful epithets and threats Visenya was certain her husband had thrown around in regards to the lord in question before Borys had clamped a hand over the boy's mouth. Young Lyonel grabbed his older cousin's arm and began flailing around, but Borys held firm.

'Petulant boys make shit knights, you know,' he told him. 'And even shitter lords.'

And from behind his massive palm came a muffled, '…are swearing too.'

'I believe his grandmother was informed that I would be minding his well-being,' Visenya finally interjected. 'I do not think she will be happy with my "minding" if the young master leaves this training ground swearing like an old sailor.'

Axel's laughter was as loud as a clap of thunder. 'Aye, she would be angry indeed. Saying "piss" and "shit" is measly at best. I have heard septas say worse.'

'Mayhaps we should wrap up the lad's training for the day before he picks up any more poor language skills from my oaf of a brother,' Borys suggested, dropping his hand from the boy's face when he began thrashing about even more.

'No! I want to keep going,' he protested wildly, green eyes bulging out of his head. 'I can strike the target! I know it!'

'Lyo, both the target and the lance will still be there tomorrow,' Borys reasoned with a much softer tone. 'You did very well. Better than Axel when he was your age.’

His brother did not seem in agreement with that particular statement.

‘What fucking lies are you telling the lad? I was a natural.’

‘You fell off your saddle thrice,’ Borys responded dryly. ‘And wailed for mother to come wipe your face when it ended buried deep in mud. Now do stop your swearing before Aunt Viola rips both our heads and has them perched above the front gate.’

Young Lyonel snickered mischievously at their exchange; Visenya was certain there was little hope in trying to dissuade him from using those words in front of his mother or the Dowager, for that horse had long since bolted. As a child herself she had found it so exhilarating to throw around the occasional naughty word she had overheard from the Kingsguard or a member of the Red Keep staff, though the reactions to her swearing were a lot less passive compared to her brothers and cousins doing the same. After some time, the older members of her family had started to ignore what could no longer be corrected by a slap across the wrist by a septa or a sharp scold from her mother.

Beside her, her husband pushed off of the stable railings and approached his wee nephew, tousling his hair with unguarded affection. ‘Borys is right, you did well. You need to improve your hold on the lance and avoid dipping your shoulder back or to the side afore you make contact with your target. Other than that we can work and improve your charge in the next few days. Alright?’

The lad eagerly nodded, eyes shining bright at the praise and advice his uncle gave. 

‘Now go upstairs and wash. Grab Orryn and Eric too, they look like they have been at it since noon.’ The boy nodded one last time, offered his thanks to the other men and a bow to Visenya, and sped off to fetch the other lads. Lyonel then cocked his head to one side and with a grin that gave away much of his eagerness, he urged, 'Let us get you into some proper gear, shall we.'

He brought her to the armoury across the yard — a short stone building with an extension of the roof hanging low over its porch where the hearth and bellows took up most of the open space. Coals burned inside the hollowed pit, still flaming hot with a soft orange glow, crackling and popping periodically. The castle smith walked into the doorway, moderately tall, stout, and with impossibly wide shoulders, wiping grease from his hands with the end of his apron. His close-cut hair showed signs of aging though he could not have been much older than Lyonel himself, though the long beard which was tied with a leather strap below his neck did make him appear more mature. He had been quiet and brief in his exchange with the three ladies that had stopped by his workstation earlier, not out of rudeness of course, rather he seemed like a man who cherished the solitude his trade provided.

'M’lord. M’lady.' He greeted both with a curt bow of his head.

'Hugh, my good man, we need some armour for my lady wife,’ Lyonel told him, one hand coming up behind Visenya’s back to push her a step further. Hugh, the smith, by some divine blessing, did not seem scandalised by the request; his eyes took in her entire frame, calculating and sizing her up, nodded once, and disappeared back into the armoury to retrieve what he needed.

Lyonel smiled at her when Visenya looked up at him, a series of questions hanging in the air. ‘Do not fret. We might not have pieces specifically designed for a woman to wear, but Hugh has a discerning eye. He will find something fitting and I can commission a proper set for you in time.’

The princess returned his smile, even if tension still resided in the corners of her face. ‘And you are certain that it would not be frowned upon for me to take part in training?’

‘Where has this sudden uncertainness come from? I do not believe you are the same foul-tongued woman who sang songs of ladies being fucked, and licked, and whatnot for the guests of my pavilion.’ He dropped his voice lower and inched his face closer to her ear. ‘Or the one who let me ravage her on the battlements of my castle.’

Visenya’s breath caught in her throat, her body responded eagerly to Lyonel’s hot breath against the shell of her ear. ‘I am trying to act sensibly,’ she replied. I want your family to bloody like me, she meant. 

Just then the smith made his way back onto the porch with several items in his hands or slung over his great shoulders. First, he brought forward a simple tanned leather jerkin, small in size as though originally made for an adolescent. Lyonel took it from him and lowered it over Visenya’s head, adjusting the straps and ties around her waist and arms. The material was thick, the shoulder pads extended a tad further than if they were on a boy’s frame, and her chest was constricted awkwardly as though she wore poorly-fitted stays. The princess withheld any complaint; this was the best they could do at present and she was beginning to feel the excitement overtake any doubts she might have harboured still. Her husband tested the jerkin’s structure, pulling it side to side then down to see if it was tied correctly. 

‘How is that?’ He asked when she scrunched her face in discomfort.

‘It is fine,’ she assured him. ‘A little tight across my chest, but I can still move alright.’

Then the smith piped up, ‘I can go into town on the morrow, M’lord. The leatherworker would be able to make something more comfortable for Her Ladyship to wear if she is to train with you and your cousins.’ He handed Lyonel a pair of vambraces to adjust on her forearms, completing the set. 

And finally came her sword, the blade her dear father had once made for her to train with, likely never truly intending for it to be used in a real battle. A long leather strap had been tightly wrapped around the blade for the purpose of protecting an opponent in training. The hilt and bits of the blade that poked out of the protective cover were polished and cleaned of all memory of the last time it had been brandished. 

Visenya had scarcely looked at it after what had occurred on that riverbank. There was an uncomfortable sensation that went through her every time she did; her hands and feet would go cold and rigid, her heart would begin bouncing in her chest, and something terrible would settle itself in her belly. Throughout the rest of the journey, she had kept the sword sheathed at all times, hanging against her saddle, out of view. And now it was offered back to her as if brand new, as if it hadn’t been a tool with which she had taken somebody’s life.

‘M’lady?’

The princess’s eyes snapped up to meet those of the smith. His eyebrows bounced up once into his sparse hairline, waiting for her to do something with the weapon in his hands. She smiled, thanked him with haste, and wrapped her fingers around the hilt. It still felt like the same blade, the one she had held countless of times, the one that was made to be a near perfect copy of Queen Visenya’s own sword when it was clear the young princess wouldn’t get to have it lest she snatched it from Lord Brynden’s hands. 

Lyonel asked if she was ready. There was only one way to find out.

‘Are you not going to armour yourself?’

Instead of replying immediately, the corners of his mouth pulled slowly into yet another one of his grins. ‘I fear I would be too distracted to make a good opponent. Axel has agreed to do the honours, he is a capable swordsman and I trust him not to cut you. But if you think him exhausting whenever he runs his cunt mouth, he is far worse and will use every opportunity to rile you up.’

Visenya looked across the yard; Axel was reaching for a sword that had been propped up against one of the wooden posts and taking his place in the middle of the training grounds. A change had happened in an instant; his posture remained relaxed, befitting the least serious member amongst his kin, yet something else had joined it – a surge of power that was visible even beneath his own armour. 

‘Do not worry, cousin, I will be gentle with your buxom bride.’ The jest was accompanied by a wink directed towards Visenya, and Lyonel all but growled beside her.

‘I will have your bollocks tied to a cart and dragged from here to the Wall, Axel. Get your head out of your hairy arse and do what we’re here to do,’ he called out, making sure to give his younger cousin another smack around the back of the head as he went off to join Borys behind the stable’s railing. Visenya took a deep breath, reminding herself that she was in fact trained well enough to hold her own. This was not a battle with her life on the line, it was a sparring session – she had had plenty of those before.

Her legs moved on their own accord without her putting much thought into the positions she must take. Feet firmly on the ground, making sure they are placed at the width of her shoulders, arms bent at the elbows for support, and both hands gripping the hilt of her sword. Visenya stared ahead at Axel who readied his own stance. His own sword was a few inches longer, it would be fairly easy for him to make a strike.

You have the advantage of being smaller and quicker, her father had said once. And there he was again, standing before her – younger, smiling, and still powerful, still alive. His sword was raised, he took a step towards her. It was a dance, she only need remember the steps and she would do it right. 

The first strike came from the left and the princess almost missed its approach, lost in the reverie of her father. She blinked twice and his form was replaced by Axel charging towards her, attempting to make a hit to her side. Visenya turned her arms and placed the flat of her leather-bound blade in his path. The force of the strike was enough to send a surge of cold pain from her wrists to her shoulders and send her back a few steps.

Axel laughed. Not cruelly but he appeared to find a mote of entertainment in her distraction. ‘Still dreaming about your wedding bed, Milady?’ 

‘I am beginning to think you really want to take the black.’ Lyonel’s voice cut through the air like a whip. ‘Visenya, do us all a favour and bash this fucker around the head. Might make him shut up for once.’

‘I wouldn’t want to give you the satisfaction, cousin.’

His right foot stepped around his left, his body rotated towards her. Visenya pushed her heels into the ground, ready to block the next attack. Focus, she needed to focus. The sword came from above this time, the late afternoon sun caught on the exposed root of the blade and flashed bright. The princess propelled herself forward, lifting her own weapon horizontal to the attacking one. She felt the two make contact, slide past one another, and only in the last second did she twirl away and let Axel’s attack fall to the side. He stumbled forward, his balance thrown off. 

Visenya heard what sounded like clapping come from the stables yet her eyes did not seem to want to look for the source. Darkness clouded her vision, closing in around her until all she could only make out what was right in front of her. Her fingers grew even colder and trembled around the grip. They were only sparring, the words were a chant in her mind, only sparring, only sparring. Axel faced her again, excitement burning in his eyes that was not reaching Visenya herself, and picked up his face. His next charge was faster, harder to predict. He advanced towards her and each strike he landed pushed her further and further back. 

And all of a sudden, she was not in the middle of Storm’s End training yard but ankle deep in cold water with three bandits coming down on her. The fear she had felt then, and the remnants of it that she had pushed down for nigh on a fortnight, came flooding back into her bloodstream. She saw their murderous rage before her very eyes, she saw their blood spurting like a horrid fountain. 

Something caught her foot, right as Visenya managed to parry one of the last hits out of some sheer dumb luck, and she felt herself tumbling back. And her sword dropped out of her hand. 

Seven fucks!

She was falling, but did not land in water. This was a harder surface, layered with sand and straw. The back of her head slammed against the ground and it should have hurt more had the thick of her braid not cushioned the hit. Her name being shouted broke through the haze she’d fallen prey to, it was Lyonel calling out to her but he did not come. She looked up and saw Axel approach instead – there was no rage in his eyes, he was even smiling – and he reached out his hand to help her stand. 

Visenya dusted herself off, choosing to concentrate on the strands of straw that fell from her braid and clothes while she regained control over her breathing. It is only training, you foolish girl, get yourself together. Axel’s hand landed firmly on her shoulder and startled the princess into looking up.

‘Are you alright?’ The humour was gone from his voice, replaced by a sense of brotherly concern. It was evident in the manner he checked her over to ensure she had not taken too bad of a tumble. Her nod of confirmation was apparently enough for the young Baratheon man, a smile splitting his face once again. ‘You did well. Although spending the whole fight on the defensive can only get you so far.’

‘It is how I was taught,’ she reasoned. It is what the master-at-arms had shown her and what her father had improved on when he took over her training. Had they been wrong to do so? If there was more that she could have learnt, if there was a different way, why had it been kept from her?

‘Seems a pity.’ Axel shrugged his shoulders, his hand falling down. ‘You have a good posture and you seem confident enough with a sword in your hand. We’ll have to make some improvements.’ His eyes flitted to the side and his slight grin grew into a smirk. ‘But before we resume, do let my cousin know that he needs to stand down. He looks about ready to make good on his threats and I do not wish to spend the rest of my days as a Brother.’ 

The princess glanced towards the stables, finding her husband all but hanging over the railing, gripping the wooden pole as though he might snap it any moment. The blue in his eyes had turned cold as a winter rose; Lyonel seemed ready to forgo familial love and loyalty, and throttle his own cousin, but a single smile from Visenya quelled the fury in him. His impassioned gaze inquired silently after her safety and she confirmed it with a bob of her head. Still a little frightened and mayhaps more than a little thrown back by the influx of memories from her attack but she would have to learn to endure those. If she stiffened every time those faces swam up in her consciousness she might very well go mad.

And she could not allow that. 

She would not.

‘I thought you Storm-men would be used to harsh weather,’ she quipped, her attention back to Axel.

‘Oh, I do not fear a bit of cold and wind, and I am quite fetching in black. But, hells, the lack of drink and cunts will be my doom.’ He turned the grip of his sword in his hand and urged Visenya to pick up her own, taking on a new stance. ‘Follow my lead, we’ll see how much of your swordfighting education we can fix before supper.’

Visenya found it hard not to keep going back to that moment even after she had filled her belly at dinner later that evening, had stewed in her bathtub for an hour afterwards, and was safely in bed with Lyonel holding her to his chest. Not even his heartbeat had proved enough to drown out the buzzing of her own thoughts and despite the sheer exhaustion of the past day, her mind would avoid sleep like the plague. 

Her husband, seven bless him, was doing his very best to entertain her during the meal. However hectic supper with her own family might have been (or at least in the few and far between occasions everybody managed to drag themselves to the table), nothing compared to how loud supping with Lyonel’s own one truly was. Their voices boomed like thunder and having the table be predominately populated with Baratheon men meant that breaking bread with them was like doing so in the middle of a wild summer’s tempest. Despite the racket, Lyonel was whispering in her ear like a lover and trying to get a laugh out of her with all his might. He had managed to elicit a few genuine chuckles in between bites of the delicious stew and her silent pondering. 

If he had noticed her distraction, he made no comment in front of the rest, although he needn’t have bothered. The entire table was too preoccupied with young Lyonel’s ardent recollection of his first jousting lesson. The boy had forgotten all about his failings, most probably with a much deserved boost to his confidence from the other two boys at the table who were eagerly encouraging him to spare no detail. 

Visenya had not the strength to look at the sweet boy for she was entirely absorbed by his mother.

Jena practically glowed with pride. Worries forgotten once she had been made certain that her firstborn son was showing promise as a jouster. And the boy was just as happy to let his mother know how much he had enjoyed himself, how much he hoped he could continue in his pursuits and become a famed tourney contender. 

Had there been a mother waiting for one of them home? Those men had not always been bandits, surely they had had a mother. Not an exalted lady like Jena or the Dowager, but a mother nonetheless – someone who cared for her child even if he had taken to outlawry. A woman who might still wonder when her son would cross the threshold of her home the way little Lyonel did. With a loud greeting and a quick approach to claim her embrace. Had she destroyed another two lives with the strike of her sword?

The food lost its flavour in her mouth, the wine was like vinagre. Visenya reasoned with herself that if she had not defended herself, she would not be sitting there – living and breathing, with Lyonel’s hand resting warmly on her thigh. It was either her or them, and she did not want to die. She never would have known how much sweeter Lyonel could be, how gentle and thoughtful he was, she never would have gotten to feel him around and inside her, consuming her very senses like fire. It was a simple choice and she had made it, mulling over it was a fool’s errand.

When she had exhausted all her energy on the meal and litany of chaotic thoughts, Visenya wanted an escape. Lady Viola had gone a few minutes earlier, accompanied by Orys, thus she could too excuse herself and get back to the safety and quiet of the bedchamber. 

She leaned in to murmur in her husband’s ear, ‘Lyonel, I am quite tired. I think I will retire for the evening.’

‘Would you like me to escort you?’ He was halfway out of his chair when she stopped him with a hand on his forearm.

‘I will manage,’ she assured through a smile that felt too forced to have been genuine, but it seemed enough to keep Lyonel in his seat. She leaned further in to place a kiss on the corner of his mouth, lips tickling when they brushed against his moustache, and her hand slid naturally inside his to give it a squeeze in support of her words.

With the path from the feast hall to the bedchamber memorised perfectly by then, Visenya began the climb up the winding stairs of the Drum Keep. Exhaustion crept in slowly but surely, from the soles of her feet to the top of her spine. All she had to picture was the tub that could possibly be waiting for her at the end of her lengthy trek and that kept her walking ahead. She would soak, submerged up to her nose in water, and mayhaps her body would remember that she was not under threat.

There was but a floor left to cover when the door to the solar cracked open abruptly and shut just as quick when the person exiting noticed her standing a few steps away. Orys. And, of-bloody-course, it would be him; just when Visenya was most tired and out of sorts, horribly dishevelled, with a few errant straws that had refused to be combed out of her curls even after all of Shyra’s trying, he managed to come upon her. The only blessing was that he did not look as perfectly put together either – there were creases in his tunic and the sides of his long beard were striking out in an odd manner. It was cruel to say or think, but Visenya felt a speck of satisfaction rise in her chest when she saw those minor imperfections.

Orys’s back straightened like a lance pole and his face resumed its normal dissatisfied scowl. ‘Milady,’ he addressed her with frigid respectability. He turned on his heel without another word and headed for the stairs. 

‘Ser!’ Visenya called after him and the man was polite enough to stop. He faced her again though his patience was evidently running dry, but she pushed forward. This was her home and he was her husband’s uncle, she deserved an explanation for his horrid behaviour towards her and she would ensure she got one from him. And possibly an apology. 

But when she opened her mouth to speak, he could not get the words out right. The old twat would not stop glaring at her with those cold grey-blue eyes. ‘I-I think… I would like to know what I seem to have done to invoke your ire.’

For a period of time that could have been anything from a few seconds to an hour, Orys did nothing but glare. ‘Do you believe yourself entitled to some kind of special treatment?’

Entitled! Visenya sputtered, ‘N-nothing of the sort!’

‘Then I have nothing else to say. Good night, Milady.’

‘Why do you hate me so?’ She threw the question more forcefully than she had intended. ‘What could I have possibly done to offend?’

A nerve in his jaw ticked so violently that Visenya managed to catch it through the cover of his beard. His feet carried him towards her, and the princess took a small step back without meaning to. What had Axel spoken of earlier? “Do not back off unless to trick your opponent into stumbling and breaking their concentration.” Instead, she was the one to stumble.

‘Do you really believe that’ he began, his voice a low-hum of disapproval, ‘a princess fighting and rolling around dirt is what this House needs? Or how a Lady of Storm’s End would behave? It was insulting to witness.’

‘So I insult you, is that it?’

‘Your presence here is the insult – to us all, to this House. Do not think I am blind to how you got yourself into this position? I suppose my nephew is just as much responsible for this ghastly debacle, I knew his lust would get us here eventually. Just like his father.’

‘Lyonel is nothing like his father!’ Visenya reclaimed the step she had lost. 

‘Silly girl, you do not know of what you speak. My brother was a wastrel,’ he scoffed. ‘Getting his head turned by every wench that batted her lashes and dropped to her knees. I saw you–’ He moved even closer still. Visenya remained rooted in her spot. ‘--leaving his tent the morning of the Trial of Seven. Or were my eyes playing tricks?’

That was it? That was the reason he hated her so? He had seen her leave Lyonel’s tent and believed she had fucked her way into a betrothal. Tears of furious humiliation stung behind her eyes and she blinked them away. Orys had managed to insult her plenty in the span of that conversation, she would die before giving him the pleasure of knowing he had gotten to her.

When she offered no reply, he continued, ‘The least you can do now, Milady, is what is expected of you. We’ll wait and see if you are indeed deserving of respect.’

He allowed her the sole benefit of not pushing rudely through her when he walked away, the sound of his brisk steps echoing away as he changed direction towards the lower part of the tower. Visenya remained in her spot despite every sensible bit of her consciousness telling her to walk away, that the conversation was quite over and she would only embarrass herself further if someone saw her stand there like an idiot. She was too struck dumb by his accusations and disheartened by the failure to get a positive outcome from the talk. But what could she have expected – that he would tell her that he did actually like her very much and she would be like a daughter to him. 

‘Stupid, stupid girl,’ she muttered to herself and continued on. She could not wait to close her eyes and have this nightmare of a day over.

The bedchamber greeted her with warmth and the calming scent of pinecones and flowers. And not one but two women chatting away as the youngest of the two hauled pails of water into the copper tub at the edge of the room.

‘Oh, M’lady– that is, Visenya! I did not expect you so soon. Ma was just helping me pass the time.’

The princess glanced at the other woman – brown of hair and eyes, with not a wrinkle around her eyes or mouth, and hardly any grey hairs upon her head. Or what Visenya could see poking beneath her white linen cap. She could hardly be considered any older than Lyonel and Borys, thirty-something years old by the looks of her. The woman rose from the chair by the hearth and dropped into a practiced deep curtsy. 

‘Princess.’ Her voice was high and sweet as she spoke. ‘I apologise for the intrusion. Lady Viola has not yet come upstairs and I wanted to keep my girl company before I was called.’

The woman looked a little uncomfortable to have been caught thus and Visenya realised that it was mayhaps her own face, twisted and darkened by her own inner turmoil, that had given the impression she was displeased.  

‘Oh…’ She let out a drawn out sigh and schooled her expression. ‘Forgive me, I have misplaced my manners somewhere along the way. It is a pleasure to finally meet dear Shyra’s mother.’

The woman blushed and lowered her face, her hands fiddling with the stockings she had been mending by the fire. ‘I am Talla. I would have met you earlier with the rest of the staff, only Milady needed some new fabrics and I had to go down to the village.’

‘Please, do sit down. You have had a longer day than I.’

Talla smiled and lowered herself carefully into her seat, nodding at her daughter to resume what she had been doing whilst she took up her mending once more. Shyra emptied the last pail inside the tub and brought Visenya to the front of the mirror so she could begin disassembling the armour of silks and fine jewels that made up her supper costume. The gold glimmer of her chain and her father’s signet ring poked under the collar of her chemise, attracting Visenya’s attention to it momentarily. She wanted to give it to the smith for resizing but there was something more reassuring about the heavy band dangling over her heart. The last remaining piece of her father, her comfort and shield in this new era of life. 

He never would have allowed someone to speak to her the way Orys had done. He would have defended her honour, despite his knowledge of her failings and behaviour. He would have been the lifeline she needed so desperately as she waded through these uncertain waters. And now the lifeline was that small piece of gold around her neck.

‘How is the rest of the staff behaving?’ She asked her maid, putting her own thoughts aside for the moment. Hopefully, the steward had made good on his word to keep all the rude members in check, the ones who had found amusement in torturing the poor girl with their sharp words and cruel treatment.

‘The meaner ones have backed off,’ Shyra replied. ‘Mostly they ignore my existence but ‘tis better than it was before.’

‘Thank you for taking such care of my girl,’ Talla piped up from her chair. ‘She was most lucky to be chosen as your lady’s maid. I trust she will prove herself deserving of your kindness.’

‘She is! I am glad to have her as a friend.’ Visenya smiled at the young girl in the reflection of the mirror and the smile that was given in return was even brighter than the typical ones Shyra gave others.  

‘It was a blessing that Lyonel put me in your service!’

‘Lord Lyonel, sweetling, you cannot speak of him so informally,’ her mother corrected and the smile on Shyra’s lips faded. 

It was a small thing, a matter of proper addressation, but carried so much weight. If it had been some other maid calling the lord of the keep by his name, the correction would have been expected, but this was no ordinary maid. Here sat the woman Lyonel’s father had abused, resulting in that wonderful, helpful girl that did not deserve to have the truth of her birth denied so fervently, even by her own mother. Both of them victims to someone who had carelessly taken what they wanted without a thought for the consequences. That precise small exchange reminded Visenya of what was important – or at least more important than her own petty worries – she had a responsibility, to her maid, to herself. To many others.

She could not allow herself to lose her wits with thoughts of past troubles. 

She had to stay on course. 

Shyra pulled her chemise up and let Visenya step inside the tub to wash up before bed. The princess thanked her for the help and assured her that she would manage on her own for the remainder of the evening. There was not much to do anyways; wash up, curl under the covers, then wait for Lyonel to return from supper. And what a balm to her tired mind it would be to drift off in his arms. Talla picked up her work, curtsied as low as before, and wished her a good night. Shyra did the same, after she had laid out a nightgown – which her husband would likely scoff at and dispose of as soon as he saw it – and had collected the bulk of Visenya’s laundry clothes from the floor. She was halfway out the door when she remembered something and doubled back, hand diving inside the pocket of her work dress and fishing out a small scroll.

Another letter?

‘This arrived earlier tonight, but you were already at supper. Maester Maynard could not recognise the seal.’

Visenya thanked her and accepted the tiny roll of parchment. The door clicked shut and she was left alone with her pleasingly hot bath and the mystery message. A plain turquoise blue wax held it close. Certainly not from Valarr, he would have used his own seal and she would have recognised it from afar. She was beginning to doubt he would ever write. 

The wax cracked easily and Visenya unfolded the message, finding only a single line and no name underneath. But the writing was familiar and she felt the water grow horribly cold as though the Others themselves had wrapped themselves around her. 

Who would have thought.

The princess jumped out of the tub and ran across the room to throw the piece of paper in the fire where all the other ones had gone aside from the one sweet letter from her grandmother. The others she had given another one or two glances, trying to gauge a kinder subtext amongst lines of indifference. 

This one, however, she did not want to look at a second time lest the witch herself looks back.

Next chapter

A/N: The plot thickens even more! Likes, repost and comments always appreciated! I absolutely adore reading your thoughts and asks when they show up in my notifications box!