in the name of the warrior ...

(soft light, tangled sheets, and the kind of silence that says everything)

𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐖

“You’re awake… I was wondering how long you’d let me watch you sleep.”

“Stay here a little longer. Just like this.”

“Your heartbeat feels calmer than it did last night.”

“You look different in the morning. Softer.”

“I could get used to waking up like this.”

“Don’t go yet… the bed gets cold without you.”

𝐖𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊… 𝐎𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐓

“…So, are we pretending that didn’t happen?”

“Be honest—do you regret it?”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen between us.”

“I don’t know what this means. Do you?”

“If you want space, say it. Don’t make me guess.”

“We crossed a line last night, didn’t we?”

𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐒, 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 & 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒

“You should’ve heard yourself last night.”

“Keep looking at me like that and we’ll never leave this room.”

“If you keep touching me, round two is happening whether you like it or not.”

“Want me to remind you how you begged?”

“We really broke the bedframe, didn’t we?”

“I’m not done with you. Not even close.”

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏

“Last night felt… different.”

“I didn’t expect to fall asleep in your arms.”

“Tell me you don’t regret it.”

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.”

“Why does this feel like more than it should?”

“If I kiss you again… it’s because I mean it.”

𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐘 & 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃

“We really shouldn’t have done that.”

“Someone’s going to notice we’re both missing.”

“This is going to make everything harder.”

“We’re in trouble if anyone finds out.”

“I don’t know how to act around you now.”

“Last night changed something—whether we admit it or not.”

𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 & 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐅-𝐀𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏

“You stole all the blankets again.”

“I made coffee… but don’t ask me how drinkable it is.”

“Shower with me? Save water?”

“You look cute when you’re confused and half-awake.”

“Breakfast or round two? Choose wisely.”

“Please tell me you remember last night… because I definitely do.”

@laughingstag, ❛ i surrender who i've been for who you are. ❜

He'd found himself entranced by her ever since she'd wandered into his tent, wide-eyed and filled with wonder. He has seen his fair share of fair maidens — bedded quite a few, as well — but not had ever captured the interest of Ser Lyonel Baratheon as quickly as the Targaryen princess had. And so, he'd invited her to his table. Provided her a full plate and a goblet filled to the brim. He had told tales of battles won, of memories of her uncles in previous tourneys, of interesting folk he'd met on the road, of Baratheon history. They had laughed and drank and laughed some more ... until those words had tumbled past his lips. He's spoken similar words to others before, never truly meaning them. It had served to cement him as a sort of flirt amongst common folk and nobles alike. But, as he looks into those illustrious, lilac eyes, Lyonel finds himself lost, seeking the hand of the princess to guide him to safety, to provide him with a life ... different than that he now lives.

it was all fun and games until he'd nearly been impaled and followed abruptly came a fit of laughter. oh no. this certainly will not do. gloved hands lift and cast aside his helm into a mud pile – completely disregarding the fact he'll later have to clean his own armor. (his fuse is short as of late; beginning to realize he's amongst idiots.) 

❝ do you mean to maim me, ser? ❞ eyes lit aflame in anger. (perhaps if he wields his morning star about, it'll sober these piss drunk knights some.)

The man is green, surely, judging by his inability to simply ... have fun. The life of a knight wasn't always victory and glory — it was also loss and regret, tough decisions made in the heat of battle, the willingness to lay down your life for a just cause. The Laughing Storm, however, believed it best to inject a bit of fun into the lifestyle. To drink himself silly and dance the night away, to eat good food and fuck to his heart's content. Life was short, especially for men such as them ... only this Dornishman had not seemed to grasp that as of yet.

𝐒𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐖𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐑, as he always did, as he suspected he always would. The tourney had ended three days past, but the roads near the crossroads inn were still clogged with the slow bleed of departing men; knights without lords, hedge knights without coin, and he crossing the tavern without hurry, the crowd parting for him as he lingered by a knot of men still arguing the day's bouts with heated righteousness of the recently outspent. He passed the hearth, where someone had already graduated from drinking to performing, requiring the full use of his limbs to illustrate whatever point he was making, and Harwin pulled out the chair across from Lyonel and dropped into it. The ale was already there. Poured and waiting, of course. It was passable. Most crossroad taverns understood that they occupied a position of captive monopoly and behaved accordingly, but this one had either more integrity or more competition than most. He drank deeply, set the cup down, and looked at Lyonel over the rim; the other man's jaw was still swollen on one side, the bruise spreading in shades of purple and green that would take another fortnight to fade wholly.  ❛ . . . You should put something cold on that. ❜

His posture straightens at the sight of Ser Strong's approach, the man's mere presence enough to get Lyonel to crack a smile. ( Even if the small gesture caused him to hiss in pain. )

Alternatively, send 'reverse + 🗡' for my muse (receiver) to hold a blase to your muse's throat.

do all baratheons celebrate like this so oft? he wonders. this is the third event in this week alone. for what reason they celebrate, he hasn't the slightest clue. he only knows that the ale tastes like shit and yet gauntlet fulls continue to be passed his way. lyonel baratheon is a beast like none other. (how the other manages to hold his liquor and continues to twirl and galavant about the way he does remains an enigma to dunk.)

Laughter booms throughout the tent — whose laughter, exactly, Lyonel is uncertain, for his own tumbles from his lips and rumbles within his chest time and time again. ( What, pray tell, had even been so funny? ) He sits beside his newfound friend, Ser Duncan the Tall, an arm slung around his broad shoulders, their heads often knocking into one another. ( Which only sends the Laughing Storm into another fit of laughter. )