ad infinitum

Adrenaline. Screaming. Bruises. The two of you alone in some ratty motel bathroom while water from the shower collected on the tile floor to drown out the noise.

One minute, you were yelling at him for nearly getting MM killed, the next he had your wrists pinned against cracked tile and you were kissing him hard enough to make his lips hurt. Not that he'd care. After that, it became a pattern. Quick, secretive, never discussed. Quick fucks against walls, in abandoned motels, even in the safehouse late at night when everyone was asleep, a hand slapped over your mouth to muffle any noise from your mouth while he rammed his cock into you.

And soldier boy- who had spent decades fucking his way across America without a second thought, realized one evening in a bar that he hadn't touched another woman in months.

Not because he couldnt.

No- because he didnt want to. Which was fucking ridiculous. He told himself it didnt mean anything when you rested your head on his chest after sex. Didnt mean anything when you absentmindedly played with the chain around his neck while half asleep.

Or on that quiet afternoon. You angered him on a mission, and fuck if he could wait until you're back at the safehouse. He cant. Thats why he has you on some scrappy, dirty floor, fucking you hard in prone-bone. The tip of his thick cock slams into that perfect, spongy spot inside your warm cunt, and you feel like you might cry. With your cheek smushed against the floor, and feet dangling weakly behind you, your hand reaches out, searching for something to hold onto while every harsh thrust inches you a little forward, and your hand finds his. Your eyebrows knit together while his scruff tickles the sensitive skin of your throat, and he quickly pulls out, still holding onto your hand while his warm cum shoots all over your back.

Not even that meant anything-....right?

That afternoon had stayed with Him. Your palm against his, breathing uneven and eyes squeezed shut while he held on so tight he thought me might break your fingers. People who were just fuck-buddies didnt do that. Right? But then the next day you'd barely look at him infront of the others. Like he embarassed you.

The bar is crowded and loud, neon signs reflecting blue and pink against sticky and nasty floors. Ben sits alone in some dusty corner, nursing whiskey while Butcher hustles some idiot at pool. You're sat at the bar waiting for drinks when some guy slides up beside you. Young. Pretty. Smug. Ben watches your face carefully over the rim of his glass, a perfect eyebrow slightly raised. The guy says something that makes you laugh politely, and then- he touches your arm. Soldier boys jaw tightens.

What. The fuck?

...why is he even mad- you're just fuck buddies, but hes still halfway to standing when you shake your head and say something short. Final. He cant hear it but the guy looks annoyed. You glance across the room one time- directly at Ben. Automatically, the guy hitting on you looks over too- but once he catches sight of the massive supe glaring holes through him, he basically evaporates. Right after, you grab your drinks and walk straight back to ben's booth.

"You looked homicidal,"

you smile a little, sliding him a Beer.

"I am homicidal."

At his words you snort softly and scooch into the booth next to him, slightly close like its instinct. Warm. Easy. His arm settled along the back of the booth behind you.

"You could've gone with him,"

he says casually, making your brows furrow. "Why would i do that?" He shrugs, pretending not to care. You stare at him for a second too long before looking away.

And only two nights later, you're back at it. Stubble scratching along your thighs, you moan quietly. He eats you out like a man starving, ridiculously- plump lips wrapping around your clit and sucking on it with a loud slurp.

Jesus Christ, hes a real womanizer. His beefy arms wrap around your thighs, stopping you from squirming with ease- one of your hands tangled in his hair while the other one braces against the sheets.

"....mm-, fuck-"

you whisper breathlessly. He only hums in response. "....mhmm?.."

A floorboard creaks outside.

Both of you freeze.

Then comes footsteps.

Your eyes widen in Panic. "Fuck-" and the doorknob rattles. In one panicked- intrusive reaction, you shove at ben's face with your foot.

Hard.

He stumbles backward with a loud thud into the nightstand. "OW-- Jesus fucking--"

"Shhh!" The door cracked open and inch. "Everything okay?" Hughie asks sleepily. He heard whining. You sit upright instantly, clutching your blanket to your chest while ben crouched besides the bed, rubbing his jaw with murder in his eyes. "Fine!-" you squeak. "I--uh--nightmare,."

Hughie blinks. "....Right. okay." The door shut.

Silence.

Ben slowly looked up at you.

"You kicked me in the fuckin' face." You'd almost be scared of him right now if you werent so caught off guard.

"I panicked-!"

"You panic like a goddamn mule."

You bury your face in your hands. "I'm-...sorry-."

But he barely hears you. Not because of the kick to his face- because all he could think of was how terrified you'd looked at the idea of someone finding out.

Not embarassed.

Terrified. Of him.

Something cold settles in his chest. Colder than it always does.

So he pulls away after that. Subtle at first.

He stops touching you casually. Stops sitting beside you. Stops lingering after missions to trade sarcastic comments while everyone else cleans up.

And you notice.

Of course you notice.

He can tell by the way your eyes track him across rooms now. By the little crease between your brows whenever he brushes past you without stopping.

Still, neither of you say anything.

Until one night, you finally corner him in the kitchen after everyone else went to sleep.

"You're avoiding me."

Ben scoffs, swallowing. Not nervous. Not really. Just....tense. "You're paranoid."

"Bullshit." You hiss.

Making you flinch, he slams the fridge shut harder than necessary. "Maybe i got tired of sneakin' around like your dirty little secret."

Your face falls.

The instant regret hits him like a truck, but he keeps going because hes soldier boy.

"You act like people finding out about us would be the end of the fuckin' world."

"Thats not---"

"You kicked me in the face because hughie touched a doorknob."

"I panicked!"

"Why?" His voice cracks through the Kitchen sharper than intended.

"Why are you so scared of people knowing, huh? Are you so ashamed of me?"

You stare at him like he'd slapped you. Then you laugh once- small and disbelieving.

"Ashamed of you?-"

"Sure looks like it."

"Oh my god." You drag both hands down your face before stepping closer.

"Ben, i'm- scared because this team is already hanging together by threads and if Butcher realizes we're involved he wil absolutely use it against us-"

He says nothing.

You swallow the lump in your throat, shaking your head. "You really thought i was embarassed of you?"

"When people get close to me," he says quietly, "it usually ends badly."

The honesty in that nearly breaks your heart. His expression had gone guarded in a way you rarely saw-- less arrogant, less untouchable. Just...tired.

You step closer slowly, fingers curling in the front of his shirt.

"I turn other men down because i want you," you mumble softly. "I sleep in your bed whenever i can, because i want to. There's no other guy who's hand i hold during sex-..."

His eyes search yours carefully, like he doesent trust what hes hearing.

"And for the record," you add, voice trembling slightly, "if someone had opened that bedroom door while you were eating me out? I would've died of humiliation because they caught me completely in love with you."

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Then ben kissed you.

Not rough this time,- not hungry. Just deep- and wrecked and relieved.

His hands cradle your face like something precious while your arms wrap around his neck.

"You love me..?" He mutters against your mouth like the words still confused him. His rough hands trail up your waist under your shirt.

You laugh shakily. "Unfortunately."

A huff escapes him- almost a laugh.

Then he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, eyes closed.

"Mh,"

A few soft kisses get pressed against the smooth line of your throat, making you exhale shakily while one of your hands braces on his chest.

Your and ben's heavy breathing fills the room. His hands tug your pants off, and your hands fumble with his sweatpants too. Of course hes not wearing any underwear. Pig. Biting down on your lower lip, you spit into your palm and stroke up and down his length a few times, before he pushes your panties aside and lines up with your pretty cunt.

God, hes missed it.

Once he bottoms out in you, a grunt leaves him and a quiet moan leaves you. Every thrust feels different from the other times- Like you both finally admitted something thats been killing you. Your hands scramble for leverage on the counter and the back of your head hits the cupboard with a deep thrust. If only you could bring yourself to care. Your arms wrap around his neck.

"Nnh- mh-mh-mh-...shit..."

You pant. His hips move faster and faster until he finally throws both of you over the edge, bodys locking up and limbs tangled with eachother. He pulls out of you, his cum leaking out of you with ease.

"....thank you," He mumbles. You smile tiredly.

"...for what?".

".......-fuck, i dont know. Just thank you."

Who knew the soldier boy could get so soft.

I actually kinda like this?? I think 🫣

the reputation is useful. simple. uncomplicated. lets people look at him and decide they know the shape of him without getting close enough to notice the things he hides. nobody expects anything from the guy who can charm a bartender out of an extra slice of pie and be gone before she learns how he actually takes his coffee—which, side note, is not black.

nobody expects him to stay.

but then he gets you.

and god, isn’t that what he has always wanted, even if he would rather swallow broken glass than admit it out loud? someone who looks at him as if there’s still something worth choosing beneath all the damage. someone who laughs at his worst jokes and steals his shirts and reaches across the front seat of the impala to squeeze his hand when the road gets quiet in that particular way it does after a bad hunt.

someone who looks at him like he hung the fucking moon.

he doesn’t know what to do with that kind of love at first.

sometimes, you catch him watching you from across the motel room with this strange, almost startled softness, as though he’s still waiting for the moment you realize you could do better. as though you might wake up and see the blood beneath his fingernails, the exhaustion in his bones, every ugly thing he carries around with him, and decide you made a mistake.

you never do.

tonight, the motel room is warm from the ancient heater rattling beneath the window. sam’s taken off to collect dinner and give the two of you a little privacy after the hunt, making a pointed remark about not coming back for at least an hour while dean tells him to shut up and you try not to laugh into your sleeve.

now, it’s quiet. dean stands near the foot of the bed, looking at you in the amber glow of the bedside lamp. there’s a faint bruise forming near his jaw and a shallow cut at the edge of his eyebrow, cleaned but not bandaged because he insists it makes him look rugged. his flannel is unbuttoned over a dark shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and there’s something in the way his eyes move over you that makes warmth gather low in your stomach.

he looks at you as if he still can’t believe you’re real.

“what?” you ask, leaning back on your palms.

his mouth curves faintly. “nothing.”

“you’re staring.”

“can’t a guy appreciate his girlfriend?”

“you can,” you say. “but you have that face.”

his eyebrows lift. “what face?”

“the one where you look like you’re thinking too hard. which you know… rare, because you barely think at all.”

he huffs out a laugh and steps closer, settling between your knees. “cute.”

“you love me.”

the words come out teasing. casual. you say them often enough now that they shouldn’t feel like anything dangerous. yet, they still make his expression change.

his hand rises slowly, knuckles brushing along your cheek before his palm settles there, rough and warm. “yeah,” he murmurs, quieter now. “i really do.”

your breath catches, because dean’s never learned how to do anything halfway once he finally lets himself do it at all. his tenderness isn+t polished or poetic. it’s awkward in places. too honest. almost shy. he looks at you like he wants to memorize every little shift in your face before the world finds another way to take something good from him.

when he kisses you, it’s slow.

that’s the thing nobody would expect. dean doesn’t kiss you like he has somewhere else to be. there’s no performance in it, no smug little edge designed to prove anything. he cups your jaw carefully and tilts your face toward his, mouth warm and unhurried against yours, letting the kiss deepen only when you lean into him and fist one hand in the fabric of his shirt.

his other hand slides to your waist.

“you okay?” he asks against your mouth.

you smile, breathless already. “mmhm.”

“need an answer, sweetheart.”

“i’m okay.”

“yeah?”

“more than okay.”

something in his face loosens. he kisses you again, and it makes your chest ache in the best, worst way, because he touches you as if your comfort matters more than whatever he wants. every movement is patient. attentive. his thumb drifts along your side beneath the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin, and he pauses when your breathing changes, eyes flicking to yours immediately. watching. always watching.

you’ve heard people talk about men like dean before. confident men. experienced men. men with reputations. the assumption is that they come with something complicated to prove, that intimacy with them is supposed to be wild or rough or full of tricks designed to make you feel lucky to have their attention.

dean has none of that with you. with you, he’s almost painfully simple.

he wants to kiss you until you forget every ugly thing that happened on the hunt. he wants to feel your arms around his shoulders and hear the little breathless laugh you make when his stubble scratches your neck. he wants to pull back every few seconds just to look at you, eyes softened by something so open it nearly embarrasses him whenever you catch it.

he wants you comfortable.

he wants you warm.

he wants you looking at him like that.

“you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, mouth brushing the corner of yours.

you laugh softly, a little self-conscious despite yourself. “you’re biased.”

“damn right i am.”

“that isn’t how compliments work.”

“works exactly how i want it to.”

he eases you back onto the mattress, following carefully, one forearm braced beside your head so he never puts too much weight on you. his hand slides along your waist, then higher, then down again, not rushed. never rushed. the sheets shift beneath you, motel fabric rough against your legs, while dean kisses along your jaw and murmurs things into your skin that make warmth spread through you in slow, dizzy waves. nothing clever. nothing filthy for the sake of being filthy. just your name. sweetheart. pretty girl. tell me if you need anything. you good? and then, softer, as if it slips out before he can stop it, “god, i love you.”

you tighten your arms around him. “i love you too.”

he goes still for half a second, forehead resting against yours, his breath uneven. it isn’t the first time you said it. far from it. but dean receives every declaration like a man who grew up expecting love to come with an expiration date.

the rest unfolds slowly, with the lamp still glowing beside the bed and the sounds of passing cars drifting faintly through the motel window. dean kisses you until everything outside the room feels distant. the monsters. the blood. the impossible odds. all of it quiets beneath the warmth of him, beneath the steady drag of his hands and the way he keeps checking your face, making sure you’re with him every step of the way.

there’s nothing extravagant about it. nothing reckless. just dean holding you as if he’s been cold his entire life and finally found somewhere warm enough to rest.

afterward, he lies on his back beside you, one arm tucked beneath your shoulders, the other hand moving lazily along your skin. his breathing is still uneven, hair mussed, cheeks faintly flushed. there’s something younger about him in moments like this. softer. almost peaceful.

you turn your head and catch him watching you again. “what?” you repeat the question.

he gives you a tired little smile, but his eyes stay serious. “nothing.”

you wait.

eventually, he looks toward the ceiling, jaw working as if the next words are harder than fighting a nest of vampires with one good knife and a bad plan.

“just don’t get tired of me, okay?” the question is so quiet you almost miss it. it hurts more than anything could.

you shift closer until your cheek rests against his chest, right over the steady beat of his heart. “not planning on it.”

dean exhales, long and slow, while he holds you with both arms like the world has spent his whole life taking things from him and he’s not quite ready to believe it’ll let him keep you.

⊹ dean likes washing dishes with you. bumps his shoulder to yours and loves the way your smile blooms all pretty, your quiet laugh. he listens to you talk about your day, so fond, it spreads fast through his chest. silence is good, too. it lasts until he flicks water onto your cheek with his fingers.

⊹ mornings are very slow with him. you often wake with his nose shoved against your neck, his body partially curled over yours, radiating amber heat. his lashes only flutter when your fingertips petal down the light freckles of his bicep.

"sweetheart," he breathes. "y'smell good."

he keeps you in bed for a long, long while.

⊹ taking care of you comes very naturally to him. whenever you fall sick, he makes sure you're resting properly and bestows very careful kisses to your dewy cheeks and forehead. he replaces tissue boxes once emptied and tucks close to your side when you pull him in. doesn't care if he catches the bug, just wants to make you feel better.

"baby. eat this for me, please?"

"drink the water, c'mon."

・・・・・

Since the first time you bled you were scared of marriage.

You could bear children now, which meant your father Maekar could marry you to whomever he pleased, to the best suitor. But you were a princess of the realm, you knew that titles and money told little about kindness and good character

You had seen loyal knights turn into beasts when they thought nobody was watching, or old sweet men from the most honorable of houses commit adultery with unwilling maids of the castles you frequented or the high court of King’s Landing.

But when Lyonel of the great House Baratheon appeared in your grandfather's court to ask for your hand in marriage, you felt your own principles waver.

He was tall, broad and handsome and heir to Storms End, meaning he was to become Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. You remembered the look on your grandfather’s -the king- face, looking silently for your opinion in the throne room. You were not yet convinced, so a week-long courtship ensued, at the Red Keep, under the watchful eyes of Daeron the Good, Baelor, and your father Maekar.

He passed every test put in front of him, he trained and defeated your uncle in the courtyard, he withstand the long dinners and the over the table dense conversations, he had the seal of approval of The King and a the Hand within three days, by the fourth, he made your own father laugh, truly laugh. You weren’t present at such a feat, it was long past the hours of propriety, but you had heard of it from three different men, even from your cousin Valarr who seems particularly impressed.

And to you, he was just the most dashing knight. He would walk with you in the gardens under your father’s watch, he would give you gifts on his house’s colours, beautiful necklaces and silks to fashion dresses… in yellow and black…

He would tell you stories and legends about House Baratheon and the Storm Kings, about his home in Storm's End, but most importantly, he would listen to you, about what you thought, about your life, about your home.

He was perfect

By week's end you had accepted his proposal.

By the fortnight's end, you had married him. The wedding was of a grand splendure, most of the great houses were there, the ceremony was celebrated by even the smallfolk chanting their adoration in the streets, the feast was spectacular, the party afterwards was the most fun, you danced with your husband all night, until your feet hurt.

You felt like the happiest princess alive. 

It was like a dream came true.

And at night, when the guests to the wedding had taken you to the chambers as they undressed you, you didn’t even feel nervous, you felt excited and giddy. And when you finally were alone with him, both stark naked, and in front of each other, mind and body idled with the soft buzz of the Arbour wine you served at the banquet, he held you in his arms, he kissed you gently and lovingly, he indeed you slowly, doing his best not to harm you and he succeeded. 

And as you cuddled with him in your bed, you thought you were a lucky woman. 

You travelled to Storm’s End with your husband, the journey took a whole fortnight, in which you slept together in a huge pavilion they set up every morning, or sometimes, when you managed to arrive in some towns, you would sleep in the great halls along the way.

You believed it was in the Bronzegate where he -between hard thrusts- told you he loved you for the first time

When he arrived at Storm’s End, the party continued, according to his words, he wanted all of Storm’s End to meet their new lady, so he threw a massive event and invited all his bannermen and the house of the nearby villages. 

Even though you both had separate quarters he insisted for you to stay with him every night. He would consummate the marriage every night without fail, he would hold you all night afterwards, he would care for your every need before you even voice it.

And then, the invitation to the Ashford tourney arrived, alongside the knowledge your whole family was attending the event. Lyonel couldn’t be more excited, like a child on his nameday. And he passed it onto you. 

But everything changed when you arrived at Ashford Meadow.

It was your first tourney as a married couple, and you saw a side of Lyonel that excited and intimidated you in equal measure.

The man was in his element, all smiles and big gestures. You finally discovered why they called him the laughing storm, he raised the longest pavilion there, he invited everyone around for a big feast the first night.

You proudly sat by his side as he wore that huge antler crown and you both drank until you felt like you could giggle the night away.

You had to admit you sometimes felt a bit embarrassed by his antics, but tonight you were as drunk as him, but even you could remember Ser Duncan the Tall.

The very next morning, you saw your brother jousting, you saw how he passed your husband’s tent, looking at the man with a grin on his face. you knew he could challenge your husband just to humiliate him, but you also knew he knew your husband would beat him, so he rode past him.

Instead challenge a lesser knight, and permanently damage him after killing your horse.

You knew your brother’s monstrous nature, that is why you weren’t truly surprised by the events that happened that night with the puppeteers. 

But what you were truly surprised, was the trial of seven

You couldn’t blame your husband for coming in rescue of the hedge night, Aegon, your baby brother had spoken to you and explained the situation, how he liked this man Ser Duncan, how he believed in him. And you knew Aerion, and how he was…

You knew your father’s prowess, he was not going to fall easily, neither was your husband, you still didn’t know how he convinced you it was a good idea, how everything was going to be alright.

It was the worst day of your life, but you knew your husband was not going to kill your father, you knew your husband was not going to die either, you had too. Besides, your uncle was fighting alongside him.

With tears in your eyes, because of your uncle’s Death, you helped the maester clean up your husband, you cleaned his wounds, and kissed his bruises, with his firm hands he grabbed your trembling ones and consoled you for the loss of the heir of the Iron Throne.

You woke up with your stomach twisted in nausea. You were barely able to reach some sort of pot and threw up in it. 

Perhaps it was the jitters from the night before, you turned to meet your husband, but he wasn’t there. You recalled that the night before he spoke of going to see Ser Duncan, see how he was fearing, so you paid little mind to it. 

Eleonora, your lady in waiting, came inside to help you dress for the day. 

You found yourself with mixed feelings, for you were relieved that your father was alright, as your husband… but… your uncle Baelor had lost his life, in the hands of his own brother. 

You still weren’t able to quantify what this would mean, not only for your family, but for the entire realm.

“Oh!”, you moaned, as she tightened the corset, your breasts were tender, it was an odd sensation

“I’m sorry my lady”, she offered softly, removing the guilty piece of clothing

“My breast hurt”, you whispered

“Maybe you are with child”, she said carefully, eying the pot where you threw up in. But you dismissed it, it was probably nothing. 

Once you were ready, you exited the tent, willing to go get something to eat, despite the theatrics of your poor stomach, you were famished. 

That is until a figure caught your attention. 

You saw Lyonel’s maester return from the riverbank, angry, whispering angry insults and walking by you like he was about to push you out of his way. It was very odd, to say the least. Perhaps he couldn’t help the hedge knight, but perhaps the royal maester who had come with your family to Ashford could. 

So you came to find him, and took him with you to meet Lyonel and Ser Duncan where his camp was.

It was a beautiful day

You knew you were in the right direction because you heard your husband’s boisterous voice from afar, you smiled at the thought of seeing him, he looked so handsome this morning. 

There he was… with his cape, you really hoped the limp would go away someday soon, you knew he enjoyed jousting a bit too much, and not being able to practice it would dwell terribly on him. 

When you were able to see him more clearly, you frowned as he turned to speak to the Hedge Knight who was laying against a tree. 

“You've done the realm a kindness. You'll see that one day. The only good dragon is a dead dragon”, he saw you, but too late, he saw you on the edge of his eye, he turned and looked at you.

You just stood there, frozen.

The Hedge knight laid there looking at the both of you like he was about to witness a murder

“What?”, you asked him. 

The only good dragon is a dead dragon

There was no way to misinterpret it.

He meant your uncle, he was referring to your family

The maester, old man as he was, clearly either didn’t care or hadn't listened and went straight towards Ser Duncan, but you just stood there, you just heard your husband talking treason.

“Wife…”, he said carefully, once he realized there was no mistake what he had said

He took a step towards you, grabbing onto his antlered cane, but you swore, in the second he took to make that movement, it looked like a weapon.

You gasp, taking a step back from him, even though there was at least 10 feet in between you.

You gathered the courage to look at his face, finally, and you didn’t like what you saw in it.

You turned and ran away from him, tears forming in your eyes, clouding your vision, you heard him behind you, cursing. 

You didn’t know what to do

You married this man

The only good dragon is a dead dragon

Is that why he joined the trial? He hoped to kill one of your family members?

Your uncle Baelor, the most honorable and joust member of your family, one would argue that the best of you, was dead, and Lyonel was relieved about it. 

You arrived at the tent under the look of everyone you crossed in your way, as you were now fully crying. But who could blame you? your uncle was dead, his funeral pyre was this afternoon… 

You didn’t know what to do, the only thing you did know is that you couldn’t be around Lyonel anymore, he wished your family dead, he collaborated in the deed… disguising it as chivalry and justice… as the defense of the innocent. 

You grabbed everything that belonged to you, everything you could and threw it inside one of your trunks, your cape, your dresses, your riding boots, all of it. Every time someone walked past the entrance to the tent you stopped and watched, but Lyonel didn't come.

When you made sure all your things were stored, you sat on the bed, defeated, like you just jousted yourself. You took a long, shaky breath, feeling your chest constricted, your hands instinctively went to your breasts, and you wined in pain, they had never hurt before, that you were sure off. Then, as he had planned it, Lyonel himself entered the tent.

But you were so tired, as life itself had been drained out of you, that you didn’t fight it, not one bit. 

“What I don’t understand is…”, you began, “if you think we are better off dead, why did you marry me?”, you asked him, voice cracked. “Why did you come to King’s Landing to ask for my hand in marriage?”

But he didn’t answer

“Why?”, you asked him again, tears streaming down your face, “Uncle Baelor was the best of us, he was going to be a great King and yet… you wish him dead”

“He was a fraud!”, he said loudly, exasperated, “he fought against men swore to protect him!”

“In defense of that man!”, you said, “to try and protect him from my brother…”

“You see? don’t you?”, he asked, “you hate your brother! he is sadistic and cruel…”

“He does not represent my entire family!”, you fought back, “not my father… of Daeron, or Baelor, or my cousin Valarr…”, you then stopped and looked at him, “or me”

“You are not a dragon anymore are you?”, he asked, as this whole thing was overreacted, “you are a doe now, a Baratheon”, he was not answering your question, he was evading. 

“Who is going to give you children with dragon blood…”, you interrupted yourself as you looked back at him wide-eyed. He just looked at you and he saw it, in your eyes

“If I wanted your family dead I could have done it, you know?”, he asked, “at least two of them”

“I remember my father’s maze on your face at least twice, not your sword on him”, you defended, he laughed, you stood up from the bed, but not wanting to escalate this further. Only then he noticed the trunks

“Your things…”, he tried, “what is happening?”, he asked carefully

“I do not wish to return to Storm’s End with you”, you said, voice cracking, not at all convincing. He looked like he wanted to laugh, but when he realized you weren’t kidding, he got really serious

“You don’t think I could… do something to you”, he didn’t dare ask the question, and your silence told him everything, “for the gods”, he whispered, not believing it, “you are my wife!”, he said, exasperated

“Yes and you just said that the only good Targaryens are dead Targaryens”, you whispered, he shook his head

“You are twisting my words”, he said firmly

“It’s exactly that”, you said sadly, he took a step towards you and before you could run, he grabbed you, ever so gently, his big hand cradled your cheek

“I would never harm you, you hear me?”, he asked severely, “you are my wife, and I will never touch you with anything but devotion and care”, he whispered, he leaned in, to kiss you, but you pulled away

“I have a funeral to attend”, you whispered. 

He did not make any indication to follow you to attend the funeral, so you just went without him. Valarr was unconsolable, and you couldn’t even think about your father and what he must be feeling… he was the one to give Baelor the blow that ended his life after all.

His own brother

He might be called Kinslayer, or certainly, whispers will deem him as such. 

After the pyre was extinguished, you followed your father and Aegon back to Ashford castle. You knew Lyonel intended to part Ashford right after the funeral, and the mere thought brought tears to your eyes, of being alone with her, of parting ways from your family. 

You sought an audience with your father, which was granted immediately, right before Ser Duncan. He clearly thought you wanted to say goodbye. 

“Papa, can I go back with you to Summerhall?”, you asked him, so quietly you doubted he could even hear you, but he did

“Why?”, he asked, frowning at you, “you are supposed to go to Storm’s End, with your husband”

“Yes… but…”, how do you tell your father your husband talked about treachery?, “with everything that has happened… I wish to be with my family”, you tried to explain, to lie, but his face, his unmovable face told you everything that you needed to know.

“You are to go with your family, your husband, to Storm’s End”, he said, and you just stood there. 

“Well, Aerion is gone, and after what happened with Uncle Baelor… I do not wish to leave you father”, you should have stopped, but at the sole mention of his deceased brother, his face turned

“What happened with your husband?”, he asked severely, you shook your head softly, “you are married now…”

“I know”, you said softly

“You made a vow…”, he said, “does that mean little to you?”, he asked, angry, he was twisting the whole thing. 

“No! I didn’t mean it like that…”, you tried to explain

“I don’t know how my own offspring would come out so disloyal”, he might as well slap you, it would have hurt less, “so unreliable”, he continued, “unworthy”

“Papa”, you called, like begging for mercy

“You could only hope your husband doesn’t know about your plans”, he snapped, “now go back to him”, he commanded, you just nodded solemnly at him.

“Yes father, I’m sorry”, you whispered brokenly. You wish to hug him, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, to beg him not to let you go.

But you couldn’t 

So you walked away from him, not really knowing if or when you were going to see him again.

Lyonel’s words returned to you as well

The only good dragon is a dead dragon

Why would he say something like that? King Daeron the good was one of the greatest Kings of your dynasty, everyone said so… Prince Baelor is… was… even a greater choice for the throne, in his hands, your family would have been at his highest… 

If he really thought that… then you wondered what his plans for you were… you wondered again why he married you in the first place.

When you returned, the great pavilion was being put away, Ashford itself seemed to be losing their clothes, you were not the only ones leaving. Your tent, though, still stood whole, the one you shared with Lyonel.

Only then you realized you had not bled since a fortnight before you married Lyonel, and its been three moons since that.

You were with child 

Most likely

Lyonel followed the servants who brought your things from the tent to the carriages, and as soon as he spotted you he stood there, looking at you, waiting for your next move.

You certainly couldn’t go back to Summerhall, you had to return to Storm’s End with him, your father was right, he was your husband. You had made a vow, you were his and he was yours, from this day to the end of your days. 

You took a long shaky breath

He didn’t wish for you to ride your own horse, you were to ride a carriage, so without a word, you climbed onto it.

Being locked inside a box for most of the day actually gave you time to think, and at night, when you stopped to sleep in a quick made up camp, you could not evade your husband much longer. 

You shared a bed on the tent, there was no more room, you climbed onto the bed while he had not returned yet, you hid under the cover the furthest you could from his side of the bed. You heard him come in and sigh loudly

“Wife”, he didn't even use your name, you guessed he didn’t like it. You closed your eyes even though he couldn't see your face, and hugged the pillow tightly. “I would never hurt you”, he whispered, the bed dipped under him, he moved until you felt his warm body behind yours. you tensed, coiling like a snake, he still surrounded your body with his arm, you still felt his breath on the side of your face. He kissed your cheek, he pulled you towards him.

“Lyonel”, you called

“I’m sorry about what I said”, he whispered, “you are mine now”, he kissed once more, and again, “I might not like your family, but I would never do anything to hurt them”, he continued

What choice did you have but to believe him and trust him?

His hand sneaked under the covers and cupped one of your breasts, you whined in displeasure. 

“What?”, he whispered

“They hurt”, you whispered

“Oh?”, he teased, “maybe my beautiful doe is carrying a fawn?”, his hand travelled to your belly and kept it there, its warmth making you tremble.

 “I’ll probably die in childbirth”, you said bitterly, “You’d like that”, you cried

“For the gods”, he released you like you burnt him, and sat on the bed away from you, “what do I have to do to prove to you… I fucking love you!”, he said, exasperated

He never said it out of bed, so hearing it like this was certainly surprising

“I cannot turn back time, and we are married for life… so we really should find a way to get past this”, he said with greeted teeth

“I cannot let go of the fact that you believe my family, the reigning family is better off dead”, you said wiping your tears

“Yes, I don’t like them, you know that half of Targaryen Kings were mad as fucking goats, the last one almost destroyed the country in half by provoking a succession crisis and a civil war!”, he said, “madness brought forth by the fact that your family married brothers and sisters for generations!”, he said angrily

“Then why the fuck did you married me?”, you asked him

“Your grandmother was a Dornish princess, your mother a Dayne, you are not insane”

“How do you know?”, you asked him, he smiled at you.

“The men might be lunatics, but certainly, the best things about the Targaryens are their women”, he said with a husky voice, “when I looked at you I knew it was over for me, you are the most beautiful woman in the Kingdoms”, you let out a sigh

He went for a kiss, even at a moment like this… he couldn’t keep his hands off of you. 

“You are going to fucking die one day, but after me…”, he teased

“Lyonel”, you whined, trying to get away from his grabby hands, but no such luck

“I’m going to die with eighty name days over me”, he whispered huskily, “after a long night of fucking my gorgeous dragon wife, my heart will finally gave out”

“Lyonel this isn’t funny”

“Then I’ll come back for you, ten years later, I’m going to be bored as hell so I’ll come back for you…”, he has surrounded you with his arms caressing your body, his mouth was searching for yours to kiss your lips, you wouldn’t let him so he’ll leave wet kisses all over your face. 

“I hate you!”, you cried

“I fucking love you”, he grunted against your ear, “I fucking love the fact that I get to have you, a dragon princess in my bed, and your are going to have my children”

“No”, you whined, he made you lay on the bed, him over you

“I’ll make a doe out of you yet”, he said, you spread your legs for him, it was almost automatic, you realized he still had this power over you. He has taught you the ways of pleasure… 

But he stopped, as he looked down on you, he lean in and kissed you softly

“I’m not going to have you like this”, he whispered against your lips, “I will earn your trust again, I fucking promise”, you didn’t say anything as you looked into his eyes.

You were not going to trust him, you didn’t know if you even could forgive him. 

But you were never truly going to know his true reasons about marrying you

Because both things could be true, he could love you, but also he could have married you for your blood.

For your blood and his.

“Let’s get married.” 

You glanced up from your dinner, a delicious meal that Taz had lovingly prepared for the two of you that night, like he always did, your brows furrowing, staring at him to make sure you heard him right. You were probably looking at him like he was speaking a foreign language. 

“Wait- what?” you asked after a few beats of silence. 

Taz, however, continued eating his meal unbothered, spearing a piece of asparagus with his fork, raising it up towards his mouth. “Let’s get married, tonight,” he repeated in the same casual tone, looking down at his plate, like he was discussing something as simple as the weather. “I mean- I love you, you love me, right?” A small laugh escaped his lips as he turned his gaze towards you, his blue eyes holding a spark of mischief within them, a small smirk dancing on the corner of his lips. “Let’s make this thing official,” he said, putting the food into his mouth. 

“Well- uh,” you started, looking down at your meal, at a loss for words. “Of course I love you,” you said quickly, not wanting him to doubt your affections towards him for even a second. “It’s just...” 

“Sudden?” he asked with his right hand in front of his mouth, fork in hand, voice muffled slightly from the food. 

“Soon,” you said at the same time. 

You both giggled at your answers, realizing you were always in sync with one another no matter what on earth you two were discussing.  

Taz swallowed, reaching for his glass of white wine. “Look, I know it’s sudden and seemingly out of nowhere, but,” he picked up the glass, lifting it up and bringing it to him, “I’ve been thinking about this for a while now and...” he looked at you, his bright eyes scanning your face as he sucked on his teeth for a second with a small smile. “I figured, why not? What’s stopping us?” 

You laughed breathlessly. “Uh, well, for starters, what about time? It takes time to plan a formal wedding.” 

“Who says it has to be formal?” he countered, taking a sip of his wine before placing the glass back on the table. “A wedding doesn’t need to be this big, whole production. It can just be with two people: you and me.” 

“Ok...” you relented slowly, trying to digest the whole situation. You pushed your food around with your fork absentmindedly, resting your head in your propped up hand. “But don’t we need a pastor or something? Or someone who’s ordained? To you know... make things official?” 

He shrugged. “We’ll go down to the courthouse tomorrow, get a judge to sign our certificate.” He picked up his knife to cut another piece of meat. “You know, make it legal and all that.” 

You put your fork down, both of your forearms resting on the table now as you watched him continue to eat. “And our vows?” you asked, trying to stump him. 

Taz continued cutting. “Easy,” he scoffed playfully with a good-natured smile. “We’ll just speak from the heart.” He looked at you, his smile morphing into a smirk. “And I can tell you how much I love you all night, if you know what I mean,” he winked. 

You blushed, averting his suggestive look as you looked to the side as you heard him laugh. You were quiet for a moment, the only sound filling the room was Taz’s silverware hitting against his plate. 

“What would we wear?” 

 “What we have on now,” he replied easily. “No need to get all fancy. We can, uh, save that for our vow renewal in ten years,” he said cheekily, his smile growing, as he quickly raised his eyebrows. 

That roused a laugh out of you, causing you to look back towards the love of your life, meeting his eyes. “Oh, so now we’re already talking about vow renewals?” you giggled. “One thing at a time, Taz.” 

His smile turned tender; his eyes filled with love as he kept looking at you. “What can I say?” he asked softly after a moment. “I’m just excited.” 

As you both held eye contact, you could feel the reality of his proposition become more palpable by the second. Taz was serious, he wanted to marry you.  

And you couldn’t think of any reason why you shouldn’t. You loved him, and he loved you. Taz Skylar was the love of your life and you wanted to spend the rest of your time on this earth with him, however long or short that might be. 

“What about wedding bands?” you asked quietly. 

He broke eye contact, shifting in his seat slightly as he looked to his right. “Yeah, about that- I had a crazy idea, and you don’t have to agree to this if you don’t want to, of course,” he quickly started, moving his hands slightly. 

You raised an eyebrow. “Do what? What’s crazier than a last-minute wedding?” 

Taz breathed out a quick, humorless laugh. “Ha, yeah, so, I was, uh, thinking...” 

“Yes?” 

“What if we got our wedding bands tattooed?” he quickly asked, like ripping off a band-aid, his shoulders becoming stiff as he braced for your response. A couple of quiet seconds ticked by, feeling like hours to him. “Now I know it’s crazy and all, but-” 

“I love it,” you said, quieting him instantly. 

He exhaled slightly, letting out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding in. His shoulders relaxed as his trepid eyes found yours. “You do?” 

You nodded, your eyes watering as you looked at him with a closed lip smile. “Yeah,” you answered, your voice breaking slightly. “I love it. It’s perfect.” 

You always wanted to have a matching tattoo with him, both of you floating around the idea but never actually pulling the trigger, and what could be a better matching tattoo with him than a wedding band? 

He laughed quietly, a wide smile of happiness and relief overtaking his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah?” he asked breathlessly. His eyes started to mirror yours, unshed tears pricking at the corners. This was serious now; this was for real. He was going to marry you.  

And he doesn’t ever remember being this happy before. 

“G-good,” he said, his throat feeling thick suddenly. “There’s a shop not too far away, open late. We can go now.” 

You nodded and blinked, a few tears escaping your eyes and rolling down your cheeks as you tried not to cry. “Ok,” you whispered. 

“Ok?” he repeated in the same soft voice, his eyes full of wonder. 

“Yeah. Ok.” 

Taz let out a breath, his smile as wide as can be, a tear rolling down his cheek. He looked down for a second, placing his utensils on the table before standing up and making his way around the table towards you. 

“Now, there’s only one question I have left for you,” he started, clearing his throat. He came to your left, getting down on one knee as he pulled out an engagement ring from his pocket. “Now I had this all ready to go, in case you didn’t like the tattoo idea,” he said, causing both of you to laugh tearfully.  

You put a hand over your mouth, swallowing thickly, the tears spilling over your cheeks quickly. 

He looked up, the most tender smile on his face, a look of pure, unfiltered love in his eyes. “Y/n, I love you, with all my heart. You are the love of my life and I can’t imagine doing this thing called ‘life’ without you,” his crooked smile deepened. “Will you do me the honor of a lifetime by becoming my wife? Y/n, will you marry me?” 

You nodded quickly. “Y-yes. Yes of course I will,” you answered, letting out a cry of happiness as you practically tackled him in a hug. “I love you,” you cried into his neck as he wrapped his arms around you. 

He laughed, enveloping you in a hug as he kissed the top of your head. “And I love you.” 

You pulled away from him slightly to look up at him and saw a tear roll down his cheek. “Now and forever,” you whispered. 

You hadn't joined Luffy's crew expecting romance.

Adventure? Yes. Danger? Absolutely.

But butterflies in your stomach, and an ache in your chest that just wouldn't go away? Never.

Until Sanji boarded the Merry.

Sanji with his stupid blue eyes, and his stupid smile, and his–

"You should talk to him."

Zoro's voice nearly made you jump out of your skin. Moments ago, you'd been all alone on the upper deck, but when you turned your head, you found the man himself standing next to you, arms crossed over his chest.

"Zoro! You can't sneak up on me like that!"

"I just did," he said matter-of-factly, shrugging a shoulder. "Not my fault you were distracted."

"I wasn't distracted," you huffed, rolling your eyes. Your gaze ended up back where it had been. The lower deck, where Usopp fished as he regaled Vivi with a no doubt embellished story of a past adventure, and where–most importantly–Sanji casually leaned next to Nami as she pored over the Grand Line map. He caught your eye and gave you a smile, which you returned. "What makes you think I should talk to Sanji?"

Zoro could've easily brought up the fact that he hadn't even said the cook's name, but he decided to just to answer. "He likes you. You like him for some reason. And if I have to see you two make puppy dog eyes at each other one more time, I'm throwing myself overboard."

You scoffed. "I do not do puppy dog eyes. They are perfectly normal eyes, thank you very much!" Leaning on the rail, you let out a sigh. "And he doesn't like me. If you haven't noticed, other than Chopper, I'm the only one on the crew that he doesn't flirt with constantly."

The swordsman looked at you with the utmost seriousness. "He doesn't flirt with me."

Before you could stop yourself, you let out a loud, snorting laugh, loud enough to even make Luffy and Chopper tear their eyes from the horizon as they sat up on the figurehead. You quickly cleared your throat, face hot from the attention as you fully turned to Zoro.

"Classy," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching up in amusement.

"Shut up!" You gave his arm a half-hearted slap. "He totally does and you know it."

It was his turn to roll his eyes. "Whatever."

Meanwhile, Sanji was watching from the corner of his eye. He'd been sneaking little peeks at you before, but Zoro's decision to join you had gotten his full attention. And after the sweet laughter you let out at something the swordsman said, he found it even harder to look away.

How could someone as dull as Zoro make you laugh like that when he couldn't?

"Someone's looking a little green."

He glanced at Nami for a moment, then back to you and Zoro, just in time to catch you playfully smacking his arm. "You think I'm jealous of ol' mosshead? You're dreaming."

"Maybe you should be." Nami hid a smirk as she looked up from the map. "He's strong, good with a blade, and let's not forget attractive." Sanji raised his eyebrow at her in surprise, and she shrugged. "What? I'm not blind. And neither are they."

"Strong, good with a blade, attractive. I've got all that in spades." But that was all bluster, because Nami's words were quickly sending him into a spiral. Surely you didn't have feelings for Roronoa Zoro of all people. "Do you really think a rare beauty like that would settle for him?"

It was something that most of the crew had caught onto pretty quickly. When you weren't around, he could go on all day about your radiance, how angelic you were. But the moment you were in earshot or he was speaking right to you, any charming words he had for you died on his tongue. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't defeat his own nerves when it came to you.

"If you don't say something soon, you'll find out the answer. And you might not like it."

Sanji found himself looking up at you again, taken by the way the sunshine lit you up you as you and Zoro stood in a comfortable silence.

A rare beauty indeed.

In spite of your efforts to resist, Zoro's words had wormed their way into your brain.

It made dinner quite hard, because you found yourself looking at Sanji in a different way. As if a veil had been lifted from over your eyes.

His smile and gentle touch to your shoulder as he placed your bowl of curry and rice in front of you, the proud gleam in his eyes when you tasted the meal and praised the lovingly developed flavors.

Was Zoro actually right? Had this been happening the whole time?

You couldn't find sleep that night, staring up at the wooded ceiling of your quarters as your mind went back and forth. Maybe what you'd noticed at dinner was just a result of the seed that your friend had planted.

But what if it wasn't?

Unless–

You threw the blanket off with a groan and got out of bed, quietly making your way to the galley in the calm of nighttime. Surely a snack would help calm you. You hadn't exactly left dinner satisfied, seeing as you'd let Luffy convince you to give him the last bites of your portion, despite Sanji's protests.

The kitchen was immaculately clean as you stepped inside, the only sign of dinner being the faint scent of curry lingering in the air. Your stomach grumbled at the smell, so you wasted no time cracking open the ice box and taking a look at what was inside. You spotted a block of cheese and pulled it out, grabbing a knife and chopping block as well. The last thing you wanted to do was actually cook something and dirty the kitchen. You could wash the board and knife when you were done, and Sanji wouldn't even know.

Well, that was what you thought until you heard his voice from the doorway.

"I was expecting to see Luffy." And though he had quite a lot of respect for the Straw Hats' leader, you were a much more welcome sight. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to tell you how stunning you were standing there in your sleep clothes, but he choked at the last second.

"I don't doubt it." Luffy was probably in there every night looking for a snack. It still amazed you that he could eat as much as he did.

Sanji stepped forward, realizing what exactly you were doing at his usual work surface. He wasn't sure whether to feel offended or hurt, or both. "You hate my cooking that much, do you?"

"What?" You looked up at him before you could make your first cut, finally registering how much closer he had gotten. "I don't hate your cooking."

He stood next to you, hands shoved into the pockets of his pajama pants. "You didn't finish your dinner. And now I find out you'd rather eat a block of cheese than ask me to cook you something."

"The food was delicious. It always is. And I do kind of regret giving it to Luffy. Knowing him, he didn't even taste it. It's a shame." His face lit up at your compliment, and you couldn't help a smile. "Are you saying you wanted me to wake you up so you could make me a midnight snack?"

"I'm the chef. It's my job," he said as if it were the most obvious thing. "In fact," he removed his hands from his pockets and held one out towards the knife, "allow me."

"Sanji. I can do this myself just fine."

He didn't lower his hand, he just slightly nodded his head towards it.

You sighed and gently placed the knife in his palm, your fingertips brushing against his skin. You could've sworn you heard a sharp little intake of breath at the skin to skin contact. It hadn't been your imagination. In fact, Sanji was quite glad for the lower light of the room at the moment, because then the flushing of his cheeks might not be so obvious.

You'd expected that he'd continue what you were doing, perhaps cutting the cheese into some odd shapes to show off his knife work. But he simply wrapped the block back up again and turned back to the ice chest. "Any requests?" He managed to ask, trying not to think too hard about your touch.

"You really don't have to–"

"I'm the chef, remember?" He gave you a smile that made your chest ache.

You leaned against the counter, the edge pushing into your hip. His eyes lingered there a moment until you answered. "Okay, fine. Surprise me."

The simple request really warmed his heart. You trusted him to make something that you would enjoy, and he had no intention of letting you down. Surely he could find some things in the limited food stock to make a meal fitting of someone so heavenly.

Your eyes didn't leave Sanji as he tied his apron on and got to work. There was something calming about observing him in his element. So practiced, so assured. You felt you could watch him do this all night.

"I know that Luffy can be...enthusiastic when it comes to food. But we can't have you going hungry like this," he said as he began chopping some vegetables. He knew from then on that he would be taking it upon himself to make sure this never happened again.

"Alright. Next time, I'll try harder to resist." Not that you would have to worry about that any longer. "So do you have some kind of sense for when someone's in your kitchen, or were you having trouble sleeping, too?"

"Yeah, I...I was just thinking too much."

"Same." Pausing for a long moment, your gaze dropped to the counter. You had to say something, and this felt like the right time. No one else around. Just you and him. "Um, I was thinking about something Zoro said to me earlier. When we were all out on deck."

Despite the lump in his throat, Sanji didn't miss a beat as he continued to cut with impressive precision. Something the swordsman told you had kept you up all night. That couldn't be good. Maybe Nami was right, and maybe he'd waited too long to tell you how he felt.

"Sanji, why don't you flirt with me like you do the rest of the crew?"

If not for his quick reaction time, he was almost certain he would've chopped off a finger from the shock. "What?"

"Well, Chopper and I are the only ones you don't flirt with. Him I understand since he's a deer and all, but I...am I that repulsive?" You couldn't help a little welling of tears, as hard as you tried to force it down.

Sanji put down the knife and turned to you, his expression much more somber than it usually was. And his eyes. They were no longer lovely like a clear blue sky, but dark and stormy.

Because you felt as if something was wrong with you.

Because he made you feel that way.

With that one devastating question, his nerves didn't seem so important anymore. He reached out to take your hands in his so gently, as if you might shatter. "You're not repulsive. Nothing about you ever could be. It's that...when you meet someone so magnificent, and so beautiful, words don't always come easily."

Your heart swelled in your chest, the warmth of his hands soothing against your own. "What you're saying is...you don't flirt with me because you like me too much?"

He laughed softly. "It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that."

"I think it's sweet."

"Yeah?"

Sanji didn't think things could get much better than that, until you pulled him in for a kiss.

"Mhm..." You let go of his hands and reached your hands up to his face, pushing his hair back out of the way so you could really look at him. "I also like you too much."

Breakfast started out the same as any other day, everyone filtering in and settling at the table as Sanji put on the finishing touches.

Only the two of you knew that you'd spent a good chunk of the night talking and making out in that very room.

Sanji came to you first, placing a hand between your shoulder blades as he sat a bowl of rice porridge down in front of you, dazzling you with a grin. In that moment, you realized that you couldn't recall a crew meal where he hadn't served you first. Even though he hadn't used sweet names or traded inuendos with you, he never failed to look out for you in every way he could.

Oh, you really had been oblivious.

"Thank you, Sanji."

Once everyone was served, Sanji took the seat next to you, eagerly awaiting your opinion. But, as lovely as the porridge smelled, before you even thought to try it, you leaned in towards him and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

A rosy tint covered his face. "Anything for you, my angel."

The chatter and clinking of silverware against dishes stopped abruptly–aside from Luffy, who couldn't seem to eat his food fast enough.

Usopp was the first to speak, throwing hands up. "Whoa whoa whoa. What's going on here?"

"Are the two of you...?" Vivi trailed off, just as confused as Usopp.

"Yes." Sanji answered without a moment of hesitation, taking your hand to place a kiss on your knuckles.

You nodded in confirmation, but frowned when you saw Nami and Zoro looking at each other.

"So, who made the first move?" Nami asked casually.

"Yeah," Zoro said, turning to you. "It was you, right?"

"Why do you care?" Between that question and your conversation the day before, he seemed a little too invested. Suspiciously so.

"They made a bet about it! Me and Chopper heard them!" Luffy said between mouthfuls of food, and the two in question groaned.

"The loser takes over the winner's cleaning duties for a month," Chopper added.

"What?!" Glaring daggers was a light description for the look you were giving Zoro at the moment. "You bet on me? Are you serious?"

"Oh man, you're in for it now!" Usopp teased with a clap to Zoro's back, glad that he wasn't the one on your bad side.

Sanji smirked at Nami. Using the swordsman against him was a genius move, he had to admit. "Sneaky thing, aren't you?"

Nami simply took a sip of her tangerine juice.

Technically, Zoro won. It was you who started the part of the conversation that finally pushed things forward. But, in spite of how well it had turned out, you were far too annoyed with him for trying to nudge you in a certain direction for his own gain, and you knew Sanji would never willingly let him win anything.

Your eyes softened as you turned back to Sanji, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. "You know...we should just keep that information to ourselves."

"I was thinking the same thing, darling."

Nami muttered to Zoro. "At least we don't have to deal with the constant pining anymore."

The swordsman drank to that. Though he did have a scary thought...could you and Sanji actually being together end up being more annoying than before?

The meal quickly went back to business as usual, besides the fact that Sanji was holding your hand underneath the table.

The atmosphere in the Baratheon tent is thunderous, to say the least. Wine flows like a river from one side to the other, and Lyonel’s laughter carries through the room, naturally. He is in a good mood tonight, perhaps a little too good.

You, meanwhile, are seated beside him, dressed in a golden silk gown that shows off your youthful beauty and innate grace, attracting the attention of veteran lords and young knights alike, including some women, who don’t hesitate to send you a flirtatious wink or an all-too-friendly smirk when they’re near enough at your high table.

Lyonel is fascinated. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, a crooked smile on his face, enchanted by your ability to hold a quick-witted conversation with some lord whose name he can’t even be bothered to remember, and then laugh heartily at some vulgar joke from his personal guard in a matter of seconds. You are a breath of fresh air on a far too drunken night.

“You look particularly ravishing tonight, my lady,” Lyonel flirts, leaning close to your ear, his words thick and husky with wine and arousal. “If you keep smiling like that, I’ll have to duel half the people in the room just to have a minute alone with you.”

You laughed softly, lightly poking him in the arm to remind him to behave. “Lord Baratheon, if you can’t defend your place beside me, then perhaps you don’t deserve to be here at all.”

Lyonel roars with mirth at your provocative words, and just as his hand is threatening to slide down your thigh, a towering presence eclipses the lamplight in front of you.

You both turn to look at the intruder, and Ser Duncan the Tall stands towering before you, seeking the host—or rather, you. He has not been able to tear his eyes away from you ever since he stepped into the tent, enthralled by your beauty and charm. A crown rests beautifully on your head, with pretty detailing of intertwined golden little antlers that gleam in the light, but your eyes—they shine like blazing stars as they rise up through his entire body until they find his.

Surely you know who he is, your husband had been talking nonstop about the tall knight he had met but a couple of days ago, the tallest he had ever seen—and one of the prettiest too.

You've never doubted Lyonel's taste. Ser Duncan has a gorgeous face, big blue eyes that radiate an unsullied innocence you'd love to corrupt, perfectly plump lips, and a well-defined jawline. His shoulders are broad, his arms big and strong—everything about him seems... oversized.

You can see why Lyonel is so interested in him.

Duncan gulps audibly.

“Lord Lyonel,” he greets with an awkward bow of his head, his voice is so deep that you can’t help but tilt your head, caught up in his gaze.

“Ser Duncan!” Lyonel cheerfully greets him back, beaming with delight at the sight of him. “I knew you’d come back here. No one hosts better feasts than us Baratheons, huh?”

The auburn-haired man nods his head, a sheepish, sweet smile flitting across his lips, his gaze flickering from Lyonel’s smiling face to yours as you watch the interaction in silence, aware of your husband’s obvious enthusiasm.

“Aye, I just wanted to say that the feast is a fine success, and—” Duncan trails off, glancing at you again, his light blue eyes sweeping down to where your lips wrap around the rim of your wine glass. “And how fortunate you are to have your daughter accompanying you tonight. She is such a graceful and beautiful girl, my lord. Truly, the gem of the Stormlands.”

You almost choked on the sip of wine you'd been trying to gulp down as Lyonel falls into a sudden and uncharacteristic silence at your side. Fortunately, no one else has heard what the hedge knight just said, as the party bustles on around you.

“My... daughter?” your husband scowls, the hint of offense evident in his voice, and then turns to look at you, catching sight of the small, amused smile you try to cover up as you wipe your lips with a napkin, dabbing away traces of wine. “Ser Duncan, I appreciate the praise of her beauty, but you are terribly mistaken.”

Lyonel’s dark gaze is overshadowed by a flicker of possessiveness, his hand slides around your waist, pulling you closer just as one of your hands comes to lie on his chest to offer reassurance.

Duncan observes the scene, feeling an icy shiver creep down his spine, bringing a heavy weight that makes his stomach churn.

Lyonel grimaces as he looks back at Ser Duncan, shaking his head in disapproval. “She is not my daughter, Ser. She is my wife.”

At the revelation, Ser Duncan’s face goes from wine-flushed to a vivid scarlet in a matter of seconds, overcome with mortification. His eyes widen so much that you can get a better peek at their beautiful color, as they dart back and forth frantically between you and Lyonel, and then to Lyonel's hand firmly planted on the curve of your waist.

“Oh? Oh—By the Seven! Forgive me, my lord! My lady! Please,” Duncan blurts out, his deep voice trembling ever so slightly with shame as he awkwardly bends down, nearly hitting the table with his forehead from bowing so low. “I... I’m a fool. I didn’t mean to insult you, t–truly. It’s just that—she’s so...”

Seeing the knight’s agony, Lyonel breaks out in a hearty laugh that reduces him to silence.

He leans forward, waving it off with a casual hand gesture, meanwhile guiding the other one in a tantalizing route across your back, sliding down to cup your arse in a playful display of possessiveness.

“Bah! It’s no big deal, Duncan,” Lyonel reassures him with amusement, leaning his chin on his palm, his elbow propped up on the table, the corners of his lips curling into a mischievous smirk. “Just a silly mistake, as you say. I admit, though, I took slight offense at your suggestion that I'm old enough to be the father to such...exquisite young lady.”

“Lyonel...” you scold him softly for his comment, leaning your head on his shoulder and enjoying the drama as well as the divided attention of both men.

“Because she is beautiful, don’t you think, Dunk?” your husband asks the poor, embarrassed knight, who keeps looking at both of you with utter mortification, his jaw pressed shut to refrain from saying anything else inappropriate. “A sweet, lovely little thing.”

He is looking at you as he speaks to Duncan, leaning close so he can kiss your lips, his eyes darkened by desire and naughtiness.

“Mmm... delicious too,” he teases, smiling slyly.

You know perfectly well where he’s heading with all this. You see through his little games and flirtations, and you delight in them.

You love your game as well, smiling coquettishly at Ser Duncan and waiting for him to express his agreement with your husband.

“M–me?” he chokes out, then gulps again. “A–aye, my lord, she is beautiful, very, her eyes are gorgeous—but—but I wouldn’t want to presume—”

Lyonel lets him continue babbling on, knowing how much you enjoy receiving flattery, his hand absentmindedly palming the curve of your bum, hidden from the eyes of the rambling Duncan in front of you.

“So, if you like my wife so much...” Lyonel eventually cuts him off, offering him a cheeky smirk brimming with anticipation, his tongue tentatively wetting his lips, “then you should spend the night with us. I think we could find more than enough fun.”

Ser Duncan is left speechless, his jaw dropping comically as his blue eyes shift frantically from your husband's amused face to your expression of feigned innocence.

“W–what? Me? Three...?” Duncan is able to sputter out, his deep voice rising to a high pitch in disbelief. His hands fly up in front of him and gesture in nervous agitation, huffing out air. “I—my lord... this—are you... are you joking?”

A bright laugh escapes your lips, and you delicately cover your mouth with one hand, your eyes flashing with amusement.

You feel Lyonel laughing too at the knight’s shocked expression.

“You’re... you’re not joking?” Duncan asks then, hysterical—and visually hopeful. “Right?”

"What are you talking about, child? Your father scolded you, his eyebrows twitching with tension, but he did not raise his voice. "It will be as I say! Such a blessing has not come to our house in half a century! The heir to Storm's End! Do you know how powerful he is? Lord Gowen Baratheon is old—very old; soon his son will take over as ruler of the entire Stormlands! You will marry him, because the House Swann demands it of you!" He slammed his palm down on the table in front of you, his voice ringing in your ears. You staggered backward, your legs buckling, but not out of fear of your father. 

You barely blossomed, and already they tear off your petals? They pull you out of the dewy soil, roots and all...?

The antlered lord...

You left the room before your anger could turn to tears. Running through the castle, the corridors seemed too narrow. The air was too thin in your lungs. Lady of Storm's End. A house worthy of respect. A mighty castle carved from stone and storm.

And an old man to go with all of it, who will cover you with his cloak…

You knew nothing else about him. Only that he had seen more years than you. More winters. More battles. What could he want from you besides heirs and polite smiles? What can you expect from a man who has had more women in his life than you bled? The hair on the back of your neck stood on end, and your stomach began to churn. It's not too late to saddle your horse under cover of night, put on your cloak, and head for Old Town... If that's too far... fearful that before you get there, they'll discover your scheme and drag you right back... a sanctuary, a convent nearby... that too would do. You'd rather give yourself in eternal vows to the gods than swear eternal fidelity to an aging lord... This cannot be your fate.

The last tournament of the season was intended to be a farewell celebration. Your father allowed you to accompany him with unusual tenderness—perhaps out of guilt, perhaps out of calculation—with only two companions. One last taste of freedom before duty closes its doors behind you. Before your wings are clipped.

The field was adorned with flags and summer colors. Knights thundered past in polished armor, their lances striking like lightning. You laughed louder than you should have. You drank sweeter wine than you should have. You let the wind tousle your hair and pretended that the world would turn upside down in a few moons. Strangely, as if it were a gift, your father did not scold you; he did not take offence when your enthusiasm grew and your worries faded. He knew that despite all your defiance, you had been raised well and would never tarnish the ancient name of House Swann. And in any case. . . you could have put on your cloak and disappeared at any time, only to knock on the door of the nearest monastery for admission. 

The thought lingered longer than it should have.

You imagined the silence. The stone walls. The devout and anonymous life. No storms. No husbands. No heirs waiting to be born.

But you were never made for silence. Your family crest was a swan, black and white, two sides of the same coin. You, too, like the white swan on the summer lake, appeared graceful to everyone, a quiet, delicate creature that looked beautiful in the estate's garden as it swam carefree on the waves. But swans are wild creatures. They are wilder than deer when disturbed. They hiss, bite, and flap their wings if necessary. You too will hiss and bite when the time comes. 

Now you felt like flapping your wings; throwing a fly into your noble father's cup. 

When evening fell, the multitude of tents transformed from a knightly tournament into a lively bazaar. The merchants, shouting vendors, and their wares did not disappear, only rabbit meat was replaced by spiced wine, and bread by betting tickets. The tents were filled with louder and louder groups of people, music, dancing, food, drink, and brawls as far as the eye could see. Sure enough, the starlight did not help your servants see you as you ran from tent to tent—ostensibly to discover the many exciting goods on offer; but in reality, you picked up your feet and tucked your skirt under your arm for you wanted to disappear from the sight of your escorts at the next turn. After a while you finally managed — rushing forward with excited cries, making sharp turns — to no longer notice the familiar, worried faces following you. Everyone you encountered was a stranger. 

For a heartbeat, joy overwhelmed reason.

Like when a canary's cage accidentally opens and it flies swiftly into the distant blue sky, not caring what it leaves behind, feeling only the caress of the swift wind between its feathers. Only then does the realization come that the canary is a prize bird and will never be able to survive among the birds of the forest...

The initial excitement was quickly replaced by the icy realization that you were lost, surrounded by commoners, wandering knights, and merchants enjoying the night's revelry. 

Until now, jousting tournaments have always been about bright armors, noble steeds, music, and feasts for you, and you've never had the chance—or encountered—what the common people really do at these events. Those who worked amid the smell of mud, iron, and horse manure, who could only earn their daily bread through hard labor, now had a noble lady among them. Wealthy and vulnerable...

Clearing your throat, you lowered your eyes and quickly glanced around your surroundings from under your eyelashes. Among the colorful and tattered tents and stalls, your gaze suddenly fell on a more spacious tent dotted with crimson and purple grape clusters, which seemed to belong to a noble family. Perhaps it belonged to the Redwynes of Arbor. You hurriedly picked up the hem of your skirt and made your way to the entrance of the tent. There, if nothing else, you would be safe from pickpockets and thieves. Or at least there they would recognize your noble house and its rank... If nothing else, they would surely take you home at dawn to your furious father, who had searched for you all night long. If nothing else, you could have a little more fun there one last time. 

The guards at the entrance were half-drunk themselves, their red cloaks loosened at the throat, laughter spilling from within the pavilion like wine from an overfilled cup. One of them straightened when he noticed you.

“My lady?” You lifted your chin, schooling your expression into something imperious, something you had seen your mother wear a thousand times.

“I was separated from my companions,” you said smoothly. “I seek shelter until dawn.” The man hesitated only a moment before stepping aside. Rank recognized rank — even in torchlight and revelry. 

Inside, the air was warm and sweet with Arbor gold. Rich carpets softened the ground, lanterns glowed through tinted glass, and silks hung from the center pole like banners in a perfumed court. Laughter echoed from the back of the tent — male voices, low and indulgent. You stepped fully inside before your courage could falter. The flap fell closed behind you, muting the sounds of the outer camp, though not entirely. Music still drifted faintly through the canvas. The scent of wine and sweat and crushed grass clung to the air. 

You tried to sit down at a nearby table as inconspicuously as possible, where pheasant was the main course, and people were eagerly eating the golden-brown, juicy meat. As you sat down a little further away, a waitress turned almost immediately and pressed a copper cup into your hand. 

"Wine, beer, nectar, ma'am?" she asked, half shouting over the music. 

"I won't offend my hosts, bring me a glass of the strongest Arbor wine! " You smiled at the girl, whose white apron tied around her waist was splattered with red from the spilled wine. She nodded quickly and hurried to the other side of the tent, where huge barrels lay neatly stacked against the wall, like a house of cards. 

The wine swirled darkly, like congealed blood in your glass, as your fingers clasped the copper rim. Its aroma pierced your nose, making your head spin, filling it with the deep scent of apples, pears, and nutmeg. When the wine touched your tongue, it stung, gritted between your teeth, spreading sharply in your mouth and then down your throat. It was strong, stronger than you were used to, and the sudden rush of intoxication, the pleasantly rough taste, relaxed your chest and shoulders. You liked how the taste of the wine mingled with the warmth of the tent, the smell of meat and spices, and the music. You listened with a smile to the stories of funny anecdotes or scandalous gossip told by those sitting around you, even if you couldn't understand much of what they were saying. Your head began to tingle, your mind wrapped itself in soft fabric, and you felt that perhaps here you could forget your sorrows, turn away from your fate.

At the back of the pavilion, four men sat sprawled around a low table cluttered with cups and a half-played game of cyvasse. One of them—red-haired, handsome, flushed—you recognized as Lord Fossoway's son. Another was Lord Theodal Redwyne himself, with his long curled mustache and purple tunic, clutching a whole jug. Next to him sat a young man—almost a boy, that is, leaning back in his chair to vomit at the edge of the tent.

The fourth member of the drunken group, unlike his companions, sat on the table using his chair as a footrest. You could only see his back, which was as wide as the table itself, where the competition was taking place. He wore a yellow and black tunic, but you couldn't see his house's coat of arms anywhere on it. For a few moments, a wave of panic washed over you—yellow and black; those are the colors of House Baratheon. They must all be noblemen, since you recognized two of them... If you managed to wander into the tent where your cursed husband-to-be was drunk... But there were many other houses among the nobles of Westeros that wore these colors. As you looked around, you saw that most of the lords of the Reach were gathered in the wine tent... Why would a lord of the Stormlands seek out this company?

After two big gulps, you dismissed the idea; the wine brought a warm, numbing calm, assuring you that you would not encounter the antlered lord here.  

 Time passed, your glass was emptied and refilled, your neighbors, sitting cheerfully beside and in front of you, enthusiastically welcomed you into their conversation, even though none of you knew each other's names. Suddenly, the music quickened, cheerful, flirtatious strings began to play, and you watched with a grin and a chuckle as the couples rose from their seats and began to dance quickly. Skirts swirled, arms waved, feet jumped in the middle of the tent, many shouted and sang, encouraging the dancers. 

Suddenly, a flash of red hair appeared beside you, and a man staggered toward you, clutching the edge of the table to steady himself.

"Well, well, I didn't know that Lord Swann's daughter would honor us with her presence!" Young Steffon laughed. He gave you a dull smile, looking around at the crowd of people. "Is your father here somewhere?"

You swallowed hard at the next sip of wine, your throat tightening as you tried to coax an answer out of yourself. A plausible one, if possible. “He was here, of course.” You nodded cautiously. “But it’s getting late and he prefers to be in bed early and rise early. I stayed in his place…with my entourage…but I see they disappeared among the dancers for a while.”

Steffon nodded with a snort, wiping his forehead.

“Please come and greet Lord Redwyne! He will surely be relieved of his sickness at the sight of a graceful swan.” The man rolled the words carefully on his tongue, but they still came out bubbling from his lips.

“I don’t want to disturb the lords’ game…” You excused yourself, pointing towards their table.

“Oh! These are not lords!” Suddenly, the young man you thought you saw throwing up when you arrived grabbed Lord Steffon’s shoulder. “My cousin is just an heirling, the only real lord at the table is Redwyne, isn’t he cousin?” The boy laughed, leaning on Steffon.

“This is my cousin, Raymund.” The Fossoway heir filtered through his teeth with a nervous smile. “Although he’s right, the only man worth anything here is Theodal, and his four-time win in cyvasse! Come, my lady, maybe you can beat him!”

Before you could answer, the Fossoways were already dragging you along; stumbling, laughing beside you, dazed, but their upbringing hadn’t yet sunk far deep into their skulls so that they wouldn’t be careful to hold you gently.

You blinked hard as you tried to grip your cup, the dancing of the people blurred before you, the sounds merging. Lending an amusing sight and feeling to the whole situation. You almost wanted to laugh at the way the nobles dragged you along like a prisoner, your punishment was to fight Lord Redwyne at board games.

When you reached their table, they sat you more gently on the heavy wood, and your arms fell back onto your own appointed seats.  Still laughing, you turned to the lord of the tent, who was now looking at you curiously. 

"Good evening, Lord Redwyne." You blinked widely, smiling, and bowed slowly to the old man. 

"Well, well, Lord Swann's beautiful daughter? In my tent? What an honor!" The man laughed too, raising his arms high, the wine in his hand splashing behind him. "Steffon brought you as reinforcement, right? They can't handle me, so they need a cunning woman's mind!" 

You nodded and glanced at the board in front of them, the pieces scattered and pushed around on the wooden table. 

"Well, it can't hurt to join in." You shrugged, then your heart leapt in your chest when a shoulder spread out next to you among the plates. You turned to the other side to see what had frightened you, and then recoiled in your chair, almost slapping your face. 

His hair was thick and dark, brushing his collar in careless waves, with a few curly locks that faded into gray on the man's neck. And though there was a faint line at the corner of one eye — earned, not aged, there was nothing frail or faded about him. You felt heat rush to your face and hated yourself for it.

 As if his strength had left him, he leaned his hand on the table and blinked at you and your companions, but his eyes were sharp, sharp and blue, like the overcast sky, behind which the blue expanse was still visible. A long emerald sparkled in his right ear, his shirt was torn and stretched to cover his body, and a cloth was tied around his waist. Under his mustache, his face had not lost its charm with the passing of the years, and you thought he was quite handsome. You could have taken him for a pirate, and in such a celebration, perhaps their presence would not have been surprising. 

"Ah, another victim?" The man grinned, sizing you up, then glancing at the lords. His voice was deeper than you expected. Not rough — but rich, taunting.  "I sense that blood may be spilled on the battlefield now."

Next to you, Lord Redwyne clicked his tongue. "What's the rush? There will only be strategic discussions here. Lady Swann came to my aid."

The stranger grinned.

"Well," He said slowly and absentmindedly. "Either the gods are smiling on me tonight, or I've wandered into the wrong tent again."

You blinked rapidly, trying to figure out why the man wanted to lie down on the same level as the food that had been served. "Sir?" 

The man chuckled, then leaned forward, took your hand, and pressed a light kiss to your knuckles.

Lord Redwyne wiped the corner of his eye and continued to laugh into his goblet. "A rare honor indeed!" The old lord said between breaths. "The famous Lyonel Coldrin honors our humble table."

You looked back at the knight, who was still holding your hand. He didn't let go. His thumb casually, idly stroked your knuckles before finally letting go, then straightening up in his seat with exaggerated dignity.

"You mock me, sir," said the knight seriously, frowning. "My reputation precedes me in at least three villages and a medium-sized sheep pasture."

The Fossoway brothers choked on their wine. At that moment, you examined the illustrious knight more closely.

His tunic was of good quality, though not new. Black and yellow stitching adorned the sleeves. Indeed, the colors of Costayne. His boots were worn from use, not formal wear. A knight accustomed to hard riding, not posing among fops in the court.

And yet... There was something about him that didn't quite fit the role he claimed for himself. Too easygoing among gentlemen. Attention lurking beneath humor; like a lynx feigning laziness.

"Do you serve Lord Tommen Costayne?" you asked casually, repeating his introduction.

"Devotedly," he replied immediately, nodding at you. "I polish his armor. I pour his wine. I weep openly for his victories."

Laughter rippled around the table again. Lord Redwyne shook his head. "Careful, Coldrin. If you joke too boldly, someone may ask you to prove it tomorrow."

Lyonel—or rather, Ser Coldrin—grinned. "Then I will disappoint them spectacularly."

He sat back on the cushion, not on the food as you had first feared, and stretched his long legs out in front of him, carefree. One of his knees touched the hem of your dress.

You should have pulled away from the touch. It was an inappropriate gesture. But you didn't.

"And what brought Lady Swann into such dubious company?" He asked, tilting his head back, watching you from under his dark lashes, a half-smile on his lips.

"Curiosity." You replied with a shrug, trying to appear aloof.

"A dangerous disease."

"I've survived worse."

His smile widened slightly. "Really?"

For a moment, the laughter and lamplight seemed to fade around you. There it was again—that piercing observation behind the jokes.

You didn't let it bother you. You were a lady, high-ranking, measured, noble.

"I hear Lord Redwyne has excellent wines." You said to your host instead, nodding, and he smiled, blushing at the compliment.

"Ah..." Coldrin murmured, reaching for the jug. "Then they told you the truth." He poured for you himself, with a steady hand, despite his convincing act of drunkenness. When he handed you the goblet, his fingers lingered on yours for a moment too long.

Not with a sneering grin, as they had done before, but with a meaningful, sidelong wink. 

"What is it?" You scoffed with a laugh, clumsily.

"Nothing, my lady," replied the older one, shaking his head too quickly.

Coldrin leaned closer and lowered his voice so much that you felt as if he were sharing a secret with you.

"Forgive them," he whispered, his voice purring softly in your ear, making your stomach flutter. "They are simple creatures. Easily entertained."

"Why, are you not?" You raised your eyebrows with a sly, perhaps provocative smile on your lips. 

"Yes, I am," he admitted with a huff. "But my entertainment is more refined."

One corner of his mouth curled up, his expression almost boyish despite his broad shoulders and massive frame. He was relaxed, yet radiated strength—the way he balanced his weight evenly, the way his hands never really rested. Even when he leaned casually against the table, he looked as if he could spring into motion in the blink of an eye.

You noticed that although he played the drunk well, his gaze was never glassy. His words were never slurred. The wine loosened his tongue, but it did not control him.

Your eyebrows rose even higher, if that was possible. "For example?"

He pretended to think, pursing his lips under his beard. 

His hair was dark as storm clouds at dusk, thick and slightly unruly, curling at the edges as if it refused to be disciplined. It fell in carefree waves under his collar, framing his face, which might have been too rough to be called handsome in the courtly sense—if it hadn't been so full of life. He had a strong jaw, shadowed by a short beard, which did little to soften it, only reinforcing the impression that he was more accustomed to the wind and the saddle than to bright halls.

A faint scar ran near his temple, half-hidden by his hair. Another was on the knuckle of one of his fingers when he raised his hand.

And his eyes... They easily conveyed humor, but beneath that there was something sharper. Alert. Assessing.

"Storm watching..." he said finally. He tilted his head slightly to one side, as if testing how the words flowed between you. "I test spears against people who underestimate me. I watch noble ladies pretend they don't enjoy my company." Hearing his words, your throat tightened, so you raised your cup and tried to loosen it with wine. 

"And I pretend not to enjoy it either? The corners of your mouth curved upward, your eyes sparkling as you stared him down. And although he leaned back casually, as if the world amused him, there was nothing careless about the way he held your gaze.

His eyes wandered briefly to your mouth, then returned to your eyes. "Not very convincingly."

Suddenly, you felt a rush of heat, your face burning under his gaze. Across the table, Lord Redwyne stood up with a grumble. "I'll let you young people play your games..." He announced, and passing by, he slapped the younger Fossoway on the shoulder. "Try not to set the tent on fire."

Slowly, the chatter and competition died down around you, and the young noblemen dispersed to join other companies. Soon, only the two of you remained, along with the faint buzz of revelry from outside. Slowly, you turned to Lyonel.

"It seems our friends have deserted us." You glanced to your side with a knowing smile, shrugged your shoulders, and leaned your elbows on the table. You pulled your arm lazily in front of you, placed your index and middle fingers slowly on the rim of your cup, and began to circle the metal with loose movements. 

He leaned back on his hand, his face annoyingly calm as he sized you up. "Maybe they're just offended," he drawled.

You snorted loudly, unbecoming of a lady. "By what would they be?" You laughed.

Lyonel glanced at you, flashing you a dazzling, boyish grin, then leaned back with a heavy sigh, propping himself up on his arms. You just stared at him for a while.

"I'm beginning to suspect that I'm the object of some kind of jest," you said, shaking your head, a sharp pain piercing your heart.

He looked up. The curly locks of his gray mane bounced gently. He studied you for a long moment, his eyes revealing nothing. 

"If that were the case..." he said gently. "it wouldn't be out of malice."

The answer didn't satisfy you—but it didn't alarm you either, it just made you curious.

You lifted your chin slightly. "And what does the famous Lyonel Coldrin hope to gain from entertaining me tonight?"

This time, his smirk was slower. "Perhaps," he said with a soft sigh. "I just wanted to see if Lady Swann would bite."

You leaned closer through your cup without meaning to. "And do I bite?"

Something sweeter than wine flashed in his eyes.

"Oh," he murmured with a chuckle, his voice as deep as distant thunder. "I think I do."

The music nearby swelled again, fiddles and drums and the bright trill of a pipe cutting through the night air. Coldrin's head tilted toward the sound.

"Come," he said suddenly, pushing to his feet in one smooth motion. "If we remain here much longer, you will begin asking sensible questions. I prefer you reckless."

"I am not reckless," you protested automatically with a cheeky smirk.

His grin widened, leaning closer. In his proximity, you could smell the sweet-sour aroma of wine and the scent of his coat. It was enticing. "Then prove it."

Before you could reconsider, he offered his hand. You hesitated only a heartbeat before placing yours in his. Suddenly, your previous bravado slipped away, replaced by a girlish excitement, a hopeful heartbeat as you scanned his face.

The music permeated your body—your blood pulsed to the rhythm of the violin, your heart beat to the beat of the tambourine, your leg muscles heated up and tingled with movement. Around you, skirts swirled, boots stamped, people shouted and screamed, and the colors of their clothes blurred together, enveloping you.  Lyonel held your hand firmly, his warm palm relaxing you as his fingers intertwined with yours. 

He did not lead you to the orderly lines of noble dancers near the musicians' platform. He led you straight into the middle of it all.

“Sir—” You began, giggling, but it was too late to protest. His hand found your waist, firm and certain, and he spun you into the rhythm before your body had time to object. Your skirts flared. Laughter escaped you—real and startled.

“There,” He declared. “You see? Still alive.”

“You are insufferable,” You gasped, trying not to stumble as he turned you again.

“And yet you follow.” He winked at you with a cheeky grin. 

The drums quickened. He matched them easily, surprisingly light on his feet for a man so broad. His movements were not courtly-polished — they were instinctive, flowing, confident. When he drew you closer, it was not to display you, it was to keep you steady.

Your hands came up to brace against his shoulders, and only then did you realize how solid he truly was. Not soft from wine. Not softened by indulgence. Strong. 

“Do all of Lord Costayne’s knights dance like this?” You teased breathlessly.

“Only the most renowned,” Lyonel replied solemnly. You laughed again and the sound felt like something breaking free inside your chest.

For a few precious moments, you forgot Storm’s End. Forgot betrothals. Forgot fathers and expectations and stone walls waiting to close around you. There was only the music. The heat of the tent and wine. His hand at your waist. And the way he looked at you. As if you were the only bright thing in the crowd. Never looking away from your face; deep eyes, mesmerizing and intoxicating gaze.

The song slowed unexpectedly, the wild rhythm softening into something lower, more intimate. He did not release you, instead his hand slid more securely at the small of your back. Yours rested at his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric there.

“You dance well for a man who drinks so much.”  You murmured tilting up your face to his own. One slight move, and you could have tasted the wine on his lips.

“I do many things well.” He answered, quieter now, eyes softening.

The space between you narrowed without either of you commanding it. The world beyond your shoulders blurred; noise dulling into a distant hum. Your breath mingled. You suddenly became aware of everything; the warmth of his palm, the brush of his thumb against your spine, the faint scent of wine and leather and clean night air.

His gaze dropped — just slightly — to your mouth, and stilled there. You should have stepped back. You are a noble lady, and you are engaged.  You did not move away.

“Lady Swann.” He said softly, your name no longer a jest but something precious. Your heart pounded so loudly you were certain he could hear it.

“Yes, Ser Coldrin?” You blinked at him from under your eyelashes.

His hand tightened just enough to pull you half a breath closer. “If I were a less honorable man—” He murmured, lidded eyes jumping from your lips to your eyes, desperately trying to hold your gaze. 

“But you are not?” You whispered.

A faint, almost rueful smile curved his lips. “That remains to be seen.” The music faded into its final notes, the last chord trembling in the air. You felt it before it happened — the shift in the air around you, in him. He leaned in. Slowly. Giving you time to refuse.

Your fingers tightened at his shoulder instead. His breath brushed your lips. Warm. Close. The world narrowed to the space between your mouths… You were curious about the taste of his mouth, the feel of his lips. Now you could find out what kind of wine he had been drinking.

 And then a shout erupted nearby, followed by raucous laughter and the crash of a spilled bench and… The spell shattered. You both startled slightly, the moment breaking like glass. He drew back first. Just enough to lose his warmth from your skin.His thumb brushed once against your cheek, barely there, a ghost.

“You should return before someone notices your absence.” He said quietly.

Your pulse still thundered in your ears. “And if I do not wish to?”

His eyes darkened, something fierce flickering there before he masked it with an easy smile. “Then I would have to decide whether Lyonel Coldrin is brave enough to steal a lady from her fate.”

You searched his face, breath unsteady. “And is he?”

He stepped back fully now, offering you his arm instead of his lips. “He is many things,” He said lightly. “But tonight, he is only your dance partner.”

You placed your hand on his arm. But as he escorted you through the lantern glow, you could still feel the almost of it lingering between you. Like the air before a storm finally breaks... The what if.

Suddenly, you came to your senses. If anyone here recognizes you and sees you with a knight beneath your rank... What would your father say? What would happen to your agreement with your fiancé? Your family name?

You felt something tight and sharp, burning like a brand, wash over your face. You lowered your gaze as you moved away from Lyonel, not daring to look into his intense eyes again. You felt ashamed of what you had done, even though it had not actually happened. He was there between you. He was there in your heart. That was enough. 

"I'm sorry, but..." You swallowed hard, searching for words. "The night is getting long, and... my noble father is surely missing my company for the evening..." You excused yourself, looking at the trampled ground. 

"Of course." The answer came, but you didn't look up at him. You couldn't. "The little swan must swim home." 

Stepping away from the man, a chill ran through you, even though the tent was sweltering with dancing and revelry. You felt a tingling sensation on your waist where he had been holding you, and your hand burned where you had clasped his. Coming here tonight was the biggest mistake of your life. Now that your hand will belong to someone else and you will be taken away to a stormy land forever, you have perhaps found the feeling that you had only heard about in fairy tales and imagined would one day be your destiny. But not like this. As soon as you tasted this sweet, inviting feeling, they immediately tore it from your hand, from your heart. 

The music raced through your ears and head like needles, and you no longer heard the rhythm, only the pounding, drumming, and whining. You tried to force a faint smile onto your face, raising your head higher, but even then it only reached your collar.

In the heat of the night and the wine, the decision would have been easy, too easy for you. But then the next day, when you looked in the mirror, who would look back at you? When you woke up in each other's arms the next day, would he still have his noble bearing? Would you still have your honor? Your throat was dry as the scene flashed through your mind.  You imagined, for one reckless heartbeat, what it would be like to remain. To let him pull you back into the dance. To let his hand slide once more to your waist. To feel his mouth at yours.

No one would know. That was the lie; someone always knew. Your father would know. Your future husband would know, the gods above would know. And you would carry it.

"I... I'm already promised to someone else..." You said softly, the words torn from your lungs, sharp and searching. For a moment, you glanced at his face, just so you would know how he felt about you when he heard the news... and...

His eyebrows shot up, his jaw tightened, and his Adam's apple bobbed. "Yes." He nodded almost imperceptibly. "I heard about it."

"A man... a gentleman I did not choose." You continued, haltingly.

Lyonel closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. "Few have a choice."

Your legs felt heavy—rooted deep in the ground, unable to be uprooted by the wind. Suddenly, it seemed as if silence had fallen, the music had died away. The laughter and singing around you had died away. Or perhaps it was just you who felt it, like the quiet barrenness in your heart. You swallowed hard, your saliva thick. "I... would stay; really... But I'm afraid... I'll soon forget my duty and... I don't want that. I'll try to keep them in mind, but if I dance with you..."

The air between you became still. He stepped closer—this time he didn't touch you.

"If you stay," He said, his voice now quieter and rougher. "You won't forget." A faint smile crossed his lips. "Not tonight, anyway."

Your pulse quickened.

"You will remember," He continued, looking into your eyes. Your heart turned to stone at his tender gaze. "And so will I." His sincerity affected you more deeply than you wanted it to, more than you could allow. You slowly closed your eyes. You felt that this was the moment. The limit.

One more breath, and you could have leaned forward. One more heartbeat, and you would have let him kiss you. One more reckless second, and you would have stepped into a future that wasn't yours.

When you opened your eyes, determination hardened in your gaze. "I can't be this foolish." You said, clenching your teeth so your voice and lips wouldn't tremble.

Lyonel nodded slowly and turned away. "You're braver than most of the men here tonight," he said softly.

"I don't feel brave." You chuckled sourly, shoulders sagging. 

"You're leaving behind something you want." That truth hurt more than it should have.

You took a deep breath of the tent's stench. You pulled your shoulders back and straightened your spine, just as your septa had taught you.

"I must return to my father before I do something that would bring shame upon him." Your breath caught in your throat. "And both of us," You added. 

Lyonel examined you long and hard, as if he wanted to memorize this version of you. The noble lady, discipline and duty on her shoulders.  

Then he reached for your hand again, but not to pull it closer, just to gently lift it and press his lips to your wrist. This time, the kiss lingered.

“Go, then, Lady Swann,” He murmured against your skin. “Before I forget my own honor.”

You pulled your hand back slowly, afraid that if you did it too quickly, you would betray how much it burnt.

“Good night… ser.”

“Good night.”

You turned before you could change your mind. The night air outside the tent struck you cold and clean, the sounds of revelry dulled behind canvas walls. Torches flickered along the pathways between pavilions as you walked. Slow at first, like a drunk, trying to find their footing.  Then, faster, as though chased by your own heart. 

At the edge of the encampment you paused once, just once, and looked back. Through a gap in the tent flaps, you saw his silhouette; tall, still, watching the entrance long after you had gone. He did not follow. And neither did your heart. 

When you reached your father’s pavilion, the guards straightened at once. One slipped inside to announce you. You smoothed your hair, wiped the last trace of warmth from your lips and pressed your hands together until they stopped trembling.

By morning, you would be dutiful again. By morning, this would be nothing but a foolish night. By morning, he will forget you. 

Your arrival was not a pleasant dance. In fact, you felt that if they had given you a shield and a sword, you could have fought a knightly duel with your father. In the tent, you were greeted by two servants, white as snow with fear, and a father red with rage. His roar could probably be heard at the other end of the tent. What followed was a sweaty lecture on manners, duty, childlike obedience, humility, and what a scandal you had caused as an unmarried lady, wandering into some beer tent with your fiancé. Without an escort. Your father was a patient man, even kind and merciful by most parents' standards, but that night you went to bed with a sore foot, which he had whacked with his leather belt. You couldn't be angry with him, though, because you knew that the reputation of your father and your entire household could have been ruined that evening. Still... you wondered if it would have been better not to head for the tent, but for the convent after all...

The next morning dawned brightly. It was as if the events of the previous evening had never happened. 

By noon, the stands were full. Flags fluttered in the wind—green apples, red grapes, golden roses, black deer. You sat upright next to your father, your hands neatly folded on your lap, and once again you were the dutiful daughter with every fiber of your being.

The knights rode forward one by one. Their armor glistened in the early sunlight, the horses stamped their feet, and glorious hymns and introductions rang out.  Only sometimes did you pay attention, perhaps when there was a fall, a loud crash, or when a horse neighed loudly. You stared into space, clasping your hands, recalling the taste of wine and the feeling of those smiling lips that had never kissed you.

And then... A murmur ran through the crowd. The next rider did not trot onto the battlefield bearing the coat of arms of one of the smaller houses. He entered the arena in black and yellow... in shiny, gold-trimmed black armor. On his breastplate, proudly and unmistakably... a crowned stag.

Your breath caught as you stared at him. His helmet, held under his arm, had antlers made of dark steel. The knight's horse was huge, powerful, and restless, like a storm waiting to break.

The herald's voice rang clear across the field. "Lyonel of House Baratheon, heir to Storm's End!" The world seemed to tilt.

As he rode closer to your pavilion. That curly black mane, streaked with gray. That thick beard... That prominent nose, strong jaw, mouth stretched into a sly grin...

Those wild blue eyes.

Lord Lyonel Baratheon.

Not Ser Coldrin. Not some silver-tongued, wine-warmed sworn knight. And most certainly not Lord Costayne's sworn sword. But Lyonel Baratheon. Your fiancé. Your old, despicable betrothed… 

Then he pulled hard on his horse's reins, and the animal turned toward you. The blood froze in your veins for a moment. Then it began to pulse through your veins again with fiery intensity. 

He looked directly at you. Not by accident.

And then you realized. Your brain was working furiously, your head almost steaming as you pieced together the puzzle between heartbeats. 

He knew. He knew all along. He knew and didn't say a word, so that—

"Well? Still an old man? In armor, with a sword? " Your father leaned toward you sarcastically. "The Stormlands raise capable sons, age does not weaken them." You barely heard him.

Lyonel turned his horse completely toward the stands. Toward you. And he raised his spear. The crowd fell silent in anticipation as he slowly moved his horse toward you.

He did not take his eyes off you for a moment. The same sly, knowing, cunning smile. Sparkling eyes. 

He did not bow before the royal box. Reaching the edge of the viewing platform, he raised his eyes, kicked his heels into the stirrups, and stood up in the saddle. Your heart was beating so fast and so hard in your chest that you were afraid it would jump out into your palm.  

You didn't even feel your legs move as you stood up from your seat and walked confidently up the stairs. You looked at him, only at him, as he watched. The same expression, the same face, yet what a different feeling. How different... how comforting. Your movement caused a ripple of whispers through the gallery as you stepped forward to the railing.

His eyes shone even brighter.

"Mademoiselle Swann." He bowed on his horse, helmet in one hand, reins in the other. "I took the liberty of coming before you to..." 

Before he could finish, you grabbed the end of his sleeve and, stretching the fine fabric, tore a piece off it. 

You pressed one hand against the railing and, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, leaned against the wood, stretching as far as you could, reaching for the piece of clothing in your hand.

Lyonel's smile widened, his pupils dilated, and he looked like yesterday's wine-intoxicated fervor. Perhaps he was drunk again, because he wanted too much from you. 

"For your victory, sir," You shouted loudly, almost laughing, your voice carrying farther than you expected. "And what may come after." The message was clear. 

The track began to roar.

Lyonel's expression changed—not to laughter, not to joy, but to something fierce and deeply satisfied. As if he had already won. 

He led his horse to the edge of the railing, the armor on his legs clanking against the wood. You stood on tiptoe to reach his outstretched, iron-adorned hand. When he finally reached the fabric with his fingers, he stroked your hand, and despite the cold metal, the touch felt soft, warm, almost scorching. 

So quietly that only you could hear, he said. "Do you know what you're choosing now?"

Your pulse quickened. Fate, you thought, how tireless and humorous fate can be. 

"Yes." Your smile pierced his breastplate, striking him straight in the heart. 

"And if I win?" He winked, with a hint of the evening's daring.  

"Then I think," You said, your voice now confident, your eyes shining. "I'll have to decide if I really want to marry a storm."

His smile widened—wild and wonderful. 

 "My lady," He said softly as he secured your favor to his lance. "I see you have already made your decision."

Then he lowered his helmet and rode off to meet his opponent. 

"Diana just turned two, she can't help where she puts her hands and you did insisted on sitting next to— LILY!" I point a finger to my second born, "STOP!"

Elizabeth releases Hendrick's hair then defends herself, "BUT HE'S ANNOYING!"

Hendrick smacks his older sister, "YOU'RE UGLY!"

"Enough!" my eldest quips before I can speak. James glares at his two younger siblings, slamming a fist on his table, "mother told you both to be quiet ages ago!"

I sigh and reach for my boy of 10 and 2, offering a soft smile, "thank you, but don't slam your fist on the table."

James turns to me, his eyes gentle and brows strong like his father, "yes, mummy."

"MOTHER!"

I turn to the door, my two girls are swinging their younger brother by his arms between them.

"Daddy said he won't be joining lunch," the older of the two girls announces.

I raise a brow at Aurora, knowing how pleased with herself she is when I fall for her jests. I turn to her sister, "daddy said this, Cassy?"

Cassandra nods.

Aurora pouts then raises a hand, "I WASN'T JESTING!"

"I didn't say you were, my love," I motion to the spread before me, "eat your food before it goes cold."

Cassandra and Aurora continue swinging Nathaniel until they get to their seats.

"Daddy looked sad," Cassandra mumbles as she sits down.

Aurora nods and turns to me after helping her four-year-old brother sit down, "he didn't even want to eat cake with us!"

There is a chorus of concerned reactions across the table.

"Father loves eating cake with us," James immediately contests with a skeptical look.

"IT'S TRUE! IT'S TRUE! I'M NOT JESTING!" Aurora exclaims, hand on her chest.

"But you lovvvveeee jesting," Elizabeth points a finger at her and sticks out her tongue.

"IT'S TRUE LILLLYYYY!!!!" Aurora whines then bursts into tears."

"Elizabeth Baratheon—"

The sad girl gasps, turning to me.

"—I've had enough of you!" I snap, throwing her a hard expression, "you will not be getting any cake this hour, girl."

"B-But mumma—"

Hendrick is about to taunt his sister.

I beat him to it, "do you have anything to say, Hendrick?"

He immediately straightens up and stares at his plate, "no, mother."

"Good," I look across the table, "finish your food then each of you will visit your father after."

Nathaniel stands on his chair, "BU-BUT MUMMY—"

"Sit down, Nathan!" Cassandra immediately tugs him down.

The boy grunts and sits down, "MUMMY!"

"Yes, my love?"

"MUM-" Nathaniel stops himself, eyes wide, "papa said not to interrupt him!"

"Yes, my love, but you'll just be giving my letters to him," I sigh, rubbing my round belly, "as you know, the babe is getting big and I am easily tired."

There is a chorus of responses from each child, and I do my best to respond to each of their sentiments.

Lyonel groans when he hears a knock on the door. He wipes his face at the sound of giggling outside. He sighs, head hammering at the sight of the seemingly endless ledgers in front of him, and then knocking repeats, much louder this time.

He cannot help himself, "WAS I NOT CLEAR I AM NOT TO BE DISTURBED?"

Before he can even finish his sentence, he can hear the sound of suppressed squeals and fleeing gallops.

Lyonel sighs, wiping his face once more when he hears a wail. He was sure it was one of the younger boys, Johnny or Nathan, asking not to be left behind.

His nostrils flare as he leans on his desk before pushing himself up from his chair. He makes for the door, opens it and sighs yet again at the empty hall. "Boys?" He turns around, "girls?"

No response.

His eyes narrow and his lips purse. He feels dreadful.

He places a hand on his hip, the other on his forehead as he steps back in and closes the door.

Lyonel knew his children well. It won't take long for them to return.

Before he could even sit, he already heard bickering. He stops, thinking he ought to just open the door, but he decides to let his children have their way.

He sits back down, one elbow on the desk, his head on his hand, waiting for the door to open.

It does, with a slow creak.

The bickering is hushed but bickering nonetheless.

Lyonel smiles when two pairs of hands lead his younger daughter inside. He vaguely hears one of his girls urge their sister to walk to daddy. He tilts his head, "and I don't think you even knocked, my girl."

Someone hisses outside. He can hear somone accuse another for forgetting to knock.

Diana doesn't even turn to her father, she is too concerned with the bows on her dress and sits on the floor.

Lyonel combs his grey curls back, "am I being made to believe Diana walked and opened the door herself."

"I told you!"

The voice is clear, so he calls, "Cassandra?"

Gasp.

Lyonel stares at the half-opened door.

Diana stands and decides to walk around.

He stands, "right—"

"It was me, daddy!" three-year-old Jonathan pops up, eyes wide, hair soft around his face.

Lyonel furrows his brow at his second youngest, "you brought little Diana all the way here?"

Jonathan grips his shorts as he nods his head rapidly.

The man chuckles, "all on your own, my love?"

He nods again, harder.

Lyonel slowly makes for them, crouching to their level, "my, how strong you are, Johnny. Can you and your sister walk to me?"

Jonathan grabs Diana by the hand and they both walk over. Their father beams at them, opening his arms, then swiftly plucks them up with a hearty chuckle, kissing them both all over their face.

"AHH SCRATCHY!" Johnny squeals.

Diana giggles and quickly mimics, "SCRATCHY," her enunciation far worse than the boy merely one year her senior.

Lyonel chuckles, adjusting the children in his arms, muttering mostly to himself, "I'll have you know your mother happens to like the scratch of my beard between her thighs."

"Father."

He looks forward, his smile softening from adoration to pride. He nods, "my young lord Baratheon."

James straightens his back and places a hand on his chest, "twas I that actually brought the children here."

He chuckles, amused that his eldest boy presumed to be not a child with how he said that, "I see... so, it is you who I must punish for disobeying my order to keep clear of my office?"

The first born's jaw slacks and his face pales, "NO! IT WAS MUMMY!"

Lyonel raises a brow before rolling his eyes as he sits on the edge of his desk, "of course it's you're mother."

"I have a letter from her!" James pulls out a letter, shaking it for show.

Lyonel presses his lips into a thin line. He has half the mind to tell James to pass on a strongly worded letter, but then Diana leans her head on his shoulder and Johnny begins to tell him about his wooden horse.

James doesn't give him a chance to respond to his youngest boy when he opens the letter and reads aloud: "My dearest love, Lyonel. If you were a boogie—" the boy's resolve breaks, so he cackles "I'd pick you!"

Lyonel himself was not amused by it at all, but the sound of James and the children outside his door laughing inspires the two in his arm to giggle, thus inspiring him. The man snorts and gently jolts his youngest, "funny, huh?"

"BOOGIE!" The boy squeals, squeezing his papa's face.

"I am not a boogie!"

James beckons the second born while his father is distracted, "Lily!"

Lyonel looks front.

Elizabeth emerges, clearing her throat. She grabs her skirts and curtsies, "my lord."

"Young lady Baratheon," the man nods at the girl.

She grins, pleased by the reciprocation, and flips her thick, dark hair away from her shoulders. She eyes her older brother, "see, I have manners, Jamie."

Jamie rolls his eyes.

It is her turn to procure a letter, then gets straight to it: "My sweetest dear, Lyonel. If you turned into a dog, I'd keep and call you Lyoggy!"

The children begin to laugh again, Elizabeth laughing the loudest.

"Right," Lyonel sees right through it, "I'll have no mutts in his house, you hear?"

"Pfft," James doesn't laugh at all, "it wasn't even clever."

"It's not!" Hendrick's unmistakable voice calls from outside.

"IT IS!" Elizabeth stomps her feet "you're both just jealous because you're not as clever as me!"

"No, I'm not," the two eldest boys call in unison.

Hendrick is next to come in, intent on starting an argument.

"Boys," Lyonel warns.

The boys immediately keep to themselves.

He furrows his brows at his daughter, "and I thought this was a letter from mummy?"

"It is!" Elizabeth insists.

Without even letting his father respond, Hendrick reads the next letter: "My darling lover, Lyonel. If you fell into mud, I would scrub you myself."

The children begin to laugh again.

"Aw," Lyonel coos, "that's actually really sweet."

Hendrick grins, "soooo, we think we should push you into mud!"

The children begin to cheer and clap. The ones outside don't even bother pretending not to be there anymore. Cassandra and Aurora rush in with Nathan between them.

"No!" Lyonel walks back to his desk, "you lot aren't even supposed to be here."

As he sits, the mob presses closer, giggling and grinning.

"Enough!" he raises his voice, only to cut over the noise, "Jamie, Lily, take Johnny and Di—"

"NO, PAPA, IT'S MY TURN!" Aurora whines, raising her letter.

"Then me!" Cassandra raises hers.

And Nathan, "MEEE!"

Lyonel huffs, groaning as he embraces his two babes, "FINNNEEEE!"

Aurora wastes no time. She clears her throat then reads: "My silly honey, Lyonel. You are very handsome even if you're stinky!"

The children squeal and cackle louder yet.

Lyonel cannot help his chuckle as he tilts his head, "your mother wrote that?"

"Yes!" Aurora clutches her belly as she giggles.

The children insist it is so through laughter.

"She signed it!" Hendrick says.

"It's true!" Cassandra nods.

Aurora pretends to read the letter, "love, mummy."

The children nod, corroborating with further lies.

"Mmm," their father pretends to think, "your mother never signs letters with Mummy."

Elizabeth gasps, "what she means to say was—"

"Daddy, me!" Nathaniel raises his letter.

"No, it's my turn first!" Cassandra yanks his arm down.

Nathaniel squeals and is about to crumble into a tantrum.

"Ah! You've done it!" whines Hendrick, already covering his ears.

James takes his younger brother's arm, "Nathan, it's fine!"

Lyonel holds the two children by his breast in one arm and manages to beckon the boy over, "no tears."

Nathaniel sniffles, immediately running towards his father, making room for himself on his lap.

Cassandra follows suit, "but papaaaaa! It's my turn!!"

Lyonel pulls the four-year-old boy onto his lap then grunts as the six-year-old girl tries to make space for herself there. The older children sneak under his arms, nestling the younger children between them into a warm and crowded embrace.

Their father adjusts accordingly, spreading his legs a little wider, "go on, my heart," he mutters, "I'm ready to listen."

Cassandra pulls out her letter. Lyonel sees how the ink has smeared with how clammy her hands were. He's already read the contents but nods when the girl reads: "My tender husband, Lyonel."

"Aye," Lyonel agrees.

"You are sweet every time and annoying only some times."

The children have another round of giggles.

Lyonel kisses the crown of Cassandra's head, "you sound just like your mother."

"Daddy! Mama wroooooote this!"

"Oh, right," he nods, "yes, of course, I forgot." He turns to Nathan, "right. Last one."

Nathaniel squeals and quickly unfurls his letter, nearly ripping it as he does. "My good boy, Lyonel!"

"I like being a good boy for mumma."

"You look and dance like a deer!" Nathaniel giggles and shakes in his arms excitedly.

Lyonel tightens his hold on his children, "and was that a compliment or an insult?"

"Insult!" replies the boy without a thought.

"No!" Cassandra grabs her father's face with her clammy hands, "compliment."

"Compliment!" the older children agree in their own timbres.

Lyonel sighs.

"Daddy, I want to sit on your lap too," Aurora frowns.

"And me!" Elizabeth agrees.

"Not me," says the two older boys in unison.

"I'm sorry, darlings, but I can't fit anymore babes on my lap."

"I'm not a babe!" says his second born, crossing her arms.

For a moment, he imagines the day she was born, his little Lily. He shakes his head, "of course not."

With that, Lyonel urges Cassandra off, then Nathaniel, his heart hurting when they both whine in disappointed protest. He props the two youngest on their feet then gestures to the eldest, "time to walk back."

Aurora places a hand on her hip, "mummy says you're not allowed to work unless you eat."

Lyonel straightens up to his full height, not that it matters at all to any of his children right now, "I will after I—"

"MUMMA SAID WE CAN PUSH YOU INTO MUD IF YOU DON'T LISTEN TO WHAT SHE SAYS!" Hendrick nearly bursts a lung with the intensity of his excited statement.

The mob leaves him with no room to argue.

Lyonel can do nothing but acquiesce.

Later that night, Lyonel finds himself in bed hours after I've fallen asleep. I immediately wake as I feel his warm and heavy body press up from behind me.

He hums as he tugs my nightgown off my shoulder, kissing the skin there, "didn't mean to wake you, my love."

"Mmm, no?" I barely manage to look at him, and decide to merely drop my head and close my eyes.

He hums, sinking his face into my neck. He inhales deeply, "mmm, no."

I reach back for him, scratching his scalp lightly.

Lyonel pulls me into his embrace, pressing my back flush against his chest. He pushes my hair away from my nape and kisses me there, "thank you for today." He mumbles against my skin, "I needed that break."

I hum, relishing the affection he was giving me, though I was half-asleep.

"The children and I ate three cakes."

"So, I heard."

Lyonel's hand roves over my body. He finds my breast, drawing out a mewl as he massages the sore flesh. His kisses trail up to my ear, "you've blessed my house greatly with sons and daughters."

"Mmm," my eyes open, "that I have, my dear."

Lyonel takes the opportunity to kiss my mouth when I turn to him. I sigh as his hand finds my thighs, "Lyonel."

"We should have more."

I push him back and stare at his face in the darkness of the room.

Lyonel clutches my cheek and kisses me again.

Or at least he tries to. I push him back once more, "I am with child."

"Mmm," his palm immediately finds my belly, "praise the Seven."

"Lyonel-"

"I merely mean that after, we should—"

"Do not irritate me when I am exhausted."

"..."

"Get off me."

Lyonel hesitates, "alright... I take it back. No need to be cruel."

I groan and roll over, closing my eyes once more, "good night, daddy.*

He nuzzles his face into my nape and wraps his arms around me, "please don't be cross with your good boy."

"You aren't my good boy."

Lyonel whines.

"Get off me if you'll continue sputtering nonsense."

“Then I’ll have them thrown in the dragonpit,” he mutters, entirely serious. 

You roll your eyes. You do not tell him that the thought of the dragonpit is more appealing right now than the thought of another mouthful of food. 

—

Verminthor is the first to lose his patience. 

You go to him because the stone halls feel too small and the eyes on you feel too many all at once, and in the Dragonpit, at least, the dangers are more honest. Fire, teeth, ancient temper—things you can see and understand and stand your ground against on a good day. The heat embraces you as it always does, smelling of ash and hot iron. Baelor’s hand is firm around yours as you descend the ramp, that quiet, familiar gravity in him settling your jangling nerves. 

“Rytsas, ñuha vēzos,” he calls, voice rolling out into the dimness. 

The Bronze Fury is awake before the words finish echoing. He shifts in his hollow with a long scrape of scale on stone, great head lifting, smoke blossoming from his nostrils. His eyes crack open, twin coals burning gold in the light. 

You are ready for that. You are not ready for what he does next. 

He doesn’t look at Baelor. Not at first. 

He swings that massive head towards you as soon as you step onto the blackened floor, nostrils flaring sharply. The chains above your heads shiver as he uncoils, dragging his bulk closer with ponderous care, talons carving new grooves in stone older than your great-grandfather. 

“Easy,” Baelor says automatically, hand tightening on your fingers. “He’s only—”

Verminthor inhales. You’ve seen him scent the air before, curious or dismissive, a lazy gust that ruffles your hair. But this time, something is different about the nature of his regard. This is a drag, a deep, purposeful pulling of air that seems to empty the world around you and straight into his large chest instead. Your hair moves with it, your skirts tug towards him, rippling with a rustle. You feel the pressure in your ears, the breath stolen from your lungs for half a heartbeat. 

Then he exhales, right over you. It’s hot, but not the scorching blast of true anger. It’s a… testing heat. An unanswered question. 

You gag anyway, eyes watering. “Hells—”

Verminthor ignores your swearing. He drops his head until the great scarred ridge of his muzzle is level with your torso, and nudges. Not a shove—he is too old, too experienced to risk knocking you sprawling by mistake—but a firm, insistent push below your ribs. 

Your hand flies to your stomach on reflex. Baelor’s breath stutters behind you. 

“Verminthor,” he says, warning and confusion tangled together. “What are you—”

The dragon rumbles. 

It’s a sound you’ve never heard from him before. Not the thunder-growl of annoyance, not the deep, pleased purr you’ve coaxed from him once or twice when you scratched just the right scar. This is… sharper. Shorter. Almost offended. His pupils blow wide, swallowing most of the molten gold. He inhales again, shorter this time, right against the front of your bodice, then huffs a hot breath over the same spot, as if trying to clear away some obscuring scent. 

You take a step back, instincts screaming too close, too much, but he follows you, relentless, until your back almost bumps Baelor’s chest. 

“Baelor,” you say tightly. “Call him off.”

Baelor doesn’t answer you. 

His fingers slip from your hand to your waist instead, steadying, anchoring you. You feel him lean around you, his attention gone utterly, completely still. He is staring at Verminthor with a look that makes the tiny hairs at the back of your neck stand up. 

“Daor,” he says under his breath. “It can’t be—”

Verminthor cuts him off with a snort that sends dust sifting down from the arches. The dragon’s gaze snaps to Baelor for a beat—sharp, irritated, as if to say of course it can, little two-leg—then returns to you. 

He rumbles again, deeper this time. The sound reverberates through your bones, centred oddly in the hollow where his muzzle presses, gentle and inexorable, against your midsection. When you flinch, his breath huffs out sharply, almost chastising, and he nudges again, softer. 

Your hand is still splayed there, fingers spread over the thin layer of wool and linen and whalebone. Baelor covers it. His palm is warm even in the heat of the pit; his fingers dwarf yours, closing over them with a kind of reverent care that robs you of speech. 

“Verminthor?” he prompts, and there’s something raw and choked in his voice you’ve heard only a handful of times. “Skori issa?”

The dragon answers with a long, low sound that is almost a hum. His eyes drift half-closed. He shifts his great body, slow and deliberate, to curl in closer around you both, tail dragging in a new arc, wingbones creaking. Not trapping you—just enclosing, the way a mountain range encloses a valley it protects. 

“Baelor,” you say again, throat tight. “What does he—”

He doesn’t make you finish the question. 

“Dragons smell… things,” he says roughly, still staring at Verminthor as if he’s seeing him for the first time. “Change in the blood. In… in bodies.” His hand tightens over yours on your stomach. You can feel the tremor in it, the way Baelor’s fingers flex and curl as if desperate to hold onto something there; some dream perhaps. “There are tales. Old tales, really. Of a she-dragon who would not let her rider mount while her belly was full with a child, of another who suddenly refused to range over open sea when his rider’s wife quickened. I thought they were just that. Stories.”

Verminthor huffs at him, seemingly offended by the implication. 

Baelor swallows, and you feel the movement against your back. “He’s not curious,” he says after a moment, almost absently, to himself. “He’s certain.”

Everything in your world suddenly constricts to here and now, sensations so dizzying they overlap with almost frightening intensity inside your mind: the moist, soothing heat of Verminthor’s breath against your cheeks, Baelor’s hand over yours, trembling, and a small, wild hope you’re almost too terrified to examine for more than a breath. 

“That’s impossible,” you breathe out. “I would know.”

“Would you?” Baelor’s voice turns gentle, thoughtful. “You’ve been tired. Sick at certain smells. You were dizzy on the wall-walk last week.”

“It was hot,” you protest weakly. 

“It was winter by southern measures,” he counters. “And you, who sneers at Dornish summers, suddenly growing weak at the edges of my sight—”

His words fade off, suddenly cut off. Under your joined hands, Verminthor’s muzzle presses again, very, very lightly, as if he knows exactly how much pressure your flesh and the fragile things inside can bear. 

You feel, abruptly, ridiculous tears burn at the backs of your eyes. 

“Baelor,” you choke out, helpless.

He moves then. 

He steps around you, between you and the dragon’s face, though Verminthor snorts and shifts to keep his nose tucked against your side. Baelor drops to one knee on the scorched stone without ceremony, heedless of ash and old soot staining his riding leathers. His hands come up towards you, all but drifting—not to your waist, not in some practised courtly gesture, but to cradle your hips like he’s discovered a new religion in the shape of your body. 

He rests his forehead against the spot where Verminthor has been fussing. The breath that escapes your lungs is an unsteady rush. 

“Are you certain?” he asks the dragon, voice muffled in your skirts, raw and ragged in a way you have never heard before. Baelor is not the prince right now, future ruler of a realm; he’s not even the fearsome warrior they tell gallant tales about. Right now, he’s just a man kneeling in the shadow of an ancient god given flesh and asking, pleading, please. 

Verminthor’s answer is unambiguous. 

He gives a short, rumbling roar that makes the Dragonpit’s bones shiver. It’s not loud by his standards, but the message is clear all the same. Chains rattle abovehead, dust dancing in muted rays of light. 

Yes, it says, as surely as words: You little half-blooded fool, of course I am.

Baelor laughs. 

It’s a broken sound, caught somewhere between a half-sob, half-joy, and it shakes his whole body. Baelor’s hands glide from your hips to your stomach, fingers splaying possessively right there over the fabric, covering as much as they can. 

“You hear that?” he whispers, voice wrecked, breathless, not sure whether he’s speaking to you or to whatever might be listening to him under your ribs. “Even the oldest of us knows.”

“Baelor,” you manage, just barely. Your fingers find his short hair, fingernails smoothing over his scalp. His eyes shine brightly when they find yours, wet at the corners. “We don’t know—”

“We will,” he shoots back immediately, lifting his head higher. “We’ll have the maesters and every old crone who’s ever delivered a babe in Flea Bottom check if needed. If they tell me I’m a fool, I’ll bear it gladly.”

His mouth curves, soft and tender all at once. 

“But if they don’t,” he goes on, voice dropping to a muted whisper between you, a dragon’s promise wrapped in a man’s words in each syllable, “if they tell me Verminthor is right, if they tell me you’re carrying my child—”

Baelor breaks off, voice catching once more. The words hang between you anyway, heavy and shining and too full of possibility that steals your breath. Your heart thuds, too fast in your ears. 

If it’s true—if this old beast, this Bronze Fury who’se seen kings rise and fall during his long life, is right—then there’s a life folded small and secret under your hand. Flesh and blood that is half Stark, half dragon, tied to you and Baelor and the realm in ways you cannot yet see. 

“I’ll build a pit in Winterfell,” Baelor says suddenly, the words spilling out, wild and half-serious. “We’ll fly north. I’ll freeze my royal arse off. Verminthor will bully Blackwind. The old gods can stare at us from their trees and decide what to make of it all.” His hands flex, gentling again. “Just… let this be true.”

Verminthor, whose patience for speeches is limited at the best of times, decides he’s had enough. 

He shifts once more, hauling his bulk closer still, until the curve of his chest is a warm bronze wall at your back. One great wing unfurls—not fully, but just enough to sweep around you in an arc of tattered, heat-scorched membrane and scarred bone. 

The world narrows to a pocket of dim, dragon-shadowed warmth and the man on his knees before you. 

Baelor stills. You feel his fingers tighten on your stomach in some unconscious echo of the way Verminthor’s wingtip tucks closer, as if wrapping the three of you tight against anything that might try to reach in. 

“Soft old brute,” Baelor whispers, fondness wrapping around each syllable. His free hand finds the wing’s leading edge, stroking a callused thumb over an old, puckered tear. Verminthor hums, low and satisfied. 

“He’s… pleased,” you observe with a strangled laugh, bewildered and lightheaded in equal measure, because there are no other words for the mood settling over the pit, in truth. Verminthor’s breath has slowed, deep and even in your ears, a steady rumble through the ancient stone surrounding you. His eyes glow faintly in the dimness of the keep, watching you with a heavy, proprietary calm of a creature who has lived a long life and has seen many things beyond your comprehension. 

“Grumpy as always but content, yes,” Baelor says with a huffing laugh that fans over your inner wrist, because Verminthor is still scowling at you both like he’s irked it took you this long to realise something he figured out the moment you walked in. “He’s already angry at the world on your behalf. Look at him.”

You do. 

For the first time, you notice the way he’s angled his body. Not just around you like you first thought, but between you and the pit mouth, the ramp, the door. Any threat that comes in will have to go through bronze and fire and ancient rage before it can touch you. 

“He’ll be worse than Blackwind,” you say faintly.

Baelor’s smile is pure, helpless adoration. For you, for the dragon, for the unseen little future nestled between your bodies. “Good,” he says, voice still frayed. “Old gods know I need the help.”

You snort, the sound dissolving into something suspiciously like a choked-back sob. You bend, awkward with his hands and Verminthor’s wing and the tangle of your own feelings, and press your forehead to Baelor’s. 

He tilts his head, nose bumping yours, the barest brush of his mouth at the corner of your lips. His breath smells of smoke and the apple he didn’t finish at breakfast. 

“We’ll make certain,” he murmurs. “We’ll be careful. You won’t so much as set a foot on a saddle without three dragons and a wolf snarling about it.” His thumb moves in small, soothing circles over the spot Verminthor keeps nudging. “Until then…”

“Until then?” you echo.

“Until then, humour an old dragon and a foolish prince,” he says softly. “Let us pretend, just for today, that he’s right.”

Your eyes flutter shut. Under your palm, under his, under the careful pressure of Verminthor’s muzzle, your body feels… the same. No quickening, no sudden flutter, just your own heartbeat, loud and scared and too hopeful. But there is a sense, sudden and fierce, that you are not as alone inside your skin as you once were. 

“All right,” you exhale, voice rough. “Just for today.”

Verminthor huffs, as if deeply insulted by the “just”. He pulls his head back enough to fix you with a molten stare that says very plainly: this is not pretending, little wolf. 

“See?” Baelor says, a touch smugly, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Already taking your side over mine. Traitorous beast.”

The dragon snorts in his face. Baelor laughs again, more ragged now, and drops one more kiss—lighter than a breath—just above where your hands rest. 

“Ñuha tresy,” he whispers so quietly you almost don’t catch it. My child. Then, after a beat, softer still, “Ñuha zaldrīgona ha ñuha direlītsos.” My little dragon-wolf.

You don’t have it in you to stop him or tell him to wait, that is seems unwise to name what isn’t certain just yet. That, on the off chance it’s not true, your heart could not bear to see the disappointment on Baelor’s face. Yet under Verminthor’s powerful wing keeping you tucked away from the world, and Baelor’s arms secure and unmovable around your middle, it feels less like tempting faith. 

When you finally leave the pit, Verminthor lets you go with obvious reluctance, wing drawing back slowly, head following you up the ramp until the last possible moment. He huffs one final warm breath against your back, an old god’s blessing in dragon form, then settles again, curling in on himself with a satisfied grunt. 

As the heavy door thuds shut behind you, Baelor’s hand finds yours once more. His fingers lace through yours, protective, possessive, entirely unashamed of his inability to be parted from you. 

“You’re not wandering anywhere alone,” he declares decisively, giving your fingers a gentle squeeze. “Not until we know for certain. And even then, we…”

“Baelor,” you interrupt him, half-exasperated, half-fond. “I’m pregnant, not made of glass.”

“We don’t know you’re pregnant yet,” he says loftily, and you almost laugh, warmed by the unadulterated happiness you see shining out of him like Dornish sun that seems to love him so. “But until my maesters swear otherwise, I will be treating you as if you are made of the finest glass in the Seven Kingdoms.”

You snort. “And if they swear for it?”

Baelor’s grip tightens again, his voice tumbling towards something that thrums in your bones like a distant roar, all intent and heat. 

“Then you’ll never again doubt that you carry a dragon’s child,” he replies huskily, his head bowing towards you. “Because every dragon in this city will know, and they will all look at you the way Verminthor did today.”

You think of molten eyes, a wing curled like a sheltering hand, the strange, gentle way a creature of fire and fury pressed his nonse against your belly. 

“And you?” you ask softly. 

He glances at you from the corner of his eye, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his handsome face, tender and fierce in equal measure. “Me?” he wonders. “You will be sick of the feel of my hands on you before the first snowfall in the North, my wolf.”

You squeeze his fingers, sliding your other hand unconsciously, protectively, over your midsection. 

“We’ll see.”

A pure pearl in a dirty sea.

The first thing he said to sneak between you and Duncan was one of the worst catchphrases you ever heard in your life. “Is this the lovely creature with whom you had the honour of sharing the maternal womb?”

But somehow it worked.

He complimented you and even kissed your hand. It was the first time for you, and you almost felt ashamed of your rough hands since growing up at Flea Bottom was anything but graceful. Lyonel seemed ignore it, though, and he didn’t even care when you forgot to bow before him.

He was a charming man indeed. When he invited you to join him at his table, you thought there was nothing wrong with it. A free meal was always welcome. But when he offered you his arm, and you sat right next to him, made you dream for a moment.

He ordered a servant to fill your plate with roast, fresh vegetables, fruit and bread, and he personally filled your cup with fine wine.

“My lord, I should serve you.” You shyly said.

“No chance.” He said while he gave you the wine. “Not tonight.”

And so you drank, and ate and enjoyed that meal as if you had never eaten something good in your life, which was very close to the truth. And you chatted with enthusiasm, answering every Lyonel’s question about your past, about Duncan, and about the time you were a maid while Duncan was a squire. He was addicted to the way you were devouring that food, consuming it with satisfaction. You licked your lips at every cherry, gracefully sucked the tip of your fingers at every piece of roast, and closed your eyes when you tasted the wine. You were a natural temptation without even knowing it.

Lyonel enjoyed the way you were telling your story, with the same good naivety you shared with Duncan. There was no darkness in your heart, no mean words, even for those who managed to hurt you in the past. The more he got to know you, the more he felt caught in a way he never felt before. He knew you would have just been a pleasant distraction for the tournament, and he had no intention of taking advantage of you, but he didn’t want to spend that little time with someone else.

When it came your turn to ask questions, he started an endless yapping about his castle, his family, the hunting, the fights, and everything that concerned nobility. Boring topics, he thought, but you were mesmerised by that world you didn’t know. The way you stared at him, hanging on every word he said, laughing at his dark humour, made him realise you were one of a few people around him who were interested in what he had to say for real. And it was particularly pleasant.

And when the music started, of course, you danced with him. He already tried your brother, how could he miss this opportunity? Thanks for the Seven, he didn’t step on your feet, but danced like a wild beast with a good rhythm, shaking his head, his arms and moving around you like a bird during courtship.

“I can’t dance, My Lord!” You shouted over the music.

“Half of these cunts can’t dance, my dear. But everyone is having fun. What about following the flow?”

He insisted until you agreed. It was just a chaotic jump-and-move at first, but then you let yourself go enough to play along with Lyonel. Glad eye, gentle touches and no one else had the permission to dance with you.

When the song finished, you bowed at Lyonel, who did the same at you. Tired and out of breath, he ordered two cups of wine for both, and he proposed an intimate toast just with you.

“To the woman from the Flea Bottom who managed to hunt the deer without even a bow and arrows.” He said with a low voice, staring into your eyes.

“To the most respectful and gentle man I’ve ever had the pleasure to dance with.”

Lyonel was amused by your words, especially because it wasn’t the truth. He smirked and shook his head as he licked his lip and looked down. Damn, you were so genuine, a pure creature on that damned Kingdom.

“Is something wrong, My Lord?” You asked as you noticed a sort of disappointment.

He looked at you, raising his eyebrows. “No, not at all. Just don’t waste nice words for a Lord who’s anything but respectful.”

“But you’ve been respectful and gentle with me, and it’s enough.”

Lyonel was defeated. Under different circumstances, he would have taken you to his castle, married you and had at least six children with you, just for that night. He dared to move a strand of hair from your face and caressed your cheek.

“Come, I’ll take you back to your brother.”

“My brother?” You asked out of the blue, looking for him around, but there was no trace of Duncan.

He smirked and nodded. “He left hours ago. His boy showed up looking for him.”

He offered his arm once more to bring you out of the tent. You doubted your behaviour, sure to have said something wrong, but were too scared to ask the truth.

The dawn light was illuminating the sky already, even if the sun hadn't risen yet, making you realise how late it was.

“It's morning already.”

“It is.” He confirmed the obvious as he put his ochre yellow cloak on your shoulders.

“My Lord, this is not necessary.”

“Don’t be silly now. It’s freezing.”

He led the way to the stall and asked for his horse, with all the intention of bringing you back to the clearing. He didn’t take a no as an answer and helped you to mount behind him.

You rode with him, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your head on his back while the sun rays emerged on the horizon. It was inappropriate, but you didn’t care, you needed to tell him how good he made you feel and how grateful you were for that beautiful night. You closed your eyes, inebriating of his scent and dreaming about what it would be like to become a lady… to be Lady Baratheon.

You gasped when you felt his hand on yours. It could be anything, his appreciation, his way to thank you back, or just a reassuring gesture. You couldn’t say, but your fingers intertwined with his. And the horse’s step, galloping at first, slowed down until it stopped, but the clearing was far away yet.

Lyonel dismounted without a warning and waited for you to give him your hand to help you dismount as well.

“My Lord? Is everything alright?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at you. He just waited, staring into nothing. He was nervous, absolutely aware of the madness he had in his brain. When your feet touched the ground, he stared at you in silence for long moments, increasing your confusion.

“Lord Baratheon? What’s going on?”

“I’m trying to find the right words since we left the camp, but everything seems… improper.” He talked, avoiding your gaze because it would have been harder. “So, I’m just going to tell you. I intend to ask Duncan for your hand, but only if you agree with it.”

Your eyes almost popped out with shock.

“I can understand the madness of this, but I'm not an ordinary man, as you saw.” He nodded and looked around, visibly shameful for that inappropriate marriage proposal. “You would take the family name, the title of Lady…” He took a deep breath. “You’ll be loved.”

Your silence was heavy to bear, but you were just unbelieving of what was happening. The dizziness filled your mind as your heart almost exploded into your chest.

“A slap on my face would be less hurtful than your silence.”

“… My Lord. I have no idea how a lady should behave. I would shame you.”

Lyonel stared at you in disbelief and let out a breathing chuckle right after. “You’ll attend to bonton lessons or whatever the fuck you want. You won't make me ashamed in any case.” He brushed his beard and chuckled again. “Fuck. I want you. I don’t care about the rest. What do you say?”

Illuminated by the first rays of the sun, you walked up to him to kiss him softly. It was a soft whisper on his lips with forbidden undertones, sweet and teasing. Lyonel couldn’t allow you to go away undamaged. He slipped his hand on the back of your head and gently pulled you back for another kiss, more intense this time. He devoured your mouth as if he were waiting for it all night.

When you broke apart for some air, he just took his earring off and gave it to you.

You could swear it was the nerves, the tension that clung to you so much, that made you giggle. It wasn’t supposed to be a sound of joy, certainly not one of freedom.

Still, for the first time this night you found yourself able to truly smile and not force it to please your parents, the guests… your lord husband.

You followed after him to the chamber, and shook your head, barely visible when he kicked the door open with his foot. You were told before that you should be cautious around Lord Lyonel Baratheon because he could be a serious man. And serious meant dangerous. If that was the truth, you had yet to discover it. On this memorable night, the one of your wedding, he was only cheerful. Perhaps even too cheerful for some people’s liking.

At this late hour, he was tipsy enough to start showing off to you. You were used to watching men much younger than him do that, and you trained yourself to not flinch, not smile, show no reaction no matter if it impressed you or not. Yet, it came to a man who was your husband now, and a man a lot older than you were accustomed to. You could find it in you to indulge him in his show-offs, but for now he did nothing to earn your respect. Nor laughter.

Willingly, that is…

“Are you used to long evenings like this, my lady?” He asked, trying to kill the silence that lingered when you walked from the grand hall to your chamber.

He bowed chivalrously to let you pass through the door, then – again – kicked them close like a brute.

You couldn’t help but clasp your hands together and stand near the window, your back facing Lyonel.

“Not exactly,” you admit honestly, “but it is no issue for me.”

“It’s still a pleasant night to you, right?” He asked like he really cared, making you look at him over your shoulder.

Did he care? Or did he ask for himself, to later tell himself that he did everything he could?

You turned away again, deciding it didn’t matter right now.

It would be hard to answer if you were bid to be truthful. You did not suffer through the night, that was sure, nor did you enjoy yourself. You had something to drink, apparently too much something, because you didn’t feel so intimidated by Lord Baratheon anymore. It was something that your mother warned you about – to not be too sure, always remain quiet and obedient… Well, she also said other things that you wished weren’t the truth, so you decided to forget about that one too.

“Of course, it is pleasant,” you said warmly in a tone that you could fool even yourself with. “It’s our wedding day.”

You shivered, forcing yourself into calmness, when you felt his presence right behind you. He didn’t dare to touch you just yet, but you could feel he stood close, leaning a bit, as you could feel his breath on your neck.

“That doesn’t mean anything in terms of your frame of mind, my… May I call you by your name?”

“Yes, my lord,” you allowed right away, and sudden nerves forced you to look down.

Lyonel clicked his tongue.

“You don’t call me lord, dear, never…” He sounded like it was a lecture, but with a soft undertone to it. “Well, only if it thrills you,” he added more boldly.

Finally, you found it in yourself to turn around to him. It was a nice surprise, that he made no movement to rush you. Partially, you expected him to grip your shoulders, maneuver you to face him, and the whole thing would go quickly.

What you saw when your eyes met him, though, was a calm, smiling, fully dressed man, who looked quite content with everything around him just the way it was.

His antlered crown moved a bit on his head, and–

Well, you couldn’t even blame yourself. You tried so hard through the whole day to remain serious, despite finding the thing on his head laughable. It’s not that you meant to disrespect the man or his customs. Far from it! It is just that the stress must have found an outcome, like it always does.

You could cry, you could scream or fall to your knees to plead him to be good to you.

Instead, you let out a loud scoffing giggle that forced you to bend in two.

Lyonel realized the reason at once. He took the thing off, looking at it like it was the first time he laid his eyes on it.

“It's hilarious,” you managed to say, already feeling the dread taking over you.

It was a nightmare to treat a lord like that. He showed you only kindness so far, no? How could you just… mock him, laugh like he was your mere friend or a child.

“Pardon me?”

As you spiraled into your thoughts, already calming down, you swore you could hear fury in his voice. There was – in fact – none, but imagination is a thing of power.

“I… I didn't mean…”

But Lyonel, the tipsy Lord of Storm’s End, laughed shortly as well and smacked a hand on your shoulder.

“It is indeed hilarious, isn't it?”

“I am sorry, my lo–”

He waved a warning finger in front of your face, and you guessed it was a trade of humiliation for humiliation.

“–Lyonel. I don’t know what has gotten into me. It must be the pressure of today,” you explained, despite his nonchalant expression.

“Oh, but I know what has gotten into you. Some honesty. You didn’t take off your mask often today, did you?”

“My mask?”

“Mhm, you women always know more about it. Better in lies, politics, turning things the way you want them to be” he hummed, strolling around the chamber to look for some more wine. He still held his crown in his hand, and he now looked at it again. “Worry not, wife, I will make you wear it one day… Maybe not now, though.”

You had no idea why in the seven hells would he want you to wear it, but you decided against questioning him.

You still remembered his loud voice, the strongness when he smacked the table while jesting. The serious glare when he didn’t like some lord’s words. Lyonel Baratheon was worthy of all his titles, you didn't doubt, but he was a storm above all of them. You saw grown men jump in their places when his temper changed.

If there was ever any possibility to stay away from being the target of his rage, you would do a lot to keep it that way.

Especially today. The forgotten realization that this is your wedding night made your shoulders twitch just a little. It was calm so far. Too calm, perhaps. You have heard enough through your life about the blood, the screams, and bruises in the morning.

It was an abuse to your own mind, but you imagined him dragging you around and spatting orders. He laughed with his bannermen before you left, and an idea of a bedding ceremony crossed your mind, making you speed up your steps. He caught up with you quickly and apologized for the wait, thinking you got fed up with him stopping by the tables.

Yet here he was, your hasty husband, who instead of ripping your clothes off your back, sat in the chair comfortably and held a cup of wine. He threw small smiles at you, like he knew you required time to understand the situation. 

But it was hard to understand something that you imagined being so very different. It didn't soothe your worries. Men are changeable creatures, after all, aren't they?

The tension between the newlyweds was difficult to soften. The quick knock on the door only made you stand straighter, head unwillingly hidden between your shoulders.

“Milady…” You heard the voice of your loyal maid. A gentle woman of good heart, who now peaked inside before taking a step. She was out of breath and had worry in her eyes. “Milady, you left so soon. I apologize, I failed to notice your absence. Milord.”

She barely bowed to Lord Baratheon, before rushing to your side.

“It is alright, Teya. I should have let you know.”

She was the only one who truly knew about your worries. Your friends, your mother, they all brushed it off, said every wife has to go through this and you should quit your dread. Yet, Teya understood. She promised she will be by your side as long as possible.

That’s how you imagined from the stories of women in your family; servants rushing around, helping their ladies with the gowns, nightwears… You were even told about an occurrence where the new husband was so done with waiting until the women untied his wife’s laces, that he cut them open, pushing the servants away.

You didn’t want that. Not the crowd, not girls that would whisper about it later, but just Teya.

She must have felt bad, because she clearly calmed down when she saw your untouched gown.

“Should I…” The question died on her tongue, and you instinctively held your arms closer to your chest.

Lyonel stood up from his place, startling Teya even more than you. There was no need for such dramatics, you both knew that, but she stood in front of you like she wanted to shield you.

“Milord?”

He smiled weakly and looked to the side. There was something deeply tragic in this situation that made him sober up completely.  He could have been a man of humor, font of tourneys, dancing and drinking, but it didn’t mean he was less perceptive.

Only his kins really knew that, but he had grand kindness in him. Did he expect his wife to be a shaking bundle of nerves? Not at all. Did he think less of you when he saw what strain turned you into? Gods forbid. He felt the rushing need to hold your palm and softly caress your fingers, as if the wedding band led his thoughts already. It was challenging to not scare you even more with his good intentions.

“We have no need for aid,” he said firmly, but refusing to meet Teya’s eyes. The distress in them was enough to feel like a punch, even for a strong man like him.

“But… It is only proper that I–” she attempted to argue.

“It is only proper for me to ensure my wife’s comfort myself.”

She had no choice but to leave. She tried to smile at you, really, but her face only turned into a grimace, barely reassuring.

The moment the door was closed, your poor posture knocked the breath out of Lyonel’s lungs. He placed his cup on the table with a thud and took a step closer.

“Do you want me to get her back here?” He asked, ready to rush after the woman if that would be your wish.

“No, it is fine,” you said as surely as you could.

Hiding your hands behind your back helped very little. There was no way you could fool him.

Your mother’s vile words ringed in your head. All the warnings, all the remarks. You wanted to see them as rudeness, not worry. If it was kindness from her, it would mean you were truly being sent into the lion’s den. She claimed that she will pray for your husband to be a good father one day and keep his fist away from your children. You didn’t ask what about you? But you knew she would only advise you to be obedient and quiet. ‘There is nothing worse for a woman than to stand between her husband and children.’

Yes, you wanted that to be an attempt to scare you. A successful one.

“Would you sit with me?” When you didn’t move, buried too deep in your thoughts, Lyonel said your name softly.

It was a nice sound, you had to admit.

“Of course,” you agreed, and moved to sit next to him on the made up bed. “I hope you can forgive me the awkwardness… I’m not usually this shaken up.”

It was easier to address it, than keep pretending.

It seemed to work, making Lord Baratheon smile a bit.

“Well, I imagine you are usually not forced to stay alone with a strange man,” he pointed out, slowly moving his hand to offer it to you. Hesitatingly, you agreed, and he kept yours on his lap. “It is me who should apologize. I did not mean to distress you by asking your maid out.”

He would not say that, especially now when he saw your hands shaking, but he was thrilled by the idea of doing everything himself; the knots, gowns, laces… If not tonight, then some other time, but alone and with his own hands.

You shook your head to say there was no need to be sorry.

Watching his fingers move gently turned out to be calming for you. The lack of rapid and force made you feel almost in control, especially when you moved a bit, and he stopped his movement immediately.

You allowed him to touch the gown over your knees, and some excitement sparked in you at the sight of his calloused hands on the soft fabric. He hummed, and you expected it to have the same effect on him. When you looked up at him, though, you noticed his full attention on your face.

“Look at you, so petrified,” he said quietly, not very serious, yet not mocking. “You could break my heart with that look in the depth of your eyes… My Lady of Heartache.”

You wanted to deny, say that you were not that afraid, but he didn’t let you lie.

“May I be blunt?”

You blinked a few times before taking a deep breath. “Please.”

“Say one word, and you will be free of my presence for the rest of the night. Longer, if you wish.”

“And if not?”

“Then… Then I shall comfort you best I can,” he declared.

“You will keep me company, just like that?” You asked, like he just spoke in a foreign language.

“Gladly.” He moved your fingers to his lips to place a gentle kiss on them. “We’ll see where the night takes us. I’m a happy man if it ends with an honest conversation shared with my wife.”

An honest smile appeared on your face and it warmed his heart.

“Alright… I did not wish to disappoint you.”

“You couldn’t. You have me in your grasp, woman, and you assured me of that by laughing at my crown.”

“You won’t let me forget that, right?”

“Never.”

You giggled again, and led by this warm feeling in your chest, you moved closer to him. He held you close to his chest and for the first time that night you felt protected. If there were questions and expectations waiting for you outside this chamber, you knew he would guard you from them, answer himself or cut them short.

“You are very observant for such a loud man,” you said truthfully.

The vibration of his laughter sent a shiver over your skin.

“I suppose I am.”

You looked up at him, and the expression on his face made you fully believe all he said. He didn’t find the right words just to soothe you, calm you so he doesn’t have to deal with an emotional girl. He was genuine and also quite content with you the way you were now, enveloped in his arms.

“Some fear you, though.”

Lyonel hummed, nodding his head.

“Some, yes. What is a lord who isn’t feared by anyone?” He asked, and brushed some hair out of your face. “Also, and I promise this to you, there are only men who are afraid of me.”

a/n: dunk fic was supposed to come first, but i felt like writing this one!