THE LAUGHING STORM.

⚔︎          ·              @lyonelb  asked:  ❛  you  are  in  my  hands,  to  slay  or  to  spare.  ❜

BRUISED  AND  BLOODIED,  king  baelor  the  second  kneels  before  the  stormlordking.  undefeatable,  they  had  called  baelor,  the  king  the  realm  needs  —  touched  by  the  gods  themselves,  chosen  by  them  to  guide  the  seven  kingdoms  to  glory  and  prosperity.

now,  he  is  knee-deep  in  the  cold,  sticky  mud,  the  filth  clinging  to  his  armor.  the  helmet  (  his  own,  this  time,  )  is  off,  the  healed,  star-shaped  scar  on  the  back  of  his  head  bloodied  anew.  he  had  fought  his  second  rebellion,  trying  to  protect  the  targaryen  dynasty.  only  this  time,  he  had  lost.  there’s  no  denying  it  now  with  the  way  he  bows  his  head  before  the  other  man,  unable  to  rise  even  if  he  wanted  to.  bowed,  bent,  broken.  one  of  his  kneecaps  is  shattered,  his  left  leg  bleeding  steadily,  and  the  adrenaline  is  all  that’s  allowing  him  to  function  a  little  longer  without  screaming  in  pain.  ❝  so  it  is  ❞,  he  agrees,  face  sweaty  and  blood-sprinkled,  salt-and-pepper-bearded  chin  lifting  to  meet  lyonel’s  gaze.  his  hair  is  a  little  longer  now,  the  curls  —  rather  ironically  —  mirroring  the  baratheon’s,  just  in  grey  instead  of  black.  very  faintly,  he  remembers  the  way  lyonel’s  lips  feel  on  his.  they  were  doomed  from  the  start.  baelor  wants  to  kiss  him  still,  but  he  can’t  give  in  to  the  madness.  his  leg  is  broken,  and  his  soul  is,  too.  broken,  and  tired  of  fighting.  tired  of  wanting.  ❝  take  your  pick.  ❞

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀there hangs from one gauntlet'd hand a war-hammer, spiked head weeping crimson gore from when the mighty thing had rent the man's leg with a crack loud as a thunderclap. sightless and witless had the dragon been not to have foreseen his doom, and to have lain himself abed with the foe, and to have stroked lyonel's flesh as one might a paramour's, for 'tis the appointed end of his fiendish brood ⸻ to go ever toward ruin and dissolution. though had loved the man, the storm king had. in folly and in anguish and truly he'd loved, and thus the lord-made-king stands breathless and battered afore his fool-lover, as a butcher afore a lamb.

❝  what  you  say  and  what  you  mean  are  two  very  different  things,  lyonel,  ❞  from  betwixt  her  lips  ,  an  exasperated  sigh  does  leave.  the  kicked  cushion  is  embraced  ,  placed  ‘pon  her  thighs  ere  her  elbows  dig  into  its  yielding  plushness  ,  the  fabric  compressing  under  her  weight.  keen  she  is  to  know  what  plagues  him  in  particular  this  time;  the  general  theme  had  been  a  clouding  of  his  lover’s  visage  that  his  lockscreen  and  its  outrageous  brightness  had  burned  into  his  corneas  cutting  through  the  pitch  of  the  room  with  a  harsh,  neon  glare  prior.  and  if  that  had  not  been  the  case  ,  it  would  be  soon  lest  he  make  use  of  his  phone  and  call  the  root  of  his  agony. 

not  long  it  is  until  the  very  cushion  is  launched  at  the  man  with  a  blunt,  heavy  thud  against  his  head,  enough  force  to  bring  him  out  of  his  wallowing,  behind  it  a  whine  and  a  complaint,  something  along  the  lines  of  the  flat  being  hers.

❝  you  know  i’m  not  leaving  you  to  drool  over  my  couch,  right?  you  can  crash  in  the  guest  room,  i  don’t  think  i'm  having  any  over  until  your  divorce  gets  sorted,  ❞  words  tumble  fromwith  her  mouth  one  after  another  ,  not  one  breath  halting  to  punctuate  them.

❝  besides  orm’s  nice  enough  to  ask  if  you’re  doing  fine,  which  is  more  than  what  i  would  do  if  i  was  in  his  place,  ❞  no  longer  does  she  perch  on  the  armrest,  slipping  off  the  brown  suede  with  a  soft  rustle  of  fabric  to  sink  into  the  cushions  right  beside  him,  the  shared  dip  of  the  seat  pulling  them  into  the  same  quiet  space.  her  arms  cross,  lest  in  feline  fashion  they  pluck  the  cigarette  of  his  from  him.  

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀until your divorce gets settled, his sister says with dreadful naiveté and a humorless scoff slips forth from his lips, for such affairs are not measured in days nor weeks but ghastly, ghastly months and years, and duncan had displayed no great haste to get on with the signing of the papers, and though glad is the little girl for her aunt's ceaseless company, her place is not here, but at her home ⸻ hers and lyonel's now, and not duncan's. " sure. " he sighs out a puff of grey. " i'll be out of your hair soon. thanks, though, for the ⸻ " he says through a grimace, fingers aflutter in the general direction of the guest room. " .. hospitality. rosie's loving it here. "

it only deepened with each brazen word that left the old jester's ever-smiling lips, intentionally taunting & utterly devoid of fear of a consequence he knew he was exempt from anyway ... but it was the very last statement that turned the tides within aegon once again, his rage suddenly capsized before it could reach its destination. pushing his body off of the wooden door he closed the distance between them in four urgent steps, his eyes wide with lingering indignation & something more malicious than that—something like hope.

"but you—you said you were only considering that, you cannot possibly leave me for that cunt ?"

his tone was sweet when his words were not, & his touch was something in between as it found the lord's neck. too-warm fingertips toying with his high collar before tugging it a tad downwards. wet gaze unflinching as it searched for a glimpse of ill-deserved comfort.

"i can—" a hard swallow interrupted the sentence, a barely contained panic disguised as lust. fingertips circling the man's pulse point now. voice dropping to an unreadable whisper. "i can command you to stay, have you burned for treason if you insist on going to her," his touch was sweet when his words were not, & his kiss was something in between as it found the lord's jaw.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the youngling strides forth in aggrieved haste, vexed and uncomprehending, insistent upon justifications that the lord paramount need not grant. had promised naught more than mere consideration, the storm lord had, and had construed it as a guarantee of his presence, the boy-king had. brows quirk upward and a simper gathers at the edge of lord lyonel's lips. " i'll be back, your grace. " condescending, though he neither recoils nor resists the jewelled fingers or the wet mouth to the line of his jaw. " too dull a place for my liking. "