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He would go as far as to say you were annoying him on purpose because it amused you, because you loved it when he had enough and shut you up, and it didn't matter how he did it, whether he stuffed your mouth full with his cock or had your face buried in the pillows as he fucked that cattiness out of you, both of them were wins in your eyes.

But you hardly linger around him now, you barely even speak or meet his eyes for longer than a second anymore, and whenever you shared a bed you’d sleep turned away from him, never clinging to his back like you often would, he used to complain about it but now he missed it, missed your warmth.

He let this go on for days, hoping that he was overreacting and your mood would pass on it's own.

But the final straw was when he came to your shared bedchambers at the late hours — and you were not there.

Without a second thought he stomped to your old bedchamber, the one you quickly abandoned for his own at the very start of your marriage with the cheeky excuse of 'In the north we don't have separate bedchambers and if you truly care for me as your wife you would never let me sleep cold and alone.'

 And what of him?

You would let him sleep cold and alone?

He found you awake still, pacing around before the hearth and wringing your hands together with a frown, you seemed stressed like you had the weight of the world on your shoulders.

And out of all the dresses and jewelry you had worn, there was nothing you wore better than your smile. To see it gone for so long is unsettling.

That frown didn't suit you at all. The panic-stricken expression you gave him before you turned away from him was even worse.

"Why are you here, Maekar?"

Maekar?

What happened to my love? my darling? my dragon? my flame?

Even dragonman or maemae were preferable, at least you would be smiling then.

"I was tired," he walked up to you, his body joining with the flames of the hearth in warming you, still you don't turn.

"I came to our chambers, and was met with an empty bed with my wife nowhere in sight, care to tell me why that was?"

 Silence.

"Look me in the eyes when I speak to you." Maekar said, voice low, gentle, and lacking the commanding tone one would expect.

Slowly, you turn, when you finally face him you kept your eyes trained on the ground between you, what little space there was of it.

Maekar lays a hand to the small of your back, pressing you close, and he uses the other one to raise your chin up gently between his two fingers.

Still, you struggle to hold his gaze.

"What's wrong?" Maekar asks. "You used to make this a game, remember?"

One of the ways you found entertainment (at his expense) was to seat yourself on his lap, hold his face in your hands and say 'whoever looks away first loses'. What does the winner get? nothing. He knows that because he won everytime, since you couldn't keep it together for five seconds before giggling at his squished face.

Finally, you break your silence.

"You will be upset with me."

Maekar is unsure what heinous thing you could have done to make you so worried — so worried that you would behave like this, that you would avoid him for so long when you used to act like being separated for longer than two hours was an unforgivable crime.

You were blowing things out of proportion, he can't imagine you doing anything that would truly upset him.

"I will not." Maekar said. "Tell me."

You hesitate.

"Out with it." Maekar said, restless and eager to move on from whatever was keeping you from him.

"I'm with child." You confessed, hand bunching at the fabrics at your stomach.

The air leaves his lungs.

"What?"

You turn away from him again.

He's told you way back when you were only his betrothed that he does not plan for a seventh, and you, watching his children run him ragged understood why he wouldn't want for more.

You were content with it, you were content with being the stepmother, it came with all the benefits with none of the pain of childbirth, but what were you to do when you began dreaming, of having one of your own with your beloved's pretty amethyst eyes and molten silver hair?

Nothing is what you did, but here you were. Pregnant despite all you've done to prevent it from happening, you couldn't find it in yourself to be happy.

Wouldn't he hate you for it? For not having the nerve to drink moon tea? For hesitating to tell him? For wanting to keep it?

"I told you that you would be upset with me."

"You stupid girl." Maekar said angrily, making you flinch.

He grabs your wrist and pulls you back against him, holding you even closer and pressing his cheek atop your head.

"I am not upset, not in the slightest." He said. "I am however, offended, that you think I would ever be."

You pull away and look up at him in shock.

"You said that you didn't want another child." You said, confused.

"Yes," Maekar said. "but I only said that because I didn't want to scare you, to go from being childless into a mother of six with a seventh on the way in the span of a few months is not something any young maiden finds herself dreaming of."

"But are you sure you want this? We don't have to–" He shuts you up with a kiss, his beard that always had you in awe of it's strange softness felt rough against your skin from the way he pressed his lips to yours — you loved when he kissed you like that.

Unfortunately, you could only hold your breaths for so long, you pull away, breathing heavily.

"Never ever suggest anything like that," he breathes out. "of course I want it."

Maekar comes down for another kiss, his fingers pulling the hair at the nape of your neck, curling himself into you. Again, your lungs betray you both, and you pull away.

His breaths warms the side of your face as he nuzzles at your temple, the tip of his nose fluttering along softly against your skin.

"And don't you ever leave me like that again," he pants against your ear. "never, do you understand?"

You nod frantically, always helpless to him when he spoke to you like that.

"Good." Maekar says, sweeping you off your feet and cradling you in his arms, forcing a surprised laugh out of you. He carries you to the abandoned bed.

You stood far into the room, already adorned with his favourite night gown. Refusing to meet his gaze, you instead kept your eyes stubbornly above the fireplace.

"I will not ask again." he warned, taking another step closer to you.

It was only then that you lifted your stare.

Annoyance was clear on his face, as was his confusion.

You knew precisely why.

From the moment the two of you woke up this morning, you had been alarmingly silent. You had not woken him up with your sweet ticklish kisses around his neck, nor did you eat with him for breakfast.

And Aerion was not a man who took distance lightly.

Yet he figured that perhaps you were in some mood or simply needed time alone—but even then, you have never avoided him like this.

Which was what brought him here now.

You could only take an almost reluctant step forward before resting your forehead against his chest.

Instantly, he softened.

One arm wrapped securely around you while his free hand rested atop your head, threading lightly through your hair.

After a moment, you eventually moved your head back to look up at him.

"Aerion," you murmured quietly, "I am scared."

His brows furrowed and he quickly opened his mouth. "Scared?" he repeated.

You nodded, embarassment creeping into your expression. "It is foolish."

He tilted his head right, waiting for you to continue.

"The ladies I spoke to last night..." you hesitated. "They told me stories of their husbands getting bored just mere months or even weeks after the marriage."

Sighing, you averted your gaze.

"I feared that you might someday feel the same."

Only silence followed.

Then, to your utter disbelief, Aerion laughed. A hearty one at that.

You pulled back with a wounded pout, like a petulant child who was just refused candy.

Seeing this only worked to amuse him further.

He brought his hand to cup one side of your face, thumb brushing slowly along your cheek.

"My love," he spoke, still fighting the remnants of laughter, "that is a concern filled with idiocy."

Your eyes narrowed. "How comforting."

"Not from you, Gods no. I am referring to your idiot friends." he corrected quickly.

Despite yourself, you giggled softly. "So you aren't bored of me?"

"No."

"Truly?"

"Yes."

You eyed him carefully. "Was that answer meant for my first question or the second?"

Aerion exhaled sharply through his nose.

"Please," he muttered, leaning his forehead briefly against yours, "you have so rudely ignored your poor husband for more than half the day already. I do not believe I can endure much more."

Your smile widened and you bit your bottom lip to contain your happiness.

At last, the dreadful thoughts that plagued your mind all day finally began to ease.

Aerion lifted your hand to his mouth, pressing absentminded kisses along the side of your pinky.

"The next time something troubles you," his voice was stern yet soft with that tone that seemed to be reserved just for you, "you will not shut me out."

It was not a request.

You nodded. "I won't do it again."

"Good."

Without another word, he swept you into his arms and carried you toward the bed.

Once he settled beside you, he brushed the loose strands of hair from your face while you told him about your day.

“They say Ser Lyonel fought like the Warrior himself.”

“I heard he fought against the kingsguard and Prince Maekar.”

“They also say that he carried Ser Humfrey Hardyng from the field after the Trial.”

“No, no, it was Ser Humfrey Beesbury.”

“Does it matter who they both died.”

A hush followed that. Even now, weeks later, grief lingered over the realm like smoke after a battle.

Prince Baelor was dead and two good knights gone. The Trial of Seven had become the sort of tale singers would feast upon for generations. And at the center of it all stood Lyonel Baratheon. He was alive and victorious.

You tightened your fingers around your goblet.

The stormlords adored him now more than ever. Smallfolk shouted his name when he rode through villages. Knights sought his good graces. Young squires followed him around like ducklings.

And women—Gods the women. You watched one reach for his arm now as he laughed among a cluster of nobles below. Lady Ellyn Estermont. She was pretty and delicate with her golden hair. The sort of woman songs were written about.

Your stomach twisted unpleasantly.

Lyonel leaned down politely to hear something she said over the noise of the hall. He laughed again warm and booming and the entire cluster around him practically melted.

You looked away sharply.

“Careful,” your cousin muttered beside you.

You stiffened. “Of what?”

“Murdering half the hall with your eyes.”

You shot him a glare. Ser Addam Florent grinned into his wine. “You are glaring holes through that poor Estermont girl.”

“I am doing no such thing.”

“Aye.” He snorted softly. “And I am Aegon the Conqueror.”

You ignored him. Instead, you focused on cutting your supper far more violently than necessary. Addam watched you another moment before his amusement faded slightly.

“You know he has not looked twice at any of them.”

“That does not stop them from looking at him.”

Your cousin shrugged. “Can you blame them?”

Unfortunately, no, you could not. Lyonel was impossible not to look at. Especially after Ashford and especially after surviving the Trial of Seven. But the Trial had changed him somehow. Not physically. He remained broad shouldered, black and grey haired, and powerful as ever.

But now there was legend wrapped around him too. Be it danger or glory. Every maiden in the Seven Kingdoms suddenly dreamed of taming the Laughing Storm.

And you. You were merely the woman he had been promised to before he became extraordinary. The thought lodged like a thorn beneath your skin.

By the time supper ended, your mood had blackened entirely. You escaped the hall quickly before someone else stopped Lyonel to praise him once again. The sea wind hit your face hard the instant you stepped onto the battlements. It was cold and sharp, but it felt necessary to you.

You closed your eyes. This was foolish and you knew it was foolish. Lyonel had never once given you course to doubt him. Not once.

Yet the whispers had begun immediately upon their return from Ashford.

“Lord Lyonel could wed a princess now if he so chooses.”

“They say Lady Caron’s daughter is quite beautiful.”

“A Baratheon should marry higher than a Florent. They are all just a bunch of foxes anyways.”

“He survived a Trial of Seven. The realm will throw their daughters at his feet.”

You hated that those words had rooted themselves inside your mind.

The heavy doors behind you creaked open. You did not turn. You already knew who it was, his presence was enough.

“You vanished.”

Lyonel’s deep voice rolled over you like distant thunder. “I desired quiet ‘tis all.”

“You came to Storm’s End for quiet?” amusement colored his voice. “Then you were doomed from the start.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched faintly.

You heard his boots against the stone as he approached. “You left before the could serve the lemon cakes.”

“A tragedy, surely.”

“The greatest this castle has faced all week.”

You finally glanced at him. Gods. That was part of the problem too. He looked so unfairly handsome tonight. His sheer black doublet clung close enough to show the absolute size of him. Fresh storm wind tangled his dark curls. A faint scar near his eyebrow remained from Ashford, half hidden beneath shadow.

Living proof, he had survived when others had not. Your chest tightened painfully. You remembered hearing the news of the Trial. Remembered the terror clawing through you while ravens flew across the realm carrying word of death after death.

Baelor dead. Humfrey dead. Another Humfrey dead. You had scarcely slept until he returned.

Lyonel studied your face carefully now. “What troubles you, my fox?”

“Nothing.”

“That is a lie.”

“It is not.”

“You Florents are dreadful liars. You would think you would be better at it with a fox as your sigil.”

You frowned. “And Baratheons are arrogant.”

“Aye.” He stepped beside you at the battlement edge. “But at least we admit it.”

The sea crashed violently below but the silence between you two stretched on. Then Lyonel sighed, “You have avoided me for three days.”

Your stomach twisted guiltily. “I have not. You are mistaken.”

“You fled supper tonight for one.”

“I merely wished for air. It was becoming to stifling in there.”

Lyonel nodded. “You scarcely look at me now.”

That struck harder than you expected because it was true. Looking at him lately hurt but not because you did not love him. Gods, perhaps that was precisely the issue. You loved him too much already and you were not even married yet. You loved him enough to fear losing him.

Lyonel leaned his arms against that stone wall beside you. “Did I do something at Ashford to warrant this?”

Immediately your head snapped toward him. “No! Not at all.”

“Then what?”

You looked away again. The wind whipped your hair across your face. “Everyone speaks of you differently now.”

He blinked once, “Differently?”

“You are a hero now.”

He barked out a startled laugh. “Hardly. I had to do what has always been asked of knights.”

“Yet you survived a Trial of Seven.”

“And yet I nearly got my head split open doing it.” He spoke.

“You stood beside princes.”

“And one is dead because of it and others as well.”

His voice quieted at that. Grief flickered across his features. He was remembering his friends, you knew, both Humfreys. The sight made your chest ache.

Lyonel looked back toward the sea. “Both Humfrey’s were good men.”

“I know they were.”

Silence again then softly— “You feared I would die as well.”

It wasn’t a question. You swallowed hard. “Yes. Of course I did.”

He looked at you then really looked. And all at once his expression gentled. “You should have just said that.”

“I am saying it now.” You replied.

“A month too late.”

You huffed quietly. Then your courage failed before you could stop yourself. “And now everyone in the realm wants you.”

The words escaped smaller than intended. All Lyonel could do was stare. Then he blinked and to your utter horror he laughed. It wasn’t a cruel or mocking laugh, but it was genuinely bewildered.

You stiffened immediately. “I fail to see the humor in what I just said.”

“Gods,” he muttered, rubbing one hand over his mouth. “That is what this is all about?”

Heat flooded your cheeks. “You need not sound so astonished.” You said.

“It is simple. You are jealous.” He said with a wicked grin on his face.

“I am not,” you sneered.

“But see that is the thing you are. You looked ready to throw Lady Estermoent into the sea at supper.”

You crossed your arms sharply. “Perhaps the sea would improve her. Her sigil is a turtle after all that’s where she should belong.”

That only made him laugh harder. Your embarrassment turned to irritation instantly. “I do not know why I bothered speaking at all if you are just going to laugh at me.”

You turned around to leave but a large hand caught your wrist gently. The touch of him stopped you cold.

“Wait.”

You refused to look at him holding your head high. Lyonel’s amusement faded slowly into something softer. “You truly think I would cast you aside now?’

You stayed staring stubbornly ahead, not giving him the satisfaction.

“There are prettier ladies than I. I know it true.”

“You are wrong.” He muttered.

“There are.”

“I have eyes.”

“And now every noblewoman in the realm suddenly wishes to marry you. I have eyes and ears as well, Lyonel.”

“A horrifying fate.” He joked.

You yanked lightly against his grip. “You make sport of me and I will not allow it.”

“The Others geld me. It is because you are being absurd.”

That stung. Your chin lifted sharply. “Forgive me for noticing your newfound admirers and you are just oblivious to it all. I wish I knew what that felt like.”

“Newfound?” He looked almost offended. “My sweet, women have admired me for years.”

Now this time you couldn’t help but glare at him. Lyonel grinned briefly before his expression relaxed once again.

“But I did not ask any of them to marry me, did I?”

Your breath caught. His thumb brushed lightly against your wrist. “Now if I remember I asked for your hand.”

Your heart faltered painfully. “You were promised to me before Ashford.” You replied.

“And yet I would choose you after it too.”

The winds whipped around both of you and Lyonel stepped closer to you as if the wind was guiding him to you.

“You think surviving the trial changed what I want?”

Quietly, you admitted. “Mayhaps.”

His brows furrowed. Then suddenly he lifted both rough hands to your face. His hands were warm and large, but careful. You froze completely. “Look at me my fox.”

Slowly, reluctantly, you did. And Gods the way he looked at you nearly unraveled every fear you held inside you. It made your knees weak and your heart stutter.

“I did not fight beside princes and fools and dying men only to come home wanting someone else.”

Your throat tightened.

Lyonel voice lowered. “When I was bleeding in the dirt at Ashford, do you know what I thought of?”

You could barely whisper your response. “What?”

“It was you.”

The answer shattered you and Lyonel’s hands on your face was the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

“I thought that if I survived,” he muttered, “I would return to Storm’s End and finally convince my stubborn Florent bride that I have only ever wanted her and make an honest Baratheon woman out of her.”

Emotions burned hot behind your eyes. His forehead rested lightly against yours. “You think too little of yourself.”

“You think too much of me.”

“Aye,” a small smile touched his lips. “That may be true, but you are mine from this day to the end of my days.”

You laughed shakily despite yourself. Lyonel’s hands remained gentle against your cheeks lightly caressing them.

“I do not want the prettiest woman at court.”

“No?”

“No.” His gaze swept over your face like something reverent. “I want the woman who looked at me returning from Ashford as though she already mourned me. Because that look told me everything I needed to know.”

The wind roared around you more but suddenly it no longer felt cold.

Lyonel smiled softly. “Besides,” he added, his voice lowering mischievously, “I happen to think my Florent bride is beautiful enough to start wars, and I would gladly start one for you.”

You rolled your eyes immediately even as heat rose to your face. “Liar.”

“A Baratheon never lies.” He stated.

“You said earlier Baratheons are arrogant.”

“We are both.” He said proudly.

Before you could respond, he leaned down and pressed a kiss against your forehead. It was tender and lingering. And in that moment, with the wind raging around you and the sea crashing below you finally understood.

"Princess” Baelor called, his voice carrying across the stands with the calm authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. "A word."

You knew that tone.

Now, in the pavilion, he was pressing against you hard enough to leave bruises. You had no way to move.

“My love” you started softly. “That provoked you? A kind word to a young knight? A smile?"

"You smiled at him."

"I smile at septons. I smile at serving girls. I smile at the Master of Coin, and none of that means anything."

He pulled you harder, back arching into him.

"He touched you."

Your breathing was heavy and you could not think clearly; his tight grip and essence had you drunk in his arms.

‘’Only I get to do that, my lady wife.”

His mouth found your neck, kissing and biting your sensitive skin until you whimpered for him. Your whole body was hot with need and nothing else mattered when Baelor’s hands gripped your hips to press your buttocks against his pulsating length from inside his breeches.

He liked the bruise his mouth left on your neck. You liked telling your maids it was a spider bite.