I`d rather be in Westeros

He can be found here. Still sipping down wine like a bacchanalian god. Debauchery and fun posed in his smile. Flushed cheeks. Lounging in his seat like a supine panther. All long loose limbs and wild coils of hair laying low in his eyes. Golden jewellery gleaming in the low light, and off the black shadow of his clothes.

Some couples still remain. Of course you and he are hosts. You’ll outlast them all. The sun will peek its rosy pink face through a tucked bed of fluffed blue clouds over the horizon, before you’re both abed.

Some guests are in each others laps. Some slumped on tables, snorting and slumbering drunk. Some still spin and sway near you like gentle waves. Lazy dances that look more like they’re simply trying to stay holding one another upright.

He tilts his head. Wine heavy like hot molasses in his blood. Eyes searching the thinning crowds, finding you on your feet.

Stood right the way across the cavern of a dining hall from him. Gold threaded its clever light over your clothes. The brocade sway of your dress, trails like a salacious lover’s whisper across the dark flagstones of his halls.

The way your frame appears in your black velvet gown, sleeves bell like and draping, striped with braided gold patterns. He doesn’t know how you haven’t collapsed from exhaustion yet. How your toes aren’t pinching sore in your pretty slippers.

Your earrings bash and sway in heady pendulums of gold into your neck. Hair braided off your face in the style you favour. Spilling down your back like dark twisted roots. You spin and twirl. Delight.

He gazes. Lazily. Happily and drowsy from drink.

Watches the contours of your profile as you smile, the round apple of your cheeks, the flash of a grin. Paying such devoted attention to the one whose currently in your arms.

It’s a celebration and you’ve danced and talked and taken time with everyone.

Now, you are teaching your oldest son how to dance.

Spinning him under your arm. Reeling him back. Telling him with a smile how to place his feet. Guiding his steps. Clapping and smiling when he whirls on his feet. Hugging back into your front when he’s done.

You hold him close. His arms barely able to close around the enormity that was your pregnant belly. Round and heavy with his fourth.

Your soft hand comes to cradle his head. Gold flash of a ring. Motherly hands in tufted coils. Nearly a grown lad but he was still your boy. Ruffling his dark raven curls under your hand. Taking his hand then in yours, showing him how to step properly with a young lady.

Lyonel peers across the hall. The corridor that ran down in steps from the upper Halls. Why can he see the tips of small slipper clad feet in the shadows- pink and blue.

He can make out the poke of little knees in cotton nightdresses. His daughters. Sat huddled on a low stair. Watching the ladies dresses. Spying lords and Knights and music. Eyes wide as they gorged themselves on the sight of a merry feast.

“Imps.” He sighs.

For certain, he could lay name a whole clutch of his grey hairs after his two daughters. Who knew they could be so much more trouble than sons.

“Right.” He pushes from his seat. Winds through a hallway that sets back to the upper floors. Doubles back on himself, opts for an ambush attack on the two little pests.

He creeps towards them slowly. Quiet as a grave. They haven’t noticed his chair vacated. Ceres had her rag doll plastered on her lap.

Olira was bashing her bony elbow to her sisters ribs. Pointing at the noble ladies gowns. Lamenting their brilliancy. Picking at the hem of her own plain night gown as if she were inferior.

He leans against the wall. Folds his arms. Ankle crossed over another. Sighing loudly. He makes himself known. A lightning strike of a bark that meant he’d spent too many years leeching the strictness you oft spoke with, when your child’s disobedience came your way.

“What in the seven hells are you two still doing up?” He remarks. Booming voice enough to make them flinch.

They freeze. Caught out. Shoulders hunching. Slowly twisting in unison like scarecrows bashing in the wind. Eyes wide and fearful as they fix on the frame of their beleaguered Storm Lord father. Behind them. Looking unimpressed.

“Father.” Liri says slowly in recognition. No doubt plucking her excuse with care.

Ceres says naught. Merely looks with those big dark baby cow eyes that were definitely heriditary. “Papa.”

He buoys one brow. “You are both out of bed, because?” He seeks.

“We were hungry?” Ceres points out.

Lyonel tilts his head down. Eyes narrow. Really?

“We wanted a glass of milk.” Liri adds.

“Yet I see neither bread nor cups of milk in your hands.”

They look to each other for a response. It is not quick in coming.

“You will give your nursemaid the fright of her life when she finds your beds empty. What did you do- stuff the blankets with a doll and a pin cushion to aid in your escape.” He checks.

“I used a pillow.” Ceres admits. Bold.

Whatever else could be said of her. His youngests tongue couldn’t be sold as dishonest.

“Are you terribly angry?” Liri winces. Dark brows pinching into a big V shape on her head. Ceres peers up at him like a fearful doe.

Dammit. It works.

He can’t stay incensed at those eyes.

He sighs. Curls shaking as he shifts himself off the wall. Eyes narrowed.

“Budge up.”

They excitedly skirt to the side to let him come sit with them on the steps. He slots himself between Olira and the wall. Snatches up, then plonks his Ceres down on his lap. Folds her little legs to rest over his. He nearly gets whacked in the nose with her doll. As per usual.

“You really shouldn’t be up this late, you know. Pests. Your mother will hang, draw and quarter me, when she sees you out of bed.”

“We just wanted to see the dresses.” Liri bemoans. Like she’d die if she didn’t.

“She wanted to see dresses. I wanted to see the food.” Ceres utters plainly. Stroking the woven hair on her dolly as he speaks.

Lyonel crushes a kiss to the wild nest of Ceres’ locks. All sleep tumbled. Smelling like cotton, warm milk and lilacs. The smell of their nursery. Woven into the cotton of their clothes and their dark tumbling hair.

“We’ll make sure they save you some pigeon pie.”

“And cheese?” Ceres brightens at the mere idea of it.

“And cheese.” He adds. Not knowing how such a little voracious mouth often could put away so much food.

“And pumpkin tarts. And sausages. And Brie and apple tarts. And custard….” She reels off a list.

“Mind you don’t explode. They shall call you Ceres Baratheon, the exploding storm.” He prods her belly with a ringed finger, enough to make her giggle and fuss in his lap. Squirming like a hooked trout.

Olira rests with her elbow on her knee. Hand cupping her face. Gazing wistfully at the dance floor. Filled with drowsy, drifting couples.

“What about you sour puss…” Lyonel knocks an elbow into her own. Jostling her where she sat. “What can we save you-“

“Mothers gown is so pretty. I wish I had a gown like hers. All mine are so plain. I want to dance at balls and not be told off for it.” She laments. Somewhat grumpily.

Coming up to the tender age of 10, he found Olria to be tenderly consumed with the need for knights and stories. Flowers and poets and all things pertaining to honour and love. She was forever holed up with her novels. Daydreams floating through her mind of ladies, kitten whiskers, rose petals and silks.

He loves to see the duality in his daughters;

One is dreaming of the day she can don silk gowns. And be paid court too-

The other has no goal in life, other than the want to eat her entire body weight in cheese.

“Darling. We can have you more gowns made if you wish. But you know you are too young for balls and courts just yet. Don’t wish your life away for love of it, my sweet.” He urges.

Liri sighs. Like all the breath and joy in the world had left her little body in one great gust.

“I want someone to talk too about poetry. Of love stories. All Ceres ever wants to talk about is cake, or cheese.”

His youngest frowns. A deep furrowed scowl. Scrunching up her little face.

“I like cheese.” Ceres fairly cries. Terribly indignant.

Olira glares at her sister. “It’s all you ever talk of. You’re so dull.” She snips.

Lyonel soothes the coming storm. He’s good at knowing when they’re about to break.

“Liri.” He warns. Eyes hard. Voice like the dark clouds that proceeded thunder. Danger.

She hunches in on herself. Apologetic. Elbows folded. Chin on them. Brows creased up. Looking miserable.

“If I were to tell you a love story. Would that make you feel better. And before you ask Ceres, no this story does not involve cheese.”

“Rubbish.” She huffs under her breath.

Liri turns to look at him. Piqued curiosity. “A love story?”

Hope sparkles in those dark eyes. The ones he oft gazes into, and finds all the quaint loving echoes of your own colour eyes staring back.

Lyonel grins. Got her.

“It’s a true love story.” He adds. Holding his arm up. A strong arch over her.

She sticks herself under it. Like a great eagle lifting a wing for their chick in stormy climes. She shuffled in. Nestled her head against his side. The comforting tick of his drunken heart beating in his leather tunic clad chest.

“How true?” Liri asks. As if the tales validity was the only thing keeping her interest.

“It’s true. Because it is about me, and your mother.”

Lyonel nods across to where you’re holding hands with Jorys. Dipping into another dance.

“I like this one already.” Ceres remarks. Slurping around the thumb she stuffed in her mouth.

“You know, when I first met her. I didn’t know who she was. Not one clue. I didn’t know she was the Lady Dondarrion. We danced together. And she wouldn’t give me her name. She made me chase after her to get it. And still she didn’t give it. So I did the only thing I could think to do…” He explains. Voice dipping into drama and rich with the vigour of storytelling.

“What did you do?”

“I kissed her.” He reveals. Face turned wicked. Smile; utterly cunning.

Ceres winces. Nose crumpled up in disgust. Liri sighs dreamily. Scandal be damned.

“We were stood under the stars. And she looked so beautiful. So serene. I thought to myself ‘I have to kiss this woman. Or I will go mad.”

He leans in to whisper ardently into Ceres scalp. Hair tickling his lips. She laughs again. Giggles like the little imp she is. They are all sat gazing over at you. The drunken tired sway of your skirts. The press of your joined hands.

“And after I kissed her, she ran away. Still without a name. So, I tried to ask if anyone knew of her. Not a soul knew. Nobody knew. So. The next day I rode on my horse to the tourney field. Because I was to meet my intended bride...”

“Mama.” Liri grins.

“Not Mama.” He tells. Ceres eyes blow wide. “I was first promised to your Aunt Mereya.”

Olira’s mouth gapes. “What did you do?”

“We tried to avoid each other for a while. To let things be. But we couldn’t ignore how we felt. It was a love that grew very quick and strong. We tried to push it aside. But it was no use…”

“I think we would have sacrificed our love for good. Had your Aunt not met Uncle Thorren.”

“Why?” Liri asks. The word wrenched out of her. All passion and feeling.

Lyonel sweeps his eyes to you.

“Because we didn’t want anyone to get hurt. We never meant to feel this way. Your mother would have been shamed very much, had she thrown over her arranged match for me. And I would have been reprimanded to hell and back for falling in love with a woman who was not my bride.”

“Your aunt came to me after the tourneys close, to tell me she had fallen in love with another. Thus releasing me, so, I went to straight find your mother. To tell her I loved her.”

“And?” Liri asks. “She accepted you?”

Lyonel shook his head. “She had gone.”

Liri gawps. Gasping. “No.”

“That very morning, she had publicly broken her proposal with her intended. And she had ridden all the way home to Castle Blackhaven. Without even saying goodbye. So I went after her.”

“On horseback?” Liri asks.

“Not quite. But I was still very handsome and chivalrous.”

Truth was, he was black and blue and sore all over. Scuffed and grazed like he’d taken a tumble off a cliff. A black eye that throbbed. A possibly sprained ankle. He was a collection of afflictions.

“I dragged my whole company of men to Blackhaven to catch up to her. Ignoring their protests. She couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw me.”

He leaves out the more explicit verbs you’d used upon seeing how he’d suddenly apparated in your courtyard. How he’d come out his caravan hissing and spitting hells anger at you for running away. A cowards move.

You’d not yet been informed of your sisters change of heart. And subsequently couldn’t fathom why he’d dragged his whole caravan of company, bannermen and all, miles out of the way, to your home.

“I was injured from the tourney. Could barely walk. Beaten black and blue. And I wanted to ask her to marry me.”

Olira looks enraptured. “And she said yes…”

“Not at first. No.”

“What?” Liri spat out.

“She said, ‘Lyonel what in the seven hells are you doing here’.” He imitated your tone. Only you didn’t say seven.

“She refused you?” Ceres asked wetly around her thumb.

“She said no. Because she was a widow of House Swann. And she was terrified she couldn’t give me heirs.”

“Did she?” Ceres pipes up. Still talking with her thumb jammed in her mouth.

Liri rolled her brown eyes over. “Obviously. She did, Ceres, you idiot.”

“Actually no she didn’t. Didn’t I say? We found you one day, scavenging berries under a bush in the godswood and decided very generously to give you both a home.” He teases. Even Liri laughs.

Then she presses on.

“How did you get mother to accept you?”

“Not easily.” He begins.

“I said I’d have fared better if I tried to woo a rock. She didn’t find that an acceptable compliment. She’s incredibly stubborn. That mother of yours.” He adds.

“I said; ‘Are you going to come and be Lady Baratheon of Storms End or do I have to come over there, throw you over my shoulder, and drag you back there myself?’”

“She crossed her arms and said she doubted I could make it up the stairs before her. Let alone throw her over my shoulder. Did rather take the wind out my sails, a bit.”

“Cruel woman. She watched me hobble very painfully up the steps. My leg was near hanging off you know…. I was walking with a crutch like an invalid. Probably mere moments from death come to think of it…” He exaggerated.

“I repeated my most courteous and romantic offer of marriage…” He tells them.

When in truth he had wheezed and cursed and stumbled up the steps. Breathing the words ‘cunt’ and ‘fuck’ and ‘shagging hells’ under his breath, fighting tooth and nail against his injury, as you stood there like a damn Sept statue and watched him struggle to get to you.

He stood before you and panted out, half slumped on his antler crutch. In pain and frothing with impatience. ‘Will you just fucking marry me already. Lady Dondarrion.’

“And still she told me no. Told me again that I should seek a younger bride. That she couldn’t bare it if I woke up in ten years from then and regretted tying myself to her, when a younger prettier maiden could come along.”

“No one’s prettier than Mother.” Ceres chirps merrily.

“Indeed not.” He agrees. Stroking his curled knuckle over her plump, cherubic little cheek.

“I looked that stubborn beautiful woman right in the eyes, and boldly claimed that I had my chance for a young pretty bride. And I couldn’t even fathom or look at said bride because it was not her. I asked how she could even think I’d ever choose someone else.”

“She was starting to soften. I could see it. Weak in her knees she was. She said to me it would be the end of her if she couldn’t give me children.”

“I told her not to put obstacles in my way, cause I would knock every single problematic thing in the world down in order to have her.”

“Then what?” Olira urges. Hanging on his every word, as if he were preaching gospel.

“‘Ask me again.’ She said. And I did.” He beams.

Liri clutched onto his chest. Hands splayed to him. “She finally said yes.” She wriggled with excitement.

“Fucking finally.” He awarded.

Liri chides him with a little frown. Nudging her splayed l hand at his side. A push to his ribs to chide him. “Mother hates when you curse.”

“Yes, she does rather. Especially in front of the children.” You pipe up. Coming close. Interrupting their private little story corner.

Coming to a slow stop right in front of them down the bottom of the steps.

They look like a nest of rats whose hiding place had been uncovered.

“Is this some plot or party I’m not aware of.” You seek. You wouldn’t put it past Lyonel to hatch a dastardly plan with his daughters. They each had inventive ways of curling him like ribbon round their little fingers.

You actually adore it. He’s the most involved, beloved father.

He makes merry with their games. Indulges their hobbies. Climbs into their little beds when nightmares persist. More than once you find him heaped in the nursery. Asleep on one of their beds. Comically stuffing his big limbs into a tiny bed that was strewn with children and toys. More like a sprawl of daughter and limbs, than a stretch of bed or blanket.

He can sit to a tea party with Ceres and her dolls - provided there was cake of course. There always had to be cake.

He can talk through poetry books and history lessons of the great houses with Olira. Wandering her along the battlements and letting the wind snatch their recitations away. Sometimes you’d find them wind burned and laughing til tears came.

He was the bane of the master of arms existence. And Jorys passel of tutors. Forever scooping his boy from his schooling to take him for an impromptu ride in the woods. A hike along the cliffs. Down to the beach for sword practice in the salt sprayed air, dancing and parrying in the wet claggy sand. Off to bring him to sail in a loop around Tarth and back again.

Jorys stoops tiredly beside you. Rubbing a knuckle into his eye and boldly yawning. “Why are you both up?” He poses to his sisters. Eyes drooping.

“Cheese.” Is all Ceres offers as her excuse.

Lyonel plants his smile in her hair. Hiding it. Please never change. He thinks.

Liri scowls back. “Why are you allowed to dance.” She fires out at Jorys.

“I’m the oldest.” He holds out. A dark eyed scowl looming under the shade of the curls that flop into his face.

You drop your chin. Pin Liri with a gaze that would have grown men, or storms, shrinking back in fear. “Olira.” You caution. Icily.

“We have a host coming next month from Highgarden. To celebrate your Aunt’s nameday. I should hate to have those new dresses I commissioned for you for that occasion, returned.” You carry your threat with clever care.

“We are hosting Highgarden?” She asks. Desperation in her voice. The hunger for meeting new people. For parties where they might be Knights. Lord and Ladies. Feasts and events.

“A little more gentility wouldn’t go amiss.” Your eyes flick to Ceres. Your meaning clear.

“Yes, mother.”

“Jory. Maybe you could take your sisters to their chambers. It is well past time they were in bed. Nearly the hour of the wolf.” You pat your hand on his golden shoulder. The lean bones of him padding under his fine gambeson.

Ceres sticks her pudgy arms out. Jory comes down and plucks her off their fathers lap. Bundled her to his side. On his lanky teenage hip.

“Good lad.” Lyonel thanks him with a pat to the leg as he passes them by.

“G’ Night father. Night mother.” He smothered through a yawn.

Ceres grills him the second they round the corner going to the stairs. “Did you get cake?”

“No, Ceres.” He answers plainly. Tired but not unkind. Olira stands, turns and obediently follows. The dream of new dresses hanging in the balance in her head.

That left two.

You stand. One arm curled over your belly. Tilting your head at your very drunken, drowsy looking husband. Soft smile on your lips that he really needs to kiss. Soon.

“Your daughters are exhausting.” Lyonel groans as he heaves himself up from the stone steps.

“Not as exhausting as yours.” You counter.

He lazily thumps his booted feet to come knocking down the steps. A decent amount of wine sloshing around in his belly.

“When did Liri become so infatuated with knights and ladies… and fucking dresses.” He remarks. “It was just yesterday she was searching for pixies in the woods. Coming back with leaves and twigs stuck every which way in her hair.”

“She’s well on her way to being a young woman. That treacherous path is difficult enough as it is. Be gentle and give her time.” You decide. Easy as a calm wash of the tide.

One that can easily navigate the stormy seas that was a daughter nearly blooming into adolescence. You take it in your stride. Like the omnipotent, calming mother that you’ve grown to be.

“Ye gods. Daughters.” He sighs, very put upon. Coming to a stand in front of you. Hands reaching on instinct to smooth across your belly like he was magnetised to it. Lips swooping down to pluck a scratchy beardy kiss to your temple.

“This one better be a boy. I haven’t the patience or strength for another girl.” He laments.

“Liar.” You remark. Taking his chin in the pinch of your fingers. Dipping up on tiptoes to push a sweet kiss to those talkative lips.

He was utterly besotted with your girls from the day they were born. Holding them tenderly. When they were wrapped little pink swaddled bundles. Fresh off their first bath. Kissing their wrinkled little heads and promising them the moon and stars. Loving them so much with each breath he swore it made his heart stop.

“I hasten to add I think that particular fate of the babes sex was sealed months ago. My silver fox. It’s in the gods hands now. You smooth a hand over his cheek. Cupping one side of that bristled, trimmed beard afterward.

He hums thoughtfully. Kisses you back. “We could do with another boy. You know. Even some things up around here.”

His head tilts far to the left. Taking in the way his hands stroked over the round velvet covering you. Belly cradled in his hands. Hoping for to feel a kick.

“Have you complaints about our life?” You seek. Hands going to knead in the small of your back. To pummel the ache that sat there out.

He notices. Slips his arms around you. Joins your hands. Brings his front right to yours. Hip to hip. Chest to chest. Forever he was a man to sling himself across you no matter the mood or scenery.

“Fewer little storms underfoot would be nice.” He teases.

“Well. Your timing is just perfect.” You sass. Holding your back up as your belly sits between you like a hilariously, poignant bloated great elephant, in the room.

Ladies of your acquaintance had warned you time and time again of the perils of carrying. No one told you that for these last few months you’d begin to feel about as manouverable as a horse carriage. A large boxy one.

“Not my fault. You’re entirely to blame for that. The rate you keep after me I hadn’t the stamina or energy to refuse.” He smirks and dives to nibble a kiss at your neck when you sigh in offence.

“Oh. You poor man. Was laying back on our bed and being ridden like a stallion, too much for your delicate sensibilities?”

“Mm actually…. Come to think of it? I feel I’m due a reminder of said performance. With an added appearance of those gorgeous swollen tits swinging in my face.”

You snort. Unimpressed. “You’ve got to be joking. I would crush you.”

“Man’s got to die somehow.” He smirks. Hands still looped around you. Hips in line with yours.

“My cunt will not be held responsible for your death.”

“I’d die so happy.” He preens. Whispering. Leaning over to kiss you senseless.

You do moan into it. Smothered to his lips before you have to draw back - in order to breathe.

“Someone will die if I’m not allowed to retire soon. My ankles feel the same size as your destriers fetlocks.” You wince.

Being on said feet most of your day was beginning to take its toll. Hand sliding to his shoulder. Letting him take your weight for a moment.

You peer a look around the hall. Some servants have come to clear the crumb laden platters and trenchers. Some men are slumped asleep at table. Save for two very slowly swaying couples, you are literally among the last remaining guests and revellers.

“Must we be the last pair standing?” You ask. Hope lives as a brittle shard in your voice.

“Not if my Lady Storm has had enough.” He promises. He always keeps his words and promises. You suspect he would sooner die than dishonour you that way.

“She desires her bed. And Lord Storm in said bed.” You sigh. Happily so.

He takes your arm. “To bed, then.”

Anything else important can fuck off til tomorrow as far as he’s concerned. He had a feeling you will both have a rude awakening via some children come the morn.

“Reckon we’ll get the chance for a slow morning abed?” He asks. Helping guide you up and up the stone steps.

You know precisely what he means. Breakfast on a tray. And the opportunity for slow, lazy fucking under the sheets when you’re both still half asleep.

“What do you think?” You ask.

“Bolt the door?” He cheeks.

You chuckle. “They’d only knock it down off the hinges.”

“Honestly. Who’d have offspring.” He japes.

You consider his words witn a tilted head. Hand over your belly. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Oh.” He groans. “At the time it was fucking bliss.”

“Agreed.” You chuckle.

“Won’t make that mistake twice.” He teases.

“I think we have made that mistake more than just twice.”

“Then we are fools.”

You stop on the stairs. Where the walls close in for the stairwell. Squeeze you close to one another. “Then we must be lovesick fools.”

“Of that I’ve no doubt. My savage storm.” He agrees. Nuzzling you into a simple kiss. Smiling thereafter.