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TW: death and violence, blood, but this angst does have a happy ending !
It finally took enough of his returned food trays back down to the kitchens, for the Head Cook, Lonna, to furiously take it upon herself to stamp back up the stairs, carrying a refreshed tray with her own two hands.
A battle axe on the warpath.
Cooks cap covering her hair. Coils tamped down, sticking out of it stubbornly, behaving like twirls of silver shaved metal. Frown as stormy as any weather native to the Stormlands. Only twice as scouring.
She opened the door to the bedchamber. Crossed the rugs and stones like hells own silent fury.
She dumped the tray down on the table next to his seat, with a fierce thump. Cutlery and crockery, rattling together, as if loose teeth in a drunkards skull.
He jumped out his very fucking skin. Mid snore.
So much so, he bolted from his seat with a cry of“Son of a cunting whore.”
The blanket he had draped on his shoulder fell to his lap. His boots slapping the flagstones. Alarm still bleeding through him. Night had fallen. It had felt like but an hour since the girls left.
Lonna fixed on him a glare that could turn even a stout wilding, into a cowering maiden.
Bony hands braced on her hips. Nobbled knuckles and scarred hands and arms. More scars criss-crossed on her arms than a wonky butchers block. The knowledge that with said hands she could dissect a pig carcass, or joint a hen with minimal fuss rather set him on edge. A woman who knew how bones behaved, and could pluck them apart if needed. Frightening power indeed.
“Ugh. Gods. It’s you.” He bemoans. Realising who’d dared wake him in such a manner. He rubs the sleep out his dry, bleary eyes.
“Who let you out the cooking room.” He sasses.
She ultimately ignores him. Glares venom for his cursing. Same way she did when she was a young lording. Caught with his sticky thieving hands on the honey cakes. Or when she’d threatened to swill his tongue with soap, when she caught a foul word fall from his mouth.
“You’re no good to her, starving away to skin and bone. Stop asking for more fucking wine. Eat something.” She growls.
“You do remember I am the Lord of Storms End, Lonna…” Lyonel sighed. Feeling like a green boy being ticked off by his mother, yet again. He wiped a hand down his brow.
“I can remember thrashing your bony sorry arse with a wooden spoon, when you misbehaved as an errant child. Shall I try that again?” She threatens. Eyes narrowing. Coming closer.
He feels the need to shrivel back under the blanket and protect himself. He’d need a shield for that. Mere fabric is no match for this old sea monster.
“You’d have to catch me first. Dear heart.” He flashes his best tired grin. Picking the blanket up off his feet with a strained groan. Chair cracking and creaking under him.
She barks a sound that could have been a dry old laugh on anyone else. Brittle as metal scraping on itself. She stands with hands on her hips. None of his nonsense tolerated.
“I could make mince meat of you. Boy. Don’t test me.”
Lyonel let’s a small smile take his lips. Always a tonic. His dear old Lonna.
She’s known him man and boy in this house. And possibly even before that. When he was no more than a burgeoning lump under his mothers dress. One of the first to hold him, so she was.
His ornery cook nods to the bed. “How is she?”
“Much unchanged.” He confesses. Hope lived as a burning kernel on his voice.
“Don’t let that doddery witch feed her anymore of his potions and tonics. Shes over the worst. Now she needs to get her strength up. Good strong beef broth. And sugared tea. That’ll see her right. You mark my words.” She points a bony finger at him in warning.
He feels thin. As run through, scraped dry, as he’s sure he looks. Hollow as a dragon bone.
“Consider them marked.”
“What she gets from that muck he pours down her. I don’t rightly know. Weeds most like.”
“Tis a good thing then. That you are not a maester.”
He watches her cross the room. She had a way of walking that could flatten army commanders. Every step struck with purpose. She moved the way a dagger did. No nonsense. All carve. The kind of figure that strolled through rooms filled with knives, scalding iron pots, and open flames without so much a wince.
She stands by your bedside. Lovingly pats the covers by your hand. Her dry, marred back of her fingers seek your brow. Tests the warmth leeching off you. Still not quite right.
“Aye. I’m not a maester. But I’ve seen more spring sickness and poxes fall on this house than you’ve had lovers. I know what a body needs for strength and nourishment. She’s pale still. Poor thing.” Lonna laments.
She swings round and checks. Scrupulous eyes swiping at him. As gouging as red hot pokers. “How fares you?”
“Never better.” He lies. Stacking humour and charm in front of his pain.
The laughing storm has blown through. This weak, drunken and starved shell of just Lyonel, is all that’s left.
“There’s pie there that needs eating. Don’t let it grow cold. Venison. Leeks and greens too. Eat every last bit. You need the iron. I’ll have broth for her made, and sent up soon as.” She orders. Made him feel like a squire again in his own bedchamber.
He doubts he had the energy or appetite to even lift the fork to his face. “I’m not hungry.”
“You need fuel. You fool. Get it down ya.” She urges.
“I’ve no appetite.”
“Grief makes you hollow. You’ll need something filling.”
“Do you pray? Lonna?” He asks. Sudden.
“I do.”
He’s never really been one for the gods. He toasted to them in mockery and spat in their face without fear. His whole life had been an endless insulting jab at their expense. Roaring parties, men and women in his bed for a good time only. Fighting and jousting worthy foes. The only time he ever went near a Sept, was for a wedding, or a burying.
Faith had never been his ally. He tucked his head down and bashed his path out in life with a sturdy set of antlers. Carved it out of blood and bravado.
Nothing he gained was ever due to something whisper thin as prayer. He was lucky. He was an heir, and enjoyed well all the spoiled privileges that gave him. Hope and praying were things he never had need of.
Until now.
“Faith was always something that seemed to happen to other people. Maybe those more blessed and deserving than me.” He reaches for the wine goblet. Makes her jaw crack in grit annoyance.
“I’m not sure I can pray much more than I have. For her to be spared. An irony, it seems, asking gods to be merciful when I believe them to be the opposite.”
Lonna considers him carefully. Firelight twists copper in her eyes. Turns their pallid grey to hammered steel.
“I’ve been praying for her. To the mother. Each night. Every morning.” She tells.
Coming to a stand before him. Clasping her bony hand around his where it lay on his lap. Gripping it so tight his bones and knuckles grated. She wasn’t capable of any sort of gentleness. Held hands as if she were kneading dough. Only knew how to plough through and pack a punch.
“As have I.” Lyonel adds. “I’m not precisely sure they’re listening.”
“Course they are. Lad. And I’ll have none of that. She needs you. As do those little stags of yours.”
“I comfort myself with one thing. Shall I tell you? She led her life being a good mother. A dutiful wife. A great, respected lady of Storms End. I pray the gods spare her. Because they can see how she is still needed. How valued. To rob this house of her would be cruel. Aye. It wouldn’t be good sense. So I have faith they’ll see this right.”
“Now. Eat.” His cook barks.
He wishes he could say her bark was worse than her bite. But both were pretty terrible in actuality.
“I shall. Lonna.”
Her jaw tightens. Now.
“I won’t leave this spot until you do.”
He takes in her expression. Resigned. Stubborn as old iron. “You’re not kidding are you?” He checks. Goblet halfway to his mouth.
“You see a smile on this face that kids?”
“No. But that’s normal.”
Her eyes narrow. No way are his arms and wit strong enough to parry with his cook.
“Who exactly do you think is going to come remove me?” She asks. Crossing her sinewy arms.
Of course no guard would dare raise a hand to her. She oversaw the feeding of every mouth in this place. That was a sacred thing to soldiers. The bread she baked. The stews she slaved over. Men marched on their stomachs, and she knew this to be holier than scripture. That gave power.
“Ser Seldan?” Lyonel threatens. Questioning.
She tilts her head. As if.
She’d thrash that wolf to heel, like we was a fucking pup.
He sighs. Defeat it is.
She would fucking stand here til the plate was empty of every last crumb and smear of gravy.
He stands the wine down with an unhappy thunk.
Taking the knife provided, he cuts the pie. The crust gave with a delicious crackle. A tendril of steam uncurls. Flaky butter pastry falling to the steaming gravy and meat within. The smell of rich dark meat and pastry was singing fucking sonnets to his starved body, he can’t deny it.
He spears a bite. Chews it. Warm food filling his stomach. Another bite. And another. The vegetables too. He didn’t fancy her force feeding them down his gullet.
“You are an inhuman terror.” He proclaims. Mouth half full. Brushing pastry crumbs from his beard.
She rolls her eyes over. “Takes one to know one. Mi’lord.”
She does hover until the plate is empty. When he’s sat back wiping his mouth on the napkin. Throwing it down across the plate with flourish. Only then does she come across to take it.
“Less of the fuss next time. If I have to come up with your porridge and kippers come the morn. I really will thrash your sorry arse.” She threatens.
“I don’t doubt it.” He remarks. Snatches the wine goblet before she runs off with it. He doesn’t fancy chasing her down stairs for it.
“They’ll give her back. Lad. Enough of your moping. She needs to wake up and take you to hand. Mopey sod.”
Then she pats his hand. Hauls the tray up to her hold. And marches out as fast as she came.
He didn’t know where to laugh or cry. But he does sleep easier with something warm and solid weighty in his belly.
The knowledge of even her prayers, hang in the room like a tapestry. Chasing the dark thoughts into the corners.
He wakes to thunder. Their drums pound deep and true. Roll across the roof like an army closing in. A heavy battalion of iron heavy clouds take the sky. Unleashing grighteningly strong rain upon the bricks. Weeping at the stone to be let in. The sea roils and breaks. Hungry and spitting foam from the curling waves, like a salivating maw.
He wakes. Neck stiff. Candles near burnt out. Puddling low to melted gold wax pools. Fire a dim mush of grey ash with very little copper embers dwindling, a faint orange held in his antler fire grate.
The room is chilled. Not only washed with the kind of sleepy blue that came before dawns true pinks and copper light, but also the cold, dozy darkness that only a storm brought along. Thick and suffocating.
He blinks himself awake. Eyes immediately darting to your figure in the bed.
Eyes closed. Sweat still on your brow. Chest bloating and sinking. Deep calm breaths. Smooth as a glass sea.
He urged himself out the chair. Back screaming. Neck stiff. Eyes sore and heavy. Mouth stale. He cares not for his rest.
He comes to the bedside. Blinking sleep away. Crusting at the corners of his vision like a stubborn old ox. He lays his hand on your cooled bare upper arm. Tugs the bedclothes over the round hill of you there.
“You seem a better temperature now. My storm.” He remarks gently. Looking down at you. Voice not awake yet in his throat. It climbs out husky and unused.
He leans down. Cups his hand over your brow. The boiling, nasty heat that belted out your skin, is no more. Calm, easy body heat met his palm. A turning point.
He closes his eyes. Sighs. Tips his chin skyward. “Thank the blessed fucking mother.”
His eyes flick back onto you. “Now what’s say you stop this foolish nonsense at once. And come back to us. Lady Storm... I’m really fucking unhappy with you like this. In case that wasn’t clear enough. You listening?” He chastens.
Once the words come, he can’t seem to stop them. They spill out.
“The children are scared out their wits. I really can’t stand that. Ceres has plucked enough flowers for you to outfit a king’s funeral. Liri seems to think they’re going to be whisked away any minute to be imprisoned in a tower, so I can swoop another bride in to remarry. Balls to that by the way-“
“And our boy. Jory-“ he sighs. “My god. There won’t be a thing left in this castle he won’t break in order to sate his anger.” He thinks aloud.
“I’m really. Not…” he breathes out, but it’s shaky. Rubs a knuckle into his eye til it burns. “Really not alright. Without you. My savage storm.”
He sniffs. Ugly truth comes sliding off his tongue.
“I never should have let you out my sight that day. Rest assured you’re not leaving this keep ever again. You’re going nowhere that isn’t stuck with me. I don’t care how mad that will make you. Tough fucking luck. I will chain you to my side.”
He looks down through blurred eyes. “Just come back. You must. I forbid you to go anywhere that doesn’t involve me. If you go to the gods, I will crack open hell with my bare hands, and fight every last one of the cunts to bring you back. So don’t even fucking dare think about going.” He nods.
Lifting your limp hand up to his lips to kiss it. Placing it back down on the covers. Folding a sweat logged lock of hair out your face.
“Come back.” He whispers. Feeling one tear slide down his cheek. Dropping down his face, to his doublet.
He swallows. Touches the side of your face. Watches the dark dawn capture itself in the gleam of sweat on your cheek.
Footsteps come fast up the stairs from beyond in the hall. In a way that makes his chest pulse. Eyes swinging to the door.
It is hastily pushed open from the other side. Not a polite maid - for there came no knock to warn. This was urgent.
This was a soldiers summons.
The whine of the wood seems a loud screech to the dull morning. Lyonel presses his eyes to the gap. And sees Ser Seldan’s stout, blocky shape take up the other side.
His expression was grim as a crypt. About as lifeless as one too. Eyes sharp as dragon glass. Mouth chiselled in a grim line.
He doesn’t have to say a word. His stance bellows it.
Lyonel stares him down. Well?
“Got them.”
Lyonel’s entire chest calcifies. Ribs moulded together with sticky black tar. Heart hardened to a shard of flint. Rage bubbles in his blood like sea foam. His body dropped into a pit of venom and fury.
He’ll remind them there’s a reason they call him a storm made flesh.
Jaw grit. He stands from his chair. Knocks it clean over. Tunnel vision narrowed to rage. Crosses the room in strides that eat the distance like it was nothing.
He takes his long sword off the wall by the fire.
Sedan holds the door open for him. Eyes hard as severe granite, but understanding.
Lyonel pushes past. Hard enough to break bone. He’d flatten any poor soul who crosses his path in this moment. Seldan can only follow the gathering tempest of his Lord. Pray he can keep up.
“Speak.” Lyonel bites. As they ascend he stairs. Boots slap at every step. Crack in the air like a fierce whip. He bolts through the shadows of his home like a dark spectre. Fueled on little sleep and grief. Haunted, grey and gaunt with it.
Seldan must now bare him the ugly truth.
“Our scouts received word of a wagon train from Massey’s Hook this night just gone, carrying silver, grain, and barrels of salted cod from the coast, they came under attack on the same stretch of road. This time we were able to outman them. We had an ambush party of near fourty laying in wait.”
He somehow senses there’s more. He stops his dark, dangerous march on the stair. Side eyes the Knight. Eyes still bloodshot and red. Made him look the terror he was rumoured to be. But there’s no laughter in sight.
“They happened in darkness on the exact location of that wagon train. That takes planning.” Lyonel snaps.
“They had a spy in your house. A maid. The new one. Mayra. She’d been reading reports and ledgers. Gleaned information from parchments. Servants. Guards and the like.”
“She deceived us to be hired here. Was passing messages via one of their own posing as a merchant. They would pass information via gutter snipes out of the stables or kitchens in the early hours.”
“There is more my Lord.”
“Well? Fucking speak it….”
Seldan sighs. A boulder lodged in his throat.
“She is married to the man who attacked Lady Baratheon. The leader. He’s the one we caught. The one who stabbed her.”
Lyonel’s resulting smile is watery. And utterly terrifying.
“Alive. As I asked?” Lyonel seeks.
Seldan knows that look on his face. He fears for it. But he doesn’t begrudge it. Not even for one second.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good.” He spits.
By the time they come to the courtyard, the rain is still pelting. Soldiers gathered. Braziers smoulder to ash at the sides of the yard. Wind howling round all the figures and soldiers stood waiting. Watering horses. All scored in Baratheon yellow.
The caught bandits are on their knees, in the pouring rain, socketed in the dirt. The maid and her bandit. Both in iron shackles.
Lyonel stalks right up. No time to waste. Takes a look at the pitiful pair. Rain drenched the back of his neck and his hair already. No one speaks. They let their lord survey this scene.
The woman he did recognise. No more familiar than another face who served wine or changed the sheets. Still in a ochre maids dress. Kneeling in the mud. Truly she was a plain thing. Dark hair swept into a maids cap. Cheeks crying with rain. Dripping off her sharp chin.
Something he spies about her, chills the blood.
The knife edge of cruelty in her eyes. The lack of remorse across her face for what she’d done. She looked near glad. She’d bled men from this house. Allowed information about you to be bartered. Maybe she even proposed you with a leer as a soft bellied target. One dripping gold and jewels. Maybe she laughed as she let the note slip through her fingers to the bandits. Thinking with greedy eyes of all the riches they could rob from you.
The bandit beside her is scowling. Sneering up at Lyonel. Seldan remains by his side as he steps from person to person. Rain forming puddles under his fine boots. Hammering down on his head. Curls stuck down. Clothes soaked through. But he moved like it didn’t phase him.
“My lord. Are you sure. I’d be happy to dispense justice on your behalf.”
Lyonel is not below getting his hands bloody for this.
“Yes.” He offers. Eyes solidly on the tattered man on his knees.
He throws the scabbard off his sword. Launches it aside. Steps to the man and lays his sword point to crook of the man’s shoulder. Not enough to cut. But he did flinch.
It looked, ironically, as if he were performing some sort of knighting. One held in rotten regard and spilled blood.
“You’re certain this is the man who attacked my wife?” He asks. Voice cutting plainly through the rain. Dripping through the hair swinging to curl in his eyes.
“Positive.” Seldan confirms. Iron surety in his gaze. A death knell curling off his deep, strict voice. A stony faced, northern angel of death.
He nods slowly. “I. Lyonel Baratheon. Of House Baratheon. Lord of Storms End. Sentence you to die.”
The bandit snarls. A smile missing teeth and others festering black. Simply states “Mercy. My Lord.” Though not much meaning it.
Maybe believed Lyonel didn’t have it in him. This pretty lord in his fine clothes and perfumed oils. He was all gold jewellery pretence. Curls stuck black wet, and hanging heavy in his eyes.
Storm and lightning overhead from over ship breaker bay, gets caught in his dark pupils like a new white vein. Highlights the living rage.
His face fell when Lyonel smiled down at him.
“Mercy?” He laughed.
Seldan held his breath.
This inconsequential man had no idea that death had just smiled at him.
Lyonel, now the laughter was done with, planted his boot on the man’s shoulder with a grunt, kicked him onto his back. He had jo choice but to yield. Thumped back to the mud.
Then he stepped over him, and with both hands, drove his sword straight into the man’s gut.
The maid screamed. The storm lashed. Sky split.
Lightning stung the sky after its thunder bellowed like death drums.
Lyonel felt his sword kiss the cobbles. Rain dashed down. Forming a growing red puddle. He’d driven his sword right through him. Delighted in the wide eyed awe on the scums face. Blood gurgled out his mouth. Rain patted it away kindly to the earth.
“What mercy did you show to her? To my men you slaughtered.” Lyonel asks. He made sure to twist the sword. Just a little. The man reached in shackled, cut his fingers on the blade trying to cup it.
He watches the bandits eyes grow cold. And still. Dead glass. He yanks his sword out the body when he’s sure all life has left. He hopes his rotten soul festers with the stranger. Crimson coats the blade.
He stands and surveys the way rain beads off the corpse. It satisfied his furious soul. But not even Storms End rain could cleanse this man of his sins.
“Chuck his body in the sea. Or let it hang as an example to feed the crows. I don’t care which.” He commands.
“The maid, my lord?” Seldan asks.
Watching her scramble and fight in the dirt. Grit under her nails. Fighting the iron hold of the soldiers who clamped her back. Teeth bared like an animal. Tears shine in her wet eyes. Crying and cursing his name and his very being.
Lyonel surveys her. Coldly. Weighing her terrible, deserved choices in his head. Her fate rested in his palms. He won’t raise his blade to a woman. No matter how much he’d like to visit death on her. To send her to the Stranger.
“Get her out my sight. Lock her in the dungeons. Lose the key. If she doesn’t like it, she can join him.”
Fester her with the rats and skulls in the dungeons. Let her live with the terrible stain of treachery. Let everyone know what happens to those who betray this house. Allow the word to spread.
Willard chases the turn of his Lords retreating back. “My Lord…”
He stops. Turns his head. Willard approached him. A cloth held in his soaking hands. One he spreads open. Items within shine bright in the dim.
Lyonel spies that his hands are caked in filth. Dirt under the nails. As if he’d been scrambling around up to his knuckles in the earth.
“I searched the roadside for many hours. But, lo and behold, I finally found it. It got lost in the fray you see. It was dropped. They didn’t have a chance to sell it. I know not what happened to the other jewels, I’m afraid. I thought this one mattered more-“
Lyonel steps closer. Spying the familiar simple plain gold band of a wedding ring laying pure and simple in the cloth in his stewards palm.
He stands there. Blooded sword dripping crimson to the cobbles. Plucks the dirty band of gold from the man’s palm.
“I thank you. Willard. Truly.” He supplies gently. Touched. Ring curled in his fist.
This man had crawled around on hand and knees for hours in the dirt, because he knew what the loss of this meant to the both of you. He’d seen how fiercely you’d fought to protect that token of your marriage, and all it signified.
That was the purest kernel of loyalty he’d ever seen.
Willard nods. Prideful. Rain pasting his hair to his forehead. Other arm clutched like a broken wing to his chest with a sling.
Lyonel walks inside out of the storm. Body cooling on the cobbles behind him. And he doesn’t look back as the maid bellows and curses his name, crying damn near louder than the storm.
He goes straight back to you. Still dripping with rain from the storm. Still with fury warring in his heavy lbones.
He doesn’t even change. Not even taking the time to dry off. To wipe the blood away. He comes to you in his rawest form.
Rests his bloodied sword at the edge of the now lit hearth. Stood dripping crimson down onto the stones.
The candles have been attended. Refreshed to talk tapers of wax again. They glow with lit flame. Breakfast steaming on the side table. Linens over your body refreshed. The silent, kind attendance of a maid.
Dawns light begins to purple the ceiling. Rising up the colour of rose petals, pink and peach, to chase away the drowsy blue. Another day coming.
He doesn’t think he can stand anymore of this.
He rounds the bedside. Clumsily gets on his knees. Bones aching already on the hard stones. Takes your hand, limp still. But warmer and softer to the touch.
He cleans the ring on his shirt sleeve. Before he slips the cold band back onto its rightful place on your finger. Locks his cold, wet fingers through your own. He’s shaking.
Then he falls to the bed. Wet curls resting by your hip as he sets his brow to the covers. He finds tears come. Unbidden. Rushing out of him. Chest bobbing with emotion as it floods from his tired, angered bones. Sobs the pitiful anger out.
He doesn’t care that he feels weak. For the first time in his life he lets himself be just that. Like he’s been drawn through, and scraped raw by this whole thing. He’s not certain he can survive another day without seeing that brilliant flash of your smile. The lulling cadence of your voice when you speak.
He’s happy to stay here and rot by your side because that’s all he knows how to do. That’s all he cares to want.
He’d watch over your bedside for the rest of his natural life if he must. If it meant you’d wake, he’d entomb himself in this room without laughter or fun for the rest of his days.
He’d give anything to have you back. He’d do anything. He’d slaughter ten more men if that’s what it took.
Dawn raises itself even higher in the sky. Brushing away the night. He sobs himself dry. Must have fallen into a shallow bout of sleep again. Time stolen away for a brief black few hours.
He only wakes when he hears the rustle of bed linens. A soft hand tentatively brushes over the top of his head. Weaving sleepy fingertips through the damp silver curls.
“Lyonel.” You croak. Voice weak. Raw with too many days of heavy drugged poppy sleep, and an unmoistened throat.
His head shoots up so fast, it’s dizzying to watch. Mouth agape he looks up the bed.
Your eyes, open and clear, though hooded, are looking down at him from the pillows. He’d never reckoned he’d see their colour again.
For a thundering few heartbeats, he just stares at you. Unfathoming this as real.
Was dreaming still? If so this was the cruelest one yet.
You see his eyes are red-rimmed, salt stung, and bloodshot, shadows bruised and bullied themselves into the puffy bags beneath them. His beard is thicker silver, and untrimmed to an unusual shape. A lack of care or graces to maintain it. His hair stands in wild coils, half flattened wet. Styled if he’s run his hands through it a hundred times, which he has in despair.
Tears shiver at his red lash line. Mouth falling on a cry. You’d never seen Lyonel look as defeated as this. The conquered, bold stag of your husband. Baratheon strong and unflinching.
This is his grieving echo. But it’s him.
“Fuck.” Trips out his wild mouth in a sob before he can stop it. “My storm.”
He raises on his bruised knees, and swallows you right up in his arms. Mouth in your neck. Crushed tight in a hug like a wrapping python. Arm slithered under your neck. Hauling you to him.
You sigh. A weak happy sound filtering from your lips. Painful where he’s clipping your wound where he scooped you up. You splay your uninjured arm across his damp back. Black wet leather soaking your skin.
“Thank fucking gods.” He cries watery. Still stuck in your neck. Stroking your hair out of his dry mouth.
He doesn’t give one shred of care to the fact that you’re filthy. Soaked through with sweat to your shift. Hair unwashed and by now probably clinging with sleep and grease. Breath fouler than a dragons. Haven’t been bathed properly since your return. Dragged through rain, mud and blood. He embraces you like you’ll fall off this earth if he doesn’t. Like you’ll slip back away to that dark void where the gods can take you.
He draws back and cups your face. Dry, callused hands on each of your cheeks. Your tears soaking into palms. “You ever, ever, scare me like that again, I will lock you in this bedchamber for the rest of your days. I bloody mean it.”
You throat crackles on a swallow. “I’m so sorry. Lyonel. I’m so sorry.” Your breath hitches. His name a reverent hymn on your lips. Water logged.
“You must be so angry with me. I tried to diffuse them. I tried to bargain and let us travel in safety and it all went so wrong. So quick. I couldn’t stop it.” You babble. Tongue running dry. Eyes running wet.
He shakes his head. “No. No. None of it. I’ll hear none of it.” He presses his mouth to your slick skin. Sweat kissing his lips. Taste of salt and you on his tongue. He sags to you with pure, naked relief. You smell of old dull copper and whatever green, sharp herbs Slait basted you in.
“You did every right thing.” He assures. Hand sweeping to hold one side of your neck. “From what Seldan told me. My blame is with them. They hurt you for the gold you wore. Nothing more.”
Your shoulder throbs. A deep and persistent pain. A pull under the bandages that’s all tight new skin held with tugging stitches. A heat shifts under the bandages. A small hitch of pain hisses on your intake of breath.
“Are you in pain? You shoulder?” He asks. “Let me send for someone.” He places himself on the bed by your hip. Hand pulled into his on his lap.
“It’s fine. Reminds me I’m awake. Can grow used to feeling my own limbs again.” You flex your fingers.
Milk of the poppy robbed you of all full sensation. Left you with fevered mad imaginings draped over the walls. Seeing things and people that were never there. It slaked you in its fine, swirling distortion for the first few days. That and the fever dreams. Icy and burning all at once. Skin pebbled with goose flesh from being chilled, yet you’d never been so hot.
“My love. You look terrible.” You remark, rasping. He huffs a bittersweet laugh as he tugs your hand to his bristled beard lips.
“You’re no bush full of butterflies yourself, Lady Storm.” He answers back in kind.
A weak laugh breezes through your ribs. He spies heaven in the weak stretch of your grin. There were dark hours preying on his mind when he feared he’d never see it again.
You share a look that’s so poignant, when you spy the wedding band slid back on your ring finger.
“I thought it was lost- they took it.”
He cups over your hand. Fingertip rubbing the gold. The one that matched his own. “This was one thing they could not take from you.”
“How-“ you croak.
“Willard. He went back and searched for it. Bless his sentimental heart. That’s what becomes of a man expecting his first babe. Terribly emotional that one.”
“I must thank him.” You decide. Looking down in painful memory at your hand. Lost under his. Tucked safe again.
“That’s sweet. You think I’m letting you out this room anytime in the next month. Adorable.” He beams.
He helps you manoeuvre yourself enough to shuffle and sit up. Stuffing pillows behind you. Letting you sip from a wooden cup of water. And another and another. So thirsty for it some drips down your chin that he mops away with his fingers.
“The children-“ You seek gently.
“They’re about as alright as I am.” He decides.
You look suddenly tired with the weight of that. Shifting in the bed and pulling the covers to your hips. “Let me bathe and rest awhile before you send for them. I don’t doubt I’ll be half mauled when they know I’m awake.” You grin.
“Rowdy things. Those staglings of ours.”
“Wonder where on earth they get that from.” You remark. Cheekily.
“Now, now.” He chides happily.
“I shall feel more like a human and not a festering wound after a bath and some food.”
He listens to you speak. Watching your eyes close tiredly. Slumping yourself back to the bed. “Anything you wish my love. I shall fetch your food myself.”
He spies the growing bruises that spider web outwards from the wound tucked under your bandages. He shifts the hair off the crook of your neck to better see. An ugly mottling of bottle blue, bruises marring.
Your eyes fall across the room. Landing on the bloodied sword that drips rusty crimson to the flagstones by the hearth.
Your head tilts. Suddenly the world seems very sober.
Your sparkling eyes flick over to him. Stony and taking on the grave seriousness of the situation. His face betrays nothing but stoic gentility.
Ours is the fury.
“Let me get my strength. Then tell me all. Leave nothing back.” You command. Knowing you won’t much like the answer of why his sword is bloodied.
He settles in close. Presses his lips to your brow. Kisses you slow and gentle. “Your wish is my command. Lady storm.”
Your arm comes around him. You breath him in deep. Old leather. Faint old orange soap. Sleep and sweat. Just as ragged as he looks.
He holds you. Close and steady. Hand on the back of your hair. Nose buried in your neck. For the first time in four days, he can breathe deeply again.
Forgive the random tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. Let me know if you want on/off the list. I’m new to AKOTSK so forgive my presumptions @the-darklings @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiiousstrawberriies @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @adumbgirlinloove @moonlitmaester @silens-oro @feral4youu @whatislovevavy @happinessisaloadedgun @faelinda @crayonbug @celestrys @sallymaywritings @captainfern @theprophaecy @multyfangirl @angstybadger @asterionex @liliac-dreamer
Pt I here - pt II here - pt III here - part V here
MASTERLIST - SEND PROMPTS - AO3
TW; aftermath of violence and wounds.
Four agonising days pass. Time drags by, crawling low and begrudging on its belly. Your condition barely changes.
You heal but the fever is slow to leave. You burn. Sweat and thrash. You mumble in your sleep. Dipped into milk of the poppy. Dreams blur the spliced concept of your reality.
You wake, unseeing. Eyes still glazed. Glossy as a dolls. Hands fist the bedclothes. Call out names for people who weren’t there- his, and your children mixed among them. Old names too. House Swann. House Dondarrion.
The wound on your shoulder festers with an angry heat. Infection setting in.
Slait has to have Lyonel to help pin you down as he cleans it best he can. Salve of green nettles smeared over it. Makes the whole thing look sickly. But the heat recedes. Somehow the old fool did something right.
It breaks his heart anew to see you squirm and moan in pain. Throat bared back on the pillow. Glistening a film of fever sweat. He has to grit his teeth through it. Turn his head away as you thrash and cry under his pressing palms.
You had the wound, but your struggling cries lodged an arrow into his heart-
He sleeps in fistfuls. Bits gathered up here and there like loose threads. Fitful starts and stops when he thinks he hears your breathing change or when you shift and moan in your sleep. Sheets twisting adound your body in your sweat-wicked linen shift.
Mostly he’s in a hard oak chair. By your bedside. Sometimes stretched across the small cushioned settee seat in front of the fire if his back or shoulder seizes in pain too much. Boots propped on the end.
When he thinks of your children seeing you this way, his heart sinks like a stone. He’s been so preoccupied in here, watching over you. He knows they must be feeling the sting of his neglect by now. It is an unintentional hurt.
The spare moments he had, went to eating very little, a heel of bread. A wedge of hard cheese. Or gulping down too much wine. He hasn’t had a full nights sleep since they brought you back. He feels it’s his due punishment.
Ser Seldan had come in yesterday and stood near him. Wrinkled his nose in a grimaced sniff. Told him plainly that he stank. Thus offered to take watch as Lyonel went off. Hastily dunked himself in a sudsy bath. Scrubbed himself like he didn’t care if he took skin off. Storming back in. Still pulling on a shirt, skin wet, and calling Seldan a fussy wolf cunt.
Jory had seen you for a handful of minutes put together. Lyonel insists with a stubborn tongue and a fatherly glare, that he not shirk his lessons. Or his time in the training yard with Seldan.
His sons face when he breaks that news to him; he’ll never forget the expression. The pinch of his dark brows, and the saddened scowl that begged to understand. A child’s reasoning left wanting.
“She wouldn’t want you to hide yourself away. Fretting. She’d want you out there on a ship in the fierce winds. Or in the yard with Seldan. Or engaged wirh your tutors for your lessons. So you get to tell her of all the glorious things you did, when she wakes up.”
He saw the fight rise on his tongue; the want to contradict. He opened his mouth to argue. And promptly swallowed. Words never making it past his teeth.
“I don’t want her to think I don’t care about what happened.” Jory mumbles. Eyes, dark and wet, slither across to the bed where you lay.
“Jory…” Lyonel sighs. Lovelorn. “She could never think that of you. My heart. You are her child. She would tell you it’s not your place or your duty to dwell on such things.”
Jory peers across at you again. Eyes remarkably sincere. Hurt still banked in then. Something he doesn’t know how to weild as yet.
“Will you find who did this…” He searches his father’s face. Boyish. Gently almost. Yet his voice held an affronted slither of iron. A stomping hoof of a little stag.
“Aye.” Lyonel nods. “I will.” He palms his sons shoulder. Lean growing bones under his padded black surcoat. Gold stag on the breast. He looked mollified. Though not by much. Lyonel knows true enough the insult they all felt as to your grevious injury, poisoned like sour leaf on all their tongues.
“Now—“ he commands. Leaning down to press a kiss to his sons tufted curls of hair. The way it falls, bouncing curls across his eyes like his own does. Hand cupping the back of his strong neck.
“Out of my sight young stag. You’ve a master of arms waiting upon you.” He guides him quietly to the door. Jory looks back. Wanting to better grasp all this.
“Disobey me at your peril.” He warns. Voice growing mighty. The voice that could split a room. The one he used to silence dissension in a heartbeat.
Jorys sighed. And off he is sent.
Lyonel Baratheon did not give. He sends his grieving son away to action.
He heard not an hour after, his Castellan reported Jory broke two wooden training swords, and a practice dummy has been disemboweled of all its straw innards. Thanks to his sons rage. Seldan took him by the shoulder and told him what a fine job he’d done.
Lyonel wants his son to work. Work on the rage as his father had taught him. Baratheon men held tempers that’s true enough- blustery, wild things. Things that couldn’t contain them.
Jorys has lightning fury and a storm held in his blood. He needs the outlet.
Lyonel was shown to direct the anger into his hands. Go to the yard and knock five men sideways. Train with swords until his knuckles and fingers bruised. Take to his ship and sail towards the nearest, devious looking storm cloud. Not to mope. He didn’t wish it upon his boy to rot every second waiting for news, like he was.
His daughters have their diversions too. He’s seen to that. He allows them brief visits. So he can see them too. And to let them dote on you if they wished. Liri brushes your hair for you. Ceres tucks a different doll each day under your covers.
They keep going to pick flowers with Septa Laurane. Blooms sit now drooping in the glass jar on your bedside. Wildflowers from the headlands. Blooms that cling on stubbornly to crags in the unbreakable rocks. Vicious, determined little things. Stung with sea salt on the petals. Smells like home.
Septa Laurane informed them, there was nothing more desolating in spirit, than leaving flowers to rot when someone is unwell.
Ceres took this advice on as a personal life or death duty. This sickroom now reeks of flowers. Each day they bring you new bunches.
His youngest would come and plonk herself artlessly on his lap. He’d reel her in for a hug. Sit her on his knee. Liri was too old for that now. It cheers him to know one of his girls isn’t too grown as yet to not need embracing.
“Papa. You look bad.” Ceres declares. Seeing him from up close. The eye bags. Eyes reddened and bloodshot. Beard and hair in equal disarray.
Lyonel smothers a yawn. Eyes drooping like a bloodhound’s, and they can all see it. “That’s kind. Sweet pea.” He offers in mock offence.
He doesn’t smell of his usual cloves and oranges. The oils he uses in his beard that smears and lingers when he kisses their heads. There’s none of that.
His shirt is the one he wore yesterday. His beard needs a trim. His hair is wild amd tugged about from his fingers, and the curls droop. He smells of sea salt and sweat. Rumpled clammy cotton. Worry.
Liri wades in on the discussion. “Truly. You don’t look well. Father.”
“I could go off you both. You know.” He narrows his eyes to them. The dynamite flick of his humour surfacing. It never was far.
They didn’t mean it. They were just near enough to see the toll this has taken.
Ceres sits, fidgets on his lap. All bony elbows and jutting knees. Fiddling with her doll. Asking if she can talk to you-
“Can mama hear me?” She asked of him. Turning back. Trepidation living on her voice.
“She can always hear you. Bug.” He assures. Clearing his throat. Smoothing a tired, careful hand over her babyish thin hair. It tumbled in wavy thick coils to her shoulders. Baratheon ink black. Soft as silk.
He may aswell have opened the floodgates. She rabbits on and on about her days events, like a little songbird.
Spouting about how she got her sums wrong. Septa Laurane told her off for not concentrating enough. How she didn’t much care for lamprey pie. That her embroidery work, which she did not excel at, looked like something that she’d done using only her feet. Or teeth.
Olira drew his attention. Where Ceres was all babble and spilling over with calm natured animation. His eldest daughter bore a silence that captured his notice.
She wore her worry as heavy as a widows veil. Sat at the end of your bed with a look that felt like she had all the seven kingdoms heaped on her rounded shoulders. Her mouth pressed into a firm line. Scared.
He takes pause for a moment. As Ceres finally ran out of words to describe her favourite cheese to you.
“Olira?” He seeks.
She turns to him. Expression still glum. Tears ribboning fat, scored trails down her cheeks. “Why won’t she wake?” She asks. Sounding very resigned to tear-logged sorrow.
Lyonel’s face falls to a sombre expression. He tries the hollow courtesy of explaining.
“She’s had a lot happen to her. My sweet. When injuries are severe like this, the body can take its time to recover. She needs rest.”
He spied the tell tale wobble of her lip as he explained.
“I don’t want to be without a mother.” Comes spouting out of her, just as the tears do. Big and falling like heavy pear-drop shaped gems down her cheeks.
He stands and puts Ceres down. Next to her on the bed. Clumps them side by side together. Gets them both captured in his arms.
His tongue curls up in his mouth. Fear shrivels it. But he endeavours to remain hopeful in his answer.
“We’ve done all we can. We just need to be patient. And trust your mother will make her way back to us—“
“If she dies. You’ll have to marry someone else… I’d hate that. I would hate anyone who wasn’t her. They’d detest us and send us away because we’re girls. Septa Laurane told us noble Lords must have wives to have lots of male heirs. You only have Jory.” Tears grow and hysteria mounts her voice. She’s picking at her dress in her lap.
Lyonel listens to a very young terror take his eldest daughter. Smothers her right into his chest with a hand stroking the back of her head. Carding down the bend of her dark hair.
“Easy. Easy. You’re alright.” He soothes. Letting her cry it out. Every frustration vented. Wet little sobs muffled on his shirt. Tear stains blooming on the fabric. He pulls back and makes sure she sees him. Eyes sinking to her own. Wet and dark.
He won’t pretend her fears aren’t valid. She’s given form and voice to the worries that flash their shining teeth at him, in the night when shadows fall darker. And hope feels brittle as burnt twine.
“No one is sending you anywhere whilst I draw breath. Nor am I now, or ever, marrying anyone else. There’s not another fucking soul on this earth that could replace your mother, and put up with me. You hear me?” He asks.
She nods. Wiping her dripping nose on the back of her hand. He produces a crumpled kerchief from his pocket. One that did smell like orange soap. Knights were always supposed to carry one. For young ladies. He’s too old to break the exception now.
She dabs her eyes with it.
“Come now. She wouldn’t want to see you in tears.” He tried to cheer. Hand soft on her upper arm. Ceres lovingly pressed her ragged doll into Liri’s lap. Something to help bring comfort.
“Thank you. Ceres. That was kind.” He proffers. She nods. A jut of her chin that made her look wise beyond her five years.
“Don’t cry.” She urges toward her sister. Small and chirping. Reaching a little hand out and shaking her sisters thigh. As if she could rattle the tears away. Sink the words into her skin by touch alone.
“Mama will be ok…” Ceres parrots. Holds his his gaze a moment. “She hates when you’re upset.”
“Yes. She does.” Lyonel adds. Tacking on to the very wise words of his ebullient five year old. “In fact. I think she’d forbid it.” He japes.
Liri smiles. It’s faint. But he’ll take it. He scrunched the handkerchief up in her hand. Both his cupping over hers.
“She’ll come back. This I swear.” He nods. And he puts such stock into believing it.
Because he can’t even begin to entertain what will happen if you don’t.
Part V here
Forgive the random tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. Let me know if you want on/off the list. I’m new to AKOTSK so forgive my presumptions @the-darklings @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiiousstrawberriies @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @adumbgirlinloove @moonlitmaester @silens-oro @feral4youu @whatislovevavy @happinessisaloadedgun @faelinda @crayonbug @celestrys @sallymaywritings @captainfern @theprophaecy @multyfangirl @angstybadger @asterionex @liliac-dreamer
Im pretty sure I saw this on your blog (at least you’re the only GoT blog I follow). But anyway, I think I saw a post along the lines of I want a fanfiction where Lyonel and Duncan are a couple and they work together to find Lyonel a lady wife who’ll be open to “an arrangement”.
Well I saw this other post where it was like Once married, Lyonel would be this type of bisexual husband: 1)be extremely devoted to his lady wife 2) would check out handsome dudes wife her
Hear me out! What if these 2 prompts happen during a Lyonel x Lady Dondarrion x Duncan fic. Lyonel and Lady Dondarrion always scope out parties for a suitable third partner like the bisexual power couple they are, only this time they spot Duncan like fucking hawks. And then these two are oogling at the tall hedge from their place at the high table and Lyonel proposes an arrangement to Duncan? OR it can stick towards the prompt more closely and Lyonel and Duncan are the ones going after Lady Dondarrion.
Idk I’ve just been picturing Lady Dondarrion to be someone that matches Lyonel’s freak so well and Duncan being the more vanilla one in the relationship, so I feel like either would work
A stags proposition
Lyonel Baratheon x Lady Dondarrion x Ser Duncan SMUT
Forgive the random tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. @the-darklings @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiiousstrawberriies @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @adumbgirlinloove @moonlitmaester @silens-oro @feral4youu @s-u-t @happinessisaloadedgun @whatislovevavy
I need these bisexual married freaks to see poor sweet baby Ser Duncan and pounce on him like starved lions and he’s a wounded gazelle, ok. Also let’s pretend that lady d x lyonel are married before Ashford for it to work.
MASTERLIST - SEND PROMPTS - AO3
“Have you ever had a man in your bed?”
Your enquiry came softly. Without the granite sharp, crushing weight of attached judgement. A breeze of an expression worn teamed with a rare smile. Your eyes aglow in the flames.
You and Lyonel are currently abed. Technically enjoying your Honeymoon. Still. Though the wedding was a good week gone.
It’s a rarity that there isn’t a storm that rages outside the walls. Tonight is no different. It lashes its usual hell fury. Cocooning you both in your chambers. A near empty flagon of red on the side. Two glasses running low. Stained red. Catching a cradle of orange firelight in the glass.
It is nightfall and everyone in storms end know by know, to leave it’s Lord and Lady, well alone.
You are heaped under the covers. Entangled limbs. Lazy and dewy from a round of sleepy, languid sex. The bedchamber reeks of it. Of your perfume, his cologne, and salt skin and heady sweat.
He was currently kissing his way up your arm to your shoulder. He pauses when your words land on him. Your enquiry-
He pulls back. Bracing over your body. Pressed high up on his hands. Hairy, lean arms straining over you.
“Would my answer have you think less of me?” He checks. Bold as ever. Strategising.
“As if I’d ever dare.” You meet his dark eyes. Lose yourself, forever you’d been caught and wrapped in their umber gaze. Had been from the moment that fateful night when you first caught his eye.
He smiles. Salacious. Leans right down to kiss you. Smothering. Tip of his warm wine tasting tongue swirling to seek yours. Hips bracketing your naked ones. He speaks inbetween kisses to your neck. Words warm and heavy damp like Dornish rain against your ear.
“Then, yes.” He purrs. “More than one. On more than one occasion.”
“A common occurrence, my lord?” You ask. Brow buoying.
“Of course. I am deliriously good at living my life to its fullest. And yes, some of my lovers have been men. I had one once, my god, he was hung like a dornishman. I’ve had a Tyroshi. A Norvosi. Lorathi. A Stark. Even a Martell once. Some were younger than me. Some older. Some very virile.”
“Why do you ask?” He sought out. Following the curl of a lock of your hair where it kinked like a lolling river across the pillow.
You shrug. Hands stroking through his glorious hair. Combing through the bounce of curls with your fingers. Making his eyes roll back when you use your nails on his scalp. Mouth hanging open in a wide smile. Cock stiffening and leaking against your thigh. As well you knew it would.
“No specific reason. Just a curiosity. I was right in thinking you’d had hoards of men and women in your bed. As fond of passion and lust as you are.”
“Now what is the point of life if not to drink all the wine, and fuck every pretty person I wish.” He reveals openly.
“What indeed. You scoundrel.” You smile.
His veins pump with such life you wonder if pure storm winds would come rushing and bleeding out if you took a knife to him.
Then he deflects.
“What of you.” He narrows his eyes playfully.
“What of the Infamous sharp tongued Lady Dondarrion of Blackhaven. Before the Swann whelp. And before your handsome rutting stag of a husband….”
He rolled his hips to yours as he spoke of himself in a great roaring laugh. Made you chuckle too.
Grinning as you slipped your hands down his dewy back. Skin still raked fresh red swirl scratches and little nightshade purple bruises. A sign of where you’d been. He has the welt of your teeth set deep in one shoulder. Crimson crescent. Another little trophy to cherish.
“Did you ever bed anyone?” He asks. Nodding at you. There’s an odd irony to your answer.
Your smile grows. Sinful. “No one male.”
He looks wildly amused. And aroused. Machiavellian naughty smile. “A woman.”
“We both had too much wine. I don’t recall overmuch.”
“Try.” He begs. Looking cheeky.
“She was… a friend. She was Braavosi. Her father was my fathers steward. We grew close. It turned into attraction. It just happened. A kiss. Too much wine. We kissed even more. Undressed. Fell into bed and after that I’m afraid it’s all one long blur of fingers, sensation and so much kissing.”
“Who went on top?” He seeks.
“I didn’t ask you.”You frowned.
“That means it was you then. Fuck me.”
Now all he can picture is the partial image you’d painted. Kissing. Caressing. Nipples hard and licked by hot tongues. Hungry mouths. Squeezing flesh. Breasts crushed together. Obscene the way he pictured you writhing together. Legs locked. Cunts rubbing as one, and throwing your head back to moan to the heavens.
He loved the way you split your legs for him. Now all he think of is you having a dark haired maiden with a sultry mouth wrapping her lip gorgeous lips around your clit. Making you shout and buck to her smiling face. Covered in your slick all over her cheeks. Tongue curled deep in your trembling pussy.
“Did you cum?” He checks. Brow ticking up.
“Lots.” Is your answer. Though you were drunk, it was giddying.
The first time you’d been shown what a woman’s body could truly do and feel. Fingers stretching you just right. The circles she drew on your clit. Your awakening was a glorious one. Not many ladies could boast to that.
He launches you into a kiss. Growling. Speaking with spit wet lips laid to yours when he pulled away.
“Should any lucky lady catch your eye in the future my storm. Please I beg of you, let me watch her work you over til you sob.”
“Lyonel.” You gasp.
“What?” He cheeks. “I can’t be the only one in the seven kingdoms who loves to eat your cunt.”
His kisses make their way to your shoulders again. Cock even harder against your thigh.
“I was younger then….” you lament. “Things still had hope….And pointed upwards. And perked.” You refer to your body.
Although not ashamed of how you’d aged. Things had changed….Shifted. The pouch of your tummy and the hang of your breasts. Your thighs didn’t exactly stay trim no matter how often you took to saddle.
You were not a fresh faced maid, alien into her first blood. You were certainly no spring daisy fresh with dew anymore. More of a retired rose who’d long since bothered to stop blooming for the cares of others. But nor were you a dead dry old shrub just yet.
The insulting fact is, you were considered a dry old spinster in the marriage mart five long years ago. Any man who wed you was seeking a family connection, or was just plain desperate for a noble wife.
Then a stag, not exactly a young one himself, came and knocked your life sideways with a crushing blow of his antlers.
“Do fuck off. You know I would kill for this body. Don’t you ever let me hear you say otherwise. My storm.” He chides.
“Beautiful. Fiery. Fucking. Gorgeous. Storm.” His tongue is heading dangerous places. Licking down your neck. Kissing after each word. Heading to place swirling licks on your breasts.
“I’m serious.” You impress. Looking down at him. His mouth sucking a bruise on your sternum.
“As am I.” He hits back. Just as hard. Licking his lips.
“You don’t believe another would desire you? I’m willing to make a wager we would not even have to push to persuade them very hard to join us in bed. Not for my sake.” He smiles like a rogue.
“You’re only saying that cause you want to put your cock in me.” you decide flatly.
He comes up to cover your body again. Forcing eye contact.
“I’m saying it cause my wife is fucking vixen and I know for a fact plenty of my men have envisioned throwing your skirts to your ears taking you over the tables of Storms End dining hall.”
You look suspicious. A crinkle set between your brows. “What men? Give me names.”
“That apple cunt wanted under your skirts. Looked at your tits like a starved wolf.”
“You will never let me forget him, will you.”
“Certainly not.” He tells. Eyes lidded as he runs his fingers down the cords of your neck. Nudges your head aside to kiss and nip at your jaw.
“What about your braavosi friend…” he urges. Hot clammy words against your skin. “Think we could get a repeat performance? Though I’d be reluctant to share your gorgeous cunt. I’m certain the both of us could play nicely together.”
The image gets your stomach flipping. The thought of Lyonel shoulder to shoulder with someone else between your legs. Tongue twirling to make you shout. Gods.
“I doubt so. My love. She’s happily married now. To a merchant from Volantis. Three children.”
“Long journey to be sure, but if a threesome is my reward. I’ll be very, very good.” He purrs.
You give him a look. “You’d be insufferable.” You breathe. “It’s your prevailing condition.”
“What of your sexual delights? We’ve spoken of mine in length. If it can’t be a woman. Would you ever take on another man in our bed?” You ask.
He smirks.
“Only if I could see you share me. Kissing him over the head of my cock. And I get to see how beautiful you are when you get fucked by another. Eyes rolling back in your head. Fuck. The thought has my blood boiling..”
“I can tell.” You remarks. He’s hard as stone against your thigh.
“You really do want to play with another man?” you ask. “Wherever will we find such a one.”
He kisses your neck. Tongue running into the divot of your collarbone. Hips sliding to yours. Making you cross your legs at his back. Naked skin sliding out from the sheets. Warm and wrapping your arms and legs around his back. He moans into a bite of your shoulder. He’ll take you soon.
“Well keep our options open. My stormy vixen.”
He pushes into you slowly. Enough to watch every flick of your face. Eyes rolling back as he grins and slams himself deep. The gape of your mouth that he wants to sink his tongue into
“There we are-“ He sighs. Head tipping back. “Gods. How divine you’d look. Crying my name as another man pounds you.”
“Shut up and kiss me.” You grab his curls. Open mouthed and panting.
“Anything for you.” He sighs. Mouth slanting to yours. Tongue unfurling to find yours. Hips slapping together. Wicked ideas sliding through his naughty head.
“That one….” Lyonel leaned to your seat. Heat of his breath brushed your ear. The faintest brush of his cologne rolls over you. Burnt birch and orange clove spices.
You were at the Ashford Tourney. His Pavillion risen high on the field. Gold and proud, standing as tall as all the antlers that decorate it. Guards outside keeping the merry peace. The air is sweet with roasted meats and ale. The faint stirring plucked strings of music.
He’s itching to dance. You know he is. Sat there in his antler crown like a stag made flesh. Eyes ravenously combing crowds.
Your little idea has stayed with him; you both wanted another man in your bed. He’d find you one
“Hm.” He purses his lips and spies another. A middle aged Lord. Fit enough. Not unhandsome. He wanted someone limber. Someone who could pound you, or perhaps him, to the bed with powerful hips. Good knees.
“Him?” He nods.
You spy who he means. A Tully. Flame haired and pretty. Pale too. Good cheekbones. He’s wearing blue and is talking with much drunk animation.
“Ugh no. I conversed with him earlier. His breath was like dead rotting fish.” You wince.
Another blonde caught his eye. Red doublet. One walking over near the far table.
“The rose boy?” He asks. About one of the Tyrell’s.
“Seven no. Too young. Barely out of leading strings. He looks like an untrained puppy.” You observe.
Lyonel takes a good long look at the man bends over the table to talk to his companion. Eyes up the span of his thighs and his strong backside.
“In a certain way puppyish can work. In my experience, always eager to please. To prove they’re good. So horny they’d get on their knees and beg for it.” He tells.
“Mm. No, he looks like he’d weep. Or wet himself. Next.” You decide.
Cradling your glass of wine and looking plotting. Legs crossed. You examine everyone with predatory ease. Like a lioness set back, picking her prey at the watering hole.
He chuckles. Links his fingers through yours on the arm of your chair. “My stern tongued wife. Gods be good. I love when you get strict on me.”
“There’s always Beesbury?” He announces.
“Mm.” You consider it with a positive shake of your head. “A bit wiry. Little wild. Though the moustache does have a certain appeal I supp-“
Your words get torn out your mouth. They leave in one breathy rush.
Him.
Across the tent, stands an absolute behemoth of a man. Trunks for legs. Arms that could crush iron. He stands three heads above the crowd. Nervously eating a pastry. Blue eyed and coppery blonde fair hair. Looking like butter wouldn’t melt. He flinched when others grew too raucous near him. A gentle giant, you think. Not a nasty bone in him.
Lyonel follows your gaze. Finds this cowering huge man on the end if it. Big as an aurochs.
He was handsome in a rugged way. Rough hewn. Shoulders double his own width. Hands big as spades. Most likely a heavy fat cock and balls swinging between his legs to rival a prize stud bull.
Oh yes. Lyonel could see it now.
You under him. Your hips pinned wide, so wide, by the man as he pounded the life out of you. Naked pale ass pumping between your thighs. Crushing you to his golden bed. Legs nearly at your chest as you cried this man’s name. He’s hard thinking of it.
“That one huh? Greedy woman.” He snickers.
You don’t take your eyes off the big man.
“You say that. Like you wouldn’t want your mouth stuffed with his big cock.”
Throwing his head back. He laughs. “You know me too well.”
Lyonel tilts to your side. You take a sip of wine. He whispers to you;
“I’m looking forward to seeing him on his knees. Begging to stick his tongue and face in your pretty cunt. Lord knows how a lowly man could deserve such heaven as the one between your legs.” He continues.
You swallow. Twist to look at him. He’s as turned on as you are. You both refocus your eyes on the man.
“Your small hand fisted in that short hair. Those mammoth hands on your hips pulling you close. Begging you to show him how to properly eat a noble ladies cunt.” He grins.
“You’re soaked at the thought. Don’t deny. I know the way you shift when you soak to your underclothes.”
You do shift. You really were dripping at the idea of using such a big sweet man. With the thought of Lyonel’s eyes on you too? His mouth in your ear as he watches. Oh You worry you’ll stain your dress.
“Reckon he’ll do?” You seek.
“Only one way to find out.” He curls a hand to bring forward one of his men.
“The large cunt. Get him over here.”
Your summons work. You watch every second as he shifts across. Weaving crowds.
You reckon he’s still trying to appear small. Wide blue eyes. Looking like a newborn fawn. All nerves and fear. He looks uncomfortable with the attention being solely on him.
Like he was trapped in a big muscled body that only knew how to grow. To stick out. His life had been spent being treated as a big stupid eyesore.
You don’t think so.
You think the opposite. You see the power in those shoulders. The wide set of those thighs. His dress marked him as a man who didn’t enjoy the privileges of wealth or the backing of a fine house. You find you like him more for it.
He’s a handsome face but he doesn’t act like he does. You find that very compelling. Some men of his size truly walk with the backed, spine stiff arrogance that they know they can win a fight. This nameless big man walks around like he’s scared to start one.
He’s standing before your table. Face half carved shadow, half gold in the candlelight. A sweep of cool, sweet night air comes with him. Dark as lilacs. He smells of cut meadow grass, and the earthen, boggy wet coldness that only comes from a river.
His smile is careful. Like a crease in cloth smoothed quickly away.
“My lord. My lady.” He bows. Eyes flicking between you both. Those baby blues seem to longer on you a tad more.
Lyonel can’t blame the man. You’re intoxicating at the best of times. More so tonight. You look like a voluptuous dream. Clean smile. Bright clever eyes. Glowing hair in butter gold candles light. You were every Knights dream.
He knows he shouldn’t lay his eyes to you. He shouldn’t even think of you. But you’re hard to look away from. Like rare, beautiful things to be savoured in life. A powder soft summer sky darted with swallow birds. A spectacular sunset bursting into melting coppers and striking golds, fierce crimson bloody at the edges. The smell of honeyed bread drifting warm from a bakers window. Warm. Sweet. Unbelievable.
A fine gown cups your body like a salacious kiss. Baratheon colours, naturally. Black trimmed with gold like shadow and light combined. Stag brooch of gold holding back your spilling curls that reach to your shoulders. A stag belt tight on the small of your waist. An easy look your eye from the strength of the wine. A smile that all men would call heaven.
“What is your name.” Lyonel begins.
Duncan sets his eyes to Lyonel. In looking to him too, he does seem stunned in an entirely different capacity. By the grandeur of his title and all that came with it. The legend that carried with him like an old, long cloak. But it was the vitality that also struck him. The handsome set of his jaw. The greying goatee beard and disarrayed, storm rioted curls. Lean build, but not lacking in power.
Duncan hadn’t expected his first thought of Lyonel to veer into thinking how handsome he was; Alive and present the way a tempest is. Vibrant energy. A smile, lips really, that perpetually held laughter close to hand. Dangerous or easy he couldn’t tell. Eyes the colour of burnt wood and twice as scalding.
Dunk shakes off his reverie. Enough to provide an answer.
“Ser Duncan. My Lord. Ser Duncan the tall.”
“Thank the gods for that. I was worried we’d have to talk around the obvious.” Lyonel grins. To the delighted mumble of chuckles rippling through the men and women set around you.
You watch Ser Duncan’s cheeks colour with a blush at the joke. Eyes to the floor. Keeping hold of the half eaten blueberry tart in his hand. He had the hungry, hollow cheeks of someone who didn’t often see such fine food.
“Where do you hail from Ser?” You prod.
He shifts. Uncertain. Like he’d be ribbed for his answer. A man who cowers with shame from his humble upbringing. In front of his supposed grander, betters. A man who never asked to take up space, and yet with his height, had to learn how - as quietly as possible.
“I’m from Kings Landing. My lady. Flea Bottom. Born and raised. Some would say the wrong end of Aegons Hill.”
You nod. And smile. It isn’t unkind of you. You do not make a holy joke of him. That eases to tension in his heavy set shoulders. The ones Lyonel would adore to see adorned with your scarlet teeth marks.
“One can’t be blamed for their place of birth. Ser. Just because it’s undesirable doesn’t make it wrong. I dare say lots of people remark their birthplaces to be inadequate. Hardly the fault of a babe.” You explain. “You’ve come to Ashford to compete. That says much about your character.”
He looks in agony. His brow furrowed. “That is kind of you to say. My lady.” More grace than I deserve, Dunk thinks.
“Are you married?” Lyonel tilts his head. Unwilling to be left out.
He carefully watches Duncan stuck gazing at your smile for a long moment. He doesn’t blame the man for being struck dumb. He smirks to see it. Off to a good start.
“No, my Lord.”
“Promised to anyone? A sweet little maid or some such.” Lyonel follows up.
“No. My lord.” Duncan answers. Looking quizzical. His eyes dart between you both.
“I beg pardon if I caused offence. My lord. My lady. I did not know the gathering was meant to be attended with offerings. I have come empty handed.”
“Rest easy. Ser. I assure you. We are not the least offended.” You calmly counter.
“Quite the opposite if anything.” Lyonel remakes lowly.
You lock eyes with your husband. “I think he’s perfect.” You grin.
Lyonel chuckles. “Happy wife. Happy life.”
He rubs a hand over his beard. Before he leans in. Pins Duncan under his gaze. Makes the man swallow in nervousness. Sweat started to bead on his brow. A stag sizing up his challenge.
“Ser Duncan. If you be so good— me and my wife have a little… proposition for you.”
Summary: you and your husband are having trouble producing an heir. luckily, daeron is given a remedy in the midst of his drunken stupor.
Warnings: mentions of infertility, brief mention of somnophilia, sex pollen, needy daeron, kinda sub!daeron, body worship, established relationship, drinking, heavy breeding kink undertones, no first name mentioned/ no use of y/n, daeron and reader are VERY in love
WC: 2.7k
Nearly a year had passed since your vows were spoken beside Daeron. Your union was one of rare harmony, for affection dwelled between you faithfully. You both found joy in one another‘s company, and understanding flowed as naturally as a gentle stream. No harsh words dared linger, and your hearts remained inclined toward one another.
Especially considering Daeron is no easy man to love. Despite his challenges you made them your own and restlessly helped him overcome his burdens. It was no easy feat, and there was still much to be done. There was a time he feared your children would be plagued by his visions, or he would forsee something unforgivable about the child.
The unlikely, complicated beauty of your marriage was well known to the realm. However, the royal cradle remained empty. The bed prepared for young dragons remained untouched, gathering silence where laughter ought to dwell.
Throughout town and country-side alike, tongues wagged with endless conjecture. Whether sickness had plagued you or Daeron, whether the Seven themselves had simply denied you the fruitful blessing or some other mystery pertaining to your husband‘s fondness of wine.
Yet all who beheld the two of you deemed your devotion true and steadfast.
Your love endured through idle speculation, yes, but that didn‘t stop Daeron from feeling like a poor excuse of a husband. You reassured him relentlessly, told him how the vision that besieges his thoughts does not make you love him any less. And he believes you, rightfully so.
At times wine would soften his spirit and draw forth tears he would sooner have hidden. All that he despised about within himself rose from the depths of his heart and stood plainly before him. Daeron sought to drown such thoughts beneath yet more wine and ale, but on one fateful night his sorrow left him stripped of all defenses.
“Easy, my Prince. Another glass and you‘ll drink yourself into the grave.“
The barkeep tutted Daeron as he draped himself over the counter, finding himself in another stupor. Demeaning thoughts taunted his mind as he sat, I‘m not the husband she deserves, and father would be happier with me in a tomb.
“Just one more, then I‘ll leave. Swear it.“
Daeron mutters through slurred words and half promises. Before he‘s given the chance to reach for his fresh new glass, he‘s met with another barkeep sliding it across the counter.
Barkeep was a bit of a strong statement. She was a frail older woman, age resting lightly upon her spirit. Though her body bore the marks of many winters. Deep lines framed her face, yet her keen eyes sparkled with knowledge gathered from herb, root and star.
Daeron could‘ve sworn his dreams were melting in with reality, unsure of where the other man left and when she had replaced him.
“No wine in your great castle, my Prince?“ The woman croaked, offering him a snide grin from where she stood, hunched.
“Or does the princess not like it when you indulge?“
Her grin deepens and she watches her bold words unfurl in his mind. Daeron would never be the sort of prince to inflict harm on an old woman for such words, especially not in his state.
“She doesn‘t mind. ‘Jus want to leave her to her own peace. I have given her little enough already. A rightful husband is to give a wife a family and future. I have given her neither.“
Daeron was slightly surprised at how fast the words left him, unmindfully tumbling from his wine-stained lips.
“You‘ve got it all backward, princeling. The question isn‘t whether you‘ve given her those things. The question is whether you‘ve shown her they still matter to you. Ain‘t much romance in a man sleeping on a tavern stool.“
He digests her words in his clouded, drunken mind. It all pieced together for him then, and he had newfound conquest to prove his devotion to you.
“Well? How do you reckon I can?“
The woman is already reaching for a small vile kept away from the neat rows of wine bottles. The vile clinks as it meet the rings on her fingers,
“This should do handsomely.“
─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─
There were very few comforts that surpassed reclining in a royal bed, a book nestled in your lap, whilst candles burn low and a warm mug steams beside you. It was one of those nights to yourself as Daeron scavenged a local village for their wine. You knew he took comfort being outside the confines of the keep, so these nights never had a way of bothering you.
Truthfully, you could die happily right there. Freshly cleaned hair, floral oils still fresh on your bathed skin and a clean silk chemise wrapped around your body.
You held no disdain for the quiet, you cherished it. Such gentle moments were a rare blessing amid the endless demands of court. Few would ever dare speak it aloud, but the burden of a princess‘s station was heavier than most could fathom. Thus, the solitary hours felt nothing short of perfect,
That was, until you heard your bed chamber door groan as it opened.
“Daeron? Are you back, my love?“
You don't spare him a glance from your book as he shuffles into the room, his steps sounding heavier with each one he took. Even in great splendors of drunkenness, the cadence of his steps seemed highly unusual.
You hear him groan as he approaches the bed, kicking off his boots with a sluggish tug.
“Are you well?“
You behold him as you glance up from your book, searching his face. An angry red hue flushed in cheeks and ears as sweat began to bead at his forehead. His once lilac eyes were nearly black with how blown his pupils had become. His lips were parted just slightly, taking in desperate hitches of breath as he stared at you with half-lidded eyes.
“My sweet wife.“ He murmurs with a horse voice as he begins crawling toward you on the bed. His behavior was something you hadn‘t seen before. Surely the both of you enjoy a tiresome fuck when you are nearly taken with sleep and he is drunker than a sailor. But this was different.
This had vigor.
You had little time to set your book aside as he draped himself on top of you. As your mouth opened anticipating a question, you felt how hot his skin was. Scolding, really. He was a flushed, sweating, restless mess of a man disheveled by the need for his wife.
You bring the back of your palm to his forehead and cheek, nervously checking for fever. Daeron whines at the contact, nuzzling into your touch. With a vexation worn plainly on your face, you swipe the sweat-slicked hair from his face.
“Are you well, husband? You feel quite warm.“
Your nervous chuckle is caught in your throat as you feel his painfully hard cock nudge into your thigh.
“Daeron, explain to me what you have done.“
You sit up, crossing your arms across your chest awaiting explanation. Daeron symptoms only grow as he gawks at you, mindlessly pawing the covers for your touch.
“Please, sweet girl, my beautiful, sweet, wife, please just touch m-“
“I‘m not lifting a finger till you explain to me what‘s happened to you. Was it a brothel? Hm? Someone slip you something there?“
“Mm-mm, no, my love, I swear to you. I did not step foot into one of those.“
His slurled words offer you comfort, allowing you to slowly inch back down the bed to where he laid. Your nails begin to scratch the expanse of his back in comforting motion. Daeron let out a groan as you touched him, despite the act being purely innocent.
“Please, talk to me, Daeron. You‘re worrying me.“
“H-hurts…“
“What hurts, my love?“
He lets out a whine and begins to buck his hips into the mattress. The friction draws a broken groan from him as he continues to babble and listlessly beg.
“A witch- she…she gave me something.“
“You took something from a witch. Please be joking.“
“She said it‘d give us an heir.“
Despite his disordered, wanton state, your heart softened at his words, picturing him drinking a mysterious liquid for the sake of blessing you with a child. Your lips softened into a smile as he peered at you through glassy, desperate eyes.
“Well, how does it work then, what she gave you? Am I to wake already with child?"
You offer your hand to lovingly stroke his cheek, though Daeron takes hold of it, lathering it with sloppy kisses. Your palm, wrist, forearm were being devoured with open-mouth pecks.
“Mm, not until I‘m through with you. Not until you make me better.“
“And…how am I to do that, sweet boy?“
With the same grip on your wrist, he tugs you. In a blink of an eye, you‘re on top of him, straddling his engorged cock. Daeron looks up at you with eyes that worship, eyes that are peeling off your clothes before he could rip them off you. You stifle a chuckle at the sight.
Your hand slides down his stomach at an agonizing pace, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
Soon, your hand palms his rigid cock, earning you a strangled whine from deep in his throat. He bucks his hips into your touch, writhing with fervid pleasure.
“Please, my love, ‘nough teasing. I need you. Need you more than anything, please. I‘ll be good.“
“Mm, will you? You want to pound me into the mattress till I can‘t say anything but your name? You want this whole keep to know how good you fuck your wife? How good you make her feel? How wet you make her? And how wet she‘ll be when you cum and fill her up?“
Daeron moans at your lewd words, partially frustrated by you enjoying this the way you are. You roll your hips into his clothed cock, earning an open mouthed groan from him. With keen hands you fumble with the ties of his breeches, while he listlessly pleads for you to go faster.
As his cock springs free you inspect his hardness. The tip was a bruised, painful looking purple. While his reddened length twitched with each beat of his heart. His cock was already soaked with precum before you even laid a hand on it.
“Poor baby, so needy for me.“
You pepper his tip with sloppy kisses as he writhes beneath you, watching you intently with his lips parted. As you finish with your torment, you shift yourself onto your stomach, arching your spine. Your tits press into the mattress, still clothed by the chemise, as you feel Daeron bunch the fabric right above your ass.
He gives one firm smack to the flesh, watching it pinken from the act. You stifle a moan into the sheets as his hands draw you back toward his cock. Without warning, he thrusts, filling you completely in a moment‘s notice.
You let out a whorish moan into the covertures, feeling yourself already go dumb on his cock. He sets a fast, agonizing pace as he seeks relief from the pleasurable pain the potion had plagued him with. Your fists curl into the sheets in hopes of grounding you from his brutal thrusts.
Daeron pants above you, shallow heaving breaths accompanied by strangled moans. You feel his urgency in the way he slams into you, the way he is so desperately claiming you with each jerk of his hips. It‘s something almost primal, something so intoxicating about his need to mark you. To give you a child, to solidify the profound beautiful love you share into something you can raise.
As Daeron brutishly fucks you, he envisions your stomach round with child, breasts heavy and swollen with milk. Providing for your child, being a good mother. It‘s as though his purpose dawns on him. It only makes his need to prove his love to you stronger.
“Seven fucks- what have I done to deserve you, sweet wife? All mine, hm?“
“I…mphh yeah- I‘m yours, Daeron. I am all yours…“
The words are broken by rugged movements, but they reach you and Daeron‘s ears all the same. Muttered proclamations of devotion all clouded by the fevorous love-making, so enraptured with one another.
A sweet moan tore through your throat as his pace deepened, hitting the spot that made drool begin to pool in your mouth. You thoroughly enjoyed fucking your husband in the past, but this was entirely foreign. It was something blissfully won, a filthy coupling of two people who would do anything for each other.
You could smell the honeyed wine on his breath as he panted into your ear like an animal, so enveloped by the addicting feeling of being inside you. That delectable suck of your cunt around him, how it drools with the sweetest nectar enticing him further.
Your bed chamber attained a string of echoing plap-plap-plaps, as Daeron‘s bare hips drove into the plump of your ass with vigor. His lips suckled and kissed your neck and below your ear as you whined into the sheets. You were nearly as unraveled as he was.
“Mm-mhm, that‘s it, my love, that‘s a good girl. Feels so good doesn‘t it.“
“Yes-yes-yes, fuck, Daeron!“
At your pleasing cries his pace gains speed, drawing breathless wanton gasps from your throat. Daeron takes a fistfull of the hair at your nape, pulling it slightly in order to raise yourself from the mattress. You rose, forgetting what it was like to breathe.
“Y‘gonna cum for me, sweet girl? Gonna cum all over my cock while I fill you up?“
“Y-yes, fuck, please, Daeron,“
The loud moans escaping you and Daeron‘s lips was nothing short of pure impropriety. The smack of his hips against your ass, the ridges of his cock rubbing against your walls and the loving firm grip he had on your hair sent your orgasm thrashing through you. It came in blissful waves, leaving you a quivering, writhing, moaning mess in Daeron‘s hold. He soon follows, releasing hot thick ropes of cum deep inside your pussy.
The fatigue soon overtakes you, collapsing onto the bed stripped of all energy. Like orgasm, Daeron is soon to follow, tumbling beneath his own weight beside you. He scoops you up into his arms before you could utter a word. The disquiet world of your lives finds silence as he holds you against his heaving chest, coveting you like your all that matters to him. You nuzzle into his embrace, purring gently at the feeling of his hands running through your hair.
“So, feel any better?“ You murmur in a hushed voice, mindful of the peaceful quiet that fell upon both of you.
“Much, much, better, my love.“
“I‘m very glad to hear that.“
You hum, gently peppering kisses along his jaw as you drink in the sight of his normal face. His eyes flutter shut, content with the feeling of your body in his arms.
“And how do you feel, my beautiful wife?“
“Mm…good. Very good. A bit different.“
“Different how?“
“Just different from the other times. This one felt significant.“
You peered into his eyes.
“Like…something may come of it.“
A smile spreads across his lips as he watches yours grow, basking in the solace of newfound hope. Perhaps the witch had done you a favour after all, granting you something you and your husband wanted desperately.
“Wait.“
“Hm?“
“I have yet to kiss you.“
You laugh at his remark, recalling the events in your mind. He leaned over with a soft reverence, grasping your chin in his palm. Daeron‘s lips intertwine with your own, not in haste but in silent adoration. The touch was gentle, yet it carried the weight of vows you had spoken before Gods. Your lips lingered for a moment, neither claiming nor retreating. But meeting in a stillness that felt older than language.
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“what are you doing this weekend” i am going to fantasy land. i am hiding under the covers in bed. i am making things up. i am contemplating events that didnt happen. i am talking to fake people. i am listening to my tunes. i am envisioning scenarios
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Lyonel Baratheon x wife!reader x Dunk
Rating: Explicit (MDNI)
WC: 3.5 k
AKOTSK Masterlist
Requests Open
Tags/Warnings: Threesome, bi!Lyonel, bi!Dunk, mentions of past Lyonel/Beesbury, anal, oral, fingering, nipple piercings, polyamory, bathing, everyone loves Dunk, no beta we die like Beesbury
A/n: Happy Pride! This won the poll, and I love bisexual Lyonel. Comments and reblogs are always appreciated. Please let me know if you'd like to be added to any tag lists.
Summary: Ser Duncan accepts your husband's offer to join him at Storm's End, and a deep bond blossoms between the three of you.
A chilly wind picked up, making you wrap your burgundy cloak tighter around you. The litter was prepared, caravans readied, and everyone was eager to depart, but Lyonel lingered for a bit longer.
"My lord, we should ready to depart," Raymont said. He was Lyonel's youngest cousin who served as his squire. He was a good lad and kept everything organized and on time, an attribute that was not your beloved husband's strongest suit.
"A few more minutes, then we can go," Lyonel said, leaning on his antler crutch. You rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, knowing he still held hope that Ser Duncan might join him.
Time passed, and the hedge knight did not show, making your husband sigh heavily.
"Let us go." The disappointed look in his dark eyes nearly crushed you. His lips gently brushed across your cheek, standing close as you mounted your horse.
"Ser Lyonel!" a deep voice bellowed across the field, and the party turned to look. Over the grassy hill rode Ser Duncan atop his huge brown destrier, which the older, brown stot following behind.
A grin broke across Lyonel's face. "Good lad, you decided to join me after all."
Dunk nodded, his face still bruised and swollen with his left arm in a sling. "I've had enough of princes, m'lord."
"Ride alongside my wife and me. We must be going, or Raymont will have all our heads," Lyonel said, clapping the horse's flank. He mounted a black palfrey, having lost his destrier in the Trial at the hands of Prince Maekar Targaryen.
The little took off, departing for Storm's End, where new adventures awaited.
Everyone was feeling sore and tired by the time they arrived at the castle. You rolled your shoulders as the household servants bustled around, and you instructed them to start preparing hot baths and a room for Dunk. Lyonel had his arms full with Roslyn and Jocelyn, fussing over the dark haired girls and showering them with attention. Their wide, dark eyes peered at Dunk curiously.
"Come and introduce yourselves, my darlings," you smiled, extended your hands out to them, and brought them closer. Roslyn was the elder, and Jocelyn was younger by three years. Lyonel adored them equally, even if they were constantly trying to get him to name a favorite.
"Miladies," Dunk said, giving a small bow, and the girls giggled.
"We will spend time together before supper. I must settle our guest in," you told them, kissing the top of each of their silky, dark heads.
"You and Ser Lyonel are kind for hosting me, milady," he said, towering over you, even bigger than your good husband. "Your daughters are as beautiful as you."
"Thank you, and we are happy to have you. My husband is quite fond of you, Ser, understandably so," you said, showing him to his quarters after winding up the stone staircase leading to the drum tower.
"You are kind to say so, milady," he said, ducking his head while his cheeks pinkened.
You escorted him into the quarters, where a steaming bath awaited him. "I will send in some of the stewards to help attend to you."
"No need for the fuss, I can handle it, I'm certain," he insisted.
"You are injured."
"It's alright."
You placed a hand on your hip. "You are as stubborn as my husband, it seems. Then let me assist you."
"N…no! That….you are a lady!"
"Very astute, Ser Duncan. I can assure you the sight of your cock will not make me faint. I've been surrounded by too many of my husband's men to pale at one."
His jaw dropped. How he yearned for the touch of a woman, yet how could he ask such a thing from a noble married lady?
You could see the hesitation all over his face. "I assure you, it will not upset my husband in any way. I have tended to many of his men over the years, plus we don't want the water to get cold."
The men who were more than simple companions. Beesbury had been one, and you knew his death tolled on Lyonel. Guilt swirled inside him, but who else would have rallied to aid in the Trial other than the dear man? The man who would have followed Lyonel to the ends of the world, and for whom Lyonel would have done the same. Over the return to Storm's End, which took a little over a fortnight, you saw the bond deepen between Lyonel and Dunk, but you did not begrudge it. Lyonel had always been honest with you about where his desires lay, and it only made you love him more. He was a good husband, a good father, and gave you freedoms along with whatever you desired, so you could not deny him of his true nature. You only asked for his honesty regarding the trysts, which he always honored.
"I…thank you, milady," Dunk murmured, and it was charming to watch such a large man attempt to make himself small.
You moved closer to help him undress, carefully removing the sling. The bruises and face swelling had gone down, but you would make a poultice for him later that evening. The blush spread down his cheeks toward his neck as you tenderly and methodically removed his clothing. You didn't let your eyes linger, not wishing to make him any more uncomfortable than he already was. He got into the bath on his own, groaning as he sank into the hot water.
"Seven Hells," he sighed.
You chuckled. "Yes, a hot bath can solve nearly all issues." You dipped the sponge into the water before lathering it with soap, starting with Duncan's broad back, careful of his injured shoulder. His wounds were healing nicely, but you would give them a thorough examination after the bath.
Soft sighs toppled from his mouth as you massaged his scalp. You closed your eyes, getting lost in the movements, remembering two summers ago as you tended to Humfrey and Lyonel in the bathhouse after the Lannisport tourney. Helping to wash the dirt and blood from them, the sweet kisses they left on your skin, the way their fingers curled inside you, the heat from their bodies as they enveloped you between them. Lyonel instructing Humfrey how to suckle your nipples. The hazy image of Lyonel's cock buried inside Humfrey as the honey mustached man gripped the stone's edge. A blurred memory from days past.
"There we are, Ser Dunk, clean as fresh linen," you smiled, noting the thin film of grime that coated the bathwater.
"I feel like a new man, thank you again, milady," he grinned, those blue eyes meeting your gaze.
"I've had the steward lay out some of my father in law's clothing for you. The dear man departed years ago, but he was almost as big as you. I can have my seamstress alter them if need be. I could arrange for supper to be brought to your rooms, but you are welcome to join us in the Round Hall if you wish."
"I would like that, milady. You've been most kind."
"'Tis my pleasure, Ser Duncan. I will leave you to rest."
He reached out, squeezing your hand. His touch lingered on your skin, like flames crackling over your fingertips. You found solace in your private quarters, where the ladies helped tend to and bathe you, dressing you in a rich golden dress embossed with vibrant purple grapes.
"Please arrange for an Arbor red this evening," you told them. You yearned for a taste of home.
Lyonel found you warming by the fire, embroidery hoop in your lap and half asleep. A gentle hand landed on your shoulder. The familiar scent of leather and musk wafted under your nose.
"Duncan is settling in nicely," he commented, studying you with his dark eyes. "You are to thank for that."
Your hand curled around his fingers. "I enjoy him, as do you, I suspect."
"You've always been perceptive, clever girl."
He pulled his fingers from your grip before kneeling in front of you. The firelight caught in the flecks of gold hidden in those dark eyes. How fitting they were for a Baratheon man. He drew your hands toward his mouth, placing soft kisses upon them. His beard made your skin prickle.
"Does it upset you?" Warm mouth spreading heat over your skin.
"Lyonel, if it truly upset me, I wouldn't have married you all those years ago," you smiled.
"You have never felt neglected?"
"Never," you assured him. "I know you would give them up if I asked, but I only wish for your happiness as I know you do for mine."
"The Gods truly blessed me with you," he whispered before laying his head in your lap. You lazily dragged your fingers through his curls, remembering when you laboured with Roslyn and how he had ridden through the night to return to Storm's End to be by your side. He didn't want you to be alone or miss the birth of his first child. You'd never forget the proud look on his face as he held her in his arms. The bonny babe wrapped in a gold cloth.
"All this will be yours one day," he whispered to her.
"I am sorry about Beesbury," you whispered, "I know how special he was to you."
"He was a good man, a fine man, and he is with the Gods now."
"I promised our girls I would spend time with them before supper," you hummed, gently massaging his scalp as you had done with Ser Duncan earlier.
"Ah, well, do not keep our little lasses waiting," he smiled, rolling to his feet.
"Go and visit with Dunk; he would be happy for your company." You rose, pulling Lyonel's face down and kissing him softly.
Supper was a warm affair, with your daughters transfixed by Duncan's endless appetite.
"You will be well fed here, Ser Duncan," Jocelyn said.
"I have no doubt, milady," he chuckled.
The girls entertained Dunk with their dancing once supper ended, and you knew that he would be favoured in these halls.
Many moons passed, bringing the three of you closer into an intricately woven web. While you had cared for Beesbury, participating in the occasional dalliance, you had never truly fallen for one of your husband's paramours. But there was something different about Dunk. He was pure hearted, a knight of the people. It was hardly surprising how he won over the hearts of many at Ashford, even the departed Prince Baelor. Your daughters took it upon themselves to teach him letters, helping him to read and write, and never poking fun at him. He doted upon them, constantly parading around the castle with them tossed over his shoulders as if they weighed nothing more than a simple bag of flour. Most of his days were spent with Lyonel in the training yard, and the hedge knight picked up skills easily. He was stalwart.
You came to welcome the shy smiles he would toss your way. The way those blue eyes would sparkle. The rosy flush that clung to his cheeks and neck. The rough feeling of his hand beneath yours when he would help you to stand or dismount from your horse. It all made your heart skip a beat.
You couldn't ignore the hushed whispers between him and Lyonel. The swollen lips of your husband as he crawled into your bed. The all too familiar bite marks marring Dunk's pale shoulder when he undressed, the colors of your husband's house falling around his feet. A strange jealousy began to bloom deep inside your belly, but you did not wish for it to fester and cause you to rot.
"Will you share him with me?" you whispered to Lyonel one evening.
"Hmm?" Lyonel hummed, half asleep next to you.
"Dunk. I wish you to share him with me," you stated more clearly.
"Truly?" He shifted to face you.
"Yes, please. I have never asked for much, but might I partake with you?"
"If that is what you desire." He grazed his knuckles down your cheek. "I could never deny you."
And so it began.
Dunk was green, eager to please both you and Lyonel. That head, hair kissed by fire, disappearing between your thighs with your legs tossed over his broad shoulders. Once hesitant in the beginning, his movements grew bolder until he knew exactly how to trace his tongue over your swollen pearl. The sweet reward of your release, soaking his tongue, was all he needed to show him that he had done a wonderful job.
There were the nights that he and Lyonel entangled. Two valiant warriors curved together, melding into each other. The hedge knight's weight wedged on top of the Laughing Storm, cock buried deep inside. Sweet sweat beading down your husband's neck and forehead while Dunk set a gentle pace.
The best nights were when the three of you intertwined. Each man's mouth wrapped around your breasts, making you writhe and drip with pleasure. Taking your time stroking their cocks until the flesh stiffened and leaked. Your body learned to bend and adjust in ways you never thought possible, learning to accommodate two cocks buried inside your willing, eager cunt.
The only strict rule was that Dunk could not finish inside you. Lyonel could not risk you becoming the topic of cruel gossip or feeling shamed should a child emerge from the union. Neither you nor Dunk could argue with such logic.
The storm raged outside, heavy rain falling like pellets against the castle walls. In your chambers, the fire roared in the hearth, bathing the room in an amber glow. Various flickering candles were scattered across the room. Red and gold silks were draped over the canopy of your bed. Three golden goblets were filled to the brim with crisp Arbor white, and a silver platter filled with plump red grapes, almonds dipped in honey, ripe red cherries, cups of sweet cream, and halved figs sat in the middle of the bed. All this helped to create a cozy, yet sultry atmosphere.
You wore only a gauzy, thin robe, but the two men coupling you and the roaring fire staved off the cold. Lyonel wore nothing at all apart from two golden rings threaded with a golden chain through his nipples, and Dunk was just in his thin breeches. There was still a shyness that lingered beneath his surface, only furthering the endearment you and Lyonel held for him. You dipped your finger into the sweet cream, gently licking it away. Dunk lay on his back, slipping almonds one by one into his mouth with the sticky honey lingering on his fingers.
You crawled toward him, straddling his thick chest and lifting his hand to your mouth. Slowly, you suckled the honey from each fingertip. You would never get over how big he was. His cock swelled against the curve of your arse. Lyonel watched through heavy-lidded eyes, white wine dribbling down the corners of his mouth as he indulged one thirst.
"Open her up for me, Ser Dunk," he whispered huskily.
You gasped as Dunk maneuvered your body with ease, bracing you against his chest while using his large hands to spread your thighs wide.
"The sight of that cunt would make the most skilled of sailors crash right into the rocks," Lyonel mused, reaching down to stroke his cock. "They would beg to drown in it."
"I agree, milord. 'Tis a thing of beauty," Dunk hummed. One of his hands slipped down your belly to cup you between your legs before skimming his fingers over your flesh. His middle one sank deep inside you.
"We are men of good taste, are we not?" Lyonel smirked. With hazy vision, you watched Lyonel coat two of his fingers in oil.
Dunk nodded, nuzzling your shoulder while Lyonel positioned himself between your thighs. "Very good taste, milord."
Dunk's finger buried inside you made warmth flutter through your belly, spreading lower like slow dripping honey. Like the honey lingering on your tongue from his fingers. You whimpered when the digit was removed, leaving you longing for something to clench around. He tilted you back, keeping you against his bare, warm chest as more of you was exposed to Lyonel's eyes.
"Deep breath, my darling," Lyonel murmured before kissing your belly. His hot kiss lingered on your skin, burning an invisible mark that was soothed away by Dunk's palm. You inhaled slowly, filling your lungs as Lyonel's fingers aligned with your puckered arsehole. The slip of the oil allowed them easy entrance into the tight ring. "You wished to know what it felt like."
Ah, yes, you had been curious as a cock had never filled you there, yet it seemed to bring Lyonel and Dunk great pleasure. Just two nights ago, Dunk had spread Lyonel's cheeks wide and delved his tongue between the crevice. Meaty fingers digging into your husband's plush arse while the hedge knight devoured him. Curiosity had gotten the better of you, and you wished to experience it. It was not unpleasant once adjusted to the feeling. A feeling of being stuffed impossibly full.
"You're doing so well, milady," Dunk whispered into your ear, the praise enveloping you like a warm robe. The wisps of the one you were currently wearing clung to your perspiring skin. You groaned when Dunk rolled the stiff, aching flesh between the rough pads of his fingers.
With two fingers still buried in your arse, Lyonel lowered his mouth to your cunt. You twitched in Dunk's grasp while your good husband suckled and lapped at your swollen pearl. His fingers curved upward, sinking in deeper and hitting a pleasure spot inside you. Thick, pleasurable moans spilled wantonly from your parted mouth as you tumbled into an intense release.
"Dear Gods, woman, you do intend to drown me," Lyonel said with a wide grin, the aftermath of your release clinging to his beard and mouth. Gently, he withdrew his fingers before standing to wash his hands at the basin. Dunk stroked your body, peeling the thin covering away from your body.
"May I, milady?"
"What a sweet lad to ask," Lyonel teased.
"Leave him be," you chided. "Please, Ser Duncan, you may."
He kept you braced against his chest, your legs hooked over his wide thighs, before plunging two fingers into your sopping cunt.
"Ah!" you gasped, clenching around them. You felt Lyonel's hand on your cheek, thumb sliding between your lips.
"Open."
You obeyed, parting your mouth wide. The white wine trickled into your mouth, splashing against your tongue and quenching your thirst with the crisp taste of citrus. You sputtered softly, closing your mouth and feeling a thin stream run down the corners of your lips, then dribble down your neck. Dunk's free hand massaged your breasts, and soon your toes curled as you toppled into another peak. Heat prickled across your body, chest heaving softly in the aftermath, and you felt as if you could melt into Dunk's chest. The two men moved you carefully, settling you against the golden pillows with Lyonel hand feeding you cherries dipped in sweet cream while Dunk wiped you down with a wet cloth.
"How are you feeling, sweet wife?" Lyonel asked, tucking a stand of hair behind your ear.
"Very well, mayhaps a bit tired," you smiled. The juice from the cherries stained your lips.
"Then rest." His hand rubbed your hip and thigh. "Do you mind if Ser Duncan attends to me?"
You shook your head, stroking Dunk's face as one cheek pressed against your thigh. "Not at all. I will merely enjoy the show."
"The Gods truly broke the mold with you, good lady wife," Lyonel whispered.
"Never forget it," you quipped playfully before tugging on the golden chain between the piercings, eliciting a soft hiss from him, then helped Dunk from his breeches.
He left you with a searing kiss before turning his attentions to Dunk. You hugged a pillow against your naked body as you watched Dunk dribble and smear oil between your husband's cheeks. Lyonel stretched like a lithe panther on his belly.
"Milord," Dunk whispered, pressing a kiss to the back of Lyonel's neck. His hand tangled in the damp mess of Lyonel's curls as he lined up his cock. You squeezed the pillow tighter against your belly while watching Dunk's leaking, engorged cock sink deep into your husband, disappearing between his pert arse.
They kept his position for a while before switching to another, with Lyonel's legs braced against Dunk's shoulders and the Laughing Storm's knees nearly to his ears. The golden chain was clasped between Dunk's teeth as he rolled his hips, driving himself deeper into Lyonel. It was truly a beautiful sight to behold. The heat and desire between them bled heavily through the room. Lyonel left a sticky, pearlescent mess over Dunk's belly while the hedge knight's spend leaked from your husband's puffy hole. You tended to them after, wiping them down and kissing them before the three of you curled together.
You had never intended to love another, but Dunk was special, and you would welcome him into your heart and bed. Just as you knew Lyonel had.
