Never Mind The Bollocks…

********************************************

People whisper of a beast that lives in House Hightower.

A beast that bludgeons men who anger him, destroys rooms, and burns down buildings.

You hear the servants warn each other of it, their whispers reaching your ears during quiet spells in the night.

During your first months at House Hightower, you wondered if this beast actually existed, or if it was a mere horror story told between serving staff to keep them on their best behavior.

But slowly, as more time passed during your stay in Oldtown, you began to hear it.

Shouts carry through the hallways. You hear screaming from areas you did not know existed. You see servants running from something that you have not witnessed yourself.

Prince Daeron is the one to finally explain it to you.

The two of you sit together in the Hightower library reading through histories of the Gardening when you hear the sound of glass shattering on one of the floors above you. You then hear heavy footsteps, and a crash that is so loud it makes you flinch.

Two guards run past the library doorway, and you begin to fear something is wrong.

“It is only my Uncle Ormund,” Prince Daeron tells you, noticing your expressions. “You needn’t worry, he will not come down here.”

“Lord Ormund?” Your shoulders jump as you hear another crashing of glass. “Is he okay?”

“He must have received a letter he did not like.”

“It sounds worse than an ill-received letter.”

“It is actually quite tame for him.”

You don’t understand it.

Lord Ormund Hightower appears to be the very definition of prestige and class when you are near him.

He is a man that never slouches, never curses, never complains. He is a compass of what a good man should be, and he carries himself as if he is the role model for the world.

“He hides that side of himself from you,” Daeron once confessed to you. “He is easily angered, and is quick to react with violence. He tries to pretend he is well tempered but he is not.”

“I have seen him angry,” you tried to reassure him. “You have not seen him angry. You have seen him upset. He is different when he is angry. He will break everything in his path. He will destroy an entire room. He will wound servants that are near him.”

“It is a sin to harm an innocent in anger-”

“He is different,” Daeron insisted. “That is what I am warning. He believes you to be too gentle to see such a thing, so he hides it, but he is a beast at times. You must be careful.”

A beast. His word choice set you on edge.

It was difficult to believe the almighty Ormund Hightower was the beast everyone spoke of, and not the dragon that lived in the lowest level of the tower.

Even after all the warnings, you still thought people must have been exaggerating to scare you. For months you lived in Oldtown, and you never once saw Ormund raise a hand to anyone.

Until you reached your second year with the Hightowers.

That was when you first saw him physically punish Daeron with a slap to the face. It had been a petty crime Daeron committed, being caught having a taste of his uncle’s wine when he thought he wasn’t looking. It scared you so badly you could not look the Lord in the eye for a week.

By the time your third year here came around, Ormund would frequently discipline the Prince by striking the back of his hands with a leather rod.

Seeing such things made you…wary of him. But he never placed an unkind hand on you.

Daeron says he’s soft for you.

Now, as you neared your fourth year in Oldtown, you find yourself unsure of your attitude towards Ormund. He was a Lord, so you respected him. You try to remember how you have been raised, all the politeness you must show, so you put your personal feelings aside so that you can do your duties properly.

Your duties, which involve the education and faith of Prince Daeron, are difficult at times.

Especially today.

You have sat Daeron down in the library, and you are attempting to get him used to more diligent notetaking, yet he is fighting back with everything he has.

“We spend so many hours in this library,” he complains. “Can we not go somewhere else?”

“We can visit the Sept.”

He lets out an uninterested grunt.

“We can take a break once we reach mid-hour,” you offer. “We’ll take a walk through the gardens.”

Daeron fidgets in his seat. “I wish to visit Tessarion.”

“You know that is not allowed.”

“It’s not recommended. I am the Prince, I can order you to take me anywhere if I really want to.”

“It would be much easier if you just finish your notetaking.”

He sighs as he looks down at the paper. His quill finally starts moving again.

“Perhaps we can ask your uncle at dinner if he can take you down to Tessarion.”

“He would never agree to that, he dislikes her.”

“There is no harm in asking him. The worst he can do is say ‘no’.”

You hear Daeron chuckle, like you have made a joke. “Only you would say such a thing.”

You place down your book. “And why is that?”

“Because you are the only one he does not throw a fit in front of. He’ll hold his tongue for you.” Daeron risks another smile as his quill scrolls across the paper. He uses a mocking voice. “Uncle Ormund says that you are a proper woman, and should not have to bear witness to such foul, abhorrent language.”

You straighten yourself to better posture, surprised by the comment. Lord Ormund was one of the most prestigious, well-classed men you have ever met. To hear such a compliment from him was beyond meaningful.

“Well, that is true,” you say. “Foul language should not be said around ladies.”

“And what of your foul language?”

“I do not use foul language, it is a sin.”

Daeron’s smile turns to a smirk. “You do not think of the word ‘bastard’ as foul? Or do you assume your context of calling the street merchant a ‘bastard’ acceptable?”

Your shoulders slouch, and you feel heat rush to your face. “That was a moment of wrongfulness, and you heard me pray for the Mother to forgive me for it.”

“Perhaps I should tell Uncle Ormund all the words I’ve heard you use so that he is less worried about exposing you to such language-”

“You will not.” Your words come out flustered. “I hardly ever use such language and-and if I have it was well deserved.”

Daeron is even more amused. He leans closer, and fakes a gasp. “You dare believe someone deserves such a name? And here I thought you were supposed to be aiding me in my ethics of the Seven.”

“You stop it,” you tell him. “I have prayed for my wrongdoings. But even if I didn’t...that merchant ripped my coin pouch right from my hands. Had you not retrieved it, your uncle would have never allowed us back to the market again.”

Daeron chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Alright, I agree. The bastard was deserved. And I have to admit it was quite humorous to hear my proper teacher shouting that word across a crowd.”

“You should be finishing your notes, not trying to rile me up,” you tell me. “Let me see your paper so I can be sure you complete your studies before dinner.”

“Let me see your paper,” Daeron counters.

He reaches over, but you quickly flip the book over. “I am not the one who needs to take notes.”

“But let me see yours, so I know I am taking notes correctly.”

You pull your book away.

He smiles wider. “Unless, perhaps, my teacher has not been taking notes. Perhaps she has just been drawing.”

Your face grows hotter in embarrassment. He knew how to get under your skin so easily.

“As the teacher, I am asking to see yours-Daeron!”

He reached over and snatched your parchments from you. He laughs, flipping it back towards you to say, “It is a beautiful flower you have drawn.”

“I have learned these lessons before, I can draw if I wish.”

“Shall I tell Uncle Ormund that you are wasting time in the library with such drawings?”

“You will do no such thing.”

You would be humiliated. You could picture it now. His stern stare looking down at the stupid flower, and then back up at you, silently labeling you as incompetent for the rest of your time here.

“I will keep my mouth shut if we end lessons early today,” Daeron says. “And you allow me to visit Tessarion.”

“Lord Ormund is displeased when you visit her.”

“He would also be displeased by this,” Daeron countered, waving your drawing in front of him.

You are tired of the library anyway, so you figured there was no harm in a quick visit downstairs. You sigh. “Fine. But you must wash before dinner so that he does not smell her on you.”

Daeron smiles again, like he tricked you into giving him the upper hand. Though, in all honesty, he was the Prince. He could have left the library at any time, and you had no true power to stop him.

“May I at least see that you have taken notes?” you ask.

He flips his book around to show you his parchment.

There were no notes. There was only a drawing of you sitting in front of him, drawing a flower.

You open your mouth to lecture him, but quickly shut it. “We will be going to the Sept tonight, and we are going to pray about your lack of enthusiasm for your education.”

He paid no mind to your words. “Come on. I’m sure Tessarion had been missing me greatly.”

The days are always like this with Prince Daeron. Amusing. Frustrating. Happy. Exciting. Nerve wracking. You feel every emotion with the boy everyday.

And it brings you more joy than anything.

When you first arrived at House Hightower, nearly four years prior, Daeron hardly spoke to you.

He had recently turned the age of ten, and at the time you were barely ten and six. He was a quiet boy, and you were a quiet girl. It was extraordinary to see the difference in him now.

Originally, you had been sent to Oldtown by your father, who was a strong believer in the Faith of the Seven. He wanted you to learn how to pray from the Septas of Oldtown, the most devoted women in the realm.

It was Gwayne Hightower that offered for you to stay in House of Hightower, your mother having been a dear friend to Alicent and him in their younger days.

You were meant to be in Oldtown for one month, and then you were to be sent home.

But the gods had a different plan for you.

It was Ormund Hightower that spoke to your father about you becoming an aid for the young prince.

Lord Ormund was a man of religion. He visited the Sept every morning and every night. He was quick to notice, staring on the morning of your arrival, that you did as well.

He admitted to your father that he was impressed with your faith, and even more impressed with how often you partook in prayer.

“Daeron has become very lonesome being so isolated from his siblings,” Lord Ormund had said to you. “It would be beneficial for him to have the company of a girl as mindful as yourself. A girl proper in her ways, and a devoted servant to the Seven.”

When the offer of a more permanent stay was first given to you, you were wary of it. “This is the first time I have been away from home,” you admitted. “I do not know if I would be able to assist the Prince as well as a Septa could.”

“Septas know only scripture,” Ormund reasoned. “They are the education of the spiritual world, and you will help teach him the ways of the physical one.”

In honesty, you felt too young for such a position. Ten and six, you still felt like a child. You were frightened to be so far from your mother, and even more frightened to be in a position responsible for royalty.

And in the beginning, you were frightened of Lord Ormund as well. You had been so scared to talk to him the day he brought his proposal up to you. You had never spoken to him prior to it, and the only reputation you knew was that he was a serious man who was easily disappointed.

So you try to be honest with him, hoping he would understand your hesitancy. “I do not know if I am equipped to handle such a task, my Lord.”

He had smiled at you. A warm smile that made him appear as such a kind and considerate man.

Placing a hand upon your shoulder, he told you, “You are a good girl, (Y/N). All I need is your help in raising my nephew to be just as good.”

Now, nearly four years later, Oldtown feels more like home than your homeland ever did.

Because your brother is here.

Daeron Targaryen, Prince of the realms, will always be the brother you never had. Not a blood brother, like the ones from your homeland, who were cruel to you in your childhood and would throw things your way when you became bothersome. Daeron was a real brother, and seeing him grow up to be kind was the best gift the Mother could ever give you.

“Come,” Daeron hurried you as the two of you descended down the staircase to where Tessarion was kept. “She has been alone for so long, she must be dying for company.”

You disliked the way the Hightowers treated Daeron’s dragon. But you knew it was not your place to interfere with such a thing.

Daeron’s face lights up like the boy he is as he sees her. You stay back against the staircase as Daeron jogs down the steps and over to the creature. “Here I am, girl. I promised I would return to you.”

The sight of the large dragon always makes you wary. Even as she makes screeches of joy as she sets her eyes on her rider, you feel yourself fearing for him.

Yet, he nuzzles his head against hers, and she appears to nuzzle him back. “There you are,” Daeron whispers with a laugh. “Shh. Shh. I told you, I can come down here more often if you are quiet.”

“Be cautious of her claws,” you say as she paws near his feet.

“She knows her strength, she will not harm me,” Daeron assures you.

You rest against the wall, and listen to him whispering soft words of admiration to her.

You are patient as he takes a brush to draw over her scales, grooming her body. He glances over to you. “She is not a monster like they say,” he tells you. “I have raised her to be good.”

You give a soft nod. “She is good, I know.”

“Would you...” He hesitates. “...Would you like to pet her?”

You take a quick step back, shaking your head. “I will keep my distance.”

“She will not harm you, you have my word.”

“Lord Ormund warns they are unpredictable with those that do not have the right blood.”

“Please,” Daeron says. “She sees you so often. I want her to actually meet you.”

Your eyes take in the creature. You stiffen as she stares right at you.

Daeron holds a hand out. “I will be right beside you.”

“What if she dislikes me-?”

“She will not. I promise.” Daeron steps close to you with his hand out. “Trust me, Lady (Y/N).”

It takes a moment of contemplation before you finally decide you do trust him. And if your trust gets you burnt, so be it. You take his hand, and he leads you to the dragon.

He lifts your arm and slowly places it on Tessarion’s head. The texture catches you by surprise and you flinch back.

He chuckles. “It is an odd feeling, isn’t it?”

You choke back a scream when Tessarion moves her head against your stomach. You stumble back, but Daeron places an arm out to steady you. “Daeron-”

“It’s alright. She just wishes to feel you too.”

You force yourself still. The dragon runs her head along your abdomen. Slowly, you lower your hand back onto her. The scales are not so frightening now.

“See,” Daeron smiles. “She likes you.”

“That is very relieving,” you laugh.

“Sometimes I think she can sense how I feel about people,” he tells you. “And that’s how she judges them.”

“Does that mean if you decide you hate me, she will eat me?”

“I would never hate you,” Daeron says. His voice grows more somber. “You are the only true companion I have ever had.”

“For now,” you say. “I am sure you will gain allies over time.”

“Allies,” he repeats. “Not friends.”

“I have no other friends either,” you tell him. “It is not so bad.”

As an aid to royalty, you are secluded from the outside world. Lord Ormund has insisted on it.

‘There is no room for distractions when it comes to your care of my nephew,’ he told you when you first arrived. You were just a girl then, so it made sense to you. But now, nearing your twentieth summer, you feel the seclusion is less necessary. Yet, he still insists on it.

It does matter your opinion, however. It never does with him.

Lord Ormund is the man of the house, so you must bend your knee to his orders.

Daeron is quiet for a moment. He brushes along Tessarion’s back.

“...I wish you were my true sister,” he whispers. “So that I did not have to fear you leaving.”

He has said this before. It makes you feel sympathy that he is so far from his real family, he sometimes forgets he actually does have a true sister.

“I would not leave,” you quickly insist. “I promised I would remain at your side for the rest of your youth.”

“And after?” he asks.

You sigh. “I do not know the plans my father has for me after.” You look again at the creature that has settled comfortably with leaning against your body. “But Tessarion will be here forever, at least for that you are certain. So be good to her.”

“I am,” he swore to you. He leaned his head against the dragon’s once more. “Aren’t I good to you?” he whispers to the dragon.

He was so gentle with the creature.

Daeron was always so gentle, and so kind.

You could not be more proud of him for it.

**********************************************************

A few weeks pass, and the weather becomes warmer. It causes Daeron to lose energy in the day.

“It is shameful to sleep in the Sept, Prince Daeron,” you chide softly, “It is best you wake before someone else sees you.”

The boy barely stirred. Head resting on the pew in front of him, arms folded beneath him, he muffles, “I am not sleeping, I am praying.”

The yawn was still in his voice, and it made you chuckle. “You’ve been unmoving for fifteen minutes.”

“Deep in prayer,” he insists.

Another laugh. “It is almost time for dinner, Daeron. Come. Raise your head, and pray with me once more before we go.”

Daeron slowly lifts his head. He rises from the bench, and comes to kneel beside you in front of the candle altar. He clasps his hands together, and waits for you to begin.

You let your eyes flutter closed and pray, “Mother, please grant us peace of mind in these upcoming weeks. Give us honor in what we do.”

Daeron repeats, “Mother, please grant us peace of mind in these upcoming weeks. Give us honor in what we do.”

“Warrior, please send strength to King Viserys. Please give him health and extend his kingdom.”

Again, Daeron repeats after you. “Warrior, please send strength to my father. Please give him health and extend his kingdom.”

“Crone, please give Prince Daeron wisdom in his studies, and the foresight to see the consequences of laziness-”

“I am not lazy.”

You laugh, and continue, “Please make him into the best scholar he can be.”

Daeron eyes you, before praying, “Mother, please give (Y/N) a kinder heart that is less overbearing-”

“Shh,” you laugh, sticking out your hand to cover his mouth. “Do not say that to her.”

Daeron smiles as he continues, “Crone, give her the wisdom that reminds her I am her Prince, therefore I am in charge-”

“Daeron,” you scold with amusement, “We do not play with the gods.”

“I am not lazy. Take it back.”

“You were sleeping in the Sept.”

“Exhausted, not lazy.”

You huff, yet a smile still plays on your face. “Fine. You are not lazy. But you better be careful. What would you have done had Lord Ormund heard you snoring?”

“I do not snore.”

You shrug. “You would not know.”

You catch him rolling his eyes, to which you criticize, “Do not roll your eyes in the house of the gods.”

“Then let us leave the house of the gods. I am starving.”

“In a moment,” you tell him. “Allow me to do a prayer for our food.”

He sighs, but he stays kneeled beside you. He is patient with you in the Sept, just as you are patient with him with his dragon.

When you two are finished, the guards escort the two of you to Lord Ormund.

It became customary over the last few years for Daeron and yourself to have dinner with Lord Ormund in his private study. The Lord often complained that the Hightower dining hall was unappealing, that it was too close to the kitchens, the aromas were too strong, and he was unable to eat there. The difference in rooms mattered very little to you. You did not mind eating in his study. In fact, it felt like a compliment that you were even invited. It made you feel more valued that your company was enjoyed by both the Lord and Prince.

You are still laughing with Daeron over mundane things as you make your way through the halls.

“What brings such laughter from my nephew?” Ormund asks as the two of you arrive at his study.

You greet the Lord with a curtsy of respect. “Good evening, Lord Ormund.” You rise and smile, “Daeron speaks of plans for his fourteenth nameday.”

“Ah,” he grins. “Yes, that is arriving soon.”

As always, Lord Ormund stands as you enter, and he pulls out your chair for you. You take it with a gracious, “Thank you, my Lord.”

“What kind of celebration would you like?” Ormund asks as he takes his seat. He sits at the head of the table, as always. You take the left side of him, Daeron is sat on the right.

The prince smiles shyly. “I need nothing extravagant. I only wish to have a feast with the three of us, as always. With cake. Perhaps Uncle Gwayne can be here.”

“I can prepare you a cake,” you tell him. “It would be my honor.”

“You need not do it,” Daeron quickly says. “We will pay a baker.”

You tilt your head. “You do not trust my cooking?”

He chuckles. “No offense, my Lady, but I have yet to see you in a kitchen. It seems you do not get much practice at it.”

You let out a laugh. “Is that so?”

“Careful, Daeron,” Ormund chides. “Insulting a woman’s cooking is as if she were to insult your sword fighting.”

“She knows I jest,” Daeron says. “But either way, you should not waste time on such things, Lady (Y/N). Any day that honors me should honor you as well.”

The words warm your heart, and you wonder if this is what motherhood is meant to feel like. “You flatter me.”

“It is true. I feel I am becoming a great man due to your teachings. You as well, Uncle Ormund. I believe I am growing into my strongest self here in Oldtown.”

Ormund smiles proudly at his nephew. He reaches over and places a hand on his shoulder. “The Father smiles upon you, Daeron. You are a blessing to us all.”

“My father sends coin on my nameday,” Daeron says. “I would like to purchase gifts for the two of you. As well as Uncle Gwayne.”

“That is very thoughtful of you, Prince Daeron, but it is not a day you must buy gifts for others. Others should buy gifts for you.”

“I want to,” he says. His tone becomes shy. “I…would like to show my appreciation. With something you will be able to cherish.”

The idea warms your heart.

“Besides, I need nothing,” Daeron says. “And I want for nothing. I would donate my coin rather than hoard it.”

You smile wider, and you meet Lord Ormund’s eye. “He is a very noble boy, your nephew. You should be very proud of him.”

“I am,” Ormund smiles. “My nephew is growing to be flawless.”

“Flawless.” Daeron chuckles. “Except for the snoring, I suppose.”

You laugh. “Yes, except for the snoring.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lord Ormund lean back against his chair.

“I am very much looking forward to hearing from my mother,” Daeron continues. “She writes to me an especially long letter on my name day each year. My father as well.”

“Perhaps you can have a portrait made to send them,” you suggest. “I’m sure your mother misses your face dearly.”

He lights up at the idea. “A portrait. Yes. I have not had one of those done in a few years.”

“Me neither,” you admit. “I fear my mother has not seen a new portrait of me since I was the age of ten and seven.”

“Then we could all have portraits done. Uncle Ormund, do you think you could call upon an artisan to-” Daeron’s smile drops and his words cease.

Your attention turns to Lord Ormund. A pit forms in your stomach.

He is not looking at either of you. He is simply staring ahead, silent.

Daeron becomes tense. “…Uncle?”

Ormund continues staring ahead, only his finger moving as he taps upon the table, quickly and precise, as if counting the seconds.

“I need no portrait,” Daeron quickly says. “It was only an idea.”

Lord Ormund is angry. You do not know why, or over what, but you know that this is his first stage of anger.

He stares.

He stares, and it gives him time to think. And the more he thinks, the angrier he gets.

Daeron becomes a shade paler at the lack of response. “I-I do not look forward to hearing from my mother as much as I look forward to seeing you, Uncle,” he spurts out, going through every last word he said to think of what could have angered him. “I do not take my place here for granted.”

Ormund’s head tilts to the side, his stare still blank and ominous.

When his eyes land on you, his gaze is so piercing that you flinch.

“My nephew snores?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question.

His hands open and close. “How would you know my nephew snores, Lady (Y/N)-?”

“I fell asleep today,” Daeron quickly cuts in. “I apologize for it. I drifted off, and she-she merely teased me for it.”

Ormund’s eyes don’t leave you.

You have been scolded by Lord Ormund before, plenty of time in fact. But there is something different in his voice now. Those scolding were small corrections, his voice never, ever rose at you. Even now, he speaks calmly. But the look in his eye makes you feel cold.

He does not speak again, simply waiting and watching for you to answer.

“It was only for a moment,” Daeron repeats with worry. “No wrong was done.”

Ormund continues to wait for your response only.

You swallow before speaking, “The Prince drifted off today, as he said. I allowed him to rest for a few minutes because he was tired. I should not tease a Prince about such things, I am sorry.”

“Where did he fall asleep?”

Daeron’s posture is rigid. You bite your lip, considering the consequences of your answer.

“Lady (Y/N).” He speaks your name softly, but there is an edge to his voice that you did not want to press.

You look again at Daeron, and feel as if it would be against your faith to tell on him. Daeron must’ve seen it in your eyes that you were unwilling.

Internally, you make the decision not to answer. You did not fear his uncle harming you for your silence.

But Daeron feared it.

Daeron quickly answered for you, “It was in the Sept.”

His uncle frowned. His head slowly turned to his nephew. “In the Sept?”

“Yes-”

“In our most sacred place of prayer?”

His voice is only a whisper. “I am sorry.”

Ormund slowly pulls his napkin off his lap, folding it and calmly placing it onto the table. He stands to his feet, his boots heavy on the floor as he walks to stand behind Daeron’s chair. He asks, “Did you pray for forgiveness before you left?”

“I...” He swallows. “I did not think to pray for that specifically-”

“Both hands flat on the table.”

Daeron’s face goes completely pale.

Ormund crosses the room to his bookshelf.

Your heart slams in your chest as you rush to your feet, hurrying over to Ormund’s side, trying to match his quick strides. “He said prayers before leaving, my Lord.”

He ignores you. He grabs the leather strapped rod he keeps on the shelf.

The sight of it surges your panic. You struggle to remain by Ormund’s side, placing a hand on his arm to slow him. “He did not mean to offend the gods. He was only tired from the heat of the day-”

“If he did not pray for forgiveness, I will administer punishment.”

“He will not commit the offense again.”

“Spare the rod, spoil the child. He will receive seven lashes. One for each god he offended.” He snaps at Daeron, “Both hands flat on the table. Now.”

Daeron shuts his eyes tightly, doing as told.

You run forward and force yourself in front of your prince. “The lashes should be mine,” you tell Ormund.

Daeron tries to push you away. “No-”

“I was in charge of him, the fault is mine. Allow me the lashes, not him.” In a surge of protectiveness, you try to hide Daeron behind your body. “I offended the gods, not him.”

Lord Ormund watches you with critical eyes.

You knelt down, and place both hands flat on the table.

Daeron’s voice is a quiet whimper as he says, “(Y/N), get up, this is not your punishment.”

You physically push his hands back to his lap, and lay yours flat on the table once more. You stare up at Lord Ormund, whose eyes are still so meticulous.

He stays staring at you a moment longer, and every second that passes, you feel your heart will give out from beating so fast.

Finally, Ormund drops the rod onto the table. Slowly, he kneels beside you and rests his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together. “Lady (Y/N), lead us in a prayer of forgiveness for Daeron’s offense.”

A shaky breath of relief escapes your lips. “Y-Yes, my Lord.”

Daeron quickly kneels beside you as well.

“Mother, please forgive the transgressions of Daeron. He has committed an offensive act that he shall not commit again. Please, allow him grace and hospitality.”

Daeron quickly repeats, “Mother, please forgive my transgressions. I have committed an offensive act that I shall commit again. Please, allow me grace and hospitality.”

Ormund speaks next. “Mother, please forgive the transgressions of Daeron. He has committed an offensive act that he shall not commit again. Please, allow him grace and hospitality.”

Another nervous breath. “Mother, please-please put mercy in the heart of Lord Ormund. Please allow him to grant us the patience and grace that you would.”

Daeron hesitates, his eyes shooting to his uncle, as if terrified of the consequences of this prayer.

“Daeron,” his uncle urges.

Daeron follows, “Mother, please put mercy in the heart of Lord Ormund. Please allow him to grant us the patience and grace that you would.”

Ormund finishes, “Mother, please put mercy in my heart. Please allow me to grant them the patience and grace that you would.”

“And so it is.”

“And so it is.”

“And so it is.” Ormund rises to his feet. “Let us finish dinner.” He pulls out his chair for you to sit.

The rest of the dinner is silent. You have lost your appetite, but try to finish the plate anyway. Lord Ormund is strict with your diet, and if you do not eat now, you will not be allowed food again until morning.

The time ticks by slowly. Daeron fidgets more and more as each minute passes.

“Daeron, you are excused,” Ormund speaks after he is finished with his own meal.

You see in the prince’s eyes that he does not want to leave you.

“Go on,” you tell him. “I will see you in the morning at the library.”

He hesitates only a moment longer. Ormund clears his throat, and he finally goes.

You are left alone with Lord Ormund.

“It is not your place to stand between that boy and his punishments,” he tells you.

You stare down at your hands. “I apologize, Lord Ormund.”

“You apologize, yet if it came down to it, you would do so again.”

You do not lie. “I would.”

Ormund sighs. He rises to his feet. He walks to you, and leans upon the table beside you. His fingers ghost your chin, and he tilts your head up to face him. “I hope you are not allowing your loyalty towards him to cloud your judgement.”

“I am not.”

His fingers graze the side of your face, pushing your hair behind your ears. “I do not only feel responsible for Daeron, (Y/N), I also feel responsible for you. I want what is best for you, I hope you know that.”

“I do, my Lord.”

His hand brushes down the back of your hair. “You have always been such a good girl for me.” His hand stops on the back of your head, and you flinch as his hand suddenly grips your hair. “But I need you to remember that your obedience is to me before my nephew.”

His grip does not hurt, but it frightens you.

You force your hands to remain in your lap. “Y-Yes, my Lord. I remember.”

“The next interference, I will not spare the rod on you.”

You swallow. “I understand.”

Ormund smiles at your agreement. His hand loosens on your hair, and he cups your cheek instead. “I have been told I have a weakness for you, Lady (Y/N). That I am too lenient when you are around, that I lack appropriate sternness.”

You have been told the same thing about him. That he is fond of you, that he treats you kinder than others, that your faith in the Seven makes him more gentle.

Ormund’s hand lingers on your cheek a moment, before he turns your head to the side, and reaches out to wipe away a bead of sweat that began to form on your temple.

“You would not dare use that against me, would you?”

“Never, my Lord.” You realize your hands are forming sweat as well. You open and close them to try to release the nerves. “I-I appreciate your mercy, but it is never expected.”

“Good.” He turns your jaw to face him head on. “Because my patience is not limitless.”

You do not know what he wants you to say. You wonder if he even wants you to say anything at all, or if he just wants to frighten you so you do not interfere again. You simply repeat, “I understand, my Lord.”

You think he will let go of you, but he does not.

Instead, he leans closer, and you hear his long inhale. It is what he does whenever the serving boys bring him new scented powders.

“You smell of candle smoke,” he tells you.

“From my prayer in the Sept, my Lord.”

Your answer satisfies him.

Another moment passes of uncertainty for you. You have never been alone with Ormund for this long before. Your mind goes back to Daeron, and where he might be.

“I think it is time we find a perfume for you.”

The comment catches you by surprise. “A perfume, my Lord?”

“Noble women choose perfumes for themselves. Ones they reorder time and time again. They spray it upon letters when they send it away, and sometimes gift small portions of it to women in their service. It will help mask the scent of the other tasks you attend to during the day. You are old enough now to go and choose your own.”

The idea uplifted you. “I will be able to choose?”

“You will be taken to the market tomorrow. You will pick three scents you like, and I will make the final decision on which one will be yours.”

“Any perfume?”

“Any you desire. There is no budget when it comes to a woman’s cleanliness.”

You feel yourself getting excited over the prospect of shopping. Lord Ormund usually hand picks everything for you, without your opinion on things.

Your excitement makes you bold. “May I choose a new dress for myself as well? It has been a long time since I have had myself fitted.”

His eyes flicker over your face. “You push your luck.”

Your heart drops, and you think you have angered him.

But he merely asks, “What would it be for?”

“For my visits to the Sept,” you quickly tell him, because you know he will not refuse this. “A dress with a thicker skirt so that my knees do not ache at the end of the day.”

Ormund leans back and contemplates. “You recall the rules of modesty for clothing?”

“Of course, my Lord. Neckline higher than the collarbone. Skirts passed the ankles. Arms to the wrist.”

He reaches down and drags his hand up the side of your arm, feeling the material. It was as if he was imagining something new. “Very well then. You may pick up a new dress.”

Your smile grows. You lean up, and you place a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Lord Ormund.”

His smile warms, and his expression turns kind. He is happy with you, and you hear it in his voice as he relents, “I will allow two dresses, if it pleases you.”

“Yes.” Your spirits raise even higher. “Yes, it pleases me greatly, thank you.”

Ormund chuckles at how elated you have become. He leans down and places a kiss onto the top of your head.

He lingers for a moment. You hear his gentle inhale, his quiet judgement of what he smells.

“What oils are used for your hair?”

“Roses, my Lord.”

“Do not choose roses tomorrow. This scent is tied to your girlhood with Daeron. You must find a new scent for womanhood.”

You find the comment odd, so you risk a laugh. “I am already a woman, Lord Ormund.”

His response is just a repeated, “No roses.”

Your laugh goes away. You shake your head. “No roses.”

Mereya is going to be a spring bride. And this place couldn’t suit her more if it tried.

She had a veritable flock of lovely tempered Highgarden ladies at her beck and call for court. Not a bad word to say about her. She was sweet as spring blossoms, you can’t imagine her finding fault with anyone. Or vice versa. Ladies gathered around her who loved nothing more than to talk about their handsome crushes, ribbons, and new dresses.

You and Lyonel travelled with some of your Baratheon bannermen on the rose road. Treasured guests. Arriving a week before hers and Thoren’s nuptials.

You’d dined on low tables in lush gardens with harpists playing nearby, lulled by music and wine, under the spreading reach of peach trees, with the trickle of fountains nearby. Strolled the rose gardens in the golden hour, arm in arm, and taken a leisurely, gentle sail on the sunlit mander. Attended the Spring Equinox masquerade ball, bathed under moonlight, the night sky strung with a net of glittering stars.

And on the bright, dazzling morn of her wedding. The sun rose as golden as the Tyrell sigil. She could think of none better to help her ready for her ceremony, but you. Even when she had a whole garrison of meek, eager handmaids to tend her every whim.

You were stood behind her as she sat to her vanity. Both your reflections in the looking glass. Her dress trailing over the stool, a huge glowing train of gold embroidered roses entwined up her sage green dress.

Not a lightning bolt in sight. Flowers had always suited her far better.

“I hope it’s not been too trying. It’s quieter than Storms End to be sure. Even with the revelries before the wedding.” She supposed.

“Lyonel will always be the loudest thing around here for miles. It is his way. Peace ill suits him.” You grin. Working on smoothing a curl by her temple to help it hang better.

She smirks. Snorts very unladylike laughter. “Is he finding it terribly tedious?” She seeks. Eyes flicking up to find you in the glass.

“I won’t repeat his exact words. But I think it’s just the heat getting to him.” You decide.

Your handsome stag of a husband didn’t fare so well in the polite, cloying and kind gardens of the reach. No wilderness. No tempests to chase. No storm to battle through. Just acre upon acre of polite gardens and roses. You can almost hear one of his rants;

Flowers. Sunshine. More fucking flowers. It’s like the place is made of roses. And what of the air? I can hardly feel myself breathe it’s so humid. Don’t they have rain here? Or clouds? Something that doesn’t smell and taste like it’s been swilled in a fucking rose bush.

Another thing that was getting to your husband; in a different manner, was the somewhat more relaxed nature of fashions in Highgarden. The thick wool gowns and brocades layered with thick cotton shifts won’t serve you well here. You’d boil alive in them.

You’d had several more gowns commissioned to better combat the heat - that, and to considerate the ever growing bump that was your firstborn.

You’d quickened so much over the past moon. Now three moons gone. Belly rounding out and convincing everyone around you that the low hang of it meant for certain you were carrying a boy.

Lyonel was having a hard enough time keeping his hands off you as it was. And now you added a cursed flimsy passel of dresses to the mix. And a pregnancy that had just gotten over the rigid hump of nausea and tenderness.

He was ravenous. Night and day.

These summery climes doing nothing to aid in his discomfort. Air sticking to you both like hot honey. Leaving you both slipping away for a moments repose. Or a cool bath.

You noticed the way he changed his pace to linger. Always in step beside you. Looking for you across a crowd to check you were hale.

When he moved to your side. He was all touch. Hand on the back of your hip like a warm kiss. Arm tucked in his. A brand. Whispering into your ear in a husk that you were dressed in sheer sin, and telling you how that flimsy fabric would make such a satisfying pile on your bedchamber floor.

The dress you are wearing now is a soft, frothy shade of lilac. Harping back to your Dondarrion name. With dark lavender thorn vines woven and crossing in embroidery down the bodice. It is sleeveless, and virtually backless. He hasn’t yet seen it on you this morn; when he does, you reckon he’ll have some sort of heart episode.

Your hair has been carefully styled for the wedding by your maid. Spilling down your back and off your face. The skirts split open over your swollen stomach, with a darker fabric spilling down in a triangle to the floor. Sheer gossamer layered over your hips. Giving a wispy train to the side and back when you walk. These too entwined with more embroidered thorns.

“Please give my apologies to Lord Lyonel for the rude change of scenery.”

You roll your eyes. “He’s a fully grown Storm Lord. I refuse to baby him. He shall have to adjust and remember he is here to pay respects to his dear sister in law. Soon to be Lady paramount of Highgarden.” You answer. Smiling in that clever stern way you do.

She grins. Fidgets with her hands in her lap. Rings on each finger. Pearls and gems and jewels in every colour of green or blue there was. She was twiddling with the gold and stones that shone on each dainty finger.

“To tell you the truth. I am entirely wracked with nerves.” She raises her eyes to you in the mirror.

You meet her gaze. Hands drop to her round shoulders. “About marriage?” You check. Eyes intent and honing in on her shrinking down. Curled shoulders. Hands fidgeting. Nerves.

“About being a great lady. What if I’m not enough. I’ve watched you train and train for years you make it look so natural. So in charge. You do it with iron. You storm through people and you don’t back down. I hope I don’t, disappoint…anyone.”

“Mereya. That is folly.” You tell her.

“I’m not like you. I don’t have the courage. I couldn’t have been the Lady to master storms end. It was too much and not me.” She shakes her head as she speaks.

“You speak like it is you who is lacking. As if it is a fault.” You add.

She fidgets with her hands again.

“Mereya.” You urge. Stern. Your best motherly tone - you’d been practicing after all.

She finally lifts her eyes to meet yours in the glass.

“You are kind. Generous. Gracious. You have been waiting for this role your whole life. There’s none more ready than you. And there is more than one way to be a fine lady. You don’t have to walk with an iron spine, and have a tongue like a sword to command respect. Thoren adores you. Anyone whose seen you two knows of it. It is a love match. You can conquer the whole seven with a good person by your side. You will find your way.” You reach and touch her shoulder.

“Don’t fret about the future now. Just enjoy this lovely day. And this very expensive, very beautiful big wedding.”

She slides her to cover yours where it lay on her.

“I’m so glad you’ve come. I’ve missed your stout advice and hale sense. Some of the ladies here are rather…trite.” She tells. “None of them quite set me straight as you do.”

You snort laughter. If that didn’t sum you up. You don’t know what will. “Nowhere I’d rather be.”

She opens her mouth. Again. Looking mousy and unsure. “What is it like?”

“What is what like?” Your hand stills with a comb through one of her curls.

Her eyes flick down to your belly.

“Oh.”

“Please?”

“That is a whole other conversation.” You warn. One you don’t intend to sully her innocence with.

Stepping back and going to the bed to fetch a ribbon. A gauzy sea froth blue one that she’s going to tie around her neck to wear a heavy round pendant with a rose engraved on. You had one made for her wedding. And one for yourself. Naturally, a stag surrounded by lightning bolts on yours.

“I’m going to be a bride after all. It’s expected to lay with one’s husband.” Whispers close and terrified, like you’ll be overheard. Like the whispers will fly out the window like butterflies and horrify the maids.

“The ladies tell me from their married friends or mothers it is painful at the very first, but it eases after a time. I need to be familiar with the… particulars.”

“I’m struggling to know how to answer that.” You admit.

You’re stuck between a rock and an anvil.

Either you can weild her the plain truth as sharp as a sword. Or you can let her ideals of the marriage bed stay rose tinted and soft.

“What was it like for you and Lord lyonel ? He’s a big, passionate man, is he not?” She states.

You’ve no idea. You quip to yourself. Mouth opening as you gape for a clutch of the right words.

“He uh, is. It was-“

“Was it… brief?” She stumbles.

You blink. Pausing. “I wouldn’t term it as that. No.”

Truth was, Lyonel had kept you abed for nearly a solid week after you married.

Every meal and glass of wine arrived on a tray. Left outside the door for safety’s sake. You were sure the poor maids cursed your name daily-

You had to escape for a ride to the woods or even a walk along the cliffs to avoid cabin fever of staring at your bedchamber walls. Or the window. Or the wall. Over the tub. On the floor beside the hearth. He’d laughed like a storm when you said your thighs were too delicate, love bitter and sore, to take to the saddle. Bastard.

“I imagine it was an adjustment.”

You turn back. Maybe you can half bury the sharp truths in a cotton wrapped cushion for her.

“It was different when I was married to Jacor. It was not a love match. That was brief and loveless. It was for duty. It was so quick, and then he was gone, so I wasn’t granted the time to judge. With Lyonel it’s…” you struggle to find the appropriate words.

Oh, it’s definitely not stiff, dull, duty that draws you to his bed.

“It’s different when you love someone so deeply. When someone truly arouses you, it is like nothing else. You can’t speak when they’re near. The thought of them makes you weaken. Your breath catches when you hear their name. And when you kiss and touch it somehow never seems enough. Wedded passion is just- fucking wonderful.” You laugh. As does she.

She laughs with you. “When he kisses me it does oft make my knees weak.” She admits. “And he’s tender. He’s never rushed me. Or asked for more than I gave.”

You wink at her. “There you are. A good man then. A great start.”

She turns back to the mirror. Places her hands on the vanity edge. “I hope so.”

“Not long now. My sweet.” You smile. Finishing arranging her hair to sit just right. She exhales with nerves. But her grin doesn’t veer from her lips for one second.

You’re interrupted by a flock of her ladies coming into the room. A flurry of wine and gauzy dresses. Skirts like jewel tulip petals swaying on a breeze. Compliments coo off their tongues as soon as they see her like honey-wine. Her beauty. Her dress. The lush style of her hair.

It touches you deep. How much she is beloved.

You take the opportunity to let her be swarmed by their love and attentions. You clasp her shoulder. “I’ll leave you in more capable hands. I’ll go and see how the groom fares.”

“After last night I should think his head will be pounding sore.” One of the dark haired maids, giggles. Grin a bright straight flash of friendly teeth.

“We heard they were up celebrating til near the dawn.” Another pipes up. Helping Mereya tie her necklace. “Dancing on tables. Singing. Rowdy as a pack of wild stallions.”

“I think I can guess who encouraged that.” Mereya beams. Finding your eyes cleverly in the mirror. Grinning.

You give a wry shrug. “What I get for marrying a Storm. And not an apple.” You jest.

She smiles. You pause with a hand on the door to her chambers. Summer air lapping at your heels. Air rife with flowers and sun and every good summery thing.

It suddenly strikes you, in an overwhelming rush, a strong tugging tide, how radiant she looks. A golden rose bride indeed.

You know the gods to be unjust. Mayhaps even cruel. Unyielding. But for today, you’d struggle to your knees, and stay on them for hours to praise them for this fortune. If there was some small gold kernel of goodness in this world, she heartily deserved every glorious scrap of it. And more.

Your search for your husband at first, proved fruitless. A rarity, when usually he can be found by sheer clamour alone.

For all his noise, today it’s not what drew you toward him. You catch sight of him way across the gardens. The sheer dark width of his back. You’d know that broad span of shoulders and storm tossed curls anywhere.

He’s suitably garbed for any occasion. Here is no different. Dripping wealth. A long line leather jerkin in crow black. Pointed out at the shoulders to make him look that much wider. Stroked at the edges with a little strike of Baratheon gold. Antlers on the golden closures down his chest. Golden bracers on his wrists. His usual chunky rings adorning his thick fingers. Chain around his neck tucked under his shirt. Boots buffed to a high shine.

His skin offset with a new sun-kissed glow to it, that made him look entirely too weathered and scandalous from your time bathing in the suns heat up here. He looks so fucking handsome you hardly know what to do about it.

You’ve a feeling it will later involve a locked door, and perhaps riding him til he’s hoarse and your legs can’t take it.

You note he’s in confidence with someone. His hand cupping the back of a golden haired man’s neck as they walk arm in arm. You can’t make out his company from such a distance.

You tread towards him. Shade and sunlight freckle your skin under the pass of the rose arches. Hair swaying down your shoulders.

One thing you had come to appreciate at Highgarden, was its propensity for thorns and mazes. You weave your way through. It awards you the chance to approach Lyonel virtually unseen.

It’s his voice that carries to you first. Dancing on the summer, petal stroked winds.

“I must…. Everyday?” You hear the incredulous tone. A young man’s voice. All wavering uncertainty. Thoren. Your very shortly to be brother-in-law.

“Every day. Boy. If there is one day you do not go down on your wife. Consider it the saddest day indeed.”

That makes you slow your steps. Sandaled feet fall softer on the crackling shingle path. Hiding amongst the roses. So you may better hear. Your mouth falls open. Did he just?

“Trust me. One day you’ll thank me. As will your wife.” You hear Lyonel impress on the lad. You can hear his smirk. Picture the way he’d shot a wink.

They skirt a fountain together. Water arching from its spouts, blue as robins eggs. The marble so ice white in the sun it was blinding.

“How on earth do you think I won Lady Baratheon…. A man, nay, a husband, should always be receptive to his lady’s more, carnal, appetites. Even should she not exhibit such wild behaviour. No woman can turn down a tonguing so good she’ll damn near faint from pleasure with her thighs strangling your neck. Even the sturdiest maiden can be brought to tenderness with a cunning tongue trick.” He cackled.

“But what if I am no good at… uh.” Thoren stammers. Seeking the right words without a vulgar inclination on his tongue.

“That’s what a honeymoon is for. Time to practice. Learn of each other. I don’t believe either me or my wife made it downstairs for at least a week at the start. Married love. Thoren. It’s fucking bliss.”

“A week?” Thoren squeaks.

“Mmmhmm.” Lyonel assures.

“By the end of said week I could make her succumb in a matter of minutes. Like clockwork. I knew exactly how to use my tongue in order to make her melt into my mouth.”

You don’t know how you’ll ever look Thoren in the eye again.

“But surely there is ugh, more than one’s tongue to be thinking about. Surely we will need to… be thinking, well expected, to be producing heirs.”

There’s a shift of gravel. A crackle of it harsh under a boot as your husband spins to round on the man.

“There is more to the marriage than making heirs. Though the making of them certainly is fun.”

“There’s more?”

“Fucking geld me. What do they teach you boys up here?” He asks. Imploring the seven. “Wooing your wife is not merely the act of getting her gown off, and sticking your cock in. Not to mention it’s the height of rudeness, but it would pain her, and it is also increasingly short-sighted.”

“You must arouse her. Excite her. Get her so dripping wet with fingers or mouth before you even consider your own needs. If you can’t satisfy a woman, you don’t deserve a place in her bed, or her trust. Let alone inside her cunt. Of which by the way, I can assure you, will feel like heaven on earth. The closest thing we men can come to seeing our gods.” He laughs. Big and boisterous.

You close your eyes and shake your head. All this he shares with such ease. Fucking seven hells.

“We. Haven’t been left alone enough to try such… attentions in each others company. It wouldn’t be decent.” Thoren explains.

“Well. What have you done?”

“We’ve kissed. And hugged. It’s all very pleasant.”

“Oh dear lord. Sit the fuck down with you.”

He concluded. Shoving poor Thoren down onto a marble bench. His lanky knees give and he sits as obedient as a gangly puppy. Eyes wide with awe.

“Kissing and hugging will not a marriage make. You need passion.”

Lyonel stands afore him. Ready to impart his wisdom.

“These are the rules. And you better heed them. Firstly. Go down on your wife. Lots. It’s not only polite. It is essential. As she is letting you inside her body and lets you finish inside her. And that is of the highest honour. You’d better be deserving of it. And you do not even touch her cunt if she is not slick wet and begging? Understand?”

“Yes. Ser.”

“Secondly. Just because you put your mouth to her, it doesn’t follow she should be required to do the same for you. That’s rotten thinking, boy, and will get you naught. If she wishes to do it, it is the sweetest gift a man can earn from his wife. Trust me. They wrap you like ribbon around their little finger with it. My wife is a certain minx to that particular art.”

You roll your eyes. Now Thoren will definitely be scared of looking you in the eye. If that’s what he will imagine when he next sees you.

“Thirdly. When you do argue and believe me. Not matter how well you’re suited. You will. You get on your knees before the lady. Use your tongue fiercely on her cunt. Then fuck like you hate each other. And go back down on her to make sure everything is fine between you two. You should aim to ensure she has no breath left to chide you with.”

“Shouldn’t we settle the argument with a sound discussion?” Thoren asks.

“Pfft. No” Lyonel bats a hand. “I see no reason to change a good thing. The way me and Lady Baratheon do it has been successful thus far.” He tells. “Nearly broke our bed one time. It was ravenous.”

You’re going to strangle him. You’re unequivocally going to round the rose bush, calmly walk over, and strangle him with your bare hands. Or drown him in the fountain.

They’ll never find the body. You’ll make sure it’s well hidden, and the reek of the corpse shall be masked by the thorny roses.

Thoren gulps. “Be there a fourth, my Lord?” He asks. Querelous.

“I think that’s all the advice I can give a young groom. If there is a fourth it is only this….”He starts.

You dread the filth he’ll spew out next. Maybe he’ll grab a stick and draw filthy images in the shingle dirt. Like a bloody lesson.

“You are marrying a rare and great woman. Thoren. Just as I did. And when you truly, madly, love someone that way, it’ll be the making of you.” Lyonel tells him. Reaching forwards to clap his shoulder again.

That touches you deeply. As did the rest of your husbands, albeit filthy, confession.

“I do love her. I find I am impatient to make her my wife.” He says gently. A smile on his lips. He speaks like he’s giddy with it. Bare and honest.

Lyonel cackles. Deep and true. Like the rolling peel of a sept bell.

“Good. Because if you don’t, I’m fairly certain my wife would come geld you herself with her bare hands. and I would be there to hold the knife for her.” He grins. Laughs at Thorens horrified face.

He looks scared again. “Your wife is. Uh. Quite the terrifying woman. Is she not?”

Lyonel smirks. Wide, filthy and so proud.

“I know. She’s a goddamn wild storm that one. It’s so damned fucking arousing.” He leers.

You can take no more of this. You make sure your step is loud. Turning the corner and coming into plain view. Clearing your throat as you round the path from the fountain.

“Lyonel. Let the poor boy go. He’s getting married in half an hour.” You beckon kindly. Smile brushed on your lips.

He spins back. Twists to face you. Smirk climbing across his mouth. “Sweeting.” He remarks with joy. His eyes sweep you. Staying for a long moment on your chest. And then the slit to one side of your dress.

“My lord. I do believe your father was seeking you for a word. I heard he was headed for the Sept.” You encourage his departure. Rescuing the poor boy from your husbands clutches.

Thoren flushes a bright red. Bobs a quick bow to you before taking off quick through the gardens. “My Lady. My Lord.”

You smile as he hurried past. All blushes and wide eyes. When you round on Lyonel you look newly stern. Narrowed eyes, a stern set jaw. It makes him smile. Trouble suits him just fine.

When you come close enough, you cuff your husbands shoulder. “Was it your intention to give the poor boy a hard on for his wedding ceremony.” You chide. Hissing at him.

“I was instructing the lad. He’s greener than grass. Heaven forfend he learns a little cunnilingus goes a long way.” He decided.

He slips a hand to your waist, hooks you in and kisses you firmly on the mouth before you can have a chance to grow truly angry with him. Tugs you in like he knows you’ll melt.

Impresses on you a slow kiss that made stars shoot to your toes. You detest how he keeps that skill in his arsenal to wield against you so often.

When you peel away, his lips chase yours. Tickle of that beard against your mouth. Your hands sink to the cool leather on his chest.

He shakes his head at your dress. Can’t believe he is intended to survive seeing you in this flimsy, expensive, perfect dress with his sexual sanity intact.

“Not you. Gods be good. The fucking roses have got you too. Though in truth to your nature, this place is swimming in them and you choose to wear the thorns.” He leers. Winks at you. “I’ll be sure to tear those thorns off you later.”

You roll your eyes.

He sighs like a man in pain when he skims his hands over your shoulders and finds it virtually backless too. He kisses you again. Nearly devours your lips.

“My savage storm you mean to kill me do you not.” He hushes as he drags his mouth up your neck. Nuzzling your hairline. You smelled like fig soap and that honey nectarine perfume of yours. It absolutely kneecaps him. Weakens him.

“I could. When I overheard what details you so willingly shared with Thoren.”

“You’re not truly mad?” He seeks. Hands resting on your hips. The bones and lush curves of you fitting so decently in his big hands.

“Haven’t decided yet.” You snip. All acid eyes and narrow stares that are supposed to rebuke him.

He’s all smiles. Tucking your hand to his side. Letting you stroll gently under the rose arches with him. The sept bells started to toll. The wedding will not be long.

“You know. Something about all this, reminds me of our first time.” He announces. As you come around the lip of the fountain. The cool spray drifts in the rose scented wind.

You grin. “Which first time would that be, my dear lord husband.”

“Well we do have such an array to choose from now don’t we.” He tells. Merry as ever. Eyes sinking into yours.

“There was our first stolen kiss. Slick from dancing. Under the stars like two fucking poets wrote out our scene. Giddy off too much wine.”He reminisces.

“You were drunk. I merely obliged to try and hold you up.”

“That second, equally as sultry kiss. In the rain. Up against the side of that tent. When you were trying so hard to scurry away after I first learnt how angry you were with me. You were seething like a spitting viper.”

“Yes. But you were being absolutely bold, and stubborn as an ornery ass. So my anger was well justified.”

“Then there was the rather blissful interlude when I paid call on you when you were bathing. You clawed my back so hard I shall never forget the like.” He leans in. The heat of his breath ghosts your ear.

“I will get you back for that one day. You know.” The turn of your head is lethal. You side eye him, dangerously.

“As will I. For that other occasion of making me lose all sense of decency and sanity when you welcomed the attentions of that copper haired, apple, Fossoway cunt.” He snips.

You pull him to a reeling halt. Hand linked in his elbow. Petals and thorns arcing over your head.

That night had ended in him pursuing you as you tried to hurry back to your tent by cutting through the woods. He had followed you. Even though you had bit his head off and warned him back.

He was seething from having to watch you dance with Ser Steffon. To take dinner with him. Ride with him. Watching your family act like you were already sewn into the apple tree family branches.

You were furious from how he kept up the act of trying to be a good suitor to Mereya, when his eyes followed you round the room all night. When he sipped back more wine anytime Ser Steffon took your hand in his.

It could only end in one thing; a screaming match. Which then culminated in you both having angry, fiery hate sex up against a tree. Snarling moans, clawed hands and swearing that you hated each other.

“You won’t let me forget that will you. At my age and station of spinsterdom. It was made perfectly plain to me, by my family, that no such other offer of respectable marriage might come my way. Cider hall was the best option.”

He’s laughing. His hand is warm on the back of your neck before you can finish speaking. Nearly drawing you brow to brow.

“And now look at you.”

“You’ve snared a Storm Lord stag for a husband. And his babe grows everyday bigger in your belly.” He leers.

Hands cupping you so close. Free hand smoothing down the bump through your dress. He would be entirely lying if he said his eyes did not linger on your - now swollen tits. Absolutely not his fault how the low neckline of your dress bared them so well.

You bump your nose to his. Sneak up on tiptoes and press your mouth to his for a brief kiss. He smiles to it. Hand still on your bump.

“That sounds awfully boastful.” You speak out when you pull back.

“It’s what I’m good at.” He leers. Tongue captured between his teeth.

“Come along.” Your hand covers his. Reels him behind you in your path. “I don’t wish us to be late for this wedding. Knowing you, I’ll be dragged somewhere secluded in these gardens for some scandalous activity.”

“Only a little.” He sulks.

You ignore him.

“It’s sure to be the grandest event for many a year. It might even outdo our own.” You explain.

He holds your hand still as you keep your skirts from your feet coming up some marble steps. Hand under yours for support.

“In one measure my storm, it could never top our wedding….” He remarked.

You twist back to face him. “What respect is that?”

He stays below you. Takes your hand and kisses the back of it. The look in his eyes is nothing short of dastardly.

“No way on earth is that Rose boy as lucky as I am.” He grins.

“You will stop gloating when we’re in that Sept? Will you not?” You check.

He shrugs. Like it’s a challenge. You recognise that gleam in his eye. It’s the one that comes from someone telling him to behave. And then he turns around and does the exact opposite-

Draws up to come along beside you. Hand hot across your bare back. He squeezes you close in step.

“Depends…” He answers your question.

“On?” You seek.

“Whether or not we are sat within earshot of one Lord Steffon.” He beams.

“For fucks sake Lyonel.” You can’t help it. You laugh.

You receive a very animated letter from your sister not two weeks after the wedding.

You are back at Storms End. Breaking your fast in bed with Lyonel. Golden morning light streams through the windows in a rare shaft of sunshine. Though the storms will close in later, of that you have no doubt.

You are sat up. A heap of cushions at your back. Covers folded at your waist. A breakfast tray balanced on the bed next to you.

Lyonel lounged on his side. Easily within arms reach. Nearly naked. Golden robe open at his chest. Necklace sat on his sternum. Raven and grey chest hair bared in swirls over his skin aswell as his nipples. His necklines nearly matched yours in plunging nature often.

He leans over and steals a bite of the toast from your fingers. Being sure to suck the jam and butter off your fingertips. You ignore the throb of longing that shoots through you with the way his mouth closes around your fingers.

He sucks till all sweet flavour is gone. You absentmindedly cup the side of his face. Eyes on your correspondence.

“It’s from Mereya…” You sigh happily. Unfolding the golden rose wax seal to read more of it.

“How does Lady Tyrell fare?” He asks.

He watches your eyes skim across the written lines in the letter. The more you skim. The more the smile slowly drops from your face.

Your hands fall to your stomach. Letter in your grip. You turn and give him a spiky look.

“My sister is writing to me to sing your praises.” You state.

“Uh.”

You hold the letter aloft. And read from it. “Please thank Lyonel, in the most sincere and strongest terms for his advice. It has proven most useful this past week.”

You turn at him and glare. “Something to do with the advice you gave Thoren, presumably?”

He chuckles. Slides his hand over your thigh. “I could give you a precise demonstration if you like…”

“You are a fiend.”

“A fiend with a great tongue.” He winks.

It’s packed with noise and heat and song that leaks out the seams. In the blue wash of night that takes this reeking city, the windows stand square and proud. Gilded in gold. You can hear laughter, strong plucked strings of seductive music. Other, more deeply vocal noises you don’t need to guess at the nature of.

“Fuck.” You hiss.

Your stomach squirms itself in knots. Like the old ones in sailors rope, that hung off the wharf.

You turn on your heel. You pace another length down the street. Slippers cutting a path in the wet dusty dirt. Your seaweed green skirts trail in it. Blue velvet cloak hem now sodden in muck. The light rippling off it. The jewellery on your wrist, crinkles like shells colliding. Twinkling silver.

You don’t know if you can do this. Once that threshold is crossed. There’s no snatching it back. Literally.

A breeze shudders up like a hot cough from from bay. Tar, salt and wood. Fish skin and old sea-logged rope. It sweeps over you. The real true filth of this city cuts through the street, butting up against the polite boudoir imagery this place sells. The streets you crammed through, smelling like rotten meat, piss, ale, and sun baked dirt. The soiled perfume of normal life.

You turn over your shoulder. Cloak falling in your eye. Hair whipped in a curling strand over your hood. Pearl earring swaying at your neck in a heavy cold drop.

You look at the golden mouth of that doorway. The promised land. It opens to let two drunk men stumble in. From here you can see a flash of red and orange. Silks hanging up. Lewd crimson tapestries lining the halls no doubt. Bodies twisted in the fabric in sexual repose. Platters of rich fruit and deep dark cups of wine to ply the customers with.

Scent sneaks out the arched wooden doorway. You can smell it from here. Luxurious incense. Sensual jasmine and warm cedar. The air trickling with it; it is all spice, sweat and heat. You know there holds naked hot flesh, and pure debauched sin behind that door.

You look down at your hands. Bring them up from under your velvet cloak. They’re shaking. The silver band on your ring finger wobbles. Tears shiver under your eyes. Ones you’ve had to choke back for far too long.

You give yourself a breath. You yank that mocking band of silver off your hand and shove it deep in your cloak pocket. No one need know.

You’re done with being frustrated. And angry. So bitterly angry you could cleave heads off shoulders with one blow. Lash the lands like a furious tempest. You could drown the world with your rage. Like some ancient sea goddess walking out the waves with desolation to hand.

You were through with feeling like a second choice in your own halls. Your halls. Your bed. Your name dragged through the silt to be laughed at. Passed over in favour of younger, perkier girls. All swaying silk dresses, and easy trite smiles.

You were of House Velaryon. Old, rich stock. Fine blue blood in your veins as ancient as foam whipped off the seas. You were a daughter of Driftmark, and its salt-bred tides wrapped your bones.

Your marriage was as cold and loveless as the deep black seabed. It had started off in fondness. You tolerated one another. Bedded when you needed too. Soon, it ran dry. Became about making the motions and nothing else. Worst of all, your womb remained empty. That was when his eye began to wander—

You suffered blow after blow of humiliation. Watching your husband openly flaunt his dalliances. Indiscreet affairs held right under your nose.

Then you’d received word, a mere day ago, a nasty sneer caught out the side of a maids mouth, that one of your husbands mistresses, had fallen with child.

That is what had driven you here. The grain of sand that tipped the scales.

You’d heard tale this pleasure house before you, was the finest there was in all of Westeros. All types of variety, and flesh of every kind on offer.

Your husband had been the one to break your wedding vows.

Now, you intend to finish the job and shatter them to dust.

Scatter the ashes in the wind and laugh as it slips through your fingers like white sand.

You march on up to that door. You take the worn iron handle, and you twist it and push inside. Heat rushes to meet you.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

The walls inside pulse red like spilled blood. Cut veins. Heavy and close. The ceilings shiver with hung silks and bulging arcs of fabric. Iron lanterns frame golden light in squares. Throwing dozy red pools over your skin, when you push your hood back.

Men and women revel around you. Romping. Naked, some dressed, some merely rumpled. Slumped on low plump chaises, bolster cushions stuffed and spilling over the tiled floor. Some are pleasuring their guests. Some are being pleasured right in the open.

Candles are crammed on every surface. Flicking upward light like dragon tongues. The sides of the room is lined to with people, and antiques from far flung corners of the lands. Frescoes of naked men and women frolic in chalky paint across the dim walls. Red grapes and cut pomegranates are piled in bowls like molehills, off a low placed table. Glistening like rubies.

You see men half undressed, aswell as women. Bodies glisten with chains and jewels. Looped down manly naked shoulder blades. Coral red beads or orange silk shawls draped over bared breasts. Laughter and jasmine clots the air, along with music threading its notes from somewhere hidden.

Everywhere you look; the choice is endless. Dark haired man. Petite white haired woman with skin so beautifully dark it drank the light. Tall pale redhead. Paler than moon. Strong tan thighs. Arms bulging with hair and muscle. Curvy hips. You can scarce breathe with the sensuality of it all.

One woman breaks from her silk draped doorway. Cocks a hip. Flaunts herself in your path as easy as a summer breeze.

She’s barefoot. Ankles ringed in gold bangles. Her hair raven black, down to her waist. Eyes were so green it was striking. She’s naked with a mulberry brocade robe lapping open at her sides. Her nipples flash in the light. Perked and pierced with gold.

She sizes you up with a flick of her lashes. Goblet in one hand. Tilting her head cool and easy. Taking the measure of your noble posture and regal clothes.

“May I help you, precious?” She purrs. Accent landing somewhere between Tyrosh and Myr.

You look at her. Wet your lips. She looks like a rippling pantheress made flesh. It made you seize up.

“I’m looking for- someone.”

“We have many someone’s here.” She tells you plain. Eyes narrowing to see if you were worthy of her time.

“I need uh… A man.”

She smiles down at you. Eyes dipping low. Trying to make you out under all that swathing velvet. Pretty. Veiled. Posture stiff. Noble blood.

“Any particular sort?”

She sweeps her arm across the room. “We have big, slim, short, tall. Well-hung. Average. Pretty men. Handsome men. I have some who want bruises and punishment. And some who’ll beg and whine for your cunt and your pleasure. Name your price and your type. Precious.”

You reach in your cloak. Withdraw a sizeable pouch. The stags within clink. Her grin glistens with red wine and hunger.

“No expense spared.” You state. Hopeful.

She looks voracious.

“Hmm for that? You get my top boys. I have someone very good. A little older. But very wild. Dark haired devil. He’s one of my best. Will tongue fuck you to tears, and pound you like a bull til dawn.”

“I just want someone…” the words turn to sand in your tongue. You swallow and it clicks down your throat.

“I want kind. Someone soft. Who’ll treat me gently. Not see me as something to use up, and discard.”

Saying it hurt more than you thought. Tears threaten your eyes again.

Her grin curls on one side. “I understand. Precious. Do you care about his… size?” She arched a brow.

You shrug modestly. Clinging your hands together. “I suppose not.”

She chuckles. It’s warm as drizzled honey.

“Come. I have just the man for you.”

The room she leads you too is empty. But the evidence of whose been before you makes you sweat under your dress. Rumpled bed. Perfume in the air like a living ghost.

“Wait here. Precious. My man will be with you shortly. I’m sure you’ll enjoy him.” She closes the door with her laugh sliding in the gap. Your coin in her hand.

You stand at the threshold. Moving in slow like you’d be told off for lingering.

This room was bigger that that red den downstairs. The walls no less oppressive. Slaked in russets and oranges. A palatial bed takes up the centre of the room. Purple sheer curtains hide the rumpled, crushed blankets. Copper silk bolsters and blue linens. Feather mattress no doubt.

Wine and more fresh fruit lay to one side. A carafe of red. A golden platter of honey drenched, sticky figs lay in a circle. The house pulses sound around you. Moans of all kinds bat at the doors. The creak of a bed repeatedly hitting a wall.

You spy the window. Covered with a misty blue curtain and a patterned wood shutter. Pinpricks of light burst across the cloth like freckles. You draw it aside. Feel the cool night air sighing in, brushing along your skin like a lover-

“My lady.” Comes a honeyed dulcet from behind you. Accent soft at the edges like it’s been sanded round.

You spin. Caught. A gasp leaving your lips. And when you see the man filling the doorway; your mouth stays hung open like a sea cave.

He wasn’t just man. He was entirely too much, man.

He was four heads taller than you at the least. Wide shoulders like a sturdy Ox. all muscle and rippling with power. But softened in places. A giving pouch of a stomach. Healthy cover of large pecs. Thighs that look as solid as ancient tree trunks in the godswood.

He’s wearing a navy robe. Thin gauze. His pale skin shimmers under the chiffon cloth. He’s recently bathed. Oil seeps a rich, thick scent off him. Verdant vertiver and cedar.

His body was like carved marble, but his face is where you get stuck.

He even looks kind.

Eyes blue as the narrow sea from your bedroom window. A noble jaw. Fine blade of a nose. Hair worn long to his shoulders. Copper-blond in the dim light. A smile that was rugged and warm, white teeth imperfect and a little crooked. But it added to his rough hewn charm.

His smile quirks at the corner with catching you off-guard. “Apologies. Didn’t want to startle you.”

You fidget with your hands. “Forgive me. I’m not usually one for being skittish, but I’m not used to-“

You turn to the room. Making a broad gesture to that truly, huge slab of a bed. Incense trails a sickly smoky path up into the corner of the ceiling. Candle flames snap on every surface. Moans skate across the walls from other rooms. Some high and violent shouts. Others more grunting and low.

You suddenly note how many large mirrors frame the walls. Inbetween the blue tapestries of writhing bodies and naked figures. It makes those rope knots in your stomach tug again. This entire place is made to sell and shout about sex. In a way you’ve been taught was not proper.

He smiles. A breathy laugh. He finishes your words for you.

“But you don’t frequent whore houses very often. That’s alright.” He soothes.

Coming in properly. Gently shutting the door behind him. Blocking out everything else. Tapering your time and attention down to him.

“I may be big, but I promise you I’m not a brute. Why don’t we have some wine. My lady- if you’d like.” He urges. Gentle as if he was calming a wild, thrashing horse.

“Very much. Yes. Please.” You swallow. Noticing your dry mouth and throat.

You flicker a weak smile his way. Wanting to curse yourself for how foolish you’re appearing.

You watch him move to the side. The low table where the fruit is. A wall of his fragrance smacks you as he moves past. Woodsy and fresh green. Like new sapling oak trees.

He pours you both a cup of wine. The goblets cold to the touch. Carved of intricate metal. A soft silence descends as you both sip. Flood sweet, heady red on your tongues.

He seats himself on the bed. You remain stood. He casually lets his eyes find you. Still garbed up like you were expecting to catch a chill.

“It’s warm in here. You can loosen your cloak if you like. No rush though if you’re not ready. Take all the time with me you need.”

“Don’t imagine your mistress would be too pleased with me taking up your whole night.”

You deprecate yourself. Looking to the expensive rugs on the floor cause you can’t believe how soft his eyes are.

“You paid good coin for me. I’ll not see you dissatisfied. She wouldn’t care for that either. Our reputations here make her a rich, powerful woman. That relys on keeping our clients happy and safe. Unless they pay to feel otherwise.”

You look over at him. He’s so sincere. Blue eyes blazing at you.

You were rather warm. You’re sure for a trade that required naked skin, the rooms had to be kept a decent temperature.

You slip your fingers for the pearl clasp of your cloak. Let it fall from your shoulders. Shimmering velvet. Like waves falling down your body.

His eyes take you in. Slowly. Without making you feel less. Or dissected.

He sees more of the shape of your delightful figure under the plain cascade of silk. The bell sleeves were long and framed your slender arms and hands. It hugged your waist and flared at your hips.

The neckline just kissed your shoulders. The way mist draped the sea on cold mornings. There’s no overdone embroidery. No fripperies or fuss. Just silver at your wrists, throat, and fingers. A lariat necklace wedged with sapphires draped down your throat. Curls of patterns that seem like shells on the metal. More pearls clasped around the design. Draping off your small hands too.

You look like some soft, sacred thing, dredged with care out of the sea. Wrapped in clinging weeds and sand. Like a salt crusted pearl. A goddess reborn. A precious treasure tucked inside a shell. Something special.

You retake your goblet. Another inch bared. Slow progress.

“I’m not here to shame you into doing something if you’re scared. If you’ve changed your mind, you’ll have your coin back. Every one. And I’ll walk you to the door myself. My lady. No harm in it.”

You open your mouth. But no sound comes out.

An honest whore who won’t take your coin regardless- how refreshing.

The oddest feeling squirms within you. Unsettled and sharp. Something your tide-worthy bones can’t meld well with. Defeat.

You answer him in kind. You stand your wine down. Wet your dry lips. You cross to stand before him. Hands fussing with your pearl rings. “Can I be honest?”

“I encourage it. Yes.” He nods. Sweet as sugar, and so calming.

“It’s a betrayal that has led me to your door tonight. A humiliating hurt so deep I scarce know what to do with it. Still don’t. But all I know is, I am so sick and tired of being frustrated, and alone and feeling second choice. I wanted someone to look at me. And see someone worth looking at. Not to be glanced over.”

The words sting as they leave your tongue. Your courage torn to strips. It hits deep in your chest like an arrowhead. The truth. You are of no consequence. You are unloved.

You don’t want to be alone. Not again. Not tonight.

A sombre expression takes his face as he sips the wine.

“Your husband?” He checks when he lowers his cup. Voice dipping into a darker tone.

Your heart knocks into your ribs. “How did you-“

“Sweet thing. I’ve been in this business a long time. I know a lot more than you’d think. You’d be shocked how many wives we get come in here.”

“Don’t know whether to find that reassuring or awful.” You concede.

“I understand your reticence. You never thought you’d find yourself seeking a whore for the night.”

“I’m coming to learn that life deals us all sorts of unpleasant hands at times. I’m trying to make peace with that.” You tell him. “It’s not going very well.” You jape. Voice watery.

“Gods. Listen to me-“ you curse yourself. Hand pressing to your brow. “I pay for your services, and end up boring you to tears.”

Is it any wonder you’re alone. You soft, sea foam fool.

“I’m not bored.” He assures. Eyes melting into yours.

“Then that either makes you the kindest soul alive. Or an incredibly good liar.”

“I don’t lie.” He tilts his head at you. “Lying is a filthy sin.”

You smile. Urge yourself to walk over. Linger closer to him.

“Devout are you?” You check. Arms crossed over your belly.

“I think you’ll find lots of cries for gods to be found within these walls.” He flirts.

You start to smile. “I imagine so. The size of you…”

You let your eyes fall for the first time at his lap. Piles of fabric bunched there. Wrinkled blue gauzy cloth that did nothing to hide the sheer weight of the cock that rests against his thigh. He’s big everywhere.

“Don’t have to be shy. My lady. I can disrobe for you. All you need do is say the word.”

That snaps something in you. Breaks the brittle fraying rope of your patience. You lean over and cup one side of that handsome, strong face.

Then you sway down and slant your lips over his.

The kiss is hurried. Pushed on him. Yet he melts to it. Smile tracing yours.

When you pull away, startled by your own brazenness. Breathing against his lips. Dry and hot. He tastes like deep red wine. “Forgive me- I didn’t ask if you were allowed to uh, kiss.”

He smiles. Huge hand cupping your face. Strokes your hair out the way of your cheek. “You’re allowed to do whatever you like with me-“

“That’s dangerous.” You smile gently. He feel like hes won something seeing that.

“Yes it is.” He smiles back like sin. “May I touch you properly? Let me taste those pretty lips again.”

You’re dumbstruck. You nod.

His hand lands soft on your waist. Respectfully. Covers the whole dip of it. Feeling along the fine silk of your dress. The flare of hip. The skimming arch of a rib.

He rises slowly from the bed. Stands his wine down. Your hands splay to his chest. Gauzy chiffon and heat of him blossoming under your touch. Gold gems inlaid with blue. Glittering and laying over the hollow at the base of his throat. Chains so fine and dainty it looked like liquid gold poured over his pale skin.

One hand stays to your waist. The other dances soft patterns on the nape of your neck. Your curling hair cupped to his palm. He has to bend down to kiss you- but he finds the reward to be well worth the sacrifice in height.

“I never asked your name.” You whisper before his kiss landed. Mortified that the lightning strike of lust in seeing him has stripped you of all your good courtesy and sense.

“It’s Duncan. Sweetness.” He offers. Thumb swiping over the back of your neck.

“Duncan.” You whisper. Treating his name like prayer. Maybe he’ll make a devout of you too.

His mouth softly finds yours again. Puts his lips on yours so gently, it makes you sigh. He wraps you up in his big arms. Makes you see stars. Your tongue feels drunk and clumsy, falling against his.

Your heart sighs against your ribs. This is what being held and cherished truly felt like. To be wrapped in the arms of a lover, who treated you like a man who’d seen shore after years at sea. Someone who saw you. And didn’t dare look away-

The kiss turns intense. Teeth and passion. You let yourself arch to his arms. They band around you. You’ve never felt safer.

He held you the way the tide did when you swam in High Tide’s beaches as a child. Suspended and utterly caught. Nothing had ever held you as sweetly as this.

His arm is around your back. A solid band of muscle. You feel the heat of him even though your simple silk.

“Would you undo my laces.” You ask against his spit wet mouth. Hot warm lips searching for you when you pull back.

“Turn around.” He answers. Softer than sand.

You spin to him. You trust him. His hands graze your hips. Seeking upwards. Finding the small laces that ran down your neck. He deftly weaves them free. Gets you down to your stays and shift. The laces on your whalebone stays he also undoes. At your bidding.

His hands pause on the straps of your shift clasped off your shoulders when you’re down to that final layer. Breath coming fanned hot over your ear. “May I, my lady?”

“Yes.” You breathe. It hitched when you feel the linen open, falling down to your hips. He pushes it free. Big hot hands falling gently on your waist when he was done.

You moan when you feel his lips descend for your shoulder. Eyes closing and mouth open like you’re praying when he kisses the slender crook from neck to shoulder bone.

“I wish to look at you. Sweetness. Turn for me.”

You work up the bravery to spin back and stand before him. In naught but your skin and your jewels. The pearls and gems rest at your sternum. Hanging between your breasts.

Your hair he takes the careful time to shift and arrange off your shoulders, spilling it down your back. Looking at your eyes rather than your pebbled nipples, or what lay between your legs.

“You’re beautiful.” He hushes. Softly the words bloom between you. You could curl sated around those words forever from his gentle mouth.

You can’t recall the last time someone called you that.

You tuck your fingers at his chest. Just under the neckline of his own gown. He’s gazing at you with such heat in those eyes now you know what blue flame feels like. It’s jarring.

He smiles like he’s been waiting for you to ask this of him. Those big fingers undo the flimsy tie slung low about his waist. He shrugs the material off and down his shoulders. Drops it to the floor at his heels. The sheer enormity of those shoulders and that chest comes free.

He must have oiled from a bath. Because the sheer amount of heat and perfume rising from his skin makes you near dizzy.

You look at his muscular chest. Wide as a wall. Packed with muscle and a healthy layer of weight. Your fingertips cross down over his pectoral to his nipple. The wide flat disc a pale pink in the light. Freckles and dusky copper hair catches the light in a fine dusting. He sighs with delight at your hands on him.

“You are beautiful too. Not worth the insulting title of a whore. Duncan.” You tell him.

When your eyes sink to his ribs. His belly. And then below, your mouth really does drop. Something that could shame a horse hangs between his legs. A thick column of a cock. Ruddy and flushed. Resting against huge thighs.

No doubt about it. He was much larger than your husband. In a way that made your throat dry and your cunt clench.

“Flattery gets you all sorts of places with me.” He grins. Unashamed. Yet the slightest tinge of a blush takes his cheeks.

How sweet that is, a man who sins and fucks for a living. And he preens and blushes at your kind words. Capturing you in his hold. Palms skimming down your back. Over your hips to grab your ass.

“Come to the bed.” He poses it as a question. Not a certainty. “If you’re ready-“

You take the hand he offers. He walks you to it. Let’s you place yourself down on the covers. Where you sit, blooms up the scent of cotton. Warmed by sun and kissed with the oaky scent of his skin and sweat.

“It’s been some time. I-“ You do try and get the words out but they lodge in your neck like pebbles. “We haven’t. I haven’t been bedded, in some, many, months.”

He crouches before you. Brushes his fingers to your jaw. Tilts it up to make you look at him. Fingers mapping your skin like he was touching something sacred in a Sept.

He looked almost pained for you. Brows dipping in the middle in a frown. “None of that. I’m not taking you yet. We’ve got other things to do first.”

Your face is a pretty, confused picture. Your hand comes to circle at his huge, thick wrist. Eyes gleaming in the candle light like coins.

“First off. You’re going to cum on my tongue. Sweetness.” He promises like it’s nothing. “Because I never take a woman until I’ve made her cum at least once. That is my only rule.”

It tips your stomach upside down and inside out to hear the words spoken so plainly. “Oh.”

“Only if it pleases. My lady.” He soothes. Happily. “Lay on your back for me.”

You kiss him again. Hands digging fingers in his neck. Lips joined again. He tips you back. Hand spread huge on your ribs. Your spine meets the soft cottons and silks rumpled below you. All you can focus on is the blissful, warm tenderness of his mouth.

Your arms come up to cross at his neck. Resting at his shoulders. His body is as massive and as heavy as he appears. But he’s keeping his weight off you. Kissing your lips numb with delicate skill. Tongue tangled with your own.

His hand moves - slow as honey. Melts across your stomach. Down your navel. Taking great care to pet through the thatch of curls at your cunt.

You breathe shakily into his lips when his fingertips drape a little lower. Catching the wetness of your pussy.

“Can you spread your thighs- I’ll need the room.” He urges.

You do as he says. Watching as he lowers his mouth to your neck again. To suck wet spots under your ear that turn into wet shapes. He trails his nose over your skin.

“You smell divine.” He mumbles. “Heavenly. Like the sea has worked its way into your skin.”

It made him think of a windswept shore. Dune grass ruffled in the breeze. Air alive with the scent of salt, and a mineral rich ocean, abutted with rugged cliffs.

You close your eyes and let yourself fully get lost in the sensation of his mouth closing over your nipple. The warm strike of his tongue that makes your hips twitch and your body arch to him.

He lavishes attention on your breasts. Until they feel aching. Tumbling into his mouth and every suck undoes more of your reticence. By the time he makes it to your belly. Nose grazing your stomach. Your fingers are twisted deep in that copper hair.

Your legs lay wide and open for him. His hands frame your thighs. Nipples aching and wet exposed to the smoky jasmine air.

“Anyone ever eaten your cunt before, sweetness?” He seeks.

You hold his gaze. “No.” You feel shame wash your cheeks and chest.

“Then I’m glad to be your first. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve the honour of such a perfect cunt as this.” He tilts his head looking down as two fingertips push through the wetness that seeps from you.

His fingers circle your clit. A little swirl that pressed back into your body. It made you groan. Sudden and sharp- eyes threatening to roll back.

“You’ve touched yourself I take it?”

“Sometimes.” You tell.

Because you had. On nights when your cold empty bed mocked you. When that ache cradled between your hip bones started to drive you mad. When you needed something stronger than wine to take the edge off. Then. You did sink your fingers between your legs and try to place yourself elsewhere.

Pain was more your lot than pleasure. When you had to hear the offending grunts and wet slaps of your husband roughly using one of the maids, out in the shadowed alcoves when he thought you were long abed. Her squawks twinned with his hog-like sounds. Then his footsteps when he walks right past your door groaning in satisfaction. Belt buckle jangling.

The silence afterwards made a fool of you. The slam of his bedchamber door. You fell asleep tear stained and empty more often than you ever did wet and truly sated.

“Let me get rid of those pesky fears. Sweetness. I can’t wait to bury my tongue in you any longer.”

He lays his mouth to your cunt. Broad, long strokes with the flat of his tongue to spread you open. Delves his tongue right inside you as you cry above him.

He doesn’t hesitate. He gets his face right into your pussy. Everything gets involved. Chin. Lips. Cheeks. No place untouched.

You can’t help it. You arch. You whine his name so loud you’re sure it makes it though the walls. Sweat builds on your brow and at the dip of your lower back. All you can feel is his wet mouth as he slurps. You near nothing but the laps and sucks as he makes vivid, fierce love to your cunt with his tongue.

You rut your hips. Unintentionally sliding yourself across his lips. He lets you. He knows you need to find your rhythm. Smiles when he sees how you’re throwing your head back. Hand a vice in his long soft hair already. Strands viced like copper wheat in your fingers.

“Oh, Duncan-“ You sigh. When his lips close in a suck over your clit, you lose your mind. Eyes flick back in your skull. Body limp. He directs your hips with his hands. Takes them both and smears his mouth to you again and again. Groaning in satisfaction.

He lashes his tongue. He swirls. He suckles and licks. A heady pulse begins to push up in your lower stomach. Bliss unfurls through you in incredible waves. Each one batters through and leaves you stunned. One hand slides up your body and tests with holding one of your breasts as he feasts down below. You whimper with the sensation. He catches your nipple with clever swipe of his thumb.

He presses one thigh to the bed. Baring you open wider as the pleasure reaches such an intense peak you hardly know what to do. You want to shuffle away because it’s too much. The threatening edge of it is so great. You feel it will swallow you whole - just like he is.

The pleasure crests and breaks. You cum with his tongue struck deep in you, his nose pressing your clit. Watching up your body as you writhed. Slick with sweat. Your release throbbing, fluttering around the push of his tongue as you descend from the high of your orgasm.

You pant hard to catch your breath. Tits swelling and falling on your heaving chest. Eyes glazed. Mouth loose and open. His name dried on your tongue in bliss.

He licks his lips. Takes his face out from your pussy. Soothingly drags a thumb over one hipbone. “You looked like you needed that.” He decided cleverly.

You can scarce unstick your tongue from your mouth to answer. “I- gods.”

“Don’t be sinning on me now.” He teases. Pressing an indulgent kiss to your stomach. Hovering over you still.

You look up. Taking in his state. He looks composed and sweetly serene. Even with your wetness shining well over his mouth and cheeks. When you drop your eyes, you see the huge state of him. Leaking and hard. Flushed bright red at the head. Clear fluid sliding down in trails to his heavy sac.

You swallow. “Will you- fuck me?”

“I’ve an idea.” He insists.

He climbs back and sits up on the edge of bed. Encourages you to climb in his lap. His cock looks insultingly big thrusted up straight and true from his groin.

He takes your hand and moves you to be closer. Gets your waist ringed in his big hands. Settles you over him. You whine when his cock brushes your pussy. You answer with a needy clench. Knowing exactly where you next need him.

He cups under your jaw. Thumb along your jawline. Sweat wicking along his skin and yours. Melting together. Your breasts pushed to his chest.

“Will you have me like this? Some prefer to be on their hands and knees. Safer not to look. Easier to take when you can’t fret over how big I am.”

“Like this. Please-“ your hands are on his cheeks. In his hair.

You can’t bear to have him anywhere but right here with you. The closeness enough to intoxicate. His scent. His sweat. The sear of his hot skin. Your arms wind around his neck. Thighs spread wide enough to hurt, over his.

“We go at this slowly.” He tells. “I don’t want to hurt you. You keep eyes on me. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Grabbing his heavy cock at the base. He gets you placed over it. Up on your knees. Stabbing kneecaps into the soft sheets.

“There you go, sweetness.” He breathes. Watching your mouth drop open.

He breaches you slowly as promised. Your cunt splitting over the thick girth. He lowers you gently. Hands vicing your. Elbows braced on his sweaty shoulders. His hands all over you.

He breathes, open mouthed at the feel of your clamping down on him. Made his eyes flutter. Taking in the pretty sight of you in his lap, pussy dripping like heaven down his cock. Ass meeting the muscled columns of his thighs. He feels how tensed you are.

“Easy.” He slides his mouth to yours. Takes your mind completely with a kiss that stuns. Sinks you lower and lower down on him.

You cry out when you finally settle fully onto him. Cunt pulsing so tight it makes him choke. Gods, you were tight. Warm and grabbing him tight like wet silk. He knows it can be a lot after a while without this kind of penetration.

You push your forehead to his. Moaning into his lips when his cockhead curves a spot inside that made you come alive. More alive than you had been in months. You buck in his hold. He’s there to keep you steady.

“There it is. My sweet. That’s the spot I’m going to fuck. It’s gonna make you cry out for me. Again and again.” He promises.

“So good. Fuck. So much-“ you mumble. Panting. Love drunk against his lips. Your hips ache from the strain already. But you’d sooner die than pull off him.

He scoops his fingers under your ass. Grabs you and guides the pace. Drops and lifts you off his cock in a pattern that gets you gasping. Clit grinding on the downstroke against the wiry bush of curls at the base of him. He likes how he can feel you pulse over him.

You raise up a little on your knees. Desperate to keep the pace he’s set. Breasts starting to bounce. Hands digging for his shoulders. Nails punched with his sweat.

The jewels at his throat shimmer and wink at you. He lowers loses his mouth in your bouncing tits. Licks the sweat and salt of the sea off you. You whine. Pitchy and high.

Face screwed up in sheer pleasure. Mouth dropped wide. He takes the opportunity to shove his tongue into your mouth. Suck at your own tongue and swallow a moan. Eat it off you.

You hum his name. Desperately cupping his face. Right there in the moment with him. Pleasure biting at your heels. Chasing and rocking the same obliterating goal. Your teeth meet messily in the fierce kiss.

His hips starts to push to yours. Riding together.

“Cum for me sweetness. Let go. Take what he never gives you. Take every bit and know you deserve it. Gorgeous girl.” He soothes.

Kissing his way to your ear. Chin lost in your neck. Hand up your back as you wrap yourselves in the other like a warm cloak.

Your eyes tremble with tears. “Duncan.” The sheer weight of the admission sinking into your skin. You tremble in his hold like a leaf.

“I’m right here.” He whispers. Lips searching for yours. Big hand cupping the back of your neck. Hair sticking to his sweaty palm. “Focus on me. Let it all melt away.” He urges.

He takes the lead to get you there. Drills his hips up into you with savage rhythm to punch his cock to you again and again. A bruising pace. Yet, it’s exactly what you need. What you’ve needed for months. He fucks the moans right out your mouth and into his.

Your whines climb higher and higher. Voice raw and hoarse. His name entwined with the gods. Nails in his scalp. Head tipped back to the heavens.

He fucks you hard and fast enough to summon a shout from your mouth. The enormity of the feelings moving through you is terrifying. It starts in your lower back. Sweeps for your calves. Up your thighs. Bursts open in your stomach and takes the rest of you sweeping with it. You shake. You cry. You can’t believe how right it feels.

You sag to his body. Let him use you however he needs. Clutching on the for the ride as the shocks and crests bleed into perfect bliss. Shattering on the rocks like a wave. Dispersing to the sea again when it’s done.

Your hand sinks to the damp hair at the back of his neck. Fingers clutching. He spills to you. Deep and hard with his hips jerking and twitching to your own.

You feel wickedly delighted by feeling the hot, steady splash of him inside you. It feels good. Like you’ve rectified a wrong gone long unpunished. The realisation of it makes a fierce thrum of passion plough through your chest.

He pants and cradles you to his lap. Fingers dimpling into your ass. Sweat beading his brow as you writhe and feed each other the high with the last little shocks of climax. Rutting and rubbing hot, fevered skin.

You delight in seeing a blush climbing its way uo his neck and chest. Settling at the base of that gold necklace of his. Your release slicks you together where your joined. You drip even more now.

You sigh for him. High and airy. Happy.

“You are divine.” You rasp. You feel like you near bit your tongue in half when you came.

He breathes a satisfied smile. Cheeks red hot. Contrasting to his gold red hair. “As are you.”

He traps you into a lippy, slow kiss. Tasting of the musk of you, wine and sweat. “That husband of yours is a fucking fool. Sweetness.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You agree entirely. Instead, drag your fingers down the thatch of slight hair at his chest. Golden fuzz in the light. His sweat sinks into your fingertips.

The haze slips away. Like a sea breeze twisting through your fingers. You have to let it pass- clammy coolness takes your skin. Now you must redress, and leave his embrace.

He makes a face as you pull back from his chest. Take your hands off him. Shift in his lap. Softening cock feeling big inside you still.

“You probably have a whole queue of other clients to see. I should go-“ you decide softly.

“You don’t get to leave that easy. Stay a minute. Come back to yourself. Have some more wine and then find your clothes. Besides. I have some tea for you to take. To ensure no, accidents occur.” He strokes his thumb across your chin.

His huge paw of a hand comes up to stroke the back of your sweat-licked hair. He leans to presses a warm kiss to your brow. Gently helps you manoeuvre off him, on legs that shake and knock like a newborn fawn.

He sets you back on the covers. Twists to find his robe. Ties it loosely around his body again. But it honestly, it is no good. Now you know how delicious that body is, your eyes roam every inch as he crosses to the far side.

Past the huge copper bathing tub that could seat five. You think you can guess as to why. He could comfortably host an orgy in these rooms. The bed could sleep ten if needed. You watch his wide back, he pours something into a wooden cup. It steams and swirls.

You’re clutching the bedsheets to your cooling skin when he comes back. Raking your fingers through all the knots in your wild hair.

He passes you the cup. “Drink all of it. And another pouch for you to take home, to have tomorrow. Just to be sure.” He winks at you.

You sip the tea. It’s almost minty and sharply herbal. Not unpleasant. But you’d rather have more wine. He knows. Smiles as he passes you your cup of wine to wash it down with when you’re done. A better taste left on your tongue.

He cleans you when you rise from the bed. On one knee with a warm wet cloth that smelt like roses. Taking the salty leak of his spend from between your legs. Naughtily sinks his face in and kisses your curly mound when he’s done. Looking up at you with a wide smile when you gasp.

He rises to full height. Helps you pull on your clothes with plenty of kisses dropped on your naked skin. Some to make you squirm. Others make you moan. All of his attentiveness makes you smile.

Moneys worth and then some. He was worth his weight in gold.

You find a purpling bruise on the crook of his neck. Vicious purple. Marked with the edging of teeth. “I apologise.” You frown as you find it. “I didn’t realise I’d been so rough with you.”

It makes him smirk. “No. No. Sweetness. That wasn’t you. Don’t worry. That was-

He’s just helping loop your dress up over your hips, when the door swings open with a heady whine. It makes you jump. Shying away. The illusion of the peaceful utopia you’d built together, exposed.

It makes Duncan frown. Draws you into his arms. Keeps you out of sight of the door. With the shield of his own body. His jaw grits. He’s ready to snap in anger at whoever it was. “Close the door won’t you. For fucks sake-“

You brave a glimpse over your shoulder. Spy the man whose filling the doorway like he could woo the wooden frame it’s in.

From the looks of him; you believe every inch of that.

“Apologies lover. Figured you’d be finished by now. Heard you had a sweet morsel in here.” Comes the low drawl of a voice, that only knows how to seduce.

Deep and playful. The way a panthers tail curls when it walks. Easy seductive grace. That’s what this dark man made you think of;

He’s shorter than Duncan - but that’s not a surprise. There’s not many men that could match his height. But he’s tall and still broad enough to swoon at.

His skin is gloriously tanned. Hair a dark cloud of raven-silver on his head. You would say halo, but the devilish nature of his smile entirely belied any saintly imagery.

There are big orange gems laid in gold, circling over his neck. And naked chest. Pearls too. Draped across his shoulders like he’s bathed in the stars. He’s covered in jewels and gold, that click and rock when he moves. Gold thick cuffs on his wrists. Bangles. Earrings dangle to his shoulders. One a fat purple gem shaped like a teardrop. The other is a pearl the size of an olive.

Hoops punched through the tops of his ears. More cuffed around his bulging upper arms. His fingers drip in rings too. Every thick one adorned. Gems and jewels thrown across every inch of his skin, like he’s a treasure in his own right.

Your mouth dried out when you see he also has gold rings forming little circles at his nipples. A chain webs across and over his shoulders joining them together. It jangles when he moved.

He’s holding a wine glass down by his thigh. Near empty. His chest hair is matted and grazed with sweat. Scratches are raked over his shoulders. Punctured in his sides. He looks like he’s been thoroughly, viciously mauled, and laughed right through every second.

A golden cloth, like the heart of the sun, similar in thin nature to dunks gown, is tied around his hipbones. Dipping scandalously low. A pelt of dark hair carpets his chest. Bolted with silver and ink. That same colouring leads in a happy trail down his belly below where the fabric ends.

He has red scratches scored on his chest. Neck covered in mouth shaped bruises like red and black love hearts on his skin.

His eyes are dark, glittering. Black as beetles wings. And they settle on the sight of you circled in Duncan’s arms, with predatory intensity. His grin slopes wider across those kiss-bruised lips.

“My, my. Aren’t you a delectable one.” He leers.

Smoothly invites himself in and prowls to where you’re stood. Smoothing your dress over your shoulders again. Even clothed, his grin makes you feel utterly naked.

You come to realise, this man is all mouth. He runs loudly. As loudly as the rest of him, which is screaming with the weight of shiny jewels and gold.

“Usually I don’t much care who takes up their time with my husband. But I’m sorry to have missed you...”

That word catches you upside the head like an arrow. Husband.

“Husband?” You twist in Duncan’s arms. Peering up at him. Eyes wide.

Duncan nods. Smiling down at you. “You didn’t give me that bruise. Sweetness. That was this one-“ he jerks his head to the other man.

“As you can see, he’s got quite a mouth on him.”

He eyes over at the other man with daggers. “Do you have to be so coarse? Lyonel? Some days I swear. You behave like the arse end of a mule.”

The man blows Duncan a kiss. Leans up and seals the deal. Pecks a lippy kiss on the side of his face. Enough to make him wash pink with a blush.

“Your mule. Lover. But hung like a fucking stallion might I add.” He sticks his tongue though his teeth and grins. Catches your eye. Sneaks his hand down to pinch at Dunk’s ass.

Duncan’s huge hands slip your cloak back up your shoulders. Fastens the pearl clasp together. He brushed a hand lovingly over the back of your hair.

“See you to the door, sweetness?” Duncan asks.

“Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll be fine.” You insist.

Lyonel scans you from head to toe. Oh yes. Your cheeks blazing with the glimmer of sweat. Glistening with joy, like a woman whose been properly, thoroughly, pounded. By the monster cock he knows is hanging between his husbands legs.

Lyonel catches your hand before you can slink away. Reels you in with it. Folds your cloak out his path. Leans down and kisses your knuckles. Looks deep into your eyes after with a spine-melting grin.

“Look at you. Gods. You’re fucking delectable. Ask for me next time. Won’t you?” He buoys his brows at you.

You don’t know how to look away. He’s hypnotising.

You swallow. Nervous. Withering under his intense gaze. “What makes you think I’m coming back?” You fluster.

He chuckles. Grin a bright flash. It’s the most dark and delicious sound you’ve ever heard.

“Trust me. Not many like my Duncan. Pet. You’ll be back.” He winks.

LYONELS PART IS NEXT—

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 @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 @goregal22-blog @stainlesssteelbedframe @ghostlybfgf @fayefayefay @cats-n-batss @silkaurum @mags-writes @targlocket @ghostlybfgf @sintaera @qardasngan

You sit to your looking glass. Smoothing fragrant oil into your hands as your maid tends to calmly brushing your hair with a silver comb.

The cavernous halls below, were very occupied, being assaulted by the noise of Lyonel’s feast. To toast the groom. To rampage, gorge, drink til death, on his last night of bachelordom.

Half the Stormlands were in unruly residence. Every minor Lord, every vassal summoned to break bread at the grand wedding. Lyonel has demanded gifts, baubles, and attendance on pain of gelding or drowning first borns.

They were in fact, roaring so ear-splittingly loud at the ceiling tiles, you suspect they’ll fall down soon. Or crumble of their own accord out of sheer terror of the mere uproar.

Your dress hangs across the room. Shining, hulking, waiting in the far corner like a wheat gold omen. A warm and all too glad one. Of course it keeps catching your eye.

It took near two months to sew. Embroidered with stags, and bolts of lightning, and other prancing, rolling stems flora and fauna on the heavy silk. Sequins and beads wrapped your bodice and skirts like glittering armour. It falls just off your shoulders. Long bell sleeves sweep the floors. Your neck will radiate gold and gems enough to blind all seven kingdoms; Every inch a gold-studded, Baratheon bride.

Your ears catch on the tune of one of the bawdier folk songs - one involving a bear and a maiden fair, as the chorus hammered on to the beat of the drums and stomping feet.

They were having a jolly time. Halls laden with company and many, many women and men. Inundated with painted whores, platters upon platters of food. And enough wine to drown all of Dorne twice over.

You shake your head. Smiling. Sat in your nightgown. The pallid see-through one that flowed over your body like spilled cream. Thick and warm.

You peer up to see your maids struggling to hide their smiles. Biting the corners of their lips to hide grins.

“Do you think anyone will get any rest with that unholy racket?” You enquire. Merrily.

“It’s certainly. Lively…” Mariel, your maid, gets out gently. Never one to fire out a bad word. Oftentimes you wonder if she could ever say boo to a mouse if prevoked.

“Stormlanders. Mariel. And at the heart of them, is their Lord who I’m sure will not lay his head down to rest til well beyond dawn. Maybe not even then.”

“He mustn’t tire himself for the morrow. My lady. It’s a big day.”

You tilt your head. Kindly. Finish rubbing gardenia oil into your hands.

“Mustn’t isn’t a word that appears in Lyonel’s vocabulary. Certainly not one he gives any stock too.”

“I think you are going to have a spirited marriage. My lady.” Exclaims Bertha, with a smile. From where she’s bent at the waist at the table, laying out your jewels on velvet cloths for the morn.

A thunderous chorus erupts below. Men yelling or possibly singing at the top of their lungs. The end of a song. And another begins. You catch both their eyes and laugh.

“I think mayhap you’re right.” You answer blithely. Listening to the hum of the violins. The marching bang of the drums.

“Are you nervous about the morrow my lady? My mother says all ladies have cold feet on their wedding night. She says it is usual. And that the only cure is for the bride to put a penny in her slipper. To pay off the evil spirits.” Mariel tells wisely.

You smile at her fretting. Turn around and reach for her hand gently.

“My feet are perfectly temperate. I thank you though.”

She seems relieved to hear so cross your lips.

“Anything else you need my lady?” Mariel seeks. Laying down your brush.

“I am contented. I have my dinner tray and a book. And hopefully when those rowdy drunkards downstairs settle into a stupor, I will have some peace to sleep, too.” You tell.

They nod. Bob a curtsey. Capped heads bowing. “Goodnight my lady. We’ll be back to wake you.”

You beam back. “Goodnight.” Hair sliding over your shoulder.

The door clicks loudly in the latch. And you are left alone. Save for the distant spin of the flames in the hearth. And despite the storm that riots above and below you, a new serenity lulls.

You cross to the window. Peering out into the gathering dim. Watching the spray of the sea. The churn of the wind. You like to think your wedding day will be accompanied by a storm. It seems most appropriate - to start as you mean to go on.

You settle to eat your modest tray of food. Soup. Cheeses, wine, grapes and some bread. Reading as you ate.

To stifle the cold, you slip into your bed. Get warming under the sheets. Book to hand.

There comes a syrup-slow knock on your door.

In the gap under it you see a shadow chopping up the light. You untangle yourself from the blanket, and slip out of bed and go to it.

“Any lovers you’re hiding in there, Lady Dondarrion, better make themselves scarce.” He speaks through the closed door at a thunderous level that is too Lyonel to ever be considered a whisper. Enough to bring a smile to your face.

Open the door a tiny crack. Letting the whine of its opening settle between you.

“The very well hung Dornishman jumped out the window. And the Lannister is hiding in the armoire.”

“Ugh.” he scoffs. “Lannister? really?”

“I was dazzled by the powerful lion. All that golden hair. Promised me riches and the finest rooms of Casterly rock overlooking the sunset sea.” You tease longingly.

“You’d tire of a blonde lion cunt in ten minutes.” He supposes.

“I don’t know. Maybe the gold jewels he’d lavish on me would be worth it.”

“Open this door properly so I can fucking kiss you.”

“I’m not allowed to see you before the wedding. It’s bad luck to see your bride on her wedding night.”

You can hear the salacious smirk. He lays his hands either side of the doorframe you can hear the clack of his rings on the wood. He speaks like it’s a challenge-

“You truly think I’m going to wait til then”

“Lyonel. It’s what honour demands.” You chide.

“Fuck fucking honour.” He leans closer to the gap. “Woman you’d better come out here or I’m coming in. And I will turn this door to splinters if you don’t let me.”

Never keep a stag from his prize doe.

But you do move nearer the door. You pull your gown from the chair where Mariel left it for the morning. You pull it around yourself and tie the purple sash around your middle in a knot. He can hear the glide of silk. Makes his jaw clench imagining the skin it’s covering. Torture. Sheer torture.

“I’m in my nightgown. What if someone should see…” You smile. Goading his temper.

“Then I’ll throw them into the fucking sea.” He threatens casually.

“And what if we’re bringing bad luck down on our heads for the nuptials. Suppose down the morrow I fall down the stairs. Or spill wine down my dress. Or you decide to elope with one of those painted whores downstairs….” You rattle off.

You hear the clunk of him butting his forehead to the door.

“Suppose someone catches you sneaking in….They might lay claim to a vicious rumour that I’m not virtuous. Allowing a man into my chambers at night.”

“At this rate. Understand me. I will break this door down and won’t let you leave on the morrow to marry me. I’ll be too busy being buried deep inside you making you see stars. They’ll have to come and bless us and marry us in that fucking bed.”

“How novel. Bedding ceremony and a marriage all in one. Didn’t realise you were Dothraki. I hasten to add the cloak bit may prove tricky if I’m on my back…” you suppose.

“For fucks sake. Have some mercy on your long suffering husband and open the door.” He hisses into the gap. Body crowding right up to it.

You do. Appear in the gap. Brows raised. “Yes, my stag?” You blink at him all innocence and carefree.

He storms the door open the rest of the way. Bodily crowds you back into the doorframe. Hands gripping instantly for your hips. Doorframe jamming into your spine. His lips on yours so fast it made your head ache. Hungry mouth devouring yours. All teeth and lips and the red taste of the wine he’d been drinking.

He kissed you like he’d never see you again. Kisses you like you weren’t soon to be his.

Chasing the pull of your mouth where your head tilted. His body pressed into yours. All hard leather and broad strong man. His tongue twirled to yours. Sought out your mouth with ferocity. Left you sagging against the doorway when he released you enough to let you breathe again.

By which time your fingers were tangled in the nape of his neck. Grasping for life at the curls. Nails scraping his skin in a way that made him smirk - and harden in his breeches.

You sigh against his mouth. “Careful. You kiss a woman like that. You’ll ruin her for all others.”

“Oh don’t worry. I fully intend to ruin you.” He nudges his nose to the end of yours. Smiling like a dazed fool.

“I’ve thought of nothing else for weeks. Ruining you on the bed. On all fours. Up against the window. In front of the fireplace on the pelts. Fast. Rough. And then slower, softer. Deeper. When we’re both half delirious from too much pleasure and not nearly enough sleep.” He adds. Hands smoothing over the curves of your hips that fit his hands so nicely.

“Sounds perfectly exhausting.” You smirk. But you can’t help the way your stomach births into a hot wild jungle of butterflies at the mere hint of it.

“I’m not letting you out of bed for a week. All you’re going to see are the bedsheets or the canopy ceiling.”

You cup his face. The other hand still plunged into those curls. “Aren’t you missing a terribly raucous party downstairs? Coming up here to kiss me…”

“I’ve had my fill of all the fun.” He decides with a shake of his head.

“Who are you and what have you done with my husband….” You tease. Whispering into a kiss that he happily, sloppily, returns.

“I tire of their company. I far more needed yours.” He moans.

“You sentimental fool.”

“I’m going to need you to put something on. Cloak and a dress. Gods be good. Something quick.”

You quirk a brow. “Not your usual request. And whatever for?”

The grin he gives you could be bottled sin. Something the High Septons warn about.

“Get dressed and you’ll soon find out.”

“Wait here.” You instruct. Crossing to your armoire. He watches the way the fires light casts copper down your legs. The seethrough nature of the back of it meant he could see from your shoulderblades, right down your spine to that perfect ass.

“The Lannister can help me with my dress lacings.” You jape cleverly.

He’s already in. Shutting the door with his back pressed to it. “Over my dead bones.”

He turns out to be an enormous hindrance with wandering hands. His mouth buried into your neck, goatee scuffing your skin, as you try and stuff yourself into stockings and a dark mulberry dress. A simple one. No fuss or frills. Simply cut. A neckline that means you can still see your shift under. Sleeves that billow at your elbows and tighten again at your wrists.

“There.” You exclaim as you grab your cloak off the top of the trunk. A deep blue. One that matches the colour of the churning grey sea out your window.

“What shall I do with my hair?” You seek. Eyeing the box of pins on your vanity. Your hands with it are clumsy. But you can make do. Not as good as Mariel. She was excellent with hair.

“Leave it unbound. I like it wild.” He winks. Leaning over to clasp his hand to the back of your head. Hair bouncing soft under his palm. It was half undone and feral looking loose when he first met you. He likes that it looked much the same now.

“Then I’m ready.” You state. As you fastened your cloak. Slippers laced on your feet.

He looks at you for a moment. Adoring. Admiring. Dangerous dark eyes brimming with so much. It seemed like pride and love entwined. The way he looked at you oft spoke more than words.

“Perfection.” He seals your hand in his.

He’s looking at you like you're not just a person, not just a bride, or even a woman. But his favorite story. The most captivating one. One he’s been treading over, rereading til he knows the shape of every letter and every word. Still he keeps finding new parts of you to fall deeply in love with

He strides across the room like a man off to conquer an army and toast his victories. You can all but hurry along keep up.

“May I enquire exactly what salacious ideas are running through your head?” You pry. Holding up your skirts and cloak.

“Storms coming.” He smirks. Wide and white. Eyes glow like black coals with the fire light.

That’s all the answer he gives.

“You are mad.” You tell him. Turning your head back to where he seats behind you. Barely hearing your shouts over the storm that’s breaking over your heads. The clouds had cracked open like a grey eggshell, tempests came pouring out.

Lyonel grins. Rain dripping off the blade of his nose. Urging Storm into a canter. Rain shimmers off the great black beast. Air coming snorted out his nose in silver swirls in the cold of the dusk.

Your hair is sticking to your neck and shoulders. Your cloak is near wet through already. Stuck to your skin. Your fingers are ten sticks of ice in your gloves.

Lightning and thunder stirring up on the horizon. Fluffing up the dark bloated clouds that heave more bad weather your way. The wind cuts like Valyrian steel. The rain hammers down in sheets of relentless drops that feel as hard as pearls pelting down on your heads.

The wind whips past your ears. Lyonel’s back is strong and steady against yours. Leather tunic with rivulets of rain streaking down his front. Stuck to your back with how drenched he is. The heat of him burns to your back through the rain and cold, skin hotter than a Dornish sun. As if the storm has set a flame in his very flesh.

He urges his horse round the headland. Riding around the stubby rocky cliffs that surround Storms End. The sea raging away at the rocks below. White foam spat into the air from the cutting waves, like it was frothing with wrath that it couldn’t eat them. Couldn’t crush them down.

But this is the Storm Lands. Nothing is easy to crush and decimate here. The rocks would never crumble and the sea would never give in. Forever, one will butt against the other.

You wish you knew what sinful idea was running through his head.

He seemed seized by it. You do wonder why he is riding the pair of you to the middle of nowhere. Especially in such a howling gale as this.

Through sheets of rain, you struggle to make out the blur of lanterns ahead. If you squint, on the cliffs around where you’re headed, you can make out the apricot snip of a lantern cutting into the dark like an evil eye.

He pulls his destrier to one side when you come to a particular cliff side. Waves rise and kiss over the top. Spray and salt pushed your way. The plants on the cliffs ruffled, clipped and drenched. Little flowers clinging on with all their might.

He dismounts and holds the horse steady. Reaches back for you. Helps you slide down. Wet horseflesh and the scent of cold soil stirs around you. Tinged with the studding of salt coming off the sea.

You sink your feet into wet earth. Rain running down into your eyes. Skirts whipped back to your wet legs. Slippers utterly ruined already. Soggy feet telling you that.

Lyonel chucked Storm’s reins off to someone. Blinking through the deluge you see the stable hand boy holding a swaying lantern. The wiry one. Hair pasted oily down to his head with the weather.

“Mi’lord.” He touched his head in place of a hat. Squinting into the rain. He handed you off the lantern he held.

Lyonel sinks his hand into yours. Pulls you along. Lantern is barely a smudge of light that shows you the way. You try and hold your skirts out the mud as he tugs you along a woven path in the hills. Coming right to the edge. You could hear the roil and flash of the waves just below. Perilously close to the edge.

“You didn’t bring me here to throw me over the edge did you?” You tease. Walking close to him. Body brushing into his arm that clasped your hand.

Taking care to peer over not very far to the left, over the rocks. A long, long fall down into the murky black cauldron of swirling water.

His laugh flows back to you on the wind. Warm honey and brassy. “They’d spin tales of that one my love. The Lady Lightning plucked from the tower and dashed to the rocks on her wedding night. Never to be seen again.” He teases. Turning back to fix an impenetrable gaze on you.

“Now you’re scaring me.”

“Not much further.” Is the only thing he gives you. The only slither of any clue as to his plans.

“How much have you had to drink again-“ you check.

“Just enough.” Is his clever reply. Rain tamped curls keeping their shape. Shaking out drops in front of his eyes.

When he moves aside, moving from your path, you can see three more dark shapes stood clustered on the headland. The very outer lip of the cliff. Three more blurred smudges of light with lanterns these three people are holding.

Through rain streaked eyes, you make out a purple and cold clad figure. A wide bunch of a man hunched against the blowing winds. A gold tippet billowing like twitching swallows tail on his neck. A swinging incense holder bashing into his leg. His robes a deep sapphire blue. The same shade as the night churning around you.

A yellow capped maid with her skirts stuck to her calves. And one of Lyonel’s bannermen. Stood in his boiled leathers, leather bracers and yellow cloak. Dark hair glued in sticky rivulets down his forehead.

Two witnesses. Three - counting the stable lad. And a Septon.

Lyonel turns back to you when you slow your pace. Realisation stilling your feet. Your mouth gapes.

His intentions now crystal clear. Ironically, they strike you very much like the lightning that now flashes over Stormbreaker bay. A shocking sudden vein of white.

“Lyonel…” You sigh. So quiet the wind steals in and snatches it away.

You stop and look to him. And what a sight-

Eyes dark and dangerous as ever. Lightning from the distant sea thrashes in them. Caught in silver bolts. Dashing even in the way he stands. Hair a black pepper grey riot that melds so well with the mad, wild weather. He walks with the surety of step that tells you he’s had storms pelting rain on his back since he was born.

He holds you at arms length. Unsticks a splatted coil of dark hair from your cheek. Folds it back to the dark wet curtain of your hair.

Standing there, in the middle of a world that pelts and hammers its worst weather at you; and he looks so tender, it touches your heart in a pure, flaming arrow of yearning.

“Marry me. Now.” He pleads. Speaking with the iron surety as if he already knows you will.

“Fuck the people. Fuck the rites and passages of honour and all the rest of it. The tedium of ceremonies and the whole grand affair. All I need is this. To make you my wife under the eye of this storm, in the only way that counts.”

You are speechless. You can do naught but step close and cup his face. Cold skin to his hot bristled cheek. His arm comes up to clutch at your wrist.

“I love you. You utterly mad bastard.” You sigh through a laugh.

“Is that yes?” He checks.

You smile back. “Of course it fucking is.”

Only Lyonel Baratheon would have the mad brass balls to steal you from your rooms and marry you, on a cliff top, in a storm. The night before a wedding that nearly four hundred lords and ladies have come to attend. That he could steal you away for himself to make you his wife. The rest of the world be damned-

You sink him into a kiss. Tugging on the ends of his curls. Tasting rain on his lips. It slips over his nose and down into yours.

“Let us not waste a good storm.” You speak when you break from his lips. Smiling like your cheeks didn’t know any other shape.

He grins. Lightning sticks violently in it from over the bay. Your heart flutters in your ribs.

You walk over to the rain swept Septon and your poor shivering witnesses. Their poor, plain souls not made for storms. Not like you and him.

You face the celebrant. Lyonel smirks at him and nods. An impatient flurry of his hand ‘get on with it.’ You stand apart. Facing each other. Hands joined.

He steps and divests you of your gloves. The leather things stick on your skin as it’s revealed. When he tugs them off he throws them away over his shoulder to the wind like they’re confetti. It makes you laugh at his sheer, ridiculous, impatience.

The Septon brings out a white ribbon, encouraged your hands to clasp together. Your cold fingers over his sun bronzed skin. You feel the scars and calluses on his knuckles.

Dripped with rain. Skin cold. Lashed with wind. You’d have it no other way. You were both born in Storms. It made sense you’d be joined under one too.

He ties the ribbon around your hands gently.

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words.” He encourages. Voice half stolen by the gales.

Lyonel finds your eyes. And you his. Sinking into that private space where the world around you both may aswell melt away. Weather and rain soaking you to the bone, be damned.

“Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am hers, and she is mine, from this day, until the end of my days.” He smiles proudly. Listening intently as you repeat them.

“Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am his, and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days.” You beam. Fingers closing tighter over his.

The Septon waves his censur, grey smoke chokes in the trickle out the seven star gaps in the gold. It’s supposed to be waved near you. It never gets a chance. Smoke darts away as soon as it’s out.

“Now you may pledge…” He urges. Bowing his head. Blinking the rain out his eyes. Looking too timid to be out here. But most likely Lyonel paid through the nose to get him to agree to this.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love.” You repeat. Voices overlapping in the tune of the thunder and the rain.

You feel the huge hot spread of his free hand under your chin and jaw. Fingers spreading out wide. Your cold hand hooks into his tunic. Bunch your fingers in it.

He sweeps close and captures your lips to his. Tasting the rain off you. Cold and sharp and soothing your warm lips. Rain crying down both your foreheads and cheeks.

Lightning paints you both in a sudden shock of dove white from the horizon. Water melts between your mouths. Thunder drums and crashes overhead. Rumbling amongst the bloated, chowder thick clouds. As if the sea gods were toasting your union.

The angered lightning mourning the loss of its favoured lady, to the house of the Stag.

You tilt your head back. He stands too close to be proper. Your hand seeks his neck. Up into his curls. Pasted wet to his head. Tasting like rain and sweet wine. Your bound hands hang down. The ribbon crashing into the wind like a white branch. Searing bright in the dim.

When he pulls back, he cards the pad of his thumb down your jawbone. “Lady Baratheon.” He smirks. Rain dipped smug smile. Rippling down those laugh lines by his eyes.

Your smile creases. Cheeks bunching. Rain drops kissing down your temples. Settling there. Blending into your soaking hair.

“You couldn’t even wait til tomorrow could you?” You seek. Flattered and awed.

He laughs. Crowds into you again. Nose nudges to yours. That move he does when he can’t resist you. He pecks a kiss to you after.

“I couldn’t wait another hour. My storm.” He answers. Tucking you close. Hand on your thigh. Eyes struck into yours like he’d be flogged if he dared look away.

He laughs. Loud and true. Forehead to yours. Clutching you like the wind would dare rip you away if he ever let go. Thunder and lightning rioted louder. Crawling closer across the sky. Sneaking through the clouds to come chase you away.

“Let’s get you home. And into the warm…” He supposed. Stroking his hand up your arm. Cupping the round of your shoulder.

Your chamber door is shoved open with the sheer force of the way you kiss your husband up against it.

Mouths joined. A mash of teeth and tongue. And still dripping rain from the storm. You push him inside. Hands to his chest.

He hauls you inside by the skirts. Virtually slings you in. Locks the heavy door. Right back to kissing you after.

Cold fingers burn in the new dry heat of the castle. Wet clothes sticking to you both. Barely taking time to gulp breath the kiss was so wild and violent. Untamed like the weather that raged above you. Tore at the windows and every brick.

You’re tearing at his tunic. He’s got your laces torn to bits in his strong hands. Exposing your back. Ducking his head to kiss your cold neck. Licking rain drops off you. Hair a shock of cold on his face.

You manage to toe your flimsy, muddy slippers off. A wet slopping pile on the floor. Lyonel wrenches your sodden gown open, shoving it down your shoulders to cage your arms as he bites the join of your shoulder.

He gets it to your waist. Cups your tits over the sticky wet of your shift. Nipples poking hard through into his hands. They burn against the friction he incites. You moan when he takes your mouth again.

You manage to tear his dark leather tunic open. Exposing the thin nearly sheer black shirt underneath. Pushing and ripping with your hands until nothing but his skin meets your palms.

He’s laughing. Smiling inbetween the kisses and tongue he sneaks into your mouth. Running along your plump lip. You are smiling too. Chuckling like randy, green adolescents. Ones getting their hands on each other for the very first time. Finding out what bedding the other means; grabbing handfuls. Drowning kisses. As if this is your first taste of laying together.

You run your hands all over that soldier warm chest. Solid. Sturdy. Swirled with raven hair that’s as peppery silver as the curls on his head. He throws his shirts down and off himself. Littered to the floor. Naked to the waist.

His hands slide up your cold sides. Taking the damp shift in big cotton bunches. Wrenching it off over your shoulders. Leaving you now in naught but your pallid ribboned stockings.

He clasps you close - handfuls of your ass crushed in his greedy hot hands. Fingers dimpling into soft of you. Brings you to the bed and casts you into the sheets. Warmed from the fires light. A nest of soft yellow silks and heavy cottons.

He joins you down onto the bed. Body over yours. Mouth on your tits right away. Drawing those hard nipples onto his tongue to make you hiss at how warm he is. Your skin still pebbled with goose flesh from the storm.

“How did I get such a perfect wife… the gods must fucking favour me above all others.” He slurs.

Lust drunk against your breast. Warm spit sliding down your skin. His tongue running in a point down the dip of them. To your sternum. And then over as he switches from one breast to the other. Tonguing paths across your skin with his dirty mouth.

You do love his tongue, it must be said. One of his many redeeming features.

“You must have done something to please them. Perhaps they need your thanks.” You smile. Swiping a hand through his drying hair. Bouncing silver through your knuckles.

“I’ve been thanking them since the minute I first set eyes on you.” He pants. Mouth muggy as he bites and kisses your collarbone.

“Love drunk fool.” You urge. Sweetly. He knows you mean it with a tease rolling like honey off your tongue. You’re just as drunk on him.

“I think I need to take that smug look off your pretty face.” He decides. Lips coming to crash to yours.

His hands naturally find their place between your thighs. Your body arches and bucks to him when he teases your wet, swollen cunt with those thick fingers. You sigh his name.

He bites your lip like a rogue. Whispers to you. “You’re dripping. My storm.”

“I need my husband…” You sigh back. Matter of fact. Blunt as a knife. Fingers sliding down his back. Scratching a little in a way that gets him hard. Gets his eyes flashing at you.

You jam your hand into the waistband, shove his breeches down over his arse on one side. You’d rip the falls open yourself if he wasn’t on top of you. Never been ashamed to take what you need.

He kisses you again. Mouth desperate on yours. You sink your hand to his sopping curls. He strokes his cock for a moment before he looks down. Guiding it to where you needed him the very most.

When he sinks deep to you with one curl of his hips, it’s your turn to bite his lip. Moaning as he cries his pleasure onto the bed of your tongue. The sharp edge of a lovers teeth always turned him on.

“Fuck.” He spits. Getting used to the way you ripple along him like hot wet velvet. He has to still a moment or he’ll lose it. He does anyway.

The way you curl your legs around him. Clutching him in. Refusing to let there be an inch of space between you. Nails digging in his scalp. The way that spurned him on, with the burn of them in his shoulders the next morning. He wore them like trophies.

His dark eyes are watching your body sway and tits roll with the thrust of his hips as he fucks savagely into you. Nipples hard as tight rosebuds. His mouth salivates to bite and nip them again. Hear some of those gorgeous gorgeous cries.

You arched your head back to cry his name as he wound a thigh tighter around his hip and started hammering his hips deeper. Grinding you both together.

The way he tilted your hips with his big all knowing hands, made your body yield to him just that tiny fraction more. He snuck his hands under, cupping the soft plump of your perfect ass and adjusts the angle- Perfection.

He writhes and groans loud with it. Long and slow and your little gasps and puffs of breath indicate your pleasure too. He’s taking you so hard and fast.

When you moan your voice is drawn absolutely hoarse with desire. He has to smother his lips to yours to attempt to keep you quiet. In case anyone on the stairs should overhear. Worry you really did take a lover to your bed.

“Please. Don’t stop...” You cry. Cupping his face. So lovely and sweet. Like a sprinkle of sugar on the tip of his tongue. He nods. Heaves for breath.

“I’ll never stop.” He grunts as he delivers a particularly brutal thrust that gets you wailing. Eyes flicking back in your head. You clutched his hair so hard it’s blissful fire that only urges him on.

He huffs and licks and sucks along your corded throat. Biting where he needs. Sinking his teeth in otherwise he’ll shout so loud he’ll wake the whole keep. Growling against your sweaty, rain dotted skin.

He’s slamming all those wonderful spots inside. The ones that flip your stomach upside and and inside out with bliss. Ones that leave you bereft of breath. Edging closer and closer.

“Sweeting. Fuck. You feel exquisite. Cum for me. Please cum loud for me. For your husband.” He sighs as his mouth slants against your collarbones. Sucking and tugging with his smiling mouth. Stinging you with the edge of teeth.

You’re sobbing for him. Whole body feels like it calls to him and tightens when he says your name.

As you both fuck and twitch and rut in tandem. He can feel the new squeeze and swallow of your cunt. He rears up and uses all his strength to pound you into the bed. He sinks home. Deep. Again and again. Cock rooted so deep it’s insanity unfolding in his blood, and it’s the undoing of him.of you both.

Your legs wrap around him tighter. Crushing his waist but he’s past caring. Mouth in the side of his neck. Muggy heat. His own is lost in yours. Low under your jaw.

He cums hard. As do you. Relentlessly so.

Climax came upon him so sharp and frenzied he almost forgets to breathe. He muffles his loud cries as he feels your hands scrabble for his sweat slicked back and leave raw fiery scratches. Bringing blood he’s sure. That makes him shiver-

His hips jerked with each wrenching spasm inside you. His pleasure went on and on. Approaching forever and never seeming to be enough.

He sagged down when he was done. And it’s furious and mad, but he wanted more.

He wanted to stay inside you all night. And somehow fuck another and another load of his cum into you to see if that helps his furious white hot need.

See if it will sate the hungry beast of lust that pounds through his blood demanding more. More pleasure. More rutting. More cumming. More of my wife.

He’d pleasure you til the sun comes up if he had his way. He smiles to think that after tomorrow, that can be his wish fulfilled.

You gasp when he shifts out of you. Tilting back, to see evidence of his seed leaking down your pretty cunt and across the sheets. He grins like a feral man at that. Before he slumps down into your arms. Groaning in ease.

You come to enclose him to your chest. Hearts thudding loud under your skin. Hammering together as if in tune. Arms sticking to his back. Tickling his scratchy beard into the join of your shoulder.

You let the drowsy silence take the room. The spin of the flames and the candles flickering low. Let it wash over you as your breaths even out.

“You better make yourself scarce before the morning. My Lord. I cannot have the maids find you in my bed on the wedding day.” You tell.

Leaning down to kiss a twisted, pulling pink scar on his shoulder.

He heaves himself up. Leans on his elbows over you. Damp hair a curtain over one eye. Curls beginning to dry and bounce to their usual mayhem. Rocks his hips and cock to your cunt, in a way that lets you know another round may potentially be in order.

He hums thoughtfully. Mouth finding your tits again. Enough to make you groan and buck in his hold. Ticklish and squirming.

“That’s hours away yet. Sweeting.” He leers. Right now was the hour of the wolf.

“I can’t have it said of me that I didn’t seed my wife properly on our wedding night.” He nuzzles his nose to your sternum. Winking at you.

He kept you up til an hour from dawns rise. The hour of the nightingale.

Seven knows how you were expected to make it through your wedding day.

Candles snap their jerky flames around you on the air. Like hammered copper falling along uneven walls from the black iron tier stands. Throws shade to the nooks of the cobbled walls to stick like tar. Some sticks in your hair. Not tumbled or mussed from dancing. You’d been keeping to the fringes of the room. Same as he had.

Daeron can’t even fashion a clever response. His tongue falls sluggish. Fat in his mouth like a dead eel.

He lifts his cup to his lips again. Let’s the crimson wine flow into the place of any sensible sober blood in his veins. So it may best drown the rising tide in his own bitter head.

“Ah the infamous, ‘they’…” he finally manages to blurt. Words falling clunky from his tongue like he was a cruel boy, lobbing pebbles.

Ashford tapestries surround and shout from the walls with vibrancy. Golden suns backed with the colour of tangerines. The icy cold draft that drips in from apparently everywhere, is all spliced with the smell of ancient dust, sun warmed wood from centuries ago. Cold and wet iron layered on stone. The innards of castle that shuddered and breathed with the enormity of its own age, like a heaving old dragon. More legend than flesh.

Go down the veining corridor to the grand warm mouth of the Ashford hall, you’d find the air change;

There it would be the spoiled green of bruised rushes. The heady feast gathered marching into full swing. The clammy crush of many bodies and sickly perfumes of nobility.

Brine from the poached fish. Eel pies with the heads poking through the crust. Eyes glistening. The rich pink succor of roast lamb. Geese laying roasted glistening-brown in their platters, wreathed with woody green sprigs of herbs. The spilling of sophisticated red wine and the sour underbelly of its brown foul cousin, ale, laying beneath.

Away from that stench and clamour, it feels like the air here breathes better. Slower. Dipped in the cold bite of shadowed stone. A welcome retreat. Not a solitary one.

You knew exactly who blocked your path in the corridor. By sheer length of leg and style of expensive boot alone. By the familiar scent of that dornish red he likes, spilled on his gambeson. That’s a scent unique to him; Rumpled soapy cotton from mussed beclothes and ruined sleep, and the sour hang of spilled wine.

Daeron watches you sweeping down your skirts by your knees with one hand. Cup in the other. Smile placid. Eyes redoubtable as ever, and clear. Always so clear. Always you were pointed and poised and ready to direct. Temper as easy as a moonlit lake.

When he knows pure iron and sharp, cutting stones lay beneath your seemingly genial surface.

“Ask me nicely. I might share.”

He refers, withholding a breathy belch, gesturing to the flagon at his hip.

“Charmed.” You speak wryly. Watching him with eyes that read far more than what he realised he offers. Sparkling in the candles like they’re made of cut cornelian.

“Come on then. Before you drink enough to rot a hole in your moping gut.”

You hold out your own goblet. Cradled gently. The cut of your hand around it looks elegant. Fingers cradling. A gemstone ring of lilac purple crowns one finger. Steady hands. His shake already.

He fills your cup. Wobbly. Dripping down the side like overflowing blood. Some drops down the bone of your wrist. You ignore it. You don’t pick at him for it. You know anyone else would have.

Then comes your enquiry. “Why’d you slink off”

“Bored of the racket. The flattery. The wheedling lords. I needed somewhere quieter to collect my thoughts.”

He throws the flagon down. Tips. Knocks it to wobble and spill. There are two empty ones at his elbow.

“The only thing you’re collecting out here is misery.”

That and empty flagons. You wonder he hadn’t drunk Ashford’s cellars dry.

“And it doesn’t require company. So do me a kindness and go preach your sermon elsewhere to more deserving ears. I’ve no need.” He dismisses. Lifting his cup to his lips, again.

“I don’t come to your side to give sermons. I came for air. You happen to be in my way sulking in it.”

He shifts and skewers you with a clever look. Even through the ratty, sweaty curtain of his wheat gold hair. It hangs limp in coils around that carved Targaryen jawline. Those fine genetics that lent itself to the cutting blade of his high cheekbones. You could cut your hand to ribbons slapping this man, with a jaw like that.

“You don’t beat about the bush. Lady Lightning. You’re talking rather informally to a prince of the blood.” He slurs. Crossing an ankle over the other. Shifting fine squeak of leather from his boots.

You eye him with tired condescension.

Daeron never made you stand on ceremony. That’s what you enjoyed most about him. His lack of care for the proper graces. His tongue was clearly dredged in bitterness tonight;

“Forgive me. My prince. I do rather miss my Stormland castle. Where the weather flattens fools, and people speak plain what they really mean.”

He’s snide with his answer. “Yes. It gives you all a refreshingly honest countenance. All that rain. A real tonic to be sure.”

That bloody feast still hounds him. The noise in his head that drew and warped all around where he slumped. The pelt of the drum. The storm of voices. Din of feet and clapping hands that landed like thunder. The very occasion meant to herald joy and revelry.

He always managed to find a dark cloud to curl up under. Even amongst the usual merriment. Let it whirl on around him in a carved path. Tonight, he doesn’t want any of it.

Daeron always searched for answers at the bottom of a bottle. Sometimes if one yielded nothing, he’d try two.

He looks to his lap. Pressing his thumbs into the cup. Warm metal to touch where he’s held it so long. Hair slinking forwards over his face. Hot iron fingertips.

When he speaks. It’s small and childish. Like a chided boy. Words huddling up in shame on his tongue. Eyes left in his lap. “Did my father summon you.”

“I am famously unsummonable. Daeron.”

That earns a wry twitch of his mouth. Curled up one side. He tosses his chin to the side. Hair slanted. So he could better glance at you sideways.

“So I’ve heard. Sounds like something a disapproving parent would say. How is your father? By the way…The old boar…”

“Boorish as usual. More so now Mereya is to be married. We must all tow the family line and heave the great old vessel into respectability.”

Boot shifts on the floor. Cracking dust and spits of old stone.

“I heard of that. The stag house no less. Then he chuckles “For a stubby little boar he sets his sights mightily high.”

He watched that peaceful lake countenance of yours, shatter. A long crack spidering across a looking glass.

“You don’t approve?”

Inside, a part of you sinks. Your face straps on the lie.

“Not at all. She’ll be very happy.”

He knows the shape and foul taste lies take when they swim past the armour of gritted teeth. How they come like festering shrapnel being pulled. The stench of rot unplugged behind them.

He rolls his head on his shoulders to you. To pin you down in your untruth.

Daeron narrows his eyes. Clever even when steaming, blinding drunk. “I thought you Stormlanders say what you mean.”

You swallow your wine. Drop your gaze to your knees.

“Hard to imagine her slight character tied to the house of storms and stags. Slip of a little thing she is, not exactly robust enough for the infamous Baratheon hedonism.”

Your look turns icy. Packed with snow. “Careful. I was playing nice.”

“A Dragon has his teeth now doesn’t he, lady Lightning.”

“This dragon appears too drunk to stand let alone use his teeth.”

“Flame then—“

“I do believe if you exhaled over a candle right now the sheer amount of alcohol on your breath could catch light.”

“Do you fear my terrible wrath…” He flirts. Smile curling up to a dragons toothy grin. One that aimed to devour and hook.

“I fear for your temper come the morn after all this strong wine. And I know the difference between when you’re drinking for fun, and when you’re reaching for oblivion. So talk.” You warn.

He nods. “Oblivion would be nice. Offers a certain degree of finality about it. Black as a velvet night sky.”

“Your dreams. What happened this time.”

He sniffs. “I can’t remember.”

“If you couldn’t remember. Daeron. You’d currently be sober.”

“You know me so well.” He snipes.

You level him with a glance. Pin him with it like a Valyrian dagger.

“I do know you better than most. I certainly possess more patience to dance on your selfish whims. I can also not be bought off with the same slobbenly excuse of a lie you sell others.”

Because I don’t see you as a broken thing in need of repair. I see a man trying to ignore the ocean. Even as it drowns him.

He gives a slow. Lazy blink. Sighing. Chest puffing up and down. “I think I dreamt of you.”

You stay very, placidly still. Candles cast wobbly light in long tongues over your face. There’s a shaved second of a reaction.

But your expression is soothed very quickly.

A well learned trait. Ones noble daughters are taught but one noble men never need use of learning. A spark smothered.

“Go on.”

“It felt pointed. There was a storm. Desolation. One that washed away the lands and the earth. A flood. It was carrying away white feathers. And then lightning struck. It struck twice. And I saw charred antlers. And howling winds and so much rain. Washed everything we knew away.”

“Lightning strike—“

“Purple lightning. Two forks of it. Strike them down. And one struck the stag. A black stag. It’s neck was strangled with a crown.”

Something twisted in you. Ugly. With all the sharp charm of a knife. Stomach deep. Turning with force. If he’s foreseen it; it is truth. Unbreakable truth. The pain of knowing that robs your breath.

“Their union. Looks as if you fated it. Their joining.”

He shakes his head at you. Dour. Grave. In the way only he could. The way a prophecy concerns the wise enough to heed. The way a storm worries a seasoned sailor;

With immovable certainty.

“It wasn’t the first branch that struck the beast. It was the second. The second larger branch.”

You swallow. No.

“The feathers were swan feathers. White as winterfell snow.” He stares at you.

“This is nonsense.” You breathe.

“You know my dreams always come true.”

“That is because Mereya will marry. She will be Lady Baratheon. I certainly harbour no wishes of striking down her intended stag.”

“The stag survived. The lightning bent to it. I think it portends something else.”

“Like what…”

“Like I’m not the only one who came here to escape a feast and drink alone. To indulge in misery. Because what’s unfolding in there-“ jerks his head towards the direction of the hall “is too painful for you to watch.”

You can’t hide from that one.

“It is no matter. My wants do not come into anything.”

“They may not come into it. But you can’t deny their existence.”

Your answer comes snapping. Harsh. No forgiveness with yourself that you extend to him. “Yes I can.”

The way you look at him is nearly startling. Eyes shimmer. Hard as nails. He’s never seen you look so shattered. Under that peaceful countenance, something about you burns. He knows that scorch well enough with his Dragon blood.

His question is soft. A sordid little whisper. “Do you love him?”

“Do not ask me that. It’s a place I cannot go.” You sniff.

Duty not love. Duty not love. You’ll repeat it til your teeth rattle.

“Besides... My father is in talks to marry me to Ser Steffon Fossoway.”

He crooks a brow. Revulsion. “Really? What a waste that would be. Is he that desperate for some cider barrels…”

“I’m not exactly thrilled with the match. Ser Steffon is— well.”

“A mean cunt by all accounts.” He launches out the words for you. “about as honour bound and chivalrous as I am.” He corrects.

“You’re not that bad.”

“I saw no apples in my dream. My Lady. None at all in fact. It will not be so.”

“You are not my father.”

Daeron chose his answer with deliberate care.

“He would waste his strongest, brightest lightning branch on a bunch of apples… heavens teeth.”

“He will have honour for his unruly widow of an eldest. Or seven knows what my fate will be— banished to Lys, most like, to live as a spinster.”

“Lot of beautiful men. And women in Lys.” He smiles. Arching a brow at you. He knew well enough your tastes that run to welcoming both genders within your bed.

“Worse ways to live. Bake under the fierce sun. Someone to have, who loves you for the sum of all your offerings even if they are meagre. Have no expectations. No laws to live rigidly by.”

“You make it sound respectable. Dreamy even-“ you swirl the wine in your goblet. “Being banished.”

“Life without duty?” He barks a sound that could be laughter. Derision. “The one dream always out of my reach. You’re lucky to be out the game. Lady Dondarrion.”

“Not so lucky. Didn’t you hear? I murdered my husband. Prayed to the gods for blood, and they took him. Drowned him to spare me. Everyone looks at me now and sees no more than a walking curse made flesh. That’s why cider hall is the best I deserve.”

Daeron looks at you silently. Solemnly almost. You doubt the man ever made it to a Sept in his life. But you reckon if he did, he’d have a similar expression to the one he wears now. “The last thing I’d describe you as, is a curse.”

“You haven’t heard the whispers. Daeron.”

“Some of them have slithered my way now and again. Take heart though. People never mutter about anyone dull when they walk into a room.” He explains. Unusually wise, for once.

That honesty, wrenched from such a bone deep place, even in insobriety, makes a smile flourish on your lips.

“I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a horror. But thank you.” You shift. Emptying your cup. “That was almost astute of you.”

“Not a habit I will be pursuing at length.” He sighs. Shifting his back. Groaning at the stretch.

“You must be freezing. Sitting on the floor.” You wonder. Flicking down to his wine soaked chest. Darts of red spilled across him like blood from a fight. The result of his turmoil with his own head.

He looks down at his lap. As if suddenly remembering he had a body. Legs attached to it at the hip. Reminding himself that the cold stone floor was actually making a throbbing pain of his back and hips. His arse was growing numb.

“Pick up the flagon. Or what’s left of it. I’ll see you to your rooms.”

He seems to find that amusing. A drunken twist of a smile takes that mouth.

“Protector of my virtue…”

You buoy a brow. Rising to your feet. Skirts falling like a waterfall of plum velvet. “Is there any left?”

“The wine? Or my virtue?”

You roll your eyes.

“I could save a scrap for you.” He insists. Trying to heft himself up. Elbows scrabbling back behind him. Catching on the stone. His legs flail until his heels find purchase.

“Be still my fluttering heart.” You mutter, japing. Coming close to help try and right him. A hard feat once the wine had taken hold of him. He was tall and heavy.

He grips the wall and half hauls himself up. Bent at the hip. Uncaring if he leaves purple bruises all over his elbows on the morrow.

You wedge your hands under his shoulder. Help right him. Brush stone dust off the back of his shoulder as he wobbles where he stands. Legs bowing and bending like willow tree boughs.

“Come along.” You guide. Hand sliding for his lower back to keep pace with him. He holds the flagon to his chest like it was scared. Pauses at doorways to slurp back another mouthful.

He leaves the drained thing on a windowsill for the maids to find. You do the same with your goblet. Left it behind you on the step. The morning will see it gone by a silent maid doing duty.

“Surely you had better things to do tonight…” he chides.

You think of Baratheon gold. Of the way Lyonel dances. That smile and his Storm Lands bellowing laugh. The way his hands touched Mereya’s waist or hand with care. Her smile that stayed fixated on him like he was her golden sun to orbit around. The way they’d speak when the dance ended. All mingled smiles and polite respect. Promised lovers.

You at the corner of the room like a bitter storm cloud. Refusing to catch his eye every time he seeks yours.

Again. You lie. He knows not to call it out. The pain it will bring wasn’t worth dwelling on.

“I’ll rest easier knowing you aren’t rotting insensible in a hallway floor somewhere. Or choking on your own vomit.”

“Aren’t you kind.” His hand comes up to brush the back of your shoulder. Before he thinks better of himself, of being a drunk letch like some of the old men in that ballroom. He drops his hands path. But the grain of your velvet stayed with him. You smelled like nectarines and new blossoms.

“Not really. I’m saving the poor maids the bother of tripping over your slumbering heap of a corpse come the morn.”

And maybe that annoyed crease from framing Maekar’s stony brow if he found his son slumbering on the floor in his fine clothes. Mostly likely he’d kick him awake with a boot to his thigh. Snap at him to get up. Lest people see him in this state. Maybe that was your kindness. To gather the scraps and deposit him into a kinder bed than a stone floor to better marinade in his ruin.

His rooms are unguarded. Which surprises you. The lack of a twin white pillar of armoured kingsguard usually stood immovable, at the doors of a princes rooms. They’d probably grown bored of standing idle. Off to search for their charge.

Knowing he’d be slumped somewhere dubious in the company of lickspittles, gamblers, or half disappeared under a whores skirts.

You pull and twist the door handle. Managing to levy him toward it. Feet falling clumsy. As if he were not in control of his own feet. Someone else’s stitched to the bottom of his legs. Steps of a stranger.

He remarks. “Good night, my lady.” Stumbling into his door before staggering past it.

“Good night. My prince.”

He twists back. “What? No curtsey.”

Your eyes stab like dragon teeth.

“May the mother have mercy on your head tomorrow. You won’t need me clouting it for insolence, on top of that.”

He suspiciously quiet for a beat. Leaning on his door. Cocking his hip like a rogue. Scanning the hem of your pretty dress. Sweeping his eyes up. Swimming along the rest of you. Hips. To waist. The way your chest rises and sinks, a heavy gem necklace sparkling with the movement, that arch of your wilful neck.

“You know. If you did ever need an alternate you could always marry me— my father would surely approve after last time. You are very tolerable. Of our blood in some small way. We do like the same kind of wine.”

You’d been down this trodden old road before. For the briefest time before you were matched to House Swan. Your father had very nearly considered marrying you to Prince Maekar’s eldest.

You were both of age. Respectable lines. You were in no danger of royalty ever placing its harmful crown on your head; Baelor’s line was certain. Maekar was a forth son and his heirs kept well back from seating the iron throne.

You muddled along well enough. Didn’t snap at him. Or wrinkle your nose and complain he reeked of wine, and the lingering bitterness of his temper, that came of bad dreams. Sure as night follows day. Dragon follows flame.

You didn’t add to the crushing weight this world clamped on his unable shoulders; you eased it.

You grabbed that boy dragon by the horns. So to speak. Asked defiantly to understand him. To listen when he needed. To retreat when he needed space and linger when he didn’t. It was borne of friendship and respect. Same as he had for you.

Your snappy, ungirlish tongue. The wisdom of your eyes even in youth. The true form of your real smile. The countenance that would never touch royalty, but all the poise and grace of it that you’d carefully, painstakingly learned. That Dondarrion rigidity of your spine. The care you had for others around you. For your sister. You’d open your own veins for her happiness and safety.

You and him recognised the same symmetry of burdens in each other. The younger siblings who looked upwards to you both, with small eyes expecting big things. The lack of a soft, kind mother. The way fathers had shaped your lives like taking a knife to a grinding whetstone.

His character and reputation by then, of his early adolescence, hung off him like a puppet with its strings cut. Limp. No promise. Nothing to show for himself. Only ever having the inclination to drag himself down in the dirt, preferably into a cup, or a pleasure house. Noise, lust and wine to better addle his splitting head.

Maekar nearly hoped for something to come of it. That your hale, stout, gale-force character, bred of seastorm salt and Blackhaven basalt, could fix and strap something fierce onto his son. Bolster him up into being something worthy.

Daeron was the one to refuse you. Not unkind with it. Gods. He did it to spare you.

You’d heard him through a closed door as you sat primly the other side. Sat like a lady. Hands folded in your lap. Ankles crossed. Withering glare of your stern, stony, Septa not even enough to make you shrink.

He was talking to his father and his grand sire. Muddled through wood his answer came; his voice shaking, but his mind clear enough in his reply;

‘I respect her far too much to attach her to this family. It would drag her down. To bind her to a shell of a man like me. To watch her fade in anger and resentment. I cannot marry her. Better she find a man who can deserve the match.’

He couldn’t grow tedious and shrunk in your estimation, watch as the disappointment starts to fully take your eyes, as time passes you by.

He wouldn’t turn your vibrant, stout character to cold stone, and watch you wither under the strain and expectations of the dagger toothed, blood soaked Targaryen dynasty.

He’s not trapping you into Summerhalls rooms to watch you squeeze out endless icy-haired babes, and watch the realm hate and scorn them. Have you exist only to be flattened to better please everyone else.

You had far too much furious lightning in you for that.

He liked to think he refused, in order to set you free, to unleash you on the world to better strike it.

A little tempting chip off his black soul, however, could have done it. It would feel like he married a friend. That he would have done. If not for the rest-

Your face can’t hide the absurdity of the old marriage claim as he brings it up again. Your face tells all; ‘you know better than to bring that up.’

“Lets not let that tired old thing grow legs. Daeron. Better leave it to its grave. You were clever enough to know it then, and you know it still now. You’re just in pain and looking for someone to soothe you. We were never a strong basis for a marriage.”

“More than some. More than most-“ he shifts in the door. Ringed hand clacking on the door where it sways.

“A drunken dragon and a lightning widow. Would not good bedfellows make. Princeling.”

To your horror, he tried his hand at flirtation. Eyes heavy and voice low. Intended as sultry. “I never mentioned a bed….But if you’d like…. now you bring it up—“

You don’t want to know about the state of his rooms. The cave of carnality where this dragon liked best to rot. You’re certain his bedclothes are still stained with the sickly perfume of his favourite whore. That, and the fruity spice of spilled wine.

For the briefest second you do wander into thoughts of him in that way… you wonder how it would be. To ask for a servant to bring more wine. To wait and bask in the erotic tension you’d finally let shift into becoming more…

To fully know the warmth of his doorway. Drunkenly tumble into his arms. To shed your dress, with the help of his clumsy fingers weaving through your laces, in front of that roaring hearth. To offer up your naked state to his lidded eyes.

He would cup your body with reverent, lazy hands. Sloppy kisses. How he’d tip his forehead to yours. Offer you mind wiping oblivion in that wine tasting kiss. Get you under him - or better yet - atop him. Find some succour in release in your arms.

The press of his hands urgent hot on your hips. Bodies entwined in an understanding that was borne of kindness. Of the need for a blissful climax to just forget- to build a haven with each thrust that would seat deep. That he would not stop with you, until he was trembling with need for more. Your legs over his shoulders, his mouth lost to your cunt and your hand clutched in his hair til it stung. He would praise, and cup and worship til his neediness ran dry.

You know without a doubt, he would treasure you. For all his faults; he didn’t lie when it came to you.

“I think we’d do better leaving the past at the threshold. Don’t you.” You decide. Eyes finding his. Still sparkling like amber with candle light. The light catches the fine dust of golden whiskers on his chin.

He doesn’t want to nod. But he finds he drifts along on the tide of your acquiescence. It was safer this way.

Your heart has been skewered right through by a stag. It’s no use to think you could ever replace that with a heady, drunken tumble with the one dragon you can stomach.

“Bed. Daeron.” You press a polite hand to his chest. Pushing him lightly back to stumble him proper to his rooms.

Manhandling a prince of the blood. Only you could have the brass balls to be so bold. With no one else but Daeron could you get away with it.

He chuckles. “Yes, mother.” Hair swinging in his affable face.

You linger at his doorway. The warmth of his hearth seeps out to your feet. Fierce roaring orange that will have him seeing scales and teeth in his dreams. Making him smell old iron, and ash.

“Don’t dream.” You say in parting. Hopeful. Maybe it’s a kindness.

He laughs. It’s bitter as Riverland crabapples.

You’ve never heard an expression of joy sound so sad. Before he shuts the door, those gloomy, pain soaked eyes swim to find yours. “A dreamless sleep. What a fine thing that would be.”

He does dream after all, as well he knew he would. Of a black stags hoof crushing a wormy, rotten red apple. To pulp.

He doesn’t have the heart to tell you.