hanna

She'd suddenly stopped right before him. The two were still considered newly weds. Things were still a bit odd for them. They did their duties and they did care for one another. But there were no talks of love. 

He rested a hand on the sheathed sword, grabbing his helm with the other. He turned, eyes lighting up a bit as his face softened. "Ah, there's my doe."

She stepped up to him, cupping his face and looking over each scrape and bruise. "It's nothing," he'd assured, trying to brush off her attention. It didn't work.

"You fought very bravely. Nearly stayed on your horse the entire time."

He smiled, ignoring the way his face hurt. "Course I did. I had a lady to impress."

"Consider me impressed, then." Her fingers brushed under his eye. She cooed when he flinched. "You're filthy. Let me wash you. C'mon."

She helped brace him, walking him to the Baratheon tent. The aching in his bones was finally settling. With careful hands, she pulled off each piece of his armor, tossing it aside with little care. It all piled high on the floor. 

Lyonel was covered in dirt and sweat. His tunic was drenched, spotted with blood from a few cuts he'd sustained as well. 

"Sit."

With no fight left in him, he sat at the edge of the bed. A small groan left his throat at the relief of finally resting. 

She stood between his legs, brushing his hair back and tilting his chin up. "My laughing storm." His eyes closed, but a satisfied smirk stayed over his face. 

She called for a basin and cloth to be brought while she praised her brave warrior. She was doing it to ease him into a state of obedience, so she may properly clean his wounds, but he didn't need to know that. 

She peeled his tunic off. He winced when it reveals a shallow cut just under his ribs. It was short, but a good swipe from the tip of a blade. Dark purple bruises colored across his ribcage. "Oh, my love," she comforted. "It must hurt."

"Hm?" He forces himself to look down at it. "Oh. It's nothing."

A servant returns with the basin, setting it on the small table. She wets the cloth, wringing it out and gently running it down his cheek. The dirt melts away, revealing a few red, angry scratches. Still better than some men. 

"Ser Duncan," she quips, trying to get him to focus on something besides the light pricks of pain. "How does he fair?"

"Saw him in passing," he remarks. "Worse for wear, but he'll live. Think I'll visit him after all this."

"What you did was quite brave."

"Ah," he brushes off. "Brave knights are put on this earth to fight monsters, aren't we?"

The comment pulled at something in her, like a loose thread in a carefully knitted sweater. She knew of his disdain for her family. But still, the comment felt targeted. "Aerion can be… quite a villain."

His voice lowers. "He's not the only one. There's a reason dragons are dead, doe. Don't forget that."

She avoids his eyes, though she can feel his stare. Her hands grow rougher, and he flinches. She lightens up.

"You know," he starts again. "For thinking of themselves so highly, they weren't all that good with a sword. It didn't take long for most of them to get unhorsed. That fucking boy with the leaf on his head fell immediately—"

"That's my brother," she warned.

"—even the Crown Prince was unhorsed before me." He scoffed to himself. "Duncan nearly ripped the littlest blonde to shreds—"

"Lyonel."

"What?"

Her hands pause as she bites down on her lip to avoid a reaction. 

His head tilts in her hands. "Ah. I see what this is. Women and their sentiment. Hearts so easily won that even the worst have a chance at capturing your attention. Isn't that right?"

She forces a deep breath. "I think you'll find that my heart is quite closed off, Lord Baratheon."

Her resistance amuses him, for he smirks back at her. "Sure, it is."

She steps away, shaking her head. "The worst capture my attention? Is that how I ended up with you?"

The words shock him. The princess is usually so even toned and well-mannered. But he can't say that he doesn't like it. 

"Well, maybe so," he truthfully answers. "I'm far from a saint."

"Anyone with eyes can see that."

"So ill-tempered so suddenly?" He huffs. "You looked ready to throw yourself at me merely minutes ago."

She tosses the cloth into the basin, not caring about the splash it brings. "Mere minutes ago, you were not criticizing the innocent members of my family in front of me."

"Oh, please," his voice raises, "That drunk boy? He's far from innocent!"

She laughs curtly. "I watched you murder one of the kings guard today. Does Daeron have blood on his hands?"

"Awfully defensive, aren't you? I knew Targaryens had queer customs but I didn't think—"

"Don't fucking finish that sentence."

Lyonel knew he was towing a fine line now. But the adrenaline from the trial still flowed.

He stood, grunting at the way his muscles protested. "You'd defend them against your Lord Husband?"

"Haven't you won enough today, Lyonel?" She dared to close the gap, their chests almost brushing. "You're one of the least injured of them all. Am I not allowed to be concerned for my blood?"

"Your blood." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fucking hell. Targaryens and their fucking blood. You know what made Targaryen blood special? Dragons." He outstretched his arms. "Where are your fucking dragons, then?"

"All that's happened today and you want to argue over dragons?" She spewed. 

"Seems a reasonable discussion to me."

Her fists ball up. "In another life, boy…."

"In another life, what?" He taunts. 

"You should be grateful we don't have dragons anymore."

"Oh, I'd love to hear why," he barks, towering over her.

"You'd be the first to go." 

"I'm your enemy?" He gawked. "Of all the evil in this world, I'm the fiend you wish to disintegrate." He feels a smile pull at his lips. "It's amusing, really. I'm the only one that listens to you. Did you know that? The others, they look over you. Your father. Your brothers." His hands wrap around her biceps. "You know who cares for you? Me. I do. So, forgive me if I can't understand why you defend them."

"I didn't say Duncan did not do a noble thing. For he did. And the gods were just. My uncle would not have joined if he had thought it was an dishonorable deed."

"Your uncle," he paused. "A dragon is a dragon."

You blink once. Twice. "Continue, mighty stag. Tell me how great you are. Your great deeds. No one can best the Laughing Storm."

"Fuck off with it," he cursed. "What I did today was more noble than any of the Targaryens. I fought today. I did. They staged that as playtime for themselves and then wondered why they got hurt."

She sucks on her top row of teeth. "You think you know everything. Don't you?"

He shrugs. "More or less."

She hummed. "How lovely. Then you know how to finish cleaning yourself. And then you bathe yourself, eat by yourself, and even fuck yourself tonight. For I won't be there."

She turns away to finish the conversation, but he begins to laugh. That booming one that he's so well known for. "Oh, that's clever. Very clever, doe. But I'd like to point out that I've never seen you reject my advances in the marital bed. In fact, I'd dare claim that you love my cock."

She stops. "You dare to claim?"

"I do. Five moons now. And I've watched you fall apart over me almost every night. And you tell me now that I'm wrong?"

She turns. "Well, I've only known one cock my whole life. Tis the curse of being a noble woman. So, I'm to make do with what I'm given, aren't I?" She smirks, just to grind it in. "An average cock is still better than none."

That hit a nerve. "Fucking average? You think—"

"I think," she interrupts. "Well, I think there are much bigger. But… they're attached to better men, too."

His voice is low, like iron. The childish game is gone, the laughter struck from his throat. "Name one."

She considers how far she wants to push now. Lyonel is on edge in a way she's never seen before and she doesn't know what he'd do if he snapped.

"Do it," he taunts. "Try to name one."

"You…" She shakes her head. "You don't really want me to."

"I do." He reaches up to her chin, pinching it to keep her eyes on him. "Name the man."

She considers all the names she could. Ones that would anger him. Ones that wouldn't. But they all turned in her mind, on the tip of her tongue but none truly came to fruition.

Lyonel's face broke out in a mocking smile. "Oh. I see. You need me to fuck some sense into you now? Is that what this is? The sudden attitude?"

"I think we've done enough of that, Lyonel. You can fuck someone as much as you want. Doesn't mean they really care."

Something dark flickers in his eyes. "You think I fuck you… for what? Cause my pride is that weak?"

"I don't pretend to know."

"Tell me you love me."

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"Say it," he taunts. "A few simple words. You can do it."

"Why? You're my husband, I think we're far beyond that."

"It's been five moons. Haven't heard it yet. In all the times we've been together in bed, I've told you that I love you. You know how many times you've said it back? None."

"Lyonel, we all say things in bed. Doesn't mean anything."

He snapped. He grabbed to the bottom of her corset with his uninjured arm, yanking her to him and crashing his lips against hers. When the initial shock wore, she wrapped her arms around his neck. This kiss was hungry, filled with things entirely left unsaid.

"Even injured, I'll still fuck you better than any man."

"You want to test that?"

She leans over the bed, arching her back and pushing her ass out in temptation. They often fucked like this. It was loud and demanding. 

But this time, Lyonel paused. "Get on your back."

When she doesn't move fast enough, he lightly shoves her onto her side. "On your back. I'm not just fucking you this time."

…

After he held her hips down and made her take three fingers, he was finally satisfied to let himself sink in.

Gods, he loved the way she bit back a whimper. 

"So damn good," he huffed, watching her walls stretch around him.

"More," she managed, hands trying to find purchase on him without bruising him further.

"I'll give you more," he swears. "I'll give you everything under the damn sun, spoiled thing."

Inch by inch, he pushed his way in. And when finally settled, he stopped. "But you gotta do something for me."

Her eyes were hazy, mind scrambled as she tried to focus. "Hm?"

"Aw." His hand brushed a hair from her face. "Already cockdrunk? We've barely started."

"Lyonel, please, I need—"

"I know what you need." That hand came down to begin rubbing a gentle pattern over her clit. She squeaked, walls clamping around him. "I gotta hear something from you."

"W-What?"

"You know what."

She groaned, a hint of stubbornness coming back. But when his fingers continued to play over her clit a bit harsher, she gave in.

"I love you."

He leaned in, "Hm? What was it? Hardly heard you."

She scoffed. "Said I love you."

He pulls out. "One more time. Just to be sure."

When she opens her mouth, he thrusts back in. And her words die right into a high moan.

"That's it," he encouraged. "There she is." 

He began a brutal pace, making her toes curl in satisfaction. "Let me hear you again, doe."

She stuttered through it, nails digging crescent shapes into his back. "L- Fuck. I love you. I l- I love you."

He kisses at her neck. "I know, sweetheart. I know you do. You always have. Haven't you?"

His lips close around her nipple, tongue running over the tight bud. He lightened the circles on her clit, her warning to answer.

"I do, Lyonel. Gods, I do."

He kissed the underside of her breast. "You love your stag?"

"Fuck, yes."

"No one can do it like he can, hm?"

"No one. No one can, Lyonel."

"Oh, I know."

Her nails dig in when he hit a deep angle. "Don't stop." Tears prick at her eyes.

He starts to pant, fighting his protesting muscles. "Not gonna. Not till my doe knows I love her."

He wouldn't have the heart to tell her what became of her uncle. Not today. He'd keep her in the dark until tomorrow. 

When she'd fallen asleep in his arms, content to be there, he slipped out to redress and visit Ser Duncan.

He wanted his wife to live in ignorant bliss, knowing she had her lord husband while the rest of the world burned around her.

For she wasn't a dragon to him. No. She was a Baratheon doe.

And yet you almost suspected that husband had almost been suffering more than you.

Lyonel’s angry yells could be heard all over the castle. He had been forbidden from seeing you.

They had resorted to posting guards outside your doors, so that he would not enter despite his father’s many warnings. The maesters had to beg his lord father to speak sense into him, since they themselves feared what he might do if they gave him another ‘no’.

“I will not let my heir risk his health and you are to cease threatening the servants,” Lord Baratheon had said. “Your presence will achieve nothing. The maesters are working day and night on making her better.”

Lyonel had some choice words for that, and you believe that patricide was even on the table for a split second of that conversation.

You survived, however. You did not ‘die in the spring’, as people said about the unfortunate victims of the sickness. But that did not mean Lyonel would not fuss about you as if you were on your death bed every time you had a sniffle.

You woke from your long nap. You were sweating oceans under all the blankets that he had insisted on throwing over you.

You stretched your limbs and turned over to your other side. He was sitting there on a chair beside the bed, watching you and bouncing his leg. You grunted and squinted your tired eyes at him.

“You have been sitting there the whole time?” you asked. “I thought you were going hunting today.”

He didn’t answer your question. Instead, he reached out a hand to touch your forehead. You slapped it away.

“You’re warmer than before,” he said with a sigh. “MAESTER YOREL!”

“Because you insist on wrapping me up in a hundred layers,” you grumbled. “I feel better.”

The maester came running. Gods, did that poor old man look tired. Lyonel got up and pulled his chair away so that the maester had enough space to inspect you for the fiftieth time.

“I once again apologize for my husbands behavior,” you said. “I am feeling slightly better after my nap.”

“That is wonderful to hear, my lady,” Yorel said with a tired smile and put a hand on your forehead.

Lyonel was chewing at the side of his thumb. He had done that a lot the last couple of days. It was an odd tic of his that happened when he was stressed. He was watching you like a hawk. He pointed at you and then addressed the maester.

“If she is better, then why could I fry a bloody egg on her forehead?” Lyonel asked pointedly. “Feel her temperature again.”

“My lord,” the maester said and held in a sigh. “She is eating now and I believe my patients when they speak about their condition. There is plenty of progress. It is a simple fever, my lord.”

“It’s just these blankets,” you said and yawned. “I think it’ll all be over by tomorrow at this rate.”

“Doubtful,” Lyonel said with a tight tone and then looked at Maester Yorel. “Go. Leave.”

You rolled your eyes and mouthed ‘be nice’ to Lyonel as the maester was leaving the room. Lyonel rolled his eyes. You shrugged off the blankets and sat up in your bed.

“You are bullying the poor man,” you said. “He is only trying his best.”

He sat down on the edge of your bed.

“No,” you chided. “Distance. Get back on your chair or you will get sick too.”

“Damn your distance,” he grumbled and stayed but. “Lie down.”

“I have been lying down for three days,” you whined.

“And you will be lying down for three days more, if you don’t listen to me.”

“Since when did you become a maester?” you grumbled and lied down.

He gently tucked you into the warm blankets again, making you groan.

“You are driving me to insanity,” you sighed. “Get back on your chair. You will get sick.”

“I could not care less,” he said and then slid under the blankets as well.

He wrapped his arms around you from behind and pulled you close. Your muscles were still sore from the fever, but he was gentle. He sighed into your hair.

“I hate this,” he muttered.

“I had a hunch.”

“Bear with me, darling,” he said in a low whisper. “I have never felt as powerless as I did then. I can’t let go of it.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” you said, your tone softening. “You can’t poke illness with a sword to make it go away.”

“Gods, I wish I could,” he mumbled into your hair.

“I know,” you said and then turned around to face him. “But you can’t act as if I am dying every single time I get sick.”

He kissed your forehead. You smiled

“When did you last sleep?” you asked. “You have bags under your eyes.”

“Well, I had a nap earlier…” he said and shrugged, his eyes struggling to keep open.

He was so clearly lying. You frowned at him.

“Your heart will combust from stress the day you will finally get me pregnant,” you teased. “It is this for months, dearest. You need sleep.”

He yawned and shook his head.

“I’m fine.”

“I won’t get any better by you staring at me all day like I will grow a second head if you blink. Go to bed.”

He shook his head again. His eyes were slowly closing.

“You will get sick if you stay,” you continued.

He let out a deep groan and rolled onto his back. He lifted his arm. You tutted at him and laid your head on his chest.

“A compromise then,” he said. “I stay here with you.”

“I don’t think you know what that word means. That’s just you getting what you want.”

He let out a tired chuckle. It was the first time you had heard anything that resembled a laugh out of him in days.

“Mhm,” he said. “And I will close my eyes for a little bit just to make you happy.”

You huffed and smiled. You felt better already, just by his presence.

“Fine then.”

To the east, at Storm’s End, the land is plagued by darkness. Clouds and rain and storm, unending. Winds that rip up old Oaks with even the deepest of roots. Marked by stone castles and cottages, marked by time and sea. Cracked and chipped cobblestone, moss filling and festering in its wounds. Pure, unrestrained sunshine is rare. The people are warriors and sailors, products of their lands. Even more so the lords are storm lords; commanders of the sea and sky.

Lord Lyonel Baratheon was a storm incarnate. Wild and brash. Loud and unyielding. However the Laughing Storm could also bring a calmness when you were caught by his eye. That was when you saw it, the clarity and spark of light that he held deep within him hidden by the persona that he kept for appearances.

Lyonel had approached on that fateful day in the fields beyond the walls. You, a flower, peaking your face beyond the tall grass watching as he drew near. You expected the storm, loud gloating of his escapades in battle, as the cloud that was this man blocked the sun from reaching you. A stiff back and pleasant facade set in place before the man dropped to the ground next to you. “Well all these pleasantries are quite dull, aren’t they?”

The abrupt nature of the comment forced a giggle out of you before it could be swallowed down. Raising a hand to your face, you attempt to hide the grin that has graced it. “My lord, I'm most honored that this has all been raised in my name. In honor of the future, my future. It would be rather rude of me to…,” you pause. “To remain thankless in times like these.”

“My dear lady, you did not answer my question.” He chuckles at the practiced pose you speak with.

Glancing over at him, you observe him looking up to the skies above, a void of blue and light, leaning back on an outstretched hand. He is quite the handsome man. Seeming to feel your stare piercing him, he matches your gaze before a full, hearty smile overtakes his features.

You sigh, looking away. “May I be frank, my lord?”

“Of course.”

“I am so fucking tired of the pleasantries. Lord after lord coating their words with a thick honeyed sweetness so sickly it smells of death. It betrays their intentions so early. They wish to pluck me and take me for display back in their castles. Proclaim that they own the great flower of Highgarden while I bear the work and strain of cultivating their heirs for them. I will be prized til I wilt under the weight of expectation and age; then I will be thrown away with the other rubbish of the household…” You chance a glance back to the man before you. A look of sorrow and understanding has overtaken him. He nods his head before looking back to the sky.

“What do you wish to do?”

“I- I am sorry my lord… I do not know what you mean…”

He huffs out the slightest of chuckles at the clumsiness of it. “What do you wish of your future? Do you wish to grow old in a library of books? Do you wish to bear all the children the gods will or none at all? What do you want for your life to be as you enter into the rest of your life?”

You give pause. Your mind swirls with the possibilities and ideas of a future you have never been allowed to consider. A life of your own making. A world beyond the words and thoughts that you were told to think and say. The silence stretches out but he does not disturb it. There is a comfortability to it.

“I do not know…” Its earnest and true, he knows it is. “I suppose all I would wish for is a good husband and the time to consider and grow who I may truly be.” 

He looks upon you and it appears he is glancing into your soul. “Then will you allow me to be that? You will have to guide me with the first half but I can promise you the latter.” He extends his hand to you, allowing you the choice in many ways to take it.

“I would be honored Lord Baratheon,” you smile, a true carefree smile, as your hand meets his.

He pulls your hands entwined to his lips as he lays a kiss upon the back of your hand. “Just Lyonel, my dear.”

That is when the rest of your eternity started. The tales were spun of the improper warlord who stole a gentle lady from her place amongst the grass. Innocence incarnate taken by the darkness of the storm. But you knew, and he knew, that it was a release rather than a capture. He freed you from a future in a gilded cage. He was the rain upon your rose that bred growth and prosperity.

The coldness was consuming, everpresent, and – at this point – absolutely unbearable.

You had abandoned the attempts to maintain your proud posture, and hunched your shoulders. Truth be told, you managed to forget the violent shiver that shook your body.

The weather turned out to be cruel to you and your dornish suite.

“A proper stormlander welcoming, my lady” jested one of the ladies that accompanied you, when she offered you another blanket.

Cheerful as she was, you could see she was trembling as well when she leaned closer.

“The sea is vicious today… means your husband will not be.”

You giggled out loud, as the cold made you forget all the ladylike manners. The sound was nervous, perhaps a sign of mourning, or it was merely a way to scold the girl’s delusions. She kept smiling at you like she really knew what she was talking about.

“Let’s not get our hopes up just yet. I want to get to Storm’s End alive first.” You grunted your teeth to stop the gasp, when the ship leaned over to the side.

If there was really a connection between the temper of the sea and your newlywed Lord Husband, he must be a man with a heart of gold. Even in Dorne the weather was difficult these past few weeks, which led your father to a decision of speeding up the marriage through sending a proxy to Storm’s End.

From what you’ve heard, Lord Lyonel Baratheon wasn’t very pleased with the presence of an intermediary sent from Dorne, but eventually he agreed. The reason that sending the dornish princess herself would be a risk, was called a crucial aspect that managed to convince the man.

That’s how you found yourself on the way, not to step foot in the stormlands as a bride to be, a stranger woman promised to the lord, but a Lady of Storm’s End. The legitimacy of the marriage and all assurances were yet to be made, but the title managed to offer you a little satisfaction while suffering the cold breeze.

Your closest company teased you a bit, calling you all the names stormlanders would soon use, but a single burning glare was enough to stop them. You called the whole arrangement inconvenient whenever someone asked, but in the truth of your heart all you felt was anger.

Not this raging feeling that could make you go against your father and his advisors, not the one which caused ladies to starve themselves or – even worse – jump into the water as a desperate saving. No, what you felt was disappointment and an abuse of your freedom.

You always knew marriage was your future – but the stormlands? It was just cruelty to force you, a sunkissed princess, used to wine and sweet fruits, into this kingdom of constant rain, stone and not much more. Your father smiled, when you pointed that out and tried to plead to him to reconsider your options. “Aren’t you a ray of sunshine yourself? You will brighten every castle you visit, no matter if it’s in the stormlands, the north or in the afterlife, my child.”

Cruel fucking figure of speach, you wanted to spat, betraying your little friendships with guards and servants who willingly taught you their language. You could brighten your own way for a while, sure, but for how long? Were you supposed to go mad from the lack of sun, or – if Lord Lyonel turned out to be a merciful man – on the travels between Storm’s End and your family home, going back to him only when an heir was needed?

You couldn’t really blame Lord Baratheon for his choice, but that didn’t mean he was free of your aversion. All he got from that union was advantages. At least if he didn’t consider a wife by his side a burden.

You wanted to laugh at your own fate: you were being traded alongside fair options for food supplies. The rocky land ruled by Baratheons provided little chances of tillage and agriculture. You heard about the current lord’s liking for feasting and hosting guests, which only led to a conclusion he had a grand need for the supplies.

“Look out, princess! We are close,” one of your friends called, holding herself up on the railing and looking at the dim contour of Storm’s End.

You heard one of the servants mutter that you can’t see a damn thing in this fucking weather, and you couldn’t agree more.

You wanted to step closer, yet you were stopped by a teasing word from one of the guards.

“...Or don’t look out, if you are to vomit all over your fancy gown.” It was meant as a joke, nothing mean, but the mere memory of the suffering many crew members went through was terrible.

“Watch it, ser,” you grunted.

“What, aren’t you happy to see your home now, lady of thundery puddle?”

“Your brain will be turned into a thundery puddle if you don’t stop it.”

Your tipsy companions laughed at your words. It was enough for now, to remain into the normality of life, without losing yourself into pity.

When the voyage came to an end, you took one last glare around the ship, before leaving with your suite.

You could see the gathered people in the dock, with a man who wielded his pride at the front. He would look superior over others even if he didn’t wear that hilarious crown of his. You did not intend to mock it, though – perhaps he would let you borrow it?

The Lord of Stormlands, unlike you, wasn't bothered by a little rain, of course. Wet hair on his face and clothes clinging to his body made him look a little less cheerful than you expected. The Laughing Storm, they called him. Well, for now he looked like a very serious storm; loud, dangerous and with thunders in his eyes.

You almost jumped in place when a deafening roar struck on the sea.

Lord Lyonel stood closer than most of his men, who were hiding from the rain. Apparently he cared not about taking cover. It was a risky step, to make his first appearance in front of you as a lord dripping in rain, but he must have thinked that through. Instead of pathetic, he looked fearless. He was the first person anyone could notice and he intended for it to remain that way.

That was now his ship, his woman and his business… or that's at least how you imagined his approach.

As a princess of Dorne you were raised with more liberty than other ladies, but you were still expected to stay as stoic as you could, and always offer thoughtful advice. You cannot expect stoicism from a woman who just accepted her fate as food for the fishes, though.

You were used to traveling, yes, but certainly not to storms like this one. When you stepped on the bridge, you could feel the sudden happiness, and you were sure you won’t look at the sea for many days now without feeling nausea coming up.

One of your guards led the way down to the dock, with your lady in waiting following after him. 

She insisted on walking in front of you in case the wood was slippy, and she was right to do so.

Just after a few steps, she yelped and would fall forward, if not for your firm grasp on her arm and waist. She looked behind when she regained her ballance and you were met with a scared face, that quickly changed into amusement. She hunched a bit to suppress a laugh that soon broke out of her mouth. She threw an arm around your shoulders when you still clinged to her – partially worried that you would slip too. 

Your giggle followed – a nervous, loud as the storm itself laugh shook your body.

“We are alive, my lady–” she tried to say to calm herself. It was an absurd thing to say, but you shared this thankfulness a lot.

You were both aware of the scene that you caused, but it was little help to stop the reactions. You were now glad for the rain; perhaps it made the gathered men not notice all of it.

“Barely, but we are,” you agreed and held her hand to carefully walk down.

Even when you greeted Lord Baratheon, you were still wiping the tears caused by laughing.

“I worried for a moment,” he spoke up, poorly hiding the bold smile on his face, “that I will have to fish out my bride out of the water before even setting my eyes upon her.”

“I feared so too, my lord. But here I am – wet, but not drowned,” you couldn’t help but go through that mild, how your father would call it, humiliation, with a little humour.

You were proved only partially right. The stormlands were grim and disgusting, yes, but unlike your husband.

You were not any less displeased by the arrangement, though. Lyonel at least tried to pretend, but his patience in the act was going low. You managed to have the first heated argument in the first week of your shared life, but the outcome satisfied you.

“The feast I hosted for our wedding… Well, the first one. It was the grandest party of Storm’s End,” he bragged one day, and he was met with a scoff.

“Shame on you. How dare you even speak of it to me?”

He didn’t know you long enough to notice the spark of irony on your face.

“What? Oh gods, what is the problem now, wife?”

“That I wasn’t here! You’re telling me about the fun that was taken away from me!”

Only now he smiled. Oh, he liked that a lot.

With a chivalrous bow he made a promise to make a revelry as great as the first one every year, to honour you. It didn’t matter if he meant it – and you learned that he did – the gesture itself was rather charming.

What truly warmed your heart was his reaction to your gift. You took a small risk picking it, as it was an unusual present for a lord, but you made up your mind the moment whispers came to your ears. Lyonel Baratheon was a man of little conventionality, fond of jewellery, gold and shows of his own authority.

The small package was carefully kept in your night stand, until you decided the moment to be proper. Earrings from proper gold, adorned with a small stone at the top. It was not a piece of jewellery most ladies would wear willingly, yet still, you wondered if it would offend him.

His brows frowned and he kept the small thing up to the light, to see it sparkle.

“It’s only fair if you wear the other one,” he said suddenly, already on the other side of the chamber, looking at the mirror with the single earring held close to his face.

“The other one?”

“Aye. I’ll look like a damsel with both of them. One is perfectly enough. Original enough for me.”

You hummed to yourself.

“So… you like it, Lyonel?”

He turned to you with a confused expression and opened his arms.

“Of course, I like it,” he said, like it was obvious. “It’s gold…”

“Gods, you are a damsel.”

“Be quiet and fetch a maester for me. He will pierce my ear right about now.” He waved his hand to rush you, and you giggled.

That moment you recognized that perhaps the differences between your dornish habits and his fierceness of a storm weren’t so significant, after all.

The weather was the one thing that you could not bear, and it wasn’t turning any better with time.

“Well, what can I do, my wife?” Lyonel wailed, mimicking your complaints.

You were still in bed, buried in the covers held up to your chin. You refused to go out, since it was too cold (and you were aware it was a day of Lyonel’s audiences with his subjects, which bore you greatly). He wouldn’t admit that, but he liked showing off his young dornish wife who could charm the moody smallfolk.

He did this for years now, but suddenly the idea of showing up alone, without you by his side, was unpleasant. It was easy to get used to your presents on such days. You giggled when he did, and scoffed when he did, without even looking at him. If any of you imitated the other, it was him.

“It’s not like I can control the weather,” he muttered, menacingly holding onto the sheets, ready to yank them off of you.

But your grip was hard, and he had to let go if he didn’t want to tear the material in two. He didn’t mind insanities like that… but in different circumstances.

“You should be able to…”

“What was that?” He dared you to repeat with a dashing smile.

Before you could answer, the door opened, showing a young servant girl. She almost jumped, seeing her lord leaning over the bed, and apologized, to run away before any of you could say anything.

“Girl!” Lyonel ordered her to come back right away. “Fetch your lady a layered gown and a thick cloak, so she’s not a pile of ice by the evening.”

But you were not cold anymore. You were entertained.

Your careful stare must have scared the girl, because she looked down when she offered you your options of clothing. You said to Lyonel that you would join him soon, and even if he wasn’t sure that you won’t go back to bed right away, he agreed to leave.

“My lady, I am truly, terribly sorry for interrupting…” the girl tried, thinking your glares were caused  by her sudden presence.

It wasn’t. You looked, because you recognized her.

“There is no need to be sorry,” you assured her.

“I’m rather new here, my lady. I felt a bit too sure about myself…”

“I know you. Your name is Alyne,” you recalled, and she nodded. Poor girl had no idea how you could know it. “Someone told me about you on one of the feasts… You fancy the trapper boy, Lord Donddarion’s youngest bastard.”

He dropped the comb that she held to help you with your hair. He was pale for a moment, only to turn red. She hid her trembling arms behind her back and looked down.

“You know a lot, my lady, for a dornish woman…” she said quietly, surprising you.

Bold words, as you expected her to plead to not be scolded.

“Are you trying to offend me, dear Alyne?” You chipped, rather jokingly.

Her head shot up.

“No! My lady, never! I’m too bold again, I am so sorry…”

“Calm now. I want to hear about the boy that you have eyes for.”

The dornish liking for love and romances woke up in you, and you could feel all your day has just brightened up. You could see it in others as well, but truth be told, you were mostly excited about speaking of it to your husband.

Maybe he turned out to be quite the company, after all.

It was also a nice occupation to not go mad from the damned weather. You needed to focus on things, even the smallest – which lead you to taking on the embroidering, a thing that always bored you greatly.

If Storm’s End never saw Lord and Lady Baratheon playing matchmakers to their subject, it could see it now.

“You want to tell me you never noticed?” You asked with reproach, completely struck at how blind Lyonel could be.

He tried to play it off as uninteresting, but you knew that to be a lie.

“Do you think I’m bored in my life? I have duties, things that occupy my mind! I don’t look out for the commotions of commoners.”

“You certainly are very bored most of the time,” you noticed, making him roll his eyes.

“I will call in for the trapper, find him some occupation to stroll around your Alyne girl,” he promised nonetheless. “I must say I find it quite interesting, this dornish passion of yours…”

All you could do was smack a hand on his shoulder and smile leniently before leaving. It would take him some more time to find himself an object of this passion… But Lyonel was a stubborn man. He could walk behind you for hours, and it seemed that it was his own form of occupation. Even though you reminded him of his duties, he often brushed them off as “unimportant compared to keeping company to his picky, needy wife”.

You didn’t have to wait long. Soon enough the new pair that you sparked hope for, went to you with the question to allow their engagement.

Alyne held your hand, when the two of you looked out from the corner, as her lover awaited the blessing from Lord Lyonel.

“Milady… I will name my firstborn after you!” She promised in excitement. “And if it shall be a boy, then after the lord!”

“No, you will not!” You scolded immediately, but with a hand on her shoulder. You smiled brightly. “That’s terrible. Give the child a good name, proper and without  tyrants of the same name, preferably.”

You couldn’t notice your husband coming closer behind you, and he unceremoniously pulled you to his chest.

“Name him Orys, after the founder of house–” he started advising the girl, but you threw a hand up to stop him.

“Name him what you’d like,” you corrected, cutting your husband’s words.

You could hear Lyonel sigh. “And be merciful to your man, not like my wife here…”

a/n: i say a Dunk fic is coming up next... what do you think?