Write in progress

After that you spent your days with your children, often having a new one by the time the next one rolled around. Though every year when you questioned him about what he wanted for a gift he never did quite give you an answer. 

You typically gifted him something he could use. New clothing, scabbards, weapons, or with input from the children in what they wanted to give their father.

This year you took matters into your own hands. 

“When you said you had a gift this was not what I was expecting,” he stated, the door shutting behind him quickly, barring it to prevent anyone from disturbing the pair of you.

You sat up slightly, wearing nothing except the grin that filled your face, “Yes it was,” you argued. The sheet that had been pulled over your chest to cover your chest slipping down to lay in your lap. 

He shook his head as he began to unbutton his doublet. You made a hum on approval which caused his fingers to work faster, but not fast enough in your own opinion. 

“If you take any longer husband I will have to get myself started.” You pushed the covers away fully exposing yourself causing the man’s cock to harden even further, as your legs spread presenting the glory that he was eager to be inside.

“You are a vixen,” he muttered, tossing his boot halfway across the room, hitting something, but neither of you seemed to truly care. 

“You loved that about me,” you countered, your fingers trailing your belly before dipping in between your folds. You let out that sound you knew drove him wild as your fingers gathered your slickness circling your clit slowly. 

“Wait for me!” your husband hissed continuing to try and undress himself, but you ignored him. 

“Be faster,” you moaned, your head dipping back as you played with your cunt. 

“Sevens fucks,” he muttered, stumbling slightly over his pants and breeches as he kicked both to the floor before finally having freed himself from his clothes. He moved quickly crawling up the bed until he was over you.

He snatched your hand out from in between your legs holding in between the pair of you as he trapped you in between his muscular thighs on either side of your hips. “I told you to wait,” he told you. 

You only grinned up at him. He shook his head before opening his mouth and pulling your hand into the warmth, “This tastes better than any sweets could,” he told you, his tongue moving around your fingers cleaning them fully. 

Once he deemed he was done he grabbed your arm leading it above your head before he did the same to the other, wrapping his left hand around your wrists as he stroked himself with his right. 

“I told you to wait, and now you are going to pay the consequences.”

You rolled your eyes, and opened your mouth to retort, but instead he leaned down pressing his mouth to yours. He used your surprise to his advantage, slipping his tongue into your mouth. You moaned slightly as you could taste yourself on him. 

Maekar pulled away so he could look at your face. He watched your face contort as he slipped himself into your drooling hole with one thrust. You tried to fight against him to free your hands, but he was stronger, holding both down with ease. 

“Maekar,” you whined, wanting to run your hand down the muscles of his back. 

He didn’t reply, only beginning to move his hips against yours. He withdrew himself only completely, before slamming down into you harshing causing your eyes to roll back, “No insolent remark now, dear wife?” he asked, fucking into you brutally continuously. 

You tried to form a coherent remark, you tried to say something that would cause him to roll his eyes or perhaps even deliver a smack across your ass, but you were so full of your husband you could not truly think of anything but him. 

Him and his cock that was currently fucking you so deliciously you were sure that you could have finished just from this alone, but you knew he would not allow you to get off that easy for disobeying him. 

The wet sound of him fucking in and out of your cunt paired with the noise of his flesh slapping against yours. He finally freed your hand, but you hardly had any time to acknowledge the fact before he was flipping the pair of you over without ever withdrawing himself. 

You now sat above him, stilling for only a moment before you took over grinding your hips down against his. He leaned back with a pleased smirk on his lips, his arms moved behind his head as you watched his biceps flex, “Give me my gift, jorrāeliarzy ñuha.”

Your hands braced themself against the faded scars of his chest, your nails digging crescents into his pale skin. ‘You look so fucking beautiful like this,” he told you. 

You knew exactly what he meant. Wrecked. Your hair no doubt disheveled your eyes almost fully blown as you used his cock to chase your release. 

You dug your nails further into him response causing him to hiss slightly, but he still did not move his hands from behind his head as he watched you fuck yourself down onto him. 

“You’re close.”

It wasn’t a question, but a mere observation. He knew you. He knew your body better than he did his own, and could no doubt map it out with his eyes closed if he ever needed too. 

You only nodded in response, moving your hips quicker, your clit rubbing against the hair at the base of his cock. Your head tilted back slightly as you coil felt the coil in your belly almost ready to snap, your thighs shaking slightly on either side of his hips. 

“My pretty wife is going to cum all over my cock. Such a great nameday gift,” he cooed, his voice half mocking, but you hardly cared. 

“Oh, Maekar,” you cried, as you finally felt your orgasm wash over you. 

Your entire body felt boneless, as the white hot feeling of relief filled your body to the brim, your vision going blurry. Your husband immediately shot forward from his laxed position, his arms wrapping around your back holding you to him. 

He took over, letting you go limp against him as he fucked up into you through your high until you felt his cock twitch inside you moments later filling you with his seed for the countless time. 

He did not stop there, thrusting up into you lazily, as his spent slowly began to drip out the sides no doubt making a mess, but neither of you cared. You clenched around him, tears of over stimulation gathering in your eyes as he began to reharden. 

“Happy nameday, Maekar,” you mumbled, but sounded slightly slurred as if you were drunk off cock. 

“You are the best gift, my love,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “Now why don’t you be a good wife and get on your hands and knees.”

maekar taglist: @sacha1slytherin @erylilly @thebl00dwyrm @ilocuras24 @xkatherinexo @eleventhboi @alaeratrrn @vigilante24ish @alecriminn @kravitzwhore @loveslide @xostarrgirl @claerysa @karakatitsa-sonya @ghost-heart34 @princessphilly @eowyns-fantasy @hourastius @aryaslittleneedle

Slait has to have Lyonel to help pin you down as he cleans it best he can. Salve of green nettles smeared over it. Makes the whole thing look sickly. But the heat recedes. Somehow the old fool did something right.

It breaks his heart anew to see you squirm and moan in pain. Throat bared back on the pillow. Glistening a film of fever sweat. He has to grit his teeth through it. Turn his head away as you thrash and cry under his pressing palms.

You had the wound, but your struggling cries lodged an arrow into his heart-

He sleeps in fistfuls. Bits gathered up here and there like loose threads. Fitful starts and stops when he thinks he hears your breathing change or when you shift and moan in your sleep. Sheets twisting adound your body in your sweat-wicked linen shift.

Mostly he’s in a hard oak chair. By your bedside. Sometimes stretched across the small cushioned settee seat in front of the fire if his back or shoulder seizes in pain too much. Boots propped on the end.

When he thinks of your children seeing you this way, his heart sinks like a stone. He’s been so preoccupied in here, watching over you. He knows they must be feeling the sting of his neglect by now. It is an unintentional hurt.

The spare moments he had, went to eating very little, a heel of bread. A wedge of hard cheese. Or gulping down too much wine. He hasn’t had a full nights sleep since they brought you back. He feels it’s his due punishment.

Ser Seldan had come in yesterday and stood near him. Wrinkled his nose in a grimaced sniff. Told him plainly that he stank. Thus offered to take watch as Lyonel went off. Hastily dunked himself in a sudsy bath. Scrubbed himself like he didn’t care if he took skin off. Storming back in. Still pulling on a shirt, skin wet, and calling Seldan a fussy wolf cunt.

Jory had seen you for a handful of minutes put together. Lyonel insists with a stubborn tongue and a fatherly glare, that he not shirk his lessons. Or his time in the training yard with Seldan.

His sons face when he breaks that news to him; he’ll never forget the expression. The pinch of his dark brows, and the saddened scowl that begged to understand. A child’s reasoning left wanting.

“She wouldn’t want you to hide yourself away. Fretting. She’d want you out there on a ship in the fierce winds. Or in the yard with Seldan. Or engaged wirh your tutors for your lessons. So you get to tell her of all the glorious things you did, when she wakes up.”

He saw the fight rise on his tongue; the want to contradict. He opened his mouth to argue. And promptly swallowed. Words never making it past his teeth.

“I don’t want her to think I don’t care about what happened.” Jory mumbles. Eyes, dark and wet, slither across to the bed where you lay.

“Jory…” Lyonel sighs. Lovelorn. “She could never think that of you. My heart. You are her child. She would tell you it’s not your place or your duty to dwell on such things.”

Jory peers across at you again. Eyes remarkably sincere. Hurt still banked in then. Something he doesn’t know how to weild as yet.

“Will you find who did this…” He searches his father’s face. Boyish. Gently almost. Yet his voice held an affronted slither of iron. A stomping hoof of a little stag.

“Aye.” Lyonel nods. “I will.” He palms his sons shoulder. Lean growing bones under his padded black surcoat. Gold stag on the breast. He looked mollified. Though not by much. Lyonel knows true enough the insult they all felt as to your grevious injury, poisoned like sour leaf on all their tongues.

“Now—“ he commands. Leaning down to press a kiss to his sons tufted curls of hair. The way it falls, bouncing curls across his eyes like his own does. Hand cupping the back of his strong neck.

“Out of my sight young stag. You’ve a master of arms waiting upon you.” He guides him quietly to the door. Jory looks back. Wanting to better grasp all this.

“Disobey me at your peril.” He warns. Voice growing mighty. The voice that could split a room. The one he used to silence dissension in a heartbeat.

Jorys sighed. And off he is sent.

Lyonel Baratheon did not give. He sends his grieving son away to action.

He heard not an hour after, his Castellan reported Jory broke two wooden training swords, and a practice dummy has been disemboweled of all its straw innards. Thanks to his sons rage. Seldan took him by the shoulder and told him what a fine job he’d done.

Lyonel wants his son to work. Work on the rage as his father had taught him. Baratheon men held tempers that’s true enough- blustery, wild things. Things that couldn’t contain them.

Jorys has lightning fury and a storm held in his blood. He needs the outlet.

Lyonel was shown to direct the anger into his hands. Go to the yard and knock five men sideways. Train with swords until his knuckles and fingers bruised. Take to his ship and sail towards the nearest, devious looking storm cloud. Not to mope. He didn’t wish it upon his boy to rot every second waiting for news, like he was.

His daughters have their diversions too. He’s seen to that. He allows them brief visits. So he can see them too. And to let them dote on you if they wished. Liri brushes your hair for you. Ceres tucks a different doll each day under your covers.

They keep going to pick flowers with Septa Laurane. Blooms sit now drooping in the glass jar on your bedside. Wildflowers from the headlands. Blooms that cling on stubbornly to crags in the unbreakable rocks. Vicious, determined little things. Stung with sea salt on the petals. Smells like home.

Septa Laurane informed them, there was nothing more desolating in spirit, than leaving flowers to rot when someone is unwell.

Ceres took this advice on as a personal life or death duty. This sickroom now reeks of flowers. Each day they bring you new bunches.

His youngest would come and plonk herself artlessly on his lap. He’d reel her in for a hug. Sit her on his knee. Liri was too old for that now. It cheers him to know one of his girls isn’t too grown as yet to not need embracing.

“Papa. You look bad.” Ceres declares. Seeing him from up close. The eye bags. Eyes reddened and bloodshot. Beard and hair in equal disarray.

Lyonel smothers a yawn. Eyes drooping like a bloodhound’s, and they can all see it. “That’s kind. Sweet pea.” He offers in mock offence.

He doesn’t smell of his usual cloves and oranges. The oils he uses in his beard that smears and lingers when he kisses their heads. There’s none of that.

His shirt is the one he wore yesterday. His beard needs a trim. His hair is wild amd tugged about from his fingers, and the curls droop. He smells of sea salt and sweat. Rumpled clammy cotton. Worry.

Liri wades in on the discussion. “Truly. You don’t look well. Father.”

“I could go off you both. You know.” He narrows his eyes to them. The dynamite flick of his humour surfacing. It never was far.

They didn’t mean it. They were just near enough to see the toll this has taken.

Ceres sits, fidgets on his lap. All bony elbows and jutting knees. Fiddling with her doll. Asking if she can talk to you-

“Can mama hear me?” She asked of him. Turning back. Trepidation living on her voice.

“She can always hear you. Bug.” He assures. Clearing his throat. Smoothing a tired, careful hand over her babyish thin hair. It tumbled in wavy thick coils to her shoulders. Baratheon ink black. Soft as silk.

He may aswell have opened the floodgates. She rabbits on and on about her days events, like a little songbird.

Spouting about how she got her sums wrong. Septa Laurane told her off for not concentrating enough. How she didn’t much care for lamprey pie. That her embroidery work, which she did not excel at, looked like something that she’d done using only her feet. Or teeth.

Olira drew his attention. Where Ceres was all babble and spilling over with calm natured animation. His eldest daughter bore a silence that captured his notice.

She wore her worry as heavy as a widows veil. Sat at the end of your bed with a look that felt like she had all the seven kingdoms heaped on her rounded shoulders. Her mouth pressed into a firm line. Scared.

He takes pause for a moment. As Ceres finally ran out of words to describe her favourite cheese to you.

“Olira?” He seeks.

She turns to him. Expression still glum. Tears ribboning fat, scored trails down her cheeks. “Why won’t she wake?” She asks. Sounding very resigned to tear-logged sorrow.

Lyonel’s face falls to a sombre expression. He tries the hollow courtesy of explaining.

“She’s had a lot happen to her. My sweet. When injuries are severe like this, the body can take its time to recover. She needs rest.”

He spied the tell tale wobble of her lip as he explained.

“I don’t want to be without a mother.” Comes spouting out of her, just as the tears do. Big and falling like heavy pear-drop shaped gems down her cheeks.

He stands and puts Ceres down. Next to her on the bed. Clumps them side by side together. Gets them both captured in his arms.

His tongue curls up in his mouth. Fear shrivels it. But he endeavours to remain hopeful in his answer.

“We’ve done all we can. We just need to be patient. And trust your mother will make her way back to us—“

“If she dies. You’ll have to marry someone else… I’d hate that. I would hate anyone who wasn’t her. They’d detest us and send us away because we’re girls. Septa Laurane told us noble Lords must have wives to have lots of male heirs. You only have Jory.” Tears grow and hysteria mounts her voice. She’s picking at her dress in her lap.

Lyonel listens to a very young terror take his eldest daughter. Smothers her right into his chest with a hand stroking the back of her head. Carding down the bend of her dark hair.

“Easy. Easy. You’re alright.” He soothes. Letting her cry it out. Every frustration vented. Wet little sobs muffled on his shirt. Tear stains blooming on the fabric. He pulls back and makes sure she sees him. Eyes sinking to her own. Wet and dark.

He won’t pretend her fears aren’t valid. She’s given form and voice to the worries that flash their shining teeth at him, in the night when shadows fall darker. And hope feels brittle as burnt twine.

“No one is sending you anywhere whilst I draw breath. Nor am I now, or ever, marrying anyone else. There’s not another fucking soul on this earth that could replace your mother, and put up with me. You hear me?” He asks.

She nods. Wiping her dripping nose on the back of her hand. He produces a crumpled kerchief from his pocket. One that did smell like orange soap. Knights were always supposed to carry one. For young ladies. He’s too old to break the exception now.

She dabs her eyes with it.

“Come now. She wouldn’t want to see you in tears.” He tried to cheer. Hand soft on her upper arm. Ceres lovingly pressed her ragged doll into Liri’s lap. Something to help bring comfort.

“Thank you. Ceres. That was kind.” He proffers. She nods. A jut of her chin that made her look wise beyond her five years.

“Don’t cry.” She urges toward her sister. Small and chirping. Reaching a little hand out and shaking her sisters thigh. As if she could rattle the tears away. Sink the words into her skin by touch alone.

“Mama will be ok…” Ceres parrots. Holds his his gaze a moment. “She hates when you’re upset.”

“Yes. She does.” Lyonel adds. Tacking on to the very wise words of his ebullient five year old. “In fact. I think she’d forbid it.” He japes.

Liri smiles. It’s faint. But he’ll take it. He scrunched the handkerchief up in her hand. Both his cupping over hers.

“She’ll come back. This I swear.” He nods. And he puts such stock into believing it.

Because he can’t even begin to entertain what will happen if you don’t.

Part V here

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She dumped the tray down on the table next to his seat, with a fierce thump. Cutlery and crockery, rattling together, as if loose teeth in a drunkards skull.

He jumped out his very fucking skin. Mid snore.

So much so, he bolted from his seat with a cry of“Son of a cunting whore.”

The blanket he had draped on his shoulder fell to his lap. His boots slapping the flagstones. Alarm still bleeding through him. Night had fallen. It had felt like but an hour since the girls left.

Lonna fixed on him a glare that could turn even a stout wilding, into a cowering maiden.

Bony hands braced on her hips. Nobbled knuckles and scarred hands and arms. More scars criss-crossed on her arms than a wonky butchers block. The knowledge that with said hands she could dissect a pig carcass, or joint a hen with minimal fuss rather set him on edge. A woman who knew how bones behaved, and could pluck them apart if needed. Frightening power indeed.

“Ugh. Gods. It’s you.” He bemoans. Realising who’d dared wake him in such a manner. He rubs the sleep out his dry, bleary eyes.

“Who let you out the cooking room.” He sasses.

She ultimately ignores him. Glares venom for his cursing. Same way she did when she was a young lording. Caught with his sticky thieving hands on the honey cakes. Or when she’d threatened to swill his tongue with soap, when she caught a foul word fall from his mouth.

“You’re no good to her, starving away to skin and bone. Stop asking for more fucking wine. Eat something.” She growls.

“You do remember I am the Lord of Storms End, Lonna…” Lyonel sighed. Feeling like a green boy being ticked off by his mother, yet again. He wiped a hand down his brow.

“I can remember thrashing your bony sorry arse with a wooden spoon, when you misbehaved as an errant child. Shall I try that again?” She threatens. Eyes narrowing. Coming closer.

He feels the need to shrivel back under the blanket and protect himself. He’d need a shield for that. Mere fabric is no match for this old sea monster.

“You’d have to catch me first. Dear heart.” He flashes his best tired grin. Picking the blanket up off his feet with a strained groan. Chair cracking and creaking under him.

She barks a sound that could have been a dry old laugh on anyone else. Brittle as metal scraping on itself. She stands with hands on her hips. None of his nonsense tolerated.

“I could make mince meat of you. Boy. Don’t test me.”

Lyonel let’s a small smile take his lips. Always a tonic. His dear old Lonna.

She’s known him man and boy in this house. And possibly even before that. When he was no more than a burgeoning lump under his mothers dress. One of the first to hold him, so she was.

His ornery cook nods to the bed. “How is she?”

“Much unchanged.” He confesses. Hope lived as a burning kernel on his voice.

“Don’t let that doddery witch feed her anymore of his potions and tonics. Shes over the worst. Now she needs to get her strength up. Good strong beef broth. And sugared tea. That’ll see her right. You mark my words.” She points a bony finger at him in warning.

He feels thin. As run through, scraped dry, as he’s sure he looks. Hollow as a dragon bone.

“Consider them marked.”

“What she gets from that muck he pours down her. I don’t rightly know. Weeds most like.”

“Tis a good thing then. That you are not a maester.”

He watches her cross the room. She had a way of walking that could flatten army commanders. Every step struck with purpose. She moved the way a dagger did. No nonsense. All carve. The kind of figure that strolled through rooms filled with knives, scalding iron pots, and open flames without so much a wince.

She stands by your bedside. Lovingly pats the covers by your hand. Her dry, marred back of her fingers seek your brow. Tests the warmth leeching off you. Still not quite right.

“Aye. I’m not a maester. But I’ve seen more spring sickness and poxes fall on this house than you’ve had lovers. I know what a body needs for strength and nourishment. She’s pale still. Poor thing.” Lonna laments.

She swings round and checks. Scrupulous eyes swiping at him. As gouging as red hot pokers. “How fares you?”

“Never better.” He lies. Stacking humour and charm in front of his pain.

The laughing storm has blown through. This weak, drunken and starved shell of just Lyonel, is all that’s left.

“There’s pie there that needs eating. Don’t let it grow cold. Venison. Leeks and greens too. Eat every last bit. You need the iron. I’ll have broth for her made, and sent up soon as.” She orders. Made him feel like a squire again in his own bedchamber.

He doubts he had the energy or appetite to even lift the fork to his face. “I’m not hungry.”

“You need fuel. You fool. Get it down ya.” She urges.

“I’ve no appetite.”

“Grief makes you hollow. You’ll need something filling.”

“Do you pray? Lonna?” He asks. Sudden.

“I do.”

He’s never really been one for the gods. He toasted to them in mockery and spat in their face without fear. His whole life had been an endless insulting jab at their expense. Roaring parties, men and women in his bed for a good time only. Fighting and jousting worthy foes. The only time he ever went near a Sept, was for a wedding, or a burying.

Faith had never been his ally. He tucked his head down and bashed his path out in life with a sturdy set of antlers. Carved it out of blood and bravado.

Nothing he gained was ever due to something whisper thin as prayer. He was lucky. He was an heir, and enjoyed well all the spoiled privileges that gave him. Hope and praying were things he never had need of.

Until now.

“Faith was always something that seemed to happen to other people. Maybe those more blessed and deserving than me.” He reaches for the wine goblet. Makes her jaw crack in grit annoyance.

“I’m not sure I can pray much more than I have. For her to be spared. An irony, it seems, asking gods to be merciful when I believe them to be the opposite.”

Lonna considers him carefully. Firelight twists copper in her eyes. Turns their pallid grey to hammered steel.

“I’ve been praying for her. To the mother. Each night. Every morning.” She tells.

Coming to a stand before him. Clasping her bony hand around his where it lay on his lap. Gripping it so tight his bones and knuckles grated. She wasn’t capable of any sort of gentleness. Held hands as if she were kneading dough. Only knew how to plough through and pack a punch.

“As have I.” Lyonel adds. “I’m not precisely sure they’re listening.”

“Course they are. Lad. And I’ll have none of that. She needs you. As do those little stags of yours.”

“I comfort myself with one thing. Shall I tell you? She led her life being a good mother. A dutiful wife. A great, respected lady of Storms End. I pray the gods spare her. Because they can see how she is still needed. How valued. To rob this house of her would be cruel. Aye. It wouldn’t be good sense. So I have faith they’ll see this right.”

“Now. Eat.” His cook barks.

He wishes he could say her bark was worse than her bite. But both were pretty terrible in actuality.

“I shall. Lonna.”

Her jaw tightens. Now.

“I won’t leave this spot until you do.”

He takes in her expression. Resigned. Stubborn as old iron. “You’re not kidding are you?” He checks. Goblet halfway to his mouth.

“You see a smile on this face that kids?”

“No. But that’s normal.”

Her eyes narrow. No way are his arms and wit strong enough to parry with his cook.

“Who exactly do you think is going to come remove me?” She asks. Crossing her sinewy arms.

Of course no guard would dare raise a hand to her. She oversaw the feeding of every mouth in this place. That was a sacred thing to soldiers. The bread she baked. The stews she slaved over. Men marched on their stomachs, and she knew this to be holier than scripture. That gave power.

“Ser Seldan?” Lyonel threatens. Questioning.

She tilts her head. As if.

She’d thrash that wolf to heel, like we was a fucking pup.

He sighs. Defeat it is.

She would fucking stand here til the plate was empty of every last crumb and smear of gravy.

He stands the wine down with an unhappy thunk.

Taking the knife provided, he cuts the pie. The crust gave with a delicious crackle. A tendril of steam uncurls. Flaky butter pastry falling to the steaming gravy and meat within. The smell of rich dark meat and pastry was singing fucking sonnets to his starved body, he can’t deny it.

He spears a bite. Chews it. Warm food filling his stomach. Another bite. And another. The vegetables too. He didn’t fancy her force feeding them down his gullet.

“You are an inhuman terror.” He proclaims. Mouth half full. Brushing pastry crumbs from his beard.

She rolls her eyes over. “Takes one to know one. Mi’lord.”

She does hover until the plate is empty. When he’s sat back wiping his mouth on the napkin. Throwing it down across the plate with flourish. Only then does she come across to take it.

“Less of the fuss next time. If I have to come up with your porridge and kippers come the morn. I really will thrash your sorry arse.” She threatens.

“I don’t doubt it.” He remarks. Snatches the wine goblet before she runs off with it. He doesn’t fancy chasing her down stairs for it.

“They’ll give her back. Lad. Enough of your moping. She needs to wake up and take you to hand. Mopey sod.”

Then she pats his hand. Hauls the tray up to her hold. And marches out as fast as she came.

He didn’t know where to laugh or cry. But he does sleep easier with something warm and solid weighty in his belly.

The knowledge of even her prayers, hang in the room like a tapestry. Chasing the dark thoughts into the corners.

He wakes to thunder. Their drums pound deep and true. Roll across the roof like an army closing in. A heavy battalion of iron heavy clouds take the sky. Unleashing grighteningly strong rain upon the bricks. Weeping at the stone to be let in. The sea roils and breaks. Hungry and spitting foam from the curling waves, like a salivating maw.

He wakes. Neck stiff. Candles near burnt out. Puddling low to melted gold wax pools. Fire a dim mush of grey ash with very little copper embers dwindling, a faint orange held in his antler fire grate.

The room is chilled. Not only washed with the kind of sleepy blue that came before dawns true pinks and copper light, but also the cold, dozy darkness that only a storm brought along. Thick and suffocating.

He blinks himself awake. Eyes immediately darting to your figure in the bed.

Eyes closed. Sweat still on your brow. Chest bloating and sinking. Deep calm breaths. Smooth as a glass sea.

He urged himself out the chair. Back screaming. Neck stiff. Eyes sore and heavy. Mouth stale. He cares not for his rest.

He comes to the bedside. Blinking sleep away. Crusting at the corners of his vision like a stubborn old ox. He lays his hand on your cooled bare upper arm. Tugs the bedclothes over the round hill of you there.

“You seem a better temperature now. My storm.” He remarks gently. Looking down at you. Voice not awake yet in his throat. It climbs out husky and unused.

He leans down. Cups his hand over your brow. The boiling, nasty heat that belted out your skin, is no more. Calm, easy body heat met his palm. A turning point.

He closes his eyes. Sighs. Tips his chin skyward. “Thank the blessed fucking mother.”

His eyes flick back onto you. “Now what’s say you stop this foolish nonsense at once. And come back to us. Lady Storm... I’m really fucking unhappy with you like this. In case that wasn’t clear enough. You listening?” He chastens.

Once the words come, he can’t seem to stop them. They spill out.

“The children are scared out their wits. I really can’t stand that. Ceres has plucked enough flowers for you to outfit a king’s funeral. Liri seems to think they’re going to be whisked away any minute to be imprisoned in a tower, so I can swoop another bride in to remarry. Balls to that by the way-“

“And our boy. Jory-“ he sighs. “My god. There won’t be a thing left in this castle he won’t break in order to sate his anger.” He thinks aloud.

“I’m really. Not…” he breathes out, but it’s shaky. Rubs a knuckle into his eye til it burns. “Really not alright. Without you. My savage storm.”

He sniffs. Ugly truth comes sliding off his tongue.

“I never should have let you out my sight that day. Rest assured you’re not leaving this keep ever again. You’re going nowhere that isn’t stuck with me. I don’t care how mad that will make you. Tough fucking luck. I will chain you to my side.”

He looks down through blurred eyes. “Just come back. You must. I forbid you to go anywhere that doesn’t involve me. If you go to the gods, I will crack open hell with my bare hands, and fight every last one of the cunts to bring you back. So don’t even fucking dare think about going.” He nods.

Lifting your limp hand up to his lips to kiss it. Placing it back down on the covers. Folding a sweat logged lock of hair out your face.

“Come back.” He whispers. Feeling one tear slide down his cheek. Dropping down his face, to his doublet.

He swallows. Touches the side of your face. Watches the dark dawn capture itself in the gleam of sweat on your cheek.

Footsteps come fast up the stairs from beyond in the hall. In a way that makes his chest pulse. Eyes swinging to the door.

It is hastily pushed open from the other side. Not a polite maid - for there came no knock to warn. This was urgent.

This was a soldiers summons.

The whine of the wood seems a loud screech to the dull morning. Lyonel presses his eyes to the gap. And sees Ser Seldan’s stout, blocky shape take up the other side.

His expression was grim as a crypt. About as lifeless as one too. Eyes sharp as dragon glass. Mouth chiselled in a grim line.

He doesn’t have to say a word. His stance bellows it.

Lyonel stares him down. Well?

“Got them.”

Lyonel’s entire chest calcifies. Ribs moulded together with sticky black tar. Heart hardened to a shard of flint. Rage bubbles in his blood like sea foam. His body dropped into a pit of venom and fury.

He’ll remind them there’s a reason they call him a storm made flesh.

Jaw grit. He stands from his chair. Knocks it clean over. Tunnel vision narrowed to rage. Crosses the room in strides that eat the distance like it was nothing.

He takes his long sword off the wall by the fire.

Sedan holds the door open for him. Eyes hard as severe granite, but understanding.

Lyonel pushes past. Hard enough to break bone. He’d flatten any poor soul who crosses his path in this moment. Seldan can only follow the gathering tempest of his Lord. Pray he can keep up.

“Speak.” Lyonel bites. As they ascend he stairs. Boots slap at every step. Crack in the air like a fierce whip. He bolts through the shadows of his home like a dark spectre. Fueled on little sleep and grief. Haunted, grey and gaunt with it.

Seldan must now bare him the ugly truth.

“Our scouts received word of a wagon train from Massey’s Hook this night just gone, carrying silver, grain, and barrels of salted cod from the coast, they came under attack on the same stretch of road. This time we were able to outman them. We had an ambush party of near fourty laying in wait.”

He somehow senses there’s more. He stops his dark, dangerous march on the stair. Side eyes the Knight. Eyes still bloodshot and red. Made him look the terror he was rumoured to be. But there’s no laughter in sight.

“They happened in darkness on the exact location of that wagon train. That takes planning.” Lyonel snaps.

“They had a spy in your house. A maid. The new one. Mayra. She’d been reading reports and ledgers. Gleaned information from parchments. Servants. Guards and the like.”

“She deceived us to be hired here. Was passing messages via one of their own posing as a merchant. They would pass information via gutter snipes out of the stables or kitchens in the early hours.”

“There is more my Lord.”

“Well? Fucking speak it….”

Seldan sighs. A boulder lodged in his throat.

“She is married to the man who attacked Lady Baratheon. The leader. He’s the one we caught. The one who stabbed her.”

Lyonel’s resulting smile is watery. And utterly terrifying.

“Alive. As I asked?” Lyonel seeks.

Seldan knows that look on his face. He fears for it. But he doesn’t begrudge it. Not even for one second.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good.” He spits.

By the time they come to the courtyard, the rain is still pelting. Soldiers gathered. Braziers smoulder to ash at the sides of the yard. Wind howling round all the figures and soldiers stood waiting. Watering horses. All scored in Baratheon yellow.

The caught bandits are on their knees, in the pouring rain, socketed in the dirt. The maid and her bandit. Both in iron shackles.

Lyonel stalks right up. No time to waste. Takes a look at the pitiful pair. Rain drenched the back of his neck and his hair already. No one speaks. They let their lord survey this scene.

The woman he did recognise. No more familiar than another face who served wine or changed the sheets. Still in a ochre maids dress. Kneeling in the mud. Truly she was a plain thing. Dark hair swept into a maids cap. Cheeks crying with rain. Dripping off her sharp chin.

Something he spies about her, chills the blood.

The knife edge of cruelty in her eyes. The lack of remorse across her face for what she’d done. She looked near glad. She’d bled men from this house. Allowed information about you to be bartered. Maybe she even proposed you with a leer as a soft bellied target. One dripping gold and jewels. Maybe she laughed as she let the note slip through her fingers to the bandits. Thinking with greedy eyes of all the riches they could rob from you.

The bandit beside her is scowling. Sneering up at Lyonel. Seldan remains by his side as he steps from person to person. Rain forming puddles under his fine boots. Hammering down on his head. Curls stuck down. Clothes soaked through. But he moved like it didn’t phase him.

“My lord. Are you sure. I’d be happy to dispense justice on your behalf.”

Lyonel is not below getting his hands bloody for this.

“Yes.” He offers. Eyes solidly on the tattered man on his knees.

He throws the scabbard off his sword. Launches it aside. Steps to the man and lays his sword point to crook of the man’s shoulder. Not enough to cut. But he did flinch.

It looked, ironically, as if he were performing some sort of knighting. One held in rotten regard and spilled blood.

“You’re certain this is the man who attacked my wife?” He asks. Voice cutting plainly through the rain. Dripping through the hair swinging to curl in his eyes.

“Positive.” Seldan confirms. Iron surety in his gaze. A death knell curling off his deep, strict voice. A stony faced, northern angel of death.

He nods slowly. “I. Lyonel Baratheon. Of House Baratheon. Lord of Storms End. Sentence you to die.”

The bandit snarls. A smile missing teeth and others festering black. Simply states “Mercy. My Lord.” Though not much meaning it.

Maybe believed Lyonel didn’t have it in him. This pretty lord in his fine clothes and perfumed oils. He was all gold jewellery pretence. Curls stuck black wet, and hanging heavy in his eyes.

Storm and lightning overhead from over ship breaker bay, gets caught in his dark pupils like a new white vein. Highlights the living rage.

His face fell when Lyonel smiled down at him.

“Mercy?” He laughed.

Seldan held his breath.

This inconsequential man had no idea that death had just smiled at him.

Lyonel, now the laughter was done with, planted his boot on the man’s shoulder with a grunt, kicked him onto his back. He had jo choice but to yield. Thumped back to the mud.

Then he stepped over him, and with both hands, drove his sword straight into the man’s gut.

The maid screamed. The storm lashed. Sky split.

Lightning stung the sky after its thunder bellowed like death drums.

Lyonel felt his sword kiss the cobbles. Rain dashed down. Forming a growing red puddle. He’d driven his sword right through him. Delighted in the wide eyed awe on the scums face. Blood gurgled out his mouth. Rain patted it away kindly to the earth.

“What mercy did you show to her? To my men you slaughtered.” Lyonel asks. He made sure to twist the sword. Just a little. The man reached in shackled, cut his fingers on the blade trying to cup it.

He watches the bandits eyes grow cold. And still. Dead glass. He yanks his sword out the body when he’s sure all life has left. He hopes his rotten soul festers with the stranger. Crimson coats the blade.

He stands and surveys the way rain beads off the corpse. It satisfied his furious soul. But not even Storms End rain could cleanse this man of his sins.

“Chuck his body in the sea. Or let it hang as an example to feed the crows. I don’t care which.” He commands.

“The maid, my lord?” Seldan asks.

Watching her scramble and fight in the dirt. Grit under her nails. Fighting the iron hold of the soldiers who clamped her back. Teeth bared like an animal. Tears shine in her wet eyes. Crying and cursing his name and his very being.

Lyonel surveys her. Coldly. Weighing her terrible, deserved choices in his head. Her fate rested in his palms. He won’t raise his blade to a woman. No matter how much he’d like to visit death on her. To send her to the Stranger.

“Get her out my sight. Lock her in the dungeons. Lose the key. If she doesn’t like it, she can join him.”

Fester her with the rats and skulls in the dungeons. Let her live with the terrible stain of treachery. Let everyone know what happens to those who betray this house. Allow the word to spread.

Willard chases the turn of his Lords retreating back. “My Lord…”

He stops. Turns his head. Willard approached him. A cloth held in his soaking hands. One he spreads open. Items within shine bright in the dim.

Lyonel spies that his hands are caked in filth. Dirt under the nails. As if he’d been scrambling around up to his knuckles in the earth.

“I searched the roadside for many hours. But, lo and behold, I finally found it. It got lost in the fray you see. It was dropped. They didn’t have a chance to sell it. I know not what happened to the other jewels, I’m afraid. I thought this one mattered more-“

Lyonel steps closer. Spying the familiar simple plain gold band of a wedding ring laying pure and simple in the cloth in his stewards palm.

He stands there. Blooded sword dripping crimson to the cobbles. Plucks the dirty band of gold from the man’s palm.

“I thank you. Willard. Truly.” He supplies gently. Touched. Ring curled in his fist.

This man had crawled around on hand and knees for hours in the dirt, because he knew what the loss of this meant to the both of you. He’d seen how fiercely you’d fought to protect that token of your marriage, and all it signified.

That was the purest kernel of loyalty he’d ever seen.

Willard nods. Prideful. Rain pasting his hair to his forehead. Other arm clutched like a broken wing to his chest with a sling.

Lyonel walks inside out of the storm. Body cooling on the cobbles behind him. And he doesn’t look back as the maid bellows and curses his name, crying damn near louder than the storm.

He goes straight back to you. Still dripping with rain from the storm. Still with fury warring in his heavy lbones.

He doesn’t even change. Not even taking the time to dry off. To wipe the blood away. He comes to you in his rawest form.

Rests his bloodied sword at the edge of the now lit hearth. Stood dripping crimson down onto the stones.

The candles have been attended. Refreshed to talk tapers of wax again. They glow with lit flame. Breakfast steaming on the side table. Linens over your body refreshed. The silent, kind attendance of a maid.

Dawns light begins to purple the ceiling. Rising up the colour of rose petals, pink and peach, to chase away the drowsy blue. Another day coming.

He doesn’t think he can stand anymore of this.

He rounds the bedside. Clumsily gets on his knees. Bones aching already on the hard stones. Takes your hand, limp still. But warmer and softer to the touch.

He cleans the ring on his shirt sleeve. Before he slips the cold band back onto its rightful place on your finger. Locks his cold, wet fingers through your own. He’s shaking.

Then he falls to the bed. Wet curls resting by your hip as he sets his brow to the covers. He finds tears come. Unbidden. Rushing out of him. Chest bobbing with emotion as it floods from his tired, angered bones. Sobs the pitiful anger out.

He doesn’t care that he feels weak. For the first time in his life he lets himself be just that. Like he’s been drawn through, and scraped raw by this whole thing. He’s not certain he can survive another day without seeing that brilliant flash of your smile. The lulling cadence of your voice when you speak.

He’s happy to stay here and rot by your side because that’s all he knows how to do. That’s all he cares to want.

He’d watch over your bedside for the rest of his natural life if he must. If it meant you’d wake, he’d entomb himself in this room without laughter or fun for the rest of his days.

He’d give anything to have you back. He’d do anything. He’d slaughter ten more men if that’s what it took.

Dawn raises itself even higher in the sky. Brushing away the night. He sobs himself dry. Must have fallen into a shallow bout of sleep again. Time stolen away for a brief black few hours.

He only wakes when he hears the rustle of bed linens. A soft hand tentatively brushes over the top of his head. Weaving sleepy fingertips through the damp silver curls.

“Lyonel.” You croak. Voice weak. Raw with too many days of heavy drugged poppy sleep, and an unmoistened throat.

His head shoots up so fast, it’s dizzying to watch. Mouth agape he looks up the bed.

Your eyes, open and clear, though hooded, are looking down at him from the pillows. He’d never reckoned he’d see their colour again.

For a thundering few heartbeats, he just stares at you. Unfathoming this as real.

Was dreaming still? If so this was the cruelest one yet.

You see his eyes are red-rimmed, salt stung, and bloodshot, shadows bruised and bullied themselves into the puffy bags beneath them. His beard is thicker silver, and untrimmed to an unusual shape. A lack of care or graces to maintain it. His hair stands in wild coils, half flattened wet. Styled if he’s run his hands through it a hundred times, which he has in despair.

Tears shiver at his red lash line. Mouth falling on a cry. You’d never seen Lyonel look as defeated as this. The conquered, bold stag of your husband. Baratheon strong and unflinching.

This is his grieving echo. But it’s him.

“Fuck.” Trips out his wild mouth in a sob before he can stop it. “My storm.”

He raises on his bruised knees, and swallows you right up in his arms. Mouth in your neck. Crushed tight in a hug like a wrapping python. Arm slithered under your neck. Hauling you to him.

You sigh. A weak happy sound filtering from your lips. Painful where he’s clipping your wound where he scooped you up. You splay your uninjured arm across his damp back. Black wet leather soaking your skin.

“Thank fucking gods.” He cries watery. Still stuck in your neck. Stroking your hair out of his dry mouth.

He doesn’t give one shred of care to the fact that you’re filthy. Soaked through with sweat to your shift. Hair unwashed and by now probably clinging with sleep and grease. Breath fouler than a dragons. Haven’t been bathed properly since your return. Dragged through rain, mud and blood. He embraces you like you’ll fall off this earth if he doesn’t. Like you’ll slip back away to that dark void where the gods can take you.

He draws back and cups your face. Dry, callused hands on each of your cheeks. Your tears soaking into palms. “You ever, ever, scare me like that again, I will lock you in this bedchamber for the rest of your days. I bloody mean it.”

You throat crackles on a swallow. “I’m so sorry. Lyonel. I’m so sorry.” Your breath hitches. His name a reverent hymn on your lips. Water logged.

“You must be so angry with me. I tried to diffuse them. I tried to bargain and let us travel in safety and it all went so wrong. So quick. I couldn’t stop it.” You babble. Tongue running dry. Eyes running wet.

He shakes his head. “No. No. None of it. I’ll hear none of it.” He presses his mouth to your slick skin. Sweat kissing his lips. Taste of salt and you on his tongue. He sags to you with pure, naked relief. You smell of old dull copper and whatever green, sharp herbs Slait basted you in.

“You did every right thing.” He assures. Hand sweeping to hold one side of your neck. “From what Seldan told me. My blame is with them. They hurt you for the gold you wore. Nothing more.”

Your shoulder throbs. A deep and persistent pain. A pull under the bandages that’s all tight new skin held with tugging stitches. A heat shifts under the bandages. A small hitch of pain hisses on your intake of breath.

“Are you in pain? You shoulder?” He asks. “Let me send for someone.” He places himself on the bed by your hip. Hand pulled into his on his lap.

“It’s fine. Reminds me I’m awake. Can grow used to feeling my own limbs again.” You flex your fingers.

Milk of the poppy robbed you of all full sensation. Left you with fevered mad imaginings draped over the walls. Seeing things and people that were never there. It slaked you in its fine, swirling distortion for the first few days. That and the fever dreams. Icy and burning all at once. Skin pebbled with goose flesh from being chilled, yet you’d never been so hot.

“My love. You look terrible.” You remark, rasping. He huffs a bittersweet laugh as he tugs your hand to his bristled beard lips.

“You’re no bush full of butterflies yourself, Lady Storm.” He answers back in kind.

A weak laugh breezes through your ribs. He spies heaven in the weak stretch of your grin. There were dark hours preying on his mind when he feared he’d never see it again.

You share a look that’s so poignant, when you spy the wedding band slid back on your ring finger.

“I thought it was lost- they took it.”

He cups over your hand. Fingertip rubbing the gold. The one that matched his own. “This was one thing they could not take from you.”

“How-“ you croak.

“Willard. He went back and searched for it. Bless his sentimental heart. That’s what becomes of a man expecting his first babe. Terribly emotional that one.”

“I must thank him.” You decide. Looking down in painful memory at your hand. Lost under his. Tucked safe again.

“That’s sweet. You think I’m letting you out this room anytime in the next month. Adorable.” He beams.

He helps you manoeuvre yourself enough to shuffle and sit up. Stuffing pillows behind you. Letting you sip from a wooden cup of water. And another and another. So thirsty for it some drips down your chin that he mops away with his fingers.

“The children-“ You seek gently.

“They’re about as alright as I am.” He decides.

You look suddenly tired with the weight of that. Shifting in the bed and pulling the covers to your hips. “Let me bathe and rest awhile before you send for them. I don’t doubt I’ll be half mauled when they know I’m awake.” You grin.

“Rowdy things. Those staglings of ours.”

“Wonder where on earth they get that from.” You remark. Cheekily.

“Now, now.” He chides happily.

“I shall feel more like a human and not a festering wound after a bath and some food.”

He listens to you speak. Watching your eyes close tiredly. Slumping yourself back to the bed. “Anything you wish my love. I shall fetch your food myself.”

He spies the growing bruises that spider web outwards from the wound tucked under your bandages. He shifts the hair off the crook of your neck to better see. An ugly mottling of bottle blue, bruises marring.

Your eyes fall across the room. Landing on the bloodied sword that drips rusty crimson to the flagstones by the hearth.

Your head tilts. Suddenly the world seems very sober.

Your sparkling eyes flick over to him. Stony and taking on the grave seriousness of the situation. His face betrays nothing but stoic gentility.

Ours is the fury.

“Let me get my strength. Then tell me all. Leave nothing back.” You command. Knowing you won’t much like the answer of why his sword is bloodied.

He settles in close. Presses his lips to your brow. Kisses you slow and gentle. “Your wish is my command. Lady storm.”

Your arm comes around him. You breath him in deep. Old leather. Faint old orange soap. Sleep and sweat. Just as ragged as he looks.

He holds you. Close and steady. Hand on the back of your hair. Nose buried in your neck. For the first time in four days, he can breathe deeply again.

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You were truly and thoroughly annoyed by your uncle and, walking towards his office where he so graciously summoned you, wondered what the hell did he want now. 

“There she is,” your uncle was smoking again, talking to some guy you had never seen before, a work acquaintance probably.

He was handsome, kinda cute, tall, brooding, with full lips and the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. He had some facial scarring, but that did nothing to take away from the handsome features of his face.

“This is your new bodyguard,” your uncle continued, ignoring the visible frown that immediately formed on your face.

“My what? What do I need a bodyguard for?”

“Don’t worry about that,” your uncle muttered, lazily waving his hand around. “He’ll be with you 24/7.”

“Is he a robot?” you asked sarcastically, looking the new guy up and down. 

To his credit, he didn’t take the bait, his eyes firmly trained on your face, his glance not dropping towards your tits or your ass, which were both hanging out of your new bikini. 

Your uncle frowned, almost rolling his eyes at you and your bratty ways. You weren’t actually spoiled, maybe a little, but you liked to play it up sometimes, for funsies.

“Does he have a name? Does he speak? When does he sleep? When will he have time off?”

You were fuming; it was totally like your uncle to do something like this. He probably got some death threats and then hired the first muscle he could find, not even thinking that people had rights, and more importantly, lives even outside his shady dealings.

“Baby, come on, I don’t have time for your tantrums right now,” he did sound tired, your uncle. Perhaps these unmentioned threats were a little more serious than you initially thought.

Slowly, you looked back at your new dog. You had one before, and to say that he was a pain in the ass would be an understatement - that guy just wanted easy money and practically turned you into a prisoner in your own home. You hoped this one knew at least some commands.

“John, I do, whenever you sleep, not until the job’s done.”

John, my ass, you thought, but accepted it, without even thinking of asking for his real name. His voice was deep, calm, a practised monotone, but there was something deeply unnerving about the way he spoke. This was no German Shepherd baring his teeth now and then; this was a disciplined mutt that already tasted blood.

“Nice to meet you, John,” you softened a little, reminding yourself that all of this was your uncle’s doing. “Where are you supposed to sleep?”

“Room adjoining yours,” your uncle answered, exhaling a puff of smoke. “And you will leave the doors unlocked.”

With a deep sigh, you nodded again.

“I’m going to the pool,” it was fairly obvious where you were going, but you felt the need to say it anyway. 

John immediately followed behind you, annoying you to no end; the first command you would have to work on was for him to walk next to you, because this was already driving you crazy. He smelled good, though, a high achievement in this scorching sun.

“I’m going out tonight,” you looked up to John from the pool, hanging onto the edge. 

“Where?” 

“Mystique, one of my girlfriends is celebrating her birthday.”

He nodded, watching you through the sunglasses. He would be more comfortable in swim trunks, but it was too early in your purely professional relationship to even suggest that. Instead, you watched the sweat pooling all over his dark grey T-shirt, wondering if his orders were for you two to shower together as well. 

You scolded yourself for being sarcastic in your thoughts again. Promising, again, to speak more kindly to yourself, you decided to float in the pool some more, before you were rudely interrupted by your uncle.

“Baby!” he screamed from somewhere in the house, a living room, if you were not mistaken. “Where are my meds?”

“What the fuck do you mean, where are your meds? In the same place as always!” you shouted back, pushing on your hands and stumbling out of the pool.

“No, no, they are not here!”

You grabbed the first towel to dry your hair and started marching towards the house. Then, you stopped and turned so suddenly that John almost crashed into you.

“Be honest,” you looked up, noticing how broad his shoulders were, “did he hire you to protect me from whoever, or did he hire you to protect him from me?”

John didn’t reply, but you could see a tiny smirk forming in the corners of his lips.

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Now you were not. 

The first night he did not notice, to his own guilt, as his body ached for sleep. He crawled into bed, and succumbed to sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Then morning came and everything came flying back. 

Your request to dine together. 

Missing said dinner. 

Sleeping alone. 

He had tried to talk to you. Though that had not worked in his favor when you turned the complete opposite direction steering clear of him,  and between you chasing around Maekar’s youngest children, keeping the elder boys in line, and him being submerged into his own duties it was easy for you to avoid him. 

This had carried on now for over a week. 

You navigate the halls, turning the other way, or dispatching your eldest son to distract his father so you could slip away. It was eating him away, and tonight as he stared up at the canopy of the bed. Your side empty and cold under his touch he rose from the bed. 

He  moved through the halls with determination. He was going to make things right. This had gone on long enough. He was in the wrong, and he knew that. He was going to take full accountability. 

He reached your door letting out a shaky breath as he attempted to steady himself. “My love, my wife, light of my life. I am so deeply sorry,” he rehearsed to himself, but letting out a nod of approval at the words. 

Baelor called out your name as his knuckles rapped against the wood awaiting an answer, but alas none ever came, “I am coming in,” he declared, pushing the door open without waiting for approval. 

He was ready to beg, to plead, to drop to his knees and assure you that it would not happen again, but nothing came from his mouth as he did not make it past the doorway. His eyes scanned the horizon as he looked for something out of place, a hint that you had been there.

His stomach dropped. His mouth turned into a deep frown. 

You weren’t there. 

And worse of all nothing had been touched. 

The way back into your heart was through the kids. Your pride and joy. The evidence of the life the pair of you had made together. Matarys would not have been up at this hour, but you were. As would Valarr. 

You would go to watch your eldest practice his sword skill. He had devised the plan last night in the quiet of your chambers. He had sat there in the silence for an embarrassingly long time just waiting, prYing almost that you would come back. 

You did not, and when the sun started to rise he took his leave to start the day, but he would not take the familiar path to the tower of the hand where he would rot away for most of the day. 

He would not see this as defeat, but a mere obstacle. He would make things right. He needed to make things right. 

The brisk morning air hit his face when he found you, leaning against the railing. You looked at a vision, the half risen son beaming against your face as it was lighting you, like you were some eternal beauty. 

You smiled, and he felt a warmth fill his chest at the sight. He had only wished it was directed at him, and if things went to plan mayhaps it could be. Your eyes were trained on the courtyard, not having noticed him or if you had you did not acknowledge it. He took a step out, not fully exposing himself, but enough to see what you were looking at. 

He froze in his tracks. Valarr was not training with the master of arms, but rather someone else. Your grin widened as you watched the pair, and for a moment Baelor did not move simply staring at the man, blinking once, twice as if it was his mind playing tricks on him. 

It was not. 

Maekar stood giving instructions to the elder before turning to his own son, the second as his eldest was nowhere to be found. He seemed… different. There was no signature stern pulling at his feature, he was not barking out orders to the boys, and it usually would have made his eldest brother joyful to witness this. 

But then he tilted his head up as if he was being drawn to a force. He smiled at you. Not a half smile, not even his lips turning up cockily. It was real, and it was warm.

That feeling from last night filled his bones again. The pit in his stomach growing in his eyes moved from uncle and nephew to you. 

You sat with a shawl wrapped around yourself. Today you were wearing your own house colors, your hair pulled back. Nothing looked out of place, and you appeared as you always did to most, but not to Baelor who had spent his most of life studying you like scripture. 

Your shoulders lacked the tension they had been carrying these last few months, you look refreshed as if you had slept enough, and most of you seemed happier, to which he would have been glad for it had the next thing not transpired. 

It was the fond expression that filled your face when Maekar turned back to the boys he ruffled Valarr’s head gently as the boy grinned up at the man. There was a wound in Baelor and it felt as if someone was twisting the knife into him deeper, holding it there to make him feel the pain. 

Without saying another word he turned away, moving into the castle before taking the shameful path to the Tower of the Hand.  

Baelor had been making more of a conscious effort to not spend the entire night swapped in his work. Tonight he had even made it to dinner. 

You sat next to him, not that he had given you any chance simply sitting down beside you before Valarr or even Matarys could. Though he was now realizing this was the easy part. 

You had not said a single word to him the entire dinner nor even spared him a glance. This he knew, because he had not touched his food and instead chose to stare at you the entire time in fear that he would miss any stay looks you would bless him with. 

Your laughter still filled the air, and your soft expression still graced the evening, but none was ever directed at him. You nodded listening to every story that your children, nieces, and nephews had to tell you, but every single time your gaze strayed back to the silver haired man across from you. 

He sat back the entire time watching his family as if he was a spectator in his own life. His brother had filled his role, without him evening knowing. He was there, and he was everything that he currently lacked. 

An ache spread across his chest as he watched Maekar’s lips turn up in a half smile trying to hide the smirk at a joke Matarys told him, the way his eyes stayed trained completely on Valarr listening to his every word as he told him about something he read that day, or even the secret glances the two of you kept exchanging. 

This was wrong. All of this was wrong, but he had started this. He was the one that had given the wrong answer in the first place, neglecting his family for duty.

Baelor would have missed it if he had not been watching you so closely. The way your face fell for half a second, as you looked at him through his peripheral vision, and that felt like the final nail into the coffin. 

He had hurt you. He had driven you to this point, and you were not acting out of pure malice, but out of pain. The longing and sadness that no doubt filled you, currently being dulled by the simple fact that someone was putting in the effort with you, that someone wanted you. 

Maekar made time for you without you having to beg. 

He did not truly need the confirmation, but wanted it nonetheless. He should have known from the beginning as you had told him from the very beginning. You had warned him exactly what would happen 

And you were not a woman who bluffed. 

You made good on your word, time and time again. He did not know how he could have forgotten your promise that night. It was his fault in the first place. He had spoken the suggestion into the air. 

He thought he would have been alright with it. He was not sure why he had thought that. Perhaps too busy drowning in duty to realize how sickening it would feel to have the thought that his brother was touching you. That he was the one providing for his family the way he should have been. 

Baelor could feel the shift in the air as he now got closer to Maekar’s chamber, before he could even hear the obscene sounds that he instantly recognized as yours. 

He stood outside the door staring at the wood as he heard you through the door. The loud cries, and mumbled words. The distinct creaking of wood as his brother no doubt plowed into you at a brutal pace that caused your toes to curl. 

He could see it all without having the exact sight in front of him. 

He had all the confirmation he needed, truly. He did not have to push that door open and to see the sight to know exactly what was going on, but he did nonetheless. 

Neither of you even noticed when he entered the room, nor when the door shut, both too lost in the other. Your nails dragged across his pale skin splitting the skin, as his hand was wrapped around your throat, pounding into you brutally. 

You seemed to enjoy it solely by your cries that filled the air, and your hips raising meeting his every thrust. It was an odd sight, to see your wife being pleasured by the person he was closest with. His brother. 

But nonetheless he could not look away or even control the way his body was reacting to the sight. 

Your eyes finally strayed from Maekar’s burning violet gaze that no doubt looked more black due to blown pupils. You did not mean for it to stay anywhere else any longer, but you had to do a double take seeing the presence that occupied the door. 

“Baelor?” you questioned, finally seeing him the door way. 

The man above you, head shot back looking toward the door, a look of bewilderment filling his face. He glanced back at you as if wondering if this was real life and not some sick and twisted dream, but based on your expression it was all the confirmation he seemed to need. 

Maekar went to pull out, to no doubt try and forge words together to explain, but your legs wrapped around his waist. Your hand wrapping around the nape of his neck drawing him close as you whispered something that went unheard to the man in the doorway. 

Baelor did not move. Maekar continued to fuck you once more. And you did not hold back your theatrics.  

Your husband only finally moved from the room when his brother finished into his wife with a guttural groan, as you cried out his name, but your gaze was held on the mismatched eyes by the door. 

Baelor had spent more of his life married to you than not. You had been there though it all. Tourneys, children, whispers, rebellions, and even him being named hand of the king. He might have been the glue keeping the realm together, but you were the bind for your family. 

And he had taken it for granted. He had taken you for granted. 

The door to the chambers opened, and he was immediately on his feet when you finally entered the room for the first time in what felt like forever, but had only been a little over a week. 

“Hi,” he breathed out. 

“Hi,” you replied. 

Neither of you moved, staring at the other waiting for one of you to break the silence. To final be the straw that no doubt would send your emotions both flooding. 

“I have hurt you that sorry seems dull in comparison to what you deserve,” he finally stated, moving forward slowly. He was terrified to send you running when he had you so close to his grasp. 

You hummed, nodding. He watched your face as you slowly seemed to take in his words. Your head moved back and forth debating it for a moment, “I am sorry for the hurt I have caused you…I was,” your words died in your throat for a moment as you looked away from him trying to compose yourself before continuing, “I was so lonely, Baelor.”

“Do not be sorry…I drove you there, and as much as it pains me to see that sight I do not blame you nor Maekar in the slightest.”

Neither of you spoke again, the silence almost felt suffocating for the first time in your marriage. That the pair of you could not function together like you always had due to the large rift between the pair of you. 

He moved toward you, and you did not turn away, allowing him to drop to his knees before you. He reached out gripping your hands on his own, and for the first time in days he felt somewhat more whole with your flesh against his, your eyes boring into his mismatched ones. 

“I am not expecting you to forgive me, and I know we will have to work through this. That I will have to prove to you that I am so deeply sorry, and that this will never, ever happen again,” the tears streamed down his face as he tried to to control his thoughts, but his brain was so m

“Breathe,” you instructed him gently, which was all he needed for the thoughts to order themselves to allow him to properly construct sentences one more time. 

“I love you, more than anything…I have taken you for granted, and I should be sentenced to death for that. I–I cannot exist without you, my love. You are everything, you are the bind of our family and I could not do any of this without you,” he told you, staring up at you from the place of the floor. 

You did not instantly reply, which scared him more. He felt vulnerable, more than he ahd in some time, but he did not regret it. He would drop to his knees, he would walk against hot coal bare foot, and take a sword to the belly if that was what it took for your forgiveness. 

He could only hope you knew he meant the truth, that you knew how much he loved you, how much you meant to him. And he was sure you did, because deep down you knew him better than himself. 

You were each a part of each other, wound so deeply in the other’s soul it would feel as if 

You took a shaky breath, before finally speaking, “Prove it to me.”

He was sure the Gods had just smiled down on him, “I will. I will spend every day for the rest of our lives proving it,”  he told you, pressing his mouth to your hands, as he then leaned forward resting against your belly. 

Finally your hand raised, running through his dark hair, “I have missed you,” you whispered, and he could feel the tears in your words. 

“I am not going anywhere. Not again. I will make things right. We will be okay.”

“I know,” you whispered, and those two small words held more weight than any council statement he had ever delivered. Suddenly a weight lifted off him, the pitt in his stomach seeping out through the liquid dripping from his eyes. “You need to apologize to the boys as well.”

“I will, I will,” he said, moving further into your touch.”

The silence field roomed, as his brain finally felt silent for the first time in days unaware that yours was still working, “Mayhaps we could go to Dragonstone for some time. Just us and the boys.”

He pulled away only to glance up at you allowing your fingers to stay locked into his hair, “I will make arrangements on the morrow. We can stay as long or as short as you would like.”

You smiled at him, and though the tears stained your cheeks, and the smile did not fully reach your eyes, you still held him. You still smiled at him and you were looking at him as if you would never look away again, and Gods he hoped he would never feel your ire ever again. 

“I love you,” you whispered to him. 

His throat felt raw, as he could feel honestly laced through every word. Your heart belonged to him, and his belonged to you no matter what you would go through. It would take some time for the pair of you to feel alright again, but you could achieve it once more. “I love you,” he replied, moving back into you just holding himself there. 

Neither moved. Neither dared to be afraid the walls would come crashing in once more, but when you finally did nothing came flying down causing you both to realize that mayhaps you weren’t as doomed as you had originally thought. 

And when you laid down together simply clinging to each other, everything felt alright for the first time in moons, because he would not allow himself to remember just how important you were to him in the grand scheme of things ever again.

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