#akot

You had no doubt about it, he had told you many times over the last few days, but the fear of the night ahead sat so deep in your bones, mere words didn't seem to be able to shake it. Still, you nodded and took a few breaths.

"That's it, just breathe,” he murmured and the way he said it reminded you of your wedding night, having used the same words when he slowly pushed inside you for the first time. 

He had bedded you on your wedding night, so there would be no doubts about the legitimacy of your marriage. Baelor had tried to make it as enjoyable as possible for you with the circumstances at hand — essentially bedding a stranger that was also quite a bit older than you and not having had very many sexual experiences before. It had hurt at the beginning, but by the end you had found pleasure in the way he moved inside of you. 

For a few weeks after, he wouldn't touch you, though. Not until trust had been established and a certain physical attraction could no longer be denied. Nights together became more frequent as you became more acquainted with him and your own sexuality and he always put your pleasure above his, with his hands, his mouth or his cock.

You calmed down for effectively five seconds, desire flooding your body at the memory, before your thoughts started spiraling again, becoming restless once more, fingers fidgeting in his hands.

Baelor took you in. He had tried calming you with words and reassurances, but none of it seemed to work, nothing seemed to be able to take your mind off of it. But where words seemed to fail, maybe something else wouldn't. Maybe you simply needed a more physical approach and an idea took hold in his mind. He guided you both towards the bed, you standing in front of him, the bed behind him.

He let go of your hands and placed on the sides of your face instead.

"Do you trust me?" He asked and you only nodded, wide eyed, not knowing what to expect.

"I want to hear you say it," he said before asking again.

This time you breathed a quiet "yes" that seemed to please him. He sank down to sit on the bed.

"Come, lay yourself across my lap," he spoke, patting his thigh with one hand as he looked up at you. You hesitated which only made him raise an expectant brow at you, but there was also a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It felt a little awkward, but you did as you were told, your middle over his lap with your arms and legs resting on the plush mattress. One hand resting on your shoulder blade, while his other hand smoothed over your back and down the swell of your bottom. You could still feel the heat of his hand through the many layers of fabric and it almost immediately made you relax a little, body growing less taut, head lowering to rest on the bed, too.

"Good girl," he said, voice barely above a whisper. He could probably see it and feel it too with the way you were draped on top of him. It was then one of his hands slowly slid under the fabric of your skirts, pushing them up as he trailed his hand over your calf and thigh until your ass was bared to him. You were wearing smallclothes but it did not make you feel less exposed, even if you had been naked in front of him numerous times now.

"Baelor," you breathed, not really knowing what he was going to do to you, but feeling a strange sense of arousal from being in this position.

"Relax." His hand kept gliding over your exposed skin, the heat of it more noticeable now, only interrupted by the cold metal of his rings. "Tell me if you want me to stop."

You nodded, but right now, this felt good - soothing - and you didn't want him to stop.

And neither did Baelor.

He knew he had some more unconventional appetites, but when you came to him with your innocence intact and almost untouched, he knew he had to take it slow. And he had dreamed of having you like this.

His big hand sliding over your skin, soft and unmarked — and gods — he couldn't wait to leave his.

It didn't take long for him to notice your fingers absentmindedly tapping on the blankets again, drumming a random rhythm. This time however, he wasn't going to use words to distract you. Instead he lifted his hand and brought it down on your ass in a swift movement.

You let out a gasp, it didn't hurt but it took you by surprised and you turned your head to look at him. Again there was only that raised brow of his, so you dropped your head again. To his satisfaction he also noticed your fingers had stilled and he didn't wait for them to start again before he brought his hand down a second time a little harder. The first one had been measuring, wanting to see how you'd react. The second one had a little more impact.

Another gasp escaped as he soothes the sting with his hand, the skin already having reddened slightly. It was a third spank which had you bite your lip to stop the noise that threatened to come out of your mouth and you weren’t quite sure if it was going to be a moan or a yelp. That last one having sat on the edge of painful, but the way his hand immediately went to rub over the sting made it bearable. It was a combination of pain and pleasure you had never felt before.

“Now I’d like you to count every hit,” he said with gravel in his voice. “Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes. Yes I can,” you breathed while nodding, you would’ve said yes to almost anything if it meant he kept going, the feeling of his hand on you almost addictive. 

He didn’t start right away, instead he made you wait a few more second before he struck again.

“One,” you said, suppressing a moan.

“Good girl,” he hummed and the hand that wasn’t on your ass pet the top of your head in gentle strokes and you wallowed in his praise before he continued. 

You had counted five slaps and your ass was red in earnest now with heat radiating from it and it was an even prettier sight than Baelor had imagined and the way you took to it so easily, so eager to please him, he couldn’t help but get hard. 

He wanted this to be about you, to help you stop thinking for a bit, but he was also only a man of flesh and blood. And if you took to this so well — he could only imagine all the other filthy things he could get you to do.

By the sixth, you were squirming in his lap again, but this time for completely different reasons. You were trying to rub your thighs together to get some relief for the ache that had begun at your core, which also made you aware of his hardness pressing against your abdomen.

The anticipation between each hit, paired with the sting and the soothing hands after, as well as all the muttered praises that made for an intoxicating combination you could see yourself getting addicted to. You were craving to hear how well you were doing for him, how pretty you looked with your ass red and how perfect you were.

But you also had to focus, not wanting to lose count with all of that, so there was no space for any more thoughts in your brain. You could barely even remember what got you into this situation. 

It was number eight when Baelor could see the wetness seep through your smallclothes and he had to suppress a groan himself. He wanted to glide his fingers under the fabric and feel the wetness there and have you come around his fingers, but he restrained himself. 

You counted ten spanks when you were almost close to tears. From the pain, from the pleasure, from the overwhelming feeling of it all. 

Baelor knew he had to stop. He could tell it was almost getting to be too much but also because if he didn’t stop now, he’d have you on your back and there would be no chance you’d make it to the gathering tonight. So despite himself, he glided his hands over your dark red, hot skin some more and then brushed the layers of your skirts down again. A soft whine of protest left your lips, but he only helped you up and you winced slightly as you came to sit on the edge of the bed. 

Tears were gathering in your lash line and your skin was flush all over and Baelor thought you have never looked more beautiful. 

He wiped a single fallen tear from your cheek and then leaned in to capture your lips with his own. It was hungrier than usual and held a promise of more. 

“You did so well for me,” he whispered against your lips, so close that they touched with every word he spoke. 

“And now every time you sit down or the fabric of your skirts brush against your ass, you’ll be thinking of me.” He kissed you again and you practically melted into it, his kiss, his touch, his words. But you also wanted more, the ache between your legs still present and growing.

“Fuck me, please.” You could barely believe the words you were saying with your mind fogged with lust, never having spoken like this to him or asked for it so directly. This time he couldn’t help but groan at how wanton you were and how quickly he got you there. 

“After the gathering,” he said between kisses, which was not at all what you wanted to hear and you whined in response. He tutted at you, but a smirk on his lips betrayed him.

“Only good girls get rewarded.”

You pouted slightly, but tried to pull yourself out of the lustful haze. 

"Ah!" He exclaims over the music and crowd, feet knocking into goblets of wine and mead as he stumbles down, "There you are! My beautiful queen."

He leans in to kiss her, one hand grasping at her face while the other presses a glass bottle of some spirit to her cheek in its stead, his kiss is sloppy against her lips.

"I had this- what is this?" He knocks away her goblet of water aside, the liquid spilling on the floor before brandishing the bottle proudly, "I had this imported from Dorne, and I have just had a w-wonderful idea!"

Her hands come out to steady him as he sways, his eyes unfocused as he watches her expectantly.

"You're drunk, my love," She chuckles. She's barely buzzed compared to him, and his brow furrows, looking at her indignantly.

"That is beshides the point, my... my gor-gorgeous, darling girl." He slurs. He grasps for a small glass and holds it in front of her face, smiling giddily, "I put this here."

"Lyonel!" She snaps when he pushes the glass into her cleavage, making sure it sits snuggly between her warm, soft breasts that he loves so so much... She has to push him back when he starts messily kissing and biting at her skin as if there weren't a party swirling around them, "Get a hold of yourself!"

"Mmmm... hold." He mumbles, reaching for her hips, "Hold you. Nāena... Nāenana."

The table behind her screeches against the stone floor when he gracelessly backs her up against it.

"Right!" His eyes light up when he remembers what he was doing, holding up the bottle again and pulling the cork out with his teeth, "N-now hold still... I have to po-pour this."

His hand sways and surges, filling the glass and then some, pouring the liquor all over her bodice.

"You moved." He accuses, clumsily setting aside the bottle with a thud

"I did not, you're too sloshed to stand!" She grimaces, "What in the seven hells do you plan to do now?"

"She's mad at me." He frowns, his fingers pressing into her hips. He doesn't mean to speak his thoughts aloud, but they come anyway. "Not allowed to be mad- she loves me."

"I do, but-" She agrees, the words and annoyance in her voice dying away when he sinks to his knees.

"My queen," He murmurs devoutly, kissing along her stomach, his hands grasping the back of her thighs through her skirts, "My goddess."

One hand wanders up to knead her ass as he nuzzles against her.

"Get up, you absolute fool," She sighs adoringly, her hand running through his hair, worried that if she doesn't step in soon, the daft man she loves would prostrate himself before her like a monk at the feet of the gods.

He grunts as he tries to do what she asks on drunken, uncooperative limbs. His mouth trails kisses up her bodice, suckling slightly on a patch of alcohol-soaked fabric before wrapping his lips around the rim of the glass betwixt her tits. He buries his nose there with it for a moment then tosses his head back, downing the Dornish spirit quickly.

The glass cracks when it falls from his lips and collides with the stone floor. With his mouth now free again, he presses his face back in, as if looking for a second drink, licking and nipping at every bit of liquor-drenched skin he can find.

"Come with me." His voice is muffled by her breasts, and he pulls away to drag her toward the dancing mass of bodies in the center of the dining hall.

"I think not." She chuckles lovingly, "It's well into the morrow, my Handsome Stag. It would be best if at least one of us were awake to greet our guests in the morn."

He melts into her kiss completely, helplessly grabbing at her when she pulls away.

"Nāenelle." He whines into her shift when she moves to stand, his arms wrapping tightly around her plush body, keeping her in bed with him, "Stay. Mm... my fucking head."

"That, my love, is what you get for drinking your way across Westeros in a single night," She says softly, her fingers combing through his unruly curls.

He'd only come to bed a few hours before, around the time the sun began to rise, and he was unwilling to let his pillow- er, his wife, leave him alone now. What if he needed to feel her sweet lips on his forehead? Was he to wander all of Storm's End to find her under the assault of the blinding sun? He thinks not. She will stay here, with him, in his arms.