#denial

You’ve noticed when he walks the deck of this ship, he doesn’t even falter or stumble. He swings around the ropes because he’s done it all his life. Trades bawdy songs with the sailors. Laughs that thunderous great laugh when the ship breaks a tall wave. Cuts it through like a butter knife.

Barrelling through life as he usually does. His ship is no exception. As much a part of him as his own arms and legs. You watched him on deck. Authority sewn in every step.

You were sailing from Tarth. Homebound. Any minute now, the colossal mountain of brick that was Storms End, would be rising upon you out of the headland. Ser Quentyn Tarth had hosted you at Evenfall Hall for the name day of his son.

You’re stood at the side of the ship. Watching the waves leap. The silver blue scales that rolled and tossed under the seers eye of the sun. The spray that spat up.

The ship lists. Tilting to one side. Bobbing and slamming down. Waves dash salt and foam up the side. Your stomach curdled in protest.

You reach out and steady yourself holding onto a rope. Close your eyes and fight the wave of sickness that grips you bodily. A dizzying rush pulsing your insides. Your breakfast roils unpleasantly in your stomach.

“Now you are emerald green. My storm.”

You sigh. “I am not unwell. I am just… tender.” You decide.

You swallow. Throat dry. Mouth feeling salt stung. When you open your eyes and peer across. Lyonel has not moved. Not an inch. His expression unchanged.

“Tender…” He chews the word around.

“Hmm. Well, I suppose the things we got up to last night was enough to make a Dornishman blush. It is entirely unsurprising that parts of you are… tender.” He raises his brows with that last word. Curls it around his tongue all salacious.

You’d both been drinking. Quite a bit. Too much wine. It had led to a carnal encounter in the beautiful Evenfall gardens.

Your hands pressed to the castle wall as he pinned your skirts to your waist. Took you hard and rough from behind. Hands dug into the globes of your ass. Slamming into you. All rough passion and bruising teeth on your neck. Left you dripping when he was done. Then kindly got to his knees to lap you up.

Between your thighs throbs now with the memory of it.

You shift where you stand. His beard left a burn on the backs of your thighs. “Not like that.” You inform.

“I could take your mind off it….” He offers. Standing with his back to the water. Eyes turned to you. The look he gives is dipped in flirt.

“How?” You check. Frowning.

“Take you to my cabin right now for a quick tongue fuck.” He leers. “I have a large bed and a very nice cabin.”

“Thank you. But I fear I must decline. I need the air.”

The ship lurched and slammed down again. He barely flinched. Your breakfast threatened to make a sudden appearance. Bile building on the back of your tongue like clammy wildfire.

He’s watching you with continuing interest.

You were a Stormlander. That is no meagre title. It is a feat earned with determined grit and sheer tenacity. Born and bred. Iron spine. Sailing shipbreaker bay should have been a stroll for a girl like you. You were raised on ship and sea and storm before you could even walk or talk.

“You are not usually so unsturdy. Sweeting.” Suspicion narrowed his eyes.

You close your eyes and breathe the mineral sharp air. The fierce breeze whipped hair back off your face. Twirled it behind you. The sun spun through it.

It swayed the cold gems that draped your ears. Bashing them into your neck. Sapphires set in gold. Glinting in the sun like you’d captured a piece of the sea to take home.

“I attribute that to the loud company I keep. And the revelries of that feast last night…I suppose I overindulged. I had two flagons of arbour gold. is it any wonder my head is delicate this morning.”

“It was merry was it not?” He grins. Fantastically so.

“You drank a barrel of wine to yourself. And ended the night dancing on the tables so I would say so.” You remind him.

He looks awfully smug. “When have I ever wasted a good celebration.”

“Never, my heart.” You assure. “And I’m sure you never will.”

He comes across. Tucked his arm around you. Drew you back. Letting his cloak enfold you at the sides. Rests his chin on the crown of your head. Nectarine honey blossoms of your perfume meets his nose. Your soft silky hair at his lips.

“You’re sure it’s just seasickness?” He asks.

His cloak snaps on the wind where he tried to keep it around you. Burnt birch and clove oil. The scent that wraps him up. So you can always tell what way the storm is coming from. You just have to find that clove-woodsy scent on the air he brings. It comforts you.

“I’m fine.” You repeat. “The sooner I can plant my feet on sturdy land. The better.”

The ship lists to one side again. You groan. Grip that rope tight once again. Closing your eyes. Breathing evenly and exhaling low and slow. Bile climbing into the back of your mouth too easily.

“I have you.” He mumbles. Arms strong around you. Chest at your back.

You smooth your gloved hands around his.

You smile. Cause he always does. Always had. Even when you weren’t intended for each other. He loomed large in your life like storm clouds. And you’re never the type of girl to run from the rain they threatened.

“No wine with supper tonight.” You propose. Leaning back to the brace of his arms. “And perhaps we’ll retire early”

He smiles. “As my lady commands.” Hands linking around your waist. Pulling you back to his larger frame.

Arms crossed over your belt. The golden one he’d gifted. It slinks to rest low on your hips. The clasp was a stags head. And the pin slotted in your braided hair coiffure, was a golden stag with sapphires set as eyes.

You’d rolled your eyes. But ultimately let your maid slide the decorations on you. You were a Baratheon bride. It was naturally expected to support your husbands sigil and colours.

But let it be known he saw with a hint of pride that the clasp for your cloak chain around your neck, was a lightning bolt. The old with the new. You’d insisted.

His mouth snuck its devious way down to your neck. Beard scratching behind your ear in a way that suddenly got your stomach swooping for a different reason.

“Quick tongue fuck is still on the table by the way.” He offers again.

You pat his hand.

“I know you can’t. But, do shut up.”

You pushed your spoon around the bowl for the third time.

He watches you out the corner of his eyes. You think he’s studying a letter. Crop figures. Dull as dirt. Hence why his eyes turned to you.

Breakfast you always took together in the dining hall. A tradition you clung too after you married.

He was carving and picking over his own plate which groaned with crisped bacon, baked crusty bread, oiled fish, two fried eggs and a dark stout beer.

His attention couldn’t be more on you.

You’re tracing shapes in the gloopy porridge. Seeing what impressions the spoon carves.

Looking at it like it was a bowl of slugs laid before you. Steam wafting up into your face. Curling tendrils of sugary milk and the warm earthy hum of oats.

You swallow. Leave the spoon on the side. Push the plate away. Reach for the green mint tea you’d asked for. It was sharp, but you seemed to prefer the taste of it to the thick porridge you used to take. Cream and sugar. Each morning.

Now the thought of it made you heave.

He thought back to your dinner the previous eve. Mutton chops, fried but still tender, with sage. And duck fat scalded potatoes and yellow turnips.

You barely ate more than two mouthfuls. Yet come the sweets, you’d asked for seconds of the sharp blackberry and cream tarts.

He lowers his letter to the table. Studying your face carefully.

“Everything alright, my storm?” He asks.

Voice falling loud and sudden off the cavernous walls. Skipping over the swish and burn of the tallow candles that soared gentle smoke up in the air. Trickling to enmesh with the thick shafts of light from the high windows.

He studies your face when you turn to him. The sudden smile that plastered over your expression. Masking the frown that had been there.

A careful smile. He doesn’t do careful.

“I think I need some fresh air. I’ve been shuttered up inside too long. Maybe a ride out would do me some good. Care to come?” You seek. Placing your teacup down.

“Unless you’ve business to attend.” You add. You know there’s usually three or four things per day that require his attention and input.

“Of course. But I can ignore that. One of my skills.” He grins.

“Shall we?” He asks. Pushing his chair back from the table.

“Irresponsible. But I’ll take it.” You answer.

His hand lands in the dip of your lower back as he leads you through the hallways to change.

You’d need your thick wool riding dress on. The weather of these lands were never kind to fancy silks or fine cottons.

You do look more yourself. He thinks. As his huge black destrier, Storm, clops nicely alongside your temperate chestnut gelding, Bolt.

You look more recovered. Out on horseback. In the misty enclave of ancient gnarled trees. The scent of dried leaves, churned with mucky thick mud. The miserly wet hanging of fog on the air. Cold ozone and the flavour of old rain on your tongue. It’s like manna to you. Home.

The feeling of a saddle beneath you. The creak of leather. The slow rhythmic pace. It’s like it returned something of you to yourself. You were never a lady to sit idle.

You take deep breaths. Silver air spurning out your mouth like a ghostly spirit. Gentle rain beading in white gems down your dark purple cloak. The way it framed your face with the hood. The back of it spilling over your horse and around you to shield from uncaring elements at that snuck in anyway.

You turned to look skywards. Face tilted up. Rain speckled across your cheeks like a soft caress.

Still he watches you. Cataloguing your renewed energy. The way you’re looking at these misty rainy woods like they’re a part of you, you’ve missed. The easy countenance of your smile does something to his heart he can’t lay name too. Something he’s happy to know is ownership

You turn back and catch him staring. Brown eyes sunk into you. He’s forgone a cloak. Rain tamps his wild hair back. Beads down and drips off his beard, and the end of his nose.

“What is it?” You ask. Cheeks gleaming with dewy rain.

“Nothing. My storm.” He smiles.

He’s climbing the stairs of the tower to your room. When he spies the maid who tends you.

She curtseys a polite bob of a nod. And tells him that you’re sleeping.

It’s barely nightfall. He takes that with a nod. Thanks her. Makes his way to your shared chambers.

Now you had his concern. His entire concern if he was honest. The little changes of late had been mounting;

The bags under your eyes had darkened. You complained one of your dresses now felt tight around the waist. The other day he’d slid his hand under your nightgown to cup your breast, when you were slowly waking up abed, and you’d hissed like a poisonous beast had bitten you.

You’d been snappish with his steward too. - though the bastard often deserves it. Over some nonsense grain accounts. You’d flung vitriol at him and corrected him with a viciousness bred in your tongue.

He reckons he can determine the root cause of these changes.

The creak of the door whines on its hinges like a dying gull. Showing him the serenity of the room within. All is soft and dark. Copper candles spurn the black clumps of dark that stick to the corners. Shapes that shiver with the flame from the large hearth.

You are a wrapped sprawl on the bed. Curled into the pillows. The poster drapes drawn up a little. Skirts spilling over the side of the bed like a toppled bottle of ink.

He kept his steps gentle. Soft boots on the stones. Eases down onto the mattress. Slinks across and settled with a sigh by your side.

He watched your expression. The caramel copper of your face caught in the half light. Dark shadows that melted in the corners of your eyes. Down your lashes. Caught the smooth of your cheeks in the light. The pull of your lips. Shine of your hair.

“My savage storm.” He whispers. Trailing his lips along your temple. His beard abrading your soft skin.

You groan. A sleepy soft noise that wrinkled at the back of your throat.

“Lyonel.” You whisper. Silk shifting where you moved. Said his name with peaceful reverence, like a lover would. All soft edges and lulled tones. Sleep husked whispers.

You crack open your eyes. Candlelight sparks and glimmers across them like amber sherry caught in a glass.

He leans back. Shared the pillow with you. Strokes his thumb over your warmed cheek. Grazed red from where it met with the pillow.

“I think I should tell you something.” He begins gently.

“What is it?” You ask. “Something wrong?” you ask. Peeling your sleepy tongue off the roof of your mouth. Going to sit up. He keeps you pressed where you are.

He grins. He can’t not.

“No. Everything is very, very, quite right.”

Your eyes squint at him.

“Are you drunk?” You seek. It wouldn’t be a complete shock if he was. That was mostly his prevailing condition.

He cups your face. Thumbs your cheek. He is drunk these days. Drunk at all times even when there isn’t a cup in his hand. Drunk with love of you - and now the little one that is to come.

“Sweeting. I think you might be with child. Our child.”

Your expression is an absolute picture. He watches the gears click and turn in your mind. Adding up all the little happenstances of late. A crinkle forms between your brows. Crowning the space there.

“Pregnant?” You surmise.

“Hardly a surprise. The way we’ve been going about it. Frankly, I’m shocked it’s taken this long.” He leers. Winking at you like a scoundrel.

“We’ve hardly been discreet. I’ve been spilling in you every damn day since our wedding night - and quite a bit before.” He cheeks.

“Pregnant.” You repeat. As if tasting the word for the first time. A revelation.

He laughs. It’s such a joyous sound.

Fracturing the silence of the chamber.

“I shall send for the Maester in the morning. To confirm. But from what I’ve seen, I’m certain.” He smirks.

“For the rest of the night. I want nothing beyond these four walls. I want it to be just you. Me. And our little stag makes three.” He beams.

Sliding his hand down to rest on your stomach. Thumb swiping an arc over your belly. The tide of gratitude and excitement in him was a huge swell he couldn’t quash.

“How in the seven hells did you figure it out before I did?” You gawp.

He winks. “Dogged husbandly intuition.”

“I thought it was just- tiredness. I suppose I have been abnormally tired. I did bite your poor stewards head off too. But he deserved that he was being an ass.”

Lyonel smiles to hear that. You do keep everyone on their toes that’s for certain. You are whip smart and so fantastic at beating out the laziness or slothful attitude from courtiers, or cousins, or stewards. Never let it be said Lady Baratheon met this world with a placid, winsome nature. You met it like a spark to a line of gunpowder.

“And the food- I wondered why the smell of roast boar suddenly makes me want to heave.” You speak aloud. As if to yourself. Eyes wandering across the room.

He chuckles. Slides himself down the bed to march an onslaught of kisses to your silk clad stomach.

“Your mother is usually the most hard-headed, sensible woman. Don’t hold this against her. Little stag.” He nudged his nose into you. Kisses your belly in quick succession after he speaks. Nuzzling.

“You will be glorious. Storm bred. Look at you? Barely a moon old. Already you are weakening the mighty house of lightning.” He catches your eye.

“Enough cheek out of you.” You sass.

“Making your poor mother green on a ship. Putting her off her food. You’re a relentless little thing already. Can’t wait to see you tumbling around. Knocking into this world like the stormy fury you’ll be.”

“My heart-“ you reach down and lose your fingers in that tangle of grey curls. “You do know this child will not be born with antlers. If anything only for my sake...”

“Hush your impertinence. He will if he knows what’s good for him. He’s a Baratheon with a Dondarrion for a mother. He’s going to be the storm that will shake the world.”

“He might be a girl.” You point out. Stroking your hand through his hair.

He grins up at you, like a mad man.

“All the better. Then she’ll have your lightning, sweeting. Of that I’ve not one shred of doubt.” He shakes his head. “And she will be fucking splendid.”

He leans down and kisses your stomach once again.

Before he moves up and throws his lips to yours in a powerful kiss that crushes you to the bed. Enough to make you squeak. Cupping his face. Thumbs on his cheeks. The heel of your hands brushing against that greying beard.

“You’d be happy if I bore you a daughter?” You check. The crinkle between your brows was back. Sharing the muggy air after a heavy kiss. Pressed nearly nose to nose.

You know how deep the lines of succession run here. Rooted deeper and more bloodied than any vein. An ancient old monster that hangs over every noble castle like a great beast. Long teeth. Ruthless. Waiting in the dark. Stubborn and as punishing as flames.

Men, women, and children have died in their thousands on the cursed altar that was the succession. Wars and death have followed lines like hunting hounds. Many a mishap too. Murder disguised as the gods fate.

Falls from cliffs. Hunting accidents. Dying in the battlefield that was the birthing bed. Poison dropped in a cup. All things designed to slip someone out of the way and place another heir in the family seat.

It would break your heart to pieces and grind it to powder, to see it happen to your roaring, boisterous husband. The sour faces and sneering talk it would bring, scorn and disappointment, if the mighty house Baratheon’s first heir to the laughing storm was a girl.

He makes his opinion very plain. Forcefully so.

“Our child is a blessing. No matter what they are. Soon the Stormlands shall have three fucking storms to contend with. I ask you. What could be more glorious?” He beams.

Caging you to the bed. Kissing up your neck til you laugh at the tickle of his lips. He finds your mouth again and kisses you like a drowning man whose seen land for the first time in weeks.

Married in a storm.

Married to a man who follows storms like they are his birthright.

And now you’ve bred a little storm of your own making in your belly. Seven help you.

“Good thing we’ve never had a taste for peace and calm in this house.” You decide. Resting your forehead to his. “I’ve a feeling we’ll be having none of it in due course.”

He kisses your cheek. A soft smack that brings a huge smile to your mouth. If that’s his sole occupation in this place, then so be it.

“Excellent.” He smirks.