#lyonel fic

"What are you talking about, child? Your father scolded you, his eyebrows twitching with tension, but he did not raise his voice. "It will be as I say! Such a blessing has not come to our house in half a century! The heir to Storm's End! Do you know how powerful he is? Lord Gowen Baratheon is old—very old; soon his son will take over as ruler of the entire Stormlands! You will marry him, because the House Swann demands it of you!" He slammed his palm down on the table in front of you, his voice ringing in your ears. You staggered backward, your legs buckling, but not out of fear of your father. 

You barely blossomed, and already they tear off your petals? They pull you out of the dewy soil, roots and all...?

The antlered lord...

You left the room before your anger could turn to tears. Running through the castle, the corridors seemed too narrow. The air was too thin in your lungs. Lady of Storm's End. A house worthy of respect. A mighty castle carved from stone and storm.

And an old man to go with all of it, who will cover you with his cloak…

You knew nothing else about him. Only that he had seen more years than you. More winters. More battles. What could he want from you besides heirs and polite smiles? What can you expect from a man who has had more women in his life than you bled? The hair on the back of your neck stood on end, and your stomach began to churn. It's not too late to saddle your horse under cover of night, put on your cloak, and head for Old Town... If that's too far... fearful that before you get there, they'll discover your scheme and drag you right back... a sanctuary, a convent nearby... that too would do. You'd rather give yourself in eternal vows to the gods than swear eternal fidelity to an aging lord... This cannot be your fate.

The last tournament of the season was intended to be a farewell celebration. Your father allowed you to accompany him with unusual tenderness—perhaps out of guilt, perhaps out of calculation—with only two companions. One last taste of freedom before duty closes its doors behind you. Before your wings are clipped.

The field was adorned with flags and summer colors. Knights thundered past in polished armor, their lances striking like lightning. You laughed louder than you should have. You drank sweeter wine than you should have. You let the wind tousle your hair and pretended that the world would turn upside down in a few moons. Strangely, as if it were a gift, your father did not scold you; he did not take offence when your enthusiasm grew and your worries faded. He knew that despite all your defiance, you had been raised well and would never tarnish the ancient name of House Swann. And in any case. . . you could have put on your cloak and disappeared at any time, only to knock on the door of the nearest monastery for admission. 

The thought lingered longer than it should have.

You imagined the silence. The stone walls. The devout and anonymous life. No storms. No husbands. No heirs waiting to be born.

But you were never made for silence. Your family crest was a swan, black and white, two sides of the same coin. You, too, like the white swan on the summer lake, appeared graceful to everyone, a quiet, delicate creature that looked beautiful in the estate's garden as it swam carefree on the waves. But swans are wild creatures. They are wilder than deer when disturbed. They hiss, bite, and flap their wings if necessary. You too will hiss and bite when the time comes. 

Now you felt like flapping your wings; throwing a fly into your noble father's cup. 

When evening fell, the multitude of tents transformed from a knightly tournament into a lively bazaar. The merchants, shouting vendors, and their wares did not disappear, only rabbit meat was replaced by spiced wine, and bread by betting tickets. The tents were filled with louder and louder groups of people, music, dancing, food, drink, and brawls as far as the eye could see. Sure enough, the starlight did not help your servants see you as you ran from tent to tent—ostensibly to discover the many exciting goods on offer; but in reality, you picked up your feet and tucked your skirt under your arm for you wanted to disappear from the sight of your escorts at the next turn. After a while you finally managed — rushing forward with excited cries, making sharp turns — to no longer notice the familiar, worried faces following you. Everyone you encountered was a stranger. 

For a heartbeat, joy overwhelmed reason.

Like when a canary's cage accidentally opens and it flies swiftly into the distant blue sky, not caring what it leaves behind, feeling only the caress of the swift wind between its feathers. Only then does the realization come that the canary is a prize bird and will never be able to survive among the birds of the forest...

The initial excitement was quickly replaced by the icy realization that you were lost, surrounded by commoners, wandering knights, and merchants enjoying the night's revelry. 

Until now, jousting tournaments have always been about bright armors, noble steeds, music, and feasts for you, and you've never had the chance—or encountered—what the common people really do at these events. Those who worked amid the smell of mud, iron, and horse manure, who could only earn their daily bread through hard labor, now had a noble lady among them. Wealthy and vulnerable...

Clearing your throat, you lowered your eyes and quickly glanced around your surroundings from under your eyelashes. Among the colorful and tattered tents and stalls, your gaze suddenly fell on a more spacious tent dotted with crimson and purple grape clusters, which seemed to belong to a noble family. Perhaps it belonged to the Redwynes of Arbor. You hurriedly picked up the hem of your skirt and made your way to the entrance of the tent. There, if nothing else, you would be safe from pickpockets and thieves. Or at least there they would recognize your noble house and its rank... If nothing else, they would surely take you home at dawn to your furious father, who had searched for you all night long. If nothing else, you could have a little more fun there one last time. 

The guards at the entrance were half-drunk themselves, their red cloaks loosened at the throat, laughter spilling from within the pavilion like wine from an overfilled cup. One of them straightened when he noticed you.

“My lady?” You lifted your chin, schooling your expression into something imperious, something you had seen your mother wear a thousand times.

“I was separated from my companions,” you said smoothly. “I seek shelter until dawn.” The man hesitated only a moment before stepping aside. Rank recognized rank — even in torchlight and revelry. 

Inside, the air was warm and sweet with Arbor gold. Rich carpets softened the ground, lanterns glowed through tinted glass, and silks hung from the center pole like banners in a perfumed court. Laughter echoed from the back of the tent — male voices, low and indulgent. You stepped fully inside before your courage could falter. The flap fell closed behind you, muting the sounds of the outer camp, though not entirely. Music still drifted faintly through the canvas. The scent of wine and sweat and crushed grass clung to the air. 

You tried to sit down at a nearby table as inconspicuously as possible, where pheasant was the main course, and people were eagerly eating the golden-brown, juicy meat. As you sat down a little further away, a waitress turned almost immediately and pressed a copper cup into your hand. 

"Wine, beer, nectar, ma'am?" she asked, half shouting over the music. 

"I won't offend my hosts, bring me a glass of the strongest Arbor wine! " You smiled at the girl, whose white apron tied around her waist was splattered with red from the spilled wine. She nodded quickly and hurried to the other side of the tent, where huge barrels lay neatly stacked against the wall, like a house of cards. 

The wine swirled darkly, like congealed blood in your glass, as your fingers clasped the copper rim. Its aroma pierced your nose, making your head spin, filling it with the deep scent of apples, pears, and nutmeg. When the wine touched your tongue, it stung, gritted between your teeth, spreading sharply in your mouth and then down your throat. It was strong, stronger than you were used to, and the sudden rush of intoxication, the pleasantly rough taste, relaxed your chest and shoulders. You liked how the taste of the wine mingled with the warmth of the tent, the smell of meat and spices, and the music. You listened with a smile to the stories of funny anecdotes or scandalous gossip told by those sitting around you, even if you couldn't understand much of what they were saying. Your head began to tingle, your mind wrapped itself in soft fabric, and you felt that perhaps here you could forget your sorrows, turn away from your fate.

At the back of the pavilion, four men sat sprawled around a low table cluttered with cups and a half-played game of cyvasse. One of them—red-haired, handsome, flushed—you recognized as Lord Fossoway's son. Another was Lord Theodal Redwyne himself, with his long curled mustache and purple tunic, clutching a whole jug. Next to him sat a young man—almost a boy, that is, leaning back in his chair to vomit at the edge of the tent.

The fourth member of the drunken group, unlike his companions, sat on the table using his chair as a footrest. You could only see his back, which was as wide as the table itself, where the competition was taking place. He wore a yellow and black tunic, but you couldn't see his house's coat of arms anywhere on it. For a few moments, a wave of panic washed over you—yellow and black; those are the colors of House Baratheon. They must all be noblemen, since you recognized two of them... If you managed to wander into the tent where your cursed husband-to-be was drunk... But there were many other houses among the nobles of Westeros that wore these colors. As you looked around, you saw that most of the lords of the Reach were gathered in the wine tent... Why would a lord of the Stormlands seek out this company?

After two big gulps, you dismissed the idea; the wine brought a warm, numbing calm, assuring you that you would not encounter the antlered lord here.  

 Time passed, your glass was emptied and refilled, your neighbors, sitting cheerfully beside and in front of you, enthusiastically welcomed you into their conversation, even though none of you knew each other's names. Suddenly, the music quickened, cheerful, flirtatious strings began to play, and you watched with a grin and a chuckle as the couples rose from their seats and began to dance quickly. Skirts swirled, arms waved, feet jumped in the middle of the tent, many shouted and sang, encouraging the dancers. 

Suddenly, a flash of red hair appeared beside you, and a man staggered toward you, clutching the edge of the table to steady himself.

"Well, well, I didn't know that Lord Swann's daughter would honor us with her presence!" Young Steffon laughed. He gave you a dull smile, looking around at the crowd of people. "Is your father here somewhere?"

You swallowed hard at the next sip of wine, your throat tightening as you tried to coax an answer out of yourself. A plausible one, if possible. “He was here, of course.” You nodded cautiously. “But it’s getting late and he prefers to be in bed early and rise early. I stayed in his place…with my entourage…but I see they disappeared among the dancers for a while.”

Steffon nodded with a snort, wiping his forehead.

“Please come and greet Lord Redwyne! He will surely be relieved of his sickness at the sight of a graceful swan.” The man rolled the words carefully on his tongue, but they still came out bubbling from his lips.

“I don’t want to disturb the lords’ game…” You excused yourself, pointing towards their table.

“Oh! These are not lords!” Suddenly, the young man you thought you saw throwing up when you arrived grabbed Lord Steffon’s shoulder. “My cousin is just an heirling, the only real lord at the table is Redwyne, isn’t he cousin?” The boy laughed, leaning on Steffon.

“This is my cousin, Raymund.” The Fossoway heir filtered through his teeth with a nervous smile. “Although he’s right, the only man worth anything here is Theodal, and his four-time win in cyvasse! Come, my lady, maybe you can beat him!”

Before you could answer, the Fossoways were already dragging you along; stumbling, laughing beside you, dazed, but their upbringing hadn’t yet sunk far deep into their skulls so that they wouldn’t be careful to hold you gently.

You blinked hard as you tried to grip your cup, the dancing of the people blurred before you, the sounds merging. Lending an amusing sight and feeling to the whole situation. You almost wanted to laugh at the way the nobles dragged you along like a prisoner, your punishment was to fight Lord Redwyne at board games.

When you reached their table, they sat you more gently on the heavy wood, and your arms fell back onto your own appointed seats.  Still laughing, you turned to the lord of the tent, who was now looking at you curiously. 

"Good evening, Lord Redwyne." You blinked widely, smiling, and bowed slowly to the old man. 

"Well, well, Lord Swann's beautiful daughter? In my tent? What an honor!" The man laughed too, raising his arms high, the wine in his hand splashing behind him. "Steffon brought you as reinforcement, right? They can't handle me, so they need a cunning woman's mind!" 

You nodded and glanced at the board in front of them, the pieces scattered and pushed around on the wooden table. 

"Well, it can't hurt to join in." You shrugged, then your heart leapt in your chest when a shoulder spread out next to you among the plates. You turned to the other side to see what had frightened you, and then recoiled in your chair, almost slapping your face. 

His hair was thick and dark, brushing his collar in careless waves, with a few curly locks that faded into gray on the man's neck. And though there was a faint line at the corner of one eye — earned, not aged, there was nothing frail or faded about him. You felt heat rush to your face and hated yourself for it.

 As if his strength had left him, he leaned his hand on the table and blinked at you and your companions, but his eyes were sharp, sharp and blue, like the overcast sky, behind which the blue expanse was still visible. A long emerald sparkled in his right ear, his shirt was torn and stretched to cover his body, and a cloth was tied around his waist. Under his mustache, his face had not lost its charm with the passing of the years, and you thought he was quite handsome. You could have taken him for a pirate, and in such a celebration, perhaps their presence would not have been surprising. 

"Ah, another victim?" The man grinned, sizing you up, then glancing at the lords. His voice was deeper than you expected. Not rough — but rich, taunting.  "I sense that blood may be spilled on the battlefield now."

Next to you, Lord Redwyne clicked his tongue. "What's the rush? There will only be strategic discussions here. Lady Swann came to my aid."

The stranger grinned.

"Well," He said slowly and absentmindedly. "Either the gods are smiling on me tonight, or I've wandered into the wrong tent again."

You blinked rapidly, trying to figure out why the man wanted to lie down on the same level as the food that had been served. "Sir?" 

The man chuckled, then leaned forward, took your hand, and pressed a light kiss to your knuckles.

Lord Redwyne wiped the corner of his eye and continued to laugh into his goblet. "A rare honor indeed!" The old lord said between breaths. "The famous Lyonel Coldrin honors our humble table."

You looked back at the knight, who was still holding your hand. He didn't let go. His thumb casually, idly stroked your knuckles before finally letting go, then straightening up in his seat with exaggerated dignity.

"You mock me, sir," said the knight seriously, frowning. "My reputation precedes me in at least three villages and a medium-sized sheep pasture."

The Fossoway brothers choked on their wine. At that moment, you examined the illustrious knight more closely.

His tunic was of good quality, though not new. Black and yellow stitching adorned the sleeves. Indeed, the colors of Costayne. His boots were worn from use, not formal wear. A knight accustomed to hard riding, not posing among fops in the court.

And yet... There was something about him that didn't quite fit the role he claimed for himself. Too easygoing among gentlemen. Attention lurking beneath humor; like a lynx feigning laziness.

"Do you serve Lord Tommen Costayne?" you asked casually, repeating his introduction.

"Devotedly," he replied immediately, nodding at you. "I polish his armor. I pour his wine. I weep openly for his victories."

Laughter rippled around the table again. Lord Redwyne shook his head. "Careful, Coldrin. If you joke too boldly, someone may ask you to prove it tomorrow."

Lyonel—or rather, Ser Coldrin—grinned. "Then I will disappoint them spectacularly."

He sat back on the cushion, not on the food as you had first feared, and stretched his long legs out in front of him, carefree. One of his knees touched the hem of your dress.

You should have pulled away from the touch. It was an inappropriate gesture. But you didn't.

"And what brought Lady Swann into such dubious company?" He asked, tilting his head back, watching you from under his dark lashes, a half-smile on his lips.

"Curiosity." You replied with a shrug, trying to appear aloof.

"A dangerous disease."

"I've survived worse."

His smile widened slightly. "Really?"

For a moment, the laughter and lamplight seemed to fade around you. There it was again—that piercing observation behind the jokes.

You didn't let it bother you. You were a lady, high-ranking, measured, noble.

"I hear Lord Redwyne has excellent wines." You said to your host instead, nodding, and he smiled, blushing at the compliment.

"Ah..." Coldrin murmured, reaching for the jug. "Then they told you the truth." He poured for you himself, with a steady hand, despite his convincing act of drunkenness. When he handed you the goblet, his fingers lingered on yours for a moment too long.

Not with a sneering grin, as they had done before, but with a meaningful, sidelong wink. 

"What is it?" You scoffed with a laugh, clumsily.

"Nothing, my lady," replied the older one, shaking his head too quickly.

Coldrin leaned closer and lowered his voice so much that you felt as if he were sharing a secret with you.

"Forgive them," he whispered, his voice purring softly in your ear, making your stomach flutter. "They are simple creatures. Easily entertained."

"Why, are you not?" You raised your eyebrows with a sly, perhaps provocative smile on your lips. 

"Yes, I am," he admitted with a huff. "But my entertainment is more refined."

One corner of his mouth curled up, his expression almost boyish despite his broad shoulders and massive frame. He was relaxed, yet radiated strength—the way he balanced his weight evenly, the way his hands never really rested. Even when he leaned casually against the table, he looked as if he could spring into motion in the blink of an eye.

You noticed that although he played the drunk well, his gaze was never glassy. His words were never slurred. The wine loosened his tongue, but it did not control him.

Your eyebrows rose even higher, if that was possible. "For example?"

He pretended to think, pursing his lips under his beard. 

His hair was dark as storm clouds at dusk, thick and slightly unruly, curling at the edges as if it refused to be disciplined. It fell in carefree waves under his collar, framing his face, which might have been too rough to be called handsome in the courtly sense—if it hadn't been so full of life. He had a strong jaw, shadowed by a short beard, which did little to soften it, only reinforcing the impression that he was more accustomed to the wind and the saddle than to bright halls.

A faint scar ran near his temple, half-hidden by his hair. Another was on the knuckle of one of his fingers when he raised his hand.

And his eyes... They easily conveyed humor, but beneath that there was something sharper. Alert. Assessing.

"Storm watching..." he said finally. He tilted his head slightly to one side, as if testing how the words flowed between you. "I test spears against people who underestimate me. I watch noble ladies pretend they don't enjoy my company." Hearing his words, your throat tightened, so you raised your cup and tried to loosen it with wine. 

"And I pretend not to enjoy it either? The corners of your mouth curved upward, your eyes sparkling as you stared him down. And although he leaned back casually, as if the world amused him, there was nothing careless about the way he held your gaze.

His eyes wandered briefly to your mouth, then returned to your eyes. "Not very convincingly."

Suddenly, you felt a rush of heat, your face burning under his gaze. Across the table, Lord Redwyne stood up with a grumble. "I'll let you young people play your games..." He announced, and passing by, he slapped the younger Fossoway on the shoulder. "Try not to set the tent on fire."

Slowly, the chatter and competition died down around you, and the young noblemen dispersed to join other companies. Soon, only the two of you remained, along with the faint buzz of revelry from outside. Slowly, you turned to Lyonel.

"It seems our friends have deserted us." You glanced to your side with a knowing smile, shrugged your shoulders, and leaned your elbows on the table. You pulled your arm lazily in front of you, placed your index and middle fingers slowly on the rim of your cup, and began to circle the metal with loose movements. 

He leaned back on his hand, his face annoyingly calm as he sized you up. "Maybe they're just offended," he drawled.

You snorted loudly, unbecoming of a lady. "By what would they be?" You laughed.

Lyonel glanced at you, flashing you a dazzling, boyish grin, then leaned back with a heavy sigh, propping himself up on his arms. You just stared at him for a while.

"I'm beginning to suspect that I'm the object of some kind of jest," you said, shaking your head, a sharp pain piercing your heart.

He looked up. The curly locks of his gray mane bounced gently. He studied you for a long moment, his eyes revealing nothing. 

"If that were the case..." he said gently. "it wouldn't be out of malice."

The answer didn't satisfy you—but it didn't alarm you either, it just made you curious.

You lifted your chin slightly. "And what does the famous Lyonel Coldrin hope to gain from entertaining me tonight?"

This time, his smirk was slower. "Perhaps," he said with a soft sigh. "I just wanted to see if Lady Swann would bite."

You leaned closer through your cup without meaning to. "And do I bite?"

Something sweeter than wine flashed in his eyes.

"Oh," he murmured with a chuckle, his voice as deep as distant thunder. "I think I do."

The music nearby swelled again, fiddles and drums and the bright trill of a pipe cutting through the night air. Coldrin's head tilted toward the sound.

"Come," he said suddenly, pushing to his feet in one smooth motion. "If we remain here much longer, you will begin asking sensible questions. I prefer you reckless."

"I am not reckless," you protested automatically with a cheeky smirk.

His grin widened, leaning closer. In his proximity, you could smell the sweet-sour aroma of wine and the scent of his coat. It was enticing. "Then prove it."

Before you could reconsider, he offered his hand. You hesitated only a heartbeat before placing yours in his. Suddenly, your previous bravado slipped away, replaced by a girlish excitement, a hopeful heartbeat as you scanned his face.

The music permeated your body—your blood pulsed to the rhythm of the violin, your heart beat to the beat of the tambourine, your leg muscles heated up and tingled with movement. Around you, skirts swirled, boots stamped, people shouted and screamed, and the colors of their clothes blurred together, enveloping you.  Lyonel held your hand firmly, his warm palm relaxing you as his fingers intertwined with yours. 

He did not lead you to the orderly lines of noble dancers near the musicians' platform. He led you straight into the middle of it all.

“Sir—” You began, giggling, but it was too late to protest. His hand found your waist, firm and certain, and he spun you into the rhythm before your body had time to object. Your skirts flared. Laughter escaped you—real and startled.

“There,” He declared. “You see? Still alive.”

“You are insufferable,” You gasped, trying not to stumble as he turned you again.

“And yet you follow.” He winked at you with a cheeky grin. 

The drums quickened. He matched them easily, surprisingly light on his feet for a man so broad. His movements were not courtly-polished — they were instinctive, flowing, confident. When he drew you closer, it was not to display you, it was to keep you steady.

Your hands came up to brace against his shoulders, and only then did you realize how solid he truly was. Not soft from wine. Not softened by indulgence. Strong. 

“Do all of Lord Costayne’s knights dance like this?” You teased breathlessly.

“Only the most renowned,” Lyonel replied solemnly. You laughed again and the sound felt like something breaking free inside your chest.

For a few precious moments, you forgot Storm’s End. Forgot betrothals. Forgot fathers and expectations and stone walls waiting to close around you. There was only the music. The heat of the tent and wine. His hand at your waist. And the way he looked at you. As if you were the only bright thing in the crowd. Never looking away from your face; deep eyes, mesmerizing and intoxicating gaze.

The song slowed unexpectedly, the wild rhythm softening into something lower, more intimate. He did not release you, instead his hand slid more securely at the small of your back. Yours rested at his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric there.

“You dance well for a man who drinks so much.”  You murmured tilting up your face to his own. One slight move, and you could have tasted the wine on his lips.

“I do many things well.” He answered, quieter now, eyes softening.

The space between you narrowed without either of you commanding it. The world beyond your shoulders blurred; noise dulling into a distant hum. Your breath mingled. You suddenly became aware of everything; the warmth of his palm, the brush of his thumb against your spine, the faint scent of wine and leather and clean night air.

His gaze dropped — just slightly — to your mouth, and stilled there. You should have stepped back. You are a noble lady, and you are engaged.  You did not move away.

“Lady Swann.” He said softly, your name no longer a jest but something precious. Your heart pounded so loudly you were certain he could hear it.

“Yes, Ser Coldrin?” You blinked at him from under your eyelashes.

His hand tightened just enough to pull you half a breath closer. “If I were a less honorable man—” He murmured, lidded eyes jumping from your lips to your eyes, desperately trying to hold your gaze. 

“But you are not?” You whispered.

A faint, almost rueful smile curved his lips. “That remains to be seen.” The music faded into its final notes, the last chord trembling in the air. You felt it before it happened — the shift in the air around you, in him. He leaned in. Slowly. Giving you time to refuse.

Your fingers tightened at his shoulder instead. His breath brushed your lips. Warm. Close. The world narrowed to the space between your mouths… You were curious about the taste of his mouth, the feel of his lips. Now you could find out what kind of wine he had been drinking.

 And then a shout erupted nearby, followed by raucous laughter and the crash of a spilled bench and… The spell shattered. You both startled slightly, the moment breaking like glass. He drew back first. Just enough to lose his warmth from your skin.His thumb brushed once against your cheek, barely there, a ghost.

“You should return before someone notices your absence.” He said quietly.

Your pulse still thundered in your ears. “And if I do not wish to?”

His eyes darkened, something fierce flickering there before he masked it with an easy smile. “Then I would have to decide whether Lyonel Coldrin is brave enough to steal a lady from her fate.”

You searched his face, breath unsteady. “And is he?”

He stepped back fully now, offering you his arm instead of his lips. “He is many things,” He said lightly. “But tonight, he is only your dance partner.”

You placed your hand on his arm. But as he escorted you through the lantern glow, you could still feel the almost of it lingering between you. Like the air before a storm finally breaks... The what if.

Suddenly, you came to your senses. If anyone here recognizes you and sees you with a knight beneath your rank... What would your father say? What would happen to your agreement with your fiancé? Your family name?

You felt something tight and sharp, burning like a brand, wash over your face. You lowered your gaze as you moved away from Lyonel, not daring to look into his intense eyes again. You felt ashamed of what you had done, even though it had not actually happened. He was there between you. He was there in your heart. That was enough. 

"I'm sorry, but..." You swallowed hard, searching for words. "The night is getting long, and... my noble father is surely missing my company for the evening..." You excused yourself, looking at the trampled ground. 

"Of course." The answer came, but you didn't look up at him. You couldn't. "The little swan must swim home." 

Stepping away from the man, a chill ran through you, even though the tent was sweltering with dancing and revelry. You felt a tingling sensation on your waist where he had been holding you, and your hand burned where you had clasped his. Coming here tonight was the biggest mistake of your life. Now that your hand will belong to someone else and you will be taken away to a stormy land forever, you have perhaps found the feeling that you had only heard about in fairy tales and imagined would one day be your destiny. But not like this. As soon as you tasted this sweet, inviting feeling, they immediately tore it from your hand, from your heart. 

The music raced through your ears and head like needles, and you no longer heard the rhythm, only the pounding, drumming, and whining. You tried to force a faint smile onto your face, raising your head higher, but even then it only reached your collar.

In the heat of the night and the wine, the decision would have been easy, too easy for you. But then the next day, when you looked in the mirror, who would look back at you? When you woke up in each other's arms the next day, would he still have his noble bearing? Would you still have your honor? Your throat was dry as the scene flashed through your mind.  You imagined, for one reckless heartbeat, what it would be like to remain. To let him pull you back into the dance. To let his hand slide once more to your waist. To feel his mouth at yours.

No one would know. That was the lie; someone always knew. Your father would know. Your future husband would know, the gods above would know. And you would carry it.

"I... I'm already promised to someone else..." You said softly, the words torn from your lungs, sharp and searching. For a moment, you glanced at his face, just so you would know how he felt about you when he heard the news... and...

His eyebrows shot up, his jaw tightened, and his Adam's apple bobbed. "Yes." He nodded almost imperceptibly. "I heard about it."

"A man... a gentleman I did not choose." You continued, haltingly.

Lyonel closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. "Few have a choice."

Your legs felt heavy—rooted deep in the ground, unable to be uprooted by the wind. Suddenly, it seemed as if silence had fallen, the music had died away. The laughter and singing around you had died away. Or perhaps it was just you who felt it, like the quiet barrenness in your heart. You swallowed hard, your saliva thick. "I... would stay; really... But I'm afraid... I'll soon forget my duty and... I don't want that. I'll try to keep them in mind, but if I dance with you..."

The air between you became still. He stepped closer—this time he didn't touch you.

"If you stay," He said, his voice now quieter and rougher. "You won't forget." A faint smile crossed his lips. "Not tonight, anyway."

Your pulse quickened.

"You will remember," He continued, looking into your eyes. Your heart turned to stone at his tender gaze. "And so will I." His sincerity affected you more deeply than you wanted it to, more than you could allow. You slowly closed your eyes. You felt that this was the moment. The limit.

One more breath, and you could have leaned forward. One more heartbeat, and you would have let him kiss you. One more reckless second, and you would have stepped into a future that wasn't yours.

When you opened your eyes, determination hardened in your gaze. "I can't be this foolish." You said, clenching your teeth so your voice and lips wouldn't tremble.

Lyonel nodded slowly and turned away. "You're braver than most of the men here tonight," he said softly.

"I don't feel brave." You chuckled sourly, shoulders sagging. 

"You're leaving behind something you want." That truth hurt more than it should have.

You took a deep breath of the tent's stench. You pulled your shoulders back and straightened your spine, just as your septa had taught you.

"I must return to my father before I do something that would bring shame upon him." Your breath caught in your throat. "And both of us," You added. 

Lyonel examined you long and hard, as if he wanted to memorize this version of you. The noble lady, discipline and duty on her shoulders.  

Then he reached for your hand again, but not to pull it closer, just to gently lift it and press his lips to your wrist. This time, the kiss lingered.

“Go, then, Lady Swann,” He murmured against your skin. “Before I forget my own honor.”

You pulled your hand back slowly, afraid that if you did it too quickly, you would betray how much it burnt.

“Good night… ser.”

“Good night.”

You turned before you could change your mind. The night air outside the tent struck you cold and clean, the sounds of revelry dulled behind canvas walls. Torches flickered along the pathways between pavilions as you walked. Slow at first, like a drunk, trying to find their footing.  Then, faster, as though chased by your own heart. 

At the edge of the encampment you paused once, just once, and looked back. Through a gap in the tent flaps, you saw his silhouette; tall, still, watching the entrance long after you had gone. He did not follow. And neither did your heart. 

When you reached your father’s pavilion, the guards straightened at once. One slipped inside to announce you. You smoothed your hair, wiped the last trace of warmth from your lips and pressed your hands together until they stopped trembling.

By morning, you would be dutiful again. By morning, this would be nothing but a foolish night. By morning, he will forget you. 

Your arrival was not a pleasant dance. In fact, you felt that if they had given you a shield and a sword, you could have fought a knightly duel with your father. In the tent, you were greeted by two servants, white as snow with fear, and a father red with rage. His roar could probably be heard at the other end of the tent. What followed was a sweaty lecture on manners, duty, childlike obedience, humility, and what a scandal you had caused as an unmarried lady, wandering into some beer tent with your fiancé. Without an escort. Your father was a patient man, even kind and merciful by most parents' standards, but that night you went to bed with a sore foot, which he had whacked with his leather belt. You couldn't be angry with him, though, because you knew that the reputation of your father and your entire household could have been ruined that evening. Still... you wondered if it would have been better not to head for the tent, but for the convent after all...

The next morning dawned brightly. It was as if the events of the previous evening had never happened. 

By noon, the stands were full. Flags fluttered in the wind—green apples, red grapes, golden roses, black deer. You sat upright next to your father, your hands neatly folded on your lap, and once again you were the dutiful daughter with every fiber of your being.

The knights rode forward one by one. Their armor glistened in the early sunlight, the horses stamped their feet, and glorious hymns and introductions rang out.  Only sometimes did you pay attention, perhaps when there was a fall, a loud crash, or when a horse neighed loudly. You stared into space, clasping your hands, recalling the taste of wine and the feeling of those smiling lips that had never kissed you.

And then... A murmur ran through the crowd. The next rider did not trot onto the battlefield bearing the coat of arms of one of the smaller houses. He entered the arena in black and yellow... in shiny, gold-trimmed black armor. On his breastplate, proudly and unmistakably... a crowned stag.

Your breath caught as you stared at him. His helmet, held under his arm, had antlers made of dark steel. The knight's horse was huge, powerful, and restless, like a storm waiting to break.

The herald's voice rang clear across the field. "Lyonel of House Baratheon, heir to Storm's End!" The world seemed to tilt.

As he rode closer to your pavilion. That curly black mane, streaked with gray. That thick beard... That prominent nose, strong jaw, mouth stretched into a sly grin...

Those wild blue eyes.

Lord Lyonel Baratheon.

Not Ser Coldrin. Not some silver-tongued, wine-warmed sworn knight. And most certainly not Lord Costayne's sworn sword. But Lyonel Baratheon. Your fiancé. Your old, despicable betrothed… 

Then he pulled hard on his horse's reins, and the animal turned toward you. The blood froze in your veins for a moment. Then it began to pulse through your veins again with fiery intensity. 

He looked directly at you. Not by accident.

And then you realized. Your brain was working furiously, your head almost steaming as you pieced together the puzzle between heartbeats. 

He knew. He knew all along. He knew and didn't say a word, so that—

"Well? Still an old man? In armor, with a sword? " Your father leaned toward you sarcastically. "The Stormlands raise capable sons, age does not weaken them." You barely heard him.

Lyonel turned his horse completely toward the stands. Toward you. And he raised his spear. The crowd fell silent in anticipation as he slowly moved his horse toward you.

He did not take his eyes off you for a moment. The same sly, knowing, cunning smile. Sparkling eyes. 

He did not bow before the royal box. Reaching the edge of the viewing platform, he raised his eyes, kicked his heels into the stirrups, and stood up in the saddle. Your heart was beating so fast and so hard in your chest that you were afraid it would jump out into your palm.  

You didn't even feel your legs move as you stood up from your seat and walked confidently up the stairs. You looked at him, only at him, as he watched. The same expression, the same face, yet what a different feeling. How different... how comforting. Your movement caused a ripple of whispers through the gallery as you stepped forward to the railing.

His eyes shone even brighter.

"Mademoiselle Swann." He bowed on his horse, helmet in one hand, reins in the other. "I took the liberty of coming before you to..." 

Before he could finish, you grabbed the end of his sleeve and, stretching the fine fabric, tore a piece off it. 

You pressed one hand against the railing and, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, leaned against the wood, stretching as far as you could, reaching for the piece of clothing in your hand.

Lyonel's smile widened, his pupils dilated, and he looked like yesterday's wine-intoxicated fervor. Perhaps he was drunk again, because he wanted too much from you. 

"For your victory, sir," You shouted loudly, almost laughing, your voice carrying farther than you expected. "And what may come after." The message was clear. 

The track began to roar.

Lyonel's expression changed—not to laughter, not to joy, but to something fierce and deeply satisfied. As if he had already won. 

He led his horse to the edge of the railing, the armor on his legs clanking against the wood. You stood on tiptoe to reach his outstretched, iron-adorned hand. When he finally reached the fabric with his fingers, he stroked your hand, and despite the cold metal, the touch felt soft, warm, almost scorching. 

So quietly that only you could hear, he said. "Do you know what you're choosing now?"

Your pulse quickened. Fate, you thought, how tireless and humorous fate can be. 

"Yes." Your smile pierced his breastplate, striking him straight in the heart. 

"And if I win?" He winked, with a hint of the evening's daring.  

"Then I think," You said, your voice now confident, your eyes shining. "I'll have to decide if I really want to marry a storm."

His smile widened—wild and wonderful. 

 "My lady," He said softly as he secured your favor to his lance. "I see you have already made your decision."

Then he lowered his helmet and rode off to meet his opponent. 

"You," Lyonel's eye twitches at the sight of Prue, "prudent Prue. My darling wife's handmaiden."

Prue stills in her spot, not daring to move when she ten paces away from with her clearly delirious master.

He was particularly erratic today, considering he barely slept after the vocal match with his fucking bride, who fucking threw him out of their— HIS chambers! He could not find sleep, not when the sheets in the guest bedroom where so tweedy and the cushion so cold. He couldn't even be grateful there was no blanket thief, hoarding all the velvet. He was miserable.

Poor Prue gulps as her liege lord beckons her over with an accusatory finger. She clenches her jaw and slowly approaches, hands tightening on the copper tray in her grip. "L-Lord Lyo—"

"You mean to feed my wife with this, yes?" his worn gaze locks on the bowl of oatmeal, mixed with cocoa, milk, cream, berries and apples. He knows it well; it was he that first fed his wife this concoction. Damn her unoriginality.

The woman hesitates, knowing surely that her response will dictate how quiet the next hours will be. Unfortunately, she hesitates too much, "s-se—"

"It's a question with a simple answer!" Lyonel snaps, causing her to flinch, "Is. This. My. Wife's. Meal? Yes?! Or NO?!"

Prue rapidly nods, "y-ye—"

"Gooooood," he slurs, nodding slowly whilst rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Mind you, he was stone cold sober.

A few servants find Prue as they hurriedly pass down the hall, sympathetic that she was the Baratheon's current hostage.

The head of the great house places a finger on his chin as he thinks of what he ought to do next. "Ah!" Lyonel perks, "tell my wife," he turns from the handmaiden to his wife's meal, "that I spit in her oatmeal."

Prue's jaw slacks and her lips quiver, "m-my lord?"

He takes the spoon, and a spoonful of gruel, tasting it, "fuck, that's good. I nearly have the mind to steal it, but the helpless girl will starve herself if I do."

Prue flinches at how he drops the spoon back on the tray.

"That's all," says Lyonel.

The woman stays put in her spot.

He shakes his head expectantly, gesturing with a dismissive wave, "go run to your woman."

Prue stares at the oatmeal, heart racing at the fact the man wanted her to lie about such a thing... or was he not meaning to? "T-the oatmeal..."

His brows furrow.

She slowly raises the tray, "s-ser—"

"W-" he starts but quickly realizes, "I'm not actually going to spit in her food!" Lyonel scoffs in offense, hand flying to his chest, "what do you take me for, some sort of degenerate?!"

"N-no!" she lowers the tray, pulling it close to her chest, "I don't—"

"Shit," he presses his pointer to his lips, "do you think she'll notice?"

Her brows quirk, "my lord?"

"I mean, she's well acquainted with my spit." He genuinely debates the thought, "maybe I should," he stares at the bowl, "it's not like she hasn't asked me to spit in her mouth before."

Prue cannot withhold her aghast expression.

"What say you, Prue?" he tilts his head, "ought I spit in my..." his gaze is torn away from her. He gulps, "... wife."

I approach my husband, brows furrowed at the sight of my handmaiden shriveling before him, "Prue?"

"My lady!" she gasps and flinches, immediately urning around.

Lyonel's lips are parted, eyes locked on my exposed arms and chest, glimmering in the sunlight. I had new body cream that had flecks of gold and I was also wearing the dress he had commissioned for me a few weeks ago. Both of them were from Dorne, so they were, needless to say, pointedly alluring.

She stammers, "I- I was on my way—"

"You needn't explain," I place a hand on her shoulder, turning to my oaf of a husband.

Lyonel's eyes are locked on my bosom.

Right where I want him. "Goat?"

He snaps out of his trance, "did you just call me a fucking goat?"

"No," I purse my lips and clasp my hands together, "I said the word goat and you merely responded."

Prue clenches her teeth.

Lyonel licks his fangs as he laughs dryly. I cannot help but catch the way his tongue traces his teeth, which is why I resort to berating him, "what have you done to my handmaiden?"

"Have I?" he gasps, steepling his fingers over his chest, "how do you know it is not she who—where are you going?"

After an eye roll and a grip on Prue's arm, I walk off, "to break my fast away from your wretched face, my lord."

"WRETCHED?!"

Prue flinches where I groan in irritation. I do not even look over my shoulder, "pipe down, goat."

"SO YOU DID CALL ME A GOAT!"

It was quiet after and I ate my first meal of the day in silence. But the silence, in fact, was too quiet. I found myself expecting Lyonel to break into solar each time I brought my spoon into my mouth. Of course, I should have known he'd be more devious than that.

I hear him before I see him. I, in fact, have to stand and look out the window to see him. And gods, my jaw slacks at the sight I see.

Lyonel is slashing a wooden dummy with his sword. He is red in the face, torso gleaming with sweat, and his torso, his torso was bare. Damn his lewdness.

It was not that I had eagle eyes, but the fact I've spent endless nights tracing the faint and dark scars all across his body that I could make them out from where I looked. The muscles on his arms were bulging from exertion and his eyes—

"Fuck," I whisper.

His eyes were on me.

"OH!" Lyonel shouts, brushing his sweaty hair away from his face, "DOES MY WIFE CONCERN HERSELF WITH ME SO SUDDENLY?!"

I clench my teeth and open the window, shouting back at him, "you train so early, yet I am certain you've not broken fast for you can seldom eat without my company!"

"SHE DOES CONCERN HERSELF!" Lyonel laughs, turning to the guards around him who do not share at all in his amusement.

"BE QUIET IF YOU DO NOT WISH TO UPSET MY STOMACH!" I bark at him.

"BUT I DO MEAN TO UPSET YOUR STOMACH!" he barks back, whipping his head up at me. He chucks his sword to the ground, "I'VE BEEN BEATING THIS DUMMY FOR HALF AN HOUR AND ONLY NOW HAVE YOU NOTICED!"

I roll my eyes, "So?!"

"SO, I COULD NOT SLEEP WITHOUT YOU, WOMAN!" his voice cracks as he shakes his hands, "YOU DESERVE INDIGESTION!"

I gasp before my nostrils flare, "YOU SHOULD HAVE APOLOGIZED THEN INSTEAD OF SLEEPING APART FROM ME AND WISHING ME ILL!"

"I?! TIS YOU WHO MUST APOLOGIZE!"

"I WOULD RATHER HURTLE MYSELF OUT OF THIS WINDOW THEN EVER DO SUCH A THING!"

"THEN, PRAY, DO IT!" Lyonel snatches the air roughly, "HURTLE YOURSELF OUT THE FUCKING WINDOW"

I swear, in that moment, I see red as the fucking GOAT taunts me. I rip my skirt up and bring my knee up to the sill.

"NO!"

The chorus of disagreements is instantaneous. Lyonel's voice is the loudest out of everyone else's. He immediately runs just beneath the window.

"I THOUGHT YO—"

He is red in the face as he screams at the top of his lungs, "DON'T FUCKING JUMP, YOU LOONY FUCKING— WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!" There is audible fear in his voice when he says the last part.

I walk off and return, sending my oatmeal flying out the window, hand gripping the bowl tightly as the semi-liquid descends.

Lyonel is not at all hit by the poorly thrown projectile, but he gasps all the same, clutching his chest yet again, "YOU WOULD BURN YOUR LIEGE LORD?!"

"IT'S BEEN TEPID!" I snap, slamming the windows shut as I did.

Lyonel immediately grumbles and storms off, muttering hotly under his breath that he was not going to allow any of this madness to continue.

All the witnesses to the onslaught; guards, servants and all else who dropped what they were doing to watch the incident, held their breath in fear that the day would only grow even more sour.

And just as most feared, another screaming match was had once Lord Lyonel made it to the solar. The minutes seemed to stretch into eternity at noise of their roaring quarrel. The sound was so terrible, most who had ears opted to cover them. Furniture was thrown around, nasty words were spoken freely, and then—

... And then—

"Mmm, just like that, you stupid fucking goat!"

Poor Prue was just outside the solar when she heard her lady... moaning. Was that— that was definitely a man grunting. Woe to her, who merely wanted to check up on what she thought would be her distressed lady.

"Fuckkk... tastier than oats and berries.—" the voice is muffled, but it is undeniably Lyonel.

"Diana just turned two, she can't help where she puts her hands and you did insisted on sitting next to— LILY!" I point a finger to my second born, "STOP!"

Elizabeth releases Hendrick's hair then defends herself, "BUT HE'S ANNOYING!"

Hendrick smacks his older sister, "YOU'RE UGLY!"

"Enough!" my eldest quips before I can speak. James glares at his two younger siblings, slamming a fist on his table, "mother told you both to be quiet ages ago!"

I sigh and reach for my boy of 10 and 2, offering a soft smile, "thank you, but don't slam your fist on the table."

James turns to me, his eyes gentle and brows strong like his father, "yes, mummy."

"MOTHER!"

I turn to the door, my two girls are swinging their younger brother by his arms between them.

"Daddy said he won't be joining lunch," the older of the two girls announces.

I raise a brow at Aurora, knowing how pleased with herself she is when I fall for her jests. I turn to her sister, "daddy said this, Cassy?"

Cassandra nods.

Aurora pouts then raises a hand, "I WASN'T JESTING!"

"I didn't say you were, my love," I motion to the spread before me, "eat your food before it goes cold."

Cassandra and Aurora continue swinging Nathaniel until they get to their seats.

"Daddy looked sad," Cassandra mumbles as she sits down.

Aurora nods and turns to me after helping her four-year-old brother sit down, "he didn't even want to eat cake with us!"

There is a chorus of concerned reactions across the table.

"Father loves eating cake with us," James immediately contests with a skeptical look.

"IT'S TRUE! IT'S TRUE! I'M NOT JESTING!" Aurora exclaims, hand on her chest.

"But you lovvvveeee jesting," Elizabeth points a finger at her and sticks out her tongue.

"IT'S TRUE LILLLYYYY!!!!" Aurora whines then bursts into tears."

"Elizabeth Baratheon—"

The sad girl gasps, turning to me.

"—I've had enough of you!" I snap, throwing her a hard expression, "you will not be getting any cake this hour, girl."

"B-But mumma—"

Hendrick is about to taunt his sister.

I beat him to it, "do you have anything to say, Hendrick?"

He immediately straightens up and stares at his plate, "no, mother."

"Good," I look across the table, "finish your food then each of you will visit your father after."

Nathaniel stands on his chair, "BU-BUT MUMMY—"

"Sit down, Nathan!" Cassandra immediately tugs him down.

The boy grunts and sits down, "MUMMY!"

"Yes, my love?"

"MUM-" Nathaniel stops himself, eyes wide, "papa said not to interrupt him!"

"Yes, my love, but you'll just be giving my letters to him," I sigh, rubbing my round belly, "as you know, the babe is getting big and I am easily tired."

There is a chorus of responses from each child, and I do my best to respond to each of their sentiments.

Lyonel groans when he hears a knock on the door. He wipes his face at the sound of giggling outside. He sighs, head hammering at the sight of the seemingly endless ledgers in front of him, and then knocking repeats, much louder this time.

He cannot help himself, "WAS I NOT CLEAR I AM NOT TO BE DISTURBED?"

Before he can even finish his sentence, he can hear the sound of suppressed squeals and fleeing gallops.

Lyonel sighs, wiping his face once more when he hears a wail. He was sure it was one of the younger boys, Johnny or Nathan, asking not to be left behind.

His nostrils flare as he leans on his desk before pushing himself up from his chair. He makes for the door, opens it and sighs yet again at the empty hall. "Boys?" He turns around, "girls?"

No response.

His eyes narrow and his lips purse. He feels dreadful.

He places a hand on his hip, the other on his forehead as he steps back in and closes the door.

Lyonel knew his children well. It won't take long for them to return.

Before he could even sit, he already heard bickering. He stops, thinking he ought to just open the door, but he decides to let his children have their way.

He sits back down, one elbow on the desk, his head on his hand, waiting for the door to open.

It does, with a slow creak.

The bickering is hushed but bickering nonetheless.

Lyonel smiles when two pairs of hands lead his younger daughter inside. He vaguely hears one of his girls urge their sister to walk to daddy. He tilts his head, "and I don't think you even knocked, my girl."

Someone hisses outside. He can hear somone accuse another for forgetting to knock.

Diana doesn't even turn to her father, she is too concerned with the bows on her dress and sits on the floor.

Lyonel combs his grey curls back, "am I being made to believe Diana walked and opened the door herself."

"I told you!"

The voice is clear, so he calls, "Cassandra?"

Gasp.

Lyonel stares at the half-opened door.

Diana stands and decides to walk around.

He stands, "right—"

"It was me, daddy!" three-year-old Jonathan pops up, eyes wide, hair soft around his face.

Lyonel furrows his brow at his second youngest, "you brought little Diana all the way here?"

Jonathan grips his shorts as he nods his head rapidly.

The man chuckles, "all on your own, my love?"

He nods again, harder.

Lyonel slowly makes for them, crouching to their level, "my, how strong you are, Johnny. Can you and your sister walk to me?"

Jonathan grabs Diana by the hand and they both walk over. Their father beams at them, opening his arms, then swiftly plucks them up with a hearty chuckle, kissing them both all over their face.

"AHH SCRATCHY!" Johnny squeals.

Diana giggles and quickly mimics, "SCRATCHY," her enunciation far worse than the boy merely one year her senior.

Lyonel chuckles, adjusting the children in his arms, muttering mostly to himself, "I'll have you know your mother happens to like the scratch of my beard between her thighs."

"Father."

He looks forward, his smile softening from adoration to pride. He nods, "my young lord Baratheon."

James straightens his back and places a hand on his chest, "twas I that actually brought the children here."

He chuckles, amused that his eldest boy presumed to be not a child with how he said that, "I see... so, it is you who I must punish for disobeying my order to keep clear of my office?"

The first born's jaw slacks and his face pales, "NO! IT WAS MUMMY!"

Lyonel raises a brow before rolling his eyes as he sits on the edge of his desk, "of course it's you're mother."

"I have a letter from her!" James pulls out a letter, shaking it for show.

Lyonel presses his lips into a thin line. He has half the mind to tell James to pass on a strongly worded letter, but then Diana leans her head on his shoulder and Johnny begins to tell him about his wooden horse.

James doesn't give him a chance to respond to his youngest boy when he opens the letter and reads aloud: "My dearest love, Lyonel. If you were a boogie—" the boy's resolve breaks, so he cackles "I'd pick you!"

Lyonel himself was not amused by it at all, but the sound of James and the children outside his door laughing inspires the two in his arm to giggle, thus inspiring him. The man snorts and gently jolts his youngest, "funny, huh?"

"BOOGIE!" The boy squeals, squeezing his papa's face.

"I am not a boogie!"

James beckons the second born while his father is distracted, "Lily!"

Lyonel looks front.

Elizabeth emerges, clearing her throat. She grabs her skirts and curtsies, "my lord."

"Young lady Baratheon," the man nods at the girl.

She grins, pleased by the reciprocation, and flips her thick, dark hair away from her shoulders. She eyes her older brother, "see, I have manners, Jamie."

Jamie rolls his eyes.

It is her turn to procure a letter, then gets straight to it: "My sweetest dear, Lyonel. If you turned into a dog, I'd keep and call you Lyoggy!"

The children begin to laugh again, Elizabeth laughing the loudest.

"Right," Lyonel sees right through it, "I'll have no mutts in his house, you hear?"

"Pfft," James doesn't laugh at all, "it wasn't even clever."

"It's not!" Hendrick's unmistakable voice calls from outside.

"IT IS!" Elizabeth stomps her feet "you're both just jealous because you're not as clever as me!"

"No, I'm not," the two eldest boys call in unison.

Hendrick is next to come in, intent on starting an argument.

"Boys," Lyonel warns.

The boys immediately keep to themselves.

He furrows his brows at his daughter, "and I thought this was a letter from mummy?"

"It is!" Elizabeth insists.

Without even letting his father respond, Hendrick reads the next letter: "My darling lover, Lyonel. If you fell into mud, I would scrub you myself."

The children begin to laugh again.

"Aw," Lyonel coos, "that's actually really sweet."

Hendrick grins, "soooo, we think we should push you into mud!"

The children begin to cheer and clap. The ones outside don't even bother pretending not to be there anymore. Cassandra and Aurora rush in with Nathan between them.

"No!" Lyonel walks back to his desk, "you lot aren't even supposed to be here."

As he sits, the mob presses closer, giggling and grinning.

"Enough!" he raises his voice, only to cut over the noise, "Jamie, Lily, take Johnny and Di—"

"NO, PAPA, IT'S MY TURN!" Aurora whines, raising her letter.

"Then me!" Cassandra raises hers.

And Nathan, "MEEE!"

Lyonel huffs, groaning as he embraces his two babes, "FINNNEEEE!"

Aurora wastes no time. She clears her throat then reads: "My silly honey, Lyonel. You are very handsome even if you're stinky!"

The children squeal and cackle louder yet.

Lyonel cannot help his chuckle as he tilts his head, "your mother wrote that?"

"Yes!" Aurora clutches her belly as she giggles.

The children insist it is so through laughter.

"She signed it!" Hendrick says.

"It's true!" Cassandra nods.

Aurora pretends to read the letter, "love, mummy."

The children nod, corroborating with further lies.

"Mmm," their father pretends to think, "your mother never signs letters with Mummy."

Elizabeth gasps, "what she means to say was—"

"Daddy, me!" Nathaniel raises his letter.

"No, it's my turn first!" Cassandra yanks his arm down.

Nathaniel squeals and is about to crumble into a tantrum.

"Ah! You've done it!" whines Hendrick, already covering his ears.

James takes his younger brother's arm, "Nathan, it's fine!"

Lyonel holds the two children by his breast in one arm and manages to beckon the boy over, "no tears."

Nathaniel sniffles, immediately running towards his father, making room for himself on his lap.

Cassandra follows suit, "but papaaaaa! It's my turn!!"

Lyonel pulls the four-year-old boy onto his lap then grunts as the six-year-old girl tries to make space for herself there. The older children sneak under his arms, nestling the younger children between them into a warm and crowded embrace.

Their father adjusts accordingly, spreading his legs a little wider, "go on, my heart," he mutters, "I'm ready to listen."

Cassandra pulls out her letter. Lyonel sees how the ink has smeared with how clammy her hands were. He's already read the contents but nods when the girl reads: "My tender husband, Lyonel."

"Aye," Lyonel agrees.

"You are sweet every time and annoying only some times."

The children have another round of giggles.

Lyonel kisses the crown of Cassandra's head, "you sound just like your mother."

"Daddy! Mama wroooooote this!"

"Oh, right," he nods, "yes, of course, I forgot." He turns to Nathan, "right. Last one."

Nathaniel squeals and quickly unfurls his letter, nearly ripping it as he does. "My good boy, Lyonel!"

"I like being a good boy for mumma."

"You look and dance like a deer!" Nathaniel giggles and shakes in his arms excitedly.

Lyonel tightens his hold on his children, "and was that a compliment or an insult?"

"Insult!" replies the boy without a thought.

"No!" Cassandra grabs her father's face with her clammy hands, "compliment."

"Compliment!" the older children agree in their own timbres.

Lyonel sighs.

"Daddy, I want to sit on your lap too," Aurora frowns.

"And me!" Elizabeth agrees.

"Not me," says the two older boys in unison.

"I'm sorry, darlings, but I can't fit anymore babes on my lap."

"I'm not a babe!" says his second born, crossing her arms.

For a moment, he imagines the day she was born, his little Lily. He shakes his head, "of course not."

With that, Lyonel urges Cassandra off, then Nathaniel, his heart hurting when they both whine in disappointed protest. He props the two youngest on their feet then gestures to the eldest, "time to walk back."

Aurora places a hand on her hip, "mummy says you're not allowed to work unless you eat."

Lyonel straightens up to his full height, not that it matters at all to any of his children right now, "I will after I—"

"MUMMA SAID WE CAN PUSH YOU INTO MUD IF YOU DON'T LISTEN TO WHAT SHE SAYS!" Hendrick nearly bursts a lung with the intensity of his excited statement.

The mob leaves him with no room to argue.

Lyonel can do nothing but acquiesce.

Later that night, Lyonel finds himself in bed hours after I've fallen asleep. I immediately wake as I feel his warm and heavy body press up from behind me.

He hums as he tugs my nightgown off my shoulder, kissing the skin there, "didn't mean to wake you, my love."

"Mmm, no?" I barely manage to look at him, and decide to merely drop my head and close my eyes.

He hums, sinking his face into my neck. He inhales deeply, "mmm, no."

I reach back for him, scratching his scalp lightly.

Lyonel pulls me into his embrace, pressing my back flush against his chest. He pushes my hair away from my nape and kisses me there, "thank you for today." He mumbles against my skin, "I needed that break."

I hum, relishing the affection he was giving me, though I was half-asleep.

"The children and I ate three cakes."

"So, I heard."

Lyonel's hand roves over my body. He finds my breast, drawing out a mewl as he massages the sore flesh. His kisses trail up to my ear, "you've blessed my house greatly with sons and daughters."

"Mmm," my eyes open, "that I have, my dear."

Lyonel takes the opportunity to kiss my mouth when I turn to him. I sigh as his hand finds my thighs, "Lyonel."

"We should have more."

I push him back and stare at his face in the darkness of the room.

Lyonel clutches my cheek and kisses me again.

Or at least he tries to. I push him back once more, "I am with child."

"Mmm," his palm immediately finds my belly, "praise the Seven."

"Lyonel-"

"I merely mean that after, we should—"

"Do not irritate me when I am exhausted."

"..."

"Get off me."

Lyonel hesitates, "alright... I take it back. No need to be cruel."

I groan and roll over, closing my eyes once more, "good night, daddy.*

He nuzzles his face into my nape and wraps his arms around me, "please don't be cross with your good boy."

"You aren't my good boy."

Lyonel whines.

"Get off me if you'll continue sputtering nonsense."

"Father," calls Valarr the fourth or fifth time.

Baelor does not hear the young prince, he is too caught up by the moaning of the much older— but to him, still young, prince Maekar, who had been heatedly updating him on their sister's shenanigans.

"And she fucking gave Daeron alcohol!" Maekar grumbles under his breath through grit teeth, "the boy is fucking eight!"

"I'm sure it's all a misunderstanding," Baelor offers, pressing a hand on his red-faced brother, "I don't believe her to be so poor in judgement to serve alcohol to—"

"Father!" Valarr speaks a little louder, earning the gazes of both princes this time.

Baelor shifts beside his brother, smiling softly at his first born, "Valarr," he places a hand atop his boy's dark hair, just wear his silver streak began, "did I not make it clear you will not be squiring for me on this occasion?"

Valarr opens his mouth, only to close it and offer a disgruntled look. He hadn't even thought of it, and now that it's been recalled, he feels slighted, "I did not mean to speak of this!"

Maekar watches his nephew, heart aching at his disappointed look. He turns to the heir of the realm, mumbling, "you ought to let him. My firstborn finds no interest in such ma—"

Baelor mumbles back, "the day holds far to much pressure for—"

"It's aunt," Valarr blurts, making his father and uncle turn to him.

Immediately, Maekar's fury begins to flare once more.

Baelor speaks first, knowing whatever the fourth-born has to say, it will not be appropriate to his son's ears, "and what of your aunt?"

Valarr fidgets with this hands, grappling with the righteousness of his actions. On one hand, he knows he will get you in trouble, but on the other, you had promised to come back before dark, and the dark grew thicker by the minute.

"Valarr," urges his father.

Maekar grits his teeth when Baelor kneels before his son, the boy's mismatched eyes misted in worry. Baelor clutches Valarr's cheeks, gently trying to coax the confession, but he doesn't need to hear it to know you have left with promise to return before dark. How typical of you, worrying not only your brothers, but now even your 9-year-old nephew, who knows no better that to adore you.

Maekar leaves before Valarr says exactly what he knew he would, "aunt has left."

Baelor clenches his jaw and nods, "where to, my boy?"

Valarr sniffles, "on an adventure... she said she'd be back before dark—" he grips his father's wrist, "but there are bears! We saw bears in the forest before we made it to Highgarden!"

"Bears are scarce on this side of the realm. In fact, I've never heard of bear hunts in Highgarden."

"But I saw it! Mother and aunt were there in the carriage with me! What if she was eaten by that bear?!"

Baelor chuckles, "tis more likely that your aunt ate the bear herself."

"FATHER!" The jest is lost upon the boy, his eyes growing glassier, "She has no claws or sharp teeth! I read in the library that bears can be 3 sizes bigger than a man!"

His father frowns when Valarr's eyes grow too teary that his cheeks are wet. "Oh, my boy," he pulls his son into his arms.

Valarr cries in his father's neck, embracing him tightly.

"Hush," he rubs his back, "I swear to you, no harm will find your aunt. She leaves with a dagger on her hip, does she not?"

The boy wheezes, "y-yeah..."

"Yes," he agrees, stroking the back of his head, "I have no doubt she will find her way home soon, but I shall have Ser Roland search for her if it would bring you comfort?"

Valarr nods against his him, sighing deeply.

Baelor sighs as well, kissing the side of his son's head, "hush. Take heart. Your aunt will soon return."

He sniffles, pulling away to see his father's face. He wipes his snot on his sleeve, "aren't you afraid?"

He wipes Valarr's cheeks and brushes his silver streak away from wet eyes, "my fear for her would not bring her back, so I try not to fear."

Baelor doesn't know if his son understands the sentiment, but the boy nods at his words regardless.

If you had only known of your precious Valarr's distress, you would not have stayed out as long as you had...

... though in all fairness, you actually didn't have a choice, not when he decided to follow.

It happened in the town square before the sun had even begun to set. It started with a smile and a breathless, "hello there," from a man who had shoved through a crowd of twirling bodies to get to you. The music was loud and lively; horns, lutes, cellis, and drums filled the open air, leaving just enough space for applause, chatter, and cheer.

You had ignored him, of course, as you had every other man who tried to interrupt you amidst your merry jig. If it was attention you had craved, you wouldn't have gone through the trouble of dressing up in your servant's worn clothes, and you wouldn't have pointedly tucked your silver streak into your dark hair.

You were good at twirling away and making it clear you did not wish to be bothered, both with your words and, if need be, with your dagger. You had evaded Ser 'Hello There' enough times for you to realize he surely thought it endearing. You were about to do end his persistence with a cold threat of metal against his throat, until—

Collision. Grunt. Growling, "watch where you're-"

Him and a bald man recoil against another. You watch the much larger fellow, round belly and all, go from angry to ghastly. His lips, which had been pulled, begin to tremble, "m-my lord—"

The man with wild hair claps a hand on his shoulder, "nay, nay. Fret not I—"

Fuck, he's a lord.

He goes silent when he spots you. He smirks.

You sigh, gritting your teeth. It is far more complicated to threaten a lord—

The thick bearded man flails his arms in the air as he hops on beat towards you.

— especially one who is clearly a pompous prick.

His dark locks bounce as he bites his tongue through a wide grin. Judging from the stain on his top, and how parts of his beard were clumped, he was probably drunk. Your dancing nearly ceases altogether, for you had absolutely no intention dancing with this moron... but you wanted to see if you could get away with nicking his neck.

"Found you," he giggles and points a finger.

Your lips curl in disgust.

He shamelessly brushes the flyaways and baby hairs that frame your face, "my sweet doe."

You grab his hand when you notice his rings, yanking him to inspect the jewelry.

Obviously, he sees this as an invitation and dances much, much closer to you, "ahhh, so twas a bit of a chase you needed, aye?"

Your tightening grip urges him to still and you finally scrutinize the insignia on his ring. A stag. You look up at him, a dozen different men flitting through your head before you mutter, "Lyonel Baratheon?"

He grins as you release his hand, laughing when you wipe yours on your faded skirt. He brings the same hand to the juncture of your neck and jaw, "at your se—"

Sobriety quickly finds him when you shove him off. He shakes his head in disbelief when you begin to walk away, your thick braid bouncing behind you.

What does he do next?

Of course, what any god-fearing man would.

He dashes forward and snatches your braid.

"AH!"

"Wait, I-"

"UN-FUCKING-HAND ME!"

Lyonel is about to do just that, and he even chuckles, planning on teasing you for such crude language, but the next thing he knows an elbow swings to face, following a crack.

"FUCK!" he clutches his throbbing nose

You fume, throwing your braid back, as you step away from him. You chuckle dryly, wholly satisfied with the damage you dealt, "that'll teach you to pull a woman's hair."

For the second time, he watches you walk away, slipping successfully through the sea of people. He inspects his palm, finding blood there. He laughs, and by the gods, it hurts. His head is throbbing, but so is his heart... and his cock. He's in fucking love.

"Wait!" he calls, much weaker now, though his resolve is anything but.

You manage to only get so far when you are grabbed again, though he was partially sensible this time, as he took your arm instead of your braid. Your offense is still very much rampant, as exemplified by your offered glare, "you dare?"

"I-" he chuckles, "dare?" His loins ache as he releases your arm, "you dare! You dare strike a lord!"

You purse your lips and roughly brush off your drab skirt, "it's not very lord-like of you to violate a defenseless woman."

"V-violate?" he chuckles yet again though his injury protests, "and defenseless?" He shows you his bloodied palm, "my nose is bleeding!"

You merely cross your arms, "you pulled my braid. My head nearly fell off my neck."

The next chuckle that leaves him is mixed with a groan, "gods, you are something else." He looks away to shake his head and place his hands on his hips.

Your lips curl at his incessant laughter, and your eyes linger on the red thickening his moustache and cupid's bow. His tongue darts out to lick the blood and you catch yourself involuntarily moaning at it. You shake your head and quickly curtsy, "if that will be all, my lord."

For the third time, he watches you walk, but this time, he has the mind not lay a hand on you. Instead, he dashes forward and gets in your way.

You gasp, hand instinctively coming to your chest and to the dagger on your hip.

"That will not be all," he raises a finger, "first, you must tell me your name, my lady."

You knit your brows and step back, "I am no lady."

"Pfft," one corner of his mouth curls upward, "of course you are."

You take your turn pointing at him, "do not presume to know more about myself than I—"

"A lowborn woman-" he grabs your finger, "- would not act half as bold as you."

You scowl at him.

"Nor her speak thus."

You yank your finger out of his grip, "you underestimate the rage of a woman wronged."

He chuckles, ignoring my comment, "especially not if she recognized me as Lyonel Baratheon."

... fuck. He's smart.

"Now," he sniffles, rubbing his philtrum, eye twitching at the soreness of his injured nose, "if you will not tell me your name, tell me at least your father's, that I might find favor in him enough to learn his what he named his fair daughter."

You raise a brow before rolling your eyes, "if what I know about you is true, Lyonel Baratheon, I fear you will never find favor in my father for you will despise him."

"Ah," he raises a finger, "see, if you, really wanted to keep up the pretense of your lowly birth, you would not call me by my name."

Your forehead curls and you tilt your head, "and who said I cared to keep up any pretense or appearance with you?"

He opens his mouth but says nothing.

You roll your eyes and walk off yet again, "you are wasting my time."

Lyonel turns, shocked by the swift turn of events. He stands there, dumb, then only has the brain to follow you off when you head for the woods and begin to fade into the thickets, "WAIT!"

You hear him running after you. You hear his footsteps draw nearer. You are faced then with a decision, to either let him catch up, or run off. In a split second, you grab your skirt tightly and bolt.

He gasp, "WAAAAIT, DAMNIT!"

You can still hear him. Gods, he's fast. You know if you turn back now, you will never evade him.

Fuck, is that fucker laughing?

... is that fucker running faster?

"WAIT!"

You yelp when you hear how close he is.

The chase makes your blood pump, your breath shorten, and your legs sting. At some point, you begin to wonder how long either of you will be able to keep this up, but it all soon comes to a head when he catches your shoulders and stops you in your tracks.

You make birds flee the trees with how piercing your scream is.

Lyonel gasps, loosening his hold on you a mere fraction, "silence!"

You strike his chest, "UNHAND ME!"

He does not, "stop screaming!"

"UNHAND ME, BRUTE!"

"Will you just—"

He finally unhands you when you press your dagger against his throat.

You can hear your pulse in your ears.

He turns his gaze from your eyes to your weapon, slowly raising his hands in surrender. He realizes his mistake only now; he has frightened and imposed upon you, truly acting a brute, "forgive me, I—"

"You ask for forgiveness only now that a sharp edge presses distance between us?"

Lyonel slowly tilts his head and raises a brow, "I fear not your blade."

He hisses when you press against his throat, deep enough to actually nick his shin. "Oh?"

His eye twitches but he does not pull away or lower his hands. "No," he maintains, "only that I have acted unchivalrously that you think me unworthy of your grace."

You stare at him.

And though you do not respond, or even move for that matter, he can tell you were not expecting this.

"I am not a brute," he mutters as the pain on his neck persists, "and I do not wish to confirm your suspicions of it, my love."

You scoff and pull your blade away, though maintaining its level as you back off until there is enough space between you, "I am not your love."

"Then be my love," he presses a hand to his chest, "for your spirit makes me ache. As if your fair face and graceful dance was not enough, your unmistakably fiery wit and tenacity has bewitched me."

Your brows furrow in the slightest of manners.

"We started off with the wrong foot" he slowly reaches a hand, "I admit was mildly drunk, but my mind now is clearer than day. I would be a fool not to bask in your presence and beg your time."

Your nostrils flare, "then beg."

The brown leaves crackle beneath him when he drops to his knees.

You gasp, eyes a fraction wider at the sight of this tall man whimpering on the ground.

"I implore you," he presses his hands to his thighs, "many woman I have met, many woman I have had," he shakes his head, "I would forget them all if that would mean you would still regard me an hour hence."

You chuckle dryly, taking another step back from him.

It makes him flinch forward, "please."

You shake your head, "you are mad if you think I believe I am the first woman you've spoken such words to when they sound so thoughtful."

"Thoughtful?" he shakily chuckles, "tis only so because your countenance inspires thus."

You purse your lips. Seven hells, he's good.

You stare at him a little longer. You notice the heaving of his chest, the tension in his fists. Alternatively, he notices the shape of your hips and the loose hair that brushes your cheek. Oh, to be a dainty curl.

You decide to test him, and so you take another step back.

This time, he flinches hard enough that he nearly slips from where he was kneeling. He braces himself then reaches a hand out to you, "please, don't go."

You sigh deeply, wetting your lips with your tongue before nibbling it, "and would you crawl to me and beg?"

He doesn't speak, he only does. And not even five seconds later, he has crawled in front of you. He is emboldened by the hitch of your breath and the way your shoulders rise with your ribs. He braces your legs with both arms, looking up at you with a pitiful face, "please."

"Gods," you huff, hands coming to the sides of his head.

He unabashedly moans when you scrape your nails into his scalp.

"Lyonel," you whisper breathlessly.

He groans, daring to press his forehead into your thigh for a moment, only to look back up at you, "tell me your name, that I might whisper it back."

Your breathing is strangled by your own throat and your body is terribly warm. You firmly swipe his cheek, gulping at how he leans into your touch.

"F-fuck," he mutters, "please—"

"You mistake me," you blurt, "I cannot be what you want."

"You are what I want, no matter what you are."

You huff, "I know about you."

A shiver runs down his spine when you comb his curls back with your fingers. He dares to clutch the back of your thighs. He moans when you do not push him away, "allow me then to know about you."

"You misunderstand," you press his ears between your fingers, "I mean to tell you that I know you could never love me."

"I already do," he chuckles.

You blink slowly and raise your brows, "you really don't. I will spare you the heartache and tell you that my mother is a Dornish prin—"

"It matters not to me where your mother is from!" he exclaims rather deliriously as he clutches you tighter, "be it Dorne, or The Reach, or Essos or even beyond the fucking Wall!"

"And Old Valyria?" you tilt your head.

Lyonel is taken off-guard, and yet a smile widens on his lips. He gestures with an arm and begins to babble incoherently.

You make a face, "and what was that?"

"That-" he shifts on one foot then comes to a stand.

Your breath hitches when he rises to his full height, his face looming over yours as he takes both your cheeks in his palm.

"- is a profession of love in Old Valyrian."

Your face entirely shifts, forehead and lips curled incredulously. You turn away and burst into brash laughter.

The intensity of your laugh causes you to lean into him. He does not budge, but rather, he opens his arms and embraces you. His hands find your shoulders and heat spreads through your chest, both from your amusement and his touch.

When you meet his eyes, his face is solemn. There remained a faint smile on his features, but is bereft of mischief. His eyes seem to gleam, and it is only then you realize the sky was beginning to dim, by the comparison.

"Alas," he whispers, "I've made laughter spill from your lips to my ears; no longer shall I want to go without."

You stare at him, unable to withhold the shake of your head nor the soft smile that his words evoke.

He nods in response to your disapproval, "yes. It is true. You deny me too much, my love."

You huff, "I am not your lo—"

"Well, it is not as I can regard you any other way."

You notice the faintest of lines form between his brows. You know if you tell him your name, he will finally understand that you have not been toying about your Old Valyrian patronage, but suddenly, the thought agitates you. Suddenly, you dread how he would spurn you for being a child of the Crown.

You lower your gaze, eyes drinking in muscles of his throat and the expanse of his shoulders. Likewise, he sighs at the softness of your cheek and the dip of your collarbone.

You lick your lips, "I cannot be your love. You would despise my upbringing if you knew it."

Lyonel narrows his eyes, pressing his thumbs on the base of your jaw, "now you presume to know more about myself than I."

"But I do know it."

"How? From idle gossip?"

From how you regarded my brothers in the last tourney. Maekar complained much about the impudence of 'that fucking stag', and though you hadn't witnessed it yourself, for you did not attend the tourney held in Casterly Rock a mere two moons ago, apparently Lyonel's hostility was blatant enough for even Baelor to note upon it.

It was because of that incident the heir, himself, recommended an upkeep of relations with the Stormlanders to your father.

It was a simple thing to admit, but his hands that moved to hold the sides of your waist complicated things. You feel almost weepy as you think of what will happen if you tell him you are a princess.

"Or," he leans into you, "do you merely imagine the worse of me because you fearfully know I would be the best you ever have?"

You whimper when the heat of his mouth finds yours. You cannot help the way you clutch the back of his neck, nor the way your lips mold incessantly, perfectly against his. The taste of iron subdues whatever wine that lingered on his tongue, and as he rubs his hands up your spine, you feel yourself melting further into him.

Lyonel hisses as he tightens his hold on you, snaking an arm tightly around you, allowing his one hand to brush some stray hairs away from your face and to trace the shell of your ear.

When your hands sneak into his collar and tug him there, you realize the tomfoolery you have allowed yourself to be sucked into.

You pull away from him with a gasp, pointing a finger at him.

His mouth his ajar as he catches his breath. Gods, you look divine with lips swollen.

"We cannot!" you quip.

He gestures to you, "but we have." He steps forward.

"No!" You step back, "you don't understand what you're getting yourself into!"

"Then, by the gods, make me understand!" he raises his hands up in defeat, "tell me everything that you think will deter me from you! Make it plain for the fool that I am!"

"I am fucking cursed!" you snap.

He stands frozen. He opens his mouth, but for once, he does not have some witty remark.

"Never mind the doom that plagues my family, but I," you point to yourself, "I am cursed."

Lyonel sees your distress. He narrows his eyes, "ho—"

"I've married twice, you know," you mutter.

For a moment, his jaw clenches, but then he draws a deep, "and presumably both your husbands perished?"

"And my son," you mutter.

His lips part.

"I knew him only a day."

He stares at his feet. What could he possibly say to that? He slowly looks up and rubs his beard, "my deepest condolences."

"Even the first man meant to marry me perished," you motion, "we never did marry because he died."

Lyonel's eyes narrow, "I doubt it was you who slayed him."

"But it was because of me," you whine.

His nostrils flare as he steps forward, "did you push him off a horse?"

You do not step back as he approaches.

"Or perhaps you had a witch curse him?"

"I did not!" you say rather indignantly.

Lyonel chuckles and shakes his head, "then forgive me for not believing your prowess with manslaughter."

Your breath hitches when he reaches a hand to you. You stare at his palms for a moment.

His lips pull into a soft, lopsided smile, "I told you, I am no brute. I would like you to chose to take my hand."

You give him a wary look.

He maintains his soft smile.

"And..." you shrug, "...if you drop dead?"

"Then, it would have been my choice."

"..."

He smiles a little brighter.

"... I expected you to say you would have died happy."

He snorts, "true, but I have no intention of dying so soon, so take my hand that I may live knowing your touch."

You don't know why but you take his hand the next heartbeat.

"Fuck," he mutters, pulling you into him again to give you another kiss.

Your second kiss is much more unbridled, more urgent, as if he was relaying his need through the feel of his mouth rather than the words he could speak with it.

His arm snakes around you again and he presses his chest against yours, forcing you to lean back into the hand that clutched the back of your head.

His tongue makes his way past your lips, demanding attention from your own, and you sigh helplessly at his taste. The closer tighter he holds you, the more your core begins to ache.

"Lyonel," you heave in between hot kisses.

He moans, unwilling to pull away, though he was breathless himself.

You whimper when he begins to back you up, and again when you are pressed into what was unmistakably a tree. He traps you there, intent on feeling your plush body against his, thus why he presses firmer into you.

"Lyonel," you gasp a little louder, pushing him back a bit to breathe.

He whines and clutches your cheek, "please don't push me away."

"I cannot breathe."

He kisses your neck instead, "I would gladly suffocate, especially between your thighs."

"T-That makes one of-" you whimper as he begins to bunch your skirt into his hand. You shiver as you rise to your toes, throwing an arm over his firm shoulders.

He groans against your throat in approval, his large palm immediately splaying across your outer thigh, "good girl."

You momentarily lower your gaze, whining at the sight of his hand beneath your dress, before lurching forward at the feel of his fingers finding the building wetness between your thighs.

"Mmm," he grazes your earlobe with his teeth, "sooooo good f'me."

Your fingers find his curls allowing your nails to find his scalp.

"Gonna warm you up for my cock," he kisses your jaw, "better than both your husbands."

You whimper, your gaze whipping to him and your brows knitting tightly. You yank his hair back, but your demand to face each other elicits a whiny chuckle from him.

"What?" he smirks, eyes lidded with lust, "I must prove my worth to you, mustn't I?"

You grit your teeth, "don't fucking talk to me about— mmm-"

"Shhh," sounds he against your neck, just as his two fingers begin to prod your hot cunt, "we speak no ill of the dead, my love."

"F-fuck you."

He kisses your cheek, "almost there."

Sure enough, he shows you how good he is with his fingers until you can no longer physically stay on your toes, or your legs for that matter. Luckily for you, he is built sturdy, and manages you not only lift you up against the tree trunk and hook your leg around his waist, but he also does this while continuing to rub your clit until you're quite literally dripping on his hand.

With one arm still around his shoulders, you use the other to grab his wrist and complain, "just fuck me already."

"Bratty," his nostrils flare, "and here I thought you didn't want me."

You shiver when his fingers finally plunge into you, thrusting quickly with lewd squelches. You throw your head back and screw your eyes shut.

He smiles against your throat, relishing the vibration from your unabashed moan, "huh? What was that?"

"I-" you release his wrist in lieu of squeezing his arm, "I didn't s-say I didn't want you."

He growls in his laugher, "nooo, you didn't, didn't you?"

"I-" you slightly sag into him, "I was warning you against me."

He sighs deeply against your ear, "you should have warned me how wet your cunt would get my hand, woman."

You moan, mouth open as it seeks his mouth again, "Lyonel."

"See," he alternates to rubbing your clit, "I would have moaned your name back if you had told me it."

You open your eyes and grit your teeth at him, "get the fuck off me."

His fingers stop moving, "w-wha—"

"I said-" you shove him back, "get the fuck off!"

Before he can even think, he and you are parted, twigs beneath you crack when you find your footing. He is suddenly so painfully aware of the ache in his breeches as he thinks he might not find his relief between your thighs. He raises a hand, "w-wait, I didn't-"

"Shut the fuck up," you growl, grabbing his face to do just that with a heated kiss.

He gasps in shock, but quickly recovers, urgently wrapping his arms around you again.

This time, before he can push you back, it is you who pushes, and down he goes. With a grunt and a pained whine, you have him prone on the ground.

He hisses when a rock digs into his back, "seven fucking HELLS!"

"Forgive me," you sigh, ceasing your kisses to help remove the rock beneath him.

Lyonel watches you and the concerned look on your face. Instantly, the pain behind him is inconsequential when you straddle his thighs and free your legs from your skirt... wasn't he previously injured a while ago? Beats him. He rubs his hands up the crook of his neck, sighing at your countenance, "you are ferocious beauty."

You look down at him then undo his breeches. You find the slight flush of his cheeks and how his curls fall away from his face. "You're not too bad yourself."

He hisses when the cold air meets his burning cock.

You gulp at the heat and heaviness of him.

"You can take a son from me, if you'd like."

Your eyes flicker from his swollen cock to his stupid face.

He groans, not catching the way your eyes roll for his hands claw at your hips when you fist his length roughly, smearing his tip with your thumb.

"And can you not control your fucking tongue?"

His hips thrust into your hand, "n-not when you do this to me."

You roll your eyes the second time.

You find soon enough that the best way to silence such an irritating creature is to sheathe his cock into your wet cunt and clench tightly around him. It's only you who's laughing as you lean into his chest and ride him until your thighs are coated in slick.

Lyonel is so out of it, he swears you start speaking a foreign tongue. His hands cannot decide if they want to squeeze your thighs, or your arse, or your breasts, nor can they decide if they want to help you bounce on him harder or play with your clit. He resolves to doing them all in his own time, and his eyes and ears afe thankful for the faces and sounds you gave him in return.

Your thighs and arms begin to burn, so you slow your pace and begin to grind on him.

You are a vision above him, forehead and neck beaded with sweat. He pushes himself on one elbow as he licks the salty bead that tries to retreat between your breast.

You moan, clutching the back of his head, encouraging his ministration.

He feels your weight shift heavily onto his shoulders. He slowly lies back and pulls you along with him. "Do you want me to take over?" Lyonel offers through a shaky breath.

You sigh and glare down at him, lifting your head only to spit on his face, "shut the fuck up."

"F-f-fuc—"

You begin to ride him again, this time, at break-back speed.

It doesn't take long for your pleasures to rise. His fingers dig crescent moons to the curve of your arse and thighs, "s-spit on me again."

You huff, moaning as you feel your orgasm rapidly build. You squeeze his jaw, coaxing his mouth open, then spit on his tongue, "swallow."

Swallow he does. He also digs his heels into the dirt and begins thrusting up into you. He grips your hips, guiding your movements until he has no movement to guide, for you end up laying above him, forced to take his upward thrusts until you're both gushing hot spend between your aching thighs.

Your joined cries of pleasure echo faintly. Had a passerby been earshot, it wouldn't be farfetched for them to presume it was an injured beast... or perhaps a famished monster.

"Take it, take it, take it—" he chants as his hips sputter into yours. His grip on your flesh is rough until the very second he stops moving.

You both catch your breath, bodies tingling in the aftermath of your intense fucking.

You close your eyes, heaving open-mouthed against his chest. Lyonel has his arm around you, his breathing no more lost than yours, but twice as loud.

You can feel his cock twitching in you. He can feel your cunt sputtering.

He rubs your back, "you're a fucking dream."

You respond only with your breathing.

He squeezes your arm and kisses the top of your head.

You close your eyes as his kiss brings you back to your reality. If only he knew— but you shake your head and tell yourself that you wouldn't think about it.

He feels your head shake, "what?"

You shake your head again, "it's nothing."

"Are you convincing yourself you're a curse?" he lifts his head.

You hum and look at him, "need I? I'm already convinced."

Lyonel frowns. He clutches your cheek, wanting to argue the logic, but decides not to note it. Better to change the conversation, "there is a lake nearby."

You skeptically raise a brow, "do you mean to bathe with me?"

"Don't tell me your two husbands never cleaned you up?"

You roll your eyes again.

"Ah," he rubs your back, "they probably never made a mess of-"

You pinch his nipple.

"-aWW!" He swats your hand off.

You chuckle and roll off.

"Wait," he groans, annoyed that his cock was no longer in your warmth, "I wasn't done sweet-talking you!"

Lyonel tries to sweet talk you on the way to the lake, and, for some reason, agrees with himself that your glare was one of encouragement. He's so encouraged by it, he, in fact, ends up showing you multiple ways one can fuck in a body off water.

... apparently then he wasn't wrong about your glare.

And now, here you are, holding him with hands and fingers wrinkled from how long you've been wet, your braid floating in the water behind you. You cannot seem to tear your eyes from him, not as he rubs his equally wrinkled hands upon your curves; you are too focused on slicking his wet curls back for your own good.

"I am loath to leave you," he mutters.

The sun had set at this point, and the truth was, you felt the same, but you did not dare admit it. You wanted to memorize how he looked under dim moonlight, for you knew you'd not have the opportunity ever again.

Lyonel squeezes your bicep, "let me speak to your father."

Your lips tremble, so you press them together.

He rubs your arm, "I understand you keep grief and fear in here," he presses his hand on your sternum, "but don't you think they'll multiply the deeper you tuck them in?"

You breathe deeply, taking his hand from your chest, "Lyonel."

"And if it is this curse you worry of," he presses his thumb on your lower lip, "let it be known that mine would be never being able to have you this way again."

"Lyonel," you eyes immediately water, "I vowed when my son died that I would not place another offering at the Stanger's altar."

He frowns at how easily your tears fall. He wipes them away. "I know th-" he sighs, "allow me to learn how to comfort you."

You frown at him.

"Would you tell me about your boy?" he draws a line down your neck.

"There is nothing to tell," you blink away tears, "he had my hair."

He strokes to top of your head.

You tangle your fingers in the curls by his nape, "you know I'm greying like you."

His nostrils flare, "you dare suggest I am greying, woman? I am the picture of youth."

You ghost your fingers on the side of his head, "you are."

"Well, I'll accept, only because we'll match."

You hum, "mine is not grey though. Tis silver," you rub the top of your forehead, "it's tucked in my braid."

He clutches your cheek and kisses the crown of your head, "I have no doubt about it."

"It's true."

He scoffs in amusement, "and I said I-have-no-doubt-about-it. There's surely an explanation as to why it is not visible."

"I used to trim it off, but my nephew decided to do the same to his hair, so I stopped."

"I'm sure your nephew enjoyed looking like his aunt."

You chuckle weakly, "I have since become incredible at hiding it in my braid."

"By why hide the dainty silver?" He rubs your cheek, "I think it would suit you well."

"I hide it so no one will know it is me.

He scoffs, "ah yes. I am certain you are undiscernible with and without your silver streak."

"I mean it."

"And I have been agreeing!" he chuckles.

You sniffle and shake your head, "and when I say you would not want to see my father, I mean it too."

He turns solemn, "as if I have not been urging you to let me do precisely that."

You stare at him, at his brown eyes and plush lips you've kissed swollen. You want to believe him; you really want to believe him. Yet even as you you stare at him now, still wrapped in his arms, you were already fearfully grieving his loss. You would not survive the hope of having his love, only to receive his scorn. You've been through too much.

He notices your eyes watering before you do, "oh, come now—"

"My brother would not let you see him, even if you insisted," you mutter, mostly to yourself. Maekar would rage over the idea of a man who unhorsed him is now vying for your affection.

"So, you have a brother."

"I have four."

Lyonel traces your jaw, "good. Then I shall find a house that has four sons and a daughter."

"..."

He smiles, "thank you for letting me know."

His pleased expression makes you feel sick, "Lyonel."

"My love?"

You defeatedly sigh at the pet name, "I do not want you to know my house."

His brows furrow, "then come into mine."

"I'm being serious."

"I assure you, I have been serious all day."

You give him a look.

"If it is your standing you worry about, I assure you, I stand high enough for the both of us."

"And if you hate my brothers?"

He chuckles unexpectedly, "is that you so fear? That your brothers and I will not get along?"

"You wouldn't."

Lyonel's eyes twitch in annoyance of your incessant tone, "fine. Say that it is so. Why would I hold that against you?"

"Because they are my kin."

"If you marry me, you would be mine."

You huff and pull away, "Lyon—"

"No," he hold back, "alright, I won't-"

"Let us put an end to this."

"Please."

"I must walk back to camp."

"Walk?"

You come to a stand, wiping yourself down as much as you can with your hands, "alone."

Lyonel chuckles dryly, "now, I know you don't believe I'd let you do that."

You snort as you squeeze your braid and grab your clothes, "now, I know you don't believe you could let me do anything."

He is helpless as he watches you dress, shocked by how swiftly you disregard him. He whimpers as he rises, water dripping off him, "gods, you insufferable creature," he catches your wrists, "it's not a matter of my pride but a matter of your safety!"

You turn to him, frowning at his concerned gaze, "allow me to selfishly decline, darling."

He grits his teeth, "tis not selfishness, but irrat—"

"I wish for you to worry over my safety."

His brows raise as a chuckle of disbelief leaves his lips. He is breathless, "what the fuck is wrong with you?"

You frown, reaching for his cheek, "I pray you never learn."

He groans and grabs your wrist, squeezing it for a moment before releasing it with a defeated sigh. "Fine," he grabs his own clothes and hurriedly dresses, "at least take my horse-"

"I can't—"

"Yes, you can," he pulls his breeches up, "you can take it and rest assured I will not track the journey it has taken with you."

You raise your brows as he roughly secures his laces. You give him a skeptical look.

He notices, "what?"

You shake your head and shrug, "nothing."

"What?" he presses more impatiently, "what? You can be selfish but I cannot lie?"

You chuckle and grab your braid, squeezing more water out of it, "I'm glad you admit it so freely."

Lyonel whines and wipes his face roughly. He comes to your side only to fall to his knees, embracing you like he had earlier this day, "please, fucking take my horse. I shall drop dead if refuse another time."

You look down at him and comb his hair back, "no, Lyonel."

He winces and sharply clutches his chest. He plops to his side with a withering whine, "I've dropped dead."

You look down with curved lips, "how darling."

He whines a little louder, "I've dropped dead and you call it darling?!" He quickly sits up, "you are cruel," he comes to a stand, "you are cruel and wicked and we should be wed this instant."

You chuckle as you finish wringing your hair.

His breath catches, "fuck." He clutches your cheeks and kisses you needily.

You giggle and kiss him back.

"Do not leave me," he sighs between kisses.

You moan, "I must."

"Then take my-"

"I cannot ride."

"Yes. Yes you ca-"

"No, listen," you push him off and chuckle, "I cannot ride!"

Lyonel stills.

"Your horse is no use to a woman who refused to learn."

"I beg your pardon."

You hum and begin to walk off.

The thought is preposterous. He is so dumbfounded, you manage to get pretty far before he's running after you. He nabs his shirt from the ground and puts it on, "you cannot ride?"

You laugh at his incredulous question.

He nearly trips on his own feet, "but you rode me well enough."

Your feet falter. You glare at him, only to see his proud fucking face. "Do you suppose I ought to assume there's a cock between my legs when I mount a horse?"

"Well, it's one way to lear— AW!"

You smack him two more times, "I ought to drown you!"

"And I," laughs he, whilst snatching your arm, "ought to put your cock-riding skills to proper use."

You wrangle out of his grip, "I refuse!"

"Ha," he releases you, "so, I ought to look for a lord who's spoiled his daughter rotten."

"You will find no such lord for I am not spoiled!"

He watches you side step away from him, and he chuckles, diminishing the space between you, "yea, I concede. I too would commission carriages aplenty to assure your comfort."

"Tis not about my comfort," you try to push him off. He does not budge. "Any time my brothers tried to teach me, I was reminded of my duty to our family," you throw your braid behind you, "it troubles me so."

Lyonel's gaze is fixed on you, waiting for an explanation that never arrives.

The walk back to the town square is filled with light conversation, banter, and stolen touches. It felt as though you were children speaking to the opposite sex for the first time, both your bellies were uneasy and neither of you could stop giggling.

Just as you were about to leave, he takes squeezes your hands and stares at you. He takes in the arch of your brow, the dampness of your braid, the way your chest rises and falls.

You let hold you until your conscience demands escape.

"Don't forget about me," he mutters, kissing each of your knuckles.

You slowly pull away, holding his hand till the last moment. "For your sake, do not remember me at all."

When you reach your host's home, you feel a weight fall from your shoulders yet a dread settle into your belly. You quickly begin to undo your braid, relieved to finally be able to run your hands through your hair.

"And where did you go that you're returning all wet?"

You turn into stone.

Baelor closes the book he'd been reading and rises from his seat in the candle lit corner of the foyer. He approaches you with the calmness of a cat who is certain he will catch his mouse, "I had Ser Roland search for you."

"Oh?"

He tilts his head, "oh?" The tone is mocking, like he was regressed to a child of 10 and 6. "Did you pointedly try to hide from him?"

"I did not know you had Roland search for me."

He stands directly in front of you. You see him swallow the irritation he wanted to spit out; you watch it morph into disappointment, "didn't you?"

You clench your teeth, fidgeting with your damp curls, "were you waiting for me?"

"Why wouldn't I?" he counters far too quickly.

You gulp, clenching your teeth again, "... perhaps because your wife and son has journeyed to Highgarden with us?"

"Do not so suddenly not feign concern—"

"I do not feign concern, Baelor."

"—when your absence has brought Valarr, and in turn Jena, and all of us, great distress."

Your heart twinges at the mention of Valarr. You lower your gaze and shake your head, "I told the boy I would retur—"

"Before sunset," Baelor's eyes twitch as he looks out the window, "I don't know if you can tell but night cloaks us wholly, sister."

You roll your eyes as you aimlessly look off, "I did not anticipate..."

Your trialing tone makes him narrow his eyes. He braces himself with a huff, "what"

"..."

"What did you do?"

You dare to look at him and hold his gaze. You regret it. Concern and frustration war behind his patient silence, patience you would not have afforded from anyone else.

Baelor says your name. He places an hand on your shoulder and shakes his head, "am I not your older brother who has always kept his little sister safe?"

Guilt brings you to tears; you bring your face into your hands while your shoulders resist the urge to shake through your sob.

He speaks your name once more and pulls you into his chest.

"F-Forgive me."

"Tis not I who should hear this."

You sniffle, "I will speak to Valarr in the morning."

"You should," he strokes your hair, much like how he did the said boy earlier today. He looks upon the silver streak cascading to the side of your face, feeling incredibly paternal as he tucks it behind your ear.

You sigh and reluctantly face him.

Baelor nods once, urging you to confess whatever it is you needed to.

"I..." you sniffle, "I had... relations with Lyonel Baratheon."

Baelor's face remains blank, and to a lesser man, he might've looked calm, but you were no man.

"You see... he insisted—"

"He forced himself on you?"

You quickly place your hand on his chest and shake your head, "I was unwilling... but only before he kissed me."

Baelor steps back to wipe his face. He mutters your name.

"You..." you feel like the air was choking you, "...you may meet him at first tilt, and if he recognizes me tomorrow, he may regard you with more force than necessary."

"Recognize you?" his voice is sharper now, only because it was no longer directed at you. He somehow only realizes then that you had been dressed in rags all along. He chuckles dryly, "do not tell me Lyonel believed you to be some low born girl?"

"No," you tug at the ends of your hair, "he knew I was pretending, yet he did not surmise which house I belonged to."

He sighs your name out.

"I swear to-"

"You may not have believed my tale of his hostility at Casterly Rock—"

"I do believe you brother! Which is why I did not tell him!"

"Did not tell him?" he repeats incredulously, "did you not tell him or did you purposefully deceive him so he would keep your company?"

"..."

Baelor shakes his head for the last time, "I've had enough of you."

"B-Baelor."

"You will speak to him come morning and lay bare your deception."

"But I did not deciev—"

His pointed stare cuts you off.

"I..."

"You knew of his ill-sentiment towards your brothers, towards the Crown, and you let him feast upon your flesh."

"I- I—B-Bael-"

"Your prince speaks," he raises a hand .

Your lips quiver. You scratch your eyes.

"You wish me to believe no repercussions occurred to you?"

"..."

He calls your name.

You can no longer look at him.

"You know better than this, girl."

Your face burns at the regard.

"Go to bed, and be sure—"

You do not wait for him to finish and walk off.

You could hardly sleep that night, and when you did, you aren't given many hours . Maekar wakes you, banging and growling on your locked door. He yells your name for hundredth time.

You groan and cover your head with a pillow.

"Don't fucking pretend you can't hear me!" your older brother fumes, "open this fucking door at once!"

You surpass his rage, "BE FUCKING QUIET!"

He does the same, kicking the door, "DON'T YOU FUCKING TEST ME!"

Just as you sit up, head hammering from the lack of sleep, you hear voices outside, undoubtedly it's Baelor and Maekar arguing over your corpse.

"I WILL JOIN YOU AFTER I FINISH SLEEPING, DAMN IT!"

You can practically hear Maekar seething outside the room, even though he forfeited a reply.

You warily look at the door, knowing far too well it's never good when the loud one goes silent.

You huff and push your blanket off, storming for the door. You grit your teeth as you look up at your brother, "just leave me the fu—"

Sure enough, Maekar is looking at you, no, glaring at you, but he is leaned back against the hall with crossed arms and knit brows. You were wrong to think Baelor was outside your door, for it was, in fact, his son.

You lower your gaze, your anger immediately dissipating when you see your darling nephew in front of you.

"Aunt..." Valarr's voice is small, "I... I thought a bear had-" his lips quiver, "had eate—" the boy weeps into his hands.

"Oh, my boy," you drop to your knees and seal him against your chest, "forgive me for not keeping my word."

Maekar scoffs, arms tightening around himself. He mouths something to you in High Valyrian and you scowl back at him.

"F-Father assured me you'd return, b-but—" he weeps into your shoulder, "Ser Roland could not find you, and- and I thought the bear we pa-assed on the way—"

"There was no bear, my love," you kiss his cheek and pull away, brushing tears from his face, "I was merely... too busy dancing. I lost track of time."

Again, Maekar scoffs.

Valarr sniffles and scratches his face.

Your throat tightens in guilt, "forgive me, sweet boy."

"It's alright," he mutters softly, "I-" he shakes his head, "I was just worried, be-because you've never failed your word before."

The statement is like a blade through the chest.

"Until now," Maekar chuckles dryly, adding insult to injury.

You gesture offensively at him from behind the boy and come to stand, "why don't you go off with your ugly uncle. I'll just get dressed then we can go on an adventure together."

Valarr perks but then he tilts his head, "yes! But father told me to remind you that you must speak to Lord Baratheon before the first tilt."

Your eyes widen.

"Lyonel Baratheon?" Maekar straightens up, "what in the seven hells have you got to do with that stupid cu—"

"Mind your tongue!" you point at him. Your heart races at the revelation Baelor has not disclosed your sins to him. You sigh as you turn back to Valarr, "if I see him, I'll talk to him. He'll be busy preparing for the games after breaking fast like the rest of the players, no doubt."

The boy nods profusely, "I am excited to see them all!"

You smile at the boy, brushing his hair back, "and I am excited for you."

"Oh, please dress quickly!"

You were now breaking fast in a solar reserved for your family. No one mentions your disappearance save for your three brothers, Maekar being the most unabashed about it. You easily fought them off or downright ignored them, emboldened by Baelor's silence on the matter; Aerys, Rhaegel, and Maekar stood no chance against you without your eldest brother's help.

"Father," Aerion turns to Maekar.

Maekar merely hums as he finishes his meal.

"Can I go out to see the horses?"

"No."

Aerion whines, throwing his head back.

"Finish your food first."

Valarr turns to his cousin, "aunt and I will go out later."

Aerion beams when he turns his gaze to you.

Valarr continues, "if you finish your food you ca-"

You chuckle at how Aerion begins to stuff his face with heaps of food. Aerion can barely even chew and begins to cough a little when he tries to swallow.

Maekar's face twists, reaching out to firmly pat the boy's back.

When Aerion finishes his food, you give him a concerned smile, "done?"

He nods happily, standing to prove a point.

Maekar raises a brow, "there's still—"

"Let's go, Valarr!" Aerion runs from his father.

"Aerion!" calls his father.

You stand as well, and the boys immediately run and hide behind your skirts with giggles.

Maekar eyes you, twice as irritated at you now. He mouths something in High Valyrian but you don't care to understand. You place your hands atop the boys' heads, "come along, my loves."

Just as you're about to leave, Baelor calls your name.

The chatter in the room falters.

Baelor wipes his mouth before continuing, "you will leave with Ser Roland, yes?"

You raise your brows at the question which was clearly not a question. You slowly nod, "yes."

Baelor nods, "good," he lowers his gaze, "take care of your aunt, boys."

Aerion and Valarr happily agree.

Ser Roland is already outside the solar when you exit. He bows, "Prince Valarr, Prince Aerion," he reaches a hand to you, "my princess."

You offer your hand.

He kisses it and slowly looks up at you, "I pray next time I search for you, you will not make it so difficult."

"Do you mean to say you wish for me to get lost another time, Roland?"

He chuckles, eyes falling on the silver streaks framing both sides of your face. For a moment, all the other times he's had to look for you flit through his head. He is glad you no longer make practice of cutting your silver hair; it suits you well. "Not at all."

You hum, holding both your nephews' hands as you begin to walk off.

"Your hair is longer."

"You mean my silver."

"Yes," his eyes fall on the back of Valarr's head, "as is our prince's."

Valarr turns back to him to explain, "I promised never to cut it again."

Roland snorts, "as did our princess, I believe."

You turn around to raise a brow at him.

If you meant to intimidate him, it does quite the opposite. The man's lips curl into a lopsided smile, "your hair is pretty today."

The loose curls braided away from your face bounce slightly as you look front, "just today?"

The kingsguard brings his hands behind him and shrugs, "unfortunately so."

You scoff in amusement and roll your eyes, "you forget I can have you flogged."

Roland's lips curl, "you cannot flog out the memory of how badly you looked when your silver streak was just growing out."

You chuckle, not bothering to turn to him as you respond, "would you like me to try?"

"A knight of the royal guard wouldn't stand in the way of a princess."

Aerion looks up at you, "why are you going to flog Ser Roland?"

You look at the boy, "I am not. I am just explaining something to him."

"Aunt would never flog anyone, Aerion," Valarr turns to his cousin.

"I would flog Ser Roland if he did something to her," says the younger boy.

"Aerion!" Valarr gasps.

"It's true!"

"Only cruel people resort to violent punishment," says the older boy, "that's what father said."

"No one has been flogged for a century," you look between your nephews, "we are not about to start now, you hear?"

Valarr sighs in relief. Aerion nods slowly.

Ser Roland chuckles to himself.

As you make your way to the tourney grounds, you find yourself grow more and more agitated that you begin to drag your heels. Your nephews did not appreciate it, thus why pulled away and began touring the place independently.

The boys were met with polite greetings everywhere they went, allowing Valarr to excitedly greet them back and ask them if they were excited for today's games. Likewise, Aerion asked each time if he could wield their sword, and each time, the lord would turn to you.

"Ignore the boy," you say for the nth time, this time to a young lord Dalton, "he shall not hold a weapon twice his size."

Aerion whines, dramatically falling on your skirt, "I AM NOT SHORT!"

You brush his silver hair, "I did not say that at all, my love."

Meanwhile Valarr continues asking the lord how one manages to stay on his horse after being bashed in with a lance as though he meant to apply the advice in the games later.

Roland, who stood just behind you, notices from the corner of his eye a golden banner that makes him tighten his hold on his hilt.

"Aerion, my dear, it is for your own good," you kiss the top of his head, holding him as he flails against you.

"PLEASSSEEEEEEEEEE."

Roland clears his throat.

You look back at him.

"I must inform you that the Baratheon's banner hangs to our far right, princess," he mutters.

You freeze, your hold on Aerion loosening that he slips to the ground.

"AWWWW!" he cries by your feet.

You bend over and help him up, "forgive me, darling."

Aerion gives you beady eyes, "I will forgive you if you let me hold—"

You pinch his nose before he can finish.

He whines again, "PLEASE!"

Valarr looks at Aerion, irriated, "be quiet!"

"NOOOOOOOO!"

Valarr, ever the dutiful prince, nods at Lord Dalton, and walks over to his cousin, pointing a finger at him as if he was not only a few years older than him, "you must know aunt only wants what is best for you!"

Aerion is literally sobbing now, "but I want to wield a sword!"

"Aerion," you call firmly, wiping the boy's cheeks.

Aerion sighs, his face red in frustration and grief.

"Shall we go back inside if you will—"

"NO! PLEASE, NO!"

You sigh and clutch his face.

Lyonel emerges from his pavilion, head throbbing from exhaustion and excessive drinking. He turns to his squire, "what the fuck is that wailing?"

The young lad turns to his red-eyed lord. He had just fallen asleep a mere two or three hours ago, "t-the pri—"

"OI! SHUT YOUR FU—"

Dustan slaps a hand over Lyonel's mouth, shakily chastising, "m-my lord!"

He smacks him off, "you dare!"

Dustan practically withers.

"The boy has woken me. I ought to have him over my knee and teach him—"

"It is the prince!" the boy shakes his head, "young prince Aerion."

Lyonel scoffs, feeling bile rise up his throat. He spits next to his boot, "spoiled little prick. Causing a ruckus outside when they have their fucking..."

His words go silent as when the crying stops. He looks out, seeing two boys stood in front of a woman. He scoffs again, seeing the opulence of her garb and how she carelessly knelt on in it to fuss over the silver-haired princeling, "stupid princess, bringing his fussy boy here for fuck all."

Twas then Lyonel notices the white-cloak staring daggers at him. He narrows his eyes at the armoured man him and tilts his head challenge.

Ser Roland nods at Lord Baratheon, only because their gazes meet.

Lyonel is so erratic from lack of sleep, he reaches a hand to his squire, "get me my fucking sword."

Dustan's eyes widen, "m-my lord?"

Valarr turns back when he hears arguing from afar. It is only then the boy notices the Baratheon sigil that hung above two arguing men. He gasps and turns to you, "Aunt, it's Lord Baratheon."

Your face nearly goes white at the mention.

Likewise, Roland stands in attention.

"You should go talk to him," Valarr urges.

Aerion, exhausted by his own fussing, leans into your shoulder and so you carry him in your arms with a grunt, rubbing his back, "actually, I think we should go back. Aerion is-"

Immediately, Aerion wrangles out of your grip and jumps on his feet, "I'm fine!"

You look down at the boys.

"Please," Aerion scratches his face, "I will be good. Please don't let us go back yet."

You frown at the boy, brushing his longish tresses from his face, "you are good, my Aerion."

He sniffles as he looks up at you.

"Yeah!" Valarr throws an arm over him.

Aerion turns to his cousin, wrapping an arm behind him as he smiles.

You look up when Roland comes behind the boys, only to circle to your side and mutter, "Prince Baelor told me to be vigilant if we run into Lord Baratheon."

You tense as he pulls back to pointedly grip his pommel.

"I understand you have a miscommunication you need dispel."

You gulp at his words, turning to Valarr.

Part of you wishes to make an excuse or lie your way out, but you have already gone back on your word with the boy once.

Valarr's gaze is eyes casted afar, "he's gone inside his pavilion."

You turn to Roland, guiding your nephews toward him, "shall we go and greet Lord Baratheon next?"

The boys merely nod, completely oblivious to the tension already thickening.

Dustan sees your approach and makes himself busy. Please, don't come here, please don't c—

"A fair afternoon to you."

He internally panics. Please, don't be the damned princess. P l e a s e, don't be speaking to me.

"Do you squire for Lord Lyonel Baratheon?"

Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck. Dustan abandons his needless task and straightens up, bowing at you. His breath catches in his throat when you smile at him. Gods, you were a vision. Fuck.

You tuck your silver hair behind your ear when the wind whips it. You repeat, softer, "do you squire for Lord Lyonel Baratheon?"

Dustan is painfully aware of the sound of metal against a whetstone.

You raise your brows at him, aware only of the bustling around you.

"I... I-"

"DUSTAN!" growls Lyonel from inside.

"Y-yes, my lord!"

"Why the fuck are you standing outside?"

You are winded by the sound of his voice, so familiar yet so foreign with gravelly irritation.

Dustan stammers, pointing to the entrance of the tent, "I- I-"

"Would it be possible for you to ask if I might have a private word with him?"

Before he can respond, Valarr is tugging your arm, "but I want to meet him too!"

"As do I!" copies Aerion.

You look at your nephews.

"Oh, please," Valarr insists, "I must meet the Laughing Storm."

Lyonel hears the whining from outside. Have those fucking brats come here?

"My love, we cannot simply barge in when we are not welcome."

Aerion, hearing this sort of chastisement far too much, knows then that he will not be meeting any sort of Laughing Storm. He immediately looks around and swimming ducks on a pond catch his attention, "oooh."

Ser Roland sees a figure emerging behind the squire boy. His lips curl.

Dustan turns and tries to push his lord back in, "oh! My lord, I- your amour! I've just—"

"Get the fuck off me!"

"DUCKIES!" Aerion yanking you towards the pond.

You gasp as your nephew manages to overpower, leading you to the flock of ducks.

Lyonel emerges with a snarl. He watches the irritating child drag the spineless woman off. Too weak-willed to handle a slimy boy. His jaw tightens at the royal guard who was hovering behind the prince with mismatched eyes and silver-streaked black hair, "what do you want?"

Roland immediately warns, "mind your tone, ser."

Lyonel shoots him a dirty look.

Valarr tenses at his harshness, but bows to him in respect, "Lord Lyonel Baratheon."

"AERION!" you whine louder than you needed. He had initially overpowered you, but now you were just playing the part to avoid Lyonel.

"Who are you and why are you at my pavilion?" Lyonel raises a brow at the boy.

"I am Prince Valarr Targaryen," he places a hand on his chest, then turns to his aunt, "I..." he doesn't know if it is his place to tell Lyonel of your business. His father always advised otherwise. He turns back to him, "I wanted to ask you how you manage to stay on your horse during jousts."

Aerion is happy to reach the pond, and finally releases you. He points, "ducks! So many ducks."

You sigh, looking at your reflection in the water. You immediately begin to relive your aquatic escapades last night. Your chest tightens and you feel like retching.

"Wee!" Aerion splashes the water, then gasps when you drag him by the arm, "WAIT THE DUCK—"

Lyonel makes an unimpressed face, "and which prince sired you, boy?"

"Baelor Targaryen."

He scoffs, suddenly reliving the winding blow he received from Baelor fucking Targaryen not too long ago. This must be an elaborate ploy from those sorry fucks. That damned Maekar Targaryen is a whiny minge. He links his hands in front of him, "why? Does your father not know how to teach you himself?"

Roland steps closer upon hearing the hostile response.

Valarr is taken off-guard, "I..."

"What?" he tilts his head, "is the heir-apparent too busy to teach his own son? Or perhaps he scared of facing me again at first tilt that he sent his little boy to ply techniques out of me?"

Valarr's face begins to flush. Never before has he heard such unkind words spoken about his father before. He steps back, knocking into Ser Roland who had stepped forward to glare at Lyonel, "you are speaking to the Crown, Lyonel Baratheon."

"I see no crown. Only a scrawny boy."

Dustan, simpering behind Lyonel, catches at the prince's weepy expression. Shite, shite, shite. "My lord, we should prepare for the gam—"

"Why the face, king's man?" Lyonel's brows furrow, "your boy came to speak to me. I merely responded."

"Prince Valarr is passionate about tourneys," Roland quips, "you needn't be brash."

"Brash?!" Lyonel chuckles dryly. He motions to the child, "is he raised so weak-willed that he would weep over—"

Valarr's face turns red, "I-"

"Valarr."

Your nephew perks and immediately runs to you when you approach. He buries his face against your hip and you feel him silently sob. You can hear your blood pumping as you turn to Ser Roland then finally to Lyonel Baratheon.

The scowl you give him winds him worse than Baelor's lance ever could. The unmistakable silver locks falling down your fair face call to mind all that you've said, all you've done with him the night before. But before he can speak, he realizes your hair pattern is echoed boy's head. Dear fucking gods.

"What is the meaning of this?" you demand.

Lyonel opens his mouth to no avail. Dustan, behind him, is stunned by how hard your face is now.

You are infuriated by Lyonel's useless response and turn to Roland.

The knight merely lowers his gaze then nods.

You bristle and push both Valarr and Aerion behind you, "what did you do to him?"

Lyonel's heart is in his throat. He raises his hands in surrender, "I- I did nothing."

Ser Roland's answering huff is enough rebuttal for you.

Your nostrils flare. It makes Lyonel chuckle softly and his fingers tingle.

Valarr and Aerion peep from behind your skirt.

"I'll have you know I had absolutely no intention of speaking or even meeting you today—"

"No?" he chuckles again, "don't go breaking my heart."

Your lips curl in disgust, "as if I would ever care for it."

His expression falls, as does his gaze on to the beady-eyed boy by your hip. "Now, hold on a sec—"

"You hand your chance," you raise a hand, "now you should know I only came to your pavilion on the behest of Baelor-"

"Baelor?" he laughs incredulously.

Your expression grows grim.

"And now I truly ask why the man is so deeply invested in me?"

You stare at him, dragging out the seconds until he is uncomfortable in the silence.

Dustan behind him begins to step away, unable to handle the severity of your gaze.

Roland is satisfied that Lyonel's arrogance is being worn.

"If you interrupt me again, I will leave."

Lyonel's lips twitch. He grits his teeth when he is unable to find a quip to defuse the tension.

"I am also here because Valarr insisted that I keep true on my promise to his father."

"And why do you promise his father things?"

"Perhaps because I am a princess."

Lyonel clenches his fists. His teeth chatter in his mouth.

"And as I repeatedly warned you last night, my patronage would be a problem for you."

He shifts on his spot, "will you tell me your fucking name now?"

"Watch your tongue," Roland sneers.

"She's done more with my tongue, if you'd care to know," Lyonel quips back, turning to him with a clenched jaw and raised brows.

Dustan's eyes widen when he realizes his lord's disappearance yesternight had something to do with the princess. He clutches his hands together and says a prayer under his breath.

You raise your brows at Lyonel, "no."

He turns back to you.

You stare back at him.

"No?"

"I will not tell you my name."

Lyonel's lips curl.

"It's not as if it'll matter if I do."

"Of course it fucking matters," he wipes his lips, "you owe me this."

"My lord," Roland shifts on his spot, making sure his armour clanks, "I will not warn you again."

"Owed?" you tilt your head, "and why the fuck would I owe you anything?"

"Because you lied to me!" he steps forward, imposing on you.

Roland pushes him back, jaw hard and set.

Lyonel falters back, but he doesn't care for the fucking knight. He points an accusing finger, "you lied to me."

Your face twitches, "I tried to tell you at first but you would not listen."

"No? And what of your dead husbands? And your son."

Your face falls.

Ser Roland bristles, ready to beat Lyonel for his insolence.

"You dripped this honey laced hemlock into my ear so I'd feel for you," he gestures wildly.

Your hand twitches. You feel one of the boys take your palm and mutter your name.

Lyonel hears it, laughing as he repeats it. He repeats it twice, regarding it with your title before wiping his face, "thank you boy," he turns to the prince then back to you, "are you also known as the Lying Lady?"

You slap him before Roland can act.

The crack is so loud, the boys and the squire gasp at the sound.

Roland is satisfied at how Lyonel's head whips to the side. He takes a small step back to allow you to continue.

"I may have lost the nerve to tell you I am of House Targaryen, but I never lied. Concealed the truth... but never lied. Not about that."

"No?" Lyonel rubs his cheek, slowly turning back to you, "then why does your son whimper behind your skirts?"

Your lips quiver. Your voice is unsteady, "and here I was guilted by the boy's father into believing you deserved the truth."

"Ah, so, you see," he grits his teeth, "the boy's father lives! What is he, your third husband?"

Dustan yanks Lyonel's shirt back by the collar. He chokes on his spit and turns back.

"Valarr is Baelor's heir!" hisses Dustan.

You heave deeply as uninterested in watching Lyonel bicker with his squire, "Ser Roland."

Roland nods and immediately ushers you and the boys away.

"And the other is Aerion, Maekar's boy," Dustan points.

Lyonel grows, shoving himself off him, "HALT!"

You gasp when Lyonel manages to circle around you and block your path.

Roland is quick and is suddenly in front of you, pushing him back.

Lyonel heaves, his curls bouncing on impact, "not another step."

You purse your lips, pushing your nephews back, "Ser Roland."

Roland snarls, "out of my way."

Lyonel's eyes fall from his eyes to his hilt. He looks past him, pointing to the ground, "you owe me."

You chuckle dryly, "I?"

"Yes, you," he nods, "I tore my heart out for you. I was willing to risk everything to yo—"

"Was?" you scoff, "most men are— am I supposed to be impressed?"

His eye twitches as he turns to his feet, "is he really not your son?"

"My lady, shall I break his teeth?" Roland's lips curl.

"No," you push Roland away, "surely Baelor will after he unhorses him again."

Lyonel scoffs as your knight steps back, "don't be so sure of your husband."

"Baelor is my brother."

"That never stopped your lot before."

"No," you tilt your head, "it hasn't."

"So the boy-"

"The boy is my nephew. His mother is Jena Dondarrion. My son—"

Roland's eye twitches at how your voice cracks, "my princess, please. You do not owe that ma-"

You raise a hand and shake your head.

Lyonel notices the tremor of your fingers.

"My son..." you repeat, "was called Aensel—"

"Princess, you don't-"

"It's alright Roland," you lower your hand, "I would hate for our relations with the Stormlanders to crumble due to my lack of transparency."

Lyonel feels his throat tighten when you scratch you eyes.

"He was born and buried as Aensel Blackwood. His father, Alistair Blackwood, died on his way to Summerhall in a Bracken ambush."

"Fuck," Lord Baratheon mutters under his breath. He recalls hearing of this.

"My first husband, Lord Finneas Cerwyn, died aiding my brothers during the Blackfyre Rebellion. They only found his upper half after the Battle of the Redgrass Field.

"And my first betrothed was Lord Elias Allyrion, my first love. I was to move to Dorne with him, but apparently the idea was not welcome, and unfortunately it was he that drank from my poisoned cup instead."

Lyonel's throat is uncomfortably tight.

Your mouth tastes bitter, "what else do I owe you? The headstones from their graves? Or perhaps the dresses I wore during their wakes?"

He mutters your name, "I just thought—"

"You do not think," you push him aside, "not of anyone else but your fickle pride."

He calls your name again.

Roland shoves him off, ushering the princes away, "that is your highness to you."

Lyonel's guilt is so heavy, he cannot seem to find offence in Roland, nor can he bring himself to follow.

Your knight is on high alert as he tails behind you all.

"Are you alright, aunt?" Valarr mutters, eyes still beady as he looks up at you, "Lord Baratheon spoke unkindly."

"He's wicked," Aerion scoffs, "I hate him."

You clutch your boys' heads, "do not fret. We shall watch him fall later at first tilt."

"YEAH!" the boys cheer.

Sure enough, when the games began later during the day, your nephews are all hollering in excitement. Well, all except poor Daeron.

The crowds were loud and the fanfare was louder, and yet you insisted on leaning over to the tired looking boy.

Simultaneously, Lyonel, perched on his horse, the same horse he had offered you to take last night, looks out to the center balcony, to where the Tyrells gave way to the Targaryens. He watches you brush hair away from the brooding boy's forehead, his gut reacting despite his mind.

"Was it another dream, Daeron?" you ask over the noise.

Daeron does not respond.

"Is it about your father? Your uncles?"

He swats your hand away, "I do not wish to speak of it."

Lyonel's nostrils flare at the far sight.

"My love," Baelor calls from the stand. Jena immediately smiles and rises from her seat.

The prince gives a boyish grin to her, "would you bless me with you favor?"

Jena pretends to think, "only if my boys think it is right."

When she turns back, Valarr and Matarys immediately cheer, "YES! YES!"

Baelor smiles and nods, "thank you, my boys."

The princess then takes a wreath of flowers and casts it down her husband's lance, "may the Father protect you, my love."

"Thank you."

Before the next player set to ask for favor can be announced, Lyonel gallops towards the center balcony and reels his horse in, "I should also like to ask for a princess's favor."

You watch the man's horse huff and pace about, restless as his rider is.

Jena turns to you, then back to Lyonel, speaking up even though she was sure it was not she that was being spoken to, "do you mean me, Lord Baratheon?"

Lyonel merely speaks your name in response.

The whole arena seems to hold its breath, but you are less than moved. You look away, wondering if you could fling him your slippers instead, but decide you do not want Baelor any more disappointed in you than he already is.

You come to a stand and move towards the edge of the balcony.

Lyonel looks up at you, breath catching, lips unable to withhold a smile.

You rest your hands on the railing, "no."

There is a chorus of gasps.

Lyonel's face falls. His horse continues to pace.

You hear someone behind you call your name. You do not care to know who.

"No?" Lyonel repeats dumbly.

You repeat, "no."

Your gaze is torn from Baelor, and from the right corner of the space, you can see all four of your brothers looking out at you, each of them exaggeratedly reacting to you in their own way.

"Oh, forgive me," you turn to your hands, "do I owe you an explanation?"

You hear your voice called again. This time, you know it is Valarr.

Lyonel feels heat rise up his ears.

"Very well," you point, "over there is young lord Dalton."

The said lord's eyes widen as the whole world turns to him in that moment.

Save for Lyonel. His eyes remain fixed on you.

"I believe he is called Philip," you turn front again, "he was so ever sweet to my nephews earlier today that I had hoped to give him my favor in the off-chance he would ask for it."

Lyonel's horse finally stops pacing.

Your face curls into this mockery-of-a-sorry smile.

He licks his lips and nods, "I see."

"Why was it that you wished for my favor anyway? You unhorsed my brother Maekar once before."

"I-"

"You do not need it," you smile, though it doesn't reach your eyes.

Lyonel tightens his hold on his reins.

Without another thought, you sit back down. You are wholly pleased by how rigid the air feels after.

"You are right," Lyonel responds, though he knows you care not, "I shall take your words of confidence as mine favor instead."

You physically have to control yourself from rolling your eyes.

When you sit back down, the next man comes to ask for favor, then the next, then one more, then another, then another, then—

"My princess."

You smile and rise, "Lord Dalton."

"I..." the young man shakes his head, "I am beyond honored to know that you would save your favor for me."

Lyonel's nostrils flare as he watches the fucking green boy. He's probably soiled his breeches. By the Seven, he's going to unhorse him.

You smile and take a wreath, tossing it onto his lance, "think nothing of it, my lord. My heart is easily swayed by my darling nephews, thus you have my heart for being so kind to them."

"You have my heart," Lyonel mutters bitterly to himself.

It's all a blur of cheering and violence after.

Unfortunately for Lyonel, he doesn't get to unhorse young Dalton, for at the end of his row was a fuming Maekar, twice as eager to unhorse him, his fingers tingling with vengeance and protectiveness. The prince breaks his lance upon Lyonel's chest three times before finally settling their score.

Young lord Dalton is also unfortunately unhorsed, and in the end, your brothers end up facing each other only to have Maekar win the games overall.

It is you who has to hold Aerion back from simply jumping down from the balcony to congratulate his father. You accompany the boy down to the princes' stall, and it is there Lyonel intercepts.

Or attempts to.

He grunts when his still armoured chest clanks against an armored shoulder that shoves him back. Lyonel is both injured in body and pride, so he does not take kindly to it.

Unfortunately for him, Roland not nearly as patient as he was when he had his princess around as a witness, "do not embarrass yourself any more and walk back to your tent."

Lyonel has half the mind to draw his sword, but then he hears laughter: yours and your slimy nephew's.

"Go on."

"I want to speak to her," he snaps at the knight.

"She told me she'd have me flogged if you come near her and her nephews."

Lyonel's eye twitches, "I don't want to be around her nephews, I—"

"Perhaps before trying to speak to her, you'd try to apologize to Prince Valarr."

"..."

Roland shifts in his spot.

"Fine, bring me to the boy."

"No."

"N—"

"No," he repeats, "like I said, I'd be flogged."

Lyonel chuckles dryly.

"Ser Roland."

Both of them turn to the call.

Lyonel's breath hitches when he sees you standing a mere 10 paces away from him. He stares until Roland blocks his view.

"Go back to—"

"Enough, ser," you chastise, shaking your head, "leave him alone."

Roland's nostrils flare as he reluctantly steps aside. Lyonel's heart soars when he sees your face, "forgive me, I—"

"I don't care," you blurt, "I came here for Roland."

His mouth remains open as you reach a hand for your knight.

Roland does not move and Lyonel is insulted by his arrogance.

You huff, "my dear, at once."

My dear? Lyonel's eye twitches.

Finally, Roland walks back, eyes on him til the very last moment. When he turns to you, you find each other's arm like clockwork and you rise to your toes to whisper something in his ear.

The knight seems surprised and whispers something back at you.

You freeze only to giggle.

He groans, adjusting himself in his pants when you begin to grind to the beat, your pretty, red nail polished fingers gleaming slightly under the lights.

Lyonel pushes his shades up, preventing his dark locks from hindering his view of his lady. He licks his lips and downs his cocktail. The next moment, there's this disgusting rat-ass trying inching behind you with nasty pelvic thrusts.

And in a snap, he's rid of his glass, sober, and barreling through the crowd, yanking the vermin off just as you yelp.

Lyonel can feel his fingers tingling; the only reason he doesn't immediately charge is because of the hand on his bicep.

The cretin falls into a crowd of other dancing people, who then shove him back to his feet, allowing Lyonel to roughly grab him, steadying him right where he wants him.

"Lyonel, please—"

"Did you just touch a woman's ass without asking?"

You tense at how loud his voice is, even with the booming music.

The harasser grits his teeth and tries to shove Lyonel off; he only manages because Lyonel lets go, "I didn't so shi—"

"I saw you, brother!" your lover says with faux amity, topping it off with a chuckle that was anything but amused. You gulp and tug his arm harder. He ignores you, "I saw your hand on her ass!"

The other man looks over, face curling in disdain, "with her entire ass out, it might have, yeah."

You begin to feel Lyonel shake beneath your grip. You whimper and pull him back a little harder, "Lyonel, please! This perv is not worth i—"

"Right!" says the cretin agrees confidently, realizing only then why he recognized you both, "run along, cuck. Wouldn't want your little singing careers ruined by—" CRACK.

"LYONEL!" you bring your arms around him when he tries to step forward.

A bead of sweat rushes down his neck purely from how riled he is. Seeing the perpetrator recoil and clutch his now bloody nose was not enough. Lyonel's right hand itches for more blood. He fiddles with the ring on his fourth finger; the L insignia is calling out to be stamped all over this pricks face.

Again, the only reason why he doesn't pursue any further is because of your hand that clutches his cheek and insists he walks away.

He refuses to look at you initially, knowing that his rage will be quelled, and he doesn't want it to. You are needlessly persistent though, and manage to steal his gaze as well as the rest of his anger.

But rats do as a rat does, and a quiet afternoon later, the fucking police come banging on your shared hotel room, pissing his already pissed-off, hungover ass even more. Touring managers and publicists get involved and the next thing he knows he has a bail attached to his head worth a thousand coin.

Honestly, he's offended he's not worth more.

Still, he didn't like being in jail and was glad his bail was easily paid. He celebrated his freedom by tweeting on the car ride home:

... yeah, so that's why paparazzi has been hounding him as of late. He could not have gave two shits about it though, until they started targeting you.

Which was why, now, as you got ready for your evening show, his manager invited a reporter backstage where he had hoped to fuck you before you got onstage. Pissy mood: back on.

Lyonel sits on the chair in front of your dressing table. He is leaning on his left elbow, facing you where he had caged you between his legs. He rubs your hip with an annoyed face as you lean into the mirror to thicken your eyeliner. His turns over, eyes falling on this mammoth of a man with glasses that magnify his eyes ridiculously. An jape is right at the tip of his tongue but he controls himself.

He wouldn't put you in a bad mood so soon before your show starts.

Raymun, his prick manager, is talking to your less-of-a-prick manager, Tanselle. So many cockblocks in one fucking room; to think he would have made you come twice at this point had he been alone. Lyonel groans to himself, thinking he might as well have some fun, "what's your name again?"

The blonde straightens up on the settee he made look like a damn single sofa. He adjusts his glasses, "uh, D-Dunk— Duncan."

He tilts his head as Raymun stands in attention, immediately ready to play referee for his loose lipped talent.

"Duncan what?"

Duncan clears his throat, "Duncan Tall."

Lyonel's brows shoot up, "you're shitting me."

He clears his throat again.

"Damn, lovie," he turns to you in wonder, "the giant's surname is Tall!" Then to your manager, "are you two related, Tans?"

Tanselle rolls her eyes and beckons you over, "five minutes."

You turn to Lyonel, then to Duncan, "oh, yeah, he's Duncan Tall." You grab Lyonel's jaw, "you better be nice to him. He's really sweet."

Lyonel raise a brow as you peck his lips and walk off, "sweet?"

He receives no clarification as you exit the dressing room.

Duncan pulls out his notepad.

"Sweet," he repeats, turning to the reporter, "you sweet talkin' my lady?"

"Ly," Raymun chides.

Oblivious Dunk lifts his gaze then his brows, "pardon?"

"I asked if you're sweet talking my lady," Lyonel furrows his brows and crosses his arms, spinning the chair to face him.

"I- I'm married."

He scoffs, "that doesn't answer my fucking question."

"Lyonel," Raymun places a hand on his shoulder, "please. He's not here to argue with you."

"Why is anyone here anyway?" he stands, "the star of the show is outside and I didn't even get to stuff her with my come before—"

"LYONEL!"

Dunk's jaw slacks at what he heard. He watches the shorter man reel the other to the corner and give him a thorough talking to. It goes on for a long while.

"— I'm being serious." Raymun points a finger at him.

Lyonel sighs heavily and nods reluctantly before walking back to the settee, slumping next to the reporter, "forgive me, Mr. Tall. I was being crass," he offers a hand to him, "Lyonel Baratheon."

Dunk takes his hand, "D-uncan Tall. Fleabottom Mail."

"I'll be outside, Dunk," Raymun waves a hand, "holler if he causes trouble."

Dunk watches as Raymun promptly exits, missing his chance to tell him he doesn't really want to be alone with this... man.

Lyonel nods once and shifts, "I'll promise to be nice if you promise to be quick."

"Yes," he pushes his glasses up his nose and opens his notes, "alright, so, you've recently released a new album—"

"Cut to crap," Lyonel pats his chest and leads him, enunciating slowly, "I was arrested last week..."

"Ah," Duncan flips his notepad and reads, "last week, for the charge of battery, bail for one thousand coins."

"Didn't know I was so cheap," Lyonel mumbles then squints at him, "are you blind beneath that?"

"Pardon?"

"Your glasses," he shapes his hands into circles, placing them over his eyes, "are you blind beneath that?"

"Uh-" Dunk feels self-conscious, "- no. But I can't read, and faces are only clear up close."

"How miserable."

"..."

Lyonel waves, "go on then."

"Right," he turns back to his notes, "CCTV footage showed that you restrained yourself but were provoked into attacking."

He sighs.

"This is the second time you've been taken in for battery, both times have been in retaliation to harassment."

"Hmm."

"Mere minutes from your release, you tweeted quote 'my girl can wear whatever she wants because i can break your jaw' end quote."

Lyonel chuckles, "I remember."

"Did you tweet this as a warning that you'd break someone's jaw next?"

He snorts, "what a leading question."

"It seems like a logical assumption."

"No. Not a threat. A fact."

"A fact that you would break someone's jaw," clarifies Dunk.

"A fact that my girl can wear anything she wants, and that I can break your jaw."

"But you used the word bec—"

"Though maybe not you in particular," he motions at him, "you are a specimen."

"..."

Lyonel nods and purses his lips.

Dunk looks over his shoulder.

"That means you're pretty, by the way," he clarifies with a finger, "not that I couldn't break your jaw, because I could, but I wouldn't want to."

"..."

Lyonel chuckles to himself when he sees the man's ears turn a little red, "anyway, you're taking too long," he crosses his legs and throws an arm over the back rest, "I'm only doing this interview because I'm sick of people sending death threats to my lady. Write it with quotation marks—" he points to Dunk's notepad, "— I am her dog. A well-trained dog at that-" he thinks for a moment, "ok, half well-trained."

Dunk begins to scribble on his paper.

"She doesn't force me to do anything. I would have broken more than that fucker's nose had she not insisted I stopped." He places a hand on his chest, "I'm not a violent man, but some men only understand violence because they don't see women a people. Even now, after she's been victimized, it's somehow her fault that I went to jail."

Duncan turns to him, seeing how his gaze has drifted and his brows have knit.

"Anyone who says they like my music but hate her need to get their heads out of their fucking asses because my music is her. I didn't plan on anything more until her, man. I'm killing myself if she gets tired of me."

Duncan opens his mouth but can't say anything because Lyonel abruptly stands.

He paces the room, "I mean fucking hells. She's the real rockstar between the two of us. She writes about politics, social change, love, y'know, shit that matters. Me? I write what my cock tells me to."

Duncan looks away when Lyonel begins to hip thrust into the air.

"Sex sells."

"I-" he flips his notepad, "I was listening to your new album—"

"I've already given 200 interviews about my album," Lyonel waves dismissively, "I hate hearing myself stroke my own dick. It's not nearly as fun as when she's stroking it." He claps his hands, "now. Do you have anything else you want to ask about my arrest?"

Duncan looks up at him, "do you consider yourself a feminist?"

Lyonel thinks for a moment, "I considering I grew in my mum's uterus and am a whore for my girl's pussy, I'd say yes."

Dunk scratches his eyes, "Mr. Baratheon, can you be—"

"Mr. Baratheon?" he laughs.

"Please." He raises hand, "can you-"

"Be more PC?" Lyonel raise his brows, "fine. Write it down. Lyonel Baratheon, feminist, quote 'I love my mom and I love my wife' end quote."

"... a- are you married?"

"No."

"... then why did you call her your wife?"

"Because she's my wife."

Duncan comes to a stand as well.

Lyonel gasps, "mother, maiden, smith, you're fucking HUUUUGE."

Dunk is uncomfortable by how Lyonel grabs his arms and squeezes them. He swats him away and reaches a hand, "it was a pleasure to speak with you. Mr. Baratheon."

"I think we're past Mr. Baratheon," he shakes his hand, "after all, I basically took your ears' virginity and you basically sweet talked my girl."

With a deep breath, the reporter exits.

Only Lyonel doesn't let him. He jumps on his back, locking an arm around his neck.

Duncan chokes.

"COME ON! THE NIGHT IS YOUNG!" Lyonel calls, "you should watch the show! Be a bona fide groupie like me!"

It was surreal to see a man as tall as him be coerced into compliance, not that Duncan Tall of Fleabottom Mail was uninterested in watching your show (he actually was a big fan). He didn't stay because he had to, he stayed because he wanted. Five minutes in, he was doing more than enjoying himself, he was enjoying how Lyonel Baratheon was enjoying himself watching you.

Lyonel was loud. He scream-sang every lyric, played air-guitar, headbanged to the beat, and attempted to throw his shirt on stage (the security caught it and put it in the bin).

Later that night, Dunk began to write his article:

Lyonel Baratheon: rockstar turned batterer or a man in love?

Sitting on the shore, you watched the family of birds, smiling to yourself

It was as if a soft veil had been drawn over your father’s entire estate; since the joust, calm and serenity had settled over your home.

Every time your godfather glanced at you, seeing you smile cheerfully or laugh with your female companions, chatting with the seamstress, he couldn’t help but smile—just a month ago you were raging and fighting tooth and nail against your marriage. And now you could hardly wait for the day, eagerly helping with every preparation you could, pouring all your energy and ideas into it.

It was as if you had become a completely different girl; the black-feathered swan had turned snow-white.

Not to mention that, miraculously, you’ve gotten along wonderfully with Lord Lyonel Baratheon ever since your first meeting, almost eagerly anticipating every single courtly encounter.

Not to mention that, miraculously, you’ve gotten along wonderfully with Lord Lyonel Baratheon ever since you first met him, eagerly anticipating every single court gathering. 

Well, yes, your father thought, he does have a knack for choosing the right spouse, one who will prove to be a beneficial match not only for your house but for you, his daughter, as well. 

“The Little Swan will be cold in that dress in Storm’s End.” Lyonel whispered, leaning toward you, propping himself up on his elbows as he lay down beside you on the lakeshore. You didn’t look at him, but you smiled—if you had looked at him, you would have met the same piercing, mischievous glance that always ends up with leaves tangled in your hair and your lips red and swollen from his kisses all afternoon. So you just nodded with a knowing smile on your lips—which, by some miracle, hadn’t tasted his today—and continued watching the ducks swimming in the lake. 

Lyonel, since you didn’t answer him, to get your attention—or just because he felt like it—leaned toward you, pulled the thin chiffon puff off your shoulder, and sprinkled your skin with tiny kisses. You shivered at the soft touch of his lips and the rough rubbing of his beard, a wave running down your spine and arms, the sensation exploding as it struck your heart. You felt the burning blush on your face, and your thighs twitched involuntarily. 

“But don’t be afraid, I’ll keep you warm.” He continued between two kisses that wandered up your upper arm. 

 You giggled as the touch of his mustache began to tickle you, yet you did not pull back.

“Mind you, sir, if you carry on like this, you’ll make this lady forget her manners…and her cloak.” You cautioned, a soft shiver running through you as you tilted your head to the side. Lyonel’s smile sharpened; he saw the challenge. “Though may the gods help you if you let me catch a chill because of your charm.”

Lyonel laughed merrily, suddenly leaning in to plant a loud, smacking kiss on your neck. “Would I do such a thing?” He purred, his tone playful.

You shuddered with pleasure at the touch; a pleasant warmth and tingling sensation coursed through your blood.

Over the weeks and months that served as a time for the newly engaged couple to get to know each other a little better before marriage, your world had completely changed. The initial sympathy, attraction, and interest that had sparked on that first evening had grown into a fiercely blazing flame. At first—since from then on you were both of sound mind, free from the influence of wine—it was as if Lyonel had reined himself in during your meetings; he presented a similar, though weaker, image of that outspoken, daring, and mischievous man. His words still crackled with the same sharpness and wit; there was no conversation between you that did not turn into a teasing war of words, yet somehow the heir of Storm’s End adopted a gentler tone, and a hesitant uncertainty flickered in the light of his eyes.

But only at first.

Perhaps he feared that court etiquette would not look kindly upon your very close and warm fondness for each other; or perhaps he feared that, beneath the light of day and under the judgmental gaze of the nobles, you would no longer find in him that attraction for which you had nearly thrown away all the lessons of your life on proper behavior.

That doubt evaporated like the morning dew from flower petals in the middle of summer.

To your satisfaction, you soon realized how much you had in common. With his bold character and sharp words, Lyonel embodied everything that you, as a noble lady, could only live out in your thoughts; he brought the taste of a freedom that had been foreign to you—fresh and sweet—to the tip of your tongue. He moved like a fresh-faced youth for his age; perhaps there was as much life swelling within him as in any other young man your age—if not more. You needn’t fear that your new husband wouldn’t be able to keep up with you; this stag leapt swiftly alongside your soaring swan.

And when the world slowed down—during an afternoon stroll or a court performance, the storm raging within him would subside, revealing his gentler side to you. Beneath the warrior knight’s armor, a thinking mind raced, a sophisticated heart beat, and Lyonel, unafraid of losing his masculinity, revealed his true self to you—standing naked before you, without a mask, unafraid that you might wound him.

So you were fearful - of this treasure resting in your lap, lest the gods ever take it from you.

“I’m fearing that if I let you, you’d certainly do it.” 

 You tugged at the hem of the cloak he’d spread out for you on the damp shore of the lake. It was a finely woven piece, with an embroidered antler framing the edge of the fabric, which you rubbed between your fingers.

“And I’m afraid you’d let me.” Lyonel replied, stroking your shoulder. “And who will take responsibility for our unacceptable behavior?” He clicked his tongue sadly.

You scoffed, a wolfish grin appearing on your lips—a habit you’d picked up from him as well. “Whoever sees us.” You turned your face toward him. Suddenly, something fiery flashed in his eyes, consuming your entire being, and with a calculated smirk, he wrapped his arms around your waist.

“Well, well, where has my bashful bride's sense of shame gone?”

Pressing your lips together, you smiled. “It’s not hard to stray when I’m with you.” You shook your head, chuckling softly. “You have a terrible influence on me.”

Lyonel spread his hands as he shrugged. “I don’t hear you complaining about it much.”

“Not yet.” You gave him a mischievous wink, your fingers still stroking the edge of his cloak. For a moment, it was as if the world had shrunk down to just the two of you—the lake gently lapping at the shore, the damp earth, and the scent of summer air, the steady warmth of his arms around you. Then, a stubborn, gloomy thought crossed your mind, and you stepped back slightly, taking a good look at your fiancé.

“Soon there will be less of this.” You gestured between the two of you, and your voice changed—it was still tender, but it carried something more serious within it.

It was as if you were about to discuss court politics. “If we get married.”

Yes, marriage will seal your union and bind your lives together, but the intimacy, the lightheartedness, the reckless laughter, and the game of courtship will cease.

Lyonel raised his eyebrows, though a hint of cheerfulness still lingered at the corners of his mouth. “Less of what?”

“Speaking freely. Defying expectations.”

He snorted softly, furrowing his brow. “Do you think the wedding would prevent that?”

“It might be necessary.” You retorted, mimicking his expression, though your lips curved slightly. “You’ll be my husband. I’ll be your wife. All eyes will be on us. Expectations.”

“Fuck them and their ogling eyes then.” Lyonel snorted, a hint of offense and indignation in his voice. Why on earth would you think such things when he’s by your side, his presence rendering the gossips and ill-wishers blind and deaf?

“It’s not that simple.” You bit your lip, twisting the fabric of his cloak between your fingers.

“It is for me.” Simple. As if stating a fact.

You studied him for a long moment, the wind catching a loose strand of his hair. “That’s what you say now.”

“And do you think I’ll change?” He looked deep into your eyes as he asked, as if he could already see your thoughts reflected there.

“I think,” You said cautiously. “that the world will expect that of us.”

Lyonel’s expression changed then, becoming more thoughtful, more grounded, and he began to look like a lord again.

“They’ll expect a lot of things.” He said, stroking his beard. “To behave properly. To produce heirs. To smile, bow, and play their games.” He nodded, then added, “Especially on your part.” But his words didn’t sound like an accusation; he wasn’t condescending. You could tell he fully understood the situation—your situation.

“And I have to.” You replied softly. The duck family waddled out onto the shore. The mother slowly, her ducklings stumbling clumsily.

Lyonel looked at you sharply.

“Not all of it.” You added, seeing the look on his face. Indignant again. For your sake. “But some of it.”

A silence settled between you. Then Lyonel raised his hand to your face, gently tracing your jawline with his thumb as he studied your features.

“What do you hope for?" He asked suddenly, softly. His voice had grown deep and serious.

The question caught you off guard. You blinked at him.

“Me.” He clarified, pointing to himself. “This.”

Your gaze drifted for a moment to the embroidered antlers beneath your fingers. “I expect…” You hesitated, then exhaled. “I expect you to be honest with me. Even if it’s uncomfortable.”

He nodded once.

“I expect you not to let your anger consume you when things get difficult.”

A faint smile was his reply. “That may be the hardest demand yet.”

“And I expect it,” you continued, raising your gaze to his again. “That you won’t wonder, when you see me among your lords and advisors, whether I belong there.”

Something on his face froze completely at that. With a furrowed brow, he scrutinized your face, studying you, truly taking in just how perfectly suited you were for him.

“I won’t,” he said, more softly than before, but his voice was firm. Strong with conviction.

“And you,” you asked. “What do you expect of me, sir?”

He chuckled softly at the title, though his gaze didn’t waver.

“I expect you to keep that sharp tongue of yours,” he said. “Even if it turns against me.”

“That’s a given.” Your smile was modest, but your voice was affirmative.

“I expect you to challenge me,” he continued, turning toward the lake. “For the gods are my witnesses, no one else dares.”

You tilted your head slightly. “And if I do it too well?”

“Then I’ll simply have to become better.” As he spoke these words, a small, sincere smile played beneath his mustache.

“And one more thing,” he added with a sigh.

“Yes?”

His arms tightened slightly around your waist, his fingers caressing the fabric of your dress.

“Never be quiet and obedient because of them,” he asked. “I didn’t choose you to be a dream wife on paper.”

Your breath caught, just for a moment. “If my lord and future husband so desires,” you replied cheerfully, though your voice softened.

“At that moment...” he said, and the familiar boldness returned to him. “At that moment, when you decided not to run away from me.”

You shook your head, though the warmth you felt in your chest betrayed that his words had pierced your armor, even though you weren’t actually dueling.

“The court expects perfection,” you said a moment later. “Grace. Composure. A smooth relationship.”

“Then they’ll be disappointed.” Lyonel grinned, took your hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed your fingers.

You laughed softly. “Yes.” You agreed. “We’ll certainly fall short of a few of their expectations."

Lyonel leaned closer, his voice growing even softer, more delicate. It murmured in your ear like the crackling of hot embers.

“But they’ll see something better.” He said, his breath warming the nape of your neck.

“And what exactly?”

His gaze locked onto yours, firm and unwavering. “Something real.” he replied, leaning forward to trap your lower lip between his.

This time, you had no clever answer.

As you stepped out of the carriage, the wind caught your veil; perhaps it liked your intricately crocheted lace veil so much that it wanted to take it away with itself; it fluttered up from your face, allowing you to survey the scene with keen eyes. 

Lyonel didn’t seem like the type to care much about appearances; you hadn’t come to know him as some dandy who fussed over every little detail of his look—but perhaps you were wrong. Your fiancé revealed his designer side, carefully selecting the spot where the priest would marry you—he chose one of the highest cliffs in the area, near his father’s castle, as the perfect location, where the salty mist of the waves could no longer reach, and though one can only sense the briny sea in one’s nostrils, the view is nonetheless breathtaking: overlooking the Storm’s End estate, the endless sea, and the verdant fields on the other side.

Perhaps your beloved was romantic after all; he just hid it very well.

The wind had teeth that day.

It came whistling in from the sea, sharp and salty, tugging at veils and cloaks, flapping flags until they crackled like whips over the gathered crowd. The sky, which had once been a pale morning blue, began to darken—the clouds rolled in slow, heavy waves, as if the very heavens were creeping closer to witness what was about to unfold.

Yet nothing seemed ominous. Not to you. Not the way you stood on the edge of the cliff, where the earth plunged into the gray, roaring water, your skirt heavy with the sea’s breath. The septon’s voice was nearly swallowed by the tide, but it didn’t matter—you weren’t listening to him.

Because you were only watching him.  Lyonel. The lying, cheeky knight. The mischievous stormlord, the only man to whom you dared entrust your beating heart. 

He stood before you with a broad, unyielding face, just like the cliffs themselves, his dark hair whipping wildly across his face, his cloak fluttering behind him like a wild falcon. His heavy cloak, far more ornate, glittering, and majestic than any he had worn before, was held together at his sternum by a golden stag rearing up on two legs; the jewel sparkled as he shifted impatiently from one foot to the other, whenever rays of sunlight broke through the rushing clouds. 

And his eyes. His eyes burned, but not with mischief, not with teasing, not with that reckless charm he had so easily worn before. As you moved forward on your father’s arm through the ranks of the assembled nobles, you watched only him. There was a kind of determination, a focus in Lyonel’s irises that you had never seen in him before, his gaze intense, watching your movements with that reverence, that admiration, with which one leaves the whole world behind to reach a higher goal. His whole being bubbled with the confidence surging beneath his skin, with the knowledge that a celestial phenomenon, a creation fashioned by the gods, would swear an eternal oath to him, and from now on would belong only to him.

Another wave crashed down below, spraying water high into the air; the droplets, carried by the wind, fell upon you like a blessing. You tasted salt on your lips—perhaps they were the gods’ tears of joy.

Reaching Lyonel, your father kissed him on the cheek, nodded to Lyonel with a smile that reached his ears, then shuffled back into the crowd. 

 The septon began his speech. 

“…before gods and men…”

But the world narrowed. There was only the space between you. A very small, crackling space. Just the way his hand twitched beside you, as if resisting the urge to reach for you before the moment allowed it. Just the way your own fingers dug into your palm, grounding yourself, preventing you from stepping forward too soon.

The sky grew darker still. Thunder rumbled—softly, distantly, like a wild beast stirring in a dream. Some scanned the sky anxiously, others pulled their cloaks tighter around themselves, and you… Your skin, your muscles wouldn’t let you smile any wider, any more radiantly.  Because this—this wildness, this rumbling sky and the restless sea; this was him. This was Lyonel’s love, his devotion, his respect, his loyalty to you. 

And somehow, impossibly… you were that too.

When the septon finally turned to Lyonel and asked him to recite his vows, the wind seemed to quiet—not really, but enough for his voice to be heard. 

One last gust of wind lifted your veil from your face, but before you could reach out to grab it, Lyonel caught the edge with steady fingers, lifted it to your hand, and gently held the fabric there.

“I, Lyonel, of House Baratheon, take you…” He spoke your name as surely as the fact that the sun rises in the morning and sets in the evening. Your heart leapt at the sound of it, even though he said it in the most flirtatious way. And yet, your skin prickled at the sound of his deep voice. “…to be my wife. To stand by my side in tempest and shadow, in war and peace.” His eyes flashed—vividly, wildly. “I swear you my loyalty, my strength, and my defiance—when you need it… and when you do not.” A tiny laugh escaped your lips.

In the end, that familiar smile flashed across her lips as well, but it did not diminish the weight of her words, their intent. If anything, it made them even truer. Your throat tightened as the septon turned toward you.

The wind picked up again, squeezing your heart, and your tongue wanted to run too fast. Taking a deep breath, you didn’t let that hold your words back.

“I accept you, Lyonel Baratheon…” you said more softly, but your voice didn’t break. “As my lawful husband. Not for your name, nor for your lands, nor for the storms that follow you… but for the man who stood before me in a tent, believing himself invisible.” Hearing your words, Lyonel trembled with a chuckle ready to burst forth, but swallowed it in time. “I swear to you my loyalty, my strength, and my defiance—when you need it… and when you don’t.” Alongside the boundless happiness on his face, a sly mischief also flashed.

“And I swear—” you urged him, stepping closer now, unable to resist the urge. “—that I will stand by your side, whatever the gods may send. Storm or calm. Glory or ruin.”

A clap of thunder exploded above your heads, foaming, dense, like the waves of the sea. The septon raised his hand, his voice bellowing over the roar of the windstorm.

“Let it be known before the Seven, before the sea, before all who bear witness, that these two are one.” Lyonel waited no longer. The moment he could, he stepped forward, his hand finding yours—rough, warm, sure—then with the other on your waist, pulling you to him with such force that your breath caught.

“Lady-wife,” he murmured softly, almost in disbelief.

“Lord-husband.” You replied, and the words seemed both strange and fitting at the same time.

The rain began to fall. Not gently, but suddenly, in scattered drops that struck your skin like sparks. He laughed—he really laughed, wildly and heartily, tilting his head back before looking down at you again.

“Even the sky approves.” He beamed.

“Or it’s warning us.” You whispered hoarsely, your breath fogging the air, and his teeth flashed from beneath his smiling lips.

“Very good.” He murmured, his lips moving over yours; you could already taste him. “I’ve never liked the easy things.”

And then he kissed you. Whether by accident or on purpose, taunting the wedding guests watching you, with such passion, such unbridled desire, that you nearly collapsed to the ground. He consumed you in an instant, reaching into your soul to entwine it with his own.