#lyonel x reader

Parties werent your scene. You wouldnt say you hated them, but if there was a choice between that and an evening spent cozy in bed with a book? Youre picking the book. The chaos unsettled you. The piercing noises of music and singing and cheering, the smell of wine ans sweat and food, the sheer amount of people in one space- it made you stressed.

But tonight you feel restless. The bed in your tent doesnt feel as soft as usual and you cant get comfortable causing you to toss and turn and therefore keep losing your place on your page. You huff. You miss your husband, Lyonel. Your mind drifts to him most definitely still in the Baratheon tent drinking copious amounts of wine and commanding the dancefloor in the middle.

Defeated, you close your book with a loud snap and grab your gown from earlier that you had discarded lazily on the floor, slipping it on and trying to make yourself look presentable. The guard outside nods at you as you slip through the tents entrance and head towards the lively bustle of the large yellow tent at the other end of the camp. You pick at your nails nervously. What if Lyonel doesnt wish to see you? What if you ruin his fun? Despite the racing thoughts your feet never falter eventually leading you to duck beneath the yellow cloth into the dim light of the party.

You dodge dancing bodies left and right, peering over shoulders in hopes of spotting a familiar pair of antlers. Little do you know your husband is just out of your field of view finishing his glass of wine and staring you down like a predator does its prey.

You squeal when a hand lands on your shoulder and spins you round, only relaxing when your eyes land on the persons face. "Lyonel."

"To what do I owe the pleasure? Have I had too much wine, or is my sweet wife truly in my tent?" His voice is as jovial as ever, grinning widely as he speaks, his eyes raking over your form hungrily.

"I felt restless," You half shout having to battle with the noise of the party. "I thought I would come and… see."

"Mmmh, you honour me, wife. Never did I think id get to see your pretty face in this light." His words are slurred with wine but nonetheless sincere. "Come," He grabs your hand. "Dance with me."

Your eyes widen slightly. "I do not know how to I-"

"You may forget, my love, that I have seen you dance before. Mayhaps only once but I have seen it, and I know you can move those hips." He winks before lifting your hand and spinning you. You try to relax and let the music flow through you and follow whatever Lyonel is doing. He makes it look so natural like he doesnt have a care in the world- which you know to be the truth -spinning and stepping like he came out the womb doing so.

He watches you hungrily, eyeing your every move and cheering you on. He whisks a glass of wine from a plate of a servant and brings it to your lips encouraging you to drink. "Here, it will make it easier, clear those worrisome thoughts from your mind."

You drink it all, wiping your mouth as he throws the cup carelessly over his shoulder and smiling and giggling up at him. He cups your face and kisses you far too passionately for the amount of people around you but a series of cheers reassures you that they dont seem to mind. Perhaps parties weren't so bad after all.

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel/husband!Lyonel who is all “she may be your mother but she is my wife first. You will have to deal with me now..” whenever children decide to not listen to you

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel/husband!Lyonel who sits in the solar fighting with letters and petitions, cursing under his nose until the closing of the door and quiet voice distracts him.

“Father, I fucked up,” it takes everything in him not to snort at the confession.

“First of all, language. Secondly, what happened?” he asks putting the child on his lap.

“I told mother I like you better,” he waits in silence for following explanation, “That you’re more fun and don’t put me in timeout.”

“Young lady, you perfectly know I always back your mother so if she says you need a timeout, it means I also say that. So you will go and sit through your consequences then you are going to apologise to your mother, and I’ll check on her.”

And he sets the offspring free to search for you, hidden in your shared bedroom looking miserable. You didn’t move as you heard him approaching, just sniffled one more time as the mattress dipped under Lyonel as he sat next to you.

“Are you alright?” he inquiries and swipes the remaining tears from your cheeks away.

“Can I sometimes hate my children?” your head takes its place on his shoulder as you look for comfort in his embrace. He just hums in silent agreement, “You know it’s all your fault really? I’m no fun and cry at any given opportunity because of this.”

You point at your pregnant belly, carrying one more Baratheon to disappoint. Loud chuckle rumbles through your husband’s chest as he kisses crown of your head.

“I can take the blame for that but I am always your knight in a shiny armour first.”

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who is a type of a father that storms into the nursery and goes, “I need a volunteer.”

“What have you done?” the children are not even surprised by his sudden entrance.

“I’ll pay,” distant angry noises coming closer, “a stag”

“a dragon and I’ll consider, father.”

“Fine. You’re a good daughter. My love, I have her!” and storms out

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who knows that you forbade children from eating any extra sweets before night, but still creeps in the kitchen’s pantry in the dead hour to snack on some lemon cakes with two of your oldest children. Hushing each other on the way back, just to find you waiting in the doorway

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel/husband!Lyonel, whose play time with children would often end up with him hidden in your wardrobe, for you to bump into him occasionally.

“Remind me, why there is a pack of wild children running around the castle searching for you?” you ask and sit next to him, sliding in between the dresses.

“Because every two or so years you ask me for one more. And who am I to deny anything to my sweet wife?” he gives you a wink, “Besides we play hide and seek.”

“Fair enough. You want some?” you hand him a piece of blueberry pie.

“Didn’t you say no sweets before dining?” he teased.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” you shrug and eat the cake with wide grin, hearing a thunder of feet approaching.

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who you would find in the nursery, heavily asleep with your youngest toddler on top of him, secured by his hand. two other children also snoring in the close proximity, between evident after-battle disarray of pillows, wooden swords and other toys

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who is a world-class toddler-tossing champion since forever. The moment this man is sure the head won’t fall off the child, it’s over. Throwing left and right, up and down into pillows, the louder the cheerful babbling the higher the babe goes, echoed by Lyonel’s booming laughter.

You on the other hand, for your own sanity you decided not to watch after that one time when the child was literally launched into air and he almost failed to catch it. If the look could kill you’d be a widow and babe would be sitting with joyful tears on its incinerated remains of your spouse.

Later you would scold him, “do you know how long it takes to produce a baby?! You’re not wasting my work!!”

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who, when given time, would carve small figures for children to play with. Mostly various animals or beasts from legends, to the extent your children end up with a literal zoo in their nursery

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who would set up a tent pavilion just because his daughters wanted to sit in a meadow the whole day and make flower crowns, and because he would rather die than any of them would get uncomfortable

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who likes spending time on said days laying on the grass or pillows, listening to childish chatter, accepting all flowery ornaments they produced, adorning himself with them to the point that he resembles more of a maypole rather a lord paramour, when the whole pack returns to the storm’s end

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who prefers to check on the children at night himself, especially when they are ill. sits with them, reads books or tells stories to boost morale; makes sure they took medication and the temperature is slowly lowering. he would stay vigilant to any sign of distress or discomfort, doing his best to ease the pain. though acting all cheerful and fun, he’s deeply concerned and terrified something worse will follow if only he closes his eyes

a/n 2: part 2 somewhat on the way? also if anyone wants to babble about family guy Lyonel pls do 🩷

taglist (🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻): @sarcasticamaleont @serakyla @fuckyeahmoodywhitemen @mossymissy @holdthedorian @pumpkingirl03 @ncdoppalapudi @wordsaresimple-imnot @spiritual-blob-of-anxiety @baugettelord @krazehiveh @zealousdazementality @simonedk @nervouspeanutbread @cupcake710me @yuinno @ginger-n-coco

Chapter 5: Fret not, dear heart, let not them hear

The sun is blazing hot. You don’t get many days like this in Storm’s End. The weather would be perfect for a ride. Or a hunt. Not so much for standing in an open field in full armor. Lyonel can feel the sweat flooding underneath his gambeson. Either someone challenges him soon or he will do so himself. Then he will go and take a nice long bath. That might help. On second thought, maybe the bath shouldn’t be too long. It would do him better to occupy his thoughts. Sitting idly in his current state is dangerous.

You’ve been avoiding him all morning. He was relieved when he saw you at breakfast; sitting alone, unguarded. That was his chance, he thought. A chance to settle the thoughts that spiralled in his head all night, after you left him abruptly in his solar. So he took a seat nearby, not so close to cause any rumours of course. But close enough to talk. And the only thing you’ve given him was coldness. Like the implication in his questions didn’t reach you, when he knew for a fact it did. You just refused to acknowledge it. And left soon after. Maybe it was shyness, maybe it was the other lords and ladies in the great hall. So he made sure to stumble into you before the joust. Just an innocent meeting in the gallery. Fewer people. But this time you apparently had some urgent matter to attend to. Didn’t even look at him twice. Just smiled and left. The polite, practiced smile. How could you give him that fucking smile?

And now, sitting on the stands, you haven’t looked at him once. He’s sure, he’s been watching. And if he wouldn’t see it, he would feel it. Surely. Just like he felt every movement of your eyes last night.

Prince Daeron is sitting next to you. Like a chaperone, never leaving your side. He’s made it a challenge to find you alone. And you seemed to like the dragon cunt, for whatever reason he can’t tell. The cream dress you’re wearing is so delicate, simple. The ruffle on your neckline shimmering like sea foam. But your face is stone cold. Moving only when it’s meant to. Saying only the most adequate things, he’s sure. Every time you move your head he hopes to catch your eyes. And it never happens.

Ser Grandison’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. A challenge. Finally. Cheers erupt as Lyonel enters the lists, loud and honest and distant to his ears. He responds with laughter still. That’s what they expect from him.

You’re not looking.

He puts on the antlered helm. Takes his position. Couches the lance. Rides. The wood cracks, the horses slow down. They both stay mounted. Another charge. Same result. The sun is killing him. The helmet feels hot against his skin.

You’re not looking.

Lyonel unhorses ser Grandison in the third charge. Gets off his horse, helps the man get up. No serious injuries. Laughter, pat on the back, cheers.

You’re still not looking.

‘You almost lasted to the final day, I would say that it’s a very good outcome.’

Dunk is slouching. As he does. Hiding his size like he doesn’t deserve to stand tall among the crowd. They’re slowly walking away from the lists. Lyonel already disposed of armor, Dunk is still wearing his. Unlike Lyonel, he didn’t have a servant to leave it with. Egg follows a few paces behind, leading Thunder, Dunk’s beautiful black destrier.

A gust of wind hits Lyonel’s body and he scrunches his nose, realizing how bad he reeks, the unmistakable smell of a man being cooked alive for hours under his armor. He really needs that bath.

‘It could be better.’ Dunk speaks softly, eyes following the rhythmic pace of his boots. ‘I should’ve aimed more to the sinister.’

‘Many things in life could be better, yet we prevail. We should have a drink, what do you say?’

Dunk finally looks up at him, those big earnest eyes filled with confusion under the slight scrunch of his brows.

‘It’s quite early.’

‘Who the fuck cares, I’m a Lord and you’re a knight who lasted to the third day of the tourney. We should get drunk and lie in a ditch and look at the stars.’

Dunk stops. Looks at him with a mix of concern and seriousness which might’ve normally melted Lyonel’s heart, but in his current state serves only to make the annoyance fester.

‘Lyonel… are you sure you’re feeling quite alright?’

‘Mother’s blessed cunt, can’t a man just want a drink?’ He sighs dramatically, hoping that a bit of theatrics will deter Dunk from further questions. ‘What is so alarming about a cup of wine? Have you set your mind on becoming a septon, my friend?’

‘Is this about Lady Cafferen again?’

Lyonel’s mouth falls slightly agape, whatever he was going to say next stuck dry in his throat. Was he truly that obvious? Because if Dunk, sweet, clueless Dunk noticed… well, that means he’s royally fucked.

‘She looked sad today.’ Egg interjects, before he has a chance to respond.

‘She looked fucking cruel, that’s what she looked like.’ Lyonel scoffs, shooting him a biting look.

‘Whatever you say.’

The boy shrugs and turns his attention back to the horse. It doesn’t feel very reassuring.

If Lord Swann mentions his granddaughter again Lyonel might actually puke. The girl is what, fifteen? That is absolutely not happening and her extraordinary embroidery skills are doing nothing to warm him toward the idea. He refills his cup, hoping the wine might finally accomplish the desired outcome of making him numb. For now, it seems to only make his impatience grow. He’s been playing a gracious host for the last hour or two, however long the feast has been going on. It feels like ages. Are those cunts always this tiring? Maybe so. He could probably try steering the conversation onto more interesting waters. But the mere thought of such effort is making his head spin. As some other Lord interjects - that one talking about his daughter for a change, good to have some variety - his mind drifts to you. He can’t see you from where he’s sitting. But the mere knowledge of your presence is making him feel something he can’t quite place. Not exactly excitement, that was before. Now it's a sensation more resembling a sandstorm. Hot and cutting and uncomfortable. Making his throat parched. He needs more wine.

The music begins. He’s been dreading this moment the whole night and that alone - the fact that you drove him to a point where he can’t stand dancing of all things - is making him boil. Aerion takes your hand and leads you to the floor. The tune is one Lyonel recognizes - a song of love, a slow swaying melody. Sweet notes he would so appreciate if it was him instead of that dragon blooded oaf holding you in his arms. How gently he would hold you, how delicate the fabric of your dress would feel upon his fingers. How much he would like to take a deep breath of your powdery scent.

That is, if under different circumstances, you would even entertain the thought of dancing with him. Or doing anything else with him, for that matter. Maybe it was only loneliness that drove you into his arms last night. Or worse yet, some twisted act of defiance.

Of course, it wasn’t like you promised him anything. You didn’t agree to anything more than one night, he understood that. He might’ve started to hope for something more, but he wouldn’t hold you responsible for that. Still, that was no explanation for ignoring him. Unless… Gods, what if he was just bad? It sounded like you were enjoying yourself, but maybe that was just kindness, maybe he-

‘Lord Baratheon?’

Lord Swann’s voice brings him back to reality.

‘Sorry, I’d lost my train of thought’ His laugh seems to work in preventing any damage to the other man’s ego. ‘Could you repeat the question?’

He tries to focus on the conversation, but every now and then the lustrous fabric of your dress catches his eye, moving across the dancefloor. As he hears the sound of strings swelling, leading to the grand finale of the song, he rises to his feet, announcing to the lords that the time has come to dance, that the party is to be enjoyed instead of sitting by the tables. A few others rise alongside him and he walks onto the floor, followed by their laughter. He goes directly to you. Doesn’t even pretend to consider any other lady along the way. It will all be lost in the crowd anyway. Nobody notices things like this after the first dance.

He sees Aerion among the crowd, his hand placed on the small of your back, motioning you toward the dais. He steps in front of you, stopping you in your tracks. Bows his head politely, greets your betrothed, asks you for the next dance.

Your eyes drift to Aerion, a little crack in your composure, not big enough for Lyonel to devise what it means. When you look back at him it’s gone, replaced by the practiced calm expression you’ve been giving him all day.

‘I’m very sorry Lord Baratheon, but I feel rather exhausted today. I have to catch my breath.’

You leave him with that. So he finds someone else to dance with. Just to save his face. She is beautiful. And she looks at him like he could give her something she wants. And maybe he could. If the night was different. If he wasn’t watching you over her arm the whole time. If his heart didn’t sink when he saw you leaving. Maybe he could make this lady’s night memorable. Then she would wake up in his bedchamber, smile at him, give him a peck on the lips. Whisper sweet nothings in his ear. Sometimes the romance would go on for longer. Late night meetings during feasts, words exchanged in the darkness of the night. But eventually it always ended. They left, or he left, it was never a big deal. The thing was exciting in the beginning but then it withered with every night spent together. With every bit of each other seen more clearly. The boring truths coming out.

But then why, why did this time feel so different?

He thanks the beautiful lady for the dance. She looks slightly disappointed. He doesn’t really care. Walking back to the table, he spots Daeron. The prince is sitting alone, nursing his cup. He knows talking to him is an idiotic idea. He should go back to the other lords.

Daeron looks up from his cup, puzzled, as Lyonel takes a seat opposite him.

‘Lord Baratheon?’

‘Yes?’

‘Why are you… here?’

Lyonel tries to keep the most pleasant, neutral expression. But the question cuts deep, because indeed, why the fuck is he here?

‘It would be disgraceful for a host to let his guest drink alone.'

Daeron raises his brows.

'I'm quite alright alone. No need to trouble yourself with entertaining me.'

'I must insist.' Lyonel smiles, one of the famous smiles that could surely make anyone warm up to him. But the only response he gets is the man's brows rising even higher. 'How are you enjoying the tourney, Prince Daeron? Is everything to your liking?'

'The wine is definitely to my liking.’ He motions with his cup, looking at Lyonel intently. Making him feel like he is being studied. ‘As for everything else - I might not be knowledgeable enough on those matters to make any valuable judgments.’

‘But would you say that - broadly speaking - everything seems to be going… correctly?’

‘Lord Baratheon, I think this is a question better asked to your advisors.’

No wonder Lady Cafferen gets on with Prince Daeron so well. Mutual respect between two people skilled in the art of deflecting simple fucking questions.

‘Just wanted some outside perspective is all.’ He gestures broadly, trying to keep his smile as warm as possible and stifle the muscles of his brows from furrowing in annoyance. ‘Your family retired early.’

‘My father is known to do that.’

Who in the seven hells cares about your father? He notices the corner of Daeron’s lips rising. The cunting princeling is clearly enjoying this.

‘Yes, yes he is. But your brother too?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘And Lady Cafferen?’

Maybe it was a little early to get to this question, Lyonel realizes, but he cannot take it back now. Perhaps that last cup of wine was a bad idea.

‘She seemed to be tired today, My Lord.’

‘Right, she told me so. But did she seem…’ he pauses, leaning back in his chair, trying to seem as unbothered by the topic as humanly possible ‘otherwise unwell to you?’

‘Unwell?’

The annoyance and the alcohol rise to his head in a white hot flush. Lady Cafferen’s avoidance was at least interesting. With Daeron it feels more like dancing around death traps. While also being polite. While also accepting another refill of his cup from the prince.

‘She was very quiet.’

Daeron puts the pitcher back on the table. Taking a long sip of his wine. How is that man still putting together sentences after so many cups? Maybe it’s a skill one acquires once they forget how to exist sober. He looks back at Lyonel, the annoying smile still dancing at the corner of his lip.

‘She does that.’

‘Yes, I know. I just wanted to make sure that I didn’t-’ Lyonel catches himself in time. Clears his throat to mask the slip. Focuses on choosing every next word carefully, the task proving demanding in his current state of intoxication. ‘Strictly as a host… I wanted to know that she was enjoying herself here. In Storm’s End. That she didn’t regret coming.’

Daeron lets out a very undignified snort against his cup, choking on his wine. He tries to cough out the liquid, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. All nearby heads turn their way, observing the prince’s uncontrollable fit of laughter. A rare sight to behold. It takes Lyonel a moment to understand what he found so funny. But when it hits him he goes as red as a stableboy witnessing a pair of teats for the first time.

‘Sorry’ Daeron speaks after finally catching his breath, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Lord Baratheon, between many things a woman such as her could regret, I can assure you coming was not one of them.’

He coughs into his fist a few more times. Then rises to his feet.

‘Now, if you will excuse me. I think I should retire as well.’

The sleep came in waves of exhaust. Never letting him rest fully, taking him in for an hour, two, three at best before releasing again. Every time he woke up in a cold sweat, the bedding clinging to his wet skin, the hum of sea outside sounding wrong somehow; every time he tried to push the thoughts of you aside. Tossing and turning in his bed, pressing his face to the pillow, as if it could muffle the sound of your voice ringing in his head. When he woke up yet again, for the fifth or sixth time this night, and saw the faint light of sunrise seeping through the window of his bedchamber, he decided that was quite enough. So he got up. Walked toward the basin in the corner of his room. Splashed the cold water on his face profusely, wetting his hair in the process. Didn’t call on any servants. Just dressed in what he had at hand - not the gallant riding attire that he saved for hunting with the other lords - an older shirt he wore when he would ride alone, a black worn vest that he should’ve gotten rid of long ago, but it was simply too comfortable. Pants, boots. He stormed through the hallways of his keep, not caring much if the sound of his boots echoing through the corridors would wake up his guests. Lyonel needed to get out. Needed to ride, feel the morning air against his face. That always worked.

But it didn’t work this time.

He lets his horse slow down. Take a breath. The forest rustles around him, the dewy smell of moss heavy in the brisk air. Birds chirping above his head, a cruelly joyful song that does nothing to lift his spirits. He notices a raven, sitting on a low branch of a pine tree. Watchful. Lyonel remembers that his mother once told him ravens mate for life. Have you found your mate yet, raven? Probably so, bird courtship couldn’t be that complicated. Lucky bastard.

He hears something. At first, he thinks his mind is playing tricks on him. Probably another bird or another forest animal. Maybe a fox. But as he gets closer, the sound becomes clearer. Someone’s here. And they’re crying. He pulls gently on the reins, steering his horse off the well-trodden path and deeper into the woods, towards the voice. He doesn’t need to go far before he notices a chestnut horse. Left by a tree, nibbling on a patch of grass. The animal seems familiar. And so does the voice now. He dismounts, careful as to not cause any noise that would announce his presence. Circles the wide, moss-covered trunk next to him, and goes toward the opening in the trees. He emerges onto a small clearing. Dewy grass, shining in the morning sun, little yellow flowers scattered among the field. And there you are. Sitting under a willow tree. The twigs hang low, swaying gently in the wind, guarding you like a canopy. The sage fabric of your dress is splayed across the ground, blended into the greenery. For a moment, in the haze of the sleepless night and sheer surprise he thinks he must’ve imagined you, dreamed you as a forest spirit, just because his mind couldn’t bear the weight you’ve put on it. He blinks, but you’re still there. You’re real. He hesitates before coming closer.

‘Are you alright?’

You snap your face toward him. Eyes red and tired under the furrow of your brows, hands wiping at your cheeks aggressively, trying to dry the evidence of tears.

‘Were you following me?’

He jolts back, surprised by the sudden outburst.

‘Why in the seven hells would I follow you?’

‘Really?’ You stand up, facing him fully now, fists clenched at your sides. ‘You wouldn’t leave me alone yesterday, it’s a fair assumption.’

‘Yes, you’re very skilled at assuming things.’ he scoffs, the anger in his expression matching yours. ‘For your information, I wasn’t following you, I just went for a ride and heard you crying. I'm very sorry for being concerned, I won’t make that mistake again.’

Lyonel turns back toward his horse, intent on leaving you despite himself, his wounded pride taking over. He doesn’t even take three steps before your voice stops him.

‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

‘Exactly what you heard, Lady Cafferen.’

You let out a mocking laugh and it’s as if his whole body is being swallowed by the cruel vibration of your voice. His chest tightens.

‘Oh right, noble Lord Baratheon is so worried about me after he fucked me and offered me moon tea to sweeten the moment.’

‘No no no, you don’t get to do that.’ He takes a step forward, an accusing finger pointed at your chest. ‘You left me without a fucking word like I was a whore. Only you forgot to leave the payment. And then you avoided me all day. And I’m the bad one?’

‘That’s exactly why I was avoiding you! Gods, why are you so intent on making this more complicated than it is?’ There is a slight break in your voice, only a gleam of something underneath, but he catches it immediately. ‘We just fucked, leave it alone.’

He looks at you. Really looks at you now. Sees the slight tremble of your hands. Your eyes, averted from him, reddened and puffy from tears. The state of your clothes, hair. A leaf caught between your locks.

‘Then why does the moon tea matter?’

You don’t respond. He feels something cracking in his chest. The anger vanishes like it was never there. And in its absence emerges a delicate, broken flicker of hope.

‘If you can tell me it meant nothing I will leave you alone. I won’t ever look at you again. Just say it.’

He watches you, focused like there was never anything before this or will never be anything after. Heart pounding in his chest. You force yourself to look at him, but when you do, you can no longer keep it in. The tears start flowing again. An unguarded sound leaves your throat and you cover your face, trying to hide it from him.

He hesitates for a moment; then takes a step closer. Places an arm around you. And it’s like your body reads it as permission. You fall into him, sobs tearing out of your chest, shaky and wet, every kept emotion spilling out. He holds you gently, lowering your bodies to the soft grass. Cradles you like a child, stroking your head, letting your tears seep into the fabric of his shirt.

He speaks only when your breath steadies, and even then does so carefully, not wanting to upset you even more.

‘I realise the moon tea was ill-timed. But I just wanted to make sure you’re safe.’

You sniffle, wiping the tears with the hem of your sleeve.

‘I know.’

‘Good.’ He smiles, although you cannot see it, your head still placed in the crook of his neck.

‘Can you kiss me?’

His hand stops, frozen on the back of your head. Taken aback by the question he didn’t even know he wanted to hear. He cups your face between his palms and lifts it up to look into your teary eyes.

‘Gods. Of course I can.’

He moves close. Places a chaste kiss upon your lips. Then moves to your cheeks. Kissing the tears away. Nothing exists beyond this clearing in the forest. It’s just you and him now, under the willow tree canopy. He holds you close, grabbing onto you as if you could slip away at any moment. Feeling the delicate touch of your fingers on his neck, moaning when you move them through his hair, revelling in the sweet pull of your hands on his curls as he goes lower, tracing his tongue over your exposed bosom. You don’t have the time to undress properly; your skirts get hoisted up, his pants pulled down only low enough to take out his cock. He teases at your entrance with his fingers, swallowing every breath and moan you let out into the kiss that becomes impossibly sloppy. Desperate.

When you become wet enough for his liking, when he feels your walls relax around his fingers, he breaks the kiss, mouth still hovering over yours. Hot breaths mixing together as he takes his member in his hand and nudges at your entrance. He has to hold himself from just slamming into you. The hot, needy urgency makes his whole body shiver as he enters slowly, sliding deeper and deeper. Watching open-mouthed as your body arches beneath him, your walls tightening around his length. He moans loudly, burying himself fully with a small final push. His body falls back onto you. Messy kisses placed along your jawline and neck, soft wet lips feeling like velvet against your skin. He starts moving inside you, slowly, still holding himself back. Desperate lips mapping every inch of your exposed skin. Pulling back only to take a look at your face. Twisted in pleasure, your eyes rolling back as his hand finds your clit, circling the nub delicately. He picks up the pace, slamming into you, the rhythm uneven, uncertain, even now, even having you before him, all to himself, legs hooked behind his back, hands on his neck. He wants it so bad that he’s not sure what exactly he wants. To be inside you, feel you with every part of his body, every part of his mind, to crawl under your skin, become one, only you, only this. The feeling becomes unbearable and the only thing he can do is push harder, faster. An incoherent string of curses and praise leaves his mouth, your name twisted with calls to gods, heavens and hells as he ruts into you, every move a prayer, every thrust a desperate plea.

He feels his release coming. He tilts back and grabs your calf, urging you to hoist your legs over his shoulders. His hand goes back to your clit, rubbing the sensitive spot. He watches your body twist under him, your breasts moving deliciously with every thrust of his cock. Your pretty lips pulled slightly apart, the beautiful gasps and moans rolling out of your throat. It tells him you’re as close as he is. His fingers start moving faster. Your eyelashes flutter and he feels your walls clenching around him. Your back arches. A wave of release comes over you. This sensation, your whole body shaking and tensing around him, pulls him over the edge. He spills deep inside you and he can feel your body responding to it, a final violent spasm of your muscles around his cock.

He falls back onto you with a loud grunt. Buries his face in the crook of your neck. Taking in your powdery scent. Feeling the softness of your skin. Your legs intertwined behind his back.

You caress his hair as you both come down from the high. He shifts his weight to lay beside you, arms still wrapped around your body. You let out a small laugh as he nudges his face closer to you, beard tickling the delicate skin on your neck.

‘You must know’ you finally speak, breath still uneven, voice coming out a little raspy. ‘If the circumstances were different… if you were to ask me…’

You stop. Take a deep breath.

‘I would marry you if I could.’

He freezes. The hand that was caressing your forearm stills. It takes him a moment to understand what you just said. When it finally registers it comes as a flood of incomprehensible emotion. He hugs you closer to his body.

‘I wish there was a way I could ask you.’

If anyone wandered into the clearing at that moment they would see the willow twigs swaying in the wind. Two lovers laying underneath, amongst the small yellow flowers. Frozen in a tight embrace, like there was no tomorrow. Because maybe there wasn’t. Not for them anyway. There was only now, and the time was running out.

But no one came. The sun kept rising higher above the grassy field.

Lyonel stayed behind. You decided it would be wiser to ride back alone, to not risk being seen together. He helped you fix your hair, laughing all the while picking out the grass and leaves stuck in your curls. He kissed you lightly before helping you mount your horse. It was hard to let go of his hand and ride off, but you did it. You had to.

The stables are mostly empty, save for a few stable boys who are occupied enough with their work to hardly even notice your return. You dismount and lead your mare to the box. Call on one of the boys to take care of her, offering him a coin to make sure your girl gets an extra apple and a good brushing of her coat.

And then, when you turn to take your leave, you see him. Aerion is leaning on the wooden post outside the box. Arms crossed over his chest. Watching you intently.

Did he just happen upon you? Or did he seek you out? Did he wait here for your return? You feel your head spinning.

‘You missed breakfast, My Lady.’

There is no concern in his voice. Not even a semblance of it, no performance that he usually forces in public. The stable boy is not much of an audience, you suppose.

‘I needed some fresh air, My Prince. I find riding clears my head like nothing else.’

He openly scoffs at your attempt at making conversation. Takes a step toward you, then another one, until he’s almost touching you. His lips hover over your ear and you brace yourself for a whisper, the venom that you’re sure will come out of his mouth next. But he doesn’t say anything. He just takes a long inhale. Hums. Then steps away.

You watch his mouth twist into something resembling a smile.

‘I can smell him on you.’

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. He looks at you for a moment longer. Then turns away and leaves.

It’s the final day of the tourney. You need to get ready.

Tags: @baguettelord @bookstearainydays @theprophaecy @mxrandelyn @helaenavisions @ody-see @punk-in-docs @coff33mug

Your bleary eyes crack open to bring the small world of the bedchamber back to you.

Grey washed and salt licked, like much else in your bedchamber. Beeswax candles shiver low on the sides. Giving the room a faint lick of honey. The fire is a warm roar of flames in the hearth.

The old bed creaks and groans when you move. Muggy headed and sore, sore all over it seems. It’s like you’ve been chucked from the highest ramparts and been bowled around in the tides, bashed about to bits on the rocks. Stomach, thighs, and arms tender. Eyes raw. Everything about you wanted to weep, bleed, or leak. But despite it all, you’re so happy.

You rise from the pillows. From the lulling goosedown warmth of the mattress. The light coming in is thick with cloud. Threaded with the usual cry of gulls. The thrash of the sea backing every moment.

It feels serene now. Like the storm has rushed through and now it’s finished with you.

The air is awash in the calm perfume of lavender oil. The old aroma of iron and blood that’s been washed off the stone floors. Off the bedding. All the pain, sweat, screams and strife that came before this moment, trickling away.

Your eyes focus across the bedchamber. Where your son, your newly born babe, fusses in his carved wooden cot. Wrapped in yellow blankets. Little warbles and squeaks fluttering in the air like fragile birdsong.

Lyonel is leaning over the bassinet. Humming to him.

Light paints itself in chalky bold stripes down his hair and face by the window. His ringed hand reached out to caress his sons chubby cheek. Stroking a knuckle down skin so soft, he’d never felt the like. Laundered silk.

There is much joy and serenity to be had around the keep. For mother and babe are hale. Your son’s lungs are strong. A true Baratheon through and through.

One who gave a shrieking loud cry that pierced the walls as soon as you birthed him. Lyonel’s smile and resounding laugh had split his face like thunder when he heard it. It tugged and pumped fierce, pounding blood through both your hearts.

“Hear that? Lady Storm? Listen to our boy.” He awards. Smoothing sweaty locks of hair out your eyes as you heaved for breath.

“I can see your resemblance already.” You pant for a breath. Voice wearied and no fucking wonder.

He chuckles. Squeezes you tight. Peppers kisses down your sweat slick jaw. Awed. Relieved. Wild with love at your strength.

“You did it. My love. You did so well.” You don’t miss the way a salty tear or two from him drips and splashes hot down your shoulder. His hard brow aligned to yours. Knocking his stubborn head to your own. You squeeze him back as much as you were able.

You watch the plethora of people attending your babe. Washing him. Checking him all over as he squirmed and fussed. All under your careful supervision. And the looming threat of Lyonel’s black-eyed wrath if they didn’t let you hold him, your child is brought straight over to you after he’s been examined.

“Given your age…” The Maester had grumbled as he handed you the writhing, squirming bundle. “The complications were, thankfully, few. Praise the gods my lady.”

The man stands there and crosses his arms. Chain at his chest clacking. The shift of his rough hewn robe as he moves his arms.

The many eyes still in the room watches you tuck the linens back around your boys face, so you could see his wrinkled little brow and dark black eyes. Warbling cries from his mouth come.

That scent of a bathed newborn reaching you. Pure milky soft skin. Innocence. You nuzzle your lips to his head. Whirls of black hair stick to his soft scalp. Place him alongside your heart, so he can hear his mother.

Lyonel piped up from the side of the room. Eyes goring into the man. Offended. Tunic laying open at the neck. Stinking of sweat. Tired, and clinging at the last fraying rope of his patience.

“Must all due credit go to your fucking gods? I’d think we can spare Lady Baratheon some of that, for actually having been the one whose body bled and split open to deliver my son.” He warns darkly. Voice like flint. Arms crossed.

“Lyonel.” You chide weakly. Eyes drowsy. Still blood and sweat wicked from your labours.

Even in your birthing bed, not having delivered your first born, and then the gory nightmare of the afterbirth an hour previous, A lady’s work is never done: still you had to mediate your husbands temper.

“Enough blood has been split in this room. We don’t need more.” You encourage. Voice croaking. “Not on this auspicious day. Come over here and see your son.” You arbitrate.

You swallow the tick of your annoyance. You’re far too tired to decimate at present. You’ll store it for later on. “I Thank you. Maester. For your help.”

Your husband hadn’t left the birthing chamber. Not for one minute as soon as your pains started. He didn’t disappear to revel and drink with his bannermen, your countrymen and both sets of your cousins.

Even though you’re sure they’re all roaring drunk, in the round hall by now. Toasting to a boy heir, to the fruits of the laughing storm and singing bawdy folk songs. He stayed.

You’re certain you’ve sprained the bones in his hands. You’ve bitten out sobs and cried his name, cursed it in places too. He was there. All throughout. Unwavering. Storm steady. Mouth in your ear. Bathing your sweat away with a cloth. Encouraging you. Kissing your head.

He can survive a battlefield for certain, and there was no way - in his own words - ‘in the seven cunting hells’ that he would abandon you alone, to yours.

At the very least, he’s getting in practice as a proud, stomping, fatherly stag. Watching over his wife and his young from the first.

He lopes himself to your side, insult not forgotten in those dark scowling eyes, but he buried a kiss in your hair. Curled around your back as you held the baby. Arm around your shoulder. Settling into the pillows at the headboard of your bed.

The stooped old midwife you’d insisted on having fetched from Blackhaven, was washing her hands in a wooden bowl the other side of the room. Watching this whole tableau with a flick of a smile, glittering eyes. Anrea.

Lyonel is ninety percent certain the woman is a white witch. But you’d insisted.

The maesters of the citadel lacked one thing when it came to knowing of childbirth; some things just couldn’t be taught or learned. You wanted a competent midwife. You refused their suggestions of yet more men.

You wanted Anrea here from your sixth month. You had her. Lyonel assumed he pays her in ravens, or magic beans or some such. But after meeting her, he was left with little doubt that she was the one he wanted to help pull his baby out of you.

She has hair like white rope long since frayed. Gathering back at her neck and and held with a comb. Robes of long, lavender cloth and shawls of lace. Her face and neck bore a thousand wrinkles, each sagging into the other. One eye was green, the other dark brown.

She smelled of yellow camomile and dried rustling lilac and has a voice like scraping stone. She used plants and potions of her own making to wilful effect. She required no payment from you, but a room and board, and a patch of the godswood to grow her own herbs. She was having brewed for you, a tea made of seaweed. To restore strength and iron.

Lyonel defied the gods to produce a more stout woman. Crone she may be, but Anrea may aswell have been spat out to this realm, by the warrior himself.

She was fierce and forthright and knew everything there was about the birthing bed. And every instruction she gave rang true. Every hitch of breath or pull of muscle. She knew. Told you to lie on your side to prevent tears and it had worked. And guided you through the hell of it all. Calm as a millpond.

“He’s healthy as an ox. My lady. He comes from a strong mother.” She insists. Coming over. A bony hand reaches and folds the cloth down. Rings of iron and amber replaced on her clean hands.

“Big lad he is. You quickened well. Though I’ve oft heard tale of the sheer strength of Baratheon seed. You stags do produce big, dark sons.” She sends Lyonel a coy, pointed look over your shoulder.

“I’m honoured you think so. Anrea.” He smirks. The humourous nature of the comment not lost on him.

“I should know. I delivered your grand sire. Huge chunky brute he was. Near killed your great-grandmother in coming.” She tells in plentiful amusement. Watching your babe as she said it.

Lyonel frowned. He was set to ask exactly how old this woman was, but her instructions cut him off. There’s dark magic at work here, and he dare not intrude on it.

“Let him feel your skin. Your heartbeat. It will soothe him. Help the bond.” She tells you. Unfolding the blankets. “Soon we’ll help him latch and try a feed, My lady.”

She turns her well meaning ire on the rest of the bedchamber.

“Out with you. Mother and father only.” She turns and barks to the room. Like a pestered grey old hound.

Maids and attendants shuffle to obey her whims. Carrying blooded linens or disposing of dirtied water.

The Maester was miffed at having to follow a woman’s orders, but you’d made it plain he was to listen. Or Lyonel told him he could fuck right off back to Oldtown.

He glares at Anrea as he leaves. She sights his scowl and scoffs at it. “Doddery idiot. What good is wearing a fucking chain around your neck like a damn nanny goat. Bunch of know it all cunts.” She mutters as she shuffles to the side.

No doubt pummelling some foul green ingredients into a paste with a pestle and mortar, for that tea she spoke of, for you. Aswell as having made some balm for between your legs, to ease the sting. Cold compresses would help too. And ice baths.

“Can I hold him?” Lyonel asks. “She didn’t give me any instructions.” He speaks out the side of his mouth. Whispering conspiratorially.

“Do you dare move.” You tease.

He frowns. “I have a decent stake in his creation. Be fair.”

You chuckle. He fusses a little, but lyonel makes sure that enough of his skin is on display for the babe to feel. That wiry chest hair of his falling against the babes skin. Feeling the slow dub of his fathers heart too.

You smile. Shuffling him over into his waiting arms. As Anrea had coached him. (More line terrified him into the correct hold) supporting the head, back and neck.

Easy arms around him. He’s a baby. Man. Not a fucking mace. Loosen your grip. She’d snapped.

“So. My Lord storm-“ you begin.

Leaning over and smoothing over his little wiggling foot as he squirms. Spit wet cries coming from his mouth. Belly no doubt full of milk you’d just fed him. That should buy you silence for a little while.

“What shall we name him?” You decide. Laying your head on his arm. Watching the turn of his chin as he looks down at him. Salt and pepper hair flopped in his tired eyes.

“What was that name you liked-the one from House Swann, you told me about. The one from one of the old sailor songs.”

Your face must be a picture. You tilt your head. Amazed he even remembered that. He learnt of it at his time as your betrothed, at Blackhaven after the Ashford Tourney. The song was about a sailor who fell in love with a syren. Story was she gave him lungs to breathe in the sea. And they ruled together under the tides as gods. Jorys & Eyla.

“Jorys.” You ask.

Lyonel grinned. You saw the weight of it settle in his eyes. The choice laying shape. “Aye. That one.”

Bouncing the babe a little in his arms as a yawn cracked across his scrunched face. Gummy eyes closing. Arm waving around.

He knew babies were supposed to be beautiful; and maybe so in the eyes of the beholders and parents they were. But at this stage he looked like a wormy, wriggly thing, that was as wrinkled as a week old piece of fruit.

When the words leave him about the name, the babe grumbled an odd sleepy, gurgle of a noise. One that sounded like agreement.

“See-“ He laughs. “He approves already. Anointed by none other than himself.”

“Jorys Baratheon.” You hum. “I like it. It sounds elegant. Learned. But youthful.” Smoothing a fingertip over that ink dark Baratheon hair. Like wisps of spun cotton.

You both watch as you toy with playing with the whorls of them. Pushing them back and following the wave.

“I thought you’d want something from your house. Orys. Or Ormund. Borros. Those battle-scarred, bold names that echo through bloody rebellion and Baratheon sieges.” You seek. “Please don’t suggest we name him Argilac.” You hope.

“I’d ask to be slain if my parents gave me that name.” He remarks.

He lays those stout, heavy names aside. Endless petitions from cousins and relations. Harren. Durran. Hal. Randar. Borrath.

Time to remind this first born child and heir, and all the rest of the toadying cunts, that he came from Baratheon and Dondarrion stock. All too easily these days he sees how a mothers house infulence is squeezed out of a child when they’re born, like oil from a rag.

He doesn’t want that. He wants this little stag to wear lightning bolts and be proud of it-

“We’ve plenty of time for those overdone stag names. Maybe the next one…” He turns and catches your eye. You spy the glimmer that sat there. The wicked one.

“Next one?” You raise a brow.

“Lyonel. I love you very much. With all my heart. But right now, in this bed. My answer has to surely be fuck right off.” You declare. Leaning over and kissing his cheek.

“Fair.” He grins. All dimples and cheeks.

You hear Anrea chuckle dryly from across the rooms. Like grated metal. As she pummels something in her stone mortar. “Good woman.”

Though where you’d leaned to kiss him, he does turn and catch your mouth with his own. Presses on you a slow, lippy kiss that absolutely shouldn’t have stirred you as much as it did.

The baby fussed in his hold. Little arm whacking out to brush against his fathers chest.

“Now. Little stag. I was here first. Those tits belong to me first of all.” He leers.

“Hit him harder, Jorys. For your mother.” You ask.

“He wouldn’t dare face my wrath.” Lyonel answers. Pecking you softly on the lips again. A slow, melting kind of kiss.

“Oi. Any more of that nonsense. I’ll have you gelded. She needs to heal for two months before you can even think of producing a second heir.” Anrea fairly shouts from across the room.

Lyonel breaks from you. Wets his lips. Tries not to look too cowed.

“Should we tell her that nonsense is the reason she’s stood here?” He quips.

Anrea puts her hands on her hips. Danger.

“She’d make a terribly good advocate for those who wish to remain chaste.” He mutters.

“Behave. Or she’ll make you stand out in the hall like a naughty boy.” You tease.

He looks pleadingly into Jorys face.

“See what I put up with? I hope you know I’m being ganged up on, here, my lad.”

“Does you no harm.” Anrea puts in under her breath.

You hide your chuckle into Lyonel’s shoulder. Though your whole body shakes with laughter. You wipe away tears. Blessed day indeed.

The memories of your sons name day make you grin. It feels years ago, as opposed to mere days. Only just this week gone. The celebrations still bleed through the walls like sea salt.

A tourney is being prepared. Poor Willard is flung under the wagon as you are still much too feeble to help plan much beyond feeding schedules and the glories of colic cures.

Pavilions are being raised. Game and pigeon pies, salted pork and cod, wine and mead, ordered in by the wagonload. Rooms prepared. Games announced. Bannermen called to celebrate. A caravan train from Blackhaven and Highgarden will soon arrive. Family gathered to toast to the child of the laughing storm. All laden with name day gifts for your son. Some will bring gold or trinkets. Others fine weapons or books. Some may come with the hope of future alliance to a daughter stuffed in their pockets.

Lyonel wants to put a small circlet crown of deer horns on his babes head. Smother him in gold too. He’s had the castle seamstress make him up a little cloak, embroidered with black stags. You’re sure a gown of excellent black and yellow velvet is being designed for you. Plenty of stag gold ornamentation to ply upon your persons. A comb for your hair. A belt, or a new clutch of yellow jewels.

You’re sure he’ll don his own antler crown too. In a couple of weeks time, when you’re well enough to leave the bed, you’ll welcome all stormlanders across your threshold to revel in the joys. Tables groaning with food. Knights ready to joust. Lord, Lady, and baby Storm at the head of it all.

You shuffle up in bed. Mouth dry. Eyes still iron heavy. Body feeling like a bag of stones. You were told it will be a while before you’re batting at full strength again. To take it easy in the mean time. Manage the feeding. The cloth changes. The cries that come at night.

An excellent nanny, Bertha, one who’d tended you years ago, had been readily employed come take him to the nursery to soothe when you needed rest. Anrea was hanging around too. She was loathe to be gotten rid of quite so soon. Lyonel wants to give her a parcel of land and a sainthood as thanks.

You turn to spy a breakfast tray left for you. A pot of Anrea’s green tea left steaming. Porridge layered with fruit, and salted, fried fish on the side. Hearty bacon and boiled eggs. She was trying to stuff you with food and iron already. Healthy mother. Healthy milk. Healthy babe.

You watch serenely across the room in the pleasant morning light. Lyonel’s song reached across the flagstones like whispers of hot honey as he sang. Low. So as not to wake you. But truth be told your ears pricked the second you heard Jorys shift and unsettle.

“Whispered and tossed on the tide coming in…” He sang gently.

Leaning down and plunging his hands in the crib. Plucking the weight of his son out. Cradling him close to chest. Big ringed hand cupping the back of his little head. Blankets flopped over his black tunic clad arms.

Still singing as he takes the babe to the window. Bares him to the morning light. Lets him hear the sounds to which he’ll grow up on, like daily bread, gulls, tides, storms that roll in.

Though Jorys is more interested in sleeping against his fathers shoulder, eyes closed as he slumps into his hold. Still milk wearied, full and sleepy.

Lyonel is speaking to him like he was wide eyed and able to see the span of his sea stained lands.

“See this my little stag…This will one day be your kingdom. You can rule over the tides and the sky. Look after all our dour, weather hardy Stormlanders.” He lovingly pats his sons back. Chuckling as he regales him the tale.

“They’ll adore you. I dare say. You’re strong and loud, judging by the way you cry at night. Which is a good thing. We are not designed to fall gently on the world. No Baratheon can ever be counted as meek. Certainly not one blessed to have a mother like yours, either.”

The next words bloat and warm your weary heart.

“She’ll give you all that I can’t. Little storm. She’ll teach you patience. Negotiation. The wherewithal to grow into a good, kind boy. A temperate one. And an even better man. To hold yourself tall and never falter. All the boring minutia of running this place that she somehow takes and turns into sense. How to read someone at ten paces. I still don’t know how she does that. Fucking witchcraft, I tell you.”

“And need I say, she will show you how to be so stubborn, you’d have a better chance of wooing iron islands rock. Lord only knows how I won her over. I must be a very lucky bastard.”

You smile. His little spiel so heartfelt it makes you grin. Tears swimming to your eyes. You watch as Lyonel turns his head. Kissed his scalp. Sweet soft black hair tickling his lips and scratchy beard.

“I’ll teach you about the finer things. Like fishing and sailing. And most importantly, hunting. Hawking. Making merry…” He decides. “We’re good at that around here. Got to have something bright to do when winter storms roll in.”

“We can go raise tents in the Kingswood and hunt for boars or deer. When you’re old enough, I’ll take you out on shipbreakers bay. The shipwright can make you a little brig all your own. I’m having it called ‘Stormchaser.’ I hope you’ll like it. You’ll dance through the waves one day. I know it.”

“I hope you’re not influencing our son with dangerous hobbies. Lord Storm.” You speak up. Reaching over to the bedside for your cup of tea.

Lyonel spins to you. Jorys bounced in his arms. Squirming little. Sleeping lots. A stocky, lumpy weight in his arms. That smelled like sweet warm milk and lilacs from the laundered blankets.

“Simply having a heart to heart with my boy. He needs to know how things will work around here.”

You hold your teacup and saucer in your lap. Having supped it. “At one week old, he may still be a little young for sailing and ships.”

Lyonel’s huge, beaming smile reminds you of the sun.

“I chartered my first sailing course at nine.” He tells you proudly.

“Don’t wish him grown too fast.” You ask. “Savour the littleness. Being able to hold him like that in your arms. Before we know it he’ll be bowling around us. All antlers abd bluster.” You remark. “Then he’ll be a boisterous hormonal lad and gods help us then.”

“You’ll temper him. I’ve no doubt. With that same wilful look you give my cousins when they behave like the arse end of a mule.”

“Well they do.” You remark. Cutting. “Especially Hal. You’d think he was raised by Wildlings.”

He chuckles. Crossing to the bed. “You must be feeling a little recovered. If you’re able to spar with me and correct Hal’s behaviour.”

“Hal’s behaviour is never not in need of correcting. Besides, I’m on the mend. Just don’t ask me to sit a horse anytime in the next month.” You compel. Easing out the covers. Your belly still bloated from the birth. You’re told it will ease over time.

“Anrea said to rest. Bed rest. And I’m far too scared of that witch woman to disobey her whims. She’ll put a curse on me if anything happens to you.” He warns you. Moving to where you stand.

You wrap yourself in your brocade gown. Lightning silver. Shuffling your feet into slippers. Your hair is loose down your back. You’ll need a bath soon. As you suspect, will Jorys.

“Let me stand up. I’m sick of laying down. Being fed on every two hours like a milk cow.”

“You’d make a lovely bovine. My sweet wife. The best in the barn.”

“You do know how to charm your way into your wife’s heart.” You surmise archly.

Coming to meet him in the middle. Stood by the fire. Light bleeding its smooth way onto your silks. You hook your hands to his elbow.

He turns his head to kiss you. You’ve found he kicks up a royal Baratheon tantrum if you kiss the babe, before him. You splay your hand across his back. Kiss him til your legs feel weak.

“Morning bab.” You coo lovingly. Kissing his sweet head. Breathing in the smell of him. Lilacs and warm soft milk. An irresistible wash of powdery baby skin. His face twitches, tongue lolls from his lips, but he doesn’t wake. Milk drunk.

You both look at him. Drunk on the combination of love, awe, and lost sleep.

He tended him a couple times in the night when he fussed. Though he lacked the tits to be able to calm him properly. A walk down the halls and a hushed cuddle seemed to do the trick.

One thing no one warned you about. Was how much love you’d feel in looking at the baby you’d made. You’d kill or bleed for this little lump. He tore you open. Both heart and body. Made you see that such stirring love was possible. It seemed a wretched, powerful, terrible thing. That it could exist so strongly. You’d never known a thing like it, save for the way you loved Lyonel.

“I’ve been thinking.” You start. Stroking his little head.

Lyonel urges you on. Eyes meeting your own.

“What I said. The day he was born… about there not being another.”

“Oh?” He buoys a dark brow. Looking insatiably curious. But half wary Anrea would burst out of the nearest shadow and whack him in the balls for daring to think where this is headed.

“I think I may have spoken too rashly. On the subject.” You remark.

Watching with rapt and beautiful adoration, the way your sons tiny hand, clenched in a chubby fist around Lyonel’s fingertip.

“Given time, think I would be open to another. Can’t have Jorys being lonely. We do have a lot of cavernous Storms End to fill…” you add. Hoping.

He smiles down at you. “You’re serious, my savage storm?” He checks.

“Deadly.” You nod.

Lyonel scoops you close. Free arm banded across the back of your waist. Body pressed to his. This awe inspiring body. The one that’s born his child. And nourished him. And still you’d throw yourself into the bloody fray and risk another. Just like that.

He kisses you like his namesake. All smirk and passion. Darkly and happily humming into your mouth. Hand sliding up your brocade silk back. Getting lost in the hair at the nape of your neck.

When he pulls back, Jorys is clamped between you, like a little Stormlands barnacle, to his fathers chest. His forehead nudged to yours. Nose to nose.

“Maybe it’ll be a girl next time-“ You dare to hope.

His smile makes your knees weak. You gently cup the side his sharp jaw. Greying bristles under your fingertips. Jorys babbles. Your finger goes to his soft, waving little fist. He curls around you like a little limpet. You feel so whole and happy, you don’t know how you’ll ever stop.

“A tiny version of you…” He laughs. Voice all charm and heavenly gravel. “Now that’s dangerous.”

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