#marriages

Mereya is going to be a spring bride. And this place couldn’t suit her more if it tried.

She had a veritable flock of lovely tempered Highgarden ladies at her beck and call for court. Not a bad word to say about her. She was sweet as spring blossoms, you can’t imagine her finding fault with anyone. Or vice versa. Ladies gathered around her who loved nothing more than to talk about their handsome crushes, ribbons, and new dresses.

You and Lyonel travelled with some of your Baratheon bannermen on the rose road. Treasured guests. Arriving a week before hers and Thoren’s nuptials.

You’d dined on low tables in lush gardens with harpists playing nearby, lulled by music and wine, under the spreading reach of peach trees, with the trickle of fountains nearby. Strolled the rose gardens in the golden hour, arm in arm, and taken a leisurely, gentle sail on the sunlit mander. Attended the Spring Equinox masquerade ball, bathed under moonlight, the night sky strung with a net of glittering stars.

And on the bright, dazzling morn of her wedding. The sun rose as golden as the Tyrell sigil. She could think of none better to help her ready for her ceremony, but you. Even when she had a whole garrison of meek, eager handmaids to tend her every whim.

You were stood behind her as she sat to her vanity. Both your reflections in the looking glass. Her dress trailing over the stool, a huge glowing train of gold embroidered roses entwined up her sage green dress.

Not a lightning bolt in sight. Flowers had always suited her far better.

“I hope it’s not been too trying. It’s quieter than Storms End to be sure. Even with the revelries before the wedding.” She supposed.

“Lyonel will always be the loudest thing around here for miles. It is his way. Peace ill suits him.” You grin. Working on smoothing a curl by her temple to help it hang better.

She smirks. Snorts very unladylike laughter. “Is he finding it terribly tedious?” She seeks. Eyes flicking up to find you in the glass.

“I won’t repeat his exact words. But I think it’s just the heat getting to him.” You decide.

Your handsome stag of a husband didn’t fare so well in the polite, cloying and kind gardens of the reach. No wilderness. No tempests to chase. No storm to battle through. Just acre upon acre of polite gardens and roses. You can almost hear one of his rants;

Flowers. Sunshine. More fucking flowers. It’s like the place is made of roses. And what of the air? I can hardly feel myself breathe it’s so humid. Don’t they have rain here? Or clouds? Something that doesn’t smell and taste like it’s been swilled in a fucking rose bush.

Another thing that was getting to your husband; in a different manner, was the somewhat more relaxed nature of fashions in Highgarden. The thick wool gowns and brocades layered with thick cotton shifts won’t serve you well here. You’d boil alive in them.

You’d had several more gowns commissioned to better combat the heat - that, and to considerate the ever growing bump that was your firstborn.

You’d quickened so much over the past moon. Now three moons gone. Belly rounding out and convincing everyone around you that the low hang of it meant for certain you were carrying a boy.

Lyonel was having a hard enough time keeping his hands off you as it was. And now you added a cursed flimsy passel of dresses to the mix. And a pregnancy that had just gotten over the rigid hump of nausea and tenderness.

He was ravenous. Night and day.

These summery climes doing nothing to aid in his discomfort. Air sticking to you both like hot honey. Leaving you both slipping away for a moments repose. Or a cool bath.

You noticed the way he changed his pace to linger. Always in step beside you. Looking for you across a crowd to check you were hale.

When he moved to your side. He was all touch. Hand on the back of your hip like a warm kiss. Arm tucked in his. A brand. Whispering into your ear in a husk that you were dressed in sheer sin, and telling you how that flimsy fabric would make such a satisfying pile on your bedchamber floor.

The dress you are wearing now is a soft, frothy shade of lilac. Harping back to your Dondarrion name. With dark lavender thorn vines woven and crossing in embroidery down the bodice. It is sleeveless, and virtually backless. He hasn’t yet seen it on you this morn; when he does, you reckon he’ll have some sort of heart episode.

Your hair has been carefully styled for the wedding by your maid. Spilling down your back and off your face. The skirts split open over your swollen stomach, with a darker fabric spilling down in a triangle to the floor. Sheer gossamer layered over your hips. Giving a wispy train to the side and back when you walk. These too entwined with more embroidered thorns.

“Please give my apologies to Lord Lyonel for the rude change of scenery.”

You roll your eyes. “He’s a fully grown Storm Lord. I refuse to baby him. He shall have to adjust and remember he is here to pay respects to his dear sister in law. Soon to be Lady paramount of Highgarden.” You answer. Smiling in that clever stern way you do.

She grins. Fidgets with her hands in her lap. Rings on each finger. Pearls and gems and jewels in every colour of green or blue there was. She was twiddling with the gold and stones that shone on each dainty finger.

“To tell you the truth. I am entirely wracked with nerves.” She raises her eyes to you in the mirror.

You meet her gaze. Hands drop to her round shoulders. “About marriage?” You check. Eyes intent and honing in on her shrinking down. Curled shoulders. Hands fidgeting. Nerves.

“About being a great lady. What if I’m not enough. I’ve watched you train and train for years you make it look so natural. So in charge. You do it with iron. You storm through people and you don’t back down. I hope I don’t, disappoint…anyone.”

“Mereya. That is folly.” You tell her.

“I’m not like you. I don’t have the courage. I couldn’t have been the Lady to master storms end. It was too much and not me.” She shakes her head as she speaks.

“You speak like it is you who is lacking. As if it is a fault.” You add.

She fidgets with her hands again.

“Mereya.” You urge. Stern. Your best motherly tone - you’d been practicing after all.

She finally lifts her eyes to meet yours in the glass.

“You are kind. Generous. Gracious. You have been waiting for this role your whole life. There’s none more ready than you. And there is more than one way to be a fine lady. You don’t have to walk with an iron spine, and have a tongue like a sword to command respect. Thoren adores you. Anyone whose seen you two knows of it. It is a love match. You can conquer the whole seven with a good person by your side. You will find your way.” You reach and touch her shoulder.

“Don’t fret about the future now. Just enjoy this lovely day. And this very expensive, very beautiful big wedding.”

She slides her to cover yours where it lay on her.

“I’m so glad you’ve come. I’ve missed your stout advice and hale sense. Some of the ladies here are rather…trite.” She tells. “None of them quite set me straight as you do.”

You snort laughter. If that didn’t sum you up. You don’t know what will. “Nowhere I’d rather be.”

She opens her mouth. Again. Looking mousy and unsure. “What is it like?”

“What is what like?” Your hand stills with a comb through one of her curls.

Her eyes flick down to your belly.

“Oh.”

“Please?”

“That is a whole other conversation.” You warn. One you don’t intend to sully her innocence with.

Stepping back and going to the bed to fetch a ribbon. A gauzy sea froth blue one that she’s going to tie around her neck to wear a heavy round pendant with a rose engraved on. You had one made for her wedding. And one for yourself. Naturally, a stag surrounded by lightning bolts on yours.

“I’m going to be a bride after all. It’s expected to lay with one’s husband.” Whispers close and terrified, like you’ll be overheard. Like the whispers will fly out the window like butterflies and horrify the maids.

“The ladies tell me from their married friends or mothers it is painful at the very first, but it eases after a time. I need to be familiar with the… particulars.”

“I’m struggling to know how to answer that.” You admit.

You’re stuck between a rock and an anvil.

Either you can weild her the plain truth as sharp as a sword. Or you can let her ideals of the marriage bed stay rose tinted and soft.

“What was it like for you and Lord lyonel ? He’s a big, passionate man, is he not?” She states.

You’ve no idea. You quip to yourself. Mouth opening as you gape for a clutch of the right words.

“He uh, is. It was-“

“Was it… brief?” She stumbles.

You blink. Pausing. “I wouldn’t term it as that. No.”

Truth was, Lyonel had kept you abed for nearly a solid week after you married.

Every meal and glass of wine arrived on a tray. Left outside the door for safety’s sake. You were sure the poor maids cursed your name daily-

You had to escape for a ride to the woods or even a walk along the cliffs to avoid cabin fever of staring at your bedchamber walls. Or the window. Or the wall. Over the tub. On the floor beside the hearth. He’d laughed like a storm when you said your thighs were too delicate, love bitter and sore, to take to the saddle. Bastard.

“I imagine it was an adjustment.”

You turn back. Maybe you can half bury the sharp truths in a cotton wrapped cushion for her.

“It was different when I was married to Jacor. It was not a love match. That was brief and loveless. It was for duty. It was so quick, and then he was gone, so I wasn’t granted the time to judge. With Lyonel it’s…” you struggle to find the appropriate words.

Oh, it’s definitely not stiff, dull, duty that draws you to his bed.

“It’s different when you love someone so deeply. When someone truly arouses you, it is like nothing else. You can’t speak when they’re near. The thought of them makes you weaken. Your breath catches when you hear their name. And when you kiss and touch it somehow never seems enough. Wedded passion is just- fucking wonderful.” You laugh. As does she.

She laughs with you. “When he kisses me it does oft make my knees weak.” She admits. “And he’s tender. He’s never rushed me. Or asked for more than I gave.”

You wink at her. “There you are. A good man then. A great start.”

She turns back to the mirror. Places her hands on the vanity edge. “I hope so.”

“Not long now. My sweet.” You smile. Finishing arranging her hair to sit just right. She exhales with nerves. But her grin doesn’t veer from her lips for one second.

You’re interrupted by a flock of her ladies coming into the room. A flurry of wine and gauzy dresses. Skirts like jewel tulip petals swaying on a breeze. Compliments coo off their tongues as soon as they see her like honey-wine. Her beauty. Her dress. The lush style of her hair.

It touches you deep. How much she is beloved.

You take the opportunity to let her be swarmed by their love and attentions. You clasp her shoulder. “I’ll leave you in more capable hands. I’ll go and see how the groom fares.”

“After last night I should think his head will be pounding sore.” One of the dark haired maids, giggles. Grin a bright straight flash of friendly teeth.

“We heard they were up celebrating til near the dawn.” Another pipes up. Helping Mereya tie her necklace. “Dancing on tables. Singing. Rowdy as a pack of wild stallions.”

“I think I can guess who encouraged that.” Mereya beams. Finding your eyes cleverly in the mirror. Grinning.

You give a wry shrug. “What I get for marrying a Storm. And not an apple.” You jest.

She smiles. You pause with a hand on the door to her chambers. Summer air lapping at your heels. Air rife with flowers and sun and every good summery thing.

It suddenly strikes you, in an overwhelming rush, a strong tugging tide, how radiant she looks. A golden rose bride indeed.

You know the gods to be unjust. Mayhaps even cruel. Unyielding. But for today, you’d struggle to your knees, and stay on them for hours to praise them for this fortune. If there was some small gold kernel of goodness in this world, she heartily deserved every glorious scrap of it. And more.

Your search for your husband at first, proved fruitless. A rarity, when usually he can be found by sheer clamour alone.

For all his noise, today it’s not what drew you toward him. You catch sight of him way across the gardens. The sheer dark width of his back. You’d know that broad span of shoulders and storm tossed curls anywhere.

He’s suitably garbed for any occasion. Here is no different. Dripping wealth. A long line leather jerkin in crow black. Pointed out at the shoulders to make him look that much wider. Stroked at the edges with a little strike of Baratheon gold. Antlers on the golden closures down his chest. Golden bracers on his wrists. His usual chunky rings adorning his thick fingers. Chain around his neck tucked under his shirt. Boots buffed to a high shine.

His skin offset with a new sun-kissed glow to it, that made him look entirely too weathered and scandalous from your time bathing in the suns heat up here. He looks so fucking handsome you hardly know what to do about it.

You’ve a feeling it will later involve a locked door, and perhaps riding him til he’s hoarse and your legs can’t take it.

You note he’s in confidence with someone. His hand cupping the back of a golden haired man’s neck as they walk arm in arm. You can’t make out his company from such a distance.

You tread towards him. Shade and sunlight freckle your skin under the pass of the rose arches. Hair swaying down your shoulders.

One thing you had come to appreciate at Highgarden, was its propensity for thorns and mazes. You weave your way through. It awards you the chance to approach Lyonel virtually unseen.

It’s his voice that carries to you first. Dancing on the summer, petal stroked winds.

“I must…. Everyday?” You hear the incredulous tone. A young man’s voice. All wavering uncertainty. Thoren. Your very shortly to be brother-in-law.

“Every day. Boy. If there is one day you do not go down on your wife. Consider it the saddest day indeed.”

That makes you slow your steps. Sandaled feet fall softer on the crackling shingle path. Hiding amongst the roses. So you may better hear. Your mouth falls open. Did he just?

“Trust me. One day you’ll thank me. As will your wife.” You hear Lyonel impress on the lad. You can hear his smirk. Picture the way he’d shot a wink.

They skirt a fountain together. Water arching from its spouts, blue as robins eggs. The marble so ice white in the sun it was blinding.

“How on earth do you think I won Lady Baratheon…. A man, nay, a husband, should always be receptive to his lady’s more, carnal, appetites. Even should she not exhibit such wild behaviour. No woman can turn down a tonguing so good she’ll damn near faint from pleasure with her thighs strangling your neck. Even the sturdiest maiden can be brought to tenderness with a cunning tongue trick.” He cackled.

“But what if I am no good at… uh.” Thoren stammers. Seeking the right words without a vulgar inclination on his tongue.

“That’s what a honeymoon is for. Time to practice. Learn of each other. I don’t believe either me or my wife made it downstairs for at least a week at the start. Married love. Thoren. It’s fucking bliss.”

“A week?” Thoren squeaks.

“Mmmhmm.” Lyonel assures.

“By the end of said week I could make her succumb in a matter of minutes. Like clockwork. I knew exactly how to use my tongue in order to make her melt into my mouth.”

You don’t know how you’ll ever look Thoren in the eye again.

“But surely there is ugh, more than one’s tongue to be thinking about. Surely we will need to… be thinking, well expected, to be producing heirs.”

There’s a shift of gravel. A crackle of it harsh under a boot as your husband spins to round on the man.

“There is more to the marriage than making heirs. Though the making of them certainly is fun.”

“There’s more?”

“Fucking geld me. What do they teach you boys up here?” He asks. Imploring the seven. “Wooing your wife is not merely the act of getting her gown off, and sticking your cock in. Not to mention it’s the height of rudeness, but it would pain her, and it is also increasingly short-sighted.”

“You must arouse her. Excite her. Get her so dripping wet with fingers or mouth before you even consider your own needs. If you can’t satisfy a woman, you don’t deserve a place in her bed, or her trust. Let alone inside her cunt. Of which by the way, I can assure you, will feel like heaven on earth. The closest thing we men can come to seeing our gods.” He laughs. Big and boisterous.

You close your eyes and shake your head. All this he shares with such ease. Fucking seven hells.

“We. Haven’t been left alone enough to try such… attentions in each others company. It wouldn’t be decent.” Thoren explains.

“Well. What have you done?”

“We’ve kissed. And hugged. It’s all very pleasant.”

“Oh dear lord. Sit the fuck down with you.”

He concluded. Shoving poor Thoren down onto a marble bench. His lanky knees give and he sits as obedient as a gangly puppy. Eyes wide with awe.

“Kissing and hugging will not a marriage make. You need passion.”

Lyonel stands afore him. Ready to impart his wisdom.

“These are the rules. And you better heed them. Firstly. Go down on your wife. Lots. It’s not only polite. It is essential. As she is letting you inside her body and lets you finish inside her. And that is of the highest honour. You’d better be deserving of it. And you do not even touch her cunt if she is not slick wet and begging? Understand?”

“Yes. Ser.”

“Secondly. Just because you put your mouth to her, it doesn’t follow she should be required to do the same for you. That’s rotten thinking, boy, and will get you naught. If she wishes to do it, it is the sweetest gift a man can earn from his wife. Trust me. They wrap you like ribbon around their little finger with it. My wife is a certain minx to that particular art.”

You roll your eyes. Now Thoren will definitely be scared of looking you in the eye. If that’s what he will imagine when he next sees you.

“Thirdly. When you do argue and believe me. Not matter how well you’re suited. You will. You get on your knees before the lady. Use your tongue fiercely on her cunt. Then fuck like you hate each other. And go back down on her to make sure everything is fine between you two. You should aim to ensure she has no breath left to chide you with.”

“Shouldn’t we settle the argument with a sound discussion?” Thoren asks.

“Pfft. No” Lyonel bats a hand. “I see no reason to change a good thing. The way me and Lady Baratheon do it has been successful thus far.” He tells. “Nearly broke our bed one time. It was ravenous.”

You’re going to strangle him. You’re unequivocally going to round the rose bush, calmly walk over, and strangle him with your bare hands. Or drown him in the fountain.

They’ll never find the body. You’ll make sure it’s well hidden, and the reek of the corpse shall be masked by the thorny roses.

Thoren gulps. “Be there a fourth, my Lord?” He asks. Querelous.

“I think that’s all the advice I can give a young groom. If there is a fourth it is only this….”He starts.

You dread the filth he’ll spew out next. Maybe he’ll grab a stick and draw filthy images in the shingle dirt. Like a bloody lesson.

“You are marrying a rare and great woman. Thoren. Just as I did. And when you truly, madly, love someone that way, it’ll be the making of you.” Lyonel tells him. Reaching forwards to clap his shoulder again.

That touches you deeply. As did the rest of your husbands, albeit filthy, confession.

“I do love her. I find I am impatient to make her my wife.” He says gently. A smile on his lips. He speaks like he’s giddy with it. Bare and honest.

Lyonel cackles. Deep and true. Like the rolling peel of a sept bell.

“Good. Because if you don’t, I’m fairly certain my wife would come geld you herself with her bare hands. and I would be there to hold the knife for her.” He grins. Laughs at Thorens horrified face.

He looks scared again. “Your wife is. Uh. Quite the terrifying woman. Is she not?”

Lyonel smirks. Wide, filthy and so proud.

“I know. She’s a goddamn wild storm that one. It’s so damned fucking arousing.” He leers.

You can take no more of this. You make sure your step is loud. Turning the corner and coming into plain view. Clearing your throat as you round the path from the fountain.

“Lyonel. Let the poor boy go. He’s getting married in half an hour.” You beckon kindly. Smile brushed on your lips.

He spins back. Twists to face you. Smirk climbing across his mouth. “Sweeting.” He remarks with joy. His eyes sweep you. Staying for a long moment on your chest. And then the slit to one side of your dress.

“My lord. I do believe your father was seeking you for a word. I heard he was headed for the Sept.” You encourage his departure. Rescuing the poor boy from your husbands clutches.

Thoren flushes a bright red. Bobs a quick bow to you before taking off quick through the gardens. “My Lady. My Lord.”

You smile as he hurried past. All blushes and wide eyes. When you round on Lyonel you look newly stern. Narrowed eyes, a stern set jaw. It makes him smile. Trouble suits him just fine.

When you come close enough, you cuff your husbands shoulder. “Was it your intention to give the poor boy a hard on for his wedding ceremony.” You chide. Hissing at him.

“I was instructing the lad. He’s greener than grass. Heaven forfend he learns a little cunnilingus goes a long way.” He decided.

He slips a hand to your waist, hooks you in and kisses you firmly on the mouth before you can have a chance to grow truly angry with him. Tugs you in like he knows you’ll melt.

Impresses on you a slow kiss that made stars shoot to your toes. You detest how he keeps that skill in his arsenal to wield against you so often.

When you peel away, his lips chase yours. Tickle of that beard against your mouth. Your hands sink to the cool leather on his chest.

He shakes his head at your dress. Can’t believe he is intended to survive seeing you in this flimsy, expensive, perfect dress with his sexual sanity intact.

“Not you. Gods be good. The fucking roses have got you too. Though in truth to your nature, this place is swimming in them and you choose to wear the thorns.” He leers. Winks at you. “I’ll be sure to tear those thorns off you later.”

You roll your eyes.

He sighs like a man in pain when he skims his hands over your shoulders and finds it virtually backless too. He kisses you again. Nearly devours your lips.

“My savage storm you mean to kill me do you not.” He hushes as he drags his mouth up your neck. Nuzzling your hairline. You smelled like fig soap and that honey nectarine perfume of yours. It absolutely kneecaps him. Weakens him.

“I could. When I overheard what details you so willingly shared with Thoren.”

“You’re not truly mad?” He seeks. Hands resting on your hips. The bones and lush curves of you fitting so decently in his big hands.

“Haven’t decided yet.” You snip. All acid eyes and narrow stares that are supposed to rebuke him.

He’s all smiles. Tucking your hand to his side. Letting you stroll gently under the rose arches with him. The sept bells started to toll. The wedding will not be long.

“You know. Something about all this, reminds me of our first time.” He announces. As you come around the lip of the fountain. The cool spray drifts in the rose scented wind.

You grin. “Which first time would that be, my dear lord husband.”

“Well we do have such an array to choose from now don’t we.” He tells. Merry as ever. Eyes sinking into yours.

“There was our first stolen kiss. Slick from dancing. Under the stars like two fucking poets wrote out our scene. Giddy off too much wine.”He reminisces.

“You were drunk. I merely obliged to try and hold you up.”

“That second, equally as sultry kiss. In the rain. Up against the side of that tent. When you were trying so hard to scurry away after I first learnt how angry you were with me. You were seething like a spitting viper.”

“Yes. But you were being absolutely bold, and stubborn as an ornery ass. So my anger was well justified.”

“Then there was the rather blissful interlude when I paid call on you when you were bathing. You clawed my back so hard I shall never forget the like.” He leans in. The heat of his breath ghosts your ear.

“I will get you back for that one day. You know.” The turn of your head is lethal. You side eye him, dangerously.

“As will I. For that other occasion of making me lose all sense of decency and sanity when you welcomed the attentions of that copper haired, apple, Fossoway cunt.” He snips.

You pull him to a reeling halt. Hand linked in his elbow. Petals and thorns arcing over your head.

That night had ended in him pursuing you as you tried to hurry back to your tent by cutting through the woods. He had followed you. Even though you had bit his head off and warned him back.

He was seething from having to watch you dance with Ser Steffon. To take dinner with him. Ride with him. Watching your family act like you were already sewn into the apple tree family branches.

You were furious from how he kept up the act of trying to be a good suitor to Mereya, when his eyes followed you round the room all night. When he sipped back more wine anytime Ser Steffon took your hand in his.

It could only end in one thing; a screaming match. Which then culminated in you both having angry, fiery hate sex up against a tree. Snarling moans, clawed hands and swearing that you hated each other.

“You won’t let me forget that will you. At my age and station of spinsterdom. It was made perfectly plain to me, by my family, that no such other offer of respectable marriage might come my way. Cider hall was the best option.”

He’s laughing. His hand is warm on the back of your neck before you can finish speaking. Nearly drawing you brow to brow.

“And now look at you.”

“You’ve snared a Storm Lord stag for a husband. And his babe grows everyday bigger in your belly.” He leers.

Hands cupping you so close. Free hand smoothing down the bump through your dress. He would be entirely lying if he said his eyes did not linger on your - now swollen tits. Absolutely not his fault how the low neckline of your dress bared them so well.

You bump your nose to his. Sneak up on tiptoes and press your mouth to his for a brief kiss. He smiles to it. Hand still on your bump.

“That sounds awfully boastful.” You speak out when you pull back.

“It’s what I’m good at.” He leers. Tongue captured between his teeth.

“Come along.” Your hand covers his. Reels him behind you in your path. “I don’t wish us to be late for this wedding. Knowing you, I’ll be dragged somewhere secluded in these gardens for some scandalous activity.”

“Only a little.” He sulks.

You ignore him.

“It’s sure to be the grandest event for many a year. It might even outdo our own.” You explain.

He holds your hand still as you keep your skirts from your feet coming up some marble steps. Hand under yours for support.

“In one measure my storm, it could never top our wedding….” He remarked.

You twist back to face him. “What respect is that?”

He stays below you. Takes your hand and kisses the back of it. The look in his eyes is nothing short of dastardly.

“No way on earth is that Rose boy as lucky as I am.” He grins.

“You will stop gloating when we’re in that Sept? Will you not?” You check.

He shrugs. Like it’s a challenge. You recognise that gleam in his eye. It’s the one that comes from someone telling him to behave. And then he turns around and does the exact opposite-

Draws up to come along beside you. Hand hot across your bare back. He squeezes you close in step.

“Depends…” He answers your question.

“On?” You seek.

“Whether or not we are sat within earshot of one Lord Steffon.” He beams.

“For fucks sake Lyonel.” You can’t help it. You laugh.

You receive a very animated letter from your sister not two weeks after the wedding.

You are back at Storms End. Breaking your fast in bed with Lyonel. Golden morning light streams through the windows in a rare shaft of sunshine. Though the storms will close in later, of that you have no doubt.

You are sat up. A heap of cushions at your back. Covers folded at your waist. A breakfast tray balanced on the bed next to you.

Lyonel lounged on his side. Easily within arms reach. Nearly naked. Golden robe open at his chest. Necklace sat on his sternum. Raven and grey chest hair bared in swirls over his skin aswell as his nipples. His necklines nearly matched yours in plunging nature often.

He leans over and steals a bite of the toast from your fingers. Being sure to suck the jam and butter off your fingertips. You ignore the throb of longing that shoots through you with the way his mouth closes around your fingers.

He sucks till all sweet flavour is gone. You absentmindedly cup the side of his face. Eyes on your correspondence.

“It’s from Mereya…” You sigh happily. Unfolding the golden rose wax seal to read more of it.

“How does Lady Tyrell fare?” He asks.

He watches your eyes skim across the written lines in the letter. The more you skim. The more the smile slowly drops from your face.

Your hands fall to your stomach. Letter in your grip. You turn and give him a spiky look.

“My sister is writing to me to sing your praises.” You state.

“Uh.”

You hold the letter aloft. And read from it. “Please thank Lyonel, in the most sincere and strongest terms for his advice. It has proven most useful this past week.”

You turn at him and glare. “Something to do with the advice you gave Thoren, presumably?”

He chuckles. Slides his hand over your thigh. “I could give you a precise demonstration if you like…”

“You are a fiend.”

“A fiend with a great tongue.” He winks.