#ser lyonel

Sly hands of his stream down your back, taking a grip of your arse that he can't neglect. Your flesh tickles beneath his thumbs rubbing it, spilling through his fingers as he squeezes. A rumble close to a groan scratches in his throat, and he pushes his face into the softness of your skin where the neck moulds into a shoulder. “You take such good care of me… Fuck me so good. My good girl exhausts even a stag.”

— Baelor | peace

The chamber has fallen quiet, and even the fire has faded to rest. But you are awake, and so is Baelor. His arm cages you against his side, his chest bare for your hand to feel his flesh. Only for you. You feel the pulse within him, steady and calming down. His breath whispers warmly against your head. His lips are at rest on your hair. His hand fills your side, fingers gently dancing at its arc in a loose caress. “If you wish to sleep, you can do so,” his voice sweetens the air, soaks into your skin with affection, “I’ll keep you safe, my love.”

The quiet strength of his arms keeps you sound and loved, assures your comfort is secure. As you drift to honeyed slumber, his presence persists. His care sinks into your form — the kisses he leaves on your crown, his fingertips upon the blushes he left not so long ago on your body in heights of thrill. “I adore you, sweetling. You make every waking moment beautiful,” Baelor utters when he thinks sleep drowned you.

— Maekar | distance

He faintly kisses your cheek and then pulls away. A shadow of tension dims his pale eyes, something almost close to shame. The gap between you he inflicted feels cold, yet it shouldn't. Moments ago, your bodies laced together so close, so unabashedly. But now, he hesitates, as if all of that wasn't a display of feelings true. “Would you like me to leave? Give you some space?” he asks with a scrape in his voice that sounds unfit for his loud mouth. He asks only because he doesn't know what to do, only because he feels mildly startled being so bare.

You gently lure him back, and Maekar isn't strong enough to refuse. Carefully, he lies beside you, a sudden vulnerability present in his movements. He doesn't conquer, he doesn't dominate now, as he lets you hold him. The prince recoils to a man, and a lonely one at that. In your arms, the void within his heart feels lesser. He softens, as much as he allows himself to. His eyes close, his hands slowly return to your body. “Thank you,” he whispers, trailing his fingers over your back.

— Aerion | silence

His eyes are closed, his breathing is even. He is calm. Eerily so, after devouring you whole and leaving you breathless. There's a blotch of a flush on his pallid, porcelain cheek, a rare flush of emotion.

Aerion doesn't speak, doesn't hold you. But his proximity lingers, quietly so, with his hand upon the curve of your hip. His fingers mould into your flesh, a hint of a claw curling in his grasp. He expects you to care for him, to make him feel good even now. He deserves it, after all. And you do, because it is hard not to worship the majesty beside you — bare and beautiful.

The dragon lets out a low purr under your kisses and caresses — contented for once. His head leans in, a mute command for more. Aerion’s fingers dig faintly into your hip when he's particularly pleased, the burning marks he leaves behind a gesture of affection of his own making.

⟡

The cold morning breeze had come in hard— blowing things around, rattling the flaps to the tents, howling occasionally. The sky was an angry hue, a deep grey with streaks of blue.

Lyonel’s bannermen were still scattered about, sleeping anywhere that they could. Some were on the tables, some in the grass, and some were just planted in the mud like they belonged there.

Lyonel woke up in the tent, still in his chair. He’d indulged himself with too much ale the night before, his eyes were sensitive and his head felt as if it were stuffed with cotton.

Despite that feeling, you were on his mind. Flashes of the prior night and how beautiful he thought you were, his sweet doe.

The wind howled outside and the sound still couldn’t wake the men and women from their stupors.

Lyonel slowly stood up from his chair, the palm of his hand against his head as the pain radiated through it.

“It is time for everyone to get up. I know that you might not want to, but you have to.” He spoke.

No one in the room moved even slightly at his words.

He looked around and grabbed two of the metal trays from the table, he started banging them together as hard as possible. People slowly started to wake, looking around in confusion.

“Come on, everyone get up!” He shouted.

He threw the trays down as people got up and began moving around the tent, most leaving the tent.

His feast was extravagant as usual, but even better because you were there. You’d made him happier than any woman for the night could’ve. He remembered your intimacy and how you tasted like something exquisite, a taste that he wanted more of on his tongue.

The tents and areas around them were in a state of disarray, giving the staff a bigger job than they had bargained for.

Lyonel peeked his head out of the tent and thanked the gods that there was no sunlight to blind him. He had a bath prepared for him in his chambers, but it took him a while to get to it. His body ached and he needed to take it slow, at least until he could soak for a bit. His bath water was scalding just like he wanted it, he sank into it and immediately felt a sense of relief.

The steam rolled off his body as he sat in the tub and relaxed with a towel over his eyes. He was in the tub until the water had begun to cool. With the bath and some water, he felt a bit better— at least his muscles did not ache as badly as before.

He left his chambers and had decided to pick some flowers for you as that was the least that he could do. He planned to surprise you with more gifts as your wedding approached, he wanted to spoil you and make you feel loved.

On his way outside, he noticed that he was getting quite a few stares with people whispering. The whispers weren’t loud enough for him to understand, but he figured something must’ve been amiss.

It wasn’t until he overheard two of his bannermen mentioning your name that he had to ask.

He approached them with a curious smile.

“Gentlemen, may I ask what you are talking about?”

The men turned pale, white like a sheet. “Uh, nothing.. we’re not talking about anything, Lord Baratheon.” One of the men spoke.

“We just mentioned the weather is all.” The other added.

Lyonel pretended to understand and accept their answer, he placed one hand on each of the men’s shoulders.

“Ah, the weather—“

“I’m not sure how my soon to be wife’s name fits into a conversation about the weather. So, do enlighten me on what you were saying.”

They both glanced at each other, neither one of them willing to speak first.

Lyonel’s grip on their shoulders tightened and he gritted his teeth.

“My patience is thinning, so answer quickly.”

One of the men caved, wincing under the pressure from his grip.

“Ah! okay, okay.”

Lyonel removed his hands, a fake smile on his face.

“Your woman.. I mean your betrothed got in a bit of trouble.”

Lyonel’s brow raised in confusion, “trouble?”

The man nodded, scared to continue speaking.

“Aye, m’lord. To my understanding, her grandfather found out that she was at the feast last night and she was not supposed to be.. he did not take kindly to that information and gave her a punishment.”

Lyonel’s face dropped, his heartbeat quickening with worry.

“What?”

“Aye. The staff said that they could hear her screams, the guards carried her back to her chambers and she was limp.” The other man added.

Lyonel’s heart dropped and he raced to Baelor’s solar. He never wanted to get you in trouble and regardless of anything, you should not have been punished.

When Lyonel got to Baelor’s solar, he knocked and had to take a deep breath to calm his nerves.

“You may come in.” A voice spoke.

Lyonel walked in and shut the door behind him.

Baelor’s solar smelled of honey and lemons, everything was tidied and in the right place. His fireplace was lit with a raging fire, providing intense heat in the room.

Baelor continued to look at the scrolls on his desk and did not bother to look at Lyonel. “What can I do for you, m’lord?” 

“What did you do?” Lyonel asked.

Baelor dipped his quill in ink, “I’m not sure that I understand your question.”

“What did you do to her?” Lyonel asked again, his question coming out more agitated.

“I did not do anything to her.” Baelor responded.

“You punished my wife! You had no position to do that.” Lyonel fumed.

Baelor put down his quill and looked at Lyonel, his mismatched eyes scanning his face.

“You forget yourself, Lord Baratheon. She is my daughter and she is not your wife yet. Shall you decide to continue in this manner, arrangements to change that can be made.”

Baelor’s words did more harm than good, because Lyonel was in no mood for his feeble threat. His brows were furrowed and he bit his tongue, trying to stay respectful.

“My daughter had forgotten herself and her station, which her grandfather found it necessary to remind her.”

Lyonel rubbed his face, his palms sweaty and a laugh of disbelief leaving his throat.

“You are a sick, sick fucking man. She thinks the world of you and you let some weak knight harm her.” 

Baelor sat back in his chair, giving Lyonel little to no reaction as if he didn’t care.

“Lord Baratheon, if it weren’t for you enabling such troubling behavior we would not be here— now would we?”

“You storm in here under the false guise of being upset, when you put her in this position. You knew that she was not allowed to be there, but you encouraged it, yes?”

“You might as well have delivered the punishment yourself.” Baelor spoke.

“Do you aim to break her spirit? The same very spirit that you said reminded you of your late wife.” Lyonel questioned.

Baelor’s eyes flicked over to him, almost as if they could bulge out of his head.

“Careful now, Lord Baratheon. I’d hate for you to lose that bold tongue of yours.”

Lyonel scoffed, his blood boiling.

“She deserves much better than what you offer. You are a fraud, no different than any of the Targaryen princes before you.”

Baelor stood up in front of his chair, his patience completely gone.

“You put her in a position where other people could question her honor, the princess! My daughter!” Baelor yelled.

“Do not pretend to be mighty with me, Lord Baratheon. If you do it again, you both can suffer the same punishment together—“

“Make yourself scarce and maybe I’ll be able to forget your lack of respect and that this conversation happened. You are dismissed.” Baelor reiterated.

Lyonel stormed out of there and was more pissed off than when he went in. He did not like that they punished you, but as Baelor pointed out— he played a big role in you needing a punishment. He didn’t know how he’d be able to face you again, especially after failing you this way.

You laid in your bed, almost too weak to even lift your head up. Despite only having your feet whipped, the pain had traveled up your body. You felt as if you had been trampled.

You were ashamed, you knew better and you did it anyway. Your father had warned you and you did not take him seriously.

The fire in your fireplace had begun to give out, the embers slowly fading out. Your room was dark and you needed to relight the fire.

You raised your head, a wince leaving your throat. It felt impossible and you felt helpless. With your upper body strength and plenty of groans, you were able to pull yourself up.

Your feet dangled on the edge of the bed, your bandages covered in dried and fresh blood. 

You took a deep breath and put your feet on the ground. Even the soft thud of your bandages touching the stone made you feel like you were seeing stars.

You were going to try regardless, you had to. You stood up and instantly tears rolled down your cheeks. The pain was so intense, it was something from your worst nightmare.

You tried to walk and fell to the ground, landing face forward on the stone. 

There was no strength left in you to try pulling yourself up. All you could do is lay there and sob, your tears wetting the stone.

It was times of sadness and despair like this that made you miss your mother. She was your favorite person in the world, the one that taught you everything that you knew. You were hurt and you needed her so badly. You even called out to her as you cried, hoping she’d open your door and rush over to check on you.

You laid there helplessly, crying on the floor for an hour before the Septa’s came in to help you and bring your breakfast.

“God’s be good, girl. Are you okay?” Septa Mordane asked, rushing over to you.

Septa Mordane and Septa Edyth had been sent to see you through this and look after you. The last thing your grandfather needed was for you to die from an infection or worse, kill yourself.

They had to drag you to the tub and help you get dressed, because you had no strength. It was like being a child all over again.

Your bath water had to be changed immediately, because as soon as you put one foot in the tub— you sobbed in pain and your feet began to bleed due to the hot water.

As you sat in the tub, your mind completely elsewhere— Septa Edyth helped bathe you.

She brushed your wet hair as you sat there lost in thought.

“You need to eat something.”

You blinked slowly, your eyes watering again. “I’m not hungry.”

She made sure to ring your hair out, so it wouldn’t drip everywhere.

“Do not be difficult. You will need all the strength that you can get and food will help that.”

They helped you out of the tub and got you a different nightgown to put on as your last one was covered in blood at the hem.

Once you were dressed, the Maester was brought in to change your bandages. He applied a paste to your feet and gently put on new bandages.

“Will I be able to walk again?” You spoke, your voice wavering.

He nodded. “Yes, Princess. It will just take time, healing the feet is no easy task.”

Before he left, he gave you milk of the poppy and said that he’d be back in a few hours to give you more. The Septa’s helped you onto the bed, the sheets were fresh and the pillows had been fluffed.

The only way that you could sleep now is on your stomach and even that  was very uncomfortable.

Everyone left out of your room, leaving you to rest. This feeling was like a crushing weight on your chest, it was suffocating. You had never felt more alone and sad in your entire life.

Your eyes got heavy as the milk of the poppy worked its way into your system. It did not take long for you to drift off.

Lyonel's fury was unheard of, he could cut the head off of your grandfather with how angered he was. You just wanted to have harmless fun with the man that you were marrying, the man who had begun to fall for you.

He found your fathers lack of reaction to your grandfather’s order cowardly, but he unfortunately understands that whether your father agreed or not— it would have happened. 

His mind wondered about what the punishment was as no one would say, they just only knew that you were punished. As he paced his chambers, he was fearful for you and what dark corners of your mind that this would take you.

What if you no longer smiled the way that you did before? What if you became a meek shell? Or worse, what if you hated him?

He had just gotten you and gotten close with you, he could not lose you.

His mind raced, his hands shook, and he couldn’t sit still. He was just ready to marry you and return home to Storms End. There he could live out his life in peace with his lovely wife and maybe a few babes to keep the two of you busy.

The hours had gone by and it was time for supper, you had slept most of the day and could continue to sleep it away. Your hair fell in front of your face as you laid there, draping it like a sheet. 

The door to your chambers had opened and shut so faintly, you almost thought that it had not happened. The smell of food traveled through the air in your room, almost making you nauseous as you were not hungry at all. 

There was a weight that sat on the edge of the bed beside you, you felt the bed dip down underneath them.

“Daughter.” A voice spoke.

Your heart stopped in your chest, almost bringing you to tears.

“I’m sorry..” You mumbled, the only words that you could get out of your mouth before you began to cry.

The guilt of hearing your apology and your voice crack, made his heart ache — it was like a scream stuck in his throat.

He rubbed your head as you began to cry as his own eyes watered as well. 

“Do not cry, sweet girl. I do not need an apology from you as you have not done anything wrong—“

“I did not wish that punishment for you, but my wants rarely matter when the king orders something.” 

Even when you were in trouble, he was always soft with you. His little girl could never do any harm. You were not angry with him, but upset at yourself— that you put him in such a position. You could not blame anyone but yourself, as you should’ve never left your chambers to even peek outside of the gates.

Baelor stood up from the bed and placed a kiss on your head.

“I will be back to check on you.”

You were so overwhelmed with every feeling possible, it was just too much. You like Lyonel— his pretty smile, curly hair, lewd jokes, and insanely loud laugh. It’s just if he has helped get you into this position now, what position would you be in later?

There was a knock at the door, Septa Edyth and Septa Mordane walked in. They were there to repeat the same tasks as they did earlier— helping get you out of the bed, into the tub, and now dressed for bed.

You sat in the tub and began to silently weep, Septa Edyth glancing at you as she changed your bloody sheets again.

“Princess, I hope that this serves as a reminder that unruliness is not tolerated. There have been rumors about you losing your maiden hood to that man, unsavory rumors that taint your image.” She spoke.

You sat in the warm and slightly bloodied water, your vision blurry from tears.

“I did not bed him, but I should’ve considering what it has cost me.”

Septa Mordane’s head turned fast, her stare unforgiving.

“You will watch your mouth, young lady!”

You scoffed, completely drained. “A lie taints my image and makes me look bad, but no one bats an eye at members of the kingsguard dragging me as I’m unconscious with bloodied feet to my room. I get my feet whipped for a rumor.”

Septa Mordane lights the candles on the mantle.

“You are unwed and a princess, you are to remain a maiden until marriage.”

“I did! I didn’t have sex with Lyonel, yet I was punished like I was a harlot—“

“Answer this Septa Mordane, had I lost my maiden hood that night to Lyonel— were you going to whip his feet as well?”

The room was silent, Septa Edyth picking up your sheets but also wondering what the answer would be.

“As I figured.” You mumbled.

A few minutes later, she helped you out of the tub and gave you your nightgown to put on. While you waited for the maester to come and dress your feet, she braided your hair.

“No one wants to see you punished, but you must learn that there are certain things that you cannot do.”

You didn’t say anything, you just wanted to get to bed. The maester applied more paste to your feet, the stinging feeling not getting any easier. He bandaged them up and left swiftly afterwards.

Before you sent Sept Mordane out, you had her help prop you up in the bed so that you could read.

You wanted to read, hoping that you could find a slither of joy in something as you are confined to your room and cannot walk. Even then, you struggled to concentrate as your feet throbbed. You were not able to have any milk of the poppy, because you did not eat dinner.

Despite that, you managed to get through a decent sized portion of the book— even though you had to do quite a bit of rereading.

You put your book beside you and lowered yourself back onto the pillow with instant regret. Being on your back was the worst position in terms of comfortability.

There was a knock at the door, you figured it was the Maester coming to see if you had eaten to receive some milk of the poppy. Instead, it was Lyonel.

He shut the door behind him, standing there as if he was fearful.

“Get out.” You mumbled.

He walked closer to you, his eyes finally landing on your bandaged feet— blood starting to seep through again.

His heart shattered in his chest, a look of horror coming onto his face.

“God’s.. what did they do to you, my love?” He whispered in shock.

You looked everywhere but at him, you just could not find it in your heart to face him.

“I heard about what happened this morning.. I had no clue.” He admitted.

You began to cry, even though you did not want to.

“Lyonel, please go.” You spoke, your voice cracking.

He looked at you, a frown on his face. “I do not want you to be alone during this.”

You scoffed, wiping your bitter tears.

“You have done enough. I do not need you here.”

Your words hit him hard, he wasn’t sure what he expected— but you were cold. You did not smile at him, or entertain his company. You were cold, sad, and drained.

“I did not know that they would do this.” He reiterated.

You began to laugh. Not laughter from amusement, but because you were exhausted.

“I guess Orinna did not take kindly to my behavior. I heard the Septa’s mentioning it before they walked to the door.”

His brows furrowed with a look of confusion on his face.

“What?”

“Orinna thought it necessary to tell my grandfather—“

“Your whore was mad that she could not bed you.” You elaborated.

“She.. she would not do that.” Lyonel replied.

You wiped your tears.

“Are you serious?—“

“I got my feet whipped because she told him, yet you sit here and defend her?”

“No, no. I am not defending her, I am just shocked.” He protested.

“That’s quite alright, Lord Baratheon. You can go back to her and just stay away from me.” You noted.

He walked closer to the bed, but he stopped in his tracks.

“I don’t want to be with anyone else—“

“That night was one of the best nights of my life. You are all that I want, I could never move on knowing that I had you in grasp.”

You rolled your eyes. 

“Please, just go.” 

Lyonel started to feel sick at the stomach, losing you is not what he wanted to happen.

“I did not mean for this to happen. I would never—“

“It happened, Lyonel! Do you not get it? I disobeyed my father and I got punished for it. I got dragged to the dungeons and had my feet whipped.. for what felt like an eternity.” You choked out.

“You were not there, you did not help me.. I was alone in the punishment as I am alone now.”

He wiped his face with a sigh escaping his throat.

“That’s not fair and you know it’s not.”

You shrugged, your face wet from tears. “Perhaps not, but neither was this.”

“I understand you’re upset and hurt, but my love— I don’t think distance is what you need.” He uttered, trying to choose his words carefully.

“I cannot look at you! I should’ve never gone to the feast.. I shouldn’t have let you touch me. It was all a mistake.” You blurted.

The look of hurt on his face was noticeable.

“I am sorry. I am, I did not know that this would happen or I would’ve just simply left the tent and sat in the gardens with you—“

“I would never put you in harm's way or hurt you, you are far too precious to me… I do not regret a single second with you, even if you’ve now come to regret our time.” He confessed.

His words lingered in the air as you looked towards your window. The door opened and shut softly as he left your room.

Lyonel walked outside and mounted his horse. Your words truly broke his heart as he never meant to hurt you. He understood your feelings, but he prayed that you’d change your mind and come around. The thought of losing you and anything that he could have with you would ruin him.

Lyonel rode his horse past the gates towards one of the nearby inns.

The moonlight lit his path as the night was quiet and peaceful. When he got to the inn, there were some people lingering outside and the sound of laughter coming from inside.

“Lord Baratheon, nice to see you!” The drunk man smiled.

Lyonel walked past the man and made his way inside.

A few cheers and words came from some of the people inside, “Lord Baratheon is here to drink with us!”

He shook his head, “actually I’m here to find someone.”

“Who m’lord?” The man asked, sipping his ale.

“Is Orinna here tonight?” He questioned.

The man nodded and pointed. “Yes, she’s over there.”

He looked over and saw Orinna sitting at a table, her gaze meeting his.

Lyonel walked outside, which got her to get up from the table and follow him. 

He stood on the side of the building, the faint wind breeze moving the leaves on the tree overhead.

She smiled as she approached Lyonel.

“My stag, what are you doing here?” She asked.

Lyonel did not smile back or give much of a reaction. It was clear that he was angry.

She rubbed her hands on his chest against her cloak, going in for a kiss but he moved his head.

He grabbed her wrist, squeezing it tightly.

“Ow, Lyonel! You’re hurting me.”

“Tell me, why would you go to King Daeron?” He questioned sternly.

She furrowed her brows, tugging her wrist. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He gritted his teeth, leaning in closer to her face.

“Don’t play the fool with me, woman. I am in no mood.”

She stared into his eyes and seriousness on his face.

“She was an arrogant twat. She did not engage with the rest of us, like she was better than us—“

“She sat in your lap like she was yours.” She confessed.

“She is mine!” He corrected her.

“What about me, Lyonel? What about us—“

Lyonel scoffed on the verge of a laugh. “Us? Orinna there was never an us. One lazy lay moons ago, that was all.”

Her eyes watered and her lip quivered.

“That’s not true.”

He nodded his head in annoyance. “It is—“

“I do not want you anywhere near her or me again. If I catch you near us, I will bring you to her so that she can cut out your tongue!” He spat, dropping her wrist.

He walked away and was irate.

“What does she have that I don’t?” She cried.

“A heart.” He replied as he mounted his horse

Lyonel kept to his word and left you alone, he did not want to invade your boundaries. While you spent your time in your chambers recovering, he had a cane made for you. He wanted you to have something special and something sturdy to help you, when you did start walking again.

You laid in bed, trying to sleep— but for some reason you couldn’t.  Counting backwards didn’t help, not moving didn’t help, crying didn’t help either.

There was a knock at your door.

“Come in.” You spoke.

The knight came into the room with the cane in his hand.

“I was told to bring this to you, my lady.”

You squinted, confused as to what it could be. The knight walked closer and you were able to see it clearly, it was a cane.

He handed you the cane and swiftly left your room afterwards.

You held it in your hand, examining it and your fingers tracing the design.

It was beautiful in every way. It was stained red with hints of black and had multiple dragons etched into it. The pommel was smooth and it was the design of a small sleeping doe. Around the pommel he had your name etched into it as well.

You smiled as your eyes began to water. He went out of his way to be thoughtful for you, even though you pushed him away. He cared more than anyone else had as of late.

Your feet were not healed enough to handle you walking on them, even with a cane — but it would eventually come in handy.

You placed the cane near your bed and laid there, your mind thinking of  him. It took quite a bit of strength for you to not call him in there and immediately forgive him, but you couldn’t. 

The memories between you and him had turned sour, like a bitter ale. The deep marks on the soles of your feet will remain a constant reminder of why you should stay away from him, why you should never forget your place as a woman in the world. You would still marry him and do your duty to him, but that was all that it would be— duty. Your duty to a nice man that your father had betrothed you to.

Had you not have gotten in trouble, things between you and Lyonel would’ve blossomed into something beautiful. The kind of betrothal that young women in the realm desire and deserve.

When you laid there, no matter how much you begged the thoughts to leave your mind— they wouldn’t. Lyonel Baratheon had taken your mind by storm. He was all that you could think about and all that you desired deep down. 

You wanted to feel his mouth on yours again, your hands against his, your fingers intertwined with his curls, his fingers inside of you, and his tongue on your clit.

The thoughts caused you to have a dull ache between your legs as if your body was calling to him.

You had eventually fallen asleep at some point in the night, but you could not remember when. Your sleep was nothing of note, you didn’t dream and you didn’t have a nightmare. Even then, you could still feel the slick that coated the inside of your thighs after your unladylike thoughts from the late night.

That morning, you had no time to waste. There was going to be a royal hunt to celebrate your betrothal to Lyonel and the upcoming wedding. You were not interested in attending and you even begged your father to let you stay at the keep— considering that your feet still caused you a great deal of pain, but he said no.

The hunt would be for three long miserable days. Three days where you would be outside and uncomfortable. Your father had the maester give you milk of the poppy in a vial, so that you would not be in intense pain.

Septa Mordane walked into your chambers with your breakfast.

“You must eat this morning and it is not up for discussion, princess.”

“I am not hungry, it will upset my stomach.” You replied.

She sat the tray down and walked to the bed to help get you up.

“You will have to put on shoes and walk today. It will be very painful, Princess. We cannot give you milk of the poppy on an empty stomach.”

You were reluctant, but you ate a bowl of oats with some fruit while you bathed. 

Once you were out of the tub and dressed, there was a pit in your stomach. Septa Mordane brought your boots to the bed as your bandaged feet dangled off the edge.

You took a deep breath.

She gently put your feet in your boots and laced them up, trying her hardest to not inflict unnecessary pain. Your fingers gripped the sheets as you winced in complete pain.

“Now, princess— you must walk to the courtyard.” She spoke, standing up from lacing your boots.

“Please, don’t make me.” You pleaded.

She felt bad for you and the amount of pain that simple tasks caused you.

She allowed you a moment to prepare yourself and grabbed the cane for you.

“We must make haste.” She mentioned.

You took the cane and mentally prepared for the most agonizing pain. Septa Mordane helped you stand up and went to open the door to your chambers.

“One step at a time, princess.”

You put your foot forward with the cane and your mouth slightly parted from the shooting pain up your legs. She walked alongside you as you slowly walked through the keep.

Tears streamed your face as you finally made it outside. Your hands began to shake and you felt lightheaded.

You gulped down some milk of the poppy, probably too much— but you did not care. 

Daeron helped you onto his horse sitting in front of him as you didn’t want to ride in the cramped carriage. 

Lyonel saw you slumped forward on the horse and your face puffy from crying. It was a heartbreaking sight for him, you looked completely out of it and different from yourself.

The milk of the poppy had kicked in and you had started to fall asleep.

“Do not fall.” Daeron spoke.

“I won’t.”

The sun shined outside, but it was still cold out and there would be the occasional cloud blocking the sun and making it look grim out.

“Did you fuck him? Is that why they whipped your feet?” Daeron questioned.

Your eyelids fluttered as you were in that middle state of almost asleep and not quite.

“I didn’t, but it would have at least been more worthwhile if I had.” You scoffed.

“My father had my feet whipped when I lost Egg and did not get to Ashford in a timely manner.” He mentioned.

“They sure love that form of punishment.” You joke, your speech slightly slurred.

You eventually fell asleep while on the horse and to your shock, you didn’t fall off and injure yourself even more. By the time everything came to a stop, you were so tired and exhausted. It took a bit for things to get set up, but once they were— you immediately retreated to your tent and went to sleep.

Your father checked in on you periodically, as you slept the entire first day away. He had your boots pulled off and the bloodied bandages changed as you slept. They ate dinner without you and had Lyonel join them.

“Are you excited to marry my cousin, Lord Lyonel?” Egg asked, breaking the silence.

Lyonel nodded with a fake grin.

“That I am, your cousin is a wonderful woman.”

Baelor sat at the opposite end of the table, eating his food silently and listening to the conversation.

“Where is she at anyway? She should be here as this hunt is for her.” Aerion complained.

Daeron sipped the wine from his goblet.

“I’m afraid his betrothed is still sleeping off her indulgences of milk of the poppy.”

The silence was loud and awkward, leaving only the sound of forks and knives scraping their plates. 

“It is the perfect weather for a hunt.” Lyonel spoke, changing the subject.

Baelor wiped his mouth. “It is. I hope that my daughter will be awake soon to enjoy it.”

“I doubt that she will, uncle.” Aerion spoke.

Maekar frowned and nudged Aerion, “be quiet.”

Despite this hunt being seen as a supposedly celebratory event, it was far from. You weren’t happy, Lyonel felt as if he’d lost you, and your father was unhappy with the events prior.

When you finally did wake up, everything had quieted down. Only the faint sounds of the fire outside were still going. 

You slowly and tediously put your boots back on, whimpering as you did so. You wanted to take a short walk, just to get out of your tent and try pushing through the pain of walking. The cane was very sturdy and beneficial as you struggled maintaining your balance.

The sounds of grass and twigs being crushed under your struggles with walking, caught Lyonel’s attention. He pulled his knife out, thinking that it might be a boar outside of the tents. With slow and quiet movements, he walked to the front of the tent— peeking his head through the flaps with his blade in hand.

Instead of a wild boar, he saw his sweet doe or at least what you used to be. You were struggling to walk past the tree line and even one step at a time was taking a toll on you. You no longer reminded him of a doe in that moment, you reminded him of a young fawn that was silently struggling. 

He walked out of the tent and sheathed his blade.

“Do you need help?” He asked.

Your movements stopped as you sighed at the sound of his voice.

“I don’t need anything from you.” You grumbled.

He walked closer to you, trying to assist you.

“I can help you, just let me.”

You slowly turned around at the sound of his footsteps creeping up on you.

“Can you just leave me alone, Lyonel? Please.”

He stood there, his brown eyes scanning your face and body. 

“No.” He replied plainly.

You scoffed, adjusting your grip on the pommel.

“No?—“

“I already told you that—“

“I will not watch you struggle and I will not abandon you in your struggle. What does that say of me as a man, as your soon to be husband— if I do that?” He interrupted you.

You bit the inside of your lip, trying to hide an outward expression.

“I will wed you and do what you ask of me, why can’t that be enough? I just want to be left alone.” You replied.

“I feel guilty enough as is, are you really going to punish me forever over this?” He spat, an annoyed look on his face.

You pulled your shoulders back in offense.

“Punish you? —“

“Me not acting like this didn’t happen is a punishment to you?”

He shook his head and waved his finger.

“I did not say that and you know that’s not what I bloody meant.”

You ignored him as you didn’t have much to say.

“Lyonel, it was your whore who caused this. You asked me to stay and If you hadn’t—“

“How many times do I have to say that I was wrong!?!—“ He yelled, startling you.

“You are being cruel, unfair, and cold. I do not like it, this is not you.” He mentioned.

You rolled your eyes and turned around, preparing to walk away from him.

“You hate me over this. You no longer care to build any foundation for a relationship, this is now only a duty to you. You’ll be the dutiful and wounded wife to the awful and cruel husband.” He mocked.

Your chest rose and fell fast as you listened to him with your back turned.

“Are you going to hate your children too? Hate them when they resemble your cruel husband too much? or when you feel the scars on your feet? or even if they make a mistake like their father?—“

“How far will your contempt go, my love?” He questioned.

Tears streamed your cheeks at his words. They were honest, but they cut you deeply.

You slowly began to walk away, leaving his questions unanswered.

Lyonel’s words replayed in your mind on repeat during your short and tiring walk.

You were happy to make it back to your tent and be able to rest. Your feet felt numb from the pain as you pulled your boots off.

Before laying down, you drank more milk of the poppy and tried to ease the ache that you felt. 

The ache wasn’t in your feet, but only your heart. Things between you and Lyonel had worsened in ways that you did not expect nor were you ready for.

Lyonel walked right into your tent as if he belonged there and he was unapologetic about it as well.

“I just wanted to see if you’d made it back safely. I also want to let you know that I plan on returning to Storm’s End.”

You were quiet with nothing to say and that was a first. Lyonel went to walk out of your tent, his heart broken by the entire ordeal.

 “Wait.” You spoke softly.

He looked at you with surprise and intrigue, wondering where this would go. Your eyes were glassy, almost a mirror for him to look into.

“Will you hold me?” You asked.

His brow raised and his breath hitched, “hold you?”

You nodded and looked like the same helpless fawn that he’d seen earlier.

He didn’t respond, but he caved to you as you did him in asking. He pulled his boots off and laid on the fur rugs with you.

No questions, no protests, and no anger from earlier.

You laid facing him and pressed your face into his chest, his big arms wrapped around you.

“I’m sorry, Lyonel.. I’m just struggling—“

“I don’t want you to leave.”

He placed a kiss onto your head. “You will never have to struggle by yourself, my sweet doe. This will blow over soon and your sadness won’t make me love you any less.”

You pulled your head away from his chest and looked up at him. 

“You love me?”

He smirked and wiped the tears welling in your eyes. “I’d be a fool not to.”

Without any hesitation, you pressed your lips against his. You didn’t want to hide any more, be mean, or push him away— for you could not hide it any longer. 

You loved him too, more than you wanted to admit and it scared you.

The wind blew, the flaps to the tent rustling and the breeze hitting your skin.

Your kiss with him deepened, your tongues exploring each others mouth and his hands wandering your body.

“I want to have sex with you.”

He pulled back, “my love—“

“I mean it, Lyonel. I love you and I want you.”

His fingers caressed your cheek as he stared into your eyes.

“I don’t mind waiting. I truly do not.”

Your fingers rubbed against his exposed chest. 

“I want to feel all of you.. I want you to show me your love.”

He left you laying on the rugs as he got up without a word. He pulled his boots off and closed the flaps to your tent for privacy.

He stood in front of you, the exact embodiment of a stag. His streaks of grey hair complimented by the fire.

“Are you sure, my love?” He asked once more.

You nodded, biting your lip.

He took off his doublet as he walked back over to you and crawled on top of you.

His lips were on yours and they tasted like what you had been longing for since the feast.

Your fingers began undoing the laces to your dress as he left soft, open mouthed kisses against your neck.

A whine left your mouth as you felt his warmth against your skin.

His fingers intertwined with yours as he helped you, teasing you as he licked your bottom lip.

“You have no idea how much I love you.” He whispered.

He helped you pull off your gown and shift, exposing your body to him. His eyes wandered over your chest and stomach, but he didn’t say anything. You pulled your arm over your chest, feeling insecure.

“Do you not like what you see?” You asked, the question coming out small.

He looked back at your face and his brows began to furrow.

“What?—“

“I love what I see, sweet doe. I just had to take in your beauty.” He confessed.

He dipped his head down and pressed kisses along your chest.

“I’d kill a thousand knights for you.” He muttered.

His big hands cupped your breasts and he shook his head between them. 

“God’s, I never want this moment to end.”

You felt his warm mouth around your nipple, his tongue swirling it and his fingers rubbing the other one.

Your mouth fell open at the sensation, the heat pooled between your legs.

“I want you to fuck me, Lyonel.” You whimpered.

He let out a low chuckle, his eyes watched you in amusement.

“Eager aren’t you, my doe?” He questioned.

His fingers trailed down your stomach and to your wet cunt. He slipped his fingers between your folds, pulling a moan from your mouth.

“I love when you sing for me.” He groaned.

He adjusted and undid the laces to his trousers, you watched as he pulled them off. Your mouth falls open at the sight of his size— how long and thick his cock is.

“That won’t fit Lyonel.” You mentioned nervously.

He laughed as he found your innocence hilarious. “It will, I promise.”

He adjusts the cover on top of the two of you as he hovers over you. You pressed your lips against his, kissing him deeply. Your hips bucked as you feel his cock rub against your cunt.

“I will take my time, but it might hurt some. I will try my best to keep it from hurting too much.” He admitted.

You nodded. “I trust you.”

He adjusts your legs and lines himself up with your entrance.

“I love you.” You remind him.

He kissed you as a distraction and pushed his head in. 

“I love you too, my sweet doe.”

You winced and began to tense up from the sting.

“Relax, my love—“

“That’s it.” He coached as he slowly pushed the rest of him in.

The pain was more than you expected and it did not feel good at first.

“You are so fucking tight.. God’s” he grunted.

Your cunt felt full as if there was no more room for him to go.

He thrusted in and out of you slowly, kissing you and kissing your neck. It didn’t take long for your pain to subside and for it to feel good, once it did— you loved every moment.

The heat swirled between the two of you, something you had been denying since the day after the feast.

“Lyonel.” You moaned, your eyes fluttered from pleasure.

“You take me so well, my darling.” He growled as he kissed your neck.

His thrusts were so deep and long. When he said that he’d take his time with you, he meant it.

“Fuck.” You purred.

“I will pull out, so I don’t spill my seed inside you.” He grunted, kissing you.

You pulled away from his kiss and stared into his eyes. “No, don’t.”

His brow raised.

“No? You want me to fill you, possibly give you a fawn?” He teased, kissing your chest.

“Yes.” You whined.

Lyonel loved hearing you talk like that, talking about carrying his babe and wanting his seed inside you— it made him feral.

Your moans had started to get louder as he fucked you, the pleasure beyond belief.

“I want to try something else.” You mentioned, his thrusts coming to a halt.

He had a confused look on his face, but he obliged and slowly pulled out of you. You pushed him onto his back and began to straddle him, which made your feet hurt— but it was worth it.

He had his hands on your hips, watching you in awe as you lined him up and slowly sank onto him.

“God’s, woman.” He groaned, throwing his head back in bliss.

You began riding him, his cock filled you and stretched you in the best possible way. It felt as if his head was touching your cervix.

He gritted his teeth, his fingers digging into your hips from the pleasure.

“You look magnificent from this angle.” He spoke as he pushed your hair out of your face.

One of his hands moved to your cunt, his thumb pressed slow and deliberate circles against your sensitive clit.

The pleasure had overtaken your mind and turned  you into a whimpering mess on his cock.

“This feels so good.” You breathed.

The pressure in your stomach built as you were nearing your peak, your cunt clenching around his cock. Your eyes rolled back in your head as you got closer and closer.

“Lyonel, I’m going to—“

He smirked, still rubbing your clit.

“That’s it, my love. Take what you need from me.”

His name spilled from your lips over and over as you came on his cock, tears formed in your eyes.

Lyonel adjusted, sitting up and pulling you close to him. He kissed you with such hunger, wrapping his hands around your waist as he fucked you from below.

Your raspy moans against his ear.

“I’m going to fill you, hopefully make you round with a babe.” He grunted.

His thrusts were hard and fast, giving you no time to recover from your climax and giving you unfathomable pleasure.

“Fuck, woman. I’m going to cum.” He moaned.

His thrusts came to halt and his guttural moan filled the air as his seed filled your cunt. 

Painting your walls white and leaving it warm.

He pressed his head against your chest, trying to catch his breath after such a good fuck. Both of you were reeling from your high.

You stayed in that position for a few more minutes, kissing each other and expressing your feelings.

You stood up, slowly as the pain from your feet became noticeable again. Lyonel guided you to sit down and grabbed a towel to clean you with.

He noticed the streaks of blood on the towel and got a little worried.

“Are you sure that you’re okay?” He questioned.

You nodded, planting a kiss on his cheek.

Lyonel handed you your shift to put on and put his trousers on. After that the two of you laid in each other's arms on the furs, falling asleep.

The morning sun had begun to creep into the tent, both of you sound asleep. The flap of your tent rustled and shoes stomping on grass came to a halt.

“Baelor would like to see you, Lord Baratheon.” Daeron spoke, startling both of you.

You jumped to cover yourself with a look of horror on your face.

“Daeron.” You spoke.

He stared for a few seconds longer.

“I do not care enough to tell.” He mumbled before walking out of the tent.

Lyonel got up quickly and got dressed, giving you a kiss on the lips and hoping that he was not seen.

He entered Baelor’s tent as he seemed to be in deep thought, before he saw Lyonel.

“Good morning, Lord Baratheon.”

Lyonel faked a smile. “Goodmorning.”

“I wanted to make this quick as tomorrow we will be ending the hunt—“

“The king has found that the punishment of the princess and possible reasons why, have brought too much negative attention to the betrothal and our house. He has decided to end this betrothal and betrothe her to Lord Tyrell instead.” Baelor spoke plainly.

Lyonel’s face dropped and his skin felt cold to the touch.

“What?”

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now you are emerald green. My storm.”

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

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

“Tender…” He chews the word around.

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

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

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

Between your thighs throbs now with the memory of it.

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

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

“How?” You check. Frowning.

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

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

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

He’s watching you with continuing interest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smooth your gloved hands around his.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pat his hand.

“I know you can’t. But, do shut up.”

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

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

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

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

His attention couldn’t be more on you.

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

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

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

Now the thought of it made you heave.

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

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

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

“Everything alright, my storm?” He asks.

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

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

A careful smile. He doesn’t do careful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing. My storm.” He smiles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grins. He can’t not.

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

Your eyes squint at him.

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

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

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

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

“Pregnant?” You surmise.

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

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

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

He laughs. It’s such a joyous sound.

Fracturing the silence of the chamber.

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

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

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

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

He winks. “Dogged husbandly intuition.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Enough cheek out of you.” You sass.

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

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

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

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

He grins up at you, like a mad man.

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

He leans down and kisses your stomach once again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He makes his opinion very plain. Forcefully so.

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

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

Married in a storm.

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

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

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

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

“Excellent.” He smirks.