Ser Finnian

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Lady Aera Targaryen, born 159 AC, is the daughter of one of Aegon the unworthy's many bastard children, who finds faith in King Daeron while backing his claim to the throne with her mother. King Daeron had her wed Lord Corwen II Velaryon, having a daughter who remains unnamed. After her husband passes away in 187 AC while on the seas of unknown causes, her daughter goes missing, though it's suspected she was involved. A year later she wed to Lord William Stark, the second eldest to Lord Beron Stark, and heir to winterfell after his brother, Donnor. In 189 AC, she gave birth to a child, who would end up becoming Ser Arion Stark. While it isn't listed on this family tree (cause this is a new development) Aera is the twin sister of Aenar II Targaryen, who is betrothed to Alysanne Stark (though after Aera remarries to William Stark, Aenar breaks off the engagement to wed a daughter of House Moore of the Vale) This ruins the relationship between Aera and William, who remained distant, resulting in a hostile upbringing for their son. Aera died in 194 AC due to winter fever. Ser Arion Stark and her unknown daughter remain as her only descendants, though Ser Arion never wed as a knight of Storm's End under Lord Lyonel Baratheon.

“It’s pleasant out here, isn’t it?” A voice called. 

Arion recognized that same gravelly tone that seemed to soften around him, but he did not turn. Instead, he continued to stare out at the banks of the river that hid away from the sunlight. Riverrun was so much calmer than Storm’s end. Calm water, clear skies; it felt like the seven’s blessing in comparison.  

“Not hearing thunder constantly in the distance? Yes, pleasant.” He responds, watching Lyonel from the corner of his eye. 

“No wonder I spent my youth trying to run away from Storm’s end, aye?” 

“That and avoiding your mother.”  

Lyonel scoffs, but he doesn’t seem offended, smiling at Arion. 

They’d arrived that morning to celebrate the birth of Lord Finnecas Tully’s daughter. Ser Steffon Fossoway had decided to host a tourney for the girl’s name day. So it was no wonder, that the small child held in the Lady Gwendolyn’s arms, bared a shocking resemblence to the red-headed apple boy. It had been said, that Lord Finnecas, named Lord on his 15th nameday just a week after Medgar’s, his older brother, death, had not been able to produce children. Many rumors made it seem like Arion and the Lord Tully might have something in common, but he knew it rude to speculate.  

Lyonel had set up his abrassively yellow tent, covered in antlers on every side, and had instructed Arion to not make up his own. Every since Arion left last winter to meet his nieces at the behest of his sister’s command, he’d grown a little clingy. Every event they went to he ‘demanded’ Arion share the same tent as him. So he could look out for him, of course. He spent every night dancing with the stag, and then being held by him at the end. Which was unusual for them, because it was always Arion who held Lyonel before they left.  

He’d gone out to see the infamous rivers to avoid Lyonel for a time, feeling a little suffocated by his lover’s continous desire to stay right beside him. Nothing had happened while he was at winterfell, so he wasn’t quite sure while Lyonel felt so threatened, but either way, it was aggravated him. The peace and quiet only lasted him all of five seconds though, as Lyonel intruded his space once again. 

“Are you avoiding me?” Lyonel asked.  

Arion didn’t look at him, staring out at the water wishing it would take him with it. 

“Why would you think that?” He answered. 

“Because everytime I say I want you to stay in my tent, you scowl, and all morning I've watched you try and slip away. If I am bothering you, you don’t have to run off, you can simply state that and I will give you your time. I just...I just want to keep you safe.” 

“I’m your knight, thats my job. Not the other way around, Lyonel.” 

“That was before I fell in love with you. We may not be wed, simply because the seven be damned and won’t let us, but you are as close to a lord husband to me, and I care about you. And...I’ll admit, I worried the whole time you were gone. Every since we reconciled, I’m worried I'll aggravate you and you won’t come back.” 

Arion finally looked up at him, turning to face him.  

“Lyonel” He said, voice sultry. 

“What?” Lyonel questioned, eyebrow arched in concern. 

“I will never leave you, I swear on it by the old gods and the new. Might I remind you, I spent the entirety of that 8 years longing for you, hating myself for being angry at you. All I ever wanted was you, I’m not going to throw that away now. But Lyonel, this-” he points at the inch in between their bodies since lyonel grew closer as he spoke, “this is suffocating.” 

“I’m sorry...You may make your own tent if you’d like, I don’t want you to feel trapped.” 

“Oh, no. You have the better sheets, I’m not losing that.” 

Lyonel laughs, full bodied, his hand coming to rest on arion’s shoulder. 

“Shall we head back then?” He asks, and Arion nods, following him back to the camp. 

The actual tourney, is sufficently boring for the pair, as ever since Arion got hurt in the last one, both him and Lyonel had been banned from competing by the little Lady Elsbeth. So they were forced to watch from the stands, which Arion couldn’t be bothered to do, instead finding himself drinking quite early in the day. The night was what everyone waited for, as Lyonel always held the biggest feast. Arion sat beside him at the table that watched over the rest, eating a turkey leg the size of his head. Lord Finnecas sat at the table, and made meager conversation, but it was clear that he wasn’t sure about the Tourney. He’d had that same look of a deer caught in front of a carriage the whole day.  

“I know what you’re thinking” he spoke up, catching Arion staring at him. He continued, not letting arion answer, “She looks nothing like me. It’s cause she isn’t.” 

“I wasn’t going to say it” Arion admits. 

“You don’t have to. Everyone gives me the same look. He might’ve won on that front, but it’s just his idiotic way of coping with the fact that he’ll be forever known as the guy who betrayed Duncan the Tall and still got his rear handed to him. And he will not win here, either. This is his last hooray, I will keep that man away from my daughter until the day I die. Because he won’t love her like I will. She doesn’t have to be from my loins to be my girl.”  

“Everyone knows Stephen Fossoway is an imputent cunt. And you’re right, he’d be a terrible father, he betrayed the only family member of his who liked him!” Arion tells him, smiling. “What will you name her?” 

“Lynette.” He answers. 

But their conversation is interrupted by Lyonel coming over. 

“Stop your sorrowful talk and come join us” He states, taking their hands to tug them over to dance.  

The crowd dissipates, shoving tables to the side to make room for people beginning to dance in the center. Arion dances with Lyonel for a bit, turning in circles till he’s nauseuated. He tells Lyonel to dance with the young lord, hoping to raise his spirits, and Lyonel takes up the challenge, grabbing his hand and tugging him to join him on the dance floor. Arion sits back down at the edge of the table, head dazed, before spotting a familar shade of brown and white hair through the crowd. He makes his way up, sliding through people till he stands in front of her. 

“Princess, you’re far from your tent. Come to join the haze?” 

Lady Raenena Targaryen smirks at him, registering that he says ‘princess’ instead of ‘my lady’. 

“You know who I am, Ser.” She answers. 

“Ser Arion Stark, your highness. You look like your father, of course I know who you are" he points to lyonel, "but he might be none the wiser with you dressed in your mother’s colors instead of the targaryens. And I can keep a secret. You should enjoy yourself, being noble weighs on one's soul.” 

Raenena kindly smiles at him for not telling anyone, “Lord Lyonel must be grateful to have such an observant knight watching his back.” She bows to Arion and continues on dancing as he giggles at her comment. 

“Get this girl a tart!” He shouts, watching as one of the maidens comes over to hand her one.  

Lyonel comes behind, hands grasping around him to drag him back by his waist. 

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Between the combination of pure exhaustion that racked through his body and the 3 cups of ale he downed, sleep took over arion like the stranger took the young. His body felt heavy by the time he crawled into Lyonel’s private tent, and passed out on his bed, face flushed. He did not dream, left in that empty space of silence where all he could do was think. Until he was ripped away from hit by the sudden heat that overwhelmed his body. His eyes crept open a little, murmering something to the dark figure that kissed up his thigh. He could feel the wind from the early morning sweep into the tent, onto to his bare legs, and he shivered for a moment. Until everything felt overwhelming hot again, a kissed pressed to his cunt this time.  

“Lyonel?” He called, exhaustion still keeping his body glued to the sheets. 

“Morning, little wolf” Lyonel called, ignoring the protest from above as he moved higher, kissing up the line of hair that went from between his legs, and onto his stomach.  

He tugged up the shirt arion was wearing, lazingly continueing this ritual on the scars on this stomach and chest. His hands glided over the soft skin, and the small little marks that painted across his body, like constellations. He chuckled as he felt arion’s hand glide into the soft curls that sat in his face, brushing them back. He still wasn’t fully awake, eyes squinting at the man on top of him. But he made no protest, used to Lyonel by now. Besides, they’d agreed upon it beforehand. While Arion had never been that needy, Lyonel and him came to an understanding that if one of them couldn’t help themselves, even if the other rested, they were permitted to touch eachother under certain guidelines. 

 Arion had been the first to attempt anything a few months ago, waking up lyonel to shiver at the feeling of his hand stroking his length. Gods, he’d already known he was hard from the dream he was having (Where he was picturing wedding the stark boy and filling him up with practically an army of baratheon boys) and he was sure it showed underneath the sheets. He’d encouraged his knight, singing sweet praises to him about good he made him feel. And they’d end up spending far too long in the bed that morning after.  

But it had good for them, to keep it interesting. A surprise here and there made Lyonel feel younger, and he loved to worship arion while he slept, his pretty little eyelashes fluttering when he twisted his fingers in him up to the knuckle. And it made him feel good, to desire him, to be desired. The change of pace had allowed both of them to feel more connected. So there he sat, tugging the shirt over Arion set of thick hair so that he could grasp his hips and lick the side of chest, sucking down on one of his nipples. He felt arion tug at his hair, a sharp inhale above him. He’d warned him before that out of any place, his nipples were, unsurprisingly, sensitive. And sometimes he it overwhelmed him. But lyonel was gentle, and he didn’t bite, just lapped at him till he felt him tug again.  

He pulled off of his chest, continuing up the side of his neck as he rubbed his clothed length against the knight’s thigh. He placed a kiss on his lips, tugging at his bottom lip, before lifting up to see his hard work. His cheeks, chest, and shoulders were blushed pink, and his gaze was sharp on lyonel, hands laid against the bed. He’d already removed the boys pants earlier that morning, as they’d been stained by a glass spilled on him the night before. He had just been admiring, as always, and his intent was just to get his clothes off of him to clean them in the river. But temptations kept him there, staring at his core like he hadn’t just plowed into him two days ago.  

“Fucking hells...Look at you,” he hummed, “I’ll give you what you want darling, promise.” 

He pulled arion’s thighs apart, spreading them enough he could get a good angle. The knight lifted his hips, beckoning. So Lyonel pulled one of his legs over his shoulder, and huffed in the scent of  him. It was musky, he’d been sitting in his sweat all night, but it was almost sweet in a way. It made him want to stay there, buried between the man’s legs, for whatever meager time he had left. He leaned forward, gently lapping at his folds as Arion whimpered above him. One might think that being fucked or fingered would be the most intense action, since they involved more penetration. But the knight always seemed far louder at the prospect of being ate. No matter how many times he did, Lyonel never seemed to escape how much he enjoyed Arion fully letting himself go.  

And the loud groan above him as Lyonel sucked gently on him was attest to that.  

“Seven above...I’ve known you a decade, and yet I don’t think I'll ever quite get used to feeling of your mouth on me. I mean-” Lyonel interrupted him by diving his tongue into his cunt, humming to encourage him to keep talking, “I..I mean it’s fucking obscene. I feel like I'm being possessed by a maiden on her wedding night every fucking time.” He spews, hands back to gripping lyonel’s hair tightly. 

 He was tugging Lyonel closer, nose buried in the curly red patch as he pulled back, licking a stripe down Arion’s folds again. He looked drunk all over again, peering up at him with those same hazy eyes that seemed to follow him in every room. Arion seemed to fluster at that, pulling his hand to cover his sight as he smiled. Lyonel thumbed at his clit, going back to dive into him. And no matter how hard he tried, the knight was vocal, whimpering at the intrusion again. He was peaking under his head, staring at Lyonel intensely. Which, only drew him further.  

He kept at that pace for a minute, slowly rubbing his thumb against the knight’s clit while his tongue remained in him. He only let go when he had to draw both his hands to keep the man from squirming, getting pent up already. His thighs were pressed together, trapping him between them. And he had to tug them apart and hold him down by his hips to get him to stop clam shelling him. 

“How am I supposed to please you if you suffocate me, Ari?” Lyonel questions, head pushed back. 

“You make it hard not to trap you when you look at me like that.” 

“You make me hard when you talk like that.” Lyonel jokes, earning a snort from the knight.  

“I could slightly open my shirt on a windy day and you’d be erect. I can’t quite tell if I'm just that good, or you’re just that easy.” 

“That’s not true.” Lyonel urges, pulling himself up to meet Arion’s gaze just inches from his face. “I’m far more restrained than that.” he continues, licking his index finger with and pulling it back towards the boy’s clit, rubbing circles into him. 

“I can prove it”  

“How so?” 

“I can guarentee you I have a way of making you cum without even touching you”  

“That’s complete nonsense and you know it.” 

“I swear by it on my mother’s grave” Arion insists, and lyonel concedes, keeping the same snail pace as before.  

What he doesn’t expect, is for the knight to pull him close, his breath hot against his ear as he chants his name. It’s just a whisper, but he’s right, it drives him mad. So mad he’s thrusting two fingers in and out of him like the man wasn’t already near the tipping point, dragging out a second orgasm as he groans in his ear.  

“Lyonel” Arion keans, tone changing to something more warning, but fuck if he’s going to stop now. He adds a third finger, chasing the sound he makes, only to get startled by Arion flipping him onto his back. “You’re making a mess, Lyonel” he states. But Lyonel hasn’t come yet, so Arion hasn’t proved his point.  

“Your bet is not winning” he states, handing holding the knight’s hips as he kisses him. Arion grips the wooden bedframe, adorned in the same obnoxious antlers as everything else, grinding down onto the man’s length.  

“Lyonel, come on. I know you, baby, you want to give in, don’t you?” He persists with the hushed repetition of the Storm lord’s name, hips gliding roughly over him. And when that doesn’t work, he pulls the ace, always playing dirty. “Lyonel,” he murmurs, forcing the man’s warm brown eyes to stare into his steel ones, “I love you” and he repeats it, like a prayer. 

 Lyonel groans beneath him, foreheads pressed together as he releases. They sit there for a moment, smiling eat eachother, before lyonel huffs, realizing he’s smothered his poor braies. 

“You cheated” he argues, pushing Arion’s red hair from his face.  

“In my defense that generally does work” 

“when I’m already on the verge of cumming, not in the middle of it” 

Arion shushes him, pressing a kiss to his lips.  

“Good fucking morning to us.”