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Synopsis: As the last surviving remnant of the first dragonlords to have ruled the Valyrian Freehold, your father — a misogynistic purist, bloodlust warlord — has set his ambitious gaze towards the kindoms of the West and offers you to a dynasty as leverage, casting a lone lamb into a den of dragons, forcing you into the deadly game of thrones.
Yet years beneathe his and your late mother's cruel and ruthless hands you are no fool to the game. For you understand the rules of engagement and harbor an ancient secret bound from the crimson depths of Old Valyria.
Whether you conquer the game... or allow the madness to consume you—
The choice is yours...
Pairings: Baelor Breakspear Targaryen × Reader
Maekar Targaryen x Reader
Valarr Targaryen x Reader
Daeron the Drunken Targaryen x Reader
Aerion Brightflame Targaryen x Reader
slight Ser Roland Crakehall x Reader
slight Ser Donnel of Duskindale x Reader
slight Lyonel Baratheon x Reader
slight Duncan the Tall x Reader
Timeline: 208 AC
Warnings: 18+ blood, death, gore, abuse, misogyny, supremacy, purism, eventual smut, angst, mentions of war, mentions of rape, jealousy, pining, slow burn
When your land is plagued by wars and death becomes an everyday thing, your hands learn to become more stable than a maester's.
You learn to look into a killer's eyes and understand forgiveness. You learn that justice is a heavy sword to be carried.
But when you meet a Targaryen Prince burdened by duty and grief, your souls vibrate to the same frequency. And perhaps the world is not as dark as you both originally thought.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warnings: None
Chapter XXXIV: LINK
Chapter XXXVI: SOON
[A/N] - Those who follow my Lyonel story are already aware; for those who don't… I am currently juggling a knee therapy recovery (pain), a respiratory infection (cough, aching throat, loss of sleep), almost losing my voice and exhaustion.
Thus, this chapter is not as long as I wished it to be. Mostly pre-written, I had planned to make it super long and add a full circle of you and Baelor… but I don't have the strenght for it rn.
However, did not wish to leave you without an update. So here you go, my lovely readers! Promise the upcoming chapters will be bigger and worth the wait (hopefully by next week, if all goes well).
Chapter XXXV: Enter... you!
The ball had begun rather loudly, the first notes of music echoing from one stone wall to another until they filled every corner of the grand ballroom.
Stringed instruments sang over the steady rhythm of drums while flutes intertwined between them, their melodies rising towards the vaulted ceiling before tumbling back down into the sea of voices below.
The ballroom itself glittered beneath hundreds of candles suspended from towering chandeliers. Their warm light danced across polished marble floors, shimmering goblets and countless pieces of jewellery worn proudly by ladies eager to outshine one another.
Long tables lined either side of the hall, groaning beneath the weight of elaborate feasts.
Roasted game birds, glazed vegetables, wheels of fragrant cheeses, fresh fruits brought from Dorne and the Reach, delicate pastries dusted with honey and sugar, and silver platters overflowing with roasted meats filled the air with a mouth-watering aroma.
Servants moved tirelessly between the guests, balancing trays laden with wine and ale, disappearing almost as quickly as they appeared whenever another goblet needed refilling.
Dozens upon dozens of nobles had gathered from every corner of Westeros.
The room itself seemed almost to drown beneath an endless sea of colourful gowns, embroidered doublets and richly decorated cloaks.
Great houses displayed their colours proudly, their sigils stitched into sleeves, collars and flowing capes until lions mingled with roses, falcons crossed paths with suns and spears, and direwolves stood shoulder to shoulder with krakens.
To anyone unfamiliar with the great houses, the sheer number of colours and banners would have been enough to bring on a headache.
Laughter drifted lazily through the hall.
Old companions embraced after months apart.
Distant cousins exchanged stories.
Lords discussed harvests, trade and politics beneath carefully measured smiles, while ladies gathered in small circles, their fans moving almost as much as their tongues.
Elsewhere, young knights stole glances towards maidens whose fathers pretended not to notice, while mothers quietly evaluated every unmarried lord within sight.
Like every royal celebration before it... The ballroom had become its own little kingdom.
The royal family, of course, was present this time. Not a single member was absent.
From the King himself and his half-brother to Queen Myriah, their children and grandchildren, every seat reserved for House Targaryen had been filled.
Among them, however, two figures inevitably drew more attention than the rest.
Two princes whose names had spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms long before songs ever had the chance to catch up with them.
The Hammer And the Anvil.
Baelor Targaryen and Maekar Targaryen.
The firstborn and the lastborn.
Even standing quietly amongst their family, they possessed a presence that demanded attention without ever asking for it.
By their side stood their two remaining brothers, the four princes having gathered together long before the dancing truly began.
To anyone seeing them for the first time, the resemblance to Old Valyria was unmistakable.
Silver-gold hair, Brilliant violet eyes, Sharp features carried proudly through generations. They looked every bit the blood of the dragon.
Only their expressions reminded everyone that dragons, too, possessed different temperaments.
One of the quieter burdens that accompanied such grand celebrations was attendance itself.
Neither Baelor nor Maekar had ever found much joy within feasts or dances.
Duty demanded their presence.
Duty expected polite conversation.
Duty insisted they be seen.
Yet if either prince had been offered the choice between the ballroom and the quiet comfort of a library, a study or their own chambers...
Neither would have hesitated.
Socialising had never appealed greatly to either of them, though each hid that truth differently.
Only their wives appeared genuinely occupied.
Queen Myriah's daughters-by-marriage had already disappeared amongst ladies they had not seen in many months, laughter coming easily as they renewed old friendships and exchanged the latest family news.
As the women socialised and their royal parents observed the festivities from the raised dais, the four brothers naturally drifted together near one side of the hall.
It was almost instinctive.
No matter how many years had passed.
No matter how many castles, marriages or responsibilities now separated them.
When gathered beneath the same roof, they still sought one another's company.
Conversation came easily.
Small observations and Occasional teasing... The latest happenings across the realm. Nothing particularly important.
Yet somehow enough to make an evening neither Baelor nor Maekar had wished to attend feel considerably more tolerable.
Time apart had, if anything, given them more to speak about.
Their duties had carried them in different directions.
Marriage had placed new responsibilities upon each of their shoulders.
Children had changed priorities.
Wars had changed men.
Yet none of those things had managed to erase the bond forged during childhood.
For they had spent years beneath the same roof, sharing everything: tutors, weapons masters, lessons...
The rites of passage expected of every prince born into House Targaryen.
They had argued, competed, and celebrated victories together.
Mocked one another mercilessly over youthful infatuations with ladies they had been far too shy to approach.
Those memories remained untouched by titles and responsibilities alike.
Now... All four had grown into men.
All were either married... or, in Baelor’s case, a widower.
Maekar spoke the least among them. That alone surprised absolutely no one.
While his brothers occasionally exchanged remarks with passing lords or acknowledged respectful greetings with courteous nods, the youngest prince remained where he stood, arms comfortably folded across his broad chest, his expression carved from stone itself.
The occasional noble approached.
The occasional noble retreated just as quickly.
Few possessed the courage to linger beneath the infamous glare of the man they had named the Anvil.
Maekar neither encouraged nor discouraged conversation. He simply looked at people long enough that most decided they had somewhere else to be.
It suited him perfectly.
Had Dyanna been by his side, the evening would have been considerably easier to endure.
She possessed that rare ability to speak enough for the both of them without ever becoming tiresome.
She floated effortlessly through gatherings such as these, drawing attention away from him whenever she noticed his patience beginning to fray.
If conversation overstayed its welcome, she always seemed to find the perfect excuse to rescue him before his own honesty did.
Without her... He was left exposed.
Exposed to endless greetings... Pointless compliments... Questions asked purely for the sake of politeness.
The very sort of conversation he despised almost as much as the Blackfyre bastard he had helped put into the ground.
His eyes wandered once again towards the towering entrance doors. Still no sign of her.
What is taking this woman so bloody long? His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. If Daeron has caused any more trouble, I will... The thought never reached its conclusion.
It rarely did whenever it concerned his eldest son.
Because however much the boy tested his patience... He remained his son.
Rhaegal noticed the direction of his brother's gaze and allowed himself the smallest smile. "Still waiting?"
Maekar answered only with a grunt. "She'll arrive." Another grunt.
"That reassuring, is it?"
Even Baelor's lips threatened the faintest hint of amusement before disappearing once more.
Maekar caught it. "...Don't."
"I said nothing."
"You were about to."
"I considered it."
"Hm."
Satisfied enough with that answer, Maekar resumed glaring towards the doors as though sheer determination alone might persuade his wife to appear.
His brothers quietly returned to their own conversations.
Beside him, however, Baelor found himself no better suited to the festivities.
Unlike Maekar, he possessed every skill expected of the future King.
Years of instruction had shaped him into an accomplished speaker, a patient listener, a careful negotiator.
He knew precisely how to guide difficult conversations, how to put anxious lords at ease and how to make every guest feel acknowledged when duty demanded it.
He simply found very few conversations worth having.
His mismatched eyes drifted once more towards the great doors standing open at the far end of the ballroom, almost unconsciously.
Not for the first time that evening.
Nor, judging by his own lack of success, likely the last.
Would you attend?
Servants had quietly mentioned seeing preparations within your chambers.
Others had whispered that Lady Dyanna herself had spent much of the afternoon with you.
None of them had realised the Crown Prince stood only a corridor away, hidden just out of sight as they spoke.
Would you truly come with the boys?
Or would you remain within the nursery, allowing only Valarr and Matarys to make the customary appearance expected of princes born into the royal family?
Surely... Surely you understood that they could not simply absent themselves from such an occasion.
You knew the importance of appearances. You always seemed to understand far more about responsibility than you gave yourself credit for.
And yet... Doubt lingered.
Not because he questioned your judgement, because he knew you. You would sooner disappear into the background than willingly become the centre of attention.
His thoughts wandered before he could stop them as they always did whenever they settled upon you.
He pictured a room far removed from the music echoing around him.
Your chambers.
The curtains drawn against the evening sun.
You lay upon your bed, resting above the covers after what had undoubtedly been another exhausting day.
Valarr, still fully dressed despite every maid's protests, rested comfortably with his head upon your chest while you gently brushed unruly strands of dark hair away from his face.
Matarys occupied the other side entirely, fast asleep after exhausting himself chasing imaginary dragons through the nursery earlier that afternoon.
The little prince's tiny hand still clung stubbornly to a fold of your dress even in sleep, as though worried you might somehow disappear if he let go.
Your voice broke the comfortable silence: Soft, Patient... Warm.
You listened as Valarr passionately explained precisely why the ball was a dreadful invention designed solely to keep children away from much more interesting adventures.
Every complaint sounded perfectly reasonable when spoken with such conviction.
You listened without interruption and always nodded at all the appropriate moments.
You asked the occasional question that encouraged him to continue rather than hurry towards an answer.
Eventually... His frustration faded.
The complaints became stories, and then the stories became laughter.
The laughter slowly gave way to comfortable silence.
Baelor could almost hear it, almost feel it.
The image settled so naturally within his mind that, for one dangerous moment, it ceased feeling imagined altogether.
His heart warmed before he even realised why.
His lips parted unconsciously. A quiet sigh escaped him before he could stop it, or hide it.
His brothers noticed. Of course they noticed.
But it was Rhaegal who finally chose to acknowledge it. "Brother," he called, amusement already colouring his voice. "Are you listening? Or has your mind already started to wander?"
Aerys, leaning comfortably against one of the carved pillars nearby, followed his eldest brother's gaze towards the still-open doors before looking back again. "Oh..." he said knowingly, a smile slowly forming. "His mind is definitely wandering. And that's unlike you, brother."
There was unmistakable satisfaction in his voice.
Usually... He was the one on the receiving end of his brothers' teasing.
But not tonight.
Maekar, forever living beneath the shadow cast by his eldest brother, scoffed quietly.
Unlike Rhaegal, who delighted in teasing, or Aerys, who preferred observing before speaking, Maekar required no guessing.
Perhaps he was the only man standing there who already knew exactly where Baelor's thoughts had wandered.
Or rather... To whom.
His mouth opened, another dry remark already forming. No doubt something his eldest brother would pretend not to hear.
Yet before a single word escaped him, something changed.
It began so subtly that only those standing still noticed.
The musicians continued to play; the melody had not stopped. Yet one by one, conversations around the ballroom faltered.
A laugh cut itself short.
A goblet paused halfway towards waiting lips.
Heads began turning, not because anyone had commanded them to, but because attention seemed to ripple naturally through the hall like wind passing over calm water.
Even the servants slowed as they moved between tables, careful not to interrupt whatever had captured the interest of so many nobles at once.
Rhaegal glanced towards the entrance first. "So..." Aerys followed his brother's gaze. "They're finally here."
Maekar did not bother asking who for. He already knew. His eyes had returned to the great doors long before anyone else's.
The towering oak doors stood open.
For a brief heartbeat... Nothing happened.
Then movement appeared beyond the entrance.
Lady Dyanna of House Dayne stepped gracefully into the ballroom.
Even after years at court, she possessed the rare ability to draw attention without ever demanding it.
She moved with effortless confidence, every step elegant without appearing rehearsed.
The blood of both Dorne and old Valyria revealed itself in her striking beauty, her flawless olive complexion glowing beneath the countless candles while lavender eyes calmly surveyed the gathering before her.
Gold bangles rested lightly upon slender wrists, chiming softly whenever they caught against one another.
Jewels woven carefully into her attire reflected the torchlight with every measured step, shimmering like tiny stars scattered across warm desert sands.
To her right walked Daeron and Aerion.
Already doing their very best to imitate the confidence expected of a young prince, they proudly wore a finely tailored doublet embroidered with the three-headed dragon stitched proudly across crimson silk.
On Dyanna's opposite side walked little Aemon, far less certain of himself.
His tiny fingers remained firmly wrapped around his mother's hand, seeking reassurance each time another unfamiliar face turned to look his way.
Though his silver hair had been carefully combed back for the evening, the little prince still attempted to hide against the folds of Dyanna's skirts whenever too many curious eyes lingered upon him.
It earned several affectionate smiles from elderly ladies nearby.
The youngest member of their family remained absent. Safely asleep within her cradle elsewhere in the Red Keep, watched over by trusted hands.
She was still far too young for celebrations such as these.
Yet despite Lady Dyanna's elegance...
Despite the young princes accompanying her...
They were not the reason silence continued spreading across the ballroom.
No... That honour belonged elsewhere.
A few steps behind her.
Two small figures, and one woman.
Only now did Queen Myriah finally allow herself the smallest glance towards the entrance.
Barely a heartbeat, but it was Long enough to confirm what she already knew.
The faint curve returning to her lips disappeared almost immediately beneath the calm composure expected of a queen.
Across the ballroom, Aerys noticed, but He said nothing. He simply smiled to himself.
Mother planned this. He had suspected as much the moment she insisted upon attending the ball personally despite speaking so little about it all week.
Now he was certain.
Following several respectful paces behind Lady Dyanna... You entered.
The movement throughout the ballroom seemed almost to stop.
Matarys rested comfortably within your arms, entirely unaware that half the realm now watched him.
One tiny hand clutched a fold of your copper gown while the other absently played with one of the embroidered beads decorating your sleeve.
Beneath the torchlight, his bright red hair appeared almost aflame.
Beside you walked Valarr.
His small hand remained firmly clasped within yours. Every now and then, his fingers squeezed gently.
Not because he feared the crowd but because he sensed your own uncertainty.
Each little squeeze seemed to say exactly the same thing.
I'm here.
His chin remained lifted proudly.
His dark brown hair had been carefully groomed for the occasion, the single white streak standing out against the rich colour exactly as it always had.
Every inch the future heir.
Every inch still a child.
His head remained held proudly high, shoulders squared as he had practised countless times before.
His dark brown hair had been carefully combed back for the evening, allowing the single silver-white streak inherited from his Targaryen blood to stand proudly against the richer colour beneath.
Only then... Did the ballroom truly see you.
Not the nurse glimpsed hurrying through corridors.
Not the quiet young woman carrying sleepy princes from nursery to chambers.
Not the battlefield healer whispered about by soldiers.
You.
Those who lived within the Red Keep recognised your face immediately. Few, however, knew your name.
To most... You had simply become the nanny or the wet nurse. Sometimes merely the foreign girl.
Whichever title suited the speaker best.
For weeks, whispers had followed in your wake whenever you passed through the castle corridors.
They wondered how someone of such humble birth had found herself entrusted with the care of princes.
Some claimed Queen Myriah had personally chosen you. Others insisted Prince Baelor had.
Still others invented increasingly elaborate tales, convinced there had to be some hidden reason behind your sudden arrival within the royal household.
Almost none cared to learn the truth.
They overlooked the quieter changes:
How Prince Valarr smiled more often now.
How little Matarys rarely cried unless tired or hungry.
How laughter had slowly returned to nursery corridors once filled only with silence after their mother's passing.
Those things required observation, and Whispers required only imagination.
To many... You remained little more than a foreign weed that had somehow taken root within the carefully cultivated gardens of the Red Keep.
A flower that simply did not belong.
And yet... Tonight complicated everything.
Tonight...
Even before a single whisper resumed...
Even before questions found their voices once again...
Every eye in the ballroom had settled upon your form.
Whispers spread among guests and standing servants alike, some louder than others. Mouths hidden behind lifted fans, eyes darting across your well-dressed form.
None spoke loudly for None dared.
Not with half the royal family standing only a short distance away.
Yet whispers possessed a remarkable talent: They travelled, they multiplied, and they changed with every new voice that carried them.
The nobles, seeing you for the very first time, studied you with considerably greater interest than those already accustomed to your presence within the castle.
Older ladies who had raised children of their own noticed things younger maidens often missed.
The absent-minded sway of your body whenever Matarys shifted within your arms.
The instinctive way your thumb brushed gently across the back of Valarr's hand.
The way your attention never truly left either child, even while walking through a room filled with some of the most powerful people in Westeros.
None of those gestures appeared rehearsed.
None were performed for appearances.
They were habits.
The sort born only from countless ordinary days shared together.
Elsewhere, younger ladies viewed the scene rather differently.
Some frowned.
Some looked confused.
Others seemed almost offended.
They had spent years learning the proper distance expected between nobility and those who served them.
Yet here walked two princes who clung shamelessly to a woman of common birth. It unsettled everything they believed proper.
You noticed none of it.
Or perhaps... You noticed all of it and simply chose not to acknowledge it.
Your attention remained where it always had.
Upon the boys.
Upon making certain Matarys remained comfortable despite the growing warmth of the crowded ballroom.
Upon matching your pace to Valarr's eager steps whenever excitement threatened to pull him too far ahead.
Across the hall... Baelor had not looked away since the moment you crossed the threshold.
The first thing he felt was not surprise, nor longing... It was relief.
You were here.
After a full week spent deliberately avoiding every corridor that might lead him towards you...
After convincing himself distance would somehow quiet the storm inside his chest...
You stood before him once again, real... Beautifully, undeniably real.
Only then... Did his eyes truly begin to see you.
The copper shade of your dress suited you far better than Baelor could ever have imagined.
For one impossible moment, he simply looked.
His mismatched eyes wandered almost against his own will, quietly taking in details that perhaps no man ought to notice so carefully.
The rich fabric embraced your figure without excess, modest enough for court and yet elegant enough that it seemed almost impossible to look elsewhere.
The warm copper caught every flicker of candlelight, shifting subtly with each graceful step you took, at times appearing almost bronze, then suddenly glowing like the final light of sunset spilling across the Red Mountains of Dorne.
It complemented your complexion perfectly.
Somehow... It made your eyes seem brighter.
His gaze lingered only a heartbeat before travelling upward to your hair.
Gone was the practical style he had grown so accustomed to seeing every morning within the nursery. No hurried braid hastily tied before another busy day with two energetic boys.
Tonight, careful hands had woven and pinned every strand into something worthy of the royal court.
It suited you.
Yet, despite everything, he found himself missing the loose strands that usually escaped around your face whenever Valarr convinced you to chase him through the nursery, or Matarys reached determined little fingers towards your hair.
That was the version of you his heart knew best.
This... This was simply another side of the same woman. One the rest of the realm had never been fortunate enough to witness.
His throat suddenly felt dry, and He swallowed almost unconsciously.
It had nothing to do with the wine resting untouched in the goblet he still held, and yet everything to do with the woman slowly walking towards him.
You looked every inch a noble lady.
No... More than that...
You looked like someone who had always belonged amongst queens and princesses, carrying yourself with a quiet dignity that no expensive gown could ever create.
There was no arrogance in your posture, no desperate attempt to imitate those around you.
Only simple kindness... Gentleness. A warmth that seemed impossible to hide, no matter how finely dressed you became.
Baelor wondered, not for the first time, how anyone could look at you and see merely a servant.
Then... His attention drifted to his sons.
The sight softened something deep within him.
Valarr, who rarely walked anywhere when running was an option, had somehow found enough patience to match his pace to yours.
Though excitement practically radiated from the boy, he remained wonderfully behaved, resisting every urge to dart ahead despite the countless familiar faces already waving towards him.
Every now and then he glanced up at you, checking, making certain you were still beside him.
Matarys, meanwhile, rested comfortably against your shoulder without the slightest hint of unease.
The little prince had every opportunity to become overwhelmed by the noise, the lights and the endless sea of strangers.
Instead... He simply watched, secure within your embrace.
His sons looked happy, truly happy.
There had been a time when Baelor feared he might never witness such peaceful expressions again.
Not after loss had visited their family.
Not after grief had settled over the nursery like an unwelcome winter.
Yet here they were.
And somehow... You stood quietly at the centre of it all without ever asking for recognition.
It was Valarr who noticed him first, and the boy's face lit up instantly. "Father!"
The word rang across the remaining distance with all the excitement only a child could possess.
Without another thought, Valarr released your hand and hurried forward, his quick steps becoming an eager run as the space between father and son rapidly disappeared.
Baelor barely registered himself moving. He passed his goblet to Rhaegal without taking his eyes off his eldest son.
Strong arms opened instinctively, perfectly timed.
Valarr all but threw himself into them.
Baelor caught him effortlessly, lifting the boy high into his embrace as though he weighed no more than he had years ago.
The Crown Prince disappeared. The future King vanished.
In his place stood only a father who could never deny his son the comfort of being held, no matter how much the child insisted he was growing into a proper young lord.
Valarr laughed brightly, wrapping both arms around his father's neck without the slightest concern for appearances.
Around them, more than one noble lady visibly softened.
Fans fluttered a little faster, and quiet sighs escaped behind embroidered lace.
The image before them was difficult to ignore.
Not the fearsome Hammer.
Not the celebrated commander.
Simply... A father.
It stirred something gentle within many hearts. However, not every lady present watched with the same sentiment.
For many, this evening represented far more than music and dancing.
It was opportunity.
Some had only recently flowered into womanhood, their parents quietly searching the ballroom for suitable husbands worthy of their daughters' hands.
Others had already buried one husband and, though dressed in darker shades befitting their station, remained young enough to marry again.
And nearly every calculating glance eventually returned to the same man.
Prince Baelor.
The widower.
A prince still in his prime.
A father already blessed with two healthy sons yet still young enough to father more.
Two heirs secured the succession.
But additional children...
Additional sons and daughters...
Could only strengthen House Targaryen further... and More than one ambitious family quietly reached exactly the same conclusion.
Lord Lyonel Baratheon was a man who liked to party, drink and fight in equal measure. Prone to boredom, nothing else held his interest.
Until one night, when he meets a peculiar girl named Victa Estermont. She is wild, smiley and quick to speak; caring little for titles, rules and etiquette.
He is intrigued, and he aims to follow her. To his surprise, this turtle seemed to be faster than the stag expected.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Pairing: Fem!OC x Lyonel Baratheon
Chapter Warnings: None
Chapter XLIV: LINK
Chapter XLVI: Coming Soon
[A/N] - I know this is not the chapter you expected, and I apologise for that.
Got a knee procedure/therapy that has left me in recovery pain and exhausted. On top of that, I got some kind of respiratory viral infection with a very persistent cough that has almost completely taken away my voice and has stolen my sleep and my energy.
I wished to give you the next chapter, but I did not have the energy to complete it. So, instead of leaving you without a chapter, I decided to give you something worth it.So take this beautiful NSFW alphabet, and I promise ya a chapter next week for sure. 💙
P.S. For you that also follow Baelor’s story, i have a chapter pre-written halfway. I will publish it tomorrow, but it will just be a shorter-than-usual one.
Chapter XLV: NSFW Alphabet
𝓐 = 𝒜𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇𝒸𝒶𝓇𝑒 (𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎’𝓇𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒶𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝑒𝓍)
It's part of Lyonel’s routine, though not what one might expect. He won't clean Victa with a wet cloth unless he spilt on her. As much as he can get hard again just by the sight of her covered in his cum, he won't let it stay for long. Not if sleep is to come right after
If he chose to release inside of her, he would want her to keep it and would persuade her to do so. Keeping her legs closed, putting a pillow beneath her waist or keeping his soft cock inside her like a plug.
In the end, however, he would spoon her into his arms and playfully peck her cheek. Hands wrapping around her waist, keeping her close; with one palm against her belly, imagining it growing with a child; their child.
Lyonel loves to whisper praises to her ear after each time:
"You did so good for me."
"You are more addictive than wine."
"Seven Hells, can I marry you again?"
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Lyonel is a body worshipper. For him, every part of Victa is his favourite, but if he had to choose... it would be her legs.
He can spend hours buried between them, leaving bites and kisses along her inner thighs. And when she wraps them around his head while he is eating her? He could and would die a happy man.
His rough hands will hold her steady and pull her closer during sex or even cuddling, preventing her from leaving his embrace too soon.
For himself? He takes pride in his hands. The strength behind them is capable of lifting her, grabbing her tenderly or gripping a sword and bringing down anyone daring to speak ill of his turtle.
Mostly inside, especially when in the mood to speak about children. Slight Breeding Kink at fault there.
Other times, he doesn't mind spilling on her belly or legs or inside her mouth. Watching her coated, marked by his seed, is a naughty pleasure and an image he never forgets.
Though he always helps her clean afterwards, using his tongue most of the time. 👀
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
𝒟 = 𝒟𝒾𝓇𝓉𝓎 𝒮𝑒𝒸𝓇𝑒𝓉:
He would love for Victa to take full control. Ordering him around, commanding him into different positions or even tying him up during foreplay. Just the idea of being submissive to his sweet lady wife can bring him from six to twelve really fast.
And praising. Starved for attention, he can become undone or even finish early if she starts praising him.
Sometimes after sex, that's all he wants. His head resting on her lap, her hands through his hair while she praises him for his looks, his sex ability, his body; him in general.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
If you open a dictionary and search the word "experienced sensual partner", there is a picture of Lyonel right below it.
That man knows how to please both genders, and he takes pride in his skills. He is also quick to learn and memorise his partner's favourite and sensitive spots.
In other words, it took him three times to learn where Victa moaned louder and where she passively loved him, attending more vigorously.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
𝓕 = 𝐹𝒶𝓋𝑜𝓊𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝒫𝑜𝓈𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃:
He has too many to choose 🤭
But if he had to, he would love some cowgirl. Just having full view of his Victa riding him, boobs swaying before him; tempting him to suck and bite them.
Doggy style is also one of his favourites, knowing he can go deeper at such an angle and draw louder moans from her. His hand wrapped around her soft curls, pulling her to arch her back as her ass bounces from his thrusts.
Or pushing her face and chest to the pillow, fully taking control and just hitting that great spot that makes her cry from pleasure.
It also gives him easier access to her clit, which he thoroughly abuses so she reaches her peak a few times before he does. (And yes, he is keeping a mental score that he attempts to beat every single time👀)
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
In the middle, towards Goofy. He will try to be serious and might succeed for a little bit, but he can't help that mouth of his.
He will try a joke or two, midway or right after they both climax, often earning a shared laugh from Victa. (One of the perks is that she shares his humour.)
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
ℋ = 𝐻𝒶𝒾𝓇 (𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝑔𝓇𝑜𝑜𝓂𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎?)
The carpet matches the drapes.
Storlanders are known to pack hair, and while Lyonel keeps his trimmed, it's still there. Dark and curly like his hair, though no signs of white (yet).
He has a small, happy trail across his adornment, leading down. It's thin, barely visible.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
He will speak and praise Victa while he trails kisses and leaves gentle bites all over her body. He will grin and tease her when she blushes or tries to hide a moan.
Expect plenty of kisses during sex: lips, boobs, stomach, fingers, toes and anywhere he can put his mouth on. Gentle ones, sometimes needy if he is close to reaching his climax.
Caresses too. He will grab and squeeze or just hold her throughout the full duration of it. By now, his hands have mapped every inch of Victa’s body and have marked it on certain occasions from the strength behind them.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
𝓙 = 𝒥𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝑜𝒻𝒻 (𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝓊𝓇𝒷𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝒹𝒸𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓃)
He used to do it often as a teenager, and then he found no need for it with how often he slept around.
But after meeting Victa for the first time, he had to return to his good ol' trusted hand to help him for almost two years until they got married.
After marriage, if he needs her, he goes to find her, and she always seems eager to help him one way or another.
If they end up far away from one another, he might attempt it just enough to alleviate some of the pressure in his balls. (This man has been blue-balled enough, okay?)
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
𝒦 = 𝒦𝒾𝓃𝓀
Breeding Kink (Give me a single man in Westeros that doesn't have it): He would love to be a father, and just the idea can keep him going. He often tries to fill Victa multiple times and whispers how beautiful she would be swollen with his child.
Restrain/Bondage: For himself. If he can get Victa to agree, he will willingly tie his hands himself.
Light Marking/Biting: Lyonel likes to stake his claim or see the love marks on her skin the following day.
Spanking: Both ways, he doesn't mind as long as someone's ass ends up faint red by the end.
Voyeurism: Something is exciting that makes sex two times better when you fuck in a tent, knowing anyone can walk in or behind a column, easily spotted.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
ℒ = 𝐿𝑜𝒸𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 (𝒻𝒶𝓋𝑜𝓊𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝑜):
Anywhere can do if the mood is right.
Tent, carriage, stables, bath, you name it; and he will be on Victa in no time.
Though he will often prefer somewhere with a bed or furs so his turtle is always lying on something soft and comfortable as he takes her breath away.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
She could be sitting and reading a book, and Lyonel would feel his cock stirring awake. He is so smitten with her she doesn't even have to try.
But if she does put effort: dressing in his house colours or wearing his stag crown will do the job.
Dancing always excites him, especially when the whole dance is just a huge tease between them, until one of the two folds first. Usually it is him.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
𝓝 = 𝒩𝑜 (𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝒹𝑜, 𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃 𝑜𝒻𝒻𝓈):
General physical harm and anything that will cause pain or leave a mark. (Even his bite marks are light, meant to fade by the following day)
Blood. He will never allow blood to be spilt in any way during action.
Having sex if Victa is not fully in the mood. He will never rush her if she is not prepared or chase after his own pleasure. He is the Master of Consent, even drunk.
60% getting / 40% giving (and does he have a skilful tongue when he gives).
There is always something intimate when his turtle is between his legs, all doe-eyed staring up at him while his cock is in her mouth.
His hands on her head, gently encouraging her to continue and take him deeper. When she feels more confident, he even becomes a little rougher, forcing her deeper and faster on his aching cock. Until she taps his thigh if it becomes too much, for then he releases her immediately.
He will openly give, of course, until Victa whines and shouts his name; legs locking around his head as they spasm during her release.
Bonus points if he wears his stag antler crown and she grabs it mid-pleasure to pull him closer to her needy cunt. (And yes, I do plan to write a scene with that image in mind.)
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Someday Lyonel will feel like he wants to be slow and sensual, watch every reaction on Victa’s beautiful face with every deep trust of his.
He will even slow down or even stop, just to make her look at him; plead with her with those beautiful eyes of hers.
When he is getting close to his release, he always speeds up.
He can be fast and rough as well, determined to draw every single sound his turtle can elicit from her pretty mouth. She usually feels him for a day or two afterwards when he chooses to be wilder. Though his grip never became too much to hurt or bruise her, as he fully relies on the strength of his muscle thighs and his thrusts to be enough.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Despite his drinking habit, Lyonel has quite the Stamina, especially when motivated. He can last long enough to switch at least two positions before he is spent.
If he is a little too drunk or has been too long since he had sex, he might last less, but he never forgets to make Victa release first.
And while he might not do many continuous rounds, he can do multiple rounds per day with a small break in between.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
He is a traveller and curious as a cat. He has a small collection of unique toys he has found in his trips and loves to use them on Victa or on himself.
Silk wraps from Myr, intricate lace that doesn't harm the skin but restricts movement just so perfectly. Perfect for bodage.
Cold rings to trail down one's skin and delicate chain necklaces that rest a little too tight around her neck, glossy surface reflecting his own face when he hovers above her.
He generally doesn't have a preference, as long as they both get the most out of it.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
𝐔= 𝒰𝓃𝒻𝒶𝒾𝓇 (𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑒):
Quite a lot, though that should have been expected from someone called the Laughing Storm.
Taunting and teasing is what he takes extra pride in, and it doesn't change in the bedroom.
Lyonel loves to tease Victa, driving her over the edge again and again before he even gets inside of her.
Hearing her whispers and moans, then the sweet melody of his name leaving her lips while her hips buckle against him.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
He is loud, and he doesn't hide it. Lyonel wants the whole castle to know when he is having a good time, knowing only he gets the pleasure to be with Victa.
He will moan mostly, especially when one angle makes them feel both too good or when her inner walls clench around his cock during her release.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
He would love to bring a second woman into their sex life, only for Victa. To see her getting pleasure from another female and then just lazily kissing while he watches? That's a wet dream come true for him.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
He is wider than he is long (in length, he is average, maybe a tad above). He is unsercumsized, and his cock has a gentle sideways curve.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
𝐘 = 𝒴𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 (𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝒽𝒾𝑔𝒽 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝓈𝑒𝓍 𝒹𝓇𝒾𝓋𝑒?)
High, incredibly high. This man was born to have the sex drive of a manwhore.
Especially after a victory in a tourney or combat? Victa doesn't get to leave their chambers for the rest of the day.
If he is a little too drunk, then it might drop, but it is still enough to make the bed shake and groan.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Relatively quick. He just feels peace after it's all done, satisfaction that just lulls him to sleep. With Victa in his arms, bodies pressed together, he can fall asleep almost immediately.
Usually, he gets to throw a few jokes or endure a few minutes of just existing before his eyelids feel heavy and sleep overtakes him.
[A/N] - For those of you curious about this new font style, it's my reserved-for-special-occasions styles… that I usually use when I feel bad for not updating and giving something simple and small in return.😅
If interested, the links are:
- https://emojidb.org/
- https://www.thewordfinder.com/cursive-text-generator/
When your land is plagued by wars and death becomes an everyday thing, your hands learn to become more stable than a maester's.
You learn to look into a killer's eyes and understand forgiveness. You learn that justice is a heavy sword to be carried.
But when you meet a Targaryen Prince burdened by duty and grief, your souls vibrate to the same frequency. And perhaps the world is not as dark as you both originally thought.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warnings: None
Chapter XXXIII: LINK
Chapter XXXV: LINK
Chapter XXXIV: The Ball, part 2
The Queen was still standing exactly where you had left her.
As though she had not moved an inch.
As though she had been waiting solely for this moment.
The moment you stepped out from behind the changing screen.
For several heartbeats, neither of you spoke.
The room itself seemed to fall into a gentle silence, broken only by the faint rustle of silk settling around your ankles and the distant sounds drifting through the open window.
Somewhere below, servants hurried across the courtyard in preparation for the evening festivities. Their voices reached your chambers only as soft murmurs, carried upward by the warm breeze before disappearing just as quickly.
Yet inside your room... Everything felt still.
Queen Myriah's gaze travelled over you with remarkable patience.
Not hurriedly.
Not critically.
She examined every detail with the careful eye of an artist stepping back to admire the final brushstrokes upon a finished painting.
From the fall of the gown across your shoulders to the way the sash rested against your waist, from the delicate beading around your collar to the length of the skirt brushing lightly against the floor, nothing escaped her notice.
There was no vanity in the inspection, only quiet satisfaction.
You had the strange feeling that she had already imagined this exact image days ago, perhaps even before you had.
Then, slowly, the corners of her lips lifted; Proudly.
It was the smile of a woman watching something unfold exactly as she had hoped it would.
Suddenly aware of yourself in a way you had never been before, your fingers instinctively sought one another.
You began rubbing your thumbs together, a nervous habit you had never entirely managed to outgrow.
The silk beneath your fingertips felt unlike anything you had ever worn before. It was impossibly soft, almost weightless.
Instead of the coarse linen and sturdy wool you had spent most of your life wearing, the fabric seemed to flow beneath your touch like water, slipping effortlessly between your fingers whenever you tried to steady it.
You found yourself almost afraid to wrinkle it.
The Queen noticed. Without saying a word, she motioned for you to step closer.
The invitation was gentle. There was no command in it. You could have easily refused it. Yet, just as before, something in her presence naturally encouraged obedience.
You crossed the room slowly.
The unfamiliar skirt whispered around your legs with each careful step, reminding you again how different this gown felt compared to the practical dresses you normally wore.
Even walking required a different rhythm, smaller movements, slower ones, lest you accidentally tread upon the flowing hem.
When you finally stopped before her, Myriah reached forward. Her hands settled lightly upon your shoulders.
There was nothing possessive about the gesture. If anything, it felt reassuring, almost maternal.
She turned you carefully until you faced the great mirror standing beside the wall.
Only then did she remove her hands.
For a long moment... You simply stared.
The woman looking back at you felt strangely familiar. And yet... Entirely unfamiliar at the same time.
Your breath caught almost imperceptibly.
You were beautiful. The thought arrived uninvited.
Not proud.
Not vain.
Merely honest.
Your hair still remained tied back with the simple ribbon Ellyn had hastily used earlier that morning, keeping it away from your face while you chased little princes around the nursery.
A few loose strands had escaped during the day, framing your face with soft disorder that somehow suited you more than perfect order ever could.
Even unfinished... The dress transformed everything.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, your hands drifted across the fabric.
Your fingertips traced the beaded collar first, marvelling at the intricate craftsmanship.
Tiny beads caught beneath your fingers one after another, cool to the touch and sewn with such precision that you struggled to imagine the countless hours someone must have spent creating them.
Your gaze travelled lower.
The gown flowed beautifully around your figure, gathered neatly at the waist by a broad sash that softened into graceful folds before cascading toward the floor.
The rich burnished copper silk seemed almost alive beneath the afternoon light, shifting gently between amber, bronze and warm gold each time you moved.
The sleeveless bodice felt unfamiliar against your skin.
So much of your shoulders remained uncovered.
The ornate collar framed them beautifully, its delicate tasselled drape lending quiet elegance to the otherwise simple silhouette.
There was nothing excessive about the dress.
No overwhelming embroidery.
No unnecessary jewels.
Its beauty lay within its restraint.
That, somehow, made it all the more striking.
Almost without thinking, your fingers slipped across your bare shoulder before travelling farther along your arm.
It felt... strange.
The absence of sleeves left your skin exposed to the gentle breeze drifting through the open window.
Every passing current brushed lightly against your back, reminding you just how much of it remained uncovered beneath the open design.
Instinctively, you glanced over one shoulder.
Though you could not fully see it, you sensed the openness of the back as clearly as if your own eyes rested upon it.
It should have embarrassed you. Oddly... It didn't. Not entirely.
There was vulnerability in the design, but there was freedom too.
You looked at yourself again, really looked.
The gown fit perfectly.
Not merely well. Perfectly.
The waist rested exactly where it should.
The neckline neither slipped nor tightened.
The skirt brushed the floor without dragging behind you.
Someone had measured you.
Someone had spent weeks cutting, sewing and fitting this gown so it would belong to no other woman but you.
That thought alone felt almost more overwhelming than the beauty of the dress itself.
Then there was the colour.
You had never worn anything remotely similar.
In your village, fabrics came in earth tones more often than not. Browns, greys, faded blues, the occasional deep green if someone possessed enough coin.
Nothing like this.
This warm copper seemed almost to glow around you, bringing warmth to the complexion you had never noticed before.
You tilted your head slightly, and the woman in the mirror did the same.
A quiet thought surfaced before you could stop it.
What if...
What if you had been born elsewhere?
What if life had begun beneath stone ceilings instead of timber roofs?
What if your hands had learned embroidery before bandaging wounds?
Would this woman have always existed beneath the surface?
Would she have looked like this every day?
Or would she have become someone entirely different?
The questions lingered only briefly because almost as quickly, another part of you answered them.
No. Not truly.
The dress was beautiful, and it made you feel beautiful. But it was not who you were.
Your fingers lingered thoughtfully against the silk.
You had spent your entire life dressing for usefulness rather than appearance.
Practical dresses.
Sturdy boots.
Men's trousers whenever the work demanded climbing, lifting or riding beside your brothers through muddy roads.
Clothes that could be stained without regret.
Clothes that could tear.
Clothes that could survive life.
This... This belonged to another world entirely.
One where beauty itself seemed to carry purpose.
And for reasons you still struggled to understand... That realisation unsettled you more than it excited you.
Years of habit did not simply disappear because someone placed silk upon your shoulders. They remained.
Woven just as deeply into you as every scar hidden beneath the gown itself.
You had spent your life believing usefulness outweighed beauty.
Believing work mattered more than appearance.
Believing confidence came from character rather than jewels.
Perhaps... You still did.
And a few years ago, had someone shown this very image to the younger version of yourself, she would likely have laughed.
She might even have mocked you.
In the past, you had often mocked the importance other women placed upon beautiful gowns, expensive fabrics and glittering jewellery.
Never aloud. You had not been cruel enough for that.
But privately...
Oh, privately you had questioned it more than once.
Growing up, beauty had always seemed like a luxury reserved for people whose greatest worry was deciding which ribbon best matched their sleeves.
Your own life had never allowed such thoughts.
When fields were waiting to be harvested before rain ruined the crops...
When livestock escaped broken fences...
When neighbours knocked frantically upon your family's door because someone had fallen from a horse or split open a hand with an axe...
There had never been time to wonder whether a dress suited your eyes, nor money to get it even if you wished for it.
A fine gown would not help gather wheat before the first autumn storm.
Jewellery would not soothe the fever of a frightened child.
Silk would not stop a man from bleeding out after battle.
Life had taught you early that usefulness mattered and that Everything else came second.
Perhaps that was why confidence had always meant something entirely different to you than it did to many women.
Confidence was not stitched into expensive fabric. It was not woven through gold thread nor hung around one's neck in the shape of precious stones.
Confidence came from knowing what your own hands were capable of creating, of repairing, of protecting.
It came from surviving winters that should have broken you.
From learning skills no one could ever take away.
From standing back up after life had knocked you into the mud yet again.
No dress could ever give someone that, No necklace ever would And yet...
Standing before the mirror now, fingertips absentmindedly brushing across the smooth silk gathered at your waist, you found yourself quietly questioning whether perhaps you had judged too harshly.
Not because the gown had changed who you were, because it hadn't.
Beneath the copper silk remained the same woman who had climbed trees with her brothers, stitched wounds by candlelight and spent long nights sleeping upon cold ground whenever war demanded it.
None of that had vanished, nor did you wish it to.
But perhaps... Perhaps there was nothing shameful about feeling beautiful as well. The thought lingered only briefly before another voice interrupted it.
"We are not done, of course." Queen Myriah's gentle words drew you away from your reflection.
You looked toward her through the mirror.
She was watching you with the quiet satisfaction of someone whose work remained unfinished.
"We still need to work with your hair," she continued, her smile softening ever so slightly. "But I can already picture it."
There was an unmistakable warmth within her voice.
Not pride born from vanity but something gentler, more personal even.
As though she already saw the woman standing before you even while you still struggled to recognise her yourself.
You found yourself studying the Queen's reflection almost as carefully as your own.
What did she truly see?
Surely not merely a village healer awkwardly wrapped in silk far finer than anything she had ever touched before.
No...
Whenever Myriah looked at you, it always felt as though she saw something resting beneath appearances.
Something quieter.
Something you yourself had yet to discover.
It made you wonder whether she truly believed it or whether she simply wished you to.
Still...
For all her kindness, for all the unexpected generosity she continued showing you, a small part of your mind remained cautious.
Old habits were difficult to abandon, especially those carved by hardship.
Queens did not simply devote this much time to strangers, not without reason and definitely not without purpose.
You had spent enough weeks within the Red Keep to understand that nearly every action inside its walls carried meaning beyond what first appeared.
Favours were remembered, Smiles were observed, and Kindness itself could become a political tool when placed in the right hands.
Yet... When you looked at Queen Myriah now, you struggled to find calculation upon her face.
Instead, another possibility quietly took shape.
She had once been a foreign woman herself. A princess carried away from her homeland into a castle where few truly welcomed her.
A young bride expected to navigate customs, traditions and expectations that had never belonged to her.
She understood. Perhaps more deeply than anyone else within these walls ever could.
She had raised sons here, Buried dreams here; Built a life here.
Maybe... Just maybe... She recognised something of herself within you.
Not because your stories matched, for they did not. But because loneliness often recognised loneliness long before words ever acknowledged it.
Perhaps she simply wished to spare another woman the isolation she herself had once endured.
Or perhaps... She wished for companionship.
Not ladies eager to flatter a queen.
Not nobles measuring every word for advantage.
Simply... another woman.
Someone honest enough to disagree with her.
Someone who spoke without rehearsing every sentence first.
Someone who still looked at her as a person before a queen.
The thought surprised you with how believable it felt.
You realised then that, despite the crown resting upon her head, Myriah often seemed oddly alone.
Surrounded by people and yet rarely accompanied.
"Why me?" The question escaped before you had fully decided to ask it.
Your eyes lifted to meet hers through the mirror.
Ellyn had quietly guided you toward the cushioned chair before the dressing table, nimble fingers already beginning to untie the ribbon holding your hair together.
Gentle movements worked through the loose strands with practised familiarity, yet your attention never left the Queen.
You needed to understand, needed to know.
"Why go to all this trouble?" you asked softly. "To dress me and prepare me for a ball I have no right to be in?"
Silence followed.
Not awkward, Thoughtful.
Queen Myriah regarded you for several moments before answering, as though carefully choosing words that would reach not your ears...
But your heart.
There was no offence upon her face, no irritation.
If anything... She had expected the question all along.
A faint smile curved her lips. "Because you're part of the family now, the boys love you, and you have actually managed to change my son for the better, even if you cannot see it."
Your lips parted instinctively as A protest rose almost immediately.
Not because you doubted the boys loved you, because you knew that much.
Valarr had changed so much during the weeks you had spent together that even you could scarcely compare the solemn little boy you first met with the laughing child he was now.
The laughing child, who now dragged you into games, begged you to attend royal balls and proudly showed off every tiny accomplishment as though it were a knight's greatest victory.
Matarys had changed as well.
His little legs grew steadier each day; his laughter came easier.
He explored the world with fearless curiosity, always convinced that if he stumbled, your arms would somehow be there before the floor ever could be.
Those changes... Those you could see.
You had lived them.
It was the second part that caught you entirely unprepared.
“You have actually managed to change my son for the better...”
The words echoed quietly through your thoughts.
Before you could gather enough composure to question them, to insist she had surely mistaken kindness for something greater, Queen Myriah continued gently, never giving you the chance to interrupt.
"You are responsible for the royal princes. The boys will not attend without you, and we cannot have you attending in any simple dress." A trace of quiet amusement softened her smile. "You need to dress the part." Her gaze travelled briefly over the copper silk before returning to your face. "And you will."
You lowered your eyes for a moment.
The answer made sense.
At least... Part of it did.
Enough to explain the gown.
Enough to explain why the Queen wished you present.
Yet something continued tugging quietly at the edge of your thoughts.
It felt... Incomplete.
As though beneath every explanation she offered rested another one she had deliberately chosen to keep to herself.
One final truth.
One she was not yet ready to share.
And somehow... You were no longer entirely certain it had anything to do with the trouble she had gone through for you.
"But I don't belong among your people,” You argued, trying to find the right argument to get your answers.
“There is no my people.” Myriah corrected. “The court is made of so many different people that no one truly belongs anywhere; they just coexist.” She moved to sit in an armchair as Ellyn continued styling her hair. “It doesn’t matter if you come from a powerful family or not. If you just recently got into power or got a favour from the king, everyone attends, and everyone has their own reason to be brought in... And you... are no exception.”
You processed her words, realising the truth they held. But it still felt like an incomplete reasoning for all the trouble she went through for you.
And you wished to know the full truth. Not out of suspicion, not entirely. Rather because Queen Myriah had become increasingly difficult to understand.
The more time you spent around her, the less she resembled the image you had built in your mind before arriving at the Red Keep.
You had expected coldness, distance, perhaps even quiet superiority.
A queen, after all, was someone ordinary people only ever glimpsed from afar, wrapped in jewels and guarded by knights.
Instead... You had found a woman.
One who observed more than she spoke.
One who smiled with genuine warmth instead of practised courtesy.
One who somehow always knew exactly which words to offer and, perhaps more importantly, which ones to leave unsaid.
It unsettled you.
Because every answer she gave seemed complete enough to satisfy the question, yet never complete enough to reveal everything.
You had the distinct feeling she was forever holding one final piece close to her chest.
You wondered whether she did that with everyone, or whether that was the case only with you.
Your curiosity urged you to continue, to ask another question.
To gently pull at the thread and discover what lay hidden beneath the careful composure of the Queen of Westeros.
Yet before you could gather your thoughts, another part of what she had said returned to the forefront of your mind.
"…you have actually managed to change my son for the better, even if you cannot see it."
The words lingered quietly and persistently.
You changed Baelor? The thought came before you could stop it, refusing to leave no matter how firmly you tried to dismiss it.
You frowned faintly at your own reflection.
The boys... Yes. That you could understand.
But Baelor...
Your brows drew together ever so slightly.
How?
You searched your memories one by one.
The suppers you had shared.
The conversations stretching late into the evening.
His patient explanations whenever court customs confused you.
The kindness he had shown without ever making you feel foolish for asking questions everyone else already knew the answers to.
Those moments had mattered as they had drawn you closer.
But changed him?
You struggled to see it, especially now, especially after the past week.
A full seven days had passed without either of you truly seeing one another.
Not in the nursery and not over supper.
Not even by chance within the endless corridors of the Red Keep.
It almost felt impossible.
The castle was enormous, yet somehow your paths never crossed.
At first you had assumed it was coincidence, then unfortunate timing.
Eventually... You had begun wondering whether it was deliberate.
Whether he, too, remembered that night every bit as vividly as you did.
Whether he had hidden himself behind duties and council meetings just as you, shamefully, had hidden yourself behind the children.
The memory surfaced before you could stop it.
The quiet supper.
The warmth of the fire.
The silence that had somehow spoken louder than words.
The way his eyes had lingered upon yours.
The almost unbearable closeness.
The kiss that never happened...
Yet somehow still haunted you as though it had.
Heat rose gently into your cheeks despite yourself.
You lowered your gaze toward your hands, suddenly fascinated by the tiny beads decorating the cuffs of the gown.
How utterly ridiculous, you thought.
You had survived battlefields and stitched soldiers together while arrows still darkened the sky.
Faced death often enough that its presence no longer startled you.
And yet one almost-kiss from a widowed prince had somehow managed to leave you flustered for an entire week.
You could almost laugh at yourself, almost.
Instead, you stole a glance toward Queen Myriah through the mirror.
Did she know? The question arrived so naturally that it startled you.
Not whether she had been told, for nobody could have.
But... Did she suspect?
Queens observed everything, and she certainly observed far more than most.
Had she noticed the sudden absence of shared suppers?
The careful avoidance?
The way neither of you ever seemed to occupy the same corridor anymore?
You searched her expression carefully and yet you found nothing.
Her face remained as composed as ever, offering neither confirmation nor denial.
If she suspected anything at all, she guarded the knowledge with the same effortless grace she guarded every other thought passing through her mind.
You found yourself almost admiring it.
There was strength in such restraint and a kind of quiet discipline. You wondered whether she had always possessed it... Or whether the Red Keep had taught it to her.
"All done, my lady." Ellyn's cheerful voice gently broke through your thoughts.
You blinked, almost surprised to find yourself still seated before the mirror.
So lost had you become inside your own mind that you had scarcely noticed her careful fingers weaving through your hair, pinning and arranging each strand with remarkable precision.
Slowly, you rose from the chair.
The silk whispered softly around your legs as you stepped toward the mirror once more.
Then... You stopped.
For several long moments... You simply stared.
The woman reflected within the polished glass scarcely resembled the one who had entered these chambers less than an hour ago.
Your hair had been gathered into an elegant style befitting court, intricate enough to appear regal while still allowing gentle curls to frame your face naturally.
It somehow softened your features instead of hardening them, making you appear older, perhaps... but no less yourself.
The gown flowed around you like molten copper beneath the afternoon light. The delicate beadwork shimmered with every breath.
Even your posture had changed without your noticing. Straighter. More assured.
Almost as though the woman in the mirror carried herself with a confidence you had yet to claim fully.
Your fingertips rose almost hesitantly to brush a loose curl beside your cheek.
It truly is me... Isn't it?
You searched the reflection for the village girl who had arrived at the Red Keep carrying little more than worn dresses, practical boots and a satchel full of herbs.
She was still there; you could see her in your eyes.
In the faint scars scattered across your hands.
In the way your shoulders still held themselves with the unconscious readiness of someone accustomed to work rather than leisure.
The dress had not erased her.
It had simply revealed another part of her you had never before been given the chance to see.
Behind you, Queen Myriah watched through the same mirror.
A smile rested upon her face.
Not one born of victory.
Not satisfaction alone.
Something softer, Warmer. Almost... Proud.
Not of the woman you had become, but of the woman she believed you had always been.
And unbeknownst to you... This was only the beginning of a far greater plan.
Divider by @uzmacchiato
[A/N] - I swear, in my mind… I had planned for the ball to come right after, but I just wrote and wrote and wrote… and, well, I had to cut the idea and put it in the next chapter.
So, I promise you for real that next chapter we will bring Baelor back, and something major will happen in the next 2-3 chapters.
Good news is… once again, I miscalculated the chapters, so this story will have more chapters than originally planned. Maybe as many as the Lyonel Story, if not more 😅🫣
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Lord Lyonel Baratheon was a man who liked to party, drink and fight in equal measure. Prone to boredom, nothing else held his interest.
Until one night, when he meets a peculiar girl named Victa Estermont. She is wild, smiley and quick to speak; caring little for titles, rules and etiquette.
He is intrigued, and he aims to follow her. To his surprise, this turtle seemed to be faster than the stag expected.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Pairing: Fem!OC x Lyonel Baratheon
Chapter Warnings: None
Chapter XLIII: LINK
Chapter XLV: LINK
Chapter XLIV: The Lady of the Stormlands, part 3
The man had been watching her for several minutes.
At first, only out of idle curiosity.
The antlered crown had caught his attention before anything else.
Then the bright yellow cloak embroidered with the black stag.
Finally... The woman herself.
He recognised neither her face nor the old knight walking behind her. But he recognised Baratheon colours well enough.
The young lord leaned lazily against the wine barrel, another cup hanging loosely from his fingers.
His cheeks were flushed by drink, the smell of strong ale clinging to him even from several paces away.
He watched her stop before another merchant's stall.
Watched her smile at the elderly woman selling candied apples.
Watched her laugh quietly when a little boy proudly presented his wooden sword before running away again.
Pretty. Too pretty. And entirely too comfortable wandering amongst common folk. The thought amused him.
He pushed himself off the barrel and headed her way, steps even, confident. From afar, some of her knights had spotted him, but they were too far away to interfere directly.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Victa left the stall, a bright smile on her face. She had not bought anything this time, but had picked up information she could not wait to share with Lyonel and the knights.
Suddenly, she heard someone calling her over.
"My lady."
Victa turned politely, believing herself addressed by another merchant or perhaps a kind lord, ally of her husband.
Instead, she found a man she did not recognise standing too close. Tall, trained and entirely too comfortable approaching women as if they were old friends.
He bowed, not quite correctly. Grenda had spent years correcting her, to know when a bow was true, proper; and when it was half an effort.
This case was no different.
The bow was rushed, an exaggeration; a lie. It was too low to be respectful, too exaggerated to be sincere.
That should have been the first sign for Victa to step away; to look for Ser Herold or Ser David.
But Victa had a kind heart, choosing to ignore the rushed bow; excuse it as an act of the moment. After all, she messed up bows all the time when younger; half the time from not paying attention and some from exhaustion after hours in the garden.
A common human mistake.
"My lord," she greeted him with the same gentle smile she offered nearly everyone. "I don't believe we've met."
"We have not." His grin lingered a little too long, another sign she chose to ignore. "A shame."
Victa inclined her head politely. "I hope you are enjoying the fair."
"Oh, I am now." The words were followed by another drink. The wineskin was tied to his belt.
Her brown eyes studied the taller man, looking for a sigil; a name she could put on his face. But the simple cloak resting upon his shoulders obscured her view, briefly catching the sigil stitched on his doublet.
She did not recognise it, not with the lack of details. But his clothes were fine, rich; a man of status and therefore manners; right?
Ser Herold had almost caught up with her, the sound of his armour echoing with each step. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, fingers flexing; ready to draw steel should the need arise.
His gaze shifted upon seeing the foreign man around Victa. Only slightly, but it was enough.
The veteran knight had long ago learned that danger rarely announced itself with drawn steel.
It began with eyes, Tone, Distance. For years he had tried to educate his lady of the dangers, of the signs. But Victa’s heart remained pure, open; choosing to remain polite before openly accusing a finger at a man.
And that, if she ever would.
The foreigner stepped closer all of a sudden, his wine-skinned hand hanging by his belt. The smell of wine invaded Victa’s nose, used to it by being around Lyonel.
But it was not that that upset her faintly, rather the sudden lack of personal space. She instinctively took half a step back, always polite; always smiling.
The movement did not escape Ser Herold, nor Ser David; the men exchanged gazes from afar before closing in.
"My lady," the stranger continued, "I have spent the better part of this afternoon wondering...
His gaze travelled slowly over the Baratheon cloak. Not with pride or fascination but rather... disgust, anger; hate.
As if the crowned stag itself had personally offended him by entering his line of vision.
Perhaps it had, for Lyonel had as many supporters as he had enemies. However, none were foolish enough to try and directly mess with him or his wife, not after what happened to Tybolt Lannister more than a year ago.
"...whether the stories about Lord Lyonel's wife were true." He continued, fingers lifting faintly; tracing the soft, heavy fabric of her cloak. “So many stories, yet so little proof.”
Victa remained calm, though muscles tensed faintly beneath her dress. Her eyes darted to his fingers, too close for comfort, before focusing on his face.
"They rarely are; that’s why they are called stories, my lord," she replied, voice even; unaffected.
The man laughed. It was not the kind of laughter her knights had, nor the booming signature one of Lyonel. This one felt colder, darker; as if masking dangerous intentions behind it.
"Oh, I disagree." His laughter turned into a smirk, his pupils dilated. Without hesitation, he took another step. "You are prettier, kinder... so much more innocent. A miracle to exist next to a man like Lyonel Baratheon."
Nearby, Ser David quietly abandoned the merchant he had been speaking with. His hand rested loosely upon the pommel of his sword.
Ser Herold did not move, not yet, but his sword was pulled out of his sheath a few inches; enough for the sunrays to reflect on the small exposed part of his blade.
"I thank you for your words, my lord, but I must go find my Lord Husband," Victa replied politely, suddenly feeling uneasiness spreading. "If you will excuse me..."
She offered a small, quick bow, remembering her manners. Then she turned to leave, heading toward Ser Herold.
Behind her, the man's smile vanished; his smirk turned down into a snarl. Darkness spread over his gaze, his jaw tense at the sudden rejection.
His hand shot forward, his fingers wrapped around her wrist. Not painfully, not yet, but firmly.
Enough to make her feel the resistance, to make her stop her walk. A gentle tug and she would have been pulled right on him, bodies pressed close to one another.
Momentarily, he thought about it. His muscles flexed, ready to execute the plan; to test the calm waters he had been so proudly navigating.
Suddenly, Everything changed.
Victa froze, standing still; half turned away from the man. Surprise more than fear crossed her features as she looked down at the hand holding her.
It was the first time since leaving Turtle Isle that someone had laid hands upon her without invitation.
"My lord." Her voice remained remarkably calm. "You are hurting me."
"Am I?" His grin returned. "I merely wished to continue our conversation that you so openly chose to disregard and walk away."
"You have done enough." Ser Herold's voice cut cleanly through the surrounding noise.
The old knight had moved so quickly that few nearby realised he had crossed the distance at all.
His sword now rested against the young lord's wrist, not pressed; Waiting.
One movement.
One heartbeat.
That was all.
"I suggest," Ser Herold continued, every word perfectly measured, "That you release Lady Baratheon."
The drunk lord laughed, letting her go. "And who might you be? Some pitiful knight from an unknown family?"
The insult did not affect him. It passed over his head as he pressed the sharp edge of his sword, slightly more against the man’s skin."The man decided whether you leave this fair with one hand or two."
Silence spread.
Not throughout the fair, only around them.
Nearby conversations faltered.
Merchants looked up.
Children were quietly ushered away by nervous parents.
The lord's own guards finally noticed the exchange. Four men.
They stepped forward almost together. Steel whispered from leather.
Ser David answered immediately. His own blade slid free with practised ease. "I truly hoped today would remain peaceful." He sounded almost disappointed.
Victa grabbed the chance to move, hand now free from the deadly grip of the drunken lord. She stepped to the side, then back, putting distance between her and the man.
She did not panic.
She did not scream.
Instead, she quietly slipped one step backwards, exactly as Ser Herold had taught her years ago.
“Never stand between drawn swords. Never make yourself another target.”
“One cannot protect you or themselves if they have to worry about you as well.”
Good. Very good. The old knight noticed. Even now she remembered.
The young lord laughed louder. "You draw steel over a mere woman?"
Ser Herold's expression never changed, though this time the insult was felt. "I draw steel," he corrected quietly, "Over my lady."
The stranger snorted. "Lady?" His eyes travelled dismissively over Victa once more.
All kindness was gone. He snorted, looking down at Victa as if she were nothing but an extra in the background. "I've seen serving girls dressed finer, whores looking prettier."
A contrast to the flattery he had showered her with just a moment before.
The insult was open, direct; enough for Victa’s gaze to cast down. She was not directly embarrassed, but she understood enough to feel the faint jabbing pain against her heart.
Ser David’s jaw tightened, his teeth ground against one another. Knuckles turned white as he moved, ready to cut open the cocky, insulting man like a freshly caught stag during a good hunt.
The lord noticed, and his smirk grew. Lips parted to continue, to humiliate the kind woman hidden halfway behind her knight when.... another voice answered.
"You've seen poorly." A man’s voice joined.
This one was familiar, enough that Victa lifted her gaze to search for it.
A man moved closer to her, familiar sigil proudly worn over his clothes.
Lord Dondarrion.
No one had noticed him stand.
One moment he had been seated beneath a nearby awning with fellow Stormlords, a mug of ale in hand.
The next... He stood beside Ser David and Victa.
His sword had already been drawn, his family’s sword pointed directly at the cocky lord. The blade glowed faintly beneath the sun, the hand holding it not once shaking from drunkenness or exhaustion.
The Lord’s intentions were clear, his gaze even more so.
The drunk lord blinked, not expecting anyone to join.
Before he could answer, another voice joined. "Aye."
Another man joined, blade drawn.
Then another. "And you've had enough wine."
Victa’s eyes travelled to each familiar face, to each proud sigil sewn on their clothes.
Lord Fell.
Lord Swann.
Lord Coyle.
Steel after steel left its scabbard, openly pointed at the foolish lord that had so cockily insulted her.
More and more men joined others more quietly; some with the expected flourish of a storm lord.
Lord Caron quietly stepped away from a gaming table.
Lord Selmy abandoned his conversation midway through a sentence.
A pair of Baratheon household knights appeared seemingly from nowhere.
More blades.
More armour.
More yellow cloaks.
One by one they took position around her.
And they did so, without command, without shouting and without hesitation.
Stormlords and stormknights, of all kinds, rose from benches, leaving their meals unfinished and setting their goblets aside.
Men casually walked away from conversations they had been keeping for the past hour and joined her.
Every single one drifting naturally toward the growing circle.
Until Victa found herself standing in its centre.
The Baratheon cloak stirred behind her as the afternoon breeze swept across the fairgrounds. Yellow cloth rippled like a banner.
Her antlered crown caught the sunlight, worn proudly upon her head; the Queen of the Lands where storms and men walked side by side.
She stood tall, silent; yet warmth spread within her chest. For she was suddenly not alone, not underestimated.
Victa was a queen at that moment, standing proudly in the circle of loyal men.
Steel surrounded her, not once threatening her but rather protecting her.
The drunk lord slowly looked around, and his smile disappeared.
For the first time that afternoon... He understood exactly whose wife he had touched and what came with it.
He thought with Lyonel’s absence, she would be exposed; an easy target. A plaything to pass the time, a way to get back on the boastful, loud man they called: The Laughing Storm.
He did not expect backup to arrive so quickly, so suddenly.
Then Lord Dondarrion spoke once more. His voice carried just loudly enough for every gathered Stormlander to hear.
"No one..." His sword lowered another inch. "...touches our Lady."
Men around him nodded; some voiced their agreement aloud. ”Aye!”
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Silence spread momentarily between the two groups, blades pointed at one another; yet no blood had been drawn...
Tension rose, thick enough to be cut by the exposed weapons.
The drunker lord and his men felt uneasiness spreading, eyeing the Stormlords surrounding them. They were clearly outnumbered, and any kind of fight would result in blood being spilt, theirs most likely.
Yet no apology was spoken, no guilt was shown on his face. He could still walk away, disregard the situation. After all, these were his lands; and they were mere guests.
They could not attack him, risk harming him seriously; not while guests under the Tyrells’ protection. The law was clear, respected; unbroken.
The silence did not last.
A murmur swept through the gathered crowd, more from those who watched with their breaths held.
There was no panic in their voices, rather recognition; fingers pointed in one certain direction.
Heads turned, gazes shifted, and all eyes fell upon the man of the hour as he marched their way.
The Stormlords quickly stepped aside, one after another without being asked. Heads nodded in respect, others lowered in a bow.
The circle of Stormlords opened and A path formed through the middle of the fair.
Lyonel Baratheon walked through it.
His armour had been removed, leaving only the quilted gambeson beneath.
Fresh blood stained one sleeve where his opponent's nose had burst during the melee, while another streak crossed the side of his jaw, drying slowly beneath the afternoon sun.
His sword already rested in his hand, not raised; simply carried.
The calmness in his stride unsettled far more than anger ever could. Lyonel Baratheon was rarely calm... for when he was... death followed.
He did not hurry.
He did not shout.
He did not even look at the drunk lord.
His eyes searched for only one person.
Victa.
She saw him immediately, and relief softened her features.
Lyonel crossed the final few paces and stopped before her.
His free hand rose without hesitation, gently brushing a loose curl behind her ear before resting against her cheek.
He searched her face, her eyes, her wrist. Only after satisfying himself that she stood unharmed did he speak. "Did he hurt you?"
Victa slowly shook her head. "No." A tiny smile appeared. "Ser Herold was faster."
The corner of Lyonel's mouth lifted faintly, glancing at the veteran knight. "I imagined he would be." He nodded his head once, in respect.
Then, he turned.
The smile he saved just for her disappeared, and his blue eyes settled upon the young lord with a stillness that somehow carried more weight than rage.
No one spoke.
Even the musicians farther down the fairgrounds seemed strangely distant.
The drunk lord attempted confidence, knowing too well that things had changed now that Lyonel Baratheon had joined the game.
"You cannot threaten me in front of half the Riverlands." He started, setting things straight. “I am one of them and under the protection of Lord Tully."
Lyonel tilted his head, as if he was a cat messing with a frightened, trapped mouse. "Threaten you?"
His voice remained remarkably quiet, steady. His tone did not change, nor was any sign of his explosive anger visible.
"No." He took one slow step forward. "I'm deciding what lesson you'll remember longest."
The young lord swallowed.
Behind him, his own guards had wisely lowered their weapons.
No one was foolish enough to stand between a Stormlord and his wife. Especially a Stormlord as dangerous and intimidating as the Laughing Storm Lyonel Baratheon.
They all knew of his achievements and the men he had almost crippled during fights. Of the damage he caused to Tybolt Lannister when Victa was not even his wife by marriage.
Lyonel stared down at the shorter man. "You laid hands upon my lady." The words carried no heat, only certainty. "My wife. You stopped her from walking away."
The young lord tried to laugh, to ease the situation that was clearly no longer favouring him.
"I merely wished to—" he was not let finish.
"You will apologise." The interruption came cleanly, absolute.
The man straightened, offended. "I will do no such—"
Steel flashed.
It happened so quickly that most failed to follow the movement.
One heartbeat, Lyonel stood before him. The next... His sword had already completed its arc.
A sharp cry tore through the fair as Blood splattered across the trampled grass.
The young lord collapsed onto one knee, clutching his right hand; the very same one he had used to grab Victa’s wrist. A long crimson line stretched cleanly across his palm.
Deep enough to split flesh yet Shallow enough to spare tendons. A merciful strike, the knights called it. A torturous wound, a grievous reminder of what happened and what could have happened.
His sword fell from nerveless fingers into the dirt. The scream that followed echoed across the fairgrounds.
At the very instant Lyonel moved, Ser Herold had reacted just as quickly.
The old knight stepped before Victa, one arm wrapping gently around her shoulders while the other guided her face firmly against the cold steel of his breastplate.
She heard the cry but saw nothing, only polished armour; Only the familiar scent of leather and steel she had known since childhood.
"It is over, my lady," Ser Herold murmured quietly. "You needn't look."
She did not fight him, did not try to go against his words. Merely waited, listening.
Lyonel cleaned the edge of his sword upon the man's discarded cloak before calmly sliding it back into its scabbard.
Only then did he speak again. "If this had happened within the Stormlands..." His gaze never left the kneeling lord. "...you would now be searching the ground for several fingers."
Silence.
The entire fair listened, but no one interfered. Murmurs that had risen died as quickly; fearful of Lyonel’s calm rage.
Lyonel continued. "The only reason you still possess that hand..." His eyes drifted briefly toward Ser Herold, where Victa remained hidden safely against the old knight's chest. "...is because my wife would not wish to witness what should have become of it."
The wounded lord trembled. Whether from pain or fear, no one could tell. His men had moved away, none daring to come closer to offer assistance.
One foolish enough tried, taking a single step before he received the sharp point of a dozen swords aimed at him.
The message was loud and clear.
Do not interfere.
Lyonel folded his hands behind his back. "Now." His voice remained calm. "You will apologise."
The young lord looked around desperately. His own men stared firmly at the ground.
The Riverlords watched.
The Stormlords watched.
Yet No one moved, No one offered help.
He was on his own, bleeding, and left with only one choice.
At last, he lowered his head. "...my lady..." His voice shook but was loud enough to be heard. "...forgive me."
Lyonel waited, another heartbeat.
Then nodded once. "Good."
He turned his back upon the kneeling man without another thought.
The punishment had been delivered.
The lesson finished.
The matter closed.
He walked toward Ser Herold.
The old knight looked at him for a long moment before slowly releasing Victa from the shelter of his embrace.
She blinked once, looking first at Ser Herold and then at Lyonel.
"You are alright?" she asked immediately, her eyes searching the dried blood upon his cheek.
Lyonel laughed, actually laughed. Not the one he reserved for parties or during tourneys. This one was softer, sweeter; unlike him.
He took her hand and kissed the back of it, fingers gently holding hers. "I believe," he murmured, "I'm supposed to be asking you that."
Victa smiled, eyes as bright as they always were. Whatever happened with that lord, whatever she felt when he grabbed her hand; it was all gone.
She was safe, surrounded by people who cared for her... and she was with her stag, safe and loved.
"Well, I asked you first." She argued, as if this were one of their many verbal teasing games.
She reached up with her free hand and gently wiped the last streak of dried blood from his cheek with the edge of her sleeve. It took a few tries, but his cheek was finally clean.
She seemed not to care about the blood that now stained the sleeve of her dress.
Blood had never fazed her, and a whole year around Lyonel had made her used to it. Especially when it was not his but rather smudges; splatters from his opponent after a brutal strike.
"There.” She smiled. “All clean now.”
The gesture was so absurdly tender that half the gathered Stormlords suddenly found the sky fascinating.
Lord Dondarrion coughed into his fist.
Lord Swann cleared his throat, looking at his men.
Ser David looked away with theatrical suffering. "Aye," he muttered under his breath. "Our lord is finished."
Several nearby knights failed to suppress their laughter.
Lyonel only grinned wider, chest pushed out in pride.
He offered Victa his arm. "My lady wife."
She accepted it without hesitation.
Together they began walking away through the parted crowd.
No one blocked their path.
No one spoke.
Every Stormlord present instinctively stepped aside.
Not for the Lord of Storm's End.
For the Lord... and his Lady.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Only after they had disappeared among the fair tents did conversations slowly return.
Yet for many who had witnessed the scene, one thought lingered long after the music resumed.
Lady Victa Baratheon had arrived at the fair as Lyonel's wife, but she left it as the Lady of the Stormlands.
Look at these two illustrations I found,they’re so adorable!!
In the first one, the little girl has the same curly hair as Victa. By : drgnflyc
In the second, she’s older and she’s also wearing an antlered crown. By: vekharious
It reminds me so much of your fanfic and all the dances between Victa and Lyonel. 🥹❤️IM CRYING!!
I am crying with you 😭
They are so freaking beautiful 😍 😩😭
Look at my stag, all happy and smiley 😩😩.
Thank you for sharing this, so freaking sweet! And shutout to the artists (@vekharious & @drgnflyc ) for creating such beautiful pieces 😍😍🤩🤩
Trust such talent, such beauty. If they will allow me to use them as inspiration and as part of thr story for future eventual chapters, I will be honoured.
When your land is plagued by wars and death becomes an everyday thing, your hands learn to become more stable than a maester's.
You learn to look into a killer's eyes and understand forgiveness. You learn that justice is a heavy sword to be carried.
But when you meet a Targaryen Prince burdened by duty and grief, your souls vibrate to the same frequency. And perhaps, the world is not as dark as you both originally thought.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warnings: None
Chapter XXXII: LINK
Chapter XXXIV: LINK
Chapter XXXIII: The Ball, part 1
The day of the ball arrived, and you swore it came too quickly.
It felt as if it had only been yesterday that you first met Dyanna in the nursery, standing awkwardly before one another while Aerion chased Spur across the room with all the determination of a tiny dragon prince convinced the dog existed solely to challenge him.
Yet days had passed quietly, almost without your notice.
The Red Keep had settled into a strange rhythm in the meantime, one that revolved less around lessons and duties than around anticipation.
Servants hurried through corridors carrying folded fabrics and polished silver.
Seamstresses disappeared behind closed doors only to emerge hours later with gowns carefully protected beneath linen cloths.
Knights polished armour that would never see battle, musicians arrived one after another through the castle gates, and unfamiliar banners gradually appeared throughout the courtyards as noble families reached King's Landing from every corner of the realm.
The castle itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting, preparing.
And somewhere within all that endless movement, life inside the nursery had continued much the same.
Ever since meeting Dyanna, you had found yourself growing closer to her with surprising ease.
It had happened naturally. Neither of you had sought it.
There had been no grand conversation where friendship was declared, nor a single defining moment that changed everything between you.
Instead, it had formed quietly, much like roots beneath fertile soil. Small conversations became longer ones.
Shared laughter became easier, and comfortable silences no longer felt awkward.
Before either of you truly realised it, spending the afternoon together had simply become part of each day's routine.
Daily, you let the children play together, their lessons paused until the festivities were over.
There seemed little point in forcing books and etiquette upon them while half the Red Keep busied itself preparing for celebration.
Instead, the nursery echoed with childish laughter from sunrise until dusk, and more often than not, you and Dyanna found yourselves sitting nearby, talking of simple things while absentmindedly keeping watch over six restless little souls determined to exhaust every ounce of energy before bedtime.
Sometimes the two of you spoke for hours. Other times, words proved unnecessary.
You simply watched.
Watched Valarr eagerly explaining some grand adventure to Aerion, who almost always insisted he could accomplish it better.
Watched Spur dart between little legs, barking excitedly whenever he believed himself included in whatever game had been invented that particular day.
Watched tiny Matarys wobble determinedly after Aemon, convinced his smaller legs could somehow keep pace with the older children.
There was something deeply comforting about those afternoons.
The sort of memories people rarely recognised as precious until years after they had passed.
By the third day, Aemon had quietly developed a habit of sitting beside your feet.
He never asked permission, never announced himself.
He simply wandered over whenever play no longer interested him, lowering himself onto the carpet with a little sigh of contentment before leaning lightly against your skirts. Sometimes he brought a carved wooden horse.
Sometimes, he would find a smooth stone he had discovered somewhere in the gardens. Sometimes absolutely nothing at all.
He simply sat, listening, watching.
Finding comfort in your quiet presence just as much as you appreciated his.
You never questioned the habit.
Whenever you settled into an armchair, you simply found yourself expecting that, sooner or later, the quiet little prince would appear beside you as naturally as sunlight found an open window.
Daeron, meanwhile, had joined you from the very beginning. Not physically, not entirely.
The eldest prince still preferred observing to participating, spending much of his time seated slightly apart from the others, with thoughtful eyes that seemed older than any child deserved.
Yet little by little, almost too slowly to notice from one day to the next, something within him had begun to soften.
His shoulders no longer remained perpetually drawn tight.
The guarded expression that had greeted you during your first meeting appeared less frequently now, replaced by moments where he simply... existed.
Present.
Allowing himself to relax, if only for a little while.
You often caught him watching the others with quiet interest rather than painful distance.
Watching Aerion's endless antics.
Watching Valarr laugh.
Watching little Aemon toddle across the carpet with stubborn determination.
Sometimes, if he noticed you looking his way, he no longer lowered his gaze quite so quickly. Perhaps it was because he had realised something you had never spoken aloud.
You would never force him, never judge him, never demand words he was not ready to give.
Even though you still knew remarkably little about him.
You did not know the true extent of the burden he carried.
You did not understand the dreams that stole his sleep or the curse whispered about behind careful hands.
You only knew that whatever haunted him had settled far too heavily upon shoulders that should have carried nothing more demanding than wooden swords and childhood adventures.
Aerion remained different.
Dyanna had warned you from the beginning that her second son was unlike his brothers.
The boy possessed an openness reserved almost exclusively for family.
Anyone outside that small circle earned suspicion before affection, and trust was not something he offered freely simply because someone smiled kindly at him.
There remained an invisible line between himself and everyone he did not yet consider one of his own.
Even you.
Yet somehow, that never discouraged you.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
You understood walls.
You understood the comfort they provided, the safety of keeping strangers at arm's length until they proved themselves worthy of stepping closer. Yours had once stood just as high.
Perhaps even higher.
You did not mind waiting.
You had learned long ago that patience often accomplished what force never could.
Given enough time, even the strongest walls begin to weather.
Stone surrendered to rain.
Cliffs yielded to waves.
The hardest earth eventually softened beneath the quiet persistence of flowing water.
People were rarely any different.
And so you waited, content to let time do what hurried hands never could.
Then, before you truly realised how quickly those peaceful days had slipped through your fingers...
The day of the ball arrived.
A weight against your leg pulled you gently from your thoughts, your attention returning to the present as tiny hands slowly climbed their way up the fabric of your skirt.
Looking down, you found Matarys pressed against you.
Somehow, while you had been entirely occupied watching Valarr, the little prince had embarked upon one of his increasingly frequent expeditions across the nursery.
On unsteady little legs, he had waddled towards you with all the determination only children possessed, refusing help even when every second step threatened to end in a tumble.
He had made it.
The journey had ended exactly where he intended it to, collapsing softly against your leg with a tiny huff of accomplishment, as though reaching you had been a quest worthy of celebration.
A smile found your lips before you could stop it.
You bent slightly, one hand automatically resting atop his red curls while the other steadied his tiny shoulder.
"There you are," you murmured almost absentmindedly.
Matarys answered by attempting to shove his fist further into his mouth.
His newest teeth had become the greatest inconvenience of his short life.
Everything seemed destined to end up between swollen gums; blankets, toys, wooden blocks and, whenever you were not quick enough, even the corners of his own clothing.
Today proved no different.
Dressed in fine, tailored clothes befitting a prince of the realm, he was already leaving them decorated with an impressive amount of drool, blissfully unaware of the horror such stains would inspire among the poor servants responsible for keeping royal garments spotless.
You huffed a quiet laugh beneath your breath. Some things, thankfully, no amount of royal blood could change.
A sharp knock echoed through the nursery before any of you could say another word.
Three heads turned almost in unison.
The door opened before anyone had time to answer.
Dyanna stepped gracefully into the room, and for a brief moment, you simply stared. She looked every bit the princess she had become.
The deep purple gown embraced her figure beautifully, the rich fabric catching the afternoon light filtering through the tall nursery windows.
The colour deepened the remarkable shade of her lavender eyes while complementing the dark waves carefully arranged behind her shoulders.
Silver embroidery climbed across the fabric in delicate patterns resembling falling stars scattered across a clear night's sky.
Every movement she made brought them softly to life beneath the light, shimmering so naturally that you almost believed tiny fragments of the heavens themselves had been stitched into the silk.
Perhaps they had.
You knew little of noble wealth.
By now, however, you had spent enough time within the Red Keep to understand that impossible luxuries often became surprisingly possible for those born into the right families.
"You are still not dressed?" she asked, her gaze immediately taking in your appearance.
Only then did you become aware of yourself again.
Your dress remained exactly what it had been since morning. Slightly wrinkled from kneeling beside the boys.
One sleeve still bore the unmistakable stain from Matarys' latest encounter with crushed fruit, despite your earlier attempt to clean it away with a damp cloth.
Compared to Dyanna, you looked less prepared for a royal celebration and more like someone about to begin another ordinary afternoon caring for children.
Yet somehow...
The difference no longer embarrassed you as much as it once might have.
Over the past several days, you had spent more hours in Dyanna's company than Maekar himself likely had.
The thought almost made you smile.
She had confessed as much herself one afternoon beneath the gardens' shade, laughing that her husband would likely claim you had stolen his wife before blaming you for it somehow.
You had little doubt he would.
The memory alone almost made you chuckle.
The days had settled into an easy rhythm between the two of you.
Morning often began separately, each tending to your own responsibilities before inevitably finding one another somewhere within the nursery or the gardens shortly after midday.
The children made certain of that.
It had become almost impossible to keep them apart once introduced.
When one group played, the other wished to join.
When one ventured into the gardens, the rest insisted upon following.
The Red Keep suddenly held six little shadows instead of two, scattering laughter through corridors that had likely grown far too accustomed to solemnity.
One afternoon, you had even returned to the hidden alcove by the shoreline.
Aerion had nearly burst with excitement at the opportunity.
With all the confidence only little boys seemed capable of, he proudly demonstrated his newest fishing techniques to both you and Valarr, explaining every movement with absolute certainty, despite occasionally scaring away the very fish he hoped to catch.
According to Dyanna, it had become his newest obsession.
Barely a fortnight had passed without his begging someone, anyone, to accompany him near water so he might practise.
Valarr, naturally, declared himself equally talented within the hour.
You had wisely chosen not to settle that particular debate.
"I don't have a dress for the ball," you confessed at last, your attention returning to the present as you felt Valarr's fingers curl more tightly around the fabric of your sleeve.
The admission felt heavier spoken aloud than it had inside your own thoughts.
Truthfully, you had hoped to avoid saying it altogether.
You had planned to invent some harmless excuse instead.
Claim illness.
Claim responsibility for Matarys.
Claim anything that would spare Valarr disappointment without revealing the truth.
Because the truth sounded painfully small once spoken.
You had no reason to attend.
You were no princess. No lady of an ancient house. No daughter whose family banner earned an invitation before her name was ever spoken.
Nor were you the wife of some powerful lord whose place automatically became your own.
You were simply... You.
A village woman.
A healer.
A caretaker.
A nanny entrusted with two little princes through circumstances you still struggled to understand fully.
Dyanna, however, did not appear convinced. Or perhaps...
She simply knew something you did not.
"Nonsense." The smile tugging at her lips widened ever so slightly. "Your new dress is in your chambers."
For a heartbeat, the nursery seemed to fall strangely quiet around you. Even the children faded into the background.
Your thoughts stopped. "What?" you asked before you could stop yourself. "My dress?"
Dyanna's smile turned almost knowingly amused. "Of course, your dress," she replied. "It took a little longer to make, but the seamstress dropped it off not so long ago."
You simply stared at her.
The thought felt almost impossible to grasp.
Because you had never ordered one.
Your mind drifted back to the conversation you had shared with the Queen several days prior.
Ever since that afternoon in the nursery, you had not truly spoken to one another again.
There had been no long conversations, no quiet observations exchanged. At the same time,e the children played, nor any other unexpected visit that left you wondering what thoughts lingered behind those intelligent, dark eyes.
Instead, your interactions had become fleeting.
A passing glance across a corridor.
A courteous nod as your paths crossed somewhere within the castle.
Occasionally, a small smile, Nothing more, Nothing less.
At first, you had thought little of it.
Queens smiled. Or at least... You assumed they did.
It seemed the polite thing to do, especially toward someone responsible for their grandchildren.
Gradually, however, you found yourself remembering that conversation more often than you cared to admit.
Especially her final promise. "Let me take care of it."
You had assumed she spoke merely to reassure you. Kind words offered in passing.
The sort of people in positions of power often gave without expecting anything in return.
Yet Queen Myriah was not a woman who spoke carelessly. Nor, it seemed, one who made promises she had no intention of keeping.
She had said she would handle everything.
Apparently... She had.
The realisation settled quietly within your chest. A dress. Someone had commissioned a dress... for you.
One made specifically to your measurements, if Dyanna's confidence was anything to judge by.
The thought alone felt almost surreal.
You had never owned anything made solely for you before. Growing up, clothes were practical possessions, Necessary.
They were patched when torn, mended until there was nothing left worth mending, then cut apart to become polishing cloths or wrapped around injured limbs.
New dresses were rare enough.
One created especially for your body? The idea bordered on absurd.
"Well?"
Dyanna's voice gently interrupted the whirlwind of thoughts beginning to gather inside your mind. "What are you waiting for?" You blinked, attention returning to the nursery. "The Queen is waiting for you."
Your stomach dropped.
The colour drained from your face so quickly that you were certain it must have been visible.
Waiting.
The Queen herself was waiting... For you.
Not tomorrow.
Not later.
Now.
For a brief moment, every instinct urged you to flee.
Surely queens did not wait for village girls.
Queens waited for ambassadors.
For princesses.
For great ladies wrapped in silk and jewels.
Not for women currently wearing a fruit-stained dress with loose hair and the lingering scent of children clinging to their sleeves.
Your feet refused to move.
It felt as though the carpet beneath them had suddenly rooted itself around your slippers, holding you firmly in place.
You stared somewhere beyond Dyanna's shoulder, desperately trying to think of a respectable excuse.
One that sounded believable.
One that did not involve admitting you were terrified.
Before you could find one, a gentle tug interrupted your thoughts. Then another.
You looked down. Valarr had somehow found his way to your side again.
His small fingers remained curled securely around the edge of your skirt, while beside him, Matarys had copied his older brother entirely, without understanding why.
Tiny red curls framed his round face as he clung to the fabric with both little hands, looking up at you with complete trust.
The sight alone almost undid your resolve.
Valarr tilted his head slightly, those familiar brown eyes studying your face with remarkable attentiveness for someone so young.
He noticed everything, perhaps not always immediately, but eventually.
He had already realised you were searching for another excuse.
"Please," he said quietly, tightening his hold just enough that you felt the faint pull of the fabric. "I want you with me at the ball..." His voice softened. "I don't like them."
The words were spoken with all the simple honesty only children possessed.
Your heart tightened painfully.
You knew exactly what he meant.
The crowded halls.
The endless noblemen.
The ladies who pinched cheeks and praised him without knowing him.
The smiles felt rehearsed.
The conversations he was expected to endure while standing perfectly still beside his father.
It was a world that belonged to him by birth. Yet one he had never truly enjoyed.
Your lips pressed into a thin line as you looked between the two brothers.
Matarys had long abandoned any understanding of the conversation taking place above him.
Instead, he remained fascinated by the folds of your skirt, occasionally rubbing the fabric between his tiny fingers before attempting, unsuccessfully, to bring part of it toward his mouth.
You reached down instinctively, gently freeing the cloth from his determined little grasp before he could succeed.
For a long moment, you simply looked at them.
At Valarr.
At Matarys.
At the children who, somehow, had become part of your everyday life so naturally that imagining a day without them now felt strangely incomplete.
You drew in a slow breath before finally letting it escape.
"I can't leave the boys alone..." you murmured, though the protest lacked conviction even to your own ears. "Matarys will ruin his clothes the moment you let him."
As though determined to prove your point beyond all argument, the younger prince immediately shoved his tiny fist back into his mouth with great determination.
Drool glistened happily along his chin before landing upon the rich embroidery decorating the front of his fine little tunic.
You close your eyes for the briefest moment. "There," you sighed with quiet amusement. "See?"
Dyanna laughed softly.
She crossed the remaining distance between you, her skirts whispering across the carpet with each measured step until she stood close enough that you could smell the faint fragrance of oranges and jasmine lingering about her.
Without ceremony, she rested one warm hand upon your shoulder.
"You are not alone at this now," she reminded you gently. "I will look after the boys while you change."
Your eyes lifted to meet hers.
There it was again. That quiet certainty.
The sort that made refusing feel almost impossible.
"I can't ask you to do that." Even as the words left your mouth, you already knew they were weak.
Not because they were untrue.
Because you had already begun surrendering to the inevitable.
"You are not asking." Dyanna smiled, the expression warm enough to soften the last of your resistance. "I am offering."
Before you could think of another excuse, both her hands settled lightly upon your shoulders.
There was no force behind the gesture, only gentle encouragement.
The sort of older sister might use when nudging someone toward something they secretly needed.
"Now," she said, beginning to guide you toward the door with patient determination. "Go." You stumbled one reluctant step, then another. "It's rude to make the Queen wait."
That, unfortunately, ended every remaining argument.
You swallowed.
Your feet continued moving almost of their own accord now, though whether from Dyanna's gentle guidance or your own reluctant acceptance, you could no longer tell.
One last glance drifted over your shoulder.
Valarr smiled.
Matarys waved his drool-covered hand enthusiastically, entirely unaware that he was smearing the front of his tunic even further.
You could not help smiling back.
Then you stepped into the corridor, the nursery door closing quietly behind you as you made your way toward your chambers.
Completely unaware... Of what waited for you there.
You entered your chambers and, true to Dyanna's words, Queen Myriah was already waiting for you.
The door had barely closed behind you when she turned.
The movement was graceful, almost effortless. The skirts of her gown followed a heartbeat later, copper-orange silk swirling softly around her ankles before settling once more into perfect stillness.
For a brief moment, you simply stood there.
The Queen looked every inch the foreign beauty the stories often spoke of.
Her dark curls had been carefully gathered away from her face, allowing the afternoon light spilling through the windows to illuminate the warm bronze of her skin.
Years spent beneath the Dornish sun had kissed her complexion with a richness no northern lady could imitate. At the same time,e the proud carriage of her shoulders reminded you less of a queen seated upon a throne and more of a woman who had fought quietly for every ounce of respect she possessed.
There was strength in the way she stood.
Not loud.
Not demanding.
Simply... unquestionable.
Even after decades within the Red Keep, she refused to disappear into it.
Your eyes wandered over her attire almost unconsciously.
The vibrant orange of House Martell proudly embraced her, trimmed with intricate embroidery that caught the light whenever she moved.
Gold adorned her wrists and neck in tasteful measure, never overwhelming the gown itself, while the charcoal pigment colouring her lips created a striking contrast against the warmth of her skin.
You had noticed it before.
Queen Myriah rarely wore the colours of House Targaryen.
Instead, she wore Dorne.
At first, you had wondered whether such a thing might offend the King.
Now, after hearing servants whisper and listening to Ellyn's countless stories of court, you understood it differently.
It was not disrespect.
It was remembrance.
A quiet declaration that marriage had never erased the woman she had once been. Nor the land she still carried within her heart.
She had become Queen of Westeros without surrendering her position as Princess of Dorne.
For reasons you could not entirely explain, you admired that.
Perhaps because, deep down, you feared becoming someone else yourself.
Feared that one day the Red Keep might slowly polish away the rough edges left by village life until the woman who had once worked fields, stitched wounds and climbed trees alongside her brothers existed only in memory.
The thought disappeared almost as quickly as it came.
Myriah's eyes had already found you. She smiled.
Not the polite smile worn during court.
Not the measured expression offered before noble guests.
This one reached her eyes, softened them.
"Come," she said, her gaze briefly travelling over the simple dress you still wore before returning to your face. "We have time before the ball, and we need to get you ready."
You blinked.
We.
The single word lingered quietly inside your thoughts.
Before you could even ask whom she meant, movement behind the changing screen caught your attention.
Ellyn stepped into view, carrying a carefully folded bundle within her arms.
At first, all you truly saw was colour.
The fabric shimmered beneath the afternoon light filtering through the windows, catching soft golden reflections with every careful step she took.
Then your eyes adjusted.
It was a gown.
Even folded neatly upon itself, you could tell it surpassed every dress you currently owned.
Every dress Baelor had thoughtfully commissioned for you during your stay.
The silk alone looked impossibly soft, not merely expensive, but luxurious.
The sort of fabric your fingers almost feared touching, lest they somehow leave marks upon it.
You found yourself staring Unable to look away.
The gown remained folded too carefully for you to distinguish its true shape. Yet, glimpses of intricate beadwork appeared between the layers of silk, tiny details catching the light before disappearing again beneath another fold.
It looked less like clothing... And more like something that belongs in a princess's wardrobe.
Certainly not yours.
The thought settled immediately.
You could not imagine yourself wearing something so beautiful.
You could scarcely imagine yourself touching it.
It belonged to another world entirely.
A world of queens and princesses.
Of noble ladies raised knowing which jewels suited which occasions and which silks belonged to which seasons.
Not to village girls who measured clothing by how easily it could be washed after tending injured men or helping children climb trees.
Your mouth opened instinctively, already searching for words.
Some polite refusal.
Some reasonable explanation.
Anything.
You never managed to speak.
Queen Myriah looked at you.
Simply a single measured look that carried enough quiet authority to silence every protest before it could exist.
It was remarkable.
She had not raised her voice.
She had not frowned.
Yet somehow you immediately understood that arguing would accomplish absolutely nothing.
Beside her, Ellyn failed miserably at hiding her excitement.
A smile spread across her face so quickly it almost became a grin, her eyes sparkling with the same delight you had seen countless young girls wear during village weddings.
Had she possessed less self-control, you suspected she might have clapped.
Instead, she settled for a barely restrained giggle.
"Come on, my way, lady. The dress had to arrive, and it's beautiful," she said, carefully balancing the folded gown against one arm before reaching for your hand with the other.
Ordinarily, her touch brought comfort.
Familiarity.
She had become one of the few people within the Red Keep around whom you never felt the need to measure every word before speaking.
Today, however...
A thought quietly crept into your mind.
Just how long had Ellyn known? Your eyes narrowed ever so slightly as they shifted between her and the Queen.
The knowing smiles.
The confidence.
The complete absence of surprise.
It suddenly became painfully obvious that this had not been arranged today. Nor yesterday.
Whatever little scheme Queen Myriah had quietly woven together...
Ellyn had almost certainly been part of it from the beginning.
The realisation earned nothing more than an amused sigh beneath your breath. You should have known.
There was simply no way the Queen could have orchestrated all of this alone.
Hesitantly, you allowed Ellyn to guide you behind the changing screen.
The polished mirror disappeared, leaving only the quieter intimacy of the small space beyond.
There, she carefully laid the gown across a nearby chair before helping you remove your ordinary clothes with the practised ease of someone accustomed to preparing noble ladies for formal occasions.
You offered little resistance now, only quiet curiosity.
Your gaze remained fixed upon the gown throughout the entire process.
Studying every glimpse of embroidered silk.
Every delicate bead.
Every careful stitch.
Trying, unsuccessfully, to imagine yourself inside it.
When at last the final fastening had been secured, and Ellyn stepped back with obvious satisfaction, she smiled almost proudly. "There."
You looked down.
Then, instinctively, you reached to smooth the fabric across your waist, still uncertain whether any of this could possibly be real.
Only then did Ellyn gently usher you back toward the room beyond the screen.
Lord Lyonel Baratheon was a man who liked to party, drink and fight in equal measures. Prone to boredom, nothing else held his interest.
Until one night, when he meets a peculiar girl named Victa Estermont. She is wild, smiley and quick to speak; caring little for titles, rules and etiquette.
He is intrigued, and he aims to follow her. To his surprise, this turtle seemed to be faster than the stag expected.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Pairing: Fem!OC x Lyonel Baratheon
Chapter Warnings: None
Chapter XLII: LINK
Chapter XLIV: LINK
Chapter XLIII: The Lady of the Stormlands, part 2
Immediately, the sounds changed.
No longer softened by the distance between the tournament stands and the merchant lanes, the fair seemed to rise around them all at once.
Voices overlapped one another until they became a lively hum that never truly settled.
Children darted laughing between tents, wooden swords clutched proudly in tiny hands as they chased imaginary foes through crowds of smiling adults.
Blacksmiths demonstrated their craft before curious onlookers, each strike of the hammer sending bright sparks dancing through the afternoon air.
Nearby, musicians played cheerful tunes while couples abandoned all concern for dignity, dancing upon patches of flattened grass without the slightest agreement on rhythm.
No one seemed to mind.
If anything, the worst dancers often earned the loudest applause.
The smells changed with every few steps they took.
Fresh bread.
Roasted chestnuts.
Honey cakes were still warm from the oven.
Every delicious scent seemed determined to outshine the last until they blended into something wonderfully inseparable.
The rich aroma covered even the familiar smell of damp earth and the promise of distant rain lingering somewhere upon the warm breeze.
Victa breathed in deeply.
Her stomach answered almost immediately. A quiet little growl escaped before she could stop it.
Ser David looked sideways at her with perfect seriousness. "The honey cakes have claimed another victim."
Victa covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.
"They smell wonderful."
"They always do."
"...perhaps we should remember where they are."
"We shall," Ser David assured her. "Provided my lord does not discover them first."
Victa smiled.
That... was a genuine concern.
She had witnessed Lyonel consume an alarming quantity of pastries more than once. The thought alone made her chuckle softly as they continued walking.
Her eyes wandered everywhere at once.
She hardly knew where to begin looking.
Twice, she slowly turned upon the spot, trying to take everything in before something else inevitably caught her attention.
The second time, she nearly walked directly into a passing lord before Ser Leon gently rested a hand near her elbow, guiding her one careful step aside.
"Oops," she giggled before offering the surprised nobleman a polite little bow. "Thank you, Ser Leon."
The knight merely inclined his head with an amused smile before returning to his watch.
By now, her companions had spread naturally throughout the crowd.
Not far, Never far.
Each remained close enough to reach her within only a handful of strides while allowing enough distance that she never felt watched.
Occasionally, one of them glanced over a shoulder simply to make certain their lady remained exactly where she ought to be.
Which, they had quickly discovered over the past year... It was rarely where she had been only moments before.
"So many..." Victa murmured almost to herself, taking a few slow steps toward one stall before another display stole her attention and gently pulled her back the opposite way. She laughed softly. "I don't know where to begin."
Everything wished to be seen.
Every colourful banner.
Every little wooden sign.
Every smiling merchant proudly displayed months of careful work.
"This reminds me of Greenpoint," she murmured.
Ser Herold's weathered face softened. "It does?"
Victa nodded. "We had yearly fairs too." A fond smile settled upon her lips as old memories quietly surfaced. "I remember attending them when I was younger."
Her gaze lingered upon a little girl proudly carrying a prize ribbon nearly as long as she was tall.
"They were smaller." Ser Herold reminded her, voice kind, fatherly.
Truth, Victa realised. The fairs in Greenpoint were small, much smaller than the one she was currently attending.
Island merchants.
Local fishermen.
Neighbours she had known since childhood.
People who greeted one another by name before speaking of the weather, the tides or whose chickens had once again wandered where they did not belong.
Everything there had moved a little slower.
The sea had always encouraged patience.
Here... The whole world seemed to have gathered.
"So many people..." she whispered, ending with another circle around herself. This time, she moved out of the way before colliding with a passing couple.
"So many opportunities to lose my lady," Ser David muttered dramatically.
Victa looked back over her shoulder with an expression of perfect innocence. "I shan't."
Even as she said it... Her attention drifted toward another colourful stall farther along the lane.
Ser Herold noticed.
Ser David noticed.
Every one of her knights noticed.
Yet... no man said a word.
They just silently wondered exactly how long that promise would survive.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
She lasted nearly three minutes.
"Oh!" The small exclamation escaped before she had even realised she had spoken aloud.
Her steps halted before a little wooden stall overflowing with carefully carved animals, each one lined neatly upon shelves worn smooth by years of travelling from fair to fair.
Foxes with bushy tails.
Owls perched upon tiny branches.
Seals with rounded noses.
Wolves caught mid-howl.
Hares, badgers, deer...
Every figure had been carved with patient hands, each carrying its own little imperfections that somehow made it all the more charming.
Victa's eyes wandered slowly from one shelf to the next until they settled upon an animal she knew perhaps better than any other.
Tiny turtles.
No larger than the tip of her thumb.
Unlike the necklace resting against her chest, lovingly carved by hand years ago with painstaking detail, these were painted instead.
Simpler in their design, their little shells decorated in different shades of green and brown, yet each possessed its own quiet personality.
She reached forward almost instinctively, lifting one with both hands as though afraid to damage it.
Turning it beneath the afternoon sunlight, she admired the careful little brushstrokes across its shell.
The elderly craftsman looked up from where he had been sanding another carving. "My lady."
Victa smiled warmly. "He has tiny emerald eyes." She tilted the little turtle ever so slightly, studying it from another angle before holding it closer to admire the painted details. "He looks very wise."
The old craftsman chuckled, resting his carving knife upon the workbench. "I was aiming for sleepy."
Victa laughed softly.
For another few heartbeats, she simply continued studying the little creature, her thumb gently brushing over its smooth shell. "He can be both."
The old man smiled, his weathered features softening. "I suppose he can."
Rather than immediately asking the price, Victa found herself looking across the rest of the display. "So... you carve them all yourself?"
"I do."
"How long have you been doing it?"
The craftsman glanced thoughtfully toward the rows of little animals surrounding him. "Forty years, give or take."
Victa's eyes widened. "Forty?"
"Aye." He picked up another unfinished carving, turning it between rough fingers. "My father taught me. His smile grew quieter. "Then I taught my son."
Victa listened with genuine interest, asking another question about the different kinds of wood he preferred and which animals proved most popular with children.
Before long, the old man found himself speaking far more than he usually did with customers.
Most glanced, bought, and then left.
Lady Baratheon listened. She listened as though every answer truly interested her.
By the time the conversation naturally came to an end, the old craftsman realised he had spent nearly ten minutes speaking with the young lady about carving knives, walnut wood and why foxes were somehow always more difficult to carve than wolves.
He could not remember the last customer who had asked him so many questions simply because they wished to learn.
Victa finally looked back down at the little turtle resting within her palms. "I think..." she murmured with a smile, "...he has already decided to come home with me."
The old craftsman laughed. "I had a feeling he might."
She bought him, naturally.
As Ser David quietly counted the coins into the old man's waiting hand, Victa carefully wrapped the little carving in a square of soft linen that the craftsman had offered her.
Already, she knew who would receive it.
Gunthor.
While her nephew already wore his treasured turtle necklace, a family good-luck tradition, this little fellow somehow felt different.
Less of a keepsake and More of a companion.
She could already picture the boy placing it beside his books or upon the windowsill of his room.
The thought alone made her smile.
They had scarcely walked another twenty paces before— "Oh..."
Bright ribbons fluttered overhead from long wooden poles, dancing merrily whenever the breeze swept through the narrow lane.
Dozens of colours shimmered beneath the afternoon sun.
Deep blues.
Rich crimson.
Golden yellow.
Soft lavender.
Sea-green.
Victa drifted toward them almost without thinking.
Her fingertips brushed lightly across the hanging ribbons, and she smiled as the smooth fabric slipped between her fingers.
"This one..." she murmured, gently lifting a deep sea-green ribbon so the sunlight shone through it. "It matches Turtle Isle."
Ser David finally caught up beside her. He watched her thoughtfully examine another ribbon. Then another... and another. Then quietly compare three almost identical shades of blue.
The older knight sighed with theatrical resignation.
He knew his lady.
She possessed an extraordinary talent for becoming wonderfully distracted whenever something genuinely captured her interest.
He had seen it happen with flowers, with books, with herbs, even with unusually shaped seashells gathered during their journeys.
He had long since accepted that attempting to hurry her accomplished very little.
Because there was something rather infectious about the way her entire face brightened whenever she discovered something beautiful.
He simply could not bring himself to interrupt it. "One ribbon," he said hopefully.
Victa looked up. "Only one?"
He nodded with complete confidence. "One."
She smiled... Such an innocent smile. The sort that almost convinced him she had already agreed.
Ser Herold, standing only a few paces away, quietly looked elsewhere.
Experience had taught him there were battles wiser men chose not to fight.
Ser David, however... Still believed victory remained possible.
He was mistaken.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Five minutes later, Ser David was carrying six ribbons.
They hung neatly around his forearm in cheerful loops of colour, each chosen after very careful consideration.
Not because one ribbon had proven insufficient but because, according to Lady Victa, every ribbon had eventually reminded her of someone.
One deep blue ribbon for herself.
A bright yellow one for Lyonel.
A rich green one for Ser Herold.
Another for Ser David himself, despite his repeated insistence that grown knights had little use for decorative ribbons.
One had been chosen for Gunthor.
The last... For Lord Baratheon.
Victa smiled quietly to herself as she folded the final ribbon into a neat bundle.
She already imagined where each one might end up.
Lyonel would probably tie his somewhere completely impractical simply because she had given it to him.
Gunthor would proudly wear his until the colours eventually faded in the sun, while Ser Herold would store it somewhere safe, as he did with every single gift she had given him.
Ser David would grumble... Then secretly keep his.
As for Lord Baratheon... She rather suspected he would never wear it publicly.
Yet something told her it would not be discarded either. Over the past year, she had begun noticing small things.
The flowers she left outside his chambers disappeared by morning.
The little poems she occasionally copied from dusty library books never returned to the shelves.
Even the handful of sunflower seeds she had once shyly gifted him after remembering his late wife had loved them...
They had quietly vanished as well.
No acknowledgement.
No discussion.
Simply... Accepted.
It was enough.
Ser Herold pretended not to notice the growing collection of ribbons, though the faint smile beneath his beard betrayed his quiet amusement.
Ser David, meanwhile, accepted his inevitable defeat with remarkable dignity.
Or at least... As much dignity as one could preserve while carrying enough ribbons to decorate a small ship.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Their wandering continued.
Warm honey buns came next.
Victa slowed before she had even located the bakery itself. She closed her eyes for a brief heartbeat, breathing deeply.
"That smells lovely."
Fresh bread.
Butter.
Warm honey.
A faint hint of cinnamon.
The scent wrapped itself around passing visitors like an invisible invitation impossible to ignore.
Moments later, she already stood before the smiling baker.
Rather than immediately asking to buy one, Victa found herself asking how they were made.
The elderly woman behind the counter beamed.
Few customers ever asked; most simply pointed, paid, and left.
Before long, she was happily explaining how the dough rested overnight, how local honey changed its sweetness with the seasons and why adding just a little warmed butter before baking kept the centre wonderfully soft.
Victa listened with complete attention.
Now and then, she nodded thoughtfully or asked another little question, genuinely fascinated by each answer.
By the time the baker had finished explaining, both women found themselves smiling.
"You truly enjoy knowing how things are made, don't you?" the older woman observed warmly.
Victa laughed. "I think..." she admitted, "...it makes me appreciate them even more."
The baker nodded. "I like that."
Only then did Victa finally ask to buy some.
She began with two: one for herself and one for Lyonel.
Then she hesitated. Her eyes drifted toward Ser Herold... Then Ser David... then the rest of Lyonel’s knights watching her from across the fair.
"...actually..."
Two became four.
Four became six.
Six became eight.
One for herself.
One for Lyonel.
One for Ser Herold.
One for Ser David.
One for each knight in her company.
No man argued.
Experience had taught them that refusing food offered by Lady Victa Baratheon ranked amongst the most hopeless battles a man could choose.
It mattered little whether they had only recently finished eating or whether supper awaited them only a few hours later.
If Lady Victa believed you ought to have another honey bun... You accepted the honey bun.
The Maester, during such days, often found himself visiting Lyonel's household knights later that evening with herbal concoctions designed to ease digestion and relieve the uncomfortable fullness that mysteriously seemed to follow Lady Victa wherever she went.
Curiously...
The remedies never appeared to lessen anyone's enthusiasm for accepting the next offering.
Ser David accepted his with a sigh that suggested tremendous sacrifice. Then promptly took a bite before anyone else could.
Victa caught him, and she giggled. "I thought you didn't want one."
"I accepted it merely to avoid hurting your feelings."
"So brave."
"I know."
Ser Herold quietly hid his smile behind another bite of pastry.
The afternoon sun remained pleasantly warm as they continued strolling through the winding merchant lanes.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
The afternoon slipped pleasantly onward.
Without any particular destination in mind, Victa allowed herself to wander wherever curiosity led.
She admired embroidered fabrics brought from the Reach, her fingertips gliding gently over intricate stitching while patient merchants proudly explained the countless hours it took to finish a single sleeve.
She paused to ask one elderly seamstress how she managed to keep every stitch so wonderfully even.
The woman laughed before revealing a tiny silver thimble she claimed had belonged to her grandmother.
Victa listened with genuine fascination.
By the time they continued walking, the seamstress was smiling just as brightly as her newest customer.
A little farther along, another cheerful merchant offered tiny slices of dried fruit arranged neatly upon a polished wooden board.
Victa accepted one politely. She chewed thoughtfully before her eyes brightened. "It tastes sweeter than I expected."
"Summer pears," the merchant explained proudly. "Dried with honey."
She immediately asked whether they kept well during winter voyages.
The conversation continued for several minutes.
Ser David waited patiently. He already knew there was little point in encouraging haste. Not when Lady Victa had discovered someone willing to speak passionately about their craft.
They paused beside the travelling musicians next.
A young fiddler led the melody while two children attempted to keep pace with him upon little wooden flutes.
Their enthusiasm greatly surpassed their talent.
Victa remained standing for nearly an entire song, smiling as nearby children clapped wildly despite the missed notes.
When the tune ended, she applauded just as enthusiastically as everyone else. The youngest flautist beamed with pride.
Further along, she lingered before an elderly woman selling herbs gathered from forests throughout the Riverlands.
Bundles of lavender, mint, rosemary and wildflowers hung from wooden beams overhead, filling the air with fresh, earthy fragrances that briefly overpowered even the tempting smells of nearby bakeries.
Victa recognised several.
Others she had never encountered before.
"What attracts butterflies best?" she asked with quiet curiosity.
The old herbalist smiled knowingly. "Trying to brighten a garden?"
Victa nodded.
The woman selected several little flowers, explaining which bloomed earliest, which survived harsher weather and which bees seemed to favour most during warmer months.
Victa listened carefully, committing every word to memory.
She had no parchment, no ink, for she rarely needed either.
If knowledge interested her... She remembered it.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Time slowly became meaningless.
The fair no longer felt like a place.
It breathed.
It laughed.
It sang around her.
Every path seemed to promise another little discovery waiting just beyond the next colourful tent.
Laughter drifted lazily upon the warm breeze.
Somewhere farther away, another cheer erupted from the tournament lists, followed by applause loud enough to startle several resting horses.
Closer still, merchants continued to call for customers while children darted between adults, carrying little wooden swords, ribbons and brightly painted shields.
A young boy proudly declared himself the fiercest knight in Westeros before immediately tripping over his own scabbard.
His father laughed first. The boy joined him a heartbeat later.
Victa smiled throughout it all. This was louder than Turtle Isle, busier, far grander.
And yet... It carried the very same warmth.
People laughing together.
Families gathered around shared meals.
Children chasing one another until they collapsed breathless upon the grass.
Music refusing to surrender to silence.
She loved that very much.
Without consciously noticing it, her wandering steps gradually carried her farther from the broad market lane.
The crowds thickened.
People now moved shoulder to shoulder, voices blending into a continuous murmur as merchants squeezed every available stall into the busiest part of the fairgrounds.
Bright banners stretched overhead, casting shifting patches of shade across the busy pathway whenever the breeze stirred them.
Ser Herold remained half a pace behind her, steady as ever, His eyes never stopped moving...Watching.
Habit born from decades of service.
Ser David wandered slightly farther to one side, politely but firmly encouraging passing townsfolk to leave enough room for their lady to walk comfortably.
The two knights never spoke; they did not need to.
Years of experience had taught them how to move around those under their protection almost without thought.
Neither of them noticed the lone figure leaning lazily against a weathered wine barrel; Not at first.
He had been watching...
Long enough to recognise the little antlered crown resting upon dark curls.
Long enough to notice the heavy Baratheon cloak flowing proudly behind her with every unhurried step.
Well... I have a bit of a defense mechanism when it comes to ridiculously attractive men (lol, I guess the reader in the story does too 😭). Those heterochromatic eyes, that deep voice, and those hands? They would be an absolute disaster for my self-control.
So if I were an unmarried lady in Westeros, I honestly think I'd spend my days alternating between two very different strategies: either casually wandering over to watch Baelor's training purely by coincidence, absolutely not staring at those muscles in motion 🤭, or showing up to the public audiences in the throne room only to quietly hide in the darkest corner, half-hidden behind other lords and ladies, so I could secretly watch him from a safe distance... and then, the moment he so much as looked my way, pretending to be completely indifferent, suddenly finding something very interesting to look at elsewhere, or simply turning around and fleeing before he could catch me looking.
That's exactly why prompts #13 and #5 both spoke to me so much. I genuinely couldn't decide between them, but in the end I chose #5.
𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 | 𝐁𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍.
This will have a second part, and as the reader is unmarried, I know for a fact that though I can write him fucking the reader senseless, I will not deign that low, and thought it best to make a second part for this, as Baelor will marry the reader before he takes her, but I added enough heated moments.
Hope this makes you happy.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: mutual pining, age gap, unmarried reader, dirty talk, fingering, oral (male receiving), sexual content, minors dni.
The throne room of the Red Keep hummed with the low drone of petitioners and courtiers, banners stirring faintly in the drafts that slipped through the high windows. You had chosen your corner well, half-shielded by a cluster of minor lords in their velvet finery, the shadows pooling deep enough to swallow most of your silhouette. From here, you could watch Prince Baelor Targaryen without fear of immediate detection.
He sat at his father’s right hand today, tall and commanding even in repose, the fire of his Targaryen blood gleaming in his dark hair, grey at the edges and the sharp cut of his jaw. Every shift of his broad shoulders beneath the black-and-gold doublet drew your eye like a moth to flame.
You told yourself it was only coincidence that you had slipped in after the morning session had already begun. Just as it was coincidence that you had spent the hour before that “casually” passing the training yard, heart hammering at the sight of him in the lists, sweat-slicked linen clinging to the powerful lines of his chest and arms, muscles flexing as he drove his lance home with effortless brutality. You had not stared. Certainly not.
Yet now his gaze swept the room like a predator’s, and the instant it found you, lingering, knowing, you felt the air leave your lungs. Heat flooded your cheeks. You turned sharply, pretending sudden fascination with the embroidered sleeve of the lady beside you, and took one instinctive step deeper into the shadows, ready to flee before he could—
Too late.
The session ended with the bang of a staff on stone. Voices rose, feet shuffled.
You moved with the crowd, but a firm hand closed around your wrist just as you reached the arched doorway, pulling you aside into a narrow alcove draped with heavy tapestries.
The world narrowed to the scent of him, leather, steel, and something warmer, like sun-warmed cedar and the faint trace of pomade in his hair. Baelor loomed over you, one arm braced against the stone wall beside your head, caging you without quite touching.
His mismatched eyes burned.
“I can smell your desire from across the room,” he murmured, voice low and rough, pitched only for you. The words slid over your skin like a caress. “Why are you pretending you don’t want this?”
Your breath hitched. You tried to summon indifference, to lift your chin and deny it with the practiced poise of a highborn lady, but your pulse betrayed you, racing visibly at the base of your throat. He noticed, of course. Baelor’s free hand rose, the backs of his knuckles brushing feather-light along your jaw before trailing down to rest just above the frantic flutter of your heart.
“You’re shaking,” he continued, a dark, satisfied edge to his tone. The corner of his mouth curved, sharp and hungry. “Is it fear, or are you just that desperate for me to touch you?”
The alcove felt impossibly small. The distant murmur of the court faded to nothing. His body radiated heat, the hard planes of his chest inches from brushing the softness of your breasts with every inhale. You could feel the restrained power in him, the same coiled strength you had watched in the yard, now turned entirely toward you.
“I… I wasn’t—” The protest died as his thumb swept slowly over your lower lip, parting it just enough to tease.
“Little liar,” he breathed, leaning closer until his mouth hovered a breath from yours. “I’ve seen you in the yard. Watched you slip away like a frightened doe the moment I turned my head. And still you come back. Still you hide in my hall and devour me with those eyes.” His hand slid lower, palm flattening possessively over your waist, fingers splaying wide as if he could feel every tremor through the layers of silk. “Tell me to stop, then. Say the words, and I’ll let you flee again.”
But his body pressed forward, thigh nudging between yours, the solid heat of him making your knees threaten to buckle. The air between you crackled, thick with everything unsaid, every stolen glance, every imagined press of his mouth to your throat, every filthy fantasy of those strong hands pinning you down.
He waited, eyes locked on yours, the obsessive intensity of a dragon barely leashed.
The words tumbled from your lips in a breathless stammer, cheeks burning hotter than the braziers lining the hall. “I—I didn’t mean anything by it, Your Grace. Truly. It was only… only coincidence. I was merely passing—”
Baelor’s smile was slow and devastating, a flash of perfect white teeth against the sharp angles of his face. It wasn’t the polite courtier’s smile he wore for the lords and ladies outside this alcove. This one was pure predator, dark, knowing, and laced with wicked amusement. He tilted his head, studying you like a cat with a cornered mouse, the hand at your waist tightening just enough to hold you in place.
“Oh, sweet girl,” he murmured, voice dropping to a velvet rumble that vibrated through your chest. “You stammer so prettily when you lie. Did they teach you that at your father’s knee? How to deny the truth while your body sings it loud enough for the whole Keep to hear?”
He leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear. The heat of his breath made you shiver violently. One of his knees nudged higher between your thighs, pressing the silk of your gown against your core in a way that was both maddening and not nearly enough.
“Tell me, then,” he taunted, the smile still curving his mouth as he pulled back just far enough to lock eyes with you. His free hand slid down your side, possessive and unhurried, tracing the dip of your waist to the flare of your hip. “If I bent you over right here, right now, in this very alcove, would I not find you soaked for me already? Dripping down those pretty thighs like a desperate little wanton who’s been aching for her prince’s cock since she first spied him in the yard?”
The crude words, spoken in that cultured, commanding voice, sent a fresh bolt of heat straight to your center. You felt yourself clench involuntarily, a rush of slick warmth betraying you exactly as he predicted. Baelor’s eyes darkened with satisfaction, he could read every micro-expression on your face.
He chuckled softly, low and filthy. “No answer? How convenient.” His fingers flexed on your hip, bunching the fabric of your gown as if he were a heartbeat away from doing exactly what he threatened, yanking it up and bending you forward over the stone ledge behind you. “I could check, you know. Slide my hand under these skirts and feel for myself how wet that tight little cunt has gotten just from my voice. From the thought of me pinning you down and taking what you’ve been offering with every stolen glance.”
He paused, thumb stroking lazy circles over your hipbone, the pressure firm and teasing. His thigh pressed more deliberately between yours, grinding lightly against the ache building there.
“Or are you going to keep pretending, my shy little watcher?” His smile sharpened, eyes gleaming with that obsessive hunger. “Say it. Tell me I’m wrong… and I’ll stop. But we both know I’m not.”
His body caged you completely now, the hard ridge of his arousal evident against your belly through his breeches, proof that his taunting was affecting him just as fiercely. He waited, patient as a dragon, daring you to lie again while every inch of you trembled with need.
Your heart hammered wildly.
Baelor’s gaze dropped to the furious blush staining your cheeks and the tops of your breasts, visible above the modest neckline of your gown. His smile softened at the edges, just for a heartbeat, something almost tender flickering beneath the hunger.
“Seven hells,” he breathed, the words rough with affection and lust. “Look at you. That pretty blush… it’s fucking endearing. Makes me want to ruin you even more.”
You couldn’t breathe.
The air felt too thick, too hot, every inhale filled with his scent and the overwhelming presence of him. Your lips parted, but no denial came. No stop. Your silence was louder than any confession, and Baelor heard it perfectly.
His eyes darkened with triumph.
“Good girl,” he praised softly, the hand on your hip sliding lower, bunching your skirts inch by inch. The cool air kissed your calves, then your knees, as the silk whispered upward. “Not a single word to make me stop. We both know why.”
His thigh pressed more firmly between yours, holding your legs open just enough for his questing fingers to slip beneath the final layers. When he reached the slick heat of your smallclothes, he let out a low, satisfied groan that vibrated against your throat.
“Gods,” he murmured, voice thick. “You’re drenched. Exactly as I said.” Two fingers stroked along the soaked fabric, pressing it against your swollen folds with deliberate slowness. “Soaking through everything for me. My shy little watcher, pretending she doesn’t want this while her cunt weeps for my touch.”
He circled your clit through the cloth, firm and teasing, watching your face the entire time. Your knees buckled, only his body and the wall kept you upright. The blush deepened until you felt feverish, breath coming in shallow, desperate pants against his collarbone.
Baelor leaned in, lips brushing your temple, then your ear again. “Still not telling me to stop?” he taunted, though the words were gentler now, laced with dark delight. He pushed the fabric aside and dragged two thick fingers through your bare, dripping slit, coating them in your arousal before pressing one slowly inside you.
The stretch was perfect, possessive. “Fuck… so tight. So ready. I could bend you over this instant, lift these skirts, and bury myself in this needy little hole until you’re sobbing my name loud enough for the entire court to hear.”
He curled the finger inside you, stroking that sensitive spot while his thumb found your clit again, rubbing slow, maddening circles. His other arm wrapped around your waist, holding you flush against him so you could feel exactly how hard he was, thick and insistent against your belly.
“Tell me what you want, little lady,” he whispered hotly, adding a second finger and pumping them deeper. “Or keep pretending… and I’ll just keep going until you come all over my hand right here in this alcove.”
Your body trembled violently in his arms, pleasure coiling tighter with every stroke, the risk of discovery only heightening everything. Baelor watched you with that obsessive intensity, drinking in every gasp, every twitch, every helpless roll of your hips against his hand.
He was never going to let you hide again.
Baelor’s fingers worked you with devastating skill, slow, deep strokes that curled perfectly against that sensitive spot inside while his thumb circled your throbbing clit without mercy. The wet, obscene sounds of his hand between your thighs filled the narrow alcove, muffled only slightly by your bunched skirts.
Your head fell back against the stone wall, lips trembling. The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter, unbearable now. Pride finally shattered.
“Please…” The word broke from you in a desperate whisper. “Baelor—please, don’t stop. I—I can’t—please—”
His smile was pure sin. “There she is,” he growled, voice rough with satisfaction. “My honest little wanton. Begging so sweetly for her prince.”
He didn’t stop. If anything, he redoubled his efforts, thrusting two thick fingers faster, harder, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit with every stroke. His mouth found the frantic pulse at your throat, sucking a mark into your skin as if staking his claim.
“Come for me, then,” he commanded against your neck, low and irresistible. “Let me feel this pretty cunt squeeze around my fingers. Give it to me.”
The coil snapped.
You came undone with a choked cry you barely managed to muffle against his shoulder, thighs shaking violently as pleasure crashed through you in heavy, pulsing waves. Your walls clenched greedily around his fingers, slick flooding his hand as you rode out every last tremor, hips jerking helplessly against him.
Baelor held you through it, murmuring soft praises—“Good girl… that’s it… so fucking perfect for me”—until the last aftershocks faded and you sagged bonelessly in his arm.
Only then did he slowly withdraw his fingers, glistening with your release. He kept you pinned with his body for a moment longer, letting you catch your breath, before stepping back just enough to meet your dazed eyes.
“Run along for now, little watcher,” he said, voice still husky but laced with that taunting amusement. His gaze raked over your flushed, disheveled form with open possession. “I have matters of state to attend… though I’d much rather stay here and fuck you properly until you can’t walk.”
He lifted his hand to his mouth, never breaking eye contact as he slowly licked his fingers clean, tasting every drop of you with obvious relish. The sight sent a fresh, weaker pulse of heat through your spent body.
When he finished, he smirked. “Go. Before I change my mind and bend you over after all.” He adjusted your skirts for you with surprisingly gentle hands, though his eyes promised this was only the beginning. “But know this… next time I catch you watching, I won’t be so merciful.”
With one last lingering look that made your knees weak all over again, he stepped back into the hall, the picture of composed royalty once more.
You were left trembling in the alcove, heart racing, thighs slick, and the taste of his promise lingering in the air.
The days that followed blurred into a torturous dance of stolen glances and deliberate avoidance. Baelor was everywhere, training in the yard at the exact hour you “happened” to pass by, presiding over audiences where you tried (and failed) to melt into the crowd, his mismatched eyes always finding you no matter how cleverly you hid. Each time your gazes locked, your cheeks would flood with heat and you’d flee like a startled rabbit, heart pounding with equal parts fear and aching want.
Until the royal library.
The cavernous room was quiet this late in the afternoon, dust motes dancing in the slanted beams of sunlight that pierced the tall windows. You had tucked yourself into a secluded alcove between towering shelves, a heavy tome of old Valyrian poetry open on the table before you. Or at least, it was meant to be. The words swam on the page, your mind kept drifting to strong hands, a wicked smile, and the memory of his fingers buried inside you.
You didn’t hear him approach.
The heavy door clicked shut. Footsteps, confident, unhurried, echoed softly on the stone floor. Then his shadow fell over you.
Before you could even gasp, Baelor’s large hand pressed between your shoulder blades, bending you forward over the sturdy oak table. Your breasts flattened against the cool wood, the book forgotten as your cheek pressed to an open page. He kicked your feet apart with one booted foot, flipping your skirts up over your hips in one smooth motion.
A low, disapproving click of his tongue filled the air.
“I warned you, didn’t I, little watcher?” His voice was dark velvet, laced with dark amusement as he palmed the bare curve of your ass, squeezing possessively. “Every time you blushed and hid… every time you ran. I told you what would happen the next time I caught you.”
He leaned over you, hard body covering yours, the thick ridge of his cock pressing insistently against your ass through his breeches. His breath ghosted hot against your ear.
“And now here you are. Alone. Wet already, I’d wager.” Two fingers dipped between your thighs, stroking along your slick folds with humiliating ease. “Tsk. Just as I thought. Desperate for your prince.”
He straightened, the sound of his breeches unlacing loud in the hushed library. Then his hand was in your hair, gripping firmly but not painfully, guiding you off the table and down.
“On your knees.”
The stone floor was cool beneath you as he pushed you down in front of him. His cock sprang free, thick, long, flushed dark with need, the head already glistening. He towered over you, one hand still tangled in your hair, the other fisting his impressive length with a slow stroke.
“Be a good girl and please your Prince,” he ordered, voice rough with command and barely leashed hunger. He tapped the heavy head of his cock against your flushed cheek, smearing a bead of precum across your skin. “Open that pretty mouth and worship what you’ve been craving. Suck me like the needy little slut you pretend not to be.”
His mismatched eyes burned down at you, obsessive and triumphant, waiting for you to obey.
The library was silent except for the rapid beat of your heart… and the low, expectant rumble in Baelor’s chest.
You obeyed.
Kneeling there on the library floor, skirts pooled around your thighs, you parted your lips and took him into your mouth. Baelor groaned low in his throat, the sound reverberating through his chest as the thick head of his cock slid over your tongue. He was heavy, hot, and tasted faintly of salt and man. You hollowed your cheeks, sucking gently at first, then with growing hunger as his grip in your hair tightened.
“That’s it… fuck, just like that,” he murmured, voice low and tender, almost reverent. His free hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he rocked slowly, tenderly into your mouth. “Such a good girl for me. Look at you—taking your prince so beautifully. So eager… so perfect.”
He didn’t thrust roughly. Instead, he fucked your mouth with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, savoring every swirl of your tongue, every soft moan that vibrated around his length. His praises poured over you like warm honey.
“My sweet little watcher… you have no idea what you do to me. Every stolen glance, every blush, mine. This mouth is mine now.” His breathing grew ragged, but he kept the pace gentle, almost loving, even as his cock thickened further on your tongue. “Gods, the way you suck me… you were made for this. Made for me.”
Your own arousal was dripping down your thighs, the ache between your legs almost painful as you whimpered around him. The sounds you made only seemed to spur him on.
He was close, you could feel it in the way his thighs tensed, the way his grip in your hair trembled. His cock pulsed against your tongue, and just as he reached the edge, he suddenly pulled free with a wet pop.
Before you could protest or catch your breath, Baelor hauled you up to your feet, crushing his mouth to yours in a deep, devouring kiss. He swallowed every needy moan that spilled from you, tongue stroking yours with the same tender hunger he’d shown your mouth moments ago.
One arm banded around your waist, holding your trembling body flush against his while his still-hard cock throbbed hotly against your belly.
When he finally broke the kiss, both of you gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His voice was rough, dark, and utterly possessive as he murmured hotly against your ear.
“You are mine now. Do you understand?” His hand slid down to grip your ass possessively, fingers digging in. “I know you’re unmarried… untouched by any other man. And because of that, I will not take you here. Not like this.” He kissed you again, slower, sweeter, but no less claiming. “I won’t claim this sweet cunt until you beg me for it. Until you come to me openly and say the words: ‘I’m yours, Baelor. Please fuck me.’”
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, that obsessive fire burning brighter than ever.
“Until then…” He reached down, stroking two fingers through your drenched folds one last time, collecting your wetness before bringing them to his lips and sucking them clean with a low, satisfied hum. “I’ll content myself with this. But know this, my lady, you will beg. And when you do, I won’t be gentle.”
He helped steady you on your feet, smoothing your skirts down with surprisingly gentle hands, though his gaze promised endless torment. With one final, searing kiss to your forehead, he tucked himself away and stepped back.
“Until you’re ready to stop hiding… run along again, little one.”
Then he was gone, leaving you flushed, aching, and utterly claimed in the silence of the library.
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When your land is plagued by wars and death becomes an everyday thing, your hands learn to become more stable than a maester's.
You learn to look into a killer's eyes and understand forgiveness. You learn that justice is a heavy sword to be carried.
But when you meet a Targaryen Prince burdened by duty and grief, your souls vibrate to the same frequency. And perhaps, the world is not as dark as you both originally thought.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warnings: None
Chapter XXXI: LINK
Chapter XXXIII: LINK
Chapter XXXII: Two Dragons and You
The conversation faded naturally after that.
Not because either man had run out of things to say.
Because it had reached one of those comfortable stopping points that existed only between people who had known one another most of their lives.
Outside the study windows, the afternoon continued its slow descent toward evening.
The sunlight had shifted again, abandoning one side of the room entirely and gathering instead across the far wall.
Shadows stretched longer between shelves and furniture, softening sharp corners and turning familiar objects into darker shapes.
The Tower always felt different at this hour, Quieter, not truly silent.
The Red Keep never managed silence, yet somehow the noise changed.
Servants hurried less, Doors opened less frequently... and the castle seemed to exhale after a day spent holding its breath.
Baelor returned his attention to the paper before him, or attempted to.
The inked words remained where they belonged.
The names had not changed.
The responsibilities had not vanished.
Yet somehow he found himself reading the same line twice, then a third time. His focus refused to settle.
Across the table, Maekar watched.
Not obviously.
Never obviously.
The younger prince possessed many faults, but lack of observation was not one of them.
Years commanding men had sharpened certain instincts.
Years surviving the court had sharpened the rest.
And recently... Baelor had become easier to read than he realised.
The younger prince turned his goblet slowly between his fingers, watching the wine catch the fading light.
Then he spoke. "It is still here."
The words arrived so casually that they might have been mistaken for an afterthought.
Baelor looked up. His brow furrowed faintly. For a moment, he genuinely did not understand. "What is?"
Maekar's gaze lifted from the goblet. The look of a man who already knew the answer before asking. "The woman."
The words settled heavily between them.
Not because of their volume but because of their timing.
The study suddenly seemed quieter; the distant sounds beyond the windows felt farther away.
Baelor remained still.
For the briefest moment, something uncomfortable stirred beneath his ribs.
Not guilt, not quite... Awareness. Because he knew immediately who Maekar meant.
There were many women currently residing within the Red Keep.
Noblewomen.
Servants.
Ladies-in-waiting.
Guests are arriving daily for the upcoming ball.
Yet neither brother required clarification.
The woman.
Not a woman.
The woman.
And somehow that irritated him for the description felt dismissive, reducing you to a curiosity... A problem... An object of discussion rather than a person.
The correction left his mouth before he had time to consider it. "She."
The word landed sharper than intended.
Small, Simple, yet unmistakable.
Maekar's eyebrow rose slowly like a hunter spotting movement in distant brush.
Baelor realised his mistake immediately because the correction had been instinctive, Unthinking. The sort of response that revealed more than intended.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Across the table, Maekar continued watching him.
Not smiling.
Not commenting.
Which somehow felt significantly worse.
Baelor looked back down at the parchment, pretending to read.
Pretending the conversation had not shifted.
Pretending his pulse had not quickened slightly.
The effort fooled neither of them.
This time, surprisingly, his brother said nothing.
No grunt.
No scoff.
No dry comment meant to irritate him.
No immediate accusation.
Nothing.
And somehow, that felt worse.
Maekar simply sat there, goblet still in hand, studying him over the rim with an expression Baelor had learned to distrust years ago.
It was not the look his brother wore before a fight nor before an argument.
No, those were straightforward things, Easy things. Maekar excelled at straightforward things.
This look was different.
The expression of a man who believed he had already made his point and saw no reason to press further.
Outside the window, a gull cried somewhere above Blackwater Bay. The sound drifted through the study before disappearing again beneath the distant murmur of the castle.
Baelor became painfully aware of the word around him.
Of the quill's weight between his fingers.
Of the fact that he had not actually read a single word since his brother had spoken.
Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
He was the Hand of the King. He had sat through councils, negotiations and political disputes involving men twice his age and infinitely more stubborn than Maekar.
Yet somehow, one raised eyebrow from his younger brother had managed to unsettle him more effectively than half the Small Council combined.
To save himself from the conversation, or at least from the direction it threatened to take, Baelor returned his attention to the parchment before him one last time.
Fingers pressed gently against his temple, half for support and half to ease the faint ache growing there.
The last weeks had not been kind.
Preparations for the ball had consumed every waking hour:
Guests continued arriving.
Reports continued multiplying.
Problems appeared faster than solutions.
And still, despite all that work, despite the endless stack of responsibilities waiting upon his desk...
His thoughts betrayed him.
Because instead of thinking about arrival schedules, seating arrangements, or which lord would inevitably find fault with his assigned chambers, his mind drifted elsewhere.
To you.
The actualisation arrived with immediate irritation, as though his own thoughts had turned traitor.
He had spent two weeks avoiding exactly that, avoiding you.
Avoiding the nursery.
Avoiding invitations.
Avoiding every opportunity for another supper.
And yet somehow you remained present regardless.
A constant, invisible presence lingering around the edges of his days.
He learned of your well-being through servants. Not intentionally, of course. Yet information found its way to him regardless.
A passing comment from a maid.
A remark from Ellyn.
The occasional report from someone working within the nursery.
Small details.
Insignificant details.
The sort of man a man should not remember. And yet he did.
He knew which oils you preferred for your baths.
He knew which flowers had appeared in your chambers after one servant mentioned you liked their scent.
He knew you continued to take the boys into the gardens whenever the weather allowed.
He knew Matarys still refused to nap unless thoroughly exhausted first.
And he knew Valarr spoke about you constantly.
The boy mentioned your name so often that some days Baelor felt as though he had seen you despite actively avoiding your presence.
The thought should have amused him. Instead, it left an unpleasant ache somewhere beneath his ribs.
Across the table, Maekar remained silent, watching, waiting.
And Baelor sensed it without looking. Felt it.
The weight of observation lingered in the room, though his brother could somehow see every thought passing behind his eyes.
Eventually, unable to ignore it any longer, he glanced up.
"What?" he asked. The word came out sharper than intended.
Maekar did not even blink. "Nothing."
A lie. A terrible lie.
The answer came immediately, too immediately. The sort of answer people gave when the truth was, in fact, very much something.
The sort only brothers attempted.
Baelor stared at him.
Across the table, Maekar appeared entirely unbothered by the accusation hidden within the single word.
He simply took another drink from his goblet, as though they had been discussing the weather rather than something considerably more dangerous.
The faint scratching of branches against stone beyond the window.
The distant movement of servants somewhere below.
The crackle of a log shifting within the fireplace.
It was absurd, absolutely absurd.
Yet somehow his brother had managed to transform a perfectly ordinary conversation into an interrogation without asking a single question.
Baelor hated when people did that. More irritatingly, he hated that it worked.
His eyes returned briefly to the papers before him, a motion he had repeated far too many times. Yet he saw no other escape, other than to pretend to work... to attempt to work, refusing to accept that it would be impossible at the moment.
The same arrival schedule.
The same names.
The same list he had attempted to read three times already, perhaps even more.
His gaze landed upon one particular lord from the Reach, Read the name, Moved on and Stopped. He concluded that he had not absorbed a single word.
A muscle tightened in his jaw.
Across from him, Maekar continued existing. That was perhaps the most frustrating part.
The man was not even doing anything.
No smirk.
No mocking comment.
No knowing grin.
Nothing.
Just sitting there, drinking wine... Existing.
And somehow, making Baelor increasingly aware of every thought he would have preferred remained private.
His younger brother had always possessed that particular talent, even as boys, especially as boys.
Maekar had never been the charming one.
Never the diplomatic one.
Never was the brother capable of winning people over with easy smiles and pleasant words.
Instead, he watched... Observed.... Remembered.
A quality that made him an excellent commander and an insufferable sibling.
Baelor finally placed the quill down.
Not because he intended to stop working but because pretending to work had become impossible.
The gesture earned no visible reaction from Maekar, which only made him more suspicious.
The prince leaned back slightly, fingers pressing once against the bridge of his nose.
The beginnings of a headache lingered there.
Not severe but just enough to remind him that sleep had become something of a stranger recently.
The recognition annoyed him further, because he knew precisely when it had started.
Not during preparations for the ball.
Not during the arrival of guests.
Not during some political dispute requiring his attention.
No... It had begun after that supper... After the silence... After the touch of your hand resting atop his... After the moment when common sense had nearly abandoned you both.
His hand lowered slowly.
Outside the windows, evening continued its gradual approach.
The sunlight had turned warmer now, Gold deepening toward amber.
The shadows stretched longer across the study floor. And despite every effort to direct his attention elsewhere, his thoughts drifted again.
Toward the nursery.
Toward the gardens.
Toward brief glimpses stolen from distant balconies when he should have been reviewing reports.
Toward a woman he had spent the better part of two weeks avoiding.
Not because he wished to avoid you, that was perhaps the problem.
And somewhere across the table, Baelor had the unpleasant suspicion that Maekar already knew it.
Maekar continued staring for several moments, as though he could somehow read the thoughts Baelor was trying so carefully to keep hidden. Perhaps he could.
Or perhaps years of brotherhood had simply taught him how to recognise certain patterns. Exhaustion looked different depending on its source.
The fatigue of work settled upon a man's shoulders, weighing down his movements.
The fatigue of grief hollowed the eyes.
The fatigue of sleepless nights left its own marks as well. Whatever Maekar saw now, it was enough to hold his attention.
Baelor sensed it keenly.
Not the scrutiny itself. He had spent his entire life being observed.
Princes learned early how to endure watchful eyes: Courtiers observed, Lords observed, Enemies observed. Even allies observed when they thought nobody noticed.
No, what unsettled him was the uncomfortable feeling that his brother was seeing too much.
For two weeks, he had buried himself beneath work with a dedication that bordered on obsession.
Every spare moment had been filled with reports, correspondence, and preparations for the approaching ball.
His hours were filled with meetings with the household officials, discussions with merchants, reviews of guest accommodations, and a hundred other responsibilities that normally would have occupied only part of his attention.
This time, however, he had welcomed the burden.
Work demanded focus.
Work demanded structure.
Work did not ask difficult questions.
Unfortunately, the strategy had failed far more often than he cared to admit.
The problem was that no matter how many parchments occupied his desk, no matter how many hours he spent locked inside his study, reminders of you continued appearing where he least expected them.
Sometimes it came from Valarr.
The boy spoke of you constantly, often without realising it.
A story from breakfast would somehow become a story about something you had said.
A lesson would become a comparison to one of your lessons.
A discussion regarding the gardens would inevitably include an observation about where you preferred to sit when Matarys grew tired.
At first, Baelor had not noticed. Then he had, and after that, it became impossible not to.
Other reminders arrived from elsewhere.
A servant mentioned that you had requested extra blankets for one of the boys after a chilly night.
Another remarking upon how Matarys had become increasingly determined to walk on his own.
Even Ellyn occasionally appeared carrying information entirely by accident, speaking so naturally that she likely never realised how much Baelor listened.
He never asked . The information simply found him. And despite himself, he remembered every detail.
Across the table, Maekar finally shifted in his seat, drawing Baelor from his thoughts.
The movement was minor, yet it seemed oddly loud within the study.
The younger prince leaned back slightly, stretching one leg beneath the table before fixing his brother with a look that had not softened in the slightest.
There was no mockery in it, no amusement, no accusation.
Only the calm certainty of a man who had concluded and was waiting to see how long it would take everyone else to catch up.
Baelor disliked that look immensely, partly because he recognised it.
Mostly because Maekar only wore it when he believed he was right. And experience had taught him that arguing against such conviction rarely ended well.
The sunlight had nearly abandoned the room now. Shadows stretched across the shelves, creeping steadily upward while the first hints of evening gathered beyond the windows.
The study felt smaller than before, quieter somehow; the endless bustle of the castle pushed farther away.
And still the conversation lingered between them.
The woman.
Two simple words. Yet somehow they had managed to occupy the entire room.
Eventually, the silence became impossible to ignore.
Not because it had grown uncomfortable, but because it had become deliberate.
There was a difference.
The comfortable ones shared between brothers felt effortless. They settled naturally, requiring nothing from either party.
This one felt different. It lingered with purpose, stretching itself between them like a rope pulled steadily tighter with each passing moment.
Baelor could feel it.
Every time he looked down at the parchment before him.
Every time he became aware of Maekar's continued presence across the table.
Every time he caught himself thinking about anything except the work he was supposed to be completing.
His younger brother had said remarkably little since mentioning you.
A lesser man would have pushed, would have asked questions, would have made accusations, or would have made observations or jokes.
Maekar had done none of those things.
Instead, he had simply planted the thought and left it there like a hunter setting a trap and then patiently waiting to see whether the prey would wander into it on its own.
Unfortunately, Baelor was beginning to suspect he already had.
His brother remained where he had been all along, appearing perfectly content despite accomplishing absolutely nothing productive for the better part of an hour.
The sight alone was enough to irritate any man burdened with responsibility. "
You look smug," the accusation left his mouth before he fully considered it.
Across the table, one pale eyebrow lifted. The expression would have appeared innocent to someone unfamiliar with Maekar.
Baelor was not unfamiliar with Maekar.
The younger prince knew exactly what he was doing. "I am not smug." The denial came without hesitation.
Years ago, when they were boys, Baelor might have accepted the answer. Experience had cured him of that weakness. "You are." A faint pause followed.
The corner of Maekar's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly before disappearing again.
Then, with all the solemnity of a man delivering grave news to the realm, he replied, "I am disappointed."
For a moment, Baelor simply stared.
Outside, a gust of wind rattled softly against the windows. Somewhere within the tower, a door opened and closed again. The sounds drifted through the study and vanished just as quickly.
Inside, neither brother moved as the statement lingered.
Not because it carried genuine condemnation but because it was absurd; Completely and utterly absurd.
Baelor had known Maekar his entire life.
The man was disappointed by at least three things before breakfast each morning, usually more.
A particularly stubborn horse could disappoint him.
A rainy day could disappoint him.
An undercooked meal could disappoint him.
The realm itself disappointed him with alarming regularity.
The idea that this particular matter had somehow been added to the list should not have surprised him.
And yet it did.
Perhaps because there was no mockery behind it. Only a frustrating sincerity that immediately put him on guard.
Baelor reclined back slightly, studying his brother more carefully. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
Maekar's fingers turned the goblet slowly between his hands.
The movement appeared casual, yet Baelor knew better.
Whenever his brother took this long to answer a question, it meant he was choosing his words carefully.
Which, somehow, felt significantly more dangerous than if he had simply spoken his mind.
Maekar did not answer immediately.
The goblet continued its slow rotation between his hands, the wine catching the last of the afternoon light whenever it turned.
The study had grown noticeably darker now.
What sunlight remained lingered near the windows and along the upper shelves, while the centre of the room had begun surrendering itself to evening.
Neither man seemed particularly eager to summon more candles.
The fading light suited the conversation, or perhaps it simply suited Maekar's mood.
His gaze drifted briefly toward the open window before returning to his brother. "You want the truth?"
Baelor almost laughed. The question itself was suspicious.
Very few good things had ever followed those particular words. Yet after several moments, he nodded once.
The gesture was small, Reluctant.
Maekar accepted it.
For a moment, he simply studied him, and Baelor had the distinct feeling of being measured.
Not as Hand.
Not as heir.
Not as the prince the realm saw.
As a brother.
As the boy Maekar had grown up beside.
The distinction mattered.
"You sound different." Maekar continued.
The answer caught him off guard.
Not because it was harsh,becausee it wasn',t but because Baelor had prepared himself for criticism.
For some blunt observation.
For one of Maekar's notoriously poor diplomatic attempts.
Instead, the statement felt strangely simple... perhaps... Almost thoughtful.
His brow furrowed slightly. "Different." The word tasted strange.
Maekar nodded. "Different."
Baelor found himself unexpectedly aware of the weight of the chair beneath him, of the faint ache lingering at the base of his neck from too many hours spent bent over reports.
The room smelled faintly of parchment and ink, mixed now with the cooler evening air drifting through the windows.
Normally, such things grounded him. Toda,y they did not. "What does that even mean?" The question sounded more defensive than he intended.
Unfortunately, Maekar noticed; he noticed everything.
The younger prince leaned back slightly. "A month ago," he said slowly, "You spoke about her like she was a temporary arrangement."
The words settled quietly between them.
Baelor remembered. Of course,se he remembered.
The conversation had taken place in this very room.
At the time, it had seemed a reasonable assessment, A practical one.
You were a stranger.
A foreign woman recommended through circumstance and necessity.
Someone was hired to help his sons through a difficult period.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Across the table, Maekar continued watching, allowing the silence to do part of the work for him.
Baelor hated that strategy because it worked.
Eventually, he exhaled quietly. "A month ago," he admitted, "I had only known her for three days."
The answer sounded reasonable. Yet even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were incomplete.
And judging by the look settling across Maekar's face, his brother knew it too.
The younger prince gave a slow nod, a simple acknowledgement.
For a few moments, neither brother spoke.
The stillness somehow encouraged honesty more effectively than questions ever could.
Baelor hated that. Eventually, he set the paper aside.
The movement felt strangely final.
As though he had accepted the conversation would not be returning to guest lists and arrival schedules anytime soon.
"Valarr has improved." The words left him before he had fully decided to speak them.
Across the table, Maekar's attention sharpened slightly.
The younger prince remained silent, allowing his brother to continue.
Baelor found himself looking toward the window, toward the darkening sky beyond.
The sight helped somehow, as if it made the words easier to hear.
"The boy laughs again. Not politely, not because he believes he should." His voice softened without permission, and a faint smile touched his lips despite himself. "Not because he believes he should."
The image arrived easily.
Valarr sprawled across the nursery floor.
Valarr was covered in sand after the beach.
Valarr is attempting to teach someone thrice his age how to survive a shipwreck.
The memories came one after another.
Small Insignificant Things. Yet somehow they carried more weight than many of the grand events he attended as Hand.
"He argues." That earned the faintest twitch from Maekar. The closest thing to amusement. Baelor noticed.
"He always argued.” His brother pointed out.
The answer came immediately. "No. There is a difference."
The words settled between them.
Before, Valarr's resistance had often felt born of grief, of frustration, of sadness he lacked the words to explain.
Now... Now he argued. He was a boy. He wants things,becheldossessed opinions.
The distinction mattered more than most people would understand.
"He sleeps better." The confession came quieter. The sort of detail only a father noticed. Or perhaps only a father admitted.
"He stopped waking every night."
A pause followed.
Long enough for old memories to creep forward.
Valarr after his mother's death.
The sleepless nights... The nightmares.
The tears hidden behind stubborn pride.
The way he had begun carrying sadness around his shoulders like a cloak too heavy for a child.
Baelor swallowed once. Even now, those memories remained difficult.
Across from him, Maekar said nothing.
Not because he lacked sympathy but because he understood.
The younger prince had children of his own.
He knew exactly how helpless a father could feel. He truly felt helpless with the situation his firstborn was in. A situation very similar to Valarr’s, only progressively worse; a downhill with a small chance of recovery.
Baelor exhaled slowly. "He smiles more."
The statement sounded almost foolish once spoken aloud. Yet perhaps it was the most important thing he had said.
Because smiles had become rare for a time. The kind of rarity that made every absence impossible to ignore.
And now they returned more frequently.
The change had happened gradually.
So, he gradually hadn't noticed it at first.
Until one day, he comprehended he could no longer remember when he had last seen that empty look haunting his son's eyes.
Maekar remained quiet, making his brother look at him. The Young Dragon was not a man who rushed to fill silence.
If anything, he preferred letting it settle until other people became uncomfortable enough to start speaking again.
It was a habit that had frustrated Baelor since childhood and, judging by the complete lack of remorse on his brother's face, would likely continue frustrating him until both of them were old men.
Baelor waited.
A month ago, he would never have spoken this long about the improvements in Valarr's mood.
He certainly would not have found himself discussing smiles, laughter and sleeping habits as though they were matters worthy of political consideration.
Yet they were worthy.
What struck Baelor most was the absence of immediate disagreement.
His brother had spent weeks questioning your presence.
Weeks viewed the arrangement with suspicion.
Weeks waiting for evidence that would justify his concerns.
Yet now, after hearing what had changed in Valarr, he did not argue. He did not dismiss it.
He did not even attempt to explain it away.
Instead, he seemed to be considering it, and That Alone felt like a victory, or perhaps something more dangerous than a victory.
Because consideration meant Maekar was taking the matter seriously.
The younger prince's gaze eventually lifted toward him again, thoughtful rather than confrontational.
There was something almost reluctant in his expression now, as though he had arrived at a conclusion he had not particularly wanted to reach.
Baelor knew that look.
It was the face of a man forced to admit reality had refused to match his expectations.
For all his stubbornness, Maekar was not unfair. Suspicious, certainly. Difficult, frequently. But once presented with enough evidence, he rarely clung to a position simply out of pride.
The problem was that convincing him usually took far longer than convincing anyone else.
Eventually, Maekar's eyes drifted toward the scattered parchments covering the table before returning to his brother. There was no accusation in his gaze this time. No trace of the earlier scepticism.
Only a quiet observation formed behind his eyes.
There was no smug satisfaction upon his face. No triumphant expression from a man who believed he had won some argument.
Then he spoke. "Father studies her."
The words settled into the room.
Baelor said nothing because they were true.
The King had always possessed a remarkable ability to observe people. Few escaped his notice entirely, and even fewer earned prolonged interest.
Yet somehow, despite all the demands placed upon a ruler, Daeron had found time to summon you, question you and form his own opinions.
"Mother likes her."
Baelor's gaze drifted briefly toward the darkened window. Of all the statements, that one perhaps surprised him the least.
His mother liked very few people, respected more than she liked, and tolerated more than she respected.
Yet something about you had clearly earned her approval.
Across the table, Maekar continued. "Now you defend her. You all seem remarkably determined to keep her."
The statement settled heavily between them.
Baelor found himself looking down at the table and its contents. Anything except the uncomfortable truth lingering beneath his brother's words.
Because the more he considered it, the harder it became to dismiss.
The King.
The Queen.
Valarr.
Matarys.
Even himself.
All of them, in different ways, had begun arranging their lives around the assumption that you would remain.
Across the table, Maekar rose to his feet.
The movement broke the stillness as Wood scraped softly against stone.
The younger prince stretched once, releasing tension from his shoulders after sitting still too long.
Somewhere beyond the study, duties awaited him as well.
Yet before leaving, he paused. His hand settled briefly against the back of the chair.
When he spoke again, his voice carried no hostility. Only the blunt honesty for which he had become infamous. "Do not give me reason to regret it."
The warning was simple, straightforward, and oddly fair.
Then, without waiting for a response, Maekar turned and crossed the room.
For several moments, Baelor remained exactly where he was as the study suddenly felt larger.
The dying light from the windows cast long shadows across the room while the first candle flames flickered softly against the walls.
His thoughts drifted elsewhere, back to a single observation spoken almost casually.
"You all seem remarkably determined to keep her."
The words echoed unpleasantly within his mind.
Because for reasons he still struggled to define, the thought of you leaving felt wrong. And that troubled him far more than anything his brother had said all afternoon.
Lord Lyonel Baratheon was a man who liked to party, drink and fight in equal measures. Prone to boredom, nothing else held his interest.
Until one night, when he meets a peculiar girl named Victa Estermont. She is wild, smiley and quick to speak; caring little for titles, rules and etiquette.
He is intrigued, and he aims to follow her. To his surprise, this turtle seemed to be faster than the stag expected.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Pairing: Fem!OC x Lyonel Baratheon
Chapter Warnings: None
Chapter XLI: LINK
Chapter XLIII: LINK
Chapter XLII: The Lady of the Stormlands, part 1
Time marched forward as it always did.
Neither kings nor fishermen, neither lovers nor warriors possessed the power to halt its endless advance.
Seasons came and went with quiet certainty.
The sea continued to rise and retreat against the ancient cliffs of Storm's End, each tide erasing yesterday's footprints before making room for tomorrow's.
Autumn surrendered to winter.
Winter slowly softened beneath the first warm breath of spring.
Flowers bloomed once more, birds returned to their familiar nests, and before long, another generous summer had come to grace the Seven Kingdoms.
A full year had passed since the impossible wedding that had given the Stormlands something few believed Lord Lyonel Baratheon would ever possess.
A wife.
Life settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Not perfect, never entirely predictable... But theirs.
They discovered little habits they had never spoken about before.
Victa learnt that Lyonel absentmindedly left his gloves wherever he removed them, only to spend the next hour loudly wondering who had stolen them before finding them exactly where he had abandoned them.
Lyonel learnt that if his wife quietly disappeared for longer than a few minutes, she could almost always be found somewhere amongst flowers, kitchens, and libraries or speaking with someone everyone else had forgotten to greet.
Some mornings began with laughter and others with teasing.
Others still had quiet conversations shared over breakfast while rain battered the windows overlooking Shipbreaker Bay.
Some evenings, they wandered the battlements together simply to watch storms gather upon the horizon.
Others ended with Victa reading old tales aloud while Lyonel rested with his head upon her lap, insisting he was listening even when sleep claimed him halfway through the story.
It was not a perfect life.
It was something far better... A shared one.
Storm's End, once a fortress of cold stone and unwavering discipline, slowly began changing in ways so quiet that almost no one noticed them at first.
The gardens bloomed. Flowers that had struggled for years suddenly flourished beneath careful hands.
New herbs appeared beside the kitchens while climbing roses embraced forgotten walls, their green vines slowly softening stone that had weathered centuries of storms.
Colourful wildflowers found homes beside pathways that had once known only grey rock, their bright petals dancing whenever sea breezes wandered through the castle grounds.
Servants smiled more often.
Soldiers discovered that the new Lady Baratheon somehow remembered nearly every name she had ever been introduced to, often greeting them before they had the chance to bow.
The castle kitchens quietly doubled their supply of fresh fish.
The old stable cat mysteriously grew rather fat after deciding Lady Victa always carried scraps hidden somewhere upon her person.
Even Lord Baratheon eventually stopped questioning why fresh flowers had begun appearing throughout halls that had once seemed determined to remain forever stern.
No one had ordered it.
They simply... Appeared.
Lyonel often joked that if left unattended long enough, his wife would eventually convince vines to climb the Round Hall itself.
Victa had merely smiled. Then he was asked whether he believed Ivy preferred the shade or the sunlight.
His answer remained that he probably preferred talking to her.
By now...
Few questioned the unusual marriage anymore.
The whispers that had once followed them through feasts and tournaments had grown noticeably quieter with each passing season.
Not because people had forgotten but because they had finally begun to understand.
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The whispers had changed.
No longer did they ask why Lord Lyonel Baratheon had married so far beneath his station.
That question had quietly disappeared somewhere between weddings, harvest feasts and countless shared journeys across the Seven Kingdoms.
Instead...
People found themselves wondering how Storm's End had ever existed without its smiling Lady.
They travelled often that year.
Stormlords rarely refused invitations involving tournaments, fairs or feasts, especially when good company, loud music and plentiful food were promised alongside the celebrations.
Some journeys lasted only a handful of days while others carried them across entire kingdoms.
Victa quickly discovered that no two roads through Westeros were ever quite alike.
Some wound through thick forests where sunlight barely reached the earth beneath ancient branches.
Others crossed endless golden fields, followed quiet rivers or climbed hills from which entire castles could be seen standing proudly against the horizon.
She loved every single one.
Not simply because she was travelling beside Lyonel... But because every new road meant new people.
New flowers.
New stories.
There were tournaments where Lyonel returned bruised, muddy and grinning from ear to ear, proudly presenting ribbons, carved trinkets or peculiar little gifts he insisted had reminded him of Victa the moment he saw them.
Sometimes it was a smooth seashell from a merchant beside the coast.
Sometimes an oddly shaped stone.
Once...
A tiny carved hedgehog because, according to Lyonel, "it looked just as determined as you do whenever someone insults a flower."
Victa had laughed until tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.
The little hedgehog still rested safely within their chambers.
There were grand feasts where she danced until her feet protested, somehow convincing even the oldest and most stubborn Stormlords to attempt traditional island dances they had absolutely no hope of mastering.
Most failed spectacularly. Not that anyone seemed particularly concerned. Stormlanders had long believed enthusiasm far outweighed talent.
The louder the laughter became...
The more successful the evening usually was.
Bustling harvest fairs were overflowing with musicians, merchants, and children darting between colourful tents, while travelling performers competed with storytellers for every wandering audience.
Victa rarely returned empty-handed.
Sometimes she carried flowers.
Sometimes recipes copied from kind bakers.
Other times, little handmade trinkets were wrapped carefully in cloth because she already knew exactly who, back at Storm's End, would smile upon receiving them.
Each journey left them with another story, another memory, another reason to laugh together long after they had returned home.
And Lyonel...
Lyonel remained unmistakably himself.
He still laughed too loudly.
Still fought as though bruises were trophies rather than injuries.
Still considered a good tavern brawl preferable to most diplomatic negotiations.
Still greeted old rivals with crushing embraces before threatening to throw them into the nearest river if they dared lose too quickly.
In many ways... He had not changed at all.
Yet those closest to him slowly began noticing something else... Something quieter.
Something that revealed itself not during feasts... But afterward.
Not when crowds cheered... But when they began to disperse.
He no longer rode only for victory.
He rode for her.
For his smiling turtle.
Every tournament ended the same way:
Before removing his helmet...
Before speaking to squires...
Before accepting congratulations...
His first glance always sought the stands, patiently, instinctively. Searching through hundreds of unfamiliar faces until bright blue eyes finally found brown.
Only then... Only after seeing her smiling back at him... Did the Laughing Storm truly smile.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
And so... Another invitation arrived.
Like so many before it, the messenger appeared beneath the towering gates of Storm's End carrying sealed letters carefully protected from road dust and sea spray alike.
This one, however, carried a different sort of excitement.
A midsummer fair held upon the rich lands of the Riverlands. A celebration older than many castles themselves.
Three full days of feasting, music, bustling markets, horse races, archery contests, dancing beneath lantern light, friendly melees and every manner of entertainment one could imagine.
And... Naturally... A tournament.
Word spread through Storm's End surprisingly quickly.
Servants spoke of it while preparing meals.
Stable boys immediately began guessing which horses would make the journey.
Young squires whispered excitedly about famous knights they hoped might attend. Even several guards quietly discussed who might return carrying bruises this time.
The answer, most agreed, would almost certainly be Lord Lyonel. He rarely disappointed.
The Stormlords accepted the invitation before the messenger had properly finished reading it aloud.
Not one voice objected.
Not one suggested remaining home.
For if there existed one thing Stormlanders loved almost as much as rain... It was an excuse to celebrate.
Especially when someone else paid for the wine.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Preparations began almost immediately: Wagons were loaded, Horses brushed until their coats gleamed beneath the summer sun, Armour polished, Supplies counted and recounted.
Servants hurried through the castle, gathering everything required for several days on the road, while squires argued loudly over which practice lances deserved to make the journey.
The courtyard became wonderfully chaotic.
Victa watched much of it unfold from the steps outside the Round Hall, smiling as people hurried in every direction at once.
It reminded her, strangely enough, of turtles gathering before the first great storms of autumn.
Everyone appeared terribly busy.
Everyone insisted their own task was the most important.
Yet somehow... By the end of it all... Everything always found its proper place.
Lyonel emerged from the armoury carrying two swords across one shoulder as though they weighed no more than walking sticks.
He stopped the instant he spotted her watching. "What?" he asked with a grin.
Victa smiled innocently. "You look busy."
"I am busy."
"You seem rather pleased about it."
"I am." He shifted one sword beneath his arm before stepping closer. "There will be fighting."
"I suspected as much."
"There will be food."
"I rather hoped so."
"There will be dancing."
"I know."
"And..." His grin somehow widened even further. "...there will be enough merchants to keep you wonderfully distracted while I go and win something impressive."
Victa laughed. "I do not become distracted."
Lyonel raised an eyebrow. "My smiling turtle..." He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice with theatrical seriousness. "...last moon you disappeared for nearly half an hour because you found a travelling beekeeper and wished to ask whether bees preferred yellow flowers over blue ones."
Victa opened her mouth to object, and then quietly closed it again. "...they do," she admitted.
Lyonel laughed so loudly that several passing squires looked over their shoulders. "I know they do."
He gently kissed her lips, quick yet sweet; a promise that more would come later, as they always did. Then, he winked at her before continuing toward the stables.
"And somehow," he called over one shoulder, "I imagine you'll return from this fair carrying at least three things nobody expected you to buy."
Victa watched him disappear amongst the bustling courtyard.
A thoughtful smile tugged at her lips. Three? She silently suspected he had greatly underestimated her.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
The fairgrounds stretched across rolling green fields not far from the winding river itself, the gentle current glimmering beneath the warm summer sun like polished silver.
From the surrounding hills, the celebration looked almost like another little town that had appeared overnight.
Hundreds upon hundreds of brightly coloured tents dotted the landscape like scattered wildflowers: Crimson, Blue, Gold, Deep forest green.
Long banners fluttered lazily overhead whenever the afternoon breeze wandered through the open fields.
Each noble house proudly displayed its colours beside merchants who had travelled from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms and even farther still.
The air itself seemed alive.
Smoke drifted lazily upward from enormous roasting spits where pigs, chickens and whole sides of venison slowly turned above glowing coals.
The sweet scent of fresh bread escaped nearby ovens.
Honey, cinnamon and baked apples mingled with roasted chestnuts, smoked meats and mulled cider until the aromas blended into something so wonderfully tempting that even those who had eaten only moments before found themselves hungry again.
Victa caught herself smiling before they had even properly entered the fair.
Music floated constantly upon the breeze.
Minstrels played cheerful tunes beneath decorated pavilions while travelling singers competed with fiddlers and drummers only a few tents away.
Children darted between laughing adults waving little wooden swords, ribbons and brightly coloured pinwheels.
Dogs barked excitedly beneath crowded tables , hoping that generous hands might accidentally drop scraps.
Merchants shouted over one another with remarkable determination.
"Myrish lace!"
"Fresh honey!"
"The finest smoked trout in the Riverlands!"
"Step right up!"
"Win a ribbon for your sweetheart!"
Every voice insisted theirs deserved to be heard first.
Every stall fought to capture wandering eyes before the next one could.
Victa slowly turned where she stood, once and then a little farther. Brown eyes travelled everywhere at once as she hardly knew where to begin looking.
Every few heartbeats, something new stole her attention.
A glassblower shaping glowing molten glass.
A travelling puppeteer making children squeal with laughter.
A little girl proudly wearing a flower crown far too large for her tiny head.
Nearby, an elderly woman patiently taught three boys how to weave baskets while loudly scolding the eldest each time he tangled another strip of willow.
Victa's smile somehow softened even further. "This is wonderful..." she breathed almost to herself.
Beside her, Lyonel watched her rather than the fair. He had attended gatherings like this since childhood.
To him,m they were familiar.
Watching Victa discover them for the first time... That was something entirely new.
"You haven't even seen half of it yet," he chuckled.
She looked back at him, eyes shining with quiet excitement. "There is... more?"
"Oh, much more." He pointed toward another row of tents farther beyond. "That way you'll find musicians, storytellers and enough merchants to empty even a Lannister treasury."
Victa laughed, hands clasping tightly to contain her excitement. Eyes darting all around her, unable to decide what to visit first.
Lyonel noticed and smirked. "And over there," he continued, pointing toward another field, "The tourney grounds."
She followed his gesture.
Rows of practice rings stretched across the grass while squires hurried between armoured knights, making final adjustments to straps and buckles.
Beyond them stood the great wooden lists where the jousts would soon begin.
Trumpets sounded somewhere in the distance.
A fresh cheer rolled across the fields.
The tournament had begun.
Lyonel smiled. "I suppose duty calls."
Victa looked toward him. "So it does."
For a brief moment,t the noise of the fair seemed to disappear around them.
He stepped closer as His rough thumb brushed a stray curl behind her ear before adjusting the little antler crown resting upon her head.
"There." He tilted his head with obvious satisfaction. "My Lady of the Stormlands."
Victa felt warmth creep into her cheeks. "I thought I was your smiling turtle."
"You are."
"And your lady wife."
"You are. And now..." His grin returned in full. "...you are also the finest-looking lady at this fair."
Victa laughed, unable to stop herself. "You are terribly biased."
"I am." He sounded remarkably proud of the fact. "And I intend to remain so."
He bent to kiss her lips once again, this time taking his time. His hand dug into her curls, cradling her head as he stole the air from her lungs. Slowly, intimate; sensual enough to make their retinue look the other way.
Only when he felt satisfied did he pull back. But he was not done; he took her hand in his and gently kissed the back of her hand, beard tickling her enough to make her giggle.
Then did he reluctantly step back. "I shall return after I've finished throwing perfectly respectable knights into the dirt."
"I shall cheer loudly."
"I know you will."
"And whistle."
Lyonel sighed dramatically. "You always mention the whistling."
"Because I know you like it."
"I do."
She reached for his hand before he could pull it away. Their fingers intertwined for only a heartbeat.
A small squeeze. One silent promise.
Then they let go.
Lyonel turned toward the lists and Victa toward the stands.
The afternoon stretched before them, bright and full of laughter.
For three days... The burdens of lordship would be set aside, and Only joy was allowed to remain.
At least... That was the intention.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Upon the wooden tourney stands, Victa leaned forward in her seat, elbows resting lightly upon the carved railing before her.
The bright yellow Baratheon cloak rested across her shoulders despite the afternoon's warmth, its heavy folds cascading behind the chair like the tail of some great beast.
Resting upon her dark curls sat the familiar antlered crown Lyonel had placed upon her head on their wedding day.
The polished wood had become almost as familiar to her now as the turtle pendant resting against her chest, another little piece of him she wore with quiet pride.
A warm breeze swept across the stands, carrying with it the smell of trampled grass, churned earth and horses.
Somewhere below, a trumpet sounded, announcing another bout as excited chatter rippled through the gathered spectators.
Victa scarcely heard any of it as her attention remained fixed upon the arena.
Below, the melee had reached its final bouts.
Steel rang loudly against steel, each impact echoing across the enclosed field while dust rose beneath dozens of heavy boots.
Men shouted, spectators cheered, and, somewhere nearby, a child enthusiastically repeated every insult the knights hurled at one another, much to his mother's horror.
Laughter suddenly erupted from one particular corner of the arena.
Victa smiled before her eyes had even found him.
She did not need to search because she already knew that laugh.
Lyonel Baratheon.
The Laughing Storm himself.
Her Lord Husband.
Her Stag.
Even amongst hundreds of voices, his laughter remained unmistakable.
Her eyes found him immediately.
The afternoon sun glimmered off his armour as he circled his opponent with the same confidence he seemed to bring to everything he did.
Dust clung to his boots, fresh scrapes marked the steel protecting his forearms, and yet he looked as though he were enjoying himself far more than any man engaged in combat reasonably should.
His opponent, a broad knight nearly as large as Lyonel himself, lost his sword after a particularly vicious clash.
The weapon spun wildly across the packed earth before finally coming to rest several paces away.
The watching crowd roared.
The knight hurried instinctively towards it.
Lyonel... Simply laughed. Then, to everyone's utter confusion, he tossed his own sword aside.
It landed point-first in the dirt.
"What is he doing now..." Ser David sighed somewhere behind Victa.
Victa's smile only widened; she already knew.
Because this was her husband: Unapologetic, Peculiar, forever searching for the smallest loophole in any contest simply because it amused him.
He possessed an almost remarkable talent for turning perfectly respectable tournaments into stories people would still be laughing about years later.
If there existed even the narrowest opening to make a fight more entertaining, Lyonel would find it.
Able to discover an opportunity, the way a mouse found the smallest hole within a wall when danger followed close behind. Quicker than a barn swallow choosing the perfect beam beneath a roof to build its nest.
Lyonel rolled one shoulder before cracking his neck with an audible pop.
"Come now!" he shouted toward his bewildered opponent. "Steel has had its fun." A grin spread across his face. "Let's see if your mother made anything stronger than your sword arm!"
The crowd exploded with laughter.
Victa giggled alongside them, one hand instinctively rising to cover her smile.
Even his opponent found himself grinning despite the insult.
Then the knight charged, and Lyonel met him halfway.
The impact echoed across the field like two stags colliding upon a mountainside.
Hands seized tunics as Forearms strained.
Boots dug deep into the churned earth as both men fought for balance, each refusing to surrender even a single step.
The tournament had suddenly become a wrestling match.
No one objected.
No one attempted to stop them.
Instead, the cries of the crowd only grew louder.
Fresh wagers were shouted openly from every direction as the advantage shifted back and forth between the two men.
Some spectators abandoned conversations entirely.
Others climbed onto benches for a better view.
Even several knights fighting in neighbouring rings paused their own bouts to watch the spectacle unfold before them.
A few exchanged amused glances before laughing and attempting similar contests of strength themselves, casting their practice swords aside to settle matters shoulder against shoulder.
And Lyonel... Laughed through every single second of it.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
The melee continued long after Lyonel's latest victory.
His unfortunate opponent eventually admitted defeat somewhere beneath the younger stag's weight, earning another roar of laughter from the crowd as Lyonel immediately offered the man his forearm and pulled him back onto his feet.
Rather than boasting or celebrating his victory alone, he wrapped the defeated knight in a crushing embrace, laughing loudly enough that those nearest them found themselves laughing as well, whether they knew the joke or not.
Whatever had been shouted between them during the match remained upon the field.
That had always been Lyonel's way: Fight fiercely, laugh louder, then buy your opponent a drink before sunset.
Victa laughed alongside everyone else, two fingers slipping into her mouth before a sharp whistle rang across the arena in celebration.
The familiar sound rose proudly above the cheering crowd.
Lyonel's head snapped towards the stands almost immediately.
He found her within moments, and His grin somehow widened even further.
It had become something of a tradition between them over the past year.
Victa whistle,d and Lyonel searched for it.
The sound never failed to make him smile.
It was one trick he loved beyond reason and yet, despite countless attempts and an astonishing amount of determination, one he had utterly failed to master himself.
She had tried teaching him patiently, again and again.
He had watched her lips, fighting temptations to suck them until they were bruised. When corrected, he focused as much as he could.
He copied her breathing, attempted every explanation she offered.
Nothing.
In the end, he had simply surrendered.
“How about I will win the matches and you will whistle in celebration, for the both of us,” he had told her after another spectacularly unsuccessful lesson, his head resting comfortably upon her lap. At the same time, she absentmindedly combed gentle fingers through his dark curls.
Victa had agreed with a laugh.
It had remained their arrangement ever since.
The victor disappeared soon after, accompanied by squires and fellow Stormlords already eager to congratulate him upon yet another victory.
His armour would need tending, Fresh bruises inspected and whatever blood stained his sleeves washed away before the evening feast.
Victa knew the routine by now.
She had watched enough tournaments over the past year to recognise the familiar order of things.
The armour first, then food. Though often Lyonel would just attend a feast in armour, caring little for the sweat gathering beneath it.
It took Victa quite some time to persuade him. Now, her Stag kept the routine and, in return, enjoyed his wife even more at night.
Before disappearing behind the colourful rows of pavilions, however... He looked toward the stands.
Even surrounded by hundreds upon hundreds of faces... His blue eyes found hers.
As they always did.
Victa smiled, and He answered with an exaggerated wink before finally disappearing.
Ser David released a long-suffering sigh. "There he goes."
Victa turned towards the loyal knight beside her.
Around them, Lyonel's household knights remained scattered throughout the Baratheon section of the stands, some seated, others standing watch with relaxed familiarity.
Though their lord fought below amongst the competitors, none allowed their attention to drift far from the woman seated beneath the yellow stag banners.
No one had ordered them to do so; Lyonel never needed to either.
Somewhere over the past year, protecting Lady Victa had simply become second nature.
Whenever Lyonel entered a tournament list, they naturally settled close by, ensuring she lacked neither company nor safety while waiting for his return.
Their presence had become strangely comforting.
Often they pointed excitedly whenever Lyonel attempted one of his more ridiculous manoeuvres, eagerly explaining where he had first learnt it or recalling the last poor soul unfortunate enough to experience it.
Other times, they groaned dramatically whenever he ignored perfectly sensible tactics in favour of something significantly more entertaining.
Half their complaints were entirely genuine.
The other half existed solely because they knew Lady Victa laughed every single time.
And her laughter... Her laughter had become one of their favourite sounds.
Bright.
Unrestrained.
As warm as sunlight after weeks of rain.
"He does seem rather happy," Victa commented, unable to stop smiling herself.
"'Rather happy,'" the knight repeated with a laugh. "My lady, the man has won three bouts today. Give him enough wine, and he'll challenge the musicians to a wrestling match before sunset."
Victa giggled. "I think he means well."
"Oh, he absolutely does." The older knight folded his arms. "The problem is..." He watched Lyonel vanish entirely. "...he always means well."
That only made Victa laugh harder.
The image of Lyonel attempting to wrestle a bewildered travelling minstrel while an audience loudly placed wagers seemed entirely believable.
In truth... She was not completely certain it had never happened before.
With Lyonel occupied for a while, there was little reason to remain seated.
The melee would soon give way to jousting and archery before the evening celebrations began, leaving more than enough time to explore everything the fair had to offer.
Already she could see colourful banners dancing above distant merchant stalls while the warm breeze carried tempting scents of fresh bread and roasted honeyed nuts across the fairgrounds.
Her curiosity stirred almost immediately.
"My lady?" Ser Herold asked.
Victa's brown eyes had already wandered toward the countless stalls stretching far beyond the tournament grounds.
Bright fabrics fluttered in the breeze.
Music drifted lazily through the afternoon air.
She could just make out merchants waving excitedly at passing customers.
Her smile softened into something almost sheepish. "...may we?"
The old knight followed her gaze.
Colourful banners danced above dozens upon dozens of merchant stalls.
Spices.
Sweet cakes and candied apples.
Glasswork from Myr.
Carpets from Pentos.
Carved toys from the North.
Jewellery.
Silks.
Fresh flowers.
The fair seemed endless.
Ser Herold already knew the answer before she had even asked.
He gave one resigned nod. "As you wish."
Ser David smirked. "I shall pray for the merchants."
Together... They descended from the wooden stands.
Hey. Absolutely love both Stag's smiling Turtle and Needle & Thread. Phenomenal writing, truly.
I was however wondering, just out of curiosity, whether you already know approximately how long those two will be. (No stress or pressure, I'm just curious as all hell, really.)
Hello! 💙
Always makes me happy to wake up to asks 💙
Well, I don't exactly know their exact length to be honest. I thought I did but the more I write, the more they seem not to end.
By my calculations, the Smiling Turtle will be around 60-65 chapters long in total (if I don't get carried away some more).
Now for Needle & Thread... maybe something similar..60-70 chapters (maybe a little less. Depends on what we cover until the Ashford tourney).
They won't be ending soon, I can promise ya that (I have tried and failed to keep a story short and quick 😅).
When your land is plagued by wars and death becomes an everyday thing, your hands learn to become more stable than a maester's.
You learn to look into a killer's eyes and understand forgiveness. You learn that justice is a heavy sword to be carried.
But when you meet a Targaryen Prince burdened by duty and grief, your souls vibrate to the same frequency. And perhaps, the world is not as dark as you both originally thought.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warnings: None
Chapter XXX: LINK
Chapter XXXII: LINK
Chapter XXXI: Blood is Thicker than Water
Your attention drifted across the nursery once more.
At first, it was nothing more than a passing observation, the sort that arrived naturally while listening to a parent speak about their children.
Dyanna spoke of Aerion's boundless energy and remarkable ability to find trouble wherever it was hiding.
She spoke of Daela's habit of refusing sleep whenever it suited her and Aemon's growing fascination with stories, books and anything that involved sitting quietly for long periods of time.
You listened while Matarys rested heavily against your chest, his body growing warmer and heavier with each passing minute as sleep slowly claimed him.
The nursery had settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Not quiet... Never quiet. But familiar.
The sort of noise that eventually became part of the background.
Aerion and Valarr continued their battle against imaginary invaders.
Spur remained firmly loyal to whichever side currently possessed food.
Aemon sat nearby, silent and observant as always.
Daela drifted somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.
The picture felt complete, or at least it should have.
Yet something continued tugging quietly at the edge of your thoughts.
A small inconsistency.
A detail refusing to settle.
You frowned faintly and then counted again.
Aerion.
Aemon.
Daela.
Your eyes swept across the room before returning to Dyanna.
The answer came almost immediately.
One child was missing.
Not forgotten... Missing.
You remembered her mentioning an eldest son earlier in the conversation. The name had surfaced briefly amongst stories and observations before being swept away beneath newer topics.
At the time, you had not thought much of it, but now the absence stood out.
The way an empty chair might stand out during supper, once someone pointed it out.
You found yourself searching the room again despite already knowing he wasn't there.
Old habits.
Battlefield habits.
The instinct to account for everyone present... And everyone who was absent.
Your gaze eventually settled upon Dyanna once more. "Where is the eldest?" The question escaped before you could reconsider it.
Immediately, you regretted it.
Not because the question itself seemed rude, but because of what happened afterwards.
The change was small.
So small that many people would have missed it entirely.
The children certainly did.
Aerion remained occupied with the important matter of recruiting Spur into military service.
Valarr loudly disagreed with whatever strategy his cousin currently proposed.
Matarys slept.
Aemon watched.
Life continued. Yet something had shifted within Dyanna.
Not dramatically.
Not enough to draw attention.
The smile remained, the warmth remained, but something heavier settled behind both. The way clouds sometimes passed before the sun without fully obscuring it.
A shadow.
A weight.
A worry that clearly lived close to the surface.
You knew that expression.
Not because you had seen it upon her before, but because you had seen it upon countless mothers.
Women carrying burdens they could not share, Fears they could not solve.
The sort of worry that became permanent after enough sleepless nights.
Instantly, guilt pricked at you.
You should not have asked. Realisation came too late. "I'm sorry," you began quietly. "I didn't mean—"
"No." Dyanna shook her head gently. The interruption carried no irritation, no anger. Only weariness. "It is alright."
One hand moved automatically across Daena's tiny back.
The gesture seemed unconscious, Instinctive even. As though touching one child somehow helped soothe worries about another.
The answer that followed confused you even more. "He should be here."
Your brow furrowed.
Not because of what she said, but because of how she said it.
Not: He is resting.
Not: He is studying.
Not: He preferred staying elsewhere.
Instead, He should be here.
The wording carried expectation, hope, and Disappointment; All woven together.
You felt curiosity rise, and alongside it... concern.
Before you could decide whether asking more questions would be wise, a faint sound drifted from the doorway.
The soft scrape of a shoe against stone.
Every head turned. Even Spur paused.
The nursery seemed to hold its breath. And there, framed within the doorway, stood a boy.
Older than the others; Not by much. Yet enough that the difference was immediately noticeable.
Your first thought was that he did not resemble his siblings as strongly as you expected.
His colouring carried traces of both families.
Where Aerion, Aemon and Daela looked Targaryen unmistakably, this boy bore signs of House Dayne as well.
His hair caught the afternoon sunlight in shades of gold and light brown, neither fully silver nor fully dark.
A softer blend.
A meeting point between bloodlines.
Yet it was not his appearance that held your attention. It was his eyes, or perhaps the exhaustion behind them.
You could not have explained it if asked.
The boy looked healthy, Well cared for.. And yet... Tired.
Not the sort of tiredness solved by a good night's sleep... Something deeper.
Something that lingered beneath the surface.
A heaviness that did not belong upon a child.
The sight tightened something inside your chest before you even understood why.
For a moment,t he remained where he was. Neither entering nor leaving simply... standing... Watching.
The nursery remained filled with noise: Children laughed, Spur barked. Cushions littered the floor.
Yet somehow he stood apart from all of it. As though observing the scene through glass. Close enough to see, yet too far away to join.
Dyanna's entire expression softened. The transformation was immediate.
The look of a mother spotting a wound nobody else could see. "Daeron."
The boy's gaze shifted toward her, then toward the room.
Toward the laughter.
Toward Aerion.
Toward Aemon.
Toward Matarys sleeping peacefully against your chest.
And finally... Toward you.
The stranger.
For the briefest moment, your eyes met, and then his gaze dropped immediately.
Not out of disrespect. Not out of fear. Something else.
Something painfully familiar.
And suddenly you understood why the sight unsettled you so deeply.
Because you knew that look.
Not from him... From yourself.
You had seen it reflected in rivers, in polished metal, and in dark windows during sleepless nights.
The look carried by people who spend too much time alone with their thoughts.
The look carried by those who learned caution before they learned comfort.
Many mistook it for shyness. It rarely was.
The habit of watching before approaching.
The habit of measuring a room before entering it.
The habit of preparing for rejection before connection.
The habit of keeping one foot near the exit even when surrounded by people who loved you.
And suddenly, without meaning to, you found yourself worrying about him.
For several long moments, nobody moved.
The nursery continued around him.
Aerion shouted something incomprehensible from the opposite side of the room.
Valarr immediately argued back despite clearly having no idea what had been said.
Spur barked once, then again, eager to remain involved in every conversation, whether invited or not.
The sounds should have filled the room, yet somehow your focus remained fixed upon the boy standing in the doorway.
Daeron.
He looked caught between decisions.
Caught between entering and retreating.
The sight stirred something uncomfortable inside you.
Not pity.
You had always disliked that reaction. Pity felt hollow; people had looked down upon it.
This was something else.
Recognition, you guessed. A familiar ache.
The understanding that sometimes joining others required more courage than facing an enemy on a battlefield.
You wondered how often he stood like that.
How many doorways had witnessed the same hesitation?
How many rooms had he observed from a distance before finally forcing himself forward or turning away altogether?
The thought lingered only briefly before movement finally broke the stillness.
Aemon stood.
The action was so quiet, so natural, that for a moment nobody reacted.
The little prince simply pushed himself upright from the carpet and steadied himself upon uncertain legs.
He had been silent for most of the afternoon.
Now, however, something had caught his attention... Or perhaps someone.
You watched him cross the nursery. There was no urgency in his movements and no hesitation either.
The small prince simply walked toward his older brother with the calm certainty of someone following a path he had travelled many times before.
Dyanna noticed immediately.
You saw it in her eyes. This had happened before.
Aemon stopped directly in front of Daeron.
The older boy blinked and looked down at his young brother.
Neither spoke.
For a heartbeat, the brothers simply stared at one another.
One tired.
One patient.
One carrying burdens too large for his age.
The other was too young to understand them fully, yet somehow unwilling to leave him alone with them.
Then Aemon lifted his hand, speaking no words; offering no insight. He simply... offered his hand.
The gesture was so small, so simple. Yet it struck you harder than it should have.
Because there was no uncertainty in it.
Aemon was not asking Daeron if he wished to join them. In his mind, the matter had already been decided.
The hand was merely logistics. The practical solution to a problem already solved.
You found yourself staring.
Perhaps because children possessed a remarkable ability to cut through complications that adults spent entire lifetimes creating.
Daeron stared, too, as his gaze settled upon the offered hand.
The room remained unchanged around them: Laughter continued, Voices rose and fell, and sunlight spilt through the windows.
Yet somehow the world felt quieter for a moment, as though everyone was waiting.
Then Daeron's fingers closed gently around Aemon's.
Something eased within Dyanna immediately.
The change was subtle: a slight lowering of her shoulders, a breath she seemed to have been holding without realising it.
A mother's relief.
Aemon immediately turned around and began walking back toward the nursery as though the matter had already been settled.
Because to him, it had.
His older brother belonged with them. Therefore, his older brother was coming with him.
The problem no longer existed.
Daeron followed, not resisting, not arguing. He could easily, yet he never tried. In his mind, he had already given up on that battle, choosing to go for the easiest way.
And that one was to follow the tiny prince, guiding him back toward warmth, noise and company.
You found yourself smiling before realising it.
Beside you, Dyanna watched the same scene unfold. Her eyes never left her sons.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then curiosity finally won.
You glanced toward her. "Aemon does that often?" The question came softly.
Almost afraid of disturbing the moment.
A sound escaped Dyanna. Not quite laughter and not quite a sigh,h but rather, Something in between.
Her gaze remained fixed upon the two boys. "Aemon?" The smile that followed held equal parts affection and heartbreak. "He collects sad things."
The answer startled an actual laugh from you.
A real one.
The sort that escaped before manners could intervene.
Yet the moment the laughter left your mouth, you understood why it felt dangerous.
Because it was funny and devastating at the same time.
Your eyes drifted back toward Aemon.
The little prince had already reclaimed his place within the room.
Not beside his mother.
Not beside Aerion.
Beside Daeron.
As though ensuring the older boy remained anchored there.
As though afraid he might drift away otherwise.
You watched the pair for several moments, letting the image settle quietly into your memory.
Aemon offering his hand.
Daeron is taking it.
The simplicity of it.
The love hidden inside such a small gesture.
When you looked back toward Dyanna, the smile remained upon her face.
Yet now you noticed something else beneath it.
Sadness.
Not overwhelming.
Not dramatic.
Simply present.
The quiet sorrow carried by mothers who knew they could not solve every problem their children faced.
You knew that look, too, for you had seen it before.
Women watching sons march toward war.
Watching daughters grieve.
Watching loved ones suffer in ways no amount of protection could prevent.
You understood suddenly that whatever haunted Daeron, Dyanna had spent months trying to ease it... And failing.
Not through lack of effort, but through lack of answers.
"He has been trying to collect Daeron for months," she admitted quietly.
Your eyes returned to the eldest prince.
Toward the tiredness hidden behind his careful silence.
Toward the exhaustion lingering beneath eyes far too young to carry it.
Toward the strange loneliness that seemed to cling to him even while standing amongst family.
And for reasons you could not fully explain... You found yourself hoping he would stay.
Not for Dyanna. Not for appearances.
For himself.
Because no child should spend so much time standing alone in doorways.
The arrival of the autumn ball always brought chaos to King's Landing.
Ships crowded Blackwater Bay until their masts resembled a forest rising from the water itself. New banners appeared almost daily upon the city streets, colours and sigils from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms fluttering in the autumn breeze.
Merchants grew richer by the hour. Inns filled beyond capacity. Servants ran themselves ragged preparing for guests who had not even arrived yet.
The Red Keep felt the effects more than anywhere else.
Each passing day brought new arrivals through its gates.
Lords eager to renew alliances. Ladies eager to display daughters of marriageable age. Younger sons seeking opportunity. Older men seeking influence.
The castle seemed fuller with every sunrise, Louder, Busier... More demanding.
And nowhere was that burden felt more heavily than within the Tower of the Hand.
By late afternoon, the study had become a battlefield of its own.
Ledgers occupied one corner of the table.
Guest lists occupied another.
Letters sat stacked in neat piles awaiting review, while maps, seating arrangements and supply reports competed for what little space remained.
The scent of parchment, sealing wax and ink lingered heavily within the room.
Baelor stood at the centre of it all.
One hand rested against the polished table as his gaze moved steadily across the latest arrival schedules.
Names filled the page before him in careful rows, each one representing another responsibility, another conversation, another obligation demanding attention.
His eyes lingered upon one section before moving to the next.
The Reach.
The Vale.
The Stormlands.
The Crownlands.
The same dance repeated itself every year.
Only the names changed.
Across from him sat Maekar. Or rather, endured.
The younger prince occupied his chair with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man awaiting execution.
One leg stretched forward, and with one arm draped over the side. A goblet rested loosely within his hand while his expression suggested he would rather ride into battle than discuss another seating arrangement.
Baelor understood the feeling.
Unfortunately, understanding it did not make the work disappear.
"The Martells arrive three days before the event," Baelor said, glancing toward another parchment. "Rhaegal should be here by then."
Maekar grunted. The response contained neither surprise nor enthusiasm.
Simply an acknowledgement.
Baelor continued reading. "The Arryn delegation arrives two days after." Another grunt.
Years of brotherhood had taught Baelor to interpret such sounds with surprising accuracy.
That one translated roughly as: "I heard you." I dislike it. Continue.
The heir ignored it.
Outside the open window, gulls circled above Blackwater Bay. Their cries drifted faintly through the room alongside the distant sounds of the castle below.
Servants moving through courtyards, Guards changing posts...
The endless pulse of life within the Red Keep.
For a time, neither brother spoke further.
Only the scratching of Baelor's quill broke the silence.
Eventually, Maekar groaned.
The sound carried all the suffering of a man deeply wronged by existence itself. "I would rather fight the Dornish again."
A faint smile tugged at Baelor's mouth despite himself. "You say that every year."
"Because every year I am correct." The answer came immediately, without hesitation, without shame.
As though it were the most obvious truth in the Seven Kingdoms.
Baelor shook his head.
Across the table, Maekar looked entirely serious, which somehow made it worse.
The brief amusement faded as quickly as it had appeared.
Baelor returned his attention to the parchment before him, dipping the quill once more into the inkpot resting near his elbow.
Another arrival schedule awaited his review.
Another list of names.
Another collection of details that would inevitably become his responsibility before the evening was over.
Across the table, Maekar finished the remainder of his wine and contemplated whether throwing the goblet through the nearest window would improve his mood.
It would not, but the thought remained tempting.
The younger prince had never possessed much patience for administrative work. Give him a horse, a sword and a clear objective, and he was perfectly content.
Give him guest lists, seating charts and political negotiations,s and suddenly the prospect of a battlefield became remarkably appealing.
The silence between them remained comfortable. The sort earned through years of sharing rooms, campaigns, lessons and responsibilities.
The sort where neither man felt obligated to fill every moment with conversation.
Outside, the afternoon sun had begun its slow descent. Golden light spilt through the open windows, stretching across the study floor and warming the stone beneath their feet.
The silence between Baelor and Maekar had never required filling. It simply existed, settling comfortably across the room the same way the late afternoon sunlight settled across the stone floor.
Outside the open window, the sounds of the Red Keep continued uninterrupted.
Somewhere below, a servant called for another... A door closed.
The distant cries of gulls drifted from Blackwater Bay, carried upward by the wind before fading again.
Life moved endlessly around them.
Inside the study, however, time seemed slower.
The room smelled faintly of parchment and drying ink. Melted candle wax lingered beneath it, mixed with the familiar scent of old books that had occupied the shelves longer than either brother had occupied the tower itself.
Baelor found the smell oddly comforting, Predictable, and reliable, unlike people.
His gaze moved over another arrival list.
Three more houses from the Reach.
Two from the Stormlands.
One particularly troublesome lord from the Westerlands who would almost certainly complain about his assigned chambers regardless of where he was placed.
Baelor made a note beside the man's name, then another. Then, finally, set the parchment aside.
Across the table, Maekar had drifted somewhere between boredom and suffering.
The prince sat slouched deeper into his chair than was proper for royalty, one hand wrapped loosely around his goblet.
His eyes had glazed over several minutes ago, somewhere around the third discussion regarding seating arrangements.
Baelor suspected his brother had stopped listening entirely. A reasonable decision, anonene, he occasionally envied.
The Heir leaned back slightly, allowing his shoulders a moment of rest.
The past weeks had been exhausting.
The ball.
The arriving guests.
The endless responsibilities.
Each task alone seemed manageable, but put together, they became something far larger.
Perhaps that was why his thoughts drifted briefly toward Summerhall.
"How is Summerhall?" The question left him without much thought.
Yet it immediately drew Maekar's attention away from the goblet he had been studying with increasing resentment.
The younger prince glanced up.
For a moment, Baelor almost expected a real answer.
Something about the harvest, the castle, the people, the lands...
Instead, Maekar replied with all the enthusiasm of a man discussing the weather. "Standing."
Baelor stared at him.
The answer lingered between them. Technically correct yet entirely useless. Not a single piece of actual information had been provided.
The older prince sighed softly through his nose.
There were moments when speaking to Maekar felt remarkably similar to interrogating a particularly stubborn stone wall.
Years of experience had taught him that persistence was usually required.
"And Dyanna?" That finally earned a reaction.
The slightest shift of expression. Yet it was there.
Easy to miss for most people, but at the same time, Impossible for Baelor.
Maekar considered the question for a moment. "Tolerating me."
The answer came so dryly that Baelor nearly laughed. Nearly.
Not because it was particularly funny, but because it was probably true.
And judging by the look that immediately crossed Maekar's face, his brother knew exactly what he was thinking.
The younger prince narrowed his eyes. "Do not look at me like that."
The corners of Baelor's mouth twitched despite himself. "Like what?"
"As though you are judging me."
The accusation lingered between them for a few moments longer. Not seriously, for neither brother possessed the energy required for an actual argument.
The day had already drained enough from both of them.
Baelor reached for another parchment, more from habit than necessity. His eyes moved across the inked lines without truly reading them.
Names blurred together. Houses, banners and obligations mixed into one endless stream of responsibilities demanding attention before the ball arrived.
The work never truly ended.
One task completed merely revealed three more waiting underneath.
Across the table, Maekar had resumed studying his goblet with an intensity usually reserved for military strategy.
The sight almost made Baelor smile.
The younger prince looked remarkably uncomfortable whenever conversations drifted toward anything personal.
Politics,s he could discuss. Wa,r he could discuss.
Military campaigns, tactics, fortifications, border disputes, rebellious lords and troublesome bannermen could occupy his attention for hours.
Ask him about his family, and suddenly every word became a struggle.
Baelor had never understood why.
Perhaps because Maekar cared too much, the thought arrived quietly, unexpectedly. And for once, he did not dismiss it.
"The children?" The question came naturally enough. A simple inquiry.
The sort one brother asked another, yet immediately he noticed the change.
Maekar's attention lifted from the goblet, and his posture straightened slightly.
The difference was subtle enough that most would never notice it.
Baelor did, as He always had.
Because,se regardless of what Maekar claimed, there were few subjects more important to him than his children.
The younger prince was silent for a moment. Not because he lacked an answer, but because he was deciding how much of one to give.
Finally, he settled on: "Healthy."
Baelor stared as the answer hung in the air. It was: Technically informative but also practically useless.
A response so painfully Maekar that it bordered on parody.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then slowly, very slowly, Baelor lowered the parchment in his hand. His expression remained perfectly neutral.
The sort of look developed over years of dealing with stubborn younger brothers.
Across from him, Maekar immediately recognised it.
A sigh escaped the prince. The sound of a mrealisinging he would, unfortunately, have to elaborate.
For a few moments, Maekar simply sat there.
The silence stretched comfortably between them, broken only by the distant cries of gulls drifting through the open window and the occasional crackle from the fireplace.
The autumn air had begun to cool as the afternoon slowly surrendered to evening, carrying the faint scent of the sea into the study.
Baelor waited patiently. Experience had taught him that rushing Maekar rarely improved matters.
If anything, pressure only encouraged further stubbornness.
The younger prince drummed his fingers once against the side of the goblet. A small habit.
One he had possessed since boyhood, whenever he was deciding whether a conversation was worth continuing.
Apparently deciding resistance had become pointless, he finally spoke.
"Aerion nearly broke his arm."
Baelor blinked. Not because the statement shocked him, but because of the casual manner in which it had been delivered.
The words had arrived with the same tone another man might use to discuss the weather.
The Heir slowly set aside the parchment he had been pretending to read. "Nearly?"
Maekar nodded. "Nearly."
The repetition did nothing to clarify matters.
If anything, it created more questions.
Baelor had met Aerion only a handful of times since the boy's birth, yet that had been enough to form certain conclusions.
The child possessed energy in quantities that seemed almost unnatural. The sort of energy that inevitably found trouble.
Often at great speed.
"What happened?"
A faint shadow crossed Maekar's face. The weary expression of a father forced to relive a particularly memorable headache.
The prince leaned back slightly within his chair.
For a moment, his gaze drifted away from the study entirely.
Away from parchments.
Away from responsibilities.
Away from King's Landing.
The look alone told Baelor the memory remained fresh.
"A stable roof." The answer came at last.
Baelor stared. "A stable roof."
"Yes." Another pause. Long enough.
The Heir already knew he was not going to enjoy whatever explanation followed.
Somewhere beyond the windows, a bell rang faintly from within the castle grounds.
Servants changing duties... Another hour passes.
Inside the study, neither brother paid it much attention. "Why was he on a stable roof?"
The question felt entirely reasonable.
Maekar, however, closed his eyes briefly. The reaction alone spoke volumes.
For a moment, Baelor almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Then the younger prince exhaled through his nose. "Dyanna told him not to climb it."
The answer arrived with complete certainty; Absolute confidence as though this single fact explained everything.
And judging by the look on his face... It probably did.
Baelor stared for several seconds, then another few. Slowly, despite himself, amusement began creeping into the corners of his expression.
Of course. Of course, that had been the reason.
The explanation possessed a horrifying amount of logic. At least by the standards of young boys. Particularly young Targaryen boys.
The first hint of a smile threatened,d and Maekar immediately noticed. The look of offence deepened by him.
Not dramatically, Maekar was not a dramatic man. Yet something in his expression suggested he felt personally betrayed by the amusement beginning to appear on his brother's face.
Baelor, unfortunately, found this made the situation significantly harder to endure with dignity.
The smile won as the image had already formed within his mind.
A silver-haired boy standing beneath a stable roof, looking upward with complete confidence and absolutely no sensible reason to be there.
The sort of confidence only children possessed, or fools; occasionally, both.
"You are laughing." The accusation carried genuine disapproval.
Baelor made a valiant effort to compose himself and quickly failed.
He lasted perhaps two heartbeats. "You just told me your son attempted to throw himself from a roof because his mother advised against it."
Maekar's jaw tightened.
The expression of a man who recognised the absurdity and hated it. "That is not what happened."
"It sounds remarkably close."
"It is not." The younger prince reached for his goblet again, as though wine might somehow improve the memory.
Judging by the way he drank, the answer appeared to be a no.
For a few moments, silence returned, yet now it carried a different quality.
Lighter somehow... Less burdened by parchments and responsibilities.
The sort of silence that often followed family stories, stories that exhausted those living them and entertained everyone else.
Baelor leaned back slightly within his chair. The movement helped some of the tension leave his back.
The past weeks had left little room for such moments: Too much work, too many obligations, too many people wanting something from him.
Yet listening to Maekar complain about his children felt oddly refreshing.
"Was he injured?" The question came quieter than before.
Beneath the amusement remained genuine concern; Aerion was family after all.
Maekar noticed, and Their Irritation faded somewhat. "No... A bruised shoulder. Some scrapes. Nothing more."
Relief settled quietly within Baelor. He could not imagine Valarr in a similar position, injured and facing potential risks to his life.
The younger prince rolled the goblet between his palms before continuing, clearly against his better judgment. "He spent three days bragging about it afterwards."
That finally earned a laugh... A proper one. Impossible to suppress.
The sound echoed softly through the study before fading again.
Across the table, Maekar looked as though he regretted sharing any information whatsoever. "You encourage him."
"I have never met him without him already being encouraged."
"That is not the point." The answer came too quickly; Too defensively.
Which, naturally, made Baelor smile again.
For a brief moment,t neither brother spoke.
And in that silence, Baelor found himself thinking that Aerion sounded remarkably like his father.
The same stubbornness.
The same certainty.
The same willingness to test limits simply because somebody had suggested they existed.
The thought amused him far more than he intended.
He wisely chose not to share it because he knew that Maekar would not appreciate the comparison.
And judging by the expression currently occupying his face, he already suspected exactly what his brother was thinking.
"The fact remains. The children are healthy," he repeated. "Summerhall still stands. Dyanna remains convinced every abandoned animal in the Seven Kingdoms requires rescuing."
That finally sounded more like information.
Baelor leaned back slightly. "There is a story behind that."
"There are several." The answer came with the weary certainty of a husband who had already lost those arguments years ago.
For the first time since entering the study, genuine amusement crossed Maekar's features; Gone almost immediately, yet real.
The expression made him appear younger somehow. "Last moon she brought home a hawk with a broken wing."
Baelor raised an eyebrow. "A hawk."
"A hawk."
"And?"
"It lives in my stables. Refuses to leave or stop harassing the stable boys and my horses."
The silence that followed lasted exactly long enough.
Baelor laughed.
The sound drew a look of mild annoyance from his younger brother.
The storytelling might have continued had Maekar not reached for the wine again, already preparing to change the topic to something he had been thinking over for days.
Lord Lyonel Baratheon was a man who liked to party, drink and fight in equal measures. Prone to boredom, nothing else held his interest.
Until one night, when he meets a peculiar girl named Victa Estermont. She is wild, smiley and quick to speak; caring little for titles, rules and etiquette.
He is intrigued, and he aims to follow her. To his surprise, this turtle seemed to be faster than the stag expected.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Pairing: Fem!OC x Lyonel Baratheon
Chapter Warnings: None
Chapter XL: LINK
Chapter XLII: LINK
Chapter XLI: Of Stags & Flowers
Morning settled peacefully over Storm's End once again.
The previous day's distant thunder had never reached the castle.
Instead, dawn arrived quietly, the sky veiled beneath a blanket of pale grey clouds that softened the morning light without entirely stealing it.
The air carried the familiar scent of salt drifting from Shipbreaker Bay, mingling with the rich fragrance of damp earth that only appeared after a cool autumn night.
Dew still clung stubbornly to blades of grass and the leaves of hardy shrubs, each tiny droplet catching what little sunlight slipped through the clouds.
Storm's End slowly awakened.
Stable boys crossed the courtyards carrying buckets and brushes, their sleepy chatter mingling with the occasional impatient whinny of horses waiting to be groomed.
Servants hurried through the corridors balancing trays of fresh bread, still warm from the ovens, while guards exchanged the night watch for the morning one with quiet nods and familiar greetings.
Somewhere within the castle, hammers rang steadily against steel as the armoury resumed its endless work.
From the kitchens drifted the comforting aroma of fresh loaves, herbs and roasting meats prepared for the day's meals, while above it all, gulls circled the towering walls; their distant cries carried inland upon the restless sea breeze.
Life continued as it always had.
Far below one of the castle walls, tucked within the inner gardens where the sea winds reached more gently, another kind of work had already begun.
Victa knelt upon the dark soil.
The skirts of her simple dress had long since been gathered and tucked beneath her knees without a second thought.
Fine leather gloves rested, forgotten, upon the low stone wall nearby, abandoned after only a few minutes, when she decided they made it harder to feel the delicate roots and be gentle with the fragile flower petals.
Her fingers, now stained with cool, damp earth, carefully cradled the small rose bush she had been tending for the better part of the morning...
...as she had done almost every morning for the last few days.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Lyonel had kept her busy almost every morning since their wedding.
Some mornings began with lazy kisses stolen before either of them had truly awakened. Others with gentle teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her neck, faint marks blooming beneath his beard, before his face disappeared against the warmth of her body.
Each morning carried echoes of the night before, their limbs tangled beneath soft furs and heavy bed sheets as they rediscovered one another with the same eager affection that had coloured their first days as husband and wife.
Victa had quickly learnt that her husband was particularly unwilling to part with her once dawn arrived.
The moment she attempted to slip quietly from beneath the covers, Lyonel's arm would inevitably tighten around her waist, pulling her back against his warm chest before she had taken more than a single step in her escape.
"Far too early," he would mumble in that deep, sleepy voice of his, burying his face against the back of her neck. "The sun can wait."
"It already has," Victa would often reply with a quiet laugh, gently trying to untangle herself from his embrace.
"It can wait longer."
Every morning, he sounded utterly convinced of that fact.
Sometimes she surrendered, laughing softly as he stole another kiss, another lingering embrace, another excuse to keep her exactly where he believed she belonged.
Other mornings, after much theatrical groaning and dramatic complaints about neglected husbands and cruel wives abandoning perfectly comfortable beds...
Lyonel finally allowed her to escape with one last kiss pressed against her forehead and the promise that she would return before the day stole her away completely.
Those mornings always left Victa smiling.
There was something wonderfully simple about them. Wonderfully peaceful.
Yet even Lyonel Baratheon had begun to accept that his smiling turtle could never remain idle for long.
Much to his dismay and to his wonderfully dramatic complaints, Victa rarely spent an entire morning indoors once the soreness from their wedding night had begun to fade.
She loved their quiet hours together more than words could express, but eventually the fresh air beyond their chambers called to her with a voice she found impossible to ignore.
And her favourite place within all of Storm's End...
Was the gardens.
Lyonel had shown them to her not long after the wedding, proudly leading her through winding stone paths until they reached the sheltered corner furthest from the raging cliffs and relentless sea winds.
It was a modest patch of earth compared to the grand gardens of richer castles, bordered by weathered stone walls and protected, as best it could be, from the harsh breath of Shipbreaker Bay.
A stubborn little sanctuary.
Much like the people who lived within its walls.
Some plants had adapted beautifully over the years. Thick stems bent without breaking beneath fierce winds, while dark green leaves bore the scars of countless storms yet continued to flourish.
Others had not been so fortunate.
Branches had twisted beneath years of salt-laden gales, Leaves browned long before their season. Flower buds withered before they had the chance to bloom.
Slowly...
Quietly...
They were losing their battle.
Storm's End was beautiful, but it was unforgiving.
The salt carried by the sea winds burned delicate leaves while violent storms snapped young branches before spring had the chance to awaken them fully.
Even the richest soil struggled against a castle forever challenged by the sea.
Now that... Victa simply could not ignore. Not without trying.
And so, for the past week, she had returned every morning.
Walking carefully on legs that still carried the pleasant ache of newlywed nights, quietly ignoring the faint beard burn lingering upon her inner thighs, she knelt before the flowerbeds she had slowly begun to know by heart.
Some, she had even started to name.
Not because anyone had asked her to.
Not because anyone expected it of her.
Simply because... Someone had to.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Very gently, Victa loosened the soil surrounding the roots before adding fresh compost that the gardener, Edric, had brought earlier that morning.
She smiled faintly as she worked, humming beneath her breath; an old melody from Turtle Isle that drifted softly upon the morning breeze.
Around her, bees lazily wandered from blossom to blossom while somewhere higher in the branches, a robin sang uninterrupted, seemingly unbothered by the distant sounds of castle life awakening beyond the garden walls.
"There now..." she whispered, pressing the soil down with both hands. "You'll breathe much easier."
A weathered gardener standing a respectful distance away watched in growing disbelief.
Every morning she came.
Every morning, she knelt upon the damp earth.
The routine had become as predictable as the sunrise itself.
Where other ladies recoiled when mud splashed from beneath a passing horse's hoof, Victa settled comfortably upon the moist ground without the slightest concern.
Where noblewomen bathed in scented oils and expensive milk to preserve soft skin, the new Lady Baratheon willingly buried her hands beneath fresh soil, dirt settling beneath neatly trimmed fingernails as though it belonged there.
Had a traveller wandered through the gardens that morning, knowing nothing of Storm's End or its ruling family, they would never have guessed this quietly smiling young woman was the wife of the Laughing Storm.
Her gowns were simple. Well cared for, yet worn by weather and daily use. Practical rather than extravagant.
The sort of clothing one wore to work... Not merely to be admired.
"My lady..." Edric ventured carefully, finally breaking the comfortable silence. "You truly needn't trouble yourself with this. The gardens are my responsibility."
Every mornin',g he tried.
Every morning, she answered much the same.
Not because he wished her gone, quite the opposite. The sight of her kneeling beside him had long stopped feeling unwelcome.
What unsettled him was everything it represented.
What kind of servant allowed his lady to labour in the gardens while he stood watching?
What kind of gardener let the Lady of Storm's End stain her skirts with wet earth and fresh compost while he carried the baskets behind her?
Surely, if word reached the castle... Someone would believe he had failed in his duties.
Victa looked over her shoulder and smiled.
Not politely.
Not formally.
Warmly.
"I know." The old gardener blinked. Usually, she answered differently. "But..." she continued, gently brushing loose strands of hair behind one ear with the back of her muddy wrist, "...they are still living things."
Her fingers returned to the little rose bush as she carefully straightened one crooked branch before continuing.
Another dying leaf was gently pinched away between thumb and forefinger before she laid it quietly beside her.
"They cannot move somewhere warmer. They cannot ask for fresh water." A little more loose soil was gathered around the roots. She brushed away a pebble that had settled too close against the stem. "And they cannot tell us when something hurts."
The gardener found himself strangely unable to answer.
He had served House Baratheon since he was little more than a child, sold into service after his widowed mother could no longer repay the debts left behind by his father.
His first years had been spent carrying water through endless corridors, hauling firewood until his shoulders ached and unloading heavy crates from merchants arriving through Storm's End's gates.
It had been hard work, Honest work.
Work that slowly shaped him into the man he had become.
Only years later had he discovered a gentler talent.
A handful of herbs planted behind the kitchens.
A climbing vine coaxed along an old stone wall.
A splash of colour where once there had only been grey.
The late Lady Baratheon had noticed. She had encouraged him. Trusted him.
Before long, the gardens had become his responsibility and, quietly, his greatest pride.
He still remembered walking beside her through blooming flowerbeds, explaining which roses had survived the winter and which herbs would thrive after spring rains.
Those memories had remained untouched for years.
Until Victa arrived.
Now...
Instead of leading, he found himself standing quietly to one side, watching, listening, and learning.
She never ordered him aside. Never claimed the gardens as her own.
Instead, she invited him into every decision, asking questions, listening to his advice, thanking him by name for the smallest kindness.
It should not have felt so unusual.
Yet somehow... It did.
Everything he had learned about rank, duty and noble ladies told him this was backwards.
And still...
With each passing morning...
He found himself resisting those old lessons a little less.
Silence settled once more between them as Victa gently patted the soil one final time before giving the little rose bush a satisfied nod, almost as though the two of them had reached a quiet understanding.
"Besides..." she added with a soft laugh, breaking the comfortable silence once again, "I quite enjoy getting dirty."
The old gardener chuckled before he could stop himself. "A rare thing to hear from a lady."
"I never understood why." Victa looked down at her hands, now entirely covered with cool, damp earth. A little mud had even found its way across the side of her wrist. "It washes off."
This time, Edric laughed properly.
Not out of courtesy.
Not because he believed he should.
But genuinely.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Several paces away, beneath the broad canopy of an ancient oak that had stood long before either Baratheon or Durrandon banners had flown above these walls, Ser Herold remained at his post.
Both weathered hands rested comfortably atop the pommel of his sword while his sharp eyes continued their quiet watch over the gardens.
His lined face betrayed little emotion, as it almost always did.
Only the faintest lift at one corner of his mouth hinted at the quiet amusement stirring beneath years of discipline.
He had witnessed scenes like this for nearly twenty years.
Victa speaking to flowers.
To turtles.
To frightened children who had skinned their knees climbing rocks along Turtle Isle.
To lonely widows standing outside the sept after burying husbands lost to storms.
To old fishermen mending torn nets beneath the afternoon sun.
Sometimes she spoke simply because someone needed company.
Sometimes, because she believed every living thing deserved kindness, whether it answered back or not.
Sometimes she just started a conversation with anyone willing or unwilling to listen.
Marriage had changed her title. Nothing else.
If anything, Ser Herold had almost expected the gardens of Storm's End to claim her before the castle itself ever could.
The soft crunch of boots upon gravel reached his ears.
Instinctively, the old knight turned his head. For a brief moment, the expected Lyonel.
The young stag had developed an almost remarkable habit of appearing wherever his wife happened to be.
Whether she wandered the battlements watching storms gather upon the horizon, disappeared into the library in search of old herbals, or spent hours kneeling amongst flowers and herbs, Lyonel rarely remained away for long.
He would grumble.
He would claim she worked too hard.
He would complain that wives were meant to spend mornings beside their husbands rather than speaking to roses.
Then he would inevitably remain beside her anyway. Sometimes helping.
More often pretending not to while secretly enjoying every quiet moment they shared.
This time, however, it was not Lyonel who stepped onto the winding garden path.
Nor Ser David.
Nor any of the younger knights who had slowly grown accustomed to finding their lady somewhere amongst the flowerbeds each morning.
Instead...
Ser Herold recognised the broad, familiar figure of Lord Baratheon.
The older stag followed the same morning route he had walked for years beyond counting.
His large hands were clasped behind his back, shoulders straight despite the passing years, dark hair combed neatly away from his face.
Every measured step carried the quiet confidence of a man who had spent decades ruling both castle and Stormlands alike.
He had not come searching for anyone, certainly not conversation.
Morning walks had long since become a habit.
A rare moment of solitude before petitions, meetings, reports and responsibilities claimed the remainder of his day.
Yet today... His route changed.
Whether by simple curiosity, quiet instinct, or some thought known only to himself, even Lord Baratheon could not have said.
His pace slowed only slightly, almost imperceptibly.
Blue eyes settled upon the young woman kneeling amongst his gardens.
He stopped walking completely.
Not hidden.
Not announcing himself.
Simply... Watching.
Victa remained entirely unaware of his presence. Neither she nor Edric had noticed the older lord standing quietly upon the path.
Only Ser Herold inclined his head in silent greeting before calmly returning his attention to the gardens, trusting Lord Baratheon to announce himself should he wish to.
The older stag acknowledged the gesture with the slightest inclination of his own head before allowing his attention to drift back toward his daughter-in-law.
She did not seem conscious that anyone of importance might be observing her.
There was no performance.
No careful posture worthy of courtly paintings.
No graceful attempt to preserve appearances.
Only damp earth beneath her fingernails and Mud staining the knees of her dress.
Loose curls escaped the braid she had attempted that morning, dancing freely whenever the sea breeze wandered through the gardens.
And upon her face... Peace.
As though kneeling in cool earth beneath an autumn sky was precisely where she wished to be.
The thought lingered with him longer than he expected. Curious.
Lord Baratheon remained where he stood, saying nothing.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Nearby, Edric returned carrying another woven basket filled with young herbs, fresh compost and several carefully wrapped saplings awaiting new homes.
Victa looked up immediately before thanking him.
Not with the distant politeness reserved for servants, not with his position, but with his name. "Thank you, Edric."
The old gardener's weathered face brightened despite himself.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Lord Baratheon noticed.
His gaze remained steady as she accepted the basket herself despite its weight, and he smiled when Edric instinctively reached forward to help, then withdrew his hands once she assured him she had it.
No command had been given.
No expectation was placed upon him.
Only quiet appreciation.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Moments later, she accidentally snapped the smallest stem from a young lavender bush.
Victa paused. "Oh..." She looked genuinely distressed by the tiny accident. "I'm sorry."
The apology came so naturally that it almost sounded as though she expected the little plant to forgive her.
Very careful,y she knelt once more, pressing the broken stem into fresh soil beside the original plant before patting the earth around it with gentle fingertips.
"There now," she murmured softly. "Perhaps you'll still grow."
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous, the Old proud stag thought. And yet... Lord Baratheon remained exactly where he stood.
He had watched commanders address armies, Dornish Princes negotiate lands, boundaries, and proud, bloodthirsty Lords argue over borders.
Never before had he watched someone apologise to lavender with complete sincerity.
Still... He did not move. For reasons he could not yet explain.
———
Only after several long moments did Lord Baratheon finally resume walking.
His boots crunched softly against the gravel path, each measured step unhurried as he approached the flowerbeds.
Victa heard him this time.
Her head turned at once, immediately recognising the imposing figure of the Lord of Storm's End.
By her side, Edric stiffened. Years of habit proved stronger than conscious thought.
His back straightened before bending into a respectful bow, weathered hands instinctively clasping before him as his eyes dropped toward the gravel path.
"My Lord Baratheon," he greeted, his voice carrying the quiet reverence of a servant who had spent the greater part of his life beneath the same lord's roof.
Victa watched the exchange without alarm.
Without hurry, she brushed as much damp earth from her hands as she could before rising from where she knelt.
Small grains of soil clung stubbornly to her palms and beneath her fingernails despite her efforts, while faint muddy stains remained upon the knees of her dress.
She did not attempt to hide them, nor did she seem embarrassed by them.
Instead, she offered him the same warm smile she had given Edric only moments before.
Then she lowered into a respectful curtsy. "Lord Baratheon."
There was no trembling in her voice, no rushed explanation, no fearful glance seeking approval.
Only quiet respect.
The older stag acknowledged the greeting with the slightest inclination of his head.
His blue eyes travelled over her appearance once more.
The bare hands.
The mud-stained skirts.
The overturned basket resting beside the flowerbeds.
Then his gaze settled upon the little rose bushes she had spent the morning replanting.
"You've been here since dawn every day for the past fortnight." It was not a question.
Victa nodded gently. "I wake early, and I like to keep myself busy."
"So I gathered."
Silence settled between them.
Lord Baratheon had never been a man who filled silence simply because it existed. Words, to him, were tools.
Used when necessary.
Discarded when they were not.
To his quiet surprise, Victa appeared equally comfortable allowing the stillness to remain between them.
She neither searched desperately for conversation nor seemed intimidated by its absence.
Instead, her attention drifted naturally back toward the little flowerbed.
One finger reached forward almost absentmindedly, straightening a young stem the breeze had bent sideways while they stood there.
"I hope you do not mind," she said after a moment, her voice carrying the same softness with which she had spoken to the flowers. "Some of the bushes were struggling."
"They were." His answer came immediately. Matter-of-fact.
Gardens had never truly interested him.
They had belonged to his wife.
She had wandered them for hours, often returning indoors with dirt upon her slippers and flowers woven into her hair while happily explaining which plants had survived another season.
He had listened occasionally.
More often, he had merely watched her enthusiasm from afar, content that something within Storm's End still made her smile.
After she passed... The gardens had become quieter.
Edric maintained them faithfully.
Lord Baratheon ensured the man had every resource he required. Yet he himself rarely walked among the flowerbeds.
Some griefs were easier left untouched.
"I thought..." Victa hesitated, searching carefully for the proper words. "...perhaps if they were moved farther from the sea wind and given richer soil..." She smiled faintly, almost apologetically. "...they might have a better chance."
Lord Baratheon's attention lowered toward the freshly turned earth.
Only now did he truly study what she had done.
She had not merely planted flowers; she had rearranged the beds.
Taller shrubs now stood to the west, positioned carefully to shield the more delicate roses from the worst of the salt winds sweeping in from Shipbreaker Bay.
Smaller herbs filled the spaces beneath them, helping to retain moisture in the soil while leaving enough room for roots to spread.
Nothing had been placed simply because it looked pleasing.
Every decision served a purpose.
Every plant quietly protected another.
"You've done this before." Again... Not a question.
Victa smiled, warmth spreading across her cheeks. "On Turtle Isle." Her muddy hands rested lightly against her skirts. "The sea was kinder there..." she admitted, her eyes drifting briefly toward the distant horizon beyond the castle walls, "...but the wind could still be stubborn."
Lord Baratheon followed her gaze.
Dark clouds had begun gathering far out across Shipbreaker Bay. He watched them in silence before finally speaking. "The sea is never kind."
Victa looked toward the same horizon.
For several heartbeats, she simply watched the waves. Then she smiled. "No..." she agreed quietly. "...but sometimes it lets us believe it is."
For reasons he could not explain...
The corner of Lord Baratheon's mouth threatened to move. Only slightly. Gone almost before it appeared.
Interesting. His attention returned to the young woman before him.
"You don't mind hard work." It was perhaps the closest thing to genuine curiosity he had voiced all morning.
Victa blinked once, the question seeming to surprise her. "Not particularly."
"Why?"
This time, she took a moment.
Not because the answer was difficult, but because she wished to answer it honestly.
"When I was little," she began, a fond smile appearing as some distant childhood memory surfaced, "Grenda once told me that if I wished for flowers, I had to help them grow."
She crouched once more beside the little rose bush, gently loosening another handful of earth around its roots before brushing away a single withered leaf.
"I discovered she was right. Beautiful things usually ask for a little work."
Her fingertips lingered against the leaves for another quiet moment before she looked back up at him.
Her smile softened. "I don't think they should have to do all the work alone."
Lord Baratheon said nothing.
He simply watched her.
Watched the ease with which she returned to the flowerbeds.
Watched the gardener standing nearby, no longer anxious but quietly smiling as he observed his lady work beside him rather than above him.
Watched Ser Herold beneath the oak, content enough to let the silence speak for itself.
And slowly... Something settled inside him.
For weeks...
For months...
He had questioned what Lyonel saw in this woman.
He had assumed beauty, youth, infatuation, and simple stubbornness. Perhaps even curiosity.
Now, standing quietly amongst the gardens of Storm's End while watching her worry over dying roses as though they were frightened children...
He finally understood. Not completely. Perhaps he never would.
But enough.
Enough to understand why his son had crossed kingdoms for her.
Enough to understand why hardened soldiers smiled more easily whenever she passed through the castle corridors.
Enough to understand why servants spoke her name with warmth instead of obligation.
Enough to realise that Storm's End itself felt... different.
Not transformed overnight.
Not through grand declarations.
But through a hundred small kindnesses no one had asked for.
She thanked servants by name.
She remembered birthdays.
She stopped to listen.
She spoke gently.
She knelt in the mud without a second thought, if it meant helping something else grow.
She was changing the castle.
Lord Baratheon inclined his head once. "You've chosen a difficult place for roses."
Victa lowered her eyes to the little bush before smiling. "I know..." Her fingers gently brushed one last grain of soil from a leaf. "...but difficult does not always mean impossible."
For the first time that morning... Their eyes truly met.
Neither looked away.
Neither needed to.
Lord Baratheon gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
Then, without another word... He turned and resumed his morning walk.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
His pace remained unchanged.
Hands once more clasped behind his back, Lord Baratheon continued along the winding gravel path exactly as he had every morning for years.
Behind him, the gardens slowly returned to their quiet rhythm.
Edric gathered another basket before disappearing toward the tool shed in search of fresh stakes for the young saplings.
A gentle breeze wandered through the flowerbeds, carrying with it the scent of damp earth, crushed herbs and distant salt.
Somewhere above, gulls called as they circled the ancient walls.
Victa watched the Lord of Storm's End disappear for only a brief moment before quietly returning to the little rose bush waiting patiently for her attention.
She never questioned the conversation. Never wondered whether she had spoken too much. Or too little.
To her, it had simply been another quiet morning.
Another conversation.
Another plant needs care.
She knelt once more, her skirts settling naturally upon the cool earth as though they had always belonged there.
With careful fingers, she adjusted the little stem one final time before pressing fresh soil gently around its roots.
"There..." she whispered with quiet satisfaction. "That feels much better."
Ser Herold observed the scene from beneath the ancient oak.
His experienced eyes drifted from Victa...
...to the retreating figure of Lord Baratheon...
...before settling somewhere between the two.
The old knight had spent enough years around men of authority to recognise when something had shifted.
No grand declaration had been made.
No praise had been spoken aloud.
Yet something had changed all the same.
He found himself smiling beneath his beard before returning to his silent watch.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Further along the garden path, Lord Baratheon continued walking.
His expression remained unchanged.
His stride remained as steady as ever.
Anyone passing him would have believed the morning no different from countless others. Only he knew otherwise.
His thoughts drifted, not toward the gardens...
But toward his son.
He remembered Lyonel as a boy: Stubborn, Loud, Forever laughing, Forever chasing storms simply because everyone else sought shelter from them.
Then, as a young man, Wild, Proud, Restless, was never content to remain where he was expected.
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Can we get a little sneak peek of Victa’s relationship with the Targaryens, especially after the gift, despite the history between House Baratheon and the royal family? Dyanna and Victa are definitely going to become BFF, I already know it, considering she’s the one who gave her the dresses.
[A/N] - First Time someone asks for a sneak peek, so how can I say no? 😅
Mind ya, this is the first rough draft (changes, corrections, and additions happen), and the meeting with the dragons will take place over a few chapters for sure.
But until then, here is a glimpse of Victa and some members of the Dragon Family.
-🐢-🐢-🐢-🐢-🐢-
The walls of the Red Keep were alive once again.
Servants rushed down corridors, their steps echoing against old stone.
Guards changed shifts, armour clinking with every move they made.
The torch lights flickered faintly against the light breeze, flames dancing tall; casting long shadows against cold walls.
The Red Keep was both intimidating and fascinating for those who did not spend their days within its walls.
But for the dragons that grew up in it, the castle was a simple home that carried the same expectations they did; sharing the burden of an old family fighting to remain afloat.
Maekar and Baelor walked side by side, with the youngest of King Daeron's sons having arrived just a day prior; bringing his whole family with him.
And while the trip had exhausted him, his children offered little chance for rest and peace; he had joined his brother immediately for a walk and a discussion.
Valarr’s wedding was an event meant to be attended by every big and small lord of westeros, as for the first time a bride from the east had been chosen as a future queen.
If King Daeron had caused an uproar by marryng a Dornish woman, young prince Valarr had almost cuaerd a rebellion with the bride he chose.
Yet with the King's Blessing and the time of promised peace expected by Baelor’s eventual ascension to the throne... the arguments of the world quit down.
Now, guests were expected to appear with each passing day and Maekar Targaryen; was the least excited.
Especially when he went through the list of guests and spotted a troublesome name among the lords.
His brother, on the other hand, disagreed with his biased views.
"Lord Lyonel is the future Lord of Storm’s End brother," Baelor reminded him. "His presence is not only expected but encouraged. Both by our and his father."
Maekar rolled his eyes at the excuse.
True, he had been following Lyonel’s chaos for almost a year now; ever since the stag had shown interest in the Estermont girl. And while the drama had been amusing, a way to entertain himself; that did not mean he wanted it under his roof.
He did not want that natural disaster of a man around his family, his children.
If it were up to him, he would have never allowed the loud stag from coming to King's Landing.
"He is a mess, not a Lord. Takes nothing fucking seriously and all he does is drink and party," Maekar commented. "He is a lustful creature that only causes trouble.
Baelor, seemed amused. It was known that his brother had a certain.. opinion about the stormlanders, specifically the famous stags.
Even during his marriage to Jena, Maekar had been rather cold and extra grumpy around her parents; finding the Dondarion Lord too loud and quickly drunk on the after wedding reception.
"I have heard he has calmed down since his marriage," Baelor added, taking a right turn. "Lady Victa has been a positive, calming influence to him."
Maekar scoffed, unable to believe someone could calm down the menace called Lyonel Baratheon. Restrain? Maybe. Tame? Impossible. Calm down?
His trail of thought was interrupted by a door opening not that far away.
Hurried steps echoed as Lady Victa Baratheon sprinted outside the room, hands holding her skirt up to prevent herself from tripping.
She was smiling, cheeks flushed from exercise. Barely seem to notice the two brothers that had halted on their steps. She was about to run down the corridor when a second figure emerged from the same room.
Lyonel Baratheon, in all his unlaced tunic and glory; moved fast for a man of his weight. He sneaked behind Victa, strong arms wrapping around her waist; pressing her harm against his solid body.
"Lyonel!" She giggled, attempting to break free from his embrace.
But the Stag only tightened his grip and buried his face to the crook of her neck, lustful kisses and teasing bites quickly joining. Hands were working to lower the front of her gown, eager to release her breasts for him to grab and tease.
Victa turned halfway, attempting to face and kiss him; only to halt upon noticing the two dragon brothers standing nearby; watching them.
She froze, cheeks flushing with embrassament.
As if sensing the drop in her mood, Lyoneo stopped. Lifting his head, he turned and noticed the crowd of two watching them.
A normal Lord would have felt embarrassed.
A fearful one would have begged their forgiveness already.
Lyonel, on the other hand, smirked in pride. A part of him was so tempted to continue to simply start devouring his attractive, beautiful wife against the wall; making them watch how good of a lover he is.
But then he senses the tension in Victa’s body, unfamiliar with acts of romance and lust in more public spaces. Let alone before their hosts.
Rolling his eyes, he bent faintly and moved. Strong hands lifted Victa, tossing her above his shoulder.
"Lyonel," she giggled, unable to stop herself. Fists gently tapped his broad back, yet he did not let her down.
"Gentlemen," Lyonel winked at them, flashing them.his famous grin before walking back into the room; their current guest chambers for the events of the wedding.
Maekar and Baelor watched him, different expressions upon their faces.
Yet it was the youngest who groaned in annoyance, jaw tense from squeezing it for so long.
"Calmed down, huh?" He asked Baelor, casting him a side eye before he continued walking.
He had no intention of being present when the Laighing Storm would prove his nickname in a few minutes based on the rushed look he gave his wife before they got caught.
-🐢-🐢-🐢-🐢-🐢
Victa mover between the lavish gardens of the Red Keep, hands gently brushing over bright coloured flowers and bright green leaves.
Salt and sea reached her nose as the wind blew just right and momentarily, Victa thought of Greenpoint. It had been too long since she last visited, though Markis had reassured her in his letters that her plants kept thriving.
The young turtle halted beneath a tall tree, finding solace on the coop shade it casted; a stone bench carved and placed nearby, inviting temporary rest.
The sun was hot above her, blazing rays warming the earth and her as well. Months in Storm’s End made one to almost forget just how hot the sun could be.
How easily, one sweated if dressed against the weather.
Thankfully for her, she had come prepared thanks to the twin sisters looking after her since the day of her wedding.
The bright orange of her dress stood out against the green, white and pink surrounding her. The thin Dornish material offering much needed reprieve from the heat around her.
Her wedding had been a year ago, and this particular gift had been worn scarcely. Twice in Storm’s End, where it did not stay on her for long thanks to Lyonel and once now; in the Red Keep.
The sound of slippers against stone caught her attention, the sound different compared to the one of crushing waves and chirping birds.
She turned towards the source of it, quickly inspecting the visitor.
A Lady of noble status, with gentle thick brown locks cascading around her like a tamed rich mane. Violet eyes reminded Victa of the lavender she had manages to grow in Storms End after a lot of try.
Jewels decorated the woman's neck and hands, her slightly tanned skin making her stand out against the ladies Victa was used to interacting with.
The woman smiled upon seeing her, walking closer to share the shade. "I knew orange would be your colour," she said, halting by her side. "I am glad to see you wore it as well."
Victa studied the woman, yet at the mention of the dress; her mind flashed to a memory merely one year ago.
The day after her marriage.
The gifts bring opened one by one by her and Grenda.
The gift that made her good sister pause, then the revelation.
"This is from Prince Maekar Targaryen and his wife."
Victa’s lips parted in faint surprise. "You are Dyanna Dayne." A smile followed, hands holding the light fabric gently. "It is a lovely dress. So soft and light... it is one of my favourites."
The reaction warmed Dyanna, who looked at the younger woman with a more motherly gaze. She observed how Victa kept gently caressing the fabric, admiring its glow beneath the sun.
"I am, and you are quite famous yourself, Victa Baratheon," Dyanna said, sitting on the stone bench. "Few admire Dornish dresses the way you do. But enough about dresses," she tapped the empty space next to her. "Do sit. I have been dying to meet you at last."
When your land is plagued by wars and death becomes an everyday thing, your hands learn to become more stable than a maester's.
You learn to look into a killer's eyes and understand forgiveness. You learn that justice is a heavy sword to be carried.
But when you meet a Targaryen Prince burdened by duty and grief, your souls vibrate to the same frequency. And perhaps, the world is not as dark as you both originally thought.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warnings: None
Chapter XXIX: LINK
Chapter XXXI: LINK
Chapter XXX: A New Friend, A Fellow Mother
The nursery had become unusually quiet.
Not because the boys were sleeping. Quite the opposite.
Valarr sat cross-legged upon the carpet, tongue caught briefly between his teeth as he concentrated on the important business of constructing a fortress from wooden blocks.
Across from him, Matarys had dedicated himself entirely to destroying it whenever given the opportunity.
The younger prince had developed an alarming talent for identifying structural weaknesses despite being barely a year old.
The latest tower survived all of three heartbeats before one enthusiastic slap sent it collapsing into ruin.
Valarr groaned dramatically. "You did that on purpose."
Matarys laughed.
The sound was immediate and bright, carrying the sort of shameless delight only a child could possess when causing trouble and facing absolutely no consequences for it.
Spur, stretched comfortably across a patch of afternoon sunlight nearby, lifted his head long enough to observe the destruction.
After a moment of consideration, the dog apparently decided the matter did not concern him and dropped his chin back onto his paws.
You smiled faintly from your place beside them.
The nursery smelled faintly of warm stone, old wood and the lingering traces of whatever sweets Valarr had attempted to smuggle inside earlier that morning.
Sunlight spilt through the tall windows, painting golden rectangles across the floor and turning the dust drifting through the air into tiny floating stars.
A week had passed since Queen Myriah's visit.
A week since the discussion about the ball.
A week during which the Queen seemed to have vanished entirely into preparations of her own.
And thankfully, nobody had mentioned dancing since.
The thought alone still made your stomach twist unpleasantly.
You had survived battlefields, starvation, winter storms and more than one near-fatal encounter.
Yet somehow, the prospect of attending a royal ball remained among the most terrifying things currently facing you.
You were reaching forward to help Valarr rebuild his latest fallen masterpiece when hurried footsteps echoed from somewhere beyond the corridor.
Too fast to belong to servants.
Too light to belong to guards.
Immediately, recognition arrived.
Children.
You looked up at the same moment as Valarr, both of you turning toward the closed door.
The footsteps grew louder, accompanied now by hurried voices and the occasional scrape of shoes against stone.
Whoever was approaching had clearly abandoned any attempt at dignity.
A heartbeat later, the nursery door flew open.
A blur of silver-white hair shot through the doorway.
The boy could not have been older than Valarr.
His hair streamed behind him as he sprinted into the room with the confidence of someone who had never once considered the possibility that he should not be somewhere.
Immediately behind him came a woman carrying an infant. "Aerion!"
The boy ignored her completely.
You had seen that particular behaviour before.
Valarr often employed similar tactics when dealing with maesters, septas and whichever unfortunate soul had been assigned to supervise him for the afternoon.
He rarely attempted it with you, though experience told you such victories were temporary.
One day, your turn would come.
The woman sighed heavily, already surrendering to defeat before the battle had truly begun.
Not the defeat of someone overwhelmed.
The defeat of someone deeply familiar with this exact child.
Then she noticed you.
Halfway into the room, she stopped.
For a brief moment, neither of you spoke.
Instead, you found yourselves quietly assessing one another.
Your gaze travelled first to her clothing.
The gown was expensive, crafted from fabrics far finer than anything commonly seen in King's Landing.
Rich purple silks flowed elegantly around her figure, the colours reminiscent of warm Dornish evenings and blooming desert flowers.
Then came the jewellery: Silver. Gold. Rings, bracelets and necklaces that spoke of wealth, status and generations of inheritance.
Gifts from a powerful husband, perhaps. Family heirlooms from an ancient house.
To you, it could have been either.
Perhaps both.
Your attention shifted toward the infant sleeping peacefully against her shoulder.
Tiny, Content... White-haired.
The familiar colouring immediately caught your eye.
A Targaryen child. The realisation came easily.
Then your gaze moved lower.
Another child stood partially hidden behind her skirts. The same pale silver hair framed his face.
And finally, your attention returned to the woman herself.
Lavender eyes met yours.
The sort belonging to someone who had lived enough life to understand what truly mattered.
You noticed the exhaustion hidden beneath them almost immediately.
Sleepless nights.
Endless responsibilities.
The weariness that only came from raising too many children while attempting to care for everyone around you.
Yet somehow none of it diminished her beauty.
If anything, it enhanced it.
She was Beautiful in the way mothers often became after years of putting everyone else's needs before their own.
A warmth shaped by motherhood.
A strength built through years of putting others before herself.
The silence lasted only a moment.
Then the white-haired boy, who had frozen in the middle of the room, spotted Spur.
Everything changed.
"DOG."
The declaration rang through the room like a royal announcement as the kid, Aerion, pointed a single finger towards the resting creature.
Spur's head immediately snapped upward and stared, assessing the newcomer.
Aerion grinned, and Spur's tail began wagging, thumping against the stone floor.
You had witnessed enough interactions between dogs and children to know exactly where this was heading.
Disaster. Wonderful, harmless disaster.
Aerion charged forward, and Spur leapt to his feet at the same time.
What came next... was a comical sight, one familiar to you by now.
The boy attempted to grab Spur, but the dog evaded him. Yet the prince continued, determined, stubborn even. And the dog? The dog lived for the thrill of the chase, barking in mockery each time Aerion failed to grab him.
Round and round they went.
The prince grew increasingly determined.
The dog grew increasingly entertained.
Every failed attempt only encouraged Aerion further.
Valarr shouted excitedly, quickly joining his cousin to grab the dog. But even those two were no match for the creature raised in village streets, chasing chickens and running away from kids trying to bathe it.
The result was inevitable.
Within moments, both were racing around the nursery, weaving between furniture, toys and scattered blankets while barking, laughing, and shouting declarations filled the room.
By instinct, you scooped Matarys into your arms before either participant could accidentally crash into him.
Valarr shouted excitedly, quickly joining his cousin to grab the dog.
But even those two were no match for the creature raised in village streets, chasing chickens and running away from kids trying to bathe it.
Two boys against one dog.
The odds should have favoured the children. They did not.
Spur had experience, practise, and the flexibility of a creature with four agile legs and absolutely no intention of being captured.
Matarys clapped with joy, attempting to break free from your embrace and join them, even though his walking was still in its first stage of learning.
You held him securely.
He protested for approximately three seconds before becoming distracted by the entertainment unfolding before him.
The nursery exploded into noise.
The woman carrying the infant closed her eyes briefly. "Seven save me."
The words escaped before she could stop them.
A laugh burst from your chest before you could prevent it.
The woman looked toward you in surprise, then she laughed too.
And just like that, something shifted.
The awkwardness dissolved.
The formality vanished.
Leaving only two tired women watching children create havoc.
"I take it this happens often?" you asked.
"Every day." She adjusted the sleeping infant against her shoulder with practised ease. "Aerion wakes up every morning and immediately chooses violence."
Aerion halted just long enough to shout from across the room. "I heard that!"
Matarys clapped with joy, attempting to break free from your embrace and join them, even though his walking was still in its first stage of learning.
The woman rolled her lavender eyes. "You were supposed to."
The boy looked delighted rather than offended, and in that moment, you knew you liked that kid.
Chaotic, noisy; a menace and a nightmare for those with little patience. He reminded you of your younger brothers, especially the youngest one.
The same relentless energy.
The same inability to remain still.
The same talent for driving every adult within reach to the brink of madness.
The woman finally stepped farther into the room. The smaller child remained close to her side.
Unlike Aerion, he watched everything quietly, observing, studying.
His pale purple eyes followed Valarr, then Matarys... and then you.
A thoughtful little thing. Not shy exactly, but Careful.
You knew that sort of child.
"Forgive the intrusion," the woman said. "I was told the princes often spend their afternoons here."
You nodded. "They do, when not occupied by a rising tide of lessons."
A brief pause followed, then she smiled.
Not politely.
Not formally.
Warmly.
"I am Dyanna. Dyanna Dayne." She extended one free hand in greeting, casual, simple.
You blinked. The name meant absolutely nothing to you.
The realisation must have shown plainly upon your face.
Not because you intended it to, but because surprise had never been something you hid particularly well.
For a moment, Dyanna simply stared at you. Then amusement flickered across her features so quickly you almost missed it.
Not mockery.
Not the cruel amusement of nobles catching a commoner making a mistake.
Something softer.
Something closer to relief.
"You do not know who I am," she concluded.
It was not a question.
The words settled between you, and only then did you realise that perhaps there had been a particular reaction expected of you. A widening of the eyes. A hurried curtsy. An apology. Something.
Instead, all she had received was confusion.
Heat crept faintly into your cheeks. "No," you admitted honestly. "I am sorry."
To her credit, Dyanna did not appear offended.
If anything, her smile widened slightly. "There is something refreshing about that."
You laughed awkwardly, shifting Matarys higher upon your hip as the boy attempted to lean dangerously far backwards to continue watching Spur flee from his newest pursuer. "I am still learning who everyone is."
The admission felt somewhat embarrassing.
You had spent over a month within the Red Keep already. Surely by now you should have learned the names of half the realm.
Yet every day seemed to introduce three new lords, four ladies and an endless collection of cousins, uncles, sworn swords and distant relations whose importance changed depending on who was speaking.
The noble families of Westeros resembled an enormous spiderweb. One, you had no desire to become trapped inside.
Dyanna's expression softened with immediate understanding. "So was I when I first came here."
That answer surprised you.
Your gaze drifted back toward her before you could stop yourself.
For some reason, perhaps because of her confidence, her bearing, the obvious quality of her clothing and the ease with which she occupied any room she entered, you had unconsciously assumed she belonged here.
That she always had.
For some reason, you had imagined noble ladies emerged from the womb already knowing every lord, lady and sigil in Westeros.
The idea now seemed somewhat ridiculous.
Dyanna noticed your confusion almost immediately.
A mother's eyes, you realised, missed very little.
"I grew up in Starfall," she explained, shifting the sleeping infant slightly higher against her shoulder. "Far away from King's Landing and most of its politics."
Something about the statement eased you.
Because suddenly she felt less like royalty and more like a person.
A mother.
A tired woman carrying a sleeping child.
Someone who had once arrived in an unfamiliar and overwhelming place.
The same as you.
The sleeping baby made a small noise of protest before settling again. The movement drew your attention briefly.
Even asleep, the little girl somehow remained beautiful.
Tiny fingers curled around the fabric of her mother's dress. White eyelashes rested against round cheeks.
Completely unaware that one day people would expect things from her simply because of the family into which she had been born.
Your gaze returned to Dyanna.
Something about her statement eased a tension you had not realised existed.
The noise of Aerion and Spur continued in the background.
A constant whirlwind of barking, laughter, and occasional crashes that suggested furniture was narrowly avoiding destruction.
Yet neither of you paid much attention anymore.
The chaos had somehow already become normal.
Your attention drifted toward the smaller boy still lingering beside his mother.
Unlike Aerion, who seemed determined to experience everything at full speed, this child appeared content simply observing.
His pale violet eyes remained fixed upon the scattered blocks littering the carpet.
You smiled gently. "And who is this?"
The boy glanced upward, only briefly. As though eye contact required more effort than he wished to spend. "Aemon."
The introduction came so softly you almost missed it. The sound of barking nearly swallowed the entire world.
Dyanna's face softened instantly.
The transformation was subtle, but unmistakable.
The sort of expression only mothers possessed when looking upon their children. "Aemon prefers listening first."
The little prince offered no argument, no correction, no denial.
Which somehow confirmed the statement more thoroughly than words ever could.
You found yourself smiling.
Because yes. You understood exactly what she meant.
You had known children like Aerion before.
The loud ones.
The ones who announced their thoughts before thinking them.
The ones who entered every room as though the world belonged to them.
But children like Aemon were different.
They observed first, measured, and listened. Only then did they decide whether a person deserved their trust.
Those children often saw more than adults realised.
Across the nursery, Aerion had apparently convinced Valarr that Spur needed to learn how to jump over cushions.
The results were exactly as successful as one might expect.
The two boys had assembled what could generously be described as an obstacle course and, more realistically, resembled the aftermath of a pillow fight.
Cushions balanced precariously atop one another.
Blankets draped across chairs.
Wooden blocks served as markers for routes that existed only in children's minds.
"You have to jump, like this." Valarr demonstrated first.
The heir launched himself forward with all the confidence of a seasoned knight attempting a heroic feat.
He barely avoided taking the entire structure down with him.
Aerion immediately attempted the same manoeuvre. Predictably, he failed.
Spectacularly.
The top half of the cushion fortress collapsed around him.
This resulted in him falling on top of Valarr, trapping him under cushions and his own weight.
Both boys disappeared beneath an avalanche of pillows.
A bark followed as Spur tried to copy. Unlike the boys, the dog did not attempt to clear the obstacle at all.
He failed the jump altogether comically. He crushed straight into the pillow fort, destroying it faster than a rock thrown from a catapult.
The remaining fortress exploded apart.
Pillows flew everywhere, and the dog landed on the two boys.
Their laughter echoed across the nursery as Spur proceeded to attack with licks both of them, avoiding small hands failing to push him off them.
Their laughter echoed throughout the room. Matarys nearly folded in half from excitement.
Safe within your arms, he clapped furiously and kicked his feet against your side while delighted squeals escaped him.
Even Aemon watched now.
The quiet prince remained partially hidden behind his mother's skirts, yet his eyes followed every movement with open fascination.
You looked toward the disaster unfolding across the nursery.
Then toward Dyanna.
She was watching too, and for a moment, neither woman spoke.
You simply sat there amidst barking dogs, collapsing fortresses, laughing children and drifting afternoon sunlight.
The sort of peaceful chaos that somehow only existed where children gathered.
And perhaps that was the exact moment the first wall between you began to fall.
It was Dyanna who finally broke the silence.
For a time, neither of you had spoken.
Conversation had given way to observation as the nursery continued descending into the sort of cheerful chaos that seemed to follow children wherever they gathered.
Aerion and Valarr remained locked in a fierce battle against imaginary invaders, both apparently convinced that shouting louder improved their chances of victory.
Spur had fully embraced his role within whatever game currently existed and was now charging across the room with a stolen cushion in his mouth while two outraged princes chased after him.
The dog looked delighted with himself.
Matarys, still secure within your arms, had become increasingly drowsy despite his determination to remain awake.
Every few moments, his head would droop against your shoulder before jerking upright again as though he feared missing something important.
The battle against sleep was clearly being lost.
Across from you, Dyanna adjusted the infant resting against her shoulder, one hand absentmindedly rubbing small circles along the baby's back.
The movement looked practised, performed so often it no longer required conscious thought.
A mother’s habit, one of many.
“My husband, Maekar, spoke quite a lot about you. When he first arrived, and for the majority of our journey."
The statement arrived so unexpectedly that for a moment you wondered if you had heard correctly.
You turned toward her.
Dyanna's attention remained on the children as she spoke, watching Aerion attempt to negotiate with Spur for the return of the stolen cushion.
"When he first arrived," she continued, amusement already creeping into her voice, "and for most of our journey to King's Landing."
You made the connection in your mind, confirming the existence of white-haired children with lavender eyes. Pure Targaryen Dragons, closer related to their ancestors than Baelor and his sons.
And unfortunately, so did several memories.
The battlefield.
The blood.
The suspicion.
The judging looks.
The way Prince Maekar seemed convinced you were one poorly timed breath away from betraying the realm.
A groan escaped before you could stop it. His sour expression, his judging, mistrustful look flashed into your mind."Nothing good, I am sure."
Dyanna laughed.
Not politely.
Not the restrained laughter expected of noblewomen.
A real laugh.
"Oh, certainly not."
You immediately buried your face in one hand. "Gods." The word escaped as a muffled complaint. "This is embarrassing."
That only seemed to amuse her more.
The sight of a woman capable of facing armed soldiers, wild animals and royal authority with remarkable confidence yet somehow mortified by second-hand criticism clearly entertained her.
When she finally recovered enough to speak, the smile remained on her face.
"That is also how I knew you must be interesting. Except for the fact that you saved his life during that battle."
You lowered your hand slowly. The statement caught you off guard.
For a moment you simply stared at her.
Interesting was not the direction you had expected this conversation to take.
Dyanna noticed, and her smile softened.
Across the room, Aerion finally succeeded in reclaiming the stolen cushion.
His victory lasted approximately two seconds before Spur stole it again.
The outraged shout that followed drew a laugh from both women.
Then Dyanna's gaze returned to you, Steadier now. More thoughtful. "Very little leaves an impression on my husband."
The statement carried no mockery.
You found yourself thinking of Maekar again.
The prince was not an easy man. That much had become obvious from the first moment you met him.
He judged quickly. Questioned everything and trusted slowly. A man who measured the world constantly and found most of it lacking.
The sort of person who would rather assume the worst and be proven wrong than risk disappointment.
The sort of person war often creates.
And suddenly, the compliment hidden within Dyanna's words became apparent.
Not because Maekar liked you. You were fairly certain he did not.
But because he remembered you.
Because he continued speaking about you long after the battle had ended.
Long after he should have stopped caring.
You looked down briefly, unable to suppress the faint smile threatening to appear. "I am unsure whether that is a compliment."
Dyanna smiled knowingly. "It is."
And somehow you believed her.
The conversation drifted after that.
Not abruptly.
Not with the awkwardness of strangers attempting to force familiarity.
Instead, it unfolded naturally, as though some invisible barrier had quietly disappeared without either of you noticing.
You spoke of travel. Of children. Of Summerhall and the Red Keep. How different both places must be from one another.
Dyanna shared small stories between interruptions from Aerion, who periodically appeared to announce matters of great importance before immediately vanishing again.
At one point, he arrived solely to inform his mother that Spur had cheated.
Neither of you managed to determine how.
The friendship had not fully formed yet, not truly.
Relationships rarely worked that way.
Trust took time. Understanding took longer.
Yet as you sat together amidst scattered toys, barking dogs, sleeping babies and the endless noise of children who had not yet learned how to be quiet, something shifted.
It was small, almost impossible to name. The feeling of discovering common ground where you had expected distance.
Of finding familiarity where you had expected formality.
The first stone of something new.
And though neither woman spoke the thought aloud, both felt it settle quietly into place.
The nursery had somehow become even louder.
You were not entirely certain how such a thing had been accomplished.
The room had already contained two princes, one determined dog and enough toys to supply a small army. Yet somehow, within the span of an hour, the noise had doubled.
Perhaps even tripled.
The afternoon sunlight had shifted across the floorboards, creeping gradually farther through the room as the day wore on.
The warm patch where Spur had originally been sleeping now stretched almost to the centre of the nursery, bathing scattered cushions, abandoned blocks and small wooden soldiers in soft gold.
Dust drifted lazily through the air, catching the light every time someone disturbed it.
And someone was constantly disturbing it.
At some point, Aerion and Valarr had apparently decided that every loose cushion within the nursery now belonged to an elaborate fortress.
Not a fortress built to withstand attack. A fortress built specifically to be attacked.
The distinction seemed important to them.
You had long since given up attempting to understand the logic.
The two boys darted back and forth across the room with endless energy, dragging cushions from chairs, beds, and corners while loudly arguing over military strategy that kept changing every few moments.
Spur had somehow been promoted to commander. Whether the dog understood this responsibility remained questionable.
The boys certainly believed he did.
The animal himself appeared far more interested in locating hidden treats than leading troops into battle.
Matarys had abandoned all dignity and any attempt at behaving like a future prince. The younger boy had instead chosen to crawl directly through the centre of the battlefield.
Again. And again. And again.
Every time one of the older boys carefully removed him from danger, he immediately returned to the exact same location with unwavering determination.
His delighted laughter echoed through the room whenever someone scooped him up.
You suspected he viewed the entire situation as a game designed specifically for his entertainment.
Judging by the grin plastered across his face, he was enjoying himself immensely.
You had eventually surrendered and settled into one of the armchairs overlooking the chaos.
Dyanna occupied another nearby.
Close enough for conversation yet far enough that neither woman felt crowded.
The infant in her arms, Daella, as you had learned, had finally awakened sometime earlier.
Not fully.
Not enough to fuss.
Merely enough to remind everyone that babies possessed remarkably accurate instincts at mealtimes.
Now the little girl rested quietly against her mother, eyes half closed as she fed.
Dyanna displayed none of the embarrassment some noblewomen might have shown.
No awkwardness.
No attempt to hide herself.
No concern regarding appearances.
The sight struck you not because it was unusual, but because it felt so normal.
So natural.
You had grown up around mothers.
Women feed children while preparing meals, while sewing, while working, while living.
And perhaps that was another thing that quietly endeared Dyanna to you.
There was very little performance in her.
For all the jewels she wore and all the titles attached to her name, she seemed remarkably uninterested in pretending to be something she was not.
Meanwhile, another development had occurred.
One significantly quieter than Aerion's continued war against furniture.
Meanwhile, Aemon had quietly migrated closer to where you sat.
He had not asked permission. He had simply appeared.
First, beside your chair; then, as time passed, he moved to sit beside your leg. He never spoke, never looked up at you; he just moved as if your aura alone invited him in.
Eventually, he got seated cross-legged on the carpet near enough that his shoulder occasionally brushed your skirt.
The little prince still spoke very little.
Yet unlike shyness, his silence felt deliberate. Comfortable. The sort belonging to a child who preferred listening to speaking.
You found yourself liking him greatly, perhaps because he reminded you of yourself more than the others.
Dyanna watched, smiling. The moment she saw the happy Valarr, the sweet Matarys, half asleep as he leaned on you and the way Aemon kept coming closer, he knew you were to be trusted.
Children like Aemon often fled the moment attention was drawn to them.
Eventually, Matarys grew tired of observing battles and attempted to climb onto your lap. The effort required tremendous determination and very little grace.
You helped before he could accidentally launch himself face-first into the armchair.
Immediately satisfied, the boy settled against your chest.
His small body was warm from play.
His hair smelled faintly of sunshine and whatever flower beds he had attempted to crawl through earlier that morning.
Within minutes, his eyelids had begun drooping. His head rested beneath your chin.
The steady rhythm of your heartbeat seemed to calm him in ways you still did not fully understand.
You absentmindedly rubbed small circles along his back.
The motion required no thought. No effort. Simply instinct.
And perhaps that was why neither you nor Dyanna noticed the significance of it.
Not immediately.
Because while one prince slept against your chest and another quietly sat at your feet, the scene had become so natural that neither woman questioned it anymore.
Dyanna certainly didn't.
In fact, as she watched the room, something within her finally seemed to loosen.
The tension of travel.
The exhaustion.
The invisible strain was carried by every mother responsible for too many people and too many worries.
For the first time since arriving at the Red Keep, she looked comfortable.
Not because of the castle.
Not because of her status.
Not because she had family here.
Because her children were content.
Aerion was laughing.
Aemon was quietly attached himself to someone new.
Daella was fed and peaceful.
And for once, she wasn't being pulled in twelve different directions at once.
Your attention drifted lazily across the room.
Toward Aerion. Toward Valarr.
Toward Spur, who was currently refusing arrest despite multiple attempts.
Toward the sleeping baby. Toward Aemon.
And as Dyanna continued speaking about her children, sharing small stories and observations in the easy way parents always did when discussing those they loved most, you slowly began assembling a picture of her family.
Until eventually a thought occurred to you. A simple one. Yet once noticed, it's impossible to ignore.
Your brow furrowed slightly, and you counted the children in the room.
Aerion, Aemon, Daella.
The numbers refused to add up.
And for the first time since the conversation began, your gaze swept the room not to admire the chaos but to search for someone missing.
