☽ Magpie ● Song ☾

Your local emotional support slut [also feral for Lyonel Baratheon]

[baguettelord]

FFS apparently Lyonel Baratheon was a gateway drug to the land of older men with dark, curly (especially graying) hair and now I can't stop looking at edits of Oscar Isaac

I would like to depart the merry-go-round of torture that is being utterly dickless in your 30s

The only thing keeping me capable of appearing vaguely domesticated in public at this fricken point is fanfiction, I fear.

[baratheonpilled]

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms 1.01

[nastyakotsk]

#552

[cestpasfaux24601]

Daniel Ings || A Knight in the Making - Episode 2 & 3

[angstybadger]

‘I propose a game.’ He breaks the silence, the corner of his mouth lifting slowly. ‘You ask me any question you want and I will answer. With complete honesty. And then I get to do the same.’

A little illustration for chapter 4 of my Lyonel Baratheon fic

[baguettelord]

EX CUSE ME this is amazing

[baratheonpilled]

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms 1.01

[derailedfiction]

dad!Lyonel / husband!Lyonel

warnings: none, family fluff stuff, some suggestive talk (i guess?)

pairings: Lyonel Baratheon/Reader

wc: ~ 900

a/n: the number of children is unspecified, tho as reading you can think of ~5/6 (🙈🙉🙊)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“a dragon and I’ll consider, father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[baguettelord]

Ughhhh I love this it's so fricken cute

[angstybadger]

The Horror and the Wild pt.5

Lyonel Baratheon x reader

Masterlist

Summary: Lyonel is trying to understand what happened between you last night. But you're not making it easy. And pretending that he doesn't care starts to get very, very hard. Content: smut, verbal abuse (not by the main love interest), Aerion is a bad guy here, angst, arranged betrothal, forbidden romance, reader is afab, over twenty (not specified), has long-ish hair, no physical descriptions beyond that Author's note: You will get a little pov shift this chapter. Doesn't that sound delicious? (I love pathetic Lyonel sue me). Also, this was supposed to be the penultimate chapter. But I had to split it in half because it was already pretty long. And so it ends on a little cliffhanger before shit goes down. I won't even pretend to be sorry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not looking.

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

You’re not looking.

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

You’re still not looking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘It’s quite early.’

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

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

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

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

‘Is this about Lady Cafferen again?’

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

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

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

‘Whatever you say.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Lord Baratheon?’

Lord Swann’s voice brings him back to reality.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Lord Baratheon?’

‘Yes?’

‘Why are you… here?’

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

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

Daeron raises his brows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘My father is known to do that.’

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

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

‘Sometimes.’

‘And Lady Cafferen?’

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

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

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

‘Unwell?’

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

‘She was very quiet.’

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

‘She does that.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it didn’t work this time.

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

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

‘Are you alright?’

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

‘Were you following me?’

He jolts back, surprised by the sudden outburst.

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

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

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

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

‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

‘Exactly what you heard, Lady Cafferen.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Then why does the moon tea matter?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I know.’

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

‘Can you kiss me?’

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

‘Gods. Of course I can.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop. Take a deep breath.

‘I would marry you if I could.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You missed breakfast, My Lady.’

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

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

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

You watch his mouth twist into something resembling a smile.

‘I can smell him on you.’

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

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

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

If anyone wants to be added to the tag list please let me know! I will really appreciate every comment you leave on my work. Love you all!

[baguettelord]

KFJXHWHDKCISHEHFKSISNFKFJAHDBFKSJDHFK

god. This fic is doing things to me, yeah?

[finchsbadhairday]

Chapter 3: A Disguise for the Desperate

We have officially entered Lyonel Baratheon POV territory.

LYONEL

The great pavilion thrummed with evening revelry, its canvas walls billowing gently as servants slipped in and out with fresh trenchers and brimming jugs. Music rolled beneath the rafters, swallowed by laughter before swelling up again, while the smell of roasted boar, buttered onions, spilled ale, and too many bodies settled warmly in the air. 

Lanterns hung from the ridgepole, casting a honeyed glow that pooled over bright embroidery and the rims of lifted cups before spilling across the rough planks of the modest dais that raised the high table.

Lyonel occupied the center of it, one boot hooked around the stretcher beneath the table, an elbow resting lazily beside his cup. 

Men had to tip their chins ever so slightly to speak with him from below - a simple fact that he found quietly entertaining.

He took another drink.

The Arbor red was smooth and heavy on the tongue, all ripe berries, oak, and the lingering sweetness of late summer. It settled warmly in his chest, loosening muscles that had spent the afternoon swinging a warhammer and taking blows in return. 

Laughter drifted from every corner of the pavilion. Minor lords with flushed faces leaned too close over their cups, ladies glittered beneath pearls, while hedge knights spent prize money they had not possessed that morning. 

He liked the way these lords threw themselves into pleasure as though it might armor them against life’s eventual bite. Foolish, perhaps, but honest in its way. He had spent enough years reading the subtle currents beneath such displays to know when a man laughed to mask unease or a lady's smile hid calculation. 

Tonight, most seemed genuine. A small mercy.

Across the open floor, Beesbury had somehow persuaded his wife into another dance. They spun past the high table in a blur of yellow and black, her skirts flaring wide as he whirled her with both enthusiasm and precision. His yellow mustache bounced with every booming laugh, while her cheeks glowed rosy enough to shame the wine.

At a nearby trestle, Hardyng held court, one hip perched on the table's edge, gesturing broadly with a half-gnawed rib bone as he regaled a knot of younger knights with the day's finer disasters.

"—and there the fool stood, sword raised like he meant to split the sky, only for Lyonel to plant him arse-first in the mud. I swear the ground shook for a league."

The table erupted. Tankards slammed against wood. Someone nearly choked laughing.

Lyonel smiled into his cup.

This, more than the champion's purse or the cheers from the lists, was the part he loved.

Yet beneath the warmth, a shadow lingered at the edges of his thoughts, the way the air lingered heavy before a storm.

Dragonstone had been duty. His father had sent him to stand for House Baratheon at Prince Baelor's wedding tourney, and Lyonel had done exactly that - won the bloody thing besides. 

This tournament, however, had been his own doing. Another stop. Another excuse to delay the ride home.

He already knew the speech waiting for him there.

His lord father would ask why the heir to Storm's End was still chasing tourney purses when there were castellans to inspect, levies to count, petitions to hear and a lordship to learn before it was his.

Lyonel snorted softly and shoved the thought aside, draining his cup. His father's disappointment could wait another night. 

He waved a hand, summoning a servant to refill his cup, and let his gaze drift once more across the pavilion.

Squires hovered at the edges of the feast like wary dogs, fetching wine, laughing together whenever their knights looked elsewhere. Most wore the same expression Lyonel remembered from his own youth - half eager to belong, half terrified of making fools of themselves.

One face was missing.

He frowned almost without thinking.

"Wilby," he called, voice carrying easily over the nearer din without rising to a shout. The one-armed squire appeared at his elbow moments later, face still ruddy from the day's exertions but eyes alert. Lyonel gestured him closer, leaning in with a conspiratorial tilt that belied the easy sprawl of his posture. 

"That lad… Cal. Seen him again?"

Wilby shook his head, glancing toward the entrance flaps where night pressed close. "Not since he slipped off, my lord. Thought he might've taken his silver and found warmer company elsewhere."

Lyonel grunted, turning his cup between his fingers.

Odd, that.

He met a hundred faces at every tourney. Most were forgotten before the next cask was tapped.

Somehow, Cal was not.

READ THE FULL CHAPTER ON AO3

[baguettelord]

Yeah so this is one of those ones y'all just need to read IDGAF. The world building is rich and immersive and the characters feel alive and just

Yep

Everything.

Read this thing peeps.

[baratheonpilled]

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms 1.01

[baratheonpilled]

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms 1.01

[nastyakotsk]

#535

[punk-in-docs]

Ohh, I can picture Lyonel saying "A tiny version of you? That's dangerous." especially since Lady D already has him around her finger. A baby girl looking just like her, would be the (sweet) death of him 🤌🏻😍

Heirs of the stag-

Lyonel Baratheon x Lady D - BABY FEVER

MASTERLIST - SEND PROMPTS - AO3

@multyfangirl I love you for this. Ok I’m gonna lowkey make everyone broody and horny reading this. Even me. And I’m never having children. Ever. Ever.

TW; Childbirth, blood and gore. Can you tell I don’t subscribe to the rose tinted view of motherhood. Yes I based the lullaby Lyonel sings off an actual one I love so much. It’s Cornish and it warms my heart. Check it out.

You wake to humming.

Not the usual kind that Storms End brings. Not the lash of sea. Or the bite of wind. The knock of thunder reigning from above. This seems gentler; more honeyed and far less stormborn.

Singing. The dulcet tones of an old song.

“Dreams like the castles that sleep in the sand….Soft is the wind… soft is the wind. Slipped through the fingers or held in the hand.”

A Stormlands lullaby. A nursery rhyme about the sea and winds. Of oceans, magic, and enduring love. The tale woven from the shores of the very rocks you set upon. Something that never cowered nor surrendered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lyonel is leaning over the bassinet. Humming to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you dare move.” You tease.

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

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

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

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

“So. My Lord storm-“ you begin.

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

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

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

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

“Jorys.” You ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Next one?” You raise a brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anrea puts her hands on her hips. Danger.

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

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

He looks pleadingly into Jorys face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next words bloat and warm your weary heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lyonel urges you on. Eyes meeting your own.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Deadly.” You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forgive the random tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. Let me know if you want on/off the list. I’m new to AKOTSK so forgive my presumptions @the-darklings @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiiousstrawberriies @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @adumbgirlinloove @moonlitmaester @silens-oro @feral4youu @whatislovevavy @happinessisaloadedgun @faelinda @crayonbug @celestrys @sallymaywritings @captainfern @theprophaecy @multyfangirl @angstybadger @asterionex @liliac-dreamer @rotseria @stainlesssteelbedframe

[baguettelord]

SAM NEILL??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

[orpheuslookedback1]

Idk how to explain this but Lyonel dancing in the first episode is one of the hottest things I’ve seen a man do

[orson-pope]

Hello Orson-pope! Can I please request Maekar, Baelor, and Lyonel reacting to their wife teasing and touching them before a serious meeting? I would love to know how they would feel when she leaves them high and dry and what they would do once the meeting is over. Thanks so much!! 💕💕

High and Dry

Pairing: Maekar, Baelor, Lyonel x fem!reader

Word count: 4.3k (approx. 1.4k per character)

Warnings: MDNI, NSFW, smut, explicit, no use of Y/N, no physical description of the reader, mentions of female genitalia, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns used, sex, p in v, unprotected, rough sex, dirty talk, first draft yolo, no beta

Maekar groaned, finally tearing himself from you. 

He only meant to give you a quick goodbye kiss, for the day that is, but you quickly turned one kiss into two into a passionate kiss that had Maekar humming against your mouth.

“One more,” you asked with puffy lips, your arms draped around his neck.

“Fine,” Maekar grunted before pulling you closer again, his tongue finding little resistance.

You didn’t have to touch him to know how painfully hard you were making him, Maekar’s huge hands splayed across your back, his fingertips pressing in, his head dipping lower…

“You’re going to be late, husband,” you smiled, pressing a quick peck to his lips.

This time, Maekar swallowed his groan.

Around dinner time, the door to your chambers opened without a knock, in a way you knew Maekar was entering. Still, you pretended to be deeply engrossed in the book you were reading, expecting Maekar to huff and puff a little before leading you to your bedchambers.

“Did you find that amusing?” his gruff voice loomed over you.

“Hm?” you feigned ignorance and innocence, though a tiny smirk gave you away. Looking up to Maekar through your lashes, you could tell he was in a particular mood, especially when he tossed his cape over the closest chair. 

“Undress,” he ordered, and if you thought you could tease him a little more, the tone of his voice left nothing up for discussion. 

Slowly, you stood, unlacing your dress without any sense of urgency, but Maekar waited for the whole Gods-forsaken morning. His lips crashed onto yours, all teeth and bite, his hands tugging, pulling, and breaking, a distinct sound of the fabric ripping filling the room. 

Soon, you were standing bare in front of your husband, his lips leaving a trail of bruises over the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands roaming your body. His hot breath was making you so wet, your hands finally cupping his cock through his breeches.

“Fuck,” Maekar finally grunted, his teeth gliding over your shoulder. He took a couple of steps back, slumping into a chair, taking in your figure. 

Your mouth watered at the sight of Maekar freeing his cock, and you immediately went to kneel.

“No,” he rasped, stroking himself. “Come here. Fuck yourself.”

He immediately hooked one arm around you as you straddled him, the other grabbing your ass; slowly, without any preparation, you lined up the tip of Maekar’s cock and, with a deep breath, slowly started to sink on it. 

It hurt, but you wanted it badly. 

Watching a red flush creep up Maekar’s neck and how he was so desperately swallowing all his moans made you feel so eager to please him, so with a painful yelp, you sat all the way down. 

Maekar’s hand flew to your neck to steady you as your whole body trembled, speared on his cock; he pulled you against himself, your hands bracing against his chest.

“Now you know how I felt the whole morning,” he spat out, but you knew your husband.

There was no bite in his words, and he even pressed a quick kiss to your temple. You rolled your hips slowly, feeling how Maekar’s cock throbbed inside you, and he finally let out a long groan, his head falling between your tits, licking and sucking.

You continued rolling your hips a little faster, listening to Maekar muffle his groans and moans on your tits, his teeth grazing your hardened, sensitive nipples. It unlocked something in you, being completely naked and him fully clothed, for reasons you could never understand.

Your legs were trembling already, but you were determined; you knew Maekar was going to punish you properly in the evening, take your time with you and keep you on edge for hours, denying you over and over again. It was a gift, your current time together, a loving treat before he’d unleash on you.

But now, his cock was spreading you, mixing a little pain with a lot of pleasure, your body nothing but a vessel for Maekar to relax into a little. Or a lot, you smirked to yourself, feeling ropes of cum already leaking out of you in the middle of his surprised orgasm.

“Fuck,” he muttered after his breathing returned to normal. “I need to change out of these fucking clothes.

“I have to go, my love,” Baelor whispered, still holding you close as you sat in his lap.

“You’re always in the meetings, My Prince,” you protested, your nails lightly scratching the skin at his nape, just as you knew would drive him wild. “I never see you anymore.”

You pulled him into a deep, tender, intimate kiss, feeling the pressure in his breeches against your thigh. Baelor’s hands tightened around you, and a breathless moan escaped your lips, going directly to the Crown Prince’s cock.

And then you pulled away, watching his differently coloured eyes go all glassy and unfocused, his hands falling to your ass, gripping it, but letting go when you stood up.

He watched you depart his solar, trying to remind himself that duty called, but wanting nothing else but to follow you back to your shared chambers.

It wasn’t that late when Baelor finally made his way to you, at least not by Baelor’s standards. He could barely pay attention during the meeting, his mind constantly drifting to you, to that kiss, your body pressed against his. 

He found you asleep, a book splayed over your chest, one hand still atop it; you dozed off in the middle of a chapter. Baelor gently removed it, making sure to slide a bookmark inside, before carefully putting it aside. 

You wore nothing but his favourite shift, a dark red silk that was transparent in certain light — the one you wore on your wedding night. 

With a new sense of urgency, Baelor undressed, sliding under the covers next to you. He has missed you and your warmth, his cock stirring to full hardness when a first sleepy moan escaped your lips.

“Baelor?” you whispered, your heavy-lidded eyes meeting his glassy ones. 

Usually, Baelor would be patient, controlled, measured. But those kisses you shared before his meeting reminded him how much he loved to let go, lose himself in you.

“You’ve been teasing me the whole day,” Baelor whispered back, his lips capturing yours as his fingers slid over your breasts, pinching your nipple through the flimsy fabric.

You just moaned in reply, one of your hands tangling in his hair, the other one sliding back to his nape, your nails dragging over the skin; Baelor sighed in your mouth, pressing his tongue deeper, climbing on top of you. You could feel his cock already, hard, hot, and leaking, before his fingers found their way lower, exploring your heat. 

Not for long, as when he was satisfied that you could take him without too much preparation, Baelor impatiently bunched up your shift, his muscular thighs forcing yours wider apart, exposing you fully to him. He tried, Gods know he tried, to give you enough time to get used to the stretch, but when your cunt started to greedily swallow him, Baelor had to admit he was just a man.

He sheathed himself fully, drawing an audible moan out of you, selfishly chasing his own pleasure. He knew now exactly how you liked it the most, which spots to hit and how hard, and how slowly to drag himself out before feverishly fucking back into you. None of it mattered now, as Baelor kept fucking you into the mattress.

You loved it. 

So much so that your moans and whines became louder than the slapping of the skin on skin, your nails lodged firmly into the skin of Baelor’s back, trying to bring him as close as possible, feel his warmth and his sweat. When your back arched off the bed into him, and you started babbling his name, Baelor’s lips finally turned into a satisfied smirk. 

He would never admit it, but he loved getting back at you.

You couldn’t help yourself tease but Lyonel a little before every meeting, just kissing him for a moment too long, or wearing his favourite perfumes and oils.

“You little minx,” Lyonel would breathe out every time, willing himself to leave and tear himself from you.

Today, however, you were feeling particularly naughty, standing on your tiptoes, tangling your hand in Lyonel’s curls, your tongue swirling around his.

“My Lord,” an embarrassed young servant tried again, not looking at you two, his cheeks and ears burning.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Lyonel muttered, physically moving away from you, until you cupped his cock, that was.

You could feel it harden under your hand, confines of Lyonel’s breeches still secluding it somewhat.

He practically jumped away from you, his mouth falling open.

“Wife, how dare you start this before my meeting?” there was a certain level of dramatics in his voice, almost as if he was personally offended that you were going to leave him high and dry.

But you just winked at him, pressing a rather chaste kiss to his cheek, and ushered him out of the solar.

You were pretty proud of yourself, occasionally chuckling to yourself as you continued to read your book, waiting for Lyonel to return. It would be some time, you guessed, as this meeting was important, although you didn’t bother too much to find out why.

Imagine your surprise then, when Lyonel returned to the solar with pressing urgency.

“Done already?” you frowned, wondering who and what offended him now.

“No, no,” Lyonel mumbled, walking to you, unlacing his breeches. “We’re taking a short break.” He led you behind his desk as you laughed.

“Take it off,” his head indicated to your dress.

“Lyonel, here?” it was your turn for fake dramatics, especially as Lyonel already had you in his solar, multiple times.

“Take it off, or I’ll take it off,” his voice was impatient and so, so needy. 

He pulled his breeches down a little, just enough to free his cock, before sitting down. You watched him stroke his cock, flushed with blood already, looking painfully hard. 

“Were you this hard this whole time?” you teased, slowly unlacing our dress, trying to give Lyonel a show. 

“Hurry the fuck up,” Lyonel barked, getting seriously impatient.

You didn’t listen, because when did you? So Lyonel took matters into his own hands, turning you around with a surprised shriek from you, and bending you over the table.

“You need it that badly, husband?” you listened as he bunched up your dress and your shift, his cock already sliding between your folds, coating it in your slick.

With a sharp thrust, he sheathed himself completely inside you, causing you to fall further forward on the table as a painful yelp tore from your lips.

No matter how hard or how often Lyonel fucked you, it always took some time to get used to the merciless stretch of his cock.

But this time, Lyonel wouldn’t grace you that time, irritated and a little angry you spurred him on in the first place, chasing his own pleasure.

“Fuck, fuck,” he moaned out, his hands pulling your hips to meet his thrusts, the cold of his rings burning into your skin. 

“I needed this,” Lyonel grunted as he continued to plunge into you, “I needed you.”

His babbling always sent such pleasurable jolts through you, sometimes even more than his cock. But you liked it, when he took, when he used you, when he was so desperate to fuck you, he adjourned his meeting. 

You listened, with a smirk on your face, as Lyonel’s breathing became erratic, a tell-tale sign he was close. He gripped your hips even harder, stilling inside you before spilling his seed. 

“I’m not done with you yet,” he whispered, slapping your ass before quickly lacing himself back up and returning to his meeting.

If you like my writing, all interactions are greatly appreciated-`♡´-

Masterlist౨ৎ

Tagging @sallymaywritings @californiablues88 @sem-ra @ghostlybfgf @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @risefallrise @cintoasted @aryaslittleneedle @fromirkwood @ctrlanthro @xyahx @alexjacobsgoodnight @moonlights-muse

taglist ♥︎ here

Divider by @strangergraphics

[angstybadger]

The Horror and the Wild pt. 4

Lyonel Baratheon x reader

Masterlist

Summary: Sometimes your body makes the choice before you have the time to think it through. Content: smut, verbal abuse and a hint of physical abuse (groping) (not by the main love interest), Aerion is a bad guy here, angst, arranged betrothal, forbidden romance, reader is afab, over twenty (not specified), has long-ish hair, no physical descriptions beyond that Authors note: Ok so the slow burn is going to pay off in this chapter, as you can probably see by the content warning. I'm not going to say anything more, I just hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 4: Welcome to my table, bring your hunger.

‘Why are you asking me that?’

‘I just want to make sure she’s alright.’

Lyonel came to their camp early. Dismissed Egg, told Dunk they needed to talk. He waited for the boy to get far enough. Pacing around the camp at first, he then settled against the old oak. Dunk watches him, as he’s picking at the leaves on a low hanging branch. Why exactly did Lord Baratheon drag him out of bed just to ask about Lady Cafferen?

Then recognition flashes across his face, mouth hanging wide open.

‘For fucks sake, Lyonel, have you two…’

Lyonel throws his hands in the air, eyes to the sky, like he’s asking the gods to mercifully strike him down.

‘Oh piss off. No, we didn’t do anything, who do you think I am?’

The hedge knight says nothing. Just looks at him, raising his eyebrows.

‘Alright, that’s a stupid question.’ He holds up his hands. ‘I might’ve tried in different circumstances.’

‘Lyonel…'

‘I mean- Fuck.’ Lord Baratheon’s hand drags over his chin, pulling on his lower lip. He looks like he hasn’t slept all night. ‘Look, I’m just worried, alright? I thought she might’ve told you something. If he’s done anything or-’

‘Why would she tell me that?’

‘Well, you two seemed… close.’ He gestures vaguely, like the gesture is supposed to explain anything. Dunk furrows his brows. ‘Don’t look at me like that, you’ve probably thought about it too.’

Red creeps up Dunk’s cheeks. He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

‘I didn’t.’ He scoffs. ‘And she didn’t tell me anything.’

‘Fine’.

Lyonel turns away, crossing his arms like a sulking child. Morning breeze blows through the camp, carrying the smell of sea and salt. The sky already lost the colours of sunrise, stretching blue and clear above them. Ground below not yet warmed by the summer heat.

‘Lyonel, please tell me you don’t have any ideas about this.’

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead picks himself up from the tree and starts pacing again. Arms still crossed, brows furrowed.

‘I can’t just leave it like that, can I?’ He finally faces Dunk and holds his gaze, as if trying to force approval out of the knight. ‘You know better than anyone who Aerion is.’

‘You will only make things worse if you-’

‘Shut up.’

‘W- what?’

Lyonel glances over Dunk’s shoulder, then back at him.

‘She’s fucking coming here, shut up.’ He hisses and steps back, hand brushing through his silvered curls, as he takes in a long inhale. Dunk turns in the direction from which he can now hear the quiet steps coming, completely oblivious to Lyonel’s intentions of seeming nonchalant.

You see them standing under the oak tree. Talking? Arguing? For a moment you almost decide to back away, give them some time to settle their matters in private. But then Dunk turns in your direction. Well, no chance to run away now. Better get this over with.

‘Ser Duncan’ Approaching the taller man, you notice his face tainted by a pinkish hue. You don’t think much of it, attributing it to his usual shyness. You are, however, surprised to see the Storm Lord also seemingly agitated. His hand rubbing the back of his neck. The shirt he’s wearing is black, made of expensive looking fabric, but it’s a simple garment, something one would throw on in the morning if they were in a hurry. ‘Lord Baratheon. I met Egg in the courtyard. He told me I could find you here.’

An unspoken question hangs in the air as he looks at you, a small wrinkle forming in the space between his brows.

‘I wanted to have a few words with you. Privately.’

He turns to Dunk, who hasn’t spoken a word since you came. The look they exchange seems charged, almost conspiratorial, but you prefer not to guess what it might be about.

‘I was about to head back to the grounds anyway.’ He says, offering you his hand.

You walk through the open field, across the green patches of grass, spotted here and there with small yellow flowers. The crammed pavilions ahead start coming to life, first figures emerging from the tents, small from the distance. Here, in the open, the cool wind blows freely. Brisk air soothes your pounding head slightly, just slightly. It hasn’t improved much since you woke up, a dull ache smashing in your skull like a reminder of bad decisions.

‘What did you want to talk about, My Lady?’

His voice is so level and soft that it almost catches you off guard. It nearly gets lost in the wind. You feel heat rising in your chest as you force yourself to speak.

‘It seems like I’ve had too much to drink yesterday. And I might’ve said some things that… should’ve remained private.’

You play with the ends of a periwinkle shawl draped over your shoulders, too embarrassed to look at him.

‘I’ve had quite a few drinks myself, My Lady. So I don’t recall much about the night.’ You force yourself to turn toward him, meeting his eyes. They’re warm, reassuring. But there is something else, something almost like disappointment painted in the slight raise of his brows. ‘Only that you were very pleasant company.’

You smile at him, but it doesn’t feel like an appropriate response. His reaction does somewhat calm your concern, but it also feels like something was left out. As you walk through the grounds, silent, at the back of your head, under the exhausting pain, you feel it. Like a question you don’t understand, drilling into your skull, demanding an answer. And as he leaves you, kissing your hand and walking away fast, too fast, you start to believe he felt it too.

The rest of the day is a blur. You go through the motions, hoping that the pounding in your skull will go away at some point. It doesn’t. The tourney feels like torture, the roar of the crowd, clinking of metal and sounds of cracking lances, dull stomping of horseshoes on the bare ground. The sunlight is blinding. You focus on keeping appearances, sitting upright, smiling. Through the fog and pain you note gladly that Dunk wins in his first charge against some northern knight. You also note Aerion’s eyes watching you across the grounds, just like he did yesterday, only now the haze makes it even more unbearable. At dinner, you can’t stomach much, settling for some cold meat, bread and citrus fruit. Daeron suggests more wine to aid the pounding head, an offer you politely decline. You excuse yourself from the feast before the dancing starts.

A river of bodies flows through the alley of merchant stands, eager to spend their coin and ogle at the exotic wares. Painted ceramics, little keepsakes, intricate hair brushes and pins. Things both practical and excessive. Women crowded over Myrish lace, spread out on the table. A broad man in a black apron, pouring foamy ale. Beads of syrup glistening on the skins of dried fruit. The jewellery stands are the most common and by consequence become tiresome fairly quickly. There are only so many ways one can fashion pearls, corals, obsidian or amethyst before it gets repetitive. Only the intricate collars from Lys keep your attention for longer. The merchant lady wears one such piece, the detailed metalwork presented in its full glory, entwining around her neck and collarbones, carnelian beads drooping in clusters deep into the plunged neckline of her dress, catching the sun. You feel tempted, but ultimately decide them to be too daring to wear in court, so you move on, squeezing through the loud crowd. A tyroshi merchant with a long purple beard ushers in a group of young highborn knights to take a look at some filigreed helms. Another one next to him lists loudly the variety of wines he has to offer. The smell of fragrant oils hits your nose all at once as you pass a large stand covered by a red canopy. Florals emerge first, screaming for attention, but underneath dances the velvet whisper of sandalwood and animalics. The airy scent of cloves carries in the wind, following you long after you leave the stall behind.

Near the end of the merchant alley spreads a rich stand, the table piled with colorful fabrics. Some are laid out to present the detailed embroidery of all styles and origins. Others hung up, draped in a way that best shows their texture and sheen. You move closer, towards the centre of the stall where lies a collection of the most expensive looking fabrics. The ones the owner of the stall - a tall man, Dornish judging by his looks - must be most proud to present. He invites you to take a closer look with an encouraging gesture. Your fingers graze a dark-red taffeta that rustles under your touch, the sheen on its surface shifting with the movement of the fabric. Black samite, woven with silver threads creating a floral pattern, raised under your touch. Silks, brocades, damasks, a whole palette of royal colours, glistening in the sun.

‘I can’t quite imagine you wearing something like this.’

Daeron’s voice startles you, making your hand snap away from the fabrics. His gaze runs over your figure, your turquoise dress, loose and light, the layered gauze of your skirt falling in sheer layers.

‘I thought you went for the hunt.’ You say, turning back to browse the fabrics. His laugh comes soft and mocking behind your back.

‘Me? Who do you take me for?’

‘I didn’t see you or Aerion at breakfast. I assumed you both went with the other lords.’

‘No, Aerion is with father. Preparing to take over the duties and so on.’ He pauses. You feel his eyes on your back. ‘I think he will be occupied for quite some time. My father is very thorough.’

‘And you? How did you escape your princely duties?’

‘Oh, I wasn’t required in the first place. Father gave up on me a long time ago.’

A delicate, almost sheer yellow fabric catches your eye. Lustrous, embroidered with golden thread, delicate ornaments that make it look like stained glass. You touch it, hesitantly, pinching it between two fingers, raising it up to take a closer look. It’s nearly weightless. Soft like a cloud.

‘That one would suit you better.’

You take one last look at the fabric before turning to face Daeron.

‘So, what are you planning to do with your time?’

‘The idea was to find a nice secluded place and a bottle of Dornish. But we can take a look around first, if you wish.’

After two days of jousting this day of respite breathes new air into the grounds. The pace changes, loosens. People spread all around the field instead of cramming along the lists. There is much to do - at least for the men. You pass by an archery contest, a rock throwing competition of some sort, tug of war. While men participate, the ladies bunch into small groups, either cheering for the competitors or discussing their own affairs, enjoying each other's company.

You see yet another field surrounded by barriers. A sharp whistle tears through the air and you look in its direction, in time to see an axe landing on a target with a loud thud. The crowd cheers for a young man with shaggy hair, who raises his arm and waves excitedly at someone. Among the colorful dresses and tunics of spectators seated on a makeshift wooden bench, you spot a familiar bald head.

‘You need to balance it!’

Egg’s voice carries over the crowd before you reach him. His whole body is pushed forward, watching the field intently. The warning comes too late; Dunk’s axe misses the target completely, falling to the sandy ground. Egg turns to you, as you take a seat next to him, hands spread in resignation.

‘He’s completely hopeless.’ The little boy sighs dramatically.

‘I have to admit he’s much better at jousting than axe throwing.’

The young man from before consoles Dunk, patting him on the back. They seem to know each other - the hedge knight’s posture is too relaxed for this to be their first meeting. You turn to your left to ask Daeron about this, expecting to find him next to you, but the seat is empty. You’re not sure when he disappeared. You thought he would follow you to meet Egg.

‘It’s a disaster. We had a wager with Raymun. I said Ser, you’ve never thrown an axe in your entire life.’ The boy continues, slouched over, elbows resting on his knees. ‘But he told me you will get a clout in the ear boy and went on and embarrassed himself.’

A laugh escapes your lips at his impression of Dunk before you can stifle it. Egg beams at you.

‘Big boys are so competitive about their little games.’

A woman’s voice sounds behind you. You turn to face the unexpected company. Her face is round, cheeks flushed pink, full lips. Bright red curls, pinned up, showing off the golden earrings dangling at her ears. She’s wearing a dress that borders on scandalous, deep neckline and exposed arms, poisonously green. She takes a seat next to you on the bench, and you bite your lip, hoping she didn’t notice the blush creeping up your neck.

‘I’m Rowan Fossoway, My Lady. And that one-’ she points to the young man, who is now walking in your direction, alongside Dunk ‘-is my husband.’

‘Have you seen that?’ Raymun cuts off your greeting, rushing excitedly to Rowan, grabbing her waist. She pecks his cheek in response.

‘Yes yes, you did great my dear.’

The man looks pretty average at first glance. But the boyish curly hair falling on his forehead, the slight stubble on his chin and a happy twinkle dancing in his eyes as he embraces Rowan, give him a peculiar kind of charm. Then, he notices you. The delighted expression on his face falters

‘Lady Cafferen.’ Your name comes out more like a question than a greeting. He turns towards Dunk, eyebrows raised in alarm.

‘It’s fine Raymun.’

‘Is it? She’s practically a dragon, Dunk.’ He lowers his voice. A pointless idea - he’s standing directly next to you.

Egg clears his throat. The two knights don’t notice. You and Rowan exchange an amused look.

‘Don’t be ridiculous husband.’ She interjects, with a particular tone one might use to scorn a child. ‘Your friend told you it’s fine, drop it.’

Raymun looks at his wife, bewildered. He tries to say something, but decides against it when he sees her stern expression. He accepts the defeat, gaze shifting to ogle at his boots.

‘Have you seen the cliffs, Lady Cafferen?’ She looks away from him, tilting her head in your direction, loose strands of curly hair bouncing around her face. ‘I’ve been trying to drag my husband there all day.’

‘I have, but that was some time ago.’

‘We should go to the cliffs then! The weather is perfect and the boys will have some time to catch up.’ Without waiting for an answer she hooks her arm on yours, smiling brightly. ‘And we could talk some more.’

Rowan’s company, as unexpected as it is, proves to be absolutely delightful. She doesn’t bother with the usual talk of weather and litany of compliments. Instead, she cuts straight to gossip and the way she details and reenacts the stories leaves you breathless with laughter.

As you cut through the pavilions, nearing the cliffs, you hear the two men ahead exclaiming something. You both turn toward the sound, pulled from your conversation. It doesn’t even surprise you when you see that it’s Lord Baratheon who is causing the stir up. He’s embracing Raymun, the way old friends would do. Both of them talking over each other. Lyonel takes a step back, still laughing, running his hand through the unruly curls, the golden rings adorning his fingers catching the sunlight, glistening along with the silver in his hair. He looks very tall next to the young man, his posture relaxed, one leg pushed forward. The white fabric of his shirt sticks out from the collar of a black doublet, unlaced, slightly disheveled. His riding boots are still covered in mud. The hunters must’ve just returned to the castle.

‘Oh great, they found another one.’ Rowan lets out a dramatic sigh. ‘We should run before they get their hands on ale and start reminiscing about their bravery in battle.’

‘It seems that Lord Baratheon appears wherever ser Duncan goes.’

‘Yes, I heard as much. It’s adorable, really.’ Rowan tilts her head playfully, earrings clinking, as she watches Lord Baratheon’s hand patting Dunk’s back. ‘Gods, look at the size of them both. I could get crushed between those big arms anyday.’

‘Rowan,’ you half-whisper, trying to hide your amusement, ‘your husband is right there.’

‘He would agree. It’s just a fact, they’re quite handsome. Especially that Baratheon.’

He turns to you then, as if summoned by her comment, which you are sure he could not hear. He smiles. Rowan’s raised eyebrows tell you she definitely noticed your cheeks going red under his gaze.

The wind gets wilder the further you go. Damp, salt-laden, pulling at the loose strands of your hair. You have to keep brushing them off your face. The men walk ahead, their silhouettes dark against the cloudy sky. Egg runs circles around them, as energetic as any boy his age. Their voices rise as the howl of the wind grows louder, the sound of the sea gets closer. The grass underfoot becomes sparse, giving way to bare rock, gravel and some stubborn patches of greenery growing in the cracks of stone.

Raymun stays behind, waiting for you and Rowan. She lets go of your arm to join hands with her husband. The conversation between them settles so naturally, carrying that specific intimate tone you’ve only heard between newlyweds before. And although Rowan tries to include you in the discussion, you decide to give them space. You slow your pace gradually and soon you’re left behind. Walking near the edge, the limestone bright under your feet. The waves crash against the surface of the cliff, foam spraying on the darkened wet stone. The booming sound reaches you, distant from below, rising and falling. Heartbeat of the sea.

You see him, a small figure in the distance, breaking away from the group. Turning his steps in your direction. Confident, loose stride. You cannot see his face, blinded by the sun behind his back. The wind whips through his hair, curls catching the afternoon light, glistening just like the surface of the water behind him.

For a moment you think he might want to join Rowan and Raymun. But he passes them by.  Greets you with a wide smile, clasping his hands behind his back. Matching your pace.

‘What are you thinking about, My Lady?’

A speckle of gold flickers in his brown eyes as a ray of sun shifts over his features. It catches in his jewellery, the pendant visible in the gap of an undone shirt, the earring dangling in the wind. You interlace your fingers, trying to hide the slight tremble of your hands.

‘The sea. This sound. You can just… always hear it here. Everywhere you go.’

‘You stop noticing after some time. You only realize once it’s gone. When you leave.’

‘And do you miss it then?’

He stops. His gaze flickers down, only for a moment, then returns to your eyes, darkened under the cover of his raven black eyelashes.

‘Only at night. It’s hard to fall asleep without it.’ He licks his lips, looking at the restless sea. Brings his hands together, playing with one of the many rings worn on his fingers, twisting it side to side. ‘Though, I won’t be leaving that often now. I have a lot of things to take care of.’

‘Well, we all have our duties.’

The wind picks up, flattening your skirts against your legs. The others left you far behind. You’re alone now, standing on the edge of the cliff. Lyonel takes a step forward, bridging the distance between you. His gaze softens, almost imperceptibly, a wrinkle forming between his brows.

‘Yes, we do.’ His voice is a soft whisper in the howl of the wind. ‘Once the tourney ends it’s going to get awfully boring here.’

‘I could honestly use some boredom now.’

You feel his fingers brushing against your hand. The warm skin and the sharp coldness of the golden rings.

‘I can imagine.’

You swallow. Your lips feel hot, the cold wind cutting sharp against your skin. Hair blowing in your face, tingling your cheeks.

‘Do you know when you will be wed?’

His question makes something tighten in your chest. You avert your eyes, looking back to the sea. The sun is getting lower. Gold reflects in the waves, shifting with their movement. A steady hum carries up the face of the cliff. Swell of water rising against the stone, a never-ending struggle resulting only in a crash and fall of foam. The wave returning to the sea. Accomplishing nothing.

‘Probably soon.’

His eyes stay on you a moment longer before his fingers retreat, hands returning to join behind his back.

The colorful village of pavilions welcomes back your mismatched company, swallowing you into the flow of evening celebrations. You walk alongside Dunk, occasionally joined by Egg who can’t seem to decide which group he prefers to follow. The hedge knight, feeling much more comfortable in your company, finally warms up to the idea of telling you more about Ashford. And you have so many questions for him, so many things you were curious about but couldn’t find out before, being far removed from the inner circles of the court. You carefully avoid the topic of Prince Baelor, and he tries to not bring up your betrothed more than necessary.

You exit a narrow passage and come out into an open space. A small crowd already builds under a wooden platform that must’ve been arranged in the last few hours. Behind it stand three colorfully dressed figures, two young men and a woman with long blonde hair, holding a lute. You beam at the sight, already turning to tell the others how perfect your timing was, how you came just in time to see the minstrels’ performance. But then you stop. Your smile falters. Aerion is standing right there, behind the nearest pavilion. Watching you. His lips spread into a venomous smile once your eyes meet. He moves. Reaches you in a few swift steps. Slips his arm under yours, the force of the movement dragging you closer to him.

‘My Lady, I’ve been searching for you.’ He doesn’t look at you as he says this. He looks at Dunk. Eyes cold, biting, the smile still plastered across his face. ‘Would you come with me?’

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just leads you along, back the way you came. His arm digs into your flesh, dragging you forth, making you pick up the pace. You catch Lyonel’s eyes when you pass by, just for a moment, but enough to see the bewildered expression painted on his face. Bordering on anger.

Aerion stops when you reach a secluded space between two larger pavilions. He lets go of your arm. Stands before you, only a step away. His smile is gone now. The last light of the sun seeps onto the fabric walls sheltering you from the curious eyes, lays upon the ground between your feet. Dances on his blood-red doublet. Transforms into a silver glow in his cold grey eyes.

‘I don’t want to see you near that hedge knight ever again. Or Lord Baratheon, for that matter.’

You raise your head, forcing yourself to look at him. Your hands shift nervously behind your back.

‘My Prince, I was just-’

‘No. Shush now. It doesn’t matter what explanation you have.’ The softness in his voice clashes with the unshifting expression of his face. ‘I gave you an order and you just need to listen.’

The breath you let out comes uneven and trembling.

‘Don’t look so troubled. You will learn. Soon.’ He takes your chin into his hand, holding it up, forcing you to look at him. Runs his cold finger along your jaw. ‘I will show you how you must behave. Starting with our wedding night. Or we could start sooner, if you prefer.’

His hand finds your hip. 

Your body reacts before you have time to think. You push against his chest with all your force, making him lose his balance momentarily and take a step back. He looks shocked for a moment. But then his expression shifts. His mouth twists into a terrifying smile, his lips parting slightly as a sharp gasp leaves his throat.

‘So you have it in you after all. I was starting to worry you would be dull.’

He doesn’t move, just watches you with an amused look on his face.

‘Easy now, I won’t make a scene, there are people everywhere.’ He tilts his head, eyes raking over your form. ‘I’m perfectly capable of finding myself a willing whore for tonight. We don’t have to rush, pet. Take your sweet time.’

He turns around and walks away, leaving you alone. The light of the sun is gone now, hidden behind the pavilions.

The tavern arranged among the pavilions is mostly empty now. More people will start pouring in soon, following the setting sun. For now there is just a little group standing at the bar, talking to the innkeeper. And a lone man, sitting on a stool next to a barrel that’s acting as a makeshift table. An older woman in a blue apron approaches him, lighting a candle standing next to his cup. You move closer as she leaves. Place your hand on the man’s shoulder.

‘Daeron?’

His head lifts slowly. Hollow eyes peeking at you through the tangled strands of hair.

‘What in the seven hells are you doing here?’

His voice is raw from alcohol. The warning he intended to weave into it doesn’t quite land.

‘You disappeared. I was worried.’

He scoffs.

‘You should get used to me disappearing. That’s what I do.’

‘Why?’

‘To drink?’ He looks at your stone expression. ‘To be alone?

‘I could use a drink too.’

You pull out the stool next to him, the screech of it on the wooden flooring making him grimace.

‘I was suggesting that you should go.’

‘And I’m suggesting that you should shut up and pour me some wine.’ You sit down unceremoniously. Reach for a clean cup and motion for him to fill it up. He does.

‘So… did you have a dream again?’ The candle on the table flickers on the wind as you sit back, swirling the wine in your cup.

‘Gods, can you stop with the questions?’ He sighs, dragging a hand over his face.

You stay silent, slowly sipping on your drink.

‘It’s not about a dream.’

A flicker of sadness shines through his roughened voice, as he finally speaks.

‘I’m happy for Aegon. Really. That he got to escape all of this.’ Slouched over the barrel, he scratches his nails delicately over the raw wood, repetitive movement, as if to soothe the shakiness of his voice. ‘Maybe at least one brother will turn out normal. But if I watch him and that knight of his for too long I just-’

He raises his cup in explanation, then brings it to his lips again. A little droplet of red runs down the corner of his mouth as he empties the cup.

‘And I start wondering if things could’ve been different… With me, with Aerion.’

You sit silently with his words. Unable to find a response.

‘And you? What are you trying to drown?’

Your eyebrow raises at this question, head tilting slightly.

‘Can you guess?’

‘Unfortunately, I think I can.’ He takes another sip of wine. Then places his hand over yours. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I know.’

You can’t sleep. You toss and turn in your bed, exhausted, but your eyelids never start feeling heavy, your mind never stops running. Turning Aerion’s words over and over again in your head. The covers start to feel suffocating. You push them away and lay on your back, completely giving up on sleep. Eyes wide open, looking at the ceiling above you. Missing the familiar patterns of flowers in your bedroom.

You slowly sit up on your bed. Get up to open the window of your chamber, seeking the freshness of air that might lull you to sleep. On the way you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. And you freeze. Lit only by the moonlight and fire in the hearth, you see a face you know very well. But it’s not your own. It’s the face that haunts you in your nightmares. The face of a friend you lost. Whom you saw in Ashford, among the crowd. It’s only there for a second and then you recognize yourself again. But it’s enough. You don’t reach the window. Instead, you take a robe from the chair in the corner and throw it over your nightgown. Slip on the soft, fabric shoes you left at the side of your bed. And then you open the door and sink into the darkness of the hallway.

Your feet carry you through the stone maze of the castle. The thin robe trails behind you, providing a cover that is more about propriety than keeping you warm. You feel almost naked in the flimsy fabrics, shivering as a cold draft hits your skin. A couple of voices sound in the corridor ahead, so you take another turn, trying to recall the paths your maid showed you when you first arrived in Storm’s End. For a moment you think you got lost, but then, in the light shining from under one of the doors, you recognize the corridor. The yellow tapestries on the walls, embroidered with golden stags. You stop when you reach the lit door. The frame is bigger, richer than the ones surrounding it. The light seeping from underneath flickers gently, dancing on the stone under your feet. You listen for any sound, any sign he might not be alone. But the hall is completely silent. So you lift your hand and knock twice on the hard wood.

A scrape of a chair against the stone floor comes muffled from the other side. Followed by a sound of footsteps. They stop by the door. Stillness. The seconds feel like hours. Then, with a creak of iron hinges, the door opens. Lord Baratheon stands before you, in the dim candlelight. Hand still placed on the door handle. His white shirt is undone at the neck, pulled out from the black trousers. Still wearing his riding boots. And the jewellery. He doesn’t seem surprised. Just looks at you for a moment, then takes a step back, letting you in.

The walls of his solar are covered by tapestries, all yellow and black, all bearing the Baratheon sigil. The windows are large, larger than the ones in other chambers. Overlooking the cliffs. The sea outside moves lazily, glimmering in the moonlight. Under one of the windows, directly opposite the entrance, stands a settee. Upholstered in gold fabric, stag antlers carved into the backrest. There’s a chest next to it, clearly used more as a table than storage, books and notes piled on top of the lid. Lyonel closes the door behind you and points to the seat opposite his own, at the other side of his table. You sit down. The hearth cracks quietly next to you, warming your chilled limbs. He offers you some wine. You accept, of course you do. You need it more than he could know.

‘I’m sorry for the mess.’ Lyonel gestures to the table, covered with papers and ledgers. ‘You caught me in the middle of work.’

He takes his seat, settling comfortably, one leg thrown over the arm of the chair, swirling the wine in his cup.

‘The tourney is one thing, but I must still keep track of this… fuckery.’ He waves his hand dismissively at the large record book laying open before him. ‘But you probably don’t want to hear me complaining about my miserable lordly duties.’

‘I kept my father’s ledgers. At home. He never had the patience for it, it seems. So after my mother died, I took over.’

‘Did you now?’

His brows lift, half amusement half surprise. You simply nod.

‘I could help you if there is something specific you have trouble with, My Lord.’

‘No no no, I won’t have you doing my job for me in the middle of the night. Besides, I’m finished for now.’

The candle on his desk flickers in the draft. Reflecting in the golden rings as he slowly moves a finger along the rim of his cup.

‘I propose a game.’ He breaks the silence, the corner of his mouth lifting slowly. ‘You ask me any question you want and I will answer. With complete honesty. And then I get to do the same.’

‘Why would I agree to such a thing, My Lord?’

‘It’s Lyonel. Please.’ His smile gets wider, as he tilts his head, carefully studying your expression. ‘You will agree, because judging by the hour, you couldn’t sleep. And I assume that when you came here you didn’t seek a boring conversation. No, you wanted to be distracted from whatever was keeping you awake. And this will do exactly that. So, you go first. Ask.’

You take a long sip of wine, trying to think of something interesting. Meeting his eyes, you put the cup back onto the table with a soft clink. Settle back in your chair.

‘Why is the Lord of Storm’s End, who has all the ladies swooning over him, still unmarried?’

‘Seven hells, you’re not easing into it.’ He laughs softly, shaking his head. ‘Should’ve expected that. Alright, truthfully. I like taking lovers freely. That’s part of it. It’s fun. But what I like most about it is the honesty. No titles, no performance. Just… flesh. Sadly, when you get to that point… In the morning, there is usually not much left. They’re not that interesting anymore. And The Laughing Storm proves much less charming once you get to know him better.’

‘Is that so?’ You raise your brows.

‘Believe it or not, most people get tired of me fairly quickly.’ His gaze shifts to his hands, playing with a ring on his forefinger. But his eyes turn back to you promptly. ‘My turn: how did you learn to be such a great liar?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ You open your mouth, playing up the offense.

‘I’ve seen you in court, I’ve seen you drunk and I’m seeing you now. The drunk version and the now version are more or less the same. But in court?’ He wags a finger at you. ‘Now that - that is a proper lady. All smiles and courtesy. How do you do that?’

‘Don’t we all do that?’

‘To some extent. But you do it like it's second nature.’

‘Because it is.’ He props his chin on the back of his hand, waiting for you to continue. ‘When I was younger, I would always say the wrong thing. And I quickly learned that it was probably the worst thing a lady could do. So I learned to keep my head down. Observed the women around me. I memorised what to say, when to say it. And then it became natural. I saved the real me for safer moments. When I could sneak away. I would go to a tavern in the nearby town, at night. My maid would help me get out, unseen. And then I could dance, drink. Find a lover sometimes. And that was enough.’

Silence. He just looks at you. The candle gutters, threatening to go out any moment now.

‘My turn to ask.’ Your voice cuts through the tense air. He shifts in his seat, seeing a devilish, barely contained smile spreading upon your lips. ‘Have you and Dunk ever… you know.’

His booming laughter echoes through the room.

‘I’m terribly sorry to disappoint, but no. I will not deny, I made an attempt. But the circumstances were not working in my favour.’ His register drops. ‘You seem to be very interested in my love life.’

‘That’s always an interesting topic.’

‘Yes. And a very improper one too, that’s for sure.’ He pauses, searching your calm expression for something. A slip. A crack. ‘So…Why did you come here? How did you know I would be up?’

‘Those are two questions, Lyonel.’

‘And this,’ he gets up from his chair, pointing a finger at you, ‘is avoiding an answer.’

‘I didn’t know you would be up. I just had a feeling.’

He circles the table, slowly. Getting closer and closer to you.

‘A feeling? That’s funny.’ Lyonel sits on the edge of the table. His knee is almost touching yours. ‘Because I will tell you something. Before you came here, I wasn’t really working at all. I couldn’t concentrate. I’ve just been sitting here. Staring at that wall. Thinking.’

‘About what?’ You swallow, feeling the heat creep up your cheeks.

‘You.’

The candle on the table goes out. The only light left is the dying hearth and the moon. Almost full. Glowing silver in the sky, like the face of an old god. Watching you through the windows of the solar. You stand up, taking a good long look at him. Reach for his face, fingertips brushing the golden earring, tracing along his jawline. The spicy warm scent of the oil he uses on his beard lifts up as you brush your fingers through the coarse hair. Dragging them lower, to his neck. And then you close the distance. His lips are soft. Hot. Moving slowly against your own. Lyonel’s hand finds a place on the back of your neck. Pulls you closer, deepening the kiss. Growing hungrier. Sloppier. All tongue and teeth.

You pull back from the kiss, flushed, gasping for air. His hand stays on your neck, eyes searching your face for confirmation. Instead of responding, you step back. Untie the belt of your robe. Push it off your shoulders. The thin fabric slips down slowly. You do the same with your nightgown, letting the garments pool at your feet. You step out of them, leaving the white and green colours of your house on the cold stone floor. His eyes take in your bare form, wandering, unsure what to focus on. He takes a step closer. Reaches for you, fingertips brushing your skin. Like he’s scared to touch you, like he might ruin it. You can see his jaw tensing, his gaze returning to your face. And then he kisses you. Slower than before but just as deep, just as greedy. His body relaxes into the kiss, his big calloused hands grow daring, moving slowly against the skin of your back. The feeling of cold metal of his rings registers through the haze of lust. You grab the fabric of his shirt, pulling it up. He breaks the kiss and helps you get it off him, throwing it to the floor, where it joins your discarded garments. Then his lips go back to yours. You press your body to him, your breasts flattening against his chest. His skin is warm. Soft. Intoxicating. One of his hands travels lower and finds its way between your thighs. He drags a finger through your folds, making you moan into his lips.

‘You’re so wet already’ A wide grin grows on his face. In response, you reach for his crotch, rubbing him through the fabric of his trousers. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, trying to muffle the little gasp that escapes his throat. You continue to touch him, lightly, just enough to make him go crazy but not enough to provide any release. His teeth graze the skin of your shoulder, the unexpected sensation making you gasp and pull your hand away from his crotch. You can feel the smile returning to his face as his mouth starts moving lower, down your collarbone and chest, reaching your breast. Tongue moving tentatively around your nipple before he takes it in his mouth, sucking hard. His hand finds your other breast, sinking his fingers into the soft flesh, fondling it gently. Then he moves lower, brushing the sensitive tip of your nipple with his thumb. Tracing down your stomach, placing wet kisses on your hip bone.

He’s on his knees, looking up at you. Face lit by the silver-blue moonlight. Hungry dark eyes focused on your face. Like a pilgrim who finally reached his place of worship only to find his goddess in the flesh. Letting him take whatever he wants. And he does. His hands caress your hips, moving up and down, travelling to the curve of your ass, squeezing lightly, as he drags his tongue up and up, slowly, over the skin of your thigh, inching closer and closer to your cunt. He buries his nose in your pubes, his hot breath teasing your most sensitive spot, making you shudder. You shift on your feet, pulling your thighs slightly apart. He accepts the invitation, tongue pushing through your folds, licking a long line. A surprised moan leaves your lips. Your hand finds his curls, brushing through them, pulling him closer. The approving hum coming out of his lips sends a jolt of lightning through your core.

His mouth works patiently, methodically. Tongue flattening against your cunt, slow and hard, then changing the pace, giving you a few quick licks before focusing on the most sensitive part. Circling the bud carefully before sucking on your clit with full force. You steady yourself on his shoulders as your whole body shudders at the sensation, nails digging into his skin. He starts to tease at your entrance with one finger, tongue still flicking against your clit. His finger enters slowly, giving your body time to adjust. Then starts moving faster, curling inside you. Soon it’s joined by another one, pumping in a steady rhythm. The obscene sound of your wetness echoes through the solar. His tongue picks up the pace and you feel your release coming, your legs giving out beneath you. He grabs your thigh, hoisting your leg up over his shoulder and places his free hand behind your back, steadying you.

‘I’ve got you. Sweet girl. Come for me.’

He pushes his face into your cunt and sucks hard, causing your head to fall back in ecstasy. His coarse beard brushing against your folds, the cold hard edge of his ring grazing the sensitive skin at your entrance as he pumps his fingers in a perfect rhythm. You feel the knot in your stomach tightening and then the release comes. Flashing white before your eyes. Whole body trembling, fingers clutched in his hair, riding out the remnants of the high against his face. He holds you close, his big hand placed securely behind your back.

Lyonel gets up slowly, then helps you to your feet, your legs still shivering under you.

His beard is glistening with your wetness. You taste it on his tongue when he kisses you. The warmth of his mouth steadies you, your lips moving in unison. Then you let your hand find the waistband of his trousers. Working it open slowly. He places his hands over yours, helping you slip the fabric down. His cock springs out, rock hard, white beads of precum already leaking from the tip. You break the kiss, just for a moment, to spit on your hand, then bring it to his member, spreading your saliva over its length. You start pumping him rhythmically. Caressing the tip with your thumb gently as you move your hand up and down.

‘Wait.’ He says breathlessly, breaking the kiss, his hands laid upon your shoulders. Your hand freezes. ‘I won’t last long that way. And I would rather do it properly. That is, if you want to.’

You smile at him, a challenge dancing in the corner of your lip.

‘I’m no blushing maiden. You don’t have to be so gentle with me, Lyonel.’

He groans at the sound of his name leaving your mouth. His lips are back on yours before you have time to prepare. One hand tangled in your hair, the other pulling you flush against him. You feel his cock pressed to your thigh. He takes a step back toward the table. Turns you around. Places his hand firmly between your shoulder blades, urging you to fold over the wooden surface. He caresses the swell of your ass with his free hand, admiring the body laying before him, your wet cunt glistening in the faint light of the hearth. Takes his cock in one hand and drags the tip along your folds, gathering the wetness. And then, in one swift motion, he enters you. The sudden sensation pushes a surprised squeal from your mouth. You feel his body pressing to you, his lips hovering over your ear, the hot breath hitting your skin as he moans. He stays still, buried deep inside you, letting your body adjust to him. Placing delicate wet kisses on your shoulder.

‘Fuck, you feel heavenly. Just perfect.’

He starts to move. Slow at first. The moans and gasps you both let out tangle together, the heavy breathing, the sound of skin hitting skin, creaking of the table beneath you. He picks up the pace, slamming into you hard, soon finding the perfect angle that makes your eyes roll back in pleasure. His hand finds your clit, rubbing circles against it. You feel the knot in your stomach tightening again.

He moans loudly at the feeling of your walls squeezing against him.

His fingers start moving faster. His pace becomes frantic. The only thing you can feel is the pleasure building inside you. And then, with a perfect thrust against your most sensitive spot, with his hand over your clit, you come. Shivering violently with every wave of release flooding your body, becoming impossibly tight around him. You hear your name leaving his mouth as he buries himself deep in your cunt. Spilling inside you. The sensation sends a hot wave over your body.

He lies heavy over you. Your breaths steadying. 

The sea hums outside, the constant, ancient sound bringing you back to reality. He moves slowly, groaning as he lifts himself up. You follow his lead, sitting on the edge of the table. The papers and books are scattered around, some crumpled, some pushed to the floor. You watch Lyonel as he walks to the settee, grabs a blanket from the armrest. He brings it to you, leaning down as he wraps the warm fabric over your shoulders. His curls are in disarray, dishevelled by your hands grabbing and pulling at them just minutes ago. Sweat beads above his brows, glistening, running down his temples. He catches you staring. Smiles warmly. You look into his eyes as if you’re seeing them for the first time. Drowning in the golden glow of them. He lifts his hand and brushes a loose strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. The moment stretches impossibly. But then the cold metal of his ring touches your temple. And it’s like waking up. Your body tenses. You blink, turning your face away from him and slip off the edge of the table.

‘I better get back to my chamber.’

Lyonel watches you pick up your clothes. Slipping them back on, a slight tremble in your hands making the process harder than it should be. Folding the blanket neatly and placing it back in its place.

‘I will have my maid bring you moon tea.’ His voice comes behind your back. ‘She is trustworthy, no need to worry.’

You turn to him and simply nod, unable to respond. His smile falters. He watches as you slip out of his solar. Closing the door behind you. Leaving him alone with the sound of the sea outside.

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