As your eldest sister approaches thirty, she and your father hatch a plan as a last-ditch effort to see her married off. Masquerading as a simple celebratory tourney, your sister invites eligible bachelors to your house to hopefully secure a husband. What happens when her top pick sets his sights on you instead?
(A Lyonel Baratheon x Fem-Reader Slow Burn Story.)
A/N: Sorry for being gone for so long. I've had this chapter partially written for months, but I lost all my motivation for this story. Thankfully, the ease of writing this has returned. I'm hoping to have the next part out soon. Or at least sooner than three months lol
CW: Angst, Fluff, Cursing, Violence, Yearning
WC: ~4,750
You unconsciously worried your bottom lip as you and Ser Ash walked down the familiar hallways to the dining hall to have breakfast. Your light lilac dress that your sister had picked out for you to wear today did not reflect the heavy anxiety weighing down on you. Your rational mind did nothing to ease your stomach as you approached the open doors, the breakfast table in sight. You knew worst case scenario, you’d be locked away for the rest of the week, but that wasn’t what you were dreading. No, you were anxious to be on the business end of one of your sister’s lectures. They were no fun when over trivial things, you cannot imagine how bad it was going to be for something that may be perceived as actually warranted. The friendly banter between your family members was silenced as you crossed the threshold into the hall.
“Sister,” Elyana said, heatedly,
“Sister,” you greeted back as neutrally as you could muster. She paused, allowing you time to sit before she continued. You could feel yourself beginning to sweat as you were pinned down by the rest of your family’s gaze.
“While I think you’ve done more than enough to earn a week’s stay in your quarters, Father has pointed out that it may reflect badly upon our house to have you absent from the tournament. While you will be attending, you will be expected to keep to yourself unless directly spoken to.” She said, lips pressed together in a firm line.
“And if I am approached by any of the suitors?” you asked,
“As if you’d garner any of their attention,” your oldest brother scoffed,
“You will reply in whatever way ends the conversation the quickest.” She answered, “You will return to your quarters as soon as the jousts for the day are finished and are not allowed to participate in any of the festivities.”
“Understood,” you nodded, picking lightly at your roll of bread. The awkward quietness consumed the hall edged out after a few moments as your family continued on with the conversation they had been having before you entered. You were barely able to stomach one of your eggs, and your roll as anxiety knotted in your stomach. From there, the rest of the morning was a blur. Your anxiety ruled your mind as you attempted to read in the library and pray in the sept. Neither led to anything fruitful. Before you knew it, you were being shepherded to the main sitting area reserved for your family. You were put at the very end, closest to the castle, and as far away from the action as you could be while still sitting near your family and maintaining appearances. You did your best to keep a neutral face. You could do this; you only needed to last until nightfall. Which, despite the warmth that made it feel closer to summer, would still be an early dusk.
You allowed yourself to relax and people watch as everyone was bustling around. You wished that Ser Ash could have joined you, but he had been guarding your bed chambers overnight since the first guest had begun to arrive earlier in the week. His status would have allowed him to stand nearby, unlike Tacy and Emilla, who, while permitted to watch, would not be allowed in your house’s seating area. Your thoughts were interrupted by the gleam of sunlight in your eyes. You squinted as the glare of sunlight shifted, revealing Ser Lyonel already mounted on his horse as he rode it at a lazy pace towards you. His golden colored armor, thankfully, lost its blinding gleam as the clouds shifted. His resting smile widened as he locked eyes with you. You could feel bile rise in the back of your throat from nerves.
Fuck, Fuck, Fuck
You didn’t know what had your heart beating faster: the fallout from your family after this interaction, or the fact that he was somehow more handsome in the daylight.
For the second time within twelve hours, he breezed past your sister to make his way in front of you. You internally cringed at the sight of your sister’s face dropping as he flat out ignored her. You managed to take a deep breath as he stopped his steed right in front of your seat.
“Good morning, my lady,” he greeted, with a smile.
“Do you not mean afternoon?” you asked,
“Ser, we are well past midday.” You expanded at his confused look. He let out a loud belly laugh.
“You’ll have to excuse me then, my lady, some of us have only just broken our fast for the day.” He replied lightly, his smile widening. You bit your inner cheek to keep a neutral face. Gods, his natural charisma didn’t make your efforts to keep this short any easier.
“You are wearing purple today,” he stated, shamelessly giving you a once over.
“Lilac,” you corrected, feeling heat rise to your face under his pointed gaze. He only hummed in response, still taking in the ornate embellishments of your gown.
“Is it a shock to find someone in their house’s colors, Ser?” you asked, snapping his attention back to your face.
“Not at all,” he replied. His ever widening smile warned of trouble.
“While I think you look quite fetching today, I have to confess I preferred your gown from last evening. The color gold suits you well; I can only imagine how stunning you would look in black.”
You could only bite your lower lip to keep from fully balking at his comment. If his loud laugh was any indicator, you hadn’t done a very good job of hiding the shock in your eyes. Your heart thundered at his blatant advance, not only in reaction to his audacity, but also because you were well aware that your entire family could easily hear this conversation.
Gods, you were never going to be allowed outside of your bedchambers again.
“Ser, you forget yourself,” you reply, trying your hardest to divert this conversation back into safer territories.
Before he could reply, a loud sound of drums came from the tree line. You could not stop yourself from smiling as the colors of your late mother’s house came into view. The deep pink and light orange stuck out against the green foliage. Your mother’s people were nomadic, and just like their house colors, nothing about them was quiet. While they are more than capable of protecting themselves, others rarely attack because of their status as entertainers.
Their latest stint of entertainment was in Cider Hall, which was not that far from your family’s territory between Crake Hall to the north and Old Oak to the south. A rogue storm had lengthened their expected journey by what was supposed to be a week's delay. For the first time in weeks, you felt a sudden lightness in your spirit. Their arrival meant that you would be gifted the presence of your cousin Macey. While she was reason enough for you to feel excited, you also hoped you would be able to get your hands on a violin, or rather a fiddle, if you were to play alongside your mother’s house. You were trained in both disciplines but were unable to practice within the castle walls.
Your sister always said it was for your father’s sake, as your mother played the same instrument when she was alive, but you knew better. Your sister did not have your father’s emotions in mind when she would take away your privileges of being able to play. She did care for anything that would make you stick out, going as far as smashing your instrument when you called her out on her behavior. You only made that mistake once. Your latest violin was gifted to you when you turned twenty by Macey and lived under the false bottom of your trunk in your bed chambers.
“Are you acquainted with the beating drums?” he asked, referring to their sigil.
“I would say more than acquainted; it was my mother’s house before she became a sea serpent.” You answered candidly, “They are in high demand, so it is always a joy to be able to host them.”
“Are you a musician?” he asked,
“Yes, I play the fiddle,” you answered, the joy of seeing your family soon taking over the fear driving you to end this interaction as soon as possible.
“I would be honored to hear you play,” he said, in a genuine tone.
“I never said I was a talented musician,” you quipped back.
“Regardless, I would love to see you smile again; it suits you,” he commented in a soft tone, as though he was trying his hardest not to spook you. Your grin shifted to a soft smile; you hadn’t even realized you were grinning. You were taken back to the present as you could see your sister shifting in her seat in your peripheral vision.
“Was there a reason for your impromptu visit?” you asked,
“Well, yes, I was hoping to get your favor,” he said simply,
“And what would that be?” you asked, skeptically.
“No, my lady,” he said, amused, with a loud laugh, “Not a favor, rather your favor as I compete in the tourney.”
Once again, you could feel your nerves rise. You could feel yourself sweating not only from the attention of your family, but also from everyone in your vicinity.
Why did he have to be so fucking loud?
“I’ve never given anyone my favor before.” You stated, hoping he’d drop it.
“I find that hard to believe,” he replied in a genuine tone.
“The last tourney I attended was to celebrate my eldest brother’s nuptials when I was just a girl,” you explained.
“It would be an honor to be your first,” he replied.
“Could I compel you to a trade then?” he asked, sensing your hesitancy.
“A trade?” you asked,
“Yes, your handkerchief,” he said, nodding to your lap, “for a protection signet.”
You unconsciously hummed to yourself before nodding; you were already in this deep, and you’d definitely need protection from your sister after he’d take his leave. You leaned forward and tied your embroidered handkerchief around the base of his lance. The indigo and lilac colors of the design popped against the golden color of his lance. Grinning with a satisfied smile, he bit the tip of his glove and pulled it off in one fluid motion. He held out his right hand to you as the other was still wrapped around his lance. Your soft hands cupped his rough, scarred one, gently sliding off a ring with a carving of the seven off of his middle finger. You turned the ring over in your hand as you examined it. The material was neither wood nor stone.
“It’s made from a shedded deer antler.” He supplied, “Artisans in storm’s end are very gifted in transforming the spring sheddings into many things; from jewelry to décor.”
“It’s lovely,” you said, sliding it onto your thumb for now as it would not fit any of your other fingers.
“I hope it serves you well,” he replied.
“Hopefully, as well as my favor. I do expect you to go far, as you are the first to compete under my blessing.”
“As you wish, my lady,” he winked before trotting off. As soon as his back was to you heard the hiss of your name to your right. You were greeted by the sight of your sister glaring at you, lips pressed into a thin line. Much to your relief, she was interrupted by the calling of her name by Macey. Your cousin quickly approached on horseback; unlike most ladies, she rode astride rather than side saddle. If that was not enough of a potential faux pas, she was no doubt wearing trousers under her skirt as well.
“Cousins!” she greeted with a loud call as she slowed her horse from a trot to walking pace and came up to your family’s seating area, stopping in front of your sister.
“Happy Thirtieth,” She said to Elyana.
“Thank you,” your sister replied, barely concealing her anger.
“I thought you would not be able to join us because of the storm,” Elyana said. While her verbiage was civil, her tone undercut her statement with a feeling of hostility. You were unsure whether it was because of you or because her detailed planning had now been thrown off.
“The winds were in our favor,” Maecy replied, with a smile. She was well acquainted with handling your sister and her barely concealed passive aggression.
“We’re delighted to be able to play at your celebration. We are setting up camp in the open area at the rear near the Baratheon tent. Oh!” she said, interrupting herself.
“Cousin!” she said, now turning to you, “That reminds me our fiddle player has taken ill, and we are in need of someone with your talent.” Before you could answer, she pushed forward on her stead to now come in front of you. She quickly pulled at your left hand.
“Your calluses are almost gone,” she declared, before turning her attention back to you, “Have you not been playing?”
“She doesn’t have a violin.” Elyana quipped, answering for you.
“Oh, I’m sure we can scrounge one up for her to borrow,” Maecy replied dismissively, “But if you really haven’t played since our last visit, you will need to warm up properly.”
“You're too kind.” Your sister replies through her teeth, mask close to slipping.
“No need to worry, if I borrow her now to practice, she’ll be more than ready by this evening.” Maecy once again dismissed your sister with the wave of her hand, “Come now, cousin,” she said, offering you her hand. She shifted back on her horse’s saddle to make room for you. From the height of the seating area, you were easily able to fall back on the horse, sitting sidesaddle as Maecy prompted it to begin to walk away from your family’s raised seating area. You share a smile, choosing to focus on her instead of the iron grip your sister had on the arms of her chair, along with her sour look.
“Have I mentioned my undying adoration for you?” you asked, once you were out of earshot.
“Yes, but I never tire of hearing it,” she replied, “Now, dear, how have you been holding up? I know her ladyship is a nightmare on a good day. I can only imagine her escapades since her celebration has begun.”
“You have no idea,” you sigh, so only she could hear it as you made your way around the tents, “I’d love to tell you, away from hearing ears.”
She nodded, guiding her horse away from the tents towards a fresh water stream you used to play in as children. For once, you were happy for Ser Ash’s absence, as he would not like you out of his sight, let alone for the closest tent to be that of the Baratheons and Swyift. Both of which had never had any alliances with your house. Just as you departed from the temporary yurts and into the open pasture, you heard the now unmistakable noise of Lyonel’s laugh. You shyly duck your head after making eye contact over your cousin’s shoulder. Maecy, with all lack of subtlety, quickly whipped her head around to catch who had garnered that reaction from you. You sighed at the sight of her smirk as she looked back at you with a knowing look.
“You’re the worst,” you groaned, closing it on the tree line.
“I’m the best,” she corrected, smirk still present on her face as you crossed under the shade of the old growth trees, stopping just shy of the stream. She dismounted first before helping you down. She then led her steed, Blossom, to the water before tying her lead to a large root that arched out of the ground into the water. You slipped off your shoes and made yourself comfortable on a large rock, with your feet submerged in the cool water. Maecy sat to your left, confirming that she was in fact wearing trousers as she hiked up her skirt to avoid potential grass stains.
“So, what have you been up to?” She prodded,
“I don’t even know where to begin.” You sighed, lightly swishing the water with your feet.
“Well, I am most curious about what Ser Lyonel has done to garner that reaction from you earlier.” She replied,
“It’s a long story,” you sighed, “I guess it all started before he had even arrived yesterday. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but this tourney is not as it seems-”
“It’s a ploy to get your sister married off.” Maecy interrupted you.
“Is it that obvious?” you asked,
“Not to the general public,” she comforted, “I only put it together because I know your House and the inner workings of it. Elyana is too picky for her own good, and it’s gotten in the way of seeing her married off before she’s relegated to the Sept or spinsterhood.”
“Yes,” you confirmed, letting out a sigh of relief, your shoulders dropping to a relaxed position, “Keeping that in mind, she is trying to gain the attention of suitors of House Baratheon, Swyift, and Rowan.”
“Sounds about right,” Maecy nodded, “Not that I don’t put it past her, but Lyonel Baratheon is an ambitious choice.”
“Why?” you asked,
“He’s next in line to lead House Baratheon. She’d be in charge of not only the Baratheon manor, but also all of their vast landholdings when Lyonel’s father steps down.” She answered.
“He is?!” You bolted up from your relaxed position.
“Oh?” your cousin said in a light, teasing tone, “Why does that concern you? Does this have anything to do with the looks you exchanged?”
“It doesn’t, not?” you offered up sheepishly. Maecy’s smile grew, her own posture straightening from excitement.
“Has he spoken to you?” she asked,
“More than spoken. Um, we danced last night.” You answered hesitantly.
“You danced?!” she squealed in delight. You smiled in response, face growing hot.
“It was only for one song, Sowyer cut in and sent me to my bedchambers immediately.” You added, attempting to downplay the interaction.
“Still, I have never known you to accept dancing requests. I’ve only ever seen you dance in a crowd. Was it like that, or did he formally ask for your attention?” she pressed.
“He asked me for a dance as soon as the dessert was being served last night. We waltzed.” You answered
“Lyonel Baratheon waltzed!?” She said, scandalized, “Like properly? Like he asked you to dance, and he stayed within the lines of a set proper waltz?”
“Is that odd?” you asked, confused,
“Oh, this is too good,” she smiled from ear to ear, “I have played at multiple functions that he has been in attendance for, and I’ve never seen him dance to any of those proper dances. He never sticks to one partner, and I’ve never seen him not dance in a cluster. It’s honestly a shock that he even knows the steps.”
The heat of your face increased tenfold.
“I don’t think he wanted to necessarily dance with me specifically. I think he only did it to confirm that my sister had her sights set on him romantically.” You said defensively.
“Did you only talk about your sister?” she asked,
“Well,” you hesitated as she leaned in closer, “He may have asked me if I had any desires,”
“And?” she asked, leaning in even closer,
“And nothing, I just told him that as a fourth-born daughter, I am set to serve my house rather than marry for love. And I pleaded with him to keep my sister’s intentions to himself. Sowyer immediately cut off the dance before we could converse anymore.”
“Hmm,” Maecy hummed to herself, “even if it did seem benign, it doesn’t explain why he didn’t tear his gaze from us until we were out of his sight.”
“I don’t even know what I did to gain his attention in the first place,” you groaned into your hands, hearing someone approaching.
“Torturing the poor girl already, Maecy?” a male voice teased as he walked up to you. You immediately recognized him as Ruban, a sellsword knight of your mother’s house and one of Maecy’s paramours. He dramatically took your hand in his and raised it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles.
“My lady,” he greeted with a smile. Not much had changed with him since their last visit just three months prior, except for the spreading of patches of his vitiligo up his neck and the cropping of his curly hair in preparation for the hot summer months. You rolled your eyes at his antics as he let go of your hand and took a seat at the base of a tree, leaning against it.
“Are you participating in the tourney?” you asked, trying your hardest to shift Maecy’s focus.
“Yeah, one of the knights from House Rowan has taken ill, so I’ll be filling in his spot.” He replied, “I’d ask for your favor, but it seems I’m too late.”
“You gave someone your favor!?” Maecy squealed.
“Not just anyone, I saw her handkerchief tied to Ser Lyonel’s lance. Didn’t it take you over a fortnight to complete that embroidery?” he asked, with a smirk, referring to the intricate design of a sea serpent on the indigo-colored cloth.
“You slut,” Maecy teased with a giddy look on her face.
“I know, our little girl is growing up,” Ruban piled on.
“Fuck off,” you groaned, causing them both to laugh.
“You really buried the lead, cousin,” Maecy scolded, “Why were we talking about a single dance. When he asked for your specific favor.”
“They danced?” Ruban asked,
“Last night,” she filled him in, “Lyonel did a proper waltz if you can believe it.”
“Really?” he asked, letting out a low whistle, “Never seen him focused in on anyone like that, from what I’ve heard, he prefers a crowd,”
“I think he’s just being a flirt,” you said defensively, “Plus, it wasn’t like I just gave it to him. He traded a protection signet for it.”
This caused both of them to pause, their grins widening.
“What?” you asked, in a defeated tone.
“He gave you jewelry?” Maecy asked,
“No, no, no, no,” you immediately dismissed her line of thinking, “Lyonel Baratheon is not attempting to court me.”
“I mean, you don’t know that wasn’t his line of thinking,” Ruban commented
“Alright, if it really meant nothing, let me see the ring,” Maecy said. You sighed, sliding it off your thumb and handing it over. She examined it closely, gliding her fingertips across the intricate carving of the seven’s star symbol.
“What is it made out of?” she asked,
“A deer’s antler.” You answered.
Once again, they silently exchanged excited looks.
“What now?” you sighed,
“Kid,” Ruban addressed you, “You can only get jewelry like this in Storm’s End. It’s beyond expensive. In fact, knowing he’s a knight, he’s most likely following the tradition of wearing jewelry that is expensive enough to cover funeral fees.”
“But-” you paused, trying to process the new information. You were aware of the tradition he mentioned. It was why Ruban always wore gemstone stud earrings as a nomadic knight. Lyonel was far from the safety of his House’s reach; a ring like this was insurance.
“Uh oh, I think we lost her,” Maecy teased.
“But he offered it up. I didn’t even see it because of his gloves.” You said dumb founded.
“And she’s back,” she declared,
“Why would he give me something so expensive in exchange for a linen handkerchief?” you wondered out loud.
“Love, this isn’t a bad thing.” She replied softly, placing the ring back in your hand, “It most likely was just him testing the waters. It’s not like he’s gone to your father to ask permission to formally court you.”
“Okay,” you nodded, thoughts still racing.
“Why don’t we head back? Our tent is most likely set up now. You can get some time to yourself to practice before we perform tonight.” Maecy offered.
“Yeah,” you nodded, “that sounds nice.”
“Don’t worry about Blossom, I’ll ride her down to the stable. I need to see when I’m scheduled to joust anyway.” Ruban said. He and Maecy parted with a kiss before she joined you on the walk back to her tent.
“So, do you like older men?” she asked,
“Really?” you replied, shooting her a look.
“What? It’s a fair question; we’ve never talked about it before, and now you’re closer than ever to being wed,” she replied, “I may have been teasing earlier, but Gods, I keep forgetting you’re an adult now. Like a fully formed person. It feels like yesterday we were catching frogs and fireflies, and you’d flash me a puppy dog look to be allowed to stay up to see the stars.”
“He has kind eyes,” you offered up, earning you a smile from your cousin as you link arms, “I can’t decide if I like how loud he is or if it annoys me.” You confess, “But he is quite handsome in both candlelight and daylight.”
“I hope you are able to marry for love,” she said after a moment, “Your birth order should not rule your happiness. If you weren’t so bloody noble, I would have already kidnapped you away from here. But no, you just have to be earnest and take on the responsibility expected of you.”
You rolled your eyes affectionately at her as you entered her tent.
“Is your fiddler actually sick?” you asked as she scrounges around the packed away instruments.
“No, but we do currently only have one fiddle player, so your addition is sure to improve the music.” She replied, before making a triumphant noise, holding up a fiddle and bow. From there, you tuned the instrument as your cousin did maintenance on her flute. Thankfully, you were like a duck to water as you ran through some of the songs that were on regular rotation. After practicing, you snuck away to watch Lyonel compete, sitting in your guest seating with Maecy rather than your family’s. You ignored her knowing look at your involuntary reactions to the sight of him competing. Before his final joust, he found you in the crowd and winked before donning his antler clad helmet. Your heart fluttered; you had given up on hiding your smile from his attention. You both cheered loudly as he unhorsed his opponent. Among those moving on, he was the highest point earner. You opted to stay with Maecy instead of retiring back to the castle immediately. You were already in trouble; it was safer to be around others to witness your sister’s behavior than on your own. Plus, Ser Ash would be posted at the entrance of the tent, ready to escort you back to your bed chambers when you were ready.
You had the most fun you’ve been allowed to in ages, as you played and danced with members of your mother’s house. You stepped down from the table you had been playing on with Maecy after an especially fast paced song, and ducked out a side flap to cool down in the chilled night air. You were startled by a figure approaching you, only to relax when you realized who it was.
“Ser,” you greeted with a nod,
“I have something important to ask of you,” Lyonel said, seriously. His tone made you stand up straight,
“Yes?” you asked,
“Are you a maiden?” he asked, your hand connected with his cheek hard before you had even realized you were slapping his face.
“How dare you,” you replied, outrage flooding your system. A lady’s maidenhood was held in high regard when deciding her worth in contracted betrothals. The mere hint of your virginity being gone lowered your status, making you only worth the placement as a second wife of a low ranking house at best.
“That’s like me asking how many bastards you’ve sired.” You said sharply.
“Yes, you are right, I could have phrased that better,” he conceded, holding his now red cheek, “Seven hells, you’re stronger than you look,”
“Phrased what better?” you asked, still heated.
“There is a rumor going around that you are with child,” Lyonel explained, softly.
Warnings: Reader is Baelor's Daughter, but Not Jena Dondarrion's (to Make Reader’s Appearance More Ambiguous); Reader is a Widow; Lyonel was Reader’s Suitor; Pining; Angst; Past Requited but Unfulfilled Love; Sun / Moon Dynamics; No Description of Reader's Appearance (Minus Having Long-ish Hair); Use of "You" but No "Y/N"
Word Count: ~3800 words
Plot: It was not meant to be. Baelor's only daughter would not marry Lyonel Baratheon. But years later, Ashford begs to differ.
Master List
There were many traits that you had inherited from your father. Among the most prominent was your inability to lie in. The early morning was always a time you tried to think clearly. For the past few years, it was the only time you were allowed to truly breathe and think without anyone else trying to influence your thoughts.
And it seemed that likeness continued even when you were supposed to be relaxing. Though, it remained unclear how a trip into the Reach was supposed to be relaxing.
Emerging from your tent when the sun had not yet fully emerged above the horizon, you drew your thick cloak around yourself to fight the early morning chill. The dew of the grass beaded on your shoes and soaked the edge of your cloak as you began your short journey. The few servants and guards who were awake as you passed bowed and kept out of your way.
Pushing the flaps of your father's tent apart, you stepped inside and offered a small smile. He looked up from his papers, as if he was expecting you, which he surely was, and returned the smile.
"Come. Break your fast."
He gestured to the seat beside him and placed some food in front of you. It seemed that no matter how old you got, your father still did not stop himself from taking care of you. You sat down as he poured you a drink as well and glanced at the papers in front of him.
"Anything interesting to note?"
"Not quite, I'm afraid." He placed a goblet in front of you and glanced back at the paper he had been reading when you arrived. "I am familiarizing myself with Ashford's agricultural production. I want to ensure that I treat our gracious host properly."
"I am quite sure that Lord Ashford will be tripping over himself when you arrive." You picked up a piece of toast and moved to spread a thin layer of butter over it. "How far is Ashford from here? Please tell me not much farther."
"Two hours, I believe. Though, I worry that your Uncle Maekar will try to reduce that time rather significantly."
You nodded and took a bite of your bread toast. “He is anxious about Daeron and Egg then?”
“I believe so.”
“It is not without reason.” You brushed your hands on a cloth to remove the crumbs and bit of butter. “Daeron was never going to willingly ride in the tournament.”
“I shared such sentiments with your uncle, but he disagreed.” Your father set down his papers and turned to you. “He hopes to believe, as every father does, that their children are merely larger, more independent versions of the children they raised. Children who did not bear the weight of life as a Targaryen prince or princess."
You took another bite of your bread before meeting your father’s stare once more. Ever since you had returned to King's Landing after your husband's passing, everyone had been tiptoeing around you. As if they were nervous that the mention of your dead husband would send you into hysterics.
You admitted, at least to yourself, that you did not even shed a tear at the funeral and therefore did not know why everyone insisted on such gentle treatment.
You set down the piece of toast and let out a sigh. “You are concerned about me?”
“I must admit that I worry about the comments and questions that may befall you in Ashford.”
You nodded slowly, glancing down at your plate. “You act as though words are poison arrows.”
“I have seen more men felled by words than arrows as of late.”
You sighed and fiddled with the ring bearing House Targaryen’s sigil on your finger. “I am not the first, nor last, young barren widow to befall Westeros or even House Targaryen. And I will endure my fate just as my predecessors did.”
“Perhaps, but there are other words I would prefer to hear you use to describe your fate other than ‘endure.’” Your father rested his hand on the table. “And I do wish that you would stop calling yourself ‘barren.’ You are still younger than the age your stepmother and aunts were when they had their last children.”
You forced yourself to stop fiddling with your ring and closed your eyes for a moment. “I tried for seven years to become a mother with my departed lord husband. I believe that is enough for me."
“Very well, but there are plenty of women who find happiness elsewhere. With studies or diplomacy or—”
“—I know,” you replied quietly, cutting off your father. “But for now, I do not mind mourning the life I could have had. I have finished mourning my lord husband, but not the future I thought I was promised.” Offering a small smile that did not reach your eyes, you added, “I will be fine, Father. I just need more time.”
He nodded and did not move to press the issue. You would come to him with your concerns when you were ready, as you had your entire life.
The two of you turned as the flaps to the tent drew again and your younger half-brother poked his head into the tent. “Uncle Maekar is waking up the camp.”
“I see,” Baelor sighed, arranging his papers. “I suppose we should not slow him down.”
Valarr nodded and disappeared, presumably to relay the message. Your Father stood up and leaned over to press a kiss to your head before his attendants walked over. You sighed and rose from your seat, off to prepare yourself for the tourney.
*~*~*
Ashford was quaint. There was a beauty in simplicity, but that was quickly becoming overrun by the tents and carriages that dragged up the mud. Stepping out of the carriage behind Kiera, you glanced at the growing town with curiosity.
“I believe I wish to explore,” you announced to Valarr, who frowned in response.
“That would be unwise. Especially alone.”
“I merely wish to stretch my legs,” you reasoned, folding your arms in front of you.
“I don’t see the harm,” Kiera replied, wrapping her arm through Valarr’s.
“I do,” Valarr sighed, returning his gaze to you. “What are you going to do if someone questions you?”
“I am not completely inept. I can craft responses to simple questions.” Your fingers drummed on your biceps. “And it has been long enough. I would know better than all in that category, I believe.”
“At least take a guard with you.”
“And draw more attention to myself?” You glanced down at what you were wearing. There was nothing flashy, but you removed the jewelry that could raise an eyebrow. Handing it to Kiera, you reached for your hood. “I’ll be fine. I just need some air.”
“If you are not back within two hours, I will send out a search party.”
You playfully rolled your eyes at your brother. “And may I remind you that I am the elder sibling.”
Pulling your hood over your hair, you turned and carefully slipped away from Ashford Castle. A few people cast eyes in your direction, but none with any sign of recognition. You noted the various Houses that were gathered for the tournament, quietly making notes to yourself. Who to greet, who to avoid, and the like.
But when you saw the banner with a stag on it, your feet grew rooted on their own.
It was hard not to grow sentimental. Of getting lost in the world of “what if” rather than the one you were currently living through.
Had you told Lyonel that he was a stubborn moron, and he had listened to you, you imagined your life would be much different now. Perhaps his energy of virility would have cured the barrenness that hung over your actual marriage. You would have been surrounded by a group of stubborn, loud children with dark curls. Perhaps one or two would have your features, but Baratheon traits always seemed to bully others.
He could be annoying at the best of times and unbearable at the worst, but you doubted he would ever make a fool of you.
“Are you just going to stand in the way like an arsehole or move—”
At the familiar sound, you turned around, startled out of your thoughts. But when your eyes locked with Lyonel’s and your hood slipped back just enough, the two of you appeared to be frozen in time. Or perhaps frozen in the past, to be more accurate.
“Princess,” he breathed out, eyes raking over what little identifiable features he could make out under your cloak.
You offered a nervous smile. “Hello, Lyonel.”
*~*~*
You handed your cloak to a servant, who quickly scurried out of the room, before turning back to where Lyonel stood, pouring wine into two goblets.
Perhaps you were a fool for accepting his invitation for a drink. A refreshment, he had called it. An innocent term that completely ignored the history that ran between you. You smoothed your hands down the front of your dress as a nervous tick.
“You have grey in your beard now,” you commented, walking around to the other side of the table. “And your hair.”
“Time is rarely kind.” He glanced up from his goblet, which had been nearly filled to the top. His eyes trailed over your face for a moment before he turned to pour wine into your goblet. “Though it seems that you were an exception."
You snorted lightly, gently running your fingertips over the smooth wood of the table. "I see that you remain a charmer."
"Better a charmer than a witch."
You could not help the roll of your eyes at the shit-eating grin that graced Lyonel's lips. "Do not tell me that you believe those ridiculous rumors."
"Not even for a second." Lyonel leaned over and placed a goblet in front of you. "But it is amusing that anyone could believe that you practice black magic. Let alone kill a man with it."
He took a sip of his wine as his eyes trailed over your figure. Your cheeks warmed and you reached for your own goblet. Taking a sip, you steadied your thoughts before returning your gaze to Lyonel.
"How is Storm's End? Last I saw you, you were only a 'ser.'"
"And happier for it." Lyonel drummed his fingers on the table as he took a rather dramatic flop onto the chair. "Storm's End has its dull points, of course. A couple nobles have tested my patience more times than I care to count." He lifted his goblet sarcastically. "But there is always drink to support me."
"I was sorry to hear about your cousin," you murmured, gracefully taking your own seat. "And his boy."
"I received your letter." Lyonel held your gaze as he rested his weight on his elbow. The soft stare morphed into one that contained a clear vein of annoyance. "I assume the prick did not wish for you to send it."
"My husband, you mean?"
"The dead one, yes."
You were certain that a widow who loved and was devoted to her husband would have thrown her goblet at Lyonel, stormed out of the tent, and proclaimed for all to hear that he had offended every notion of common decency. You were neither, however. So, you merely smiled as you moved to take a sip of wine.
"He was not aware I sent it. Not to my knowledge, at least." The smile faded quickly as you recalled the circumstances of your marriage at that point in time. "I believe by then, he had lost interest in me."
"Then he was a bigger cunt than I imagined."
"Perhaps," you replied quietly, fiddling with your fingers. "Though I would imagine many men would grow tired of a wife who did not show any ability to bear them an heir."
"Do not grant him excuses."
"It is not an excuse," you stated, noting the passion burning in his gaze. "Merely an explanation."
"Whatever it is, he does not deserve it."
"What about you?" you asked, trying to change the subject. "I did not hear any news that you have taken a wife."
"You would not have, for I have not." Lyonel took a long sip of his drink before glancing down at it, as if to inspect the liquor. "To the great disappointment of my advisors and bannermen."
"Perhaps they believed that when you became Lord of Storm's End that you would . . . mature in some respects."
"That is the trouble when a man lives three decades without any belief that he would become a lord," Lyonel replied, setting his goblet back down. "I rather think I was better suited to being the son of a second son than Lord of Storm's End."
You hummed, studying his face. Your eyes narrowed in scrutiny before a soft smile drew at your lips. "You can be more than capable in diplomacy when you want to be."
"Can I?"
"When you're not drunk," you qualified, causing him to chuckle.
"Yes, I suppose so." He took another sip of his wine before his eyes settled on you once more. "And what do you have planned?"
"For what?"
"Life. Now that you're free."
You chuckled at the absurd statement. "I'm not free."
Lyonel frowned and leaned forward. "Of course, you are. Unless your father intends to send you off to some other cunt."
You shook your head slowly as your lips pursed together. "My father will not marry me off. Nor would Valarr." You brushed some hair or fluff that stuck to the front of your dress. "But I doubt that any lord is begging my father for the opportunity to marry me given that I am barren . . . and a witch, of course."
"You are neither," Lyonel insisted, causing you to smile bitterly.
"It does not matter. People will believe what they wish, and the rest of us are simply left to survive the reality those beliefs create."
Lyonel sighed and leaned back in his seat. "I do not recognize the defeatism in your tone."
"Another effect of time, I suppose."
You took a breath through your nose as you stared him down. He held your gaze and straightened up in his seat wordlessly. The silence between you was rife with tension, and not the kind that would make someone blush. But rather the kind that would make someone scream, cry, and have a nervous breakdown.
"You are still angry with me?" he asked softly, though he clearly knew the answer.
Your lips wobbled with emotion before you forced them into a firm line. "For all the insults that you throw at my departed husband's name, you seem to forget that you had a chance to prevent me from sharing my life with him."
Lyonel sighed and looked away. "I did not."
"Yes, you did," you snapped, before forcing yourself to let a breath out through your nose and regain control of your emotions. "You did, and you know you did. And if you intend on merely being cruel—"
"—You know that is never my intention."
"Do I?" you countered quietly. "I told you that I loved you, that I wanted to marry you, and you left me in King's Landing like a fool, without warning and without explanation."
Lyonel sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. "I never intended to harm you."
"And do you believe that absolves you of the pain you caused me?"
"Your husband was a cunt. I do not dispute that. But that does not mean that you would have been happy in Storm's End."
"There is no guarantee of happiness anywhere." You paused, summoning your courage and poise. "But at least I would have known that it was begun with honest intentions. With good intentions."
"Your father and the Council would never let you marry the son of a second son of House Baratheon. Especially because I was not expected to inherit Storm's End."
"Do not blame my father for your cowardice." Your eyes narrowed as you remained pin straight in your seat. "Had you gone to him and given him an honest explanation of yourself and your intentions, he would not have ever denied the match."
"I am the coward?" Lyonel asked you incredulously. "Your grand plan was to just drop the news on your family and leave them with no other choice but to accept it. You never told him that you preferred me over the husband the Council chose for you." He threw his hands up in the air and leaned back in his chair. "Gods forbid Baelor Targaryen's perfect daughter be married to a lowly Stormlander!"
"My father married a Stormlander!" you snapped, unable to help yourself. It seemed that every time you were around Lyonel, he always sparked something uncontrollable within yourself. "You allowed your own hatred of my house color what your eyes were clearly seeing!"
"I clearly saw that I was never truly considered a suitor!"
"Maybe because everyone thought you would run away!"
Lyonel let out a loud curse and stood up from his seat. He turned away from you and ran his hands through his thick curls. Resting his hands on his hips, he let out a huff before he turned back to you. You, however, remained quiet in your seat. Your heart was beating out of your chest, but as the anger disappeared, you were left feeling hollow instead.
The curtains shifted and a servant poked their head into the room rather nervously. "My lord?"
"What is it?" Lyonel demanded, not taking his eyes off of you.
"Ser Donnel of Duskendale has come to collect the Princess on the orders of Prince Baelor."
"Of course."
You glanced up at Lyonel before you stood up from your seat. The servant stepped out of the room, most likely to inform Ser Donnel that you would arrive shortly. You stared at Lyonel, who refused to look at you for even a moment.
"Goodbye, Lyonel," you murmured to him, before you slipped from the room without another word.
You collected your cloak from a servant, who was kind enough to help you into it, before you joined Ser Donnel on the walk back to Ashford Castle. If he had any inkling of why you ended up in the Baratheon tent, he did not allude to it. And for that, you were grateful.
*~*~*
Perhaps you were not in your right mind. Perhaps it was a result of not sleeping well, or wine that was too strong. Perhaps you had allowed Lyonel to get into your head again. Perhaps you were being petty and needed to simply build a bridge and get over it. But as you stared at yourself in the mirror, you found you did not care.
They already called you a witch, barren, a failure, and every other word in between. What else could they call you that would hurt more than the words they already called you?
Collecting the favor that you were to give to Lord Ashford's second son, you left the room that was your temporary quarters and headed down the stairs to join your family. Kiera was the first to spot you and offered you an encouraging smile. Aerion was next and was clearly staring at the hints of your breasts. The dress you selected surely drew attention to them and you could not even be mad.
It was part of the reason why you selected the dress, after all. Aerion was merely the first sign that your intuition had been correct.
Your father turned from his conversation with Lord Ashford and raised an eyebrow at your chosen attire. Undoubtedly, he and the rest of the attendees assumed that you would still look the part of a grieving widow in some conservative, bland dress.
And the deep red dress with a low, but tasteful, neckline and gold thread embellishments was quite the opposite of that.
"You are well?" he asked quietly.
You nodded in confirmation and offered no further explanation. And he did not press further. He merely offered you his arm, which you took, before the procession began out to the stands. You took your seat on the other side of your Uncle Maekar and waited for your cue to give the favor to Lord Ashford's son.
Gwin Ashford began the proceedings by giving her favor to her eldest brother. Kiera followed, giving her favor to Valarr. And then it was your turn to give your favor to Lord Ashford's second son. You offered him a kind smile and soft words before moving to take your seat once more. As you sat down, however, your eyes trailed to the other end of the lists, to the challenger of the knight who curried your favor.
And the antlers were unmistakable.
Your heartrate ticked upwards as pass after pass was completed. Lances were broken. Knights fell. Some got up, some stayed down. Knights yielded. Others were victorious. Valarr defeated Ser Hightower without too much issue and waited by the stands for the other knights to conclude their bouts.
Among them, Ser Ashford and Lyonel.
They had broken several lances, and Lyonel had not let out that notorious laugh that earned him his nickname of "The Laughing Storm." He was taking it seriously. He felt he had something to prove.
Your nails dug into your palms as Lyonel and Ser Ashford ended up on the ground and traded their lances for swords. The crowd cheered with each clash, but it came as no surprise to you that Lyonel knocked Ser Ashford's sword from his hand and won. You watched as Lyonel put away his sword and removed his helmet, resting it under his arm. He offered a hand to Ser Ashford, who took it gratefully.
They exchanged words but were smiles as they collected themselves. Lyonel turned to the crowd, who cheered his name, and waved his arm, causing a spectacle as always. As his squire brought back his horse, so that he could join the other victors, Lyonel leaned down and picked up something from the mud.
He mounted his horse and started riding back to the stands. Your eyes locked with his and your ears seemed to shut out the noise of anything other than your heart beating in your chest. When he turned to greet your father and Lord Ashford, as was required, you finally realized what he picked up off the ground.
The favor you had given Ser Ashford now rested against Lyonel's belt.
Chapter masterlist for The Cover of Night, a 9-part Steven Grant / Marc Spector x F!Reader fic.
Your attempts to salvage the wreckage of your life become a little more complicated upon meeting your new neighbor, Steven. Just as you’re starting to befriend the endearingly awkward bibliophile, the nature of his own trials comes to light—and you must learn to accept every facet of him, or risk losing them all forever.
andulkaphoto
jacobvanloon
2087
origamiaround
titsay
annaxmalina
