Tags | smut, controlling behavior, unethical work romance, blatant favoritism, toxic workplace, swearing, fauxcest , park is almost paternal to reader, calls her 'kid', sugardaddy park if u squint, age gap
“Good morning, Dr. Park.”
A chorus of greetings and pleasantries gets murmured in the room as he steps into the office. Ignoring the young residents under his wing – more than half of them lost causes if it had been up to him. He runs his eyes across his domain.
Brendon Park has always believed that the path of medicine could – and should – only be taken up by the cream of the crop. Life was not something you put in the hands of those who were ‘good enough’. What use does he have of overeager students who can’t differentiate a vein from an artery or the top student who buckles at the smallest hint of criticism?
Only those who are the best deserve to be doctors. And only those who beat the best deserve to become a surgeon.
“Where’s the kid?”
The newbies look at each other, confused. Clearly, not being given a heads-up of the culture and hierarchy in the Orthopedics Department.
His assistant speaks, “She is finishing up a consult in the ER. She should be here any –”
“… next time one of Frank’s idiots calls, tell them they better make sure it is compartment syndrome or I will shave off their senior resident's pretty hair.”
There she is. The crème de la crème.
She composes herself once she finally catches her attendings’ steely eyes and the suffocating tension he likes to maintain in his surroundings.
“Good morning, Dr. Park.”
“Good morning, doctor. Rough shift?” He cocks his head as the two of you ignore the gawking, trembling residents who are here to observe the surgery and continue your conversation next to each other in the sink. “Robby told me to let you sit this one out.”
The reminder of Robby’s cautious text about ‘giving you a break’ as if he knew you better than him makes his blood simmer once more. He lets his senses focus on the cold water running through his palms instead.
“Fuck, no,” you groan, scrubbing your hands aggressively, still frustrated. “I’m fine. It’s just – I fucking hate newbies.”
He actually chuckles at that, letting your shoulders bump as he walks in first, hands raised.
“You’re distracted,” he lets his words hit you where it matters. Your pride. “Fix it before you get in my OR.”
He sees it. The side of you that mirrors him. The way the irritation sloughs off of you like a false skin, the intensity in your eyes that held the same focus he does, the deep breath you take as your chest expands like a well-oiled machine revving up to do its purpose.
Robby doesn’t know what the fuck he is talking about.
“Yes, Dr. Park.”
Everyone knew who you were.
Shark’s favorite – his little prodigy. One he snatched from the ER Department, right under Robby’s nose, to hone into his successor.
The bias wasn’t for show.
You were brilliant, skilled, and had the most potential. You graduated top of your class, beat out your peers in your first rotation as a med student, and got offered a residency program by all departments in the PTMC.
It was almost a little too familiar with his experience when he was an upcoming resident.
And now, after thrashing the other attendings, he gets to have his own perfect protégé.
A student he considers as one of the great successes in his career.
Even now, he can’t help but marvel at you as you skillfully ride his cock.
A true overachiever, through and through.
“That’s it, baby. You’re doing so well," he pats the flesh of your ass almost paternally. The small irritating voice of Jack Abbot reminds him that positive reinforcement is quite effective when done sparingly.
They say surgeons are narcissistic to a fault. That they’d fuck themselves if they could. Maybe that’s why he loved fucking you so much – his mini me.
You’re the perfect specimen. The perfect woman.
“Does it feel good, Dr. Park?”
After all, surgeons would fuck themselves if they could.
And his little me wasn’t any different.
He tried to stay away. Swore to himself that he would not derail your career in any way. Women have it hard enough to get into male-dominated fields as it is, much less if you were to become a pariah because of him.
It would be unfair and cruel to be a bump in your career – and your belly, god forbid – when he swore to himself you would be the one to soar alongside him.
Instead, he focuses on more wholesome approaches. Or as wholesome as he could manage.
If he couldn’t have you, he had to monopolize you.
Controlled your schedule, made sure any and every surgery that comes your way went through him first because no one gets to overwork his student but him.
"Cancel all her consultations this Friday. We're doing the spinal fusion."
His assistant visibly stiffens, rapidly scrolling through his schedule. "Doctor Abbot requested her assistance for --"
He glances at him in bored disapproval. "Abbot isn't her attending isn't he?"
The young man nods. Capable but expendable, and he is smart enough to know it. "No, Dr. Park."
"Good. And tell him he can find his own senior resident to torture," he swivels his chair, done with the conversation. "This one's mine."
He had you moved into a condominium near his – lied through his teeth about the hospital paying for it too. Some bullshit about wanting their star resident to focus on her work.
"It should be for move-in next week," the realtor eagerly rattles as Park signs the lease, making sure to verify that it was his other bank account in the contract lest you be smart enough to check it and figure out your nice new condo didn't come from the good graces of the hospital.
"Quite an investment, doctor. Should be worth double by next year. Are you planning to flip it?"
Park signs on the last line.
"'s for my kid."
It eventually escalated to gym sessions together, then the same tailored diet plan because he refuses to let his successor survive on questionable food, and eventually syncing your health apps so he could oversee your fitness and sleep schedule.
'Bedtime.'
You actually stare at your phone like an unruly child.
'Can't sleep. I'll just study for the case tomorrow.'
Before you could flip another page laid in front of your table a call was already blaring through your phone. The shark emoji gave no doubts as to who was calling.
To his hypocrisy, he was also in front of his study table.
"I need you on peak performance tomorrow. Bed, now."
He crosses his arms and your eyes actually drop at how his shirt constricts across his biceps. Fuck.
Whatever, you can just remove your watch so he can stop tracking your bedtime like a fucking --
"Prop your phone up on the bedside table," you press your lips together, caught. "I know your tricks, kid."
In under five minutes, you were tucked in your comforter, staring at your screen as he uses the reading glasses he refuses to let anyone else see him wear.
He doesn't look at his phone again but you knew better than to try and test him. And even though it kills you to admit it, the soft sounds of the flips of the paper was lulling you to sleep.
"Goodnight, Dr. Park."
His reply, if any, slipped past unheard. Only his gentle eyes lingered in your memory as the last thing you saw.
It satisfied the desire, for a while.
When it no longer worked, he tried for the opposite.
He put some space, gave you cases separate from his, called you ‘kid’ to remind himself that he was decades ahead of you.
This time, you saw right through him.
Smart girl, that you were. Ballsy, too.
Chasing him down to his office and demanding an explanation for his abrupt indifference after indulging you with his warped attention.
Try as she might, Gloria couldn't find anyone who would talk about what actually happened that day. All she knows is that it was not pretty. A vicious argument between two top predators of the PTMC.
One that nobody knew ended in you spread out in what was his pristine desk, a quick plan B trip to the pharmacy, and a meeting in HR where the two of you had to declare your relationship once and for all.
It was a scandal and a headache for the higher-ups. They even had half the mind to transfer you to another hospital but he had assured them that he too would quit if that ever happened – making them lose not only an esteemed student but also an irreplaceable attending. Thus, a compromise was reached and the relationship was to be hidden until you officially finished your residency.
Not that he fucking cared. He could be the picture of restraint provided they keep their filthy little paws off of what was his.
What was now finally his.
“Getting tired, kid? Hmm? Need some help? I told you, you needed more leg work in the gym,” he grins maniacally at your whine, your little claws burying into his chest in defiance.
“I can do it. I can –”
You shriek as he slapped your ass, now meeting your thrusts as he bounces you on his cock, punishing your weak efforts with brutality. Grabbing both of your wrists with one hand as he pulls you down meanly to meet his pace.
“This all my little genius can amount to, hm? Can’t even ride her attending’s cock properly?”
You whined, shaking your head. “No – Please, Dr. Park. I can do it! I swear!”
“So polite,” he smirks, settling back down and letting you gyrate weakly in his lap.
He pinches your clit cruelly, heart pounding in glee at your cry. A notification pops on his phone as well as the smartwatch he had bought for you – ten minutes till 10.
Should be enough time.
“Get on with it, kid. It’s almost bedtime for you.”
supercut of us (a jack abbot college au fic coming soon!)
OR: the one where jack accidentally knocks up robby's little (step)sister in his final year of college
"You'll just make it weird," You huff, crossing your arms over yourself, as if that's going to do anything to hide the bump. With the right clothing you can pass it off, but Jack knows better, much to your chagrin.
"Jesus Christ, kid - I can't fix anything if you don't tell me what's wrong."
You bite your lip, and find an incredibly interesting part of the ceiling to fix your gaze on. "I tried to have sex the other day, and had a panic attack."
You miss the way Jack's expression falls for just a second, before he schools it back to neutrality. But he can't hide the ticking muscle in his jaw. "You just trying to brag, or does this have something to do with me?"
"I'm not ready for people to see the bump. But uh... second trimester has brought some... hormonal imbalances," You swallow heavily, hoping the ground will open up and out you out of your misery. "I want you to fuck me."
"You want to recreate the thing that got us into this mess?" You can hear the amusement in his voice, and you hate every second of it.
"It's not like you can knock me up twice," You grumble.
You can hear the slightest Southern drawl in Jack's voice when he speaks again. "It's a really touching offer, truly. I love being a last resort."
You decide that this is definitely not worth the effort, and grab your bag, embarrassment flaring at his rejection. "Nevermind, I can handle it myself-"
A hand curls around your wrist and spins you back into him, so he can crowd you against the door. "I didn't say I wouldn't do it," He hums, lips ghosting across your jaw. "Just think you look hot when you're flustered."
"Fuck you."
He crooks a thigh between your own, and a gasp escapes. It's pathetic, really. One ounce of contact, and you're putty in his hands. "Thought that was what you were here for, princess?"
ꜰɪᴄ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴇʀʏ Baelor praises you, guides you in your work, he even fucks you in the safe confines of his bedroom. Intimate; physically, academically but never emotionally. You both know it’s wrong yet you keep on coming back for more, even if it is only scraps.
summary: When the comfortable ease of your home is unexpectedly disrupted, you let your husband take his frustrations out on you.
pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x Wife!F!Reader
warnings: +18, explicit sexual content, facefucking, size kink, big dick lyonel, possessiveness, unprotected piv, porn without plot, treason but make it dirty talk, body worship, praise, finger sucking, lots of spit and drool in this one, reader has hair that can be pulled, lyonel is down bad for his wife, domesticity, talk of alcohol consumption, some gossip-y baelor hate (sorry king ily), not beta read, spoiler free!
wc: 3.2k
note: i just know lyonel loveeees to gossip about the targ's with his wife. could be read as part two of the helm stays on! if you so choose, but it's not necessary reading. i'm but a weary slave to the 'pretty little wife' trope what can i say. also this was my first fic written on ellipsus so i'm not sure how the formatting will look, so if anything is funky pleaseeee let me know! okay love u enjoyy!!
[masterlist] [AO3]
It’s late when your husband finally falls into bed beside you. The moon is bright outside the open windows and the air feels charged with an oncoming storm. It’s the perfect temperature. Cold enough to leave a chill behind on the stone floor, but warm enough that the linen of your bed keeps you cozy.
He’s got that heaviness about him that he likes to deal with on his own. The kind where you can see the anguish behind his dark eyes, but when prompted he’ll just say, “It matters none. I should not sully the mind of my pretty little wife with things she cannot change.”
Always thinking of you. Always keeping you safe and soft and happy, even at the cost of himself.
Storm’s End had gotten a Targaryen visitor this morning. And while you and Lyonel both appreciated Maekar and his loose energy, you both bristled at the presence of his brother, Baelor.
He’s heir to the throne, after all. There exists a certain expectation of poise in whatever room he was in. But the pressure of duty and courtesy became quickly suffocating for people like you and your husband, who ruled the Stormlands as gentle and hedonistic leaders.
It felt like putting on a mask of collectedness and denied the relief of removing it until the prince mounted his horse and made it three miles from your keep. Like holding your breath for the handful of days he resided here.
It was not that you disliked the prince. You only disliked his unending seriousness.
You roll onto your side and drape yourself across Lyonel. His big hands find the edge of your thigh immediately, like muscle memory as he pulls it higher up his waist. You thread your fingers through the messy curls at the top of his head and smile when he lets out a long sigh of relief. “How long is he staying?”
“Only for another day,” he answers. “He’s passing through. On his way to Summerhall. We’ll host a feast tomorrow and send him on his way the following morning.”
“Well, that’s not so terrible,” you say. “I expected worse, honestly.”
“As did I. It is not often a prince of the realm shows up to your home unannounced.” He turns slightly to look fully at you, his pretty mouth turned up at the corners. When he speaks again his voice is barely above an amused sort of whisper. Gossip meant only for the two of you. “Did you know that Baelor does not drink ale? Only strongwine. He says he does not like the taste. How…childish is that?”
Your laughter comes easily. “Only strongwine? Did you offer him from the barrel we’d gotten at that ale house in Dorne?”
With a nod he answers, “Yes, and he grimaced. Like I was serving him some pissfroth from the Eyrie or something.”
“What a delicate man,” you say, giggles falling from your mouth.
“Yes, well—what more could you expect from a prince tucked away in a castle his whole life? Eating only the finest of cakes and drinking only the finest of wines?”
“You should offer him the fermented stuff we had brought here from Essos,” you joke.
Lyonel snorts and shakes his head. “That drink is so strong I could hardly stomach it. I fear it may put the prince in an early grave.”
You smile easily and press a kiss to the hard line of his jaw, feeling the tension beneath your lips. You settle into quietness, tracing your fingers over the strong planes of his bare chest. “Will you go on a hunt tomorrow for the feast?”
“Yes,” he says. “I should like to take you with me, but the prince will be there as well and I fear I could not keep a handle on myself were he to look at you too long while in your riding leathers.”
With a snort, you roll your eyes. “I seriously doubt that, my love. A man so noble as him would cast his eyes on another man’s wife?”
“A delicate prince he may be, but he’s still only a man,” Lyonel explains. “And you are…Gods. You are so beautiful.”
He rests a hand on your cheek, thumb stroking soothingly across your temple. You feel yourself flush beneath his praise, always eager to receive it. But because you can’t ever seem to help yourself, you urge, “And what would you do, then? If he were to look in my direction too long?”
“Oh, sweetling,” he murmurs, palm sliding over the curve of your side, moving to the small of your back to pull you closer.
The pressure of his thigh pressed hard between your legs is nothing short of heavenly, and your hips begin to rock out of sheer need for his touch. He leans in close, mouth ghosting across your ear.
His breath tickles as he asks, “Do you know the lengths I would go to keep you here with me?” Lyonel brings you even closer, encouraging your movement. You can feel his grin when a breathy sound leaves you. “I would kill him, my love.”
This time, your moan is fully formed. The friction of your small clothes makes you shiver, and in combination with the way he so easily threatens treason not for want of power but for love of you? Gods. It’s like nothing else.
Lyonel slips his hand beneath the sheets, easily finding the edge of your dress to tug it upwards. “I would make an enemy of the crown,” he whispers, tilting your hips to press your bare cunt to his thigh now. “I would kill them all and take the throne for you. To sit a jeweled circlet on your pretty head and kneel at your feet.”
You arch your back, and he takes the open space you provide to lean in and lick a long, indulgent stripe up the column of your throat. He finds that spot you love with quick precision and bites gently, sharp canines scraping over your skin, stinging just enough to pull a gasp from the back of your mouth.
“The kind of woman who deserves to be worshipped,” he continues. He nudges your legs apart with his knee and pushes you flat against your back, coming to rest between your thighs. Your husband is already naked—cock hanging hard and heavy between you. Blushed and leaking at the tip, just as desperate to be inside you as you are to be stretched by the thickness of him.
Lyonel is big and broad and heavy on top of you. He pulls you up with a calloused hand on the back of your neck and drags your nightdress up over your head, baring your body completely to him.
His hands are greedy and unapologetic as he feels you. Squeezing gently at the swells of your breasts, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples. He moves further down, tracing your curves, massaging the supple flesh as if trying to commit the shape of you to memory. “You’re so very beautiful,” he mutters. “And so very mine. Say it.”
“M’yours,” you choke out, heart beating fast, blood rushing beneath his acute attention. “I’m all yours. Only yours. Please let me show you. Please.”
You pull back, just enough to tuck your legs beneath you and settle in front of him on your knees. Lyonel grins wickedly and smooths a hand affectionately over your jaw. “Sweet girl,” he muses, running his thumb across your parted lips. He pushes the digit inside, pressing down on your tongue. The cool metal of his golden, storm-forged ring clinks carefully against the back of your teeth. “Show me your tongue.”
Without hesitation, you do as he says. Sliding the wet muscle down his hand, tasting salt and sea and the essence of him underneath.
He takes his cock in his free hand, stroking it slow, only inches from your face. Your mouth begins to water and drool coats the tip of your tongue.
Lyonel chuckles low. “Look at you,” he mutters. “So perfect.”
Carefully, he guides your mouth to his cock, sliding it between your lips. It’s heavy on your tongue, but you swallow down as much as him as you can. Spread your spit to take just a little more of him into your mouth.
You greedily lick the throbbing veins on the underside of his cock, spit bubbling at the corners of your lips. He gathers your hair at the nape of your neck and pulls your head all the way back.
Strings of saliva snap against your chin as you look up at him, mouth still open and tongue still out. Even in the dark of night you can see that sordid desire on his face; pupils blown wide, a furrow in his brow, lips parted on a soft moan. “Fuck me,” he sighs. “You have the sweetest mouth. S’like it was made to swallow my cock. Like you were made all for me.”
Lyonel takes your wrists in his hand and sets them against his thighs. A signal, you know—that the things he’s about to do to you are a…different type of worship. One you love to take part in. A saccharine roughness you’d only ever entrust to him.
You hold yourself up with your fingers flat against the strong muscles of his legs, feeling his coarse hair beneath your palms.
He leans down just a little, enough to touch his forehead to yours and ask a single word of permission. Quietly, delicately. “Yeah?”
You smile and nod in answer, and only seconds later he’s tugging your hair hard and pulling your mouth back to him. This time, when he pushes his cock past your lips, there’s nothing gentle or delicate about it.
He forces himself down your throat, head tilting back, groaning all the while. He uses the harsh grip he has on your hair to move your lips up and down his length, fucking your mouth the way he wants, the way he needs. All that pent up frustration, all that effort to be poise一none of it exists here now. It dissipates, freeing him of the burden.
Within you, he searches for peace. And only in the way you stare up at him with unending devotion does he find it.
You let him take and take and take. The thick layer of hair at the base of his cock tickles your nose with each pass of your tongue and saliva drips obscenely down your chin. You try to breathe between each thrust of his hips, taking in oxygen slowly through your nose, keeping your heart rate steady.
His cock hits the back of your throat and you gag. But he doesn’t stop, and you know he won’t until you tell him to. Lyonel thrusts his hips in tandem with the hand on the back of your head, burying himself in your throat, releasing all of that built up pressure that has accumulated throughout the day.
You can see it as you look up at him through your lashes. His shoulders relax and the tension in his jaw loosens. Freeing himself from the burden of duty that has weighed him down for hours. This is what he needs.
So you take it for as long as you can. Let him fuck your mouth until you’re gasping for breath, until your vision blurs with unshed tears.
All it takes is one tap of your hand on his thigh and Lyonel is pulling your head back. He’s breathing hard and smiling wide as he kneels in front of you, releasing his hold on your hair. He cradles your face between his big hands, thumbs stroking affectionately over your cheeks. “You’re okay, sweetling,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours.
There’s so much love in his eyes that it makes you feel warm and fuzzy all over. He pours his adoration into you, murmuring all the while.
“You did so good,” he says. “Always so good for me. My perfect girl.” He presses his lips to yours, the spit on your chin making his beard look all shiny and wet. He licks into your mouth, his tongue tasting of smoke and ale, his low groans rumbling against your swollen lips.
Lyonel wraps a hand around your middle and pulls you to him. He leans back on his knees and sets you in his lap, his cock sliding through the slickness that's gathered between your legs. You whimper into his mouth and his name falls from your tongue.
“I know, I know,” he coos. “Shh. I’ve got you.” He nuzzles the side of your cheek with the tip of his nose. “Look at me, pretty girl. Open your eyes. Mhm, there you go. Breathe with me, yeah? Inhale slow.”
With your eyes locked on his, you follow his instruction. Your lungs expand in tandem, distracting you while he uses his free hand to reach his cock beneath you. You exhale the moment he does, the warmth of his breath fanning over your collar bones.
“Again,” he instructs, his bare chest lifting and pressing against your breasts as he breathes in deep.
This time, on the exhale, you feel the head of his cock nudge at your entrance. And desperate as you are to feel him inside you, the stretch is still painful. A stinging pressure you know you’ll always feel the following day.
Your brows furrow and his hand on your waist grips hard enough to bruise. “Oh, Gods一”
“S’okay, you’re okay,” he promises. “Breathe with me, c’mon.”
This time, he doesn’t stop on the exhale. He keeps lifting his hips while pulling you down, until the hair at the base of his cock touches your clit.
You wrap your hands around his neck and tug at his graying curls. “Lyonel, please—!”
“I know, I know. You can take it.” He kisses you hard, fingers finding your achy, swollen clit. When he begins to circle it with practiced ease, you turn quickly into a soft mess of a woman in his arms, just like you always do.
You’re moaning against his tongue and he’s swallowing up the sounds, hips canting underneath you.
“Yeah, there you go. Good girl.”
It feels so full. He’s so big, holding you so tight, enveloping every one of your senses until all you can hear and smell and feel and think is him. Your big brute of a husband, delicate for you only.
“Shit,” he hisses, thrusting into you. You’re so wet the sounds of your arousal echo in between the stone walls of your bedchamber. The head of his cock is buried so deep, you’d swear your body must have shifted to make room for him inside. “You feel that? Hm?”
You nod feverishly, brows furrowed, trying to breathe through the fog in your mind. “Feels so—hmm—so good.”
He finds steady rhythm, fucking up into you. When you bury your face in the crook of his neck, Lyonel hums and lays his cheek against the top of your head.
“Oh—my sweet girl. I’ve got you,” he promises, and you know it’s true. No matter who disturbs the peace of your home, no matter who casts their eyes upon you, you’ll always be his.
Between the steady and relentless rhythm of his cock and the way his fingers stroke your clit so deliciously, your pleasure builds fast. Your muscles pull tight and your ears start to ring. “Don’t stop,” you whimper, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes. “Please, please, don’t stop—”
"Give it to me," he urges, keeping a steady pace. He nudges the side of your cheek with the tip of his nose, his beard ticking. "Look at me, pretty, look at me."
You do, tilting your head up just enough to catch his eyes only seconds before embers of light skitter up your spine. "Oh, Gods. I'm—!"
"Yeah, thaaat's it," he groans low in his chest, and you're held so close to him that you feel the sound vibrate through your sternum. "There you go."
The bliss of your release fills you like sunlight, eyes unfocused but still trained on his. He fucks you through it, the corners of his mouth turned up into that all-knowing smirk you adore so much.
Your skin buzzes and your head feels cloudy and every nerve ending feels like it's been lit aflame. Not by fire, but by electricity. Like the blue static of a storm.
His name leaves your mouth in a desperate whimper, and you feel his cock throb against your velvety walls in response, somehow taking up even more space inside of you. "Fuck. Fuck, I love you. I fucking—mm—love you so fucking much—"
Lyonel follows you off the edge in only seconds, his cock pulsing, spilling his seed right up against your cervix. He sings those saccharine praises all the while, love and adoration falling from his tongue.
You let him thrust his hips as long as he needs, long after you're a twitching, quivering mess in his arms, squeezing the back of his neck and peppering wet kisses across his cheeks.
The come down is slow, and you're both breathing hard, greedily drinking up the brisk night air that drifts in from the windows.
Only when you loosen your hold on him does he move. Pulling out of you gently, eyes glinting in the dark as he observes the mess he's made between your thighs.
You lean back into the lavish silks of your bed, watching him marvel at you, his big hands drifting admirably along the insides of your thighs. He touches you like you're something holy. Something cut from marble and forged by the gods themselves.
Eventually, Lyonel lets out a long breath and leans forward to press a heavy kiss right below your navel. And you know, without him even needing to speak the desire aloud, that he's hoping his seed takes root. Hoping in a few months time your belly will be all rounded with his child.
He takes his place at your side and spreads his arms open. Like muscle memory, you shift to move closer beside him, resting your head on his chest.
You can hear the steady beating of his strong heart just below your ear, and the sound soothes you half to sleep. But then he chuckles once. And then twice, and then he's laughing so hard you can't help but mirror his joy.
With your head tilted to look up at him, you ask through your own giggles, "What's so funny?"
"Westeros will one day be led by a man so delicate he cannot stomach a little ale," he says. "Gods. We're fucking doomed."
You shake your head. "Yes, well. A delicate king we may one day have, but the Stormlands will remain as strong as the fermented drinks of Essos."
His laughter slowly quiets, but the delight on his face remains. Lyonel kisses the top of your head and says, "You are what makes me strong."
There's no doubt in the words as he says them. No room for debate or discussion. His eyes are filled with tenderness, and it makes you feel like the most special woman to ever live.
But you only giggle and roll your eyes and say, "Get some rest now, my love. We have much to prepare on the morrow."
rocky: im not a scientist, im like the least qualified person on this ship, the only reason i survived while the actual scientists died was pure dumb luck :(
ryland grace's internal monologue like every five seconds: oh my god this guy is like a supergenius, he's literally the best engineer i've ever seen, there's no way every other eridian is this smart, like do you even KNOW how cool you are-
meanwhile grace is like: im a coward, im selfish, i put myself over the entire world, im not brave
and rockys like: grace is the bravest person ive ever met. he is brave and selfless in ways he cannot see yet and if he will not tell himself that then i will say it for him
happy 20 year anniversary of Neil banging out the tunes!
though every rat is special, it's a wonderful and unusual thing for their accomplishments to be remembered and cherished by so many people so many years later. we're all so fortunate to know about the rat who banged out the tunes!
thank you to all the people who sent me reference photos of their beloved rats for this piece!!! credits under the cut!
@joe-spookyy Ben and Socrates
@gooseontheinternet Chamomile and Beefy
@runawayy-rat Bartholomäus and Emo
@theunholystromboli Macrogryphosaurus, Xenoceratops, and Graciliraptor
@techlecticwtch Solas and Dorian
@merlyn-bane Roslyn and Rizzoli
@logictoinsanity Luna and Buttercup
@hagsthehag Orphie, Psyche, Calypso, Ariadne, and Eury
Lyonel is the kind of man who tries his best to corrupt a Septa just because he falls in love with her, and he's ready to face the rage of the Seven for it. Change my mind 😏
✿ your husband returns to you under the influence of a strange powder, and he needs you more than anything (or, a sex pollen oneshot with our favourite hedge knight)
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 7k
✿ cw: fem!reader + no y/n, reader isn’t physically described, sex pollen, SMUT, oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, outdoor sex, multiple orgasms (for both reader and dunk), praise!!, breeding!!, pet names (sweet girl, sweetheart, etc), slight overstimulation, slight painful sex in the beginning, needy + desperate dunk (he whinesss baby), fluff, strong language
Duncan lumbers through the crowded market streets, his large frame parting the tide of people who flow around him like water. He keeps one hand on the pommel of his sword, the other clutching a small pouch of sweets. Your favourite, he knows, coated in sugar with a treacle-sweet centre. He smiles to himself, imagining the look of joy that will pass over your face, seeing that your husband has brought you your favourite sweets, rather than the bread he claimed to have been craving.
Dunk ducks beneath a low-hanging awning as he winds his way between the stalls and through passageways between rickety buildings. The town reminds him a lot of Flea Bottom, and the shadows that dance through the walkways have a painful kind of nostalgia washing through him.
“Oi, watch it!”
Dunk startles, eyes shooting onwards where a market vendor, an angry vein bulging across his grime-coated forehead, points at an elderly woman wrapped in colourful shawls. Apples in reds and greens roll across the flagstones, a wooden box tipped on its side.
The vendor moves as though to strike the woman, but Dunk gets there first—somehow, he slips through the dispersing crowd and clamps a large hand around the vendor’s wrist. The vendor looks up, and up further, taking in the sheer size of Duncan, and the scowl on his face vanishes, melting back into the shadows.
“You will not lay your hand upon a woman,” Dunk growls, and then proceeds to shove the vendor away.
The vendor yelps, clutching at his bruising wrist—Dunk didn’t even realise he had grabbed the man that hard—while the hedge knight turns and squats, gathering the apples from the cobbles. When he returns them to the upturned box, he hefts it easily in one hand and peers down at the woman with a sympathetic smile.
“Are you alright?” He asks.
The woman smiles softly, reaching up to pat him gently on the forearm. “I am, my dear, thank you.”
Dunk nods to the box in his hand. “Does this belong to you?”
“I just purchased it,” the woman replies sheepishly. “But it seems my arms and hands do not work as well as they used to.”
“Well, my arms and hands work plenty fine,” Dunk says with a smile. “And my wife says I’m the best at carrying her things, so I shall carry the crate for you.”
The elderly woman smiles again, reaching up to pat Dunk’s cheek, before she turns, the pinks and greens and golds of her shawls swishing around her. She smells of powdery lavender incense and wax soap, and for the briefest of moments, Dunk is reminded of what little he recalls of his mother.
He follows her down the narrow lane after shooting one last threatening look at the vendor. She looks largely out of place amongst the common folk who traverse the market streets dressed in browns and greys, fraying cotton and stained linen. She is colourful, eccentric, her skin dark and clean of any age spots, the wrinkles shallow. She didn’t appear as old as Dunk first thought, but maybe he wasn’t paying close enough attention.
After a few minutes of walking, the woman leads Dunk through a small, dark alcove, and stops outside a wooden door painted a forest green, a brass knocker resembling a lion mounted to the front. She unlocks and pushes open the door, and Dunk is hit with a thick aroma of herbs and flowers.
“May I bother you to bring them inside?” The woman asks softly.
“Of course,” Dunk replies instantly, and he stoops low to avoid the overhang of the doorway, following the woman inside, where the hall opens up into a room full of things.
Shelves line every wall, bottles and jars of liquids and powders filling them. They shine in different colours, different consistencies, and the smell that accumulates at Dunk’s head-height makes him slightly dizzy. Dried herbs hang from the ceiling—which the giant man finds out when he is smacked in the face by a bundle of desiccated spices.
Dunk places the crate of apples onto a table in the middle of the room, the wood clinking against several empty and half-filled bottles across the surface. When he rights himself, the elderly woman places her hand on his forearm once more. Her fingers are almost completely obscured by stacks of gold rings, and the bangles around her wrists jingle like chimes as she pets him like a child would a cat.
“I thank you for your kindness,” she tells him. “You will make yourself a fine knight one day.”
Dunk doesn’t think twice about the fact the lady knew he was to be a knight, but the compliment makes him burst with pride regardless. He dips his head respectfully, hand pressing to his chest in a sign of good faith.
“It was no problem at all.”
“Here, allow me to give you something in return,” the woman says, and turns to the lines of shelves behind her, fingers flitting across jars.
Dunk shakes his head, clearing his throat as his hand, once again, comes to rest against the pommel of his sword. He’s trying to appear more noble, but when he stands up straight, he hits the crown of his head on a low wooden beam, making him grunt.
“There is no need,” Dunk says around a hiss, rubbing the top of his head. “I do not—”
The woman points to a jar on the very top shelf, one she cannot reach, interrupting Dunk smoothly. “May you retrieve that one for me?”
Dunk bites his tongue and does what he is told. His large fingers pinch around the small jar the woman wants, and through the tempered glass he can see a yellow powder that seems to sparkle as it catches the low light of suspended candles. He hands it to the woman, who thanks him and pops the cork with a flick of her thumb.
She turns to face him. “When was the last time you lay with your wife?”
“I—” Dunk chokes on his spit. “I beg your—”
“I suppose we have seen the face of the sun many times since you have?” The woman taps the rim of the jar against her outstretched palm, collecting some of the powder. Dunk notices the traces of pink amongst the yellow. “Nearly twelve nights gone? You poor thing.”
Dunk stammers, but can’t articulate words.
Okay, maybe it has been that long, but only initially because your moon blood had arrived. The two of you usually had no qualms with being intimate whilst you bled, but you were particularly tender, and no amount of stretch from your husband’s tongue and fingers seemed to eliminate the ache, so you both decided against it.
Then, even when your blood had passed, the two of you travelling tirelessly for several days straight had meant Dunk did not want you to exert too much energy, even when you did plead with him.
The fact this woman knows that has suspicion, not quite fear, passing through him like a phantom.
“Your wife longs for you, and yet here you are, resorting to obtaining sweets to ease her qualms,” the woman says, and now Dunk is slightly creeped out. The bag of sweets hangs against his hip, fastened to the rope belt around his waist. The woman chuckles softly. “And that is why I believe this will be as good a reward as any.”
She lifts her palm and proceeds to blow the yellowy-pink powder directly into Dunk’s face. He sucks in a startled breath and it fills his lungs like smoke, his mouth tasting the sweetness of ripened grapes and honeyed wine. Quickly, he screws his eyes shut, but the powder lingers already in his lashline, and when he blinks, his vision seems brighter.
“What the—?” Dunk lifts his hand and wipes it down his face, stumbling back slightly.
“It is harmless to your overall health, and the effects will fade when you…” She hesitates, and then pats him on the chest. “Are satisfied, although that may take some effort. Now, be gone with you, Ser Duncan. You have a wife to return too.”
The woman, with surprising strength, spins Dunk around and pushes him out the door. It slams closed behind him, and he stands there with his head spinning, wondering how on earth she even knew his name.
In the shadows of the alcove, he catches his breath, which comes in increasingly laboured pants as his entire body begins to light up with warmth. His clothes feel too sticky against his skin, the back of his neck prickling, his temples dampening. The rope around his hips is too tight, the sword hanging there too heavy.
“Gods above, what is happening to me?” Dunk whispers to himself, looking down at his body as something stirs low in the pit of his stomach.
He thinks of you, waiting so patiently back at the campsite. He groans softly, reaching a hand down to press flat against his groin, where his cock is slowly beginning to harden in his breeches. The thought of you sitting against a tree, maybe mending one of his cloaks, or sharpening one of his blades, has a dizzy sort of pleasure seizing his brain.
Dunk whimpers your name, and stumbles out into the streets. He needs to get to you.
—✿—
The sky above is alight with oranges and pinks as the sun slowly begins to sink below the distant horizon. You watch it calmly, the forest around you quiet and serene, the sound of the nearby river washing through you and instilling a sense of calm. Your hand moves where you clutch your bone-handled blade, slicing it, bit-by-bit, through a small chunk of wood. It now resembles a horse, for the most part. You have taken up carving as a means of passing time, and selling the little statues earns you a bit of coin.
Your serenity is interrupted by the snapping of twigs and approaching footsteps. Several yards away, your horses do not startle, but you grip your knife tightly anyway as the footsteps encroach louder, then louder still. But you can hear the heavy thuds and the wide gait, and a small smile splits across your face when you recognise your husband’s footsteps.
You place your carving and knife aside, dusting the wood shavings from your hands as you get to your feet. Dunk appears through the tree line and your smile grows when you see him.
“Dunk!” You greet him. “I’ve been waiting…”
You take a moment to look at your husband as he walks towards you. His chest rises and falls rapidly, a bright blush painting his cheeks. His eyes appear watery, and as he draws nearer, the hot skin of his face seems to shimmer with something iridescent.
He towers over you, and out of instinct, you reach up and cup your palms to his cheeks. His eyes fall closed and he groans, throaty and loud. He’s feverish, molten-hot. You smell overripe grapes, lavender and honeycakes as he shifts, ripping his cloak from his body and tossing it to the ground.
“What has happened to you?” You ask, concern overcoming you as your hands brace down his neck and chest now, feeling the rabbit-like thumping of his heart.
Dunk groans again, eyes opening to watch your hands work down his abdomen. A shudder racks through him when your hands stop at the waistband of his trousers, your eyes widening as you spot the straining imprint of his cock. Your eyes lift, sparkling in the evening light, and Dunk swears that look alone could have made him spill in his breeches.
“Have you taken something?” You question quietly, finding the knot of his rope belt. You unfasten and unravel it, hefting the sword too and placing it on the ground. Dunk watches with his hands balled into fists. He’ll tell you about the sweets later. You peer back up at him again. “Duncan?”
His name leaving your lips forces him to his knees. A whine rips from the back of his throat as he drops, and you gasp as his knees crackle through dried leaves. His hands reach out, encircling around your hips as he lines himself up with your abdomen, his mouth pressing to your stomach.
Your hands card through his hair, worried. “Dunk, my love?”
“A woman… she gave me something—blew a powder into my face,” Dunk gasps out, leaning his burning cheek against you, listening to your breathing. “Says I will… says it will feel better when I am sat–satisfied.”
You frown. “Satisfied?”
Dunk nods, nuzzling into you. His hips shift as well, and suddenly you feel the tent of his trousers pressing to your leg through your skirts. A soft gasp escapes you as you continue to card your fingers through his hair, tussling the longish brown locks.
You know what he means by satisfied, considering his cock seems to be burning hot through both the fabric of his breeches and trousers, and the material of your simple dress.
“It hurts,” Dunk mutters, mouthing at your dress now, lips pressing to the softness of your belly. The fabric wets with his saliva as his tongue darts out, dragging over the linen. You grimace and thread your fingers against his scalp, holding him firmly and dragging his head away. He whimpers loudly, eyes flying open as he whines out, “Hurts so bad, sweetheart.”
Your heart squeezes tightly in your chest, your stomach churning with worry. You don’t want your husband hurting, but what was really wrong with him? He had left to the market for bread or something of the sort, and returned, not only empty-handed, but flushed with desire with his trousers practically ripping at the seams.
“Duncan…” You continue to grip his hair so he can’t literally lick your dress. “What hurts? You need to tell me.”
Dunk groans as your other hand shifts back to his cheek, stroking the warmed flesh. He leans into the touch with drooping eyelids, his pupils blown so wide his eyes appear black in the fading light of dusk.
“My—” Dunk blows out a breath as if battling something in his brain. “My… oh gods, my love, I can’t say—I just can’t—”
You know what he wants to say. You know it when his hips twitch and he drags the imprint of his cock against your leg once more.
Something warm is blooming in your core now too. The sight of your husband on his knees before you, clutching you as if you were keeping him alive, feverish in his pleasure, has you starting to leak into the gusset of your smallclothes. Heat fills your tummy as you stroke his cheek, the tips of your fingers collecting a shimmering film of yellow and pink dust. It seems to be trapped in his pores, coating his freckles as he peers up at you.
You massage his scalp, which is damp with sweat. “Does your cock hurt, sweet boy?”
The words feel too alien coming from your mouth, much too crude for a lady, but the shock that passes over your husband’s face is euphoric to your slowly dampening core. His mouth drops open, his tongue practically lolling out like a tired hound, as a groan rumbles from his chest and he starts to nod. His cock presses to your thigh and he tries to grind himself against you, but you tug on his hair to get him to stop.
“Well, tell me what you need me to do,” you whisper down at him. “I can help you. You just need to be a good boy and tell me what you need, okay?”
Dunk groans. “Y-yeah, yeah, I can—I can be good. I just—I just need you, pl-please, my love, I need you.”
You coo at him. “Need me? I’m right here, Dunk.”
“No,” he whines out, leaning his forehead against your stomach. You let him. He groans again, this time more high-pitched, bordering on a whimper. “Need your…”
“Need my…?”
“Gods, my heart is going to implode,” Dunk huffs as an aside. “Please—”
“What do you need, Dunk?” You ask firmly, gripping his hair and forcing him away from your stomach. The broken sound that leaves him almost makes you feel bad, but you need him to make some kind of sense before you give him anything. You know exactly what he wants, but he needs to work for it.
Dunk licks his lips, looking you up and down, and the words that leave his mouth sound like nothing you’ve ever heard from him in the entire time you’ve known him. His tone is dark with need, but still light enough to know his words are edging around a whine. “Need your pussy. Need to fuck you so bad, sweetheart. Need to pump you so full that—”
He cuts himself off with a low moan as you push his head down, pinning him and muffling the rest of his rambling against the fabric covering your mound. His mouth laves over the linen straight away, and the heat that overtakes you threatens to burn you from the inside out.
“Come on then, my boy,” you whisper, rubbing his scalp gently, your other hand smoothing down the strong expanse of his shoulders. “Help me out of this dress and I can give you what you want.”
Dunk grunts in relief as he hurries to his feet and spins you around so fast you feel dizzy. He walks you back a few paces until you can brace your hands against the coarse bark of a tree as he pulls at the ties along the back of your dress. He rips the knots undone, large hands trembling as he makes quick work of unthreading the ribbons he himself had tied earlier that morning.
His movements are harsh. Gods, he’s trying to be gentle, but he just can’t help it.
“Duncan…” You grumble, jostled as he tugs and pulls.
“M’sorry,” he slurs as, giving up on the last few ribbons, he hooks his fingers beneath the silky strings and rips them. You gasp as he practically pulls your dress apart, the sound of material tearing filling the forest as your dress loosens around your shoulders and breasts. Dunk slurs again, “M’so sorry, sweet girl.”
He pulls you to him as he drags your dress from your body, leaving you in your smallclothes as you kick the mass of skirts away. The chemise follows—Dunk pulls it over your head and spins you around at the same time, and you yelp at the speed of it all. Your breasts spill out into the cool air of the forest and his head ducks immediately, mouth attaching to a hardening nipple as one of his large hands finds the other. He kneads it as he drops to his knees once more, sucking harshly whilst his other hand finds your smallclothes.
“Dunk,” you call for him through a whine as he tugs them down, and you barely have time to send them away from your ankles before he’s ripping your legs apart.
His mouth drops from your tits, skims briefly over the soft skin of your tummy, before his nose is dragging down your mound and burrowing between your legs.
You gasp. “Dunk, oh my—”
“Need this,” Dunk grumbles. “Gods, need this. Got to—y’gotta give it to me, sweetheart.”
He inhales deeply, and the sensation makes you squeal and squirm, your back arching against the tree. Your hands find his damp hair again, tugging. But it’s no deterrent—the giant inhales again, this time followed by a loud, unabashed moan that sends the birds above flying from their roosts. The forest seems to echo with it, and you can feel the heat of his face burning deeper as he buries himself against you. You feel his mouth split open, warm lips parting for his tongue to curl outwards. He licks through your folds as another groan spills, the vibrations buzzing through you like bees trapped in a jar.
Your hands shift from his head to his shoulders, and you tug at the fabric of his tunic.
“Dunk,” you say hurriedly. “Off.”
He removes himself from you with a grunt, letting you help him in flinging his tunic off. It lands somewhere in the distance. Dunk doesn’t care though, descending between your legs again and drawing your clit into his mouth with one harsh suck. It makes you yowl, fingernails biting crescents into the freckled skin of his shoulders. His skin is sticky with sweat and impossibly warm.
With another animalistic grunt, Dunk takes one of your legs and tosses it over his shoulder. The new angle allows him to drive his tongue into your drooling hole, and the abruptness makes you keen into him, hips twitching as his nose bumps repeatedly against your clit. Blood pools low beneath the skin, simmering hot in your nerves as he ruts his tongue inside you, each movement eliciting a gravelly groan from the depths of his chest.
His other hand unties the knots of his trousers. He pushes the fabric away with fumbling fingers and pulls his aching cock out of his breeches, the material on the front wet with precum. When his fingers wrap around the length—hot iron wrapped in a sheath of velvet—and the sword callouses on his palm rub against a vein on the underside, his vision whites behind his eyelids. The pleasure is almost painful, the pressure pulling heavily at his cockhead, bruising a purplish-red. Precum leaks from the slit in a continuous rivulet that has his heart knocking against his sternum.
His balls are tight already, and as he tastes you, listening to the light whimpers that fall from your mouth, he realises he’s going to spill. He realises it as his precum wets his palm, his hand gliding without him even needing to spit on it. He realises it as his cock twitches heavily in his hand, again and again; that unmistakable pressure in his lower spine and belly building. He wants to let it happen—he rucks his hips, meeting the movements of his hand, fucking his fist. Grunts muffle in your wet pussy as he chases his high, your thigh warm on his ear.
The precipice of pleasure is right there, but he can’t reach it.
He strokes his cock, twists at the base, tastes the heady scent of you dripping down the back of his throat, but he can’t come.
“Dunk,” you call sweetly, tipsy on pleasure. “Oh, gods, Dunk, keep going.”
It feels like Dunk’s entire face is wet: the upper portion damp with sweat, the lower portion shining with your slick. His mouth moves against you like he’s kissing you, lips spreading and tongue curling. He breathes you in, moaning softly, head bobbing as he continues to fist his cock. It’s nearly trembling in his hand, and you can feel Dunk shivering as he chases a release that refuses to let go.
You can hear him fucking his fist over the wet slurps of his tongue against your pussy. As the forest darkens around you, your ears ring with it, your bare back scratching against the tree trunk as you rock your hips. His mouth is searing hot, forged from the very fires of Dragonstone.
Your thigh quivers over his shoulder as you speak. “Duncan, m’gonna come.”
Your only response is a deep grunt that vibrates your puffy clit, and that has your legs locking up even tighter. Pleasure takes deep root in the base of your spine, and it spreads as you take, take, take, until you topple into your orgasm. It rocks through you, and you hold him tightly, rocking your hips as you spasm around his tongue. Chants of his name roll easily over your lips, and he groans nicely against you as he fucks you through it.
Dunk pulls away after a couple of seconds. His breathing is ragged, lips wet, chest flushed red. He’s still fisting his cock, and you look down at him, meeting his round, watery eyes as he nuzzles against the thigh still draped over his shoulder.
“I…” He breathes in deeply. “I can’t—oh, fuck, I can’t—”
His hand is moving so fast. The sight makes your pussy clench around nothing, and you gingerly remove your thigh from his shoulder. Then, you tap his head.
“Stand up for me, Dunk,” you say gently, trailing a nail along the dip of his clavicle. “I’ll help you, I promise.”
Your husband springs to his feet before you even finish speaking, pushing his trousers and breeches all the way off.
He continues to grasp his cock. It leans forward under the weight of his pleasure, and you both groan when he rubs the head against the soft skin above your navel. Precum spreads across your skin, and when he pulls back, a sticky string connects you two for just a moment. You whimper his name when the string snaps, and he draws in a sharp, almost pained breath.
“Inside,” he whispers, more to himself than you. He drags the head of his cock down as he bends at the knee. “Need… yeah, need to be inside.”
The angle is slightly awkward—he’s just a bit too big—but he makes it work, stooping low as he angles your legs apart. The head of his cock finds the tight hole of your cunt, and he presses it there with surprising restraint.
“M’sorry,” Dunk breathes, leaning forward to mouth at your throat. You arch, and he purrs, pleased, as you willingly give yourself up to him. He kisses your jaw softly. “M’sorry, sweet girl, m’not gonna… I can’t wait. Jus’ need you, s-so jus’ be good, okay? I’ll try—I’ll try t’be gentle, my love. I’ll try for you.”
The head of his cock slips past the ring of your pussy, and you suck in a breath at the stretch. Wide, splitting, and no matter how wet you are, how long he took in stretching you open on his tongue or fingers, there was always a battle of bodies. Always a push to get him fully seated inside you, the tight walls of your cunt clutching around the thick intrusion.
You whimper his name again, nails needling into the tawny freckles along his shoulders.
“I know, I know,” Dunk chants, but he doesn’t stop. He can feel you tensing against him, but he doesn’t stop.
He’s overwhelmed: the heat of your pussy draws his cock in further, his mind going blank, the taste of grapes and lavender aromatic in the grooves of his molars, and leaking from his pores.
His cock slides in further, parting the wet walls of your pussy inch by inch. “Please take it, sweet girl. Please just—fuck, take it.”
It hurts. He’s too fucking big, and he knows it.
You writhe against the tree, standing on your tip-toes now as he drives slowly into you. You're thankful he’s at least easing in bit by bit. You’re not sure you would have survived if he simply took you in one fell thrust.
But at the same time, it feels incredible. The sting of the stretch is underlined by that usual, aching pleasure that festers deep in your pelvis. You feel it as the ridges of his cock run against your posterior wall, splitting you apart, rubbing you the right way. Your heartbeat thrums heavily in your clit, and your back arches against the tree, fingernails now scraping down his broad back.
“Dunk,” you whimper as he feeds his cock into you.
He groans against your throat, sucking harshly. The sound of his name on your mouth, so sweet, so beautiful, snaps whatever composure he had been holding onto. With another guttural groan, Dunk surges forward, jolting his hips inwards and stuffing the rest of his cock inside you.
You cry out, holding him tightly as he fucks into you. He’s rough, his pace coming in quick, brutal thrusts, and he’s panting against your dewy skin all the while. His body shakes against yours as he pulls his cock out, then shoves it back in. You yowl like an injured animal, and Dunk’s heart flutters in his chest.
“M’sorry, m’sorry, m’so sorry—” It rambles from him like a mantra but his hips don’t slow. He spreads you apart, girth still too thick, length still too long. He presses a wet kiss to your cheek. “I know it hurts, sweetheart, I know, but just… gods, just stay like that. Please, sweet girl, be good for me.”
Your back scrapes against the tree as his movements propel you. You’re practically bouncing against him, barely even touching the ground anymore as he takes what he needs. The slide of his cock does hurt, but your walls mould around him like clay. Made for him.
The heat and wetness of your pussy sends him over the edge, and you feel it. You feel him go rigid against you, muscles stiffening as his hips buck. His thrusts grow sloppy, seconds blurring together as his balls tighten and his cock twitches deep inside you. You feel it, feel it nudging up against the plug of your cervix as his hips roll. Then, with a rasping moan of your name, he spills inside you. Deep inside you. Warmth floods your lower belly, through the hollow of your womb as his hips jerk, his mouth biting and sucking at your neck.
And he keeps spilling. It fills you to the brim, and you can’t help but whimper as it drools out from around his cock. With a slightly disgruntled huff, Dunk pulls out, leaning back to look at where his cock hangs, still stiff, between his legs. Cum seeps from the slit, spider-web strings drooling from you too, and the sight almost has him coming again.
But he’s still hard.
“S’not…” Dunk’s brows furrow, and he slants his hips forward to drag his cock against your thigh. You squirm and whine as he wipes his cum across your skin, and then moan when the head prods back at your hole. Dunk whimpers. “S’not enough, need more.”
Then, he’s thrusting back in again. The forest’s shadows engulf you both as he slots himself inside of you, the glide quick and wet and audible as he drives home. You choke on a gasp, hands clutching his shoulders. Your legs are cramping, your back stinging, your pussy aching—but it all softens around the edges as Dunk ruts into you again and again.
“Dunk,” you whisper. “Dunk, please.”
Your husband lifts his head and finally kisses you. For the first time tonight, he slots his mouth against yours. The moan that leaves him has your cunt clenching tightly around the thick of his cock, and one of your hands finds the back of his neck as your tongues meet. It’s an intricate dance, but Dunk's movements are just too desperate to stick to the practised moves—his tongue is breaching, too thick and too strong, flattening against yours roughly. You swap spit, and he pants into the kiss as he chases your tongue and licks over the points of your teeth. It’s sloppy and messy and everything Dunk needs.
His hands are on your waist. Big, encompassing, fingers dimpling the flesh. His cock stretches you open, his heavy balls slapping against the curve of your arse as he ruts you against the tree. The wet sounds of you coming together echo softly through the forest, the sun sunk beyond the horizon now, shadows stretching far and flitting across your connected frames.
“Being so good,” Dunk mutters, licking over your parted lips. It makes you whimper, and your bottom teeth catch his lip. He groans when you release him after a playful nip. “Gods, always so good for me. Needed this so bad, sweetheart. Needed you so bad.”
“Dunk,” you mewl, scratches red along his big shoulders.
Your cunt squeezes tightly around him, another release building deep in your stomach: that same feeling as minutes before, a traction building along your spine as he fucks you. Dunk mouths along your jaw, panting into your ear as his thrusts start to stammer, and before you can react, he’s pulling you away from the tree and manhandling you to the ground. His hard cock slips out of you, the sensation forcing you to suck in a breath as his seed all but drools from your gaping cunt, the cool forest air a sudden stimuli as you’re spun around.
You let out a light grunt as he pushes you down onto your hands and knees, which find the wool of his discarded cloak. Leaves crinkle softly beneath your weight as your back arches and the warmth of Duncan appears behind you. Large, calloused hands trail up your sides, kneading your waist, before dragging back down and palming the curve of your arse.
Dunk gazes at you through the semi-darkness. “Prettiest girl in the realm, aren’t you? And you’re all mine.”
He grunts, then grips the base of his cock. It shines with your slick, wet with his spend too, and he slaps the thick head against one of your arsecheeks. You huff, and he drags the tip down the split of your arse until it ghosts across your hole—just lightly enough to make you draw in an anticipatory breath—before it finds your pussy.
“This is mine,” Dunk utters, and you almost don’t hear him. Even in the relative silence of the forest, his words are so quiet you could have mistaken them for the nearby river. Dunk circles his tip through your soaking folds before notching it and pushing in again. The groan that leaves his mouth makes you shiver. “This—fuck—this fuckin’ pussy, s’all mine. Hey, sweet girl, isn’t that right? Yeah? Tell me this is all mine.”
He thrusts in and you shout, voice carrying through the forest.
“Huh?” Dunk thrusts again, hard and fast. The angle drives him deep against you, tip knocking against the plug of your cervix. He leans over you, sweat dripping from his forehead, hair messy, cheeks pink. His hands pull your arse back onto his pelvis, meeting you thrust for thrust. “Come on, sweetheart, tell me. Need—need you to tell me. Please.”
You don’t know what that woman gave him, but you can see what it’s done to him. You can hear what it’s done, and feel what it’s done.
His rutting is brutal, his cock driving deep towards your womb, your belly full of him. Your arms shake where you hold yourself up, sweat damp in the crook of your elbows as you fist his cloak. It smells like him, and that makes the whines trapped in your throat break free.
“It’s yours, Dunk,” you manage to say as he leans over you, his body hot and too fucking big pressed against your lower spine. You gasp when one of his hands wraps around your hip and heads south, a finger finding your swollen clit. “Oh, fuck, it’s yours.”
Dunk draws a tight circle over the bud, marvelling in the way your pussy immediately tightens around him. “Yeah it is. Gods, I’m the luckiest man in all the seven kingdoms.”
You don’t correct him.
Your body trembles beneath his, and it’s almost like you can feel his cock swelling inside you. He’s impossibly thick, the ridges and veins sliding against the velvet of your walls, the head nailing that perfect, spongy spot inside you. Dunk always knows how to make you feel good, can always get you to where you want to go, but this is something entirely different. There’s an intensity within him you’ve never seen before. A feverish need that’s overtaken him, that flows from his pores, that infects every fibre of his being.
It makes you keen, back arching, listening to the way he grunts with each of his movements, cock splitting you open, heavy balls slapping against your clit as his fingers work against it too. The meat of his muscles are warm against you, solid and sturdy, holding you in place. It all adds to the sensation.
Another orgasm is quickly pulled through your body, and Dunk praises you through it as it crests like a wave.
“That’s a good girl, there we go,” he coos as you come around him, mouth dropping open in a silent moan. Your spine dips, hips stuttering, and Dunk removes his fingers from your aching clit to place a hand in the middle of your back. He forces you into a deeper arch, the new angle punching a scream from your throat as he coos again. “I know, I know, don’t make a fuss, sweet girl. You can do it. You can take me.”
Dunk’s breathing is laboured, and his stamina starts to falter as his cock twitches. Your cunt feels like heaven—a warm, silken heaven—and he screws his eyes shut momentarily, visions of him spilling deep inside you, straight into your womb, vivid in his mind. Maybe you shouldn’t drink the moon tea he finds you brewing during rest stops. Maybe he won’t have to spill across your stomach or tits or arse ever again.
He opens his eyes and grunts around a clenched jaw. “Ah—s’about time I breed—fuck—breed you, sweetheart. Huh? What do you think? Come deep inside this—ah, gods—t-this pretty pussy and give you my child. You’d look so beautiful all fat with my babe, wouldn’t you? Keep you n-nice and bred.”
“Yes, Dunk, fuck,” you moan. “Please, I can’t—”
“You can,” he growls out, fingers a vice on your hips. “Let me feel you. One more time, c’mon, my sweet girl. Let go for me one more time.”
You don’t know if you can.
Your body feels wrung out, like a dress soaked and dried by the river. Your heart clatters against your chest as your breasts push against the material of his cloak. There’s an uncomfortable pressure building in your lower tummy, mostly overwhelmed by overstimulation, but you can feel the remains of pleasure there too.
And Dunk knows you have it in you.
“One more,” he says. “One more, sweetheart, you can do it.”
Body on fire, nerves flaming at their ends, you meet his sloppy thrusts as best as you can. Your limbs tremor like a fawn, and your moans have long run dry: only hoarse whimpers roll from your tongue tasting lightly of honeyed wine.
And then you do give him one more.
Your body reacts to the manic pushing of his cock inside you, reacts to the thick of his cock splitting you open, reacts to the way he whispers your name like the sweetest kind of prayer. You come around him, arms collapsing as your pussy flutters around his girth. You topple forward, moaning his name while the ground shifts to meet you, and your legs seize, verging on a cramp.
“Yes, yes, that’s it, that’s what I want,” Dunk babbles, a large hand wrapping around the back of your neck now and pulling you onto your knees. You’re boneless, and he’s so strong, so you can’t do much but let him haul you back against his broad, sweaty chest. He presses a hot kiss to the skin just beside your tragus. “Such a good girl—you did it. Gods, my sweet girl, my perfect girl. You did it, an’ you did so good for me.”
Bulky arms encircle you, bouncing you back against his cock. He grunts into your ear, ragged and bearish, as his entire body pulses with heat. He’s feverish, ill with pleasure, and you’re his soothing balm: the perfect remedy.
With one last pathetic whimper of your name, Dunk shoves himself to the hilt, as deep as he can possibly go, as his orgasm flows through him. His teeth sink into the skin on your shoulder as his cock jerks, hot spurts flooding thick into your womb. You sigh softly into the cool early night air, reclining back against your husband as he empties himself inside you again, your pussy milking him for all it’s worth. Dunk groans into your shoulder, fever finally breaking, his cock giving one last jolt before it slowly starts to soften inside of you. The feeling nearly makes his eyes roll into the back of his head, relief filling him.
You stay like this for a little while. He presses silent, delicate kisses along your bare shoulder and onto your cheek, his hands rubbing over your breasts and belly, but not in a sexual way. His big, rough hands are calming as you both fizzle down from your highs.
Soon though, Dunk realises the forest around you has grown too dark. Wordlessly, he helps you to your feet, bundling you in his cloak before guiding you towards the fire. It is made, but unlit, but it’s roaring in mere minutes as Dunk—who has hurriedly thrown his breeches and trousers on—adds more fuel to the flickering orange flames.
Then, beneath the firelight, Dunk cleans you up. You sit on a stump before him as he dabs a wet cloth between your legs, wiping his seed from your core. He presses tender kisses to the inside of your knees, and soon you’re dressed, and the two of you snack on salt beef, cuddling beneath the stars.
“Maybe you should go back to that woman,” you say jokingly, turning your head to find Dunk already looking at you. His eyes reflect the fire. You smile. “I like it when you’re needy. I wonder if she has a long-lasting one?”
Dunk flushes, averting his eyes. “I don’t want to have to go through that again. As much as it felt great, my cock also felt about ready to break in half.”
You laugh, and Dunk resumes watching you carefully. After a moment, something lights up in his eyes, and he gets to his feet, still chewing a mouthful of salt beef, and retrieves his rope belt from where the horses graze nearby. When he returns, you lean your head against the pillowy muscle of his upper arm, peering at his big hands as he plucks a small pouch from the belt.
“I got you these,” your husband says shyly, handing you the bag.
You beam when you open it and see your favourite sweets. You incline your head and urge Dunk down to you, drawing his mouth into a sweet kiss.
“Thank you,” you tell him. “I love you.”
He smiles. “I love you more.”
Then, you laugh. “Oh, you poor boy. You went to the market to purchase some sweets, and instead you got poisoned—” you say that part sarcastically, “—by a little old lady. My poor, poor boy.”
You reach up and stroke his hair, watching with awe as his eyes fall closed and a deep purr leaves his chest. His arm wraps tighter around you, pulling you closer into his side.
He never wants to let you go.
———
god he’s so hot
describing his muscles as ‘pillowy’ really got to me i need to lie down
Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+.
Lyonel Baratheon x Wife!Reader
Masterlist
General Synopsis: Lyonel is horrified to discover what conditions his new wife comes from, and you are just as horrified to learn that things are not practiced in the world as they are within your father's House. A good wife is obedient, by correcting hands if need be. That is the philosophy you have been raised on since birth. A lady obeys. A lady agrees. A lady endures. Lyonel does not want you to endure, but some habits are so much harder break. (slow burn)
Word Count: 10.4k
General Content Warnings: lady doe is **touchstarved**. emotional repression. sexual repression. mentions of sex. emotional abuse (parental), child abuse (punishment), psychological conditioning, trauma responses, arranged marriage, anxiety, mention of first time intercourse, slow burn, angst, mention of restricted eating (as means of control, not an ed), masturbation (male receiving), description of male anatomy, horniness intensified, assisted female masturbation, thigh riding, Lyonel will talk you through it.
AN: We're seeing progressssssss. Thank you as always for the love on this! Now let's all simultaneously squeal.
Despair of a Doe Masterlist
Part Ten**
A week passes, marked not by any single moment of change, but by the accumulation of smaller ones—quiet, almost imperceptible shifts that settle into something steadier between you and Lyonel.
You do not avoid Lyonel after his assistance.
That absence of retreat, once so instinctive, now feels less like a conscious effort and more like something you have begun to outgrow. What happened between you remains present in your mind, but it no longer presses against you with urgency or confusion. It exists as something you can turn toward, examine, and then leave where it is without needing to resolve it all at once.
You do not pursue it further, but you do not shy away from it either. That difference, as subtle as it is, changes the shape of your days. The mornings are where it shows most clearly.
You still wake before Lyonel, your body accustomed to rising early, your awareness settling into the room before the light has fully taken hold. For a time, you lie there as you always have, listening to the quiet, orienting yourself to the day ahead. But now, there is a pause where there did not used to be one—a moment where your attention shifts, not toward duty, not toward what must be done next, but toward him.
Lyonel sleeps deeply, though not without subtle movement. In rest, there is a softness to him you have come to recognize, something unguarded in the way his expression settles when the weight of thought and responsibility no longer rests upon him. His mouth remains slightly parted, his brow unlined, his breathing steady beneath the covers as his chest rises and falls in an even rhythm.
You watch him with intention. It is not an idle habit, nor something you do to occupy your thoughts. It is a choice you allow yourself now, a quiet attention you no longer feel compelled to correct or diminish.
More often than not, you lean toward him.
At the start, there had been uncertainty in the motion, not born from fear but from the unfamiliarity of choosing it at all. That uncertainty has lessened. There is deliberateness in you now, a quiet decision carried through your body as your hand settles lightly against the mattress beside him, steadying yourself as you bend closer. Your lips meet his with care, not hurried, not withdrawn, but allowed to remain for a moment longer than you once would have permitted.
You do not pull away at once. You remain there just long enough to feel the contact settle, to allow it to exist without cutting it short.
He answers you every time.
Not fully awake, not yet aware in the way he is when his eyes are open, but something in him recognizes you all the same. His mouth follows yours as you begin to ease back, his breath shifting as though he would keep you there, as though even in sleep he resists the loss of it. A faint crease forms between his brows, a small, unguarded expression that carries a quiet, almost boyish displeasure.
You noticed it the first time, and you have not stopped noticing it since. It draws something from you each time you see it, something lighter, something you no longer try to press down or turn away from, choosing instead to remain with it as it settles gently within you.
His eyes open slowly, awareness settling into them in stages. When they find you, still close, still within reach, something changes in his expression—recognition first, and then something warmer that follows without hesitation.
“I must be dreaming,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with sleep, the words softened by the way he is still not entirely awake. His hand lifts, brushing lightly along your arm as though to confirm that you are real. “I could have sworn I felt your lips upon mine.”
You remain where you are, close enough that your breath mingles with his, your body no longer poised to retreat at the first sign of awareness.
“And if you did?” you ask, your voice quiet, steady, shaped more by curiosity than caution. A faint smile begins to form, slow and unguarded, the corners of his mouth lifting as something like amusement settles into him.
“Then I would count myself a fortunate man,” he murmurs, his voice still softened by sleep, his attention resting easily on you. “Though I cannot say I trust my memory just yet… not when your kisses are concerned.” A faint warmth touches his expression, something quietly pleased. “I’ve grown rather fond of them. I would prefer to know I truly had one, rather than spend the day wondering if I dreamt it.”
There is a lightness in him now, a gentle thread of teasing that does not press or demand, but simply invites. He offers the moment as something you may take or leave, never reaching to claim it for himself.
You feel that clearly, and it is what allows you to lean in again rather than turn away.
This time, you do not withdraw so quickly. You remain with it, letting the contact settle, letting yourself stay within it without cutting it short. He answers you more knowingly now that he is awake, his response steadier, though no less careful. He does not take more than you give, does not shape it into something larger than what you have chosen. He meets you exactly where you are, no further, no less, and in that restraint there is something that steadies you rather than unsettles.
When you ease back, his expression has shifted into something unmistakably pleased, a quiet satisfaction that sits easily on him.
“That settles it,” he says, his voice lower now, warmed by something that lingers beneath the words. “The dream was lacking.”
It is not only what he says, but how simply it comes, how easily he lets it rest between you without turning it into something heavier.
You do not rise at once.
That, too, has changed.
There is no immediate return to movement, no instinctive retreat into routine. You remain where you are for a moment longer, your attention still resting on him, your body at ease in a way that would have felt unfamiliar not long ago. When you do finally move, it is without haste, your motions unhurried as you begin your day.
The keep begins to adjust around you before you consciously mark the change. The servants, as ever, do not question your lateness, nor do they draw attention to it, but the shift reveals itself in quieter ways. Tasks have already been set in motion by the time you arrive, small decisions made in your absence, spaces filled where once everything had waited for your direction.
You see it as soon as you step into it. Their attention still turns to you, measured and expectant, waiting for correction, for instruction, for the quiet confirmation that what they have done will stand.
You do not move to correct it at once.
Instead, you take it in. You note what has been done, where it holds, where it falters, where it might be improved without undoing the effort already given. When you speak, it is not to reclaim every detail, but to guide what remains, to shape rather than replace.
The work continues without disruption. Nothing comes undone beneath your hand, nothing requires the kind of immediate correction you once would have imposed.
And in that, something within you loosens, not dramatically, not all at once, but enough for you to recognize it. The structure you have relied upon does not collapse in your brief absence. It steadies, adjusts, and carries forward.
There is space within it, and for the first time, you allow that space to exist without rushing to close it.
Lyonel notices the change in you in ways that have little to do with the keep itself. It is not in the structure of your duties or the timing of your day, but in the quieter ways you move within them. You enter a room without that same tight precision guiding every step, your attention no longer snapping immediately to what must be done next. There are moments now where you linger, where you allow yourself to simply be where you are, and he does not interrupt them. If anything, he seems inclined to leave them undisturbed.
At times, his attention settles on you a little longer than it once did, not with scrutiny, but with an ease that feels warmer, more curious than before. He watches the way you move through your day, the way your voice shifts when you are not carefully measuring every word, the pauses you now allow without rushing to fill them. You notice it, the way he looks at you, the way he lets those moments stretch, and instead of turning away, you remain where you are.
That, more than anything, feels new.
You allow yourself to be seen—not without awareness, not without that quiet steadiness that still belongs to you, but without the same instinct to withdraw. The space between you has changed because of it, shaped by small, chosen moments rather than expectation. It does not feel fragile. It does not feel like something that will collapse if handled incorrectly. It simply… holds.
Lyonel keeps his word in the way that seems most natural to him. He does not overwhelm you or turn his affection into something that must be anticipated. Instead, he folds it into your days with an ease that makes it feel almost inevitable. A hand at your waist as you pass him in the corridor, his mouth brushing your temple before he continues on as though nothing remarkable has occurred. At the table, his fingers skim your wrist, followed by a quick, warm kiss that is gone before anyone could take note of it. In the solar, he steps close under the pretense of speaking, leaving a quiet press of his lips at the corner of your mouth before resuming the conversation without pause.
There is a rhythm to it now.
Each moment is small, but never careless, and he seems to take a quiet sort of pleasure in them. It shows in the way his mouth curves afterward, in the way his eyes linger just a fraction longer, watching for your response without pressing for it. There is something lighter in him, something that settles easily rather than holding itself in check.
You notice that as much as the kisses themselves.
The first time that feeling rose in you, it had caught you off guard, bright and unfamiliar in a way that made you unsure how to hold it. You had not known what to do with something that did not come with instruction, something that did not require correction.
Now, it returns in a way you recognize. It lifts rather than presses, settling through you with a warmth that feels… welcome. When he catches you unaware, when his lips find yours without warning, when his hand steadies briefly at your side, you feel it clearly, something light and alive that does not demand anything of you.
You do not turn from it.
You let it stay.
He sees that in you. He sees it in the way your posture no longer stiffens, in the way your attention lingers on him for just a moment longer. Most of all, he sees it in the faint change in your expression, in the small movement at the corner of your mouth that you do not immediately hide.
A smile begins there, hesitant, as though testing whether it is allowed to remain.
Lyonel notices it every time.
He does not call it out or make it something to be examined. He simply meets it with something softer of his own, a warmth that settles into his expression as he lingers near you just a little longer than necessary.
His hand remains at your side for a moment more before he lets it fall away, and there is something in that quiet patience of his that makes it clear—he is in no hurry for anything more than this.
You are nearly floating by the time you reach the solar.
There is no other way to describe it—not the measured pace you usually keep, not the quiet precision of your steps, but something lighter, quicker, as though your body has not yet caught up to the excitement that has taken hold of you. The letters are clutched in your hand, carefully, but without the same restraint you normally carry, their presence impossible to ignore.
Lyonel looks up the moment you enter.
He has already begun his meal, cup in hand, but whatever he had been thinking about leaves him immediately as his attention settles on you. He sees it at once—the energy in your movement, the brightness you are no longer trying to temper, the letters held like something of value rather than obligation.
You do not pause.
You round the table without hesitation, leaning in as you pass him, your lips brushing his temple in a quick, unguarded press. It is done with the same ease you have begun to carry in the mornings, though there is something lighter threaded through it now, something almost playful in its delivery.
Lyonel stills for half a heartbeat, caught off guard just enough for it to show before something like quiet satisfaction settles into him.
When you pull back, he turns his head slightly to follow you, his brow lifting as his gaze drops to your hands.
“Them again?” he asks, though there is no real question in it. His voice carries a note of interest that sharpens immediately. “A response already?”
You are already moving to sit, the chair shifting softly beneath you as you settle in, the letters placed before you with a care that does not diminish your eagerness.
“Yes,” you say, and there is no hiding it now, no attempt to soften the excitement that touches your voice. “They wrote back.”
Lyonel’s attention settles on you the moment you begin to break the seal, not solely on the letters themselves, but on the way you handle them. Your fingers move with a touch more haste than usual, your focus narrowing not out of discipline, but anticipation, and he notices the difference immediately.
He sets his cup aside and reaches for the pitcher, pouring wine into your cup without being asked. The motion is easy, practiced, something done without thought, though his gaze continues to return to you as you unfold the parchment. He does not interrupt or press you to speak, yet his patience carries a quiet expectation that makes it clear he intends to hear whatever is written.
That expectation settles between you without weight, shaped more by interest than demand.
When you glance up, smoothing the letter open between your hands, you find him already settled back slightly in his chair, his attention fixed on you in a way that feels both relaxed and entirely engaged.
“You are waiting,” you observe, your tone quiet but certain. His mouth curves in response, something faintly amused warming his expression.
“I am,” he admits easily. “It would be a cruel thing to keep such correspondence to yourself after arriving in such a state.”
You hold his eyes for a moment, something lighter stirring in you at his tone, at the lack of formality in it, the quiet expectation that you will include him rather than stand apart.
You smooth the first letter open, your fingers more deliberate now that Lyonel’s attention has settled so fully on you. You can feel it without looking—the quiet focus, the patience that is not patience at all but anticipation dressed as restraint.
You glance up once, catching the way he has angled slightly toward you, his cup forgotten in his hand.
“You are not even pretending disinterest,” you remark.
“I wouldn’t insult you by lying poorly,” he replies, entirely unbothered. “Go on.” He wiggled his fingers in a gesture to match, though it is entirely playful. There is something in that—something easy—that settles in you as you lower your eyes back to the page.
You begin.
“Lady Baratheon,” you read, your voice finding its rhythm quickly, “I had intended to wait before replying, if only to preserve some illusion of composure, but I find I have never been particularly skilled at denying myself interesting company.” Lyonel exhales through his nose, something amused slipping through.
“That one is Wylde,” he says with a quick up and down of his brow.
You glance up, mildly surprised. “You are certain?”
“The woman is trouble incarnate, so says her husband.” Your lips tilt before you can stop them, the expression brief but real as you look back down.
“She continues,” you say, allowing that faint warmth to remain in your tone, “and assures me that if I had delayed any longer, she might have been forced to write again simply to ensure I had not retreated back into whatever orderly silence she suspects I prefer.”
“That sounds accurate,” Lyonel murmurs, though there is no bite in it. You continue, your voice steady but lighter now. Your eyes move further down the page, and your expression shifts as you reach the next portion.
“She writes that a formal invitation will follow shortly,” you continue, your tone taking on a faint edge of her voice now, “though she claims she refuses to wait for parchment and ceremony to do what can be accomplished with a far more interesting letter. She insists I consider this my warning, as she fully intends to have me there and would rather I not feign surprise when the summons arrives.”
Lyonel huffs softly at that, something approving in the sound.
“She says a tourney will be held in honor of her son’s tenth name day,” you go on, your brow lifting just slightly as you read, “and that while it is not meant to be a grand affair, she suspects I have already endured enough dull ones to appreciate something with a bit more life in it.” You pause briefly with a hum, then continue, the curiosity threading more clearly through your voice now.
“She adds—quite confidently—that she has it on good authority that my lord husband not only tolerates such spectacles, but excels in them, and that it would be a shame to deny her household the opportunity to witness it firsthand.”
You stop there, not because the letter has ended, but because your attention has already shifted. Your eyes lift to him, the question forming before you can shape it into something more measured.
“You joust?” you ask.
It sounds almost improbable when spoken, the image refusing to settle neatly against what you know of him—the steadiness, the restraint, the quiet deliberation that defines the way he moves through the world.
Lyonel looks back at you and takes in every part of it, the disbelief you have not tried to hide, the way you study him as though expecting him to dismiss it or temper it into something more familiar.
He does neither.
Instead, he smiles.
Not the easy warmth he offers you in the mornings, not the quiet amusement he carries in your shared moments, but something with an edge to it, something that speaks to a part of him you have not yet been allowed to see. There is confidence there, unmistakable, and something held just behind it that he does not fully reveal.
“There are many things we are still learning of each other,” he says, the words light, though his gaze remains steady on yours. The grin that follows carries that same withheld depth, as though he knows exactly how much this unsettles your understanding of him.
You study him, the pieces shifting, trying to reconcile what you are hearing with what you have known.
“You are serious,” you say.
“I am.” There is no embellishment in it. No attempt to make it smaller.
“I have competed for many years,” he continues, more plainly now. “Long enough that most know what to expect when I enter the lists.” The implication settles.
You take it in.
“You enjoy it,” you say, quieter now, though no less certain His expression does not change.
“I do.” The admission is simple..
There is something in it that does not match the man who has been so careful with you, so measured in every interaction, so deliberate in how he moves around you. And yet it does not feel like contradiction.
It feels like expansion—another truth, placed beside the others. You look at him a moment longer, your thoughts turning around something you are only beginning to understand.
“If our schedules permit,” he says after a moment, his tone easing again, though the awareness remains, “and if you would like to attend, I would be more than willing to accept the invitation.”
Not for himself.
For you.
You feel that clearly.
You hold the letter a moment longer, your thumb resting along the edge of the parchment as another thought surfaces—quieter than your earlier questions, but no less present.
“Is Lady Wylde’s home very far from Storm’s End?” you ask, your tone thoughtful, your curiosity coming more easily now than it once did. You know the houses and where they lie, but distance in a practical sense is something you have not had cause to measure before, and it leaves you uncertain in a way that feels unfamiliar.
Lyonel watches you as you ask it, approval settling in his expression at the question itself.
“Rain House is not so far as to be burdensome,” he says. “Half a day’s journey across the bay, if the tides are in our favor. A carriage would take nearer four, winding the long way around.”
You consider that, your mind already shifting to what that would mean—not just distance, but the manner of reaching it.
“We would take a ship?” you ask, the words carrying something new—uncertainty, yes, but also a quiet intrigue that you do not try to hide.
He nods once. “Aye. Faster, and far more direct.”
You have never been on a ship.
The realization settles with more weight than it should. You have seen the ocean from a distance, glimpsed it beyond stone and cliff, but never stepped onto it, never trusted yourself to something that moves with no regard for solid ground.
“I have never…” You stop briefly, then continue more plainly. “I have never been on a ship.”
Lyonel’s mouth curves faintly, not amused, but pleased by the admission. “Then you would have that as well.”
As well.
Another first.
Your thoughts drift, unbidden, to something he had mentioned weeks ago—campaigns at sea, spoken in passing when you were still new to these halls, still listening more than you spoke. At the time, you had only registered the disorder surrounding the man he had defended, your attention fixed on what was improper, what required correction.
You had not considered what it meant.
Now, you do.
The image forms slowly—Lyonel not as he is here, steady within stone walls, but out upon open water, where nothing is held in place, where control is something earned rather than assumed.
You do not ask.
Not yet.
You keep the thought, turning it over quietly, something to return to when the moment feels right. Instead, your attention settles back on what lies ahead.
“I have also never been to a tourney,” you say, the words coming without hesitation.
Then you pause. Your thoughts shift slightly as something else surfaces—something you have never needed to articulate before.
“I have not…traveled much,” you add, more slowly now. “Not beyond what was required. Before coming here, I had not left my family’s lands.” You glance down briefly at the letter, then back at him. “This would be…” You search for the word, not quite finding it at first. “Different.”
Lyonel watches you closely as you say it, something in his expression softening, though it does not lose that quiet intensity that has settled there.
“Aye,” he says. “It would.” There is no pressure in it. No expectation.
You feel it settle between you, alongside everything else—alongside the letters, alongside the conversation, alongside this new understanding of him that does not yet fully take shape in your mind. And as you look at him, still trying to reconcile the man before you with the one he has just described—you realize you want to see it.
Not the spectacle alone, but him within it.
“I do think I would like to attend,” you tell him.
The words come without being forced into certainty. There is interest in them, clear and present, but also an awareness of what you are stepping toward that you do not try to smooth away. A new place, unfamiliar company, a setting you have never experienced—none of it is small, and you allow that to remain as part of the truth. Lyonel watches you as you say it, his attention steady, taking in the admission without interruption.
Then the thought reaches you fully, and you speak it as it forms. “You are knighted.”
It is not quite a question. More realization than inquiry, your mind catching up to what should have been obvious.
“I am,” he says with a nod. There is no embellishment in it. The simplicity sharpens your understanding rather than softening it. You look at him more closely now, your attention no longer skimming what you know, but settling into it with intent.
“When?” you ask, interest shining in your eyes. “When were you knighted?”
“At six-and-ten,” he answers with a small grin.
Your brows lift slightly. “That is…early, is it not?”
“For some,” he says with a casual shrug. “Not unheard of.” You consider that, then continue, the curiosity building rather than retreating.
“And who knighted you?”
“My uncle,” he replies, sipping from his cup thoughtfully at the memory. “After my first proper showing in the lists. Nightsong, if I recall.” You take that in, your thoughts turning more vividly now, filling in what had only been outline before.
“You must have been very good,” you say, not as flattery, but as simple deduction. His mouth shifts, not quite a smile, but something that acknowledges the truth of it without pressing.
“I held my own,” he says.
“That is not the same thing,” you return, your tone quieter but certain. “Not if you were knighted for it.” That earns something from him—a faint curve at the corner of his mouth, something warmer, more present.
You look at him a moment longer, and the image comes unbidden this time, not something you resist or try to reshape. Armor catching the light. The weight of it carried easily. Movement that is not restrained, but purposeful.
“I think…” You pause briefly, not from uncertainty, but from choosing how to say it without diminishing it. “I think you must look very striking in armor.” The words settle between you and you do not attempt to take them back. “Like something out of a story,” you add, quieter now, though no less sincere. “The ones I was in the quiet of night.”
Lyonel stills. Not outwardly. Not in a way that draws attention, but something in him reacts all the same.
There is a shift in his posture, subtle but unmistakable, as though something has been struck cleanly through. The part of him that has remained carefully contained—the part that has not yet had reason to present itself to you—stirs at the edges, awakened by the way you look at him now.
By the way you see him.
“Oh,” he says, and there is something lighter in it, something that carries just a hint of satisfaction he does not entirely disguise. “Is that so?” You nod faintly, still studying him.
“Yes,” you answer, without hesitation or adornment. “You are already very handsome. I imagine the armor would only make it… rather unfair to anyone meant to keep their attention elsewhere.”
He exhales through his nose, a quiet breath that does little to hide the shift that follows. There is a trace of something boyish in it now, something pleased in a way that sits just beneath his usual composure.
“If that is the case,” he says, his voice easing into something more relaxed, though the awareness remains, “then I suppose it would be a shame not to let you see it for yourself.” The implication settles easily.
You hold his eyes, the idea taking shape more fully now—not just the tourney, not just the travel, but him within it. Not the man you have come to know in quiet rooms and measured conversations, but the one who moves without that restraint, who meets force with force and calls it sport.
It does not feel distant anymore.
It feels… possible.
And as you look at him, something in your chest lifts—not sharp, not overwhelming, but bright in a way you are no longer trying to contain.
“I would like to see it,” you say. The words are soft, certain, and Lyonel believes you.
You hold his gaze for a moment longer after saying it, the image of him in armor still forming in your mind, settling into something that no longer feels distant or unreal. Then your attention shifts back to the letter in your hands, your fingers smoothing the parchment as though returning to something you had momentarily set aside rather than forgotten.
“There is more,” you say, glancing up briefly.
Lyonel leans back slightly in his chair, though his focus does not leave you. “I should hope so. I would hate to think that was all she had to offer.” There is a quiet thread of amusement in his voice now, one you are beginning to recognize.
You lower your eyes to the page again and continue.
“She writes,” you say, your tone settling back into the cadence of the letter, “that I am not to trouble myself over whether the day’s events will be lively enough, as she has already taken it upon herself to ensure they will be—and that if I find myself bored at any point, I am to inform her immediately so she may remedy it at once.”
Lyonel’s reaction is immediate. The sound of his laughter rises before he can temper it, fuller than anything he has allowed in your presence before, unrestrained in a way that draws attention even in the quiet of the room. He leans back slightly as it leaves him, one hand coming up briefly as though to steady himself against it, though the amusement lingers easily in his expression.
“She sounds determined,” he says once it settles, the warmth of it still present in his voice. “I almost pity anyone who attempts to keep pace with her.”
“She also warns that if I attempt to behave too properly, she will make it her personal task to ensure I do not remain so for long,” you add, the faintest hint of something lighter threading through your voice as you read.
“Gods help you,” he murmurs, though there is no real warning in it. You glance up at him briefly, then return to the letter.
“She says I am not to refuse the invitation under any polite pretense, as she will not accept it, and that she has already written to others with the expectation that I will be in attendance.” You pause slightly, then continue, “She seems very certain of this.”
“She is a headstrong woman,” Lyonel replies. Your lips press together faintly, not quite restraining a smile this time, but acknowledging the shape of one as it lingers.
“There is one last line,” you say, your voice softening just slightly as your eyes move to the end of the page. “She writes that she looks forward to seeing whether I am as composed in person as I pretend to be, or if she was correct in thinking there is something more… interesting beneath it.” The words settle between you. You do not immediately look up.
You let them sit.
Then you fold the letter carefully, more slowly than before, your fingers deliberate as you crease the parchment along its original lines.
When you lift your eyes, Lyonel is already watching you.
Not the letter.
You.
“Well?” he asks, his tone quieter now, though no less attentive. “Is she right?” You consider the question, not brushing it aside, not answering too quickly.
“I think she may be,” you say. The admission is calm, nothing hidden between the words. Something in Lyonel’s expression shifts at that, something that does not surprise you anymore, but still holds your attention all the same.
“Good,” he says with a nod.
Simple.
Certain.
You find, as the word settles, that you agree.
You set Lady Wylde’s letter aside with care, your fingers smoothing the fold once more before placing it near the edge of the table. For a moment, your attention lingers there—not on the words themselves, but on the feeling they left behind. Lively. Certain. Demanding in a way that does not press, but pulls.
Then your hand moves to the second letter.
The seal is different. Simpler. More restrained. You turn it once between your fingers before breaking it, your movements quieter now, more measured—not from hesitation, but from the shift you already expect.
Lyonel watches you as you open it.
“This one,” he says, “will not threaten you with a good time.”
You glance at Lyonel, something faintly amused touching your expression. “No,” you agree. “I do not think she will.”
The parchment opens.
Your eyes move across the first lines, and your posture changes—not tightening, not withdrawing, but settling into something more still.
You begin.
You turn to the second letter, your fingers more deliberate now as you break the seal, no longer rushed by anticipation but settled into something steadier. The parchment unfolds with ease beneath your hands, and when you begin, your voice carries that same quiet clarity.
“Lady Baratheon,” you read, softer than before but no less assured, “I trust this letter finds you well and not yet entirely consumed by the duties of your new home, though I suspect you have already brought half of it into order whether it wished it or not.”
A faint shift touches Lyonel’s expression at that, something amused, though he does not interrupt.
“I have given some thought to our last conversation,” you continue, your tone easing into the cadence of her words, “and concluded that it was cut far shorter than it ought to have been. That is a fault I intend to remedy, should you be willing to indulge me.”
Your eyes move steadily across the page, the rhythm of it coming more naturally now.
“It is not often I find company I would choose again without hesitation, and I have learned not to ignore such instincts when they present themselves.” There is a subtle weight to the phrasing, though it is not heavy—more certain than anything else.
Lyonel shifts slightly, his attention settling more fully on you, though he remains quiet.
“I hope Storm’s End has begun to settle around you in a way that feels less like endurance and more like belonging,” you read. “Though if it has not, I would not think it a failing on your part. Some places require time before they reveal themselves properly, and some people take even longer.”
You pause only briefly before continuing.
“If you find yourself inclined to write, I would welcome it without hesitation. I suspect our correspondence would prove far more engaging than the majority of what crosses my table, which I assure you is no small endorsement.”
The corner of your mouth shifts faintly at that before you finish.
“And should circumstance allow us to meet again, I would consider it a fortunate turn of events rather than coincidence.”
The words settle more quietly than Lady Wylde’s had, but they linger. Lyonel says nothing this time. He only listens.
You continue, your voice steady, though something more thoughtful has entered it now.
“I would be honored if you would consider visiting, though I will not presume upon your time or obligations. If it suits you, you would be most welcome. If not, I would still be glad of your letters.”
Your fingers shift slightly against the parchment, grounding as you move further down.
“She writes that she remembers the way you spoke,” Lyonel says, not interrupting, but observing.
You glance at him briefly, then back to the page. “She writes that she remembers the way I listened,” you correct. That earns a small breath from him—something thoughtful, not quite a laugh.
You continue.
“There is a steadiness in you,” you read, your voice lowering slightly, though it remains even. “Not coldness, as some might mistake it, but something chosen. I would like to understand it better, if you would permit it.”
The words linger in a different way than the rest, not drawing attention to themselves, but settling with a quiet persistence that does not fade as quickly.
You continue to the end of the letter with less urgency than before, your voice softening as the final lines pass, allowing them to rest rather than carrying them forward.
“I hope to hear from you, in whatever way you find most natural. There is no expectation attached to it—only interest.”
You lower the parchment slowly. For a moment, you do not fold it. You simply hold it.
The room is quiet, but not empty. The difference between the two letters sits clearly between you—one lively and insistent, the other measured and open, each reaching for you in its own way.
Lyonel watches you as the last of the words leave your mouth, his attention settling more fully now, quieter than it had been before.
“Well?” he asks.
You do not answer at once. You take a moment with it, letting the letter rest in your hands, your fingers tracing lightly along its edge as you consider what to say.
“They are very different,” you reply.
“They are,” he agrees easily.
Your eyes drop briefly to the parchment again, not out of avoidance, but thought, your touch stilling against it as you weigh what remains.
“But I liked this one as well,” you add.
You do not elaborate. You do not feel the need to. It is there in the way you hold it, in the care with which you have not yet set it aside.
Lyonel notices.
“They chose you well,” he says. You lift your head at that, your expression shifting slightly, not confused, but thoughtful, as though turning the phrasing over before accepting it.
“I do not think I was chosen,” you reply after a moment.
“No?” he asks. You shake your head, small but certain.
“I think I was seen.” The words settle between you, quiet but distinct, and you remain with them this time, allowing them to exist without softening or stepping away.
You sit with Lady Estermont’s letter a moment longer, your fingers resting lightly along the fold before you set it beside the first. The two parchments lie near each other, their presence distinct even in stillness—one lively and insistent, the other quiet and deliberate.
Your attention does not remain on them for long. It returns to him, born out of something that has begun to take root more steadily than you yet know how to name.
You look at Lyonel, and the thought that had been forming at the edges of your mind presses forward, no longer content to be left unspoken.
“What is it like?” you ask.
He tilts his head slightly. “The tourney?”
“Yes.”
The answer comes without hesitation. Your curiosity does not feel like something you need to restrain, not now, not with him watching you in that attentive, open way that does not make you feel as though you must measure each word before it leaves you.
“What happens,” you continue, more specific now, your thoughts moving as you speak them, “beyond the lists themselves? You said there is more than just the joust.”
Lyonel leans back slightly, one arm resting along the side of his chair as he considers where to begin.
“There’s always more,” he says. “Even at a smaller gathering.” You shift subtly in your seat, your body angling toward him without conscious thought, your focus fixed.
“There’s usually archery. There are melees,” he continues. “Groups of knights set against one another. Less structured than a joust. More…chaotic.” You try to picture it.
“Do they fight as they would in battle?” you ask.
“Not quite,” he replies. “There are rules. Limits. But it’s closer to it than the lists are. Less about precision. More about endurance, positioning, knowing when to press and when to hold.”
Your brow draws faintly, not in confusion, but in concentration.
“And people watch this?”
“Aye.”
“All of it?”
“All of it.” You absorb that, your mind turning over the idea of it—of people gathered not for duty or ceremony, but for spectacle. For skill. For something that exists outside of structure.
“And the joust?” you ask. “Is it as…violent as it sounds?” Lyonel’s mouth curves slightly, something knowing in it.
“It can be.” You hold his gaze, waiting. “There’s more control to it,” he explains. “Two riders. One pass at a time. You aim for the shield, break the lance if you can. Points are awarded for clean strikes. Unhorsing a man ends it quickly.”
“And you have done that,” you say. It is not a question. He watches you for a moment before answering.
“I have.” There is no embellishment. No attempt to make it more or less than it is. You study him again, the image sharpening now—not imagined, not distant, but grounded in something real.
“And the people?” you ask after a moment. “The spectators.”
“They come for different reasons,” he says. “Some for the sport. Some for the pageantry. Some for the chance to be seen. It’s as much a gathering as it is a contest.” Your fingers move faintly against the table, not restless, just engaged.
“And the ladies?” you ask. “What do they do?”
“They watch,” he says. “They place favors. They judge, in their own way.”
You pause.
“Favors,” you repeat.
“A token,” he explains. “Something given to a knight to wear in the lists for luck.” Your gaze shifts slightly, thoughtful.
“And it means something?”
“It can.” The answer is careful. You notice that. Your eyes return to him, more focused now.
“Would you wear one?” you ask. Lyonel does not answer immediately. He studies you instead, the question settling between you with more weight than the others.
“If it were given,” he says finally, “I would.”
You hold that, not pushing further.
Not yet.
Your curiosity does not fade—it grows, but not in a way that overwhelms you. It stretches outward, reaching for more, for understanding, for the shape of something you have never been allowed to consider before.
“And the rest of it?” you ask, quieter now. “The feeling of it.” He exhales softly, his gaze shifting briefly before returning to you.
“It’s loud,” he says honestly. “Not just in sound. In presence. There’s energy in it. Anticipation. You can feel when a match is about to turn, when something is about to happen before it does.”
You listen closely.
“And when you ride?” you ask.
Lyonel’s expression changes then, not dramatically, but enough that you see it—the shift into something more focused, something that does not belong to quiet rooms and measured conversation.
“It narrows,” he says. “Everything else falls away. There’s only the line, the target, the timing of it. You don’t think beyond that. You don’t have time to.”
You try to imagine it. “And when it ends?” He looks at you again, more directly.
“You either walk away,” he says, “or you don’t.” The words are simple. You take them in without flinching, without retreating from what they imply.
Your curiosity does not shrink, but it steadies enough that you are able to make a decision.
“I want to see it,” you say. Not just the spectacle. Not just the gathering.
Him.
Lyonel watches you, something in his expression settling into quiet certainty as he takes in the way you say it—not as passing interest, not as polite agreement, but as something chosen.
“Aye,” he says.
And this time—it feels like a promise.
The moment does not linger long once the meal has settled into its natural end. There is no abruptness to it, no sharp return to duty, only a quiet shift as the rhythm of the day resumes around you.
Lyonel rises first.
You follow a breath later, your chair moving softly against the floor as you stand. The conversation still rests between you, not finished so much as carried forward, something that does not need to be concluded to remain present.
He pauses beside you before stepping away briefly.
You do not expect it—not fully, not yet—but you do not pull back when his hand comes to yours, his fingers closing around it with a steady, familiar warmth. The contact is brief, but deliberate, grounding in a way that no longer startles you.
Then he leans in.
The kiss to your forehead is soft, unhurried, placed with an ease that feels practiced now—not out of habit, but out of choice repeated enough times to become something natural between you.
“There’s a council session this afternoon,” he says as he draws back, his voice quieter, though no less certain. “I’ll, regrettably, be tied up for some time.” You nod faintly, your hand still in his for a moment longer before he releases it.
“I have duties of my own,” you reply. There is no reluctance in it. No attempt to linger beyond what is needed. “I may also tend to the library.”
“A wonderful idea.” Lyonel gives your hand a final, gentle squeeze before stepping away, the contact leaving behind a trace of warmth that lingers longer than it should.
“I’ll see you this evening,” he promises as he heads towards the door.
You part from Lyonel without hesitation, your steps measured as you move back into the corridors of the keep, the structure of the day settling around you once more. Servants fall into step where needed, awaiting direction, the familiar pattern of responsibility returning as though it had never been interrupted.
It does not feel the same.
Your thoughts do not return to your duties as easily as they should. They linger, circling with quiet persistence, drawn not to the meal or even the letters, but to him—to what you have learned, and to what still remains unseen.
A favor.
The word settles with new clarity, no longer a passing mention or an abstract custom. You understand it now in a way you had not before—its weight, its meaning, the quiet significance it carries, and the shape it might take once placed in your hands.
Your fingers shift faintly at your sides as you walk, not with restlessness, but with consideration.
You do not picture the lists themselves. Not yet.
It is him your mind returns to.
Mounted. Armored. Bearing something given.
Given by you.
The thought does not trouble you. It does not send you searching for reasons to diminish it or fold it into something easier to dismiss. It settles instead, steady and assured, as though it belongs, and with it comes something quieter. Something more deliberate.
You know what you will make. Not in passing. Not as a vague intention, but with certainty.
The shape of it forms in your mind with a certainty that feels different from your usual decisions—less about obligation, more about intention. Something chosen, not assigned.
You continue through the keep, your attention beginning to return to your duties as it must, your voice steady as you give instruction, your presence as composed as it has always been.
Beneath it, something has changed in a way you cannot ignore. You carry it with you now, not as something to restrain or keep carefully contained, but as something taking shape under your hands, something you are beginning, slowly and with intention, to create.
By the time you return to the bedchamber, night has fully settled over the keep. The corridors have quieted, the last of the day’s movement faded into something distant, leaving the chamber wrapped in a softer stillness.
The candelabra casts a contained circle of light across the desk, illuminating the parchment beneath your hand and the careful movement of your quill. The rest of the room remains dim, shadows gathered in the corners, the bed only partially touched by the glow.
You do not rush.
Each line is written with intention, your thoughts shaped as you go rather than forced into place beforehand. Lady Wylde’s letter lies nearly finished to your right, the tone of it lively, assured. Lady Estermont’s rests open before you, your words quieter there, more measured, but no less deliberate.
You hear the door open.
You do not startle.
The sound registers, settles, and you finish the word you are writing before lifting the quill from the page. Only then do you look up.
Lyonel stands just inside the room, the door closing softly behind him. His gaze finds you immediately, and he pauses there for a moment, taking in the sight of you seated at his desk, the candlelight catching along your face, your hands, the parchment before you.
He does not interrupt.
Not at once.
“My lord,” you say, your voice even, though it carries less distance than it once did. “You are returned.”
“I am,” he answers. He steps further into the room, his attention shifting briefly to the letters before returning to you.
“You’ve taken to it,” he says, nodding faintly toward the desk.
“I needed the space,” you reply. “It serves well enough.” There is no apology in it, no hesitation, and he accepts it just as easily.
“And the letters?” he asks. You glance down at them, your fingers resting lightly along the edge of the parchment.
“They are answered,” you say. “I will send them on the morrow.”
“You’ve decided, then.”
“Yes.” The word is simple, but it holds its ground. Our schedules align and finances for the season permit.”
You lower your gaze again, finishing the last line of Estermont’s letter, your hand steady as you complete it. The ink gleams briefly in the candlelight before settling into the page. You set the quill aside and read over what you’ve written, not searching for errors, but ensuring it says what you intend.
Behind you, Lyonel moves closer. Not enough to crowd you, close enough that his presence becomes more immediate, the quiet of it felt rather than imposed. He looks down at the letters, though he does not read them.
“You sound certain,” he says. You fold the parchment carefully, aligning the edges with deliberate precision.
“I am.” You do not elaborate. You do not need to.
He studies you for a moment longer, something thoughtful passing through his expression, something that has become more familiar to you in recent days—his attention not as something to brace against, but something that settles.
“You’ve had a full day,” he says.
“I have.”
“And still chose to sit with this.” You lift your eyes to him again.
“Yes.” There is something quieter in the answer. “I looked forward to responding.” Something that does not come from duty. He seems to recognize it, though he does not name it.
You set the folded letters aside, your hands resting briefly against the desk before you push back your chair and stand. The movement is unhurried, the moment not broken, only shifting.
For a brief second, your gaze lingers on the surface of the desk—the candlelight, the parchment, the space you have used as your own.
Tucked carefully where it cannot be disturbed before its time.
When your attention lifts again, it is to him.
“I trust your council session was productive,” you say, the words returning you both to something steadier, more familiar.
Lyonel watches you, something unreadable flickering briefly before settling.
“It was,” he replies.
And though the conversation moves forward from there—something remains unsaid and entirely yours.
Conversation comes just as naturally as you move through the familiar motions of the evening, your voices carrying softly between the spaces of the room. You speak from behind the partition, your hands working at the ties of your gown, while Lyonel answers from the other side as he sheds the weight of his day without ceremony.
There is no strain in it. No careful searching for what should be said.
You ask him something small—about the council, about whether the dispute was resolved—and he answers in kind, the details given plainly, without turning it into something burdensome. He asks after your day in return, and you answer just as simply, not deflecting, not reducing it to something impersonal.
It flows easily.
By the time you step out from behind the ornate screen, he is already in bed, the covers drawn back, his posture relaxed in a way that would have once felt distant to you.
It does not now.
You cross the room without pause, placing your clothes neatly where they will be collected in the morning, your movements as precise as they have always been—only now without the same rigid edge that once defined them.
Then you turn back and climb into bed, the motion unhesitating, unbroken by doubt. Not tonight.
You settle beneath the covers, aware of him beside you, of the warmth that lingers even in the narrow space still separating you. It is smaller than it once was—noticeably so. You have been aware of it. He has too. Each night, without ever speaking of it, the distance has lessened in quiet increments—a shift of your body, a subtle adjustment that could pass as unconscious if examined too closely, and yet it has never been without intention.
Tonight, you do not hold yourself at that careful edge.
You move closer until there is nothing left to measure, your side aligned with his, his warmth immediate rather than something just out of reach. There is no pretense in it, no room to claim it as accidental or unconsidered.
You choose it.
Lyonel feels it the moment it happens. A brief stillness settles through him—not retreat, not uncertainty, but recognition. He understands what you have done, and more than that, he understands that you have done it without prompting, without waiting for him to bridge that final space himself.
His arm lifts, slow and deliberate, never presumptuous. An offering. It is familiar now, though no less intentional for that familiarity.
You do not hesitate.
You move into it as though it is something already known to you, your body fitting beneath the curve of his arm with a quiet certainty that would have been unthinkable not long ago. Your head settles near his shoulder, your warmth aligning with his fully now, no barrier left between you.
It is not something you have done before, not in this way, and yet you do not falter in it. There is no tension in your body, no instinct to brace or second-guess. You simply settle into it, as though the motion had always belonged to you.
Lyonel exhales softly above you, the sound subtle but carrying something deeper beneath it. His arm comes to rest more fully around you, not tightening, not claiming, but holding you in a way that matches the ease you have chosen.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then, quietly, he says, “You stayed.”
You shift slightly against him, not pulling away, only adjusting so your cheek rests more comfortably near his collarbone.
“I did,” you answer. There is no weight in it. His hand moves faintly along your side, a slow, absent motion that feels less like intention and more like something he cannot quite help.
“I had thought,” he continues, his voice lower now, closer to you, “that you might take longer to come to this.” You consider that, your fingers resting lightly against him, not gripping, not retreating.
“So did I,” you admit. That draws the faintest breath from him, something that might have been quiet amusement, though it does not carry far.
“And yet,” he says.
“And yet,” you echo, softer. The words settle between you, not needing further explanation.
You remain like that, the conversation continuing in small, unforced pieces—nothing heavy, nothing that demands too much. He tells you, almost idly, that the council will likely drag on into the next few days, that the land dispute is more stubborn than either side wishes to admit. You listen, asking a question here and there, not out of obligation, but because you want to understand the shape of his days as much as he has begun to understand yours.
“And you will sit through all of it,” you say.
“I will.”
“And not grow tired of it?”
“I will grow tired,” he corrects. “I simply won’t leave.” That earns the faintest shift in you, something that lingers at the corner of your mouth before settling.
“I think I understand that,” you say. His hand stills briefly against you, as though taking that in more fully than the words alone suggest.
“Do you?” he asks.
“Yes.” You do not elaborate—you do not need to. The quiet returns, but it is no longer something that sits between you as distance. It rests around you instead, something shared rather than endured.
After a moment, your fingers shift lightly against his chest, your thoughts turning to something you had not asked—something that had lingered quietly since the first time you had witnessed it.
“There was a woman,” you say, your voice softer now, more thoughtful. “At the docks—the one who came before you during the petitions. She was searching for her son.” The memory settles more clearly as you speak it, no longer distant, no longer something half-formed. “You questioned her,” you continue, your brow drawing faintly in recollection. “She had not seen him since the morning previous.”
Your gaze lowers briefly, not in avoidance, but in thought.
“I should have asked about it sooner,” you admit, the words honest but not weighed down. “I prayed for him. And for her.” Then, lifting your eyes back to him, you ask, quieter still, “Was he found?”
Lyonel is quiet for a moment as he thought back.
“They found him,” he says at last. Your breath eases before you can stop it, a small release that does not go unnoticed.
“Alive,” Lyonel adds. Your fingers still faintly against him. “Cold,” he continues, more quietly now. “Frightened. He had hidden himself among the crates after losing his way. It took time to find him, but he was not harmed.”
You close your eyes briefly in relief.
“And his mother?” you ask.
“With him,” Lyonel says. “Very quickly after.” You nod faintly, the motion small against him.
“I am most glad to hear it,” you say genuinely. The words are simple, but they carry. Lyonel’s hand resumes its quiet movement along your side, slower now, more deliberate in its calm.
Lyonel is quiet for a moment after your words settle, his hand continuing its slow, grounding path along your side. Then, more gently than before, he says, “You are still welcome to sit in on the petitions. Any day you wish.”
You tilt your head slightly against him, considering it.
“The invitation does not expire,” he adds. “You need only come when you wish to sit in and advise. Your council would be appreciated.”
You take a breath, not sharp, not uncertain—just thoughtful. The memory of that first session comes back to you more clearly now. The weight of it. The rawness of it. The way each voice carried something different, something urgent in a way that did not exist in your own life.
“I would like to return,” you say. The words are quiet, but they hold. Lyonel hums softly in acknowledgment, not surprised, not pressing further.
“They matter,” you continue after a moment, your voice more contemplative now. “Their concerns. Even the smallest of them.” Your fingers shift lightly against him. “They do not feel small to them.”
“No,” he agrees. “They don’t.”
You let that sit, turning it over not as something to solve, but something to understand. Humility is not something you had been taught as a practice. It was something enforced, something shaped through fear and correction. But this—this feels different. Chosen. Observed. Learned.
And Lyonel—he carries it without making a show of it.
You feel it in the way he listens. The way he answers. The way he does not diminish what is placed before him, no matter how small it may seem.
You settle further into him, the thought easing rather than pressing.
The room grows quieter around you as the last of the day fades fully into night. The warmth between you remains steady, no longer something new, no longer something you are testing.
When the moment feels right, you shift.
Your head lifts slightly from his collarbone, your movement unhurried as you turn just enough to press a soft kiss against the line of his jaw, where his beard frames the edge of it.
The contact is brief.
Intentional.
Lyonel stills for a fraction of a second before something softer moves through him.
“You continue to bestow gifts upon me,” he says, his voice low, touched with something gentler than his usual steadiness. You do not answer with words.
Instead, you lift your head just a little more, meeting him where he waits—because he is waiting now, his lips already pursed, already expecting you in a way that feels less like assumption and more like quiet hope.
You meet him.
The kiss is not uncertain, not fleeting. It carries the ease you have been building, the closeness you have allowed, the choice you have made again and again to remain rather than retreat.
When you settle back against him, your body fits easily into his side, his arm tightening around you just enough to keep you there, not holding you in place, but making it clear he has no intention of letting the space return.
And for the first time since coming to Storm’s End— your mind does not race, your body does not brace, and sleep comes without resistance.
Deep.
Peaceful.
Yours.
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Summary: As Baelor’s daughter, you’ve always known your life would be decided for you. When he chooses Lyonel Baratheon, you expect a distance you can live with.
He doesn’t keep it.
And the longer you stand beside him, the harder it becomes to remember why you ever wanted him to.
Pairing: Older! Lyonel x Closed off! Betrothed! reader
WC: 9.2k
Warnings: 18+, reader is somewhat naive, baelor is protective, arguments, no targcest, lyonel has a corruption kink, smut, council drama, mentions of insecurity, big age gap, descriptions of physical punishment, some dark themes, mentions of loneliness, mental breakdown, leo tyrell is repulsive, lyonel is a bit possessive in this chapter.
Part 3/? | part one part two
“You heard me.” Baelor replied.
Lyonel stood there in disbelief, his mind racing at the thought of losing you to another man.
“I love her and she loves me. This is not merely an alliance for either of us anymore. This is nonsensical!” He protested.
“That is a shame.. hopefully she can grow to love Lord Tyrell.” Baelor mentioned.
Lyonel’s brows furrowed and his body language shifted.
“Is this humorous to you?—“
“Does the Prince of the realm find it humorous robbing his daughter of a love match?”
Baelor sat back in his chair, fidgeting with his rings.
“Humorous? No—“
“ I have no control over what the king desires in terms of betrothals. I set this one up for my daughter, I was happy to and you ruined it.”
Lyonel scoffed, his shoulders pulled back at Baelor’s words.
“I did not ruin anything. I did not have her punished, he did! I did not embarrass her, he did!—“
“So, don’t you dare try to put the blame in my lap!” Lyonel fumed.
Baelor rolled his eyes with a loud scoff.
“You are a fool and it was my mistake to consider you as anything other than that. You had my daughter's name in rumors that should’ve never been thought of!—“
“Yet, you think that you deserve to be her husband?”
Lyonel began to pace Baelor’s tent, his anger rising as the time passed.
“I don’t deserve her as she is far too good for me, that I’m man enough to admit— but she doesn’t deserve this. This rotten family has done nothing but change her.”
“If you love her, then you will leave and let her do her duty to the realm. You have done more than enough thus far, Lord Baratheon.” .
“You do not know what it is that you are asking of me!” Lyonel shouted, slamming his hand on Baelor’s desk.
“I am not asking anything, the king is telling you. You need to leave the princess alone.” Baelor spoke.
“This will ruin her.” Lyonel muttered.
“You and your version of love ruined her—“
“Your love for her is weak and fickle, just like your honor as a man. It was you who allowed her to get into this situation.” Baelor pointed out.
Lyonel bit his tongue and stormed out of the tent. Baelor wasn’t entirely wrong, but he wasn’t right either. Things had spiraled out of Lyonel’s control and he had no idea what to do, but this wedding between you and Lord Tyrell could not happen.
Lyonel grabbed his things from his tent, got on his horse, and left without a word.
You slowly got up and got dressed, feeling embarrassed that Daeron saw you and Lyonel. You believed him when he said that he wouldn’t tell as Daeron has always been good at keeping secrets, but it was still humiliating.
There was an ache between your legs from your intense fun several hours prior, coupled with the pain in your feet— you needed some milk of the poppy.
The wind blew outside, softly rustling the flap to your tent. As the breeze brushed against your skin, you sat in the chair and tried to put your boots on.
Your focus was interrupted by your father walking into your tent.
“Father?” You spoke, your eyes glancing up at him.
“Here, let me help you.” He replied, sitting in the chair across from you.
He patted his leg, signaling for you to raise your foot and put it in his lap.
You did so with a wince leaving your mouth.
“Is there something wrong, father?” You ask through the pain.
He looks over the bloodied bandage on your foot and doesn’t respond.
“You needed to get these changed before you went to sleep. They need to be changed regularly or you risk infection.” He softly ridiculed you.
“I know, I know.. I was just tired and didn’t want to bother with it.” You responded.
He sighed and sat there staring at you, your foot still in his lap.
“There is a matter that I need to speak with you about.”
Those were words that would always make you anxious and make you want to crawl out of your skin. They could either be the best news you’ve ever heard or earth shattering.
You adjusted in your seat, your eyes filled with worry.
“Is there something wrong?”
His lips were pursed and his was breathing steady, so it was impossible to read the situation for what it was.
“Your grandfather has decided to end your marriage alliance with Lyonel—“
“He thinks that it has caused too much of a stir. Instead, he’s proposed a betrothal to you and Lord Tyrell.”
You stared at him blankly as if his words were foreign. Your mouth parted with so many things that you could say and yet, none left your mouth.
Tears fell from your eyes in shock as you registered what your father had admitted.
“What?” You choked.
“It was not my decision, but we found it best.” He added.
You leaned forward grabbing his hand. “Please, father. Do not let him do this—“
“I love Lyonel.”
He let out a sigh as he hoped that your feelings weren’t already so deep for him.
“I understand, I do— but it is done.” He spoke plainly.
“I don’t want to wed anyone else! I will not do it!” You yelled, pulling your foot out of his lap.
You stood up, your balance off and unable to remain steady.
“Daughter, please be careful.” He warned, reaching out to help you.
You sob, stumbling away from the chair and towards your cane by the table.
“You yourself got to marry our mother and experience a great love, but you rob me of that? Why?”
“What about my happiness? I instead get to be married to an old man, who will surely treat me like a brood mare and not care about me.” You pointed out.
“I’m sure that Lord Ty—“
“Get out!” You yelled, interrupting him.
He was startled to see you be so upset and feel so deeply about such things.
“Let me at least help you—“
“Get out! Get out!” You screamed, people outside of the tent staring to see what was going on.
Your uncle was making his way towards the tent when Baelor made his way out of it with a look of defeat.
All you wanted to do was get married to Lyonel and go live out your days in Storms End, but even that thought had gone up in smoke.
Once you had calmed down, the Maester came into your tent and assessed your feet.
“Princess, you must be mindful. Your feet are still healing and too much pressure on them will delay the healing process. Unless, you absolutely have to— please refrain from walking.”
You nodded, your cheeks wet from tears and eyes puffy.
He applied the paste to your feet and wrapped them gently, leaving you with milk of the poppy before exiting the tent.
As the Maester walked from your tent, Valarr entered holding a tray with your breakfast on it.
“Valarr?” You questioned, surprised to see him.
“Sister.” He responded with a smile.
He rushed to set the tray on the table with a smile and give you a hug.
“It has been too long.” He laughed.
His presence made you want to cry again as you missed your brother and did not get to see him often.
“What are you doing here?” You asked as he took the seat in front of you.
“You think I’d miss the wedding for my sister? She’s marrying the laughing storm, there’s no way I’d miss that.” He smirked.
You wiped your teary eyes.
“Not anymore.”
His brow raised in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Grandfather has decided against that betrothal and has instead proposed me to Lord Tyrell.” You explained.
You pulled over the tray of food and prepared to eat, so that you can drink some milk of the poppy.
Valarr’s eyes looked like they could bulge out of his head.
“Leo Tyrell?—“
“Gods be good.” He huffed.
You took a bite from the fig on the tray, trying to hide your sadness.
Valarr glanced down at your bandaged feet, his stomach turning at the sight.
“I heard about your punishment..”
You scoffed, “who hasn’t?”
He looked sad seeing you in the state that you were in, a state of sadness that was unfamiliar to him.
“I don’t like to see you this way, sister—“
“Sad and hurting.”
You stirred the bowl of oats that sat in front of you.
“Trust me, I don’t want to feel this way. I just wanted to be with Lyonel.”
Valarr was unsure of how to comfort you in this as he’d never experienced this before. He was never denied his love for Kiera and didn’t agree with how things were going.
“I’m sure Lyonel made you the happiest woman in the seven kingdoms.”
You caught yourself smiling at the thought of him as you ate, a warm feeling rushed over your body.
“He makes me feel seen as a person and not just a woman who can give him children. I don’t feel like a pawn with him—“
“I feel happy and free.”
Valarr himself smiled at your words about Lyonel. He leaned forward and rubbed your knee.
“That’s how you should feel.. it’s just unfortunate that grandfather changed his mind.”
Valarr’s words turned the oats in your mouth bitter, bringing you back down to your sad reality.
“Maybe, the two of you could keep in touch as friends?” He suggested innocently.
You scoffed, dropping your spoon into the bowl.
“I will not stand around and watch the man that I love eventually fall in love with someone else. It would kill me..”
Valarr’s facial expression softened.
“I did not mean—“
“I did not mean for it to come off that way. I just wanted to suggest something that might put you at ease.”
You waved him off with a feigned smile. “It is okay, brother. I understand what you meant.”
He nodded, his eyes watching you as he wanted to ask you a question— but was fearful of doing so.
“Sister?”
You picked up your spoon and took another dreadful bite out of your oats.
“Hmm?”
He adjusted in his seat, “did you—“
“Did the two of you have sex?”
You swallowed your food and wiped the corner of your mouth.
“Do not ask questions that you do not want the answer to.”
“I am asking for an answer, sister. Did you?” He reiterated.
You glanced at him and stirred your oats.
“Yes.. last night.”
He sighed, covering his face with his hands . “Did you at least have him finish elsewhere?”
You just stared at him and didn’t respond.
“God’s be good!—“
“You have to be smarter than that, sister!” He softly scolded you.
“Never mention this to anyone else.” He added.
You finished your bowl of oats and began eating another fig without a care at his panic.
“You’re the only person I’ve told. It’s not exactly like I want to go shouting it outside.”
There was a silence in the tent after your words and his. He understood that you loved Lyonel and that you weren’t intending to be harmful with your actions.
“Kiera and I did not wait either, unfortunately. We should’ve, but I allowed myself to be weak.” He confessed.
“Yet, you sit here and judge me?” You questioned.
He waved his hand. “I am not judging, because I understand your feelings. I just do not believe it to have been a wise decision given the already dire situation.”
You rolled your eyes.
“I know that it wasn’t smart.”
He leaned forward in his chair, touching your arm.
“I do not want you to think that I am against you, as I could’ve easily ended in the same position. We will figure out a solution, I’m sure of it.”
He stood up and gave you a loving hug — placing a kiss on your head.
“I will help you figure this out, I promise.”
Your brother left out of your tent with a smile on his face and no doubt on a mission.
The last day of what was supposed to be the royal hunt was painfully dull. You spent most of it to yourself and avoided everyone. All you could think about was Lyonel and how he’d handled the news, you assumed not well— because he did leave. He left without a word and you couldn’t say that you blamed
him much, your family had driven him crazy. They’d made him think that you weren’t worth the hassle.
The wind did not ease up as everyone had hoped, instead it picked up— rustling the flaps to your tent and blowing things off of tables.
Your father kept his distance and did not say anything else after he told you the news. It seemed he realized that maybe you were losing yourself in this punishment and then ending your betrothal.
——
Lyonel rode his horse back to King’s Landing and hoped to figure out a way that could stop this betrothal.
He could not lose you and it certainly wouldn’t be to the pig Leo Tyrell. Lyonel could not stand him and his sharp tongue. He was worse than annoying, he was a pain in the arse.
You were his, the woman that he’d do anything for and go anywhere for. He had never quite loved a woman the way that he loved you.
Your sarcasm, beautiful laugh, quiet nature, and overall curiosity. You made him dream of a life that he didn’t deem possible for himself. Losing you would be a death sentence for the laughing storm.
It also wasn’t lost on him that he had spilled inside you, when the two of you had sex— what if you did become pregnant?
How could you explain that to your father, the king, and your new husband?
The thought of you being in a scandal like that made him feel ill.
The ride back to King’s Landing was slow and tiresome. You rode in the carriage as you were drowsy from the milk of the poppy and could not keep your eyes open. Your tongue felt like cotton in your mouth and your head felt too heavy to lift up.
You were eager to get to your bed. You had missed it deeply, along with the peace and quiet of your own private room.
For most of the ride you were in and out of sleep, until you jolted awake as the carriage came to a stop.
The grey skies blocked out the sunlight and made you confused on how long you had been asleep or how long that it had taken you to arrive back at home.
As you rubbed your eyes, the door to your carriage opened.
Your father held out his hand, allowing you to steady yourself on him as you were still not quite yourself. Your eyes noticed the other carriages present, but they weren’t Lyonel’s.
That’s when you noticed the roses on the banners, it was House Tyrell.
Given how quickly they had arrived in King’s Landing, your grandfather must’ve already had this plan in the works. You suddenly had begun to feel more uncomfortable than you were before, the nausea building in your stomach.
A short, old man stood in front of you and your father. He held his hand out and shook your fathers with a smile as he gave him a warm welcome.
Your father rubbed your arm. “Daughter, this is Lord Tyrell.”
You gave a half smile with a nod.
“Nice to meet you, my lord.”
Lord Tyrell nodded back and grabbed your hand, placing a soft kiss to it.
“It is lovely to meet you as well, Princess.”
You had started to frown as it felt impossible to hide the disgust that you felt. Baelor noticed your frown and leaned close to your ear.
“Don’t be rude, daughter. Stop frowning.” He whispered.
Lord Tyrell did not seem to notice your frown and slight recoil as all he did was stare at you like you were a piece of meat.
“You are absolutely beautiful—“
“I’m sure our children will have your beauty.” He spoke.
“What an odd thing to say.” You mumbled to yourself.
He’d only just met you and already had the thought of having children with you on his mind.
He seemed like a sick pervert to you, not even a normal old man.
After you did not respond to his remark, he held a conversation with your father. You excused yourself from the conversation, grabbing your cane and making your way to your chambers.
Lord Tyrell was not even moderately attractive in your eyes, how you would be able to marry him and eventually bed him was heavily on your mind. There wasn’t enough milk of the poppy in the realm that would make it easier for you to suffer through him.
Just the thought of the old man on top of you— rubbing your body, wanting you to suck his shriveled cock, and rutting into you made you dry heave.
He was a far fall from Lyonel.
Once you were in your chambers, you had requested more milk of the poppy from the servants. The pain in your feet and legs had begun to return after the walking that you had to do. You stumbled to your bed and started to undress yourself, when your door opened.
It was Lyonel.
You were shocked to see him, but so happy to at the same time.
He walked over to you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into a deep kiss.
“I’m sorry that I left, my love. I just—“
You smiled, pulling your lips from his and staring into his eyes.
“It’s okay, I am not upset with you.”
He held you in the hug for a moment longer, taking in the feeling of relief that he gets with you.
“How are you doing, my sweet doe?” He asked.
You pulled from his grasp and sat down on your bed, a frown on your face and on the verge of tears.
“I feel awful, Lyonel— that’s the truth of it.”
His heart ached in his chest at your words, because none of this was supposed to happen this way. It was never supposed to be this complicated.
“I don’t care if I have to bankrupt Storms End to satisfy the king, I’ll do it. I won’t let you go.” He mentioned.
You slowly and meticulously unlaced your boots— pulling them off so that you could fully relax.
“I don’t want you to piss off my grandfather, Lyonel.”
“Fuck the king.” He scoffed.
Your eyes flicked over to him as he stood in front of you, a slight scowl spreading across your face.
“Apologies, my love.” He spoke, correcting himself.
The stress of this ordeal had started to weigh on you heavily, your potential fate constantly on your mind. You needed rest— just complete silence to process your feelings, fears, and inevitable heartbreak. If only you hadn’t gone to Lyonel’s feast, then things would be different.
“I’m scared.” You mumbled.
Lyonel walked over to the bed, standing in front of you with a saddened expression.
He gently lifted your head with his finger.
“Don’t be, I will protect you from this—“
“You mean everything to me.”
He kissed you softly, his hands holding your face and melting away your worry. Everything else was merely background noise when you were with Lyonel. You couldn’t focus on anything else, nor could you be sad.
The kiss deepened, his body leaning against yours and making you lay back onto the bed.
“Lyonel.” You spoke, just short of a whine.
“Just let me take care of you.” He muttered into your mouth.
You laid back onto the bed and Lyonel dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed— his arms wrapping around your thighs as he pulled you closer.
He pushed your gown up, a groan leaving his mouth at the sight of you.
“It doesn’t take much for you to get wet.”
He put your legs over his shoulders, his tongue swiping your slit. Your fingers curled into the sheets as his tongue lapped at your clit.
“Fuck, Lyonel.” You gasped.
His tongue rubbed against your clit with such precision, your eyes barely open from the pleasure.
Your betrothal to him had just ended—you were promised to another and shouldn’t be doing this. It was wrong, but it felt so right.
“You taste so good, my love.” He growled.
You moved your hand and had your fingers intertwined with his messy curls.
The sensation in your stomach building.
“What would Leo say if he caught you being a whore for me? Hmm?”
You yanked his head back, the grip tight on his hair. Your chest rising and falling fast.
He looked at you and began to smirk, letting out a deep chuckle.
“I like it when you’re rough.” He taunted.
He pressed two of his fingers inside of you, distracting you.
“Look at that, how well you suck them in.”
The way he touched you, talked to you, and handled you drove you mad. No one had ever had such control over your body, but he did. He did and you hated it.
He pulled his fingers out of you, staring at them in awe as they were coated in your slick. He brought them up to your mouth.
“Suck them.” He demanded.
You complied with ease, bringing his fingers to the back of your throat with a moan as you sucked them clean.
“Good.. you are so good, my doe.” He groaned.
He started eating you out again, your back arched from the sensation. It felt amazing and you couldn’t get enough of it.
You could not imagine having to lose out on this man and pleasure for Leo Tyrell.
“Fuck!—“
“Lyonel, Lyonel.” You whined as your peak approached.
You were hardly able to keep quiet as you reached your peak, feeling completely out of your own body.
Lyonel loved to make a mess out of you, keeping you wrapped around his finger and wanting more. He stood up, licking his lips and had an accomplished grin on his face.
“Did that help you feel better?” He asked.
You rolled your eyes as you laid there and took time to collect yourself.
“I love you.” He mentioned.
You pulled your gown down and sat up slowly. “I love you too, my stag.”
He gave you a kiss with a smirk.
“I like when you talk to me like that.”
You laughed as he crashed back onto the bed with you.
It was things like this that defined your relationship with him, not the big moments— but the small ones. How you hated when those moments would come to an end, how you knew that you wanted a lifetime of small moments with him. This was what you wanted, nothing more and nothing less.
You and Lyonel stared into each other’s eyes, smiles on your faces..
The sound of thunder echoed throughout your chambers as the sky continued to darken, reminding you of the night sky— but slightly warped.
Lyonel’s fingers rubbed your face, his cold rings meeting your warm skin. He touched you as if it’d be his last chance to see you.
“I will give up everything for you.” He confessed.
“I’d never ask you to do any such thing.” You replied.
“But I would… you can get drunk, participate in tourneys, and live anywhere. Should they deny us our love, all you have to do is say the word and we can leave.”
Words that would normally make you laugh otherwise, hung in the air with consideration.
“Okay.” You acknowledged.
The two of you spent another two hours, just laying on the bed and laughing at nothing— enjoying each other’s company. He eventually had to leave, even though you didn’t want him to.
Despite the brewing issues in the capital with the insufficient amount of meat available, the crown still thought it was a reasonable idea to throw a feast for your betrothal to Lord Tyrell. The sickness in the goats and cattle had proven to be more serious than first assumed. It spread like wildfire, contaminating livestock and making them inedible.
The capital had grown restless as they waited for a solution from the crown, but there was no real solution— not outside of being careful and waiting it out. No one had any idea where the sickness had originated and there was no cure of any sorts. They were even in talks of trading with the free cities to handle this rather growing issue.
You sat in your chambers and braided your hair, staring at yourself in the mirror. For this feast, you were wearing your own house colors— but you also pinned the small stag that Lyonel had made to your sleeve. You didn’t like the idea of standing in front of people and faking your interest or happiness.
It made no sense.
You stared at your dress as you finished your braid. Your heart sank as you realized that if things didn’t work out, you’d no longer be wearing black and red— but green and gold. Lyonel would not mind you still wearing House Targaryen colors, but you knew that Leo would be a different story.
To calm your nerves and oncoming pain, you drank some milk of the poppy. The walk from your chambers took way longer than it should’ve, but you were in no rush and your feet hurt.
The dining hall was filled with people, the candles bright and warm, along with music playing.
You took your seat at the table beside Lord Tyrell, his hand brushing against your thigh as you sat down.
The hall had an unusual amount of flowers present, which you could only imagine that it was supposed to be a form of symbolism.
As time and multiple conversations lingered on, more wine was poured into your goblet and supper was served.
“I think that you shall like the reach, princess.” Lord Tyrell spoke as he cut into the meat on his plate.
“It is vast and beautiful.” He added.
“So, I’ve heard. I’ve also heard that you could get lost in its beauty.” You mentioned as you ate your carrots, trying to seem interested in the conversation.
He chewed the meat loudly, the kind of noise coming from his mouth that made you want to scream. The noise had truly begun to get under your skin.
He chuckled, gulping down some of his wine.
“That is right! The gardens there are filled with Chrysanthemums, lilies, and roses of course. Flowers that remind me of your beauty.”
Aerion snickered, causing Lord Tyrell to glance at him and making the moment even more awkward.
Marker had a scowl on his face from Aerion’s comment, but also disgusted with the whole ordeal.
You saw Lyonel watching your every move from his table, his eyes noticing how uncomfortable you were.
Your knee jerked and hit the table as Lord Tyrell had stroked your upper thigh.
You winced in pain, getting the attention of your father.
“Are you alright, darling?”
You nodded, rubbing your leg. “Yes, I’m fine.”
The tension at the table was noticeable to all who sat at it, except Lord Tyrell— who didn’t care and was too focused on you to notice.
People made their way to your table and congratulated your family on the match.
“Leo, it seems that you’ll have a few babes after all!” A lord joked.
Lord Tyell and that man found his joke to be hilarious.
“That I will!—“ He spoke, looking at you.
“They say Targaryen women are wild behind closed doors, so who knows how many we’ll have.” He winked, laughing with the man.
He was truly disgusting, saying those things and talking about you like you were an object.
His words made your stomach ache.
You had the staff fill your goblet several times over the course of the feast, hoping to dull your senses enough to forget where you were.
A lot of people had gotten up from their seats and danced around. Lord Tyrell had asked for you to dance with him, but you politely declined because of your feet.
Lyonel drank ale and watched how close Leo was to you, his veins filled with jealousy.
The only people left at your table were— Lord Tyrell, your uncle, your father, Daeron and you. Everyone else had gotten up to mingle, which you should have too.
The staff brought you a slice of raspberry and lemon pie, something you hadn’t eaten since your mother had passed. It was her favorite and you always struggled to eat it after she died.
You ate the pie and felt a sense of comfort and peace. You felt close with your mother, someone you needed now more than anything.
Some of the filling dripped onto your chin and you grabbed the towel to wipe it, but before you could— Lord Tyrell had used his finger to wipe it off. You stared in shock as he put his finger into his mouth and sucked the filling off with a smile.
Your uncle frowned in disbelief as he saw the entire thing unfold.
“Hmm, that pie is delicious.” Lord Tyrell mumbled.
You felt stuck as if you couldn’t move afterwards. You wanted to curl up and die. He had managed to ruin such a peaceful moment for you.
You slowly pulled yourself up, your legs wobbling and tears filling your eyes.
“May I be excused?” You asked your father.
He nodded.
You took your towel, threw it down onto the table and grabbed your cane.
Once you made it down the first steps and were walking to the doors to exit, Lyonel tried grabbing your hand.
“My love, what’s wrong?”
You yanked it away and kept walking, but your father saw interaction and he wasn’t the only person. Lord Tyrell also saw the quick interaction between the two of you, how there was more beneath the surface than just a betrothal.
Whether you and Lord Baratheon had developed deep feelings for each other, mattered not. He was going to wed you and you were going to give him an heir.
You walked down the hall and up the steps to your chambers. Your breath felt as if it were caught in your chest and the space was closing in on you. Your skin felt warm and your gown felt too tight.
Everything felt wrong and you felt uneasy. You stumbled into your chambers, slamming the door behind you.
Your fingers reached for the laces on your gown and struggled to untie them.
Tears streamed your cheeks as you hurriedly untied your laces and pulled the fabric of your gown away from your skin. Your breaths came in with a sense of relief, finally feeling like you could breathe.
As you leaned over your desk, you took a moment— allowing yourself to feel all of the feelings that you had been suppressing.
The door to your chambers had opened and shut, just faint enough for you to recognize.
“What happened?” Lyonel spoke, his steps coming closer to you.
Tears fell from your eyes onto the book on your desk, your hand smacking it off in a fit of rage.
“He’s a fucking pig!—“
“I have to marry him and pretend to be happy with him! A man that I will never love and who will only see me as a broodmare.” You fumed.
Lyonel slowly walked behind you and wrapped his arms around you, the candlelight in your room casting a shadow on the opposite wall.
“Calm down, darling.” He spoke softly into your ear.
You touched his arms as they wrapped around you in a form of protection, your anger slowly leaving your body.
“Do not allow that small man to make you feel this way. You are so much more than this anger that you feel, more than his small thoughts of you.” Lyonel reminded you.
“You are perfect, precious to me. You will never be a Tyrell—“
“Lyonel—“ you interrupted.
“Never, you hear me?” Lyonel whispered into your ear.
His warmth pressed against your body, clouded every angry and sad thought that had still swarmed your mind. Would Lyonel kill him to stop the wedding? Would you have to run away?
Lyonel’s lips grazed your ear in a teasing manner, before he started to place soft kisses along your exposed neck.
You bit your lip as your hands dropped to your side, fingers fidgeting with the fabric on your dress.
Lyonel moved his hands to your waist, his eyes glancing over your exposed back with your laces mostly untied.
“You are mine—“
“And mine only.” Lyonel groaned.
He pushed his foot in between yours, gently causing your legs to spread.
“We shouldn’t..” you mumbled, leaning forward on your desk to brace yourself.
He pulled your gown up and ripped your tights without a care. His fingers were moving to rub against your wet cunt.
“So wet already.” He teased, his finger rubbing through your folds.
“Lyonel.” You whimpered.
He rubbed your clit, your lips slightly parted.
“If you want me to stop, then just say the words.”
Moans escaped your mouth, but no words telling him to stop.
“Please—“ you whined.
His brow raised, “please what?”
Your legs wobbled, “don’t stop.” You stammered.
Lyonel pulled his hand away from your cunt as he pulled his cock from his trousers.
You gripped the edge of the desk as you felt his head rub against your slit.
He spit in his hand, rubbing his sensitive head.
He lined himself up and slowly pushed in, stretching you.
“God’s.” You mumbled.
The stretch was intense like it was the first time, the kind of stretch that took your breath and felt good at the same time. He took his time as he gave you inch by inch, making you almost beg him to stop teasing.
He pulled you back against him, his hand wrapped around your neck as his cock snapped into you.
“He could never love and fuck you the way that I do.” He grunted.
You didn’t know what had gotten into him tonight, but whatever it was— you had enjoyed it.
He adjusted and leaned you over the desk—pounding into you.
“You’re so deep.” You moaned.
“If only he knew how far from innocent you are, how you liked to be fucked.” Lyonel grunted.
You reached your peak in shock, it came quicker than it ever had before. He covered your mouth as he fucked you, your moans louder than they should be.
“You’re singing so pretty for me tonight.” He chuckled.
Lyonel’s fingers pressed so deeply into your hips that you were sure he’d leave marks.
“Fuck, my love—“
“You grip me so perfectly.”
He cock slammed into two more times, before the thrusts stopped and Lyonel’s grunts filled the air. His seed painted your walls white and left you a leaking mess.
“Fuck me, you are amazing.” He breathed as he pulled out after a moment.
He grabbed a towel and wiped you off. “I wasn’t too rough, was I?”
You shook your head, turning around to face him.
“Are you jealous? Is that why you said the things that you did?” You asked.
He hesitated as he adjusted his trousers, a smirk tugging at his lip.
“A stag jealous of a rose?—“
“Nonsense!” He joked.
He gave you a kiss and left your chambers as he’d already been away from the feast for too long. The last thing that you needed was for someone to notice his absence and come looking.
You did not bother to return to the feast, you were now tired and in no mood to pretend with Lord Tyrell. You stayed in your chambers for the rest of the night and immediately went to bed after your bath.
Following your disappearance from the feast, Lord Tyrell had arranged for breakfast in the garden. It was just you and him with extra kingsguard for you, considering tensions in flea bottom were steadily rising. Your father nor uncle could attend as they were needed in a council meeting to discuss the starving peasants.
The sun was out, high in the sky and beaming onto everything below. Though the sun was out, it wasn’t particularly warm as the wind carried a chill breeze.
You sat across from Lord Tyrell, staring at the rose bush directly behind him and waiting for it to be over.
“It’s a beautiful day outside today, Princess.” He spoke.
You nodded, adjusting in your seat as a sharp pain traveled up your leg.
“That it is.” You replied.
He sipped some of his tea, his eyes lingering on your face.
“You did not return to the feast last night, your presence was missed.”
Your brows raised at his statement as you hoped that he would not bring it up.
“I felt unwell and I was in a bit of pain, so I decided to retire to my chambers a little early.”
He nodded, his gaze shifting to something behind you.
“Princess, are you happy with our betrothal?"
You bit the inside of your lip and faked a smile as you could not say what you really felt.
“Of course.. of course, my lord.”
The food and fruit was brought to the table as the loud silence lingered. You put two honey cakes and a few pieces of fruit onto your plate, catching a glimpse of Lord Tyrell’s face as he looked repulsed. He looked at you like you were over eating, like you were doing something wrong.
His visible disgust made you lose your appetite and feel insecure.
He ate the food on his plate with no hesitations, a loud smacking noise filling the air every time he bit into a honey cake.
“With our wedding fastly approaching, I want to explain my expectations.”
You sat there, intrigued by what he’d say even though you did not ask. Your fingers picked at fabric on your dress as a small distraction for yourself and to hide how annoyed you were.
“I will be kind to you, I will never raise a hand to you, and I will care for you— but I will not tolerate anything other than a dutiful wife.” He mentioned.
“Make no mistake, this will not be a love match. It is my duty.”
“I understand, my lord.” You replied softly.
“When I bed you, I will spill elsewhere— until we’ve been at HighGarden for a month. I want you to have the chance to get used to your new home, before we start trying.”
Him talking of bedding you made you feel nauseous and as if this was a cruel punishment or a jape from your grandfather.
“I want us to have three children, with reasonable spacing between them of course. I care not about the sex, but at least one boy would make things easier.” He added.
“If I do not want three children?” You asked, getting his attention from his fourth honey cake.
“That would be unfortunate.” He replied.
The wind blew, bringing in a cool breeze.
“I also will not tolerate insolence from you either—“
“I do not intend to be insolent.” You replied back plainly, interrupting him.
“Do not interrupt me, girl!” He scolded.
Your face began to scowl instantly at his remark. You already were not fond of him and found him to be a disappointing stain on his house, but his rudeness was unnecessary.
“I’ve heard about this punishment that you received, unfortunate but perhaps necessary—“
“Your relationship with Lord Baratheon, whatever it is— will cease.”
Your brows furrowed as you feigned ignorance and gritted your teeth.
“I was merely only betrothed to Lord Baratheon, we had no relationship outside of that. I hardly spoke with him, my lord.”
He scoffed, sucking his fat fingers to taste the honey.
“I saw the two of you in the dining hall and whatever that was. There will be no more of it.”
“My lord, that was only—“
“I will not have a whore for a wife!” He snapped.
You stood up from your chair faster than you ever had before.
“I beg your fucking pardon?”
You didn’t even wait for a response from him before you walked off. You were not perfect nor had you ever tried to be, but you did not deserve to be talked to this way.
You did not know Lord Tyrell well, but you had never heard that he was cruel.
Baelor and Maekar sat in Baelor’s solar, recovering from the boring and frustrating council meeting. There was still no viable alternative to shortage of meat and the free cities had not responded yet.
Maekar sat down in the chair with a loud sigh.
“This place has caused me more stress than my own children possibly could.”
Baelor sat down at his desk, his energy was low as the whole thing had been a tiring situation. Between the shortage, your betrothal, the king's concerns— he was worn thin.
“I see Lord Baratheon is still present in the city.” Maekar spoke.
Baelor’s fingers fidgeted with his rings.
“I suppose he’s still here to show support for the upcoming wedding, along with the other noble houses.”
Maekar scoffed, grabbing some nuts from the bowl beside him.
“Don’t be daft.”
“I’m not being daft. Their betrothal is over and he would have no other reason to be present other than support.” Baelor responded.
Maekar rolled his eyes, a huff of air leaving his mouth.
“He’s still here because he loves her, don’t deny what your eyes have allowed you to see.”
Baelor leaned back in his chair, his eyes focused on Maekar and his words.
“Well, that no longer matters. Does it?—“
“She is to wed Leo Tyrell.”
“He is a disgrace of a man, I find him repulsive quite frankly.” Maekar mentioned.
“It’s a wonderful thing that you’re not being wed to him then, brother.” Baelor reminded him.
Maekar began to frown at his remark as it did indeed rub him the wrong way.
“Let her marry Lord Baratheon and let that be the end of it. He’s less likely to be a pain in the crowns arse anyway.”
Baelor sighed in annoyance.
“It is not up to me and you know that. Father isn’t happy about the rumors and neither am I.”
“Well, he wouldn’t have to worry about rumors if he didn’t punish her for something so minor— that caused the rumors.” Maekar pointed out.
“There’d be no punishment, if she’d just listened.” Baelor gritted.
Maekar chewed on the nuts in his hand.
“Seven hells, who cares if she fucked him? They were going to be wed.”
Baelor’s eyes flicked up at Maekar.
“Now, they’re not and that would present a problem— if that were the case. No lord would want her in that condition.”
“When were her age, we had fucked our way through the street of silk.” Maekar added.
Baelor’s lips were pursed as he couldn’t think of anything to say.
“We did, but she is a woman.”
The hours had passed by and you sat in your chambers. Your fingers idle, your mind filled with thoughts and questions.
The way that Lord Tyrell had talked to you was embarrassing and just more hurtful than you cared to admit. You knew that the men could be awful as you’d heard tales, but you’d never experienced such brutality in person.
The servants and Maester came into your room. The servants prepared a bath while the Maester changed your bandages.
“The wounds have a long way to go, but they are looking better than they did yesterday.” The Maester spoke.
You nodded.
“Thank you for helping me.”
He finished wrapping the bandage on your right foot.
“It is my job, princess. I imagine I would no longer be a Maester, if I did not help you.” He chuckled.
His reply made you smile as you could appreciate his honesty. Being a princess meant that everyone always walked on eggshells around you and your family, very seldom were they bold enough to just talk plainly.
“I must also admit, Princess— though the wounds cause you great pain, we will have to lessen the amount of milk of the poppy that you consume. It is not healthy for prolonged use.” He mentioned.
“Oh.” You muttered.
In your mind, you weren’t consuming that much milk of the poppy. It almost felt like you hadn’t had enough lately. Most days you had to try ignoring the pain.
He finished tending to your wounds, leaving you more milk of the poppy— but only a small amount.
You got undressed and took your bath—trying to relax. While you sat there in peace with your eyes closed, there was a knock at the door.
“Come in.” You spoke.
When you opened your eyes, you saw Lyonel standing in front of you with a grin on his face.
“I’m not interrupting, am I ?”
You shook your head, your wet hair clinging to your chest as the ends floated in the water.
“I hadn’t had the chance to see you today. I wanted to come check on you.” He admitted.
You smiled.
“I have not done much, other than have an awful breakfast with Leo.”
He walked closer to the tub, his hands behind his back and worry on his face.
“Oh?”
You wiped your face.
“He called me a whore.”
The grimace of Lyonel’s face was unlike any expression that you had seen before.
“That’s not funny.” He replied.
You adjusted in the tub, leaning on your side and facing Lyonel.
“He said that he would not have a whore for a wife.”
“Hmm.” He grunted in response. You could see his face twitch when you repeated what he had said.
“I have somewhere that I’d like to take you tonight.. if you don’t mind sneaking out.” He smiled, kneeling beside the tub.
“Lyonel, I cannot get into any more trouble.”
He pushed your hair from your face and tucked it behind your ear.
“No one will ever know, we’ll be dressed differently.”
Your brow raised in intrigue and a bit of confusion.
“Dressed differently?”
He showed you the clothes that he had held behind his back. They were not the kind of clothes that a noble
would wear, but the clothes of peasants.
“Dressed like a peasant?” You asked.
He nodded and you could tell this was a terrible idea, but you were interested in where he’d take you.
You finished up your bath, dried off, and got dressed. Lyonel helped you hide your silver locks in the hat that he brought you.
The two of you held hands as you snuck out of the keep and into the night.
Your heart raced as the two of you walked around. The night sky was clear and bright, no wind or sound of insects. It was just quiet.
“Where are we going?” You laughed.
He glanced at you with a smirk as he held your hand and continued walking.
The two of you had managed to make your way onto the street of silk, a road that you had never been on before. You had heard tales, but never anything in great detail.
The street was lively with beggars, whores, puppeteers, and regular commonfolk. You didn’t bother to ask Lyonel where he was taking you again, but you knew that it probably was somewhere you shouldn’t be.
As you walked a woman on the sidewalk inhaled fire and spit it back out like a dragon, the crowd and yourself in awe.
An elderly woman sat at a table, she called your name as if she knew you. It caught the attention of both of you and made you stop.
“Let me see your future, girl.” She spoke, her voice deep and raspy.
You glanced up at Lyonel and he shrugged his shoulders.
You walked over to the woman’s table as she just creepily stared at you. She tapped the table and signaled for you to give her your hand.
Her gnarled fingers traced your palms, her eyes closed and only the people walking around provided sound.
Lyonel watched as you waited for the woman to say something, he was surprised that you’d believe such nonsense.
The woman started to laugh and dug her nail into your palm.
You yanked your hand back with a wince, Lyonel ready to stab the woman with his dagger.
“I’ve seen your future girl..”
“A plague will befall House Targaryen and only few will remain, including yourself. The throne might pass through you, if your inevitable madness does not prevail.”
Her words started to cling to you and worry you, even though you couldn’t understand why.
“Kiss your brothers and hug them tight, for they do not have long—“
“Your uncle will become a kinslayer and the man beside you will have a hand in it.”
“Stop.” You spoke, your eyes beginning to water at her awful words.
Lyonel had a frown on his face as he did not like what she was insinuating nor did he like that she was upsetting you.
“Fuck off, witch.”
“That I may be, but I only speak the truth.” She teased.
“She will give her husband six babes, but he will have seven.” She added.
Lyonel grabbed your hand and pulled you away as he didn’t want her words to affect you and take root, but it was too late.
“Do not believe that madwoman, my love.” He whispered to you.
You wiped your eyes, an uneasy feeling in your stomach.
“I don’t.”
You continued walking with Lyonel, your eyes watching all of the things around you.
He brought you to a building— purple, velvet drapes hanging at the door.
“This is where the fun begins.” He laughed.
When you walked into the building— you were met with the faint sound of music being played, but the biggest shock was people were nude and moaning.
You tugged at Lyonel’s hand.
“Lyonel! What are we—“
He grabbed a goblet of wine from the nude woman’s tray and handed it to you. “Drink up.”
Your brows furrowed in confusion, but he was serious. You started drinking the wine and saw two people having sex against the wall near you.
You had no business being in a whore house with Lyonel or in general. Being in there made you feel gross and made you wonder what Lyonel truly thought of you.
You handed the goblet to Lyonel as he dragged you to the end of the hall and stopped in front of the last room on the left.
He turned to you.
“I need you to be quiet, but I want you to peek through the curtains and tell me what you see.”
“What?” You questioned with mild annoyance.
“Just do it, my love.” He answered.
You leaned forward, sighing and closing one of your eyes to properly peek through the slit of the curtains.
You didn’t see anything at first, you just heard the moans of a man who was getting his cock sucked.
Then he moved his head and it was Lord Tyrell. Your eyes widened, but you weren’t surprised that he would do that. Of course he’d hold the views he does and then sleep with whores.
It wasn’t until you heard a voice, that you questioned your eyes and what you saw.
“I’m back, my rose.”
Lord Tyrell smiled with glee as the naked man approached him.
You gasped and Lyonel covered your mouth.
“Shh.”
You watched as Lord Tyrell happily embraced the man with a deep kiss, before he started sucking the man’s cock. The woman sucking Lord Tyrell’s cock moved her head, but it was no woman— it was a man.
You felt as if your eyes were going to bulge out of your head.
Was this why he was so old with no wife and children? He was only into men? Is that why he said your marriage would be no love match?
You stormed out of the building in front of Lyonel, unable to understand what your eyes showed you.
“What the fuck?” You yelled.
“I needed you to see it with your own eyes.” Lyonel spoke, grabbing your hand.
“Does my father know?” You questioned.
Lyonel shrugged. “I doubt that they have heard the faint rumors that circled about him. They would never allow such a marriage to happen.”
You were more confused than ever and just needed time to process.
“I will be informing the king of such information and I’m sure they’ll send their spies to verify the rumor, before ending the betrothal.” Lyonel pointed out.
You held his hand and walked with him to your chambers in silence. You finally reached your door, hesitating to go in.
“I will see you tomorrow after I speak with the king.”
You nodded, pressing a kiss to his lips before entering your room.
When you were in your room and fully alone, you sobbed into your hands. Your life had become one big jape and you seemed to be the only one who did not find it humorous.
You pulled off the peasant clothes and climbed into bed. It didn’t take long for you to drift off, the wine playing a major role.
The sun shined into your room, but there was quite a bit of commotion outside the keep and in the hallway.
Your door flung open, your father hurrying to your bed. He shook you, calling your name and trying to wake you.
You jumped awake, frightened from your father being there along with the kingsguard.
“No.. no.” You mumbled under your breath, you did not want to get in trouble again.
“Daughter, snap out of it!” Baelor spoke.
He covered you up when he realized you were only in your shift and had the guard turn their backs.
“Get dressed! We must go now!”
“Father? What is going on?” You stammered.
“The smallfolk have revolted, there was a riot in Fleabottom last night. We have had to shut the gates to the city.” Your father mentioned.
You were shocked, too stunned to speak.
Baelor looked at you as if he was going to regret what he told you.
“In the riot last night, people were injured—“
“Lord Tyrell is dead.” He admitted.
Your face dropped, “what?”
Baelor sighed, taking a moment before telling you the rest.
“Along with Leo, there were other nobles hurt. A few of the Tyrell and Baratheon bannermen were killed.. “
“We have not been able to find Lord Baratheon, yet.” He added.
His words had become hazy as your ears rung and your heart dropped.
Help the receiver shower / bathe after they get hurt.
Clean and cut dried blood from the receiver's matted hair. ( obviously we're not cutting these luscious curly locks of his ... right ?)
and maybe for the fun of it
“ Close the door. I need my husband / wife to myself. ”
Fuck me bloody-
Wounded Lyonel Baratheon x Lady Dondarrion -
Forgive the fandom tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. @the-darklings @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiousstrrawberries @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @adumbgirlinloove @moonlitmaester @silens-oro @feral4youu
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“Lyonel Baratheon!” your voice roars his name through Storms End. Echoes down every hall. Sounds like it could shatter bone and break steel with one blow. He’d never heard you so cross.
Your shout pierces even the sound of the furious winds battering outside. Tearing rain across the window like dragging glass knives. The waves that eat up the walls like it wants to topple them to make this place at one with the hungry sea.
“Seven fuck me bloody.” Lyonel curses under his breath. Eyes closed. Wincing in pain. Shifting lightly on your bed.
His long suffering squire was still struggling to undo his gambeson to his chest. The bright mustard of which, was staining into a wave of warm red. Like a macabre sunset. Gold making way to blood.
A gash was also cut right down and across his knee. Matching the brutal one that tore at his shoulder from the tusks. The parting gift from a wild boar he’d set out to hunt with his party.
Only he’d quite misjudged the ferocity. The squat little beast ploughed into his horse and sent him toppling. Headfirst into a tree, and then down into the mud. Before it then decided to round and come back and have his guts for a first course - and one knee, then his arm for seconds.
They had to bury three spears in the bastards neck to take it down. And he stuck its belly with his dagger whilst the thing tried to roll on top of him. A skuffle.
But he won.
Hauling the hog back to bleed it for supper. He’d make sure it’s hyde would go on display. It’s tusks lining his walls as recompense. It would feed his people and he’d laugh over the burnt bones.
Maester Slait stood by his hip at his bedside. The doddery old cunt was bent wafting a burning tied pile of plants near his wound - as if that would fucking help with blood loss.
Lyonel groaned as he shifted up onto his elbows. Desperate times oft called for desperate measures. Swivelling his eyes through his blood matted curls to grip Slait’s sleeve. His strength still enormous even for a man who’d been bled by a squealing pig.
“Any poison you got in there? A quick one? Tears of Lys. Give it to me. Now. Grant me something that will kill me quicker and kinder than she will.” He grits out. Eyes flicking to the door.
He nods his head to the chamber door as he speaks. Out to the echoing hallway. Where you are surely ascending the tower stairs like a hells fury. Slippered feet slapping the stones. Skirts plucked up in your hands. Flanked by fearful maids who’d be scattering like panicked hens in the furious wake of your ire.
“My lord…” The Maester gasps. Face dropping. A thousand chins wrinkling into disdain. Snowy brows rising. Offended to the highest degree.
“It was a command. Slait. Are you now disobeying your Lord?” He asks darkly. With bite. Voice threatening storm clouds.
He meant to look imperious. Arching a sardonic brow. As imperious and sardonic as he could manage, laying down in his own bed, half mauled. Covered in his own blood.
“I cannot in good conscience give your lordship, poison.” The Maester shrills. Clutching his medicines case close as if Lyonel would rear up, and tear it from his grasp.
Lyonel sags to the bed. Throws an arm over his head. Sighs like a gust of wind.
“Then I’m in for a painful dismemberment at the hands of her Ladyship. Stitch my balls back together when she’s done, will you.”
His squire managed to roll him up and get his favourite gambeson off and down his chest.
Leaving him clad in torn open breeches on one leg. One boot on. One off. The start of a bruised eye throbs vicious at his cheek. A cut on his head starting to make his vision swim.
He lays back down. And waits for you. Or death. In no particular order. One will be kind. One will be merciless.
Both males in the room with him, wince when you fill the doorway. Door flying open. A lightning storm made flesh. His Lady Baratheon. The look in your eyes is lethal enough to cut.
The set of your face more impassive than the very granite stones you stand upon. The yellow velvet of your dress makes you glow in the candles light, like a vision sent to him from the clouds.
“You deplorable fucking idiot.”
A very foul mouthed vision sent from the clouds. Apparently.
“Sweeting.” He calls out. Musically. Smile spreading wide and bright from his bloodied face. Shifting his head to face you on the embroidered lace pillow. One now smudged in blood.
You tear across the room to come to his side. Steps falling on stone as hard as slaps. He follows you through the gaps in the golden brocade tapestries, that hang like thick walls of iron down the carved bed posters.
The Maester virtually flattens himself to the wall to get out your path.
You stand alongside his squire. Surveying him to see the source of all the blood. Most of which was now seeping into your very fine bedding. You’re more concerned about the occupant of your bed rather than the state of the sodding stag blankets.
“How bad is it? Where is he hurt?” You spear your gaze into the Maester and his squire. Eyes sharper than the spear that ended the boar.
They should have got you out there. One icy look off you, and the thing would have dropped, stone dead.
Lyonel winces. Twists to try and sit up and answer your query. “My storm-“ He begins.
“You will remain quiet you cack headed imbecile. From what I understand, it’s your own fault you’re injured.”
You turn back to the cowering pair of men. “Talk.” Your eyes slice into the Maester.
Slait winces bodily. And answers you. “His wound is by way of the shoulder. My lady. “And there is also a considerable wound to his leg.”
“He will heal? I pose this as a question. But of course it is not.” You supply. Lethally. “You will heal him. Or you will answer to me.”
“Yes. My Lady.” Slait looks like a rabbit before a cobra.
You lean over Lyonel. One hand to the bed. Seeing the seriousness of the injury. It was not deep but it didn’t look neat. Another scar he’d boast and toast his cups over. Your eyes run over it.
Lyonel stares up at you with a smitten grin. “All the maids love a scar I hear.”
You narrow your eyes. The acid in them visible. Do not speak.
“We will prepare a poultice and a bandage for the wound on his knee. My Lady.” The Maester stammers.
“At once.” You supply. “Before it festers. We must be quick to suture the wound to his shoulder too. I suggest a boiled needle and some thread. We will also need towels and cloths.”
Lyonel is smiling up at you with shining brown eyes. “You are so fucking splendid when you’re furious.”
You heave a sigh. One that barely keeps your rage from boiling over. “I could skin you.” You warn. Glaring down at him.
The poor men around you shuffle and step quick to the orders you’d demanded. The Maester shakes when he edges by you.
The squire boy moves to attempt to yank off his remaining boot. Smearing mud all over the bed. You kindly stop him by laying a hand over his smaller one on the leather.
“It’s alright. Warrek. Please go and find a maid at once, and have a bath brought in for his Lordship. I will undress him.”
“Mmm. My lucky day.” Lyonel flirts up at you. Even with blood dried on his face he looks devilish with lust. Lovestruck.
The boy runs off. Doing as you’d bid. Your maids too, flock out the room at your dismissal.
You watch them go. Tracking them across the room with your eyes. The shutting of the door was the audible full stop. Now it was just the sounds of the storm outside. Battering the roof. Rain crying down the brick like it was having a tantrum to be let in. Which paled to the storm he’d wrought in here. The one he married.
“A boar your steward said.” You stated. Angrily yanking off his muddy boot in one fell tug. In a way that both scared and aroused him.
“You threw yourself on a fucking wild boar.”
“Just a little bit.” He proclaimed. Letting out a small ‘Ow’ when you reached out and smacked his - uninjured - arm.
He groaned. Hand splayed on his bruised side, holding his throbbing ribs together, as he eased up to a sitting position, to bring himself nearer to you. Hair disorganised from the pillow. Some of it blood matted. Blood now ran in rivulets down his front from his shoulder.
He puts his hand on the front of your dress. Right over your stomach.
Where the taut flesh of your belly grew - day by day. His babe nestled right there under your skin. Your fierce little tempest in the making.
“We got the beast.” He spoke like it was consolation above all else.
“Hang the beast. Lyonel. It tore you to strips first.” You point out. Reaching across to cup his face. Uncaring about the blood that smears into your hand. You’re a stout woman. Never afraid of plunging your hands into the blood, mud, and guts that came with his Knightly station. You break upon the world like waves dashing to foam on the rocks.
“What if it had killed you?” You raise your voice.
“You shouldn’t be shouting in your condition. Not good for the babe.” He mutters in a mock whisper.
Leaning over with a wince to pluck your arm from your side, and smack his lips in a spitty kiss to your knuckles. Leaving smeared blood behind.
“I’m going to wait til you’re all healed to smack you on the head properly. Because now won’t be fun.” You snip. “You fucking scared the life out of me, you bastard.”
The maids who’d shuffled in with ewers of water and the lined tub, gasp at the coarseness of your language. He tilts his head at you like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
He smiles at your abrasiveness. It ultimately came from a loving place.
“I would say I forbid you from hunting for the next two moons. But I know that would only encourage you to go do something even more reckless.” You test. “Go and sail your ship into the rocks or something else daft and wild.”
“People would be dissapointed if I didn’t live up to expectation.” He supplied.
The look in your narrowed eyes could strip skin off of bone.
“Alright. I will stay abed and dance constant attendence on you and our little stag. And you can teach me to embroider flowers and frippery and nonsense.”
You eye him dubiously. “We’ll cross that bridge when it never happens. You’ve never stayed still for two minutes put together.”
The Maester appeared again. Armed with a poultice for his leg. He stuffed it in the wound. Not gently if Lyonels squeaks and protestations were anything to by. And wrapped it up tight.
You took immense pleasure in helping tie the bandage closed in a knot when he was finished. Enough to make your husband wince.
“Your lightness of touch is an astounding gift.” He mocks you with a grin.
You smile. Perhaps a touch too smug. Taking enormous pleasure in tugging both sides of the bandage bow harder to tie it off. That was your way of punishing him.
“I’ll hold him still whilst you stitch. Slait.” You offer. Too happily.
“Sit on my face, that might keep me still.” He rolls his eyes to you. Beaming.
You arch a brow. “It wouldn’t shut you up however. Nothing can achieve that miracle.”
“Lift your skirts and climb on my face. Lady Storm. Then we shall see.” He teases.
“If you please my lady.” The Maester asked for your assistance to hold him. Looking red faced and more than just a bit uncomfortable. Lyonel tended to have that effect.
“I shall begin.” He remarked. Threading the curved needle.
“Don’t be gentle. I want him to learn his lesson about flinging himself onto wildlife.” You order.
“I married a fucking sadist.” He hissed under his breath.
Settling back on the bed. Rolling his shoulders. Getting ready to have his skin pierced with the needle and thread. You sat the other side of the bed, to his right and pushed down on his chest to keep him pinned - not in a way he would usually like.
In the end he cursed so much, the Maester had him bite down on wood to stifle the cries. It didn’t work - he just spat it out and turned the air blue with profanity. Shouts of cunt’s and curses to the seven.
But Slait stitched it closed with little other fuss. Applied a green foul smelling salve of nettles to help stem any infection.
“He will need to rest. No strenuous activity. Bed rest for the next few weeks to allow the injuries to settle.” Slait advised.
“Well that’s not going to happen. You want me to be abed and not perform strenuous activity. Not possible I’m afraid. Have you seen my wife?” He rambles. Holding out a hand to you.
You largely ignore him. Thank and dismiss the maids with the ewers of water, and the Maester.
You haul him up like an unruly sack of oats, and help him to limp across the floors to the steaming tub.
He was leaning on you far too heavily and singing sonnets to how pretty you were.
The tub sat posed by the roaring fire. The grate that held the flames fashioned with antlers. Of course. Even the sides of the bath tub had bloody antler handles.
Hushing down any attempts he makes that sound like seduction. The way he leaned in all sultry and tried to kiss your neck. Smearing more blood on you. Possibly on purpose. Leaning so he could feel your breasts crushed to his side.
“You get any more blood on this dress. My maid will tan your hyde.”
He moans again. Raising his brows. “Never let it be said I mind a stern hand. Especially from a lady.” He drawls. Tongue caught between his teeth as he winked at you.
You stand him and strip the last of his garments. His breeches torn and cut to ruin. Small clothes discarded too. He eyes you up yet again when you relieve him of those. Discard them to a bloodied, mud soaked heap on the floor. Then help him climb - inelegant as a gangly legged fawn - into the tub when he’s down to his bloodied skin.
Seems you had a lot of mopping up to do. You caught the sight of grazes on his back. The skin that twisted over the jut of his shoulder blades. Blue bruises dragged down in severe scratches, turning red purple. Angry marks from the tussle.
“You’re black and blue.” You admonish softly. Something like sadness sneaking into your eyes. A frown drowning your usually stern brow. He stops when you press your fingers to his skin. Avoiding the marks. Feeling cowed for your earlier teasing of him.
He twists around. Up to his knees in the water. Tries to peer where you’re looking. He waves a hand off like it’s no bother. “Maybe so. But the bastard hog is dead and I am not.”
“Sit down before you fall down.” You tell him. Pulling the stool you’d sit on, close to his left side. Wood scraping stone. Perching there to tend him.
“My lady’s tongue is knife sharp tonight.” He cheeks.
“Alright. Then would you care to sit down before I change my mind and drown you.”
He hisses at the sting of the water. Bracing himself back. Arms around the lip at the edge. His shoulder screamed with pain. But he grit his teeth and ignored it.
His attention was far more warranted by you. Set so near him. Delicious ebbing of your perfume. All blossoms and nectarine honey. That fragrant rift of skin down your collarbones and between your tits. The place he loved laying his mouth too when you were abed.
That neckline of your dress should be outlawed for how delicious it made your breasts look.
You dunk his hands in warm water, pulling off one of his gore stained rings. You’d have them cleaned later. You clatter them onto a small table at the side where the soaps and oils are placed. Blood drying on gold. Enshrining the prancing stag cast into the metal.
You dunk the cloth again when his hands are clean. Listen to the crack and roar of the flames beside you, as you start the work of wiping over his bloodied face. Holding his whiskery chin.
The pass of the cloth cutting through the mud and gore. Carefully dabbing around the tender purpling bone of his eye socket.
He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you started. One way or another, through whatever storm took him, drunkenness, foolishness, laughter, you were always the compass point that brought him reeling back.
“Did you hit your head very hard?” You ask. Taking tender care to mop all the dried blood from his salt and pepper curls. Make them soft and bouncing again. Water gently turning rose pink. Listening to the calming swill of the water lapping around his body.
He leans back into the cradle of the tub. Winces a little at his stitched shoulder. But otherwise. Sighs contented.
“Fret not. We Baratheons have very thick skulls.”
“Mayhaps I should enquire after the state of the tree then?”
“Knocked it clean over.” He japes.
You smile. Laughter bursts from your throat. The best noise in the world, he’s fathomed.
“Sounds accurate. You and your stubborn head.”
“You married me for my stubborn head. And don’t you know it.” He tilts his head. Close to the edge where you are. Every indication of leaning in and pouting his lips at you for a kiss.
You smile at him. Rest your wrists on the edge of the tub. Fingers trailing the cloth in the water.
You lean in. But tease him with a little distance. Careful to drop your eyes to his mouth. Get him right to the brink. He always does go for the thrill of the chase.
“Your stubbornness was part of the appeal. I’ll admit. But it was your silver tongue that got me in the end.” You grin.
Closing the gap and pressing a slow kiss to his lips. He tasted like clean water and old iron. He hums when you pulled away. Strokes the end of his nose along yours.
“My best feature to be sure. Second to my amazing prowess and god given talents in lovemaking.” He leers.
“Your depravity knows no bounds. Does it.” You comment.
“Mess with the stag. You get the antlers.” He plays along.
He suddenly looks far too cunning.
His dripping hand comes up to grip the back of your neck. Hot drips of water roll down your spine like a caress. He pulls you in to mash you into a passionate kiss. Tongue running along your lip. Drawing you in and in. Further into his deviousness.
He breaks it to rest his forehead to yours.
“I’m feeling really, quite lonely in here you know…” He sighs.
Then his grin grows. Crawls across his lips. You can see the devious thought forming. The clouds brewing in his eyes.
You can’t escape in time. “No-“
In one yank, he tore you from your seat. Twisted. And heaved you into the tub with him. Ass first. Splashing into settle over his lap.
“Lyonel!” You yelp. He laughs like a mad man.
A startled maid opens the door. Poking her capped head around to see at the source of your shout. Spying you entangled in his arms, half dressed, sopping wet in his naked lap. Legs sticking comically out the bath. His hands closed around you like a trap.
He grins. Charms sweet words across the room to her like honey;
“Be so good as to close the door. Maid. I need my wife to myself.”
Lyonel Baratheon x f!reader
Pregnancy out of wedlock, stubbornness, push and pull.
English is not my first language. 700w.
Lyonel Baratheon is a stubborn man.
And a proud man.
And a greedy one.
So when something fair catches his eye, he wants to have it wholly and all for himself.
And this time, it has been you.
Dancing at the feast after the tourney. Seated in the stands with a frown among the other ladies. Taking a pause with your maids to smell the flowers that open their petals at dawn… It matters not how, or when, or where, but he is enthralled with you, and when he is thus, he can be persuasive.
Most persuasive.
Even if every attempt at approach is met by glares, or by your delicate hand rising in a dismissive gesture, it spurs him on far more than any sultry glance ever could. What is a man who does not enjoy a good, challenging hunt? So he insists, and persists. Again and again he comes. All toothy smiles and guffaws and ridiculous jests while he dances to display his tireless stamina. And when, in a small crack of your will -a woman has her weaknesses too- you show the slightest interest, he does not hesitate and takes his chance to fully charm you.
Successfully.
If you thought, at times with some pity, that he was a hungry man, it is only because you had not yet seen him in bed. The man is ravenous. There is not an inch of you he does not claim for himself, not a patch of skin he does not worship with his lips. He speaks to you with a sordid boldness no man has ever dared, and those filthy words scandalize you as much as they set your -until that moment untouched- womanhood aflutter.
The experience is most pleasurable though, both for you and for him. So you repeat. Again and again. In his tent. In his chambers. One day and despite your protests, in a stable. He beds you more than newlyweds do. More passionate than a man with a forbidden lover. With more hunger than a a spent warrior surrounded by whores.
All of it in the strictest secrecy, of course, for you are a highborn lady. Unwed, but not precisely his. You are meant to wed the husband your lord father has chosen for you before the year is done. Even so, some squires whisper that their lord lately rides a certain mare more oft than his own horse...
Lyonel is well aware of those whispers, and does nothing to silence them. That way other men would think twice before attempting to court you. You have no notion of it, else you would be screaming in fury, swearing by the old gods and the new that he would never have you again.
He calls it foolishness and makes light of it, yet you take your intimacy to heart, and drink down all the castle’s stores of moon tea trying to grant your body some reprieve from the seed of such an insatiable man. He always mocks you, stretching out upon his bed, still naked and wearing that foolish smirk that always makes you want to curse him. He does not stop you, though… he knows nature is on his side, and so he simply waits.
The morning he sees you pale, refusing your breakfast from a maid, he knows.
The way you shove his hand away in disgust, mastering a retch as he himself offers you a handful of berries, confirms it.
"Ha!"
You need not say a word, only look at him, anger blazing in your eyes while he drags his hands through those perfect grey curls and laughs loud and long before you. The blow you strike him with nearly tears that stupid earring from his ear.
"We should wed," he still laughs like a madman, bringing a hand to his reddened cheek.
Another slap lands. This time on the other side.
"Beautiful". He mockingly sticks out his tongue and winks at you. "The gods have gifted me the most splendid woman…"
You reach for his face again. This time he seizes your wrist in time. Despite your struggles, his lips find your knuckles and press the most unfairly soft kiss on them.
"Marry me, silly. Can't you see my heart is yours?"
You tell him the only word you can manage in that moment. "No."
"Such a stubborn woman..."
He bites your lips more than kisses them.
You kiss him back.
By the end of the week, you are carrying a ring with his banner, a wedding contract to be sent to your father, and a Baratheon babe within you.
please do Sandor Clegane headcannons with a woman!! Please
knight!sandor x princess!reader headcanons
cw/tags: nsfw (MDNI), knight x princess, lots of dog metaphors, forbidden love, power dynamics, dom!sandor, jealous!sandor, infidelity
note: obviously yes, i love this big boy. (idk why i chose this format, take it or leave it)
masterlist / request list
sandor is your sworn sword. he follows you like a dog everywhere you go, in order to not miss anything that could happen to you. he’s as loyal as a dog: he would never betray you for anybody, for any reason. you are not only his job, you are his princess. he loves you and must take care of you, he made it his life purpose. he’s right where he wants to be.
sandor loves you in silence. he fell for you the time he first saw you, but he knew a princess could never end up with a knight of a way less important house, especially if he’s her protector. on top of that, his face is scarred and his figure is indelicate, while you’re young and beautiful as a blooming flower. his chatacter is harsh and unkind, while you are lovely and well liked by many. he fakes indifference, but he’s mesmerized by you. he does everything you ask for without a word. he obeys you and never questions you.
if anyone dares to touch you or talk to you inappropriately, if anyone dares to breathe the same air too close to you, or even graze your hair, he promptly intervenes to scare them away with harsh words or a warning touch of the hilt of his sword. people wondered if it’s because he’s jealous or because he’s simply overprotective of you. the truth lies in both.
even when you are betrothed to a highborn lord, he doesn’t leave your side. you both know this is how things should go. when you express him that you don’t want the arranged marriage your father imposed on you, he sees how afraid you are and he reassures you that, as long he is alive, nothing bad can happen to you, and he’s always going to be by your side.
sandor deflowers you before you husband does. it has always been inevitable. it all starts one night. you are so mad with your lord husband and with all the servants in that new castle you are forced to stay in, so far away from your home and from the people you love. you just want a familiar feeling, someone able to provide comfort, as you are being touch starved. and sexually starved, also.
he tries so hard to reject you at first, to deny his instincts, to hold back the burning desire that pulls him to you, but when he percieves how eager you are for more of his touch, of his body, tall, strong and hard, flushed against yours, of your hands in his long hair, begging for his lips and to ease your frustration. everything about him called for you from the start, and now you’re finally letting that feeling take over you.
you make sandor aware that he can apply his strenght to you. once he understands how much you yearn for that, he takes you rough, and it’s all you ever wished for: the strong touch of a real man.
you are both very horny all the time, but you must be careful not to get caught. if it was for him, he’d do you in every corner, alley, bush, whatever. he’d do you in front of your husband, if it was for him.
he teaches you things about your body, about pleasure, that you never knew existed. you adore being surrounded by all that abundance of physicality. it’s so good to be drained, let him use you to your core, leaving you sore and exhausted, knowing that behind all that roughness there’s a man who loves you to the extreme.
now you don’t feel alone anymore. you are happy and see joy in everything, even in that old boring castle and its surroundings, everywhere is a place you and your lover can cultivate your relationship. you know nothing can happen to you if he’s be your side.
