⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ sanctuary in the eye of the storm
tyrell! reader x lyonel baratheon (he's my little meow meow) | set before ashford
tw/cw - implied/light sexual content, cheating, might be ooc (also not beta read, we die like baelor), your husband is a karen
#peglyonelbaratheon
“You know...”
You said dryly, “the Baratheon stag is well-loved… though in your keep, I imagine it suffers the usual fate. Mounted and displayed for all to admire. I should rather like to do the same to you."
Lyonel arched a brow, and you thought he might take offense, you certainly hoped he did. But the Lord Baratheon's lips curled into an amused smile, and he titled his head back, and huffed a soft laugh.
"You wish to mount and admire me?" He asked, his tongue running over his teeth, "I'm flattered, truly."
You'd never been amused by your husband. He was old and lacked any enthusiasm for life. Both figuratively and literally.
Your father had married you off young, as most noble lords did. And you were grateful your lord-husband wasn't a cruel man. You'd gotten lucky. He was rich, well-connected, and on the brink of death. What more could a woman ask for?
You stepped out of the carriage gracefully; light sage and ivory silks dragged on the cobblestone. Behind you, your husband huffed as he hooked your arms together. Already he was fretting about accommodations and the latest rumors of spring storms.
You suppressed a sigh, lips curved just enough to let him believe you shared his concern. When all you really felt was the dull weight of obligation.
Storm’s End rose before you like a fortress hewn from the living stone, grey towers spiraling against a sky the color of iron. Waves crashed far below, sending salt-scented spray upward to mingle with the fresh scent of grass in the courtyard.
You could not deny its majesty, even if its grimness was a poor match for your favorite soft fabrics and gilded silks.
Your husband’s voice cracked through your reverie. “I hope they’ve prepared the guest chamber properly,” he said, voice quivering in mild panic. “The floors may be damp. Are the sheets-...?”
“I'm sure all will be fine, my lord,” you murmured, smiling, though inwardly you had little interest.
"Are you certain that this isn't a waste of time?" Your husband sighed wearily, "I have no wish to offend you, lady-wife... But is your brother so important that we must leave our estate?"
You glanced over at your husband, "Since he started squiring under the Lord Baratheon, you know it is impossible to refuse a call. Storms End is an opportunity, and Tobias expects me."
His brows knitted together, "I just find Lord Baratheon rather... distasteful. He was quite... wild at our anniversary feast. Don't tell him I said that."
You smiled wryly, remembering the night rather fondly, "I wouldn't dream of it."
That was how it had began. Your anniversary feast, celebrating a year together. Content, but still childless. Noble ladies and lords alike gossiped of it. And blamed you for being barren.
The audacity of it all.
Honestly, Lyonel shouldn't have been invited at all. But your father insisted. Tobias was a squire for the Lord Baratheon, and there was no harm in establishing secure alliances.
There had most certainly been some harm done, however. Your husband had retired early, and you could hardly stand playing a gracious host for much longer. So, when Lyonel offered a reckless grin, and an extended hand, how could you refuse?
You had danced, laughed along with him, and allowed the sparks of forbidden pleasure to ignite in the shadowed corners of the hall. After the feast, when all the candles had burned low, Lyonel found you again.
You looked forward to seeing him again, though you were unsure of what to expect.
Lyonel Baratheon awaited you in the courtyard. Cloak flung carelessly over one shoulder, a grin playing along his lips. His eyes found yours as soon as you were visible. And that lazy tilt of his head made your pulse quicken despite yourself.
He straightened as you approached, and before your husband could say a word, Lyonel bowed with exaggerated gallantry. “Lady Tyrell,” he said, voice low and teasing. “How kind of you to grace these gray stones with color."
"Lord Baratheon." You offered a hand, and he took it in one of his. His fingers swiped over the inside of your wrist, before he pressed a kiss to your knuckles, "You look well."
"I live to impress." He hummed, turning to your husband, "And the great Lord Rowan... Of course." he added, glancing at your husband with a polite but pointed smile. “I trust your travels were not too arduous?”
“Your welcome is… generous,” your husband said, stiff as the armor he occasionally fancied wearing for appearances, "How is the boy?"
"Your nephew? He is excellent, I assure you." Lyonel waved your husband's words off, "Though, the boy's sense of humor leaves something to be desired. Are all Tyrell's as prudish as him?"
You hummed, biting back a smile, "Nearly all of them, I suppose, my lord."
It was no secret that Lyonel was fond of feasts. So, it was no surprise that one was thrown to greet you and your husband into Storm's End.
Lord Rowan drowned himself in wine, always eyeing the Lord Baratheon cautiously when he laughed too loudly. As if mildly frightened.
Your younger brother was courteous, and glad to have you. But, he was stiff, and quick to slink off to join his own friends. Your husband retired quite early into the night as well, but that was no surprise to anyone.
He was old. And counting his gold seemed to tire him these days.
You did not join him, and he had no issues with that. He liked sleeping alone. He insisted you moved too much in your sleep, and preferred when you slept in your own solar.
Your fingers tugged on dark curls, peppered with grey. The soft pitter-patter of rain masked your pleased sighs as his teeth nipped at your stomach.
"... Have you no concern for propriety, my lord?" You hummed, your head resting comfortably on plush pillows.
Lyonel took his sweet time before he answered you, preferring to ravish every inch of your skin. His lips hovered just above the peak your breast, and he cocked his head, considering, "It prefers to remain at a distance when I am involved with women such as yourself.”
He hummed lowly, before speaking again, “Besides... Propriety is the concern of those without imagination... You are not so lacking in that.”
The private chambers smelled faintly of lavender and wax, the fire casting long shadows across your forms. His hands found your sides, and massaged slowly, tantalizing.
"No." You agreed, watching as his kisses moved up from the valley of your breast, "I suppose I differ from my husband in that sense, hm?"
He scoffed, "Do not speak of him to me. Not when I've had my tongue buried in your cunt for half the night." Lyonel let you wrap your arms around his neck, basking in the attention.
You allowed a faint, amused smile to brush your lips, "I've grown somewhat fond of his cautiousness..." You tilted your head, "Someone must balance your recklessness."
He moved to kiss your neck, nipping and smoothing his bites over with his tongue, "Balance? Surely that is the excuse of the prudish, and I can personally attest that you are hardly so."
Lyonel leaned back slightly, grabbing your arm to press kisses along the inside of your wrist, "You are more ravenous than any wench I have ever encountered."
It was your turn to scoff. He looked far too pleased with himself. And if you weren't so comfortable, you might have shoved him away, just to wipe that grin off his face.
“You know…”
You said dryly, “the Baratheon stag is well-loved… though in your keep, I imagine it suffers the usual fate. Mounted and displayed for all to admire. I should rather like to do the same to you, in this very moment."
Lyonel arched a brow, and you thought he might take offense, you certainly hoped he did. But the Lord Baratheon's lips curled into an amused smile, and he titled his head back, and huffed a soft laugh.
"You wish to mount and admire me?" He asked, his tongue running over his teeth, "I'm flattered, truly... Have you not had your fill for tonight, sweetling?"
You rolled your eyes, "You think yourself clever, do you?"
"Clever enough to entice you." He replied. Lyonel collapsed onto his side, a strong-arm draping over your waist.
You laughed softly, the sound mingling with the rain outside, and allowed yourself to be drawn back down to the pillows. His hands found your hair, threading through it with deliberate slowness, teasing.
"...So I am to be mounted and admired tomorrow, and tonight…?” His voice dropped, “…Tonight I am merely your plaything?”
You arched an eyebrow, leaning close, lips just brushing his ear. “Perhaps… if you are willing to earn the honor.”
He laughed low, and you felt the tension leave him. Lyonel’s teasing grin softened into something fonder, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't welcome it.
Outside, the storm raged, pounding against the walls of Storm’s End. Inside, the heat between you two seemed to burn brighter than any fire, consuming the heavy weight of obligations.
For a night, at least, the world outside could wait.
