Synopsis: This story takes place ten years before the tourney at Ashford Meadow. Lyonel traveled to Honeyholt to attend Lord Beesbury’s wedding, which I imagined as Ser Humprey’s older brother. When Lyonel joins the first evening of festivities in the main hall, he meets his old friend Leo Tyrell, who soon makes the Laughing Storm an offer he simply cannot refuse.
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x f!original character
Warnings: Lyonel is the most pathetic man alive (affectionately) and it will only get worse, possible nsfw content in the future.
Notes: it’s three in the morning and I have no energy left to proofread this. English is not my first language and I have never written a fanfiction before, please be kind.
The Tyrells were not merely a great house. In the Reach it was said that the House of the Golden Rose did not conquer with iron, but with the suffocating allure of expensive perfumes and opulent silks. If the Targaryens had forged the realm in fire and blood, the Tyrells maintained it with rivers of Arbor Gold and smiles that felt like a warm afternoon. To be in their presence felt like being a mere mortal invited to a banquet of the Gods, and at Honeyholt the adoration was absolute.
The main hall was a sea of amber light and emerald finery. Lord Leo Tyrell sat as a king in all but name, flanked by a line of supplicants. His expression one of practiced, weary grace, until his green eyes caught the spirited figure of Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm himself, striding through the crowd with a grin that threatened to split his face.
“Can you believe this mad lad ties the knot on the morrow?” Lyonel snorted as he took a seat beside Leo, nodding toward their host, Corrad Beesbury. He reached for a flagon, pouring a stream of gold into his cup. “Beesbury and Husbandhood… the two concepts refuse to sit together in my mind.”
Leo raised a perfectly groomed brow, plucking a grape from a silver platter. "Every lord must take a wife, Lyonel. Sooner or later.” His gaze flicked pointedly to the Baratheon stag pinned to Lyonel’s cloak. “Even storms eventually find a shore to break upon.”
Lyonel barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the rafters. “By the Gods, Leo, you sound like my own lady mother”. Lyonel was aware he was thirty years a man, and the cricket in his ear that was the duty of lineage was starting to sound more like a war horn. “But where is the thrill in a quiet castle and a quiet wife?” How could that kind of life ever satiate his hunger for life, his thirst for pleasure, and his lust for adventure?
“If I may, my friend,” Leo leaned in, breaking Lyonel’s thoughts with his voice of silk. “Look around you. Choose a wife before one is chosen for you. You know it’s inevitable.” Longthorn emptied his cup, “my sisters are here, Lyonel. They are kind hearted, and graceful, everything a lady of a great house should be.” Leo wasted no time dropping that hint with diplomatic ease, like the thought just occurred in his head rather than fermenting in his mind for months now.
“You're trying to play matchmaker, are you?" Lyonel raised his brow, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he quickly read through his friend’s charade. His gaze drifted to the far end of the table, where the three girls sat. They were certainly beautiful, and the match would greatly serve his House, but they looked like delicate porcelain dolls, utterly fragile in their youthful innocence.
Too young. But he immediately drowned the thought in a few gulps of Arbor gold, before turning back to his friend with a roguish glint in his eye. “If my memory serves, I do believe you have four sisters under your roof. Why do you hide the other? Is she so hideous you fear I’ll go blind?”
Leo’s mask of composure cracked, a genuine, weary laugh escaping his lips. “Hiding Begonya? My friend, you are severely mistaken if you think I can hide that beast from anyone.”
“A beast?” Lyonel's interest picked up. "Tell me more Longthorn, you know by now that I have a weakness for untamable creatures. Does she bite?” He hoped so.
"Brother, you must forgive me,” a new voice interrupted, a siren’s call that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of Lyonel’s bones. “I am dreadfully late, but I've been busy trying to pry a painter out of Lord Beesbury's clutches."
Lyonel turned, and the world slowed to a crawl.
Begonya Tyrell was a vision of prosperity and long, glossy hair, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She wore the colours of nature in full bloom, with brown curls framing her round face, emeralds in her eyes, and pink petals as lips. She was a gift from the Gods, and Lyonel nothing but an unworthy devotee.
That miracle of nature slid into the seat beside Leo, reaching past him to offer a hand to Lyonel. “You must be the Great Stag,” she said, her voice a melody Lyonel will never tire of. “Has my brother already tried to sell you one of the children?”
Lyonel took her hand, his fingers blessed by her soft skin. He kissed her knuckles, lingering, his gaze locked on hers, he had no choice but. He could not look away. “Guilty, my Lady. He just offered them up like ripe fruits for the picking.”
“They are not ripe,” Begonya retorted, making Leo roll his eyes. “They are green, and Lord Tyrell here is terrified I might corrupt their innocent minds if I put some sense into them.”
“A corrupting influence?” Lyonel leaned in, wishing for nothing more than being corrupted by that rose. “And here I was, wondering why I was offered lambs when I could have had a ferocious beast.”
“Who? Me?” Begonya let out a sudden, unladylike wheeze of laughter, clutching Leo’s shoulder for support. “Gods, you’re as mad as they say.”
Lyonel didn’t take offence. Instead, he was captivated. He watched the way her eyes crinkled, the way tears pricked the corners of her eyes, the way she bent over with hands on her stomach. She was bold, utterly ruinous, and he hoped no one would save him from her spell.
Unfortunately, Leo read through his friend’s soul, and broke the moment with his usual diplomatic efficiency. “What have you done to poor Corrad now?” Leo muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched with a reluctant smile.
“I merely tried to persuade him into reason," Begonya tried to bribe him. When she reached for a flagon of honeyed wine Lyonel, like the most loyal dog, silently served her a cup before she could even fully stretch her arm to the table, much to her amusement.
With a thankful nod to the lord of Storm’s End, her eyes moved back to Leo. “The man he has painting these very halls is far too talented to be wasted at the edge of the region. He belongs in Highgarden, serving his Lord Paramount.” Begonya wanted that painter in her entourage, at her disposal, at any given moment, to fulfil her desires, but she coated them in honey, leveraging her lord brother’s ego.
Leo turned to Lyonel with a sigh of feigned exhaustion. “You see? My dearest sister collects artists as if they were stray cats, bringing them home to fill our halls with pretty nonsense.”
Lyonel barged in, his eyes dancing between the two siblings. “And just what does a lady need with a stable of skilled artisans, may I ask?”
Begonya straightened her back, her chin lifting with a spark of pride. “I enjoy beauty in all of its forms, Ser Lyonel. And I shall have him, too, whether Lord Beesbury approves or not.” She gave a small shrug, since bruising a nobleman's ego was simply part of her daily routine.
Lyonel chuckled, his gaze lingering on the curve of her smile. He wanted more of it. “I suspect you often get exactly what you want, my lady.” He hoped she’ll want him as well.
"Indeed." Begonya sighed dramatically, leaning her head over Leo’s shoulder with practiced ease. She batted her lashes at her brother, her voice dropping to a sweet, manipulative coo. “I might not be the best diplomat, but my brother is the finest in the Seven Kingdoms. Am I right Leo?”
Leo wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer even as he groaned. He could never deny a thing to her. “Yes, yes, dearest. I'll handle it. You will have your precious painter, as you have everything else.”
“Who would I be without you?” Begonya smirked triumphantly, pressing a loud, obnoxious smooch to Leo’s bearded cheek. “I'll have him paint a portrait of your beautiful wife first, Leo. That way, you can have her close even when you can't hear her stupidly high-pitched voice."
"My wife's voice is perfectly endearing,” Leo protested, though the hint of a smile betrayed his amusement. "And of course, you must commission a portrait done of my wife first, it’s the least you can do."
"Endearing it’s not the term I would use,” Begonya quipped. She straightened up, narrowing her eyes and pitching her voice into a high, chirping imitation that was unmistakably Lady Tyrell. "'Leo, my dear, please fetch me another bar of gold, otherwise how could a Lannister like me survive in this barbaric castle?"
The table erupted. Lyonel burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking with mirth.
The feast turned into a golden haze of clinking tankhards and the joyful hum of a hundred conversations. Lyonel found himself thoroughly enjoying the merry atmosphere at Honeyholt. However, throughout the evening, his eyes restlessly drifted back to Begonya. He studied the way she existed with the utmost care, her movements so graceful, her laughter so melodic… Gods, he was helpless.
When the music shifted, the quickening tempo drew the guests toward the center of the hall and the guests began to move into the makeshift dance floor. Lyonel, with a surge of boldness exacerbated by the wine he’d been drinking all night, drained his cup in one gulp and pushed himself to his feet.
The floor seemed to tilt ever so slightly beneath his boots, but he corrected his course with a grin, striding once again toward the Tyrell’s table.
“May I borrow your fair sister for a dance, my friend?” Lyonel asked, his voice a low rumble.
Leo and Begonya raised their brows in the exact same fashion, a perfect display of their deep bond.
"One condition," Begonya moved before Leo could even draw breath. Her eyes drifted upward, settling on the antler headpiece that crowned Lyonel’s curly head. "I want to wear it."
Lyonel laughed, charmed by her sheer audacity. "A unique request from a unique lady." With a dramatic motion, he crowned her with his own headpiece. "Be my guest, my lady. Just promise me you won't use those points to skewer anyone. Especially me. I’d love to survive the night."
“I'll think about it.” Begonya shouted over the music, too tipsy to care about what the others might say. The crown was far too wide for her head, it slid down her forehead before she could adjust it with a grin on her face.
“You look utterly ridiculous” Lyonel teased as he swept her into the heart of the dancing crowd. The sight of her with his antlers on her head was absurd as it was enchanting, adding to her already peculiar charm. With every step, the headpiece threatened to slide over her eyes, forcing her to tilt her chin back with a defiant, haughty grace. Lyonel didn’t wait for her to recover; with a playful twirl, he caught her by her waist and drew her flush against him.
"What a charming compliment, good Ser," Begonya shot back, a delighted smirk playing on her lips as she shoved the iron ring back into place.
“Always the witty response,” Lyonel retorted, his grin widening. He watched her struggle with the antlers, a rich chuckle vibrating in his chest. As they spun, he leaned down, his breath warm against her ear. “You look like a creature out of a traveler’s tale. A forest faerie, perhaps, who stole a knight’s heart."
Begonya felt a sudden heat creeping under her skin that had nothing to do with the wine. His proximity was overwhelming. The scent of his leather, the note of sandalwood in his perfume, and the Arbor gold lingering in his breath seemed to wrap around her. She struggled to keep up with the music as her mind wandered to dangerous waters, but refused to let her mask of mischief slip. “Are you calling me eerie, you shiny knight?” She managed to tease, though her breath hitched.
“I have been called many things in my life,” Begonya continued, the sentence hanging in the air as they parted for a brief exchange of partners. She spun away into the arms of someone she couldn’t bother to look in the face, only to be snatched back by Lyonel a moment later. His hand found the small of her back again, firm and steady, and she realized much to her dismay how nice his touch felt. "But never a faerie."
“Well then, consider it a first.” Lyonel said, his dark eyes glistening with unabashed mischief as he held her a little tighter than decorum required. “You certainly have the grace of one. Though…” his gaze roamed over her with a slow, appreciative heat, “you are far more… substantial than the spirits in the songs.” In his inebriated mind one thing was certain: if he was the knight from the fables, he would have planned to get lost in the woods only to end up at her mercy.
“Ser Lyonel Baratheon!” Begonya gasped, feigning the outrage of a proper lady, though she wasn’t exactly one.
Lyonel laughed heartily, his grip tightening to keep her steady as the music reached a crescendo. “Oh, forgive me my dearest lady. I am nothing but a simple man from the Stormlands. We were never known for lying, and your figure is… quite pleasing to the eye.”
Begonya, never one to shy away from a compliment, let a small, vain smile curl her lips. “Reign over your wandering eyes my lord,” she teased, clapping her hands in time with the drums before resting them back on his delectably sturdy arms. “Lest you forget, you’ve been offered the hand of one of my sisters.”
Lyonel snorted, spinning her once more with effortless strength. “Is it jealousy that I hear, my lady? And what if I find I prefer a woman with a bit more… experience?”
Begonya tossed her head back, the antlers wobbling precariously. “I am not pious, but jealousy is something foreign to me. Prefer who you fancy, my shiny knight, but I am no prize to be won at a fair. Looking is all you shall ever get from me.”
As the final note of the lute faded, the dancers bowed. Begonya reached up and, with an amused smirk, settled the stag horns back to their rightful place on Lyonel’s head. He looked down at her, besotted to his very core. He had spent his life surrounded by men and women who sought his favor with shy glances and soft nothings alike. He had no idea what to do with that woman, whom he wanted with every fiber of his being, but whom he couldn’t have… yet. He only knew that he didn’t want the music to stop.
“A pity,” Lyonel remarked, his voice dropping into feigned disappointment. “And here I was, hoping to try my luck against the most formidable fortress in the Reach.” He took her hand, an exquisite thing that he would surely feel on his skin for days, and raised it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on its knuckles before he offered her a formal bow.
Begonya's smile widened. In a court full of men who bruised easily under her sharp tongue, Lyonel’s amusement was a refreshing change of pace. But as he rose from his bow, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she reached up and caught his nose between her index and middle finger, giving it a firm, playful pinch.
"Whichever child you decide to pry on from my nursery of sisters makes no difference to me,” she whispered, her voice sweeter than honey, albeit her eyes gleamed with a sudden, perilous light. “But remember my words, Baratheon: if you end up hurting a single hair on their heads, I will skip the tears and go straight to the poisons. I heard nightshade is particularly effective against stags.”
She delivered the threat with an angelic, serene smile, before releasing him with a final, friendly pat on his rosy cheek. She turned on her heel, her emerald silks disappearing back into the crowd.
For a heartbeat Lyonel stood frozen, then burst into a roar of laughter that turned the heads of half of the guests. The woman was absolutely, magnificently mad, and he found himself wanting more of it with a ferocity that bordered on insanity. “Try me, my lady!” he shouted after her, still snickering as he shook his head. The weight of the antlers on his head never felt lighter. Begonya Tyrell was not a bloom, she was the poisonous blossom he had no idea he was waiting for.
As the candles burned down and the music slowed to a weary thrum, Lyonel found his world narrowing. He had performed his duties: he had danced with maidens from every noble house, and engaged in conversations with more lords that he could name, but his gaze had never stopped hunting for that specific flash of emerald damascus. Finally, unable to resist the pull any longer, he moved through the thinning crowd toward the high table.
Begonya was seated there with a complete lack of ceremony, her cheek resting against the back of her chair as she sipped from a goblet.
Lyonel leaned in closer, his voice a low, playful rumble. “My dear lady, I've been thinking…”
Begonya looked up, green eyes already shining with mischief. “Thinking? At this hour, my lord?” She patted the empty chair by her side, a silent invitation that Lyonel accepted with a gracious nod. “What could possibly be occupying the mind of a noble knight when the rest of the castle is drifting to dreams?”
Lyonel settled beside her, draping one arm over the back of her chair, his body angled toward hers. He studied her for a long moment, appreciative of the way the artificial light reflected across her features. “Many things, actually,” he replied, his tone cryptic. “But there is one particular thought that keeps nagging in my ears…”
He leaned closer, the wine in their bloodstream and the closeness of the night loosening his manners. His gaze searched hers, intense and unblinking. "I find I cannot get you out of my head, my lady. I was wondering..." He paused, letting the silence briefly stretch between them for dramatic effect, the ghost of a smile growing at the corners of his lips. “Are you always this charming, or have I emptied the perfect number of cups to be utterly defenseless against your beauty?”
Begonya chuckled, the sound soft and private in the narrow space left between them. “I am this charming all the time, my lord, though I thank you for your concern.” Her eyes followed the bending of the stag antlers resting over his brow. With the grace of someone who had too many drinks, she reached up and pulled a silk ribbon from her own hair, let a few curls free, and proceeded to knot the fabric around one horn. "Please do not trouble your mind with manoeuvres of conquest,” she added, her voice a teasing purr. “I won't give myself to you, if this is what your thoughts are wandering.”
Lyonel watched her, mesmerized by her audacity. It was bold to mark the Baratheon stag with a scrap of Tyrell silk. He had never met a woman who spoke with such lethal frankness. He raised a brow, the delight tugging at his lips for so long it started to bring pain to his muscles. “Rest assured, Begonya,” how wonderful the roll of her name on his lips, “you are a temptation, but I am not one to take what isn't freely offered.”
“That honours you, my lord.” Begonya shifted, settling deeper into her chair. She stretched out an arm to retrieve her cup from the table, taking a slow sip. “If not conquest, then what is puzzling that great head of yours?”
Lyonel chuckled, leaning back to match her relaxed posture. “I was merely wondering how a lady as unique and intriguing as yourself has remained unwed till now. Surely many lords have spent years falling over one another to win your affection.”
“To be honest,” Begonya said, taking another, thoughtful sip of Arbor gold, “I lost count of the suitors between the third and fourth year since my introduction at court.” She snorted at the memory, the sound rich with the memory of many disappointed noblemen. “But I have said no to every last one of them.”
Lyonel raised an eyebrow at her confession, his curiosity shifting into genuine surprise. “All of them?” He repeated, his tone incredulous. “That is no small feat. Most maidens would have leapt at the first chance to secure a lordship and a name, the others would be sold by their families regardless of their will.”
Begonya shuddered. “I never particularly fancied the thought of being traded like a prize mare to some man twice my age, only to spend my days in a nursery and my nights in a shroud of duty. My lord father died soon after I became of age for marriage, and Leo was too young to carry the duties of the warren of the south alone. He needed a shoulder to share the weight, and I traded my services with freedom.”
Lyonel watched her, noting how the wine had stripped away the polite mask of the noble woman, showing to the air something raw and unapologetically truthful. “A very… practical way of looking at things,” he mused, his gaze drifting over her with renewed interest.
“Lyonel, If it might be my turn to ask a question…” Begonya chuckled to herself once more, her nose scrunching in that way he was quickly beginning to adore, “how many times must I say ‘no’ to you?” She didn’t seem to notice the slip, the sweet way his name tasted on her tongue without the weight of his titles. But he noticed, and it felt like a victory, however small.
“Oh, just a dozen more, I believe.” Lyonel replied, his tone cheeky. “Until you realize what a catch I truly am.” He leaned in again, his eyes locked onto hers as he reached out, his fingers grazing the fabric of her sleeve. “You cannot resist a storm forever, you know?”
Begonya rolled her eyes, but a small, amused smile betrayed her. A tiny voice from the depths of her head whispering that perhaps she didn’t want to resist him. She pushed his hand away with a playful flick of her wrist, though she refused to move an inch further from him. “Bet.”
Lyonel’s blood ignited by the challenge of her indifference. “Oh you are on,” he said, refilling both their cups and raising his to his face. “But I must warn you, you wild flower. I always get what I desire.”
Begonya laughed, a sharp, bright sound that melted his knees. “Then go cry me a river, Lord Baratheon. You’ll see no white flag in this battle." She raised her wine as well, gulping it down after a thankful nod.
“A river?” Lyonel repeated with mock-indignation. “Is my lady truly so terrified of being swept away by my irresistible charm?”
Begonya's cheeks were aching from the constant smiling. To his credit, the man was undeniably a delightful creature, bold, loud, and entirely too observant. “May I remind you, again, that your path into my family lies with one of my younger sisters?” She said, reaching over to pluck that ridiculous headpiece from his head to settle it back on her head once more. "But tell me, where does this sudden determination come from? Is it simply because the Great Stag cannot stomach a refusal? Or do you harbor some secret desire to be the only man in the Seven Kingdoms to whom I finally say yes?”
Lyonel couldn't help but chuckle, the sound deep and resonant. He leaned back, his gaze roaming her face with a quiet, appreciative intensity. “Both options are true,” he admitted, his smile turning sly. He leaned in again, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Besides… you cannot deny the spark between us, Begonya. It’s enough to set this castle alight.” He gestured with a ringed finger between the two of them.
Begonya propped her chin upon her closed fist, dangerously closing the already narrow distance between the two of them. “But why the urge to court me?” She asked, her eyes searching for his lovely ones. “We could be the finest of friends, Lyonel. Think of it, a lifetime of ruffling each other's feathers without the stifling weight of a marriage knot.”
Lyonel grew quiet for a moment, the word bitter in his mind. “Friendship, eh?” As if friends looked at each other with such mirth, he thought. “And here I thought I was making significant headway.” He reached out, his fingers curling around a loose curl that had escaped her hair ribbon earlier. The touch was brief, yet heavy with unmasked desire. “Are you offering a truce, my lady?”
“On the contrary, I am offering years of wholehearted arguing.” Her smile softened, and slowly retrieved her hair from his touch. “And if you behave, I might even stop threatening you with poisons someday.”
The reminder of Leo's earlier matchmaking offer hit Lyonel right in the chest. He couldn’t entirely suppress the twinge of disappointment that flared in his heart, but he masked it instantly with a roughish grin. “The joys of brotherly love,” he quipped, his tone laced with sarcasm. “I'll be on my best behavior. I Promise.” He raised a hand to his heart, though he knew that would not be the case.
