Sandor Clegane x fem reader // you're a maid: misogyny, sexual content 18+, westeros typical attitudes and language, painful sex + size kink, breeding kink, dubcon-ish, abrupt ending
Sandor is used to being given a wide berth.
The maids scurry around him like mice, back and forth and around, most of them used to him if not used to looking at their feet when he’s around. Sheep parting for a sharpeyed herding dog, nervous fillies tensing and changing course as they sense danger— it’s fine.
He prefers it that way, doesn’t want to have to bark all day to unstick the innumerable tittering servants that populate the keep from his sides.
Part of it is his size, the other his burns, the gnarled skin that makes most of the barrage turn their eyes away for fear of finding his eyes and thus finding his anger. Joffrey knows well enough how to use it to his advantage, knew when he chose the Hound for his personal protector.
He’s got no issue with the coin, with the status. Mostly he takes two steps forward and whoever’s got any issue with the king or otherwise takes three steps back. When he’s dismissed from duty he drinks or fucks or takes Stranger out for exercise, anything to numb his mind and shake the energy from his muscles which leaves him feeling like a beehive.
The kennel master makes the dogs run at the shallow edge of the Kingswood if they get too rowdy. He laughs a great laugh when he sees Sandor return sweaty from the same woods atop Stranger for the same purpose, the only man not afraid to.
You’re a nuisance at first. Clumsy for a maid, new— you won’t last long.
He sees you spill three goblets of the good stuff trying to take it up the stairs on a tray, then the next night at dinner a whole roasted quail and all the golden potatoes made special for the queen regent. A splatter of juice at your feet, tears in your eyes, you brush by his shoulder to beg the kitchens for another.
Sandor knows the population of labourers swells and abates nearer to and further from grand events, but he wonders if they’re really so desperate they haven’t thrown you out or let king at you for all the trouble you've caused.
The tourney for the nameday of the golden princess grows nearer, amplifying the chaos behind the velvet curtains where the bluebloods can’t see. The kitchens smell perpetually of bread and meat and herbs, of sweat and toil. You hide there when you can, thinking no one will notice, that nobody can see. His eyes flit to you when he walks by or through, where you’re begging to just be made to peel potatoes or stir a great pot of sweet smelling broth.
“Please, they’re already cross with me,” you whine, soft and insistent, fingers twisted in your cream coloured skirts.
Sylvanna the old kitchen maid always takes pity, always negotiates with the stewards to let you be useful here rather than disruptive in the hall or gods forbid serving a noble. Three of her now grown children work in the keep, and you seem to have weaseled your way into her maternal old heart.
He tries to pay no mind, knows you’ll likely be gone soon after the festivities are over and therefore he doesn’t feel the need to do much more than snap at you when you bump into him and then watch your ass in those skirts move as you scurry away.
Sandor would never force a woman, but he won't keep himself from looking and lusting, of thinking of the way your voice goes high when you've gotten in trouble yet again and how it might sound when you're full of his cock, the way you might look with your dress pulled down and those sweet tits dangling in his face. He's no more than a man, and he'll honor his urges by fisting his cock to the thought of lapping at your cunt if he wants.
He finds you smeared in mud after a smattering of rain one morning, herbs tucked into the apron of your uniform, hands full of leaves, the unnecessary shit nobles need to eat their food. You're rushing, flustered again, hands making a mess of the gardens.
“They'll whip you for that,” he grunts, “looks like a rabbit's been at it.”
You look up, eyes wide with a familiar fear. It makes him sneer.
“I'm to take all the rosemary to–”
“Are you supposed to tear up the roots, too, little rabbit?”
You pause, and your mouth works for a moment. The garden bed is a mess, and half the rosemary you've got is the woody ends, the roots pulled right from the ground.
The realization dawns on you at the same moment he steps forward, and you lean back, whispering, “that's why it was so tough…”
He laughs, neither cruel nor kind. When his leather clad hand curls around the pommel of his shorter blade, your eyes widen and you fall back onto your bum as he draws the steel out.
“I didn't mean to–” you squeak, poor little rabbit. He cuts the remaining herbs and leaves the stump to grow back again, tossing the plants to the ground. You sag in relief.
“Are you simple?” He knows you aren't, he only wants to be abrasive, wants to punish the fear you felt, make you feel silly for thinking he'd cut you down over some rosemary.
He's a dog, not a monster. Though he benefits from his reputation, he isn't Gregor.
“No, I'm not- I'm sorry, I thought…” you look away, standing, mud on your skirt.
“That the castle dog would maul your pretty neck?”
“I'm not used to seeing steel!” You insist. He can't tell if you're truthful. “I was just startled is all.”
He straightens fully, towers above you, feels acutely aware of his face and his stature as he grunts, “no? That was the smaller one.”
You step around him on the soggy garden ground and, like prey, your eyes follow him from the side. He finds it both tired and endearing.
He wonders how you'd look at him should he reveal he's got no sword for you but instead a long hard cock.
“Thank you for your help,” you say quickly, before disappearing.
The next time he sees you is in the stables. Stranger has been snuffling around a ripe new mare, and now nobody but Sandor can brush him down and put him away for the night. Too rowdy, his boy. Too like his rider.
It isn't until the padlock is shut that he hears you again with your tears. Soft, weeping just behind the wall. He pauses.
“I haven't got the coin,” your voice is quiet, miserable, “they haven't paid us yet.”
The low murmur of another voice, something he can’t make out, sounds angry, pointy. He hears you sniffle loudly, hears the shuffle of feet.
The conversation peters off, until he hears you walk around the stable and back towards the keep.
Sandor steps into your path—he can be quiet when he wants.
It’s not the first time he’s startled you (he hopes not the last), and that little squeaky gasp is enough to rush blood to his cock, straining against armor, trying to get at you. Down, boy.
“What’s that you’re weeping about?” he looms, “poor little rabbit. Not enough coin?”
The immediate scrunch of your nose and the pull of your lips makes him pulsate.
“That wasn’t any of your business, Ser.”
“No?” he looks you up and down, lecherous, but not threatening. He stands still, lets you squirm, “not a Ser.”
You return the look, only your eyes are far away, sad and frightened. The anxious expression on your face doesn’t flag his cock, but it does make him curious.
“Someone hurting you?”
That makes you pause, frown. You look up at him and your eyes are more focused, yet no less distrusting.
“Want me to kill them?”
The evening air is all he can feel for a moment, trapped so in your wide eyes, little rabbit girl and the sweet smell of her hair, her wet face, eyes lashes clinging together. You don’t understand— why should he offer such a thing? A beast like him.
“Nothing so sweet as killing someone that deserves it,” he presses, “who is it? Some ugly little whelp you took for a husband? That sorry fuck hit you?”
His eyes search for marks, knowing all too well the kinds of abuses women can suffer, especially in this godsforsaken castle. The image of his brother knighted still haunts him worse than the smell of his own skin charring.
Your mouth opens, moving again—cute— and you shake your head, “no, no. I’m not married. Nobody’s hurting me.”
“Then what?” he presses, reaching out quicker than you can anticipate and cupping his huge hand to your soft cheek. Not married. He looks down at your body, wants to see it swollen, trapped by a babe.
You look up at him, sucking in a soft breath, then rush, “I just need— I need my coin from the steward, because,” you pause for a breath, “because I’m in debt. It’s stupid, it's all my fault. I just need to pay or they said they’ll burn my home down.”
Burn. That makes him freeze. Who’d threaten such a thing against you? You’re a silly, clumsy woman, what kind of trouble could you possibly be in— he isn’t naive enough anymore to believe in appearances anymore, but his gut tells him you’re as sweet as you look.
“What kind of fucking debt?”
“The— they wanted my house. But I grew up there! I was born in it, I wanted to have children there too, and who else has a house? I’m fortunate to have—” he stops you with a hand over your mouth. Littlefinger, that rodent had been buying up property, god knows for what. Sandor can picture it now, men at your door, demanding some kind of tax, punishing you until you're destitute, all for some fucking house he’s sure is smaller than Baelish’s room in the Keep.
“I’ll take care of it.”
Your eyes, impossibly wide. You bravely pull his hand away from your mouth, holding his thick fingers with yours, “no! But how? I can pay, I think, I just need my salary.”
“You think some fucking maids salary is going to satisfy that greedy bastard? I thought you said you weren’t simple.”
It takes nine days to corner that smarmy cunt and make him accept Sandor’s coin, to back down to a threat and the promise that should Littlefinger not turn his sights to another place, then who’s to stop the Hound from separating his head from that scrawny throat?
You find him in less than an hour after he leaves Baelish. You’re panting, sweating, eyes wide and in awe as you see him, “Ser!”
“Not a Ser,” he says, muscle memory.
“How did you do it?” you step close, too close. All your fear is gone, all that weight. He feels a smidge of something warm in his belly.
He tells you the truth—
You touch his armor and look up, wide eyes and sweet face, “how can I repay you?”
Sandor brings you to his preferred inn. Far, but worth the ride for its privacy. The innkeep isn’t afraid of him and the tavern girls are getting there, too. They know he’s there to drink and sleep, sometimes to bring a whore for the night. They know he won’t hurt them.
You lean back against his chest the entire way, watching as the city thins enough to relax, as the smells abate. You’d kissed his cheek and smiled when he asked to take you to bed, naive girl. He wants to marry you, but he won't say it yet. Wants to pump you full of brats and fill that empty house of yours just to see you smile again.
There’s no need for drinks, though he offers anyway— wine? Ale? You shake your head to both, insisting on seeing the room first. I’ve never been in an inn you say, like it's fancy. He supposes you’d have no need to, no extra coin to. It was stupid and brave to try and pay Littlefinger with a maids salary, now you can keep it all.
He pulls your dress down to see what he’s been waiting for for weeks, exposing your tits to the air, hunching down and bringing one to his mouth so he can suck on your tight nipple.
His mouth lavishes them, enjoys the feeling of soft skin in his mouth and the smell of your soap, the breaths form your lips.
When you see him, that angry red bobbing cock springing free from his britches, you swallow, “that— it’s way too big.”
“A maid, then?” he says against the skin of your soft breast, fingers hiking your dress up, finding the wet seam of your cunt. No underclothes. You’re soft there, too, skin and hair caressing his hand, sweet little pussy.
“No,” you shake your head, “I almost got married once. But you're much bigger than he was.”
He laughs, hitches you further up the bed by cupping your lady’s place and pulling, making you squeak. Sandor has always known he’s bigger than most, but he loves to hear it. Especially from a pretty woman, in bed with him without the promise of coin.
“I’ll lick you first,” he bunches your skirts up and pushes them up to your stomach, laying down to reach your pussy.
He’s only a man, and this is just the sweetest sight. You’re damp for him between the thighs, plush and pretty. His thumb finds the junction between your thigh and groin and presses there, fingers curling around your asscheck, as he leans forward and sniffs.
“Oh, don’t!” you cry out, bending so as to pull away.
“You’re in bed with a fucking hound,” he presses his nose to the slit of you, breathing in your sweet musk. You lay back down. Sandor puts his tongue on you, splits you with it, sliding through your folds like tasting the most decadent meal. He pushes it inside, tasting your hole, making an introduction before his cock arrives.
You keen, high, as loud as you want— who’s going to interrupt Clegane in bed? Nobody who wants to keep their head. When he comes up to suck on your swollen clit, you shout your pleasure into the air.
It’s only when he can fit four thick fingers inside you that he sits back up and presses the head of his cock to you, an angry ram battering down the door. You tense for a moment as he pushes in, holding your breath.
“You can take it,” he slides further, “feel that?”
Your pussy squeezes him, involunterarily or not, he snarls with how tight you are around him, “sweetest fucking cunt I’ve ever had. Grateful fucking cunt.”
You make a pained little sound as he pushes in another inch or so, a squeak, your pussy squeezing around him like a vice. He knows he’s a big man, shushes you by rubbing your flank like a horse, “hush, girl.”
“It’s hurting,” you complain, bottom lip pushed out, hips wiggling to try and make space, “just wait—”
“You’re almost there,” he’s not lying, there’s only half an inch or so until he’ll be buried all the way up your snug cunt, but he doesn’t want to make you suffer. No, he just needs you a little wetter, so he waits right there and swipes a tough thumb over your begging clit. You gasp, and whine again.
“San- Sandor,” your hand goes trying to grasp his wooly forearm, but you’re overwhelmed and uncoordinated, eyes glassy, fingers wiggling in the air, “stop, or I’ll come.”
“Come,” he doesn’t stop, pulls back the delicate skin covering your precious clit and presses until he feels it jump and flex against his thumb, “wet my cock.”
A comet in the sky, a star bursting open— you’re amazing to see, so open, shaking and squeezing on him, his cock sliding through the gush of your orgasm to bottom out.
“That’s a good girl,” he encourages, not letting up, sliding back out through your soaked hole and back in. He abandons your clit and instead pulls back the wet lips of your pussy so he can watch himself disappear all the better inside you.
“Look.”
You do, head coming up, unfocused eyes searching for where he's connected to you. You’re so full, he can tell by the way you’re gasping for every breath, fingers gripping your skirts now to hang onto anything, to pull them up so you can see too.
Sandor regrets not tearing the dress from your body when he could, laments that he can’t see your belly so that he can picture what it might look like swollen up with his babe. He gives the fabric you're holding the stink eye, palms itching to hold your middle as he ploughs you like a ripe field.
“How’s that big cock feel in your guts, little rabbit?” he pants, damp with sweat, the room hot. Wonders if his callouses and scars and body hair hurts your soft skin, “gonna be even more full when I give you my load.”
“Mmhn,” you lift your eyes to him, mouth wide and open, “you’ll put a babe in me.”
“Yeah?” he pumps you harder, watching himself disappear, fingers moving to your knees so he can push your legs back further, “can feel how wet you are, doesn’t sound like an issue. You want me to make you a mother?”
“Please,” you nod slowly, rocked up the mattress by his thrusts, “oh, please.”
“Pretty little rabbit,” he grunts, mouth curling into a snarl as he really starts to focus, “don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
The veins in his neck pop, throbbing in time with his cock, back aching from how frenzied he’s becoming. You begin to shout again when you can breathe, fingers clenched, pressed so against the mattress so that you can’t move. He’s going to pump you full, breed you, make you his.
“That’s right,” he snarls, “I’m going to fill you up, rabbit, you hear? Best cunt I ever felt.”
That expression— she must have been made in the image of the Mother— he’s heard it a thousand times, praise for delicate princesses full with the next heir, for the peasant girls that visit the king for him to bless their babies or swollen stomachs. He’s tuned it all out, only ever interested in spilling outside or watching the woman he’s bedded drink her contraceptive.
Sandor understands, now, looking down at you. His muscles tighten, balls drawing up to his body as he fucks you hard with the singular goal of making you withchild. Of planting himself inside you and watching you grow and grow.
He lowers his face to yours and scratches your delicate neck with his stubble, growling promises threats in your ear about the way you’ll need to depend on him after, about how he’s going to marry you after this. He watches the way your tits bounce, wants to see them leak with the evidence of this union.
His pace stays consistent even as he swipes over your clit again, demanding one more time for your surrender, waiting to come until you’ve begun to shake again, begun to cry with the sensitivity.
He pulses inside of you, pressing all his weight down for a moment, snarling like an animal as he makes a mess.
Just as you begin to push weakly at his shoulders, he sits up, gingerly pulling his cock out. You’re wide, swollen, leaking. He pushes a pillow under your hips and lays beside your exhausted body, murmuring, “they make the royal ladies do this to make sure the seed took.”
You turn to him, pressing your forehead to his hairy chest.
“That’s right, bunny,” he grunts, “hows it feel, hm? Nice and bred.”
Sandor’s breath fanned against your cheek, slow and steady. But not like he was asleep, you could feel it — The subtle shift of his chest against your back with each inhale, that wasn’t quite deep enough for slumber. The way his fingers curled a little tighter against your stomach, a gentle pressure that seemed almost unconscious. His body was firm and warm, radiating heat in the quiet darkness of the room. He was definitely awake but staying quiet, enjoying the intimacy of the moment, which he had to live so long without.
You kept your eyes closed and didn’t move either, as you wanted to relish his presence as much as possible before starting the day. The warmth of his massive body seeped into your skin. His heavy arm slung over your waist, holding you close to his strong, hairy chest. His huge legs pressed against yours from behind. His scruffy beard scratched against your head, where his chin rested.
You felt protected. Safe.
Shifting back, you tried to shuffle even further into him, wanting to be swallowed by his entire being — but you stilled just as quickly and your lazy eyelids fluttered open for the first time today, when you felt his hard outline pressing against your backside while being confined by only his breeches. A twitch, then.
Sandor shifted his hips just slightly at your movement, it seemed almost accidentally, like he couldn’t help it. Like he didn’t mean to, but his body acted on instinct and a primal reaction overcame his senses. Or perhaps he wanted to make it seem accidental but wished for you to notice, in truth.
Your lips parted, but no words passed them — You waited. Waited for him to act, feeling your own arousal beginning to stir in your abdomen and the sensation creeping into your private parts.
His formerly relaxed hand on your stomach drifted lower, slow and uncertain. It rested over the band of the light skirt you slept with, his thumb pressing gently into the dip of your hip. He hesitated — and you could feel the tension in his body, like he was trying to talk himself out of it, or waited for your encouragement. Like he didn’t want to risk simply asking.
Instead, he nudged his face closer into your neck, exhaled against your skin like he’d been holding his breath the entire night and tickled your face with his facial hair. You felt long fingers ghost over your clothed ass, before hooking them into the fabric and pulling it to the side, baring your holes to the stuffy air beneath the blankets.
Then, you gasped, as the tip of his huge dick nudged against your folds and messily smeared his pre-cum over your sex — He was testing your reaction.
Still, no words passed between the two of you. Silence only interrupted by heavy-growing breathing and the rustling of sheets while you moved and bunched them in your fists.
You didn’t object, didn’t stop him. Pushing your hips into his and tilting them upwards was an involuntary reaction, but mirrored the desire in your entire body — and it was all he was waiting for, all he needed.
He pushed forward, sinking his tip into your pussy. A groan rumbled in his throat and as it reached your ears, it made you immediately contract around his cock, engulfing it like a soft, warm vice. Pushing further, slow and steady, he forced his dick deep inside of you.
A sharp pain suddenly flashed through your lower body at his intrusion and you twitched away from him with a whine, making his hand shoot out to your lower stomach and press down to keep you where you were.
His length stretched your fluttering walls impossibly while he pushed himself into your tight warmth until he was entirely buried inside you. He stayed still, for a short while, giving you time to adjust. Pressing the heel of his hand onto your lower stomach harder, you felt your eyes roll back into your head at the delicious sting this elicited.
Your hand reached back to curl into his forearm and feel the hard muscle rippling beneath his skin. So strong, you thought and clenched down onto his dick as a sudden affection for this usually fearsome man filled your mind.
He set a slow rhythm, every thrust deep and intimate, the quiet sounds of your breath catching in tandem and interrupted by low moans and grunts. His nose was buried in your hair, drowning in your scent.
When he finally let his fingers drift lower and glide through your folds, a new wave of pleasure washed over you, making you desperately buck into him to meet his thrusts. He found your most sensitive spot, rubbing it in deliberate circles.
The former pain had subsided, leaving only the immense pleasure he provided by slapping his thighs against your ass over and over again, and hitting that spot inside you that your fingers could never reach. Filthy squelching noises filled the air around you.
You felt the sensations increase, clenching every muscle in your lower body and clamping down onto his dick like you wanted him to never pull out. Your peak steadily approached and you screwed your teary eyes shut.
Sandor felt it as well, steadily keeping up his thrusts and the ministrations on your clit at the same time. His jaw clenched while he fucked you through your orgasm, which crashed over you with breathtaking force.
His movements began to get sloppy as he abandoned his restraint and let him lose himself in the pleasure your dripping cunt provided so sweetly. A groan tumbled from his lips when his balls tightened and he released his seed in your depths, pressing your body flush to his.
With heavy breaths, both your muscles relaxed almost simultaneously and you lay like this for a few heartbeats, spent and tired. His dick still inside you, twitching occasionally as the last pulses of his climax subsided. You could feel the warm wetness of his seed slowly seeping out where your bodies remained joined, creating a mess between your thighs. Your heartbeats gradually slowed in unison, the rapid pounding giving way to a gentler rhythm.
“Mornin’,” he rumbled in your ear, voice heavy with sleep, before he fleetingly pressed his lips to your temple.
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Synopsis: Lyonel welcomes his princess to the world, and he won’t listen to the realm’s complaints.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, mentions of child birth but nothing too specific, part two of my Arryn! Reader, dad! Lyonel! lovestruck! Lyonel, fluff!
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Part 1 of this fic
“Gods be good, we should call you the crying storm, hm?”
Your newborn daughter cries loudly in her father’s arms, a thunderous cry that rivals the booming thunder and lightning strikes just outside the chamber windows. Lyonel looks down upon her with a bright grin while a summer storm blows outside the castle, despite the cold weather, his smile alone could warm the whole keep.
You watch them with love in your heart as you lay upon drenched sheets. The handmaidens wash the drying crimson away from your skin whilst one of your ladies brings you water to wet your dry lips. You’re awfully tired, sore, and your voice is almost lost from the screaming, but you refuse to sleep so you could look at your family and etch the memory in your heart forever.
The chamber smells of incense and petrichor as the maesters bow and leave the room, more than relieved that they didn’t end up with two dead Baratheons.
The lord of Storm’s End cradles the screaming Baratheon against his chest, letting his warmth soothe the babe while he takes her tiny hand in his larger calloused one. Roughened by tourneys and sword battles, amidst a softer skin that resembles your own. A tender chuckle escapes him, she already has him wrapped around her finger. His eyes then turn to you, hair clinging to your sweaty face, cheeks warm and eyes watery as you meet with his gaze. You must look like you took a tumble off your horse and fell into a murky marsh, and yet, he looks at you with so much love in the realm that the babe’s cries are music to his ears.
The stranger has spared the both of you, and the maiden granted him a new life to protect and cherish. And for that, Lyonel feels richer than a golden haired Lannister, more elated than anyone in the whole realm.
“You look majestic, my love.” He utters softly, the laughing storm’s usual booming voice grows tender with every step as he closes the distance towards you on the bed. “Utterly beautiful.”
“I feel dreadful.” Chuckling, you wipe a trembling hand across your sweaty face. “I must look dreadful.”
“Quite the opposite.” Lyonel shakes his head immediately, sitting down beside you as your daughter’s cries subsides with him gently cradling her. “Doesn’t your mother look radiant?” He brings the babe closer to you as she gurgles, tiny hands reaching for you as if she sensed your presence. “That would be a definite yes, my darling.”
“Not even an hour old and you’re already tugging her along with your jape.” Opening your arms, Lyonel carefully hands you the babe as she immediately tucks herself in your warmth, small fingers curling around your drenched chemise. “She’s beautiful.” Tears cling to your lashes as he helps prop your head on the bed with him inching behind you and bringing you both to his chest. “All ten fingers and toes,” sighing, you lean up to gaze upon him. “and she has your nose.”
“Not a jape, and she has your beauty.” Grinning down, he pecks the tip of your nose whilst his hand moves stray strands of hair away from your face. “Mayhaps she’ll have your tenacity too.”
Chortling, you chase his lips, as your ladies bow and scamper away from the room to grant you and your lord husband privacy. “She’s a stormborn, she will be. Or be the death of us.”
His laughter reverberates through you, warming your soul as his breath fans your cheeks before kissing your lips carefully, as if you’ll break in his arms. His fingers hold your chin tenderly, a thumb wiping away the salty tears flowing down your cheek. Once parted, a smile permanently etched on his face, he lays his forehead atop your own.
He hums, a rumble you could feel from his sturdy chest. “She’s a Baratheon, our girl. She’ll give us plight but we’ll love her anyway.” His eyes darted down to the sleeping babe in your arms, watching her breathe, a father already worried for his child. “What shall we call her, hm? Something mighty perhaps.”
“Lyonel—”
“Not appropriate for a lady but I’m honored, truly.” He teases, a hand cupped around your elbow while the other holds the back of his daughter’s head.
You swallow down a cry threatening to burst out of you as you lay your cheek on his clavicle. “Lyonel, I’m sorry.”
“Hm?” His hum vibrates from his chest and unto you. “What for?”
“That she’s not a boy, an h–heir.” Your voice cracks, lips wobbling as you sniff and gaze sweetly at her. “I promise that the next one will be a boy, just give me some time—”
“My love.” Tone steady, he takes your face gently in his warm palm, smiling softly as you feel his love swirl underneath his eyes. “Even if you birth me a fawn I would still be happy. We can try again, yes, and I would be joyous for it but a daughter is still my child, our child. You have given me the greatest gift, and if no boy comes next then she’ll be my heir. Fuck the folk who says otherwise. I’ll go to war if need be.”
“Gods,” you’re sobbing atop his chest, clouded by emotions as he holds you in place, a hand on your nape and lips pecking the crown of your head. “I’m glad I chose you and not a Lannister.”
He laughs, softer this time to allow his daughter much needed sleep. “I’m lucky you chose me.”
Leaning away, you look up at him with a smile, eyes crinkling in the corners as he matches your expression. “What shall we name her? I’m thinking ‘Alice.’”
His nose scrunches, shaking his head almost immediately. “Definitely not that one.”
Summary :: You decide to give Lyonel a taste of his own medicine as he gets work done, only it doesn't go exactly as you had planned
A/N :: I love this man. He is what's getting me through uni rn. When classwork piles, I think of him and forget my woes (fully working on more fics of him so I don't have to do essays).
If you enjoy my work, consider leaving a comment or kofi as support
ʕ • ᴥ • ʔ ❤️
GIF by not-tootall
Lyonel knew how to get under your skin, he knew how to get under everyone’s skin. Typically, he enjoyed teasing you while you were taking care of household items–pay for the domestic staff, budget for supplies, etc–making it difficult for you to do your work. How could you possibly focus on numbers when he was peppering kisses along your neck, sneaking a hand down your dress, whispering about what you two had done the night before in bed.
It usually ended one of two ways: one, you would snap at him and force him out; or two, you would end up with his tongue or cock in you. Either way, he was amused whenever he pushed you to the edge with his antics.
When you were really behind on work, you would have to lock yourself in your study. You knew why he did it, he was bored, plain and simple. He let his work pile up a bit, only taking care of urgent matters and getting a brief report of the lands each day. He left the tedious work that wasn’t so important, build up until it was enough to dedicate a day or two to just work. You questioned it at first, but were surprised to see how well he managed his responsibilities as the Lord of Storm’s End.
Today was different though. Today was a “work all day” day, and you had managed to complete all of your duties in a quick and timely manner since you had no one to distract you. You thought about enjoying your peace, but there was never really a quiet day in the Stormlands. Today was the day you would finally have your revenge.
You knocked on the door to his office, walking in without waiting for permission. Surrounded by loose pieces of parchment on his desk was Lyonel, eyes darting across what he was reading and what he was writing. He spared you a glance, giving you a small smile before continuing his work.
“Hello, love, to what do I owe this special visit?”
He already knew something was off. When he had these days, you would scarcely visit him since you wanted him to focus on his work. You would only see him to bring him supper, making sure he didn’t spend the entire day without eating, yet there was no tray of food in your hands.
You approached, eyes staring at his hands, remembering how they felt fondling your breast, holding your waist, and around your clit. “Does a wife need a reason to visit her husband? I merely missed your presence.”
“Is that so?” He mused. He was unable to decipher your plans, but continued to feign ignorance of whatever was going on.
You stepped behind him, placing your hands on his shoulders and beginning to pinch and massage his traps. He paused in his work, enjoying the tightening and release.
“Why do you save all your work for one day?”
He let out a small groan, not because of your question but because you had found a small knot he was unaware was forming. “Because I’m a glutton for punishment,” He joked, shutting his eyes and allowing himself to enjoy the moment.
“You’ll be working well until nightfall."
“Unfortunately.”
“I’ll be well asleep by the time you’re done, Lyonel.”
“Don’t remind me.”
You stopped your massage and stepped over to his side. He pushed himself away from his desk, turning in his chair so he could wrap his arms around your waist and rest his head on your chest.
“I should just burn it all, shouldn’t I? Pretend there was a horrible accident, and all the parchment was destroyed?”
You let out a small giggle. “Only the parchment?”
“Yes, a tragic freak accident where only the parchment was destroyed. Do you think that’s believable?”
“No.”
“Damn,” He released you, falling back into his seat.
“You could say you were distracted.” You leaned in, placing a hand on the armrests of his chair.
As you lowered your face to reach his, he was finally starting to understand what you were doing. The cut of your dress wasn’t necessarily low, but angled like this, he was able to get a perfect view of your chest.
“Have I told you how much I love you today?”
“Yes,” You hummed happily as you leaned forward for a kiss.
He cupped your face with one hand before your lips even touched. He shoved his tongue in your mouth, swirling it around as if this was his first time tasting you. From the kiss, it was clear that he was eager and hungry for what was to come.
You say on his lap, legs open, and on either side of him. Your dress was scrunched up, so your parts were pressed firmly against one another. You could feel his erection forming, and you rolled your hips against it. Enjoying the feeling, he lowered his hands to your hips and dragged you along him again, pushing through the fabric that blocked you two from connecting. It sent a tingle through your body each time, growing wetter and wetter as you continued to make out.
You knew you had to pull away soon, or else you’d completely forget the entire reason you were doing this: to give Lyonel payback for always messing with you while working. It felt wonderful, but you wanted him to suffer.
Your hands wrapped around his curls, tugging him away for a brief moment. “Lyonel?” You said breathless.
“Hm?” He hummed while pressing quick pecks along your collarbone.
“I’m sorry.” You quickly stood up and stood away. There was a small pout, clearly void of any actual guilt. “I shouldn’t distract you from your work.”
He stared at you, dumbfounded. You had done a complete one-eighty, and he was trying to wrap his head around it.
“What?”
“I said I shouldn’t distract you from your work. It's rude,” You said with emphasis on the word “rude”.
Finally, it clicked. He let out a laugh, head falling back. “My love, you most certainly know how to tease a man.”
You straightened your dress. “I learned from the best.”
“Too bad you forgot one thing.”
You raised a brow. “Oh, really? What?”
“I’d choose you over work any day of the week.” He jumped up from his seat, picking you up in one large scoop.
You let out a yelp, clearly surprised by his actions. He placed you atop his desk, brushing aside some of the parchment to make a clear spot for you. He inserted himself between your legs, trapping you beneath his arms.
His hand went up your skirt, going straight for the thin piece of fabric that covered your vagina and yanking it down so it was free. He stuck a finger in you, earning a sharp breath because of how rough he was being. He began to pump his finger, eyes locked on your face.
Your lips were pressed tightly together, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a moan. He loved turning you into a mess, hearing all the noises you made when pleasure consumed you, but you refused to give it to him now.
“Playing hard to get now, are we?” He inserted a second finger, and your hands gripped your skirts tightly. “That’s alright, love, you know how much I like a challenge.”
As he continued to pump with two fingers, his other hand worked under his trousers and released his erection. When you saw it, your body instinctively tightened around his fingers, making him chuckle. He could tell you were getting excited, but your stubbornness refused to give in to him.
He pulled out his fingers and held them up to your face, “Spit.” You shook your head. “Fine.” He spat in it himself, and with a mixture of your juice and his spit, he lubed up his dick.
Finally, he began to insert himself into you. When you felt the tip, you let out a shaky breath, still needing time to get used to his size after all this time. Instinctively, your hands grabbed his shoulders, and a small whimper escaped you as he pushed further in. He let out a groan at the tightness of your cunt squeezing around him. Gods, he loved the feeling. He continued to push until he was all the way in, pelvis flush against yours.
You were tense, glaring at him while trying to keep hold of your senses while you still had them. He was grinning from ear to ear.
“Why aren’t you moving?” You said through gritted teeth. The feeling of being this full was uncomfortable; you needed him to move.
“Beg.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, darling. If you want this to end, beg. If not, I will gladly stay right here, with you, all day.”
Damn, you thought, since you knew he could. You also knew what he was trying to do: win.
As you contemplated how long you could last, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a quick victory, you failed to notice his hand creeping its way up your thigh. His thumb pressed against your clit, rubbing little circles around it. Your eyes shut, pleasure slowly starting to push your senses aside.
He pressed his forehead against yours, “Come on, love, just tell me how much you want me to fuck you. You can end both of our misery right now, with one simple sentence.”
You stayed silent.
“You’re already so tight and wet that I was able to slip in so easily. Gods, I love how only you get me like this.”
“...please…” You said, voice barely above a whisper.
His dick twitched excitedly, but he kept himself composed. “I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear you.”
Your face burned from embarrassment. “Please…fuck me, Lyonel. Make me cum and scream your name.”
“With pleasure.”
He pressed his lips against yours, savoring the taste of victory as he finally began to thrust. You both moaned into the kiss, overjoyed at the pleasure.
You wrapped your arms over his shoulders, one hand digging into his curls as he started to bite and suck at your neck, determined to leave his mark. Your core began to tingle as his thumb worked harder against your clit, mind growing fuzzier and fuzzier.
Lyonel’s thrusts were hard and quick–he was unfamiliar with the term slow and steady. Your insides twitched around him, your body telling him that he was doing well. As you got closer, he sped up, determined to fulfill your request of making you scream.
You held him close, chest arching into his. Your legs started to tremble, each deep hit pushing you closer to the edge until finally a warm tingly sensation ran through your body.
He didn't stop as you came, but his rhythm began to fall apart. His thrusts became sloppy, uneven in movement.
Tears began to form in your eyes, you were sensitive, but you knew he wouldn't stop because he was close to his own release. “L-Lyonel-!” You cried, overwhelmed.
“Shout my name again,” He growled into your ear. “Let everyone know you're the reason I'm unable to finish my work today.”
“Lyonel!”
He cursed, thrusting only a few more times before releasing into you, his warm seed filling you up. He kept going, but slowed down as it poured out. When he finally stopped, it took you each a moment to catch your breath.
He pulled out and wrapped his arms around you, engulfing you in a hug. “Thank you for the wonderful distraction, darling.”
You rolled your eyes, lazily hugging back. “Shut up.”
The crowned stag and the dragon whelp- Lyonel Baratheon x reader
•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°
In which Maekar's oldest daughter is determined to go against her father's wishes and she knows just the man to help her reach that goal.
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x f!reader
Word count: 3.9k
Warnings: p n v smut, age gap, lots of dirty talk and sexual themes, Lyonel is something of a playboy and he really wants that W over poor old Maekar, unprotected sex, slight voyeurism
•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°
The torchlight inside the Baratheon pavilion danced low and amber, bathing the piled furs, scattered wine cups, and the sprawl of half-dressed revelers who had already surrendered to the night’s excesses in a warm caramel glow. Lute and drum thrummed from the far corner, half-muffled by laughter and the clink of tankards. The air was thick with woodsmoke, spilled mead, and the sharp perfume of crushed herbs crackling in the braziers.
Y/N stood just inside the entrance flap she had slipped through moments earlier, still wrapped in the plain grey cloak and hood meant to disguise her as a maid or camp follower. She held the edges of her hood lest it fell back now, revealing the spill of silver-gold hair and the sharp violet eyes that marked her unmistakably a Targaryen.
In the far back of the tent, ser Lyonel Baratheon lounged on a low bench strewn with cushions, one booted foot propped on an overturned stool, a brimming horn of ale balanced on his knee. His yellow doublet was unlaced at the throat, sleeves rolled to show thick forearms scarred from old tourneys, his antlered crown tipping over his forehead. A lazy grin brightened up his drunken features as he chatted up some knights or lordlings that swarmed around him.
She observed him with restrained curiosity and moved among the guests that crowded the tent. She found a secluded bench and an unoccupied spot on the far edge of it, away from the host's potential sight. She eased onto the worn cushion, drawing her knees up beneath the cloak, blending as best she could into the dim corner. From here the chaos felt safely distant; she could watch without being spotted. Perhaps she could even spend the entire night safe from it. Some laughing knight offered her a sloshing cup of ale, platters of breads and meats unending filled the center of every table, a sign of hospitality she didn't think he'd have the privilege to experience had she not slipped in unannounced and uninvited.
A mere few minutes passed before a broad shadow fell across her. The man who cast it was to be felt before he was seen; the shift in the air, the sudden hush that rippled through the nearest revelers, the low, unmistakable rumble of a laugh that cut through the din like thunder on the horizon. When she lifted her gaze, Lyonel Baratheon stood in front of her, one hand resting casually on the hilt of a dagger at his belt, the other holding a brimming horn of ale. The wide, predatory grin splitting his bearded face was immediate and utterly unfooled.
“Princess,” he said, sitting down on the opposite side of her. He slammed down the horn with enough vigor to have it spill everywhere. Y/N flinched back, taken by the fierceness. “And what would the oldest cub of our favorite prince be doing in the tent of a man such as myself?” there was a glimmer of mischief in his eyes as he spoke, fully knowing the entire room will soon be watching him.
“Ser Lyonel,” she answered, letting the hood fall completely as she straightened, no longer pretending. “It would seem my disguise cannot fool the likes of you.” She paused, glancing around at the flushed faces and glittering eyes that had begun to turn her way. “You asked what I'm doing. Yes—well…” She lifted one shoulder in a small, careless shrug. “I've heard tales of your lavish parties and wished to see the debauchery with my own eyes.” Lyonel’s grin froze for half a heartbeat, then stretched wider. The corners of his eyes crinkling with genuine, wicked delight. He let out a low, rumbling chuckle that rolled from deep in his chest, the sound vibrating through the space between them. His broad shoulders shifted as he straightened slightly, his free hand came up to rub once across his bearded jaw, dark eyes narrowed in appraisal, gleaming with fresh interest. He tilted his head just enough to let torchlight catch the silver threads in his salt-and-pepper curls. His posture was casual, hip cocked, weight on one leg.
“You flatter me, Princess.” He rose in one fluid motion, towering over her and gestured grandly at the chaos around them—women perched on men’s laps, a pair of squires arm-wrestling over a spilled flagon, a bard strumming bawdy verses in the corner. “Most highborn ladies who hear those tales send their maids to spy for them,” he said, voice pitched low enough that only she could hear it over the music. “They don’t come themselves, hooded and silent, like a thief in the night. Makes a man wonder what you’re really after.”
She met his gaze without flinching, violet eyes steady. “Curiosity.”
Lyonel barked a short, genuine laugh that turned several heads. “Curiosity, aye. But dangerous for the likes of you.” He straightened, gesturing with the horn toward the heart of the tent where a bare-shouldered woman was pouring wine straight from the flagon into a knight’s open mouth while another man played some tune on a bone flute. He laughed at the sight and turned back towards her. “Your father's cage too small for you then?” he asked, sitting back down.
“I suppose you could say that.” She let her finger run around the edge of the cup, tracing it in languid circles.
“It would have been more peculiar if it wasn't. Is it not family tradition at this point for you and your siblings to go against old Maekar’s wishes?” Y/N scoffed and looked up at him.
“You're an interesting man, ser Lyonel, to speak treason in front of royal blood.”
“It's treason now to speak the truth of a prince's age? I cannot keep up with these new laws as of late.”
“Aren't you around my father's age, ser?”
“I am offended you would think so.” Lyonel pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury, then leaned closer, voice dropping to a rumble as he rolled his eyes. “In body perhaps— but even then I am considerably younger.” His dark eyes sparkled. “My soul, sweet Princess, is as young as they come.” He winked at her and straightened out. “You do know your father will find out about your visit here?”
“That depends.” She tilted her head, studying him with cool amusement. “Will you rat me out?” Lyonel grinned at her, running his tongue across his teeth playfully.
“No, Princess. I will not.” He reached behind him, plucked a fresh horn of dark, foaming ale from a passing serving boy, and held it out to her. “Drink.”
“Why?”
“I will not have you here sober so that you can put the blame on me and have me beheaded by that sour shit of a Prince your father is.” He leaned in just enough that she caught the scent of leather, smoke, and sweet wine on his breath. “If you party with the rest of us here tonight, you will be drunk like the rest of us.” For a long heartbeat she regarded the offered horn, then him—taking in the challenge in his stance, the wicked light in his eyes, the way the entire tent seemed to quiet down to watch what the dragon’s daughter would do next.
She accepted the horn, fingers brushing his as she took it.
Then, without breaking eye contact, she raised it to her lips and drank deeply, letting the bitter-sweet burn slide down her throat while the pavilion erupted into approving cheers and whistles around them. Lyonel’s laugh rolled out low and pleased.
“That’s more like it,” he shouted, already reaching for another cup for himself. “Welcome to the storm, Princess.”
The cheers died down slowly, leaving a buzzing undercurrent of approval that rippled through the tent like wind through wheat. Y/N lowered the horn, wiping a stray line of foam from her upper lip with the back of her hand. The ale sat warm and heavy in her stomach, loosening her spirits. She handed the half-empty vessel back to Lyonel without comment; he took it, fingers lingering a deliberate second longer than necessary against hers before passing it off to a nearby squire.
He studied her face in the flickering light—cheeks flushed from the drink and the heat, her bright violet eyes staring back at him, all Dyanna Dayne, despite the color, and thankfully, no Maekar Targaryen. Something shifted in his expression at the thought of her father, the playfulness giving way to a darker, hungrier interest. Lyonel stood up and offered her his arm with the confidence of a man used to being obeyed.
“Come. If you’ve here to see the debauchery, you may as well taste it properly. Or are you still planning to hide in the shadows like a frightened doe?” She regarded the offered arm for a beat, then rose smoothly, letting the cloak fall open to reveal the simple dark gown beneath, no jewels, no embroidery, nothing to mark her as royalty except the silver hair now loose around her shoulders.
“I don’t frighten easily, my lord,” she said, and placed her hand lightly on his forearm, letting him lead. Lyonel cut a path through the crowd with the ease of a man who had parted seas of bodies countless times before. Y/N followed, her dark gown clinging to her skin moistened by the tent’s heat. Heads turned as they passed. She felt the weight of every pair of eyes and let it slide off her like water. It was a matter for another day to deal with the whispers that were sure to follow.
Lyonel led her towards the far side of the pavilion where the crowd thinned and a low table waited, laden with more horns, a wheel of sharp cheese, dark bread, and a flagon of something darker and sweeter than ale. Cushions and furs had been piled haphazardly around it; a handful of his closest retainers lounged there already. A few knights, a laughing woman with auburn hair spilling down her back, a young bard still cradling his lute looked up as Lyonel approached, then at Y/N as the conversation stuttered into curious silence.
He dropped onto the largest cushion with casual grace, long legs stretched out, and patted the space beside him.
“Sit, princess. Let us share a cup and see how wet you get.” One of the knights snorted; the auburn-haired woman arched a brow and poured two fresh horns without being asked, sliding one across the table toward Y/N. She took the seat, close enough to the antlered man, their knees brushed together as she settled. The cushion were still warm from previous occupants; the furs soft and smelling faintly of pine and musk. She accepted the new horn, cradling it between her palms, feeling the cool condensation against her skin.
Lyonel leaned back on one elbow, watching her over the rim of his own drink. “So,” he drawled, “Now that you’re here and half-drowned in my ale already—what part of the debauchery catches your eye most? The drinking? The dancing? The fucking?” He gestured lazily toward the shadows at the tent’s edges where several couples had already disappeared behind hanging drapes or simply claimed open ground. “Or are you the sort who likes to watch before you join in?” Y/N took a slower sip this time, letting the liquid roll across her tongue before answering.
“I haven’t decided yet,” she said, voice steady despite the warmth spreading through her limbs. “But knowing the likes of you, I suspect you’ll try to decide for me before the night’s done.” She regarded him with a raised eyebrow. His laugh was immediate and rich, head tipping back.
“Guilty as charged.” He shifted closer, arm draping along the back of the cushions behind her, just inches short of touching her shoulders, but near enough she could feel the heat radiating off him. “Tell me, then—what does a dragon do when she’s finally out of the cage? Burn the place down? Or just burn herself a little?” She kept his gaze, unflinching, the corner of her mouth curving up sheepishly.
“I suppose we’ll find out,” she said, and lifted her horn again in silent toast.
Around them the music swelled once more, louder now, wilder—and the night stretched ahead like an open road, dark and inviting and entirely without rules.
_______
The three trunk felt rough and dirty on her back, as Lyonel hoisted her up against it, their mouths moving against each other with fervor. Their hands gliding against skin and fabric, tugging at it and loosening where they could. Y/N grabbed the antlered crown atop his head and tossed it away, making Lyonel laugh darkly into her lips. She ran her hands through his salt-and-pepper curls, pulling on them roughly.
“Can't stand someone other than granddaddy in a crown?” he rasped, trailing his lips down to her neck.
“Can't stand being fucked by a stag in a crown.” Lyonel’s laugh rumbled low against her throat as he pressed her back harder against the tree. The night air was cool on her bare shoulders, a stark contrast to his hands, callused and hot as they slid up under the loosened lacings of her gown until silk and linen bunched uselessly at her hips.
“Bold words for a dragon’s whelp,” he murmured, teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath her ear. “You’re the one who came looking for the storm.” Y/N tilted her head back, letting the stars spin above her—whether from the ale or from the way his thick thigh had wedged itself between hers, she couldn’t say. She hooked one leg around his, heel digging into the meat of his calf, and yanked him closer until there was no space left for jests.
“Just because they call you the Laughing Storm doesn't mean it's not embarrassing for you to say it,” she breathed, voice roughened by alcohol and desire. “I didn't come here for you to try and raise your ego at my expense, Lyonel.” He answered with his mouth, claiming her own, tasting of wine and the faint iron tang of tourney blood that still lingered at the corner of his lip from the day’s joust. One broad palm cupped the back of her skull, fingers knotting in her silver-gold hair, keeping her in place while the other worked between them, shoving aside smallclothes with impatient efficiency.
“No, Princess, you came here because you knew what I could give you, didn't you?” The warm press of him against her thigh drew a sharp inhale from her lips. She rolled her hips, nudging his length in the proper direction. He aligned the tip of his cock at her opening but didn’t enter her yet. Instead he rocked against her in slow, deliberate drags, letting her feel the stiffness, letting the ache build inside until her hips jerked upward of their own accord. “Patience, Princess,” he taunted against her mouth, though his own breath came ragged. “I thought Targaryens liked to savor their conquests.”
“I thought Baratheons liked to take what they wanted,” she shot back, and hooked her nails into the meat of his shoulders, dragging red lines down the scarred muscle beneath his unlaced tunic. “Judging by the lack of a wife by your side, maybe that's not entirely true.” The mention of his status made his eyes flash with delight.
“That so? I don't see a husband by yours either. Maybe I should pay a visit to your father and claim you for myself then.” Lyonel laughed at her musing, plunging inside of her, their mouths opening and closing against each other in near-silent moans as he bounced her up and down his cock. He shifted his grip, lifting her clean away from the support of the tree, with one arm banded around her waist to keep her steady while her thighs locked tight around his hips. “Get me a nice little dragon to sit on my lap at parties.” Lyonel’s grin was all teeth and trouble as he held her aloft like she weighed nothing at all, thick forearm locked under her ass, the other hand fisted in her hair to keep her mouth where he could reach it. The tree bark had scraped her back raw; now it was just him, hot, hard, and strong, keeping her impaled and helpless in the open air. Y/N tightened her thighs around him, rolling her hips in a slow, filthy grind that made his breath hitch.
“You think Maekar Targaryen would hand over his eldest daughter to some storm-lord with barely any lands to his name?” She leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “He’d burn Storm’s End to the ground before he let you put a Baratheon brat in me and Storm's End isn't even yours.” He laughed—low and rough, the sound vibrating straight through where their bodies joined.
“Then I’d just have to steal you, wouldn’t I? Drag you off on my horse in the middle of the night like some Dothraki screamer. Keep you barefoot and round in my tent till you forget what a throne even looks like.” He punctuated his words with a sharp upward thrust that made her gasp, nails digging deeper into his shoulders. He got down to his knees, letting his cock slip out of her, and her back hit the cold grass before inserting himself back in with haste. “Bet you’d look fucking gorgeous swollen with my child. Silver hair, violet eyes, and that vicious little mouth telling me to go fuck myself.”
“Gods, you’re deranged,” she gasped, half-laughing, half-moaning as he stalled his efforts, moving slower than before, making her feel every thick inch dragging out and slamming back in. The meadow grass was cool against her back. She yanked his head forward by the curls, forcing him to meet her eyes. “You talk a big game about claiming me, but I know that ugly antlered thing would shake off your head if you had to stand face to face with my father.” Lyonel’s pupils were blown wide, dark with lust and something dangerously close to affection.
“We’ll see about that, Princess.” He shifted his grip, one hand sliding down to palm her ass, spreading her wider so he could grind deeper. He picked up speed, hips snapping harder, the wet slap of their bodies loud enough that anyone wandering too close to the edge of the camp would hear it. Y/N bit her lip bloody trying not to cry out too soon. She clenched down on him, making his rhythm stutter, a filthy groan tearing out of his throat.
“Fuck—you’re gonna make me come too quick moving like that,” he growled, but didn’t slow down. If anything he went harder, chasing it now, determined to drag her over the edge with him. “But do go on then. Milk me dry, dragon girl. Let me fill you up till it’s dripping down your thighs the whole walk back to your royal quarters.” Y/N’s head fell back against the wet grass, silver hair tangling in it as she rocked her hips into every brutal thrust.
“Do it,” she hissed, voice breaking. “Fill me, you arrogant bastard. Mark me so deep even the maesters won’t be able to wash you out.” Lyonel swore viciously and slammed into her one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he came with a strained exhale. She felt him pulse inside her, hot and thick, flooding her until it leaked out around where they were still joined. Lyonel pressed a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to the side of her throat, savoring the slight salt of her sweat and the rose scented perfume she wore. Y/N moaned, turning her head sideways to allow him more space. His kisses trailed down to her collarbone, nipping at the skin pulled tight over her clavicles. Wandering hands cupped at her soft flesh where they could, as if to memorize her curves before he had to let her go and run off into the night.
“Still think I’m not serious about claiming you?” he asked, voice hoarse against her ear.
Y/N laughed weakly, “I think you’re serious about fucking me. The rest… we’ll see if you’re still talking that big game when the sun comes up and I’m back in Lord Ashford's castle, pretending I didn’t just let the Laughing Storm come inside me like a common camp follower.” He smirked against her skin at the mention of his nickname.
“Next time I’ll make you scream my name loud enough the whole meadow hears. See how long you can pretend then.” She leaned in for another kiss, sucking in his bottom lip and biting it roughly.
“Next time bring rope. If you’re gonna talk about stealing me, you’d better be prepared to tie me down.” Lyonel’s eyes lit up like he’d just been handed a longsword.
“You have a deal, Princess.” he rasped, already half-hard again inside her. “But only if you promise to run that mouth for me first.” She grinned, her Targaryen features shining in the moonlight.
“You're peculiar, Lyonel Baratheon.”
________
“My Lady, your father requests an audience.” The kingsguard said softly. Y/N cocked up an eyebrow and let the book she was reading fall closed on the table beside her.
She descended the narrow stone stairs from her chamber in Lord Ashford’s castle at an unhurried pace, skirts brushing against the steps like they did the day before. The Kingsguard had delivered her father’s summons without explanation, but she felt no urge to speculate; Maekar’s moods always revealed themselves in time and she'd been careful to return last night without so much as a single sound. Silver braid swaying lightly, expression calm and detached, she continued down the corridor toward the heavy oak door of the small chamber at the far end, the faint ache from the night before a quiet, private note in her stride.
“You asked to see me fathe—” she froze abruptly, her eyes falling on the white speckled curls of the only other person in the room, tucked nearly under an antlered crown.
Maekar’s gaze lifted from the parchment he had been staring through without reading. It moved first to his daughter, taking in the high collar that could not quite hide the edge of a fading bruise, the faint stiffness in her stride, the look she shot at the only other man in the room that he couldn't have missed no matter how much he wished he had, then slid sideways to the Baratheon lord. The two men regarded each other across the width of the table for one long, suspended heartbeat. No words passed. Whatever Lyonel had said in the private audience before her arrival, hung between them now, solid and irrevocable. The dark haired Lord smiled at him, wide and barring teeth, barely able to contain his giddiness.
Maekar’s jaw clenched. His right hand curled slowly into a fist atop the oak, the knuckles blanched white, then slammed down onto the wood with a curse that shook the entire room.
No one moved.
Lyonel’s smile never wavered, only deepened, slow and sure, the grin of a man who had already taken the prize he came for and knew it well. Y/N stood framed in the entrance, hands loose at her sides, gaze steady on her father’s bowed head. The silence stretched, thick as smoke.
Maekar exhaled, staring down at his lap, the sound ragged, defeated. Then after a long pause, he spoke;
Hiii, is it possible you could write lyonel x reader, but reader keeps distance from him since she think he is cheating (like 99% of the lords) but one night when lyonel comes to his wife chambers she just explodes and says that she doesn’t like he’s cheating even though it’s normalized
I hope I explained it well (sorry english is not my first language) and have a nice day <3
Of course my dear! I loved writing this as was angst with a good smutty pay off!
Are You Mine
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x FemReader (No use of Y/N)
Warnings: Cheating accusations, swearing, explicit smut - Minors DNI
Masterlist
Every lord was unfaithful, that is what you had always heard. Mistress’s dressed in luxury, bastard’s born by servant girls in the villages. All under their wives noses.
“One day you will learn my girl. You get used to it” your mother told you, when you came to her teary eyed after seeing your father kissing another woman.
You did not want to get used to it.
Your marriage to Lyonel Baratheon was unexpected. Born out of duty to unite the houses of the Reach with the Stormlands, you expected an old man, not someone like Lyonel. He was loud, charismatic, handsome, honestly he was everything you ever dreamed of. He made you laugh, took you riding and genuinely listened when you talked, going out of his way to learn everything about you.
For a time you where happy, you were the lady of a great house, with a handsome husband that you where beginning to fall in love with.
Then the doubts crept in. Your mother had come to visit a few moons into your marriage, dripping poison into your ear. She noted how women laughed too easily at his jokes, how he filled a room with charm, how he was constantly surrounded by knights and admirers. You tried to defend him, how your Lyonel was a good man, he would never betray you like that. She would simply smile at you in pity and repeat “Every lord is unfaithful dear girl, you will get use it”
She repeated it that much you began to believe it, your imagination filled with him filling someone else’s bed whilst they laughed behind you back.
So you protected yourself and your heart. You pulled back. You were still polite of course, dutiful and mindful, but you did not linger, you did not reach out to touch him like before nor stay up talking into the late hours. It hurt, of course it did especially when his hand would come to you asking you to stay, his dark eyes swimming with an emotion you could not decipher. But you could not risk it, it was too easy to love him and if you did it would make the enevitable betrayal all the more unbearable.
Lyonel noticed you beginning to pull away from him. Of course he noticed, his hand would reach out to yours at feast’s. only to find you gone. He would ask you to go riding with him only for you to feign sickness. He would try and find you in the libraries or gardens just to spend time with you, only to find you just leaving. It was like you were always running from him.
He did not understand what he had done wrong, and you could not bear to see the look in his eyes as you pulled away or the jokes he made covering the hurt.
You told yourself it was the best for everyone.
⸻——————————————————————————————-
The night he had finally had enough he came to your chambers. “You have been avoiding me” he said plainly, his eyes sweeping over you, as you sat pretending to read.
“I have not” you said eyes still fixed on the page, unable to meet his.
“You have” he replied with a small bitter laugh “You leave early. You do not sit beside me at feasts. You do not…” He stopped, with a frustrated sigh “You do not look at me the same”
You could not help the way your heart clenched at that. Closing your eyes briefly you set your book aside “And how should I look at you” you demanded, angry that even after all your distance you could not help the way your heart ached for him.
He blinked, caught off guard by the sharpness in your voice “Like I am your husband” he said slowly.
“You are, and like most husbands, I assume you behave accordingly” you shot back defensively.
Confusion flashed across his face “I do not follow” his eyebrows scrunching.
You laughed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice “Do not insult me. I well aware how marriages work. Lords take comfort where they please and wives are expected to tolerate it in silence”
Lyonel went very still, his dark eyes searching your face “You think I am cheating?”
You crossed your arms standing, your heart pounding “Yes” your voice shaking slightly.
For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then he barked a short, incredulous laugh, disbelieving at what you just told him
“Gods” he muttered, dragging his hands over his face “Is that why”
“Why what?” you question, baffled at his reaction.
“Why you have been holding yourself away from me like I am some leper” he joked
The words stung more than you care to admit “I would rather brace for it than be surprised” you said quietly looking down to the floor “I will not be made a fool” you say voice above a whisper.
Lyonel crossed the room, stopping short of touching you. Dipping his head so his eyes met yours “I have never taken another woman since I married you” he said carefully, voice low and steady in a way that made your pulse spike.
You swallowed, heart and head warring against each other “You expect me to believe that”
“Yes” he said immediately, his hands coming gently to your arms “Because it is the truth”
Silence stretched between you as you stare at each other, your skin tingling under his touch.
“You laugh with them” you whispered feeling foolsh “You charm them”
“I laugh with everyone,” he shrugged “I charm because I do not know how not to. But I do not touch them, I do not seek them, I come to you. Only you”
You hesitated, your heart clenching at his words.
“You think I would risk you” he continued, frustration cracking through now. “For some fleeting indulgence”
“This marriage was forced on you, it would not be unexpected for you to want another. I know I am not what you would have chosen” you say softly
He stared at you like you had struck him.
“Not what I would have chosen?” he repeated, incredulous.
Your chin lifted defensively, though your voice trembled. “You did not know me. This was alliance forged between our families. In truth you could have could have had anyone”
His expression shifted from disbelief to something almost wounded “I did not want anyone else” he said quietly “I did not know you, but the moment I saw you, I wanted to.”
Your breath caught at that.
“You think I charm those women because I desire them?” he continued, voice roughening as he stepped closer his chest brushing yours “I charm because it is expected of me. I laugh because I fill rooms with noise. But when the feast ends, when the hall empties…” His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. “I look for you”
Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs.
“You pulled away from me” he said softly, “and I thought I had frightened you. That I had been too much.”
“You?” you whispered incredulous
“Yes” A humorless huff left him “Gods, I have been trying not to overwhelm you since the day we wed. Trying to give you space. Trying to let you come to me.”
He hesitated, then added in a lower voice “Because in truth, I wanted you before I had the right to.”
You swallowed hard. “You did not show it”
“I thought I was,” he said, almost helpless. “I seek you out. I ride with you. I listen to you. I have not so much as entertained the thought of another woman since I put my cloak around your shoulders” his fingers gliding up your arms to rest on your shoulders.
You could feel the sincerity in him, your heart pounding in your ears, you mind screaming at you for what a fool you have been.
“I have watched you retreat from me for weeks,” he said, voice thickening “Do you know what that does to a man.”
You shook your head faintly, your eyes meeting his increasingly darker ones.
“It makes him desperate” he murmured his eyes flicking to your lips.
Your pulse spiked “All this time,I thought I was protecting myself” your voice only managing a whisper as your breast heaved with each breath.
His hand rose then, finally, brushing your cheek with his thumb “You have nothing to protect yourself from,” he murmured. “Not with me.”
The tenderness in his voice undid you more than anger ever could have.
“I was afraid,” you admitted, tears burning behind your eyes. “Because I was already too far gone.”
His thumb stilled against your skin “Too far gone?”
“I was, I mean I am” you stutter trying to find the right words ” I love you” you breathed, the confession trembling between you. “And I could not bear to love a man who would humiliate me”
Lyonel’s eyes darkened with something intense and possessive and utterly devoted.
“You love me,” he repeated softly, desperate to hear it again
You nodded once, unable to speak.
His hands came to your waist then “I do not want another now or ever” he said again, slower now, deliberate. “I want my wife. I want you”
The way he said it made something unravel inside you as you closed the distance between you. His lips crashed against yours in a kiss that was all fire and desperation, his mouth claiming yours with a hunger that stole your breath. You melted into it, your hands fisting in his shirt as his tongue swept inside, tasting you deeply.
With a low growl, he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you off the ground. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, ankles locking behind his back as you clung to him. His hands gripped your ass firmly, pulling you tight against the hard bulge straining in his breeches. You could feel the heat of his cock pressing against your core through the layers of fabric, sending a jolt of need straight to your pussy.
“Take me husband” you whisper against his lips as he carries you across the chamber, his steps sure and urgent toward the bed.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer as you rock against him, the friction making you whimper into his mouth. When he reached the edge of the mattress, he lowers you slowly, his body following yours down until he was hovering over you, his weight a delicious pressure that pinned you in place.
Lyonel's hands were everywhere then, rough and tender all at once. He yanked at the laces of your gown, peeling the fabric away from your skin with impatient tugs until your breasts spilled free, nipples hardening in the cool air. He stripped you bare, shoving the dress down your hips and off your legs, leaving you exposed and aching beneath him.
His eyes raked over you, dark with lust and love, before he turned to himself, ripping open his shirt to reveal the muscled planes of his chest, lightly sprinkled in dark hair. He fumbled with the laces of his breeches in eagerness, pushing them down his thick thighs as his cock sprang free. Thick and rigid, the tip already glistening with pre-cum, veins pulsing along its length, with a base of dark hair.
Your eyes darkened as you took him in, you reached for him needing to feel him, but he caught your wrists gently, pressing them above your head with one hand while the other traced a path down your body. His lips followed, kissing a scorching trail from your mouth to your jaw, then lower to suck at the pulse in your throat.
“Please Lyonel” you whisper in desperation, needing to feel him, to touch him.
He released your hands to capture one breast in his palm, thumb circling the nipple before he leaned down to take it into his mouth. His tongue flicked and teased, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch off the bed with a gasp. Nails tracing down his broad back causing him to moan against you.
He lavished attention on your other breast the same way, sucking hard until you were writhing, your pussy growing slick with arousal. Lower still, his mouth trailed kisses over your stomach, nipping at the soft skin there, until he settled between your thighs. He spread your legs wide, his breath hot against your folds before he licked a slow stripe up your slit, tasting your wetness “delicious” he hummed sending shocks through you. He didn't linger, he was too far gone for teasing now and so were you, giving him a firm tug on his hair.
Rising up, he positioned himself at your entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against your opening. "I love you" he rasped, eyes locked on yours as he pushed inside, inch by thick inch, stretching you open.
Your walls clenched around him, welcoming the burn of his girth filling you completely. He sank deep, bottoming out with a groan, his hips flush against yours. "Gods, I love you so much. You're mine, only mine" he moaned, lips capturing yours.
He started moving then, slow thrusts at first that built into a steady rhythm, his cock dragging against your inner walls with every slide in and out. You wrapped your legs around him again, heels digging into his back to pull him deeper. Tears pricked your eyes from the overwhelming emotion, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly.
"Lyonel" you cried, voice breaking as he fucked into you harder, his pace quickening "I need you, I need you so much. Please, don't stop, never stop"
Your words spurred him on, his hips snapping forward with more force, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room. He buried his face in your neck, murmuring love against your skin as he drove into you, chasing release together. The rhythm between you built to a fever pitch, Lyonel's thrusts growing erratic as he chased the edge with you. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red trails on his skin, and you felt the coil in your core snap tight.
“I love you” you gasped again, the words spilling out like a prayer as your pussy clenched hard around his cock, waves of pleasure crashing through you.
“I love you too, fuck, I love you” he groaned, his voice rough and broken.
His hips slammed forward one last time, burying himself deep as he came, hot spurts of cum flooding your insides. The sensation pushed you over completely, your orgasm ripping through you in shuddering pulses, your walls milking every drop from him. You cried out his name, body arching beneath him as ecstasy blurred your vision.
Your limbs tangled with his, and you collapsed together in a sweaty, breathless heap. His weight pressed you into the mattress, while your fingers traced lazy patterns on his damp back.
For a long moment, you just lay there, chests heaving as you caught your breath. Lyonel lifted his head, his hair tousled and sticking to his forehead, a lazy grin spreading across his face.
“Well” he murmured, voice husky with amusement “if that's how you make it up to me after avoiding me like the plague, I might start feigning my own illnesses”
You couldn't help but laugh, the sound light and freeing, as you swatted his shoulder playfully.
In that instant, all the doubts from your mother's words felt like shadows fading in the light. Lyonel's love was real, solid, and yours alone. He was yours and you were his.
Helping Lyonel take those pretty gold cuffs off after the tent scene, and kissing he insides of his wrist.
He is so drunk he just melts into his Lady Wife's soft touches as he fumbles to get his doublet and shirt off. He wants to feel her hands on his skin, her lips on his chest.
He desperately needs to feel her fingers tracing the freckles and moles dotting his skin as though drawing constellations in stars. He's danced and drank most of the night away and needs to fall asleep in her arms where it is calm and quiet, like a lull in the storm.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4,443
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: a lady in waiting in service to house fossoway learns to navigate the world of westeros while trying to survive the trials of the heart; with a tourney at ashford meadow on the horizon, she begins to experience new feelings.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: SMUT, some sibling arguments, threats of death
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: here it is gang, the big kahuna, time for y'all to get what you've been waiting so patiently for; i plan for there to be roughly 3-4 more chapters of this series, as i know we're sadly bracing oursleves for the final episode, but i hope you all enjoy! all graphics done by @cafekitsune!!!
𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 | 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 | 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓
“A prince? this entire time?”
Lynara sat across from you as you explained what had occurred at the puppets tent, Aerion’s assault on the girl, Egg’s confession.
“Maekars youngest son, yes.” you nodded.
Raising her eyebrows, she stood from her seat and walked to the table where goblets and a flagon of wine stood, pouring two glasses.
“I knew that Aerion was a monster, the moment he crippled your brother in law.”
Walking back, she handed one of the goblets to you, which you took gratefully.
“Thank you.” you spoke, taking a generous sip of the deep red liquid.
“What’s to happen to the big one? the boy was his squire, how did he even end up in his care?”
You shrugged your shoulders at Lynara’s question.
“I don’t know yet, I don’t even know if Ser Duncan is still alive.”
As you finished your sentence, Lynara saw the way your eyes fell to your lap.
“What of Raymun?” she began, causing your head to snap up instantly.
“What of him?”
Leaning forward in her seat, she narrowed her eyes at you.
“Don’t play coy with me, I have known you since you were young and I have known my cousin his entire life, I can recognise attraction when I see it.”
Frozen in place, you didn’t know what to say at first, trying to conjure up something you could say to alleviate her suspicions, though it seemed her mind was promptly made up.
“Don’t waste a good lie on this.” she spoke with a smile, “You know I would never share this with anybody.”
Taking a breath, you nodded, understanding that if there was anyone who held your interests at heart, it was her.
“He kissed me, just before we left for Ashford…”
Impressed, Lynara took a sip of her wine, clearly entertained and parched for details.
“I didn’t speak to him at first-“
“Why not?”
She seemed surprised, as if she was almost disappointed.
“I don’t know!” you defended, “I’d never been kissed before!”
“And then..”
She was practically fiending for details.
By the time you had told her everything she was almost done with her third goblet, thoroughly entertained.
Though you spared the part about what the crone had told you, still not wanting to think about it for longer than necessary.
“What will you do now?” she questioned.
“I don’t know..”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I would not protest a union.”
The way she’d said it so casually made you almost choke on your wine, coughing as you tried to regain your breath.
“A union?” you croaked, bracing a hand on your chest.
“Well of course; you could become a Fossoway, it would be fitting after all, you already know our home like it is your own.”
Standing from your seat, you put your goblet down hard, the liquid sloshing and almost spilling onto the table.
“And what? take his name? have his children?”
She gestured as if it was obvious,
“That is generally how marriages work, my love.”
Raising your hand to silently ask her to stop talking, you took a deep breath and shut your eyes.
“I can’t think about this right now.”
Before she could answer once more, you turned and left the tent, immediately feeling the pouring rain against your skin.
You made no effort to go back for a cloak, only pushed through the peltering rain and continued to walk across the muddy ground.
The campgrounds that were often lively and filled with the laughter of men, were now eerily silent save for the dull rumble of the rain pelting down on tents.
Hugging yourself, you could already feel yourself beginning to shiver, yet tried to ignore the cold.
Making your way to the Beesbury tent, you spotted your emblem through the dark and strides closer, finally reaching the entrance and pulling it aside to enter.
Sitting together in silence, your brother and sister jumped when you entered, your soaked hair and dress sticking to you.
“Gods be good!” Humfrey commented, rising quickly to grab your shoulders and wrap a blanket around you.
“Why were you walking in the rain without a coat, you stupid girl!” Gwendolyn scolded, slowly rising from her seat and coming to stand in front of you.
“I could already be losing my husband on this night! you would torture me further by losing you as well?”
“You won’t lose him.” Humfrey cut in, placing a hand on her shoulder, “The maesters have already said so long as he rests he will live.”
Waving him away, Gwendolyn huffed and moved to sit back down, staring into the fire that had been lit to warm the tent's interior.
Looking at your brother, you felt your lip begin to wobble; in this moment, more than ever before, you just needed your family.
“What is it?” Humfrey asked softly, concern lacing his features as he took your face in his hands.
Not speaking, you simply pulled him in for a tight hug, as you sniffled and felt yourself begin to cry.
Though you hadn’t seen it, the moment she heard your cries, Gwendolyn rose once more, guilt suddenly forming on her face.
“Oh sweet girl..” she whispered, seeing the way your eyes were beginning to go glassy with tears.
Taking you back to her sleeping area, she dried your hair and helped you out of your wet clothes, letting you borrow a simple cotton gown of her own so that you were now dry.
Now sitting on the bed as she slowly brushed the knots out of your hair, you hung your head.
“You must talk to me, little sister..” she whispered, “Otherwise how am I to help you?”
“This can’t be helped, Gwendolyn..” you began, “I have fallen in love..”
“Why is this making you cry, petal?” she questioned, running her hand along your shoulder.
Wiping under your eye, though you expected you had cried all the tears your body could give, you turned your head to see her out of the corner of your eye.
“I am petrified..” you whispered.
“Oh sweet girl.. love is always petrifying..” she spoke softly, continuing to brush your hair.
“When I was first told I was going to marry Ser Hardyng, I ran back to my chambers and weeped into my pillow.. I was scared of change, of leaving my family behind..”
She paused, putting the brush down.
“But then when I met him, when he spoke to me so kindly, showed me care in ways nobody has, I realised that the idea of life without him, it terrified me.”
Beginning to braid your hair, she continued.
“That is what love is, little one.. the terror you feel when you think of them without you, it is your heart’s way of telling you to hold them tightly, to never let them slip through your fingers.”
Her words resonated with you, as you stared down at your hands.
“Perfect.” Gwendolyn spoke softly as she finished the braid.
“Now you must tell me.. who is the lucky young gentleman who has captured my little sister’s heart?”
Turning to face her, you offered a shy smile, looking away briefly before meeting her gaze again.
“Steffon Fossway’s squire.. Lynara’s cousin..”
Nodding as if she weren’t even surprised, Gwendolyn smiled knowingly.
“I thought I had noticed him glancing at you during the joust…”
As the curtain separating Gwendolyn’s sleeping area slipped open, your brother’s head poked through.
“We were right?” he questioned.
“We were right.” Gwendolyn confirmed.
Looking between them with widened eyes, you furrowed your brows.
“You both knew?!” you shouted, hiding your face in your hands in embarrassment.
“I knew from the moment you danced with Ser Redwyne in Lord Baratheons teeeeent!” your brother sung, imitating a dance as he spun and laughed triumphantly.
“The poor boy practically had steam coming out of his ears!”
-
Now equipped with a thick coat, you had walked back to The Fossoway’s tent, not intending on such an audience when you moved the entrance flap and entered.
Before you, sat Ser Duncan, along with Lynara and Raymun.
Stood with her arms crossed, Lynara spotted you and stormed over.
“Where did you go?” she hissed, “I thought you had run into the cold and died!”
Leaning in close, she barely kept her voice above a whisper.
“Raymun was practically ready to go searching for you himself…”
Stepping away, Lynara walked back to where the rest of the men were sitting.
“Aerion has called for a trial of seven.” She stated, crossing her arms once more.
“A trial of seven?” you questioned, “but there hasn’t been one of those since-“
“Since Maegor The Cruel, yes..” Lynara finished your sentence, shaking her head in disapproval.
“Maybe the gods figured this is what I deserve..” Ser Duncan stated solemnly.
“For doing what you were supposed to do?” Raymun interjected as Lynara nodded.
“You saved that girl’s life, Ser…” you added, “What reason would the gods have to punish you?”
“For not knowing my place..” He said softly.
The sound of the curtains being drawn made you turn, only to see a cloaked Egg emerge.
“Ser!” he called.
“Egg!” Raymun spoke, “What’re doing?”
“I’m your squire, Ser, you’ll need someone to arm you.”
Though the boy was only young, he spoke with a determination you had not seen often.
“Does your father know you’ve left the castle?” Duncan spoke, a mix of both concern and fear lacing his voice.
“I hope not.” Another man spoke as he emerged through the curtains, his hood covering his face, “I don’t think I could bear another foot whipping tonight.”
As he removed his cloak, you didn’t recognise him, but it wouldn’t have been an unlikely guess that this was the second missing prince, the one you had heard about.
Turning to look over at Ser Duncan, it was clear he had recognised him, beginning to approach the young prince quickly.
“You!” he roared, unsheathing a knife from his belt as you all began to yell out protests, Raymun shooting forward to attempt and hold his friend back as you ran to try and grip the wrist that was holding a knife towards the prince.
“Ser Duncan, don’t be stupid!” you cried, trying with all your might to pull his hand away.
“Are you mad comin’ here? I should drive this through your neck!”
“As well deserved as that may be, Ser Duncan, do not spill royal blood in my fathers tent!” Lynara cried, attempting to rush forward.
Despite the knife being held against him, the prince only laughed dryly.
“I’d sooner you pour me a cup of wine.”
“Fuck your wine! You lied about me!”
“Well I had to say something when my father demanded to know where ‘Egg’ had gotten to.”
Just as soon as you were expecting to see even more bloodshed, Egg’s pleas seemed to bring Ser Duncan back to reason when he finally pulled away and sheathed his knife.
As Raymun gave Ser Duncan a questioning look, you took a step back and sighed deeply.
“He can’t kill me twice.” Ser Duncan grunted, backing away.
Looking over at Raymun, the pair of you shared a look, a silent promise that you would talk once this was done.
“My father is going to join the seven accusers, Ser.” Egg explained.
“Yeah of course he will, he must redeem his son’s honour.” Duncan sneered in Daeron’s direction.
“He is their father, Ser Duncan, what choice does he have?” you spoke as if it was obvious.
“Not that I ever asked to have my honour redeemed,” Daeron spoke with a raised hand, “Whoever has it can keep it so far as I’m concerned.”
“I begged him not to, Ser. I begged him.” Egg explained.
“You shouldn’t have done that little prince.” You spoke softly, offering him a sympathetic glance.
“For what it’s worth, you have little to fear from me.” Daeron began, “I will do my best to look gallant in the first charge but.. after that perhaps you could strike me a nice blow to the side of the helm? make it ring, not too loud.” he joked.
Rolling your eyes, you stepped away and placed a hand on your forehead in annoyance.
As the two men continued, Lynara stepped over to you and placed a hand on your shoulder.
“This ought to be nothing else if not entertaining.” she sighed, “I only sympathise for poor Gwin Ashford, spending her name day celebration watching men try to murder one another.”
Turning back to the conversation at hand, you had begun listening once more just as Egg described the torment Aerion subjected him to as a child.
“Gods be good.” you whispered in shock, sending a glare in Raymun’s direction as he snickered.
At its conclusion, Ser Duncan and Daeron disappeared out of the tent at the request of a private word, leaving you with Egg, Lynara and Raymun.
Coming to kneel in front of Egg, you gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze.
“You have done the right thing, little prince, there are men far older than you with far less honour.” You spoke softly.
“My mother taught me to be kind, to help those who could not help themselves.”
The boy’s words made you smile.
“She sounds like a wonderful mother.”
“She was.” Egg replied, his eyes seeming to fall sad for a mere moment before he stood and began to exit the tent to find his brother.
Rising back up, you watched the little prince exit and turned back to Lynara.
“That boy has seen more of life’s hurt than he deserves.” she mused, shaking her head.
“I’m going to bed, this whole mess has exhausted me.” she sighed, rubbing her face with her hand before bidding you goodnight with a wave.
As she exited, it left you and Raymun alone, now looking at each other as you stood in the tent.
“Are you okay?” he asked hesitantly, taking a step towards you before taking your hand in his own.
Nodding, you allowed him to grip your hand and gave his own a reassuring squeeze.
“I will be fine.” you reassured, placing your other hand on his chest.
Leaning forward, you placed a gentle peck upon his lips, which he returned, placing his hands on your back and shutting his eyes.
Breaking the kiss to rest your forehead against his, you kept your eyes shut as you held each other.
“Stay with me tonight.” you whispered, bracing your hands against his chest.
“Always.” he responded softly.
-
His sleeping arrangements were a touch more modest than your own, a simple wooden bed without the plush sheets and a thin mattress, only a thin blanket atop it, but it would do well enough so long as you were by Raymun’s side.
As you stood by and watched him begin to fiddle with the leather armor covering him, you stepped forward to help him, undoing the strings of his bracers before you began to work at his collar as well, slowly and gently peeling it off to leave him in his maroon undershirt.
“Thank you.” he said softly, placing the leather garments to the side before turning back to you.
At first, it seemed neither of you knew what to say or do, as you moved to remove your thick cloak and turned around to lay it to the side.
With your back facing Raymun, you quickly felt his arms enveloping you from behind, wrapping around your waist as he rested his chin on your shoulder and simply held you.
Shutting your eyes, you tilted your head forward and let out a content sigh, enjoying the intimate embrace in silence.
“I love you.” he whispered, as if he was nervous to say it due to the reaction you’d had previously.
Guilt suddenly flooded you as you remembered how you had reacted, wondering if he had felt scorned.
“I love you too.” you whispered back after a period of silence, feeling Raymun pull you closer and hold you tighter as he let out a sound you couldn’t quite place.
Laying a soft kiss on the spot where your neck met your shoulder, he whispered against your skin.
“Say it again.. please..” he begged softly, his fingers beginning to dig into the fabric of your dress.
His touch made your breath hitch, your brows turning as you felt your heart begin to race.
“I love you, Raymun…” you whispered, placing your hands over top of his own.
“Seven hells..” he muttered, “I’ve loved you since I first saw you, when you beat me with that stick in the gardens.”
His soft laugh against your skin made you shiver as you smiled softly and turned slowly to face him.
“I want to be yours, Raymun..”
Your words seemed to make his eyes darken in a way you hadn’t seen before, as he pulled you against his chest and let his nose graze your own.
“Don’t..” he muttered, “I won’t be able to control myself if you keep talkin’ like that..”
You knew what he meant, you weren’t a child, it was clear to you what he was insinuating, and yet you didn’t even care.
“I don’t care..” you sighed, placing your hands on his cheeks and pulling him in to kiss him deeply.
Just as it had in the meadow days beforehand, your kiss seemed to break something free within Raymun, you heard him let out a groan from deep within his chest as he pulled you closer.
His lips were plush and soft as they always were, his mouth opening with your own to allow his tongue to slip through.
Leading you closer towards the wooden bed as he kissed you, the moment you felt the back of your knees hit the base, you fell backwards, Raymun cushioning your fall by keeping a firm hold of you to lay you down gently.
Rising to rest on your elbows, you stared up at Raymun as he stood over you, his length clearly visible through the fabric of his pants, hard and thick.
Lowering himself on top of you, Raymun kissed your lips before moving down to your throat, no longer holding back as he began to nip at the sensitive skin.
“Wanted to have you right there in that damned meadow..” he growled, one of his hands running along your body with a roughness that was just enough to make your heart leap.
“Why didn’t you..?” you sighed, running your fingers through his brown curls.
“We were interrupted, if you recall.” he laughed softly, rising once more to kiss your nose, “I had to protect my lady from the vicious beast in the grass.”
“Of course.” you laughed softly.
Allowing your hands to wander, you brushed your finger tips along his inner thigh, a feather light touch that had his breath hitching as he let out a soft groan.
“Watch yourself..” he huffed, his hand squeezing your hip.
“And if I don’t?” you teased, taking an experimental tug at his curls, only for him to let out a deep groan from the back of his throat.
Leaning back suddenly, Raymun’s hands quickly travelled to the end of your dress, beginning to lift it as you let out a soft squeal.
Shushing you, he gave a warning squeeze to your thighs.
“I’m goin’ to bury my face in your cunt until you’re crying for mercy.”
Unable to do anything except bite your lip and watch as Raymun lowered himself onto his knees, you braced yourself as he began to leave kisses along your inner thighs.
You felt his fingers first, his thumb running up and down along your slit, spreading your wetness as you cried out softly, already arching your back.
“Have you ever been with a man?” he asked softly, the facade momentarily broken as he continued to kiss along your thigh.
You shook your head, unable to speak for fear it would only come out as a series of incoherent mumbles.
“I am your first?” he asked, his touches on your pussy growing faster as he watched you writhe under his touch.
“Yes.. gods, Raymun..”
With that confirmation, he lowered his head down to lick a long stripe along your cunt, which had you throwing your head back and crying out softly.
His tongue was like a fire against your flesh, the way he was making your thighs shake as he devoured your juices like he was starved.
You lifted your head only for a moment, but saw Raymun with his eyes closed blissfully, his head moving up and down as he lapped at your cunt.
“Gods above..” his words came out muffled before he broke for air and kissed your thighs, “You taste like honey.”
You could easily let him spend hours between your legs, gods knew you probably would in the future, but in the moment, the only thing you wanted was for him to be inside you.
Letting him sink back down and continue eating you, you tilted your head back and sighed, letting out a gasp as he sucked harshly on your clit.
Reflexively trying to close your legs, Raymun’s hands held them open, slowly torturing you as he flicked his tongue over the nerve without rest, making you reach down to grip onto his curls and tug.
“Agh, Raymun stop..” you whimpered, though you didn’t exactly mean it, “S-sensitive..” you cried.
Finally halting his attack on your clit, Raymun resurfaced, grinning at you like the cat that ate the canary as he crawled up your body slowly, trailing kisses across your chest and neck before reaching your lips once more.
You could taste yourself on his tongue, a sensation that brought you more pleasure than you would be willing to admit, the debauchery of it all only making you want it more.
“Raymun..” you practically purred against his lips, wrapping your legs around his hips like a needy whore in a brothel.
“Tell me what you need…” he grunted, running his thumb over your swollen bottom lip, his eyes wide and blown out to the point they were almost black.
You couldn’t even speak at first, your head was clouded and your vision seeing stars, only when he gripped your chin and forced you to look at him did you finally chime back in.
“I need you, Raymun..” you whispered, “I need you to fuck me..”
“Fuck..” he hissed, reaching down without any further hesitation to undo the strings of his pants, his shaky hands desperate to free his cock.
Springing free, the tip was red and leaking, bobbing independently as you bit your lip and took in the sight.
He was thicker than you had imagined, it looked as if you might struggle to wrap your hand all the way around it.
Letting it fall against your pussy, Raymun dragged it across your folds, gathering your wetness over his shaft as you felt your cunt clenching around nothing.
“Raymun..” you begged, staring up at him with your cheeks flushed and your mouth hanging open, “Please..”
He didn’t move at first, just looked down at you and took in the sight of you, half clothed and begging for him, it seemed like he was almost in a trance.
“You’re so beautiful..” he whispered, leaning forward to finally begin lining the head of his cock towards your entrance.
When he first began to push it in, it stung, gods it stung; he silenced your cry of pain with a kiss, moving slowly as he split you open and eventually came to rest when he reached the hilt.
As he parted the kiss, he brushed his cheek against your own, shutting his eyes and groaning into your ear when he felt you squeeze him.
“I knew you were goin’ to take me perfectly, like you’re molded just for me.”
His words only made you flutter around him, feeling the way he twitched inside you each time.
You could feel how badly he wanted to move, how badly he wanted to begin to wrench his cock in and out of you, yet he waited until you were ready, waiting for the small nod that signalled he was allowed to begin rocking his hips.
He started slow, barely pulling out before pushing back in gently, allowing you to familiarise yourself with the sensation first, like the true gentleman he was.
Before long, you took his face in your hands and made him look into your eyes, his vision looked as if it was fogged over, his mouth hanging open as he panted against your lips and thrusted slowly.
“Harder..” you whispered, taking another kiss from him as you shut your eyes.
“Are you sure, love?” he spoke breathlessly, concern melting across his face.
You nodded, resting his forehead against yours.
“I want you to love me properly… you won’t hurt me..” you reassured.
With your permission granted, Raymond began to roll his hips, pulling out further before the soft slaps of flesh against flesh sounded out as he began to fall into a steady rhythm.
You could hear the soft wet sounds of your juices coating his cock, his moans deepening as he tucked his face into the crook of your neck.
Your arms wrapped around him, nails scratching over his back as your toes curled, your soft cries were as quiet as you could manage, any louder and you would surely wake up the whole tent.
There hadn’t been an expectation that he was going to last long, he had been holding himself back for so long, and you could tell he was still trying.
“It’s okay..” you sighed against his skin, “I want you to fill me with it..”
Coaxing it out of him with your words, it seemed to push him over the edge quickly, his hips stilling for a moment before he thrusts slowed down immensely, a deep groan leaving his chest as he rolled his hips to thrust deeply into you.
Though you could not feel much, you held him close and shushed him softly, hearing him pant softly from above you.
Soon enough, as he caught hold of his breath once more, he gently pulled out of you, his seed already beginning to leak out of you as he laid beside you and pulled you into his arms.
He kissed the top of your head, an arm wrapped around you as if he was scared you would disappear the moment he let go.
“I am yours.” he whispered, “body and soul.”
His words made you smile softly, laying a kiss on his collar, you looked up at him.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4,417
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: a lady in waiting in service to house fossoway learns to navigate the world of westeros while trying to survive the trials of the heart; with a tourney at ashford meadow on the horizon, she begins to experience new feelings.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: drinking, jousting, threats, steffon being awful, some light teasing, light steamyness.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: the fact ive been able to pump out three chapters in three days is truly astonishing, but the reception to this series has honestly been amazing, yall keep me motivated to write more! all graphics done by @cafekitsune!!!
𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 | 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓
The sound of roosters first crow of morning had startled you awake, nearly falling out of your bed first thing in the morning, not the start you were hoping for.
Across from you, Lynara still snored softly, her dark hair falling over her face and her mouth hung open; that girl could sleep through anything.
Crawling out from under the plush covers which had done a fair enough job of keeping you warm throughout the night, you trudged barefooted across the carpet that had been set up as a makeshift floor over the grass and reached for the hair brush sitting close by.
By the time you had dressed yourself, Lynara was rising slowly but steadily.
Groaning softly as she stretched, she let out a yawn.
“What’s for breakfast?” she enquired sleepily, offering a tired smile as you came over and sat on the edge of her bed.
“I think one of the bakers mentioned he was going to bring some lemon cakes when he made his morning rounds.”
Seemingly satisfied with the answer, Lynara smiled and rolled over, tucking herself back under the sheets.
“Wake me up when he brings them.”
Rolling your eyes but smiling none the less, you stood from her bed and left the tent, grabbing a basket on the way.
It was still early at Ashford meadow, the sun only just risen and the birds only just beginning to sing; the only other people awake at this time were the stall holders setting up for the day.
You balanced the basket in your hip as you looked over the options one particular stall had on display, trying to think what would be best for breakfast.
“The pears are from Highgarden, m’lady; best in The Reach.”
The woman running the stall was older, but held a kind face, taking one of the pears and handing it to you so you could inspect it.
“Give me three.” you requested, reaching for the coin purse that hung at your waist.
“Four coppers.” she responded, grabbing the pears as you reached for the coins.
With the exchange concluded, you placed the pears in the basket and moved on, gathering a small spread of cheeses and meats to have for breakfast.
Taking your time with the walk back was slightly selfish on your part, a way to enjoy the fresh morning air and walk around without crowds of people surrounding you constantly.
As the sigil of the red apple finally came up, you approached the large tents to see a familiar face preparing Steffon’s armor and sharpening his sword.
“How’s the head?” you enquired with a smirk.
Raymun looked up from his cousin's sword and offered up what could only be described as a grimace and a smile all at once.
“Never let me drink that much honey wine again; I was spewin’ this mornin’ you know.”
Laughing softly, you reached into the basket and pulled out one of the pears you’d bought, holding it out as you sat beside him.
You were sure he would have preferred a pigeon pie to nurse his stomach, but you knew the fruit was a better choice, even if he didn’t want it.
Still, he took it from your hand gratefully and hesitated before taking a bite, chewing slowly and methodically as if he was worried he might bring it back up.
“You didn’t have to do that.” he spoke with a mouthful of fruit.
“Finish your bite before you spit it back at me.” you scolded playfully, rolling your eyes.
Covering his mouth with the back of his hand, he continued to chew before finally swallowing.
“You shouldn’t waste your money on the likes a’ me..” he said with a chuckle, all before taking another hungry bite.
“Don’t have anyone else to waste it on.” you replied with a shrug.
Skeptical but seemingly not willing to argue any longer, Raymun continued to eat the fruit in silence as you sat beside him and watched the sun begin to finally climb its way over the hillside, bathing you in warm morning light that made you sigh happily.
Standing from your spot, you balanced the basket on your hip once more.
“Tell Steffon if he gives you a hard time today, I'll sort him myself.”
You knew Steffon was jousting tonight, and you also didn’t doubt that tensions were likely to be high, you’d seen his wrath on more than one occasion, and it would have been a lie to say you weren’t worried on Raymun’s behalf.
“Oh aye, I'll be sure to let you crack him up the back of the head for me!” Raymun called as you walked away, a smile plastered over your features.
-
With your morning duties finished and out of the way, you had a spot of free time before you would need to begin helping Lynara prepare for the joust, and used it to walk across the camp grounds to the tent that held the rest of your family.
Already outside and swinging at a training dummy, Humfrey grinned widely when he saw you approaching, dropping his sword to meet you halfway and give you another tight hug.
“The night treated you better than me, then?” Humfrey commented, gesturing to the dark circles under his eyes, clearly having slept very little after such a big night.
“Late nights of drinking and dancing are kinder to me because I don’t make a habit out of them.” you snarked, receiving a pinch in your side which had you squealing softly.
Entering the tent with Humfrey, you quickly spotted Gwendolyn occupying herself with a crosstitch, visibly frustrated.
“Nobody’s forcing you to do that, you know?” you spoke, causing Gwendolyn to look up and drop the cross stitch onto the table defiantly.
“I have to keep myself entertained somehow.” she sighed, resting a hand in her belly as she raised her arm for you to sit beside her.
“Where’s father?” you asked as you sat down.
“Off giving his greetings to the prince’s.” Humfrey spoke up as he poured himself a goblet of wine.
Letting out a hum of acknowledgement, you leaned back on the lounge and fiddled with the end of your braid.
“You’re jousting tonight then?” you asked, to which Humfrey nodded.
“Here’s to hoping I don’t get knocked off in the first round, that’d just be fucking embarrassing.” he sighed.
“You’ll be fine, Tully was drinking so much last night i’ll be surprised if he can stay on his bloody horse.” Gwendolyn commented, earning a laugh from Humfrey.
“Trouble is, sister, i’m pretty sure I was drinking more than him.”
“You’ll be evenly matched then.” she replied.
This wasn’t new, for as long as you could remember, your older siblings had always made a game of being at each other’s throats with words; you weren’t complaining, it was always entertaining to see the creative ways they would playfully insult one another.
-
As the joust grew closer and the sun began to set, you’d said your goodbyes to Gwendolyn, wished Humfrey luck, and set off back in the direction of the Fossoways tents.
With a chill beginning to make itself known, you raised the hood of your cloak and tucked your knuckles into your sleeves in an attempt to keep a resistance against the growing cold.
From the moment the Fossoay’s tent’s came into view, you quickened your stride, the anxiety at the back of your mind somehow convincing you that you were already late.
Stopping in your tracks, however, from the moment you caught sight of Raymun leaving the tent holding his hand against his cheek.
The moment you called his name, he turned his face away from you, a poor attempt at hiding before you reached him, gripping his wrist and wrenching his hand away from his face.
Across his cheek bone with a reddened mark and a shallow cut, not quite bleeding, but deep enough to have stung.
“What happened?” you gasped, running a thumb over the cut only for Raymun to hiss softly.
“It’s nothin’.” he lied, still attempting to turn away from you.
Gripping his shoulder and spinning him back to face you, he kept his head hung.
“Its not nothing, Raymund.” you scolded, letting out a frustrated huff before gripping his wrist and dragging him towards where you knew you could get water.
Dipping a rag into the barrel of cold water not far from the tent’s, you slowly brought it up to Raymun’s cheek, who was standing there with his arms to his sides and still not meeting your eyes.
From the moment you touched the cut with the damp rag, he jumped instinctively which earnt him a soft slap on the shoulder from you.
“Stay still.” you muttered, biting your lip in concentration as you attempted to calm the angry cut.
“S’ my fault.” Raymun began, “I bent the armor when I was cleanin’ it.”
“And you think that meant you deserve to get backhanded?” you sighed, dipping the rag once more and squeezing the excess water out.
“He called me worthless.” He muttered, clearly more hurt by the insult than he was willing to let on.
“Well you’re not.” you snapped, raising your voice more than you’d intended, “Steffon’s just a cunt who think’s being a brute make’s him a man.”
Using your spare hand to grip his chin, you forced Raymun to look at you, narrowing your eyes at him.
“You’re not worthless, if I hear you talking like that, i’ll backhand you myself.”
Even if your threat was hardly taken seriously, it at least brought a smile to Raymun’s face, the way he let you hold his chin as you continued to clean the wound and pat at it softly to try and ease some of the redness.
Before you could say anything else to one another, a horn sounded out from the jousting grounds, a signal that it was due to begin soon.
Turning back to look at Raymun, you realised you had still been holding onto his chin, only to quickly let go and clearing your throat as you dropped the rag back onto the small table beside you.
“I have to help Lynara prepare.” you spoke softly, standing slowly as Raymun followed your action.
“Come see me.. After the joust.” Raymun spoke, hesitance clear on his features.
Staying silent initially, you turned to look at him before smiling softly and nodding.
“Okay.”
-
As the joust had begun, you’d been ushered into the stands by Gwendolyn, who’d spotted you walking with Lynara and insisted you both sit at her side to watch Humfrey.
Following the introduction of the royal family which caused an eruption of cheers, the horn blew once more to signal the beginning as knights began to emerge on horseback.
First you saw the golden antlers which you knew to belong to House Baratheon, followed by the green flame of the Hightowers.
House Tully’s display had been more than clear, as Medgar Tully rode in front of the cheering smallfolk and held a dead trout high above his head, screaming a tribute to the old gods and the new, before taking a bite.
The sight made you grimace, with Gwendloyn placing a hand over her mouth.
“I think I’m going to be sick.” she croaked, causing you place a hand on her back as you laughed.
Just as quickly as she had spoken, she was distracted by the appearance of her husband, her eyes lighting up as the sigil of red and white diamonds appeared.
Cheering and clapping her hands, you clapped along for your brother in law, who raised his fist as he rode into place alongside the other knights.
Before you even had a moment to pause, the horn blew once more, followed by the deep galloping of hooves against the ground as lances were lowered.
As the first impact and splintering of the lances began, it was followed by a deep groan by the crowd watching, only to melt into cheering once more.
You watched Gwendolyn’s face as Humfrey turned at the end of the line and began to storm forward once more, his opponent carrying the sigil of House Payne, only to knock him off of his horse on the second pass.
She cheered next to you, resting a hand against her bump proudly; the image made you smile, you were happy on behalf of your sister, if there had been anyone more deserving of a match of love, it was her.
The joust continued to be enjoyed by all, with minimal injury to be celebrated, it remained a relatively blood free event.
At its conclusion, you walked arm in arm with Gwendolyn as you accompanied her back to The Beesbury tent, both Humfrey’s trailing behind you sharing a pig skin flask of ale.
“To the champion of the joust! My brother by law!” your brother claimed, raising the flask above his head before taking a sip.
Turning to look at her husband and brother, Gwendolyn laughed at the two of them before facing ahead once more.
“It’s soon time you get a husband of your own, isn’t it?”
Her words made you almost stumble as you walked, shaking your head and letting out a groan.
“I’m serious!” she laughed, “You can’t stay as Lynara’s for your entire life.”
“Watch me do just that, live out my days as a maid, I shall be as pious as Baelor The Blessed.” you responded, stopping as you arrived at the entrance of the tent.
Skeptical, but no longer interested in pushing the matter further, Gwendolyn simply rolled her eyes and turned to face you.
“Will you come inside?” she asked.
Remembering the promise you had made, you shook your head.
“I can’t.”
Raising her eyebrow inquisitively, she saw right through your simple answer yet didn’t pry.
“Well be safe, and get a good rest, Humfrey’s jousting again tomorrow, he claims he intends to unhorse Prince Aerion.”
She spoke with a roll of her eyes as she turned to glance at her husband who was now dancing drunkenly with your brother, the pair of them humming a tune.
“Goodnight, sister.” you concluded with a hug and a kiss to her cheek, before turning to begin the walk back.
It hadn’t taken you long to realise that despite agreeing to meet Raymun after the joust, you hadn’t agreed as to where, leaving you peering around as you walked to try and find him.
Though you did find somebody as you approached the Fossoway’s tent, it wasn’t who you had hoped.
In fact you already found your blood boiling the moment you made eye contact with Steffon.
You’d hoped he’d have kept his mouth shut as you walked past, yet when he noticed the pointed glare you aimed at him, he piped up rather quickly.
“You got somethin’ you want to say to me?” he spat, leaning his weight on one foot and narrowing his eyes at you.
No longer willing to pass by silently, you whipped around and stomped up to him.
“If you ever strike Raymun again, i’ll wring you by the balls.” you hissed, jabbing a finger into his chest.
Turning to walk away you were stopped by Steffon’s grip on your upper arm, yanking you back.
“You may be my sister’s lady, but that doesn’t mean I won’t have you sent back to your shithole at Honeyholt.”
“Don’t touch me.” you snapped, ripping your arm from his grasp.
Storming away from him, his words sent a lump into your throat, your hands shaking with rage as you continued without any semblance of where you were headed, just that you needed to be away from the crowds that littered the camp ground.
It was just as you finally reached the end of the camp grounds that you heard the familiar voice of Raymun calling your name.
Sat next to him was the gentle giant you had seen the day before, along with a little lad you hadn’t seen.
As Raymun waved you over to where the trio were sitting under one of the meal tents, you composed yourself and walked over.
Standing at the table, you offered a kind smile to the two strangers as Raymun introduced you, giving them your name.
“This Ser Duncan The Tall;” he gestured to the big one, “And his squire, Egg.”
The little one’s name made you laugh, an unusual name, but not exactly ill fitting you supposed.
“Ser Duncan means to join the lists.” Raymun mentioned, which has you raising an eyebrow.
Even for a hedge knight, he seemed down on his luck, judging by the rope that was acting as a sheath holder for his sword, and the state of his clothes.
“May The Warrior grant you his blessings.” you offered with a nod.
“Thank you.” Duncan finally spoke, his voice just as deep as you had expected for his stature.
“Ser Duncan,” Egg spoke softly, tapping him on the arm, “We still need to speak with Steely Pate.”
Nodding, Duncan stood from his place and nodded politely at you.
“Good luck, Ser Duncan.”
He returned your words with a smile and another nod, toddling away with Egg at his side.
Turning to Raymun, you smiled at him while gesturing to the pair with your thumb.
“You made friends with the giant, then?” you teased, sitting across from him at the table.
Ignoring your comment but sending a playful glare your way, Raymun pointed to the barrels that had been set up with various ales and wines.
“Do ya’ want anythin?” he offered, beginning to stand.
“Ale’s fine.” you replied, reaching for the coin purse sat against your hip, only for Raymun to put his hand out.
“I’m returnin’ the favour for this mornin’.”
Leaving you without the option of refusal, you simply held your hands up in surrender.
“By all means, then.”
Just as quickly as he ran off, he returned with two iron cups of ale, a smile plastered over his features as he sat across from you once more.
Taking a generous sip of the ale, neither of you said anything initially, until Raymun spoke up.
“Was that your sister? the one you were sittin’ with during the joust?”
Nodding your head in response, you took another sip.
“My brother’s are here too, haven’t seen them in years.” you laughed softly.
“I didn’t know you Humfrey Hardyng’s sister by law now.” he joked, causing you to role your eyes.
“They only wed a year or so after I left,” you shrugged, “She’s pregnant now too.”
Pausing to take another sip, you tucked some hair behind your ear.
“According to her, it’s to be my turn soon enough.”
That seemed to grab Raymun, his gaze hardening slightly at the mention of you getting married.
He didn’t speak for a few moments, looking back down at his ale.
“Is that somethin’ you want to do?”
His question caused you to shrug.
“Hadn’t thought about it all that much if i’m being honest..”
Your answer was honest for the most part, before recently, it hadn’t even crossed your mind.
“What if I just wanted to stay in Lynara’s service for the rest of my life.. what if I don’t want to squeeze out heirs for some lord just cause people say that’s what I’m meant to do..”
Huffing, you took another sip of your ale before speaking again.
“Isn’t that what men want? Heirs to carry on their name.. boys to train to fight and girls to look after them when they go old and grey?”
As you concluded your speech, you noticed Raymun watching you with a half cocked smile, amused.
“Oh you think it’s funny how, wait till your father makes you marry some pig-faced girl and tells you to put a baby in her!”
You laughed as you spoke, pointing at Raymun as your words only made him laugh along with you.
“It’s easy for you lot, all you have to do is bed us, then we’re expected to go through all the pain and the blood.”
Pausing for a moment, you narrowed your eyes and lowered your voice.
“Whoever marries you’s gonna have a hard time looking at your ugly mug when it comes time for the bedding.”
Faking insult, Raymun shook his head.
“You know I've got a face like a young milk maiden.” he protested sarcastically, “You think your future husband’s gonna have to take you from behind so he can actually make an heir?”
Opening your mouth, you let out a shocked laugh before raising your hand to try and deliver a slap to Raymun’s chest across the table, only for him to catch your wrist before impact could be made.
Maybe it was the ale talking, or the adrenaline left over from the joust; the pair of you were used to trading playful insults with one another, but there was something else rising up with all this talk of bedding.
“I’ll not have you layin’ a hand on me, or i’ll put you over my knee.”
“The seven hells would freeze over before I let you.” you teased, snatching back your wrist before standing from your seat.
“That a challenge, then?” he countered, chugging the remainder of his ale as you turned and began to break out into a light sprint away from the tables and up towards the tree line in the distance.
You didn’t look back to see if he was following behind you, you didn’t need to, you’d known Raymun for almost four years now, he was easy to rile.
Passing the threshold of the tree’s, you grinned as you began to slow down and hid behind a thick tree base, trying to listen out for footsteps.
Your heart thrummed in your ears through the silence occasionally broken by the sound of an owl or the distant sound of yelling and cheers from the camp grounds.
A twig snapping not far behind you sent you taking off again, laughing loudly as you heard Raymun’s footsteps quicken with your own.
You continued to run, spotting a break in the trees in the distance and pushing yourself to reach it.
As a pair of arms reached around your waist and held you in place, you let out a squeal that began to melt into laughter, startled but amused all the same.
Raymun lifted you with ease, manhandling you as he stepped into the small meadow the pair of you had reached before he let go and allowed you both to collapse onto the soft grass below you.
Rolling onto your back, you panted from your run and stared up at the night sky, admiring the way it was littered with stars.
Beside you, Raymun was laid on his back and looking at you, watching as you met his eyes and held his gaze.
With little hesitation, you reached for his hand and intertwined his fingers with your own, just as you had done the night previously.
It was clear from his eyes that he was just as nervous as he was determined, opening his mouth to speak before stopping.
“What is it?” you whispered.
“Can I kiss you? Properly this time..?”
This time it was your turn to be silent, holding his gaze for a few moments before you sat up.
Quickly following your action, Raymun seemed to be bracing himself for rejection once more.
Yet when you nodded slowly, he let out a nervous exhale with a smile and reached forward to place a hand on your cheek.
At first, it was soft, his plush lips barely touching your own, his nose bumping against your own as you both smiled before attempting it again.
This time, you could taste the cider on his lips, feel the want radiating off of him when he placed a hand on the side of your neck.
It seemed as if time was moving independently, like mere seconds and hours had passed all the same before he broke the seal of your kiss but remained close enough that you could feel his exhale against your lips.
“You taste like honey wine..” he whispered, making your heart leap, before he leaned forward to kiss you once more.
As if a string had snapped, you felt Raymun moving to put a hand on your waist, gently guiding you to lay on your back once more as he held himself above you.
His hands didn’t attempt to explore further without permission, only held onto your hip as he kissed you deeply, soft exhales leaving your throat as began to kiss along your jawline and down to your neck.
He wasn’t rough, yet he seemed to be restraining himself, placing softer kisses along the skin of your throat as you shut your eyes and ran your fingers through his curls.
Just as quickly as it had started, it stopped the moment you opened your eyes once more and spotted a small garden snake a meter or so away from the pair of you.
Out of reflex, you let out a scream and Raymun threw himself off of you only to watch as you began to scramble across the grass to get away from the small animal.
Letting out a laugh, Raymun stood, scooping his arms behind your back and under your knees to lift you up off the ground.
“Not quite a dragon, but just as fearsome.” he joked, watching your petrified expression and wide eyes following the snake as it slithered past and disappeared into a bush.
“You can put me down now.” you finally spoke with a relieved sigh.
“What if I don’t want to?” he teased, only to receive a glare from you before he obeyed.
Keeping his hands on your waist, Raymun rested his forehead against your own and pulled you against his chest.
Even if you did not share another kiss, you both shut your eyes as you shared an embrace and both laughed softly at the interruption.
“It’s late.” you finally spoke, “people will be wondering where we are..”
Pulling away, Raymun nodded and took your hand in his own.
“Aye, I’m sure they’re arranging a search party as we speak.” he laughed softly, placing a quick kiss on your forehead.
Beginning the walk back in the direction of the camp grounds, you kept your hand tightly in Raymun’s.
Upon arriving back, you bid him goodnight, stopping him from stealing another kiss before somebody would see, and disappeared back into your tent for the night.
Summary: You adore Raymun. You are unaware that Raymun has caught feelings for you. Your friend, Lyonel, is willing to do anything to get you two together.
Warnings: SMUT, Minors DNI!, Virgin!Reader, Inexperienced!Raymun, public masturbation (it's in the woods but still), oral (f! rec), p in v, creampie, unprotected sex, risk of being caught (you are in a tent), Lyonel being Lyonel (he's just a silly guy). Not beta read. Let me know if I missed any!
Word Count: 3.3k (i got carried away...)
A/N: I just got into AKOTSK and never really got into game of thrones, so I have not a clue what's going on honestly. I just love Dunk and Raymun lots (sry if this is ooc though)! I will be writing something with a similar theme for Duncan (specifically the masturbation thing), so look forward to that if you want! My requests are currently open <3 Divider by @/honeyluvsw
“You are an oblivious thing,” Lyonel looks at you, smirking. He takes a drink, his eyes watching you over his mug. When you become confused, Lyonel puts the cup down and his smile widens. “You really are unaware.”
“M’lord,” You press the pads of your fingers to your temples, eyes screwing shut, “what are you on about now?”
Lyonel leans in, his eyes widening. “You are one of my favorite people, so I must know,” his hand grabs your shoulder. This causes you to look at him, “how do you feel about that Fossoway squire?”
Your brows knit together, your head tilting to the side. “Raymun?”
“Ah,” Lyonel gently pats your shoulder and leans back away from you. “That is the one.” You have thought about Lyonel’s question a lot. You had not expected Lyonel to ask it, but Raymun has been plaguing your mind. All too much, if you are being honest. “Are you going to answer my question?”
You think briefly. This is a trap, you tell yourself before you can spill your guts. You know Lyonel has something up his sleeve. He tends to always have something up his sleeve. You clear your throat. “Why are you asking this now?” You raise one of your brows. “Why is this any of your business?”
Lyonel scoots in closer once more, “well, M’lady,” he mocks the way you had said ‘M’lord’ only moments ago, “you are my dearest friend.” He places a hand over his heart, causing you to roll your eyes. “I also know that Raymun is utterly in love with you.”
Your eyes widen. A small, short gasp escapes your throat, and you stiffen. This seems to tell Lyonel all he needs to know about your feelings towards that Fossoway squire. Your jaw clenches and you turn from Lyonel, trying to ignore him completely. That is hard to do when he scoots his chair closer to you. He is breathing down your neck now.
“Dear,” Lyonel starts, “you should tell him.” He smirks; his lips are almost touching your cheek. Your eyes search the tent; you are looking for an out. Everyone is enjoying themselves, especially Lyonel, but you are struggling to enjoy anything at the moment. You swallow hard and see the tent open.
Your eyes meet Raymun’s and while you would normally smile and wave at him, you suddenly feel sick. Lyonel is closer than ever. You watch Raymun freeze as his eyes move to Lyonel. You can see his breath catch in his chest, and he deflates. You are going to puke.
Raymun turns around and leaves the tent. You pout. You turn towards Lyonel and your pout quickly turns into a scowl. Your brows furrow and your lips purse. “I’m leaving, M’lord.” You stand up and push through everyone in the tent. Before you leave you hear Lyonel yell something about your shared tent. You roll your eyes, finding it best to ignore him.
You wander around the grounds, trying your best to find Raymun. You spot Duncan and Egg, and approach them.
“Dunk! Egg!” You greet them. Dunk suddenly seems flustered. His eyes meet yours, but he averts his gaze behind you, causing you to turn your head. Nothing. Your brows furrow and you step closer to the two. “Have you seen Raymun?”
Dunk shakes his head and Egg nods. Dunk looks down at the boy and glares at him. Egg does not seem to notice or care, “He seemed ill.” Dunk groans as the boy speaks. “He said he had business to take care of-”
Dunk is quick to shut Egg up. He cuts him off, but it is too late. You feel worse than before. “Raymun does not want to see anyone right now.” Dunk’s eyes shoot back towards the wooded area, before landing on you again.
You pout at him, “But-” You feel still feel ill yourself, “I must tell him what he saw-” You cut yourself off. “I will find him.” You turn towards the way Dunk has been looking off and start towards the woods. Dunk reaches out but he does not grab you. He will not, you know this. He verbally protests, telling you to wait, but you do not listen.
You huff, thinking about how unhelpful Dunk had just been, and that is when you hear it. A soft whimper. And then your name. It is Raymun. You hurry, without thinking, towards the noise. Then you see him, leaning his shoulder against a tree, his back is to you. He appears to be in pain. Your brain, unable to properly think, tells you to approach him. Another choked noise escapes Raymun.
“Raymun?” Your voice is soft. That is when you realize he is, in fact, not in pain.
Your voice catches Raymun off guard but ultimately sends him over the edge. You want to turn and head back to the grounds, but you are stuck. Looking at Raymun’s back and listening to his startled moan as he finishes in his own hand.
“I am so sorry,” he chokes the words out. He does not think about turning around to face you.
You shake your head, “no, I am sorry.” Finally, you take off. You are headed straight towards the Baratheon tent. You pass Duncan, and you do not even look in his direction, but he does look at you. He understands. He knows what you found. He shakes his head and turns back towards Egg.
You make it to the tent and your eyes hit Lyonel. He spots you quickly, and his amused look drops when he sees how startled you are. Your face is on fire, and your eyes are wide with fear and confusion. You approach him and motion for the men around him to leave. They do not budge. Lyonel groans. “The lady said to go.” Finally, you are left as alone as you can be in a full tent with Lyonel.
“What has happened to-”
You do not let him finish. “I found Raymun,” You pause, swallowing hard. “He-”
“He professed his love for you?” Lyonel’s amusement is returning.
You cannot look directly at Lyonel. Finally, your eyes meet his and your fingers lace together; you are growing anxious. “He was saying my name.” You pause. “Pleasuring himself.” Your voice is low. Lyonel does not give you the reaction you want. You are not sure why you thought he would.
A laugh erupts from your friend. Your face heats up even more. Your hands fall to your sides and your fists ball. Your eyes narrow and you huff. Lyonel does not stop laughing.
“You did not offer him a hand, or your cunt?”
His question almost sends you spiraling. Your jaw clenches and you think just for a moment, about slapping him. You refrain. You stomp off from him, and out of the tent. You still do not know why you thought that would go differently.
You are not sure where you are going, but when you spot Red, you decide she can help you. She spots how upset you look and waves you over. “What happened?” She tilts her head brings you close to her.
“I do not know where to start,” you cross your arms and sigh. “I thought I had upset Raymun, Dunk told me to leave him alone, and I cannot seem to listen.” You pout at her. “I found him, in the woods, uh,” You make a discreet motion and she nods.
“Ah,” She smiles softly, “for someone so close to Lord Baratheon, you sure are embarrassed easily.”
You gasp. “Red,” you whine out, “I need help. What if Raymun cannot bear to look at me anymore? What if I cannot look at him?” Your head tilts, and you lean closer to her, needing comfort. “I will be honest,” you start once again, “I have never…” Your eyes screw shut and Red seems to understand.
“Calm down,” Red touches your shoulder. Her eyes dart behind your shoulder, but unlike with Dunk, you do not catch her.
“Lyonel said I’m beautiful, lovely even! He has said he would help me, but he is much ‘too man’ for me to handle. I do not want Lyonel though.” You whisper to her, “I want Raymun.”
Red’s smile widens. She grabs both of your shoulders, “Why do you not tell him?” Her head tilts and her brows furrow. “If he likes you as well, would it not work out?”
You bite the inside of your lip. “I- What if I disappoint him?”
Red’s expression softens. She releases your shoulders and takes a step back from you. You cock a brow at her. Red’s eyes move behind you again and your stomach drops. You turn your head and find Raymun standing within earshot of you. Your eyes widen once more, and you stiffen. You inhale sharply and turn your whole body towards him.
“Come with me,” you step towards him and gently grab his arm. “I know a place where we can speak.”
Raymun follows you. His cheeks are pink and he looks just about how you feel; nervous and embarrassed. You pass the main Baratheon tent and look inside. You spot Lyonel and he sees you holding onto Raymun. He winks at you. You catch it out of the corner of your eye. You stifle a groan and pull Raymun towards your tent, which also happens to be Lyonel’s tent. You move past the curtained fabric and Raymun enters behind you, the curtains following back into place.
“I am truly so sorry,” Raymun’s cheeks grow pinker. “I should not have been thinking about you that way-”
You put a hand up, stopping him. Your face is burning too. “I am sorry,” you try to push the sounds of him moaning your name out of your head, but it is impossible. “Seeing you upset when you walked into the tent, Lyonel all over me…” You shut your eyes, and groan. “He may be my best friend, but he is mostly a pain in my ass.”
Raymun shifts uncomfortably.
“Earlier, in the tent, what you saw was Lyonel trying to force me to confess to you. Lyonel and I, we are merely friends.” You reassure him. “But we are not here to speak about Lyonel, are we?”
Raymun is hung up on your words. “Confess what to me?” He wants, no, he needs to know.
“Whenever I see you, I get an odd feeling in my chest. I want you to hold me, I want you to kiss me. I adore you, Raymun. I want you.”
Raymun’s eyes widen. He swallows hard. He exhales and shifts again, for a different reason this time. “You want me?” He needs reassurance. You quickly nod at him. He cannot keep his hands off of you much longer. “May I-” You nod again, before he can finish his sentence.
Raymun cups your face and brings you close to him. His lips press to yours and you eagerly kiss back. Your hands press to his chest, before sliding up and around his neck. Raymun’s tongue slips into your mouth, his tongue running across yours. You moan into his mouth. Raymun guides you back towards your bed, never breaking your kiss. Once the back of your legs hit the bed, Raymun pulls away. He looks you up and down, his eyes hungry and dark.
“May I take off your dress?”
You nod at him. His hands move towards the ties of your dress and he easily undoes them. His hands are shaky; he did not imagine this happening so soon. As your dress slides down your body, Raymun’s eyes do not leave you. You feel very conscious of every single part of your body suddenly. Your hands begin to move, to cover yourself. Raymun visibly snaps out of it, his eyes meeting yours again.
His breath hitches and he motions towards the bed, “I can make you feel good.” He states it. It is a fact. You do not argue. You, stepping completely out of your dress, sit on the end of the bed. Raymun drops to his knees in front of you and your stomach flips. He is still fully clothed; you are very aware of this.
Raymun’s shaky hands grab your thighs, and you open your legs for him. You lay back on the bed and look at Raymun, waiting for his next move. He seems to be lost in thought, thinking quite hard about what he wants to do first. His grip on you is soft, gentle. He does not want to bruise you.
Your eyes shoot up to the top of the tent, and your hands splay out beside you on the sheets below you. And then you feel it. Raymun places a soft kiss on your inner thigh, his facial hair tickling your skin. Your hair stands on end, bumps covering your skin. Your breath catches in your throat and your body tenses. Raymun’s eyes watch you from between your legs, catching every response to his touch. His hands pull your legs further apart, his kisses going further up. Until he finally reaches the pulsing heat between your legs.
Raymun does not hesitate, his tongue is immediately lapping you up. You gasp. You can tell he is eager to please, even if he is not that experienced. He places one of your legs over his shoulder and angels your hips upwards, giving him more access to you. Your hips roll forward, against his face; he does not hold you down.
“Raymun-” Your voice is quiet, as to not alert anyone outside of the tent. You moan softly. You cover your mouth with your hand and buck into him again. Raymun smiles against you, his tongue licking stripes up your pussy. He finds your clit and focuses on that. His tongue swirls around the bundle of nerves and you shiver against him.
You bite your hand, your eyes shutting tight. Your jaw clenches, and a moan somehow makes it past your clenched teeth and clamped mouth. Raymun does not let up. You ball the sheets into your free hand and Raymun moans against you. You open your eyes to find him looking at you with half-lidded eyes. His pupils are blown wide, that hungry look still lingering. He moans against you again, causing your hips to roll once more. You notice, before your head rolls back, that his dick is in his free hand. The hand holding your thigh, keeping your leg over his shoulder, still only rests there. He does not dare grab you too harshly.
Your hips begin to move without you even trying to move them. Your leg locks around Raymun, pulling him even closer to you. Raymun is sure that if this is how he dies, this would be the best way to go. Your thighs begin to clench, and Raymun’s moans only become more frequent. You come undone quickly, the feeling from his moaning and his tongue lapping at you becoming too much.
You whimper his name as you come, your hips rolling into his face one last time. Your entire body is taught; it feels as if there is a coil in your stomach. Everything around you is spinning. As your body loosens back up, Raymun looks up at you again, his tongue lazily licking now.
“Please,” you whisper at him, “too much-”
Raymun lets you go. You watch as he wipes his mouth with his sleeve and a heat pool between your legs again. Your thigh drops from his shoulder and Raymun stands up. You lie on the bed, limp, and watch him closely. He had made sure to not come while he was between your legs. He is still hard. He begins to fully undress. As he steps out of his breeches, he steps back towards the bed, towards you.
You pull yourself up to the top of the bed and let yourself fall back once again, waiting for Raymun. You momentarily shut your eyes and feel something over you. Raymun is positioning himself at your entrance, holding himself above you.
“Please,” Raymun starts, “tell me if this is too much.” He is quiet, his forehead pressing to yours briefly. You nod at him. “This may sting. But not for long.” He is reassuring.
You bring your knees up, caging around Raymun. Raymun pushes inside of you, and you hiss. Your eyes shut from the feeling. Your face contorts and Raymun places a soft kiss to your cheek, nuzzling into you.
Your chest tightens, and you exhale slowly. “Move.” You are breathless. “Please, move.”
Raymun does not question you. His hips slowly roll into yours, and he lets out a breathy moan. “Fuck-” He whimpers. You can tell he wants to move faster against you, but he does not. He keeps a slow pace, letting you get more comfortable.
One of your legs moves around his waist, pushing him deeper into you. Raymun gasps in your ear, leaning further into you. More of his weight rests on you now, but he is careful as to not lie completely on top of you. One of his hands still steadies him, while the other is grabbing at your ass.
Your nails gently drag up his back, your head lulling backwards. Raymun ruts into you, his face burying in your neck.
Your name falls from his lips, and begins to beg, “please,” he is breathless, “fuck-” he whines, his breath catching. “I need to-”
“Fuck me,” you interrupt him, “please, just fuck me-”
Raymun nods against you. He pulls his face from your neck and holds himself up again. His movements become faster, less thought out. He is not thinking anymore, he does not seem to be capable of that at the moment. Raymun’s thrusts cause you to not be able to think either.
Raymun leans down, his lips hitting your neck. He kisses the soft skin. Your hips roll, meeting his and you let out a whine. Between the thrusts, squelches, and moans, you are sure people can gather what is happening in the Baratheon tent. Your wishes for no one hearing you are forgotten about as you loudly moan for Raymun.
“You are perfect,” Raymun’s thrusts are becoming sloppier, “fuck- you are divine.” He whimpers again, his body tensing. “I’m close-”
You, not thinking, tighten your leg around him. You begin to come undone, once more, yourself. You squeeze around Raymun and his hips stutter. His thrusting, while already sloppy, becomes quicker as he gets closer. He, unable to pull out, finishes inside of you. He whimpers your name and his thrusting slows.
Raymun falls on top of you, his breathing ragged. The both of you stay like that for a moment, him inside of you, the both of you catching your breath. Your chest heaves, meeting his. His fingers trace up your side, and you shiver.
You sigh and Raymun rolls off of you, laying by your side. “How long can we stay like this?” He whispers, his eyes mapping out your face.
You turn onto your side and think, “I am unsure.” Your voice soft like rain. “At least until Lyonel kicks you out.” You smile at him.
Raymun nods. “If we are lucky, that will be a while.”
You cuddle close to Raymun. You take in the moment while you can. You place your head on his chest, your eyes looking up at him, “I could stay like this forever.” His dark eyes meet yours. He holds your close.
He groans. “Please, do not look at me that way.” You feel him getting hard again.
You smile at him and pull him into a kiss, tasting yourself. “I cannot help it,” you speak against his lips, “you are too perfect.”
He stifles a moan, his eyes screwing shut. You too hope Lyonel does not come by for a while, you are not done with Raymun yet.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4,421
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: a lady in waiting in service to house fossoway learns to navigate the world of westeros while trying to survive the trials of the heart; with a tourney at ashford meadow on the horizon, she begins to experience new feelings.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: drinking (again), young people not knowing how to communicate, mild violence.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: chapter two was released far quicker then i anticipated, i cant promise this will be normal but im simply hyperixated on this series! all graphics done by @cafekitsune !!!
𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓
Admittedly, you were surprised you’d been able to avoid Raymun for the entirety of the three day journey to Ashford, staying in the carriage alongside your lady for the majority of the trip, you had been able to manage the entire ride without even coming across him.
It seemed she had noticed your apprehension, on day two of the ride, she asked you to join her for a brief stroll when the riding party had stopped at a tavern for the night, only for you to look at her as if she’d asked you to walk across hot coals.
Making a point to walk along the tree line, far away from where the rest of the Fossoway’s had set up a simple camp, you stared at the ground and kept your fingers intertwined in front of you.
“Something’s amiss with you.” she finally spoke, peering at you inquisitively.
“Lynara-” you began, ready to deny her claims before she held a hand up.
“I have known you since you were only young, do you really think you can lie to me?”
Your silence only confirmed her claim, even more so when you let out a frustrated huff and began to walk ahead of her.
“What is it?” she pressed, laughing softly as she jogged lightly to catch up with you, “Is it a boy?” she asked excitedly, clapping her hands together.
“No.” you answered, a bit too quickly for it to be convincing, though you quickly covered it up with a different excuse, “I’m just nervous to see my brothers again..”
If Lynara was skeptical of your answer, she didn’t show it, simply nodded slowly.
“Yes I suppose it had been several years since you’ve seen them.. You still write to Humfrey though? Yes?”
Nodding your head, you fiddled with the fabric of your dress where it had began to fray over time, tugging at the thin threads.
“And your sister will be there won’t she? With her new husband, Ser Hardyng?”
“She will.”
“Well then what is there to be nervous about?” she shrugged, “I’m sure they will be happy to see you!”
“I suppose you’re right..”
You were grateful that you’d been able to avoid the topic of Raymun entirely, the last thing you wanted was to discuss what had happened between the two of you to his own cousin, much less when it had the potential to damage your place in her service.
Managing to avoid any further conversation on the matter, you fought with yourself for the rest of the night, tossing and turning, unable to find sleep no matter how many times you hit your goosefeather pillow or rearranged your position.
-
The sun had only just begun to rise when the riding party continued on the next morning, arriving at Ashford just as it finally climbed it’s way to the top of the sky; by the time it reached mid-afternoon, the Fossoway’s tent was assembled and ready.
Taking the time to help set up Lynara’s own tent, you prepared a fresh change of clothes for her and helped her change.
Now sitting by her side at the entrance, wooden chairs set up along with a small table of wine and fruits, you watched her fan herself as she watched the many armoured men walk past, all carrying an array of shields and weapons.
“Gods, the armor gets bigger each year.” she scoffed with a sly smile, picking a grape from its bunch before popping it into her mouth, “Look at that, do you think Ser Manderly could have fit a bigger codpiece on his armor.”
Pointing to where the Manderly’s tent had been set up, your eyes followed where she was pointing, only to see a poor squire struggling with large pieces of armor, obviously fitted to somebody who’s body was heavier set than most.
The gossip that would normally have made you laugh only brought a soft hum from your throat, nodding absentmindedly.
Either not noticing or choosing not to comment on it, Lynara continued to comment on passer by’s; people watching had always been a favourite past time of her’s, something she’d grown to pick up on as you spent time in her service.
“Did you hear that Lord Florent had to borrow even more from the Iron Bank in order to pay for his daughter’s wedding?” she chuckled, shaking her head.
Too caught up in your own thoughts, you stayed silent, which she noticed, leaning forward in her chair to look at you.
“Are you listening?” she asked with a laugh, waving her hand in front of your face.
“What?” you jumped, turning to look at her, only to see her shaking her head.
“Your mind is truly elsewhere if you don’t want to listen to my gossip.” she spoke, her smile letting you know she wasn’t angered, only amused. “Why don’t you go find your brother, last I heard he was drinking of Lord Baratheon’s tent.”
Opening your mouth to refuse, Lynara only held up a hand.
“Ah, ah, I won’t hear it; go, I’ll be fine without you by my side for an hour or so.”
In truth, you had been eager to see your brother.
The only person you had continued to write to from home, or more so the only person who would write back, Humfrey was the youngest son, but an older brother to you still.
Before you had left Honeyholt, you and Humfrey had been close, but it had now been almost four years since you had seen him in the flesh. It was him who had written to you to inform you of your sister’s marriage, as well as the Beesbury’s attendance to the tourney at Ashford.
‘I hope to see you there, sister, it’s been so long, I want to see what you’ve grown into thanks to that strict diet of apples and fish.’
You recalled the words of his letter as you walked through the sea of tents, eyeing off the sigils to try and find your own. It wouldn’t be difficult, what with the colours of yellow and black sticking out easily, but the trek was straining thanks to the ground that had grown muddy and slippery from the number of people walking through.
Spotting the stag of House Baratheon first, you quickly saw the sigil of House Beesbury across the Baratheon’s tent.
Speeding up your stride, you pushed through the last of the mud before finally reaching the entrance of The Baratheons tent; lifting the heavy curtain away to peer inside.
Almost immediately, music filled your ears, the sound of a fiddle being played along with soft drumming. You had heard of Lord Baratheon and his penchant for celebration, you it wasn’t surprising that his tent was a deal more lively than other even in the middle of the day.
Stepping inside, you scanned the sea of faces in search of anything familiar, even if it was likely that Humfrey’s face had changed a great deal since you’d seen him, yet you still held out hope.
Continuing through, you politely shifted past people and stood taller to peer over shoulders.
“Sister!”
Before you had a chance to turn around to face the source of the voice, you were pulled into a tight hug and hit a firm chest, your cheek smushing against a cotton over shirt that was embroidered with beehives.
Your brother swung you from side to side excitedly before finally letting you go, but keeping a grip on your upper arm.
Humfrey hadn’t changed all that much, aside from the facial hair, he seemed to have stayed realtively similar to when you had last seen him.
You smiled brightly, eye’s lighting up as you leaned in for another hug and gave a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Oh look at you! I can’t believe you’re right here in front of me!” Humfrey spoke, placing his hands on his hips and looking down at you proudly, “Come, you must meet my friends.”
Without waiting for a response, Humfrey placed a hand on your shoulder and began to guide you further into the tent, weaving past people until he finally came to a table where two other men were sat.
“Boys! This is my sister, the one I was telling you about.”
He presented you to his friends with a wide grin, waiting expectantly.
The first man looked up and offered a friendly smile and a respectful nod, the other two following soon after.
Holding out his hand, Humfrey ran through their names.
“Ser Jorrehn Westerling, and his brother Harding.”
Responding with a polite curtsy, you smiled.
“A Pleasure, Sers.”
“All the same to you, my lady.” Jorrehn replied.
The third man, copper haired and green eyed, stood from his chair and leaned across the table to take your hand, placing a gentle kiss against your knuckles.
“Ser Samuel Redwyne, my lady.” his voice was delicate, almost musical, and his smile was kind.
“Ser Samuel’s the one who knocked me off my horse back at Highgarden.”
You remembered that being mentioned in one of your brothers letters some months ago, nodding in understanding, you laughed softly.
“Ah, I’ve heard of you.” you chuckled.
“As have I of you.” he responded, sitting back into his chair and taking a sip of his wine, “Just as fair as you were described.”
Looking to your brother, unsure how to respond at first, he placed a comforting hand on your shoulder and began to turn you back around.
“Alright, thats enough!” he laughed, beginning to softly push you away, “I’ll not have the wolves descending on by little sister!”
Looking back briefly, you could see Samuel laughing softly, still keeping his eyes on you. His gaze only made you smile and look back in the other direction.
Leading back through the way you came, Humfrey leaned in with a softer voice.
“Seem’s you may secure a match before the tourney is even concluded.” he teased, only to be met with a harsh slap to the shoulder from you.
“I have no interest in any match.” you sighed.
Nearing the exit of the tent, you turned your head from one last look at the faces within, only to find your breath caught in your throat as you locked eyes with Raymun.
He seemed to be scowling, cripping a gobelt of wine so hard his knuckles were going white.
Out of reflex, you quickly avoided his gaze, feeling your heart leap as you stepped out of the tent and back outside.
Staring ahead, you began to pick at your dress, a nervous habit you had found yourself partaking in often.
“Father will want to see you.” Humfrey began, beginning to lead you to the tent across the path, the sigil of House Beesbury hanging above it.
That made you stop in your tracks, the thought of seeing your father again after all this time.
It had been different to see Humfrey again, he had actually continued to write to you over the years, yet your ravens to your father had gone unanswered. He had seemingly washed his hands of you.
“I don’t think he will.” You spoke softly, watching as Humfrey turned and furrowed his brows.
“What do you mean? He’ll be happy to see you again..” he spoke as if it was obvious.
But he had stayed with your father, he had recieved a knighthood, likely received the praise from him that you had never recieved.
Noticing your apprehension, Humfrey sighed and took your hand.
“At least come and see Gwendolyn.” he began, “she’s with child, it will do her some good to see you again.”
Raising your eyebrows, your eyes widened when you heard this news.
“Gwendolyn is pregnant?”
Nodding his head with a smile, Humfrey continued to lead you towards the tent.
“We only found out a few weeks ago, when I told her you would be here, she wouldn’t stop talking about it for days.”
You hadn’t been told that Gwendolyn was going to be at the tourney, under the initial impression that perhaps she would be spending time with her new husband, having only been wed at the beginning of the year.
Your only and eldest sister had always been close to your heart; when you were first told you would be leaving for Cider Hall, she had been one of the only people to protest your absence, you weren’t surprised that father had gone ahead and promptly married her off.
As far as you had been told in letters, the match was a good one, with the couple getting along well and seeming to have no issues.
Making your way into the tent, the familiar sight of beehives etched into the stitching of the curtains and the images of bumblebee’s brought you right back to the halls of Honeyholt, the home you hadn’t seen for years.
As soon as you entered, you heard your name, recognising the voice as your eldest brother, sitting as a squire was helping to tighten his armor.
“Hello, brother.”
You addressed him respectfully, bowing your head politely.
“It’s good to see you.”
His greeting was nowhere as excited as Humfrey’s, seeming as if your presence barely made a difference, but you expected that.
The pair of you were so far in age it was difficult to bond over anything, so you aligned yourselves to maintain the respect of being family, but continued to be rather indifferent to one another.
“How is your wife?” you asked, only for him to laugh softly.
“Worrying after me, as always.”
He’d already been married when you left for Cider hall, he already had two children, your nephews, but they were back at Honeyholt no doubt.
“She didn’t want me to enter the lists; but I promised Ralof i’d come back with a victory.”
One of his sons, you hadn’t met either of them.
Nodding, you heard another voice outside of the tent that was steadily getting louder, it sounded excited.
Entering at Humfrey’s side, Gwendolyn’s eyes lit up the moment she saw you, letting out a cheerful gasp as she moved as fast as she could with the small bump that was just beginning to make itself known.
Gwendolyn was seven years older than you, but unlike your eldest brother, you had always been close.
“Oh, I missed you!” she sighed, pulling you in for a tight hug which you returned without hesitation.
She smelled like earth and jasmine flowers, the same as she always did, it sent a flood of nostalgia down your spine.
Pulling away, she ran a hand over your cheek, taking in your appearance.
“You’ve grown so much!”
Smiling bashfully, you lowered your head to look at the bump that was currently pressed against you.
Taking a step back, Gwendolyn placed a hand on her belly.
“I know, isn’t it amazing.” she spoke with love in her voice as if she had already birthed the child.
“That’s certainly one word for it.” you laughed.
Taking your arm, Gwendolyn quickly began to lead you out of the tent and back outside into the fresh air.
“Come, we must get away from the men, I would like to talk with my sister alone.”
-
You spoke of anything and everything with Gwendolyn as you walked through the tourney arm in arm; she told you about the morning sickness she experienced on the ride from Honeyholt to Ashford, the kindness of her husband, as well as asking when you would have one of your own.
Which promptly earned her a role of your eyes.
Introducing your sister to Lynara was a highlight, the two of them, close in age, seemed to take one another immediately.
It was as if now you had two older sisters.
The three of you were now walking together towards the training grounds, Gwendolyn and Lynara chattering away about the gossip of the tourney participants, with you trailing beside them with a smile.
Sounds of swords clashing grew louder as you approached, passing under a stone archway to see all of the structures that had been prepared just for this tourney.
There was a mixed array of armored participants, some riding horses, others sparring with one another.
“Husband!” you heard Gwendolyn call, watching an armoured man on horseback turn towards the sound of her voice, only to smile and begin to trot over.
Jumping off his horse in swift movement, he embraced your sister, kissing the top of her head.
“How is my little warrior faring?” he chuckled, placing a hand over the small bump on her belly.
“Barely the size of an orange, my love.” she reminded him, amusement clear in her voice.
Turning to gesture for you to come over, you stepped forward as your sister hooked her arm in yours once more.
“My sister.” she introduced, smiling brightly.
“A pleasure to meet you.” he spoke, nodding his head.
Returning the gesture, you listened as Gwendolyn continued.
“She should join us for supper tonight! Lord Baratheon has invited us to dine in his tent.”
“Then join us she will, my love.”
Climbing back onto his horse, Ser Hardyng said his goodbyes before promptly returning to his training.
Continuing to walk through the training grounds, the sight of Lynara’s brother created a pit in your stomach.
Even more so when you realised he was swinging mercilessly at Raymun with his sword.
No matter if you hadn’t spoken to him for almost three days, the friendship you shared still remained tethered.
Perhaps you would have had the strength to stand by, to stay silent as you watched the unfair match go on.
Had it not been for the firm blow across the cheek that Steffon dealt to Raymun after kicking him through the wooden fence and throwing insults at him.
Suddenly, your avoidance of Raymun was put aside as you gathered your skirts and began to run over.
As Steffon found himself distracted with the giant of a man that had stopped to stare, you made your way to Raymun and gripped his arm.
He hadn’t seen you approach, yet when you grabbed his arm and began to help pull him up without a word, he seemed taken aback that you had even come close to him for the first time in days.
Neither of you spoke at first, simply exchanged a look that seemed to be equally as anxious as each other.
As you heard Steffon challenge the stranger, you were startled by Raymun ripping his arm from your grasp, your brows turning upwards as he took a step away from you.
“Do it Ser.” Raymun spoke, “I may not be ripe but my cousins rotten to the core; Knock the seeds out of him.”
The giant, seemingly more gentle than he appeared, politely refused.
As Ser Steffon finished the conversation with another insult and promptly stepped away to begin sparring once more, Raymun gave him a curt nod and began to stomp away.
Walking past you without a word, he barely even rose his head to look at you.
“Raymun!” you called, annoyance clear in your tone.
You wanted to be mad at him, truly you did, but there was little defence to be held when you’d been ignoring him for days.
Sighing hopelessly, you trailed back to where your sister and lady were stood, having seen the entire interaction between the pair of you.
“I thought you said there was no boy.” Lynara began, a smirk clear on your face.
“Shut it.” you snapped, crossing your arms as the two older women laughed with one another.
-
The friendship that quickly formed between your sister and your lady had quickly turned into a partnership, for here you sat in front of a mirror as your sister brushed through your hair.
Lynara was stood to the side, rummaging through the chest of gowns that had been packed for Gwendolyn so she could pick something for you to wear.
“This really isn’t-“ you began, only to be promptly shushed by Gwendolyn.
“Hush, i’m concentrating.” she whispered, beginning to braid your hair skillfully.
It seemed the pair of them were determined to dress you for dinner, as if you were a doll for them to style.
Crossing your arms, you sat in silence and allowed Gwendolyn to continue braiding your hair, all while Lynara let out a satisfied sound before lifting her chosen dress out of the chest.
“This one.” she spoke matter a factly, holding it in front of her before laying it on the chair beside you.
“Gods be good..” you sighed, running a hand over your face as the two women continued to make you up.
-
If it were possible, Lord Baratheons tent had grown even more lively as the sun retired and the feast began.
There was music as well as dancers dressed in the Baratheon colours of black and gold; spinning ribbons on sticks in a display that you thought was quite beautiful.
From the moment you sat down beside Gwendolyn and her husband, Lynara at your other side, you were entranced by the sheer joy emitting from the guests of Lord Baratheon.
Even Humfrey was on his feet, down to just his cotton undershirt and was flailing and dancing with the same friends you had met earlier in the day.
You had risen from your seat to refill your goblet, only to be promptly yanked into the sea of dancing guests by your brother, who began to spin you, all while you let out a squeal that faded into laughter.
The rhythmic clapping of the guests along to the music was enough encouragement to have you dancing at your brother's side, the earrings designed to look like golden bumblebees jingling as you bounced from foot to foot.
The Westerling brothers cheered as you found your rhythm, briefly each taking a turn to spin you before you finally stumbled into the familiar arms of Samuel Redwyne.
His grip on your waist was as gentle as his voice, as he helped you steady yourself before he took hold of your hand and began to match your steps, melting into a patterned routine as you laughed gleefully.
Swept up in the laughter and the music, when it finally concluded with one last swell, you held a hand to your face and hid your shyness to little avail.
“You dance like a swan on water, my lady.” Samuel complimented, offering you a bow of his head before stepping away, leaving you standing there smiling.
Turning to begin walking back to the table where your sister was sat, you barely made it five steps before a hand was on your arm.
Whipping your head around, you were met with the sight of Raymun’s dark eyes, his face a mix of emotions that you couldn’t quite place.
“Can I talk to you.. Please..”
You wouldn’t have refused either way, but the tone of his voice alone would have been enough to convince you even then.
Only giving him a nod, you took his hand without hesitation and headed for the exit of the tent.
The cold night air was like a wave of ice water compared to the warmth of Baratheon’s tent; it helped to ease the effect of all the honey wine you’d drank, in part due to the fact your brother was handing you goblets all night.
You didn’t look behind you as you walked around to the side of the tent, once more playing with the fabric of your dress, before quickly remembering it wasn’t yours and wrenching your hands to your sides.
Stopping in your tracks, you sat down on one of the many wooden benches placed around the perimeter of the tent and stared down at your lap.
Almost as soon as you sat down, Raymun followed suit, his knee touching your own when he sat down beside you, keeping his eyes forward as if you were both petrified to look at each other.
A brief silence passed before he finally spoke.
“I’m sorry.” he began, nervously kicking at the dirt underneath his boot.
“I don’t know why I did it.. I think..”
He paused briefly, scratching at the back of his neck.
“You were all dressed up.. you looked nice.. and I just wasn’t thinkin’ I suppose..”
You stared down at where his knee was touching your own, so nervous and yet eased all at the same time by the physical contact.
“I’m sorry I ran away..” you replied.
“No, you shouldn’t apologise for that.” he shrugged.
“It was wrong of me to kiss you like that, without even askin’… seven hells i’d have run away too.”
His comment made you laugh softly, the tension you’d been previously sharing for days disappearing just as quickly as it had initially formed.
It now felt like things were just the same as they always had been.
“Makes sense, you’d need a belly full of cider to want to kiss me…”
Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Raymun finally turn to look at you, his brows furrowed at your comment.
“That’s not true.” he muttered, turning back to look around absentmindedly.
“What does that mean?” you asked, quirking an eyebrow at him.
He hesitated like he was scared to answer, like what he was wanting to say would be enough to make you run away and stop talking to him all over again.
“I don’t know..” he huffed, shrugging his shoulders as if he were avoiding what he truly wanted to say.
“All I know is, when I saw you talking to that Redwyne knight, I got so mad I had to go swing at a tree with my training sword till it was blunt around the edges..”
Initially, you opened your mouth to speak, but couldn’t even begin to think what to say.
Rather than say anything, you looked down at your hand, moving it forward to intertwine your fingers with Raymuns own, before leaning your head on his shoulder.
Though he hesitated at first, Raymun returned the gesture after only a few moments, gripping your hand tighter and leaning his head on top of your own.
It was nowhere near as intimate as a kiss, and yet was more intimate all at the same time, as if this meant more to both of you then a kiss would have.
It was no declaration of love by any means.
But seemed to be an acceptance that there was definitely something more than friendship between you beginning to bubble to the surface.
Summary: After Lyonel Baratheon asked for your hand and made the journey to Winterfell. (Your brother sending him a letter wanting him to ask for your hand). You joined him as man and wife in front of the Godswood for your wedding day. As well the wedding feast and wedding night.
A/N: So this is part two to my first Lyonel and reader work. The amount of love that it has received is crazy and I thank you all for loving it as much as I did!. Now I will admit this was my first time writing smut in probably years so I really did my best. So I hope you all enjoy the wedding and the wedding night! and it's kinda long also lol Also happy Valentine’s Day besties!
Tags: Wedding, drunken fun, wedding ceremony, and smut. reader's loses virginity. P in V. dirty thoughts.
Word count: 7.7k
The days that following Lyonel’s arrival came in a strange and hurried sweetness. Winterfell bustled from dawn until deep into the night. Seamstresses bent over spools of grey and white wools and furs, cooks argued over what should be prepared, and servants made Winterfell stun to perfection. Everywhere you turned there was motion and preparation to make sure the day would be perfect.
And amidst it all, Lyonel was always there.
You both walked the battlements together more than once, the wind tugging his curls as fiercely as it did your own cloak. He asked questions of the North not as a lord measuring the lands, but as a man trying to understand the place that has shaped the woman he is to wed. So, you showed him the broken tower where you had hidden as a small girl after your brothers would chase you. You showed him the edge of the wolfswood where the trees grew thick and old.
When you brought him to the godswood, beneath the red leaves of the heart tree, he grew uncharacteristically quiet. “It feels different here“ he admitted, his voice softened by the stillness. “Storm’s End is loud even when empty. Rarely do you have a moment’s quiet. But this place…listens.”
“It remembers,” you said. “The North always remembers.”
He glanced at you then, something thoughtful in his eyes. “Then let it remember this kindly and of our union.”
Your hands brushed more often than chance could claim. There were moments in passing where even the air between you sparked even if your skin did not. His laughter came easier in your presence, and it turned to a sound your soul craved. If there was thunder in him, there would be sunlight too. If only meant for you.
And then, as swiftly as the wolf howls, the morning of your wedding arrived.
Your chambers were warm with hearth fire and women’s voices.
Your mother stood behind you, her hands steady as she fastened the final clasps of your gown. Your sisters who had been able to make the journey north surrounded you, their faces bright with memory and delight. They had worn similar gowns on their wedding day, and they had all worn the same cloak of House Stark, each in her own turn.
As your eldest sister put the finishing touch to your hair and she placed the small direwolf circlet upon your brow. As she did that you admire the gown that yourself and your mother worked so hard on. The gown was of Stark colors- soft grey silk layered over white wool, stitched with direwolves in thread so pale it shimmered like frost. The sleeves fell long and graceful, the fabric rich adorned with dark grey on the hems of the sleeve yet unadorned by southern excess. It was Northern in its beauty. Solemn and endearing.
When your mother lifted the Stark cloak- heavy grey trimmed in white fur. You felt your breath catch.
“This cloak has seen many Stark women wed,” she murmured, settling it upon my shoulders. “And now it will see you wed.”
Her fingers lingered at your collar as she clasped the cloak against your shoulders with a direwolf chain. “You look as I did,” she added softly. “Though I think you outshine me.”
You smiled through the tightness in your throat. “No one outshines you, mother.” Giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. You looked between her and your sisters. They looked at you so lovingly that your chest tightened at the fact you were to leave them and their comforts. But when you turned to the looking glass, you scarcely knew yourself. You looked grown. Not merely a daughter. A woman. A woman on her wedding day.
Across the yard, Lyonel prepared as well.
You were to learn later on from Jonnel that he had been restless since the night before- pacing like a caged animal while his men attempted to fasten his doublet straight. He wore black and gold, rich yellow silk beneath his dark surcoat bearing the crowned stag of his house. His cloak was heavy and bold, black velvet lined in gold, the Stag on the cloak appearing to try and leap off his back and clasped at his shoulder with a stag wrought in bright metals. Gold rings adorning his firms and one singular golden earring to match.
“The Laughing Storm looks pale,” your brother had teased him.
“I am not pale.” Lyonel had growled.
“Are you sure? You have not laughed once?”
At that, Lyonel had only muttered something about northern air stealing a man’s breath.
He was nervous whether he cared to admit it or not, but the thought pleased you more than it ought to. Possibly because it made you feel like you were both making the right decisions since you as well were nervous.
A knock came at last.
Your mother answered the door to see your father waiting on the other side. Lord Cregan Stark had faced battlefields without flinching, was alive with the last dragons, and had held Winterfell through many winters and battles that would swallow lesser men whole. Yet his eyes fell upon you, something in them shifted. For a moment he said nothing. Then he crossed the space between you and enveloped you in a warm embrace. You hugged him back just as fiercely.
For a moment you both said nothing. Just relishing in the time in your father’s arm for possibly one of the last times. When he finally let go, he placed a kiss upon your cheek and offered you his arm. “You honor our house today Y/N.” he said quietly.
“And you honor me,” you replied giving his arm a reassuring squeeze.
He studied you, as though committing this to memory. “You have your mother’s grace,” he said. “And my stubbornness. Storm’s End will not know what it has taken on.”
You huffed out a soft laugh and with that together you and your family began the walk to the godswood.
The air was crisp, the path lined with gathered lords and ladies. The red leaves of the heart wood stirred gently overhead, like whispered blessings.
And there-
He stood beneath the weirwood.
Lyonel Baratheon, broad shouldered and resplendent in black and gold, his dark and silver curls catching the pale light of the lanterns. A golden crown on his brow adorned with antlers, looking every the crowned stag of his house or your soon to be house. The moment his gaze lifted and found you upon your father’s arm, the world seemed to stop.
You had seen him smile. You had heard him laugh. But you had never seen him struck silent. And mayhaps not many people had.
His breath visibly caught. The swagger you had come to expect over the last few days had vanished as though carried off by the wind. His eyes storm dark and widened in something unguarded.
Wonder.
It was not mere admiration, it was recognition again like the first time you saw each other on the steps of the courtyard but this time only deeper.
As though in that instant he fell not into duty, nor alliance- but into love.
Love at first sight, reborn beneath the red leaves. And as your father guided you towards him, you felt it too, not the nervous flutter of uncertainty but the steady certainty of something taking root. As you had hoped and prayed for in front of this very tree.
The godwoods had hushed as you entered it your father standing proud next to you. Even with half of Winterfell gathered behind you, sound seemed to fall away beneath the branches of the beloved ancient tree. Its pale trunk rose before you, the carved face ever watching with its red sap weeping. The leaves above stirred softly, though there was but little wind.
Lyonel stood waiting at the heart of it. Waiting for you.
When your father placed your hand into his, Lyonel’s fingers closed around yours- not tightly, but firmly enough that you felt the strength in him. The warmth of his palm seeped through the cool air between you two. For a heartbeat you only looked at one another.
Up close, you can see the silver threading his dark curls, but they seemed brighter beneath the canopy of the lantern and the heart tree. His throat moved as he swallowed. He leaned closely, just enough so only you may hear.
“You have undone me,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “I thought I knew beauty the moment I saw you again on those steps. But I was wrong.”
A heat rose in your cheeks despite the cold.
“You look as though the gods themselves carved you from winter,” he continued softly. “If I stare too long, I fear I shall forget my vows entirely.”
“Then it is well a septon stands ready to remind you,” You whispered back.
The corner of his mouth curved. “Cruel again Y/N.” You couldn’t help but smile.
The septon stepped forward then, robes of white and a crystal seven pointed star catching the lantern light. Though we stood beneath the heart tree of the old gods, your father had granted the rites of the Seven for your soon to be husband’s sake.
“Who comes before the Seven to be joined in holy matrimony?”
“Myself,” Lyonel said clearly. “Lyonel of House Baratheon.”
“And I. Y/N of House Stark.” You answered, your voice steadier than how you felt.
The septon spoke of the Father’s justice, the Mother’s mercy, the Warrior’s strength, the Maiden’s grace, and how we are all to meet the Stranger at the end. His words flowed like ritual water, familiar even in the North, where the old gods kept deeper roots. He bound your hands loosely with a silken cord of grey and gold.
At this point you turn towards each other hand bound together, “Repeat after me,” he instructed to Lyonel.
He did not acknowledge the Septon but kept his eyes locked on you. “With this kiss,” he began, voice strong but softened at its edges, “I pledge my love and loyalty. I take you for my lady and wife.”
When it came to your turn, you felt weight of every watching eye and yet, it was only his gaze that held you steady in this moment.
“With this kiss,” you said, “I pledge my love and my loyalty. I take you for my lord and husband.”
The Septon lifted his hands. “Let it be known that Lyonel and Y/N of House Baratheon and House Stark are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be him who would seek to tear them asunder.” Then the Septon continued, “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”
A murmur ripped through the gathered guest. But the ceremony was not yet complete. The Septon stepped back a few paces giving you two your space. Silence fell.
This time there would be no crystals. No recitation. No voice guiding you two. Only the rustle of the leaves above and the ancient face staring back at you.
Before the old gods, there are no words prescribed. Only the truth.
Lyonel reached for your hand again, this time unbound. He led you to kneel before the heart tree as is the way of the old gods. A moment of silence lay between you and the weeping face. According to Northern weddings in the moment of silence, you must pray. You prayed for happiness with Lyonel and you prayed that this was the start of something glorious. As the moment passed you both stood again with Lyonel helping you. You stood before each other once more eyes never leaving each other.
“I stand before you, “ he said “not as a lord seeking an alliance, nor as a storm seeking a conquest. I stand as a man who would guard you with his life. I swear to the old gods of yours and your fathers and the new gods of mine that no harm will become of you whilst I draw breath.”
The emotion from his vows tightened your throat, but you can’t look away from him not that you ever could or wanted to.
“I stand before you,” you answered back, “as a daughter of Winterfell and now wife of Storm’s End. I swear to be your counsel in calm and your strength in the storm. I will not yield loyalty nor falter in truth.”
The heart tree watched, silent and eternal. Sealing your oaths to each other for the rest of your days.
Then came the cloaking.
Your father stepped forward. With his rough and steady hands, he unclasped the Stark cloak from your shoulders heavy furs that had wrapped many Stark daughters before you. As it slid from your back, you felt the shift keenly.
Not of loss, but of change.
Lyonel took up his own cloak, unclasping it from his shoulder. With a grand sweep of black velvet lined with gold, the crowned stag stitched boldly upon it. For a moment he held it in his hands, as though weighing more than fabric.
Then he stepped behind you. Settling the cloak around your shoulders. His hands brushed against you as he clasped it to your wedding gown. Fingers brushing lightly against your skin that raised gooseprickles where his touch lingered. When he stepped back into your sight, his eyes were bright- no laughter in them now, only something fierce and certain.
“You are under my protection,” he said quietly. “My house is your shield.”
“And yours is mine,” you replied.
And in the moment no furthers words for the old gods were to be spoken. It was Lyonel who closed the space between you.
He cupped your face gently, astonishingly gently for a man of his size and then leaned down to meet you. His lips met yours beneath the red leaves. It was not a hurried kiss, nor one meant for spectacle to make a grand show. But it was warm and certain and unashamed. And yet he tasted faintly of northern air. But the storm has found its wolf. When he drew back, his forehead rested against yours. Relishing in the moment of you two becoming man and wife.
“I will spend the rest of my life earning that look you gave me when I first stepped into that yard.” He whispered.
“And what look was that my lord husband?” You asked softly relishing in the fact he was your husband now.
“That look was as though I might be worth your love.”
A smile trembled on your lips as you held back tears.
You placed a hand upon his cheek not wanting this moment to pass, “You are worthy of love and I will spend the rest of my days proving such.”
The Septon returned to stand before you both and announced to the people gathered, “I present to you His Lord and Lady Wife of House Baratheon.” You gave his hand a squeeze looking up to him. Happiness spreading through you both.
And beneath the gaze of the old gods and the blessings of the new, the direwolf and stag were joined as one. For half a moment after the announcement the godswood remained hushed.
Then Lyonel laughed. Not a polite chuckle nor a restrained breath of amusement- but a full, ringing peal of joy that scattered the solemn air like startled birds.
“Well!” he declared, turning to the gathered lords and ladies. “You have all witnessed it. She is mine and I am hers, and the old gods did not strike me down for my boldness.” At that the small crowd cheered.
Laughter answered him at once. Before you could so much as protest, he bent and swept you clean off your feet.
A startled sound escaped you, half gasp and half laugh as the world tilted and you found yourself cradled against his chest. The gold and black doublet he was wearing filled your vision and the scent of pines overtaken you.
“My lord husband!” you hissed under your breath, clinging to him lest you tumble. “The entire north is watching.” Batting at his chest.
“Then let them watch,” he replied cheerfully giving you a wicked grin. “Let them see how a stag can carry a wolf.”
He turned toward the path, beginning the procession back to the great hall with long, confident strides. The stag crown upon his head the ornate circlet with large antler stags protruding from them caught a low hanging weirwood branch. The jolt nearly unseated it.
“Seven save us,” you muttered as one of the tines snagged the branch.
He stopped short, blinking, and one of your brothers barked a laugh behind you.
“It seems even the trees of the North would keep you here, my lord!” Jonnel called.
Lyonel reached up, wrestling the antler crown free all while still holding on to you. “If the North means to challenge me for my bride,” he announced grandly, “it will have to do better than shrubbery.”
The procession roared with laughter.
When you reached the threshold of the Great Hall he finally set you down offering his arm this time rather than his shoulder. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “I forget my own strength.”
“I shall remind you when needed.” You replied sweetly.
“Oh, I do not doubt that.” He said giving a sweet peck to your forehead.
If the welcome feast had been lively, the wedding feast was something else entirely. The great hall blazed with torchlight and warmth. Ale flowed like river water in spring. Trenchers were replaced as swiftly as they were emptied. Boar crackled, honeyed carrots glistened, and spiced wine sent sweet steam curling to the rafters.
The North, when it celebrates, does so with its whole heart.
Toasts began early.
“To the stag and the direwolf!” one lord cried, slamming his cup upon the table.
“To the storms that do not break and wolves that do not yield!” another answered.
Lyonel stood to meet each toast with one of his own, his voice booming across the hall.
“To Winterfell!” he declared. “May it stones never crumble and its ale never run dry!”
A cheer shook the rafters.
When he sat once more, he leaned toward you, cheeks already warmed by drinks. “I believe your North intends to test how much a stormlander can consume.”
“You boast greatly,” you said. “We mean to see if you can withstand it.”
He grinned. “I have weathered worse.”
“Have you?” you said cheekily, arching a brow. “You have yet to weather a Stark woman. And Winter is Coming.” Mentioning your House’s words.
He paused, then barked a laugh. “Gods be good, you are sharp. I shall have to keep my wits about me. Or shall I remind you of your new house words?”
“You would do well to.” You replied. “Direwolves have a habit of biting when least expected. Which would match my new House words would it not?Ours is the Fury. If I am not mistaken?”
After hearing his house words, he looked at you with a heat to his eyes like you had awakened something in him. But he murmured, lowering his voice. “And here I thought they only howled.”
Heat touched your cheeks again this time spreading downwards.
As the night deepened, the benches were cleared and the floor claimed for dancing. Northern dances began first strong, stamping steps, hands clasped and swung wide. Boots thundered against the boards in rhythm.
Lyonel watched for a time, amused and fascinated. You watched two Karstark cousins stamping on one of the tables. One of the ladies from House Manderly doing her best to try and get them down. As well you watched one of the ladies from House Mormont challenging Lord Dondarrion’s son to arm wrestling. After that he leaned close. “Do you like dancing, my lady wife?’
“I do,” you answered carefully. “Can you keep pace?”
“Storm’s End does not breed men who stand idle at feasts.” He rose and extended his hand. You took it, allowing him to draw you onto the cleared floor.
The first measure was northern quick and grounded. He stumbled once, catching himself with a sheepish grin.
“You, see?” you teased. “Outmatched already.”
“Only warming up!” he teased back.
When the musicians shifted into a faster, lilting rhythm more common to the stormlands, Lyonel’s entire being changed. He moved with surprising grace for a man so large. He turned you, guiding you, laughter spilling from him as he spun you beneath this arm.
The hall clapped in rhythm. Your brothers joined, then his men, until North and Stormlands danced in mingled circles.
At one point Lyonel’s stag crown slipped askew from the vigor of his turning, nearly colliding with Lord Glover.
“Your antlers are a hazard I fear,” you said breathlessly.
“Then hold them steady for me,” he said with a flirtatious undertone, but lowered his head so you might adjust them and in doing so stealing a kiss from you. You looked at each other again mischief gleaming in both your eyes and unsure what has taken over you. You grabbed on to the antlers once more, pulling Lyonel into you, deepening the kiss this time around. His hands fell to your waist pulling you closer to him so there would be no space between you.
A cheer erupted around you bringing you back to the moment as you both were still the center of the dancing and deciding to maybe return to dancing.
When at last you slowed, flushed and laughing, your parents approached. Your father’s stern features had softened even more than you had seen in years.
“You have chosen well and for that we thank you.” He said quietly to Lyonel.
“I know it,” Lyonel answered without jest.
Your mother embraced you tightly. “You shine,” she whispered. “And you look happy.”
“I am,” you said and it could not be truer. This moment here with your family and your now husband. You did not think you were worthy of this. Not someone as loving as Lyonel has shown.
The hours blurred in warmth and memory. You drank with your brothers, embraced your sisters, allowed your nieces and nephews to tug at your skirts and marvel at your new cloak. You memorized the way the firelight caught on Winterfell’s stones. These were the last moments here as the daughter of Winterfell.
As the night started to wind down, you found yourself seated next to Lyonel once more. He poured another cup of wine for you and him.
“Tell me,” you said softly, leaning nearer, “what awaits me at Storm’s End?”
He rested his elbows on the table.
“Wind,” he said first. “Constant and alive. The sea crashing again it’s black cliffs so fiercely it shakes the very walls. The air tastes of salt, not snow. And when the sun sets over Shipbreaker Bay, it turns the water molten gold.” He glanced back towards you before continuing. “You will have your own garden overlooking the sea. We will fix up the godswood so you may still have a piece of the North with you. I will show you the armory, though I suspect you will prefer the battlements. The storms roll in without warning. Thunder that makes even seasoned men pause.”
“And you my dear lord husband?” You asked. “What should I look forward to in you? Besides the honesty we spoke of previously.”
He smiled slowly. “A husband who will never cage you,” he said. “A man who laughs loudly, fights fiercely, and loves without half-measure. And mayhaps a husband who may not have you leave our marriage bed unpleasured.” Giving you a wink.
Your breath caught. A passion burned beneath him that you had only hoped you would be able to see and could not wait for your times alone.
“Well thankfully I do not fear storms or stags.” You told him.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because you married one.”
The torches burned low now. One by one guests drifted away to somewhere new. The music had softened, coming to a close soon. Only embers were glowing in the hearths. Thankfully the North did not care much about the bedding ceremony as you have heard happened in other parts of Westeros. Even if they had you were quick to think how your father would not allow such a scene to grace his halls, otherwise he would have a man’s head or hands.
At that Lyonel took the queue that this part of the night is done. He stood and offered his hand.
“Shall we, my wife?” The word still felt new—fragile and powerful all at once.
We walked slowly from the hall hand in hand as you lead him to your bedchambers. The corridor beyond the Great Hall was hushed, what’s left of the revelry fading behind you two like the last embers of a dying fire. Only the distant echo of laughter and the low hum of wind against Winterfell’s stones followed in our wake.
Outside, snow had begun to fall. He paused before your bedchamber that you would spend your last night in as a wife, his earlier exuberance settled into something steadier.
“Are you afraid?” he asked quietly.
“No,” you answered truthfully. “Are you?”
A huff of laughter escaped him. “Terrified.”
“Of me?”
“Of failing you.”
You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “You will not. That I am certain.”
For a moment you simply stood there, two houses joined, two lives shifting toward something unknown but chosen.
Then Lyonel pressed his forehead to yours. “Come,” he whispered. “Let us begin our storm.”
Your chambers were prepared for you both. The hearth had a small fire burning, just warm enough. Candles flickered upon every surface, their golden light softening the hard northern stone. Fresh furs had been laid across your bed, thick and grey like the color of direwolves. The scent of pine and smoke lingered.
Lyonel closed the door behind you. The sound of it settling into frame felt..final.
For a moment you both simply stood, facing one another. Husband and wife. Your first moments together alone as one. The words felt both strange and just right.
His stag crown had been set aside in the hall, and without it he seemed less a lord of legend and more a man. A broad shouldered, with black and golden doublet slightly askew from your night of dancing, dark curls unruly from the night’s exertions. But oh, how well he looked this way.
He exhaled slowly.
“My love,” he said gently, stepping closer but not quite yet touching you. “Before anything else is spoken or done I want you to know this.”
His voice, so often thunderous, was quiet now.
“We need not consummate this marriage tonight if you are not ready. I would not have you rushed or frightened of me. The realm may whisper but let it. I have waited weeks for you… I can wait just a while longer if it makes you happy.”
The tenderness in his words stole the breath from your lungs far more than any bold declaration.
“You would wait?” you asked softly still in slight disbelief.
“For as long as you required.” His hands lifted, brushing loose a strand of hair from your cheek. “You are my wife, not my prize to claim. And I promised you my loyalty and my protection. What kind of man would I be if I turned on that promise in the same night?”
Your heart swelled at that.
You placed your hands on his chest and felt his heart beating beneath his black and golden layers. “I have thought of this night,” you confessed, your voice lower now. “While you slept in some distant chamber of my father’s keep. While the winds howl against the towers and I lay awake wondering…”
His eyes darkened slightly, the beating of his heart beating a bit faster, but he did not move.
“Wondering what?” he growled.
“What it would be like to belong to you fully.” You stepped even closer now until there was no space to separate you. “How your hands would feel upon my skin, how your weight would feel pressing me into the furs. How you would sound when the laughter left you for something... else.”
A slow, controlled breath left him.
“You test a man’s restraint, Y/N. Even after what I offered.”
“I do not think you are so easily broken though, my dear lord husband.”
You let your fingers move to the laces of his doublet, brushing the heavy fabric at his chest. “I am not so green as you might suppose. I was raised among brothers who had no talent for modesty as you well know, and sisters who spoke plainly once the doors were shut. I know what passes between a man and his wife.”
Your hands flattened against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat beneath it.
“I am untouched,” You continued, meeting his gaze without flinching. “But I am also not ignorant.”
Something fierce and reverent flickered in his expression. “Seven help me,” he murmured. “You undo me.”
“Yes, you have mentioned that before.”
You rose onto your toes and kissed him first. Not like it was under the heart tree. Not like the kisses during the feast. This one slower searching in a way. Your hands slid upward into his curls, tugging gently. A low groan escaped him, noting that for later. In response his arms came around your waist pulling you even closer to him if that was even possible.
The heat of him was undeniable. His kiss deepened, careful at first as though you might shatter then stronger when you answered back without hesitation. His hands moved one up towards the expanse of your back, broad plam splaying there, while the other moved lower cupping the swell of your ass.
A soft moan escaped you.
He stilled immediately. “Tell me if…”
“I shall.” You breathed. “But please do not stop.”
A low, almost pained laugh left him. “Gods…”
You pressed your palms to his chest and pushed. He blinked in surprise as he stumbled back onto the edge of the bed, the furs dipping beneath his weight. “Y/N?”
“If you mean to show restraint,” you said, your pulse racing through you, but your voice remained steady. “Then you may sit there and keep it.”
Slowly and deliberately, you reached for the clasp at your shoulders. His eyes followed the movement as though drawn by gravity itself. The heavy black cloak of House Baratheon slipped first, pooling at your feet like fallen snow. Then your wedding gown loosened beneath your fingers. You did not rush; you reveled in the ways his eyes burned into your skin as he watched.
The candlelight traced every movement. You let the fabric slide down your arms, revealing the soft layers beneath. Lyonel’s hands curled into the furs at his sides, knuckles whitening.
“You are cruel have I told you that?” he muttered hoarsely. As you can see his restraint slowly cracking.
“Yes, so you have mentioned. You said you would wait.”
He swallowed. “I did not say I would be unaffected.”
The final ties loosened. Silk whispered against skin as it fell away. The air kissed places only the firelight had seen. Your pulse thundered in your ears, but you do not look away from him.
There was hunger in his gaze, yes but more than that, awe.
“As beautiful as the stormlands,” he had said earlier but he had been wrong.
The look in his eyes now was far deeper than flattery. “Seven hells,” he breathed, almost reverent.
You stepped toward him slowly, your bare feet silent upon the rugs. His gaze traced every inch of you as though he would not forget this. You stopped between his knees, reaching for the laces on his doublet this time starting to undo them. “Your turn, my lord husband.”
He caught your wrists gently. “Are you certain?” he asked again, voice rough now. You leaned down, brushing his lips against his ear.
“I have imagined how you feel between my thighs,” You whispered. “I know you would want me comfortable and said we can wait till I’m ready, But Gods help me do not make we wait any longer to discover if my imaginings are as good as real life.”
The restraint in him snapped- not into wildness, but into something deep. He rose then, towering over you once more, but his hands were still careful as they framed your face.
“You will command storms, wife.” He said softly. “I am already lost in yours”
His mouth claimed yours again, fiercer now. His hands now traced your sides, memorizing the curve of your waist, the slope of your back. You felt the strength in him barely contained but also the disciple. He would not take what was not freely given. But you gave.
With a low sound in his chest half growl, half laugh Lyonel swept you up as though you weighed no more than a snowflake caught in the wind. You gasped, your arms flying around his shoulder to steady yourself, and instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist. Feeling his length against your heat that was restrained by his breeches.
“Bold as any wolf,” he murmured against your mouth.
“And you,” you breathed, fingers tangling in his curls again, “And every inch the stag.”
With another swift movement he lowered you to the waiting furs, though the lowering was gentler than his size would suggest. He followed, bracing himself above you, broad shoulders shadowing in the candlelight. His curls fell loose around his face, streaks of silver catching the glow like frost against branches.
For a moment he simply looked at you. Hunger etched in his eyes, but not impatient hunger. More so a hunger seeking permission to devour you.
“I have faced war and tempest,” he said softly, “and never have I felt so undone.” You smiled beneath him. “Then let me aid in your undoing, my husband.”
A slow grin curved his mouth. “You are certain you wish to begin such a battle?”
“I do not recall surrendering, did I?”
He laughed quietly at that, though the sound was roughened now.
Your fingers fumbled with the rest of his laces securing his doublet, but he did not hurry you. Once loosened you pushed the heavy fabric up his muscled form. Your hands followed the path the cloth had taken, over the breath of him, along the firm planes of muscles honed by tourneys and wars alike.
You explored him slowly, boldly. He inhaled sharply when your palms traced the lines of the muscles on his stomach and chest. “You study me as though I am a map.” He murmured into your hair.
“Storm’s End must be well charted,” you replied, letting your fingers travel lower, committing every scar to memory. “I would not be lost upon its shores.”
His head dipped and pressed his forehead to yours now. “You will never be lost with me. I swear it.”
You pushed the rest of his garments from him, helping him with the laces of his breeches. He was powerful, yes. There were marks upon him faint scars, the story of his life lived loudly. “Another time you must tell me how you received each of your scars, but I do not want to keep each other waiting.” You spoke.
With one swift movement he removed his breeches and now he was on full display for you. He leaned back on his hunches as almost he was giving you full display to stare at his glorious form. Your eyes traveled down from his curls, down his broad shoulders, to the expanse of his chest that was decorated with dark hair that trailed down to his waist. There your eyes caught sight of his length.
You had thought of this moment for the past week and the vision of him before you did not disappoint.
“Does my wolf like what she sees?” he said smugly lightly tugging on his length.
You licked your lips without realizing as your eyes still took in his length trying to figure out how it would fit.
He crawled over you settling between your legs again. This time he kissed you without limitation lightly tugging on your lower lip. His kisses moved to your jaw lines, the sweet spot near your ear and down to your neck nipping lightly at your skin that was enough to draw a soft moan from your lips. And at that moment it was as if the Stag had been released.
He worked his way down kissing and nipping lightly against the expanse of your delicate skin. You had hope that some of those would mark your skin to show how he owned you and you revel in the fact you can look back at them over the next few days to remember this night.
As his kissed down he made his way down to your breast, your nipples peaked with the intensity flowing through you. He took one in his mouth sucking ever so slightly. You let out a harsher moan and your hand going straight to his curls, not wanting him to stop. He released it with a pop and looked back up to you. Your eyes were half lidded just from their intensity his mouth was already working on you.
“I will warn you this may hurt, but only for a moment. I mean to make this as pleasurable as I can. If it is too much, please tell me.” He said and all you could do was nod.
He slid his length against your already wet folds, going back and forth. Even with the subtle movements your hand found the furs gripping slightly. “Already so wet for me.” He groaned.
He leaned forward again finding your lips and by doing so he took himself in hand lining himself up to your entrance. Slowly he entered you. He kissed you passionately to distract you from the pain that was now seeping through you. Yes, it did hurt but not so much so that you would want to stop. Lyonel slowly inch by inch pushed himself inside. Your one hand moved from his curls now gripping his shoulder while the other still gripped the furs.
“Is it too much my love?” He asked worried one. As he said that you shook your head no in response. “Please keep going.”
And with that it seems his restraint had broken. He pushed through the last few inches now fully sheathed in you. He gave you a moment to adjust to his size and the new sensations coursing through you. One of his hands found the underside of your thigh and pulled it up around his waist.
“Gods…. You feel like you were made for me.” You felt yourself clenching around him by the sudden admissions and he let out a guttural groan. You looked at each other once and you nodded for him to continue. Without hesitation he slowly pulled himself out of you giving slow and steady thrust doing everything within his power not to unravel.
He filled you completely. With each stroke a sensation swirled within your belly, driving you slowly mad.
“You feel so good, my wolf. So tight. Made for me.” You yourself this time let out a louder moan urging him on.
He picked up his rhythm, with each thrust he was going deeper and harder hitting a spot inside you that made your body start to tingly.
Your hand founds his curls once again giving them a harder tug. The noise that left Lyonel was one you had wanted to hear over and over again.
“You are magnificent.” You manage to say between moans. Suddenly he stilled.
“Say that again.” He growled.
Your free hand splayed across his chest, and you peppered his face with kiss. The hair from his beard scratching your lips just so. In his ear you said it again, “You are magnificent, every inch of you.”
With that all his restraint that he had kept in control was now broken. As if the dams were let loose. His hands gripped your hips as he leaned back. Driving his cock into you with earnest. His fingers gripped your skin as if he were to let go, he would lose you.
“Oh Lyonel… Please don’t stop.” And he didn’t. He took that as a challenge. Harder he pounded into you, sweat slicking his brow. His curls starting to stick to his sweat on his forehead. In one movement his fingers found your bud and languidly started rubbing you with smalls circles.
The noise you let out could be compared to the howls of direwolves. The sensation in your belly pooling in you and with only a few more moments you thought you would break.
“Does my Lady Wolf howl for me? Does she howl to tell her Lord Stag how well he does?”
“Yes.” You groaned the only thing you could manage to say.
And with one more passing over your clit and one more thrust the dam inside you broke. Your orgasm ripped though you like a storm’s wind. You cried out arching beneath him. Your cunt pulsing around him as he rode out your orgasm with you and now his thrust became sporadic and harder. As he was reaching his you had started to whimper, becoming oversensitive. Your nails clawing at his back.
A few more thrust and then he buried himself deep inside you that you thought there was nowhere else for him to go when he let go. The deep broken groan that left him sent a shiver through you. The heat of him spilling his seed filled you. You both shivering as you both came down from this high.
He pulled out from you slowly watching the moment his seed spilled from you. He unceremoniously plopped down next to you pulling you in beside him.
The furs were warm about you, the fire slowly fading. Outside, Winterfell slept now, but within your chambers there was only warmth, his warmth steady and strong.
His arms wrapped around you, broad and certain. He nuzzled into your neck, breathing you in.
“My wolf,” he murmured, voice thick from the night’s escapade. “I am grateful for every road that led me north to you.”
You smiled at that, your fingers idly tracing the powerful line of his arm that was draped over you. You let your nails glide gently along his skin, following every muscle and scar.
“I would wish for us to run beside each other in this life,” you said quietly. “The stag and the wolf as one.”
His arm tightened slightly at that. “The stag runs best with a worthy companion.” He replied. “And I have found mine.”
You shifted in his embrace so you could look at him directly. The candlelight softened his features, his hair tousled. He looked less like the Laughing Storm now and more like a man at peace.
You leaned forward pressing a gently kiss to his lips.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
“For what, my sweet wife?” he asked, brushing a thumb along your cheek.
“For choosing me. For coming north. For this night.” You hesitated with only a breath. “And for being kind.”
He studied you for a mere moment, something flickered behind his dark eyes. Then a crooked smile tugged at his lips.
“If thanks are to be given you may wish to offer some to your brother.” He said lightly.
You blinked a bit confused, “My brother?”
“Aye,” His thumb continued its low path along your cheek. “Jonnel wrote to me. Spoke of you and the woman you had become. He told me your father sought a match for your hand. Told me I would be a fool not to head north at once.”
You stared at him, surprise blooming.
“He did that?” you asked.
“He did.” Lyonel replied. “I would not have dared presume, but your brother has a way with words.”
A quiet laugh left you, thick with emotion.
“That stubborn fool.,” you muttered fondly. “Always meddling where he thinks best.”
“And was he wrong in doing so?” Lyonel asked gently.
You looked at your husband…your husband and felt no fear, no regret. Only a deep certainty that this is who you were meant to have.
“No.” you said. “He was not.”
You rested your head against Lyonel’s chest again, listening to the strong rhythm of his heart.
“We should rest, my love.” He murmured after a time, brushing his lips against your hair. “On the morrow we begin our journey south. Storm’s end awaits its Lady Baratheon.”
The thought tightened in your chest but not of dread but of happiness.
“With you beside me I fear no storm” you said softly.
He shifted at that looking to your face once more. There was seriousness there now.
“I love you,” you said not breaking eye contact with him. “It was love at first sight.. twice over. Once upon those steps in the yard and once again beneath the heart tree.”
His breath stilled. “Twice over,” he repeated.
His hands came up to cradle your face, his rough thumb brushing against your lower lip.
“I loved you the moment I saw you standing there. Proud and stoic like any lady, but fierce as the north winds. And when you spoke beneath that weirwood I was lost entirely.”
A single tear left you at his confession, in that moment you knew this was it for you.
“Who would have thought the Laughing Storm undone by a wolf.”
“Then we are even.” You replied letting out a small laugh.
He kissed you again this time slowly and certain, not with fire but with everlasting devotion.
“I love you,” he said against your lips. “And I will spend my life proving that to you.”
You settled deeper beneath the furs, your limbs entwined together, his warmth surrounding you entirely. Outside, the wind howled against the stone.
But within his arm, you felt only peace.
On the morrow you would make south for Storm’s End for the start of this next chapter of your life.
Yet tonight, you slept one last time in the North. Wrapped in your stag, heart steady, certain that wherever this road of life would carry you, you two would run it side by side.
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: a lady in waiting in service to house fossoway learns to navigate the world of westeros while trying to survive the trials of the heart; with a tourney at ashford meadow on the horizon, she begins to experience new feelings.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: drinking, stolen first kiss, eventual canon typical nsfw themes.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: so im taking one for the team and writing for dear raymun because goddamnit somebody has to! my plan is to turn this into a series with every chapter centering around each episode! i hope you enjoy! all graphics done by @cafekitsune !!!
It was at the age of six-and-ten when you left your home, the sight of Honeyholt set to become a fleeting memory, your home no longer.
Becoming a lady in waiting had been your fathers idea, with two other sons to focus on, you hadn’t been surprised that he chose the easier option of shipping you off to another Lord in The Reach.
Your father was only brother to Lord Beesbury after all, and stood to inherit little, just as your brothers, the most they could strive for would be to become Knights of the realm, or marry some other lord’s daughter to gain a seat.
So naturally, when the topic of Lord Fossoway’s eldest daughter was brought up, it seemed only inevitable that you were brought into her service.
Kind enough, it had not taken long for the pair of you to form a genuine friendship; she appeared almost as an older sister to you, teaching you how to cross stitch and explaining the rules of tourney’s to you each time you were brought along to watch.
You had been born just a few years before the conclusion of the first Blackfyre rebellion, and your father had fought alongside Lord Fossoway, thus forming a friendship that you continued now with his daughter.
The life you lived wasn’t anything you could have complained about, you were well fed and dressed in soft cottons, occasionally silks on special occasions or when your lady had outgrown her own.
You know there were others that led much more sorry lives than your own.
It did not mean you didn’t miss your home, however.
That’s how you had met him.
It was a cloudy day when he’d spotted you sitting on a stone bench outside, near one of the many apple gardens planted around the border of Cider Hall.
Your very first day after arriving at the seat of House Fossoway, of course you were feeling homesick, you simply needed to get a good cry out of your system and then all would be easier.
You hadn’t noticed the boy peering around the corner of one of the stone pillars of the garden.
Obviously he hadn’t intended for you to hear him, for when he stood on a stick, the sound made your head whip up, startling him so much he nearly toppled over.
Wiping the tears from your cheeks with the sleeve of your dress, you stood, clenching your fists together before grabbing one of the fallen branches that lay on the ground near your feet.
Approaching quickly, you raised the thin branch and whacked at the boy’s leather clad shoulder as he turned away to try and soften the blow.
“Why were you watching me!” You demanded, holding it up to threaten another blow.
Holding his hands up, the boy shielded his face and shut his eyes.
“I wasn’t!” he countered, “S’not my fault you chose a shitey spot to cry!”
His accent wasn’t quite what you’d expected; not quite lowborn and yet certainly not what was the standard in The Reach.
Letting out a sound of annoyance, you dropped the stick and stomped past the boy, gripping your skirts to avoid getting them dirty.
The next time you’d seen the boy had been that same night in the main hall; sitting down with the rest of the Fossoways for supper.
From his accent and leather clothing, you’d assumed the boy had simply been a squire of little importance, clearly a mistake on your part, considering he was sitting with Lord Fossoway’s sister; who seemed to clearly be the boy's mother.
The entire time you had sat to eat, you continued to glance at the boy who was doing the same, glaring every time his eyes met your own.
It surely wasn’t a good start to your time at Cider Hall if you had beaten one of Lord Fossoway’s nephews with a stick.
At your place sat beside Lord Fossoway’s daughter, she noticed your glances at her cousin and laughed softly.
“Have you met Raymun then?” she asked, causing you to look over at her and grimace.
“Unfortunately.”
Another laugh left her lips as she reached for her goblet and took a sip of wine.
“Stubborn as a mule, that one. But give him time, he’ll grow on you.”
Her words only made you shake your head, furrowing your brows.
“Not likely.”
-
It had been days before you saw Raymun again, days you had spent familiarising yourself with the layout of Cider hall, attempting to memorise all the twists and turns.
It wasn’t similar to Honeyholt, at least not in the ways that mattered to you.
You were used to mornings where you could hear the flush of the Honeywine river outside of your window; here you were only ever greeted by the sound of howling winds travelling through the old stone cracks.
Small simplicities you had taken for granted were now the bane of your existence.
Back home, the well had been close by, easy to reach, and yet here, your shoes had been soaked with mud by the time you left the kitchens with hot water for your lady’s bath.
The sounds of swords clashing became louder as you rounded a corner, as well as grunts and sounds of soft cursing.
“I’m not even trying, cousin!”
Walking through the training grounds was a necessary evil when it came to your duties, it was the quickest way back to your lady’s chambers.
You kept your head down as you walked past the pair sparring, recognising the taller boy as Steffon, who you had already been warned of.
It had been relatively easy to ignore them both, all you would have to do is make it through the grounds and back inside the stone walls of the castle.
Or at least, it would have been easy to ignore them, had it not been for a harsh kick on Steffon’s part, colliding with Raymun’s chest, immediately sending the younger boy stumbling back and bumping into you.
Only able to watch as the stone carrier fell from your hands and crashed to the ground; you let out a frustrated cry as the stone shattered and water flooded across the ground.
Turning around, you watched as Steffon threw his head back and laughed, all while Raymun’s mouth hung open in shock, unable to say anything.
“Are you soft in the head?!” you snapped, hiking up your skirts and marching past Raymun and right towards Steffon.
Seemingly surprised that your anger was aimed at him and not his cousin, Steffon’s smile dropped.
“Are you going to go fetch more water from the well then?” you spoke, glaring up at the redhead.
“Calm down, it was an accident.” he brushed off, stepping past you and heading for the sword mounts.
Letting out a frustrated growl, you started back towards the direction of the well, only exchanging a brief glance with Raymun as you shoved past him.
-
It had been later in the night as everybody was gathered in the hall for supper when you had finally spoken to Raymun again.
A cider was placed in front of you on the table, and you looked up to see him standing there with an apprehensive gaze.
Rolling your eyes, you pushed the wooden cup away.
“I hate cider.” you muttered, resting your chin on your palm.
Letting out a huff, he ignored your hostility and sat across from you.
“I wanted to apologise.” he offered, only to receive an eyebrow raise from you in return.
Taking the silence as an opening for him to continue, Raymun sighed.
“No one’s stood up to Steffon that way before.. not even me..” he began.
“It wasn’t right what he did, and it wasn’t right of me to stand by and not say nothin’.”
“You’re right, it wasn’t.” you interrupted, only for Raymun to laugh softly.
“My cousin spoke to me, said I had to apologise to you, even if you were the one that hit me with the stick.”
“Except you deserved it.”
With that comment, it seemed that the tension between the two of you had subsided by the end of that night; no more glares shared across the dining hall, now replaced with lively conversation and laughter.
-
As the years continued to pass, it became clear very quickly that you and Raymun had been more similar than either of you initially thought, with a friendship quickly developing as you continued your years in Lady Fossoway’s service.
By the time you had reached the age of nine-and-ten, you and Raymun were as close as siblings.
“This is ridiculous.” you spoke from behind the embroidered changing wall.
“How am I meant to tell you what I think if I can’t see ya.” Raymun commented, snickering to himself.
Staring at your reflection in the mirror, you frowned, the gown had been sent by one of your brothers from back home, a present for your name day that had been at least a moon passed.
The bumblebee’s embroidered into the yellow silk were pretty, but oddly placed, it was clear that your brother had commissioned this dress with little effort.
Stepping out from behind the changing wall, you held your arms out and swished the fabric, pulling a face at the restrictive feeling of the garment.
Not helped by the way Raymun immediately began to crack up.
“It’s not funny!” you snapped, “i’m expected to wear this to tonight’s feast..”
It was meant to be a celebration of the recent battle that had been won by the Fossoway’s against a band of mercenaries that had been pillaging along their farmlands for the past few weeks, who had now been crushed by the house’s forces.
You had been given specific instructions to dress nicely by Lady Fossoway.
“At least you don’t have to shave..” Raymun muttered, running his fingers over the stubble that was beginning to come through.
Rolling your eyes, stepped back behind the changing wall and began to undo the strings at the back of the dress.
“Only because it’s taken you this long to start growing any facial hair.” you rebutted, earning a scoff from Raymun.
-
Entering the hall trailing behind your lady, your hair was framed with some intricate braids, small jewels hanging from them which your lady had insisted you borrow; the yellow silk trailing as you walked.
Lit up by candelabras hanging from the ceiling, the sound of music bounced off of the stone walls, accompanied by the chatter of voices.
There were mixes of deep laughter and the rumble of countless conversations, none of which you could decipher as you stood beside your lady while she greeted some of the guests from neighbouring houses.
Scanning the hall, you played with the fabric of your dress absentmindedly, taking in the banners with the sigil of the red apple that had been hung over the stone.
“You clean up nicely.” a voice from behind you sounded, making you jump slightly as you turned to see Raymun, freshly shaved and hair actually washed.
“Nice to see you actually took a bath.” you jabbed, earning an eye roll from him.
Snatching the cup of cider from his hand, you brought it to your lips and took a sip, the sweetened liquid washing down your throat.
“I thought you hated cider.” he spoke with a raised brow.
“I’ve grown to tolerate it, just as I tolerate you.”
Shaking his head, Raymun took the cider back and took another sip of his own.
There seemed to be something between the two of you tonight, a tension, not like when you were younger and couldn’t stand to be around each other, like there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t seem to.
With your lady’s attention being taken up by the large number of guests, you slipped into the crowd of people with Raymun at your side, grabbing a cup of your own and filling it with cider.
In all your time in service to House Fossoway, you had never seen the hall this filled; there were people everywhere you turned.
Swept up in the festivities, Raymun’s hand placed on your back was simply a welcome feeling that you leaned into without even thinking.
The night drew on as guests guzzled down more wine and cider than you thought humanly possible, and cheers and singing filled the hall; all of this while Raymun’s hand on your back became more of a grip.
He sang along with the other men as you laughed, he raised his glass and pulled you closer, the both of you feeling rather tipsy.
As the night began to come to a close, you had both ended up in the gardens; lit up by torches, you were both laughing and stumbling as you finally settled beside each other on one of the many stone benches.
“Oh seven hell’s, my head..” you laughed softly, placing a hand on your forehead only to feel how warm your skin was.
You weren’t certain what time it was, but it was early enough that the sky was beginning to turn a shade of blue that told you that it would likely only be a few more hours until the sun rose.
“We’ll be starting preparations for the journey to Ashford tomorrow..” Raymun groaned, realising that he would likely have to deal with minimal sleep and a headache for most of the next day.
“Will you be goin?” he asked, his voice suddenly seeming a deal more hopeful.
“Where my lady goes, I go.” you shrugged your shoulders.
Nodding his head, seemingly satisfied with your answer, Raymun held your gaze, the pair of you staying silent.
You truly hadn’t expected it, hadn’t been able to anticipate when he leaned forward and captured your lips on his own.
You didn’t make a sound when he kissed you, only sat still out of shock.
When Raymun pulled away, it was clear by his expression that he wasn’t certain how you were going to react, his nerves clear in his eyes as he looked at you.
Standing suddenly, you turned away, looking at the ground as you ran a finger over your lower lip.
“I’m sorry-“ he began, attempting to reach out for your hand, only to be scorned when you turned and began to walk away without a word, your strides long as to try and get away as soon as possible.
He didn’t call out for you, not that you heard at least, but you didn’t slow down, still walking back into the castle until you reached your chambers, swinging the wooden door open and letting it swing closed behind you as you stepped inside.
That was your first kiss; Raymun had leaned forward and stolen your first kiss without so much as a word.
Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes as you looked in the mirror, suddenly pulling desperately at the strings on your silk gown, the constricting feeling of the garment now making you want to keel over.
Conflicted feelings swam throughout your belly, unsure how to feel about what the boy who you had considered your close friend had just done.
By the time you had managed to rip the dress off of your body and climbed under the covers of your bed, you were sniffling to sleep and hiding your face under the sheet, unwilling to face the day that was soon to come.
As well as the tourney you would be travelling to in only two days.
The Three Wedding Nights of Lyonel Baratheon - Night Three
*R-rated! Absolute Filth! So much sexual content! You've been advised!* Like I actually think the spirit of Lyonel Baratheon possessed me as I wrote this.
x reader, 'she' is the only term used to reference reader. No specific descriptive language used, besides female anatomy.
Night One / Night Two
Note - please leave love, cause it will motivate me to write more and I have more ideas! Fluff and Smut cause I'm a versatile girlie ;) Enjoy!!
"I would like to break fast with My Lord Husband again" she spoke as she stood from bed.
Her maid stuttered and looked to her apologetically, "I am sorry, My Lady, he left to hunt early this morning".
"A hunt?" she paused her movements.
"Yes" her maid tried to explain to ease her, "the gamemaster saw a great many boar in the area and My Lord was eager to take advantage".
"A hunt", she repeated to herself.
Of course the fucker went on a hunt.
"He asked that extra pastries be brought for your breakfast" her maid stood at the table, pointing out a tray of her favorites.
She walked forward and tried to hide her disappointment with a smile, as it was a kind gesture.
"How thoughtful of him" she sat to eat.
She ate. She dressed. She toured her new home and attended to her duties. She ate again. She was running out of things to distract herself with.
She was now reading in the garden, or trying.
"How long do My Lord Husband's hunts usually last?" she knew the answer before her maid spoke, but she hoped to hear different still.
"He usually makes the fullest of the day, I'm afraid, My Lady"
She sighed and stood, catching her maid off guard - the girl jumped.
"I am going to retire until my husbands return, and you are dismissed for the day" she started to walk away.
"A-are you sure, My Lady. It is too generous a leave, is there nothing I could do for you today? Supper?" Her maid faltered behind her.
She paused, mind plotting.
"If you could, I ask you lookout for my husband's return and alert me swiftly of it. On his return, I would request our supper brought to his chambers and a hot bath drawn in his room".
"If it please you, My Lady, of course" her maid curtsied.
"It would" she spoke as she walked, leaving her maid in the garden.
***
Lyonel ached by the time he returned. The hunt was long, but prosperous.
It was his plan to come home and see if his wife was ready to ravish each other yet. He had been rather enjoying the tension between them.
Lyonel did not think himself a cruel lover, he loved the feeling of release. Though, his wife's teasing did find him wanting to push how far she was willing to suppress herself.
He thought she was going to cave last night, but her strong spirit and muddied emotions prevailed.
The image of her wet, naked, body was seared into his mind. It fueled his spirits during the hunt.
He could see her ache, she wanted him. He was true to the words he spoke on their first night, he wanted her to lead. He was set on her leading - he was a stubborn Baratheon man, after all. There was no changing his mind.
He was prepared to wait - while providing temptation, of course.
A freshen up was needed before seeing his wife.
He eyed her door as he walked past, finding his chest rumbling and lip pulled between his teeth. He could not get the visage of her body out of his head. She may have been curled up in that tub, but he saw enough to leave him no better than a wanton whore.
His mind lingered on her, giddy in anticipation at their next interaction.
Every emotion Lyonel felt created this heaviness in his gut that could only be relieved by laughter. He was in very high spirits after hunting all day, coupled with the drunkenness and lust - he was practically giggling to himself as he walked through his chamber doors.
Lyonel found his eyes having to adjust as he entered his room. The table was brimming with gloriously fresh food. The tub was steaming, the hot air was highlighted by the roaring fire .
His wife's form was also silhouetted by the flames.
This is where Lyonel's eyes had to readjust, was the sudden hot room making him see things?
He leaned back on the now closed doors of his chamber. He started at her feet, they were lounging on the edge of his bath. His eyes traced up, over bare ankles and legs. He eyed how one knee bent at the perfect angle to aid the shadows in keeping her some decency. The loosely tied fabric of her dressing gown splayed down the chair. Her hands laid crossed over her stomach. Her hair was untied, draping around her and framing her perfect face. She was perfect, a breathtaking vision relaxing in his chair.
"Oh fuck" Lyonel spoke on a breath as his eyes finally connected to his head.
"Welcome home, my husband" her voice seemed to drift across the room and kiss his neck.
Lyonel found himself jolting off the door, pulling on his shirt.
He paused when she tsked at him.
"Uh ah" she flicked water at him with her foot, "bath first - I can smell the hunt from here".
Lyonel's face widens in a face splitting grin, "as my wife commands".
He rid himself of his shirt first. His boots followed suit with a fair bit of stumbling. He started untying his breeches, but stopped, catching his wife's eye.
She was not looking at him though, well not his eye anyway. Her eyes were glued to the strings intertwined with his fingers - she was ogling his crotch.
He smirked devilishly, slowly moving his hands to cover himself - breaking her stare.
When she meets his eyes he speaks, "some privacy, please, my love".
She eyes him and he only matches. She folds, closing her eyes dramatically for him to see.
He works fast, ridding himself of clothes and sliding into the warm bath. He groans as he sinks in, it may have shifted to a pure moan, but it felt really fucking nice.
He made sure his face was close to her feet, getting a nearly perfect view.
His eyes locked on the skin closest to him, as he sunk down.
Once submerged he lifts a wet hand to her ankle, taking hold and planting a kiss on her leg.
Lyonel did not have to look up to see that her eyes opened at his actions.
"Who said you could touch, husband?" Her voice was smooth out of her mouth, but thick in tone.
He didn't listen, he kissed her leg again, "you are just so touchable, wife".
Lyonel had to snap back at a sudden pain in his ear. She flicked him.
He looked up and she was trying with all her might not to smile too devilishly.
"That was unkind" he settled back, but didn't touch.
"You may touch" his body jolted at the words, but she continued.
She leaned forward over him, her tits looked great , almost entirely spilling out of her dressing gown. Her feet left the tub and planted on the ground.
"In due time" it was a whisper over his lips that made his cock twitch.
She stood and his head craned back over the tub edge to keep his eyes fixed on her - famished to see any inch of skin he could.
Her fingernails ran through his scalp as she walked behind him, the scratching made him moan. His moan broke up as he felt her fingers drifting farther away.
Lyonel let his head roll to follow where she moved. She was walking toward the table.
Too far, he thought, then he thought some more. Clouded as his mind was, he just wanted to touch and if he could not touch her he was going to touch something.
His hand reached out, like a moth to a flame, and took a handful of her dressing gown.
Simultaneously, his other dipped lower into the water, wrapping around his cock. It was unbearably hard, he did not yearn to cum yet, but God's he needed to give it some attention.
He didn't even move, just gripped himself, thinking 'hold fast the best is yet to come'.
She paused and looked over her shoulder with a raised brow, "I thought I said no touching".
Lyonel spoke, one corner still stuck in an ear touching grin, "it is your gown I touch, not you".
His eyes immediately honed in on movement, her hands moved on the front tie.
"I meant the hand on your cock, sweet husband" she spoke with a tone that seemed to scold him.
His hands rose out of the water, held up in surrender, "you are finding too much joy in pestering me, dear wife".
She turned to him fully and started slowly removing the gown from her body.
"Is it not a wife's job to pester her husband"
The words fell of deaf ears, if she really wanted him to listen she shouldn't have stripped naked.
"Lyonel" his ears heard, but his eyes were feasting on her.
He was instantly drawn to her breasts, perfect swells of flesh on her form. Her nipples perked and coloured to suit her skin. His eyes danced over her navel. The bush between her legs caught his eyes next. Her thighs called to him like a comfy bed. Every part of her came together to create such a well balanced form, his jaw could only go slack at the sight.
With her in his sights he could see her smirk and eye a berry she was about to eat, but he could still not make his eyes, body or mind work in harmony.
She threw the berry at him, which sent the jolt he needed to be able to comprehend her words.
"If you catch this berry in your mouth, I will help you bathe" she held a sweet red berry up for him to see.
He truly needed no time to think it over, she spoke and his mouth fell open - eyes locked on their target.
Lyonel could not remember a time he was so focused. His mind, once fried by the sight of his naked wife, was now exhibiting deadly precision.
The berry soared through the air in the perfect arch, she was trying to throw it well. Lyonel smiled before he even caught the sweet fruit in his mouth - which he did.
He laughed as he chewed, a deep 'ha ha' coming out between movements of his jaw.
She started walking over and he readjusted himself, planning to fully enjoy this bath. Her hands worked delicately, but there was a swiftness to them that he picked up on. He cold not help but notice she was staying purposefully quiet.
"Do not miss any spots, dear" he spoke as his spine shivered.
She only hummed as she ran the cloth across his shoulders. His eyes danced with her hands as they worked. She finished his back and he felt her soft lips kiss the back of his neck. He dropped his head back in response and puckered his lips. He watched her chuckle while shaking her head.
His puckered lips became a pout, "you are a cruel woman".
He forced himself to suppress a shudder as her hands dipped under the water, working on his middle. The cloth ran across his ribs and he could not suppress the water splashing giggle that erupted out of him.
She pulled away to let him collect himself, simply raising a brow at the antics.
Lyonel pulled a straight face, "have you never seen a ticklish man before?".
It started to irk him that she was staying so quiet.
"Are you saving your voice for later?" he leaned in close to her face.
He was quite pleased with himself for the quip, so he sat waiting for a reaction.
"Hey!" he was almost taken down by her hand dancing over his ribs again in a threatening manner.
"Oh ho oh" he chuckled, "this is a dangerous game wife".
He found his heart skipping, as her only response was to look him straight in the eye. Her eyes were deep and he was growing to love staring into them. He had to admit to himself that he was getting lost in them.
The feeling was sudden and heavenly - overwhelmingly so. Her hand had snuck its way to his cock and firmly wrapped around his base. Her eyes were still locked on his, even when he needed a moment to stop his own eyes from rolling back into his head.
Her eye contact made it worse, though the hand slowly inching up his length was a large part of what had him sputtering, it was her damn eyes that were sending him over the edge. He relished in the feeling of her hand moving up. Her hand was soft and was giving attention to every vein and ridge on him.
He had never felt so attended to, and they had barely begun.
When she reached his tip her pointer finger did a circle around the head. It then followed back down the to his base again.
The moan she elicited from his mouth when she gripped him once more was visceral. He could not stop as the moan drew on, her hand now making a steady rhythm of up and down movements.
Then, on the precipice of a climax building she pulled her hand away. He found himself having to set his jaw, almost annoyed she so easily called it - like he was a book she had already read.
"I think you tying me up and leaving me two nights ago was just a warning for how mean you could be" he watched as she, yet again, walked away from him.
At least the view was great, he quirked a brow at his thought.
She finally made a sound, a light giggle. He was going to make her scream later.
She had a handful of berries, she was seductively plucking them onto her tongue. Lyonel actually wasn't quite sure if she was trying to eat those damn berries in a seductive manner, but Gods was she.
She walked backwards toward the bed, she lifted a finger and beckoned him over. It was starting to feel like she had attached strings to him like a puppet. He stood and cared not for the water that flooded the floor at his abrupt action.
He stood in front of her proudly, hoping anything he did would finally make her give him more. She was indeed more resilient then he was. If he were in control he would have had her bent in more ways than one by now.
"Good boy" her voice was music to his ears, let alone the turn of phrase.
"Please" Lyonel had never begged before and although part of his mind questioned why, he also wanted her, he wanted her so badly.
She seemed to take too much pleasure in being able to gain this reaction from him.
"Come closer husband" she spoke and then bit a berry in half.
When he stood in front of her she reached up and pressed the berry on his lips, rubbing the juices all over his mouth. Lyonel could not say for sure where this was headed, but had a remarkable thought buzzing in the back of his mind.
When she pulled in away she plopped the remainder in her own mouth.
"Please, I do not think I can beg more, please let me touch you" Lyonel pleaded once more.
She seemed to think, "what was it you said to me the other night" she slowly started to lean back on the bed, "your body speaks well, but I'm sure your mouth can do better".
Lyonel needed no further invitation, she was leaned and her legs beginning to spread and he pounced.
She gave him an inch and he was taking a mile. His hands slid under her, gripping the glorious ass that he had just laid eyes on moments ago. He pulled her to the edge of the bed as he sunk to his knees.
The high pitched yelp at his actions had him smiling as he dove in. He was well versed in the art of pleasing with his mouth.
His tongue licked straight up, light, definitely not as much pressure as she would have liked.
The sweet juice from the berry on his mouth made him hum and lick his lips, "fun trick".
She was already panting as she looked down at him through half lidded eyes.
"But I want to taste you" Lyonel wiped the last remnants off with the back of his hand.
He went straight in as he knew she craved. His tongue pushed in and swiped up until it laid flat on her clit. Her moans were already music to his ears and they had only begun. He worked her, followed her hips - they told him where to go.
Her hands found his hair and tangled in his messy curls.
"More" she pleaded.
Lyonel was focused, a rhythm had set, one composed of what actions elicited the best sounds from his wife. 'More' was like the beginning of the crescendo.
He cared not for breath, he pushed in deeper. He gripped her writhing body tighter.
She was fighting back her noises, he looked up to confirm - she was covering her mouth.
He chuckled as he pulled away, this had her eyes snapping open. He waited for her eyes to meet his and he felt her body shiver when they did.
"Hold tight" He smirked at her confused brow.
His rumbling laugh was muted as he went back to his rhythm. He scooped his wife up, coming to almost fully stand. Her legs were draped over his shoulders, her hands were needed for balance now, they could not quiet the noises he wanted to hear.
And oh were the noises good. Lyonel began to laugh into her as he continued licking and sucking - which only seemed to make her cry louder. He could feel her gripping at nothing, sure his tongue felt good, but it filled little space in her aching cunt. She was shaking and he cared not if it was for the odd position or from his mouth.
It was clear she needed more to push her over the edge, to make her come undone.
He quickly moved his hand from ass to thigh and pushed her back on the bed further - legs by her head.
He was keeping this flexibility noted for later.
His hands now had more freedom, and he was proud he never had to remove his mouth from her as he changed the position. This meant he could plunge a finger into her dripping core.
She screamed.
He rumbled into her, still sucking and licking and fingering. He felt her cum, she squeezed his fingers and he reveled that he would soon feel that around his cock.
He had half mind to think, as she fell from her high, that if he wasn't so focused on her he would have cum himself.
He pulled away and watched her chest rise and fall with heavy breath. Her hand was draped over her forehead light she was faint. He slowed his fingers to a stop and did not pull them out until she looked at him.
"What now, wife?" He spoke with a shit-eating grin and wet chin.
He watched her lay sprawled on the bed one moment and in the next instance she was pulling him onto the bed. It seemed a fire in her being , that was not yet satiated, propelled her. As they kissed all he could taste were her own juices and he was sure that she was tasting herself as well.
He let her direct his shoulders, allowing her flip him to lay on the bed. He found his head a little clouded, but it was a welcomed daze. In the daze he found his jaw falling to his chest as she swiftly seated herself on his cock.
Her hands were firm on his chest and she gave him no time for thought, as she starting bouncing. She felt as delicious as he dreamed she would. Their skin colliding filled the otherwise empty sound of the room. Coupled with their tandem moans, it probably sounded no better than a brothel.
His erection had been hard and bursting for some time, and his wife just felt so good. She felt better than any woman he had ever been in, and her tits bounced so nicely as she rode him, and she sounded so good and her pleasured face only seemed to make everything else better.
"Cum" She spoke and he pulled her close, resting their foreheads together.
He came, he came so hard all he could do was hold her. She came around him, squirming on top of him as he twitched inside her. Their mouths were open, panting in time.
When she looked at him, he felt himself twitch one last time, cock sputtering to pump already spent seed.
She laughed and he was almost painful how good it felt. He could only gasp and pull himself free of her - then he joined in her laughter.
***
She rolled off of Lyonel with haphazard - tiredness setting in. She still found herself giggling as the pleasure wore down to a glorious ache - still feeling full of him. She supposed she still was, she could feel a gush of his seed trickle out with every small spasm of her gut.
Lyonel rolled off the bed with a mix of grunt and laugh, "Gods, that was good".
She rolled on her stomach and watched as he walked to the table and poured them both a cup of wine.
"Regretting you didn't marry me sooner?" She quipped as he hands her a cup.
Lyonel took a chug of wine before he answered, "Why regret when we can make up for lost time".
She smiled and took a swig herself, the cold wine felt good - it highlighted how hot she had grown from their activities.
She sipped as she admired Lyonel at the table, picking at morsels of food.
"Are you hungry, my love?" Lyonel turned and saw how she looked at him.
He smirked, chewing on whatever he had just put in his mouth. He sauntered back over to her.
"Hungry for me still, it seems" He reached down and cupped her cheek with affection.
She leaned into it, and forced her head to crane up to look at his face, though his half flaccid cock was a tempting sight before her.
His thumb began to stroke her cheek with a softness that spoke to her heart. She found it very soothing and her eyes drifted close. She leaned into Lyonel's hand, his large hand half of her face and his thumb reached her lips.
She felt her cup of wine taken. She opened her eyes in time to see Lyonel down her cup and his own. He then threw both cups over his shoulders. She blinked at the sound of them landing on the stone floor, confused.
Lyonel didn't speak, his eyes only flicked down his body. Her eyes dropped and were met with a sight that almost made her drool, he was hard once more.
"Your turn" he spoke with a gravel that made her lower stomach tighten.
She made a bold assumption of where he wanted to start. She slowly lifted her eyes and open her mouth at the same time.
"Gods, I love you" Lyonel professed as he placed a hand on either side of her head.
She stuck her tongue out as his length slide inside her mouth. He pushed in until she found her body lurch, then he pulled back some.
She was thankful he was not so pushy, she was not fond of gagging so early on.
She let him move, rocking his hips and holding her head in place. It started slow and manageable, but she could see the control leaving his body. Thrusts became more rapid, and he was pushing farther into her throat. Her eyes began to water and she reached up to take hold of his wrist.
He was too lost in wine and want.
She tapped his arm, but he still yielded little. She thought Lyonel would find it amusing at least, and at bare minimum it was sure to jolt him out of the daze her mouth seemed to put him in.
She reached around his hip and poked a finger to his ass.
"Oi" Lyonel snapped, but there was a enjoyment to his shock.
"I could not breath well, husband" She informed him.
His face was genuine when he apologized, "sorry love, it seems there is nary a part of you that does not confound my mind".
"Well, perhaps it is time for another part to confound you" she pushed herself up to her knees on the bed, back sore from being on her stomach.
She was quickly growing to love how much he laughed. He crawled onto the bed in front of her, while chuckling to himself.
He wrapped an arm around around her waist, while the other gripped her neck - pulling her into a firm kiss. The hand on her waist was firm as it moved lower, gripping flesh as it pleased.
It hooked on her thigh and guided it to sit over his hips, she naturally moved both legs to sit comfortably.
There was too much wetness between her legs to not have his cock slip right in once her legs were situated. So it did and he did not stop devouring her mouth as it did. His hips started bucking, and simply for air they broke their kissing.
As he picked up pace his hands found home on her ass and nape of her neck. He held tightly onto her as she held tightly onto him.
She wound a hand into his hair, tugging at particularly enjoyable thrusts.
She felt herself growing close, she was already quite spent from earlier. Lyonel was a groaning mess in her ear, so she was quite sure he was too.
She flexed her abdominal muscles, tightening around him purposefully. His reaction was loud. He tilted them forward, thrusts growing rapid and sloppy.
He let out a guttural holler as he came, the feeling of him launched her own orgasm. She threw her head back and felt Lyonel take hold of her hair when she did - both now having a handful of the others hair.
They sat there sweaty, deeply spent and deeply elated. Lyonel pushed her head up so he could look upon her. Shared laughter building already, deep breaths breaking for silent chuckles
"I cannot wait to fuck like that the rest of our lives" Lyonel mused.
The laughter broke, it was hearty and boisterous. It bounced off the stone and drifted through the halls of Storm's End.
It was shared laughter that echoed through the castle for many years, and ghosted even more.
