༒Stormbound༒
Wed to Lyonel "The Laughing Storm" Baratheon, you leave your family and the safety of court behind, bound for Storm’s End and a future shaped by thunder rather than flame. (2/2)
Chapter 1
pairings: Lyonel Baratheon x (Targaryen) Reader
warnings: age difference (i know what u are) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°), filthy smut (yes, the stag crown is involved)
words: 6k
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Daella,
My dearest, beautiful sister, how have you been?
Is it true our brothers have been lost? I have been praying every night toward their safe return under our father’s gaze. Daeron is a bigger fool than I thought, to have taken little Aegon with him as well! I have half a mind to slap him dry myself when he finally appears. Daella, do not listen to the cruel, mercurial whispers of the court, for you know how they slither. Our brothers are safe. I know it to be true. I would ride out myself, if needs be, to meet our father halfway and scour the lands together. I shall try my hardest to stay his hand from beating Daeron senseless, though I make no great promise.
I also write to tell you that my heart knows no beauty like the verdant lands of my husband, Lyonel. He loves me with a fire that verily rivals our own dragon blood, and I find myself returning that heat in kind. He has gifted me a coal-black mare from the Dornish borders; she has kind eyes and a stalwart gait that carries me from the deep shadows of the rainwood to the salt-sprayed cliffs of Shipbreaker Bay. When the household duties are settled, I lose myself in the Lysene scrolls and histories from the Free Cities. Daella, all my fears have been for naught. The people I now watch over are like their lands, strong and indomitable, yet they do not look upon my silver hair and black clothes in fear, they look to me in awe and respect. A few squire boys tripped over their own two feet as they pushed each other to give me your letter from last time! As the days passed I have found myself to regard this stormy land around me as my own.
Daella, after you meet your betrothed, please do tell me that you will visit my formidable home. As my husband is the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, many great houses have now pledged their allegiances to me as well, one of them being House Tarth of Evenfall Hall. I know of your love for the Sapphire Isles and you must come and meet them, for their stentorian stories rival that of Lyonel himself. My dear sister, Lord Tarth’s eyes never left me as he kissed my hand. He whispered that his great-grandmother once saw the titanic Vhagar pass overhead and whilst growing up in her stories, he had remained in monolithic respect towards our family. The noble houses of my husband’s lands are nothing like the vipers that haunt King’s Landing. They are a true, honest people.
Soon we will make haste to the tourney at Ashford. I am so incandescently happy to finally witness a tourney with my very own eyes! Lyonel says he, too, will fight, but I am so scared that something might befall him that I have been constantly pestering him to stand down.
Alas, House Baratheon’s stubbornness rivals our own!
Please do send a raven as soon as you can for I miss you dearly and long to read your thoughts.
I remain your loving sister.
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The ink barely dried on the paper as you heard the grand oak door to your chambers creak open.
“There you are!” Lyonel beamed at you. He had traded his heavy armor for a soft tunic of black linen, laced at the throat with yellow cords that stayed loose and casual. He looked every bit the stalwart lord, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He had a spring in his step as he came closer to your desk. “What is my dragon doing?”
You folded the letter neatly in your hands and smoothed out the dark silk of your sleeves embroidered with subtle silver dragons and smiled. You had a wolf pelt to your shoulders that brought out your eyes. “Writing to my sister.” The thoughts of your brothers, lost on the road somewhere, have plagued you day and night since you heard of it.
You crossed the oak and kissed him as his hands found your waist. His beard rubbed your own chin and you almost giggled like the maid you no longer were. “You taste sweet, have you tried that apple cake in the hall?”
“Nay, my Lord. I think that is just the natural taste of your wife’s lips.” Lyonel let out a boisterous bark of a laugh. He delighted in your witty quips, finding more joy in your sharp tongue than in all the flattery of his bannermen.
“Oh, yes! I must beg your forgiveness, my Lady!” He bowed like a squire despite his frame and you laughed. The fire in the hearth cracked with the noise of wood. Your stag decorated bed had been covered with as many furs as possible, for the nights were cold and the storms could rise the sea to the windows.
Though you were never afraid of it sweeping in.
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The carriage that brought you to the tourney rocked to the side and back again in a near nauseating rhythm and you stared longingly through the curtains at the sight of Lyonel on his great warhorse, his cloak billowing like a storm cloud. You knew it would have been better, cleaner and way faster to ride your Dornish mare at his side, but you were a Princess of the Blood. To ride astride in the view of a thousand smallfolk would have invited whispers that would stain your reputation deeper than any joy the wind could bring. So, you endured the velvet-lined cage.
The countryside had transformed as you traveled west, the green rainwood given way to the golden field of the Reach. The air no longer smelt of salt and was now replaced by the smell of wheat and wildflowers. You passed through villages where children ran alongside your carriage with bare feet, some with toy dragons made out of carved wood, laughing and kicking up dust as they waved at you. Lyonel would toss away gold coins, laughter booming across the yellow fields.
“You better be back before the sun sets, or I’ll go mad.” Lyonel whispered in your ear the next morning as you told him you wanted to walk around the grounds alone, and see the splendor and the depravity with your own eyes. You loved your husband fiercely, but the "Anvil" and the "Storm" both shared a common trait: they tended to crowd the air around you.
You shifted in the cocoon of his arms, turning to face him. His eyes were slowly opening, their hazel color peeking through at you. You smiled at him as he kissed your nose, then your forehead. He smelled of the ambergris he used in his bath and the distinct, heavy scent of your own perfume, from your affections towards him the night before. You toyed with his earring, turning the gold in your fingers.
“I swear I will do so.”
The grounds had a great cacophony of noise and people mingling about, a swirling vortex of boisterous knights and desperate merchants. Men yelled over the din of clashing practice steel, while others bartered for pungent spices and low-born comforts. You moved through with a secret delight, the tempestuous energy of the crowd a far cry from the quiet halls of Storm's End. Closely behind you walked two guards, stalwart and silent as stone pillars, their presence was a silent vow that any man brave, or foolish enough to insult you would find his life forfeit before he could blink.
You felt the weight of your gown as you walked, its deep obsidian hue a stark contrast to the muddy rags of the smallfolk.
The Ashford hall came into view and your heart fluttered in your chest. You wanted to see if your family had arrived, so you bid your guards to stay watchful at the gate as you went to the main entrance.
Mayhaps, you were too focused on the doors, maybe too excited to catch sight of your father or uncle that you bumped into a wall!
Nay, not a wall. Into a man!
“Pardon me-” his voice was thick and low.
“Oh!” he looked into your eyes, then at your hair, and your clothes as he slammed down one knee in front of you. His voice shook. “My Lady, I humbly beg for your forgiveness…I did not see you-”
“Rise, ser, it is I who was unaware of your presence.” You laughed, for how could you not see him? He was a formidable tower of a man, yet he stood there trembling as if he were a page boy caught stealing tarts. Lyonel would roar with laughter at your retelling of this.
He looked at you like you barked or neighed like a horse, before your words and jolly nature settled in his brain. He stood once more, eclipsing the sun from behind him. He looked at a complete loss of words and you wondered if any noble had ever treated him kindly.
“Were you going somewhere?” You tilted your head up towards him, much like when you spoke to your own man.
“Yes…uh, no-n-no, My Lady. I wanted to ask for an audience with the Lord of Ashford.”
“Oh, I’m sure he will see to you.” A lady called for a maid to be brought, the princes needed their hands washed. Your heart leaped into your throat. They were here! Your father and uncle were just beyond those doors.
“Good morrow, Ser,” you said, already gathering your skirts to depart.
“Go-good day to you, My Lady.” He bowed his head again, his hand white-knuckled as he gripped the hilt of his sword for strength, as if he expected you to transform into a dragon and take flight.
Well, that was endearing. Truly so.
Inside, the Great Hall was cooler, smelling of beeswax and expensive oils. Your uncle had his back to you, washing his hands. His brown hair so unlike that of your own that he scarcely resembled a Targaryen, albeit his clothes had every bit the royal grandeur the heir to the Iron Throne should bear.
“Good day to you both.”
The servants and lord bowed before you as your uncle and father looked to the door.
“Good day. I was just thinking about you.” Baelor came to you and caught your face in his hands with a smile in a soft, paternal gesture as pressed a bearded kiss to your temples. He smelled of travel,responsibility and the weight of the crown.
Maekar came to you after. His kiss upon your cheek was cool, almost formal, yet in the way his hand lingered on your shoulder, you felt the love he had for you. You stood in front of them as you started talking of the tourney, then the weather. And finally your brothers-
“You! Who are you? What do you mean by spying on us?” Maekar, always looking for traitors in the dark, looked next to you, towards the door. Someone was there. Your father stood, passing you as if to protect you from any sort of ill-meaning intruders.
His red hair came first into your view and then his clothes, worn down and ripped apart. The man from outside.
Surely the Lord’s Audience can wait your conversation with your family.
His face was pale and he looked as if he was dropped in a cage with hungry beasts.
“I do apologize for my interruption,” he said, taking a few tentative steps forward. He was trembling, yet there was a stalwart honesty in his eyes. “I’ve… I’ve asked for Ser Alfred Dondarrion to vouch for me so that I might enter the lists, but he has refused…”
He looked into your eyes like he was seeking an ally as you tilted your head, so this is why he wanted an audience.
Maekar looked at you, then at Baelor.
“Who? What the fuck is going on?”
“We are the intruders here, brother,” Baelor interrupted, his voice like liquid silk, instantly cooling the heat in the room. He beckoned the knight forward with a sovereign grace. “Come closer, Ser.”
“-and others too. You see, they say that they know not of Ser Arlan of Pennytree, but he served them.” The hour was already growing late and your belly was restless as you had yet to break bread. You gave your father a kiss on the top of his head and nodded to your uncle as you passed the man on your way out.
The time for talking would arrive, mayhaps tomorrow you and your father could look for Daeron and little Aegon.
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The tent was positively bursting with laughter and song!
Your husband’s counselors and bannermen were deep in their cups, their voices rising like a storm as they traded jests and war stories.
You sat beside Lyonel, your ears burning with a delicious heat as he showered you with his neverending attentions. Between bites of rich venison, he pressed bearded, wine-stained kisses to your neck, murmuring words that promised a very different kind of celebration later. His stag crown was passed from his head to yours at some point, though you already forgot when it happened. It was heavier than it looked. Your silver hair was unbraided. Lyonel liked it best that way as he kept running his large, calloused hands through the strands whenever he leaned back in his chair, as if to remind the room that the dragon was his.
You were both dressed in black, twining shadows draped in heavy mantles of Baratheon gold.
A sea of knights and minor lords swirled before the high table, all vying for a nod of acknowledgment from the "Laughing Storm."
You don’t know when, but after the main course, you spotted it. No, him.
The great “wall” moved through the crowd. And you, who usually kept these sort of exclamations to yourself, were emboldened by the wine and the atmosphere that you completely disregarded your sweet husband’s hushed words in your ear:
“When we get back to our tent, I’m going to take you like-”
“Ser!” you waved at him, wishing he could see you. You giggled at the sound of your own voice, loud, but drowned in the sea of people. That “Arbor gold” was truly something else!
Lyonel’s steward, a man with a big grey beard and a somber expression, noticed your intentions and caught the man’s gaze as he was eating some cake. He and you both motioned to the man to come closer.
The giant froze, pointing a thick finger to his own chest in disbelief, his eyes wide as if there were other men the size of a carriage in the tent.
“Yes! You!” you cried, laughing at his bewildered expression.
When he finally reached the high table, “Have you received what you sought? I realize now I never caught your name.” you said.
The giant looked at your husband, and his body went rigid, as if some unseen hand had pulled him taut. You heard the ominous creak of wood as Lyonel leaned back in his great chair, the legs protesting beneath his weight. The warmth that had filled his eyes moments before vanished entirely, snuffed out like a candle caught in a sudden draft. You hiccuped.
“Yes, ma’a- Your Grace. I have,” the giant stammered. He offered you a small, shaky smile.
“This is my Lord husband, Lyonel of House Baratheon,” you said, remembering your manners even through the wine haze. “And I-”
“You’re a Targaryen,” he interrupted earnestly.
There was no insolence in it. Only unguarded awe.
You beamed despite yourself: “That I am.”
“What is your name, man? Or are you as deft as you are tall?” Lyonel’s voice had changed. The lust was gone, replaced by the timber of the Storm Kings of old.
“Dunk- Ser Dunk, my Lord.”
Lyonel scoffed, a sharp, derisive sound. You turned your silver head toward your husband, confused by his sudden bite. He didn't look at you. His eyes were locked on Dunk.
“That’s ridiculous,” Lyonel dismissed. “Is that the noise your head makes when it bumps into the ceiling?”
The table erupted in cruel laughter from the counselors, a cacophony of sycophants eager to please their lord. You whispered a soft ‘Lyonel” trying to soothe the tempest rising in his chest, but he was beyond hearing.
“Why do you cower like a maiden on her wedding night?” Lyonel, mocked a punch toward his own jaw. “So you don’t get punched?”
“No, my Lord,” Dunk said, his voice low, trying to find his words. “From where I come from, one learns to make himself small. That’s all.”
You reached up to fix the antlered crown as it slipped forward, the heavy gold sliding over your brow.
“The Seven Above gave you tallness…” He let a moment pass, “so be tall. Or I will name you a heretic and burn you, or drown you, or- whatever is it we do to heretics?” Dunk looked into your eyes, his gaze pleading and raw. Was this why you had beckoned him? To be a sacrificial lamb for your husband’s pride? Anger began to simmer in your gut.
“Burn them, my lord.”
“What have you brought us?” He sighed as he tossed the dagger he received earlier that evening from a minor lord.
“Um” he thought about what he might say “Begging your pardon ser, I di-din’t realise.” All men must pay their due, yet this was a celebration, and you were sure Dunk didn’t have much to bring anyway. You sank back into your chair, the wood hard against your spine. You bit back the urge to intervene, knowing that to challenge Lyonel in front of his bannermen would invite scrutiny. You held your tongue, though it felt like a lead weight in your mouth.
“You wish to curry my favor some, yet you come with an empty hand?”
You wondered if it was better to have just enjoyed the celebration quietly, not bring the man to your husbands’ attention so crudely. Leave it to you to destroy someone’s night on the one time you actually raised your voice.
“Lord Caffron, the smug cunt in red,” he pointed with the dagger from the table, “he is scarce to pay his rent. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinied up this bauble from his family’s cellar for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help…or your head.”
He paused a beat. “You’ve come for my head then.”
You looked to the wooden floor, not believing the words coming out of his mouth. Lyonel was trying to scare this man senseless.
“No-n-no..Gods no.” Dunk stammered.
“Then why the fuck are you in my tent?”
You couldn’t take this any longer.
“I’ve called for Ser Dunk.” All eyes snapped to you. Your husband turned a bit to the side, to see you better. You looked at him and said “We’ve bumped- well, I’ve bumped into him, on my way to see my father. My Lord, you shouldn't be so crass with him, as he is my guest.”
Lyonel regarded your face, looking all over for anything that might prove your words a lie.
Someone fell down somewhere in the tent. A definite crash accompanied by the sound of laughter.
You looked at Dunk again, a silent wish for him to agree: “Yes, yes my Lord. Your be-beautiful wife had asked me to join you.”
You closed your eyes, already envisioning what Lyonel will say. Good Gods why must honest men be so dull.
“You think my wife beautiful?” Lyonel’s smile bore no happiness, his teeth bared under the hair of his beard akin to those of a wolf.
“Your words are kind, Ser.” You replied. Good Gods. Leave, now. Bid your ‘goodnights’ and leave the tent. Say you have a stomach ache, say you are drunk, say you are slow in the head. Say anything so you may see the morrow with both your eyes!
“You think my wife needs remembering of her beauty by a lowly knight in rags?” Lyonel continued.
Dunk took a deep breath, and it seemed he too, realized the extent of his remark. In what world does he live in, where he can compliment a Lord’s wife in his own tent?
“Ser Dunk-” You rose, trying to catch your footing, your obsidian dress swaying around you, the heavy antlered crown shifting once more. “Let me lead you outside. I think we have had our fill of the evening's excitement.”
Lyonel’s gaze went to you. You knew this cruelty was born of pride. He was usually the biggest man in every room.
As you stepped out, the cool night air hit you like a blessing. The people could still be heard, albeit way quieter now.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I didn’t mean-” He bowed his head once more. He was still holding the piece of cake.
“I know what you meant, Ser. It is my husband who was unbecoming towards you and it is I who must apologize, for I didn’t think anything of the sort might happen as I called you to me.” Dunk must’ve seen as many winters as you. You tried to put on a graceful face, already thinking about what Lyonel might say and what you might tell him. His humors were like the storm sometimes.
You bid him goodnight, and yet you didn’t return to the high table. You went to your own shared tent.
You mustn’t have waited long for you to hear the strong footsteps of your Lyonel. You were taking your cloak off. Stag crown heavy on your head. You quite liked it, it made you look less like a princess and more like a conqueror.
You could feel his presence behind you, “You mock me.”
“You mock yourself.” You turned around after you took your gold earrings off and nearly dropping one “Why have you been so cruel?”
Your husband’s voice was sharp, though you knew he bore no ill intent. “What’s it to you?”
Your candles illuminated his face, casting warm shadows over that black and grey hair of his. He was a very handsome man. With a comely smile and a deep voice, that vibrated through his chest when he spoke, especially when he would whisper as it would travel through your ears, to your belly and finally- What were you talking about?
“You were cruel to that man, for no apparent reason, my love. Why? For he had done nothing to you.” Your words came out softer than intended, dulled by the wine and your husband standing tall next to you.
“I’ll be as cruel as I wish in my tent.” His eyes tracked the slight sway in your stance.
“Untie my dress.” You turned as he moved to the back of you, fingers moving fast over your cotton laces. “That’s not the man I married. The man I married was kind. Strong, yes. Fierce, yes. But not cruel without cause.” You remembered his gentle attentions towards you the night you married.
“Who is that man to you?”
“He is someone I encountered on the road to Ashford Hall, I was curious of his predicament. That is all.”
“Well, be curious no more.” Your dress pulled at your ankles and you placed it down on your wooden chest, your maids will take care of it tomorrow.
The weather inside the tent was becoming hotter, be it because of the wine or the dragon blood in your veins you could not say. It boiled beneath your skin and prickled. You dressed into your nightshift as Lyonel sat down with a huff, unbuckling his boots.
His eyes rose to continue the conversation but they caught sight of you, body barely concealed beneath your nightgown as you struggled to find the hairbrush. The light from the candles illuminating it and giving your husband plenty to look at from behind.
“You know, Lady Swann had such an interesting story about her daughter. She told me-“
“I can’t hear you from over there.”
He was probably five hands away from you.
“Come closer, so I may hear my wife's voice.” His eyes, hazel and bright like the great trees dominating his lands were filled with a mischievous glint. You knew he heard you well enough. He smiled, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled. “Come on.”
He looked at you as he beckoned you closer. And you made sure, easy steps towards him. His hand reached for your own and he brought it close to his broad chest. You let yourself be led to his strong leg, sitting down upon it as you have done so before.
Lyonel adjusted the stag crown, murmuring a ‘it suits you’ as you continued your story.
By the time you reached about the midway, he started kissing you with small noises of pleasure leaving him. First it was your cheek, then the side of your mouth as you told him how the Lady’s daughter had tried to run away with a knight. Remembering the story proved to be quite hard behind all the wine you drank.
Lyonel made small sounds of acknowledgement as he often mumbled ‘mhm’ and soft murmurs of ‘tell me more’ as you would stop to close your eyes. His arms held your waist and you knew even if you tried to get up, it was for nought, even if that was madness to you right about now. He brushed your silver hair back as his beard made contact with the soft skin of your neck, his lips were soft as he kissed you and you almost giggled a few times when he tickled you with it.
You finally stopped telling the story after you moaned, “Please don’t stop, for I dearly need to know what happened to Lady Swann’s daughter Meredith-”
“-Margery-“
“Aye, Margery.” You kissed him as he groaned in your mouth. Lyonel pressed you tightly into him, like you might disappear any second. You could feel something pool in your belly and by the looks, and feel of it, your husband felt the same. You touched him beneath the leather as you opened your mouth to his.
You must’ve stayed in his arms for what felt like an eternity, as you kissed each other and fondled one another like two teenagers. You could not, for the life of you, remember what you were talking about beforehand. He would push up into your hand and grab hold of your breast, telling you how beautiful you were and how much he loved you between feverish kisses.
While his leg was sturdy enough, you desperately needed the attention towards another spot that your husband carried. He fell backwards on the bed, and you took the opportunity to finally rest your whole body on top his own. Lyonel seemed more great tower than man below you.
He grabbed your waist and smiled, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed with your attentions and the promise of what is to come.
“You’re far too dressed.” You pressed your heat down on the spot between his legs, and he opened his mouth in a soundless gasp, eyebrows furrowed.
“You are far too dressed.” He quipped back, arms holding you there. “Come up.” His smile was like that of a servant boy who just caught himself a pie for the night.
You laughed, “I am up.”
“Up I say. To my face.” A stone fell through your stomach and you felt its pleasure sweep right between your legs. “Come.”
You crawled to his face as he rose your nightshift up in desperation. You didn’t wish to hurt him, but he didn’t seem to care for your worries as he raised himself up and caught the taste of you.
Your face snapped to the headboard and your eyes were glued shut. He had wanted you like this before, but never in this position. You slowly lowered down, so his head might be placed comfortably on the bed and moaned.
You wished you could stay upright, but he bent you in two from his love below, your fingers in that thick nest he called hair as you moaned. You didn’t want to hurt him, but slowly moving your own hips against his face felt so good, you had to do so. His beard an almost scratch on your butt.
Your feet curled against his shoulders. You thought this pleasure must be what they wrote songs about, thought it could be much at times. When his tongue would brush against your flower too quickly and too eagerly, you would shoot up, wishing to put distance between you and keep away from the need to shake like an autumn leaf against your husband’s face. Lyonel had both his arms holding you there, both holding you tightly against him, so you may not run. You couldn’t help grabbing his hair like a rein.
You thought it might be enough as you felt a simmering heat in your belly and even in your flower. This was too much. Your arms felt as if they were made of silk and your voice rose, tethering on the edge of someone standing on a cliff.
He would moan against you and you would close your eyes so tightly you saw little black spots when you opened them up again. You felt a layer of sweat pool on your body and it was becoming too much, the heat, the slight noise from outside and your husband. You felt tears prick at your eyes.
You shuddered and cried, a little tear escaping you as you tried to do so as well. He finally relented as you went straight to the pillows, slamming forward like a corpse and laughing.
“Good Gods Lyonel.” You tried to catch your breath as you heard him undress, the sound of leather unstrapping the only thing in your ears, that and the ringing. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to, your heat pulsating down between your legs as your belly almost caught pain in it from the pleasure you received.
Lyonel was deathly serious as he lowered down on you. He took the stag crown and threw it somewhere in the room as you felt him raise your nightshift again. He pressed himself to you and you moaned into the pillows.
“Kiss me.” he said, voice spent. You lifted and turned your head as he made you open your mouth. His beard was all wet from you and you tasted yourself on his tongue. Your heart felt warm with the thought of him being all yours when he dragged himself out and back in, only you would have him like this, only you.
You tried to stay quiet, truly so, but he was everywhere and everything in the room and you drank enough wine to not care anymore. He pressed both elbows to your head as you lowered down a bit on the bed, his hairs tickling your face, his big hands sought your own soft ones. He intertwined your fingers as he pressed his other hand to your waist, then to your hair. You moaned into each other’s mouths, as you felt his body press up time and time again.
He would reach so far you would feel him right in your belly and it made you squeeze his hand all the harder. Lyonel pressed his cheek to your own as he groaned, a grey hair fell across his brow like a stroke of lighting. You felt him lose the rhythm he built up so far as he rose to his knees and lifted the sweaty nightgown even higher on your body. He would grab and fondle you as you both moaned. The soft splatter of rain could be heard as it hit the tent. You felt a pleasant dizziness in you, from the wine and from the release you had. You must’ve been the happiest woman in all the Seven Kingdoms right now.
You heard him groan and whimper when his legs shook above your own, the same heat pulsing inside of you that did so every night. He pressed down once more into you as he made a sound of pleasure and whispered his ‘I love you’. You smiled with your head to the side.
Lyonel’s heart was still beating fast as you both laid in the bed. The candles were still burning, but you surely wouldn’t have any problem sleeping with them. You turned to look at him. He had his eyes closed, hair sweaty and chest rising fast as he fought to find his breath. You chuckled as you looked at him.
“You have another grey hair… right here,” you pointed to the left side of your own temple “did you know?”
“You better name it. For it is yours.” He breathed out through his nose and swallowed “You gave it to me.”
“By the time I’ll bear your first son, you’ll be as grey as a stormy cloud. They’ll call you Lord Lyonel “The Cloud” Baratheon”. Another loud hiccup left your chest and you pressed your hand to your mouth.
“You think you are mighty amusing, nay?” His eyes opened once more as he looked at you. Smiling, as he often did when he gazed at you.
“Oh so I do.”
As your dear husband’s breath grew slow and rhythmic beside you, his fingers still loosely encompassing your own beneath the cotton blanket, your mind wandered as it so often did in the quiet moments before sleep claimed you. Tomorrow, you would ride out with your father to search for dreamy Daeron and little Egg. If the Gods were good, you would find one drunk out of his mind and the other tucked somewhere safe, beneath another’s careful guidance and protection. You smiled faintly at the thought. You prayed then, once in the common tongue, and once more in the language of your ancestors, long dead and scattered to ash by the Ruin. You resolved to write to Aemon as soon as the dawn allowed it, for you wished with an almost painful longing to hear of his life at the Citadel. You thanked the Gods you had not yet crossed paths with Aerion as you would sooner eat grass and bleat like a sheep than endure your brother’s company. You prayed for the morrow’s tourney, for your stag would ride in it, and for the safekeeping of your family. You had ruled these lands for hundreds of years, surely your guidance still held weight, even if the dragons had deserted your kind. Even if you did not know whether you would ever be worthy again of their return.
Sleep found you gently.
And in it, you dreamt the strangest thing!
You dreamt of beasts and banners, of the great animals of the mighty houses of the realm locked in battle, claw and horn and tooth. When you woke with the pale morning light, a smile curved your lips and a quiet flutter stirred in your chest as Lyonel gently snored in your ear.
In your dream, the stag had won.
━━━━⊱༒︎ 𐂂 ༒︎⊰━━━━
Author's note: Part 2 is here yall and I hope it is to your liking. I have managed to get it to you in time and i am so so happy. I cant wait to see what my husband Lyonel does next. I got the nastiest exam tomorrow and i reallyyyy gotta go study. You can write to me whatever whenever u wish and I will try to get back as soon as possible to u, thank u for reading my story and if you remained patient enough to let me finish part two, you have my deepest gratitude. HAVE A GREAT DAY BABES ily <3
my great taglist (come get yall juice, if i forgot anyone im so sorry and im gonna die):
@colonelfish
@inbredcqin
@multyfangirl
@rebeccawinters
@thelastemzy
@silverwingxox
@jellyforbrains
@moonlitstoriess
@betty-not-boop
