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Despair of a Doe: Ten**

This chapter has adult content. NSFW 18+ Lyonel Baratheon x Wife!Reader

Masterlist

General Synopsis: Lyonel is horrified to discover what conditions his new wife comes from, and you are just as horrified to learn that things are not practiced in the world as they are within your father's House. A good wife is obedient, by correcting hands if need be. That is the philosophy you have been raised on since birth. A lady obeys. A lady agrees. A lady endures. Lyonel does not want you to endure, but some habits are so much harder break. (slow burn)

Word Count: 11k

General Content Warnings: lady doe is **touchstarved**. emotional repression. sexual repression. mentions of sex. emotional abuse (parental), child abuse (punishment), psychological conditioning, trauma responses, arranged marriage, anxiety, mention of first time intercourse, slow burn, angst, mention of restricted eating (as means of control, not an ed), masturbation (male receiving), description of male anatomy, horniness intensified, assisted female masturbation, thigh riding, Lyonel will talk you through it.

AN: How diabolical is it for me to post this in the morning? Did I schedule this post last night? I sure did. Kicking my feet and twirling my hair the whole time, too. Mind the taaaaaaaaags.

Despair of a Doe Masterlist Part Nine

It is hours later, after your duties have been finished, when you finally allow yourself to return to the bedchamber.

You had delayed it as long as you could, truly you had.

There had been small things to see to, minor tasks that did not truly require your attention but gave your mind somewhere else to rest, somewhere safer. You stretched them thin, let them linger past their natural end, clinging to structure even as the thought of what waited for you pressed steadily at the edges.

But eventually—there is nothing left to occupy yourself with. No reason not to go, and so here you were.

The room greets you in stillness, just as Lyonel left it. The air feels different without him in it—quieter, but not empty. There is a presence here still, not his body, not his voice, but the memory of both. It lingers in the space, in the bed, in the knowledge of what he offered without pressing you to accept it.

You close the door behind you, twisting the lock into place with an audible click. Then you do the same to the door that leads into the solar. The soft click of each latch echoes more loudly than it should.

Final.

Private.

You stand there for a moment afterward, your hand still resting against the wood as though you might undo it, as though you might open the door again and step back into something easier.

You do not.

Instead, you turn.

You move slowly at first, your steps measured, deliberate, as though you are easing yourself into something rather than committing to it all at once. Your shoes are removed first, then your outer layers are shed one by one, folded and set aside with care, the familiar rhythm of it grounding in a way you cling to more than you would like to admit.

Piece by piece, it is removed until there is nothing left but your slip.

That is as far as you get.

You pace—once across the room, then back again. Back and forth as the ache continues to worsen.

Your hands do not know where to rest, your fingers brushing absently against the thin fabric at your stomach, then pulling away as though even that is too much. Your thoughts circle without settling, pressing and retreating, pressing again.

You told him you were not ready and you meant it. You still mean it, and yet your body does not seem to care for that distinction.

The sensation has not lessened. If anything, it has grown sharper in the quiet, more insistent now that there is nothing else to distract from it. It lingers low and steady, a persistent pull that does not overwhelm but does not release you either.

You stop near the bed, your breath deeper now, not uneven but more aware. This is what Lyonel meant. This is what he felt.

The thought lands differently now.

Not abstract.

Not distant.

Immediate.

Your fingers curl faintly against your palm as your septa’s voice rises unbidden, echoing from memory with all the cold certainty it once carried—base, animal, something to be endured, something beneath dignity, beneath control.

You had believed it. You still do, in part because standing here now—you feel it—that lack of control. That insistence beneath your skin. It’s a restlessness that does not ask permission, that does not wait to be understood before making itself known.

It makes you feel untethered.

Like something has slipped its place and you do not yet know how to put it back.

You turn away from the bed, pacing again, faster this time, your hand lifting to your mouth briefly as though you might quiet something that has not yet been spoken.

Gods, it is relentless.

You press your thighs together, clenching, without thinking, the motion instinctive, an attempt to contain something that refuses to be confined.

It does not help.

Not truly.

The sensation remains—throbbing, pulsing.

You stop again, this time at the edge of the room, your hand bracing lightly against the wall as you close your eyes for a moment.

I could do it, the thought comes plainly now.

Not distant.

Not theoretical.

You know what Lyonel meant, what he suggested.

It is not unclear.

And still—you cannot bring yourself to act.

Your breath deepens again, your chest rising and falling as you stand there, caught between knowledge and hesitation, between want and something older, something more ingrained that holds you back even now.

You feel caged within it.

Not by him.

Not by the room.

By yourself and by everything you were taught before you ever had the chance to question it.

Your hand lowers slowly from the wall and you glance back at the bed again, at the space you have circled without approaching.

“There is something to be done,” you murmur to yourself, the words quiet, almost disbelieving, but you do not move toward it.

Not yet.

You remain where you are, suspended in that space between knowing and doing, your body alive with something new, something persistent, something you are only just beginning to understand.

And for now that is where you stay.

At some point you had given up. You changed from your shift into your nightgown and you unlocked the doors with the intention of just going to sleep—trying to go to sleep, but you couldn’t bring yourself to go into the bed. Not while you still felt this agony.

The door does not open loudly.

It is the quiet shift of air that gives him away first—the subtle change in the room, the presence of someone where there had been none. You do not hear the latch. You do not hear his step, but you feel him.

And when you turn Lyonel is there.

He has not crossed fully into the room, not yet. One hand still rests near the door as though he has only just pushed it open, though the look on his face suggests he has been standing there longer than that.

Taking you in.

You must look as you feel—unsettled, drawn tight in ways that are no longer hidden behind structure or composure. Your nightgown clings faintly where your body has warmed beneath it, your movements no longer measured but restless, the pacing not yet faded from you.

His gaze moves over you once.

Not hungrily.

Not possessively.

Assessing.

Concerned.

“If anything,” he says slowly, his voice quieter than usual, “you’ve worsened.” He does not step closer—not yet—as though he is uncertain whether doing so would steady you—or send you further into whatever this is.

You do not give him time to decide.

“I did not—” you start, and stop, your breath pressing harder against your ribs than you would like. You steady it, forcing the words into something clearer. “I cannot seem to quiet it.” Your hand lifts faintly, then drops again, as though even that small movement requires more effort than it should.

“It has not lessened,” you continue, more controlled now, though the strain remains beneath it. “If anything, it has…” You hesitate, searching for something that does not betray how deeply it has taken hold. “…grown.”

Lyonel’s jaw tightens briefly.

“At least now I know I am not imagining it,” you add, quieter, your eyes lowering for only a moment before lifting back to him again. There is something different in the way you look at him now—not avoidance, not guarded distance, but something more direct. More aware.

“I thought if I gave it time, it would pass,” you admit. “I thought if I remained with it, as you said, it would settle.” A small, strained breath leaves you. “It has not.”

Lyonel exhales slowly through his nose, his hand dropping from the door as he steps inside at last, though still not close enough to touch you.

“I didn’t expect it would,” he says. There is no sharpness in it, only honesty.

You watch him, something flickering faintly in your expression—not frustration, not quite—but something close to being overwhelmed by the persistence of it.

“I cannot bring myself to…” You stop again, your hand gesturing, the words resisting you not from shame, but from the unfamiliarity of speaking them at all.

He does not force you to finish.

“I know,” he says. And there is something in that—something steady, something grounding—that keeps you from retreating from the admission entirely. “But you tried,” he adds.

You nod faintly.

“Yes.”

His eyes shift slightly then, not away from you, but softer, more deliberate.

“That matters,” he says.

You let that settle, though it does little to ease the tension still wound tight through you.

“It does not feel like it,” you admit.

“No,” he agrees. “It wouldn’t.”

Lyonel continues to watch you, more carefully now, noting the way you hold yourself, the way your body carries that restless energy with nowhere to place it.

“You’re holding it in,” he says, quieter. “Every bit of it.”

Your fingers curl faintly.

“It is all I can do.” Your words are nearly desperate, honestly so. Lyonel’s expression shifts again, something deeper threading through it now—not impatience, not frustration.

Understanding.

And restraint.

“You don’t have to force yourself past a line you’re not ready to cross,” he says. “Not even now.” Your eyes search his, as though weighing whether you believe that. “But you also don’t have to suffer through it like this,” he continues.

There is something firmer in that. Something that does not allow you to settle back into endurance as your only answer. Your breath deepens again, your posture still tight, still held.

“I do not know what else there is to do,” you say.

Lyonel is quiet for a moment. You can see him thinking—not searching for something to say, but weighing what should be said, what would help rather than overwhelm. His hand drags once along his jaw before it falls again, his posture settling into something more deliberate.

“There are ways to approach it without…forcing yourself through all of it at once,” he says at last. Your brow draws faintly, your attention sharpening despite the tension still coiled through you.

“Ways?” you echo.

He nods once.

“Ways that don’t require you to push past where you are,” he continues, his voice steady, careful. “You don’t need to solve it. Not entirely. Not in one step.”

You watch him closely now.

“You only need to meet it where it is,” he adds. “As much as you can manage. No further.” The suggestion settle into you, not as instruction, but as something you can almost reach toward. You remain where you are, still caught in the feeling, still unsure—but you do not retreat from it.

And he sees that.

He takes another moment.

Then—more measured now, more intentional—

“I can help you,” he says.

We’ve already discussed this, you think to yourself. You’re ready to protest when he beats you to the assumption.

“I won’t touch you,” he adds, holding your unwavering gaze. He knows that matters before you can say it. “Not beyond what you choose. But there is a way to ease this.”

Your breath deepens. Intrigued, you do not step back.

Curiosity rises—quiet at first, then stronger, drawn forward by the same pull that has not left you since it began.

“What way?” you ask. The question comes more easily than you expect. Lyonel gestures toward the hearth, toward the chair set before it, worn from use but steady, familiar.

“I’ll sit there,” he says. “And you come to me.” Your pulse picks up again, not from fear, but from the shape of what he is offering—simple in form, but not in effect.

“You need not remove your nightgown,” he adds, his tone even, grounding.

That matters too.

You can feel that it does.

You study him, something flickering in your expression—hesitation, yes, but something else woven through it now.

Want.

Uncertain.

But present.

“What would I do?” you ask. Lyonel does not move yet. He lets the space hold as he answers.

“You sit with me,” he says. “On my lap.”

The words are plain.

Unadorned.

You absorb that slowly, your breath steadying only slightly as your thoughts attempt to settle around it.

“That is all?” you ask. Your voice is quieter now, searching not for refusal but for clarity. Lyonel does not waver.

“That is all,” he says.

“And it will ease this?” you ask. There is hesitation in your voice, but it does not hold you in place. Your feet carry you forward despite it—one step, then another—drawn by something you are no longer trying to deny.

Lyonel watches you come closer. There is no rush in him. No hunger that pushes forward to meet you. Only a steady presence, grounded and certain in a way that seems to anchor the space rather than overwhelm it.

“Oh, yes,” he says, quieter now, but assured. “I believe it will.”

You stop a few paces from him, close enough now that you can feel the warmth of the hearth behind him, the subtle heat of his presence even without contact.

“It is a husband’s place to help his wife in such matters,” he adds, more gently than the words might suggest. Not a claim. Not a demand. Simply…truth, as he understands it. “So you need not feel any embarrassment about it.”

The words move through you differently than anything else has.

Not as pressure.

As permission.

A sharp awareness follows it, striking through you—starting somewhere deep and carrying down into that persistent ache that has not left you. It intensifies, not painfully, but insistently, as though your body recognizes something your mind is still catching up to.

“But I won’t do it unless you agree,” he continues, his gaze holding yours. “Not a step further than what you choose.”

“I want the release,” you say, the words coming out quicker and tighter than you intend, your voice thinner with the strain of holding yourself together for so long. “I just…”

You falter from the unfamiliarity of standing at the edge of something you have never been allowed to step into.

Your fingers clench faintly at your sides, your breath deepening as you try to find words that do not exist for what you are feeling.

“I do not know how to be in it,” you admit, quieter now. Lyonel’s expression shifts in understanding.

“I will be there with you,” he says again. There is nothing complicated in it. No hidden meaning, but a presence that does not pull, does not force, but does not leave you to face it alone either.

His hand lifts slightly, not to take yours, not to close the distance, but enough that the gesture exists—a silent offering rather than an action.

“You don’t have to know everything before you begin,” he adds. “You only have to decide if you’re willing to try.”

You stand there, the space between you smaller now, the air warmer, thicker with something you are no longer trying to name or control.

There is no consideration before you’re stepping fully into it.

“Please,” you say, and the strain in your voice does not ease, if anything it deepens—tight with effort, with want, with something you are no longer trying to deny.

Lyonel does not hesitate. He nods once, then sits. The chair creaks softly as he lowers himself into it, settling back with a measured ease that feels deliberate rather than relaxed. His legs shift slightly, not wide in any crude sense, but open enough to make space—an invitation, not a demand.

You watch every movement, every small adjustment as he finds a position that is steady, grounded, controlled. Then he looks at you again and reaches his hand out.

Not grabbing.

Not pulling.

Offering.

“Come here,” he says, his voice quiet, even.

You hesitate only a moment before stepping forward, drawn by something that feels stronger now than the uncertainty trying to hold you back. You stop just before him, close enough to feel the heat of the fire at your side, the warmth of him in front of you.

His eyes lift to meet yours, steady and intent.

“We will stop if you wish it,” he says, more firmly now. “At any point. You need only say it, and I will not question it. Do you understand me?” You nod, the motion is small, but certain.

“Yes.” Your voice is softer than before, but no less real.

You remain there, just at the edge of him, your breath deeper, your thoughts no longer racing but not yet settled either. The space between knowing and doing presses in again, and you feel it—feel yourself falter at that final step.

“I… I don’t know—” you begin, the words catching, not from refusal, but from the unfamiliar weight of what comes next.

“I will guide you.” There is no impatience in it, no pressure. His hand lifts, not to take you, but to gesture—to show rather than force. He pats his thigh once, the motion quiet, grounding. “You’ll sit here,” he says. “As you would a horse.”

Your eyes widen slightly at that, the image clear, immediate in a way that makes your pulse jump rather than settle.

You glance down, then back at him, something flickering across your expression—not fear, not quite—but the sharp awareness of stepping into something entirely new.

Lyonel watches you carefully.

Not pushing.

Not rushing.

Waiting.

“Slowly,” he adds, softer now. “There’s no need to hurry.”

You take a deep breath and exhale.

“You may sit facing me or facing the hearth,” he says, his voice low, steady. “Whichever feels more comfortable for you. Whenever you are ready.” A shaky breath leaves you, your chest rising and falling as you remain where you are—facing him.

That feels…right.

Terrifying.

But right.

“Like this?” you ask, your voice quieter now, as you begin to lower yourself carefully, uncertainly, over his leg.

Lyonel nods, slow and encouraging, his gaze never leaving yours. “Aye. Just like that.”

You move with caution, every inch deliberate, as though you are learning how to exist in your own body all over again. The fabric of your nightgown gathers slightly as you settle, your balance uncertain at first, your weight not yet fully placed.

Your hands hover, unsure. You do not know where to anchor yourself. You feel it—how exposed you are in this moment, how unsteady.

Lyonel sees it immediately.

“Here,” he says gently. “On my shoulders.” He does not take your hands, does not move them for you—he only offers the direction. “For balance,” he adds. “You’ll need it.”

You nod faintly, your fingers lifting, hesitant at first, before resting against the firm, broad muscle. The contact is light, almost tentative—but even that feels like something more than you are used to.

“You have full control,” he tells you.His voice is firmer now. Grounding. “Everything that happens here—now—is yours to decide.” Your fingers tighten slightly against his shoulders. “You understand?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and then you settle fully upon his thigh. The moment your body makes contact, something in you reacts all at once.

Your hands grip him harder than you intend, your fingers pressing into the solid warmth beneath them as a broken sound leaves you—sharp, involuntary, pulled from somewhere deep before you can stop it.

It is not pain.

It is too much.

Too sudden.

Too there.

Your breath stutters, your body going taut as sensation rushes through you in a way you have never experienced before—immediate, overwhelming, undeniable.

Lyonel does not move—not to take control, not to guide you physically. He stays exactly as he is.

But his voice…his voice is there.

“Easy,” he murmurs, steady, calm. “Don’t fight it.”

Your head dips forward slightly, your grip on him tightening again as you try to make sense of what your body is doing, how it feels like something inside you has been struck into life all at once.

“I—” You can’t finish. You don’t know how.

“It’s alright,” he says. “You’re alright. Just stay with it.”

His tone does not rise, it does not rush you. It holds you there, in the moment, without letting you be consumed by it.

“Breathe,” he adds, quieter.

You try. Gods, you try.

Your breath comes uneven at first, catching, resisting—but you focus on it, just as he told you before. Not to control. Not to fix.

Just to stay.

The sensation doesn’t vanish.

It builds.

It spreads.

It feels as though something in you is loosening and tightening all at once, something long held back finally given space to exist—and it is overwhelming in a way that borders on unbearable.

You do not pull away.

You stay where you are, your hands anchored to him, your body learning, reacting, feeling in a way that makes everything else fade at the edges.

“There you go,” Lyonel says softly. “You’re not running.”

You shake your head faintly, your voice barely there. “I can’t—”

“You don’t need to,” he replies. Your breathing deepens again, not steady, not calm—but present. You are in it. And Lyonel, beneath your hands, does not take that from you.

He only keeps you there.

Steady.

Grounded.

Until you begin to understand what your own body is trying to show you.

You lean forward, your head dipping as though the weight of it all has pressed you there. Your forehead nearly brushes his chest as you try to gather yourself, your breath uneven, your hands still gripping him as though he is the only steady thing in the room.

It is a lot.

Too much and not enough, all at once.

You stay there, bent toward him, letting the intensity settle just enough that it does not sweep you away entirely. Your breathing begins to find some rhythm again, though your body still hums with that same insistent awareness, sharper now, more focused.

Lyonel does not move you.

He does not rush you.

He waits until he feels the smallest shift in you—not calm, not fully steady, but ready enough to continue.

When he speaks, it is close—his voice low near your ear, careful not to startle you from where you are suspended.

“Gently,” he murmurs. “Tilt your hips forward…and rock.”

The instruction is simple.

Clear.

You hesitate for only a fraction of a second before you follow it, your body moving cautiously at first, uncertain in the motion.

And then—

“Oh—gods…” The sound leaves you before you can stop it, soft but startled, pulled from you by the sudden change in sensation. Your hands tighten on his shoulders again, your body reacting instantly, instinctively, as something shifts—becomes clearer, more direct.

It is not overwhelming in the same way as before.

It is sharper.

Focused.

You still, just for a moment, as though caught off guard by your own response. Lyonel’s voice remains steady at your ear.

“That’s it,” he says quietly. “Don’t fight it. Let yourself feel it.” You draw in a breath, your chest rising against him, and try again—this time with a little more intention, a little less hesitation.

The movement is small, careful, but it does something.

You can feel it in every vein, every muscle, every ounce of lifeblood within you. Your body responds in a way that makes your thoughts scatter, your awareness narrowing to that point of contact, that steady, building sensation that no longer feels distant or confusing—it feels connected.

“You’re doing it,” Lyonel murmurs, his tone grounding rather than overwhelming. “Just like that.” Your head remains lowered, your breath unsteady again, but this time there is no confusion.

You focus on what he said—on staying with it, not naming it, not trying to control it.

Just allowing it.

Your hands shift slightly against his shoulders, no longer gripping as tightly, finding balance instead of bracing against something unknown. The movement becomes a little more natural, less forced, your body beginning to follow its own rhythm rather than waiting for instruction.

And Lyonel—he stays exactly as he promised.

Present.

Steady.

Close enough that you are not alone in it, but not taking anything from you either.

Only guiding.

Only keeping you there as you begin to understand, in your own way, what your body has been trying to tell you all along. Lyonel’s voice stays close, low and steady, threading through the intensity building inside you.

“Don’t hold back,” he murmurs. “Let yourself feel it. You’ve sat with it long enough…now let it move.”

The words do something to you.

Not command.

Not pressure.

Permission.

It settles deep, wrapping around that coiled, aching awareness that has been building for hours and hours—sharpening it, focusing it, giving it somewhere to go.

Your breathing falters again as you try to follow the motion, your hips shifting more intentionally now, less hesitant, more guided by what feels right rather than what you think should happen.

And then you move slightly differently.

Just a fraction.

It’s a subtle shift, but it changes everything.

Your body reacts instantly, a sharp, startled sound leaving you as the sensation spikes—brighter, clearer, almost overwhelming in its precision. Your hands clutch at him again, your forehead dipping lower as though you cannot hold yourself upright against it.

Lyonel exhales quietly, not surprised.

“There,” he says, softer now. “That’s it.” You stay there, trembling faintly, your breath uneven as you try to understand what just happened—how something so small could feel so intense.

“You’ve found it—your pearl,” he continues, his tone grounding. “Don’t think too much. Just follow it.”

Your hips shift again, cautiously at first, searching for that same point, that same feeling—and when you find it, your body answers without hesitation, a broken sound slipping from you before you can stop it.

It is no longer vague.

No longer distant.

It is immediate.

Alive.

You feel it building now, not scattered, not confusing—gathering into something that has direction, something that pulls you forward instead of leaving you suspended.

“That’s right,” Lyonel murmurs, his lips a breath away from your ear. “Stay with it.”

Your movements lose some of their uncertainty, becoming more instinctive, your body learning as you go, responding in ways you cannot fully think through. Your grip on him steadies—not as tight, not bracing—but anchoring, present.

And through it all he does not take over. He does not control it. He only keeps you grounded, his voice steady, close, guiding you just enough that you do not lose yourself to it.

“Let it build,” he says quietly. Your movements lose their careful rhythm.

What had been tentative and measured, becomes urgent—your body chasing that feeling now, drawn toward it with a need you no longer try to temper. Your hips move against the tense muscle of Lyonel’s leg with more insistence, less thought, your breath breaking into soft, uneven sounds that you cannot contain even if you tried.

It is building.

You can feel it.

Rising, tightening, gathering into something that feels just out of reach and impossibly close all at once.

Your fingers clutch at Lyonel’s shoulders, your grip tightening without your awareness, anchoring yourself to him as though you might lose your balance otherwise. Your head dips forward again, your voice slipping into something more desperate—not words, not fully formed, just sound.

A plea.

For what, you do not know.

Everything.

Nothing.

Just…more.

Lyonel feels it—the shift in you, the urgency, the way your body has taken over where your mind can no longer keep pace. His hands remain steady at your sides, not guiding, not controlling, only ensuring you do not lose yourself entirely to it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice low and firm near your ear. “Stay with it.”

You try.

Gods, you try.

But it feels like standing at the edge of something vast, something that pulls at you with increasing force, your body tightening, your breath catching into short, uneven pulls as the sensation climbs higher, sharper.

“I—” you start, but the word dissolves into another sound, your grip on him tightening further as though bracing for something you cannot see.

Lyonel does not falter.

“You’re so close,” he tells you, steady, certain. “Your body will tell you to stop, that you cannot possibly take anymore, but you will not want to stop now. It is teasing you, dangling the true release before you. You must continue. You must reach for it. I promise you, it will be well worth the leap.”

Your head shakes faintly, not in refusal, but in total overwhelm, your body trembling as you try to hold onto the feeling without letting it sweep you away too soon.

“I don’t—” you try again, your voice thinner now, strained with the effort of staying present through it. “It’s too much!”

“I’ve got you,” he says, and there is something in that—something grounded, unwavering—that keeps you from pulling back.

Your movements falter for a fraction of a second, then the continue with more confident cants of your hips.

You can feel it now—how close you are.

How inevitable it is.

Your breathing turns uneven, your body tightening around the sensation as it builds to something that feels almost too much to bear, your hands gripping him as though you might come apart otherwise.

Lyonel, steady beneath you, does not let you retreat from it.

“Feel it tighten inside you,” he murmurs. “You don’t need to hold it back.” Your breath stutters again, your body tensing and your legs shaking right at the edge of something you can no longer resist.

He feels the change in you before you fully understand it.

The way your body tightens, how your movements lose what little control remained and become something driven purely by instinct—by need. It pulls at him, sharp and immediate, the physical weight of you against him, the friction, the sound of you unraveling right there in his arms.

It takes everything in him not to move, not to take hold of you, not to pull you closer and guide you through it the way every instinct in him demands.

He does not because this—this is yours.

Your body draws tighter, your breath breaking into something strained and fragile as you reach that edge you have been circling, chasing, fearing all at once. Your grip on him turns almost desperate, your fingers pressing hard into his shoulders, grounding yourself as though you might lose yourself entirely.

And then—so violently sudden—it’s as if you’ve thrown yourself fron the ramparts, over the cliffs and into the raging ocean below.

The sound that leaves you is not controlled. It breaks free of you, raw and unguarded, followed by something softer, more fragile, as though the force of it has taken the air from your lungs. Your body shudders through it, the tension giving way all at once, leaving you unsteady in its wake.

Lyonel exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, though the restraint in him is not easy. He feels you pulse and clench against his leg, the hot wetness that’s pooled fron you that soaks through the fabric of his trousers, and that alone nearly blinds him with a need he himself hasn’t felt in a very long time. He felt like a wild animal ready to claim what was his, and somehow, he resisted it.

Lyonel could not remember if he had ever been so hard in his life, devastatingly so, and not been able to chase it. With every rub against it your stomach made without even knowing, his hands gripped the arms of the chair with force enough to splinter the wood. Oh, how he’d imprint this memory into his mind to keep as inspiration for the rest of his days.

You remain where you are, your body still reacting in small, lingering waves, your movements no longer driven but fading—slowing—until there is nothing left to chase.

Only the aftermath.

Your weight settles fully against him, no longer held tight with effort, but loose, spent. Your forehead comes to rest against him, your breathing uneven as you try to find your footing again, to understand what just happened to you.

He does not move you.

Does not break the moment.

One of his hands lifts—slow, deliberate—and comes to rest lightly at your back. Not guiding. Not claiming. Just present.

“You stayed with it,” he murmurs quietly. There is something in his voice—something low, grounded—that meets you where you are rather than pulling you out of it too quickly.

Your fingers loosen against his shoulders, though they do not leave him entirely. You remain close, your body still adjusting, still catching up, your thoughts slower now, quieter in the wake of it.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. There is no urgency left in you. Only the lingering echo of something you did not run from.

Something you allowed.

Something that did not undo you.

It changed you.

For a moment, you do not move. Your breathing is still uneven, your body heavy in a way that feels unfamiliar but not unpleasant, your thoughts slow to gather after everything that just passed through you. His hand remains at your back, steady, warm, not pressing you to shift or compose yourself before you are ready.

The quiet stretches.

“If you can imagine,” Lyonel says, his voice low, almost thoughtful, “it can get better.”

The words cut through the haze.

Your head lifts immediately, faster than you intend, your eyes finding his with something sharp and searching in them.

Better?

The thought feels almost impossible.

What you just experienced still lingers in you—echoing, settling, something your body is only beginning to understand. It had been overwhelming, consuming in a way that left no room for anything else.

And yet he says it can be more.

You study him, trying to find exaggeration, jest, anything that might soften the claim into something less real.

There is none.

He looks at you with something open in his expression—not smug, not self-satisfied, but quietly pleased. Not with himself.

With you.

With what you did.

“You reached for it,” he says, as though that is the part that matters most. “You didn’t turn away.”

Your fingers, still resting loosely against him, shift faintly as you absorb that.

You had.

Even when it felt like too much.

Even when every instinct told you to pull back.

“I did not think…” you begin, then falter, not from uncertainty, but from the lack of words to properly hold what you mean.

“I know,” he says gently.

No correction.

Just understanding.

Your gaze lingers on him, something new threading through your expression—not confusion, not restraint, but awareness. Of yourself. Of him. Of what just passed between you without being taken from you.

“It does not feel like something to be endured,” you say slowly. The realization settles as you speak it.

It did not hurt you.

It did not break you.

It did not take anything from you.

Lyonel’s hand shifts slightly at your back, not moving you, just acknowledging the weight of what you are coming to understand.

“It’s not meant to be,” he says.

You hold his gaze for a moment longer, something steadying in you, something that no longer feels like it needs to be pushed away or corrected.

The quiet that follows does not feel like something you need to fill.

It feels earned.

You know you should move.

That is the thought that comes first—the one shaped by habit, by propriety, by everything that once dictated what should follow a moment like this. You should lift yourself from his lap, put space between you, gather yourself back into something composed and recognizable.

You do not.

Your body does not obey that instinct.

Instead, you remain where you are, your weight still settled against him, your breathing only just beginning to steady. The warmth of him seeps into you in a way that feels different now—no longer overwhelming, no longer something you do not understand, but something you are aware of in a new, sharper way.

And that awareness does not recede. If anything, it deepens.

Your fingers rest loosely against his shoulders now, no longer gripping, but not withdrawing either. The closeness of him, the solid presence beneath you, the steady rise and fall of his breath—it all feeds into something that has not fully quieted inside you.

It lingers.

Low.

Warm.

Alive.

Lyonel seems to sense it.

His hand, which had rested still at your back, begins to move—slowly, deliberately. Not wandering, not grasping, just a gentle, absent circle at your lower back, grounding rather than guiding.

The motion is simple, but it draws your attention immediately. Your breath shifts again, just slightly.

“You don’t have to rush away from it,” he murmurs, his voice close—too close to your ear to ignore, low enough that it feels like it settles directly into you rather than passing through the air.

You swallow, your gaze dropping for a moment, your thoughts trying to catch up with what your body is already feeling.

“I thought I should,” you admit quietly.

“Aye,” he says. “You were taught that.” There is no mockery in it. No dismissal. His hand continues its slow path at your back, steady, unhurried. “But that doesn’t mean you have to.”

The words linger with his touch.

You feel it—not as something that takes control, but as something that allows you to stay where you are a little longer, to exist in the aftermath without immediately pulling yourself out of it.

Your head remains near him, not quite resting, not quite lifted. Caught somewhere in between.

“This is still yours,” he adds softly. “Even now.”

Your fingers shift faintly against his shoulders at that, your awareness sharpening again—not in the same overwhelming way as before, but enough that you notice how present you still feel. How the quiet that followed did not empty you.

It left something behind.

And Lyonel, for his part, does not push you to move. He simply stays with you, letting the moment stretch, allowing you to remain in it for as long as you choose.

The words sit at the back of your throat for a moment.

Thank you feels too distant from what just passed between you, from what he allowed you to discover without taking it from you. It does not feel like something that can be neatly acknowledged and set aside.

So you do not say it.

Instead, you lift your head slightly, just enough to look at him again, your expression quieter now, more thoughtful than before.

“How did you know?” you ask. Your voice is softer, steadier, though still touched by everything that lingers in you. “That it would…work.”

Lyonel’s hand slows at your back, though it does not stop entirely. His gaze shifts over your face, taking in the question, the way you hold it—not suspicious, not doubtful, but genuinely curious.

“Because I’ve had to learn it myself,” he says at last. His thumb traces a slower path against your back, grounding more than anything else.

“It’s not so different,” he continues, “from what I told you earlier. That pressure…it doesn’t go away on its own. It builds. And if you don’t understand it, it can feel like something you have to fight.”

Your gaze lingers on him, attentive now in a different way.

“You didn’t fight it,” he adds. “You stayed with it long enough to learn where it was leading.”

That settles somewhere deep.

Not as praise.

As recognition.

“And I knew,” he goes on, quieter still, “that if you were given something steady—something you could trust not to take more than you allowed—you’d find your way through it.”

Your fingers shift faintly against his shoulders at that, not tightening, not pulling away.

“You made it…safe,” you say. The realization comes as you speak it. Not just the act.

The space.

The choice.

Lyonel’s gaze softens, just slightly.

“I made sure you had control,” he corrects gently. “The rest was you.”

You hold that and let it settle against you. It feels different than anything you have been told before—not something given, not something taken.

Something you reached for.

Something you allowed.

“And you knew I would not run?” you ask. There is no accusation in it, only curiosity. Lyonel huffs a quiet breath, something almost amused beneath it, though it does not take away from the sincerity of his answer.

“I didn’t know,” he admits. “But I hoped.” Your eyes stay on him, something in you easing further—not collapsing, not unraveling, but loosening in a way that feels right.

The beating of your heart feels different.

It no longer hammers against your ribs as though trying to force its way out of you. Instead, it moves with a steadier rhythm, deep and full, like something that has finally found space to exist without resistance. There is a lightness in you that you do not recognize at first, a strange absence where there has always been noise. The hounds are still there—you can feel them, sense their presence behind whatever barrier now holds them—but they are muffled, contained beneath something you did not know you were capable of creating.

Peace.

The word comes to you slowly, as though testing whether it belongs.

You look at Lyonel, still beneath you, still solid and real, and your hands move before you can think to stop them. They lift, unsteady, and settle at either side of his neck, your fingers brushing along warm skin, feeling the strength of him there, the steady pulse that answers your own.

“I think…” You swallow, your breath catching on the thought before you can finish it. You try again, softer, more certain as you push through it. “I think…if it pleases you…I would like to kiss you.”

The words feel enormous once spoken. Not frightening, but fully exposed. Lyonel goes very still beneath your hands.

For a heartbeat, he simply looks at you, as though committing the moment to memory in a way he will not risk losing. There is something in his expression that almost undoes you—not restraint, not disbelief, but something fuller, something that settles deep and steady as he takes in what you have offered.

“You shall take it,” he says quietly.

Not an instruction.

An encouragement.

An opening.

You hesitate from the weight of doing something you have never done by choice. Your body leans forward anyway, drawn by something that feels far more certain than your thoughts.

“You will guide me?” you ask, your voice softer now, closer as the distance between you narrows bit by bit.

“Always,” he murmurs. The word settles into you just as your lips meet his.

The contact is gentle, warmer than you expected, his mouth yielding just enough to meet yours without overtaking you. There is no urgency in it, no demand—only presence, steady and patient, allowing you to feel it for what it is.

Your hands remain at his neck, your fingers adjusting slightly, learning the shape of him there, the warmth, the life beneath your touch. You feel the way his breath shifts, controlled but heavier now, and it sends a quiet ripple through you—not sharp, not overwhelming, but deeply felt.

He does not move at first.

He lets you find it.

You press into him again, a little more certain, testing the contact, the way your lips fit against his. Your breath moves unevenly, your thoughts slower now, less insistent on control, more willing to simply be.

A low sound leaves him, quiet but unmistakable, and it settles somewhere deep in you, stirring something that had only just eased.

“Seems you’ve got the hang of it,” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice softened by the closeness. “They fit perfectly against mine.”

It does not break your focus. It deepens it.

Your fingers tighten slightly at his neck as you shift closer, your body following instinct rather than instruction now. The kiss changes, grows fuller, not because he takes it further, but because you allow it to.

And he meets you there.

When you finally draw back, it is only for breath, your forehead hovering near his, your hands still resting where they had settled, your body not retreating, not pulling away.

Lyonel stays with you, his own breathing heavier now, his attention fixed on you with an openness that no longer hides behind restraint.

He does not move away. He does not rush to fill the space with action, even though something in him has clearly drawn tight from what has already passed between you. Instead, he studies you, as though committing this version of you to memory—the one who remained, who did not fold inward or pull herself apart when something unfamiliar took hold.

When he speaks, his voice is quieter, but no less certain.

“You can do that whenever you like,” he says, earnestness shining in his eyes. “You don’t have to wait for a moment like this. If you feel the urge to kiss me…then do it.” There is a faint roughness beneath the words, carefully held in check. “You won’t be turned away. Not from that. Not from me.”

The offer settles into you with a weight that mirrors the kiss itself. It is not structured. Not conditional. It is given without expectation, without demand for when—or if—you will take it.

You consider him for a moment, your attention lingering briefly on his mouth again, though the sharp uncertainty that once followed the thought has dulled. It remains new, unfamiliar, but it no longer feels forbidden.

“I…” You pause, not from hesitation, but from the unfamiliarity of speaking something you have only held in thought. “I have thought about what you told me. That day.”

His focus sharpens. “Aye?”

“When I walked in on you,” you continue, your voice quieter, though it holds. “When you said that you… desired me.” The word carries weight, though it no longer resists you the way it once did. “That you wanted my touch. That you imagined me.”

His jaw shifts, something deeper passing through his expression, though he does not interrupt. You take a slow breath and remain with it.

“I did not understand it then,” you admit. “Not fully. I only knew it stirred something in me I could not name.”

Lyonel watches you, steady, waiting.

“But I think I do now,” you continue, your fingers brushing lightly together in a grounding motion. “Or enough to say this.”

You meet his eyes fully.

“I wanted it.” The words land softly, but without disguise. “I wanted to be looked at that way,” you add, quieter still. “To be wanted like that. By you.”

Lyonel goes very still—held in place by the weight of what you’ve given him.

“And I have thought about your kisses,” you continue, the admission easier now that it has begun. “Not only now. Before this.” Your brow draws slightly, focused rather than uncertain. “What it might feel like if you gave them willingly. If it was not something taken or expected, but something chosen deliberately.”

His breath deepens, controlled, though the effect of your words is unmistakable.

“I would like that,” you say. No softening. No retreat. “I would like to receive them. If you are willing to give them.” For a moment, he only looks at you.

“You think I wouldn’t?” he asks, his voice lower now.

You shake your head faintly. “I do not know what I am allowed to ask for yet.” The honesty of it settles between you. Lyonel exhales slowly, restraint tightening before easing again.

“You don’t have to earn that from me,” he says. “Not this. If you want my kisses, you’ll have them.” There is weight in it. Something steady. Certain.

You nod, taking it in.

The quiet that follows is not empty. It holds something shared now, something understood.

Then his voice comes again, lower, more grounded.

“Any affection from me is freely given when you are ready to receive it,” he says. “It does not matter when. It does not matter where.” His eyes remain fixed on yours as he boldly takes one of your hands from his neck and kisses the tips of your fingers. “I am yours, my darling wife. Wholly.”

The words do not feel like possession. They feel like offering.

You draw in a slower breath, letting it move through you instead of catching it.

“You say it as though it is simple,” you reply.

“For me, it is,” he answers. You study him, the steadiness of him, the way he offers something so complete without shaping your response.

“I do not know how to take something like that without questioning it,” you admit.

“I know,” he says. “You don’t have to take it all at once.” Your fingers move faintly at your sides.

“Then I will take what I can.”

A warmth touches his expression. “That’s all I’ve ever asked of you.”

The quiet returns, but it carries something alive within it. You look at him again, and the thought comes without resistance.

You want to touch him.

Your hand lift from him with more certainty now, settling against his chest where his tunic lies open. Warmth meets your palm, steady and real.

Lyonel exhales, his eyes closing as his body answers your touch.

“You said I could do this whenever I wished,” you murmur.

“Aye.”

“And you meant it.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.” You nod slightly, then rise just enough to close the space between you again.

This kiss is different.

Still gentle, still measured, but chosen with awareness rather than discovery.

He meets you in it, his hand lifting slowly before settling at your side, not pulling, not guiding—simply present.

You feel everything.

The warmth.

The steadiness.

The way your body responds without collapsing inward.

When you draw back, you remain close. You do not question it. You lean in again without hesitation.

Your lips find his with quiet certainty, and the contact deepens—not rushed, not taken, but allowed. His mouth answers yours with care, matching your pace, holding steady rather than overtaking.

You feel the texture of him, the faint roughness of his beard brushing your skin, grounding you in the reality of it. It anchors you rather than pulling you away.

His hands settle more fully at your waist, broad and warm, holding you without trapping you there.

The contact draws something deeper from you, something that pulls rather than startles.

He notices.

He eases back just enough, his breath close to yours.

“There won’t be a day,” Lyonel says, a hint of something warmer—almost teasing—threading through his voice now, “where I don’t find an excuse to kiss you… if you’ll indulge me.” His eyes linger on your mouth for just a moment before returning to yours. “I think I’d make quite a habit of it.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying you with a softness that doesn’t quite hide the fondness beneath it.

“My affection is yours,” he continues, quieter now. “All of it. You need only reach for it, and I’ll be there—likely already halfway to you, if I’m being honest.”

The words do not rush past you. They land slowly, each one pressing into something that is only just beginning to understand how to receive without bracing for loss.

A soft sound slips from you before you can contain it, lighter than anything he has heard from you before. It brushes the air between you, uncertain in its shape, as though it does not yet know what it is meant to be.

The corner of your mouth lifts first.

It is small—so slight it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. A hesitant movement, as if you are testing the feeling rather than fully giving in to it. Your lips press together faintly after, as though you might stop it there, might gather yourself back into something more composed, more familiar.

But it does not hold.

He watches it happen.

Watches as that fragile beginning softens, deepens, spreads despite your quiet effort to contain it. There is a flicker of something almost shy in the way your mouth curves more fully, the expression settling with a kind of uncertainty that does not diminish it, only makes it more real. Your eyes shift slightly, not quite meeting his now, as if you are aware of it—aware of him seeing it—and do not yet know what to do with that.

You try to hide it.

Not by force, not by shutting it down, but by tempering it, by letting your lips press together again as though that might lessen what has already formed.

It doesn’t.

The softness remains, lingering at the edges of your mouth, visible no matter how gently you try to restrain it.

And Lyonel—he goes utterly still.

It is not a practiced stillness, not the kind he wears when he holds himself back for your sake. This one comes from somewhere deeper, from the simple, disarming fact of seeing you like this—unguarded in a way that has nothing to do with fear, nothing to do with control.

His breath slows, then falters just slightly, as though something in him has been struck in a way he had not prepared for. He does not move toward you, does not risk breaking what has formed, but there is a fullness to his attention now that feels almost tangible, like heat held just beneath the surface.

“Your smile,” he says quietly, not in disbelief, but in recognition, as though naming it matters. As though he needs to mark the moment before it slips past him.

His hand lifts, then stills before reaching you, restraint returning not out of distance, but out of care.

“That,” he adds, softer now, “might undo me more than anything else you’ve done today.”

There is no exaggeration in it—only truth offered as plainly as everything else he has given you and still, he does not close the space.

Lyonel sees it then—the quiet aftermath that settles over you.

Not exhaustion alone, though that is there. Something softer. Your eyes, once so sharp with thought and restraint, have gone heavy at the edges, lids lowering in slow, unguarded blinks. There is a looseness to you now, a kind of unarmored presence that he has not witnessed before. It is not fragility. It is… release in its truest form.

His hand continues its slow path along your back, steady, grounding.

“You’ll sleep well,” Lyonel says, his voice low, certain in a way that does not demand belief, only offers it.

Your lips part slightly as you answer, your voice quieter, touched with something that drifts at the edges of wakefulness. “I truly hope so.” Your eyes flutter again, slower this time.

“Then we’ll see that you do,” he replies, gentler now.

He moves carefully, one hand steady at your side as he helps you rise. Your legs do not quite obey at first, unsteady beneath you, and you sway just slightly as your weight shifts.

“Easy,” he murmurs, his grip firming just enough to keep you upright without overwhelming you.

You find your footing with his help, though you remain close, your body still inclined toward his without conscious thought. There is no urgency in him, no rushing to move you along. He adjusts with you, matching your pace, letting you settle into standing rather than forcing it.

“We’ll get you into bed,” he says, quieter now, almost thoughtful. “I’d keep you just as you are, but we’d both curse it come morning.” There is a faint warmth beneath the words, something softer than humor, something that lingers rather than passes.

He does not let go as he guides you, his hand remaining at your back, a steady presence as you take slow steps forward. Each movement feels heavier than it should, your body finally giving in to what it has been denied for too long.

You do not feel the need to fight it.

Not here.

Not with him.

By the time you reach the bed, the quiet has settled fully around you, not empty, not hollow, but calm in a way that feels almost unfamiliar.

Lyonel pauses only long enough to make sure you are steady before helping you sit, his hand lingering just a moment longer than necessary, as though ensuring you will not slip away from him in more ways than one.

It has been just over a fortnight since the feast. Long enough that the memory of it has settled into something less immediate, though not distant. Long enough that the impressions left behind—faces, voices, the feeling of being seen in a way you had not been before—have not faded, only quieted beneath everything that followed.

You are in the main corridor when the letters arrive.

New tapestries are being hung along the stone walls, their rich fabric still stiff from travel from the Vale, the golden yellow colors deep and vivid against the gray. You stand a short distance back, overseeing the placement, your eye catching the smallest misalignments before they can be secured. A servant adjusts one corner at your instruction, another steps back to assess the spacing.

It is orderly.

Controlled.

Familiar.

“Those need to be raised slightly,” you say, gesturing toward the second panel. “The line is uneven.”

“Yes, my lady.” The correction is made at once.

You are about to turn, your attention already moving to the next detail, when a younger servant approaches, slightly out of breath but composed enough not to draw attention.

“My lady,” she says, dipping her head. “These arrived for you.” She holds out two letters. You take them without thinking at first, your focus still half on the corridor—until you see the seals.

Your attention shifts completely.

The wax is unbroken, each stamped with a crest you recognize, not from long familiarity, but from recent memory. Your fingers still slightly as you turn them over, reading the names written in careful script.

Lady Baratheon

Something in you answers at once.

There is no slow build, no careful unfolding you can track and contain. It comes all at once—bright, unguarded, impossible to mistake. The feeling moves through you with a clarity that catches you off balance, not harsh, not overwhelming, but vivid in a way that leaves no room to ignore it.

You remember them.

Their laughter comes first, easy and unrestrained, followed by the way conversation had flowed without effort, without scrutiny. You remember how they spoke to you—not as someone to be measured or corrected, but as someone already included, already welcome. As though your place among them required no justification.

You had not let yourself think of it in days.

Not directly.

But now it rises without resistance, returning whole rather than in pieces, settling into you with a warmth that feels unfamiliar in its ease.

You do not diminish it.

You do not reshape it into something more acceptable, more controlled.

You let it remain exactly as it is.

And that—more than the feeling itself—is what moves you.

You turn back briefly, your voice steadier than the feeling inside you might suggest. “Ensure the remaining panels follow the same alignment,” you instruct. “I will review them later.”

“Yes, my lady.”

You nod once, already stepping away.

Your pace quickens without your permission. It was not hurried in a way that would draw attention—but purposeful, driven by something you are not trying to restrain. The corridors pass more quickly than they should, your steps light, your focus fixed entirely on the letters in your hand.

By the time you reach your chambers, your thoughts have narrowed to a single point.

Everything else falls away.

The door opens with more urgency than you intend, the sound sharper against the quiet of the room. Lyonel is still in the bed, only just stirring from sleep, the remnants of it still visible in the loose set of his body, in the way his curls sit slightly out of place, in the heaviness of his expression as awareness begins to return.

He shifts onto one arm as the door opens, blinking once, then again, his focus struggling to settle as he looks at you.

You hardly take it in.

You move further into the room, the letters held in your hands, not tightly, not with your usual careful restraint, but with something lighter, something that does not feel the need to be contained.

“My lord—” you begin, the habit of it surfacing before the moment catches up with you. The title feels misplaced, too formal for what presses forward instead, and you stop yourself before it can settle. “Lyonel,”

Lyonel watches you, confusion plain as he drags a hand down his face, still caught between sleep and waking, trying to make sense of why you have returned so early, why you stand before him like this—brighter, unsettled in a way he has not seen.

“There’s been a fire, or—” he starts, his voice roughened by sleep.

“No,” you say quickly, stepping closer before he can finish.

You lift the letters slightly, as though that alone should explain everything, as though the answer is already there, held in your hands.

“They wrote to me.” There’s a brightness in your voice that was not there before.

Lyonel’s brow furrows faintly, his gaze dropping briefly to the letters before returning to your face. He studies you more closely now, the confusion giving way to something else—something more attentive.

“The ladies from the feast?” he asks.

You nod.

“Yes.”

The answer is simple, but it does not land that way. There is something beneath it—something lighter, something you have not tried to press down or reshape into something more measured.

He notices.

Not only in what you say, but in how you stand before him. The brightness you have not hidden. The absence of that constant, quiet restraint that usually sits just beneath everything you do, keeping you contained, careful.

Lyonel leans back slightly against the headboard, more awake now, his attention settling fully on you. He does not interrupt. He does not rush you forward. He simply watches.

“And you’ve run all the way here to read them?” he asks.

There is no mockery in it. No amusement. Only observation.

You pause, just long enough to consider whether you might soften it, reshape it into something more proper.

You don’t.

“Yes.”

The word comes cleanly, without apology, without the instinct to correct yourself.

Something in him eases at that—not in a way that diminishes you, but in a way that accepts what you’ve given exactly as it is.

“Then read them,” he says. “Aloud, if you like. Or keep them to yourself, if you’d rather.”

You study him for a moment.

“You wish to hear what they’ve sent me?”

“It brings you joy,” he answers simply.

That is enough.

Your mouth curves before you can stop it, small but real, and you move without overthinking it, settling at the edge of the bed near his feet, the letter already drawing your attention back to itself.

He watches you.

Not the parchment.

You.

You break the seal more carefully than you expected of yourself, your movements slowing now that you have reached what you hurried here for. The parchment unfolds beneath your hands, the ink neat, waiting.

For a brief moment, you only look at it.

Then you begin.

“Lady Baratheon,” you read, your voice clear, though touched with something lighter than it has been in days. “I hope this letter finds you well and settled in Storm’s End, though I confess I already miss the liveliness you brought to the hall that evening…”

The words carry easily in the quiet room, softer than they would be in a hall, but no less present.

Lyonel shifts slightly.

He had expected to listen to the letter.

Instead, he listens to you.

There is a cadence in your voice he has not heard before. Not the measured tone you use when directing others. Not the careful neutrality you fall into when uncertain. This is something else.

Warmer.

Unforced.

Alive.

“She writes of the music,” you continue, a faint thread of amusement entering your tone without effort. “And says the musicians were far too reserved for the occasion—though she suspects the company was more to blame than their skill.”

Your lips curve again, unguarded this time, and Lyonel notices that more than the words themselves.

He notices how you lean into the letter, not out of tension, but engagement. How your voice rises and falls naturally, no longer held so tightly.

“She asks if I would consider visiting,” you go on, your voice softening slightly, “or receiving her here, should the opportunity arise. She says she found me… refreshing company.”

The word lingers as you say it.

You are still adjusting to it.

“You were,” Lyonel says.

You glance at him.

There is no hesitation in his tone. No embellishment. Only truth.

You hold his eyes for a moment before returning to the letter.

“She hopes this is not the last time we speak outside of formal gathering,” you finish, “and that she would welcome continued correspondence.”

You lower the parchment.

The quiet that follows is not empty.

It settles around you.

When you look up, Lyonel is still watching you—not the letter, not the words, but you.

“What?” you ask, a faint crease forming at your brow.

He exhales softly, as though returning from somewhere he had not meant to linger.

“I like the sound of your voice when you read,” he says.

You blink, caught off guard.

“It is the same voice.”

He shakes his head.

“No.”

He leaves it there for a moment before adding, “You don’t hold it so tightly.”

You take that in slowly, your fingers shifting lightly against the parchment.

“I did not notice,” you admit.

“I did.”

There is no discomfort in the way he says it.

Only recognition.

You look down at the second letter, then back at him.

“Would you like me to read the next?”

“Aye,” he says. “I would.”

This time, when you begin, you are aware of it—not enough to change it, but enough to let it remain.

You break the second seal, your movements steadier now. The anticipation is no longer sharp, but warm, settled into something you are not trying to temper.

“Lady Baratheon,” you read, your voice finding that same easy rhythm. “I debated whether to write at once or allow time to pass so I might pretend I possess restraint. As you can see, I do not.”

A small breath leaves you, close to laughter.

Lyonel notices.

“I hope Storm’s End has not swallowed you whole,” you continue, “though I suspect if it tried, you would simply organize it into submission and carry on as though nothing had happened.”

Your lips press together briefly, something amused passing through your expression.

“She writes as though she knows you,” Lyonel murmurs.

“She met me once,” you reply, though there is no sharpness in it.

“And still.”

You do not answer that.

“I found myself thinking of you more than I expected,” you read, your voice slowing just slightly. “Not for any great reason, but for the way you held yourself. As though you were choosing each moment rather than simply moving through it.”

The words land more fully as you speak them.

“I would like to see if that was circumstance, or if it is simply who you are,” you continue. “Should you visit—or allow me to call upon you—I would welcome it greatly.”

Your voice softens as you finish.

“And if nothing else, I would be glad of your letters. It is not often one finds conversation worth continuing.”

You lower the parchment more slowly this time, folding it with care.

The room feels different now.

Not only filled with the echo of what you read, but with something that lingers beneath it.

“They seem to like you,” Lyonel says.

You nod faintly.

“They did.”

“And you?”

You pause, your fingers resting lightly against the folded letter.

“I think I liked speaking with them,” you say. “It did not feel… difficult.”

“That’s a rare thing,” he replies.

“Yes.”

The agreement comes easily.

“They wrote to me,” you add, quieter now. “Not out of obligation.”

“No,” he says. “Not from what I saw.”

“You were listening?”

“I was there,” he says, a hint of something lighter in his tone.

That draws a small reaction from you, something unforced.

“They want to continue speaking with me,” you say.

It sounds simple.

It isn’t.

“Aye,” he says. “They do.”

You sit with that, letting it settle.

“I think I would like that.”

“Then write back.”

You hesitate.

“I do not know what I would say.”

He looks at you, steady.

“You’ve just spent several minutes proving that you do.”

You hold his gaze.

Then, slowly, you nod.

The letters rest in your lap, no longer something unexpected, no longer something you must guard against.

Something yours.

And Lyonel lets you come to that without interruption.

You rise with the letters still in hand, the motion unhurried, though there is a quiet energy beneath it that has not faded. Your attention drifts briefly toward the corner of the room, toward the desk that sits there more as a presence than a fixture in use.

Lyonel follows your line of sight without needing to be told.

You turn back to him, your fingers adjusting slightly around the parchment, not fidgeting—just grounding.

“May I use your desk?” you ask, lifting your hand faintly to indicate it. “Just for a short while.”

The question is softer than your earlier request, but there is less hesitation behind it. It is asked, not offered up to be dismissed.

Lyonel’s brow lifts just slightly.

Not in refusal.

In recognition.

You are asking.

Not circling it.

Not diminishing it before it can be answered.

“Asking, now?” he says, a faint trace of something warmer in his tone. You pause, catching the tone of it, then you nod once.

“Yes.” The word lands cleanly.

His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, not assessing, not weighing whether to grant it, but taking in the way you stand there—more certain than before, even in something so small.

“It’s yours,” he says. “You don’t need my permission.” You hold his eyes, absorbing it.

“I would still like to ask,” It was a quiet acknowledgment of what that choice means for you, even with something as simple as this.

“Then yes,” he answers, more deliberately now. “You may.” You nod faintly, accepting it, and turn toward the desk.

It has been used sparingly, the surface clean, the ink and quill set neatly aside. It feels different from the spaces you usually occupy—less governed, less defined by routine. You set the letters down carefully, smoothing them once before reaching for the quill.

Behind you, Lyonel watches.

Not overtly.

Not in a way meant to draw your attention.

But he does not look away.

He sees the way you settle into the chair, the way your posture shifts—not rigid, not braced, but focused. He sees the way your hand hovers briefly before committing to the first stroke of ink, the way you do not overthink it into stillness.

You begin to write—not perfectly, not with the same measured precision you apply to ledgers or directives, but honestly—and that seemed to please you well enough.

Lyonel leans back slightly against the headboard, one arm resting loosely at his side as he watches you take something for yourself without needing to be guided into it.

He does not say it aloud, but the thought settles firmly in his mind all the same. He would not deny you, not of things that bring that light into you. And if ever there came a moment where something you asked for was beyond his reach, he thinks to himself, he would find a way to make it otherwise.

Part Eleven

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