The Dragon and The Stag (IN PROGRESS series): Visenya Targaryen was far enough down the succession order that she considered her place in court to be near unimportant. Her father had promised to let her decide on her own time when to be married and instead she decided to enjoy life. Wine, art, music, sex. Everything that a princess of six and twenty should have never been doing. And then the decision was made for her: pick a lord, be betrothed, get married, and cease her indiscretions. But the headstrong princess would not be so easily reined in.
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Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw (Top Gun: Maverick)
home to you (series): When two people are meant to be together, fate will always find a way to bring them to each other. It's just that sometime it's no under the normal-est of circumstances. But a flower that blooms in adversity is the rarest and most beautiful of all, and Bradley will be ready to go through anything for the love of his Blossom.
read on ao3
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PEDRO PASCAL
oberyn martell (game of thrones)
of vipers and doves (series): Lady Y/N always dreamed of marrying for love, but coming from an old Westerosi family meant that love was never in the cards for her. However, fate seemed to smile her way once her betrothal to Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne came to be.
read on ao3
of viper and doves II (sequel): Almost four years later. Y/N and Oberyn Martell’s life couldn’t be better. Growing, happy family. Loving subjects. Nothing worse than a rainfall came to Dorne. Until a shadow flew above Sunspear, turning the life of the joyous family upside down.
read on ao3
javier peña (narcos)
amami alfredo (series): Y/N is an opera singer who has a connection to a man who can possibly lead our favourite DEA team to Pablo Escobar.
read on ao3
frankie “catfish” morales (triple frontier)
Frankie’s darlings (request): the triple frontier boys seeing Frankie’s baby for the first second time
The Dragon and The Stag (Lyonel Baratheon x Targaryen!OC)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN // Previous chapter // Masterlist // Next chapter
Wordcount: 13.7K
Summary: Visenya Targaryen was far enough down the succession order that she considered her place in court to be near unimportant. Her father had promised to let her decide on her own time when to be married and instead she decided to enjoy life. Wine, art, music, sex. Everything that a princess of six and twenty should have never been doing. And then the decision was made for her: pick a lord, be betrothed, get married, and cease her indiscretions. But the headstrong princess would not be so easily reined in.
Warnings: MDNI +18; discussion/mention of attempted sa; mentions of infertility/miscarriages; mentions of blood
A/N: My baby Nye is having some big feelings and big revelations happening at the end of this whopper of a chapter. Had to take the extra time to make it good, given the heavy subjects in it. I hope you like it!
The narrow winding stairway was all but deserted, save a few ancient cobwebs that had thickened into gauzy sheets along the walls with years of dust. But not a single spider, now the only living things in the passage were the occasional skittering rat and the two younglings making their way down the stone steps. The torch, clutched between the princess Visenya’s trembling fingers, flickered and illuminated the wisps of web for a brief moment before the light hurried away.
‘Nye, please, slow down,’ Rod begged behind her, trying his best to catch up to his friend. ‘This is madness! We will get caught and be in serious trouble.’
Visenya groaned inwardly but did not slow her descent. There was too much to accomplish in one single night, and time was not on their side.
And far too much at stake for her to stop and turn around.
She had made her choice and would need to stick with it, come what may. Even if the gods punished her and the whole world scorned her as a result.
The pale blue cotton headwrap, which would have elsewise been a welcome accessory to an evening attire, was wound so tight it was constricting the blood from reaching her head. Each step was shaky and her vision was beginning to funnel into a dark fog.
Stay the course, she repeatedly reminded herself, just until the job is done.
Rod, fed up with trying to stop his friend with words alone, grabbed her by the shoulder and made her look him in the eye. The torch light danced between their faces, the young boy’s was one etched with worry and the princess’s was filled with trepidation.
‘This is not the way to do it, Nye.’
‘What else will you have me do? I cannot–’ Visenya’s breath was as shaky as her hands. ‘I cannot stop. I cannot let him do– Rod, I beg you, we must move.’
Tears were threatening to spill forward and she could not let them. The princess whipped around again to continue on her descent down the secret passageway before being halted again.
‘There must be another way! You will get in trouble,’ the boy tried desperately to reason with her, but it was as good as trying to rein in a tidal wave. Once Visenya had set her mind on something, nothing could stand in her way. ‘I do not know what Lady Shiera told you–’
‘She told me what I need to do,’ she interrupted. ‘Exactly what I need to do. If you think that I have misread her advice, then you are wrong.’
‘No, you are wrong to trust that she has your best intentions in mind. You know what she is… what people say she is. What if this is some horrible– ritual or what if she wants your maiden blood–’
Visenya’s throat released the most intense and hopeless groan yet. ‘I will ask you again. What else will you have me do? For if you suggest you pull your breeches down and help rid me of my virtue, then by all means let us get it over with.’
Rod leaned away from her and in his eyes Visenya saw… deliberation. Rod was by far the closest friend she had ever had, closer even than her family could ever be. He was a confidant, a trusted ally in the tricky to traverse bog-like waters of court life. And having him do this would be easier, mayhaps even better than entrusting the task to a stranger.
It was madness. She was a fool to even feed kindling to the thought. Not only for the simple fact that Rod was as green as her in all matters of the flesh but because he would suffer greatly if he were found to be the one who had deflowered her. And Visenya cherished him too much to allow that to happen.
Nay, a faceless man from one of the pleasure houses would do. Someone with enough experience who would – unknowing of her true identity – be the guardian of her secret, preferably to his grave. Coins clicked together inside her skirt’s pocket, enough to pay for a fuck or whatever would be quicker.
Or she could lower the square neckline of her dress a little further to expose her bulging breasts and entice a traveler in one of the taverns. A trader, a minstrel, anyone who would not bother asking after her name and origin, and would do the job without fuss. At least one man like that would not expect payment and she could waste the rest of her gold on getting stupid drunk.
The lingering taste of mead she had snuck from a servant’s tray at dinner soured in her mouth, bile rising to meet it along with her panicked gasps for air. The princess slumped against the cold wall, her torch almost slipping from her hand.
‘Nye, Nye, ‘tis alright! Look at me,’ Rod urged her to calm and grabbed her face between his hands. ‘Breathe for me. Please, just breathe. I am sorry, it was silly of me.’
Her heart was beating hard against her chest, harder than it had the night before. She feared it might actually jump out of her body if it beat any wilder. Fear gripped her like a thorny vine and cut deep into the planes of her skin, the images of what could happen and everything that could go terribly wrong only making those thorns drive in deeper.
After a few slower breaths that helped ease the ache and ground her back into reality, Rod pushed out another tentative question. ‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’
There was no alternative, Lady Shiera had made herself quite clear. No man coveted a woman who had already been used.
‘I need to drink something first,’ she said. ‘Something. Anything.’
Rod nodded once then grabbed her free hand and hurried with her in tow down the rest of the steps.
The sun shone right into her eyes, hot and annoyingly bright, and stirred Visenya awake. A low grunt spilled forth from her mouth and she grabbed the nearest item – in this case a pillow – to cover her face. After the tiring day she’d had and the lack of good rest that had followed it, she needed those last vestiges of sleep for a moment or two longer.
‘I fear the sun will not cease its shine even if you hide from it.’
Visenya felt the mattress dip beside her and the pillow was pried away from her face. Lyonel came into view, the golden rays coming up behind him, turning the greys in his curls into molten silver, and he smiled. He had already slipped into his daily clothes – a pair of dark woolen breeches and a shirt so thin she could make out the shape of his body beneath it with the light passing so deliciously through the material. The border of fabric that barred her view of him felt like a personal affront. What the princess wanted most was for him to shed them, lay back down in bed (preferably on top of her), and shield her from the sun properly.
Lyonel leaned across the crumpled bedsheets, his hand reached for her face, and laid a kiss upon her mouth that was by far the best way to bring wakefulness to her mind. His lips moved slowly, tenderly, coaxing hers open for his tongue to taste the sleep on hers. Visenya reached for him and threaded her fingers through his hair. She needed him closer.
‘You were not here last night,’ he mumbled into the kiss and pulled away far enough to look at her, his brows drawn together so a deep crease formed through his forehead.
‘What? Of course, I was. I slept next to you,’ she countered through a bout of laughter. ‘Or are you losing your wits in your old age?’
‘I am in my prime, woman,’ Lyonel argued, equally as amused, and his fingers dug into her sides, eliciting a series of giggles from his wife. ‘No, I meant… you were somewhere else. In mind. Is everything alright?’
Visenya considered telling him of what Orys had said in that corridor. The biting words that man had thrown her way that still nipped at her heels and were amongst the several things that had kept her distracted throughout the rest of yesternight. The hurt they left behind had lodged itself between her ribs despite the princess’s best attempts to not give them that power.
Orys had intended for them to cut and cut they did.
It would not be wise to set nephew against uncle even if speaking about it might lessen the pain of being so intensely disliked by the old man, although nothing promised her that Lyonel would take her side. He had promised to take care of her – protect her – but what if the respect for his uncle outweighed any care he harboured for her?
Visenya glanced down at where her hand had melded once more inside Lyonel’s. It was so natural how her skin met his, how their fingers grazed flesh.
‘I do not think I can join any more training sessions,’ she admitted quietly.
There was not a sound coming from the other side of the bed until a finger touched the underside of her chin, lifting her face up.
Lyonel looked worried. Then he asked, ‘Is it because of what happened? The attack…’
‘I felt–’ What had she felt? There was fear, above anything else. The barely there glint of steel that rushed towards her brought back horrid flashes of the past, ones filled with the sound of thrashing waters and the spill of blood. Fear accompanied by heavy remorse for what she’d done. ‘I felt that sensation again. The thrill you spoke of once.’
‘It is not uncommon. It lingers… especially after one’s first real battle.’
The words gave her pause. ‘Did it linger for you? How long?’
‘After I took to the seas for the very first time. We were set upon by pirates, off the coast of Lys. I had to defend myself and my men. The visions of the blood and fray stayed with me for some months.’
Months? She would have to endure that for months?!
‘Forgive me, I never imagined it would be the same for you. I should not have encouraged it.’
‘No,’ she stopped him with a firm squeeze of her hand; he was the last person who should offer apologies. ‘It was so sweet of you to include me. And Axel was a fine sparring partner.’
‘He was a prat and could have hurt you badly.’ Anger marred his eyes for a moment and Visenya was reminded of the same expression he bore when she had fallen.
She smiled at him still and pecked his lips quick. ‘It would have been a waste of his talent if he had gone easy on me. I was alright. Although I think it will be better if I stay away from the training grounds. I should focus on my duties.’
‘Ah, yes… accounts, and granaries if I recall, and whatever my mother has in store for you. Try not to die of boredom or I will be forced to find another wife.’
That would likely make his uncle exceedingly happy.
‘Only for a little while longer until I find my bearings,’ reasoned Visenya, ‘then I will be by your side in all council meetings to spare you of boredom.’
Lyonel let out a deep groan and fell back onto the pillows. ‘It is mostly an annoyance I suffer at the moment with Lord Cafferen’s continued disobedience.’
‘You mentioned it but I doubt I had the mind to listen yesternight.’ She propped her head on one hand, her other one rested gently atop her husband’s chest. ‘Care to tell me now?’
He took a breath and a moment to gather his thoughts into one coherent tale, then began.
‘Out of all my bannermen, he is the most troublesome. All the others fell in line as soon as I took charge. Cafferen… he and my father squired together. He enjoyed privileges that should not have been so freely given to a vassal, especially not one as inconsequential as that old bastard.’
‘And I suppose your father gifted him those privileges,’ Visenya supplied in a voice so dry it might have been dripping in sand.
‘His tax to Storm’s End was outrageously reduced while he kept collecting money from his own people at a rate they cannot meet. He is antagonising neighbouring vassals, encroaching on their lands. I meant to bring him to heel during the tourney. The prick had the gall to offer trinkets by way of showing his obedience–’
‘But I kept you otherwise occupied,’ added Visenya, feeling more than a little ashamed she had taken him away from more meaningful matters. Matters more important to the welfare of his people than engaging with her pretend courtship plan.
His hand came up to squeeze hers again and brought it up to his lips to kiss. Her palm prickled pleasantly at the sensation of his scratchy beard. ‘You were the finest distraction a man could ever hope to find in a woman. Even without your proposition, I believe I still would have found a reason to pursue you. If only to see you roll your eyes and scoff at me as you did then.’
It would have been nice. Visenya allowed herself to daydream for a moment about how differently their meeting would have gone, how much different they would have been if there weren’t any alternative plans to accomplish. Would they have still ended up where they were now? She prayed so.
‘What is your council suggesting?’
‘All sensible course of action has been abandoned since it has not worked thus far. Axel is of the mind that I should strip Cafferen of his title and give a portion of his land to the next two loyal lords or knights. The rest still see this as a measure too aggressive to amount to anything good. Borys, in particular, was opposed to harming the man.’
‘I’m afraid I would be in agreement with him. Is there no other way to handle this without resorting to extreme solutions? He is married, yes?’
Lyonel looked at her, puzzled. ‘To a girl young enough for him to have sired her. What of it?’
‘I could write to her,’ Visenya suggested, invigorated by the thought of having something she could do to help. ‘Your mother told me that I would need to maintain close companionships with all the ladies of the Stormlands. And a wife, I have been told, can offer her husband sage counsel.’
Lyonel quirked an eyebrow. ‘Oh, really? A wise advice in and of itself.’
‘Wise indeed,’ she agreed, ‘and I could use the chance to make Lady Cafferen’s acquaintance whilst drawing her to our side.’
He looked as though he considered it, turned the suggestion around in his head, giving it time to materialise amidst his own machinations. ‘I doubt it would be of use but we have no alternatives. Write to her, if you will. See if the girl can be reasoned with if her fool of a husband cannot.’
‘Good.’
Visenya threw a leg over his midsection and sat herself confidently across his lap. His cock swelled instantly inside his breeches when her bare cunt slotted along its shape.
‘I believe we have a few more minutes before you are whisked away from me to be the Lord of Storm’s End,’ she purred, leaning down to kiss along his collarbone and drag her tongue up to the shell of his ear. She felt a shudder as strong as a tidal wave go through him and his hands immediately reached to steady her naked hips. ‘But now I should like to fuck my husband.’
The days that followed continued under a similar repetitiveness; mornings were blessedly given away to moments spent atop or weaved amongst the bedsheets, before the day would split them apart for the better part of its course. Lyonel would be dragged off to council meetings, visits to the fields to inspect the planting of the spring wheat, training sessions with his cousins whenever they had the time, whereas Visenya would have to follow Lady Viola around the keep all day like an obedient pup.
There was little doubt in her mind that the main reason for the inordinate amount of tasks on her husband’s daily schedule had less to do with his important duties as Lord but with a certain relation who seemed determined to keep him away from her. And Visenya had begun to wonder if Orys truly believed she’d put some bloody love spell on his nephew and thought that time away from her reach might snap him back to his senses. If anything the only spell Lyonel seemed to be under was one that brought out the competitive side of him, making him hellbent on bringing her to a finish as many times as possible in the little time they had and in many and varied positions.
Bet that wouldn’t have been something that Orys Baratheon would have liked to know.
Nevertheless, the princess was adapting quickly, learning her place within castle society: where and when her input would be needed, which members of the household she should turn to for a number of things, and which ones should in turn seek her out first.
Each new task was becoming less of a burden and rather an exciting challenge.
The cook Nora – who implored she be called simply Cook since it was what most residents of Storm’s End referred to her as – was eager to bring Visenya up to speed on all matters that concerned her with regards to the kitchens. Anything from what food was being delivered to what positions needed filling. She was the one in charge of keeping the castle fed and therefore Visenya made it her mission to be her friend.
Then there was the steward who (much like Cook) was intent on introducing the princess to his own duties, and where her role fell within that realm, as promptly as possible. If only to make the transition go about smoother. It meant getting better acquainted with the staff and memorising the names of close to thirty of them.
Shyra was pivotal in unraveling the finer details about them all. Who was friends with who and such. And Visenya had made the point to single out the ones who were still cold towards her maid and monitor if their behaviour towards her changed in the slightest.
She respected all labourers, she had spent time amongst many of them, but what she could never abide by was cruelty. Particularly when directed at her newest friend. If she caught wind – the faintest draft even – that any of those same people had resumed their torment, she would find herself with a few more empty positions to fill.
Unpredictable currents at sea and stronger winds had prevented Jena from boarding the ship that was meant to return her and young Lyonel to Evenfall, a letter being sent in their stead by way of raven to let Lord Manfred know that they would spend the last weeks of his wife’s confinement in her childhood home. Jena complained about being cooped up, of course. We’re Baratheons, we’ve seen worse storms by far and a little rocking in a wooden tub has never frightened us, she’d scoff. But it was getting harder for her to move around the castle grounds. Her belly large and heavy, the babe more restless than before, and the constant need to find a chamberpot bordering on desperation. Therefore her mother and maester Maynard had advised her to take to bed. Lady Viola was adamant; her daughter’s well-being and the well-being of the babe were her chiefest priority. Hence the daily work was split into smaller portions so she could look in on Jena, fussing over her as any mother would.
Any normal mother at least.
Visenya’s own would have hardly given it much thought as long as duty was done. She might have even rejoiced that the silliest of her children had finally done something right.
Lady Cassana had too improved over the course of the first sennight and the ladies were allowed to visit her in her bedchamber. With the exception of Jena who was bid to stay away from her cousin a while longer lest she contract the same ailment in the last days of her confinement. Maester Maynard was still unsure of its nature and the manner in which it spread so he preferred to be on the safe side and keep the expectant away from any sickrooms.
Visenya found her husband’s cousin a delightful young woman who shared much of Borys’s calmness although that could have been brought forth by exhaustion from her battle with the curious illness. She was overjoyed to be conversing with someone other than the maester who’d been her sole companion for days, so much so that she would sit up a little straighter in bed whenever Lady Viola and Visenya came to call on her. After each trip to the kitchens to discuss menus and delivery schedules, Visenya would sneak a few morsels of fruit cakes for the young woman who seemed desperate for them.
Hardly surprising, seeing as her diet had consisted of nought but broth and bitter teas.
Close to a fortnight later and with the bulk of her “studies” completed, Visenya was a step closer to being a full-fledged Lady Baratheon. It gave her peace and a great deal of satisfaction knowing that there was nothing to bar her from her rightful place beside Lyonel. And with her letter to Lady Cafferen so warmly received by the young lady, she was sure that her first big success would come soon.
It was practically waiting at her feet.
And what made her even happier was that she had begun seeing genuine acceptance in Lady Viola’s eyes. It had come in slow waves; first when Visenya took charge in rearranging the schedule for the laundresses after a couple of them had fallen ill, then another such glance came when the kennelmaster was in need of a helping hand whelping a hounds’s new litter. It had been a dirty business – she’d ended up sullying the new dress Shyra had made for her with all sorts of fluids – and not entirely lady-like as her own mother would have put it, but Visenya did not shy away from the task.
‘I’d helped with many such births in my father’s house,’ the Dowager had told her while the pair of them handled the newborn pups. The tiny balls of sleek fur had yelped and yowled while their exhausted mother was being tended to by the kennelmaster. The old woman would recall fondly, ‘We had a whole army of hounds to guard the vineyards.’
Visenya had feared that her good-mother would find her taking over difficult but it appeared as though she was content with handing over the mantle once the princess had shown she could be entrusted with the heavy burden. Only if Orys would ease up too and her life would be much simpler. Although Visenya assumed he would only accept her if she completed her most important job: bearing a child for Lyonel.
An heir, to be precise.
Not an entirely hard job to do.
If half the chores were as pleasant as that, Visenya would have agreed to walk up the altar much sooner.
And having Lyonel as a lover had an added appeal.
Morning came in a hurry once more. Lyonel had little time to enjoy his wife’s affections, and instead placated her grumpy expression with a kiss and a gentle smack to her hind. A promise he would still ravish her when he was done with the business of the day.
Visenya could at least expect a slower start to her own schedule. The lessons were completed, the Dowager was happy with her progress and was otherwise occupied with preparations for her daughter’s nearing labour. The princess considered spending her first free day by returning to some pursuits she’d abandoned before coming to Storm’s End.
She had not touched her sketching journal in nearly a month. Her hand cramped at the thought, it had missed holding a stylus. Her whole body cramped actually, in particular her stomach. She was either terribly hungry or had eaten something poor at dinner the night before. Better not mention that in front of Cook, Visenya chided herself.
Shyra arrived with the freshly washed and pressed garments for the day, and her usual chipper attitude. She smiled brightly, bidding a ‘Good morrow’ to the princess as she crossed the chamber and laid out the clothes on a chair.
Visenya propped herself up on the bed and greeted the young girl back. She could not wait to get dressed, grab her supplies, and get moving. The sun was out for the first time in a sennight. It would be a lovely day, she was certain of it.
She asked, ‘Did the stain come out of the blue frock?’
‘With a bit ‘o scrubbing and some effort.’ Shyra ran her hands over the daydress she’d brought, smoothing out any small creases that had formed. ‘I would’ve set out something more robust for you if I’d known you’d be mucking it in the kennels.’
Visenya smiled wider. It brought great joy to her heart that Shyra had opened up more and felt at ease to jest back and forth with her. ‘It was foolish, I know. But the pups were so sweet! I promise I will behave today.’
‘You better,’ the young girl quipped, ‘we’re down another girl at the laundry.’
‘Not another one!’
‘Laundresses fall ill all the time. It is part of the job.’
That was not a good enough reason. Three girls had now contracted some ailment and maester Maynard was too preoccupied with Jena to give them the attention they needed.
‘Hm. I will discuss with Walter if it wouldn’t be more prudent to try different soaps for the washing. Or mayhaps it is something wrong with the starch for the shirts.’
Shyra came around the bed to pull the covers back and Visenya threw her legs over the side of the mattress. She’d grown so used to the girl seeing her in all states of undress that she did not pretend to hide herself anymore.
‘I will find him for you after you’ve had something to eat. Will you take your breakfast in your rooms today or should I have it laid out in the solar?’
The thought of food was enticing even with her stomach bothering her as it did.
‘I will grab something sweet from the kitchens,’ she said. Lyonel would be upset if he learned that she had ‘Then go see Lady Cassana. She could do with a walk around the castle grounds after being cooped up for so long.’
Visenya lifted off of the bed and immediately knew something was wrong.
The back of her legs, near her bottom, felt wet and sticky. It was different to the sensation she had when it was Lyonel’s seed smeared there; no, that sensation came accompanied by a sense of wicked satisfaction, her thighs would ache from being spread and hooked around his waist. Now the stickiness felt different, familiar still but horribly unwelcome, and entwined with a horrible ache in the lower part of her belly.
Oh no…
Visenya’s eyes began to water and even through the haze she could clearly see Shyra looking at the bedsheets. The princess did not need to turn to know what it was, but she did still if only to quell the last bit of hope that it wasn’t true.
Her courses had come.
Right on time.
Declaring themselves with a splash of red right where she’d lain a few moments ago.
A sharp cry of disbelief tore its way through Visenya’s throat. Shyra, thank the gods for Shyra, reacted with much more clarity; she reached for the top cover of the bed and threw it over Visenya’s shoulders, then began stripping each layer until she reached the strained bed sheet. The feather-stuffed mattress was too bearing the red sigil of her failure.
A failure to conceive.
The one most important task the completion of which everyone waited with no small deal of impatience.
And she’d failed.
Visenya remained where she stood and watched Shyra pile the sheets onto the floor before turning to face her. The girl’s eyes were as wide as her own and filled with as much worry. Without saying a word, she opened her arms to Visenya and the princess met her halfway. She dropped her face into the crook of Shyra’s shoulder and cried.
‘’Tis alright,’ the young girl cooed, ‘if the laundresses are too busy, I will wash these myself. It is not so bad of a stain, it will come out!’
Seven bless her, she thought Visenya was upset about the mess. And not for the clear fact that after more than a month of being married, after many instances of coupling that should have produced results, there was nothing to show for it. Nothing but that horrible bloody stain on her bedsheets and blood between her legs.
‘I thought– I thought by now– I cannot–’
Shyra shushed her and Visenya’s ragged breaths returned to a more normal rhythm. ‘W-Would you like me to call for Lyonel?.’
‘No!’
Visenya sharply pulled away. The last person she wanted to see her painted in her failures was her husband, the last person she wanted to disappoint. Lyonel had talked at length about the children they would have, what he would do for them, what he would teach them. The flame in his eyes had lit up for a whole different reason when talking of that future; he was excited and he deserved to be. Oh, what a wonderful father he would make, how natural and how caring.
His duty to his people came with the duty to secure his line, the responsibility of which fell on Visenya’s shoulders.
And she had failed.
Everybody knew of the virility of Baratheon men, everybody talked of how strong their seed was and how rare it was for their children to be born with features different to those of their father or even ailments.
It was entirely her fault.
‘It must be normal. You must need time, ‘tis nothing uncommon… I’ve heard.’
Visenya let out a watery chuckle, devoid of all humour. She was grateful for how much the sweet girl wanted to reassure her, comfort her even if she was not deserving of such courtesy.
‘I am sorry for adding to your workload.’
‘I don’t. Let’s get you washed and dressed for the day then I’ll go to take care of the bedding.’
By the time she reached the laundry hall with the sheets, half the castle would know. The staff would surely find out by seeing her wash blood off of the fabric and the rumour would trickle like water through cracked stone. All would know about it and Visenya was afraid of Lyonel to find out from someone else. Even if at present she was unable to bring herself to tell him the news.
Shyra, perceptive girl that she was, caught on and assured her that she would try and be as discreet as possible.
If Lyonel stayed away from any household members who might slip the information to him then she might be able to keep it a secret… at least until the end of the day. Then she would likely have to return to her own chambers for the duration of her courses. She doubted that he would find her much appealing in her current state and with the mess that she would make of his bed.
Visenya walked over to the basin waiting on her dresser and splashed her face first, clearing the salty remnants of tears. Then grabbed a towel and dipped it in the water, cleaning her thighs slowly while Shyra looked for spare linens to wrap around her after she was done. The water turned from clear to pink in seconds, mocking the princess with its vibrant colour. Many times she had done so and many times she had rejoiced at the arrival of her moon blood.
For the first time in her life she wished it’d be different.
With the linens pinned and secured around her hips by way of a thin belt, Shyra finished dressing her in a soft cotton frock and arranged her hair into a thick coil at the back of her head. She promised again and again that she would be discreet, and left her to the quiet of the bedchamber.
Lyonel’s bedchamber.
The other room was as she had left it on the first night – tidy but devoid of anything that belonged to her save the empty trunks. The hearth stood cold and silent at one end, having not been fed for weeks. The bed was empty, she would have to ask Shyra to prepare it for her.
Visenya’s satchel sat on top of a crate with her painting supplies – her last solace. She’d given up the sword and left it with the smith, she had not ridden a horse once in the time she’d gotten to Storm’s End, and she doubted there was any point of it now but to leave the castle for a day to clear her mind. One possibility was to hide her hair under a wrap, ride into the village, find the tavern, and drink herself silly. Hardly anybody would pay her any mind if she stripped her attire of anything that would suggest she was highborn, let alone the Lady of Storm’s End.
Nobody would miss her, nobody would notice her gone.
Lyonel would, a pitiful voice chimed in. Lyonel would notice if he left his council session early and looked for her. And she could not embarrass him further by running away to drink and behave recklessly.
As she had done too many times in her past.
She crossed the chamber and stood before the crate. The sketching journal was still safely tucked inside the satchel, the long silver stylus tied with a thin strap to it lest it’d be lost. Visenya gripped the leather-bound book and pressed it into her chest. Her breast ached horribly and her belly churned with more than the spasms brought upon by her courses.
She was hungry but the mere thought of putting anything in her mouth made it run dry as though she had chewed sand. She could at least run down and ask Cook for some tea to settle her stomach.
And so she did.
With the journal to her chest as a shield, Visenya made her way down the steps of the tower. The corridors were deserted, she encountered the occasional scullery maid or guard who made their usual rounds and greeted her with a bow of respect.
What respect Visenya was owed in this instance was not clear to her when apart from her studying how to run this castle, she had done it little service.
The words failure, failure, failure kept on chanting in her mind like a hymn on a holy day.
She padded carefully down the stairs, preoccupied with her own self-flagellating thoughts and the ache in her body that she had not initially heard the pair talking just beyond the corner she was about to turn. Until she heard her own name spoken.
‘What?’ A man’s voice came from around the corner, sounding both astonished and terribly amused.
‘I saw the Thing bring a bundle into the laundry a few minutes ago,’ said a woman.
Visenya recognised the voice as belonging to one particular maid of whom she’d learned enough to like her not. A young and somewhat pretty-looking lass who’d been one of the chief instigators to most of Shyra’s torment over the years. Uncontented with her own lot in life, she used to find particular sick enjoyment out of belittling the poor girl.
Until Visenya had put a stop to it. And she felt sick knowing that more than likely the Thing the maid was referring to was Shyra herself.
She should have left her hiding place immediately; put an end to their conversation, scold them for their cruelty, mayhaps even threaten summary dismissal… but she stayed and listened.
‘Seems like that princess has bled. I came to find you as soon as I could.’
The man chuckled. ‘May’aps she’s barren. Or she needs some kind of dark magic to make ‘erself come to be wiff child. Would not put it past the Targaryen bitch.’
Now was the woman’s turn to snicker darkly. ‘Must’ve ensnared M’lord with a spell. Though he was never known to keep his cock in his trousers.’
The pair laughed louder this time. Visenya felt anger rise in her chest; they could laugh at her fate all they liked but she drew a hard line at comments made about her husband.
‘I mean have you seen her?’ The woman made a gagging sound of disgust. ‘Doesn’t even look like rest. Her hair, ugh… and she’s so coarse and brown… and her eyes look more blue than purple… very plain.’
‘It’s all that Dornish blood, Tilde. Fucking savages they are. It’s a blessin’ ‘er uncle killed the Prince so we wouldn’t ‘ave no Dornish-looking cunt on the throne tellin’ us to love bastards and whatnot.’
The woman cackled even louder and the tinny noise rang through the empty stairway. Acid burned in Visenya’s throat. If there had been a line drawn somewhere, they had crossed it and ran miles past it. She pushed off of the wall and rushed forward to confront them.
The pair had the decency to look at least a little afraid they had been caught.
The young man began with a sputtering apology. ‘M’lady, we didn’t–’
Didn’t what? They had not seen her, had not heard her? As if that would make all that she had witnessed appear less revolting, less hurtful.
‘I believe it is beyond time for the two of you to look for another place of employment. I apologise I did not see sooner just how unhappy you’ve become with your positions.’
‘M’lady, we were only–’ The woman tried to protest, her icy blue eyes welling dramatically with tears.
‘No. Do not waste your breath,’ she spoke firmly despite her heart hammering in her chest and her own eyes stinging with angry tears. ‘I will inform the steward of it shortly. In the meantime, I suggest you pack your belongings quickly and leave without making a fuss. No need to bother the rest of the staff with the reasons for your departure.’
The two – now former – servants stared at her with dumbstruck looks on their mean faces before the princess turned on her heel and climbed back up the tower steps. She left them behind with the fruits of their own malice whilst she herself felt oddly satisfied to be rid of them for good.
Until the satisfaction morphed back into resentment, directed at none other than herself. Did she feel bad for turning those two bullies out, leaving them without a source of income in a world where that was their only chance at survival? Visenya had half the mind to double back and take back what she had said, but she was hurt and angry. Angry that they had insulted Lyonel, insulted her father, and disheartened by the awful things they had said about her.
Barren.
That word replaced failure in its insistent and repetitive roar. Her head was as the dome of a sept, giving space for that word to bounce off the walls of her skull and echo. Visenya let the tears that had built up in her eyes flow down her face. What if she was? She wouldn’t be the first barren wife of a lord, not even the first with such problems in her own family. Most of the realm considered Lady Aelinor unable to bear a child for uncle Aerys even if it was well-known that he found books more enticing than laying with his own wife. Visenya had seen what such talk had done to her aunt, seen how it drove her to daily trips to the Great Sept to pray for a child that would never come lest Aerys did something about it.
The words spoken about her brother’s wife were even worse. Several failed conceptions, miscarriages, and two stillbirths, though Kiera had taken it on the chin. Having more honour in the nailbed of her smallest finger than the whole of King’s Landing combined, she tried not to give the gossipers the pleasure of knowing their sharp tongues had dealt a blow to her spirit.
But the agony was plain to see in her eyes.
For Visenya it wasn’t a matter of not being seen to enough by her husband, nor failing to keep a pregnancy to its full term. Lyonel had done plenty, more than it would have been expected of him, and cared for her pleasure to boot. It was all her, the lack was with her.
As if her body simply rejected the idea of doing its damned job.
And what was worse was the memory of her brother’s eyes – tired and despondent – mourning the loss of lives that would never come to be. Visenya would not bear it if she saw that same expression on Lyonel’s face.
The tears came down harder, her breathing growing more panicked.
What if this was her final punishment from the gods? The end to a series of cruel tricks they played on her. Taking her father from her, setting her on a path she had never expected, then giving her a caring husband who made her happy, only to make her unable to give him a child and do her duty to him. A duty that was the only reason his uncle had not found a reason to turn her out of the castle.
Oh, Orys would be delighted to know. That would give him what he needed to demand Lyonel annul his marriage. She would be returned like damaged goods to her family, likely to never see him again or anyone she had grown close to in the last few weeks for that matter.
Was this a punishment for what she’d done? For the first time since coming to that castle, Storm’s End lost its hospitality and warmth. She felt a stranger in her home once more.
Her feet carried her forward until she stood in front of the door to the library. If the maester was with the rest at the council meeting, the place would be empty. She could curl up in a corner, calm herself down enough to sit with her thoughts and let time pass around her. Mayhaps the bookshelves mightvswallow her up in her sadness and make her disappear. If not physically then in some other manner at least.
Visenya pushed the heavy door open and slipped inside only to find the library was anything but empty.
Borys was walking in her direction between towers of parchment and leather with a large tome tucked under his arm. He stopped in his tracks as soon as he saw her or as soon as he’d seen the state of her. Visenya was certain she looked a right mess with tears still falling over the slopes of her cheeks and gathering along her jaw.
‘Princess… is everything alright?’
Visenya forced a smile onto her face although she knew it was not convincing the solemn man in front of her. Borys drew closer, one of his hands reached for her and then retreated. Better not touch your cousin’s barren wife, she said to him in her head, I wouldn’t want the condition to catch and for you too to be cursed.
‘Nothing. I was feeling unwell.’
‘Should I call for the maester? He is still in the Round Hall with the council but he could make the trip upstairs if it is urgent.’
‘No, no,’ the princess assured him, ‘do not bother the man.’
‘Should I call for Lyonel then?’
‘I don’t want to worry him. I was merely looking for a quiet place to… to think. I will not keep you.’
Borys shook his head once and lifted the tome in his hand – it was twice the size of most books she’d read. ‘I came to fetch this. I will leave.’
Visenya nodded and angled her face down to hide yet another onslaught of tears. Perfect, she would not only be an embarrassment for the entire castle – nay, the entirety of the Stormlands – but she would also embarrass herself further by blubbing in front of poor Borys. He did not need to suffer because she was inept at putting a stopper on her emotions.
‘Come with me,’ he implored softly and despite her better judgement she obliged him. Mayhaps he could escort her to the kitchens and bid Cook take care of the silly, crying woman who had barged in on him. Visenya stood a foot behind him as they descended the stairs, not wanting to further disturb him. She held her journal to her chest and stroked a thumb along the side of her arm in a way to comfort herself when nobody else could.
She wanted Lyonel, she wanted his arms around her so badly she was willing to forgo decorum, barge into the Round Hall, and demand he abandon the other men, and hold her. More tears spilled forth and Visenya squeezed her lips close as to stifle any sob that might have ran out into the quiet halls of the Drum Keep.
Borys made a right turn at the front door and brought them into the courtyard which was taking the longer route to the kitchens. Nevermind, she could do with a bit of fresh air to brighten her up. Even if her face had likely puffed up by now and Cook would notice she was upset from a mile away. It would be good to break the news to her first that she had dismissed two members of the staff without notice.
Seven bloody fucks!
The path Borys was taking was unfamiliar to Visenya. After he made for the stables which were in an entirely different direction to the kitchens, he walked right past them – Tempest was probably sleeping somewhere inside, bless him – and finally continued towards the tall stone wall that sat at the edge of the courtyard. A small archway led them into a place that Visenya had only been told of but had not visited before that day. The godswood. It wasn’t a part of the tour as it hadn’t been necessary and it didn’t have anything to do with her duties around the place so Lady Viola had skipped it altogether. The princess had planned to explore it in the near future, to see if it’s anything like the godswood in the Red Keep. That was the only calming place in the whole of King’s Landing. The only place where the noise of the city fell away, the stench dissipated, and nature took over all senses. As a child, the one-acre wood had been her most favourite hiding place, only Grandmama knew the spots where she would tuck herself into to escape anything from dull lessons to dull feasts.
Borys moved out of her way and extended his arm to welcome her into the green haven. ‘After you,’ he spoke with a soft and careful tone. Visenya worried she might have frightened him into treating her like a wounded animal that could bite him at any moment. She smiled tentatively and ventured forward.
The godswood was much bigger than she’d imagined and curving around the side of the tower like a massive green belt. There was a mix of firs and yews scattered throughout a larger portion of deciduous trees, offering plenty of good shade. It was a wonder she had not seen the wood sooner. It was possible she could see it from above if she found the right window.
The grass was neatly trimmed, leaving behind only the flowers and low hedges that grew along the pebbled pathway. Borys continued walking forward and Visenya matched her pace to his, unsure of where exactly he was taking her. Until the trees pulled away slowly to reveal another, more striking one. Red leaves and pale bark – a weirwood.
The tears abated and all but ceased to fall down her face when she stood before it.
‘I come here sometimes,’ Borys admitted, ‘to pray.’
‘I didn’t know you favoured the Old Gods.’
‘It is not so much about the gods, rather… a place to get away from others and meditate on matters important to me.’
‘I shouldn’t then–’ Visenya considered going back. She shouldn’t intrude on the man’s sanctuary, it was not right. Borys held out his hand and this time he grabbed her upper arm. Not roughly, but with enough urgency to stop her retreating. ‘Borys, I will be content with sitting in the library. I do not wish to intrude on your peace.’
‘This is a much nicer place if you intend to enjoy the sound of nothing in particular. And… think.’
The wood was not entirely silent; Visenya could hear the distant crashing of the waves against the rocks below and birds were chirping softly overhead, hiding amongst the leaves of the weirwood.
‘I am willing to relinquish it to you. I will not bother you with questions about what upset you but know that whatever it is, it will be alright.’
‘Will it?’
She was not so sure. The day had begun so easily and then everything felt as though it was collapsing all around her. If only she could make his father put up with her – not even like her, simply tolerate her – then mayhaps she would breathe a little easier.
‘Is it anything Lyonel did?’
‘No, of course not! He is perfect, he…’ He was everything really. ‘It is mine own silly feelings that are causing me distress.’
The princess and her husband’s cousin remained so for a little longer than a moment – with her holding her journal to her chest, sneakily wiping the remnants of water from her face, and him carefully taking her in as if to be certain she wouldn’t completely break. And when his observation proved sufficient, Borys bowed his head as he always did and left her to the company of the trees.
Visenya turned around to face the weirwood again, mesmerised by its sullen expression. There were stories she’d read and ones she’d heard about the Children of the forest who had carved those faces in the times when giants roamed Westeros and magic was abundant in the world.
A simpler time than the one they lived in.
She noticed a protruding root at the base of the trunk, large enough for her to sit on comfortably. A flock of sparrows stirred within the crown of the weirwood, flew off for a second, and made a circle overhead. Visenya followed their flight before they settled back inside the thick leaf cover. Their song was not as loud or as conventionally pretty as that of finer birds, but they made their presence known with tiny chirps and flutters of their wings.
It would be nice to be a bird. Not concerning herself with being perfect, not concerning herself with duty. Simply existing as a small creature that could fly away at any moment.
Her belly ached again, drawing her back into her sad reality. If it had been once she could have dismissed it as a fluke, pinned it to her rotten luck and moved on with the hopes that come next moon she would be blessed. But it was the second time she had not been able to conceive. It was surely a sign that she lacked the capabilities.
How would she tell Lyonel that his hopes of growing a family with her might never come to be? It would crush him. He would be right to cast her aside if she could not bear him a child. An heir at least. She could tell him to look for it with another woman, another lucky lady who had not seen a cock in her life. Some chaste girl who could give him what she never could.
The thought of another taking her place was another pain altogether. It was torture.
It was not only the feeling of belonging and comfort that Storm’s End and its inhabitants had given her.
She liked being married to Lyonel.
She cared for him.
More than she had believed she could care for another.
In order to pull herself back from the abyss that was her own treacherous mind, Visenya centred herself in the small book in her hands. She untied the strings that held it close and pulled the stylus free. Flipping through the book felt like gazing at someone else’s life. Images of landscapes and people that had fascinated her once now felt hollow.
A series of lifeless etchings on paper.
Until she reached the sketches of Lyonel’s hands. Rough and calloused that they were yet capable of both strength and softness. She wanted those same hands around her now, comforting her.
She wanted her family too. She wanted her father there with her, she wanted her brothers.
Several letters had come in the past weeks. Most of them from Lady Rosamund who wanted to bridge the distance between herself and the princess (her new dear sister, as she had written in the very first one) by any means necessary, and a couple from Lady Ellyn Hightower who welcomed her unreservedly to their family, bidding her care for her “sweet oaf of a brother”. Rod had sent letters informing her of Nira’s condition and how her belly had begun to grow, the state of the castle without her and without Baelor, the ascension of her brother to the role of Hand.
Valarr had sent nothing.
Visenya did not know how to interpret his silence anymore. He could very well be busy with the fragile state the realm had been left in after the death of their father. She used to feel she could read her brother quite well in the past despite the gaping hole that had formed between them some years ago after he had found her drunk, deflowered, and stumbling her way back into the castle in the wee hours of the morning. He had been angry for days after their altercation in her chambers, had not spoken to her for nearly a whole month but to ask her to pass the meat at supper or to inform her their father was waiting for her somewhere around the Red Keep.
Now she did not know how to read him.
And she decidedly could not bear his silence any longer.
Therefore she flipped to the final pages of the journal and looked at the empty space there. She tore out a single one, closed the book, and used it as a base to begin writing. The stylus scratched the bone-washed surface of the parchment with ease as words began to pour from her mind and onto it.
Dear brother, it began with just enough affection as to not be without. He was indeed dear to her even if he found her lack of propriety in the past astounding.
I have not heard a word from you in a terribly long time and need to break the silence. I am well and have settled in Storm’s End. I have taken to learning how to run the keep from Lyonel’s mother. I believe she is happy with me and how well I have assumed my role. I am writing to you because–
She could not tell him that her courses had come, of course. She could not scandalise him any further, but she needed to say it somehow. He was always so terribly clever, always mindful, and generous with his kindness. Even if he did not care much for her as a person, he could see that his sister was in need of his reassurance.
Right?
I am writing to you because I am feeling doubtful of my abilities to be a proper wife. It has been a little over a month since I married Lord Lyonel and I am yet to be blessed with a babe. I know you will consider it a punishment from the gods for my misdeeds in the past, and believe me I will share your sentiment, but I am afraid.
Afraid she would lose Lyonel forever.
What if this is truly my punishment? I am at a loss and I do not know how to continue. You always knew what to do and what to say. I hoped you might have a morsel of wisdom for your foolish sister. I understand if it is not within your merciful nature to forgive me at this point and I will accept my fate. But I need my brother in this trying time, more than ever before. I miss you terribly. I miss Matarys too. I hope you can tell him that, and that Storm’s End is everything he’s read in his book and more.
I hope you are all in the best of health. Relay my greetings to dear Kiera as well. I hope she has found a new walking partner for her daily strolls in the godswood.
With love and devotion,
Your sister
Visenya finished the letter, read it over and over until she was sure of her own words. She folded the page on itself four times and thrust in the pocket of her skirt, patting the lump down with the promise she’ll run up to the rookery before turning in for the night. If the maester sent it off tonight it might reach King’s Landing by the morrow on the second day. It only remained for Valarr to read it and decide if he would respond to his sister’s plea for reconnection.
A stream of wind blew through the tops of the trees, rustling them awake. Branches danced slowly with the soft murmur of leaves brushing against one another and the birds once again took up their chirping. They did not leave the safety of the tree this time. Visenya did not blame them; it was probably quite nice up there, amongst the bright red leaves.
She took a deep breath, then another, and another. The day had grown warm, but a seaward breeze carried a comforting scent of salt and algae. The waves kept on crashing into solid rock down below, the sound of thunder rumbled in the distance. Visenya looked up at the sky when the noise reached her. Even if the rain caught her there, the cover the weirwood provided was large and thick enough to keep her safe and dry. And she did not feel ready to return inside, even less so knowing that there was a likelihood those two servants she’d dismissed had helpfully spread the news about her state. Her only remaining hope was that the gossip wouldn’t reach anyone in the Baratheon family before she felt ready for them to know.
And she wanted Lyonel to learn it first from her.
Her fingers played with one frayed corner of the sketching journal. She had been somewhat relieved there was still one pastime that could bring her pleasure without rustling anyone’s (Orys’s) feathers and had looked forward to hiding away to draw… now she looked at the book without a mote of excitement or relief.
I can still do something, she considered for a moment, just to pass the time.
A clean empty page, the stylus secured between her fingers, and Visenya began to etch short lines into the paper. There was not a goal she was chasing, there wasn’t even a particular subject she was thinking of. She drew a tree, she drew the smooth stone block pattern of the tower wall above the foliage, she drew it climbing up towards a small arched window. Her eyes flitted between things she could see around her and the page which was swiftly filling with various small sketches. She drew another tree, focused on the detail of its creased bark and the odd shape in which it grew. She drew a particularly brave blue tit which landed on a rock near her foot and gave her a curious look.
Why would you be crying over silly human things, it seemed to ask with a tilt of its tiny bulbous head, look how easy I have it. The bird watched her some more, allowing Visenya to draw it as faithfully as she could for the short amount of time it posed for its miniature, and flew off to rejoin its mates in a flutter of blue and yellow.
The first signs of rain announced themselves with the fall of a few heavy raindrops and another rumble from the sky above. The wind picked up a little stronger at the very tops of the trees in the godswood but where Visenya sat she was quite snug. Sheltered by the massive white trunk of the weirwood and its red crown, she kept on sketching until her hand – not having done this particular exercise in some time – began to cramp along with her stomach. It rumbled threateningly once like the sky above.
She really should have eaten something.
A flash of something bright drew her attention to the pebbled path where through the hastening rain came none other than her husband. The one person she had been dreading and needing desperately to talk to. His ochre cloak was hoisted up in the air, covering his head while he closed the distance to the heart tree.
Visenya stuffed the stylus between the pages and closed the journal, using the trunk as a crutch to facilitate her standing up.
‘Lyonel, I–’
But he did not let her finish. The moment the tree covered him from the rain, he threw the cloak off and placed it around Visenya’s own shoulders. ‘I was worried about you, you mad woman,’ he scolded, worry marring his features. ‘Shyra came to me when she couldn’t find you. Then the rain started and Borys said he showed you into the godswood. You’re lucky you had the tree to keep you from getting drenched to your bones.’
The rain picked up even harder. It was as though the sky had split apart and the gods poured oceans-worth of water over their heads. There was no chance of either of the two getting back inside without being completely soaked to the bone and with a plethora of new maladies for the maester to fuss over.
And there Visenya went again… mucking something up. She should’ve just thanked Borys for his concern and stayed holed up in the library.
Lyonel had her sit back down against the root of the heart tree while he ensured she was nicely wrapped in the cloak, then put one arm around her shoulders and brought her into his embrace. He was so solid and warm – gods, she had not noticed how cold the wind and rain had gotten until he had her in his arms. Her teeth began to chatter and a shiver ran down the full length of her spine to her arms.
‘There we go. You look quite peaky, have you eaten anything?’
‘N-no, had no appetite.’
Lyonel made a face. ‘Well, you must eat dinner at least… as soon as this rain lets up we can go back inside.’
She should tell him now, just get it over with while he was still on a tirade so he could use the remaining energy to be angry if he needed to. Yet when she opened her mouth, the words died on her tongue. She desperately wanted him to be happy, to have a good enough reason to be with her, and she could very well lose him now.
‘What is wrong?’ The question came after a painfully quiet moment that Visenya had spent opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water. Lyonel rubbed his hand over her arm and back more vigorously, but stopped when he looked into her eyes. Eyes that were quickly filling with tears once more.
Gods, she was so pathetic…
‘I’m sorry!’
Lyonel furrowed his brows and his free hand came up to cup her cheek. ‘Visenya, what is wrong? What has happened?’
‘My courses came.’ She began to sob even harder, and after pulling her knees closer to her chest, she buried her face to hide away. She did not want to see the light dim in his eyes, did not want to take away his hopes.
‘Are you in pain then? Ellyn was always in an insufferable amount of it when her moon blood came in. And I was usually the one to take the brunt of her anger.’
‘W-what are you ev-even on about?’
‘I am afraid I know very little about it, but having grown up with three sisters and one female cousin under the same roof, I am aware enough. Is it your belly troubling you or your head?’
Visenya could not for the life of her figure out when the other shoe might drop. Out of all thirty-something words he had uttered after her declaration, not one was tinted with upset, nor reproach.
‘You’re not angry?’ The question seemed even more puzzling to her husband who was beginning to grow more and more visibly concerned. He probably thought she’d gone mad.
The corners of his mouth pulled in a tentative smile. ‘Whyever would I be angry, beauty?’
‘Because– oh, Lyonel!’ The tears doubled and tripled in their strength, streaming down in uninterrupted rivulets across her face. Instead of letting her hide back away inside the folds of her skirts and his cloak, Lyonel pulled her to his chest and had her curl into his side. Visenya felt even sillier when she could not catch her breath for all the hiccuping sobs that wrecked her body, and even more so when she was trying to explain herself and every syllable would get eaten by yet another sob.
‘Take a deep breath for me, Nye. That’s it… slowly, slowly… Now tell me what made you think I’d be angry?’
Visenya wiped her wet (and very cold) nose with the back of her sleeve and angled her face away from him to compose herself as much as she could. ‘I thought by now, with how much we… I thought I would be with child by now.’
‘There is no rush.’
‘But it is expected of me,’ Visenya argued, now getting angry herself that he was being so obtuse. ‘I have been working so hard and there was but one thing left to do.’
‘I remember you saying you never wanted to be forced into pushing out an heir after heir.’
She whipped her head back around and asked through a trembling tone, ‘And what if I can’t? At all?’
Lyonel had no answer ready at first, caught off guard once more. The crease between his brows grew even deeper. He was not the type of man who enjoyed being uncertain of where a discussion was leading to.
‘I think,’ she paused. ‘I fear it might be a punishment for what I’ve done. For my indiscretions… Seven fucking hells, half of my family would rejoice for being so right about me.’
‘It is not nearly as bad as others have done.’
Lady Shiera’s voice suddenly chimed inside her head. If you do not want him to have you, then you have to dispose of the one thing he truly craves. And Visenya had done as instructed, an obedient little fool that was too scared to even stop and think what the consequences were. Rod had been right, she shouldn’t have trusted that woman.
‘I must tell you something,’ the princess told him softly, choosing then to avoid his gaze once more. This time, however, it was not from fear of seeing disappointment in Lyonel’s eyes, but out of shame for her own foolishness. ‘And I must ask you to not get upset.’
The Laughing Storm, her husband, ever a man of noise and jubilation, remained quiet and urged her to continue in her own time. His silent response was enough for Visenya to resume.
‘I know I’ve told you of my many liaisons with… a number of people, including my friend Rod and his wife. I have never regretted those relationships, nor what they gave me in terms of introduction to all the pleasures that could be had. But it all started– it started wrong. When I first flowered.’
‘I was three and ten, thought myself a great romantic already, and had caught the eye of enough suitors to give my mother peace. She worried constantly that I would be a difficult girl to match given my proclivity for disobedience.’
‘Your most interesting trait,’ Lyonel said which made Visenya smile mournfully. In truth, he was one of a very short list of people to think so. To most everyone else it was not so endearing.
‘But the one that stood out – and not for the right reasons – was my cousin… Aerion.’
The mere mention of the name made Lyonel go as rigid as a rock beside her. To him it likely brought memories of bruised cheek, cut lip, an enemy across a muddy field. To Visenya it brought much more than that and none of it pleasant.
‘I was the only girl in the family at that time. His sisters… they came a few years later. But by that time, that madness in him had already found root. He became cruel, enjoyed tormenting the maids, ladies of the court. I was of a particular interest to him since I shared the blood of the Dragon. It made me special in his eyes…’
Her stomach burned with a deep seated pain and rage. Aerion had no right to think himself worthy of her, to think he had a stake on her. But once he had set his sights on a mark, he could hardly be dissuaded. That was very much proven with the zeal with which he hunted poor Ser Duncan. The bloodthirsty need for revenge over a petty squabble and an imagined slight was amplified in his own mind. It made it righteous and him – divinely justified in his aggression.
‘One night… he snuck into my room. Nothing happened,’ Visenya reassured her husband immediately upon feeling his chest expand with a sharp inhale, ‘I scratched up his face worse than the castle cats would’ve and told him to never try that again. But he… threatened that he would simply bring his friends with him the following night. Whether he had intended for them to hold me down or do something else, I gladly never found out.’
Visenya took a moment to gather herself and draw a long, shaky breath of humid air. The rain at this point was like a sheet of water coming down, the weirwood protected them still.
‘I did not know where to go… When I told Rod–’ she smiled when remembering his fervent determination, ‘--he offered to stay with me during the night, fight Aerion and his thugs if he had to. I could not let him get hurt so I went to the only person who might give me an out.’
Visenya had looked at her options then and had found them wanting. Her uncle would have sadly done nothing; his way of handling the violent outbursts of his second-born was to simply ignore their existence then thunder and rage at the consequences. Aunt Dyanna was preoccupied with Aemon and Daeron who at that point had begun complaining of intensifying and terrifying dreams, someone had to mind that he did not grab a bottle at first light and finish it before his servants even made it to his chambers to get him ready for the day. Visenya’s own father would have surely stepped in, he would have moved mountains and drained the sea for his sweet girl, but for the young princess it was a source of shame and she did not want to see it reflected in Baelor’s eyes.
She continued, ‘Lady Shiera was always known as a dangerous kind of beauty. Incredibly smart and perceptive… I went to her, I thought she would have something that would help me – a spell, a poison.’ Anything that would have spared her from Aerion’s vile attention. ‘She told me I needed nothing of the sort. There was one particular thing he wanted and that was control. My purity was something for him to hunt and capture. So she said if I– if rid myself of it, I would be free.’
‘If a man wants to fuck a whore, he can easily find one in the gutters of King’s Landing or in some dusty inn on the Kingsroad,’ Lady Shiera had told her through a wide toothy grin that had made Visenya sick to her stomach. ‘But a princess who’s been had… that is simply an unappealing target. No prince, nor lord will want you after that. Just come to me on the morrow when you need your special tea, little princess.’
Mayhaps the one sentence letter had truly been one of surprise. Who would have thought indeed that Visenya would find a man to want her, be tied to her and likely suffer by association for what she’d done.
‘Rod helped me get out of the castle that night. We drank and then we found a brothel. One of the men working there agreed to… he took my virtue and my coin. An all too simple transaction really.’
Visenya finally looked at Lyonel, still half-expecting to find him looking back in anger, disapproval, mayhaps even remorse for agreeing to marry her. His whole line was at stake, the stability of his family and lands, and if Visenya could not provide…
Lyonel reached for her hand, prying it away from the journal that she’d held onto like a lifeline, and threaded his fingers through hers. It was not a loquacious decree of his support but more than that. Acceptance? He leaned his head forward and let his brow rest against Visenya’s. She felt his warm, steady breaths on the tip of her nose. The anxious beating in her chest eased first into a trot, then into a much calmer rhythm.
‘In the end it worked. Aerion was embarrassed, I hardly saw him for weeks after that. He would, of course, find ways of reminding me that I was tainted,’ she scoffed. ‘I did not touch another man for two summers after that.’
It was like taking a toy from a petulant child; when she had denied him what he believed was owed to him, he lashed out and when his interest floated away, he had found other victims to torment.
Egg had sadly been one.
‘I should have–’ Before he could continue, Lyonel stopped himself, clamping his lips shut. But the meaning of what he had intended to say was more than clear to Visenya.
I should have killed him when I had the chance.
Many things should’ve and could’ve been done, many things could’ve been much different – if Aerion had been kinder, if their family hadn’t turned a blind eye to the growing issue of his descent into madness, if Visenya had dared to tell her father about his attempted assault. A small and likely self-destructive part of her mind whispered that it might have been easier to just let Aerion have his way with her and lose interest naturally after he had claimed what he had wanted. Egg might’ve been spared the horror of waking up with a knife to his bits and many nights spent running into Visenya’s bedchamber to beg her allow him to hide with her.
She felt responsible for him, felt it was her duty to keep him safe from his older brother.
‘After that whole ordeal, it was… purely for my personal enjoyment,’ she admitted. ‘I did not wish to be left with a bad taste in my mouth from that very first encounter. Yes, the man from the brothel was helpful–’ He had been reluctant at first to touch what he could clearly see was some highborn chit with too much ale in her belly and a rash idea on her mind. But her pleading and the purse full of gold she'd offered for his help and silence was enough to convince him. ‘I needed to feel like I still had control over my fate.’
The deluge slowed briefly but did not stop. The sound of water hitting leaves and the occasional bird fluttering their wings to shed any droplets that might’ve wet their feathers were their only companions in the godswood. Borys had been right about that place being right for one’s mind; Visenya felt somewhat calmer, especially after lifting such a heavy burden from her chest.
Lyonel spoke up and his heavy voice added to the harmony of nature. ‘I still do not see, among all the things you’ve just told me, what would make you believe you are unable to have children or why I would be angry?’
‘I suppose… it is a fear of how many moon teas I’ve taken through the years. Or a fear that people might be right and gods do punish women like me.’
‘If that truly were the case, then there would have been no bastards in the world. And no whore would suffer the consequences of a night pillowing with some lord,’ he reasoned. Visenya was glad to hear the soft smile in his voice. ‘And you surely know that these rigid rules are in place to keep you from exploring your pleasure on your own terms.’
‘I know!’
Lyonel paused again and the princess waited patiently for him to speak. She looked up through her eyelashes to find him observing her, lost deep in thought. ‘You have not had the easiest time of it, let us be honest. And one or two courses in the early days of marriage cannot be a definitive confirmation of the inability to have children. Nevertheless–’ he added before Visenya could argue, '– I have plenty of strong, able cousins whom I can command at any time to marry and multiply. In Axel’s case it might even give him that final push he needs to grow up.’
A wet chuckle spilled from Visenya’s mouth. ‘I doubt there is a woman with enough mental fortitude to keep up with him.’
‘Who knows?’ He shrugged. ‘I could abandon the age long tradition of Stormlanders struggling against the Dornish, and have him wed to some southern beauty with a fiery temperament. Someone a little like you to keep him in line.’
The chuckle from seconds ago turned into a small laugh. Lyonel smiled at her in return.
‘Visenya, I do not doubt you.’ His hands reached for her face once more, cupping her cheeks and making her drink every letter and every word he uttered. ‘And for all that I am bound to do by duty to my House and my people, I care little how long it would take or even if we are blessed with a child one day. I lay with you not out of necessity but because you are the most fascinating woman I have ever met.’
‘I dismissed two of the staff today,’ she blurted.
‘You must have had good reasons to.’
Her breathing calm and her thoughts no longer in shambles, Visenya let out a sigh of relief. Lyonel pointed at the book in her hands.
‘The rain is easing up. Care to show me what you have in there? Once it stops long enough for us to return inside, I will have you neck-deep in a hot bath and order supper be sent to our chamber.’
‘Alright.’ Visenya smiled wider and opened her journal.
‘Ah! The sketches everyone spoke of– they are quite good… they’re very good… are those my hands?’
He had flipped through the pages faster than she could have explained everything that her hand had captured, and discovered the studies in question. He turned and tilted his head, observing how she had translated reality onto paper, lifting his hand up to compare details.
‘I drew them at Ashford,’ she explained. ‘I suppose I found you fascinating as well.’
The gentle smile he had on his lips as he gazed at her sketches transformed into his signature smirk. ‘Of course, you would with hands as beautiful as mine. How do you draw these? This is no ink I recognise.’
‘It is a special tool.’ Visenya fished out her stylus from between the last pages and presented it to him. ‘It is made of silver. The parchment is treated with a mixture made out of crushed bone. It requires immense precision because every line you make cannot be altered, and when you scratch the page with it–’ she demonstrated in one corner, ‘–it stays. Over time the silver etchings turn from grey to a soft brown, see here?’
Visenya traced a finger along each line whilst Lyonel listened intently as she guided him through the proper technique and how she’d been taught. He asked question after question, prompting her to continue with her impromptu lesson.
Even after the rain had slowed further, they did not move.
Lyonel made sure to pull her as far away from her own despair as he could. The warmth coming from his body like undulating waves softened the shell that had calcified over Visenya during the day and his smile which she so adored made her feel at ease.
And just then, when Lyonel had decided they better head back inside, when he’d hoisted her onto her feet and wrapped an arm to maintain the barrier of heat that protected her, when he looked at her no differently than how he had yesterday, did Visenya realise something with startling clarity.
She was in love with him.
Next chapter
A/N: DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUN!!! Visenya's finally catching onto the fact that liking your husband, wanting to be with him 25/8, touch him, kiss him, want to see him happy, defend his honour, etc. might actually mean that you love him🤯 Likes, reblogs, and comments always appreciated, my darlings!
The Dragon and The Stag (Lyonel Baratheon x Targaryen!OC)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN // Previous chapter // Masterlist // Next chapter
Wordcount: 10.6K
Summary: Visenya Targaryen was far enough down the succession order that she considered her place in court to be near unimportant. Her father had promised to let her decide on her own time when to be married and instead she decided to enjoy life. Wine, art, music, sex. Everything that a princess of six and twenty should have never been doing. And then the decision was made for her: pick a lord, be betrothed, get married, and cease her indiscretions. But the headstrong princess would not be so easily reined in.
Warnings: MDNI +18; crude language; mild violence (Nye is taking up her sword again); mild depressive thoughts from our beloved girl; Orys is his own trigger warning
A/N: Here's another update (a week late, but I'm finding my rhythm again!) I am working to push another chapter out this week because at the end of next, I'll be in Rome for my birthday. In other news: the show Rivals has become my new hyperfixation and I ensnared my boyfriend into watching it with me (glad next season is coming out on Friday). I also got a promotion and sending out more applications for Creative Writing MAs so wish me luck!
‘Mama!’
Lyonel Tarth stormed inside the chamber like a bolt of lightning piercing the sky or a wild horse charging past the hands of a wrangler, and his voice rang clear like a bell. The door cracked loudly against the wall and the slap of leather boots followed the boy’s quick approach. Young Lyonel bounced on the balls of his feet beside his mother’s chair and threw his arms around her neck. Jena chortled, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, her nose disappearing into a cloud of glossy, chestnut curls.
‘My darling boy,’ she cooed. ‘I trust you have finished your lessons for the day and this is not another convoluted escape attempt?’
Her son groaned, annoyed to be reminded of such mischievous endeavours that had likely been easily thwarted, and slipped out of Jena’s grasp for a moment. He began to form a response, arms folding over his chest and creasing the fabric of his pale blue doublet, when his uncle and Visenya’s own husband strolled through the door.
‘I made sure he pays attention,’ Lyonel told his sister.
'And how might I ask, did you achieve such an impossible feat when I know that your namesake is just as big a menace to his tutors as you once were.'
Visenya chuckled into her cup, asking herself if apart from his failed attempt at putting the castle's library to the flame – which was thankfully foiled by his other sister – there had been other ingenious ploys to avoid study. The princess in her youth had found it sufficient to draw in the corners of her books while the septa droned on and on about etiquette and decorum. She would have to ask for more stories from Lyonel himself or Jena, who would without a doubt have no qualms about embarrassing her older brother a little.
‘I had promised he would train with me and his cousins if he completes…’ He paused and stopped just behind the boy, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder. ‘Remind me what it was again, Lyo?’
‘Finish my history book, write a letter to my father and sister– which is silly for she is still a babe and cannot read!’ Young Lyonel slammed his foot to the ground but the older man re-directed his attention back to the list of tasks he had been required to complete with a squeeze of his hand. ‘Alright… I also did numeracy with the maester and we studied the history and heraldry of Houses in the Riverlands and the North. And there are far too many of them!’
‘That is an impressive amount of things to accomplish in less than a day.’ Visenya smiled at the young boy and a grin quickly replaced the irritated look on his face.
‘I thank you, aunt,’ he said with a polite little bow of his head before turning his attention back to his mother. ‘Can I go now, mama? We are to train with the lance!’
‘The lance?’ Jena blanched and levelled a warning glance at her older brother. ‘Is he not mayhaps too young for that?’
‘I am not,’ the boy argued passionately. 'I have already mastered the sword and the mace with our master-at-arms.'
Lyonel’s wide smile did not budge from his face. ‘I was not yet seven when they put me on a horse and thrust a lance in my hands. At least young Lyonel has the benefit of much more patient tutors, a myriad of men in his family at his back who will ensure he does not fall off and break his neck.’
'That would be nigh impossible for me for I am a fantastic rider!'
Jena disregarded her son's interjection for a moment. 'I know that well, brother… I only hope you will not start measuring him for tourney armour.’
The mere mention of such a possibility caused the little boy to light up like a torch. ‘Can I join you on the next tourney, uncle? I will prepare well, I promise!’
Visenya watched the excitement in his face that mirrored that of her little cousin with a striking familiarity. Of all tales that he liked hearing when sneaking into her bedchamber to avoid Aerion’s bullying, Egg enjoyed most the ones of hastiludes and great battles of the past. Redgrass Field and what had transpired on that faithful day when her family’s forces had defeated the Pretender had been enshrined into legend by the time he was old enough to hear of it. Visenya had told it so many times she might still be able to recite it in her sleep; the fierce fight between two warriors, their Valyrian steel swords clashing and slashing until one found its mark past the visor of old Ser Gwayne’s helm, leaving him blinded for the brief remainder of his life, an arrow from her cousin Brynden striking Daemon and his sons, then the Hammer and the Anvil came crashing down on the leaderless.
Ser Mallister had relayed the tale of the battle to her when she had asked him — he who had been present in the fight, atop a horse beside her own father — and then she told it to her cousin when he had asked for tales of famous warriors and seemingly insurmountable challenges. There had been a risk of the stories interacting poorly with Egg's overactive imagination and causing him to wake with nightmares, Visenya had worried that she had erred in doing so, but to the little boy that story was a treasure.
After hearing it, it was impossible to persuade him of the appeal in other tales. Brave knights, defending and rescuing the innocents was all he wanted. The story of Jonquil and Florian the Fool was a particular favourite of his and one that was as equally often retold in the nights when Egg would escape his bedchamber for the sanctuary of Visenya's.
It made sense that other young lads like him would dream of becoming men who would go on to fight in storied battles and clash lances with other warriors in tourneys. Enwreathe their names in honour and glory. While there were still people to repeat those tales, passing them from mouth to ear, there would be boys who dreamed of greatness for themselves. And what Egg (much like young Lyonel) wanted most in the world was to be a knight, one worthy of legends and songs that would repeat his name for ages to come and remember his chivalrous nature. Gods willing, her cousin would grow to be a finer man than some of their relatives with Ser Duncan to teach him.
Oh, how Visenya wished she could find where they had ended up, if only to know that her sweet little cousin was safe and sound.
‘You will begin as a squire, as all of us have in our youth,' Lyonel explained to his nephew who seemed to accept that fate for the time being. If his uncles had gone down the same path and came out knights then he too would likely follow their example. 'And when you are ready, I will bestow knighthood upon you myself. If your mother allows it, of course.'
He ended that with a cheeky wink aimed at both his wife and his sister, though the latter scoffed at his antics.
'She will allow it!' Young Lyonel threw his arms out in the air. 'Mama, you will allow it, will you not?'
'I suppose…' she agreed albeit reluctant still. 'But you will take great care and listen to what your uncle teaches you or I will hear no more talk of tourneys.'
That seemed to be a sufficient deal for young Lyonel who he was out the door quicker than he had come through it, his boots slapping even louder against the floor as he ran downstairs to get himself fitted into a more appropriate gear for his training session. Lady Viola rose from her chair, slowly and regally as did become her, sweeping her shawl around her slim shoulders in one smooth motion. Her rising from the table was an indication that their respite had been enough and they would continue with the tour of the grounds.
But before she could urge Visenya and Jena to follow her, she briefly turned her attention to her son. 'I trust that you will keep the boy safe, Lyonel. Your sister is in a delicate state and cannot have any cause to worry.'
'He will be fine, mother. I have asked Borys to begin his training and he is the most patient by far.'
Lady Viola nodded, satisfied. 'I agree… Well, if that is all-'
'Actually if it is alright by you, I would like to take Visenya with me.' Lyonel extended his hand to Visenya and she slowly took it whilst gathering the pile of scrolls in her lap in her other one.
'Whyever would you need your wife present at the training ground?' Asked Lady Viola, her thin copper brows knotted and a deep crease cut through her forehead. 'No, the princess and I have much work to do.'
'For which you will have plenty of time in the weeks to come. Visenya could be of great help to me, making sure that young Lyonel is looked after so his mother need not worry.'
There was a look, a very quick and simple look shared between the siblings. Their eyes found each other, a flicker of something conspiratorial was exchanged for no more than a second. It was the kind of look that had taken years to perfect and execute without so much as a notice, and had Visenya not had a trained eye for detail she might have missed it entirely.
Jena lifted off from her own chair with effort, her hands gripping the armrests for support. She took a step towards her mother and intertwined their arms together. 'He has the truth of it, mother. The princess has done the larger portion of the work already, all thanks to your guidance, and her presence in the training yard would indeed ease my worry.'
Lady Viola looked between her daughter and son, then to Visenya, appraising all three of them with her eyes. Without meaning to and without much thought, the princess's hands came together in front of her, fingers picking at the loose skin around her fingernails. Her gaze was centred on the older woman, noting each minute expression, each twitch of her mouth.
She could reject Lyonel's offer easily and he would not pressure her; why would she be needed at the training ground really? She was taught how to use a sword, not a lance. There were likely to be plenty of young Lyonel's own blood to mind and protect him from fall and injury. She would be entirely useless to them but to simply stay on the sides and observe. And even if she could offer help in any way, what good would it do? Although deep down a part of her protested wildly, she had to follow a certain set of rules to be accepted. If the Red Keep had closed its doors to her and her family had severed what little connection there had remained between them, Visenya had to at least try to fit in at Storm's End. And despite her boredom with the activities of the day, they had proven useful, illuminating. Observing practice would be diverting, but to what end?
Lady Viola's chest expanded and she released a slow puff of air through tightly pursed lips. 'I must admit I am quite tired myself… and it would be good if there was another to match Borys's sensibility. Alright, alright, but-' she paused and trained her eye on the princess herself, '-we must resume on the morrow. We have the accounts to look over, stocking of the granary-'
'Mother, the granary will be there tomorrow.' Jena began pulling the Dowager out of the room, though not before she had thrown a glance to Lyonel over her shoulder that said simply: you better owe me after this. 'But there is currently a boy who has been promised a lancing lesson. Come! I damnably crave something cold and pickled.'
'Alright, Jena!' And before she was dragged out of the small solar, the woman muttered to her daughter, 'I know when I am being handled, child.'
The couple was left alone in the chamber, with Visenya staring intently at her husband, awaiting a much needed explanation for his disruption of the plans.
'Well?' She prompted him.
Lyonel had the gall to smirk. 'What? Are you not happy with me for my gallant rescue.'
'We were doing an important exploration of the keep and the castle grounds,' she argued, folding her arms over her chest which barred his presumptuous approach towards her. If this was all a plan to have her pressed onto or over another surface, she was not going to be very pleased. Only a little mayhaps, but it would still vex her that he was making a mess of her carefully laid plans.
'I believe I gave you a very good tour yesterday.' Lyonel still tried to close the distance between their bodies, head dipped low so his face was getting nearer and nearer. His scent invaded her nostrils like a wave that crashed against the rocks, sudden and powerful. Sweet intoxication that she had to resist. For just a while longer. Somehow.
'A tour during which might I add,' she challenged with an equally daring quirk of her mouth; if he wanted to persist in his teasing, she could very well tease back, 'you could not keep your paws to yourself… Milord.'
'And I heard not a peep in complaint from you, princess.'
He was so near and so warm, Visenya felt her annoyance swiftly fizzle out from every pore in her body. It was becoming more and more shocking just how accustomed she'd become to his mere presence, how much comfort and ease it brought, though she chose not to dwell on it further. She would remind herself, better a husband whose closeness I relish rather than one the sound of whose breathing I cannot stand.
Lyonel's smirk remained firmly plastered onto his face as he drew her in with his hands on her upper arms. 'How did you fare?'
'Good, I hope. Your mother presented me to the staff, we took a trip around the grounds, and visited the various work buildings.'
'Gods, that must have been dull,' he grimaced, arms sliding down to her waist.
'Lyonel!'
'Am I lying?' He chuckled. 'Were you not bored to tears?'
Visenya chose not to dignify his remark with a response although that was enough of an indication to Lyonel that he was right. He threw his head back and let out a booming laughter that could have shaken the ground. 'Oh, you were! Admit it, there is nothing more odious than empty polite conversation.'
'I suppose you had a better time with your council.'
Lyonel passed some air through his nose, a groan rumbling deep in his chest. 'Not one bit. Terribly frustrating. You being present might have made the whole affair a lot more pleasant. I apologise for my uncle, he was damn rude to turn you away in that manner.'
Visenya smiled sweetly. 'It's alright. I do believe his intentions were honourable.' It was a lie. She was certain he despised her very being in his ancestral castle and likely would have taken her presence at a council meeting as a grave insult. No, she would stock up on knowledge of this castle, this land and its people, and that old prig would have to accept her. 'I take it the meeting did not go as smoothly as you hoped.'
'I rather not think on it now, I will tell you all about it later,' he promised, dropping his arms to his sides. 'Now… if I had not made other plans, I would suggest we return to our bedchamber and let my paws have some more fun pleasuring my hard-working wife.' He accentuated the last words with a playful smack to her arse. 'But we are needed somewhere else. Come, we must get you changed into something more appropriate.'
Visenya looked down at her dress; the hem of her skirt appeared slightly grey from walking through the courtyard earlier and there was a spot of something greasy she might have accidentally spilled on herself when the cook offered her a taste of the stew she was preparing for supper. Other than those small blemishes she still looked perfectly fine.
Lyonel must have caught her line of thinking and quickly pressed a kiss to her temple. 'You look beautiful, but you might have a harder time fighting in a dress than you did in a shift.'
'Fighting?'
'I thought you might enjoy diversifying your daily activities. You did train before, did you not? In the capital.'
'I did,' Visenya confirmed. She had after all thought of sneaking off to practice with her sword before they had reached Storm's End, and their relationship had developed in the way that it had. She had considered that the occasional exercise would pass the time if nothing else. Suffice it to say that the princess had hardly the want for such distraction from her daily life in the last few days. Although she would be lying if she said that the idea of a proper training with other people — with Lyonel himself even — would be an exciting opportunity.
She shrugged and added, 'I did not think that I would get the chance to, if I must be honest.' And in truth she had given up hope that she could advance in her training; her father had claimed she was adept by the time she had reached her fourteenth year and after he'd been made Hand he had less and less time to spar with any of his children. And when the master-at-arms made it abundantly clear that he did not feel comfortable teaching a young lady to wield a blade anymore, the air or a straw-made man became her only sparring partners.
'The way I see it is that it would be a great shame to abandon your training,' reasoned Lyonel, his voice firm with conviction. 'Fighting is like riding a horse — 'tis no good if you forget how to stay on the saddle. And every warrior should be afforded the chance to maintain their skill.'
'I am far from being called a warrior.'
Now it was Lyonel's turn to shrug. 'I remember someone telling me she wanted to be one as a child. Like that Dragon Queen. And if that is still so, we have somewhere else to be.’
The training ground was tucked around the Drum Keep's entrance, with the stables on one side and the armoury to the other. A perfect spot, Visenya thought as she was still unsure about how right it was to sneak around to join the men in training, especially when it was done behind the Dowager's back. It was doubtful that the woman would be impressed if she considered Visenya's presence at the training ground unnecessary, her being trained in swordfighting would be best kept a secret for as long as humanly possible.
The ground was strewn with sand and clumps of straw to make each tumble and fall a little less bruising than it would have been had the fighting been done in the paved centre of the yard. When Lyonel and Visenya reached the spot, his nephew was already in the saddle, atop a tall but spindly beast, likely an old warhorse that the groom was too fond of. The animal moved around slowly with a hint of a former strength it once possessed though its bony legs shook with each second step. Despite the horse's frailty, young Lyonel sat confidently against the saddle, with a shorter twin to the standard tourney lance in his right hand and wearing a helm that obscured his face.
At the other end of the boxlike area there was a wooden post with a shorter perpendicular plank going through the top of it at one end of which hung a bag of what was supposedly sand or gravel. The bag did not move or sway even a little, waiting for a strike to come.
Eric and Orryn were hacking away at two straw dummies at the very edge of the yard, beside a tall stone wall beyond which Visenya had not been yet. The two lads practiced jabs and slashes under the hawk-like gaze of their master, Ser Donal. Those were precise attacks meant to penetrate the armour of an opponent even if the straw men could not scream and wail to express which hit was the most accurate. The two boys laughed away as they did, likely imagining themselves as fighters winning a ferocious battle.
Way off in the furthest stall of the stables, Visenya managed to see the head of her beloved Tempest hanging out to munch on some straw. His coat looked clean and his hair – glossy and combed to a silken perfection. He did not give an indication that he had noticed his rider, content instead to enjoy the afternoon feast he’d been given, and Visenya did not mind at all. He seemed happy and well taken care of, and that was all she needed to know.
Borys, who was in his leathers and black-and-yellow gambeson, held the reins to young Lyonel's horse, guiding the boy to a starting position whilst muttering instructions only for him to hear. Axel was watching from the side, leaning against the wooden railing of the stables. His hand was rhythmically going up and down in the air, a half-eaten apple clutched between his fingers and being slowly reduced to nought but the core. And the large, aged groom whom Visenya had met earlier that day was beside him, his elbows propped on the wooden fence, the sleeves of his rough-spun cotton shirt rolled up his meaty arms, revealing countless healed cuts and callouses.
'Milord,' Axel slurred in greeting through mouth-fulls of fruit, his boyish grin growing even bigger when he spotted Visenya walking next to his cousin. 'We were beginning to wonder what was taking you so long.’ The implication was quite clear even if the man wasn’t wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at both his cousin and his wife. ‘Princess, I am glad to see you finally join us.'
'Did you assume I would scare easily by a bunch of sweaty Baratheons with sticks,' she teased back, earning a guffaw from the younger man.
'I should hope you have been embroiled in plenty of duels with one particular sweaty Baratheon and his mighty stick in the past couple of days.'
That earned him a clout to the ear from Lyonel even if the hint of a grin at the corner of his lips hinted at him being quite proud of himself.
Axel continued, 'The boy is doing well so far. Hasn't fallen off his saddle and managed to skim the corner of the bag on the second to last charge.'
The observation was more-so directed to his cousin rather than Visenya herself. She looked up at the man beside her who was carefully studying his young nephew as he prepared for another go. Young Lyonel secured his grip on the lance, the lengthy pole waving high above him in the air. Borys made a final appraisal of his posturing and hold, checked that all the straps on the saddle were secured correctly and gave a gentle, reassuring pat to the horse's neck.
The animal snorted in response.
'Is there a particular reason you have him train on an older horse?' Visenya thought to ask. When Valarr had been younger and in the very beginning of his lance training, the master-at-arms and the groom had selected a younger, sturdier courser that had plenty of tourney experience. The beast was enormous, chestnut with white full stockings; it dwarfed the young prince that had perched atop him with an even bigger and heavier lance than what the Baratheon cousins had given the lad. Young Lyonel's one was ancient and not as striking by comparison.
'Older horses make for calmer mounts, M'lady,' said the groom.
'We all trained on one,' Axel supplied. 'They lack the temperament of younger ones, can be trusted not to buck and throw the lad over. Mead might be an old boy, but he has seen many a tourneys.'
'The horse's name is Mead?'
'Aye,' Axel huffed. 'He was one of several that were gifted to my uncle when Lady Ellyn wed. There was one named Pheasant that passed two summers prior, if I'm not mistaken-' the groom nodded along in confirmation, '-and another he called Rum.'
'My father had renamed most of them after beverages or meals he fancied,' then Lyonel added. 'Or even tavern wenches he'd enjoyed. It was a nightmare for the beasts to accustom themselves to it after they had already been taught their names.'
Axel scoffed, 'Quite fitting of the gluttonous bastard - eh, cousin? One for feasting and whoring, never proficient at either. Not like us.'
Visenya did not miss the flicker of upset in Lyonel's eyes, a shadow of anger that had been rooted deep within him. The number of times he had wasted his breath on telling her of the old lord Baratheon could be counted on one hand and never did he seem particularly pleased to be bringing him up. What little she knew of the man painted a detailed enough picture to know that he had not been a good man, not even a decent one. And despite some flickers of fondness in Lyonel's words when he recalled moments from his early childhood, moments when he had still loved his father, that love had died like a choked-up flame. She could not be sure if it had been the slow realisation of his father's nature or something a lot more sudden. Something suggested the final nail in the proverbial coffin might have been his assault on Shyra's mother and fathering a bastard right under the noses of his wife and children.
And although Lyonel was too a man who enjoyed gorging himself on delicacies of any and all varieties, something the princess had learned even before she married the man, she noted that they were never at the expense of others, and never done with malice. And he despised having those qualities of his compared to those of his father. In Visenya's own estimations, it was mayhaps a blessing that she would never have the chance to meet her good-father. She doubted their relationship would have been anything but forcibly convivial.
What perplexed her even more was how Orys the Grimace was related to that man when he did not seem the type to even know debauchery if it was presented to him on a silver platter.
Young Lyonel adjusted his grip on the training lance one last time, adjusted himself on the saddle too, and with a sharp kick to Mead's sides, he flew towards the target. The horse charged invigorated, his legs that appeared seconds away from snapping under the weight of his rider slammed on the ground with a younger horse's strength. The boy extended his lance, pointing the tip at the bag and-
He missed the centre by no more than a few inches, skimming the edge of the cloth pouch and piercing clean through it. A handful of course sand seeped from the tear whilst Mead slowed his charge to a trot and young Lyonel turned him around so he could return to the starting position.
'Fine work, young master Tarth!' Exclaimed the groom and clapped his heavy hands together. The horse approached their end of the yard and Borys grabbed the reins close to the bit so he could calm the horse to a slower pace.
'Good job,' he said to both the boy and the animal. Mead panted heavily, the faint tremor returning to his legs, but remained otherwise composed as the man in front of him patted his snout and spoke in a hushed voice. When the panting eased into a slower, more measured rhythm, Borys let young Lyonel slide off of the saddle.
He however looked not at all pleased with himself.
'That was… that was piss poor!' He kicked the sand in anger.
'That is not how a future lord speaks,' his uncle corrected and Visenya had to suck in her cheeks so as to not laugh. Of all the people in the realm to chastise someone for swearing, it was quite rich coming from him.
'But I have heard you say worse!'
'When?'
'This very day!'
'Lies!' Lyonel straightened his back and pretended to dust off an imagined fleck of dust from his gambeson. 'I have never cussed in my life. I am a paragon of grace and decorum.'
'Yes, you did!' The boy argued. 'You were leaving the Round Hall and you said that Lord Cafferen is a fat old twat who-'
He could not get out the entire list of colourful epithets and threats Visenya was certain her husband had thrown around in regards to the lord in question before Borys had clamped a hand over the boy's mouth. Young Lyonel grabbed his older cousin's arm and began flailing around, but Borys held firm.
'Petulant boys make shit knights, you know,' he told him. 'And even shitter lords.'
And from behind his massive palm came a muffled, '…are swearing too.'
'I believe his grandmother was informed that I would be minding his well-being,' Visenya finally interjected. 'I do not think she will be happy with my "minding" if the young master leaves this training ground swearing like an old sailor.'
Axel's laughter was as loud as a clap of thunder. 'Aye, she would be angry indeed. Saying "piss" and "shit" is measly at best. I have heard septas say worse.'
'Mayhaps we should wrap up the lad's training for the day before he picks up any more poor language skills from my oaf of a brother,' Borys suggested, dropping his hand from the boy's face when he began thrashing about even more.
'No! I want to keep going,' he protested wildly, green eyes bulging out of his head. 'I can strike the target! I know it!'
'Lyo, both the target and the lance will still be there tomorrow,' Borys reasoned with a much softer tone. 'You did very well. Better than Axel when he was your age.’
His brother did not seem in agreement with that particular statement.
‘What fucking lies are you telling the lad? I was a natural.’
‘You fell off your saddle thrice,’ Borys responded dryly. ‘And wailed for mother to come wipe your face when it ended buried deep in mud. Now do stop your swearing before Aunt Viola rips both our heads and has them perched above the front gate.’
Young Lyonel snickered mischievously at their exchange; Visenya was certain there was little hope in trying to dissuade him from using those words in front of his mother or the Dowager, for that horse had long since bolted. As a child herself she had found it so exhilarating to throw around the occasional naughty word she had overheard from the Kingsguard or a member of the Red Keep staff, though the reactions to her swearing were a lot less passive compared to her brothers and cousins doing the same. After some time, the older members of her family had started to ignore what could no longer be corrected by a slap across the wrist by a septa or a sharp scold from her mother.
Beside her, her husband pushed off of the stable railings and approached his wee nephew, tousling his hair with unguarded affection. ‘Borys is right, you did well. You need to improve your hold on the lance and avoid dipping your shoulder back or to the side afore you make contact with your target. Other than that we can work and improve your charge in the next few days. Alright?’
The lad eagerly nodded, eyes shining bright at the praise and advice his uncle gave.
‘Now go upstairs and wash. Grab Orryn and Eric too, they look like they have been at it since noon.’ The boy nodded one last time, offered his thanks to the other men and a bow to Visenya, and sped off to fetch the other lads. Lyonel then cocked his head to one side and with a grin that gave away much of his eagerness, he urged, 'Let us get you into some proper gear, shall we.'
He brought her to the armoury across the yard — a short stone building with an extension of the roof hanging low over its porch where the hearth and bellows took up most of the open space. Coals burned inside the hollowed pit, still flaming hot with a soft orange glow, crackling and popping periodically. The castle smith walked into the doorway, moderately tall, stout, and with impossibly wide shoulders, wiping grease from his hands with the end of his apron. His close-cut hair showed signs of aging though he could not have been much older than Lyonel himself, though the long beard which was tied with a leather strap below his neck did make him appear more mature. He had been quiet and brief in his exchange with the three ladies that had stopped by his workstation earlier, not out of rudeness of course, rather he seemed like a man who cherished the solitude his trade provided.
'M’lord. M’lady.' He greeted both with a curt bow of his head.
'Hugh, my good man, we need some armour for my lady wife,’ Lyonel told him, one hand coming up behind Visenya’s back to push her a step further. Hugh, the smith, by some divine blessing, did not seem scandalised by the request; his eyes took in her entire frame, calculating and sizing her up, nodded once, and disappeared back into the armoury to retrieve what he needed.
Lyonel smiled at her when Visenya looked up at him, a series of questions hanging in the air. ‘Do not fret. We might not have pieces specifically designed for a woman to wear, but Hugh has a discerning eye. He will find something fitting and I can commission a proper set for you in time.’
The princess returned his smile, even if tension still resided in the corners of her face. ‘And you are certain that it would not be frowned upon for me to take part in training?’
‘Where has this sudden uncertainness come from? I do not believe you are the same foul-tongued woman who sang songs of ladies being fucked, and licked, and whatnot for the guests of my pavilion.’ He dropped his voice lower and inched his face closer to her ear. ‘Or the one who let me ravage her on the battlements of my castle.’
Visenya’s breath caught in her throat, her body responded eagerly to Lyonel’s hot breath against the shell of her ear. ‘I am trying to act sensibly,’ she replied. I want your family to bloody like me, she meant.
Just then the smith made his way back onto the porch with several items in his hands or slung over his great shoulders. First, he brought forward a simple tanned leather jerkin, small in size as though originally made for an adolescent. Lyonel took it from him and lowered it over Visenya’s head, adjusting the straps and ties around her waist and arms. The material was thick, the shoulder pads extended a tad further than if they were on a boy’s frame, and her chest was constricted awkwardly as though she wore poorly-fitted stays. The princess withheld any complaint; this was the best they could do at present and she was beginning to feel the excitement overtake any doubts she might have harboured still. Her husband tested the jerkin’s structure, pulling it side to side then down to see if it was tied correctly.
‘How is that?’ He asked when she scrunched her face in discomfort.
‘It is fine,’ she assured him. ‘A little tight across my chest, but I can still move alright.’
Then the smith piped up, ‘I can go into town on the morrow, M’lord. The leatherworker would be able to make something more comfortable for Her Ladyship to wear if she is to train with you and your cousins.’ He handed Lyonel a pair of vambraces to adjust on her forearms, completing the set.
And finally came her sword, the blade her dear father had once made for her to train with, likely never truly intending for it to be used in a real battle. A long leather strap had been tightly wrapped around the blade for the purpose of protecting an opponent in training. The hilt and bits of the blade that poked out of the protective cover were polished and cleaned of all memory of the last time it had been brandished.
Visenya had scarcely looked at it after what had occurred on that riverbank. There was an uncomfortable sensation that went through her every time she did; her hands and feet would go cold and rigid, her heart would begin bouncing in her chest, and something terrible would settle itself in her belly. Throughout the rest of the journey, she had kept the sword sheathed at all times, hanging against her saddle, out of view. And now it was offered back to her as if brand new, as if it hadn’t been a tool with which she had taken somebody’s life.
‘M’lady?’
The princess’s eyes snapped up to meet those of the smith. His eyebrows bounced up once into his sparse hairline, waiting for her to do something with the weapon in his hands. She smiled, thanked him with haste, and wrapped her fingers around the hilt. It still felt like the same blade, the one she had held countless of times, the one that was made to be a near perfect copy of Queen Visenya’s own sword when it was clear the young princess wouldn’t get to have it lest she snatched it from Lord Brynden’s hands.
Lyonel asked if she was ready. There was only one way to find out.
‘Are you not going to armour yourself?’
Instead of replying immediately, the corners of his mouth pulled slowly into yet another one of his grins. ‘I fear I would be too distracted to make a good opponent. Axel has agreed to do the honours, he is a capable swordsman and I trust him not to cut you. But if you think him exhausting whenever he runs his cunt mouth, he is far worse and will use every opportunity to rile you up.’
Visenya looked across the yard; Axel was reaching for a sword that had been propped up against one of the wooden posts and taking his place in the middle of the training grounds. A change had happened in an instant; his posture remained relaxed, befitting the least serious member amongst his kin, yet something else had joined it – a surge of power that was visible even beneath his own armour.
‘Do not worry, cousin, I will be gentle with your buxom bride.’ The jest was accompanied by a wink directed towards Visenya, and Lyonel all but growled beside her.
‘I will have your bollocks tied to a cart and dragged from here to the Wall, Axel. Get your head out of your hairy arse and do what we’re here to do,’ he called out, making sure to give his younger cousin another smack around the back of the head as he went off to join Borys behind the stable’s railing. Visenya took a deep breath, reminding herself that she was in fact trained well enough to hold her own. This was not a battle with her life on the line, it was a sparring session – she had had plenty of those before.
Her legs moved on their own accord without her putting much thought into the positions she must take. Feet firmly on the ground, making sure they are placed at the width of her shoulders, arms bent at the elbows for support, and both hands gripping the hilt of her sword. Visenya stared ahead at Axel who readied his own stance. His own sword was a few inches longer, it would be fairly easy for him to make a strike.
You have the advantage of being smaller and quicker, her father had said once. And there he was again, standing before her – younger, smiling, and still powerful, still alive. His sword was raised, he took a step towards her. It was a dance, she only need remember the steps and she would do it right.
The first strike came from the left and the princess almost missed its approach, lost in the reverie of her father. She blinked twice and his form was replaced by Axel charging towards her, attempting to make a hit to her side. Visenya turned her arms and placed the flat of her leather-bound blade in his path. The force of the strike was enough to send a surge of cold pain from her wrists to her shoulders and send her back a few steps.
Axel laughed. Not cruelly but he appeared to find a mote of entertainment in her distraction. ‘Still dreaming about your wedding bed, Milady?’
‘I am beginning to think you really want to take the black.’ Lyonel’s voice cut through the air like a whip. ‘Visenya, do us all a favour and bash this fucker around the head. Might make him shut up for once.’
‘I wouldn’t want to give you the satisfaction, cousin.’
His right foot stepped around his left, his body rotated towards her. Visenya pushed her heels into the ground, ready to block the next attack. Focus, she needed to focus. The sword came from above this time, the late afternoon sun caught on the exposed root of the blade and flashed bright. The princess propelled herself forward, lifting her own weapon horizontal to the attacking one. She felt the two make contact, slide past one another, and only in the last second did she twirl away and let Axel’s attack fall to the side. He stumbled forward, his balance thrown off.
Visenya heard what sounded like clapping come from the stables yet her eyes did not seem to want to look for the source. Darkness clouded her vision, closing in around her until all she could only make out what was right in front of her. Her fingers grew even colder and trembled around the grip. They were only sparring, the words were a chant in her mind, only sparring, only sparring. Axel faced her again, excitement burning in his eyes that was not reaching Visenya herself, and picked up his face. His next charge was faster, harder to predict. He advanced towards her and each strike he landed pushed her further and further back.
And all of a sudden, she was not in the middle of Storm’s End training yard but ankle deep in cold water with three bandits coming down on her. The fear she had felt then, and the remnants of it that she had pushed down for nigh on a fortnight, came flooding back into her bloodstream. She saw their murderous rage before her very eyes, she saw their blood spurting like a horrid fountain.
Something caught her foot, right as Visenya managed to parry one of the last hits out of some sheer dumb luck, and she felt herself tumbling back. And her sword dropped out of her hand.
Seven fucks!
She was falling, but did not land in water. This was a harder surface, layered with sand and straw. The back of her head slammed against the ground and it should have hurt more had the thick of her braid not cushioned the hit. Her name being shouted broke through the haze she’d fallen prey to, it was Lyonel calling out to her but he did not come. She looked up and saw Axel approach instead – there was no rage in his eyes, he was even smiling – and he reached out his hand to help her stand.
Visenya dusted herself off, choosing to concentrate on the strands of straw that fell from her braid and clothes while she regained control over her breathing. It is only training, you foolish girl, get yourself together. Axel’s hand landed firmly on her shoulder and startled the princess into looking up.
‘Are you alright?’ The humour was gone from his voice, replaced by a sense of brotherly concern. It was evident in the manner he checked her over to ensure she had not taken too bad of a tumble. Her nod of confirmation was apparently enough for the young Baratheon man, a smile splitting his face once again. ‘You did well. Although spending the whole fight on the defensive can only get you so far.’
‘It is how I was taught,’ she reasoned. It is what the master-at-arms had shown her and what her father had improved on when he took over her training. Had they been wrong to do so? If there was more that she could have learnt, if there was a different way, why had it been kept from her?
‘Seems a pity.’ Axel shrugged his shoulders, his hand falling down. ‘You have a good posture and you seem confident enough with a sword in your hand. We’ll have to make some improvements.’ His eyes flitted to the side and his slight grin grew into a smirk. ‘But before we resume, do let my cousin know that he needs to stand down. He looks about ready to make good on his threats and I do not wish to spend the rest of my days as a Brother.’
The princess glanced towards the stables, finding her husband all but hanging over the railing, gripping the wooden pole as though he might snap it any moment. The blue in his eyes had turned cold as a winter rose; Lyonel seemed ready to forgo familial love and loyalty, and throttle his own cousin, but a single smile from Visenya quelled the fury in him. His impassioned gaze inquired silently after her safety and she confirmed it with a bob of her head. Still a little frightened and mayhaps more than a little thrown back by the influx of memories from her attack but she would have to learn to endure those. If she stiffened every time those faces swam up in her consciousness she might very well go mad.
And she could not allow that.
She would not.
‘I thought you Storm-men would be used to harsh weather,’ she quipped, her attention back to Axel.
‘Oh, I do not fear a bit of cold and wind, and I am quite fetching in black. But, hells, the lack of drink and cunts will be my doom.’ He turned the grip of his sword in his hand and urged Visenya to pick up her own, taking on a new stance. ‘Follow my lead, we’ll see how much of your swordfighting education we can fix before supper.’
Visenya found it hard not to keep going back to that moment even after she had filled her belly at dinner later that evening, had stewed in her bathtub for an hour afterwards, and was safely in bed with Lyonel holding her to his chest. Not even his heartbeat had proved enough to drown out the buzzing of her own thoughts and despite the sheer exhaustion of the past day, her mind would avoid sleep like the plague.
Her husband, seven bless him, was doing his very best to entertain her during the meal. However hectic supper with her own family might have been (or at least in the few and far between occasions everybody managed to drag themselves to the table), nothing compared to how loud supping with Lyonel’s own one truly was. Their voices boomed like thunder and having the table be predominately populated with Baratheon men meant that breaking bread with them was like doing so in the middle of a wild summer’s tempest. Despite the racket, Lyonel was whispering in her ear like a lover and trying to get a laugh out of her with all his might. He had managed to elicit a few genuine chuckles in between bites of the delicious stew and her silent pondering.
If he had noticed her distraction, he made no comment in front of the rest, although he needn’t have bothered. The entire table was too preoccupied with young Lyonel’s ardent recollection of his first jousting lesson. The boy had forgotten all about his failings, most probably with a much deserved boost to his confidence from the other two boys at the table who were eagerly encouraging him to spare no detail.
Visenya had not the strength to look at the sweet boy for she was entirely absorbed by his mother.
Jena practically glowed with pride. Worries forgotten once she had been made certain that her firstborn son was showing promise as a jouster. And the boy was just as happy to let his mother know how much he had enjoyed himself, how much he hoped he could continue in his pursuits and become a famed tourney contender.
Had there been a mother waiting for one of them home? Those men had not always been bandits, surely they had had a mother. Not an exalted lady like Jena or the Dowager, but a mother nonetheless – someone who cared for her child even if he had taken to outlawry. A woman who might still wonder when her son would cross the threshold of her home the way little Lyonel did. With a loud greeting and a quick approach to claim her embrace. Had she destroyed another two lives with the strike of her sword?
The food lost its flavour in her mouth, the wine was like vinagre. Visenya reasoned with herself that if she had not defended herself, she would not be sitting there – living and breathing, with Lyonel’s hand resting warmly on her thigh. It was either her or them, and she did not want to die. She never would have known how much sweeter Lyonel could be, how gentle and thoughtful he was, she never would have gotten to feel him around and inside her, consuming her very senses like fire. It was a simple choice and she had made it, mulling over it was a fool’s errand.
When she had exhausted all her energy on the meal and litany of chaotic thoughts, Visenya wanted an escape. Lady Viola had gone a few minutes earlier, accompanied by Orys, thus she could too excuse herself and get back to the safety and quiet of the bedchamber.
She leaned in to murmur in her husband’s ear, ‘Lyonel, I am quite tired. I think I will retire for the evening.’
‘Would you like me to escort you?’ He was halfway out of his chair when she stopped him with a hand on his forearm.
‘I will manage,’ she assured through a smile that felt too forced to have been genuine, but it seemed enough to keep Lyonel in his seat. She leaned further in to place a kiss on the corner of his mouth, lips tickling when they brushed against his moustache, and her hand slid naturally inside his to give it a squeeze in support of her words.
With the path from the feast hall to the bedchamber memorised perfectly by then, Visenya began the climb up the winding stairs of the Drum Keep. Exhaustion crept in slowly but surely, from the soles of her feet to the top of her spine. All she had to picture was the tub that could possibly be waiting for her at the end of her lengthy trek and that kept her walking ahead. She would soak, submerged up to her nose in water, and mayhaps her body would remember that she was not under threat.
There was but a floor left to cover when the door to the solar cracked open abruptly and shut just as quick when the person exiting noticed her standing a few steps away. Orys. And, of-bloody-course, it would be him; just when Visenya was most tired and out of sorts, horribly dishevelled, with a few errant straws that had refused to be combed out of her curls even after all of Shyra’s trying, he managed to come upon her. The only blessing was that he did not look as perfectly put together either – there were creases in his tunic and the sides of his long beard were striking out in an odd manner. It was cruel to say or think, but Visenya felt a speck of satisfaction rise in her chest when she saw those minor imperfections.
Orys’s back straightened like a lance pole and his face resumed its normal dissatisfied scowl. ‘Milady,’ he addressed her with frigid respectability. He turned on his heel without another word and headed for the stairs.
‘Ser!’ Visenya called after him and the man was polite enough to stop. He faced her again though his patience was evidently running dry, but she pushed forward. This was her home and he was her husband’s uncle, she deserved an explanation for his horrid behaviour towards her and she would ensure she got one from him. And possibly an apology.
But when she opened her mouth to speak, he could not get the words out right. The old twat would not stop glaring at her with those cold grey-blue eyes. ‘I-I think… I would like to know what I seem to have done to invoke your ire.’
For a period of time that could have been anything from a few seconds to an hour, Orys did nothing but glare. ‘Do you believe yourself entitled to some kind of special treatment?’
Entitled! Visenya sputtered, ‘N-nothing of the sort!’
‘Then I have nothing else to say. Good night, Milady.’
‘Why do you hate me so?’ She threw the question more forcefully than she had intended. ‘What could I have possibly done to offend?’
A nerve in his jaw ticked so violently that Visenya managed to catch it through the cover of his beard. His feet carried him towards her, and the princess took a small step back without meaning to. What had Axel spoken of earlier? “Do not back off unless to trick your opponent into stumbling and breaking their concentration.” Instead, she was the one to stumble.
‘Do you really believe that’ he began, his voice a low-hum of disapproval, ‘a princess fighting and rolling around dirt is what this House needs? Or how a Lady of Storm’s End would behave? It was insulting to witness.’
‘So I insult you, is that it?’
‘Your presence here is the insult – to us all, to this House. Do not think I am blind to how you got yourself into this position? I suppose my nephew is just as much responsible for this ghastly debacle, I knew his lust would get us here eventually. Just like his father.’
‘Lyonel is nothing like his father!’ Visenya reclaimed the step she had lost.
‘Silly girl, you do not know of what you speak. My brother was a wastrel,’ he scoffed. ‘Getting his head turned by every wench that batted her lashes and dropped to her knees. I saw you–’ He moved even closer still. Visenya remained rooted in her spot. ‘--leaving his tent the morning of the Trial of Seven. Or were my eyes playing tricks?’
That was it? That was the reason he hated her so? He had seen her leave Lyonel’s tent and believed she had fucked her way into a betrothal. Tears of furious humiliation stung behind her eyes and she blinked them away. Orys had managed to insult her plenty in the span of that conversation, she would die before giving him the pleasure of knowing he had gotten to her.
When she offered no reply, he continued, ‘The least you can do now, Milady, is what is expected of you. We’ll wait and see if you are indeed deserving of respect.’
He allowed her the sole benefit of not pushing rudely through her when he walked away, the sound of his brisk steps echoing away as he changed direction towards the lower part of the tower. Visenya remained in her spot despite every sensible bit of her consciousness telling her to walk away, that the conversation was quite over and she would only embarrass herself further if someone saw her stand there like an idiot. She was too struck dumb by his accusations and disheartened by the failure to get a positive outcome from the talk. But what could she have expected – that he would tell her that he did actually like her very much and she would be like a daughter to him.
‘Stupid, stupid girl,’ she muttered to herself and continued on. She could not wait to close her eyes and have this nightmare of a day over.
The bedchamber greeted her with warmth and the calming scent of pinecones and flowers. And not one but two women chatting away as the youngest of the two hauled pails of water into the copper tub at the edge of the room.
‘Oh, M’lady– that is, Visenya! I did not expect you so soon. Ma was just helping me pass the time.’
The princess glanced at the other woman – brown of hair and eyes, with not a wrinkle around her eyes or mouth, and hardly any grey hairs upon her head. Or what Visenya could see poking beneath her white linen cap. She could hardly be considered any older than Lyonel and Borys, thirty-something years old by the looks of her. The woman rose from the chair by the hearth and dropped into a practiced deep curtsy.
‘Princess.’ Her voice was high and sweet as she spoke. ‘I apologise for the intrusion. Lady Viola has not yet come upstairs and I wanted to keep my girl company before I was called.’
The woman looked a little uncomfortable to have been caught thus and Visenya realised that it was mayhaps her own face, twisted and darkened by her own inner turmoil, that had given the impression she was displeased.
‘Oh…’ She let out a drawn out sigh and schooled her expression. ‘Forgive me, I have misplaced my manners somewhere along the way. It is a pleasure to finally meet dear Shyra’s mother.’
The woman blushed and lowered her face, her hands fiddling with the stockings she had been mending by the fire. ‘I am Talla. I would have met you earlier with the rest of the staff, only Milady needed some new fabrics and I had to go down to the village.’
‘Please, do sit down. You have had a longer day than I.’
Talla smiled and lowered herself carefully into her seat, nodding at her daughter to resume what she had been doing whilst she took up her mending once more. Shyra emptied the last pail inside the tub and brought Visenya to the front of the mirror so she could begin disassembling the armour of silks and fine jewels that made up her supper costume. The gold glimmer of her chain and her father’s signet ring poked under the collar of her chemise, attracting Visenya’s attention to it momentarily. She wanted to give it to the smith for resizing but there was something more reassuring about the heavy band dangling over her heart. The last remaining piece of her father, her comfort and shield in this new era of life.
He never would have allowed someone to speak to her the way Orys had done. He would have defended her honour, despite his knowledge of her failings and behaviour. He would have been the lifeline she needed so desperately as she waded through these uncertain waters. And now the lifeline was that small piece of gold around her neck.
‘How is the rest of the staff behaving?’ She asked her maid, putting her own thoughts aside for the moment. Hopefully, the steward had made good on his word to keep all the rude members in check, the ones who had found amusement in torturing the poor girl with their sharp words and cruel treatment.
‘The meaner ones have backed off,’ Shyra replied. ‘Mostly they ignore my existence but ‘tis better than it was before.’
‘Thank you for taking such care of my girl,’ Talla piped up from her chair. ‘She was most lucky to be chosen as your lady’s maid. I trust she will prove herself deserving of your kindness.’
‘She is! I am glad to have her as a friend.’ Visenya smiled at the young girl in the reflection of the mirror and the smile that was given in return was even brighter than the typical ones Shyra gave others.
‘It was a blessing that Lyonel put me in your service!’
‘Lord Lyonel, sweetling, you cannot speak of him so informally,’ her mother corrected and the smile on Shyra’s lips faded.
It was a small thing, a matter of proper addressation, but carried so much weight. If it had been some other maid calling the lord of the keep by his name, the correction would have been expected, but this was no ordinary maid. Here sat the woman Lyonel’s father had abused, resulting in that wonderful, helpful girl that did not deserve to have the truth of her birth denied so fervently, even by her own mother. Both of them victims to someone who had carelessly taken what they wanted without a thought for the consequences. That precise small exchange reminded Visenya of what was important – or at least more important than her own petty worries – she had a responsibility, to her maid, to herself. To many others.
She could not allow herself to lose her wits with thoughts of past troubles.
She had to stay on course.
Shyra pulled her chemise up and let Visenya step inside the tub to wash up before bed. The princess thanked her for the help and assured her that she would manage on her own for the remainder of the evening. There was not much to do anyways; wash up, curl under the covers, then wait for Lyonel to return from supper. And what a balm to her tired mind it would be to drift off in his arms. Talla picked up her work, curtsied as low as before, and wished her a good night. Shyra did the same, after she had laid out a nightgown – which her husband would likely scoff at and dispose of as soon as he saw it – and had collected the bulk of Visenya’s laundry clothes from the floor. She was halfway out the door when she remembered something and doubled back, hand diving inside the pocket of her work dress and fishing out a small scroll.
Another letter?
‘This arrived earlier tonight, but you were already at supper. Maester Maynard could not recognise the seal.’
Visenya thanked her and accepted the tiny roll of parchment. The door clicked shut and she was left alone with her pleasingly hot bath and the mystery message. A plain turquoise blue wax held it close. Certainly not from Valarr, he would have used his own seal and she would have recognised it from afar. She was beginning to doubt he would ever write.
The wax cracked easily and Visenya unfolded the message, finding only a single line and no name underneath. But the writing was familiar and she felt the water grow horribly cold as though the Others themselves had wrapped themselves around her.
Who would have thought.
The princess jumped out of the tub and ran across the room to throw the piece of paper in the fire where all the other ones had gone aside from the one sweet letter from her grandmother. The others she had given another one or two glances, trying to gauge a kinder subtext amongst lines of indifference.
This one, however, she did not want to look at a second time lest the witch herself looks back.
Next chapter
A/N: The plot thickens even more! Likes, repost and comments always appreciated! I absolutely adore reading your thoughts and asks when they show up in my notifications box!
Actually I find the concept of Lyonel marrying a Targaryen OC/reader insanely funny and ironic because, he’s like, “the only good dragon is a dead dragon - except that one, that one is so lovely and so hot, I’m so glad to call her/him/them mine”
Like bro fell in love with a Targaryen and did not expect this to happen AT ALL
Chapter 16 should drop in the next couple of days. The weather’s been amazing these last two weeks and my boyfriend and I have been going to a bunch of BBQs with friends (and I haven’t been this sociable in months so dedicated some of my free time to going out and literally touching grass)
The Dragon and The Stag (Lyonel Baratheon x Targaryen!OC)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN // Previous chapter // Masterlist // Next chapter
Wordcount: 8.3K
Summary: Visenya Targaryen was far enough down the succession order that she considered her place in court to be near unimportant. Her father had promised to let her decide on her own time when to be married and instead she decided to enjoy life. Wine, art, music, sex. Everything that a princess of six and twenty should have never been doing. And then the decision was made for her: pick a lord, be betrothed, get married, and cease her indiscretions. But the headstrong princess would not be so easily reined in.
Warnings: MDNI +18; p in v and unprotected sex; exhibitionism (sorta); breeding; Lyonel is a talkative lover; crude language; fantasy equivalent of medieval Catholicism; uh-oh Visenya is concocting a plan again; Targaryen family is not very healthy but are we surprised
Lyonel had not taken to exaggeration when he had said that Storm’s End kept no secrets, and Visenya’s own initial deliberations about her new home had been entirely too modest to encompass the sheer magnitude of the place. Where the Red Keep sprawled into different corridors, leading you a merry dance while you tried to make it from one end to the other, the Baratheon keep was much more contained. It made exploring it easier and ever so enthralling.
They began their tour on the second day, after an entire one spent barely leaving the bed for more than a few minutes – only when a tray was brought up to their chamber with refreshments or when they needed to relieve themselves. Lyonel had seemed entirely too pleased with the outcome; he finally had her where he wanted her, was buried inside her a staggering amount of times, and did things that most lords would not have needed to in order to get their brand new wife with a child, all the while he babbled sweet filth in her ear. Visenya could hardly remember a time when she had been so thoroughly wrecked by another. So completely ravaged that whenever she rolled off of the bed to stretch her legs, she would need to command her brain to recall how such an act was to be accomplished. Her legs ached and trembled with each step but not as much as her cunt which, during the course of that one day, had been a focus of Lyonel’s ardent attentions.
After her outburst in the narrow passageway during the feast, and her believing he did not want her, he seemed to have taken his role in proving the opposite to her with a level of devotion that rivaled that of a septon. And Visenya was happy to finally let herself savour his touch without fearing it would end too quickly, let herself take in the sight of him as slowly as she wished because now it was all for her to enjoy.
He was even more handsome when she had the time to admire his physique at leisure. Strong legs, lithe arms, bulging musculature in all the right places, a proof of rigorous training. A few scars across his skin too that hinted at jousting injuries and his life spent as an adventurer. Those became all the more interesting when Visenya could tie them to some tale that Lyonel shared with her in their moments of respite. Oh, and his mouth spilled such wondrous sounds, the princess could not think of anything else but what he was saying, rapt by each word – be it spoken in conversation or in the throes of passion.
Then there was his wide chest that had only grown in its allure as her favourite spot to place her head down when in need of some rest; it was covered in tight black coils of hair that travelled down his abdomen and clustered again like a neatly trimmed hedge around his cock. Her eyes had hardly the want of looking anywhere else when he had finally stripped off his trousers and bared himself fully… At last, she might also add.
But her favourite thing by far to admire about his appearance were his hands. Large, calloused, and yet still astonishingly tender whenever he touched her, held her, squeezed her. Visenya grew more and more fascinated with his fascination. Watching him cup her breasts, knead them in his hands, his entranced eyes following the movement of flesh between his long fingers. When he had had his fill of that, his hands would glide across the slopes of her body as though he was mapping out hills and valleys with his touch alone. They would sneak between the folds of her oversensitive core like water through cracks in mortar for another intense study of how she responded to a press of his thumb here, a circular roll there. It seemed he accepted his mission of studying her with the utmost zeal and she did not wish to protest.
Even at the present moment, being guided with a warm hand on her lower back through yet another doorway, she could not stop thinking about his touch. Could they mayhaps postpone the rest of the tour for the afternoon and return to their chamber for another exciting roll in the sheets?
No, they had to continue, Visenya had to become better acquainted with what was her home.
He had shown her into the Round Hall with the throne upon which the Storm Kings of ages long forgotten had ruled from, guiding their people through times of peace and discord. The doors had groaned as they opened, welcoming the lord and lady into the massive hall, and the sudden gust of wind that travelled through the gate of the castle rustled the great yellow flags of House Baratheon awake. They flapped once then settled reluctantly to allow Lyonel to take charge of the vast chamber with his voice.
‘Here is where petitions and important meetings are held.’ His words echoed off the walls even though they were spoken right beside her. The walls curved around them, the sconces upon the pilasters flickered with bright firelight. Above their heads the ceiling rose some thirty or so feet with a circle of windows at the very top that encompassed the hall. ‘And where we shall also take meetings with my council.’
‘You intend to involve me?’ It would not have been out of the ordinary; there had been plenty of ladies of the realm who had been included in their own Houses’ councils. Though whether their voices carried much power in the deliberation and decision making varied from place to place.
‘Of course, I do.’ He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Lyonel stepped around her so he could look her head on, his hand gliding from her lower back to her hand which rested by her side. ‘I shall rely on your sage counsel… even if sometimes this lord or that one would be better off drowned in a barrel of cheap wine.’
Visenya could not help the playful roll of her eyes. But doubt had already settled in her mind: could she offer sage counsel? Could she be relied upon with such absolute certainty, or would the limits of her own knowledge and abilities prove her incapable of being nothing more than a pointless companion for the duration of such sessions?
‘You would have me be your voice of reason then?’ She smirked.
‘Unless you happen to agree that someone would benefit from having their head dunked in a barrel.’
‘I see… and if I choose to be merciful instead?’
‘I will find it in myself to acquiesce. Though not without some complaint,’ he murmured, his face closing the distance between them for a kiss. Her lips were well familiar with the taste of his at that point. Even then Visenya still felt a rush of excitement and a thrill running from the back of her neck down to her toes. She thought she might let him complain as much as he wanted as long as he kept kissing her like that. Especially if his hands trailed up her back thus while one of them dove through her curls to gather them between his fingers and gently pull her head back. He left a slow trail of kisses from the corner of her mouth to her neck where he found the spot he had likely marked as the one that made her eyes flutter, and began sucking on it eagerly.
There were still two guards stationed outside the open door, their backs thankfully facing their direction, but Visenya was surprised at how little she cared about their presence. Her hands were clutching at his shoulders, her mind scrambling to stay aware in order to keep her upright.
‘Lyonel…’ she whispered after a moment of gathering her wits.
His initial response was but a grunt against her neck. ‘I shall pass a law through my lands… only want to hear you speak my name.’
‘Lyonel, the guards,’ she warned, her voice strangled when she felt him lightly suck on the spot he had been focusing his attention on.
‘They answer to me,’ he reasoned. ‘They will not turn unless I tell them to.’
It was positively obscene, what he was implying. Would he truly be so bold as to take her right there on the stone floor, right in front of the dais where the throne sat so solemnly, with the bloody guards mere twenty feet away? Forget obscene, it was deranged. Carrying on as if they were a pair of performers in a pleasure house, fucking like rabits for a gathered crowd to bare witness. And why did Visenya feel the thrill only grow and not wane at the thought of being discovered?
Anyone could walk in and see him devouring her neck with his hands pawing at her dress as though it personally offended him. Anyone from a member of the household to Lyonel’s own mother, likely ruining the fine first impression she made on the Dowager.
That single thought immediately dowsed the growing fire in her lower belly and she had to push a hand between their bodies to halt him. Lyonel looked down at her as though she had just lashed him and Visenya almost let him get back to what he had been doing. The Seven above knew he could have convinced her that fucking at the base of his throne was nothing too scandalous if she was not so intent on proving to all in Storm’s End that she was up for the task, that she would make a good Lady Baratheon.
‘We need to continue our tour,’ she reminded him slowly.
Lyonel groaned, desperation and insatiable lust clear in the sound he produced, and let his forehead rest against hers. ‘You seem to have a knack for torturing me, my dear.’
‘I do like to see you struggle some,’ she admitted with a flirtatious smile and planted a quick peck to his bearded cheek. ‘But I would prefer to become better acquainted with my new home before I let you ravish me in full view of its residents.’
She stood beside him and looped her hand around the crook of his elbow, urging him to lead them on. Lyonel offered only a lopsided grin in response that failed to hide the spark in his eye. It told her that whatever she imagined he might have wanted to do to her paled before what he actually intended.
Gods be good.
The rest of the tour went by quickly. There were not so many chambers left to be visited within the main tower, and the pair had agreed to leave the inner courtyard for the next day. It would be easier for Visenya to get acquainted with the layout if she took it in little by little, and Lyonel was loath to leave the comfort of the bedchamber for too long when he could have spent yet another day with his face between her legs – a rather enjoyable activity for both of them.
The library greeted them with silence and the smell of hundreds of old tomes and scrolls that weighed down the shelves of the tall bookcases. The chamber was fairly narrow but with a tall ceiling, and slim, painted windows that allowed sunlight to pass through and illuminate the dust particles that floated through the air in an array of colours. Visenya dropped her hand from Lyonel’s elbow and walked closer to the nearest shelf, running her fingers along the frayed leather spines of one collection. Tales of Durran Godsgrief and his kin, and Histories and Legends of the Stormlands and its Peoples. Mayhaps she could come and grab the latter edition when there was time to spare; her mother had rarely spoken of her homeland to her, rarer even were the times she would speak of its stories. And Visenya had never pursued the knowledge herself, only the basics that her septa insisted she learn. If she were to be a proper consort to the Lord Paramount, she would do well to start with the history of the land.
A cough broke the brief silence from the corner of the room and Visenya poked her head around the bookcase to find maester Maynard hunched over a table, his nose buried in a massive tome. His wrinkled finger followed the lines on the page while his mouth mutely repeated what he read. He had not noticed their arrival until his eyes travelled up the page once more and caught the sight of them, straightening immediately.
‘Oh! My lord, my lady!’ He moved with a younger man’s speed around the table and bowed, the links of his maester’s chain hanging down to his knees. ‘Forgive my rudeness, I did not hear you come in.’
‘No apologies needed, maester! My lord husband was introducing me to the castle’s library,’ Visenya smiled at the man who had treated her after the river attack. He appeared even more dishevelled than he had been on the road, his fine hair sticking out in all directions and his watery eyes even more hazy with exhaustion. He had likely spent the entire morning poring over those yellowed pages.
‘I hope we did not interrupt an important study,’ she added and the maester bowed his head in thanks.
‘I appreciate your concern, Milady. I was simply looking through some old medical texts for another’s perspective on Lady Cassana’s ailment.’
Lyonel took a step further into the room, shoulder to shoulder with his wife. ‘Is my cousin’s illness grave?’
‘Nothing too concerning at the moment, Milord, I assure you… it is simply an odd disease.’ From the maester’s wringing hands and unfocused gaze, Visenya could tell it had puzzled him to find a condition he could not deduce. Lyonel had spoken a few times of his maester’s penchant for dramaticism, oft likening a cold to an incurable pox or something equally as deadly. Yet his eyes held genuine worry for his patient which was commendable.
‘It came suddenly and with little improvement in the past day. I had hoped the old maesters might have encountered something of a similar nature.’
‘I shall pray for Lady Cassana’s swift improvement,’ was all she could say in response and what was expected of her, after all. They said the gods favoured the sweet words of princesses over those of simple men though Visenya doubted that the gods held any particular fondness for her in particular, and it was unlikely that they would listen to her with any higher dose of interest.
Maester Maynard smiled and his glossy eyes brightened for a moment. ‘A prayer is always needful. Thank you, Milady. I shall see to my patient now, I leave you to the company of these books.’
He bowed once more and slipped between the towering bookcases, the library door clicking softly shut behind him.
‘I did tell you he is a dramatic sort,’ Lyonel snorted loudly and leaned back against the nearest bookshelf, arms crossed over his chest. The fabric of his shirt pulled taut across it, revealing a strip of skin where the ties had been left unbound. Visenya ignored his quip and moved over to the open medical tone. The two vellum pages revealed a list of all the maladies that had been recorded during the time of Lord Boremund Baratheon, along with their treatments and outcomes, but nothing stood out to her. Visenya’s knowledge of the human body was limited to what Rod’s uncle had taught them both. Her aged art tutor had snuck them into the chamber where the silent sisters tended to the bodies of the dead so they could observe the way the bodies looked as they were being embalmed. It was a queer custom, something Master Mallory had learned whilst improving his craft in Essos, and served as a guide to the shapes and proportions of a person beneath their skin which then helped one draw with better accuracy.
Thank the Seven her parents never learnt of those clandestine trips to the bowels of the Great Sept, elsewise even Baelor might have seen it as a step too far into the unseemly and spurned her tutor from the castle. And unlike the reluctant master-at-arms, Master Mallory encouraged her more unconventional pursuits and interests.
Visenya looked up from the great tome towards her husband. ‘He seemed genuinely troubled.’
‘And I will remind you that this is what he lives for,’ Lyonel countered. ‘I am sure Cassana has caught nothing more than a simple chill and the old coot thinks she is on the verge of dying.’
He pushed his back off of the surface he’d been leaning against, the old bookcase creaking and groaning like an aged beast. He made his way to her and closed the medical text with one hand whilst his other one cupped her cheek.
‘How do you like your home so far?’
‘I like it very much, Lyonel,’ she assured him with an easy smile. ‘You did not lie when you spoke of its grandeur, it is truly magnificent. And this library, it is–’
‘Dusty.’
‘It is splendid, hush!’ She gave his chest a lighthearted smack but still leaned into his touch.
‘I almost set fire to it as a boy,’ he admitted and cast his eyes about the room as if he could see the memory play out before them. ‘My old maester had irritated me so. I came in here with a torch, intending to set the whole bloody chamber ablaze.’
‘I suppose you were stopped in time given the lack of burn marks and plenitude of preserved works.’
Lyonel shook his head, lips pulled in a wide grin, and his curls danced over his forehead. ‘Ellyn was here already when I arrived, buried in some book that was twice the size of her. She gave me a thrashing with it and dragged me out by my ear. Quite fitting that she ended up marrying that bookish Hightower brat.’
‘Is that dislike for your good-brother I detect in your voice, Milord?’
‘Oh, he was a perfect match for Ellyn, just as much of a bookworm as my sister, though a fine drinking companion he is not. A terrible bore really. But I really do not have the desire to speak of him, I wanted to show you something else.’
Lyonel grabbed her hand and pulled her towards a wooden door at the very end of the chamber. The faint rustle of a draft tickled Visenya’s feet and she spied a thin line of daylight poking through the base of the door. And the distant howl of wind and sea came closer and closer. Lyonel pushed the handle down and led them both outside.
The crashing of waves below and the roaring of the winds overpowered Visenya’s senses at first, and she squinted her eyes against the sudden burst of light. Her hands shot out to cover them, trusting Lyonel to guide her wherever he had taken them both. Stone slabs under her feet, a strong current that carried the salty smell of seaweed blew through her hair and scattered the tidy style Shyra had created that morning. The layers of her ochre skirts danced wildly between and around her legs. Her eyes slowly accustomed to the brightness, hand falling down to her side so she could hold down the dress after she had futilely tried to push her hair out of her face.
They had found themselves on the castle’s battlements, on the seaward side, their feet treading on stone as pale as the clouds above. The masonry was immaculate; if there ever was a craftsperson whose hands were the gods’ own, never committing a single mistake to stone, then that must have been he who had worked on the creation of Storm’s End. Each slab, each stone brick, was so expertly placed that it practically melted into the structure, leaving no space – not even a miniscule lip – for the wind to find purchase and bring down the curtain wall that protected the castle.
Lyonel led her to the edge, letting her rest her arms against the merlon while he caged her from the back. A hand found its way to her back once more, warm and heavy, keeping her steady when the rush of blood flooded her head at the sight of the massive drop below. It might have seemed like an abyss at first glance until the waves of the roaring sea slammed against the rocks, spraying pearl white foam high in the air before the next wave hit.
Blackwater Bay was always calm, rarely angering even during a summer’s storm. The waters were populated with tiny specks that were made up of fishing boats and merchant ships; they would not have found it easy to rest there if the sea gave trouble. And it was only natural that it should be tranquil, King’s Landing was located in one of the deepest points of an enclosed bay, this one however was much more open and thus allowing the sea to show its true power.
It was perfectly understandable why many deemed Storm’s End to be nigh impregnable. Even if one took a fleet of ships to attack from the water, they would either fail to find safe anchorage in the turbulent waters or any attempt they made to climb the smooth curtain wall would be equally unsuccessful.
The waves kept crashing loudly against rock and stone.
Lyonel moved her hair out of her face, the wind seemingly obeying him easier than it did her, his other hand sliding around her waist to the front of her bodice. His breath brushed softly against her ear. ‘Of all the places in my home, I wanted to bring you here the most. It is… in my mind, the one that seems most similar to you.’
‘Why so?’
His soft chuckle rang close to her face. ‘The sight of the open sea. So wild and impossibly stubborn. Sums you up quite well I’d say.’
She lifted her head and looked at him over her shoulder with a daring twitch of her eyebrow. He had a curious way of complimenting her though he was not entirely wrong; she’d always been deemed willful and a troublesome part of her family, still nobody had ever compared her to those same aspects of the sea’s.
‘I could argue you are no different, Milord. But I will assume that this was meant as some kind of convoluted compliment nonetheless.’
‘It was,’ Lyonel pushed his lips closer to her cheekbone, surrounding her with warmth whilst the wind still nipped at her bare face and hands. ‘It is what I like most about you, you are not so different from me. My equal. That… amongst other things.’
The hand which had been pressing against her bodice trailed down the front of her dress towards her navel and stopped just between her upper thigh and the spot between her legs that had been begging for his touch for some hours. If Visenya had thought herself desperate and needy when Lyonel had held an invisible barrier between them, she was now even more so. Aching and trembling each time his fingers wandered within a hand-width of her most sensitive parts, and the bastard had learned them to perfection.
I should really start keeping some of my secrets close to my chest or he will have me completely unravel.
‘Y-you really are a- a pest, Milord. This, uh- place is no less open to the world’s eyes than the throne room.’
‘A pest I may be,’ he growled. ‘A pest that needs you badly. If you fear being discovered with my cock in your sweet cunt tell me to stop. Just tell me now… and I promise, I will.’
No words came to Visenya’s lips at first save a wanton gasp when he gripped her breast through her clothes. All she could offer was a yelp of ‘Don’t stop.’
His hands hurried across her body and his own, pushing her front against the merlon, raising her skirts, struggling to undo the strings of his breeches at the same time. Visenya, in her own turn, tried to help him as best she could – holding up her bundled dress and reaching behind herself to take his cock or to grab onto his elbows, neck.
Lyonel turned her face a little further to the side, smashing his lips against hers, consuming her as hungrily as ever, his tongue invading her mouth. Visenya felt something press against her folds and push with just as much fervor as her lips were being kissed.
‘Fuck, you are so wet, my dear.’ The head of his cock glided sloppily along her slit, gathering up all the moisture that had been gathering there since he had begun kissing her neck in the Round Hall. ‘All for me – bugger! – gods, this is all from this morning, huh? Still full of my cum, you greedy woman?’ Visenya’s cunt squeezed expectantly around nothing, already familiar with the shape of him but no less impatient in welcoming him back.
A pitiful little gasp of his name that joined the wind halted on her tongue as Lyonel thrust inside her. A hand reached for her face, his fingers delving between her lips, and Visenya madly sucked down on them. She circled her tongue around the digits and wetted them well before they slipped out, replaced by Lyonel’s lips once more.
‘I’m gon- seven fucking- fill you up again,’ he grunted into her mouth while his hips snapped like a whip against her arse. His fingers reached down beneath the bundled up layers of skirt to touch her bundle of nerves. A lightning-like shock went through Visenya’s body, from her core straight to every corner of her being. Burning hot. ‘And again… and again until you’re so full of me.’
She yelped, completely lost to the feeling of him ramming his cock inside her combined with the words that were spoken with scorching certainty. Her mind was in a state of fog, all sense of propriety gone along with the ability to form coherent thought. If there was even the slightest chance of a guard walking onto the battlements, or someone overhearing their passionate tryst – despite the joint roar of wind and sea – she would not care.
Visenya gripped the stone before her harder, breasts pressed hard against the edge of the merlon. The burning sensation in her belly only grew stronger, more demanding. She felt as though she was rising in the air, rushing like the waves below to slam into something, to crash and explode into foam.
‘Oh, I fucking feel you… pulsate around me. Do you want me to stuff you again, good girl?’
She attempted to speak, to beg him to go ahead and just fill her. She was so close she might as well be on the very brink of ecstasy.
‘Fucked you dumb already, have I? Fuck… ugh, f-fuck-’ His thrusts were erratic, hips stuttering. He was catching up to her, reaching that beautiful peak of pleasure. ‘I want you full of me… always. Even when I put a- a babe in your belly… you’ll feel me here.’
The heel of his hand pushed into her stomach as proof of his intent.
‘Ah! Lyonel- I’m so close!’
‘I know, beauty, I know - fuck - come for me. Let me feel you milk my cock for all its worth. Gods- right there. Right. Fucking. There.’
Each word was accentuated with a hard snap of his hips until he hit a spot so deep that Visenya went nearly blind with the rushing sense of pleasure that wrecked its way through her. She toppled over, cheek pressed against cold stone, the waves of her release ebbing and flowing like those at the bottom of the cliff. Lyonel’s forehead rested between her shoulder blades and he panted heavily. Two hands came up to hold her hips for leverage, fingers dug into the pliant flesh. And the princess could sense him twitch within her, coating her walls with his release.
If the wind still blew around them, Visenya was deaf to it and she felt no chill on her flushed skin. All she could really sense was her husband wrapped around her back like a cloak and his hot breath blowing near the back of her dress.
‘Should I… uh, expect… more of such public expressions of your, um… passion, Milord?’ She asked breathlessly.
Lyonel let out a rough chuckle that sounded closer to a groan as he began to slowly pull out from her. ‘I would hate to share the beauty of your pleasure with others… but somehow it gives me… great satisfaction indeed.’
A warm trickle made its way down her inner thigh, coating them with a fine sheen, and Visenya clenched her legs together to keep it all inside for as long as she needed to.
Despite their renewed companionship which had transformed into something deeper, something more than just the ordinary union between a man and his wife, Visenya was still soberingly aware of the blade of duty hanging over her head. Jena’s honest words at the feast had been intoning inside her head; she had to help secure Lyonel’s line, she had to come to be with child if only to make her position in his House a certain one. And to be of help to him.
But for now she shifted her focus back to the man himself – helping her right her skirts, kissing her, smiling at her like she was precious beyond what duty demanded.
‘How have you found the early days of marriage, princess?’ Jena asked coyly over the plate of sweetmeats that had been brought to her earlier.
Visenya had found herself spending the following morning in the company of her good-sister and Lyonel’s mother, going over details about the running of the castle and its lands, properly meeting the household, introducing herself over, and over, and over… It had not been an entirely wasted pursuit, she had reminded herself, it was what was required and she had to deal with it, sporting a stiff upper lip.
She had woken beside Lyonel yet again, wrapped in his arms and their legs tangled together. They had enjoyed each other’s warmth and company until his chamberlain arrived to announce that he had to prepare His Lordship for the day ahead. A meeting had been called forth by his uncle who had needed to discuss matters of the lands and some issues that had been brought up on before they had left for Ashford.
Splendid, Visenya had thought, I will thus learn best what is needed of me.
She had called for Shyra, exchanging some pleasantries with the young girl who did not report any more ill treatment coming her way from the rest of the staff. Visenya had hoped that the brief chat that Lyonel had had with his steward yesternight had been enough to quell any lingering resentment. And as it had appeared, they had dropped the matter and had simply decided to ignore her for the time being. Unease still gnawed at Visenya; she did not believe it right to keep the girl as a servant even if she was a bastard. The explanation and reasoning Lyonel had given her had seemed as a pitiful excuse, but she had kept her mouth shut on the matter. She knew that if she truly wanted to help the girl, she would have to maneuver the intricate relationships within the castle walls and hopefully steer her husband into finally giving his half-sister what was rightfully hers.
One thing at a time.
The pair, still reeling with newlywedded bliss and the constant craving for each other, had made their way down the steps of Storm’s End towards the Round Hall where the meeting would be held. Visenya had had one arm around Lyonel’s and the other holding out the long skirt of her dress so as to not trip over the beautiful fabric. Shyra had selected another masterfully crafted design that would serve as a silent reminder of Visenya’s new position – a simple underdress of ivory silk and a heavier sable gown, embroidered with golden thread. The garment was still too unfamiliar to her, the waistline too high, and her tits were pushed so far up that they nearly kissed her chin when she angled her head down. Although Lyonel had voiced his pleasure with her appearance, claiming that ‘If one possessed fine jewels, they should not keep them hidden away.’ Which was, of course, his own way of saying that he enjoyed the sight of her tits in his face more than the actual enhancing qualities of the garment itself. And with them momentarily alone in their bedchamber, he had lowered his mouth onto her breast, burying his nose in the crease between the two globes, and left a searing, wet kiss to her flesh.
‘You know,’ he had murmured against her skin. ‘You could sometimes forgo such… intricate small clothes and simply go about with nothing but your shift.
‘And here I thought that you derived pleasure from seeing them displayed so well for your depraved gaze,’ she countered playfully, pinching his side. ‘You are contradicting yourself, Milord.’
‘I would simply find it much easier to get you out of them if I had one less layer to bother with,’ Lyonel had shrugged. ‘Though the benefits are plenty and I welcome them heartily.’
The great doors to the Round Hall had been left open and in the threshold stood the castellan, maester Maynard, Walter the steward whom she had met the night before, Simon, Axel and Borys too along with their father. Visenya had cringed inwardly at the sight of the greybeard whose eternal look of displeasure persisted upon seeing her arrival. Missing from the gathered group of men were Garon who had been called back to Mistwood by his wife Lady Mertyns who had likely missed her husband’s presence and Orryn who had other duties to attend to seeing as he was considered still too inexperienced to join his kin in council.
‘Good morrow!’ Lyonel had greeted in his usual boisterous manner and the small crowd bowed their heads in respect, a broken choir of salutations rising to meet his own. ‘My wife will join the council today, I expect you all to make her feel welcome.’
The first and only objection had come, as Visenya should have expected, from Orys the Grimace.
‘Is it not too soon to involve the princess in matters of the land?’ he had asked slowly, his voice measured although she could clearly hear the distrust that laced each word.
It was not an entirely unfamiliar thing to be disliked for what family she had come from, but to be disliked without even the intent of seeing that there was more to her than her maiden name and origin was another thing indeed. It was stupid, it was petty, and Visenya was trying fiercely to understand the man’s aversion to her. She had had as little say in the matter of her betrothal to Lyonel as he himself had, mayhaps even less so. Orys could not, in good faith, keep holding her responsible for it.
‘My wife is the lady of this castle,’ Lyonel had argued. ‘She is as deserving of a spot in my council as any of you.’
‘I do not doubt the princess has a right to it… I wonder, however, if she is equal to the task,’ his uncle had persisted. It had been an embarrassing thing to be talked of as if she were but a child who was meaning to involve herself in the dealings of adults. She had a mind of her own, a decent one at that, she could learn- why did Orys have to be such a tremendous cunt about it! ‘Mayhaps if she takes the time to study what her role entails under the guidance of your mother, she will be better prepared.’
Visenya had thought it unlikely that he was as concerned about her preparedness as he let on, but she had neither the temperament nor desire to simply stand there like a lame horse waiting to be put out of its misery. She recalled the white mount of Ser Hardyng, its thick white neck washed in red, impaled by her cousin’s lance, and the stablehand who had made his way to spare it in its final moments. She could offer that same mercy to herself and spare herself the uncomfortable experience of sitting in the same chamber as her husband’s mean-faced uncle.
She had patted Lyonel’s arm and had plastered a mollifying smile onto her face despite her inner turmoil. ‘Your uncle has the truth of it, Milord. I should not join until I have my bearings.’
‘Visenya, you are perfectly capable-’
‘I know.’ She had squeezed his hand in reassurance of her words. ‘But there are indeed things that I should learn first, if you are to rely on my sage counsel. I will see you later.’
She could bide her time, soak up all the information that she could be given and build a foundation impossible to topple, then she could prove herself indispensable. Her place by Lyonel’s side would be unquestionable, and not a single man, not even Orys bloody Baratheon could find fault in that.
And thus she had found herself taking to further exploring the castle grounds with Jena and Lady Viola, smiling politely at numerous faces, trying to retain the memory of each of their names and occupations. Learning the way from the feast hall to the kitchens, from the kitchens to the stables, from the stables to the kennels. And finishing it all off with a brief interlude at the sept for a prayer and to light a candle – something proper, something expected, and very much within a lady’s scope.
The soles of her feet had begun to ache and burn as though she had not walked on stone alone but onto thousand upon thousand of red-hot needles. The skin of her face, more so her cheeks, had strained awfully whenever she tried to muster yet another gracious smile. Her throat had run dry, scratching horribly with each following second spent in conversation.
And Visenya had never been more bored in her life.
Keep going, she had needed to remind herself time and time again. She would very well excel in this endeavor.
Thankfully, Jena had begged her mother to have pity on her, mostly her “poor, swollen ankles”, and let them all withdraw for a much deserved respite. Visenya had been astonished, watching the young Lady Tarth handle the whole excursion around her childhood home with little complaint save a few grunts of discomfort whenever the babe moved or kicked particularly hard. He is half Baratheon, Jena would fondly say and smooth a hand down the widely protruding front of her periwinkle dress, both Lyonel and my daughter were not much different. You will see when you yourself are with child.
Would a child of hers be as boisterous in her womb? Would it prod and shuffle inside her, restless as the sea on the other side of that curtain wall, cause her as much discomfort as her good-sister seemed to experience? Jena took it on the chin, quite adept already given it was her third.
Would Visenya be as well accustomed to motherhood as her?
She had little to recommend her in that regard. Her mother had never shared what the experience entailed with her, only that it would some day be her responsibility. Her septa had reiterated that maxim. And Grandmama had only ever spoken of the beauty of her own experience, having fallen in love with her betrothed as soon as he had spoken to her. A love which had borne fruit in the face of her father and uncles, although again little had been uttered as to the experience itself.
Any child of hers and Lyonel would be a fruit of them both; half-Baratheon, half-Targaryen, and likely harder to tame than either of them. It was a sweet reverie to indulge in, completely separated from the thought of duty. And probably not something that she would have really considered had things gone differently in the wake of the Trial. Child-bearing had seemed such a distant possibility before, now it was very much real… especially with how enthusiastically the pair of them seemed to be going at it.
‘Pray forgive me, I was lost in thought for a moment. What did you say?’
Visenya lifted her eyes from the small bundle of scrolls to look at Jena across the small table. She had grabbed the unopened messages, wanting to see if anyone had remembered to offer her a kind thought. Just a thought even, she would not need more. Stubbornly, Visenya still held out hope that amongst the handful of rolled up pieces of parchment and all the undiscovered words that waited for her was a letter from Valarr. And therefore she had briefly stopped by the lady’s bedchamber to fetch the scrolls and find out for herself. The quicker she did, the quicker she could be free of those anxious thoughts. And send out her replies to all those well-wishers.
Jena’s smile widened and Visenya noticed an all too familiar flame flash in her bright green eyes. ‘I was wondering if you have been enjoying the early days of marriage but I can clearly see that my brother has improved from his earlier bout of… stiffness.’
Visenya swallowed a snicker and shook her head. Well, stiff he still was but in the right place at least. She might have found her match in Jena Tarth, someone as unconventionally outspoken as her, someone who did not shy away from the occasional inappropriate remark. Though it seemed like Lady Viola was not as amused with her daughter’s words as she dropped her embroidery hoop onto her lap and gave her a reprimanding look.
‘What did I say about not wanting to hear about what my son does in the sanctity of his bedchamber!’
Jena shrugged and grabbed another slice of lemon cake from the tray in front of her. ‘I spoke nothing of the sort, mother. But like I told you, it is something that is only natural for us ladies to discuss.’
‘Not in the presence of the lord’s mother at least,’ Lady Viola replied as she demurely sipped from her wine cup.
‘Well, a babe must come from somewhere.’
‘Jena Baratheon!’
‘Tarth, mother. It’s Tarth.’
‘I swear to the Mother, of all my daughters…’ Visenya almost dropped the scrolls on the floor but her body eased quickly upon seeing the lack of actual irritation in Lady Viola’s face. If anything, she was trying her best to hide the mild amusement in her expression. ‘Although it is long overdue that Lyonel blesses this House with a child of his own.’
He had already, however, he had had a child. Visenya had not forgotten their conversation, or the revelation that he had sired a daughter years ago. She may not have been a trueborn, but she had been his. Half-Baratheon, half… somebody else. What would have happened to that poor little thing if she had indeed lived? Would she have had to join the staff in the castle like Shyra? A black-haired beauty with big blue eyes that held his fire in the circle of her irises – a constant reminder that Lyonel had strayed from the proper path. Would she have been punished for her existence, hidden away to spare Lady Viola her blushes?
Visenya opened the first scroll and pretended to read the first line while she deliberated. She wanted to bring up the point to the Dowager, see if she can get her to ease up on the hard grip she seemed to have around the running of her household. The princess assumed that at some point, Lady Viola would choose to stand down, let her take over. When that day came, and if Visenya had learned enough to be able to navigate the intricacy of the situation, she might be able to elevate Shyra to her rightful position. Or at least make it so she doesn’t have to wait on another for the rest of her days. And if her relationship with her good-mother developed better than that with her own, she might even reach that point in her barely stitched up plan without so much maneuvering.
Her eyes began to focus on parchment’s words more and more.
Visenya,
We pray for you in this troubled time and for the Gods to bless you in your union with Lord Lyonel. Go with grace, do not stray, and bring honour to your family.
Your Aunt Aelinor
Brief, lacking much emotion, very much in her aunt’s style. Aelinor Penrose had never shown much interest in her, mayhaps because of her own troubles, or more than likely because she was a frightfully pious woman and Visenya was anything but. She prayed, of course, as did anyone else who hoped there was some higher power that could bring peace and aid to their existence, but she was anything but righteous. If the princess ever told a septon of the things she had done prior to her marriage, he would have fainted first then deemed her the gravest sinner of the realm.
Visenya dropped the scroll on the table and moved on to the next one. It smelled so strongly of ash it might have been rolled around through a cold hearth – a message from Dragonstone.
Sweet girl,
I pray this message finds you in the comfort and safety of your new home. I was distraught from the news of your father’s passing. He was a good man and we all loved him dearly. I am sure you will make him and the rest of the family proud as Lady of House Baratheon. Do your duty and all will be well, there will be many eyes upon you in these early days of matrimony. But you have your father’s wit, I do not doubt you will succeed. Write to me as often as you want, the Seven above know that I have all the time on my hands for it now.
It had been sent by aunt Elaena, an aged relation and a woman that had not been a prevalent part of Visenya’s life. She had sequestered herself to the family’s keep on Dragonstone some years ago, after the death of her last husband and one true love. She was still someone that the princess had admired for her intelligence, her sharp tongue, and her bold demeanor. There was one time in particular, when Visenya had been a wee one and showing the early signs of her own rebellious streak, that she had been caught by her septa with a pair of scissors, trying to cut her hair to match the older Targaryen princess. And to, hopefully, make it so nobody remarked about her oddly coloured hair anymore. It had seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea yet it had earned her a smack across the hands and a lengthy lecture about the punishment for girls who messed with their god-given looks. Something about suffering for eternity in a lake of fire in one of the seven hells although her own family’s stories told that they came from dragons so a fiery bath was not something that the septa could have scared her with. And it might have actually been something that Visenya would enjoy.
Even if she was indeed a sinner and the gods sent her to hell, she could rely on spending perpetuity in a bath that was to her liking.
The rest of the letters had a similar content. Condolences about her father’s passing, a reminder of her duty to her House – the one she was born to and the one of her husband. One right after the other, filled with empty words that brought no comfort, showed little to no care. And not a single word from her brothers. Not from Matarys, not from Valarr. Bitter disappointment swelled within her like a wave charging the curtain wall of Storm’s End before it crashed like thunder against the stone.
Whatever tether had still been attached between her and her family was being loudly severed before her very eyes, against her wishes. She was not their concern anymore, the only thing they needed from her was to not be the embarrassment they likely expected her to be. The wild child of Baelor Targaryen, the constant thorn in mother’s side, the reason for someone’s own blushes.
Gods, she had never wished more that she could have had her father’s guidance. He would not have guilted her for the life she had led, he would have assured her that all will be well whether she succeeded in her efforts or not, and he would have been more concerned with her happiness rather than duty. He would want you to be happy too, her grandmother’s words replayed like a torturous melody in her mind.
Visenya abandoned the pile of opened scrolls, having lost all the excitement that had been simmering in her earlier. She promised herself she would toss them in the fire later, let the coldness melt away. There was no place for doubt in the present; she would concentrate on learning the ropes from Lady Viola, she would try and help Shyra’s situation, and she would succeed in it all because she could. And because she could rely on the fact that she was not married to some lord who would have treated her as a burden, but to a man like Lyonel.
And a finer ally there had never been.
Next chapter
A/N: So sorry for keeping you waiting; I was dealing with some self-worth issues after being turned down by one of the universities and I doubted I'm even that good of a writer. I'm feeling a little more reassured now, especially since my absolute sweetheart of a boyfriend reminded me it was their loss and you wouldn't be following this story if it wasn't actually well-written and interesting. I hope you all like this chapter. And as always, likes and comments are much appreciated!
hello, i’ve been enjoying reading the dragon and the stag! may i ask how many chapters do you have planned? can’t wait for future chapters ❤️
Hey, Anon! Thank you so much 😍
I initially planned for it to be around 20 chapters long, but now I think it might have more than that given the pacing I’ve set. I hope to be able to post Ch.15 tonight (I’ve just been feeling a little down in the dumps for the past week and my creative juices have been a little weak)
Sorry for the delay with chapter 15, I’ve been dealing with some light burnout. But it’s on its way and I’m making sure to go slowly so I can deliver a really good one for you all. 😘🌸
A/N: I started chapter 15 yesterday, but had this going through my mind for the past few days so I thought I might explore what Nye and Lyonel's relationship would be like in present day.
Wordcount: 1.7K
What would Nye's life look like:
The Targaryens would definitely be the Old money/aristocracy type, with too many offspring to account for. Daeron and Myriah were the OG "it" couple of their day, surprisingly unproblematic (unlike what most current British nobility is like) and extremely charitable;
Myriah definitely faced racism when marrying into the family (despite having the same rank and similar background as her husband, but hey racists are dumb like that) which trickled down to Baelor, then to Visenya based on how they look;
Baelor handles it as gracefully as he would canonically, similar to his mother, but Nye would definitely be the kind of person to verbally BREAK someone for the slightest microagression;
Visenya is still an artist, likely going to some art academy as a child, where she meets Rod and the two become fast friends. I picture him being put off by her being a toff at first and it takes him a while to warm up to her, but afterwards they can literally never be separated. Most definitely the one to radicalise her from an early age. (Visenya always felt like a total champaign socialist to me, I will accept no argument on that front.) Later they're joined by Nira, and their trio moves to some tiny flat in London (aka King's Landing) to pursue art careers in their 20s;
Visenya is more than likely using an alias to ensure that people want her art for its merits and not because of who her family is. And would vehemently refuse any financial support from her father, even though the rent of that flat is way beyond what any of them have made so far from commissions and small indie exhibitions. Rod would still receive a more than generous, monthly donations to his Patreon Tip Jar or Ko-fi from an "anonymous" benefactor whenever the rent and bills are due;
"Yassss Daddy Baelor" has been whispered numerous times by him whenever he sees that £2,000 tip appear like clockwork in his digital wallet;
And lets face it, if they live in London, then they're likely in one of the art-hubs like Camden or Hackney and their rent would be INSANE ifykyk;
Visenya is involved in a few minor scandals because of what the media called "promiscuous behaviour" and after that she only hangs around and sleeps with people that she can be sure of - like Rod and Nira, every once in a while when they want a third. No more one night stands that would end up being plastered over the tabloids, followed by a brief, icy text from her mother with a link to whatever website had posted the story first;
In this modern setting, Jena would not be upset with her daughter due to her gender, but she is very exacting and definitely more critical of her than she is of her brothers. Especially as she grows older and her unsavoury run-ins with the media outweigh any positive thing she ever accomplishes;
Baelor tries his best to pay off whatever publication wants to run some sordid story about his sweet girl but there was always one or two that fall through the cracks. And the paparazzi are a persistent bunch of fuckers;
But after some particularly intimate set of pictures of Visenya are sold to The Sun by a nasty ex-boyfriend, Jena demands that she return to the family estate while they figure out damage control;
And what coincided with her return was a polo match/birthday celebration that some friend of her grandfather's is throwing for his daughter in the countryside;
Where she meets Lyonel after not seeing him for years.
What would Lyonel's life look like:
The Baratheon family is just as filthy rich though more well-liked, real darlings of the media due to their openness and better relationship with the general public;
I would say that if the Targaryens were an old family name, then the Baratheons have probably been around since Norman times;
Lyonel goes the classic upper class route of being sent off to boarding school as a boy, then to uni for a degree he did not particularly care for which he quit before the end of his first year to travel around the world on the family's yacht - The Crowned Stag;
He still has his sisters whom he adores, and his mother whom he is always trying to win the approval of despite some of his less-than-appropriate escapades at uni and a little bit after that;
He loves polo, and I mean LOVES it. If he is not off to the Mediterranean on The Stag, he is on a horse. The polo was one of the sports they practiced at his boarding school. It's there that he earned the moniker "The Laughing Storm" because every time he scored, or managed to push an opponent to the ground (all within the rules if it's a "ride-off" apparently), his laughter would boom across the field;
His useless cunt of a father dies (somehow the tabloids never mentioned that he did so in the arms of his 17th mistress) and Lyonel had to go home to manage the family estate;
He has his own run-ins with the paps: wild drinking sprees, shagging sprees, etc. The Laughing Storm was dubbed the Bad Boy of Storm's End and the media ate it up, the tabloids being significantly more pleasant to him than to other people👀;
He learns of Lord Ashford throwing a little get-together for his daughter's 13th birthday, learns that there would be a polo match, and my boy is GOING. Plus, Lord Cafferen owed his father's business a large sum of money and he could intimidate the old bastard into settling his debts;
He meets Visenya at the local pub, the day before the first polo match.
The Ashford Tourney Polo Tournament:
Visenya is definitely there against her wishes - "why the fuck am I being punished for what that bellend of an ex did??" - though things seem less daunting when she sees that uncle Maekar dragged her little cousin Egg along;
Egg is very excited to share that he picked up a sport while she was down in London, and even invited his rugby coach to join them for the Tournament (so he could play on the family's team, of course);
Dunk is an absolute sweetheart, very out of his depths amongst all the posh twats, but Visenya is glad that there is at least one normal person around her age;
She makes sure to avoid Aerion at all costs, given that he is being entirely too pleased about her latest "scandal". She doesn't need an unflattering picture of herself beating her cousin with her pumps across the pages of every newspaper, magazine, and online publication;
Before they even make it to Ashford Manor, she has decided that she'll sit somewhere out of the way and do some sketches of the meadow and the horses. No need to get stares from people that would try and pretend they have never ever seen a copy of The Sun, and especially not its latest edition;
She goes to the pub in the village on Dunk's invitation after Egg had tired himself out for the day (that baby is going nowhere NEAR a cider in the big 2026). The pub is packed for a regular Tuesday night, but given the sheer number of people who have come for the Ashfords' get-together, it makes sense that they would all swarm the nearest drinking spot;
Though Visenya was hoping for a quiet drink and not a situation that could very easily compromise her yet again. All it takes is one person with a phone and a need for some quick cash;
Lyonel is there, three pints deep AT LEAST, buying rounds for everyone, and has practically usurped the pub's sound system to play "the classics" as he calls them (or Mr. Brightside, Sally Can Wait, Roxanne)
He notices Dunk first - how could he not, the lad is practically a head above the rest of the crowd - and jumps off of the table he was dancing on to introduce himself. He doesn't notice Nye when he gets to their spot, he's not ignoring her but the big man is so interesting (and maybe a little scared of Lyonel's immediate friendliness);
Dunk (re)introduces them when he doesn't know what else to say and Lyonel is even more intrigued to find one of the black sheep of the Targaryen clan there as well;
He might know a little about her from the stories online and his first assumption is that she is Baelor's spoilt little princess;
Nye gives him a once over, tells Dunk she'll pop over to the bar, and leaves unceremoniously to buy her own drink. "One glass of Sauvignon and back to the Manor" she tells herself since she doesn't need another lecture for her mother;
Lyonel has his little bird dance-off with Dunk after the the two quickly down a few shots, but the Laughing Storm seems just as intrigued by the woman sitting at the bar with a single glass of wine that she seems to be nursing slowly while trying not to draw attention to herself;
After his mate (and somewhat distant cousin) Beesbury steals the limelight with some very lively dance moves, Lyonel sneaks off briefly to the bar for another drink and even sneakily slides across the counter to where Visenya is finishing her wine and is about to leave;
He is flirty, she is hardly impressed. Even if he has gotten hotter with the few whites in his beard and hair, and the pics of him online hardly do him justice (of course, she's seen them, it doesn't hurt to look) but she doesn't need the trouble that would more than likely come from associating with the Bad Boy of Storm's End in the present moment;
Lyonel tries to keep her a little longer, but when he makes some inane comment about the two of them "practically keeping the tabloid industry alive" that she has had enough. She drops a five pound note in the tip jar, sharply wishes Lyonel a good evening, goes to grab Drunk, and leaves angrier than she had been all week;
In this AU, I think Lyonel would suggest the fake relationship arrangement since his good press would help her in a way, plus he is too intrigued by that woman to let her go so easily.
A/N: Just riffing here, but as always would love to know what you all think!
The Dragon and The Stag (Lyonel Baratheon x Targaryen!OC)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN // Previous chapter // Masterlist // Next chapter
Wordcount: 8K
Summary: Visenya Targaryen was far enough down the succession order that she considered her place in court to be near unimportant. Her father had promised to let her decide on her own time when to be married and instead she decided to enjoy life. Wine, art, music, sex. Everything that a princess of six and twenty should have never been doing. And then the decision was made for her: pick a lord, be betrothed, get married, and cease her indiscretions. But the headstrong princess would not be so easily reined in.
Warnings: MDNI +18; feral!Lyonel once again; p in v and unprotected sex (but I guess it's fine because they did not have condoms in western and they are married); feral!Lyonel; riding; crude language; mentions of alcohol; FERAL!LYONEL; also he is obsessed with his wife's tits because who wouldn't be (Visenya's got MELONS)
A/N: I must've been tired because I needed to finish the last chapter yesterday night and I passed out after dinner. But it's here now, happy Saturday everybody!
She was beautiful. She was warm. And she was all his.
In the bedchamber’s subtle light, Lyonel readily admired the golden glow of Visenya’s skin, her writhing body pressed flush against him while his fingers were buried down to the knuckles inside her. She was like a pool of light herself, a pond reflecting the sun, a golden coin, a pendant, the inside of a shell.
She was beautiful, and all his.
There was nothing to interrupt them anymore, neither destiny nor death were looming beyond those walls, and his sole attention was undividedly focused on the woman in his arms. His lady wife. Bare and glistening before his famished eyes – save for her wispy stockings that were still tied around her lower thighs, her gold jewellery, and the string of pearls he himself had put around her neck – and he could swear upon old gods and new that he had never seen a better sight. Years of travelling the wide world, seeing the wonders of Essos, seeing a thousand upon thousand of beautiful and captivating people, and yet his wife coming apart upon his fingers while he watched her through the mirror’s edge was by far the most glorious sight of all.
And there were none to interrupt them, none that would certainly dare.
‘Get on the bed,’ he told her roughly. He did not intend to sound so strangled, but his body was on fire. Or resembling a bowstring that was pulled too taut. A force thrummed just beneath his skin, his calm and patience hanging by a thin thread that was precariously gliding across the sharpened edge of a knife.
Visenya made her way, shakily like a newborn fawn, and Lyonel felt a satisfaction that could have made victory in battle seem common, unimpressive. His eyes followed her hungrily as she laid back across the wide mattress, propping herself up on her elbows to watch him too. Her heels were resting on the edge of the mattress, her knees knocking together though he could still spy her glistening core.
Gods be good! ‘Fuck… me.’
He had already had a small taste of her and, by the fucking Seven, he wanted to bury his face in that feast and taste some more. Gluttony might have been thought of a sin, a grave one at that, though he cared little about such trivial matters. If the gods wanted to exact their punishment, Lyonel would have welcomed their attempt, however unsuccessful it might have been.
Visenya was breathing fast, her chest was rising and falling with each laboured inhale. Waiting, watching, like a hawk. She might have tried to exude some patience as well. Her need, however, was quite plain to see.
Lyonel’s hand came to rest on the buckle of his belt, his fingers made quick work of the leather strap to pull it free and drop it at his feet. There was but a string now that held his trousers up and his cock was weeping for release from its tight confines. Visenya seemed to have had similar thoughts rushing in her mind for her violet eyes were flitting between his face and his lower half. Waiting still. Her tongue slipped between her parted lips and wetted the plush bottom one; she was as hungry as he.
And just as restless, despite her attempts to appear patient.
The trousers were pushed down his legs and kicked away, along with his heavy leather boots, Lyonel had little patience left for any of those items anymore. Visenya’s chest expanded with a sudden sharp breath as she took in the sight of him fully bared at last.
They had hardly had any time to take these matters slowly and observe on the eve before the Trial, and there had been no good reason for it on the road. Lyonel had done his best to cast his eyes away, to leave her side whenever Shyra came to dress her. Harder enough still were the moments when she’d asked for a bath to be prepared for her at one of those blasted inns, when all he could think about was her. Dripping wet and shining like a pearl.
It was slow, meticulous torture. He had on several occasions had to take cover behind a tree, or inside some broom closet, in order to relieve himself. Hiding like a criminal for in those fragmented moments of desperate need for a release, he felt like a criminal himself. Guilty of wanting his own wife with the earth-shattering force of a stampede.
He reached for the bracelets to remove, wanting as much of his skin free to feel her, but she stopped him with a shaky voice. ‘Keep them on. I like- I like how they feel… on me.’
Lyonel dropped his hands at his sides and stalked towards the bed, intent on finally making good on his promise from the night they drunkenly danced in his pavilion. The night he witnessed the true face behind the porcelain mask of the princess – a woman of exuberance, daring, and desire. Taste her fiery cunt and drink dragonfire, he believed his exact words had been. And little had changed from those earlier thoughts, his want had not waned even if he had somehow led her to think he had. The need for her, this burning obsession almost, had only intensified with each moment he chose to hold himself back.
Nothing held him back now.
Visenya’s legs fell further apart. She beckoned him in like one of those mythical creatures that lured sailors to their death by showing them their deepest desires. And Lyonel let himself be thus enchanted; he reached for her and glided his hands down her thighs. Soft and supple. A storied creature of beauty and lust.
Once he found purchase, he pulled her fast towards himself and the edge of the mattress.
She gasped. ‘Lyonel- what-’
‘I need to taste you,’ he panted and began lowering himself down so his face could come closer to her folds. Visenya’s foot shot up and pressed gently against his left peck, barring him from his mark.
‘I can see that.’ Her smile was inviting though there was a hint of mischief behind those large eyes of hers. ‘And I am tempted to let you but… I need you inside me more.’
There was no reason for her to implore him further, he would have stripped his skin off and let her use it as a robe if she so wished. Lyonel leaned down across her body and caught her mouth in another kiss. Saliva, the taste of wine that still lingered in his mouth, and the faintest scent of her earlier release that was still heavy on his tongue wrapped in one intoxicating drink. He wanted to bottle it, keep it for his own personal enjoyment, but he knew just as well that he could have as much of it as his heart desired.
She was all his.
Her arms were around him in an instant, clawing at his back and trying to pull him even closer. Lyonel rested one of his knees on the bed for leverage, one hand around the back of her neck, and the other gripping the underside of her thigh. The head of his cock was gliding between her folds – so fucking wet – until in one deep thrust he was inside her.
‘Ah, fuck.’
All Lyonel could think of at first was that he mustn’t come like an unseasoned lad. But Visenya was mewling in his ear, her fingers clinging to his skin, and she was oh so warm and tight. Her cunt enveloped him like a glove, sucking him in deeper, and her hips rocked to meet his initial thrust which buried him to the hilt.
‘Gods, Visenya! So fucking-’
‘Move! Please, move!’ She begged, threading her fingers through his hair and pulling lightly. The sharp sensation travelled from the back of his head down to his cock and he thought he might lose his self-control right then and there. ‘Please, Lyonel.’
Her walls clenched around him, vice-like. His mind was tearing itself apart; he wanted to fuck her – hard, fast, deranged – mould her to his cock, to the song of yes, and more, and his own name chanted like a prayer. It was a baser part of him, a desperate part of him that had been left too long behind the bars of a cage like a rabid dog.
He began to move, hips stuttering when he felt her clench around him again. A brazen little minx even when he was stuffed to the root inside her. It broke his hardened resolve like a flashflood did a dam, and he began driving his cock in and out at a bruising pace. The room filled with the obscene sounds that tumbled from Visenya’s mouth, skin slapping together, and Lyonel’s own strained grunts. He wrapped an arm around her back; they were so close that in the wet heat of their joint passions, Lyonel imagined they might melt together like candles. His face was buried between her neck and head, her curls sticking to her skin and to his own face, the smell of some flowery oil still alive in her hair.
Building the image of some magical being in his mind brick by sturdy brick.
Lyonel’s body began to act on its own accord, his mind enveloped in a mist of ecstasy. He straightened his back, lifted one of Visenya’s legs onto his shoulder. He fumbled with the silk bows on her thigh, his fingers shaking uncontrollably, but he managed to dispose of it and pull the gauzy stocking off. The skin of her leg was soft, smelled of evergreen forests. He peppered her calf with kisses and tiny nips of his teeth. She gasped when he sank his teeth a little harder at her ankle.
A mythical creature she might not have been but she certainly felt like it.
The change in angle was enough to make Visenya yelp, ‘Seven fucking- right there! Oh, gods!’ and her hands flailed around desperately, without any particular target – his thighs, the bedsheets, his belly, his hand which had found her breast once more.
Lyonel watched her as closely as his unfocused eyes afforded. Her face was contorting in pleasure, her back lifting in a smooth curve off of the bed whenever he reached a spot inside her that made the toes of the foot on his shoulder curl.
A truly spectacular sight.
Visenya let out another high-pitched noise, her teeth clamped down on her lips to stifle it down. There had never been a greater offence in the entire history of the realm.
‘Don’t– let me hear you. Fill my castle with noise. Fuck- yes!’ He lightly bit her ankle again, intent on drawing more of those sounds from her, then his hand travelled down her body to find that most tender spot at the apex of her thighs. He pressed a thumb and rolled the little fleshy nub, drinking in the sounds of her pleasure. ‘My wife- fuck. Drown out whatever music they are playing below, drown out the feast entire.’
‘Lyonel, I-’
‘I can feel you- don’t hold back. I am right there with you.’
And when her walls spasmed around him with her second release, a bright flash of light came to blind him, and Lyonel was falling forward. He felt weightless and heavy as a boulder at the same time. His hips twitched a few times, his seed spilling hot and quick, and he remained there – buried deep inside her cunt – while the final tremors of his body went through him.
Visenya dragged her fingers gently up and down his damp back, her legs were wrapped around his middle – one bare and one still dreadfully too clothed – and her breaths were slowly easing into a slower, more natural pace. Even if the heart beneath Lyonel’s ear was still thumping like a charging buck. His face was nuzzled in the valley of her breasts, the pearls and that odd medallion she wore pressed into his cheek.
Even then he did not want to move again. He wanted to stay inside her, feel the walls of her warm cunt around his cock, and have her hands caress him so.
When his mind began to piece itself back together and the haze of passion slowly subsided, Lyonel put his arms around Visenya more securely and lifted them both further onto the bed until they were nestled against the pillows. Even as his cock began to soften and slip out, they remained connected. Arms around one another, skin sticking together as if coated with sap. Lyonel buried his nose in her hair and inhaled deeply – flowers and sweet debauchery. And the subtle scent of the pine needle soap they made at the castle. Making Visenya one with his home, his lands.
It was a tad possessive mayhaps, a lingering madness that he refused to fight off.
He revelled in the knowledge.
She was all his. His wife, his Lady of Storm’s End.
‘That was…’ she spoke then and her voice was muffled against his shoulder. Lyonel felt her lips pull into a smile and wanted to see it for himself. She was looking at him, beaming.
‘I take it you enjoyed yourself.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Were my shouts of pleasure not convincing enough?’
‘I jest,’ Lyonel laughed and repositioned himself onto his back so Visenya could lay more comfortably. Her hand splayed out onto his chest, fingers playing with the tiny curls there. Until she had mapped out that area and her hand travelled up. Up towards his shoulders, his neck, his jaw.
‘I will need a moment,’ she admitted softly.
Lyonel felt pride swell in his chest. A chuckle rumbled deep in his throat and he pressed a kiss to her brow. ‘Take more than a moment if you need it.’
He was quite spent too. The need had been quelled for now and his cock twitched pitifully against his thigh, but he would not be satisfied until he had thoroughly wrecked her. He was eager to learn which parts of her body were most sensitive to his touch or his kiss, and which parts made her wail as sweetly as she had done a few minutes ago.
‘I never asked where you got this from?’ She toyed with his gold earring.
‘Old Volantis. Same place your pearls came from.’
That market was where he had gotten the soft bit of his ear pierced with a white hot needle by the merchant’s wife and adorned with the beautiful golden piece. It had shocked his mother when he returned home, he doubted she had grown to accept it even if her complaints had ceased. Borys had been close to getting one himself though he was not particularly fond of the idea of being impaled by anything. A tourney lance would have been fine, but a needle through the ear was too far.
‘It is beautiful.’
‘I like beautiful things.’
She chuckled softly, ‘I have noticed. Were these–’ her fingers abandoned his ear for the string of pearls, ‘- mayhaps a gift for someone in particular?’
His mother preferred emeralds to match her eyes, his sisters – gold or amber from their mines. Though he was sure that nowadays Argella had her pick of varied jewels that her husband gifted her. ‘I bought them for my own enjoyment though I must say that you wear them better.’
Visenya smiled and it warmed him.
‘Thank you. I will cherish them,’ she promised, her honest eyes meeting his directly. ‘Are you certain we will not be missed downstairs? We left quite abruptly and with no announcement.’
‘For all they know, their lord has taken his wife to bed.’ He lifted off of the pillows to lean over her and press a kiss to her lips. Sweeter than honey, softer than silk. And all his. ‘As is his right.’
‘Hmm.’ Visenya smiled into the kiss and held his face in her hands, lightly scratching his bearded cheeks with her nails. Lyonel was gladder than a dog receiving such attentions. ‘His right it very well may be… though I would not want to cause offence.’
‘The only offence will be if you think for a moment you will leave my bed at any point tonight to trade niceties with my bannermen. The majority of which are a flock of fools and ingrates about as useful as a bag of severed cocks.’
‘And with your family. I still intend to make a good impression.’
‘And you have,’ he assured her.
Lyonel expected that she would be most apprehensive of his mother’s opinion of her though there was little in his mind to frown upon. Visenya was a beauty, astute, and as deft with the blade as she was with her tongue. Though thinking of her tongue only made him think of scores and scores more licentious things that they might get up to beyond pleasing conversation.
‘What think you of your new home so far?’ He asked, his fingers running up and down her arm across his chest. ‘I will take you around the halls properly come morn.’
Visenya did not spare him any detail. ‘Oh, it is simply otherworldly! The only other place as captivating to the eye, in my mind, has been my family’s seat at Dragonstone. But this… well, I will be most eager to learn its layout, its secrets.’
‘Storm’s End is hardly a place to keep secrets,’ Lyonel countered. ‘It has endured many a tempest that should have brought it down. It could have never withstood the wrath of nature and the gods through self-indulgence and deceit. And this place has endured since the Age of Heroes. Though there are areas that are so ancient that their intent has been lost to time.’
Visenya followed his words most attentively, her eyes glimmering with curiosity.
‘In truth, there have been thousands – if not more – who have called Storm’s End their home. It would not have survived long if it turned on its own inhabitants.’
‘Much like the Stormlands themselves then.’
‘Aye, we are a loyal bunch. So when I say this is your home now too, I mean this with absolute honesty. It will not turn its back on you.’
For all the insignificant time he had endured within the walls of the Red Keep, Lyonel had reached the conclusion that it was not a place he would want to spend more than what was required of him. The duplicity, the scheming, and the strategic deference – a den of vipers if he ever had seen one. How Visenya had remained entirely unspoiled by it all was still a mystery. He could take his time to learn her better now that she was safe. In Storm’s End, in his chamber, in his bed.
Lyonel rolled over to lean against the pillows again and pulled Visenya closer to his chest, their legs tangled together like the roots of a tree. Her eyes travelled back up to his face and met his own. In the light of the fire and candles burning throughout the bedchamber, the violet ring around her pupils was much richer, changing between shades of blue and a shade that resembled those pleated flowers which grew beside roads around mid-spring. Or the clusters of tiny blooms that sprouted in the forest. If he had been a more learned man he might have known what precisely those flowers were so he could compliment her appropriately. And he was all too consumed by figuring out everything her eyes reminded him of that he missed her gaze straying up. She only caught his attention when she started laughing.
It was a loud cackle that made her whole body shake against him. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth and her eyes squeezed shut. She kept laughing and laughing, and Lyonel wanted to know what the cause had been.
He had been so glad when she began to smile more, laugh more too, over the final days of their journey. The sadness in her eyes had become his biggest foe and he had resented everything that dulled that delightful spark in her. Even after he had shared the truth about his one known child, he hated that he had forced his own sorrows upon her. The trampled, well-guarded grief for that wee girl that never drew breath, never got the chance to laugh or feel sadness herself. A blessing it may have been. Even if he had recognised her, she would have still had to endure the unfeelingness of the world. Though he would have given her all the love she needed; given her one of his sister’s names, or called her Elenei from the old story books, or Jocelyn. He would have showered her with affection and attention, and enjoyed her laugh just as much as he now relished in that of his own wife.
‘What has come over you?’ He asked through a bemused grin.
Visenya attempted to catch her breath and pointed somewhere over his head. ‘I remember- gods, I can’t- when I first found your pavilion in the campgrounds- so many antlers!’
His headboard.
When he had become Lord of Storm’s End and Paramount of the Stormlands, Lyonel had shed the room of any and all reminders of his father. He had never been particularly fond of the man, he thought him weak and without a shred of honour. And he had no desire to sleep in the bed where his mother had been deflowered and many young maids had been forced to endure his attention. So the old Orryn’s bed had been the first to go, broken into splinters which fed the fires of the smithy for an entire year. In its stead Lyonel commissioned a new one from the carpenters in the village, paid handsomely for it too and let the masters to their work. They seemed to have enjoyed the creative liberty which resulted in a bed fit for a Baratheon. Four wooden posts carved with waves that circled their way up, and a headboard – at its root was a plank of wood, detailed with leaves and forest greenery, from which a pair of great antlers sprouted.
‘My apologies,’ Visenya managed to say. ‘It is fine craftsmanship. I am simply entertained by the sheer amount of stag imagery you always carry. This was the crowning glory.’
‘I could argue that your family has just as much of an obsession with heraldic exhibition as we Baratheons do.’
The throne room of the Red Keep, if he recalled correctly, had the skulls of all the dragons displayed quite prominently. Though they made up for the disgusting appearance of the Iron Throne itself.
‘You are correct, though you have to agree that this whole tradition is nothing more than vanity in order to compensate for… other things.’
‘Oh?’ Lyonel pinched her nipple playfully. ‘And do you believe I have anything to compensate for?’
Visenya hummed and pressed a finger to her lips in mock thought. ‘I suppose not. Although some further exploration,’ she added as she rolled on top of him and climbed into his lap, ‘might be of use for my verdict.’
Lyonel smirked and his hands reached for her hips to hold onto. He bit down on his lip, close to drawing blood, and watched closely as Visenya reached between their bodies and wrapped a graceful hand around his cock. It too was interested to know what her summations would be, and was certainly glad to be given the attention once more. She rolled her hand down from the head towards his stones, painfully slow.
It was well and good that his wife was not some blushing maiden that would have cowered at his touch. Even if she had been, he would have made it his mission to introduce her slowly to the joys of the wedding bed, to all pleasures that could be shared between a man and his wife. Visenya knew enough to share his bed with confidence. And though a sharp stab of jealousy went through him at the thought of other men touching her, being buried inside her, he delighted in knowing that the honour was all his now.
And as she slipped onto his cock and rocked her hips atop his – better than any whore he had taken – Lyonel thanked the gods for whomever had encouraged her to first explore pleasure on her own before she ever made it to him.
‘Gods, you look divine!’ He groaned, gripping her hips tighter. His heels dug into the mattress for support but he held back from taking over the pace. He was keen on seeing where she would guide them both. More than happy to submit to her will and control. Visenya leaned forward and rested her palms on his chest, her breath interrupted by even breathier moans and gasps.
‘That is- ah! - blasphemous, Milord.’
He thirsted for every utterance of his name from her lips. But her usage of his given title was intentional, and filthier than a coarse word spoken in a brothel.
Lyonel’s hands wandered across her torso, fondling her breasts, sliding down her abdomen to tease her little bud. ‘Grab the antlers,’ he heard himself say suddenly. The thought was interesting and her executing his order not a moment too late was even more arousing. One of her hands reached up and gripped the top of his headboard, fingers closing around one of the polished prongs. He imagined what it would be like if they repeated this but with him wearing his antlered crown. Or she could wear it and he could take her from behind, rut into her like a stag mounting a hind.
He could not take it any longer. Her pace was too slow, torturing him with a release that was so close yet too far for his liking, and his own mind was conjuring images, every single one dirtier than the one that came before.
Lyonel gripped her body tighter, steadied his heels, and took over. Her tits bounced in front of his face, begging to be tasted. ‘Fuck, I want-’ he slurred around her nipple and Visenya screeched. ‘I want you like this again. A thousand times over.’
Her mouth produced only a strangled oh, yes, Lyonel and another string of moans that only pushed him further towards the edge.
‘I’ll put you in my crown. Have you - fuck - wear the antlers. Lady Baratheon. Would you like that?’
‘Yes, YES!’ She gasped atop him.
‘Oh, what a sight you’ll be.’ He kept fucking into her and chased that familiar tightening low in his belly. ‘Bouncing on top of me, wearing my crown. Taking my cock so well, Nye!’
Her hands dropped from the headboard and she buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, the sweet sounds she produced now so close to his ear, her mouth drooling. Lyonel wrapped his arms tighter around her lower back while his hips kept on slapping against her round arse.
‘F-feels- so go-good!’
‘You take me so well, such a good girl for me.’
He felt her squeeze around him hard. He had called her that earlier… Did she enjoy him uttering that praise? Good girl. His mind immediately tucked away the knowledge for later use.
His cock twitched inside her, his legs burned, Visenya came with a shuddering groan, and her cunt squeezed out every last drop of him as he kept on fucking her through his own release.
‘Not. Compensating. For anything.’ She finally sighed against his neck and Lyonel laughed, the few precious gulps of air he had managed to swallow spent on it.
Visenya fell asleep soon after he had eased her off of his cock. She curled against him, letting out a satisfied little sound, and was out like a light. Lyonel remained awake and aware for some time. It had been the custom since he first joined her in bed. She was quick to fall asleep, even quicker when wrapped safely in his arms.
Her hair was spread out onto her side of the pillow as if flying in mid air. A cloud of charcoal and silver. The candlelight made the silver-white strands glitter like bits of buried treasure amongst the sands.
His treasure.
His wife.
All his.
With great care not to disturb her slumber, Lyonel took her earrings off one at a time and placed them on the small table on his side of the bed. Then, with a little more precision, he unwound the string of pearls around her neck. The only thing left was the golden chain which he could not recall if she had ever taken off while they travelled. He always felt it lightly poking him when she drew closer. He decided to leave it on, it must have been dear to her.
But his curiosity was piqued; he reached for the pendant and discovered it was anything but. It was a wide golden band, a signet ring which depicted a three-headed dragon with its three mouths gaping open in a silent roar. It was much too large to have been hers originally, it had to have been made for a larger hand. A man’s hand.
Something in him knew precisely whose it had been.
Lyonel had not thought much of Prince Baelor since the pyre. Only when Visenya brought him up, which was rarer and rarer. He could not say with any level of sincerity that he missed the man. Though there had been a couple of moments – one more prominent from the night after the attack at the river, when Visenya had spoken of her mother for the first time – that Lyonel would think back on one brief exchange with the late prince.
They had begun making their way to one side of the tourney grounds. He had said something flippant to Baelor though back then he had believed in the righteousness of his remark. A strong character to unite their band of newly-minted and experienced knights was needed of course, but Lyonel resented the idea that it had to be the prince of all people. That man had nothing to lose in the fight. Half of the contenders on the other side were required by law to never lay a hand on him. What right had he to lead them? Why would the gods smile upon a group led by a fraud?
‘Make sure you stay alive, milord Lyonel,’ Baelor had told him while they waited for Ser Duncan to join their line. ‘I believe it will make my daughter most happy.’
Lyonel’s helm was half way in the air though the prince’s words gave him pause. Another biting remark was on the tip of his tongue, but he held it back. Whatever the prince had meant by that had gone with the flames of the pyre the very next day.
Lyonel had begun to understand. It had taken some time for the realisation to crystallise in his mind but he was sure of it now as he stared down at his wife sleeping soundly beside him.
He wanted to make her happy, wanted to see her happy.
Lyonel lowered the ring back down, having pondered over it long enough, and wrapped himself around Visenya to keep her warm through the night.
The morrow came with no rush at all, not for an early rise and quick departure. Even the sunlight broke through the windows in a slow manner. Lyonel woke just as leisurely, his eyelids splitting open to reveal the woman in his arms with her back to him and her arse firmly pressed against his cock. Much like most days of the past week. Though now they were not as foolishly denying the wants of their bodies. He let her sleep still, she could sleep till noon if she needed it. He would put a stopper on his reckless want for a little bit.
There was no rush to rise and start the day.
A maid walked in some time later to stoke the fire and nearly dropped her bucket when she saw them both, still quite naked and uncovered, atop the bed. Lyonel pressed a finger to his lips and assured her he could handle the hearth. He had been tasked with building enough fires as a young lad when his father and uncles took to the forest for a hunt that he felt his skills would be sufficient.
Lyonel asked the girl to bring them their food upstairs. He would wait for Visenya to wake in her own time and then break his fast with her in the confines of their bedchamber. They would not be disturbed for some time, not if the lord of the castle had anything to say about it.
The maid, while keeping her eyes firmly on the ceiling, dipped into a curtsy and promised that a tray will be readied for them soon.
When she left, Lyonel carefully peeled himself away from Visenya’s sleeping form and wrapped her in the heavy blanket that sat on top of the bed. She groaned in her sleep, her eyebrows furrowing over whatever dream she had, and rolled over to tighten her cocoon. Lyonel grabbed last night’s trousers from the floor and rolled them over his legs. He went to grab the discarded bucket, finding a few logs and fresh tinder for the fire.
He began layering smaller sticks and branches, along with some parchment, in the shape of a tower at the centre of the hearth. Then came the larger pieces of wood that he laid carefully on top before striking a small flame with the flint and rock. The fire began eating away at the parchment first, then the smaller branches, until it consumed the logs as well. A sweet aroma began to waft from the burning pine wood and the room warmed up instantly.
The rains of the last few days had been colder for that time of year, and the winds coming from the sea still carried a chill, though very soon the weather was likely to give way to warmer, more pleasant currents.
A knock came from behind the closed door this time, likely another maid who was warned to do so lest she feasts her eyes on the lord and lady as bare as the day they were born. Lyonel made his way to his shirt and quickly put it over his head – there was no need to further scandalise the girls of the household.
He went and opened the door himself, only to find Shyra waiting patiently with the usual smile on her face and a large silver tray of food and drink in her hands. She was balancing it with no issue though Lyonel was sure the bloody thing weighed more than a horse.
‘Good morrow!’ She greeted sweetly and he opened the door further, ushering her inside. She noticed the woman still sleeping in bed and made sure her steps were as quiet as those of a mouse.
‘Shyra, you do know this is not your job anymore,’ he prodded quietly after she set the tray down on the table by the windows, then busied herself with collecting Visenya’s garments from the floor.
‘I was coming to collect Her Ladyship’s clothes,’ she justified. ‘Seemed no trouble to bring up your food as well.’
‘Next time make one of the other girls help you.’
Shyra’s smile faltered for a brief moment, it was too possible he could have missed it altogether, then she fixed her expression into that same affability and nodded.
‘How does your mother fare?’
‘She is well. M’lady gave me the night off so I spent it with her during the feast until she was called up to prepare Lady Viola for bed.’
‘You will let me know if either of you need anything. Do not worry about what my mother might say.’
‘M’lady is within her rights-’
‘Do not worry about that,’ Lyonel assured her and raised his eyebrows expectantly. If his mother made an objection, he would figure out how to handle it. Though Viola Baratheon had made her opinion of the mere presence of his half-sister at the castle quite clear, and repeatedly.
‘I will take these to the laundry room.’ Shyra motioned towards the pile of clothes in her arms. ‘I will have a day dress laid out for m’lady in the other room. She can call me up when she wakes up and breaks her fast.’
‘Alright.’
Shyra left him to the quiet of the bedchamber and Lyonel went to the tray to pour himself a drink first. The array of food was bountiful and the sense of exhaustion from the lively activities of the night before made his appetite to roar alive. He stuffed a bread roll and a few figs into his mouth, if only to keep the hunger at bay until Visenya rose. He then moved the pitcher of Arbor Gold off of the tray and poured himself a dram to wash down the few bites that were being slowly chewed.
‘Smells delicious.’
Lyonel turned around. Visenya was stretching slowly between the sheets like a cat, arms extended above her head. Her chest poked from underneath the covers, relighting a different kind of hunger within Lyonel. He was curious if he could make her come by simply sucking on those soft brown peaks. And mayhaps when she was with child one day he could… The thought was exciting for many reasons. Her, with a child – his child – belly swollen big with his seed inside her, taking root. If they were lucky, he might not even have to wait too long to see it happen.
They had certainly made a good effort the previous night.
Lyonel grabbed the tray off of the table and took it to the bed. Visenya smiled sleepily and sat up against the headboard which he had found so amusing. Her body was framed in those big wooden antlers, so right and so perfect. She wrapped the bed cover tighter around her shoulders and tucked her knees to the side to give space for the tray and him also. Lyonel leaned across the platter and gave her a kiss. It was as unhurried as the morrow itself, and lingered.
May the gods bless him with more such days to come.
Visenya’s hands cradled his jaw and settled into the kiss, allowing his tongue to slip briefly between her parted lips. He hummed happily and pulled away but not before laying a small peck to the corner of his mouth. ‘Is it Arbor gold I taste?’
‘Only the finest for my beautiful wife.’ Lyonel grinned wide and went off to fetch their cups, filling her and topping off his. He handed her the gilded cup and laid on his side, across from Visenya and with the tray between them both. He thought it prudent to put some distance between his body and hers for the time being, at least while they ate, elsewise he would have tossed the food away and ravaged her again. But they needed the nourishment, Visenya in particular.
He would rather fall on his sword than let her starve in his own halls.
His cock could wait a moment or two.
‘I must have been truly tired if I fell asleep so easily,’ Visenya chuckled and took a generous bite from an apple. A small trickle of its juices made its way down her lip and chin, which she quickly caught in its tracks and wiped away with the back of her hand. Though not before Lyonel had followed its sultry descent and nearly lost his mind.
He stuffed a slice of pigeon pie in his mouth and gulped down half his goblet in one go.
Visenya held his gaze across the tray and her lips curved deviously; she knew exactly what he had seen and it appeared as if she had glimpsed inside his very mind. ‘Something on your mind, Milord?’
‘Many things,’ he admitted, voice low. ‘Chief amongst them the thought of doing away with this food and having my way with you.’
‘Scandalous,’ she giggled, biting the apple a second time.
‘Is it improper for a husband to want to ravage his own wife.’ His hand reached across the bed and snuck between the folds of the bedding to find one of her ankles, the one still covered in those pesky stockings, denying him the pleasure of feeling her skin. He pried her leg from its confines and slid up to the spot above her knee to loosen the bow and remove the material. He leaned further forward, dragging his lips slowly down to her slender ankle before lowering her foot to the side. If he reached further still, he could-
‘No, Milord.’ Visenya stopped him with a gentle kick of her toes to his bent knee. ‘Be good and eat first.’
‘I do see a better meal hidden beneath those covers.’
‘Be good,’ she repeated, lower this time, ‘and one of these days I will reward you with something I learned from a Lyseni whore.’
Lyonel had no clue what she could have possibly meant but he took her promise as law and dug into the food. He drained his cup, putting it on his bedside table for now, and grabbed a slice of oat cake that the castle’s cook was quite popular for. The taste had not changed since his youth and he offered Visenya a taste, telling her stories of the times he would sneak into the kitchens to steal a sweetmeat or a piece of ham. The cook, a large woman who commanded the rest of the kitchen staff like an army, would slap his hand away whenever he would try and reach sneakily from under the table but would still offer him a nibble of those oat cakes when he pouted. Some in the castle used to say that when she had been a young lass she had lost two boys during some skirmish in the marches which made her particularly malleable with the castle’s children. And even more so with Lyonel and his sisters. The woman was well into her sixties now, a wonder in and of itself that she had survived so many winters, and was still known to give the children who dwelled in the castle a spare morsel or a bite of a fruit to sate their stomach’s rumblings.
Even if they had vexed her with their disruption of her well-oiled machine of a kitchen.
‘Shyra came in earlier to fetch your laundry. She said your daydress will be set out for you in the other room and you may call on her when you are ready. Though I would be remiss not to let you know that I would not care for your leaving this bed for the rest of the day.’
Visenya grinned over the rim of her wine cup. ‘Oh, I believe I wouldn’t mind being kept hostage in your bed a little while longer.’
She sat up in bed and looked down at the food, picking out what to sink her teeth into next. ‘Would you… would it be alright if I brought my belongings to your chamber? I know it is customary for a lord and a lady to have their separate domaines–’
‘I would prefer it. No point in having you run between two rooms for this and that. I want to share this space… with you.’
Visenya looked up at him, her smile reaching her eyes and making them shine. ‘I want that too.’
‘Then it is decided.’
‘There is something else… Shyra.’
‘What about her?’
‘She has told me that some of the other members of the staff are quite cruel to her,’ Visenya explained and Lyonel tore his eyes away from hers for a moment, his chest filling with a slow, deep breath. He had suspected this behaviour for some time though the lass had told him nothing. ‘And yesterday some boy barely helped her carry my truck up the stairs.’
‘I ask my steward to handle it.’
Visenya crossed her arms across her chest and tilted her head. ‘Though is it right to keep her as a maid when she shares your blood? I know my opinions on the matter of bastardy to be dissimilar to those held by the majority of the realm. But she is in fact your sister.’
Lyonel dragged a hand across his face. Shyra was as much his sister as Ellyn, Argella, and Jena. ‘Things are not quite as simple as they may seem. My mother… she was very much against Shyra even being in the castle, though it would have meant removing her mother from our service. And she pitied the woman for falling prey to my father.’
‘He died never having officially recognised Shyra as his own,’ he added. ‘So even though it is the worst kept secret in Storm’s End, she can claim nothing as per her birth.’
‘You can always amend that,’ Visenya suggested carefully. ‘Recognise her yourself.’
‘My mother is against it. And while she draws breath, I will not oppose her. She endured a lot while married to that cunt, and there are battles that I know cannot be won with brute strength.’
‘You have considered it?’
‘Making her your lady’s maid is the best I can do at this current time without causing offence to my mother while also ensuring that Shyra holds a higher position within my household.’ It was hardly anything to be proud of. Lyonel resented the mess that Orryn had left in his wake, resented the cruelty that he had incurred upon so many, resented that it was him that had to balance the fragile peace between his mother and half-sister. ‘I will speak with Walter, the steward. He will put the fear of the gods in them all, he has a talent for it.’
Visenya did not seem entirely convinced it was enough. Her lips pursed in a particular way that Lyonel had noted was reserved for moments when she was deliberating.
He laid a hand on her knee and made her look at him again. ‘Your kindness to her is enough.’
‘I only wish I could help. It is unfair that she should be thus punished for something she had no control over.’
‘As I said, your kindness is enough,’ he assured her and rubbed her knee in a comforting manner. ‘You princesses are good at it, likely taught in the finer art of benevolence and charity.’
Visenya scoffed but the smile returned to her face. ‘We are expected to be, of course. I do it because it is the right thing to do.’
The right thing to do… The Red Keep had truly made no mark on her, he recalled his own ponderings from the previous night. It had never managed to corrupt her, turn her into yet another scheming viper. It was what set her apart from the rest of her bloody family, and what made her an entirely separate entity to them in his mind. She was just Visenya, kind and thoughtful Visenya who tried to fight for his half-sister’s right to be respected and cherished in her own home.
His Visenya.
The platter soon emptied of all its contents, the pitcher drained too, hunger was satiated but quickly replaced by another somewhat similar feeling. ‘Now…’ Lyonel pushed the empty dish away from the bed, letting it fall on the carpeted floor, and pulled Visenya’s body down the length of the bed by her legs. She let out a surprised yelp which transformed into a laugh. Lyonel hiked her legs over his shoulders. ‘Are you going to let me eat your cunt or will you keep torturing me, wife?’
Visenya began to form a response which swiftly melted on her tongue, replaced by a drawn out moan when Lyonel’s mouth connected purposefully with her core. And, gods be good, she tasted better than any wine or cake, making Lyonel regret not having abandoned his meal for this far superior one.
Chapter 14 is slightly delayed because after I started it, I realised that it would be MUCH better from Lyonel’s POV so I had to scrap that and start anew.
Trust me, it’ll be worth it. That man has been STARVING.
Since I’ve introduced a bunch of original characters into TDATS storyline…
I made a family tree of everyone included so far - canon and original characters both (SPOILERS AHEAD)
Plus, since I picked out some of the men that were hanging out with Lyonel in the pavilllion in ep. 1 of AKOTSK for the Baratheon OCs here’s who’s who:
Special mention: Orys the Grimace ™, my grumpy boy Borys, and Axel
The Dragon and The Stag (Lyonel Baratheon x Targaryen!OC)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN // Previous chapter // Masterlist // Next chapter
Wordcount: 12.6K
Summary: Visenya Targaryen was far enough down the succession order that she considered her place in court to be near unimportant. Her father had promised to let her decide on her own time when to be married and instead she decided to enjoy life. Wine, art, music, sex. Everything that a princess of six and twenty should have never been doing. And then the decision was made for her: pick a lord, be betrothed, get married, and cease her indiscretions. But the headstrong princess would not be so easily reined in.
Warnings: MDNI +18; mentions of grief and child loss; crude language; feral!Lyonel; that man wants his wife's cookie BAD; and a man who yearns is a man who earns; fingering
A/N: Sorry this took so long, I was very busy this last week and I wanted to ensure this chapter was perfect. If anyone has lost interest due to the slow burn or the time it takes me to post, then I am sorry but it is what it is (definitely haven't been overthinking and questioning how successful this story has been but your comments, likes and reblog keep me going)
Five days.
Five more days of travel.
Five days of rocking atop the saddle and listening to the turning of wagon wheels. A peaceful rhythm, a song that spoke of a journey soon to end.
They were on the Kingsroad now at least, so the ride wasn’t as strenuous as it had been until then and their horses had enjoyed the utmost comfort and care in the Bronzegate stables. The fresh band of draught horses, the one the caravan had left on their journey to Ashford, were bigger and sturdier than those provided by lord Buckler. Ninety or so miles separated the small keep from Storm’s End and the beautiful animals longed to return to their proper home.
So did the members of the caravan.
And the inns and small towns that peppered their way made for easier rest in between travel. They reminded Visenya of the taverns in King’s Landing, with the sharp smell of ale and softer buttery one of burning tallow candles, people milling in between tightly packed tables, flute song filling the atmosphere in the evenings. The comforts were not at all something one might even think to compare to those of a great keep, but they were comforts still. And they were most appreciated by their travel-weary company.
Especially given the sudden turn of the weather.
The rains returned as though someone had summoned them with a snap of a finger, drizzling down over their heads by day and growing stronger by night. The caravan might have made it to their destination sooner had it not been for a downpour on the third day that had the entire caravan rushing to the nearest inn.
Water cascaded from the heavens over thatched roofs and carried a sweet scent that would not have lasted long in the capital. Nay, King’s Landing would be washed clean for a mere moment before the sharp stench of piss, and shit, and smoke rose to meet and overpower it. In the Stormlands, the rains reigned supreme and gathered sweet aroma from each spruce needle which were beyond count.
‘I suppose these lands have seen such storms before,’ Visenya had said to Lyonel who had chuckled at her observation. They had been standing near the window of the small bedchamber, tucked beneath the roof of the inn they had found shelter in, fire roaring in the hearth.
‘This is but a brief spring shower,’ he had told her. ‘You are yet to see a true storm.’
His face had been close to hers when he spoke, his warm breath had tickled the curled hairs around Visenya’s ears, and she had needed to bite back a desperate sigh. Her lips were even more abused now than when Aerion had struck her. She had taken to biting on them often, gnawing at the soft skin and nearly drawing blood at times, all in order to contain herself. She had never needed to before; pleasure had never been that difficult to obtain, nor had it ever been denied. Visenya had always felt she had a degree of control over desire, she could either welcome or deny it when offered, but those last few days had felt torturous. Lyonel was always so close yet so far away. His touch was chaste even when it lingered, his gaze never strayed below her face, and even in those scattered moments when she thought that he might have briefly focused on her lips, Visenya noticed that he would fix his gaze back towards her eyes or on something other than her.
She began to feel more than desperate, she felt needy. Her skin came alive each time she felt him near, each time his hand stayed a second longer on her lower back - of course, those moments were reserved for when he was escorting her somewhere, letting her walk ahead of him, directing her towards the stables where their horses waited to depart. That feeling became even more pronounced with each night they spent together in some narrow, straw bed. His body slipped against hers, always separated by several layers of clothing or a heavy starched blanket. His hands would find her again, wrapping around her waist as he slept and withdrawing come dawn. Or in the evenings when wooden tubs would be rolled into their room for a wash, Visenya would have to excuse herself outside into the brisk evening air. If she was flustered at the mere touch and presence of the man, she hardly thought the sight of his naked skin would do her any better.
And that relentless neediness drove Visenya mad. The control she had once considered within her grasp was slipping between her fingers like air.
Duty would have to be performed at some point in their marriage, she had mulled over it as they were riding side by side on the fourth day, and their knees had knocked against one another more times than she felt was good for her frayed state of mind. Would he be as distant when he took her in order to secure his line? Would he avoid touching her more than what was necessary? A hand upon her hip and another in her hair, holding her close as he… Visenya would try her best to redirect her thoughts though it became increasingly obvious that those feeble attempts were failing her little by little.
On the morning of the fifth and final day, the rains finally eased into a faint mist that drew away from their path to reveal first a small field. Nothing much compared to the vast wheat and barley fields she had seen in the Reach, bright gold and stretching for miles. This was a small piece of land to feed a castle or two. The distant rumble of waves crashing viciously against rock came closer and closer until the road met a great stone wall. It stretched from the ground, tall and smooth, pale grey like the mist itself, towards the sky. The fog drew further away and the sound of a horn cut through the air. A deep sound, reverberating and shaking the very ground, meant to signal to all that the Lord of Storm’s End had returned at last.
The portcullis groaned like an old beast as it rose up into the outer curtain wall, letting the caravan ride through and come to one final stop inside the protection of the great castle.
Visenya could not help the gasp of awe that escaped her lips as she cast her eyes around the enormous space within and up towards the main tower. A pale fist punching dome of the heavens, the stories described it, though they failed to describe the feeling of finally standing before it. The Red Keep had never evoked such emotions in her, mayhaps because she had grown in its shadow and felt wholly unimpressed by it. The castle imagined by Aegon the Dragon to be a symbol of their house and their might, seen completed by his sons, a home to many who had come before her, and yet one that had existed for some mere two hundred years. Storm’s End was ancient, likely as striking as the day the final stone was placed, though little wear showed its age as it stood proudly atop the cliff of Duran’s Point.
A small crowd had gathered before the tower entrance. And as Visenya dismounted her horse and walked beside Lyonel to greet them all, she made out the numerous faces of those who called the keep their home. Servants formed a long line behind the main welcoming party, their eyes following her most curiously. But what drew Visenya’s own gaze were the people at the head of the crowd.
A septon, judging by his robes and heavy star of seven dangling from his neck. His heir had receded far back along his head with only a few wisps of grey behind his round ears. He bowed low when his lord slipped off of the saddle and remained thus until Lyonel came closer.
Beside him was a young woman who could have been an older sister to Shyra with how great their resemblance was. With hair as black as Lyonel’s that was tucked inside a caul and eyes as wild and bright as his. Though hers appeared almost green, rather than blue. A heavy cloak of pale pink and lined with ermine was resting on her shoulders, a protruding belly clothed in blue poking between the open flaps. The woman’s mouth stretched into a younger girl’s grin and a booming laugh escaped it, her arms thrown wide in the air.
‘Brother!’ She called him and Lyonel, whose eyes had grown wide with astonishment when he saw her standing there, rushed forward to wrap his own arms around her and lift her into the air, spinning her once as her laughter rang like a clear bell. Visenya used the moment to right the clasp of her cloak on her throat, hoping to hide the sight of her purplish bruises, then held her hands primly before herself.
She did not wish to interrupt the siblings’ happy reunion.
Would Valarr welcome her so when he saw her next? Would he run towards her open arms with as much vigor and lift her into the air? Somehow, and with no small amount of sorrow and self-pity, Visenya thought it unlikely.
He had not even deigned to come see her wed.
‘What are you doing here?’ Lyonel asked when he set her back down. ‘Manfred wrote to say you were with child again, I did not expect to see your face for many months to come.’
‘I would not miss the return of my big brother to the castle for the world - and with a wife to boot! I near went into early labour when we received the news. Manfred could not hold me there for long.’
‘Seven bugger me, are you with child again?!’ Axel drew closer too, greeting his cousin with a peck on the cheek. Jena rolled her eyes at his crassness though still offered him a smile and kiss to his own bearded face. ‘That husband of yours must be sticking it in the right place.’
She laughed again. ‘And repeatedly, I’ll have you know.’
Lyonel gifted his younger cousin with a sudden clout around the ear for his comment before Axel’s own brother could have the honour. Borys was usually the one to rein in the younger man’s foolhardiness but he was still with the horses, helping his father off of his mount.
Axel snickered at being chastised thus; like a boy who was found with his hand in a jam jar.
‘I better not hear any more such rude words come out of your mouth, Axel Baratheon. Not with the septon so close by,’ came another’s voice. A woman’s voice. Jena took a step back and Visenya felt the air in her lungs shift uncomfortably north, her back immediately drawing taut like a string, when she saw her. A woman of rather short height – though her perfect posture made up for it – plump and fair, with hair as red as fire. Though her face bore a smattering of freckles, most concentrated across her short nose, her hair was streaked with white, and her eyes were not an icy blue but an inviting, light green.
Despite herself, Visenya readied for a cold, judging stare though one did not arrive.
Lyonel turned then and offered a smile of encouragement, drawing his arm around her waist again to push her forward. ‘Visenya, I would like to introduce my sister, Jena.’
‘Lady Tarth.’ Visenya curtsied stiffly and only then began to notice the ache in her legs from the day’s ride.
‘Princess.’ Jena smiled just as brightly for her as she did for her brother and cousin.
‘And this is my mother, Lady Viola Baratheon.’
Visenya had to force her body to act before she embarrassed herself, and bent her legs at the knees once more to offer another curtsy. After introductions were over, she would be most glad of some time to put her feet up and rest. Lady Baratheon took a step towards Visenya and leveled her gaze to her throat, lifting a finger to her chin to move her face out of the way. Her eyes did not hold disapproval - even if Visenya herself expected it - they were instantly swirling with other more confusing emotions.
Worry being chiefest amongst them.
Why would she be worried for someone she had never clapped eyes on before this day?
Lyonel leaned forward, lowering his voice to explain the bruises away. ‘A group of bandits attacked her on the way here. Visenya fought them off bravely, though not without an… injury to herself. Maester Maynard already looked her over.’
Lady Viola’s brows knotted together but she accepted her son’s revelation with a curt nod of her head. Her hand dropped away from Visenya’s face and instead came to rest on her upper arm.
‘You must be tired, dear. Come – your chambers have been readied and I am sure you will delight in a nice, hot bath. Lyonel-’ she turned to her son, ‘-you must wash as well. I have arranged for a small feast to be held tonight. In honour of you and your bride. And I do not want you reeking of horse.’
‘I will not say no to a feast,’ he agreed with a roughish grin. He would not indeed. ‘If my wife is so inclined. We have had a long journey.’
Visenya looked up at him and found him encouraging her with a barely noticeable twitch of his thick eyebrows; she sensed he was giving her a chance to make the final decision. To draw the line, to pull the reins herself. It was kind of him and likely something that Visenya would have to get used to. She was now the Lady of that great and ancient castle, she would have to take control in its running.
And that included its festivities.
Even though she was indeed exhausted – the ache in her legs seeping deep through tissue, sinew and bone like fire cutting through wood – she had to make a good first impression.
‘A feast seems like a fine idea,’ she told him to which he responded with a smile and a nod. His hand abandoned her lower back with a frightening speed, leaving behind only cold emptiness, and she already longed for its return. Lady Viola looped her arm around hers and pulled her towards the grand double doors of the castle.
‘Right. Lyonel, gather your cousins and have them all informed that I want them presentable.’ Her green eyes were cast momentarily to someone in the crowd and her smile faltered briefly though she schooled her expression back to its previous amenability. ‘I will show the princess to her quarters.’
Jena, likely more curious about her new good-sister than her brother, rested her own hand in the crook of the older woman’s elbow and their trio made its way into the entry hall then up the staircase.
A small feast would not be too taxing on her, Visenya considered on the way up the stony steps, and would not be seen as improper given the standard mourning period. She would have to limit her dancing if any at all took place, of course, but a change of pace from the past fortnight would be a great thing indeed. A small reclamation of the life she once led, of the person she used to be.
‘You fended off your attackers then?’ Jena asked most excitedly. ‘You must have been most brave.’
Although appearing not much younger than Visenya herself, Lady Tarth had a certain youthful spirit that reflected Lyonel’s own. Her eyes were wide with mirth and the corner of her mouth sported an ever-present cheeky grin that hinted at an even wilder spirit than that of her older brother’s. That was after all the same woman who, according to what Lyonel had told her, had spurned her intended to elope with a man that she loved. A woman who knew her mind, who did not cower before rules of propriety.
Much like Visenya herself in truth.
‘Yes, well… I had no other choice. Your brother helped in disposing of the man who did- who did this.’ She gestured vaguely towards her neck. Those bruises would not look well as an adornment to whatever garment she ended on for the evening’s festivities.
Lady Viola seemed to catch on that and assured her, ‘Your jewels have arrived from the capital. Along with several trunks with your belongings. A ship was sent with great haste and only arrived a few days before you.’
‘Truly?’
‘Mhm.’ The older woman’s round lips curved gently upwards. ‘So do not fret. Even if someone takes notice of those marks, they will be far too busy making note of the fact that my son has finally taken a wife.’
That comment made Jena chuckle, ‘We were beginning to despair that he would remain a bachelor forever.’
It was hard to imagine Lyonel causing such deliberations. He who always surrounded himself with people, who charmed as easily as he threatened. Were there not at least a dozen ladies who were considered for a betrothal? Mayhaps there was a girl somewhere in the realm who did not know that had the events of the Ashford Tourney been different, she might have been called to fill the spot of a Lady of Storm’s End. Another woman who would get to enjoy Lyonel’s touch and his care, who would benefit from his inviting smiles, who would be troubled by the never ceasing desire for her lord husband. And who might have even been a better fit, less of a trouble and more of a refined creature than Visenya had been so far.
The mere consideration of such an alternative seemed to only pique her.
Fate had instead chosen to put her beside him so whatever other chit had been intended, she would likely not mourn a union she had not known of.
The chambers intended for the lady of the castle were nearly as big as her own in the Red Keep had been though much more formidable. Spacious, possessing every comfort that she might require; two large enough windows, bookcases on either side of the enormous hearth, armoires and cupboards, and a four-poster bed of her own with bright yellow canopy. On closer inspection, Visenya noticed the embroidered black stags across the heavy drapery and it made her bite back a bout of laughter, finally something other than lascivious thoughts.
A pair of maids had finished filling a large copper tub with water for her bath when they entered, steam rising invitingly over the rim with the barest fragrance of pine needles. Lyonel’s scent. The maids bowed on their departure and left the three women to their own devices.
‘We hope you will be comfortable here,’ Lady Viola said when the final girl snuck out the door, leaving it ajar. ‘Your belongings have been organised though I do not expect you to keep to the system our maids have chosen. Food will be sent up in an hour. There in the corner-’ she lifted a finger towards a small door, tucked against the furthest side of the room, ‘-is the way to the lord’s chambers.’
‘Mother, I am sure the princess will have no issue finding her way to her lord husband’s bedchamber.’ Jena japed with a deliberate twitch of her lips.
‘Thank you, Jena. I prefer to not think of mine own son’s nocturnal activities.’
‘You will, if it means more grandchildren for you to dote on.’
Visenya watched the exchange most carefully. She had seen a number of mothers treat their daughters well and with a similar ease. Aunt Dyanna had been most attentive towards her two precious girls, Aunt Alys was not too far behind. Visenya was quite content to know that other girls were looked on with affection rather than cold disdain. Though it only led to something sown into the depths of her very self churn angrily and made each breath a little harder to take in.
‘We shall leave you,’ Jena waddled closer and grabbed her by the hands, pressing her thumbs against the inside of Visenya’s palms in a gentle show of reassurance and regard. ‘You will likely want a moment to yourself. But I cannot wait to hear more about your journey later tonight! Oh, and you will meet cousin Cassana and my sweet little boy.’
Jena’s smile only grew wider at the thought of her child and she offered one final squeeze of Visenya’s hands before making her way to the door. Lady Viola took a moment to cast her eyes about the room, ensuring it was all up to her standards, and gave a smile of her own to the princess…
‘Oh! Before I go - a flock of ravens came to our rookery all throughout the last few days. I have left the messages for you there.’ Underneath one of the windows sat a small escritoire and atop it was a pile of rolled up scrolls, their seals unbroken. Too many to count from that distance but Visenya was more curious as to their contents.
Lady Viola gave her a polite curtsy and departed.
The pile of scrolls was calling, her curiosity even sharper. Could it be Valarr who had written? At least on one of those scrolls… Matarys would be even better for she missed him so. Missed his crooked smile and humour, and the way he looked to her whenever a jest was made, gauging a reaction.
She would take anything that came from her brothers: a hastily scribbled line, a single word even.
And if it weren’t either of them…
Visenya grabbed the scroll at the very top - the largest one and likely richest in substance - and placed it on the chair by the tub, atop a soft cotton towel that was folded for her use. She would wash and she would read it, see what it said, and if anyone at all thought of her.
With Shyra nowhere in sight and likely too busy with other tasks, Visenya wasted no time in shedding her cloak, dress, boots, and every piece of undergarment she had until she was quite bare. She padded over to the large copper tub, dipping her fingers below the surface of the water and let out a sigh of relief.
‘Finally!’
Any manner of washing during their trip had been strictly utilitarian; a dry scrub with some herbal poultice that Shyra had prepared, a douse with some cold water that was picked up from any nearby stream or lake. The inns had managed a step better though Visenya had begun to think that no one in the Stormlands knew how to boil water. Her baths had been tepid at best, just a quick wash to remove the dust of the road from her skin, and the lack of decent soap made the experience all the more daunting.
Visenya could pride herself on one thing that the majority of her family could hardly go without: comforts. She had been led into the real world by Rod, then Nira after him; she'd been shown how the majority of the realm lived day-to-day and had taught herself to go without wherever she could. Yet one thing she could never seem to shed from her fine upbringing was the enjoyment of a nice, hot bath.
Scorching hot to be precise.
It made Visenya feel most dragon-like when she steeped in water hotter than those lakes they described in accounts of Old Valyria - or what was left of it. Years ago she had considered that if she could one day take a dip in the Smoking Sea, she might finally find somewhere to wash that lived up to her exacting standards.
The water of her bath now was simply perfect. Quite more than perfect, it was fantastic! The ache in her legs sizzled away, her muscles began to soften, and she allowed herself to slip further down under the surface.
There was a bar of pale green soap; when she grabbed it to scrub her body clean, the scent of pines only intensified, filling her nostrils. It made all the more sense then. Those trees it seemed were everywhere in the Stormlands and their fragrance was most appealing. Of course, they would make their soap and scent it so.
Visenya, the top of her head still bobbing above the water’s edge, stared at the little scroll after a few minutes of stewing in the fragrant bath. Anyone could have written. In fact, there were more than enough scrolls on that escritoire to give her the impression that enough people had her in their thoughts. Or had simply written to offer congratulations, polite and brief as it was customary.
Her hand rose from the depths of the tub, fingers reaching for the towel first to dry, and then the scroll. The seal was the standard one utilised by the maesters at the Red Keep. Blood red wax, stamped with the sigil of House Targaryen. Visenya chewed on her lip – there is nothing to lose really, someone had written to her and she owed them the courtesy of reading their words - then broke the seal and rolled the scroll open.
My dearest Grandaughter, it began.
Visenya sat upright in the bathtub, clutching the parchment a little tighter, her eyes wide with something beyond surprise. The writing was neat and penmanship beautiful, exactly how she herself had been taught. Tidy lettering, gentle loops around the vowels. Visenya’s heart seemed to hammer a little wilder in her chest, and she felt instantly transported back to a time long since passed. When she was a child, standing before Grandmama, whether sad or happy it did not matter for the memory itself, she always felt most appreciated in the warm light of the Martell queen.
I am sorry I cannot be with you in these trying moments. Maekar, my sweet son, wrote immediately upon the end of the tourney, and told me of what happened. It took me days to recover, the loss of your father - my dearest and most precious boy - was all too much to bear. The royal procession is yet to arrive and I am heartbroken that you, sweet girl, will not be amongst them.
I have my beloved Daeron to share the insurmountable burden of the grief we both feel. To lose a son, our firstborn, is a most terrible and cruel trick of fate. I pray day and night you never come to know such torment. We walk in the gardens now, waiting for the procession to arrive, and we try to think of all the good memories we have of Baelor. And that makes me think of all you, his children.
Matarys is trying to be strong though I see the pain behind those eyes. We try to keep him occupied with small tasks… I hope it is enough. I cannot speak for Valarr, he wrote briefly from Bitterbridge-
So Valarr had written to her - to their grandmother - but he could not spare the parchment for his own sister. Bitterness bubbled in her belly though Visenya denied its rise; hope still lingered stubbornly that he might write to her as well at some point.
He could not stay angry with her forever.
-and I wait to see him in person so I may offer the same consolation. Too much has been placed upon his shoulders and he is still far too young. Though you of all I worry for the most. I had not known of the intention to betroth you, least of all to Lord Lyonel. The ladies of the court whisper that he is a most formidable man, even so I give little weight to whispers and gossip. It is a different kind of burden that we women of high birth must bear, being married off to someone you know not, and build foundations to a life you had never planned for.
I visited the sept this very morning to pray to the Mother you will be well guarded and cherished. Baelor loved you dearly, your grandfather repeats that often, you were his pearl, his darling daughter. Remember that and may your own grief lessen with each passing hour. Hold the memories of him in your heart and recall them with fondness, even if they be marred by sorrow for now.
And know that he would want you to be happy too.
Write to me whenever you need to, dearest, I will be most glad to read your first impressions of Storm’s End and of your husband. I pray you find love and care in your new home.
Ever your loving Grandmama
A brief postscriptum mentioned a ship being sent to deliver her belongings, including a crate with all her art supplies, canvases and unfinished tapestries. Visenya read that letter a second and third time, following each curve of each letter until she knew what was written in the scroll by heart.
… he would want you to be happy too.
Visenya hoped it would be so. That her father was not looking down on her with displeasure, that somewhere in the heavens he was smiling in his usual manner. Mayhaps he would not be as upset with her as she was with herself for how little she seemed to think of him in the past few days, how her mind seemed to only chew on trivial matters. Her fingers went to the signet ring around her neck with which she had grown so accustomed to that she sometimes forgot it was sitting neatly against her breastbone.
He would want you to be happy too, the words repeated themselves in her head and Visenya placed the scroll back down onto the chair before plunging under the surface of the hot bathwater.
A bowl of beef stew, some bread, and a pitcher of wine were brought a little while after Visenya had decided that she had wrung out every last bit of pleasure from her bath. The water had grown cold, her skin and hair were scrubbed clean, and she had changed into one of her own robes that were neatly folded in the armoire. Shyra came for her a few hours later, towing Visenya’s trunk into the room with great effort. And on top of that had a bunch of clothes slung over her shoulder. Beads of sweat had budded across the top of her forehead and she wiped them quickly with the back of her sleeve.
‘Was there nobody to help you?’ Visenya was aghast; the weight of it alone had to be more than what the poor girl could carry normally. Why would anyone let her handle it all on her own?
She helped Shyra push the heavy trunk against the nearest wall and offered the girl a sip of her wine.
‘One of the lads helped carry it up the stairs at least-’ Shyra relented to take a small sip and returned the chalice to the princess. ‘-afore he dropped it at my feet and said I can go the rest of the way on my own.’
Visenya fumed; she did not like the way Shyra seemed to accept the lack of respect from the other members of the household. She had thought to bring it up with Lyonel though the girl had kept assuring her it was alright. That she was used to the treatment, the torment.
None of it seemed fair to Visenya, certainly not for a girl who shared blood with the family she served.
‘I will speak to Lyonel about this.’
Shyra shook her head furiously. ‘Oh, please don’t. I trouble him enough and he has you to worry for now!’
‘He is not made of straw,’ Visenya countered. ‘He can worry for us both and I want him to know how the other servants behave.’
He is your brother, she wanted to add though she was unsure if it was wise to reveal the extent of her knowledge regarding Shyra’s parentage. The lass would likely burst on the spot with embarrassment and fuss too much for her own good.
‘And I will keep reminding you until it starts feeling natural.’
‘’Tis anything but.’
Visenya chuckled. ‘Now… are you here to help me dress for the evening?’
‘Aye!’ Shyra grabbed the clothes on her shoulder and laid them out gently on top of the bed. She could wear her own undergarments, but the attire was selected with care to ensure her first ever revelry as Lady of Storm’s End would be remarked upon: a kirtle of black velvet and a cloth-of-gold surcoat. Shyra took the robe from Visenya and put it away while the princess selected a fine linen chemise with flared sleeves trimmed with delicate lace so that if she chose to forgo the surcoat during the evening, the attire would not lose its glamour. The stays, however, were new to her - shorter than the ones worn by the majority of ladies at court - and focused more on enhancing the cleavage rather than smoothing it down. It must have been an item added to her wardrobe by Lady Viola though it made little sense given that most dresses cinched low on the waist.
Shyra bunched up the kirtle in her hands and lowered it over Visenya’s head, letting the garment fall down to the ground. She fixed each fold of the chemise so not a single one was creasing where it was not supposed to. Visenya smoothed her hands down the velvet fabric and bent her arms back when Shyra brought the surcoat to her.
The sleeves were wide, sporting a few small ties at the shoulders, elbows, and wrists to adjust them according to the shapes of her arms. Then the lass came around her to cinch her waist and the princess understood why the stays were so short. The upper garment was fastened just below her breasts and accentuated them further, with the widening slit in the centre showing off the fine kirtle. The layers of fabric settled nicely against one another as she turned about and the train of her surcoat swished along the floor of the bedchamber.
Shyra pulled a mirror that was lent against the wall beside the side door that connected the Lady’s bedchambers to the Lord’s. She held it steady while Visenya took in her appearance inch by inch. The garments looked even nicer on her, tight where they needed to be, looser around her legs to allow a wider space for movement. Her toes curled inside the slippers Shyra had offered her at the very beginning - every piece of clothing on her was indeed chosen with deliberate care and it made for a picture of finery.
Visenya looked every bit a Lady of Storm’s End, clad in gold and dusky black.
And with the lengthy exposure to the sun, her skin appeared almost bronze like that of her father and a little like her grandmother - especially along her forehead where the effects were most noticeable. The gold of her surcoat only further enhanced her colouring. And, thankfully, dulled the appearance of the pale mauve bruises around her neck.
‘You look beautiful!’ Shyra exclaimed, her smiling face poking behind the mirror.
Visenya smiled back. ‘It is an interesting fashion,’ she said softly. ‘More similar to the way the ladies dress in the Reach.’
‘Ma says Lady Viola had a hand in bringing this style to the castle. Afore that the previous Lady Baratheon was a pious woman who had no taste for fineries, and the dresses were not at all pretty to look at.’
‘Have you had any time to see your mother?’
Shyra pushed the mirror away and rested it back against the wall. ‘Not yet, I was too busy. But I will likely see her in the kitchens while you’re at the feast.’
Visenya gave her a nod and a hum of understanding. ‘Well… I feel confident I can remove my dress tonight with little effort. Take the rest of the evening off and spend time with your mother.’
‘Oh, but I should-’
‘Sweet girl, I mean it. I have managed without my former maid’s constant attention before and I am certain I can survive one evening.’ She placed her hands atop the younger girl’s wringing ones to still them. ‘Alright?’
It took a moment of deliberation, but Shyra finally nodded. ‘Aye.’
‘Splendid. Now, what do you think I should do with my hair?’
‘Oh, I still think ‘tis quite beautiful when loose.’
‘I noticed that Lyonel’s mother and sister had theirs in cauls. Do you think I should follow their example?’
Shyra pursed her lips and combed her fingers though the side of Visenya’s hair, it having long since dried and regained its normal wavy structure. Or lack of one really. The princess waited patiently while the young girl inspected her, trusting in her well-honed skill for style.
‘I could still tie it partially away from your face and… you have some fine pieces of jewellery, do you not?’
‘Yes, in a box in my chest.’
Shyra went to retrieve it. She held up a pair of small gold earrings and at the end of each - a single teardrop-shaped pearl. A present from Grandmama, for a nameday that Visenya had avoided by hiding in the Godswood with her sketches. Yet the Martell queen had managed to find her between the bushes and deliver that most precious gift.
‘These would look nice, paired with a few rings.’
‘Would I not look too… gaudy? With all this gold on me.’
‘You are the new Lady Baratheon, you should be the centre of attention!’
‘I will trust your judgement then.’
Shyra had fixed up her hair swiftly, running a brush through it a few times and smoothing the frizz of her curls with a flowery-scented pomade, the pair of them moving on to selecting which rings went best with the earrings and rest of her attire, when a sharp knock sounded from the small door in the corner.
‘Visenya?’ Lyonel’s voice came through muffled though unmistakably his. ‘May I come in?’
‘She is decent,’ Shyra called out to him and he pushed his way in. He had to lower his head when making it through given his height and the low frame of the door, then paused at the entrance.
Visenya took the moment to silently admire him; he had washed and his curls were hanging low over his eyes, his own clothes much more similar now to what he had worn for the dinner at Ashford castle – a billowy shirt and silken vest that sat snugly against his wide chest – with a pair of golden manacled bracelets on his wrists and rings upon his long digits.
It was more jewellery than he had allowed himself to wear during their travels and Visenya longed to know how they felt when he touched her hand, her arm, her back, mayhaps her face even.
‘Good evening,’ he said, voice rough. The sound travelled across the room and settled over Visenya like a spell.
‘Good evening,’ she replied.
‘I shall take your clothes from today to the laundry,’ offered Shyra and immediately busied herself around the room to gather all the pieces she needed for the task. ‘Have fun at the feast. Visenya.’
‘Thank you!’ The princess called after her maid’s departing back, then looked at her husband who still lingered in the doorway between their two chambers.
Two chambers.
Separated by a thick wall.
Apart.
Visenya looked down at the golden bands still clutched between her fingers instead of slipping onto them. She chanced a look up towards Lyonel and smiled softly in his direction. It was wholly unfair of him to look this handsome and not want to take her against every surface of her new chambers.
And why did he look like a man who found himself at the other end of a blade?
‘Do you find me presentable, Milord?’
‘Yes,’ he said all too fast. ‘You are… fine.’
‘Fine?’
‘Your dress is fine. You look more than fine. I like that you kept your hair down-’ Lyonel waved his hand in her direction, ‘-it suits you better.’
‘I wondered if your mother might not prefer me to put it up like how she wears hers.’
‘What she thinks is of no consequence though I am certain she won’t mind,’ he assured her and took a step further into the room. ‘This is your home now, your castle. You can dictate how the other ladies wear their hair or what they talk about.’
Visenya took a step of her own toward him, drawn to him beyond any resistance her mind might have advised. ‘Still… I shall be glad of her counsel.’
‘By all means, take it! She will be ready to give it, I am sure.’
‘Good.’
Silence prevailed then and neither of them seemed inclined to break it. Or were simply unable to. Until one of Lyonel’s hands brushed against something in the pocket of his trousers and he seemed to recall what had brought him to her chambers. His fingers delved deep and pulled out a long string of pearls, white as milk and glimmering in the meagre light that streamed through the windows.
It was almost dusk, the sun would soon dip below the horizon and their first evening as Lord and Lady would begin in truth.
And what would come next, Visenya asked herself.
‘I can see I was not mistaken in bringing these to you.’ Lyonel walked around to her back and placed the string around the column of her neck, careful to wrap the long line a second time until it was not sitting too low but right against her chest. 'It was one of many things that I picked up on my travels. I thought you would fit them better.'
Visenya’s fingers curled around the smooth beads and turned around to face him. ‘Thank you.’
Lyonel swallowed audibly and responded with but a terse nod of his own. His jaw twitched as though words were fighting in his mouth but he did not permit them dominance. Instead he offered his arm to Visenya and led her out of the bedchamber and towards the castle’s feast hall.
Lady Viola had not been entirely forthcoming about the size of the feast and it was hardly a small affair.
The walls were richly decorated with antlers and flags bearing the image of a crowned stag, fore legs raised high and proud into the air. A long table was placed at the end of the curved room with two others on either side, perpendicular to the one intended for the Lord and his family, leaving a wide space in the middle for dancing and moving about. The hearths were ablaze with fire and the torches added even more light to the room which made it appear as though it was midday and not well into nightfall.
A number of Lyonel’s bannermen, those who had not joined him for the Tourney, had arrived with great speed to offer their heartfelt congratulations, their gifts, and to partake in the fine vintages that were broken free from the cellars.
Wine and ale flowed freely from the moment the couple made their way across the hall to take their seats at the great table, and a small band of minstrels played a cheerful tune to hail their arrival. The great table was piled with various meats, roasted vegetables, oat bannocks and soft bread rolls, and Visenya spotted an entire wheel of cheese towards the end of the table.
Lady Jena and Lady Viola were already waiting there. But before either Visenya or Lyonel could join them, a small boy – who could hardly be any older than Egg – with chestnut hair and great green eyes crawled from under the table and ran straight to Lyonel. The man seemed hardly surprised by the child’s excitement and threw him in the air and over his shoulder. Visenya watched the exchange with curiosity and no small amount of genuine amusement.
‘Uncle! Put me down!’ the boy shrilled.
Lyonel roared with laughter and shook the boy upside down. ‘No, you have attacked your lord, you will feel his fury.’
The boy was only spurred further on by his uncle engaging in the game and bit the side of his leg.
‘Agh! You little shit,’ Lyonel hissed and placed him back down on the ground. ‘I forfeit this one but I will send a raven to your master-at-arms to chastise him for teaching you such dirty tricks!’
The boy grinned devilishly. ‘You taught me those tricks, uncle!’
‘I did? Huh… I should teach you some better ones then, you cannot go around biting your enemies on their arses whenever they have you cornered.’
Lady Jena walked - nay, waddled slowly - over to their small party and placed her hands on the boy’s shoulders.
‘You should stop corrupting my sweet son, brother.’
Lyonel ruffled his nephew’s hair to which the boy responded with a defensive wave of his arms. ‘I must, it is the pleasure and duty of an uncle to be a bad influence to his nephews.’
Jena chuckled and squeezed the boy’s shoulders, making his turn to Visenya instead. ‘Princess, this is my son, Lyonel of House Tarth.’
Young Lyonel pressed his arms flush to his sides and bowed to her, Visenya curtsied deep in response.
‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, aunt.’ Young Lyonel spoke with the flair of a much older man which made his mother bite back a chuckle. The boy went to the extent of offering his hand for her to place within his palm, and lay a kiss to her knuckles.
Lyonel hissed beside her, ‘You cheeky wee devil.’
‘The pleasure is all mine, young master.’ Visenya chuckled in earnest.
‘Brother, take your unruly nephew back to the table so I may walk with your lovely wife.’ Jena directed them and Lyonel ushered the boy towards the great table where they took their seats. Visenya offered her own arm to her good-sister, seeing that she was moving with great effort and discomfort.
'Cassana apologises she could not join us, but she had been confined to her room with some terrible cold.'
‘I will meet her when she is feeling better. I hope I do not sound patronising, but should you have traveled so far in your condition.’
‘Mayhaps not,’ Jena sighed, leaning against Visenya’s side. ‘I was too excited and could not have stayed in Evenfall Hall a moment longer after mother’s raven arrived. If anything, the maester says I have another moon until the babe comes, but I should be home by then.’
‘Well, it really is nice to finally meet you. Lyonel spoke much of you and your sisters, all praise and admiration.’
‘Oh! Rosamund was incredibly jealous when she learned of the marriage. She herself was very close to attending the Tourney with her husband but he was taken ill. She will pester you with at least a dozen letters per week unless you tell her off.’
‘And what of your other sisters?’
Visenya helped Jena lower herself into her chair before she took a seat on Lyonel’s left. Though he seemed far too engaged in conversation with his mother and nephew to notice.
‘Argella has not sent a raven yet, but then again she is all the way up in the Vale. Her messages tend to take a while longer.’ Jena piled some roast chicken onto her plate and smothered it in gravy and some kind of berry conserve. ‘Ellyn’s own letter was mistakenly sent ahead to Tarth but is bound to come back on the morrow or the day after. She tends to lean on the more restrained side so you will hardly need to give ample detail.’
‘I will be happy to correspond with all of them.’
Visenya began picking at different foods that were on offer. A little meat here and there, some pie, a few clutches of grapes. A servant leaned over her shoulder to fill her goblet and she reached for it first.
At least for the purpose of settling the uneasiness in her stomach that appeared after the odd exchange with Lyonel in her chambers.
‘What of your own letters? I hope it was some good news from home.’
There was a hint of pity in Jena’s green eyes.
‘I only managed to read my grandmother the queen’s. She- she wished me well and prays that I am happy.’
‘Oh, you certainly will be! I hardly recall ever seeing my brother as besotted with anyone as he seems to be with you.’
Besotted mayhaps but unwilling to hold his wife in any other way than how one might hold a sister.
Or a septa.
‘He is most attentive,’ she repeated her own musings aloud.
Jena hummed in approval and threw a cheeky wink in her direction. There was so much similarity between her and her brother it was almost like two sides of a coin. ‘I bet he is. Your dress is quite fetching, I hope he complimented it appropriately.’
‘He called it… fine.’
‘Fine?’
‘Mhm.’ Visenya stabbed a piece of steak pie and stuffed it in her mouth, then had a gulp of her wine to wash it down. Even if her wedded life remained entirely chaste, she could be sure to at least take pleasure in fine cuisine and wine.
Gods, that pie combined sinfully well with the Arbor Gold!
‘Very rude of him. Would you like me to give him a clap behind the head for that? It is no trouble and I seem to get even more fierce when with child.’
‘No, no! It is quite alright!’ Visenya chuckled between mouthfuls. ‘His head seemed to be somewhere else tonight.’
The two women continued their exchange as music grew louder around them and people began filing into the cleared space at the middle of the hall. A drum carried the beat while a flute and mandolin joined it to play a sort of lively tune. It encouraged those brave or drunk enough on the floor to hold hands in a circle and rush through the steps while those still on the tables cheered them on. Visenya observed the hall briefly, taking in its appearance and how alive it seemed with the crowds all gathered in celebration.
The Red Keep was no stranger to a lively fete but there was always an air of unease, especially amongst the ladies of the court. They all wanted to look their best which often came at the expense of another unfortunate. It was stifling and one of the many reasons Visenya had avoided any and all such happenings, preferring to instead sneak with Rod and Nira down to the taverns for a night of true fun.
This was fun too.
Though as Visenya looked around the guests gathered, she noticed Lyonel’s uncle Orys with the same look of displeasure when he caught her eye. It wasn’t too obvious now though she was still in complete darkness as to why the man was so agitated by her mere existence.
‘Jena?’ The other woman leaned her ear towards her when she caught that there was a delicate matter to discuss. ‘Is there a reason your uncle seems most aggrieved by me? Ever since the wedding, during the journey here, even now- he looks at me like I have offended him though I do not know how exactly.’
Jena briefly turned her face to see what Visenya meant though by that time Orys had resumed his conversation with his eldest nephew, Garon.
‘Uncle Orys… He is an odd bird. He was always more reserved than father and not a – how shall I put this politely – not a great admirer of your family.’
Visenya leaned back into her chair and let out a long-drawn sigh.
‘My dear…’ Jena placed her hand upon hers. ‘I could not care if you were from north of the Wall or some two-headed beastie from Asshai. You are my sister now and that is what is of any consequence. But- I must prepare you for the fact that there are many within our lands who share the same opinion of your House – whether it be deserved or not.’
Visenya could only nod to save herself the embarrassment of her voice hitching in her throat if she dared speak.
‘What do you suggest I do?’
‘I fear you will not like my answer.’
‘I’m sensing it is something I must hear.’
Jena smacked her lips and rested her elbow against the armrest of her chest, closing the space between them both.
‘Believe me when I say that I would not wish the burden of duty upon any other woman. But in this case- the best thing for you to focus your attention on will be securing your position as Lyonel’s wife. Learn the way of the land, learn how to run this castle, and…’
‘Bear a child,’ Visenya finished the sentence for her, her stomach churning even more.
She expected it, even if a part of her hoped she might avoid bearing any children out of a necessity. But if that was what it took for her to be accepted in her new home then she would finally have to learn to obey that most unpleasant of creatures - duty.
‘Think no more of it,’ Jena advised, voice brimming with sweetness. ‘Tonight is to celebrate you and your union with my brother.’
As if summoned by the mere mention of him, Lyonel leaned towards the two women. One of his hands rested on the table, locking Visenya within a space filled with the sweet scent of his clothes and the sharper smell of wine on his lips.
‘What are you two fine ladies discussing?’
‘How beautiful Visenya looks in her dress,’ Jena stated bluntly.
‘Oh.’
Oh?
Was that all he had to say, the absolute arse! If Visenya wasn’t so maddeningly enthralled by him, she might have punched him in the gut. Though she doubted that would put her very high in the esteem of her new family and numerous bannermen.
‘And I was just telling her that I will steal a dance before your nephew tries his luck. And inevitably steps on her toes in the process.’
Visenya let out a gasp of amused shock. ‘He wouldn't.’
‘Oh, he would. His dance master has all but given up on him though I have not the heart to tell that boy.’ Jena pushed herself up into a standing position and urged Visenya to follow her to the circle of dancers.
They lingered towards the edges with the princess trying her best to limit what exciting new moves Jena wanted to demonstrate. Though Lady Tarth proved herself an equal adversary and even more stubborn than her brother was when it came to doing what they wanted to do.
The music picked up; the drum guiding the dancers into a much faster rhythm. Visenya was unsure if she knew this particular dance – she had danced plenty in the taverns of King’s Landing though nothing befitting of a feast hall such as that one – she trusted her sense of rhythm and her good-sister to guide her through the steps.
The crowd split into two lines, with partners on either side. They weaved between one another with their arms raised high and fingers spread wide, mimicking the antlers of a stag. Jena twirled with surprising ease through the throngs of people, her skirts flying around her. Visenya followed suit and twirled in her own spot. One line of people reached across the dance floor for the ones in front of them – the two women grasping each other's hands for balance - and spun in a circle until they were quite dizzy and shrieking with laughter.
Without much warning, Visenya’s back collided with someone else’s chest and she immediately turned around to apologise, finding her husband standing there with his hands behind his back. The corner of his mouth was turned up in what could only be described as mild amusement.
The gall of him to be amused!
Visenya stopped and smirked. ‘Something the matter, Milord?’
His jaw twitched again and a familiar flame flickered in his eyes. ‘I have been asked to fetch my sister before she hurts herself dancing as brazenly as this.’
‘I should think her quite secure on her feet,’ Visenya argued back, coyly. ‘But if you must, I will help her back to the table.’
Visenya inched towards the other woman who was already moving in between the other dancers to come to them. Lyonel’s hand sprung up, resting firmly on the princess’s hip to halt her in her tracks.
Jena groaned, ‘Are you here to steal my dance partner, brother?’
‘Aye, and our mother would like you to sit down before you come to hurt yourself or the babe.’
‘The babe is quite well. I will go join mother and assure her of it while you look after your lovely wife.’
She declined any help to return to the great table, instead going as fast as her body could carry away from the centre of the feast hall and towards her comfortable chair.
Visenya craned her neck to look Lyonel in the eye, waiting for him to move towards or away from her. The flame in his gaze did not falter and only blazed brighter than all the torches in the hall combined. A beat of the drum and the tune changed, the pace remained the same though something about the music itself was different. It could also have been all in Visenya’s own mind.
The air felt warmer, charged.
Like the air before a lightning struck the ground.
People moved around them without a care that someone was in the way, bodies blurring together in Visenya’s periphery. The music, the light, the slap of feet on the stone floors, and yet her eyes cared to look at nothing else but the man before her. Lyonel’s free hand moved to grab hers while the other remained glued to her hip; he spun her around, too slow for what the music demanded, and they joined the dance.
Visenya could think of nothing else but the feel of his back against hers, his breath hot against the tip of her left ear. The many layers of her attire no longer appreciated for their beauty, rather reviled for how hot they made her underneath them all. Her feet skipped across the floor, almost slipping until Lyonel spun her back around to pull her to his chest as they continued moving.
She could kiss him now and nobody would mind. She could stop him, pull his face down, and claim a single touch of his lips to hers.
Just one.
The man with the mandolin played a final thrumming series of notes and the crowd cheered most vigorously. Lyonel pulled away but an inch and Visenya chased his touch. She grabbed his hand and silently begged for him to not remove it, to stay in her space a little while longer.
He could not keep leaving her like this.
Desperate, waiting, willing.
Even if he felt nothing beyond this tenderness he seemed most generous to provide, he could not keep torturing her with such intimate moments that made her think he might feel the same desperation as her, the same need as her.
‘Lyonel,’ she whispered and watched as his eyebrows knotted over stormy eyes. He stepped back between her feet, worry taking charge over his features, and his hand which had been holding hers in dance was rising up to the side of her face.
A flash of movement caught Visenya’s eye. A mop of curly blonde hair, a pompous smirk stretching paper thin lips, a pair of beady grey eyes.
The bard jumped atop one of the tables, the men and ladies there shrieking with drunken laughter. The man bowed and loudly offered to sing a song in honour of his gracious hosts.
‘Seven fucking hells!’ Visenya’s fingers clamped down harder on Lyonel’s hand and pulled him through the thicker part of the crowd towards some narrow arched passageway. The space was enough for them to slip through and stand chest to chest. Visenya tempted a glance around the corner; that prick was still atop the table like a vulture atop a tree.
A laugh of disbelief broke free from her lips.
Was fate so intent on dangling a proverbial carrot in front of her face forever and denying her a moment’s peace?
‘What happened?’ Lyonel asked, his confusion and alarm quite genuine. ‘Are you alright?’
‘This cannot be fucking happening-’ Visenya slammed the back of her head against the wall of the passageway, her laughter transforming into a fit of giggles. She must have looked hysterical to him. ‘I am sorry. This should not be funny.’
Yet it was. Hilarious, in fact.
‘Care to enlighten me, Milady?’
Visenya looked up at him and tried her best to quell the cackles. ‘Do you- do you remember the song I sang in your pavilion?’
Lyonel’s eyes wandered up, likely sending his mind to retrieve that particular memory. The pavilion was bursting at the seams, he was half naked and in some imitation of a skirt, regaling his guests with his antics. The last night before life flipped onto its head and everything changed. ‘I think I can remember you outshining me with a song that would have made an old whore blush.’
Visenya jutted her thumb towards the area where the bard was now prancing atop the table with the flute player. ‘That is the bard.’
‘And he wrote that song for you?’
‘About me.’
Lyonel leaned his upper body out of the passageway just enough so he could take a better look of the man. His expression remained entirely unimpressed. ‘I must say… I cannot for the life of me see what you saw in him. He is featured like a rodent.’
‘And yet there are mice and rats that have behaved more gallantly,’ Visenya mumbled and when that made the man look back to her face with yet more questions in his eyes, she clarified. ‘He wrote that song as a… revenge of sorts. He tried to seduce me and I turned him down – a little too harsh mayhaps – but he was pushing his luck. The next day, I returned to the tavern with Rod and Nira and the self-important cunt was screaming the song for all to hear. Trouble is,’ she let out another breathless chuckle, ‘it might be the best of his life’s work.’
‘Would you like me to have him removed?’
‘No, no!’ Visenya touched his chest, placating. ‘He makes his way in life through honest work even if he is rather presumptuous. And your bannermen seem to enjoy him.’
Lyonel was not looking at the crowd, however, not even at the bard himself, his eyes were focused on her entirely and Visenya began to realise just how close they were in the small passageway. They were even closer than they had been in dance, breaths mingling with each other and heating the space between them. Lyonel was looking at her, eyes boring deep into hers, the flame in them flickered ever stronger.
‘Lyonel… is there something wrong?’
Asking wouldn’t hurt, and she needed- deserved an explanation. The truth.
‘What do you mean?’ Her question seemed most puzzling to him which only made her more exasperated.
Visenya huffed, ‘You- you talk with me, you are kind and thoughtful-’
‘Is a husband not supposed to be kind and thoughtful?’
‘Ugh, you are worse than I!’ She really wanted to slap some sense into him. They were out of the hall’s eyes, she could and nobody would be any wiser. ‘What I want to know is why you don’t seem to want to touch me.’
‘I am.’
His hand was on her upper arm.
It wasn’t enough.
‘Not like that, you- oh, you will make me sound pathetic! I feel like you do not want me.’
‘I want you.’
‘Gods, Lyonel, why are you being such an arse!’ She groaned and cupped her face in her hands out of pure frustration. ‘I need you to want me. To hold me like I am your wife. And today I came to find that we are to be in two separate rooms, divided by some wall. Which means I will not even lay in the same bed as my husband.
‘So I need to know if there is something wrong,’ she demanded, past the point of dancing a merry jig around the question. ‘You had no issue that night when I came to ask you to stand with Ser Duncan in the Trial. You certainly seemed eager to have me there and then, yet now it is as though I am-’
‘Visenya!’ He said her name with enough power to put a stop to her intensely irritated monologue without drawing anyone else’s attention to their position. He pushed her even closer to the wall, both his hands now gripping her arms. ‘I. Want. You.’
Visenya searched his eyes and found her own inner turmoil reflected perfectly in them. ‘Then I do not understand why-’
‘Why? You lost a father, you had to abandon your family, you were attacked… and I thought- I thought I was being respectful.’
‘Do you know how hard it is to sleep beside you, to feel-’ he closed his eyes and his forehead lowered as he took a deep, steadying breath. Only now did Visenya note just how hard his heart was pounding in his chest; she felt it against the bodice of her dress but for a while she thought it was her own that was threatening to burst out of her ribcage. ‘To feel every inch of you, pressed against me at night. To want to do things – downright profane things – and hold back until I could be sure you were safe. Others fucking geld me! Even now… in this dress… it has taken a great deal of my strength not to have kept you upstairs and had my way with you ‘til the morrow. Yet every moment you tempt me further away from reason or sanity.’
‘You want me,’ she repeated, quite dimly.
It was now Lyonel’s turn to let out a huff of laughter. ‘Yes, you hardheaded, daft woman! I want you.’
Visenya’s hands shot up to finally make good on what she imagined throughout their dance. She pulled his face down to her whilst standing a little higher on her toes, and crashed her lips against his. It was not a gentle kiss in any way - it was bruising, full of wanton despair and burning desire.
Lyonel wrapped his own arms around her back, one hand sliding down and around her arse so he could draw her further in, showing her just how far his restraint had crumbled. Through several layers of clothing - his and hers - Visenya could feel the outline of his cock in his trousers, pressed firmly against her navel.
‘Not here,’ he groaned against her lips, mouth separating from hers to press a lingering kiss to her jaw, his tongue licking at the skin like a starved hound. ‘Bedchamber. Now.’
‘But the feast.’
‘Fuck the feast and every cunt who came.’
They somehow made it up the stairs of the tower, stopping now and again to kiss and fondle each other, backs pressed against walls and doors, holding themselves upright and proper whenever a servant crossed their path. Lyonel led Visenya straight to his bedchamber, slamming the door behind himself and rushing to reclaim her mouth for his own. Her fingers searched for the strings of his vest to remove, his own found hers quickly and began stripping her layer by layer. The cloth-of-gold surcoat, the velvet kirtle, they swiftly found themselves disposed of and abandoned somewhere on the wooden floor. Next came Lyonel’s satin vest which joined the rest, followed by his shirt which he hastily pulled off of his body and threw over his shoulder.
The stays were a little more complicated piece of her undergarments though he seemed to feel his way around the intricate lacing with practiced ease. Before long they were standing together - Visenya in her chemise, stockings, and jewellery while Lyonel was in his trousers, gold rings, and manacled bracelets still adorning his hands.
The princess reached for the tiny silk bow that still held her chemise together, released it slowly and let the garment cascade down her body like an ethereal shower of rain. Lyonel’s eyes followed the fabric’s descent and trailed his gaze slowly back up, breath growing more ragged with each piece of skin that was now revealed to him in the warm light of the chamber.
‘Stand-’ he cleared his throat and rubbed a hand over his mouth, ‘Stand in front of my mirror. There.’
Visenya spied the full length glass, tipped against the wall beside his large bed. She turned slowly and walked towards it while her hips swayed gently with each step. Her skin glistened with a light sheen of perspiration like a shell pulled from the sea, or like the double string of pearls that was still lopped around her neck. In the reflection, she watched as Lyonel stood beside her, his large hands coming around her hips to touch her bare skin. Visenya’s own breath hitched in her throat; she had missed this kind of touch.
Tender, explorative, yearning.
His back was against hers, recreating the position they had assumed in dance though now there was little to stand between her body and his. Lyonel touched with intent, following the curve of her abdomen to her upper thighs then back up to her arms and shoulders.
Teasing.
She knew that he knew where she needed him the most.
‘I have thought of this… far too much in the days since that night you came to my tent,’ he whispered against her ear. His breath upon the side of her face caused a flutter in her lower belly and a smattering of gooseflesh to bloom across her skin. The difference of sensation between his skin and the hard metal of his rings and bracelets felt most peculiar but arousing still. ‘I’ve had to- fist my cock like a boy that just learned of its existence. Imagining how you might look in my room, in my arms. So beautiful.’
He bent low enough to start a trail of slow, open-mouthed kisses from her shoulder to the column of her throat to her jaw. Her head moved with his approach, eyes fluttering half-closed. His left arm came around her fully, feeling his way underneath her breasts and cupping her right one. A thumb and a forefinger rolled her hardened nipple once, a choked gasp was released from her throat.
‘Lyonel.’ Touch me. Touch me more. Please.
He held her against him a little more securely now while his other hand delved lower – past her abdomen, following the soft curve of her belly, and then settled just above the patch of tiny, black curls between her legs.
‘Please.’ She was close to tears with want.
He slipped two fingers between her fold, finding that small pearl of pleasure waiting anxiously for his touch. A breathy moan of his name mixed with a sigh of complete and utter relief when he circled that spot a few times, smearing his digits with her wetness. Visenya grabbed onto the arm that was holding her upright, digging her fingers into his flesh.
Lyonel watched her through the mirror’s reflection. His gaze held hers and his breath so hot against her cheek as he let his fingers wander further down.
He slipped them inside. Only one at first, testing and stretching, then soon two and three. Her cunt clenched around his digits and Lyonel grinned through laboured breaths, seemingly proud her body was so receptive to him. Like a string of a mandolin he was playing better than any minstrel or bard. The palm of his hand kept rubbing that most sensitive part of her while his fingers pumped slowly at first until they were drenched with her juices.
‘So beautiful. So wet for me,’ he groaned low. ‘Gods! To feel your cunt squeezing me so well… cannot wait- to be buried inside you again.’
‘Oh, Lyonel!’
‘Look at yourself,’ he ordered breathlessly. ‘Look how beautiful you are, my wife. My lady. Clamping down on my fingers.’
Visenya felt her legs shake. If not for Lyonel pressing her to him, she would have crumbled to the floor with the pleasurable tremors that overtook her entire body.
‘Do you remember- what I said to you that night?’ He asked. ‘After you danced with me in my pavilion.’
That night. The walk in the quiet camp. His hands on her hips. A whispered desire.
‘Every – ah! – word!’
‘And you thought I did not want you,’ he snickered, though a gasp of his own slipped through his lips when Visenya pushed back against the outline of his still confined cock. He drove his fingers inside her a little faster, drawing out more sounds of pleasure from the princess. ‘I have been starved for you. Nothing… but want for you.’
‘Ly- Lyonel!’
Her legs were shaking even harder now, her body on the verge of coming apart like a canvas sheet released from the frame that stretched it taut. She gripped him a little harder, fearing she had lost all control of her feet. It was all too much, too difficult to keep her focus on the mirror and on Lyonel’s truly greedy observation of her pleasure. He appeared painfully divided between watching every ecstatic twitch of her face and his own fingers disappearing inside her quivering cunt.
Visenya was drinking in the sight of him, the blue in his eyes almost gone completely and overtaken by his blown pupils, his wiry curls falling across his forehead, his lips parted. It was a sight that fed the inspiration to a number of images she could sketch, paint, or stitch into a tapestry. Nothing that she would ever want to display to anyone but to her own avaricious eyes.
A tight, wounding ache settled low in her belly and spread through her body like fire. It built and built, burning its way across her entire being, whilst Lyonel’s fingers pumped faster and his palm applied even more pressure to her throbbing pearl. The beads around her neck clicked together with the movement of her body and his, his hand upon her breast pinching her nipple to bring her closer to that desired peak.
She heard his voice against her ear and his breath only stoked the fire in her further. ‘Come for me, wife. Drench my hand.’
She did what normally would have been against her nature - she obeyed. With a final shout of his name, the string of pressure building in her broke with a snap. The fire blazed brighter in her belly and she was rolling her hips to meet Lyonel’s hand where it wrung out every last drop of her. The feeling persisted, Visenya allowed it to consume her until there was nought left, and she sagged grateful against Lyonel’s back.
‘Good girl.’
Visenya chuckled, still very much out of breath. Their eyes met again through the reflection of the mirror and she curved her lips, inviting.
‘You- You promised much else that night… if I recall correctly.’
‘And I intend to keep my promise.’ He withdrew his fingers, lifted his hand with a level of showmanship that was most like him, and plunged them into his own mouth. It was enough to relight that fire. ‘Get on the bed.’
Next chapter
A/N: Next chapter is already underway and let me tell you: all the build up was going somewhere big. And by big I mean that python that Lyonel puts to good use to make his wife (and himself) most happy. 😉 As always, I can't wait to read your comments and see what you all think!
