“Give Me Your Devotion” || Lyonel Baratheon x Tyrell!Reader
Summary: Lyonel Baratheon has some thoughts to share about an upcoming royal wedding
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x Tyrell!Reader; mentions of Baelor Targaryen x Tyrell!Reader
Warnings: arranged marriage, mentions of an age gap, implied sexual content (mdni), angst, jealousy, canon typical misogyny, pining, not proofread we die like lyonel’s will to live
Word Count: 2.4k
Read it on Ao3: x
Sweat trickled down in a salty trail between her brows when she finally sank into the chair. She wiped the dampness from her forehead with the back of her palm and felt the edges of her ring scrape on the soft skin there. There would be a scratch on the morrow, yet the thought escaped her mind, washed away by the wine and the night’s relief.
The dances were going on in the center of the pavilion, with no indication to stop anytime soon, even though the sun had set long ago and the world had quieted, leaving the mud and the smell of the trampled spring grass locked outside. Another world had come alive by nightfall, and she had come alive with it. She just needed a moment’s rest, and she would be back in the dance.
The fires were burning bright, painting the crowd in copper and gold. The air was thick and heavy with the scent of the spiced meat that they had feasted on before tables were moved and the dancing began. Ladies were twirling, knights were raising their cups, shouting and swaying and fondling whores. Minstrels were playing a fast tune that raised and flowed and fuelled the pleasant buzz under her skin.
Her gaze swept the room, searching for Harlan in the crowd. Safe and happy as she was, she wasn’t fond of the idea of having her brother out of sight in places like this, full of men emboldened by wine and the passions of a tourney.
Will there be a tourney for my wedding as well, she wondered, even though she knew the answer already. There were tourneys celebrating royal weddings, everyone knew that. Maybe if she asked Father, if she asked really kindly at the right time, Lord Leo would bring the matter up to the king and —
Oh there you are, she thought when she met a pair of eyes that couldn’t be anyone else’s. Harlan nodded with a grin, a bit lopsided from the drink, as if trying to poke fun at the fact that she needed a break, then turned back to whatever conversation he was trying to have. He is a good chaperone, she thought, in the way he was good at almost everything else. He didn’t hover over her at all times, yet he was a presence that was welcome both to her and the knights he would unhorse during the day and share a drink with the same night.
“Did my lady get tired already?” a voice said, familiar and leaning heavily into her space. Ser Lyonel Baratheon flopped onto the seat beside her with the loose grace of a man flagons deep into the night. He had lost that antlered crown of his somewhere in the tent and his hair was a tangled mess of sweaty black curls. “Or is it ‘princess’ now? I get terribly confused after some point.”
The words, despite the edge just beneath the surface, made a small smile trick its way to her face. “It’s still just my lady for now, ser,” she said, and she tipped her head to the side to give him a look from under her lashes. “Although I am counting the days.”
Lyonel snorted, loud enough for his dismissal to be heard over the playing of the fiddles. She rested her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand. She watched Lyonel search for a cup — any cup close enough to reach —and, when he found one, fill it to the brim. There was no slowing down tonight, for neither of them.
“It is my hope you don’t end up disappointed,” he said after he downed his cup and wiped his mouth. His eyes were fixed on the dancers, or the candles, or anything but her. She followed his gaze to a scantily clad woman with long red hair that was sitting on the knees of Ser Humfrey Beesbury. “I remember King’s Landing smelled like shit. Worse than shit, in fact. You’ll be running back to Highgarden in less than a year.”
The words amused her. The noise of the crowd receded, leaving only him, with his fire and the bitterness he was failing to keep at bay. Would he speak to her plainly if she kept the conversation longer? Would he dare, emboldened by drink and the loathing he had never truly managed to hide when House Targaryen was concerned?
“I never knew you were so prone to losing sleep over my delicate senses, ser,” she said, unable to contain the small smile that spread on her face. She drummed the pads of her fingers over her lips. Something tugged at her pride when Lyonel’s gaze flicked to her mouth for a moment. “Are you not too deep in your cups to discuss such serious matters? Or is my betrothal simply not serious enough to you?”
Something flickered in his eyes, hot and instant, and it made her wonder if she had pushed too far. And yet, the allure of it was too sweet for her to resist. She smiled at him, her thumb rubbing against the silver encrustments of the cup. Lyonel was fun and delightful, but he was even more delightful like this. A little off-balance, a little stung. The smile seemed to disarm him a little, because he didn’t turn to hostility, but turned his gaze to the table.
“Why didn’t the Prince of Dragonstone grace the tournament with his presence?” Lyonel raised the jug again to pour himself another cup. He could not quite suppress the smile that pushed at his cheeks when she thrust her cup in front of him, and he poured for her as well. “Or is he already too old for tourneys and feasts and such pleasures?”
“His Grace is a renowned jouster as well,” she reminded him. “If I recall correctly, it was at his aunt Daenerys’s wedding tourney—“
“Yes, yes,” the knight said, waving a hand before taking a large swig of wine. Of course he knew that. All the knights in the Seven Kingdoms knew the tale of Baelor Breakspear, of the Hammer and the Anvil. “We’ve all heard the story. It’s an old story, though.”
It was, though hardly as old as he was implying. She let her eyes move from him and back to the center of the pavilion, where the celebrations were still going strong. Silence settled between them, a sliver too heavy to feel truly comfortable.
“You’d be wasted in that reeky place,” Lyonel said, quieter than before, and she couldn’t tell if it was the wine or just him. “Your spirit dulled. Baelor will count coin and read letters while you’re left to wilt away in that horrible red castle.”
His words tugged at something in her chest that she didn’t expect. She liked Lyonel, there was no doubt in that. He was handsome and charming, and kind when he meant to be. Sometimes, when the fire burned warm and the wine was flowing, she could even imagine burying her hands in those long, black curls. With Lyonel, the days would be loud and the nights never-ending. A string of tourneys and celebrations until they both turned grey. She had waited, truly, yet Lord Baratheon never sat Lord Leo down, and no offer ever came.
But then her father had presented her with another match, an offer so tempting that it turned her attention away from Lyonel entirely, from his dark hair and that insolent drunk smile. He wants to be my Florian, she thought, and there was a bitter taste in her mouth that came uninvited. But I will wake up to find a crown atop my head. The stars had aligned for her in a way so good, so spectacularly good, that choosing any other way would be a sin.
“Do you have a better match for me in mind, ser,” she asked, though the words came out more strained than she meant them to, as if even she knew it was cruel and unnecessary. You should’ve made up your mind earlier. “Has the Laughing Storm traded the lance for flower garlands and courtships?”
He didn’t laugh this time, which bothered her more than she would admit. He was looking at the crowd, where the dancing had become slower and calmer. The fiddler was playing a slower, more tender tune, and the lot were swaying in couples, ladies holding their partners by the elbow and twirling around them. She watched Lyonel’s jaw work as he gritted his teeth and he downed his cup before he poured himself another.
“Your children will not be kings,” he said, cold at last. “Third and fourth sons, forgotten by their sire. That, if he even gives you any.”
The words struck her more sharply than they ought to have, and that vexed her too. “You are being cruel, ser,” she said. Was it because he felt entitled, speaking of her betrothal in such a rude way, as if she had even had a say in it? Or perhaps it was the uglier implication lurking beneath it, hot and humiliating, that the prince might take her as his second wife and never truly want her in his bed?
The thought felt vulgar, especially with the swiftness with which it wounded her. Baelor was kind when he had offered her his arm and walked around with her under the sun rays of Highgarden. He had listened to her stories, asked her questions, laughed at the right times. His words were measured, yes, and even-tempered where Lyonel was loud, but never cold. She liked the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled and how the sun shined on his hair, where the first streaks of grey were starting to appear. He wasn’t boisterous the same way the young lords were, but when she had set her hand upon his sleeve, feeling the warmth of him through silk and cloth, it made her chest flutter and her cheeks bloom red all the same. And when his fingers held hers, firm, gentle, lingering long enough, it didn’t feel indifferent.
Lyonel’s eyes were watching her carefully, glassier and muddled from the drink. “You want children who matter,” he said. “Who are celebrated and will inherit titles worthy of their parents.” Lords of the Stormlands, he means, black-haired, wild, proud, just like their father.
She wondered if when the news had reached him, ser Lyonel Baratheon felt remorse. If he had thought about it in silence even for a moment, if he regretted how she had slipped through his open fingers, while he was too busy hunting, and jousting and drinking. If he realised that, in a way, his tragedy was of his own making?
“My sons will be princes of the blood, ser,” she said, with a finality that wrapped its cold limbs around her chest and squeezed. “And that is all there is to it.”
Lyonel’s eyes were fixed on her, his hand gripping the goblet so hard she could see how the pads of his fingers whitened against the silver. The light from the candles was throwing shadows on his face, where his eyebrows were knitting, forming a wrinkle that split his forehead. In another world, she would press her fingers against it until it flattened and he smiled again.
She tried to find words to lighten the tone again, but she could only think of her betrothal and time that slipped away. And to jest about something like that felt cruel, especially when he was looking at her like that.
“My brother might look for me soon,” she said, and it came out as even as she wanted it to. She pressed her hand on the table and lifted herself from her seat, but then his hand reached out and grabbed her wrist.
“Come with me tonight,” he said lowly, and there was nothing playful left in him now. Just the desperation of a drunken man at the edge of his limit.
It caught her off guard and he saw it. His thumb traced the back of her hand and the touch burned.
“Do it, and he’ll cast you off the moment the words reach him. He’ll have no choice.”
For a heartbeat, she only stared at him, the noise of the pavilion falling away once more. He meant it. There was no laughter left in him to soften it, no jest to retreat behind.
It was not difficult to imagine what it would be like, to let him. It had never been.
Her gaze flicked, traitorous, to his mouth, to the damp curls clinging to his temples. She knew the heat of him already, the nearness of it from a hundred dances, the press of his hand at her waist. It was not difficult to imagine the rest — the weight of him, the roughness of his beard against the softness of her cheeks. Would he settle with his head between her thighs, let her tangle her fingers in his hair, make a sound if she tugged?
The image flared and died just as quickly, leaving something tight in her chest.
And what then, Lyonel, she thought, will it be you that marries me? Had he even thought that far ahead, or it was the offer driven by the same desperation that made him grip her wrist? It should have insulted her, that he dared speak to her like she was some blushing tavern maid. And yet, the suggestion only made her sad.
“I RAISE A TOAST!” Ser Arthur Florent roared and her hand slipped from Lyonel’s, her eyes flying to the other knight. He stumbled as he threw his arm around her brother’s neck, ale spilling from his cup and over his shirt. “To Ser Harlan Tyrell, good brother to the Prince of Dragonstone!”
The crowd cheered.
His eyes, hazy with drink, turned to the table. He slurred his last words, yet they rang clear in her head. “And to his lady sister, future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!”
They rejoiced again. All of them, lords and ladies and dancers and whores raised their cups for her health, her family, her marriage.
Ser Lyonel Baratheon didn’t drink.
