Lina,25,she/her,I pledge allegiance to The Realm's delight, The Dragon Queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen ❤️🔥👑🧎🏻♀️ Team demigod,wizard(Ravenclaw),divergent,quielute lover-you name it,I`ve got it,plus Riverdale fan,Stranger things, LCDP🤍A Gunner,Cule and BVB fan📖⚽🎧👩🏻⚕️♏
Had a nice dream about Aemond last night, unfortunately nothing spicy🙈 He had given me an ultimatum to be by his side or in prison and my dr
Had another Aemond dream last night, unfortunately not that nice as the previous one😂 I was in the role of Luke at Storm's Ending(iykyk) and
Okay,Aemond dream number 3 was sort of like the first one but with some big differences. I was in high school but not my old one and was a n
This is pinned now so I can find it easier 😅😂
A little upgrade of my dreams-this time it was about Ewan Mitchell and Matt Smith, the upgrade being at least they are real🥹😂 It wasn't spic
It's me with my Aemond dreams again😂Tbh,I blame the new Vhagar concept photos we got yesterday,the ones with the horns 🙈 Cause she was there
Putting all of my Aemond dreams in one place mostly for my own convenience,lol,to find and reread them when I am down from real life shit. Hopefully I'll update them soon😅🙈🖤 The last one is not Aemond exactly but still wins a place here cause I feel like it😅
Time for one more dream to share, it's been a while😂😂I was in the center of my city, close to my old school and like I was the one that knew
So as we were blessed by the new Aemond drone shots(they are far from perfect, I know, but we take what we can after all 🤭), my mind(for the
I haven't done this in awhile but here's my latest Ewan dream. In it he was himself, even tho he wore glasses like Michael 👀 We were at the
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Lyonel Baratheon x wife!reader
Rating: Explicit (MDNI)
WC: 2.2 k
AKOTSK Masterlist
Requests Open
Tags/Warnings: Porn with some plot, mentions of character deaths, descriptions of blood and violence, hurt/comfort, injury, oral, no beta we die like the Humfreys, no use of Y/n, no physical description of reader given
A/n: For the lovely @sconniebelle who requested Lyonel and his wife locking eyes post Trial of Seven and needing each other. This is an early birthday present just for you!
Summary: Lyonel and his wife lock eyes after the Trial and a desirable urge overtakes them
The horns blare through the air, cutting through the clanging swords and splintering shields. It takes a few moments for those left standing to put it together. The trial has ended, and Ser Duncan reclaims his honor. Lyonel cannot help but smile smugly. The dragon house is shamed, the spoiled little princeling bringing dishonor. The Laughing Storm tastes blood on his tongue and mouth, sharp, tangy, metallic. He can feel the aches and pains setting in, but the adrenaline is thick through his veins. Like salt of the sea.
You had been sitting with young Prince Aegon, the two of you gripping each other's hands tightly. While you had only known little Egg for a couple of days, you were fond of him and a bit amused by him disguising himself as a peasant. The small boy had a good heart, one that his Ser Duncan also possessed. Despite the bloodshed, there was a lightness to the air as Dunk was proved the victor. Thin rays of golden sun slip through the heavy gray clouds as if the Gods were giving their favour.
"Go and see to your, Ser," you bent down to whisper, sending the boy off, who no doubt wished to check on Dunk. A deep bond existed between the two already, and you knew the poor hedge knight had taken a beating. Your gaze remains on your husband while Egg scurries off.
Lyonel stares at his lifeless destrier and feels almost enraged again. How he loved that horse. Prince Maekar had to ruin that, didn't he? To save that spoiled brat of a son? The son that Lyonel will learn yielded. The one who caused this mess in the first place because those damn Targaryens are a mad bunch. Should have been done away with after the dance, he thinks, we waited too long, and now these insane silver-haired madmen will remain in power for centuries to come. Prince Baelor could be different, but the Gods were never that kind, were they? He watches two men drag the battered Prince Aerion from the field, and Lyonel feels smug again.
The smugness he feels quickly disappears when his gaze lands on his fallen brethren. The two Humfreys. What a pair they were. Long time companions, always by his side and loyal, good men to the very end. He scans the crowd, looking for you, and spots you in the stands, standing up with your hands clasped in front of you. Your eyes lock onto him. Even among the confusion and bloodshed, you never once lost sight of him. Soft prayers spilling silently from your lips that the Gods would protect him, and they answered you. Wishing that your prayers had protected more of the men.
Tears dribble down your cheeks from relief, and time seems to stand still around you. You can hear the cheers, hear the yells, and you watch the men slowly file off the muddy field, but Lyonel makes his way to you. Those dark eyes never leave yours. The thick mud threatens to drag him under, but he persists. Blood and rot cling to the air, making his stomach lurch, and the sight of Beesbury's lifeless body nearly makes him gag. The thigh wound is deep, pooling the mustachioed man in thick crimson, and the broken lance protrudes from the ghastly wound.
Once you're in his arms, he buries his face into your neck and breathes in the heady scent of your jasmine perfume. How sweet you are in his arms. A blessed respite to this accursed day. In the moment, he only cares for you. A warm spark crackles and sizzles in the air; an animalistic desire for your husband blooms through you. He ignores the twinge in his ribs, his aching shoulder that feels like raw tendons on fire, and the burning pain in his knee. You can't even get a word out, just a gasp as your husband tosses you over his shoulder and limps away toward the Baratheon tent.
"Lyonel!"
"I am fine," he assures you, giving a gentle pat to your rump that makes heat flood your face. Though the way he limps tells you otherwise, but the stubborn man will never listen to your pleas or scoldings.
"You just survived a trial, might you take it easy?"
"No, I crave my wife and to be between those sweet, sweet thighs of hers. I care for nothing else, truth be told."
"You were very valiant. You lasted the longest on your steed," you murmur.
"Aye, I did," he grins, hefting you up and winces as a fierce pain rips through his side. He grits his teeth while placing you on the bed.
"Oh Seven Hells, Lyonel, you are in pain," you whisper, cupping his face.
"What must I do to prove that I can make it through?" he grins, but you can see torment in those dark eyes, laced in the flecks of hazel.
"I cannot deny that I have stirrings of my own, watching you out there. My Gods, you were magnificent. Let us attend to each other, then I will attend to your wounds. That maester of yours is…lacking."
"What a kind way to put it. He's a foolish cunt," Lyonel laughs before pressing his bruised and bloody mouth against yours.
You taste the dried flecks, rough beneath your tongue, and feel the wound split, fresh scarlet spilling against your tongue. But you don't mind. Your husband is a part of you, and blood has never shied you away. His armor clanks, and you make him stand so you can remove the pieces carefully until he's left in the pale gold arming doublet and breeches. As you unravel him from those, you reveal green and purple bruised flesh. There is a brief temptation to dig your thumbs into them like one would with the flesh of overripe fruit. Instead, you kiss them, willing the marred flesh to heal quickly.
Lyonel unlaces you from the golden dress decorated with prancing stags, hand dipping between your stockinged thighs. How he'd rather have this wetness against his lips over the blood currently staining them. You fix this issue by using your embroidered handkerchief to wipe his mouth clean. As a woman, you've had enough blood between your thighs; you didn't need more. Carefully, he lowers between your splayed legs as you recline on the bed, draped in soft, golden sheets. He nibbles on the tender skin above the roll of the stocking before rolling each down your shapely calves. Your fingers tangle in those mussed curls. Pitch black laced with white and gray. Same as that beard.
That beard scratching against your thighs, rubbing and marking you with his scent. His head disappears further between your swells of flesh, tongue sliding over your cunt and gathering up the sweet, dewy droplets. The musky sweetness dulls the tangy blood. It isn't long before two fingers dip inside you, sweeping and curling while his tongue traces over your swollen pearl. A delicious throb, your own little tinge of pain. But it doesn't compare to the ache spreading through his body. The adrenaline is fading, but he's stronger. He's made of fine Baratheon stock. A little pain cannot stop the mighty Laughing Storm.
His commanding touch leaves your lungs gasping for air. Each contraction makes you twitch and clench around his fingers buried inside you. He wraps his lips around your throbbing pearl, tongue tracing tenderly over the bundle of nerves, which makes your toes twitch. Thoughts bleed from your mind, only focused on Lyonel and the pleasure he leaves swimming through your body. All it takes is a sweet crook of his fingers, and you're spilling into sweet oblivion, leaving his mouth coated in your delicious ambrosia.
"Oh, now that is a healing exilir," Lyonel purrs against your slick thighs.
With heated cheeks, you laugh softly and gently nudge him with your foot. "Has it chased all your aches and pains away?" you coo.
"Just about. We can send that damn witch doctor away," he grins, those white teeth flashing sharply. "That sweet nectar dripping from you is better than milk of the poppy."
"Come, let me worship my husband. Such a skilled warrior deserves a proper reward."
Those dark eyes flash, diluted with golden flecks as you pull him with you onto the bed. You're careful as you maneuver him under you, straddling his slender waist with the curve of your arse resting against those strong thighs. Even battered and bruised, he looks magnificent. None could deny your husband's skill; the heart of a warrior beats deep within. He is brave, brash, and bold, and you love every inch of him. Your ringed fingers skim down his furry chest, burying in the thick trail leading to his heavy, erect cock.
You draw a groan from him as your fingers wrap around his shaft, grazing your thumb over his leaking, ruby red tip. Swollen lips wrap around the glowing flesh, suckling away the salty seed that beads over his flesh. Slowly, your mouth engulfs him, cheeks bulging from his length and width. It's almost a bit comical, but you swallow down your giggle and return to the task at hand. You take your time, making sure Lyonel savors each moment as you pleasure his cock with your mouth.
"Seven Hells, woman, I don't want to waste this on that pretty mouth. Mount me," he groans, chest, neck, and cheeks stained almost ruby red.
Gently, you pull your mouth away and line up with his cock before sinking onto him. It feels like home. His fingers wrap around your braided hair, pulling you down into a fervid kiss while you gently ride him. Red, mottled skin dappled with smears of plum cling to the flesh just below his chest, and you can feel his pain seeping through you.
"Come, my darling," you whispered, stroking his face and watching the haziness overtake his dark eyes. The high wears away, and you do not wish to cause more damage, yet you cannot deny him this.
His hands furl tightly around your hips, driving you deeper onto his cock. "I'm not dead, dear wife. I survived a Trial of Seven; I can certainly survive fucking my wife." There's that grin again. That cheeky spirit hasn't died.
Your hands trail over his furry chest, letting him guide your hips, naked backside slapping against his thighs. For a moment, that is the only sound filling the tent; smacking flesh until a needy moan spills from you as Lyonel fills you with his seed. You cradle his face in your hands, letting the sweat bead down in heavy droplets over your back and shoulders. A sudden heat curls through the air, making it almost suffocating. There is a shift, and while you can't explain it, something has happened. The world has been thrown from its axis.
Once clad in a yellow robe, you instruct the servants to prepare a bath for your husband. You tenderly soap and scrub him up as he rests in the water. Every spec of dirt and grime is removed from him, and his dark hair shines after your skilled fingers work through it. You tend to his injuries, wrapping his bruised ribs and applying thin layers of ointment to the open wounds. One of his stewards rushes in just as you finish covering in the soft black velvet robe.
"My lord…"
"Out with it, man." Lyonel waves his hand impatiently.
"Prince Baelor…"
"Please let the next thing out of your mouth be a fully finished thought," Lyonel sighs and fixes him with a glare.
"Prince Baelor is dead. They said it was his brother's mace that got him."
You can't control the gasp that falls from your mouth, which you quickly cover, and grab the top of the chair that Lyonel sits in. It explains what you felt earlier. Lyonel closes his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose.
"Fuck. Probably the last good man to come from that family," he whispers.
"I will go to give Prince Maekar our condolences later," you assure both men. Gently, you lower yourself onto one of Lyonel's thighs. "It is selfish of me to say, but I am glad it was not you."
His hands slip around your waist and hold you close. "As am I."
The maester stumbles into the tent, dark gray robe billowing behind him and looking every inch the fool that he is. Lyonel makes a show of sighing loudly.
"What do you want, you damned witch. My wife has already tended to me."
"Perhaps you can take him to tend to Ser Duncan, I'm sure he is in need," you said gently, rubbing Lyonel's tense shoulders.
"Ever the kind heart," Lyonel smiles, kissing your head. "Let us go find him."
You are overseeing the breaking down and packing up while Lyonel is gone, only to find him in a sour mood when he returns. He leans on his antler crutch, squeezing the bridge of his nose.
"I'm ready to leave this damned place behind."
It's all you need to hear to understand that Dunk has turned down your husband's generous offer to accompany him back to Storm's End.
"Let us go then," you smile, lifting his palm to your cheek and nuzzling it.
His eyes soften. You're all he needs to weather any storm that comes his way.
"Come, let me worship my husband. Such a skilled warrior deserves a proper reward." - no wonder he's always down for a fight, knowing what sweet reward awaits after🫦🤌🏻
I loved how good they're to each other and that the lady seems to like both Dunk and Egg even she's known them for a little while🥰
