Other Words for "Look" + With meanings | List for writers
Many people create lists of synonyms for the word 'said,' but what about the word 'look'? Here are some synonyms that I enjoy using in my writing, along with their meanings for your reference. While all these words relate to 'look,' they each carry distinct meanings and nuances, so I thought it would be helpful to provide meanings for each one.
Gaze - To look steadily and intently, especially in admiration or thought.
Glance - A brief or hurried look.
Peek - A quick and typically secretive look.
Peer - To look with difficulty or concentration.
Scan - To look over quickly but thoroughly.
Observe - To watch carefully and attentively.
Inspect - To look at closely in order to assess condition or quality.
Stare - To look fixedly or vacantly at someone or something.
Glimpse - To see or perceive briefly or partially.
Eye - To look or stare at intently.
Peruse - To read or examine something with great care.
Scrutinize - To examine or inspect closely and thoroughly.
Behold - To see or observe a thing or person, especially a remarkable one.
Witness - To see something happen, typically a significant event.
Spot - To see, notice, or recognize someone or something.
Contemplate - To look thoughtfully for a long time at.
Sight - To suddenly or unexpectedly see something or someone.
Ogle - To stare at in a lecherous manner.
Leer - To look or gaze in an unpleasant, malicious way.
Gawk - To stare openly and stupidly.
Gape - To stare with one's mouth open wide, in amazement.
Squint - To look with eyes partially closed.
Regard - To consider or think of in a specified way.
Admire - To regard with pleasure, wonder, and approval.
Skim - To look through quickly to gain superficial knowledge.
Reconnoiter - To make a military observation of a region.
Flick - To look or move the eyes quickly.
Rake - To look through something rapidly and unsystematically.
Glare - To look angrily or fiercely.
Peep - To look quickly and secretly through an opening.
Focus - To concentrate one's visual effort on.
Discover - To find or realize something not clear before.
Spot-check - To examine something briefly or at random.
Devour - To look over with eager enthusiasm.
Examine - To inspect in detail to determine condition.
Feast one's eyes - To look at something with great enjoyment.
Catch sight of - To suddenly or unexpectedly see.
Clap eyes on - To suddenly see someone or something.
Set eyes on - To look at, especially for the first time.
Take a dekko - Colloquial for taking a look.
Leer at - To look or gaze in a suggestive manner.
Rubberneck - To stare at something in a foolish way.
Make out - To manage to see or read with difficulty.
Lay eyes on - To see or look at.
Pore over - To look at or read something intently.
Ogle at - To look at in a lecherous or predatory way.
Pry - To look or inquire into something in a determined manner.
Dart - To look quickly or furtively.
Drink in - To look at with great enjoyment or fascination.
Bask in - To look at or enjoy something for a period of time.
Calling all aspiring storytellers with hearts full of whimsy! Get ready to sprinkle a touch of enchantment into your scenes with my Scene Wo
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ok so this is another long shot but a few years ago there was a twitter post (in japanese i think?) that had measurememts for how to make this book stand thing out of cardboard that you could use to double up books and use up more space on shelves
back then i made a bunch of these but by now i lost the pic and dont know how to find the original post anymore
if it comes down to it i can just take one apart and get the measurements from there but i would be very grateful if anyone happens to have the original post or something similar??
don't mind how long it's been since i made this post, anyway i realized that i don't even need to take one apart to get the measurements when i can literally just unfold it and refold it /FACEPALM
so anyway here is the diagram for anyone else who is interested!!
this requires pretty big carboard pieces, if you have a really big box or something you can make it from one piece, but if you don't, you can also just make each of the pieces individually and then tape them together
and then in the end you put it together like this!!
and then when you make a bunch you can put them all next to each other and stack your books like crazy
EVERYONE START GETTING MORE USE OUT OF YOUR SPACE NOW!!!!
stop letting miserable people on the internet convince you that you must have a concrete, well-constructed opinion on everything that has ever existed.
I FUCKING LOVE MY FRIENDS!!!!!!!! FUCK YEAHHH!!!!!! THEYRE SO AWESOME!!!!! REBLOG IF YOUR FRIENDS ARE FUCKING AWESOME AND COOL AND YOU LOVEE THEMMMMM!!!!!!!!!
Rookanis Leyendecker study for @datvcompanionweeks Lucanis week!
After all, it is the Year of the Horse.
Hope it's ok to use that free day prompt a little early~
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Idea..... Lyonel being dominated and restrained until he simply can't stand it anymore and puts reader in a mating press and doesn't let up until you forget everything but how to moan.
Taking note of the way his arms strain in their bonds. Fingers curling. Testing. The way a storm teases at the horizon before it truly threatens hard pelting showers of rain.
He’s smiling at you. “Now you’ve got me here. You better put me to fucking use.”
“Don’t fret. I intend to.”
You reach back and boldly grab him through his trousers. Make him hiss. An unready stutter tumbles out his mouth. All bit off moan and shudder.
“On the bed.” You issue him an order.
Short. Curt. One that should command his obedience. Leaving simply no room for manoeuvre.
He has to twist himself out of the kiss he’s just locked you in. Teeth scraping to hurt At your lower lip as he pulls away. Rears back to check he’d heard you right. Grin crawling across his lips.
“Feeling bold are we, my savage storm.” He flirts.
Your let your hands answer for you; place both your hands on his warm, naked shoulders. And you shove-
His knees give. Collapsing his body - a tad inelegantly - onto your bed. Mussing the heavy covers. Brocade hangings swing with the juddering movement.
He’s drooling as it is. Was the minute you stepped around the screen in the bedchamber. Wearing a Dornish nightgown that may aswell have been sin in fabric form. Made his cock throb awake in his breeches.
It’s bright gold. Heart of the sun striking kind of gold. And it is so sheer it looks as if you are barely wearing a stitch. It hides nothing and you look like a fucking sex goddess to his eye.
The way you walked towards him made his eyes follow. He had his hands on you the minute he saw you in it.
He can see your tits on vivid display, makes his mouth feel empty. Nipples hard as cherry stones. Glimpse right between your legs at your full bush, hiding that plump and beautiful cunt he knows he will need sat on his face, and soon.
Candlelight travels across the fabric in swirls. Rich organza swirls.
You walk over to your bedside and wrap something around your knuckles. Loop it. Twirl it through your fingers. Cross to his right, to that same side of the bed. He watches you with that predatory yet playful intensity. Eyes following the trail of your hands.
And to the Quarth imported silk ties, he finds in them.
“Remember these?” You ask.
His smile is wider, brighter than sin. Oh yes. My lady.
“I remember.” He nods. His eyes alight with all the salacious things that you’d done with those ties.
You smile. “That was quite the memorable party. Wasn’t it.”
The huge amount of wine you’d drunk together. Poured on naked skin and licked off. Ravenous hunger in your greedy touch for each other. Entwined in the corridor. Nearly caught. But you didn’t care who heard or saw.
“You were voracious as I recall.” He tilts his head. “That Dornish lady we had in our bed… almost as wild as you. She had you screaming the ceilings down. I’m aching hard just remembering all the things you did to each other.”
You straddle him on the bed and his eyes go to that dark, flinty state when something dangerous truly pleases him. All oil shimmer and umber darkness. The one that twinned so well with that bright flash of his grin.
His hips buck under you. His solid weight between your thighs feels good. The heavy heft of his cock too. You can almost grow quietly-drunk off the power of having him under you. Astride your infamous Baratheon stag. A laughing storm between your plump thighs.
He reaches for your hips. Rough hands bleeding heat through the fabric. Calloused palms catching on it. You tutt his name. Glaring daggers. Tongue sharp as a smithy’s sword tonight.
He can only hope you intend to cut him on it.
“I think not.” You chide. In reference to his touching you. Without permission.
Linking your fingers in his. You raise both his hair dusted knuckles to your mouth. You kiss them each in turn. Slowly. Rings warm to the touch of your soft lips.
Before placing his arms up over his head. Your body making a fluid arch over him.
His muscles bulging with the new position. The raven nest of hair at his armpits heavy with the male scent of him. Burnt birch and orange clove from the soap he uses. You know you’ll find that flavour on his skin too. You’ll find it when you lick up that handsome jaw later on.
He chuckles. When he realises. The ties weren’t for him to use. They were for you.
“You fucking terror.”
You hold his arms above his head. Slowly. Methodically. Tying the silk around his wrists. One at a time. Looping the ties in the sturdy sailors knot that he taught to you.
You can feel the obnoxiously hard bulge of him through his breeches. Tenting. You’ve no doubt he was leaking in them already. For a man so loud and boisterous, he went where you pleased when pushed. Gave like a soft bellied thing rolling to submission. An animal submitting to its base weakness.
You sit back and let yourself grind to his cock a little. Through the layers. Smirking as you watch his eyelids flutter. Dark sweep of his lashes. The flash of his teeth where he bites down on his lower lip. Chest rising and falling fast. Whorls of his chest hair catching silver and raven in the light.
“Will you be compliant? I’ve only done one wrist.” You tease. Grin sharp as a knife box.
“Will you be nice?”
You smirk. Starting on the other. “No.”
He beams. It’s all kinds of filthy. “Then I should be just fine.”
Now you focus on the other. Making sure you could easily slip a finger between the tie and his skin. The flat bone of his hairy wrist. No risk of turning his hands blue.
He watches you the entire time. Eyes on the sweet smile as it lay gentle on your face. Both his arms now securely tied. Splaying him out across your bed like some doomed, pinned saint.
He won’t lie. He’s not capable of smothering his wants. His eyes do drop to your tits with a hungry longing.
“Your wrists look so pretty in gold. Husband.” You praise. Stroking a fingertip down the side of his cheek. Bristled beard under your fingertip.
Taking note of the way his arms strain in their bonds. Fingers curling. Testing. The way a storm teases at the horizon before it truly threatens hard pelting showers of rain.
He’s smiling at you. “Now you’ve got me here. You better put me to fucking use.”
“Don’t fret. I intend to.”
You reach back and boldly grab him through his trousers. Make him hiss. An unready stutter tumbles out his mouth. All bit off moan and shudder.
Curl your fingers over the rigid length. Run the width of your palm over his hardness. Jerking him through fabric in that hard punishing pace he likes most.
You move yourself down him with a lustful placid smile. Now you have the lusty beast of your husband leashed; you can take your time with him. Savour him.
You start by running your hands over his strong shoulders. Watch his face strain with the unfathomable need to reach out and grip you back; then the tortured flicker of remembering he can’t.
Your caress is slow. In a way you know would usually have him gnashing his teeth. But battling his love to let you do this. To lay down the control so it could be yours-
When you come to his chest, when you rake your nails down over his nipples, he starts to shatter. Bucks his hips up to you. A growl slopes out from between his clenched, grinding teeth. One that takes the shape of a curse. “Fuck.”
His eyes scream at you. Dark as the place between stars. “Touch me. Fuck me. Slap me. Fucking something. Anything. Please.”
You smile. Placing yourself further down his body to straddle his knees. Fingers finally hooking and weaving through the closures on his leathered trousers. Opening them. Yanking them artlessly down his hips. You take the torturous fucking decision of entirely pulling them down to his knees. Over his ankles. And throwing them behind you to the floor.
You have him entirely down to his skin. Pinned out below you like a carcass on a hunt. He makes for quite the tantalising prey.
“Get that pretty cunny on my face right this second. Or I will go fucking mad.” He swears. Promises. Desperation in his wide dark eyes.
You don’t.
He babbles newly above you, all sorts of pleas to every God he’s not familiar with, when you put your mouth on him.
Bedroom hymns or prayers that wouldn’t be out of place in a Sept. Hummed and gasped in that storm-bolting voice that shook the ceiling, and as always, he didn’t care who heard.
He sounds hoarse with the relief. Voice breaking on the first word. “Fuck. Sweeting. Yes fuckk.”
You know well the pattern he likes. You’ve certainly mouthed at his cock enough to know. Wrap your tongue around the cockhead. Tease the slit till his taste unfurls bolder on your tongue.
He thrashes when you sink down to take him deeper. Feeding every inch deeper. Nearly to the base, so your nose brushes that riot of wiry raven curls at the base of his dick. That salty-clean sweat of him strong in your nose. Heat radiating from his inner thighs. His blood ran hotter than a dornish sun.
Your fingers curl around his hair dusted kneecaps. Holding the firm strong legs as he threatens to kick under you like a thrashing, unbroken colt.
Though you suppose this dark horse of a man is more comparable a stallion than anything else.
He’s certainly hung generously like one. Your jaw aches already but you push through the stretch.
When he bumps the back of your throat, he finally lets go. The stormy resolve bleeds out of him.
Chokes on his own debauched moans when his curly head hits the pillow. Shoulder muscles jumping and tensing in his bonds. Fingers packed to tight fists. His rings wink in the gold light.
He sighs like a howling gale. Long and slow as his chest heaves. “Gods. Woman. That mouth of yours. Fucking heaven.”
His hips shift upwards to seek more of your divine mouth.
You punish him for it.
Push him down by the hipbone back to the bed. Stay. Tell him wordlesssly that obedience will get him more than defiance. A lesson you will have to achieve with a little force to get it in his thick, stubborn stag head.
He growls when he’s denied you. Spit shining on his lips where he’s drooling and panting like a beast.
“Fuck.” You hear the snap of silk pulling taut as he tests those bonds. The creak of it as it tightens on the wood. Frustration ebbing on his voice. “want to touch you. Sink my hands in that hair. Rut myself into your face.”
You lean over to better throat him. Sinking your fingers between his legs to cup his balls. The way that made his back arch up with the unexpected touch of it. His hips jolt to your mouth again.
There’s a slick wet slurp where you draw your mouth up and off him. Hollowing your cheeks to make his eyes roll back. A string of spit bridged between you- spit bubbles at the corner of your sinful mouth. He’d give anything to lick it away.
He pants- chin tipped to his chest. Open mouthed to watch you.
When his cock slips out your mouth. It’s weeping, slick and throbbing dark red. Your favourite sight to see. His need for you.
You circle your fingers to meet tight at the base. Squeeze him. Watch his eyes threaten to roll back. Cock pulsing. A bead of pre-cum sliding from his tip. You lean in and catch it with a swipe of your tongue. Flattened wide to suckle at the tip of him.
“Sweeting. Please your mouth- give me, huh. Put your mouth to me again. Now.”
“That doesn’t sound like obedience. Lyonel.” You warn.
“Fuck obedience. Get that devilish tongue on me before I lose it.” The silk chafed and twisted again. His fists clenched so hard his arms shook.
You pull away. Let him slap down. Flushed and leaking, with a heavy thud, to his own stomach. He jolts with it. A curse grit out between his pearly teeth.
You take him in hand. Stroke your spit up and down him. Thumb over the head. Watch him shiver. Stroking up and slowly down. You drop your lips to his thighs.
The scent of pure male and musk in your nose, tender skin and salt, as you nudge at his inner thighs. Soft and silky skin dusted with hair.
You lay your lips there. Draping wet kisses across his skin. Heading to those soft inner thighs. Your nose nudges his sack.
When you bite and suck- his hips lift clean off the bed crush themselves to chase the sting of your teeth.
You gaze up and see how affected he is becoming- cock leaking and throbbing to his abdomen. Nipples aching in hard points on his chest. You know he’ll cry out loud when your nails rake and swirl at those. Veins in his arms bulge. Every part of him strains. Pulled like leashed hound.
His neck glimmers where he stretches back. A long, tanned expanse of skin made for biting. He loves beyond measure when you sunk your teeth in. You could rip him apart with teeth and tongue, and he’d laugh and thank you as you sit back to watch the bruises form.
When you’d had other lovers in bed with you, he always angled to get the marks as a reminder. A trophy happily collected. Another man’s strong hands. Or another woman’s mouth or scratches.
He was delighted by the kind of love and lust that left its mark. Of crimson twin brackets of teeth set bloody in his shoulders. Marks of love bites anywhere they could get their mouth. Black and yellow lovely bruises over his collarbones and neck. Fingertip bruises deep deep purple on his thighs and hips. No matter what they did to him, he’d grin and ask for it harder.
But your marks? He treasured those the most. Valued them more than all the coin in the realm. More than gold.
So you take your sweet time. Bent to him. Ass pushed in the air. Lips on his inner thighs. Sure enough to leave a marching trail of red mouthed marks. You keep on until he was fully squirming. Hissing out every foul curse he knew.
“When I get out of these ties…Ugh shit. Fuck. I’m going to bend you in fucking half. Press your knees to your ears and—hmmm.”
You lick and lap and suck. Wet sounds reaching his ears like manna. Even taking a second to curl your tongue at one of his balls.
“Woman. You fucking- vixen…” He brokenly groans.
You rise up on your knees when you reckon he’s had enough. His tongue has run dry of insult.
Align your hips over his. Drop a little and let him feel the heat and weight of your cunt. Placing yourself just over where he needs you.
Rubbing yourself on that hard cock you love so much. The wet slick of you bleeding through the thin fabric. For him? The most cruel taunt.
You make sure he sees the way you lift your nightdress. Fingers crawling the fabric into bunches of yellow wrinkles at your hips. Keeping it on. Pushing it up to your waist. Saddling yourself on his lap. Still smearing your wet cunt and dragging your pussy lips over him to make him feel what having all this power did to you.
“Gods. You’re dripping wet. Seeing me all bound like this really does something for you, huh?” He huffs.
You smile. You can’t not. His eyes take to it like pure devastation. One he’ll beg endlessly for.
“One more threat. And I will gag you.”
He tilts his head at you. Dangerous. It makes you shiver. Hair standing on end at the back of your neck, that exquisite breed of danger.
“Try it.” He dares with bite. Eyes fixed on you. Darker than the gap inbetween stars.
“I will consider it if you’re not capable of keeping quiet for me.” You explain. Shifting up again.
“When I’m inside you, my storm? All bets are off-“
“Really?” You seek. Circling your hips in a wide arc. One hand holding your skirts at your belly. You watch his jaw clamp. Teeth grinding like he wants to turn them to dust.
He goes to answer you but you take the words right off the bed of his tongue.
Your hand strokes through the raven pelt of sweaty hair on his chest. Hand clasping over one of his nipples. Your other sought out his hard cock. And in one swift move, you line him up and sink down.
You flutter and clench around the size. But glide down smooth. Wet enough to take him all the way. Balls fucking deep.
He shivers so much, whole body gone with it like you’d flooded lightning though his veins. Mouth falling open, jaw wide and gaping. Lashes flutter onto his cheeks. Casting spidery shadows down them in the sultry gold candlelight. Such a beauty your husband.
The pleasure isn’t entirely all yours to be smug with.
The fierce final knock of him leaves you gasping out a cry that bleeds loudly out your mouth. Joining the crackle and hiss of the fire. The rap of wind and rain knifing on the window panes. That spot he curves into deep inside, had your belly flipping over. Eyes rolling over with bliss.
“Fuck— “ he hums. Spitting with it. Lips wet. “There it is. That the spot isn’t it, my love? Fuck me. When your eyes roll back- my favourite part.”
You shift your knees. Adjust your stance. Starting to get the hang of the rythmn that gets so good, you dig your nails to his chest. Hair sticking and slapping down your sweaty shoulders and back. Your cunt well and truly slick. Squelching with each lift of your pelvis.
You feel every throbbing inch of him moving deeper and deeper as you ride him properly. It’s strenuous work to take him like this, and you are soon slicked and beaded in sweat in no time. Dripping with it. But you can’t deny how delicious it is-
The bed is creaking where it hits the wall and the floor. The hanging sway with the tremble, and buck of your hips. The mattress sinking soft, pushed under your knees. He spears you so deep you have to be careful not to lose your breath.
His moans may be the most delicious part of all.
Loud. Unabashed. Husky out his throat. Nothing about Lyonel flourishes quietly.
His eyes are hazy. Dazed and fixed hungrily on your bouncing tits. His mouth waters for them. Even through the fabric right now he’d suck them if he could. You know his hands are itching- impatient to burst free. He wants to touch your hair. Hips. Your neck. Wants to grab. Despises that he can’t.
You angle yourself just right. Cock catching that magnificent place inside. You clench and rock and get lost in how good it feels to use him.
You can touch him everywhere. Everywhere you’re greedy for. Everywhere you like. His chest. His neck. Running up the tensed muscles of his arms.
When you cup his cheek. Leaning lightly over. Other hand braced on the bed near his ribs. He surprises you. Turning and tugging your two closest fingers into his mouth. Sucking them deep like he wanted to take skin off the bone.
He growls when that makes your cunt clamp down on him. Squeeze tighter than a fist. Makes you realise how close you’re getting.
You alter. Make your pattern faster. Riding him harder. His cock spears so deeply you momentarily get your mind wiped blank with pleasure. So fucking soaked already and you must be dripping down over his body to his balls with it.
“Plant your feet. Brace your knees- now“ You gasp.
He does as you ask. Arching his strong knees. Knocking himself upwards. Thrusting his pelvis to meet you. The pace turns from a ride to gallop.
Your fingers still in his mouth like he wants to gag on them. Spit wet. Your cunt is being pounded so well you actually think you’ll go fully insensate when you cum.
“Yes. Lyonel. Oh my-fuck, Yes.” You cry. Loud and needy. Barrelling towards your completion. Nails leaving five little moons in his hairy chest. Using him like some convenient toy.
You draw your fingers from the hot drench of his wicked tongue. He was starting to lick up between the webs of your fingers. Desperate for any touch and taste he could get.
You don’t need to tell him you’re going to cum. He can read it off you. Can fucking feel it. You’re flooding his lap like a spouting geyser. The way your face pulls and stills. Brows rising in the middle. Mouth wide. Head completly gone on the perfect plunge of his cock.
You swirl and drop your hips so fast, it feels like chasing insanity. When it does finally break, when your orgasm reaches out and seizes you. It comes as the most terrifying wave. It breaks you to pieces. Methodically. Disjoints you piece by wicked piece-
The pleasure blooms from your legs, your toes. Travels up your spine. Slowly takes your arms. Up your neck. You throb. You cry. You squirm and roll your hips until you gush. Clit throbbing where it met the sopping wet skin of his groin. Smeared to the bristled hair at the base of his cock.
You sag low over him to catch your breath. Gasping for air that comes too close and too hot.
“Fucking here. Come here-“ He sighs. Still grunting out orders.
Panting still he pushes his head to mash his lips to your own. Tongue seeking the cup of your mouth. Like a dying man who needed a drink. And instead chose your lips. He kisses you hungrily. No finesses. All spit and teeth.
When you pull away, his teeth scrape your bottom lip in a bite. You spy a wince of pain cross his face-
“What’s the matter?” You seek. Coming back to the room. Head still fluffed with cotton and daze, spinning like a top. Pleasure still twitching through you. Bleeding like a slow struck lightning bolt.
Words fall choppy under his breath. “My love. Can you.. check this tie- I think I twisted it- fuck. Tighter than hell. Hurts.”
You let your hands focus on the knot you tied. Brain stumbling as your fingers fumble. You untwist and unloop it as best you can.
Therein lay your mistake-
The minute he felt the tie go slack. He struck.
The ripping of silk gives way. Once. Then twice. In such quick succession you can hardly register what’s happened. All you soon know is that you’re on your back. He’s wrenched himself out from under you, and knocked you flat. A ruse of being captured. The bloody cheat.
The first thing you can register is both hands squeezing your tits hard. Before he’s wrenching that yellow gown at the neck with his fingers curled into the opening, ripped down the middle. Tearing, shrieking fabric. Baring your body to him.
Your arms he quickly binds, knot around your wrists, with the one ruined tie. The other flaps off his wrist. He can’t even be bothered to remove it.
“My turn.” He sneers down at you. Smile bright. Eyes alive with a wicked gleam. His sweat soaked curls in his eyes as he looms over you. You feel caught. He’s dangerous at the best of times. This was entirely unleashed. Feral Lyonel. Batting at his true full Baratheon, hedonist strength.
Before you can think to protest or fight, his hands sought your thighs. Looping them into his arms. His hips smack flush to yours. He grabs his cock and drapes the head of it. Slapping it to your cunt to watch you shiver. The love taps smearing your own sticky slick all over you. You groan. Twisting. Breasts jolting. Body turning. Glistening in the light.
He slams into you so hard you choke. Head tipped back on the pillows like his was. Cock rooted so deep it’s impossible to tell who was throbbing more. Him or you-
He tips his eyes to the heavens. “Seven. Your cunt was made for me.” He sighs. Only allowing himself a seconds indulgence.
When he tips his head down. He set about arranging your limbs to his satisfaction. Pushing your legs open. Wide and spread. Thighs cushioned plump to your body. His hips bracketing your own. Cock notched right were he needed it. Deep in your soaking cunt.
He’s trapped you in a mating press. The realisation draws a soft cry from your thick throat. Tears quiver at your lashes.
He means to punish-
His hands are hot and wide on your skin. Sweating and kissing your skin like a brand. He’s keeping you folded back as he likes.
“Hope you had your fun. My lady. I’m going to fuck every last noise I can out of you. For all I’ve suffered tonight. Watch you scream yourself silent for me.” He urges.
When he started to pound you, the wicked sloshing of your bodies meeting is the most savage, filthy sound you’ve ever heard. Entirely debauched. The exact language he spoke fluently and so well. Ruination.
You cry his name. Nails scratching the wood already and he’s barely begun. He heaves himself to you deep, each thrust seating from his back and hips. He grinds a pattern that gets you ready to sob.
When you open your eyes, he rears over you like his namesake. Like a storm. Dark. Immovable and ready to decimate all in his path. The look in his eyes is lightning, silver-strong, and frightening in its potency.
Sweat slicks every bit of him. Down his chest. Slipping to his stomach. Shining in his chest hair. Dewy in trails over the hills of his shoulders. His muscles strain and bulge and you feel them everywhere. The necklace he wears slams to his sternum like a pendulum.
“I’m going to ride the hell out of you til you gush all over my cock like a damn fountain. And that’s just for starters.” He grins. Voice ragged. “Understand me?”
You can barely respond. You gasp a nod but he rips it off you.
Your legs bouncing and jolting with the force of his thrusts into you. He keeps his brutal momentum. Feeling you wetter and tightening around him like a living pulse. You’ve cum once. And now this relentless drive is your punishment. The savage punch of his cock to your g-spot that makes your mind and body tremble.
“Lyonel.” You cry out. A plea. Desperate. Voice slipping into a sigh after. Long and drawn. Like a pulled arrow.
His fever hot mouth drops to your neck. He nibbles, bites. Sucks your collarbones. Tastes the furious hum of your pulse. It pats his tongue like a raindrop endlessly falling off the roof.
“You can take the storm. Can’t you, my lady.” He smugs. Teeth taking your neck in a way that pinches. Made you thrash in his hold. His searing body crushed to yours.
He tilts his hips. Drawing his cock right out of you to stuff himself right back in. No space spared. Adoring the way it makes your throat hiccup with the need. The vicious grind against your spot that feels like it’s filing you with mean, hot wet pleasure. The kind that hurts when it finally breaks- itching to pulse free out of you.
Your cries come louder. Faster. Threatening to break across the bedchamber. The way the sea scatters itself to ruin across the hard rocks below your window. Climax gains on you with all the intensity of a knife twisting in your gut.
“Please-“ you beg. Though if he grabbed your face in a sweat slick hand, and outright asked you what you begged for, you’re not sure you’d be able to unstick your tongue, and tell him.
He sips the breath from your dry lips. Sups a kiss of your wearied mouth. “Fuck. Woman. You’re bloody strangling my cock.” He chuckles.
“You’re there aren’t you? It’s right there—“ he plunges his hips. Swills his cock into the absolute wet, agonising mess of you. The noises coming out you are too wet to be believed.
He hammers himself to you. Gripping fistfuls. Hunting down your pleasure.
Your whimper is like something that’s been torn to shreds. Throat clicking with a swallow that near chokes you. A delicacy frayed to bits on a Storms Ends strongest gale.
Sweet relief streaks of climax rushes and swells through you again. Flushing from your groin and shattering up in sharp arrowheads of pleasure. Thighs shaking hard. Cunt clenching. You cum viciously. Brilliantly.
“Yes.” He sighs. “Yes. That’s it my love.”
He slows the roll of his hips to languid. Slow as warm honey. Drawing it out of you.
You squeeze him so hard he can’t fathom it. A trickle of liquid seeps around him. Brightens that grin of his to no end. He always kept his promises when they involved you gushing-
So dazed by the force of it. You can barely hold your eyes open. But he grips onto you tighter. Bodies crushing. Sinking to a pace that has you ready to cry and bring your hands up to push his chest off you. Your nails scratch his chest- but he grabs your bound hands and lays them to his shoulder to cling on for dear life.
“Easy with the claws. You can maul me later.” He pledges with an easy wink.
Your eyes roll back. It makes his cock pulse to see it.
His hold has tightened and you feel the intense need mounting on him too. It’s in the sway of his hips. Impatient. Fast. Chasing pleasure that seems just a fingertip shy of his reach.
You feel compressed. Choked. Clawed shut. A soft, wet cunt for him to use until he cums. One long throbbing nerve. Left out. Exposed. Until he plucks you raw.
“Got another I can wring out of you?” He checks. Eyes lidded. Smug.
The broad fat of his thumb pushes through your slippery lips to seek your clit. You cry - choking, but no sound comes. He swirls his thumb and cruelly nudges you into a third spasming crux of pleasure.
“There you go—fuck“ He urges. Before he has to slam his hand and arch over you.
Your sex ripples along him again. His spine goes iron rigid when he pushes and spills himself deep inside. Hands on your hips for sheer balance. Or he’d fly off this bed. Knees ground tight. Sweaty h roin packed tight to yours. Your orgasms meeting in a sticky, slick puddle in the middle.
He finally goes boneless. Flooding himself deep into your cunt. Hips wetly slapping yours one final time. Body bowing. Sagging onto your spent body. Sweat comes off you in strips. Dripping to the bed. The meeting musk of sweat and cum soaking to the sheets. Heartbeats hammering together like thudding metal clockwork.
Your bound hands come up to loop over his damp hair. Hooked to his neck. He pauses before you can rest. Shifting up. Catches the golden tie in his straight pearly teeth. Pulls his head to one side to untie it. Yanking said silk away from your wrists. Spitting it across the bed with a “puh” noise.
He’s careful when he nudges his soft cock out of you. The warm rush that follows and beads down afterwards, makes him bite his lip. He smirked to see it. The most carnal method of possession.
Your arms crash over your head like tonne weights. “Fuck—“ you decide on.
“You’re telling me. I can’t feel my legs. Gods. Love. Your cunt is good.” He chuckles. Meanly.
He gives one stout, sweet kiss to your nipple before dropping to the side. Sweat dripped off his beard as he did. He flopped on his belly.
You lay there in a cooling puddle of sweat. His cum sliding out of you. Before shifting your gaze up above your head. Looking to where the definitely not twisted tie lay hooked on the poster.
“Was that a ‘no’ to the silk ties then?” You check.
“Definitely fucking not.” He leers.
You tilt your head. “You lasted longer than I thought.”
“Be warned. Lady Lightning. Us storms cannot be tied down for very long.” He grins. Rolling over to kiss your shoulder. Taste of salt and sweat on his tongue. He wanted to bathe every inch of you clean with his tongue.
“I’ll try and remember that.” You sigh.
Stretching your legs. He captures them with his own. Stinks and knots them together.
Captures your fingers again. Draws them towards his mouth and naughtily puts them on his tongue. Sucking and twirling his tongue around them. Enough to make you shiver-
“Good god. Not again-“
He seems to disagree. “Some wine. And round two?” He checks. All sparkling eyes and impish grin.
Your hand slides to find the silvery disarray of curls at the nape of his neck. Your favourite thing to wind, and tug your fingers through.
“You enter me again, tonight Lyonel. I will have no choice but to take your balls off.”
“Kinky.” He winks. “Save something for the next round my lady—“
Forgive the fandom tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. Let me know if you want on/off the list. I’m new to AKOTSK so forgive my presumptions @the-darklings @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiiousstrawberriies @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @adumbgirlinloove @moonlitmaester @silens-oro @feral4youu @whatislovevavy @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @happinessisaloadedgun @faelinda @crayonbug @celestrys @sallymaywritings
I swear, some of you people somehow manage to possess all of the three most unfortunate character traits someone can have: a) kinda stupid, b) obnoxiously contrarian, c) deeply annoying.
Rook and Lucanis enjoying their well deserved rest after the end of Veilguard. I bet those post battle naps hit so good.
I've had a few rush clients as of recent, so I haven't been able to draw my blorbos as much T _ T, but I'm determined to churn when I get some free time 😤
There are multiple chapters that are set in hospitals where the characters are attempting to recover from injuries that never fully heal. I must once again stress that my experience in WWI was perfectly normal.
There is a giant horrible mudplain full of unrecoverable and perfectly preserved dead bodies that the characters have to walk through in a land where the air is poisoned gas, and on a compLETELY UNRELATED NOTE: WWI WAS TOTALLY FINE AND NORMAL!!
You are visiting the Red Keep to celebrate your cousin's nameday and designation as Heir Apparent to the Iron Throne. Little did you know, you would soon find yourself caught in the eye of a great storm.
[ AKOTSK BTS, HBO | ? | Elizabeth Elder]
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word count: 16.3k
tags/warnings: post-canon, mutual pining, age gap, princess!reader, no usage of y/n, light reader desc. (targ coloring and long hair), you're technically a Martell but you look like a Targaryen (your grandmother is the king's sister), smut, MDNI (18+), wedding night, loss of virginity, oral sex, i'm bad at tagging so tell me if I missed anything lol
𖤓⋆AO3⋆𖤓
The Red Keep was darker than you remembered. It had been nearly fifteen years since you last set foot in the capital. Not since your great-uncle, King Daeron II’s, 50th nameday tournament. You were seven then, and all you knew of the Red Keep were the stories of the impossibly beautiful Targaryen princesses and the fearsome dragonriders of generations passed. The halls seemed so much brighter then, each step and stone alive with the memories of long ago. Perhaps it was the light of youth that had left you and thus dimmed the halls in your eyes, or perhaps it was the weight of grief from the loss of Prince Baelor Breakspear that shrouded the Keep. A good man, you were told he was. You could not recall anything of him beyond a handsome face and the title of champion of his father’s tournament all those years ago, but if the Red Keep was this pale and lifeless without him, perhaps he was as good of a man as people claimed.
You were a Targaryen in blood but not in name. Your grandmother, Princess Daenerys, sister to King Daeron, had been wedded to the Prince of Dorne. Through her you inherited your silver hair and violet eyes– no small miracle considering the potency of the brown-eyed and dark-haired Martell seed. In Sunspear you oftentimes felt envious of the Martell look despite your coveted Targaryen coloring, the olive skin and ebon hair of the Martells seeming far more suited to Dorne than you did. Your father and his siblings all took after their Martell sire, along with your brother and your many cousins. The youngest of the great brood of offspring that descended from Princess Daenerys and Prince Maron Martell, you were the only descendant of the first Daenerys to inherit her looks. You were often told you were the spitting image of the woman whose beauty was said to have driven her half-brother to rebellion, though you could not see it for yourself. Your grandmother’s beauty felt far more regal and refined than yours. Though you had long been flowered and grown into your womanly body, you still felt like half an awkward young girl— a pale rose bloomed among a garden of petals far more rich and vibrant than your own.
Your chest was heavy with nervousness as you stood in your chambers pondering your choice of gown for the evening’s feast. All of the realm's great lords and ladies had come to the Red Keep to celebrate the nameday of Prince Valarr and his new designation as Heir Apparent of the Iron Throne. To celebrate in the wake of a loss such as Prince Baelor’s seemed ill-suited for the dour air that currently filled the castle halls, but perhaps there was nothing else to be done. The mace had already struck the prince— his body long turned to ash and interred on Dragonstone. The Royal Family could either decide to remain in the shadow of the Tourney at Ashford Meadow indefinitely or continue onward. It seemed as though they had decided to continue on, for better or for worse.
You, however, had not pressed onward. You remained standing in your linen shift at the foot of your bed, staring down at your choice of gowns. They all seemed ill-suited for the evening’s festivities— either too loud in color or silhouette, too girlish, or just simply gauche. You began to question your decision to allow your mother to pack your trunk for you. As doting and diligent as she was, her taste was rather… different from yours. She seemed all too thrilled to curate your selection for you, however, and you could not deny her in her excitement. Although, as you stared down at your unfortunate options, you began to wish that you had at the very least been present while she made her decisions. Instead, your fate had been left to your mother’s ever-changing whims.
You crossed your chambers and opened your trunk once again, hoping by some divine chance a gown befitting your taste would somehow materialize. You dug past carefully folded stays and newly sewn slippers, reaching desperately into the velvet-lined mahogany for any sign of a suitable gown. Your fingers would suddenly graze an unfamiliar patch of silk, and in one swift motion you pulled a gown from deep beneath the cavern of fabric. In your hands was a gown of pale violet silk— its waist, neckline, and sleeves lined in pale diamonds and moonstones. Upon looking at the garment you felt a relief so great you could have begun sobbing in that very moment. You would not be forced to stuff yourself into some mess of bright orange damask— you could enter the Great Hall of the Red Keep dressed like the Targaryen princess you had always dreamt of being. The thought was enough to rid you of every last shred of anxiousness you had previously felt.
You could not recall ever seeing the gown before, but it fit you as if it had been made just for you. You decided a silver hair pin would suit the dress best, a delicate half-moon to neatly pull back some of your silver-gold hair. You donned a pair of ivory slippers as well, and a few dabs of lemon oil on your wrists and neck for good measure. When you found yourself in the mirrored glass, you hardly recognized yourself. For a small moment you saw a true dragon princess, not the violet-eyed fledgling from Dorne you had known yourself to be. An air of confidence filled your chest, and shortly thereafter a knock came to your door. It was finally time.
Your brother would be the one to escort you into the Great Hall. The strong and proud young heir to Sunspear, Prince Nymor, effortless as he guided you to your table— weaving between blushing young ladies, trestles, and servants with a self-possessed ease. In truth, you were total opposites— in both looks and temperament. He was pure, quiet confidence, while you were prone to fretfulness and insecurity. He carried all the warmth of the Martell coloring while you looked like true fire and blood. While you would have typically felt like some freakish thing standing next to your brother in Dorne, in the Red Keep you were just another Targaryen princess. You walked with your head a bit higher this night, proud of your coloring instead of attempting to disguise it.
When you finally found your table, your grandmother’s eyes lit up in delight as she saw you. “Oh, my darling,” she said, placing a kiss to your cheek, “you look beautiful.”
“That’s your dress she’s wearing,” your mother said. “I had hoped you would’ve worn something with Martell colors, but I should’ve known you would have chosen that. It suits you,” she said, inspecting the hem of your sleeve in hand.
“Is it my dress?” Your grandmother said, pulling you in so she might inspect the gown more closely. “Oh, yes, I remember this one. This is what I wore the night I met your grandfather.” She took a moment to take in the sight of you, a satisfied smile creeping across her lips. “It fits you just perfectly, doesn’t it? Meria, how could you expect this girl to wear red and orange when she looks so beautiful like this?” She leaned in closer to you, voice almost at a whisper, “You may be a Martell in name but the blood of the dragon runs strongly through your veins, my girl. You must not shroud the beauty the gods have given you.”
You could only smile as your grandmother looked back at you with pride. “Thank you, grandmother. I will wear this dress with honor. I had no idea it was yours.”
“Do more than wear it with honor,” your grandmother said, taking a sip of wine. “You are the most stunning maid here tonight, and every lord in Westeros worth his salt is in attendance. Find yourself a husband, my dear.”
“Seven Hells!” Your mother hushed, eyes darting around the hall. “That is hardly appropriate. Besides, Lord Yronwood has offered his son…”
“Oh, Others take them,” your grandmother waved a dismissive hand. “The Yronwood boy is round-shouldered and soft-bellied. My granddaughter deserves far better.”
“It is a highly advantageous match. We need to ensure our bannerman remain loyal, and besides…”
“Oh hush,” Princess Daenerys poured herself another glass of Arbor Gold. “There are other ways to make your bannermen love you. As your Princess I command that my granddaughter will not marry that boy. I will hear no more of it.” She flashed a mischievous grin at you, reaching out to you with ringed fingers, “On my honor as a princess, I will ensure you marry for love. But you must seek it out, is that understood?”
With a fluttering stomach you shook your head in agreement. In truth, the prospect of love all but terrified you, but you could not deny your grandmother. Your mother sunk into her chair beside you with an exasperated huff, but you would not pay her any mind. It was unlikely you were to chance upon some great love of your life tonight anyhow— but at the very least you might make yourself known to the rest of the realm that was so far out of reach from Sunspear.
You spent the first part of the evening observing the feast from the comfort of your grandmother’s table. Her own status as sister to the king brought many a noble lord and lady to your table, including the Royal Family themselves. Prince Maekar brought with him his two daughters, Rhae and Daella, both playing the part of exceedingly proper princess while greeting the king’s sister. Prince Maekar stayed to talk with your grandmother for a time, though his grim countenance and glassy gaze told you his mind was elsewhere. If the tales were true, it was his mace who took his brother’s life. It was clear that the weight of that guilt rested heavily upon him.
Eventually the princes Valarr and Matarys would stop by as well, both of their visits short and curt. You could not recall what Valarr and Matarys had been like when you were children, but you imagined that the young men who stood before you tonight were pale, withering reflections of their former selves. Even during a night of celebration, Baelor’s loss still shrouded the halls of the keep.
During the evening you spotted who could only be the eldest son of Prince Maekar, Prince Daeron— but he made no effort to make himself known to your table. He seemed far too deep in his cups to perform any pleasantries, and, in truth, you were glad to be spared from having to stumble through conversation with him. King Daeron II himself was last to make an appearance, and you were sure that you turned white at the sight of him approaching.
“There you are, brother,” your grandmother said with a playful arrogance.
“You do not come to greet your king at his own table? Who are you to make him come to you?” He said, feigning offense.
“The king’s elder sister,” she said with an assured smile.
King Daeron leaned in to place a kiss on his sister’s cheek, then turned to face you. “And who is this young beauty? This cannot be my grand-niece from all those years ago.”
“Isn’t she lovely?” Your grandmother said with pride.
“Quite so. How are you enjoying the capital, princess?” The king asked you.
“Oh, it’s been quite lovely,” you replied. “Though, I am sorry that we must gather in the wake of such a great loss.”
“Yes, Baelor is missed tremendously.” The King paused for a moment, as if the wind had been suddenly knocked from his sails. You felt sorry for reminding him of his grief. “Though, we must continue on. There is no other way. The realm requires it.”
“And there is no better man to lead us through such uncertain times,” your grandmother said, standing and taking her brother’s arm in hers. “Come, walk with me, brother. It has been too long since I’ve been home.” She turned to face you before making her leave with the king. “My dear, I trust you will be dancing with a handsome lord whence I return.”
You could only blush and nod in response, stomach fluttering at the thought of finding yourself in the arms of some tall and esteemed knight. Your mother had already made her leave from the table, off chatting with the other noble ladies. Your father and brother were long gone as well, likely off in the training yard chuffing it up with other lords and knights. Left at the table was only you, loneliness suddenly pressing in like an encroaching storm. Your eyes began to scan the hall, searching for any sign of a familiar face. One would not be found.
Eventually, however, your eyes found the face of a handsome lord dressed in black and gold. Your maester’s lessons immediately told you the man was a Baratheon, but whom exactly you could not say. He certainly appeared old enough to be Lord Lyonel, with silver peppering his hair and beard, but he seemed far too young in spirit to be Lord of Storm’s End. You watched as he carried conversation and laughter from one table to the next, a troupe of enraptured guests following behind him. It wasn’t until you heard his booming laugh echo across the hall that you realized he was just the man he seemed to be: The Laughing Storm himself.
A queer feeling began to stir in your belly as you continued to watch him. Your eyes traced the angle of his jaw, the width of his shoulders, the long legs that held him half a head taller than most men in the room. You watched as the candlelight caught the earring that hung from his ear, the way his smile shone even in the dim lighting. A sense of longing began to work its way into you, something wholly unfamiliar. The feeling itself was enough to send anxious shivers licking up your spine— you had never before felt so quickly and suddenly smitten.
Before your sudden nervousness could avert your eyes, the gaze of the stormlord fell on your own, and with it a weight that fell heavy upon your chest. A smile found his lips as the two of you remained frozen in time, the world around you quieting to a hum as you continued to peer back at each other from across the hall. Some intuitive force within you told you to smile back at him rather than stare in awestruck wonder, and you did. It was as if a fire had been lit behind the man’s eyes in response, and in what felt like mere moments he was at your table, performing a low bow.
“My lady, I do not know if I have had the pleasure of meeting you,” he said, flashing a row of straight, white teeth as he smiled. “I am Lyonel Baratheon of Storm’s End.”
You stood and gave him your name, blushing as you performed what you were sure was the most clumsy curtsy of your life.
“Oh? So not a lady at all, but a princess,” he bowed again, the words leaving his lips like a song. “I should have known– you were sitting with the king’s sister. Princess Daenerys is your grandmother, then?”
“Indeed she is,” you smoothed out your skirts, suddenly aware of possible creases that may have formed while you were seated. “This is her gown, even.”
He paused for a moment, his eyes tracing along your frame for just long enough to bring a flush to your cheeks but not long enough to cause offense. There was something wicked beneath his gaze, however. Not sinister, but roguish in a way– some might call his demeanor impudent if not for his impeccable lordly manners. He danced on a thin line between order and rebellion, and there was something about it that was almost thrilling.
“A gown fit only for royalty.” He offered you a hand and graciously lowered his head, “If I may, I don’t believe I have ever danced with a princess. Would you do me the honor?”
You placed your palm in his, white heat pressing at your cheeks at the feel of his sword-toughened hand. “It would be my pleasure.”
He led you to the dancefloor with a gentle pull, the crowd of feastgoers parting with ease for the Lord of Storm’s End. Lyonel pulled you into him suddenly as you reached the center of the floor, instinct taking over as you found yourself face-to-face with the handsome lord. Your hands found their proper places, as did his— the feel of his firm grip on your waist sending a nervous shiver down your back.
You began to dance as one, Lord Lyonel leading you to each possible end of the dancefloor and back. He had a delightful natural rhythm, his feet matching each melody as if he had heard it a thousand times before. You found yourself especially grateful for Dorne’s penchant for dance— you weren’t sure you would otherwise be able to keep up if not for your long history of dancing at feasts.
Dancing did not naturally lend itself for conversation, but despite that you felt an unspoken chemistry beginning to blossom between you and Lyonel. You slowly became more familiar to the feel of him, no longer having to anticipate his steps but flowing together as one. Laughter erupted from you each time he would perform an especially daring move or decide to lift you from the dancefloor entirely, twirling you in the air as if you were a doll and not a woman grown. Each smile and stolen glance felt like a dozen words spoken despite your relative silence. You began to hope the bard would never cease plucking his lute.
Though eventually you would finish your dancing, it was not because the music stopped. Lord Lyonel at one moment leaned into you, speaking softly in your ear, “The air grows stale. Would you like to take a walk?”
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You followed Lyonel through long corridors and winding stairs, each of you just as lost as the other but somehow finding your way to the castle’s gardens— surprisingly desolate despite the feast’s long list of attendees. You were glad for some time alone with the stormlord, even in spite of how timorous he made you.
You walked quietly for a while, appreciating the scenes of the castle’s massive gardens. Flower varieties you had never seen before bloomed in abundance, filling the air with their lush fragrances. Lyonel was first to break the silence, taking your arm in his, “So, tell me. Have you been enjoying the capital, princess?”
“Oh, it’s been quite nice,” you began, suddenly aware of yourself. “Though it does feel a bit different from how I remembered it as a child. There’s a heaviness in the air.”
“A malady from the loss of the prince, no doubt,” he said. “It is difficult to ignore. Grief has a way of lingering.”
“It’s a terrible thing, what happened to him,” you said with less pain than you likely ought to have. You did not know him hardly, but he was your blood, after all. “I’m told he was a good man.”
“You knew him as well as I, princess, though I did fight beside him at Ashford. I even glimpsed the blow that did him in. I could hardly believe it when he remained standing afterwards,” he shook his head, as if trying to free the memory from his mind. “If nothing else, he was a fighter. One of the best among us.”
“I heard it was all for a hedge knight,” you said. “Is that true?”
“Indeed,” Lyonel began. “Ser Duncan the Tall, he calls himself. He struck Prince Aerion in defense of some poor Dornish puppeteer girl the prince was assaulting. Ser Duncan had to have known he was risking his head in striking a member of the royal family, but he did his duty in protecting the innocent, as any knight should.” Lord Lyonel paused, eyes finding yours, “Perhaps it is some peace that the prince did not die for a dishonorable cause.”
“I don’t know if his family has felt any peace,” you said. “The realm neither.”
“No, I suppose not,” he said, but you felt there was more he wished to say— some fire within him burning deep beneath the surface.
He paused for a moment, eyes scanning the grounds ahead as he placed his free hand on your arm. “Come, I spy a bower.” He tightened his grip on you, quickening his pace slightly as he led you deeper into the gardens.
The quiet corner you found was constructed of latticeworked oakwood, covered in deep green vines and night-blooming jasmine. A small oaken bench stood in the center with pristinely maintained white velvet pillows resting atop it, the sigil of the royal house embroidered in the center of the fabric in black thread. The bower rested atop a small crest, allowing a peak outside the castle walls to the city below Aegon’s Hill. A crisp spring breeze began to wrap around you and Lyonel, carrying with it the scent of jasmine and torchfire.
You took a seat at the bench beside the stormlord, your own nervousness not allowing you to sit quite as closely as you might have liked. Lyonel took note of it, gesturing you closer with a gentle hand, “Do you fear me, princess? I promise I do not bite,” he laughed. “Well, I do not bite innocents, at least. Unless requested, of course.”
You laughed nervously, closing the gap between the two of you. He slid a polite arm around the small of your back and carefully draped the length of his cloak over your shoulders. Your cheeks and belly warmed in response to his closeness. He smelled of wine and clove— his scent blooming a desire you did not quite understand.
“Better,” he said as you settled into his side. “I hope our closeness does not offend you, princess. I only wish for us to become more familiar.”
“Not at all,” you said, attempting to swallow your nervousness. It did not offend you, in truth. In fact, your closeness felt strangely natural, for what little time you’ve had to know each other. “I hope my hesitance has not offended you, I have never— uhm,” you stopped, biting your lip as you carefully chose your next words. You had never properly been courted, had only been kissed once at thirteen— a young Vaith boy having quickly stolen one from you while you were reading in the Water Gardens. You would not presume that Lyonel was attempting to court you so quickly… but it was clear he had intentions beyond friendly conversation. And, unfortunately for you, your only experience with the opposite sex was that of friendly conversation.
“You have never been courted?” He asked, stopping you in your fretting.
“No, my lord,” you replied, almost shamefully.
“How old are you, princess?” He asked, a tinge of hesitation stiffening his posture.
“Nearly two-and-twenty, my lord,” you said.
His shoulders noticeably rounded, a relieved breath escaping his lips. “Oh, thank the gods. I had assumed as much, but then you said you had never been courted, and I feared I had just whisked away a child from the feast.” He laughed a breathy chuckle, fingers combing through his silver-streaked mane. “So, you mean to tell me that not a single man in Dorne has had enough sense to make an attempt at your hand? Are they all mad?”
You laughed, a warm blush finding your cheeks. “My mother has attempted to make many a match for me, but my grandmother has denied each with a swift hand. Few men are deserving enough, in her eyes.”
“And she has the right of it,” he said, a certain warmth softening his umber eyes. “Perhaps she might think differently of a Stormlander.”
Your chest fluttered in response, disbelief falling over you. Could a man such as him want me? You asked yourself. How could such an accomplished knight, lord of a great house, and a man so terribly, maddeningly handsome, want you?
“Oh,” you began, your unease stuttering your speech. “I see no reason for her to deny you. You are Lord of Storm’s End.”
“But you hesitate?” He inquired, looking at you with compassionate interest. “If I do not interest you, say the word and I will bring you back to the feast. You will not see hide nor hair of me for the remainder of the evening. It was not my intention to steal the night from you.”
“Oh, no, no, I did not mean to hesitate,” you began, suddenly filled with worry that you were not properly conveying your feelings. “I have very much enjoyed our time together, my lord. I am just… surprised that you have taken such an interest in me.”
He looked at you in unbridled shock, a sudden laughter breaking from his throat, “Why would I not take such an interest? You are a Martell princess, granddaughter to Princess Daenerys, and, if I may, breathtakingly beautiful. What possible reason could I find to not pursue you?”
You paused for a moment, embarrassed for admitting to your insecurity. “I suppose I have always felt a bit of an outsider in Dorne, with the great host of my family all having the Martell look and me without. I was never treated any differently, but I grew to feel like a bit of a white sheep in a field of black, so to speak.” You looked out at the night sky, a half-moon hanging above the pair of you and the sprawling city below. “I suppose it’s a bit silly for me to feel this way, but it has always felt strange to be a Martell in name but a Targaryen in appearance.”
“Perhaps the name Baratheon might suit you better,” he said, his eyes meeting yours. “Storm’s End is no stranger to silver hair and violet eyes. The first Baratheon was said to have been the bastard brother of the Conqueror, even. You would be a welcome sight in the Stormlands.”
You nearly froze in place, unsure you had properly understood his meaning. “Oh, my lord—”
“Lyonel,” he said, taking your hand in his. “I call you princess out of affection, not formality. You will call me Lyonel.”
“Lyonel,” you said, his name leaving your lips as if you were wishing upon a star.
Before you could gather enough sense to form another reply, the stormlord pulled you closer to him and pressed a fervent kiss to your lips. The feel of him filled you with heat from head-to-toe, your surprise turning to an aching want in an instant. You began to lean into him, wanting nothing more than to remain exactly where you were for the remainder of the evening. Before you could fall farther into him, however, Lyonel pulled his lips from yours.
“Careful, princess. You don’t know what remarkable willpower I am displaying at this moment,” he said, looking back at you with his handsome, roguish grin. “Though I am glad to learn my affection wasn’t unwelcome.”
“No, it very much was not,” you said, a shy smile upturning the corners of your mouth.
He quickly surveyed the gardens, still decidedly empty, the air growing colder as the night continued to deepen. “I would prefer to stay here for the remainder of the night, but if I did, I’m afraid my worst inclinations would begin to win out.” He stood, offering you his hand, “Come, princess, it’s time I returned you to your family. I fear I may have already made a poor first impression by keeping you so long.”
⋅ ˖ ⋆𖤓⋆ ˖ ⋅
The walk back to the feast was far quicker than you had hoped it would be, your arm firmly held by Lyonel’s all the while. When you finally arrived back at your table, your mother appeared as if she had just seen a ghost, but your grandmother looked back at you in quiet, proud joy.
“Oh, where in Seven Hells have you been?! Your father and brother just went looking for you!” Your mother said, one hand on her chest and the other on her goblet.
“My apologies, my lady, I had stolen your daughter away for a dance before we decided we desired some fresh air. Forgive me for keeping her for so long, I’m sure you know what great company she is,” he turned and gave you a knowing smile, equal parts adoring and mischievous.
Before your mother could say another word, your grandmother cut in. “That is quite alright, my lord. It is time someone other than us learned what a treasure my granddaughter is,” your grandmother said, smiling up at the pair of you with utter satisfaction.
“Oh, and a treasure is just what she is,” Lyonel said, looking back at you with glimmering eyes. “Just how fortunate am I to have made her acquaintance tonight? Luckier than any man in Westeros, I might presume.”
You found yourself thoroughly entertained by Lyonel’s lordly charms, the man easily winning over your grandmother’s affections, and eventually your mothers. Your father and brother would soon return to the table as well, happy to see you safe and likely even more happy for the opportunity to become acquainted with The Laughing Storm himself.
Lyonel would speak with your family for a time, you standing blissful at his side all the while. By the end of the feast, you felt as though you were half in a dream, unbelieving that an evening such as this one could have unfolded the way it did. When the Great Hall began to empty and your family suggested retiring to your respective chambers, you felt nearly heartbroken. You did not want the night to ever end.
Though unfortunately the night must end, you were fortunate that Lyonel was permitted to return you to your chambers on his own (though not without some small objection by your parents and a massive insistence by your grandmother.) Your chambers were in the same wing as the rest of your family’s, though at the far end of the hall, allowing you and Lyonel a small bit of privacy as you bid your farewells for the night.
You stood outside your door, looking up at him in unbridled adoration as he towered over you, his ever-lingering smirk still painting his face. “You should not look at me like that when I have had this much wine” he said, bringing a hand up to cup your jaw. He looked behind you into your chambers, “Certainly not with such temptations so close at hand.”
The mere thought of those aforementioned temptations was enough to send a nervous chill up your spine. You could not entertain the idea any longer, lest you forget your womanly sensibilities.
“Will I see you again?” You asked with more sentimentality than you had intended.
He toyed with a lock of your hair. “Of course you will, sweet princess. You are going to have quite a hard time getting rid of me.”
You laughed, gaze unmoving from his. You hoped he would kiss you.
“I’m serious, princess, I am losing my strength,” he said, taking a sudden step back. He further opened your door, gesturing for you to enter, “Off to bed with you, before I make any mistakes that cannot be unmade.”
You took a few slow steps into the room before turning to face him again. A feeling of disappointment wormed its way into you— but you understood his decision to remain chaste was likely for the best. Even as timid as you were, you found your inhibitions beginning to leave you as well.
“Goodnight, Lyonel,” you said, continuing to stand just a few steps away from him, the weight of longing hanging heavy over you.
“Goodnight, princess,” he said, offering you a smile before dutifully bowing his head and pulling the door shut.
Your heart ached as you listened to the soles of his boots hit the stone floor of the hallway, the sound of each step dampening as he exited the corridor. You hoped he would dream of you tonight, as you were sure you would be dreaming of him.
⋅ ˖ ⋆𖤓⋆ ˖ ⋅
You woke the next morning with fluttering in your chest, the sun just beginning to creep through the scarlet drapes that hung at your windows. You rose from your bed with more ardor than usual, eagerly pulling open the doors to your balcony so that you might take a moment to bathe in the morning sun. You tried to think of the day ahead, how you were meant to break fast with the royal family in a few short hours— but your mind would only return to Lyonel. The feel of his lips on yours, the scent of wine and warm spice that clung to him, his booming laugh, his devilish grin, the feel of his strong hands on yours. The night prior felt more and more like a dream each time you returned to it. Part of you feared you had truly dreamt it all, or interpreted it all to be far more romantic than it truly was. You would not feel truly sane until Lyonel called upon you, you realized. The day would drag on in agony until then.
Your handmaiden would soon arrive not long after you’d awoken, carrying with her a tray of tea and bread with honey. You could not eat, your stomach churning from anxiousness for the day ahead— but the tea was a welcome balm to your senses. You would soon be submerged in a copper tub, Elda carefully cleansing and oiling your hair behind you.
“I heard you spent the evening with a handsome lord, princess,” she said, reaching beside the tub to pour more almond oil into her palms.
You sat up slightly in surprise, feeling suddenly exposed. A small, nervous laugh escaped your lips, “Who told you that?”
“The other maids, princess. They do not speak ill of you. They say he was very handsome,” she replied.
You pulled your knees to your chest, suddenly cold as nervous shivers trailed down your back. You could not even be called ‘princess’ anymore without being reminded of Lyonel. “He was— is. He is very handsome.”
“Who is he, my princess? A knight? What is his name?”
“Lyonel Baratheon,” you said, just speaking his name feeling sinful in some strange way. “He is Lord of Storm’s End.”
“Oh, princess,” the handmaiden said, her voice bright with excitement. “Not just a lord or a knight, but a Lord Paramount.”
You laughed, filled equally with embarrassment and enjoyment. You feared feeling too overjoyed, however. It was only one evening that you spent with the handsome stormlord, afterall. He could have very well forgotten you already, or found interest in some other noble maiden. “Indeed,” you said, fear beginning to dampen your spirits. “It was only one night, Elda. There’s no sense in getting so excited. He may not even truly like me.”
“Respectfully, princess, if he does not wish to marry you,” the handmaiden began, slowly hushing her voice, “he is the stupidest man in Westeros.”
You laughed, but refused to entertain the idea any longer. It would be too naive to expect courtship and marriage after a single night, even as terribly as you wanted it.
You were soon dressed and ready to dine with the royal family, having donned a gown of black silk, your hair carefully coiled into a cloth-of-silver net. You would enter the small hall of Maegor’s Holdfast with your family, the royals having already crowded around the table with the king at the head. The hall was glaringly quiet, with the only chatter coming from little Rhae, asking her grandfather one-million-and-one questions about the long-dead dragons of their house.
Breakfast was quiet, though not altogether unpleasant. You had taken the seat next to Prince Maekar, admittedly not by choice, for the man’s stolid and prickly exterior somewhat set you on edge. You ate in silence until he eventually made a polite attempt at conversation with you, asking you about life at Sunspear, how you had come to enjoy the capital, even remarking on your resemblance to your grandmother. For a man so clearly weighted by grief and the burden of parenting what were rumored to be quite unruly children, he seemed to take some genuine interest in you. Whether or not that was just a well-practiced facade from decades of politicking in King’s Landing, you could not say, but you did leave the meal with some newfound fondness for your cousin.
Eventually you would leave Maegor’s Holdfast and its many royals for the godswood at the center of the keep, your grandmother insisting she give you a tour of her favorite part of the castle she was raised in. She would show you the stones she and her brother carved their names into as children, something they had only done once they found the names of the dozens of Targaryen children that came before them carved into similar minerals. You would spend some time looking through them with her, in awe of the centuries of history you were holding in your hands. You would find many a familiar name; Valarr and Matarys, Aegon and Daeron and Aerion, Baelor and Maekar. You would also soon find the names Daena and Elaena, Rhaena and Daeron, and deeper in the patch of stones; Rhaenyra and Aegon, Aemond and Helaena, Daemon and Viserys.
The pair of names that nearly stole your breath away, however, resting on their own beneath a blooming blackberry bush, so weathered they were nearly illegible— Jaehaerys and Alysanne. The Good Queen herself and her husband, The Conciliator, the very king and queen who united the realm and secured the Targaryen dynasty for two hundred years. The sight of the two names nearly brought tears to your eyes, and the same for your grandmother.
You would eventually continue your walk through the godswood (though it could hardly be called that considering the castle’s heart tree was an oak, not the weirwood of northern tradition.) The tree was massive, however, its deep-brown branches sprawling out at least twenty feet across and dozens of feet tall. Its ancient limbs were covered in smokeberry vines, in bloom now that spring had finally arrived in full. You would take a seat at one of the benches below the tree, your grandmother at your side.
“So, tell me, dear, for I cannot bear another minute without the details,” she began, taking your hand into hers. “I need to know of your evening with Lord Baratheon.”
You felt your cheeks begin to warm, the midday sun casting a warm shadow that sent sudden prickles of heat across your chest. “It was…” you paused, unsure of how to speak on it. The evening was a dream, of course— you were utterly smitten with the bold stormlord. But as the day continued to pass with no sign of him, doubt continued to worm its way into your chest, and you feared your love would continue on unrequited. You thought that you might hide those fears from your grandmother, but she knew you better than anyone. Masking your true feelings would only prolong your inevitable admission.
“It was wonderful, truly. He is handsome, and charming, a great conversationalist,” you paused, fidgeting with the silver rings that decorated your fingers. “He was very kind and gallant, he treated me with the utmost respect and care.” A shy smirk crept across your lips, your gaze fluttering absently, “He is a fantastic dancer.”
“So why do I sense such hesitation in you?” Your grandmother asked, not unkindly.
“It all feels too good to be true, somehow,” you replied. “He is much older than me, lord of a great house, an accomplished knight…” you trailed off, suddenly weighted by your insecurities. “I’m not sure why he would want anything to do with me. If he wants anything to do with me, I should say.”
Your grandmother let out a sympathetic gasp, “Oh, my dear, how could you think such a way?” She wrapped an arm around you tightly, pulling you closer to her. “He may be a great lord but you are a princess, my dear. You are great-niece to the king, second in line to Sunspear! You must not allow yourself to wither beneath such insecurity. It has a way of festering.” She placed two delicate digits beneath your chin, turning your face towards hers. “I don’t want to hear such talk from you. You are beautiful, and you are the blood of the dragon. You must never forget that. You may be a Martell in name but you are of royal, ancient Valyrian blood. You saw for yourself today what legacy you descend from— let that be your shield from self-doubt.”
A tear would have fallen from your eye if you did not blink it away. Your grandmother was right, as she always was— but even with all of her praise, all she said did not feel true. But perhaps that was just the nature of believing, maybe true belief only existed in spite of doubt. You decided then you would no longer wallow in the foolish insecurity of your youth. You were a woman grown, and if the gods were good one day you would be the lady of a castle and mother of a brood of children— you could not continue on like the pathetic little self-pitying princess you had been for so long.
The sun had begun to make its western descent when you and your grandmother finally exited the godswood. As you took note of the golden light of dusk that had begun to creep in, you felt a feeling of dread take root in your belly. Nearly the entire day had passed and you were yet to see Lyonel. Perhaps all you feared had come to pass— he had forgotten you, or perhaps you had never been something worth remembering.
You and your grandmother had just entered the arcade that led to the Great Hall, the scent of supper in the air guiding your steps. Your grandmother had just finished telling you of a story of her and the king sneaking into the ruins of the dragonpit as children when a familiar voice pulled away your attention.
“Princess,” Lord Lyonel called from just a few yards away. A look of relief painted his face, as if he had been wracked with worry. He took a few quick steps toward you, the force of his movement bringing with him a small tempest of wind. “I have spent the past hours searching for you. It was only just a moment ago that I chanced upon your lady mother who said you had gone to visit the godswood.”
In mere seconds all worry and doubt was shaken from you. The wine had not clouded your memory, nor was your stormlord’s interest in you fleeting as you had feared. The same man who you had so quickly fallen for the night prior was now standing before you once again.
“Oh, I’m very sorry if I have caused you any worry, my lord. Grandmother wished to show me the godswood— I fear we spent more time there than intended,” you turned to your grandmother, and she smiled back at you with a knowing pride.
“Yes, my lord, forgive me. I got quite carried away in recalling the details of my youth,” your grandmother said.
“Oh, you owe me no such apologies, princesses. I am just glad to see you both well,” Lyonel said, his smile speaking nothing but graciousness.
“Well, if you two would excuse me, I have grown quite famished from our day in the sun. My brother promised me the kitchens would be serving blackberry cakes tonight, and I must see for myself if our good king is still true to his word.” Your grandmother would give you an encouraging pinch as she left your side, Lyonel bowing reverently as the princess made her exit.
“I’m sure you must be ready to sup as well, but might I steal some time alone with you before we join the crowd?” Lyonel asked, offering you his arm.
“You cannot steal something I am so willing to give,” you replied, and you took his arm gladly. It was as if you had returned home as you found your place at his side, a soothing familiarity washing over you.
“I hope you have had a pleasant day, princess,” Lyonel began, guiding you through a corridor leading to a vine-covered courtyard. “I apologize for interrupting your time with your grandmother.”
“Oh, it’s no matter,” you said. “I had begun to wonder when I might see you today, anyhow.”
“I apologize it was not sooner,” he said, caressing your thumb under his. “I was awoken this morning to matters concerning a few of my men who had found themselves in a brawl with a group of Lannister guards in the early hours of the day. Over a game of dice, I’m told.”
“Oh, how troublesome. I hope you had managed to find some sleep before then,” you said, your voice bearing a tinge of guilt for having spent the day thinking the worst of the man.
“A few short hours, princess. But I do not say this for you to pity me, I only wish to give you reason for my absence. I was worried you’d thought I had forgotten you.”
You bowed your head slightly, a bit of shame hanging over you. “If I am to be honest, I did. Or at the very least I feared I had… misinterpreted our encounter.”
“Misinterpeted?” He laughed. You had been circling the courtyard, and in that moment Lyonel stopped, turning to face you completely. “My lady, when I could not find you I had begun to fear I had been far too forward with my affections and scared you off.”
You blushed, suddenly shy under the full weight of his gaze. “It appears we have both done our fair share of overthinking today.”
“Let us agree to never do such a foolish thing again, then,” he said, lifting your chin so you might look upon each other fully. “I will never forget you, so long as you vow to never grow tired of me,” he said, with that same mischievous grin that had so easily won your heart.
You smiled, lips pursing in mild embarrassment. “I promise.”
“Good,” he said, placing a gentle kiss upon your cheek. “May we never worry like fools again.”
The sun had grown lower in the sky, and Lyonel raised his head in notice. “Come, for as much as I am enjoying our solitude, it would look poorly for me to keep you from another feast.”
⋅ ˖ ⋆𖤓⋆ ˖ ⋅
Lyonel would soon escort you to the feast and your family’s table, and while he had momentarily thought to dine at the trestle prepared for the lords of the Stormlands, your family would insist he dine with you all. Lyonel would keep your family entertained for the entirety of the meal— your grandmother taking great joy in his humor, your father and brother in his tales of war and tourney victories. You could not tell your mother’s exact feelings toward the stormlord, but at the very least she did not seem entirely displeased. That would be enough for you.
After a few courses and a glass of wine had filled your belly, you found yourself beginning to feel restless at the table, desiring time alone with Lyonel. Dancers had begun to crowd the floor, and as a particularly spry melody began to fill the hall, you realized you had the perfect excuse to leave the table.
“Oh, what a lovely tune,” you said, reaching for Lyonel’s hand beneath the tablecloth. “Come, we must dance.”
Recognition flashed across his face, he took no time to understand your intention. He stood, turning to address your family, “Well, I am in no position to deny a princess,” he said. “Thank you for having me at your table.”
“The pleasure was ours,” your father said. “Though do return again soon, I wish to hear more of those brigands you chased through the Marches.”
“Oh, and do I have much to share,” Lyonel took an excited breath, suddenly forgetting what he had intended to do. “I will never forget this one evening, a dreadful storm had found us—”
“Lyonel,” you said with an exasperated smile. “Come, before this song ends.”
“Yes, princess, forgive me,” he said. He placed firm hands on the shoulders of your father and brother, “Princes, there will be time to share more soon, I hope.” He performed a gracious bow for your mother and grandmother, “And, my lady— princess, it was an honor.”
You pulled him away before you could hear your family’s replies, too eager to rid yourself of their watchful eyes. You would find the center of the floor quickly, both of your feet stepping into the melody with ease.
Lyonel grinned at you with surprise, pulling you closer to him, “Why so eager to part from your family, princess? I believe I was just beginning to win over your mother.”
“I grew tired of feasting,” you said. “Besides, there is no winning my mother’s favor. The best you could hope to gain is her barest approval.”
“Oh, don’t say that,” he said, mocking a threat. “Now I will not rest until she is begging me to take your hand.”
You laughed, “Now that is something I would pay to see.”
You would dance for just a few short songs, once again impressed by the stormlord’s graceful, rhythmic movements. For a man with such strength and skill at arms, he moved with surprising inhibition— much unlike the harsh, stiff movements you had come to expect from your time dancing with other knights.
You had left the feast to wander the gardens once more, but found them far too full with other lords and ladies with the same idea in mind. Lyonel would suggest visiting his chambers for a glass of wine and to enjoy the view from his balcony, and after a brief hesitation from you, you would agree. If it were any other man who had extended the invitation you would have met it with a swift decline, but there was no doubt in your mind that you would be safe with the Lord of Storm’s End.
Lyonel’s chambers were far grander than yours— as to be expected for the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Calling them chambers was a misnomer, in fact, for he had been given his own apartments just a stone’s throw from Maegor’s Holdfast. A bedroom, solar, and washroom, all immaculately kept, along with a terrace that was nearly as large as your own chambers. As you entered, he would remove his cloak, tossing it onto one of the many velvet chairs that decorated the solar. A chilled pitcher of wine was waiting for him atop a cart, along with a platter of fresh fruits and cheeses.
He poured two glasses of wine with practiced ease, offering one to you. “Come, let’s enjoy these in the fresh air.”
His terrace was lined with a sofa that spanned its entire length. It was made of a deep red brocade, its pattern formed of a hundred dancing dragons. He would take a seat in the center of the feather cushions, guiding you close to him with a gentle yet commanding hand.
King’s Landing was alight below you, the fires of thousands of torches gleaming beneath a waxing moon. The stars seemed to be shimmering brighter than usual, the constellations all resting proudly above. A pleasant breeze was in the air, and you could not recall experiencing a more picturesque evening in all your life.
“What a beautiful night,” you said, eyes unmoving from the horizon. You felt a familiar dreamlike haze falling over you, almost disbelieving in your surroundings.
“Indeed it is,” Lyonel replied, his voice low and gentle. You turned, and his gaze was affixed to you, eyes darting between your lips and eyes.
Before you could form a reply, he kissed you— his soft lips sweet from the wine. You would part briefly, and you found him peering back at you, almost hungrily. It did not frighten you, but drew a queer warmth from the pit of your belly. He would kiss you again, this time deeper, his lips parting subtly. A desire you had not known yourself capable of would begin to bloom, prompting you to open your mouth to welcome in the tip of his tongue as it grazed your own. You would feel yourself instinctively move closer to him, Lyonel placing a firm hand on your thigh as you slung one leg over his. His kisses grew hungrier, as did yours, until he would move his hand from your leg to your arm, gently urging you apart. You looked back at him surprised, still lost in the heat of the previous moment.
He met your eyes with an almost proud smirk, “Oh, princess, I fear I have been a poor influence on you.” He sat back every so slightly, eyes quickly taking you in from head-to-toe. “We are not behaving.”
You looked away shyly, a red flush finding your cheeks as you removed your leg from atop his. “Forgive me,” you said. “This is unbecoming of me.”
He took your chin in hand, turning your face towards his. “Do not apologize for something in which I am also a guilty party. The guiltiest, even.” He placed another gentle kiss to your lips, agonizingly short. “It would be most irresponsible of me to allow this passion to continue to flow unfettered, however. You are much too precious to dishonor in such a way.”
“You would not be dishonoring me,” you said, almost desperately.
“You are a princess of the realm, sweet girl,” he said, his thumb gently tracing your cheekbone. “Such desires must wait.”
“I do not wish to wait,” you said, a touch bothered. “I am a woman grown. I can make such decisions for myself.”
“Such fire within you,” he said, a pleased grin finding his lips. He took another sip of wine, placing the chalice on a stone table beside him. “You make a convincing argument, princess, but you will not change my mind. We must wait.”
“Until when?”
“Until I marry you, of course,” he replied, as if it was the most sure thing in the world.
You could only look back at him wide-eyed, surprise upturning the corners of your lips and parting them ever so slightly.
“Oh, don’t look at me with such shock, princess. Did you really believe that I did not intend to court you?”
You truly could not say. While you had your hopes— they were just that. Sanguine dreams. “I had my own wishes, but I did not ever dare to assume your intentions were the same.”
“And what are your wishes?” He asked, peering back at you with patient intention.
You paused, the air seeming to hang still for just a moment. You nearly had to fight yourself to begin speaking, the words catching in your throat, “To marry you.”
He grinned wider than you had yet seen, surprising, considering his notorious epithet. He kissed you, longer than the previous, but still painfully chaste. “Well, once again, I cannot deny a princess.” He sat back on the sofa, spirits suddenly light as air. “I will meet with your father on the morrow to ask for your hand. I have no reason to believe he would deny me.” He took his goblet in hand, taking a long sip of wine. “Perhaps you might even return to Storm’s End with me. I see no reason to delay the wedding. Unless you would prefer to marry in Dorne, of course.”
You could hardly believe your ears. Were you truly already planning a wedding? It all felt far too good to be true. “I see no reason to make the long trek to Sunspear. A wedding at Storm’s End would be fitting, I suppose.”
He leaned into you, bringing a hand around your waist. “It is not the sunkissed landscape you are accustomed to, princess, but there is a certain beauty that exists in the Stormlands. Whatever you decide needs to be done to make the wedding to your liking, just say the word. I will have them deliver every flower in the Reach to my door if that is what it would take to please you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” you said, a small laugh escaping your lips. “Though perhaps some spring roses for the tables, and oranges, so the kitchens might prepare orange cakes. They’re my favorite.”
He looked at you with his brows slightly furrowed, an air of devotion filling his chest, “Consider it done, my lady. Whatever you wish.” He tucked an errant strand of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering before taking hold of your own and placing a gentle kiss to the back of your palm.
You would remain with Lyonel on the balcony for a time, slowly growing closer until you were both fully reclined, your head resting in the crook of his neck. You would have fallen into a blissful sleep if not for his stirring just as you had begun to shut your eyes. He would insist that he escort you back to your chambers, lest any onlookers make any assumptions. You would begrudgingly oblige, half asleep and wanting nothing but to melt into the arms of your love.
⋅ ˖ ⋆𖤓⋆ ˖ ⋅
The next morning you nearly launched out of bed as soon as the sun peaked its head over the horizon, far too anxious for the day to come to sleep any longer. As soon as you thought your parents to be awake and decent, you would storm into the chambers, too fretful to wait a second longer.
“I wish to marry Lyonel Baratheon,” you said, your parents peering back at you, nearly slack-jawed from surprise. They were sitting at the table in their solar, enjoying tea and fruits when you interrupted their breakfasting.
“And good morning to you as well, daughter,” your father would say, laughing into his cup. “It’s good to see you so bright-eyed at this hour.”
“Father,” you said, taking hurried steps towards him and kneeling down beside his chair. “I have never truly asked you for anything. Please, grant me this one thing. I love him.”
Your father looked over at your mother, face twisted in apprehension. “My dear, I—”
“Love? You have known him for two days,” your mother leaned forward, resting her elbows on the cloth-covered table. “Marriage is not something to rush into, this is a commitment you make for life, my dear.”
“I love him,” you said with total conviction. You stood, folding your arms across your chest. “He is kind, he is gallant, he is gentle, he is a skilled fighter, he makes me laugh and treats me with respect. His people love him, and he has all of the wealth and resources we could ever dream to call upon. If I must marry, it must be him.”
“She makes a fair point,” your father said, resigning with a smirk. “I certainly have no objections. He is a fine man, and a Lord Paramount.” He turned to your mother, taking one of her hands into his, “How could we decline our daughter this wish?”
Your mother was silent for a time, eyes darting between you and your father. “What will our bannermen think? We should be marrying our children to Dornish houses, not stormlanders.”
“Our bannermen will think us wise for securing an alliance with one of the great houses of the realm. Think of how we could expand our fleet? Share our crops? The soil in the Stormlands is far more fertile than our own, you must know,” your father said.
“Of course I know that,” your mother said, pulling her hand away from your father’s and leaning back into her chair. “We will need to marry Nymor to a Dornish girl, then. We must keep our bannermen loyal.”
“My sweet wife,” your father said, with not an ounce of pith. “The Dornish are nothing but loyal. But, if you are so worried, we can marry Nymor to that Dayne girl he seems so fond of. I’m sure he’ll be glad for it.”
You looked back at your parents expectantly, waiting to hear the words you were so desperate for.
Your father gave you a knowing smile, finding his cup of tea once more. “Yes, my dear, you may marry Lyonel.”
You felt near to tears in that moment, rushing to the table to throw your arms around your parents. “Thank you,” you said, blinking away tears that threatened to fall.
⋅ ˖ ⋆𖤓⋆ ˖ ⋅
Your father would soon discuss the match with Lyonel, and the pair came to a swift agreement in terms of dowry and wedding costs (of which Lyonel asked for none and insisted on paying for the ceremony and feast in full.) Your family would decide to follow Lyonel’s retinue back to Storm’s End to commence the preparations for the wedding, departing King’s Landing just two short days following the agreement.
The road to Storm’s End was long, slowed by the spring rains. The rains were not even the most difficult aspect of the journey, but the prolonged separation from Lyonel was what truly wore on your spirit. He would make most of the journey on horseback (when the weather would permit it), and his procession was a full 5 wagons ahead of the wheelhouse you would be stuffed into. Most of your interactions would occur around mealtimes and what few minutes each day the procession would stop to allow you to stretch your legs. Even with as curt and chaste as the circumstances would force the pair of you to be, you still found the fire that existed between you to be burning as brightly as it did in King’s Landing— and for that you were grateful.
It would be a full sennight before you finally arrived at what would be your new home— Storm’s End, the seat of House Baratheon. The castle was cradled by what you were certain was the largest curtain wall you had ever seen, over a hundred feet high and forty feet thick, and you were told it was even taller and wider on its seaward side. The castle itself consisted of only one tower, standing stalwart like a sheathed sword atop its massive great round hall. The clouds were so low you could not see the top of it, the sky as grey as all the stone below it. You began to wonder how a man as bold and vibrant as Lyonel could be born from a place like this, but perhaps such dreary scenery necessitated it.
You were given a lovely set of apartments just a stone’s throw from your betrothed’s, though while he was just a few steps away, you still felt a bit of fear bore into you. While your room was as beautiful as any you’d known at Sunspear or the Red Keep, the grey skies and ever-churning sea below you bred a certain unease. These were ancient, unfamiliar stones and waters that surrounded you. You suddenly remembered the tales of leviathans and whales as large as ships your cousins would tell under candlelight in the black of night, and while your mind wanted to believe those were nothing but fables— you began to wonder why the seaward walls were so impossibly tall. Was it just to keep the waves at bay?
You did not feel yourself at dinner, and you felt a hair guilty for it. Lyonel was entirely overjoyed to introduce you to his family, his many brothers and sisters all greeting you with the same torrid warmth as Lyonel. The many members of his household seemed equally excited to meet you, a few offering playful quips about how they were thrilled to finally see their lord married and to have the halls filled with children. As harmless as their remarks were, they forced the sudden realization of your fate to come upon you. This was to be your home forever. The grey skies, the towering walls, the unforgiving sea below. The sun-soaked, flower-filled gardens of Sunspear would only be a memory— a tale you would tell your children. The thought was nearly too much to bear.
You would retire to your room early that evening, quietly slipping away from Lyonel’s side as he found himself engrossed in conversation with his steward. Tears began to fall from your face as you navigated the winding staircases of the castle’s tower, by some miracle finding your chambers through your clouded vision. You would send your handmaidens away with less kindness than was typical of you, falling into your pillows in a mess of sobs and stuttered breaths.
You thought of your home. The lilac walls of your chambers, the flowers embroidered into the curtains of your bed’s canopy. You thought of your shelf filled with your favorite books, the chaise that sat beside it in which you would spend endless hours reading. You thought of the gentle breeze that would flow through your windows, the sound of laughter and chatter that would carry from the courtyard below. You thought of the Water Gardens to the north that you would escape to when the summer heat became stifling. You thought of the safety of your father’s fortress, the gentleness of your grandmother’s hand, the diligence of your mother. It was all no longer yours.
Your tears continued to fall, pained sobs muffled by the featherpillows you pressed your face into. After some time you could not hear yourself any longer, just the churning sea and the pouring rain. Thunder began to bellow in the distance, prompting you to retreat beneath the heavy quilt. You continued to sob, both in fear and in grief. This could not be the life you had chosen, could it? Would Lyonel truly believe you were meant for such a place?
Your wallowing would soon be interrupted by a sudden hand pulling the covers from over your head, exposing you like a mouse found in its nest. A frightened gasp would escape your lips, prompting your betrothed to slip next to you and scoop you into his arms.
“Oh, my dear, what has happened to you?” He said, looking down at you in worried sympathy. “I had wondered why you slipped away so quietly. Is something the matter?”
His concern only brought forth more tears from your eyes, feeling suddenly both guilty and ashamed. You could hardly speak between your rapid breaths and pained cries, Lyonel peering back at you in silent concern. “I— I’m—”
“Tell me, princess. It's alright,” he said, pushing back the errant strands of hair from your face with careful hands. “Have you had second thoughts? Do you wish to call off the engagement?”
That question prompted even more tears to fall. You did not wish to end your engagement, of course— you were completely and utterly in love with your gallant stormlord. The home he has offered you, however, was wholly unfamiliar to you, and has unfortunately left you entirely wrought with fear.
“N— No,” you began, fighting to steady your breathing. “I’m— I’m afraid.”
“Afraid?” He asked, brows suddenly furrowed as if he was preparing to face an unknown threat. “Afraid of what?”
“This place,” you said, just barely composed enough to speak two uninterrupted words. “It’s— it’s not what I’m accustomed to.”
“Oh, sweet girl,” he said, pulling you closer to him, now fully in his lap. “How could I have been so short-sighted? You are of Dorne, all you know is warmth and sunlight. Of course this place would be shocking to you.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, cradling your face in his hand. “I fear the Stormlands have made a terrible first impression upon you. Despite our name, I assure you, we are not always quite so grey and wet. Our springs do bring quite a bit of rain, but our summers? Oh, princess, there is nothing like it,” with his thumb he caught a falling tear from your eye, offering you a smile as he held your gaze for a moment. “You have never seen a landscape so green and lush. Flowers bloom in every corner, the sun is warm but never punishing. Of course, there are still passing rains and storms, but the sky is never grey for long.”
You began to rub the tears from your eyes, sitting up in his lap. He would smile at you again, and you would purse your lips shyly in response. You began to feel embarrassed, sitting there as a crying girl in the arms of a knight.
“I promise you, princess, this place isn’t quite as bad as it seems. And we are so near to Dorne— any time you wish to see home again, just say the word and we will be aboard my swiftest ship that same day. You will not be a prisoner here. You will be my wife.”
You felt so overcome in that moment you would have wept if you had not already cried your eyes dry. You instead pressed a fervent kiss to Lyonel’s lips, shifting your full weight forward in his lap. He would wrap his arms around you tightly, cradling your back and head in his hands. You continued to press increasingly eager kisses to his lips, and he would return your desire. His tongue would graze yours as his hands shifted down your frame, grasping gently at your hips. You felt him stiffen beneath your skirts, blooming within you both an aching urge and a strange anxiety. You wanted him, fully and completely, but there was much to that desire that was unknown to you.
He would eventually pull his lips from yours, shifting you from his lap to his side. “Princess, we have done so well at behaving thus far, it would be a shame for us to falter now.”
“We are nearly man and wife, why must we be so rigid?” You asked, hoping your disappointment wasn’t quite so obvious.
“Because you are a princess, and you deserve the grace of entering the sept on your wedding day as a maiden.” He laid back into the pillows and pulled you into him, nestling you between his arm and chest.
You resigned, curling yourself further into his side. If he would not bend on the matter, you would not protest further, but you would steal every bit of closeness you could.
You would lay in silence for a time, Lyonel tracing circles across your skin as you fiddled with the clasps of his doublet. A sudden crack of lightning would startle you from the small bliss you had found, nearly leaping from the bed as the white light flashed through the windows. Lyonel hardly moved an inch.
“Soon you’ll hardly notice the storms as they pass,” he said, stroking your hair as you remained upright, peering out the window for any sign of another strike. “They will just be the melody the heavens decide to play every so often.”
“I’m not sure I would call that music, but perhaps I’m just not accustomed to it yet,” you said, cuddling back into the arms of your betrothed. “This storm is far stronger than anything I’ve yet to experience. It’s a wonder this castle has been able to withstand them for centuries.”
“Do you know the story of the first Storm King?” He asked, interest suddenly piqued.
“Not entirely. I know they say his wife was the daughter of the sea god.”
“Indeed she was. Elenei was her name. On the night she and King Durran were married, her parents, the sea god and the goddess of wind, set forth a terrible storm on King Durran’s keep. They wanted their daughter back, but Durran refused. The castle did not survive the storm, nor would the following six he would raise in its place, each more formidable than the last.” The candles in the room were waning, his face handsomely lit by the warm, fading light. “The seventh castle he would raise would be called Storm’s End, and it was the only one to survive the wrath of the gods. They would send storm after storm, birthing waves that were more than a hundred feet high, rushing forward winds as fast as dragons, but nothing would bring the castle down.” He pulled you closer to him, the scent of wine and clove filling your senses as strong arms held you tightly. “It is said the Children of the Forest assisted Durran in the construction of this castle, weaving their ancient magic into every stone. When you are told that not even the gods could destroy your home, you learn not to fear the toll of thunder and the crack of lightning.”
“The children of the forest, really? I did not know they would come this far south,” you said.
“Oh, yes. This was during the Dawn Age, when they ruled these lands alongside the First Men. There is a weirwood in our godswood, its face carved by the Children thousands of years ago. My siblings and I referred to him as Old Orys when we were young,” he laughed. “He bears quite a solemn countenance.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to visit. I have never seen a weirwood. In Sunspear our heart tree is an oak, just as it is at the Red Keep.” In just a moment you felt all of the fear and worry that had accumulated within you fall away. Perhaps you had been too quick to judge your new home.
“We will take a walk together on the morrow, then, princess,” Lyonel said, shifting his weight as if to leave the bed. You reached out to him quickly, pulling him back into you.
“Not yet,” you said, looking up at him, eyes still puffy from tears. “I’m not ready to be alone. Stay a bit longer, please.”
“Oh, princess,” he said, eyes darting between you and the door. “Do not make me deny you. The hour grows late, I do not wish for any assumptions to be made by my guests.”
“Let them make their assumptions,” you said plainly. “Just stay until I fall asleep. I still feel a hair unsettled, I fear I might not find rest without you.”
He looked at you resigned, a smirk upturning the corners of his mouth, “I fear I may never in our lives find the strength to deny you, princess.” He fell back into the pillows, pulling you into him and throwing the quilt atop you both. “Just until you fall asleep.”
You thanked Lyonel with a kiss upon his cheek before nestling back into his warmth. Before long you fell into a deeper sleep than you had known in some time, lulled by the sound of rain and the rhythmic breaths of your betrothed.
⋅ ˖ ⋆𖤓⋆ ˖ ⋅
The following days passed quickly, busied by the wedding preparations being made. In that time you slowly grew more familiar with the castle, learning each step and stone, every name of each person who called Storm’s End home. One afternoon when the rain broke just briefly, you saw what beauty the sun would bring to life from the comfort of the godswood. The warm light brought to life the lush greenery of the Stormlands and lit the scarlet leaves of the castle’s weirwood ablaze. In that moment, for the first time since your arrival, you felt truly at home.
The following day you would be in your chambers, dressed in your wedding gown with your maiden cloak slung over your shoulders. You had spent some time agonizing over your choice of gown, unsure of whether to wear the colors of your house or Lyonel’s— wondering what color could even possibly compliment both the orange of your maiden cloak and the gold of your marriage cloak. You would ultimately decide on pale ivory taffeta, the gown’s wide neckline exposing your shoulders and collarbone, its train trailing for many steps behind you. Your maiden cloak was made of velvet, dyed the burnt orange of your house and embroidered with its sigil in crimson and gold thread. Your hair was braided in the intricate southern way, a tiara of yellow diamonds resting atop your head (of which Lyonel gifted to you the night prior, a cherished relic of his house.)
You had never felt so beautiful as you stared back at yourself in the mirrored glass. Handmaidens swirled around you, primping and preening as you awaited your father to escort you to the sept. Your grandmother and mother both stood in the room, eyes welling with tears as they watched you with pride. Your mother was so overwrought she had hardly said a word all day, but your grandmother would approach your side and take your hand in hers.
“You look beautiful, my darling,” she said, violet eyes wet with tears. “You will soon be a wife and the lady of this castle, but you will always be my princess. Whenever you wish to come home, for any reason, just say the word. You will see your father’s ships on the horizon just a day later. Do you understand?”
“Yes, grandmother,” you replied, and she pulled you tightly into a hug. “I am going to miss you,” you said, fighting tears that threatened to pour like the rain outside the windows.
“I am going to miss you, too, darling. More than you know,” your grandmother replied.
A few moments later your father arrived dressed in orange brocade, a pierced sun pinned proudly to his chest. The room would empty soon after, your family finding their seats in the sept while you and your father awaited word that it was time for you to make your way to the ceremony. He would turn to you at one point to speak a similar sentiment to your grandmother’s— that if you ever wished to return home, to just speak the word. You told him not to worry, and to expect yearly visits from you. He seemed pleased with the idea.
Soon you would be making your way to the sept together arm-in-arm, the sound of a harp guiding your steps. You were surrounded by maidens and pages carefully holding parasols over your heads to protect you from the ceaseless spring rain. While a few days past you might have been disappointed by the idea of rain on your wedding day, you now welcomed it. Afterall, a knot bound in the rain is harder to untie.
The castle’s sept was far more beautiful than you had imagined it to be, lined with white stone and stained glass. Spring roses decorated every corner, their petals leading you to Lyonel who stood with the septon between the altars of the father and mother. Lyonel looked to be half a god himself as he looked back at you, a beaming smile painting his face and all of the strength of the warrior within him. He wore a doublet of samite black as night and trimmed with cloth-of-gold, his antlered crown resting proudly atop his head, his earring catching a bit of the light from the stained glass. In that moment you were certain that you had never seen anything more remarkable in all your life. You were nearly in disbelief that the man would soon be yours, and you his.
Lyonel would not take his eyes from yours as the septon conducted the ceremony. His eyes were glassy as if near to tears, but his expression would never suggest it. A smile would never leave his lips for the duration of the ritual, and you could not help but grin back at him. You would soon make your seven vows and promises, receive your seven blessings, and wait for any protests against the union (of which none were made). The time would finally come for you to receive your marriage cloak, your father carefully removing the orange of his house. A chill would trail down your spine as Lyonel’s hands brushed against the bare skin of your neck, placing the cloak of his house upon your shoulders.
“Now, the couple will pledge their love with a kiss,” the septon said, taking a step back so you and Lyonel might face each other fully.
“With this kiss I pledge my love,” you and Lyonel spoke in unison before he took your face in hand, kissing you well and deep beneath the rainbow light of the sept.
When you parted, the septon would proudly say, “Beneath the eyes of gods and men, I do now declare this couple to be man and wife. They are one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”
The sept came alight with applause, and as you looked back at the smiling face of your husband you felt a love so great you nearly wept.
⋅ ˖ ⋆𖤓⋆ ˖ ⋅
The feast following the ceremony was lively, the hall filled with hundreds of spring roses, just as Lyonel had promised. Lords and ladies from throughout the Stormlands and Dorne were in attendance, and with them they brought more gifts than you had ever expected to receive. Daggers and longbows for your husband, saltwater pearls and perfumes from Volantis for you. Lyonel even received a new great black destrier from Lord Dondarrion, a beast so remarkable Lyonel decided to lower Lord Dondarrion’s taxes at that very moment.
Perhaps most special of all, you were gifted by your grandmother a dragon egg, its stone scales a deep onyx with swirls of gold throughout. You would have cried when you opened the mahogany case it lied within if not for the hundreds of eyes watching you and your husband. You pressed your palm to the egg, and to your shock you felt warmth. While it was long turned to stone, it still felt as if there was life within it, some dormant magic stirring deep beneath the scales.
“Grandmother,” you said, nearly beside yourself in astonishment. “How did you get this?”
“I am a Targaryen, darling, how did you think I got it?” She laughed. “After your father agreed to the betrothal in Kings Landing I asked my brother if I might have a peek at what was left of our store of eggs. So I suppose this is as much a gift from the king as it is from me.”
“Grandmother, I hardly know what to say,” you looked at Lyonel, who seemed equally in awe. “It’s perfect. The coloring—”
“I saw it and knew it had to be yours,” she interrupted. “Perhaps the child who cradles it might have luck hatching in it.”
“That would be something, wouldn’t it?” Lyonel chuckled. “A Baratheon dragon.”
“Stranger things have happened,” your grandmother said, looking over her shoulder at the many guests waiting to call upon you and your husband. “Well, I should allow others to make their well-wishes. Unfortunately for them they don’t know they’ve already been outdone,” she laughed.
“Thank you, grandmother, truly,” you said, standing to offer her a hug.
Lyonel would do the same. “Yes, princess, thank you. I don’t think there is any gift better than this one. Perhaps only the gift of your granddaughter’s hand,” he smiled at you, his eyes glistening in the candlelight.
“Oh, yes, and I’m glad you know it,” she replied before making her leave.
Lyonel would not allow the page who had been collecting the gifts to handle the egg, calling over his steward instead. He instructed him to bring it straight to your shared chambers, not speaking a word to anyone of what rested within the case. The steward would do exactly as he was told.
The remainder of the night passed like a dream, filled with many shared laughs and dances between you and your husband. It was as if you were the only two people in the world, the chaos of the feast that surrounded you fading to a hum outside of the closeness you shared. You were only pulled from that blissful haze when Lyonel’s brother, Robert, loudly proclaimed that it should be time for the bedding ceremony, and in an instant your sweet Lyonel became The Laughing Storm himself.
“Ha!” His laugh cracked through the hall like a whip, the feast silencing by half as he stood. “My brother wishes to see me break a man’s jaw on my wedding night, does he?”
“Oh, Lyonel, it’s custom!” Robert replied, attempting to quell his brother’s displeasure.
“The Others take your customs. No one lays a hand on my wife but me,” Lyonel stood, offering you his hand. “Come, princess.”
You stood, and in one fell swoop Lyonel scooped you up into his arms, a surprised giggle escaping your lips. “Here is your bedding ceremony,” Lyonel said to the crowd of feastgoers. “Enjoy it.” He smiled at you handsomely, and the feast erupted in applause and cheers. The musicians began playing again, and you were sent off in a flurry of praise.
You were soon in what were formerly Lyonel’s chambers, now your shared apartments as husband and wife. A massive set of rooms that overlooked the sea, each far grander than you had ever imagined them to be. Curtains of golden velvet framed every window, a featherbed far larger than you had ever seen standing at the center of the room.
“Welcome home, princess,” Lyonel said, setting you down as you crossed the threshold together. “I hope these rooms are to your liking.”
“Hm. I suppose they are adequate,” you said, feigning dissatisfaction.
Your jape brought forth a bout of laughter from your husband, kicking off the heavy soles of his boots and removing his antlered crown as he crossed the room to you. “My princess is hard to please, is she?” He asked, pulling you into him, a firm hand on your waist.
“When I choose to be,” you replied, biting your lip as you smiled up at him.
“Good thing I enjoy a challenge,” he said, stealing a kiss.
He looked back at you with a wicked grin, and a familiar desire bloomed at the sight. Your belly began to flutter, and you understood what was to finally happen. You suddenly felt surprised that you had been so willing to offer Lyonel your maidenhead on many nights before now. What once seemed so thrilling had become almost frightening.
Lyonel noticed your change in countenance. “What is it, princess? Do you not—”
“No,” you interrupted. “I mean, I do, I’m just—”
“I understand,” he said, a gentle hand coming up to cup your jaw. “We can move slowly, princess. If at any time you wish to stop, just say the word. I want you to enjoy our wedding night.”
You nodded, a warm flush finding your cheeks. You felt nearly frozen in place for a moment until he took your hand and guided you to the bed.
“You look beautiful, princess,” he said, eyes trailing the length of you as he sat beside you. “I have felt like the luckiest man in Westeros all evening.”
“I feel like the lucky one,” you replied, feeling brave enough to meet his gaze again. “You have made this night feel like a dream. I can’t believe you managed to source so many roses.”
“I would empty the Reach of all its flowers if it would make you happy, princess,” he said, hand reaching to stroke your hair.
He kissed you again, but this time it felt different— uninhibited. He curled his fingers behind your neck, his other hand reaching for your waist and pulling you closer. Each kiss seemed to unlock something new within you, some form of desire yet to be discovered. His tongue began to graze yours, and heat filled you from head-to-toe. You began to crawl into his lap, slinging your legs over his without thought. What fear you had felt was gone, a deep yearning now in its place.
His hands began to carefully trail up your back, searching for the fastenings of your gown. Practiced hands soon found their place, tearing at your corset with a thinly veiled urgency. As the corset was loosed from you and exposed your stays, you suddenly remembered yourself, realizing how truly laid bare you would soon be.
Lyonel seemed to notice your apprehension. “Is this okay, princess?”
You nodded, kissing him again as you began to shimmy further out of your gown. When you realized you would not be able to remove your gown in your current position, you laughed, looking down at your skirts. “I think I may need some help.”
Lyonel laughed with you, lifting you off his lap and onto the stone floor. He remained on the bed as you slipped out of your gown, you then turned so he might undo the fastenings of your stays. You would face him again as you slipped out of the garments and removed your delicate little crown, now standing before him in just your linen shift. A nervous smile crept across your lips as you looked down at him, his hand on your waist as he stared back at you.
“You don’t have to—”
You shook your head, steeling yourself as you slipped your arms out of your shift. He was your husband— there was no sense in hiding from him, you decided. You slipped the fabric further down your frame, gooseflesh pimpling your skin as it was kissed by the cool air.
He sat back slightly, hungry hazel eyes drinking you in. “Beautiful,” he said, thumb tracing your waist before trailing up between your breasts. “Just beautiful.”
You kissed him, fingers finding the clasps of his doublet. “Your turn,” you said, a mischievous smile pursing your lips.
That seemed to only further ignite your husband’s thirst for you, in what felt like mere seconds he was sitting before you in just his breeches, the fabric peaking where his manhood remained hidden. He pulled you into him without warning, flipping you onto your back and cradling you beneath his weight. His kisses were impassioned, trailing from your lips to your neck and back again. A callused hand would slowly begin to trail up your abdomen before slowly cupping your breast, as if waiting for permission. When you did not protest, he took your breast fully in hand, gently squeezing before running his thumb over your nipple.
The sensation brought forth a low moan from your throat, and your husband seemed nearly maddened by the sound. He continued to tease the tender nub with his fingers before trailing wet kisses down your neck and onto your breasts. He would keep one in hand as he took the other in his mouth, flicking your nipple with his tongue and gently biting at the swollen peak.
Your breath hitched as his hand began to trail down your abdomen, reaching between your thighs. A pair of fingers would find your sex, slick with desire. Another moan would escape your throat as he found a sensitive bud, practiced hands beckoning a white hot heat that slowly began to wash over you. “Lyonel,” you said, his name catching in your throat, nearly paralyzed by pleasure.
“Sweet princess,” he said, trailing kisses down your belly until he was between your legs, pecking at your thighs.
You gasped as his mouth found your core, his tongue tracing delicate circles around that same, sweet pearl. Your back arched in response, a desperate hand reaching out and finding his silver-streaked mane. He continued to devour you like a man starved, slowly pressing a single digit to your entrance. A wildness came over you in response, seating yourself lower onto his hand, his entry aided by your dampness. His finger found some tender place inside you, and the heat that had been growing within you began to concentrate at your core, forcing a whine to escape your lips unbidden. He continued to feast upon you, that heat slowly mounting until he ignited something within you so sweet it set you to trembling and brought forth a pleasured cry.
He looked up at you, his roguish grin slick with your desire. “I don’t think I have ever heard a more perfect sound,” he said, peppering you with kisses as he brought himself forward, his hips now seated between your legs. “I will never tire of pleasuring you, princess.” He pressed his lips to yours, his kiss tasting of wine and your arousal.
Your hands were almost frantic as they grasped at his face, nearly maddened by whatever delicious sorcery your husband had just cast upon you. You had been told of what your wedding night would entail when you came of age, perhaps in even more detail than what was typical in the rest of the kingdoms, but the septas had never spoken of anything quite like that. Despite your reeling, you still felt an insatiable urge for closeness to your husband. “I need you, Lyonel,” you said, breathless and begging.
He grinned at you, eyes narrowed in delight. He would hang above you for a moment, his dark, peppered curls a tousled mess, the candlelight framing him in a soft glow. He was almost painfully handsome like this. He reached down to slide off his breaches, exposing his stiffened manhood. The sight of it felt quite intimidating, but that would not stop you from widening your hips, every bit of you beckoning for your husband.
He would trail another line of kisses from your neck to your mouth, savoring the taste of your lips for a beat before finding your eyes. “Tell me to stop if I am hurting you,” he said before pressing his cock at your entrance.
The feel of it caused your breath to hitch in your throat, your body stiffening in an instant. “Breathe, princess,” he said, placing a hand on your belly. He continued to press into you, the sweet fullness of him causing a hiss to escape from betwixt your teeth. Lyonel would let out a low, graveled moan that reignited your desire and made the stretch more bearable.
With a final thrust he was seated deep within you, and you were now as close as man and wife could be. You peered up at him with wide, wet eyes, and you were sure that you had never felt quite as whole as you did then.
“My wife,” he said, hazel eyes drinking you in. “There are no words for how much I love you.”
“I love you, Lyonel,” you said, voice still a breathless whine. “So terribly much.”
He pressed his mouth to yours as he began to draw his hips back and thrust them gently into you. You let out mutual groans of pleasure, the warmth of your shared breaths blending at your lips. He would soon find his rhythm within you, stealing dozens of greedy, wet kisses all the while.
Lyonel continued to plunge into you, hitting a soft spot within you that beckoned that same, sensitive feeling. You felt him from your belly to your throat, a blissful fullness you did not ever want to live without again. Your body began to go slack beneath him as his strokes grew unrestrained, speaking a high, thin moan into his ear as you were made undone again.
Soon after he would pulse within your tightness, spilling his seed with a long, low breath. He remained within you for a time, wrapping you in a snug embrace and pressing gentle kisses to your temples. “My sweet wife,” he said, still relishing in your closeness. “What must I have done to deserve a bride such as you?”
“I could not say, but I thank the gods for giving you the boldness to take what’s yours,” you replied.
He laughed, pressing another kiss to your lips as he unsheathed his manhood and fell beside you, leaving behind an emptiness only he could now fill. You pulled the quilt over you, suddenly made frigid by the absence of your husband’s warmth. He would leave the bed to find the cart of wine and water left by the servants, and as he filled a pair of chalices you were able to truly take in the sight of his nakedness for the first time. Lean and strong, a body peppered with the same silver-streaked hair that rested atop his head. He seemed less like a man and more like some divine being sent from the heavens just for you.
He slid onto the bed beside you again, handing you a cup of water and drinking his fill of his own. He would fetch a cloth for you soon after, and after a moment of confusion you realized it was to cleanse yourself of the evidence of your coupling. You would remove the coverlets to find the bedsheets had been stained pink by your maidenhead, prompting a bit of embarrassment.
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry. I made a mess of your bed,” you said.
“Our bed, princess,” he said, retrieving the stained cloth from your hand. “It’s no matter, anyhow. I have seen far worse than a few drops of blood.” He slotted himself beside you, pulling you into him and away from your fretting.
You curled into his warmth, savoring the scent of his dampened skin. You would lie still for a time, suddenly made unsure by your mutual lack of activity. “Um,” you began, fingers twirling the dark hair of your husband’s chest. “What do we do now?”
He laughed, his amusement echoing through your chambers and creasing the corners of his eyes. “Now, we sleep, sweet princess.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, tightening his hold of you. “Then tomorrow we begin our rule together.”
Lyonel Baratheon x wife reader - My Dragon, My Doe series
previous part: Heed my words, you cannot trust a Targaryen
synopsis: Lord Lyonel Baratheon of Storms End, in spite of his hate for dragon’s, was granted his own by the King of the Seven Kingdoms six moons ago. The eldest daughter of Prince Maekar Targaryen, the sunshine of Summerhall- now Storms End. She became his solace, his hidden gem, the white flame only he could worship. And he wanted everyone to know. Ashford tourney was supposed to be a joyous event to celebrate Lord Ashford’s daughter’s thirteenth name day, many Lord’s of the realm coming to be in attendance, Lyonel included. And he wanted to show off his pretty new wife to as many at the tourney as he possibly could. But now having met a darling hedge-knight and promised to give her good word for him to enter the tourney, has she gotten herself involved further where she was not needed? Very likely.
trope: husband x wife (not featured together in this part), angst, dysfunctional family dynamic- but loving
word count: 2,784
warnings: female reader, she/her used to refer to reader, no use of Y/N, only described looks of reader is purple eyes, fluff, angst, dysfunctional family dynamic, descriptions of violence and blood, age gap (reader is a legal adult) - YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT AND MEDIA YOU CHOOSE TO CONSUME
DISCLAIMER: All themes, images used, plot and characters from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms belong to the rightful owners, I hold not rights to the original media - but my writing belongs to me.
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You wore a gown of mostly black, red ruby embellishments crowned your hips and low-cut neckline, with dragons of the sameness embroidered into the lower lengths of your soft skirts- unbefitting of a Baratheon wife, yes, but you were not only a Baratheon wife. Your Father and Uncle had arrived to Ashford castle only this morning, and now with having given them a few moments of peace, you decided to grace them with your presence.
You could hear your Father long before your eyes fell on him, he was pacing, hands smoothing his beard as he spoke gruffly “Fuck me. Delayed they are not delayed.” His cloak from travelling long forgotten on one of the several chairs in the unusual room. “Do not curse our gracious host.” Your Uncle chided, a serving girl helping undo the clasp of his own travel-cloak and helping him remove it, one of the many yet small differences between the two. You lingered in the doorway, hand brushing the oak frame, as you awaited to be acknowledged. Yet it was not your Father or your Uncle who did, it was Lord Ashford himself.
“Princess,” He bowed his head, all those serving in the room following suit. “Leave us.” Your Father commanded, he has since lost all his patience after the bullshit your brothers had pulled on the journey here. All complied, much to the quiet dismay of your Uncle, who saw no need to clear the room for just the three of you to remain. He smiled at you nonetheless, extending an arm to you “my dear Niece, you have grown since we last met.” Your last meeting having been the day after your wedding, at which point you were shipped off to Storms End with your now husband, Lyonel Baratheon. There was no denying you had become more-a-woman, your face had thinned with your maturity, seemingly triggered by you taking on the responsibility of Lady of Storms End. You had not grown, your height remained the same, but you had filled out your once child-like stature with something more womanly. Though in your eyes your Uncle could see your heart still remained much the same. He squeezed your hand gently, “I trust Storms End is to your liking?”
Your Father slumped in a chair with a loud groan, you removed your hand from your Uncle’s to plant a soft kiss on your Father’s cheek as he gave you a tired smile. You spoke plainly, softly, your Father finding your voice a welcome melody against the haze that belonged to your brother’s, “Storms End is tasteful, Uncle, the castle is unique but I enjoy the company more.” In an attempt to slip out of your father’s direct line of sight you moved, yet his hand snapped out to grasp your wrist tightly, “the Baratheon bastard is good to you, yes?” He questioned, his eyes mirroring your own in colour, yet searching yours for a hint of hesitation in your reply. “My husband is very good to me. I assure you.”
Even in Summerhall and the Redkeep, the rumours of Lord Lyonel Baratheons spoiled wife had reached them, words on the wind said all you had to do was let your eyes linger on a pretty fabric, or a horse, or anything that you had potential to possess- and it was yours. As much as your Father loathed the man that was your husband, he could not deny it brought him ease to know the fool was arse over tit for you. It meant his daughter, his first little girl, was well taken care of, and though it pained him you could not remain that little girl forever, he at least knew you had say in your own choices. For one, you were clearly not with child. Most husbands took that as their right on the night of their wedding, a bedding ceremony had been refused by your husband that night, which brought some comfort to your clearly protective Father that as irritating as this man was, he would listen, and he would take care of your needs, he would not impose anything on you that you were not willing to do.
He released your wrist gently with an affirmative nod, he need not pry more, he did not wish to hear any more of the Baratheon than necessary. You moved back to stand beside his chair, watching your Uncle fiddle with the rings on his fingers. “What has happened?” It seemed to you neither were going to continue the conversation, instead brood, so you overtook. Your Father grimaced at the question, “what fucking hasn’t.” You smiled lightly, “that is not an answer?” You could see the frustration radiating off of him, his ears were pink, his brows were furrowed. It was you Uncle who permitted you the answer you wanted, “Your brothers, Daeron and Aegon, have run astray on the journey here. Simply wandered too far from the path I suppose.” He found your expression now resembled almost too-much likeness to your Father, brows furrowed, a stony pout on your supple lips “Egg is but a boy, barely old enough to squire. You entrusted him to lead Daeron here?” A taunting question, you knew, but you couldn’t help but cringe at your Father’s naive hope of Daeron succeeding in having Egg brought to the tourney in one piece.
“Oh seven fucking hells- Daeron is a man grown he should be able to lead his brother to a fucking tourney! I do not need you to speak to me of my failings also, daughter.” He snapped, looking away from both yourself and your Uncle. “Brother, she is not the one who lost your boys, do not punish her as if she were.” Your Father’s eyes found your Uncle’s mismatched ones “I am not- oh forget it.” Maekar had never been a man of apologies, even as a child his mother had once had to fight with him to hear an ‘I’m sorry’ (even if it was accompanied by an eye roll) after clouting his elder brother Rhaegal (his most common, unwilling, target), over the head with a wooden sword.
“We should begin a search should we not? Lyonel has many banner men who I’m sure-” A scoff left your Father at yet another mention of your husband, it made you wonder sometimes why he married you to Lyonel if he despises him so much, and why your husband ever accepted the hand of a Targaryen if all he was going to do was bad-mouth your entire bloodline. “No.” Your Fathers voice was cold, a tone not usually reserved for you but seemingly in the absence of those causing the problem, you were gifted with it instead, “That stag-bastard can stay out of this. This will be kept quiet, I will search, alone, for them.”
A sigh escaped your still pouting lips, “that hardly seems effective, one pair of eyes is insufficient against a dozen.” He shook his head softly, “I appreciate your concern for your brother’s, my heart, but one day Daeron will have to suffer the consequences of his actions. This is one of those moments.” You cut him off, “Yet you also make Egg suffer? It will not be Daeron sleeping in a stable Father it will be Aegon.”
“Why did you come here, you would not have come without summons had you not intended to ask something of me- or your Father.” Baelor this time opted to interrupt, he knew your father was temperamental, and he also knew if you were prodded correctly you would put up a damn good fight. You were the first born daughter, first niece, the King’s first granddaughter. You had been spoiled growing up but it had not turned you rotten, but if there was one thing that made you your Father’s daughter, you took no shit. Your Uncle can remember you being young enough to be sat on his knee in his solar of the Redkeep, your cousin Valarr trying to convince you you just had to be the Princess in the tower, waiting to be saved by him- the fierce knight. You held out your little chubby hand, a silent command to stop him speaking- even as children you had your cousins and brothers alike wrapped around your little finger, “I have no time for games, Valarr, I have important business to see to.” Your uncle laughed, helping you down from his knee as you walked to your favourite servant, Tilda, “Miss Tilda might you accompany me to find some cherry cake?” “Cherry cake is not important business!” Valarr called, his little voice sounding almost squeaky in the sun-lit chamber, as Tilda took your hand gently and led you away, leaving Valarr and Daeron without a Princess to save, both eyes turning to little Aerion playing with a wooden dragon. Close enough.
“Lyonel met a hedge knight last evening, he is most. Peculiar. In a good way.” You smiled fondly, your Uncle not missing the way your eyes softened at the mention of this mystery knight. “He wishes to enter the lists, however without a knight to vouch for his honour he cannot do so. It brought me back to when you would tell me stories, Uncle, of your days competing in tourneys. He was mentored by Ser Arlan, a knight I am sure you spoke of breaking four lance’s with- maybe five I cannot quite remember.” There was no hurry in the rhythm you spoke, you let the words come to you and spill out freely, whilst your Father would likely be judgemental regardless, you knew it was just in his nature. Your words were welcome here, as were you.
“Oh, yes. That was many years ago my dear.” He nodded, a vague memory washing over him, not any more significant than any other knight he had jousted, yet because you recalled the memory for him he allowed himself to think deeper. “Four lance’s, you were correct. And what is it you wish for me to do?”
“‘I said I would jog your memory, I believe he intends to speak with you himself today. Be kind- Father. He is rather terrified of making a fool of himself.” Maekar laughed loudly, “Be kind. Daughter you do make me laugh.” You smiled at him, “That was all.” Your Uncle smiled, “Very well. As you wish, Niece.” You bowed your head in gratitude before heading for the door. “My daughter,” he called, forcing you to turn lightly, “Might you join us for supper tonight, I may not have returned by then but your cousin and your, remaining, brother would likely wish to see you.” Baelor nodded heartily in agreement, you tilted your head “If you wish it.” He smiled as much as he could muster, watching as you exited from the room, fingers brushing alone the stone walls of the hallway as you went- as if you were in a world of your own.
The conversation that followed was less light, but the mood had lifted significantly since they had been reminded of your easy presence.
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“Ser Duncan please you must come quick- Aerion’s hurting her!”
“Hurting who?!” Ser Duncan rose, following the boy without question, into a situation that need not involve him, and would only cause him too much trouble.
The tent belonging to that of Tanselle, and those working on the puppet shows, had turned into utter carnage. Aerion had broken two of her fingers, your words seemingly lost on him as you pleaded with him to pull himself together. It was supposed to be a pleasant evening, you had dined with him and your cousin Valarr, for once the conversation light despite your two missing family members. And it was Aerion who had suggested you go to the puppet show, and how you were regretting ever entertaining his ideas. But he had been so pleasant for once, so willing and kind you knew it would only last for so long, so you indulged him in hopes you could prolong his gentle nature that evening. All it had taken was a damn puppet and the temper returned with a dragon’s fury.
You had not seen Ser Duncan arrive, nor had you seen him charge for your brother, and punch him. Damn fool. Did Aerion deserve it? Absolutely, but coming from the hand of a common-folk the consequence would be dear for the one brave enough to strike a Prince. Tanselle was released from Aerion’s grip as the first blow landed, Kings Guard swarmed, one of which elbowing you- albeit accidentally, in the face, causing blood to trip from your nostrils and your right eye to blacken from the impact of the armour against your soft skin. You did not recognise the Kings Guard who had wounded you, but you bumped backwards into the chest of Ser Donnell who looked immensely alarmed at the fact a Princess had been struck by those sworn to protect her. “With me Princess, it is not so bad.” He took your arm as gently as he could muster and pulled you from the swarm of chaos that was quite literally just arms and legs flying about in the heir, before the hedge knight was subdued onto the floor by three knights of the realm.
The next thing you registered was Aerion’s uncomfortably calm voice “You have loosened one of my teeth.” His tongue lapping up some of the blood from his gums, like some sort of sick crazed leech, he looked almost reptilian, eyes like slits. “So we’ll start by breaking out all of yours.” A struggle broke out to contain Dunk, who was now stood and thrashing about madly in the hold they had him in. You couldn’t find the words, Ser Donnell had damn near taken you as far to the tent exit as he could get you, his hands gently pressing a clean handkerchief to your sopping nose. “A good thing my dress is red and black, is it not Ser?” You joked, tears ran freely down you face not from pain but rather the intense surprise that an elbows impact does to ones face. An un-forgetting smile graced his face as he shook his head at you, “do not tilt your head back Princess, we don’t want you falling sick also.” He cupped your head at the base of your skull, gently bringing your face forward so that it stuck away from your body, as the handkerchief turned redder by the minute.
“NO! Don’t touch him!” Ser Duncan was back on the floor after the struggle, teeth placed against the stone steps that made the small stage of the pavilion. “Ah.” Aerion stood, a realisation that this bald-boy who could have easily been mistaken for a stableboy, was in fact the missing royal Prince, and your brother. “You stupid boy!” Dunk heaved, his lungs struggled o fill to capacity with the downward pressure of two grown men on his back, “hold your tongue or they’ll hurt you!”
“No they won’t.” You watched him from afar, your small brother, shaking yet standing confident. He must have been terrified. “Egg.” You whispered, Ser Donnell looking away from you for a moment to see to it that it was in fact, the missing Prince standing centre of the pavilion in common clothing and a bald head. “And if they do, they’ll answer to my Father. Let go of him. Wate, Yorkel, do as I say.” One removed his hand from Dunk’s hair, the other removing the pressure on his shoulders, backing away awfully slow.
“You impudent little rat.” Aerion’s lips were covered in his own blood, Dunk turned to his back to witness this uniquely Targaryen spectacle before him. For him. “What’s happened to your hair?” Aerion motioned a bloody knuckle at his brother’s clean head, not a strand of silver-white left on it. “I cut it off brother.” Egg didn’t look down, but his head titled- almost in shame, yet his eyes cast ahead onto his brother alone. “I didn’t want to look like you.” Dunk continued to heave, your own eyes landing on the hedge knight, then your brother, then your missing now found brother. You couldn’t bring yourself to form words, for Egg had not yet seen you. You simply allowed yourself to be removed up to Ashford castle, those involved in this disastrous affair also being returned with you, which is when Egg silently locked his hand into you free one, unable to distinguish if it was a mere accident, or Aerion had done this to you- or perhaps both. Yet no words found themselves spoken between the pair of you. Now you would have to answer to your father.
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A/N: WOW WOW WOW I was definitely not expecting the love Heed my words, you cannot trust a Targaryen got. Truly I did not expect the dynamic to end up as appreciated as you have all made it so thank you thank you thank you!! Seeing as it was so liked I hope part two here has done it some justice, potential for a part three if it would make sense. As always, requests are open, likes, comments, reblogs and any interactions are always appreciated!! Take care everyone!!
Lyonel Baratheon x wife reader - My Dragon, My Doe series
next part: Perfidy at your hand
synopsis: Lord Lyonel Baratheon of Storms End, in spite of his hate for dragon’s, was granted his own by the King of the Seven Kingdoms six moons ago. The eldest daughter of Prince Maekar Targaryen, the sunshine of Summerhall- now Storms End. She became his solace, his hidden gem, the white flame only he could worship. And he wanted everyone to know. Ashford tourney was supposed to be a joyous event to celebrate Lord Ashford’s daughter’s thirteenth name day, many Lord’s of the realm coming to be in attendance, Lyonel included. And he wanted to show off his pretty new wife to as many at the tourney as he possibly could- starting with his new favourite hedge knight.
trope: husband x wife, fluff, flirting, jealousy and desire
word count: 2,044
warnings: female reader, she/her used to refer to reader, no use of Y/N, only described looks of reader is purple eyes, consented touching, talk’s of incest, gentle love, fluff, age gap (reader is a legal adult) - YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT AND MEDIA YOU CHOOSE TO CONSUME
DISCLAIMER: All themes, images used, plot and characters from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms belong to the rightful owners, I hold not rights to the original media - but my writing belongs to me.
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“My squire thinks Aerion meant to kill the horse,” Dunk said, a laugh of disbelief escaping his throat as the words came out. A laugh that soon left him upon seeing the fleeting look of discomfort on Raymun’s face. He took a bitter swig of his ale as Dunk stuttered to find the words. “It’s just hard to accept that a knight might be so dishonourable- let alone a prince.”
“Why’s that hard?” Raymun spoke, offering little comfort to the fact Dunk’s very perfect picture of true knighthood was being shattered in front of him. “No, I-“ Dunk shook his head, what kind of response would give any explanation to this? “They’re incestuous aliens Duncan.” Raymun begun, his voice hard and bitter with resentment unbecoming of such a gentle-looking man. “Blood magickers and tyrants who’ve burned our lands, enslaved our people, dragged us into their wars with no respect for our history or our customs. Every pale-haired brat they saddled on us has been madder than the last. Gods know how. The only honourable thing a Targaryen can do for this realm, is finish on his wife’s tits. So aye- I think he meant to kill the fucking horse.”
Silence overcame the pair, Dunk’s heavy breathing encased them both as he fell deep into thought. He had met a Targaryen last night in Lord Baratheons tent, and she had not seemed so maddening.
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“My darling wife!” A now rather drunk, Lyonel Baratheon called across the tent, the hour had grown late and many songs had been sung- not all so befitting for younger ears. He stood atop the table, pulling his antler crown from his head before stepping down and placing it on your head, as his hands trailed to meet your own. “It is late Lyonel, I have come looking for cake.” You spoke, a gentle voice that contrasted heavily with the booming one belonging to your husband. “Of course you have my star- oi you! My wife would like some of that cherry cake- yes the one I said nobody could touch- are you deaf? This is my wife, the cake was for her, stupid prick.” The last part having been muttered rather unsuccessfully under his breath. He guided you to the head table, walking backwards and bumping into several ornate centrepieces. “Come! Meet my hedge-knight I assure you- you will adore him.” He did not wait for an answer, instead pulled you to the table where he had been previously sat amongst the ever emptying tent.
“Ser Duncan, allow me introduce my hidden gem, my darling wife.” Lyonel beamed, Dunk blushed “Milady.”
“Ah-ah,” Lyonel interrupted, “Princess. She is the granddaughter of that fool of a King.” He sat himself down in the hearty chair, guiding your hips back into his own lap, arms circling your waist to pull your back into his broad chest. “Forgive me Princess, I am rather out of the loop when it comes to- well, royalty such as yourself.” He lowered his head, forcing a giggle from your throat as you kindly acknowledged the servant who brought you a plate of cherry cake. “There is nothing to forgive Ser, take this stupid crown off of me you oaf, and do not call my Grandfather a fool he granted you my hand did he not?” You grumbled playfully, the antler crown slipping toward your brow slightly before Lyonel returned it to his own helm.
“You’re a Targaryen.” Dunk spoke, sudden realisation sweeping over his soft features. “I am.” You responded, a warm smile that lit the fire within your mauve eyes. “Let’s not forget she is Lady Baratheon of Storms End,” Lyonel butted in once again, hands digging into the plump flesh of your gentle thighs. “Those Targaryens have no hold anymore, do they my doe, nothing but blood.” You rolled your eyes, they were still your family and you still had a dear amount of love for them, as much as your husband may hate that fact, it was as if he viewed it as deception for you to love your own family. “Lyonel.” You knew your husband well, he was a possessive man on a good day but when he was drunk his jealousy often found itself misplaced, and with your own family in attendance at the tourney you were not taking any chances of riling him up further.
You could feel your husband’s beard scratching against your exposed shoulder, your gown was one of the finest yellow silk, black lace trimmings and a stag embellished in gold thread across your heart. Unbecoming colours of a Targaryen Princess but perfectly fitting for the humble wife of the Baratheon Storm-Lord. “What brings you to Ashford, Ser?” Dunk was almost taken aback by your politeness- well, he was, never had he suspected royalty could be so gentle with common folk such as himself. “News of tourney’s travels fast I s’pose, had nought else to do really-“ he mumbled, watching as you picked the cherries from the slice of cake in front of you and ate them one by one. “And do you plan to enter the lists?” An ordinary question for a knight to be asked, but Dunk grimaced nonetheless. “I had planned to Princess, but with the old-man not being here to vouch for my honour, I have no right to enter as a knight.”
“Who was the knight that knighted you, Ser?” You asked kindly, he knew it was being asked kindly and he could see no ill-intent on your face, but the curiously accusing eyes of your husband watching him over your shoulder made it feel all the more imposing. “The old man was Ser Arlan of Pennytree, Princess. I- he would have been before your time I doubt you would recall him.” You hummed, swatting your husband’s hand away from your ever disappearing slice of cake. “He broke lance with my uncle I’m sure.” Dunk looked up, relief washing over his features, someone remembered him, someone knew that Ser Arlan was not a figment of his own imagination. “Yes- yes he did! How… I was not born at the time, I only know what the old man told me, you see.”
“I have quite the favour for history, as does my Uncle, he spent many nights in the Redkeep telling me of his tourney days in a hope to ease my nerves of my elder brother entering the lists.” You spoke fondly, your Uncle had always been kind, even-tempered, a welcome difference from your own Father who felt more hot headed with each growing day. Though you could never blame him, between your younger brother Aerion being the living evil he was, and your youngest sister Rhae and her experimentation with poisons and potions, its a wonder the man had lived this long without a sudden heart-attack. Your mother had always encouraged your fondness of your Uncle, it was rare you spent longer than a few moons at a time in the Redkeep, and your uncle had secretly confided in you that as much as his sons were the light of his life, he had always desired a little girl to spoil rotten. So you filled that role silently, you welcomed the silence and soft style of love your Uncle’s household brought. Earning yourself a place in many hearts of those within the Redkeep, so much so that the King, your Grandfather, had granted you say in your own marriage propositions. A gift princesses were rarely given.
“Must we talk of your Uncle, we were having a lovely evening.” Lyonel’s gruff voiced pierced the once fond silence. “My Uncle is a good man, he is fair. Ser Duncan I have no doubt should you remind him of the tale he will also recall.” a warm smiled graced your face. “I have no right to ask this Princess but perhaps you could remind him for me, before I undoubtedly make a fool of myself in front of more royal blood.” Your laughter was soft and welcoming, a hand coming to cover your mouth, small lines creasing the corners of your eyes. Your laughter, Lyonel thought there was no sound more beautiful, especially when he was the source of your entertainment. “You have not made a fool of yourself to me, Ser. But when my Father and Uncle arrive on the morrow I would be more than happy to refresh their memory.”
“Thank you, Princess. It means a lot.” His smile was grateful, you could see that plainly. Lyonel was right, you did adore this strange man. Speaking of your husband, you could feel his grip piercing you through your gown, “If you grip me any tighter, husband, I fear your nails may tear my gown.”
“I’m sure Ser Duncan wouldn’t mind a show.” He winked at the tall man, who blushed furiously. Out of the entire first night of meeting him, Dunk had not seen the stag be so quiet and patient as he was when watching you, listening to you speak, feeling and observing your movements. In fact, since Dunk had met him Lyonel had not stop speaking until you were perched in his lap, guiding the conversation with him watching like some love-sick child.
“I think it is time for us to retire for the evening, it was lovely to meet you Ser Duncan, I will try my best for you on the morrow.” Standing from your husbands lap you turned and pulled him to stand with you, his frame towering over your own, an arm lazily eloping around your shoulder, coming across your collarbone, hand pressed to your stomach. “Thank you again, Princess.”
“Yes, yes enough thanking Ser Duncan, I hope to see you in the lists. Or our bed, our tent is always open.” He winked with a smirk as you hit him for his crude remark, before bidding the knight a final farewell and leading your husband back to your shared tent.
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“Earth to Duncan, hello?” Raymun waved his spilling goblet of ale in front of the hedge-knights face. “Yes, y-yes sorry you were saying?” Dunk shook his head, as if that would free his mind from the Princess in his thoughts. “I asked why suddenly the cats got your tongue.” Raymun said, his eyes giving Duncan a deadpan stare. “Oh, right. It was only last night I met a Targaryen princess, she didn’t seem all that deranged.”
“Oh. You met Lord Baratheon’s wife, the Sunshine of Storms End. She presents herself like a gentle doe, but you’ve got to remember she shares the same blood as her mental brother who killed that fucking horse. I’d bet anything behind the facade she’s worse than the lot of her brothers. I mean seven hell’s her youngest sister’s said to have a thing for pyrotechnics Duncan- heed my words, you cannot trust a Targaryen.” The way Raymun spoke, it was as if the words were fed to him, they were not his own yet he spoke them as if believing they were.
Duncan shook his head softly, “She spoke to the crown Prince f’me, got him to let me enter the lists, vouch for my honour as a knight. If anything her husband seemed madder than she was.” Raymun grimaced, “you’re rather unfamiliar with the stature of Targaryen women, they poison those around them, with their words, their mind, what’s between their damn legs- she’s got that Storm Lord wrapped around her pretty finger and she’ll be his end one day. I wouldn’t put it past witchcraft. They’re enchantresses Duncan, sirens that walk the sand, and it seems she’s done her magic on you and all.”
“Maybe,” Dunk spoke, suddenly very interested in the brass goblet within his large hands. He could not deny you were beautiful, soft, enchanting even. What about you could truly be so awful for a son of a common Lord to hate what you were so much. “Or maybe she’s not like them.”
“If you believe that Dunk, you might just be as mad as them.” The flap of the tent swung open, a bald boy in common clothes darted in. Egg.
“Ser Duncan please you must come quick- Aerion’s hurting her!”
“Hurting who?!” Ser Duncan rose, following the boy without question, into a situation that need not involve him, and would only cause him too much trouble.
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A/N: hello hellooooo how is everyone?? I posted my first fic yesterday and it honestly got a lot of love I was not expecting so I really really appreciate that!! Bit of a slightly shorter fic today but I feel this one has more potential for other parts but I really don’t know. If anyone would be interested let me know. As always, requests are open, likes, comments, reblogs and any interactions are always appreciated!!
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