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.”
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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.
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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.”
i just think it's sad that people are being mean to an old man over a book series whose central thesis is arguably "the world must be cruel but you must be kind." and they do it without a shred of irony or reflection
Chapter 5 | A Song of Wolves and Falling Stars - A story of Ned Stark and Ashara Dayne
Ashara is lady-in-waiting to Elia Martell and the eldest daughter of House Dayne. Unbetrothed, she travels to the Tourney at Harrenhal with the royal family hoping to survive the tournament unnoticed. It's when she's approached by the second son of Lord Rickard Stark that her previous hopes are abandoned and new dreams are realized in the form of a Northern lord.
Or, more simply, what if Ned Stark married Ashara Dayne?
photo credits: The Last Kingdom (2015) & The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001)
baratheonpilled
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stormborns
