Daeron, reclined, drinking wine, shirt sluttily open like a debauched maiden waiting for his wife to come back from the hunt, with a far bigger kill than any of his in or the party: āI must say, she was a fantastic match for me.ā
(Lady Stark with her sexy, delicate prince that happily respects her choices and lets her run anything heās meant to.)
Ideal setup here
This is sooooo sexy oh my god
Like Daeron fawning over his lady as the hunting party (or at least the Northern part of it) regale spectators with tales of her feats.
I can also see lady Stark like skinning a buck or explaining how to precisely sneak up on a kill in sickening detail and heās just moony eyed (and bricked up), kissing her cheek like āyeah thatās my baby.ā
I know this pisses Maekar off sooooo bad too, especially with the idea that Daeron takes after him in physique: tall, broad, all the potential to be strong and deadly, and heās choosing to laze about??? (Heās genuinely impressed with Lady Stark, he values those who are well practiced in skill.) Every hunt heās like āget up, get up, get up.ā And it does not work one bit. Daeron is way too pleased to sit back and watch you in your element.
silent reader here. I always ebony what you wrote and I feel like a dog getting a treat when I see you pop up. Do you have anymore Lyonel or baelor works coming up? I also love your take on maeker and Daeron
This makes me so thrilled to hear you have no idea :)
I have a few things I'm working on at the moment:
Cregan Stark hurt/comfort (w/ smut bc I like it)
Lyonel Baratheon romantic smut thing (maybe another one with him too that's more domestic fluff)
There is an anon (I think its the same person every time but idk) who has been asking for a Baelor Targaryen SFW alphabet for WEEKS its coming I promise
A handful of akotsk preferences
So many people send in amazing suggestions and requests, it's so inspiring and makes me want to write more!
This is not shade against you're writing or anything but what is up all of x reader being Lady Stark, there is so many noble houses Baratheon, Lannister, Tyrell, Hightower, Arryn, Tully, Greyjoj, Manderly, Blackwood, Bracken,Dondarrion...but every singe time it's some dull ass Stark.
Lmaooooo no I actually totally get what youāre saying, and I kind of agree. In most of my writing, I try to keep it vague enough that you can kind of pick your own thing, maybe specifying a region but not the actual house. There are so many really interesting traits, sigils, histories etc. for some of the lesser known or less popular families. Iām a Stark lover till I die (literally writing a Cregan fic as we speak), but I would love to see some other interpretations!
Also, adding to your point, I kinda feel this way about Targ!reader lol I still read them but something about āyour silver hairā always throws me out of it.
How would the AKOTSK men react when they meet/marry a very Stark reader. Like hunting, fighting, old gods, direwolf maybe, the look, maybe even not liking and trusting the south and game of thrones schemes
Why a Stark?
18+ MDNI
Summary: How do the men of akotsk feel about their lady Stark?
AN: Obsessed with the idea of Starks having wolf tendencies like Targs having dragon ones (Iāve spent entirely too much time thinking about Rhaenyraās stare/head tilt combo). I tried to incorporate different Stark characteristics into each of the pairings, hope yāall enjoy <3
Warnings: Allusions to sex, mistrust, slight misogyny (not from any of them)
3.6k Words
Daeron:
Daeron finds his Stark wife kind of terrifying, at least at first. Itās no secret the wolves of the North donāt look fondly on the blood of the dragons, and he dreads the night where his dreams become known to you. You donāt seem like the type to tolerate nonsense; Winterfell does not have a place for simpering and whining, and the disdain written across your features at the sight of perfumed southern knights gives him the impression that you donāt appreciate foolishness.Ā
But Northern magic runs deep, and Daeron is shocked when met with understanding instead of cruelty. He wakes one night with a shout, hair slick to his forehead with sweat and breath ragged. With dread, he turns slowly to see if he woke you, only to find you already sitting up; your eyes reflecting in the moonlight. Youāre watching, not with annoyance or even fear, but curiosity. For several moments, you stare at one another. He knows how it looks: the crazed, bloodshot eyes of a drunken Prince, disturbing his wifeās slumber. Heās ready to make excuses, laugh it off halfheartedly and mourn the days you offer him a place in your bed. Instead, you reach for him. Fingertips brushing away the tears from his cheek.Ā
āWhat did you see?ā
Daeron is taken aback, to say the least. His face contorts in confusion at your question, how would you know he saw anything beyond the nightmares of a tortured mind? You seemingly sense his unease.Ā
āIn the North, there are people- some say they see things. Things that havenāt happened yet, or things that happened before.āĀ
It all seems so simple, the way you say it. He doesnāt want to scare you, but the Starks are known to be honorable and he knows you wonāt chastise him.Ā
After his confession, he still wakes suddenly most nights. Sometimes he wakes you, accidentally, and he whispers stories of fire and castles and dragons. Other nights, just having you close is enough to calm him. The steady beat of your heart, the warmth of your skin; he presses himself up against your side and sighs deeply when you unconsciously wrap an arm around him.Ā
Daeron would have no trouble with you participating in a hunt. In fact, he quite enjoys the look on his fatherās face when he sees his heir reclined on the dais sipping wine. The young Prince just shrugs when heās questioned, gesturing to where youāre readying your horse and stringing your bow. Maekar makes a pinched face, but Daeron only laughs.Ā
āMy wife will be taking my place in The hunt, father. She wonāt disappoint you, sheās far more skilled than I am.āĀ
Side note I think the idea of Lady Stark out-weirding Daeron is so silly like him very nervously telling you about how he sees these visions of the future and fearing youāll deem him insane and working himself up about it and you say something like āOh like how I can see through the eyes of my direwolf.ā and heās like āā¦..what.ā
Maekar:
To me, this match makes the most sense. There is definitely a lot of disagreeing, butting heads, arguing back and forth loud enough to shake Summerhall, but in the end Maekar has a lot of the same ideologies the Starks do. Iām not the first person whoās said this, but the Anvil is the type of man who sticks out in the lush, relaxed sort of atmosphere of the southern houses, but slots perfectly into the harsh realities of the North. There's a no-nonsense sort of attitude that is imperative to the lord and lady of Winterfell, no room for prattle and frivolity. Life is hard in winter, they need someone who will help their lady Stark make difficult decisions, and defend her until his dying breath.Ā
Maekar is fiercely loyal, willing to do almost anything for the people he cares for. It's a trait you share. Maekar doesn't really know what to say when you defend him, speaking out against a knight who made a snide comment about your match. Or when you go out of your way to take care of him; ordering him to stop training and rest, asking him to be careful for you on a hunt. Heās used to being the one who takes care of everybody. Six children, two brothers in need of defending, the other set on overexerting himself to an early grave. You cross your arms, square your shoulders, tilt your head back to look him in the eye, and tell him he will take a hot bath and eat something, otherwise heāll have to answer to you. He grumbles about it, but is not in the business of denying his lady what she asks for.Ā
Maekar is also very amused at your inability to handle the southerly heat when visiting his parents and brother in the capital. There are times where it snows in the summer back at Winterfell, and you look so crestfallen when you shed your wolfskin cloak, that Maekar almost agrees to leaving his family and returning to your home. Even your gowns are meant to fight the harsh winds and morning chills, sweltering in the sun of Kingās Landing. The Prince is quietly charmed by your humidity-frizzed hair and crabby disposition; the glower you show him when he reaches to brush the thin glimmer of perspiration at your forehead before he presses a kiss there.
Thereās a small smirk on your face, but he doesnāt return it. He wastes no time taking your hand and kissing your knuckles. Youāre absolutely right: he was staring.Ā
āYou are- my wife, I-āĀ
He can barely find the words, ears turning an adorable shade of pink, but you give him some grace.Ā
āDo you like my gown? I had it made when I knew weād be coming south.āĀ
It's not the last time you must adjust your wardrobe for the weather. How delighted he is, upon reaching your chambers at the end of a long, hot day, forced into endless meetings with lords who wish to gain favor with the North- as if he was the one whose approval they needed- to find you sprawled out, atop the bedclothes, not a stitch of fabric on you.Ā
āThe heat, dearest, I cannot stand it.āĀ
You reach for him, and he says a prayer to the old gods and the new before stomping to your bed. Heās no help in cooling you down, but you donāt complain, not when heās following you into nakedness and climbing into your arms.Ā
Aerion:
Aerion is obsessed.Ā
A sort of one-way stalking that slowly takes control over his life. Youāre busy; settling grain disputes, meeting with masons, attending to duties of Winterfell with strength and poise appropriate for a woman raised to warden the North. Aerion is your shadow, following behind and watching you with an intensity one can only describe as reptilian. It's enough to make most uncomfortable, and the Prince is no stranger to piercing the young ladies at court with his gaze, but you barely acknowledge the Targaryen. It drives him insane. What woman isnāt instantly drawn to his delicate, Valerian features?Ā
He throws himself into trying to impress you; ears red and nose dripping from the cold, yet he still tugs his shirt over his head while training in the yard. Aerion knows you're watching from the battlements, looking down your nose with the careful expression that constantly paints your face. He can feel your eyes on him, and it makes him hot. Lithe and wiry, the young dragon impresses you when he knocks down strapping northern boys twice his size. You donāt mention youāre affected, nor do you compliment his swordsmanship, but he preens when you allow him moments of council.Ā
Every time he moves to speak to you, to get close enough to catch the smell of your evergreen soap you bathe with (heād spent more than enough time thinking about that), a deep, growling noise startles him. It's primal, the fear that creeps up his spine, and there's nothing he hates more than feeling unguarded. Your direwolf is never far from you, scenting the air and smelling the pampered Princeās desperation for his lady. It's not that she dislikes him, she's never lunged or snapped at him, it's more that she is completely indifferent- and it's almost worse. Some girlās silly dog doesnāt see Aerion as a threat? What he doesnāt understand is that the connection between the Starks and their wolves is far deeper than anything a southerner could understand. You thought a Targaryen, so long bound to their dragons, would see the soul-connection with your companion; the way she could sense what you needed, how you felt. She doesnāt read the Prince as a threat because you donāt see him that way. Heās far too busy stewing in his irritation over the Stark sigil still being around to bond with.Ā
Aerion becomes someone you take to counsel, not because heās particularly good at strategy, or navigating noble court, but you know he will stand up for what you believe wholeheartedly. You do not need to speak out of turn, to draw attention to the fact that you are a woman ruling Winterfell and there are more than a few lords who think you unqualified. Aerion will happily use that tone of his, the one that means āI donāt respect you and I want you to know it,ā to back any claim you make. Misogynistic lords will argue with a lady they believe is playing at being the warden of the North, but who can argue with a Prince? Especially that Prince? Aerion knows heāll get a kiss, and possibly even a smile, after; heās ready to swing on any man who tries to discredit his lady Stark.Ā
Dunk:
A Stark would have more respect for Dunk than most of the southern lords do. Knighthood is intrinsically tied to the Seven, and so the idea of needing the gods to anoint you a knight doesnāt really mean anything to Northerners. Itās his character that determines your admiration for him. Brave, honorable, good-hearted; heās the type of man you can depend on, and thatās a valued thing when the nights grow long and cold.Ā
Dunk, like Daeron, falls victim to the intimidation of his Lady Stark. As a noble, there is an uncomfortability in the disparity of your standings. Dunk, while having no problem speaking to those of higher birth, does occasionally fall prey to the incongruence. There is also the notion of your Stark character; direct, clever, just, heās not used to anyone really acting that way. Heās acutely aware of the horrors the world has to offer, and the cruelty that can come from those with power, seeing you wield your influence (and Ice) with strength and justice throws him for a loop. We see how quickly he idolizes Baelor after showing his character, Dunk just wants a kind, fair lady to follow.Ā
Dunk is honest to a fault (except for the knight thing lol), and does not appreciate those who lie and scheme to get what they want. Starks of course are known for their honesty- whether it gets them into trouble or not. Treachery is not the true Northern way. When you comment on these attributes, praising his strength and fortitude, pleased with his need to help others, he doesn't really know what to do with himself. Ears red, shrugging his shoulders and fumbling with his words.
āāTis nothinā, mālady. Only doinā what's right.āĀ
Youāre not one to give approval when it's not warranted. Because of this, Dunk tucks each little thing you tell him close to his heart. He is utterly devoted to his lady; he acts like heās your personal guard dog (or wolf), especially when in the south. In true Dunk fashion, he cannot help but confess to you the truth of his knightship. On his knees before you, big blue eyes wet and brows drawn, head hung low, he begs you to forgive him.Ā
But there is nothing to forgive.
An oath sworn to faraway gods means nothing to those who know real winter. When the storms come, when houses clash, when there is no one to turn to but your own, what use is a man who has only his word to sustain him?
āYou have proven yourself through your presence; I know the nature of your heart.āĀ
He becomes your shadow- a big, hulking shadow, keeping close and surveying crowds with a watchful glance. It's not that you cannot handle yourself, but he finds himself needing to ease any burden he can assist you with. If that means standing between you and danger, so be it. He is especially fond of helping you stay warm. It's all for your safety- obviously. No other reason to peel back the layers of leather and chainmail, linen and fur, to tuck you against his bare chest in your bed. It's his job, really, sworn to protect you, even from the elements. On particularly cold nights, heāll pull the blankets and furs into a great pile by the fire, wrapping you in his big arms and cradling you close. The winds howl, the snow blows hard against the windows, but you're safe and warm in your knightās arms.
Baelor:
For a man so proper, so rule-abiding, so utterly fixed toward propriety, Baelor immediately takes a liking to the wild in your veins. It's not that you're carefree, there's a seriousness that comes from understanding the harsh reality of living in the North, but you have no love for the prim rules of court. For that, Baelor finds you endlessly captivating. You wear your hair loose, speak out when you disagree, and handle a bow better than any man in the yard. Heās quick to shut down any unkind word thrown toward you, the Princeās āWildling bride,ā sent from the North to plead for alliances.Ā
He canāt quite understand why the other southerners cannot see the beauty in the fierceness, and has little patience, or tolerance, for cruelty toward his betrothed.Ā
You do not immediately return the gesture. It's no secret the Starks are suspicious of the Valyrian dynasty, and Baelor is the heir, set to inherit a crown and sit on the throne that forced your ancestors to kneel. Initially, you find him trying. Constantly striving for perfection, working long past any other council member, stuck up in the tower of the hand, doing whatever his father says- you imagine. What else would a spoiled, first-born son do but follow in the footsteps of those who came before him? But you watch him anyway, telling yourself it's protecting your people. It's important, of course, to know the man who will one day rule your kingdom; better to understand him now than to guess later down the line.
What you find is a man devoted to the realm, and it's hard to fault him for that. You also observe that he is not as well respected as you would have thought him to be. You roll your eyes at the lords of the Reach, who whisper nonsense about dark hair and Dornish dispositions. It helps you understand him, his need to be the best. To prove to those who doubt him that heās worthy of the crown.Ā
He feels your resentment toward him ease. Gone are the days of clipped responses, poor excuses, and snide looks. Baelor can sense you studying him; but instead of the uneasy feeling heās felt all his life at other nobles watching, he finds himself warmed that you care to know him. You agree with him in a meeting discussing trade agreements, nodding your approval and dismissing the lordling who dared to insinuate Baelor favoring his motherās kingdom. You ask him to share a meal with you one evening, just the two of you in your chambers, and he canāt quite believe it to be true. He pauses at the door before knocking, straightening his velvet doublet and hoping his hair lays flat. A blush catches on his cheeks when you open the door to find him preening himself. The embarrassment is worth getting to hear you speak unbound to the niceties of court. You can feel the bond forming between you, the northern outsider and the Valyrian Prince who doesnāt look the part, what a pair you make.Ā
Baelor listens when you talk, so unlike the men who see you as a prize, a ticket to wardenhood- even if itās in the North. It's not even just a curiosity for the woman who will be his wife, he genuinely wants to know you. The two of you find common ground most easily in nature. Riding out in the cool morning air, sword at his belt the only guard, and the wind whistling the only mindless chatter. He likes to see you in your element like this, a smile on your lips, eyes bright from the exertion, nothing to bind you into the confines of society. He can just be a man, in love with a woman, deep in the Kingās Wood. often on your rides, you find yourselves off your horses; Baelorās fine woolen cloak laid out in the grass, your hands in his hair and his mouth at your neck. He especially likes those mornings.
Lyonel:Ā
Definition of he fell first AND harder. Youāve heard all about Lyonel Baratheon before you even see him. Whispers traveled up the Kingās Road of a beast of a man; wild, lascivious, barbaric, each rumor cruder and more shocking than the next. You knew most of the gossip was just meant to frighten you, a young wolf traveling south to your betrothed. Surely a knight had more honor than what was spoken of him, but it did not stop your trepidation.
He finds you in the misty gardens of Stormās End, bracing yourself on a low branch, attempting to hop the garden wall.Ā
āMy lady, are you in need of assistance?āĀ
You spin, silver gown whipping around your feet, to see a handsome stranger leaning against the archway. His blue eyes watch you playfully, and there's an easy grin across his lips. You donāt return the gesture.Ā
āIām quite alright, thank you. No need to stare.āĀ
Hastily, you turn back to your task at hand, so rarely does a manās smile alone shake a woman of Winterfell. You hear a shout from behind:
āWhat is it youāre doing?āĀ
Eyes roll, is it not obvious?Ā
āNothing.āĀ
āIt doesnāt look like nothing.āĀ
You huffed, your attempts at climbing the lattice proving futile. It did not help the penetrating stare of your gawker, boring into the back of your head.Ā
āAre you afraid of him, then?āĀ
His words made you pause.Ā
āAfraid? No. It is only that I have no desire to marry a silly southern knight. No doubt heās off drinking or whoring right now, what kind of a life for a lady is that?ā You say, haughtily, struggling again to climb the rain-slick branches.Ā
A glower paints your face when you hear him laugh. A deep, thunderous thing, rolling off his tongue in a way that makes your heart quicken. You turn, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to keep your upper hand. When he finally catches his breath, he manages to choke out a response.
āMy dear lady, I can assure you that Ser Lyonel is, at least mostly, sober at the moment, and far from any brothel. Though Iām sure if the lady was willing, he would be happy to be of service.āĀ
Like any Lyonel romance, he is the ultimate ragebaiter. He loves to push your buttons, seeing how far he can take a joke before you snap. Sometimes it's well thought out, playing into your serious tone and pretending to be on the same page until you see a tell-tale glint in his eye. Other days, he's immediately doing what comes to mind; a quick tug on a braid, scooping you up from behind while you're focused, taking something out of your hands and holding it above your head. He doesn't mind if you growl, if you slap his arm or bite, he is thrilled to have your attention on him. Gods help any southern courtiers who try to do the same, commenting on the strange northern customs or the stoic set of your face, Lyonel goes from his usual smile to needing to be restrained.Ā
He is constantly at your elbow, ready to speak enough for the two of you. He adores it when you take his arm, not because you need it, but because youāre laying a claim on him. Lyonel loves too, to grab you up in his big arms and smother your face in kisses. There's a particular joy in you grumbling about distractions and decorum, but he can always feel you nuzzling closer.Ā
(Of course inspired by the scene in Queen Charlotte.)Ā Ā
Would y'all be interested in my writing something for Cregan Stark? be honest I had a fun idea for something for him and want to know if y'all are interested <3
Summary: Headcanons, musings, ramblings about the connection between Meakar Targaryen and Lyonel Baratheon
AN: Yāallā¦. Dare I say this is my new obsession. This was so fun I had to immediately drop everything to write it. Thank you to everyone who encouraged this, and who commented on my posts about the two of them, enjoy <3Ā
The thing about Lyonel is that he can read people exceptionally well. Even as a child, he can immediately see the dynamic progressing through the Targaryen boys. Baelor is the obvious choice for friendship: the crown Prince, close in age, strong and capable and honest even in their formative years. Rhaegel and Aerys, neither built for combat, would be the easiest to pick on. He passes over all three of them, however, at the sight of the youngest Targaryen Prince. Angry, viscous, pockmarked and snarled but still struck with the delicate Valyrian beauty of his ancestors. Lyonelās brain lights up with possibilities on how to catch the boyās attention, positively or negatively.Ā
Maekar, though young, is already growing broad, strong, the hours dedicated to the training yard showing in his skill. He takes pride in his fortitude, able to knock older boys down with ease, and even beat some of the men set to train him. Even so, Lyonel is still taller, still more athletic, growing quickly into a strapping young man. It doesn't matter that Lyonel is several years his senior, that's not the point. The unattainable, unbeatable boy still infuriates the young Prince.
Part of the problem is that Lyonel sees them as kindred spirits; two children largely ignored by their parents. However, he assumes Maekar has the same life he does, cast aside for his wild behavior, reluctantly held close because of his status. This is not, of course, the case. Maekar is loved by his parents, but with the weight of the Crown, and three other boys to raise, their youngest is sometimes left to fend for himself. The other issue is that Maekar doesnāt see their connection at all. To him, Lyonel is a spoiled heir, far less dignified than Baelor, who is certainly waited on hand and foot by all who surround him.Ā
Ā Maekar definitely compares himself to Lyonel, standing in the mirror, focusing on the scars, the pale skin, the odd, bluntly cut, silver hair that hangs limp on his forehead. Heās awkward, not physically, but cannot seem to enter a conversation without stopping it. Where lyonel is strapping, charming, likeable, handsome. Poor Maekar tries not to think about that one too much.Ā
Lyonel loves to tease him, especially when training together. Itās a place where they can be close, bodies moving together, the only dance between men Westeros really accepts.Ā
Maekar is a formidable partner, Lyonel canāt deny it, but heās still smaller and younger, less practiced, and, above all, easily distracted by the lordlingās constant chatter. He knows if he fought daily, it would be much harder to beat the Prince, but where's the fun in that?Ā
āDo you know, my Prince, why I always ask to spar with you?ā Lyonel asks, ruffling Maekarās hair with a large hand. āI can never resist a pretty blonde.ā
Maekarās face is redhot (not that he even cares if Lyonel thinks heās pretty), and it throws him off his game. Who is some stupid stormlord to a dragon? Why does it even matter what Lyonel says?
Donāt even start with the playful ass slapping after a particularly difficult sparring session. Sure, Lyonel does that to everyone, but there's a particular satisfaction in the reaction he gets from his Prince.Ā
Baelor does not like Lyonel. He prides himself on his perception, and there is no ignoring the way the Stormlordās eyes follow the younger Prince across the yard. Or the way he smirks when he notices Maekar sulking at a feast. Or the how he leans over Baelorās little brother when he speaks to him. Why is this pervert even thinking about Maekar? That's Baelorās baby! Nevermind that heās grown into a man, Lyonel needs to back off.
Speaking of Baelor, I see him and Lyonel having a Roy Kent/Jamie Tart sort of thing going on. Specifically the bit where they go to Jamieās childhood home, only to find that he still has a poster of Roy on the wall, despite how much he picks on him. Lyonel does respect him, but it's so much for fun to mess around.Ā
Lyonel is completely devoted to turning Maekarās face pink. It's not difficult; heās pale, despite the time spent in the yard, and obviously not used to being spoken to so brazenly. It's almost cute, the way his ears and neck light up, a thought that both confuses and delights the dark haired man.Ā
It's important to note that Lyonel isnāt being cruel, not really. Heās messy and playful, sassy and ribbing, but he doesnāt really want to hurt the Princeās feelings. Heās just obsessed with having Maekarās attention all over him.Ā
Maekar, of course, sees the silly teasing- flirting, really- as harassment, malice meant to pull at the confused, brow-beaten heart of the young man. Heās used to being on the fringes, not being part of a group except for when heās needed, and he certainly resents Lyonel for being so carefree and casual, so likeable.Ā
āBaelor, he is infuriating! Why is that barbarian even allowed at court?ā He complains. His brother wholeheartedly agrees, but for entirely different reasons.
It gets to a point where the teasing is so obvious, it gets strange looks from other knights. This only works to embarrass Maekar more, he doesnāt want to seem like some weak boy bending to the will of an older knight.Ā
Maekar may be a man, but heās still young, still confused about the rapid beat in his chest and the way he canāt those dark curls, and that devilish smirk, out of his mind. He throws himself into training. He must be better than him, he must. He cannot be the pampered, wanton Prince.Ā
Lyonel had gone home to Stormās End for a time, forced into boring council meetings, ledgers, explaining the duties that would befall him once the lordship was his. He was eager to return; the excitement of Kingās Landing too tempting. The parties, the wine, the hunting, the infuriatingly cute Prince he canāt seem to forget. Thereās no shortage of blondish men to spar with in the Stormlands, but it's not the same.Ā
Maekar has grown his hair out, and Lyonel loses his mind. Gone is the blunt, awkward cut, shore close around his ears and high on his forehead. Now there are cascades of silver locks, tightly braided away from his face, and the Laughing Storm canāt help but give them a tug any time he passes the other man.Ā
Lyonel just wants a piece of that grumpy, blonde boy so bad, heās given up on feeling weird about it.Ā
The first time Maekar knocks him on his ass, practice sword thrown from his hand and wind gone from his lungs, Lyonel has the most confusing boner. Maekar looks smug, standing above him, blunt blade pointed down and tapping on the taller manās chest.Ā
āNot as good as you used to be, then?āĀ
His words are sharper than before, no longer stuttered out in an embarrassed flush, but the assertive command of a Prince.Ā
It only makes Lyonel push back harder. His words fiercer, sharper, peeling Maekar back until he lashes out again. The only thought in his head is that maybe the Targaryen will shove him down with his hands this time, instead of a sword.Ā
A particularly biting jest is what does Maekar in. Standing in the armory, alone but for the flickering torches and glinting shields. Lyonel hadnāt stopped talking; not when they spun across the dirt of the yard, not when the master-at-arms called for training to be over, not when the crowds of knights and squires slowly dissipated around them, until only the two men still stood.
āIs that a blush I see, sweet Prince? Tell me, are you a maiden, or has some bawdy knight stolen your virtue?āĀ
Lyonelās smirk was wide, bending down to speak as close as he dared. His expression changed quickly to surprise when Maekarās palms hit him square in the chest, shoving him back until his spine slammed against the stone wall. His brow was furrowed, reminiscent of the way Lyonel found so charming in their youth, and his mouth a hard line. They hadnāt been this close in a while, and the Stormlord could see the glimmer of silver dusting across Maekarās cheeks and chin. His hands were still flat on his broad chest, a fact Lyonel couldnāt ignore, the heat of them radiating through the leather of his doublet.Ā
āSoā¦ some Ser has taken you then?ā Lyonel was quieter now, close to a whisper but no less sly. Maekar gripped the lapels in his fists, tugging the older lordās head down until their lips met. It's a clumsy kiss, hard and fast and over before Lyonel could really get his hands on the silver Prince. Maekar stepped back quickly, desperate to make space between them. His voice was hoarse when he spoke:Ā
āThe only way to shut you up, then?ā
Before quickly turning to storm off. Lyonel didnāt miss the bright red around Maekarās throat as he left.Ā
The only thing the Laughing Storm can put together in his mind, in the minutes after, are ways to anger the Prince enough to make him do it again.Ā
Cut to Maekar pacing across Baelorās solar, head in his hands, begging his brother for help. Baelor is, of course, desperately trying to comfort his brother, simultaneously thinking up ways to kill Lyonel so it will look like an accident.
Adding on to your post, whatās so funny abt Lyonel is that he clocks Maekar for compensating being the youngest to be acting the way he does. Ironically, Lyonel seems to compensate his worth and relationships by being the life of the party which makes me think heās able to better discern their dynamics since he knows what itās like in a high royal/powered family and experiencing the pressure of maintaining a reputation.
Deadass tho, the older men in this show all got mommy issues with the way they want a partner who can nurture them and be a good listener š like they either want what they had/didnāt have lmfaooo
YOUR MIND
It's so fascinating to think that although they have a similar problem/type of upbringing, they compensate for it in different ways. Part of it too, I think, has to do with Maekar being the youngest, and so he's always trying to act more mature, be bigger, stronger, more intimidating. Whereas Lyonel is the heir; he knows that, despite wildness, he will always have a place in his family because they need him. I will definitely be adding these ideas to my Lyonel/Maekar stuff, soooo good.
Now, from an xreader perspective... š
Obsessed with the idea that all of them have mommy issues in some way or another. Maekar and Lyonel both defiantly have the flavor of it where they need that recognition and reassurance; not even necessarily compliments, but rather being seen and understood. Where a character like Baelor, on the other hand, might be more interested in someone who has intensity and confidence, after he's been doted on his whole life.
This was so juicy, please share your ideas if you have them! <3
āno man fights as fierce as one neglected by his motherā thoughts on how that relates to maeker and Lyonel? What kinda relationship do you think Lyonel have with his family? Does he have friends. He wants dunk to go hunting and hawking with him. Did his mother ignore him? Insult him? What was it that made Lyonel feel so neglected? And so much so that he recognises it on maker?
Okay so this is so interesting because I actually have written a little bit about this before here, but I think Lyonel and Maekar both have a sort of connection through being āno one's favorite child.ā Whether or not either of them were actually disliked/unfavored is maybe more nuanced, but the feeling that they have to prove themselves in some way seems to be part of both of their characters. It manifests differently between the two, however.
For Lyonel, he is attention seeking. There's never a dull moment in his world; parties, hunts, dancing, feasts, he fills up every bit of his life so that heās never bored or alone. There's constantly a crowd surrounding him, who wouldn't want to be his friend? Now donāt get me wrong: it's not performative, or at least not in a way where it's fake. He really does love the attention, the excitement, the adventure, but heās also putting on a show for his peers.Ā
However:Ā
I think it's extremely telling that the second a kind, softspoken, normal guy, who doesnāt want anything from him except maybe some dinner, Lyonel immediately jumps on him, and is willing to die for him within a day. Obviously Lyonel is impulsive and cocky, but itās almost like he realizes, āOh, sometimes friends actually just care about you without wanting anything in return.ā Itās not that Lyonel is deficient in friends, every lord in the south (except maybe the Targs lol) want to be around him, but he is probably lacking in good friends. He seems like he would have the typical boy stereotype friendships where it's like oh this is my best friend I donāt know his last name and we never talk about our feelings but we hang out sometimes. And then he meets Dunk, whoās earnest and open, and it changes his brain chemistry.Ā
I touched on the mother stuff in my other post, but I do think it's extremely telling that he brings up Maekar and Baelorās mother at a time like that. (Sidenote I know the episode kind of centers around the Mother and how Dunk is connected through his knighthood/lack thereof.) but likeā¦ it just seems like a random thing for Lyonel to say- unless he knows something about the Princes. I love the idea that the three of them have grown up knowing each other, tourneys and battles and training yards. In the books, Lyonel is younger so the ages donāt really align, but in the show they all look around the same age. Theres something so incredibly funny about the idea of tall, suave, handsome Lyonel as a young man, irritating (and maybe flustering) awkward, angry teen Maekar with that fuck ass bob. Would anyone be interested in me writing about that? Let me know lol
Anyway, back to the question:
With Maekar, I think most of his mother stuff probably stems from being the youngest of four, constantly comparing himself to his perfect oldest brother. To me, he does seem sort of like that boy from Meet the Robinsons (canāt remember his name but the pouty one). Where heās always like, āI have to be the best so that someone will care about me and love me.ā Meanwhile he's all of his brotherās baby who they dote on and are obsessed with. I think there's a lot of ways you can interpret him, and his relationships with his brothers- especially Baelor. You can go in the direction of their mother not having as much time or focus on little Maekar, and his brothers desperately trying to fill that gap so he doesn't feel unwanted.Ā
There's also a juicy sort of idea where he tries so hard to be what he deems as perfect: hard and cold and strong and ruthless, that his mother doesn't really know what to do with him anymore. OR that because they have so many boys to look after, and a crown Prince to mold, they assume Maekar is the one they donāt have to worry about. So it's not that they ignore him, or even love him less, but they know heāll be okay, and they can put more emphasis on helping the sons who āneed it.āĀ
This got a little long, but I hope you enjoyed it! Thank you for asking, I love answering stuff like this! <3Ā
If you donāt mind me asking, what intrigued to start writing reader insert fics? Do you have a fav character for the shows you write and why?
This is such a cute question, thank you for asking!
I started getting into reader insert and xreader stuff in the humble year of 2012. Picture it: I'm 11 years old, One Direction are the biggest boyband in the world, and I'd read every single "sold to One Direction" imagine written.
But in all seriousness, I love writing stuff that people can see themselves in. It makes me happy to know y'all can relate to me, and the stories I write. I think it's so cute and special that you can enjoy something so much you want to be a part of it. Being a part of fandom stuff really does bring people together, despite all of the in-fighting and arguing and the rest.
One look at my masterlist and you can immidialaty see my bias lol I am so bewitched by Maekar Targaryen. There's something about him that I just want to pick a part; he's so closed off, yet incredibly readable? It's the mix of fierceness, with a weird sort of fragility that really interests me. He's also sexy, which of course helps. In all honesty, I like almost all of the akotsk men, though I think Aerion is the hardest to write for. (I know I don't really write anything for Valarr, I just don't really connect with him. No hate!) I'd love to write more for Dunk and Lyonel specifically, but all of them have a special place in my heart <3
Akotsk guys in an arranged marriages when would they first know that theyāre in love and/or when they would say the first āI love youā
Do You Love Me?
18+ MDNI
Summary: How would an arranged marriage with the men of AKOTSK start? How do they know they love you?
AN: This was so fun! I love the idea of love growing over time. I want to give credit to @freezedive and their ideas in the comments of this post, inspiring the ideas in Baelorās part! Also sorry these are taking longer than usual I just moved! and started a new job lol we will be back to my regular posting soon. Anyway please enjoy <3
Warnings: Miscommunication, insecurity, allusions to smut, obsession (mostly Aerion lol)
3.9k Words
Daeron:
Daeron is not excited with the prospect of a wife. It doesn't really have anything to do with you, youāre lovely and bright and everything a lady of your stature should be, but the idea of letting someone else down terrifies him. It's a thousand times worse if he actually likes you. You lean in to whisper a joke about the ostentatious silk doublet of the Lannister heir, and he has to hide his laugh in his goblet. You grab his hand at a particularly violent turn at a tourney, and he canāt help but feel just a little bit stronger.
He goes out ofĀ his way to sabotage your relationship; why would he let you get close if you'll only run when you discover his true nature? Daeron finds himself in brothels, not because heās interested but because it might make you angry with him. He drinks himself to sleep in taverns, coins and boots stolen off his body. Maybe if you find him repulsive, think him a craven, he wonāt have to ever see the look of horror on your pretty features when his insanity comes to light.Ā
Oh youāre angry all right. He wakes in an alleyway, sun in his eyes and the toe of your boot pushing against his temple. You've got your arms crossed in a huff, brow furrowed, but he canāt help but see you as a deity, a jewel glimmering in the scum of Kingās Landing. Heās pleased to see a guard with you, heās well aware of what can happen in the places he frequents. You kick him again, gentle but enough for him to know he needs to rise. You take him back to the palace, berating him with every step. Does he know how dangerous it is for a Prince to be out on his own? Does he have no respect for you? What would you do if something happened to him? Daeron canāt seem to find it in him to be upset; he can almost see the steam coming out of your ears, but your voice is so captivating and your glare is so beautiful and you care. Care for the dirty, disheveled, drunk of a Prince, enough to stomp out into the city to find him when he didnāt come home. His heart hurts. How is he supposed to let you go now?Ā
You drag him back to your chambers, slamming the door and ordering the maid to draw a bath. Daeron listens when you tell him to strip, sinking into the hot water. It surprises him when you sit beside the tub, scrubbing his hair and rubbing the soap into his skin. His voice is quiet, hoarse, the first words heās spoken since you found him:
āYou should go.āĀ
You pause momentarily, hands on his shoulders.
āDonāt tell me what to do.āĀ
It's your tough love that grounds him. Heās not perfect; he continues to drink, heās certainly not the Prince he thinks you deserve, but he does try. When you tell him he will join you at tea, heās pulling himself together enough to find you in the gardens. He's got dark rings around his eyes and a splitting headache, but you look so pleased that heās there that he finds it in himself to ignore the pain. It's in these moments he forgets he's trying to distance himself. It's selfish, but his heart wonāt let him part from you.Ā
One night in bed you tell him youāve fallen in love with him.
Daeronās in your arms, your lips mumbling against his shoulder. He canāt see your face, his back tucked against your chest, but he can feel your soft smile on his skin. Tears well in his eyes, but he wills them to stay put as he turns over. Nose to nose, he searches for any sign of discomfort, of an untruth in your words, but you're looking at him with kinder eyes than he deserves. He kisses you desperately, starving and grabbing at you. He whispers his confession back against your mouth, tears finally falling and wetting your cheeks.Ā Ā
Maekar:
Maekar is decidedly against the notion of taking a wife. The rebellion is over, heās come back a hero, and a different man than he was before: physically and mentally. His back aches when he sits for too long, his skin is laced with more scars than he left with, and he carries himself with the weight of a man much older than he really is. So when his mother insists on a political match, he decides he wonāt be sugarcoating himself for some prim lady. The crassness, the brutality, the cold stare and hard set of his brow; they'd given him the esteem of his fellow soldiers on the battlefield, surely they would give him an advantage in his marriage.Ā
Cut to him seeing you across the garden for the first time; youāre speaking earnestly with Myriah, sparkling in the afternoon sun, and he forgets, momentarily, how to breathe. It's not until Baelor claps him on the back with a laugh that he realizes heās staring. He quickly squares his shoulders, tilting up his chin in an attempt to seem, what, princely? Maekar doesnāt really know, but his feet are moving him toward you and heās hoping to the gods that his face isnāt red. Baelor watches with a fond laugh and a shake of his head.Ā
Maekar has prepared himself for the usual way conversations with ladies go. Polite, formal introductions, curtsies and clipped smiles, eyes lingering on the pox marked skin of his jaw, and then peering around him to eye his oldest brother. You are polite, but not in a way that feels forced for royalty. You curtsey, and offer your hand for him to kiss. You smile, and it's so bright he can barely look at it for too long. You do eye his face, the crease between his eyebrows, the scowl, and the pox scars too, but your eyes donāt linger; it's like youāre taking him all in. not once do you look to see if the older Prince is near. Maekar knows his brother is behind him, well within eyesight, but you seem genuinely interested in his short answers to your questions, you watch him closely when youāre looking for a reaction, and you seem pleased when he awkwardly asks you if youād like to take a turn with him.Ā
Maekar, to his unyielding surprise, finds having a wife wholly delightful. Someone he can speak his mind with, who listens to his ranting and calls him out on his attitude. A hand on his shoulder when he feels himself getting angry, a grin and a wink when a lord says something stupid and he needs to know someone else heard it. Warmth in his bed- not just for making love, though he does wholeheartedly- but to throw an arm around, tuck under his chin, and keep safe. There is no doubt that he enjoys spoiling you. Often you donāt even ask; heās already anticipating you needing something, or you liking something, and it appears on your vanity like magic. A fur-lined cloak when the weather turns, a tawny horse when you mention your love of riding, a book on the intricacies of flowers; the glee on your face is worth the gold, the searching, the orders.Ā
He does this all believing you do not feel the same. There is duty in what he does, heās good at taking orders, especially from his mother. There are also his own growing affections. Though to some, heās still the same callous Prince, those that know him cannot deny how smitten he is. Maekar is willing to give you whatever you desire, jewels, castles, dragons (he swears heāll find a way, if you wish it), without ever thinking youād return his desire.
When you do tell him you love him, and youāll have to do it first, it's careless and offhand and sweet as anything. Heās complaining about something a lord said to him in a counsel meeting, lounging on the settee in your chambers. You have your head in his lap, in a way that has him sitting very still, watching him speak through your lashes with a grin. Maekar pauses to take a breath, intent on launching into another tirade about trade disputes, when you laugh, reaching up to pat his cheek and scratch at his stubble.
āOh, my dear, I love you.āĀ
Thereās no grand declaration, no perfect moment, just you, there, close enough to feel the warmth of your body. Heās suddenly reinterpreting every interaction youāve shared in the months youāve been married. It's very much a āWe share a bed and take baths together and eat meals sitting beside one another and have no secrets but what are we?ā
You immediately know what heās thinking from the look on his face, and you sit up to wrap your arms around his neck. In an instant, his mouth is on yours, firm and desperate, mumbling something youāre certain is his frantic revelation of his love to you. After all, heās been saying it through his actions since you met.Ā
Aerion:
When your marriage to Aerion is announced, the murmurings at court spoke of the terrible fate that had befallen you. A gentle, tender-hearted soul, kind to everyone you met and as lovely as a rose. Surely, they said, the dragon Prince would eat you alive. To the gentryās astonishment, Aerion takes to you immediately.Ā
His eyes follow you about the room, piercing lavender through the crowds. Heās never far, a possessive hand gripping your hip, plastered to the small of your back, or, when he feels particularly possessive, gripping the nape of your neck. His family are bewildered by the pair of you; youāre giggling and smiling softly as Aerion whispers in your ear at dinner. What has come over the boy? Maekar turns his head with a grumble when he spots his sonās hand dangerously far up your thigh under the table.Ā
Some think heās finally turned a corner, that this genteel, pleasant lady has finally pulled Aerion from the brink.Ā
That is not the case.
If anything, he has only fallen deeper into his compulsion. You're at a hunt, walking with your hand tucked into his elbow, smiling at confused passerby. You mumble something, softly, about walking so far, the stress of the day, the fatigue in your feat. Immediately, he stops, bending his head down close to your mouth.Ā
āTell me, sweetling, shall I find you somewhere to rest?āĀ
Before you can finish nodding, heās already snapping his fingers, commanding for a chair to be brought forth for you. Heās adjusting the seat, making sure the pillows are just so, extending his hand for you to sit and straightening your skirts. If you tell him it's too much, that people are staring and it's unprincely to dote on your wife, heās scoffing. A dragon protects what's his, and what are you if not the dragonās hoard?Ā
The day you met, Aerion knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that nothing would come between him and having you. Youād met at a tourney, a celebration of your betrothal to some sniveling Tarly boy. With the exception of knocking other men off their horses, Aerion had been wholly uninterested in any of the fanfare, until the announcement and introductions of the bride-to-be. The Prince perked up on his horse. You stood on the dias, draped in your house colors and smiling to the crowds. He pulled the dragon helm from his head, urging his horse forward and trotting up to you. At his approach, you gave a curtsey, with all the courtly flair fit for a Princess. He bowed his head, extending a hand for you to take. You did, though not without looking back to your parents with confusion.Ā
āFair lady, it would be an honor to accept a favor from you.āĀ
No question, no permission, no asking for a gift, just the careful demand of a Targaryen. You were unsure of what to do; you were to wed another man, but to refuse a Prince would be treasonous, surely. Slowly, you pulled the bow from your hair, releasing the ribbon. Aerion leaned forward, giving you his arm to tie the satin around. The Princeās voice echoed across the dirt of the field.Ā
āAfter I win this tournament, I will take this lady as my bride. Any man who dares to challenge that, can meet me at the lists.āĀ
It's easy, of course, to fall for a man who treats you like the world was built for you. There's no question that Aerion feels his emotions fully, intense and all-encompassing.Ā
It's not that heās kind- heās not- but there is a tenderness that comes from caring so deeply for someone.Ā
Dunk:
Dunk never, in all his life, thought he would ever be in a situation where he was given a wife. Heād dreamed as a boy of finding someone, kind and strong and beautiful, to share the work of a hard life, to take care of, to love. The reality of his situation is no shock to him; a poor hedge knight, nary a penny to his name, who sleeps under the stars and travels where the work is needed.Ā
He saves the heir to a minor house, a young boy with more courage than sense, whoād stepped into a fight he wasnāt prepared for. If not for Dunk, the poor boy would be nothing but a trampled mess, but his Father is so relieved to have his son back that he offers Dunk a wife. His youngest daughter, soft and sweet from years spent in a castle, and suddenly the hedge knight can barely form a sentence. He tries to stutter out a reply, something about being undeserving, his journey no place for a lady, but itās clear the lord has far too many daughters and is pleased to rid himself of you.Ā
Youāre trepidatious at first, clever and educated but having no idea how to survive in the world. Dunk doesnāt blame you; why would you be happy to hastily wed a destitute traveler? Your hands had shook in the Sept, and he couldnāt help but feel how soft they felt in his larger ones.Ā
Dunk resolves that he will do everything he can to make you comfortable. Wrapping his ratty cloak around your shoulders when the wind blows hard, sitting you on a log while he builds a fire, only touching you to help you from the horse or tie your boots. He thinks this is him being helpful, a good husband, but itās honestly driving you crazy. Does he think you canāt figure out how to tie a horse to a tree? Or wash bedding in the river? You try your best to do things for him, reading to Egg, picking berries, mending his trousers; each time, he looks so positively startled you canāt help but giggle.Ā
He is completely bewildered. Why are you helping him? Heās dragged you across the Realm, a lovely lady who has no wish to be with him. You canāt understand him, either, never giving you inclination of wanting you closer.Ā
Finally you break, so fed up with his belief in your incapability to survive. Heās got you sat on a bed roll; youāve asked him twice if he wants help cooking dinner, but heās brushed off both attempts with a shrug and a mumble of, āSāno trouble, mālady.ā Heās attempting to shift the pot over the fire, which really should be done by two people, when you snap.Ā
āGods above, let me help you. I problemise Iām not as stupid as you clearly think I am.āĀ
Dunk is utterly shocked, looking up at you with wide eyes and mouth agape. You look angry, your brows furrowed in a way heās come to find endearing, but he doesnāt understand. Why would he think youāre stupid? Youāre far better educated than he is, and youāre certainly better with your words.Ā
āI- why would I- Iād never think to call you that!ā He sputters out. You shake your head.Ā
āNo? Then why wonāt you let me do anything? Do you think I canāt learn how to build a fire? Or cook a rabbit?ā You reply, exasperated. Dunk stays kneeling, watching you.Ā
āI- I only thought, well, that a lady ought not worry herself over such tasks,ā He bows his head, āI cannot give you what you deserve, but I can ease the trouble of traveling with me.āĀ Ā
You pause, staring a moment before walking to him and taking his cheeks in your hands. His pretty blue eyes are cut low, focused on the dirt, and you have to tilt his chin up, hands cupping his cheeks.Ā
āDunk, my love, listen. I could not have asked for a better husband. You care so much for me, but you must let me help you.āĀ
You punctuate your confession with a featherlight kiss to his chapped lips. The dopey grin that spreads across his face, and the ruddy pink of his cheeks, are worth the miscommunication.Ā
āBesides,ā You say, brushing the hair from his forehead, āwhat would I do in that stuffy old castle anyway?ā
Baelor:
As the heir to the throne, Baelor is deftly aware of his duty to wed a noble lady and give her sons. Heās respectful to a fault, following the careful rules of society, and how to treat a wife. Offering a hand to you on the stairs, dancing with you at feasts, and gentle intimacy to ensure the continuation of his line. Heās dutiful to your pleasure; making certain youāre comfortable and well cared for. It is all very much like a song, a pretty poem about a valiant knight and his lovely lady, but it's not exactly romantic. At least not yet.Ā
Baelor is a good man; heās courteous and humble, polite and gentlemanly, but heās devoted to his role as the Hand of the King in a way heās not willing to part with. It disappoints you, at first, to think the perfect Prince youāve married is uninterested in you. You know it's a blessing, to have a husband who is kind, who keeps his hands gentle and his words soft, but you wish for more. Deeper conversation, secrets only shared between the two of you, a proper ravishing.Ā
At first, you think youāve done something wrong. Had you offended him in some way? Were you not clever or graceful or pretty enough? Heād never given you the idea of him being displeased in any way, but he spent so long in that damned tower of the hand that you couldn't help but feel like he was avoiding you.Ā
The truth, however, is that Baelor doesnāt know how to be anything other than the perfect son. Doing what is asked, going above and beyond, showing the realm that the Dornish-borne Prince is deserving of the crown. If heās not penning ledgers or reading over correspondence, he feels like heās not doing enough. If heās not waking up with the sun, heās losing precious time he could be trying to fix the many problems that face the Realm. Heās never more pleased than when heās listening to you talk, or holding you in his arms, or kissing your neck, but there's the ever-looming sense of dread that he canāt seem to shake.Ā
You have to be the one to reach for him. He finds the note tucked between the pages of a reference book. The flower pressed alongside it immediately tells him it's from you, and the careful script makes him smile. It's short, a few words on missing him at breakfast, but heās reading and rereading what youāve given him. Baelor keeps it in a box on his desk, meticulously placed so as not to smudge the ink. As the weeks go by, his collection of little gifts grows. A heart shaped stone, an embroidered ribbon, silly musings about your day, he cherishes each trinket like it's made of gold. When heās feeling particularly tense, ramblings of the day pressing down on his shoulders, he opens the box and slowly goes through each item. He knows them all by heart, has memorized the words youāve written for him.Ā
Youāre giddy the first time you find something from him. A ring, glittering gold and studded with a ruby, tucked between your perfume bottle and your hairbrush on your vanity. There's a note, too. Wear it and think of me, my love. A book on the histories, a bird made of folded paper, notes on how lovely you looked when you woke up that morning. Neither of you talk about the gifts when youāre together, neither of you want to break the precious balance, but you can feel the two of you growing closer through the exchanges.Ā
Instead of immediately rising from the bed in the morning, Baelor lazes in bed after you wake, kissing your forehead and petting your hair. No longer does he take his meals in the solar, youāve coaxed him into spending a little time away from the dread of work throughout the day. At night, he comes to bed a little earlier, content in tucking his head between your thighs and murmuring his confessions of love.Ā
Lyonel:
Lyonel is disinterested in having a wife, someone heās supposed to devote himself to. Why keep yourself from the pleasures of life just because your parents say you must marry? His opinion changes slightly once you meet, not demure and genteel but bright, feisty, interesting, immediately dazzling him. The two of you are fooling around even before youāre wed. kissing in dark hallways, grasping at each other's clothes and biting throats, grinding on thighs and groping flesh. Youāre eager for him- who wouldnāt be? So tall and handsome and exciting- and he takes you in his arms every chance he gets.Ā
It's all fun and games until he realizes just how far heās fallen. Heās been clear with his intentions. Youāre husband and wife to the Realm, but he has no inclination to have you tucked away in a dusty old castle, pushing out heirs. He insists on the two of you staying casual, why ruin what you have with the complications of love? Nevermind that he hasn't looked at another woman for more than a moment since you met, or that the thought of you with another makes him so angry he has to go swing his sword at something.Ā
One evening, your relationship takes a turn. Youāve planned a lovely feast, lighting up the gloom of Storms End with the grace and power needed for a lady Baratheon. Heās watching, heās always watching, when he sees you speaking with a handsome young knight across the hall. Youāve been making your rounds, addressing your guests with a smile. Lyonel sits up straighter in his chair when the man bows to you, kissing your hand. His hands grip the table in front of him, willing himself unaffected as you laugh at something the knight says. It's Lyonelās job to make you laugh like that. Heās up before he knows it, stomping through the crowds and brushing off lords who try to speak with him. You look surprised when he takes your waist, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek. His hands donāt leave you again that night, following you closely as you continue to speak with the gentry.Ā
You donāt mention it, but he knows you can sense his shift. He goes out of his way to spend more time with you; not just in your bed (or on his desk or in front of the fireplace), but sitting with you when you read, trying-and failing- to help you with your embroidery, and insisting on clipping your necklaces and pinning your hair. He knows heās smitten, there's no denying how wrong heād been about the notion of tender affections.Ā
It's a night in his tourney tent that his feelings come out. He sat at the head of the table, bruised but grinning wide from his wins in the dayās tilts. The music is jolly, and sweet Arbor gold graces his tongue. Youāre out on the floor, where he can see you, hair wild as you spin with your ladies. Your gown, so lovely at the start of the day, is mussed, with mud on the hem and a winestain on the sleeve. Your forehead is sweat-lined and your feet grow wary from dancing, but you're smiling so wide and he swears youāve never been so beautiful. If anyone was to look to the high lord, theyād see his face soft, doe-eyes wide and grin like a man so completely bewitched. When the song ends, you find him, slinking up to the dais and bending to give him a kiss. You giggle when he pulls you into his lap, pecking your cheeks as you squirm.Ā
do you think baelor is the type of person to always choose his father and the security of the crown over his wife or lovers situation?
Hmmm depends.
I do think heās a workaholic. Long hours pouring over ledgers, carefully penning correspondence, and maintaining the careful balance between the kingdoms. He likes things done correctly the first time, and will take on more work himself if it means it will be perfect. People also place a lot on his shoulders; thereās no question that he will do as his father commands, and he will help whenever itās needed of him.
That being said, I think itās a little more nuanced than just choosing the crown over his lover. Itās tough because Baelor values integrity; oaths mean something, they arenāt just pretty words. He is the crown Prince, he does have real duties heās honor-bound to see through. One of those is marriage. Because of this, thereās a constant pull between doing what the Realm and crown need, and upholding the words he spoke on his wedding day.
Things become even more complicated if heās actually in love with his wife. If sheās someone who he can go through the motions with, do good by but not need anything from, Baelor can compartmentalize his relationship and his work. However, once the seeds of fondness start to grow, the careful line heās drawn between his role as the heir and the longing in his heart begins to blur.
Baelor tries to be good, to keep the balance, but itās hard. Heās in small council meetings daydreaming about how lovely his wife looked when she woke up that morning, and heās thinking about how many papers he must sign when heās dining with her at night.
Itās not so much a choice of one or the other, itās more knowing that Baelor cannot give either up. He almost needs someone to sit him down and make the decisions for him. Something like āToday we will walk in the gardens and you will not mention sending ravens, and then you can go back to your solar and write.ā Heās grateful for the understanding, and wishes he could be with his love more.
I can see him being very fond of taking up space together but doing different things. His wife reading or embroidering on the settee beside him while he does grain inventory. (I donāt want this to sound like one of those āmy boyfriend has a grown up job while I sit and colorā type things lol but yāall get what I mean) he likes to feel her presence, even if itās silent, just having her there is enough to calm him down. Itās also good motivation to finish his work faster ;)
That was way longer than I thought itād be lol anyway hope you enjoy <3
