āā summary: you take care of your husband after the trial of seven, grateful that he made it out alive once more
ā Fluff, attending injuries, fem reader, slightly bossy wife, domestic bickering again, medieval medicine, shitty Maester cameo, short and sweet
Part one
Word count: above 700
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Gods liked to toy with their playthings ā sometimes, you wondered if the Gods were capricious children, given the choices they sent your way. But at least they favoured you, and your no-good husband.
āCanāt drink, can't fight, can't fuckāIām useless.ā Lyonel hissed through his teeth as Maester dappled his wound with a dubious balm. The stag sprawled on the bed, damaged and aching, but undefeated, much to your relief.
āYouāre alive, most importantly,ā you said, seated by his side and observing the witch of a Maester with a vigilant eye, determined to ensure he would attend your husband well.
āThatās the dullest part of it all,ā he sighed, and let his dark shag spill on the pillows. Leaning his head towards you, a lazy smile curled on his lips at the sight of your concerned frown. The bruises shaded his bright features, clung tight to his skin, cruel even in his laughter.
āYou saw me, haven't you, darling?ā
āYes.ā
āHow I held down that dragon-cunt." he chuckled, a fragile but no less important sound plugging his throat. "Ah, I was ruthless. Shame I'll be limping for weeks- ow, cunt!" his smile wrenched sore in nearly gustable pain, and he swatted his hand at the old man attempting to soothe the Baratheon's great pain. Upon seeing that, you rose from your seat.
"I thank you for your aid, Maester. You may leave."
"Your grace- the wounds are lethal if left neglectedā"
"I said thank you." Your voice petrified in its low, stoned command, forcing the man to flee through the tent's draped gate, and leaving Lyonel grinning broadly through the grazes covering his face.
"Do you want me to die, wife?" he asked plainly in a jest that made you huff when you reached the table stuffed with various medical science and presumably heathen as well.
"If I did wish you death, I wouldn't have dragged you here."
Your fingers closed around the warm wine vase's neck, and Lyonel watched as you shaded a cloth red, quite familiar with this practice. The sting within tattered, raw flesh pushed out a sharp exhale from between his fangs at the biting touch, his handsome features curling into an ache you wished you could hunt away.
"Gods, I didn't miss that."
"I told you you didn't have to do this," you scolded gently, yet he knew you only meant that care, especially when you glided the wine over his thruming gashes with stunning talent that had matured over time.
His eyes slowly toured down to his side, where you performed your wifely duties, washing your husband of rotten, miserable blood, latching onto his muscle. His laughter and fervour died into occasional stillness, a memory dimming his expression.
"I remember the first time you nursed me," he murmured, his tone mellowing into something almost glum. Your gaze flickered to his face, the event he spoke of fresh in your mind as the Gods wouldn't let it escape you. "You were so scared, but oh so fierce," he continued, and something in your fingers narrowed as your movements numbed.
His teeth shone as he smiled, a fond and gentle smile, lush lashes hanging low in rest.
"Wouldn't leave my side, and yelled at the Maesters," he chortled as though that was a doting picture when you recalled only fear. "Gods, I thought, what a blessed man I am to have a wife more fearless than any man." The depths of his eyes held your face when he looked back at you, a slow sigh filling his chest. You were silent, meeting his gaze with tight lips. You didn't take compliments well, Lyonel knew it and loved it just as much.
"I didn't want to lose you," you finally uttered through a rough blotch in your throat, blinking away the echoes of memories as you forced yourself back to caring for his wounds.
"And you didn't," he assured confidently, despite the gentleness in his voice, his rasped hand rising to embrace your cheek, "and you won't. Not now, not ever." his eyes flashed an earnest and compelling stare into your own, and they nearly made you believe him. You sloped into his touch limply, coddling into the warmth of his hand that you didn't want to lose ever.
"Don't make me worry about you like this again," you demanded strongly despite how much of a mush you were in his grasp.
"I can't promise that." Lyonel hummed in amusement, drawing a slow caress over your cheekbone. "But I promise to come back to you, always."
I know this has been said so many times in so many words but it is never any less infuriating that we never seem to have basic social services money but we always have fucking war crime money
nimble, a border collie-papillon mix, wins the 12ā class in the 2024 masters agility championship. the first time a mixed breed has won at westminster ever.
The fact that people don't think friendship is enough to justify characters doing insane acts of love for each other baffles me. Like have you never loved your friend so so much you want to live in their ribcage. Have you never been really weird about a friend. Have you never wanted to bite your friends parents or shove them down a staircase. Have you never wanted to be buried in the same grave as a friend. Have u never. How do u people live like this.
