kinda freaking out cause a legend in lyonel fics followed me back today WHAT-
@punk-in-docs thanks for giving me the time in day. I am currently also writing a lyonel fic alongside my valarr series so I will dedicate it to you teheh
The Stagโs Smiling Turtle (Lyonel Baratheon x F!OC)
Summary:
Lord Lyonel Baratheon was a man who liked to party, drink and fight in equal measures. Prone to boredom, nothing else held his interest.
Until one night, when he meets a peculiar girl named Victa Estermont. She is wild, smiley and quick to speak; caring little for titles, rules and etiquette.
He is intrigued, and he aims to follow her. To his surprise, this turtle seemed to be faster than the stag expected.
Pairing: Fem!OC x Lyonel Baratheon
Chapter Warnings: None
Chapter XXVI: LINK
Chapter XXVIII: LINK
[A/N] - Dedicated to my AO3 follower (uniabocetaP) for their support, comments and their latest Lyonel/Victa inspired creation: Dear Gentle Reader. If you haven't read it yet, I suggest ya go sprinting to it!
For they give you Maekar (Lady Whistledown) style, all around our loveable pair that has yet to marry one another openly ๐
I am honoured my story has been the inspiration, and I do hope further chapters will give us more of Maekar's gossip column.
Chapter XXVII: The Challenger
Eventually, the expected and rather famous family made their appearance.
They arrived not too late to be considered disrespectful, yet delayed just enough to ensure that every eye in the hall would turn toward them the moment they entered.
It was a calculated timing, whether intentional or not, one that drew attention as surely as any grand announcement could.
โLord Markis Estermont and his sister, Lady Victa,โ the herald announced, his voice carrying across the hall with practised strength, cutting cleanly through the layered hum of conversation and silencing it in an instant.
The effect was immediate.
Voices fell away, replaced by a low ripple of hushed whispers that spread like wind through tall grass.
Heads turned, bodies subtly shifted, and attention gathered at the grand doors as though pulled there by an unseen force.
And then... they entered.
The heavy doors opened to reveal the two siblings stepping into the torchlight hall, Ser Herold following closely behind them, his presence steady and watchful as ever.
Markis walked with the composed restraint expected of a lord, his attire formal and familiar, similar to what he had worn at the last gathering.
It was fitting, respectable, meant to represent his House without drawing unnecessary attention.
Victa, however, did not go unnoticed.
Grenda had chosen well.
No... Grenda had excelled.
Every detail of Victaโs appearance bore the careful hand of the older woman, who had once again ensured that nothing had been left to chance.
As she had done during every tourney, every outing, every moment where Victa had stood beside Lyonel beforeโฆ but this time, she had surpassed even her own standards.
Victa moved forward, her hand resting lightly on her brotherโs arm; not for show, but for grounding.
The steady rhythm of her steps echoed softly beneath the music, each one measured, deliberate, guided by the quiet repetition of Grendaโs lessons that played through her mind as though the woman stood just behind her, whispering them into her ear.
Back straight.
Steps small.
Chin up.
And a gentle smile.
Her gown flowed around her in a soft sea-green hue, the fabric catching the torchlight in subtle waves as she walked.
The fitted bodice was embroidered with delicate gold florals that shimmered faintly with each movement, before giving way to a full, layered skirt that trailed behind her with quiet grace.
Sheer sleeves draped from her arms, shifting like mist with every step she took, while a veil of the same soft shade rested upon her head, pinned carefully in place. It fell loosely across her brown curls, brushing against them in soft, weightless touches as she moved.
She did not rush. She did not falter.
Yet she felt it; every gaze that followed her, every whisper that rose in her wake, every flicker of attention that settled upon her like a tangible thing.
Most of them were fixed on her.
On the gentle turtle girl who had, until recently, been little more than a quiet presence at the edges of such gatherings.
Now, she stood at the centre of it.
She lifted her gaze slowly, the soft brown of her eyes partially veiled by her lashes and then, instinctively, she looked ahead.
And found him.
Lyonel.
The young stag had straightened the moment her name had been called, his posture sharpening, his attention snapping fully into place.
Whatever distraction had claimed him moments before had vanished entirely, replaced by a focus that was singular, unwavering.
He had expected her.
He had waited for her.
But he had not been prepared. Not for this.
His smile, meant to be welcoming, shifted almost immediately; softening, widening, slipping into something far less controlled.
There was something boyish in it now, something unguarded that did not belong to the heir of Stormโs End, but to a man caught off guard by something he had not anticipated.
His gaze moved over her slowly, almost reverently.
From the faint glimpse of her slippers beneath the hem of her skirtโฆ to the gentle sway of the fabric around her legsโฆ to the delicate embroidery that caught the lightโฆ to the veil resting against her curlsโฆ
He took in every detail as though committing it to memory.
The colour alone set her apart.
Amidst the darker tones of the hall. deep blacks, rich golds, muted reds; she stood out like something brighter, softer. Not overwhelming, not ostentatiousโฆ but unmistakable.
And then there was her smile.
That gentle, quiet curve of her lips.
That look in her eyes.
By the Seven.
Their gazes met before she had even reached the centre of the hall.
And in that moment, Lyonelโs thoughts stilled entirely.
The noise around him dulled, the music faded into something distant and indistinct, and all that remained was the sight of her moving toward him, like a single beam of sunlight slipping through a crack in stone.
Simple.
Soft.
And utterly captivating.
Untouchable, as though she existed just beyond reach. And yetโฆ impossible to look away from.
Beside him, Lord Baratheon watched.
His eyes shifted from the approaching pair to his son, observing him in silence, noting the change in posture, the looseness in his expression, the way his attention had narrowed so completely.
He said nothing. Not yet.
He had expected Lyonel to act as he should; to rise, to acknowledge their guests properly, to greet them with the composure befitting his position.
Instead, his son remained where he was.
Staring.
Smiling.
Forgetting himself entirely.
Foolish.
So Lord Baratheon exhaled quietly, the decision settling within him as naturally as breath.
If Lyonel would not act as he should... Then he would.
Because tonight was not a night for mistakes.
Not a night for carelessness.
And certainly not a night where Lyonelโs lack of restraint could be allowed to ruin what had been so carefully arranged.
After being openly welcomed, the Estermonts were allowed to move freely within the hall, no longer bound to the formalities of their entrance.
The initial weight of attention eased, though it did not disappear entirely, as the gathered lords and ladies slowly returned to their conversations; their curiosity now fed, if only partially.
This time, the meal would come later.
For now, etiquette demanded movement, interaction, and presence.
It was a softer beginning to the nightโs celebration. A prelude before whatever announcement loomed ahead.
Only after it would the true feast begin, when goblets would be raised without restraint, when voices would grow louder, when alliances would be toasted openly and intentions laid bare.
Until then, the hall breathed in a more controlled rhythm.
Allies, neighbours, and relatives by blood or marriage drifted into one anotherโs company, forming and reforming clusters of conversation.
Silks brushed against velvet, rings caught the light as hands gestured mid-speech, and laughter rose in bursts; some genuine, others carefully measured.
The Stormlanders, unsurprisingly, gathered in louder circles, their voices carrying easily across the hall, unbothered by subtlety.
Their laughter was fuller, their presence heavier, as though they claimed the very air around them.
In contrast, the Houses of the Westerlands and the Reach remained more contained, their groups tighter, their conversations quieter; yet no less observant.
They watched as much as they spoke, their attention flickering across the room, noting movements, interactions, possibilities.
Still, there were moments where the boundaries blurred.
A shared joke. A passing comment. A carefully chosen introduction.
The Riverlords, ever adaptable, moved between groups with far greater ease, their boisterous nature bridging the gap between Stormlander boldness and Reach restraint.
Amidst all this movement, the Estermonts remainedโฆ apart.
Not isolated entirely but set slightly to the side, near a smaller table placed just a few feet from the dais.
Close enough to be seen. Not quite close enough to be fully drawn into the centre of things.
Markis stood there, his composure outwardly intact, though the tension beneath it betrayed him in quieter ways.
His goblet did not remain full for long.
He emptied it faster than he normally would, the wine offering fleeting warmth that did little to ease the tightening knot in his stomach.
His awareness sharpened rather than dulled, his gaze catching more than he wished it would.
Every glance.
Every whisper.
Every subtle shift in posture was noticed by someone.
He could feel it, the attention, the speculation.
And he did not like it.
He did not know where this invitation would lead, nor what purpose truly lay behind it. The uncertainty pressed against him, heavy and unrelenting.
He trusted Lyonel; he wanted to trust him. He believed the young stag would not act recklessly, that Lord Baratheon would not allow anything improper to unfold.
But belief did little to quiet doubt once it had taken root. And doubt had already settled in.
It lingered in the back of his mind, whispering possibilities he did not wish to consider.
He turned his gaze toward Victa.
She stood beside him, quieter, calmer; almost untouched by the weight pressing upon him.
Her goblet remained cradled carefully between both hands, as though it were something delicate, something to be held rather than used.
She drank in small, measured sips, each one slow, thoughtful, never rushed.
There was a softness to every movement she made. A gentleness that did not falter.
She spoke in a low voice, asking Ser Herold questions as her gaze wandered across the hall.
She recognised some Houses by their sigils, recalling what she had been taught, while others were unfamiliar; new threads in a tapestry she was only beginning to understand.
The knight answered each time, patient and steady, his tone quiet but informative.
โHouse Celtigarโฆ now that is a peculiar House,โ Ser Herold said, following her line of sight after she noticed the multiple red crabs sewn onto a manโs doublet. โThey say they originate from Old Valyria, same as the Velaryons and the Targaryens. Though, of course, they never married into the royal family.โ
Victa tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering across her expression. โAre they sailors? Like the Velaryons?โ she asked, her voice soft but clear.
He nodded, a faint hint of approval in his gaze. โA sharp deduction, Lady Victa. They do have a navy, yes, though most of their ships now serve as merchant vessels. Still, the true strength at sea lies with the Velaryonsโฆ and the rising Redwynes.โ
As he spoke, he gestured subtly, careful not to draw attention to the motion. His hand moved just enough to guide her gaze, pointing out each House without making it obvious to those around them.
Fortunately, both Houses were far too engaged in their own discussions to take notice.
For a moment, there was a sense of calm.
A fragile one.
Then... A shift.
It came quietly, almost imperceptibly at first.
A figure stepping into their line of sight.
The movement was smooth, deliberate, and measured, suggesting intent rather than chance.
Fine fabrics caught the torchlight, reflecting it in soft glimmers across carefully tailored clothing. A golden earring gleamed faintly as it swayed with the motion of his head, and resting upon him was a stag crown.
Lyonel Baratheon.
He had taken his moment well.
Slipping away from his place without drawing attention, moving through the crowd with practised ease until he stood before them.
Close enough now that distance could no longer shield them from what was to come.
He had approached them without being spotted.
Immediately, Victaโs face brightened, as though a quiet light had been rekindled within her at the mere sight of him.
Whatever thoughts had occupied her moments before slipped away without resistance, the goblet still resting between her hands now forgotten entirely.
โLady Victa,โ Lyonel greeted, offering a gentle inclination of his head. The movement caused the golden earring at his ear to sway faintly, catching the torchlight and reflecting it in brief, warm flashes.
Victa returned the gesture with a small bow, her head dipping gracefully as her smile softened into something warmer, more natural.
โSer Lyonel,โ she replied, her voice carrying that same quiet warmth.
ย His presence alone seemed to stir something within her, as though he fed the very fire that had begun to glow again beneath her calm exterior.
Lyonelโs gaze flickered briefly toward the two men at her side. โLord Estermont. Ser Herold.โ
The acknowledgement was there, proper, expected, but fleeting.
His attention returned to Victa almost immediately, as though the others had faded from relevance the moment they had been addressed.
There was no hostility in the gesture, no open disrespectโฆ and yet the shift in focus was unmistakable.
โYou look absolutely radiant,โ he told her, his voice lowering just slightly, as though the words were meant more for her than for the space around them. โLivelier and far more beautiful than every other boring lady around here.โ
The bluntness of the compliment, paired with its quiet sincerity, drew a soft flush to Victaโs cheeks.
Warmth spread gently across her skin, rising to the back of her neck as she let out a small, breathless giggle, one she could not quite suppress.
โYou honour me, Ser Lyonel,โ she answered, her tone careful despite the brightness in her expression. โBut all ladies here are dressed exceptionally well and are equally beautiful.โ
Lyonel glanced around the hall as though indulging the idea, though the gesture felt more theatrical than genuine.
His gaze skimmed across silks and jewels, across carefully composed faces and poised smilesโฆ before returning to her with clear disinterest in anything else.
โAre they now?โ he questioned lightly, one brow lifting faintly. โI do not see it.โ His voice softened just a fraction as he added, โIf they are, they certainly do not reach your beauty.โ
Another laugh escaped her, slightly louder this time, freer, less restrained.
And Lyonel noticed.
Of course he did.
The sound seemed to settle into him, feeding something quieter, deeper.
His chest lifted almost imperceptibly, pride slipping into his posture as his hand passed over his well-trimmed black beard, fingers brushing through the strands where the first hints of silver had begun to show.
He reached out without much thought, intercepting a passing servant and taking a goblet with practised ease.
The wine touched his lips, and he took a measured sip before lowering it again, his attention never straying far from her.
โI hope you are well rested, Lady Victa,โ he began; his tone shifting, still warm, but now carrying intention beneath it. โI did promise you a dance at the next ball.โ His eyes flickered briefly toward Markis, the glance subtle yet deliberate; a message passed without words. โAnd I am a man who keeps his promises.โ
Victa nodded quickly, the movement small but eager, her smile lingering as though she could not quite bring herself to dim it.
โI would be honoured,โ she replied, her voice soft yet certain, though the careful structure of her manners began to slip, piece by piece, the longer she stood in his presence.
There was something about him that unravelled her composure; not entirely, not enough to break proprietyโฆ but enough to loosen it.
Enough to make her forget, for a moment, the weight of watching eyes, the expectations pressing in from all sides.
Enough to make her simplyโฆ be.
And with each passing heartbeat, that ease deepened, drawing her further into his orbit, until the world beyond him began to blur at the edges.
Until, without quite realising it, she found it harder and harder to remember herself as anything other than the woman standing before him.
Somewhere within the passing hour, the shape of the evening had shifted once more.
What had begun as a careful conversation and polite distance slowly gave way to something more fluid.
ย Groups loosened, laughter grew easier, and the boundaries between formal obligation and genuine interaction began to blur.
And within that quiet change, Victa had drifted, almost imperceptibly, away from her brother and Ser Herold.
Not abruptly. Not in a way that would draw attention.
But gently, naturallyโฆ drawn instead into the orbit of Lyonel and the men who surrounded him.
He had led her there without force, without insistence; only conversation, presence. A word here, a glance there, an ease that made it feel as though she had chosen it herself.
And now, she stood among them.
The young turtle girl laughed softly, her voice threading into the louder tones of the knights around her. Familiar faces and names, men she shared tales and road trips with while travelling from tourney to tourney.
One of them had taken to recounting a story, something ridiculous, something full of bravado and exaggeration, about a wrestling match in the mud that had ended in more stumbling than striking.
Victa listened with bright attention, her eyes lifting toward the speaker as she followed along, her reactions gentle but genuine.
She laughed when she should, offered small remarks when invited, her voice weaving carefully into their rougher tones without disrupting their rhythm.
There was an eagerness to her presence. A warmth that had been missed.
And the knights, in their own way, welcomed it.
At the same time, Lyonel remained close.
Not distant. Not merely nearby.
Close.
His hand rested against her waist, lightly, almost idly, as though it had found its place there without thought.
Yet the contact lingered, steady and deliberate, his fingers settling against the thin fabric of her gown.
It was not forceful. Not enough to draw open attention. But it was there.
A quiet claim.
The first step of something unspoken, yet unmistakable.
And he did not move it.
While the others spoke, while laughter rose and fell around them, Lyonelโs attention rarely strayed far from her.
He watched. More than he listened.
He noticed the way her lips curved when she smiled; soft, unguarded, different from the careful politeness she offered others.
He noted each quiet laugh, each moment her shoulders relaxed just slightly more than before.
He tracked the small, absent motions others would have missed entirely.
The way she lifted her goblet, paused before drinking, then lowered it again with careful hands.
The subtle shift of her weight from one foot to the other.
Left.
Then right.
Then left again.
A rhythm.
A pattern.
She favoured her left. A natural leftist. It was a small thing; insignificant to most.
But not to him. Not when it came to her.
The observation settled in his mind, filed away with quiet precision, alongside other details he had begun to collect without even realising it.
A rare trait. One she shared with her brother... And her nephew.
And still, the world around them continued to move.
Servants passed between clusters of guests, trays balanced carefully as they navigated the shifting crowd.
Laughter rose from distant corners, sharper now, louder, wine loosening tongues and softening restraint.
Music carried on, its rhythm steady beneath the growing noise.
Lord Tybolt Lannister had long since recovered from the injuries he had sustained during that joust, though the marks it had left behind had never fully faded.
Faint scarring traced along his skin, a quiet reminder of the blow he had taken, yet it had done little to diminish the pride that radiated from him.
If anything, it had sharpened it.
He carried himself with his head held high, confidence rolling off him in slow, deliberate waves; so present, so assured, that one might almost mistake it for something visible, something tangible in the air around him.
The invitation he had received had not come from Lyonel, but from Lord Baratheon himself.
And Tybolt, ever perceptive, had read between the lines.
He had heard the rumours. Of the turtle girl. Of the growing closeness. Of the possibility, however uncertain, of something forming between stag and sea.
So he came.
Not merely as a guest. But with intent.
With a goblet held loosely in one hand, he moved through the hall with unhurried ease, his steps measured, his gaze drifting; not aimlessly, but with purpose.
He cut through clusters of conversation like a blade through silk, offering brief acknowledgements where required, ignoring what did not interest him.
His path angled toward Markis.
Yet his attentionโฆ shifted.
Halfway there, his emerald gaze slid sideways, catching sight of Victa; still surrounded by Lyonel and his knights, still held within that small, warm circle of laughter.
And Lyonel.
It was enough.
As though sensing the weight of his approach, Lyonelโs head lifted.
Their eyes met. And Tybolt smirked.
It was not warm.
Not friendly.
It was something sharper, feline, deliberate, a flash of white teeth that carried meaning beneath its surface. A challenge, wrapped neatly within politeness.
Only then did he stop before Markis.
โLord Estermont,โ Tybolt greeted, his voice smooth, controlled, untouched by wine or temper. โI hope the journey here has treated you well.โ
Its calmness made something in Markis tighten instantly.
His shoulders stiffened, his posture drawing in just slightly as he met the Lannisterโs gaze. There was no open hostility in the words; no insult, no aggression.
And yetโฆ There was something beneath them.
Something measured. Something intentional.
โLord Lannister,โ Markis returned, though the manโs name slipped from his mind in that moment lost beneath the sudden pressure that had settled over him. โWe had favourable wind, yes.โ
If Tybolt noticed the omission, he did not show it.
He simply continued. โYour sister has proven herself quite the celebrated lady of the tourney circuit lately.โ
The words were delivered lightly, pleasantly, and evenly. Yet they carried.
Nearby conversations faltered, just slightly. Heads tilted. Ears sharpened.
Even among Lyonelโs knights, the shift was felt.
Their laughter quieted, stories left unfinished as attention drifted sideways.
One by one, they turned, not openly, not yet, but enough to catch sight of the golden lion who had stepped just a little too close.
They knew him. And they knew his kind.
Trouble, wrapped in silk.
โHouse Lannister has many sons in need of wives,โ Tybolt continued, his tone as composed as ever. โI believe Lady Victa would make a fine match.โ
He did not ask.
He did not suggest.
He stated.
As though it were already understood.
As though it required no agreement.
And that, more than anything, made the words land harder.
Because this was not how such things were done.
Not here.
Not between Houses so mismatched in standing.
Storm and gold did not mix so easily. And certainly not like this.
Markis felt it then, clearly, unmistakably.
The weight behind the words.
The implication beneath them.
His jaw tightened, the muscle shifting faintly beneath his skin as understanding settled in.
Tybolt had not come for pleasantries. He had come to press.... To test... To provoke.
Around them, the air shifted.
Glances began to turn; not just toward Markis now, but beyond him.
Toward Lyonel. Waiting. Expecting.
The hall, moments ago filled with noise and movement, seemed to draw in on itself.
Conversations lowered, laughter stilled, and even the servants moved with quieter steps, as though instinct warned them not to disturb what was forming.
The musicians faltered, their melody softening, stretching thinner in the background.
All eyes, whether openly or through careful sidelong glances, began to settle.
Because something was happening.
Something that would not remain contained.
The tension gathered slowly, like the distant rumble of a storm rolling across the sea.
And yet... No one moved.
No voice rose.
No hand was raised.
All that anticipation, all that pressure building in the roomโฆ
Only to find none.
[A/N] - P. S I start a new job on Monday, meaning I won't be as free as I was. However, I will try to pre-write as much as I can, so even on busy/tiring days, I have something to update.
This story (and Needle & Thread) will continue to be updated weekly, around 1-2 times per week (max). Usually one after the other (so yes, tomorrow you will get more Baelor in the other story).
Thank you all for the understanding! ๐ฉต
Not to be all "the children have forgotten the sacred texts!" but I just saw someone refer to a ship between two people who are good friends in canon as a crackship.
Hon. No. Crackship doesn't just mean "not canon". It's difficult to imagine two people who spend significant canon time together as a crackship. Crackship is when you write Galactus getting fucked by Tony the Tiger.
"This is my body, and this is my baby โ and both of those things have been forsaken as long as Iโve lived [...] She doesnโt want to live the way sheโs living anymore, and she feels that she wants to protect the children that she does have. Sheโs just trying her best."
โ PHIA SABAN
ใปYour marriage to Gwayne, even from the beginning, has been a wonderful one. And it was all because of him.
ใปHe's always had your interests at heart, always thought about you first.
ใปHis honor and chivalry follow him everywhere he goes. He is a true knight.
ใปSo when he asked you to go with Daeron to Tumbleton, you were apprehensive. But you knew your husband would never put you in true danger - not unless it was for a good reason..
"My love," he said, holding your hands, "I do not trust those around Daeron. He needs someone he can turn to. And I only trust you."
ใปYou nodded, a bit stunned, but you understood.
ใปThe three of you were close, Daeron has never said it to either of you, but he sees the two of you as his parents.
ใปAnd so, of course you would go where Daeron was sent. Especially when Ormund was involved.
ใปHe had a reputation in Old Town.
ใปBut none of that mattered. Ormund had power and he loved to wield it.
ใปOne afternoon, when Ormund had left to do something (you didn't care what, as long as he was away)...he left Daeron alone, and therefore the first thing he did was seek you out.
ใปThere was a knock at your door and you called for them to come in.
ใปDaeron stood there, with a shy smile on his face.
"Hello my darling!" You said as you saw him. Your heart warm.
ใปHe lit up when he saw you, alone in your rooms, native flowers surrounding you.
"Lady Hightower," Daeron said formally, with a bow. It made you smile.
ใปYou motioned for him to come closer, and patted the seat next to you.
"How are you?" You said with a smile, taking one of his hands and holding it in your own, "And be honest with me. You know you can be."
ใปYou gently held his hand in yours. You noticed it was starting to get bigger and a tear nearly sprung. Little Daeron was growing up.
"I-I feel guilty to say, but I feel better when Ormund isn't here..."
ใปHe could barely look at you, thinking he was going to get a lashing of some sort.
ใปAll you said was, "Me too." And he looked so relieved to hear that.
ใปYou spent hours together, laughing, reminiscing, eating, and not worrying about Ormund or his reactions.
ใปAnd that's why Gwayne sent you to keep an eye on his nephew.
ใปHe trusted you. Loved you utterly and completely.
ใปThere was no one else he would have looking after the only other person he loves entirely... Daeron.
I'm just gonna slide this on in here for anyone that is interested in preserving old games. They take it very seriously too, they want an archive of every single game. Like, they have lists of every game ever released for a system, and once that system gets old enough, they add it to their archive and start collecting. Their latest addition was the Xbox 360, they opened that vault up in September 2022, and proudly announced they'd finished their collection of games for it back in April.
Also, while their game archives are almost entirely complete, they've got another project of archiving the manuals that came with those games, and that is... considerably less well filled out. Their collection of Xbox 360 manuals is especially rough, they've only gotten manuals for three games. So if you've got some Xbox 360 games kicking around, and the manual's still with them, please consider scanning them and submitting them to the site!
Game preservation is important, but people rarely consider preserving the manuals as well; I really respect Vimm's Lair for being so thorough in their archival work.
I've been using Vimm's Lair for years, I have yet to see a single bad link or virus on the entire site. It's arguably the safest and most comprehensive archive of video games in existence. Preserved history
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