my main is silverjaysz, i have opinions there, and i repost a lot of shit there too
but i got the writing itch and made side blog
🇲🇽/18/any pronouns
español & english #lolazo
Summary: Lyonel makes a bad first impression on your first day in Storm's End. Great. Now he has to try to get you to like him before the wedding bells ring.
Part 1
Part 2 (You are here)
I skimmed this so i kind of proof read? be kind #lolazo
Word Count: 5.5k
made a playlsit because i lowk got stuck in a rut for a few days (lol try weeks) and music gets me in writing mood, you can listen if you want here
if not, this is the song for this chapter
A/N at the end, thank you so much!
CW: questionable marriage practices (its westeros, #political marriage)
Five days before the wedding
"He has gone on a hunt, my lady. He departed after breaking his fast with a handful of men and your father."
Your eye twitches.
"For what reason would he depart five days before his wedding, Rosemary?"
Even though you try to keep your distaste for the current state of affairs the best you can for sweet Rosemary, she almost seems to shrink under the fury in your gaze.
"He insisted on finding a grand boar to serve on the day of your wedding…" She replies, focused solely on doing your hair for the day, "After you departed the feast he was speaking all sorts of how a lady of your beauty deserves a grand feast on her wedding."
"I…" You sigh, "For a man so focused on my beauty, he seems rather intent on avoiding it." You pick at your nails, trying not to show the anger simmering.
"He insisted he shall be back by the evening of the day after tomorrow, my lady. I would be inclined to believe him, milord is an excellent hunter. He barely keeps huntsmen employed…"
"Yes, yes, he lives for the hunt, the thrill, attention," fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you make yourself relax for poor Rosemary's sake, "I am quite aware. Thank you Rosemary."
"Of course milady." She says, finally focusing on making you look alive for the rest of your day. You don't know how she does it. Storm's End is so… humid, the fact that your hair looks presentable is certainly a feat.
Storm's End is always wet, you have learned quickly. When it doesn't thunder, rain sprinkles, and when it doesn't sprinkle, the days are unbearably moist and cold, a combination you have never lived through in the cool comforts of your own ancestral home.
When Rosemary deems your appearance presentable enough, she helps you into a nice little dress, and you find that leaving your chambers seems much less daunting with Lyonel gone.
You were true to your word yesterday when you deemed you'd stay in your chambers for as long as you could. You managed to convince Rosemary to bring your evening meal to your chambers, and didn't have to leave until supper turned out to be yet another feast.
This time you were at least aware of what to expect, making sure to sit your little brother next to you. The time you spent entertaining him was enough to avoid catching Lyonel's eye until he was drunk enough to ignore you like the previous day.
At least that meant the supper passed without fanfare on your side. Expecting smooth sailing is a foolish thing to do when facing a man like Lyonel, you have quickly learned.
You had to learn when you turned around from your brother's animated discussion about the skills of the sworn knights of house Baratheon to see Lyonel made his way to the low tables and was standing on them.
You turned to look at your mother, who was laughing into her cups… when you turned back he had lost his doublet somehow.
Your face burned so hot you feared you might catch fire where you sat.
Leaving the hall was easy with all eyes on the fool you were marrying.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
The memory of yesterday keeps coming back to you as you busy yourself in the Baratheon House's library.
He humiliated you yesterday. A husband about to marry, singing and stomping around like the very beast he was probably hunting down at this moment.
He had not even given you notice.
Did he… did he run from you?
Lyonel is too proud for that. But the thought wiggles its way into your brain once you've thought it, and it doesn't dislodge itself from the place its found.
Maybe he did not want to face you after two straight days of disastrous attempts of preparing for his wedding…?
You will not pretend you are not glad for it though. May he be shameful for all your marriage if this is the peace you obtain in return.
The evening meal was just as easy as the morning without Lyonel, you found. At first, at the very least.
You joined your mother in her solar for her meal, and all was well until she brought up Lyonel.
"He seems quite taken with you, my heart. I am glad for it." She leads, cutting into the rabbit served today.
"Taken with me?" A scoff. "He quite literally ran from me today, Mother. Like a dog with a tail tucked between his legs. He avoids me like I carry some plague, and drowns in ale as if to rid himself of my presence."
"I am told he speaks of hunting boars. We have already had boar! He- I-" You cut yourself off at your mother's look.
"He doesn't like me, Mother." You finally force out, a little cowed.
Your mother keeps cutting into her meal.
"He does not?" She asks, finally looking at you.
"The man is besotted with you, girl. You did not hear the poetic he waxed about you when you stormed out of the room like a child instead of a woman."
"I do not care for poetic if I do not feel this devotion, Mother! Affection is not a show to be put on for others! It should be- it should be for me."
For a moment you feel like a petulant child. Begging to keep a toy in your grasp instead being forced to share it. But… it shall be your marriage, no? You don't think its spoiled or rude or anything of the sort to wish to feel a little bit of this light everyone keeps claiming Lyonel radiates in your name.
Your mother cocks a brow. She apparently does not find your outburst as fair and reasonable as you do.
She elects to shrug and ignore it.
"Perhaps he is shy." She offers.
"Lyonel Baratheon is shy?" You repeat, maybe your mother started indulging her preference for wines early.
"In matters of the heart!" She justifies.
"He did not seem shy to me yesterday. Or the day before, or even when he recieved us." You mutter petulantly, cutting into your own meal, finally.
"Fine, fine he is not shy. But do not believe he is as bold as he acts. Facing the banner-men he has known all his life and other lords like your father is not the same as facing a lady, nevermind the one he shall marry in what? Five days?"
You roll your eyes.
"Mother you say me he has all these victories in his name, all these men and knights and horses to his name. And he is scared of a woman?"
She shrugs again.
"Your father was scared of me. He did not show it of course" she rolls her eyes at the memory, "but us women, daughter, we are like hounds. We smell fear. He would look at me like I would bite him, or would grow angry at the snap of a twig. Believe me he used to grovel any time I showed the slightest sign displeased at anything in the keep."
"Yes… but Mother, Lyonel is not Father. At all."
Lyonel quite literally laughed at your poorly state yesterday. Not like Father in the least.
Your father was a just lord of course. He was kind, a good father to you and your brother. He was stern when he had to be, sweet when he could be. He certainly could command a room like Lyonel, any lord worth his name had to. But… Lyonel was magnetic. Lyonel…
"He is a man." She waves you off, "Have you tried holding a conversation since the welcoming feast? I imagine he must have at least attempt to be courting you before departure?"
"He… he invited me to break our fasts together yesterday morn."
"And?" She urges you at your pause.
"I…" You bite at your lip and look away guiltily, "We had a disagreement. I stormed out of the room and have not spoken to him since."
Oh your mother could have reached over and strangled you.
"You what?" Her tone is flat. Her expression though…
"He was condescending and rude!" You rush to defend yourself immediately. "I assure you he did not even take offense- He even permit I take my meal in my chambers!"
"You think he was not offended that you declined an invitation to get to know you privately? Of course he has gone hunting, girl!" Oh your mother is angry, "I am going to explain it to you, because soon I shall leave to go home, and while I shall be comfortably asleep in my chambers, you shall be bickering with your husband because you apparently do not have an inkling of how to interact with men."
You scoff. "Oh do not explain it to me Mother. I have had enough condescension since I arrived on this damned keep! Are you really insinuating Lyonel is the party being harmed here? After he has spent this entire welcome procession is not a farce to establish a sense of twisted legitimacy for his banner-men and for our family? For he has only talked to me twice in the almost three days I have been here, and has only bothered to actually be in the keep for two of them!"
Your mother and yourself are perhaps too alike, for she too starts to let her hackles raise.
"Barely any marriage in the entire of the Seven Kingdoms between a noble lord and lady has ever resulted in them talking, nevermind meeting before a wedding! Do you not understand how lucky you are? Having to marry a lord who's worst sin is probably ignoring you? Do you understand how I tried to give you a safe marriage? How I interrogated and scrounged up every morsel of petty gossip I could get my hands on, on every suitable lord in Westeros for marriage so I would not marry you off to some savage? Instead he just gets shitfaced and waxes poetic about you, then he's condescending. So? You are lucky, girl."
"Well I do not want to be lucky. Maybe I just want to go home. I don't want to- I don't care how lucky I am, this man does not even want to be near me! I don't want to be alone for the rest of my life Mother-"
By the Seven- You rub at your eyes, getting so angry tears start welling up in your eyes.
"Maybe he is in love, maybe he is smitten, but he runs away from me! I- I'm going to be alone. He does not even talk to me when he drowns himself in ale. That is when men become brave no? In wine and ale? Not even then. How can I be sure all these flowery words I keep hearing whispers of are even true Mother?"
Your mother sighs. Bone deep exhaustion seems to run through her. "The day you were born, after I held you in my arms for the first time, heard you cry for the first time, I dreamed we had this conversation.
"You were grown, but I could never quite make out your face. I can see it now, the face of a woman. I… I told you that I am your mother. And I will always protect you. I am- I will never, doom you to loneliness. I shall never doom you to unhappiness, no matter how much you think I bring it upon you. Lord Baratheon is close to your age. He is kind to his serving staff and waiting girls, he..."
You look down, feeling so many despondent feelings bubbling in your gut.
"I did not have my knight in shining armour. I had a friend in your father, and I have had two great loves. You and your brother. And I shall do anything to give you joy."
"But truly I don't think… I think he shall get over this bout of shyness-" She corrects herself at your exasperation, "Fine, trepidation. He… I need you to trust me, sweet girl. I am giving you away. I am giving my great love, my baby away, because even though it is your duty, I know you shall be just fine."
"But frankly that is enough of this talk. Let us eat."
"Mother?"
"Yes?"
Sounds of forks and knives on plates clank in the solar.
"I am sorry for raising my voice."
"I yelled at my mother too much in my youth to hold this against you, daughter."
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Three days before the wedding
Lyonel comes back today. Frankly you have enjoyed his absence. You have been able to explore the keep in peace, cozied up in the library you found previously. It's also filled with cozy nooks and chairs. Yesterday, your last day free of Lyonel, was spent alternating between reading a book on Valyrian history and practicing your embroidery.
A perfect day.
Unlike today, which has been spent uncomfortably waiting for news of Lyonel and your father's return.
The whole idea of this hunt makes you skeptical. Rosemary has spoken at length of what a skilled hunter this man apparently is. You still expect him to be coming back empty handed. Your father has gone hunting for a week or longer at a time, never for a two days and a half?. Even if Lyonel lives on the outskirts of the thick forests of the Stormlands, no one is good enough to go on a hunt for a day and a half.
'No one but him apparently', you think as you watch your mother and brother stand to recieves the hunting party with the rest of the inhabitants of Storm's End.
You watch from the battlements of course. You would never be allowed up there, not even in your own home, but a few well placed coins into the right guards' hands and you were free to stand there to your hearts content as Lyonel's hunting party rode in.
You could be down there welcoming him…
Even if he was 'shy' like your mother suggested, you had no desire to be in his presence any longer than you wanted to. And maybe you wanted some time to proper observe him without any ale in his system.
Is he louder when you are not around? If he is 'shy' around you, then his behaviour must change when you are not there. Or well… when he thinks you are not.
You almost felt proud of how you had crafted your little plan. Your mother will surely have your head for this, but it's not like Lyonel has not been rude to you. You are merely treating him as he has treated you. All in the purpose of gathering information, of course. Of understanding him.
As you see Lyonel and your father ride into Storm's End, you feel as if he is truly trying to seduce everybody on your family except for yourself. First your mother with all the dancing on the feasts, now he takes your father hunting. Next he shall probably start teaching your brother to wield a sword and take him as a sworn sword!
The procession is not fairly large. It makes sense, considering Rosemary's reports of barely hiring any scouts to hunt with. Your father and Lyonel are at its helm, laughing at something.
Finally they stop in the courtyard. You feel a little ridiculous now, watching form so high up.
He seems to be in good spirits, wearing the same bravado he always does. Of course. He probably would hide if he had a poor hunt. Instead your gaze goes to your lord father as he dismounts, looking tired. But he also, strangely, looks quite pleased with himself.
"My fair lady! Little lord!" Lyonel greets your mother and brother.
Gods is he so loud that you can hear him from so high up? Of course that should not surprise you at all.
Even after such talks with your Mother about his affections for you, the same annoyance you felt just two days before started to worm its way into your heart. Could he be any more cocky?
He steps to your mother first, pressing a kiss to her hand. He ruffles your brother's hair, and then he looks around in confusion.
And apparently now he desires to speak quietly, you cannot hear what he asks your mother.
Servants have long since started scurrying towards the hunting party to unload the game Lyonel and your father hunted. Knowing your father, it was most likely Lyonel's doing.
You raise a brow at the sheer amount of carcasses and beasts being wheeled away. How many people is he even planning on feeding?
You lean your forearms on the battlement stones to get a closer look, which does nothing to help you hear what is happening any better, considering how high up you are.
Your mother's head starts to whip around, and she mutters something furiously to Lyonel.
Oh you are in for it now.
Lyonel keeps looking around, but he busies himself with sending your family indoors, patting your father on the shoulder, who looks quite exhausted. Lyonel must be exhausting to be around.
You observe as he lingers, still looking around.
He then shakes his head and goes to help the servants- wait he's doing what?
And sure enough, your eyes aren't decieving you as he helps drag his boon into the keep… interesting.
You watch for a while.
What?
He is not wearing his armour, and you find you quite enjoy watching his chest heave under that doublet…
His hair also gets progressively messier, which you are trying to pretend you do not enjoy.
You watch him do this for… for a few minutse at least.
How did he even manage to hunt so much in a day and a half?
You mean- gods… it is a lot. And you certainly have never seen a lord aid those in his service. You mean… that's what he keeps them in his service for… no?
He drags inside a cart of— is that a boar?—into the keep. Something one of the men he's aiding says something and he laughs as they bring the game indoors.
As he comes back outside, he sets his hands on his hips, takes a deep breath of fresh air, craning his neck to look at the Sun. He's squinting in the sun, bringing a hand up to brace himself from it, and you can't help but focus on the glow of his skin in the Sun.
Too bad that as he starts to turn his focus back onto his staff, his eye catches on something.
And you have been spotted.
You feel yourself turn red as a grin blooms on his face.
You have never seen such an expression. He looks more like a wolf than a stag.
You are frozen in your spot.
He places his hand straight back onto his hips and cocks his head. As if he's asking you a question.
You drop immediately. A rather improper position for a lady, to be on your knees on the battlements of a keep that is not even yours (yet).
Your chest heaves. You are sure your heart has never beat this fast. Your experiment in observation has not even crossed your mind at this point.
You start counting seconds in your head, trying to figure out how long it will be until Lyonel has gone inside. By the three hundredth second, you finally find it in yourself to stand up and dust off your skirts. You lean over the battlements to get a good look.
The grounds are empty.
That- he could have not been that fast in unpacking all his hunting gear. How effective even is his staff?
You crane your head further, until practically your entire torso is bent forwards to try to find where Lyonel could have possibly hidden, because that's surely what he did.
"You could have merely told me you enjoy espionage?"
That makes you jump. You flinch so hard you lose your balance like an idiot.
And warm hands suddenly wrap around your torso and bring you back into a very sturdy chest.
"I- I-" You sputter like the grown lady you are, trying to turn your head back to look at Lyonel.
"Now I thought I would find my betrothed below to welcome me after taking your father out on a hunt. Imagine my surprise when I see you up here, my lady."
Lyonel's grin is positively delighted.
Oh he loves this.
Your mother claims hesitance?
You turn around in his grasp and try to put distance between you both.
"My lord-"
"Lyonel." He reminds you.
"Lyonel. We must not be- This is an improper position for us to be in if we are not married! If anyone finds us-"
"You think anyone gives a rat's ass about our doings? We are to be married in four days!" He exclaims, not letting you step back a single bit, "Now, if I may, my lady. If you were so eager to watch me, I am sure you could have done so next to your family, and even obtained the chance to welcome back your lord father. Truly no need at all to bribe one of my personal sworn swords to let you up here."
"I was not up here to observe you! Your arrival was complete coincidence" You lie like a liar, not wanting to admit that you did indeed want to observe him like he were some exotic bird.
"Or did you want me to sing you a song from below? Like a knight from a child's tale, singing to a princess in a tower?" He barges on, completely unbothered by your yammering, still holding onto you.
"If you wanted a song, believe me I can serenade you whenever you want."
"Do not dare , you buffoon-"
"Oh so you have finally recalled your bite?"
"Do not condescend me, I am to be your wife."
"Would you rather I start my song for you instead?"
"I would rather you shut your mouth and let us go downstairs."
"Would you rather I sing about your eyes? Or maybe your hair and how it catches in the sun? Mayhaps your lips?" He wiggles his brows.
"Do not dare."
He grins and instead of looking like a wolf or a stag or a man, he looks like a cat. An evil cat.
And he takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, and-
Your hand is clasped over his mouth.
"Do not dare, Lyonel." And you swear he is grinning under your hand.
He licks your hand. Because of course he does.
You shriek and pull your hand back, and without thinking, start wiping it on his doublet.
"You do know this is Dornish fabric? And how much it costs?" He inquires, but the way he grins tells you he could not care less.
"You got my hand dirty. You clean it. With your fancy clothes." You say, frowning so you do not think of his chest under that doublet.
"Fine, as my lady commands."
You pretend you are not surprised at how he has relented.
"Now, as you are busy 'cleaning your hand' may I finally know as to why you found yourself up here? Not that it is not a splendid day, but…" He cocks his head as he looks at you. "Do you really tolerate me so little, my lady?" Lyonel is grinning, but you can tell there is a little more to this question than you think. His hands on you loosen.
"I tolerate you just fine." You sniff, turning away. Maybe he is uneasy about this whole affair...?
He seems to wait for you to keep speaking. You don't.
He lets you go and steps back.
"Well, I am positively starving, my lady," He brushes it off easily, just like everything else, "And I am sure I must not smell particularly alluring to you after two nights in the forests around the keep., I shall retire to my chambers."
"Of course, Lyonel."
You suddenly feel the familiar spike of annoyance you always seem to feel after a while of interacting with Lyonel. He does not get to question your tolerance of him when he is the one who ran away on a hunt! Not when he is the one who has spent more time around your family than yourself, when you are the one staying behind in this keep.
"Actually- I have to ask the same to you, Lyonel." You start.
Oh this stops him from departing.
"You cannot be the one questioning the legitimacy of my patience towards you when you are the one who left on a hunt for two days!"
His back is turned to you. You prefer him this way, frankly, his back is much nicer to look at than his cocky grin.
"You have not taken me to dance a single time! You- You take my father on hunting trips? I am to be your wife, Lyonel. At least attempt to court me!" You feel like a child stomping their feet. His back is much less pleasing to look at now that you realize this means you have no idea what Lyonel is thinking.
He turns around to your relief frankly, furrowing his brow. He is not angry. He never is. Which only makes you feel more immature.
"You understand even my mother knows of your behaviour! Though she tells me you are shy, mayhaps even afraid of me, which I am less and less inclined to believe with every second I spend with you!"
"You believe I am shy?"
"Is that so surprising? You practically ran away from me when I left our morning meal! You come back three days before we are to wed with enough food for the neighboring villages to what end? Impress me? Of coures I believe you uneasy, or needing to prove something, or merely just not confident!" You exclaim, rolling your eyes despite yourself.
This time he truly looks surprised.
He walks towards you, and you take a step back. Lyonel is searching your face for something, and frankly you don't want to know what his expression will crumble into if he finds the wrong answer.
"I swear, it is as if you are courting everyone in my family but me with this behaviour." You let the petulant comment that's been plaguing your mind since you arrived finally escape in a murmur, your eyes averted.
"You do understand I have been showing such affection to your family to ease your own shyness?"
And that makes you tilt your head, as if trying to catch up to the world itself tilting.
"What?" You answer smartly, your eyes squinted. "We cannot both be shy here."
"Well I am certainly not shy, your mother is certainly wrong in that regard," to that you cannot disagree, "But, just as you spoke to me of leaving your home to a strange place, am I not supposed to feel trepidation towards finding a stranger in my bed? I cannot feel unsure as well?
"I do not want you to despise me, if that is what you believe. I want us to at least be companions. So at your shyness, I took another approach. Am I wrong in assuming you would have disliked me if I completely ignored or even mistreated your family? By the Seven, if i had known I was only making you jealous, my lady-" He breaks out into further laughs, bracing a hand against the stones of the battlement. You try not to stare at the various rings on his fingers
Your face burns like never before "I was not jealous!"
"Jealous of your own father! I have never heard such- I- I must apologize!" He laughs, his shoulders heaving and shaking.
He finally seems to calm down. By then both of you notice the rain drops that have been steadily falling on you. It must have started earlier. Too bad now its practically pelting fromout of nowhere. Thunder rings out as if to laugh alongside Lyonel.
He grins and takes your hand "Let us go indoors, You have been up here too long." He says.
And Lyonel is in no rush to get indoors. Too bad you are, and you practically have to drag him into the narrow staircase into the tower that will lead you into the warmth of the keep.
The hairstyle Rosemary tried so hard to create is probably ruined now. Lyonel does not seem to care for your impropriety as you start your march down the stars.
"Let me go before you, my lady."
"How noble." You comment dryly. "You shall make a wonderful pillow if I slip down these stairs."
The rest of the trek down the staircase is silent. He helps you down the last steps. You hold back the comment that sits on your tongue at the uselessness of the task. You had just made your way down all these steps, and he's helping you on the last three? Sure.
Finally you are in the keep proper.
"My lady," he offers his arm, which you take with a suspicous glance, "This is to be your keep in three days. Ser Kevan would have let you pass up to the battlements without the gold coins. Though they probably did make him quite happy.
"This place is to be yours as much as it is mine. There is no need for you to resort to bribery to get into what will be your home. You are as welcome upon the battlements, the kitchen, the stables, as you would be in your chambers or the dining halls. Unless we are under siege of course. Not that I shall ever permit such a thing to happen."
He winks at you. Because of course he does. Of course Lyonel Baratheon is the type of man to wink. And look good doing it, even with his wet hair and wet skin and wet doublet-
"We shall be having dinner in a few hours my lady. I hope you do not climb the chandeliers to watch instead of joining your family and ne at the table," he teases, "because if you wish for me to court you proper, you must sit next to me for me to do so."
"Now, where am I dropping you off at? I need to work on the proceedings of the lands I abandoned for my hunt." He finally waits for you to answer.
"The library."
"You have found it? I am glad. I do not put much use to it." Lyonel replies, grinning, "I prefer weaponry to the written word, I must say."
"I can tell, my lord. No one has gone on a two day hunt and brought back multiple boars." You turn to examine his profile. He seems a bit proud at the fact that you noticed his hunting prowess.
"It just might surprise you how little lords actually spend hunting when they depart their keeps, my lady. I do not busy myself with fancy wines and setting comfortable camps with cushions and rugs, that is why."
"My father must have despised it…" You frown slightly.
"His needs were taken care off. I still permit some semblance of luxury, are you aware? I am not a total animal." Lyonel always seems to be smiling. You don't dislike it.
Finally he stops at the library, opening the door for you.
"I do hope to see you at dinner." Lyonel says instead of a goodbye. "I must go bury myself in busywork, but enjoy the library."
And with that, he is gone.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Three days before the wedding but like three hours later
Dinner was better.
Finally not a feast, and Lyonel was finally sober.
He's walking you towards your room when he mentions it.
"You told me you wanted me to court you?" Lyonel's staring ahead as he walks. Instead of you holding onto his arm, his hand lingers at your back. It makes you feel warm in a way you haven't felt before.
"I… yes." You are still shy with the admission.
"You know how to ride a horse, my lady?"
"Indeed." Now your brow furrows.
"Excellent. Tomorrow I shall take you somewhere. I shall tell Rosemary to wake you early."
Lyonel must have noticed the wrinkle in your nose, because he's laughing again.
"I promise you shall enjoy it."
You are at your chambers, and he opens the door for you. Just like he did to the library.
"Good night…" You bid him.
"Don't look so distraught, I can tell you enjoy knowing things. Aou shall know it all tomorrow by this hour." Lyonel looks positively mischevious at your door.
"Rest, my lady. Sweet dreams."
As you sleep, a boyish grin plagues your dreams. It seems familiar.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
A/N: I lied, I had to get this out, I wrote half of this in a few hours.
sorry if i was slow to put this out, i usually post shit to ao3 and don't update ever so like, this is the first time i actually continue a fic. dw i do mean to finish
plus grad season is lowk crazy rn, thank you for patience, you were all so sweet, i really didn't expect it, i just want to say thank you again, you have all been so lovely with your comments, it's been heartwarming to read and it means a lot.
if you like, comment, or reblog it would be appreciated. not necessary ofc but i do value everything.
taglist: @vexis-world / @triciawritesstuff / @pearldaisy
lmk if u want to be tagged in the next (prob last) part!
um hi i did not expect that much support on my first post on this acc, it was really sweet to wake up to 😭😭😭 thank you so much for being so sweet, it means the world!! working on p2, i'll try to finish it when i can
Summary: Lyonel makes a bad first impression on your first day in Storm's End. Great. Now he has to try to get you to like him before the wedding bells ring.
Part 1 (you are here)
Part 2
NOT PROOF READ, if there's any mistakes don't kill me tysm
Word Count: 6k
Chapter song if you want to listen, idk this is an indulgent tendency of mine
Look i practically barfed this out, if its bad don't tell me, tysm, this is not proof read, i tried but i miss fixing some things and i'm #human
CW: questionable marriage practices (its westeros, #political marria8ge), BRIEF mentions of some ladies with poor husbands, intoxication (brief-ish? DRINK RESPONSIBLY, hangovers are so real and a bitch to deal with, scout's honour. Imagine being in the medieval ages with no advil to handle it...)
1.5 months before
'Yellow is so not my color', you can't help but think childishly as you are being fitted for what is going to be your wedding gown. Your mother chatters about what a magical time it is... the fantasy of a wedding before you meet the lord that's to be your husband. Getting giddy on tales of courteous knights and lords that wish for your favour and live for your laugh. Until you actually meet the fellow of course. That is quite disappointing.
Your feet are sore from standing for so long, so you shift on your feet and- yeouch!- the pin the seamstress was using to hold your gown in place nicks your skin. You hiss.
"Careful darling" chides your mother, who sits by the entrance of the room, working on an embroidery she says she'll give to you as a wedding gift. She has not let you see it yet, it is a surprise. "You'll look like a block of cheese by the time you walk the aisle if you keep poking holes in yourself with your squirming."
"I already look like a block of cheese, mother," you snap back. You deflate, a bit embarrassed with your tone. "Does the gown truly have to be yellow?" You ask again for the god knows what time. Your mother is sure to be driven insane if you ask one more time. But maybe insanity will make her realize what a ridiculous colour your gown is, and you won't have to wear such a garish colour to your wedding. "Won't Lord Baratheon think it is..." 'garish, making us look like kiss-asses, ugly', your mind supplies., "...brazen?" you settle on instead.
"Pish posh." Your mother scoffs. "If the Lord is anything, it is brazen, if the rumours are to be true" she shrugs, "If anything, he shall appreciate a bride who looks ready to embrace her new role as his lady."
"You will come visit, will you not?" you ask her at the mention of Storm's End.
"Of course, I need to ensure you are not shaming our name with your disorderliness." your mother reassures you immediately… or as best as she can.
"And if he is unpleasant?" You ignore the jab, "I mean... father may not be the picture of knighthood, but he is kind. What if Lord Baratheon is not kind?"
Your mother tuts, shaking her head. "I..." she starts, and falters. "We shall pray that is not the case. I do not believe it will be. At worst he will be a drunkard if rumour is to be believed. That is good. When men are drunk, they see nothing but their fellow lords. Stay out of his sight and you shall be fine, girl." She keeps her needlework steady, not looking up. As if she cannot bear to look at you when talking about possibly marrying you off to a beastly lord.
You do not feel quite reassured, but you are also not particularly keen on thinking about the subject anymore... your gaze shifts back onto the mirror that shows you what the seamstress is doing with your gown. You try not to move, still feeling the slight sting of the way the needle dug into your skin earlier. The dress is... it's fine. "...Could you rework the neckline?" You ask the seamstress, who is working on your sleeves, not the neckline. She still turns her attention to you.
"Of course my lady, what do you wish changed?"
"Well... maybe this part could be lower, and I don't quite love how the shoulders..."
At this point your mother looks up, and not wanting you to end up wearing some ridiculous ensemble, she sets down her embroidery hoop and stands up to direct it better.
"No, no, leave the shoulders as is... but you could cinch the gown here..."
It is a long time before the seamstress can leave to finish retouching your dress for the wedding.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
A month before
As is customary, your wedding will not be taking place in the familiar halls of your home, but instead in the keep of your lord husband to be. So a fortnight later, you are getting ready to leave your home for... for forever. Or at least until your lord husband permits a visit, which is not a reassuring way to think about it either.
Your dresses and gowns and capes and shoes and... whatever... are all in chests now, your armoire empty.
All of it has long been packed, long ago taken by bustling servants to the carriages you and your family will be making the trip to Storm's End in.
You take a seat on your bed and lie down, staring at the stone ceilings you have been staring at since you were a girl. A husband. If you were still a girl you might have been excited, still naive enough to fall for the tall tales of knights and princes who cherish their ladies.
Your mother and father are close friends at best, and your friends, all daughters of your father's banner-men and of the servants of the keep, have long since found their own husbands and left. You have not seen many since. The ones wealthy enough to communicate through raven with you do not bear good fortune.
For example, Jane's husband is perfectly pleasant until it comes to bedding. She says it is not out of cruel intent, just... they cannot find a way to make it stop hurting, or feeling weird, or... hmph.
You were not surprised by Jane's news, your septas have long since told you about your marital duties, about what to expect. About the true meaning of bedding: to endure, to survive. You were also not as woefully unprepared as Bertha.
Bertha is the daughter of the Lord Blacktyde. Her parents did not permit the septa to educate her on such topics. The raven you received after Bertha married said she was so surprised when she saw a man's... well his manhood, she screamed so loud her parents burst into the room, thinking she was being murdered in cold blood.
Sweet lady Alanis wrote once, telling you her husband did not permit any communications and you have never heard of her again.
Or of course, there's the true stories of the horrors husbands are capable of. Your mother has never told you about those ladies in detail. But you know from whispers. Of controlled outings and increased purchases in scarves.
You turn onto your stomach, burying your face in your pillow, as if trying to suffocate such horrid thoughts.
Best not to think about it anymore. Nothing is going to change the fact that in a moon's time, you shall be the Lady Baratheon, so why scare yourself with the possibilities of your husband's temperament. Nothing can change it anyway.
But your mind still wanders. Will he be handsome? Will he be sweet, or romantic? Will he give you gifts to campaign for your love? Or shall you remain friends? You don't think about negative traits. You cannot. It is stressful enough to be marrying a stranger.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Eight days before
"Father, tell me what he's like again."
It is your almost last day of travel, you shall arrive at Storm's End by noon the next day, and your family is exhausted of you already.
You have long since bid your teary farewells to the septas who taught you since you were a girl, to the servants who let you into the kitchens late at night for lemon cakes, to the cat you fed when he stopped by your chambers' windows. Little Mr. Snuffles. You would miss him, even though he was a spoiled little turd.
"Are you in loveeeeeee?~" your brother teases, a snot of ten and three years.
You have stopped for the night, the tents have been set up, and you are having dinner. A stew of some critter or other your banner-men had hunted. You were tired of stews, and tired of sleeping in nature, and missed your bed.
You still shove at the boy. "I am not you rat! I am preparing!"
"Mooooooooootheeeeer!" he whines immediately, his stew sloshing around dangerously in his hands.
Your mother rolls her eyes. "You are to be a married lady! Twenty years of age!" She says incredulously. Just when your brother starts to look smug, she snaps at him too. "And you are to be lord after your father. Is this how you will handle the disputes of your land, boy?"
Your father returns to the topic previously at hand immediately to calm everyone, but he does wearily. "...You are sure? You have heard many times what he is like"
"Yes." you say immediately, glad you are not being lectured longer. This is how you will manage to have a manageable marriage. By being prepared for dealing with the lord.
Your father passes a hand over his face. "...He is loud. The first to challenge to a duel, to draw his sword, to fight in a joust. That, everyone knows. He wears this... thing, with antlers. Have I told you that?"
You burst out into giggles, trying to forget the mentions of violence. "What a ridiculous man," you giggle. "Fashioning himself a stag king?"
"He is a king?" your brother asks, suddenly interested.
Your mother intervenes, seeing the chance to put you in better mood about the wedding "See darling? You shall be his stag queen. Maybe you shall have your own crown when we come visit after you are settled."
You snort, unladylike and unrefined. "Mayhaps." you say, enough to quell your mother.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Seven days before the wedding (Noon)
Storm's End is... stormy.
Who would have thought. The rain stopped before your carriage stopped in the courtyard of the keep, so you are quite dry. The clouds are still grey and dreary though, the air smelling damp.
You step out of the carriage dry. Your father was not as lucky, having ridden at the front of the procession. His cloak drips and he tries for a reassuring smile.
You try to hide a giggle at his appearance as you step out of the carriage. Your mother follows you, and your brother is last, hopping out gladly, stretching his legs.
You are not as active as the boy, instead you stand frozen, staring at who you believe is your betrothed.
He is... he is handsome. His hair is dark and curly, streaked with the occasional grey, but you find... you find it makes him look handsome rather than old. Rugged and experienced instead of tired.
Too bad he is sopping wet from waiting in the rain for you. He does not seem bothered by it, no. His smile is wide as he watches your family approach, his hands clasped behind his back. He is surrounded by banner-men and servants. He is wearing a black doublet that you realize you quite like the fit of, and over it a yellow cape that hurts your eyes. Great, you shall match him in your wedding dress in a week.
He is like a peacock. Loud, taking up all the space in the world as if it has been offered for him to take. Well, he's a lord. It truly has been offered to him.
You wish you could say you were bold, and charming, and sweet upon this meeting. Instead your father led your family to Lord Baratheon, and when he greeted your procession loudly and with open arms, you found you could barely stomach the sight of him any longer.
"Good family! Good day, I hope the rain has not dampened your spirits! Come, come, we should all go indoors. Don't worry about your banner-men, my household staff has orders to see them all warm and cozy in our guest chambers. They shall be taken care of well." He says. Or well… yells, even as he is being courteous.
When your family steps inside, you make sure you go last. Of course the Lord Baratheon notes this, and lingers by the grand front doors until he can stop you in your tracks at the entrance.
"My lady, you are to be my betrothed, I presume," He greets you, taking your hand in his, so gently you do not know if it is you or him lifting your hand, and bowing low to press a kiss to your knuckles. He looked up at you. "I am glad the Seven have seen it fit to bless me with such a lovely bride."
To your absolute horror, you turn red. Damn the man and his honeyed words. Damn the man and the way he holds your hand like you are the most precious thing he has ever held.
His hand is cold from the rain, but it somehow makes you feel all sorts of warm things under your ribs.
"I…" you start. In your head you were much more clever.
Instead of letting you answer, Lord Baratheon barks out a laugh.
"Come on sweet lady, your family is surely waiting for us indoors." He offers you his arm, and for a childish moment you want to reject it just because you can.
…but you are a woman grown, you cannot be acting in such ways. You take his arm, and do your best to ignore the warm feeling blooming in your chest.
You take note of the mortifying fact that you have not uttered a single proper sentence to the man.
Seven days before the wedding (Night)
You were actually finding Lord Baratheon quite pleasant until the feast held to welcome your family's arrival to the keep.
He was proper enough, but with every few minutes, he kept motioning for a servant boy to refill his wine, and to refill it, and to refill it.
When he grew tired of the wine he switched to ale, and by this time you lost count of how much he has had.
You have heard tales of Lord Baratheon's indulgences, but seeing it in person is a completely different. If you thought he was loud when he welcomed you, this is an entirely different beast. But worst of all, he has not talked to you since he started practically attempting to drown himself in his cups.
And the nail in the coffin? He has wrapped your entire family around his finger with his drunken tall tales. You cannot believe it. Lord Baratheon has gotten your father drunk, your mother laughing and your brother looking at him as if Lord Baratheon were the Conqueror himself.
"-and then, and then as it seemed the storm would sink our ship on the bay, I prayed. Me. Of all people." Lord Baratheon says, practically laughing with delight at his near death experience. The hall has practically held its breath since he has started to tell his story. You are grateful for the damn break from the screams and laughs of the feast, even if it means you must listen to this man's tales without him asking you a single question.
"And the moment I uttered the name of the Crone, I tell you the storm eased. But don't think it was so easy. The wind had practically torn all of us men's shirts clean off from the force, buttons flew in the air and I swear they could have made a man blind if they had the right aim!" Howls rang through the hall. It was not that funny, you thought, but being drunk makes everything a tad better than it truly is. Lord Baratheon basks in the attention, as if he were becoming energized by it rather than drained like you were. "The sails were almost torn from the masts, and everything atop the deck slid off the ship. It took us hours to steer our ship to our dingy little port."
"And of course, by the time we dock, we were welcomed by our families, my lady mother, may she rest in peace, among them. After she is done smacking me over the head for sailing in such treacherous waters, she looks at me perplexed, and she says this," He draws in a breath and takes a posture you assume resembles his mother's. "'Lyonel darling, where in the world are all the trade goods from Myr?'" he takes on a high pitched voice for the role he assumes, and even you can't help a smile.
"My heart dropped out my ass. We searched the ship until the new dawn came. And with the tide's going that morning, we found boxes upon boxes of cloth of silver, exotic fruits. What a coincidence, I used to have crates upon crates of the same materials," Lord Baratheon pauses, his grin turning wicked at the laughs that come out of his guests. "You can already guess, the Crone spared our life. They say life is priceless, fine gentlemen and ladies, I found its cost that day. A hundred boxes of fine Myrish goods."
Howls and laughter rang out through the hall. Lord Baratheon leaned back, admiring the party he has created.
This is his true realm. Lord Baratheon is not some man above it all. The crowds are his true gods, and he offers them tales and laughter and drink.
Your father flanks Lord Baratheon's left while you sit at his right. Then your mother sits next to you, and next to her is your brother. You all overlook the feast from the high table.
"My lord" he turns to your father. His words are slightly drawled out. You don't know if he is drunk off of ale or the laughter he has elicited from the crowd, from pleasing his gods. Most likely both.
"How about we let this feast start proper? We are all proper relaxed with ale warming our stomachs, aye?" Well you know ale is not warming your own stomach. But you are intrigued at what that means. You mean.. the plates have long since been cleared by bustling serving boys and girls… the feast must surely be over..?
"My lord what do-" you start to inquire, but before you can finish your sentence, as if Lord Baratheon had not even heard you, he calls over a serving boy.
"Thomas! Will you call the bard already, lift him from his cups if you have to, and find his companions. I think it is time we dance" He grins, as if already proud of keeping the feast going.
Your stomach flutters. He surely will not ask you to dance with him… will he? You find you are not averse to the idea. He is drunk, but he also an easy companion to discuss affairs with. Or well, you assume so, you are yet to share a proper conversation with him.
The servant boy scurries off and seems to talk with his fellow staff. Like machines, they ensure every table is clear, and while the women coax every patron into standing, the men push the tables towards the wall. You are not surprised at their efficiency, with Lord Baratheon's reputation they must be used to parties, but that does not mean you are not impressed at witnessing it first hand.
When Lord Baratheon spots the bard and his fellow troubadours, his face practically lights up, waving them over as if he were not a lord, and the musicians not small-folk. Which is… novel to you.
"Come good men, we wish to hear you play! Stand here, here, next to the high table."
Does he truly place these small-folk musicians on his level? Does he truly believe they are equal to him?
The musicians seem familiar with Lord Baratheon, not hesitating at all in standing by the far edge of the high table.
They start playing their tunes, and it is soon after when drunken knights and ladies, and even some of the keep's own staff join into the dance. Before you know it, the grand hall's floor is full of dancing and spinning bodies, skirts flaring out far with the pace of ladies' spinning and boots stomping as men jump and guide their companions.
At this point the stomps of the guests are louder than the musicians' instruments. Clapping and cheering and jaunting pummel into your ears, and you feel completely hypnotized.
Lord Baratheon seems to feel a similar way, you can spot the glee in his eyes from the corner of your own.
As you turn to him, he stands, and moves in your direction, and extends his hand towards your lady mother.
You deflate a little. At least he… at least he seems to be treating your family courteously.
"My good lady, or should I start calling you Mother already?" he asks. The question should be annoying, but your mother clearly only finds it endearing as she laughs.
"There is no need to appeal to an older woman as I, my lord." She says, the laughter crinkling in her eyes.
"Nonsense! I am sure even an 'older lady as you' my lady, can endure a dance with me?" He looks positively mischievous, and to your disappointment, handsome.
Your mother laughs, and places her hand in his, laughing as he drags her to dance.
He dances like a peacock. Arms flailing, spinning, taking up space. So much space. He makes your mother laugh when there's a lull in the music long enough to converse. Your mother does not laugh. She finds things amusing, of course, but laugh? You try to strain your ears to hear what Lord Baratheon says that's apparently so hilarious, but the din of the crowd lets you hear nothing.
By the time she sits next to your father, she's red-cheeked from dancing and grinning. She shoots you a look and nods. She approves of him. Lord Baratheon retakes his seat next to you, but he shifts his chair to angle himself towards your father. They strike up a conversation about how Lord Baratheon hunted the boars being served tonight himself, as a show of how he will provide for you. You would feel flattered but you are too frustrated on how he is telling this to your father instead of yourself. You are next to him! He could easily say that to you if he is as intent on honouring you as he seems to be! You mean, respect comes from acknowledgement, so why won't he even look at you?
"My lord that is most gracious of you." You interject, showing that you are listening, damn it, and that you will not be ignored by him.
He turns, surprised, and gives you a honeyed grin. You do not believe it for a second, no matter how sweet it looks, or how good he looks under the candlelight of the feast.
"I am certainly glad to hear it my lady." Then he turns back to your father.
Oh so he's talking to you now?
Just enough to placate you it seems. But you are not vapid enough to be fooled. No you are not.
You finally understand his approach here. Play nice until the wedding, and when he sends your family back to your ancestral home, he can go to ignore you as he desires, whoring and drinking to his heart's content. You know of his reputation. You know of his behaviours.
He is just letting you know he does not expect or desire your input while keeping your family blind to it.
So your mother was right. Wedding a lord is wonderful to imagine, but dreadful to live through.
So with no one involving you in conversation, you take to your cups, entertaining yourself. This is the beginning of the rest of your life, where you shall be left to your own devices. You go through wine in a way that even Lord Baratheon would have balked at if he were actually paying attention to you.
You don't remember anything after the fifth cup.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Six days before the wedding (Too early)
You wake up in your maiden chambers' bed, somehow. Your head throbs horribly the next day. You have no idea how you ended up in your bed, and no idea how you ended up in your sleep clothes with your hair brushed.
Your mother will end you. You probably humiliated yourself for all you know.
A knock sounds at your door, which hurts your head so bad you have to bury your head in the pillow. Too bad the sudden movement makes you feel as if you are knocking your brain around in your skull.
The knock comes again.
"Milady?" asks a voice you do not recognize.
"You may come in." you finally call out. Your voice sounds fine… good. You did not yell or cause a scene yesterday then.
You force yourself to sit up on the bed, but it feels like you have a boulder in your skull that rolls around every time you move.
The lady that opens your door looks young and gives you a small smile. She bows.
"Milady, good morn. I apologize for waking you. Milord has asked you to break your fast with him. I have been assigned to be your handmaiden, you can call me Rosamund."
Ah, she works in the keep most likely. You try to return her smile as best as you can, but you assume you look dead to her.
"Thank you Rosamund…" You say, wincing at the nausea you feel when you stand up.
She seems much more energetic once you greet her in a friendly enough tone.
"What shall you wear milady? The serving boys brought all of your gowns already, so you shall have your pick! How about your hair? I can do any updo you ask for, milady. As a matter of fact, I shall be arranging your hair for your wedding as well." She steps into the room in a flurry. By the Seven, must she speak so fast? She's lovely, but gods… your head is not doing you any favours.
She realizes quickly, thank the Seven, and lowers her volume.
"I apologize milady, I heard Lord Baratheon had to carry you back to your chambers last night. He's so gallant…" She trails off dreamily. "I tell you, he shall treat you wonderfully."
You turn around so fast at that that you give yourself a crick in your neck. You groan. Now you have a headache and a crick in the neck.
"He what?" you ask.
Sweet Rosamund does not seem keen on answering your question after she sees you are hurt. She rushes over to look at you proper.
"Milady, are you quite alright?" she asks, grabbing onto your chin to move your head, examining you.
"Rosamund! I am fine." You snap.
When she shrinks, you rush to alleviate it. She is not at fault here, she is merely doing her job…
"I- I apologize Rosamund, I may have indulged too much in my cups yesterday. Can you tell me about… about Lord Baratheon yesterday? My memory seems to be failing me."
She seems to go back to normal, and grow more enthusiastic the more she tells you about last night.
"Do not worry milady, he was supervised by your lady mother, nothing untoward happening. I was not there myself, but Cerion works as a serving boy and he saw it all happen. You did not do anything of note, do not worry, but you feel asleep in your seat as the feast ended. Lord Baratheon insisted on taking you to your chambers, but he did not let anyone wake you. By the Seven he is so chivalrous is he not? Insisted that you must be so tired from your travels... all about how the lady needs proper rest..." She says, her tone growing more animated, "He picked you up in his arms and carried you straight to your chambers. I welcomed you to your chambers of course, I am your handmaiden after all...
"He set you down on your bed and he let your lady mother and I got you ready for the ngiht. He stood with his face to the door the whole time. He did not look once!"
"…" You consider her words…
Another way to appease to your parents apparently. Does he stand your presence so little he truly did not insist on waking you?
You decide to keep quiet for now.
"Thank you Rosamund. I shall make sure to thank him when I join him. Will you help me with my gown? I think I shall like to wear the blue embroidered with the gold"
Rosamund somehow perks up even further.
"Of course milady!"
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Six days before the wedding (Still too early)
He, by all accounts, seems way too awake for having been so drunk.
You have been styled into looking at least a little alive by Rosamund, Seven bless her. Your hair has been eased into a style that keeps your hair mostly out of your face , your lips have been painted a nice, lively colour, and the gown you wear suits you nicely enough.
You step into the dining room Rosamund leads you to warily. Too bad she leaves you at the door, and Lord Baratheon spots you immediately.
"My lady!" He greets you the moment he sees you walk into the (much less ornate than the great hall, to your relief) dining room to break your fast. The table is noticeably set for… for two.
"My family will not be joining us?" You ask immediately instead of greeting him. He seems to notice the borderline hostility in your tone, and seeks to appease you.
"I assure you my lady, they are dining like Targaryen royalty in their beds," he says. "We have not spoken properly, let us speak."
And who's fault is that again? You have to force yourself to hold your tongue. But you see his game. You see right through him, oh yes. Appeasing you temporarily so you don't complain to your parents is a proper strategy, you have to respect it.
"Sit, my lady, sit!" He gestures to you when you apparently stand still for much too long. You'll arouse suspicion if you stand still for longer, so you make yourself sit across from the man.
Even though the table is set for two, the amount of food is… indulgent to say the least. Fruits and cold meats and cheeses are scattered across the table. Lord Baratheon holds a goblet of wine, but you notice yours is filled with water.
"Forgive me for deciding for you my lady, but I assumed you would not be able to stomach the sight of spirits after yesterday." Lord Baratheon says with a rueful smile.
He's right. Your stomach churns at the thought of wine. But you don't want him to know that of course.
"Thank you, my lord." You bow your head, taking a seat and pointedly ignoring the jab he makes at your indulgences. Of course he's judging, he's not the one who's left his ancestral seat, who's going to bear a stranger's children.
"My lady, I must insist you call me by my name. We are to be wed in a weeks time. We aren't to be mere acquaintances for much longer," he says, throwing you a wink that reminds you of your headache. It seems as though your body is preparing to completely reject his presence, your head throbbing in time with his voice rising in volume, though you are unsure if it is only because of your excesses from yesterday.
He laughs when he notices your reluctance "Do not look so nauseous at the thought. Eat! I am sure that will help your complexion regain its colour."
"I am fine." You say, but immediately wince at your tone.
His grin grows wider. "Ah, so the lady doth protest!" He exclaims. Your head pounds.
"I apologize-" you say, growing frustrated.
"No, no, keep your bite my lady."
What does that even mean? It seems like someone starts to stir your brain with a spoon every time Lord Baratheon utters a word. Must he be so loud?
"Pardon?" You reply cleverly.
"Your personality, my lady."
You narrow your eyes.
"You did not seem to care for it yesterday, my lord."
You immediately realize how you spoke, and blanch, opening your mouth to apologize again.
Lord Baratheon leans forward on the table, suddenly interested, his grin still there. You wish to throw your water in his face, melt it off.
"Address me as Lyonel. And what ever could you mean by that, my lady?" He quirks a brow in interest, but he seems entertained.
Oh so your distress is amusing to him?
"Nothing." You hope to deviate the topic now, "Shall we eat?" you say.
"Don't deflect, we can surely break our fast while conversing. Now would you care to elaborated for your betrothed?" He presses.
Gods how can he be so persistent after drinking so much yesterday, you can barely muster an attitude, and what you have thrown at him only amuses him.
He just cocks an eyebrow, waiting for you as he starts to cut into his ham steak. But he never breaks eye contact.
"You were drinking." You finally blurt out.
He… laughs.
"I always drink. That was surely not the issue my lady." He dismisses you instantly
"Could you be any more persistent?!" You exclaim, the budding pressure behind your eyes and his unrelenting stare finally ticking you off.
You stand up, your hands gripping the table.
"You were rude, inconsiderate, a poor host, barely even looked at me nevermind started a conversation with me! You spent the entire time talking about trade deals with my father and seducing my mother into dances instead of talking to the one who's actually marrying you!"
"So, the blushing bride wanted attention? You felt neglected?" He asks. Why does he still sound so smug? He looks impossibly pleased, with a smile tugging at his face as he keeps eating.
"You wipe that- that-" you sputter, the headache making you feel as if you were wading through mud to form a thought, "wipe that- that face off your face!" You throw your hands in frustration, pacing around the room.
"I can't just wipe my face off, my lady." He replies, as if you two were playing. As if this were a big joke. As if your life will ever be the same, as if you will get to go home after all this business.
"You know how it feels, my lord? To arrive in a strange, cold, damp, wet, land you have never seen before to marry some big man you have never seen before? To only know that he is a warlord and a drunkard according to the whispering ladies of the kingdoms? And then to meet him, because maybe at least you shall be friends if not lovers, and for him to ignore you? And to wake up the next day with- with this headache? And then this stranger just laughs at you!-" You cut yourself off… you are never like this. You are never this uncouth, this rude.
You have the rest of your life to make it up to him.
You fall back in your seat, bringing up your hands to press into your temples, letting your eyes close momentarily as the pressure finally starts to lessen, the headache having put you in a mood you have not been in since you were ten and four years of age.
Lord Baratheon- Lyonel finally sets his cutlery down with a few quiet clinks, and he leans back in his seat. He looks at you, appraising, a small smile still on his face, his head slightly cocked.
"I assure you I am more drunkard than warlord my lady, conquering brings me no pleasure, I have enough lands to serve my descendants for generations already. The most violence you have to fear with me is during jousts, which I am sure you do not participate in."
His tone is so calm, so level, it angers you. You still have not deemed to open your eyes, still caught up in the momentary relief that the pressure on your temples brings you.
"…Are you not going to resume your yelling at me, my lady? Or may I keep refuting your words?" Lyonel says.
"Don't." You say through gritted teeth, "I wish to be excused."
"…If you let Rosamund bring your meal to your chambers you may." Lyonel concedes after a beat. "I assure you skipping meals is not the way to help the headache that's making you look like a ruffled little bird. I do not wish to have you suffer as you might be inclined to believe."
"…Fine." You say, standing up, and going for the door. You open it, and find Rosamund waiting outside the door. She's the only good thing in this damned keep apparently.
"Rosamund, may you bring my meal upstairs?" You ask her, forcing a smile on your face. The poor girl has done nothing wrong to you. The reason such a sweet girl ended up employed in the service of such a brutish man truly escapes you. Out of the corner of your eye you catch the expression Lyonel makes at you being so… polite.
You don't bid your farewell to Lyonel as you leave for your chambers, looking forward to lock yourself in them until the evening meal.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Chapter 2 here!!!
A/N: I wrote this instead of studying for my Spanish A LangLit exam so... Look this is my first ff published on tumblr. so please have #patience with me. i'm in exams and stuck inall that highschool graduation process for a while so idk how often i'll be able to update, but i will update!! i have an ao3 if ur also interested here. but yeah, thats it i guess.
consider dropping a like or a comment or anything, thank you for reading ! <3
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