a/n: the insanity of this post even existing is beyond my comprehension
baelor | lyonel | maekar
baelor.
It comes from distance. He is sworn to the realm, first and foremost. Baelor is in possession of the most powerful position, the highest privilege in all of Westeros and still the gods saw fit to bless him with you as his wife. You, who understand the trappings and isolation of duty and do not begrudge him for it. You, who readily communicate and voice your misgivings and grievances instead of letting them fester. You, who match him in near every way.
Creeping loneliness fosters his jealousy toward all those who unduly monopolize your time: the court ladies who yak your ear off with petty squabbles, the councilmen who ramble in circles explaining what you already know, and all the little incompetencies that demand your attention. Baelor is all poise and propriety, but he starts getting short with people. And when you pull him aside to question him in your shared chambers about his poor mood, he finally has his moment.
With half a mind set on bending you over the side of the bed, his kisses are less gentle than normal. But there will be time for that later. He will make time for that later. Baelor is as much a diplomat as a warrior so he is well-accustomed to the power of a well-timed revelation. “I have missed you, my dear,” he says as he takes to his knees to spell out the depth of his longing in between your thighs. Over and over, until you beg for reprieve.
lyonel.
Before he can speak a word, it reads on his face. While Lyonel had been weaving one of his sprawling tales of gallantry, another man stole the first dance from you. As long as you have known him, in every pageant, every feast, every celebration, and even on restless, droning nights at Storm’s End, Lyonel takes your first dance. Across the room, you catch the glint in his eyes. You know what’s brewing. Your poor husband is thunderous, and you must make it right. The challenge is halfway out of his mouth when you kiss him, slow and sweet.
“Fret not, dear husband,” you say, pressing another kiss to his cheek. “I am yours, always.”
It is a simple declaration, no poetry, no rhetoric, but your assertion cuts to the very heart of him. When he finally gets you alone, in the dark and candlelight, he is lost, so he looks for your eyes. Once more, he seeks confirmation. He needs to hear it. One more time. He calls your name, throws your words back at you. " – please, I am yours, please – " A throaty moan leaks past his lips, nails raking red lines on your thighs, hips raising to meet you as you finally heed his begging and sink down onto him.
maekar.
The laugh is unlike he's heard from you. It starts with a harsh wheeze then you're doubled over at the waist as you devolve into unrestrained, shrieking cackles. Ugly and joyful. It is a sound he has never been able to pull from you. Maekar feels the weight of the revelation like ring-laden backhand. Your laughter comes most often as a consequence rather than intention. Regardless, he knows himself. He knows his strengths and weaknesses as well as he knows your own. And so, he stays true to his nature and does as a warrior should. Maekar sets his feet and bides his time. You don’t even see it coming.
The door to his office had barely clicked shut before he’s on you. His mouth rests beneath your ear, one hand on your hip as the fingers on his other work you. Diligence, rather than patience, is his virtue. He is burning, and yet, he keeps his voice soft.
“You weren’t so silent before. Why bother now? Let me hear you.” The pace of his hand remains steady and draws sweeter sounds from you, all of them punctuated by the lilt of his name.
pairing: fem! Reader x lord husband of your choosing
warnings: death, mentions of infidelity, angst, MDNI
word count: 1,838
tags: no specific physical description of anybody, you can be whoever you want, and your lord husband as well, no use of Y/N
summary: a certain tournament ends with grave consequences (it's not THAT tournament)
A/N: i'm back ;v
dividers by lovely @junabuggy ❤️ ; it's up to you to choose your poison, for i am just a mere tool to your anguish. happy reading 🫶🏻 inspired by song: Rammstein - was ich liebe
The truth was, you didn’t want to be here.
Your eyes followed the frame of your husband attending yet another joust, as he did the day before and the day before that. There was a time you enjoyed observing how skilled he was at the game, how his body tensed as he got ready for another round. But now? It repulsed you, and it felt like a sad obligation rather than a pleasant diversion. The admiration you once held in your gaze was replaced by sadness and breach of trust.
You anxiously bit the inner side of your cheek, hearing the excited roar of the crowd, pulling you out of your grim thoughts. Standing in the full sun, surrounded by high-borns and low-borns, the smell of leather and horse shit, and the sound of metal clanging against each other, made you nauseous. Your mind and memories weren’t especially kind to you either, tormenting you with uncertainty about how to handle things.
Another round and your lord husband once again didn’t unhorse his opponent, much to his anger and the creaking noises of the lance. It crossed your mind that you stood too close to the arena, but you did it so many times that it felt natural to you to be there, despite the circumstances. You watched another leap he took, beaming in the crowd’s loud applause, putting on a show as he was expected to, wondering if he also felt it as a burden.
“I’m sorry, it doesn’t mean anything, she means nothing…” it didn’t sound sincere; for you, it sounded like he was sorry for being caught and faced with his actions, rather than for the act itself.
“You broke my heart. I gave you children, I gave you myself. Does the wedding band mean nothing to you? Do the years we spent together mean nothing to you?! You humiliated me by fucking her in OUR SHARED BED!? How am I supposed to trust you after that? How am I supposed to sleep next to you, knowing what you’ve done?” your voice trembled with the fury of a betrayed woman, tears running down your face, wetting your dress, “How am I supposed to live after that? How many others did you fuck in your bed before that one? How many?” you shouted in his face, not recognising the man you married.
“No one, I swear,” he reached for you but you backed.
“Don’t touch me,” it was just above the whisper but rang loudly in your shared bedroom. You looked at your bed, feeling sick as your mind replayed the sounds you heard, “I want it gone. It’s defiled, I won’t sleep in it,” you avoided his gaze, anxiously toying with your fingers, “I wish to be left alone, I’ll retire to my chambers,” you felt exhausted, beaten and completely dead inside. You gave him one final look, “Go to maester and check yourself. The last thing I want, except for a cheating husband, is the one with venereal disease,” you hissed before leaving the alcove.
Appearances, appearances, appearances.
Those mattered the most after three months of chilling coldness that rose between the two of you. You somehow found an ersatz of peace in your solitude, alienating yourself from your lord husband, just attending gatherings like you were expected to. Polite smiles, amiable conversations with other lords and ladies, respectful interest in their troubles, hoping you could aid them. But the truth was, you couldn’t as much as you couldn’t help yourself. The shell of you that was dressed up prettily, that gave sweet smiles all around, was just an act of bravery and duty to your house. Every time he held your hand, you shrieked internally. Every time he tried to talk to you, you wanted to punch his face. Every time you glanced at him, you heard everything once again, hurriedly excusing yourself to scream into a pillow.
“My lady, are you alright?” you turned to your left, acknowledging your accompanying maid, “You look rather pale, my lady. The sun doesn’t agree with you today,” she insisted gently.
“I’m fine, thank you,” you smiled at her reassuringly. You watched her go, thanking her for distraction from your thoughts, “It’s going to kill me,” you sighed to yourself, composing your figure and straightening the dress in your husband’s favourite colour.
After years of marriage, three beautiful children, you felt happy. You knew you were happy, and you wanted to stay that way. The bitter aftertaste of your husband’s fling was constantly nauseating in anything you tried to do. The past three months were exhausting and excruciating to the point you wanted to end your life, just so he could find your dead body and truly feel what he had done to you. Just to silence the voices in your head, stirring, driving you crazy with presumptions and insecurities. Was it your fault? Were you not enough as a wife and lover? Was it because he grew bored with you? What kind of power does she have over him that you lack?
You knew where to find answers to those questions, but you were also certain of two things, one that you wouldn’t be able to believe him, second your mind would twist it and create new arrows to wound your heart along with your pride. So instead you allowed yourself to stay hurt, prideful and resented. It seemed easier that way too.
Each olive branch he handed you, or at least tried to, was left without your acknowledgement, or so he thought. You only once allowed yourself, in the dead of the night, to your shared alcove, cold, empty and abandoned. You felt like an intruder in a chamber that was supposed to bring rest. The said bed was gone, only torn remnants of linen discarded on the floor served as evidence of a great power that tormented the room. The silent tears rolled down your face before you could think of them, playing with the forgiving light of the moon.
“You destroyed it,” you observed coolly, as his footsteps became more apparent on the cold floor.
“I did, you asked for it to be gone,” he kept his distance, unsure of what he could do.
“Could you ever forgive me?” his voice sounded so small and uncertain in his inquiry, almost knowing the answer.
“I don’t know,” your gaze paused for a moment on his figure. He stood there, wordless, willing to partake any kind of punishment you would order but you asked for none. The quietness between the two of you was tormenting his soul as much as his deed was slowly killing yours, “Good night, husband.”
He observed you, his eyes were practically glued to you since the begging of the competition. As soon as he saw you in the dress he particularly liked, his heart fluttered. A small sign of hope for his bedevilled soul. How much rather he would be next to his lady wife, begging for her forgiveness.
Beating himself for three straight months wasn’t helping with his fettle. Doomed by his own vanity and manhood that fell like a schoolboy who saw a pair of tits for the first time. He couldn’t explain himself, was it too much wine that time? Too much flirting? Or he simply wanted to feel the thrill of conquering someone else than his lady love? He couldn’t bring himself to call you that anymore, how could he? Were you truly his lady love if he hurt you so tremendously? He did not deserve to address you in that way. Though he truly wanted to. He wished to turn back time, for it to never happen, to never fail you, nor to see that shattered look in your eyes. In that moment, he understood something obvious painfully. That his actions bear consequences and that you were the subject of the said consequences, much to his sheer dread.
The pride of a man, he scoffed at that thought.
“My lord, your opponent is getting tired. You should be able to unhorse him if you aim to your left,” he nodded silently to the squire’s remark, watching you speak with your maid. “I suggest the change of lance, my lord.”
“No, this one will do,” he readjusted the grip on the wood, wondering what were you talking about.
“My lord, you used it for too long, it may break next time used.”
“I said, it will do,” his voice came harsher than intended, making the squire shudder. The horse beneath him moved anxiously as it was spurred ahead the following round.
The crowd was more than telling when the next match began with loud shouts of awaited excitement.
Your eyes followed your lord husband again, without resentment or anger. As ease. You decided, you couldn’t hold it anymore, the past three months put a strain on you. The longer you thought about it, the more you missed him. You still loved him. The pain he had inflicted continued to fester in your chest but you wanted to try. You silently prayed to Seven for strength to endure the process of reforging your union, for wisdom and love to forgive, for peace of your mind.
To morrow, you hoped, to morrow will be a new day.
“After the tournament,” you agreed quietly as he left a soft kiss on your knuckles.
“I promise to be a better husband. I failed you like an idiot, I ruined our marriage but with this sign of hope I’ll double my efforts to prove myself to you,” he gave you a small smile as he left another kiss on your hand before leaving.
He held to that exchange, giving him hope through the competition, wishing the day was over so he could partake on his amends towards you. To earn even a shadow of your lips curving in amusement. He readied himself to present you today’s victory, as he dismounted the stallion, hastily removing helmet and armoured gauntlets.
“What is that commotion?”
“Your lady wife, my lord, was wounded…” the squire mumbled into his back, as he was already running towards the small crowd.
“Let me through!” he shouted, feeling as the rope of cruel fate was inevitably tightening around his throat, panic slowly slipping in.
“My lord, it’s best if you …”
“There was not much to be done–“
“Where is she?” he pushed through the lords and maester who kept him away, passing some aghast ladies with faces hidden in their hands and he finally saw you. So quiet…
… and motionless despite the whole quarrel around you. In a growing puddle of your blood, as your eyes calmly reflected passing clouds on the sky above you. He couldn’t comprehend how serene you looked; nothing and no one in this world could bother you any longer.
The dress he liked so much was flowered with growing crimson petals, spreading across the material, torn in the middle by a sharp splinter of a broken lance that went through your heart.
he waits. months bleed into years that leech the dark from his hair. his clothes lighten, from black and blood red to rich browns, creams, and clay reds for he refuses even the notion of funerary black. they say he is mad to wait. they say you are lost. but he knows you and they do not. baelor keeps the light in his eyes. he stokes it purposefully, daily with the memory of you. even as his heart cracks from the weight of hope that may never be fulfilled, he keeps the light in his eyes because he could not bear the thought of you returning after all this time just to find him hollow.
the following battles are of a type he is less accustomed to. he dodges the deluge of marriage proposals and the lords who push them. he forbids his blood even speak of marriage. at this point, he’d rather take up a chisel and hammer and carve the message above the gates to the Red Keep. the vows had flowed like honey from his mouth on your wedding night: ‘I am yours and you are mine from this day until my last day.’ the pair of you are homophrosyne so baelor knows come hell or high water, even if it’s only as a specter on the wall, you will return. the very least he can do is wait.
dunk as orpheus
everyone calls him stupid and it’s at this point, after you are gone, that dunk knows that he is. surely, his head has been rattled one too many times to be fully sane. surely, he’s one of those unfortunate few to have come into the world without even a drop of sense because after a high lord snatches you up for his own, dunk’s one thought is to bring you back. bring you home to him.
these noblemen, nigh gods themselves with how they saturate themselves in splendor and excess, do not know your value. even if he plucked the beating heart out of his chest, they could not comprehend it. but dunk is a man of honor. he cannot leave you to your fate. stealing you away would only mean death for the both of you. the sword will not help him.
dunk is a fool, so he relies on his word. he attempts in clumsy sentences and patched up verses from tawdry ballads to explain all that you are. a cool breeze in the summer. the first apple blossom of spring. when he succeeds against all odds and takes you home, he swears nothing will part you again. and when he fails to keep hold of you, dunk does as any knight would and sings songs of you until his dying day.
‘ – she hath my hearth in thrall. no life I own, nor liberty, for love is Lord of all’.
