for the touching writing prompts. number fourteen arm around the waist? i’m a sucker for an arm around the waist lol. with any oc you choose!
Touching Prompts
Lord Lyonel and Lady Alys Baratheon Masterlist
A/N: Any OC I choose? That's a lot of power. I do need to go with these two idiots though. Also, apologises for this being a little shorter. This actually inspired a whole chapter of Storms and Iron. So consider this a sneak preview of a later chapter of that.
Summary: Alys is propositioned by a too bold knight. She and Lyonel plot his downfall.
Word Count: 621
Alys moved off the dance floor with easy, purposeful steps. She would not give Ser Ryland the impression she was on the retreat, even if she could feel the rising heat in her cheeks.
Gods, if she were a man she would have left him with a broken jaw. Then again, if she were a man he would not have spoken to her in such a way.
She kept her sights on Lyonel who miraculously had kept his position on the edge of the dance floor. The closer she came the more it felt as if she had just missed a passing storm. Some of it lingered in his expression and the way he held his cup, but the turn of his mouth signaled its end.
“My lady–”
“Put your arm about my waist.”
To his credit, he did not argue. A steady hand found her waist, pressing her instinctively to his side.
He handed her his cup which she took gratefully. Embarrassment was gaining ground against her pride. She took a long draft, willing the alcohol to do its work and calm her. She would sooner give it credit than whatever relief she felt at feeling the warmth of Lyonel’s touch.
“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth,” he said, slipping the wine out of her hand and back into his own. “But what game are we playing?”
She took a stealing breath. “Ser Ryland propositioned me.”
He let out a cough, half spitting out his drink. His head whirled toward the knight in question, who by now had made his way back to his own party.
Ser Ryland was speaking to someone, but, as if sensing Lyonel’s eyes he turned to the pair of them. He spared Lyonel a courteous nod. His attention, however, remained on her, a knowing smile on his lips.
“Ugly cunt,” Lyonel growled, his grip tightening ever so slightly against her skin. “Don’t tell me you stand with me now to make your lover jealous.”
“Hardly,” she said, dryly. “Ser Ryland only wishes to stroke his own ego. It is meant as an insult to you and a way to make himself the proverbial victor. His attentions have nothing what-so-ever to do with me.”
He gave a dark laugh. “Well, you’re half right at least. Should I cut his hand off, my lady? Or perhaps his tongue?”
“I would have you knock him off his horse,” she said crisply.
He let out a booming laugh causing several nearby onlookers to turn their way. This didn’t seem to deter him. She could hear the smile on his lips as he leaned into her ear. “Then I shall have your favor tomorrow?”
“You shall.”
He gave another laugh, this one lower, just for her. “And perhaps your hand in a dance?”
“And how would that serve to defend my honor?” she countered, raising an eyebrow.
“The same way this does.” He let his hand wander, his thumb rubbing small circles through her dress and into her skin. She felt her body grow hot again, but for reasons completely unrelated to her earlier fury. It was a dirty trick, but it served its purpose. She was his and he was the only man in the room who could touch her like this.
“Of course, if you’re truly feeling spiteful, I could kiss you,” he teased.
Her lips pressed into a hard line as she raised a defiant chin. “Don’t push your luck.”
He grinned at her, pulling away only to offer his hand in invitation. “My lady.”
Despite herself, she smiled back, placing her hand in his as he led her to the dance floor once more. They would both give Ser Ryland something worth watching.
After the end of the First Blackfyre Rebellion, House Yronwood finds themselves short of influence and allies. Alys, being the third born child and second born daughter, hoped her stubborn reputation and pointed tongue would make her useless as a bargaining chip. Alas, it is exactly those qualities that draw the attention of Ser Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm, Heir to the Stormlands, and the epitome of everything Alys despises. Any resistance she has does little to dissuade his pursuit. After all, iron has a way of drawing in the lighting from the storm.
Part 1 (coming soon)
The Hedge Knight
Part 1 (coming soon)
One-Shots (In rough chronological order)
Ours is the Fury
For Honor (Storms and Iron preview)
Have You Missed Me?
Best Not to Agonize
I Am Undone
Never Again
Not Today
5 Sentence Fics
"I have never been so happy to leave a place in my life."
"When was the last time you had decent rest?"
Headcanons/Notes
Alys Yronwood Character Bio
Initial Assorted Notes
OTP Questions Part 1/Part 2
The First Time Alys Didn't Think Lyonel Was the Worst
Alys' Family
When They Started to Fall for Each Other
Gift Giving: Lyonel/ Alys
Physical Affection
What Alys and Lyonel are Like as Parents
The First Time They Say "I Love You"
Alys' Secrets
Alys & Lyonel at the Tourney of Ashford
NSFW Alphabet (18+)
Dragons and Iron AU
A what if scenario where Alys is taken as hostage to King's Landing after the First Blackfyre Rebellion and captures the attention of the crown prince, Baelor Targaryen.
One-Shots
Fire and Blood
Will You Have Me, Lady?
Headcanons/Notes
Baelor x Alys Assorted Thoughts
Lyonel x Alys x Baelor Deep Dive
Baelor and Lyonel's Reaction to Alys' Intelligence
Sentence Ask for Alys with: "Nobody has the right to touch you." Please?
A/N: As per usual, this got away from me a bit. This is also set much earlier in Lyonel and Alys' relationship. So imagine both of them in their early to mid-twenties.
Summary: Alys comes to a new understanding of just what sparks a true Baratheon's fury.
Word Count: 1.2K
Ser Lyonel x Lady Alys Baratheon Masterlist
It happened in a flash. One moment Thomos Connington's hand was strangled around her wrist, the next he was on the floor, blood pouring from his nose as Lyonel stood above him.
For as wild as his temper could be, Alys had never been afraid of her husband. Any violence he enacted was for sport; hunting, tourneys, sparing, etc., all with their own rules of engagement. It was at that moment she remembered he was a soldier and the true meaning of his house words; Ours is the Fury.
He hulled the Connington back to his feet by the collar, shoving him up against the wall; teeth bared and fist bloodied.
"I'll fucking kill you for that," he growled, so low she knew it was not meant for show.
Connington's eyes widened. Whatever masculine pride drink had provided him vanished in an instant replaced with fear and sobriety.
"I'm sorry, my lord," he croaked out.
Lyonel either didn't hear him or didn't care, looking ready to make good on his threat.
He didn't get far, as the house guards quickly speared their way through the crowd. Two were on Lyonel, forcing him to drop the man as Connington's own entourage quickly made their way to his side.
"Get off me cunts!" he roared.
"What is the meaning of this?" Lord Baratheon proclaimed, stepping through the parting onlookers, Lord Connington right as his heals.
Thomos, for his part, tried to remain dignified, even as Alys could still see fresh blood dripping down his chin. "A slight disagreement, my lord."
"Fuck that! He put his hands on my wife!" Lyonel snarled, getting one arm free enough to point an accusatory finger in his direction.
Lord Baratheon's eyes flashed, before darting to Thomos' lord father.
It was plain enough for Alys to see. Her good-father may not like her, but he could not permit a slight on the Lady of Storm's End.
“Is this true?” Lord Connington said, directing a decidedly neutral tone in his son’s direction.
Thomos pulled out a handkerchief, casually wiping away some of the blood. “I got a bit carried away.”
Thunder surged behind Lyonel’s eyes as he lunged forward. The guards buckled, but did not break their hold. It was likely the only thing keeping Thomos from premature meeting with the Stranger.
“Enough!” Lord Baratheon bellowed. “I’m sure, Ser Thomos did not mean to bring any harm to Lady Alys. Step forward girl.”
Her spine straightened as she suddenly felt the entire hall's eyes land on her. She had thought, or rather hoped, they had forgotten her.
She met Thomos’ eye, the smug defiance coming back into his features. He knew the knife’s edge she now found herself balanced on. Lady or not, this was not her home.
Dornish whore. Wanton snake. Venomous bitch.
All wanted her to rise to this, to prove her to be a temperamental harlot their heir was bewitched into marrying. Lyonel was doing her no favors on that score.
She reminded herself this was not about her honor. It was simple pride, her husband’s and the house they now both represented. All of this had nothing to do with her.
"Ser Connington and I were having a rather heated discussion,” she said, swallowing her own pride in favor of diplomacy. “I believe drink took possession of his senses. My lord husband sought only to protect me from a perceived threat."
Lord Baratheon nodded in acknowledgement before turning his attention back to Thomos.
“Is this true?”
"That is the long and short of it,” he said, before bowing his head in her direction. “I apologize, my lady."
"All is forgiven, good ser."
"The fuck it is," Lyonel growled.
Lord Baratheon spun, his own towering form a warning. "Boy--"
"Lyonel," Alys cut in, placing a hand on his arm.
It wasn’t much, but it was just enough to jostle him out of his singular focus on Connington as he jerked his head toward her.
“He apologized,” she said, sternly. “That is enough.”
It wasn’t. They both knew it. But she stayed firm, keeping a grip on his arm and his gaze.
He did not move for a long moment, his jaw clenched so tight she thought his teeth might crack. Eventually, slowly, he let out a long breath through his nose, allowing some of the tension to leave his shoulders. His eyes flickered back to his father, giving a silent, if reluctant nod of acceptance.
"We are done here," Lord Baratheon announced before addressing Lord Connington. "You see to your son and I will see to mine."
The other lord all but sighed in relief. "Thank you, my lord."
He then reached over, wrenching Thomos away and back into the crowd.
A low murmuring broke out as circles of people gathered and made their way out of the hall. The entertainment was over and all knew better than to linger.
The guards, however, did not fully let go until Connington was well out of sight.
“Sorry, my lord,” one dared, as Lyonel shook him off.
“Fine, fuck off with you,” he bit back.
They did not need telling twice, each giving a short bow before rejoining his father.
Alys let go as well. With any luck she could slip away to her rooms and postpone Lord Baratheon’s inevitable scolding. He’d likely be too busy with Lyonel to bother with her tonight.
A hand stopped her, a small squeeze of her fingers keeping her in place.
She looked up to see Lyonel already watching her, his dark brows furrowed in a somber expression.
He cradled her wrist, allowing his fingers to run over her skin with all the care of one handling freshly spun glass.
She gave an involuntary wince.
It still throbbed. The excitement of the past handful of minutes was enough to distract her for a time. Now it came back with a vengeance.
"I should have cut his throat,” he murmured with a candidness that gave her pause.
She knew better than to take comfort in the words. His anger wasn’t for her. None of this was about her.
"You made him bleed enough,” she said, flippantly. “Besides, something like this was liable to happen. Were I a man, I would have had my teeth knocked out years ago."
To her surprise, Lyonel’s expression only sharpened. "Don’t make light of this. I don’t care if you told him his father fucks goats. Nobody has the right to touch you."
“It’s nothing lasting,” she insisted. "You defended your house, nobody will question its honor.”
“Fuck honor!” He reached out, cupping her face in his hand to ensure she could not look away from him. “You are my wife and nobody has the right to touch you. Do you understand?”
Her eyes widened, her whole body knocked off center by the intensity of his gaze. She was not sure what to make of the feeling of his thumb brushing against her cheek or the fluttering of her heart that accompanied it.
All the same, she felt herself nodding.
“Good,” he said, the dark cloud in his expression finally starting to break. “C’mon. He may be a useless cunt, but that maester will have a salve or something for you.”
He led her away, a protective hand resting at the small of her back.
Instinct told her to pull away. She was supposed to despise him. This care, if she could even call it that, was just part of the game; a temporary fancy at best and a deliberate manipulation at worst.
Another part of her, one she was not ready to face, savored the feeling. For the first time it seemed, someone thought that she, just herself, was worth guarding.
Summary: Lyonel sits by Alys' bed side waiting for her to finally wake after the birth of their son.
Based on prompt: feeling their pulse
Warning: pregnancy, childbirth, traumatic childbirth, blood, expressions of postpartum depression
Word Count: 2.0K
Don’t let me die like this. I don’t want to die. Please, Lyonel. Please don’t let me die.
Alys’ pleas echoed inside his mind as he sat by her bedside. He had not moved in three days and no force could make him. His grip around her wrist and the slow, but steady rhythm of her pulse was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
She was in the Gods’ hands now. At least, that was what the septons kept telling him. He’d threatened to cut out their tongues and likely would have, were it not for Maester Syzario.
Whatever combinations of serums and ointments the old man had concocted had stopped the infection. He could easily see the color returning to her cheeks. The sting of copper and sickness no longer filled his nose. All the same, he could not bring himself to leave her.
She had called for him. The way her screams pierced through the thick oak wood of her chamber door would haunt him for the rest of his days.
He'd survive war. He knew what it was to fear the Stranger. Never had he felt it so acutely as when he saw it in his wife’s eyes, her grip on his hand so tight he could feel the bones begin to crack.
Don’t let me die like this. I don’t want to die. Please, Lyonel. Please don’t let me die.
The midwives had pulled their son screaming from her womb, but despite the months of waiting for his arrival, Lyonel could not spare him a second thought.
Blood kept pooling out of her. It gathered on the bed, too thick to fully soak into the sheets. Somewhere far away he would hear frightened voices and frantic movement. All he was truly aware of was the chill of her skin and how her hand went limp in his.
He couldn’t recall much after that save for the foolish attempts of others to pull him away.
None of them understood. His Alys was fierce, the fiercest woman he knew. The Stranger would do her will. She simply needed to turn him away. He was still here. Their son was here waiting for her. The Gods could not have her.
Maester Syzario at least agreed. He also knew better than to try to physically force his liege lord away. He initially called the servants, tempting him with the promise of food or rest. There were the appeals to his health and his duties. He’d even asked the wet nurse to present his son, hoping the babe would be enough to turn his lord’s thoughts to that of a father rather than a husband.
Lyonel refused all. Alys had called for him and so he would stay until she dismissed him. Their son could wait. His mother deserved to hold him first. And if she could not… he couldn’t look at the boy.
He bowed his head, his hands collapsed around hers as if in prayer.
“Forgive me Alys,” he murmured. “Please. I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”
He had been a fool. They had already lost three in the womb. Although he suspected there were still more Alys kept secret from him. He had seen what it had done to her, but the maesters kept insisting it was only a matter of time. The Gods’ willed them to wait. She was young and healthy. Her sisters had proven ample child bearers. And this one seemed so determined to live.
Fuck them all. And damn him to the hells for being so blind.
Don’t let me die like this. I don’t want to die. Please, Lyonel. Please–.
“Lyonel?”
He bolted upright, his heart clenching as his breath shuttered out of him. Her voice was too small, too cracked, but Gods save him, it was the sweetest sound.
“I’m here,” he promised. “I have you, Alys.”
He leaned over the bed, cupping her face in his hand as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. Her skin was still chill and damp with sweat, but he could not bring himself to care. She was awake. Blue eyes shone up at him, open and clear. `He did not know whether to laugh or weep. The only thing in the world that could matter now was Alys.
“I’ll tell the maester you’re awake.”
He started to pull away only to be stopped by the shake of her head.
“I’m well,” she insisted. “The child?”
A small bit of shame twisted at his insides. He had not laid eyes on the boy since they last tried to tempt him away from her.
"Healthy," he answered. “Strong too, if his lungs are any indication.”
“A son?”
He nodded, his first smile in days finally cracking across his face.
She tried to match him. The line of her lips splintered into a fragile estimate, but it could not hold. Water pooled in her eyes. She sucked in a sharp breath in some vain attempt to keep them at bay only for her throat to betray her with a dreadful sob.
Her whole body shook with the force of it, chipping away at his heart piece by piece. He could not recall a time he’s seen her like this. He longed for a task, a target, something tangible he could do to take the pain away.
He crawled onto the bed beside her, pulling her into his lap. Hot tears streamed down her face as she clung to him. He could feel his shirt grow damp against his skin, but he just held her tighter. It was all he could do.
“It’s over,” he promised. “I have you. You’re here. I have you Alys. It’s done.”
She shook her head, pressing herself deeper into his chest. Had she the strength, he imagined his ribs would be cracking. Not that it would make a difference. He’d let her crush his lungs in, if that’s what she needed.
“Don’t make me do it again,” she begged. “Please Lyonel. Don’t make me do it again. Not again. Please. Please–”
“I won’t,” he swore. “We have our son. One is enough.”
“But what if he dies?” she cried. “What if he doesn’t survive past the cradle? I can’t do it again, Lyonel. Please. I can’t.”
“Then Gowen will be the heir,” he answered, firmly. “Our father will roll in his grave and he can keep rolling down through all seven hells for all I care.”
He cupped her face, guiding her to look at him. Exhaustion and fear plagued her red stained eyes, but she did not turn away. He took it for the gift it was. Despite it all, she still had faith in him.
“I am grateful for our son,” he said, slowly as to ensure she heard to every word. “I will love him and protect him as surely as any father would, but I could not forgive any who would take you from this world. No one will force you to have another. It was my cloak I placed on your shoulders. You are mine and I am yours and I swear to you, I will not allow any to bring you such harm again. I’m sorry I ever did.”
She did not answer him in words. Her arms only wrapped themselves about his neck, before pulling him into a desperate kiss.
Lyonel did not hesitate, kissing her back with an earnestness as deep as his vows.
She was his and he was hers, from this day, until his last day. And if the Gods did not expect a fight, they would ensure to take him first.
“My lord?”
He did not remove himself from his wife’s lips, only barely registering the voice had come from the door.
“My lord?”
Alys proved to be more discerning, turning away from his attentions enough to address the man.
“Maester Syzario,” she greeted, her breath still shaking with emotion.
Lyonel was listening now, but that did not stop his lips from moving to her cheek and temple and any other bit of skin he could reach. Alys could be as courteous as she wished, but he knew her mind. His only purpose now was to give what comfort he could.
It was a credit to the old Maester that he did not shy away from his lord’s obvious display. He only looked to be waiting for the rain to stop.
“I’m glad to see you awake, my lady,” he said, warmly. “How do you feel?”
“Tired,” she admitted. “A little hungry.”
“Any pain?”
“Some.”
That finally pulled Lyonel away, his eyes widening in alarm.
“Did I–?”
She silenced him with another kiss, placing a gentle hand on his cheek.
“No, my love,” she assured. “A mere ache. Nothing dire.”
Lyonel’s brows furrowed, turning his attention to Maester Syzario.
He seemed to anticipate his lord’s question. “I shall need to do an examination to ensure all is healing properly. After, I shall administer some milk of the poppy. If all has gone well, rest and nourishment will be all that is required.”
Lyonel let out a long sigh. That would also mean he’d have to let Alys go for a time. He wasn’t keen on the idea and if the way her arms remained around his neck was any indication, she was just as reluctant.
“If you wish to delay a moment, perhaps you would like to see your son,” Maester Syzario offered.
She flinched. It was a small thing. Had he not been so close, Lyonel imagined he might have missed it. It was answer enough.
“My lady is tired,” he said, his voice decidedly calm. “Some bread if she can keep it down, and milk of the poppy to help her sleep a while longer. If she is not in immediate danger, you may conduct your examination after.”
“My lady?” the Master asked.
She nodded. “I think that would be best.”
The old man did not attempt to argue. With a small bow, stepped out of the room, allowing them the privacy both needed.
As soon as the door closed, Alys let out a staggered breath as her head fell to his shoulder.
“I am a terrible mother,” she whispered.
Lyonel gave her a gentle squeeze as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “No. Babe or not, he had you battle the Stranger for three days. It will take time, that is all.”
“But what if I can’t…”
She did not finish the thought, but he could easily guess at the rest.
She was supposed to be happy in the sacrifice; her life for her child if needs be. And she had been afraid. Some would call her coward, but he knew battle. Those who fought bravest were the ones that wanted to live the most. If there could be one thing he’d hoped the mother of his child would be, it was fierce.
“No,” he repeated. “Do not agonize about it now. You are going to be well again, and the rest will come as it will.”
He doubted she believed him. He knew her too well, but she did not press further as she settled against him.
“Will you stay with me?” she asked. “Just until I fall asleep again.”
“I am yours to command, my lady.”
And he did stay. He helped her swallow down a few bites of bread. He held her hand when the Maester returned to ensure the bleeding had indeed stopped. His fingers ran through her hair as she sipped on milk of the poppy. Only when she was once again asleep, the rise and fall of her chest as steady a rhythm as her heart did he finally leave her.
He moved slowly, his legs weak from lack of use. His stomach made it clear he needed to eat. His mind begged for sleep, but he could not give into either just yet.
With steady purpose he made his way to the nursery.
Their son needed him now. There was no telling how long it would take Alys to be able to embrace the boy. He would carry the weight of it, for as long as it took.
Don’t let me die like this. I don’t want to die. Please, Lyonel. Please don’t let me die.
Never again. For the love of everything. Never again.
Based on anon prompt: Alys x Lyonel asks ? Them having an after sex bath. Something fluffy and intimate ? Idk I’ not really good at this. Also like to think of Lyonel lathering her in expensive dornish oil after.
Summary: After nearly a month apart, Lyonel and Alys make up for lost time.
Word Count: 3.1K
Alys lay in bed, a thin sheet covering her bare form as she savored the low hum of pleasure still coursing through her veins.
She didn't enjoy when Lyonel had to leave for the capital. Had it been anywhere else, she would not have tolerated a near month’s separation. She had accompanied him everywhere from the halls of minor lords in the Riverlands to the harbors of Tyrosh. King's Landing, however, remained the one place he could go where she dared not follow.
He accepted her choice, even if he did not fully understand the reason. It simply meant, when he returned, they would have to make up for lost time.
The two of them had not left their chambers since that afternoon. Hells, they barely left the bed, content to fuck and sleep and eat and fuck, until well into the evening.
No one entered, even to light a fire. Not that it was needed. Long after the sun had set, the air remained thick and heavy on the skin. Linens replaced furs. The windows were left open. The only relief to be found was the building sweat between their bodies as they brought each other to their peak over and over again.
Alys could still feel his hands on her skin. Her hair was a mess of damp curls. Her breasts were sensitive from his attentions, marked by his mouth and teeth. A lingering ache pulsed in her core. She did not know if she could take him again. Yet some part of her still longed for the stretch of his cock, filling her in a way her fingers could never satisfy.
The urge to laugh rose in her throat. Her younger self would be appalled. She had allowed herself to be completely undone, by a man of all things. A man who had been away from her bed for far too long.
With a slight groan, she sat up, the dim light of the fading candles casting long shadows on the floor.
Lyonel had said something about calling for a servant. How long ago was uncertain, but just enough for her to have recovered some movement in her legs.
She absentmindedly grabbed for her robe which hung loosely on the bed post. How it had managed to stay there was a mystery, but she was grateful not to have to go searching around in the dim for it. The cool silk slipped over her body, coming as a gentle reprieve from the sticky heat.
She stood, her knees a little wobbly as she loosely secured the ties at her waist. It didn’t do much in terms of modesty. The smoothness of the fabric made it slip easily down her shoulders, leaving the V of the neck line to open almost to her naval. She made no moves to adjust it. As soon as she found her husband, there was little chance of it staying on.
She didn’t have to go far. Stepping towards the door of the adjoining sitting room, she could hear the low rumble of his voice. Wood and stone muffled the words, but the familiar pitch indicated he was politely telling somebody to fuck off.
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she carefully pushed the door open.
Before she could take notice of anything else, the pleasant perfume of warm vanilla and spice filled her nose. Images of red mountains and a window overlooking the northern meadows passed behind her eyes. A small ache unwittingly pressed against her chest; not painful, but present as only the memory of home could provide.
A quick glance around the room revealed the source. Incense burned on a small side table placed right beside a large wash tub. Oils reflected on the surface of the water, mirroring the candles illuminating the space.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Lyonel striding back across the room. He at least thought to put on a pair of breeches before calling for a servant. Of course, that was just about the only courtesy he allowed as his own robe had fallen open, displaying his bare chest.
Alys bit her lip, enjoying the view immensely as she watched him perch himself on the edge of the tub to test the water. She could just make out the slight pigmented marks on his neck where her own teeth had claimed him.
With a new purpose, she pushed the door fully open, making no moves to quiet the swing of the heavy hinges.
Lyonel turned at the sound. His eyes flicked quickly from surprise to his usual mischief.
“My love,” he greeted. “You’re out of bed.”
“I am,” she said, meeting that wicked smile with a challenge of her own.
He stood then, letting his eyes wander up and down her body as he stalked toward her.
For her part, she put on a show of indifference, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. She couldn’t let him win that quickly.
“Have any trouble on your own?” he asked.
She raised an eyebrow, holding back a smile. “No.”
His eyes narrowed, a thoughtful hum pressing against his lips. His hands slipped around her waist. A shiver of heat moved down her spine at the familiar pressure. Instinctively, she placed her hands on his chest, her fingers almost unconsciously curling into his coarse dark hair. It was taking a considerable amount of will power to not to run her nails down the full length of his torso.
“Shame,” he said. “I was looking forward to teasing you.”
“Night’s still young.”
He let out a laugh, before finally leaning down to kiss her. It did not hold the same heat as before; light and playful, all for the simple pleasure of touch and taste.
Even so, Aly found her hands moving up, curling into the hair at the base on his neck, while his own fingers moved to the edges of her robe, brushing against her bare skin.
“I really don’t know why you bother with this,” he murmured, tugging at the knot at her waist.
“I was just going to say the same thing,” she countered, moving to push at the fabric still draped over his shoulders.
He grinned, taking a step back to finish her work; all but tearing off the robe and letting it drop in an unceremonious heap. His fingers then made quick work of lace of his breeches, pushing down the offending fabric and kicking it away.
Lyonel took no shame in his nakedness. He stood tall and proud, even winking at her as he caught the way her eyes drank him in.
By the Seven, he was strong; his muscles evident from his broad shoulders to his hard thighs. Dark hair covered every inch of him. She wanted to run her hands down his body, following the natural trail down to his cock hanging thick and half hard between his legs.
How easy it would be to sink down to her knees and take him into her mouth. She had missed his taste, the weight of him on her tongue. He was always so responsive; her burly beast of a husband turning into a simpering mess at the slightest teasing. There was a certain pride she felt in feeling him harden while inside her, be it her mouth or her cunt, as if his body could not help but call for hers. Even with all of this enticing her, she felt herself drawn back upwards to his eyes as they stared back at her with hungry expectation.
With a coquettish smile, she carefully loosened ties of her robe, watching him watch her as the silk fell from her shoulders to pool at her feet.
He’d seen her naked plenty of times before. His appreciation for her body was a fact he did not try to keep secret. Even still, the way he looked at her now…there was no other word to describe the feeling it gave her but powerful.
She trailed a finger across her face, tucking a stray hair behind her ear as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Guiding his eyes, that same finger grazed down the curve of her neck, down the center to her chest. She let it linger, making lazy circles around her breast, allowing him to focus on the evidence of his work across her skin and the night air’s effect on her nipples. Further down she led him, passed her navel before stopping at her sex. There, he had left a different kind of mark behind, staining her skin in a sticky mess between her thighs.
“Fuck woman,” he said, half a curse, half a moan.
A true smile spread across her face at the sound. Victory was hers.
He was on his knees the next moment, pulling him toward him with the desperation of a starving man.
He pressed his lips against her stomach, kissing her softly; not in lust, but in worship.
She ran her fingers through his hair causing him to growl into her skin. The vibration only made her laugh, which made his attention that much more insistent. He added his tongue into the mix, licking and nipping as he hands kneaded the backs of her thighs.
Before she could put in a word of protest, his arms wrapped tightly around her legs as he stood, lifting her up into his arms. Alys let out a squeal of laughter bracing herself on his shoulders.
“Lyonel!”
He grinned up at her, laughing as well as he carried her to the tub.
With an agility she had come to trust implicitly, he adjusted his hold on her, allowing him to place her into the tub without causing any permanent damage.
She let out a sigh of relief. The water was perfect, not too hot, but also not freezing. Just the right level of refreshing for a hot day.
Lyonel was not far behind, slipping in behind her and placing her between his legs. To her surprise, the water somehow remained mostly in the basin.
“Comfortable?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, leaning back just enough to press a kiss against the underside of his jaw. “Thank you.”
He responded by pressing a kiss to her shoulder. There was no need for words in moments like this. For all their teasing, this was what each of them craved most in the other’s absence.
He reached to the side table, taking a cloth in hand before reaching back into the tub. His hands moved down her body, not with expectation, but with care. Despite her earlier declarations, he knew well enough to recognize she was more sore than she let on.
She closed her eyes, relaxing into his touch. The smell of the soaps and bath oils mixed with his own natural scent settled something in her chest. For not the first time, she thought of her old bedroom, of the view from the window and Lyonel standing there dressed in the styles of her homeland. It was a fantasy, plain and simple, but one she found comforting to think of.
She felt him shift behind her, urging her forward so he could clean her back.
“Where did you find these,” she asked, picking up one of the many bottles of oils lining the table beside them.
“One of the local vendors in King’s Landing,” he explained. “Apparently there has been much more demand for Dornish goods in the capital.”
She considered it a moment before nodding. “I suppose that makes sense. There are plenty of Dornishmen now that need reminders of home.”
“And some non-Dornish. I find I have a hard time sleeping without at least the smell of you beside me.”
Alys let out a light laugh, as he pulled her back against his chest, his nose burying itself in her neck. With some effort, she turned her head enough to catch his eyes. They shined down at her, half laughter, half admiring as if he still questioned how she was in his arms.
“You weren’t the only one,” she admitted, her fingers trailing lightly against his beard. “Although, less the smell, more the weight.”
His brows furrowed slightly. “The weight?”
“I nearly asked Ser Harding to lay on top of me.”
“What?” The word came out as a warning.
“Not to worry, my love, I decided against it,” Alys assured, biting back a smile. “He’s not nearly tall enough.”
His chest rumbled in a growl as bent down, his teeth nipping at her neck. “You’re damn right he isn’t.”
Alys let out another laugh, as his fingers dug into her sides, tickling her. Gods, what a pair of children they made. She wrenched herself out of his grip, the water splashing over the edge of the tub as she turned, straddling his hips to face him.
A pout still lingered on his lips, his eyes a little too stormy for it to be fully in jest.
With great care, she cradled his face in her hands, pressing her lips to his in a soothing kiss. He let out a soft hum, his body melting under her touch.
She made a point not to pull away, pressing soft kisses against his cheek and nose and neck. Her hands did not remain idle either. Taking the washing cloth, she rubbed fresh soap into his skin, cleaning him as he had done her.
“Will you need to go back?” she asked.
“Not for a while,” he assured, his expression soft. “You could always come with me.”
She dropped the cloth, letting out a long sigh. “Lyonel–.”
“You’re the lady of Storm’s End,” he insisted. “No harm would come to you. They may be a bunch of useless cunts, but none of them are that foolish.”
“What about Brynden Rivers?” she pointed out. “You know what they say about him.”
“They also say his sister bathes in the blood of virgins. Surely you don’t believe that.”
She turned her eyes away, her shoulders tensing. Of course she didn’t believe everything she heard about the Great Bastards. However, the reputation both Bryden Rivers and Sheira Seastar had developed was not based on nothing. The one time she had come face to face with the man…he unnerved her. It was not a feat easily accomplished and one she did not want to repeat.
“I don’t want to give them the opportunity,” she said, plainly. “I know it’s not logical. But, every time I think of it…some part of me can’t help but believe that the moment I step into the Red Keep, I’ll never step out again.”
Lyonel did not say anything for a long moment. She felt him shift beneath her, his hand cupping her cheek as he guided her to his eyes.
There was a conflict there, words he wanted to say, but he knew would accomplish nothing. It wasn’t a matter of him not being strong enough to protect her. He could not throw his title at the problem or wealth or influence. At the end of the day, the crown still saw her as traitor’s kin, and there were limits of what even he could do.
“I won’t force you,” he finally said. “Although, I do think you’re due for a break from Storm’s End.”
“You just got back.”
“It will take some time to prepare,” he dismissed. “I was thinking Lys.”
Alys raised a suspicious eyebrow. “And what’s in Lys?”
“Trade for the most part, although, for us, servants who won’t blink to see their lord and lady go without clothes for a month.”
He gave her a wicked grin, as if the look alone would be enough to convince her. It nearly was.
“Hedonist,” she chastised.
He hummed in agreement, pressing her mouth against her chest to further prove her point.
“Of course, if my lady does require some clothes, there is always Dorne,” he suggested, his lips trailing back up her body to her mouth.
She gave into the kiss, smiling at the thought.
“The fashion would suit you,” she admitted. “It’s been some time since I’ve been to Sunspeare.”
“I was thinking more inland. Yronwood, perhaps.”
She stopped, pulling back to look at him. A smile still played at his lips, but there was something else deeper that gave her pause. She dare not call it hope.
“Do not jest about such things.”
“I do not,” he swore. “I spoke with Prince Baelor. Your nephews are still hostage to the King, but there is nothing preventing you from visiting your brother so long as I accompany you. Besides, I’m curious to see what kind of land creates a woman like you.”
She stared at him, his eyes never straying from her. He meant it. Every word. She was going home. After so many years, coming to terms with the simple fact she would likely never see the gates again; he had found a way.
Somewhere is the back of her mind, her younger self rejoiced. As soon as she was past the gates, she’d be safe. Her brother could shut the portcullis, leaving Lyonel and all the rest behind. Endless storms could crash against the stone, but nothing could shake the foundation. She’d escape back to her room and her castle and never be parted from home again.
But even as she pictured it, she knew that was no longer the future she craved. She thought of her room, the view from her window, and Lyonel beside her; his weight pressed against her body and the smell of home in her lungs.
She kissed him, long and deep as she pressed her body against his own.
He responded in kind, wrapping his arms around her in a strong embrace.
It wasn’t enough, not nearly.
Moving her hands down his body, she took his length in her hand, squeezing at the base. He felt him shutter against her lips, half a moan, half a warning.
“Alys–”
“I do not need you to perform,” she assured. “I just want to feel you.”
He looked at her, a wonder in his eyes as he gave a small nod.
Carefully she guided him inside her. Even only half hard, the familiar stretch of him pushed a low hum from her chest and into her throat. His own mouth fell open. A hitch in his breath, and a groan vibrated through her.
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes at the fullness. Her mind went numb as that lingering ache finally settled.
Fuck, she needed him. It was a shameful thing to admit. Something her past self would despise her for, but it was the truth.
She fell against his chest, wrapping herself around him as if to bury herself in his skin. Lyonel seemed to understand, holding her just as tight against him, his lips pressing a kiss into her hair.
He had undone her; completely and utterly. There was no version of her future without him in it. She could not be parted from her home for anything.
For your touch prompt post, what about #31? A pinky swear between Ser Lyonel and Lady Alys.
Touching Prompts
Lord Lyonel and Lady Alys Baratheon Masterlist
Summary: When a close call with a stag leaves Lyonel having to be carried home with a hole in his stomach, Alys reminds him there is more at stake than his own life.
Word Count: 1.8 K
“What happened?” Alys snapped, storming towards Lyonel’s chamber in a thunder worthy of the Baratheon words.
The two sers who had accompanied Lyonel on the hunt stiffened at their lady’s approach. The fearful look exchanged between them did not escape her notice nor the blood still staining their tunics.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” one dared to speak. “Maester Syzario said we were not to let anyone enter.”
“It’s not a pretty sight,” the other pressed. “Your ladyship should not be witness to such things.”
“Maester Syzario is still a servant to his lady,” she said, testily. “As for the rest, I shall judge that for myself.”
She stepped forward only to be halted as each man moved in front of the door.
In any other situation she may have admired their loyalty, but she was in no mood to tolerate fools.
“Sers, I will state the matter very plainly. Either you face the disappointment of my Maester for not following orders; or, you face the wrath of my husband for having lay hands on me. Do we understand one another?”
They did not require a debate. One more shared another panicked was enough for both to step aside.
She spared neither of them a second glance as she pushed the door forward.
The smell hit her first, a sickening combination of copper, sweat and boiled wine. Blood continued its trail from the door to the bed. A pile of red stained clothes and bandages lay in a heap on the floor. The sheets had not been spared either, absorbing every drip of sweat and life from the body sprawled across it.
He was so pale.
She knew Lyonel to be strong. He was a great beast of a man with wild hair and wild eyes who laughed too loud, indulged too much and forced the world to be wider to accommodate him. She never thought she’d ever use the word frail to describe him. The thought shook her to her core.
Maester Syzario sat in a chair beside him, his old but steady hands working a needle and thread through her husband’s skin.
If Lyonel felt any pain, he did not show it. His head was propped up on a cushion of pillows as his eyes fluttered open and closed. She tried to focus on his breathing, syncing her own to the rise and fall of his chest as she stepped further into the room.
The sound of her footsteps seemed to rouse him as his head jerked suddenly; a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
“My lady,” he greeted, his voice cracked and yet still laughing. “I got the bastard! They’re carving up that stag in the kitchens now. We’ll feast on that beast for a week yet.”
“I don’t want to hear a word from you,” she said, forcing the shaking words to an edge. “Maester Syzario?”
He did not answer immediately, taking the time to tie off the last of the thread before turning his attention to her.
Despite it all, she felt a surge of gratitude toward the man. He had joined their household while she had been pregnant with Ormund. The difficulty of her condition finally prompted Lyonel to get rid of Maester Corbus, useless cunt that he was. She knew her husband could not be in better hands.
“The wound is deep,” he said, his voice steady. “Thankfully, it was a clean blow. There were no significant tears in the tissue. Better still, they were not far from the keep when it happened.”
He leaned down, grabbing a fresh set of bandages and began wrapping the wound he had just stitched.
“I have given his lordship milk of the poppy to deal with the pain. It will take time to recover, but I believe there will be no lasting damage.”
“He’s sewn me up prettier than one of your dresses,” Lyonel added. “The scar will be quite the sight by the end. Eh?”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Alys bit out.
Maester Syzario glanced up. His expression remained unperturbed, but she could swear the threat of a laugh pressed against the corners of his eyes. Still, he nodded in acknowledgment before finishing his work. Only when the bandage was properly tied did he stand.
“He is out of danger, my lady,” he assured. “However, to prevent further injury, I would advise he does not leave this bed for at least a week or engage in any other strenuous activities.”
She gave a sharp nod, swallowing some of the embarrassment from her outburst. “Thank you, Maester Syzario.”
He seemed to understand, giving her a respectful bow before turning his attention back to his patient.
“Rest my lord. I will go ensure we have bandages ready for this evening.”
“You need not leave, ser,” Alys said.
This time the smile did prevail, crinkling at the corner of his eyes in jest. “On the contrary. I found it best to place a good wall between myself and a storm.”
He gave one final bow before taking his leave, carefully shutting the door behind him and no doubt warning all of the coming squall.
Alys turned her sights onto Lyonel. Whether it was the milk of the poppy or just a general carelessness, he did not seem to sense the building pressure of thunder behind his wife’s eyes.
“See?” he said. “You heard the man. I am well.”
“You are not!” she snapped, crossing the room in an instant, with bared teeth. “You’ve got a hole the size of a barn door in your belly!”
“A cellar door at best,” he dismissed. “Now will you calm yourself? You’ve seen me worse than this.”
“A broken leg or a busted jaw at a tourney does not compare,” she argued. “I had to hear about this from a maid. All the servants were convinced you were dead or nearly. Do you realize how much blood you tracked in?! How could you be so reckless?”
“I can hardly account for the actions of a stag now can I?”
“You should not have been pursuing one to begin with.”
“Would you have me stop hunting?”
“If you are going to be so dismissive, yes!”
His eyes darkened then, and for a moment he was once again the proud Baratheon she knew him to be, with wind and lighting of his own to counter hers.
“Careful. You are my lady and my love, but you will not dictate to me what I can or cannot do in my own castle.”
Her jaw clenched, forcing a calming breath through her nose. His stubbornness would be the death of both of them. “That may be, but one of us must take some responsibility. You are the Lord of Storm’s End. You have certain obligations.”
“That prevent me from hunting?” he said, sardonically.
“That prevent you from pursuing pleasure without any regard to anyone! There is the castle to keep and servants to employ. All your vassals and knights and squires. And Ormund–.”
Her breath caught. She could feel her throat begin to tighten as the thunder threatened to turn to rain. “What if it wasn’t a stag? What if it was a wolf or a boar? How could I tell him his father was taken away from him for sport!”
Lyonel did not answer her and she could not look him in the eye, keeping her gaze on the edge of the mattress instead. She did not want to let go at the anger just yet. The alternative would surely drown her.
“Oh, Alys.” There was no storm in the word. Her name was simply her name spoken with the understanding that could only come from his lips.
There was no stopping the rain then. It pooled over in warm streaks down her face. Not a gale just yet, but could well turn into one if she did not keep her breath steady.
“You cannot go on with so little concern for your own life,” she said, raising her chin as she wiped away the tears. She had to keep some of her dignity.
His hand stirred then, moving from the periphery of her eye to the center with an open palm.
She took it as the invitation it was, taking his hand in hers as she took a seat on the edge of the bed.
It never ceased to fascinate her, how big his hands were compared to hers. After well over ten years of marriage she knew every crease and cut of that hand just as well as her own. She chose to focus on the life still inside them, the strength teased by the way he squeezed her, and not linger as just how much cooler he was to the touch.
“I suppose there is some truth in what you say,” he admitted. “Did I frighten you?”
She nodded, not wanting to put any more power into the fear that gripped her heart by giving it a voice.
“How can I make amends?” he asked.
“I would ask you to be less careless, but I know there is little chance of that,” she said, dryly. “I can only ask you never to die from such actions.”
She lifted her gaze to his only to catch him in a moment of deep thought. He obviously came to some conclusion as he gave a sharp, decisive nod.
“Done.”
Her brows furrowed in confusion as he slipped his hand from hers only to offer her his pinky.
“Lyonel…”
“A vow against death is no small matter,” he said. “It requires the most ancient and sacred of traditions. Now give it here.”
She stared at him in disbelief. While she trusted Maester Syzario’s judgement, it was clear he had prescribed too much milk of the poppy.
Lyonel remained unmoved, his jaw set and his pinky at the ready.
When it became clear he would remain that way, Alys gave in, intertwining her pinky with him.
The moment their fingers were locked, he pulled her closer as if to ensure she was not about to slip away. She could feel him summon what strength he had left to spare in the way he held her gaze. Whatever possessed him to do this, she knew in the morning he would take what he said next as seriously as any oath made by the sword.
“I vow, that should the Stranger come for me, I will tell him to fuck off,” he began. “No matter what mask he wears, be it man, woman or beast, he will be turned away. My wife bids me stay and so I shall. This I swear by the old Gods and New.”
Alys could feel her heart tighten at the words, unsure whether to cry or laugh at the ridiculousness of such a vow being spoken over such a childish gesture. She only knew she loved him and if the gods were merciful, they would take her first.
“You’re a fool,” she whispered, fondly.
“Your fool,” he reminded.
She could not bear it any longer. Leaning down, she pressed her lips to his, the kiss an assurance that she was his just as deeply as he was hers.
A/N: This is just me purging my brain of a new idea. Might turn it into something, but wanted to get some feelers out if anyone was interested.
Edit: Ser Lyonel x Lady Alys Baratheon Tag
House still to be determined, but now starting to lean towards Hightower or possibly Tully (any input on this front is appreciated)
Alys and Lyonel's "courtship" and eventual marriage takes plays before the tourney of Ashford
Alys is the second oldest daughter and so was expected to marry the lord of a minor house or vassal, but there was no exceptional hurry
Lyonel first saw her during a tourney celebrating the marriage of her older sister
Instantly was smitten by her beauty, but what sealed the deal was when he got to dance with her and the slap she gave a lord in the hall when he decided to get a little handsy
Lyonel asked for her favor the next day and was determined to win
Of course, this brought him into conflict with the groomsman who wanted to make a show for his new bride be defending her honor
Everyone else was supposed to go easy, but Lyonel wasn't going to play that game
Needless to say Lyonel won and it cause quite a riff in the family when he named Alys the queen of love and beauty
He nearly got in a physical altercation with the groomsman
Alys was not impressed by any of this thinking the whole thing ridiculous, not wanting to be in the center of whatever drama Lyonel was trying to pull
So, it did come as a bit of a shock when the tourney and wedding were over, her father came to her declaring the Lord Baratheon had come to him with an offer of marriage which he had accepted for her
She was shipped off to Storm’s End before she could figure out which way was up
Lyonel was rather surprised, but not deterred by her not being thrilled at the prospect of being married to him
In his mind the whole thing was actually rather romantic, but Alys countered that she’s not a maid in a story, she’s a real breathing person hundreds of miles away from home about to bind her life to somebody she does not know
Lyonel believes he knows everything he needs to know; she’s beautiful, clever, a fine dancer, deceptively stubborn and has a mean right hook, what more could he ask for?
Still, he supposed he should have expected this, nothing for it but to seduce her
Queue the pair of them slowly actually getting to know each other and fall in love for real
Random Dialogue:
"You don't care if you just broke my heart or the heart of my lover."
"You have a lover?" he asked, alarmed.
"I might. The point is you wouldn't know. You don't know me."
"Fine, I get that. But do you?"
"A smile," he grinned. "A very small one. By all the Gods a glimpse of a smile! Tell me your thoughts, I command it!"
"I suppose there's nothing for it. I'm going to have to seduce you."
"Are you?"
He nodded, his brows furrowed in solem determination. "If there is one thing I would ask for in a wife it would be for her to desire me as much as I desire her."
"So you admit this is not love."
"I will admit no such thing. But I suppose I'll just have to convince you of that too. You really don't make this easy."
