aftertaste of a favor
{ lyonel baratheon x you }
author's note : you guys wanted me to write lyonel baratheon, so im gonna give you lyonel baratheon!!!! we are absolutely not going to subscribe to the purity westerosi bullshit bc u cannot convince me people actually care, even as a noble lady, which - im not sure if this qualifies as gender neutral like usual? im...unsure how to make it work properly in a world that is way less fluid in acceptance of deviation from their two primary genders in terms of titles and roles? reader adheres to the female presenting roll of a Lady for the sake of the Event in this fic, but if anyone has notes on how to navigate this, id love to hear them!! i want to keep making these as inclusive as possible <3
sidenote: have fun u chaotic baddies, i see u. u can take him. and in this? YOU GIVE HIM A RUN FOR HIS MONEY, GO YOU. lovely divider by @uzmacchiato
word count : 2996 ( holy shit )
It started with a favor.
Night descended upon Ashford Meadow like the fist of a vengeful god, the anticipation thick and loud and bleeding out into the air between a tightly closed palm before the blow could even connect. It drifted all the way up to Lord Ashford's keep, winding it's way through stone halls clamoring with preparations and the celebration of Lady Gwin's nameday – of which you, of course, were in attendance whether you wished to be, or not.
Yet even you couldn't deny the thrill weaving around your bones as you settled into your place on the bench, the stands already filling up quickly with other nobles eager to see the first bloodshed of the tourney. Torch light burned hot and bright, chasing away the darkness with an almost cheerful warmth, illuminating the subtle flash of gold dragons already being exchanged in wagers. Lords and Ladies and their whispers were still heard clear as day over the rising cacophony of growing crowds bringing the familiar musings of idle gossip, like which of the knights had come to Ashford simply to find himself a lady wife.
You, of course, were not here for such things. Even if you were partial to a man who proved to be more than competent with a sword or mace in hand.
As soon as the thought crossed your mind, the volume around the field rose; the eight knights entering the lists for the opening tournament had begun to mount their horses, spurring them along the muddy field in a few spirited circuits along the lanes. Squires dashed around, trying valiantly to make absolutely certain that everything was in place, that armor was secured and horses readied, lances heaved into the waiting hands of men already astride horses growing restless with each passing moment. Your eyes scanned them all, along with everyone else – and that anticipation began to rear it's head once more, now that the first joust was already in sight.
It was difficult to miss him.
The impressive figure he cut was enough to draw more eyes than your own, almost immediately. Tall, imposing, vibrant not only from the adornment of bright Baratheon golds, but in the air of his vitality as well. Larger than life itself, Ser Lyonel Baratheon made chaos bow and fold and yield, the raging thunder of Storm’s End incarnate made flesh right before your very eyes, great stag helm balanced on the saddle before him.
You were suddenly all too aware of every tale you’ve heard surrounding Lyonel Baratheon, heir of Storm’s End. The revelry, the drink, the scandal, the warrior’s prowess and not a care for courtesy or etiquette in the slightest.
Then, almost without missing a single moment: roaring, unapologetic laughter cut right through the sound of the gathering masses. It sliced right through every single one of your thoughts like butter, as if on cue.
The Laughing Storm, indeed.
He’s intrigued you from the very beginning.
Because, this isn’t the first time you’ve seen him. There have been other tourneys, of course, but the Tourney of Ashford Meadow in honor of Lady Gwin’s thirteenth nameday is the first time you’ve wanted to meet him.
Truthfully, the constrictions of propriety had always suffocated you, as well. Perhaps, that is why the gods above chose to smile upon you in mercy. Or perhaps in warning. Either way, it did not stop the Laughing Storm himself, from lifting his eyes at that exact, godsforsaken moment, only to cease their sweep of the stands when far off blues locked with yours.
You would argue that it was you, his eyes caught, were it not for the fact that he and his squire lingered near the lane closest to you. Even from this height, he was magnetic, and you were almost sorry for it. You felt yourself still. So much so, perhaps, that breathing was no longer a priority, and so you simply stopped.
Ser Lyonel simply grinned.
All teeth. Steed stomping under him, impatient. He held the reigns steady, and beckoned to his squire for the lance. To your absolute delight, and an undeniable, abject horror, he spurred his horse forward. Unmistakably, in your direction.
That traitorous heart of yours stuttered, when his grin widened – sharp and easy and way too fucking pretty when contrasted with the mess of dark and silver curls falling over one eye, the closer he comes. The Ladies behind you immediately begin whispering about who Ser Lyonel is going to request a -
Your name carves a bold command, warm and smooth all at once, through the voices around you – still held in place by this shocking development. The armored horse halts before the stands, Ser Lyonel’s voice carrying effortlessly over the wooden rail to you, settled near the edge in the second row.
“I would humbly request the honor of receiving the favor of someone as radiant as my lady, to guide me to victory.”
It was smooth, in delivery; no doubt practiced and announced more times than you would ever correctly guess. Yet, he was still teasing you. Attempting to charm you. If you were naive, you wouldn’t have even noticed. But you are not naive. Every thread woven through his words that simply screamed challenge - tempting you in a dare, almost, was caught and cataloged almost immediately. Because here he was, highlighting you in front of the whole fucking meadow. Or, at least, anyone paying attention.
You’re beginning to think that his reputation precedes him already.
That, is when you make up your mind. Because you? You rarely back down. You eat men like Lyonel Baratheon for morning meal. Occasionally, literally.
He has no idea what he’s just rode into, does he? Poor man.
You were not about to let him devour you.
So, as per request of your pride, your eyes hold his for a long, silent moment. Then, a quirk of your lips, the flash of amusement taking refuge in your expression before the slight, polite incline of your head. Then, with all the languid grace you could summon, your actions spoke of the answer to his challenge if one knew how to read subtle body language. If one knew someone like you well enough to notice how you answered Ser Lyonel in kind, no words required. Simply the way you held yourself: assured. Steady. Unflinching. Spine straight as steel but with all the flowing calm of a bubbling stream.
The rake of his eyes do not leave you. Not as you rise. Not as you navigate your way through the stands. Not as you pretend not to notice your companions whispering in your wake about what you're going to do -
And they sure as all Seven Hells never leave you, once you appear right in front of him, stepping right up to the barrier with eyes looking down on him like you're keeping some sort of secret. As if spectacle were beneath you, a noble Lady who knows your place. He still doesn't hide how he looks at you – not with the firelight bathing you in soft warmth so at odds with the harsh darkness blanketing the lists with the hush of nightfall bleeding mystery and proclamations brought on by the high thrill of a fight on the horizon.
In this case, Lyonel begins to wonder if he’s about to engage in two tournaments this night. Because, if the way you're looking at him is any indication? If he hadn't known how people look at him, more often than not – he'd wager you were out for blood of your own.
"I believe the honor would be mine, Ser Lyonel," the lilt in your voice was his own teasing reflected back to him. Seamless. Immediate. The favor in your hands raised, an offering. A declaration. His grin widened as he angled the lance towards the stands for you to bless him with the all the luck everyone knew he never needed. "May it see you to a swift victory, indeed."
Your movements pause. Braided wreath of fragrant herbs and vibrant ribbon hovering an inch above the tip of his lance. Your head tilts. Polite smirk growing into something openly flirtatious, when your eyes slip to catch his once more. Words flow freely, after that. Voice low enough for only him to hear you over the rising tide of the crowd.
"Though, I do wonder – would it be remiss to assume you have a way show your thanks, should you become the victor?"
Lyonel, to his credit, only briefly pauses.
And then? He laughs.
It's loud, because he isn't ever anything else. Heads turn. Neither of you break eye contact. You pretend not to feel your heart beat a little quicker when the rumble settles over your skin in a way propriety demands you ignore.
Instead? You lean in.
Literally.
Hands close the distance to lower the wreath down the length of the lance angled towards you, body following the movement as far as your arms will reach. You let go, letting it slide down the rest of the way to settle against the guard – yet you do not straighten.
Lyonel never gives you the chance.
His other hand drops the reigns of his horse. Reaches above the rack of antlers spread out before him, lifting to the heavens in supplication for a looming victory he may not see. And then, the cold steel of gauntleted fingers catch your hand in a bold move too gentle for a man of his stature, of his nature. It's not subtle. It's not hidden. Neither is the way his mount eases forward enough for Ser Lyonel Baratheon to lean in and brush warm lips over your knuckles.
Slow. Steady. Lingering. Your breath catches, and you really wish it hadn't. But, he notices. Of course he does. Lyonel Baratheon wouldn't be himself, if he hadn't learned to read the subtle reactions he draws so effortlessly from anyone who crosses his path.
It tells you exactly how he would show his gratitude.
When he straightens, the fire in his eyes in unmistakable. He keeps you like this, and you let him.
People are starting to notice.
"Ah, the Lady doubts me and curses me all in one breath," it comes out a smooth rumble, careless of the attention the both of you are drawing. "No matter. I have a few tricks up my sleeve that could restore your faith in me, if you'd allow it."
His grin turns searing. The careful eye contact breaks, in favor of his eyes pointedly darting down to your lips. A brief moment that feels like eternity. It's enough for you to remember yourself, and you promptly pretend to ignore the flutter in your stomach of the implication. Match his grin, finally, with a barbed one of your own.
Then? You pull your hand back. Remain leaning over the rail, but curl your hands over the edge, entirely out of reach. Pretend, valiantly, like the path he traced with his warmth has not left a burning trail branded onto your skin.
"Aren't you worried about the delicate sensibilities of a lady?" A brief pause as you straighten to full height then, face tipped down to look upon him in the flicker of firelight, every inch the portrait of a scoundrel knight he does nothing to change. "In either case – is it truly a curse if a quick match makes for a sweet reward?"
This time, it's Lyonel's turn to feel something warm coursing through his veins. The fire burning in the braziers nearby have nothing to do with it, nor do the layers of armor coating his skin in the familiar weight of a memorable night to be had. His eyebrows rise – if only slightly, grin widening when your words settle. If you weren't watching him as closely as he is you, it would be easy to miss the flicker of surprise flashing in his eyes, before they gleam.
He's always been harried to find someone who matches him so seamlessly. It would be a shame if he let you slip away, wouldn't it?
The laugh that precedes his answer is rough – though this one is simply for you, alone.
"Is it truly sweet, if I did not bleed for it? Or does my Lady wish to send me off with nothing but a honeyed curse from her sharp tongue and sweet lips?”
Gods above, it was becoming a battle of your own to hold fast to your resolve.
The boldness is rewarded with a slight curve of your lips, ignoring once more, the feel of your heart suddenly pounding in time to the absolute, treacherous swoop of your stomach.
Except, Ser Lyonel doesn’t wait for your reply. Instead, he simply retracts the lance and holds it straight, leaning closer to you standing over him like some ancient goddess of old. Gods, he wanted to remark on your ‘delicate sensibilities’, because he knew for a fact that someone with whip-sharp wit like yours was never as fragile as they seemed.
“You are right though,” he starts, voice lowering to a conspiratorial murmur. Even above the crowd and passing thunder of hoofbeats on the packed dirt of the field, you could hear it plain as day. The sardonic drawl that warmed your skin and settled in your chest like a burning, wicked little jolt. “It would be foolish of me, not to pay your good fortune back in kind.”
The implication is received with a blink, and the slightest catch of breath.
You pretend like you’re not in danger. Like perhaps, for the first time in a very long time, Lyonel Baratheon may be just a little more than you can chew.
But, by all the gods, you were not raised to be a fucking coward.
“You don’t strike me as a fool, Ser Lyonel.”
An eyebrow lifts, though his gaze doesn’t waver when his head shakes once, finding himself leaning closer – the stag helm balanced on the saddle before him, becoming just a little too close to catching on something like his dignity. He doesn’t pay it any mind – not when his smile sharpens, another laugh spilling out of him like this is what he breathes, instead of something as mundane as the spring breeze sliding throughout the meadow like a balm.
“Most would disagree with you, I’d wager.”
“Most are fools themselves, with no appreciation for the spirit of life.”
By now, there are whispers. Heads have turned, pretending not to watch from the corners of eyes, pretending not to hide behind their fans as they strain to hear what it is, exactly, that you and the Laughing Storm are speaking of for so long a time, when all he wanted was your favor. Because, what you aren’t quite aware of yet, is how the tension growing slow and steady like a white-hot brand between the two of you, so lost in your own battle of wills, is beginning to be felt.
Not just in the air crackling between you, but in the waves rippling out from the tell-tale signs of something beginning. A fire catching. A storm brewing off the coast of this new shore that the both of you have dragged yourselves towards, all breathless and shameless and churning waters spitting you out on the horizon of something exciting. The first page scrawled messy on the bark of a lightning struck tree, with only knife-sharp words to carve the prologue into existence.
Because, once Lyonel’s laugh has tapered into remnants of pure fucking joy, he simply cannot help himself.
“Oh, you have teeth. Tell me, if I ask nicely -”
A horn cleaves sharp and severe through the roar of the yard, severing the end of Lyonel’s sentence, drowning him out by the unmistakable signal of the starting match. His words have, effectively, gone unheard, and you do not ask for clarification.
Were he closer to the herald, Lyonel would no doubt have told him where to shove what, and where. He settles for a sharp exhale through his teeth, eyes rolling so fucking hard, they deserve to see the sight in front of them, once his attention is focused, once more, on you.
Like he has been, this whole entire time.
You, on the other hand, notice an opening, and strike.
The smile you allow, is smaller. A pale ghost haunting the halls of something more alive, an imitation of the enigmatic looks he’s been receiving – and, to his absolute fucking astonishment, growing to crave - over the duration of your. . . conversation. This, is the look of something encouraging.
The look of something on the horizon, bearing down on him with all the promise of a thousand rising suns, a whirlwind of heat soaked beams of light breaking apart the tedium of storm gray clouds with their bare fucking hands.
Then, a slight, polite incline of your head. A slight, imperceptible upright tug of your lips that has absolutely nothing to do with fucking etiquette.
Lyonel straightens, still annoyed from the interruption, still wondering if he’s about to fucking combust from you simply standing there looking at him like -
“Good luck, Ser Storm,” your eyes flick down to the wreath, before lifting. Slow. Playful. Bright. They settle on his once more, and he pretends not to notice how his heart fucking falters. Stumbles over itself, when it tries to beat again. The grin that began to resurface froze. Infamous laugh dying in his fucking throat at the play on his title when your eyes meet again. “Don’t inspire my regret upon gifting you my favor.”
And then? In a single breath, you back away from the railing. Turn on your heel and promptly fucking walk away from him.
For a moment, he simply stares after you.
Fuck a harmless night spent with a pretty face. Ser Lyonel Baratheon has never been more certain of anything else in life except this: he’s just met his fucking destiny.
(reminder that this in its entirety contains mpreg, reference to giving birth, Max Verstappen's bad dad, past abuse, and on-track accidents.)
All previous parts can be found in the masterpost here.
Max hasn't been scared before. Not really, not like this. But he's been scared without pause since he found out he was pregnant. It's exhausting. It's terrifying. And Max doesn't know how to make it stop.
Part 7
Bastiaan cries all the way from Viry-Châtillon to the hotel Daniel's booked for them. He's tired and cranky and hates his car seat and wants to be home where it's familiar and quiet and is just him and Max.
Max understands. He feels the same. He's overwhelmed and exhausted too. He hasn't slept through the night since before Bastiaan was born; every moment he's had with his baby he's had to figure out by himself. He doesn't have anyone else. He strokes Bastiaan's forehead and cheek with his thumb. It soothes him some of the time. His daddy's touch.
It doesn't work this time. Nothing's going to soothe him but being out of the car seat. Or sleeping.
"It's okay, little baby," Max tells him. "I know everything's been different. I know you want to be at home. Everything is new, and you like the things you know. You're being very brave, but I know you've had enough." Max has had enough too. He feels like when a cup's too full and the water tips over the top and onto the table. He's got nowhere to put anything new. He doesn't know how to fix it.
"It won't be long," Daniel says. "Less than five minutes."
Max looks up. Daniel's looking at him in the rear view mirror as they wait at traffic lights. Max can't hide his exhaustion. His elation at having a chance. His fear that it won't work out. Max hasn't been scared before. Not really, not like this. But he's been scared without pause since he found out he was pregnant. It's exhausting. It's terrifying. And Max doesn't know how to make it stop.
"Not long now, Bastiaan," Daniel says.
Max doesn't cry, but it doesn't stop him wanting to.
&&&
Max doesn't go to the check-in desk with Daniel. There's a queue, so Max takes the pushchair over to the sofas in the corner instead and concentrates on taking a sad, frowny Bastiaan out of his car seat. It's not good for a baby as little as Bastiaan to be so much in his seat but this trip is an exception and not the rule.
"There we are," Max tells Bastiaan softly, kissing the top of his head. "Is that better, my baby?"
Bastiaan rubs his cheek over Max's t-shirt. He likes it best when Max isn't wearing a t-shirt at all, never mind the compression vest that's hurting Max underneath it. Max shushes him, giving him a little slow rock to settle him.
When Daniel comes over, he's pink-cheeked. "I fucked up." He glances at Bastiaan. "Sorry for swearing."
Max shakes his head. "He's a baby, he is barely holding his head up. He can hear a bad word and not be saying it just yet."
"I thought I was booking you a family room and keeping my room, but my French is apparently pretty merde because they thought I was amending my own room booking instead. And they're full up unless someone doesn't check in for this security conference and cancels at the last minute. Which so far they haven't."
"I was going to stay in the airport anyway," Max says. He squares his shoulders. "You can just drop us there instead."
"No," Daniel says, making a face. "Don't be an idiot. We're just going to have to share the family room instead. The guy behind the counter was doing some pretty ineffective miming but I think there's a roll out bed."
"Oh," Max says. "Okay."
"Unless you don't want to," Daniel says quickly, "and if so, I'll be the one to go and find another room. They said they'd call if anyone cancelled anyway."
"The baby will keep you awake," Max says. "He doesn't like to sleep through the night."
"Ehh," Daniel says. "Neither do I. We can be insomniac buddies." He grins and it might not look exactly like the grins Max has carefully catalogued through years of long distance devotion but it's close enough that Max might be mistaken. It has been a while since he'd seen Daniel. Since Daniel had not contacted him after the crash.
"Okay," Max says. "Let's go." He has his rucksack and the changing bag and his suitcase and the pushchair. Daniel has a scuff-free leather hold-all with his initials embossed and the backpack he'd brought onto the plane. He takes Max's suitcase and manages to manoeuvre both it and the pushchair one-handed towards the lifts. Max is left following with Bastiaan, his little quiet baby with his little tear-stained face. Max kisses him. He is loved. He's so loved. Max is going to make sure he always knows it.
&&&
The room is nice but not as big as Max secretly wants. There's a large bed, a smaller twin bed over by the window, and a space where a crib would go if there was one. Which there isn't.
Max lets out a breath. He lays Bastiaan down in the middle of the bed. Bastiaan doesn't have many toys, because Max doesn't have anyone to give him any, and because Max has barely been anywhere since he was born, and before that, hadn't thought about buying anything but the barest practicalities. There's a soft rattle shaped like a lamb, and a toy giraffe. Both of them came from Celine, when she'd texted him to find out how he was doing, and he'd texted back to say that he was in hospital and Bastiaan was seven hours old. She'd closed the cafe after lunch, driven to the hospital, and delivered Max a baby blanket, the giraffe, and the rattle. She'd hugged him, held Bastiaan, and come back the following morning to drive them both home. She was the one who'd shown Max how to bath Bastiaan in the sink, how to test the water temperature and hold him and gently bathe him. Max needs to do better. The only person Bastiaan has is Max.
He gets out the giraffe and the rattle from his backpack. Bastiaan closes his little hand around the giraffe's neck. He wriggles his legs. His eyes track Max as Max moves, as he stands up to put his bag down.
"I forgot to buy baby wipes," Max says. "I'm running out." He's tired. "Can you look up if there's a shop near?"
"I'll do one better," Daniel says. He's thumbing through his phone. "I've got to go to the shop myself. Need a couple of things. I'll sort out somewhere for the baby to sleep as well." He shows Max a picture of baby wipes. "Are these okay?"
Max doesn't know enough to have a preference. "If they are for babies," he says. He sits down on the bed next to his baby. Bastiaan's still wriggling. His little hands move. His toes are curling and stretching out in his little socks. "I can go myself."
"Or," Daniel says, "I can go and give you a break from my company. You and Bastiaan can hang out. Do you need nappies or anything?"
"We're probably okay," Max says. He doesn't think about the emptying box at home. It'll be fine. He'll sign whatever contract Cyril gives him so long as it means he doesn't have to start worrying about anything for Bastiaan.
"You want me to bring you some Red Bull or something?"
Max shakes his head. His dad had made him go cold turkey on Red Bull after he was fired, and it wasn't like Max had been mobile enough at the time to go and find an alternative. Now he's supposed to be limiting his caffeine intake because he's feeding Bastiaan, so if he'll have anything it probably won't be an energy drink. "I'm okay," he says. "Thank you."
"Okay," Daniel says. Then, "Fuck, I don't have your number. You've changed it, right? Either that or you've blocked me."
Max looks at him. "I haven't blocked you."
"Well then," Daniel says. "I'm going to need your number. To call. If there are decisions to be made about baby wipes." He holds his phone out for Max to take. It's open at Max's contact page, and Max's number is there, the one he had before. The one that belongs to a sim card Max destroyed with a pair of pliers in the corner of a car park a couple of hours after running away from his dad's place. He'd wiped his phone and his laptop before leaving. Had to create a new Apple ID because his dad tracked his location via his old one. Traded in his car for another one in a deal that only benefited the car salesman and not Max. He'd registered the car to his mum's address even though he hadn't seen her since before he left Formula 1. He hadn't had anywhere else to put down.
For nine months, Max has kept his location a secret from his dad. And now he's just shown up at Renault and asked for a job. If it works out, his dad's going to know exactly where Max and his baby are.
Max lets out a breath. He types his telephone number into Daniel's phone and saves his contact record. "There," he says. "My number."
"Great," Daniel says. "Lemme give you a missed call so you've got mine." He does finger guns at Max after Max's phone starts to buzz. "Can't get rid of me now, bud."
Max thinks back to after the accident. His concussion. His dad looking through Max's phone. Reading out his messages to him because Max couldn't look at a screen for weeks. Daniel hadn't called. Hadn't texted. Hadn’t got in touch.
It wasn't Max who'd got rid of Daniel. It had been the other way around.
"I've got a couple of things to get," Daniel says, "so don't miss me too hard. I'll be back in time to take us to Cyril's, promise."
"Okay, Daniel," Max says. He unlaces his shoes and takes them off. He gets on the bed next to Bastiaan, curling around him like a protective letter C. "Hello, my baby. Are you playing with your toys?"
Bastiaan replies by bringing his fist up to his mouth. He starts to suck on it, his little sign that he's hungry. Max kisses his soft hair.
When he looks up, Daniel's still there. He's watching them both. He looks almost sad.
"I'll see you," Daniel says.
"Yeah," Max says. He waits until the door's closed after him, until Daniel's footsteps have padded away down the hallway.
Max sits up, pulls his t-shirt over his head, unzips his compression top, and lets out a breath. His tits hurt. There are harsh red lines pressed into Max's skin. He wants to be at home where he doesn't have to wear it. He picks his baby up. Bastiaan's already rooting for him.
"My hungry baby," Max says. For a second, Max's eyes blur with tears, but this isn't him. He's not a crier. He's stronger than that. Better than that. He's been bred not to cry.
Bastiaan latches on. It's sore. Max looks down at him. Strokes his hair. His cheek. Lets Bastiaan hold onto his thumb.
"It's just the two of us, hey?" Max says. "Me and you, my little baby. Me and you."
He scrubs away his tears with the back of his hand, and Bastiaan holds on.
