The Laughing Storm and Wild Rose: Possession and Favor
Story summary: Love has no place in the world of politics. Janella Tyrell, Leo Tyrell's only daughter, understands this better than most. However, emotions are not bound by logic. Despite an offer from a Prince, Janella wants only one man: Lyonel Baratheon. Will Janella give up her ambitions to be Queen? And will Lyonel love her when he sees who she truly is?
Chapter summary: Janella's plans for a nice night are ruined by Aerion, who continues to torment her. At the tournament, Lyonel puts on a show for the crowd.
Word count: 8.2k
Warnings: possessive behavior, light stalking, some sexually suggestive material, and vivid descriptions of harm to another person
Author's note: Thanks to @writingbylee and @exitpursuedbyavulcan who encourage me with this fic, and @summersaints who tolerates how insane my Aerion muse is. Divider is by me ♥️
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The market buzzes with people and energy, the opening tilt filling everyone with excitement. Janella's body nearly vibrates from the high flooding her veins. Her mouth hurts from how hard she smiles.
Three of her initial five champions remain: Valarr, Merlon Reyne, and her father. Most conversations center around Gallian Tarly, an early upset against the Hightower. Some speak of Lyonel Baratheon since he unhorsed Tybolt Lannister in a rather spectacular fashion.
Janella leans against Florys, resting her head on Florys's shoulder. She can't help herself and breaks into a burst of giddy giggles. Florys makes a show of rolling her eyes and snorting at Janella's antics. Despite her forced disapproval, Florys smiles as well. Janella almost hears how fast Florys's heart beats.
"If one night has you swooning, I fear for you at the end of the tournament. You may not wake up from sheer giddiness." Florys stares at her for a second. Her lips twitch.
"As if you aren't as enthralled as me." Janella places her chin on Florys's shoulder. "I saw the way you looked Marlon. After you saw him without his helmet on, you never looked away from him."
Florys laughs, the sound low and dangerous. It sends a thrill of delight through Janella.
"Oh, are we really going there? For I could say some things about where your eyes were all night."
Janella scoffs and rolls her eyes, no real heat behind the gesture.
"On the field, naturally."
"On the field or on a certain person out there?" Florys tilts her head. "Tell me. Since when have antlers done anything for you?"
Janella lets out an indignant sound not dissimilar from a squawk. She fakes a splutter, and Florys tilts her head back with the force of her laughter.
"I was… admiring his audacity."
Janella tilts her head up slightly so she looks down her nose at Florys. Florys scoffs.
"If you say so. I shan't challenge your word."
"I loathe you." Janella hisses, but the giggle at the end of sentence gives her away.
"Not right now, you don't." Florys winks. "Little ember."
Florys drags the nickname out in the creepiest manner she can, elongating the syllabuls until they almost come out a hiss instead of words.
Janella buries her face into Florys's shoulder to muffle her scream of laughter. Florys starts giggling as well. They stagger to the side with how hard they laugh. Eventually, all Janella can do is silently giggle.
"It was one of the most disturbing things I have ever had the displeasure of hearing."
Florys nearly giggles at Janella's words. "I do wish I had heard it."
"No, you would rather not."
That wind their way through some of the stalls. While Janella wants for nothing, she still likes taking a look at any trinkets and wares on display. She must admit; she does have quite the affinity for jewelry made in the Westerlands, finding the jewels in them of a far greater caliber than from other places.
When they stop at one stall with jewelry of all sorts, the hairs on the back of Janella's neck stand up. Janella swallows. It almost feels as if someone watches her. Janella lifts her head and looks around in an attempt to see if anyone is staring at her.
Too many people bustle about for her to tell. No one stands in place or points at her. Janella blinks.
How… odd.
Then again, perhaps not. The tournament is in her honor, and people must at least recognize her from the box. Janella scans the crowd, but her search offers no results.
Janella turns her attention back to the table in front of her. A necklace catches her attention, a rose carved delicately from a piece of ruby. Not a large or gaudy piece, the rose hangs delicately from a golden necklace.
"Look at this one." Janella calls for Florys. "Isn't it quite beautiful?"
Florys provides no answer. Frowning, Janella lifts her head. Florys stands several tables away, speaking with who Janella assumes is the vendor.
The feeling of being watched creeps up upon her again. This time, when Janella looks around, she spots the source instantly. The crowd parts in a strange wave, and Janella spies white cloaks in between the throngs of people.
"Shit."
Janella threads her way through the tables and to Florys, grabbing her wrist. Her alarm must show for Florys nearly jumps.
"I am so sorry to interrupt, but my friend and I must leave rather quickly. I have forgotten my curfew."
She doesn't wait for a response, pulling Florys behind her as she launches herself into the crowd.
"Janella! Janella, what is it?" Florys takes hold of Janella's wrist. She doesn't pry Janella off of her but holds her wrist.
"We need to go, and we need to go now."
Florys bites her tongue. She picks up her pace to match Janella's.
Unfortunately for them, a show must be getting out right as they close in on one of the performance tents. A crowd spills out, adding to the sheer number of people. Janella screws her eyes shut. Perhaps, perhaps the addition means they have more coverage instead of slowing them down.
"Little ember!"
The crowd stops. Janella stops. Florys stops.
As people part, Janella schools her face. When she drops Florys's wrist, Florys catches her hand with her own, squeezing once, gently. They turn toward the voice together.
Aerion practically stalks towards them. The flickering flames from the torches and fires around cast strange shadows around him. In the light of day, he doesn't scare Janella, but in the dark of the night, he frightens her. It must be the dark playing tricks on her imagination.
"Prince Aerion." Janella greets with a curtesy, Florys following her lead. "I was not expecting to see you here."
"Clearly." He saunters forward. Aerion wears the same clothes as he did earlier at dinner. Janella's nose wrinkles. Surely, he must have had a chance to change since then. She wonders if they're also the same clothes he wore when he arrived. For a moment, Janella swears she smells the stink of horses on him.
"Are you enjoying the market, your Grace?" Florys speaks first. Gods, Janella would be lost without her.
Aerion merely looks at Florys with obvious disgust, as if she's nothing, not worth his time, not even human.
"You keep inferior company." He notes. The way he says it, the implication he will change that for her, makes Janella nearly sick with anger.
"Florys is my best friend." Declaring Florys as her lady-in-waiting in this situation seems strange; Janella does what comes naturally. Besides, Janella isn't lying. Florys is both Janella's lady-in-waiting and her best friend.
Aerion tilts his head. Annoyance rolls off of him in waves.
"Friends are of no concern to a dragon."
"May I ask to what do we owe this honor?" Janella smiles. Her heart beats rapidly in her chest, her eyes scanning for a potential exit.
"Walk with me." Aerion commands, his tone full of annoyance. He turns on his heel without looking back. "Do not keep your Prince waiting."
Without saying it, Aerion makes it clear Florys isn't to come with them. Janella squeezes Florys's hand.
"Follow several paces back. Do not be afraid to get my father if need be."
Before Florys answers, Janella turns and follows Aerion, not because she feels the need to be at his beck and call but because she does not have the strength to answer what Florys's reply would undoubtedly be.
Janella prays her father won't be needed. She fears he will.
It takes Janella a bit more time than she expects to catch up to Aerion. He walks as if he expects her to naturally heel. It makes her stomach sick.
"You did not answer my earlier question." Janella probes.
"Because it was a stupid question. Isn't it obvious?"
"Not to me, but perhaps I've had far too much wine tonight."
Aerion stops suddenly, so quickly Janella nearly runs into him.
"I do not make it a habit of keeping company with drunks." He sneers.
"I am not a drunk!" Janella responds, the insult to her pride making all thoughts of a barb fall by the wayside. Aerion stares at her. "It is a celebration in my honor, forgive me if I decide to indulge."
Her words come out far more sarcastic than she means for them to. Aerion's upper lip twitches. He steps toward her.
"My uncle is not here to defend you. Do you think it wise to test me?"
He stares her in the eye, willing her to back down. Instead, Janella steps forward. She will not be intimidated by this cretin, not at her home during her tournament.
"You mean your uncle is not here to save you." She hisses. "If memory serves correct, I, what was it you said? Oh, yes. I 'got you in trouble with your father'. If your own father forsook your side last night, I think it means I was the victor. Yes?"
"You dare speak to the blood of the dragon in such a manner. You should kneel before me." The look in his eye shifts from fury into an almost unreadable expression. Aerion reaches out and touches her face, placing his palm on her cheek and thumb on her lower lip. "Perhaps it might prevent your mouth from getting you into trouble, little ember."
Janella stares daggers at him. The only reason she dare not rend him in two with her words is he most certainly will slip his finger into her mouth the minute she opens it.
He tries anyway. Aerion applies pressure to her lower lip, clearly assuming she'll part them. She presses her lips together so hard her molars nearly grind together. Fury runs across his face, and he tries pushing his thumb into her mouth.
She sinks her upper teeth hard into the tip of his thumb for his efforts.
Aerion pulls back quickly. For a moment, she thinks he might strike her. However, he stays his hand at the last second.
"You are lucky I have no desire for you to lose your teeth. Striking a prince of the blood demands payment."
The threat dies on his tongue when a voice calls out to them.
"Lady Janella!" Janella's expression instantly brightens, both at the unintentional rescue and the familiarity of the voice.
"Ser Tarly." She steps towards him as soon as she spots him. Gallian, poor boy, has the dubious honor of being one of Janella's first crushes. First kiss too, although it was merely a kiss on the cheek. Still, both of them recall the memory with red cheeks.
They walk quickly towards each other, meeting part way. Janella instantly grasps Gallian's forearms while he presses his forehead to hers. They both giggle, then he lifts his head.
"It's been a while." Janella tilts her head up in mock inspection. "You've grown tall."
She cannot help herself; flirting and teasing come as natural to her as flight to a raven. Janella feeds off of the attention she receives.
"Aye. I should hope so." Gallian smiles. "You're finally smaller than me."
"Careful." She huffs in mock offense, crossing her arms. "I am who the tournament is for. I could have you kicked out."
"For what? Making you feel small?" Gallian closes the space between them. He nearly looms over her in an attempt to emphasize his point. Janella giggles and lightly swats his arm.
"I could never feel small. Not compared to you."
Gallian opens his mouth in reply but stops short, his face going oddly pale for a moment. Janella frowns. The sudden shift in behavior strikes her as odd until she feels an arm around her shoulder.
"Care to introduce your friend, little ember?" Aerion nearly drawls the last two words. His tone sends a shiver of disgust throughout her entire body. Even without looking at him, she knows Aerion is giving Gallian a challenging once over.
"Prince Aerion, this is Gallian Tarly, one of my friends from childhood. He is also one of my champions "
Aerion, quite literally, looks down his nose at Gallian. Gallian is quick to bow, but it seems not quick enough, not with the way Aerion's nostrils flare.
"Your Grace." Gallian smiles. It's tight, not out of anger but of fear. Janella shifts. She almost moves in between the two, willing to shield Gallian. However, as soon as she puts weight into one foot, Aerion's grip on her becomes tighter.
Aerion merely stares at him. Gallian clears his throat.
"I hear you plan on entering the tournament."
"Why else would I come here?" Aerion snorts. His fingers drum against Janella's shoulder. "I plan on entering the lists tomorrow, yes."
"Then we may meet upon the morrow." Gallian turns his attention to Janella and smiles.
Aerion's shock is momentary but enough he loosens his grip on her ever so slightly. Janella takes advantage of it, responding with a wide smile of her own and reaching out, pushing at Gallian's shoulder. Gallian laughs as he stumbles back.
"Little Gallian, all grown up now." She teases. "Think you can stay one of my champions?"
Gallian stands to his full height again. This time, Janella doesn't doubt he uses his height to his advantage, trying to make her feel physically smaller than him. Janella can't help her giggle.
"If the Gods are willing." Gallian drops his voice a little, his baritone coming through in a delicious way. It makes Janella's toes curl. Even after all of these years, she still has it.
The pleasant buzz within her system is rudely interrupted by Aerion touching her. Instead of placing his arm on her shoulder, he wraps his around her waist. His touch hits her like a bucket of river water during the winter to the point she nearly gasps with horror. Janella quickly turns and gives him a look of confusion and distaste before she can even stop herself.
Luckily for her, Aerion isn't looking at her.
Unluckily for Gallian, Aerion stares daggers at him.
"Perhaps we will see each other upon the morrow."
The threat makes Janella's blood run cold, stiffening in his hold. Before Gallian can respond, Aerion turns around and leaves, using his tight hold on her waist to pull her where he wants. He almost drags and moves her as if he thinks her a puppet.
"Do you truly intend to knock on Gallian's shield tomorrow?"
Worry coats every syllable. As soon as she asks, Janella nearly wince. Aerion stops. He turns towards her, gazing at her for a long moment. If Aerion didn't mean to harm Gallian before, he clearly intends to bow.
"I do. Why?" Aerion tilts his head to the side. He examines her with a cold expression, no humanity in his eyes. His gaze alone makes her feel subhuman, merely a toy for him to play with until he gets bored or breaks her.
"My Prince, I've known Gallian since I was young." A slight tinge of desperation creeps into her voice.
She isn't sure if she pleads for Gallian or herself.
"And you will get to remember him as young. You'll have no memories of him aging and decrepit."
Janella swallows. The wicked gleam in Aerion's eyes grows. He clearly means to upset her.
The fucker probably wanks to it.
"I do not think Gallian meant any harm." She keeps her tone light and airy, not wishing to give him more fodder.
"Don't be naive, little ember. He overstepped his bounds. He wishes to take what is not his."
Terror and dread fill Janella's body. The possessive demeanor scares her yet the possessive words frighten her. Without knowing it, Aerion stumbles onto one of her greatest fears. She swallows, her whole body suddenly trembling. Many a man sees his wife as his possession, Janella isn't stupid. Yet the idea makes her stomach churn.
"Could you let me go for a moment? I feel rather hot." Janella does mean it. Her cold sweat makes the heat radiating off of him seem stronger. He doesn't move. "I would like for you to remove your hand. I can walk by myself."
Aerion tightens his grip, another gesture of possession.
"My Prince? If you could merely ease your grip a fraction." Perhaps a small plead might move him, catch his attention.
"I do need to breath. In case you were not aware." Blithe, smiling. Janella can barely think for the shaking and overheating. The pain only adds to it.
"Let go of me. You're staring to hurt me." She lets some of her discomfort show.
"Aerion, please let go. I can barely breath."
Her voice fully comes out a plea, her panic overtaking her completely. Aerion stops. Slowly, he unwinds his arm from around her waist. Janella inhales deeply, trying to regain her control.
"Thank you." Her voice comes out flat. She looks around briefly. He's dragged her quiet far, almost to the edge of the market. He studies her for a long, uncomfortable moment before stepping forward, almost as if he's trying to loom over her like Gallian did.
"Pity we're in public. I would rather like to hear you beg more."
Aerion begins lifting his hand again, but Janella snaps her teeth at him.
"Surely you are not still hung up about earlier." She inhales deeply again. Expanding her ribcage fully feels like freedom.
"Here I thought my little ember was smart. Yet she asks the most dull things."
He moves closer still until he nearly presses up entirely against her. Janella moves back a half step. Irritated at her mistake, she decides on ignoring his question.
"You speak of overstepping boundaries, yet you threatened my father. It says far more about you than me your own…" Janella pauses. Provoking him right now would not be smart," uncle got mad at you as opposed to me."
Aerion spots her faltering, of course he does. He nearly leers at her in victory.
"Careful. Your fire is nothing compared to mine."
Her head hurts. Her ribs and lungs hurt. Her whole body hurts from how hard she shook. Despite the pains, Janella fights more shivers off.
"If it pleases the Prince, I would like to be excused. I have many a thing I must prepare for tomorrow."
She averts her gaze and looks at the ground. Janella knows a bone-tired werriness will creep up upon her soon. She would rather not be in his presence when it happens.
"I will escort you." He phrases it as if he's doing her a kindness and not preying upon her.
"While appreciated, I don't think I'm in danger here. Many a man here answers to my father."
Speaking of which. Behind the Kingsguard, two of her father's Thorns approach. Florys must have snuck away and grabbed them.
"Remember your place, little ember. I do hate being forced to remind you."
"My place?" Janella wants to keep him talking, cover the presence of her father's men. Aerion will no doubt realize Florys called for them. She doesn't want him to know until the last second.
"You should be honored. Many a woman will envy you soon." Aerion takes the ground between them easily. He presses even closer to her than before, their noses almost touching.
"I'm not sure I understand." Janella means it. The pounding in her head makes it hard to think.
"By the end of the week, you will. It's a generous offer. More than your family deserves."
Aerion steps back with a sniff. When he turns his head, he sees the Thorns approaching.
"Lord Tyrell requests his daughter."
"You what?"
Maekar blinks and raises an eyebrow at him. The urge to check his ears for earwax blockages nearly overtakes him. He stares at Aerion, the only assurance he hears him right is the resolute look on his son's face.
"I have selected Janella as my betrothed."
Aerion meets his father's stare evenly. He juts his chin out as if to emphasize his point.
A throbbing sensation begins building inside of Maekar's head. It's not unfamiliar when dealing with his sons, but the bursts of pain already radiating outward spell trouble for him.
"When the fuck did you do that?"
Maekar tries for reason and understanding, he truly does. However, his frustration slips out mid-sentence. Aerion's impulsivity centers around cruelty and rage; dread builds within Maekar as he wonders what sort of fucking mess he'll be left to clean up.
"At dinner."
Aerion's blithe reply makes Maekar's headache even worse within a matter of seconds. He presses his lips together and inhales slowly. This is no doubt Aerion's version of punishment for the girl. He does love disproportionate responses to slights.
Maekar is well aware the trait came from him. He still holds out hope Aerion will outgrow it, just as he did, but the odds grow smaller with each passing day.
"You spent the entire dinner antagonizing her and Lord Tyrell." He reminds Aerion none-too-gently. "What makes you even think they will be willing to hear you out?"
Aerion stares at Maekar as if he's the stupid one, clasping his hands behind his back as he does so. Maekar's lips twitch as he actively fights a look of disgust.
"He should be honored a prince wishes to marry his daughter."
For a brief moment, the look of disgust wins. Aerion's face falls the slightest amount, making Maekar sigh. It's a resigned and iritated in equal measures. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Have you at least apologized to Lord Tyrell? Shown any diplomacy?"
Gods above, why must his children be so damn difficult? It would be one issue if it was merely Aerion or Daeron, but for both of them to be problem children? Maekar fears they'll send him to an early grave.
Aerion huffs.
"Why should I? I deign to marry his daughter. He should be grateful to me."
"He may not accept it if you don't show some humility towards him." Maekar nearly grinds the sentence out from between his teeth. It shouldn't be so hard to get such simple concepts through Aerion's thick skull. Even Maekar knows wheels must be greased occasionally, even if it isn't his specialty.
"He would be stupid to reject. A dragon always gets what he wants."
Ah, fuck. Fucking shit.
Maekar bites down on his tongue to keep a plethora of swears and slurs from escaping him. If Aerion refers to himself as a dragon, it usually mean the boy isn't asking permission so much as telling his plan. He could tell Aerion no, but the child takes no as a challenge as opposed to an answer.
"I cannot persuade otherwise?"
"I've made my decision." Aerion replies curtly. He seems as tired of this conversation as Maekar is, albeit for different reasons.
Maekar tries ignoring the question looming over the entirety of this conversation. Why this girl? Aerion never shows any interest in anyone of non-Valaryian heritage, so this is more than a little odd for him. Maekar would know; he wishes for Aerion to marry outside of the family, mostly as a desperate attempt to dilute the madness. The attempts he's made over the years always end in disaster and Maekar cleaning up Aerion's messes.
A terrible thought creeps into Maekar's brain. If it isn't Aerion coming to his sense, it could be an outside influence, even witchcraft.
Perhaps it's Aerion slipping further into madness and losing all sense of himself.
"And it is your own? Decision, I mean."
He doubts Leo Tyrell would resort to such trickery, not when he made his intentions clear with the dinner last night. Maekar sees these sort of set-ups often with the purpose of the meal being the presentation of a daughter. Hells, he's been on both sides, both as the son sitting at the table awkwardly and as the father making and receiving offers.
Besides, if Daeron's alcoholism bothers Leo, certainly Aerion's entire personality would be unacceptable to him. It does make Maekar question why do this show at all. People already call Daeron "the Drunken", and such a fact wouldn't escape a man like Leo, not with how protective he is over his daughter.
Then again. Leo Tyrell wouldn't need to know what all goes on within the walls of the Red Keep. So long as Aerion behaves himself going forward, it might work.
"My will is my own."
Aerion's eyes blaze with fury. Maekar holds up a hand, open palm towards Aerion. It briefly stops Aerion, long enough for him to speak.
"You cannot take another wife as long as she lives."
Maekar almost feels as if he's going through the motions with this warning. The longer he thinks about this proposed betrothal, the more the idea steadily grows on him. It would look good on them for multiple generations of the family to marry outside of themselves, and the Tyrells would be an excellent option since they have no common ancestors. Their reach and influence would certainly be of help.
Besides, it isn't as if he would be throwing Leo's daughter to the wolves, if her behavior last night was any indication. She doesn't seem to be a meek flower. She might even be able to handle Aerion and reign him in some. It won't be easy at first, and Maekar is sure he will have to help, but if anyone could do it...
"Isn't that what mistresses are for?"
Aerion stands out of smacking distance, no doubt because he knows what Maekar's temperament is like. Still. Maekar glares daggers at Aerion.
"Lord Tyrell holds the second largest treasury and sucks Lannister cock regularly. If you want money, then I would at least pretend to respect him."
Aerion wrinkles his nose at the comment, looking for all the world like he stepped in shit and swallowed a lemon at the same time. He clearly dislikes the reminder people other than him have power, even if it isn't to the degree he does.
"I shall not have anyone else."
Aerion's voice lowers to an almost dangerous tone. It isn't a threat towards Maekar but the Tyrells.
"I need to talk to your uncle about this."
He needs an outside opinion. As much as the idea of finally securing a marriage for Aerion is tempting, Baelor might see things Maekar's missed. Hells, Baelor might even know if this is all a trap Tyrell set. Maekar doesn't see how, but it could very well be.
"I fail to see how he is relevant."
Maekar lets out a thoroughly annoyed sigh and fixes Aerion with a glare that would wither a saner man. Instead, Aerion merely raise an eyebrow.
"These marriages cannot be decided on a whim, boy. Political relations are a thing."
How did he manage to have such stupid sons. One of the best educations available to them, and they still manage to be brainless idiots.
"The dragon does not let such things concern him. Fire is often a good motivator, isn't father?"
Fuck. Fucking shit. Maekar runs his hands over his face. Aerion won't stop no matter what, he could see it even without the threat. Aerion's words merely show how deep the obsession runs.
"I will talk with Baelor and Lord Tyrell. You will wait patiently until we hear their answers." Aerion opens his mouth but Maekar speaks before his son can. "Use the time to get to know her! Fucking... learn her favorite color or dessert? Ask her more about the garden she planned. If she is to be your future wife, you might wish to know something about her."
Aerion's lips twitch. The rage slips off of his face, disdain replacing it. He hollows his cheeks as he purses his lips.
"Ah. I see exactly how woo'ed mother."
Maekar nearly throws the nearest item, an ink pot, at Aerion. His scowl deepens even more, frown lines etched into his face.
"Get out of here before I change my mind."
Even before he reaches the arena, Lyonel knows it's going to be a good day for him. He feels deep within his bones.
As he walks over, the grass still wet with morning dew, Lyonel inhales deeply. He smells summer here, the early morning air not thick with campfire smoke yet. He looks towards the sky. The cloud from yesterday sits on the horizon, a little bit closer but not so close Lyonel worries. If it comes, he guesses it might be here in the evening.
Lyonel chuckles to himself. An evening storm following a day of exhaustion sounds nice. He might even be able to sleep if it rains hard enough.
As one of Janella's champions, Lyonel fully expects to be one of the first challenged. No one will challenge Leo so early on, not with him being the father. Reyne and Tarly might be challenged before him. Valarr will probably be called up later in the day, once the crowd warms up enough to cheer for the Targaryen pup.
It comes down to the crowd and its energy, then. Lyonel guesses he'll be challenged early on, no doubt in an attempt to wear him out before anyone else. It's a sound strategy, especially since he's getting older with each tournament. Old wounds catch up with a man well before he thinks they will.
Ah, cunt. Lyonel nearly groans. He might have to start planning for when his stamina does fail him.
It's a problem for another day and another tournament. When he gets bored at Storm's End, he can always use the time to do that. Assuming he's not drunk off his ass. Then again. He does some of his best thinking while drunk.
One of Lyonel's best qualities, if he says so himself, is he knows how to make an entrance. For a tournament such as this, the best entrance must be bold and daring.
Of course he plans on asking for Janella's favor.
When his chance comes, Lyonel rides up to the box. He stares up at them. Pity the Tyrell cunt is on the field and not in the box, for Lyonel would love to see the look on Longthorne's face when he asks for his daughter's favor.
"Lady Janella!" Lyonel calls. His booming voice naturally carries.
The crowd stays silent. Slowly, Janella approaches the edge of the box.
"Yes, Ser Baratheon?"
Janella smiles at him and looks at him as best she can from underneath her eyelashes. Lyonel nearly snorts. The feigned innocence never works on him, but it especially won't work on him now, not after the events two nights ago.
Her eyes are pretty. They'd be prettier looking up at him as she gags on his cock, but one step at a time. If Lyonel plays his cards right, he's sure he can have her underneath him crying for more by the end of the week.
"I came to ask for your favor." Lyonel cannot help the dramatics.
Neither can Janella, it seems. She pauses, as if deep in thought. The air stills as the crowd holds their breath. Several people stir impatiently.
"What are you waiting for?" One person yells.
"Put the man out of his misery." Another heckler calls. A wave of laughter moves through the people.
"I suppose." Janella draws out her answer, even as she pulls forth her favor. It's a golden strip of fabric with dark green roses sewn into it. Lyonel reaches up with his lance, close enough for her to place it on the lance but far enough away she'll have to lean a little.
Janella leans out a little further than she needs to and drops the favor on his lance. While her dress emphasizes some of her larger assests, it's secure enough nothing moves when she leans. Still, Lyonel barely manages to disguise peeking at her tits.
Ignorant to the silent flirtation, the crowd cheers.
Instead of riding off instantly, Lyonel makes a show of taking the favor. He considers smelling it but ultimately decides against it, not wanting to go so far yet. He wraps it around his fingers before riding to his end.
Of course, he ties it around the antlers on his helm. Lyonel wouldn't place it anywhere else.
His first challenger is from House Prester. Lyonel nearly rolls his eyes. The Westerlands feels almost overrepresented here; then again, he's sure the cunts are all chomping at the bit for a chance to deflower the precious rose. Lyonel refuses to believe a Reyne being named one of Janella's original champions is a coincidence. Leo's honor means he doesn't take kindly to the Lannisters using him, even though he does the same to them. His code also means he gives plenty of warning before starting anything.
Lyonel's prediction of a good day comes true. Prester must be ignorant of Lyonel's reputation because he wears two long bull horns on his helmet. Lyonel can't help his cackle. Oh, he couldn't have asked for a better challenger in the first tilt.
From the minute he sees them, he plans on how to knock them off the stupid helm.
They break 7 lances before finally, finally, Lyonel unhorses Prester. One of Prester's squires grabs a sword for him while one of Lyonel's own brings him his sword. Already, Lyonel knows exactly how he's going to deal with the dumb fucking horns. He zeroes in on the uneven edges of the welding.
It doesn't take too long for him to hack the horns off. Prester must not know of his habit for he only blocks blows towards his body. As Lyonel slices them off, not as cleanly as he would like but still neat, Prester's jaw falls open. Lyonel quickly bats them away with the point of his sword.
He doesn't throw them towards the crowd, though. If Lyonel means to get Janella whimpering and writhing underneath him, he needs to go above and beyond with impressing her. He remembers the way she stared at his biceps and back muscles. A display of strength is all good, but it's always better with a display of competence and control.
At least, Lyonel thinks so. He's not immune to his own gender, and while muscles are nice to look at and touch, even mark up, they're merely decorations if the man doesn't know what to do with them. Unfortunately, many a man built like a brickhouse tend to be dumb cunts with little agility.
The horns sail through the air. Everyone, even Prester, watches them.
Lyonel, uncharacteristically, doesn’t crow his laughter. His eyes don't leave the two pieces as they soar through the air. It almost seems as if the crowd themselves hold their breath.
They bounce on a pillar. Some of the crowd "aaawww"s. The complaining is interrupted by others pointing out each horn now heas in different direction. One goes higher than the other, climbing and climbing-
It clears the railing of the box.
Finally, Lyonel tilts his head back and howls with laughter, his victory assured.
The crowd cheers in time with his laughter, almost baying their approval at the show. It sends pride swelling throughout his entire body. His head nearly spins. Lyonel never feels more alive than he does in these moments, the center of everyone's attention.
His applause doesn't last nearly as long as he wants. A sharp yelp sounds, and the crowd makes different noises. Most laugh, some cheer, some wince, and one or two boo.
Ah, fuck. The other horn hit someone.
Quickly, Lyonel scans the direction the other horn went. It didn't go towards the crowd, which might be a saving grace. The wounded part is easily spotted.
Prince Aerion presses his hand to his jaw. On the pillar above him, Lyonel spots where the point of the horn gouged the stone. It seems it bounced off the pillar close to it and richoeted right into Brightcunt's face. When the Targaryen lifts his hand, red and purple blossom on the pale white of his cheek.
He glares at Lyonel.
Well, he tries. It falls flat because of the tears in his eyes. Lyonel bares his teeth in a grin. If it weren't for the whelp's father and uncle being in the box, Lyonel would cackle until he cried.
Another wave of roars and claps catches Lyonel's attention. His efforts must have paid off. He turns toward the box. When he looks, Lyonel's grin shifts into a genuine one, bright beyond belief.
Janella stands at the railing of the box, a light breeze pulling a few strands of her hair from its ornate braiding. The morning light almost gives her an ethereal quality with the way it shines on her hair and makes her eyes seem golden. She holds the horn, sunlight glinting off of it, up for the crowd to see. They scream their approval, men and women alike. Janella's eyes meet Lyonel's.
She shifts the horn so she can hold up a hand. The crowd grows silent, waiting for her to address Lyonel. Even Lyonel feels his own breath catch in his chest.
"I thank you, Ser Baratheon and Ser Prester, for the gift." Janella's voice carries. For a moment, Lyonel thinks her gaze goes to Aerion. His suspicions are right; she smirks. It's brief but there. "I merely wish I received the pair instead of the one."
Janella gestures towards the other horn laying on the ground near Aerion's face. Naturally, the crowd responds to her jest. They roar with laughter and cheers, almost as loud as they do for him.
Lyonel crows his laughter with the crowd. Even some of the visiting nobles in the box chuckle, though they quickly avert their eyes when Prince Maekar glares at them. Several of his competitors snort, including Prester from his place on the ground.
He could swear, for the briefest of moments, even Baelor smiles and shakes his head.
Fuck. Where was Janella when he had to get married? Why the fuck couldn't he have married her? Lyonel loves Alysanne, he truly does, but she's never fun. His father clearly means for Alysanne to temper Lyonel's wilder urges. She eases up a little every day, but it still bothers him.
Lyonel wants a wife who plays with him, takes his material and makes it better or gives him material he can make his own. He wants a wife with a sense of humor and hedonistic streak to match his. He wants a spirited wife to call his own and who calls him hers, not because someone made her but because they independently decided to be each other's.
Resentment sweeps through him suddenly and harshly. The Baratheon temper is known for being storm-like, but this feels more like a wave overtaking him, the storm surge as opposed to the hurricane itself.
Lyonel swallows. He forces himself to close the floodgates. Now is not the time to think about it.
He truthfully never wants to think about it for fear of the damage it may cause.
Janella's response puts everyone in a good humor, and Lyonel can tell Prester enjoys it more than winning against him. True, his helm is ruined, but the princely cunt is thoroughly embarrassed. It's a win for both of them.
Lyonel goes back to hid tent. Sweat drips from every inch of his body; he only notices it now since he finally can breath. Adrenaline rushes through his system but not enough to cause any madness, thank fuck. The last thing he needs is that, driven to either fight or fuck while at a tournament held by the Tyrell cunt.
His squire works diligently to remove his armor, setting each piece aside carefully. Impatience nearly gets the better of Lyonel. Even though the fire running through his veins doesn't consume him, it doesn't mean he is still. He wants to walk, he wants to sit down and breathe, but most importantly, he wants this damned armor off.
"Who's up next?" He asks none of his squires in particular. Lyonel hopes it will distract him and keep him from losing his patience. So long as they don't come to knock on his shield, he should be fine.
Lyonel nearly breathes an audible sigh of relief when the collar comes off. His throat bobs with how hard he swallows, and his eyes flutter closed. The air inside the tent is heavy, but it's better than being trapped inside of his helmet and armor.
One of his squires looks outside.
"It looks as if Prince Aerion means to challenge someone."
Aerion? Lyonel raises an eyebrow. Before he can say anything, the squire undoing his armor begins moving faster.
"I assume you'll want to see his first tilt, ser?"
Lyonel smiles and winks. The removal of each piece of armor brings back more and more of his good spirits, although it does bring bone deep exhaustion as well. His shoulder hurts from how hard Prester struck his shield, and soreness already creeps upward in his calves.
"You know me well."
He sounds less exhausted than he feels. Another squire comes over, and the two begin undoing the rest of the armor in almost perfect unison. Lyonel rolls out his wrists as his gauntlets come off, letting out a sigh of absolute relief and pleasure at the sudden lack of weight. Once his cuirass comes off, he might try cracking his back. All of the jostling too and fro means his back will hate him in the morning unless he pays attention to it now.
Maybe he could see if a whore might massage him. Lyonel closes his eyes. The idea sounds nice. He doesn't even care if it doesn't come with the expected ending; the relief from his aching muscles alone sounds awfully wonderful.
Lyonel bites the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from snorting as an errant thought crosses his mind. He supposes this is a sign he's closer and closer to being old, barely 35 and desperate for someone to crack his back for him.
The squire near the tent flap makes a noise suspiciously like a snort. Lyonel let's out a little hum of curiosity.
"When you have a minute, ser, I think you might enjoy this."
Thankfully, most of his armor is already off. Lyonel waves away a shirt.
"Too damn hot to wear that." He grouses. Lyonel does accept the change of trousers, if only because he has no desire to smell entirely like a horse.
Somewhat dressed, Lyonel makes his way over to the tent flap. He follows the direction his squire looks and steps back, spluttering.
"What a ridiculous cunt." Lyonel manages after several seconds of nearly choking. "Ostentatious prick."
Lyonel can't help himself, he errupts into a flurry of giggles. Aerion's armor looks absolutely absurd. He can't respect it even in the slightest; Lyonel sees more artistic and well done pieces at every tournament. Hells, he's more impressed with Prester's than whatever Aerion has on. He shakes his head and clicks his tongue. It's the armor of a green boy who believes himself unfairly persecuted. If Lyonel had the energy to laugh, he would most likely be on the ground. Instead, all he can do is wheeze his amusement.
"Who do you think he means to challenge?"
"No idea. Perhaps one of the older knights." The squire pauses and gives Lyonel a shit eating grin. "Would be quite funny if he went against Ser Robyn, yeah? Seems like the kind of prick who would do that."
Lyonel's lips twitch. He lets out a hearty yet short laugh, slapping his squire on the back.
"If we're lucky he will."
They peak outside of the tent flaps. Aerion rides along, looking at each tent imperiously. For a wild moment, Lyonel almost hopes Aerion will knock on his shield and give him the chance to pulverize the boy. Odd he should inspire so much hatred within Lyonel so early.
Aerion rides slowly, surveying each opponent. His nonchalance is obviously forced, but then again, Lyonel isn't new to tournaments and the mind games people will play with one another. He notes the way Aerion's eyes linger on the green and red of the Tarly tent. It's not long, merely a quick glance, but they stay longer on that tent than on any other.
Eventually, Aerion tires of his game. He rides over to the tent.
Gallian must know what was coming for he steps out of his tent before Aerion even speaks, helmet underneath his arm. A light wind tugs at the tents and banners, almost tweaking the ends.
"Ready to face the dragon, little knight?" Aerion nearly leers.
"More ready than I've been in my life."
Lyonel can't help his soft chuckle.
"I wasn't aware the Tarly's had such massive stones." He murmurs, making the entire tent snort with laughter.
Lyonel eventually throws a shirt on, with mild complaining, before stepping out into the sun. His curiosity is piqued, not merely because he wishes to see how Aerion fights but also because of Gallian's reaction. What history could the two have between them?
Up in the box, Janella looks pale and as if she might be ill at any second. Interesting. Lyonel runs his tongue over his teeth, considering the implications. First kiss? First love? It doesn't explain why Aerion targets Gallian, though. The match itself will give him more clues. Lyonel turns his attention back to the field, other knights sitting and standing outside of their tents as well. All come to watch the mighty Aerion Targaryen fight.
When Lyonel looks, his eyes meet Alsen Martell's. The expression on his face is mostly unreadable, but Lyonel cannot help but pick up on the grim vibe. His suspicions are confirmed when Alsen gazes at the sky and then back to him.
It's calm, too calm. It brings to mind being trapped in the Doldrums, waiting for a wind while praying a hurricane doesn't hit. Lyonel gazes towards the horizon. The massive cloud from yesterday looks larger and much darker, swollen from the heat and angry. A gust of wind blows through, swaying the trees and moving the grass.
Lyonel licks his thumb and holds it up slightly. At least the wind is moving south, as opposed to west.
Alsen stares at the sky as well. His nose twitches, as if he smells something on the breeze. When he turns back to Lyonel, he raises an eyebrow.
If the circumstances were different, Lyonel might smile. Finding a fellow sailor on the continent is rare. However, the omens are far too grim for him to smile. Instead, he nods.
Alsen presses his lips together in a thin line before gently taking hold of his necklace. He seemingly begins murmuring underneath his breath, though Lyonel has no clue what.
Most likely, it's some sort of prayer.
Lyonel won't offer his Gods one now. The incoming storm means they've already made a decision. Perhaps the omens aren't for the poor Tarly boy but for Aerion. The sinking feeling in his gut tells him otherwise.
The tilt is brutal, just as expected. The energy must carry for the crowd watches in silence, no cheering or gasps. They stand as if they too are caught in the Doldrums, waiting to see how bad the storm that frees them from their stagnant state will be.
Two lances break, each one cracking and splintering louder than the previous one. As he watches, Lyonel gathers two things. One, Gallian is good with a lance. Two, Aerion Targaryen is chicken shit.
"His lance is at a weird angle." One of Lyonel's squires notes, worry coating every word.
"Surely a Prince wouldn't go for the horse."
"I'm not sure he's aiming for the horse."
As Aerion picks up speed, Lyonel swears the hairs on his arm stand up, not from the display but as if he's been shocked. Lightning hit somewhere close, he can taste it on his tongue and feel it in every inch of his body. Alsen must too because he wraps his fingers tighten around his pendant.
The wind dies right before Gallian screams in pain. Several flocks of birds leap from their nests in the trees at the sound, it carries so.
Even Lyonel feels as if he might be sick when he sees the lance sticking in Gallian's hips, right above where he sits in the saddle and to the side of his codpiece. It's not a clean cut, jagged bits sticking out everywhere. Lyonel turns away when he realizes the lance skewered Gallian so completely, the point must be deep within his back.
As Lyonel turns, he catches sight of Aerion at the other end, lifting his visor. Aerion's face twists into a vicious smirk, cruel delight twinkling in his eyes. He lifts his head and looks toward the box, not at his family but at Janella.
Then, Aerion looks at him, glaring at him as if he could rip the man apart. His eyes land on the favor, Janella's favor, tied to the antlers on Lyonel's helm.
Lyonel grabs the ends of the ribbon and wrap it around his fingers. Come and get it then, cunt.
Aerion merely scowls before clicking his tongue and riding his horse back to his end.