#ft. westsgem.

[lyonelb]

@westsgem, closed starter. casterly rock.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀at a wayside inn they'd met, a lordling golden of mane and jade of eye by the name of tybolt lannister and lyonel of flea bottom, lord of naught save the iron on his belt and the beast that bears him, a stallion of sable coat and tempestuous disposition. what occasion might compel a lannister-boy to seek chamber among the common wayfarers, lyonel could not say, but fondness blossomed within the heir's crimson-clad breast toward the sellsword in the blackened hours of the wolf and emboldened by the cup and fonder still, perchance, of the gleaming steel in his keeping he grew, 'til promising was lyonel to see the boy unto casterly rock from whence the inn lay by its lonesome along the gold road, bereft of any bannered lord to shelter or aid him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀do not try and bed my sister, he's now admonishing at the lofty gates of the fortress, and lifting a shoulder in a languid shrug is lyonel from astride his mount. " i won't deny her should she try and bed me. " and inside, then, through the baileys and the courtyards alike and at last unto the keep itself. and a mighty thing it proves, the castle of casterly rock, for grey are its bones and gilded its flesh, hoary with age and clothed in the wealth of the lions and wrought of rock and riches alike.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ere he beholds her, he hears her, the chime of heels against burnished flagstones as she hastens forth to meet a brother gone astray upon the winding road. and a true lion of the rock she proves and laughably so, hair a cascade of golden ringlets and eyes emerald-bright as meadow grass and her vesture gold and crimson; and upon the sellsword are the eyes of meadow then set as are his upon her and a vulpine simper pulls askew at the man's mouth for an awful young thing she is and too lofty a gem for his hardened palms to ever grasp, but wondrous is her curiousity and thus he humours the display, head cocked and gaze anchored to hers.

[lyonelb]

@westsgem, i had begun to fear for you. did you meet with trouble?

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀'twas by way of a flagon of wine cast over his face that lord baratheon's slumber was broken, not amidst silks and furs nor beside a woman honey-haired and full-bosomed (nor a third that the twain might have bedded) but upon the antler-backed chair wherein he'd sunk the eve before, and spluttering and coughing he'd beheld no squire nor servant of his own keeping but a face round and plump on a head sleek and smooth as an egg's shell. the hedge knight's queer little pup it'd been; forgive me, ser, but you would not wake! and ser duncan requires your sword, ser! he'd blurted forth in a single breath, a-flutter and figent, and glowering had been lyonel beneath a mane of black-and-silver drenched in scarlet and with wine beaded on his brow like fresh-spilled blood as the lad stood and urged him with solemn haste to bear his blade against the dragonkin.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀within a pavilion raised for iron and armor she finds him, with two lads working the buckles of a breastplate of twin lustres of gold and silver and with a set of spreading antlers painted upon its front, cinching 'til it lay snug upon him. golden ringlets yet indocile and milk-pale hands folded upon the swell of her belly she beholds her lord husband, wareless, 'til she speaks. i'd begun to fear for you. did you meet with trouble? but 'twas not he who'd found trouble, but trouble who'd found him, and lyonel bares a grin vast and wolfish. " i'm to slay some dragons this morn, lady wife. " and the straps fall away from labouring fingers as he steps forth and winds an arm about the fuller breadth of the she-lion's middle. " ought to slip yourself back out of that gown, my lady. i'll fill you with another child still wet with dragonblood. " and presses to her mouth a kiss.

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[lyonelb]

@westsgem, ' they know. i don't know how, but they know. '

[TEXT: cerelle] maybe because you left your bra in my office the other day [TEXT: cerelle] it's still there by the way. can you remove it?

[lyonelb-a]

@westsgem, " what  three  things  does  drink  especially  provoke? "

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀once more drowned in wine-dark stupor and freshly re-emerged from bacchanalia, lord lyonel finds himself; or, in truer speech, 'tis the lady that finds lord lyonel finding himself drowned in wine-dark stupor, and with a grievous ache lodged within his skull. a tourney is ever a season for drink and revel, yet the lady holds onto her displeasure, as wives are oft wont to. with a weary, disgruntled pass of his palm down his face, lyonel hauls himself upright on a dandelion-yellow sofa absurdly stationed within the baratheons' tent, whereof he can recall naught. the morning sun's fiery limbs pry themselves in through the pavilion's mouth and along the floor and benches and table alike, bodies lay scattered, lords and lesser men together, felled by excess in the ruinous aftermath of revelry.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀all lie fallen, save cerelle, most dreadfully waspish; and lyonel bestows a faint, weary smile. " might you know what three things drink especially provokes, lady wife? " and with a grunt, an arm reaches forth to tug her nearer by the shimmering silk of her crimson gown. ' what three things does drink especially provoke? ' wry of tongue and exasperated she speaks, nor is the lady ignorant of said threefold mischief, but the lion's tail thrashes ferociously and sour is the growl given unto the stag. and thus he entertains her, his feline damsel. bejeweled hands settle upon the swells of her hips, palm the flesh through the fabric. " mm. joy. " a simper lengthens upon his mouth and he draws her nearer yet, and leans his brow upon her belly. " awful lot of it, my lady. then ire. " a kiss 'gainst the silk, below her stomach, and seven hells, how his head aches and beats! a huff and a grimace to weather the pain. " wonder what the third might be. " he rasps, and with one elbow a weary prop planted upon his knee and forehead settling against the lady lioness' thigh, lyonel bows forth and slips a palm up the lower hem of the gown kissing her ankles, and traces an upward slope along the supple curve of her calf, as a wine-warmed mouth seals a kiss upon the silk shielding her thigh. " might be lust, my lady. "

[lyonelb-a]

DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE. " THIS TALK OF BLOOD AND SLAYING HAS PUT ME OFF MY TEA. " CERELLE LANNISTER @westsgem.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀silver-threaded curls clinging unto his brow with sweat and a wolfish grin rending his features and the mud and crimson from the lists yet streaking his visage, lyonel stands afore a gathered company of knights, arrayed in like armor and bearing the baratheon stag, ears bent in vigilance as their lord gives clamorous voice to a tale of years past. 'twas a clash upon the marches whereto lyonel had been summoned, for ill blood had begun to stir betwixt the stormlander and their southron compeers and the charge to mend the breach had fallen upon him alone ⸻ and mend it he did, with steel and blood, as is the wont of his antlered kin. a most gruesome and direful and mighty thing it is, this recounting, carried upon hoarse laughter and hardened acclaim of battle-weathered men.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀beneath the lord paramount's own pavilion they have assembled, armored still, like unto warriors fresh from the fray, made glad with drink and hearkening unto their lord. and scant regard is afforded to the woman seated apart upon the pavilion's far side, slender fingers engaged in delicate needlework, a chalice half-drained sat nigh; nor does lyonel bestow upon her more than scant regard until she rises with a petulant huff, cup in hand, and strides past her lord husband with golden tresses springing and spraying upon her back.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀and heads swivel and eyes follow as the lady lioness passes in her feline tread, this crimson, westerly damsel and lyonel, jubilant with the tale's delight and emboldened by bitter ale, steps forth as gloved hands settle upon her waist from the rear, and a ripple of laughter sweeps among the assembled host, standing witness to the nervy deeds of the stag. " where are you off to, my lady wife ? " he muses against the side of her head, into the silken locks of golden honey, fragrant of rosewater and jessamine, fingers tugging her backward unto the rigid steel of his breastplate. another murmur of cackling laughter. this talk of blood and slaying has put me off my tea, she offers, curt, and he yields her from his hold but at the beseeching touch of her fingertips upon his marred knuckles, nor does he relent until he has inhaled the rosemary of her velvet hair and huffed forth a chuckle. " such a tender thing, you are. " taunting, he watches her go, before turning again unto his host of armored listeners, cocks his head. " women. "

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[lyonelb-a]

SMUT SENTENCE STARTERS. " WHAT? AFRAID YOU'LL BREAK ME? " CERELLE LANNISTER VIA @westsgem.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀" yeah. " a mumble stifled against the woman's searing skin, the smooth expanse of her midriff, hands cradling the contours of her waist, the rasp of his stubble a coarse contrast against the delicate sweep of her flesh. " you're my best dancer. i need you whole, or i'm fucked. " yet, the truth is not entire, for break her he does, and frequently so, and there is a selfish delight to breaking her, to dismantling her with glinting hands, prying her apart with exquisite precision, and unraveling her into a trembling ruin, slick with sweat, bare chest heaving for breath. she wears the aftermath of an orgasm like a cloak of liquid fire.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀his head tilts back, silver-streaked curls tumbling in a disordered curtain over his vision and brushing his brow, and he nods toward the cigarette perched like a jewel between her knuckles, and eye of molten gold holds hers as she guides the ember to his parted mouth, and lyonel sucks in a drag. " smoking suits you. " through a wine-sweetened grin, a velvet hum slithers forth alongside a ribbon of smoke. " you good like that. " and again his mouth finds her stomach, and the incline of her hip, and the slope below it. passion suits her better.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀both palms delve beneath the pliant underside of her thighs and lever them upward, atop his bare shoulders, and they are silk against his skin, and soft as cream, as arms furl around the plush flesh as his face bows inward into the warm, damp cradle betwixt them. she soaks his lips in an instant, and his tongue drags lazily up the hollow of heat, through the soft folds of skin; she stiffens and writhes beneath his grip like live wire in an instant, and a simper edges its way across his face. like warm wax, she spreads and melts, a clawed hand in his hair, thighs hugging his head. a kiss then, feather-light, the faintest trail of her wetness on his lips, before his mouth burrows, quite cruelly, into the soft hollow of her thigh instead.

[lyonelb-a]

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON S2 STARTERS. " DO YOU THINK I WOULD WITHER IN YOUR ABSENCE ? " CERELLE LANNISTER VIA @westsgem.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀a grand tournament it was; alas, it is no more, and thus must lords and ladies, knights and servants, whores and wanderers alike, scatter once more unto their distant demenses and their vain pursuits, for even the brightest hours yield to time, and as must lyonel take his leave and ride for storm's end, to stone, to wind, and to the yoke of his duty. yet the mirth shall ring within his memory long after the banners have fallen; and after a half-year, or longer yet if fate wills, another of such grandeur shall rise, and the realm's nobility shall gather anew.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀counsel has been taken and farewells duly shared, yet there is one whom lyonel has not encountered since the talk ere the ill-starred trial, when scarlet silk was bound to his arm in solemn token. his heavenly ward, one might call it. and thus the lord baratheon comes to stand before the lannister pavilion, all crimson cloth with gilded trim, its golded banners already sinking and poles being drawn from the soil; and a lady poised beside the scenery, upon a high-backed chair of carved oak. and, by the aid of his staff, whereupon antlers sprout, the stag draws nigh unto the lioness as a man sorely bruised and battered by the toil of battle. guarded, perchance, by her own ribbon of red.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀" some gratitude that i yet live would not go amiss, my lady. " a wry remark, as amber gaze is cast aside, eyes narrowing upon the field being stripped of its glory. " you look awful calm. " a scowl then, albeit devoid of malice, as eyes fell once more upon hers and he steadies himself upon the staff, brows arched in restive spirit.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀do you think i would wither in your absence?, a query no less deft as his own, and lyonel lifts a shoulder, gives a vague gesture of a bejeweled hand. " gods willing. "

[lyonelb-a]

MEDIEVAL TOURNAMENT SENTENCES. " A TOURNAMENT IS FOR MEN TO BOOST THEIR STRENGTH, FATHERS TO SELL THEIR DAUGHTERS LIKE MARES AND FOR AFFAIRS TO HAPPEN. " CERELLE LANNISTER VIA @westsgem.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the lannister pavilion is peevishly unlike lyonel's own⸻a sovereign red holds dominion, as though a gauze of crimson silk had been cast across his sight, banners of scarlet with golden lions lining the walls, and a distinct lack of antlers; yet what remains unaltered is the honeyed, cloying fragrance of wine drifting thick as breath in the still air. two mighty houses they are, as near to the blood of the dragon as any might stand ere the coming of the conquerors, yet a rivalry hums, ancient as time itself, as a sullen roll of thunder gnarling beyond the horizon⸻and as spiciferous is the feud, as posed is the fellowship between its son and its daughter.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀she speaks, a hushed snarl from a lion's maw, and all lyonel manages is a loose flick of the hand, brows arched in mild bewilderment. in truth, for all its crimson, it is scarcely a weighty matter at all. 'tis a revel, is all it is. 'tis rich with ale and mirth and song and gleaming swords and pointed sticks, and it proves no easy matter for the lord baratheon to turn against such pleasures of life or discern any matter that ought trouble his stilled mind, and equally beyond his understanding is the lady lioness, and her disdain as to the revels, and the swords, and the blood. he rubs the side of his silver-streaked jaw, tilts his head in contemplation. " i would never sell my daughter to any of these cunts. " jestful, mellowed by the drink, as he tilts the rim of the chalice long drained and long nursed in his damp palm toward the mouth of the pavilion, and a wry simper blossoms across his features. in earnest, there is scarce a cunt the lord baratheon would sell her to. " and tourneys are little suited for matters of marriage, " he cocks his head, cheek resting against the side of the chalice, hand clenching its rim. " as for the affairs .. " a grin steals across his countenance then, and he slants forward in his seat (of gilt wood, frame carved with a sweep of roaring lions, crimson cushions and a brown-furred pelt laid over the seat), amber eye aflare, voice hoarse. " fighting gets the blood pumping, my lady. mm. and no wine tastes sweeter than a pretty maiden after unhorsing a man with a single strike. "