Warnings: 18+, menstruation, that's it. It's a period fic
Word count: I don't fucking know, i wrote this on mobile. Probably less than 1k
Somebody to Love by Algal the Bard| Banners by @saradika-graphics
Lyonel slows his horse as he comes to the courtyard of Storm's End. Though he's only been away a mere six days, it may as well have been a century with how deeply he's been yearning for his lover.
"Where is my Lady Wife?" He asks as he dismounts the beast, "Did she not wish to greet me as she has before? Or has she gotten herself distracted again?"
"My lady Baratheon has taken to bed, Ser Lyonel," The stable hand says, taking the reins to lead the horse to stable, "And has been so for near two days now."
All teasing drains from Lyonel's face and he begins tugging at his armor, barking orders at his squire, "Get this fucking- fuck! Get this shit off me- now!"
He doesn't wait for him to do so before storming inside, his poor squire scrambling behind, trying to do as he was bid as they go, gathering discarded pieces of plate in his arms as best he can. He's lost a bit here or there by the time they make it to the bedchamber, quickly running off to fetch them when Lyonel bursts inside.
His curls are a mess from the ride and his clothes astrew from hurridly shedding his armor, but all that he seems to care for is his darling love who is curled tightly in their bed.
"Nāenelle?" He says cautiously, his voice strained with worry as he comes closer. The bed dips beneath him when he climbs onto the mattress, holding himself above her. She whines when he pulls back the blanket to find her in her shift, his eyes scouring her body for any physical signs for what may be causing her distress. Finding none, he brushes her hair back from her face, murmuring softly, "What is it, my love? Are you ill? Would you like me to fetch Maester Farrah?"
She looks up at him with teary eyes as she shakes her head, one hand leaving her abdomen to scratch at his beard and pull him closer.
"Just hold me?" She frowns, and, never one to deny her request he carefully settles down beside her, his arms wrapping around to spoon her from behind. She sighs in relief when his hand splays across her lower abdomen, just below her belly.
"Is that where it hurts?" He whispers against her ear, his beard pleasantly scratching her skin and she nods. She groans slightly when he gently starts to massage there, her toes curling and her body beginning to relax.
He's only rarely heard her complain about her monthlies, mostly a short pause in whatever she may be doing and a huff. To see her so debilitated by her own cycle both pains and scares him.
"Is it normally like this?" He asks, his voice low and warm.
She nods, guiding his hand to another tight knot of muscle.
"The Maester at Riverrun would make me sachets of special tea, but I ran out." She explains, arching her back so he can press into a spot that really hurts, "Maester Farrah couldn't find the needed herbs here, so we have been awaiting a parcel from my mother."
"Ah, I see." His lips run along the skin behind her ear, offering comfort in any way he can. "My poor Angelfish, left to suffer alone. Your gallant stag is here now."
He shifts behind her, his lips trailing along after his body as he kisses his way down her back. He gently rolls her onto her back, his hands finding purchase on her hips, and his thumbs rubbing heavy circles against the tense muscle.
He slowly begins to lift the hem of her shift, giving her time to decline his actions but she allows him. He lifts the fabric up until its just covering her tits, revealing her small clothes, and making her blush, but just as she opens her mouth to inquire on his intentions, he shushes her.
"Trust me." He insists before his head dips down to softly press his lips just bellow her belly, in the spot that seemed the most tense. Kiss after kiss he presses to her skin, as if trying to heal her aches with his lips alone.
Her heart flutters at every gentle embrace, her eyes falling shut as one of her hands finds purchase in those curls she adored.
"Mm... Lyonel," She hums, scratching at his scalp.
He only pauses for a moment to look up at her, his lips never leaving her skin before returning to his self-appointed task of soothing her as best he can.
His hands warm and massage her flesh, and his lips kiss away her pain, and she soon finds herself falling asleep beneath his ministrations.
His heart swells when he sees her begin to relax due to his touch, his love.
When she wakes, gods know when later, Lyonel lies between her legs, his other arm wrapped around her thigh from beneath, and his head resting on her hip. He is still rubbing her lower abdomen, but the movements have become sluggish and a bit lazy, as though he too were on the verge of falling asleep.
"Did you have a good nap, my pretty fawn?" He looks up at her doe-eyed and unwilling to move. He hums and nuzzles into her, not expecting a answer, "You're so enchanting when you sleep... even if you do snore."
He laughs when she nudges his ribs with her toe in protest, but stays tight where he his, far too comfortable to move.
"I do not snore!" She huffs, trying not to laugh.
"You do! It's like a pack of snarling wolves!" He teases, grinning when she starts laughing loudly, "I wake in fear for my life some nights, only to find the most beautiful woman in the realm snoring in my ear and drooling all along my shoulder-"
"Lyonel, I do not!"
She does, and he will always finding impossibly adorable, like the rest of her.
Warnings: 18+, show typical violence, jousting injury, Lyonel gets a filthy mouth when he takes milk of the poppy.
Lyonel is hurt during another lord's tourny, and Nāenelle finds that seeing her stag hurt scares her.
Word count: 1.4k
Soldier, Poet, King by Cullen Vance | Banner by @saradika-graphics
Nāenelle hates tourneys.
She once loved them, watching her older cousins, who seemed to have always been there, so large, and strong, compete in jousts and melees had entertained her and filled her with pride for her family.
But since her marriage to Lyonel, they began to make her anxious. She'd seen her cousins battered and bruised since she was small, yet seeing such marks on the man she holds dearest causes her stomach to churn.
Lyonel is a deft lance and amazing fighter, still, she finds herself holding her breath during his tilts, her nails chewed to nothing.
She doesn't think she's ever actually seen his lance strike another man's shield before, not from a lack of skill on his part, but an inability to watch on hers, her eyes squeezing shut with every pass.
The blow was hard, that much she could hear, and the gasps from the crowd when The Laughing Storm was unhorsed were unmistakable, but it was when she deigned to open her eyes to find him lying still in the mud that she began to panic. One second, five, ten, and suddenly she is on her feet. His opponent, one of the Tyrells, comes quickly to his aid, helping him to his feet in a show of good sportsmanship and chivalry.
She feels as though she may start weeping when he takes his helm off and slowly makes his way off the pitch, a slightl limp in his gait.
She doesn't wait for the event to end like most ladies might, instead hurrying down the steps of the viewing box to be by his side.
"My Angelfish," he huffs, wincing when he raises his arm for her hand, "You need not look so worried, my darling love. The Warrior himself could not take me from you."
He chuckles painfully when her hand cup his cheek and the other rests on the dented breast of his plate, that same terror in her eyes as she thinks of him on his back again.
"I believe I have finished for the day, yes?" He says softly, his gauntlet-ed hand gently holding her trembling fingers, "Let us return to our pavilion before you worry yourself to fainting."
He has never seen her so close to tears over him before, and now all he wishes to do is prove he will survive.
He manages the trek with the help of his squire, who also assists him in removing his armor. It is his wife who helps guide him onto the bed where he sighs heavily and leans back with groan of pain.
"Can I see?" She ask quietly, and his first instinct is to deny her, save himself the pain of seeing the horror on her face at the bruising, but he knows her far too well to think she would take no for an answer now, and nods.
Her hands shake as she slowly lifts his tunic, freezing at the darkening splotch across his ribs, chest, and shoulder. As the dent in his armor insinuated, the lance must have only clipped the side of his shield, causing the breastplate to take the brunt of the damage.
The tears threatening to spill from her eyes at the sight both terrify and cause him to fall in love all over again.
"Oh, come now," he reaches out with his right arm to cup her cheek, his thumb running gently below her eye, "There is no need for tears. Hush now, please don't cry."
There's a touch of fury in his chest at that Tyrell cunt. Not for beating him, not really, but for causing his love to weep so. Though, he is truly touched that she cares so for him, that she might weep for his pain.
He gently pulls her down against his less harmed side, kissing her forehead soothingly.
"Oh, my sweet fawn," he coos, "Such a big, bleeding heart you have. Weeping for me so."
"Do not mock me." She sniffles, "It scares me to see you hurt."
"I would never mock your love." He assures her, his hand rubbing her arm, "It is the air I breathe. And I did not mean to scare you."
He chuckles softly with a wince when she leans up to kiss his jaw.
"What can I do?" Her voice is desperate, as if his pain is physically hurting her as well.
"I'm sure our host will send a healer or maester along soon enough. Simply stay where you are." He insists, and, as though magically summoned by her husband's words, an older man, their host's maester pushes back the flaps of their tent, "See? Just as expected."
"Ser Lyonel, my lady Baratheon," The maester bows his head slightly, "If you could step out for a moment so I may examine-"
"The lady stays." Lyonel says sharply as she helps him sit up. He glares at him for even suggesting it. "Can you not see her distress? You would dare tear her from my side now?"
"N-no, ser, I simply," The maester stammers and clears his throat, "Of course, Lady Baratheon can stay if she wishes."
She sits by his side, holding back her own whimpers at every little hiss and wince from him as the maester looks him over. His heart melts at the feel of her arms around his unwounded arm, her chest pressing against it with her chin on his shoulder, desperate to keep him close.
"Now, now, Darling Angelfish. Mm... my pretty little love, fuck you're gorgeous." The maester has barely left the tent after bandaging his wounds and giving him a diluted tincture of milk of the poppy, and already the tonic has set in, and Lyonel is trying to press her into their bed, "Come here, you beautiful girl, you, let me taste that pretty cunt."
She bites back a laugh, trying to ease him back to rest, taking note that while the medicine may be diluted, he is still quite inebriated by it.
"Ah, my darling wishes to ride me, hm?" He snickers, hauling her across his lap despite the now-dull ache in his shoulder, "However you want your stag, he shall provide."
"Lyonel!" She squeals, gripping his hands when they begin to pull at her dress, "Down boy, you're hurt."
"I am as hearty as a dragon!" He laughs, letting his fingers interweave with hers, "Mmm... I love when you're on top. So pretty above me."
"Sleep now," She chuckles. His eyes flutter shut when he leans down and presses light kisses to his lids, "You may have your way with me as soon as you are well, but, for now, sleep."
He grumbles something along the lines of, "I am plenty well enough now," through the clouded haze of opium, already dozing off beneath her.
"Stay," He mumbles, half asleep and pleading, as though she would ever dream of leaving his side.
"I'm here," She shushes, kissing along his hairline.
His sleep is deep and filled with flurried dreams, some good, some of gut-wrenching pain of finding himself without her. When he wakes with her no longer atop him, the laughing storm panics.
"Nāenelle?" He shouts, forcing himself upright, his bones and muscles screaming in protest. He begins to claw himself to the foot of the bed, toward the tent flaps, determined to find her when he feels a warm hand on his back, gently guiding him back. His mind is still fogged with milk of the poppy as he whirls around, eyes wild and groaning in pain.
"Lie back," She begs, her hand hesitating by his bruised ribs, "Lyonel, please."
Weary eyes flutter, and he eases into her touch, her hands soft and familiar on his tender flesh.
"You're here," He rasps, lowering his entire weight upon her, his head tucked safely in the crook of her neck, "The Mother, in all her grace, blesses me."
"You daft man," She sighs, cradling the back of his head in her hand as the other traces along the ridge of his nose with her pinky, "Go back to sleep."
She hums a soft melody, a lullaby she remembers from youth, about appeasing a crying babe with gifts upon gifts, and he soon relaxes against her.
"Far better at that than I am..." He mutters groggily, his hand splayed across her belly, "Mmm, pretty voice... love you..."
Wild Blue Yonder by The Amazing Devil | Banner by @saradika-graphics | Divider by @chrisssiren
He is really starting to regret saving that kitten- well, not really, he would never deny her the happiness it brought her- but he is becoming quite annoyed at no longer being the center of her attentions as he had been before bringing the creature home.
He slumps back in a chair across the bedroom, wine sloshing from the cup in his hand as his legs part, watching her pamper her dear 'Stormy'.
"My wife..." He grumbles, finishing his drink and setting the now-empty goblet on her vanity. He saunters over and snatches the cat in one hand, holding it up above her head and glaring at it, "Little bastard."
"My love?"
"What does he have that I do not?" He huffs, climbing onto the large bed and clambering over her, still glaring at the kitten in his large hand, "I have whiskers, striking eyes, sharp teeth- Do you not find me affectionate enough that you must search elsewhere?"
He sets the cat aside and leans in close, his beard and mustache scratching as his lips ghost along her neck. He presses his chest to hers, silently begging for her love, as though he's gone without it- which he hasn't- but, it seems, he's an extremely jealous man when it comes to her.
"It's my turn, my darling," He insists, hands finding her hips to press her into the mattress. "I, too, would gladly purr under your attention."
Nāenelle giggles, burying her hands in his hair, kissing his head, "Are you jealous of the kitten you gave me?"
He simply grunts, pressing closer, laying his weight atop her like a needy animal.
"Lyonel!" She shrieks in laughter, tumbling back amongst the pillows. She sighs when he gently sinks his teeth into her throat before lavishing the spot with his lips and tongue.
"I adore you." He growls, "My pretty, loving, goddess."
He freezes when she giggles again, looking up to find that damned cat nuzzling into her cheek and he lets out a loud bark at it, startling it into running off.
"Lyonel!" She snaps.
"What? He was stealing your attention again!"
She doesn't like when he's angry with her- not that he's ever truly angry with her, but she doesn't like when he's fake angry either.
It had been a slip of the tongue, a jest, a habit she'd acquired growing up with brothers and male cousins. She hadn't meant to insult his manhood- especially not when it kept her so satiated in the dark, quiet of night.
"Lyonel," She pouts, her arms wrapping his neck from behind. He'd been uncharacteristically quiet since the jab, brooding even, one might say, as he sat at his desk, doing his lordly duties, "Please don't be cross with me. I truly meant nothing by it."
He simply grunts, not paying her any mind.
Proud, stubborn, fool of a man.
"Please, my heart," She groans, stepping around his chair and hopping up into the desk, knocking aside papers and taking his entire view, "My stomach churns when you act as though you don't love me."
Is she being a tad dramatic? Perhaps. But she needs his voice like she needs air, it's her sunshine, and it's absence is making the gloom of Storm's End even more dreary.
He grumbles when she drapes herself across his lap, her hand stroking his jaw.
"Tell me you love me." She begs, tilting his face toward hers, "Before my heart gives out completely to the melancholy that is your silence. Lyonel, please."
A deep, bitter sounding chuckle rumbles from his throat as he leans his head back, throat bared, looking at the ceiling and shaking his head.
"Lyonel?"
"By the gods- how do men neglect their women? I cannot even go one damned afternoon without yearning to tell you exactly what you wish to hear!" He growls, turning back to look at her again. "Of course, I love you."
"My love," She sighs in relief when he kisses her, as if she'd never expected to feel his lips again, and her hands grip his face, keeping him there.
He nips at her lip, keeping her pressed close, even when she pulls away.
"You're not allowed to be cross with me anymore," She frowns, "It hurts far too much."
He simply chuckles and nods, leaning in to kiss her again.
Sharp Scales of the Stag | Walk Through the Storm I Would
Warnings: 18+, threats of violence
Nāenelle takes a minor spill, and Lyonel refuses to let her out of his sight.
Word Count: 1k
So sorry, desktop users, I am not fixing the gifs, it's really cute on mobile
Unconditionally by Fame on Fire | Banner by @saradika-graphics
It is a silly injury, she knows that.
She had not been paying attention to where she was stepping, and rolled her ankle on the last step on the way to supper. The resulting tumble came from when she quickly stepped back and tripped over her own skirts, her hands scraping on the stone.
Lyonel had heard her curse from the dining hall and came running, finding her there, sprawled across the bottom three steps, her skirt torn, and holding her throbbing ankle.
"That was undignified," She huffs, rubbing her backside.
Lyonel grimaces and reaches out for her hands, pulling her to her feet and directly into his arms when she winces.
"Get me Maester fucking Farrah!" He shouts loudly. He carries her into the dining hall and carefully lowers her into his seat, as if she were made of glass, kneeling before her to examine her himself.
"My love, it was just a small fall, I am perfectly fi- ow!" She yelps when his hands, ever gentle, shift her foot.
"You've twisted your ankle," He hisses, a hand moving to stroke her shin comfortingly.
He wants to yell, to scream at and shake anyone who would dare harm the woman he loves, and yet, it's his beloved wife who hurt herself. He sighs, his eyes dark, and voice sharp as he scolds her for being so careless.
"Stupid, reckless woman." He chastises, his lips soft as they press against the injured muscle, "What am I to do with you? Carry you about like a child?"
"I'm sorry, Ly-"
"Don't." He growls, the sound of her apology leaving a sour taste in the back of his throat, like rising bile, at the thought of her feeling the need to apologize to him for anything. "Just-"
He lets out a deep, gravelly, sigh.
"Do not be so reckless with my love." He begs, reaching up to squeeze her hand, fingers feeling the scraped skin on her palm, "I know not what I would do without her."
Her heart stutters at his admission, the genuine fear and passion behind it making her feel a bit sick with guilt for worrying him so.
"Fucking took you long enough," He snaps when Maester Ferrah hurries in. He stays knelt before her, moving aside just enough for the maester to work, his hands squeezing hers comfortingly.
His grip tightens with every little whimper and wince from her as Ferrah adjusts and examines her swollen ankle until he lets out a sharp breath, his hands leaving hers to grip Ferrah's collar and shove him hard against the large mantle before either she or the maester knows what's happening.
"If I hear one more fucking sound of distress from my Nāenelle, I will gut you like a fucking fish, do you understand me?" He knows he's not being rational, that Ferrah is simply doing a thorough job, but every whine of pain from her lips is like a blade to his heart. He cannot stand to see her in even the slightest pain.
"Lyonel!" She barks, staring at him in disbelief when he looks back at her with wild eyes. His fingers tighten everslightly in the fabric of his robes before he releases him and returns to her side, resting his head in her lap, looking akin to a scolded hound, as she waves the other man back over. "Maester Ferrah, please finish."
And, what a well-trained hound he seems to be, allowing her to pet his hair, her fingers tugging at his curls with a hiss through her teeth as Ferrah finishes his examination.
"I will need to bandage it," He explains, reaching for his things, "And you should do your best to keep from putting pressure on it, my lady, lest it heal wron-"
"There will be no risk of that," Lyonel interjects harshly, his hands fisting the fabric of her skirts. "She will not be leaving my arms until she has healed."
"That does not seem practical, my love." She chuckles, freezing when she sees the seriousness in his glare.
"You will not leave my side until I am sure you have healed fully," His voice stern, as if speaking to a misbehaving child. "I'll not have another misfortune befall my heart when I could easily prevent such things from happening."
Keep her close he does. All through dinner, his eyes scarcely leave her, and then he again cradles her in his arms as he carries her to their bed. There's a coldness to his face, an anger brewing just beneath his normaly jovial features, like a storm that causes her chest to tighten.
"Are you cross with me, my love?" She asks quietly as he helps her undress,
"Do I seem cross?" He grunts, loosening the laces of her bodice and taking it off her.
"Yes," She admits, her voice small, and he stills.
He sighs and leans forward to rest his forehead on her shoulder, his arms wrapping around her waist from behind.
"No," He assures her, softly, "You infuriate me, but I could never be angry at you."
His thumb runs across her ribs. He never wishes to hear the insecurity he just has in her voice again.
"I love you," He insists, his lips kissing softly at the nape of her neck, before burying his nose against the side ofher throat, "Seeing you hurt... Nāenelle, please, you must take greater care. I could not bear to see you in pain again."
He shifts, carefully leaning her back against his chest, hugging her close as physically possible, as if terrified she might disappear.
"What would I ever do if you left this life without me?" He murmurs, voice low and suddenly quite melancholy, "My Nāenelle, my heart, my love. The only bit of light in this fucking shit life, my port in the endless storm. I cannot lose you. I will not."
Both his words and kiss to her head are overflowing with conviction. He's never been one to lie, and now is no different; he would be truly lost without her now.
"Promise me," He pleas, his lips firm against her temple, "Swear to me you will be more careful with my heart."
Can we get a fic about Lyonel meeting his betrothed? Who arranged it etc.
Sharp Scales of the Stag | Colors and Promises
Warnings: 18+, none.
Lyonel Baratheon x Nāenelle Tully
A Thousand Years by Christina Perri and Steve Kazee | Banner by @saradika-graphics
The party is dull, the wine is subpar, and Lyonel is on the brink of screaming, he is so understimulated.
He is starting to wonder why he came all the way to Riverrun for a name-day celebration in the first place. Yes, there are whole brothels he has yet to try, and plenty of trouble to get into, but this event is not doing it for him.
"Pig!"
A commotion from the Lord's table catches his attention, just as the eldest daughter's wine splashes across the face of some Frey or Piper lad, burning fire in her eyes that make his stomach twist. He watches as she stands and, with her head held high with pride, storms out.
Now, Lyonel had seen her before, at one tourney or another, with her cousin. Her name is Nina or Nala or something to that regard. Pretty to be sure, but, as word about court would have it, an odd fish, near twenty-six years of age, and still unmarried.
"Bull-headed that one." One of the men at his table scoffs, "Acting as though she has time to waste before her child-bearing years end- stuck-up bitch."
"That is our host's kin," He warns lowly, hand itching for his dagger. He has never been one for gossip, especially not toward a lady. The man simply rolls his eyes and stands to find another seat.
Another minute passes before Lyonel is on his feet and making his way from the dining hall, toward the godswood where he'd seen her disappear.
Sure enough, sitting with her skirts pulled up to her knees and bare feet in the stream, is the Tully girl, her dark-red hair falling just right to obscure her face. He watches her for a moment as she plays with flower petals and blades of grass, a warm feeling washing over him.
"I hope you don't mind." He says, and she jumps to her feet, startled, the ends of her blue gown falling in the water.
"My lord," She gasps at his sudden appearance.
"Lyonel, please," He corrects as he steps forward with an outstretched hand to help her back onto the bank, "Ser Lyonel. I apologize if I scared you, my lady."
"Nāenelle." Her cheeks flush pink when she takes his hand, causing an amused smile to spread across his face.
"Lady Nāenelle," He gins, bowing his head slightly, "A pretty name. It suits you."
Her eyes flick toward him with a frown, "You forget yourself, ser."
His brow furrows when she steps back from him.
"And what do you mean by following me here?"
He bites back a smirk and shakes his head, "Nothing of inpropriety, my lady. You seemed... distressed when you left."
Her look shifts from one of guarded interest to annoyance, which only seems to amuse him further.
"And you thought you would... what?" She huffs, "Play the hero? Ser Lyonel, you have quite a reputation, as I am sure you are acutely aware."
"Do I?" He chuckles, the sound deep and beautiful.
"Indeed, and, as such, you would understand as to why I would not wish to be seen alone with you, yes?"
He stills, his brow furrowing again. He is a knight of the realm, nect in line to rule over the Stormlands, is the gossip so bad that a lady would worry for her own reputation by simply being near him.
"If you will excuse me, ser," She mutters, walking off, leaving him to contemplate.
As the day drags on into night, her accusations of his own unchivalrous behaviour fades in longing through the haze of Riverlands wine. He finds himself thinking of her pretty, Tully-blue eyes glaring up at him, the touch of her hand as he helped her from the river, and the blush of her soft, freckled cheeks. He thinks of the blaze of anger across her face when she'd thrown her wine.
Morning came soon enough, and a joust in her uncle's honor was to be held. Ah, so this is why he'd graced the riverfolk with his rougish presence.
As he climbs upon his horse, he sees her, not in the viewing stands, no, but down on the field speaking with Ser Medgar Tully, her cousin and heir to Riverrun. The sun is shining in her hair, and he can just hear her laugh, the sound causing his chest to tighten.
Before he knows of what he is about to do, he urges his horse forward, his voice sure and clear.
"My Lady Nāenelle." He stops just before her, a mischievous grin on his face as his attention catches her off guard, "If it is not too bold of me, may I ask for the honour of your favor for the coming tilt?"
Bold? It feels a monumental request from a knight she had met perhaps twice prior, and even moreso as the first knight to ask it of her at all, beside her cousin. She twists the handkerchief in her hands as bashfulness and delight swirl inside her.
"It is not," She says shyly, her cheeks turning rosy as she hands the piece of fabric to him.
The smile he wears beneath his helm as he charges his opponents in the lists is one of pride and boyish glee. She is surprised when he takes the day, becoming flustered when he lifts his antlered helm to press her favor to his lips.
Her annoyance returns when his boldness grows and he sits directly across from her at the following feast.
"I owe you my thanks, Lady Nāenelle," He grins like a fool, "Had it not been for the strength of your favor, I would have ended up with my ass in the dirt like all the others."
His chuckle is dark yet teasing and she hums.
"Perhaps I should not have fed into your arrogance, ser." She says pointedly and his smile only widens.
They spend a short time continuing this little dance of retorts before he asks outright, "How a lady such as you can find herself unmarried is beyond me."
He knows he's pressed a sore spot when her jaw freezes mid-chew and she looks up at him with the eyes of a wounded dog.
"I..." she shifts uncomfortably and her hesitance to speak makes him feel oddly ill. He had not meant his comment as an insult, but purely surprise, seeing at how pleasant she seems. "I am betrothed, Ser, to Ser Heidrick Frey."
His stomach drops and his jaw clenches.
"Heidrick Frey, is hardly a knight, and is the third son of a third son." He growl his grip tightening on his cup, "Could your father not have arranged you a better match?"
He's done it again. He and that brazen mouth of his have hurt her, twice in less than a minute.
"I do not mean..." He huffs and shakes his head, "That useless cunt could not possibly be worthy of you, my lady."
"And I suppose you think you would be?" She scoffs.
"Of course not," He frowns, "But I come far closer than Heidrick fucking Frey."
He does not say so, but, for a moment, he does imagine himself with her, married, and, instead of finding the notion ridiculous, he finds himself suddenly enamored with her.
Over the next week, he does all he can to learn more about her, to try and get closer to her before he decides, he won't be returning to Storm's End as soon as he had planned, and Lord Tully is surprised when the heir to the Stormlands stays well after the celebration has concluded.
Nāenelle is annoyed at first with him popping up everywhere she goes, but she soon grows amused by it, indulging him with walks in the godswood and accepting his lavish gifts.
She is, admittedly, unsurprised when he proposes, her chest tightening at his disappointment when she reminds him she is already engaged.
He grips her hands tightly as he tries to convince her that they are a far better match.
"What is it that he can give you that I cannot?" He pleads, "If it simply a matter of his asking first, then please reconsider. I could worship and adore you unlike any other man."
He proposes twice more over the next two months, and by the third she has come to realize that a political marriage with a lord-to-be that adores her would be far more palatable than a political marriage to a lower grandson of a lord that feels nothing for her, and agrees, with her father's blessing.
Both her father and mother prefer Lyonel anyway, for his obvious care for their daughter, and the opportunity it offers her and the family.
Lyonel is overjoyed, which is not not how he ever expected to feel at the prospect of marriage, and yet, he has fallen to hard and fast for her it would seem blasphemous to not be elated to wed her.
He thinks he looks dashing at the wedding, his unruly curls combed back, beautiful shoulder mantle in Baratheon yellow over an intricately designed black leather doublet, striking quite the figure in the sept at Riverrun. Then he sees her and beauty does not even begin to cover it.
Her dress is simple white with billowing sleeves, sapphires and garnets along her neck, and a deep blue belt hanging loosely from her waist.
He near falls to his knees before her as if to pledge, not only his body, but his sword and soul to her and he alone. Fuck kings, fuck the gods, all he needs is her.
When he says "I am hers" he means it, he truly does, she can see it in his eyes, vowing himelf only to her.
Speeches are made, songs are sung, and drinks are had at the feast, and Lyonel, as he does, makes enough of a fool of himself that he makes his bride laugh. His bride! Gods that feels good to think. His wife! His love. And he made her laugh!
When she shows even the slightest aversion to the bedding ceremony he shuts the whole thing down. He may be tipsy, but he will not have his darling wife uncomfortable, so he scoops her up and carries her off himself to worship her like the goddess she is.
Sorry, I posted this before I finished, and then I thought I published it done but forgor
Warnings: 18+, threats of violence
Banner by @saradika-graphics
"Not that any of us are shocked by the lack of heirs yet, considering..." Daemon Lannister snickers, glancing toward Nāenelle while speaking to Lyonel and the entire table goes silent.
Even the serving girls freeze at the comment, one even dropping the pitcher of water in surprise that anyone- even an older lord, would insult their lady to Lyonel of all people.
"What in the seven hells did you just say, cunt?" Lyonel spits, his hand grasping at his antler-adorned dagger at his hip. His face is grave, eyes dark, glare sharp, and teeth clenched, giving him a moment to take back the foul words aimed at his wife.
A moment passes and Lyonel is stepping up onto the table, knocking wine and food aside before landing beside the Grey Lion, his ringed hand clutching the collar of the man's tunic and dragging him to his feet.
"I suggest you apologize to the lady before your insides decorate my hall, you tiny, insignificant flea." He growls as he presses the tip of his blade to his stomach.
"My love." Her voice is gentle and only barely cuts through the haze of anger clouding his mind, "I'm sure Lord Lannister did not mean to insult. Surely this is not worth starting a war over."
It is. To him it is, truly. He presses the knife even closer, waiting for an apology, insisting on it.
"This bastard would dare insinuate my perfect love is flawed or unfit to bear children to my face." Bits of spit connect with Daemon's face and collect in his own beard as he hisses, "I should run him through- slowly- for the insult alone."
"And I am asking you not to." She says softly, reaching across the table to touch his arm. It is not as though she disagrees with him, simply that, if he were to start a war, he would be away more often, which means less time with her, and the gods have made her quite selfish toward her love, "Lyonel, please."
He reluctantly releases Daemon, who looks rather shaken, kicks his guest's seat away from the table, and steps back up and over the table before dropping heavily back into his own seat, dragging his Lady Wife down to sit between his spread legs.
"I apologize for my words, my Lady." Lord Lannister stammers, bowing slightly before turning to leave.
"Look at him run," Lyonel chuckles in her ear, the sound low and rumbling from his chest to hers. He tilts his neck to look at her "The cunt owes you his life, and I don't plan to let him forget it."
Warning: 18+, smut, piv, porn without plot, biting
It's smut. Just smut. Lyonel uses his penis.
Word Count: 625
Technically Lyonel x Nāenelle, but I never use her name here
Rasputin by Majestic and Boney M | Banner by @saradika-graphics
Lyonel groans, another roll of her hips, another clench of her weeping cunt around him. He prefers her like this, atop him, her tits bouncing, her soft stomach pressed to his, as his hands knead the meat of her ass.
"F-fuck! Fuck!" He shouts, his head falling forward against her breast, his hands splayed across her back, warmth soaking into her sweat-slicked skin, "Slow down, pretty girl. That's it."
His voice is rough and gravely, the way he sounds just before an earth-shattering orgasm.
She slows her rhythm from desperate to torturous, every shift of her hips leaving him gasping.
One hand leaves her back, fumbling blindly toward the bedside table, where a half-drunk bottle of wine sits by an overturned goblet, knocked aside by the rocking of the bed.
"Fuck." He pulls back from her, his hand sliding down to squeeze her thigh as he rights his cup and pours himself another drink. Unfortunately for him, the rim never makes it to his lips when it is swiftly taken by his lover, "You little- Give that back!"
She laughs as she leans back, taking the wine with her, his cock still deep inside her, making them both groan.
"And what if I refuse?" She teases, already sipping from it, one hand braced on his leg so she can arch her back and fuck herself on him.
His jaw clenches, surging forward to grip her hips and push his nose between her tits, his lips pressing languid kisses there, "I would love you... And touch you... Make you tremble like a whore... and beg for release."
She pauses, holding the cup just out of his reach.
"Beg?" She scoffs, the pace of her hips quickens, "Do you truly love me s-so little?"
The accusation, as playful as it was, causes him to scowl, and he heaves her onto her back, his hips staying slotted between hers, the wine splashing across the bedspread.
"You doubt me?" He growls, his hips snapping into hers with sudden speed and force that leaves her gasping.
"L-lyonel the wine-"
"Fuck the wine." He grunts, his hands sliding along her arms to intertwine their fingers, and her eyes go wide. Fuck the wine, hm? She's never heard such blasphemy from his lips, but she has not the time to dwell on it as he fucks her into a sudden orgasm, warmth erupting from her belly like hot embers in her veins.
"Fucking- Lyonel!" She cries out, squeezing his hands as her cunt spasms around him. She's unsure where he ends, and she begins anymore, her body quivering with intense pleasure with every heavy thrust.
"Does my pretty wife doubt me still?" His voice a hiss against her ear as he fucks her through her bliss. His words begin to slur and devolve into wanton moans, muffled by her throat until-
Lyonel's hips stutter, his teeth sinking into her skin as he spills his hot seed deep inside her with a groan. Every muscle in his body tenses, poised to snap before they give out altogether.
A huff escapes her when he all but collapses atop her, but in truth, she relishes the familiar weight.
"Look... Look at the mess you've made, you absolute bufoon of a ma- mmm!"
"Shut up." He mumbles against her lips, silencing her with his greedy tongue against hers.
His hands cup her face, kissing her deeply as his cock begins to soften within her, voice deep as he asks, "Do you wish me to pull out, my queen?"
"No." Her voice is hushed, as if admitting a secret meant only for him,her lips never straying far from his, arms clinging tightly round his neck, warm and secure, "Stay. Stay here... I want you close."
Sharp Scales of the Stag | 'Til the Sun Comes Back Around
Warnings: 18+, Sexual tension, Not quite smut, body shots
Lyonel tries a new imported liquor from Dorne. Or, The Laughing Storm gets wasted and takes tequila shots from Nāenelle's cleavage. This is @daincrediblegg 's fault
Word Count: 850
Stampede by Alexander Jean and Lindsey Stirling | Take It Off by Kes$ha | Banners by @saradika-graphics | Dividers by @chrisssiren
Celebrations in the Stormlands are many, and, when Lyonel has his say, go on for as long as the food and spirits hold out, and the musicians can physically continue playing.
He's already quite drunk and disheveled when he climbs atop a table for a better view to look for his Lady Wife.
"Ah!" He exclaims over the music and crowd, feet knocking into goblets of wine and mead as he stumbles down, "There you are! My beautiful queen."
He leans in to kiss her, one hand grasping at her face while the other presses a glass bottle of some spirit to her cheek in its stead, his kiss is sloppy against her lips.
"I had this- what is this?" He knocks away her goblet of water aside, the liquid spilling on the floor before brandishing the bottle proudly, "I had this imported from Dorne, and I have just had a w-wonderful idea!"
Her hands come out to steady him as he sways, his eyes unfocused as he watches her expectantly.
"You're drunk, my love," She chuckles. She's barely buzzed compared to him, and his brow furrows, looking at her indignantly.
"That is beshides the point, my... my gor-gorgeous, darling girl." He slurs. He grasps for a small glass and holds it in front of her face, smiling giddily, "I put this here."
"Lyonel!" She snaps when he pushes the glass into her cleavage, making sure it sits snuggly between her warm, soft breasts that he loves so so much... She has to push him back when he starts messily kissing and biting at her skin as if there weren't a party swirling around them, "Get a hold of yourself!"
"Mmmm... hold." He mumbles, reaching for her hips, "Hold you. Nāena... Nāenana."
The table behind her screeches against the stone floor when he gracelessly backs her up against it.
"Right!" His eyes light up when he remembers what he was doing, holding up the bottle again and pulling the cork out with his teeth, "N-now hold still... I have to po-pour this."
His hand sways and surges, filling the glass and then some, pouring the liquor all over her bodice.
"You moved." He accuses, clumsily setting aside the bottle with a thud
"I did not, you're too sloshed to stand!" She grimaces, "What in the seven hells do you plan to do now?"
"She's mad at me." He frowns, his fingers pressing into her hips. He doesn't mean to speak his thoughts aloud, but they come anyway. "Not allowed to be mad- she loves me."
"I do, but-" She agrees, the words and annoyance in her voice dying away when he sinks to his knees.
"My queen," He murmurs devoutly, kissing along her stomach, his hands grasping the back of her thighs through her skirts, "My goddess."
One hand wanders up to knead her ass as he nuzzles against her.
"Get up, you absolute fool," She sighs adoringly, her hand running through his hair, worried that if she doesn't step in soon, the daft man she loves would prostrate himself before her like a monk at the feet of the gods.
He grunts as he tries to do what she asks on drunken, uncooperative limbs. His mouth trails kisses up her bodice, suckling slightly on a patch of alcohol-soaked fabric before wrapping his lips around the rim of the glass betwixt her tits. He buries his nose there with it for a moment then tosses his head back, downing the Dornish spirit quickly.
The glass cracks when it falls from his lips and collides with the stone floor. With his mouth now free again, he presses his face back in, as if looking for a second drink, licking and nipping at every bit of liquor-drenched skin he can find.
"Come with me." His voice is muffled by her breasts, and he pulls away to drag her toward the dancing mass of bodies in the center of the dining hall.
"I think not." She chuckles lovingly, "It's well into the morrow, my Handsome Stag. It would be best if at least one of us were awake to greet our guests in the morn."
He melts into her kiss completely, helplessly grabbing at her when she pulls away.
"Nāenelle." He whines into her shift when she moves to stand, his arms wrapping tightly around her plush body, keeping her in bed with him, "Stay. Mm... my fucking head."
"That, my love, is what you get for drinking your way across Westeros in a single night," She says softly, her fingers combing through his unruly curls.
He'd only come to bed a few hours before, around the time the sun began to rise, and he was unwilling to let his pillow- er, his wife, leave him alone now. What if he needed to feel her sweet lips on his forehead? Was he to wander all of Storm's End to find her under the assault of the blinding sun? He thinks not. She will stay here, with him, in his arms.
"Don't stop," He purrs, head still spinning slightly as he settles against her, "Don't stop."
