The Stag That Fell for a Wolf
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x fem! Reader
Synopsis: Lyonel wakes up a married man to Lady Stark.
Word count: 2.4k
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, Stark! Reader, lovestruck! Lyonel, CW suggestive, CW food mention, CW violence mention but nothing too bad, fluff!
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Lyonel Baratheon Masterlist
Lyonel wakes up with a start, his dreams recently have been peculiar, atrociously peculiar. Last night it was a two headed stag riding a direwolf whilst jousting with a winged lizard on a crowned donkey. And a few nights ago it was of you cradling a swaddled babe in your arms, but when he peeked in between the folded Baratheon yellow fabric, he found a wild boar instead. Normally his nightmares don’t bother him, but these ones are eerie, like staring into a muddled looking glass, a memory that hasn’t happened yet.
He looks for warmth on instinct, a palm patting the other side of the bed, only to find the spot cold to the touch. Cracking an eye open, he doesn’t find your pretty face greeting him like usual. Groaning, he smacks his dry lips, a hand running down his face as he takes a deep inhale of the northern air.
Blinking blearily, he stares at the carved ceiling of direwolves prowling around a weirwood tree. Everything around him is in grey or dark blue, grey pelts covering him, a grey fireplace that still roars to life from the added firewood, perhaps a courtesy from you before you left him alone to fend for himself around your wolf kin. Lyonel isn’t intimidated by your family, he has actually grown fond of them during his stay, they were quite merry to be around once they have a few goblets of wine in their steely northern stomachs; but the north is unforgiving, Winterfell is unforgiving to outsiders.
He could feel it around him whenever he walks the halls, from the godswood to the crypt, he could feel that he’s not welcome here. As if your ancestors could sense the lack of ice in his veins.
Sometimes he wonders how someone like you, sunshine incarnate, a lady born with laughter in your throat, could possibly hail from the same place. Winterfell is as drab and dreary as Storm’s End, but with more ghosts haunting its ancient stone walls. Perhaps that’s why the gods, both old and new, brought the two of you together, to bring light in each other’s lives.
The thought of his bride has Lyonel getting up from the bed. His neck is sore, but not from the soft goose feather pillows, it’s from the marks that feel tender under the pads of his fingers that were from your lips that he happily received.
The moment his bare feet hit the cold stone floor, he winces, flinching at the biting cold. He then grabs the nearest bear pelt on the bed and drapes it over his bare form, trotting towards his clothes that were left strewn across the chamber floor.
It was a struggle to put the layers on when he’s still a bit wobbly on his feet, vision wavering as he had to latch onto your vanity lest he falls and cracks his head against the stone fireplace. The wedding feast went on until the sun rose, and the casks of northern ale and wine lay empty. It seems as if the Starks emptied out their reserves just for the occasion. He thinks of it true when he pours himself a glass of what he thought was wine only for it to be water.
Finally dressed, cloak looking lopsided, he admires himself in the Stark colours, your colors as it drapes upon him like fresh driven snow. Underneath the heavy cloak is his Baratheon colours, leather and wool to keep him warm. The metal clasp you gifted to him of a stag and a wolf meeting in the middle of the cloak has him smiling to himself, a hand tracing along the intricate craft. After all the courting and pining for you, he finally married the woman he chose to love, and not just someone who was chosen for him out of duty.
Exhaling, he looks over at the fogged up window, wiping it with his sleeve as he sees your familiar form enter the godswood. There’s an immediate grin on his face, you’re a beacon of light to him, a moth eager to find his warmth.
Grabbing his sword on his way out, he clasps it to his hip as he practically races down the stoney steps to get to you. Servants bow at him curtly as he passes by, and some look at him with confusion as if the excitement on his face has never been seen before in the keep.
He purposely evades the usual places where he could run into your family to save himself a chat or two. He likes them enough, but it’s been nigh an hour that he hasn’t seen you, and he’s growing antsy because of it. Your hand clasped around his own would be a nice reprieve for his longing.
The smell of breakfast wafting in the dining hall almost stopped him from his tracks, but he trudges on despite his hunger, for his longing for you is much bigger than wanting some sausages and porridge. He’ll go back for it later anyway.
The doors open for him, and the freezing air smacks him like a horse’s tail. The snow crunches under his feet as he makes his way through the courtyard, where a dozen or so people go about their work. From smiths to stablehands, they acknowledge him with passing indifference. A group of people were specifically loading in your trunks inside the Baratheon carriage, ready to take you to your new home. His squire greets him with a friendly, “Ser,” before going back to tend to his horse.
As he makes it to the archway leading to the godswood, Lyonel spots your younger brothers sparring in the training grounds, he’d greet his kin and correct their posture, but you’re so close that he could see your kneeled form in front of the alabaster tree. So he promises to stop by later once you’re by his side.
Kneeled amongst the snow, your blue dress and fur cloak pooling around you makes you look ethereal in Lyonel’s eyes. You look almost statuesque, carved from marble like the ones underneath Winterfell, frozen in the position as your lips move faintly from the distance. Muttering prayers and hopes onto the tree quietly.
The pond behind you is completely frozen solid, and the red leaves from the weirwood fall around you like droplets of blood upon snow. Lyonel remembers the first time you showed him the place, it felt as still as today, stuck in time, as if no breeze nor crow could pass by the sacred place. He confesses that he finds the bleeding tree with a carved face disturbing, and he has seen a lot of things in his life. But he also finds the beauty in the old gods that will continue to go on even after the both of you have passed on. It’s comforting, knowing that the exact place where you two wed and showed the love the two of you have for each other would still be here for his grandchildren, his great grandchildren even.
One day they’ll point at it and tell the tale of a stag that fell for a wolf. A love story that could rival House Durrandon’s legacy.
Lyonel waits for you to finish your prayers patiently, a hand resting on the pommel of his sword, eyes roaming around the space, but he finds himself drawn to you. His vision travels to the length of your cloak, then over to your face, tracing the curve of your cheeks, and how the snowflakes gather in your lashes and atop your hair as it collects into a crown. He grows more and more in love with you by the day, and the moment you lift your head and meet with his eyes, the snow seems to melt around him.
“My love, you waited.” Your voice is carried by the cool air, clouds of smoke curling out of your parted lips.
Lyonel smiles softly, the genuine gentle smile he reserves just for you as he closes the distance, a hand already reaching for your own. “I cannot find it within myself to disturb you.”
Your hand slides into his perfectly as he lifts you up on your feet. Once upright, you press a sweet kiss on his knuckles as you watch his expression turn lovelier under the light of winter. “Thank you for waiting. I know it was hard for you to stay still.”
“You are horrible to me, wife.” He utters with sheer fondness, both hands now clasped around your own, trying to warm you up when you seem to have forgo the gloves despite the weather.
“Wife, I’m growing fond of that title.”
“Hopefully it only comes out of my lips.”
With the roll of your eyes, it makes him tug you closer to share your warmth as you don’t look like the cold bothers you as much as it does him. The stag is almost shivering in place, whilst the wolf is unfazed.
“Don’t even jest about that. You will be by my side until the end of our days.” Your brows furrow as he kneads the space between your brows until you’re smiling again. “You promised in front of the old gods, so you cannot break your vow.”
“I will try not to die before you then,” you stare at him with narrowed eyes, a warning. “I will not die any time soon?” He says to please you with the confidence of an unsure stag in front of a wolf, wondering if it’ll devour him or in your case, bite his lip whenever he teases you too much. He would never tell you that the act riles him up even more. “I will live forever.” Lyonel declares with certainty.
“Good answer.” Arms thrown around his neck, you admire him under the winter sun. “I didn’t mean to leave you still abed, I wanted to say my prayers before we leave.”
He could feel your fingers roll around the ring on your finger. “We could delay just like your father suggested.”
You chortle out a scoff. “No, he wants me to stay a little longer because he truly does not want me to leave. And the maester was right, if we delay even longer, the snow in the coming days will make it harder to travel. You’ve got your responsibilities at Storm’s End, I’d rather not keep you from it.”
He resists the urge to kiss you as he cups your face in his gloved hands, wishing that it’s warm enough to take the leather off just to feel your warmth. “My father will handle it I’m sure. And I prefer my lady wife happy and content, even if we stay in this frozen hell for a season more.”
“I grew up in this frozen hell, you know.” Chuckling, you rest your forehead atop his clavicle as he rubs at your back lovingly.
“Did I call it that? I meant…” he thinks with a scrunch of his nose. “fantastic… keep, yes, that’s what I meant, fantastic keep. We should have the maester check your hearing, my love.”
Lifting your head up, a chin right on his chest, you smile brightly as he couldn’t help himself but peck you sweetly. He could taste the arbor wine you had, and smell your sweet perfume clinging to his cloak as he welcomes both sensations that you fill him with.
When you part reluctantly, remembering that you’re in the godswood, you pat his cheek and giggle atop his lips. “You’re horrid, husband.”
“What did I do now?” Lyonel’s face contorts into genuine bewilderment, as if he’s trying to remember all the things he has done in his life.
“You made your wife commit a sin in front of the gods.”
“It was just a bloody peck!” His guffaw follows as it rumbles throughout the whole space. With your hand on his lips, and yet your stifled giggle remains, he gives your palm a lick. Expecting for you to flinch, you stay rooted, eyes narrowed, teasing him to escalate. “I’m not falling for that.” Voice muffled, his eyes crinkle in the corners.
Sighing, conceding in defeat, you take your hand away and embrace him once again. “You know me too well.”
“Your father would take ice and behead me himself if he ever saw us doing blasphemous things in front of your gods.”
“Oh, he would, there is no doubting that.” Playing with his curls, your eyes turn solemn. “But I will miss him, and this place. Winterfell is dreary, but it’s home. I was thinking of bringing a leaf with me and press it in-between the pages of a tome as a reminder of the weirwood.”
“I have a better idea,” his eyes darts towards the howling face as red sap flows out of its mouth before regretting it and turning back to you. “I could plant a weirwood for you at Storm’s End, build your very own godswood.”
Eyes shining, you take his face gently in your hands. “You would do that for me?”
“My heart, my she wolf,” his tone lowers affectionately, forehead thumping against yours softly as he gazes right into your eyes. “I would give you the throne if you asked.”
You let out an amused snort. “I don’t want the throne, but that is incredibly sweet, my love.”
“That settles it then,” he announces, straightening up as he grasps at your chin with his index and thumb gently. “I will send a raven back home so the moment you step out of the carriage you could visit it immediately.”
“Thank you, I feel incredibly spoiled.”
“That’s just the start of my utter devotion to you, my wolf.” Arm thrown over your shoulder, he turns you towards the tree, cheek squished against yours as his beard tickles you faintly. “Now, how exactly do we rip it out?”
“Rip it out?!” Your head turns quickly to face him that Lyonel fears that you’ve cracked your neck. “Lyonel, you— you cannot just rip the weirwood out!”
“How else would I build your godswood?” From his growing grin and the glint in his eyes, your panic is subdued.
“You jest.” Smacking his chest, he lets out a booming laugh that you love so much. “Oh, you’re horrid.”
Taking your face in his hands once again, he leans closer, a hair’s width away from your lips as he mirrors your smile. “But you love me anyway.”
“But I love you anyway.” You repeat, voice saccharine, before he kisses you just like the day you wed him.
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