STORMS AND DRAGONS
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x Targaryen! Reader
divider by: @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics word count: 4.1k synopsis: You sneak away for one reckless night of freedom, only to wake in the bed of Lyonel Baratheon— who is now very much besotted with you. a/n: I got more to this story but without the next episode as a guideline to where I could go with this, I decided to end it where it was. Let's see what sunday brings! warnings: Possible major to minor spoilers depending how much you've seen and know about the book and show.
You woke with a groan, your head pounding as if your septa had taken a rod to it without pause. Worse still was the unfamiliar sensation beneath your fingers—thick furs, not the soft silks of your own bed.
Your eyes fluttered open, then squeezed shut again against the cruel stab of morning light leaking through canvas.
It had been an unruly night.
You had slipped away from the royal festivities, offering up silent thanks that your father, Maeker and Aerion would not arrive until the morrow. If they had seen even a whisper of what you’d planned, you’d have felt the lash before the night was through.
Your thoughts drifted back to the night before…
Torches guttered in the dark, casting warm light over silk tents and roaring fires. Laughter spilled into the night air, mingling with music and the sharp scent of wine.
You were meant to arrive with the rest of your family on the morrow, in a proper royal procession, to observe the tourney as a princess of House Targaryen ought.
Instead, you had slipped away days early with your cousins, Daeron and Aegon, chasing the promise of excitement like any common girl with too much curiosity and not enough patience.
The three of you had taken rooms in a shabby inn not far from Ashford. Daeron, as expected, cared more for his drinks than for tourney lists, and Aegon—sweet, earnest Egg—would have fell to his brother in neglect if you had not pressed a pouch of coins into the innkeeper’s hand and made her swear to keep an eye on him.
Only then had you slipped away on your own.
Ashford had been alive with merriment when you finally arrived, far removed from the rigid hush of court. You’d fallen in with a pair of painted whores who had laughed at your careful speech and noble posture before gleefully taking you in hand. They laced you into borrowed silks cut scandalously low, dusted your cheeks with colour, lined your eyes in kohl, and declared you ready for the festivities.
And then there had been the wine.
Someone pressed a cup into your hand. Someone else caught your wrist and spun you in a careless circle as you danced around the fire. The music swelled around you—drums pounding, fiddles shrieking, hands clapping in time—and when you laughed, the sound startled even you, bright and unguarded.
Cup after cup you indulged, until you were past the point of sensible. Feeling gloriously untethered from duty, expectation, and the careful posture drilled into you since girlhood.
Eventually, the night began to blur.
The fires smeared into streaks of molten gold. The tents lost their distinction, one silk wall bleeding into the next. When you stumbled into a tent at the edge of the grounds, you assumed it was your own and sighed in relief at the warmth.
A shout of laughter rang out.
You blinked, frowning faintly as you remembered—you didn’t have a tent at all. Meaning you had just entered a strangers.
The space was enormous, even through the haze of wine, and some distant, sober part of your mind registered that it must belong to a greater house. Thick furs covered the floor. Tankards crowded every surface. Half a dozen men and women were already deep in their cups, dancing and laughing and drinking.
You took a hesitant half step back—but a hand caught your arm and tugged you forward instead. Laughter surrounded you, warm and infectious, and before you could protest, a goblet of wine was once again pressed firmly into your hands.
Your already-drunken mind forgot whatever reason you’d had for leaving. The music swallowed the thought whole, and you let yourself be swept into the crowd, laughing and dancing without a care in the world.
You were drawn deeper and deeper into the press of bodies, into the heat and noise at the heart of the tent.
And there—at the center of it all—danced the handsomest man you had ever seen.
He towered over nearly everyone around him, broad as an ox, dark-haired, clad in fine silks that strained across powerful shoulders. When he laughed, the sound boomed through the tent, rich and unrestrained, as though the world existed solely for his amusement.
It seemed you were not the only one whose attention had been caught.
His gaze found you mid-spin. Hungrily taking in the way you moved, the careless grace the wine had gifted you. Heat crept up your spine under the weight of it.
Purposefully, you looked away and kept dancing, though you had to fight back a smirk. You did not miss the way he began to move through the crowd, nor the subtle way others made room for him.
Moments later, strong hands settled at your waist.
A warm breath brushed the shell of your ear, close enough that you could feel his heat seeping through the thin silk at your back.
“Well,” your mystery man drawled, voice rich with amusement, “either I’m drunker than I thought, or someone’s wandered into the wrong den.”
You grinned back at him, fearless in your wine-soaked courage. “Then you must be far drunker than you realized.”
A husky laugh rumbled out of him, low and pleased. With an easy strength, he spun you around until you faced him fully, your skirts flaring with the motion.
“Is that so?” he murmured, eyes bright, a challenge dancing there. “Well then, there’s only one solution for that.”
He plucked the empty goblet from your fingers and replaced it with a brimming one in smooth motion. “We must drink more…and dance!”
He seized another full cup from a passing reveller to take for himself before clinking it against yours, and tipped it back in one long swallow. You followed without hesitation, the wine burning warm all the way down.
Then his hand found yours again, and he drew you into the center of the crowd, spinning you beneath the torchlight as laughter and music crashed around you. The wine thrummed warmly in your veins, loosening every careful thread of restraint until you no longer felt like a princess at all.
You did not dance like someone trained to glide through courtly steps beneath a hundred watchful eyes.
You danced wildly and freely.
You laughed too loud, let him spin you too fast, and let the music pull you wherever it wished. Your hair slipped loose, your cheeks flushed, your breath coming quick with joy you had never allowed yourself to show in gilded halls.
And in that careless happiness, you didn’t notice the way he watched you.
Not like a courtier assessing a match. Not like a knight admiring a lady.
He watched you like a man witnessing a storm roll in over open sea—awed, thrilled, and not entirely certain whether he meant to stand still or chase it headlong.
By the time the fire burned low and the musicians’ hands grew tired, the tent had begun to empty. Laughter faded into murmurs, then into the hush of dying embers.
You were flushed, breathless and still in his arms.
Your eyes widened in horror as more fragments of the night crashed back into you.
The press of his hungry mouth against yours
His hands wandering along every inch of your body.
Your own fingers tracing the hard lines of him, the ridges of old scars beneath warm skin.
Breathless moans as the two of you lost yourselves into the pleasure of each other’s body.
You froze—dread pooling in your stomach—you became aware that your cheek was not resting on a pillow.
It was resting on a broad, solid chest, which was warm and very much alive beneath your skin.
You gasped and shot up, clutching the furs to your chest as if it could restore your honor by sheer force of will.
Your gaze slid—hesitant, disbelieving—to the man beside you. Dark hair fell across his brow. One massive arm was thrown carelessly over his face, as though even the morning sun did not dare disturb him.
“Oh fuck,” you whispered turning away and running a stressed hand through your hair at what you had carelessly done. Then, another louder, more horrified, “Fuck,” came past your lips.
Memories continued to strike in disjointed flashes—your boldness, the way you had met his touch without hesitation. Heat rushed to your cheeks as you buried your face in your hands, mortified at how utterly unabashed and shameless you had been.
From beside you came a lazy chuckle.
“Good morrow to you too,” a voice rough with sleep and amusement said. He peeked at you through his fingers. “I didn’t think you would be up for another round so soon.”
He pushed himself upright, a roguish grin already tugging at his mouth—
—and you slapped him.
The sound cracked through the tent like a whip.
For a heartbeat, he only blinked at you.
Then, slowly, his mouth curved into a grin as he rubbed his cheek, eyes alight with unmistakable amusement.
“Well,” he drawled, far more entertained than offended, “I think I like you better sober.”
You leapt from the bed, dragging the furs with you as you began to pace the tent like a caged dragon.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” you demanded. “I am ruined. Absolutely ruined. I was drunk, I thought this was my tent—”
“If I recall,” he interrupted easily, utterly unbothered by his state of undress as he lounged back against the pillows, watching you with lazy interest, “you were an equally enthusiastic participant in last night’s activities. Hardly looked ruined to me.”
You spun on him, fixing him a scathing glare. “I am betrothed, you oaf!”
He shrugged. “As am I. What of it?” Then he paused in thought, brow furrowing slightly as his gaze swept over you. “Wait… are you not a Lyseni whore?”
“No!” you snapped, colour blazing in your cheeks. “If my lord husband-to-be finds out what we’ve done, we are both dead.”
He rolled his eyes. “And who is this fearsome lord husband-to-be?”
You stalked closer until you stood over him, furs clutched tightly around yourself like armour. “Lyonel Baratheon.”
He blinked and much to your surprise a slow catlike smile spread across his face. “Well,” he said, voice thick with amusement, “that’s a fortunate turn of events… for he is I.”
It was your turn to blink. “What?”
Then you laughed. Sharp and disbelieving.
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“Have a look around if you doubt me,” he said lazily, gesturing about the tent. “The sigil of my house is all over this tent.”
And when you did, your stomach dropped.
The crowned stag was everywhere—stitched into the heavy hangings, tooled into leather, stamped into the brass of discarded goblets. You had not stumbled into just any knight’s tent in your wine-blind wandering…
But into the tent of your lord husband to be.
Lyonel only leaned back against the pillows, looking far too pleased with himself. “At least we got the awkward part out of the way early.” His gaze flicked downward for the briefest moment where there was a stain of red before returning to you, a knowing glint in his eyes that only deepened your mortification.
You stared at him, torn between horror and fury and the undeniable, traitorous spark curling low in your chest.
With a noise of pure outrage, you grabbed a pillow and hurled it at him.
He laughed, catching it easily, meeting your glare head-on with a grin that was entirely unapologetic.
“I’d heard Targaryen women were made of fire,” he said. “And you, my lady wife, have certainly proven the tale true.” A slow grin spread across his face. “I’ve always preferred a woman who knows how to throw a slap.”
Despite the disastrous turn your morning had taken, Lyonel proved—much to your surprise—to be a decent enough man.
He sent for garments more befitting your rank, replacing the borrowed silks of the whores with fine fabrics that restored at least the appearance of dignity. He kept his voice low, his men dismissed, and when all was ready, he guided you quietly from the tent at an hour when most of the camp still slept off their cups.
He protected what remained of your ruined honour as carefully as if it were his own.
And though he still infuriated you—still smirked too easily, still carried himself with that infuriating Baratheon swagger—you felt something in you soften.
Because what other man, upon realizing he had bedded not a nameless camp follower but the highborn lady promised to him, would move so swiftly to shield her from shame rather than revel in the scandal.
Especially after the evidence of your passion had not been entirely one-sided. Because when Lyonel dressed earlier, he’d finally took notice of all marks you had left on him during the night you spent together. His expression shifted into one of unmistakable pride at the sight of them… The absolute rascal.
Ashford was far less charming when viewed through sober eyes, and you had to bite back a grimace as you trudged along the muddied paths between the tents. What had felt lively and inviting the night before now seemed loud, cramped, and distinctly unpleasant beneath your boots.
A swell of excited chatter caught your attention, drawing you toward the edge of the grounds. There, a makeshift tug-of-war had been set up, two teams straining against one another as the crowd roared its encouragement. Laughter and cheers rang out, raw and infectious, and despite yourself, a small smile crept onto your lips at the sheer energy of it all.
Not far from the contest stood a larger tent, its flaps pulled wide. Tables had been dragged out front, crowded with spectators who drank, wagered, and watched the spectacle unfold. Your gaze drifted idly over them—
Then snagged.
A large man sat among them, broad shoulders unmistakable even at a distance. And perched nearby, far too recognizable to be mistaken, was a tiny bald head.
You blinked, brows knitting as you leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the boy’s face.
He mirrored you exactly—same squint, same tilt of the head—and then, at the same moment, both of your eyes widened in recognition.
“Egg?”
The boy gasped and promptly ducked behind the large man beside him.
You were already marching across the churned grass. “Egg!”
The big man looked up at your approach, eyes widening in surprise as he scrambled halfway to his feet. “Milady?”
You barely spared him a glance.
“Egg! I see you hiding!” you snapped.
Slowly, your cousin stepped out from behind the man, a sheepish expression plastered across his face, hands clasped behind his back like a boy caught stealing sweets.
You threw your hands up. “What in the Seven Hells—”
“Milady, I beg your pardon if the boy caused any offence,” the big man blurted, bowing his head quickly. “He’s well-meaning, but I’ll give him a good clout in the ear to make sure he behaves proper.”
Your eyes widened in disbelief. “What—?! You will do no such thing!”
“Please, milady,” the man rushed on, clearly flustered. He failed to realize your indignation had nothing to do with leniency and everything to do with the fact that he had just suggested striking a Targaryen prince. “Punish him not. I will take the blame—he is my squire.”
Your gaze snapped to Egg.
He offered you a nervous, lopsided grin, shoulders hunching as though bracing for impact.
“He’s your what now?” you demanded.
“Squire, my lady,” Egg said quickly, meeting your gaze with a pleading look. “Ser Duncan has taken me in—just for the tourney, you see.”
Your lips pressed into a thin line as your eyes moved between the two of them, taking in the size of the knight, the earnestness of the boy.
“So it seems I do,” you said at last. “And has the ser been treating you well?”
“He has!” Aegon answered at once, a little too quickly, nodding with fervour.
“Wait—hold on,” Duncan blurted, spinning toward Egg in sudden alarm. “Do you know her?!”
Egg ducked his head for a heartbeat, then looked up at the knight through his lashes, eyes wide and artless. “My lady is a kind woman,” he said solemnly, “who took pity on an orphan child.”
You closed your eyes.
Just for a moment.
Seven save you from dragons with silver tongues.
Your eyes opened just in time to catch Duncan looking to you for confirmation.
You offered him a tight smile and nodded. “Yes,” you said smoothly, the words slipping through gritted teeth.
Then you turned your gaze to Egg, narrowing your eyes in silent warning. “And I distinctly recall leaving you at the inn—in capable hands.”
Egg winced, the picture of contrition.
“I will return him at once, whence the tourney is over,” Duncan said at once, clearly eager to make amends.
You sighed. “In the meantime—” You reached into your sleeve and produced a small pouch heavy with coin, tossing it into his hand. “Take this. Make sure you take proper care of the boy… or I’ll have your balls.”
“My balls…?” Duncan echoed faintly, confusion knitting his brow—then his eyes widened as he registered the weight of the pouch. “Oh—no, milady, I couldn’t—”
Before he could finish, a familiar, infuriatingly pleased voice rang out behind you.
“Ah—there she is, my bride-to-be!”
You barely had time to turn before Lyonel Baratheon strode up and slipped an arm around your shoulders, drawing you effortlessly to his side as though he had every right to do so.
Duncan stared.
His gaze flicked from Lyonel to you and back again, his expression caught somewhere between awe and sheer disbelief.
Egg, on the other hand, merely raised an unimpressed brow, his look saying plainly: this is him?
You shot your cousin a sharp glare before rolling your eyes, resisting the urge to sigh.
“Yes,” you said dryly, even as Lyonel grinned like a man thoroughly enjoying himself. “What brings you by?”
He flashed you a bright, unapologetic smile. “Unfortunately, it’s not your beauty this time.” Then he jerked his chin toward Duncan. “I’m here for him. Yes—you, hedge knight.”
He slipped away from you and reached Duncan in two long strides, plucking the man’s cup straight from his hand. Lyonel took one sniff, grimaced, and promptly tossed it aside.
“What is this piss froth?” he muttered.
Without further ceremony, he grabbed Duncan by the back of the neck. “I need muscle.”
“Why?” you shot back, arching a brow. “Are yours not enough? Too small?”
Egg failed to suppress a snicker.
Lyonel only grinned wider, turning his head just enough to wink at you. “Come join me in my tent later and I'll gladly remind you how big they are.”
Your eyes flew wide. You shot him a sharp glare and stepped forward, arm already lifting with clear intent.
He anticipated it.
In one smooth motion, Lyonel shifted, placing Duncan squarely between the two of you. He rested a heavy hand on the startled knight’s shoulder and leaned around him just enough to look back at you, clearly enjoying himself far too much.
Then he turned his attention fully to Duncan.
“Will you heed my call to war?” Lyonel asked solemnly.
Duncan blinked.
That, it seemed was enough to satisfy him.
“Aha! Good!” Lyonel declared, giving Duncan a light, approving slap to the cheek before clapping his hands together. “We march.”
You crossed your arms, scowling, while Egg snorted softly beside you.
Gods help you.
You were to marry a menace.
Unfortunately, he was to be your menace.
And with Aegon insisting on participating in the game as well, you found you lacked the heart to deny him—especially when you saw his gaze brimming with excitement. So you followed after them and stood to watch, a cup of wine in your hand, offering silent support as the noise of the crowd swelled around you.
Duncan was ordered to the back, the thick rope cinched securely around his waist, while Aegon was placed at the front. He was the smallest of all the participants by far, dwarfed by the men beside him, but you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips at the sight of his fierce little frown and squared shoulders. Determination burned bright in him.
You smiled proudly. He was dragon blood, no matter how small he was.
“If we lose this, I’ll be drowning your firstborn!” Lyonel bellowed over the din as he and the others dug in their heels and hauled with all their might. “Pull, you cunt-strapped dandelions!”
The crowd roared.
Your grip tightened on your cup as you watched the line strain, boots sliding in the mud—then inch, inexorably, forward. Lyonel’s team was winning.
Good.
A slow, satisfied smile spread across your face.
You absolutely refused to marry a loser.
But your smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared when you saw your oaf of a future husband abruptly let go of the rope.
“I’ll be back, I’ll be back,” Lyonel muttered, ducking beneath it and striding toward you as though abandoning the line mid-pull were perfectly reasonable. “I’ll be back.”
“Lyonel!” Duncan shouted in alarm.
“I’m thirsty!” Lyonel huffed.
“What are you doing, you oaf?” you cried, smacking his shoulder as he reached you. “Go back out there and help them!”
“I’m thirsty,” he repeated stubbornly, swatting your hand away—
—and then, to your utter outrage, he plucked your cup from your fingers and took a long, unapologetic drink.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sighed contentedly, and grinned at you like a man who had committed no crime at all.
“Much better.”
“I will have our marriage annulled,” you hissed, gripping the collar of his tunic.
He only laughed, brazenly pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before shoving the cup back into your hands. “Quite fortunately, we aren’t married yet—so that’s not possible.”
“Lyonel,” you snapped, warning sharp in your tone.
He lifted both hands in surrender, still grinning. “Relax. I’m going back.”
And before you could strike him again, he ducked away, already laughing as he sauntered back toward the rope, taking a moment to smack Duncan on the arse as he passed.
“Looking good.”
In the time he’d been gone, the opposing team had gained ground. Little Egg was no longer firmly planted on the earth, but instead clung to the rope with both hands and feet, every scrap of determination in his small body holding him there.
Lyonel slid into place at the rear, seized the rope, and planted his heels.
“Fucking pull!” he roared.
With renewed vigour, his team heaved as one. The rope jerked, the line shifted, and then the opposing side went stumbling forward in a mess of flailing limbs and curses—straight into the mud.
The crowd erupted.
And so did you.
A triumphant roaring cheer tore from your throat before you could stop it, loud and wholly undignified for a princess—but in that moment, you didn’t care in the slightest.
You squealed as strong arms scooped you up and spun you around, laughter bubbling free as you came face to face with Lyonel’s broad, victorious grin. The world blurred for a heartbeat before he finally set you back on your feet.
Almost immediately, a smaller body launched itself into your arms.
Another laugh escaped you as Aegon clutched at you, eyes bright with excitement. “We did it!” he exclaimed. “We won!”
“Of course you did,” you said, smiling as you tapped his nose and leaned in closer. “Targaryens always come out on top.”
The words were soft, meant only for him, and you shared a secret little smile at the truth that passed between you like a hidden spark.
With a wink, you set him down and let Duncan sweep him back into the celebrating crowd.
“Darling…” Lyonel began as he stepped up beside you. He paused, and you braced yourself for whatever nonsense might tumble from his mouth next. “Do we now have a child I’m unaware of?” he asked, gesturing toward Egg.
“What? No!” you sputtered. By the gods, this man—he knew full well you had been a maiden until last night.
A night you had spent with him.
He waved you off. “Bah, it matters not. He’s an entertaining child. We can keep him,” he declared decisively.
“Lyonel—!”
“Anyways!” he cut in loudly. He leaned in until his face was inches from yours, grinning like a fool. “I won.”
You snorted and pushed his face back with your palm. “Barely.”
“A win is a win, my fiery lady wife-to-be,” he said, entirely too pleased with himself. “So—what’s my prize?”
You arched a brow. “And what is it you want?”
He leaned back in, his voice dropping low near your ear. “Well, I can think of one rather enjoyable—”
You smacked him instantly.
“Ow!” he yelped, clutching his arm. “You are a violent little creature…” He breathed, his grin only widening. “I love it!”
You rolled your eyes.
He wasn’t done. Tugging you a step closer, he continued, “As I was saying—since that’s clearly off the table—then… a kiss.”
“A kiss?” you repeated, suspicious.
He nodded solemnly. “A kiss.”
You studied him for a long moment, then sighed. “Alright. Fine.”
His eyes lit up with victory—
—but before he realized what you were doing, you pressed a kiss to your own fingertips and promptly smacked it against his mouth.
“There you are, darling,” you said with a sickly sweet smile, already turning on your heel.
You didn’t look back as you walked away.
Behind you, Lyonel stood stunned for half a heartbeat before turning to find Duncan and Aegon watching him with varying expressions.
“Gods,” Lyonel breathed, awe softening into a grin. “I think I’m in love.”
And then he was hurrying after you.
Egg only shook his head, glancing up at Duncan. “She’s going to eat him alive.”
