Was driving with my grandmother and in broken English she says “no eyes… no nose… no face. Don’t trust.” To which I looked around wildly in search of this omen of ill portend.
fun game: if u listen to a weird variety of things reblog this with 3 bands u like that are completely different from each other and probably shouldnt even be in the same library
I love you samosas. I love you empanadas. I love you pasties. I love you dumplings. I love you pirozhkis. I love you savory food in a convenient little carb purse.
The crowned stag and the dragon whelp- Lyonel Baratheon x reader
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In which Maekar's oldest daughter is determined to go against her father's wishes and she knows just the man to help her reach that goal.
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x f!reader
Word count: 3.9k
Warnings: p n v smut, age gap, lots of dirty talk and sexual themes, Lyonel is something of a playboy and he really wants that W over poor old Maekar, unprotected sex, slight voyeurism
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The torchlight inside the Baratheon pavilion danced low and amber, bathing the piled furs, scattered wine cups, and the sprawl of half-dressed revelers who had already surrendered to the night’s excesses in a warm caramel glow. Lute and drum thrummed from the far corner, half-muffled by laughter and the clink of tankards. The air was thick with woodsmoke, spilled mead, and the sharp perfume of crushed herbs crackling in the braziers.
Y/N stood just inside the entrance flap she had slipped through moments earlier, still wrapped in the plain grey cloak and hood meant to disguise her as a maid or camp follower. She held the edges of her hood lest it fell back now, revealing the spill of silver-gold hair and the sharp violet eyes that marked her unmistakably a Targaryen.
In the far back of the tent, ser Lyonel Baratheon lounged on a low bench strewn with cushions, one booted foot propped on an overturned stool, a brimming horn of ale balanced on his knee. His yellow doublet was unlaced at the throat, sleeves rolled to show thick forearms scarred from old tourneys, his antlered crown tipping over his forehead. A lazy grin brightened up his drunken features as he chatted up some knights or lordlings that swarmed around him.
She observed him with restrained curiosity and moved among the guests that crowded the tent. She found a secluded bench and an unoccupied spot on the far edge of it, away from the host's potential sight. She eased onto the worn cushion, drawing her knees up beneath the cloak, blending as best she could into the dim corner. From here the chaos felt safely distant; she could watch without being spotted. Perhaps she could even spend the entire night safe from it. Some laughing knight offered her a sloshing cup of ale, platters of breads and meats unending filled the center of every table, a sign of hospitality she didn't think he'd have the privilege to experience had she not slipped in unannounced and uninvited.
A mere few minutes passed before a broad shadow fell across her. The man who cast it was to be felt before he was seen; the shift in the air, the sudden hush that rippled through the nearest revelers, the low, unmistakable rumble of a laugh that cut through the din like thunder on the horizon. When she lifted her gaze, Lyonel Baratheon stood in front of her, one hand resting casually on the hilt of a dagger at his belt, the other holding a brimming horn of ale. The wide, predatory grin splitting his bearded face was immediate and utterly unfooled.
“Princess,” he said, sitting down on the opposite side of her. He slammed down the horn with enough vigor to have it spill everywhere. Y/N flinched back, taken by the fierceness. “And what would the oldest cub of our favorite prince be doing in the tent of a man such as myself?” there was a glimmer of mischief in his eyes as he spoke, fully knowing the entire room will soon be watching him.
“Ser Lyonel,” she answered, letting the hood fall completely as she straightened, no longer pretending. “It would seem my disguise cannot fool the likes of you.” She paused, glancing around at the flushed faces and glittering eyes that had begun to turn her way. “You asked what I'm doing. Yes—well…” She lifted one shoulder in a small, careless shrug. “I've heard tales of your lavish parties and wished to see the debauchery with my own eyes.” Lyonel’s grin froze for half a heartbeat, then stretched wider. The corners of his eyes crinkling with genuine, wicked delight. He let out a low, rumbling chuckle that rolled from deep in his chest, the sound vibrating through the space between them. His broad shoulders shifted as he straightened slightly, his free hand came up to rub once across his bearded jaw, dark eyes narrowed in appraisal, gleaming with fresh interest. He tilted his head just enough to let torchlight catch the silver threads in his salt-and-pepper curls. His posture was casual, hip cocked, weight on one leg.
“You flatter me, Princess.” He rose in one fluid motion, towering over her and gestured grandly at the chaos around them—women perched on men’s laps, a pair of squires arm-wrestling over a spilled flagon, a bard strumming bawdy verses in the corner. “Most highborn ladies who hear those tales send their maids to spy for them,” he said, voice pitched low enough that only she could hear it over the music. “They don’t come themselves, hooded and silent, like a thief in the night. Makes a man wonder what you’re really after.”
She met his gaze without flinching, violet eyes steady. “Curiosity.”
Lyonel barked a short, genuine laugh that turned several heads. “Curiosity, aye. But dangerous for the likes of you.” He straightened, gesturing with the horn toward the heart of the tent where a bare-shouldered woman was pouring wine straight from the flagon into a knight’s open mouth while another man played some tune on a bone flute. He laughed at the sight and turned back towards her. “Your father's cage too small for you then?” he asked, sitting back down.
“I suppose you could say that.” She let her finger run around the edge of the cup, tracing it in languid circles.
“It would have been more peculiar if it wasn't. Is it not family tradition at this point for you and your siblings to go against old Maekar’s wishes?” Y/N scoffed and looked up at him.
“You're an interesting man, ser Lyonel, to speak treason in front of royal blood.”
“It's treason now to speak the truth of a prince's age? I cannot keep up with these new laws as of late.”
“Aren't you around my father's age, ser?”
“I am offended you would think so.” Lyonel pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury, then leaned closer, voice dropping to a rumble as he rolled his eyes. “In body perhaps— but even then I am considerably younger.” His dark eyes sparkled. “My soul, sweet Princess, is as young as they come.” He winked at her and straightened out. “You do know your father will find out about your visit here?”
“That depends.” She tilted her head, studying him with cool amusement. “Will you rat me out?” Lyonel grinned at her, running his tongue across his teeth playfully.
“No, Princess. I will not.” He reached behind him, plucked a fresh horn of dark, foaming ale from a passing serving boy, and held it out to her. “Drink.”
“Why?”
“I will not have you here sober so that you can put the blame on me and have me beheaded by that sour shit of a Prince your father is.” He leaned in just enough that she caught the scent of leather, smoke, and sweet wine on his breath. “If you party with the rest of us here tonight, you will be drunk like the rest of us.” For a long heartbeat she regarded the offered horn, then him—taking in the challenge in his stance, the wicked light in his eyes, the way the entire tent seemed to quiet down to watch what the dragon’s daughter would do next.
She accepted the horn, fingers brushing his as she took it.
Then, without breaking eye contact, she raised it to her lips and drank deeply, letting the bitter-sweet burn slide down her throat while the pavilion erupted into approving cheers and whistles around them. Lyonel’s laugh rolled out low and pleased.
“That’s more like it,” he shouted, already reaching for another cup for himself. “Welcome to the storm, Princess.”
The cheers died down slowly, leaving a buzzing undercurrent of approval that rippled through the tent like wind through wheat. Y/N lowered the horn, wiping a stray line of foam from her upper lip with the back of her hand. The ale sat warm and heavy in her stomach, loosening her spirits. She handed the half-empty vessel back to Lyonel without comment; he took it, fingers lingering a deliberate second longer than necessary against hers before passing it off to a nearby squire.
He studied her face in the flickering light—cheeks flushed from the drink and the heat, her bright violet eyes staring back at him, all Dyanna Dayne, despite the color, and thankfully, no Maekar Targaryen. Something shifted in his expression at the thought of her father, the playfulness giving way to a darker, hungrier interest. Lyonel stood up and offered her his arm with the confidence of a man used to being obeyed.
“Come. If you’ve here to see the debauchery, you may as well taste it properly. Or are you still planning to hide in the shadows like a frightened doe?” She regarded the offered arm for a beat, then rose smoothly, letting the cloak fall open to reveal the simple dark gown beneath, no jewels, no embroidery, nothing to mark her as royalty except the silver hair now loose around her shoulders.
“I don’t frighten easily, my lord,” she said, and placed her hand lightly on his forearm, letting him lead. Lyonel cut a path through the crowd with the ease of a man who had parted seas of bodies countless times before. Y/N followed, her dark gown clinging to her skin moistened by the tent’s heat. Heads turned as they passed. She felt the weight of every pair of eyes and let it slide off her like water. It was a matter for another day to deal with the whispers that were sure to follow.
Lyonel led her towards the far side of the pavilion where the crowd thinned and a low table waited, laden with more horns, a wheel of sharp cheese, dark bread, and a flagon of something darker and sweeter than ale. Cushions and furs had been piled haphazardly around it; a handful of his closest retainers lounged there already. A few knights, a laughing woman with auburn hair spilling down her back, a young bard still cradling his lute looked up as Lyonel approached, then at Y/N as the conversation stuttered into curious silence.
He dropped onto the largest cushion with casual grace, long legs stretched out, and patted the space beside him.
“Sit, princess. Let us share a cup and see how wet you get.” One of the knights snorted; the auburn-haired woman arched a brow and poured two fresh horns without being asked, sliding one across the table toward Y/N. She took the seat, close enough to the antlered man, their knees brushed together as she settled. The cushion were still warm from previous occupants; the furs soft and smelling faintly of pine and musk. She accepted the new horn, cradling it between her palms, feeling the cool condensation against her skin.
Lyonel leaned back on one elbow, watching her over the rim of his own drink. “So,” he drawled, “Now that you’re here and half-drowned in my ale already—what part of the debauchery catches your eye most? The drinking? The dancing? The fucking?” He gestured lazily toward the shadows at the tent’s edges where several couples had already disappeared behind hanging drapes or simply claimed open ground. “Or are you the sort who likes to watch before you join in?” Y/N took a slower sip this time, letting the liquid roll across her tongue before answering.
“I haven’t decided yet,” she said, voice steady despite the warmth spreading through her limbs. “But knowing the likes of you, I suspect you’ll try to decide for me before the night’s done.” She regarded him with a raised eyebrow. His laugh was immediate and rich, head tipping back.
“Guilty as charged.” He shifted closer, arm draping along the back of the cushions behind her, just inches short of touching her shoulders, but near enough she could feel the heat radiating off him. “Tell me, then—what does a dragon do when she’s finally out of the cage? Burn the place down? Or just burn herself a little?” She kept his gaze, unflinching, the corner of her mouth curving up sheepishly.
“I suppose we’ll find out,” she said, and lifted her horn again in silent toast.
Around them the music swelled once more, louder now, wilder—and the night stretched ahead like an open road, dark and inviting and entirely without rules.
_______
The three trunk felt rough and dirty on her back, as Lyonel hoisted her up against it, their mouths moving against each other with fervor. Their hands gliding against skin and fabric, tugging at it and loosening where they could. Y/N grabbed the antlered crown atop his head and tossed it away, making Lyonel laugh darkly into her lips. She ran her hands through his salt-and-pepper curls, pulling on them roughly.
“Can't stand someone other than granddaddy in a crown?” he rasped, trailing his lips down to her neck.
“Can't stand being fucked by a stag in a crown.” Lyonel’s laugh rumbled low against her throat as he pressed her back harder against the tree. The night air was cool on her bare shoulders, a stark contrast to his hands, callused and hot as they slid up under the loosened lacings of her gown until silk and linen bunched uselessly at her hips.
“Bold words for a dragon’s whelp,” he murmured, teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath her ear. “You’re the one who came looking for the storm.” Y/N tilted her head back, letting the stars spin above her—whether from the ale or from the way his thick thigh had wedged itself between hers, she couldn’t say. She hooked one leg around his, heel digging into the meat of his calf, and yanked him closer until there was no space left for jests.
“Just because they call you the Laughing Storm doesn't mean it's not embarrassing for you to say it,” she breathed, voice roughened by alcohol and desire. “I didn't come here for you to try and raise your ego at my expense, Lyonel.” He answered with his mouth, claiming her own, tasting of wine and the faint iron tang of tourney blood that still lingered at the corner of his lip from the day’s joust. One broad palm cupped the back of her skull, fingers knotting in her silver-gold hair, keeping her in place while the other worked between them, shoving aside smallclothes with impatient efficiency.
“No, Princess, you came here because you knew what I could give you, didn't you?” The warm press of him against her thigh drew a sharp inhale from her lips. She rolled her hips, nudging his length in the proper direction. He aligned the tip of his cock at her opening but didn’t enter her yet. Instead he rocked against her in slow, deliberate drags, letting her feel the stiffness, letting the ache build inside until her hips jerked upward of their own accord. “Patience, Princess,” he taunted against her mouth, though his own breath came ragged. “I thought Targaryens liked to savor their conquests.”
“I thought Baratheons liked to take what they wanted,” she shot back, and hooked her nails into the meat of his shoulders, dragging red lines down the scarred muscle beneath his unlaced tunic. “Judging by the lack of a wife by your side, maybe that's not entirely true.” The mention of his status made his eyes flash with delight.
“That so? I don't see a husband by yours either. Maybe I should pay a visit to your father and claim you for myself then.” Lyonel laughed at her musing, plunging inside of her, their mouths opening and closing against each other in near-silent moans as he bounced her up and down his cock. He shifted his grip, lifting her clean away from the support of the tree, with one arm banded around her waist to keep her steady while her thighs locked tight around his hips. “Get me a nice little dragon to sit on my lap at parties.” Lyonel’s grin was all teeth and trouble as he held her aloft like she weighed nothing at all, thick forearm locked under her ass, the other hand fisted in her hair to keep her mouth where he could reach it. The tree bark had scraped her back raw; now it was just him, hot, hard, and strong, keeping her impaled and helpless in the open air. Y/N tightened her thighs around him, rolling her hips in a slow, filthy grind that made his breath hitch.
“You think Maekar Targaryen would hand over his eldest daughter to some storm-lord with barely any lands to his name?” She leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “He’d burn Storm’s End to the ground before he let you put a Baratheon brat in me and Storm's End isn't even yours.” He laughed—low and rough, the sound vibrating straight through where their bodies joined.
“Then I’d just have to steal you, wouldn’t I? Drag you off on my horse in the middle of the night like some Dothraki screamer. Keep you barefoot and round in my tent till you forget what a throne even looks like.” He punctuated his words with a sharp upward thrust that made her gasp, nails digging deeper into his shoulders. He got down to his knees, letting his cock slip out of her, and her back hit the cold grass before inserting himself back in with haste. “Bet you’d look fucking gorgeous swollen with my child. Silver hair, violet eyes, and that vicious little mouth telling me to go fuck myself.”
“Gods, you’re deranged,” she gasped, half-laughing, half-moaning as he stalled his efforts, moving slower than before, making her feel every thick inch dragging out and slamming back in. The meadow grass was cool against her back. She yanked his head forward by the curls, forcing him to meet her eyes. “You talk a big game about claiming me, but I know that ugly antlered thing would shake off your head if you had to stand face to face with my father.” Lyonel’s pupils were blown wide, dark with lust and something dangerously close to affection.
“We’ll see about that, Princess.” He shifted his grip, one hand sliding down to palm her ass, spreading her wider so he could grind deeper. He picked up speed, hips snapping harder, the wet slap of their bodies loud enough that anyone wandering too close to the edge of the camp would hear it. Y/N bit her lip bloody trying not to cry out too soon. She clenched down on him, making his rhythm stutter, a filthy groan tearing out of his throat.
“Fuck—you’re gonna make me come too quick moving like that,” he growled, but didn’t slow down. If anything he went harder, chasing it now, determined to drag her over the edge with him. “But do go on then. Milk me dry, dragon girl. Let me fill you up till it’s dripping down your thighs the whole walk back to your royal quarters.” Y/N’s head fell back against the wet grass, silver hair tangling in it as she rocked her hips into every brutal thrust.
“Do it,” she hissed, voice breaking. “Fill me, you arrogant bastard. Mark me so deep even the maesters won’t be able to wash you out.” Lyonel swore viciously and slammed into her one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he came with a strained exhale. She felt him pulse inside her, hot and thick, flooding her until it leaked out around where they were still joined. Lyonel pressed a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to the side of her throat, savoring the slight salt of her sweat and the rose scented perfume she wore. Y/N moaned, turning her head sideways to allow him more space. His kisses trailed down to her collarbone, nipping at the skin pulled tight over her clavicles. Wandering hands cupped at her soft flesh where they could, as if to memorize her curves before he had to let her go and run off into the night.
“Still think I’m not serious about claiming you?” he asked, voice hoarse against her ear.
Y/N laughed weakly, “I think you’re serious about fucking me. The rest… we’ll see if you’re still talking that big game when the sun comes up and I’m back in Lord Ashford's castle, pretending I didn’t just let the Laughing Storm come inside me like a common camp follower.” He smirked against her skin at the mention of his nickname.
“Next time I’ll make you scream my name loud enough the whole meadow hears. See how long you can pretend then.” She leaned in for another kiss, sucking in his bottom lip and biting it roughly.
“Next time bring rope. If you’re gonna talk about stealing me, you’d better be prepared to tie me down.” Lyonel’s eyes lit up like he’d just been handed a longsword.
“You have a deal, Princess.” he rasped, already half-hard again inside her. “But only if you promise to run that mouth for me first.” She grinned, her Targaryen features shining in the moonlight.
“You're peculiar, Lyonel Baratheon.”
________
“My Lady, your father requests an audience.” The kingsguard said softly. Y/N cocked up an eyebrow and let the book she was reading fall closed on the table beside her.
She descended the narrow stone stairs from her chamber in Lord Ashford’s castle at an unhurried pace, skirts brushing against the steps like they did the day before. The Kingsguard had delivered her father’s summons without explanation, but she felt no urge to speculate; Maekar’s moods always revealed themselves in time and she'd been careful to return last night without so much as a single sound. Silver braid swaying lightly, expression calm and detached, she continued down the corridor toward the heavy oak door of the small chamber at the far end, the faint ache from the night before a quiet, private note in her stride.
“You asked to see me fathe—” she froze abruptly, her eyes falling on the white speckled curls of the only other person in the room, tucked nearly under an antlered crown.
Maekar’s gaze lifted from the parchment he had been staring through without reading. It moved first to his daughter, taking in the high collar that could not quite hide the edge of a fading bruise, the faint stiffness in her stride, the look she shot at the only other man in the room that he couldn't have missed no matter how much he wished he had, then slid sideways to the Baratheon lord. The two men regarded each other across the width of the table for one long, suspended heartbeat. No words passed. Whatever Lyonel had said in the private audience before her arrival, hung between them now, solid and irrevocable. The dark haired Lord smiled at him, wide and barring teeth, barely able to contain his giddiness.
Maekar’s jaw clenched. His right hand curled slowly into a fist atop the oak, the knuckles blanched white, then slammed down onto the wood with a curse that shook the entire room.
No one moved.
Lyonel’s smile never wavered, only deepened, slow and sure, the grin of a man who had already taken the prize he came for and knew it well. Y/N stood framed in the entrance, hands loose at her sides, gaze steady on her father’s bowed head. The silence stretched, thick as smoke.
Maekar exhaled, staring down at his lap, the sound ragged, defeated. Then after a long pause, he spoke;
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