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in truth, it was always going to be you.
lyonel baratheon had known it since you were children.
since that one drunken night where the two of you snuck out of storm’s end beneath the cover of darkness and hooded cloaks to swim naked in the narrow sea.
he’s never laughed as loudly as he had that day, unruly curls soaked in sea water and plastered to the side of his face, delighting in your foul-mouthed jokes and the sound of your amusement.
you’d been practically conjoined at the hip ever since. so much so, it had felt like a natural progression when the two of you stood before a septon to be married. giggling all the while, unable to take even something as monumental as your wedding seriously.
companions, best friends, lovers. the two of you understood each other in a way no one else ever could. it doesn’t take long for you to garner a reputation for yourselves, either.
because one thing about lyonel baratheon and his wife? you never missed a party, and you never turned down a drink.
wherever you went, you’d find cause for celebration. and it’s no exception when you venture to the reach for some lord’s nameday whose title neither you nor your husband could recall.
but it made no matter, because the floral wine they serve in highgarden is strong. and by the night's summit, you and lyonel are swaying, barely holding each other upright. the muscles in your belly ache from the amount of rambunctious laughter you’d been subjected to, all thanks to the squire who’d taught lyonel some new song about ser jonquil and his cock’s will.
by the time the party beneath the baratheon tent is in full swing, music and merriment risen to a steady thrum, there’s but one thing on your mind.
you bid your dancing companions farewell and set your sights on lyonel instead, who watches you from the head table on the other side of the room. he’s lounging back, posture loose and unguarded. you adjust your thin skirts and climb into your husband’s lap, a sleepy smile on his face. when you straddle his hips, his rough hands instinctively slip beneath your silks, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.
“we should visit highgarden more often,” you say, gently running your hands down his chest, feeling the dark, coarse hair beneath your palms. his tunic has been gone for hours now, discarded in the sticky summer heat, but his great helm remains; formidable, golden antlers twisting away from his brow. looking every bit the strong warrior you know and love, soft only for you.
his answering smirk is familiar. one that lets you know your minds are in the same place. “well, i’m nothing if not a man who pleases his wife,” he jests, bringing your hand to his mouth. he presses a chaste kiss to the tip of each one of your fingers.
you giggle at the scratchy feel of his facial hair against your skin and cradle the side of his cheek, thumb stroking over his plush, wine-stained lips.
lyonel leans in close enough so that no one else can hear. a treason meant for your ears only as he says, “if it is highgarden you want, i will give it to you.”
it sends a thrill up your spine. the way his voice goes all low and gravely, the way he smiles as if you’re playing pretend but you know, you know he means it. if you said the word, he would pick up sword and lance and strike down the tyrell’s and laugh while he did it.
but that’s not what you want. not truly, no.
because right now? there’s only one thing you desire in the entire world, and it just so happens to already be yours.
your smirk mirrors the one on his face, and you gasp in subtle surprise when he surges forward and takes your thumb between his teeth. your eyes stay suck there as he takes your thumb into his mouth, feeling the softness of his tongue as it swirls around the digit. “actually, there’s something else that i want,” you say, arousal pooling low in your belly as you sit atop this big, strong man.
you watch his lips, but lyonel watches you. all too familiar with that burning look in your eyes, feeling the growing wetness between your legs even through his breeches.
“something bigger than highgarden,” you mutter, unable to hold back your playful smile.
lyonel shifts beneath you, pressing his already hard cock to your center, delighting in the little sound you make in response. when he leans his head back, a web of saliva snaps against his chin. “bigger than highgarden?” he clicks his tongue. “now, i’m not quite so sure something like that will fit, sweet girl.”
you steady yourself with your hands on his shoulders, and give a slow, tentative roll of your hips.
he sinks lower into his seat at the sensation; cock aching now, desperate for your attention. but then you slide your tongue over the shell of his ear and whisper, “i suppose you’ll have to make it fit, then.”
and if he was desperate before? well, lyonel is certifiably broken by you after the words leave your honeyed mouth. destroyed, eviscerated, slave to submission. a worshipper knelt at your altar. “shall we return to our sleeping arrangements?”
you roll your hips over his again, and this time lyonel’s hands on your thighs flex. “you mean to leave?” you tilt your head. “since when are we ones to leave a celebration?”
he slips a hand between your thighs, running gentle knuckles over the seam of your cunt. “do you suppose i take you here, then? lay you back on this table with your pretty legs spread, a feast for all eyes to see?”
you shake your head, shivering at his touch, chasing the friction you know good and well he’s capable of giving. “they do not have to see everything, you know. there are parts of me that belong only to you. let them see what you will them too.”
for the life of him, lyonel cannot rid himself of the toothy grin on his face. his pretty, filthy little wife and all her salacious words.
“let them see what it looks like when a man knows how to please his wife,” you urge, hips rocking all the while. “let them see what it looks like when a woman worships a storm lord.”
lyonel does not need any more convincing.
despite the songs still being sung beneath the golden tent and the voices that fill the space around you, lyonel pulls his cock out with one hand and brings the other to your lips. he presses his fingers behind your teeth, stroking the softness of your tongue, gathering your spit.
you look so pretty like this, lyonel thinks. desperate to be touched, mouth all full of him. and he wants to take care of you the way you need, the way you deserve. because no one else could ever give it to you, no. not like this.
not like him.
once he’s satisfied, lyonel removes his fingers from your mouth and brings the moisture to the head of his cock instead, wetting the tip to make it fit. “lean back for me, baby. just a little.” he’s careful to keep your skirts angled around your legs just right so that no one but him gets a glimpse of just how pretty you are here.
you do just as he instructs, and he presses the swollen tip of his cock to your entrance. and as he slowly pushes in, pulling you down onto him, the stretch is nothing short of bliss. your body adjusts to make room for him in it, as if it was made with his overbearing size in mind.
it takes some time, in truth. a few gentle rocks to ease him in, filling you so full you can feel him in your belly.
once he’s sheathed fully inside, your lips part on a gasp and lyonel laughs. the sound is quiet, coming from somewhere deep in his chest. “there you go,” he says. “that’s it. that’s what you need, hm?”
“yes. gods, you’re so一”
“bigger than highgarden, if i recall,” he teases.
you anchor yourself with your hands on his shoulders and carefully begin to move, finding a rhythm that has your muscles going slack. but lyonel’s big hands are on the small of your back, holding you tight against his chest, your center of gravity shifting to the place his heart resides.
“oh, people are staring,” he mutters with a laugh. “trying real hard not to but, gods. they’re so fucking obvious. they’re all watching you, baby. watching you grind up on my cock, so fucking needy for it you can’t even wait until the night’s end.”
a whine leaves your mouth as he speaks, and it’s only then that your lord husband realizes you just might be enjoying yourself more than you let on. that you like the feeling of all those eyes on you.
but yours? they don’t leave him. pupils blown wide, lips parted, soft moans dripping from your warm tongue as you bounce in his lap.
your arousal drips down his cock, staining the dark hair between his legs, producing obscene sounds that anyone too close would be able to hear.
“my pretty wife,” he muses, finding your clit beneath your skirts and circling it with his thumb. your thighs clench at the friction, release closing in fast. “mine. all fucking mine. come here. give me a kiss.”
you do, and it’s sloppy. lips slotting wetly together, his tongue swirling into your mouth, tasting of wine and warmth and home. he swallows up your sweet moans and lifts his hips in tandem with your desperate rocking, his cock burrowing impossibly deeper, stretching you open and pressing hard against that sweet spot that makes you writhe.
lyonel knows you’re close when your rhythm falters and your nails dig into the strong muscles at the back of his neck. “squeezing me so tight,” he whispers, thumb still swiping over your clit. “take it, sweetling. show them how good it feels to be all full of me.”
when release finds you, his name leaves your mouth all shrouded in bliss. an erotic symphony meant all for him, the party fading to nothing behind you. all that matters is you and him and the way his cock throbs inside you.
you pepper wet, open-mouthed kisses all over his face. his lips, his nose, his forehead. lyonel fucks you through the euphoria, groaning low when you slide your tongue up the side of his neck, tasting the salt of his skin.
“yeah, there you go. that’s it. so good for me. such a good girl. and all mine.” with your cunt pulsing around him, he knows he won’t last much longer.
but then you lean back to drag that sweet tongue of yours over the mighty antlers of his great helm, and the sight of it sends lyonel careening off the precipice of release as if they were an extension of his soul.
his orgasm hits him hard, breath stuttering, fingers pressing into your hips hard enough to bruise. “oh, fuck me. gods, you’re so一fuck一so fucking perfect. my perfect girl.”
it’s the worship that does him in, lyonel knows. the way you’re always insatiable for his touch. the way you haven’t a care in the world when he stands in front of you. the way you take him as he is, totally and completely infatuated, and make him feel like he’s everything you’ve ever wanted and so much more.
the come down is slow. his seed spills out of you, making a mess of his breeches. but lyonel doesn’t mind, not when he’s so in love with you it hurts.
he brushes the back of his knuckles over your cheekbone in total admiration and nudges the side of your cheek with his nose. “anything you want,” he says again, and it makes you giggle. the sound is soft and saccharine and has him smiling so hard the apples of his cheeks flush. “i mean it. i’d give you anything you want.”
“well, for now, i think i just want some more of that floral wine.”
lyonel sits a little high in his chair, eyes scanning the room until he finds a serving man who sports a suspicious-looking swell between his legs. lyonel raises a hand to him and shouts from across the room, “you! gather every last drop of wine in the reach for my wife and for every man who steps foot beneath my tent tonight!”
roars of revelry ring out around you, the excitement reaching new heights.
you tip your head back and laugh, still held in his lap.
lyonel might not know the name of the lord he’s here to celebrate, but one thing he knows for certain is that when it comes to the thing he loves most in this world?
it will always be you.