Chapter Text
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 makes 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, next 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 into 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 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 is 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 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 himself 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.