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There are many things about Arthur that Lyanna can’t help but love: the cocky grin when he calls her My Lady despite her protests to call her Lyanna; the little pinch of skin that forms between his eyebrows when he is thinking critically; the way his arms wrapped around her son when the boy solicits a hug; or the warm expanse of golden skin she has the privilege of seeing and, sometimes, touching.
Yet, when the day is over, when Jon’s bath is done and is sleeping in his crib, and the conclusion of their day leaves them pliant and weary, what Lyanna really loves about Arthur is the way he allows her to touch –as they sit side by side by the fireplace. Soft touches, barely there, nothing more –for he is still a sworn Knight and she, his Lady– touches over shoulder blades and sensitive skin and scars healed pale and pink beneath her fingers. It’s wonderful, comfortable.
But nothing beats the moments when Arthur is docile enough to let her slip her hand up the back of his neck, tug very gently against the hair at the base of his skull, and then thread her fingers through the thick, dark mane.
The way Arthur sighs deeply, breath ghosting while looking at the flames, eyelids fluttering with the effort to keep them open and stay quiet, that makes Lyanna smile. The big tough Sword of The Morning humming like a cat or a big dog at the prospect of having a petting session. But it is the moments following, when her long, thin fingers curl and caress the soft, dark strands; when Lyanna’s short, blunt fingernails scrape gently across Arthur’s scalp that the she-wolf feels the Knight relax completely. The thought that she alone gets Arthur like this, can watch his face smooth out, his shoulders raise as the tension falls off of them, makes her heart flutter. She is the one who melts the day under the heavy Essos’sun away; who soothes him to sleep with the gentle skill of her fingers and listens to their heartbeats slowing together and the breaths slowing, deepening until sleep is about to overtake.
It is those moments just before sleep, between wakefulness and dosing, moments no one else invades that Lyanna tucks away in her memory for safe keeping. She makes every moment count, holds tight, even if in these moments, she must fight to restrain herself to press her lips on Arthur’s neck –for she is still his Lady, and he, her sworn Knight.
When Lyanna’s own eyes close, fingers loosen in Arthur’s hair, it is the moment he moves away and stands up. “It is late.” There is nothing to dispute, so she nods. “Good night, my lady,” A heavy whisper, and he leaves the main room of their small house. When Arthur closes the door behind him, Lyanna leans back in the chair and began to sip the too-sweet Volantis wine in her cup, looking at the dancing flames in the hearth. She wonders just how late the hour is and how many evenings it will take her to kiss him.
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