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Lyonel walks slowly towards your shared tent. He cannot show the pain of his aching muscles to his competitors. He holds his head high and keeps his grin wide, allowing the booming laughter escape from him time to time, despite the rising pain. The tourneys are always rough, especially with so many skilled competitors, but he is proud to say he held his own. He received many blows, but he dealt many more.
When he finally enters the privacy of the tent, you appear immediately, winding your arms around his shoulders as you pull him into a tight hug.
“My love. You fought so well.” You coo into his ear, and your words alone are enough to make the aches worthwhile.
“I couldn’t have done it without your favor.” His hum is deep yet strained with the pain, and you huff indignantly. “Who else would I have given my favor to? You are my husband and only one worthy of it.” Your words are matter-of-fact as you kiss him, spoiling him with your affections. You guide him until the two of you are seated on the edge of your bed, and he sighs as he drops his hands to your waist while you drown him with kisses. Some are feather light and airy, your warm breath following the path of them, while others are solid and prolonged, leaving you both gasping for breath with your arms tightly around his shoulders. The kisses grow deeper, swimming with passion, with your fingers grasping his thigh and your body tucked tight against his.
Heat seems to rise in the tent, and Lyonel wishes to slip into a bath to wash the sweat away and then crawl into the plush bed, make love to you until-
“Lord Baratheon?” And his peace is scattered as guards enter, holding a few messages from the lords scurrying about, no doubt inquiring for one useless matter or another. He feels a sigh rising in his chest, but you are faster.
“No. Set them aside, he is not entertaining them tonight.” Your voice is tight, and you gesture toward a small table that is already piled high with all manner of papers of varying importance.
“My l-“ “No. He is done for the night. Get out, please.” Your tone leaves the guards no choice, they place the scrolls on the table and leave with bows. Your eyes are hard as you watch them go.
“My sweet, I-“
“Do not start, Lyonel. You are in pain, I can see it. Up and off with it”. You gesture to his stag headpiece, and he hangs it onto one of the antlers of your shared bed as he stands.
“You deserve some relaxation.” You pepper his face with kisses until he is laughing, and undo the clasps of his intricate golden cape, gliding the golden chain gently against him as you let it glide from your fingers and onto the bed.
His form is solid under your hands as you nimbly undo the clasps of his coat. Humming in delight, you allow your hands to follow the shape of his arms while assisting him to take it off. Lyonel groans, the seams of the garment catch his injuries, and you still momentarily, before continuing, gentler and cautious now. You undo the laces of his undershirt with ease, and tuck your hands under it, sliding your hands along his sides as you help him get rid of it too.
The darkening bruises of deep shades of purple and red are revealed to your eyes, and a breath escapes you.
“Oh, Lyonel.” Tears prickle in the corners of your eyes. You watch his face as you trace the dips and curves of muscle, the raised edges of old scars long healed, while avoiding the bruises, seemingly growing darker under your gaze.
The lingering, soft touch of your fingers atop his skin makes Lyonel’s breath catch in his throat, and he catches the look in your eyes. He has accepted the dangers and risks of turneys many times over, but he knows it is still a topic of unease to you. The possibility of being widowed, of losing him, weighs heavily on your shoulders. Worry for a man whom you wished would “disappear from your sight” the first time you met. (He is sure you would have said worse and more if your lord father and brothers hadn’t been in the room as well.)
It is curious how such a sour relationship has turned into a companionship so sweet. He lifts your gaze to meet his before he kisses you deeply. He whispers his assurances against your lips as he soothes your worries, promising that his injuries loom worse than they feel.
Lyonel feels nothing but warmth as he watches your cheeks heat as you assist him in ridding the rest of his clothes, still slightly shy with his nakedness. He finds it endearing how a strong-willed and straight-spoken woman like you now quite refuses meet his fully naked form as he slides into his bath.
“You could join the festivities. Dance and celebrate with your friends. I can manage on my own, or one of the chambermaids can surely assist me.” He calls over his shoulder, settling his aching limbs into the bath, the water just slightly too warm, but he doesn’t find it in himself to care.
Kneeling by the head of the tub, your hand slides atop his shoulder.
“No one shall bathe my husband but me.” Your voice is low as you speak into his ear, nipping at the arch of it. A deep laugh, not unlike the one he earned his name, leaves him. There she is, the fiery woman he married. “Such jealousy.” His laughter turns into a groan as he sinks deeper into the steaming water, with your hand urging him, eyes falling closed as the warmth begins to soothe the aches and pains of the tourney. Your hands begin to lather him in the sweet-smelling water, trailing them all over his chest and back, leaving gentle kisses atop every bruise and sore spot you find.
Lyonel feels as if he could melt, and he prays to the gods that if this is a dream, he never wakes. You begin gently pouring water over his hair, running your hand through, brushing out tangles as you wash away the day past. He has been humming to himself for a moment, but his eyes meet yours with intensity as you lift your gaze.
“Join me, my darling.” His hand, wet from the water, rises to your cheek. The first touch of the water is warm, but it cools quickly on your skin, making you shiver.
“I bathed earlier. Tonight is about you.” You guide his hands back into the water patiently, running your hands up his forearms, the muscles of his upper arms, and finally settling them on his shoulders for a moment before resuming.
"And if my wish is for my love to join me in the bath?” His grin is bright as he tilts his head further back to look at you.
“Lyonel-“ An exasperated sigh leaves you, tinged with laughter.
“My love.” He is feigning seriousness, with that grin still plastered on his face.
“You are impossible.”
“But I am yours.” His grin widens, and you cannot fight the smile that rises to your lips.
“That you are.” Your lips press to meet his in a kiss, gentle and living
The tent is silent for a moment before Lyonel’s expression shifts, one of earnest affection now. He extends his hand, which you assume is to help him up from the bath. But you miss the spark in his eye, and when his wet hand wraps around yours, he gives it a mighty pull, and you fall into the tub with a splash.
You are still furiously spluttering as guards storm in, alerted by the noise.
“Is something the matter, we-“They freeze with the scene in front of them. You are seated in the tub, facing your husband, who is grinning from ear to ear, a hand resting on your waist, both of you soaked, the water lapping at your waist.
“Nothing to worry over, sers, my sweet here just slipped.” He tugs you closer to him, the white shirt you’re wearing now wet and quite see-through. The guards, flustered and overwhelmed, hurriedly backed out of the tent with a bow.
“Slipped?! You pulled me in, you scoundrel!” You slap his shoulder, splashing him with water in the process.
“The best stories always have some embellishment in them.” His grin is still bright as he shrugs before diving in for a dizzying kiss.
For a moment, you consider pulling back and slapping the smirk off his face. But he is a skilled kisser, and you’ll get him back another day. Now, you choose to enjoy his company, shifting yourself higher in his lap, winding your arms around his shoulders, deepening the embrace.