Chapter Text
You were quiet, ever since you were born. You never drew attention to yourself. Always on your best behavior, not wanting your father to have a reason for lashings. For most of your life, it worked. You let yourself sink into the world of books, where people were only a word on paper, and the swords they held could not hurt you.
Books became your salvation to ease your fear when your father announced that you were to be wed to Lord Lyonel Baratheon, lord of Storm’s End. You’d heard stories of him, of the beast of a man who laughed as he struck his enemies down, and you were petrified. Would he laugh when he struck you, too?
But when you arrived at Storm’s End for the first time, escorted by your father as well as your eldest brother, your fears were soon proven wrong. Lord Lyonel was a large man and loud, with a booming laugh. But on your wedding night, he’d fallen to a knee and vowed to you that he would never raise a hand to you. That he would kill any man who even tried.
Now, months had passed. He was still loud, large, and his laugh still roared over all others. But he had kept his promise. He’d never hurt you, had protected you from everything he possibly could. Even if you injured yourself, stubbed your toe, or hit your head on an open cupboard, the offending furniture was dealt with, its burning pieces warming your bed chambers that night. You’d told him it was ridiculous, but he insisted that he vowed so and that he would not break it.
You felt warm every time he spoke of his vow, and you worked to make sure you were as good a wife as he was a husband. You brought him food when he was working late, the rents and people paying and not paying them, keeping him up late at night. You repaired every single piece of his clothing, embroidering more and more intricate stags as your skill grew. You even exercised his war horses when he was too tired (hungover) to ride himself. You’d never been allowed to ride before, but when Lyonel had taken you on a horseback ride with him, to show the estate of Storm’s End, you’d fallen in love with the freedom. Lyonel didn’t even think to stop you, simply making you promise that you would be careful and that you’d take a guard with you.
*****
One morning, you woke with a terrible headache. You got help from the maester, took a hot bath and a walk outside, but it still hammered inside your skull. In the end, you pulled all the curtains shut and fell into a restless sleep, sweat beading your scalp.
You wake to a warm hand atop your forehead.
“Are you ill, my dove?” Lyonel’s eyes are worried as he inspects your face, finger brushing your hair out of your eyes. Sunlight is beading into the room from the gap between the curtains, but the light doesn’t feel like someone stabbing you in the eye anymore.
“What time is it?” You ask, still half-asleep, and he barks out a laugh. You don’t jump anymore when he does, not like you used to, and it warms his heart.
“Just past sunset.” He assures you, but jolts back when you spring up, eyes filled with frenzied panic.
“Sunset?” You cry, kicking the covers off you.
“I-I haven’t…” You freeze. The list of things you haven’t done is so long you do not know where to start.
“My dove, breathe.” Lyonel begins to worry as tears pool in your eyes.
“What is the matter? The day has passed, but there is always tomorrow.” He gingerly, hesitantly takes your hand, as if approaching a spooked animal.
“B-But everything is not done, it’s not perfect.” You trail off, and Lyonel’s heart squeezes when he hears the hesitation in your words and the fear in your eyes. You are still afraid. Of him.
He takes your hands into his warm ones. It is rough against your skin, but the touch grounds you.
“My dove, you understand that I would never strike you? Not even with a flower. You could be the worst wife, burn all my clothes and turn Storm’s End into a smoldering pile of rubble, and I still wouldn’t raise my hand to you.” He lifts your head by your chin, and the pain in his chest worsens as he sees the tears in your eyes. But your tone is steadier, warmer when you speak next.
“I-I could lose Acorn? With all your jousting gear?” You knew he loved his horse. He’d raised her from a foal when her mother stopped feeding her.
“Even then, my dove.” He promises, fingers trailing up your arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
“E-Even if you found me in bed with another man?” You brave to ask, and he stills for a moment.
You think you overstepped, mouth opening for an apology-
“Do not even entertain such a thought, my dove. You know how jealous I get.” His hands tighten their hold, pulling you tighter against him, lips pressing into your neck.
“But even then, I wouldn’t strike you." He assures softly, before pulling back with a grin, a glint in his eye.
"I would kill the man.” He simply adds, voice lowering to a gruff whisper.
"What has such thoughts in your mind, my dove? Is there another man that plagues My Lady’s thoughts? Do I need to have someone burned and hanged?” He hums, nose brushing your neck.
“You cannot burn and hang someone.” You laugh, and he tips you back onto the bed, and you squeak as you bounce against the mattress.
“My dove, I can do anything I set my mind to. But do not dodge the question.” His hands wander along your body before they settle onto your sides, thumbs brushing your stomach.
“I must know. Is there a man that I should get rid of, so my lady wife only has eyes for me?” His fingers tickle your sides, and you shriek with a surprised laugh.
“L-Lyonel!”
“I know you have eyes for me, but is there someone else, hm?” His fingers still scurry along your sides, and you squirm, trying to escape.
“There’s not,” you cut yourself off with a laugh, “Lyonel, there is no one else.” You promise, and his hands are still as he regards you with a raised brow and a wild grin.
“Are you sure?” His eyes are twinkling as his fingers twitch against your sides again.
“Y-Yes!” You gasp. He pretends to ponder for a moment. Your chest heaves as you try and settle your breath.
Lyonel’s eyes flash with heat, and his lips find the top of your breasts. Your gown has slipped from your shoulder and revealed more of your chest, and your husband is quick to take advantage.
“Perhaps I should remind you, just in case. Remind you of who you married.” His hands trail up your legs, finding the hem of your gown and sliding down to your knees, meeting the line where your stockings shift to skin.
“M-My Lord.” You flush red.
“Ah-ah,” he tuts,” it’s Lyonel, you know this, my dove.” He tugs the laces of your corset open with practiced ease, as his mouth continues to ravage your chest, no doubt leaving marks. Luckily, you just bought yourself a new, high-collared gown.