Chapter Text
i.
The chamber was quiet in the way Summerhall rarely was. Daerra stood by the table, hands folded and back straight. Her maid moved around, fingers efficient, loosening laces and smoothing silk, preparing her for the bedding ceremony.
Lyonel watched her over the rim of his goblet, Arbor gold clinging to his breath and clothes. He smelled of it as he moved, with the sweetness and sourness of a summer storm all at once.
“Do you know,” he said at last, studying her, “you stand as if the gods might take notes? Straight spine. Careful hands. As if the Seven will peer down and say yes, that one is behaving correctly.”
The princess did not answer. Lord Baratheon noticed quite early that his lady wife was not much of a conversationalist. Not much of a dancer nor a drinker, either. Her eyes only flicked to him – cool and watchful.
It made Lyonel smirk. “Maekar’s work”, he added lightly. Hammer it in early and it never cracks. Gods forbid she bends. Bending is how things break.
She lifted her chin a fraction. Not defiance. Barely curiosity.
He drank again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before stepping closer. “You don’t look when I expect it. You don’t laugh when I expect it. You don’t even speak when I expect it,” he said, almost accusing. “That is dangerous. Makes a man try harder.”
He leaned closer and closer. Close enough that she could smell the scent of a half-digested wine.
“For a man who despises my father, you stand very near the fire,” she said quietly.
His eyes flashed and smile widened. So she could speak. “Do not mistake proximity for warmth,” he murmured with an amused sound in his voice. “I have no more love for your father than I do the Stranger.”
It was an interesting face, Lyonel thought. Sharp and proud. Strong. Her eyes were wrong, though. Not beautiful. Violet. Alien. Made him wonder if she would tell him his future or eat a goat whole.
“This marriage may be yet interesting. Or catastrophic,” he added as his fingers slowly began loosening the laces of his leather vest.
Outside, thunder finally broke over the land, and it was Lyonel that smiled as if the sound had been made for him alone.
ii.
The bedding was short but long enough for her to count all guests of a Valyrian supper embroidered on a tapestry over her bed. At one particular thrust Daerra closed her eyes and had to count again. And then once again barely seconds later.
It was unfair how Lyonel pulled out of her and fell asleep, taking more of her bed and furs than he deserved, whereas she was shaking due to a cold stickiness between her legs.
Days later they were on a journey from Summerhall to Storm’s End. Lyonel spent most hours on a horseback, and some with his lady wife in a carriage.
“Can you not smile?” he asked after a time, watching her face. “Do you ever smile? You seem determined to prove the world right, but you could at least smile, you know. I am your husband.”
“I would smile if I had a reason to smile. I have none, therefore I will not smile,” Daerra said dryly, looking through the quarter lights. She was unyielding, like stone, and it did not help that the tower of Summerhall was no longer in sight.
“You are a joy of a woman.” His words were dry and mocking. “How very enjoyable I find this conversation.”
Lyonel leaned against the back of the carriage, stretching out his legs. He had more emotions with a wall. It was a matter of minutes when he abandoned their shared carriage. He could not bear a quiet, boring lady wife. When servant boys and girls prepared tents, Lyonel joined his sworn lords and knights for a hunt. Anything but a princess in a sour mood.
He caught a wild boar, Daerra heard. She did not join his feast as a proper lady wife should. Lyonel’s good mood soured as the hours went on. He was well and truly drunk by the time he returned to their tent. The flap was drawn and he pushed through it, almost stumbling inside.
The sight was either a dream or a nightmare to some. His wife and her four ladies-in-waiting sitting on the soft furs on the bed. Lyonel let out a laugh, long and loud. Still drunk, he swayed a little, running his hand through his tangled curls.
“What is this?” he asked, clearly amused. “My lady wife and four pretty flowers for me? How charming.”
Daerra scoffed, crawling out of the bed. “Leave us,” she ordered her ladies. They left quietly, bowing before Lord Baratheon. “How was the hunt?” she asked when they were alone, her hands folded.
“The hunt was fine. I killed a boar – a fine beast,” he said, with a crooked smile on his face. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if the world was tilting sideways. “And you here, wife?” he asked, opening his eyes. “What were you doing? Having a sewing circle? Talking about dresses and handsome men?”
“I sat and brood,” Daerra said, her voice rather cold.
“All night,” he scoffed, taking a step towards her. “You spent all night brooding. Gods save me from a moody woman. What were you brooding about? Me?”
“The journey,” she says, truthfully. “The weather. Cold nights and scorching mornings.” Daerra was used to the stormland’s climate but she rarely had a chance to travel east, closer to Summer Sea.
“Ah, the weather!” What a terrible thing to brood over.” Lyonel chuckled. “Weather.”
He was quite close now, and so was the smell of wine and smoke.
“Anything else?” he asked. “Nothing else that you’re brooding over? Something to do with your husband, perhaps?”
“No, my lord”, she said, shaking her head.
Lyonel’s hands tugged on her wrists, making her fingers move over the lacing of his vest and tunic. He shrugged the leather off, letting it fall. The laces of his tunic came next, and he pulled it over his head, tossing it aside. He stood in front of her, his broad chest peppered with black hair.
He pushed Daerra gently so she fell back into the furs. Lyonel followed, crawling over her in the bed. He was big and heavy. He propped himself over her, hands on either side of her head. He studied her face in the dim light – those ridiculously violet eyes that judged him like a particularly polite lizard.
Her legs crossed when she felt his stiffness against her navel. His mouth twitched.
“There is no need for that look,” he breathed, lowering himself so that his face was close to hers. “I promise, this time will be more pleasant for you than the last.”
Outside, the storm rose slow and deliberately, thunder threading through the air over their tent, lowering its voice for them alone.