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the nursery
the nursery was quiet, the only sound the soft, rhythmic breathing of the young storm lord in his cradle, a tiny life that had become the center of the world for months. but in the hallway outside, the silence was jagged, a sharp contrast to the peaceful domesticity within. lyonel hadn't touched you in what felt like an eternity, his focus consumed by the duties of a new father and the fortification of the castle walls. every time he had looked at you over the past year, it had been with a distant, respectful pride—the look of a lord for his lady, not a man for his mate. it was a politeness that felt like a slow-acting poison to the fire that used to define you.
when he finally cornered you in the solar, the tension snapped like a dry branch under the weight of a winter storm. he didn't say a word as he closed the distance, his eyes dark with a hunger that had been simmering, fermenting into something predatory and focused. he reached for the heavy silk sash of his surcoat, his massive hands shaking slightly with a suppressed, violent need that made your pulse rabbit against your ribs.
"he's asleep," he rumbled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that seemed to rattle the very stone of the solar. "and i am tired of being a father, bambi. i am tired of being careful. i am tired of the soft words and the gentle touches. tonight, i just want to be the man who hasn't had you in far too long. tonight, i want the woman i remember before the world became about cradles and lullabies. do you even remember her? or did she drown in the milk and the nursery songs? tell me... do you miss being ruined? because i've missed ruining you."
he took your wrists with a firm, bruising grip and yanked them behind your back, wrapping the silk sash with a brutal, tight efficiency. the fabric was smooth, but it bit into your skin as he knotted it twice, pulling your shoulders back until your chest arched forward, exposed and vulnerable. he didn't care about "building a future" or "legacy" tonight; he cared about the raw, aching here and now. he shoved you against the cold stone wall, the rough granite scraping against your bare shoulders as he pulled your bound hands upward, forcing you to arch your back until a small, broken cry escaped your throat.
"you’ve been so quiet," he rasped, his mouth crashing against the column of your neck, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin near your shoulder. "so soft. so maternal. you've become a creature of grace and duty, and it’s driving me mad. i’ve watched you walk through these halls like a ghost of the girl i stole. i’m going to ruin that tonight. i’m going to remind you who you belong to when the sun goes down and the guards are at their posts. you're not just the mother of my son; you're the fire in my blood, and i am freezing to death. pray to your gods, bambi, because i'm going to make you forget you ever had a soul."
he entered you with a single, devastating lunge that felt less like love and more like an act of reclamation, a desperate staking of a claim. with your hands bound and pinned against the stone, you couldn't brace yourself; you could only hang from your own wrists, your body vibrating with the relentless, punishing force of his thrusts. there was no talk of heirs or titles, only the sound of his heavy, ragged breathing and the rhythmic, wet slap of skin against stone. he moved with a frantic, selfish energy, his hands bruising your hips as he reclaimed every inch of you, his fingers digging into your flesh as if trying to leave marks that the morning light wouldn't dare wash away.
"that's it," he barked, his voice raw and thick with a manic joy. "scream for me. wake the whole castle if you have to. let them think the sea is taking the walls. i want them to know the storm is back. i want them to know that i am taking back what is mine. do you feel that? do you feel the beast waking up?"
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the throne room
the great hall was a cavern of shifting shadows, the air heavy with the scent of old wood, cold smoke, and the lingering salt of the bay. lyonel sat upon the high seat of house baratheon, his massive frame dwarfing the ancient timber and stone. he wasn't holding court, and he wasn't looking at maps; he was looking at you, his fingers drumming a restless, impatient beat on the stone armrest that had been worn smooth by generations of stags. the months of abstinence, of playing the role of the dutiful protector and the proud father, had turned his famous mirth into something sharper, something far more predatory, and after the night before, after feeling his sweet bambi again, he needed you once more. the "laughing storm" was a legend; this man was a reality of muscle and starvation. after months of control and restraint, he was on the hunt once more. he beckoned you forward with a slow curl of his finger, his eyes tracking the way your skirts moved over your hips with a focus that made your skin burn.
"kneel," he commanded, the single word echoing through the empty rafters like a thunderclap. "your lord has a petition, bambi. one that won't wait for the morning. i've been a good lord, haven't i? i've been patient. i've been kind. but kindness doesn't stop the ache in my gut."
when you were between his knees, he didn't offer the gentle touch of a husband. he took the long leather cord from his belt—the one he used to tie back his hair during a melee—and tied your wrists together behind your back with a quick, practiced tug. he then looped the excess cord over one of the jagged, stone-carved antlers that formed the arms of the throne. it kept you anchored, your arms pulled into a strained, awkward position that forced you to stay on your knees, completely at his mercy while he loomed over you like a mountain of bronze and suppressed rage.
"everyone sees the lord of storm's end," he whispered, his hands sliding up your thighs, his touch possessive and rough as he bunched the silk of your gown in his fists. "they see the man who protects the heir. they see the man who sits in the light and smiles. they don't see the man who’s been going mad in his own bed, wanting to do this to you in the center of the hall. they don't see the man who wants to hear you beg in the very place where i give my laws. tell me, bambi... are you going to be a good subject? or do i need to be a cruel lord?” his hand slithers to your neck, lifting your chin just enough to meet his hungry eyes. “do you like the way it feels to be tied to the seat of my power? to know you can't leave until i say so?"
he grabs your head then, shoving it forward until your face presses into his clothed crotch. “can you see it, bambi? do you understand what your husband has had to endure?” he unties his pants then, pushing his small clothes just enough to free his cock. your mouth opens instinctively, waiting for him to take you.
he chuckles at the gesture, grabbing a fistful of your hair, “there’s my bambi, my eager girl.” he says boastfully, pushing his length into your warm mouth. he exhales sharply, his hips stuttering upwards as he drives himself to the back of your throat. you groan at the sensation, warm tears brimming in your eyes.
the vulgarity of it all sends a shiver down your spine, your tear sticken face lifts to gaze upon him, you see his hungry eyes and satisfied smile and you can’t help but perform for him. swirling your tongue methodically around his shaft and drinking his groans in.
“seven fucking hells,” he groans, his release spurting into your mouth, the thick ropes sliding into your throat. you let his seed overflow from your lips and glide against your chin, sliding your mouth off him with as much grace as you can muster. your eyes meet his as you swallow his release.
that undoes him the most, he reaches for his dagger and cuts you free from the throne, leaving your wrists bound together. “up now, little bambi.” he commands, his voice hoarse from pleasure. his hands grip your waist as you rise, spinning you to face away from him. his hands moving from your waist to the hem of your dress. he stripped the gown from your shoulders with a sudden, violent pull, leaving you exposed and shivering in the cavernous, drafty room.
he didn't wait for your consent, but he saw the answer in the way your thighs clenched together and your breath hitched. he pulled you to sit on his lap, sliding you onto him while your hands remained bound behind you. the angle was steep and punishing, the contact electric as your body clashed with his. he didn't move with the measured, careful pace of someone seeking to start a dynasty; he moved with the desperation of a man starving in a land of plenty. his hands found your hair, fistfuls of it, pulling your head back so he could see the look of pure, repressed need in your eyes.
"no more thinking about the septons or the nurses," he growled, his thrusts deep, fast, and unrelenting, shaking the very chair he sat upon. "just this. just the way you feel when i'm breaking you on the seat of my fathers. you're not the mother of my son right now. you're not the lady of this castle. you're just mine to take, and gods, i've waited too long for the taking. tell me you want it. tell me you've been starving just like i have. tell me you want your husband to be cruel."
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the iron archives
the library was a maze of deep shadows and towering shelves, the heavy chains used to secure the most precious, ancient tomes clinking softly in the draft that swept through the archives. lyonel found you there among the scrolls of the past, and the sight of you in such a quiet, intellectual space seemed to ignite something dark and chaotic in him. he didn't want to hear about the maester's latest reports on the harvest or the grain stores. he didn't want to hear about the history of the stormlands. he wanted to see you helpless, stripped of your composure and your books, just as he had in the throne room.
it dawned on him then, how he enjoyed seeing you restrained and waiting for him. so malleable to his every desire. without thinking, he took the iron shackles from the wall—remnants of a harsher age—and clicked them around your wrists, pulling them high above your head and securing the chain to a hook until your toes barely touched the cold floor.
"i’ve been searching for you, bambi," he muttered, “you’ve been avoiding me.” his hands sliding down to the hem of your skirts with a frantic, clumsy urgency. "now i find you hiding in the books and the scrolls as if they can protect you from me. do you think these dead men have the answers for what i’m feeling? do you think a scroll can explain why i want to tear this room apart just to get to you? i can feel the way you want this. i can see the way your pulse jumps in your throat when i walk into a room. you're as hungry as i am, you're just better at hiding it behind that pretty, noble face. i wonder... if i leave you chained here until dawn, will you still be so quiet and studious?"
he hoisted one of your legs over his shoulder, the iron of the chains rattling violently against the stone wall as he pinned you against a shelf of ancient histories. the position was punishing, forcing you to take the full, crushing weight of his massive frame while your arms were stretched to their limit. he moved with a jagged, irregular rhythm that made the chains scream and clatter, the sound echoing through the silent stacks.
"i don't care about tomorrow," he gasped, his forehead pressed to yours, his sweat dripping onto your skin. "i don't care about what the septons say about a lord's conduct. i want you to be as insatiable as i am. i want to see you pull against those chains until they break. i’ve spent months being the jovial father, the perfect lord. i'm done with it. show me how much you’ve missed the storm. show me that you're still the wild thing i caught in the woods. tell me you hate being bound... tell me while you pull for more. scream for me, bambi. let the ancestors hear how loud a baratheon can make you."
he growled, a sound of pure, unbridled hunger, as he felt you finally snap, your body answering his with a wildness that had been bottled up and repressed for a year. you pulled at the shackles, the iron biting into your wrists, and he only laughed—a dark, jagged sound of victory. "that's it. give me the fury. give me the girl who doesn't care about the crown. give me everything you've been hiding beneath that silk. you're not my lady tonight. you're just a girl in chains."
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your chambers
the master bedchamber felt different now—warmer, the air thick with desire set free after all the moons you’d spent pushing it down. lyonel had taken the heavy gold cords from the velvet curtains and used them to anchor your ankles to the massive oak posts at the foot of the bed. your legs were spread wide, your hips elevated on a pile of rich furs, leaving you completely and utterly vulnerable to his gaze. he stood at the foot of the bed for a long moment, his chest bared, his muscles tensing and rippling in the flickering candlelight as he looked at you. your sweet husband was gone, replaced by a man who was finished with patience and finished with being "good."
"you look like you’re waiting for a maester to examine you," he said, a dark, humorless grin touching his lips as he took in your bound and elevated form. "so clinical. so still. so bored. but you’re getting me. and i’m not going to be gentle, bambi. i’ve been holding back for too long. i’ve been playing the part of your kind husband for too long. I’ve acted as the innocent, dutiful husband. I only want to be yours now, bambi. i want to see what's underneath the lady. i want to see the mess i make of you. i want to see you struggle against these cords until your skin turns red."
he crawled over you, the heavy velvet of the bed shifting and groaning under his immense weight. the position made it impossible for you to hide or close yourself off; you were open to every touch, every look, every demand. he didn't use his fingers to tease or build tension; he used his mouth, his tongue, and his teeth, marking the pale skin of your inner thighs with bruises that would stay hidden beneath your heavy gowns, secret testimonies to his hunger.
"i want to see you lose your mind," he whispered, his voice a jagged, low rasp against your skin. "i want to see the mother of my heir acting like a common tavern girl. i want to see you strain against those gold cords until you’re begging me to stop and never stop at the same time. i want to see the lady of storm's end disappear. you think you're so composed? let's see how long you can hold that together while i do this. let's see if you can still play the noblewoman when you're tied down and taken like this."
the first contact of his tongue was a shock—broad, warm, and unapologetically greedy. he wasn't being a lord; he was being the storm. he worked with a relentless, rhythmic focus, his tongue sweeping over you in long, heavy strokes that mirrored the way he used to take you against the stone. the bindings held your upper body in a rigid, polite pose, but from the waist down, you were coming apart. you pulled against the cords, your fingers curling into useless fists, your spine arching as you tried to meet the pressure of his mouth.
"that's it," he mumbled against you, the words muffled and vibration-heavy. "break for me. forget the nursery. forget the realm. just feel the way i'm taking this from you."
he became more precise, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak of your desire with a controlled aggression that made the world blur. he used the weight of his jaw to press deeper, his tongue flickering with a speed that made your breath hitch and catch in your lungs. you were trapped—tied above and devoured below—and the sensory overload was total. the smell of woodsmoke, the feel of the rough fur bedcovers beneath your body, and the rhythmic, wet sound of his devotion filled the silent room.
as the first light of dawn touched the windows of storm’s end, the intensity peaked. lyonel reached up, his hands finding your waist and pulling you taut, forcing you even further forward into his mouth. the groan that tore from your throat was raw and un-lady-like, a sound of pure, shattered repression. he drank it down, his own breathing coming in ragged, triumphant gasps until you finally broke, your body shuddering against him in the grey morning light.
when his cock finally sunk into you, the intensity was a blinding white-out of sensation. the elevation meant he hit points that had been dormant and aching for months, every thrust a shock to your system. you strained against the gold ropes, your heels digging into the braiding as he drove himself into you with a focused, heavy-handed power that left you breathless. he wasn't building a house or a legacy tonight; he was tearing one down, destroying the walls of repression you had both built around yourselves since the child was born. his groans were guttural, stripped of any lordly pretension, a raw sound of a man finding his way back to himself through you. "take it, bambi. take the storm. forget everything else. there is only this bed and the way i'm breaking you."
he bent down to meet your eyes, pressing his forehead to yours, “my sweet beautiful bambi,” he moans, thrusting into you with the force of a hunter striking prey. “oh gods,” you whimper in response. his lips find your cheek, kissing downward as he continues to ruin you. finally, his lips settle at the apex of your throat, leaving marks against your neck, “there are no gods here, bambi” he says, emphasizing the words with a deliciously violent bite. “only i,” he says, lips moving to crash onto yours.
“i shall be your god tonight, bambi” he says, thrusting erratically, the words bringing heat to your core, tightening around his impossible length. “that’s it, my love. worship my cock, come undone for me, beautiful bambi.” the words knock the air right out of your lungs, your pupils blow wide as your vision explodes into stars. your peak came differently this time, like a dam breaking and spurting around your husband. you attempt to shut your legs and hide from him, forgetting the bindings holding you open, and his length still nuzzled snugly inside of you. he lets out a chuckle of pure pride, “do not hide from me, bambi.” he says, pulling himself out to dive deeper, “i should keep you here until you do that again,” emphasizing the words with brutal thrusts, your body, still weak from his actions shudders and clenches beneath him.
“fuck, bambi.” he groans out, “you can give your lord another, can’t you?” he groans, sinking his head into your neck. “cum with me, little bambi, surrender to your hunter.” his teeth sink into your shoulder as he fills you, your walls swallowing each drop of his seed. Your body collapses at the weight of his body above you. too spent to resist the fatigue. the bindings on your arms and legs strain your tired limbs.
as if sensing your discomfort, lyonel rises to release you from the golden cords. the skin beneath is reddened, raw from all the tugging and struggling. he kisses each limb gently. rising to kiss your forehead once he has freed you. “do not move.” he instructs you as he rises from your bed.
he returns with warm water and the oils his maester prescribed for his battle wounds. he cleans the apex of your thighs, your wrists and feet gently. then he gently works the oil into the small cuts from the rope. kissing your cheeks each time you wince from the sting. once he is finished he wraps your wounds in cloth and lays beside you, wrapping his massive arms around you.
“how i’ve missed you, sweet bambi” he murmurs into the dark, sleep taking both of you.
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