FIC: And wild for to hold, though I seem tame (Robert/Lyanna) for lainemontgomery
Recipient: lainemontgomery
Title: And wild for to hold, though I seem tame
Author: sternflammenden
Rating: R/Mature for sexual situations
Pairing: Robert/Lyanna
Word Count: 1985
Summary: Robert and his fiancee Lyanna take a ride through the woods and tarry too long there.
Author's Note: The title comes from Thomas Wyatt's poem "Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind," which is about Henry VIII and his pursuit of Anne Boleyn. I've always drawn lots of parallels between young Henry and young Robert Baratheon. I also used the song that Arya and Gendry hear in A Storm of Swords because it seemed to fit the story.
He rides through the trees, cursing under his breath as his horse lags, watching as Lyanna and her fleet-footed mare disappear through the branches, the occasional flash of her grey cloak in the greenery his only view of her. Robert digs in his heels, urging his mount onward, but when the horse falters, coming to a stubborn stop, he knows that he has lost their little race. He is preparing to dismount and continue the chase on foot when he hears a voice ringing through the stillness of the woods.
“Well then! Where did you go?”
He smiles. “It’s this cursed nag. He’s determined to make a fool of me.”
There is laughter then, sounding merrily, and despite his frustration, it causes the corners of Robert’s mouth to turn up, despite himself. He slides off the horse and takes the reins in hand, leading the reluctant animal through the narrow copse that lies before him, hacking with futile blade at the impediments. When he emerges on the other side, a disheveled mess, he is greeted with more laughter, louder this time, and it only increases when he tries to advance and finds his cloak snagged on some lower branches.
“Damn it all!” he says, more with frustration than with anger.
“And you blame the horse.” Lyanna Stark sits astride her grey mare, grinning like a fool. She is immaculate; every hair in place, her riding costume just so, her cloak neatly furled about her shoulders. “Oh Robert, let me help.” She slides off and walks silently across the clearing, her high leather boots muffling her footsteps as she makes her way to him. With a deft flick of the wrist, she unsnares the garment with minimal damage to its hem. The grin never leaves her face, not even when he grabs her wrist, pinning her fast against a nearby trunk.
“You would mock me, girl?” he roars, but losose all composure when she dissolves into giggles at the face that he pulls. Robert’s laughter, much louder, overwhelms hers, and the sound of their voices mingle in the silence of the forest.
Lyanna shakes her head then, and brushed her lips against his cheek. “I will atone, my lord,” she says then, the picture of contrition. “I’m sure that someone can be found at Winterfell to mend this,” and she takes his cloak between her fingers, examining the small damage.
“Never mind the cloak,” he says. “We had an agreement.”
She shakes her head again.
“No,” Robert insists, “an agreement. This was a contest, my lady Stark. A hunt, let us say. And it seems that I have caught you in the end.”
“And such a fair contest,” she counters. “You, tangling yourself in the trees to ambush me. If I wasn’t such a soft-hearted fool, you’d be there through the night, cursing my name and rending that awful gold cape even further.” But she smiles as his arms go around her, and when her hands reach to unclasp the hated cloak from his shoulders, he does not protest, letting it fall to the ground.
Lyanna kicks at it teasingly. “Now then,” she says, hands on her hips, her riding leathers giving her an almost martial appearance, “what is the prize for this contest?”
Robert throws up his hands in mock innocence. “A kiss is all I ask.”
She shakes her head. “That will not do.” But she does kiss him, a courteous, meaningless thing that he discounts.
“No,” Robert returns, “that will not do.” He leans in and catches her about the waist, drawing her close and kissing her properly, full on the mouth. She does not struggle, his Lyanna, but returns it just as strongly, her hands finding his hair, running along the back of his neck, tensing and gripping his shoulders as they continue.
“It will be easier down there,” she says, and spreads the cloak out as best she can, while pressing herself against him still, one hand fumbling with the wrinkles in the fabric, the other cupping the back of his head as they kneel together, awkwardly, and come to rest on the ground, their bodies tangled, their limbs pushing against the other in uncomfortable ways. But smiling, they soon right themselves and draw together.
Lyanna is slender but she is not weak; years of riding have strengthened her limbs and she does not yield beneath his hands, but meets him evenly. Robert is not taken aback by it. He is used to wenches who sigh and squeal and lie on their backs with their skirts thrust over their heads. While such things are pleasurable, there is no challenge in that, only routine gratification. This is different. This is Lyanna. His Lyanna, if such a woman can be held by any man, or anyone really, and he looks with contentment upon the flush on her cheeks from the exertions of the day, the way that her eyes gleam in the low light of the clearing, and the way that her hair falls in a tangle down her back, wayward strands in her face. He brushes them away, and she nuzzles her cheek, then her lips, against his hand.
“Shall we then?” she says, and there is no jesting in her voice or teasing twist to her lips now.
They are promised of course, but have yet to bed together.
“Yes,” he says, covering her mouth with his, and they do not speak for a time; they merely take in each other, her hands gripping his shoulders, then the muscles in his arms, which tense at her touch. Robert works at those ridiculous mannish breeches that she wears, fumbling in turn with his clothing, and when they couple, it’s different than it’s been for him with those other girls, and all of that seems silly now in comparison. Lyanna looks him straight in the face. She does not blush or demur from his gaze, or lower her eyes like a chaste wife should. As he thrusts against her, Robert notices, outside of the haze of his own pleasure, the thin smile on her lips, the way that her breath quickens to match his, although she does not cry out as he does, but merely gasps.
It is brief and awkward and uncomfortable, this lying together on the grass, on top of a rumpled bed of wool, and they part at last, doing up their clothing, still staring at each other as though neither can break away from the other. Robert is surprised, partially, that there is no blood, and he wonders about his beloved’s chastity. But before any rage can come, he dimly recalls a Maester’s offhand remark about the unseemliness of a woman who is too often horsed, and he puts it aside. Lyanna lies abed, her lips still curled with her pleasure, and he would rather look at her than contemplate matters of maidenhood and matrimonial value.
There are leaves in her hair, in his hair, and at first, Robert thinks to brush them aside. But something stops him, and he stays his hands, instead, lying down again beside her. Her hand lazily makes its way to his body once more, toying with the laces on his leather jerkin. When she has undone that, she slides her hand in, caressing his chest, hands cool against the heat of his body. Robert notices how rough and callused her fingers are, despite her riding gloves. A horsewoman’s hands, indelicate, strong and broad, made for handling the reins, for wielding the crop. And he realizes that Lyanna will not be the maiden of the songs, easily undone, waiting in a tower for her gentle Ser to come riding to the gate to rescue her and claim her maidenhood. It will be a struggle, a battle, a contest forever, and he relishes the thought, anticipating the years ahead where they will spar and face each other on a variety of fields. Sometimes he imagines that she will win, and sometimes, he hopes that he shall claim victory.
When Lyanna speaks, her voice low, it breaks into his reverie. “We should stay thus,” she murmurs, her hand now laid alongside his cheek. “The pine needles our grand carpet, the clearing our great hall.”
Robert smiles.
“I will run with the wolves, I suppose,” she says, kissing him then.
“And I with the deer,” he replies. “Our only company your pack and my own herd, and at night, we will have each other.”
“And our children as well, little savages with blue eyes and curly black hair,” she says, but Lyanna’s own eyes are sad, and her voice regretful as she puts a stop to their fantasy. “But it is not to be. We are Lord and Lady, so Lord and Lady we will be. As will our children.” She picks the leaves from his hair then, running her hands through her own tangled locks. “And I am sure that we are missed.”
Robert sits then, collecting his bedraggled cape, rolling it carefully and handing it to Lyanna.
“As promised,” she says, inclining her head, “Lord Baratheon.”
“Lady Stark,” he says, but his tone is rueful as he gets to his feet, extending a hand to her. Lyanna allows him to pull her up and when she mounts her mare, he follows, this time taking care as they leave the little grove, heading for Winterfell, for civilization.
For a time, they do not speak, but listen to the forest murmurs, the birds, the crickets, the sound of unseen creatures picking their way through the undergrowth, the rustle of the leaves overhead as the breeze picks up. Light filters in shafts, the last rays of the dying sun, and when they emerge from the dimness, it’s only then that both realize how truly late it is.
Lyanna turns to him then, her face merry again. “I’ll race you back,” she says, and is off before he can acquiesce. Cursing his horse for the second time that day, Robert digs in his heels, following her with the half-hearted hope of catching up with her, and realizing just how foolish it is. So he follows in her wake, heart light all the same, until they enter the gates of Winterfell, until they are sternly admonished by old Lord Stark for their absence, until they must prepare for the supper that has been planned that evening.
And when he sees her next, his Lyanna, she is the perfect lady in soft blue satin, hair bound in a silver net, face composed, and Robert thinks of the wife that she will make, of the children that she’d spoken of that afternoon. Even though it was in jest, he had found that he liked the idea very much, even if the thought of fatherhood was a strange one at best. She sits composed, listening courteously to the singer, a special treat, for Winterfell rarely entertains such company, and it is infrequent that any mummers travel this far north.
He does not listen to most of the song; it is a love ballad, too sentimental for his tastes, of course, but Lyanna does, or attempts to, the small smile on her face again, her mouth set the way it was when they had been alone earlier. She reaches out a hand, brushing his own, stilling his raucous conversation with Ned, who sits on Robert’s other side. It is then that he hears the final verse, and understands why her eyes are so bright.
I’ll wear a gown of golden leaves, and bind my hair with grass
But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass.
Robert takes her hand then, squeezing it tightly, ignoring the odd look that Ned gives his friend, and when Lyanna laughs, he does too, the noise they make so alien to this formal setting, these kind yet serious people. But somehow it seems right.
Title: And wild for to hold, though I seem tame
Author: sternflammenden
Rating: R/Mature for sexual situations
Pairing: Robert/Lyanna
Word Count: 1985
Summary: Robert and his fiancee Lyanna take a ride through the woods and tarry too long there.
Author's Note: The title comes from Thomas Wyatt's poem "Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind," which is about Henry VIII and his pursuit of Anne Boleyn. I've always drawn lots of parallels between young Henry and young Robert Baratheon. I also used the song that Arya and Gendry hear in A Storm of Swords because it seemed to fit the story.
He rides through the trees, cursing under his breath as his horse lags, watching as Lyanna and her fleet-footed mare disappear through the branches, the occasional flash of her grey cloak in the greenery his only view of her. Robert digs in his heels, urging his mount onward, but when the horse falters, coming to a stubborn stop, he knows that he has lost their little race. He is preparing to dismount and continue the chase on foot when he hears a voice ringing through the stillness of the woods.
“Well then! Where did you go?”
He smiles. “It’s this cursed nag. He’s determined to make a fool of me.”
There is laughter then, sounding merrily, and despite his frustration, it causes the corners of Robert’s mouth to turn up, despite himself. He slides off the horse and takes the reins in hand, leading the reluctant animal through the narrow copse that lies before him, hacking with futile blade at the impediments. When he emerges on the other side, a disheveled mess, he is greeted with more laughter, louder this time, and it only increases when he tries to advance and finds his cloak snagged on some lower branches.
“Damn it all!” he says, more with frustration than with anger.
“And you blame the horse.” Lyanna Stark sits astride her grey mare, grinning like a fool. She is immaculate; every hair in place, her riding costume just so, her cloak neatly furled about her shoulders. “Oh Robert, let me help.” She slides off and walks silently across the clearing, her high leather boots muffling her footsteps as she makes her way to him. With a deft flick of the wrist, she unsnares the garment with minimal damage to its hem. The grin never leaves her face, not even when he grabs her wrist, pinning her fast against a nearby trunk.
“You would mock me, girl?” he roars, but losose all composure when she dissolves into giggles at the face that he pulls. Robert’s laughter, much louder, overwhelms hers, and the sound of their voices mingle in the silence of the forest.
Lyanna shakes her head then, and brushed her lips against his cheek. “I will atone, my lord,” she says then, the picture of contrition. “I’m sure that someone can be found at Winterfell to mend this,” and she takes his cloak between her fingers, examining the small damage.
“Never mind the cloak,” he says. “We had an agreement.”
She shakes her head again.
“No,” Robert insists, “an agreement. This was a contest, my lady Stark. A hunt, let us say. And it seems that I have caught you in the end.”
“And such a fair contest,” she counters. “You, tangling yourself in the trees to ambush me. If I wasn’t such a soft-hearted fool, you’d be there through the night, cursing my name and rending that awful gold cape even further.” But she smiles as his arms go around her, and when her hands reach to unclasp the hated cloak from his shoulders, he does not protest, letting it fall to the ground.
Lyanna kicks at it teasingly. “Now then,” she says, hands on her hips, her riding leathers giving her an almost martial appearance, “what is the prize for this contest?”
Robert throws up his hands in mock innocence. “A kiss is all I ask.”
She shakes her head. “That will not do.” But she does kiss him, a courteous, meaningless thing that he discounts.
“No,” Robert returns, “that will not do.” He leans in and catches her about the waist, drawing her close and kissing her properly, full on the mouth. She does not struggle, his Lyanna, but returns it just as strongly, her hands finding his hair, running along the back of his neck, tensing and gripping his shoulders as they continue.
“It will be easier down there,” she says, and spreads the cloak out as best she can, while pressing herself against him still, one hand fumbling with the wrinkles in the fabric, the other cupping the back of his head as they kneel together, awkwardly, and come to rest on the ground, their bodies tangled, their limbs pushing against the other in uncomfortable ways. But smiling, they soon right themselves and draw together.
Lyanna is slender but she is not weak; years of riding have strengthened her limbs and she does not yield beneath his hands, but meets him evenly. Robert is not taken aback by it. He is used to wenches who sigh and squeal and lie on their backs with their skirts thrust over their heads. While such things are pleasurable, there is no challenge in that, only routine gratification. This is different. This is Lyanna. His Lyanna, if such a woman can be held by any man, or anyone really, and he looks with contentment upon the flush on her cheeks from the exertions of the day, the way that her eyes gleam in the low light of the clearing, and the way that her hair falls in a tangle down her back, wayward strands in her face. He brushes them away, and she nuzzles her cheek, then her lips, against his hand.
“Shall we then?” she says, and there is no jesting in her voice or teasing twist to her lips now.
They are promised of course, but have yet to bed together.
“Yes,” he says, covering her mouth with his, and they do not speak for a time; they merely take in each other, her hands gripping his shoulders, then the muscles in his arms, which tense at her touch. Robert works at those ridiculous mannish breeches that she wears, fumbling in turn with his clothing, and when they couple, it’s different than it’s been for him with those other girls, and all of that seems silly now in comparison. Lyanna looks him straight in the face. She does not blush or demur from his gaze, or lower her eyes like a chaste wife should. As he thrusts against her, Robert notices, outside of the haze of his own pleasure, the thin smile on her lips, the way that her breath quickens to match his, although she does not cry out as he does, but merely gasps.
It is brief and awkward and uncomfortable, this lying together on the grass, on top of a rumpled bed of wool, and they part at last, doing up their clothing, still staring at each other as though neither can break away from the other. Robert is surprised, partially, that there is no blood, and he wonders about his beloved’s chastity. But before any rage can come, he dimly recalls a Maester’s offhand remark about the unseemliness of a woman who is too often horsed, and he puts it aside. Lyanna lies abed, her lips still curled with her pleasure, and he would rather look at her than contemplate matters of maidenhood and matrimonial value.
There are leaves in her hair, in his hair, and at first, Robert thinks to brush them aside. But something stops him, and he stays his hands, instead, lying down again beside her. Her hand lazily makes its way to his body once more, toying with the laces on his leather jerkin. When she has undone that, she slides her hand in, caressing his chest, hands cool against the heat of his body. Robert notices how rough and callused her fingers are, despite her riding gloves. A horsewoman’s hands, indelicate, strong and broad, made for handling the reins, for wielding the crop. And he realizes that Lyanna will not be the maiden of the songs, easily undone, waiting in a tower for her gentle Ser to come riding to the gate to rescue her and claim her maidenhood. It will be a struggle, a battle, a contest forever, and he relishes the thought, anticipating the years ahead where they will spar and face each other on a variety of fields. Sometimes he imagines that she will win, and sometimes, he hopes that he shall claim victory.
When Lyanna speaks, her voice low, it breaks into his reverie. “We should stay thus,” she murmurs, her hand now laid alongside his cheek. “The pine needles our grand carpet, the clearing our great hall.”
Robert smiles.
“I will run with the wolves, I suppose,” she says, kissing him then.
“And I with the deer,” he replies. “Our only company your pack and my own herd, and at night, we will have each other.”
“And our children as well, little savages with blue eyes and curly black hair,” she says, but Lyanna’s own eyes are sad, and her voice regretful as she puts a stop to their fantasy. “But it is not to be. We are Lord and Lady, so Lord and Lady we will be. As will our children.” She picks the leaves from his hair then, running her hands through her own tangled locks. “And I am sure that we are missed.”
Robert sits then, collecting his bedraggled cape, rolling it carefully and handing it to Lyanna.
“As promised,” she says, inclining her head, “Lord Baratheon.”
“Lady Stark,” he says, but his tone is rueful as he gets to his feet, extending a hand to her. Lyanna allows him to pull her up and when she mounts her mare, he follows, this time taking care as they leave the little grove, heading for Winterfell, for civilization.
For a time, they do not speak, but listen to the forest murmurs, the birds, the crickets, the sound of unseen creatures picking their way through the undergrowth, the rustle of the leaves overhead as the breeze picks up. Light filters in shafts, the last rays of the dying sun, and when they emerge from the dimness, it’s only then that both realize how truly late it is.
Lyanna turns to him then, her face merry again. “I’ll race you back,” she says, and is off before he can acquiesce. Cursing his horse for the second time that day, Robert digs in his heels, following her with the half-hearted hope of catching up with her, and realizing just how foolish it is. So he follows in her wake, heart light all the same, until they enter the gates of Winterfell, until they are sternly admonished by old Lord Stark for their absence, until they must prepare for the supper that has been planned that evening.
And when he sees her next, his Lyanna, she is the perfect lady in soft blue satin, hair bound in a silver net, face composed, and Robert thinks of the wife that she will make, of the children that she’d spoken of that afternoon. Even though it was in jest, he had found that he liked the idea very much, even if the thought of fatherhood was a strange one at best. She sits composed, listening courteously to the singer, a special treat, for Winterfell rarely entertains such company, and it is infrequent that any mummers travel this far north.
He does not listen to most of the song; it is a love ballad, too sentimental for his tastes, of course, but Lyanna does, or attempts to, the small smile on her face again, her mouth set the way it was when they had been alone earlier. She reaches out a hand, brushing his own, stilling his raucous conversation with Ned, who sits on Robert’s other side. It is then that he hears the final verse, and understands why her eyes are so bright.
I’ll wear a gown of golden leaves, and bind my hair with grass
But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass.
Robert takes her hand then, squeezing it tightly, ignoring the odd look that Ned gives his friend, and when Lyanna laughs, he does too, the noise they make so alien to this formal setting, these kind yet serious people. But somehow it seems right.