asoiaf/got fic: carve your heart
Title: carve your heart
Pairing: Brandon/Lyanna
Rating: R
Words: ~1,000
Summary: Brandon found her in the heart tree's stretching shade, her back against its gnarled trunk, her feet bare and a crown of wilting winter roses in her lap. Evening was starting to fall, the sun slowly dipping past the arching canopy of trees; Lyanna's dress was greener than the grass underneath her, dark against her pale skin, and her hair was wild, slipping free of its careful plaits and tangled with weirwood leaves.
Notes: What it says on the tin, kids -- Starkcest. Written for![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
asoiafkinkmeme, and the prompt Brandon/Lyanna, after she's crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty. Originally posted here.
The godswood at Harrenhal was different than the bright, flowery gardens the southron lords often kept. It was closer to the godswoods of the North -- pine and sentinel instead of oak and willow and birch, greying weirwoods and a shallow stream weaving through the humus -- but there was a bad feeling here, a strangeness in the shadows that was very unlike Winterfell. The leaves whispered and the stream hissed like a snake as it moved, and the face in the heart tree was a monstrous thing, glaring eyes and an angry, sneering mouth.
Brandon found her in the heart tree's stretching shade, her back against its gnarled trunk, her feet bare and a crown of wilting winter roses in her lap. Evening was starting to fall, the sun slowly dipping past the arching canopy of trees; Lyanna's dress was greener than the grass underneath her, dark against her pale skin, and her hair was wild, slipping free of its careful plaits and tangled with weirwood leaves.
She looked up as he approached, set the roses on her head with a smile hidden in the corners of her mouth.
"The feast is starting soon. Father will be looking for you," Brandon said.
"Father should be looking for Benjen," Lyanna countered, tilting her head. "He ran off with one of the Frey boys after the melee -- they'll only find trouble." She stretched her legs, her dress pushing up to her knees and her feet brushing the toes of Brandon's boots. "Will you dance with me at the feast?"
"Of course."
She held her hands out to him, her smile growing wider and brighter; he caught them easily in one of his, but he sighed and sat beside her instead of pulling her to her feet. The roses slipped from her head, tumbling into the grass, spilling ice-blue petals across the bodice of her dress, and Brandon picked it up, wrapped it loosely around his wrist.
"Prince Rhaegar should not have given you this," Brandon said quietly, tucking a stray strand of Lyanna's hair behind her ear. He could still see the dark, hungry look in Rhaegar's violet eyes, hear the startles gasps of Princess Elia and her ladies. "Robert is furious."
Lyanna's mouth twisted sourly. "Robert is always furious."
"You do not like him."
"It is a splendid match. A union of two great Houses," Lyanna said, in a fair copy of their father's calm, grating voice. She hummed softly, turning her hand in his, lacing their fingers together. "It could be worse. Robert could be old and ugly, or cruel. Ned swears he loves me."
Brandon stroked his thumb over the back of her hand, watched the failing sunlight draw slow shadows across her face. She was too beautiful for Robert Baratheon, too sweet for his rough hands and coarse humor and sudden, flaring rages; Ned was right, Robert did seem to love her, but he did not know her, and he would try to tame her, try to bend her into one of the biddable southron women he usually took to his bed. Robert had already stolen the best parts of Ned -- his trust, his friendship, his brotherhood -- and Brandon did not want to give him Lyanna as well.
He pulled her into his lap, even though he knew he shouldn't, sliding his hand around her waist as she hid her face in the crook of his neck; he liked the feel of her in his arms, the weight of her against his chest. He traced the curve of her jaw with his thumb, pressing soft kisses to her hair, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, and she sighed and curled closer to him, tipping her face up toward his, threading her hand into his hair as her tongue nudged at his lips.
"Lyanna."
"You used to kiss me," she said accusingly, nipping at his chin. "Before you bedded that Ryswell girl. Before Father promised you Catelyn Tully."
"I don't want to talk about Barbrey," Brandon said. "Or Catelyn Tully."
Lyanna kissed him again, her lips more insistent than before, and Brandon held his hand to the small of her back, pressing her closer as her tongue filled his mouth. He smoothed his other hand over the hollow of her throat, slid it down to the soft curve of her breast; he wanted to lower her to the grass, his hands at her hips and his teeth at her neck as he buried himself inside her, but he knew he could not, knew her maidenhead was one more thing he could not have, one more thing he must give Robert Baratheon.
Her dress had ridden up past her knees, the heavy skirts dark against the pale skin of her thighs; she gasped as Brandon dipped his hand between her legs, as he drew his fingers over her cunt, warm and wet, her mouth pressed to his jaw and her hands curled in the front of his doublet. He touched her gently, brushing her clit with his thumb, and he eased the tip of his finger inside her, just enough to feel her, careful not to make her bleed, to spoil Robert's gift.
He watched her face as she shuddered and peaked, memorizing the flush of her mouth and the brightness in her eyes, the warm spots of color blooming high on her cheeks.
She reached for the placket of his breeches, her fingers tugging lightly on the laces, but he caught her wrist, pulling her hand away; his cock was hard and aching, and he didn't trust himself that far, knew he wouldn't be content with her hands or her mouth.
"We have to get back," he said, frowning as she rescued the crown of roses from the grass. It was misshapen now, the petals crushed and bruised. "The feast is starting soon."
Lyanna ran ahead of him, laughing and splashing through the stream, her dress wrinkled and her cheeks still pink, her hair streaming in the wind and winter roses in her hand.
Pairing: Brandon/Lyanna
Rating: R
Words: ~1,000
Summary: Brandon found her in the heart tree's stretching shade, her back against its gnarled trunk, her feet bare and a crown of wilting winter roses in her lap. Evening was starting to fall, the sun slowly dipping past the arching canopy of trees; Lyanna's dress was greener than the grass underneath her, dark against her pale skin, and her hair was wild, slipping free of its careful plaits and tangled with weirwood leaves.
Notes: What it says on the tin, kids -- Starkcest. Written for
asoiafkinkmeme, and the prompt Brandon/Lyanna, after she's crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty. Originally posted here.The godswood at Harrenhal was different than the bright, flowery gardens the southron lords often kept. It was closer to the godswoods of the North -- pine and sentinel instead of oak and willow and birch, greying weirwoods and a shallow stream weaving through the humus -- but there was a bad feeling here, a strangeness in the shadows that was very unlike Winterfell. The leaves whispered and the stream hissed like a snake as it moved, and the face in the heart tree was a monstrous thing, glaring eyes and an angry, sneering mouth.
Brandon found her in the heart tree's stretching shade, her back against its gnarled trunk, her feet bare and a crown of wilting winter roses in her lap. Evening was starting to fall, the sun slowly dipping past the arching canopy of trees; Lyanna's dress was greener than the grass underneath her, dark against her pale skin, and her hair was wild, slipping free of its careful plaits and tangled with weirwood leaves.
She looked up as he approached, set the roses on her head with a smile hidden in the corners of her mouth.
"The feast is starting soon. Father will be looking for you," Brandon said.
"Father should be looking for Benjen," Lyanna countered, tilting her head. "He ran off with one of the Frey boys after the melee -- they'll only find trouble." She stretched her legs, her dress pushing up to her knees and her feet brushing the toes of Brandon's boots. "Will you dance with me at the feast?"
"Of course."
She held her hands out to him, her smile growing wider and brighter; he caught them easily in one of his, but he sighed and sat beside her instead of pulling her to her feet. The roses slipped from her head, tumbling into the grass, spilling ice-blue petals across the bodice of her dress, and Brandon picked it up, wrapped it loosely around his wrist.
"Prince Rhaegar should not have given you this," Brandon said quietly, tucking a stray strand of Lyanna's hair behind her ear. He could still see the dark, hungry look in Rhaegar's violet eyes, hear the startles gasps of Princess Elia and her ladies. "Robert is furious."
Lyanna's mouth twisted sourly. "Robert is always furious."
"You do not like him."
"It is a splendid match. A union of two great Houses," Lyanna said, in a fair copy of their father's calm, grating voice. She hummed softly, turning her hand in his, lacing their fingers together. "It could be worse. Robert could be old and ugly, or cruel. Ned swears he loves me."
Brandon stroked his thumb over the back of her hand, watched the failing sunlight draw slow shadows across her face. She was too beautiful for Robert Baratheon, too sweet for his rough hands and coarse humor and sudden, flaring rages; Ned was right, Robert did seem to love her, but he did not know her, and he would try to tame her, try to bend her into one of the biddable southron women he usually took to his bed. Robert had already stolen the best parts of Ned -- his trust, his friendship, his brotherhood -- and Brandon did not want to give him Lyanna as well.
He pulled her into his lap, even though he knew he shouldn't, sliding his hand around her waist as she hid her face in the crook of his neck; he liked the feel of her in his arms, the weight of her against his chest. He traced the curve of her jaw with his thumb, pressing soft kisses to her hair, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, and she sighed and curled closer to him, tipping her face up toward his, threading her hand into his hair as her tongue nudged at his lips.
"Lyanna."
"You used to kiss me," she said accusingly, nipping at his chin. "Before you bedded that Ryswell girl. Before Father promised you Catelyn Tully."
"I don't want to talk about Barbrey," Brandon said. "Or Catelyn Tully."
Lyanna kissed him again, her lips more insistent than before, and Brandon held his hand to the small of her back, pressing her closer as her tongue filled his mouth. He smoothed his other hand over the hollow of her throat, slid it down to the soft curve of her breast; he wanted to lower her to the grass, his hands at her hips and his teeth at her neck as he buried himself inside her, but he knew he could not, knew her maidenhead was one more thing he could not have, one more thing he must give Robert Baratheon.
Her dress had ridden up past her knees, the heavy skirts dark against the pale skin of her thighs; she gasped as Brandon dipped his hand between her legs, as he drew his fingers over her cunt, warm and wet, her mouth pressed to his jaw and her hands curled in the front of his doublet. He touched her gently, brushing her clit with his thumb, and he eased the tip of his finger inside her, just enough to feel her, careful not to make her bleed, to spoil Robert's gift.
He watched her face as she shuddered and peaked, memorizing the flush of her mouth and the brightness in her eyes, the warm spots of color blooming high on her cheeks.
She reached for the placket of his breeches, her fingers tugging lightly on the laces, but he caught her wrist, pulling her hand away; his cock was hard and aching, and he didn't trust himself that far, knew he wouldn't be content with her hands or her mouth.
"We have to get back," he said, frowning as she rescued the crown of roses from the grass. It was misshapen now, the petals crushed and bruised. "The feast is starting soon."
Lyanna ran ahead of him, laughing and splashing through the stream, her dress wrinkled and her cheeks still pink, her hair streaming in the wind and winter roses in her hand.