A Night to celebrate

Lyonel strolled through the courtyard, his head in the clouds. Yes, his cock was big, huge even. But professional sex workers telling him he is *leagues* ahead of every man they ever saw? Ok, maybe prostitutes might not be the most reliable source for praise about your cock or sexual prowess, but he hadn’t paid them for that. And as far as Lyonel could tell, they looked earnestly shocked at the sight of what he was packing.

Only one way to find out for certain. Through research of anatomical papers in the nearest library!.... OR maybe through a more fun method. A lady of noble birth would never lie about such a delicate matter. So the next time Lyonel will reveal his cock to a lady for the first time, he’ll outright ask her to rate his third leg.

The grand hall came closer to him and Lyonel could hear the festivities were about to begin. It was in no way the drunken jests a fest with Robert Baratheon and his entourage was sure to end in, what he heard were anticipating hushes of countless guests mixing into white noise. Riding out to convince his uncle must have taken a tad to long for a decent entry, but a flashy one? That could be arranged.

The crown prince of the seven kingdoms collected his breath, patted a little dirt from his pants and headed for the main entrance. He put one hand on each of the massive wings of the door and pushed with all his strength. His face contorted from the initial exertion, but immediately calmed down when the guests faces came in sight. No one should know he was huffing inside, that would ruin the effect he was going for.

The wings of the heavy wooden door dragged over the stone floor of the great hall, loud enough to draw everyones attention. The whispers ceased and all eyes fell on the young man. At the far end of the room the hosts family was seated, as well as the royal family as their guests of honour. They too starred in his direction, his father, whom his own eyes fell on first, was looking proud of his heir flexing those Baratheon muscles, and his moth- the queen was looking at him with a curiosity, an attentive observer would unmask as very unmotherly. On the far side of both the host and the king sat their respective wives, so after taking in his families side, he looked next to Eddard Stark and at the Lady Stark.

The same Lady that just today “scolded” him, ending in his cum smearing all over the inside of her netherclothes. She met his look and barely noticeable shifted in her seat. Her right shoulder, the opposite side of her husband, shook a little, rubbing her breast against her tainted garnments. A smile, mischievous and coy, flickered over her lips.

After letting the silence set for a dramatic moment, Lyonel tried his hand at a catchy introduction.

“Lord Stark, my deepest apologies. I begrudgingly disrupt the festivities with my tardiness, but matters of family **** my hand. I am sure, if someone understands the urgency of that, it is you my lord”, Lyonel bowed his head just enough to be polite, but stayed uptight enough to keep the people envying his stature.

“I do. Please, have a seat my prince. We have not started yet, your father insisted on it”, the lor protector of the North gestured to the ranks of the royal retinue, one place empty and awaiting Lyonel.

“You could have started on my accord. As far as I’ve heard, Northmen feasts really start in earnest when a southern ball has long ended. That’s the part I’m waiting for”, he threw a smile at Lord Stark, with little reaction, and his father beside him, with a much bigger reaction. The rowdier among the Northmen chuckled aloud and from the top of one of the longtables a figure rose.

“Now, those are words I’d raise my jug to any day”, from his height alone Lyonel knew this man to be Great Jon Umber. He raised his jug towards the prince, then towards his sovereign and the king and then downed it in one go. After setting the empty container down on the table with a loud smack, his table of soldiers and minor lords broke out in hollering and knocking on the table.

Under approving looks of the Northmen present, Lyonel made his way to his reserved seat. Robert and Ned exchanged a few words and after a gesture of the later, a bard in a corner of the room started accompanying the rising volume of the banter with a few musical tones.

“Better late than never, I guess”, Lyonels sister greeted him in her chair next to him. Her snide remark lacked her usual bite, she seemed distracted.

“A prince is never late, nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to”, an enigmatic smile on Lyonels lips, the famous quote lost on the pampered princess.

“I’m glad you are finally here, darling, but wasn’t the whole reason I sent you away to get your uncle? I didn’t see him come in with you”, she said aloud and ended the sentence in a mumble, “not that anyone would have noticed someone else coming in next to you.”

The queen eyed her sons form as subtly as she could, her eyes zipping straight up after wandering down low for the fracture of a second.

“Tyrion will come join us later. The noble festivities will be lost on him, but he’ll be on time for the wassail afterwards”, Lyonel put his hand on hers and reassured her.

“I get that the imp wants to come in when the Northmen have melted a little, but it seems my boy has heated the room up early”, Robert leaned forward and clapped his eldest sons shoulder, gesturing toward the common folks tables.

More and more of the bannerman and outriders present were following the Great Jons example. One mug after the other was emptied and Lyonel could make out tell-tale phrases of boisterous tales. Some violent “…as strong as a dozen man… in one chop” others raunchy “… both as big as my head… had her wailing for minutes”.

“It’s bound to be better than our last feast. The Freys were sorely lacking as hosts”, Lyonel turned to his brother for assurance. The younger prince turned away, probably remembering their poor version of hospitality.

“Y-yeah, the Starks welcomed us far more cordial”, Tommen replied politely. From his former selves memories Lyonel knew the young prince was never outgoing or a chatterbox. But he really hoped once they were back in Kings Landing he would have some time to connect and get him out of his shell a little.

On the other side of the table, another pair of siblings was having a much more lively conversation.

“- urgh, what a performer”, the younger sister rolled her eyes, funny enough in an overdramatic manner.

“You have no idea what you are talking about Arya. He’s the heir to the Iron Throne, is he supposed to silently slip in through the backdoor?”, Sansa hastily told her sister and both tried their best not to look in the direction of the man in question.

“No, he is *supposed* to be here on time like the rest of us. Does he think he can just barge in here, smile that damn smile and all is forgiven?”, the way she dreamily looked into the distance for a second after saying that, gave off the notion that was exactly how it worked out with her.

“It is a disarming smile isn’t it?”, came the coy reply of Aryas sister by law.

While the Baratheons seated themselves from King and Queen to the children in order of age, the Starks had lined themselves up by the sexes. After Lord Stark and his wife, came Rob, Brandon and Rickon, followed by Alys Karstark, as their eldest daughter by law, Sansa and at the end of the table Arya.

Until now Alys had calmly ignored the sisters and their bickering, but at the mention of the princes winning smile, the small reply escaped her lips.

“Phhg, disarming?”, Arya folded her arms stubbornly, “Nay, on the contrary. That’s a taunt if anything. *I’m the big and mighty prince. I can come and go as I please. Who dares oppose me?*”

The youngest Stark daughter bit her plump little lip, oblivious to the other two sharing a bewildered look.