First Day Back

Lyonel was laying on his bed, basking in the warmth of the sun that he missed so badly in the North. The intensity of its heat tells him that it must be already noon, and he slept past breakfast. Lyonel, or in truth, the Lyonel that occupied this body before him, had been an early riser, a habit that he was determined to follow. But not today. He had been travelling, on horseback, on carriage, on boat, for months now, and he can make some allowances on his first day back home.

"Lyonel!" a woman's sharp voice cut through his restful half-awake slumber like a whip.

A small smile touched the prince's lip even as his eyes remained shut. Only one servant girl is allowed to enter his quarters, and only one would dare to talk to him like that. Bella. Just thinking about the girl and all they did yesterday made his morning wood twitch.

A feminine hand was now shaking his shoulder not so gently. "Lyonel! Are you even listening to me-"

The prince, however, was in no mood to listen. Quick as a snake, without even opening his eyes, his hand grabbed the woman and dragged the woman into his bed as she squealed. He could feel the woman lying at his side. Without losing a second, he tugged her dress low and buried his head inside her cleavage, while cupping her ass in his hand.

It took some seconds before Lyonel's dazed head figured out that some things were wrong. He would have expected Bella to be giggling and moaning right now, but the woman he was now groping kept screaming and punching his bare chest, quite ineffectively, he might add. The woman's contours felt all wrong to his blind touch as well, her butt cheeks too large and soft to be that of the young, toned servant. And as her voice cut through his sleepy brain, he recognized it, and it definitely was not Bella's.

Lyonel froze, and then slowly and guiltily, opened his eyes. His first view was a glorious bosom, one tit out of the red dress, one tit in, both covered in his slobber. The exposed tit was far larger and paler than Bella's assets, and the dress far more expensive than anything a servant could afford. Slowly he looked up, and saw the golden framed, red faced, flustered and angry face of Cersei Lannister.

"Mother?" exclaimed Lyonel in horror, before scrambling out of bed. In hindsight, that was perhaps not the brightest of ideas. He was naked underneath the sheets, and now his fully erect cock was standing proudly to attention, right in the line of sight of the queen. Her son tried to cover it up with his hands (the sheets were already appropriated by his mother to cover her own bosom), but the eroticism of the moment caused it to grow quickly, and Lyonel's cock ended up thumping Cersei's shocked face. The impact caused a single drop of precum to fall on his mother's cheek, oh so close to her ruby lips, before it slowly rolled down into her cleavage, mixing with her son's spit that was already present.

Cersei too, quickly climbed out of the bed and the mother and son now stood there, on the opposite sides of the bed, staring at each other, panting and flushed. The queen couldn't believe her eyes. Of course she had seen her son in nude once before, but that brief moment was months ago, and she had started convincing herself that it must not be true, that a person couldn't be as perfect as her memory told her. But now, standing in front of her naked son again, she could only accept that he was perfect. The handsome but playful face of the youth, his tall, muscled physic, and of course that unbelievable large cock most of all, combined to create a man that was more akin to a god.

With a great show of willpower, Cersei lifted her eyes off her son's cock. Gods only know what would happen if she kept staring at it. Instead, she fixed her emerald eyes on Lyonel's deep blue eyes and refused to look anywhere else. "You slept till noon," she said flatly.

"Yes mother. I'm sorry."

"You missed breakfast."

"Yes mother."

"You missed lunch."

"Yes mother."

"You are to sup with your betrothed tonight."

"Yes mother."

"So, get ready!"

"Yes mother."

Another long silence.

"Mother?" Lyonel ventured, sounding for all the world like a young, guilty boy.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry. I was half asleep and I didn't realize..." his voice trailed off into silence.

Cersei's eyes, and heart, softened. Her short temper was infamous, but she could never be angry with her boys for long. Still clutching the sheets around her semi-exposed breasts, she walked over to her son and stroked her son's sharp cheek. "Oh, my boy, I'm not angry with you. I know you are tired. But I knew good relations with the Starks was important to you, and that's why I came to wake you up myself."

"Thank you, mother," the prince replied, enjoying his mother's soft caresses and chuckled. "My sloth nearly cost me my good standing with the Starks."

"Nonsense!" his mother admonished him. "The Starks wouldn't be angry at such a small mistake, and that little Red Wolf would never break her betrothal with you. You are far too handsome to be rejected by any woman, I fear..." with that her hand fell from his face to his chest, her fingers carving trails of sweat through his hardened muscles all the way to... Cersei quickly took her hand back. What WAS she doing?

The queen quickly regained her composure and her maternal tone. "Now be a good boy and get ready for the dinner."

"Yes mother," Lyonel replied, though now with a wry smile.

"Before that, turn around so your mother could get decent."

Lyonel, reluctantly, turned around. He knew that he could have pushed it more with Cersei (his cock's effect on her was obvious), but he didn't want to be too hasty and make a blunder, especially when he had all the time in the world.

As such, while Lyonel played the role of the obedient son, Cersei quickly adjusted her clothes and put her exposed breast back inside her dress. But that wasn't enough. Strands of spit (her son's spit!!!) coated her cleavage. She could easily wipe them off the sheets, but a naughtier idea plagued her mind, and she couldn't get rid of it. Looking ahead to confirm that her son indeed was still looking ahead, she scooped up her son's spit (and that single drop of precum that was in there somewhere) and got rid of the evidence by putting the spit in her own mouth and swallowing it. She closed her eyes and barely stifled a moan of both delight and despair. She knew what she was doing was wrong, worse than anything she ever did with Jamie, but why then did it feel so good?

Composing herself with some deep breaths, Cersei beckoned her son to turn around, gave him some more advice on what to do (all the while making sure to not look anywhere but his face) and then walked, nearly ran, out of her son's chamber. Gods only know what would have happened if she stayed in her naked son's presence any longer!

Lyonel stood in a corner of his room, trying to use an ivory comb to tame his unruly, dark, Baratheon locks though his mind really wasn't in it. Instead, it replayed the events of that morning over and over again. What happened? Well, that was easy enough to answer. He was now getting used to the customary reaction women gave when seeing his cock, but... his own mother? Was she so badly affected by it as well? Granted, his cock had brough prudish Catelyn and fiercely independent Ygritte to their knees, but to compel a person to break this most ancient of taboos? Then again, even in the original version of events, Cersei wasn't daunted by the act of ****.

The prince's train of thoughts was broken by Ygritte storming into the room. He took a single look at her and bust out laughing.

"Shut up!" the Wildling woman growled.

"She... she made you... oh gods..." he couldn't even complete the sentence. Apparently, it seems like Myrcella has started using her new maid as a doll to dress up, and yesterday's slightly slutty clothes was just the beginning. Today his sister seemed to have been in a crueler mood and has gone the opposite route, with Ygritte's clothes today covering all every inch of her body and even her hair, as if she was some sort of nun. To make matters worse, the Wildling still hasn't adjusted to the relatively warm temperatures of the capital and was drenched in sweat.

"Shut up!" the redhead repeated. "Or I won't tell you anything about your crazy sister's plan to fuck you."

Lyonel chocked on his laughter. "She what?

Ygritte smiled. "Now that's much better." With a quick move she grabbed all the layers of her dress and underclothes and threw them aside. Covered now only by the slightest layer of underwear she sauntered over to the prince. "I was saying that your sister wanted to fuck you."

For the next few minutes, Ygritte recalled last day's... adventures, causing Lyonel to harden at every word he heard about his dear little sister. Well, that at least answered the question had had earlier.

"How.. how is this even possible?" the prince asked in a hollow voice.

"Aww," Ygritte tutted, before sitting on his knee. Lyonel was so absorbed by the news he didn't even care about the half-naked, sweaty redhead on his lap. "The real question is, how can any woman even resist you, once she has seen that magnificent monster between your legs?"

"She hasn't even seen it!" he protested.

"Oh yes she has. Apparently, she saw it several times in your travels in the North. Including one time where you fucked your betrothed's mother and made her beg for your cum, and make her do so many other, naughty, dirty things."

Lyonel groaned. The more time passes, the more he realized that he has been so careless in his first few months in the new world. But he can blame himself later. Now, he has other stuff to do. He looked at the Spearwife on his lap. "And what about you? Didn't she threaten you to keep her secrets?"

Ygritte gave out her throaty, free laughter. "Your sister certainly has a firm hand and is quite... fun. But she's nothing compared to you. Anyway, once you fuck her, I won't have to choose between you two. She'll be one of your bitches, just like me! You will fuck her right? Right after you fuck me?" she asked as a hand slithered towards his breeches.

However Lyonel stood up, forcing the miffed Wildling to stop. He patted her ass fondly, while putting aside all the shocking revelations he learned about his sister to later use. "I'll give you your rewards tonight, Ygritte. Right now, I have a different redhead to see."

The sun was casting long shadows in its dying moments as Lyonel walked up the stairs of the Hand's Tower. Behind him was Ser Mandon Moore, one of the few capable members of the Kingsguard. Ahead of him was Vayon Poole, the Stark steward that had come South with the family he serves. Lyonel mostly remembered him for his daughter Jayne, who plays a relatively important secondary role in the books and was also known to be quite pretty. In the back of his head, he wondered if she had come South as well, similar to the original version of events.

"This way, my prince," Poole said, breaking the gloomy evening silence and pointing at a room that was guarded by two Stark men-at-arms.

"Thank you, Ser Poole," he replied. Poole was actually not a knight, but politeness cost nothing. As Ser Moore respectfully held himself back, Lyonel entered the room.

The quarters of the Hand were quite comfortable, and Lyonel was met by a fresh, evening breeze wafting from the sea. At the middle of the room was a table big enough to seat a dozen, though only Sansa and her Septa occupied it at the moment.

"My prince!" Sansa called out, before standing quickly. It was clear that she was very happy to see him, her normal demureness replaced by palpable giddiness. Yet, she was always a lady first and foremost and performed a perfect curtsy.

"My lady," Lyonel said, bowing politely, taking his betrothed's hand and kissing it. He had forgotten how utterly beautiful she was, even when being covered in her drab, Northern garb.

"I missed you deeply these past few months, my prince."

"Please, call me Lyonel. And I have missed you very dearly too, my lady."

"Did you really?" Sansa asked, her bright blue eyes filled with near childlike hope and innocence.

"You are a hard person for a man to forget my lady."

Sansa couldn't find any words but blushed happily.

"Before we continue any further, are any of your family around?"

"No, my prince. My father is quite busy in his duties as the Hand and Bran must still be in the courtyard. And Arya... well, only the gods know where Arya is," Sansa ended the sentence bitterly.

"Sansa! That is not how a lady speaks of her sister!" Septa Mordane called her.

"I'm sorry, septa," Sansa apologized.

"It is a pleasure to meet again, Septa," Lyonel said.

"The pleasure is mine, my prince," the septa replied, standing up and curtsying, though the prince didn't kiss her hand. Being a septa, she was of course forbidden from touching any man.

However, Lyonel had only seen her once, in his first night in Winterfell, and now under clear light he got his first clear look at her. Septa Mordane was quite an old woman, maybe old enough to be in her early 50's or at the very least her mid 40's. She was completely covered in her septa's robes, but from what he could see, she had a pleasantly plump, maternal body. Her eyes were blue and hard, and while her hair was completely covered, her barely revealed hairline seems to suggest brown locks.

"Forgive me, Septa, but I assumed my dinner with Sansa would be a private affair," Lyonel said.

"Then I'm sorry to say that your assumption was wrong, my prince," the older woman replied, courteously but with steel in her voice. "I am Lady Sansa's guardian, and I cannot let her be in a man's company alone until her marriage, even if that man is her betrothed."

"Septa!" Sansa protested, not only because she's interrupting the valued time she had with her beloved prince, but also mortified at what she is suggesting.

"I am sorry Sansa, but this is the duty I've been assigned to, and I will carry it out!"

"Septa, please! You know you can trust me! Please!" Sansa pleaded, and Lyonel realized just how dangerous those wide, innocent blue eyes are. It seems that even Septa Mordan wasn't immune, and her hardened featured softened under that innocent scrutiny.

"Very well," she said crisply, picking up her copy of The Seven-Pointed Star. "I will go do my reading in the next room. But if I hear anything even slightly suspicious, the Warrior himself won't be able to stop me from coming in!"

After she left, Lyonel sat at the head of the table and was shocked by a nuzzling at his feet. Underneath the table was Sansa's direwolf, Lady. Of course. In this timeline where he has replaced Joffrey, there would have been no incident on the King's Road, and Lady, as well the butcher's boy Mycah, would be alive. Somewhere in the castle, Nymeria and Summer, Arya and Bran's direwolves would be roaming around as well. It is a strangely gratifying thought, Lyonel pondered as Lady licked his fingers, to think that your very existence at a certain time and place could save lives.

Sansa, having seen to her Septa's departure, sat down and looked fondly at her betrothed and her direwolf. "I am glad to see you two getting along. They have a hard time adjusting to the castle. Also, my prince, I must apologize on behalf of Septa Mordane. She can be quite... demanding at times."

"I can see that," Lyonel said while laughing.

"Truly, she is a good woman and a good septa. But after Arya turned out to be... well, what she is, it really affected her, as she was the one responsible to make us into ladies. After Arya's failure, she now focuses all her energies on me."

"I understand," the prince replied. The sibling rivalry between the two sisters apparently have gone worse since the ten years that have passed. He had seen it in Winterfell (heck he has been planning to use it in this conversation itself) but it ran deeper than he thought. Still, even though he was here for Arya, it would not do to start off the conversation with that.

"So, Sansa, tell me how have you been? Are you enjoying the South?"

"Oh yes my prince!" the lady gushed. "It's everything I dreamt of. Everyone here is so nice to me!"

"Is that so? Made any new friends?" Lyonel asked, trying to hide his grimace. He knew that a lot of people would want to befriend the future queen consort, and that Sansa's naivety would make her terribly exposed to them.

"Oh yes, lots!" the oblivious girl went ahead. "The Tyrells specially are oh so kind! Ser Loras is always gallant, and Lady Margaery has been my closest friend since coming here."

"That's wonderful," the prince remarked, remembering all the Tyrell plots connected to Sansa in the original timeline. "I hope my Aunt Margaery has been very gracious with you."

"Indeed. She taught me everything about the court and is always patient with me. And she is always nice, except for..." Sansa faltered, probably not wanting to offend her betrothed by complaining about his family.

"Go on Sansa," Lyonel said with an encouraging smile. "My future wife have no reason to hold any secret away from me."

The redhead blushed, and the mere mention of their future marital status encouraged her to go ahead. "Well, Lady Margaery has always been nice to me, except for well... she does make fun of my clothes every once so often. Says that it doesn't match the South."

Lyonel laughed. "I'm sorry my lady, but I have to agree with my aunt there. You seem uncomfortable in your Northern garb even now, well after the sun has set."

"I know, but..."

Lyonel could guess what the lady's qualms were. "I know to you Northerners' the fashions of the Reach may look very... queer, and quite inappropriate. No one is asking you to dress like my aunt, Sansa. I know it would go completely against your Northern sensibilities. But that's not the only way Southerners dress. You know what. Tomorrow, I'll send my maid Bella over to you. You two can work together on a way to dress that would make you comfortable while fitting in with us lot." He was already thinking all the delicious ways Bella can twist Sansa's wardrobe choices, though it'll take a long time to break her prudishness.

Sansa, meanwhile, was obliviously grateful and gave her thanks to the prince.

With that, Lyonel began to work on why he was really here. "And how is your family doing Sansa? I hope they are adjusting to the South as well as you?"

"Father is exhausted. I've never seen him so busy before. But everyone says that you take his grace's place in the Small Council. Now that you're back, I hope it'll be easier on him. Bran loves it here though. It has always been his wish to join the kingsguard, and to now be among them, to squire to the great Ser Barristan, it's all he would ever want. I barely see him nowadays, as he spends the whole day at the training yard. As for Arya..." Sansa flinched at the mere name of her sister.

"Yes, I heard what happened yesterday," it was certainly flinch worthy news. One of the Redwyne twins have tried to give a rose to Arya. She rejected him once, twice and in the third time grabbed the flower and slapped him with its thorny stem. Arya's antiques probably give Ned Stark a mini heart attack each day.

"I'm partly here to talk about Arya," Lyonel said. "It's clear that she's not adjusting well to the Capital. So, it's my intention to give her dance lessons to provide her with a useful distraction."

For the first time since they met, Sansa dropped her ladyhood and laughed scornfully. "If you think Arya will attend to dance lessons of all things, you don't know her at all my prince."

"There is no harm in asking. Can you relay the message to your sister and Lord Stark and ask if they would agree to it?"

"Of course, my prince. And, if I may ask, will only you and her attend these lessons?" Sansa asked. She was sure that Arya will not go, but she couldn't help but worry. Even if she did, Sansa knows that her betrothed is a virtuous man who will not even deign a look at other women, specially a brutish, wild little thing like Arya. Still, Sansa also knew that her younger sister possessed some... crude charms that can tempt many virtuous men to sin.

"It'll be just us," Lyonel confirmed. "Unless you think you are lacking in dancing skills as well?"

"Of course not, my prince!"

Lyonel knew that he had Sansa in two of the biggest parts of her personality; her competitive superiority complex over Arya, as well as her need to appear as the perfect lady. Eventually, the latter won out as he had hoped.

"I'll tell father your suggestion, my prince," Sansa said demurely.

"Thank you. And just in time, I do believe our dinner is here."

Much to Sansa's relief, her sister was never again mentioned in the conversation. Indeed it was a perfect dinner, planned in the way only her perfect prince could. He even remembered lemon cakes being her favourite and has arranged them as dessert. It was, all in all, quite perfect.