He didn’t ask what that was. He didn’t need to.

She reached for the sash of her robe, her fingers deft. The fabric parted, sliding from her shoulders to pool at her feet. Beneath, she wore only a thin shift, the material clinging to her body, outlining the heavy swell of her breasts, the flare of her hips, the shadow between her thighs.

Her skin was pale in the firelight, smooth, unmarked by time or childbirth. She stood before him, proud, unashamed, her honey-colored eyes burning into his.

The firelight painted Lady Shella’s bare skin in flickering gold, turning her into something otherworldly—a goddess carved from warm marble and honeyed shadow.

"Well, Ser Lyonel?" she whispered, her voice a purr. "Will you help me?"

Lyonel swallowed, his body responding despite his mind’s protests. He reached for her, his hands rough against the softness of her skin.

"Yes," he said.

And then there was no more talking.

Lyonel’s hands hovered over her for a moment, hesitant, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of what was about to happen.

He had never known a woman before. Had never felt the press of soft flesh against his own, never heard the sound of a lover’s breath hitching in the dark.

But Shella was no timid maid. She was a widow, a woman who had loved, lost, and lived—and she knew exactly what she wanted.

Her fingers curled around his wrist, guiding his hand to the swell of her breast. "Do not be gentle, Ser Lyonel," she murmured, her voice a low, smoky purr. "I am no glass doll. I want a man—not a boy."

The words sent a jolt through him. He let his palm mold to the heavy weight of her, his thumb brushing over the peak of her nipple. She gasped, her head tilting back, her lips parting. "Gods," she breathed, "you learn quickly."

He didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in, capturing her mouth with his. She tasted of wine and something sweeter, something uniquely hers. Her lips were soft, yielding at first, then demanding, her tongue sliding against his in a claim that left him breathless. His hands roamed her body, mapping the dips and curves of her—the flare of her hips, the taper of her waist, the heavy swell of her backside as he pulled her flush against him.

She broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, her eyes dark and glazed. "Undress," she commanded, her voice thick. "Let me see you."

Lyonel obeyed, stripping off his tunic and breeches with awkward haste. When he stood naked before her, Shella’s gaze dropped—and stilled.

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then, a soft, disbelieving laugh escaped her. "By the Seven," she whispered, her hand rising to cover her mouth. "They were not lying and the rumors fall less of your manhood."

Lyonel felt the heat rise in his face, but Shella’s amazement was not mocking. It was awed. Hungry. She reached out, her fingers wrapping around him, testing his length, his girth. "Gods," she repeated, her voice husky. "You’ll split me open."

"I—" Lyonel started, then swallowed. "I won’t hurt you."

She smirked, stroking him slowly, deliberately. "Oh, I hope you do."

And then she was pushing him back onto the bed, straddling his hips, her shift riding up to pool around her waist.

The sight of her—bare, bold, glowing in the firelight—stole his breath. She guided him to her entrance, her eyes never leaving his as she sank down onto him, inch by inch.

The sensation was overwhelming—tight, wet heat enveloping him, her body stretching to accommodate his size.

Shella hissed between her teeth, her nails digging into his chest, but she didn’t stop. "Fuck," she gasp, "you’re huge."

Lyonel’s hands gripped her hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh. "Should I—"

"No," she panted, rolling her hips experimentally. "Gods, no. Just— let me adjust."

He did, holding still as she rocked against him, her body slowly relaxing, taking him deeper. The pleasure was almost painful, a burning, aching need that coiled in his gut.

When she finally began to move in earnest, riding him with slow, deliberate strokes, Lyonel groaned, his head falling back.

"You feel so good," she moaned, her breasts bouncing with each roll of her hips. "So thick. So deep."

Lyonel’s hands slid up to cup her breasts, his thumbs flicking over her nipples. Shella arched into his touch, a broken cry spilling from her lips. "Yes— just like that."

The woman before Ser Lyonel was a marvel now. She was drenched in light sweat, her brow dripping with a drop.

The sweat had now created a sheen on her which was reflected by the smallfire burning in the corner.

When his gaze went down, he could see his manhood engulfed by her golden bush, the faint hint of her flower peeking from underneath. It had been all drenched with a wetness, something Lyonel still did not understand.

Shella's ringlet hair were moving in lockstep with her body, which now had stalled to a halt, a indication of her fatigue.

Seeing a woman nearly thrice his age being drained by his manhood sparked something inside of Lyonel. The way the sparks flew when he put the whetstone on Lionmane.

He was driven mad, mad by the haze and confidence of a man who now felt in charge.

He started coupling with her, her breasts bouncing widely in front of his face. He kissed them, nuzzled them and suckled them as if he were a baby. She kept riding him, her hips gyrating as she rocked his manhood back and forth.

He lifted his hips, driving up into her, and she cried out, her body tightening around him. "Gods, Lyonel—"

The sound of his name on her lips undid him. He flipped her beneath him, pinning her wrists above her head as he pounded into her, lost to the rhythm of flesh and need. Shella wrapped her legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust, her moans filling the room.

"Harder," she demanded, her voice raw. "Give me everything."

And he did.

When he finally spilled inside her, it was with a shuddering groan, his body locking tight as pleasure wracked him. Shella climaxed with him, her back arching, a cry tearing from her throat.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the crackle of the fire, the drip of sweat from Lyonel’s brow.

Then Shella laughed, breathless, her chest heaving. "Gods, " she panted, "you were worth the wait."

Lyonel collapsed beside her, his heart still hammering. "That was—"

"Amazing?" she supplied, rolling onto her side to face him. "Yes. It was." She traced a finger down his chest, her touch light. "And we are not done."

The second time was slower, deeper. Shella took her time, exploring his body with her hands and mouth, teaching him the ways of pleasure with patient, skilled touches.

She showed him how to kiss her just so, how to touch her where she ached, how to move inside her to draw out her pleasure until she was trembling, begging.

It was slow, yet passionate. He had her beneath him, she squirming in pleasure as he drove into her. This time Lyonel lasted longer.

When they finally collapsed again, spent and sweaty, Shella curled against his side, her head resting on his chest. "You were a virgin," she murmured, amazement in her voice. "I would never have known."

Lyonel chuckled, stroking her hair. "I had a good teacher."

She laughed, nuzzling his skin. "Flatterer." She paused, then looked up at him, her expression sobering. "This changes everything, " she said softly. "You understand that?"

He nodded. "I do."

"Good." She pressed a kiss to his chest, her lips lingering. "Then sleep, Ser Lyonel. Tomorrow brings a new dawn for the both of us."

And for the first time in years, Lyonel closed his eyes without fear.