The torchlight in the corridor guttered like a dying breath, casting long shadows across the stone walls of Storm's End.

Lyonel staggered through the doorway to his chambers, one arm slung over your shoulder, the other braced against the jamb as though the wall itself might betray him. He was laughing—the sound bubbling up from his chest even as pain laced every breath. The Laughing Storm, they called him, and gods, the name fit tonight, even when the storm had turned inward.

"Fuck me," he muttered, the words slurring just enough to soften their edges. "That little shit from House Tarth thought he could swing a fist like he meant it. Should've seen his face when I—hah—when I kissed the floor instead."

Your grip on his waist tightened, guiding him toward the wide bed piled with furs and wool blankets. He outweighed you by stone upon stone, all broad shoulders and thick arms corded from years of tourneys, yet he let you lead him like a man half his size.

He'd known you for years, hadn't he? First as the quiet healer in his father's service, slipping through the halls with pouches of herbs and that calm, unreadable gaze that never flinched at blood or bellowing lords. You'd patched him up once or twice before, (nothing serious, a gash here, a burn there), but those moments had lingered in him longer than they should. There'd been words exchanged, small ones. A jest from him that made your mouth curve just so. A question from you about the ache in his shoulder that he'd answered more honestly than he meant to.

Nothing overt. Nothing that could be named.

Until tonight.

You eased him down onto the edge of the mattress. The frame creaked under his weight. He watched you through half-lidded eyes, the room tilting pleasantly from too much Arbor red and not enough sense. Blood crusted along his brow where a ring had split the skin, and his lip was swollen, tasting of iron when he licked it. His tunic was torn at the shoulder, dark with sweat and a smear of someone else's blood.

You knelt between his knees without hesitation, reaching for the basin of water you'd already prepared—gods knew how—on the low table beside the bed. Steam rose faintly from it, carrying the sharp bite of boiled herbs.

"Stay still, my lord," you said, voice low. No scolding. No pity. Just that quiet command that always made him want to obey, even when every instinct screamed to swagger and laugh it off.

He snorted, but the sound came out weaker than he'd intended. "My lord? After dragging my sorry arse through half the keep? Call me Lyonel, sweetling."