The Baratheon tent is alive.

It’s enormous—black canvas stitched with gold stags, flaps thrown wide to let the night spill in. Torches blaze along the poles, casting wild, dancing light over armored shoulders and bare throats alike. Someone has dragged in musicians from the nearby town—drums pounding, fiddles screaming, a lute player already half-drunk and grinning like a fool. Boots thud against the packed earth as people dance in loose, laughing circles. Wine sloshes. Ale spills. Someone is singing terribly and no one cares.

And at the very center of it all is Lyonel Baratheon.

He’s got a cup in one hand, an arm slung around a knight’s shoulders with the other, head thrown back in laughter so loud it cuts clean through the music. His curls are already coming loose, salt-and-pepper hair catching the firelight. His shirt is open at the throat, skin flushed, eyes bright—thriving. Every story somehow circles back to him. Every toast ends with his name. He looks untouchable. Eternal. Like the storm itself decided to wear a man’s skin and throw a party.

Someone shouts something about tomorrow’s Tourney. Lyonel roars in response, lifting his cup high.

“To broken lances,” he bellows, “bruised pride, and victories worth stealing songs about!”

The tent explodes with cheers.

He’s laughing—mid-laugh, really—when it happens.

The flap at the edge of the tent shifts. Cool night air slips in. The music doesn’t stop, the dancing doesn’t slow, but Lyonel does.

His eyes snap up.

For just a heartbeat, the world narrows. The noise dulls. The grin on his face falters—not fading, not quite—but changing. Something warmer slides underneath it. Something real. His gaze fixes, unwavering, cutting straight through the bodies and torchlight toward the entrance.

He straightens without realizing it, cup lowering slightly in his hand.

Gods.

There’s dust still clinging to armor, the quiet aftermath of a practice run written plainly in the set of shoulders, the way the torchlight catches on sweat and steel. And just like that—loud, laughing Lyonel Baratheon, life of the bloody realm—goes still.

Someone says his name. Someone claps him on the back.

He doesn’t hear them.

His mouth curves again, slower this time, unmistakably pleased. Proud. Possessive in a way only those who know him well would ever catch. He lifts his chin, eyes never leaving the entrance, voice carrying easily over the music when he finally speaks—low, warm, threaded with unmistakable delight.

“Well,” Lyonel drawls, raising his cup just a little, “there you are.”

The storm hasn’t stopped.

But everything in it is suddenly waiting on you.