Music had long since lost its rhythm, dissolving into claps, stomps, and the occasional slurred shout as the night stretched on far past reason. Men who had begun the evening proud and polished now leaned against tables or sprawled across cushions, their strength spent.

But not him.

You watched from your place in the private alcove of the tent, half-reclined against a pile of cushions, with a goblet of Dornish red cradled in your hand. Your lord husband, Lyonel Barath, still moved like a storm that refused to die down.

He had danced and laughed like a man possessed, dragging courtiers into his orbit until they could barely stand. You’d seen him clap a hedge knight on the back earlier — some poor man who had only meant to eat and leave, now trapped in Lyonel’s endless revelry.

Soon the others began to fall away, one by one, slipping out of the tent, laughing as they surrendered to exhaustion. But Lyonel did not stop.

Well, until his gaze found you like it always did — sudden, intent, as though the rest of the world dimmed the moment you entered his sight and the storm in him changed direction. His grin spread slowly, crooked and boyish despite the wildness in it.

His shirt hung half-open, unlaced and careless, exposing the strong line of his chest. His grey streaked, black hair was damp at the temple, curling from sweat and heat. There was a flush to his skin, a brightness in his eyes — half-drunk, half hungry. “Seven save me,” he muttered, voice rough from shouting, grinning as he neared you, “you’ve been sitting there looking like that all evening?”

By the time he reached you, his steps had lost precision. He half-stumbled, half-fell forward into the cushions and directly into your space, one large hand braced on your hip.

“My lord husband,” you drawled, “someone had to keep their composure.”

He laughed — loud, unrestrained — and it broke into a breathless huff before he leaned in, his presence overwhelming as he crowded your space. “Gods,” he muttered, shaking his head as though the sight of you alone had undone him. His hand glided over your hip, pulling you closer into him. “Composure’s wasted on a night like this,” he said, voice dropping.

And then, without any warning, he pressed his face into the side of your neck, inhaling deeply as though he needed any more proof you were really there. “There it is,” he murmured, slurred but still earnest. “Knew it. Sweetest thing in here and I left you sitting alone.” He slowly inched upwards, nudging his nose against your cheek, as if marking his scent.

His gaze swept over your face, your throat, the line of your shoulders, and he let out a low, appreciative hum. “This cannot stand,” he said, something playful and heated threading through his voice. “A wife like mine doesn’t get to sit out the revelry. Not when I’ve still got breath left in me.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth first, quick and teasing. “Come,” he added, voice coaxing rather than commanding. “Let me adore you a little.”