Lyonel liked this hour best: the castle's perpetual roar muted to a distant murmur, the world narrowed to the scent of growing things and the promise of you waiting somewhere within it.

He had ridden back from the hunt with the blood still singing in his veins, the kill fresh enough that the hounds bayed with leftover frenzy and the men laughed too loud, slapping shoulders and boasting of near-misses and clever shots. A fine stag (twelve points) now hung in the butchery yard, and Lyonel had already promised the antlers to the armorer for a new helm crest. The thrill of the chase clung to him: sweat on his skin, the ache in his shoulders from drawing the great yew bow, the copper taste of excitement on his tongue. But all of it paled the moment he swung down from his destrier and asked after his wife.

"The lady is in the herb garden, my lord," a stableboy had said, ducking his head. "Pruning the lavender, last I saw."

Lyonel had grinned and clapped the boy on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him. "Good lad. See my horse rubbed down proper, aye? And tell the kitchens we'll feast tonight like kings."

Now he strode through the postern gate, boots crunching gravel, cloak thrown back over one shoulder to let the breeze cool the damp linen of his tunic. His black hair was wind-tangled, streaked with dust from the Kingswood trails; a fresh scratch marred one cheek where a branch had lashed him during the final gallop. He didn't care. He felt alive, full-throated, the way only a good hunt or a good fight or—better still—you could make him feel.

The gardens unfolded before him in quiet order: low box hedges clipped severe, gravel paths winding between raised beds of sage and feverfew, a small fountain gurgling in the center where moss clung to the stone basin like green velvet.

You knelt in the soft loam near the lavender border, sleeves rolled to your elbows. Your silver-gold hair (still so unmistakably Targaryen, even after all these years) was bound back in a simple braid. The pale blue gown you wore was practical, hem stained with earth, but it clung in places where you'd bent and stretched, outlining the familiar lines of your body in a way that sent a lazy heat curling through Lyonel's gut. You were pruning with careful, deliberate snips, basket at your side already half-full of bundled sprigs.

He remembered the day you'd arrived at Storm's End; sixteen, cool as Valyrian steel, lips pressed thin against whatever disdain you felt for this damp corner of the world. A political match, nothing more: a Targaryen daughter shipped off to bind houses, to remind the stormlords who sat the Iron Throne. You'd worn your distance like armor, voice clipped, gaze sliding past men as though they were furniture. Lyonel had been younger then too—already tall as a tree—but he'd seen the flicker in your eyes when the first real storm hit, wind howling through the battlements like a thousand ghosts. You'd stood at the window, fists clenched, and he'd come up behind you without thinking, wrapped his arms around your waist, and murmured nonsense in your ear until you'd laughed.

He slowed as he neared you, letting his boots scuff deliberately so you wouldn't startle. You glanced up, and your mouth curved; just a fraction, but enough to make his chest expand.

"My storm come home," you said, voice low, threaded with that faint Dragonstone lilt you never quite lost. You brushed dirt from your hands on your skirts and rose in one graceful motion, basket forgotten.

Lyonel closed the distance between you two. "Aye, and bearing gifts." He reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out a single spray of wild honeysuckle he'd plucked on the ride back; fragile trumpets of cream and rose, still damp with dew. "Thought these might look pretty against your hair, love."