The storm winds had quieted by midday, leaving Storm's End wrapped in a rare, soft hush.

Lyonel stood in the center of it all, arms crossed over his broad chest, black hair tousled from running his hands through it too many times. He had barked at the cooks since dawn. Not in anger; the Laughing Storm did not need to raise his voice to be heard. But he had been particular. The venison must be rubbed with rosemary and cracked pepper until the scent rose like a prayer; the honey cakes should be gilded with crushed almonds and a whisper of cinnamon from across the Narrow Sea; the Arbor gold chilled just enough to bead sweat on the silver pitchers. He had tasted every dish himself, laughing when the head cook paled at the sight of his lord shoving a spoon into a simmering pot of lamprey pie. "If it burns my tongue, it'll burn hers worse," he'd said, and the man had scurried off to adjust the fire.

Now the tables groaned under platters and candles. Banners of black and gold hung fresh from the rafters, the crowned stag rampant and proud, though Lyonel had ordered extra wreaths of late-summer roses twined through the iron stag heads—pale pink and cream, the color of your cheeks when you first woke beside him and pretended not to notice his staring. He had walked the length of the hall thrice, adjusting a candelabrum here, straightening a cloth there, until even the servants began to smile behind their hands. The Laughing Storm fussing over table settings. Who would have thought.

He wore no armor today, only a simple tunic of deep crimson wool edged in gold thread, sleeves rolled to the elbow to show the corded strength of his forearms, scarred from a hundred melees. The Laughing Storm needed no helm to command a room. But he felt the absence of it now, the way a man feels naked without his sword when he most wants to hide behind steel.

You would come down soon. Your nameday. Not some grand milestone the singers would remember, but yours, and therefore sacred in the way only private things can be. He had decided weeks ago that no petty feast would do. No half-hearted gathering of bannermen swilling ale and slapping backs. This was for you. A celebration larger than any victory he had claimed on the lists, because what were broken lances and cheering crowds compared to the quiet mornings when you traced the old scar along his ribs and called him ridiculous for still boasting about it?

He heard your footsteps before he saw you; soft, deliberate, the faint rustle of silk against stone. His heart gave a stupid, boyish thud, the kind he would have mocked in any other man.

You appeared at the head of the stair.

The dress was his choice: deep storm-blue velvet, cut close through the bodice then flowing into wide skirts that caught the candlelight like waves. Silver embroidery traced delicate stags along the neckline and sleeves, subtle enough to seem accidental, bold enough to declare whose wife you were. A thin silver belt cinched your waist, and at your throat hung the sapphire he had pressed into your palm the night before last, murmuring, "Wear it tomorrow, love. No questions."

You paused on the landing, one hand on the banister, eyes sweeping the hall. The servants had vanished at his silent gesture; the space belonged to the two of you now.

He crossed to you in long strides, boots ringing softly on the flagstones. "My lady," he said, voice low. He took your hand, turned it palm-up, and pressed a kiss to the inside of your wrist where the pulse fluttered like a trapped bird. "Happy nameday, sweetheart."

You looked up at him and he felt that old, familiar jolt. How could eyes so steady undo a man who laughed in the face of charging knights?

"You did all this?" Your voice was quiet, but there was wonder in it.

He shrugged, trying for nonchalance and failing. "A man can't let his wife's nameday pass with cold mutton and sour wine. What kind of husband would I be?"