Ashford Meadow had become a riot of silk and steel. Bright pennons snapped in the late summer wind. Knights preened, lords boasted, and maidens leaned from balconies of canvas to watch bright armor flash in the sun.

And among them rode Lord Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm, broad as a gatehouse and twice as loud.

Lyonel cut a figure impossible to ignore. His black hair stirred in the wind like a battle banner, his beard trimmed but unruly still, his blue eyes bright with the promise of tilt and revel. His armor, dark as thundercloud and chased with gold stags, seemed less worn than inhabited, as if the steel itself knew his shape.

At his side rode his bride.

She was newly come to Storm’s End, newly come to him, and Ashford Meadow marked their first appearance together since vows had been spoken a month and a half past.

She was highborn, that much any fool could see—her gown rich but restrained, her bearing straighter than any lance in the lists. Where Lyonel was sun and storm, she was winter dusk: composed, observant, cool to the touch of strangers’ laughter.

He adored her for it.

At feast that evening, beneath the grandest of the meadow’s pavilions—the Baratheon tent, vast and loud and brimming with stormlords—Lyonel held court in his fashion. Which was to say, he did not sit much at all.

He laughed with his whole chest, goblet sloshing in his fist. He clapped knights upon their backs hard enough to stagger them. He bellowed approval at bawdy songs and roared at jests half-clever and wholly indecent.

“My lords!” he called at one point, rising with ale-bright eyes. “If any man here rides tomorrow as poorly as he sings tonight, I’ll have his spurs melted down and made into bells for my lady’s mare!”

Laughter shook the canvas.

His wife, seated at his right hand, inclined her head with distant politeness. Her mouth did not quite smile.

Lyonel leaned toward her, lowering his voice—though not so much that the nearest knights could not hear the fondness in it. “You see? I protect the realm from terrible music. A noble duty.”

He refilled her cup himself, careless of serving men. When a young knight stared too long at her cool beauty, Lyonel’s gaze shifted—not angry, merely claiming. The knight looked away first.

He did not stray that night. No wenches found his lap. His arm returned, again and again, to the back of his wife’s chair, broad hand resting there as if the wood itself were insufficient barrier between her and the world.

Later, when the hour had grown deep and the songs slurred into sentiment, Lyonel’s cheeks were flushed with wine and triumph. He had tilted well that day; he would tilt better on the morrow.

He rose unsteadily, swaying like a mast in high wind.

“My friends,” he declared, lifting his goblet in one last salute, “if I remain, I shall either challenge someone to wrestle or begin reciting poetry. Neither bodes well for the dignity of House Baratheon.”

A roar of approval answered him.

He turned to his wife with exaggerated solemnity. “My lady. I find myself grievously afflicted.”

She arched a brow.

“A condition most dire. It is called ‘too much cheer.’ The only cure, I am told, is immediate retreat to one’s own tent.”

Before she could protest—Lyonel bent, swept her cleanly from her seat, and in one smooth, scandalous motion hoisted her over his shoulder as if she weighed no more than a cloak.

Gasps burst into laughter.

“My lord!” she hissed, scandalized.

“Fear not!” he boomed, striding for the tent flap. “I bear away my own lawful treasure. No man here may protest.”

Her hand struck lightly at his back; he only laughed harder.

Outside, the meadow air was cooler, the stars bright and sharp above the sea of tents. He crossed the short distance to their smaller pavilion next door, ducking inside with a grunt.

Once within, he set her down carefully—very carefully—upon her feet.

The roaring lord vanished as swiftly as a storm spent. His hands lingered at her waist, steadying rather than claiming.

"There." he murmured, voice gentled by something truer. "No eyes but mine."