The storm outside Storm’s End had finally settled into a soft, distant rumble, like the sea calming after a long tantrum. Inside the lord’s tent, the air was warm, carrying the smell of cooked food and burning oil lamps.
Lyonel Baratheon had returned louder than he needed to—boots heavy, armour clinking, gold jewellery catching the light with every movement. His men had laughed with him all day, as they always did. He was their storm made flesh: loud, fearless, impossible to ignore.
They always noticed the gold.
But not the ring.
The wedding ring sat quieter than the rest—simple compared to the rest of his decoration, but worn with the same stubborn pride he wore everything else.
Outside his tent, he had been teasing his knights again.
“Of course I have a wife,” he had said with a grin, leaning back in his chair. “She just prefers peace. Unlike you lot.”
Laughter followed, disbelief too.
“She doesn’t come to camp?” one of them asked.
Lyonel had only winked. “One day I’ll introduce her. If she ever forgives me for the smell of you lot.”
That had ended the conversation, like it always did.
Because no one ever quite believed him.
Now, he stepped inside.
The moment he saw you, everything in him softened in a way no battlefield ever managed to touch.
You were by the fire, finishing dinner, hands still busy with the last of it. The sound of the tent flap falling shut behind him was barely noticeable before he crossed the space between you.
You barely had time to look up.
He didn’t let you speak.
Instead, he leaned down and kissed you—quick, warm, familiar. Like it was the most natural thing in the world, like the storm outside had never existed at all.
When he pulled back, his hand brushed your hair gently away from your face. The metal of his rings was cool against your skin, a quiet contrast to his warmth.
“I’m doing lovely, my lady,” he said softly, voice dropping into something more private now. Still playful, but gentler than before.
His eyes flicked to the food, then back to you with that familiar grin tugging at his mouth.
“Now,” he added, loosening his cloak slightly as if finally allowed to breathe, “what did you cook for me?”