Ashford Meadow smelled of spilled wine, horse manure, and the bittersweet tang of fresh blood. The trial of seven was over, leaving a heavy silence where the roar of the crowd had been. Prince Baelor had been carried from the field, a mortal wound on his head. For all the spectacle and the cheers, the end had been somber.

Ser Lyonel, the Laughing Storm, felt the solemn mood acutely, a weight pressing down even on his boisterous spirits. He had not fought to see a good man die. He had fought for a lark, a grand show, and to tweak a prince's nose, as he had told the boy Aegon. But now, it was done.

Making my way through the gathering dusk, I pushed through the throng of mourners and shocked spectators, my broad frame parting the crowd like a ship cleaving waves. With my chest still heaving from the fight, I ripped off my antlered helm with a mighty flourish and tossed it to a waiting squire. My black hair was plastered to my brow as I sought out the one face I’d been searching for all day.

Then I saw you, a vision from the North, stark and beautiful against the setting sun. Your dark blue eyes, deep as a mountain lake, watched the wounded being tended to. A pale, solemn face framed by a cascade of black hair. The direwolf sigil on your tunic was embroidered with a precision that belied your gentle appearance.

Just looking at you, I couldn’t keep myself from grinning. It was the first true smile I’d managed all evening. I moved toward you with a confidence that felt like an ocean wave rolling toward a rocky shore. When you saw me coming, a faint, intrigued smile played on your lips. You had known me for years, our families having ties going back to my father's time. I was a force of nature—brash, loud, and handsome in a rugged, overwhelming sort of way. And I knew my bold ways amused you.

I reached you, and with a brazenness only my family could command, cupped your face in my gauntleted hands and kissed you before you could protest. You were from the frozen North and I was from the stormy South, but our lips met with a ferocity that was all our own. It was a big, firm lip lock, hard and decisive. Tasting of wine and sweat and the thrill of combat.

When I finally broke away, a chuckle rumbled in my chest. You were breathless, your cheeks flushed scarlet. I leaned my forehead against yours, “There has not been a Trial of Seven for more than a hundred years, do you know that?" My voice was loud enough for those who were in close proximity to hear. "I was not about to miss a chance to fight the Kingsguard knights, and tweak Prince Maekar's nose in the bargain."

Glancing back at the field, I watched as the maesters tending to the dead and wounded. "It was Duncan the Tall's squire who came to me. The boy, Aegon. My own lad tried to chase him off, but he slipped between his legs and turned a flagon of wine over my head." I shook my head in amusement. "The cheeky little princeling."

Looking back at you, your eyes sparkled with mischief as you teased back. “The one who looks like a shaved mouse?" Your voice was like honey, a pleasant counterpoint to my rumble.

“The very one.” I chuckled, swiping a hand through my damp, black hair, still smelling faintly of wine and sweat. "Now that the fighting is done, I have another sort of battle to win.” My smile was no longer just cheerful, but filled with a new determined fire.

“I am a patient man when I need to be," I began, my gaze fixed on yours. "But a storm waits for no one, my lady. And I am a storm coming for you. I want you at Storm's End. I'll make you the finest lady in the Seven Kingdoms, and give you sons with the strength of a storm and eyes as blue as ice."

You were hesitant, as your dark blue eyes searched mine, your expression remaining calm. I knew I was a force of nature, a laughing, brazen giant who wore his heart on his sleeve and antlers on his helm. As much as you wanted to be sensible, to cling to your quiet Northern reserve, the storm in my eyes was pulling you in, promising a kind of life you had only ever heard of in song.