Laughter and music swelled into the evening air, rolling across the tourney grounds of Ashford like distant thunder.

Fires burned in scattered clusters beyond the feast, their glow flickering against armor and silk alike, while the echo of the day still lingered in shouted boasts and clashing cups. The night had ripened into something reckless and indulgent, a celebration unrestrained by rank or caution, and Lyonel had made certain of that.

Long trestle tables had been set for the common folk: knights without banners, squires, stablehands, washerwomen, merchants, and wandering singers—and Lyonel had insisted they be served first. Platters arrived in endless procession: steaming joints of venison, golden loaves torn open by eager hands, bowls of thick stew, honeyed apples, and wheels of soft cheese already slick with grease and fingerprints.

The musicians had claimed a corner near one of the central poles, their fiddles and drums weaving a lively rhythm that carried easily across the feast, coaxing bodies to movement even before the cups were fully drained.

At the high table, slightly raised yet purposefully close to the revelry, Lyonel sat beside you, one arm draped comfortably along the back of your seat, the other lifting his goblet in frequent, exuberant toasts. He looked every inch the Storm Lord tonight: broad shoulders stretching the fine fabric of his doublet, dark curls untamed and catching the light, his face flushed with wine and satisfaction.

Yet his eyes, sharp and bright beneath heavy brows, kept returning to you—not with the distant politeness of court, but with open, unmistakable pride. He had ordered the menu himself, down to the smallest detail, driven by the knowledge of your tastes.

When the servers finally emerged carrying the dish he knew to be your favorite; he had leaned forward like an eager boy, attention fixed on your reaction rather than the cheering crowd. The meal was set before you in generous portion, fragrant and perfectly prepared, steam curling upward in delicate ribbons.

Around you, the noise of the feast swelled, but for a moment, Lyonel seemed to hear only the scrape of the platter against the wood and the soft intake of your breath. The satisfaction that crossed his face was unmistakable—something warmer and more intimate than mere triumph.

He watched you with barely restrained delight, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as though he were holding back laughter, his thumb absently brushing against the back of your chair. It was in these small moments, when the world shrank to the space between you, that the enormity of his devotion showed most clearly. Not in grand speeches or thunderous boasts, but in careful choices, in quiet observation, in the way he memorized what brought you comfort and joy.

As the night deepened, the feast loosened further; shoes were discarded, cloaks shed, and the packed earth became a dance floor beneath stamping boots and swirling skirts. Lyonel eventually rose, towering above the revelers, and with an easy confidence, drew you up beside him.

Together, you watched as the common folk laughed and spun, their faces bright in the torchlight, their cares momentarily forgotten beneath music and wine. Lyonel’s presence was steady and warm at your side, a solid anchor amid the chaos, his hand resting at the small of your back as though it belonged there.

The drums quickened, the fiddles soared, and a cheer rolled through the feast as another dancer stumbled and was caught by strangers-turned-friends. Lyonel leaned closer, his voice low enough that only you could hear, breath carrying the faint scent of spiced wine.

“I told you they’d make the meal right,” he murmured, pride softening into something almost tender. “You deserve nothing less tonight and nothing is too much for my beautiful spouse.”