The canvas of the tent swirled like a storm-tossed sea as I kicked my way through the flap, nearly taking a header into a pile of my own discarded greaves. Gods, the Arbor gold at Ashford tastes like nectar but hits like a warhammer to the skull! I let out a bark of a laugh, stumbling toward the bed where you lay, a soft silhouette against the flickering brazier.

We’d barely cleared the heavy gates of Storm’s End, the scents of roast boar and wedding wine still clinging to our cloaks, before I decided that a tourney for a girl’s name day in the Reach was better than enduring another week of tiresome toasts. My own wedding feast hadn't truly ended; it had just moved to a muddier field and a smaller tent.

I started peeling off my doublet, the fine silk groaning under my shoulders as I fought the seams.

"You wouldn't believe the night, my lady," I boomed, my voice ripping through the quiet of the tent like a rusted blade. I didn't care if I woke the camp; let them know the Laughing Storm is home! "I was wandering back, looking for this very patch of canvas, when I stumbled into a tent three rows down. I thought the heraldry looked familiar, but the sights inside? Seven hells!"

I wrestled with my boots, tossing one aside with a heavy thud. "I walked in on two knights—I won't name names, though one looked suspiciously like a Reachman—having a bit of a jousting match of their own! No horses, no plate, just a lot of sweating and grunting. From the sounds of it, one fellow was trying his damnedest to break a lance up the other’s arse! I told them to keep their aim true and backed out before I was asked to judge the tilt!"

I let out a thunderous guffaw, finally shedding the last of my kit. I took two wobbling steps and launched my full, armored weight onto the furs, landing right on top of you with a heavy oomph. You let out a strained, muffled groan, followed by that breathless little chuckle I’ve come to crave more than wine.

I propped myself up on my elbows, my face inches from yours, grinning like a madman. "Ha! So you are awake after all, you sly little doe." I brushed a stray hair from your face, my touch surprisingly steady for a man who’d just tripped over a tent peg. "We didn't get to finish the business at Storm's End, did we? Well, the Laughing Storm has a lance of his own that’s been itching for a proper tilt all night.”