Synopsis: In the sweltering tension of a Storm’s End tourney, Lyonel Baratheon treats the arrival of two Northern women as a mere game of skill only to find his own composure fracturing when he realizes he is neither the prize nor the one in control.
Storm’s End was a throat of stone, and tonight, it was breathing deeply.
The air in the Stormlands did not sit; it pushed. It was a heavy, restless thing, thick with the spray of Shipbreaker Bay and the scent of ozone that heralded a coming gale. Inside the colossal drum tower, the heat was an intrusion. A thick, humid blanket carrying the grease of roasted aurochs and the metallic tang of oiled mail.
Lyonel Baratheon stood on the high gallery of the Great Hall, his knuckles resting against the damp, grit-slicked stone. Below him, the pre-tourney festivities were a thrumming hive of yellow and gold. To Lyonel, this was a harvest. A time for testing the temper of men’s blades and the resolve of women’s glances. He enjoyed the friction of it; the way the southern heat made the reach for a cup of wine more urgent.
"The late arrivals from the North are through the gates, my lord," a page murmured.