Feathered antlers
When you learn of your betrothal to the heir of storm’s end, your first reaction is anger and denial, defiance even, knowing only that your fiancé is much older than you are. What could you do with an old man in the prime of your youth, even if you become the lady of a respected house in the process? With a heavy heart, you follow your father to one last jousting tournament, where you can still be a free, carefree young woman. One night, you sneak into a merry tent, where you meet a strange but exciting drunkard. Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x reader Word count: ~8k Warnings: slight age gap maybe? othervise none, he's vibing, we love dilfs here Notes: out of all the men in this universe, this crazy fucker gets me to write 16 pages crazzzyyy. mind you this is not proof read (as none of my thesis papers sadly) proceed at your own risk. P.S: THANK YOU FOR THE WONDERFUL SOULS WHO LET ME KNOW I HAD EDITING ISSUES, IT'S HOPEFULLY CORRECTED NOW ILY!!
"Send me away for a septa instead!" You shouted as you knocked over the heavy wooden chair behind you. "Father, you can't possibly mean that! That man is almost your age, he could be my father!"
"What are you talking about, child? Your father scolded you, his eyebrows twitching with tension, but he did not raise his voice. "It will be as I say! Such a blessing has not come to our house in half a century! The heir to Storm's End! Do you know how powerful he is? Lord Gowen Baratheon is old—very old; soon his son will take over as ruler of the entire Stormlands! You will marry him, because the House Swann demands it of you!" He slammed his palm down on the table in front of you, his voice ringing in your ears. You staggered backward, your legs buckling, but not out of fear of your father.
You barely blossomed, and already they tear off your petals? They pull you out of the dewy soil, roots and all...?
The antlered lord...
You left the room before your anger could turn to tears. Running through the castle, the corridors seemed too narrow. The air was too thin in your lungs. Lady of Storm's End. A house worthy of respect. A mighty castle carved from stone and storm.
And an old man to go with all of it, who will cover you with his cloak…
You knew nothing else about him. Only that he had seen more years than you. More winters. More battles. What could he want from you besides heirs and polite smiles? What can you expect from a man who has had more women in his life than you bled? The hair on the back of your neck stood on end, and your stomach began to churn. It's not too late to saddle your horse under cover of night, put on your cloak, and head for Old Town... If that's too far... fearful that before you get there, they'll discover your scheme and drag you right back... a sanctuary, a convent nearby... that too would do. You'd rather give yourself in eternal vows to the gods than swear eternal fidelity to an aging lord... This cannot be your fate.
The last tournament of the season was intended to be a farewell celebration. Your father allowed you to accompany him with unusual tenderness—perhaps out of guilt, perhaps out of calculation—with only two companions. One last taste of freedom before duty closes its doors behind you. Before your wings are clipped.
The field was adorned with flags and summer colors. Knights thundered past in polished armor, their lances striking like lightning. You laughed louder than you should have. You drank sweeter wine than you should have. You let the wind tousle your hair and pretended that the world would turn upside down in a few moons. Strangely, as if it were a gift, your father did not scold you; he did not take offence when your enthusiasm grew and your worries faded. He knew that despite all your defiance, you had been raised well and would never tarnish the ancient name of House Swann. And in any case. . . you could have put on your cloak and disappeared at any time, only to knock on the door of the nearest monastery for admission.
The thought lingered longer than it should have.
You imagined the silence. The stone walls. The devout and anonymous life. No storms. No husbands. No heirs waiting to be born.
But you were never made for silence. Your family crest was a swan, black and white, two sides of the same coin. You, too, like the white swan on the summer lake, appeared graceful to everyone, a quiet, delicate creature that looked beautiful in the estate's garden as it swam carefree on the waves. But swans are wild creatures. They are wilder than deer when disturbed. They hiss, bite, and flap their wings if necessary. You too will hiss and bite when the time comes.
Now you felt like flapping your wings; throwing a fly into your noble father's cup.
When evening fell, the multitude of tents transformed from a knightly tournament into a lively bazaar. The merchants, shouting vendors, and their wares did not disappear, only rabbit meat was replaced by spiced wine, and bread by betting tickets. The tents were filled with louder and louder groups of people, music, dancing, food, drink, and brawls as far as the eye could see. Sure enough, the starlight did not help your servants see you as you ran from tent to tent—ostensibly to discover the many exciting goods on offer; but in reality, you picked up your feet and tucked your skirt under your arm for you wanted to disappear from the sight of your escorts at the next turn. After a while you finally managed — rushing forward with excited cries, making sharp turns — to no longer notice the familiar, worried faces following you. Everyone you encountered was a stranger.
For a heartbeat, joy overwhelmed reason.
Like when a canary's cage accidentally opens and it flies swiftly into the distant blue sky, not caring what it leaves behind, feeling only the caress of the swift wind between its feathers. Only then does the realization come that the canary is a prize bird and will never be able to survive among the birds of the forest...
The initial excitement was quickly replaced by the icy realization that you were lost, surrounded by commoners, wandering knights, and merchants enjoying the night's revelry.
Until now, jousting tournaments have always been about bright armors, noble steeds, music, and feasts for you, and you've never had the chance—or encountered—what the common people really do at these events. Those who worked amid the smell of mud, iron, and horse manure, who could only earn their daily bread through hard labor, now had a noble lady among them. Wealthy and vulnerable...
Clearing your throat, you lowered your eyes and quickly glanced around your surroundings from under your eyelashes. Among the colorful and tattered tents and stalls, your gaze suddenly fell on a more spacious tent dotted with crimson and purple grape clusters, which seemed to belong to a noble family. Perhaps it belonged to the Redwynes of Arbor. You hurriedly picked up the hem of your skirt and made your way to the entrance of the tent. There, if nothing else, you would be safe from pickpockets and thieves. Or at least there they would recognize your noble house and its rank... If nothing else, they would surely take you home at dawn to your furious father, who had searched for you all night long. If nothing else, you could have a little more fun there one last time.
The guards at the entrance were half-drunk themselves, their red cloaks loosened at the throat, laughter spilling from within the pavilion like wine from an overfilled cup. One of them straightened when he noticed you.
“My lady?” You lifted your chin, schooling your expression into something imperious, something you had seen your mother wear a thousand times.
“I was separated from my companions,” you said smoothly. “I seek shelter until dawn.” The man hesitated only a moment before stepping aside. Rank recognized rank — even in torchlight and revelry.
Inside, the air was warm and sweet with Arbor gold. Rich carpets softened the ground, lanterns glowed through tinted glass, and silks hung from the center pole like banners in a perfumed court. Laughter echoed from the back of the tent — male voices, low and indulgent. You stepped fully inside before your courage could falter. The flap fell closed behind you, muting the sounds of the outer camp, though not entirely. Music still drifted faintly through the canvas. The scent of wine and sweat and crushed grass clung to the air.
You tried to sit down at a nearby table as inconspicuously as possible, where pheasant was the main course, and people were eagerly eating the golden-brown, juicy meat. As you sat down a little further away, a waitress turned almost immediately and pressed a copper cup into your hand.
"Wine, beer, nectar, ma'am?" she asked, half shouting over the music.
"I won't offend my hosts, bring me a glass of the strongest Arbor wine! " You smiled at the girl, whose white apron tied around her waist was splattered with red from the spilled wine. She nodded quickly and hurried to the other side of the tent, where huge barrels lay neatly stacked against the wall, like a house of cards.
The wine swirled darkly, like congealed blood in your glass, as your fingers clasped the copper rim. Its aroma pierced your nose, making your head spin, filling it with the deep scent of apples, pears, and nutmeg. When the wine touched your tongue, it stung, gritted between your teeth, spreading sharply in your mouth and then down your throat. It was strong, stronger than you were used to, and the sudden rush of intoxication, the pleasantly rough taste, relaxed your chest and shoulders. You liked how the taste of the wine mingled with the warmth of the tent, the smell of meat and spices, and the music. You listened with a smile to the stories of funny anecdotes or scandalous gossip told by those sitting around you, even if you couldn't understand much of what they were saying. Your head began to tingle, your mind wrapped itself in soft fabric, and you felt that perhaps here you could forget your sorrows, turn away from your fate.
At the back of the pavilion, four men sat sprawled around a low table cluttered with cups and a half-played game of cyvasse. One of them—red-haired, handsome, flushed—you recognized as Lord Fossoway's son. Another was Lord Theodal Redwyne himself, with his long curled mustache and purple tunic, clutching a whole jug. Next to him sat a young man—almost a boy, that is, leaning back in his chair to vomit at the edge of the tent.
The fourth member of the drunken group, unlike his companions, sat on the table using his chair as a footrest. You could only see his back, which was as wide as the table itself, where the competition was taking place. He wore a yellow and black tunic, but you couldn't see his house's coat of arms anywhere on it. For a few moments, a wave of panic washed over you—yellow and black; those are the colors of House Baratheon. They must all be noblemen, since you recognized two of them... If you managed to wander into the tent where your cursed husband-to-be was drunk... But there were many other houses among the nobles of Westeros that wore these colors. As you looked around, you saw that most of the lords of the Reach were gathered in the wine tent... Why would a lord of the Stormlands seek out this company?
After two big gulps, you dismissed the idea; the wine brought a warm, numbing calm, assuring you that you would not encounter the antlered lord here.
Time passed, your glass was emptied and refilled, your neighbors, sitting cheerfully beside and in front of you, enthusiastically welcomed you into their conversation, even though none of you knew each other's names. Suddenly, the music quickened, cheerful, flirtatious strings began to play, and you watched with a grin and a chuckle as the couples rose from their seats and began to dance quickly. Skirts swirled, arms waved, feet jumped in the middle of the tent, many shouted and sang, encouraging the dancers.
Suddenly, a flash of red hair appeared beside you, and a man staggered toward you, clutching the edge of the table to steady himself.
"Well, well, I didn't know that Lord Swann's daughter would honor us with her presence!" Young Steffon laughed. He gave you a dull smile, looking around at the crowd of people. "Is your father here somewhere?"
You swallowed hard at the next sip of wine, your throat tightening as you tried to coax an answer out of yourself. A plausible one, if possible. “He was here, of course.” You nodded cautiously. “But it’s getting late and he prefers to be in bed early and rise early. I stayed in his place…with my entourage…but I see they disappeared among the dancers for a while.”
Steffon nodded with a snort, wiping his forehead.
“Please come and greet Lord Redwyne! He will surely be relieved of his sickness at the sight of a graceful swan.” The man rolled the words carefully on his tongue, but they still came out bubbling from his lips.
“I don’t want to disturb the lords’ game…” You excused yourself, pointing towards their table.
“Oh! These are not lords!” Suddenly, the young man you thought you saw throwing up when you arrived grabbed Lord Steffon’s shoulder. “My cousin is just an heirling, the only real lord at the table is Redwyne, isn’t he cousin?” The boy laughed, leaning on Steffon.
“This is my cousin, Raymund.” The Fossoway heir filtered through his teeth with a nervous smile. “Although he’s right, the only man worth anything here is Theodal, and his four-time win in cyvasse! Come, my lady, maybe you can beat him!”
Before you could answer, the Fossoways were already dragging you along; stumbling, laughing beside you, dazed, but their upbringing hadn’t yet sunk far deep into their skulls so that they wouldn’t be careful to hold you gently.
You blinked hard as you tried to grip your cup, the dancing of the people blurred before you, the sounds merging. Lending an amusing sight and feeling to the whole situation. You almost wanted to laugh at the way the nobles dragged you along like a prisoner, your punishment was to fight Lord Redwyne at board games.
When you reached their table, they sat you more gently on the heavy wood, and your arms fell back onto your own appointed seats. Still laughing, you turned to the lord of the tent, who was now looking at you curiously.
"Good evening, Lord Redwyne." You blinked widely, smiling, and bowed slowly to the old man.
"Well, well, Lord Swann's beautiful daughter? In my tent? What an honor!" The man laughed too, raising his arms high, the wine in his hand splashing behind him. "Steffon brought you as reinforcement, right? They can't handle me, so they need a cunning woman's mind!"
You nodded and glanced at the board in front of them, the pieces scattered and pushed around on the wooden table.
"Well, it can't hurt to join in." You shrugged, then your heart leapt in your chest when a shoulder spread out next to you among the plates. You turned to the other side to see what had frightened you, and then recoiled in your chair, almost slapping your face.
His hair was thick and dark, brushing his collar in careless waves, with a few curly locks that faded into gray on the man's neck. And though there was a faint line at the corner of one eye — earned, not aged, there was nothing frail or faded about him. You felt heat rush to your face and hated yourself for it.
As if his strength had left him, he leaned his hand on the table and blinked at you and your companions, but his eyes were sharp, sharp and blue, like the overcast sky, behind which the blue expanse was still visible. A long emerald sparkled in his right ear, his shirt was torn and stretched to cover his body, and a cloth was tied around his waist. Under his mustache, his face had not lost its charm with the passing of the years, and you thought he was quite handsome. You could have taken him for a pirate, and in such a celebration, perhaps their presence would not have been surprising.
"Ah, another victim?" The man grinned, sizing you up, then glancing at the lords. His voice was deeper than you expected. Not rough — but rich, taunting. "I sense that blood may be spilled on the battlefield now."
Next to you, Lord Redwyne clicked his tongue. "What's the rush? There will only be strategic discussions here. Lady Swann came to my aid."
The stranger grinned.
"Well," He said slowly and absentmindedly. "Either the gods are smiling on me tonight, or I've wandered into the wrong tent again."
You blinked rapidly, trying to figure out why the man wanted to lie down on the same level as the food that had been served. "Sir?"
The man chuckled, then leaned forward, took your hand, and pressed a light kiss to your knuckles.
Lord Redwyne wiped the corner of his eye and continued to laugh into his goblet. "A rare honor indeed!" The old lord said between breaths. "The famous Lyonel Coldrin honors our humble table."
You looked back at the knight, who was still holding your hand. He didn't let go. His thumb casually, idly stroked your knuckles before finally letting go, then straightening up in his seat with exaggerated dignity.
"You mock me, sir," said the knight seriously, frowning. "My reputation precedes me in at least three villages and a medium-sized sheep pasture."
The Fossoway brothers choked on their wine. At that moment, you examined the illustrious knight more closely.
His tunic was of good quality, though not new. Black and yellow stitching adorned the sleeves. Indeed, the colors of Costayne. His boots were worn from use, not formal wear. A knight accustomed to hard riding, not posing among fops in the court.
And yet... There was something about him that didn't quite fit the role he claimed for himself. Too easygoing among gentlemen. Attention lurking beneath humor; like a lynx feigning laziness.
"Do you serve Lord Tommen Costayne?" you asked casually, repeating his introduction.
"Devotedly," he replied immediately, nodding at you. "I polish his armor. I pour his wine. I weep openly for his victories."
Laughter rippled around the table again. Lord Redwyne shook his head. "Careful, Coldrin. If you joke too boldly, someone may ask you to prove it tomorrow."
Lyonel—or rather, Ser Coldrin—grinned. "Then I will disappoint them spectacularly."
He sat back on the cushion, not on the food as you had first feared, and stretched his long legs out in front of him, carefree. One of his knees touched the hem of your dress.
You should have pulled away from the touch. It was an inappropriate gesture. But you didn't.
"And what brought Lady Swann into such dubious company?" He asked, tilting his head back, watching you from under his dark lashes, a half-smile on his lips.
"Curiosity." You replied with a shrug, trying to appear aloof.
"A dangerous disease."
"I've survived worse."
His smile widened slightly. "Really?"
For a moment, the laughter and lamplight seemed to fade around you. There it was again—that piercing observation behind the jokes.
You didn't let it bother you. You were a lady, high-ranking, measured, noble.
"I hear Lord Redwyne has excellent wines." You said to your host instead, nodding, and he smiled, blushing at the compliment.
"Ah..." Coldrin murmured, reaching for the jug. "Then they told you the truth." He poured for you himself, with a steady hand, despite his convincing act of drunkenness. When he handed you the goblet, his fingers lingered on yours for a moment too long.
Not with a sneering grin, as they had done before, but with a meaningful, sidelong wink.
"What is it?" You scoffed with a laugh, clumsily.
"Nothing, my lady," replied the older one, shaking his head too quickly.
Coldrin leaned closer and lowered his voice so much that you felt as if he were sharing a secret with you.
"Forgive them," he whispered, his voice purring softly in your ear, making your stomach flutter. "They are simple creatures. Easily entertained."
"Why, are you not?" You raised your eyebrows with a sly, perhaps provocative smile on your lips.
"Yes, I am," he admitted with a huff. "But my entertainment is more refined."
One corner of his mouth curled up, his expression almost boyish despite his broad shoulders and massive frame. He was relaxed, yet radiated strength—the way he balanced his weight evenly, the way his hands never really rested. Even when he leaned casually against the table, he looked as if he could spring into motion in the blink of an eye.
You noticed that although he played the drunk well, his gaze was never glassy. His words were never slurred. The wine loosened his tongue, but it did not control him.
Your eyebrows rose even higher, if that was possible. "For example?"
He pretended to think, pursing his lips under his beard.
His hair was dark as storm clouds at dusk, thick and slightly unruly, curling at the edges as if it refused to be disciplined. It fell in carefree waves under his collar, framing his face, which might have been too rough to be called handsome in the courtly sense—if it hadn't been so full of life. He had a strong jaw, shadowed by a short beard, which did little to soften it, only reinforcing the impression that he was more accustomed to the wind and the saddle than to bright halls.
A faint scar ran near his temple, half-hidden by his hair. Another was on the knuckle of one of his fingers when he raised his hand.
And his eyes... They easily conveyed humor, but beneath that there was something sharper. Alert. Assessing.
"Storm watching..." he said finally. He tilted his head slightly to one side, as if testing how the words flowed between you. "I test spears against people who underestimate me. I watch noble ladies pretend they don't enjoy my company." Hearing his words, your throat tightened, so you raised your cup and tried to loosen it with wine.
"And I pretend not to enjoy it either? The corners of your mouth curved upward, your eyes sparkling as you stared him down. And although he leaned back casually, as if the world amused him, there was nothing careless about the way he held your gaze.
His eyes wandered briefly to your mouth, then returned to your eyes. "Not very convincingly."
Suddenly, you felt a rush of heat, your face burning under his gaze. Across the table, Lord Redwyne stood up with a grumble. "I'll let you young people play your games..." He announced, and passing by, he slapped the younger Fossoway on the shoulder. "Try not to set the tent on fire."
Slowly, the chatter and competition died down around you, and the young noblemen dispersed to join other companies. Soon, only the two of you remained, along with the faint buzz of revelry from outside. Slowly, you turned to Lyonel.
"It seems our friends have deserted us." You glanced to your side with a knowing smile, shrugged your shoulders, and leaned your elbows on the table. You pulled your arm lazily in front of you, placed your index and middle fingers slowly on the rim of your cup, and began to circle the metal with loose movements.
He leaned back on his hand, his face annoyingly calm as he sized you up. "Maybe they're just offended," he drawled.
You snorted loudly, unbecoming of a lady. "By what would they be?" You laughed.
Lyonel glanced at you, flashing you a dazzling, boyish grin, then leaned back with a heavy sigh, propping himself up on his arms. You just stared at him for a while.
"I'm beginning to suspect that I'm the object of some kind of jest," you said, shaking your head, a sharp pain piercing your heart.
He looked up. The curly locks of his gray mane bounced gently. He studied you for a long moment, his eyes revealing nothing.
"If that were the case..." he said gently. "it wouldn't be out of malice."
The answer didn't satisfy you—but it didn't alarm you either, it just made you curious.
You lifted your chin slightly. "And what does the famous Lyonel Coldrin hope to gain from entertaining me tonight?"
This time, his smirk was slower. "Perhaps," he said with a soft sigh. "I just wanted to see if Lady Swann would bite."
You leaned closer through your cup without meaning to. "And do I bite?"
Something sweeter than wine flashed in his eyes.
"Oh," he murmured with a chuckle, his voice as deep as distant thunder. "I think I do."
The music nearby swelled again, fiddles and drums and the bright trill of a pipe cutting through the night air. Coldrin's head tilted toward the sound.
"Come," he said suddenly, pushing to his feet in one smooth motion. "If we remain here much longer, you will begin asking sensible questions. I prefer you reckless."
"I am not reckless," you protested automatically with a cheeky smirk.
His grin widened, leaning closer. In his proximity, you could smell the sweet-sour aroma of wine and the scent of his coat. It was enticing. "Then prove it."
Before you could reconsider, he offered his hand. You hesitated only a heartbeat before placing yours in his. Suddenly, your previous bravado slipped away, replaced by a girlish excitement, a hopeful heartbeat as you scanned his face.
The music permeated your body—your blood pulsed to the rhythm of the violin, your heart beat to the beat of the tambourine, your leg muscles heated up and tingled with movement. Around you, skirts swirled, boots stamped, people shouted and screamed, and the colors of their clothes blurred together, enveloping you. Lyonel held your hand firmly, his warm palm relaxing you as his fingers intertwined with yours.
He did not lead you to the orderly lines of noble dancers near the musicians' platform. He led you straight into the middle of it all.
“Sir—” You began, giggling, but it was too late to protest. His hand found your waist, firm and certain, and he spun you into the rhythm before your body had time to object. Your skirts flared. Laughter escaped you—real and startled.
“There,” He declared. “You see? Still alive.”
“You are insufferable,” You gasped, trying not to stumble as he turned you again.
“And yet you follow.” He winked at you with a cheeky grin.
The drums quickened. He matched them easily, surprisingly light on his feet for a man so broad. His movements were not courtly-polished — they were instinctive, flowing, confident. When he drew you closer, it was not to display you, it was to keep you steady.
Your hands came up to brace against his shoulders, and only then did you realize how solid he truly was. Not soft from wine. Not softened by indulgence. Strong.
“Do all of Lord Costayne’s knights dance like this?” You teased breathlessly.
“Only the most renowned,” Lyonel replied solemnly. You laughed again and the sound felt like something breaking free inside your chest.
For a few precious moments, you forgot Storm’s End. Forgot betrothals. Forgot fathers and expectations and stone walls waiting to close around you. There was only the music. The heat of the tent and wine. His hand at your waist. And the way he looked at you. As if you were the only bright thing in the crowd. Never looking away from your face; deep eyes, mesmerizing and intoxicating gaze.
The song slowed unexpectedly, the wild rhythm softening into something lower, more intimate. He did not release you, instead his hand slid more securely at the small of your back. Yours rested at his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric there.
“You dance well for a man who drinks so much.” You murmured tilting up your face to his own. One slight move, and you could have tasted the wine on his lips.
“I do many things well.” He answered, quieter now, eyes softening.
The space between you narrowed without either of you commanding it. The world beyond your shoulders blurred; noise dulling into a distant hum. Your breath mingled. You suddenly became aware of everything; the warmth of his palm, the brush of his thumb against your spine, the faint scent of wine and leather and clean night air.
His gaze dropped — just slightly — to your mouth, and stilled there. You should have stepped back. You are a noble lady, and you are engaged. You did not move away.
“Lady Swann.” He said softly, your name no longer a jest but something precious. Your heart pounded so loudly you were certain he could hear it.
“Yes, Ser Coldrin?” You blinked at him from under your eyelashes.
His hand tightened just enough to pull you half a breath closer. “If I were a less honorable man—” He murmured, lidded eyes jumping from your lips to your eyes, desperately trying to hold your gaze.
“But you are not?” You whispered.
A faint, almost rueful smile curved his lips. “That remains to be seen.” The music faded into its final notes, the last chord trembling in the air. You felt it before it happened — the shift in the air around you, in him. He leaned in. Slowly. Giving you time to refuse.
Your fingers tightened at his shoulder instead. His breath brushed your lips. Warm. Close. The world narrowed to the space between your mouths… You were curious about the taste of his mouth, the feel of his lips. Now you could find out what kind of wine he had been drinking.
And then a shout erupted nearby, followed by raucous laughter and the crash of a spilled bench and… The spell shattered. You both startled slightly, the moment breaking like glass. He drew back first. Just enough to lose his warmth from your skin.His thumb brushed once against your cheek, barely there, a ghost.
“You should return before someone notices your absence.” He said quietly.
Your pulse still thundered in your ears. “And if I do not wish to?”
His eyes darkened, something fierce flickering there before he masked it with an easy smile. “Then I would have to decide whether Lyonel Coldrin is brave enough to steal a lady from her fate.”
You searched his face, breath unsteady. “And is he?”
He stepped back fully now, offering you his arm instead of his lips. “He is many things,” He said lightly. “But tonight, he is only your dance partner.”
You placed your hand on his arm. But as he escorted you through the lantern glow, you could still feel the almost of it lingering between you. Like the air before a storm finally breaks... The what if.
Suddenly, you came to your senses. If anyone here recognizes you and sees you with a knight beneath your rank... What would your father say? What would happen to your agreement with your fiancé? Your family name?
You felt something tight and sharp, burning like a brand, wash over your face. You lowered your gaze as you moved away from Lyonel, not daring to look into his intense eyes again. You felt ashamed of what you had done, even though it had not actually happened. He was there between you. He was there in your heart. That was enough.
"I'm sorry, but..." You swallowed hard, searching for words. "The night is getting long, and... my noble father is surely missing my company for the evening..." You excused yourself, looking at the trampled ground.
"Of course." The answer came, but you didn't look up at him. You couldn't. "The little swan must swim home."
Stepping away from the man, a chill ran through you, even though the tent was sweltering with dancing and revelry. You felt a tingling sensation on your waist where he had been holding you, and your hand burned where you had clasped his. Coming here tonight was the biggest mistake of your life. Now that your hand will belong to someone else and you will be taken away to a stormy land forever, you have perhaps found the feeling that you had only heard about in fairy tales and imagined would one day be your destiny. But not like this. As soon as you tasted this sweet, inviting feeling, they immediately tore it from your hand, from your heart.
The music raced through your ears and head like needles, and you no longer heard the rhythm, only the pounding, drumming, and whining. You tried to force a faint smile onto your face, raising your head higher, but even then it only reached your collar.
In the heat of the night and the wine, the decision would have been easy, too easy for you. But then the next day, when you looked in the mirror, who would look back at you? When you woke up in each other's arms the next day, would he still have his noble bearing? Would you still have your honor? Your throat was dry as the scene flashed through your mind. You imagined, for one reckless heartbeat, what it would be like to remain. To let him pull you back into the dance. To let his hand slide once more to your waist. To feel his mouth at yours.
No one would know. That was the lie; someone always knew. Your father would know. Your future husband would know, the gods above would know. And you would carry it.
"I... I'm already promised to someone else..." You said softly, the words torn from your lungs, sharp and searching. For a moment, you glanced at his face, just so you would know how he felt about you when he heard the news... and...
His eyebrows shot up, his jaw tightened, and his Adam's apple bobbed. "Yes." He nodded almost imperceptibly. "I heard about it."
"A man... a gentleman I did not choose." You continued, haltingly.
Lyonel closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. "Few have a choice."
Your legs felt heavy—rooted deep in the ground, unable to be uprooted by the wind. Suddenly, it seemed as if silence had fallen, the music had died away. The laughter and singing around you had died away. Or perhaps it was just you who felt it, like the quiet barrenness in your heart. You swallowed hard, your saliva thick. "I... would stay; really... But I'm afraid... I'll soon forget my duty and... I don't want that. I'll try to keep them in mind, but if I dance with you..."
The air between you became still. He stepped closer—this time he didn't touch you.
"If you stay," He said, his voice now quieter and rougher. "You won't forget." A faint smile crossed his lips. "Not tonight, anyway."
Your pulse quickened.
"You will remember," He continued, looking into your eyes. Your heart turned to stone at his tender gaze. "And so will I." His sincerity affected you more deeply than you wanted it to, more than you could allow. You slowly closed your eyes. You felt that this was the moment. The limit.
One more breath, and you could have leaned forward. One more heartbeat, and you would have let him kiss you. One more reckless second, and you would have stepped into a future that wasn't yours.
When you opened your eyes, determination hardened in your gaze. "I can't be this foolish." You said, clenching your teeth so your voice and lips wouldn't tremble.
Lyonel nodded slowly and turned away. "You're braver than most of the men here tonight," he said softly.
"I don't feel brave." You chuckled sourly, shoulders sagging.
"You're leaving behind something you want." That truth hurt more than it should have.
You took a deep breath of the tent's stench. You pulled your shoulders back and straightened your spine, just as your septa had taught you.
"I must return to my father before I do something that would bring shame upon him." Your breath caught in your throat. "And both of us," You added.
Lyonel examined you long and hard, as if he wanted to memorize this version of you. The noble lady, discipline and duty on her shoulders.
Then he reached for your hand again, but not to pull it closer, just to gently lift it and press his lips to your wrist. This time, the kiss lingered.
“Go, then, Lady Swann,” He murmured against your skin. “Before I forget my own honor.”
You pulled your hand back slowly, afraid that if you did it too quickly, you would betray how much it burnt.
“Good night… ser.”
“Good night.”
You turned before you could change your mind. The night air outside the tent struck you cold and clean, the sounds of revelry dulled behind canvas walls. Torches flickered along the pathways between pavilions as you walked. Slow at first, like a drunk, trying to find their footing. Then, faster, as though chased by your own heart.
At the edge of the encampment you paused once, just once, and looked back. Through a gap in the tent flaps, you saw his silhouette; tall, still, watching the entrance long after you had gone. He did not follow. And neither did your heart.
When you reached your father’s pavilion, the guards straightened at once. One slipped inside to announce you. You smoothed your hair, wiped the last trace of warmth from your lips and pressed your hands together until they stopped trembling.
By morning, you would be dutiful again. By morning, this would be nothing but a foolish night. By morning, he will forget you.
Your arrival was not a pleasant dance. In fact, you felt that if they had given you a shield and a sword, you could have fought a knightly duel with your father. In the tent, you were greeted by two servants, white as snow with fear, and a father red with rage. His roar could probably be heard at the other end of the tent. What followed was a sweaty lecture on manners, duty, childlike obedience, humility, and what a scandal you had caused as an unmarried lady, wandering into some beer tent with your fiancé. Without an escort. Your father was a patient man, even kind and merciful by most parents' standards, but that night you went to bed with a sore foot, which he had whacked with his leather belt. You couldn't be angry with him, though, because you knew that the reputation of your father and your entire household could have been ruined that evening. Still... you wondered if it would have been better not to head for the tent, but for the convent after all...
The next morning dawned brightly. It was as if the events of the previous evening had never happened.
By noon, the stands were full. Flags fluttered in the wind—green apples, red grapes, golden roses, black deer. You sat upright next to your father, your hands neatly folded on your lap, and once again you were the dutiful daughter with every fiber of your being.
The knights rode forward one by one. Their armor glistened in the early sunlight, the horses stamped their feet, and glorious hymns and introductions rang out. Only sometimes did you pay attention, perhaps when there was a fall, a loud crash, or when a horse neighed loudly. You stared into space, clasping your hands, recalling the taste of wine and the feeling of those smiling lips that had never kissed you.
And then... A murmur ran through the crowd. The next rider did not trot onto the battlefield bearing the coat of arms of one of the smaller houses. He entered the arena in black and yellow... in shiny, gold-trimmed black armor. On his breastplate, proudly and unmistakably... a crowned stag.
Your breath caught as you stared at him. His helmet, held under his arm, had antlers made of dark steel. The knight's horse was huge, powerful, and restless, like a storm waiting to break.
The herald's voice rang clear across the field. "Lyonel of House Baratheon, heir to Storm's End!" The world seemed to tilt.
As he rode closer to your pavilion. That curly black mane, streaked with gray. That thick beard... That prominent nose, strong jaw, mouth stretched into a sly grin...
Those wild blue eyes.
Lord Lyonel Baratheon.
Not Ser Coldrin. Not some silver-tongued, wine-warmed sworn knight. And most certainly not Lord Costayne's sworn sword. But Lyonel Baratheon. Your fiancé. Your old, despicable betrothed…
Then he pulled hard on his horse's reins, and the animal turned toward you. The blood froze in your veins for a moment. Then it began to pulse through your veins again with fiery intensity.
He looked directly at you. Not by accident.
And then you realized. Your brain was working furiously, your head almost steaming as you pieced together the puzzle between heartbeats.
He knew. He knew all along. He knew and didn't say a word, so that—
"Well? Still an old man? In armor, with a sword? " Your father leaned toward you sarcastically. "The Stormlands raise capable sons, age does not weaken them." You barely heard him.
Lyonel turned his horse completely toward the stands. Toward you. And he raised his spear. The crowd fell silent in anticipation as he slowly moved his horse toward you.
He did not take his eyes off you for a moment. The same sly, knowing, cunning smile. Sparkling eyes.
He did not bow before the royal box. Reaching the edge of the viewing platform, he raised his eyes, kicked his heels into the stirrups, and stood up in the saddle. Your heart was beating so fast and so hard in your chest that you were afraid it would jump out into your palm.
You didn't even feel your legs move as you stood up from your seat and walked confidently up the stairs. You looked at him, only at him, as he watched. The same expression, the same face, yet what a different feeling. How different... how comforting. Your movement caused a ripple of whispers through the gallery as you stepped forward to the railing.
His eyes shone even brighter.
"Mademoiselle Swann." He bowed on his horse, helmet in one hand, reins in the other. "I took the liberty of coming before you to..."
Before he could finish, you grabbed the end of his sleeve and, stretching the fine fabric, tore a piece off it.
You pressed one hand against the railing and, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, leaned against the wood, stretching as far as you could, reaching for the piece of clothing in your hand.
Lyonel's smile widened, his pupils dilated, and he looked like yesterday's wine-intoxicated fervor. Perhaps he was drunk again, because he wanted too much from you.
"For your victory, sir," You shouted loudly, almost laughing, your voice carrying farther than you expected. "And what may come after." The message was clear.
The track began to roar.
Lyonel's expression changed—not to laughter, not to joy, but to something fierce and deeply satisfied. As if he had already won.
He led his horse to the edge of the railing, the armor on his legs clanking against the wood. You stood on tiptoe to reach his outstretched, iron-adorned hand. When he finally reached the fabric with his fingers, he stroked your hand, and despite the cold metal, the touch felt soft, warm, almost scorching.
So quietly that only you could hear, he said. "Do you know what you're choosing now?"
Your pulse quickened. Fate, you thought, how tireless and humorous fate can be.
"Yes." Your smile pierced his breastplate, striking him straight in the heart.
"And if I win?" He winked, with a hint of the evening's daring.
"Then I think," You said, your voice now confident, your eyes shining. "I'll have to decide if I really want to marry a storm."
His smile widened—wild and wonderful.
"My lady," He said softly as he secured your favor to his lance. "I see you have already made your decision."
Then he lowered his helmet and rode off to meet his opponent.
Staying at the edge of the lookout, you watched him ride away on his horse. Your future husband, The Laughing Storm.
