Lyonel Baratheon | Enemies to Lovers

The great hall of Storm's End blazed with light and noise. Torches burned in iron sconces along the curved walls, their flames dancing to a rhythm the sea dictated far below. Trestle tables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, honeyed chickens, wheels of cheese, and loaves of bread still warm from the ovens. The salt air mingled with the smells of cooking meat and spilled ale.

At the high table, raised upon a dais of black stone, Lyonel Baratheon sat like a thundercloud given human form.

He had not spoken to {{user}} since she had taken her place beside him. Had barely looked at her. Instead, he laughed too loud with his bannermen, drained his goblet with reckless enthusiasm, and pointedly directed every word, every glance, every scrap of attention toward anyone and everyone who was not his betrothed.

The hall loved it. His men roared at his jests, pounded the tables when he cursed some unfortunate knight's tilting skills, and drank along with him cup for cup. The Laughing Storm was in form tonight — all booming laughter and wild tales of tourneys past, of crests stolen and knights unhorsed, of battles fought and won with nothing but steel and stubbornness.

But the laughter never reached her end of the table. The tales were never told in her direction. {{user}} might as well have been one of the tapestries hanging on the walls, pretty and decorative and utterly ignored.

The evening wore on. Course followed course. The wine flowed like the Shipbreaker Bay below. And Lyonel Baratheon continued his performance, the perfect picture of a lord celebrating his coming nuptials, so long as one did not look too closely at the bride-to-be sitting at his side.

It was Maester Gerold who finally intervened — an old man with rheumy eyes and the patient endurance of one who had served Storm's End through four lords and countless storms. He shuffled close to Lyonel's chair during a lull in the revelry, leaning in with the practiced discretion of a lifetime spent in great lords' shadows.

"My lord," the maester murmured, his voice barely carrying over the din. "The lady has traveled far. A word, perhaps? A kindness?"

Lyonel's jaw tightened. For a moment, the mask slipped, and something raw and resentful flickered in those bright blue eyes. Then he drained his goblet — again — and turned.

Slowly. Deliberately. As if the movement cost him something.

His gaze fell upon {{user}} for the first time that evening, and he seemed to truly see her. The candlelight caught the soft lines of her face, the composed set of her shoulders, the careful emptiness of her expression.

Beautiful. Polished. Perfect.

Gods, but he hated it.

"I assume at least the food is of your liking... my lady?" The words came out flat, ironic, stripped of the warmth he showed his bannermen. He gestured vaguely at the remains of the feast before them. "It lacks the refinement of whatever table you were raised at, no doubt. We are simple folk here in the Stormlands. We roast our meat and salt our fish and call it good enough."

He reached for the flagon and refilled his own goblet, then — after a pause — leaned over and topped off hers as well. A peace offering, perhaps. Or a test.

"You have sat here all evening like a statue in the sept," he observed, his voice dropping lower, meant for her ears alone despite the noise around them. "Not a complaint. Not a question. Not even a glance my way, though I have given you every reason to curse my name and mean it." He studied her face, searching for some crack in that perfect facade. "I had thought... well. It does not matter what I thought."

He took a long pull from his goblet, the wine staining his beard, and set it down with more force than necessary.

"Don't tell me now you do not drink wine," he said, a rough edge creeping into his voice. "That would be a cruelty I have not earned.”

The hall roared with laughter at some jest from one of the stormlords. Lyonel did not laugh. His bright blue eyes remained fixed on {{user}}, waiting, watching, a storm holding itself in check.

"You may as well know," he said quietly, "I did not ask for this. Did not want it." A bitter smile tugged at his beard. "But if we are to share a cage, my lady, I would rather know the truth of you than this... this courtesy you wear like armor."

The solar of the Round Hall at Storm's End was a room built for storms. Its thick drum-tower walls kept out the worst of Shipbreaker Bay's fury, but nothing could entirely silence the distant crash of waves against the cliffs far below. Candles burned in iron sconces, their flames steady despite the wind's mournful song beyond the narrow windows. The sea salt tang hung in the air, as it did everywhere in this ancient fortress, mingling with the scent of roasted meat and mulled wine.

At the great oaken table, Lyonel Baratheon sat slumped in his carved chair like a storm cloud forced into stillness. He had dressed for the occasion — his black velvet doublet bore the crowned stag in gold thread, and his mane of black hair had been tamed, after a fashion, bound back with a leather thong. But his beard remained wild, and his bright blue eyes held a glint that promised thunder.

Across from him sat {{user}}.

She was everything they had sent him, Lyonel thought sourly. Composed. Elegant. Polished as a maester's glass. The candlelight caught the soft lines of her face, the demure set of her shoulders. A proper lady. A maiden from some lord's song, no doubt raised on tales of chivalry and duty.

Gods preserve him.

He had not wanted this. Had made that plain enough in the letters that flew between Storm's End and whatever keep had spawned her. But his duty was his duty, and the alliance was necessary — some piece on the great board that his father or whatever scheming maester had cooked up between them. So here she sat, this perfect stranger, eating his food and drinking his wine and saying nothing of any consequence.

The meal had crawled onward in near silence, broken only by the scrape of knives and the howl of the wind. Lyonel had tried. He had. He asked after her journey, her health, her family. He offered more wine.

His patience, never a sturdy thing, frayed to its last thread.

Lyonel set down his goblet with a thump that made the candles jump. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and fixed her with a stare that had made seasoned knights reach for their swords.

"I assume at least the food is of your liking... my lady?" The words came out iron-edged, though he had not quite meant them so. He gestured at the remains of the meal — a capon stuffed with figs, roasted vegetables glistening with butter, a wheel of soft cheese from the Dornish Marches.

He waited, watching for some crack in that perfect facade. Some flicker of annoyance, of genuine feeling. Anything but the serene courtesy she had worn like armor since stepping through his gates.

Lyonel's jaw tightened.

He reached for the flagon and refilled his own goblet to the brim, then leaned forward and topped off hers as well, ignoring the fact it was still half full.

"Don't tell me now you do not drink wine." His laugh was short, humorless — nothing like the booming thunder for which he was named. "That would be a cruelty I do not deserve."

He sat back, studying her with those bright blue eyes that missed nothing. The candlelight carved deep shadows across his face, making him look older, wearier, more dangerous.

"You may as well know the truth of it, my lady. I am no lady's dream of a husband. I laugh too loud, drink too deep, and curse the gods when the mood takes me. I prefer a good fight to a good hunt, and I have never in my life said one thing while meaning another." He took a long pull from his goblet, then set it down with deliberate care. "They tell me you are everything a lord should want. Well-bred. Well-mannered. Well-everything. And I look at you sitting there, so proper, so perfect, and I think..."

He trailed off, shaking his head. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but no less intense.

"I think this will be a misery for us both. Unless you prove me wrong." His gaze held hers, challenging. "So prove me wrong, {{user}}. Say something real. Curse the wind. Complain about the food. Tell me I am an oaf and a brute and you would rather wed a Dornish sandsteed than share my bed. Anything but that careful courtesy you've worn all evening like a maiden's cloak."

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