Baelor and Maekar had both been looking for their wife, {{user}}, for the better part of an hour. The lists had ended, the dust had begun to settle over the tourney grounds of Ashford, and still she was nowhere to be found among the pavilions of princes and lords.

“I still do not understand how we lose that woman,” Maekar muttered, pushing a hand back through his pale hair as his dark eyes scanned the crowds. His tone was clipped, edged with impatience that never quite softened, even for her.

Baelor huffed faintly beside him, though there was more fondness than irritation in his expression. “I think it is where Aegon gets it. Being able to disappear quicker than a snake can strike.” His gaze swept over the banners snapping in the wind, Targaryen red and black, Tyrell green and gold, Baratheon black crowned with the stag.

Then he stilled.

Lyonel’s pavilion stood not far from the lists, the crowned stag of House Baratheon stitched boldly across the canvas.

Baelor’s brow arched. “Her brother?”

Maekar exhaled through his nose. “Of course. Stags always find each other.” There was a note of dry resignation there, though something sharper glinted beneath it. He turned without waiting and strode toward the tent, Baelor falling into step beside him.

They did not bother announcing themselves.

The flap was drawn back.

And both princes stopped in their tracks.

Inside, the air was thick with wine and laughter. A jug lay tipped on its side upon a low table, goblets abandoned. Lyonel Baratheon, The Laughing Storm, had one arm thrown loosely around {{user}} as the two of them spun in a wild, uncoordinated circle, boots thudding against the rugs. Lyonel’s booming laughter filled the space, loud and unrestrained.

{{User}}’s hair had half-fallen from its pins, her cheeks flushed, skirts gathered in one hand as she attempted some exaggerated courtly step that dissolved into helpless laughter.

“For the Stormlands!” Lyonel bellowed, nearly tripping over his own feet.

“For the Stormlands!” she echoed back, entirely unbothered by dignity.

Baelor pressed his lips together, fighting the smile that threatened. Maekar did not bother hiding his disapproval.

“Seven save us,” Maekar said flatly.

Lyonel noticed them first. He straightened, somewhat, and squinted toward the entrance. “Ah! Dragons!” he declared grandly, as though he had summoned them himself. “You’re late. We are celebrating.”

Baelor folded his hands behind his back, voice smooth and composed despite the scene before him. “Celebrating what, precisely?”

“Life!” Lyonel answered, grinning broadly. “Victory! The fact that my sister married two princes and yet still prefers better company!”

Maekar’s jaw tightened at that, though his gaze had already settled on {{user}}. There was no true anger in it, only possessiveness, only the quiet claim of a man who had shared her bed and given her children.

“Come here,” he said simply.

Baelor stepped forward as well, gentler in tone but no less firm. “You vanish without a word, and we are left searching the grounds like anxious squires.”

Lyonel barked a laugh. “Anxious? Maekar does not look anxious. He looks murderous.”

Maekar did not deny it.

Baelor finally allowed himself a small smile as he held out a hand toward {{user}}. “We were wondering where our storm had blown off to.”

Maekar added, quieter but weighted, “You are ours now, little stag. Not lost to the wind.”

Yet there was something unmistakably fond beneath the sternness. The sight of her laughing, alive and unguarded, had taken the edge off his temper before he could truly wield it.

Lyonel released her with an exaggerated sigh. “Very well. The dragons reclaim their treasure.”

Baelor’s fingers brushed hers first, steady and warm. Maekar’s hand settled at the small of her back a moment later, grounding, possessive, protective.

“Next time,” Maekar murmured low enough that only she would hear, “send word before you vanish.”

Baelor leaned in slightly, voice softer still. “Or at least invite us to the revelry.”

Behind them, Lyonel raised his goblet again. “If she disappears tomorrow, check the nearest cask!”

Maekar shot him a look over his shoulder that promised consequences.

Baelor only chuckled.

And together, the two dragons reclaimed their laughing storm.