The storm had arrived before breakfast and showed no signs of departing before supper.

Lyonel Baratheon considered this a perfectly fine state of affairs.

He stood beside one of the great windows of Storm's End, his hands resting on the stone sill as he watched the grey-green waters of Shipbreaker Bay throw themselves against the cliffs below. The wind howled around the ancient fortress, driving sheets of rain against the walls with enough force to make the glass tremble in its frame. Somewhere in the courtyard, a servant was undoubtedly cursing the weather whilst another struggled to secure something that ought to have been brought indoors hours ago.

Lyonel grinned.

Gods, but he loved a good storm.

There was something honest about weather like this. It made no pretence of gentleness, offered no false promises of sunshine, and gave a man every excuse to abandon whatever tedious business had been planned for the day. The roads would be miserable, the sea treacherous, and any sensible lord with half a mind to preserve his horses would remain within his own walls.

Which was precisely what Lyonel intended to do.

His council could wait. The reports piled upon his desk could wait. Even the raven awaiting a reply in the rookery could wait until the wind stopped threatening to tear the poor creature's feathers from its body.

He was Lord of Storm's End, after all. If anyone took issue with his decision to spend a day indoors, they were welcome to come and argue their case against the weather themselves.

A particularly violent gust rattled the shutters somewhere down the corridor.

Lyonel laughed.

Then, turning from the window, he caught sight of his beloved.

Well.

Perhaps the gods had decided to improve an already splendid morning.

His spouse had been spared neither the weather nor the consequences of marrying a man who considered the Stormlands' temperamental climate a personal blessing. Lyonel had long since discovered that what he found invigorating could be rather less appealing to someone who had not spent their life beneath the skies of the storm coast. He had made a point of being sympathetic about this, of course.

Sympathetic, in Lyonel's case, was a generous word for a man who occasionally laughed when thunder startled the household and then offered his spouse his arm with the solemnity of a knight escorting a royal procession.

He crossed the room, his boots sounding against the stone floor, and came to a stop before them with his customary broad grin.

"Well, my love," he declared, spreading his arms as though presenting them with a splendid gift, "it appears we're prisoners."

He glanced towards the window, where the rain continued to hammer against the glass.

"Terrible business, truly. No riding, no hunting, no wandering about the castle pretending that the steward's endless lists are matters of great importance." His eyes returned to his spouse, bright with mischief. "And here I was, prepared to endure an entire day of responsibility."

He pressed a hand dramatically to his chest.

"Whatever shall become of me?"

The expression on his face suggested that he was in no danger of suffering at all.

In truth, the prospect of being confined within Storm's End with his beloved was rather more appealing than he cared to admit. There were always demands upon his time, always someone requiring a decision, a judgement, a signature, or his attention. Even in his own home, a lord could find himself surrounded by people who wanted something from him.

But his spouse wanted nothing from him that he could not gladly give.

Their company was enough. More than enough, if he were honest, though Lyonel had never been particularly inclined towards solemn confessions when a perfectly good joke might serve in their place.

He reached for their hand, bringing it towards his lips to press a warm kiss against their knuckles.

"Still," he continued, his voice softening beneath the playful bravado, "I suppose there are worse fates than being trapped indoors with one's spouse."

His grin widened.

"Though I should warn you, my love, that I am a dreadful companion when deprived of fresh air and an audience. You may find yourself forced to endure my conversation for hours. Perhaps even my singing."

He paused, looking at them with mock seriousness.

"On second thought, we should pray for the storm to pass. I would not wish to subject you to such suffering."

Outside, thunder rolled over the castle, deep and tremendous, and Lyonel turned his head towards it with the pleased expression of a man greeting an old friend.

Then he looked back at his spouse.

"Come along, then." He offered his arm, already looking far too satisfied with his own plans. "Let us find something to occupy ourselves before I am forced to entertain you with a detailed account of every battle my ancestors ever fought."

A beat passed.

"Although, now that I think of it, that might take us until tomorrow."

The thunder had been rolling over Storm's End for the better part of an hour, and Lyonel Baratheon had yet to grow tired of it.

If anything, the Lord of Storm's End seemed to find the entire affair increasingly amusing. He sat comfortably beside the hearth in his chambers, one booted foot stretched towards the flames, a half-forgotten cup of wine resting on the table beside him. Rain lashed against the narrow windows, and the wind howled around the ancient fortress as though some great beast were attempting to claw its way inside.

Lyonel loved it.

There was something magnificent about a storm that made the very stones tremble. It reminded him of home, of the rugged coast and the wild skies beneath which he had grown up. Other men might grumble about ruined journeys and sodden fields, but Lyonel had never been one to complain about a little weather.

His spouse, on the other hand, had yet to develop quite the same appreciation.

He had noticed the signs throughout the afternoon. The glances towards the windows whenever the thunder grew particularly loud, the occasional look of disapproval directed at the rattling shutters, the determined attempts to behave as though the entire castle was not being battered by the elements.

Lyonel had said nothing at first.

Well, very little, at any rate. He had made one or two observations about the Stormlands welcoming its newest resident, but the resulting looks had convinced him that further commentary might be unwise if he wished to retain the privilege of sharing his bed.

A fresh crack of thunder split the sky.

Lyonel glanced towards his beloved, and the corner of his mouth immediately curled upwards.

"Ah," he said, setting aside his cup. "There it is again."

He waited a moment, as though expecting the storm to answer him.

"Rather impressive, that one. I believe the gods are trying to remind us who's in charge."

His gaze returned to his spouse, mischief dancing in his eyes.

"Though I confess, I had rather hoped you might have grown fond of our weather by now. We've been married long enough for you to have developed at least a passing respect for it."

He leaned back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Perhaps I ought to arrange for you to spend a week at sea. A little time aboard a ship in this sort of weather might help you appreciate the comforts of Storm's End."

The suggestion was delivered with such cheerful sincerity that it was difficult to tell whether he was joking.

He was, of course.

Mostly.

Lyonel watched his beloved for another moment before his expression softened. Whatever amusement he found in their unfamiliarity with the Stormlands, he had no intention of making them genuinely uncomfortable. Teasing was one thing; allowing the person he loved to sit miserably through a storm when he could do something about it was quite another.

He shifted in his chair and patted the space beside him.

"Come here, little storm."

There was a fondness beneath the words that his grin could not quite disguise.

"The fire is warm, the chair is comfortable, and I am told that I make for excellent company. Though the last claim has yet to be independently verified."

He opened one arm in invitation, looking at his spouse expectantly.

"Besides, if the thunder is troubling you, I should hate to have you endure it alone. Someone must be here to protect you from the terrible wrath of the skies."

He glanced towards the window as another rumble echoed through the stone chambers.

Then he looked back at them and laughed.

"Fortunately, I am very brave."

Lyonel held out his hand, his expression bright with affectionate mischief. Yet he made no move to rise and close the distance himself, leaving the invitation entirely in his beloved's hands.

He could be patient when he wished to be.

And if his spouse chose to settle beside him, he would gladly surrender his comfortable chair, his wine, and whatever remained of his afternoon to make room.

After all, there were few things in the world Lyonel Baratheon enjoyed more than a good storm.

Having his beloved in his arms, however, was rapidly becoming a formidable contender.

Lyonel Baratheon had every intention of being productive that morning.

Truly, he did.

There were ravens to answer, reports from the villages along the coast to review, and a rather tedious dispute between two of his bannermen that required his judgement before it grew into something considerably more troublesome. His steward had delivered the relevant documents shortly after breakfast, accompanied by a reminder that several matters could not be postponed indefinitely.

Lyonel had assured the man that he understood perfectly.

Then the storm had worsened, his spouse had appeared, and the entire matter had become considerably less straightforward.

The Lord of Storm's End sat behind his desk, staring at a letter he had been attempting to read for the better part of a quarter of an hour. Outside, rain swept across the narrow windows, and the wind moaned through the ancient stone corridors. Every so often, thunder rolled over Shipbreaker Bay, providing a magnificent accompaniment to what ought to have been a perfectly ordinary morning of governance.

Instead, Lyonel's attention kept wandering.

More specifically, it kept wandering towards his beloved.

They were nearby, close enough that he could steal a glance whenever he pleased, and that, he had discovered, was an exceedingly dangerous arrangement for the continued prosperity of the Stormlands.

He read the same sentence for the third time.

Something about a shipment of timber.

Gods, how exciting.

Lyonel lowered the parchment and looked towards his spouse.

There were, he decided, several injustices in the world. The fact that he was expected to concern himself with timber when he had perfectly delightful company within arm's reach was surely among them.

He set the letter down.

Picked it up again.

Read another line.

Then, with a sigh of such exaggerated suffering that it would have embarrassed a less committed performer, he leaned back in his chair.

"My love."

His tone suggested a man preparing to deliver news of the gravest importance.

"I fear I have encountered a difficulty."

He waited just long enough to make the declaration seem ominous before continuing.

"It appears that being Lord of Storm's End is a remarkably demanding occupation. One would think that ruling a collection of stubborn lords, keeping our stores supplied, and ensuring that half the coast doesn't blow into the sea would be enough to occupy a man."

He gestured towards the scattered papers on his desk.

"And yet, somehow, they continue to send me more bloody letters."

His grin emerged before he could quite suppress it.

"One might almost suspect they expect me to read them."

He picked up the offending parchment and gave it a look of profound distrust.

"Timber, my love. Timber. Apparently, the fate of the Stormlands rests upon whether a shipment of timber arrives before the next moon."

He dropped the letter onto the desk again.

"I ask you, how am I expected to concern myself with such matters when I have far more important things to attend to?"

His eyes settled pointedly upon his spouse.

The answer, as far as Lyonel was concerned, was obvious.

He had never been particularly suited to sitting still for hours over accounts and correspondence. He could do it, and he did it well enough when the occasion demanded it, but there was a reason he was known as the Laughing Storm rather than the Diligent Little Clerk. He preferred action, noise, company, and the sort of honest trouble that could be solved with a firm word or a strong arm.

And he particularly preferred his spouse.

Lyonel rose from his chair, abandoning the paperwork with the air of a man making a noble sacrifice for the good of his household. He rounded the desk and came to stand beside his beloved, his expression bright with an idea that was almost certainly going to cause his steward considerable distress.

"I have decided," he announced, "that the storm has made working conditions intolerable."

He glanced towards the window as rain battered the glass.

"Too noisy. Too gloomy. Far too much temptation to remain indoors and do absolutely nothing."

A pause.

"Fortunately, I have a solution."

He held out his hand.

"We shall find something pleasant to do. We might have wine brought up, or ask the kitchens for something sweet. We could sit by the hearth, or I could tell you the truly fascinating story of how my grandsire once attempted to ride through a storm and lost his hat, his horse's patience, and most of his dignity."

Lyonel's grin widened at the memory, whether entirely accurate or not.

"An extraordinary tale. Very educational."

He glanced back towards his desk, where his unfinished correspondence lay in a growing heap.

His steward would have words with him later.

His bannermen would survive another few hours without an answer. The timber, presumably, would not vanish into the Narrow Sea simply because its lord had chosen to spend a morning with his spouse.

Lyonel turned his attention back to his beloved and offered them his arm with a flourish.

"Come along, darling. The Stormlands can manage without me for an hour."

He paused, considering.

"Two, perhaps."

Then, with a laugh, he leaned closer and added, "And if anyone asks, tell them I am occupied with matters of the utmost importance."

His eyes gleamed.

"Which, of course, I am."

The rain had finally begun to ease sometime after midday.

For the first time in hours, the sky above Storm's End had stopped looking quite so determined to drown the world. The clouds remained heavy and grey, hanging low over Shipbreaker Bay, but the worst of the downpour had passed. Water streamed from the battlements and gathered in shining puddles across the courtyard, whilst the occasional gust of wind sent droplets scattering from the eaves.

Lyonel Baratheon regarded the scene from beneath one of the covered archways.

Then he smiled.

It was not, as a general rule, a smile that inspired confidence in those who knew him well.

His guards had learned to recognise it. His steward had learned to dread it. Even the servants who had only known their lord for a handful of months had begun to understand that whenever the Laughing Storm looked particularly pleased with himself, somebody was about to find their perfectly sensible afternoon interrupted by one of his ideas.

Today, that somebody was his spouse.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Lyonel gestured towards the courtyard with the enthusiasm of a man presenting the finest gardens in all the Seven Kingdoms rather than a stretch of wet stone that looked as though it had been scrubbed by the gods themselves.

The rain had left everything glistening. Beyond the castle walls, the sea churned beneath the clouded sky, its white-capped waves breaking against the distant rocks. The air smelled of wet earth, salt, and the clean sharpness that followed a heavy storm.

Lyonel drew in a deep breath, looking entirely at home.

"There," he declared. "That's better. I was beginning to think the clouds intended to keep us imprisoned until winter."

He turned towards his beloved, his expression brightening with a sudden thought.

A terrible thought, as it happened.

"Tell me, my love. Have you ever danced in the rain?"

The question was delivered with such casual innocence that anyone unfamiliar with Lyonel Baratheon might have believed it entirely harmless.

Unfortunately, his spouse was married to Lyonel Baratheon.

He looked back towards the courtyard, where the puddles reflected the pale afternoon light, and then down at his boots. A little water would hardly kill him. Nor, he suspected, would it do much harm to his beloved, though he had enough sense not to voice that particular observation before discovering how they felt about the proposition.

His grin widened.

"Well, if you haven't, I believe it is high time you did."

Before any servant could approach with a cloak or a sensible suggestion, Lyonel offered his spouse his hand.

"Come along. The rain has stopped trying to drown us, the courtyard is empty, and I find myself in a most romantic mood."

He glanced over his shoulder at the nearest guard, who had already begun to look suspicious.

"And if anyone asks, we are conducting an important inspection of the castle grounds."

The guard stared at him.

Lyonel stared back.

"An inspection," he repeated firmly.

Apparently satisfied that his authority had been sufficiently invoked, he returned his attention to his beloved, his laughter rumbling low in his chest.

"Besides, darling, what sort of lord would I be if I allowed you to spend your entire life at Storm's End without experiencing its finest traditions?"

He stepped out from beneath the archway, straight into a shallow puddle. Water splashed around his boots.

Lyonel looked down at it with obvious approval.

"Ah. Splendid."

He turned back and held out his hand again, his expression softening beneath all that mischief.

"Come dance with me."

There was no orchestra waiting in the hall, no musicians summoned to provide an appropriate tune, and no courtly audience to admire their steps. There was only the damp courtyard, the distant roar of the sea, and the man who had apparently decided that the most pressing matter facing the Lord of Storm's End was persuading his spouse to get their feet wet.

Lyonel gave their hand an inviting little tug, though he made no attempt to force them to follow.

"I promise not to step on your toes," he added solemnly.

A beat passed.

"Well. Not deliberately."

His laughter rang through the courtyard, loud and unrestrained, and he waited beneath the dripping archway with his hand extended.

For a man who had faced battle without flinching and could command an entire hall with his voice alone, Lyonel Baratheon appeared remarkably invested in securing a single dance.

And if the rain began again before they could finish it?

Well, that would simply make the occasion all the more memorable.