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“What happened?” Alys snapped, storming towards Lyonel’s chamber in a thunder worthy of the Baratheon words.
The two sers who had accompanied Lyonel on the hunt stiffened at their lady’s approach. The fearful look exchanged between them did not escape her notice nor the blood still staining their tunics.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” one dared to speak. “Maester Syzario said we were not to let anyone enter.”
“It’s not a pretty sight,” the other pressed. “Your ladyship should not be witness to such things.”
“Maester Syzario is still a servant to his lady,” she said, testily. “As for the rest, I shall judge that for myself.”
She stepped forward only to be halted as each man moved in front of the door.
In any other situation she may have admired their loyalty, but she was in no mood to tolerate fools.
“Sers, I will state the matter very plainly. Either you face the disappointment of my Maester for not following orders; or, you face the wrath of my husband for having lay hands on me. Do we understand one another?”
They did not require a debate. One more shared another panicked was enough for both to step aside.
She spared neither of them a second glance as she pushed the door forward.
The smell hit her first, a sickening combination of copper, sweat and boiled wine. Blood continued its trail from the door to the bed. A pile of red stained clothes and bandages lay in a heap on the floor. The sheets had not been spared either, absorbing every drip of sweat and life from the body sprawled across it.
He was so pale.
She knew Lyonel to be strong. He was a great beast of a man with wild hair and wild eyes who laughed too loud, indulged too much and forced the world to be wider to accommodate him. She never thought she’d ever use the word frail to describe him. The thought shook her to her core.
Maester Syzario sat in a chair beside him, his old but steady hands working a needle and thread through her husband’s skin.
If Lyonel felt any pain, he did not show it. His head was propped up on a cushion of pillows as his eyes fluttered open and closed. She tried to focus on his breathing, syncing her own to the rise and fall of his chest as she stepped further into the room.
The sound of her footsteps seemed to rouse him as his head jerked suddenly; a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
“My lady,” he greeted, his voice cracked and yet still laughing. “I got the bastard! They’re carving up that stag in the kitchens now. We’ll feast on that beast for a week yet.”
“I don’t want to hear a word from you,” she said, forcing the shaking words to an edge. “Maester Syzario?”
He did not answer immediately, taking the time to tie off the last of the thread before turning his attention to her.
Despite it all, she felt a surge of gratitude toward the man. He had joined their household while she had been pregnant with Ormund. The difficulty of her condition finally prompted Lyonel to get rid of Maester Corbus, useless cunt that he was. She knew her husband could not be in better hands.
“The wound is deep,” he said, his voice steady. “Thankfully, it was a clean blow. There were no significant tears in the tissue. Better still, they were not far from the keep when it happened.”
He leaned down, grabbing a fresh set of bandages and began wrapping the wound he had just stitched.
“I have given his lordship milk of the poppy to deal with the pain. It will take time to recover, but I believe there will be no lasting damage.”
“He’s sewn me up prettier than one of your dresses,” Lyonel added. “The scar will be quite the sight by the end. Eh?”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Alys bit out.
Maester Syzario glanced up. His expression remained unperturbed, but she could swear the threat of a laugh pressed against the corners of his eyes. Still, he nodded in acknowledgment before finishing his work. Only when the bandage was properly tied did he stand.
“He is out of danger, my lady,” he assured. “However, to prevent further injury, I would advise he does not leave this bed for at least a week or engage in any other strenuous activities.”
She gave a sharp nod, swallowing some of the embarrassment from her outburst. “Thank you, Maester Syzario.”
He seemed to understand, giving her a respectful bow before turning his attention back to his patient.
“Rest my lord. I will go ensure we have bandages ready for this evening.”
“You need not leave, ser,” Alys said.
This time the smile did prevail, crinkling at the corner of his eyes in jest. “On the contrary. I found it best to place a good wall between myself and a storm.”
He gave one final bow before taking his leave, carefully shutting the door behind him and no doubt warning all of the coming squall.
Alys turned her sights onto Lyonel. Whether it was the milk of the poppy or just a general carelessness, he did not seem to sense the building pressure of thunder behind his wife’s eyes.
“See?” he said. “You heard the man. I am well.”
“You are not!” she snapped, crossing the room in an instant, with bared teeth. “You’ve got a hole the size of a barn door in your belly!”
“A cellar door at best,” he dismissed. “Now will you calm yourself? You’ve seen me worse than this.”
“A broken leg or a busted jaw at a tourney does not compare,” she argued. “I had to hear about this from a maid. All the servants were convinced you were dead or nearly. Do you realize how much blood you tracked in?! How could you be so reckless?”
“I can hardly account for the actions of a stag now can I?”
“You should not have been pursuing one to begin with.”
“Would you have me stop hunting?”
“If you are going to be so dismissive, yes!”
His eyes darkened then, and for a moment he was once again the proud Baratheon she knew him to be, with wind and lighting of his own to counter hers.
“Careful. You are my lady and my love, but you will not dictate to me what I can or cannot do in my own castle.”
Her jaw clenched, forcing a calming breath through her nose. His stubbornness would be the death of both of them. “That may be, but one of us must take some responsibility. You are the Lord of Storm’s End. You have certain obligations.”
“That prevent me from hunting?” he said, sardonically.
“That prevent you from pursuing pleasure without any regard to anyone! There is the castle to keep and servants to employ. All your vassals and knights and squires. And Ormund–.”
Her breath caught. She could feel her throat begin to tighten as the thunder threatened to turn to rain. “What if it wasn’t a stag? What if it was a wolf or a boar? How could I tell him his father was taken away from him for sport!”
Lyonel did not answer her and she could not look him in the eye, keeping her gaze on the edge of the mattress instead. She did not want to let go at the anger just yet. The alternative would surely drown her.
“Oh, Alys.” There was no storm in the word. Her name was simply her name spoken with the understanding that could only come from his lips.
There was no stopping the rain then. It pooled over in warm streaks down her face. Not a gale just yet, but could well turn into one if she did not keep her breath steady.
“You cannot go on with so little concern for your own life,” she said, raising her chin as she wiped away the tears. She had to keep some of her dignity.
His hand stirred then, moving from the periphery of her eye to the center with an open palm.
She took it as the invitation it was, taking his hand in hers as she took a seat on the edge of the bed.
It never ceased to fascinate her, how big his hands were compared to hers. After well over ten years of marriage she knew every crease and cut of that hand just as well as her own. She chose to focus on the life still inside them, the strength teased by the way he squeezed her, and not linger as just how much cooler he was to the touch.
“I suppose there is some truth in what you say,” he admitted. “Did I frighten you?”
She nodded, not wanting to put any more power into the fear that gripped her heart by giving it a voice.
“How can I make amends?” he asked.
“I would ask you to be less careless, but I know there is little chance of that,” she said, dryly. “I can only ask you never to die from such actions.”
She lifted her gaze to his only to catch him in a moment of deep thought. He obviously came to some conclusion as he gave a sharp, decisive nod.
“Done.”
Her brows furrowed in confusion as he slipped his hand from hers only to offer her his pinky.
“Lyonel…”
“A vow against death is no small matter,” he said. “It requires the most ancient and sacred of traditions. Now give it here.”
She stared at him in disbelief. While she trusted Maester Syzario’s judgement, it was clear he had prescribed too much milk of the poppy.
Lyonel remained unmoved, his jaw set and his pinky at the ready.
When it became clear he would remain that way, Alys gave in, intertwining her pinky with him.
The moment their fingers were locked, he pulled her closer as if to ensure she was not about to slip away. She could feel him summon what strength he had left to spare in the way he held her gaze. Whatever possessed him to do this, she knew in the morning he would take what he said next as seriously as any oath made by the sword.
“I vow, that should the Stranger come for me, I will tell him to fuck off,” he began. “No matter what mask he wears, be it man, woman or beast, he will be turned away. My wife bids me stay and so I shall. This I swear by the old Gods and New.”
Alys could feel her heart tighten at the words, unsure whether to cry or laugh at the ridiculousness of such a vow being spoken over such a childish gesture. She only knew she loved him and if the gods were merciful, they would take her first.
“You’re a fool,” she whispered, fondly.
“Your fool,” he reminded.
She could not bear it any longer. Leaning down, she pressed her lips to his, the kiss an assurance that she was his just as deeply as he was hers.
“Mine,” she swore. “All mine.”