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The wine was sweet as it washed over your tongue, heavy and overwhelming as you set down your goblet. You regard the tent with interest, music and laughter bouncing off the walls, the tables filled with food and drink. Your husband’s hand comes down to cover yours, warm and calloused, and he lifts it to his lips to pepper the skin with kisses.
“What is it that has you acting like a lovesick fool, my darling husband?” You tease softly, pulling back to hold his gaze. You still cannot quite understand your luck, being given a husband of such gentleness and character. Even if the marriage was arranged, it has blossomed into one of love, and the coarseness of his beard tickles your skin as you pepper kisses to his cheek.
“Only the honor of having the most beautiful woman by my side.” He purrs in return, voice deep as he drags your chair closer to his, grunting in annoyance as the armrests present him from pulling you flush to his side.
“And maybe the wine?” You gesture to the large goblet he is in the process of emptying. He shakes his head with vigor, hand tilting up your head for a deep kiss. It’s dizzying, messy, and domineering, as his person. Your hands find their way to the back of his head to pull him deeper into the kiss, your thumb brushing on the band of his crown.
“I am only drunk - with my love - for you.” His breath is sweet with wine, warm as it brushes your skin between kisses as he begins to drown you in his affections. Your hands drop to clutch his shirt, fingers twining into the golden chain fastening his cloak. Lyonel isn't one to do anything half-heartedly, and he covers your form in so many kisses, compliments, and gentle touches that you slowly start losing track of where you are, senses so filled with him.
“Lyonel Baratheon, The Laughing Storm!” Booms a voice, and your husband pulls away from you to stare at the man. Lord Fossoway. His arms are open, clearly anticipating a hero’s welcome into the tent. Your cheeks heat when you return to reality, straightening your back and moving your hair to cover a spot on your neck Lyonel had paid special attention to.
“Can you not see I am busy?” Lyonel barks, not bothering to straighten his jacket or shirts as they lay askew. Your hand is in his now, and he traces gentle patterns with his thumb as he stares the opposing lord down.
“I am sure you can spare a moment of your time.” You trace his jaw with your fingers before you press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“I have some matters to attend to with Lord Arryn.” With that, you round the table, disappearing into the crowd, leaving Lyonel gazing longingly after you. This earns him a few shoves and banter from the men always looming around his table.
"I have a beautiful wife to share my life with, should I not enjoy it?" This is met with murmurs of agreement, to which he is quick to decree that any man (besides himself) to comment on your loveliness will be burned. Or possibly hung.
*****
Upon your return, you find him conversing with a quite distressed-looking hedge knight. You still following the conversation from afar. You take the opportunity to take in your husband, fully. He looks particularly good in his golden embellishments, the stags and antlers decorating him and the space around.
"You've come for my head, then?" His voice has dropped deeper as he confronts the knight, eyes cold and unfamiliar to you.
"W-What. No. No!" The poor knight is plundering, but your husband is not a man to make things easy, so he questions him further.
"Then why the fuck are you in my tent?" And the knight, the Seven bless him, lifts the pastry in the air.
"S-Supper." You decide this is a moment for you to intervene and sidestep the guards, who hurry to let you pass.
"You are torturing the poor hedge knight, my darling." You press a kiss to his cheek, and he lets out a delighted peal of laughter.
"My sweet wife! Ser… I don't think I caught your name." Lyonel returns his attention momentarily to the knight.
"Dunk. Ser Dunk." The knight answers without hesitation, hand coming to rest on the pommel of his sword. On someone else, the gesture might look intimidating, even threatening, but for him… It seems to be one of comfort, rather than threat.
"That's ridiculous."
"Lyonel!" You are quick to chide him, but he stands and scoops you into his embrace, pulling you flush against his chest.
"This is my sweet wife, my darling." He all but purrs your introduction, tucking his nose into your neck. The rest of his introduction is muttered into your neck, but you think it's probably for the best, given his all the more drunken state.
"M-My Lady." Dunk bows his head, and you regard him with curiosity, all the while Lyonel resumes his work on your neck.
As he cranes his head, one of the points in his antlered crown presses into your temple.
"Dear husband, if you do not mean to spear me with your antlers, you'd soon stop." His head lifts lazily, his nose tucking into the crook of your neck. Dunk takes the opportunity to shove the rest of the pastry into his mouth, and you pull back from your husband to gesture to a nearby serving girl.
A selection of food is hurriedly brought to the table, and you gesture for Dunk to eat as you fill your plate with the variety of pastries and fruits. Your favourites, the lemon tarts, are situated close to your elbow, and you simply move them from their tray to your plate.
Lyonel reaches for one, but you smack his hand away. He gasps as you’d stabbed him, and poor Dunk stares, frozen in fright.
“I share many things with you, my love: my bed and my body included. But I will not share my lemon tarts.” You shoo his hand away as you pick one up, lifting it into your mouth as you continue to stare your husband down.
Lyonel returns your stare with a look filled with gentle adoration.
"My sweet, you've always been fond of … sweet things." He gazes at you with so much love that you are sure you might melt.
"That is almost poetic, Lyonel. But you'd know." He regards you with a questioning look. You lean in, pressing a kiss to his lips, yours sweet with honey.
"You are one of the sweet things I am so fond of." He grins, yet again, and he steals a kiss as he gazes out into the tent where the tables have been moved aside to make room for his favourite part of the evening. Dancing.
"Would you dance with me, my love?" He offers you his arm, and you gaze longingly at the plum rosettes still on the tray. He follows your line of sight and smiles.
”Later, then.” His lips press to your temple before he turns to Dunc.
“Do you like to dance?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
You watch, smiling, as your husband slowly loses himself to the dance and wine. You finish your plum rosette, dusting your hands free of the crumbs, and indulge yourself in perhaps a few too many more cups of wine. You catch him for a moment here and there, spinning wildly, grinning in the midst of the fury of the dance.
Lyonel doesn’t return to you until it is time for the last songs, and he stumbles to the table, seizing your cup from your hand and emptying it with a single drink.
“You, my wife, must dance with me! You promised you’d share your body, and I demand you uphold that promise.” He demands as he slams the cup down, words dazed from the wine, but his eyes are filled with love.
“What kind of a wife would I be if I went back on my promise?” Your voice is a gentle purr as you push yourself to stand with a wide smile. With a single motion, you unhook your cape and allow him to whisk you away into the heart of the dance.