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The rain begins before dusk and did not relent. It drums against the thick walls of Storm’s End, hammers at the narrow windows, seeps into the very bones of the castle. The waters of Shipbreaker’s Bay answer in kind; wild, relentless, and unforgiving.
You stand at the window and watch it all as though it belongs to you.
Darkness has always fit you better than light for as long as you can remember.
Behind you, the chamber door creaks open. “Well,” Lyonel Baratheon’s voice cuts through the storm, warm as the hearth fire, “If I did not know better, I’d say my lady wife was trying to outstare the rain.”
You did not turn. “I would win,” you replied quietly.
A soft huff of laughter. Boots crossed the stone floor, heavy but unhurried. He does not move like a man burdened by storms. Why would he, he’s the laughing storm after all. But he moves like he dares them to do their worst.
“You’ve been up here all evening,” he said. “They were asking after you in the hall.”
“They always are.”
“And yet, you are never there to see them.”
You hear a faint shrug in his voice. You imagine the easy smile that must have followed it, the one that wins men over and one that has disarmed women over before you twice as quickly.
“I saved you a place beside me,” he added.
“I did not ask you to do that.”
“No,” he said, gentler now, “you never do, but you are my wife and your seat is next to me.”
That almost made you turn. Almost.
Silence stretches, filled only by the thunder and the distant crash of waves. You feel him stop somewhere behind you, not too close but never too close unless invited.
He is learning. You are not sure you are though.
“Did I offend you?” he asked at last.
“No.” you said without hesitation.
“Then have I misstep somewhere?”
“No, you have not.”
“Gods,” he muttered a quiet exhaled of a breath. “You make this difficult.”
That draws your gaze over your shoulder.
He stands there in the low light, broad shouldered and golden even in the shadow, his dark hair still damp from the rain, a half-fastened gold cloak slung carelessly over one arm. There is a looseness to him, an ease, as though the world has never truly pressed hard enough to break him.
You wonder what that must feel like.
“I did not realize marriage was meant to be easy.” You spoke.
“It is not,” he agreed “But I had hoped it would be…less like speaking to a stone wall.”
Your jaw tightens slightly. “Then perhaps you chose poorly.”
His expression shifted, not to anger, not quite, but something sharper than before. “I chose you,” he said plainly.
“And you may come to regret it I fear.”
“Do you, my wife?” he asked.
The question lands between you, sudden and heavy. You turn fully now, facing him, your arms wrapped around your sides and the storm is at your back. “Regret what?”
“Marrying me?”
The honesty of it unsettles you. He does not look away. Lyonel never looks way. He meets everything head on whether it be storms, battles, people, and even you.
“I do not regret it,” you said after a moment.
“Then why does it feel like you are enduring me rather than living beside me?”
Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your gown. “I am not like the women you are used to,” you answered. “I do not laugh easily. I do not charm rooms. I do not…shine. Like you.”
His brows furrowed. “And you think that is what I wanted?”
“It is what you are used to. And what you probably deserve.”
“Aye,” he admitted, “And yet, I find it all rather dull.”
That startled you. He takes a step closer to you know, cautious but deliberate, like approaching something that might bolt if startled.
“They laugh too loud at things that are not funny,” he continued. “They speak without saying anything at all. They look at me like I am something to win just to curry my favor.” His gaze softened then. “You do none of those things.”
“No,” you said dryly. “I fear I do far worse.”
“See my dear, you think too much,” he countered. “You watch everything. You feel things you do not say.” A faint smile tugs at this mouth. “It is actually quite infuriating.”
Despite yourself, your lips almost twitch. Almost.
“And yet,” he added, quieter now, “I would rather that than empty noise.”
You looked away from him again, but not toward the storm this time. Just away.
“You say that now,” you whispered. “But there will come a day when you tire of it. Of me. They always do.”
“Of you being quiet?”
“Of me being…this.” You gesture vaguely to yourself, to the distance you keep, the coldness you cannot quite shed.
He closes the space between you then, slow enough that you could step back if you wished but you don’t.
“I do not need you to be loud. I can be loud enough for the both of us,” Lyonel said, voice lower now. “I do not need you to laugh at every jest or dance at every feast.” His eyes are searching for yours now. “I just need you to let me in. Please.”
Your breath caught, just slightly.
“But I do not know how,” you admitted.
The words felt strange on your tongue. Fragile. Dangerous.
His expression shifted again, something softer, something steadier. “Then we start here.” He said.
“Lyonel, it is not that simple.” You admitted.
“Nothing worth having is.”
A beat passed between you. Thunder rolls overhead, shaking the glass in its frame.
“I feel like I do not fit here,” you confessed, the word slipping out before you could stop them. “In this castle. In your world.” You felt your eyes begin to water, but you tried your best to not let them fall.
He studied you then for a long moment, noticing the slight quiver to your lip and your eyes beginning to water. He raised his hand to your face, lightly rubbing your cheek. Then, quietly, “Storm’s End has stood against every storm thrown at it. You think it cannot hold one more?”
“That is not the same.”
“No,” he agreed. “It is not,” He reached out then with his other hand, hesitating only a fraction before his hand finds yours. His palm was warm like it was against your cheek. “Because the storm I am concerned with is not out there.”
His fingers tightened slightly around yours.
“It is the one that keeps you from me.”
You swallowed, “I do not mean to—”
“I know,” he interrupts gently. “Gods, I know. You are not cruel.” A faint crooked grin appears. “You are just… guarded like a keep under siege.”
“And do you intended to lay siege to it?”
“I will it that is what it takes.” He spoke.
You let out a small huff of a laugh. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It will be,” he agreed easily. “But I have never been one to shy away from a challenge. Who do you think I am?”
For a moment you simply looked at him. At the man who laughs in storms, who speaks plainly, who reaches for you even when you give him little in return.
“You are too bright for me,” you said softly.
“And you are too dark for me,” he replied just as softly. “Yet here we are.”
The rain continued it relentless fall. The sea does not calm. But his thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles, grounding, patient, unyielding in its warmth.
“Stay with me tonight,” he asked. It was not a command. Not a plea. “Not in silence. Just stay with me. Please.”
You hesitated. It would be easier to retreat. To return to the window, to the storm, to the familiar solitude that has never asked anything of you. But his hand is warm along with his presence. And he is still holding on to you.
“…Alright.” You said at last.
Relief flicked across his face. It was quick, bright and impossible to hide. Which you could not hide the smirk on your face when you saw it.
“Alright,” he echoed.
He does not pull you close yet. Does not overwhelm you with the force of his presence. He simply keeps your hand as he leads you away from the widow, away from the storm, toward the fire.
It is not warmth, not yet. But it is the beginning.