Chapter Text
The clap of thunder and the flash of lightning across the deep grey skies over Storm’s End was accompanied by fearless laughter and the pitter-patter of bare feet against stone. Two children raced against the impending storm down towards the courtyard where a dozen horses had trotted in, kicking up dust as the first droplets of rain pelted down around them. One of the riders, a powerfully built man in gold and silver armour emblazoned with the stag of House Baratheon, dismounted his house and removed the stag helmet that adorned his head.
Lyonel Baratheon tilted his head back and exhaled deeply, raking a hand through his silver-streaked dark hair, relief slumping his shoulders as he took in the familiarity of home. He had barely handed over his helmet and the reins of his horse to a servant before the doors to the courtyard burst open and, in a flurry of golden and cream silk, a black-haired woman ran over as if the wind itself was on her heels.
Myridian Martell threw herself into her husband’s arms, all plum-spiced perfume and laughter. Hollering with delight, Lyonel picked her up and spun her in a circle, eliciting a shriek that echoed throughout the courtyard. Setting her on her feet, he caught her by the chin and bestowed a fierce kiss upon her, one that she reciprocated eagerly.
“Come inside, my love.” Lyonel offered his arm. “You’re going to get that beautiful dress wet.”
“Father!” Two dark-haired children emerged from the keep, their speed and eagerness matching that of their mother as they charged toward Lyonel. Beaming, he stepped forward and opened his arms wide, grunting as the pair collided with him, almost knocking him over in the process.
“What are you doing running around like a pair of hellions?” Lyonel straightened up to examine them, raising his eyebrows and inspecting them with amusement.
“We saw the horses coming in.” The elder of the pair, Elissa Baratheon, declared. At twelve, she was every bit as lovely and fierce as her mother, but her wicked grin was every inch her father’s. “We wanted to come and see you.”
“It was Elissa’s idea!” Marros Baratheon, just turned eight, pushed the blame upon his older sister as she scowled. In the absence of his eldest child, Lyonel assumed that Ormund, a young man of moods at sixteen, would be keeping to himself inside. He scooped Marros up in one arm and took Elissa’s hand.
As Lyonel made his way inside, he saw Ormund loitering in the entrance hall, shifting his feet. The boy had become surly and scarce for words in the past year or so, and the words they did get from him were typically monosyllabic in nature. Lyonel released Elissa’s hand to ruffle Ormund’s hair, though the boy scowled. Taller than his mother now, and with eyes that were strongly reminiscent of hers.
“Ormund, greet your father, won’t you?” Myridian chastised, and Ormund shot his mother a sour look before turning his gaze upon Lyonel.
“Welcome home, Father.” His voice was deep now, almost deeper than Lyonel’s, though every now and then it still hitched up as tended to be the case for boys his age. Lyonel took little note of Ormund’s moods, ever-changing as the storm that raged above.
“Good to see you too, son.” Lyonel recalled the tourney that his own father, who had passed two years before, had held in honour of Ormund’s birth. The sort of revelry and fanfare would simply embarrass Ormund in the present day. Strange to think that Myridian had been the same age that Ormund was now. Had she really been so young?
“Dinner will be prepared soon.” Myridian clasped her hands together, a knowing smile playing about her lips. “I trust Mistwood was enjoyable, lord husband?”
Lyonel set Marros down and snagged Myridian around the waist, tugging her against him with a sly grin. Ormund rolled his eyes and Elissa made a disgusted noise, as tended to be the elder two children’s reaction to their parents ardent displays of affection. Marros simply giggled, too young to feel the sting of embarrassment.
“What cunning plot is in motion, wife?” For good measure, Lyonel pressed a fierce kiss against her lips, and Ormund’s patience snapped as he scowled, turning on his heel and marching away.
“We have received an invitation to a tourney.” Myridian rested her hands on her husband’s armoured shoulders, fingers curling against the metal. “Lord Ashford’s daughter is celebrating her thirteenth name-day, and it appears that it will be quite an affair. Knights are coming from all over the country to enter the lists.”
“The royal family?” Lyonel enquired, eyebrows raised and eyes alight at the idea of competing in a tourney. The Laughing Storm was renowned for his talent in the tourneys, and there was nothing that Lyonel enjoyed more than proving he was still not to be underestimated. Perhaps Ormund would even enter, though considering the boy’s lack of enthusiasm for lances and swords, it was unlikely.
The royal family, however…through Myridian, they were kin. Myridian’s father was the younger brother of Myriah Martell, making her a first cousin to the Targaryen princes, Baelor, Aerys, Rhaegal and Maekar.
Though Myridian had the same blood as the princes—half Targaryen, half Martell—there was a significant difference in the treatment she received. Lyonel supposed the fact that she looked Dornish meant that the thinly-veiled racism was levelled at his wife in a way that the Targaryen-presenting royalty never experienced.
“They’ll be in attendance.” Myridian admitted coolly, sweeping a strand of silky black hair behind her ear. Somewhere in between her cousins’ generation and that of their children, Lyonel could not recall her ever being particularly close with any of them, though it was in her interest to stay in their good graces.
“Well, if the Targaryens grace the tourney with their presence, I have no doubt that the rest of the realm will flock to it also.” Lyonel pressed a kiss to her forehead. “As should we.”
A sly smile spread across Myridian’s lips. Of course she had known he would want to attend. Despite having three children, Lyonel and Myridian were renowned for their ability to host the most lavish and decadent parties across the realm. Storm’s End was a familiar haunt for those looking to lose themselves in drink and dance, not to mention a bizarre array of games. Once, in Highgarden, Lyonel had gotten himself lost in a maze and it had taken until morning for him to be found.
“We will discuss the finer details over dinner.” Lyonel examined his wife. Seventeen years of marriage, and she was still the most breathtaking creature he had ever laid eyes upon. The pair often invited others to their bed, both men and women, but nothing would ever compare to Myridian. “Now, I’m off to get out of my armour. Would you like to help?”
Myridian tapped on Ormund’s door, and did not wait for a response before she entered, knowing she would be waiting forever if she did. She was wrapped in a nightgown that shone like molten gold. Her hair was pinned up above her head, which was her preference when she was preparing for bed. Leaning against her eldest child’s dresser, she folded her arms over her chest and raised her eyebrows expectantly. Realising his mother was not leaving, Ormund eased his lanky frame from the bed with a sigh.
“Do we really have to go to Ashford?” The boy complained.
Outside, the storm still raged. Myridian heard the rain lashing against stone, and when she peered out of Ormund’s window facing Shipbreaker Bay, the sky was dark as midnight and the water was deep sapphire with white froth where it broke against the rocks. She couldn’t see why Ormund would prefer the harshness of home to the Reach, where the weather was often sunlight and warmth.
“Yes, we do.” Myridian’s firm voice would broach no argument. She stared at her son, the child who most closely resembled her. Both a blessing and a curse, for his appearance proudly boasted his Dornish heritage, and yet he faced the same snide remarks and subtle differences in treatment that his mother did.
Myridian had been fifteen when she had left Sunspear to wed Lyonel Baratheon, five years her senior. The pair had been uncertain of one another, yet they had fallen in love with relative ease, and Ormund had been born a year after their union. She had last taken her children to Dorne when Marros was a babe, so they were long overdue a visit.
Despite Dorne being a part of the realm now, there were many who simmered with resentment because of the privileges that the Martells had been granted, and that envy had followed Myridian around since she had arrived in the Stormlands to be Lyonel’s bride. She had made every effort to integrate herself into Westerosi society, and yet still she worried it was not enough, not for her and not for her children.
“Are you going to try and arrange a match for me again?” Ormund asked, the sullenness heavy upon his tone as his dark eyes settled upon his mother.
“Perhaps.” Myridian responded cheerfully. In truth, at sixteen Ormund was at a prime age for a handsome match. “For you are a man grown, and soon to be in need of a wife.”
She did not remind Ormund, once again, that when she was his age she had been wed and he had been a squalling babe. The tale did little to ease her son’s already frustrated demeanour, and indeed he rolled his eyes at the prospect of his parents arranging a match for him, muttering something under his breath.
“Pardon?” Myridian arched an eyebrow, the edge to her words telling Ormund he would, in no uncertain terms, be repeating it. “I didn’t catch that.”
“I said, that’s if you and Father are sober enough to make any considerations.” Ormund ground out.
“Insolent brat!” Myridian barked, her dark eyes flashing danger as she marched over to her son. “Were I not a kind mother, I would cuff you about the ear for such an insult. Your father and I enjoy drinking and dancing as do many of our station, as you might. It may even put a smile on your face, gods forbid.”
“You’re always hosting parties.” Ormund complained, for he was far too young to understand the importance of such matters. Yet had his own mother not been his age and wearing a smile so constant it hurt her face? Had Myridian not allowed herself to be prodded and preened over and made a spectacle of, simply for being different?
“How terrible for you.” Myridian gasped, pressing a hand over her heart in mock outrage. “Feasts and music? It must all be too much!”
Perhaps one day, when he was Lord of Storm’s End, he would realise the importance of making connections. Myridian had Targaryen cousins she could call upon, not to mention strong friendships within the Stormlands: Jesika Penrose and Gawen Swann amongst them, not to mention several of the Carons.
“Why must you always make fun of me?” Ormund demanded, genuine frustration creeping into his tone and colour in his cheeks. The resemblance to Lyonel came out when he was angry, for they both wore the same look about their face.
“I’m sorry, darling.” Myridian rested a hand on his arm and pressed a kiss to his cheek, and Ormund’s mood was not sour enough for him to wrench away. Brief sympathy washed over her, that of a mother who could not quite pinpoint the source of her child’s ire. “But you will be Lord of Storm’s End, and you must understand the nature of such things.”
Ormund scoffed. “The nature of parties?”
“The nature of politics.” Myridian corrected firmly. “Attending events is important, especially when absence can so easily be taken as a slight.”
“You don’t even like your Targaryen cousins.” Ormund muttered, which wasn’t necessarily true, for Myridian had simply not seen much of them over the years. Yet she gripped her son’s shoulder tightly at his words.
“You cannot speak so freely about them, not in front of others.” Myridian warned. “My cousin Baelor is a fair man, but Maekar is less so, and he is not quick to forgive a slight. You need mind your tongue.”
“What of their sons?” Ormund asked, unable to disguise his curiosity.
The last time Myridian had been in King’s Landing had been for the birth of Rhae, Maekar’s youngest child, who was only a little older than Marros. There were so many members of the Targaryen family that she, a cousin who was Martell by name, had fetched little attention from the princes and their families.
“I suppose Aerion must be about your age.” Myridian mused, though everything she’d heard about Aerion indicated the spoiled dragon prince was cruel and vain. “Valarr and Daeron a few years older.”
Ormund would make fast friends with the right attitude. The issue at present was that his attitude was less than pleasing, and he would learn that a sour demeanour and bad temper would get him nowhere. She wondered if it was his age, for neither she nor Lyonel possessed such surliness.
“Will Elissa and Marros be coming too?” Ormund asked. He often despaired of his younger siblings, but he was also protective of them in the manner that older brothers were. Myridian remembered that her oldest brother, Daristan, was much the same when she was a girl.
“Of course they will.” In fact, knowing Lyonel, a whole entourage would be accompanying them. Her husband never did things by half measures, and it was one of the things that she loved about him.
“Are you really going to find me a wife?” Ormund asked, his shoulders slumping in defeat as if he had resigned himself to such a fate. Myridian could not help but laugh, reaching up to sweep her son’s dark hair back from his forehead.
“Well, I suppose that depends on who we find at the tourney, hmm?”
Lyonel sprawled out across silk sheets of black and yellow, thoroughly pleased to be home in Storm’s End—even if they would be leaving for Ashford within the following days. Lords of more temperate climates would dislike the storm, but Lyonel had listened to the rain since he was a boy. He was not a person to easily settle, restless and impatient, but the storm had a way of calming him.
Myridian slipped into his room with a candle aglow in her hand and her black hair cascading like oil down her back. Lyonel let himself look her over. Gods, she was a beautiful woman. At thirty-two years old, Myridian remained slender with a figure that should have been the envy of many a lady. Her skin was smooth as porcelain, the pale colouring inherited from her Targaryen mother. Yet the fervent dark eyes and dark hair, those were all Maron Martell.
Lyonel spread his arms wide, his chest bare as he nudged the blankets down. “Come to bed so I may get another child on you.”
Myridian laughed as she set the candle beside the bed and tumbled in next to him, tendrils of dark hair brushing against his skin as she rested her head on his chest. It had been eight years since they’d had Marros, and whilst Myridian was not averse to more children, when their youngest was a babe she had expressed that she wanted a break to focus on the children they did have. Lyonel had no complaints about the moon tea, yet he noticed that she had stopped taking it the past few months.
“You know, most men would be far more subtle.” She said wryly.
“What need have I for subtlety?” Lyonel traced his fingers up and down her bare arm. He inhaled the scent of her night perfume: lavender and bergamot. “You are my wife, we make excellent children, and the process is one we both thoroughly enjoy. There’s nothing to be coy about.”
Lyonel rolled them so that he was atop her, pressing his lips to hers. Gods, how he missed her when she was away. He and Myridian often enjoyed decadent delights and experimenting with sex, but sometimes a man just wanted to fuck his wife. He liked the feeling of her soft form beneath him, the way she arched up against his touch. Myridian’s hands traced down his bare chest as his lips moved down her neck, a hand rising to fondle her breast through the thin fabric of her nightdress.
The door handle squeaked in protest, and Lyonel rolled off his wife with an annoyed sigh at the interruption. Marros tiptoed into the room, the arrival of their youngest child eliciting a huff of amusement and a sideways look at Lyonel. He immediately pivoted from lustful husband to caring father.
“What is it, Marros?” Lyonel reached for the boy, scooping him up to sit on the bed. He was almost getting too big to be lifted around in such a manner, though as the youngest of the family, they all often forgot it.
“I don’t want to go to the tourney.” Marros curled up to his father, while Myridian reached over to rub the boy’s back. “They’re loud and stinky and the horses sound terrible when they die.”
It was an unfortunate consequence of jousts that horses were often injured or killed during the spectacle. Marros was a gentle boy, and one of his favourite pastimes was riding his horse, since Lyonel had only just declared him big enough to have his own. Carrot, he’d named the creature, an absolute nuisance who had little patience for anyone who wasn’t Marros or the stablehand.
“Prince Aegon might be there.” Myridian said, in the soft tone she adopted specifically for Marros. “Wouldn’t it be nice to meet him? Perhaps you two can ride around on Carrot together.”
Aegon was the youngest of Maekar’s sons, not too much older than Marros. The pair had never met, though the suggestion made it clear that Myridian was intent on approaching her Targaryen cousins. Most likely to do with Ormund, if Lyonel had to guess. The boy was ripe for marriage, much as he may try to resist it.
“I suppose.” Marros didn’t sound certain, but his hopeful eyes darted between his parents. “Can I sleep here tonight?”
Yet another habit that Marros was getting too old for, though Lyonel could understand his desire to cling to his parents. Ormund and Elissa had been far more independent at eight, but Marros had been coddled much of his life. Lyonel exhaled slowly and nudged the boy between him and Myridian.
“Just for tonight, alright? You’re becoming far too big to share a bed with your parents, boy.”
“Lyonel.” Myridian chastised softly.
“Just for tonight.” Marros agreed, the happiness evident in his voice and the small smile across his lips as he settled against the pillows.
Lyonel closed his eyes and thought fondly of the impending tourney. His name was already renowned, but he did love a good excuse for revelry. If the Targaryens were in attendance, perhaps it might be good fun to unhorse one of them. He may be a few years shy of forty, yet he could keep up with any of them, especially when it came to drinking and dancing.
Yet with the amusements came the inevitable: curious eyes on Myridian, as if they all didn’t damn well know that Lady Baratheon was Dornish. Insults to his wife were never tolerated, and by now the nobility would know that they were greeted with Lyonel Baratheon’s fist. He was a mercurial man, though his mood whenever Myridian was offended was the same: anger at the disrespect toward his wife.
Yet, her Targaryen cousins would be present. Lyonel would like to hope that, considering Myridian’s heritage so closely mirrored theirs, they would not stand for slights. He could continue hoping, but the truth was more vexing: Myridian bore the Martell name of Dorne. It did not matter that a Targaryen was her mother. She would never be one of them.