the laughing storm

okay but I already want to move him to his own blog. he is simply too much to be contained in a sideblog.

the music swells against the canvas walls when he drops into the chair— moreso falls into it, really. the way a man does when his legs are still humming with the last reel. the boards beneath the dancers thrum like a living thing, that familiar, beloved, rhythm; boots striking wood in a cadence that stirs something deep within him, the same pulse as hooves tearing across a fields, the same breathless rush of a charge. the stag is flushed from it, damp curls clinging to his temples, chest rising and falling as he laughs under his breath.

a goblet sits abandoned on the table, he doesn't bother to wonder whose. lyonnel reaches for it, sloshes a refil of wine, hands still unsteady from the dance (and the drink), and takes a long swallow that warms him all the way down.

then, the soft voice at his side.

"oh, I agree!" he hums, turning towards her with a bright grin and lifting the cup in a lazy salute. "and you're in the right place. plenty of wine here, and plenty of bellies to fill!" the warmth to his words seem half invitation, half celebration, and he shoots her a cheeky wink.

the moment stretches and something shifts. his smile softens slightly, tilts, and a faint crease forms between his brows as he studies her a little closer in the warm candle-lit glow. lyonel knows the faces that have been orbiting him all evening... the eager lords, the hopeful ladies, the families who have been nudging sons or daughters in his direction, hoping to gain his favour. she is none of them.

he kick's at the chair next to him, nudging it towards her, a lazy invitation.

"sit, if you like—" voice dropping into something gentler, more curious. "— tell me what brings you to my tent. or is it just the promise of a good drink?"

GAME OF THRONES (BOOK) STARTERS

the stag stands over him, staring down at where the hedge knight kneels in the mud, body still broken and bloody from the brutal trial he had survived— it had been a fierce battle, and had dolled out fierce enough injuries to match. the ferocity of the fight lived in every bruise, every breath, every trembling muscle.

oh but it had been fun, though... settling the thundering storm inside him in a way that the tourney itself couldn't quite reach.

he had half-expected the knight to turn down his (generous) offer, if their conversation underneath the elm tree was anything to go by. perhaps he had talked some sense into the man? good!

the lord's expression changed slowly, like a sunbeam breaking through the cloud cover. first, a small, bemused smile tugged at the corner of his lips. then it widened, brightened, deepened into something openly delighted. a breath of laughter escaped him, then another, until the sound rolled out of him fully— a booming, thunderous laugh, throwing his head back with the force of it. it wasn't mockery, no. it was hearty, happy. it was victory. it was the wild, unrestrained joy of a man who had won his prize.

"HA— brilliant, excellent— !" reaching forward and clapping a broad hand on duncan's shoulder, firm and grounding, the stag leans down to almost press their foreheads together. there's a delightful intensity in those golden-brown eyes as he searches to meet duncan's gaze. "— it's an honour to have you, hedge knight." he murmurs, voice low but no less sincere, as he offers the man a playful wink.

"RIGHT, enough of the fucking theatrics and formalities. come on, up with you, stand up— " and with that, he slid his hands under duncan's arms in an attempt to help hoist him to his feet.

GAME OF THRONES (BOOK) STARTERS

what does a warrior do during times of peace?

...he becomes a creature out of place, not quite sure where to put himself. there are no horns calling him to the field, no banners to rally beneath, no enemy to meet head-on. the days wear thin, frustration prickles under his skin like static in an oncoming storm. the realm is calm, and he should be greatful for it... but instead he feels the slow creep of boredom settle into his bones. he feels restless.

so he tries to fill the space the best he can. he trains until his muscles burn and sweat blinds him. he rides in tourneys, he hunts, he sails. he feasts until dawn. he drinks, he dances, he fucks. he chases the echos of battle where he can find it— the pounding of boots on a tavern floor in the place of the charging thunder of hooves, the fierces give-and-take of a lover's heat becomes a wrestling match in the sheets, the rough camaraderie of a bar brawl where there was once a clash of steel. it all becomes a poor imitation of the chaos he once commanded.

it all rings hollow, every subsitute falls short.

and at times he hates himself for it. the guilt gnaws at him for feeling like this. peace is good— good for the realm, good for the smallfolk and good for the lords who sleep easier without the threat of losing their lands or their titles. peace is better for everyone. he knows this. he wants this. he is no warmongerer, no butcher. he isn't a cruel man, he doesn't crave the bloodshed. he is a decent man at heart... or so he likes to think.

but he is so terribly bored.

battle engages him in a way that nothing else seems to do. it's the only thing that sharpened him, the danger and adrenaline of it all steadies him, and makes him feel whole. it makes the storm inside him settle into something clear and bright and, in the heart of it all he laughs— booming, wild, alive.

that is why they call him the laughing storm.

yet a warrior without war drifts. a warrior without war serves no purpose at all, and he's a little lost for it...