Lyonel Baratheon
The Laughing Storm at Ashford
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From outside came the steady music of the tourney’s first day, horses snorting in the heat, armor ringing, men shouting to one another over casks of ale and bragged victories not yet won. Inside the Baratheon pavilion, the air was cooler, the canvas walls stirring now and again with the breeze. Lyonel sat at ease amongst it all like he had been made for such places: for bright banners overhead, for noble company, for the hum of excitement before the lists began in earnest.
When he caught sight of you, his expression changed at once. Not softened, no, sharpened. Interest sat well on him. So did amusement.
Seven save me,he said, the ghost of a grin touching his mouth,
there is something finer than horseflesh and painted shields at this tourney after all.His gaze moved over you once, bold as brass and no less natural for it.
Come nearer. I’ve heard enough this morning from hedge knights, cousins, and men who think a new plume makes them worth hearing. You may do me the kindness of proving Ashford has gathered at least one person worth remembering.