Chapter 9: Stormborn
The world became a rhythm of terror. Each of the destrier’s strides was a jolting impact that traveled up Alysanne’s spine, a relentless hammering that promised to shake her apart. The initial adrenaline that had frozen her bones melted into a cold, clutching fear. The ground was a blur of mud and stone far below. If she fell, she would break.
Garon’s body was a solid wall behind her, unmoved by the horse’s motion, a cage of muscle and heat. He said nothing. For hours, he said nothing. He guided the horse with slight shifts of his weight, the reins held loosely in one hand, his other arm a bar across her midsection, not holding her, just there. A prevention. She dared not lean back into him. She held herself rigid, every muscle screaming from the strain, her fingers locked onto the saddle’s high pommel until they cramped.
The landscape changed from the outskirts of King’s Landing to rolling hills, then to the denser, darker forests that marked the beginning of the Stormlands. The sky, which had started a pale grey, curdled into a thick, bruised purple. The wind picked up, a low moan in the pines that soon became a shriek. The first fat drops of rain hit like stones.
“Storm’s coming in fast,” Garon muttered, the words rumbling against her back. It was the first thing he’d said since the gate.
He kicked the destrier into a canter. The motion was a violent rocking lurch that tore a gasp from Alysanne. She slid backward, her rigid posture finally broken, and her spine pressed flush against his chest. His arm tightened around her, pinning her there. “Relax,” he growled in her ear, voice almost lost to the rising wind. “You fight it, you’ll make him nervous.”
She couldn’t relax. Her body was a knot of tension and cold dread. The rain became a torrent, a freezing deluge that soaked through the leather and wool in minutes. It plastered her hair to her skull, streamed down her face, found every seam in her clothing. She began to shiver, great convulsive tremors that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the icy water now seeping into her bones.
Through the slashing rain, she saw a light. A lonely, hazy yellow glow in the gloom ahead.
“The Crossroads,” Garon shouted over the gale. “Hold on.”
The inn was less a building and more a jumble of stone blocks hunkered against the weather, its sign banging wildly on rusted iron hinges. Garon swung down from the horse, landing in the mud with a heavy splat. Before Alysanne could process her sudden, precarious solitude in the saddle, his hands were on her waist again, lifting her down. Her legs buckled the moment her feet touched the ground, the muscles turned to water. He held her upright for a second, his grip firm, then let go as soon as she found her balance.
He barked orders to his men, who led the steaming horses toward a sodden lean-to stable. Grabbing Alysanne’s elbow, he half-guided, half-dragged her through the door into a roar of smoky heat and loud conversation.
The great hall was packed. Men—merchants, soldiers, smallfolk—crowded rough-hewn tables, their talk a wall of noise against the storm’s howl outside. The air was thick with the smell of wet wool, unwashed bodies, roasting meat, and cheap ale. Every head turned as they entered. A lord in battered riding leathers, dragging a drowned, slender figure in similar gear. A moment of assessing silence, then the din swallowed them again.
The innkeeper, a wiry man with a splattered apron, scurried over, his eyes wide. “M’lord Baratheon! We weren’t expecting—the storm, of course. I’ve… I’ve a room. Only the one left, at the top of the east tower. It’s… modest.”
“We’ll take it,” Garon said, water dripping from his chin to form a puddle at his boots. “Hot food. Now.”
“Of course, m’lord. The girl can bed down in the stable loft with your—”
“She’s my wife,” Garon cut in, his voice flat and final.
The innkeeper’s eyes flicked to Alysanne, taking in her bedraggled state, the Baratheon cloak now a sopping weight on her shoulders. He paled and bobbed his head. “A thousand pardons, m’lady. The room is yours. I’ll send up a basin and some wine.”
The room was exactly as described: modest. A single narrow slit of a window shuddered against the storm. A small fireplace held a struggling fire. The floor was uneven stone. And in the center, its headboard pushed against the cold wall, was a bed. One bed. Narrow, with a lumpy mattress and a single, worn blanket.
Garon barred the door behind them. The relative quiet was punctuated only by the scream of the wind and the sputter of the fire. He strode to the hearth, his movements efficient, and began poking the embers, adding a log from the stack. The light played over his broad back, the leather dark and gleaming with wetness.
Alysanne stood just inside the door, water pooling around her. Her teeth chattered. The shivering was uncontrollable now, deep in her core.
“Get out of those clothes,” Garon said without turning.
Her stomach clenched. She hugged her arms around herself. The memory of his hands on her in the dark of the Red Keep chamber was a fresh brand. This was it, then. The pretense of the road was over. He would claim his rights again, here in this crude room. The fury that had sustained her earlier was gone, drowned by the cold and the exhaustion, leaving only a hollow, trembling dread.
“I’m fine,” she managed, her voice a ragged thread.
He turned then. In the firelight, his face was all harsh angles and shadow. He looked at her, really looked, taking in her violent shivers, her blue-tinged lips, the way her soaked clothes clung to her like a second skin. Something in his expression shifted, the habitual sternness giving way to an impatient practicality.
“You’re not fine. You’re freezing. You’ll catch a fever and die two days from here, and I’ll have to explain to your father why I let his precious daughter rot from a chill.” He grabbed the hem of his own tunic and pulled it over his head in one abrupt motion.
Alysanne flinched.
He stood there, torso bare, the firelight dancing over the hard planes of his chest and stomach. Scars mapped his skin—a pale slash across his ribs, a knot of raised flesh on his shoulder. Water droplets glistened in the dark hair on his chest. He was all raw, utilitarian strength, no courtly softness. He balled the wet tunic and tossed it near the hearth with a wet slap.
“Your turn,” he said, his voice leaving no room for debate.
“No.” The word was weak.
He exhaled, a sound of supreme annoyance. “Seven hells, Alysanne. I’m not trying to fuck you. Look at you. You’re shaking apart. Those clothes are soaked through to your skin. You stay in them, the heat from that fire will never reach you. You’ll spend the night cold, wake up sick, and slow us down for a week.” He pointed a blunt finger at the bed. “Get under the blanket. Now.”
His reasoning was so brutal, so devoid of anything but cold logic, that it pierced her panic. He wasn’t looking at her with hunger, or even anger. He was looking at her like a problem to be solved. A logistical issue. The humiliation of that was somehow sharper than the fear.
Swallowing her pride, her hands numb and clumsy, she fumbled with the clasps of her cloak. It fell heavily to the floor. The tunic was next, the laces tangled. She turned her back to him, a pathetic gesture of modesty, and struggled out of it. The cold air hit her skin like a slap. Her breeches and smallclothes followed, sticking to her skin. She kept her back to him, arms crossed over her breasts, and darted for the bed, scrambling under the thin, rough-spun blanket.
It smelled of dust and old herbs. It did little to stop her shivering. She curled into a tight ball, facing the wall, listening to the sounds behind her. The rustle of more wet clothing hitting the floor. The creak of the floorboards as he moved. The soft hiss as he draped their garments over the stool near the fire.
The bed dipped under his weight. She squeezed her eyes shut, holding her breath. He settled behind her with a groan of tired muscles. For a moment, there was only the sound of the storm and her own shuddering breaths.
Then his arm came over her waist. He pulled her backwards, against him.
She gasped as her back met the solid, shocking heat of his bare chest. His skin was furnace-warm, driving the cold from her own. He was hard everywhere, muscles unyielding against her spine, but the heat was a palpable force, seeping into her frozen flesh. His legs bent behind hers, his body curving around her smaller form. He tucked the blanket tightly around them both.
“Stop shaking,” he murmured, his breath warm against the damp hair at the back of her neck.
She couldn’t. The shivers were convulsive now, her body reacting to the sudden change in temperature.
He sighed, a rough sound of exasperation, and tightened his arm around her, pulling her even closer until not a sliver of cold air existed between them. His hand splayed flat against her stomach, holding her in place. Slowly, incrementally, the terrible, deep-seated chill began to recede, chased away by the relentless, living warmth radiating from him. Her shuddering quieted to a faint tremble, then stilled.
In the dark, with the storm raging against the tower and his body wrapped around hers, the only sound was their breathing. His was deep and even. Hers was gradually slowing, matching the slow, steady rhythm of his heart against her back. Her mind, which had been a whirlwind of fear and outrage and cold, went utterly, silently blank. There was no politics here. No hatred of Baratheons, no Tyrell ambition. Just a man, a woman, and a battle against the cold.
She waited for his hand to move, to wander. It didn’t. It remained where it was, a heavy, warm weight. She waited for him to say something crude, to remind her of her place. He was silent.
And against every instinct, against a lifetime of taught caution and pride, Alysanne found her body relaxing into his. The tension bled from her muscles. Her head settled back against his shoulder. The heat was a drug, a soporific. Her eyelids grew heavy.
Just before sleep claimed her, lost in that hazy borderland, she felt his thumb stroke once, slowly, across the soft skin of her belly. It was a minute movement, almost unconscious. A gesture not of lust, but of something simpler. An acknowledgment of the shared human need for warmth in the face of the storm.
Then it was still, and the only thing that moved was the shadow of rain against the wall.