tired and rarely desired

CHAPTER 11 : A Dance in Another Man's Arms

Alysaane didn’t realize how fast she was walking until the corridor blurred around her. The moment her door shut behind her, the quiet rushed in, making her feel suffocated, too loud in its silence. She stood there for a second, breathing hard then everything she had been holding together all evening unraveled at once.

She crossed the room in a few quick steps, her hands trembling as she tugged at the ties of her dress, her shoes kicked off carelessly, her fingers fumbling at the laces of her corset as though it had suddenly become unbearable against her skin.

His words echoed in her ears. Her stomach twisted and her breath hitched. Her thoughts running wild, he probably slept with them, all of them, maybe more than one at a time.

Her knees nearly gave out beneath her. She sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. Why did that hurt? Why did it matter? They weren’t anything to each other. One moment in a small inn that had clearly meant far more to her than it ever had to him.

She pressed her palms to her face with a frustrated groan, then let herself fall backward onto the bed, burying her face into the pillow. “Gods” she muttered into the fabric. What had she done? Why had she reacted like that? Why had she stood there and shown him how much it affected her?

He would think she was foolish, naive, pathetic. She groaned again, louder this time, kicking at the blankets in frustration. she felt disappointment, anger, frustration but not at him, at herself.

Because she had allowed herself to believe that what they had shared had meant something rare and now it felt small. Like something he had done a hundred times before and would forget just as easily.

Her chest tightened, she turned onto her side, curling into herself, pulling the blanket up as though it might quiet the storm inside her. Sleep did not come, it hovered just out of reach, slipping away every time she closed her eyes.

Across the hall, Lyonel fared no better. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, the shadows from the dying candle stretching long and restless across the beams above him. Duncan had already drifted into sleep, steady and unbothered and Lyonel envied him for it.

The memory wouldn’t leave him. The look on her face, her expression had shifted into something closer to betrayal and it unsettled him far more than he wanted to admit. He dragged a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. He shouldn’t have said it like that.

He clenched his jaw, he should have known better. She didn’t catch the tone, the implication, the way he had meant her when he spoke of a future wife. To her, it had sounded like truth and worse like confirmation of everything she already feared about men.

He groaned softly, turning onto his side again. With Alysaane, it had always been something else. That constant pull between them that neither of them named but both of them felt. They had never slowed down long enough to understand each other beyond it.

A small, reluctant smile tugged at his lips despite everything because beneath the mess of it all, there had been something else in her reaction. She had cared more than she showed because the kiss had not been nothing to her. He closed his eyes, a smile still playing at his lips because despite everything that happened tonight, a sense of relief washed over him.

The morning unfolded slowly, golden light spilling across the orchard like honey poured over green. Dew still clung to the grass, and the scent of apples hung heavy in the air.

At breakfast, his attention had been split in a hundred directions, all of them leading to the same absence. Every creak of the staircase, every shift of movement near the doors had his eyes snapping up, only to fall again when it wasn’t her.

Dunc and Raymun were already deep in conversation, their voices overlapping as they spoke about the orchard. “.......gear’s jammed, I’m telling you” Raymun insisted, waving a piece of bread for emphasis. “If we don’t fix it today, half the work stops.” Dunc nodded thoughtfully, chewing. “Might just need oiling. Or replacing. You’ve been running it hard.”

Egg, blissfully unconcerned with machinery or tension, was happily stuffing his face. “This is the best breakfast I’ve had in weeks” he mumbled through a mouthful, eyes gleaming. Lyonel barely heard any of it. “Eat before it’s gone.” Dunc muttered to him, nudging his shoulder.

He reached for a cup instead, taking a long sip to distract himself, only for Rowan to appear beside him, placing a glass down with deliberate force. She leaned in close, her voice low and knowing. “She’s bathing. Will be down later.”

Lyonel stiffened, Rowan didn’t miss a thing. “She looked gloomy” she added, studying him. “What did you say to her last night?” He swallowed hard, setting the cup down. “Nothing” he said quickly. Rowan’s eyes narrowed just a fraction then she smiled but it wasn’t kind. “You better not have, Baratheon” she whispered. “Or I swear I’ll poison you. The Laughing Storm choking on his own breakfast, what a sight it would be!”

Lyonel huffed under his breath, shaking his head. “You wound me.”

“I mean it” she shot back lightly, already pulling away. They didn’t linger long after, Raymun was eager, Duncan curious, and Egg simply excited to run wild somewhere new.

Workers had gathered around a large, stubborn machine, voices rising in frustration, Duncan crouched beside it, sleeves rolled, while Raymun hovered nearby, trying to explain something about gears and alignment.

Lyonel and Egg had already been banished from contributing. “You should just throw it out” Lyonel had declared, entirely unhelpful. “Yes!” Egg had agreed enthusiastically. “And get a new one.” Raymun had stared at them both. “Get out.” So now they sat beneath a tree, exiled from usefulness.

“......and did you know,” Egg was saying, entirely too loudly for someone who had been explicitly told to stay out of the way, “that dragons could sense their riders even from miles away? It’s in the histories. Also, King’s Landing has three main gates, but only one is truly......”

“Egg,” Lyonel cut in flatly, eyes still half on the workers, half somewhere else entirely, “if you don’t stop talking, I will personally see to it that you are fed to the next machine that breaks.” Egg gasped, scandalized. “You cannot threaten a prince.” Lyonel turned to look at him slowly, one brow lifting. “And where’s your coin, my prince?” Egg paused. “…I don’t have any.”

“Exactly.” Lyonel pulled out a small pouch and jingled it. “I, however, do. Now....if you’d like to continue sitting here in royal silence, I might be persuaded to share.” Egg looked deeply offended then deeply tempted. “…How much?” Lyonel grinned. “Enough to buy yourself something sweet later.” Egg hesitated, torn between dignity and sugar. “…Fine,” he muttered, slumping back against the tree.

Lyonel smirked, tossing him a coin, Egg caught it with a sigh, then leaned back, defeated. However, peace lasted exactly three seconds. “Oh!” Egg suddenly sat upright. “Is that Alysaane?” Lyonel’s head turned before he could stop himself.

She walked beside Rowan, hand in hand, sunlight catching in her hair like it had been spun from flame itself. The deep purple shade of her dress wrapped around her in a way he had never seen before, it drew his eye, held him. He sat up slowly, his breath catching, the corset shaped her in a way that made his thoughts falter, his usual ease slipping completely.

It wasn’t just the fit, it was the way she wore it. There was a hesitation in her steps, yes, a slight awareness, but beneath it confidence.

His gaze dragged lower before he could stop it. The skirt had been pinned up giving a slight glimpse of her leg as she walked. He swallowed, dragging a hand over his mouth as if that would steady him because now he was aware of every inch of her, every shift of movement, every sway of her body as she walked closer.

He wanted to see her eyes, to know if she would look at him the same way but she didn’t look at him at all. That unsettled him more than anything else. Rowan, however, had no such restraint, her gaze locked onto his immediately, sharp and knowing. One brow arched slowly, deliberately, her lips curving into a smirk that felt almost like a challenge.

Lyonel had to force himself to move, he pushed himself up anyway, brushing grass from his trousers, eyes never leaving Alysaane. He had taken barely a few steps towards her when she moved.

She slipped past the workers, past the scattered crates and tools, straight toward Duncan and Raymun without so much as a glance in his direction. A humorless breath left him.

Rowan let out a soft, delighted laugh beside him. “Oh, that was deliberate.” He didn’t look at her. “She didn’t even let you get close”

“Funny,” he muttered, voice dry, “I don’t recall asking for commentary.”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Rowan shot back immediately, circling him like a cat that had found something particularly entertaining. “Your face is doing all the talking for you.”

“You can’t keep your eyes off her. You can’t keep your hands off her....well, you wouldn’t, if she let you....and yet you stand here pretending this isn’t eating you alive.” Rowan leaned in just slightly, voice dropping. “You are so thoroughly, completely whipped, Baratheon. It’s almost tragic.”

It took him a second, a full second longer than it should have. He opened his mouth, closed it again, exhaled slowly before finally replying, quieter. “If this is what you call tragic,” he said, glancing past her toward Alysaane again, “I’d hate to see what you consider a success.”

Rowan blinked once then laughed outright. “Gods, you’re helpless.”

“Or perhaps,” he shot back, already stepping past her, “I’ve learned not to waste it on lost causes.” She laughed louder at that, calling after him, “Careful, Lord Baratheon, your pride’s the only thing standing between you and complete humiliation.”

Alysaane stood beside the press, her attention fully on the problem at hand. Raymun was crouched beside it, muttering under his breath while Duncan examined the side panel.

Egg, meanwhile, had already made himself comfortable at Alysaane’s side. “We had excellent ideas,” he was saying proudly, puffing up as he spoke. “Lord Lyonel and I both but Ser Duncan said we were being menaces and made us sit under a tree.”

She crouched down to Egg’s level, skirts shifting. “......we could take the entire press apart” Egg was saying enthusiastically, gesturing wildly, “and rebuild it from the ground up. It would be far more efficient.” Every man within earshot shook his head immediately.

“I think we might try something… slightly less dramatic first,” she said gently, rising to her feet again. She stepped closer to the press, studying it with surprising focus, fingers brushing lightly over the wood and metal as she pieced it together in her mind.

“It’s not the gear,” she said softly. “It’s the pressure rod.” Both men looked at her. “It’s misaligned here. If you loosen the upper bracket first, it will release the tension below. Then the gear will turn properly again.”

Another voice joined in. “She’s right.” They all turned, the man stepping forward carried himself with quiet confidence, wiping his hands on a cloth as he approached. Tall, broad, fair-haired, with an easy steadiness about him.

Raymun’s face lit up immediately. “There you are! Perfect timing.” He clapped the man on the shoulder, clearly pleased. “This is Henryk,” he said, gesturing between them. “He’s the one who built these presses. We buy all our machinery from him.”

Henryk nodded politely, then he crouched beside the machine, following her explanation. “She’s exactly right,” he confirmed. “The rod’s been taking too much strain. Happens when the wood expands in the heat.”

He gave quick instructions, and within moments the workers were moving, adjusting the rods, gears abd panels and then the press groaned back to life.

A cheer went up around them, Alysaane’s face lit up at the sound, something bright and genuine breaking through her earlier restraint.

Henryk rose to his feet again, brushing his hands clean, and turned toward her. “You’ve got a sharp eye,” he said, a small smile forming. “Most people would have taken it apart entirely before noticing something like that. How did you know how to fix it?” he asked, voice warm, easy.” She smiled back, a little shy, a little pleased. “I’ve read about similar mechanisms before.”

“Read?” His brows lifted slightly. “Now that’s interesting.” He smiled. “I can’t imagine why someone like you would be reading about machinery.” A hint of amusement touched her lips. “I had more time than I knew what to do with.” She responded.

He reached behind him, picking up a red apple from a nearby crate, turning it once in his hand before offering it to her. “For saving me the trouble of rebuilding my own work.” She hesitated only a second before taking it. “Thank you.” She replied softly.

Raymun eventually pulled Henryk away, already launching into business talk, Duncan following with interest while Egg darted off toward the barn. Rowan drifted after them, leaving just the two of them.

Lyonel stepped close enough now that he could see the fine details, the faint flush still lingering on her cheeks, the rise and fall of her breath. His gaze dropped to the apple in her hand. “I thought you preferred the green ones” he said quietly. She didn’t look at him. “I’m trying different things,” she replied. “No point holding onto something just because it’s familiar.”

He grimaced faintly, eyes shifting past her, following her line of sight toward Henryk. The man gestured, inviting her over and Alysaane didn’t hesitate. Lyonel stayed where he was, his hands curling slightly at his sides.

Lyonel followed them at a distance that was neither accidental nor subtle, his boots crunching softly over the orchard path as though each step required conscious restraint to keep from closing the gap entirely.

Ahead of him, Alysaane and Henryk moved in easy rhythm with one another, their conversation flowing with an effortlessness that felt almost cruel to witness.

Henryk spoke with the calm assurance of a man rooted in his world, explaining something about the grafting of trees and the way certain strains yielded sweeter fruit, and Alysaane listened with bright, attentive curiosity, her laughter rising now and then.

It struck Lyonel then, not for the first time that day, how easily she fit into this quieter version of herself. There was no sharp edge to her here, no defiance sparking in her eyes, no quick retorts meant to challenge or provoke.

With him, she had always been fire, she was always unpredictable, consuming, impossible to hold without being burned but with Henryk, she seemed… soft, she was open, at peace. This thought unsettled him more than anything else.

His gaze drifted unwillingly to her hands, Alysaane still held on to the red apple, turning it absently between her fingers as she listened, her lips curving into a small smile at something Henryk said.

Lyonel almost scoffed under his breath. She hated red apples, she had argued about them with ridiculous passion not long ago, insisting they were too sweet, too dull, lacking the sharpness she preferred yet she hadn’t corrected him.

Alysaane, meanwhile, was acutely aware of the presence trailing behind her, even if she refused to acknowledge it outright. There was something almost tangible about Lyonel’s gaze, like heat against her skin, following her every movement, lingering in ways that made her pulse quicken despite her resolve. She focused instead on Henryk, on the steadiness of his voice and the simplicity of his company, letting herself respond with genuine interest as he spoke about the mechanics of the cider press and the trade routes that connected their orchard to nearby towns.

And yet, beneath that ease, there was a flicker of something sharper, a quiet, mischievous satisfaction that curled at the edges of her thoughts because she knew Lyonel was watching. She knew he hadn’t left her side all day, and that knowledge, that awareness of his silent attention, made her laughter a touch brighter, her smiles a fraction wider than they might have been otherwise.

“Something amusing?” Henryk asked, smiling. She shook her head lightly. “Just… thinking.” He studied her for a second, then glanced behind her and there Lyonel was.

Henryk’s smile shifted, something more knowing creeping in. He leaned closer, just enough that his voice brushed against her ear. “Does he always follow you like that?” Alysaane let out a soft laugh, low and playful. “No, maybe he’s watching you.” Henryk’s brows lifted, pleased by the implication, and his grin widened. “Then I suppose I should give him something worth watching.” Lyonel’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

By the time they gathered again, the sun had dipped lower, and Raymun was already calling for drinks. The tavern filled quickly with noise, laughter, clinking cups, the low hum of a bard tuning his instrument.

Alysaane sat beside Henryk, still listening, still smiling and Lyonel sat across the room, gripping his tankard so tightly his knuckles had gone pale.

Henryk turned to Alysaane, extending a hand with an easy smile. “Will you dance?” She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” They moved into the open space, laughter spilling easily between them as the rhythm picked up. Alysaane’s skirt swayed with her steps, her hair catching the light as she spun, free and unguarded.

Rowan slipped into the seat beside Lyonel, entirely too pleased with herself. “Oh” she sighed dramatically, watching the pair. “Don’t start.” he said without looking at her. “Why not?” she hummed. “You look like a man being slowly executed.” He shot her a glare.

“Tell me something, Baratheon… does it bother you because she’s happy.....” she tilted her head, eyes glinting, “......or because she’s not looking at you while she is?” His jaw tightened. “You know exactly why.”

“Do I?” Rowan leaned in, voice dropping. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you had her and then you decided to play games.”

“I didn’t.....” he defended himself

“You did” she cut in smoothly. “And now someone else is playing them better.” His hand tightened around the tankard, his gaze flicking back to Alysaane just in time to see her laugh again, her hand resting lightly against Henryk’s arm as they turned with the music.

Rowan noticed it immediately. “So?” she prompted softly. “What are you going to do about it?” Lyonel didn’t answer, he simply stood, the legs of his chair scraping faintly against the floor as he pushed it back, drained the rest of his drink in one go, then started walking toward her and this time, he didn’t stop himself from closing the distance.

The song faded into a final note, the hum of the tavern rising once more around them, and Alysaane and Henryk came to a still, standing closer than propriety might allow, both slightly breathless from the dance.

A loose strand of her hair clung to her cheek, her chest rising and falling beneath the fitted corset, her lips parted in a soft, lingering smile.

Henryk noticed Lyonel first, something in his expression shifted, recognition drawing across his features, then something warmer, almost amused as his smile widened. “Lord Baratheon,” he greeted easily, as though the tension in the room did not exist at all.

Lyonel inclined his head, his voice measured despite the storm beneath it. “Henryk. Enjoying the evening?”

“Very much, ser” Henryk replied, grin still in place. Before anything more could pass between them, Raymun’s voice cut through the noise, calling Henryk over.

And just like that, she turned too, as though she meant to leave but Lyonel didn’t let her. His hand reached out, almost instinctively, closing gently around hers before she could take more than a step.

For the first time all day, she looked at him. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks faintly flushed from the dance, her breath still uneven. “Would you… dance with me?” he asked, the words carefully chosen, every ounce of charm he possessed woven into them.

Her gaze flickered, first to his eyes, then, fleetingly, to his lips. She hesitated and that unsettled him more than if she had refused outright. “Alright.” The word was simple, but it carried weight.

He let his hands find her, one at her waist, steady and warm, the other guiding her hand as the music picked up again. He spun her gently, letting the movement bring her closer, then away, then back again, each motion an excuse to feel her, to remind himself she was still real, still here.

The fabric of her dress was soft beneath his fingers, the structured lines of her corset pressing against his palm as he drew her in again. He noticed everything, the way her hair brushed his wrist when she turned, the faint chill of the delicate jewelry against his skin, the warmth of her body when she stepped closer than necessary.

She didnt giggle or laugh, she had a deliberate, knowing smile as though she was aware of exactly what she was doing. He leaned in slightly, his voice low, rougher than he intended. “Why are you doing this to me, Alysaane?”

She tilted her head, the corner of her mouth lifting just a little more. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied lightly. “I’m simply… making new friends.” The words landed sharper than they should have.

“He asked me to walk with him later.” she added, almost casually. Lyonel’s jaw tightened, a quiet groan escaping him before he could stop it. “He’s not your friend” he muttered. “You barely know him. How can you trust him?”

That earned him a look. “I don’t know you either” she said, her voice softer but edged with something heavier. “I trusted you.” The past tense struck deeper than any accusation.

He exhaled sharply, struggling to keep his composure. “And what if he takes advantage of that?” he pressed, his grip tightening just slightly at her waist. “What if he......”

She laughed and then she leaned in, her voice dropping just enough that it brushed against him. “He wouldn’t have to take anything” she said, her tone almost teasing. “I would let him.”

Lyonel pulled her closer without thinking, her body pressing against his, the space between them disappearing in an instant. His hand slid higher at her back, anchoring her there, his breath catching as he searched her face. “What do you mean?” he asked, the restraint in his voice fraying. “You’d let him touch you? Let him ki...”

Before he could finish, she leaned in, cose enough that their lips nearly met. “Yes,” she whispered. “I would.” His breath hitched. “Because if you won’t” she continued, her voice sharpening now, anger slipping through, “someone else will.”

“I told you” she went on, her eyes blazing now, “I’m free. I don’t belong to anyone. Just like you are, free to have my own experiences just liek you have. I can choose what I want, who I want. If you don’t want me.....”

“I didn’t say that” he cut in, his voice low, almost harsh. “But you act like it” she shot back. “So why shouldn’t I....” His hand moved before he could think better of it, tangling lightly in her hair, guiding her face up just enough that she had no choice but to look at him.

Her breath caught and her eyes widened but she didn’t pull away. If anything, the shift, the edge in him, the loss of careful restraint only seemed to pull her in further. “No.” he said, the word firm, almost a command.

Her brows lifted, something defiant flashing through her expression. “No?” she echoed. “What does that mean?”

“It means no” he repeated, quieter now but no less intense. “You don’t get to decide that,” she snapped, shoving at his chest. This time, he let her go. “I don’t belong to you, Lyonel.”

The words hung between them and then she turned, moving away without another glance, her steps quick and determined as she made her way back toward Henryk’s table. Lyonel stood there for half a heartbeat, then followed because he wasn’t about to let her walk away from it.

CHAPTER 10 : The Shape of Desire

As everyone gathered for supper, he found his moment. She had just stepped aside, half-cleaned but still carrying the remnants of her small battle and a faint flush still on her cheeks. He caught her gently by the wrist. She turned, curious and he placed the bundle in her hands.

Her fingers brushed over the smooth parchment, the neatly tied charcoal sticks in rich colors. Her eyes lit up, wide and bright, a soft and unguarded smile blooming across her face as she looked down at it, then back at him. “I… I don’t know how to thank you!”

Lyonel stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough, his tone slipping into something warm and teasing. “I know a few ways” he murmured. She froze for half a heartbeat and then hit his arm lightly, smiling despite herself.

“Who will you draw first?” he asked, watching her carefully. She paused and then she smiled. “Rickon” she said softly. Lyonel blinked. “who?”

She was already moving, her attention stolen by the small, insistent babbling from across the room. The baby, Rickon, sat propped in Rowan’s arms, reaching forward with surprising determination the moment he saw her.

“Oh, you sweet boy” she cooed, crouching down as he grabbed at her sleeve, laughing in that bright, bubbling way only infants could manage. Lyonel stood there watching and then he frowned. Rickon gurgled happily as Alysaane leaned closer, tiny hands grasping at her fingers, utterly captivated. She laughed softly, brushing her nose against his.

“Unbelievable.” Raymun mused. “You leave for a few hours,” he muttered, “return, and find that you have been replaced by an infant!” He had been watching them curiously from the table. Lyonel stood there scowling like a child.

They settled around the table soon after, plates were passed, cups refilled, the low crackle of the hearth filling the pauses between conversation.

Duncan and Egg, as expected, wasted no time and dug in with the enthusiasm of men who had ridden long and eaten little.

Across from them, Lyonel and Alysaane sat opposite each other. “So,” Rowan said, tearing a piece of bread, “where did you take them?” Raymun leaned back in his chair, entirely at ease, clearly pleased with himself. “Showed them the market,” he said. “Thought I’d give them a proper tour.”

“And then?” Rowan prompted, already suspicious. He grinned. “And then… a tavern.” Rowan raised a brow. “Which one?” Raymun chuckled, clearly enjoying this far too much. “The one where the ladies tend to gather.”

Rowan let out a soft, knowing laugh. “Ah,” she said, shaking her head. “So you were trying to impress your guests.” Raymun scoffed lightly. “Yes, we didnt engage with any ladies, we didn’t have to. Their attention wasn’t on us at all.” Duncan huffed a laugh as Raymun gestured lazily toward Lyonel. “They were all but falling over themselves for him.” Duncan nodded, grinning now. “Aye. Couldn’t get a moment’s peace.”

Rowan’s eyes flickered to Alysaane. The smile remained on Alysaane’s lips; polite, composed, perfectly in place but it didn’t reach her eyes. Rowan’s foot moved under the table, kicking Raymun sharply.

He jolted, nearly choking on his drink, shooting her an offended look before following her gaze and realizing. “Oh.....” he cleared his throat quickly, straightening. “I mean, no, not like that,” he added hastily. “He wasn’t entertaining them.” A weak attempt but he still pushed on “They do that to any lord who looks like he has coin,” he said, waving a hand. “Especially one who looks like him. Comes with the territory.”

Alysaane didn’t say anything. She simply glanced across the table at Lyonel and for a fleeting moment, something passed through his expression. A flicker of something softer, something uncertain. Or was it guilt?

Her gaze dropped back to her plate and the conversation carried on around her. The food in front of her suddenly unimportant. Her thoughts louder than anything else in the room.

A shared kiss in the quiet of an inn, heated, fleeting, stolen in a moment of emotion, did not bind him to her. He was a lord and had lived a life far broader than hers, known women, attention, and desire. Things she was only just beginning to understand.

Why should this be any different? Why should she be any different? Her fingers tightened slightly around her cup. He is free, she told herself, free to look, to laugh, to indulge and she had no claim. Still the thought settled uncomfortably in her chest.

After supper, laughter still lingered at the long table but Alysaane had already slipped away. So quietly that if one had not been watching her, they might have missed it entirely but Lyonel had been watching her.

“I’m going to start on Rickon’s sketch” she had said lightly when Duncan asked where she was off to, her tone steady, almost cheerful.

Lyonel’s jaw tightened, he didn’t remember the women. They had been there laughing too loudly, leaning too close, their hands brushing against his arm, their eyes lingering in ways that had once amused him. Raymun had taken them there in jest, to boast, to entertain.

And perhaps, once, Lyonel would have entertained it. Once, he would have laughed, flirted, indulged in it for sport. But tonight? He couldn’t recall a single face, not a voice, not a touch because his mind had been on her.

The hearth burned low and steady, its warmth wrapping around Alysaane as she sat cross-legged upon the rug, parchment spread across her lap.

The world across the room; the laughter, the clinking of cups, the easy camaraderie of men, felt distant here, softened by firelight and the quiet scratch of charcoal against paper.

She worked slowly, carefully, filling in the details of Rickon’s face. The roundness of his cheeks, the way his lips puckered when he babbled, the bright, curious eyes that had followed her so intently, as if he already knew her.

Her fingers smudged faintly as she blended the lines, her focus narrowing to the page until a soft yawn broke through the stillness.

His small body shifted, eyes growing heavy, his tiny fingers curling weakly against Egg's sleeve. She smiled instinctively, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead just as Rowan approached, her steps quiet.

“He’s had enough excitement for one evening,” Rowan murmured fondly, lifting the baby into her arms. Rickon made a small, protesting sound before settling against his mother, his eyes fluttering shut almost immediately. Egg hovered for a moment, then brightened. “I’ll come” he said, already following Rowan as she carried the baby away.

Her gaze drifted, unbidden to him, Lyonel sat among his friends as if nothing in the world had shifted. He leaned back in his chair, one arm slung casually, laughter spilling from him as Raymun spoke. Duncan added something that made him grin wider, his voice rising easily to meet theirs.

He looked …. at ease, as though this world fit him far better than the one she had pulled him into these past weeks. A small, uncomfortable thought crept in, she was only ever passing through his. He had simply returned to himself. To men who knew him, to places where women laughed at his stories, leaned close to hear him speak, admired him without hesitation. Her fingers tightened unconsciously around the charcoal.

“You’re very good.” Rowan’s voice broke through her thoughts as she returned, settling beside her with an ease that felt grounding. Alysaane blinked, startled, then glanced up. “I didn’t know you could do this.” Alysaane smiled faintly, a little shy despite herself. “I’ve had … a lot of time to practice.”

Rowan smiled understanding, Raymun had filled her in. “So tell me… how did you manage to get the Laughing Storm tied around your finger?” Alysaane let out a dry laugh “That isn’t true” she said, her tone light, though it lacked its usual spark.

Rowan had seen the way Alysaane’s face had fallen earlier. “Hmm,” she hummed thoughtfully. “Then you must be doing something right, whether you know it or not.” That earned a small giggle from Alysaane.

Rowan leaned back slightly, glancing toward the table before lowering her voice just a touch. “Most of us don’t, women are,” she continued, almost conversationally, “rarely taught anything beyond duty.” Alysaane looked at her, listening now. “They're taught how to endure,” Rowan continued, her tone honest, unvarnished. “Men are taught that desire is theirs, women are taught how to survive the wedding night, how to bear children.”

Alysaane’s lips pressed together faintly. “That is what we’re told intimacy is. It’s easier that way. Easier to keep women quiet, obedient and disconnected from themselves.” Alysaane’s gaze lifted slowly. “And if we’re not?” she asked. Rowan met her eyes. “Then we are something far more dangerous.” Rowan said.

“I don’t want to be… unaware,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to go into something like that and not understand it.” Rowan’s expression softened. “You shouldn’t have to. Pleasure is not meant to belong to one side alone,” Rowan continued. “That’s the part no one teaches us. The part we are never expected to seek.”

Alysaane absorbed the words slowly then, almost hesitantly asked “Will you…” her voice dropped, softer now, uncertain in a way she rarely allowed herself to be, “will you teach me?” Rowan blinked once then smiled; wide, bright, a hint of laughter in it as she reached for Alysaane’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I was beginning to wonder when you would ask.” Alysaane smiled softly.

“We’ll start with this,” Rowan said. “Nothing is owed. Not your body, not your comfort, not your silence.” Alysaane listened, her breath slower now.“You choose,” Rowan continued. “What you want. When you want it. How far you go.”

As wood crackled in the hearth on the far side of the long room, half-veiled behind carved wooden screens and heavy curtains, a world had taken shape entirely. From where they sat, the men could hear their occasional giggles but couldn't decipher the tone beneath them and perhaps that was for the best.

“How well do you know him?” Alysaane asked, it made Rowan laugh softly. “From the Ashford tourney.” She leaned back slightly, a nostalgic grin tugging at her lips. “Every night was a feast in the Baratheon pavilion. Music, wine, laughter… men and women dancing like there was no tomorrow and at the center of it all - Lyonel Baratheon.” She gestured vaguely, amused. “Shirt half open, hair a mess, three women hanging off him at any given moment.”

Alysaane’s eyes hardened, her jaw tightening just slightly. Rowan caught it immediately, she reached out, gently turning Alysaane’s face back toward her. “He is not the center of your world” Rowan said, her tone firm now, but kind. “Do not make him so.”

Alysaane held her gaze. Rowan continued. “You are a woman of nine-and-twenty, Alysaane. Some women are mothers three times over by your age and still do not know what pleasure feels like, you are freer than most of them will ever be.” Alysaane let out a small breath, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of the parchment. “I do not even know what I am meant to do” she admitted quietly.

Rowan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “If you wish to please a man… truly please him… there are ways to make him forget his own name.” Alysaane blinked.

Rowan’s lips curved, mischief dancing in her eyes. “For instance....” She leaned in and murmured something into Alysaane’s ear. Alysaane froze then, suddenly exclaimed “Take what in my mouth?!” Her voice rang through the hall like a bell, the men fell silent and their heads turned at once. Rowan and Alysaane stared at each other for a heartbeat and then burst into laughter.

Rowan shook her head, then leaned in again closer this time, her voice barely audible as she explained further. Alysaane’s eyes widening, her breath hitching, her entire face blooming crimson.

“First of all! Do not lie there like a dead boar.” Alysaane let out a startled laugh. “Move,” Rowan instructed. “Match him. Respond. Make him feel that you are there with him.” She demonstrated a subtle sway of the hips. Alysaane’s eyes widened again.

“And do not be silent either.” Alysaane covered her face for a moment, laughing softly. “Touch him. Do not wait for him to do everything.” Alysaane’s laughter softened into something quieter.

“And your face, stop looking like you’re about to apologize for existing.” Alysaane huffed out a quiet laugh. “Watch,” Rowan said, demonstrating, a subtle tilt of her head, a softness to her gaze, lips parting just enough to draw attention without effort.

Alysaane mirrored her instinctively, though her version came with a flush creeping up her neck. “Seven above,” she muttered under her breath, half embarrassed, half amused. “I feel ridiculous.”

“You look anything but,” Rowan replied adjusting the fall of Alysaane’s shoulders, guiding them back just slightly. “Do not hide yourself,” she said. “You spend too much time making yourself smaller.”

“Do not offer everything,” Rowan added, her voice dropping to something more conspiratorial. “Just enough to make them wonder.” Alysaane let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “You make it sound like a game.”

Rowan’s smile turned knowing. “It is a game. One you were never taught the rules to.”She reached for Alysaane’s hand, squeezing it lightly. “But you will learn.”

The night began to wind down slowly, like embers settling after a long-burning fire. Duncan stretched where he sat, his joints cracking audibly as he let out a long, tired yawn. “Seven save me, I’ll sleep for a year,” he muttered, pushing himself up. He clapped Lyonel lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t stay up causing trouble.” he added, though the knowing look in his eyes suggested he expected exactly that.

Raymun leaned back in his chair, calling out lazily, “Rowan, come along, love.” Lyonel didn’t hesitate, he pushed away from the table and crossed the room toward her, drawn as though by instinct rather than thought.

His mind was a restless storm; half amusement, half curiosity, and something sharper beneath it. He had heard them, the giggles, the whispers and the scandalous words that fell from Alysaane’s mouth. He had nearly choked on his wine.

Now, as he approached, his gaze found her instantly and stayed there. “What are you two scheming about?” Rowan burst into laughter. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” she said, waving him off. “Just … feminine matters.”

Lyonel scoffed lightly, folding his arms. “Feminine matters that involve alarmingly scandalous declarations shouted across a hall?” Rowan grinned wider. “I’m only teaching her to be free.”

His expression shifted into something more serious now, edged with disapproval. “Careful what you teach her.” Rowan arched a brow. “Oh, please. Don’t pretend you’re some innocent influence.” That struck, Lyonel let out a short laugh. “You know me well enough not to say that.”

“Shall I remind you of Ashford, Lord Lyonel? The parties, the songs, the women hanging off you like ornaments.” The words landed heavier than her tone suggested. And even though Lyonel brushed it off with a smirk, he didn’t miss the way Alysaane’s expression changed.

Rowan noticed it too. Her smile softened as she turned back to Alysaane, squeezing her hand once before leaving. “Don’t let him intimidate you,” she said lightly to Alysaane, her tone warm but pointed. “You hold the power here.” And then she was gone.

Silence settled between them, Lyonel turned back to Alysaane, to say what had been pressing against his chest all evening but before he could speak.

“How many women have you been with?” The question cut clean through the air. He blinked. For a moment, he simply stared at her, as though he’d misheard. “What?” Her gaze didn’t waver. “How many?” There was no softness in her voice now.

Lyonel still half-warmed by drink, still caught off guard, made the worst choice he could have. He smiled. “Multiple” he said lightly. “I tend to have a fair bit of experience.” He leaned in just slightly, that familiar teasing tone slipping back into place like armor. “My future wife won’t have much to complain about.” He even winked.

The shift in her was immediate, Her eyes hardened. “Do you plan,” she asked, her voice quieter now, “on abandoning your wife for pleasure elsewhere?” That wiped the smirk clean off his face. “What?” he said, genuinely confused now. “What are you talking about?”

But she was already shaking her head, frustration rising where words failed her, she felt this sudden, sharp ache in her chest. The images Rowan had painted, the idea of him belonging everywhere and nowhere at once.

The thought of her being just another passing moment. Instead of finishing the conversation, she turned abruptly “I don’t want to talk about it.” And then she walked away before he could stop her. “Alysaane.....” he called, stepping forward.

The door closed behind her, leaving Lyonel standing alone in the dim glow of the hearth; confused, frustrated, and with the sinking, unmistakable realization that whatever he had tried to fix, he had only made worse.

also me, already planning the most devastating, gut wrenching, emotionally catastrophic heartbreak arc known to mankind

CHAPTER 9: Familiar Faces and Unfamiliar Feelings

For a while, the house had settled into something soft and almost too quiet. Warmth lingering in the air, the kind that made thoughts drift too far and feelings grow a little too heavy.

And Lyonel, for all his charm, had never been a man who let a room stay like that for long. He watched Alysaane sway gently with the baby in her arms, he studied the baby with theatrical seriousness. “A remarkable lad,” Lyonel declared, as if inspecting a prized stallion. “Strong brow, excellent grip. I'm just curious how he has none of your ears, Fossoway or your chin.”

Raymun blinked. “He takes after Rowan’s side.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Lyonel replied smoothly. “A triumph of maternal influence.” Rowan’s mouth twitched. Duncan coughed loudly into his ale.

“Are we certain this child is yours?” Rowan laughed outright and Raymun looked scandalized. “Of course he’s mine!”Lyonel hummed, unconvinced. “Because I’m looking at him, and I’m looking at you… and I’m struggling to find a single matching feature.” Duncan shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Lyonel......”

“No, no, let me finish,” Lyonel insisted, raising a hand. He gestured toward the baby again. “Look at him! So soft, pleasant, well-tempered. Now look at you.” He paused dramatically. “You used to throw apples at people for sport.”

“That was one time!” Raymun shot back. “It was several times!” Duncan corrected.Rowan leaned against the table, thoroughly entertained now.

Lyonel added, pointing lightly. “Not a single sign of mischief. This child has not tried to bite anyone, steal anything, or start a fight in the last five minutes.”

Alysaane, who had been trying to stay composed, finally let out a soft laugh, the baby bouncing slightly in her arms as she did. Lyonel’s gaze flickered to her for a brief moment. “You’re enjoying this too much.” she whispered. “Immensely” Lyonel said without hesitation.

The baby suddenly reached out again, this time toward Lyonel’s face. He paused, eyeing the tiny hand warily. “Now what are you plotting?”The baby grabbed his nose.

Alysaane laughed loud, Lyonel carefully pried the baby’s fingers off, shaking his head. “Ah,” he said, recovering with a smirk. “There it is. Violence. He’s yours after all.”

The baby lingered in Alysaane’s arms for as long as he could, small fingers clutching at her sleeve as though he had already decided she belonged to him. Even as his eyes grew heavy, he fought sleep stubbornly, turning his head to look at her again and again, babbling softly in that secret language only he seemed to understand.

Eventually, Rowan stepped forward, easing the baby from Alysaane’s arms with practiced gentleness. This time, he went without protest, though not without one last determined look over Rowan’s shoulder, as if memorizing Alysaane before surrendering to sleep. Alysaane got up and followed Rowan, letting the men talk and catch-up. The two disappeared deeper into the house, the soft sound of their voices trailing behind them.

The nursery was quiet, dimly lit, warm in a way that felt safe. Alysaane lingered near Rowan as she settled the baby into his cot. The baby, not quite asleep yet, turned his head again and upon spotting Alysaane, broke into another soft stream of babbling, as if he had been waiting to resume their conversation.

Rowan straightened, then paused really looking at her now. Her expression softened into something knowing. “You are very pretty” she said simply. “No wonder he’s so taken with you.” Alysaane blinked, immediately looking away.

Rowan leaned lightly against the side of the cot, voice turning thoughtful. “It’s the best part, you know,” she said.“This stage where you can’t quite have each other yet. So you circle, you argue. You push and pull because you don’t know what else to do with it.”

Alysaane let out a small, nervous laugh. “It’s not like that,” she said quickly. “We’re just… travelling together.” Rowan raised a brow. “Travelling companions don’t look at each other like that.” Alysaane said nothing. “They don’t gravitate toward each other either.” Rowan added lightly.

Before she could gather herself, there was a knock at the door. “Alysaane?” Lyonel’s voice called from outside. Rowan didn’t even try to hide her grin. “There.” she said. Alysaane pressed her lips together, failing to suppress a laugh as she moved to open the door.

Lyonel stood there, looking mildly confused as though he had walked into a conversation he did not understand but suspected was about him. Rowan crossed her arms. “What is it?” she asked, amusement clear in her tone.

“I came to inform you that we’re going out for drinks.” Lyonel responded still looking at Alysaane. Rowan tilted her head. “And you needed to personally deliver this message?” Lyonel opened his mouth then closed it again. “…yes” he decided finally, with absolutely no conviction.

Rowan only laughed louder at Lyonel’s half-hearted attempts to defend himself, waving a hand as though she had already won whatever unspoken argument they had been having. “Go,” she said, nudging Alysaane lightly. "I’ll put him to sleep and join you.”

The corridor stretched long and quiet, lit only by scattered candles along the stone walls. Their footsteps echoed faintly, hers soft and measured, his slower, deliberate. The distant murmur of voices from below faded with every step they took, until there was nothing left but the hush between them.

Alysaane walked ahead, though her thoughts were anything but calm. The memories of the kiss lingered stubbornly, settling somewhere deep in her chest, making every step feel heavier than it should.

Behind her, Lyonel was no better. His gaze lingered on her far longer than it should have. He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly as if that alone might steady him.

“Alysaane.” Her name slipped out before he could stop. There was something in the way she faced him, almost expectant, that made his breath catch for half a second.

And for one reckless, dangerous heartbeat, he almost did it, almost closed the distance in two long strides, pressed her back against the stone wall, and kissed her the way he had wanted to since the moment she walked past him.

“…the baby,” he said finally, the words coming out a little rougher than intended. “He seems quite taken with you.” Alysaane’s lips curved, though her eyes didn’t quite lose that lingering intensity. “He has good taste.” she replied lightly.

By the time they reached the main hall, the easy hum of voices and warmth of the hearth wrapped around them again, breaking the fragile, dangerous quiet that had followed them down the corridor.

Duncan and Raymun were already deep in conversation, cups in hand, while the table bore the beginnings of what promised to be a long, lively evening. The moment Lyonel stepped in, the energy shifted, plans were made to explore the nearby market and then have drinks.

Egg, of course, was the first to spring up, eager and bright-eyed, ready to follow the men as though he had been waiting for precisely this moment but Duncan’s hand came down firmly on the back of his collar before he could make it three steps. “And where do you think you’re going?” Duncan asked, raising a brow.

Egg turned, indignant, puffing himself up with all the seriousness he could muster. “I am a man.” Lyonel snorted, nearly choking on his drink. “A man, is it?”

“A very important one” Egg added, chin lifted. Lyonel leaned back, eyeing him with exaggerated consideration before nodding solemnly. “Then, my prince,” he said, voice dripping with mock respect, “you may stay here, with the women.” The room burst into laughter. Egg’s face fell immediately. “That is not fair!”

Alysaane, who had been standing just behind him, stepped forward without hesitation. “He can stay” she said, her tone light but firm, one hand coming to rest on Egg’s shoulder. “We will need help.” Egg straightened instantly, pride restored. “Yes,” he said, nodding eagerly. “They will need me.”

The men disappeared soon enough laughter, boots, and loud promises trailing behind them, leaving the house quieter, though not by much because then came the real challenge, cooking or rather attempting to.

Rowan stood near the barn door, issuing calm instructions that were promptly ignored, misunderstood, or executed disastrously. “Careful! no, not like that! Egg, don’t chase it!”

A chicken darted wildly across the yard, flapping and squawking as Egg sprinted after it with entirely misplaced confidence, Alysaane not far behind, her laughter ringing out as she nearly slipped in the grass trying to corner it. “I have it!” Egg shouted. “You do not!” Alysaane laughed, lunging and missing completely as the bird slipped between them.

It's feathers flew, quite literally and by the time they managed to catch it, both of them looked thoroughly defeated. Strands of her hair had come loose, flour dusted their clothes from an earlier mishap, and a few stubborn feathers clung to them like trophies of battle.

Rowan only shook her head, barely holding back her laughter. “You both look like you’ve been through a war.”

Eventually, they retreated to the kitchen, settling into slightly less dangerous tasks. Vegetables were chopped unevenly, slowly, but with determination while Rowan guided them from her place nearby.

Rowan handed Alysaane the knife. “Here,” she said gently. “This part is simple.” Alysaane nodded, taking it carefully, focusing on the task. For a moment, everything was fine and then a sudden splatter of blood marked her sleeve, bright and jarring against the fabric and some landed on her face.

She froze.

The world tilted, it wasn’t the kitchen anymore. It was desperate screams, echoing kind that never quite left her memory. The prince’s voice, low and cruel. Her breath caught and fingers stilled completely, the knife hanging uselessly in her hand as her vision blurred from the sudden weight of memory pressing down on her chest.

“Alysaane?” Rowan’s voice sounded distant. Egg had gone quiet even the room seemed to hold its breath and then a sudden, delighted burst of laughter cut through everything, it was bright and unfiltered. The baby babbled and giggled and Alysaane blinked. The sound pulled her back, anchoring her to the present with surprising force.

She turned slowly, her gaze finding the child where he sat, small hands reaching toward her as he babbled happily, entirely unaware of the storm he had just interrupted. Her breath left her in a soft exhale and the warmth returned to the room.

She swallowed, forcing a small smile as she set the knife down. “I’m fine,” she said softly “It’s nothing. She wiped her hands slowly, steadying herself. Egg watched her closely, his expression thoughtful but then he smiled, bright and easy, as though deciding something for himself. “She’s stronger now,” he declared. Alysaane glanced at him, surprised. “You are.”

The market was alive in a way only small towns could manage, crowded but not suffocating, loud but not overwhelming. Raymun walked ahead of them like a man entirely in his element, gesturing broadly as he spoke, explaining every stall and every trade.

Lyonel was only half listening, until something caught his eye. A small stall, tucked between two louder merchants, displayed sticks of colored charcoal and neatly stacked parchment of fine quality. He stopped and asked for the colored charcoal. Raymun noticed immediately. “Ah,” he said slowly, a grin spreading across his face. “Now who might this be for?” Lyonel didn’t bother looking at him.

“Of course, for a certain red-haired girl who seems to occupy your every waking thought.” Raymun teased, Lyonel scoffed, tossing a few coins to the merchant and gathering the charcoal and parchment with far more care than necessary.

“The great Laughing Storm reduced to following a woman around like a lovesick puppy.” Raymun continued to tease.

“I do not follow her!” Lyonel said sharply. Duncan raised a brow and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I’ve been watching you for weeks” he said, his tone less teasing now, more certain. “You are different around her.” Lyonel opened his mouth to argue but nothing came out.

They reached the tavern soon after, the noise spilling out into the street before they even stepped inside. Music, laughter, clinking cups and the promise of a long night ahead.

Raymun turned to Lyonel again with a sly look. “Tell me,” he said, “if none of this is true, why are you ignoring the women staring at you right now?” Lyonel frowned slightly, glancing just enough to notice what Raymun meant. A group of women by the far table, their attention very clearly fixed on him. He looked away immediately. “…she would kill me.” he muttered under his breath.

Raymun burst into laughter and Duncan joined him a second later, shaking his head as he patted Lyonel’s back. “Gods, you’re gone.” he said.

Lyonel exhaled slowly, his voice quieter when he spoke again. “I… like her” he admitted, almost reluctantly. “She’s…..different.” That caught Raymun’s attention properly. “Different how?” Duncan answered for him and slowly, carefully, between the two of them, they told him. When they finished, Raymun was quiet for a moment. “…that’s horrible.” he said finally, his voice low.

By the time the men returned, the house had shifted into something warmer. The table had been set with more enthusiasm than precision, plates slightly uneven, cups mismatched, but everything carried the unmistakable effort of those who had tried.

Lyonel barely noticed any of it, the moment he stepped inside, his eyes began searching for her. He didn’t greet anyone, didn’t join the conversation, his gaze moved from one corner of the room to the next, restless, until she stepped in .

And for a moment, he forgot how to breathe, his eyes stopped at the blood on her sleeves and dress. He crossed the room in seconds. “What happened?” His voice cut through the noise so sharply that it silenced the room almost instantly. “Whose blood is that?” She blinked at him, startled by the urgency. “Seven help me,” he breathed, his voice dropping, rougher now, edged with something dangerously close to panic. “Is it yours? Tell me it’s not yours.”

The room had gone completely still, Alysaane stared at him for a moment, taken aback by the intensity of it before she answered, softer now. “It's chicken.” He froze. “…chicken?” She nodded, a small smile beginning to tug at her lips despite herself. “Yes. We caught chickens.”

Lyonel’s gaze shifted fom the blood to the flour on her forehead, to the leaves tangled in her hair, to the feathers and a quiet, disbelieving huff of laughter left him. “Incredible” he muttered, reaching up without thinking, his fingers already moving to pluck a stubborn feather free from her hair. “I leave you alone for an hour and you wage war against poultry.” She laughed softly, the sound lighter now, easier. “I fought valiantly.”

“I have no doubt,” he said, glancing down at her with a crooked smile as he brushed a faint streak of flour from her temple with his thumb. “The chickens never stood a chance.”

Behind them, Raymun let out a low whistle. Rowan smirked. “She has him wrapped around her little finger.” Lyonel ignored them but somewhere, quietly, in the back of his mind he knew they weren’t wrong. She had him utterly undone, tongue-tied, half-mad and apparently ready to go to war with livestock if required.

CHAPTER 8: Sweet Theft, Worth the Trouble

A deep voice echoed across the orchard. “What in the Seven hells is going on over there?" From the far side of the orchard, a rider approached on a beautiful white mare. The man slowed as he reached the group, one eyebrow lifting slightly as he took in the scene.

A wide grin spread across the rider’s face. “Well,” he said. “Seven hells if it isn’t the famous knights of Ashford.” The man was Raymun Fossoway, the same Raymun who had stood and fought valiantly beside Duncan during the legendary Trial of Seven at the Ashford Tournament.

Lyonel leaned across his saddle with a grin of his own. “Well if it isn’t the famous apple boy!” Raymun barked out a laugh. The two men stepped forward and embraced warmly, clapping each other hard on the back. Duncan and Egg hurried over next.

Within moments all four of them were exchanging greetings, laughter, and questions all at once.

Above them, Alysaane was still in the tree and now she had a new problem. Climbing up had been simple enough with Egg pointing out which branches were strong. Climbing down was proving to be significantly harder.

She shifted her foot uncertainly and the branch creaked slightly. Below her, Lyonel glanced up again. “Need help, Lady Alysaane?”

She hesitated and then nodded quickly. He chuckled softly. Without another word he began climbing up toward her with easy confidence, moving through the branches like someone who had done it a hundred times before.

When he reached her, he steadied himself beside the branch she sat on. "Alright,” he said quietly "Give me your foot.” She obeyed cautiously. He guided her foot to a lower branch. “No... there. That one will hold.”

His hand remained firmly around her wrist as she moved. “Now the other one.” She followed his instructions carefully, descending branch by branch while he stayed just behind her.

Finally they reached the lowest branch. She shifted forward, ready to jump down but suddenly his arm moved, blocking her. She frowned. “Lord Baratheon.....”

“Why,” he asked quietly, “are you calling me that?" She blinked. “What?". His gaze held hers steadily. “Why do you keep calling me, Lord Baratheon?”

She lifted her chin slightly. “Why do you call me Lady Alysaane?” A slow smile spread across his face. “Because it suits you.” He waited clearly expecting her answer. She leaned slightly closer. “I call you Lord Baratheon,” she said softly, “because that is who you are.” Her voice echoed his own words from earlier. “Lord of the strongest house in Westeros.” His smile widened.

Before he could respond, a voice called from below. “And who is this fair maiden?” The sudden interruption startled her and her foot slipped slightly. For a terrifying moment she wobbled but Lyonel’s arm tightened instantly around her waist. “Careful,” he murmured.

Slowly, carefully, he lowered her down the last few feet. Duncan stepped forward and steadied her as her boots finally touched the ground. She straightened quickly, brushing leaves from her skirts.

Raymun studied her with open curiosity. His gaze paused briefly on her hair. “Well,” he said with a smile. “Your hair is almost the color of dark apples, my lady.”

Alysaane smiled politely. “My name is Alysaane.” Duncan stepped forward. “We met her on the road,” he explained casually. “She is traveling toward Dorne.”

Raymun nodded slowly but the way Duncan said it. The slight pause, the careful tone, told him immediately that there was far more to the story.

Raymun clasped Dunc in a crushing embrace, then pulled Egg by his shoulder “You’ve grown,” Raymun remarked with mock suspicion, squinting down at Egg as if this were some trick. “Boys do that,” Egg replied smugly.

In the middle of the lively chatter Raymun’s gaze drifted slowly downward to the apples, dozens of them, scattered across the grass beneath the tree like small green jewels.

He raised one eyebrow then another. “Well now,” he said slowly, gesturing toward the apples with a lazy sweep of his hand. “Perhaps one of you would care to explain why you were trespassing on my farm… and stealing my fruit.”

The silence lasted exactly half a heartbeat then all four of them spoke at once. “I like green apples” said Alysaane, with perfect calm. “She forced me!” Egg protested immediately, pointing upward at her. “We were merely borrowing them” Lyonel added with great dignity. “I apologize” Duncan said firmly at the same time.

Their explanations collided into each other. Raymun blinked then threw his head back and laughed. Lyonel folded his arms slowly. “Wait,” he said, looking around the orchard. “All of this is yours?”

Raymun’s grin widened. “Yes.” He turned in a slow circle, gesturing across the rows of trees stretching across the rolling fields. “All of it.” Sunlight glittered across the fruit as the breeze stirred the branches.

“I’ve been expanding the cider business I inherited from my father’s family,” Raymun continued proudly. “Turns out apples are a surprisingly profitable thing if you grow enough of them.” He nudged one of the fallen apples lightly with his boot.“ And if fools dont keep trying to steal them.”

Egg stared across the orchard in awe. “You own all these trees?” Raymun nodded and then asked cheerfully “Well then, would you like a tour?”

“Yes” they all answered in unison.

He whistled sharply, waving toward a pair of workers in the distance. Two farmhands jogged over quickly, wiping their hands on their aprons as Raymun gestured toward the horses. “Take care of these mounts” he instructed. Alysaane lifted a hand. “And these apples as well.” Raymun paused then laughed heartily. “Yes,” he said warmly. “Please collect those apples for the lady.”

The farm was far larger than it had seemed from the road. The rows of apple trees stretched endlessly, their branches arching overhead like green tunnels filled with dappled sunlight.

Raymun enthusiastically described his work. “I’ve been expanding every month” he explained, gesturing toward a massive wooden press where workers were already loading baskets of apples. “More presses, more barrels, more workers.”

Behind them, Alysaane had slowed again, the farm fascinated her. She watched workers hauling baskets of apples toward the presses, others stacking barrels or guiding carts along the dirt paths. Lyonel noticed her absence within moments. He turned and immediately walked back toward her. “You’re falling behind, Lady Alysaane.” She didn’t look at him. “I’m observing.”

Neither of them seemed to notice but ahead of them, Raymun slowed his pace slightly and glanced over his shoulder. He watched the scene unfold with growing amusement.

Lyonel kept pace just behind Alysaane, responding to every remark she threw back over her shoulder. Step for step, Raymun leaned toward Duncan. “Does he realize how he looks?” Raymun murmured.

Duncan sighed heavily. “Oh he has no idea.” Raymun watched as Alysaane abruptly turned down another path between the rows of trees. Lyonel followed immediately, still arguing and completely focused on her.

Raymun chuckled quietly. “The Laughing Storm of House Baratheon,” he said under his breath. “Tied neatly around a woman’s finger.”

Behind them, Egg was watching too, he snickered. “She walks him like a dog.” Duncan immediately frowned. “Egg.” But Raymun laughed loudly. “The boy is right.” They looked ahead again just as Alysaane picked up her pace slightly. Without thinking, Lyonel quickened his own stride to match hers, still bickering and still following.

By the time they reached them, Alysaane’s expression had softened again, her earlier sharpness replaced with something lighter.

Raymun’s attention shifted to her immediately. “And?” he asked, gesturing broadly to the land around them. “What do you think of it?”

Alysaane looked around once more, at the rows of trees stretching far into the distance, the scent of apples thick in the air, the hum of work and life all around them. “It’s wonderful,” she said softly. “Truly.”

Raymun beamed at that, clearly pleased. Lyonel clapped a hand onto Raymun’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “You’ve done well for yourself, Apple Boy,” he said, his tone half-mocking but wholly approving.

“Better than most lords I know" Raymun laughed. “and we don’t have servants running about. Just me and Rowan managing what we can.” He shrugged lightly. “Business comes first. The rest follows.”

Duncan nodded. “It’s honest work” he said simply. “And good work” Lyonel chimed in immediately, looking around with bright curiosity. “We should stay. Please say we’re staying.” Lyonel glanced at Duncan, then back at Raymun, a small smile forming. “If the invitation still stands.”

“It does,” Raymun said without hesitation. “Come. You’ll have a roof tonight.” His home sat just beyond the orchard, a sturdy, two-storied house, not grand but solid and well-kept. Large windows, wide doors, space enough to breathe.

Alysaane slowed as they approached, taking it in quietly. “It’s… beautiful” Before Raymun could respond, the door opened. Rowan stepped out, a small child balanced on her hip. She froze for half a second at the sight of them and then her face lit up. “Well, I’ll be damned” she laughed. “If it isn’t Ashford’s finest.” They greeted her warmly.

And then the baby noticed Alysaane and made a curious little sound, and then tiny hands reaching and grabbing at the air in her direction as the child let out an insistent string of baby babble.

Rowan blinked in surprise. “Oh! he doesn’t usually...” Alysaane looked startled, her hands hovering uncertainly. “I’ve never..." Rowan smiled gently. “Here,” she said, stepping closer. “Support his head.... yes, like that."

For a moment, she was almost too still, as if afraid she might break him and then the baby gurgled. A tiny hand reached up, grasping her cheek with surprising determination.

Lyonel, standing just a step away, felt something shift deep in his chest. He didn’t even realize he had gone quiet. The sight of her, holding the child, her expression open and bright in a way he had never seen before, her laughter soft and unguarded. It settled somewhere dangerous.

He could see it, a hall in Storm’s End filled with that same sound. Her laughter echoing against stone walls. Small hands tugging at her skirts, dozen little versions of this moment woven into something permanent.

Alysaane began to pace slowly, instinctively rocking the baby as she moved. He settled easily against her, content, small fingers still tangled in her hair.

And Lyonel couldn’t look away, not when the picture in his mind refused to let go. They all settled inside eventually, conversation picking up, stories exchanged, plans discussed but Lyonel barely heard any of it. His attention kept drifting back to her.

Rowan noticed first then Raymun and shared look passed between them, silent and knowing. Eventually, Lyonel rose without thinking, crossing the room until he stood beside her. “Let me,” he said quietly, reaching out to tap the baby’s nose lightly. The child blinked up at him then grabbed his finger. Alysaane smiled at that and just like that, he was done for all over again.

Across the room, Duncan watched the scene unfold, something warm settling in his chest. Raymun leaned slightly toward him, lowering his voice. “Who is she?” Duncan hesitated, then answered simply, “Someone who needed help.” Rowan hummed softly, watching Lyonel far more than Alysaane. “He looks at her like she hung the moon.”

Duncan snorted quietly. “That obvious?”

Across the room, Lyonel glanced up and caught Alysaane looking at him. For a moment, neither looked away and from where they stood, it was painfully, unmistakably clear this was only going to get worse.

Sorry I haven’t uploaded the rest of the chapters sooner; work swallowed me whole with a massive project, then I started watching *The Pitt* (emotionally devastating), and then Quinn and Shawn Hatosy decided to personally ruin my life. Why have I developed a strange attachment to silver fox men with great humor and sexy hands? Please send help.