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.
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