The great hall of Ashford Meadow rang with the aftermath of glory. The air hung thick with the mingled scents of roasted boar, mulled wine spiced with clove and cinnamon.

You stood near the far wall, half-hidden behind a pillar carved with twining vines that someone had draped in wilted ivy for the occasion. Your gown was moss-green samite, the color of deep forest shade, embroidered at the hem with silver thread like dew on leaves—House Moss colors, modest but proud. The bodice laced tight enough to remind you of breath, the skirts heavy enough to make every step deliberate. You'd worn your hair loose tonight, dark waves pinned back only with a single silver clasp shaped like an oak leaf, because your mother had always said it made you look less like a wallflower and more like something growing wild in the godswood.

No one had asked you to dance.

Not once.

The tourney had crowned its champions earlier: Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm himself, had unhorsed half a dozen men with that booming laugh echoing behind his visor. You'd watched from the stands, heart knocking against your ribs each time his lance struck true, each time he threw back his head and roared with delight. Now he held court at the high table, surrounded by a knot of Stormlanders and sycophants, his black hair tousled from the helm, blue eyes bright as summer lightning. He wore no armor—only a doublet of cloth-of-gold slashed with black, the crowned stag rampant across his broad chest. He looked every inch the heir to Storm's End: tall enough to make lesser men seem children, shoulders like the hull of a war galley, and that reckless grin.

You'd caught his eye once during the feast. Just once. He'd been laughing at something Ser Raymun Fossoway said when his gaze slid sideways and landed on you. The laughter didn't stop, but it changed; softened at the edges, as though he'd tasted something unexpectedly sweet. You'd looked away first, cheeks burning, fingers twisting the stem of your goblet until the metal warmed against your palm.

That had been hours ago.

Now the dancing had begun in earnest. Couples swirled past in a riot of silk and velvet: Lannisters in crimson and gold, Tyrells in green and silver, even a few Dornish in flowing sandsilk that whispered against the flagstones. You watched them move and felt the familiar pinch behind your breastbone. Invisible. That's what you were tonight. The only daughter of a minor house from the stormlands border, landed but not wealthy, old blood but no banners worth noticing. Men bowed to your father, clapped his shoulder, asked after his health. No one asked after you.

You took a sip of wine and set the goblet on a passing tray before you could drink yourself maudlin.

The music shifted into a slower tune, the kind meant for closer holds and lingering glances. The crowd parted slightly, laughter quieting as though the room itself drew breath.

Lyonel was moving.

Not toward the highborn ladies clustered near the dais, not toward the daughters of great houses with their jeweled hairnets and practiced smiles. He cut straight through the throng like a ship through waves, long strides eating distance, people stepping aside without protest. His eyes were fixed ahead—on you.

Your stomach flipped and you glanced behind you, half-convinced he meant someone else. The pillar stared back, indifferent.

He stopped before you. "My lady," he said, voice rough like distant surf. He offered his hand, palm up. "You've been standing here all night like a tree rooted too deep. Dance with me."

You stared at his hand. Callused and larger than yours by half. Around you the hall seemed to tilt. Whispers hissed like wind through reeds. Eyes turned. Your father's brows lifted from across the room; your mother's fan stilled mid-flutter.

"I—" You faltered. "I'm not much of a dancer."

"Good." His grin widened, showing teeth. "Neither am I when I'm sober. We'll make a right mess of it. Come on, little oak. Let me steal you from this wall before it claims you for good."