Lyonel sat in a high-backed chair carved like a throne, though he sprawled in it as though it were a tavern bench. His black hair fell in unruly waves to his shoulders, still damp from the bath he'd taken after the evening's feast. Blue eyesfixed on you with an intensity that made the room feel smaller.

You stood in the center of the rush-strewn floor, barefoot as always when you danced for him alone. The second private performance he'd begged for. The first had been weeks ago, after a feast where your troupe had entertained the hall; he'd cornered you afterward, insisting you come to his solar the next night. "Just one dance, sweetling," he'd said, voice rough with something that wasn't jest. "For a poor storm lord who's seen too many battles and not enough beauty."

Tonight you'd chosen a simple gown of deep crimson silk, thin enough to move like water, hemmed short to bare your ankles and calves. No jewels. No paint. Just you, and the small silver bells tied around one wrist and ankle that chimed with every step.

Lyonel watched without speaking as you began.

The dance was slow at first, a Dornish lament your mother had taught you before the fever took her. You moved like smoke, arms lifting in languid arcs, hips swaying in time to a rhythm only you could hear. Your hair swung loose, dark strands like polished obsidian.

Gods, but you were beautiful. Not the cold, perfect beauty of court ladies, all powdered skin and practiced smiles. Yours was alive. The delicate arch of your neck when you tilted your head back. The small, unconscious smile that curved your lips when the music in your head swelled.

He'd fallen the first time he'd seen you, at that feast. You'd spun through the hall amid pipes and drums, skirts flaring like blood-red sails, and something in his chest had cracked open. Not lust (though Seven help him, there was that too) but something deeper. A need to keep you close, to shield you from the world's sharp edges the way a man shields a candle flame in a gale.

He'd proposed the first time that very night, half-drunk on wine and wonder. "Marry me, little dancer. Be my lady, my storm's heart." You'd laughed and he'd laughed too, because what else could a man do when the woman he loved thought his heart a jest?

The second time, sober, in the godswood after a hunt. The third, in the training yard while you watched him spar. Each time you'd smiled, shaken your head, called him "my lord" with gentle mockery.

You finished the dance on a final, lingering turn. Chest rising and falling, a faint sheen of sweat at your temples. You dipped a shallow curtsy, eyes sparkling with the afterglow of movement.

Lyonel rose. Slowly. The chair scraped back. He crossed the room in long strides, stopping close enough to you. He reached out, caught your hand and brought it to his lips. The kiss was reverent. His beard scratched faintly against your knuckles.

Your smile faltered, just a fraction. "Lyonel—"

He dropped to one knee. A giant of a man, broad as a warhorse, kneeling on worn rushes before a dancer from nowhere.

"Marry me," he said. Simple. "Not because your house has ships or your father has men. Marry me because I've been half-mad since the first time you spun across a hall and stole my fucking breath. Because I want to wake beside you, fight for you, laugh with you, grow old and cranky and still look at you like you're the only goddamn wonder left in this miserable world."

He pressed your hand to his chest and you felt the thunder of his heart beneath the linen.

"I'm not good with pretty words," he continued, eyes never leaving yours. "I'm good with steel and stubbornness. But I swear by the old gods and the new, by the Drowned God if you want him too—I will love you until the Stranger comes for me. I'll beg on my knees every day if that's what it takes. Just... say yes, sweetling. Be mine and let me be yours."