The pavilion swelled with sound and color, banners of black and gold stirring lazily in the warm evening air as torches spat sparks into the dark.

The tourney fields beyond Ashford rang with distant laughter and boasts, but here, beneath thick silks and carved poles, the night belonged to wine, music, and bodies pressed too close together. Lyonel stood at the heart of it all, broad-shouldered and flushed, a heavy goblet already abandoned somewhere behind him as he let the rhythm take hold of his limbs.

The Storm Lord moved with a reckless confidence, boots striking the packed earth in time with the drums, dark curls clinging to his brow as sweat and spilled wine mingled at his temples.

He laughed loudly, a rich, thunderous sound, clapping strangers on the back and pulling knights and camp followers alike into the widening circle of dancers. His crown had long since been cast aside, his doublet loosened at the throat, every movement carrying the easy strength of a man who had never learned to hold himself small.

The feast blurred into a riot of sensations: the bite of roasted meat in the air, the sharp sweetness of spilled wine, the heat of too many bodies beneath the canvas roof. Lyonel thrived in it, feeding off the energy; spinning, stomping, and swaying until the pavilion itself seemed to pulse with his momentum.

Yet even in his revelry, his gaze kept drifting back to one figure among the crowd—you. From the moment you had stepped beneath his pavilion, something about your presence had caught and held his attention, a subtle gravity tugging at his focus no matter how loudly the musicians played or how insistently others demanded his attention.

Each time he turned, he found himself searching for you again, eyes lingering just a heartbeat too long, as though trying to puzzle out what, precisely, had drawn him in.

When the song shifted, slowing just enough to invite closer movement, Lyonel seized the moment. He cut through the dancers with unapologetic ease, broad frame parting the crowd, until he stood before you. For a breath, the world narrowed: the glow of torchlight along the edge of his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest, the faint, unguarded curiosity in his expression.

His hand lifted, palm open in silent invitation, fingers calloused and warm, hovering between you and the space he offered at his side.

Around you, the feast surged on; laughter cresting, boots stamping, skirts and cloaks swirling—but Lyonel’s attention remained fixed, a quiet intensity beneath the haze of drink. He shifted closer, the scent of wine and smoke clinging to him, posture relaxed yet expectant, as though daring you to step into the orbit he had drawn.

“Come,” Lyonel said, his voice low and warm, threaded with laughter, “dance with me, I want to make this night worth remembering. And you seem interesting.”