Chapter Text
When the carriage came to a halt, Septa Maeryn and Elenei descended with care.
The road was damp, and the fresh morning air moved through the nearby trees. Some men dismounted to stretch their legs, others tended to the horses or drank from their waterskins while the caravan took advantage of the halt.
The two had moved slightly away from the rest. Maeryn had secured a small bowl of water and a clean cloth.
The rice had embedded itself deep into the skin, some grains had stuck to the dried blood and had to be plucked out one by one. The novice’s knees were in a wretched state. The skin was torn in several places, the flesh swollen and bruised as if it had been ground under an invisible weight. When the water ran over them, it was immediately stained red.
The septa had winced.
“For Mother's sake…” she murmured. “Child, this was not necessary.”
Elenei did not answer. She simply kept her hands clasped over her lap, her back straight, breathing with care.
The wounds were clean now, though they still looked terrible. The problem was the dress. The light fabric was stained from the knees down. The septa had tried scrubbing with water, then with a scrap of damp cloth, even with a bit of road sand, but the blood had soaked in too deep.
“It won't come out,” she said finally, resigned.
“I am sorry, Septa.”
“Do not apologize to me,” Maeryn muttered. “Apologize to your knees.”
At that moment, a laugh echoed nearby.
“Yes, you!”
Both looked up. Lyonel Baratheon was walking toward them with a relaxed stride, a wide grin still plastered on his face. He pointed at them with one hand.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
Septa Maeryn looked at him with slight surprise.
“For whom exactly, my lord?”
Lyonel’s smile faltered for but a second. He stood there, considering it.
“Well…” he said slowly. His hands made a vague gesture in the air, as if arranging the thought. “For both of you, obviously.”
Another small hand gesture, this one quicker, as if to sweep away any doubt before someone could point it out. The septa watched him. Elenei did too. And for an instant, a curious, slightly awkward silence grew around Lyonel’s expression, for he had clearly been on the verge of saying something else.
He cleared his throat.
“I only wanted… eh… to ask if the journey is proving comfortable for you.”
The septa answered immediately.
“Sleeping in tents is not what it once was,” she said with a small, weary smile. “Age makes the knees and the back quite petulant.”
Lyonel nodded politely.
“Of course.”
Then he looked at Elenei. He clearly expected her to say something. The novice simply returned a soft, quiet smile… but she did not speak. It was the kind smile one uses when she knows it is better not to join the conversation.
Lyonel cleared his throat again. Attempt number two.
“Is this your first tourney?” he asked, looking directly at Elenei.
She parted her lips slightly. But the septa spoke first.
“Oh, I have been to many tourneys,” she said with sudden enthusiasm. “When I served House Tyrell, for instance, the tourney at Beesbury was something extraordinary…”
Her gaze rose toward the sky, as elders do when searching for distant memories.
“There was a marcher knight… I cannot recall his name now… but he wore green armor so bright it looked like a fresh leaf beneath the sun…”
The septa’s voice droned on. It flowed calmly, full of details and recollections. But Lyonel was no longer truly listening.
His eyes had lingered on Elenei.
First, it was casual. Just a gaze longer than normal. Then another. And another. The midday light fell sideways across her face, softening the contours of her pale skin. Her eyes, large, round, reflected the clarity of the sky like small pools of water.
They looked like the eyes of prey, a doe, to be exact. That was the first thought that crossed Lyonel’s mind. Not because of weakness, exactly, but because of that strange mix of alertness and softness possessed by animals that live observing the world with care.
But her face lacked the exaggerated sweetness that many noble ladies practiced before a mirror. It wasn't that calculated innocence. Nor was there anything vulgar about her. Nothing forced.
Simply… she was beautiful. In a quiet way. Natural. So natural that, for a moment, it was difficult to look away.
“…and then the knight fell from his horse right in front of the gallery,” the septa continued. “Imagine! The whole crowd held its breath…”
The wind stirred a lock of Elenei’s hair. She tucked it behind her ear with a small, unconscious gesture. Lyonel felt something curious in his chest, a sort of euphoria mixed with nervousness and a certain fluttering in his stomach at the thought that she might look back at him.
“…though of course, the real scandal was when Lady Myranda decided to wager…”
The septa’s voice felt as if it came from far away. Lyonel kept staring. He watched the way the novice listened intently, tilting her head slightly toward the older woman. He watched how her hands rested together on her lap, still. There was nothing ostentatious about her. Nothing that drew the eye in an obvious way.
And yet… Alyra was right. The lords would throw themselves at her the moment they saw her. Some were so shameless they wouldn't care even if she were a septa.
“…and that was when the knight-”
Lyonel looked down distractedly. And then he saw it.
The blood.
Elenei’s knees were stained. The light fabric of the dress was soaked in some spots, darkened in others where the blood was already beginning to dry.
The change in his expression was immediate.
“What happened to you?”
The question came out abruptly. The septa stopped mid-story. Elenei lowered her gaze, stealing a quick glance at her knees.
“I was only… doing penance,” she said in a low voice.
“Penance for what?”
She hesitated. Her fingers tightened slightly over the fabric of her dress. The septa intervened quickly.
“Women of the Faith do penance frequently, my lord. It is quite common.”
But Lyonel was already moving. He knelt before Elenei as if the explanation were not enough.
“Let me see.”
He reached toward the stained fabric, attempting to lift the hem of the dress.
“My lord!” the septa cried, scandalized.
Elenei reacted instantly. She gripped the cloth with both hands, holding it firmly in place, not knowing quite what to do in such a situation. Her eyes were wide with shock.
Lyonel seemed genuinely confused.
“I only wish to see-”
“Do not lift a novice’s skirts in the middle of the road!” Maeryn’s voice was nearly a shriek.
Elenei could not take her eyes off Lyonel; the natural way in which he tried to inspect her sent a shiver through her, and her cheeks flushed crimson with shame.
He looked ready to argue with the septa, like a man who does not take a scolding lightly. But at that moment, a booming voice came from further back.
“Lyonel!”
Lyonel’s father.
“Get over here! We’re hunting before we move on.”
Lyonel sighed. He stood up.
“I’m coming.”
He looked at the septa. Then at Elenei.
“I’ll send the maester to look at you,” he said, gesturing toward her knees. His tone did not seem to permit questioning and, honestly, both the septa and she were so stunned they could not have objected.
For a second, he seemed to want to say something more. But finally, he simply turned away.
As he walked back toward the men preparing the horses…
He glanced back over his shoulder.
Straight at Elenei.
””
The maester was not long in appearing.
When Lyonel had said he would send someone to look at her, it had been neither a polite exaggeration nor an idle remark.
Barely a few minutes later, the old man was shuffling along the road at the greatest speed his aging legs could muster. The heavy chain clinked against his chest with every step.
His face was pale.
Far too pale for what was, in truth, merely a pair of wounded knees.
He looked like a man who had been informed that half a dozen soldiers lay dying in the camp.
Septa Maeryn saw him approaching and let out a long sigh through her nose.
"For Mother's sake…"
She wasn't angry with Elenei, had she been, she would have already rebuked her severely for causing such a stir. But neither could she show open irritation toward the young lord who had sent the maester.
And so, she channeled her annoyance the only way she could, crossing her arms stiffly while grumbling under her breath.
"Such a fuss over a few scraped knees..."
The maester climbed into the carriage with some difficulty, leaning against the wooden frame before settling himself opposite Elenei. The thick canvas filtered the light from outside, leaving the interior in a soft gloom that smelled of leather, wood, and road dust.
"Right, right..." the old man muttered, setting a small leather bag beside him. "Let us see what we have here."
Elenei carefully lifted the hem of her dress just enough to show the bandages covering her knees. As the maester began to remove them with expert hands, she tried to focus on anything else.
But her mind inevitably returned to the same moment.
To Lyonel.
To the natural way he had knelt before her.
He had not hesitated, had not asked for leave, nor had he made an awkward pause like most men do when finding themselves before a woman of the Faith.
He had simply done it.
He had knelt, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The memory caused an uncomfortable heat to rise through her chest to her face. Elenei looked down at her hands. She could still see him clearly in her mind. The quickness with which he had moved. The direct way he had reached for her dress.
It had been so sudden that she hadn't even had time to react properly. She had only managed to clutch the fabric with both hands while the septa shrieked in scandal.
The flush in her cheeks deepened.
What a shameful thought.
A novice should not remember that moment in such a way. She should not analyze it, nor should she… think on it again.
And yet, something inside her replayed it over and over.
Because it hadn't been vulgar, or disrespectful, or mocking.
It had been… sincere, direct, almost worried. As if his first instinct had truly been to see how grave the wound was.
Elenei closed her eyes for a moment. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Perhaps it was the pain from the maester’s hands as he cleaned the open wounds. Perhaps it was the discomfort of remembering the scene.
Or perhaps…
The image returned to her mind without leave. Lyonel kneeling before her, a young man, tall, handsome, his hands near her dress.
Elenei’s eyes snapped open.
She squeezed them shut again immediately, overcome with shame.
"Mother… forgive me," she whispered, hardly realizing she had spoken aloud.
The maester’s hands went still.
"Does it pain you greatly?"
Elenei opened her eyes quickly.
"No, no, no… I am fine."
The old man frowned while inspecting the wounds. The skin around the cuts was swollen, shiny, and reddened.
"You are very flushed."
He carefully passed a damp cloth over one of the knees. The water turned a pale red.
"It is possible an infection has taken hold."
Elenei shook her head at once.
"It is not that."
The maester raised an eyebrow.
"It is not normal to turn so red over a few scraped knees."
Elenei lowered her gaze. Her fingers interlaced upon her lap, and she remained silent for a few seconds, her cheeks burning. She didn't know if it was worse to admit the truth or to stay silent and let the old man think she was truly ill.
Finally, she spoke.
"Lord Lyonel… he attempted to lift my skirts to check my knees."
The maester blinked. He looked at her. For a second, he seemed truly surprised. Then he let out a soft, short laugh and shook his head.
"Ah."
He continued working with the calm of one who had just confirmed a suspicion.
"Yes… that sounds like him."
Elenei looked up, a bit confused.
"Is he… always like that?"
The old man finished cleaning one of the wounds before beginning to wrap it with a fresh bandage.
"The young lord is… impulsive, when he chooses to be." His voice held a calm, almost amused tone. "Do not take it too much to heart."
Elenei hesitated.
"He did not give me that impression at first."
The maester offered a thin smile while adjusting the bandage.
"Because he is usually quite measured." He tied the knot with care. "But when he believes something must be done… he does it, without detour. He is not the sort of man who sits waiting for others to act for him."
He looked up at her.
"If he deems something necessary, he will do it at that very moment." He returned his focus to the other knee. "Provided it is not cruel or humiliating to another, of course."
His hands continued their work steadily.
"He faces things head-on." He paused briefly. "Sometimes with even more grit and insistence than his own father."
The old man sighed softly.
"Perhaps he lacks a bit of tact, but his intentions are rarely ill."
Elenei remained silent. The maester’s words echoed in her mind for several seconds.
A man who acted when he believed he should. A man who did not stand by while others suffered the consequences of indecision.
She thought of Storm’s End. Of the stories she had heard about delayed decisions, disputes between minor houses, problems that festered because no one took a clear stance.
Then she thought of Lyonel. Of the speed with which he had reacted upon seeing the blood. Of how little he had cared about kneeling before a novice in the middle of the road.
Finally, she spoke.
"It is a relief to hear that."
The maester raised an eyebrow.
"Is it?"
Elenei nodded gently. Her voice was quiet.
"It is good to know such a man will hold Storm’s End one day."
She looked down at her interlaced hands.
"Sometimes… the indecision of the few ends up hurting the many."
””
The horses moved among the trees while the late afternoon light filtered in golden strips through the woods.
Branches crunched beneath hooves. The air smelled of damp earth, dry leaves, and resin.
The hunting party moved dispersed but close together. Lord Baratheon led the way, his brother at his side, several cousins trailing behind, all talking and laughing as they recounted some old tale of tourneys and lost wagers.
Laughter echoed between the trunks.
But Lyonel did not join in.
He rode slightly behind them, the reins loose in his hand and his brow slightly furrowed.
Penance?
The word kept spinning in his head.
He saw the blood-stained knees again in his mind’s eye. The fabric of the dress soaked through. The way she had lowered her gaze when she said it, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
To hurt herself like that.
Why?
What could possibly warrant such a thing?
The horse took a few more steps through the brush.
Alyra’s words returned to his memory then, as clear as if the girl had spoken them but a moment ago.
"Elenei is very beautiful. It wouldn't be strange for some lord to notice her."
Lyonel pulled slightly on the reins.
The horse slowed its pace.
The thought appeared in his mind before he could stop it.
What if some man had approached her?
The thought made him halt almost completely.
The horse snorted, restless at the sudden pause. Lyonel stared at a point in the forest without truly seeing it.
What if the penance had to do with that?
With some man?
A cold sensation crawled through his gut.
If that were the case…
He would Kill the idiot.
The idea came with a quiet clarity, almost irritating in its simplicity.
It had taken him four months.
Four full months.
Four months of seeing her at Storm’s End, of hiding in the corridors every time he heard her voice, of watching her without intervening, trying to convince himself that the sensible thing was to ignore the matter.
Four months that had failed utterly the moment he saw her stand before his uncle, practically ordering him what to do.
Four months of arriving at a, perhaps abrupt, decision the moment he learned she had not yet taken her vows and, therefore, he wouldn't go to hell for being attracted to her.
Too long for some half-wit to think he could get ahead of him now.
His fingers tightened ever so slightly on the reins. The horse took a nervous little step.
Then Lyonel exhaled through his nose and gave a small shake of his head.
No.
If it were something that specific, the septa would have said something. Septas did not hold their tongues when there were men sniffing around the girls under their care.
Much less if it concerned a novice.
The thought lost some of its sting. Lyonel gently pressed his heels against the horse’s flanks again. The animal resumed its pace.
“Lyonel!”
One of his cousins called out from further ahead. He lifted his head.
“Are you coming, or do you plan on sleeping up there?”
Lyonel raised a hand to show he’d heard and moved a bit faster to catch up.
But the unease had not left him. In fact, another idea was beginning to form.
A more uncomfortable one.
If she reacted like that every time she believed she had sinned…
Then what would happen when he did what he intended to do?
Because Lyonel was quite sure of one thing.
If he made his intentions clear to her…
She wasn't going to accept immediately. Not by a long shot.
She was a novice. She had spent years convinced she would take her vows, accustomed to a certain way of life. She wasn't going to change her mind just because he showed up with a smile.
That meant…
That every conversation.
Every attempt.
Every approach.
Could end with her believing she had committed a sin.
The image appeared unbidden in his mind. Elenei on her knees again. Punishing herself. Because of him.
Lyonel grimaced slightly. He didn't like that thought, he didn't like it at all.
For a few seconds, he considered something he had tried for months.
Backing out.
Returning to the original plan: ignore her, let her take her vows, move on as if nothing had happened.
It had worked well enough for four months while he tormented himself with the idea of becoming a heretic and bringing disgrace upon his house and all those under his care. He could keep doing it.
But the moment he formulated the thought, he knew it was a lie.
He didn't want to.
He wanted Elenei.
And Lyonel was not the type of man who lied to himself.
Perhaps at first, he had felt a certain shame when he believed she was already practically wedded to the Faith. But that discomfort had vanished the moment he discovered one simple thing.
That she had not yet taken her vows.
That a path still existed.
He hadn't felt for a moment that his desires were going to magically disappear, because now he knew they were possible. He was not good at holding back. Nor at being subtle. He had never had to be.
Why start now?
Even so…
Seeing her hurt had made his resolve waver for an instant.
That memory returned again. The wounded knees, the blood, the tremor in her voice when she spoke. He didn't like it.
But at the same time…
There was something else.
Something he had also seen, the determination, the absolute conviction with which she had decided to punish herself for something that, in his opinion, wasn't even a fault.
That firmness, that clarity and rectitude to her own principles.
It didn't make her less attractive.
It made her more.
Much more.
Lyonel let out a small exhalation, half-amused, half-weary.
Am I going mad?
Because honestly, he was starting to look the part.
“”
The camp was already taking shape when Elenei decided to step down from the carriage.
Several hours had passed since the maester had finished bandaging her knees. At first, she had remained lying inside, obeying the recommendation to rest, but the silence and the stillness ended up unsettling her more than the pain itself.
Through the canvas, she had begun to hear the movement outside.
Men raising poles, the thud of stakes against the earth, the friction of ropes tightening, the sound of horses being unsaddled. The retinue was setting up camp. That meant they wouldn't be moving again tonight.
Elenei took a deep breath. Perhaps a short walk wouldn't hurt.
Carefully, she pushed aside the canvas, opened the door, and stepped down from the carriage. Her knees protested slightly as they touched the ground, but the pain was bearable. The afternoon air was cool and smelled of woodsmoke.
She began to walk slowly, looking around. She was searching for Septa Maeryn among the half-set tents, the men hauling barrels, and the servants scurrying back and forth with blankets and provisions, but she was nowhere to be seen.
As she walked, her gaze accidentally caught an improvised campfire a little further off.
Several men were sitting there. She recognized Lord Baratheon immediately by his size and his deep voice, which rose above the others. Beside him were some cousins and close knights.
And among them…
Lyonel.
He was sitting with a cup in his hand, listening to something one of the men was saying with a lopsided smile. But at that very moment, he looked up.
And he saw her.
Their eyes met.
Elenei looked away almost immediately. She continued walking as if she had noticed nothing. As if she hadn't felt that small jolt in her chest, she still felt ashamed to see him.
She kept searching for the septa among the tents but did not find her. After a few minutes, an uncomfortable realization began to settle in. She didn't know where else to go. The only person she was truly meant to accompany was absent. And wandering the camp alone was not proper.
She sighed softly. Finally, she turned around and headed back toward the carriage.
When she pulled back the canvas to enter, she expected to find the interior empty and quiet, just as she had left it.
But instead…
Lyonel was sitting inside, leaning against the wall with a certain laziness as he drank from the cup in his hand. As if he had been there all along.
Elenei blinked, startled. For a second, she thought she had entered the wrong carriage. She took half a step back.
Before she could say a word, Lyonel spoke.
"You didn't get the wrong carriage." His voice was calm. "Finish coming in."
Elenei stood frozen at the entrance. Suddenly, she was acutely aware of something, she should not be alone with a man. Least of all inside a closed carriage.
But Lyonel lifted an eyebrow slightly.
"Someone might see us if you don't close the door."
Elenei reacted instantly. She stepped inside and closed the door almost at once, then sat down across from him. Her heart was beating a bit faster. For a moment, neither spoke.
Finally, she gathered the courage to ask.
"What are you doing here?"
But barely had she finished the sentence when she regretted it.
"Forgive me my Lord..." she added quickly. "I did not mean to..." She lowered her eyes. "I wish to thank you for sending the maester to tend to my wounds."
Lyonel rested his elbow on his knee with a relaxed air.
"Why did you hurt yourself like that?"
Elenei hesitated for a moment.
"It was… a penance."
Lyonel frowned slightly.
"What could you have possibly done to deserve such a thing?" Then his expression became a bit more serious. "Did the septa impose it on you?"
"What? No, no," Elenei replied immediately. "It was… self-imposed." She fell silent for a few seconds. Then she added in a lower voice, "Because of what happened in front of your uncle."
Lyonel looked at her with bewilderment.
"Why would something like that warrant penance?" He leaned forward a bit. "The only thing you did was protect Reyla." He looked directly at her. "Is that not what septas do for the girls in their care?"
Elenei looked down.
"There is a difference between doing that… and answering a lord so irreverently."
Lyonel tilted his head slightly.
"Do you remember my uncle's reaction?"
Elenei thought for a moment.
"He laughed."
Lyonel raised a hand in a simple gesture.
"There you have it." He leaned back a bit. "If it had been something truly wrong, he would have let you know." Then he looked at her more firmly, pointing a finger at her. "I don't want to see you hurting yourself like that again."
Elenei looked up, surprised.
"I forbid it." His tone wasn't aggressive, but it was utterly certain. "Because if you don't… you'll only make things more complicated."
Elenei frowned slightly.
"More complicated?" she looked at him with curiosity.
A slow smile appeared on Lyonel’s face. He leaned forward. He rested his wrist on the hilt of the sword at his side, moving close enough to observe her face intently. The space inside the carriage suddenly felt much smaller.
Elenei didn't know what to do, she blinked rapidly as she blushed, unable to help herself. She stayed completely still.
Lyonel watched her for a few seconds. Then he asked, in an almost casual tone.
"Have you ever thought about marriage?"
Elenei was stunned. For a few seconds, her mind seemed to go completely blank. Then she let out a small, nervous laugh. It wasn't a laugh of amusement. It was more like a release of tension.
"Septas do not marry, Lord Lyonel."
Lyonel gave a slight shake of his head.
"Septas don't." His eyes remained fixed on her. "But you aren't a septa yet."
Elenei regained some of her composure.
"I will be, eventually."
Lyonel made a small gesture with his hand.
"Pretend for a moment you won't." He looked at her with genuine interest. "Have you thought about marriage?"
Elenei hesitated. Then she answered with simple honesty.
"No man has ever approached me to court me." Her hands interlaced in her lap, trying to deal with the nerves this conversation was causing her. "Whom could I even, imaginarily, marry?"
Lyonel did not hesitate to answer.
"Me."
Inside the carriage, the silence fell like a stone. Lyonel had spoken with the same ease with which he normally said anything else important in his life.
But the seconds began to tick by. One, two, three.
And there was no reaction.
He had expected many things. A laugh, for example. A nervous laugh and a "Are you jesting, my Lord?" He would have even accepted her pulling out the small knife she had hidden in her sleeve, for he already knew she carried it, and threatening him for saying such a thing, honestly, it would have been fun and exciting.
But no… He hadn't expected this silence, this nothingness.
Elenei stared at him. Wide-eyed. Motionless. As if he had just told her he was a dragon disguised as a man.
The comparison appeared unbidden in his head. Just like that idiot son of Maekar Targaryen used to say.
Lyonel felt something strange then. Something he hadn't felt in years.
He felt nervous.
They pooled in his stomach all at once, exactly like when he was a boy and his mother caught him after some particularly bad mischief. That awkward moment when you knew you’d fucked up. And that a tremendous scolding was coming. One of those from which not even his father, as permissive and carefree as he was, could save him.
Elenei still didn't speak. Lyonel cleared his throat. Driven by an impulse he didn't even understand himself, he spoke again, trying to sound relaxed.
"Well… yes… not now, of course." He made a vague gesture with his hand. "One has to prepare properly for such things."
Elenei kept staring at him. But inside, her mind had become a whirlwind.
Was it a joke? Was he drunk?
The smell of wine was there. Also that of the day's sweat and a masculine scent she couldn't identify. It wasn't unpleasant. But the distraction of noticing it only made her confusion grow.
Lyonel was sitting across from her with an irritating naturalness. Relaxed. One leg stretched out, his wrist resting on the sword hilt. The posture of someone who hadn't just said something completely absurd.
If he was joking… why didn't he say anything else? Why was the silence growing longer and longer?
No. More importantly. Why joke with her?
She remembered what the septa had warned her two months ago after the third feast of the month was held:
"The Baratheons are unpredictable... And prone to excess."
Among those excesses were women. Elenei swallowed hard. There were several young maidservants traveling with the caravan. Girls who would probably easily accept the attention of a young lord.
So why…? Did his desires go so far as to approach a novice?
The thought made her feel a small knot in her chest. Was he trying to seduce her? Something quick?
No. She didn't believe him capable of something so cruel. She had no concrete proof to think otherwise. But that idea simply didn't fit the man who had knelt before her on the road to check her wounds. That gesture had been too sincere, too spontaneous.
What if that, too, had been an attempt? The thought appeared… and Elenei rejected it immediately. No. She didn't want to believe such a thing.
When she paid attention again, Lyonel was still talking. Muttering, rather. Making small gestures with his hands as he thought aloud.
"For instance… one would have to speak with your father…" He adjusted himself in the seat. "I understand that sometimes minor lords give their daughters to the Faith because they cannot arrange decent marriages…"
Elenei reacted, automatically saying the only words her brain managed to piece together.
"I am an orphan."
Her voice was low. But it was enough to stop him.
Lyonel blinked twice. And, curiously, upon finally hearing her speak, the nerves in his stomach seemed to vanish at once.
There it was. The conversation was moving again.
"Of course…" he said quickly. "Well, even so, there must be an uncle or two who-"
At that moment, the carriage door swung open. Septa Maeryn appeared at the entrance. And she froze completely upon seeing Lyonel sitting inside.
For a second, no one spoke.
Then Lyonel cleared his throat. With surprising speed, he changed his expression to something much more casual.
"Ah." He stood up calmly. "Thank you again for pointing out that I was in the wrong carriage."
Elenei blinked. The septa frowned.
Lyonel looked at the older woman with a light smile.
"Sometimes the wine confuses even oneself with the caravan."
He raised the cup he was holding and took a small sip. Then, without much thought, he held it out to Elenei. She took it automatically.
"Best not to finish it," he added in a breezy tone. "Or you won't be able to step down from your carriage."
Then he stepped out as if nothing had happened. The door closed behind him again.
Elenei remained seated. With the cup in her hand. Suddenly, the interior of the carriage felt too small. The air too thick. As if she were running out of oxygen.
She didn't move. She didn't speak.
The septa watched her for a few seconds before approaching. With a practical gesture, she took the cup from her hand.
"That boy…" she murmured, smelling the wine with disapproval. "He ought to learn to be more decent."