Chapter Text
Lyonel feels his heart flip as he watches you flutter around his mother, fluffing her gown and straightening her hairdo, tucking an escaped curl back into place. “There you are, Lady Baratheon, you look so beautiful.” You chirp, clapping your hands in delight. She waves you off, smiling, snapping her fan open. “Oh, do not flatter me so. The gown you’ve sown does most of the work.” She shoos you away with a swat of the fan onto your backside, but you are not so easily deterred. “But you carry it so well.” You sigh, tucking on a frill until you push your hand away, gesturing towards the dance floor. “Do not waste your evening fretting over me. I am sure many young lords are dying to whisk you away into a dance or two.” My son included, she adds quietly in her mind, Lyonel’s affections to you not having gone unnoticed by her sharp eyes.
Heat rises in your cheeks as you shake your head. “I’m sure not one of them wishes a dance with me…” You trail off as she stares at you, the incredulous look on her face making you freeze. “Not one of them wishes- Darling, they’re dying to sweep you away! Some have been making offers for your hand in marriage to your father, I am sure they wish to know you better.” The heat worsens, spreading to your full face now. Marriage? “I- I am not sure I’ll be a good wife for anyone.” You mutter, cheeks still blazing, and to your frustration, she simply laughs at your embarrassment and confusion. “Oh, you’ll learn. Men are simple creatures, smile when spoken to, feed them well, and warm their bed, they’ll be content.” She gives you a wink as she waves to her husband, who is conversing with some Lords further away. “Lady Baratheon!” You gasp, glancing around to see if anyone has heard. One does not speak of such matters in the open court! “Oh, do not be so pious, my darling, live a little!” Another swat of her fan has you squeaking. “Now, the night is wasting! Go, be young and foolish!” And with that, she hustles away, settling into a group of other elderly ladies.
You hesitantly approach the table of refreshments, but do not make it there when your way is blocked. You blink in surprise, meeting a pair of grey eyes, unfamiliar to you. “My Lady.” The man bows, eyeing you with curiosity as you curtsy. “Would you do me the honor of this dance?” He offers you his arm, and you accept, feeling Lady Baratheon’s eyes burning to the back of your head. He sweeps you into a spirited waltz, which leaves you with blazing cheeks and a desire for refreshments.
***
But each time you try and approach the table, you are swept away by a Lord’s son, who is honored to lead you into a dance. Some of them are skilled, some definitely not, and you make polite conversation and ignore the way your foot throbs as one of them repeatedly steps on it, cheeks blazing hot and stuttering apologies.
You hold in a sigh as you are yet again stopped on your way to the refreshments. A hand laden with golden rings and carrying two servings of drinks drops to your field of vision, and your eyes rise to meet Lyonel’s, glittering as he offers you one. “My dear Lady, you seem to require this.” He holds the goblet, and you smile happily, accepting it with relief. “Oh, thank the gods, my savior.” Sighing dreamily, you take a large sip, a drop running down your chin before you catch it with your glove, flushing a bit under his gaze. You study him in return, the small goatee he has recently started sporting suiting his face infuriatingly well. Lyonel’s eyes follow your every move with a burning intensity.
It begins to get unnerving, and you quirk a brow as you take a step back. “Is there something on my face?” Self-conscious, you wipe your face, and he laughs. “Only beauty.” “Do not tease me.” You huff, tucking your hair behind your ear, not sure how to react, outside of your blazing cheeks. “Is it teasing when it is the truth?” His words are earnest as the musicians begin their fastest-paced song yet. “Dance with me?” He quirks up a brow, offering his hand as the floor is slowly filling with dancers. “My feet are killing me.” You complain half-heartedly, fighting the urge to yell “YES” at the top of your lungs and jump into his arms. “One dance, and then I promise I will tip a full goblet of wine all over you so my mother must excuse you.” A spark of mischief in his eye, he abandons the empty goblets onto a table. “Lyonel!” You scold between giggles as he tugs you towards the floor, your heart fluttering as his hand drops to rest on your waist, warm through the fabric of your dress. He is sure you can hear his heart pounding from this distance, but you smile at him as charmingly as ever as he sweeps you into the growing crowd.
He leads you to a dance that has you both panting by the end as he twirls and sweeps you around the dance floor. Other couples have to jump out of the way as you take up most of the floor, your laughter ringing bright in the air as Lyonel spins you into more and more intricate turns, lifting you off your feet, twirling you away from him, and then tugging you back tight to his chest. It feels like a dream, in the arms of the man you’ve felt your feelings growing warmer and warmer towards. Lyonel cannot quite believe his luck, either, to finally have you in his arms, already thinking and pondering ways to hint at his father and mother about a potential marriage prospect. His mother loves you already, so it shouldn’t be too hard.
But it is only two weeks later when a letter from your Lord father arrives and declares your engagement to Lord Tybolt Lannister*, son of Daron Lannister. The news is a shock to you as well as the Baratheons, who had not been informed that the Lady’s lady-in-waiting was to marry and would be leaving. You pack your things, teary-eyed with shock, Lady Baratheon uncharacteristically silent as she assists you.
The goodbyes are rushed, there is barely time for tears. You watch Storm’s End slowly disappear from your view through the window of your carriage, and the young man in golden clothing growing smaller, your heart tugging in your chest. The engagement is a complete shock to Lyonel, and his emotions are in turmoil, even after the wedding. Blaming himself, your father, you, your new husband, not wanting to believe you truly are to be married, planning on ruining the wedding, on challenging the man for your hand.
But tragedy strikes, and sickness takes his mother swiftly, without any warning, and the grief overwhelms him. The only bright spot is the letter the messengers bring, written by your hand, expressing your condolences and singing his mother’s praises. He can feel your heartfelt lamentations in the paper, the love you had for his mother, the grief you carry. The ink is smudged in some places by your tears as you grieve with words for not being able to make it to her funeral.
*****
*Did some digging, found that he lived during the right time, and died during mysterious circumstances. In part two, I also gave him a non-canon brother to add some *spice* ;)