[ It pleases Alayne that he takes the gift, as evidenced in the way she smiles, satisfaction crinkling the corners of her eyes, forming lines that Watson has never seen before. There is proof everywhere of not only a healing body but a healing soul, so much of Alayne's previous unhappiness washed away by the sunniness of her disposition now. (There is part of her that remains to put on a brave face, covering the very faintest hairline flaws that come with lingering uncertainty and loneliness. But that effort insignificant compared the burden that had weighed her down before.) ]

Alayne, please, doctor. You needn't worry about such formalities with me. Your company is pleasant enough. [ Besides, Stone isn't so much a surname in Westeros as it is a badge of shame, a constant reminder of bastardy. She doesn't tell him this, however. (The reveal often made modern folk uncomfortable.) ] I know the ship is awash with wine, so I cannot offer something you may not have already, but—

I could not help but make the gesture. I am truly grateful. [ A beat and then Alayne's expression puckers briefly with worry. ] You do drink spirits, don't you? [ Gods above, she would be embarrassed if he didn't. ]