"Very well, Ser Lyonel. You’re in."

Lyonel returned to his quarters as the sun dipped below the horizon, the Red Keep bathed in the golden light of dusk.

He stripped off his tunic, tossing it aside as he collapsed onto his bed.

The events of the day played through his mind—Daenarys Targaryen, Stannis Baratheon, Catelyn’s child, the tourney.

It was too much to unpack now.

Tomorrow would bring its own challenges.

For now, there was only the quiet of his chambers, the weight of Black Oath beneath his bed, and the promise of sleep.

He closed his eyes, letting the darkness take him.

Tomorrow, he would fight.

Tomorrow, he would prove himself once more.

But for now, there was only rest.

—

The morning of the tourney dawned crisp and clear, the sky a vast, unbroken blue over King’s Landing.

The city hummed with anticipation, the streets alive with the clatter of hooves and the shouts of vendors hawking wares to the crowds flooding toward the tourney grounds.

Lyonel rose before the sun, his body still heavy with the remnants of sleep, but his mind sharp.

He dressed quickly, donning a simple tunic of dark black —his father's colors—and black breeches tucked into polished boots.

Black Oath remained in his quarters, hung on the wall, locked away.

Today was not a day for Valyrian steel.

Today was a day for lances and courser’s hooves, for the crack of wood on wood and the roar of the crowd.

The stables were a flurry of activity when he arrived, grooms rushing between stalls, squires polishing armor, and knights inspecting their mounts with critical eyes.

Lyonel bypassed Ashford—his stallion was built for war, not the precision of the tilt—and instead chose a grey-white courser from the tourney stock.

The horse was lean and quick, its muscles rippling beneath its sleek coat as it tossed its head, sensing the energy in the air.

Lyonel ran a hand down its neck, murmuring soft words as he checked the saddle and bridle.

The beast calmed beneath his touch, its dark eyes rolling back to meet his.

"Good lad," Lyonel rumbled, swinging into the saddle.

The courser pranced beneath him, eager to run.

The tourney grounds were a sea of color and noise, banners snapping in the wind, the stands packed with nobles and commoners alike.

Lyonel rode to the staging area, where heralds called out names and matches, the air thick with the scent of sweat and polished steel.

His first opponent was Ser Arys Oakheart, a knight of the Kingsguard, his armor gleaming like silver in the sunlight.

The herald’s voice boomed across the field.

"Ser Lyonel Rivers, bastard son of King Robert Baratheon!"

A murmur rippled through the crowd—some cheers, some jeers, the usual mix for a man of his birth.

Lyonel ignored it all, his focus narrowing to the tilt ahead. He took his position at the end of the lists, lowering his visor as the herald called for the charge.

"Ride!"

The courser surged forward, its hooves pounding the earth as Lyonel braced his lance.

Ser Arys came at him like a storm, his lance level, his horse’s breath steaming in the cool air.

Lyonel waited—waited—then, at the last possible moment, he shifted his weight, twisting slightly in the saddle.

The impact came a heartbeat later, his lance striking true against Arys’s shield.

The Kingsguard knight’s lance glanced off Lyonel’s pauldron, but the **** of Lyonel’s blow sent Arys crashing to the ground, his armor clattering as he hit the dirt.

The crowd roared. Lyonel didn’t pause.

He wheeled the courser around, riding back to the staging area as squires rushed to help the fallen knight.

Ser Patrek Mallister was next, a seasoned knight with a reputation for brutality in the tilt.

He was broader than Arys, his armor blackened and dented from years of combat.

The herald’s voice rang out again, and the crowd’s cheers swelled as the two knights took their positions.

Patrek came at him like a battering ram, his lance aimed straight for Lyonel’s chest. Lyonel didn’t flinch.

He held his ground, his lance steady—then, at the last second, he leaned into the charge, letting Patrek’s lance glance off his shield as his own struck true.

The impact was brutal, Patrek’s shield splintering as the knight was lifted clean out of his saddle, his body crashing to the ground with a sickening thud.

The crowd’s roar was deafening. Lyonel rode on, his blood singing in his veins.

Ser Mandon Moore was a different challenge entirely.

The Kingsguard knight was silent, his face hidden behind a helm with no visor, his eyes cold and unreadable.

He rode like a specter, his movements precise, his lance striking with deadly accuracy.

The crowd hushed as the two knights faced each other, the tension in the air palpable.

The herald’s voice cut through the silence. "Ride!"

Mandon’s horse was a monster, black as sin, its muscles coiled like springs.

Lyonel dug his heels into the courser’s flanks, his lance level, his body leaning into the charge.

Mandon’s lance struck his shield with a **** that rattled his teeth, but Lyonel’s aim was true.

His lance caught Mandon in the chest, the impact sending the knight reeling.

For a heartbeat, it seemed Mandon might stay in the saddle—but then he toppled, his armor clattering as he hit the ground.

The crowd erupted. Lyonel rode back to the staging area, his breath coming fast, his body thrumming with the rush of victory.

Lord Yohn Royce was his final opponent, a man as hard as the bronze armor he wore, his reputation as a jouster unmatched.

The herald’s voice boomed across the field, the crowd’s cheers reaching a fever pitch as the two knights took their positions.

Yohn Royce was no fool. He studied Lyonel as they prepared, his dark eyes calculating.

They rode at each other five times, each tilt a brutal test of skill and strength.

The first pass was a draw, both lances shattering against shields.

The second saw Lyonel’s lance strike true, but Royce absorbed the blow, staying in the saddle.

The third tilt was the same, Royce’s lance glancing off Lyonel’s helm, the **** of it making his vision swim.

The fourth pass was a near-miss, both knights leaning into the charge, their lances splintering against each other’s armor.

The fifth tilt was the decider.

Lyonel came at Royce with everything he had, his lance level, his body leaning into the charge.

Royce did the same—and at the last second, Lyonel shifted his weight, aiming for Royce’s shield.

The impact was deafening, the **** of it sending a jolt through Lyonel’s arm—but Royce’s lance struck true, catching Lyonel’s shield at an angle that sent him crashing to the ground.

The crowd gasped. Lyonel hit the dirt hard, the wind knocked from his lungs, his vision swimming.

He lay there for a heartbeat, the world a blur of color and noise—then he pushed himself up, shaking his head to clear it.

Royce was still in the saddle, his lance raised in victory.

The herald’s voice rang out. "Lord Yohn Royce, victor!"

Lyonel exhaled, a wry smile tugging at his lips. He’d lost—but not by skill. Royce’s lance had caught the edge of his shield, a technicality that had sent him sprawling.

He clapped a hand on his courser’s neck as a squire rushed to help him up.

"Well fought," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

The tourney grounds were a whirlwind of activity as Lyonel rode his courser back toward the stables, the crowd’s cheers fading behind him.

The sun was beginning its descent, casting long shadows across the field, the air thick with the scent of sweat and horseflesh.

He dismounted near the stables, leading the courser inside with a pat on its neck.

"Good lad," he murmured, handing the reins to a waiting groom. "See he’s well cared for."

The groom nodded, leading the horse away as Lyonel turned to leave.

The path back to the Red Keep was quiet, the bulk of the crowd still gathered at the tourney grounds, their voices a distant murmur on the wind.

He hadn’t gone more than a dozen paces when a voice cut through the quiet.

"Ser Lyonel."

Lyonel turned, his brow furrowing as he took in the woman standing before him.

She was dressed in the colors of Highgarden—emerald green and gold, the fabric rich and flowing, her dark hair caught in an intricate braid.

Her face was heart-shaped, her eyes a deep, knowing brown, her lips curved in a smile that was equal parts warm and calculating.

Lady Margaery Tyrell.

Renly’s wife.

Lyonel inclined his head, his voice rough. "My lady.”

Lady Margaery’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes—at least, not in the way one might expect.

She stepped closer to Lyonel, the hem of her emerald-green gown brushing against the dust of the tourney grounds.

"You’ve been gone so long, Ser Lyonel," she said, her voice like honeyed wine, smooth and intoxicating.

"King’s Landing hasn’t been the same without you."

Her fingers toyed with the delicate gold chain at her throat, her dark eyes flicking up to meet his.

"I trust your travels were… enlightening?"

Lyonel exhaled through his nose, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Margaery Tyrell had always been a master of subtlety, her words laced with innuendo, her gaze lingering just a second too long.

"Enlightening enough, my lady," he replied, his voice rough.

"Though I doubt anything could compare to the charms of the capital."

Margaery’s laugh was light, musical, but her eyes gleamed with something sharper.

"Flattery, Ser Lyonel? From you?"

She tilted her head, her braid shifting over her shoulder.

"I’d have thought you’d learned better than to waste your breath on empty words."

Before Lyonel could respond, a sudden commotion erupted from the tourney grounds—a roar of shock and anger cutting through the air.

Margaery’s expression shifted instantly, her playful demeanor vanishing as her eyes widened.