A soft rustle of fabric drew his attention.

Lyonel turned his head, his gaze snagging on a figure leaning against the opposite wall.

A girl—no, a woman—watched him with unabashed curiosity. She was not tall, standing just above Lyonel’s shoulder, her frame soft and rounded in a way that spoke of comfort rather than courtly grace.

Her hair was a dirty blonde, pulled into two messy pigtails that hung over her shoulders, strands escaping to frame a face dusted with freckles.

Her nose was slightly upturned, her lips full, and there was a gap between her front teeth that gave her smile a playful, unpolished charm.

She wore the loose, rough-spun clothes of a cowmaid, the fabric clinging to her modest curves, the neckline dipping just enough to hint at the swell of her breasts.

Her eyes—a warm, muddy brown—gleamed with mischief, her gaze tracing the lines of his body with open appreciation.

"You look like you could use some company," she said, her voice husky, unaffected. "Or at least something better than that swill you’re drinking."

Lyonel arched a brow, lowering the cask. "And you think you’re the something better?"

She grinned, stepping closer, her hips swaying with a natural, unhurried rhythm. "I know I am."

She reached out, her fingers brushing the sleeves of his tunic. "Ami," she said. "Ami Frey. Daughter of Merrett."

"Lyonel," he replied, though he knew she already knew his name. "And you shouldn’t be here."

She laughed, a low, throaty sound. "Why not? Because I’m a Frey and you’re a bastard?"

She shrugged, her fingers trailing down his arm, circling his wrist. "Seems like a good reason to me."

Lyonel should have pushed her away. Should have walked out, found Sandor, drowned his frustrations in more wine.

But the way she looked at him—the open hunger in her eyes, the lack of judgment, the promise of something simple, uncomplicated—it hooked him.

"You play a dangerous game, girl," he warned, his voice rough.

She stepped even closer, her breath warm against his neck. "I like dangerous," she whispered. "And I like you." Her hand slid down, palming the front of his breeches.

"Gods," she breathed, "you’re huge."

Lyonel groaned, his body responding instantly to her touch. "Ami—"

"Shh," she murmured, dropping to her knees before he could protest. Her fingers worked at the laces of his breeches, freeing him with surprising skill.

"Let me take care of you," she said, her gaze locked on his as she wrapped her hand around his length. "You look like you need it."

Lyonel’s breath hitched as she stroked him, her thumb circling the head. "Fuck," he growled, his hand tangling in her hair.

She smirked, then leaned in, her tongue flicking over the tip. "Mmm. Tastes like power," she murmured, before taking him into her mouth.

Lyonel’s head fell back against the wall, a groan tearing from his throat. She was good—too good—her lips tight, her tongue working him with confident strokes. His fingers tightened in her hair, his hips twitching as she took him deeper, her throat opening for him.

Her head kept bobbing onto his cock as Lyonel saw the Frey sentries milling around the castle in patrol.

A Frey men-at-arms passed by him, the sight of him and Ami seemingly normal to him.

The night was cold, with a dark chill and clear sky. There was a certain danger here out in the open, but Lyonel did not care.

He had been teased for far too long. He had been hard for days with Cersei feeling his thoughts and dreams.

The way the water rippled of her skin, the water droplets tracing the curve between her mature pink breasts down her toned navel into the hairy underbush that spoke of hidden woods to be explored.

When Lyonel opened his eyes, he could not believe his eyes.

The Queen was down on her knees serving him like some wench in a brothel. She slurped on his cock, gobbling on it as if her eyes depended on it.

Then, Cersei matched his gaze, her right eye winking in response. This bought Lyonel to a close with Amerei taking Cersei's place as his mind cleared.

"Gods, Ce-Ami, A-Amerei" he panted, his body coiling tight. "I’m—"

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, her lips glistening. "I know," she whispered, then took him back in, hollowing her cheeks.

Lyonel came with a shuddering groan, his seed spilling down her throat. She swallowed, then pulled back, licking her lips with a satisfied sigh. "There," she said, grinning up at him. "Better?"

Lyonel couldn’t speak. He was still hard, still aching, his body humming with the aftershocks of pleasure.

Ami wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then stood, pressing a kiss to his chest. "You taste good," she murmured. "Maybe next time, I’ll let you return the favor."

Lyonel chuckled, breathless, as he tucked himself back into his breeches. "You’re trouble, Ami."

She winked. "The best kind."

The sound of footsteps echoed down the hall.

Lyonel turned, just as a figure rounded the corner.

Selyse—Ryman Frey’s wife—stood there, her face pale, her eyes wide with shock.

She took in the scene—Lyonel, his breeches still undone, his cock half-hard and glistening; Ami, kneeling before him, his seed dripping down her chin—and gasped.

"Ser— Lyonel—"

Lyonel didn’t bother to hide himself. He had found a different kind of power in reveling in this sort of debauchery, this unabashedfulness.

He simply fastened his breeches, his gaze cool. "Lady Selyse," he said, his voice even. "You wanted something?"

She swallowed, her cheeks flaming. "I—I came to apologize," she stammered, her gaze flicking between him and Ami. "For Ryman’s behavior earlier. He was out of line."

Lyonel crossed his arms. "And yet, here you are, finding me in a rather compromising position."

Ami stood, wiping her mouth with a grinning shrug. "Oh, don’t mind me, Selyse. I was just helping Ser Lyonel relax."

She patted Lyonel’s arm. "I’ll leave you two to talk." With that, she sauntered off, her hips swaying, leaving Selyse staring after her in horrified fascination.

Lyonel turned back to Selyse, raising a brow. "Your apology is noted, my lady," he said, his voice dry. "Though I doubt Ryman will care much for it."

Selyse’s gaze dropped to his crotch, then jerked away, her face burning. "I—I should go," she muttered, backing away.

Lyonel didn’t stop her. He watched her fleeing figure, then turned back to the darkness of the gatehouse, a slow smirk curving his lips.

Ami was right.