And gods help him, he was starting to play.

---

The gardens of the Red Keep were bathed in the pale light of a late afternoon sun, the air thick with the scent of roses and damp earth.

Lyonel stood beneath an arched trellis, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the gravel path, his fingers absently tracing the hilt of Black Oath at his side.

He had expected this—Cersei’s cruelty was never subtle—but the weight of it still settled in his chest like a stone.

The queen had made her intentions clear: this meeting was not about courtesy, but humiliation.

And so, he waited, his expression unreadable, as the rustle of skirts announced Brienne’s arrival.

She approached without preamble, her stride purposeful, her blue eyes sharp and unyielding beneath the heavy brow of her helm-like face.

There was no softness in her, no attempt at warmth.

"My lord father insists on this farce," she said, her voice low and blunt, as if the words were blades she was **** to wield.

"He fears for Tarth’s future, and a Baratheon bastard—soon to be legitimized—is the price of his peace. But do not mistake this for anything more than duty."

She folded her arms, the thick muscles beneath her sleeves flexing.

"I love another. I always have. And I will not pretend otherwise, not for you, not for the crown, not for anyone."

Lyonel exhaled slowly, his gaze flickering over the gardens, the distant laughter of courtiers drifting through the air like a taunt.

"And your duties as my wife?" he asked, his voice steady, though the words tasted like ash.

Brienne’s lips curled, not in amusement, but in something harder.

"I will play the part. I will stand beside you in hall and feast, bear your name, and give you heirs if that is what is demanded. But I will never share your bed. I do not respect you, Rivers—or Baratheon, or whatever name you take. You are a bastard, born of a king’s lust, and no legitimization will ever erase that."

Her words were deliberate, each one a strike, meant to wound.

"You will never reach my station, no matter how high King Robert lifts you."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant call of a raven.

Lyonel studied her for a long moment, the weight of her cruelty pressing down on him.

He had known rejection before—had felt the sting of scorn from the moment he drew breath—but this was different.

This was a woman bound to him, a future stretched out before him like a prison.

"You have my word," he said at last, his voice low, his gaze meeting hers without flinching.

"I will never touch you. Not in bed, not in anger, not even if the realm demands it. I give you my oath, and I will keep it, even at the cost of my life."

Brienne laughed then, a sharp, bitter sound that cut through the stillness.

It was the laugh of a woman already lost to another, her heart and mind elsewhere.

"Good," she said, turning away.

"Then we understand each other."

And with that, she left him standing alone in the garden, the weight of her dismissal settling over him like a shroud.

---

Lyonel walked the halls of the Red Keep with the slow, measured steps of a man carrying a burden too great for his shoulders.

The stone walls seemed to press in on him, the whispers of courtiers like the hiss of serpents in the dark.

He thought of his mother, Alysanne Ashford, a woman he had never known, her face a blur in the stories others told.

He thought of Robert, a father in name only, who saw him as a tool, a blade to be wielded and discarded.

And now, Brienne—his betrothed, his future wife—a woman who had looked at him with nothing but disdain, who had stripped him of even the illusion of companionship.

Born of a king’s fleeting desire, raised in the shadows of legitimacy, and now bound to a woman who would sooner see him dead than share his bed.

The irony was cruel: he had bedded noblewomen, had known passion and desire, and yet the one woman he was **** to call wife would never allow him even the pretense of warmth.

He turned a corner, his boots echoing in the empty corridor, and nearly collided with a whirlwind of black hair and fury.

Arya Stark stood before him, her small frame vibrating with anger, her green eyes blazing.

"You," she snapped, jabbing a finger into his chest. "This is your fault."

Lyonel blinked, caught off guard by the storm of her rage.

"Lady Arya—"

"My nameday," she spat.

"Eighteen today. And do you know what I got? Nothing. Because my father had to manage your marriage details, and my sister is too busy mooning over princes—" Her voice cracked, but she swallowed it, her jaw set.

Lyonel felt the weight of her words like a physical blow.

He had not known. Had not even considered that his presence, his betrothal, would ripple outward, stealing moments from others.

"Arya," he said softly, "I did not know."

She glared up at him, her hands clenched into fists.

"Of course you didn’t. No one does. I’m just Arya, the wild wolf girl, the one who doesn’t matter."

She kicked at the stone floor, her frustration raw and unfiltered.

"I was supposed to some semblance of a celebration. Something. But no. Because of you."

For a moment, Lyonel said nothing. He understood anger, the helpless fury of being overlooked, of having your life shaped by the whims of others.

He crouched down, bringing himself to her level, his voice quiet.

"Then let me make it right."

Arya paused, her breath hitching.

"What?"

"Your nameday," he said.

"I will join you in it. Whatever you wish to do, wherever you wish to go, I will be there."

Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. "You’re not just saying that?"

Lyonel shook his head.

"I give you my word."

A slow, fierce grin spread across Arya’s face, transforming her from a storm of anger to something brighter, something wild.

"Then come on," she said, grabbing his hand and tugging him forward with a strength that belied her size.

"We’re going to the Tower of the Hand."

---

The Tower of the Hand was empty, the late afternoon sun slanting through the narrow windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor.

Arya led Lyonel up the spiraling stairs, her excitement barely contained.

"Syrio teaches me here," she said, her voice echoing in the vast space.

"I’ve been practicing. Every day. And I want to spar with you."

Lyonel hesitated, his gaze flickering to the practice swords leaning against the wall.

"Arya, I am not Syrio Forel. I am a warrior, not a dancing master."

She rolled her eyes.

"You’re a knight. And I’m not asking for a lesson. I’m asking for a fight."

She pulled Needle from its sheath, the slender blade catching the light.

"Unless you’re afraid."

A laugh rumbled in Lyonel’s chest, unexpected and warm.

"Afraid? Of a girl half my size?"

Arya grinned, wicked and challenging.

"Then prove it."

He sighed, shaking his head, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. He moved to the wall, selecting a practice sword, the wood worn smooth by countless strikes.

"Very well," he said, turning to face her.

"But do not blame me when you are bruised."

Arya’s answer was to lunge.

And for the first time in days, Lyonel forgot the weight of his name, the cruelty of his betrothal, the emptiness of his future. For the first time, he simply fought.

And in the clash of wood and steel, in the laughter and the sweat and the sheer, stubborn joy of Arya Stark, he found something he had not known he was missing: a moment, however fleeting, of something like peace.

The Tower of the Hand was alive with the sharp clack of wood against steel as Arya darted around Lyonel, her movements swift and fluid, Needle flashing in the dim light.

She was quick—unnaturally so—her small frame weaving between his strikes, her blade flicking toward his ribs only for him to twist away at the last moment. Lyonel watched her, his expression unreadable, his grip on the practice sword loose, almost lazy.

But his left hand, the one that should have held a shield, was curled around something else—the catspaw dagger, its blade hidden beneath the edge of his forearm, concealed as if it were an extension of his flesh.

Arya lunged again, her attack aimed at his thigh, but Lyonel pivoted, the wooden sword sweeping down not to block, but to guide—his left hand snapping forward, the dagger’s steel flashing as it intercepted Needle with a sharp ping.

Arya’s eyes widened.

"Cheat!" she hissed, but there was a thrill in her voice, a challenge.

Lyonel smirked.

"All’s fair in war, little wolf."

She came at him harder this time, her strikes a flurry, but Lyonel was ready. He used the dagger not just to parry, but to disrupt—tapping her blade aside with the dagger’s edge while his wooden sword feinted high, then low, forcing her to twist, to react.

The dagger was an extension of his defense, a hidden sting, and Arya was beginning to realize just how dangerous that made him.

She snarled, her cheeks flushed with exertion, and redoubled her efforts, but Lyonel was always a step ahead, his movements deliberate, his strikes controlled.

Then, the game changed.

Arya feinted left, but Lyonel didn’t take the bait. Instead, his wooden sword lashed out, not at her blade, but at her—smack—the flat of the wood connecting with the soft, meaty curve of her backside.

Arya yelped, more in surprise than pain, her face flushing as she whirled to face him.

"What the—?"

Lyonel’s grin was wolfish.

"Distraction is also a weapon."

She growled, but there was a spark in her eyes, something heated, something wild. She came at him again, and this time, when his sword connected with her ass once more, she didn’t pull away.

Instead, she twisted, her hips swaying as she tried to dodge, but Lyonel was relentless, his strikes landing with just enough **** to make her gasp, her breath coming faster, her movements growing less about combat and more about something else.

The air between them thickened, charged with something neither dared name.

Arya’s attacks grew sloppier, her body arching into the blows, her backside pressing against the wood whenever he struck.

Lyonel’s own control was fraying, his gaze locked on the way her breeches clung to the generous swell of her ass, the way she bit her lip when the wood connected.

The sparring was no longer about skill—it was about this, the heat coiling between them, the unspoken hunger.

Then, it happened.

Arya lunged, but Lyonel sidestepped, his foot catching hers.

She stumbled, her hands slapping against the stone as she fell forward—face-first, her ass in the air.

Lyonel, off-balance from his own maneuver, tripped, his massive frame crashing down atop hers.

His hips settled against her, his crotch pressing firmly against the soft, yielding flesh of her backside, and the moment their bodies connected, something primal snapped.

Lyonel’s breath hitched as he felt himself stir, his cock thickening, hardening against the heat of her.

Arya froze, then—slowly—began to move, grinding back against him, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Ser Lyonel..." she whispered, her voice thick, her hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles.

He groaned, his hands gripping her hips, his own body betraying him as he pushed against her, the friction maddening through the layers of fabric.

His cock was fully erect now, throbbing, and Arya was helping, arching, pressing back, her ass jiggling with each movement, her own breath turning to **** little whimpers.

Lyonel’s hand came down—smack—against her backside, the sound echoing in the tower, and Arya moaned, grinding harder, her body trembling.

They were lost in it, the world narrowing to the heat, the friction, the need—

Then, the sound of footsteps.

Lyonel’s head snapped up, his senses sharpening instantly.

Someone was coming.

Arya must have heard it too, because she stiffened beneath him, her breath catching. Lyonel didn’t hesitate.

He rolled off her, his body moving on pure instinct, his mind racing.

The door to the tower was the only way in—or out. And if they were found like this—

He sprinted for the window.

The ledge outside was narrow, the wind biting, but Lyonel didn’t falter.

He scaled the stone, his fingers finding purchase in the cracks, his body moving with a desperation born of survival.

He didn’t dare look down.

Below him, the dragon mosaics of the Red Keep’s roof glinted in the fading light, and he hauled himself down, his breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts.

He moved like a shadow across the roof, his boots silent on the tiles, his heart still pounding from the encounter below.

The fear of discovery was a cold knot in his gut, but he **** himself to focus, to move.

Then, he saw it—a window, slightly ajar, leading into one of the chambers of Maegor’s Holdfast.

Lyonel didn’t hesitate.

He slipped inside, his body tensed, ready for anything—

Only to freeze.

The chamber was hers.

Cersei’s.

The scent of roses and wine hung thick in the air, the bed draped in Lannister crimson, the vanity littered with jewels and perfumes.

Lyonel’s stomach dropped.

He was in the queen’s private chambers.