And if the looks he was getting were any indication, he was walking into a storm.

The corridors of the Red Keep were eerily quiet as Lyonel made his way back to his quarters, the echoes of his boots the only sound in the wake of Robert’s proclamation. The air still hummed with the tension of the king’s decree, the whispers of the court clinging to the stones like cobwebs. He moved with purpose, his broad shoulders brushing the narrow walls of the servants’ passage—a reminder, as if he needed one, of where he truly stood in this gilded cage.

His quarters were sparse, little more than a stone cell with a narrow bed, a wooden chest, and a single arrow-slit window that offered a sliver of the world beyond. The room smelled of leather, steel, and the faint, lingering scent of the lavender sachets the serving girls sometimes left behind—a small mercy in a place that offered few. He shut the door behind him with a heavy thud, the finality of the sound echoing in his chest.

For a long moment, he simply stood there, the silence pressing in around him. Then, with a slow exhale, he unbuckled his sword belt and laid Lionmane across the bed. The greatsword’s weight made the thin mattress sag, the blade gleaming dully in the dim light filtering through the window. He ran a calloused finger along the fuller, tracing the faint nicks and scratches earned in training yards and the single tourney he had fought in.

Not a war. Not yet. But Winterfell was a different beast entirely. The North was a land of old grudges and older gods, where a man’s worth was measured in more than just the swing of his blade.

He knelt beside the wooden chest at the foot of his bed, its iron locks rusted from disuse. Inside, his possessions were few: a worn leather jerkin, a cloak lined with wolf fur—a gift from Robert after his knighthood—a daggersheath, and a small, cloth-wrapped bundle tucked into the corner. His fingers hesitated before closing around it, the fabric soft and worn with time.

He unwrapped it carefully.

Inside lay a silver ring, its surface tarnished but still catching the light. The band was thin, delicate, engraved with the Ashford words—Our Sun Shines Bright. His mother’s ring. The only thing he had left of her.

Lyonel turned it over in his palm, his thumb brushing the worn metal. Memories surfaced like ghosts—hazy, fragmented things. A woman’s laughter, warm and bright. The scent of lemons and rosemary.

A pair of blue-gray eyes, so like his own, crinkling at the corners as she smiled down at him. Little lion, she had called him, ruffling his hair with fingers that were always gentle, even when the world was not. He could almost hear her voice, soft and musical, singing him to sleep in the dead of night.

His chest tightened.

Alysanne Ashford had been a cousin of Lord Ashford, a woman of minor nobility and quiet grace. She had died when he was five, her body found in her chambers one morning, her skin pale as milk, her lips blue. Poison, the maids had whispered.

He slipped the ring onto the middle finger of his right hand, the metal cold against his skin. It was too small for him now, but he wore it anyway, a silent defiance against the world that had taken her. Against the woman who had ordered it done.

“You’ll be a great man one day, Lyonel,” she had told him once, pressing the ring into his tiny hand. “Greater than kings.”

He had believed her.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

With a shuddering breath, he turned his attention to packing. His belongings were meager—a spare tunic, a pair of sturdy boots, a whetstone for Lionmane, a small pouch of silver stags earned from the tourney. He rolled them tightly, securing the bundle with a length of twine. No fine clothes, no jewels, no banners to mark his name. He was a bastard, after all. A weapon, not a lord.

But he was Robert’s weapon. And for better or worse, that meant something.

He strapped the bundle to his back, then slung Lionmane’s baldric over his shoulder, the familiar weight settling against his spine like an old friend. The greatsword was his shield and his sin, the one thing that had ever made the world take notice of him. Without it, he was nothing.

With it, you’re still nothing, a voice in his head sneered. Just a bigger target.

He ignored it.

The stables were a welcome escape from the stifling confines of the Keep. The air here was thick with the earthy scent of hay and horseflesh, the snorts and stomps of destriers filling the space with a rhythm as old as war itself.

Lanterns cast long shadows across the stone floors, their flickering light dancing over the flanks of the great warhorses stabled within.

And there, in the farthest stall, stood Ashford.

The destrier was a monster of a horse, black as sin and twice as imposing, his muscles rippling beneath a coat that gleamed like polished obsidian. He tossed his head as Lyonel approached, his dark eyes rolling with intelligence—and impatience.

“Easy, boy,” Lyonel murmured, extending a hand. Ashford sniffed his fingers, then butted his palm with his velvety muzzle, demanding attention. Lyonel chuckled, scratching the stallion behind his ears. “Miss me, did you?”

Ashford huffed, his breath warm and damp. He was seventeen hands of pure, unbridled power, a beast bred for battle and born to carry a king. Or, in this case, a king’s bastard.

“You’re the only one who doesn’t care about that, aren’t you?” Lyonel said, his voice rough with something he refused to name. He saddled the destrier with practiced ease, the leather creaking as he tightened the girth. Ashford stomped once, as if in agreement, then stood still, waiting.

Lyonel mounted in one fluid motion, the stallion’s massive frame barely shifting beneath his weight. He gathered the reins, his fingers twisting in the leather. “Winterfell,” he said, more to himself than the horse. “Gods know what awaits us there.”

Ashford tossed his head again, his ears pricked forward. Ready.

Lyonel guided him out of the stall and into the courtyard, the clatter of hooves echoing off the stone. The Red Keep loomed above them, its towers and battlements casting long shadows in the afternoon light.

Servants and guards milled about, their voices a distant murmur, but none spared him more than a glance. He was just another knight preparing for a journey—nothing special, nothing remarkable.

But as he sat astride Ashford, waiting for the royal family to emerge from Jon Arryn’s funeral rites, he couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was about to change.