And standing over him, dagger raised, was a figure cloaked in black.

The assassin whirled at the sound of the door, his face hidden beneath a hood, but the gleam of the catspaw dagger in his hand was unmistakable.

The blade was thin, wicked, designed for silent killing.

Lyonel didn’t think.

He lunged.

---

The assassin moved fast, twisting away from Lyonel’s grab, the dagger flashing in the candlelight.

Lyonel felt the cold kiss of steel graze his ribs as he ducked, his fingers closing around the man’s wrist with bruising ****.

They crashed into the wall, the impact knocking the breath from Lyonel’s lungs, but he didn’t release his grip.

The assassin hissed, driving a knee into Lyonel’s gut.

Pain exploded through him, but he twisted, using his weight to slam the man into the stone again.

The dagger clattered to the floor.

For a heartbeat, they grappled, breaths raging, muscles straining.

The assassin was lean, quick, but Lyonel had strength—brutal, unrelenting strength.

He drove a fist into the man’s gut, doubling him over, then grabbed him by the throat and slammed him back against the wall.

The hood slipped, revealing a gaunt face, pale eyes, and a mouth set in a snarl.

The assassin wasn’t done.

With a snarl, he drove his head forward, crashing his forehead into Lyonel’s nose.

Stars burst across Lyonel’s vision, pain exploding through his skull, but he roared, grabbing the man by the throat again and pinning him.

The assassin thrashed, clawing at Lyonel’s arms, his fingers scrabbling for the dagger on the floor.

Lyonel kicked it away, sending it skittering across the stone.

The assassin bared his teeth—then drove the heels of his hands into Lyonel’s chest, knocking him back a step.

Seizing the moment, he lunged for the dagger—

Lyonel caught him by the ankle and yanked.

The man hit the ground hard, the air rushing from his lungs in a grunt. Before he could recover, Lyonel was on him, straddling his chest, pinning his arms to the floor.

The assassin bucked, spitting curses, but Lyonel drove a fist into his jaw, snapping his head to the side.

Blood sprayed from the man’s lips, but he wasn’t finished. With a snarl, he twisted, driving the dagger—somehow reclaimed—upward in a **** arc.

Lyonel felt the burn of steel tearing through the flesh of his upper thigh, hot pain lancing through him.

He roared, grabbing the man’s wrist and slamming it against the stone until the dagger clattered free.

Then he seized the assassin by the throat and slammed his head into the floor once, twice—

The door burst open.

Stark guards piled in, swords drawn, their faces wild with shock.

"Ser Lyonel!" one shouted, "what in the seven hells—"

Lyonel panted, blood dripping from his nose, his thigh burning like fire. He didn’t release the assassin, though—not until the guards wrestled the man away, binding his hands behind his back.

The assassin spat blood at Lyonel’s feet, his eyes burning with hatred.

"Take him to the dungeons," Lyonel growled, pressing a hand to his bleeding thigh.

"And double the guard on Bran’s door."

---

Catelyn jolted awake at the commotion, her eyes wide with horror as she took in the scene—the assassin dragged away, Lyonel bleeding on the floor, Bran still unmoving on the bed.

"Gods," she whispered, rushing to Lyonel’s side. "You’re hurt—"

"It’s nothing," Lyonel gritted out, though the pain was a white-hot brand searing through his leg.

"Send for Maester Luwin."

Catelyn nodded frantically, calling for a servant.

"Fetch the Maester!" she ordered, "tell him Ser Lyonel is wounded!"

The girl nodded and hurried away.

---

Minutes passed.

The servant returned, her face pale. "My lady," she said, wringing her hands,

"Maester Luwin—he won’t answer. I knocked and knocked, but he won’t open the door."

Catelyn’s eyes widened in shock. "What?"

Lyonel’s jaw clenched. He knew.

---

The corridor was cold, the torchlight flickering weakly against the stone walls, casting long, twisting shadows that seemed to mock the chaos of the night.

Catelyn Stark moved with urgent purpose, her skirt swishing around her ankles, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

The two guards flanked her, their faces set, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

The air was thick with tension, the weight of what had just transpired in Bran’s chamber pressing down on them all.

"Break it down," Catelyn ordered, her voice sharp, leaving no room for argument.

The guards exchanged a glance, then nodded, stepping forward.

The one on the left, a burly man with a thick beard, raised his boot and kicked the door once, twice—

The wood splintered.

---

The door swung open, revealing the scene within.

Maester Luwin lay sprawled on his bed, his grey robes disheveled, his chain of office tangled in the sheets.

Three women—the whores from Winter Town—knelt before him, their silken robes parted, their lips and hands busy.

One had her mouth wrapped around him, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, while the other two stroked his chest and thighs, their fingers trailing teasing patterns over his skin.

The room reeked of sweat and perfume, the air thick with the sounds of pleasure—moans, gasps, the wet sounds of flesh against flesh.

Luwin jolted upright at the sound of the door bursting open, his face flushing crimson with shame and horror.

"M-My Lady!" he stammered, scrabbling to cover himself, but the whores only giggled, unfazed, their eyes gleaming with mischief.

Catelyn froze.

For a moment, the world seemed to still. The sight of Luwin—a man she had trusted, a figure of authority and wisdom—indulging in such base pleasures sent a jolt through her, something hot and unexpected coiling in her belly.

Her cheeks burned, but it wasn’t just shame or anger—it was something deeper, something primitive, a fire she hadn’t felt in years.

The whore with the dark hair pulled back, licking her lips as she glanced at Catelyn.

Catelyn’s breath hitched.

Luwin let out a choked sound, "N-No! My lady, I—I can explain—"

"Enough," Catelyn said, her voice sharp, cutting through the tension.

She didn’t look at Luwin.

She couldn’t.

Instead, her gaze lingered on the whores, their curves displayed, their lips glossy with pleasure.

Something twisted inside her, a heat pooling low in her belly, a pulse thrumming between her thighs.

She swallowed hard, forcing her voice to remain steady.

"Leave," she ordered the guards, "and speak of this to no one."

The guards hesitated, but at her sharp glance, they bowed and withdrew, shutting the broken door behind them.

Catelyn stood there, the air thick with the scent of sin, her body humming with a heat she hadn’t expected.

She didn’t scold Luwin.

She didn’t speak at all.

She simply turned and walked away, the fire in her veins burning hotter with every step.

---

When she returned to Bran’s chamber, the room was quiet, the only sound the soft, shallow breaths of her son.

Lyonel was seated on a chair beside the bed, his tunic stripped away, revealing the muscles of his chest and the long, bleeding gash across his upper thigh.

His face was set in a grimace, his jaw clenched against the pain, but his eyes burned with something fierce—pride, defiance, the unspoken weight of what he had done.

Catelyn exhaled slowly, pushing the memory of Luwin’s chamber from her mind.

She moved to the table, gathering linen, water, and the small knife used for cutting bandages.

"You should have called for me sooner," she said, her voice low, though there was no rebuke in it.

"I didn’t want to disturb you," Lyonel replied, his voice rough. "You’ve had enough to bear."

Catelyn didn’t answer.

She knelt beside him, dipping the linen into the water before pressing it to the wound.

Lyonel hissed, his body tensing, but he didn’t pull away.

"This will hurt," she murmured, "but it must be clean."

"I know," he gritted out.

She began to work, her hands steady despite the tremor in her fingers.

The wound was deep, the blood still seeping, but it wasn’t fatal.

Catelyn cleaned it thoroughly, her touch firm but gentle, her mind floating between the man before her and the scene she had just witnessed.

Lyonel watched her, his blue eyes dark with something unreadable.

"You shouldn’t have to do this," he said quietly.

"And you shouldn’t have had to fight for my son’s life," she replied, securing the bandage with a tight knot. "But here we are."

Lyonel exhaled, leaning back in the chair, his gaze lingering on her. "Here we are," he agreed.

Catelyn stood, her hands still trembling slightly.

She didn’t look at him as she stepped away, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts—grief, desire, shame, gratitude.

"Rest," she said, her voice soft. "You’ve earned it."

---

The room was thick with the scent of blood and iron, the flickering candlelight painting Catelyn’s face in golden shadows as she knelt before Lyonel, her fingers still trembling from the adrenaline of the night.

The wound on his thigh was bandaged, the linen stained crimson, but the heat between them had nothing to do with pain—not anymore.

She should have left.

She should have walked away, returned to her duties, her grief, her role as the Lady of Winterfell.

But the memory of Luwin’s chamber burned in her mind—the sight of flesh and pleasure, the sound of moans, the way her body had responded to the scene with a heat she hadn’t felt in years.

And then there was Lyonel—strong, fierce, the man who had saved her son, who had stood between Bran and **** without hesitation.

And gods, the way he looked at her now.

His blue eyes were dark, hungry, tracing the lines of her body as if he could see through the fabric of her gown.

His chest rose and fell with each breath, the muscles of his arms tensed, the blood on his skin drying to a dark, rusty sheen.

He was raw, unfiltered—a man who took what he wanted, who didn’t bend to the rules of court or chivalry.