But sleep didn’t come.

His mind raced—Margaery’s kiss, Arya’s eyes, the chaos of the tourney.

He tossed and turned, the sheets tangling around his legs, the silence of the Red Keep pressing in around him.

Finally, with a growl of frustration, he pushed himself up, pulling on a loose tunic and breeches before stepping back out into the hall.

The Red Keep was a labyrinth at night, the corridors twisting and turning like the veins of some great beast.

Lyonel wandered without purpose, his boots silent against the stone, his mind adrift.

Then, from around a corner, he heard it—the unmistakable sound of a man cursing, his voice slurred with drink.

Lyonel rounded the corner to find King Robert Baratheon slumped against the wall, a half-empty flask clutched in his hand.

The king’s face was flushed, his beard wild, his eyes bleary as he looked up at Lyonel.

"Lyonel," he slurred, a grin spreading across his face.

"There you are, you bastard son of a bitch."

Lyonel sighed, stepping forward to haul Robert to his feet.

The king was heavy, his body unsteady as Lyonel draped one of Robert’s arms over his shoulders.

"Come on, Your Grace. Let’s get you to bed."

Robert didn’t protest. He leaned into Lyonel, his breath reeking of wine.

"You did good today," he muttered as they stumbled down the hall.

"Real good. Proud of you, boy. Wish Joffrey had half your spine."

Lyonel didn’t respond.

He guided Robert through the winding corridors, the king’s ramblings growing louder, more slurred.

"Your mother," Robert said suddenly, his voice thick with emotion.

"Alysanne. Gods, she was a good woman. Never got over Lyanna, but I cared for her. More than she knew."

He hiccuped, his grip tightening on Lyonel’s shoulder.

"Shouldn’t have let her die like that. Should’ve—should’ve done something."

Lyonel’s chest tightened, but he kept his voice steady.

"You did what you could, Your Grace."

Robert snorted, shaking his head. He stumbled, nearly taking them both down, but Lyonel steadied him.

Lyonel simply guided Robert the rest of the way to the king’s chambers, pushing open the door and depositing him onto the bed.

Robert collapsed onto the furs with a groan, his flask rolling from his fingers.

Lyonel stood there for a moment, watching the king’s chest rise and fall with the rhythm of drunken sleep.

Then, quietly, he turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

Robert’s words echoed in his mind as he made his way back to his own quarters, the weight of them settling over him like a mantle. He didn’t dwell on them—not yet.

Instead, he stripped off his clothes, collapsing onto his bed with a sigh.

This time, sleep came easily, pulling him under like a dark, quiet tide.

The first light of dawn crept through the narrow windows of Lyonel’s chambers, painting the stone walls in pale gold. He woke with a start, his body still humming from the previous day’s exertions, the phantom ache of his wounded hand a dull reminder of the tourney.

He stretched, the muscles in his arms and back protesting as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. There was no time for laziness. Not today.

The training yard was already alive with activity when he arrived, the clatter of wooden swords and the grunts of sparring men filling the air.

Lyonel stripped off his tunic, the cool morning breeze raising gooseflesh on his sweat-slicked skin.

He grabbed a practice blade from the rack, the weight of it familiar in his grip, and stepped into the fray.

The first knight who faced him was a young squire, eager and reckless.

Lyonel disarmed him in three moves, sending the boy sprawling into the dirt with a grunt.

The next was a seasoned guardsman, his strikes precise and controlled.

Lyonel met him blow for blow, their swords clashing in a rhythm that drowned out the world around them.

By the time he finished, his body was drenched in sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the ache in his muscles a welcome distraction from the chaos of his thoughts.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, tossing the practice blade back into the rack.

As he turned to leave, a familiar voice cut through the din of the yard.

"Lyonel."

He turned to see Myrcella Baratheon standing a few paces away, her golden hair caught in a loose braid, her green eyes wide with concern.

She was dressed simply, in a gown of soft green that brought out the color of her eyes, her hands clasped before her.

Lyonel felt a flicker of warmth in his chest at the sight of her.

Myrcella had always been kind to him, even when others in the Red Keep had looked at him with thinly veiled disdain.

"My lady," he said, inclining his head.

"What brings you to the training yard?"

She stepped closer, her gaze flicking over the bruises and scrapes that marked his arms and chest.

"You’re hurt," she said, her voice soft with worry. "Again."

Lyonel glanced down at himself, then shrugged.

"Nothing serious. Just the usual bumps and bruises."

Myrcella didn’t look convinced. She reached out, her fingers hovering over a particularly nasty bruise on his ribs before pulling back, as if afraid to touch him.

"You always come back like this," she murmured.

"Beaten and bleeding. Doesn’t it ever scare you?"

Lyonel chuckled, shaking his head.

"Fear’s a luxury I can’t afford, little rose. Not in my line of work."

Myrcella’s lips pressed into a thin line, her expression serious.

"I don’t like it," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Every time you leave, I worry you won’t come back."

Lyonel felt something tighten in his chest.

He crouched down slightly, bringing himself to her eye level.

"I’m harder to kill than I look," he said, his voice gentle.

"You don’t need to worry about me."

She didn’t look away. Instead, her gaze held his, something unreadable flickering in her violet eyes.

"I think the winds are changing, Lyonel," she said suddenly, her voice so quiet he almost didn’t hear her.

"I can feel it. Like the tides turning, or the first breath of a storm. Something’s coming."

Lyonel studied her for a long moment, her words sending a chill down his spine.

Myrcella had always been perceptive, her quiet nature belying a sharp mind. "What do you mean?"

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

"I don’t know. But it feels… big. Like the fate of the realm is balancing on a knife’s edge."

Her fingers twisted together, her voice dropping even lower.

"Promise me you’ll be careful. Promise me you’ll be there when it matters."

Lyonel reached out, his calloused hand cupping her cheek.

"You have my word, Myrcella," he said, his voice rough with emotion.

"Always."

She leaned into his touch for just a heartbeat, her eyes closing briefly before she pulled back, her cheeks flushed.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Lyonel straightened, giving her a small smile.

"Now go on, little rose. Before someone starts wondering why the princess is fraternizing with the king’s bastard."

Myrcella’s lips quirked into a small smile, but her eyes were still serious.

"Goodbye, Lyonel."

He watched her go, her blue gown swirling around her as she disappeared down the corridor.

Only then did he turn and make his way back to his quarters, the weight of her words lingering in his mind like a prophecy.

The weaselly servant boy was waiting for him outside his door, his beady eyes darting nervously as Lyonel approached.

The boy thrust a folded note into Lyonel’s hand before scurrying away like a rat down a hole.

Lyonel unfolded the parchment, his brow furrowing as he read the neat, precise script.

"Ser Lyonel,

Lady Catelyn Stark is in King’s Landing and wishes to speak with you. Discretion is of the utmost importance. Meet her at the Street of Silk, at the brothel marked by the black door with silver hinges. Come at the hour of the owl. Do not be seen.

—P."

Lyonel’s fingers tightened around the note, his jaw clenching. Catelyn.

Here.

In King’s Landing.

And she wanted to meet him in secret, in one of Baelish’s brothels, no less.

His mind raced, the pieces clicking together with a grim certainty.

Catelyn had known Baelish in her youth, had grown up with him in Riverrun.

She trusted him—or at least, she trusted him more than most.

But still, the idea of her turning to Littlefinger for secrecy sat uneasily in his gut.

He crumpled the note in his fist, shoving it into the pocket of his tunic.

The hour of the owl was deep into the night, when the streets of King’s Landing were at their most dangerous—and their most secretive.

He had time.