Finally, the rituals were complete.

The guests, their laughter and jeers echoing in the corridor, left the couple standing naked in their chambers, the heavy oak door closing behind them with a final, resonant thud.

The room was lit by a single candle, its flickering light casting long shadows over the bed, the chairs, the carved wooden chest at the foot of the mattress.

The air was thick with the scent of roses and wine, the remnants of the feast clinging to their skin.

Lyonel stood near the door, his body tense, his cock still hard from the attention of the women.

Brienne stood by the bed, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable.

Neither spoke.

Neither moved.

The bedding ceremony was over.

The night stretched before them, endless and uncertain.

—

The candlelight flickered against Lyonel’s naked form as he turned toward the marriage bed, his massive frame cast in shadows that only accentuated the raw power of his physique.

His cock, still thick and hard from the bedding ceremony, jutted proudly between his thighs, the veins pulsing with restrained need.

Brienne’s breath hitched as she took him in—truly saw him—for the first time.

The rumors had not done him justice. He was a monster of a man, sculpted by war and will, his body a landscape of muscle and scar, his manhood a weapon that made her stomach clench with something she hadn’t expected: desire.

Renly’s face, his laughter, his dark curls—all of it dissolved in the heat of her gaze as it traced the lines of Lyonel’s body.

The way his thighs flexed as he moved, the way his cock twitched, heavy and veined, the tip already glistening with arousal. She swallowed hard, her pulse quickening.

For the first time, she wanted.

Not out of duty, not out of love—but out of something primal, something that coiled low in her belly and burned.

She stepped forward, her bare feet silent on the cold stone.

"Lyonel," she said, her voice rough, unfamiliar.

She reached out, her fingers trembling as they brushed against his chest, tracing the hard planes of his muscles.

"We are wed. The gods have bound us. Let us…" Her hand slid lower, her fingertips grazing the hot, thick length of him. "Let us make this real."

Lyonel’s body reacted instantly, his cock jerking in her grip, but his face remained stony. He caught her wrist, his grip firm but not cruel.

"No," he said, his voice a low growl.

"You made your vow. I made mine."

His sea deep eyes burned into hers, unyielding.

"I will not touch you. I will not share your bed. I will not break my word, even if the gods themselves commanded it."

Brienne’s face flushed, humiliation and frustration twisting inside her.

She opened her mouth to argue, to demand—

"I’ll do it."

The voice came from the shadows near the hearth.

Jeyne Poole stepped forward, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, her cheeks flushed with wine and daring. She had been hiding there the whole time, watching, waiting.

Her shift was already half-undone, her small breasts heaving as she breathed heavily. "I’ve wanted you since Winterfell," she confessed, her voice thick with need.

"Since the first time I saw you. I’ll do what your wife won’t. I’ll serve you. I’ll take her place."

Lyonel’s eyes narrowed, but before he could speak, Jeyne was on him. She pressed her body against his, her hands sliding over his chest, her lips crashing against his in a kiss that was all hunger and no hesitation.

Lyonel stiffened—then, with a groan, gave in. His hands gripped her hips, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, and he tossed her onto the bed.

The sheets rustled beneath her, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she sprawled before him, her legs parting in invitation.

Brienne stood frozen, her body betraying her as heat pooled between her thighs.

She should have been furious.

She was furious.

But she couldn’t look away.

Jeyne’s fingers flew to the laces of her shift, tearing it open to reveal her small, pert breasts, her nipples already hard with arousal.

She kicked the fabric away, baring herself completely to Lyonel’s gaze.

"Fuck me," she begged, her voice raw.

"Fuck me like I’m yours."

Lyonel didn’t need to be told twice.

He was on her in an instant, his massive body covering hers, his cock pressing against the slick heat of her.

Jeyne moaned, arching beneath him, her nails digging into his shoulders as he positioned himself at her entrance.

"You’re a maiden," he growled, his voice rough with lust.

"This will hurt."

"I don’t care," she gasped. "I want it."

With a snarl, Lyonel thrust forward, his thick cock stretching her mercilessly.

Jeyne cried out, her body tensing as he broke through her virgin barrier, her blood slicking his shaft as he buried himself to the hilt.

The bedsheets beneath her stained crimson, the proof of her maidenhood lost to his relentless claim.

"Fuck—!" Jeyne’s back arched, her breath coming in ragged sobs as Lyonel began to move. He didn’t hold back.

He couldn’t.

His hips pistoned, his cock slamming into her with a **** that made the bed creak, the headboard striking the wall with each brutal thrust.

Jeyne’s moans filled the room, her body taking everything he gave her, her nails raking down his back as she begged for more.

"Harder! Please, my lord, harder!"

Lyonel obeyed.

His hands gripped her hips, lifting her, slamming her down onto his cock as he knelt on the bed, his muscles flexing with each powerful movement.

Jeyne’s breasts bounced with the **** of his thrusts, her moans turning to screams as he pounded into her, his balls slapping against her ass with each deep stroke.

The room was filled with the wet, obscene sounds of their coupling, the scent of sex and blood thick in the air.

Brienne couldn’t tear her eyes away.

Her hand slid between her thighs, her fingers finding the slick heat of her own arousal. She bit her lip to stifle a moan as she watched Lyonel ruin Jeyne, his cock disappearing inside her again and again, his body a machine of pleasure and domination.

Jeyne’s legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into his ass as she took him deeper, her cries growing louder, more ****.

"Yes! Yes, fuck—!"

Lyonel’s growl was animalistic as he flipped her onto her stomach, dragging her onto her hands and knees. His hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back as he slammed into her from behind, his cock pistoning into her with a ferocity that made the bed shake.

Jeyne’s ass jiggled with each thrust, her moans muffled against the sheets as Lyonel’s free hand smacked her flesh, the sound echoing in the room.

"You’re mine," he snarled, his voice rough with possession.

"Say it."

"Yours!" Jeyne sobbed, her body trembling as she came, her walls clenching around his cock.

"I’m yours, my lord!"

Lyonel’s control snapped.

With a roar, he buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing as he spilled inside her, his release hot and thick.

Jeyne whimpered, her body milking him as he filled her, his seed dripping down her thighs as he pulled out only to flip her onto her back once more. His cock, still hard, glistened with their combined arousal as he gripped it, stroking himself as he loomed over her.

"Open your mouth," he commanded, his voice a dark promise.

Jeyne obeyed without hesitation.

Her lips parted, her tongue darting out to lick the pre-cum beading at his tip before he fed his cock between her lips.

She moaned around him, her hands gripping his thighs as he fucked her mouth, his hips snapping forward as he chased his second release.

Brienne’s fingers moved faster, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she watched Jeyne take Lyonel’s cock deep into her throat, her lips stretched obscenely around his girth.

"That’s it," Lyonel groaned, his hand tangling in Jeyne’s hair as he thrust deeper.

"Take it all, you little whore."

Jeyne gagged, tears pricking her eyes, but she didn’t pull away.

She took him, her throat fluttering around his cock as he spilled down it with a growl, his cum coating her tongue, dripping down her chin. He pulled out with a wet pop, his cock still twitching as he painted her face with the last of his release, stripes of white marking her cheeks, her lips, her forehead.

Jeyne licked her lips, her eyes glazed with satisfaction.

"More," she whispered.

Lyonel didn’t refuse.

He flipped her onto her stomach again, his cock sliding between her ass cheeks before he pushed inside her once more, his thrusts slow and deep this time, drawing out every gasp, every whimper.

Brienne’s body trembled, her own climax crashing over her as she watched her husband fuck another woman in their marital bed, his cock glistening with Jeyne’s arousal, his muscles flexing with each powerful stroke.

Jeyne came again, her body convulsing beneath him, her moans muffled against the sheets as Lyonel’s release followed, his cum filling her a second time.

He didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

He took her again, and again, his stamina seemingly endless, his cock never softening as he used her body for his pleasure, marking her, claiming her, ruining her.

By the time the night waned, Jeyne was a mess of cum and sweat, her body trembling with exhaustion, her thighs slick with Lyonel’s release.

She collapsed onto the bed, her breath ragged, her skin glowing with the aftermath of their coupling.

With a final, satisfied groan, Lyonel pulled out, his cock still semi-hard as he rolled onto his back, his chest heaving.

Brienne sat on the edge of the bed, her own body trembling, her fingers still slick with her arousal.

She had come twice just from watching, her body aching with unfulfilled need.

She reached for Lyonel, her hand trembling.

"No."

His voice was a whipcrack.

Lyonel didn’t even look at her. His arm draped over Jeyne’s waist, pulling her against him as if she were the one who belonged there.

"You made your choice," he said, his voice cold.

"Live with it."

Brienne’s hand fell to her side, her face burning with humiliation.

Jeyne, her body marked by Lyonel’s possession, cast one last, smug glance at Brienne before slipping from the bed. She dressed slowly, her movements lazy, her smile satisfied.

"Good night, my lord," she purred, her eyes lingering on Lyonel’s naked form.

Then, with a final, triumphant look at Brienne, she left the chamber, the door clicking shut behind her.

Lyonel didn’t move.

His breathing slowed, his body finally succumbing to exhaustion as he drifted into sleep, his cock still glistening with cum, his skin marked by Jeyne’s nails.

Brienne, her body still throbbing with need, curled up on the far edge of the bed, as far from him as she could get.

She touched herself one last time, her climax small and bittersweet, before she turned away, her back to her husband, her pride in tatters.

---

By the time the first light of dawn crept through the windows, Lyonel was snoring deeply, his massive form sprawled across the bed, his seed drying on his skin.

Brienne lay awake, her eyes burning, her body aching, her heart a storm of frustration and desire.

The wedding night was over.

And nothing would ever be the same.

The morning after the wedding night, Lyonel was summoned to the king’s chambers, where Robert—still alive at the time, though his health was already fading—granted him and Brienne new quarters in the Red Keep, a suite of rooms near the Maegor’s Holdfast, befitting his new status as a legitimized son of the king.

The chambers were luxurious, the walls draped in tapestries of orange and black, the hearth large enough to warm even the coldest winter night.

But Lyonel barely spared the opulence a glance.

His mind was already elsewhere, his gaze distant as he listened to the king’s booming voice, the weight of his new title settling over him like a shroud.

Within a fortnight, preparations were made for their journey to Tarth.

Lord Selwyn, eager to show off his daughter’s inheritance—and perhaps to remove Lyonel from the simmering tensions of King’s Landing—insisted they sail at once.

The Evenfall, a sturdy merchant vessel bearing the golden sunburst of House Tarth on its sails, set off under clear skies, the winds favorable as they carried the newlyweds and Lord Selwyn southward.

The voyage took a quarter moon, the days passing in a blur of salt-sprayed decks and endless horizons.

Lyonel spent most of his time at the prow of the ship, his cloak billowing behind him, his thoughts a storm of frustration and resolve.

He did not touch Brienne.

He did not speak to her more than necessary.

His vow stood firm, his pride unyielding.

She, in turn, kept her distance, her expression a mask of indifference, though her eyes occasionally flickered toward him with something unreadable—regret, perhaps, or defiance.

When the jagged cliffs of Tarth finally rose from the sea, Lyonel felt no relief, only a grim determination.

---

The island was beautiful, its shores lined with white sand, its hills lush and green, the sapphires for which it was named glinting in the sunlight like scattered stars.

But beauty meant little to him now.

He was a man with a purpose, and Tarth was merely the next battlefield in a war he intended to win.

---

Evenfall Hall was a fortress of pale stone and towering spires, its banners snapping in the wind as the party rode through the gates.

The smallfolk lined the roads, their faces curious, their whispers following Lyonel like shadows.

Lord Selwyn, ever the proud host, led them into the great hall, where the nobles of Tarth awaited, their smiles sharp, their eyes assessing.

Brienne, for once, seemed almost uncomfortable in her own home, her posture rigid as she greeted her father’s bannermen and the household staff.

Lyonel wasted no time.

By the next morning, he had already begun his work.

He met with the stewards of Evenfall Hall, poring over ledgers and maps, his mind sharp as he assessed the island’s finances, its trade, its defenses.

He had learned much during his time as steward of Winterfell, and though Tarth was no Winterfell, he saw potential—untapped resources, lazy governance, and smallfolk who had been neglected for too long.

He set to work marginalizing the inefficiencies, redirecting funds, and negotiating better terms with the merchants who traded in the island’s famed sapphires.

The improvements were small but meaningful, and the smallfolk, who had long suffered under Lord Selwyn’s indifferent rule, began to whisper his name with something akin to hope.

By day, he drilled the men of Tarth, turning the courtyard of Evenfall Hall into a training ground.

He was merciless, pushing them to their limits, teaching them the brutal efficiency of combat he had learned in the wars of the north.

He sparred with them, his greatsword Black Oath flashing in the sunlight, his commands sharp and unyielding.

The men groaned under his regimen, but they obeyed.

They respected him.

And slowly, they began to improve, their strikes growing surer, their endurance strengthening.

By night, he walked among the smallfolk, listening to their grievances, their hopes, their fears.

He was not a lord yet, but he carried himself like one, and they responded to his presence with a cautious optimism.

He did not seek their praise, but it came nonetheless, whispered in the taverns and the markets, spoken in hushed tones as he passed.

Brienne watched it all from a distance.

She saw the way the smallfolk looked at him, the way the men followed his commands, the way the island seemed to breathe easier under his stewardship.

She said nothing.

But her silence was heavy, her pride a wall he could not—would not—breach.

---

Two moons passed.

Lyonel’s routine became as unyielding as the tides. He rose before dawn, trained the men until midday, spent the afternoons in the halls of Evenfall, and walked among the people in the evenings.

He ate sparingly, slept little, and never once broke his vow. He did not touch Brienne. He did not share her bed.

He waited, his patience a blade honed to a razor’s edge.

He had decided he would give her a year.

One year to see the value in him, to understand what he could offer her—and their future children.

One year to soften, to bend, to want.

And then, if she still refused him, he would consummate the marriage for the sake of heirs and duty alone.

It was a cold calculation, but it was his.

The smallfolk adored him.

The nobles tolerated him.

Brienne ignored him.

And Lord Selwyn?

He was too busy counting his coins and polishing his pride to notice the shifting tides beneath his feet.

---

The news came on a storm-lashed evening, three moons after their arrival in Tarth.

A raven, its feathers slick with rain, landed in the rookery of Evenfall Hall, its message sealed with the wax of the Hand.

Lord Selwyn’s face darkened as he read the words, his knuckles whitening around the parchment.

"King Robert is dead," he said, his voice a growl.

"And Eddard Stark has been arrested for treason."

Lyonel’s blood ran cold.

He thought of Sansa, of Arya, of the girls he had left behind in King’s Landing.

He thought of Ned Stark, a man of honor, a man who had trusted him.

He thought of the storm that was coming, the war that would follow.

Lord Selwyn turned to him, his expression unreadable.

"You will want to attend the rites," he said, his voice gruff.

"For your father."

Lyonel did not hesitate. "I will."

The old lord nodded, his gaze sharp.

"Then you have my leave. Sail with the dawn."

Lyonel bowed his head, already turning toward the door, his mind racing.

The game had changed.