For the blood that would soon be spilled.

---

The days blurred together in a haze of parchment and steel, of whispered instructions and the relentless clatter of training swords.

Lyonel spent his mornings drafting letters to Lord Steffon Darklyn, each one a careful balance of command and caution.

"The Rykker sisters—Marra, Rosalyn, and Joanna—are to remain under house arrest," he wrote, his quill scratching against the parchment with deliberate precision.

"They are not to be harmed, but they are not to be freed. When the time comes, they will be ferried to Tarth under my personal guard. Ensure they are kept out of sight and out of mind until then."

He sealed each letter with his sigil, a black stag rearing on silver wax, and sent them off with riders he trusted implicitly.

The responses came back swift and obedient.

Steffon Darklyn was nothing if not thorough.

The girls were secured, their chambers guarded, their presence a secret buried beneath the weight of Duskendale’s restoration.

Meanwhile, in the training yards of the Red Keep, Lyonel’s men drilled with a ferocity that bordered on obsession.

The contingent he had left behind in King’s Landing—those who had not marched to Duskendale—were a mix of hardened veterans and **** men, all of whom knew the cost of failure.

They practiced formations until their muscles screamed, sparred until their swords dulled, and moved as one until their steps were as synchronized as the ticking of a clock.

Lyonel watched them from the sidelines, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He had no time for weakness.

The war was coming, and when it did, these men would be the blade he wielded.

They had to be ready.

But it was the search for Arya Stark that gnawed at him.

Every evening, after the training was done and the letters sent, Davon and his men slipped into the darker corners of King’s Landing, cloaks pulled low over their face.

They questioned beggars and whores, bribed guards and merchants, and scoured the alleys where the **** and the forgotten clung to life.

Davon sent word to the docks, to the brothels, even to the septs, asking after a wolf-faced girl with a needle for a sword.

But Arya Stark was a ghost.

No one had seen her.

No one knew where she had gone.

It was as if she had vanished into the very stones of the city.

---

The frustration of it ate at Lyonel.

He had men—Davon’s contingent of thirty—scouring the streets, but they turned up nothing.

---

The girl was either long gone or hiding in plain sight, and neither possibility sat well with him.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something, that the answer was right in front of him, hidden beneath layers of lies and misdirection.

But the days passed, and Arya remained lost.

Three moons waxed and waned in this rhythm.

The men in Duskendale grew stronger, their discipline sharpening under Steffon’s rule.

Ser Robar Forett, newly wed to Denelle Darklyn, returned to Tarth with his bride, his loyalty to Lyonel cemented by marriage and mutual ambition.

The island, though technically under Renly’s banner, was now a quiet stronghold of Lyonel’s influence, its garrison loyal to him above all others.

The Rykker sisters remained under lock and key, their fate sealed but not yet enacted.

And in King’s Landing, Lyonel’s men trained harder, their skills honed to a deadly edge.

Then, on the morning of the fourth moon, the Great Hall was thrown into chaos.

The doors swung open with a crash, and Ser Cleos Frey limped inside, his face pale with pain, his armor dented and stained with blood.

The hall fell silent as he staggered toward the dais, his breath ragged, his hand pressed to a wound in his side.

"Your Grace," he gasped, his voice hoarse with exhaustion.

"I bring word from the Riverlands. The Young Wolf… he’s won a great victory at the Whispering Wood. He’s taken Jaime Lannister captive."

The hall erupted.

Joffrey shot to his feet, his face twisting in fury.

"What?!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with rage.

"That’s impossible! My uncle is the finest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms!"

Cleos Frey sank to one knee, his body trembling.

"It’s true, Your Grace. The northerners ambushed our forces. Ser Jaime was overpowered and taken. The Kingslayer… is a prisoner of Robb Stark."

The words hung in the air like a **** knell.

The Lannisters were reeling.

The Starks were rising.

And the war, which had been simmering like a pot left too long on the fire, had just boiled over.

---

Lyonel stood frozen, his mind racing.

Jaime captured.

The implications were staggering.

The Lannisters would not take this lightly.

The game had changed.

Again.

---

The Great Hall was thick with tension as Ser Cleos Frey, his face still pale from blood loss, recounted the disasters that had befallen the Lannister forces in the Riverlands.

The lords and ladies of the court listened in stunned silence, their faces a mix of horror and disbelief.

Joffrey sat upon the Iron Throne, his fingers digging into the armrests, his knuckles white with fury.

Cersei stood beside him, her expression carefully controlled, but her emerald eyes burned with a cold, calculating rage.

Cleos Frey, his voice hoarse but steady, laid out the battles in grim detail.

At the Green Fork, Roose Bolton had marched nineteen thousand northern infantry down the kingsroad, only to be met by Tywin Lannister’s forces in a brutal clash.

The Lannisters, though caught off guard by Bolton’s overnight march, had roused in time to crush the northerners.

But the victory had been hollow.

Tywin, upon learning from prisoners that Robb Stark had tricked him and was riding to relieve Riverrun, had abandoned pursuit of Bolton’s shattered forces and instead marched his army back toward the besieged castle with relentless speed.

Then came the Whispering Wood.

Robb Stark, having secretly crossed the Twins with his cavalry, rode hard for Riverrun, bolstered by Mallister forces from Seagard.

Jaime Lannister, bored and overconfident, had ridden out with only a few hundred men, unaware of the trap Robb had laid.

The northerners had ambushed the Lannisters, capturing Jaime and nearly a hundred knights and lords bannermen.

In a **** last stand, Jaime had fought like a demon, cutting down several of Robb’s bodyguard, including Torrhen and Eddard Karstark, before being overwhelmed and taken captive.

And finally, the Battle of the Camps.

That same night, Robb had caught the Lannister forces besieging Riverrun completely off guard.

Divided into three **** camps, the Lannisters had been overrun.

Ser Brynden Tully led the Stark vanguard in crushing the north camp, while Robb himself had charged the west camp, breaking their shield wall with a sortie from Riverrun led by Lord Tytos Blackwood.

The remaining Lannister forces, under Ser Forley Prester, had retreated in good order to the Golden Tooth, but the damage was done.

Riverrun was free.

The Lannisters were in disarray.

And Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, was a prisoner of the Young Wolf.

The hall erupted into chaos.

Joffrey’s face twisted in fury.

"This is impossible!" he shrieked, his voice cracking.

"Jaime cannot be defeated! He’s the Kingslayer! He’s—"

"He’s a prisoner," Cersei cut in, her voice sharp as a blade.

"And Robb Stark holds the keys to his cell."

She turned to Cleos Frey, her expression cold.

"What else?"

Cleos swallowed, his throat bobbing.

"Lord Stark… he sends terms for peace, Your Grace."

A hush fell over the hall.

Joffrey’s fingers clenched into fists.

"Terms?" he spat.

"That traitorous whelp dares to send terms?"

"He does," Cleos said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"He offers to return Ser Jaime Lannister, unharmed, and to swear allegiance to King Joffrey as the one true king…"

He hesitated, then **** the words out.

"In exchange for the return of his sisters—Sansa and Arya—and his father, Lord Eddard Stark, to his banners."

---

Cersei’s eyes narrowed.

"Enough," she snapped.

"We will not be dictated to by a boy king and his wolf pack."

She turned to the Small Council, her voice cutting through the murmurs.

"We do not negotiate with traitors. We crush them."

"Then we take it back!" Joffrey shrieked, slamming his fist against the armrest of the throne.

"We march on Riverrun! We burn the North to the ground! We—"

"We do nothing rash," Cersei said, her voice a whip crack.

She turned to Pycelle. "Send word to Lord Tywin.

Inform him of these… terms."

Her lips curled in a sneer.

"And tell him to prepare for war."

The hall erupted into argument.

Joffrey was already on his feet, his face flushed with rage.

"I will not negotiate with traitors!" he roared.

"I will see Robb Stark’s head on a spike! I will see his sisters broken! I will—"

"You will think," Cersei hissed, her hand snapping out to grip his wrist.

"Or you will lose everything."

The king glared at her, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but he subsided, his fingers twitching at his side.

Lyonel stood in silence, his mind racing.

---

The tension in King’s Landing had reached a breaking point.

Lyonel could feel it in the air—the way the guards’ hands twitched over their sword hilts, the way the smallfolk whispered in hushed, fearful tones, the way the nobles’ eyes darted like cornered rats.

The city was a powder keg, and the spark was coming.

He knew it.

They all knew it.

And he couldn’t afford to be here when it exploded.

The realization settled over him like a shroud: staying in King’s Landing was a **** sentence.

Joffrey’s rage was a wildfire, and Cersei’s patience was wearing thin.

The Lannisters were cornered, and cornered beasts were the most dangerous.

Lyonel had played his part—secured Duskendale, trained his men, bent the knee when necessary—but now, the game was shifting.

Robb Stark’s victories in the Riverlands had sent shockwaves through the court, and the news of Jaime’s capture had only deepened the fissures in the Lannister facade.

He needed to leave. But not empty-handed.

Arya Stark was still out there.

Somewhere.

And if he could find her, if he could spirit her away before the Lannisters realized what they’d lost, he’d have a bargaining chip powerful enough to shape the war itself.

The thought gnawed at him, a persistent itch he couldn’t ignore.

Find the girl.

Then flee.

---

The next four days were a blur of whispered conversations and fruitless searches.

Lyonel sought out Sansa Stark in the godswood, where she often wandered, her face pale, her hands clutching at the fabric of her gown like a lifeline.

She looked like a ghost, her red hair dull, her blue eyes hollow.

"Lady Sansa," he said, keeping his voice low,

"I need to ask you about your sister. Arya. Do you know where she might be? Where she might hide?"

Sansa’s lips trembled.

"I don’t know," she whispered, her voice breaking.

"She’s gone, ser. They say she’s dead. They say—"

"She’s not," Lyonel cut in, his voice firm.

"But she’s in danger. If you know anything—any place she might go, any person she might trust—you have to tell me."

Sansa shook her head, her tears spilling over.

"She never told me anything," she sobbed.

"She hated me. She thought I was weak."

She looked up at him, her eyes ****.

"Why does it matter? They’ll kill her if they find her. They’ll kill all of us."

Lyonel’s jaw tightened.

"Because I can get her out," he said.

"And I can get you out. Come with me, Sansa. Leave this place. You’re not safe here."

She recoiled, her face twisting in fear.

"I can’t," she whispered. "Joffrey will—he’ll hurt me. He’ll hurt my lord father."

She wrapped her arms around herself, her body shaking.

"I can’t."

Lyonel exhaled sharply.

He had known it was futile.

Sansa was too broken, too terrified to run.

But he had to try. "If you change your mind—"

"I won’t," she said, her voice barely audible.

He left her there, kneeling in the godswood, her sobs echoing like a dirge.

---

The week had passed and the Great Hall was a cauldron of tension.

Joffrey sat upon the Iron Throne, his golden crown gleaming, his face twisted in a smirk of cruel triumph.

The court was assembled, the nobles arrayed like vultures, their eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"People of the court," Joffrey announced, his voice ringing through the hall, "Lord Eddard Stark has been found guilty of treason against the crown. His punishment will be carried out in two days’ time, at the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor."

His lips curled.

"Let this be a lesson to all who would defy their king."

A murmur rippled through the hall.

Lyonel stood among the assembled lords, his face a mask of impassive calm.

But his mind was racing.

Two days.

If Arya Stark was still in King’s Landing, she would be there.

She wouldn’t be able to stay away.

Not when her father’s life hung in the balance.

And if she wasn’t there… well, then he’d know.

He’d ride north with Davon and his thirty men, scour the kingsroad, the villages, the ruins.

He’d find her.

Or he’d die trying.

He stepped forward, his boots echoing against the marble floor.

"Your Grace," he said, his voice cutting through the murmurs.

"I seek your leave to ride out in your name. The war in the Riverlands is far from over, and your enemies still run rampant. Grant me the honor of hunting them down."

Joffrey’s eyes narrowed, but his smirk returned.

"Granted," he said, waving a dismissive hand.

"Ride out after Stark’s punishment. Show these traitors the price of defiance."

Lyonel bowed his head. "It will be done, Your Grace."

---

Later, in the dimly lit confines of his chambers, Lyonel drafted a letter to Davon, his quill scratching against the parchment with urgent precision.

---

"Davon,

The men must be ready. On the day of Lord Eddard’s punishment, we ride. If the Stark girl is in the city, we take her. If not, we leave at dusk and head north. No delays. No mistakes.

Be ready.

—Lyonel"

---

He sealed the letter with his sigil and sent it with a rider he trusted implicitly.

The die was cast.

In two days, the game would change.

And Lyonel Baratheon would be ready.

---

The evening sun bled crimson across the sky as Lyonel stood by the window of his chambers, the weight of the coming days pressing down on him like armor.

A soft knock at the door broke his reverie.

He turned, expecting a servant, but the door swung open to reveal Myrcella, her emerald eyes shimmering with unshed tears, her golden curls catching the last rays of light.

She hesitated in the doorway, her small hands clutching the fabric of her gown.

"Lyonel," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"I heard you’re leaving."

Lyonel didn’t move.

"I am," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "But only for a time."

Myrcella stepped inside, her cheeks flushed, her lower lip quivering.

"I don’t want you to go," she confessed, her fingers twisting nervously.

"I’ll miss you. Every day."

She looked up at him, her gaze fierce despite the tears.

"I love you. And I don’t care what anyone says."

Lyonel exhaled, his chest tightening.

"Gods, woman," he thought, "you’ll be the **** of me."

He crossed the room in two strides, cupping her face in his hands.

"Myrcella," he murmured, "you must be careful. Words like that—feelings like that—they’re dangerous here."

"I don’t care," she said, her voice defiant.

She rose onto her tiptoes, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that was equal parts desperation and innocence.

Lyonel didn’t pull away.

He couldn’t.

But when she finally stepped back, her cheeks flushed, her breath ragged, he held her at arm’s length.

"You’re a princess," he reminded her, his voice rough.

"And I’m a man sworn to your bastard brother and married. This can’t be."

Myrcella’s eyes glistened, but she nodded, her chin trembling.

"I know," she whispered.

"But I won’t forget you. No matter what."

She curtsied hastily and fled.

---

Later that night, Lyonel had another visitor.

Cersei sauntered closer, her hips swaying, her gaze raking over him like a blade.

"You’re leaving us, Lyonel," she said, her voice a velvet purr.

"I’ll miss your… prowess."

Her fingers trailed down his chest, her touch light but possessive.

"Though I suppose I can find other ways to be entertained. Also, you secured Duskendale for Joffrey, so I am impressed."

Lyonel didn’t flinch.

"You knew," he said, his voice low.

"About Duskendale. About the Darklyns."

Cersei’s smirk deepened.

"Of course I knew," she said, her fingers toying with the lace at his collar.

"I know everything that happens in this city."

She leaned in, her breath hot against his ear.

"But you’ve been useful, Lyonel. And Joffrey adores you. For now."

She pulled back, her eyes gleaming.

"So I’ll turn a blind eye to your little… projects. Until you’re no longer in my son’s favor."

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"But remember this: whatever you do, you do in Joffrey’s name. And whatever you take, you take for him."

Lyonel’s jaw tightened.

"And if I don’t?"

Cersei’s laugh was cold. "Then you’ll learn just how ungenerous I can be."

She stepped back, her gaze lingering on him.

"Join Lord Tywin at Harrenhal when you’re done playing hero. He’ll have use for a man like you."

She turned toward the door, then paused, glancing over her shoulder.

"And Lyonel?"

Her voice was a whisper.

"I can be generous to those who serve me well."

With that, she swept from the room, leaving only the scent of jasmine and the weight of her words behind.

---

Lyonel stood alone in the silence of his chambers, his mind racing.

Find Arya.

That was first.

If she was in King’s Landing, he’d spot her at Eddard’s punishment.

If not, he’d ride north with Davon and his men, scour the kingsroad, the villages, the ruins.

He’d find her.

And then?

Then, he’d take her to Duskendale.

The Rykker sisters would be ferried to Tarth, Arya among them under Ser Garmond’s watch, their presence a secret, their safety assured.

And once that was done…

He’d ride for Harrenhal.

Tywin Lannister was gathering his forces there, preparing for the next phase of the war.

And if Lyonel was to survive this game, he needed to be where the power was.

He needed to be at Tywin’s side.

Lyonel Baratheon was ready to make his next move.