Lyonel dismounted, intent on leading Ashford to the Stark's stable.

The stables of Winterfell were warm, the scent of hay and horse thick in the air, the soft nickering of destriers filling the space with a rhythm as old as time. Lyonel stripped Ashford of his saddle and bridle, his hands moving with practiced ease as he rubbed the stallion down with a bundle of straw.

The horse snorted, nuzzling Lyonel’s shoulder as if sensing the tension still coiled in his muscles. "Easy, boy," Lyonel murmured, scratching behind Ashford’s ears. "We’re not in Frey territory anymore."

The water in the trough was cold, biting at his fingers as he scooped it over Ashford’s flanks, the horse shuddering under his touch.

The physical labor soothed him, grounded him in a way words never could. He didn’t need to think here. He didn’t need to be anything but a man caring for his horse.

The stable door creaked open.

Lyonel didn’t turn. He knew that gait, the way the footsteps paused just so—like a man used to being watched, used to choosing his moments.

"You always this devoted to your beast, Rivers?" Jaime Lannister’s voice was smooth, amused, the kind of tone that made it sound like he was sharing a joke only the two of them understood.

Lyonel finished wiping Ashford’s flank before turning. Jaime leaned against the doorframe, his golden hair gleaming in the torchlight, his green eyes sharp and knowing. He wore his white cloak loosely, the fabric pristine despite the journey, his sword belt glinting at his hip. "Ser Jaime," Lyonel said, drying his hands on a rag. "You lost?"

Jaime pushed off the frame, stepping closer. "Not lost. Looking." He paused, his gaze flicking over Lyonel’s shoulder, assessing. "For Tyrion."

Lyonel frowned. "Your brother isn’t in the castle?"

"No," Jaime said, his voice dry. "And knowing him, he’s not hiding in the godswood either."

He tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "I think I know where he is. But I could use a man like you to help find him."

Lyonel crossed his arms. "And why me?"

Jaime’s smile widened. "Because you’re big, you’re mean, and you don’t talk much." He shrugged. "And because I know you’re not stupid enough to refuse the Kingslayer."

Lyonel exhaled through his nose. "Flattery won’t work on me, Lannister."

"No?" Jaime arched a brow. "Then let’s try honesty." He stepped even closer, his voice dropping. "Would getting to know your mother interest you?"

Lyonel stilled.

Jaime’s eyes gleamed. "Thought so."

A beat of silence. The stable sounds—the rustle of hay, the stamp of hooves—faded into the background. "What do you know?" Lyonel asked, his voice low.

Jaime turned, gesturing toward the door. "Walk with me, and I’ll tell you."

The streets of Winter Town were narrow, winding paths of packed dirt and stone, lined with timber buildings and the occasional torch flickering in the growing dusk. The air smelled of woodsmoke and ale, the distant sound of laughter and music spilling from the taverns.

Lyonel walked beside Jaime, his hands loose at his sides, his gaze sharp, watchful. "You knew my mother?" he asked, his voice careful.

Jaime didn’t look at him. "I knew of her." He paused, then exhaled. "She was beautiful."

Lyonel’s chest tightened.

Jaime glanced at him, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "The kind of beautiful that made men forget their names." He looked ahead again.

"Thick, braided brunette hair, dark honey-colored eyes—like liquid gold when the light hit them right. A sweet smile, small doe-like eyes." He shrugged. "A classic beauty, but not the kind that turns heads in court. She had a sincerity to her, a loyalty. Naivety, too." His voice softened. "She was kind, Lyonel. Too kind. Kind to anyone, no matter the consequences."

Lyonel swallowed. "And Robert—?"

Jaime’s jaw tightened. "Took her on the bridge near Ashford." His voice was flat, but there was an edge to it. "She was traveling to her cousin’s hold when Robert’s forces retreated after the Battle of the Bells. He was drunk, angry, humiliated."

He paused.

"He didn’t care who she was. Just that she was there."

Lyonel’s hands clenched into fists. "And after?"

"She bore you," Jaime said simply. "And Robert, in a rare moment of something like guilt, took you in. Named you his bastard, gave you a place in his household." He glanced at Lyonel.

Lyonel exhaled sharply, his body humming with a mix of rage and grief. "Why tell me this now?"

Jaime turned to face him, his golden hair catching the last of the sunlight. "Because you deserve to know." He smirked, but there was no humor in it. "And because I need your help finding Tyrion before he drinks himself into a ditch." He jerked his chin toward a squat, laughing building ahead. "He’ll be in there."

The sign creaked in the wind, a crude painting of a woman with bare breasts grinning down at them. "You coming?"

Lyonel looked at the brothel, then back at Jaime. The Kingslayer watched him, waiting.

"Fine," Lyonel growled. "But if your brother starts a fight, I’m leaving him to rot."

Jaime laughed, clapping Lyonel on the shoulder. "That’s the spirit." He pushed open the door, the sound of music and laughter spilling out into the street.

Lyonel followed, stepping into the warm, smoky glow of the brothel, his mind still whirling with the ghost of his mother’s face.

The brothel was a den of flesh and laughter, the air thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and cheap wine. Women in various states of undress lounged on benches and lap of men, their voices a melody of moans and giggles. Jaime strode through the common room like he owned the place, his white cloak a stark contrast to the dim, smoky light. Lyonel followed, his gaze scanning the crowd, his hand resting on the hilt of Lionmane.

"Ah, there he is," Jaime muttered, spotting a closed door at the far end of the hall. He knocked once, then pushed it open without waiting for an answer.

Inside, Tyrion Lannister was sprawled across a bed, a half-empty jug of wine in one hand, a plump whore curled against his side. He blinked up at them, his face flushed, his eyes bleary. "Jaime," he slurred, grinning. "And Rivers! What an unpleasant surprise."

The whore giggled, adjusting the sheets over her bare breasts. "You boys here to join the fun?"

Jaime ignored her. "We’re leaving."

Tyrion protested, but his words were slurred, his legs unsteady as he started to put on his breeches. He muttered, "I’ll tell Father you displeasured his favorite son."

Jaime snorted. "He’ll believe it when I tell him you were found drunk in a brothel." He tossed a handful of silver onto the bed. "For your troubles, love."

The whore snatched the coins with a grin. "Always a pleasure, my lords."

Jaime turned to Lyonel, his expression serious for once. "Remind them not to mention Tyrion’s visit." He didn’t wait for a reply, dragging Tyrion out into the hall and toward the exit.

Lyonel hesitated. The madam, a buxom woman with painted lips, watched him with shrewd eyes. "You heard the man," Lyonel growled. "The dwarf was never here."

She nodded, smirking. "Never seen him, ser."

Lyonel turned to leave, but movement in the adjacent room caught his eye. The door was ajar, and through the crack, he saw the unmistakable grey robes of a maester. Curious, he pushed the door open just enough to see inside.

Maester Luwin sat on a small bed, small enough only to carry a man of simple stature. A young prostitute perched on his lap, her dress hiked up, her lips pressed to his neck. Luwin murmured something, his hand stroking her thigh.

Lyonel stilled.

Luwin—the Maester of Winterfell, the man who advised Ned Stark, who was supposed to be above such things. Yet here he was, in a whorehouse, indulging in flesh like any other man.

The prostitute giggled, and Luwin chuckled, his voice low. "We must be discreet."

Lyonel stepped back, shutting the door silently. His mind raced.

Maesters were sworn to chastity, to service, to wisdom. Yet here was Luwin, breaking his vows in the most vile of places.