Lyonel walked out the great hall.

---

The heavy oak doors of the great hall groaned shut behind Lyonel as he stepped into the dim torchlight of Evenfall Hall’s corridors, the weight of his father’s words still pressing on his shoulders like the ghost of a storm yet to break.

The air was thick with the scent of salt and old parchment, the ever-present reminder of Tarth’s dual nature—both fortress and island sanctuary.

His boots echoed against the stone, each step measured, deliberate.

There was no time for hesitation, not now.

The realm was fracturing, and every move he made could mean the difference between survival and ruin.

He turned toward the maester’s chambers, the flickering glow of candlelight spilling from beneath the door like a beacon.

Maester Unwin, a gaunt man with ink-stained fingers and eyes sharp as flint, looked up from his desk as Lyonel entered.

The maester’s face was a map of quiet concern, the lines around his mouth deepening as he took in Lyonel’s grim expression.

"My lord," Unwin greeted, setting aside his quill.

"You seem troubled."

Lyonel didn’t waste words.

"I need ravens sent, Maester. Two of them."

He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the edge of the desk, the worn wood groaning faintly beneath his grip.

"The first to Robb Stark at Winterfell. Tell him to tread carefully with Lord Tywin. War is coming, but diplomacy might yet prevail. And tell him... tell him I stand with him in this. My sympathies for his father’s arrest."

His voice was low, rough with the weight of what he couldn’t say aloud—that Ned’s life hung by a thread, that the Lannisters would show no mercy, that Robb must be smarter than his father if he hoped to survive.

Unwin nodded, already reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment.

"And the second?"

"To Maester Luwin. Ask him for word of the North. I need to know how the lords are reacting to Eddard’s arrest. If Robb calls his banners, if the Vale will answer, if the Tullys will hold Riverrun. Everything."

Lyonel’s jaw tightened.

"The North won’t take this lightly. I need to know what we’re facing."

The maester dipped his quill, but paused as a raven fluttered suddenly in its cage, wings beating against the bars like a warning.

His eyes flickered to the bird, then back to Lyonel.

"There’s something you should know first, my lord. A raven arrived just this morning."

He reached beneath a stack of scrolls and produced a rolled parchment, sealed with the golden rose of Highgarden.

"Lord Renly has crowned himself at Highgarden. King of the Seven Kingdoms."

Lyonel exhaled sharply, the breath hissing between his teeth. Renly.

His uncle by blood, a man he had known as a boy—charming, not particularly ambitious, but never one to shy from a gamble.

"With whose support?"

"The Reach stands with him as Lord Mace Tyrell's daughter is his wife by law. Most of the Stormlands, too."

Unwin’s voice was grave.

"They say he’s fielded sixty-five thousand men."

Sixty-five thousand.

A **** large enough to crush the Lannisters.

Lyonel closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of the news settling over him like armor.

When he opened them again, his gaze was steel.

"Then the game has begun in earnest."

He straightened, rolling his shoulders as if bracing for a blow.

"Send the ravens. And Maester Unwin?"

He fixed the older man with a look that brooked no argument.

"I’ll need word from you the moment any reply arrives. No matter the hour."

Unwin bowed his head.

"You have my word, my lord."

Lyonel left the maester to his work, his mind racing.

---

The corridors of Evenfall Hall felt narrower now, the shadows deeper. He didn’t pause as he strode toward the training yards, where the clang of steel and the grunts of men at drill filled the air.

Garmond Forett, the master of arms, stood barking orders at a group of young soldiers, his voice a thunderous growl.

Garmond was a grizzled veteran, his face scarred from a dozen battles, and he turned as Lyonel approached, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

"Lord Lyonel. What brings you to the yards?"

Lyonel didn’t mince words.

"How many men can Tarth field?"

Forett’s expression darkened.

"Fourteen hundred, give or take. Mostly green boys and old hands, but they’ll fight for Tarth. For you."

Lyonel nodded, his gaze sweeping over the men at practice.

Fourteen hundred.

A drop in the ocean compared to Renly’s host or the might of the Lannisters.

But Tarth was an island, and islands had ways of surviving storms.

"Double the watches. Drill them harder. If war comes, we won’t have the luxury of time to prepare."

He lowered his voice, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

"The times are changing, Ser Garmond. The old generation is passing, and the new one will be forged in fire. I want our men ready."

Forett spat into the dirt, his jaw set.

"Aye, my lord. We’ll be ready."

Lyonel clapped him on the shoulder, then turned back toward the keep, his thoughts already racing ahead.

The pieces were moving, the board shifting beneath his feet.

He had a wife who loved another, an uncle who had just declared himself king, and a realm teetering on the edge of chaos.

And somewhere in the Red Keep, two girls—one fierce as a wolf pup, the other gentle as a summer breeze—were trapped in the lion’s den.

He would not let them fall. Not while he still drew breath.

---

The wind howled across the cliffs of Tarth as Lyonel stood at the docks, the salt spray stinging his face like a thousand tiny needles.

The island’s banners snapped in the gale, the banner of House Tarth a stark contrast to the churning black waters below.

He had spent the morning ensuring the island’s defenses were as ready as they could be—extra watches, stores of food and arms, and orders to Garmond Forett to drill the men until their bones ached.

Tarth might be small, but it would not be easy prey.

His gaze swept over the harbor, where ships bobbed like corks in the restless tide.

And then he saw her.

Brienne stood at the gangplank of a sleek, swift vessel, her armor already strapped on, her blue eyes burning with a fire he hadn’t seen since the day they wed.

She wore no cloak, no disguise—just the unmistakable sigil of Tarth emblazoned on her surcoat, her sword belted at her hip.

Lyonel’s boots pounded against the wooden dock as he closed the distance between them, his voice cutting through the din of the harbor.

"Brienne."

She turned, her expression unreadable for a heartbeat before her chin lifted, defiant.

"Lyonel."

The way she said his name was almost a challenge, as if daring him to stop her.

"Where do you think you’re going?"

He already knew.

The news of Renly’s coronation had spread like wildfire, and Brienne’s loyalty had never been to him—not truly.

"To Highgarden."

Her voice was steady, but her fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword.

"Lord Renly has crowned himself king. He’ll need every sword he can get."

Lyonel exhaled sharply, his breath misting in the cold air.

Of course.

---

She had loved Renly long before she ever laid eyes on him, and now her uncle-by-marriage had given her the perfect excuse to ride to his side.

"You’re going to fight for him."

It wasn’t a question.

"I’m going to serve him," she corrected, her voice ringing with conviction.

"As his knight."

A bitter laugh escaped him.

"You’re no knight, Brienne. Not yet."

Her eyes flashed.

"I’ll earn it."

He studied her for a long moment, the woman who was his wife in name only, who had never wanted this marriage, who had spent every day since their wedding avoiding his touch, his words, his very presence.

And yet, here she was, standing before him with fire in her veins, ready to ride into war for a man who might not even remember her name.

"You’re free to go," he said at last, his voice rough.

"But don’t expect me to mourn you if you fall."

Brienne’s expression flickered—something like surprise, or maybe disappointment—but she masked it quickly.

"I don’t."

---

She turned back to the ship, her boots thudding against the gangplank.

Lyonel watched as the vessel cast off, the sails snapping taut in the wind.

He didn’t call after her.

He didn’t raise a hand in farewell.

Instead, he turned to a nearby servant, a boy no older than ten, his face smudged with soot.

"Find Lord Selwyn. Tell him his daughter has chosen to join Renly’s banners. She sails for Highgarden as we speak."

The boy’s eyes widened, but he nodded and sprinted off toward the keep.

Lyonel didn’t wait to see Selwyn’s reaction.

He had his own path to walk.