A new dawn.

The morning sun rose over Harrenhal like a bleeding wound, casting long, crimson-tinged shadows across the courtyard as the royal retinue prepared to depart.

Lady Shella stood at the gates, her gown a deep emerald, her hair bound in an intricate braid, her hands clasped before her. She spoke with Robert, her voice soft but firm, her smile warm yet distant.

But when her gaze flicked to Lyonel, it lingered—just for a heartbeat—before dropping to her stomach, where her fingers twitched, as if already cradling the secret growing within.

"Safe travels, Your Grace," she said, curtsying deeply to Robert. "May the roads be kind to you."

Robert nodded, swinging onto his destrier with a grunt. "And to you, Lady Shella. Harrenhal is in good hands."

She smiled, but her eyes found Lyonel again. "Farewell, Ser Lyonel," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the clatter of hooves and armor. "May the gods watch over you."

Lyonel bowed his head, his throat tight. "And you, my lady."

Then the gates groaned open, and the retinue moved out, the dust of the Kingsroad rising in their wake.

Lyonel didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

The ride to Castle Darry was uneventful but time consuming, with two moons having passed since and the land flattening into golden fields and scattered corpse of oak.

The castle itself was modest, its stone walls weathered but well-kept, its banners snapping in the wind.

Lord Darry, a gaunt man with iron-gray hair and a permanent frown, welcomed them with stiff formality, his heir, Raymun, a young man with a sharp face and sharper tongue, hovering at his side.

The stay was brief. The Darrys were not wealthy, and their hospitality, while polite, was spare.

Robert grumbled about the lack of wine, Joffrey sneered at the food, and Cersei endured it all with cold grace, her green eyes scanning the hall as if searching for faults to catalog.

Myrcella however, appeared to be more friendly to Lyonel. She would glance at him, giving him a curt smile whenever he would catch her gaze. Her eighteenth nameday was close, two moons away.

And something had stirred inside Lyonel. He could now see Myrcella not as his sweet younger stepsister, but in an entirely new light. She had also opened up to him, albeit being a small interaction.

The journey or Lord Arryn’s **** had seemingly brought a change in the Baratheons.

And Harrenhal had changed Lyonel.

The peace and quiet of Castle Darry had allowed Lyonel to gather his thoughts.

What had transpired in Harrenhal between Shella and him was not fleeting or trivial as it seemed.

It was not a secret but a scandal waiting. If even the whispers of such a thing were to spill out, it would be disastrous, to say the least.

Lyonel had never had such urges before. He had been able to control his temptations, his wanton desires back in King’s Landing.

The noble ladies at the royal court had never shied away from him. But it not had been honor or chivalry that held him back.

It was danger, the constant threat that a possible dalliance could result in execution or worse, ****.

And Shella. She was the first woman he had been with. She had this enigmatic charm that could endear anyone, especially a man to her needs.

She was stuck in a precarious situation with her family holdings under threat. However, something about that night, something entirely odd about the swiftness of the events leading to their laying was poking at the back of his mind.

There was something fishy about the way things had happened, the way Cersei had whispered in Shella’s ear at the feast that made him squirm in his seat.

However, a serving girl interrupted his thoughts.

—

By evening, the queen had had enough.

"I require a bath," she declared, her voice cutting through the murmur of conversation. "See that it is prepared."

Lord Darry bowed. "At once, Your Grace."

The bathhouse of Castle Darry was a small, stone chamber, the air thick with steam and the scent of lavender.

A wooden tub sat in the center, filled with hot water, the surface shimmering under the flicker of candlelight.

Cersei dismissed her handmaidens with a wave of her hand, unpinning her gown and letting it pool at her feet. The water embraced her skin as she slid in, a sigh escaping her lips.

For the first time in days, she felt clean.

She leaned her head back, her golden hair fanning out around her, her eyes closed.

The heat soothed her muscles, the silence a balm to her frayed nerves. She could almost forget the dust of the road, the petty insults of Joffrey, the endless politicking—

The door creaked open.

Cersei’s eyes flew open, her body tensing. "Who—?"

A figure stepped inside, silhouetted against the candlelight. Tall. Broad. Familiar.

"Lyonel?" she hissed, shock and rage warring in her voice.

He froze, naked, his clothes clutched in his hand, his body on full display. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of her—bare, glistening, the water clinging to her skin.

The songs did not do justice to the naked glorious beauty of the Queen. For a heartbeat, Lyonel’s gaze remained fixed on Cersei’s body. Her hair, not fully wet, shone like beaten gold, their color reflected by the quiet fire burning in the side hearth. Her eyes and mouth now relaxed, conveyed a serene, pleasing effect usually devoid due to her scoffing.

Lyonel’s gaze moved downwards involuntarily. He saw her neckline, elegant as a swan, with collarbones not weighed down by exertion or stress. He saw the spotless skin, fair and untanned.

Her hair had been drawn forward on her shoulder blades, the last strands hovering above those pink nipples which tipped off those teardrop shaped breasts.

Gazing down, he saw a sight different from that of Shella’s. Whereas Shella had a full bush, Cersei’s was barren with her pinkish red lips clearly visible to him. The sight was enticing and divine inviting him closer.

"Fuck," he growled, realization dawned. "This is—"

"How dare you?" Cersei shrieked, lurching upward—

Lyonel moved faster.

His hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her cry as he pulled her back into the water. "Quiet," he hissed, his voice rough with urgency. "Unless you want the entire castle to know the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was caught naked with her husband’s bastard."

Cersei’s body went rigid, her breath hot against his palm. Her eyes burned into his, fury and something else—something darker, hungrier—swirling in their depths.

For a long moment, neither moved. The only sound was the drip of water from Lyonel’s arm, the rapid rise and fall of Cersei’s chest touching Lyonel’s elbow slightly.

Then, slowly, her tongue flicked against his palm, deliberate, provocative.

Lyonel’s body reacted instantly, his cock stiffening painfully. Cersei’s gaze dropped, her eyes widening as she took in the full length of him.

It had started to stand at full mast, nearly double of Robert’s which was the largest she had seen. The stiffening was not quick, and his manhood rose like a python from the depths between their touching bodies.

"Gods," she breath, her voice muffled against his skin. "You’re—"

"Not the time," he ground out, forcing himself to focus. He released her slowly, keeping his body angled away as she settled back into the water.

Cersei didn’t scream. She didn’t slap him. She just stared, her chest heaving, her nipples pebbling under the water, her gaze fixed on Lyonel’s third leg. "You realize if anyone had seen—"

"I know," he snapped, grabbing his clothes and holding them before him like a shield. "This was Joffrey’s doing."

Her lips curled. "Do not blame my boy for this!" She reached for a linen towel, wrapping it around her shoulders as she stood, water cascading down her body.

"You are a mean creature, yet again showing that baseborn nature. Pray to the Seven that I did not call my guards in here". She tried sounding confident and angry but her eyes betrayed her true intentions.

Lyonel didn’t look at her. He knew it was futile explaining this was all Joffrey's doing. He couldn’t. "I should go."

"Yes," she said, her voice cool as ice but with a slight tremble."You should."

But as he turned, she murmured. "Lyonel."

He paused, not daring to meet her eyes.

"Your… endowments," she said, her voice low, husky. "They’re quite… remarkable."

A beat of silence. Then—

"My lady." He pulled free, slipping out the door before she could say more.

Alone again, Cersei sank back into the water, her body still humming with the aftershock of seeing him—all of him.

She closed her eyes, her fingers trailing down her stomach, lower, between her thighs.

She imagined his hands on her. His mouth. The way his muscles rippled and shone with the light sheen of the bathhouse's steam.

Those broad shoulders which would bulge when he picked her up. Those monstrous tree trunk thighs of his, would make the very ground tremble. That massive cock filling her, stretching her, owning her in a way no man ever had.

She could remember vividly as if the scene was happening before her the very moment.

She could recall the swollen red head, snarling like a python. The veins, full and vicious. The ballsack underneath, also the biggest she had ever seen.

A shuddering breath escaped her.

"Fuck," she whispered, her voice raw.

For the first time in years, Cersei Lannister touched herself not out of duty or boredom, but desire—raw, aching need.