And when she came, it was with Lyonel’s name a silent prayer on her lips.

The Kingsroad north of Castle Darry wound like a serpent through rolling hills and dense thickets, the land growing colder, the air sharper with each league they traveled.

The royal retinue moved in silence, the only sounds the clop of hooves, the creak of wheels, and the occasional snapped order from Ser Jaime or Sandor.

Lyonel rode at the rear, Ashford’s hooves kicking up dust, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He had avoided the royal family since Castle Darry, speaking only when spoken to, his interactions with Robert brief and functional.

And he didn’t look at her.

The memory of her naked, glistening in the bath, her lips parted in shock, her body responding to the sight of him—it burned. Not just in his mind, but in his flesh.

He had spent the last twenty nights since Darry, hard as iron, his cock aching with need, his dreams filled with the sound of her moans, the feel of her skin. But he knew the danger. Knew the game.

One misstep, one whisper of what had happened, and it would be his head on a spike—or worse, Cersei’s.

So he kept his distance.

The Twins loomed ahead like a pair of monstrous sentinels, the stone bridges connecting the two castles stretching over the rushing Green Fork. The banners of House Frey snapped in the wind, a warning to all who approached.

Lord Walder Frey was not a man known for his generosity, and his hospitality was always a transaction.

The gates groaned open, and the retinue filed into the courtyard, where Lord Walder awaited them, perched on a high-backed chair like a vulture on a carcass.

His face was a map of wrinkles, his eyes sharp and beady, his lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. Beside him, a dozen of his sons and grandsons stood in various states of attention, their faces a mix of curiosity, contempt, and barely veiled hostility.

"Your Grace," Lord Walder rasped, his voice like dry parchment. "You honor my hall."

Robert dismounted with a grunt, his face already sour. "Walder. Hope you’ve got decent wine. Last time I was here, you served swill."

The old man chuckled, a sound like bones rattling. "And yet you drank it all the same."

Cersei stepped forward, her gown a deep green, her golden hair coiled like a crown. "Lord Frey," she said, her voice smooth as poisoned honey. "We thank you for your hospitality."

Walder’s gaze flicked over her, lingering on the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips. "The pleasure is mine, Your Grace. Though I must admit, I expected you sooner."

Joffrey, lounging atop his horse, sneered. "We don’t answer to you, old man."

Walder’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Instead, he gestured toward the hall. "Come. Eat. Drink. And tomorrow, we’ll speak of more… pressing matters."

Lyonel felt the weight of the old man’s gaze on him as he dismounted, but he ignored it. He knew what Walder saw—a bastard, a weapon, a man with no name and no value. Nothing new.

The feast was held in the great hall of the eastern twin, a long, low-ceilinged chamber lit by smoky torches. The table was laden with roasted meats, stews, and bread, but the air was thick with tension, the conversation stiff and ****.

Robert drank heavily, his face flushed, his laughter too loud. Cersei sat beside him, her smile sharp as a dagger, her eyes scanning the room like a hawk searching for prey. Joffrey picked at his food, his expression sullen, while Myrcella chatted quietly with Tommen, her voice the only bright spot in the gloom.

Lyonel was seated far down the table, wedged between Ser Ryman Frey and Perwyn Frey, two of Walder’s many grandsons.

Ryman was a burly man with a beard like a bramble bush and a permanent sneer, while Perwyn was leaner, his face sharp, his eyes cold and calculating. Neither spared Lyonel more than a glance as they shoveled food into their mouths, but he felt their disdain like a physical weight.

"So," Ryman slurred, taking a long swig of wine, "you’re the king’s bastard."

Lyonel didn’t look at him. "So they say."

Perwyn chuckled, low and mocking. "And what great deeds have you done, Ser Bastard? Slain any dragons lately?"

A few of the nearby Freys laughed, their voices grating. Lyonel kept his expression blank, but his fingers tightened around his goblet.

"I fight when I’m told," he said, calm. "And I win."

Ryman snorted. "Against who? Peasants? Drunken mercenaries?" He leaned in, his breath reeking of wine and onions. "You’re nothing but a baseborn sword, boy. No land, no name, no future."

Lyonel’s jaw clenched. He could ignore the insults. He had before. But there was something in the way Ryman said it—like he was spitting on Alysanne’s grave.

"Careful, ser," Lyonel said, his voice low, dangerous. "You don’t know me."

Perwyn grinned, swirling his wine. "Oh, we know you, bastard. Know exactly what you are." He raised his voice, calling down the table. "A king’s whore-son, good for nothing but swinging a sword and warming a bed?"

A hush fell over the nearby guests. Lord Walder didn’t look up from his plate, but his lips twitched.

Lyonel’s hand went to the hilt of Lionmane.

"You want to die here, Frey?" he growled, his voice carrying down the table.

Ryman laughed, slapping the wood. "Oh, listen to the bastard roar! Think you’re a lion, boy? You’re nothing but a stray dog—"

Lyonel stood so fast his chair toppled behind him. "Say it again."

The hall went silent.

Perwyn smirked, unfazed. "Or what? You’ll challenge me? Here? Now?" He spread his hands. "Go ahead, bastard. See how long you last."

Lyonel’s vision narrowed. He could draw Lionmane. Could split Perwyn from collarbone to navel before the man even stood. But this was not the training yard. This was Lord Walder’s hall, and bloodshed here would mean war.

Sandor’s voice cut through the tension, rough as gravel. "Sit the fuck down, Lyonel."

Lyonel didn’t move. His gaze locked on Perwyn, his body coiled like a spring.

Robert’s booming laugh shattered the stillness. "HA! Gods, but you Freys are asking for a beating!" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with drunken amusement.

"Lyonel! Leave it! These whelps aren’t worth your steel!"

Lyonel exhaled sharply, his fingers unclenching from Lionmane’s hilt. He righted his chair and sat, but his body hummed with unspent rage.

Perwyn leaned in, his voice a venomous whisper. "That’s right, bastard. Know your place."

Lyonel didn’t look at him. He stood again, this time slowly, his chair scraping against the stone. "I’ve lost my appetite," he said, his voice cold.

He turned and walked from the hall, the eyes of the Freys burning into his back. The great doors groaned shut behind him, swallowing the sound of Ryman’s mocking laughter.

The night air was cold, the wind howling through the towers of the Twins like a warning. Lyonel strode toward the gatehouse, his boots crunching on the gravel, his hands clenched into fists.

He would not draw steel here.

But gods help the Frey who pushed him too far.

The gatehouse of The Twins was a cold, dank place, the stone walls sweating with moisture, the air thick with the scent of old wood and rusted iron.

A single torch flickered in its sconce, casting long, wavering shadows across the flagstones.

Lyonel leaned against the wall, a stolen cask of wine clutched in one hand, the other resting on the pommel of Lionmane. The **** burned down his throat, warming the cold rage that still coiled in his gut.

The Freys’ words echoed in his mind, their laughter a grating sound that refused to fade.

"Fucking vipers," he muttered, taking another swig. The wine was cheap, bitter, but it did its job.