The hunt awaited.

The morning mist clung to the forest like a shroud, the trees standing tall and silent as sentinels of the old gods.

The air was crisp, the scent of pine and damp earth thick in the lungs of the men who gathered in the clearing—kings, lords, and knights, their breath misty, their hounds restless at their feet.

The royal hunt was no small affair; it was a display of power, of camaraderie, of the bonds that held men together in a world where loyalty was as fragile as glass.

King Robert Baratheon stood at the center, his massive frame draped in hunting leathers, a great warhammer slung over his shoulder.

His beard was wild, his eyes bright with the thrill of the chase.

"Today, we ride for boar!" he boomed, his voice cutting through the stillness. "And gods help the beast that crosses our path!"

Beside him, Lord Eddard Stark nodded, his expression solemn but his eyes sharp. He wore furs over his leathers, his long face set in quiet determination.

"Let’s make it a clean hunt," he said, his voice low but carrying. "No man left behind."

Joffrey Baratheon lounged nearby, his golden hair gleaming in the weak sunlight, his expression bored.

"Boar hunting," he muttered, "how thrilling." His gaze flicked to Robb Stark, who stood tall and proud, his red-brown hair tied back, his sword at his hip.

"At least there’ll be blood," Joffrey added, a smirk playing on his lips.

Robb didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he turned to Lyonel, who stood a little apart from the rest, Lionmane strapped to his back.

"You ever hunted boar before, Rivers?" he asked, his voice friendly, curious.

Lyonel shrugged. "Once or twice." He adjusted the strap of his sword, his gaze scanning the forest.

"Never with a party this big."

Robb grinned. "Then you’re in for a treat." He clapped Lyonel on the shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie that sent a jolt through Lyonel.

"Stick with me. I’ll make sure you don’t get gored."

Lyonel felt the corner of his mouth twitch. "I can handle myself."

"I don’t doubt it," Robb replied, "but it’s more fun if we both come back alive."

The hunt began with the release of the hounds, their bays echoing through the forest as they picked up the scent.

The party split, spreading out in a wide arc, driving the game toward the center.

Robert led the charge, his laughter booming as he urged his horse forward, Eddard and the Kingsguard—Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Preston Greenfield, and Ser Boros Blount—following close behind.

Joffrey rode with them, though his attention was more on looking impressive than actually participating.

Lyonel found himself riding beside Robb, the two of them weaving through the trees with easy precision.

The young Stark handled his horse like he was born in the saddle, his eyes sharp, his movements fluid. "You ride well," Robb commented, glancing at Lyonel. "For a southerner."

Lyonel chuckled. "And you fight well. For a northerner."

Robb laughed, the sound genuine, unforced. "Touché." He sobered slightly, his gaze flicking ahead.

"You know, my father speaks highly of you."

Lyonel raised a brow. "Does he now?"

"Aye," Robb said. "Says you’re one of the few men Robert trusts to watch his back."

He paused. "That’s high praise, coming from him."

Lyonel didn’t answer immediately. The trust of kings and especially his father was a double-edged sword.

"Your father is an honorable man," he said at last. "I respect that."

Robb nodded. "He respects you, too." He grinned. "Even if you are a bastard."

Lyonel laughed, the sound unexpected but welcome. "

And here I thought Northerners were supposed to be stiff and proper."

"We save that for the feasts," Robb replied, "when the septons are watching." His expression sobered as he glanced at Lyonel.

"You ever think about taking a holdfast? A name of your own?"

Lyonel felt something tighten in his chest. "Not often," he admitted. "Men like me don’t get holdfasts."

"Men like you earn them," Robb said, his voice firm.

"You fight like a lord, Rivers. You deserve the title."

Lyonel didn’t answer. The words settled in him, heavy and uncomfortable. He had never allowed himself to dream of such things.

But hearing it from Robb—a man he respected, a man who could have been a brother—made it feel possible.

The boar burst from the underbrush with a snarl, its tusks gleaming, its eyes wild with fear and rage.

The hounds gave chase, their barks echoing through the forest, and the hunters spurred their horses after it.

Robert roared with laughter as he charged, his warhammer raised. "First blood to the king!" he shouted, but it was Robb who drew first blood, his spear finding the beast’s shoulder.

The boar wheeled, snapping its tusks, and Lyonel was there, Lionmane a blur as he drove the beast back.

The two men worked in tandem, Robb with his spear, Lyonel with his greatsword, driving the boar into a corner where Robert delivered the final blow.

The beast fell, its breath raging, its body twitching as the life left it.

The hunters cheered, Robert clapping Robb and Lyonel on the back. "Well done, both of you!" he boomed. "A hunt worthy of song!"

Robb grinned, breathless but triumphant. "Couldn’t have done it without Rivers here," he said, offering Lyonel a hand.

Lyonel gripped his forearm, pulling him into a brief, firm embrace. "Nor I without you," he replied, meaning it.

As the party began to dismount and tend to the boar, a servant messenger rode hard into the clearing, his horse lathered in sweat. He leaped down, bowing deeply to Eddard.

"My lord," he panted, "a raven from Winterfell. Lord Stark, it’s urgent."

Eddard’s face darkened. He took the scroll, breaking the seal with a sharp motion. His eyes scanned the words, and for a moment, the world seemed to still.

Then, slowly, he folded the parchment, his expression grave.

"We return to Winterfell," he said, his voice low.

"Now."

The ride back to Winterfell was tense, the joy of the hunt shattered by the messenger’s urgent summons.

The party moved in silence, the only sounds the crunch of hooves on frozen earth and the whisper of wind through the trees.

The sun had begun its descent, casting long, cold shadows across the land, as if the world itself mourned what awaited them.

When they reached the gates of Winterfell, the atmosphere was heavy, the air thick with dread.

The servants moved in hushed silence, their faces pale, their eyes downcast.

Catelyn’s sobbing could be heard even before they entered the great hall, the sound raw and broken, like the cry of a wounded animal.

Lyonel followed the others into the castle, his stomach twisting with unease.

The Lannisters—Cersei, Jaime, and Tyrion—stood in the foyer, their expressions unreadable.

Cersei’s face was pale, her green eyes wide with something akin to fear, though she masked it quickly.

Jaime watched the proceedings with cold detachment, while Tyrion sipped from a goblet of wine, his gaze sharp and calculating.

Eddard pushed past them, his face a mask of grief, Robb and Robert close behind.

Lyonel hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on Cersei.

There was something wrong—something off—but he couldn’t place it.

Shaking his head, he followed the Starks into Bran’s chamber.

The room was dim, the only light filtering through the narrow window, casting long shadows across the stone walls.

Bran lay on the bed, his small frame still, his face pale as ****. His black hair was matted with sweat, his breath shallow, labored.

His legs were splinted, the bone jutting unnaturally beneath the skin, the sight enough to make even the hardest man flinch.

Catelyn knelt beside the bed, her hands clutching Bran’s limp fingers, her shoulders shaking with sobbing.

"Oh, my sweet boy," she whispered, her voice broken. "My poor, poor Bran." Her face was ravaged by tears, her blue eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

"You’ll be alright, " she promised, though her voice trembled. "You’ll wake up, my love. You’ll wake up."

Sansa stood behind her, her face streaked with tears, her hands clasped tightly before her.

"He fell," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "From the tower. He— he just fell." Her lips trembled, her gaze fixed on her brother’s still form.

"He was climbing," she said, "and then—then he wasn’t."

Arya stood apart, her arms crossed, her grey eyes burning with unshed tears. She didn’t weep, but her jaw was set, her body trembling with restrained grief.

"He shouldn’t have been up there," she muttered, her voice raw. "He shouldn’t have—"

Eddard stepped forward, his face a mask of pain. He placed a hand on Catelyn’s shoulder, his voice low, steady.

"Cat," he said, "we’ll find the best maesters. He’ll wake."

Catelyn turned to him, her face crumpling. "Ned," she sobbed, "look at him! He’s— he’s not moving!"

Eddard’s gaze darkened, but he pulled her close, his voice firm. "He’s a Stark, " he said. "He’s strong."

Lyonel stood in the back of the room, his hands clenched at his sides.

The sight of Bran—so small, so broken—twisted something in his chest. He had seen **** before.

Seen pain.

But this—this was different.

This was a child.

A boy who should have been running through the halls of Winterfell, laughing, dreaming.

Catelyn’s sobbing filled the room, the sound raw, unfiltered.

Sansa whispered prayers, her voice shaking, while Arya stood silent, her grief a storm brewing behind her eyes.

Lyonel stepped forward, his bootsteps soft on the stone. He placed a hand on Eddard’s shoulder, squeezing gently. "My lord," he said, his voice low. "I’m sorry."

Eddard nodded, his throat working. "Thank you, Lyonel," he said, his voice hoarse.

Lyonel lingered for a moment longer, his gaze flicking to Bran’s still form. Then, slowly, he turned and walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

The hall outside was quiet, the Lannisters gone, the castle itself holding its breath.

Lyonel leaned against the wall, his head bowed, his mind racing.

Bran Stark had fallen.

The meeting chamber was small, lit by flickering candles that cast long, wavering shadows across the stone walls.

The air was thick with the weight of decisions, the scent of wax and old parchment mingling with the faint tang of wine.

King Robert sat at the head of the table, his massive frame draped in furs, his face grave.

Beside him, Eddard Stark listened with quiet intensity, his grey eyes sharp despite the grief that still lingered in their depths.

Robb stood near his father, his expression set, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

The Kingsguard—Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Preston Greenfield, and Ser Boros Blount—stood at attention, their faces impassive, their hands on their hilts.

Lyonel stood outside the closed door, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the torch bracket across the hall.

The murmur of voices filtered through the wood, too low to discern, but the tone was serious, urgent.

He shifted his weight, Lionmane resting against his shoulder, the familiar weight grounding him.

After what felt like an hour, the door creaked open. Robert stepped out, his expression grim, his gaze finding Lyonel immediately.

"Rivers," he said, beckoning him forward. "A word."

Lyonel followed him into the chamber, the door shutting behind them with a soft thud.

The others had already dispersed, leaving only the king and his bastard son.

Robert poured himself a cup of wine, then offered one to Lyonel, who declined with a shake of his head.

"You’re staying here," Robert said, cutting straight to the point.

"At Winterfell."

Lyonel frowned. "My lord?"

"Ned leaves for King’s Landing with me," Robert explained, taking a swallow of his wine. "He’ll take Sansa and Arya with him. Robb and Theon Greyjoy will escort us as far as the Twins, then return."

He set the cup down, his gaze hard. "Winterfell needs a strong hand to hold it while Ned is gone. Someone I trust."

Lyonel felt the weight of the command settle on his shoulders. "You want me to act as castellan?"

"I want you to keep this place standing," Robert said, his voice low.

"Bran’s fall—" He paused, shaking his head. "Something’s not right here, Lyonel. I can’t put my finger on it, but I feel it. Ned’s got enough on his plate without worrying about Winterfell falling apart behind him."

Lyonel exhaled slowly. "And Cersei?" he asked, though he knew the answer.

Robert’s expression darkened. "She’ll be with me. But I don’t trust her not to stir trouble."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "You see anything strange, you send word. Directly to me. Not Ned, not Catelyn. Me."

Lyonel nodded. "Understood."

Robert clapped him on the shoulder, his grip firm. "Good man." He straightened, his expression sobering. "And Lyonel—"

"My king?"

"Watch your back." Robert’s eyes were serious, almost haunted.

"Not everyone in this castle wants a bastard holding the keys."