"The king requests your presence in his solar."

---

Lyonel didn’t bother to hide his surprise, but he followed the page without argument, his mind racing.

King Robert’s solar was a room of dark wood and rich tapestries, the air thick with the scent of wine and the faint, lingering odor of sweat.

The king himself sat behind a massive oak desk, his great antlered chair groaning beneath his weight.

His beard was thicker than Lyonel remembered, streaks of gray threading through the black, but his eyes were as sharp as ever as they lifted to meet Lyonel’s.

"Lyonel," Robert said, his voice booming as he pushed to his feet.

"You look like hell."

“Sit. Drink."

He poured two cups of wine, shoving one into Lyonel’s hand before collapsing back into his chair.

"I’ve heard tales of your stewardship in Winterfell," he said, his tone suddenly serious.

"The Starks sing your praises. Even Catelyn and Ned, gods help me."

Lyonel took a slow sip of wine, the rich liquid burning its way down his throat.

"I did what was needed, Your Grace."

Robert leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk.

"Aye, you did. And that’s why I had you tested."

He held up a hand as Lyonel’s brow furrowed.

"Oh, don’t look so surprised.”

Robert grinned.

"You passed, damn you. Which is why you’ll be joining me in the small council chambers this evening."

He leaned back, his chair creaking ominously.

"There’s much to learn, and even more to do. The realm isn’t as stable as it seems, and I need men I can trust."

Lyonel exhaled slowly, the weight of the king’s words settling over him.

"I’ll be there, Your Grace."

Robert waved a hand in dismissal.

"Good. Now get out of here. You stink of road dust and horse sweat."

---

Lyonel’s quarters were as he had left them—spartan, but comfortable.

A bath had been drawn, the steam rising from the water filling the room with the scent of lavender and something sharper, something that reminded him of the north.

He stripped off his travel-worn clothes, letting them fall to the floor as he stepped into the tub.

The water was near-scalding, but he welcomed the heat, the way it seeped into his bones, washing away the grime of the road.

He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the rim of the tub.

The past half-year played out behind his lids—Winterfell’s cold halls, Catelyn’s whispered promises, the weight of Shella’s secret in his hands.

Selyse’s body beneath his, her cries echoing in his ears.

Harwin’s forge, the violet fire, the birth of Black Oath. It had all led him here.

To this moment.

To this bath.

To the small council.

He snorted, shaking his head.

A bastard, learning in on the small council.

The irony wasn’t lost on him.

He stepped from the tub, water sluicing from his skin, and dried himself with a rough towel.

His reflection in the polished steel mirror was a stranger’s—broader, harder, the scars on his body mapping a journey he hadn’t expected to take.

He dressed carefully, donning a fresh tunic of dark green, the color of the riverlands, his breeches and boots black as pitch. Black Oath he left in his quarters, tucked beneath his bed.

The small council was no place for Valyrian steel, not yet.

---

The small council chambers were a den of whispers and shifting alliances, the air thick with the scent of parchment and ink.

King Robert sat at the head of the table, his massive frame dwarfing the chair, his expression grim.

To his left, Eddard Stark sat stiffly, his face a mask of quiet disapproval.

Petyr Baelish lounged in his seat, his sharp eyes flicking over Lyonel with something like amusement as he entered.

Varys was a shadow in his high-backed chair, his hands steepled before him, his voice a soft murmur as he spoke to Renly Baratheon, who looked every inch the dashing young lord in his fine silks.

Pycelle dozed in his seat, his snores a quiet counterpoint to the tension in the room.

Robert looked up as Lyonel entered, his expression unreadable. "Ah, Lyonel. Come. Sit."

He gestured to an empty chair beside Renly, who offered Lyonel a smirk and a nod.

Lyonel took his seat, his gaze sweeping over the assembled lords.

"Your Grace," he said, inclining his head. "My lords."

Robert didn’t waste time.

"We were just discussing the Targaryens," he said, his voice low.

"Or what’s left of them."

Eddard Stark’s jaw tightened.

"Daenerys Targaryen has wed Khal Drogo in Essos," he said, his voice clipped.

"A union that binds her to the Dothraki horde."

Petyr Baelish steepled his fingers, his smile sharp.

"A horde of savages, perhaps, but savages with swords. And dragons, if the rumors are to be believed."

Varys’s voice was a whisper, his pale hands fluttering like moths.

"Rumors, my lord, but rumors with teeth. The girl is with child, and her brother Viserys grows more **** by the day. A **** man is a dangerous man."

Renly scoffed, tossing his dark curls.

"What’s one girl and a horde of Dothraki against the might of the Seven Kingdoms? Let them come. We’ll crush them like insects."

Robert’s expression darkened.

"Do not underestimate the Targaryens, brother. We’ve buried their kind before, and I’ll be damned if I have to do it again."

His gaze flicked to Lyonel, something unreadable in his eyes.

"Which is why we must be prepared."

Lyonel met the king’s gaze, the weight of the moment settling over him.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

The tension in the small council chamber thickened as Varys’s voice slithered through the air like a serpent.

"We have an asset in place, Your Grace," the Spider murmured, his pale hands steepled before him.

"Ser Jorah Mormont. He serves as Daenerys Targaryen’s protector, her most trusted advisor."

Lyonel’s fingers tightened around the armrests of his chair.

The name Jorah Mormont struck a chord in his memory, one that rang with the weight of betrayal and desperation.

He could see the man clearly in his mind’s eye—a disgraced knight, a man who had sold his own people into slavery to pay off his debts, who had fled justice rather than face Eddard Stark’s blade.

A man who had abandoned his ancestral sword, Longclaw, in his haste to escape.

Lyonel leaned forward, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the council like a blade.

"Your Grace," he said, his tone measured but firm, "Ser Jorah Mormont is not a man to be trusted."

Robert’s brow furrowed, his gaze flicking to Eddard Stark.

"Explain."

Eddard’s expression darkened, his fingers drumming against the table.

"Jorah Mormont was once a man of honor," he said, his voice low.

"But his weaknesses got the better of him. He sold poachers to slavers—a crime punishable by **** in the North. When I went to Bear Island to carry out the sentence, he had already fled with his wife, Lynesse Hightower. He left behind Longclaw, the ancestral Valyrian steel of House Mormont."

His eyes met Lyonel’s, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

"Jorah is a man who bends to his desires. And if Daenerys Targaryen is half as beautiful as the rumors suggest, he may very well bend to her."

Lyonel nodded, his jaw set. "He’s already proven himself weak, Your Grace. A man who abandons his duty for a woman’s favors once will do it again. If Daenerys is as comely as they say, it’s only a matter of time before Mormont turns his cloak and betrays us all."

The chamber fell silent, the weight of Lyonel’s words settling over the council like a shroud.

Petyr Baelish’s fingers tapped thoughtfully against the table, his sharp eyes flicking between the king and Eddard.

"A valid concern," he said, his voice smooth.

"But who else could we send? Someone who won’t be swayed by a pretty face or a silver tongue."

Varys’s lips curled into a smile, though his eyes remained cold.

"I could go, Your Grace. My… unique talents would serve you well in Essos."

Robert scoffed, waving a dismissive hand.

"And have the realm’s spymaster vanish into the sands of Essos? No. We need you here, Varys."

Pycelle stirred in his seat, his rheumy eyes blinking owlishly.

"Perhaps I could—"

"No." Eddard’s voice was firm, cutting the old maester off.

"You’re too old, Pycelle. The journey alone would kill you."

Lyonel’s mind raced.

The small council needed someone loyal, someone unbending—someone who wouldn’t be swayed by beauty or charm.

His thoughts settled on a man he knew well, a man whose name carried weight in the realm.

"Stannis Baratheon," he said suddenly, the words leaving his lips before he could second-guess himself.

The chamber erupted into murmurs.

Renly let out a derisive snort. "My brother? You can’t be serious, Rivers. Stannis wouldn’t last a day in Essos. He’d offend every lord and merchant from Pentos to Qarth with that sour face of his."

Lyonel didn’t flinch.

"Precisely because he’s Stannis," he said, his voice steady.

"He’s honorable to a fault. Loyal. Principled. And he knows how to fight. More importantly, he wouldn’t be swayed by a woman’s charms—not when duty is at stake, let alone be in times of peace. He’d see Daenerys for what she is: a threat to the realm."

Eddard stroked his beard, considering.

"Stannis is loyal," he admitted.

"But sending a man of his station to spy on a girl half a world away? It’s absurd. The smallfolk would never believe it, and the lords would see it as an insult."

Baelish rubbed his temple, his expression weary.

"Lyonel’s not wrong about Mormont, though. The man’s a liability."

Robert exhaled sharply.

"We’ll keep Mormont in place—for now. But we watch him. And we watch the Targaryens. If Jorah so much as sneezes in Daenerys’s direction, I want to know about it."

The council murmured in agreement, the tension easing slightly as the king’s decision settled over them.

Varys’s fingers twitched, his voice a soft whisper.

"It shall be done, Your Grace."

---

The meeting adjourned shortly after, the lords rising from their seats with the weight of the realm’s fate pressing down on their shoulders.

Lyonel lingered for a moment, his gaze flicking to Eddard Stark, who had remained seated, his expression unreadable.

As the others filed out, Eddard beckoned Lyonel closer.

"A word, Ser Lyonel."

Lyonel approached, his boots silent against the stone floor.

"Lord Stark."

Eddard’s dark eyes studied him, his voice low and measured.

"You did well in Winterfell. Better than I expected."

There was no warmth in his words, but there was respect—and that was something.

Lyonel inclined his head. "Thank you, my lord."

Eddard exhaled, his fingers tightening around the armrests of his chair.

"Lady Catelyn is with child," he said abruptly.

Lyonel’s breath hitched, but he kept his expression carefully neutral.

Ned’s child. The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he **** a smile.

"That’s good news, my lord. The North will rejoice."

Eddard continued. "There’s to be a tourney tomorrow in my honor. For my appointment as Hand."

His voice carried the weight of duty, of a man who had never wanted the burden but would bear it all the same.

"You should enter. The gold would do you good."

Lyonel’s lips quirked.

"I’ll consider it, my lord."

Eddard nodded, dismissing him with a wave of his hand.

"See that you do."

---

Lyonel left the small council chambers with the weight of the day pressing down on his shoulders.

The Red Keep’s halls were alive with the hum of servants and the distant clatter of armor as knights prepared for the tourney.

He made his way to the training yards, where the organizer—a grizzled knight with a scar running down his cheek—stood barking orders at a group of squires.

Lyonel approached, his voice cutting through the din.

"I want to enter the tourney."

The knight turned, his eyes raking over Lyonel’s frame. "Name?"

"Lyonel Rivers."

The knight’s eyebrows rose.

"The king’s bastard?"

Lyonel didn’t flinch. "The same."

The knight smirked, dipping his quill into the inkwell.