"Loras!"

Lyonel didn’t hesitate.

He turned on his heel, his long strides eating up the distance as he and Margaery rushed toward the lists.

The crowd was in chaos, spectators surging back from the rails as a monstrous figure dominated the center of the field.

Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, stood over Ser Loras Tyrell, his massive hand print already darkening Loras’ face where the backhand had sent him sprawling.

Loras was on his knees, his armor dented, his breath ragged as he tried to push himself up.

The Mountain wasn’t done.

With a snarl, Gregor raised his jousting lance like a spear, the splintered wood glinting in the sunlight as he took aim at Loras’ chest.

The crowd screamed, but Loras rolled at the last second, the lance striking the ground where he’d been with a sickening thud.

The **** of the blow sent splinters flying, and the lance’s shaft snapped like a twig.

Gregor roared in frustration, his face twisting as he bellowed for his squire.

"Sword!"

Lyonel’s blood turned to ice.

Loras was still scrambling backward, his movements sluggish, his face pale with shock.

Behind him, the royal viewing stand was in uproar—Lord Eddard Stark was already on his feet, his hand pushing Sansa and Arya behind him as the Mountain’s rage turned the tourney grounds into a battlefield.

Lyonel didn’t think. He moved.

He snatched a wooden shield from where it leaned against the spectator stands—a practice shield, thick but not meant for real combat.

It would have to do.

He sprinted forward, his boots kicking up dust as he placed himself between Gregor and Loras.

The Mountain’s squire was already running toward his master, a monstrous greatsword clutched in his hands.

Gregor seized it, his massive fingers wrapping around the hilt as he turned his bloodshot eyes on Lyonel.

"Move, bastard," Gregor growled, his voice like grinding stones.

Lyonel didn’t flinch. He raised the shield, his left hand gripping the strap, his right braced against the wood.

"Not today, Clegane."

Gregor’s lip curled. Then he swung.

The greatsword struck the shield with a **** that sent a shockwave up Lyonel’s arm, the wood splintering like kindling.

Lyonel gritted his teeth against the pain, his left hand screaming in protest as the remnants of the shield exploded outward.

But he’d bought Loras time.

The Knight of Flowers rolled away, his body twisting as he scrambled toward the king’s podium, where guards were already surging forward to intercept.

Gregor wasn’t finished.

He raised the greatsword again, this time aiming for Lyonel’s head.

Lyonel dodged to the right, the blade coming down with a deafening clang against the steel rods of the spectator stands.

The impact sent a shudder through the structure, the metal groaning under the ****.

Gregor staggered back, his massive frame unsteady for just a heartbeat—but it was enough. Lyonel saw it: the Mountain’s free hand clutched at his temple, his fingers digging into his skin as if trying to rip the pain from his skull.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes wild.

Headaches.

Fits of blinding pain that left him ****.

And right now, the Mountain was suffering.

Lyonel didn’t hesitate.

He lunged for the sword stands, where the tourney blades were kept for the final tilts.

His fingers closed around the hilt of a longsword just as Gregor roared, his greatsword sweeping toward Loras again.

But Sandor Clegane—the Hound—was already there, his own blade flashing as he engaged his brother.

The two Cleganes clashed like titans, the crowd scattering as the tourney grounds became a battleground.

Lyonel didn’t interfere.

Gregor was already faltering, his swings growing sluggish, his breaths labored.

Sandor pressed the advantage, his blade finding the chinks in Gregor’s armor, his snarls cutting through the chaos.

"Yield, you fucking monster!"

Gregor didn’t yield. But he fell, his massive body crashing to the ground as Sandor’s blade found his throat—not deep enough to kill, but enough to end the fight.

The Mountain’s greatsword clattered to the dirt, his chest heaving as he glared up at his brother with pure, unadulterated hatred.

The herald’s voice cut through the silence like a blade.

"The victor—Ser Sandor Clegane!"

The crowd erupted, but the tourney was over.

Loras Tyrell was helped to his feet, his face bruised but his pride intact.

He bowed to Sandor, yielding the final tilt with a grace that only a Tyrell could muster.

"Well fought, Ser."

Sandor spat on the ground, his scarred face twisting.

"Save your pretty words, flower. You’re lucky I was here."

Lyonel didn’t wait to hear more.

His left hand throbbed, the pain radiating up his arm, but adrenaline still sang in his veins.

He turned to leave, his mind already racing with the aftermath of the chaos—

—only to be yanked backward by a firm grip on his arm.

Margaery Tyrell stood there, her face pale but her grip unyielding.

"You’re hurt," she said, her voice leaving no room for argument.

Before Lyonel could protest, she dragged him toward a small healer’s tent on the edge of the tourney grounds, its flaps fluttering in the breeze.

Inside, the space was empty, the scent of herbs and salves thick in the air.

Margaery pushed him onto a stool, her fingers already working at the straps of his pauldron.

"Sit. Now."

Lyonel exhaled sharply, but he didn’t resist.

The pain in his hand was a dull, insistent throb, the skin already swelling where the shield had splintered.

Margaery’s touch was surprisingly gentle as she examined the damage, her brow furrowing.

"This will need to be cleaned," she murmured, already reaching for a cloth and a stoppered vial of antiseptic.

Lyonel watched her, his throat tight. "You don’t have to do this, my lady."

Margaery’s eyes flicked up to his, her expression unreadable.

"I know," she said softly. Then, with a small, secret smile, she added, "But I want to."

And with that, she began to tend to his wounds, her fingers deft, her touch lingering just a second too long.

Outside, the tourney grounds buzzed with the aftermath of chaos, but in that tent, there was only the two of them—the air thick with something unspoken, something dangerous.

Something alive.

The air in the healer’s tent was thick with the scent of herbs and the faint, musky tang of sweat.

Margaery’s fingers traced the edges of Lyonel’s wound, her touch feather-light, her breath warm against his skin.

The pain in his hand had dulled to a throb, but the heat of her body so close to his was intoxicating.

Her dark eyes flicked up to meet his, something unspoken passing between them—a spark, a pull, a moment suspended in time.

Then, without warning, she leaned in.

Her lips brushed against his, soft and insistent.

Lyonel froze, his body tensing—not in rejection, but in surprise.

The kiss deepened for a heartbeat, her fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic, her breath sweet with wine and something darker, something hungry.

But as quickly as it began, Lyonel pulled back, his hand gently but firmly gripping her wrist.

"Lady Margaery," he murmured, his voice rough. "This isn’t wise."

She didn’t let go immediately. Her eyes searched his, her lips parted as if to protest—but then she exhaled, a slow, shuddering breath.

"No," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

"But when has wisdom ever stopped me from wanting what I want?"

Lyonel didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Instead, he disengaged himself, stepping back with a finality that left no room for argument.

"Goodnight, my lady."

Margaery’s expression flickered—disappointment, frustration, something else—but she didn’t reach for him again.

She simply nodded, her fingers tightening around the cloth she’d been using to tend to his wounds.

"Goodnight, Ser Lyonel."

He left the tent without another word, the cool night air hitting him like a slap.

The tourney grounds were quiet now, the chaos of earlier replaced by the distant murmur of servants cleaning up the aftermath.

The torches flickered, casting long shadows across the trampled earth, the scent of smoke and horseflesh still thick in the air.

Sandor Clegane was easy to find.

The Hound stood near the remains of the lists, his armor discarded, his scarred face twisted in a scowl as he swigged from a flask.

He looked up as Lyonel approached, his yellowed eyes narrowing.

"Bastard," he grunted, not unkindly.

Lyonel clapped a hand on Sandor’s shoulder, his grip firm.

"Well fought, Hound. You saved a lot of lives today."

Sandor snorted, taking another swig. "Saved my own fucking hide, more like.

That monster’s been a thorn in my side since we were whelps."

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze flicking to Lyonel.

"You’ve got stones, Rivers. Standing up to Gregor like that."

Lyonel smirked. "Stones or stupidity. Either way, I’m still breathing."

Sandor barked a laugh, clinking his flask against Lyonel’s arm in a mock toast.

"Aye, that you are. Now get the fuck out of here before I change my mind about liking you."

Lyonel chuckled, stepping back. "Sleep well, Hound."

Sandor’s only response was a grunt, but there was something almost like respect in his eyes as Lyonel turned and walked away.

The Red Keep was quiet when Lyonel returned to his quarters, the halls dimly lit by flickering torches. He pushed open the door to his chambers, expecting solitude—but the room wasn’t empty.

Arya Stark sat perched on the edge of his bed, her legs swinging idly, her dark eyes wide and alert.

She looked up as he entered, her expression a mix of determination and something else—something that made Lyonel’s chest tighten.

"You’re awake late, little wolf," he said, his voice low as he shut the door behind him.

Arya didn’t flinch at the nickname. Instead, she slid off the bed, her small frame tense.

"I wanted to thank you," she said, her voice earnest.

"For today. With the Mountain. You saved me. And Father. And Sansa."

Lyonel exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.

"It was nothing, Lady Arya. Any man would’ve done the same."

She shook her head fiercely. "No. They wouldn’t." She took a step closer, her gaze lifting to his.

There was something in her eyes—admiration, maybe. Or something deeper.

Something that made the air between them feel charged, dangerous.

"You’re different, Lyonel. You’re—"

Lyonel cut her off before she could finish. "It’s late, Arya," he said, his voice gentler than he intended.

"You should be in bed."

She hesitated, her lips parting as if to argue—but then she nodded, her shoulders slumping slightly.

"Alright." She turned toward the door, then paused, glancing back at him.

"Goodnight, Lyonel."

"Goodnight, little wolf."

She slipped out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

Lyonel stood there for a long moment, the weight of the encounter settling over him like a cloak.

Then, with a sigh, he stripped off his tunic and breeches, collapsing onto the bed.