"I always am."

---

The streets of King’s Landing were quieter now, the hour late, the air thick with the scent of the city’s underbelly.

Lyonel moved swiftly, his cloak pulled tight around him, his mind replaying the evening’s events with a growing sense of unease.

Baelish.

The little snake had arranged this meeting.

Had known.

And if Baelish knew about Catelyn’s presence in the city, if he knew about this—then he had leverage.

Dangerous, damning leverage.

Lyonel’s fingers curled into fists as he strode through the Red Keep’s gates, his boots echoing in the empty corridors.

He didn’t slow until he reached his quarters, shutting the door behind him with a sharp click.

The room was dark, the embers in the hearth barely glowing, casting long shadows across the stone walls.

He stripped off his cloak, tossing it aside as he collapsed onto the bed, his body still humming with the aftermath of Catelyn’s touch.

But his mind was a storm, the implications of the night pressing down on him like a physical weight.

Baelish knew.

And that made Lyonel a pawn in a game far more dangerous than he’d ever imagined.

The morning sun filtered through the narrow windows of Lyonel’s chambers, casting long, golden streaks across the stone floor.

He woke with a start, the events of the previous night crashing over him like a wave—Catelyn’s touch, Baelish’s knowing eyes, the dangerous game he now found himself entangled in.

He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his mind already racing with the weight of his new reality.

Careful, he reminded himself. From now on, every step must be measured.

Every word, every glance.

He dressed quickly, donning a simple tunic of dark green and black breeches, his fingers lingering on the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

---

The Red Keep was already alive with activity as he stepped into the corridor, the murmur of servants and the clatter of boots against stone filling the air.

He had barely taken a dozen steps when a familiar figure stumbled into his path.

Lancel Lannister, Cersei’s younger cousin, looked as though he had been dragged through the streets by a horse.

His sandy hair was disheveled, his face pale, his eyes bloodshot.

He clutched a half-empty flask in one hand, his other braced against the wall as if to steady himself.

"Ser Lyonel," he slurred, his voice thick with wine.

"The king—he wants you. In his solar. Now."

Lyonel’s brow furrowed.

"What for?"

Lancel waved a dismissive hand, nearly toppling over in the process.

"Dunno. Just—just go. He’s in a mood."

Lyonel exhaled sharply, already turning toward the king’s solar.

Whatever Robert wanted, it couldn’t be good.

---

The solar was warm, the air thick with the scent of wine and the faint, lingering odor of sweat.

Robert Baratheon sat behind his massive oak desk, his great antlered chair groaning beneath his weight. His beard was wild, his eyes sharp as they lifted to meet Lyonel’s.

Cersei Lannister stood by the window, her golden hair catching the light, her lips curved into a smirk that sent a chill down Lyonel’s spine.

"Lyonel," Robert boomed, his voice already slurred with drink.

"Come in, boy. Sit."

Lyonel took the seat across from the king, his fingers tightening around the arms of the chair. "Your Grace."

Robert leaned forward, his expression unreadable.

"I’ve been thinking, Lyonel. About your future. About the future of this realm."

He took a long swig from his goblet, his eyes never leaving Lyonel’s.

"You’ve proven yourself time and again. Winterfell, the tourney, your loyalty. You’re a man of honor, bastard or no."

Lyonel’s stomach twisted.

He didn’t like where this was going.

Robert slammed his goblet down, the wine sloshing over the rim.

"I’ve decided to betroth you and bind you in marriage."

The words hit Lyonel like a blow.

Betroth?

To whom?

Robert’s grin was wide, triumphant.

"To Brienne of Tarth."

Lyonel’s breath caught. Brienne of Tarth.

The name echoed in his mind, the image of the tall, broad-shouldered maiden—horse-faced, as the smallfolk whispered—flashing before his eyes.

She was the only daughter and heir of Lord Selwyn Tarth, a vassal of House Baratheon.

Eighteen years old, unwed, her betrothals broken three times over by suitors who couldn’t stomach the idea of wedding a woman who stood taller than most men and wielded a sword better than half the knights in the Seven Kingdoms.

Robert continued, oblivious to the storm brewing in Lyonel’s chest.

"She’s of age, strong, loyal. And with no brothers, Tarth will pass to her—and through her, to you. To us."

His voice dropped, his gaze sharp.

"You’ll be a lord, Lyonel. And your sons—my grandsons—will inherit Tarth. A fine legacy for you, wouldn’t you say?"

Lyonel’s fingers dug into the arms of the chair, his knuckles white.

A lord.

A husband.

A father—not to the child Catelyn or Shella carried, but to future heirs, bound to a woman he didn’t know, didn’t love, didn’t want.

He glanced at Cersei, her smirk deepening as she watched him, her green eyes gleaming with something dark and satisfied.

Robert wasn’t finished.

"And when Joffrey takes the throne, I want you as his Hand. A man I can trust. A man who knows duty above all else."

Lyonel’s jaw clenched.

Hand.

The word tasted like ash. He had no say in this.

****.

His life was being carved out for him, piece by piece, by a king who saw him as a tool and a queen who saw him as a pawn.

Robert leaned back, his expression softening slightly.

"I’ve already sent ravens. Brienne and her father will arrive within the fortnight. You’ll wed her then."

Lyonel exhaled slowly, his mind racing. He could refuse.

Could storm out of the solar, tell Robert to go to hell, ride for the Wall or Essos or anywhere but here.

But he knew, with a sinking certainty, that he wouldn’t.

Duty bound him.

Honor.

And the knowledge that refusing would only make him an enemy of the crown.

"As you wish, Your Grace," he said at last, his voice hollow.

Robert grinned, slapping the desk.

"Good man! Knew you’d see reason."

Lyonel stood, his movements stiff.

"If that’s all, Your Grace, I’ll take my leave."

Robert waved a dismissive hand.

"Aye, go on. And Lyonel?"

His voice dropped, his gaze serious. "Make me proud."

Lyonel didn’t answer.

He turned on his heel, striding from the solar with his head held high, though his chest felt like it was caving in.

---

Cersei was waiting for him in the corridor, leaning against the wall with a smirk that made his skin crawl.

"Well, well," she purred, pushing off the wall to saunter toward him.

"Lyonel Rivers, betrothed to the fair Brienne of Tarth."

She laughed, the sound sharp and mocking.

"How does it feel, bastard? To be saddled with a woman even the smallfolk call horse-faced?"

Lyonel’s fingers twitched, but he kept his voice steady.

"It’s an honor, my lady."

Cersei’s smirk deepened.

She stepped closer, her hand trailing up his chest, her fingers lingering over the swell of his muscles.

"Oh, I’ll bet it is," she murmured, her voice dripping with false sympathy.

"But then, what else could the king do with you? You’re a bastard, after all. Not fit for a true lady."

Her hand slid higher, her nails scraping lightly against his skin.

"Though I do wonder… if you’d been born a trueborn son, could I have bedded you?"

Lyonel’s jaw tightened, his body tensing as her fingers brushed against his collarbone.

He could smell her perfume—jasmine and something darker, something that clung to the air like a warning.

"I doubt it, my lady," he said, his voice low.

"You’ve always had a taste for kings."

Cersei’s lips curled, her eyes flashing.

"And you’ve always had a taste for danger," she countered, her hand dropping to his belt, her fingers toying with the fastenings.

"But then, perhaps that’s why I find you so… intriguing."

Lyonel’s patience snapped.

He caught her wrist, his grip firm but not cruel, and pulled her hand away.

"Enough, Queen Cersei," he growled.

"Your games are tiring."

Her smirk faltered for just a moment, her eyes narrowing.

Then she laughed, stepping back with a flourish.

"Oh, Lyonel," she sighed, her voice mockingly sweet.

"Always so noble. It’s almost a shame to waste you on Brienne of Tarth."

She turned, her hips swaying as she walked away.

"But then, perhaps it’s for the best. Keeps you far away from my Joffrey."

Lyonel watched her go, his fingers still curled into fists at his sides.

But he had ****.

---

The training yard was empty when he arrived, the sun high overhead, the air thick with the scent of sweat and steel.

Ser Barristan Selmy stood near the weapon racks, his white cloak gleaming in the light, his face lined with the weight of years.

The old knight looked up as Lyonel approached, his sharp eyes taking in the tension in Lyonel’s shoulders, the storm brewing in his gaze.

"You look like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, Ser Lyonel," Barristan said, his voice steady and calm.

"Care to share your burden?"

Lyonel exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

"The king has betrothed me," he said at last, the words tasting bitter.

"To Brienne of Tarth."

Barristan’s eyebrows rose slightly, but his expression remained measured.

"A fine match, ser. Brienne is a woman of honor and strength. A rare thing in these times."

Lyonel scoffed, shaking his head.

"Aye, and a woman no man wants. Including me."

Barristan’s gaze was knowing.

"Duty is not always a matter of want, ser. Sometimes, it is a matter of need."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping.

"You are a man of honor, Lyonel Rivers. That is a rare thing, too. And honor demands sacrifice."

Lyonel’s jaw clenched.

"And what if I don’t want to sacrifice? What if I want to choose my own path?"

Barristan’s smile was sad.

"Then you are no different from the rest of us, ser. We all wish for choice. But the world does not always grant it."

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

"You will do your duty. And you will do it well. That is the mark of a true knight."

Lyonel exhaled, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.

"Thank you, Ser Barristan."

The old knight nodded.

"Go on, ser. Train. Clear your mind. The gods know you’ll need it."