But the gods were cruel.

---

The Tower of the Hand loomed before him, its stone walls cold and unyielding.

Lyonel climbed the stairs, his boots echoing in the empty corridor, his mind still racing with the weight of the day.

He had come to speak with Eddard Stark, to ask about Robert’s decision, to seek some semblance of guidance in the storm.

But when he reached the solar, he found it empty—save for one figure.

Sansa Stark sat at the desk, her back to him, her auburn hair catching the light as she bent over a stack of ancient tomes.

She looked up as he entered, her blue eyes widening slightly in surprise before she composed herself.

"Ser Lyonel," she said, her voice soft and measured.

"I didn’t expect to see you here."

Lyonel stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

"I was looking for your father," he admitted, his gaze flicking over the books spread before her.

"But it seems he’s not here."

Sansa’s lips curved into a small smile.

"He’s with the king. They’ve been in council all morning."

She gestured to the chair across from her.

"You’re welcome to wait, if you’d like."

Lyonel hesitated, then took the seat.

The air between them was thick, charged with something unspoken.

Sansa was beautiful—tall, graceful, her red hair a stark contrast to the pale blue of her gown.

She was everything a noble lady should be: poised, intelligent, kind.

And betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon, a monster in the making.

"You’re studying," he observed, nodding toward the books.

Sansa’s fingers traced the spine of one of the tomes.

"Yes. My septa says a lady must be well-versed in the graces—music, poetry, history."

Her voice dropped slightly.

"Though I sometimes wonder if it matters."

Lyonel’s brow furrowed.

"Why wouldn’t it?"

She met his gaze, her eyes shadowed.

"Because I’m to wed Joffrey," she said quietly.

"And he doesn’t care for graces. Or for me. But he will. I know he will."

Lyonel exhaled, his chest tightening.

He understood that feeling all too well—the weight of a betrothal you didn’t want, a future carved out by others.

"I know how you feel," he admitted.

"The king has betrothed me to Brienne of Tarth."

Sansa’s eyes widened.

"Brienne? But—that’s—"

She stopped, her cheeks flushing slightly.

"Forgive me, ser. I didn’t mean to—"

Lyonel waved a hand.

"Say it. She’s not what most men would choose."

Sansa’s expression softened.

"No. But perhaps that’s not a bad thing."

She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping.

"Love matches are rare in our world, ser.”

Lyonel studied her for a long moment, her words striking a chord deep within him.

"Aye," he said at last. "But that doesn’t make it easier."

Sansa’s fingers twisted together in her lap.

"No," she agreed. "It doesn’t."

Silence settled between them, thick and heavy.

Lyonel could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her breath hitched slightly as she looked at him.

There was something between them—something unspoken, something dangerous.

He should leave.

Should stand, make his excuses, walk away before—

Sansa leaned forward, her lips parting slightly, her eyes dark with emotion.

For a heartbeat, Lyonel thought she might kiss him. And gods help him, he wanted her to.

But then he remembered—Joffrey.

The betrothal.

The duty.

The danger.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone.

"I should go," he said, his voice rough. "This isn’t… appropriate."

Sansa’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t argue.

She simply nodded, her fingers tightening around the edge of the desk.

"Of course, ser. Forgive me."

Lyonel didn’t trust himself to speak. He turned and left the solar, the door clicking shut behind him.

His heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing with the weight of what had almost happened—what could have happened.

He made his way back to his quarters, the corridors of the Red Keep blurring around him.

When he finally reached his door, he shut it behind him, leaning against the wood as he exhaled sharply.

Gods, he thought, rubbing a hand over his face.

What am I doing?

But he already knew the answer.

He was drowning. And the tides were only rising higher.

---

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was packed with the minor lords of the Seven Kingdoms, their banners hanging from the rafters like a tapestry of ambition and allegiance.

King Robert Baratheon sat upon the Iron Throne, his massive frame dwarfing the jagged seat, his beard wild and unkempt, his eyes sharp despite the wine that no doubt still coursed through his veins.

Lyonel stood to the side, his posture rigid, his face a mask of stoic acceptance as the king rose to address the assembled nobles.

"Lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms," Robert boomed, his voice carrying across the hall with the weight of command.

"Today, I bring you tidings of a union that will strengthen the bonds of our great houses and secure the future of our realm."

He gestured to Lyonel, who stepped forward, his boots echoing against the stone floor.

"My son, Ser Lyonel Rivers, has proven himself time and again—a warrior, a leader, a man of honor. It is with great pride that I announce his betrothal to Lady Brienne of Tarth, daughter and heir of Lord Selwyn Tarth."

A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mix of surprise, amusement, and outright derision.

Lyonel kept his gaze fixed ahead, his jaw clenched.

He could feel the weight of their stares, the whispers that slithered through the air like serpents.

Brienne of Tarth.

The Maiden of Tarth.

The woman no man wanted.

Robert turned to Maester Pycelle, who stood nearby, his wrinkled face impassive.

"Maester Pycelle, send ravens to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. Let it be known that Lyonel Rivers and Brienne of Tarth are to be wed in a fortnight’s time."

Pycelle bowed, his voice a frail whisper. "As you command, Your Grace."

Lyonel exhaled slowly, his mind racing.

Tarth. It was a rich island, its lands fertile, its people loyal.

His children would inherit it, even if they bore Brienne’s name.

That was something, at least.

A silver lining in the storm. He could build a life there, away from the intrigues of King’s Landing, away from the watchful eyes of Cersei and Baelish and Varys.

Away from the memories of Catelyn’s touch, of Sansa’s whispered confessions, of Margaery’s lingering kisses.

It wasn’t the life he would have chosen. But it was a life.

---

Two days later, the gates of King’s Landing opened to admit Lord Selwyn Tarth and his entourage.

Brienne rode at the forefront, her massive courser snorting as it trod the cobblestones of the capital.

Lyonel watched from the steps of the Red Keep, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression carefully neutral.

Brienne was... not what he had expected.

She was tall—taller than most women, though still a few inches shorter than him—and broad-shouldered, her frame muscular beneath the simple but well-made gown she wore. Her hair was a pale, almost cream-colored blonde, cut just past her shoulders, her jaw strong and square. Her eyes were a striking blue, large and expressive, her nose straight, her lips neither too thin nor too full. Her teeth were prominent but neat, and there was a quiet intensity to her gaze that made Lyonel pause.

She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense.

But there was something about her—a strength, a resilience—that made her striking in her own right.

A vague allure, perhaps.

But not one that stirred him.

Joffrey’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp and mocking.

"Look at you, Rivers! Your bride is taller than you are!"

The crowd tittered, and Joffrey’s smirk deepened as he turned to Sansa, who stood beside him, her face carefully composed.

"What do you think, my dear Sansa? Should we wager on how long it takes for Lyonel to run screaming from his bride’s bed?"

Sansa’s eyes flicked to Lyonel, her expression softening with something like sympathy.

She didn’t laugh.

Neither did Eddard, who stood nearby, his face grim.

Myrcella, too, watched Lyonel with a quiet understanding, her fingers twisting together in her skirts.

Cersei’s smirk was wicked, her green eyes gleaming with amusement as she leaned toward her son.

"Oh, Joffrey, must you be so cruel? Lady Brienne is... unique."

Her gaze flicked to Lyonel, her smile sharpening.

"Though I suppose that makes her a perfect match for our dear bastard."

Lyonel ignored them.

He stepped forward as Lord Selwyn dismounted, offering the older man a bow.

"Lord Selwyn. Lady Brienne. Welcome to King’s Landing."

Brienne met his gaze, her expression unreadable.

"Ser Lyonel," she said, her voice low and steady.

"It’s an honor."

Selwyn clapped Lyonel on the shoulder, his grip firm.

"Aye, an honor indeed! Come, my boy—let us discuss the terms of this betrothal. The king has already agreed to host the wedding, but there are matters we must settle."

---

The solar was warm, the air thick with the scent of wine and parchment.

Robert sat behind his desk, his expression impatient as Lord Selwyn laid out his terms.

"I’ll not have my daughter wed a bastard, Your Grace," Selwyn said, his voice firm.

"Not without legitimization. Lyonel must be acknowledged as your trueborn son, or there will be no wedding."

Robert’s face darkened. "You drive a hard bargain, Selwyn."

Selwyn didn’t flinch.

"I drive a fair one. My daughter is the heir to Tarth. Her children will inherit my lands, my title. I’ll not have them tainted by the stain of bastardy."

Lyonel stood silently, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

Legitimization.

The word echoed in his mind, a double-edged blade.

It would make him a trueborn son of Robert Baratheon—give him a name, a place, a future.

But it would also bind him irrevocably to the throne, to the games of power and blood that he had spent his life navigating from the shadows.

Robert and Selwyn argued back and forth, their voices rising as the wine flowed.

Lyonel barely heard them. His mind was elsewhere—on the weight of the crown’s gaze, on the whispers of the court, on the knowledge that this was no longer just about him.

It was about Brienne.

About Tarth.

About the children they would have, the legacy they would build.

Finally, Robert slammed his fist on the desk.

"Fine!" he roared.

"I’ll legitimize the boy at the end of the week. But mark my words, Selwyn—this is the last concession I’ll make."

Selwyn smiled, clapping his hands together.

"Excellent! Then we are agreed."

Lyonel exhaled sharply, his mind reeling. Legitimized.

A trueborn son of the king.

The thought was staggering.

The meeting dispersed shortly after.

Lyonel left the solar in a daze, his boots carrying him through the corridors of the Red Keep on autopilot.

He didn’t get far before a familiar figure stepped into his path.

Lord Varys stood before him, his hands clasped before him, his face a mask of pleasant neutrality.

"Ser Lyonel," he said, his voice a soft purr.

Lyonel’s jaw tightened. "What do you want, Spider?"

Varys’s thin smile didn’t waver.

"Only to offer my congratulations, ser. Legitimization is a rare honor. One that will... elevate your position considerably."

His gaze flicked over Lyonel’s shoulder, as if sensing the weight of unseen eyes.

"Though I suspect you already know that."

Lyonel didn’t answer.

He didn’t trust Varys.

Didn’t trust the game the eunuch was playing.

Varys’s smile deepened, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"The pieces are moving, ser. And you, it seems, have become one of the most important of all."

He stepped aside, his robes swirling around him.

"Do be careful, Lyonel Baratheon. The higher you climb, the farther you have to fall."

Lyonel watched him go, the eunuch’s words echoing in his mind like a warning.

He knew what Varys was implying. Knew that the Spider saw him now—not as a pawn, but as a player.

A piece in the game of thrones.