Lyonel’s jaw tightened.

---

Joffrey.

His stepbrother. His king.

A boy with a crown and a cruelty that knew no bounds.

He rose to his feet, his gaze lingering on Robert’s tomb for a heartbeat longer.

"Tell His Grace I come."

The girl nodded and fled, her skirts swishing against the stone.

Lyonel took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead.

The game was in motion, and he was being called to the board. He adjusted his cloak, his fingers brushing the hilt of the catspaw hidden beneath.

Whatever Joffrey wanted, whatever twisted game he sought to play, Lyonel would be ready.

He strode from the crypts, his steps echoing like a drumbeat of war.

The Great Hall awaited.

And so did the king.

---

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a cavern of power and predation, its high vaulted ceilings swallowing the sound of Lyonel’s boots as he crossed the threshold.

The air was thick with the scent of beeswax and iron, the weight of history pressing down from the banners of conquered kings and the cold, unblinking gazes of the assembled court.

Joffrey Baratheon—no, Lannister—sat upon the Iron Throne, his golden crown gleaming like a mockery of the man who had once worn it.

His mother, Cersei, stood at his side, her green eyes sharp as broken glass, her lips curved in a smile that never reached her eyes.

Myrcella sat beside her brother, her delicate features drawn with worry, while Sansa Stark stood slightly apart, her face pale as milk, her hands clenched in the folds of her gown.

The Kingsguard lined the dais, their white cloaks pristine, their faces impassive.

The Small Council was arrayed below them—Varys with his spider’s smile, Littlefinger with his calculating gaze, Pycelle’s rheumy eyes darting between the players on the board.

And then there was Sandor Clegane, his scarred face twisted in something like amusement as he leaned against a pillar, his massive arms crossed over his chest.

Joffrey’s voice cut through the silence like a whip crack.

"Lyonel Baratheon." The name was a sneer, a reminder of Lyonel’s bastard origins, his recent legitimization nothing more than a convenience for the crown.

"You come late to pay homage to your king."

Lyonel stopped before the dais, his spine straight, his face a mask of carefully controlled neutrality. He could feel the weight of their gazes—Cersei’s triumphant, Joffrey’s arrogant, Sansa’s ****.

A stag in a den of lions, he thought. And lions did not suffer stags to live unless they bent the knee.

"I came as soon as I was summoned, Your Grace," Lyonel said, his voice steady.

Joffrey leaned forward, his fingers drumming against the armrest of the throne.

"Then kneel. Swear fealty to your king. Vow to defend my birthright against all who would challenge it."

His lips curled.

"And promise you will never, ever vy for the throne yourself."

A murmur rippled through the court. Lyonel’s jaw tightened. He had no desire for the crown, no ambition to rule—but the thought of groveling before this spoiled, cruel boy turned his stomach.

Yet he was no fool.

Refusal here would mean his ****, and he had too much left to do.

Too many promises to keep.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Lyonel sank to one knee, his head bowed.

"I swear fealty to King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name," he said, the words like ash in his mouth.

"I vow to defend your birthright against all enemies, foreign and domestic. I vow that I will never contest or vy for the throne."

A smug silence followed. Joffrey clapped his hands, delighted.

"There. Was that so hard?" He turned to his mother, his grin widening.

"See, Mother? Even the bastards know their place."

---

Cersei’s smirk was cruel, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "How touching. A legitimized Baratheon, swearing to defend his stepbrother’s rights."

She stepped forward, her gaze locking onto Lyonel like a blade.

"You will send a raven to Lord Selwyn Tarth, Lyonel. Inform him that his daughter’s husband commands him to pledge his swords to King Joffrey’s cause."

Her tone brooked no argument. "Tarth’s men will march with the royal army. Or would you prefer we remind Lord Selwyn of his duties in a more... persuasive manner?"

Lyonel’s fingers twitched, but he kept his face impassive.

"I will send the raven, Your Grace."

Joffrey waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the proceedings.

"Good. You’re dismissed."

He turned to Varys, his voice petulant.

"I’m tired of this. Bring me something interesting to do."

The court began to disperse, the murmur of conversation rising as nobles and councilors scattered like crows.

---

Lyonel rose to his feet, his gaze flickering to Sansa. She stood alone now, her shoulders hunched, her eyes hollow.

The weight of her father’s imprisonment, her family’s ruin, was written in every line of her body.

Something twisted in Lyonel’s chest. He had no love for the Starks—no, that wasn’t true. He had loved Catelyn, or her body, in his way.

And he had grown fond of Robb, of Arya’s fierce spirit, of Sansa’s quiet resilience.

But more than that, he recognized the look in her eyes.

The look of someone who had been broken, but not yet shattered.

He moved toward her, his steps measured.

"Lady Sansa," he said softly, keeping his voice low so only she could hear.

She looked up, her blue eyes wide with surprise—and something else.

Fear, perhaps.

Or hope.

"Ser Lyonel," she whispered.

"Walk with me," he said, offering his arm.

It was a small gesture, but in a court of dangers, even a moment of kindness was a rebellion.

Sansa hesitated, then placed her hand lightly on his sleeve. "Thank you," she murmured.

Lyonel led her toward the doors, his mind racing. He didn’t know what he could do for her—not yet.

But he knew this: he would not let her face this alone.

Not while he still drew breath.

---

Lyonel guided Sansa through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep, his voice low and steady, a stark contrast to the trembling uncertainty in her grip on his arm.

"You must stay calm, my lady," he murmured, his eyes scanning the shadows for prying ears.

"The Lannisters thrive on chaos and fear. Do not give them either."

He paused, turning to face her, his expression grave.

"Trust no one here, especially not them. If they offer you promises, assume they are lies until proven otherwise. If they ask you to admit to anything, say nothing. Silence is your shield."

Sansa’s blue eyes were wide, brimming with unshed tears.

"But they’ve promised, Lyonel," she whispered, her voice cracking.

"Queen Cersei said if I agree to marry Joffrey and Father admits to his treason, they’ll let him go. He’ll keep his title, his lands—everything. They just want him to bend the knee and acknowledge Joffrey as the true king."

Her fingers tightened on his sleeve, her voice pleading.

"I have to believe them. I have to."

Lyonel’s jaw clenched.

He had seen this before—the way the Lannisters twisted hope into a noose, how they dangled mercy like a carrot before the ****.

Sansa was drowning, and she was clutching at the very hands that had pushed her into the water.

"Lady Sansa," he said, his voice firm but gentle, "they will not keep their word. They never do."

But she was already shaking her head, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

"You don’t understand. I have to try. For my father. For my family."

Her voice broke, the weight of her desperation crushing the last of her composure.

"I have to."

Lyonel exhaled sharply, the futility of his words settling over him like a shroud.

She was too far gone—too deep in her own fear, her own hope—to hear reason.

He reached out, squeezing her shoulder gently.

"Then tread carefully, my lady. And may the gods watch over you."

With that, he bowed his head and stepped back, leaving her standing in the corridor, her small frame trembling with the weight of her decisions.

---

Lyonel’s newly assigned chambers were spacious, the fire in the hearth casting long shadows across the stone walls.

He shut the door behind him, rubbing his temples as the events of the day pressed down on him.

The room was empty—or so he thought.

"You have a habit of involving yourself in treacherous company, Lyonel."

The voice was smooth as poisoned honey. Lyonel’s head snapped up.

Cersei Lannister stood by the window, the fading light outlining her form like a silhouette of gold and emerald.

Her lips were curved in a smirk, her green eyes gleaming with something dangerous.

"Your Grace," Lyonel said, his voice carefully neutral.

"I was merely offering Lady Sansa some comfort. She is frightened and alone."

Cersei turned to face him fully, her gaze raking over him like a blade.

"Comfort?"

She laughed softly, the sound devoid of warmth.

"The Starks are traitors, Lyonel. You would do well to remember that."

She stepped closer, her perfume—jasmine and something darker—filling the air between them.

"But then, you always did have a soft spot for the lost and the broken."

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"I remember."

Lyonel stiffened.

He knew what she was referring to—the bathhouse at Castle Darry, the steam, the way their bodies had nearly touched, the electricity that had crackled between them like a storm waiting to break.

But that had been a different time.

A different game.

"You are my stepmother," he said, his voice firm.

"And the wife of my late father. This is inappropriate, Your Grace."

Cersei’s smirk deepened. She reached out, her fingers trailing lightly down his chest before resting—bold, possessive—over the growing bulge in his breeches.

"And yet, here we are," she purred.

"The world is changing, Lyonel. Kings rise and fall, and men like you—strong, ambitious—are the ones who shape what comes next."

Her hand grazed him, her touch sending a jolt through his body despite his resolve.

"Swear your sword to Joffrey’s cause, and I will see to it that your claim to Tarth is acknowledged in writing. A royal decree. And men—enough to carve your name into the annals of this war."

Her fingers traced the length of him, her voice a whisper.

"And when the battles are won, there will be... other rewards."

Lyonel’s breath hitched.

He could feel the heat of her, the promise in her touch.

But he also knew the cost.

Cersei Lannister did not give without taking tenfold in return.

"You ask much, Your Grace," he said, his voice rough.

"And I offer more," she countered, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.

"Think on it, Lyonel. My chambers await you tonight."

She pulled back, her gaze lingering on his for a heartbeat longer before she turned and swept from the room, leaving only the scent of her perfume and the echo of her words behind.

Lyonel stood there, his body tense, his mind racing.

---

The game had shifted beneath his feet, and Cersei had just laid her cards on the table.

The question was—would he play her hand?

Or would he find another way to survive the storm?

---

Lyonel stood in his chambers, the weight of Cersei’s proposition pressing down on him like the edge of a blade. He knew the risks—knew the danger of tangling himself further in the Lannister web.

But he also knew the power of leverage, the necessity of securing his own position before the storm of war broke over the Seven Kingdoms.

If Cersei wanted him, she would come to him—on his terms, where the blame would fall squarely on her shoulders if they were discovered.

He dipped a quill into the inkwell, scribbling a brief, deliberate message on a scrap of parchment:

"I am ready to give you what you desire, Your Grace. But you will come to me. My chambers. Tonight."

He folded the note and sealed it with a dab of wax, then summoned a servant boy to deliver it to the queen.

The boy’s eyes widened slightly as he took the message, but he bowed and hurried away, disappearing into the labyrinth of the Red Keep.

---

With that task done, Lyonel turned his attention to the matter of Tarth.

He pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and began to write, his hand steady, his words measured.

---

To Lord Selwyn Tarth,

The royal command has been issued: Tarth is to swear allegiance to King Joffrey Baratheon and pledge the men of House Tarth to his cause. The queen has promised the position of Master of Ships to the lord who secures this allegiance—an honor I have been assured will be yours, should you comply. The time for hesitation is past, my lord. The realm is on the brink of war, and the king demands your loyalty.

Send your men to King’s Landing with haste. The queen’s favor will follow.

Lyonel Baratheon

---

He rolled the parchment and sealed it, then wrote another, this one addressed to Maester Unwin.

---

To Maester Unwin,

Lord Selwyn must be persuaded to accept the royal command. The men of Tarth are to be sent through the Gullet, directly to King’s Landing. Inform me the moment they depart Tarth. Time is of the essence.

Lyonel Baratheon

---

He handed both letters to another servant, instructing him to send them by raven immediately.

The boy nodded and rushed off, leaving Lyonel alone with his thoughts.

---

A nagging unease had settled in his chest since his encounter with the servant boy earlier.

He had intended to visit Arya Stark, to offer her what comfort he could, but the boy’s strange reaction—his sudden flight—had been odd.

Lyonel pushed the thought aside for now.

There were more pressing matters to attend to.

He left the Red Keep under the cover of dusk, his cloak pulled low over his face.

The streets of King’s Landing were alive with the murmur of rumors and the clatter of hooves, but he moved unnoticed, a shadow among shadows.

The inn where Davon was staying was a modest establishment, its sign creaking in the evening breeze.

Lyonel slipped inside, finding the boy in a dimly lit corner, sharpening a dagger with a whetstone.

Davon looked up as Lyonel approached, his young face lighting up with relief.

"My lord! I didn’t know if you’d come."

Lyonel tossed a small pouch of silver stags onto the table.

"For your stay. You’ll need it."

He sat across from the boy, his voice low.

"I’ve arranged for men to be sent to you—enough to secure a foothold. You’re to leave with them, establish a base with your father and brother at the ruins of Hollard Castle. It’s close to Duskendale, hidden enough to gather men without drawing attention."

Davon’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

"You’re sending me back to reclaim my home?"

"I’m giving you the means to fight for it," Lyonel corrected.

"But you must be ready. War is coming, and you’ll need to be smarter than your enemies, faster than their blades. Can you do that?"

Davon nodded, his grip tightening on the dagger.

"I can. I will."

"Good."

Lyonel stood, clapping the boy on the shoulder.

"Then be ready. The men will come for you soon. And Davon?"

He fixed the boy with a serious look.

"Don’t get yourself killed. Your father’s already lost enough."

Davon grinned, fierce and determined.

"I won’t, my lord."

---

Lyonel returned to the Red Keep as night fell, the torches lining the walls casting long, dancing shadows.

The air was thick with tension, the weight of the coming storm pressing down on the city like a physical ****.

He climbed the stairs to his chambers, his mind racing with plans and possibilities.

The game was in motion.

The pieces were moving.

And Lyonel Baratheon was ready to play.

---

The night was thick with the scent of anticipation when the door to Lyonel’s chambers creaked open.

Cersei Lannister slipped inside like a shadow given form, the firelight catching the curves of her body as she closed the door behind her.

She was dressed in a gown of deep red, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin, the neckline plunging low enough to tease the swell of her breasts.

Her golden curls cascaded over her shoulders, catching the light like molten gold, and her emerald eyes burned with a hunger that made Lyonel’s blood run hot.

In one hand, she held a glass of Dornish red wine, the liquid dark as sin, her lips already stained from a sip.

Lyonel's gaze traced the Queen's body, noting every curve and plunge of skin.

Cersei's breasts, though not as gigantic as those of Catelyn and Shella had been, were quite the handful.

The swell of her breasts, gave way to her most appreciated asset, her navel.

Deapite having birthed thrice, her navel was smooth with faint marks signalling birthing.

His gaze narrowed down to her love hole when he was interrupted-

"You summoned me, bastard," she purred, her voice a velvet whip, though the word held no real venom—only the ghost of it, a reminder of what he had been.

"Though I suppose you’re not truly a bastard anymore, are you?"

She took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine, her gaze raking over him.

"The son of a minor noblewoman, but a noblewoman nonetheless. That makes you almost worthy of my bed."

A smirk played on her lips.

"Almost."

Lyonel didn’t move from where he stood by the hearth, his arms crossed, his body tense with the kind of anticipation that came from knowing a storm was about to break.

"I didn’t summon you to share my bed, Your Grace," he said, his voice rough.

"I summoned you to remind you that if you want what I have to offer, you come to me."

Cersei’s laugh was low, throaty, the sound of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and how to take it.

"Bold words for a man who stands to gain so much from my favor."

She set her wine down on the table beside the bed, the clink of the glass against the wood sharp in the quiet room.

"But I suppose I can indulge you. For now."

She stepped closer, her fingers trailing down his chest, feeling the heat of him through the fabric of his tunic.

"Though don’t mistake this for weakness, Lyonel. I don’t share my bed with bastards—or men who forget their place."

"And where is my place, Your Grace?" he asked, his voice a growl, his body responding to her touch despite his resolve.

Cersei’s fingers dropped lower, tracing the outline of his cock through his breeches.

"On your knees, if I wish it," she murmured, her touch firm, possessive.

"But tonight, I’m feeling generous."

She stepped back, her gaze locking onto his.

"Take it out. Let me see what you’ve been hiding beneath all that stubborn pride."

Lyonel hesitated only a heartbeat before his fingers moved to the laces of his breeches, loosening them enough to free his cock.

It was already half-hard, thick and heavy in his hand, the length of it impressive and dwarfing most at thier full mast even before Cersei’s touch coaxed it to full life.

She let out a soft, approving hum, her eyes darkening as she took in the sight of him.

"Gods, you’re a beast, and that manhood is a work of art." she breathed, her fingers wrapping around his shaft, her grip tight, demanding.

She sank to her knees before him, her red gown pooling around her like a pool of blood.

Her hand began to stroke him, slow at first, then with a rhythm that made his breath hitch.

"I won’t fuck you, Lyonel," she murmured, her thumb swiping over the slick head of his cock, spreading the bead of pre-cum that had formed there.

"Not yet. But I will take my pleasure from you."

Her other hand slid up his thigh, her nails digging in just enough to tease.

"And you will give it to me."

Lyonel groaned, his fingers tangling in her golden curls as she worked him, her hand moving with practiced skill.

His cock throbbed under her touch, the heat of her palm, the way her fingers twisted just right as she stroked him.

"You’re a cruel woman, Cersei," he ground out, his hips jerking involuntarily into her grip.

"And you’re a fool if you expected kindness from me," she replied, her voice a purr.

She gave him one last, slow stroke before rising to her feet, her gown clinging to the curves of her hips as she moved.

"Now, lie down."

---