It wasn’t a request.

---

Lyonel didn’t argue.

He kicked off his boots and shed his tunic, leaving his breeches pooled around his ankles as he sprawled back onto the bed, his cock standing thick and proud against his stomach.

Cersei watched him with a predator’s gaze, her fingers moving to the laces of her gown.

She didn’t remove it—only loosened it enough to part the fabric, baring her pussy to his view.

The sight of her, golden and glistening, was enough to make his cock twitch.

She climbed onto the bed, straddling his chest, her thighs pressing against his sides as she lowered herself over his face.

"Lick me, Lyonel," she commanded, her voice a whisper.

"And make it good."

Lyonel didn’t need to be told twice.

His hands gripped her thighs, his thumbs spreading her lips as his tongue delved into her slick heat.

Cersei gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair as she rocked her hips against his mouth.

"Fuck, yes," she hissed, her free hand wrapping around his cock, stroking him in time with the movements of her hips.

"Just like that. Gods, your tongue is sinful."

Lyonel lapped at her, his past experiences with women—having taught him exactly how to please.

He focused on her clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue before sucking it between his lips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs.

Cersei’s breath hitched, her body trembling as she rode his face, her hand working his cock with a relentless rhythm.

"Don’t you dare stop," she gasped, her voice tight with pleasure.

"I’m going to cum on that wicked tongue of yours, Lyonel. And you’re going to swallow every drop."

Lyonel groaned against her, the vibration making her shudder.

His cock ached, his balls drawing tight as her hand worked him closer to the edge.

But he didn’t stop—not even when her thighs clenched around his head, not even when her back arched and a broken cry tore from her lips as her first orgasm crashed over her.

He kept licking, kept sucking, his tongue driving her higher as her fingers tightened around his shaft.

"Again," she demanded, her voice ragged.

"Make me cum again."

Lyonel obeyed, his mouth sealing over her clit as he fucked her with his tongue, his fingers digging into her ass as he held her in place.

Cersei’s second orgasm hit her like a wave, her body shuddering, her nails raking down his chest as she cried out, her voice muffled against the skin of his stomach.

"Fuck—fuck—"

Her hand moved faster on his cock, her grip tight, her strokes ****.

Lyonel’s own release was building, the pressure coiling tight in his gut.

And then, with a growl torn from his chest, he came, his cock pulsing in her grip as thick ropes of cum shot up, splattering across her face and hair, painting her in white.

Cersei didn’t flinch.

She kept stroking him, milking every last drop from him as she rode out the last waves of her pleasure.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the scent of sex thick in the air.

Cersei finally pulled away, her fingers releasing his spent cock as she climbed off him, her gown still parted, her thighs glistening with his saliva and her own arousal.

She wiped a finger through the cum on her cheek, bringing it to her lips to taste before smirking down at him.

"Not bad, Lyonel," she murmured, her voice husky with satisfaction.

"Not bad at all."

She reached for her wine, taking a slow sip as she studied him, her gaze lingering on the mess she’d made of him.

"I may need you every night from now on," she said, her tone casual, as if she weren’t discussing ruining him.

"Wouldn’t want to waste such... talent."

With that, she turned and left his chambers, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving Lyonel sprawled on the bed, his cock still half-hard, his body thrumming with the aftermath of her touch.

The queen had made her mark—and she wasn’t done with him yet.

---

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

A sharp knock at the door roused him from his thoughts.

A servant boy, no older than twelve, stood in the doorway, his face flushed from running.

He bowed hastily and thrust a rolled parchment into Lyonel’s hands before scurrying away, as if afraid to linger too long.

Lyonel unfurled the message, recognizing Cersei’s elegant, looping script.

The words were brief, but their meaning was clear:

"Your service has pleased me, Lyonel. As promised, Joffrey has agreed to grant you a contingent of men—five hundred in total. They are yours to command. Use them wisely, and remember who made this possible."

A smirk tugged at the corner of Lyonel’s mouth.

Of course.

Cersei had played this game from the start.

She wanted the realm to see Lyonel Baratheon—Robert’s son, the very image of the stag—fighting for Joffrey’s claim.

It was a masterstroke of propaganda, a way to legitimize her son’s rule in the eyes of those who still mourned the true king.

And Lyonel?

He was nothing more than a pawn in her scheme, his loyalty bought with the promise of men and glory.

But he knew the truth.

These men wouldn’t be the cream of the royal army.

They’d be the dregs—the deserters, the ill-trained, the forgotten.

Men no one else wanted.

Men who had nothing left to lose.

And that, Lyonel thought, could be their greatest strength.

---

The training yards of the Red Keep were a sprawling expanse of trampled earth and wooden dummies, the air thick with the scent of sweat and iron.

Lyonel found his contingent gathered near the far end, a ragtag group of hardened faces and weary eyes.

Some wore the remnants of City Watch uniforms, others little more than rags.

They looked like a band of cutthroats, not soldiers.

Lyonel stepped forward, his voice cutting through the murmur of their conversations.

"You’re mine now," he declared, his gaze sweeping over them.

"Five hundred men, thrown together like scraps for the wolves. But I didn’t come here to lead scraps. I came here to lead men."

A few of them scoffed, but most just watched him, their expressions a mix of skepticism and cautious hope.

"You won’t fight for a king," Lyonel continued, his voice rising.

"You won’t fight for a lord. You’ll fight for the smallfolk—the ones the nobles forget, the ones the kings ignore. The ones who’ve been ground beneath the heels of the powerful for too damn long."

He clenched his fist, his voice thunderous.

"You’ll fight for the downtrodden, for the men and women who’ve never had a voice. And you’ll fight with me, not for me. Because I’m one of you. A bastard made legitimate, a man who’s been cast aside his whole life. I know what it is to be forgotten. And I know what it is to rise."

A silence fell over the men, heavy with the weight of his words.

Then, slowly, one of them—a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek—stepped forward.

"And if we don’t want to fight for no smallfolk?" he called out, his voice rough.

"What if we just want coin and a full belly?"

Lyonel didn’t flinch.

"Then you’re not wrong. I promise the spoils of war entirely to you, except when political figures are involved," he said, his voice cold.

"But I’m not offering coin. I’m offering purpose. And if that’s not enough for you, walk away now."

The man hesitated, then spat on the ground before stepping back into the ranks.

No one else moved.

Lyonel nodded, satisfied.

"Good. Then we understand each other."

---

He looked over them, his expression hardening.

"Tomorrow, I return. And when I do, I want a leader. Someone to stand as my second, someone you all trust to speak for you. Choose wisely. Because when the fighting starts, it’s his voice you’ll follow when mine isn’t there."

With that, he turned and strode away, leaving the men behind him.

The murmur of their voices rose as they began to argue, to debate, to decide.

Lyonel didn’t look back.

He knew what he’d seen in their eyes.

They were ready.

And so was he.

---

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was alive with the clamor of victory.

Banners of gold and crimson hung from the rafters, their embroidered lions seeming to snarl down at the assembled court.

Joffrey Baratheon sat upon the Iron Throne, his golden crown gleaming in the torchlight, his face alight with the kind of smug triumph only a boy king could muster.

Beside him, Cersei stood regal and composed, her emerald eyes sharp with satisfaction, while Tyrion lingered near the dais, his expression unreadable.

The Small Council was arrayed before the throne, their faces a mix of relief and calculation.

Lyonel entered the hall just as Grand Maester Pycelle stepped forward, his voice trembling with age but ringing clear.

"Your Grace," the old man intoned, "a raven has arrived from Ser Jaime Lannister. The Lannister forces have achieved a glorious victory at the Battle of the Golden Tooth!"

His rheumy eyes gleamed with pride.

"Ser Jaime, commanding fifteen thousand men, broke the rivermen’s resistance. Lord Vance was slain, and Lord Piper retreated to Riverrun with the remnants of his forces. Ser Jaime now marches on Riverrun itself, with Lord Tywin’s host advancing from the south!"

A cheer erupted from the Lannister supporters in the hall, their voices rising in a cacophony of triumph.

Joffrey’s face split into a grin, his fingers drumming excitedly on the armrests of the throne.

"Victory!" he crowed, his voice shrill with youthful arrogance.

"The traitors will learn the price of defying their king!"

Pycelle wasn’t finished.

"There is more, Your Grace," he continued, his voice trembling slightly.

"Lady Shella Whent has given birth to a son. An heir to Harrenhal."

The announcement sent another ripple through the court.

Cersei’s smirk deepened, her gaze flickering toward Lyonel for the briefest of moments.

She suspects, he thought.

Joffrey, however, was too caught up in his triumph to notice the tension.

"A son for Harrenhal!" he declared, his voice ringing through the hall.

"The gods favor the loyal!"

Lyonel stood silent, his mind racing.

The victory at the Golden Tooth was a blow to the rivermen, but it was only the beginning.

With Jaime marching on Riverrun and Tywin’s forces closing in, the Riverlands would soon be overrun.

And Harrenhal—his Harrenhal, where Shella and his son now resided—would become a prime target for the Lannisters.

A fortress of that size, in the heart of the Riverlands, was too valuable to ignore.

If the Lannisters took it, Shella and the boy would be in grave danger.

His thoughts darkened further. An attack on Riverrun would not go unanswered.

The North would rise. Robb Stark would march.

And Catelyn—his Catelyn, carrying his child—would be right in the heart of the storm.

She would fight for her family, for her husband’s honor.

And in doing so, she would put herself, and their unborn child, in mortal peril.

The Great Hall seemed to close in around him, the noise of the celebration fading into a dull roar.

He needed to act.

Now.

---

Lyonel left the hall as soon as decorum allowed, his strides long and purposeful.

He returned to his chambers, shutting the door firmly behind him before pulling out parchment and quill. His first letter was to Shella.

---

To,

Lady Shella Whent,

The Lannisters have won a victory at the Golden Tooth and now march on Riverrun. Harrenhal will soon be in their sights. You must lay low, Shella. Focus on securing your life and our son’s above all else. Trust no one outside your household. I will do everything in my power to ensure your safety, but you must be cautious. The Lannisters will not hesitate to use you as a pawn.

Burn this letter after reading it.

Lyonel

---

His second letter was to Catelyn, though he knew the risks of sending it.

If it were intercepted, it could doom them both.

---

To

Lady Catelyn Stark,

The war has begun in earnest. The Lannisters have taken the Golden Tooth and now move on Riverrun. The North will not stand idle, and neither will you. But Catelyn, I beg you—think of our child. Do not risk yourself recklessly. The Starks are not the only ones who need you alive.

I will find a way to reach you. Stay safe.

Burn this letter without fail after reading it.

Lyonel

---

Finally, he wrote his third letter, to command Maester Unwin to relay these letters to Harrenhal and Eyrie respectfully.

He sealed both letters and called for a servant, instructing them to be sent by raven to Maester Unwin at Tarth, respectively.

"See that these are delivered with haste," he ordered, pressing an extra silver stag into the servant’s hand.

"And ensure no one else reads them."

The servant bowed and hurried off, leaving Lyonel alone with his thoughts.

He rubbed his temples, the weight of the coming storm pressing down on him.

The war was here.

And he was caught in the middle of it, his heart and his loyalties pulled in a dozen different directions.

---

As he turned to enter his chambers, he froze.

Myrcella Baratheon stood outside his door, her small frame dwarfed by the grandeur of the Red Keep’s corridors.

She was dressed in a simple gown of pale blue, her golden curls neatly braided, her emerald eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and something deeper—something that looked almost like worry.

"Lord Lyonel," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lyonel’s brow furrowed.

"Princess Myrcella," he replied, his tone gentle.

"What are you doing here?"

She hesitated, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her gown.

"I... I needed to speak with you," she said, her gaze flickering up to meet his.

Lyonel’s stomach tightened.

Gods.

If Cersei had sent her daughter to deliver another message, this game had just taken a far darker turn.

He stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter his chambers.

"Come in," he said, his voice low.

"Tell me everything."

---

The door to Lyonel’s chambers clicked shut behind Myrcella, the soft rustle of her skirts the only sound in the quiet room.

She stood before him, her small hands twisting nervously in the folds of her gown, her emerald eyes—so like her mother’s—fixed on him with an intensity that made his chest tighten.

The firelight danced across her face, highlighting the flush in her cheeks, the way her lower lip trembled just slightly.

"I don’t want to be married off," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Mother has already spoken of it. She says it’s my duty to secure an alliance for Joffrey’s cause. But I don’t want to be a pawn, Lyonel. I don’t want to be sold like a broodmare to some lord I’ve never met."

Lyonel exhaled slowly, his mind racing.

Gods, she’s just a child.

But Myrcella wasn’t a child anymore, not truly.

She was a princess, a piece in the game, and she knew it.

"You won’t be sold, Myrcella," he said, his voice gentle but firm.

"You’ll be betrothed, yes, but that doesn’t mean you won’t find love. Many marriages begin as alliances and grow into something more."

She shook her head, her fingers tightening in the fabric of her gown.

"I don’t want to find love with some lord," she said, her voice trembling.

"I already love someone."

Lyonel stilled. A cold dread settled in his gut.

"Myrcella—?"

Her gaze lifted to his, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink.

"I love you, Lyonel," she breathed, the words spilling out in a rush.

"I have for a long time."

---

The air left Lyonel’s lungs.

No.

No, no, no.

This was impossible.

Dangerous.

"Myrcella," he said, his voice rough, "you don’t know what you’re saying. I’m your step-brother. I’m married. Westeros would never accept this."

"I know," she said, her voice steady despite the tears welling in her eyes.

"I know all of it. But that doesn’t change how I feel. And it never will."

She stepped closer, her small hands clutching at his tunic.

"I don’t ask for you to defy the realm, Lyonel. I don’t ask for you to leave Brienne. I only ask for your word."

Her voice cracked.

"Promise me you’ll never deny me your love, even after I’m married to some lord. Promise me I’ll always be yours—in body, in mind, in soul. No matter what."

---