The North was calling.

The River Gate yawned open like the maw of some great beast, its iron teeth groaning as the royal procession began to spill onto the Kingsroad. Lyonel sat astride Ashford, the destrier’s massive frame shifting restlessly beneath him, sensing the tension in the air.

The late afternoon sun cast long, jagged shadows across the cobblestones, the last golden light of day glinting off armor and gilt. The city’s stench—smoke, sweat, and the ever-present tang of the Blackwater—lingered in the air, but beyond the gates, the world opened up into rolling hills and dense forests, the Kingsroad stretching like a ribbon toward the unknown.

Lyonel watched as the royal family prepared to depart, his gaze lingering on the litter where Queen Cersei and her younger children, Myrcella and Tommen, would ride. The litter was a gilded cage, draped in crimson and gold, its curtains drawn back to reveal the queen settling onto the cushioned bench with the regal disdain of a woman who had never known discomfort.

Her gown, even for travel, was impeccable—a deep emerald green that made her golden hair gleam like a crown. She arranged herself with deliberate grace, her fingers adjusting the folds of her skirts, her green eyes sharp as she surveyed the gathering. When her gaze flicked to Lyonel, her lips thinned. A reminder. You are not one of them.

Beside her, Myrcella perched with the ease of a girl who had spent her life being carried, her yellow gown a splash of Baratheon gold against the dark wood. She caught Lyonel’s stare and offered him a small, secret smile, her fingers toying with the golden lion pendant at her throat.

Tommen, barely more than a boy, fidgeted beside her, his chubby fingers clutching a wooden sword, his face alight with the thrill of adventure. He waved at Lyonel, grinning, and Lyonel gave him a curt nod in return. The boy was too young to understand the weight of the game they were all trapped in.

Then came Robert.

The king emerged from the Red Keep on a white destrier, the horse broad and strong but dwarfed by Ashford’s sheer mass. Robert himself was a shadow of the warrior he had once been, his armor straining over his belly, his face flushed from wine and grief. He swung into the saddle with a grunt, his movements clumsy, labored.

“Gods, I hate these damn things,” he muttered, shifting in his seat. “Give me a battlefield over a saddle any day.”

Cersei’s voice cut through the air, cool and cutting. “You’d do well to remember you’re a king, not a hedge knight, my love. Try to look the part.”

Robert scowled. “I am the part, woman. I don’t need to look like anything.”

Joffrey, mounted on a meager brown palfrey that seemed too small for his ego, sneered. “At least your horse doesn’t look like it’s about to collapse under you, father.”

Robert’s hand twitched toward the warhammer strapped to his saddle. “Boy, I’ll—”

“Your Grace.” Ser Barristan Selmy rode forward, his white cloak immaculate, his voice calm but firm. “We should move out. The hour grows late.”

Robert exhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring, but he said nothing. Instead, he kicked his destrier into motion, the beast lumbering forward with **** dignity. Joffrey followed, his palfrey prancing as if it, too, were offended by the company it kept.

The Kingsguard took their positions at the front of the procession—Ser Jaime Lannister at the lead, his golden armor gleaming, his face a mask of boredom.

Behind him, Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Preston Greenfield rode in silence, their eyes scanning the road ahead.

Ser Boros Blount brought up the rear of the vanguard, his expression sour, as if he’d rather be anywhere else.

Lyonel’s place was at the back of the retinue, alongside Sandor Clegane. The Hound sat astride his monstrous black stallion, his face half-hidden beneath the steel helm shaped like a snarling dog’s head. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence was warning enough.

“Ride close,” Sandor growled, his voice rough as gravel. “The queen doesn’t like your face, bastard. Best not give her a reason to remove it.”

Lyonel grunted. “I can handle myself.”

Sandor barked a bitter laugh. “Oh, I know. But if you get yourself killed, I’ll have to listen to the king whine about it. And I’d rather gouge out my eyes.”

Lyonel didn’t reply. He urged Ashford forward, falling into step behind the litter. The destrier’s hooves struck the road with measured thunder, each step a promise. He could feel the weight of Lionmane at his back, the ring on his finger a ghost against his skin.

The road ahead was long, and the North was cold.

But he was ready.

The Kingsroad unfolded before them, a winding ribbon of dirt and stone that cut through forests and fields, past villages and holdfasts that bowed beneath the weight of the royal banner.

The first day’s ride was uneventful, the land rolling gently beneath them, the air growing crisp as they left the heat of King’s Landing behind.

The retinue moved at a sedate pace, the litter’s wheels creaking, the jingle of harnesses and the murmur of voices the only sounds in the fading light.