The door creaked in the hall.

Lyonel’s blood turned to ice. If he was found here—if she found him here—

There would be no explaining this away.

No mercy.

Only ruin.

Lyonel barely breathed as the door to Cersei’s chambers swung open.

There was no time to think—only to act. He slipped into the shadows of the closet, the heavy drapes brushing against his skin as he pressed himself into the farthest corner, his body tense, his pulse roaring in his ears.

The scent of cedar and lavender filled the confined space, the darkness absolute.

Jaime Lannister entered first, his golden hair damp with sweat, his movements lazy with the confidence of a man who knew he was unwatched.

He tossed his knight’s tunic onto a chair, the fabric pooling on the floor as he kicked off his breeches, his muscular body gleaming in the candlelight.

The bed creaked as he sprawled across it, naked, unashamed, his hand resting behind his head as he waited.

Then—she came.

Cersei’s entrance was quieter, her steps deliberate, the soft rustle of silk the only sound as she closed the door behind her.

The night robe she wore was sheer, clinging to her curves, leaving little to the imagination.

Lyonel’s breath hitched as she stood at the foot of the bed, her fingers tracing the edge of the fabric before letting it slip from her shoulders.

The robe pooled at her feet, and there she was—naked, her body pale and flawless in the flickering light, her golden hair cascading down her back like a river of fire.

Lyonel should have looked away. He knew he should.

But something—horror, fascination, the lingering heat of his encounter with Arya—rooted him in place.

He watched, his body betraying him, as Jaime reached for her, his hands sliding over her skin with the possessive hunger of a man who had claimed her a thousand times before.

There was no hesitation, no shame.

Only need.

Cersei straddled him, her body moving with a rhythm that was both practiced and ****, her breath coming in soft, ragged gasps.

Jaime’s hands gripped her hips, his own body arching to meet hers, their movements growing more frantic, more raw.

The sounds they made—skin against skin, the wet slickness of their coupling, the muffled moans—filled the closet, filled Lyonel, until his own body was aching, his cock hard and throbbing against the confines of his breeches.

He should have been disgusted. He was disgusted—by the ****, by the betrayal, by the sheer audacity of it.

But the shame of it, the forbidden thrill, twisted inside him, coiling with the memory of Arya’s body beneath his, the way she had ground against him, the way she had wanted him. His hand drifted to his cock, his fingers pressing against the ache, his breath coming faster as he watched Cersei’s body tense, her nails digging into Jaime’s chest as she came with a choked cry.

Jaime followed soon after, his release a guttural groan, his body shuddering beneath hers.

Lyonel waited.

He waited until their breathing slowed, until the room filled with the heavy silence of sleep.

Only then did he dare move, his muscles stiff from being cramped in the closet for so long. He eased the door open, the hinges whispering softly, and slipped out like a ghost.

The chamber was still, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. He didn’t look back.

The halls of the Red Keep were empty, the guards conspicuously absent—sent away, no doubt, for the queen’s tryst.

Lyonel moved swiftly, his body still humming with arousal, his mind a whirlwind of what he had witnessed. He didn’t dare dwell on it, not yet.

Not until he was safe.

His quarters were dark when he returned, the fire in the hearth reduced to embers. Lyonel stripped off his clothes, his body still tense, his cock still painfully hard.

He tried to push the images from his mind—Cersei’s body, Arya’s ass beneath him, the way they had both wanted him—but it was useless. He collapsed onto the bed, his skin slick with sweat, his mind still racing.

Sleep did not come easily.

The next morning, Lyonel woke with a headache, the events of the previous night pressing down on him like a physical weight.

He thought of Cersei and Jaime, of the scandal that would erupt if their secret were ever revealed.

He thought of Arya, of the way she had moved beneath him, the way she had wanted him.

He thought of Brienne, of her cruel words, of the marriage that loomed over him like a sentence.

He could use Cersei’s secret. He knew that.

It was a weapon, one that could be wielded when the time was right.

But for now, he would keep it.

Lock it away.

Wait.

His steps took him toward the Tower of the Hand, his intention to find Arya, to apologize for the night before, to—what? Pretend it hadn’t happened?

But as he rounded the corner, he saw him—Lord Baelish, slipping into the tower with that serpentine grace of his, no doubt to whisper poison in Ned Stark’s ear.

Lyonel hesitated. Then turned away.

Loras Tyrell found him in the godswood, the knight’s brown curls gleaming in the sunlight as he approached with a smile.

"Ser Lyonel," he said, his voice warm, his hand extended.

"I’ve been meaning to thank you. For the tourney. You saved my life."

Lyonel waved it off.

"It was nothing. Any man would have done the same."

Loras’s smile didn’t waver. "But not any man did. And I do not forget my debts."

His gaze was earnest, his voice firm.

"If ever you need a favor—anything—you have only to ask. My sword, my gold, my word. It is yours."

Lyonel opened his mouth to refuse, but Loras was already bowing, already taking his leave.

"I mean it," he called over his shoulder.

"A debt is a debt."

Lyonel watched him go, a knot of unease twisting in his gut. He didn’t want favors. Didn’t want debts.

But some things, it seemed, were not his to refuse.

Lord Selwyn’s chambers were opulent, the walls lined with tapestries depicting the glory of Tarth, the air thick with the scent of salt and wine.

The lord himself sat behind a massive oak desk, his face impassive as Lyonel knelt before him.

"I have spoken with Brienne," Lyonel said, his voice steady despite the way his stomach churned.

"She has made her conditions clear. She does not wish for this marriage. She will not—" He swallowed. "She will not share my bed. She does not respect me. And I will not **** her."

Selwyn’s expression didn’t change. "And?"

"And I ask that you honor her wishes," Lyonel continued, his hands clenched at his sides.

"Call off the wedding, my lord. This match is not what either of us wants."

For a long moment, Selwyn said nothing.

Then, he laughed—a cold, humorless sound.

"You dare," he said, his voice dripping with disdain.

"You, a bastard, born of a king’s whim, raised in the shadows of legitimacy—you dare to tell me what my daughter wants?"

His eyes narrowed.

"This match is above you, Rivers—or Baratheon, or whatever name you take. I am doing you a favor, gifting you my daughter’s hand, binding you to a house older and prouder than any bastard’s line. And you reject it?"

Lyonel’s jaw tightened.

"I am not rejecting it. I am asking you to listen to her."

Selwyn’s hand slammed down on the desk, the sound like a crack of thunder.

"You will wed her," he snarled.

"You will take her to your bed, and you will give me grandsons. Or I will see you ruined. Do you understand?"

Lyonel met his gaze, unflinching.

He understood.

This was not a battle he could win.

He bowed his head. "As you wish, my lord."

And with that, he took his leave, the weight of his future pressing down on him like a tomb.

—

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was packed, the air thick with the scent of roses and sweat, the murmur of nobles rising like the hum of a swarm.

King Robert Baratheon sat upon the Iron Throne, his massive frame draped in black and gold, his face flushed from wine but his voice still carrying the weight of command.

Beside him, Cersei’s smile was a blade wrapped in silk, her fingers tightening around the armrests as Robert’s decree echoed through the hall.

"By the will of the king and the grace of the gods, I, Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, do hereby legitimize Lyonel Rivers, son of Alysanne Ashford, as Lyonel Baratheon, a trueborn son of my blood and heir to my name."

The words hung in the air, a thunderclap of shock. Cersei’s face twisted—horror, then rage—her knuckles white.

Joffrey’s mouth opened, a sneer forming, but Robert’s glare silenced him before a word could escape.

"Close your mouth, boy, or I’ll sew it shut," the king growled, and Joffrey recoiled, his pride wounded.

Jaime’s expression was unreadable, his golden eyes flickering toward Lyonel before returning to his sister, a silent warning passing between them.

Pycelle sputtered, his jowls quivering, but no one paid him heed.

Across the hall, reactions varied.

Baelish’s smirk was a knife’s edge, his dark eyes gleaming with something like triumph.

Varys, ever the enigma, wore an amused smile, his fingers steepled as if he had orchestrated the moment himself.

Renly clapped, his grin genuine, while Sansa’s hands pressed together in delight, her eyes shining.

Margaery Tyrell’s smile was warm, her gaze lingering on Lyonel with something like approval.

Arya, standing near the back, punched the air in silent victory, her grin fierce.

Brienne stood stiffly beside her father, her face a mask of indifference, though her grip on the hilt of her sword betrayed her tension.

Eddard Stark’s expression was unreadable, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

But it was Lord Selwyn’s cruel, satisfied smirk that chilled Lyonel to the bone.

The old lord’s eyes darted between Baelish and Varys, a silent nod passing between them—something unspoken, something planned.

Lyonel’s stomach twisted.

He was a piece on a board, and the players were far more dangerous than he had realized.

Jaime found him in the corridors three days later, leaning against a pillar as if he had been waiting.

His golden smile was sharp, his voice a purr.

"Lyonel Baratheon," he drawled, rolling the name like a curse.

"How the bastard has risen. From bastard to trueborn, all on a king’s whim. Tell me, does it feel different?”

Lyonel’s fingers twitched, his mind flashing to the closet, to Cersei’s body, to the secret that could unravel the Lannisters in an instant.

But he said nothing. He met Jaime’s gaze, his voice calm.

"It feels like duty, Ser Jaime. Nothing more."

Jaime’s smirk faltered for a heartbeat. Then he laughed, low and mocking.

"Duty. How noble. Enjoy your wedding night, brother."

He clapped Lyonel on the shoulder—too hard, too familiar—and sauntered away, leaving Lyonel standing there, his jaw clenched, his silence a shield.

—

The days that followed were a whirlwind of preparation.

The wedding was to be grand, a spectacle to solidify Lyonel’s new status.

But the news from the North cast a shadow over the celebrations: Catelyn Stark had taken Tyrion Lannister captive, accusing him of the attempt on Bran’s life.

The Red Keep seethed with tension.

Jaime, incensed, had confronted Eddard Stark in the streets outside Baelish’s brothel, their duel brutal and short.

Eddard had left with a wounded leg, **** to lean on a cane, his pride as bruised as his flesh. Jaime had ridden south soon after, his fury a storm gathering on the horizon.

Lyonel watched it all unfold with a growing sense of unease.

The politics were shifting, the alliances fracturing.

And he was at the center of it, his legitimization a spark in a room filled with oil.

—

The week had passed in a blur of fittings and feasts, of whispered congratulations and veiled threats.

And then—it was morning.