The morning of his wedding.

Lyonel woke before dawn, the first light of day creeping through the shutters of his chamber.

He lay still for a moment, listening to the distant calls of the city, the clatter of servants in the halls.

His body ached, not from battle, but from the weight of what was to come.

He thought of Brienne’s words, her cruelty, her refusal.

He thought of Arya’s fire, of Cersei’s secret, of the way the game was tightening around him like a noose.

He rose, splashing water on his face, his reflection staring back at him in the polished steel of his mirror.

A Baratheon.

A legitimized son.

A husband, soon.

---

The morning of the wedding dawned with a golden haze over King’s Landing, the sun casting long, warm fingers through the stained-glass windows of the Great Sept of Baelor.

The air was thick with the scent of incense and roses, the murmurs of nobles filling the sacred space with a hum of anticipation.

Lyonel stood in the anteroom, his breath steady, his hands still as his squire fastened the final clasps of his wedding doublet.

He had chosen his colors carefully.

For his mother, Alysanne Ashford, he wore orange—the bold, fiery hue of House Ashford’s sigil.

It was a defiant choice, a silent homage to the woman who had borne him, who had died without ever holding him in her arms.

The fabric was rich, embroidered with silver thread that caught the light like scattered stars.

But he was a Baratheon now, by the king’s decree, and so he tempered the orange with black—the deep, unyielding black of his father’s house, the color of storm and steel.

The doublet was tailored to his massive frame, the sleeves slashed to reveal black silk beneath, the high collar embroidered with the stag of House Baratheon in silver and orange.

His cloak, fastened at his shoulder with a brooch of onyx and gold, billowed behind him as he moved, a banner of his dual legacy.

He looked resplendent.

His dark hair was freshly trimmed, his beard neatly oiled, his golden-brown eyes sharp and unreadable.

The greatsword Black Oath rested against the wall, its Valyrian steel gleaming even in the dim light, a reminder of his prowess, his worth.

As he stepped into the sept, the murmurs of the assembled nobles rose like a wave.

Ladies gasped, their fans fluttering as they took in the sight of him—tall, broad-shouldered, his presence commanding even in silence.

More than one noblewoman’s cheeks flushed, their eyes lingering a moment too long.

Lyonel ignored them all, his gaze fixed ahead, his expression unyielding.

---

Brienne stood beneath the arched entrance of the sept, her own attire a stark contrast to Lyonel’s fiery hues.

She wore the colors of House Tarth—rose, yellow, and white—the fabric of her gown heavy and rich, the bodice fitted to her powerful frame, the sleeves slashed to reveal white silk beneath.

Her maiden’s cloak, draped over her shoulders, was a deep rose, embroidered with the golden sigil of her house.

It was a gown meant for a warrior’s daughter, elegant but unadorned, the lines clean, the fabric unyielding.

Her short cream hair was braided tight, coiled at the nape of her neck, her face bare of paint, her jaw set.

She did not smile.

Her father, Lord Selwyn, stood beside her, his expression one of cold satisfaction. He had gotten what he wanted—a Baratheon son-in-law, a legitimized heir to bind his house to the throne.

The whispers around them were less kind. Noblewomen, their own daughters dressed in finery, cast sidelong glances at Brienne, their lips curled in disdain.

"How could she waste such a man?" one hissed.

"A beast like her, with a stag like him?" another sneered.

Brienne heard them.

She always heard them.

She did not care.

---

The sept was adorned with flowers—white roses and golden blooms twining along the aisles, their scent sweet and heavy.

The High Septon himself presided over the ceremony, his robes a cascade of crystal and silk, his voice sonorous as he began the rites.

The small congregation—nobles, knights, and a handful of smallfolk invited to witness the union—watched in silence as Lyonel walked the aisle, his steps measured, his gaze never wavering from Brienne’s.

She did not look at him.

Lord Selwyn stood before the altar, his expression grim as he waited for the moment of transfer.

The High Septon’s prayers filled the sept, his voice rising and falling in the ancient words of the Faith.

"Father above, bless this union, this binding of two houses, two souls. Let their love be as steadfast as the mountains, as deep as the seas..."

Lyonel knelt beside Brienne, their shoulders almost touching, the heat of her body a stark contrast to the coldness in her eyes.

The High Septon turned to Selwyn, who stepped forward, his fingers gripping the rose-colored cloak draped over Brienne’s shoulders.

"Do you, Lord Selwyn of House Tarth, give this woman, your daughter Brienne, into the protection and keeping of Lyonel of House Baratheon, to be his wife from this day forward?"

Selwyn’s voice was a growl. "I do."

With a sharp tug, he pulled the cloak from Brienne’s shoulders, the fabric whispering as it fell to the floor.

Brienne did not flinch.

She did not react.

She simply knelt, her back straight, her chin lifted, as Lyonel reached for the cloak of his own house colors—orange and black, the stag of Baratheon embroidered in silver thread.

He draped it over her shoulders, the weight of the fabric settling against her like a promise.

The High Septon smiled.

"With this cloak, you are bound. With this vow, you are one."

Lyonel turned to Brienne, his voice low, his eyes searching hers for the first time.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love..."

She did not lean in.

She did not soften.

But she did not pull away.

Their lips met—briefly, chastely, the touch more duty than desire.

The sept held its breath.

"...and take you for my lady and wife," Lyonel finished, his voice steady.

Brienne’s reply was a whisper, her eyes never leaving his.

"...and take you for my lord and husband."

The High Septon raised his hands, his voice ringing through the sept.

"By the grace of the gods, the will of the king, and the vows you have spoken, I declare you man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

The words hung in the air, final, unbreakable.

Their union had begun.

---

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was draped in the colors of House Baratheon and House Tarth, banners of yellow and black hanging beside those of rose, yellow, and white.

The long tables groaned beneath the weight of roasted boar, spiced fowl, and trenchers of bread, the scent of honeyed wine and roasting meat thick in the air.

Yet, despite the finery, the feast was a somber affair, the usual raucous laughter and drunken revelry muted by the tensions that hung over the hall like a shroud.

At the high table, Lyonel and Brienne sat side by side, their postures rigid, their expressions unreadable.

They did not speak.

They did not touch.

They were a study in stoicism, two figures bound by duty but divided by everything else.

Lyonel wore his wedding doublet still, the orange and black fabric stark against the muted colors of the hall, his stormy eyes scanning the crowd with a warrior’s vigilance.

Brienne, her cream short bun coiled tightly at the nape of her neck, sat with her hands resting on the table, her fingers occasionally twitching toward the dagger at her waist.

She did not eat.

She did not drink.

She simply endured.

---

King Robert Baratheon sat at the center of the high table, his massive frame draped in black and gold, a goblet of wine clutched in his hand.

He was drunk, but not yet drunk—that familiar, dangerous edge to his laughter, his voice booming as he called for more wine, more meat, more anything to drown the unease that gnawed at him.

He clapped Lyonel on the back as he passed, his grip heavy, his words slurred but sincere.

"A Baratheon wedding! By the gods, I never thought I’d see the day!"

His laughter was loud, but his eyes were shadowed, flickering toward the empty seat where Eddard Stark should have been.

The Northman had refused to attend, his leg still paining him from his duel with Jaime.

Queen Cersei was a vision of icy elegance, her golden hair coiled in intricate braids, her green eyes sharp as emeralds.

She sat beside Robert, her smile painted on, her fingers tracing the stem of her goblet with deliberate slowness.

She did not look at Lyonel. She did not acknowledge Brienne.

But her gaze lingered on Jaime’s empty seat, her jaw tightening whenever Robert’s laughter grew too loud.

She was a storm barely contained, her rage a silent, seething thing.

Renly Baratheon was the picture of charm, his dark curls perfectly arranged, his emerald-green doublet embroidered with golden roses.

He laughed easily, his voice light, his jokes effortless.

He toasted Lyonel with a wink, his goblet raised high, his smile never slipping.

"To my nephew!" he declared, the word laced with amusement.

"May your marriage be as fruitful as your battles!"

His eyes, however, kept flickering toward Brienne, his gaze lingering a moment too long whenever she glanced his way.

Lyonel noticed.

Of course it was Renly.