The realization settled in his gut like a stone.

---

Margaery Tyrell was radiant, her dark curls cascading over her shoulders, her gown a cascade of emerald and gold.

She smiled at Lyonel, her eyes warm, her voice sweet as she leaned in to offer her congratulations.

"You look every inch a Baratheon, my lord," she murmured, her fingers brushing his arm lightly.

"Brienne is a lucky woman."

Her gaze flicked to Brienne, her smile never wavering, though there was a calculating glint in her eyes.

She knew the game.

She always knew the game.

Lord Varys sat near the foot of the high table, his plump fingers steepled, his voice a soft purr as he spoke to those around him.

He did not eat.

He did not drink.

He simply observed, his pale eyes missing nothing—the way Brienne’s gaze followed Renly, the way Cersei’s fingers tightened around her goblet, the way Lyonel’s jaw clenched every time Joffrey opened his mouth.

"A fascinating union,"

Varys murmured to Baelish, his voice barely audible.

"One wonders what fruits it shall bear."

Lord Petyr Baelish was all smiles, his dark eyes gleaming as he sipped his wine, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the table.

"Oh, I’m sure it will be most interesting," he replied, his voice a silk-wrapped dagger.

He watched the hall with the keen eye of a man who saw every secret, every desire.

His gaze lingered on Sansa Stark, who sat stiffly beside Joffrey, her face pale, her hands clenched in her lap.

"Such a shame the Northmen couldn’t join us," he mused, though his tone suggested he found it anything but.

Sansa Stark was a vision of northern elegance, her auburn hair braided with silver threads, her gown a delicate blue that matched her eyes. She sat beside Joffrey, her smile ****, her body tense.

She did not eat.

She did not speak.

She simply endured, her gaze flickering toward the door as if willing her father to appear.

Joffrey, ever the brute, leaned in too close, his voice a sneer.

"Your father’s a coward, isn’t he?" he whispered, his fingers brushing her arm.

Sansa did not react.

She simply stared ahead, her jaw set, her silence a shield.

Arya Stark was nowhere near the high table. She had been relegated to a lower bench, her dark braid messy, her tunic rumpled, her expression one of barely contained fury. She glared at Joffrey, at Cersei, at the entire farce of the feast.

"This is stupid," she muttered to the serving boy beside her, who wisely said nothing. Her fingers drummed against the table, her gaze occasionally flickering toward Lyonel.

She did not look happy. She did not look anything but ready to bolt.

Myrcella Baratheon was the only one who seemed truly content, her golden curls bouncing as she laughed at something Tommen said. She clapped her hands as the musicians played, her eyes shining.

"It’s a real wedding!" she declared, her voice bright, her innocence a stark contrast to the tension around her.

The other nobles were a mixed bag—some, like Loras Tyrell, toasted Lyonel with genuine warmth, his smile as bright as his armor.

Others, like Ser Kevan Lannister, watched with cold eyes, their disdain barely concealed.

---

The japes came soon enough. Ser Meryn Trant, ever the sycophant, raised his goblet with a smirk.

"To the groom!" he called, his voice loud. "May your first night be as long as your sword!"

Laughter rippled through the hall, crude and mocking.

Joffrey, never one to be outdone, leaned back in his chair, his voice dripping with venom.

"I hear Tarth is called the Sapphire Isle," he drawled.

"But I doubt even sapphires could make that one pretty." His gaze flicked to Brienne, his smirk cruel.

Lyonel’s fingers tightened around his goblet.

He did not rise to the bait.

Brienne’s face remained impassive, but her knuckles were white.

---

Lyonel watched Brienne from the corner of his eye.

She was stealing glances at Renly, her expression unreadable, but her fingers betrayed her—twitching, clenching, relaxing only when Renly laughed.

So that was it.

The man she loved.

The man she had spoken of in the gardens.

The man she would never have.

Renly, for his part, seemed oblivious, his charm effortless, his attention divided between Margaery and the nobles around him.

Or perhaps he was aware.

Perhaps he simply did not care.

The feast dragged on.

The music grew louder, the wine flowed freer, but the tension never eased.

Lyonel ate little.

Brienne drank less.

The nobles watched, whispered, judged.

And then, at last, the Kimg Robert rose, his voice cutting through the din.

"The hour grows late, and the gods smile upon this union. Let the bride and groom retire, that their bond may be sealed in the sight of the gods."

The hall erupted in cheers—some genuine, some mocking.

The feast was over.

The night was just beginning.

---

The torches lining the corridors of the Red Keep flickered as the wedding guests surged forward, their laughter a mix of bawdy excitement and drunken mischief.

The bedding ceremony had begun.

Lyonel and Brienne were to be escorted to their chambers by the nobles, their clothing stripped away layer by layer in a ritual as old as the traditions of Westeros itself.

There was a somberness to the air, a quiet tension beneath the **** revelry, as if even the most boisterous of the guests understood the weight of what was unfolding.

Yet, the wine had flowed freely, and the crude jokes and whispered speculations had already begun to rise like a tide.

Lyonel walked ahead, his expression unreadable, his jaw set.

The noble ladies of the court—Margaery Tyrell, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, Myrcella Baratheon, and Jeyne Poole-Sansa’s companion among them—surrounded him, their fingers already reaching for the laces of his doublet.

Margaery was the first to step forward, her dark curls framing her face as she met Lyonel’s gaze with a playful smirk.

"A bridegroom must be prepared for his duties," she murmured, her voice like honey as her fingers deftly undid the first clasp of his doublet.

The fabric parted slightly, revealing a glimpse of the muscular chest beneath.

A murmur rippled through the women, their eyes widening as the orange and black garment was peeled away, exposing Lyonel’s broad shoulders and the powerful contours of his torso.

His skin was marked with the scars of battles past, but they only served to accentuate the raw strength of him.

Sansa, her cheeks flushed, hesitated before reaching out to help Margaery slide the doublet from his arms.

Her fingers brushed against his skin, and she bit her lip, her breath hitching as she felt the heat radiating from him.

Arya, ever defiant, rolled her eyes but did not shy away.

"By the gods, you’re built like a bull," she muttered, though there was a hint of grudging admiration in her voice.

She tugged at the laces of his shirt, her movements less gentle than the others, but no less effective.

The shirt was pulled over his head, and the women gasped in unison.

Lyonel’s chest was a masterpiece of muscle and sinew, his arms thick and corded, his stomach taut and ridged.

The torchlight played over his skin, casting shadows that only made him appear more formidable.

Myrcella, wide-eyed and curious, reached out to trace a finger along the line of a scar that ran from his shoulder to his ribs.

"Does it hurt?" she asked softly, her voice filled with childlike wonder.

Lyonel said nothing. He stood still, his hands clenched at his sides, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the women.

But his body betrayed him.

The attention, the touch of so many hands, the whispers of admiration—it stirred something in him.

His cock, already half-hard from the tension of the evening, began to thicken further, pressing against the confines of his breeches.

Jeyne Poole, emboldened by the wine, was the first to reach for the laces of his breeches.

"They say you’re hung like a stallion," she giggled, her fingers fumbling slightly as she undid the ties.

"Let’s see if the rumors are true."

The breeches were pushed down, and Lyonel’s cock sprang free, thick and heavy, already fully erect.

The women gasped again, their eyes widening as they took in the sight of him.

Margaery’s lips parted, her gaze lingering a moment too long before she **** herself to look away, though not without a smirk.

"The gods have certainly blessed you, my lord," she purred, her voice laced with amusement.

Sansa’s face burned crimson, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

Arya, for once, had nothing to say, her expression a mix of shock and something else—something almost like fascination.

The women continued their work, their fingers brushing against Lyonel’s skin as they removed his boots, his smallclothes, until he stood completely naked before them.

His body was a testament to his strength—broad shoulders, a chest like a barrel, arms thick with muscle, and legs that looked as though they could crush stone.

And then there was his cock, long and thick, standing proudly between his thighs, the object of their whispered marvels.

Margaery, ever the tease, reached out to brush her fingertips along the length of him, her touch light but deliberate.

"A weapon fit for a king," she murmured, her eyes meeting his for a brief, charged moment.

Lyonel’s breath hitched, his cock twitching in response, but he remained silent, his expression a mask of stoic endurance.

---

On the other side of the corridor, Brienne was enduring her own ordeal.

The noblemen, led by Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell, surrounded her, their laughter crude, their hands less gentle than the women’s.

Renly, his smile sharp and his eyes gleaming with amusement, was the first to reach for the laces of her gown.

"Come now, Brienne," he said, his voice dripping with false charm.

"We must prepare you for your husband."

The rose, yellow, and white fabric of her wedding dress was peeled away, revealing the simple shift beneath.

Brienne stood rigid, her jaw clenched, her eyes fixed straight ahead as if she could will herself anywhere but here.

The shift was tugged over her head, and the men fell silent for a moment, their jeers dying on their lips as they took in the sight of her.

Brienne was not built like the delicate ladies of the court. Her shoulders were broad, her waist thick, her arms corded with muscle. Her breasts were small, her nipples dark and tight, her stomach taut with the faintest hint of muscle beneath her skin.

Her golden underbush was thick and unkempt, a wild tangle of curls that spoke of a woman who had never bothered with the vanities of grooming.

Loras, ever the knight, averted his eyes slightly, though not without a flicker of surprise.

Renly, however, did not look away. His gaze lingered, his expression unreadable, before he **** a laugh.

"Well, Lyonel is a lucky man," he said, though his voice lacked its usual conviction.

The men continued, their hands rough as they removed her boots, her smallclothes, until she stood naked before them.

Brienne did not flinch.

She did not cover herself.

She simply stood, her body a testament to her strength, her defiance a shield against their mockery.

Some of the men, like Ser Kevan Lannister, looked away in disgust.

Others, like Loras, couldn’t help but stare, their expressions a mix of fascination and discomfort.