It was the sixth day after they had started from King's Landing.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the small town of Brindlewood loomed ahead, its thatched roofs and timber walls a welcome sight.

The inn, a two-story building with a sagging sign depicting a boar and barrel, was the largest structure in sight. Robert didn’t hesitate. “We’ll take the inn,” he declared, swinging down from his destrier with a groan. “The rest of you can camp in the fields.”

Cersei didn’t argue. She stepped down from the litter with effortless grace, her gown somehow still pristine despite the journey.

Myrcella and Tommen followed, the boy yawning as a servant hurried forward to escort them inside.

Joffrey dismounted with a huff, his gaze lingering on the mud-splattered hem of his cloak as if it were a personal insult.

Lyonel watched as the royal family disappeared inside, the door shutting firmly behind them. The Kingsguard dismounted, Ser Jaime stripping off his gauntlets with a sigh. “Gods, I’d kill for a decent wine right now.”

“You’ll get water like the rest of us,” Sandor grunted, swinging down from his saddle. “Unless you fancy sleeping with the horses.”

Jaime smirked. “I’d rather sleep with your sister.”

Sandor’s hand went to his sword. “Try it, kingslayer.”

Lyonel dismounted before the argument could escalate, Ashford snorting in approval.

The servants were already unpacking the litters, setting up tents in the field beside the inn. A fire crackled to life, its orange glow casting long shadows across the grass.

Sandor tossed Lyonel a waterskin. “Drink. Then take first watch. I’m not babysitting you all night.”

Lyonel caught it, the leather cool against his palm. “Wouldn’t dream of asking.”

The Hound snorted, then stalked off toward the fire, leaving Lyonel alone with the darkening sky and the weight of the road ahead.

The night was alive in a way the Red Keep never was.

Lyonel sat with his back against the gnarled trunk of an old oak, its roots twisting into the earth like the fingers of some slumbering giant. The fire had burned down to embers, the crackle of dying flames the only sound besides the distant hoot of an owl and the rustle of wind through the grass.

The others slept—Kingsguard snoring in their tents, servants curled beneath thin blankets, even Ashford dozing where he stood, his massive head drooping. Only Lyonel remained awake, his gaze fixed on the sky.

The stars were brutal in their beauty, a scatter of silver daggers against the black velvet of the night. He recognized some of them—the Ice Dragon, the Moonmaid, the Sword of the Morning—names his mother had whispered to him when he was small.

The gods wrote their stories in the sky, little lion, she had said. All we have to do is look up to remember we’re part of something greater.

He flexed his fingers, the silver of her ring catching the starlight. Alysanne Ashford. A woman of gentle hands and quiet strength, stolen from him before he could even remember the sound of her voice. The court had called her **** an illness. The servants had called it poison. And Cersei—well, Cersei had never spoken of it at all.

Lyonel exhaled, his breath misty in the cold. He had spent his life swinging a sword, proving himself, clawing for scraps of respect in a world that would always see him as less. And for what? To ride at the back of a royal procession, a glorified guard for a family that tolerated him at best?

His fingers twitched toward Lionmane’s hilt. The greatsword was comforting, its weight a reminder that he was more than just Robert’s bastard.

He was a warrior.

A survivor.

A man who had earned every scar on his body.

But tonight, under this endless sky, he felt small.

"You’re brooding." The voice was a rough growl, cutting through the silence like a blade.

Lyonel didn’t startle. He had heard Sandor Clegane approaching long before the Hound spoke. "Thinking," he corrected, not looking away from the stars.

Sandor snorted, dropping down beside him with the grace of a man who had never known grace. He tossed a half-empty wineskin at Lyonel’s chest. "Thinking’s a good way to drive yourself mad. Drink."

Lyonel caught the skin, the leather warm from Sandor’s grip. He took a swig—the wine was cheap and bitter, the kind that burned on the way down. It suited him. "You always this charming on watch?"

Sandor grunted, stretching his legs out toward the embers. "Only when I’m stuck with moody bastards who look like they’re planning a ****."

He tilted his head back, his helm resting against the tree. The firelight flickered across the twisted metal, casting monstrous shadows on his face.

A pause. Then, quieter: "You’re not the only one who’s lost things."

Lyonel glanced at him. The Hound’s eyes—what he could see of them beneath the helm—were fixed on the darkness beyond the fire. Not the stars. The ground. Like he was waiting for something to crawl out of it.

"You ever wonder what it’s all for?" Lyonel asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Sandor was silent for a long moment. Then: "No." He took the wineskin back, draining the last of it. "Wondering doesn’t bring them back." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now sleep. I’ll take the next watch. You look like hell."

Lyonel didn’t argue. He pushed himself to his feet, his bones aching from the ride. The grass was damp beneath his cloak as he lay down, but he didn’t care. The ground was hard, the night was cold, and for the first time in years, he didn’t feel alone in it.

Dawn came too soon.

The sun rose in a blaze of gold and pink, turning the dew on the grass to liquid fire. Lyonel woke to the sound of shouting—Robert bellowing about breakfast, Joffrey whining about the state of his boots, Cersei’s voice like ice as she ordered the servants about. He groaned, rubbing his face. His mouth tasted like ash, his body ached, and the road ahead stretched like a taunt.

The Kingsroad seemed endless, the land flattening into monotonous fields and dense thickets that clawed at their clothes. The litter wheels squeaked, Joffrey complained, and Tommen nearly fell off his pony twice before Ser Meryn hauling him back up.

Even Ashford seemed tired, his hooves dragging in the dust. Lyonel was counting the days he had to sleep in the ditches like some hedge knight.