The Great Hall swallowed them whole.

Lyonel followed Renly and Margaery as they made their way toward the long table where the lords and ladies of the court had already gathered. The air was thick with the scent of wine, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of power—raw, unyielding, and ever-shifting. His boots sank slightly into the rushes strewn across the stone floor, the rustle of silk and the murmur of voices wrapping around him like a second skin. This was not the battlefield. Here, the weapons were words and glances, and Lyonel had never been more aware of how ill-equipped he was.

Renly and Margaery took their seats near the front, Margaery’s laughter still lingering in the air like the aftertaste of spiced wine. Lyonel, however, was not afforded such privilege. A guard—Ser Preston Greenfield, his face as unreadable as ever—gestured toward a lone chair tucked against the far wall, near the shadows where the torchlight barely reached. A bastard’s place. He bit back the bitter taste in his mouth and moved toward it, his broad frame drawing eyes like a magnet. Whispers slithered after him, half-heard and venomous.

“Robert’s bastard…”

“Look at the size of him…”

“Does he even know how to use that monstrosity, or is it just for show?”

He ignored them all.

At the head of the Hall, the Iron Throne loomed, a twisted nightmare of swords and shadows. And upon it sat King Robert Baratheon, a mountain of a man reduced to a hollowed-out husk. His once-mighty frame was now buried beneath layers of fat, his belly straining against the gold and black of his tunic. His beard, once as fierce as a lion’s mane, was now a wild, grizzled tangle, streaked with silver and stained with wine. His face was puffy, his cheeks swollen, his eyes bloodshot and dull—a shadow of the conqueror who had crushed the Targaryens and won a throne. He looked like a man who had long since given up on being a king and had instead embraced the role of a drunken relic.

But it was not Robert who held Lyonel’s

attention or his gaze.To the king’s right stood Queen Cersei Lannister, a vision of gold and crimson, her gown clinging to her like a second skin. The fabric was a deep, rich red, embroidered with threads of gold that caught the light with every movement, a bold declaration of her Lannister blood. The neckline plunged daringly, the fabric parting just enough to tease the valley between her breasts, the gash in the gown a deliberate, provocative slash that drew the eye and held it. A necklace of emeralds and gold adorned her throat, the stones glinting like the eyes of a predator in the dark. Her hair was coiled into an intricate golden crown, each ringlet perfect, each strand a testament to the hours spent in preparation. Her face was a masterpiece—regal, scheming, exquisite—the years had done little to dim her beauty. If anything, they had honed it, sharpened it into something dangerous. She stood with the bearing of a queen who knew her worth, her green eyes sweeping over the Hall with arrogant disdain, lingering on Lyonel for a heartbeat too long. Her lips, painted the color of fresh blood, curved into something that was not quite a smile.

Beside her, Princess Myrcella sat with the poise of a woman twice her age. At sixteen, she was a softer, **** echo of her mother, her blonde hair tumbling in loose curls down her back, her yellow gown—a nod to her Baratheon lineage—clinging to her frame in a way that was both innocent and tantalizing. Her blue eyes, so like Robert’s, sparkled with mischief, her gaze flicking toward Lyonel with curious amusement. She caught him looking and offered him the faintest smirk, her fingers toying with the stem of her goblet. Teasing. Just like her mother, but without the venom.

And then there was Prince Joffrey.

Lyonel’s stepbrother lounged in his chair like a petulant cat, his golden curls framing a face that was too pretty, too cruel. His lips were pressed into a sulky pout, his emerald eyes—so like Cersei’s—narrowed in irritation. He was dressed in crimson and gold, the colors of his house, but the fabric looked too fine, too delicate for the brutality that lurked beneath. His fingers drummed impatiently against the armrest, his entire demeanor screaming entitlement and boredom. When his gaze met Lyonel’s, his upper lip curled in disgust. Bastard, that look said. You don’t belong here.

Lyonel held his gaze for a moment before turning away. He had no patience for Joffrey’s games.

“Enough!” Robert’s voice boomed through the Hall, silencing the murmurs. He leaned forward, his massive hands gripping the arms of the Iron Throne, his knuckles white. “I didn’t drag you all here at dawn to admire the tapestries. Jon Arryn is dead.”

A ripple of shock ran through the crowd. Gasps, muttered prayers, the rustle of silk as ladies clutched at their chests. Lyonel remained still, his expression carefully blank. He had already known, of course. The news had reached him in the training yard. But the weight of the king’s words settled over the Hall like a shroud.

Cersei’s fingers tightened around her goblet, her face a mask of feigned sorrow. “A tragic loss, my love,” she murmured, her voice smooth as poisoned honey. “The realm mourns with you.”

Robert grunted, waving a dismissive hand. “Old age took him. A mercy, if you ask me. The man was ancient.” He took a long swig from his own goblet, wine dripping down his beard. “But a Hand must be named, and named quickly. The realm cannot go without one.”

A pause. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut.

“Ned Stark will be the new Hand of the King,” Robert declared.

The Hall erupted.

Lords shouted, ladies gasped, and Joffrey’s face twisted into a snarl. “Father, you can’t be serious!” he snapped.

Robert’s eyes flashed with rare fire. “Ned Stark is the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms. He’ll bring order to this den of snakes.”

Cersei’s smile was razor-thin. “Order, or war? The Starks have never been fond of the south, my love."

Robert rounded on her, his voice a growl. “I’m reminding them of loyalty. Ned was with me at the Trident. He bled for this throne. He’ll serve it now.”

Lyonel watched the exchange with detached interest. He had never met Ned Stark, but he knew the stories—the quiet wolf, who had chosen honor over power.

“Silence!” The king’s roar cut through the noise. “The decision is made. Ned will be summoned, and we will ride north to Winterfell to meet him. The royal household leaves this afternoon.”

Margaery’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “This afternoon, Your Grace? Surely you mean to give the court time to prepare—”

“No.” Robert’s voice brooked no argument. “We leave after the funeral rites. Only my family.” His bloodshot eyes swept over the Hall, landing on Lyonel. “That includes you, boy.”

Lyonel stiffened. Me?

Cersei’s goblet clattered against the table. “Robert.” Her voice was icy, controlled. “Surely you don’t mean to drag your bastard along on a royal progress.”

The Hall fell dead silent.

Robert’s expression darkened. “Lyonel is my blood. He goes where I go.”

“He is a bastard,” Cersei hissed, her voice low and venomous. “A baseborn sword with no place among princes and kings.”

Lyonel’s fingers twitched toward Lionmane’s hilt. He **** them still.

Robert’s laugh was a bitter, ugly thing. “And yet, he’s more a man than half the lords in this Hall.” He leaned back in his throne, his gaze sweeping over the assembled court. “The matter is settled. The funeral rites for Jon Arryn will be held at midday. Afterward, we ride. Dismissed.”

Cersei’s face flushed with fury, but she said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her eyes promised retribution.

Joffrey’s sneer deepened, his gaze locking onto Lyonel with open hatred.

Myrcella, however, looked intrigued, her lips parting as if she meant to say something. But she remained silent, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the table.

Lyonel exhaled slowly, the weight of the king’s decree settling over him like armor. He was going to Winterfell. To the North. To a land of ice and wolves and ancient gods.