The Seed Is Strong

The first light of dawn crept over the battlements of the Red Keep, painting the stone in hues of rose and gold. The training yard was empty save for the whisper of the wind and the rhythmic, measured breaths of two men. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint metallic tang of blood—old blood, from yesterday’s sparring, still clinging to the mud.

At the center of the yard stood Ser Lyonel Rivers, his massive frame silhouetted against the breaking sun. He was shirtless, his broad chest and arms corded with muscle, his black hair tied back in a loose knot, damp with sweat. In his hands, he gripped Lionmane, a greatsword nearly as tall as a lesser man, its double-edged blade gleaming dully in the pale light. The weapon was a monster, forged for a giant, its weight enough to break the spine of an ordinary knight. But Lyonel wielded it as though it were an extension of his own body, his fingers wrapped around the leather-bound hilt with the ease of long familiarity.

Across from him, Lord Renly Baratheon stood poised, his own sword—a slender, elegant longsword named Dawn’s Kiss—held lightly in his grasp. Renly was a study in contrast: where Lyonel was brute strength and raw power, Renly was grace, his movements fluid as a dancer’s, his emerald-green doublet embroidered with golden roses, his dark hair perfectly arranged despite the early hour. His smile, as always, was easy, but his eyes were sharp, calculating.

“You’re tense, nephew,” Renly called, circling Lyonel with the lithe confidence of a man who had never known doubt. “Did you dream of dragons again?”

Lyonel exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh. “I dream of swords, Uncle. Only swords.”

Renly chuckled, twirling Dawn’s Kiss in a flourish. “A shame. Dreams of dragons would be far more interesting.” He lunged suddenly, his blade a silver streak in the morning light.

Lyonel met the strike with a resounding clang, the **** of the impact sending a shudder through the yard. Lionmane drank the blow, its weight absorbing the shock as Lyonel twisted his wrists, turning Renly’s thrust aside with a flick of his blade. The greatsword’s momentum carried it in a wide arc, and Renly barely managed to leap back, his boots kicking up dust.

“Gods, you’re a brute,” Renly gasped, but his grin never faltered. “No finesse, no art—just raw, ugly strength.”

Lyonel didn’t reply. He advanced, his footsteps heavy, deliberate. Renly was right, in a way. There was no art in Lyonel’s fighting, no poetry. There was only power. The kind that came from years of swinging a blade heavier than most men could lift, from the knowledge that one mistake, one moment of hesitation, could mean ****.

Renly feinted left, then darted right, his sword flashing toward Lyonel’s ribs. Lyonel pivoted, Lionmane sweeping down in a crushing overhand strike. Renly parried, but the **** of the blow sent him stumbling, his arms trembling with the effort.

“You’re holding back,” Lyonel said, his voice a low rumble.

Renly wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his breath coming faster now. “And you’re a liar. You’ve never held back a day in your life.”

Lyonel didn’t deny it. He pressed forward, driving Renly across the yard with a series of brutal, relentless strikes. Each swing of Lionmane sent shockwaves through the ground, each parry from Renly’s blade a ****, ringing protest. The greatsword was a storm, and Renly a willow bending before its fury.

“You fight like a man who has something to prove,” Renly panted, dodging another crushing blow. “But what is it, Lyonel? What do you have to prove?”

Lyonel’s jaw tightened. Everything. He was a bastard, born of a cousin of Lord Ashford—a woman whose name was barely whispered in the halls of the Red Keep. Alysanne Ashford had died when he was five, her memory faded to little more than a face in his dreams. He had no lands, no title, no true place in the world. All he had was this: the weight of Lionmane in his hands, the sweat on his skin, the knowledge that, in this moment, he was unstoppable.

He feinted high, then swept low, his blade skimming the ground before snapping upward. Renly yelped, barely twisting away in time, but Lyonel’s boot caught him in the chest, sending him sprawling onto his back.

Renly lay there for a moment, staring up at the sky, his chest heaving. Then, to Lyonel’s surprise, he laughed. “Gods, you’re terrifying. A calamity for your lady wife-to-be. You would be dragged to the altar like the cattle to the chopping block.” He sat up, brushing dirt from his doublet.

Renly must have seen the shift in his expression, because his smile softened. “Relax, nephew. I’m married to Margaery, remember? It happens to the best of us. A political match, nothing more. Though, yours would be more than that if that bulge of yours is any indication.” He stood, offering Lyonel a hand.

Lyonel ignored the offered hand, hauling Renly to his feet by the front of his doublet instead. “You’re my uncle,” he growled. “Don’t speak of me like that.”

Renly’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Oh, come now. We both know the ladies—and some of the lords—speak of little else. That sword of yours isn’t the only thing that’s legendary, is it?”

Lyonel’s grip tightened, just for a heartbeat. Then he released Renly, stepping back. “I’ve never been with a woman,” he said quietly.

Renly blinked. Then, to Lyonel’s irritation, he threw his head back and laughed. “By the gods, you’re serious!” He clapped Lyonel on the shoulder. “Nephew, you’re nineteen years old, built like a war god, and you’ve never known anyone? What in the Seven Hells have you been doing with your time?”

Lyonel scowled, turning away to retrieve his discarded tunic. “Training. Fighting. Surviving.”

“Surviving?” Renly’s voice sobered. “This is the Red Keep, not the streets of Flea Bottom. You’re Robert’s bastard, not some gutter rat.”

“Bastard is bastard,” Lyonel muttered, pulling the tunic over his head. “And I’ve only ever fought in one tourney. I’m not some famed warrior.”

Renly’s expression turned thoughtful. “No. But you could be.” He picked up Dawn’s Kiss, sheathed it with a practiced flick of his wrist. “You have the skill. The strength. The—” He gestured vaguely at Lyonel’s lower half. “The equipment. All you lack is the opportunity.”

Lyonel opened his mouth to reply, but the words died on his lips as a new voice cut through the morning air.

“Ser Lyonel! My lord!”

A servant girl stood at the edge of the yard, her cheeks flushed, her hands clutching the fabric of her dress. She was young, no more than sixteen, with auburn hair escaping from beneath her white cap. Her eyes darted between the two men, wide and uncertain.

“What is it?” Renly asked, his tone sharpening.

The girl curtsied hastily. “The king—he’s summoned you both to the Great Hall. At once.”

Lyonel frowned. “At this hour?”

The girl swallowed, her fingers twisting in her skirts. “It’s urgent, my lords. The Hand—Lord Arryn—he’s—”

“Dead,” came a voice from the shadows of the archway.

Both men turned. Varys stood there, his face unreadable, his hands folded demurely before him. “The king awaits you,” the Spider said, his voice a silken whisper. “And he is not a man to be kept waiting.”

Renly sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Well. That’s never a good sign.” He glanced at Lyonel. “Come, nephew. Let’s see what our dear king wants now.”

Lyonel nodded, slinging Lionmane over his shoulder. As he followed Renly toward the keep, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. The air was charged, the way it was before a storm. And storms in King’s Landing never ended well.

The corridors of the Red Keep were alive with the hushed urgency of a hive stirred by smoke. Servants darted like shadows, their whispers bouncing off the cold stone walls, while the distant clatter of armor and the murmur of anxious voices filled the air. Lyonel walked a half-step behind Renly, his boots thudding softly against the flagstones, Lionmane slung over his shoulder like a promise of ****. The greatsword’s weight was a comfort, a reminder of his place in a world that had never quite decided where he belonged.

Renly, ever the picture of effortless grace, strode ahead, his emerald doublet catching the flickering torchlight. “Old age, they say,” he mused, glancing back at Lyonel. “Jon Arryn was ancient, true, but he had the constitution of an ox. To drop dead so suddenly…” He trailed off, his brow furrowing. “It smells like trouble.”

Lyonel grunted in agreement. “Trouble for the realm, or trouble for us?”

Renly smirked. “Is there a difference?”

They turned a corner, the Great Hall’s towering oak doors looming ahead, flanked by two of the Kingsguard—Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Preston Greenfield—both standing rigid as statues. Their white cloaks were pristine, their faces impassive, but Lyonel caught the way their eyes flicked toward him, lingering just a moment too long. He ignored them. He was used to the looks—the curiosity, the wariness, the poorly hidden distaste. Bastard or not, he was still Robert’s blood, and that alone made him a man to be watched.

“Robert will name a new Hand,” Renly continued, lowering his voice. “And if he’s calling us to the Hall at dawn, it means he’s already decided. The question is, who?”

Lyonel considered it. “Ned Stark.”

Renly stopped so abruptly that Lyonel nearly walked into him. “What?”

Lyonel shrugged. “Who else? Robert trusts him more than his own shadow. And after the rebellion…” He didn’t need to finish. Everyone knew the bond between Robert and Ned Stark was forged in blood and brotherhood.

Renly exhaled sharply, his breath hissing between his teeth. “Gods, you’re probably right. Stark’s as stubborn as he is honorable. If Robert drags him south, the North won’t be pleased.”

“And the Lannisters will be less pleased,” Lyonel added.

Renly chuckled darkly. “Cersei will throw a fit that could be heard in Oldtown.” He resumed walking, his pace quicker now, as if the thought of the queen’s displeasure amused him. “Still, it’s not our problem.”

Lyonel said nothing. He knew better than to assume anything in this den of vipers was just anything.

The doors to the Great Hall were ajar, and the low hum of voices spilled into the corridor. Renly adjusted the cuffs of his doublet, smoothing the fabric with practiced ease. “Ah, well. Best get this over with.”

But before they could step inside, a voice cut through the murmur like a blade through silk.

“Renly, darling.”

Lady Margaery Tyrell stood in the doorway, her presence as impossible to ignore as a wildfire in a dry forest. She was dressed in a gown of pale greenish-white, the color of new leaves touched by morning dew. The neckline dipped just enough to tease, the fabric clinging to her curves in a way that was equal parts elegance and invitation. Her chestnut hair cascaded in loose waves over her shoulders, framing a face that was all soft angles and warm smiles. But it was her eyes that held Lyonel—green as summer grass, wide and doe-like, fringed with lashes that cast delicate shadows on her cheeks. Her lips, full and painted the faintest shade of rose, curved into a smile as she turned her gaze on him.

“Ser Lyonel,” she purred, her voice like honeyed wine. “How lovely to see you.”

Lyonel bowed, his movements stiff with the unfamiliarity of courtly grace. He took her offered hand, his calloused fingers brushing against her skin as he pressed his lips to her knuckles. The scent of roses and something sweeter—jasmine, perhaps—drifted up from her wrist, intoxicating and dangerous. “My lady,” he rumbled, straightening. “You honor me.”

Margaery’s laughter was a melody, light and musical. “Oh, the honor is mine, ser. ” Her fingers lingered in his for a heartbeat longer than necessary, her thumb tracing the rough pad of his palm.

Lyonel felt the heat rise in his face and cursed himself for it. He was no green boy, yet here he was, flustered by a woman’s touch. He pulled his hand back, clearing his throat. “I’m afraid I’m not half as interesting as the rumors, my lady.”

Margaery’s smile deepened, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I doubt that very much.” She turned to Renly, looping her arm through his with the ease of a woman who knew her place—and her power. “Husband, you didn’t tell me Ser Lyonel was joining us.”

Renly rolled his eyes, though his smirk betrayed his amusement. “Margaery, must you flirt with every man in the Keep?”

“Only the ones worth flirting with,” she replied, her gaze flicking back to Lyonel. “And Ser Lyonel is definitely worth it.”

Lyonel shifted uncomfortably, his grip tightening on Lionmane’s hilt. He had no idea how to respond to her—how to navigate the unspoken game she was playing. Was this how noblewomen always spoke, or was she toying with him? He glanced at Renly, but his uncle only shrugged, as if to say, You’re on your own.

Margaery leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me, Ser Lyonel, is it true what they say about the size of a man’s sword?”

Lyonel’s breath caught. For a heartbeat, the Hall, the King, the entire world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them—and the weight of her words.

Renly burst out laughing, clapping Lyonel on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “Gods, Margaery, you’ll make the poor man **** on his own tongue!”

Margaery giggled, the sound bright and infectious. “Oh, don’t be such a prude, my lord. I was speaking of Lionmane, of course.” Her eyes flicked to the greatsword, then back to Lyonel, her innocence so perfectly feigned that Lyonel wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not.

Before he could respond, a booming voice echoed from within the Hall.

“Enough dawdling! Get in here, the both of you!”

Robert Baratheon’s voice was unmistakable—rough as gravel, loud as thunder. Margaery’s smile turned knowing, and with a final, lingering look at Lyonel, she stepped back, gesturing toward the doors. “After you, ser.”

Lyonel hesitated only a moment before squaring his shoulders and stepping forward. The Great Hall stretched before him, its high ceiling lost in shadow, its walls lined with the banners of great houses and the flickering glow of a hundred torches. At the far end, upon the Iron Throne, sat the king himself, his massive frame draped in black and gold, his beard wild, his eyes bloodshot. Beside him stood Cersei Lannister, her golden hair coiled like a crown, her emerald gaze sharp enough to cut glass. Joffrey lurked at her side, his expression a sulky sneer, while Varys and Pycelle hovered nearby like carrion birds.

The air was thick with tension, the kind that preceded a storm.

And Lyonel Rivers, bastard son of a king, was walking straight into its heart.