Robert Baratheon’s name had always carried the sound of celebration. Even before the feast began, the Red Keep felt louder than usual—music spilling through corridors, laughter ricocheting off stone, servants moving with the urgency of a court trying not to collapse under its own indulgence. It was his name day, and Westeros had come to remember why the king was both beloved and exhausting.

Every great house had answered the invitation. Ned Stark came with his family in tow. With him arrived Rhaeyna Vyrwell and Margaery Tyrell, their presence already enough to shift the temperature of every room they entered. Olenna Tyrell watched everything with the calm of a woman who had survived longer than most dynasties. Martells, Velaryons, and other lesser-but-not-less-dangerous houses filled the hall with layered allegiances, sharpened smiles.

By afternoon, the tourney had already begun its quiet wars. By evening, the feast was its louder echo. And somewhere between both, something unplanned took root. Tyrion Lannister had not been where people expected him to be—nor with who. He had spent most of the day beside Margaery Tyrell.

Not observed with the usual suspicion that followed Lannister proximity. Instead, there were murmured jokes, leaning shoulders, and laughter that seemed to ignore the rest of the court. Even Cersei’s gaze had lingered too long. Even Tywin’s silence had sharpened.

Even Oberyn Martell, seated farther down the hall, watched with an unreadable expression that carried memory more than surprise. Because Oberyn knew the Vyrwell name. Knew Lorcas. Knew what had been lost. And knew better than to speak of it aloud.

Robb Stark sat with the ease of someone who refused to perform correctness for anyone. One arm rested along the back of Rhaeyna’s chair as though it had always belonged there. His head dipped toward her ear, voice low enough to belong only to her, but not soft enough to hide the mischief in it. Rhaeyna laughed. Fully. It drew him like a physical force. Whatever he had said, it earned him a sharp glance and a playful strike against his shoulder.

Robb Stark, she warned, though her smile betrayed her, watch your mouth. You are a prince of the realm.

The correction barely landed before he caught her hand. Not abruptly. Not aggressively. Just decisively—like it was the most natural thing in the world. He turned her knuckles to his mouth and spoke against her skin, quiet enough that only she would hear.

A prince by court standards, he murmured, eyes still on her, but I am your king. Then, softer—dangerously amused: And striking your king is treason.

The reaction rippled outward before either of them looked up. Cersei Lannister stiffened first. Renly Baratheon followed. Olenna Tyrell simply lifted her cup, expression bright with something dangerously close to approval. Across the table, Tyrion leaned slightly toward Margaery, voice low beneath the noise.

Is it true, he asked, almost idly, that her fingers are what gave him those marks?

Margaery did not hesitate. She never did when it mattered. A small smile curved her mouth. Indeed, she replied, as if discussing weather. I told you she was something worth guarding. Her gaze flicked once toward Rhaeyna. Special things always leave marks.