Book 2: The Secrets We Covet

Chapter 1 - Wine & Blood

And here we go again! I'm so excited to bring y'all the second installment of Lyon's story, but I also have some more news!

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Now, to our feature presentation...

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It was a strange thing to hear the clanging of blades in the air, yet not having one in her hands herself. She could almost imagine the cool blade against her clammy palm, but it had been a long time since she'd taken up the sword. Instead, Lyon watched below as combatants fought for the king's entertainment - the new king, Joffrey Baratheon. He had played an instrumental role in her father's death, refusing mercy. He said he had to prove to his people that he was not to be trifled with, but Lyon knew better. Every now and then she would catch him watching her, like a starving hound eyes flesh.

If he wanted her to react he would be sorely disappointed. Lyon was as expressionless as the day of her father's execution. She would give him nothing, owed him nothing. He would get nothing as well, as she was of the Baratheon name now.

Cersei had called it a miracle, though Lyon truly wondered whether that was so. "Lyon Baratheon" rolled rather well off the tongue, it was true that she resembled the queen and young Myrcella far more than she would ever resemble Sansa or Arya. There was a public acknowledgment of that. Cersei had claimed Lyon as her own, citing that her child had been taken from her and that she had fallen into Winterfell. It further painted Ned Stark as the master manipulator the public wanted so terribly for him to be. Lyon was, in every way she could make herself, a Baratheon.

"Well struck, dog." King Joffrey called out, only drawing Lyon's attention when he turned to Sansa. "Did you like that?"

Sansa's dead eyes stared ahead. "It was well struck, Your Grace."

"I already said it was well struck."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Lyon's heart sank for Sansa. She could see the disapproval in Joffrey's eyes and feared that every time Sansa said something he didn't like, he would create another bruise across her soft face.

"And you, my dear sister? What do you think?"

A lure, Lyon imagined. What could she say that he wouldn't hate? "His footwork was fine indeed."

He eyed her a little longer. Then, satisfied with her response, turned away. "Who's next?"

They listened as the next combatant was announced, and he stepped forward. Another was named, yet there was no movement. He called again, louder this time. From the ramparts came the noisy scuttling of steel armor, and out came a portly man wearing a breastplate accommodating the thick wine belly that sprouted over his belt.

"Here I am. Here I am!" He foolishly dropped his helmet, set it upon his head again. First the wrong way, then tried again. "Sorry, Your Grace. My deepest apologies."

If wine and blood weren't so prevalent in the air, Lyon imagined she could smell the wine on his breath wafting over to her. To drown out the bitterness of the blood, she took a deep drink from her goblet. It was all she could taste and smell now and had been for some time.

"Are you drunk?" Joffrey asked the man.

"No. Uh, no, Your Grace. I had - I had two cups of wine."