Wood rang on wood in the training yard of Blackhaven.
The sound echoed off the black stone walls, sharp as thunderclaps, and Lyonel Dondarrion felt each impact through his arms and into his bones. Sweat slicked his palms. His breathing came hard, fast, but he did not yield an inch.
Ser Benedar circled him, calm as a man strolling through a garden. The master-at-arms was past fifty, his beard gone mostly grey, his shoulders thick with old muscle rather than youth. He had fought in the wars of Maegor the Cruel, back when kings burned men alive and castles fell screaming. Time had slowed him, but it had not dulled him.
"Again," Benedar said.
Lyonel attacked.
He stepped in quick, blade angled low, then snapped it up toward Benedar's shoulder, a feint meant to draw the parry wide. Benedar answered smoothly, turning the blow aside with barely a flick of the wrist. Lyonel followed with a shield bash—wood against wood—and for a heartbeat he thought he had him.
Benedar smiled.
The older knight slid inside Lyonel's guard, twisted his hips, and struck. The wooden blade cracked against Lyonel's ribs, hard enough to knock the breath from him. Lyonel stumbled, overcorrected, and that was the moment his youth betrayed him. He lunged too soon, too eagerly.
Benedar stepped aside and swept Lyonel's legs.
The world turned sideways. Lyonel hit the packed dirt on his arse, breath exploding from his lungs in a grunt. Dust rose around him. Laughter drifted from the men-at-arms watching from the yard's edge.
Ser Benedar lowered his sword and offered a hand.
Lyonel glared up at him, chest heaving, pride stinging worse than the fall. After a moment, he took the hand and let himself be hauled to his feet.
"One day," Lyonel said, wiping sweat from his brow, "I'll beat you."
Benedar chuckled. "I'll be in my grave before that happens, lad."
Lyonel opened his mouth to answer—
"Lyonel. Ser Benedar. My solar. Now."
The voice cut clean through the yard.
Lyonel turned. His brother stood at the edge of the training ground, dark hair tied back, the lightning bolts of House Dondarrion stitched proudly across his doublet. Simon Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven, looked every inch the marcher lord—stern, broad-shouldered, already weathered by command.
Simon did not wait for a reply. He turned and strode back toward the castle.
Benedar inclined his head. "Best not keep him waiting."
They returned their wooden swords and shields to the racks and followed, boots ringing on stone as they climbed the narrow steps into Blackhaven's heart. The solar smelled of parchment and beeswax. Simon sat behind a heavy oaken desk, a letter unfolded before him.
Lyonel broke the silence first. "What's the matter, brother?"
Simon looked up, and for once the hardness in his eyes was something close to excitement.
"Lord Rogar Baratheon is coming to Blackhaven," he said. "And King Jaehaerys with him."
Lyonel felt his heart jolt.
The Lord of Storm's End. The King. Here.
Ser Benedar's eyes sharpened. "Are they coming about the Vulture King, my lord?"
Simon smiled thinly. "They are. Lord Rogar rides first, in a few days' time, with four hundred men. He's ordered me to ready my best warriors. We will join the hunt."
A true war, Lyonel thought. Not drills. Not border skirmishes. A king's justice, carried by steel and fire.
"When will His Grace arrive?" Lyonel asked.
Simon shook his head. "The letter does not say. Only that he comes with Vermithor."
The name sent a shiver through Lyonel. The Bronze Fury. He remembered being nine namedays old, standing atop Blackhaven's walls as King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne had come before, their dragons—Vermithor and Silverwing—casting shadows like living storms across the earth. Magnificent. Terrifying. Beautiful.
"Ser Benedar," Simon said, rising, "gather the finest knights in my domain. Only men with experience. I will not send green boys against the Vulture King."
Benedar bowed. "As you command, my lord."
He departed, leaving the brothers alone.
Simon came around the desk and stopped before Lyonel. For a moment, he was not a lord, but an older brother.
"You are sixteen namedays now," Simon said. "A man grown. I was your age when Father led me against a Dornish raid. I bled that day."
Lyonel nodded eagerly. "I won't fail you. I'll cut the heads from those Dornish snakes myself."
Simon's expression hardened.
"You will not fight in this war."
The words struck harder than any blow in the yard.
"What?" Lyonel stared at him. "Brother—"
"You are my heir," Simon said firmly. "If I fall, you inherit Blackhaven. If we both fall—"
"Emily is with child," Lyonel snapped. "You've said it yourself."
"And she could die birthing it," Simon replied. "The babe with her."
Silence stretched between them.
Simon straightened, voice rising—not as a brother now, but as a lord. "This is my order. I am Lord of Blackhaven, Head of House Dondarrion. You will remain here."
"Damn you," Lyonel muttered.
"Leave," Simon said.
Lyonel did.
He stormed through the halls, slammed his chamber door hard enough to rattle the hinges. "Stupid Simon," he snarled to the empty room. "As if it's my fault he waited so long to get a child."
His sword rested against the bed, where he'd left it that morning. Lyonel seized it, yanked it free of its sheath, and flung the scabbard aside.
He began to move.
The blade cut the air in practiced arcs—high guard to low, step and turn, cut and recover. He imagined Dornishmen before him, lean and sneering, imagined their blades flashing, their blood spilling onto the sand.
"Come on then," he breathed, striking faster, harder, anger fueling every swing. "Come and die."
But no matter how fierce he fought the shadows, the truth burned hotter than his rage:
The war was coming.
And he would not be allowed to fight it.