This is a smaller Chapter.
Lyonel sat alone in Simon's tent, the air thick with the smell of oiled leather and steel. His brother's armour stood upon its stand like a silent sentinel, blackened plate catching the dull morning light. Lyonel stared at it without truly seeing it, his thoughts still trapped in the chamber where Emily had died.
The tent flap was thrown open.
"Lyonel?"
Ser Benedar stepped inside and froze. His eyes widened as though he had stumbled upon a ghost.
"Seven above," he said hoarsely. "What are you doing here? Where is your brother?"
Lyonel swallowed. "Simon has gone to Blackhaven."
Benedar's brow furrowed. "Why?"
"Emily died," Lyonel said. "Giving birth to their daughter."
The word daughter seemed to hang in the air.
"Fuck," Benedar whispered.
He crossed the tent in two long strides and pulled Lyonel into a rough embrace. The knight smelled of sweat and steel. It did nothing to ease the hollow ache in Lyonel's chest.
When Benedar finally stepped back, Lyonel spoke again, forcing the words out. "Ser Benedar… my brother has given me command of the men."
Benedar's hands fell to his sides. Shock flickered across his face, followed swiftly by something darker.
"He did what?" His voice sharpened. "Is he mad? To give command to a boy who has never seen battle?"
The words struck true, and that hurt more than Lyonel expected. Still, he nodded. "I know."
Before Benedar could reply, the tent flap opened again.
A large man ducked inside, clad in heavy armour. Antlers crowned his helmet, scraping the canvas as he straightened.
"Where is Lord Dondarrion?" Lord Baratheon demanded, "And why are you here, boy?"
"My brother has returned to Blackhaven, my lord."
Baratheon's face darkened. "WHY?"
Lyonel stiffened. He had heard the stories—Baratheons were storms given flesh.
"His wife, Lady Emily, died giving birth."
The fury drained from Baratheon's voice.
"Oh," he muttered. "Shit. I'm sorry for it." He studied Lyonel again. "Then why did you not leave with him?"
"My brother ordered me to stay and fight."
Baratheon nodded once. "Then armour yourself quickly. We ride soon."
He turned to leave, nearly catching his antlered helm on the tent entrance as he went.
Ser Benedar let out a long breath. "Come, then. I'll help you into your brother's armour."
Lyonel nods.
Simon's armour was magnificent.
The gambeson and mail were finely worked, but the plate—blackened Qohorik steel was something else entirely. A forked lightning bolt gleamed upon the breastplate, inlaid with deep purple amethyst. Simon had claimed it was a prize worthy of the Dragonpit tourney.
Lyonel lifted the helm. It was a greathelm of matching black steel, crowned with jagged bolts of amethyst lightning.
When he donned it, the armour fit him perfectly, as if forged for his body alone.
We always looked alike, Lyonel thought. Their father had once said they were twins born years apart.
Benedar stared at him. "Seven above. You look like a warrior, just like your father. Just like your brother."
For the first time since Emily's death, Lyonel smiled.
"Stay close to me," Benedar said quietly. "If you die, Lord Simon will kill me himself."
Lyonel nodded.
Outside, one hundred marcher knights waited, battle-hardened men in plate and mail, their surcoats and tabards bearing the forked lightning of House Dondarrion.
Lyonel whistled.
Thunder came at once, his great black steed stamping the ground. Lyonel mounted smoothly.
"I'm jealous of your horse," Benedar said.
"You should be."
Benedar lets out a little laugh.
Lyonel rode to Lord Baratheon's side. "Where is the king?"
"Above us."
Lyonel looked up.
Vermithor roared across the sky, circling above them, His shadows sweeping over the host as the army began to move.