Simon POV
Simon's eyes widened as the shadow passed over Blackhaven.
A dragon.
Vermithor.
Only moments ago, Simon had left his daughter's chamber, leaving little Emily sleeping peacefully in her cradle. Now the bronze giant descended from the sky, wings beating the air into a frenzy as he circled the castle.
His heart began to pound.
Is it over? he wondered. Is the Vulture King dead?
And Lyonel—
Seven above, please let Lyonel be alive.
Simon had left his brother in command. He had ridden home instead of staying. The thought gnawed at him now, sharp with guilt and fear.
Vermithor landed in the courtyard with a thunderous crash, stone shuddering beneath his weight. Heat rolled outward in waves, and the air filled with the smell of smoke and ash.
Simon did not wait.
He ran.
By the time he reached the courtyard, his breath was ragged. The dragon loomed like a living mountain of bronze and fire. King Jaehaerys stood before him, one hand resting calmly against Vermithor's massive neck, speaking softly as though to a well-trained hound.
Then Simon saw him.
Lyonel lay on the ground some distance away, on hands and knees, retching violently onto the stone.
Simon froze for half a heartbeat.
Lyonel?
How in the Seven hells is he here?
Then understanding struck him.
The dragon.
Simon had known his brother all his life. Lyonel hated heights. Hated towers. Even the battlements of Blackhaven made him uneasy.
Riding a dragon would break him.
Simon rushed forward and knelt beside him, gripping his shoulder. "Easy," he said quietly, hauling him up before Lyonel could collapse. "I've got you."
Lyonel tried to speak but only gagged again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, face pale as chalk.
King Jaehaerys turned then. "Lead me to your maester."
Simon looked up—and his breath caught.
Blood stained the King's thigh, seeping dark through chain and cloth.
Through chainmail.
Simon's eyes widened.
How did the King get wounded? And by what blade?
The King met his gaze, expression unreadable. "Now."
Simon nodded sharply. "This way, Your Grace."
He steadied Lyonel, slipping his brother's arm over his shoulder, and together they began the walk toward Maester Rudy's chambers—dragon fire still warming the stones behind them, and far too many questions burning in Simon's mind.
Lyonel POV
Lyonel's stomach twisted as Simon half-carried him down the corridor.
Seven hells, that dragon ride had broken him.
Even with his eyes squeezed shut the entire time, he had felt death breathing down his neck. The wind had clawed at him, tearing at his clothes, howling in his ears like it wanted to rip him from the dragon's back and cast him straight into the Stranger's arms.
He swallowed hard, bile still burning his throat.
"We're here," Simon said.
His brother let go, and Lyonel swayed on his feet. The world spun in slow, sickening circles. He braced a hand against the wall as Simon pushed open the heavy doors.
Warm light spilled over them.
Maester Rudy looked up from his table, surprise flashing across his lined face.
"Rudy," Simon called urgently. "Quick—help the King and Lyonel."
The maester hurried forward, robes whispering against the stone. He reached Lyonel first, steady hands guiding him to a nearby bed. Lyonel sank onto it gratefully, every muscle trembling.
Rudy studied his face for a moment, then glanced toward King Jaehaerys and the blood darkening his thigh.
"Stay put, Lyonel," the maester said. "I will tend to His Grace first."
Lyonel nodded. Of course. The King was wounded. Nothing else mattered until that was seen to.
King Jaehaerys' voice cut through the room, calm but firm. "Lord Simon, leave us. And send a rider to Lord Baratheon. Tell him to return at once."
Simon straightened immediately. "Yes, Your Grace."
As he turned to go, he looked back at Lyonel and offered a small, reassuring smile. Lyonel tried to return it, but his face felt heavy and numb.
Then Simon was gone.
The door closed with a soft thud, leaving only Lyonel, the King, and Maester Rudy in the quiet chamber.
Maester Rudy worked quickly at the King's wound, his hands steady as he cut away bloodied cloth. Lyonel could not bear to watch. He lowered his eyes to the stone floor and tried to steady his breathing.
His thoughts would not obey him.
The past few days crashed together in his mind like waves against rock. Emily was dead. Dead, giving birth to his niece. He had marched to war, fought in his first true battle, and slain the Vulture King with his own sword.
Seven above… I wanted to fight. I did not want this.
The memories returned unbidden. The battlefield. The smell of blood and smoke. Bodies strewn across the earth like broken dolls. Some lay torn open, their insides spilling into the dirt.
Like Emily.
The thought struck him like a blow. His stomach twisted violently. Heat rose in his throat. He clamped a hand over his mouth and staggered to his feet, his vision swimming.
A bucket sat near the wall.
He barely reached it in time.
His body emptied itself in a violent rush, each heave leaving him weaker than the last. When it was over, Lyonel stood shaking, sweat cold on his skin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tried to steady himself.
"Lyonel."
He looked up. Maester Rudy was watching him with calm, knowing eyes.
"Rest," the maester said gently. "Do not rise again. Sit."
Lyonel nodded, too drained to speak. He returned to the bed and sank onto it, the straw mattress creaking beneath his weight. His limbs felt heavy, distant, as if they belonged to someone else.
To keep the memories at bay, he hummed softly under his breath — a tune from childhood, simple and familiar. He clung to it like a lifeline, letting the sound fill the silence where his thoughts threatened to return.
Hendry POV
The inn crouched beside the road like a tired animal, its windows glowing warm against the dark. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the smell of roasting meat drifted into the cold air.
Hendry's stomach growled.
Beside him, Hary stared at the inn as if it were the gates of a castle. "We have to get into Blackhaven," Hary muttered. "The King is there."
Hendry nodded, but doubt weighed heavily in his chest. They had left Nightsong dreaming of glory, of carving their names into songs. Now they stood in torn clothes that stank of sweat and travel, robbed of horses, weapons, and pride.
"We can't, Hary," Hendry said quietly. "Look at us. Lord Dondarrion wouldn't let us through the gates before. He won't now. Not with the King inside."
Hary scoffed. "Stop sounding like a frightened child. We are knights. We came to make names for ourselves, not slink home like whipped dogs."
Hendry clenched his jaw. "And you will get us killed. We should make a plan to return to Nightsong. We can—"
"We are not going back," Hary snapped. "We rest here. Tomorrow we try again."
Hendry exhaled slowly. Then a colder thought struck him.
Coin.
His hand went to his belt. Empty.
"Hary," he said carefully. "Do you have any coin?"
Hary frowned. "No. I gave the pouch to you."
Hendry shook his head. "I don't have it."
For a heartbeat, Hary simply stared. Then he threw his arms wide and shouted, "We have no coin!"
Conversations around the inn faltered. A few travellers turned to stare. Someone laughed. Hendry felt heat crawl up his neck and wished the ground would swallow him whole.
Hary rounded on him, voice rising as he began to berate him. Hendry endured it in silence, each word another stone added to the weight he already carried.
"You two."
The voice was old and rough, like gravel under a boot.
Hendry looked up. An elderly man stood nearby, thin but wiry, his hands calloused and stained with dirt. He studied them with sharp, assessing eyes.
"You need coin," the old man said.
Hendry nodded cautiously.
"I've sacks that need lifting," the man continued. "Help me carry them, and I'll give you enough for a night's stay and a meal."
Relief flooded Hendry so suddenly that it almost hurt. He opened his mouth to accept—
Hary cut in. "Me? Doing a peasant's labour? I am a nobleman."
Hendry closed his eyes for a brief second, steadying himself.
"I'm sorry," he said to the old man. "My brother… has his pride tangled. I'll do the work."
The old man's lips twitched, not quite a smile. He gave a single approving nod.
"Good," he said. "Follow me."
Hendry spared one glance at Hary before stepping after the man. Hunger gnawed at his belly, and shame burned in his chest — but beneath it all was something harder and steadier.
Survival.
And for now, that would have to be enough.