Two days had passed since Simon had told him he could not fight, and Lyonel Dondarrion had not grown any more content with it.
If anything, the anger sat heavier in his chest now, like a stone lodged behind his ribs. He could not fight the Vulture King. Could not ride with the banners. Could not prove himself. So he did the only thing left to him.
He trained.
The yard rang with the sound of wood on wood as Lyonel faced two men at once.
Aethon came at him from the left, broad and slow but strong, his wooden sword raised high for a heavy downward chop. Garon circled to the right, lighter on his feet, probing with quick jabs meant to distract. Neither was a master, but both were competent men who knew how to fight without killing themselves. That was why Lyonel had chosen them.
"Together," Lyonel said, breath steady. "Don't wait."
They obeyed.
Aethon swung. Lyonel stepped inside the blow, catching the wooden blade on his own with a sharp crack and ramming his shoulder forward. Aethon staggered back, grunting. Lyonel turned instantly, blade flashing up to knock aside Garon's thrust.
Too slow.
Garon recovered quickly, darting in again. Lyonel gave ground this time, retreating two steps, drawing them forward. Aethon lunged, overconfident now, and Lyonel punished him for it—he twisted, swept Aethon's legs with a low strike, and sent him sprawling into the dirt.
Garon rushed him, shouting.
Lyonel met him head-on.
Their blades clashed, fast and furious. Lyonel let Garon press him, absorbing the blows, counting the rhythm. One, two—there. He broke the pattern, slammed his hilt into Garon's wrist, and kicked his knee sideways.
Garon went down hard.
Aethon was already scrambling up, face red, anger flashing in his eyes. He charged.
Lyonel sidestepped and struck him square across the back, sending him sprawling again. Before either man could rise, Lyonel planted his boot between them and leveled his blade.
"Yield," he said.
They did.
Silence fell over the yard.
Then someone clapped.
Once. Twice. Slowly.
Lyonel turned.
Ser Benedar stood near the racks, arms folded, a pleased smile beneath his grey beard. "Well fought," the old knight said.
Pride flared in Lyonel's chest, warm and fierce. He grinned and turned back to the fallen men. "Aethon—catch."
He tossed his wooden sword. Aethon snatched it out of the air with a laugh.
Lyonel walked to Benedar and, without thinking, embraced him. The older man stiffened in surprise, then chuckled and returned the hug with one thick arm.
"I missed you," Lyonel said.
"And I see you haven't gone soft," Benedar replied. "I've returned with the men."
Lyonel's heart leapt. "The knights?"
"One hundred," Benedar said. "Battle-tested. Marcher men. Loyal."
Lyonel glanced around the yard, confused. "Where are they, then?"
Benedar snorted. "With their wives. Their children. Their beds. The King isn't here yet, nor Lord Baratheon. Why would they stand armored in the yard like statues?"
Heat crept into Lyonel's face. "Right. Of course."
Before he could say more, the air shuddered.
A sound rolled across Blackhaven—not quite thunder, not quite wind. A roar that pressed down on the chest and set the stones trembling beneath their feet.
Lyonel's head snapped up.
The sky darkened.
A dragon.
Vermithor passed overhead.
The dragon was larger than Lyonel remembered, his bronze scales catching the sun like hammered metal, wings vast enough to blot out the light. The roar came again, louder now, and Lyonel felt it in his bones.
"The Bronze Fury," he whispered.
Benedar smiled like a man watching a storm he had survived once before. "Aye. It seems His Grace has arrived."
The dragon banked and flew on.
Almost at once, the horns sounded from the gates—deep, echoing calls that meant only one thing.
Visitors of rank.
"Lord Baratheon too," Benedar said. "Right on the King's heels."
Lyonel nodded, pulse racing.
Then Benedar added, "Your brother and Lady Emily are dressed well."
Lyonel glanced back.
Simon stood near the yard's edge, resplendent in fine black and purple, the lightning bolt bright upon his chest. Beside him was Emily Selmy, heavy with child, wrapped in elegant silks. She looked tired.
Guilt flickered through Lyonel. "They've been dressed like that since the letter came."
Benedar studied him. "Then why aren't you?"
Lyonel frowned. "What do you mean? I'm dressed fine."
"For training," Benedar said evenly. "Not for greeting kings. You are the heir of House Dondarrion. You should look like it."
Lyonel exhaled slowly. He knew Benedar was right.
Simon saw them then.
His eyes widened—not in shock, but fury.
He kissed Emily's cheek, whispered something to her, then strode across the yard like a gathering storm.
"Lyonel," Simon snapped. "What in the Seven Hells are you wearing?"
Lyonel straightened. "I was training."
"You were ordered to remain presentable," Simon said sharply. "You look like a squire who's rolled in the dirt."
"The King just arrived," Lyonel protested.
"Exactly," Simon said. "Go. Bathe. Dress properly. Now."
The command rang like a bell.
Lyonel clenched his jaw, then nodded. "Yes, my lord."
He turned and walked away, the roar of dragons and the sound of horns echoing behind him.
The King had come to Blackhaven.