This is a smaller chapter than the chapters before, sorry.
I have a question: how long chapters do you guys want? Comment on this
The courtyard of Blackhaven smelled of stone and damp earth, banners snapping overhead in the restless wind. Simon Dondarrion stood beneath them, hands clasped behind his back, forcing himself to breathe slowly.
His brother would be the death of him.
Lyonel's face rose unbidden in his mind—defiant, burning with that same wild hunger Simon himself had once carried. Sixteen namedays. Too young to understand what war truly took, too old to be easily restrained. Simon's jaw tightened.
Emily's hand slipped into his.
"My love," she said softly, her fingers warm despite the chill. "Do not trouble yourself so much over Lyonel. He is only a rowdy boy."
Simon huffed a quiet breath through his nose. "Rowdy boys get themselves killed."
Emily smiled, the corner of her mouth lifting with a memory only she seemed to find amusing. "Do you remember what we did when we were sixteen namedays?"
He glanced at her. "I remember enough."
"You took my maidenhead before the gods had joined us together" she said gently, eyes bright. "That was far more irresponsible than anything your brother has done."
Simon shook his head. "It is not the same."
Emily squeezed his hand. "No," she agreed. "What we did was worse."
Despite himself, Simon felt the tightness in his chest ease, if only a little.
Then the sound came.
Hooves on stone. Steel shifting.
Simon straightened as the banners parted and Lord Rogar Baratheon rode into the courtyard astride a massive black destrier. He wore full armor, polished and battle-worn both, with a yellow surcoat bearing the crowned stag. His helm was crested with antlers that rose like a challenge to the sky.
Emily's grip tightened around Simon's hand.
He inhaled slowly.
Baratheon reined in his horse and swung down with practiced ease. He removed his helm, revealing a broad, weathered face framed by thick black hair and a heavy beard shot through with grey. The man looked every inch the Storm Lord—solid, immovable, dangerous when roused.
"Lord Dondarrion," Rogar said.
Simon bowed his head. "My lord."
Rogar studied him for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "How many men have you assembled?"
For half a breath, Simon's mind went blank.
Seven hells.
He had trusted Benedar to handle it. Had meant to ask. Had not.
He felt his pulse hammer in his ears.
Then—movement.
Ser Benedar stood by one of the walls his hand lifting ever so slightly. One finger. Then zero. Zero.
Simon nearly laughed in relief.
"I have one hundred battle-tested marcher knights ready to ride against the Vulture King, my lord," Simon said evenly.
Rogar's gaze flicked from Simon to Benedar. A small smile tugged at his beard. "Good. Men who've fought Dornishmen before will not break at the first scream."
He turned and raised his voice. "Men! Rest yourselves. I am certain Lord Dondarrion has prepared a feast worthy for a king".
Simon forced a smile.
Worthy of my coin, he thought grimly—and far too much of it.
Rogar clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to make the rings in Simon's mail clink. "Come. We will speak of war when I am full of meat and ale."
Simon nodded. "Of course, my lord."
As they moved toward the hall, Simon glanced once more toward the yard—toward where his brother had been training earlier.
Too many Dondarrions had died young. Simon feared his brother meant to join them.