Lyonel Dondarrion stood alone in his chamber and tugged at the collar of his doublet.
It itched.
The fabric was fine—too fine—black velvet trimmed with purple silk, the colors of House Dondarrion stitched into every seam. Lightning bolts leapt across his chest in purple thread, bright and proud. His boots were polished, his belt hammered with little lightning bolts. He looked every inch an heir to Blackhaven.
He hated it.
The clothes were tight at the shoulders, stiff around the neck, and hot besides. He felt like a man wrapped in his own banner, trussed up for display. Lyonel let out a slow breath and flexed his fingers, missing the easy weight of mail and leather, the honest scuffs of training gear.
Fine clothes do not make a man, he thought. But lords seemed to believe otherwise.
He left his chamber and stepped into the corridor.
A maid stood there, pacing back and forth, wringing her hands as if she feared they might fall off. She was young, no older than Lyonel himself, with mousy brown hair tucked beneath a linen cap. When she saw him, her eyes went wide.
"You," Lyonel said, before he quite meant to.
The girl froze as though struck by lightning. She dropped into a hurried bow. "My—my lord."
Lyonel winced. "I am not a lord," he said, rubbing at his brow. "But that does not matter. Where is my brother? And Lord Baratheon?"
"The—the great hall, my lord," she stammered. "They're feasting."
"Thank you," Lyonel said more gently.
The girl bobbed another bow and nearly fled down the corridor.
He watched her go, a faint unease stirring in his chest. Fear followed titles like a shadow. He did not like how easily it came.
As he made his way toward the great hall, sound reached him long before sight—music from fiddles and pipes, the deep roar of laughter, the clash of cups and plates. Lyonel frowned.
I hope they are not too drunk, he thought. There is still a war to be fought.
He walked through the doors.
The great hall was alive.
Firelight danced along the stone walls, banners hanging heavy above long trestle tables crowded with men. Armored Stormlanders filled the benches—Lord Baratheon's men, by their colors and sigils—helmets discarded at their feet, mouths full of meat, mugs sloshing with ale and wine. The air smelled of roasted boar, onions, grease, and smoke.
At the high end of the hall sat Simon.
Beside him was Emily, radiant even beneath the weight of her pregnancy, her hands folded calmly before her. And beside them—vast as a mountain at the table—sat Lord Rogar Baratheon himself, laughing loud enough to drown the musicians.
One seat stood empty, just to Emily's side.
That must be for me, Lyonel realized.
Simon saw him then.
His brother's eyes narrowed—not with fury this time, but warning. He gestured sharply.
Come.
Lyonel obeyed.
As he approached, Simon rose slightly from his seat. "My lord," he said to Rogar Baratheon, "this is my younger brother—my heir—Lyonel Dondarrion."
Baratheon set down his mug and looked Lyonel up and down slowly, the way a man might appraise a horse. His eyes were sharp beneath heavy brows.
"You look just like your father," Rogar said at last.
Lyonel dipped his head. "Thank you, my lord. Many say I do."
Rogar barked a laugh. "You speak like him, too."
Lyonel smiled, uncertain whether it was praise.
"Sit," Rogar said, waving him down the table. "Eat. Drink. Your brother has spent enough coin already."
Lyonel took his place beside Emily, murmuring a greeting. Only then did he realize something was missing.
He leaned closer and whispered, "Is the King not here?"
Emily tilted her head slightly, her voice soft. "I do not know. He is likely still on his dragon. Or prefers quieter company."
Lyonel nodded.
He glanced down at the food, and only then realized how hungry he was. His stomach growled in protest. He tore into the meat, washing it down with wine, the warmth spreading through him quickly.
Hours later, the hall had grown louder and looser.
Men slumped over benches, red-faced and laughing at jokes that made little sense. Lord Baratheon himself leaned heavily on the table, his voice booming, words blurring together. Lyonel felt pleasantly numb, pleasantly heavy.
Only Simon and Emily remained sober.
When Lyonel rose unsteadily to leave, Simon's voice cut through the din.
"Where are you going, brother?"
Lyonel turned, swaying slightly. "Room," he said thickly. "Sleep."
Simon studied him for a moment, then nodded once. "Go."
Lyonel left the hall, the sounds of feasting fading behind him.
Lyonel meant to go to his room.
He was certain of it. He even remembered turning left at the corner, the way he always did. Yet somehow, the cold night air kissed his face, and when his boots stopped scraping stone, he found himself beneath the open sky.
The courtyard of Blackhaven lay quiet and moonlit.
"Fuck me," Lyonel muttered, rubbing at his temples. "I should not have drunk that much."
The torches along the walls burned low, their flames guttering in the wind. The castle seemed different at night—older, sterner, as if it were watching him stumble through its bones.
He turned to go back—
And froze.
Someone stood near the center of the courtyard.
A single figure, wrapped in a dark hooded cloak, unmoving. No guards nearby. No sound of footsteps. Just the faint rustle of fabric in the breeze.
Lyonel's hand drifted instinctively toward his sword, but he was unarmed.
That sobered him more than the wine ever could.
"What in the Seven Hells…" he murmured.
Suspicion flared hot and sharp. This was Blackhaven. A night like this, with kings and stormlords beneath its roof, was no time for strangers to wander freely.
"You there?" Lyonel called out, forcing his voice to steady. "What are you doing in the courtyard at night, dressed like that?"
The figure did not turn at once.
When he spoke, his voice was calm, measured, and almost amused. "I find the air fresher after sunset."
Lyonel narrowed his eyes. "Then take off your hood," he said. "Let me see who you are."
A soft laugh answered him.
"And why should I do that?"
The wine stirred Lyonel's pride faster than his caution. He straightened, lifting his chin. "Because I order you to. I am Lyonel Dondarrion—heir to this castle."
For a moment, there was silence.
Then the hooded man said, "Dondarrion."
The name seemed to please him.
"Well," the stranger continued, "then I suppose I must show courtesy to the heir of a house that will soon help me fight a war."
His hands rose.
Slowly, deliberately, he pushed back the hood.
Moonlight spilled over him.
He was tall—taller than Lyonel by a head—and strikingly handsome, in the way men were carved into statues rather than born. His hair was a silvery gold, braided thickly and falling almost to his waist. A full beard framed his face, golden and well-kept. His eyes—
Purple.
Not blue. Not grey.
Purple.
On his brow rested a crown.
Not heavy. Not ostentatious. A simple band of yellow gold, set with seven gemstones, each a different color, catching the moonlight like captured stars.
Lyonel's breath left him in a rush.
Oh no.
No. No no no.
King Jaehaerys.
The Dragonlord. Rider of Vermithor. The man whose shadow stretched across all of Westeros.
And I spoke to him like a drunken idiot.
The courtyard tilted.
Lyonel's heart hammered once—twice—then his knees gave way. The world darkened, wine and terror crashing together, and the last thing he saw was the King stepping forward, brows knitting with concern.
Then Lyonel Dondarrion knew no more.