Lyonel paced.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
The chamber felt too small, the walls too close, the air too thick. Every step sent a spike of pain through his skull, his head pounding as though it had been split open and filled with fire. Wine still clung to his breath, to his thoughts, sour and unforgiving.
He dragged a hand down his face.
Did the King truly forgive me?
The question would not leave him.
He saw the crown again in his mind's eye—golden, simple, terrible. He heard his own drunken voice echoing through the hall.
THE KING IS HERE!
His stomach twisted.
Will I wake alive, he wondered, or with my head on a pike?
Sleep would not come. He tried the bed, then the chair, then the window. He drank water until his belly sloshed and still his thoughts raced. The candle burned low, guttered, and died. Darkness filled the room, but it brought no peace.
Hours crawled by.
When dawn came, pale and grey, Lyonel was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, eyes red and burning. He had not slept at all. His body felt hollow, his limbs heavy as stone.
A soft creak broke the silence.
The door opened.
"Lyonel?"
Emily.
He looked up at once. She stood in the doorway, wrapped in a simple gown, her hair loose, her hand resting on the curve of her belly. The moment she saw his face, worry crossed her features.
"Seven above," she murmured, stepping inside. "You look dreadful."
She crossed the room slowly and sat beside him on the bed. The mattress dipped beneath her weight. Lyonel swallowed, the knot in his chest finally loosening.
"What's wrong?" she asked gently.
The words spilled out of him then—fear, shame, exhaustion. He spoke of the King, of the night, of the terror that had gnawed at him since. Emily listened without interruption, smiling softly, one hand rubbing slow circles against his arm.
When he finished, he felt lighter. Calmer.
She had always been like this. Not a lady to him, not his brother's wife—his sister, in all the ways that mattered.
"You're alive," she said simply. "Forgiven. And still a fool, but a living one."
That earned a weak smile.
Then her expression sobered. "Simon has already left. He rides with Lord Baratheon and the King."
Lyonel's head snapped up. "Already? They're gone?"
"Yes."
"Fuck."
Her hand struck his sharply.
"Language, Lyonel." She fixed him with a glare. "I do not want my child hearing such words."
Heat flooded his face. "Sorry."
She sighed, then softened. "Sleep. You look like you've been to the Seven Hells."
"I—"
"SLEEP."
The command brooked no argument.
Lyonel lay back at once. Emily rose, kissed his brow, and left him alone. His eyes closed almost immediately.
Darkness took him.
HOURS PASSED
BANG.
Lyonel jolted awake, heart hammering. The door flew open.
A maid stood there, breathless, pale.
"My lord," she gasped. "Lady Emily—she's gone into labor."
The words hit him like a blow.
"What time is it?" he croaked.
"The hour of the wolf."
I slept the whole day.
He was on his feet in an instant. "Take me to her."
They moved quickly through the halls. Lyonel's lips moved silently as he prayed—to the Seven, to any god listening. Let her be safe. Let the child be safe.
Then he heard it.
A scream.
Raw. Agonized. Terrible.
He broke into a run.
"AHHHHHHHHH!"
The sound tore through him as he slammed the door open.
Emily lay on the bed, drenched in sweat, hair plastered to her face. Maids crowded the room, their hands red, their faces strained. Maester Rudy stood between her legs, his sleeves rolled, jaw tight.
Lyonel rushed to her side.
"Emily!" Lyonel rushed to her side. "Are you—"
"FUCK NO!" she screamed. "A BABY IS COMING OUT OF ME!"
She seized his hand with crushing strength. Lyonel bit back a cry as her fingers locked around his.
"My lady," Rudy said, strained, "you must push harder."
"I AM PUSHING, YOU FUCKER!"
Lyonel looked to the Maester, panic rising. "What's wrong? Why isn't the baby coming?"
"Wait—wait—" Rudy said. "It's coming."
Emily screamed again, body arching.
"FUCK—FINALLY!"
But Lyonel saw it then.
Rudy's face had changed.
"What's wrong?" Lyonel whispered.
The Maester swallowed. "The child… it's turned."
Lyonel staggered forward and saw it. The twisted angle. Wrong. Horribly wrong.
Emily screamed, louder than before. "MY BABY WILL NOT DIE!"
"My lady, stop!" Rudy pleaded. "You'll suffocate the child—and you'll die too!"
She didn't listen.
"What can we do?" Lyonel demanded.
Rudy's voice shook. "She can keep pushing—but the child will likely die, and Lady Emily will bleed out."
Emily screamed, tears streaming. "JUST SAVE MY BABY!"
"Is there anything else?" Lyonel asked desperately.
Rudy hesitated. "There is… another choice. It will likely save the child."
"And Emily?"
"It will kill her. Without question."
"No," Lyonel said at once.
"DO IT!" Emily screamed. "I DON'T CARE IF I DIE—SAVE MY BABY!"
Lyonel tried to speak, but she cut him off, fury blazing.
"I AM THE LADY OF THIS HOUSE, RUDY! YOU LISTEN TO ME!"
The Maester nodded, face ashen.
Lyonel ran.
He fled the room, the door slamming behind him.
Emily's screams followed him down the hall—screams that clawed at his soul. He pressed his hands over his ears, tears spilling freely.
"This is what Emily wants," he whispered. "This is what Emily wants."
Again and again.
Until the screams stopped.
Lyonel slid down the wall, sobbing.
He knew.
Emily was dead.
Lyonel forced himself to stand.
His legs trembled, weak as reeds, but he moved all the same. Slowly. Like a man walking to his own execution.
The door to the birthing chamber stood half-open.
Inside, the room was silent.
Too silent.
The maids no longer rushed about. No commands were spoken. No screams filled the air. The fire crackled softly, obscene in its normalcy.
Emily lay on the bed.
Still.
Her skin had already begun to pale, her face slack in a way Lyonel had never seen before. The sheets beneath her were dark with blood, and her belly—
His breath caught.
Split open.
His vision swam, and for a moment he thought he might fall. Tears spilled freely down his face, blurring the world until it became nothing but light and shadow.
Then he heard it.
A cry.
Thin. Fragile. Alive.
One of the maids stood near the hearth, cradling a small, squirming bundle in her arms. The sound tore through Lyonel's chest more sharply than any blade.
He stumbled forward.
"Give her to me," he said hoarsely.
The maid hesitated only a heartbeat before placing the babe in his arms.
She was warm.
So small it frightened him. Her cries softened slightly as he held her close, instinctively rocking her as though he had done it a hundred times before.
With shaking hands, Lyonel checked.
No penis.
A girl.
A broken sound escaped him—half laugh, half sob.
"It seems," he whispered to the crying child, "that your father and mother were both wrong about you being a boy."
He studied her face through his tears.
Dark hair just like Simon's.
And her eyes—bright blue, startling even now—Emily's eyes.
For the first time since the screams had ended, Lyonel smiled. Just a little.
"Emily," he murmured.
Maester Rudy looked up sharply. "My lord?"
"Did she name her?" Lyonel asked quietly.
Rudy shook his head. "No, my lord. Lady Emily did not."
Lyonel nodded once.
"Then her name shall be Emily."
The words felt right. Final. Unarguable.
He handed the babe gently back to the maid, who clutched her close.
Lyonel turned away.
"My lord," Rudy said softly. "Where are you going?"
Lyonel stopped at the door and looked back. His eyes were red, hollow, stripped bare of whatever boyishness had remained in him.
"I am leaving this castle," he said. "And I am going to tell my brother what has happened."
Then he was gone.
The door closed behind him, and Lyonel Dondarrion stormed into the night—carrying grief, guilt, and a truth that would shatter Simon's world.