I apologize that it took so long to complete this chapter. I have a lot of schoolwork to do. I´ll try to release chapters faster.
Simon Dondarrion sat on a fallen log beside the campfire, its flames snapping softly in the night wind. He had ridden out with Lord Baratheon and his men at dawn; now darkness lay heavy over the Dornish Marches. The camp was alive with low voices, clinking mail, and the restless sounds of horses.
He lifted his cup and drank.
The wine was warm, too sweet. Strawberries.
Emily.
The taste caught in his throat.
He found himself thinking of her belly, round beneath her gowns. A boy, they both believed. They had spoken of it often—laughed about it—but never once had they chosen a name. Simon stared into the fire as names drifted through his thoughts.
William.Liam.Henry.
Names that sounded strong. Names that might one day ride beneath the lightning bolts of House Dondarrion.
"Lord Dondarrion."
Simon startled and turned.
King Jaehaerys stood behind him, his white cloak stirring in the wind.
Simon set aside his cup at once and rose. "My king." He bowed deeply.
Jaehaerys inclined his head and gestured to the log. "Sit beside me, Lord Dondarrion."
Simon obeyed.
For a time, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled. The night pressed close.
Then—
SWOOSH.
A massive gust of wind tore through the camp, snuffing out the fire in an instant. Ash and embers scattered. Tents groaned and snapped as ropes strained. Somewhere, a horse screamed.
Simon looked skyward.
Above them, vast wings cut through the darkness.
Vermithor.
The Bronze Fury passed overhead, his wings beating the air into submission. Fires across the camp guttered and died beneath the dragon's passing.
Simon glanced at the King. Jaehaerys was smiling.
The sight unsettled him.
"My king," Simon said carefully, "when will your dragon cease flying? His wings are extinguishing our fires—and destroying tents."
All around them, men shouted and cursed as tents collapsed.
Jaehaerys chuckled softly. "Do not worry. Vermithor will settle soon. He does not fly all night."
Simon did not know how the King could be so certain, but he nodded all the same.
After a moment, Jaehaerys spoke again. "When last did you come to King's Landing, Lord Dondarrion? It escapes me."
"Three years ago, Your Grace," Simon replied. "At the tourney celebrating the tenth year of your coronation."
The King smiled. "Ah. Yes. Ser Ryam unhorsed you."
Simon nodded. "He did."
Ser Ryam had humbled him that day. Before that tilt, Simon had believed himself the finest jouster in the Seven Kingdoms.
"I was surprised," Jaehaerys said mildly. "After what you accomplished at the tourney in the Dragonpit."
Simon smiled despite himself.
That day had been one of the proudest of his life. He had broken lances against lords and knights alike, standing victorious at the end.
The King rose. "Well, Lord Dondarrion. I will take my rest. We ride early on the morrow."
"Of course, my king."
Jaehaerys walked away, his white cloak vanishing into the dark.
Simon remained seated for several minutes longer, the night suddenly colder without the fire. At last, he stood and made his way toward his tent, the taste of strawberries still lingering on his tongue.
Simon's tent stood near the edge of the camp, large and broad-shouldered, the third greatest after the King's and Lord Baratheon's. Tent walls stirred softly in the night wind as he ducked inside.
It was empty.
A makeshift bed lay against one side, little more than furs thrown over a wooden frame. In the corner stood his armour mail and plate resting upon a simple harness stand, polished earlier that day. The sight of it brought him no comfort.
Simon unbuckled his belt, the weight of his sword tugging free with it, and set both carefully beside the bed. He lay down, the bedding rough beneath him, though he had slept on stone and mud often enough not to care.
His thoughts drifted home at once.
Emily.
He pictured her smile, the way she laughed when she pretended not to worry. He prayed the birth would wait—that the child would not come while he was gone. He wanted to be there. He needed to be there.
Sleep took him.
Light burned through the tent opening.
Simon groaned and turned, shielding his eyes as morning forced its way in. He pushed himself upright—
And froze.
Someone stood inside the tent.
"Lyonel," Simon said sharply, confusion giving way to irritation. "What in seven hells are you doing here?"
His brother did not answer.
Lyonel stood motionless, shoulders slumped, his face pale. His eyes were red—raw, as though he had been crying for hours.
Simon's heart lurched.
His voice dropped. "Brother?"
He rose and crossed the tent in two long strides, placing a hand on Lyonel's shoulder. "What is wrong?"
Lyonel swallowed. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.
"Emily is dead."
The words struck like a hammer.
Simon's eyes widened. The world tilted. "By the Seven…" His voice barely worked. "What?"
"She died giving birth," Lyonel said. "Your child lived. A daughter."
Simon stared at him, unable—unwilling—to understand. "No," he whispered. "No."
He grabbed Lyonel by the front of his tunic and hauled him up with a snarl, fury and terror bursting free. "You lie!"
Lyonel did not fight him. He only looked back, hollow-eyed. "Why would I?"
The truth was there—in his face, in his voice, in the way he did not look away.
Simon released him.
His hands shook.
"I ride for Blackhaven," Simon said, his voice suddenly cold and iron-hard. "You will stay. You will ride with the King. You will lead my men."
Lyonel's eyes widened. "Simon—"
"You wanted war," Simon cut in. "Now you have it."
He turned, already reaching for his sword. "You may wear my armour. It will fit you well enough."
Without another word, Simon stormed from the tent.
Moments later, he was in the saddle, spurring his horse hard, riding away from the camp—away from the banners, the King, the war—
And toward home.
Toward his daughter.
Toward the grave of the woman he loved.