Simon breathed slowly, fingers tangled in his hair. The great hall of Blackhaven felt too large tonight. Too empty. The banners of House Dondarrion—purple and black with the forked lightning—hung motionless in the still air. Even the torches seemed to burn quieter.
He had sent Ryan out, the fastest rider in Blackhaven, spurring his horse hard to bring back Lord Baratheon and the rest of their men. The hooves had thundered across the yard like a war drum. Simon had watched from the battlements until horse and rider were swallowed by the hills.
Lyonel lived. That was what mattered.
By the Seven, the King himself had flown his brother here on dragonback. A dragon. Simon still struggled to grasp it. Black wings over the Marches. Fire and shadow above his lands. It was an honor few in the realm could claim.
Maybe Lyonel would become a great knight. Maybe even a Kingsguard one day—
No.
Simon shook his head. He needed Lyonel here. Father's voice echoed in his mind as clearly as if he still stood beside him in the yard.
An heir and a spare, boy. Always. So the house does not die with you.
Simon closed his eyes briefly. He had an heir. He needed his spare.
"'My Lord.'"
The voice broke through his thoughts. Simon opened his eyes and saw Ser Lyam standing at the foot of the hall. The older knight's face was weathered by wind and sun, his beard more grey than brown now.
Simon rose and crossed the hall quickly, clasping the man in a firm embrace.
"Ser Lyam. It has been many moons."
"Your lands have been peaceful, my lord," Lyam said with a small smile. "The Vulture King and other scum keep their distance. Lord Selmy has not been so fortunate."
Simon nodded grimly. "Then why are you here, if not for trouble?"
The smile faded. Lyam's jaw tightened.
"My brother in Oldtown has died. I seek your leave to go to him."
Simon did not hesitate. "You have it. You have given me years of loyal service. Go to your family."
Relief flickered across Lyam's face. "I have chosen Jonothor to take my place for a time. He has fought with me in many battles."
"Good." Simon clasped his forearm. "Travel safely."
When Lyam left, the hall felt even larger.
Simon turned to leave. Sleep called to him like a distant shore. His bones ached from days of tension, from worry, from watching Emily and hearing too many whispered rumors.
"My lord."
Another guard approached. Younger. Nervous.
Simon did not bother hiding his exhaustion. "What now?"
"There has been a brawl at the inn."
Simon exhaled sharply through his nose. "Who?"
The guard swallowed. "Ser Robert was involved. He has been injured."
Simon froze.
"Robert?" His voice dropped. "What was he doing at an inn?"
His uncle and his kin were meant to be at White Harbor. With his wife, Lord Manderly's eldest daughter, anything but drunken fights in Blackhaven taverns.
"Where are they?" Simon demanded.
"In the dungeons, my lord. Ser Robert is… taking his grievance out on the men who fought him."
Simon's jaw clenched. "Seven save me."
He moved at once.
The descent into the dungeons felt longer than usual. The air grew colder, heavier, thick with damp stone and the sour scent of fear. The deeper he went, the clearer the sounds became.
A man screaming.
A fist striking flesh.
Another blow.
Simon's hands curled into fists at his sides.
He turned the final corner and saw the scene laid bare in torchlight.
Outside one of the cells stood several guards and a young woman—Celia. His cousin. Robert's sister. Her dark hair hung loose around her shoulders, her expression torn between worry and anger.
Inside the cell—
Two men bound with rope knelt on the stone floor. Blood streaked one man's cheek. The other's lip was split, swelling already.
And standing over them, breathing hard, face flushed with rage—
Ser Robert.
He struck again. The dull sound of knuckles against bone echoed in the corridor.
"STOP THIS MADNESS!"
Simon's voice thundered against the stone.
Everything froze.
Robert turned slowly. His knuckles were red. Blood—his or theirs—slicked his hand.
"Lord Dondarrion," one of the guards muttered, stepping back.
Simon stepped forward, eyes scanning the prisoners' faces.
And then recognition hit him like a blow of its own.
Ser Hary Caron.
Simon felt the word leave his lips in a whisper.
"Fuck."
The Carons of Nightsong were not smallfolk. They were not nameless drunks to be beaten in a dungeon cell. They were Marcher lords. Proud. Fierce. Quick to anger and slower to forgive.
And beside Hary—Hendry, if Simon remembered correctly. The bastard son of the late Lord Caron.
Robert spat on the floor. "He insulted Celia."
Celia stiffened. "He called me—"
"I know what he called you," Robert snapped.
Simon's gaze shifted to Hary. Even bound and bloodied, the man's eyes burned with defiance.
"And what did you call her?" Simon asked.
Hary gave a humourless laugh, then winced from the movement. "A whore."
Robert lunged again.
Simon caught him by the arm.
"That is enough."
For a moment, the two men stood locked together. Robert's chest heaved. His pride was wounded more deeply than his flesh.
"He struck me first," Robert said through clenched teeth.
"And you struck back," Simon replied evenly. "That is how brawls work."
"He insulted our blood!"
"And you dishonour it now."
The words were quiet. Deadly.
Robert pulled his arm free but did not swing again.
Simon turned to the guards. "Untie them."
"My lord?" one guard hesitated.
"Untie them."
The ropes were cut.
Hendry nearly collapsed but caught himself against the wall. Hary rose slower, favoring one side.
Simon stepped closer to them.
"If you seek vengeance," he said carefully, "you will not find it here tonight."
Hary wiped blood from his mouth. "We will not seek vengeance. We will seek ale and meat."
Despite everything, Simon almost smiled.
"This matter will not leave these walls," Simon continued. "There will be no letters sent in anger. No challenges issued before sunrise. You will remain here until tempers cool."
Hary held his gaze.
"And if I refuse?"
Simon's eyes hardened.
"Then you refuse me."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Hary gave a small nod.
Simon turned back to Robert.
"You will go to the maester. Now."
Robert looked ready to argue—but something in Simon's expression stopped him. With a sharp breath, he stepped out of the cell.
Celia lingered a moment, looking at the Caron brothers with something unreadable in her eyes before following.
When they were gone, Simon remained.
He studied the two bound men—now free, but still bruised and breathing hard.
The Marches were always one spark away from fire.
The King was wounded.
A dragon slept in his castle yard.
The Vulture King was defeated.
And now a Caron's blood had been spilled in his dungeon.
Simon rubbed his temples.
Seven save us from pride, he thought.
Aloud, he said, "Get them ale and food. And bring Maester Rudy here once he's done with Robert."
He looked once more at Hary Caron.
"We will speak in the morning."
As he turned to leave, the weight of lordship settled heavier on his shoulders than any armour he had ever worn.
Blackhaven was peaceful no longer.
And Simon feared this was only the beginning.