HendryPOV
The pork was tender.
That was the first strange thing.
Hendry chewed slowly, almost suspicious of it. It had been seasoned properly, roasted with herbs instead of being burnt black over a campfire spit. The fat melted on his tongue. Even the ale was good—dark, rich, not the sour tavern swill he'd expected after being dragged half-dead into a dungeon.
The Seven truly worked in mysterious ways.
This morning they had been drinking in an inn.
By midday they were fighting in a inn.
By evening they were tied up and beaten bloody in a cell.
And now—
Now the Maester of Blackhaven was stitching Hary's cheek like he was some honored guest.
Hendry watched from across the small cell as the old man worked with careful hands. The Maester's chain clinked softly when he leaned forward.
"Ser Robert's blows did not damage you greatly, Ser Hary," the Maester said calmly. "You will be sore. Stiff. But nothing broken."
Hary grunted as the Maester dabbed at the cut on his lip. "He hits like a mule."
"He hits like a knight who has been drinking," the Maester corrected gently.
Hendry almost smiled at that.
The Maester finished with Hary and turned toward him.
"And now you, Ser."
Hendry drained the last of his ale and set the cup aside. His ribs protested even that small movement.
"Where are you hurt?"
Hendry gave a dry laugh. "Everywhere. But mostly my chest."
"Lift your shirt."
He did. The fabric stuck slightly to his skin. When the Maester pressed against his ribs, pain shot through him sharp enough to steal his breath.
"By the Mother's tits—" Hendry hissed.
The Maester nodded as if that confirmed something scholarly. "Bruised. Deeply. You will curse when you wake tomorrow."
"I'm already cursing."
"That will worsen."
Hendry muttered something under his breath as the Maester wrapped a firm band around his ribs.
"You and your brother are built much alike," the Maester added. "Stubborn. That may be why you are both still breathing."
With that, the old man gathered his things and left, closing the door softly behind him.
Silence settled.
Hary continued eating like nothing had happened, tearing into bread with blood-stained knuckles.
"When I'm done," Hary said between bites, "we're leaving."
Hendry leaned back carefully against the wall. "Leaving where?"
"Out of this castle. Back to Nightsong. And Lord Dondarrion better give us good rooms and a warm bath before we go."
Hendry did not argue. A bath sounded like the greatest blessing the Seven could grant.
They ate in silence after that. Hendry's mind drifted.
He replayed the tavern.
The insult.
Celia's face when Hary responded.
Robert's first punch.
Everything had happened too quickly. Too loudly.
When Hary finally finished his meal, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood.
"Come on."
The guards outside the cells said nothing. They simply opened the way.
Hendry half expected chains. Or another beating.
Instead, they were allowed to walk.
Up.
And up.
And up again.
The deeper they had gone into the dungeon earlier, the colder it had become. Now, climbing back toward the world, the air warmed with every step.
When they finally stepped into the courtyard, sunlight hit Hendry's eyes like a hammer.
"Gods," he muttered, squinting. "The sun is bright."
Hary snorted. "Of course it is. It's the bloody sun."
Hendry did not answer. In his mind, he called his brother something far less polite.
Then he saw it.
He stopped so abruptly Hary nearly walked into him.
In the center of the courtyard, coiled like a great black shadow—
A dragon.
Its scales shimmered dark as storm clouds. Its wings were folded, but even at rest it looked massive enough to swallow a horse whole. Smoke drifted lazily from its nostrils.
Hendry's heart dropped into his stomach.
Hary's voice broke the silence, loud and sharp with disbelief.
"Is that a fucking dragon?!"
The creature shifted.
Just slightly.
One wing twitched.
Hendry grabbed Hary's arm hard. "Shut the fuck up," he hissed. "Do you want to wake it?"
Hary opened his mouth again—
"Ser Hary. Ser Hendry."
They both turned.
Lord Dondarrion stood a short distance away.
Simon looked composed, but Hendry noticed the tension in his shoulders. The careful way he kept his voice low.
"Follow me," Simon said quietly. "And be silent."
Hendry did not need telling twice.
They walked slowly across the courtyard. Each step felt louder than the last. Hendry could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. He did not dare look directly at the dragon again.
It breathed.
That alone was enough.
The castle doors opened and swallowed them into cool stone shadow.
Only once they were safely inside did Hendry release the breath he had been holding.
Simon stopped and faced them.
"Ser Hary. Ser Hendry. I have ordered rooms prepared for you both. Baths as well."
Hendry nearly smiled at that.
Hary crossed his arms. "Good. Now where is my room?"
Simon gestured toward the stairs. "Up the steps. To the left. A maid will see to you."
Hary gave a curt nod. "Thank you."
He turned and began climbing.
Hendry followed, slower this time, every step reminding him of the bruises beneath his shirt.
As they climbed, Hendry glanced back once.
Simon remained where he stood, watching them.
Not angry.
Not warm either.
Calculating.
Careful.
That made Hendry uneasy.
When they reached the corridor above, a young maid waited with two steaming buckets already being carried toward separate doors.
Hendry paused outside his assigned chamber.
For a brief moment, everything felt still.
Too still.
There was a dragon in the courtyard.
The King himself in Blackhaven.
A tavern insult had nearly sparked blood between houses.
And Lord Dondarrion had been far too polite.
Hendry stepped inside his room and closed the door behind him.
The bathwater steamed gently.
He began untying his boots.
Nothing else bad will happen, he told himself.
But as he eased his bruised body toward the bath, he could not shake the feeling that their trouble had only just begun.
Lyonel POV
Lyonel woke with fire in his throat.
For a moment, he did not know where he was. The ceiling above him felt too high. The air too still. His body too heavy.
Then his stomach twisted.
He barely made it to the bucket beside his bed before he retched into it, the taste of bile burning his mouth. His ribs screamed in protest as he bent forward. His hands trembled against the rim.
When it passed, he stayed there kneeling, breathing hard.
"By the Seven," he muttered hoarsely, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I feel worse than yesterday."
His head throbbed. His chest felt tight. Even his bones seemed tired.
Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself to his feet. The room spun once before settling. He steadied himself on the bedpost and waited for the dizziness to fade.
No Maester Rudy.
No guards.
No one.
The quiet unsettled him more than the pain.
He moved toward the door, each step deliberate. The corridor beyond was empty, washed in pale morning light from the narrow windows.
He swallowed. His throat still burned.
He needed water. And food. Mostly food.
He walked slowly down the hall, one hand brushing the cool stone wall to keep his balance. His legs felt weak beneath him, like he had run for miles instead of sleeping.
At the far end of the corridor stood a man Lyonel did not recognize.
The man's face was bruised purple along the jaw, and a thin stitched cut marked his cheek. He stood straight despite the injuries, arms folded behind his back, posture proud.
Lyonel cleared his throat.
"You there?" he called, a little sharper than he meant to. "Who are you?"
The man turned slowly, eyes cool.
"I am Ser Hary Caron," he said evenly. "And you would do well not to address me like a stableboy. I am a nobleman."
Lyonel blinked.
A Caron?
Of Nightsong.
By the Seven.
What in the hells were the Carons doing in Blackhaven?
Lyonel straightened despite the nausea tugging at him. "My apologies, Ser Hary. I am Lyonel Dondarrion. Younger brother to Lord Dondarrion."
The shift was immediate.
Recognition flickered in Hary's eyes.
"Ah." His tone cooled into something more measured. "Then I return the apology. I did not know."
Lyonel almost laughed at the speed of it—but the motion would have made him vomit again.
"It is fine," he said instead. "Do you know where Maester Rudy is?"
Hary shook his head. "I do not."
Footsteps echoed behind them.
Another man approached—similar build, similar colouring, though his bruises were fresher on his brow. He looked at Lyonel with curiosity rather than suspicion.
"Hendry," Hary said, gesturing. "This is Lyonel Dondarrion."
Hendry gave a short nod. "Ser."
Lyonel returned it. "Ser."
Hary adjusted his gloves carefully. "I have matters to attend to."
There was something deliberate in the way he said it, like he did not wish to linger.
He left without another word.
Silence settled between Lyonel and Hendry.
For a moment neither spoke.
Up close, Lyonel could see how stiffly Hendry held himself. The bruises were not just for show.
"You look worse than I feel," Lyonel said before thinking.
Hendry snorted softly. "That is unfortunate. I feel like I was trampled by a warhorse."
Lyonel's lips twitched.
His stomach growled loudly then, betraying him.
Hendry raised a brow.
"So," Lyonel said, pretending nothing had happened, "are you hungry?"
Hendry smiled, faint but genuine. "Always."
They began walking together down the corridor.
Lyonel felt strangely aware of the man beside him. A Caron. In his home. Bruised from a fight in Blackhaven.
Something had happened. He could sense it in the way the guards they passed looked at Hendry—quick glances, tight expressions.
"What happened?" Lyonel asked quietly.
Hendry hesitated, then shrugged carefully. "An inn. Ale. Words said that should not have been."
They reached a stairwell and descended slowly. Lyonel had to grip the railing tighter than he liked. His strength had not fully returned, and the motion made his head pound.
Hendry noticed.
"You should be in bed," he said.
"I was," Lyonel replied. "I prefer not vomiting."
"That makes two of us."
They stepped into the lower hall—and Lyonel immediately felt it.
A change in the air.
A heaviness.
He turned toward the courtyard doors without meaning to.
Even through stone walls, he could sense it.
Hendry followed his gaze.
"There is a dragon out there," Hendry said quietly.
"I know."
"I flew on it."
Hendry swallowed.
Hendry studied him differently after that. Not mockery. Not disbelief.
Something closer to curiosity.
"What is it like?" Hendry asked.
Lyonel hesitated.
He remembered the wind ripping past him. The way the ground had vanished beneath them. The raw power coiled beneath scales and fire.
"It feels," Lyonel said slowly, "like the world is smaller than you thought."
Hendry nodded as if that made perfect sense.
They entered the dining chamber.
Servants were already setting out bread, cheese, fruit, and porridge. The smell alone made Lyonel's stomach twist again—but this time with hunger instead of sickness.
They sat across from one another.
Lyonel tore a small piece of bread and forced himself to chew slowly.
For a few moments, they ate in silence.
"You are the younger brother," Hendry said at last.
"I am."
"That is not always an easy place to stand."
Lyonel looked up.
There was no mockery in Hendry's voice. Only understanding.
"No," Lyonel admitted quietly. "It is not."
Hendry leaned back slightly, wincing from his ribs.
"My brother leads with his fists," he said. "I follow behind and make certain he does not burn bridges he cannot rebuild."
Lyonel almost smiled.
"That sounds familiar."
Their eyes met.
Something passed between them then—not friendship, not yet.
But recognition.
Two younger brothers.
Two shadows walking beside larger names.
Outside, somewhere beyond stone and steel, a dragon shifted.
The sound rumbled faintly through the walls.
Lyonel felt it in his chest.
For the first time since waking, the sickness felt smaller.
Maybe because the world was growing larger again.
And maybe, he thought as he reached for more bread, this was not the worst place to begin standing on his own.