LyonelPOV
Three days had passed since Lyonel had returned to Blackhaven on the back of Vermithor.
Three days since the wind had howled past his ears and the ground had become something distant and insignificant.
His body no longer betrayed him when he stood. The sickness had faded, leaving only a faint tightness in his chest when he pushed himself too hard. He was eating properly again. Sleeping without waking to vomit.
But something felt wrong.
He had not seen the king since their private talk. Not once. Servants whispered that the King had locked himself away. Meals taken inside. Curtains drawn. No audiences granted.
Even Simon did not know why.
That troubled Lyonel more than he wished to admit.
He walked the halls restlessly until he spotted Hendry near the archway overlooking the courtyard.
The bruises had faded from deep purple to yellowed shadows. They remained but looked clean. Hendry stood straighter now.
"You look alive again," Hendry said with a crooked smile.
"I am," Lyonel replied. "And you?"
Hendry rolled his shoulder. "Still sore. But I can swing a blade."
"Good."
Lyonel's eyes sharpened.
"You promised me a duel."
Hendry grinned wider. "I did."
They made their way into the courtyard. The great shadow that had dominated it days before was gone. Vermithor was nowhere in sight.
The absence made the sky feel larger.
They crossed into the training yard. Lyonel pulled two wooden swords from the rack and tossed one toward Hendry.
It spun once through the air.
Hendry caught it cleanly.
They stepped into the arena.
For a long moment, neither moved.
Then Hendry inclined his head slightly.
They began.
Hendry attacked first—measured but firm. A diagonal cut aimed at Lyonel's shoulder.
Lyonel parried and rotated his wrist, sliding into a counterstrike toward Hendry's thigh.
Blocked.
The sound cracked sharply.
They circled.
Hendry pressed with a quick one-two combination. Left hip, then high across the collarbone.
Lyonel absorbed both, but the force made him step back.
Hendry advanced carefully, not reckless, not foolish.
Good footwork. Balanced stance. He had trained properly.
Lyonel feinted high.
Hendry reacted.
Too quickly.
Lyonel shifted mid-motion and struck toward the ribs.
Hendry twisted just enough that the blade glanced off.
They separated again.
Hendry smirked. "You're fast."
"So are you." Lyonel replied.
This time Lyonel initiated.
A probing thrust. Withdrawn instantly.
A low sweep aimed to test Hendry's reaction speed.
Blocked.
Hendry countered immediately, forcing Lyonel to retreat two steps. dirt shifted underfoot, threatening balance.
Hendry lunged suddenly, surprising him.
Lyonel barely caught the strike in time. The impact jarred his arms, reminding him he was still not fully at strength.
Hendry saw it.
He pressed harder.
A flurry now—three, four strikes in quick succession.
Wood cracked again and again.
Lyonel shifted into defense, letting Hendry burn energy. Watching his breathing. Watching the stiffness in his torso when he rotated too sharply.
There.
A slight hesitation.
They locked blades briefly.
Close now.
Hendry tried to shove him back with brute force.
Lyonel twisted sideways instead, letting the pressure slide past him. In the same motion he pivoted and struck lightly against Hendry's side.
Hendry hissed but did not yield.
He retaliated with a sudden shoulder-check that nearly knocked Lyonel off balance.
They broke apart again.
Sweat beaded on Hendry's brow.
"You're enjoying this," Hendry muttered.
"Very much."
Hendry charged again—but this time Lyonel met him head-on.
Their swords clashed high.
Locked.
They strained against each other, faces inches apart.
Hendry tried to overpower him.
Lyonel shifted his footing and suddenly released the pressure, letting Hendry's strength carry him slightly forward.
In that opening—
Lyonel struck.
Clean.
Direct.
Against Hendry's chest.
Right over the bruised ribs.
Hendry gasped sharply. His sword dipped. His stance wavered.
Lyonel stepped back immediately.
"I surrender," Hendry breathed after a moment, one hand pressing his chest. "Before I disgrace myself further."
Lyonel lowered his blade. "I should not have hit you there."
Hendry shook his head, still catching breath. "You knew my weakness and used it. That is fighting."
They clasped forearms.
Then came the voice.
"Hendry."
They turned.
Ser Hary stood at the edge of the yard.
"How could you lose to him?" Hary said bluntly. "He isn't even a knight."
Hendry straightened. "He is skilled."
Hary scoffed. "Skilled?"
He stepped forward. "Give me your sword."
Hendry hesitated only briefly before handing it over.
Hary entered the arena.
Lyonel reset his stance once more.
This time felt different.
Sharper.
Hary did not waste time.
He attacked immediately with a powerful overhead strike meant to assert dominance.
Lyonel sidestepped smoothly, letting the blade slam into empty air.
Hary recovered faster than Lyonel expected and followed with a spinning backhand cut.
Lyonel blocked—but the force numbed his fingers.
Hary had strength.
More than Hendry.
He pressed aggressively, forcing Lyonel into defensive movement.
Strike after strike rained down—heavy, deliberate, punishing.
Lyonel gave ground carefully, refusing to panic.
Hary swung wide again.
Lyonel ducked and countered with a sharp strike toward the knee.
Hary leapt back just in time.
They circled.
Hary's jaw tightened. Pride burned in his eyes.
He lunged suddenly with a thrust aimed at Lyonel's chest.
Lyonel twisted sideways and redirected the blade, stepping inside Hary's guard.
Too close for wide swings.
Hary tried to elbow him aside.
Lyonel took it and drove his hilt into Hary's ribs.
Hary grunted and retaliated with a quick upward slash.
Lyonel barely blocked in time.
They disengaged.
Hary attacked again—less controlled now.
Lyonel noticed it immediately.
The strikes were stronger—but sloppier.
Frustration creeping in.
Lyonel began to test him.
Small feints.
Quick taps to wrist and thigh.
Forcing Hary to overreact.
Hary roared and launched a heavy downward strike.
Lyonel parried and pivoted sharply, sliding his blade down and across Hary's.
With a twist of his wrist, he knocked Hary's sword wide.
In the opening—
Lyonel stepped forward and struck squarely across Hary's chest.
The crack echoed.
Hary froze.
Lyonel held the wooden blade against him.
"Yield."
Silence.
Hary's face burned red.
Finally, stiffly—
He stepped back.
"Fine."
He tossed the sword aside and stormed out of the yard.
Hendry followed—but not before flashing Lyonel a wide, proud grin.
Lyonel stood alone in the arena once more.
His arms ached.
His chest rose and fell heavily.
He looked up at the open sky.
No dragon.
Just wind over stone.
For the past few days, he had been vomiting into a bucket.
Now he had defeated both sons of Nightsong.
He tightened his grip on the wooden sword and exhaled slowly.
BAWOOOOO!!!
The horns began as a low tremor in the air.
Lyonel almost thought he imagined it.
Then they sounded again—long and deep, rolling across the stone walls of Blackhaven like distant thunder.
He froze in the training yard.
Horns.
Not one.
Three in succession.
The sound meant only one thing—riders approaching the gates in force.
His heart leapt.
Lord Baratheon.
Ser Benedar.
They had returned.
But by the Seven… that was fast.
Lyonel moved quickly, scooping up the wooden sword Ser Hary had thrown aside. He placed it back on the rack carefully, alongside his own. The small, ordinary act felt strange against the rising energy of the castle.
Men were already shouting.
Guards hurried along the walls.
The horns blew again.
Lyonel broke into a run.
Through the courtyard. Past startled servants. Down the stone steps toward the main gates of Blackhaven.
By the time he reached the inner gate, the portcullis was already rising.
He could see them.
Horsemen pouring through the outer gate.
Black and gold.
Purple and black.
The sigils of House Baratheon and House Dondarrion snapping in the wind.
They looked dirtier than when they had left. Tired. Hardened.
Victorious.
Then he saw him.
Lord Baratheon rode at the head of the column, massive even atop a destrier. His armor was splattered with dried blood. In one gauntleted hand he held a long pike upright.
From the top of it—
Hung a head.
The Vulture King's face was frozen in death, eyes half-lidded, face covered in dried blood. His once-fierce expression had been reduced to something slack and mortal.
Lyonel felt his stomach tighten.
Such a feared warrior.
Such a legend among the Marches.
And now—
Just a head on a spike.
Victory felt different when you saw its end.
The riders slowed as they entered fully into the courtyard. Men dismounted heavily, boots hitting stone. Laughter and exhausted cheers broke out.
Then Lyonel saw him.
Ser Benedar.
Alive.
Mud-streaked. Bruised. But smiling.
Their eyes met.
Lyonel did not think. He pushed forward through the gathered men and reached him just as Benedar swung down from his horse.
They embraced hard.
"By the Seven, Lyonel," Benedar laughed into his shoulder. "You bastard. I nearly rode myself to death hearing you'd been taken."
Lyonel pulled back, grinning despite himself. "You almost died from worry?"
"I almost died from the ride," Benedar corrected. "You are lucky the King found you when he did."
"Yes," Lyonel admitted quietly. "I am."
A booming voice cut across the courtyard.
"Men!"
All turned.
Lord Baratheon stood tall, still holding the pike aloft.
"Look here," he bellowed. "This is the boy who dueled the Vulture King."
A murmur rippled through the gathered soldiers.
"He has more balls than most of you combined," Lord Baratheon continued, a fierce grin breaking through his beard.
Laughter followed.
Lyonel felt heat creep up his neck.
Lord Baratheon lowered the pike and stepped forward, extending his massive hand.
Lyonel hesitated only a second before taking it.
The grip was crushing.
"Well fought," the Storm Lord said.
Before Lyonel could answer, another voice spoke—calmer, quieter.
"Lord Baratheon."
The courtyard fell into immediate silence.
Lyonel turned.
Jaehaerys Targaryen stood at the top of the stone steps, sunlight catching in his silver-gold hair.
Beside him stood Simon.
But Lyonel's gaze was drawn elsewhere.
To the King's hips.
Two swords.
One was unmistakable.
Blackfyre rested at his side, dark and regal.
And beside it—
Adder's Fang.
The Vulture King's blade.
Lyonel's breath caught.
So the King meant to claim it.
For House Targaryen.
It made sense.
Victory claimed. Legacy absorbed.
The King descended the steps slowly.
"Lord Dondarrion has prepared baths for you all," Jaehaerys announced. "You have earned them. Wash. Rest briefly."
His gaze moved across the gathered men.
"Then come to the great hall."
His eyes found Lyonel.
"And you," the King said evenly. "Come with me."
The courtyard seemed to tilt.
Lyonel swallowed.
He moved forward automatically, stepping away from Benedar, from Lord Baratheon, from the murmuring soldiers.
He climbed the steps.
When he stood close enough, Jaehaerys leaned slightly toward him.
His voice dropped low—meant only for Lyonel.
"Today," the King whispered, "before the great hall, I shall award you."
Lyonel's heart hammered.
Award him.
Award him what?
His thoughts raced.
A title?
A place at court?
A—
Knighthood?
His breath felt shallow.
"Come," the King said, straightening. "With Lord Dondarrion and me."
Simon gave him a brief look—something between pride and curiosity.
Lyonel nodded quickly and followed them inside.
The noise of the courtyard faded behind heavy stone doors.
They walked toward the great hall.
Servants rushed past with buckets of water. The smell of sweat and steel drifted through the corridors as soldiers were directed toward baths.
Lyonel barely noticed.
His mind was elsewhere.
Is he going to knight me?
Before all the men who had fought.
Before Lord Baratheon.
Before Ser Benedar.
Beofre Simon.
Before the entire garrison of Blackhaven.
His palms were damp.
His chest tight.
He had dreamed of knighthood since he was a child sparring with wooden sticks.
But to be knighted by a king?
By King Jaehaerys himself?
They reached the doors of the great hall.
Guards moved to open them.
The massive wooden panels creaked inward.
Inside, the hall stood ready.
Banners hung. Torches lit. The high seat prepared.
Lyonel stepped across the threshold.
Whatever was about to happen—
His life would not be the same after it.
And the thought both thrilled and terrified him.