Lyonel POV
Lyonel sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor.
The room was quiet now. Hours had passed since the feast in the great hall, though the feast might have been the worst one Lyonel had ever been to. There had been little food, and even less drink, but the men had celebrated all the same. Victory had a way of making even stale bread taste sweet.
And Lyonel had drunk.
Gods, he had drunk a lot.
He rubbed his face with both hands and chuckled softly to himself.
Some of the soldiers had grown annoyed with him. One grizzled man from the Marches had even barked at him that he was drinking like a lord when the rest of them were sharing scraps. Lyonel had apologized, though he had been too drunk to do it very well.
Still, they had laughed about it afterward.
He leaned back slowly until he was lying flat on the bed.
The mattress creaked beneath his weight.
He stared up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, smiling like a fool.
Ser Lyonel.
The words still felt strange in his head.
Only weeks ago, he had been nothing more than the younger brother of Lord Dondarrion. A boy with a sword and too much pride.
Now he was a knight.
Knighted by the King himself.
With Blackfyre.
He let out a long breath and closed his eyes.
His future would be great.
He was certain of it.
Sleep came quickly.
"Lyonel…"
The voice was soft.
Gentle.
Warm.
"Lyonel…"
His eyes opened slowly.
Light.
Blinding light.
It surrounded him on all sides, brighter than the sun reflecting off steel. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, but the brightness seemed to burn straight through his fingers.
"Lyonel…"
The voice was beautiful.
He had never heard anything like it before.
It was a woman's voice, sweet and melodic, like a song carried on summer wind.
He tried to find the source.
Shapes began to form within the light.
Something was there.
Someone.
At first, it looked like a shadow.
Then the light shifted.
And Lyonel saw it clearly.
A corpse.
Burned.
Charred black.
The body stood upright somehow, its flesh cracked and broken, as if it had been roasted in flame. Wisps of smoke curled lazily from its ruined skin.
The voice was coming from it.
"Lyonel…"
Lightning split the sky.
A violent crack of thunder followed.
A bolt of lightning struck the corpse.
The burned body jerked violently as white fire ran through it—
Lyonel shot upright in bed.
He was drenched in sweat.
His heart hammered in his chest like a war drum.
His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts.
"What the fuck was that?" he muttered hoarsely.
His throat burned like sandpaper.
Gods, he was thirsty.
Lyonel swung his legs off the bed and stood, rubbing his eyes as he staggered toward the small table in the corner of the room. A clay pitcher sat there beside a cup.
He grabbed it eagerly and tilted it.
Nothing came out.
Not even a drop.
"Fuck."
He set the pitcher down with a dull clack.
For a moment, he considered simply going back to bed, but the dryness in his throat made that impossible, and that dream by the Seven that dream. His stomach also began to rumble loudly, reminding him that most of the feast had been liquid.
He sighed.
"Kitchens it is."
Lyonel pulled on a tunic and stepped out into the corridor.
The castle was quiet.
Pale morning light spilled through the narrow windows along the stone walls. Dawn must have been close.
Only a few people were awake.
Two guards stood near the stairwell speaking quietly to one another. A servant carrying a basket of linens hurried past Lyonel with a polite nod.
"Ser," she said.
Lyonel blinked.
Ser.
Gods, that was still strange.
He nodded back awkwardly and continued toward the kitchens.
The large wooden doors were slightly open.
Inside, the kitchen was empty.
Which was surprising.
Usually, servants would already be bustling about preparing morning meals, but perhaps the celebrations had kept everyone up too late.
Still, something caught his attention immediately.
Steam rose from a bowl sitting on the long wooden table.
And the smell—
Seven hells.
His stomach growled loudly.
The scent was rich and warm. Meat, sweat, and something spicy he couldn't quite name filled the air.
Lyonel walked closer.
Inside the bowl was a thick broth with chunks of meat floating within it.
Maybe pork.
Maybe chicken.
He didn't really care.
His mouth watered.
He glanced around the empty kitchen.
No one.
Slowly, he picked up the bowl.
The steam warmed his face.
"Well… just one sip," he muttered.
He raised it to his lips.
The broth touched his tongue.
His eyes widened instantly.
"By the Seven," he whispered. "That is delicious."
"Ser Lyonel."
Lyonel nearly dropped the bowl.
"What are you doing with my food?"
His heart jumped into his throat.
He set the bowl back down and spun around quickly.
Standing there was the King.
Lyonel gulped.
King Jaehaerys stood there calmly, arms folded, watching him with an unreadable expression.
"That," the King said slowly, "was a special broth that I brought from King's Landing."
He stepped into the kitchen.
"It is very expensive."
Lyonel's stomach twisted.
"I—Your Grace—I'm sorry—"
He bowed his head quickly.
"I didn't know—it was just sitting there—I was thirsty—and hungry—and—"
Gods.
He had just been knighted.
Had he really managed to anger the King over a bowl of soup?
Lyonel began apologizing again.
And again.
And again.
Then the King laughed.
A deep, amused laugh.
"I'm just kidding, Ser Lyonel."
Lyonel froze.
The King smiled.
"I am a king. Why should I get angry over food?"
Relief flooded through Lyonel so suddenly that his knees almost gave out.
He let out a shaky breath.
"Thank the Seven," he muttered under his breath.
The King walked over to the table and gestured toward the bowl.
"You may finish it."
Lyonel hesitated.
"Really?"
"Really."
The King leaned against the table casually.
"I also wanted to speak with you."
Lyonel straightened immediately.
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"In private."
The King's tone grew more serious.
"In my chambers."
Lyonel nodded quickly.
"Do we go now?"
The King shook his head.
"You finish that meal first."
He gave Lyonel a faint smirk.
"You've already stolen half of it."
Then he turned and walked toward the door.
"Come to my chambers when you're done."
And just like that, he was gone.
Lyonel stood there for a moment, staring at the doorway.
Then he looked down at the bowl again.
"Well…"
He picked it up.
The broth was still steaming.
He drank it quickly this time, savouring the warmth as it slid down his throat. The meat inside was pork, tender and rich, and he devoured it in only a few bites.
It was the best thing he had eaten in days.
When the bowl was empty, Lyonel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set it down.
He exhaled slowly.
Ser Lyonel.
Gods.
That still felt strange.
Shaking his head, he stepped out of the kitchen and into the quiet halls of Blackhaven once more.
The King was waiting.
And Lyonel had no idea why.
The corridors of Blackhaven were quiet in the early morning.
Lyonel walked slowly.
He could not help it.
His mind was racing.
The King wanted to speak with him privately. In his chambers. That alone was enough to make his stomach twist with nervous excitement.
Why?
Had he done something wrong? No… the King had seemed amused in the kitchen. Pleased even.
Still, a king calling for a man alone could mean many things.
Good things.
Bad things.
Lyonel reached the heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor. Two guards stood outside it, both wearing the black and purple lightning of House Dondarrion.
They stepped aside as he approached.
Lyonel raised his hand and knocked.
There was a brief pause.
Then the King's voice came from inside.
"Enter."
Lyonel pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The first thing he noticed was the heat.
The room was warm, far warmer than the cold stone corridors outside. Steam drifted through the air, curling slowly toward the ceiling.
Lyonel glanced around.
A large wooden bathtub stood near the center of the room, filled nearly to the brim with steaming water. A servant must have drawn it recently.
The scent of soap and herbs filled the chamber.
Then Lyonel saw the King.
Jaehaerys I Targaryen sat casually in a chair beside an open window. Morning light spilled across his shoulders as he looked out over the castle walls.
The King turned his head when Lyonel entered.
"I have been really impressed by you, Lyonel."
Lyonel straightened immediately.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
The King studied him for a moment, almost thoughtfully.
"I will make this quick."
He rose from the chair.
Only then did Lyonel notice the sword resting against the table beside him.
The King picked it up and walked toward him.
Then he held it out.
"Take this."
Lyonel froze.
His eyes widened instantly.
The blade was unmistakable even in its sheath.
Adder's Fang.
The Vulture King's Valyrian steel sword.
Even sheathed, it seemed to hum with something ancient and powerful.
Lyonel stared at it as if it might bite him.
"I… I cannot possibly take this," he said quickly.
He shook his head slightly, stepping back half a step.
"Valyrian steel swords cost a for—"
The King interrupted him.
"This sword is not for you, Ser Lyonel."
Lyonel blinked.
The King's expression remained calm.
"I want you to take it to Harrenhal."
The name alone made Lyonel's stomach tighten.
Harrenhal.
The largest and most cursed castle in the Seven Kingdoms.
"To my sister," the King continued. "Princess Rhaena."
Lyonel's eyes widened again.
Why him?
There were dozens of knights in the castle. Older men. Experienced men.
Why send him?
He swallowed nervously.
"Why me, Your Grace?"
The King smiled slightly.
"There is something about you."
Lyonel felt his ears grow warm.
"I think my sister will like you."
He gave a small shrug.
"She rarely likes anyone."
Lyonel remained silent.
The King continued.
"She will never accept me or the others I've sent. Trust me, I have tried many times."
His tone suggested long frustration.
"But you…"
He studied Lyonel again.
"You might succeed."
Lyonel gulped.
The King's voice hardened slightly.
"Take it."
Lyonel did not hesitate this time.
He reached forward and carefully accepted the sword.
Even in its sheath, the weapon felt heavier than he expected. Not in weight alone—but in meaning.
Valyrian steel.
A blade older than kingdoms.
The King continued speaking.
"I will leave Blackhaven soon."
He turned back toward the window.
"Once you have delivered the sword, I expect you to come to King's Landing."
Lyonel nodded quickly.
"Yes, Your Grace."
The King glanced back at him.
"And one more thing."
His voice grew quiet.
"Make sure nobody knows you have that sword."
Lyonel looked down at it.
"Many men would kill for Valyrian steel," the King said calmly. "And many more would steal it."
Lyonel nodded again.
"I understand."
The King waved his hand dismissively.
"You may go."
Lyonel bowed his head.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
Then he turned and left the chamber.
The cooler air of the corridor struck him immediately after the heat of the room.
He walked quickly now.
Much quicker than before.
His heart was pounding again.
A knight for less than a day…
…and already trusted with a task from the King himself.
He hurried through the castle halls until he reached his room. Once inside, he shut the door and locked it.
Only then did he remove the sword from his chest.
He stared at it for a moment.
Adder's Fang.
The Vulture King's blade.
A weapon forged in the fires of Valyria itself.
Lyonel carefully slid it under his bed, where it would remain hidden.
He exhaled slowly.
There was still much to do before he left Blackhaven.
He would need a horse. Supplies. Proper armour.
And then…
Harrenhal.
Lyonel could not help but smile.
Many knights dreamed of serving a king their whole lives.
Of being trusted with important tasks.
He had been a knight for a single day…
…and already the King had given him one.
Two, really.
The first had been the knighting itself.
A knock sounded suddenly at his door.
Lyonel straightened.
"Ser Lyonel," a voice said from the other side. "Your brother requests that you come to his solar."
Lyonel walked toward the door.
"Tell my brother I am coming."
There was a short pause.
"I will need to prepare first."
"Yes, Ser," the voice replied.
Footsteps moved away down the hall.
Lyonel leaned back against the door for a moment.
His life was moving quickly now.
Too quickly to think about everything.
But one thing was certain.
His road would soon lead away from Blackhaven.
And toward Harrenhal.