Simon POV
Simon rode without rest.
Storm did not slow, did not falter. The warhorse felt his master's urgency in every pull of the reins, every desperate press of the knees. Hooves thundered over dirt and stone as the Stormlands rushed past in a blur of shadow and moonlight.
The moon hung pale and cold above the world.
Blackhaven rose ahead of him at last, its towers dark against the silver sky.
"Faster, Storm!" Simon screamed.
The horse answered, surging forward.
By the time the castle gates loomed before him, Simon's throat burned, and his legs trembled with exhaustion. The gates were closed, torches flickering atop the walls.
"Who goes there?" a guard called down.
"Your lord!" Simon shouted back.
Recognition came swiftly. Shouts rang out, chains rattled, and the gates groaned open. Simon rode through without slowing, stone echoing beneath Storm's hooves. Only once they reached the courtyard did he swing down from the saddle.
His legs nearly gave way beneath him.
For a heartbeat, Simon thought he might collapse there in the dirt, but he forced himself upright. He did not spare Storm more than a brief, trembling touch before turning toward the keep.
He ran.
Through corridors he knew better than his own breath, past servants who shrank from his wild-eyed rush, until at last he reached the birthing chambers. He stopped before the door, chest heaving, drew in a deep breath—
—and opened it.
The smell of blood struck him at once.
The bed lay soaked and unmade, dark stains marring the sheets. Maids were still at work, scrubbing at the floor, their hands red and raw. Simon closed his eyes, pain lancing through him.
"Where is my wife?" he asked hoarsely.
No one answered.
He opened his eyes. The maids stared at him in fear.
"Where is my wife?" His voice cracked like breaking stone.
One maid found her courage. "Maester Rudy had her laid to rest at Stormrest, my lord."
Simon exhaled slowly. "And my child?"
"She is with Maester Rudy," the maid said. "In his chambers."
Simon nodded. "Your name?"
"Agatha, my lord."
"Thank you, Agatha."
He left the room.
His steps slowed as he made his way through the keep, disbelief settling over him like a shroud. The Seven had cursed him—there could be no other explanation. He had ridden to war and returned a widower.
Please, he prayed as he walked. Let the child live. Let her be whole.
When he reached the maester's chambers, unease crept into his chest. There was no sound from within.
A babe should be crying, he thought.
He pushed the door open.
Maester Rudy stood near the hearth, gently swaying with a child in his arms, humming a soft, tuneless melody. The baby slept peacefully.
Rudy looked up and froze. "My lord," he said quietly. "How are you here?"
Simon crossed the room without answering and took the child from his arms.
The baby stirred—then began to cry.
Panic flared in Simon's chest. "What is wrong with her?"
Maester Rudy reclaimed the child with practiced ease, rocking her gently, humming once more. The crying faded to soft breaths.
"She is not used to you," Rudy said gently.
Simon stared. "Her name?"
"Emily," the maester replied. "Your brother named her after her mother."
Simon nodded slowly.
He stepped closer, looking down at his daughter—dark hair, so like his own, and eyes just opening, blue as summer skies.
Emily.
For the first time since he had ridden from the camp, Simon Dondarrion smiled.
Lyonel POV
Thunder shifted under Lyonel, stamping one iron-shod hoof against the stony path. The warhorse was restless, sensing what was to come. Lyonel tightened his grip on the reins, leather creaking softly beneath his gauntlets.
The Red Mountains loomed around them, jagged and cruel, their peaks cutting at the stars like broken knives. The path they followed was narrow, winding, and choked with loose stone. The men of House Dondarrion moved in silence behind him—one hundred marcher knights and men-at-arms, veterans hardened by border wars and Dornish raids.
Beside Lyonel rode Ser Benedar, helm on, visor lowered, his presence steady and familiar. Benedar had fought in half a dozen skirmishes along the marches. Lyonel had fought in none.
They advanced, horses led quietly, armor muffled, steel wrapped in cloth where it might clink. Below them, nestled in a crooked hollow of rock and scrub, lay the camp of the Vulture King's men.
Fires burned low. Laughter drifted faintly upward. Unaware.
Lyonel's heart hammered in his chest.
It was night, and exhaustion tugged at him, but the promise of battle burned hotter than sleep ever could. His father's voice echoed in his mind—A Dondarrion is forged in lightning and blood.
Ser Benedar leaned close, voice barely more than breath."Why couldn't that bloody dragon fight with us?"
Lyonel kept his eyes forward. "The King is scouting for more camps. And Lord Baratheon wants us to fight like real stormlanders."
Benedar snorted softly. "Bloody Baratheons."
Lyonel almost smiled.
He studied the camp again. Fifty men, perhaps sixty. Poorly arrayed. No proper watch. The Vulture King's men had grown careless—fat on plunder and arrogance.
They are already dead, Lyonel thought.
He waited.
The night stretched tight as a drawn bowstring.
Then he saw it.
A spear rose on the far ridge, silhouetted against the stars. From its tip fluttered the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
The signal.
Lyonel drew his sword. Moonlight slid along the steel.
"Men!" he hissed, voice fierce and low. "With me!"
Then, louder—
"CHARGE!"
Thunder surged forward as Lyonel spurred him hard. The night exploded into motion.
They came down the slope like a storm unleashed—Baratheon men from one side, Dondarrion lightning from the other. War cries shattered the silence. Horns blared. Steel screamed.
The camp woke too late.
Men stumbled from tents half-armored, some clutching swords, others barely awake. Fires flared as lanterns toppled. Confusion reigned.
Lyonel rode straight into it.
The first man died without ever seeing his face—Thunder crushed him beneath iron hooves. The second Lyonel cut down, his blade biting deep into a shoulder, sliding through flesh and bone alike. Blood sprayed hot across his visor.
There was no time to think.
Only strike.
Only kill.
A Dornishman lunged at him with a spear but it was too slow. Lyonel knocked it aside and drove his sword into the man's throat. Another rushed him screaming; Lyonel split his head open with a savage overhead blow.
So this is war.
The fear was there—sharp, electric—but beneath it was something else. A terrible clarity. The stories his father had told were true. Time slowed. Every movement felt precise, inevitable.
The Dondarrion men fought like the marchers they were—disciplined, merciless. Shields locked. Blades rose and fell. Baratheon axes hewed men apart with brutal efficiency.
The Vulture King's men broke almost at once.
Some tried to flee into the rocks. Others dropped weapons and begged. Few were spared.
Lyonel slew again and again, his arm burning, his breath coming ragged behind the helm. Blood soaked the ground, dark and slick beneath Thunder's hooves. Tents burned. Screams faded into choking silence.
It was over almost as quickly as it had begun.
A slaughter.
Bodies lay strewn across the camp like butchered cattle.
Lyonel dismounted, chest heaving, sword dripping red. His hands shook—not from fear, but from what came after.
Ser Borys Baratheon was dragged forward, struggling, spitting curses, armor torn and bloodied. Lord Rogar Baratheon stood before him, towering, axe in hand, antlered helm casting a long shadow.
"Why?" Rogar demanded, his voice shaking with fury. "Why betray your own blood?"
Ser Borys laughed—a sharp, ugly sound. "Because I would not be nothing. Because Storm's End should have been mine."
Rogar raised his axe.
Then—
"Do it," Ser Borys sneered. "Be a kinslayer, brother."
The axe hesitated.
Lyonel stepped forward. "My lord," he began. "Let me—"
The roar cut him off.
The sky screamed.
Wings beat the air into submission as Vermithor descended, vast and terrible, bronze scales gleaming like fire in the moonlight. Heat rolled across the battlefield. Men staggered back, shields raised in useless instinct.
The dragon landed.
King Jaehaerys dismounted calmly, his cloak untouched by ash or blood.
"Well done, Lord Baratheon," the King said. His eyes flicked to Lyonel. "And well done, Lyonel."
Lyonel dropped his head at once.
Ser Borys spat at the ground. "Coward," he snarled at the King. "Hiding behind beasts."
Jaehaerys regarded him coolly. "A coward?"
He gestured. "Free him. Give him a sword."
Gasps rippled through the men.
Ser Borys was cut loose and armed.
Then Jaehaerys drew Blackfyre.
The Valyrian steel blade drank the moonlight and rippling dark as smoke. Lyonel had never seen such a weapon. It felt alive.
The duel lasted seconds.
Ser Borys charged, screaming.
Jaehaerys stepped aside and cut.
Blackfyre sheared through Borys's sword like silk—then through his chest.
Ser Borys fell dead before he hit the ground.
The King wiped the blade clean.
"Do not rest," Jaehaerys commanded, his voice carrying across the carnage. "Our work is not done. There is still a vulture to kill."
The men roared their approval.
Lyonel stood among them, bloodied, exhausted, alive.
For the first time in his life, Lyonel Dondarrion knew what it meant to be a knight of the Marches.