Vorian POV:
The cave stank of smoke and sweat
Vorian Wyl crouched near the back, his shoulders hunched, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword. The Red Mountains loomed around him like the ribs of some vast, dead beast, their stone bellies riddled with holes and tunnels. He had hidden in many of them over the years—after raids, after ambushes, after blood—but never like this.
Never hunted.
Three days.
Three days since the dragon came.
It had fallen from the sky like the wrath of the gods, bronze wings blotting out the sun, its roar shaking stones loose from the cliffs. Camps burned. Men screamed. Horses bolted. Those who ran were cooked where they stood. Those who hid were dragged out by Stormlanders with steel and fire in their eyes.
The Vulture King, reduced to carrion.
Vorian clenched his jaw and spat onto the cave floor.
"I should have killed that Baratheon whelp when I had the chance," he muttered.
Around him sat what remained of his strength.
Four men.
Dorian, lean and sharp-eyed, once the best spear in the mountains.
Arion, broad-shouldered and silent, with hands like hammers.
Artyr, nervous, always glancing toward the cave mouth.
Arthur, older than the rest, his beard streaked with grey, his loyalty unquestioned.
They had ridden with him for years. Raided with him. Burned marcher villages and gutted caravans beneath his banner.
Now they sat like frightened boys.
Hiding.
A distant sound rolled across the mountains.
GRAAAAAAR.
The cave shuddered. Dust drifted from the ceiling.
The dragon.
Vorian's stomach tightened despite himself. He forced the fear down, crushed it beneath rage. "Move," he growled. "We cannot stay. The beast will scent us."
No one answered.
He rose—
—and felt cold steel kiss his back.
Vorian froze.
Slowly, he turned his head.
Dorian stood behind him, spear levelled, its tip pressed between Vorian's shoulder blades. Arion and Artyr flanked him, blades drawn. Arthur blocked the cave mouth, axe in hand.
For a heartbeat, Vorian simply stared.
Then he laughed.
A harsh, barking sound that echoed off the stone. "What is this?" he asked. "Some kind of jest?"
Dorian's hands shook on the spear. "I'm sorry, Vorian."
The words tasted wrong.
Vorian's smile thinned. "Sorry?" he repeated. "For what?"
"For surviving," Dorian said, voice cracking. "For wanting to live."
The dragon roared again, closer this time.
"We give you to them," Arion said. "Stormlanders. The King. Whoever comes first. They want you. Without you, they might let us go."
Vorian turned fully now, facing them. His eyes burned. "You think they will spare you?" he asked softly. "They hate us. They will string you up and laugh while doing it."
Artyr swallowed. "It's the only choice."
"How do you escape a dragon?" Arthur asked. His voice held no hatred—only exhaustion.
Vorian looked at them then, truly looked.
Fear had rotted them from the inside.
Cowards.
For a moment—just a moment—he considered fighting. Four against one. Even with Adder's Fang, it would be close.
So he raised a hand.
"Very well," Vorian said. "Take me."
Dorian hesitated.
The spear lowered a fraction.
That was enough.
Steel flashed.
Adder's Fang slid free of its scabbard like a whisper of death. Valyrian steel, dark and rippling, hungry as ever. Vorian stepped inside Dorian's guard and slashed once.
The spear split in two.
So did Dorian.
Blood sprayed the cave wall as Vorian turned, cutting Arion's throat before the man could shout. Artyr screamed—just once—before Adder's Fang took him through the belly.
Arthur swung his axe wildly.
Vorian parried, twisted, and drove his blade up beneath the man's ribs.
It was over in heartbeats.
Four bodies collapsed onto the stone, their blood pooling together, steaming faintly in the cold mountain air.
Vorian stood among them, chest heaving.
He spat on Dorian's corpse. "I will see your wife begging when I return to Wyl," he said coldly. "That I swear."
The mountain answered with fire.
Heat washed over the cave mouth. Light flared red and gold. Stone cracked.
Vorian did not wait.
He slipped from the cave like a shadow, moving low, fast, the way the mountains had taught him. Behind him, flame poured into the hollow, dragonfire licking stone, melting rock as though it were wax.
He reached a ridge and turned.
The cave collapsed in on itself, smoke billowing skyward.
Vorian smiled.
"Missed me," he whispered.
The dragon wheeled above, roaring, then beat its wings and flew on, hunting elsewhere.
Vorian turned—
"You."
The word cut sharper than steel.
Six men stepped from behind the rocks, armoured, grim, swords drawn. Stormlanders.
And one stood before them all.
Blackened plate. Amethyst lightning blazing across his chest. A helm crowned with jagged crystal bolts.
A Dondarrion.
Not some knight. Not a marcher whelp.
A lord.
Vorian's breath caught—not in fear, but in sudden, wild calculation.
If he could take this one…
A hostage.
A shield.
A way home.
Slowly, Vorian Wyl lifted Adder's Fang, his smile returning, sharp as a vulture's beak.
"Come then," he murmured. "Let us see who the gods favour tonight."
Lyonel POV
The Red Mountains never slept.
They watched.
Jagged stone rose around Lyonel and his men like broken teeth, the narrow paths winding between cliffs stained red by iron and old blood. The air was thin here, sharp in the lungs, carrying the scent of smoke and ash from dragonfire burned hours—perhaps days—before.
Lyonel walked at the head of the column, Thunder left behind with the horses below. Steel was quieter on foot. Safer.
Five knights followed him.
Cortnay, broad as an ox and scarred half to hell.
Edric, sharp-eyed, ever watchful.
Jonos, strong and fearless.
Steffon, silent and steady.
Roland, older, with a limp, earned fighting Dornish raiders beside Lyonel's father.
Men who had bled for House Dondarrion.
Men who placed their trust in him, and to whom he gave his own.
But many thoughts weighed heavily upon his mind.
His mind would not let go of the past days.
The battle.
The bodies.
Bellies split open, entrails steaming in the air.
Just like Emily.
He swallowed hard and forced his gaze forward.
GRAAAAAAAR!
The roar tore through the sky, rattling stone loose from the cliffs.
All of them looked up.
Vermithor.
The Bronze Fury passed overhead, vast wings catching the sun as dragonfire poured into a cluster of caves ahead. Flame blossomed like hell itself, screams echoing briefly before cutting off.
Lyonel stood rooted, awe and terror twisting together in his chest.
A god, he thought. Or close enough.
"My lord."
Edric's voice snapped him back.
"There," Edric whispered, pointing.
Lyonel followed his finger.
A man stood ahead on the path.
Alone.
He wore light chainmail, battered but well-kept, a helm crowned with cruel, spiked ridges. In his hand was a sword unlike any Lyonel had ever seen—its blade like a serpent's body, dark and gleaming.
Valyrian steel.
Just like Blackfyre.
Lyonel's breath caught.
Could this be The Vulture King?
"Forward," Lyonel said.
They broke into a run, boots striking stone, weapons drawn.
"You," Lyonel called out.
The man turned slowly.
For a heartbeat, he did nothing. Then he raised the blade, resting it loosely in one hand, utterly calm.
"Come then," the man murmured. "Let us see who the gods favour tonight."
He charged.
Steel met steel in a ringing crash.
Lyonel barely got his sword up in time.
The impact jarred his arms to the bone. Sparks flew as the Valyrian blade slid down his steel, biting deep. His sword chipped—but held.
Seven above.
The Vulture King moved like water, strikes flowing one into another, never overcommitting, never rushing. Lyonel gave ground, boots scraping stone, parrying high, low, turning his wrists just in time to keep his blade from being sheared in two.
"Circle him!" Lyonel shouted.
The knights moved at once, spreading, blades raised.
The Dornishman laughed.
A sharp, ugly sound.
He spun suddenly, slashing at Cortnay's knee. Cortnay barely jumped back in time. Edric lunged—too slow. The Valyrian blade kissed his mail, slicing rings apart like thread. Blood bloomed along Edric's side.
"Hold!" Lyonel barked.
He stepped in again, forcing the Vulture King back with a flurry of cuts—overhand, thrust, feint to the shoulder, then low to the thigh. The Dornishman blocked or slipped each one by inches, his footwork flawless on the uneven stone.
He is Good, Lyonel realised grimly.
Too good.
"Surrender," Lyonel said through clenched teeth. "Or die."
The Vulture King leaned close, breath hot. "Are you such a coward, Dondarrion?" he hissed. "A marcher lord afraid to face a Dornishman blade to blade?"
Rage flared inside Lyonel.
The word coward burned hotter than dragonfire.
Lyonel shoved him back and raised a hand. "Enough."
He turned to his men. "Men give me and this snake a sword."
The Vulture King's brow lifted slightly.
"Put that blade away," Lyonel said. "We fight as equals."
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then the Dornishman planted his Valyrian steel sword point-first into the ground and raised his hands.
Cortnay stepped forward and placed his sword in Lyonel's hands. Lyonel cast his own aside.
Jonos stepped forward, hesitant, and offered his sword.
The Vulture King took it.
They faced each other again.
No dragonfire.
No numbers.
Just steel.
They clashed.
This time, Lyonel pressed harder—cutting fast, driving the Dornishman back step by step. He forced him toward a rock outcrop, striking at his hands, shoulders, and legs.
The Vulture King grunted, sweat streaking his face beneath the helm—but he smiled.
He adapted.
A sudden twist. A false retreat. Lyonel followed—
Too far.
The Dornishman swept low, hooking Lyonel's ankle. Lyonel stumbled, barely rolling away as the sword cut air where his hand had been.
They rose together.
Steel rang again and again, the duel stretching long, both men breathing hard now, arms burning.
Then—
The Vulture King stepped inside Lyonel's guard.
A sharp crack.
Lyonel's sword flew from his hands, spinning away down the rocks.
Before Lyonel could move, an arm locked around his neck, iron-hard.
Cold steel kissed his throat.
"Another step," the Vulture King called calmly, "and your lord dies."
The knights froze.
Jonos's sword clattered to the ground, discarded.
Lyonel stood rigid, disgust and fury churning inside him.
He had lost.
The Vulture King leaned close and whispered, almost kindly, "You fought well, marcher."
Then louder: "Now give me my sword."
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Until Jonos moved. The Valyrian steel sword stood half-buried in the red earth where it had been driven during the fight, its dark metal drinking in the light. Even still, it looked alive.
He took a step. Then another.
Lyonel's eyes followed him as he wrapped both hands around the grip. When he pulled, the blade slid free with a soft, wet sound. Blood ran down the fuller in thin, glistening lines.
He walked toward Lyonel and the Vulture King.
The Vulture King spoke, his tone calm.
"Put it in my sheath. And if you try anything—"
His eyes flicked to Lyonel.
"—your lord will die."
Jonos did not hesitate. He lowered his gaze, stepped forward, and slid the Valyrian steel into the Vulture King's sheath. The blade vanished with a soft click.
Then he stepped back.
The Vulture King spoke, his voice thick with amusement. "Now, Dondarrion. Walk."
And Lyonel Dondarrion was dragged into the mountains at swordpoint.