Lyonel POV
Lyonel was tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep could mend, nor the honest ache of a day spent riding or drilling in armour. This was a deeper thing—bone-tired, soul-weary. His lips were split and dry, tasting of dust and blood. His legs burned with every step, thighs trembling from hours of forced marching over jagged stone. Each breath scraped his throat raw.
He had long since lost count of how many hours it had been.
The sun had bled into the mountains and died. Now the moon hung above the Red Mountains, pale and watchful, casting the rocks in silver and shadow. The night was cold, but sweat clung to Lyonel's back beneath his armour.
Behind him walked the Vulture King.
Silent.
Always silent.
The man did not taunt him. Did not boast. Did not threaten. That, somehow, was worse.
The steel sword from their duel lay discarded somewhere far behind them, tossed aside without a second thought. Now the Dornishman carried only his true blade—Adder's Fang. Even in the moonlight, Lyonel could see it: dark, rippling Valyrian steel, alive in a way common blades were not.
And Lyonel had nothing.
No sword. No dagger. No shield.
Only his breath. Only his fear.
He stumbled once, catching himself before he fell. The Vulture King did not speak, but Lyonel felt the unspoken warning in the man's posture. One more misstep, and the blade would find him.
He swallowed hard.
Seven above, he prayed silently. Do not let me die like this.
GRAAAAAAR!
The sound tore through the night like the sky itself splitting apart.
Lyonel's head snapped up, eyes wide.
A dragon.
Vermithor.
The roar echoed off the mountains, rolling again and again until the stone seemed to answer it. Lyonel's heart surged, hope flaring bright and sudden in his chest.
The King, he thought wildly. The King has come.
Before he could even draw breath—
The Vulture King spun, one arm snapping around Lyonel's chest, hauling him back hard. Adder's Fang rose and pressed against Lyonel's throat.
Cold.
So cold it burned.
"Don't," the Dornishman murmured.
The dragon circled above them, vast wings beating the air into a frenzy. When Vermithor descended, the force of it struck like a storm—dust and loose stone blasted outward, Lyonel nearly thrown from his feet. The Vulture King held him fast.
The blade bit.
Just a kiss of steel, but Lyonel felt warm blood trickle down his neck.
Seven above, he thought dimly. How sharp is this cursed sword?
Vermithor landed.
Up close, the dragon was not just enormous—it was overwhelming. Bronze scales shimmered in the moonlight, each one larger than a shield. Heat rolled from him in waves, carrying the stink of smoke and scorched stone. His breath came in deep, thunderous huffs that shook Lyonel to his core.
Then King Jaehaerys dismounted.
He looked small beside the dragon, and yet somehow larger than all of them combined.
"You vulture," the King called, his voice carrying across the rocks, calm and iron-hard. "Hand over Lyonel Dondarrion. And yourself."
The Vulture King's grip tightened.
Adder's Fang pressed closer. Lyonel felt the steel threaten his skin, felt the promise of death in it.
"Then come and take us, Dragon," the Vulture King replied, his voice steady. Almost amused. "But I think you know what will happen to this Dondarrion if you do."
Lyonel's mouth went dry.
He did not want to die.
He thought of his father—stern and proud beneath the lightning banner. His mother's quiet strength. Simon's laughter, rare but real. And Emily—
Emily's smile.
His chest tightened painfully.
Please, he prayed. Please.
King Jaehaerys studied them in silence. Then his gaze fell to the blade at Lyonel's throat.
"I see that sword of yours," the King said at last. "Adder's Fang. If my memory serves, the ancestral Valyrian steel sword of House Wyl."
The Vulture King stiffened.
Almost imperceptibly—but Lyonel felt it.
"So," the Dornishman said, "I stole it from a weak house."
"Did you?" Jaehaerys replied mildly. "I heard a different tale. That a member of House Wyl stole it from Lord Wyl's own chambers."
The night seemed to hold its breath.
"It seems to me," the King continued, "that you are no mere outlaw. You are a Wyl."
Silence.
For the first time since Lyonel had been taken, the Vulture King did not have an answer.
King Jaehaerys stepped closer, boots crunching on stone. "Do you know the stories of Harrenhal, Vulture?" he asked. "Do you know what my grandfather did to stone and steel and flesh when he was displeased?"
Vermithor shifted behind him, wings rustling like a coming storm.
"Imagine," the King said softly, "what my dragon would do to Wyl."
The Vulture King's breathing quickened. Lyonel could feel it through the arm locked around his chest.
"I will die if I do what you ask," the Dornishman said at last.
Jaehaerys did not hesitate. "You will die no matter what you do."
The Vulture King laughed once, sharp and bitter. "Then I will not die alone."
His arm tensed.
The blade began to move.
Lyonel closed his eyes.
He saw his mother's face. His father's stern nod. Emily's laugh, warm and alive.
I am coming, he thought.
"STOP!"
The word cracked through the night like thunder.
"A duel," King Jaehaerys said. "You and I. Man to man. No dragon."
Lyonel's eyes flew open.
The Vulture King hesitated. "And how am I to know," he said slowly, "that when I let this boy go, you will not turn that beast on me?"
Jaehaerys did not look back as he raised one hand.
"Vermithor," he commanded.
The dragon roared once, then beat his wings and rose into the night sky, circling once before flying off, his vast shape vanishing beyond the peaks.
Gone.
Lyonel stared, stunned.
He would do this… for me?
When the dragon was truly gone, the Vulture King loosened his grip.
For half a heartbeat, Lyonel dared to hope—
Pain exploded at the back of his skull.
The world spun. Stone rushed up to meet him.
Darkness swallowed Lyonel Dondarrion whole.
Vorian Wyl POV
The Dondarrion boy lay crumpled where he had fallen, his body twisted against the stone. Blood had dried along his neck in a thin, dark line where Adder's Fang had kissed him.
Vorian spared him only a glance.
His eyes were on the King.
Jaehaerys Targaryen stood rigid with fury, silver hair stirred by the mountain wind, his jaw clenched so tightly Vorian could see the muscles jumping beneath the skin. No dragon. No guards.
Just a man.
"A noble under me," the King said coldly, "should not be treated like that."
Vorian laughed softly. "You are not my king."
He rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar weight of Adder's Fang in his grip. The blade seemed eager, humming faintly, its dark ripples catching moonlight like oil on water.
"Now," Vorian continued, spreading his stance, "are you ready to be defeated?"
Jaehaerys did not answer.
He drew Blackfyre.
The sword came free in a whisper of steel, long and beautiful, dark as night yet gleaming like a star's edge. Vorian's breath caught despite himself.
Valyrian steel.
Not just any blade.
Blackfyre.
For the first time since the dragon hunts began, something like excitement stirred in Vorian's chest.
I have never crossed Fang against an equal blade, he thought. Let us see which one sings louder.
They began to circle.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The wind howled between the peaks, carrying ash and dust. Vorian watched the King's feet, his shoulders, the angle of his wrists. He saw no fear—but neither did he see the hard, predatory looseness of a man who had lived his life by the blade.
A king, Vorian decided. A dragon rider. Not a warrior.
That confidence warmed him.
He struck first.
Adder's Fang snapped forward in a probing cut meant for the wrist. Jaehaerys parried cleanly, Blackfyre ringing as it met Fang—
The sound was wrong.
Not a clang.
A scream.
Steel shrieked like a living thing, sharp enough to make Vorian's ears ache. The vibration ran up his arm, into his bones, and he saw Jaehaerys flinch as well.
They both stepped back, startled.
Then they smiled.
And truly fought.
Vorian pressed in with speed, cutting high, low, then thrusting for the belly. Jaehaerys turned aside each blow his movements precise. He did not overreach. Did not rush.
Seven hells, Vorian thought. He knows what he's doing.
Blackfyre flashed, its edge biting close—too close—shearing a strip of leather from Vorian's vambrace. Vorian twisted away, countering with a backhand slash that Jaehaerys barely caught on his guard.
They circled again, boots scraping stone, breath fogging the cold air.
Jaehaerys advanced now, driving Vorian back with a series of crisp, punishing strikes. The King's swordplay was disciplined, learned from masters—each cut purposeful, each step controlled.
But Vorian had not learned in courts.
He had learned in blood.
He let the King push him, retreating just enough to lure him forward. Then he exploded into motion, rolling under a high cut and slashing upward, scoring the King's thigh through mail.
Jaehaerys grunted but did not falter. He responded with a brutal pommel strike that cracked against Vorian's cheek, stars bursting behind his eyes.
Pain.
Good.
They fought on.
Minutes stretched into eternity. Sweat streamed down Vorian's back. His arms burned. His breath came ragged. Steel rang again and again, sparks flying where Valyrian steel met Valyrian steel.
Jaehaerys was stronger than Vorian expected.
Faster, too.
But Vorian was meaner.
He feinted left, spun right, then—when the King raised Blackfyre to strike—
Vorian spat.
The gob of spit struck Jaehaerys square in the left eye.
The King cursed, blinking, his guard faltering for the barest instant.
That was enough.
Adder's Fang slammed into Blackfyre, wrenching it from Jaehaerys' grip. The legendary blade skidded across the stone and vanished into shadow.
Vorian surged forward and kicked hard.
The King's knee buckled.
Jaehaerys fell.
Vorian stood over him, chest heaving, sword raised.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to freeze.
I could kill him.
The Dragon King. Slayer of none, ruler of all.
Or—
I could take him.
Drag him to Dorne. To Wyl. To Sunspear.
Let the world see the man who brought the dragon to his knees.
Jaehaerys tried to rise.
Vorian kicked him in the stomach, knocking the breath from his lungs.
"You are skilled," Vorian said, voice hoarse with triumph. "But to me, you are nothing. I have fought in a hundred battles. I have killed a hundred men. I am the sword of Dor—"
Cold fire exploded through his neck.
For a fraction of a second, Vorian did not understand.
Then the world tilted.
He saw his body still standing.
Saw blood spraying like rain.
Saw the Dondarrion boy, standing behind him, pale, furious, alive.
Blackfyre was in his hands.
Vorian Wyl's head struck the stone.
And the mountains went dark.