And he had embarked on it.

---

The journey to Duskendale was a week of rolling waves and restless nights.

Lyonel stood at the prow of the ship more often than not, the wind whipping his cloak around him like a second skin.

He thought of Brienne, of Renly, of the storm gathering over the Seven Kingdoms.

And he thought of the Stark girls, trapped in the Red Keep, their fates tied to the whims of a boy king and his mad queen.

---

When the ship finally docked in Duskendale, the town was a hive of whispered tensions.

The streets were crowded with merchants and sell-swords, their voices low, their eyes darting.

News traveled faster than ravens here, and the air smelled of fear and opportunity in equal measure.

Lyonel pulled the hood of his cloak low over his face, his hand resting on the pommel of Black Oath.

He moved like a shadow through the alleys, avoiding the gaze of the town watch, the sigil of Baratheon hidden beneath a traveler’s cloak.

---

The Seven Swords was a squat, timbered inn nestled between a blacksmith’s forge and a brothel.

The sign creaked in the wind, the painted blades chipped and faded.

Inside, the common room was thick with the stench of ale and sweat, the murmur of hushed conversations and the occasional burst of laughter.

Lyonel kept his head down as he approached the innkeeper, a burly man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw.

"A room. For the night."

The innkeeper eyed him, then nodded toward a set of stairs.

"Silver stag up front."

Lyonel tossed the coin onto the counter and climbed the stairs, the wood groaning beneath his weight.

The room was small, the bed narrow, the air thick with the scent of damp wool.

He dropped his pack onto the floor and leaned against the door, listening to the sounds of the inn below.

He wouldn’t stay long.

Just long enough to rest, to gather his thoughts, to decide his next move.

---

Hunger gnawed at his gut as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the streets of Duskendale in shades of gold and crimson.

Lyonel descended the stairs, his senses sharp, his hand never far from the dagger at his belt.

---

The common room was livelier now, the tables crowded with men and women who spoke in hushed tones, their eyes flickering toward the door every time it opened.

He found a corner table, his back to the wall, and signaled for a serving girl.

"Ale. And whatever meat you’ve got."

She nodded, her eyes lingering on the breadth of his shoulders before she scurried off.

Lyonel scanned the room, his gaze snagging on a group of men clustered near the hearth.

Their cloaks bore the sigil of House Rykker—the ruling house of Duskendale.

They were laughing, their voices rough, their hands resting on the hilts of their knives.

One of them, a brute with a broken nose, kicked open the door to a back room, and Lyonel’s gaze sharpened as he caught sight of the man they dragged out.

He was unarmed, his face bruised, his hands bound behind his back.

A merchant, perhaps, or a spy.

It didn’t matter.

The Rykkers’ intent was clear in the way they bared their knives, in the hungry gleam in their eyes.

"Please," the man begged, his voice raw.

"I’ve done nothing—"

One of the Rykkers backhanded him, sending him sprawling to the floor.

"Shut yer mouth," the brute snarled.

"Yer ****’s been bought and paid for."

Lyonel’s fingers twitched toward the dagger at his belt—the catspaw, its blade thin and deadly, a gift from a time when he had been nothing more than a bastard with a king’s blood in his veins. He didn’t know the man on the floor. Didn’t know what crimes he’d committed, what debts he owed.

But he knew the look of a man about to be slaughtered like a hog.

And he knew he couldn’t stand by and watch it happen.

He pushed away from the table, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

---

The Rykkers turned, their hands already reaching for their weapons.

Lyonel didn’t speak.

He didn’t warn them.

He simply drew the dagger, the blade catching the firelight as he stepped forward, his body coiled like a spring.

The first Rykker barely had time to register the movement before Lyonel was on him, the catspaw flashing like silver ****.

The man gasped, his eyes wide with shock as the dagger found his throat, hot blood spraying across the floor.

The others roared, steel hissing from sheaths, but Lyonel was already moving, a storm of fury and precision.

The inn erupted into chaos.

---

The last Rykker man crumpled to the blood-slicked floor, his breath rattling in his throat as Lyonel wiped the catspaw clean on the dead man’s tunic.

The room reeked of iron and fear, the air thick with the weight of ****.

Only one Rykker remained, pressed against the far wall, his face pale as parchment, his hands trembling.

Lyonel turned to him, the dagger glinting in the dim light.

"You live," he said, his voice low, "but not by your own merit. Tell your lord what happened here. Tell him mercy was shown when it didn’t have to be."

The man nodded frantically, his eyes darting to the corpses of his companions before he bolted from the room, his boots slipping in the gore.

Lyonel sheathed the dagger and knelt beside the bound man on the floor.

The stranger’s breath came in ragged gasps, his face bruised, his wrists raw from the ropes.

Lyonel cut the bonds with a swift slice and hauled him to his feet.

"Can you stand?"

The man swayed but nodded, his dark eyes flickering with something like hope.

Lyonel steadied him with a hand on his shoulder and guided him into the common room, where the inn’s patrons had fallen into a stunned silence, their faces a mix of horror and awe.

The innkeeper’s gaze locked onto Lyonel, but he said nothing as Lyonel steered the man to a vacant table and pushed a tankard of ale and a plate of bread and salted meat toward him.

"Eat. Then talk."

The man’s hands shook as he reached for the food, but he didn’t hesitate. He tore into the bread like a starving wolf, washing it down with deep gulps of ale before finally meeting Lyonel’s gaze.

"My name is Steffon Darklyn," he said, his voice rough with exhaustion and something deeper—pride, perhaps, or the weight of a name that had once meant power.

"Son of Ser Jon Darklyn, brother to Lord Denys."

Lyonel’s eyes narrowed.

Darklyn.

---

The name carried the stench of rebellion and blood, a house that had once ruled Duskendale before Aerys Targaryen had burned their legacy to the ground.

"You survived the Defiance," he said, his tone careful.

Steffon’s jaw tightened.

"My father smuggled me out before the Aery's justice could reach me. I was a boy, no older than ten. He sent me to Driftmark, disguised as an orphan. I grew up in the shadows, watching my name become a curse."

His fingers traced the rim of the tankard, his knuckles white.

"I have two sons now—Denys and Davon—and a daughter, Denelle. We’ve lived quietly, but Lord Rykker learned of my blood. He wants us dead. All of us."

His voice cracked.

"He already has Davon. The boy is only sixteen. Rykker’s men took him two days ago. They’re holding him in the dungeons of the Dun Fort."

Lyonel leaned back in his chair, his mind racing.

The Darklyn name was a ghost, but ghosts had a way of rising when the living faltered.

"Why come back?" he asked.

"Why risk it?"

Steffon’s gaze burned.

"Because Duskendale is mine. My father’s seat. My blood’s legacy. I won’t let Rykker butcher my son to secure his stolen throne."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Help me get Davon out of the Dun Fort, and when I reclaim my seat, my men will be yours to command. I swear it on my house’s name."

Lyonel studied him—the desperation in his eyes, the fire in his voice.

A man with nothing left to lose was either the most dangerous ally or the most reckless liability. But the thought of a boy locked in a dungeon, his life hanging by a thread, twisted something in Lyonel’s gut.

He had seen enough innocents pay for the sins of their fathers.

"I’ll get your son out," Lyonel said at last, his voice firm.

"But you’ll wait outside the Dun Fort. If I’m caught, you run. If I succeed, you take your boy and disappear until you’re ready to strike."

Steffon’s shoulders sagged in relief, but his expression hardened with resolve.

"I won’t forget this."

Lyonel stood, tossing a handful of silver stags onto the table for the innkeeper.

"You’d best hope I don’t." He adjusted the cloak over his armor, ensuring his face remained hidden.

"We leave now. Stay close, but out of sight."

---

The Dun Fort loomed over Duskendale like a vulture’s nest, its stone walls blackened by time and the memories of the Defiance.

The town’s streets were quieter now, the moon casting long shadows as Lyonel and Steffon moved like ghosts through the alleys.

Steffon crouched behind a stack of crates near the fort’s postern gate, his breath shallow, his eyes fixed on the torchlit battlements.

"The dungeons are beneath the eastern tower," he whispered.

"The guards change at the turn of the hour. You’ll have less than ten minutes before the next patrol."

Lyonel nodded, his hand resting on the hilt of the catspaw.

"Wait for my signal. If I don’t return by dawn, get out of Duskendale and don’t look back."

Steffon gripped his arm, his voice barely audible.

"The gods go with you, Lyonel Baratheon."

Lyonel didn’t correct him.

Let the man think he was a king’s trueborn if it gave him hope.

He slipped into the shadows, his movements silent as he scaled the fort’s outer wall, his fingers finding purchase in the cracks between the stones.

The guards at the gate were laughing, their voices rough with drink, their attention lax. Fools.

He dropped into the courtyard like a shadow given form, pressing himself against the wall as he made his way toward the eastern tower.

The dungeon entrance was a yawn of darkness, the stench of damp and despair seeping from its depths.

Lyonel descended the stairs, his senses sharp, his dagger ready.

The dungeon was a tomb of groans and chains.

Torches flickered in their sconces, casting long, wavering shadows against the walls.

He moved past the cells, his gaze scanning the faces of the prisoners—thieves, traitors, men and women forgotten by the world.