And then he saw him.

---

The boy, Davon, was curled in the farthest cell, his dark hair matted, his face bruised.

He looked up as Lyonel approached, his eyes wide with fear—and then, something like recognition.

"You’re not one of them," he whispered.

Lyonel knelt, working the lock with a pick he’d stolen from the innkeeper’s desk.

"No," he said softly. "I’m not."

The lock clicked open, and he pulled the boy to his feet.

"Your father sent me. Can you walk?"

Davon nodded, his frame trembling but his chin set with determination.

Lyonel wrapped a cloak around his shoulders, hiding the boy’s face.

"Stay close. And silent."

They moved like shadows up the stairs, Lyonel’s heart pounding in his chest.

The guards at the dungeon entrance were still oblivious, their dice clattering against the stone floor.

Lyonel didn’t hesitate.

---

The catspaw flashed, and the two men crumpled without a sound.

He grabbed their keys and slipped into the courtyard, Davon close behind.

The postern gate was just ahead, the night beyond it a promise of freedom.

Lyonel glanced back at the boy. "Ready?"

They ran.

---

The moon hung low over Duskendale as Lyonel emerged from the shadows of the Dun Fort, Davon’s scrawny frame behind him.

Steffon Darklyn was waiting in the cover of a crumbling stable, his face a mask of relief and desperation.

The moment he saw his son, he pulled Davon into a crushing embrace, his voice thick with emotion.

"You’re alive. By the gods, you’re alive."

Davon clung to him, his body shaking, but his eyes—sharp and bright—never left Lyonel.

Lyonel watched them for a moment, the weight of what he had done settling over him.

"Take him and go," he said, his voice low.

"Gather your strength. When the time is right, strike. Duskendale will remember its true lords."

Steffon nodded, his grip on Davon’s shoulders tightening.

"We won’t forget this, my lord. When the moment comes, my swords are yours."

Lyonel turned to leave, but Davon broke free from his father’s grasp, his young voice ringing with determination.

"I’m going with you."

Lyonel froze.

"No."

The word was final, but Davon stepped forward, his chin lifted.

"I won’t stay here," the boy insisted.

"I won’t hide while others fight for what’s mine. I want to learn from you. I want to be strong enough to take back my home."

Steffon’s face darkened.

"Davon—"

"He’s just a boy," Lyonel cut in, but Davon’s eyes burned with a fire that belied his years.

"I’m sixteen," he said fiercely. "Old enough to hold a sword. Old enough to fight."

Lyonel exhaled sharply.

He had seen that look before—in the eyes of men who had nothing left to lose, in the eyes of those who refused to be broken.

He turned to Steffon, who after a long, tense silence, finally nodded, his expression resigned.

"If he’s to go, promise me you’ll keep him safe. Teach him what he needs to know."

Lyonel studied Davon—the set of his jaw, the defiance in his stance. He could send the boy away, **** him to stay with his father.

But something in Davon’s gaze reminded him of himself at that age: stubborn, hungry for purpose, unwilling to be left behind.

"Fine," he said at last.

"But only as far as it’s safe. You meet me outside the gates at dawn. If you’re not there, I ride on without you."

Davon grinned, the first hint of hope breaking through the fear.

"I’ll be there."

---

Lyonel returned to the Seven Swords alone, his mind racing.

He spent the night sharpening his blades, his thoughts torn between the road ahead and the boy waiting in the shadows of Duskendale.

He had no time for a protégé, no patience for a child’s mistakes.

But Davon Darklyn was no ordinary child.

He was the son of a fallen house, a boy with a debt to pay and a name to reclaim.

At dawn, Lyonel stood outside the gates of Duskendale, two rented horses tethered beside him.

The mist curled around the hooves of the beasts, the town still slumbering in the early light.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Davon appeared like a ghost, a small pack slung over his shoulder, his face set with determination.

"I’m ready," he said, his voice steady.

Lyonel tossed him the reins of the second horse.

"Then ride close. And keep your mouth shut unless I ask you a question."

Davon swung onto the horse with surprising ease, his eyes gleaming.

"Yes, my lord."

Lyonel mounted his own horse, casting one last glance at the town behind them.

Duskendale was a place of ghosts and unfinished business, but the road ahead led to King’s Landing—a city of knives and crowns, where the game was played for keeps.

He spurred his horse forward, Davon falling into step beside him.

The boy was quiet for a long moment before he finally spoke.

"What happens now?"

Lyonel didn’t look at him. "Now, we ride to war."

---

The road to King’s Landing was a grueling five-day march of dust, sweat, and the relentless rhythm of hooves against hard earth.

Davon, though young, refused to complain. His body ached, his muscles screamed, but he clung to the saddle with a determination that bordered on stubbornness, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

Lyonel watched him from the corner of his eye, impressed despite himself.

The boy had grit.

And over the course of those five days, as the miles stretched behind them, something unexpected happened: they talked.

Davon spoke of his childhood in Driftmark, of the years spent hiding in plain sight, of the stories his father had whispered to him about the Darklyn legacy and the Defiance that had cost them everything.

He spoke of his mother, a quiet woman who had died when he was eight, and of his siblings—Denys, who was too occupied to remember the past, and Denelle, who had the sharpest tongue in the family.

Lyonel listened, the boy’s words painting a picture of a life lived in the shadows, of a family clinging to the hope of reclaiming what was stolen from them.

In turn, Lyonel found himself sharing fragments of his own past—the **** of his mother when he was five, the isolation of his childhood, the weight of his bastardy, the rare moments of warmth with his father, Robert, and the cold reality of being a tool rather than a son.

He told Davon of Winterfell, of the Stark family, his duties as castellan of Winterfell. Davon listened with wide eyes, soaking in every word, his questions sharp and insightful.

---

By the time the spires of King’s Landing rose on the horizon, the distance between them had dissolved.

They were no longer just a man and a boy bound by circumstance, but something closer to friends, forged in the fire of shared confidences and the unspoken understanding of what it meant to be cast aside by the world.

---

The city was a beast of stone and steel, its streets alive with a somber energy.

The air smelled of smoke and damp, the usual cacophony of merchants and beggars muted, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

Lyonel dismounted at the gates, his gaze sweeping over the crowds.

The mood was tense, the people’s faces drawn.

The Lannister banners hung from every tower, their golden lions snarling down at the populace like a warning.

The city is in their grip, Lyonel thought, his hand resting on the pommel of his dagger.

He turned to Davon, who had dismounted beside him, his young face a mix of awe and unease at the sight of the capital.

Lyonel pressed a silver stag into his palm.

"Find an inn. Somewhere quiet. Rent a room for the night and stay out of sight. I’ll come for you when I can."

Davon hesitated, his fingers closing around the coin.

"What about you?"

Lyonel’s expression darkened.

"I have business in the Red Keep." He didn’t need to say more.

Davon nodded, though his eyes betrayed his worry.

"Be careful, my lord."

Lyonel clapped him on the shoulder.

"And you. Don’t draw attention to yourself."

With that, he turned and melted into the crowd, his cloak pulled low over his face.

---

The streets twisted and turned, the Red Keep looming ever closer, its red stone walls stained dark with the weight of its history.

The gates were heavily guarded, but the soldiers barely glanced at Lyonel as he approached.

A flicker of recognition passed between them—the king’s bastard brother, recently legitimized—and they waved him through without a word.

The courtyards of the Red Keep were eerily quiet, the usual bustle of servants and nobles replaced by a tense stillness.

Lyonel moved swiftly, his boots echoing against the cobblestones as he made his way toward the royal crypts.

He needed to see his father one last time, to pay his respects before facing whatever awaited him in the halls of power.

The crypts were cool and dark, the air thick with the scent of incense and old stone.

Robert’s tomb was fresh, the marble still gleaming, the inscriptions newly carved.

Lyonel knelt before it, his hand resting on the cold stone.

"I’m here, Father," he murmured.

"I don’t know if you can hear me, but I swear I’ll make this right. For you. For the realm."

He bowed his head, the weight of his grief and his resolve pressing down on him.

But before he could say more, the sound of footsteps echoed behind him.

He turned, his hand instinctively going to his dagger.

---

A servant girl stood in the doorway, her face pale, her eyes wide with urgency.

"My lord," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"The king commands your presence in the Great Hall. At once."