Neither needed to.

---

Harrenhal loomed before them as the sun reached its zenith, its black towers casting long shadows across the land.

The gates groaned open as they approached, the guards recognizing Lyonel—and the woman clinging to his back.

Servants rushed forward as they dismounted, one draping a blanket over Selyse’s shoulders, another leading Ashford away to the stables.

Shella Whent emerged from the castle’s depths, her belly heavy with child, her face pale with worry.

The moment her eyes landed on Selyse, she let out a choked sob, rushing forward to pull her daughter into her arms.

"You’re alive," she whispered, her voice thick with relief.

"Thank the gods, you’re alive."

Selyse buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, her own tears silent but no less fierce.

Over Shella’s shoulder, her gaze flickered to Lyonel, something unreadable in her dark eyes.

Shella turned to him, her expression shifting from gratitude to concern as she took in the state of his sword—or what was left of it.

Lionmane’s blade was chipped in several places, the edge jagged and uneven.

"You saved my daughter," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.

"For that, I owe you a debt I can never repay."

Lyonel inclined his head. "No debt, my lady. I did what any man would."

Shella’s lips pressed into a thin line. "No," she said firmly.

"You did what few men would. And for that, I will see your blade mended."

She turned to a guard standing nearby.

"Fetch Harwin. Tell him I command his skill."

The guard bowed and hurried off.

Lyonel raised an eyebrow. "Harwin?"

Shella’s expression softened slightly.

"Our smith. The best in the riverlands. If anyone can restore your blade, it’s him."

---

Harwin arrived within the hour.

The man was built like a bull—broad-shouldered, thick-armed, his chest barrel-like beneath his leather apron.

But it was his eyes that caught Lyonel’s attention. One black as pitch, the other a deep, unsettling violet.

Mismatched.

Unnatural.

Harwin studied Lyonel for a long moment, his gaze lingering on the chipped blade at his hip, then on the hilt of Dark Sister—concealed, but not well enough for a man who knew what to look for.

"So," the smith said at last, his voice a deep rumble. "You’re the bastard who pulled Lady Selyse from the Gods Eye."

Lyonel crossed his arms over his chest.

"Aye."

Harwin’s lips quirked.

"And you’ve got a blade in need of mending."

Lyonel’s hand went to Lionmane’s hilt.

"Among other things."

The smith’s violet eye gleamed. "Then come. We’ll see what can be done."

---

The smithy was a cavern of heat and noise, the air thick with the scent of burning coal and the ring of hammer on steel.

Harwin moved with a precision that belied his bulk, his hands deft as he examined Lionmane’s blade, his fingers tracing the chips and cracks in the steel.

"This blade has seen battle," he murmured, more to himself than to Lyonel.

"Aye," Lyonel agreed, watching the smith closely.

"As have I."

Harwin glanced up at him, his mismatched eyes sharp.

"And yet you carry another sword. One not meant for the likes of you."

Lyonel didn’t flinch. "You know what it is."

Harwin’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.

"Dark Sister," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The blade of Visenya. Of Aemond."

His gaze flicked to Lyonel’s face, studying him. "You found it on the isle."

Lyonel exhaled slowly. "Aye."

The smith’s violet eye burned with something like triumph.

"Then you know what it is. What it means."

Lyonel’s jaw tightened.

"I know it’s a blade. Nothing more."

Harwin chuckled, the sound deep and rich.

"Oh, it’s far more than that, bastard." He turned back to the forge, stoking the flames with a long pair of tongs.

"That blade is a piece of the old world. Of Valyria. Of magic."

He glanced back at Lyonel, his expression serious.

"And so am I."

Lyonel’s brow furrowed.

"What are you talking about?"

Harwin’s hands stilled.

"I am descended from the blood of Aemond Targaryen," he said quietly.

"From the secret line of his bastard, born of Alys Rivers.

The gods touched my ancestors, Lyonel. Gave them gifts. Visions. Knowledge."

His violet eye gleamed.

"And I’ve seen you in mine."

Lyonel’s breath caught. "Me?"

Harwin nodded.

"Aye. You, standing atop a mountain of the dead, a crown of fire upon your brow and ladies strewn naked across your feet. You, with a blade in your hand that burns with the light of the old gods."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"You are destined for greatness, Lyonel Rivers. And I mean to see you claim it."

Lyonel stared at the smith, his mind reeling.

"Why tell me this?"

Harwin’s smile was slow, knowing. "Because I like you, bastard. And because I know your secrets."

His gaze flicked to the door, where the distant sound of Selyse’s voice could be heard, laughing with her mother.

"I know what you did with Lady Shella. With her daughter." His black eye gleamed.

"And I know you’ll do great things."

Lyonel’s hand twitched toward the hilt of Dark Sister.

"What do you want?"

Harwin’s smile widened.

"A promise," he said simply.

"A brother’s bond. When the time comes, I’ll ask for what I desire. And you’ll give it to me."

Lyonel studied the smith for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he nodded. "Aye," he said, his voice rough. "You have my word."

Harwin clapped his hands together, the sound echoing through the smithy.

"Good," he said, turning back to the forge.

"Now. Let’s make you a blade worthy of a king."

---

The process took hours.

Harwin worked with a focus that bordered on reverence, his hands moving with a skill that seemed almost supernatural.

He took Lionmane’s blade, heating it in the forge until the steel glowed white-hot, then folding it with Dark Sister’s Valyrian metal, the two blades merging as if they had always been meant to be one.

The smith murmured words in a tongue Lyonel didn’t recognize—old, guttural, the language of a dead empire.

The air in the smithy grew thick, the flames of the forge burning an unnatural violet, casting eerie shadows across the walls.

Lyonel watched, his breath held, as Harwin finally plunged the blade into a trough of water.

Steam hissed, filling the air with a mist that shimmered like dragonfire.

When the smith pulled the blade free, it gleamed—untarnished, its edge sharp enough to split a hair, its surface rippling with a slithery, otherworldly glint.

Harwin turned to him, his mismatched eyes burning with triumph.

"Here," he said, offering the blade hilt-first.

Lyonel took it, his fingers wrapping around the grip.

The hilt was black steel, inlaid with streaks of copper that swirled like flames, the pommel shaped into the snarling head of a great shadowcat, its eyes two chips of obsidian that seemed to watch him.

The blade itself was longer than Lionmane had been, broader, its edge honed to a razor’s sharpness.

It hummed in his grip, as if alive.

"It’s…" Lyonel trailed off, his voice rough.

"Perfect," Harwin finished for him, his smile wide.

"A blade for a king. For you."

Lyonel looked at the smith, his throat tight.

"Why me?"

Harwin’s violet eye gleamed.

"Because the gods have chosen you, Lyonel Rivers."

And with that, the smith turned back to his forge, leaving Lyonel standing there, the weight of his new blade—and his new destiny—settling over him like a mantle.

Lyonel’s fingers traced the edge of the newly forged blade, the weight of it familiar yet foreign in his grip.

Black Oath.

The name had come to him as he stood in Harwin’s smithy, the words whispering through his mind like a promise—or a curse.

He tested the balance once more, the copper-and-black steel hilt fitting perfectly in his palm, the shadowcat pommel gleaming like a living thing in the dim light of the smithy.

"A fine piece of work," he rumbled, his voice rough with something akin to awe.

"I won’t forget this, Harwin."

The smith’s mismatched eyes gleamed as he looked up from his anvil, his massive hands stilling.

"See that you don’t, bastard," he said, his tone gruff but not unkind.

"And remember your promise."

Lyonel nodded, sheathing Black Oath with a finality that echoed in the quiet of the smithy.

He didn’t need to ask what the smith meant.

Some debts were carved into the bones, and this was one of them.

---

The great hall of Harrenhal was a cavern of flickering torchlight and murmured conversations when Lyonel entered, his boots thudding against the black stone.

Shella Whent sat at the high table, her heavy belly resting on the arm of her chair, her dark eyes lifting as he approached.

Selyse stood beside her, her expression carefully neutral, though the blush that crept into her cheeks when their gazes met betrayed her.

Lyonel bowed deeply to Shella, his voice steady.

"My lady. I take my leave."

Shella’s lips curved into a smile, warm and knowing.

"You’ve more than earned your rest, Lyonel Rivers," she said, her hand resting protectively over her unborn child.

"But know this—Harrenhal’s gates will always be open to you."

Selyse said nothing, but her fingers twitched at her side, as if she longed to reach for him.

Lyonel didn’t linger.

He turned on his heel, striding from the hall with the weight of their gazes on his back.

Ashford waited for him in the courtyard, snorting softly as Lyonel swung into the saddle.

The stallion seemed to sense his rider’s urgency, his hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones as they rode through the gates and onto the kingsroad.

The journey to King’s Landing took a moon, the days blending into one another as Lyonel rode through villages and forests, the great city looming larger in his mind with every league he covered.

He avoided the main roads when he could, preferring the quiet of the lesser-traveled paths, though he made no effort to hide his presence.

He was no longer a man who needed to skulk in the shadows.

Not after Winterfell.

Not after Harrenhal.

The Red Keep rose before him like a beast of stone and iron, its towers clawing at the sky, its banners snapping in the wind.

Lyonel rode through the gates without fanfare, the guards recognizing him with a nod, their eyes flickering over Black Oath at his hip before dismissing him.

He led Ashford to the stables himself, running a hand down the stallion’s neck as he murmured, "Rest, old friend. You’ve earned it."

The stable hands took Ashford without question, and Lyonel made his way through the winding paths of the Red Keep, the familiar scent of torch smoke and polished steel filling his nose.

He had barely taken a dozen steps into the fortress when a page found him, bowing low.

"Ser Lyonel," the boy said, his voice breathless.