Chapter 9

  Ser Arthur Dayne

  Sweat trailed down his torso in rivulets. His body strained, brow furrowed in focus. Two hours had passed since he started to exercise before sunrise, yet despite the physical toll, his breathing remained steady.

  Arthur Dayne could feel his muscles contract in sequence as he swung Dawn, the movement originating from a slight twist of his hips, through his core, until all that power finally coursed through his arms. The greatsword cut through the air like a whip just as he exhaled, pale metal shimmering against the sunlight shining from the window of his room.

  Using the weight behind the swing, he flowed into the next form, never stopping for even a fraction of a second, feet sliding through the marble floor in a shallow arc. In his mind’s eye, half-a-dozen men surrounded him. He moved with them as if in a dance. Breathe, parry, then twist to get around another attacker. A lunge forward, thrust, jump to the side, block an overhead slash.

  For a fleeting moment, he thought he could hear the clashing of their swords, thought he could feel the warmth of the noon sun baking him inside the stifling helm, feel the grains of sand scratching inside his armor, blown there by a distant breeze. Then he was back in the room in Casterly Rock, inhaling and exhaling, forearms burning as he swiped Dawn around him one last time.

  This particular battle had been against Tarly knights, he thought, somewhere on a high plateau of the Red Mountains, back when the Daynes were kings of the Torrentine and still contested lands in the Reach. He could almost anchor himself in the ancient memories for a minute at a time now, though the longer he practiced and the more he tired, the less he could immerse himself in it.

  Weary and covered in sweat, he looked down the length of his arm, past Dawn’s leather-wrapped hilt, its cross-shaped guard, and all the way until the pale metal of the greatsword narrowed to a point. Pulling it back to hold it lengthwise before him, he took a moment to admire his house’s pride.

  Arthur had been only a child when he first held Dawn. His father had let him take it in hand after years of pleading, but only when he was ten, as was custom, and only to hold it for a moment. He cried for days when Alric, older than him by two years, got to hold Dawn before him, believing his brother would inherit not only the lordship of Starfall but the title of Sword of the Morning as well

  What would be left for Arthur if even the possibility of being given that famed title was taken from him?

  Back then, it felt like a dream to finally hold the legendary greatsword of his house. A weapon more steeped in legend and myth than any Valyrian sword in the realm. Not even the lost longsword Blackfyre, the sword of kings, could compare to it, at least in his mind.

  Surprisingly, it hadn’t felt any different than other swords, even the dull-bladed ones he’d started using in the yard by the time he was eight. The disappointment must have shown on his face, for his father had chuckled as he watched him.

  “Not quite what you expected?” he had said.

  Arthur didn’t know what to say, he only knew that if he opened his mouth, he might start to cry.

  His father’s hands settled heavily on his shoulders. “If every man that touched the sword suddenly became its master, there wouldn’t be much meaning to the title, would there?” Then father gave him a warm smile. “The blade does not make the man the Sword of the Morning, Arthur. The man must make himself so.”

  “How?” he asked, frowning.

  His father hadn’t had an answer to that. He had never carried it into battle, despite fighting in the Stepstones during Maely’s war. He had left the greatsword on the mantle above the fireplace, as it always sat whenever it waited for a wielder.

  Back then, he thought his father was half mad for leaving the sword unused. He was told that, though any Dayne could wield it like any other sword, most lords and knights from their house respected Dawn’s legacy too much to use it without being its true wielder.

  The reason behind that was shrouded by half-told tales and legends still spoken around campfires by the elders of Starfall, stories they themselves grew up on, as had their fathers and fathers’ fathers. Stories that said Dawn would awaken only to those deemed worthy of wielding it, and so most Daynes dared not take it when the sword remained silent.

  His father had said that the family vault, supposedly holding the written records all the way from the first Dayne, who followed a falling star to the place they built their castle and forged Dawn with its heart, to every single man who’d wielded the sword and came to be known as a Sword of the Morning, had burned down a few years after Aegon’s Conquest, so those scrambled tales were the only thing they had resembling a guide on how to use Dawn.

  Whether those records had truly existed, they didn’t know. But the fire was real enough, as the maester of the castle had survived long enough to send a raven telling the Citadel that Starfall burned bright against the night sky.

  It was only years later, when he was sixteen, that he finally understood why his father had said what he said, that one must become the Sword of the Morning first before they could wield their family’s star-forged greatsword.

  He had joined some of the household knights to hunt down a group of bandits who’d raided a village on the outskirts of their land. That night, after their group got separated during a sandstorm, Arthur had found himself surrounded by five of the bandits once the storm had blown through.

  It turned out they were no mere bandits, but a group of disgraced knights and men-at-arms led by a Blackmont bastard that had fled from their lands after failing to overthrow his cousin. In that moment, as those men closed in on him with weapons drawn and death in their minds, Arthur had done the only thing he could—he fought.

  He fought so desperately, so precisely, so intuitively, that he’d let go of all his doubts, all his fears, all his thoughts. He’d surrendered the ringing of metal, to the rhythm of his breathing, until he was no longer the second son of lord Dayne, no longer a brother or a squire. No longer a man. He was just a weapon. Just a sword.

  And the next day when he came home, blood still staining his surcoat red, Dawn accepted him, shining as bright as a falling star, and he became the Sword of the Morning.

  Shaking himself from his thoughts, Arthur went about finishing his routine, cleaning himself up on the basin with a washcloth and oiling his sword before dressing up in the whites of his office. His room, which he shared with Ser Barristan as they accompanied the prince, sat next to their charge’s apartments in the Rock, and it was a matter of minutes before he was stationed outside the doors waiting for Rhaegar’s return.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  He made sure to never immerse himself in the memory training out in the yard. The only ones to have seen this practice were his family back on Starfall, the prince, and his brothers in white, though none beyond the prince knew exactly what he was doing.

  He still did not know to what extent he could access the memories of the past Swords of the Morning. Sometimes he feared drowning in them, falling deeply enough in the memories he was never able to return, and so he made sure to practice away from prying eyes, though that was a rare accomplishment in a place like King’s Landing.

  Ulrick Dayne, the only Dayne to hold the title of Sword of the Morning after the fire, had not been much of a writer, so Arthur was left to intuit the powers of the sword on his own. The ancient memories foremost amongst them, though certainly not the only one.

  xx

  After no more than an hour standing guard outside the apartments, Prince Rhaegar and Ser Barristan turned the corner on the long hallway of the Rock’s wing where the king and the prince were staying. Unlike smaller castles where the lord was expected to temporarily cede his own apartments if the king was in residence, particularly if the guest rooms were not sufficient for attending such guests, Casterly Rock had a dedicated wing that sat on the same level of the mountain as the lord’s own on its eastern face.

  He had heard the king had almost demanded to be housed in the lord’s apartments anyway, only to be convinced otherwise by Queen Rhaella right before he left King’s Landing. After last night, Arthur thought it wouldn’t have mattered much had the king followed through with demand.

  The two approached the rooms quickly. Despite being awake the entire night, Ser Barristan Selmy still carried himself with the bearing of a kingsguard. Eyes firm and watchful, back straight, right hand never too far away from his sword. Their greeting was a simple, deep nod, one of respect between peers who were not necessarily friends, and he took charge of the prince’s safety once they were inside his apartments and Ser Barristan retired to rest in the room beside.

  As soon as they stepped through the threshold, Prince Rhaegar let out a heavy sigh and sprawled onto a cushioned bench that stretched twice as long as the prince was tall in the sitting room.

  With him still standing by the door, it took no more than a minute until the prince relieved him of his curiosity.

  “To answer your unasked question Arthur, yes, I received Lord Tywin’s permission to seek out what we’re after in their records.” Rolling to his side, the prince let an arm dangle from the side. “And yes, it was as unpleasant a meeting as you are imagining it. He was in a right mood. He mentioned having another appointment after, as a way to rush me out, I'm sure, though I can only pity the fool he’s meeting now if it was true. ”

  “I see,” he said.

  “Can you believe the old lion thought I was asking to see the Lannister’s ledgers instead?” Rhaegar scoffed and pushed the knuckles of both his hands against his eyes. He let out a groan. “As if I wanted to sniff out some kind of tax corruption on his family’s part. For a moment there, I thought the man would actually throw himself at me from across the table. As a man who prides himself on his taciturnity, it was quite odd seeing him just barely control himself.”

  Arthur frowned. “I should’ve been with you, my prince.”

  “Barristan was.”

  “He is not me.”

  “Yes, that he’s not,” the prince allowed, “but he is the Bold.”

  Arthur simply nodded. He trusted Ser Barristan with the prince’s safety more than anyone besides himself. Though he knew that, with Dawn in hand, even the great Barristan Selmy would falter before him. And that said more about Ser Barristan’s skills than his own, that he needed a star-heart sword to defeat him. The Bold was not the greatest living knight for no reason.

  Rhaegar let out another sigh and rose. He crossed the large, gold-embroidered rug in a few steps and stepped into his bedroom.

  Arthur stepped further into the apartment itself, standing by a corner where he could watch both doors at once. He had already checked the rooms earlier before he went to guard the entrance, and Barristan and himself had swept the apartments for hidden entrances and secret alcoves like the ones found around the Red Keep on their first night here.

  He doubted Lord Tywin would ever orchestrate an attempt on the royal family in his own home despite whatever indignity the king might hurl at him. But that didn’t mean others wouldn’t.

  There was the rustle of fabric from the room, and after another minute, the prince’s voice carried through even as he took a last look in the mirror. “But I’m making more of the encounter than it truly was. If anything, once I explained what I really wanted, I swear Lord Tywin almost seemed more insulted that I would waste his time bothering him with such a nonsense request than he did before.”

  “He should be honored to have a prince of the blood come to him for any question whatsoever,” Arthur said.

  Rhaegar laughed. “I believe Lord Tywin is quite sick of being honored by House Targaryen,” he said. “He will not soon forget father’s latest honor. One of many, yes, but the worst so far.”

  When he stepped back into the sitting room, Rhaegar was dressed in mostly black with few red accents on his sleeves and a small pin of a three-headed dragon.

  The prince continued, “That was ill done by my father. Especially to his own Hand.” He grimaced. “Especially to a man like Tywin Lannister.”

  “He is the king,” Arthur said.

  “That’s what worries me, my friend,” Rhaegar said. “The long night is coming, and father is the king.”

  And you are the prince, Arthur almost said, but they had agreed to never speak those words out loud, not unless they were certain no one could possibly be listening. Instead, he turned to more immediate concerns.

  “Will we check the records now, or do you wish to practice riding for tomorrow?” His mind went to the last day of the tourney, thinking of all the possibilities on how to handle the competition itself while keeping either himself or Ser Barristan beside the prince at all times. Though there was also danger in the jousting itself. “You should’ve allowed me to have that mystery knight followed and his identity found. He might be someone wanting to harm you, my prince. And deaths at the joust are not unknown. A perfect excuse for a would-be assassin.”

  Rhaegar waved an airy hand, as if the whole tourney matter was irrelevant. “Have the lots drawn for you to face him, then, if it makes you feel better.” He moved to a large chest that had been set against a wall, opened it, and started going through it. “Beat him and I’ll have to face only Ser Barristan or, in the case of my victory in the semi finals, the both of you.”

  Stopping midway through his search, he popped out of the chest and pointed a finger at him.

  “And I expect you to give an honourable go at it, Arthur. You and Barristan. I spoke to him about it already. I’ll not have it said the kingsguards let the prince walk his way into a tourney victory.”

  “Of course, my prince,” Arthur said, and meant it too. Defending his charge’s reputation came second only to his safety in the kingsguard’s priorities.

  He would not have to pull any punches during the jousting either. Arthur was a competent enough lancer that he’d never accidentally kill an opponent during a tourney. And in this case, Barristan was his better. As was the prince.

  Finally, the prince came out of the chest with a small, leather-bound notebook in hand. One of his many.

  “We’ll go riding later if we have time,” he said, even as he started leafing through the notebook. “The oldest records they have will be at the base of the maester’s turret, apparently. Ser Kevan was more accommodating than his brother, and he assured me their maester, a man named Creylen, will be at our disposal for as long as we need.”

  “Is it wise to trust the Lannister’s maester with this, my prince?”

  Rhaegar looked up at him. “Or what? He’ll go around saying the crown prince has a passing curiosity on old legends about the long night and the age of heroes?” He grinned. “The lords will rise in revolt, I'm sure. Perhaps Tywin will lead them.”

  With a nod, he conceded the point. Most who heard of the knowledge they were after would laugh away such a thing, but Arthur knew better. That first hour-long ancient memory still haunted him. The first Sword of the Morning wielding Dawn against scores of half-rotten dead men, snow blowing in drifts all around them. And in the heart of the blizzard, half-hidden in shadow, an otherworldly being of ice and death, bringing a cold so deep it left Arthur with a fever for nearly a week when he woke up.

  He would not forget it. Not for as long as he lived.