GO GIVE YOUR POWER STONES TO MY NEW STORY, IF YOU CAN. "A BLADEMASTER IN WESTEROS."
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Ser Arthur Dayne
In the dream, the cold wind howled from the north.
It rang like a dying wail inside the helmet, high and keening, cutting through steel and padding and bone. Dawn lay heavy in another man's hands, an anchor pulling down on weary shoulders. Fingers stiff and frost-bitten beneath mail gauntlets, every joint screaming with cold. It should not be like this. Not for the Sword of the Morning.
He panted, hot breath fogging inside the visor, the only warmth he had felt in hours. The moisture froze almost immediately against the metal, forming tiny crystals that scratched at his face with each movement. Around him, the undead surged like a tidal wave, a blur of bones and ragged clothes amidst the swirling snow.
Skeletal hands grasped with terrible strength, yanking at his cloak, his armor, trying to drag him down into their frozen ranks. He cut through them, Dawn's pale blade shearing through bone and ancient sinew, but for every one that fell three more took its place. Corpses with their flesh frozen black stumbled forward on legs that should not move, eyes empty and milky, mouths hanging open in silent screams. Some still wore the remnants of armor, rusted mail and shattered helms. Others were naked, their skin stretched tight over bones, frost coating them like a second skin. Others still were nothing but bones moving only through the foul magic of the Others.
At the edge of his vision, pale ice spiders cracked the earth with legs sharp as talons, each step leaving frost spreading out from where they touched ground. The creatures were massive, large as hounds, their bodies translucent and glittering. He could barely see more than a few feet through the blizzard, the snow so thick it felt like fighting underwater. The men who had been around him—brothers in arms, fellow warriors—were lost in the white. Scattered or fallen or turned to the enemy's side.
But he could not think of them now. Could not afford to wonder if they still lived or had joined the ranks of the dead pressing forward.
For his enemy stood before him, and this he could see clearly despite the storm. Tall as any half-giant, shoulders wide and thick with corded muscle that strained beneath mail and plate. Yellow hair tossing as the wind blew around them, loose strands whipping across a face carved from stone. And in his hands, a sword as dark as the unending night, dark as demon's blood, drinking in what little light remained. The blade seemed to pulse with wrongness, with a hunger that went beyond mere iron.
And the man came at him again, unrelenting as the waves below Starfall. Heavy overhead swings that he struggled to parry, each impact sending shock up through Dawn's hilt and into arms already trembling with exhaustion. His shoulders burned. His back screamed. Every muscle felt stretched to breaking.
Each blow pushed him back, boots finding no purchase on the frozen ground, ice cracking beneath his heels like breaking glass. Other swords should have broken upon the star-metal of Dawn by now, shattered against its pale edge, leaving their wielders defenseless.
But this dark blade did not break. Did not even chip. Each time it met Dawn, the impact rang out clear and terrible, and both swords remained whole.
He could not understand it. A man—a living man, warm blood still pumping through his veins, breath still fogging in the cold—fighting for the Others. Fighting for the cold of winter. For darkness and death and the ending of all things.
He had raged at the man earlier in the battle. Screamed at him with what voice remained, lungs raw from the cold and the fighting. Snarled like a mad dog at seeing such foul betrayal of everything humanity stood for. Called him traitor, oathbreaker, servant of death.
But his own voice had sounded muted and distant even in his own ears, swallowed by the wind. It could never reach the man across from him, could never pierce whatever madness or compulsion drove him to this darkness.
The man's face remained a mask of cold indifference even as he yelled. Even as the black sword found a gap in his mail, slipping between the rings with terrible precision. Even as it bit deep and parted flesh like parchment, as hot blood poured down his belly to freeze against his skin almost instantly. Even as his legs gave out and he fell to his knees in the snow. Even as the cold wrapped around him like a burial shroud, pulling him down, down into the frozen earth...
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Arthur woke in a cold sweat, shivering so hard his teeth chattered. His hand flew to his stomach, expecting to find the wound, the blood, the terrible cold spreading through his veins.
But there was only unmarked skin beneath his sleeping shift, slick with perspiration despite the chill that had settled into his bones. His fingers traced over the muscles there, searching, needing to confirm the wound was not real. That he was whole.
Panting, he pushed himself upright in the narrow bed, throwing off blankets that had become tangled around his legs during the night. They were damp with sweat, twisted into knots. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his shift clinging to his back.
Dawn leaned against the wall beside him, its pale blade catching the pre-dawn light filtering through the window. Just seeing it there as solid and real as it could be helped anchor him back in his own time, his own body. He reached out with a trembling hand and touched the blade. The metal was cool and smooth beneath his fingers.
A dream. Just a dream. A bad one.
And not a normal kind of dream, Arthur knew with bone-deep certainty. Dawn's memories stretched longer than any living man's, thousands upon thousands of years compressed into the star-heart metal. The sword remembered every hand that had held it, every battle it had fought, every Sword of the Morning who had come before.
Its clutches on Arthur's own mind had only grown stronger these past few moons. The ancient memories bleeding through more frequently, more vividly. Sometimes they came as dreams like this. Other times as flashes during his waking hours when he trained—sudden knowledge of sword techniques he'd never learned, recognition of places he'd never been, the phantom ache of wounds that had healed millennia ago.
Sometimes he wondered if he was losing himself to them. If one day he would wake up and not remember which Sword of the Morning he truly was. If Arthur Dayne would be swallowed whole by the weight of all those who came before.
He recognized this particular predecessor in the dream. By the way he moved and breathed, by the rhythm of his sword work, even by the echoes of his voice—though Arthur could never make out actual words in the dreams, only the cadence and tone. This had been one of the earlier Swords, one who had lived through the Long Night itself.
Shivering again, Arthur wrapped his arms around himself and tried to stop the trembling. He had been having such dreams lately. Of the Long Night. Of the undead and the Others and the cold they brought with them, a cold that went deeper than flesh, that froze the very soul. Each time he woke shaking in his bed, unable to get warm for hours afterward. Unable to shake the feeling of that terrible wrongness, that sense of the world ending in ice and darkness.
And in all of these dreams, he had seen the man with the black sword. Always there. Always fighting on the side of the dead, cutting down the living with that terrible dark blade. A traitor to his own kind, though Arthur could never understand why. What could drive a man to such madness? What could make someone turn against everything they were, everything that made them human?
But this had been the first time Arthur had gotten an actual look at the man's face. Before, he had always been at a distance, or obscured by the blizzard, or seen only in brief flashes between sword strokes. A figure in the storm, terrible but indistinct.
Now the face sat fixed in Arthur's mind, clear as if he had seen it yesterday rather than in a memory eight thousand years old.
Fixed and, somehow, recognizable.
The chin and jaw looked different, aye. Older in the dream, hardened by years and war and whatever darkness had claimed him. But everything else, the nose, the eyes, the set of the cheekbones, the way the yellow hair fell across his brow...
He knew that face.
It could not be. His rational mind told him it was only a dream, that he was imagining things, seeing patterns where none existed. That it was impossible for someone from eight thousand years ago to look exactly like a man living now. The blood would have been diluted a thousand times over, spread across countless families and houses. Any resemblance would be coincidence at best, the mind finding meaning in randomness.
But the other part of him—the one that wielded Dawn and knew its powers intimately, the one that had followed the prince around these last years and learned the significance of dreams and prophecy—could not leave the matter be. Not when it involved the Long Night. Not when it might involve his sister.
He had to tell Prince Rhaegar.
Standing on shaking legs, Arthur moved to the basin in the corner of his small room and splashed cold water on his face. The shock of it helped drive away the lingering phantoms of the dream. He scrubbed at his skin until it tingled, washing away the sweat. The White Tower where the Kingsguard kept their chambers was quiet at this hour, most of his brothers still asleep or standing their watches elsewhere in the Red Keep.
His room was spartan even by Kingsguard standards. A bed, a chest for his few possessions, a stand for his armor, and a shelf that held the white cloak of his office. No tapestries, no decorations, nothing that was not strictly necessary. The Kingsguard were meant to have no life beyond their service. No wives, no children, no legacy but their duty.
Dawn leaned beside the bed never far from his reach. Always within arm's length, day or night.
He had not had the night shift guarding the prince, which meant no time for his personal training this morning. Ser Oswell Whent would need to be relieved from his duties soon, and Arthur was already running late by his own exacting standards.
Moving quickly, he washed and dressed in the whites of the Kingsguard, buckling on his sword belt and settling Dawn's familiar weight at his side. The star-metal seemed to hum against his hip, as if it too remembered the dream. Or perhaps that was only his imagination.
The corridors of the Red Keep were beginning to stir as he made his way toward the royal apartments. Servants moved about their early duties, keeping their eyes downcast as he passed. Guards at their posts straightened when they saw his white cloak. Distantly, he heard the sound of clashing in the yard, the knights and men-at-arms already hard at practice.
By the time he reached Prince Rhaegar's chambers, the sun had begun to paint the eastern windows gold. Pushing open the door, Arthur found the prince breaking his fast around a table in his sitting room, surrounded by his usual companions.
His squires sat on either side of him—Richard Lonmouth, brawny and grinning about something, and Myles Mooton, reed-thin and still looking half-asleep despite the morning hour. Across from them sat Jon Connington, the future Lord of Griffin's Roost, his red hair catching the light from the windows.
"Arthur!" Rhaegar looked up with a smile. "Good morning to you."
"My prince." Arthur bowed his head. "My lords."
"Ser Arthur," the three younger men chorused, rising briefly in respect before settling back into their seats.
Before Arthur could move further into the room, a voice came from beside the door. "Must you always be late?"
Turning, Arthur found Ser Oswell Whent leaning against the wall, looking alert despite having stood guard all night. The bat of House Whent decorated his white cloak. His eyes held amusement beneath heavy brows, and the corner of his mouth quirked up.
Arthur bristled despite knowing it was a jest. "I'm perfectly on time, ser."
Oswell yawned and patted him on the back hard enough to make Arthur shift his weight. "Whatever you say, Arty."
Straightening, Oswell turned to face the prince and offered a deep bow. "My prince, my watch has ended."
"Yes, Ser Oswell. Thank you once again."
Oswell's voice turned loud and overly obsequious. "Of course, Your Grace. Looming over your bed in the darkness, watching you sleep and breathe, listening to you dream—it was my pleasure. Let us do it again one of these days, hmm?"
Rhaegar shook his head with a rueful smile. At the table, Myles and Richard laughed outright. Jon Connington flushed, his cheeks matching the shade of his red hair.
"Haven't I told you not to say things like that in front of other people?" Rhaegar asked, though his tone held no real reproach.
"Did you?" Oswell tilted his head, all innocence. "I must have forgotten. Age, you know. Terrible thing. Memory goes first, then the knees." Giving the prince a sideways smile, he sketched another bow. "My apologies, Your Grace. By your leave."
Then he was out the door with a casual wave behind his back, humming some tune Arthur did not recognize. Something jaunty and inappropriate, no doubt.
Silence held for a moment after Oswell's departure. Then Jon Connington cleared his throat, still flushed. "Is that... is that not inappropriate, my prince?"
Rhaegar shrugged, reaching for a piece of bread from the platter before him. "It's a jape, of course. Ser Oswell is quite fond of them. He takes his duty seriously in every other regard, which is what truly matters."
"I understand, my prince. But words once spoken can easily turn into rumor and gossip." Connington leaned forward, his expression earnest. "Those who hear such things might not know of Ser Oswell's predilection for japes. They might think…"
"You're right." Rhaegar nodded, considering. "I will speak with him. My enemies will use anything they can to tarnish my name, even innocent jests twisted into something foul."
Richard Lonmouth spoke up, his broad face darkening. "Aye. I've heard it already. Some seek to curry favor with His Grace by speaking ill of you, my prince."
Arthur straightened at hearing that, his hand moving instinctively toward Dawn's hilt. But it was Myles Mooton who raised the question.
"Who?" the squire asked, his drowsiness apparently forgotten.
"Two Velaryon knights yesterday in the yard. Nothing outrageous—mostly muttering about the prince's... bookish interests. " Lonmouth's jaw tightened. "I did beat them down into the ground to make sure the message was received, though."
Rhaegar snorted into his wine cup. "I must knight the two of you soon if you're already throwing around knights, Richard."
"Not yet if you please, my prince," Lonmouth said. "I wish to put on a good showing on a tourney first. I'll not have it said I won my spurs through anything other than skill."
"Pride is man's greatest sin, Rich," Mooton said with a shake of his head, though he was smiling. "I've no such issue with being knighted by age alone. Won't get my lord father off my back until I bear the title. He sends me three ravens a week asking when I'll be dubbed."
Connington cleared his throat. "Will we do something about the Velaryon knights?" he asked, his tone suggesting he had ideas about what should be done.
"No need. Lucerys Velaryon is a grasping snake, but he is no great concern." Rhaegar waved a dismissive hand. "He will not unwind himself from my father's legs until the day I seat the throne myself, but he will bow then readily enough." Shaking his head, he set down his cup. "No. There are others I must focus my attentions on."
"Lord Baratheon?" Lonmouth guessed.
Rhaegar nodded. "Aye. I'll be meeting with him today. Soon, in fact."
Standing, the prince brushed crumbs from his doublet. The younger men followed suit immediately, gathering themselves. They continued speaking as they collected swords and adjusted clothing.
"I thought Lord Steffon was a king's man," Myles said, frowning.
"He is. An old friend, and my father's cousin besides." Rhaegar moved to retrieve his own sword belt from where it hung on a chair. "But he is no empty-headed fool like Velaryon. Am I wrong, Jon?"
Connington shook his head. "No, my prince. My lord father mislikes the man, but he respects him. Lord Steffon can be swayed, I believe."
"Must be swayed," Rhaegar corrected, his tone turning serious. "I've learned His Grace plans to send him east soon. To Volantis, to find me a bride with Valyrian blood."
"A bride?" The word seemed to strike Connington like a slap. He paled, then flushed again, looking stricken.
"Aye. Father means to keep the dragon blood pure, but in reality such a match would break me politically. I could not rule with a foreign wife. Not as the Iron Throne's relationship with the kingdoms stands now." Rhaegar's expression hardened. "I need a match that binds me to Westeros, not separates me from it."
"Devious," Mooton muttered.
Lonmouth nodded. "Cersei Lannister would've been a fine match. Shame, really."
"I'm not so sure," Rhaegar said. "It was ill-done, but my father was not completely in the wrong. Lord Tywin is a dangerous man to have as father of the queen. I'd fear for my life as soon as she bore me a son."
"You believe he would be so brazen?" Connington asked.
"Tywin Lannister?" Rhaegar raised a brow. "He has been working toward this for the last two decades. One thing is true, though. He's as dangerous having been denied as he would've been given a queen for a daughter."
"Well, the two men met last night," Mooton said. "Heard it from one of the guardsmen. Lannister and Baratheon, dining at the Tower of the Hand. Mayhaps Lord Tywin wishes to find another match for his daughter now that you are out of his reach."
Rhaegar hummed thoughtfully. "Mayhaps. But I've heard other rumors about this. My cousin Robert fosters under Lord Arryn along with Stark's second son. A match has been put forth, between Robert Baratheon and Lord Stark's daughter."
"That…" Connington considered for a moment, his brow furrowing. "That would be dangerous, my prince. Especially if Tywin ties his daughter to Baratheon's second son, and I've heard Stark is considering a Tully bride for his heir. Such a web of alliances…"
Rhaegar nodded. "Aye, my father's reign already does not sit easily with the great lords of the realm. But all's not yet lost. Lord Tywin would not match his daughter with a second son, even if it were Steffon's boy."
"Who would you favor, then?" Mooton asked. "For a match?"
Rhaegar paused for a moment. "I don't yet know," he said, brows furrowed. "There are other things to consider on this. Things I'd rather keep quiet for now."
The squires nodded. Arthur kept his face carefully blank. He appreciated this about the prince's companions. They were loyal to a fault and did not try to impose unduly on him. Rhaegar had not told them yet of their search for the prophecy, his correspondence with Maester Aemmon at Castle Black, or even the prince's dreams.
"I see," Connington said, his voice carefully controlled. "Will you need us for the meeting with Baratheon, my prince?"
Rhaegar shook his head. "It'll be just me and Lord Steffon. Private matters, best kept between us. You boys can go about your days for now."
A smile came to Lonmouth's face. He turned to Myles. "Yard?"
Myles sighed. "Must you be so obsessed with practice?"
Lonmouth's smile grew wider. "Not practice this time. Have you not heard? That Tarth knight who came with Lord Baratheon has been at the yard since dawn. Apparently he's looking for challengers now." His eyes glinted. "Figured I could teach him a lesson for what he did to Arthur and the prince at Lannisport."
Arthur stiffened at hearing Tarth mentioned. The face from the dream came to him with terrible clarity—yellow hair tossing in the wind, cold eyes watching as the black sword descended. The same face he had seen at the tourney in Lannisport, younger and unmarked by whatever darkness the future held.
"Don't pull me into this." Rhaegar's tone turned reproving. "I have nothing against Ser Galladon. If anything, you should be working to bring him closer to us."
"That would be inadvisable, my prince," Connington interrupted. "His reputation is not as sterling after his actions at the Weeping Town."
"What?" Rhaegar gave the man a look. "Rescuing his mother from the madman who abducted her? How devious of him." He chuckled.
"He burned the entire port town to the ground with all the people still in it, my prince." Connington's voice had a note of disapproval. "That after butchering most of the inhabitants of the castle, including its lady. At least that's what I've heard."
Shrugging, Rhaegar moved toward his bedchamber to change for the meeting. "That's a less charitable version than what I heard. Either way, a mad dog can still be useful if properly leashed. No need to antagonize him needlessly."
"Worry not, then." Lonmouth grinned. "I'll take his true measure in the yard, nothing more." Turning to Arthur, his expression turned eager. "You should come as well, Arthur. The Tarth knight was asking to try his hand against the Kingsguard too."
Arthur gritted his teeth. All he could think about was Galladon Tarth's face in the snow, the black sword cutting down the living, the terrible cold of betrayal. He had to grip Dawn's hilt tight to keep from agreeing, from going down to that yard and taking his revenge for the Sword of the Morning who had died eight thousand years ago.
"I'll stay with the prince." His voice came out harsher than he intended.
"Suit yourself." Lonmouth shrugged.
The three younger men made their farewells—Myles still grumbling about Lonmouth's obsession with swordplay, Connington quiet as always, then departed. Soon enough it was just Arthur and the prince left in the sitting room.
"What was that?" Rhaegar asked from the doorway to his bedchamber.
"What?"
"Oh, should I pretend you didn't just look as if you were going to cut poor Richard in half?" Rhaegar's tone was light, but his eyes were sharp. "You gripped Dawn hard enough I thought the pommel might crack."
Arthur sighed, releasing his death grip on the sword's hilt. "That... that was not my intention."
"Well? What is it, then?"
"I had..." Arthur paused, choosing his words carefully. "I had another dream last night."
Rhaegar stopped in the doorway, his face suddenly turning curious. "A Dawn-dream?" The name they'd given to the ancient memories of the sword.
"Aye, my prince." Arthur nodded. "Another of the Long Night. And of the man with the black sword."
"Oh." The prince's expression shifted to concern mixed with interest. He moved back into the room, coming closer. "What did you see?"
"I saw him this time. Saw his face clearly, not just glimpses through the snow." Arthur met Rhaegar's eyes. "It was him, my prince. Tall. Yellow-haired. The nose and mouth, the way he moved. I know it in my heart. It was Galladon Tarth."
The prince suddenly deflated, as if the air had gone out of his sails. He sighed heavily. "Arthur..."
"It's true, Your Grace. You must believe me."
"I believe your dreamed of it, aye, but that does not necessarily mean it was a true Dawn dream." Rhaegar shook his head. "You've been like this about the boy since Ashara's letter arrived. Come now, leave it be, my friend. "
"It's not about that." Even to his own ears, Arthur's voice came out weak, unconvincing.
"Is it not?" Rhaegar crossed his arms. "I had to order you not to take the next ship out to Tarth to 'have words' with him. As if someone could force your sister to do anything—she's thrice as willful as you, and we both know it." His tone softened slightly. "And if it's not that, then it's the tourney. He beat us fairly and much deserved his win."
Arthur almost opened his mouth to deny it, but the Kingsguard in him kept it closed. The Tarth boy had beaten him fairly in the joust, it was true—Arthur could admit that. But he was no fool. He had been riding with the prince for years now, knew Rhaegar's capabilities intimately. That showing in the final tilt had not been Rhaegar's best. He knew that. The prince surely knew that.
But his duty was to obey, not to question. He would not call his prince a liar to his face.
Rhaegar seemed to know exactly what was going through Arthur's mind. He waved a hand airily. "Do not think over it too much, Arthur. What's done is done. And please, leave Ser Galladon Tarth be, will you? For my sake if not for yours." His expression turned serious. "With the interest my father is showing in him lately, I do not wish to further push the boy into his hands. Especially not over accusations that someone who might have looked like him was fighting for on the wrong side of a war eight thousand years ago."
Laughing as he finished speaking, Rhaegar shook his head and walked toward his bedchamber to change for the coming meeting with Lord Steffon. The sound of his amusement echoed in the sitting room.
Arthur did not countermand his prince. He only stood there as Rhaegar moved away, still chuckling at the absurdity of it all. What could he even say? He knew it was madness. That the thought alone should see him sent to the maesters for examination. That no rational man would believe such a thing.
But deep down, in the place where Dawn's memories lived and breathed, Arthur knew it to be true. The sword would not lie to him. Could not lie.
Somehow, Galladon Tarth was connected with the Long Night. With the Others. With that terrible black blade that drank the light.
That meant he might be a danger to those fighting to prevent the darkness from returning. A danger to the prince that was promised, to Rhaegar and all his plans to save the realm from what was coming.
And that, Ser Arthur Dayne—the Sword of the Morning and Kingsguard—could never countenance. Not while he drew breath. Not while Dawn hung at his side.
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