.
Hariel
.
"Are you sure this idea is wise, sweet niece of mine?"
Cocking her head back, Hariel Sand brushes the waves of dark curls back from her face, gathering the locks up into a ponytail that sits low upon her head. She's hiding behind the cover of several trees just outside of the competitors' tent. Across her lap, a sword rests. Not the famous Sword of Gryffindor, a blade she had once swung in her previous life, but instead the famed blade known as Dawn, one she has spent years learning to wield correctly.
Across from her the ghost of her long dead uncle sits, legs crossed beneath him and a frown upon his face. She would have quite liked to have known Arthur in life, Hariel thinks. Perhaps at first he had been hesitant to see her capable of using Dawn as it was once intended, but as the only being alive that could see any and all ghosts, the man had begun to teach her the sword from sheer boredom alone.
They had both watched her trueborn cousin Edric training and her dear dead uncle had proclaimed he could teach her, a girl, to best him with ease.
And so that is what had occurred. Only Hariel had kept learning past besting Edric, had taken to the sword like a fish to water, a bird to the sky. Even Lord Dayne had been hard pressed to deny her training when he had seen such 'raw talent' burning within her.
'Arthur Dayne come again', they whisper behind her back as if she cannot hear them, '…just with teats'.
"You heard your brother when he gave me Dawn. He wants a new Sword of Morning with the Dayne name. How else am I to see myself legitimised? It is not as if our house is in the Stag King's good books right now." Testing the leather of her armour once more, Hariel raps her knuckled against the steel breast-plate, the dull chime of metal upon metal echoing out in the small clearing around her. She tucks the tail of her hair down the back of her shirt next, reaching for the helmet with one hand as the other keeps a secure grasp upon Dawn's hilt. "I'm already on shaky standing just because I am female."
"Your swordplay is unparalleled by your peers and by many years older than yourself," Arthur states firmly, a heavy frown crossing his features as he meets the brilliant purple eyes they share, "Dorne has always disregarded gender when it comes to inheritance and the line of succession. I agree with my brother; why should the Sword of Morning not be a woman if she proves talented enough?"
Grinning, Hariel drops the helmet down atop her head, securing it in place and twisting her head side to side, ensuring it didn't spin round and threaten her line of sight. All is good though, so Hariel rises to her feet and adjusts her hold upon Dawn. The fabled blade glows in the mid-morning sun, a light brilliance against the earthy grounds she stands upon.
"How do I look?"
"Like a man not yet grown," Arthur grunts, rising to remain beside her.
One ghostly hand reaches out, aborting halfway through the motion, as always. Many a time he forgets that he's no longer among the living, forgets and ends up reaching to cup her face or clasp her shoulder. The ghostly afterimage of Dawn resides by his side, an imprint left from the manner of his death. A good thing too; it was how he'd managed to teach her every swing, every step.
"So not like a girl then?"
"No, dear niece, it disguises you well… and though I have full confidence in you, please, Hariel, be careful out there."
"Of course."
.
Eddard
.
"Hey, what's that sword made out of?" Arya's voice, young and full of innocent excitement, pipes up from beside him, eagerly leaning forwards until her bottom has left the comforts of her chair. Her eyes, so alike his own, are wide and eager as the stare down at the mass of fighters gathered, all vying for that absurd sum that constitutes as the prize money for this melee.
"Which sw-" Ned's words die upon his tongue, snow melting to water, drowning the continuation of his sentence.
There is a blade that he never thought to see again in his lifetime.
Riding out upon a white horse dappled grey, a young lad no older than his own son Robb glances around what will shortly become a mock battlefield. One of his hands grasp the reigns of his mount, the other resting upon the handle of the greatsword Dawn.
There's more than one man eyeing him already and Ned recalls the qualifications one must hold in order to wield Dawn, to become the next Sword of Morning. A swordsman of exceptional skill, preferably knighted. But the swords has been with the House of Dayne long before the notion of knighthood graced the lands; given that Ned can scarcely think of a presently knighted man from House Dayne, nevermind one of acknowledge skill in wielding a blade, perhaps the latest Sword of Morning has yet to be graced with that honour.
"And so Dawn resurfaces," Jaime Lannister muses, leaning forwards and Ned belatedly recalls the man had idolised it's former owner, Ser Arthur Dayne. The very man Ned had been forced to slay in his vain attempt to retrieve Lyanna.
'Promise me, Ned. Promise me.'
"That's Dawn?!" Arya hisses in awe, forgoing her chair in order to acquire a better look.
Ned does not fail to notice the look upon the Crown Prince's face as he spares his youngest daughter a sneer, though greed flashes in his eyes as he glances towards the young Sword of Morning.
Lord Dayne must be feeling quite brave, sending the latest wielder of Dawn into the heart of Kings Landing, especially given the side they had taken within the war.
He can see it upon Robert's face, that the king is wishing for the boy to fall pray to some form of misfortune.
But it doesn't happen.
The melee rages, hours past but, devoid of his horse now, the young Sword of Morning is still standing. He's slathered in mud upon one side, having taken a nasty tumble upon the spooking of his horse with that flaming sword one of the combatants boasts, but he's still fighting.
The more he sees, with every swing and stroke of that greatsword, the more Ned is reminded uncomfortably of the famous knight that came before him.
There are some gestures that he has only ever witnessed from Ser Arthur Dayne, that steady twist of the long blade, the sure footwork; it is as if he is witnessing the second coming of the man himself.
Only, there's differences too.
The adjustments the young lad has mad to compensate for his height, or lack of as it were, and at once point the lad performs some kind of flip, allowing the weight of Dawn to swiften his fall into a backbend, grasped it in one hand as the other supports his body against the ground, coming up in a sweeping backflip in response to a push any other would have suffered a fall from. Moving so fluidly in all that armour could not be easily done and Ned finds himself impressed.
"He's amazing," Arya breathes, hands tight around the armrests of her seat and Ned is reasonably certain he knows exactly who his youngest daughter is rooting for.
Of the many competitors who had entered the Melee, only Thoros of Myr remains as the Sword of Morning sole opponent.
They're facing off against one another, one with a sword of flames, another born from the core of a fallen star. The dance of blades is fast and furious, not a move wasted.
Stood upon the war-torn earth, the Sword of Morning's youth only becomes more apparent in the face of Thoros' advance, standing near a foot shorter than the older male.
It is after a tense few moments that the wielder of Dawn strikes though, performing a sweeping twist that even Ned is hard pressed to follow, though the after effect is witnessed by all.
Thoros' flaming sword forcibly banished from his hand, the tip of the greatsword kissing the elder man's beard.
"Sword of Morning indeed," the Kingslayer whispers, joining in the thunderous applause of the audience. To see a young upstart succeed against such odds; it's the kind of beginning that songs are wrote of. Even Robert seems impressed, momentarily forgetting his animosity with House Dayne in order to beckon the young lad forwards.
It is only when Robert offers the boy a boon though, a chance at knighthood, that Ned realises something is wrong.
Because the Sword of Morning turns down the offer, kneeling before the king with Dawn lying across his raised thigh.
"If my King would allow it, I would ask for legitimisation. My mother's House, House Dayne, has raised me from a babe and I would honour them by wielding Dawn as a true Dayne. I would deny all connections to my father's house; House Dayne has raised me, cared for me, Lord Dayne has oft declared I would be fit to carry the name. Alas, only a king may legitimise a bastard."
Sansa sucks in a sharp breath beside him and Ned feels the guilt bubble in his stomach for Jon. For the boy who has taken the black, a bastard with no real prospects.
It is no wonder the lad before them wishes for the name of his household; he carries the blood of a Dayne, their famous ancestral sword would not have been gifted to him were he not already considered one of them.
Of course, the Dornish customs towards bastards are far more relaxed than any other region north of that place.
"Someone get this down in writing, legitimise the bastard!" Robert waves his hand, waiting for someone to attend the matter and Ned watches the young to-be Dayne's shoulders sage with relief.
A cry from the audience demands the helmet be removed, to see the face of their victory, a cry that is soon echoed by his own impulsive daughter.
When the 'boy' acquiescences, the face that greets them feels hits like a punch to the stomach.
.
Hariel
.
Arthur is growling at her, questioning her intellect for the removal of her helmet but Hariel can barely hear him in spite of the sudden, deathly silence that has descended upon the crowds.
For more reason than one alone.
The vast majority are understandably registering that she is a woman; taking in the delicate features of her face, the length of hair long since having squirmed free of her shirt during the melee.
But she doesn't doubt the King and his Hand are registering her very distinct, very Stark-like features.
Arthur has whispered upon more than one occurrence that there was perhaps a mix-up of babes when Ned Stark returned Dawn, cradling the only child of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen in his arms. That only the stunning violet of her Ashara inherited eyes could prevent her from passing as a carbon copy of her paternal aunt through her father, Brandon Stark.
On more than one occasion her dear uncle has shared plans of what exactly he would have done to the former Stark heir had he known the man had dishonoured his sister so.
She wonders if this is how her aunt had felt, when all the smiles died that fateful day in Harrenhal.
She certainly feels very uncomfortable, even more so when both Hand and King choke out a sorrow filled gaps of "Lyanna," in unison with one another.
Hariel wonders if she will ever meet a person who would see her first and not some long dead relation instead. It'd been the same in her previous life, the spitting image of James Potter but with Lily Evans' eyes.
'Look…at…me…'
Awkwardly shifting back to standing, Hariel adjusts the grip upon her blade, doing her best not to look towards Arthur. After all, seeing ghosts in this world (this world that is so painfully lacking in magic) isn't exactly normal.
"Hariel Sand, er, Dayne actually," Hariel murmurs haltingly, turning a quick glance towards the man with the flaming sword.
His eyebrows are high as he stares at her, inspecting her figure with a quick flash and her awkward smile tightens. This world is horrible; to think she'd thought the Wizarding World backwards; if she'd been born in any other part of the country than Dorne, chances of her being allowed to fight would've been exceptionally low.
"You're a girl!" It's the little Stark, the one that shares her hair and features (if less refined) that breaks the tension, her eyes round and wide.
It has Hariel smiling again, free hand rising to ruffle the loose bangs of her hair. Her fingers are sticky with mud, dirt smearing across the high slope of her cheekbone, but it is not as if she could work to be any cleaner right now. Skin slick with sweat that trickles down the curve of her spine, caked in mud all up one side where she'd fallen from the hired horse and with more than her fair share of scrapes, cuts and bruises, Hariel stabs Dawn into the dirt and proceeds to rest a fair portion of her weight atop the blade's handle.
Perhaps it is for the best her uncle (the maternal one, she's just given up all relation to her paternal uncle after all) comes racing across the field with Edric; it certainly seems like the two highest-titled men in the land have no intention of doing anything other than staring at her in numb disbelieving horror.
I don't even know anymore. If you follow me on tumblr, you'll know I've had a great deal of this thing wrote already, but now I have no idea where to go with it since I added the last few lines.
Basic Info: Aegon is a Blackfyre, Arthur can tell he's not really Aegon. It's gonna be a FemHarry/Aegon. Though I could be talked around to something else? I don't know, I just think Harry wouldn't care less about true bloodline and be more 'if he can rally the people and we can sort this mess out, why not?'
Help?
Tsume
xxx