Back to the Start
Author: Slytherstein and Lehrain
Rating: T (violence, language, strongly suggestive material)
Spoilers: All
Genre: Tragedy/Friendship
Main Character(s): Rhaegar Targaryen, Arthur Dayne, Elia Martell and Lyanna Stark
Secondary Character(s): Barristan Selmy, Ned Stark, Oswell Whent, Jaime Lannister and Ashara Dayne
Main Ship(s): RhaegarxLyanna and RhaegarxElia
Secondary Ship(s): BrandonxAshara, BarristanxAshara, RobertxLyanna, BrandonxCatelyn, PetyrxCatelyn and HowlandxLyanna
Summary: It was never a happy tale, but there had been a time when there was hope. That hope died with Prince Rhaegar on the Trident. Illustrating the events which led to Robert's Rebellion, it is a story of love and prophecies, of madness and pain, of friendship and tragedy. "Nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it would be this hard. Take me back to the start."
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters; they belong to George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire and the writers of Game of Thrones.
A/N: This is a collaborated fic, written by myself and my sister, Lehrain. Each chapter is told from a designated character's POV (some will switch between multiple characters' POVs), which is specified beforehand.
Back to the Start
Chapter I
"First Impressions"
…
+ ARTHUR DAYNE +
…
It was not the first time his eyes had beheld the Red Keep, but there was something distinctly different about staring up at it now than the last time he had seen that formidable fortress.
The ancient seat of House Targaryen. If legend was to be believed, it was said that King Maegor I had taken the lives of every man who had worked on the construction of the keep, to preserve the castle's many secrets. Rumor had it there was a labyrinth of hidden passageways not only beneath the castle, but within its very walls. It was this very same tale of Maegor the Cruel which had ignited so many grand, elaborate tales of how the Red Keep had earned its foreboding name in the first place. In truth, it was named the Red Keep because the stone from which the fortress had been built was just that: red. It was, quite literally, a red keep.
Admittedly, it was a rather uninteresting and anticlimactic reason, just as the true reason behind most things seemed to be. It was hard to fault so many for wanting to make it a more compelling story than it actually was. For that matter, making a story out of it at all, considering the truth didn't even make for much of a story, in the first place.
Whatever the reason, there it stood. Aptly named. It was impossible to miss, and everyone was gifted a fine, clear view of it, throughout the entire, slow approach toward the castle, and from any point in the surrounding city of King's Landing. It was not a welcoming place. It never had been, and nor did it seem it had ever been meant to be. It was meant to stand as a vivid, unmistakable testament of yet another reminder of the sheer power of the royal House. The power of the Targaryens.
He could hardly help the ironic smile that formed at the corner of his mouth, at the mere thought of this. Rather than allowing the true force of their power to speak for itself, they somehow felt a need to remind everyone of it, every opportunity they could find. And if they couldn't seem to find an opportunity, they would make one.
Ser Arthur Dayne lowered his eyes then, to glance aside toward the guard who had been escorting him, and he offered a single, subtle inclination of his head. Without further ado, he proceeded forward, inside the high walls of the Red Keep.
He inhaled a sudden breath of excitement. He had felt the anticipation of this moment gradually building up his entire journey, from the moment he had departed from Starfall. And it only seemed to stand to reason. He was far closer to achieving his life's secondary ambition than he ever had been before—it wouldn't make much sense for it not to excite him, to some degree. Not that this ambition could ever truly compare to the first—the great of honor of wielding his House's ancestral sword Dawn, and earning the title Sword of the Morning, a feat which he had already accomplished—but it did hold a fair amount of importance to him, in its own right.
After all, it gave the rest of his life, moving forward, a specific direction, and a purpose for that first accomplishment. He would devote that very same sword he had dreamt of wielding from the first moment he could remember dreaming of anything to the highest purpose there was: to protect. Specifically, to protecting the realm.
Not that he had been initiated into the order of the Kingsguard just yet. There was a very strict stipulation, that they only have seven members at any given time, and since there did not seem to be any vacancy currently (it was, after all, a position that was sworn for life), he would have to make do with the next best thing. A commission had been granted to him, to train under Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, until such time when a position became vacant.
That is, of course, if he managed to maintain King Aerys II's favor in that time.
This was, more or less, a trial period. He had been in contact with the Lord Commander due in no small part to a friend of his family's House, and a current member of the Kingsguard himself, Prince Lewyn Martell. Fortunately, Arthur's reputation, and the reputation that his title Sword of the Morning itself held, preceded him, and Ser Gerold had taken his proposal to the king. King Aerys had accepted the proposal, he had even relayed his excitement in meeting him face-to-face, and now, with the stage properly set for him, the rest lay in Arthur's hands.
He was first led to a small room, in one of the guard towers, which his escort informed him would be his residence for the foreseeable future. He took a moment to store what few belongings he had taken with him in this new room, with the exception of Dawn—which he would be much remiss to ever let out of his sight—before the guard led him only a short distance more, to the White Sword Tower. The residence of the Kingsguard itself.
When he first entered, he was immediately greeted by a well-seasoned knight. Which was, of course, nothing more than a polite way of describing the wrinkled figure before him. His back was slouched, his thin hair had turned entirely white, and deep lines seemed to etch every inch of his face. He was seated at a small table, which stood against the wall, and at the sound of their approach, his attention was quickly redirected to the guard at Arthur's side.
"Entan!" the elderly man exclaimed with a smile, and in a voice, though distinctly weary with age, was more excited than the younger knight had anticipated. "I didn't know you were the one on duty today. I would have accompanied you."
"Probably better that you didn't," the guard stated, with a returning smile of his own. "We made better time, this way."
"Yes," the older man agreed, a playful gleam in his eyes, "my presence is far too distracting." He sent a wink his way, before his gaze shifted, to the unfamiliar face of the Dayne, the same mischievous glint present in his brown eyes. "Speaking of distractions, who is this handsome new face? No, wait. I think I already know. There's only one person who would be up here, and we've been expecting him for days."
"Ser Harlan, this is Ser Arthur Dayne," the guard who had been addressed as Entan informed the whimsical, old knight. He then turned to Arthur and made a single gesture to the White Cloak, "This is Ser Harlan Grandison."
The younger knight had made it his task to be familiar with as many accounts as he could gather of all current and past members of the Kingsguard, and he quickly recognized the name. House Grandison was in the Stormlands, and they were renowned for their loyalty to House Targaryen. Of more interesting note, though, Ser Harlan was the longest standing member of the current Kingsguard, even surpassing the White Bull himself. The passing thought that this man might be the very individual Arthur was here to replace was not lost on the Dornishman.
"Ser Harlan," Arthur awarded him an easy smile, as he extended his hand in greeting. "It's an honor."
The old man accepted his hand, and then rested his other, leathery palm over their clasped hands. "Oh, no. The honor is all mine. The Sword of the Morning…I was starting to think I would die before I met one in my time."
"Well," here, the Dayne allowed himself a smirk, "I'm more than happy to prove you wrong."
The Kingsguard member appraised him, his eyes scanning him up and down, and his smile turned impossibly coyer. "Not as happy as I am. The title, the looks, and the personality? You, ser, have it all. Any woman would be lucky to have you. What are you doing here?"
At this, Arthur arched a single brow. This certainly was not a line of questioning that he had been expecting, nor was Ser Harlan proving to be much of what he had expected, either. Certainly not the image of the aged Kingsguard member that his mind had conjured.
"I should think you, of all people, would understand what someone might be doing here," the younger knight returned. "Unless you have such a low opinion of your fellow Brothers, and you mean to imply only the dull or unattractive have to settle for this position. Which can't be true, of course, because it seems you somehow found your way here."
A good-natured laugh escaped the elderly man's cracked lips. "You're very observant. I am currently the most attractive of my Brothers."
"I see. Is that why you want to deter me from joining? You're interested in keeping that position?"
"Well, unlike you," Ser Harlan emphasized pointedly, "I don't have another title to fall back on."
"That is a shame," Arthur allowed, feigning a sympathetic look. "I can't even imagine what that must be like."
"You're lucky," the other man stated, but the next moment, his countenance shifted. For the first time since he had entered the tower, Arthur beheld a serious expression on the old knight's face. "Now, that's enough of that. We don't want to keep Ser Gerold waiting any longer. It'd be a shame if he was grumpy on your first day."
"No, that wouldn't do," Arthur agreed.
"That'll be all, Entan," Ser Harlan waved the guard away, and he left their presence with a respectful bow.
The old knight led the Sword of the Morning past the entrance, until they came to a large door, which Ser Harlan pushed open with relative ease. They stepped into a circular, white room, where two men stood over a large, white table. They seemed to be peering over a number of maps which had been strewn out on the table before them. Arthur immediately placed this as the Round Room, identifying it from descriptions he had read of the central meeting place for the order. He easily recognized one of the men at the far end of the room, Prince Lewyn of House Martell. He was left to assume the other must be the Lord Commander.
The knight beside him cleared his throat, to grab their attention, effectively cutting Ser Gerold off mid-sentence, and both pairs of eyes fell on the two newcomers.
"Now that I have your attention," Ser Harlan began, the smile having returned to his wrinkled face, "I have something to say."
"Very well," the Lord Commander, commonly referred to as the White Bull, responded in a dry tone. "What do you have to say?"
"This," the older knight held his hand out and gestured to Arthur, "is the Sword of the Morning."
"Is it?" Ser Gerold drawled, arching a brow at his subordinate. "I had no idea we were expecting anyone. It isn't as though I've been in frequent contact with him for the past few months."
"And it isn't as though I have any idea how long it takes to travel from Dorne to here," Prince Lewyn chimed in, his tone matching the Lord Commander's sardonic one. "And it also isn't as though there's any way we can prove that this," the Prince then copied Ser Harlan's earlier gesture toward his fellow Dornishman, "is the Sword of the Morning."
"No, certainly not," his commanding officer agreed. "There's no physical proof that anyone is the Sword of the Morning." With a single, dismissive wave of his hand, the Lord Commander stated, "We have no business with this man."
"We have more important things to attend to," the Martell informed the older White Cloak, and with that final statement, he and Ser Gerold returned their attention to the maps laid out on the table.
Arthur could not quite seem to decide if he felt more amused or surprised at their reaction to Ser Harlan. Not to say that this was atypical behavior from Prince Lewyn, but given the context, and their present environment, he had been expecting a certain shift in his demeanor. It would appear he had been wrong to expect anything less. And as unexpected as Ser Harlan's lighthearted behavior had been, it was nothing compared to witnessing a humorous reaction from Ser Gerold Hightower himself. It was a starkly different atmosphere from the serious, formal tone he had grown accustomed to receiving in his correspondence with the Lord Commander.
As his piercing blue eyes shifted, to rest on the elderly knight beside him, he wondered if every member of the Kingsguard reacted to Ser Harlan and his obvious antics in this way.
"Oh, stop pretending," the seasoned knight chided. "I know better than to fall for your games."
"Clearly, you don't know much, otherwise you would have realized this isn't a game," Ser Gerold returned, his tone disinterested and growing bored. "Don't make me repeat myself."
As he said this, Prince Lewyn cracked a smile, though he kept his eyes glued fervently to the papers in front of them.
"Ser Gerold!" the older man sounded genuinely flustered. "You personally invited this man, and now you're giving a very poor first impression."
"It seems I do have to repeat myself," the Lord Commander lifted his eyes from their fixed position to rest a glower on his fellow White Cloak. "I have no business with this man."
"I don't understand what I did wrong," Ser Harlan's gaze fell to the ground, and he shook his head back and forth. "Why are you so angry with me?"
"Make me repeat myself once more, and I might actually be angry with you," the White Bull drawled.
Visibly affronted, Ser Harlan snapped, "Now, you're insulting me. I think it's about time I left. Your other business is clearly more important than the Sword of the Morning." Turning toward the door they had just come through, the old, offended knight tapped Arthur on the shoulder as he urged, "Come on, Arthur."
"Arthur?" Ser Gerold's tone took an immediate shift.
"Did you say Arthur?" Prince Lewyn finally lifted his dark eyes from the pages, feigned recognition taking hold of his expression. "Arthur Dayne?"
"Yes, we've been expecting an Arthur Dayne," the Lord Commander stated matter-of-factly, walking around the table and approaching them. "I've been in frequent contact with him for the past few months, now."
"I see it now," the Prince gave an easy nod of his head, as he followed Ser Gerold to stand in front of the pair. "I know Arthur, from Dorne. How's your sister?"
"She's well," Arthur replied, his tone conversational, though he had to fight a smile on behalf of his flabbergasted new companion. "Ashara and your niece both asked me to send you their best, before I left."
"That was very considerate of them," the Dornishman said fondly. A suggestive smile pulled at the corner of his mouth the next moment, however, and he leaned closer to Arthur as his tone dropped. "From what my nephew tells me, your sister grows more beautiful by the day. He says she's really come into herself."
There was a distinct tension Arthur could feel settling over himself at the implications Prince Lewyn was making. There was no question which nephew he was referring to, and Oberyn Martell was certainly not the first man to set ravenous eyes on his sister, nor did it seem likely that he would be the last. Ashara Dayne had grown into a beautiful young woman, there was no denying that fact. Or the fact that her number of suitors was growing beyond count. From the look in those roguish, dark eyes, Prince Lewyn had clearly said it purposefully, to get a rise out of him. And while he hated to admit to it, particularly in this current situation, there was little else that could unsettle him quite like the matter of his younger sister.
His jaw tight, the Dayne responded only, "That doesn't surprise me."
"Lewyn-"
"I knew you were playing!" Ser Harlan cut off his Lord Commander before he could finish chastising the Dornishman. The aged knight had eagerly taken it upon himself to break the tension, and the pointed look he was casting Arthur's way was not lost on the younger man. "No more games, though. I think Arthur would appreciate a tour of the Tower."
"Yes," Ser Gerold agreed simply. "I'm sure that he would. And we can make the rest of the introductions, as well. Unfortunately, Ser Jonothor's introduction will have to wait, but someone has to guard the king."
The Lord Commander then took it upon himself to show Arthur around the White Sword Tower—the rest of the first floor, which included the kitchens where, he explained, the squires would prepare their meals for them; the undercroft; and the sleeping cells above. The way he spoke of it, and to the young knight, he made it sound as though there was little question that the famed Sword of the Morning would make Kingsguard. That it was less a matter of if, but when. What little reassurance the aspiring White Cloak needed, Ser Gerold Hightower readily provided.
Arthur quickly observed that the three he had met were the only three in the Tower, and when they had finished walking the expanse of the building, the Lord Commander informed him that the others were all out training in the courtyard. Prince Lewyn accompanied them, but Ser Harlan insisted that he needed to stay inside and eat. In what was quickly becoming his typical coy manner, he asked Arthur to join him—somehow, he had overlooked the fact that they were only headed outside in the first place because of Arthur. When the younger knight was obliged to refuse, Ser Harlan grumbled about eating alone.
When they approached the courtyard, Arthur's assessing gaze quickly made note of four men. It was not the two sparring who first caught his attention, nor the middle-aged knight who rested his hand casually on the sword at his hip, who appeared to be overseeing the pair of them. Rather, it was the man who was seated under a tree, with a book resting open in front of him. His eyes seemed transfixed to the pages. If the distinctive violet eyes did not give his identity away, that long, pale blond hair, which was almost white, certainly did. He was a Targaryen. And while he appeared far too young, to be King Aerys himself, his perceived age placed him perfectly as the king's only son and heir, the crown prince, Rhaegar Targaryen. What he was doing out here pouring over a book when Ser Gerold had clearly informed him that these men were supposed to be training, however, was lost on the young knight.
Arthur soon learned that the two men sparring were Ser Oswell Whent, of Harrenhal, and Ser Gwayne Gaunt, from the Crownlands. That left the man overseeing them to be none other than Ser Barristan Selmy. Arthur had heard many tales of Ser Barristan—how he had earned the title Barristan the Bold when he had jousted in his first tournament at the age of ten, how he had been knighted at the age of sixteen, and how, only a few years later, after a successful career as a knight both on the battlefield and in multiple tournaments, he had been inducted as a member of the Kingsguard by King Jaehaerys II. It was rumored that his skill with a blade surpassed even that of the White Bull himself. It was a rumor which the Sword of the Morning was eager to put to the test.
Only Ser Barristan greeted him, as the others remained engrossed in their previous activities. Arthur accepted his hand with a cordial smile. When his eyes shifted once more, to the prince under the tree, Ser Gerold seemed to notice and offered a brief explanation.
"Prince Rhaegar," he informed him, confirming his previous deduction. "Ser Barristan is overseeing his training today, in my stead."
"In your stead?" Arthur arched a single, inquisitive brow.
It seemed reasonable that the master-at-arms would oversee the prince's training—although, the Dayne supposed, since he was the prince, special privileges, such as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard personally overseeing his training, were not all that unusual.
"Yes," Ser Gerold returned. "A few years ago, he requested that he become my squire. Far be it from me to refuse such a request from My Prince. However, on days I'm otherwise engaged, I often have a senior member of our order or Ser Willem see to his training."
Ser Willem Darry, the master-at-arms for the king. He was also the older brother of Ser Jonothor Darry, the seventh and final member of the Kingsguard, who the Lord Commander had informed him was currently on guard duty for King Aerys.
As the knight continued his appraisal of the prince, he could not help the gnawing feeling at the back of his mind, which questioned this notion of "training" that the crown prince was undergoing. What sort of training was it, exactly, that required he spend all this time lounging? His eyes had not left his book once.
It was not long before a young, wide-eyed messenger approached them, and he whispered something aside to the Lord Commander. Ser Gerold appeared visibly disgruntled by whatever information had been relayed, and he informed Arthur that any further introductions would have to wait. He gave a brief farewell to both him and Ser Barristan, before taking his leave, and Prince Lewyn went with him—though not before the Dornishman gave Arthur one final clap on the back, with a fleeting smile. The young knight was left standing alone beside Ser Barristan the Bold.
Ser Barristan was the first to speak.
"When the Lord Commander first told us of your coming, I didn't know what to expect," his words flowed out in a respectful tone, as he appraised the younger man with a gentle smile. "Prince Lewyn shared a few tales, but it's not the same as meeting the Sword of the Morning in person." A glimmer of admiration shone in his dark eyes, as he told him, "It's truly an honor."
"The honor's all mine," Arthur stated. "I've heard more than a few tales of Barristan the Bold." His stare shifted, to the sword at the older knight's side, before he returned his piercing gaze to meet Ser Barristan's. "Are you as good with that sword as they say?"
"That depends on what they're saying about me these days," Ser Barristan gave a small chuckle under his breath. He allowed a brief pause, before adding, "I may even be better."
"Better?" here, Arthur arched a brow in response to the older knight's boast. He genuinely hoped the famed White Cloak would live up to his reputation. "I would very much like to see that."
"And I would very much like to see the wielder of Dawn in action," Ser Barristan returned. "I would recommend a spar between us, but it may have to wait for another time when I'm not instructing. In the meantime, however, you are free to use the training yard as you wish."
The Dornishman awarded him a nod in gratitude, but even as he did so, he once again found his stare falling upon the reclining Targaryen prince.
"Your instruction," he began, purposefully maintaining a neutral tone as he addressed the man, "you are referring to your instruction of the prince, correct?"
"That is correct," the White Cloak replied, before gesturing to the two men who were still sparring in the center of the courtyard, "and I am also overseeing the training of both Ser Oswell and Ser Gwayne today. They asked that I assess their techniques while the prince rests."
At that, Arthur could feel an edge of cynicism seeping into his voice as he questioned, "And how long, exactly, has Prince Rhaegar been resting?"
"A little over half an hour, I would say," Ser Barristan responded easily, taking little notice of Arthur's implication.
"I see," the younger knight returned, his blue stare now locked pointedly on their prince.
The Targaryen's fair complexion seemed peaceful and at ease, as his eyes perused the words on his page. If he truly had been training not but a half hour beforehand, he must have barely broken a sweat. Was this the sort of special treatment all royalty was afforded? How could anyone rely on their future king in the field of battle—if, in fact, it ever came to that one day—if he was allowed to sit back and relax for long stretches of time, in between what he could only assume were weak, negligent attempts at training, focused more on catering to the prince than actually teaching him anything of use?
"And would you say this is relatively common?" Arthur continued his line of questioning. "These breaks of his? Is this actually conducive to his training, in any way?"
"It's difficult to be wholly receptive to any training when you're pushed to the point of exhaustion," Ser Barristan explained matter-of-factly. "These breaks are in place so that he can return to his instruction, refreshed and fully aware."
"Why?" Arthur's gaze now shot back to the older knight at his side, as he arched a single brow at him, and his reasoning. "When faced with a real fight, he won't have that luxury. Why waste time training him for a situation that could never realistically occur? He won't be able to walk away and take a break, when his life is being threatened. He'll be pushed past the point of exhaustion—and he'll need to be able to cope with that, to learn to be aware despite whatever mental or physical state he might find himself in."
He was keenly aware of the fact that there were now several pairs of eyes on him, the sound of steel in the yard had halted, and he realized his voice might have risen more than he had intended. He had no desire to disrespect the veteran knight, but he was very firm in his own stance on this matter, and if there was a chance that voicing his opinion might actually make a difference, he was determined to do just that. Even so, he should have put forth more effort, in keeping his tone in check.
From the corner of his eye, he noted that even the prince had finally lifted his gaze from that book of his, and he was currently rising to his feet. He traded his book for his sword, and as he approached the knights, Arthur felt a sudden wave of apprehension. It was one thing, to question Ser Barristan's training methods to the knight, who seemed more or less willing to debate his own side of the issue, but it was quite another, to suggest the Targaryen prince was taking advantage of his position, even slacking in his training, in front of the prince himself. That had been rather ill-advised. The fact of the matter was, Rhaegar Targaryen was royalty, and he had the power to take away any man's life he desired with a single word. If he felt insulted, it did not matter if Arthur Dayne was the Sword of the Morning or a baker from Flea Bottom—it could very well all be the same to him.
The prince came to a stop directly in front of them, his dark, violet eyes trained pointedly on the unfamiliar knight, as he assessed him. When his gaze fell, to the sword at Arthur's side, recognition immediately seemed to appear behind his intent stare, and he then returned it to rest on the other man's face once more.
Despite the opinion he was quickly forming of the Targaryen, Arthur bowed his head as a sign of respect to the prince. Before Prince Rhaegar had a chance to speak, however, Ser Barristan intervened.
"My Prince," he began, his tone one of concern, although Arthur suspected it was not on his behalf, based on that gentle look in his eyes that was now directed at the prince. "Ser Arthur meant no offense to you. He was merely offering a different perspective."
"There's no need to concern yourself over my well-being, Ser Barristan. I'm not offended," the dragon prince assured him, his voice deep, but with a soft edge to it as he spoke to the older knight. Not a moment later, he cast his violet eyes on Arthur once more, and his tone grew harsher, "However, it is not your place to question his decisions so openly. The Sword of the Morning is a hard-earned title that speaks for itself, but that does not privilege you to showing disrespect."
The prince was in the right. Not that it had anything to do with the title he had earned, it merely came down to the fact that he wholly disagreed with Ser Barristan's methods, but it was not difficult to see how the prince, and perhaps even Ser Barristan, were perceiving him. Young, arrogant, disrespectful, and with a certain lack of tact, it appeared. He was not proud of the fact that he had let his own frustration get the better of him, because, in truth, he would not have been disagreeing openly at all, and it would have remained a private conversation between himself and Ser Barristan, as intended, had he kept his tone in check. He was rather disappointed that he had put himself in a position to be chastised by someone who would rather spend his time catching the breeze in his pretty silver hair than devoting himself to any proper instruction by the legend that was Barristan the Bold.
"No," Arthur returned simply, again offering a respectful bow of his head to the Targaryen. "It does not. I meant no disrespect, My Prince, and I apologize for any that I have shown. To both you and Ser Barristan."
"I appreciate your apology, Ser Arthur, but it isn't necessary," Prince Rhaegar told him. "So long as you treat Ser Barristan with the proper respect in the future, I won't say another word about it."
"Of course, My Prince."
With that, Ser Barristan took it upon himself to turn the conversation. "I'm sorry if this interrupted your reading, Prince Rhaegar. Do you require more rest?"
It was as though everything Arthur had said was entirely lost on the man. In the course of that one, single question, he wondered if it perhaps had nothing to do with catering to the prince's requests, but, rather, what Ser Barristan perceived as his prince's needs. The pupil was, after all, only as good as his mentor. He was surprising himself with how strongly he felt himself disagreeing with the esteemed member of the Kingsguard who he perhaps respected most of all.
"No, I've had more than enough," the prince told his knight. "Let's pick up where we left off."
"That's an excellent suggestion!" a new voice chimed in, and Arthur glanced to the side, where he observed Ser Oswell and Ser Gwayne had finally deemed it harmless to approach. The speaker was Ser Oswell, and he was giving his sword a quick spin in anticipation.
"Do you want one of us to practice with you?" Ser Gwayne proposed, noticeably flexing his muscles as he stretched his arms over his head.
They were both covered in sweat and grime, both of their bare chests exposed, although Ser Oswell had a cloth wrapped around his neck, which he dabbed at his forehead from time to time. They both seemed eager to continue training—which had clearly been put on hold momentarily, so they could overhear what their prince had to say to the Sword of the Morning—and Arthur was curious to see how they fared against Prince Rhaegar. Did either of them share Ser Barristan's approach?
"Only if you don't start fighting over who gets to spar first," the prince quipped.
Although, as it happened, not a moment later, the prince's joke was hardly a joke at all. The two White Cloaks exchanged an assessing, challenging look with one another, and almost simultaneously, they each offered themselves to fight Prince Rhaegar first. They gave various reasons why the other was more inadequate, and by the end of it, Ser Barristan was facing off against the prince, having informed both of his younger Brothers that he would select the prince's next opponent himself.
Ser Oswell and Ser Gwayne stepped to the side, both visibly dismayed, but as they stood beside Arthur Dayne, the immediate shift in their attention was not lost on the knight, nor was the challenging look that leapt to both of their expressions. It was not so dissimilar from the look they had exchanged with one another, although it was now mixed with a certain curiosity as they analyzed him.
"Are you going to practice, Ser Arthur?" Ser Gwayne questioned. He could feel the man's eyes taking his measure.
Although he was more interested in the opportunity to watch Ser Barristan Selmy in action, Arthur allowed his gaze to wander briefly, to rest on the knights beside him, and he afforded them an easy, relaxed smile. "Perhaps," he said simply. "Are you volunteering to fight me, if I do?"
"I wouldn't ask, if I wasn't," Ser Gwayne returned with a haughty air to his tone.
"And how am I to know that?" the Dayne countered, his tone casual. "Perhaps you're the sort who is more interested in watching than fighting. Or, perhaps, you would rather have an opportunity to first analyze and observe your opponent, before recklessly jumping into a fight with him."
"Ha!" Ser Oswell released a laugh, clapping his fellow White Cloak on the back at this suggestion. "There's no one more readily willing to take a reckless leap than Gwayne, here."
"That's quite enough!" Ser Gwayne snapped at the lighthearted fellow, rolling his eyes. "What I do is not reckless. Recklessness implies a lack of skill and thought. I thought that I could observe while I fight."
"An interesting notion," Arthur replied, while making a mental note of just how thoughtless it was, to turn down a freely offered opportunity to observe an opponent before a fight. As far as he was concerned, that did seem fairly reckless. "I suppose it is true, that we aren't often presented an opportunity to observe beforehand, after all, and so learning to think on your feet is an important skill worth honing."
"I agree with you there, ser," the haughty knight gave a decisive nod of his head. "I always think on my feet."
"Personally, I do some of my best thinking on my back," Ser Oswell inserted. "My thoughts run rampant as soon as I lay my head on my pillow."
Ser Gwayne awarded him an incredulous look, "How do you get any sleep?"
"With great difficulty," his fellow White Cloak informed him, with a slow, morose shake of his head. "I sleep best when I have some sort of…distraction," and at the last word, his tone took a suggestive turn, and he wiggled his brows.
Ser Gwayne gave a returning, suggestive nod, a smug smirk taking form at the corner of his mouth. As if suddenly remembering the previous conversation, however, he cast a more serious expression toward Arthur, his eyes narrowed slightly.
"You didn't answer my question," he pointed out. "Are you going to fight or not?"
"I did say perhaps," Arthur reminded him offhandedly.
Ser Gwayne seemed less than impressed with this answer, but, while Arthur had no interest in turning down his challenge, his attention had been captured by a far more pressing issue that was returning to the forefront of his mind, after he had shifted his gaze back to the pair in the courtyard.
"Is that always how Ser Barristan trains him?" he questioned, gesturing in their direction with a slight tilt of his head.
Following his line of sight, Ser Oswell cracked a smile, but he gave little more than a carefree shrug of his shoulders. "More or less," he informed the Dornishman. "I'm not sure Rhaegar could keep up, if Barristan used his full force, so he prefers to match his level when they're training."
Neither of them appeared the least bit concerned. And Arthur found himself baffled by this. How was anyone expected to continue improving, if they were never challenged? Admittedly, the prince appeared to have far more promise than he might have expected, given the state in which he had first beheld him, but this only served to frustrate him all the more. There was so much more potential there, so much more than the prince was applying. And yet, it was obvious, from the utter lack of strain in any of Ser Barristan's movements, and from the way he swung his sword, that he was holding back. The prince's technique was well formed, but beyond that, he had so much more to learn.
Before long, Ser Barristan called on Ser Oswell to face the prince, and what began as a promising shift only left the Sword of the Morning feeling more disappointed than before. Both the prince and knight were smiling throughout the entire course of their match, and while there was nothing wrong with enjoying oneself while training, Ser Oswell did not appear to be taking it seriously in the slightest. In between strikes, he would throw in a joke, a laugh, or some absurd, misplaced feint. By the end of it, Prince Rhaegar was rolling his eyes at the White Cloak, and Ser Oswell was ushering Ser Gwayne to take his place.
When even the haughty, boastful knight withheld releasing his full potential against the prince, Arthur found he could no longer hold his tongue.
"Ser Barristan," he addressed the middle-aged knight, though he purposefully kept a low, even tone. "Forgive me, but…how does it benefit the prince, when none of you are even offering him a real challenge? Every one of you has been holding back."
Ser Barristan appeared unfazed by the reemergence of Arthur's questioning, and he wore a confident expression as he explained, "We're holding back for his sake, Ser Arthur. I don't want to overwhelm the prince." There was an obvious fondness in his eyes, as he watched the young prince. "As he steadily improves, we adjust our approach to meet his level. If he asked for more of a challenge, I am willing to provide."
"And yet, you're the one who's been assigned to oversee his training," Arthur stated. "Why is it left up to him, when he should be challenged, when he's ready to be pushed? Shouldn't that be your decision? How are you to even know what will overwhelm him, if you don't test his boundaries?"
From the corner of his eye, Arthur made note of the fact that Ser Oswell had inched closer to the pair of them, and he could only assume it was to better overhear what they were saying.
"He's my prince," Ser Barristan said firmly. "I will only push him if it's what he wants."
"Ser Gerold said that he specifically requested that he squire under him, though," the younger knight pointed out. "Considering who he is, this isn't a path he had to choose. The prince doesn't need to squire under anyone. And yet, he asked him. What is that an indication of, if not a request in itself that is asking for a proper challenge? For the proper instruction? Has he ordered everyone to take it easy on him?"
"Prince Rhaegar has never abused his power in that way," there was a sudden sharp edge in the older man's tone, his stare now fixed pointedly on the Dornishman at his side. "On the contrary, when he began his training, he requested that he be treated the same as any other squire. As a sign of respectful deference to his position, however, I could not oblige, and the prince has not pressed the issue."
Arthur averted his gaze, back to the prince, as he listened to the White Cloak's reflection, which was somehow casting a new light upon the Targaryen.
"So, you're saying that he explicitly asked not to be treated as the prince, during his training, and yet, that's precisely what you've been doing?" he questioned, a single brow arching. He glanced aside then, to Ser Oswell, who was deliberately staring in the opposite direction, and then toward Ser Gwayne as well, who was still trading blows with Prince Rhaegar. "It's what all of you have been doing." His piercing blue eyes fell on Ser Barristan once more, as he asked, "And what of the Lord Commander?"
"The Lord Commander is more willing to push the prince," the older knight allowed, "but he also understands there is a respectful line in place, which none of us are obligated to cross."
"It seems to me that it's a respectful line which your prince asked you to cross," Arthur emphasized, his frustration growing by the second. "Perhaps he understands that this boundary you maintain does just that: it places a boundary on him. His skill can only ever improve within a set parameter. It's doing nothing but hindering his growth."
"Would the Sword of the Morning care to share his opinion with the rest of us?!" the voice of Ser Gwayne called out from across the yard. The three men turned to see that he and the prince had ended their spar, and they were both now glaring in their direction.
Arthur adopted a neutral expression, save the unamused look he cast to the boisterous knight. "I believe that's between me and Ser Barristan."
"And that is how it should remain," Prince Rhaegar conceded, briefly shifting his gaze to award Ser Gwayne a warning look. However, he immediately shot his glower back to the Dornishman, as he expressed, in a cutting, harsh voice, "Ser Arthur, while I appreciate your willingness to restrict your judgements to Ser Barristan alone, I cannot help wondering if you are entirely incapable of withholding your opinion."
Returning the prince's stare with the same, impassive look he had been obliged to grant Ser Gwayne, Arthur replied simply, "I'm not incapable. I deemed it an opinion worth voicing, and I chose to do so."
While this only served to infuriate the prince further, Ser Oswell appeared visibly uncomfortable at the turn of conversation, fidgeting in his footing. Ser Gwayne, on the other hand, was still determined to know what precisely had been said.
"And what, exactly, was this worthy opinion?" he pressed, slowly advancing toward the Dayne. "Is this still about his training? Was yours really so very different? Do you mean to imply that you could train the prince better than Ser Barristan? Or us?" Ser Gwayne now stood a mere arm's length from the younger knight. "Where do you come off thinking you're in any position to train anyone?"
Arthur's expression did not shift for a moment as he met Ser Gwayne's heated gaze. His tone remained calm and even as he said, "I do happen to have some experience, in training. I've had a few squires of my own. The progress they made, and their swift improvement, is where I come off believing I'm in a qualified position to train someone. When I see potential, I don't believe it should be wasted."
From the corner of his eye, he noticed the obvious offense that came over Ser Barristan's expression. The older knight remained silent, nonetheless. His change in demeanor did not seem lost on the prince either, however, who quickly approached the pair and attempted to intervene.
"Ser Gwayne," he addressed his Kingsguard, placing a hand on his shoulder. "That's enough."
"No!" the haughty knight roughly shoved the prince's hand off him, before gesturing vehemently toward Arthur. "I'm not finished. I won't be finished until I see Ser Arthur Dayne live up to all this! The ego, the pride, the boasting, the fancy sword, the fancy title—I haven't seen him measure up to any of it!"
"I am more than happy to show you," Arthur responded, his tone nonchalant.
"You're going to show us you can train somebody?" Ser Oswell asked, his brow furrowed in perplexity. "I thought that's what the issue was."
"So it was," Arthur agreed, and his stare rested pointedly on the prince. "As I understand it, you did once ask to be treated as any other squire, did you not?"
Prince Rhaegar narrowed his eyes in response to this query, a frown taking form at the corner of his mouth. Ser Oswell and Ser Gwayne had all at once gone silent, and they now eyed the Dornishman with a sudden wariness.
"Ser Arthur," Ser Barristan finally spoke, in a cautionary tone, "if you are about to do what I think, then I strongly advise against it. This course can't end well."
"And why is that?" Arthur rounded his gaze on the older knight, his rising frustration reaching its limit at the way they all insisted on treating their crown prince. "Are you afraid he might actually learn something?"
Ser Barristan lowered his eyes, visibly wounded. He was once again at a loss for words.
The Targaryen prince drew a deep inhale of breath, his hand quivering at his side as his face hardened. "Ser Arthur…," he spoke in a strained voice. "I will fight you, but you will not disrespect Ser Barristan again. Is that understood?"
"As you wish," Arthur responded only.
He drew Dawn from its sheath and then crossed the yard several paces from the three, onlooking White Cloaks. He could feel his hand tingling in anticipation as he tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.
"My Prince," the knight offered him a slight bow of his head.
Prince Rhaegar returned the bow, and then proceeded to lift his own sword, adopting a practiced stance. His posture was well formed, it was apparent that he had learned the basics effectively, although there was a noticeable restraint that had not been present in his earlier sparring matches. That would not serve him well.
Arthur Dayne did not hesitate.
He lunged into an offensive assault on the young prince, striking at the weaker points he had taken note of in Prince Rhaegar's last three matches. The prince was forced back several paces within a matter of seconds, but Arthur felt pleased at the Targaryen's reaction time. He blocked each of the blows, and narrowly dodged another. He held a decent defensive for a few more moments, but he was caught by surprise when Arthur shifted his stance, changing his dominant hand and striking at the prince from the left instead of the right, and in the split-second when Prince Rhaegar left an opening, the Sword of the Morning took the opportunity and struck at him with the side of his sword, slamming it against the other man's shoulder at full force, and knocking him face forward into the dirt.
A weighted silence fell over the courtyard. Arthur glanced aside briefly, to take in the notably shocked expressions that each of the members of the Kingsguard now wore. They stood still for another moment, until Ser Barristan advanced a few careful steps, his eyes locked on the prince.
Prince Rhaegar was currently pushing himself up off the ground, his back to them as he held his hand against his shoulder. When he did not turn around, Ser Barristan addressed him warily.
"Prince Rhaegar…"
Arthur narrowed his eyes at the lot of them. They were certainly making quite the fuss over a sore shoulder. He may be the prince, but had he honestly never gotten so much as a bruise from his training before? What sort of squire was he?
"I'm alright," the prince assured the concerned knight, before finally turning to face them.
Behind the dirt that now covered his fair complexion, his eyes were darting between the present members of his Kingsguard and occasionally shifting to the man who had beaten him. There was a distinct hint of fear in those deep, violet eyes, and it instilled in Arthur an immediate sense of foreboding. Something was wrong. Something had him worried. And the anxious looks the Dornishman was receiving from the White Cloaks did nothing to alleviate the feeling.
"For everyone's safety…my father is to hear nothing of this."