Back to the Start

Chapter II

"Enlightenment"

+ ARTHUR DAYNE +

Hurrying footsteps swiftly fell further and further away, before the harsh sound of heavy doors slamming echoed through the halls, and all fell to a dead silence. It was only appropriate. He seemed to have had quite a knack for leaving a silence in his wake, since he had arrived. And a dead silence might very well be what he found himself facing.

Arthur Dayne was not accustomed to hesitating, but he felt an unmistakable sense of reluctance as he forced his eyes to meet the only other pair in the room. Ancient eyes met his, and there was the same apprehensive look in them that he had witnessed in the other three Kingsguard.

"For everyone's safety…my father is to hear nothing of this."

He wasn't sure it could have been said anymore plainly. The prince might as well have told him directly that his actions were punishable by death, as far as the king was concerned. Not that he would. It seemed that Prince Rhaegar was far more adept than he at keeping his true opinions in check. In the end, he supposed, all he could say for himself was that he stood by his convictions. It would be a shame, if this was what cost him his life, it was certainly nothing at all how he had ever envisioned it, but then, how could anyone truly predict that sort of thing?

Arthur did what he could to maintain an impassive front, although he spoke in a rather solemn tone as he informed Ser Harlan Grandison, "They seem convinced I've written my own death sentence."

After what had taken place in the courtyard, Ser Barristan had escorted the prince back inside the castle. Ser Gwayne had departed on his own, and Ser Oswell had taken it upon himself to usher Arthur inside the White Sword Tower. There, he had rushed through an explanation to Ser Harlan of all that had transpired, before hurrying off once more, to fetch the Lord Commander. Arthur was now standing in the Round Room alone with the old White Cloak.

"That's because no one has ever tried what you did out there," Ser Harlan attempted a lighthearted smile, but it failed to reach his eyes. "Although…there is a chance that you will live to see another day. Another several days, gods willing."

"A chance?" Arthur questioned, as a single brow shot up. Was that truly all there was? "That certainly doesn't sound promising," he admitted, as he stepped further into the room and allowed his eyes to wander, taking in the antique suits of armor and decorative swords that lined the walls. Ancient artifacts of the Kingsguard. An order which it seemed was swiftly becoming nothing more than a naïve dream that he had hung his hopes on.

"I would give you more hope if I could, but it's difficult to say anything for certain," the old knight told him, in what he assumed was an attempt at a consoling tone.

There was a brief pause, and then, from behind him, Arthur could hear the sound of a chair scraping across the floor and the clank of armor as Ser Harlan approached. He came to a stop, standing directly beside him, his eyes also fixed pointedly on the wall's ornamentation, before he leaned in close to the younger man and stated, in a hushed tone, "It all depends on the whim of the king."

The whim of the king?

The Dayne narrowed his eyes at this piece of information, considering it, and the very reason the older knight deemed it necessary to convey it in such secrecy, even within these restricted walls. In an undertone to match Ser Harlan's, then, he concluded, "You're saying His Grace is temperamental." He shifted his piercing, blue eyes to rest on the White Cloak once more, before musing, "And there's a good chance this could go either way."

"You're rather perceptive, Arthur," Ser Harlan regarded him with a fond smile. He then added, with a wink, "For one so young. Personally, I'm hoping the king chooses not to kill you. It would be a shame to lose my new favorite so soon."

Arthur allowed himself a smile at that. "Have I reached favorite status already? Well…I suppose I can hardly blame you," here, he gave an easy shrug of his shoulders. "While I'm sure it comes as no surprise, I'm hoping he chooses not to kill me, as well. It seems preferable."

"I can't think of a single person who would disagree with us," the aged knight returned. A sudden wave of realization sweeping over him, his eyes lit up as he exclaimed, "Ah! You know, there's also a third possibility! There's a chance, though slim, that the king will never even find out."

"Hm…," the Dornishman's eyes returned to the suit of armor in front of them, as he gave a slight shake of his head. "Somehow, that doesn't seem likely."

"Oh, it's not," the old man said flatly. "The newest whispers always find their way to his noble ears. Now," here, Ser Harlan turned, and began shuffling his feet back toward the table, where he sat and carried on with the meal he had previously neglected, "since there's a chance you may last the night, I believe a chat is in order. More specifically, a chat about His Grace and a few unspoken rules we all follow."

"Very well," Arthur replied, his eyes trained on the old White Cloak, as he followed him a few paces, but he halted in his steps beside the table. It seemed presumptuous, somehow, to take a seat in one of those seven chairs. Traditionally, each one was designated for an appointed member of the Kingsguard. Therefore, he remained standing.

"Let's have that chat," he said simply.

Ser Harlan released a mirthful chuckle between mouthfuls, not even bothering to look up from his plate as he said, "I admire your enthusiasm, but this chat will be more productive when more of my Brothers are present. Save that eagerness for tonight, ser."

And so, they waited. By the time the Lord Commander returned to the tower, Ser Harlan had long since finished his meal and insisted that Arthur sit with him—although, the old knight did point out that standing for long periods of time was a necessary skill for any Kingsguard. Ser Gerold entered the small room, his expression hardened, his eyes stern, with Prince Lewyn, Ser Gwayne and another, unfamiliar face trailing behind him. Given his dragonscale armor, and the distinct white cloak he wore, Arthur was only left to conclude that this must be Ser Jonothor Darry.

The White Bull did not bother with introductions, however.

"Oswell told me what happened," he stated bluntly. His stare was fixed pointedly on the Dayne. "It seems I failed to anticipate how quickly we would be needing a talk like this, but you've made quite the spectacle of yourself, Ser Arthur. Of course, it remains to be seen how much good it will even do you, at this point."

He walked around the table before settling himself into his chair, and the others followed suit. Prince Lewyn, who had claimed the seat beside Arthur, had not taken his stare off his fellow Dornishman. His brow was creased, and his dark eyes were filled with evident concern. Arthur wondered briefly if the older knight might feel somewhat responsible for the situation he seemed to have gotten himself in. Ser Gwayne, on the other hand, looked quite smug. He was practically lounging in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, and a barely contained smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. The newcomer, Ser Jonothor, had his eyes locked on the Lord Commander. His stare was solemn, his overall bearing dutiful, and he sat with perfect rigidity. He made no motion, his eyes did not wander.

When they were all seated, Ser Gerold spoke again. "What were you thinking, picking a fight with the prince, in the first place?"

"I'm not sure what Ser Oswell told you," Arthur began, "but it had nothing to do with picking a fight. It had to do with his training." He had no interest in making excuses for himself, but he did feel his actions warranted some explanation. "It didn't seem conducive to his learning, the methods they were using, and I thought, especially given the potential I saw, he deserved more of a push."

"Well, you certainly gave him that," the Lord Commander returned dryly. His stare shot to the side then, landing on the self-satisfied expression on Ser Gwayne's face, and he questioned, his tone harsh, "Is there something amusing about this, Gwayne?"

The young knight kept the same, smug smile as he said, "Well, I just feel like he had this coming. You should have seen him out there, ser. He had the nerve to act like he knew better than Ser Barristan, and he was looking down on the rest of us. Including the prince."

"Is that how you feel?" Ser Gerold drawled, regarding the younger man with stern indifference. "The way I see it, I can excuse Ser Arthur for the actions he took, given what little knowledge he has of the customs of King's Landing and of our king. However, I have a much harder time excusing you. Knowing full well where this course of action might lead him, I should think at least one of you would have had the good sense to caution him against it. And yet, it seems you stood by and did nothing, content to let it play out. You're more responsible for what happened than he is."

"You know better than anyone," Ser Jonothor finally spoke, his tone grave, as his eyes bore into Ser Gwayne. "His Grace could take this as an insult. And if he does, you have cost a man his life. His blood will be on your hands."

The smug expression disappeared, and in its place was a glare, which Ser Gwayne directed in the opposite direction, at the wall. He said nothing.

"I think there's plenty of blame to go around," Prince Lewyn concluded, casting a pointed look at the haughty young knight. He then returned his eyes to the rest of his fellow Kingsguard, as he stated, "We're all at fault in some way for not warning Ser Arthur about the king's temper sooner."

"So we are," the Lord Commander conceded, giving a single, decisive nod of his head in agreement. His gaze returned to Arthur then. "Given the possibility that you may actually survive this, however, I feel it's only prudent that we inform you, now."

Ser Harlan took it upon himself to talk, a twinkle of excitement in his eyes as he said, "I had a similar thought, Lord Commander. Before your return, I suggested we have a chat with our new arrival about certain individuals, and certain…forbidden topics."

"Did you?" Ser Gerold returned. "It seems we're on the same page. Now, then…how do I speak plainly?" He paused a moment, to collect his thoughts, before beginning his explanation. "His Grace can be very easily offended. He may take any attack on his family as a personal attack against himself. He demands respect. That's the very reason we've all been so careful, in our training of the prince, and also why Prince Rhaegar has not pressed the issue. It is difficult to say how the king might take it. And when you have offended the king…," here, a distant look seemed to come over the White Bull's countenance, as though he were reliving some old, painful memory, "it can never end well."

As he spoke, a heavy air seemed to fall over all those listening. It was apparent that Ser Gerold had chosen his words carefully, just as it had been apparent that Ser Harlan could only mention the king's temperamental nature in hushed tones, even in private company. Arthur could not help noting the admiration in Ser Gwayne's eyes as his Lord Commander spoke of the king. The more time Arthur spent in that particular man's presence, the more he felt that he fundamentally disagreed with everything about him. On the other hand, Ser Jonothor seemed to grow impossibly more rigid the more that was said, his expression tense. A rising curiosity took hold of the Dornishman as he observed the unfamiliar White Cloak.

"Now," Ser Harlan broke the silence that had fallen, attempting at a lighter tone, "what works in your favor is the tension that exists between His Grace and his son."

Arthur furrowed his brow at this statement. That was not something he had anticipated. "What do you mean?"

"They have differing views on…," the aged knight trailed off, before giving a small shrug of his shoulders as he assented, "well, pretty much everything. Where the prince is gentler, the king is harsher. Due to their drastically different dispositions, there is an unspoken rift between the two. If the king sees this situation as a humiliation for his son, it's unlikely he'll take it as a personal offense."

His confusion did not dissipate as Ser Harlan offered him this explanation. Rather, it left him more bewildered than before. Did he mean to imply that if King Aerys actually saw what he did as a personal attack against the prince—or, rather, as more of a personal attack against Prince Rhaegar's character—then he might even be pleased by it? Was the dissension between the king and his son so terrible that it might be enough to overcome his otherwise volatile rage? When Ser Harlan had mentioned that his fate relied on the whim of the Targaryen king, Arthur had taken that to mean if they found the king in a good mood. He had certainly not assumed that he meant it depended on which unfavorable characteristic King Aerys chose to entertain.

It seemed Arthur had been too generous in his previous assessment of the king. What sort of father found pleasure in the humiliation of his own son?

"Unfortunate though it is, that's likely your best option," Ser Gerold informed the younger knight.

"I see," Arthur said only. He was not even sure what else to say.

"And, Arthur…," Prince Lewyn began slowly, and the Dayne shifted his gaze to meet the Martell's, which was fixed directly on him, "even if the king excuses your actions, I still want to apologize for placing you in this situation. I should have told you what you were getting into before you ever set foot in the capital."

Arthur's stare fell to the table as he listened to the Dornish prince, and he remained silent a moment, not entirely sure how to react to the apology he was receiving. Finally, he gave a simple shake of his head and assured the man, "You don't need to apologize." As he returned his eyes to meet his once more, he adopted an easy smile and added, "I placed myself in this situation."

"You're too ambitious for your own good," Prince Lewyn conceded, with a returning smile.

"That might be true," the Sword of the Morning allowed. Not that he had ever thought that himself, until now.

"So," Ser Gwayne finally spoke up, his voice laced with irritation, "you all wanted to have this chat to give the new arrival false hope and subtly talk about our king behind his back? Why is no one bringing up what happened with Ser Barristan?"

"It seems you just did," Ser Gerold pointed out, in his usual, dry tone.

"Yes, I did," the younger knight stated. "I really didn't think I was the only one who cared, though."

"It has nothing to do with no one caring," the Lord Commander informed him. "However, what happened with our prince is a more pressing concern. I'm sure Ser Barristan would agree. Whatever offense he might have taken, that's a private matter which can be dealt with at another time."

"What do you mean by private?" the haughty White Cloak pressed.

"I mean it's a separate issue, to be resolved between the two of them, and I don't want to hear any more about it from you," Ser Gerold said sternly, in a tone which would brook no argument. "If you're concerned on your Brother's behalf, you can express that to Ser Barristan."

Ser Gwayne gave one final, dismissive huff, before falling silent once more.

The silence was cut short almost immediately, however, at the sound of the tower doors slamming open. In that same instant, every Kingsguard abruptly shot to their feet, and Arthur felt a sudden increase in his heart rate. The loud sound of footsteps echoed off the high walls. It seemed all those reassurances truly had been for nothing, and Ser Gwayne had the right of it. It had been little more than false hope. Nonetheless, he maintained a composure over his demeanor and took a long, steady intake of breath, before lifting himself to his feet as well, and then turning to face the open doorway of the Round Room.

What he found standing there, however, left him a bit surprised.

Prince Rhaegar's presence was unexpected, but beside him stormed in a young man with vibrant, red hair and his pale blue eyes were overcome with a fury. He strode right past the prince and did not stop until he was standing face to face with the Sword of the Morning, and when he spoke, his voice came out in a shrill tone.

"You!" he cast an accusatory finger toward Arthur. "You, ser, I presume must be Arthur Dayne?"

"Oh, Jon!" Ser Harlan released a weighted sigh in relief, placing a hand to his chest. "It's only you. You almost gave me a heart attack."

"My Prince," Ser Gerold greeted the Targaryen with a formal bow of his head, and Arthur thought he almost detected the hint of a smile on the Lord Commander's face. When he shifted his eyes to the redhead, however, his tone turned scolding and he demanded, "Was that boisterous entrance necessary, Jon?"

"Boisterous is what our young Lord Connington does best," Prince Lewyn sent the Lord Commander a wink.

"I take it you have all heard what happened," the man named Jon was not deterred by their commentary. He seemed determined in whatever he had come here for. "This man," he gestured vehemently toward Arthur, "who has the audacity to prance around calling himself a knight, has injured and humiliated our prince! Has nothing been done about it?"

"I'm not sure how you heard about that," the White Bull cast a quick, curious glance in Prince Rhaegar's direction.

"Jon heard it directly from my father. It seems someone told him what happened this afternoon," the prince explained, and even as he said it, his violet eyes began a careful inspection around the room. Arthur noticed his gaze lingered a moment longer on Ser Gwayne. Curious. Of all the faults he had begun laying at that bigoted knight's feet, he was not sure he had taken him for a snitch.

"And, Jon," Prince Rhaegar continued, his eyes again on the fuming young lord, "I already told you to let it go. Leave Ser Arthur alone."

"His Grace laughed when he heard it!" Jon Connington could not seem to contain his rage, and he gave the prince's words little heed. "He laughed! What do you have to say for yourself, Ser Arthur?!"

Arthur beheld the young man in front of him, at something of a loss. He was still in the midst of processing this new information. It seemed his life was to be spared, after all. Beyond the shadow of a doubt. As relief flooded over him, he merely arched a single, inquisitive brow at the emphatic man.

"Who are you, exactly?" he asked.

The redhead looked affronted. "I am the only son and heir of Lord Armond Connington, of Griffin's Roost," he said, with an air of self-importance. "I happen to be Prince Rhaegar's closest friend and confidante, and if none of his Kingsguard will defend him from the likes of you, then I will!"

From behind his friend, the prince closed his eyes and released an exasperated sigh. Arthur could not help noting what an interesting choice in companion this was, for the gentle Targaryen prince.

"Is that so?" Arthur returned, his tone calm and collected. "If it's his defense you mean to come to, are you much better than him with a blade? Or, do you mean to defend your prince by expressing your own irritation?" He gave the young lord a quick onceover, before adding, "That's an interesting choice of weapon."

"You will not insult me, ser!" Lord Connington insisted, his face turning a shade darker, to match his hair. "You have no right, just as you have no right to raise your sword against the prince! You owe him a heartfelt apology!"

"I owe My Prince nothing of the sort," the Dornishman stated firmly. "I offered him a challenge, and he accepted. I gave him a fair fight—nothing more or less."

"It was not a fair fight," Jon disagreed, narrowing his pale eyes into a glare. "You disrespected your prince when you struck at him, and you showed us all how little honor you truly have!"

"On the contrary," Arthur's gaze hardened on the fuming young lord, but he kept an even tone, "I showed him the proper respect he was due. I respected him enough to fight without holding back, and to offer him a fair challenge. An actual challenge. As far as I can tell, anything less than that is a sign of disrespect."

"You already made your point on that matter, Ser Arthur," the prince took it upon himself to intervene. He spoke with a notable restraint in his voice, although a glimmer in his eyes betrayed his buried wrath. "There's no need to repeat it. You were fortunate that my father reacted so favorably this time. You've been given a second chance, and I'm in no mood to argue with you."

Arthur regarded Prince Rhaegar in silence another moment, before offering a subtle inclination of his head. He was still not sure who this Jon Connington was, or what he was doing here, or why he had taken it upon himself to yell in his face, but he had shared his opinion on this particular matter quite enough for one day—so much so that it had almost cost him his life—and he was not interested in arguing with the prince, either. Although, in truth, he wondered if this recent gamble of his, and its success, could reflect something more. Just as no one had tested the prince's boundaries, so, too, did it seem that few were willing to test the king's. And yet, accident or not, he had, and he had proven that there actually did exist some hope here. In particular, hope for that potential he had seen in Prince Rhaegar earlier that day.

Nevertheless, he replied simply, "Very well, My Prince. I will not say any more about it, for the time being."

"Very good," Jon gave a single nod in satisfaction. "Now, apologize."

"You know," Ser Harlan suddenly chimed in, "I'm feeling rather parched. Ser Gerold," he looked pointedly to the Lord Commander as he addressed him, "do you think your squires might help with that?"

"That's not a bad idea," Ser Gerold allowed, and he looked to Lord Connington, who seemed stunned in disbelief, and Prince Rhaegar, who could not seem to help smiling at the old knight's suggestion. "Prince Rhaegar. Jon. Why don't you bring us some drinks? You can have one yourselves, as well. And then, perhaps, you can get started on dinner."

Arthur arched a single brow at this, as his piercing gaze shifted back to the young redhead. Was Jon Connington also Ser Gerold's squire?

"Right away, Lord Commander," the prince bowed his head, before grabbing his friend's arm and practically dragging him out of the room. For that brief moment, Arthur could have sworn he saw Jon's entire countenance relax in the prince's hold on him.


+ RHAEGAR TARGARYEN +

The young Targaryen sighed.

Even after following Ser Gerold's drinking suggestion, Jon was still fuming. Rhaegar understood that he was attempting to defend him, but it was still slightly annoying. Jon knew better than most that he was uncomfortable with the attention his actions brought on. Perhaps it was an unfair thought, but he knew there was a part of his friend that sought out these opportunities. A chance to remind the world he was close to the crown prince and would guard him against anyone who so much as glanced at him the wrong way. It was touching, and Rhaegar was grateful to his friend, but he loathed the pedestal he was placed on. For some reason, Jon thought he could do no wrong. He thought much too highly of him.

Rhaegar took a moment to check on the soup's progress, and, after determining it required a few more minutes, he returned his gaze to his childhood friend. He attempted to keep the annoyance out of his voice as he addressed him.

"Jon, are you really still angry?"

The redhead was currently leaning against the small table that rested in the center of the kitchen. There was an obvious air of tension about him, from his clenched fist resting on the wooden surface to the hand he had tightly wrapped around his mug of ale. He released an exasperated sigh and shook his head in dismay.

"Rhaegar…," he said slowly, with an attempt at an even tone. "I cannot just let this pass. His actions shouldn't go unpunished. After the position he put you in…," here, he trailed off, and lifted his pained gaze to rest on his friend.

"The position I put myself in," Rhaegar reminded him, internally scolding himself for how harsh the words came out. "Beating me in a fight is not something worthy of punishment. Even if it was…that is not your decision to make."

"Beating you in a fight would be one thing," Jon began, his tone growing more erratic. "But knocking the prince into the dirt, injuring him, and, worst of all, humiliating you…," his hand was now trembling in its hold on his ale, "that is what he should answer for. He's shown you nothing but disrespect, and if the way he's been speaking to you, and to Ser Barristan, has been anything like that display in there just now, it's worse than I believed. He clearly is under the delusion that he can waltz around and say anything he likes to anyone, no matter who they are. And if there aren't any repercussions for it, why should he think any differently?"

Rhaegar lowered his gaze at that. Jon had a point; Ser Arthur had been behaving rather disrespectfully towards Ser Barristan. The prince recognized the confusion on the Dornish knight's face as Ser Barristan explained his training methods, and, under normal circumstances, he would be in the right to suggest a change, but King's Landing was not like the rest of Westeros. Ser Arthur was now closer to the secrets of the Seven Kingdoms than he probably ever hoped to be. Defeating the prince in something as menial as a spar should not be celebrated with the fear of death, but that was what his father wanted. Nothing seemed to delight him as much as the fear he instilled. Humiliating his son came close, though.

The prince ran a hand through his hair and sighed, suddenly feeling drained. He had not seen his father since before the incident in the training yard, but he knew it would not be long before he was summoned. Even if his father already laughed once in reaction to the tale, he would be overcome with glee when he heard it from his own heir. Rhaegar could not decide if he was hoping his father would simply send for him now and get it over with or wait. He could never seem to escape these conflicted feelings.

Returning his violet stare to his friend, he waited another moment before breaking the short silence, his voice heavy with exhaustion, "I think almost losing his life today was more than enough. If he continues to disrespect Ser Barristan, I will address it. He's come across as arrogant and rude since I met him, but I hope he can surprise me. I don't like thinking poorly of anyone."

Jon released a sigh, before giving an understanding nod, "I know you don't. It goes against your nature. Even so, I wouldn't get my hopes up with this one. I would hate to see you disappointed."

Disappointment had become a daily occurrence for the prince. Every day, he hoped his father would become the loving parent he only caught glimpses of as a child. He hoped to see his mother smile with pure bliss. He hoped the struggling peasants of King's Landing would no longer have to live in poverty. He hoped the feuding Houses would set aside their differences and reach a peaceful compromise. He hoped to see every member of his Kingsguard freed from the difficult burdens that came with serving under his father…serving under his family. He longed to see the day when happiness was more common in Westeros than hurt and pain, but all that hope was nothing more than an unattainable dream. Even if unrealistic imaginings became a reality…winter was coming.

Rhaegar mentally shook all thoughts of the daunting prophecy away. This was not the time to dwell on that. All he could do at the moment was focus on his training, which currently required serving dinner. Glancing beside him, he acknowledged the subtle bubbling of the soup and the pleasant aroma in the air. He smiled slightly as his senses anchored him back to the present.

Turning to Jon once more, he directed a small smirk at him, "I can't help it, my friend. It's in my nature."

"So it is, My Prince," Jon conceded, with a returning smile. "It doesn't make me hate seeing it any less."

Rhaegar's smirk faded. He knew Jon regarded him beyond what was normal between friends, which often left him feeling guilty. He valued their friendship very deeply. Jon had been there for many of the dark times in the prince's life, and the Targaryen was convinced that he owed part of his sanity to him. Despite Jon's flaws, he had stayed by his side and legitimately cared. He could only name a handful of people in his life that had done the same, and each one held a special place in his heart. Perhaps it was unfair to act so familiarly with Jon when he knew his feelings were unrequited, but he selfishly clung to their friendship.

Rhaegar nodded solemnly, "I know."


+ ARTHUR DAYNE +

"You know," Ser Harlan was presently remarking in a hushed tone, as he leaned in close to Arthur, who was seated beside him, "it's taking them an awfully long time with that food. It makes you wonder what's happening."

"Does it?" the younger knight returned, as he awarded the White Cloak a single, arched brow. "And what, exactly, do you think might be happening?"

"Any number of things could be happening, since it's those two," the old man's tone was now dripping with a suggestive edge, as he jabbed his elbow into Arthur's side with a wink. "I mean, did you see the way the prince just dragged Jon out of here? Now, I don't know about you, but I'm certainly never that excited for cooking duty."

Arthur's piercing gaze shifted toward the kitchen once more, as he reflected on the notable change that had come over the young Lord Connington when the prince had laid his hands on him. He had not been entirely certain what to make of it, or if he had simply been reading too much into what he had seen. He had decided to give them both the benefit of the doubt, considering how his own past experience with Dornish culture might be influencing his observation, but now, it seemed, his deduction had been nearer to the mark than even he had believed.

He wondered briefly if Prince Rhaegar shared the affections of his closest friend and confidante.

"That might very well be because there isn't much excitement to be found, in the cooking part of it," Arthur noted, and he cast Ser Harlan an easy smirk. "I'm sure there's a number of other ways they might keep themselves occupied, though."

He was met with obvious shock on the older knight, who was clearly surprised at how he had chosen to respond. Not a moment later, though, his eyes lit up, and his mouth transformed to cast the Dornishman an impish smile. "And they're all very exciting," he agreed. "Some more than others. I wouldn't bet on the most exciting option, though. I'm convinced our prince is too refined to do such a thing in public. If Jon had his way, though…," he purposefully trailed off, leaving the rest to be implied.

"Oh?" a single, inquisitive brow shot up. "You mean to say that Jon Connington hasn't had his way with the prince? Or," he gave a subtle tilt of his head, "just not publicly?"

"Well…from what I know, dear Jon has only had his way with the prince in his every dream, but…," here, the old knight's voice dropped an octave lower than before, "a few of us have a running bet placed on when, or if,that will change."

"I see. And in which direction have you placed your bet? When? Or if?" Arthur inquired of the man beside him. He felt genuinely curious, and admittedly a bit surprised at how much he was learning of the inner dynamics of the Targaryens within the course of a single day.

"Oh, when. Absolutely," there was an air of certainty in Ser Harlan's voice. However, that impish gleam was still present in his eyes. "How I see it, Jon is so smitten, and our prince is so overcome by his emotion and the emotions of others, he'll just give in."

"You don't think highly of Prince Rhaegar's willpower," the Dayne observed.

Although, even he had already noticed, in the short time he had interacted with the prince, that he did seem easily overwhelmed by his emotions, if they struck the right chord in him. He had taken offense at the way Arthur had questioned Ser Barristan, and his methods, so much so that it had moved him to accept a challenge which he had otherwise seemed perfectly disinclined to entertain. That being said, this was a separate matter, and while he was certain that Ser Harlan had a far better idea of the Targaryen prince than he did, it was hard to say that the old White Cloak was entirely serious in any of this.

"Only in regard to the one Jon Connington," Ser Harlan stated, as if it were a universal fact.

Well, now he was more convinced than ever that he could not take the old knight's word on this. Arthur found himself smiling in the amusement at him nonetheless.

As he regarded the elderly man in silence another moment, he was reminded of an earlier thought he had, when he had first met him. It did stand to reason, that the oldest member of the Kingsguard would be the first in need of replacement, but even as he reasoned this, he could not help the growing reservation he felt, at that highly plausible outcome. It would be a shame if he were here to take up Ser Harlan Grandison's place. He found he had become quite fond of the coy, old knight.


+ RHAEGAR TARGARYEN +

After realizing how long they had been in the kitchen, Rhaegar moved towards the fire where the pot of soup resided. He paused briefly, his gaze momentarily transfixed by the glowing orange flames. The Prince That Was Promised… The Three Heads of the Dragon… The familiar mantra echoed in his mind. He wondered, not for the first time, if the prophecy really did pertain to him. Was it arrogance that led his mind to that conclusion? Did he even want to bear the burden of every living person in Westeros? Sometimes he tried to talk himself out of it. The weight was too much, and he was not special in any way.

It was too late to think that way, though. He was already set on this course, and he felt a sense of destiny from it. He could no longer deny that this was what he was born to do, and he would follow the path, no matter where it might lead.

Only after his thoughts trailed away did the Targaryen notice his hand had unconsciously risen towards the fire, the heat drawing him closer. The lore he agonized over all contained the same information: fire cannot hurt a Dragon. If he was truly a Dragon, then maybe…

Maybe he had lost his mind.

Rhaegar blinked and quickly lowered his arm, the abruptness of the action causing a searing pain in his shoulder. He winced slightly and massaged his shoulder a moment before redirecting his attention back to the boiling liquid. He reached for it, but he was stopped by a hand on his.

"My Prince…," Jon's voice was laced with concern. "You're hurt."

The prince withheld the urge to roll his eyes, instead closing them momentarily and releasing a frustrated sigh. He then focused his violet gaze on his friend. Jon's entire countenance expressed his transparent worry, and he lifted his hand to rest it gingerly on Rhaegar's injured shoulder.

Rhaegar frowned.

Everyone around him treated him like some fragile, wounded animal. Well, almost everyone. There was, of course, his father, but until today, he was the only one. Arthur Dayne had swiftly made himself the other exception. It was strange. He should be angry at the man who shamed Ser Barristan in front of two other sworn knights, and for being the cause of yet another humiliating moment from the king, but he was grateful to the self-assured Dornishman. Ser Arthur was the first person to ever treat him as a normal human being. For that one moment, he was not Rhaegar Targaryen, crown prince and only son of Aerys II. He was simply Rhaegar. Falling to the ground was, ironically, the most excited he had felt in a long time. The Sword of the Morning was everything his reputation boasted and more. Personality aside, the man was a true legend.

These thoughts, however, brought with them a feeling of acute guilt. Rhaegar understood why he was regarded differently, and it was unfair to hold anyone at fault for it. He was honored to train under the Lord Commander and Ser Barristan. They were legends in their own right, and the prince held a considerable amount of respect and admiration for the both of them. They trained him as well as they could, given the circumstances. There was not a single person in King's Landing who was reckless enough to test the unstable king. Until Arthur Dayne.

Not only that, but for some of them, it was more. They were concerned for both his emotional and physical well-being. Jon fell into this category. Rhaegar knew his friend was only looking out for him. He was injured, after all, but even still, he could not help the underlying feeling of resentment that stirred at his open display of concern.

"It's only my shoulder, Jon," Rhaegar finally responded, the annoyance seeping into his words. He withdrew from his friend's touch, and his gaze fell to the floor. "I'll be fine."

"But, you're not," the redhead insisted, his tone somewhat dejected, but there was a strong, forceful edge to it, even as his hand fell limp at his side. "This is all that arrogant, Dornish cur's fault. Please…don't overexert yourself. I'll handle the rest of this, you let your arm relax," he instructed, as he moved toward the cauldron of soup and took the ladle.

Rhaegar resisted the argument on the tip of his tongue, instead allowing Jon the freedom to distribute the soup into the individual bowls. He arched a brow, however, when he noticed that his friend was purposefully leaving one bowl less full than the others. It was obvious that he was not going to let up on his grudge against Arthur Dayne anytime soon. He was perfectly capable of reacting maturely about this situation, but he instead chose to stoop.

The Targaryen shook his head, a slight amusement stirring at the entire ordeal, as he muttered under his breath, "What am I going to do with you?"

After placing the six bowls on a tray, Jon turned and headed back to the Round Room, wearing a self-satisfied smile. Rhaegar held back a chuckle and followed him out. By the time he reached the room, Jon had already started setting the soup on the table in front of each member. He was clearly saving Ser Arthur's for last. The Targaryen lingered behind, choosing to instead recline against the wall and silently observe his friend's antics. He wondered how the esteemed knight would react to the childish prank.

When Jon finally came to the last bowl, he set it down before the Dornishman, lowering his hand in a slow, exaggerated motion, all the while staring at the knight with a pointed look. Ser Arthur returned this stare with an impassive façade, making no indication that he had noticed the slightest difference in the contents of his soup. When he proceeded to offer the redhead a nod and then began his meal, Jon narrowed his pale eyes in a glare.

"Is something troubling you, Jon?" Lewyn called his behavior into question, an edge of playfulness in his tone.

Jon released an exasperated groan in response, before quickly taking a sharp inhale of breath. "No," he said, in obvious irritation. "Nothing at all."

"Really?" Harlan chimed in, a mischievous smile in place. "Why else would you be so upset?"

"I'm not upset," the seething squire insisted.

Tilting his chin up, he turned his back to the Kingsguard and strutted across the room to stand beside Rhaegar, who again found himself holding back a laugh on his friend's behalf. Fortunately, Jon seemed to take no notice of this, and everyone else's eyes were focused on the retreating red figure. Or at least, that was what he had thought.

All at once, Rhaegar experienced the distinct feeling of being watched, and he turned to see a pair of piercing blue eyes trained on him. The smile fell from his face. There was a pensive glint in Ser Arthur's gaze, as if he were assessing the prince's actions. The Targaryen tilted his head at that, silently returning the observation. Perhaps he had been too quick to judge the knight's character. Earlier, he had come across as reckless, arrogant, and disrespectful, but now there seemed to be an almost composed quality to him. His lack of a reaction to Jon's immaturity had certainly contrasted with Rhaegar's previous assumption of a man who insisted on arguing. Maybe he was just outspoken.

The Targaryen prince narrowed his eyes slightly, as he came to these conclusions. He would not make a final judgement based on these thoughts alone. He realized he had not yet had a proper conversation with the Dornishman and decided that he needed to rectify that. Rhaegar was not opposed to developing a deeper understanding of the man who rightfully earned the ownership of Dawn.

Harlan and Lewyn were still making their jabs at Jon, which the redhead stubbornly brushed aside.

Taking advantage of their continued distraction, Rhaegar's stare landed on Gwayne for the second time that evening. He knew Ser Barristan was far too loyal to ever defy him, and Oswell may be talkative and quick to find a joke, but he would never willingly endanger another person. That only left Ser Arthur himself and Gwayne as the culprit who told his father about the training incident. Even if Ser Arthur was unaware of the king's disposition, the man seemed fairly perceptive, enough to recognize the danger behind the prince's warning. That only left Gwayne, and it was unfortunate that Rhaegar was not surprised by that revelation. He knew there existed some form of tension between them, but he assumed that had more to do with a clash in personality than disloyalty.

Actually, Gwayne had not been disloyal at all. He was a sworn brother of the Kingsguard whose first responsibility was to the king, not his heir. Rhaegar could not fault the knight for choosing his father over him, but he could certainly fault him for purposefully putting another man's life in danger. Gwayne had a choice, and he chose violence. If he would allow an innocent to be subjected to the whims of his father, then there was no telling what else he might be willing to do.

Rhaegar's gaze then landed on Ser Gerold, his stoic countenance appropriately embodying his position as Lord Commander. He would have to wait until the meal and his squiring duties were concluded, but he intended to speak privately with him about this matter. Gwayne may prove to hold nothing more than a grudge against Ser Arthur, but if there was actual ill intent at play, then they would all benefit from keeping a careful watch over him.

"Now, this has all been fun," Harlan was presently remarking, as he rose from his cushioned seat, "but I'm afraid I don't have the spirit of you young folk anymore. I must retire to my chambers."

"Goodnight, Harlan," Ser Gerold said only, in a dismissive tone.

Harlan's jaw fell open in shock at the flippant reaction of the Lord Commander. Rather than exit the room, he instead remained standing with a pointed stare directed at his superior. Rhaegar smiled fondly at this display of the elderly knight's whimsical nature. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted a similar amused expression on Ser Arthur.

When Harlan continued to stand in the same, fixed place, Ser Gerold took it upon himself to cast a single raised brow in his direction. "Aren't you retiring?"

"Not until I have been properly seen off!" Harlan exclaimed, resting his hands firmly on the back of his chair.

"We see you," Ser Gerold assured him dryly. "Now, off with you."

"And we'll see you again in the morning, after you've renewed your youthful spirit," Lewyn added, with a mirthful grin.

Harlan predictably grew more flustered by their commentary, stubbornly refusing to move.

Rhaegar smirked, his overall amusement heightening with each passing moment. Harlan seemed to be the only one capable of drawing out this lighthearted side of the Lord Commander. Pushing off the wall, the prince walked a few steps closer to the table.

"Ser Harlan," Rhaegar began, the withheld laughter radiating from his voice. "Is this all an excuse to put off climbing the stairs?"

"Rhaegar!" the appalled old knight rounded on the prince. "Not you, too! Will no one take my side?"

At this, Arthur Dayne rose to his feet beside the man, a distinctive smile in place as he informed him, "If you need someone at your side to help you up the stairs, I'm more than happy to assist you."

There was an instant change that came over Harlan, which Rhaegar regarded curiously. Ser Arthur seemed rather comfortable and to already hold a certain sway over the oldest Kingsguard. His eyes lit up with an accompanying smile, as he placed a weathered hand on the younger knight's shoulder.

"Arthur…that is so thoughtful of you," Harlan spoke, with a praising tone, before directing a coy look at the other occupants of the room. "At least someone cares enough to see that I make it to bed safely."

"Ugh, just go to bed already," Gwayne grumbled from his seat.

"That is the idea," Ser Arthur responded in an easy tone, and before Harlan had a chance to react, he led him out of the small room and toward the flight of stairs.

From his side, Rhaegar heard Jon mutter, "Who does he think he is? Presuming to think Ser Harlan needs help to his own bed."

This time, Rhaegar did not even bother holding back the eye roll.