Back to the Start

Chapter IV

"The Prince's Decision"

+ ARTHUR DAYNE +

An all-encompassing darkness shrouded the world. A thin layer of fog obstructed whatever gentle illumination the crescent moon would have cast. Even the torchlights that lined the walkway had been snuffed out, at this hour. There was a quiet stillness that had finally settled over the bustling city of King's Landing.

Not that it would last.

Within an hour or two, when dawn broke over the horizon, life would return, and the noise would commence, with a renewed vigor. Lords and common folk alike would take to the streets, going about their daily business, each careful not to tread too closely to the other. For a city which boasted such a tremendous blend of classes, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms was one of the most distinctly divided places that Arthur had ever beheld. The rich preyed on the poor, and the poor despised them for it. The rich bickered amongst the themselves over religious and regional differences, while the poor fought amongst themselves over the discarded scrap of bread or the warmest place to sleep. There were divisions in all areas of the world, this was true, but in King's Landing especially, bigotry thrived.

For a few silent hours, however, none of that mattered. They were all asleep, and their worries slumbered with them. And it was these few silent hours, the last remnants of nightfall before dawn, as light slowly crept back over the world, that Arthur Dayne enjoyed most of all.

After Prince Rhaegar had departed from the king's chambers the night before, Arthur had remained with Ser Barristan until his relief had arrived, in the form of Prince Lewyn Martell. Both men had then taken their leave, and they had parted ways, with the White Cloak returning to the White Sword Tower, and Arthur to his room in the guard tower. He had allotted himself several hours of rest, and the bed had been a welcome reprieve from the many events of the long day before, but he had roused himself a few hours before dawn, as he was often wont to do. He had dressed and then taken to the path he had memorized the day before, when the guard who had escorted him into King's Landing had led him to the tower of the Kingsguard, where he was arriving at present.

He did not enter, though. He walked past it, toward the training yard beyond, which he had been expressly informed by both Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold that he was free to utilize at his own leisure. He came to a halt in his steps at the far end of the courtyard.

His piercing blue eyes stared out over the side of the Red Keep, at the steep cliffside and the crashing waves of the sea far below. When he breathed in, there was a distinct saltiness carried by the wind, and it brought a faint smile to the corner of his mouth. The air was colder, the people were louder, and the overall dominion of the temperamental leader was far less orderly, but this, at least, was familiar. The scent of salt in the air, the sound of crashing waves, and the swift feeling of the breeze rushing past. If he did not know better, he could be back in Starfall, standing in the one of the high towers. If he closed his eyes, he could picture it.

The smile lingered as the knight retreated several paces from the cliffside, toward the center of the courtyard. He lifted his hand and tightened his fingers securely around his family's ancestral sword at his side. The sword he had finally earned for himself, after many years of constant devotion, of tireless training. He would never be able to put into words how it had felt, the day the blade had finally been taken down from its long slumber on the wall, and when he had first held Dawn in his hands.

He had felt…complete.

Even now, however many times he drew the blade, he never felt more at peace, more at one with himself, than when he was holding Dawn. He was not sure he believed in fate, but it did sometimes feel as though this was always meant to be. As though, slumbering somewhere deep inside of him, he had always been the Sword of the Morning. As though Dawn was always meant to be a part of him.

No point in speculating, though. The point was, the sword felt natural in his hand.

With one swift movement, he drew the blade and gave it a series of quick, practice swings. First in his left hand, then his right, until finally his left again. He cleared all other thoughts from his mind and focused entirely on the present task. On his present training.

It was not long, however, before the distant sound of footsteps caught his attention, and his hand fell still. Arthur shifted his gaze, in the direction of the quiet disturbance, and, though it took him a moment to properly recognize him in the dark, that platinum hair was unmistakable. He once again found himself surprised by the Targaryen prince's presence. He had been seeing far more of him than he would have anticipated within the span of a single day—not even a full day, in fact—and he was not quite sure what to make of it.

At the prince's approach, he lowered Dawn to his side, before crossing the remaining distance of the yard to award the Targaryen heir a respectful bow of his head.

"My Prince," he greeted.

He locked his blue eyes on the younger man's countenance, now that he was standing close enough to accurately inspect him, and he noted that a shadow seemed to hang over the prince's eyes. He was wearing a change of clothes, and the wound on his head had been tended to, which left him to assume that he had been to his room the night before at some point, but something about his visage left Arthur with a rising suspicion. Had he slept at all?

"I'll admit," the Dayne added, "I'm a little surprised to see you out here. Especially at this hour."

"A walk in the cool air is far more relaxing than sleep at this hour," Prince Rhaegar responded, as a sigh of contentment escaped his lips. "It's much easier to think in the early silence."

"You find walking alone with your thoughts more relaxing than sleep?" a single brow shot up as Arthur continued to watch the other man closely. This was certainly an intriguing revelation.

A distant look appeared in the prince's dark eyes, even as he dismissively explained, "I find many things more relaxing than sleep." He focused a pointed stare back on Arthur as he mused, "Now, I can't say I'm at all surprised to find you out here so early. If there's one quality that links every Sword of the Morning, both past and present, it is their dedication."

"Well," Arthur allowed a faint smirk as he remarked, "that only stands to reason. The title Sword of the Morning can't very well be earned without it."

"You're quite right," the prince agreed with a conceding nod. "The message of the title would be meaningless without the prior effort." His voice sounded distant, reflective, as he mused, "Only a Dayne who has proven that dedication through his superior skill can be worthy of wielding Dawn. It's a unique tradition in our world. One that I have admired for many years."

As his gaze seemed to return to the man standing in front of him, Prince Rhaegar pressed, "Tell me, Ser Arthur…when did your dream become that legendary sword in your grasp?"

At this, the knight's eyes lowered, to the sword in his hand, where he felt his grip instinctively flex tighter around the hilt.

"It never…became my dream," he answered truthfully. "For as long as I can remember, it already was. I was always looking up at it, hanging on the wall, so I suppose that's why I can't remember the first time I set my sights on it. I think it's a common thing, though. Dreaming of wielding your family's sword. I know my brother wanted it, and my father before him. Many of my cousins did, as well. It was little more than a passing thought to most of them, though—they entertained it, they even exerted some effort toward achieving it, but that was all. I was determined to make my dream a reality, though. And so, I did."

A silence fell over the prince when Arthur had concluded, and as it drew on, the Dornishman again lifted his eyes to fix his stare on the Targaryen. He appeared to be in the midst of some deep contemplation, but as he stared at the knight, there was something distinctively different in the way he was now regarding him. A new light had come over those dark violet eyes.

"You're much more than I expected, Arthur Dayne."

There was a subtle fondness in his voice as he spoke, which shifted to resignation as he bowed his head, "And it seems you finally made your point. My training has indeed been insufficient, but it is not Ser Barristan or Ser Gerold who are to blame. Ultimately, I am the one at fault. I became a squire for a singular purpose, yet continued to hold myself back because I lacked the resolve to make that dream into a reality. I was frustrated with my slow progress…but I was also content. I could have pushed myself many years ago, but I didn't want to. My dream isn't about my feelings, though. It isn't about Ser Barristan's concern for me, either, and it certainly isn't about my father. It is about responsibility. Fighting is something I have to do, so I need to remove my contentment and dedicate myself entirely to my training."

At the prince's admission and, ultimately, his resolution, Arthur once again found himself in a state of astonishment. He had not expected the Targaryen's line of questioning would lead him here, or that his own stance on the matter would prove inspirational to the man who had looked so content to read his book under the shade of a tree. Not that he disagreed with the conclusion the prince had come to. It was, after all, the very point he himself had been trying to make on multiple occasions only the day before. Even so, he had not expected to sway Prince Rhaegar's perspective within such short a time.

He supposed, though, that this did align with a previous conclusion he had drawn about the prince. That he was willing to put his own personal feelings aside. He had a strong sense of duty, and, more than this, he had a firm resolve. An inner strength, as Ser Barristan had put it, and the stubbornness to see it through.

"If it is your responsibility," Arthur stated, with a single, decisive nod of his head, "then I agree. It demands your full commitment."

"I'm not surprised to hear you say that," Prince Rhaegar replied, as the previous fondness returned to his voice.

The next moment, however, as the prince allowed a brief pause to fall between them once more, he noticeably stiffened. His stare wavered, from its practiced position on the Dornishman, and although his head tilted upward, there was of an air of discomfort behind the action.

"Anyway, I…," he visibly strained to force the next few words out, and there was an abruptness in his voice, "have a favor to ask of you. You are, of course, free to refuse, but I'm not worried about you accepting just because I'm the prince."

"Well, it is always nice to see that I've left an impression," Arthur allowed a faint smirk, even as he was filled with a rising curiosity. Not only regarding the prince's request, but his behavior as well. "What is this favor?"

Violet eyes wandered around the length of the courtyard, the Targaryen somehow showing more interest in his surroundings than the man standing directly in his line of sight.

The prince hesitated another moment, before he finally admitted, "I have spent the better part of the last few hours debating this idea, and I realized how strongly I agree with your method." Through what appeared a great force of will, he brought his eyes to rest on the Dornish knight once more, as he told him, "If you accept, I would be honored to train under you."

"You…want to train under me?" Arthur questioned, unable to hide his disbelief.

"Yes," Prince Rhaegar responded simply. "I do."

The Dayne regarded the man in silence a moment, his piercing blue eyes measuring his expression, his bearing, his level of conviction. There was a resolute finality to his words. To his tone. However doubtful the knight felt, he found he could not doubt what he was seeing. It was standing directly in front of him, after all, with a blinding certainty. If the prince did agree with his method, as he claimed, it only stood to reason that he would ask Arthur to train him. After all, as he had been informed—by King Aerys, by Ser Barristan, and, of course, by the rest of the Kingsguard—no one had been willing to properly instruct the crown prince. He had been made a squire, but no one had treated him as a proper squire until yesterday afternoon.

If he was resolved to learn how to fight, and to learn well, Arthur Dayne was more than willing to provide that instruction.

"You realize what you're asking, I trust," the knight titled his head to one side, as he continued to scrutinize the young prince. "If you ask me to train you, then I'm not going to hold back. I'm going to be every bit as demanding with your training as I am with my own. Are you sure you're prepared for that?"

"I can't say that I am," the prince confessed. "I know next to nothing about your training routine, Ser Arthur, but I'm determined nonetheless. I am here to learn."

Arthur stared at him one final moment, before offering a subtle bow of his head in acknowledgement. "Very well, then, My Prince," he told him. "I accept."

Without waiting for Prince Rhaegar's reaction, the knight turned and walked several paces, back the way he had come before the younger man had approached him, until he was again standing in the center of the training yard. He then brought his full attention to focus squarely on the Targaryen heir, even as he lifted Dawn at his side.

"Let's begin," he said simply.

A single glance at the prince when he had first arrived had already determined that he had come unarmed. This would need to be rectified in the future, but for now, they would have to make do. Arthur therefore took it upon himself to offer a swift gesture toward the weapon rack at the far end of the yard.

"Choose a sword," he instructed.

The squire narrowed his eyes in confusion at the knight, and he was rendered immobile for a passing moment. It was obvious that, when he had made his request, he had not anticipated that his training would begin immediately. Nevertheless, he quickly broke himself out of the reverie with a slow, uncertain nod. He crossed the distance of the courtyard and lifted the first sword in reach, before promptly moving to stand in front of his new mentor. Arthur allowed a smile to ease onto his expression as he observed the prince's readiness to adjust to this unforeseen training session.

"In the future," the knight informed him, "you should always be prepared. The Targaryen heir wandering alone in the dark, unarmed, makes for an easy target. Even within these walls, you can never be certain. Better to always carry a weapon with you. Its presence alone can even decrease the actual need to use one."

Prince Rhaegar glanced down briefly to the sword in his hand, a frown in place. "Is that a suggestion or part of the training?"

"From this point onward, it would be best if you took everything I say as a part of your training," Arthur replied simply. "Also, you should never take your eyes off your opponent."

"My opponent?" as the prince's eyes returned to the knight, his brow was drawn in confusion. "I wasn't aware that we had already started."

"I did say: let's begin," the Dayne reminded him, as he gave his own sword a quick spin. "That makes me your opponent. And I also told you to always be prepared. With all due respect, My Prince, if you are to train under me, then I'm going to have to ask you to listen to me a little better."

He did not wait for the Targaryen's response. Instead, he struck at the prince with the broad side of his sword, and the younger man, still bewildered, with his mouth half-open for a reply, did not manage to lift his blade in time. He instead took the full force of the hit with the side of his abdomen. He stumbled backwards several paces, instinctively raising a hand to cradle his side, as he stared up at the knight with eyes widened in surprise.

Not a moment later, however, Prince Rhaegar's expression hardened, his violet eyes narrowing as his sword hand tightened in its grip around the hilt. He had all but banished the confusion from his countenance, as he straightened in his stance and focused intently on the Dornish knight.

A smile again tugged at the corner of Arthur's mouth, as he instructed the prince, "Come at me."


+ RHAEGAR TARGARYEN +

"My Prince!"

The sound of a door slamming accompanied by a blaring voice abruptly roused Rhaegar from his slumber. He instinctively flinched in reaction to the sudden noise, tensing as his deep violet eyes shot open. Fear instantly washed over him while his mind conjured disturbing images of his intruder, but only a moment later he adjusted to his surroundings and the bleariness cleared from his gaze. He recognized the distinct flaming red hair of Jon Connington as the man stood over him.

The Targaryen released a shaky exhale, cursing under his breath, when his friend's voice echoed around the room once more.

"So it's true! Oh, Rhaegar…are you alright?"

Jon reached a hand toward the prince's face, delicately brushing his fingertips along his cheek. Rhaegar's jaw clenched, the contact instilling a throbbing pain, as he swiftly recoiled from the touch. He hurriedly turned away from the concerned, rejected expression now present on his companion's face, instead directing his gaze towards the vanity across the room. His eyes widened as he observed his reflection.

Disheveled hair was a common consequence of his habitually restless sleep, but he had rested soundly for the first time in months and there were only a few hairs out of place. He noted the purplish discoloration on his forehead and cheek, realizing that the aching sensation was produced by those bruises. He lifted a hand and ran it lightly along the injuries, his feelings mixed between amazement and disgust. This was the first time the young prince could remember seeing a defective face reflected back at him.

The corner of Rhaegar's mouth pulled upward slightly as he wondered if his father might finally smile at him when he witnessed his son's imperfect complexion, but it fell into a frown when his hand hovered over the thin scar along his brow, a reminder of the king's contempt. The fleeting, delusional fantasy slipped away as quickly as it had arrived, and his eyes swelled in accordance with the pained emotion he felt constricting in his chest.

A subtle movement to his left reminded the Targaryen heir that he was not alone, and he roughly wiped the sadness from his expression. Not only was he showing weakness, but he was also behaving like a child. Training with Ser Arthur had nothing to do with his father. The wounds he had sustained only a few hours prior were a testament to his evolvement as both a fighter and a protector.

After shaking his head, Rhaegar pushed himself off the bed to stand opposite Jon. Once he was certain he could maintain a steady voice, he finally met his friend's gaze and answered his earlier inquiry.

"Don't get protective over this, Jon. I was only training."

"Training?!" Jon's pitch rose with his aggravation. "You call this training?! Look at what he did to you!"

"This is what happens to everyone!" Rhaegar's own voice intensified to match the redhead's, his repressed frustration escaping before he could think to stop it. "I've spent years watching everyone other than me being pushed into the dirt and walking away from the training yard with bruises on their faces. I remember the day you were injured so horribly that I had to carry you back to your chambers. Why does my training have to be any different? Can't I have an injury without you treating me like I'm broken?"

Rhaegar felt regret as soon as the final words left his mouth. He watched as Jon was visibly affronted, his mouth slightly agape. The young Connington was rarely at a loss for words, but in a single instant, his friend had rendered him speechless.

It was unfair to release his anger on Jon. The prince was shamed by his recent display of emotion and overwhelmed by the events from the past two days, but that was no excuse. He understood exactly why his training was so drastically different from the other squires, and it was because of that knowledge that he refused to complain. He would have continued to carry his irritation in silence if Ser Arthur had not arrived in King's Landing, but requesting to train under him was inevitably going to stir contention with Jon.

His friend's concern was Rhaegar's fault for not anticipating that consequence.

"I never said you were broken, My Prince," Jon spoke in a softer tone now, and his pale blue eyes had fallen to the ground. "But…there's a reason your training should be different. You are different."

Rhaegar released a long sigh, his shoulders tensing as he struggled to contain himself.

"…I know," he responded lowly, hanging his head in acceptance. "I know I'm a prince, and there are certain responsibilities that coincide with my position. No matter where I go, I will always be Prince Rhaegar. I will be treated differently, but…," he found himself exhaling again and shook his head, deciding against voicing the rest of his thoughts.

His father had spared Ser Arthur. He believed there was a greater reason for that, particularly because the Dornish knight was the first person to take a risk and treat the Targaryen prince as an equal. He could become a warrior now, just as he had planned since he was a child. He considered that he may merely be receptive to Arthur Dayne's presence because it happened to align with his desire to be normal, but the situation was far too coincidental to be anything other than fate.

Resting his gaze on the sulking occupant in the room, a fond smile made its way to Rhaegar's face. Stepping around the foot of the bed, he stood beside Jon and, after a brief hesitation, he nudged his arm lightly with his elbow.

He waited for the familiar blue gaze to meet his before speaking, "I was wrong to yell at you. It was uncalled for, and I fear that I do it far too often. I…," he wavered momentarily, before forcing himself to continue his apology, "can't seem to handle your concern for me. I'm sorry that I always react so harshly."

"No…it's alright," Jon assured him, and he awarded the prince a returning smile of his own. "I understand. I know how much you dislike being treated differently. I know how much you dislike being different. And I know how frustrated it can make you. I wasn't being considerate, and I wasn't…," he trailed off briefly, as his eyes again wandered over Rhaegar's countenance. With a slow, heavy shake of his head, he finished, "I wasn't taking your current state into account."

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed in reaction to his friend's final comment, again reminded of his current physical appearance, but he brushed away the distress. Focusing on his father's disappointment would only pull him deeper into his melancholy, and at the moment, he had to use his energy to ensure that Jon did not feel unreasonably responsible for this predicament.

"My current state is no excuse," the prince pressed, shaking his head, before a faint chuckle escaped him. "Although, I can certainly understand how surprising it is to see me like this."

"It isn't a laughing matter, Rhaegar," Jon frowned. "It is surprising. This shouldn't have happened, in the first place. I understand your desire to be treated the same as everyone else, but you're not the same. Anyone else would have known that. They would have known better, they wouldn't have done this to you! This…," he trailed off, his narrowing his eyes into a glare. When he spoke again, his words came out in a furious tremble, "This is all his fault!"

His hands were curled into fists at his side, and with a single sweeping motion, he turned from his friend and stormed from the room.

The Targaryen stared after him, staggered by the sudden fury the redhead expressed, but he blinked away the shock and ran after him. After catching up to the fuming individual, he placed a firm hand on his shoulder to stop him in his haste down the corridor.

"Jon, where are you going?"

"I'm going to go put an end to this!" the young lord exclaimed. He stepped out of Rhaegar's hold on him, as he met his stare in determination. "Don't try to stop me. This is for your own good."

Before the prince had a chance to voice his disapproval, Jon had already rushed from his side, continuing his charge. Rhaegar closed his eyes, taking a brief moment to compose himself, before quickly following the loud echo of his footfalls.

He trailed after the younger man down a series of corridors throughout the Red Keep, each one familiar and filled with memories, but none of them provided insight to Jon's final destination. At first, Rhaegar wondered if the young Connington would approach the king about the situation, but his friend knew better than that. Aerys had permitted Arthur's training methods once before, which was a clear indication that he would do nothing to stop it from happening again.

That left the Targaryen to assume Jon intended to address the Dornish knight personally, but such an endeavor would be pointless. Rhaegar had promptly learned that Ser Arthur was a man who stood by his convictions, and his decision to train the crown prince was not made lightly. He was stubborn, and Jon yelling about his decision would hardly faze the man. Only someone with higher authority could sway Ser Arthur.

As they reached the familiar path that led to the White Sword Tower, Rhaegar internally sighed. His friend's plan was entirely apparent now, and it appeared his last assessment had been correct. Jon wanted to forcefully end his training by telling Ser Gerold, but the prince wondered if the redhead really knew who the Lord Commander was. He would not stop something just because Jon told him to.

Jon wasted no time in slamming the doors open and proceeding into the Round Room. Ser Gerold was, unsurprisingly, seated at the table with several documents in front of him when he was met with this abrupt interruption. He stood and started to lower his head in a habitual bow, but he was noticeably taken aback when his eyes fell on the Targaryen heir.

"Prince Rhaegar," he began, his tone mirroring his surprise as he greeted him. When his gaze shifted, however, to the breathless figure at his side, he spoke with a deadpan. "Jon."

"Lord Commander!" his squire returned in a fluster, but he paused to take a breath and hold a hand to his side. When he had recovered enough to speak, his words came out in a verbal onslaught, "This cannot stand! You see…you see what that man has done to Rhaegar?! To our prince?! It cannot be permitted to continue! He was met with no retribution for his actions yesterday, and now look at what's come of it! You need to put a stop to this!"

"Do I?" Ser Gerold questioned dryly. "As I understand it, this was our prince's decision." His eyes again shifting to Rhaegar, he told him, "Ser Arthur told me how you approached him this morning and requested to train under him. Given the result of yesterday's events, I had already begun to wonder, myself, if a change should be made to your instruction. The way I see it," he again turned to address Jon, "Prince Rhaegar is free to train under whomever he wishes."

The Targaryen smiled, once again appreciating the Lord Commander's firm resolve. This change seemed agreeable to Ser Gerold. He was always aware of the delicate situation surrounding the prince's training, understanding the risks and limitations that seemed to exist. Now that the threat of death no longer hung over them, the Kingsguard were free to practice with him according to their personal approaches. Ser Barristan's method would most likely remain unchanged, but Rhaegar would be less frustrated with it if he was receiving more challenging instructions from the others.

Jon, on the other hand, was far less pleased.

"You cannot be serious!" he yelled at the White Cloak. "You're actually going to condone his actions?"

"I happen to approve of his methods," Ser Gerold stated. "The outcome of his training speaks for itself. If he's willing to show our prince the same courtesy he's shown himself, I eagerly await the results."

"There are other ways for the prince to learn!" Jon countered.

"And yet, this is our prince's decision," Ser Gerold reiterated. "I don't want to hear another word about it."

Entirely unmoved by the warning that lined the Lord Commander's tone, Jon exclaimed, "You cannot expect me to remain quiet about this!"

"I can expect it," the knight returned, and his stare hardened on the younger man. "And I do. Perhaps Prince Rhaegar is not the only one who can benefit from harsher instruction. You seem to forget your place, Jon."

Rhaegar exhaled lowly and took an involuntary step towards the door, wanting to remain as far from the conflict as possible. Ser Gerold was correct in his argument, it was his decision to train under Ser Arthur. That was a point that frustratingly seemed to escape Jon. Sometimes, the man truly came across as believing the prince was incapable of making his own decisions. He did not even properly fault him for yelling only a few minutes prior, instead blaming the emotional outburst on his injuries.

However, that was not enough for the prince to wish any harm on his impetuous friend. He was merely arguing out of concern, but that did not earn him the right to speak to the Lord Commander with such insolence. Rhaegar would feel responsible for any punishment Jon received for his disrespectful behavior, but he could not argue with Ser Gerold's decision.

"I believe you forget your place, ser!" the young lord's tone was accusatory. "You are a Kingsguard, are you not? It is your duty to protect the king and his family—not to allow this!" at the last word, Jon gestured vehemently toward the retreating prince.

"It is not your place to question what I should or should not allow," the Lord Commander stated, his voice stony and cutting. At the sound of it, his words finally seemed to reach the young Connington, who shrunk beneath his gaze. "I will not hear another word about this from you, and you will remember to show the proper respect when speaking to your superiors. When you leave this room—and when I dismiss you, you will leave this room—you will report to Ser Arthur and tell him that I have sent you to train under him. You will attend to your squiring duties under his guidance for the next three weeks. Then, if I believe you have remembered your place, you may resume your training under me. Is that understood?"

Despite the glare he was now casting the older knight, despite the trembling hands at his side, Jon managed a stiff nod.

"Good," Ser Gerold said only. "You will find Ser Arthur in the training yard. You are dismissed."

Rhaegar glanced warily at the hothead beside him, hoping that he was not foolish enough to say anything further to the Lord Commander. Fortunately, Jon grasped the seriousness of his self-inflicted dilemma and remained silent, turning on his heel and marching out of the room. The prince waited for his footsteps to fade down the corridor before looking to Ser Gerold with a forlorn expression.

"He should have never spoken to you that way," Rhaegar began quietly. "I apologize for his behavior. He's only acting this way because of me."

"Jon is acting this way because Jon is acting this way," Ser Gerold stated dryly, with a dismissive air to his tone as he walked around the table to begin gathering the documents strewn about into a single pile. He paused, as he exhaled a frustrated sigh, before lifting his gaze to rest on the crown prince once more. "You are not responsible for his actions. Don't feel responsible for his punishment."

Rhaegar frowned, mentally arguing with the Lord Commander's statement, but he chose against voicing those thoughts. Even if he had not witnessed Jon's earlier display, he knew better than to disagree with the older knight. He simply nodded in response.

The White Cloak returned the prince's nod, but his eyes lingered, assessing his physical appearance. "I have to admit, when Ser Arthur told me that you had trained with him this morning, this isn't what I expected."

"Well…," the Targaryen started, realizing then that he had only evaluated the damage done to his face.

Lowering his violet gaze, he took in the disorderly state of his clothes, which he remembered falling asleep in shortly after training that morning. There was an obvious collection of dirt stains and tears assorted along his black shirt and pants, and his boots were similarly in disarray. There was also a stiffness in his back that he had not recognized before, as well as a slight gash in his forearm.

The prince blinked, astonished by his lack of observation. Training with Ser Arthur while sleep deprived was one of the worst ideas he ever had. He would have to account for that in the future. It was strange, really. After recalling his actions and motivations from that morning, he suddenly felt less responsible for Jon's consequence. In fact, he felt a renewed certainty and resolve.

He returned his gaze to Ser Gerold, then, his mouth forming into a small smirk, "It's not what I expected either, Lord Commander, but I can't say I regret my decision."

"That's good to hear," the older knight gave him a single nod of his head. A hint of a smile had returned to his countenance. "You shouldn't regret your decision. It was well made. From everything Lewyn has told me, he's a fine man, and his skill at swordplay is almost without equal. Unfortunately, I haven't actually had the chance to observe it myself."

Rhaegar's smirk widened, the sudden idea that crossed his mind far too enticing to reject. "That is unfortunate, ser, but such a thing can be easily fixed. Are you busy now?"

A brow shot up as the Lord Commander observed the prince, but he merely gave a subtle shake of his head in return.

"Not too busy, not anymore," he said simply. Abandoning the papers on the round table, he crossed the distance of the room to stand beside Rhaegar, as a rising amusement lit his eyes. Gesturing toward the open doorway, he suggested, "Shall we?"

"Why not?" the Targaryen returned, stepping over the threshold and into the adjoining hall. He led the way through the following door, which opened onto an arched walkway that would take them back to the castle. He turned right, however, under the first stone arch and strode directly into the training yard.

Rhaegar instantly recognized the distinctive bellowing sound of Jon's yell accompanied by a clash of steel. The prince spotted him easily, standing in the middle of the yard, his red hair even more vibrant in the glow of the afternoon sun. The young lord appeared to be short on breath, his energy wasted on shouting and the overexuberance of his swings, which Ser Arthur effortlessly deflected.

Glancing to the side, he noticed three familiar figures reclining against the low wall that lined the side of the courtyard. Oswell's expression was filled with glee as he watched the spar from his perch on top of the wall. To his right, stood Harlan. His eyes danced with excitement, and he lifted his tankard of ale every so often as he cheered shamelessly for the Sword of the Morning. The Dornishman to Oswell's left shook his head at the elderly White Cloak, laughing in amusement as he rested his weight against the side of the shaded tree.

The Targaryen heir crossed the distance of the yard, and after a few short strides, he stood beside the jubilant trio with Ser Gerold.

"Lord Commander!" Oswell called with a grin. "It's good you're here, maybe you can help shed some light on this for us. Jon barged out here screaming that Arthur had to train him, and then he started attacking."

"Yes, he attacked poor Arthur out of nowhere," Harlan chimed in, as he shook his head in disappointment.

Opening his mouth to comment further, Oswell was instantly cut short when his eyes landed on the prince. They widened in astonishment. "Prince Rhaegar? I hardly recognized you for a minute. What happened to you?"

Rhaegar smiled, as he considered what a surprise his current state must be for these men who had known him for years. He merely gestured toward the fighting Dayne in response. "Arthur."

Harlan's eyes lit up at the suggestion, glancing back and forth between the prince and the knight. An impish smile eased its way onto his face, then, as he leaned closer to Oswell.

"Oswell, now I know what happened!" he whispered aside to his fellow White Cloak. "It must have happened between Arthur and Rhaegar last night. And, somehow, our beloved Jon found out and he's jealous. Don't you see? This isn't just any spar. Jon is still trying to win the silver prince's heart."

"Ahhh," revelation seemed to overtake Oswell's entire countenance, as he glanced between the pair in the yard and Rhaegar. His mouth twisted into a mischievous smile. "I see it, now. It all makes sense. That's why Jon ran out here in such a rage, and why he demanded to fight him!" His voice dropping an octave lower, he added, "And did you see the prince's smile just now?"

Rhaegar rolled his eyes. One of their favorite rumors to discuss was his potential affiliations with other men. He had become mostly indifferent to their joking suspicions, but withholding a reaction was much harder when the conversation was centered around Jon. They were all aware of the man's one-sided affection for the prince, which was already difficult on his friend, but their mockery made it worse. It also reminded Rhaegar of the feelings he constantly tried to ignore for the sake of their friendship. Remaining silent about the younger man's adoration was the best he could do.

"I did," Harlan's tone was heavy with his enthusiasm. He lifted a finger and pointed to the disheveled prince beside them. "And just look at him! The bruises, the ripped clothes, the scratches on his arm…Arthur must be quite the animal between the sheets. His inner beast was released on the dragon."

"I did see a glimpse of that passion in the yard yesterday," Oswell had to fight down his laughter. "He clearly left Rhaegar hungry for more, and it all came crashing together in the heat of the night. It's strange, though…Arthur doesn't have a scratch on him."

"That we can see," Harlan pointed out, slowly sliding his gaze to the Dornish knight. "They might be hiding beneath the clothes. Unlike our prince, Arthur is much more secretive. He changed his clothes, he gave us a believable alibi that they were training this morning, and he hid the signs of their torrid affair. I bet that if Arthur took off his shirt, we would find the evidence."

"I wouldn't mind seeing that," Lewyn inserted from beneath the tree, his voice dropping to a suggestive rasp. "Do you think we could convince both of them to remove their clothes?"

"Both of them?" Oswell's eyes lit up at this idea. "Now, wouldn't that be something? I don't think I would mind seeing that, either."

"Neither would I, but I don't know if I could handle it," Harlan choked on his laughter, his hands flapping frantically. "But I want to."

"Almost as much as they wanted to," Oswell shot Lewyn a wink. His voice again lowered to a whisper, as he remarked, "I mean, do you see those dirt stains on Rhaegar's knees? I'd say the Sword of the Morning made our prince kneel."

The Targaryen's hands clenched into fists, trembling as they hung by his sides.

"That's enough!" Rhaegar's abrupt exclamation interrupted their laughter, and three pairs of eyes immediately focused on him.

He was wrong. How could he have ever thought he was capable of indifference? He cared far too much about everything, especially if the topic was something that made him sensitive. When he first started playing the harp, his father had accused him of being "like uncle Daeron" and laughed in his face. Even now, Rhaegar knew that was the target of his father's insults when he mentioned his beauty. The younger Targaryen denied these claims, but he always wondered if the king truly believed them. He also wondered if there was anyone else who agreed, present company included.

"To shed light on your earlier inquiry," Ser Gerold finally spoke, abruptly putting a halt to both his subordinates' jests and Rhaegar's thoughts on the matter, "before you all decided to jump to these outlandish conclusions, Jon came out here because I sent him."

"Why?" Harlan asked only, curiosity seeping into his voice. His laughter had completely died at this point.

"For questioning me," the Lord Commander stated dryly. "And insubordination."

"Ah, that's just like you, Gerold," Lewyn remarked good-naturedly, grabbing the flagon of ale out of Harlan's grasp and taking a swig. "This was a clever punishment."

"Oh, this isn't all," Ser Gerold informed him. "He'll be squiring for Arthur for the next few weeks, as well."

A loud and sudden laugh escaped Harlan, who turned to point at the exhausted redhead amidst his fit. This gesture prompted everyone's eyes to return to the action in the middle of the training yard. Jon's swings were noticeably slower, as he struggled to take labored breaths. There were several crimson splatches now staining his tunic and dripping to the rocky terrain at his feet.

Ser Arthur, however, remained unscathed.

Rhaegar tried not to glare at Harlan for his obvious delight at Jon's expense. It was reasonable to assume the old man had not even considered the insensitivity of his actions, since he was, for the most part, unintentionally thoughtless in any given situation. The Targaryen heir struggled not to fault any of them for their questionable forms of amusement. Whether it was Jon or the prince himself on the receiving end of the joke, humor was how they coped with the unfortunate circumstances surrounding them. Everyone had their own methods.

Prince Lewyn broke the silence by nudging Oswell beside him, an easy smile gracing his lips. "How much longer do you think the heir to Griffin's Roost can last?"

"Can't be much longer now, by the looks of it," Oswell remarked, as a grin of his own returned. "Although, you do have to give him credit for how many times he's gotten back up."

"Oh, I'm giving him plenty of credit," the Dornish prince agreed with a shrug. "But, it's only a matter of time before he stays down. The boy can't hold out forever."

"What do you think will finally get him to stay down?" Oswell now lifted a hand to his chin in contemplation. "The way I see it, the only way that Arthur will be able to overcome that bullheaded stubbornness is if he knocks him out. Maybe he'll trip him, so he hits his head."

"Hmm," Lewyn mused, taking another draught of his stolen ale. His eyes narrowed as he considered this suggestion. "While that's a good theory, I have the advantage of knowing Arthur personally. He wouldn't resort to a dirty trick like that. That man is as honorable as they come, rivaled only by Ser Barristan. I think that Jon will have to wear himself out for this to end, because we both know he will never yield."

"Well, since you're so confident, why don't we take a bet on it?" Oswell proposed, and he pushed himself down from his perched position on the wall to stand beside the Dornishman. His eyes were fixed on the pair in the yard, even as a playful smirk took hold of his expression. "Ten gold dragons, and loser has to buy a round of drinks for everyone tonight."

"Everyone?" Lewyn's eyes lit up with delight, his dark gaze also trained on the fighting duo. "I'll take that bet. I look forward to your hospitality at the tavern, Oswell."

"Wait!" Harlan's attention suddenly shifted to the conspirators beside him, as he leaned in close. "I want in."

"Alright, Harlan," Oswell offered the older knight an approving nod. "What's your bet?"

The elderly knight cleared his throat dramatically, before announcing, "Jon will be his own downfall! I say that Arthur won't even have to touch him to ensure his victory. The young lad will knock himself out!"

The Dornish prince and Oswell exchanged a dumbfounded, skeptical glance, but it soon faded into a roguish glint as they nodded in unison.

"May the best man win," Lewyn stated with an air of utter confidence, lifting his mug into a salutary cheer.

"Oh," Oswell cast the Dornishman a wink, "I intend to."

"Just watch," Harlan interjected, narrowing his eyes in determination. "This is my moment. I will finally win a bet. Arthur is mygood luck charm."

The older Kingsguard's declaration barely concerned his two competitors, whose attention had now returned to the courtyard.

Rhaegar watched their exchange from his position against the stone wall, desperately trying to find the amusement in their banter. He needed to get past his anger. It was unfair to hold a grudge against their earlier comments, especially since he was well aware that none of them were serious. They also had no idea how deeply their jokes unsettled him. He remained silent about his father's abuses, the Kingsguard only knowing as much as they witnessed.

The prince ran a hand through his hair. He realized the impact of his irritation only heightened the more he thought on it. Forcing it away was not something he could successfully accomplish. He sighed, pointedly directing his gaze onto the clashing figures.

The definition of training seemed lost on Jon as he fought against the older, experienced knight. If he was against a less skilled opponent, his blows would have been fatal. Rhaegar silently chastised the younger man. He was allowed to be upset, but killing was unacceptable. Ser Arthur's only crime, in Jon's eyes, was training too harshly. Of course, in his defense, he did not seem to be thinking through any of his actions. Rather, he was striking aimlessly, blinded by rage.

Rhaegar realized that in the few encounters he had with Ser Arthur, he had never been the one to witness his abilities as an observer. Measuring an opponent's skill in the midst of a fight was important, but the perspective of a bystander could be equally beneficial. The Sword of the Morning moved with practiced precision. Every swing of his blade was calculated and even the slightest shuffle of his feet was made in anticipation of his opponent's next step. In fact, he seemed to plan several moves in advance.

The young prince watched in quiet fascination as the strategic mind of Arthur Dayne was visually displayed before his eyes.

Jon lost his footing momentarily on a loose stone, but he soon recovered and turned to again face the Dornish knight. His frustration was reaching its peak, any patience he possessed had disappeared long before this spar even began. He brought his sword down in a wide arc over his opponent's left side, but the man deftly evaded the blow, taking a purposeful step to the right. Jon followed this action with a series of exaggerated swings, his shouts filling the courtyard as Ser Arthur took calculated strides around him.

In the next moment, Rhaegar realized the knight had successfully circled back to that section of the terrain where the redhead had previously stumbled. He stood several paces away and, in his reckless fury, Jon charged at him, his sword raised high above his head as he ran. He quickly crossed the distance between them, but the moment he was within reach of the taller man, Ser Arthur stepped aside, leaving Jon to trip over the upturned rock and fall to the ground.

The spectators watched with bated breath, waiting for a sign of movement from the prostrate individual, but he remained immobile on the warm stones beneath him. A pang of fear struck the prince and he immediately assumed the worst until he noticed the piercing blue gaze across the yard filled with reassurance.

Rhaegar released a relieved sigh, his breath shaking with his previous anxiety and all irritation at the Kingsguards' jests long forgotten.

It was only when Harlan's voice piped up beside him that the prince finally laughed, the tension washing away, replaced by the familiar endearment he felt for the elderly knight.

"So…I win?"